Chapter 5
The Amulet

Liriel Baenre, the newly elevated ruler of Menzoberranzan’s most powerful house, sat in state upon her black throne. Faint purple light surrounded the young Matron Mother, casting eerie shadows throughout the chamber and forcing the eyes of the priestess seated before her into the light spectrum. This Triel did by design, for light stole the nuances of heat vision, masked the subtle play of emotion that dark elves were so adept at reading. To the drow, absolute darkness revealed more than it hid. Shadows were more useful for concealment.

It was important that Triel hide her distaste for her visitor, for Shakti Hunzrin was a valuable tool, the first traitorpriestess in generations to successfully infiltrate the ranks ofVhaeraun’s clergy. The known followers of the drow god of thievery were few-in no small part because suspected followers were summarily put to death-but Triel believed that the so-calIed Masked God posed more of a threat than Lloth’s clergy liked to admit. As traitor-priestess, Shakti would help ensure that this dangerous seed never bore fruit. The Baenre matron was confident that Shakti’s primary allegiance was to Lloth; indeed, Triel’s powerful mindreaVing spells revealed nothing more disturbing than fanatic zeal. Perhaps a bit too much zeal, for unlike most priestesses Shakti held literal belief in the Directives of Lloth. These so-called Directives—conquering the Underdark and obliterating all elves from the Lands of Lightwere pleasant fantasies, useful for massaging the pride of the drow masses and averting attention from other matters. Triel even allowed that the Directives were worthwhile goals. Her attention, however, was fully absorbed with more immediate concerns.

There had been recent challenges to her throne and whispers of conspiracies to remove House Baenre from its long-held position. Even the matriarchy, the system that had ruled for thousands of years, was under attack. Indeed, all of Menzoberranzan teetered on the brink of anarchy. Triel desperately needed something to offer the struggling drow, something to rally them-something that, not incidentally, would help consolidate her own rank and position. The rogue magic wielded by her errant niece might well provide the key.

“What have you learned of Liriel’s amulet?”

“There is good news,” Shakti began. “The wizard Nisstyre is dead, and with him the plan to use the amulet for the furtherance ofVhaeraun’s cause.”

Triel nodded her approval. There were far too many rivals for this prize. “You have other contacts among Vhaeraun’s ranks?”

“Many,” Shakti lied smoothly, trusting in the mind shields that were among the most powerful ofVhaeraun’s gifts to her.

“Then use them,” the matron ordered. “Send them to the surface. Bring Liriel and the amulet back to the city.”

“I have already sent my emissaries—no drow males this time, but creatures from another plane. Not the Abyss,” Shakti said with easy confidence, “so you need not be concerned that other priestesses will know more of my plans than Lloth herself chooses to reveal.”

Triel’s countenance did not change, but Shakti saw the flicker in the matron’s eyes as she registered the knowledge that a priestess ofVhaeraun had access to powers unfamiliar to most of Lloth’s clergy; For the Hunzrin priestess it was a moment of pure gratification.

“Keep me informed,” the Baenre matron said, her casual tone dismissing the subject as if Liriel and the mysterious amulet were of little consequence. “Now, on to other matters. You know Lloth has decreed that there are to be no wars between the houses. When the affairs of the city are back in order, this will change. It is possible that the fortunes of House Hunzrin will improve considerably;” Shakti carefully suppressed her glee. Triel’s words appeared to hold out an offer of support from powerful House Baenre, but they might just as well be a test. Shakti knew that overambitious drow were often found dead in their own chambers.

“My mother, Matron Kintuere, will be pleased to hear that you are optimistic about Hunzrin’s fortunes,” Shakti replied carefully.

Triel dismissed this prevarication with a wave of one hand. “The alliance between Baenre and Hunzrin has been long and profitable; however, I have often found Kintuere difficult and tiresome.” The matron paused, fixing a searching gaze upon the traitor-priestess. “Your older sister is dying. Soon you will be heir to House Hunzrin.”

Shakti dipped her head in a bow of acknowledgment, but she kept her face—and her thoughts—carefully neutral. After a moment, a rare smile crept through Triel’s wellschooled facade. “Well done,” she said wryly.

Perhaps Triel was complimenting her for an apparently successful coup, perhaps for passing some obscure test. Probably both, Shakti decided.

She took her leave of House Baenre soon after. The interview with Matron Triel had gone well, but Shakti did not feel at all complacent. The surface was a mere seven days’ walk from Menzoberranzan, but to her it was an alien, unknowable world. Shakti had never ever set foot outside the city, much less the Underdark. She had no idea how difficult the task before her might be, or how long it might take.

When the magic of Liriel Baenre’s amulet was hers to command, when she had washed her hands in her rival’s blood-only then could she rid herself of the shackles of House Baenre and move on to the dual destinies that Lloth and Vhaeraun had laid upon her.

