Chapter Thirty-Six - Threshold

Slowly, almost reluctantly, the Seer surfaced from sleep. She reached out, tried to find Imloth. But her fingers only brushed the warm, rumpled sheets, and she remembered. Imloth was not here; he was somewhere far away, and had been, for days. Nine nights ago, her dreams and her head had been filled with the roaring of water, and she had woken gasping and trying to breathe. She rolled over, swung her legs out of the bed, shivered when her bare feet touched the cold stone floor. Halfway across the room, near where her robes hung, something prickled down her spine. She dressed quickly, yanked the knots tight. Last night, she had retired after leaving Nathyrra on her way to the walls, and her prayers had been swift and slightly anxious.

Three days ago, a small scout group had discovered two dozen duergar, all slaughtered and stripped of weapons and supplies. Despite her assurances that they probably had died as normal a death as the Underdark would allow, the guards at the city walls sat hunched behind the crenellations, bowstrings tight and nerves ragged.

For almost the first time since she had fled her mother's palaces, the Seer was tempted – terribly, terribly tempted – to simply lie and tell them that it would be alright, that their unseen enemy was contained and beaten back.

She raked a comb through her hair, pulled at the long, tangled strands viciously.

She needed him back, and soon, and that aching truth made her feel worse than weak.

"Never depend," her mother said, coldly, clinically. "Unless it is on yourself, your own powers, and your own strength."

"Matron Mother…"

"No," her mother cut across her. "Do not depend on your sisters, or me, or any male, within our house or without. Do not."

Simple, aloof words from a cruel mistress, and she knew that, but even so, she wondered if she had let him in too close.

No. Not too close. Not close enough.

Firmly, she forced her thoughts blank, and busied herself with pinning her hair up. A braid at each temple, spun back and twisted, and the thick, soft section at the back of her head simply gathered and trapped. Some months ago, she had discovered that Imloth enjoyed helping her with this simple, everyday ritual, so she let him, loving the way his fingers ran through hair as he fondly teased the white tresses into place. She often returned the favour, twining his hair with small bits of leather, keeping it back off the sharp angles of his face. Stop thinking, she commanded herself. This brings nothing but anguish.

Outside the temple, she discovered the streets quiet, the guards at the corners staring down at the ground. Every day she quartered the city, every day she spent time at the tavern, the scouts' quarters, the big old forge, the temple, the practise field. Usually with Nathyrra at her side, and usually bringing nothing more than words of support and compassion. There was something cold growing in her city, and every day she felt it. In the stares of scouts and soldiers and priestesses, in the silences that followed. A coldness she had not felt since the city stood beaten back and at the mercy of the Valsharess' decisions.

With knife-sharp clarity, she remembered the vision of the surfacer girl, how her prayers had been upended into a whirl of colour and certainty. A name, a face, a past, and the promise of a future, and how safe and soothing it had seemed.

But now she had no such vision of hope, and no Valen, growling orders at surly young drow recruits, and no obvious enemy.

And no Imloth, some sly thought prodded.

Halfway to the walls, her pace quickened. She could see the guards, most of them turned away from the crenellations, and even from here, she could hear raised voices. Someone snarled something about stupid choices, and Nathyrra retorted, declaring her own actions to be only for the good of the city and its people. The Seer recognized Olortyr's high, taunting tones in response, demanding to know why their Matron Mother had been demoted to patrolling walls.

"Enough," the Seer snapped.

Poised on the steps above, Olortyr folded her arms. "Mother Seer, we…"

"Be silent," she said, as clipped. She ignored Olortyr, looked instead at Nathyrra, standing coiled nearby. Her jaw was clenched, and the set of her shoulders was rigid. "Explain yourself."

Nathyrra's eyes narrowed. "I was merely checking weapons, as agreed."

"Not generally a subject that tends towards violent argument."

"Perhaps our Matron Mother is feeling somewhat tense," Olortyr suggested idly. "Her pet is away, after all, and likely not to return. I can't imagine who else she'd be able to cajole into bed."

Nathyrra's right hand dropped to her belt. The Seer caught her wrist, sank her fingers in. "Don't."

Olortyr grinned. "Back on such a short leash, Matron Mother."

Nathyrra shook herself free, unsheathed a dagger. "Say that again. Please."

The city needed to be held, and they were fighting? And fighting like two young, brash females who had no notion of what responsibility truly meant? Almost unconsciously, the Seer's mind went flat with anger. Between one heartbeat and the next, she called a halo of white flame around one fist.

