The Nether Scroll (33 page)

She began with the questions Druhallen asked regarding Beast Lord's fascination with the
Dekanter goblins.
"To an illithid—a mind flayer here in Faerun—anything that is sentient but is not illithid is thrall: a
slave to be kept for work, breeding, amusement, and, of course, consumption. There is, however, an
ideal thrall, a sentient race some call the gith. Gith were specifically bred to serve their masters. When
the gith revolted successfully, the illithid race entered a decline from which they have never recovered
and from which they will never recover, partly because they have forgotten what they were and partly
because there are those, including the children of the gith, who will never forget."

"Are you a child of the gith?" Dru asked when she paused.

He thought it a serious question. Wyndyfarh found it droll. She laughed to herself before
replying,

"Imagine a taller, cleverer goblin and you might imagine the gith. No living mind flayer of
Faerun has seen one—"

Rozt'a interrupted with, "The Beast Lord is an alhoon."

Wyndyfarh indulged another private laugh. "Be assured, it has never seen a gith. It is
guided only by memories stolen from the elder brain of the colony where it was spawned,
wherever that was. That memory became an obsession that led it into a study of material
magic, which is anathema among illithids. They have their own disciplines of will and thought
which they refuse to call magic. An illithid practicing material magic is driven out of its colony
and invariably pursues the spells that will transform it into a lich, an alhoon."

"Invariably?" Dru rejected invariably; invariably there were exceptions.

"Illithids do not believe in death," Wyndyfarh said with a stiff smile. "The only conceivable
fate for an illithid is Commencement—becoming a part of its colony's elder brain. An exiled illithid
invariably seeks to avoid death. They are a rational race, according to their understanding. I have no
interest in illithid obsessions, but the Dekanter alhoon most likely believed that if it could recreate the
gith, its elder brain would forgive it and it would receive Commencement. For a hundred years it had
pursued its obsession, seeming to nurture the goblin tribes and littering the Greypeaks with the
deformed, crippled fruits of its labors in the abandoned mines. Then it found a Nether scroll. Duke
Windheir cannot guess how it could learn anything from a Nether scroll, but it did, and you have seen
the results. My servants were lost, defiled. I claimed vengeance and was denied. I sent no more
servants to Dekanter. My eyes were blind until Sheemzher came, and Sheemzher brought me you."

"And vengeance could be served, if it was not done in your name?" Tiep had found his
voice and his courage.

Lady Mantis wore her most predatory expression when she saw who had spoken, but she
answered the youth's question. "In a word, yes."

She continued to study Tiep as though he might make a tasty meal. Druhallen sought to
redirect her attention.

"And so long as Duke Windheir never found out?" He didn't know of a Duke Windheir and
would have been surprised if any Faerun mortal did.

Wyndyfarh confirmed Dru's suspicion with an icy glance and Galimer issued a statement,
not a question, to break the tension—

"You were lucky there were mind flayers from Llacerelly hunting the Beast Lord while you
were trying to steal the Nether scroll."

Dru had never heard of Llacerelly either and foresaw lengthy conversations with his best
friend once they were free of Weathercote and Lady Wyndyfarh.

Wyndyfarh used Galimer's remark as the threshold for her own questions most of which
they couldn't answer. None of them had noticed the patterns on the mind flayers' robes or
whether any of them had six tentacles rather than four. Tiep remembered that one of the
mind flayers had longer tentacles than the others, but he hadn't noticed if they were tipped
with claws of horn or steel. They did agree the Beast Lord was fighting for its undead life.

"Sheemzher's egg—the athanor which defiled my servants—was it intact when you left the
mines?"

Tiep was defensive, "How would I know? Sheemz and me got the scroll. No one said
'break the egg.'"

Wyndyfarh brought her hands together in the familiar mantis gesture. "I will send servants
again," she resolved, ignoring her guests. "They will tell me who and what survives at
Dekanter."

"Begging your pardon," Dru interrupted, "but as best I could determine, the Beast Lord had
gone beyond studying the scroll, it had stuck it atop its athanor and was using it as a conduit
for its transformation spells. If the Beast Lord survived and can find another kindling source—
lightning comes to mind—it won't miss the scroll. It was melding goblins and mantises that looked a
lot like your servants into gith the day we arrived in Dekanter."