Xzorsh, the sea-elven ranger, was not surprised to receive Hrolf’s summons. Before the final notes of the calling box had faded from the thin air, while the clicks and whistles still reverberated through the water, the ranger had the Elfmaid in his sights. He didn’t have far to go; he’d been following the Ruathen vessel since its battle with the giant squid.

The sea elf was deeply troubled by the presence of a drow aboard ship, for he had pledged to aid all who sailed with Hrolf the Unruly. Xzorsh’s sense of honor demanded that he mitigate the damage done by the pirates. So far, he had been able to do so without conflict, but the sea elf feared that he could not keep his pledge against the dark mischief a drow might work.

Yet Xzorsh was also intrigued by Hrolf’s exotic passenger. Unlike most of his people, Xzorsh was fascinated by magic, and the drow female wielded it with skill and authority. The legends of the Sea People claimed that drow had stolen seaelven magic; this only added to the range~s curiosity. Above all, he wished to speak with the drow, to learn the truth of the dark elves. Perhaps even to barter with her for magical weapons. He certainly had the means—Xzorsh was skilled at scavenging sunken ships and lost cities for treasure, which he traded for forged weapons and other goods his seadwelling people needed. Xzorsh had long dreamed of possessing a bit of elven magic for himself.

But such personal goals would have to wait. Xzorsh had seen the approach of the cog and had witnessed at a distance the battle that followed. He did not interfere, for it was apparent from the outset that Hrolf and his men had matters well in hand. Nor did he rue the fate of the ship that drifted slowly toward the bottom of the sea. The merchant ship had attacked, unprovoked, for reasons that Xzorsh did not care to know. She had earned her fate.

As he neared the Elfmaid, Xzorsh saw, silhouetted against the sky, the dark ovoid bottom of a small ship. Survivors, he surmised, set adrift. to await Umberlee’s mercy; He did not disapprove. There were times when sea elves dealt with sailors in like fashion, for many seagoing humans posed a threat to all sea folk, and at times the elves were forced to strike back. Out of habit, though, Xzorsh came to the surface to check on Hrolf’s recent handiwork.

Seven men were slumped in the small boat, all but one of them bearing wounds that had been tended and wrapped. The sea elf nodded, approVing this evidence of fair play; Then his eyes settled on the red-haired man in their midst, and he recoiled in astonishment.

This man he knew. Caladorn, a Lord among the humans ofWaterdeep, often held council with the mermen who tended the citys harbor. Xzorsh had frequent dealings with the merfolk and had seen the young human during one such meeting, albeit from a distance and through a filter of seawater. He had been impressed with Caladorn and considered him a man of honor. What could this man have done to provoke such a fate from the easygoing Hrolf?

Xzorsh swam cautiously closer. Sailors given to Umberlee were sometimes allowed to keep weapons so that they might not meet a fate other than that chosen by the Lady of the Waves. But these men were unarmed-further proof of some egregious offense.

“Lord Caladorn,” Xzorsh called softly. The man jolted, then looked around for the speaker. His eyes widened as they settled on the sea elf, and Xzorsh gave the man time to absorb his presence. Few humans ever saw one of the Sea People, and those who were granted a sighting were usually overcome with wonder.

“I am Xzorsh. Like you, I am charged with the safety and well-being of my people,” he said. “I would like to understand why you attacked the Ruathen vessel. Her captain is a friend of the sea folk and under my protection.” Caladorn nodded slowly as he took this in. The title of “elf-friend”was the highest honor that the People bestowed upon any human, given only to those who’d performed great service to the elves and who had a special love for and understanding of the fey race.

“That would explain why the Ruathen captain set us adrift,” the man said thoughtfully. “Perhaps you can answer other questions.”

Briefly Caladorn sketched the details of his grim discovery aboard the ghost ship, of Captain Farlow’s hatred of the pirates and his inflammatory speech about supposed Ruathym atrocities against the sea elves. He described the battle, the incredible fury of the young berserker theyd faced, and Hrolf’s grief at the discovery of the dead sea elves. “We had nothing to do with the death of these elves,” Caladorn concluded earnestly, “yet the Ruathen captain gave us no opportunity to speak.”

“Hrolfis impulsive,” Xzorsh admitted, “and protective of the People.”

“And now that you know our story, what will you do?” The ranger pondered the matter. “My first duty is to the sea folk. I must learn who killed my people and why. When I can, I will send word to the merfolk of Waterdeep; perhaps they will see to your rescue.”

“Then you also condemn us to death,” Caladorn protested. The merfolk were capricious-they both knew thatand Waterdeep lay several days’ travel to the southeast.

“These men are wounded, some badly. We have no food and very little water. The merfolk-if they come at all-will be too late.”