Nathyrra shied away, one hand swinging up to break the sudden glare. "Seer, you don't…"

"Oh, I understand," she said, calm and cold and pitched loud enough that she knew the guards above could hear. "You were provoked, and you responded. How could you – both of you – be quite so foolish?"

Olortyr vaulted down the steps. "And why not? Every decision she had made has led us further into ruin."

"Rebuilding? Forging weapons and armour? Trading?" Nathyrra's hand locked around her dagger again. "Every decision?"

"Stand down, Nathyrra," the Seer ordered. "Stand down."

"Yes," Olortyr said. "Back away, like you've been told. Or would you kill someone else beside these gates?"

"And you," the Seer said, icily. "Keep your mouth closed."

Olortyr swung round, red eyes furious. "You abandoned us, Mother Seer! Why else would this happen? Why else would Eilistraee desert us, and a stranger hold sway over our Matron Mother, and too many drow die?"

"Eilistraee has not deserted us."

"Then why else would you leave?" Something broke through Olortyr's voice, something raw and frightened.

A flood of moonlight through open curtains, blazing a cold line across rough floorboards. Downstairs, the tavern hummed with the noise of patrons and conversation and someone singing raucously. On the bed, Imloth lay propped up on one elbow, smiling slowly as he watched her dance. "You're beautiful."

She paused, returning his smile. "And you are a flatterer."

"Not if it's true."

She turned again, flicked her hair across her shoulders. "Foolish male."

"I don't hear too many complaints."

She laughed, lifted both hands, cupping the moonlight. She pirouetted, deliberately pushing her shoulders back, and heard his appreciative murmur. "No complaints at all. Imloth?"

"Mmm…yes?"

"Come here."

"Eilistraee…" For a brief, terrible moment, the words froze in her throat. "Eilistraee commands her followers to seek the surface. To see the moon, and dance in her light."

"To see this city fall?" Olortyr shook her head fiercely. "Fall under her command?"

On her left, the Seer saw Nathyrra's whole frame go taut. She knew – oh, Eilistraee, how she knew – the shame and the terrible guilt that racked her. But she could not afford more bloodshed, not with the guards all watching, not with the city in such precarious danger. Was that not why she had kept herself apart, alone, all these many long years? Because the city was not her, or her passions, or her desires, but a refuge that needed to last?

Nathyrra's dagger flashed as she launched past, and Olortyr's sword rang out in response.

White light cracked from the Seer's hands, jolting them apart. A follow-up spell swelled and screamed, and she was very aware of the drow on the walls above. Turning, aiming, bowstrings pulling taut. "Stand down," the Seer snapped. "Both of you. Remove your weapons."

Folded half over, breathing hard, Nathyrra glared. "After you."

"Do it," the Seer said, coldly. "Or I will make you do it."

Nathyrra's eyes flashed. Her hand loosened on the hilt, and the dagger dropped. Silently, she unbuckled her belt, let that fall as well. "May I leave, Mother Seer?"

"No." Calmly, she nodded at Olortyr. "Go on."

The other drow obeyed, slowly and pointedly. "As you wish it."

"Now," the Seer said. "I am very tempted to order you both hauled off in chains." Over Nathyrra's splutter of outrage, she added, "I will not have petty arguments escalate into violence so quickly, and so foolishly. Not here, and certainly not now. Take yourselves down to the practise fields if you must, but understand, I will condone nothing that threatens what little stability we have left. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," Nathyrra said, sullen.

"We need only hold out, and wait." The Seer pressed long fingers against her temples. "Now. You will both stay with me, and we will walk the walls. Do you understand me?"

Olortyr nodded slowly. Her eyes flickered beneath thick white lashes. "Yes, Mother Seer."

She looked across to Nathyrra, saw how her jaw was clenched, her shoulder rigid. She wanted to touch the young female's hand, or her arm, anything to reassure, to gently comfort as she might once have done, so simply. But she was enough of a target, shaken and angry and just unbowed, and the Seer had no wish to single her out further. "Nathyrra? Do you understand?"

Nathyrra's head jerked up. "Yes. I understand."

****

Beneath her leathers, Jaiyan ached. A newly-knitting gash tracked the length of her calf, still twinging as she walked. The inside of her left forearm throbbed, striped with bruises, and forced mostly out of her mind once she realised how few healing potions they still carried. Deekin knew a handful of healing spells, and could bandage a wound well and quickly, but even so, they needed to save the potions for when she feared they would need them. Most days, they marched at a grueling pace, following the drow while they flitted ahead. There had been more ambushes, half-unseen attackers whirling out of the shadows, desperately pushed back and defeated, or else chased away. Less than a day past, Valen had ploughed into two of them, and the punishing strokes of his flail had swept both out of the air fast enough that even Andaryn had grunted something about decent reaction speed.