Black nails clicked rhythmically as Wyndyfarh wove her fingers together. "I chose only
females to be my servants," she muttered. "The males are unsuited. The alhoon could not
establish a mantis colony with just one sex."

"That's all they need for themselves. Maybe the Beast Lord learned that from the scroll,
too."

The black nails clicked louder, faster. "One more question. Then I must retire."

"Ask it, we can only say 'no,' " Druhallen said, thinking that she schemed to send them
back to Dekanter.

"You may ask one more question. You have one. You want to know about a glass disk
you've carried around for all these years."

Dru looked across the table at Galimer who squirmed and studied his empty plate. What
was cut, stayed cut. He unfolded his wooden box and slapped the disk on the table. "Does
this look familiar?"

Wyndyfarh picked it up. She balanced it edge-wise on a fingertip and spun it. "Netherese,"
she said after a moment and returned it to the table. "I've never seen one. I was not here
when the Empire ruled. It is a simple enchantment... simple for Netheril at its height. Carry it
openly and you will not be noticed by those who do not expect to see you. Carry it in a box,
as you have done all these years, and it does nothing. It keys to living touch. You must have
slain the wizard who carried it before you, else you could not have seen it to find it."

"The scryers at Candlekeep saw none of that," Dru said, looking at the disk, not
Wyndyfarh, and feeling oddly free of both disappointment and expectation.

"They have not read the Nether scrolls, have they?"

Suddenly, Dru had a thousand questions. He shook his head and willed them away. "No,"
he admitted.

"Take it," Wyndyfarh advised. "I have no need for such toys. I do not leave Weathercote. I
do not make ambushes. And now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do—"

Work, but not an ambush, Dru thought with heavy irony. "—There are rooms where you may
rest."

Wyndyfarh gestured toward the larger marble building. Dru had looked up and seen the
moon—it was the wrong phase, the wrong size, the wrong color.

"I'll sleep outside, where I recognize the sky," he announced and headed for the waterfall.
Weathercote Wood was strange enough for him.

Dru expected to be alone, but Tiep followed him; Galimer and Rozt'a followed Tiep.

"I hadn't noticed the moon," Galimer admitted as he and his wife looked around for a soft
spot among the rocks and mosses.

The familiar sky was already bright in the east. Dru told himself to stay awake while his
friends slept but it had been a long day and Sheemzher had been a heavy enough burden.
He was getting too old to go without sleep. He closed his eyes before the sun rose and
opened them again when it was nearly overhead.

Sheemzher sat at his feet. The goblin was healthy again and decked out in new blue-and-
green clothes—his lady's favorite colors. He had a new hat with a broader brim than before. Its
shadow almost hid the red-orange patch he wore over his right eye.

"Good sir awake?"

"No," Dru grumbled and stretched himself to a seated position.

"Good sir go home now?"

"Soon." He looked around at his sleeping companions.

"Good sir take Sheemzher?"

Dru wasn't surprised. "It's not my decision and, Sheemzher—the places we go, a goblin won't
always be welcomed as a man."

"Sheemzher know. Sheemzher understand. Sheemzher good ears, good nose.
Sheemzher quiet, no trouble. Sheemzher find trouble, Sheemzher tell good sir, yes?"

"You can travel with us to the next town—Parnast, I suppose." He sighed. "Whichever way we
go, we need to stock up first. We'll talk, but don't get your hopes up."

"No hopes. Sheemzher leave hopes behind. Behind Dekanter. Behind good lady.
Sheemzher alone now, good sir. All alone. Choose friends, yes?"

Rozt'a and Galimer were moving now, roused by the sound of conversation. Rozt'a was
pleased to see Sheemzher up and about, but she was less enthusiastic when she learned the
goblin would be traveling with them.

"To the next town ... to Parnast. We need supplies. I can talk to Amarandaris, if he's still
there."

"Amarandaris?" Galimer asked a wealth of questions with a single word. Rozt'a hadn't told
them what Tiep had been up to. She opened her mouth to begin an explanation.

Dru held up his hand. "Later." Tiep was stirring. "I don't want him to know yet."

