Dru's breath caught in his throat. He had always assumed-even the scryer at Candlekeep had assumed-that the ancient empire had been built and ruled by men, by human men and women. Little of Netheril's culture had survived its collapse and even less in its original form. Imagining Netheril from what few fragments remained was akin to imagining a palace from the ashes after it had burnt. When he'd visited Candlekeep, the scholars had shown him one of their greatest treasures, a broken slab of plaster depicting the face of a dark-haired youth with tattooed cheeks and haunted eyes. A prince of Netheril, they said. Princess had seemed more likely to Druhallen's eyes; but he'd taken the portrait's humanity for granted.
The fragment had not included the royal hands.
Lady Wyndyfarh cleared her throat. Dru blushed with shame. Bad enough to get caught with his attention wandering, worse to wool-gather in front of a mind-reader.
"You have left quite an impression in my young friend's mind," the lady said when their eyes met again. "He does not often think of kindness or honor when he thinks of your kind."
My kind? Dru thought despite an intention to keep his mind blank. Was that a confirmation of his ill-timed musings or a taunt? His confusion grew thicker with each passing moment. The lady's speech was faintly, unplaceably accented, but well-constructed, unlike Sheemzher's fractured speech that possessed neither accent nor grammar. Yet she had called the goblin her friend, rather than her servant or familiar; and, though Sheemzher was anxious, he was not afraid.
With so many questions whirling through his mind, Dru lost track of more important things and was taken by surprise when Lady Wyndyfarh extended her right hand, palm down, as a noblewoman might, for a kneeling vassal to kiss. Dru was a freeborn man, obligated by contracts, not blood. He didn't bow to anyone, not for politeness' sake or his life. He hooked his callused thumb beneath the lady's and repositioned her hand before clasping it firmly and pumping it once.
Lady Wyndyfarh's all-black eyes widened slightly, but she accepted Dru's initiative. Her flesh was cool and dry. Her grasp was uncommonly strong. Druhallen was not tempted to use his ring to measure the strength of her magic. When the lady's grip relaxed, Druhallen withdrew his hand quickly. Lady Wyndyfarh's smile broadened. He glimpsed blunt teeth before she turned toward Rozt'a.
"Florozt'a-I know you already."
Rozt'a had no qualms about bending her knee to this strange woman. Somehow that surprised Druhallen. He'd always thought they shared an artisan's aversion to the privileges of nobility. Even more surprising was the worshipful look in his erstwhile lover's eyes when she raised her head. The women gazed silently at each other, and in those moments Dru's judgment hardened. He couldn't believe that Rozt'a would surrender her independence so easily. Then again, Rozt'a did not seem to realize there were two fat and gorgeous bumblebees nestled in her wild hair.
Galimer's blue-fly guardians were buzzing above his head when his turn came to measure and be measured in return. Galimer might not be able to reliably conjure water in the rain, but he was ease and courtesy personified among strangers. His bow was a precise compromise between subservience and mutual respect, and the sweeping gesture with which he raised the lady's hand was so smooth and quick that Rozt'a herself couldn't have said whether her husband's lips had actually touched another woman's skin.
Tiep was the last. He'd folded his arms tight over his chest and retreated as far as possible. Another step and he'd be in the pool. There were no gemstone guardians that Dru could see buzzing around the young man's skull or camped out on his clothing. Belatedly, Dru recalled that Tiep and magic sometimes produced unpredictable results. He sidestepped and draped his arm around the youth's shoulders.
"There's nothing to worry about," he assured Tiep as the lady approached.
Sheemzher also took the necessary strides to intercept his mistress.
"This one not understand. This one sees, takes. This one not ask. This one thinks alone."
Lady Wyndyfarh paused. Her hands disappeared within the too-long sleeves of her gown. She brought her arms together in the posture of Lady Mantis. "What have you taken?"
Druhallen's ears were certain he'd heard the lady speak, though his eyes hadn't seen her lips move. Beneath his arm, Tiep began to tremble.
Mystra's mercy, what have you done? The accusation raced through Druhallen's mind and died unspoken: They'd know soon enough. In the meantime, Tiep's nerves had failed and he needed help to stay upright.
Sheemzher placed his hand over his heart. A hundred bits of amber hiding in the trees and moss came to life. Tiep trembled a moment, clinging tightly to himself, before his arms uncoiled. Looking down, Dru could see firelight shining within the young man's shirt.
"Oh, Tiep," were the only words Druhallen could whisper.
"He said no one cared because we weren't anyplace that belonged to anyone, and that there'd be retribution for what had happened to us-I took retribution of my own, for all those trees that were spying on us-"
Lady Wyndyfarh seemed not to hear him. "You killed," she said in a soft and terrible voice. "You murdered. You defiled." This time Druhallen was certain that her lips had not moved.
Moved by instinct as old as fatherhood, Dru opened his mouth, "We were attacked-"
He got no further in his explanation. The white-clad woman muted Druhallen with a glance that was charged with magic at cross-currents to any magic he had hitherto known. His eyes remained open and his mind was sensible, though time itself seemed to shatter. Lady Mantis extended a wickedly clawed finger toward Tiep's throat. The young man's knees buckled, and he went down like falling water. Rozt'a drew her sword partway but stepped backward, rather than forward. A sparkling black jewel appeared on the lady's knife-sharp claw. It sprouted insect legs and scuttled up her arm. Dru saw it weave through the curtain of her hair and climb into her ear.
At least, Dru thought that was what he'd seen and the order in which it had unfolded, though even as his lungs expelled an ordinary breath, he judged it odd that his mind was filled with crystalline images and no sense that he had blinked or turned his head to capture them.
He could turn his head. The notion that Lady Mantis had paralyzed him when she stifled his words was mistaken. He could still speak, if he chose, or raise his arm in defense of the cowering lump of human terror at his feet. The woman's finger still extended toward Tiep, its dark claw had begun to glow. Defense was needed.
The tide turned in Druhallen's lungs. Air, energy, and purpose flowed inward. He folded his arms and retrieved a cold ember from his sleeve. It would be his last fire spell until midnight, but there'd never been a better time to exhaust himself.
Streams of latent flame rushed toward Druhallen. The fireball would be ready when his lungs were full and Lady Mantis would know she'd made an enemy "You believe a goblin over a man?" Galimer's outrage reached Druhallen's ears as Galimer himself lunged for the woman's throat.
If he'd taken a moment for pragmatic thought, Dru would have known that his fireball stood little chance of breaching Lady Wyndyfarh's protective spells, but Galimer's desperate and purely physical attack had even less hope for success and it placed the gold-haired wizard in the path of Dru's burgeoning spell.
There was no dilemma, no need for a split-second decision. Dru would not harm Galimer. He opened his hand and the unkindled fire dissipated in the air. His body reeled from the shock. Swallowing a spell was more difficult than casting it. Color and contrast faded from his vision, but not enough to free him from the sight of sinuous magic leaping from that dark claw. A cross between spider silk and lightning, Wyndyfarh's magic spun itself around Galimer, swiftly concealing him in a clouded whorl. Foolishly, Dru made a grab for his friend as Galimer's light-shrouded body rose from the moss.