The darkness pressed in close on all sides, and Jaiyan wondered how long it might be until they saw the sun again. Forget the sun, she thought sourly. Right now I'd settle for decent torches, and real conversation, and maybe air that moves.

The path wound between narrow rock walls, stifling and grim. She remembered seeing crystal clusters, a long time ago, travelling with Valen, and scooped-out caves and high, echoing caverns, and life.

Even if it was ilithid slavers and vampires and drow raiders, she thought. Still not like this. Not dry and bare and dead. She wondered again how far down they were, how many leagues of rock weighed down above them, and shivered.

Beside her, Valen slid his hand through hers. "Are you alright?" he murmured.

The glow from the light stone made his face look shadowed and pale, and near exhausted. "Yes," she answered, as quietly. "I was thinking about when we were wandering around down here and found that dracolich."

He rolled his eyes. "I needed to hear that. Thank you."

She grinned. "You're welcome."

Imloth motioned them silent, and Jaiyan reluctantly let her hand drop from the tiefling's. With the light stone nestled inside her collar, the darkness seemed heavy, the stone solid and unyielding. The day – or the night, or whichever, since she could no longer tell – wandered on, mercifully free of nothing more testing that a short sprint down a shale slope and a scramble past a jutting outcrop. Dinner was finished quickly again, a small meal of dry, bland rations, eaten while huddled inside a long, curving alcove that Andaryn apparently considered a decent enough cave.

When Valen stood watch, facing out into the impenetrable blackness, Jaiyan left the others and joined him. Wordlessly sat in front of him, pushed his knees apart, and leaned back against his chest. "Your armour's cold."

He settled an arm around her waist. "If we're attacked, how exactly do you expect me to protect you if you're in front of me?"

"You'll manage. I have faith."

He chuckled, pressed a kiss to the back of her head. "You're going to sleep soon."

"Slave-driver."

"I need you rested and alert. Imloth will have my head otherwise."

"That's right. Blame Imloth."

His arm tightened around her. "I'm worried."

She turned, leaned her cheek against his breastplate, and almost immediately changed her mind. "About Imloth."

"Yes."

Since the river, the drow had pushed them hard, had knocked back Valen's insistence that they spend half a day or so waiting for him to recover a little more. More than once, the tiefling had forcibly pushed Imloth's share of the food into his hands, and threatened to not leave him alone until he ate properly.

"He's tough," Jaiyan said quietly. "He'll be alright."

"The Seer saw the river. What if…"

"Stop," she cut across him firmly. "We don't know what else she's seen since then, or what she hasn't seen. Wondering about that is enough to make my head hurt. Besides, terrible as it sounds, I'm rather glad it was Imloth who fell in the river with me and not you."

Valen snorted. "That's nice."

"You can't swim," she pointed out archly. "I don't think I could've pulled you out, armour and all. You're rather solid."

Behind her, he stayed silent, kissed the crown of her head again.

"Soon as we're somewhere safer, we're finding a nice, safe, normal river, and I'm teaching you."

"I look forward to nearly drowning under your masterful direction."

She considered elbowing him, remembered the armour, and decided against it. "Faithless tiefling."

He pushed her braid over her shoulder and murmured against the back of her neck, "Hardly. You need to go to sleep, my love."

Jaiyan twisted around in his arms. "Bribe me?"

He laughed, and captured her mouth slowly with his own. "Suitable?"

"It'll do." She grinned at him and wished again that they were alone, and not sitting on cold stone. "Don't forget to wake Dakesh later. I'm not the only one who needs to sleep."

Unwillingly, she dragged herself away from him, after allowing herself a last, teasing kiss. Stepping around the drow, she discovered Deekin, swathed in a blanket and snoring softly, his nose pillowed on one folded arm. Jaiyan grinned and dug her own blankets out of her pack. She recalled how cold the Anauroch had been on those clear, star-brilliant nights, and how she had huddled as near as she could to the tiny kobold. Still smiling, she crawled under the covers and curled herself close to Deekin, and eventually fell asleep half listening to him breathing.