Xzorsh nodded his agreement of this assessment. “There is a group of small islands not too far from here. No humans make their home there, but you can survive there well enough until rescue comes.”

The sea elf put both hands to his mouth and let out a high, piercing cry. There was a moment’s silence, and then two gray fins cut through the water toward them. Caladorn instinctively reached for his empty scabbard.

“Not sharks,” Xzorsh assured him. “These are dolphinsfriends of the sea elves. They will pull you to safety faster than you could sail or row.”

As Caladorn watched, intrigued, Xzorsh spoke with the creatures in a language of clicks and squeals. The sea elf took two ropes of braided reeds from his belt, tied one end of each to the boat and knotted the other into a loop. These he tossed to the dolphins. The creatures deftly caught the loops with their pointed snouts.

“I will travel with you throughout the night,” the elf promised. He took a long knife from his belt and handed it to the human. “There are many dangers in these waters, some that I myself do not yet understand. You may have need of this.”

Before Caladorn could speak, the ranger slapped the water sharply. It was a signal, apparently, for the dolphins set off toward the west, easily pulling the small craft. When the first rays of the sun touched the surface of the water, Xzorsh turned back toward the pirate ship. There was no real urgency, now that he knew the nature of Hrolf’s summons. Nor would the pirates be expecting him any sooner. He did not wish to explain why he’d been following the ship, or give words to his suspicions concerning the drow.

Never before had Xzorsh seen a drow take to the sea, and he doubted that this female had done so for a noble purpose. His people had suffered enough at the hands of the evil drow; Xzorsh was determined to do whatever he could to ensure that they would come to no further harm. Even if the drow in question was under his pledge of protection.

Life’s answers usually came easily to the young ranger, and the lines between what was good and what was evil usually ran straight and clear. But for once Xzorsh found himself wondering if things were truly as simple as he had always believed.

* * * * *

The morning hours passed slowly aboard the Elfmaid. There was little for the crew to do but await the arrival of the sea-elven ranger. The presence of the dead sea elveseven now that they were tucked discreetly in the hold-was a damper on the usually high spirits of the Ruathen sailors.

Fyodor did his best to distract them with tales of his homeland--0fthe place spirits that still lingered in springs and wells, of his adventures exploring the ruins of longdead kingdoms buried in the thickly forested hills of Rashemen. The young storyteller did not understand why his tales of place spirits brought sly grins to the faces of the sailors, but on the whole the men seemed glad of the diversion he offered.

The first mate, however, concerned himself with practical matters. Ibn examined their haul, placing the valuable goods to one side and tossing the debris into the sea. He was about to send the broken lid of one cask spinning, but stopped suddenly and squinted at the markings on it. The mate pursed his lips, considered, and then examined the remaining barrels. He hurried over to Hrolf, who had spent the night at watch on the forecastle. The elven female was at his side, as she was too often for Ibn’s taste, but the sailor had no time to indulge his prejudices.

“You must see this, Captain,” Ibn said with uncharacteristic urgency and handed the lid to Hrolf. “That’s the mark of Alesbane the cooper. The barrel is of Ruathym make. All the barrels holding sea elves had this mark.” Hrolfscowled and shrugged. “What of it?”

“Strange, it is,” Ibn said. “What those seal hunters could want with Sea People is more than I know or care. I just hope no more pickled elves show up, and the blame for it put on Ruathym.”

Liriel saw the point at once. Although she knew little of human politics, she could scent a plot in any form. “He’s right, Hrolf: We should get those wounded men back and find out what they know.”

The first mate did not look grateful for her support. His red brows met in a frown, and he leveled a glare at the drow. “You’re to blame for this mess,” he growled.

“What had I to do with it?” she said indignantly. “The sea elves were long dead before we found them.”

“That’s the way of ill luck. You never see it coming, but it finds you all the same!”

“Enough, lad,” Hrolf said wearily. “Best that you fmd the men we set adrift and try to sort this thing through.” Liriel nodded. “I’m going below-the midday sun is still too bright for comfort-but call me when you fmd the seal hunters. I can get more information from them than theyd willingly give.”

Ibn folded his arms and glared at her. “You won’t torture a wounded man while I’m mate of this ship!”

“Spare me the sermon,” she said dryly, “and do try to remember that magic gives options quite beyond those allowed by your crude imagination.”

The drow swept past the mate, regal as a Matron. But she felt his baleful glare upon her as she made her way into the hold, and she wondered what he might do if he knew what she was about to attempt.

