“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Icelin said. She flipped open the book and stared at the writing without seeing it.
Zollgarza’s soft chuckle mingled with the cracks and pops of the fire. “Of course you do. You know how alone you are in the world. The goddess Mystra, who might once have steered your course in life, the guiding force behind all wielders of the arcane, is lost to you. In fact,” he said, observing her closely, “you’ve never known her at all, have you? My goddess Lolth may be a harsh mistress, but at least I know that when I cry out in the night, someone hears me. You cry out alone. It’s no wonder you seek the Arcane Script Sphere. Even a scrap of a goddess is better than none.”
“I’m not alone,” Icelin said. “I walk with companions who would give their lives to keep me safe. We adventure in the world together, embracing life. Does your goddess care when you cry out in the night? Is she there to give comfort? Can you understand that kind of devotion?”
“Ah, your protector,” Zollgarza said. His smile turned cruel. “An animal protects its master with an equal fervor. I can train beasts to answer my command, so yes, child, I understand the devotion you speak of.” He took a step toward her. “Of course, an animal is usually willing to offer affection to its master in addition to service. Does your animal fulfill this role as well?”
“Stop,” Icelin said. “That’s enough.”
“But why?” Zollgarza crouched in front of her. Icelin didn’t move. She didn’t trust herself. “To me your existence shares as many echoes of tragedy as you see in mine. You stand on the edge of oblivion, spellscarred, victim of a lost goddess’s power. So you adventure in the world, embracing life, as you call it, even taking on the dwarves’ burden as your own-whatever it is that will fulfill you, ease the emptiness inside. All this I understand. We all do what we have to do to survive the darkness. I am surprised because you are the last person in Faerun who should pity me for my existence. Pity yourself.”
He left the fire, retreating to the other side of the room. Icelin felt the heat burning into one side of her face, but she couldn’t move. If she moved, she would fall apart.
“What troubles you?” the seneschal asked. She’d remained silent during Icelin’s exchange with Zollgarza, but now she came to stand beside her. “Can I help?”
“I don’t think anyone can,” Icelin said. She tried to push the drow’s taunts from her mind, but they lingered like a poison. “I’m lacking inspiration,” she added, “and a clear head.”
“The latter is easily remedied,” the seneschal said. “You’ve not been outside this room in many hours. Walk about and clear your mind. As for inspiration …” A frown marred her smooth features.
“What is it?” Icelin asked. “You have a book to recommend?”
“Perhaps.” The seneschal glanced uneasily between Icelin and Zollgarza. “It might aid both of you, in fact. Or it might drive you mad.”
Zollgarza said, “You have my attention, spirit. Speak.”
“Don’t be so eager,” the seneschal cautioned him. She held her hands palms up in front of her. A black leather-bound book appeared, heavy and intimidating, with two brass locks to secure it. “If inspiration is what you seek, this tome may provide the answer.”
“What is its power?” Icelin asked. A faint reddish aura surrounded the book, which intensified the longer she stared at it. Power-barely contained, Icelin thought. Whatever knowledge was stored within, it must be significant.
“Inspiration,” the seneschal said enigmatically. “The book itself contains no knowledge, no words.”
“Then what purpose does it serve?” Zollgarza asked.
“The purpose is to draw from the user the true question he or she wishes to ask,” the seneschal explained. “For clouded thoughts, it brings clarity. For troubled minds, certainty.”
“Clarity and certainty are two friends I don’t often converse with,” Icelin said. “Why are they dangerous?”
“Because of the method used to arrive at them,” said the dwarf woman. “The tome delves into the deepest parts of your mind, draws out secrets, confronts truths you may be unable-or unwilling-to see.” Saying this last, the seneschal looked pointedly at Zollgarza.
The drow laughed scornfully, but Icelin thought she detected a spark of eagerness in his eyes. “You cannot frighten me, spirit. Let your tome work its magic. I’ll master it.”
The seneschal inclined her head, seemingly unsurprised at Zollgarza’s bravado. She turned to Icelin. “What say you?”
Icelin raised her hands in a defensive gesture. “I think you’re right. I need to walk outside and clear my head. When I return, I’ll make my decision.”
“A wise choice.” The seneschal smiled at her. “Go, then. All will be ready when you return.”
Icelin stepped out into the plaza and breathed the cool cavern air. Immediately she felt better. The open space was a buzz of activity, as a couple dozen dwarves moved about, setting up tables and benches and rolling in casks of ale and cider. Shouts, jests, and laughter greeted her ears-a sharp contrast to the attitudes she’d glimpsed when she’d first come to the city, and a welcome relief after the oppressive silence and strange whisperings of King Mith Barak’s library.
“Careful with that! Aw, gods-here, let me help with it, I’m beggin’ you.”
A wide smile spread across Icelin’s face at hearing Sull’s voice. He followed a pair of dwarves carrying a large metal cauldron between them into the plaza. Thick, bubbling liquid sloshed in the pot, threatening to spill over onto the ground.
“Ignore him. He gets grumpy when his food’s in peril,” Icelin called to the dwarves. Laughing, she hurried across the plaza, dodging ale casks and bumping into a woman carrying a handful of torches. Smiling an apology, she ran up to Sull.
“Lass!” Sull spared her a wide grin, but it quickly turned sour when the dwarves plunked the cauldron down in the middle of the plaza. “How’s it going to feed three dozen mouths if you spill it all over the stones?” he bellowed.
In unison, the dwarves made a rude gesture and walked away. Icelin covered her mouth to keep from bursting into laughter. Gods it felt good to hold in laughter instead of worry and fear.
“What’s all this?” she said, bending over to sniff at the brew in the cauldron. Rothe meat juices, mushrooms, and broth-her mouth watered at the scents. “Are you cooking for the whole of Iltkazar?”
“Almost,” Sull said. He affected weariness, but the pride was clearly discernible in his voice. “Joya had me helping out with the wounded. We’re set up in Haela Brightaxe’s old temple, and I was bringin’ food over two, sometimes three times a day. I didn’t really have anyone to cook for since Garn and Obrin left, and Ingara spends all her time at the forge.” Sull looked affronted. “Well then, what do you think happens? Ingara shows up and wants me to help with the cookin’ for her wedding feast. She said they weren’t plannin’ to have any food at all because of supply shortages. They were just goin’ to drink. Then Ingara said since I loved to cook so much and had a bit of talent makin’ a little bit of food go a long way, could I cook for her wedding?” Sull’s chest puffed up with pride. “How could I say no to that? Not have a feast on a weddin’ day-rubbish, that’s what that is. I don’t care if there’s a battle comin’.”
“Of course. But what’s this?” Icelin said, pointing to the pot. “Surely you’re not cooking already.”
“Ah, this is just a test batch,” Sull replied. “Goin’ to feed it to the wounded.” He glanced anxiously in the direction the dwarves had gone. “Think they’ll be comin’ back soon?”
“Don’t count on it,” Icelin said, grinning. “It’s good to see you, Sull. I’ve missed your grousing.”
“Anything’s better than that drow you’re shut up with.”
The butcher looked down at his hands. Something in his tone, the slump of his shoulders, caught Icelin’s attention. Fear stirred in her belly. “Is something wrong?” she asked.
“Nothin’ to be worried about yet,” Sull said hastily, but his guilty expression made Icelin’s heart speed up.