****

Deekin woke to unrelenting darkness and unmoving air. Underneath, he could taste dry rock and blood and sweat. Drow fear, hidden like a dagger up a sleeve, because he knew drow did not speak of such things. They slept lightly, both of them; he could hear it in the soft, shallow way they breathed. He turned over carefully, saw Boss behind him, wrapped up to her nose in her blankets. Her eyes were closed tightly, and both her hands were clenched against the stone. On her other side, Goat-man lay facing away, but Deekin noticed how his tail was curved over Boss's waist, on top of the blankets.

Cautiously, Deekin padded past them, stepped around the two drow. He found Dakesh where the stone curved close overhead. The tiefling was sitting slightly awkwardly, knees drawn up, and the overhang almost touching the dark mop of his hair. "Dakesh?"

The mercenary turned. "Not sleeping well either?"

He shrugged. "Nope. Not really."

"I don't blame you." Dakesh raked a hand through his unkempt hair. In the thick, swallowing shadow, he looked tired and drawn, the lines under his cheekbones severe. "Remind me about the part when I thought this was a good idea."

Deekin snorted. "Adventuring not about good ideas."

Dakesh shifted to one side, giving him room enough to hop up and sit. "Sometimes I think it was easier when I was just following orders."

"Deekin spent most of his life following orders. Kobold orders. Old Master orders. Not much fun, when Deekin thinks about it."

Dakesh stared out into the darkness. His hands were clasped over his knee, white and long and latched together. "What was the first thing you killed?"

The kobold tipped his head on one side. "Deekin see things die long time before Deekin killed anything. But when Deekin met Boss, Deekin have to kill other kobolds. Kobolds that tried to kill Boss and Deekin."

"So you killed one of your own kind."

"Yep."

"I killed a human. A man. A young man." Dakesh stared down at his hands. "He was another slave of my master's, and my master wanted a performance, preferably one with blood. So I killed him."

"Who was Dakesh's master?"

"Some slave trader. A demon."

"Blood Wars slave trader?" Deekin asked quietly.

"Not really. He sold women, mostly." Dakesh's mouth opened in a tight, vicious smile. "The story went that he found them easier to control. Easier to break. We all thought he just enjoyed it more. Men and male tieflings he passed along to his friends."

There was something cold in the tiefling's voice, something that reminded Deekin of Goat-man again, of how every word was bitten off, of how that smile was not really a smile. "Friends?"

"He sold me, along with around sixteen other tieflings. We were to be made battle slaves, and when we got to his friend's fortress, a lot of the others…well, they didn't want to be made battle slaves. So they were killed."

"And you?" Deekin asked.

"Kept my mouth shut." He shrugged. "Sometimes you have to survive."

"Friend of master's." Deekin flicked his tongue against his teeth. He did not want to ask, but there was something about the way the tiefling's head was bowed, about the way his very dark eyes were narrowed. "Azraleth. Yes?"

"I'm that obvious, am I?"

"Nope. Deekin just listens well."

Dakesh laughed. "Apparently. Look, it was a long time ago, and the bastard's dead in any case. Your friends made sure of that."

"Worked for him?"

"Me? No. Not directly." The mercenary shook his head. "He kept me for a time and sold me on. That's how Sigil works. Your watch, kobold."

Deekin could smell it again, that thick tang that made him think of steel in a forge. Beneath his clothes, Dakesh's shoulders were stiff, and the hand around his sword hilt was bleached white at his knuckles. "Dakesh?"

Halfway past him, the mercenary paused. "Yes?"

"Deekin glad you're here."

****

Jaiyan stared at Imloth's long white hair and wondered for about the fourteenth time how keeping it almost loose and in thick waves down his back was neither annoying nor potentially life-threatening in combat. More than a few times, Drogan had cautioned both herself and Mischa to braid theirs back, and pin it as well, or better yet, just hack it all off or wear a damn helmet. But most drow males she had seen wore their hair long, and she found herself idly wondering if it was a strange point of their custom to not grab at one's opponent's long tresses in the middle of a fight. The ground dropped away in front of her, and she swore under her breath when she swayed, caught her balance raggedly.

Beside her, Valen cupped her elbow, steadied her. "Day-dreaming?" he murmured.

"Mmm. About drow hair," she whispered back before she could think better of it.

He blinked. "Do I want to know?"

She grinned, a little sheepishly. "Sorry. I just…" She gestured at Imloth, prowling ahead of them with slow, measured steps. "How does it not get in his face all the time?"

Valen smirked. "If we survive this, I might ask him that myself."