"Know what?" Galimer insisted. "What's going on?"

It would be awhile before they were a team again.

Wyndyfarh stayed behind her waterfall. Sheemzher was, again, her emissary—his last duty
for her, he insisted. They had safe passage and gold, a handsome purse of it, to compensate their
losses.

"Get horse. New horse. Name Hopper, yes?"

Tiep behaved himself on the way out of the Wood. Perhaps the youth had been cured of
his bad habits.

Their horses were waiting for them at twilight—saddled, bridled and tied to a line. Eleven
Zhentarim thugs waited with them, armed to the teeth with swords, knives, and bows. A twelfth
Zhentarim wore the robes of a Banite priest.

"You're expected for a late supper," the priest said with the friendliness of a man who
knows his generosity won't be refused.

"You expect me to believe that's the full length and breadth of your story?" Amarandaris
asked after a sip of wine.

Druhallen was alone with the Zhentarim in his quarters above the Parnast charterhouse.
They'd dined on two roast chickens that had gone cold before Dru arrived. Amarandaris had
carved his clean to the bone while Dru's was largely intact. He'd done most of the talking,
staying ahead of Amarandaris's questions for the most part.

Until now.

"I expect you to accept that the rest is of no use to the Zhentarim."

"Everything is useful to us, Druhallen. Our trade is information. Too bad you didn't find a
way to keep the Nether scroll. A thing like that would float straight to the top. To have held it
in my hands and glanced at the first few sentences as you did . .."

Amarandaris's voice faded. Dru had no doubt that the man's yearning was sincere, and
futile. Men like him and Amarandaris couldn't hold onto artifacts like the Nether scroll. He
took a deep breath and baited the trap he hoped would free his foster son.

"What would you say to a copy of the Nether scroll, Arcanus Fundare Tiersus?"

The Zhentarim chuckled. "If they could have been copied, they'd never have been lost in
the first place and Netheril would rule the world still today."

Dru reached inside his shirt—a clean shirt—Amarandaris had waited for him to sluice the
journey from his hide and change his clothes. The hour was, again, long past midnight. Dru dropped a
wad of linen cloth on the table between himself and the Zhentarim.

Amarandaris held it up to the lamp and examined it from behind. His eyes widened—he
could read the script on the three-fingers, lengthwise strip that Dru had cut from the middle of Tiep's
shirt while he was alone in the charterhouse's bathing room. The copy was true and complete, but
merely interesting. The magic was in the Nether scroll itself.

"I could have you killed."

"And lose the rest?" Dru scowled. He'd hoped they could avoid petty threats. "Don't take
me for a fool. The box will burn and the linen within it. This is trade, not robbery."

The Zhentarim leaned back in his chair. "Name your price. I'm sure something can be
arranged, if not here, then in Scornubel. My lord often visits Scornubel."

"I know," Dru said quietly.

Amarandaris sat forward. "Name it. What do you want, Dru?"

"A life. A life free from the Zhentarim. Call it a fresh start, a rebirth."

The Zhentarim hid his face behind steepled hands. By his manner, he'd made it clear he
knew exactly what they were negotiating.
"That's nothing I can arrange here, but at Darkhold—? I'm sure I could get my lord's private
ear. There is no guarantee, of course. The young man will be free to make the same mistake he made
before."

"No guarantees," Dru agreed. "I'm not asking for a miracle, only a clean slate. The rest is
up to him."

"I don't suppose you'd give me the rest of the cloth now?"

"You have a band, that ought to be enough, if you're any good at trade."

"I'm good enough," Amarandaris returned Dru's smile. "You should get those cuts on your
nose looked at; they're going to scar. We've got a Banite priest—you met him earlier? He's good
with battle wounds."

"Lots of practice, I expect. No, thank you, I want a life, nothing more, nothing less."

Another smile as Amarandaris stood up. "Consider it done. The Zhentarim will forget that
we've ever known the boy, except as we've always known him—the youngest son of Bitter
Ansoain." He held out his hand to seal the trade.

Dru hesitated then clasped the Zhentarim's hand. They exchanged the hollow good-
wishes of men who do not expect to meet again. The sun was poking above the horizon as
Dru walked down the stairs alone.

Another night without sleep.