So much of her life would have been different, had the goddess lived.
The need to see the artifact, to touch an object connected to the goddess of magic, flared in Icelin. Would she feel that connection, however faint, with the lost Mystra? Would the Silver Fire truly stabilize her magic, prolonging her life?
Glancing at Ruen, Icelin saw the same desire that she felt lay bare on his face. She cleared her throat, and he schooled his expression.
Not before Mith Barak saw it. “Perhaps we have something to offer each other,” the shrewd king said. “I will not allow the drow to herd and slaughter us. I’ve fought them for centuries in the Night Wars and always beat them back, but I don’t have the numbers to drive them off any longer. There will be war, and I need warriors willing to fight for this city. You risked your lives fighting the drow alongside the Blackhorns, a family I respect a great deal.”
“You want us to fight for Iltkazar?” Icelin hadn’t expected this-the proud dwarves, Obrin and the rest, asking for help from people like her?
“Not just in the battle that’s coming,” the king said, and when he looked at her with those shrewd silver eyes, Icelin felt a stirring of unease in her gut. “I want your particular talent: your magic.”
“No,” Ruen said immediately. “That would defeat the purpose. Her wild magic is what’s killing her.”
Icelin held up a hand to stop Ruen’s protests. “What do you mean?”
“I told you we’d captured a drow scout,” Mith Barak said. “I pulled information about the enemy’s plan from his mind, but still he hides secrets from me, protected by powerful magic. The only force I know of that’s strong enough to penetrate this barrier is the Silver Fire, but as I said, the Arcane Script Sphere only confers this power on those it deems worthy. No one in this city has been able to call on it. You are human, a practitioner of the Art, and you seek the sphere for a worthy cause. It’s possible the artifact might grant you the power. If so, you could use it on the drow for me.”
“We don’t know what the Silver Fire might do to Icelin,” Ruen argued. “And it would probably kill the drow anyway.”
“A risk I’ll take,” Mith Barak said.
“But one I won’t,” Ruen said, “not where Icelin is concerned.”
“I have much to offer in exchange,” Mith Barak said. “What if I gave you the Arcane Script Sphere? You would have the Silver Fire and perhaps the means of curing a spellscar.”
That shut Ruen up, but Icelin leaned forward, eying the king warily. “Why would you be so generous, gifting us with an artifact that the drow would invade your city to obtain?”
“Because my city stands on the verge of annihilation,” Mith Barak said. His voice shook, and his silver eyes blazed with rage. “If I don’t find out what the drow are plotting and find a way to stop it, my people will die. I’m willing to sacrifice a great deal to keep that from happening.”
The king fell silent and looked at the three of them expectantly. Icelin realized he was waiting for an immediate answer-no, an immediate acceptance. He knew how much this chance meant to them. She’d admitted that it was a matter of life and death. How could they refuse?
His confidence put Icelin on her guard, but a part of her wanted badly to accept. She had to bite back the words. An artifact with a piece of Mystra’s memory.…
But to get it, she’d have to somehow prove herself worthy of the Silver Fire-and then be willing to unleash it. Her dream, the boardinghouse fire, was still fresh in her mind. That time, she hadn’t intended any harm. This time it would be different. She’d be intentionally using unspeakably powerful magic that she had no idea whether she could control. Even the thought of doing so against a drow sickened her. She was tired of losing control, of unleashing killing force. She’d already done it too many times, injuring both her body and spirit.
Yet, what if she never had to feel her magic rage out of control ever again? She’d never risk hurting anyone else. What if that piece of Mystra and the Silver Fire were the key to everything?
At a loss, she looked at Ruen. “What do you think?”
“It’s a risk,” he said, and Icelin could see his inner struggle reflected in his muddy eyes, normally so difficult to read. “But it might be the best hope we have.” He glanced at the king. “What if it doesn’t work?” he asked. “If Icelin can’t use the Silver Fire or break through this drow’s magic, will you still honor your promise?”
“I will,” the king said, “so long as you agree to help defend my city. The drow have stepped up their attacks in recent days. I expect the invasion to happen before Uktar is out.”
“What happens if we don’t agree,” Icelin asked, “to any of it?”
“Then you’re free to go,” the king said. “You aided the Blackhorns against the drow. I’ll consider that penance enough for your companion’s desecration. But I don’t truly believe you’re going to refuse.”
Icelin suppressed a shudder. This dwarf was a wily, ancient schemer. He had power, and he knew how to manipulate people. The meal, their conversation, all of it felt like a carefully constructed dance, a stage performance culminating in this moment.
Icelin took a long drink of wine, held the cup in her hand, then set it carefully on the table. Her hand trembled, making ripples in the wine’s surface, but she didn’t care. “Before I decide, I want to talk to the drow,” she said.
The king looked briefly surprised. “Why would you want to do that?” he asked.
“Because if I use the Silver Fire, there’s a chance both of us will be killed,” Icelin replied. “I want to talk to him first, to at least know who I risk killing.”
“It won’t make it any easier,” Ruen said.
“Maybe not, but those are my terms,” said Icelin. “Take them or leave them, King Mith Barak.”
“Done,” the king proclaimed, and again the triumphant light came into his eyes. “You said you didn’t know whether you were a guest in my city or a prisoner. Allow me to call you my guests and welcome you. I’ll arrange for you to speak to the drow when you’re ready.”
Icelin tried to put aside the sense of foreboding that settled in her stomach. Everything was happening so quickly, and the king was being far too accommodating for her comfort. Yet his offer was too good, the chance too precious to just throw away. “Thank you,” she said.
“I’ll leave you now,” the king said, as if he sensed her unease, “so you can discuss this without my shadow cast over you. I’ll send a guard to you in a while to show you to where you’ll be staying.”
They all stood as the king left the hall. Icelin listened to the dwarf’s heavy, echoing boot tread recede until the great doors opened and shut, and they were alone.
Sull let out a long, gusty sigh and plunked down in his chair. “Remind me again, you two, how I get myself caught up in these crazy adventures.”
“You were the one who got captured,” Ruen pointed out.
“Yes, I blame you, too,” Icelin said. Ignoring Sull’s sputtered protests, she drank the rest of her wine in one gulp. “I don’t trust him. He’s hiding something.” She didn’t care if the guards overheard her.
“He’s hiding many things,” Ruen said. “But he’s also desperate.”
“Must be, if he wants our help,” Sull said. “Desperate men are dangerous,” he added. “And desperate kings? We’d do best to stay as short a time as we can.”
“Even if we stay, what can we possibly do to make a difference in this fight?” Icelin said. “Dwarves such as Obrin don’t even want outsiders here. Will we truly find a welcome?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Ruen said. “He offered us the sphere.”
“And if I die trying to strip the magic from this drow prisoner or you die in a fight against a drow army, the sphere will mean nothing,” Icelin said. “Too many things could go wrong here.”