"If we survive? What 'if'? We always survive impossible odds."

Up ahead, matching pace with Imloth, Andaryn swung round. "Why is it," he hissed, "that surfacers can never seem to keep their mouths closed?"

Jaiyan nodded slowly. "Sorry."

"We're close," the drow said coldly, quietly. "Very close."

Her stomach twisted. "Close?"

Andaryn's mouth curved into a cruel smile. "Half a day's march, and I can show you where Saerith met her end. Until then, I'd advise you to keep your mouth shut and your thoughts to yourself."

Feeling chastened, and slightly chagrined, Jaiyan bit the inside of her cheek and pushed on. Beside her, Valen's long, easy strides were reassuring, and whenever his tail brushed against the back of her legs, she smiled. He helped her scramble up a long, uneven slope, reached down and pulled her up carefully. He had to know she could have managed it herself, and easily, but still, she enjoyed the way his hands lingered against hers. By the time Imloth called the mid-afternoon – or whatever it was – halt, the inside of her leathers felt slick with sweat, her hair a clammy pile on the back of her head. She watched Andaryn as he pushed past the others and perched on a low, flat boulder, irritatingly elegant, with his hands folded loosely over his knees. She was tempted to snap something spiteful, but the clenched set to his jaw and the level, piercing way he stared off into the darkness persuaded her otherwise.

Instead, she unslung her pack, rummaged around until her fingers closed over the neck of the brandy bottle. She hauled it out, past folded shirts and wrapped soap and weapon oil. She wrestled with the cork, and then the sharp sting of the brandy flooded her throat. She knew she should stopper the bottle again, shove it back into her pack, but the sudden slam of it into her belly calmed her. Another long swallow, and another, and a third, and the prickling in the small of her back dissipated.

Valen's hand closed over hers, gently. He shook his head. "Stop. Please."

She wanted to snarl at him that she was just settling her nerves and her stomach, but grudgingly, she knew he was right. She summoned up a rueful smile, and then nearly shrieked when Dakesh leaned in and pilfered the brandy. The mercenary shot her an evil grin before lifting the bottle to his lips.

"Bastard." Jaiyan sighed and glanced up at Valen. "Sorry."

He smiled. "Come and eat something."

"Smoked rothe before certain death. Sounds tempting."

Imloth motioned them on quickly afterwards, while Jaiyan cursed the throbbing in her left calf and the way her pack was digging against her spine. Stolidly walking alongside Valen, she tried to let her mind wander, tried to think of something lighter and happier than the close press of damp stone and the insistent, dank taste that seemed to cling to her tongue.

Hours slipped past, measured in the rhythmic snap of heels against the stone and the way each breath grew laboured in her throat. How far had they come, she wondered, and how deep did this path lead?

On both sides, the high walls of the ravine melted away. Overhead, the darkness was blank and close, and she could not hope to guess how high this cavern might be. Underfoot, the ground seemed curiously thick, pulling at her boots like damp soil after a fresh burst of rain. But the smell invading her nose and mouth was nothing natural, and she suddenly had no wish to look down and see just what they might be walking on. The light stone jolted against her collar, and she stared ahead desperately. Saw Andaryn as he paused, red eyes narrow and terse. He looked an inch from bolting, all whipcord poise and shallow breaths.

Valen's hand wrapped around hers, big and square and comforting. She gripped his fingers hard, held on through the next half-dozen, careful steps.

Andaryn lifted a hand, motioned briskly. Jaiyan followed his gaze, and her heart lurched. A high, narrow outcropping rose up nearby, the edge sharp and dark. Carved deep, she could see curling shapes, odd runes that swirled across the old stone and disappeared into the blackness. She remembered the Seer's words, and how drained and exhausted she had seemed, after her vision. Past the outcrop, she saw the light flutter across something high and slender and white. Not rock, she realised, but the thin, reaching shape of bone, ivory and gleaming. She looked across the cavern, saw more, ghost-pale and slender, and arching up, by far taller than her, taller than Valen. She tried to make sense of the pattern, the shape of them as they speared upwards, but the light was too poor, and her heart was hammering.

She swallowed, became aware that Valen was guiding her onward, under the high, curving expanse of the bones. What had they come from, she wondered, and why the hells were they still here, laid out like this, all picked clean and so white?

Andaryn swung round, serpent-fast, and she flinched. His eyelids flickered, and she could see sweat beading at his temples. "We're here, yes?" she managed, low and shaken. "This is the place."

"Yes," he said. "We're here."