For Liriel had found unexpected inspiration in her own words. She did have the ability to extract information from the minds of the wounded seal hunters. Not from her wizardly magic, but with clerical spells. Priestesses of Lloth could cast their sticky webs into the thoughts of anothereven if that person had passed beyond the mortal realms. Why bother questioning the seal hunters, Liriel surmised, if she could speak directly to the spirits of the dead sea elves? Of course, this was risky in the extreme. A powerful priestess could summon and command a spirit, but Liriel was a novice and had never tried the prayers and spells that would reach beyond death. She had no reason to believe Lloth would honor her request; indeed, her presumption might anger the Spider Queen. The spirits of sea elves would not be in the realms of Lloth, and Liriel doubted the drow goddess was on cordial terms with whatever elven deity sea elves worshiped.

After pondering the matter, Liriel decided that her best bet for success-not to mention survival-would not be to ask Lloth to summon the spirits, but rather to seek permission to enter the afterworld herself: It was a prospect that both chilled and fascinated the adventurous young drow.

Liriel crept into the corner of the hold where the dead elves lay, respectfully covered with a tarp. She knelt down and began to search the bodies, trying to find some clue that would tell her how they had been killed. There were no marks on any of them, beyond the slight wizening effect of the brine. Nothing to be gained there. At random, she chose one of the elves and held the cold hands between both her own. Since she had not known the sea folk in life, she needed contact with the body in order to track down the spirit. The drow steeled her courage and began the intense concentration demanded of a clerical spell. She chanted softly, emptying her thoughts and pushing away the strands of magic that came so readily to her call. The magic she needed now was not the natural magic of the Weave, but the power of a goddess.

Suddenly Liriel was pulled from her body. There was a moment’s bright, white pain, a quick wrenching as she was torn from the mortal world, and then. . .

Liriel had glimpsed the Abyss, had viewed all the lower planes through the scrying portals common among the priestesses of Lloth. The gray, mist-filled landscape before her was like nothing she had ever seen or, more precisely, like nothing she had ever felt. There was little to be seen here, yet all around her she felt the invisible passages that led to untold realms. The drow sent out her thoughts, seeking the sea elf’s spirit.

There was a moment’s touch. The exhilaration of success filled the drow’s mind, and she urged her probing touch to go still farther. To her astonishment, there was nowhere to go.

Liriel’s heightened senses perceived that something beyond the natural order had occurred. She encountered not the will of a god, but the art of a sorcerer. The spirit had indeed left the sea elf’s body, but it was trapped somewhere on this plane. The drow deepened her concentration, narrowing her search to seek the spirit in the world she knew.

Suddenly Liriel stood at the gate of some terrible limbo. She felt the utter helplessness of the being she sought, felt the sudden surge of hope as the spirit felt her touch, felt the unseen eyes that pleaded with her for release. The drow’s free-spirited heart recoiled from the terror she encountered, and instinctively she drew away.

I find you, Liriel promised silently as she eased back toward the mortal realm. I find a way to release you all. “Damn female. Knew you was a part of this mess.”

The voice, grim and triumphant, jolted Liriel from her trance. She spun to see Ibn watching her and only then realized she had spoken part ofher promise aloud. So deep in meditation had she been that she hadn’t heard the first mate’s approach. He closed in now, his hand on the hilt of his knife.

Instinct took over. Liriel flung out a hand, fingers spread wide. Strands of magic flew from her fingertips, spun themselves into a giant web that spanned the hold. The blast of power caught Ibn, hurling him backward along with the magical trap. He hung there, bobbing slightly, stuck to the web like some enormous insect.

Liriel expected sullen wrath, or even a string of the colorful curses that were common aboard the ship. To her astonishment, Ibn looked pleased despite his ignominious situation.

“Attacked a ship’s officer, you did. You’re as good as dead,” he promised her with dark satisfaction.

The memories of elves are long indeed, but to most of them the lost city of Ascarle had faded into the fabric of lore and legend. Many generations of elves had come and gone since the day Ascarle had disappeared-swept away by the rush of melting ice, then buried beneath the waves in the age when the great glaciers gave way to the northern seas. Few suspected that the glories of Ascarle continued, hidden deep beneath the waters off the northern coast ofTrisk, a small island in the remote archipelago known as the Purple Rocks.

Few of those long-ago elves would recognize Ascarle now. Yes, most of the buildings remained intact-wondrous, gleaming structures magically grown from crystal and red coral. Even buried beneath the waves, the city looked as if it had been sculpted from fire and ice. Air still filled many of the buildings and the covered walkways that linked them. Treasures from ancient cultures furnished the luxurious rooms. Indeed, the only discordant notes in all of Ascarle came from its watery horizon and its current inhabitants. Around the submerged city lived some of the most feared creatures in the sea. A hundred merrow-aquatic cousins of ogres-formed the core of Ascarle’s standing army. The antechambers and tunnels that led into the crystal core were lairs to kapoacinth, marine gargoyles who lived for the enjoyment of causing pain. A band of evil nereids-beautiful, shapeshifting sirens dedicated to the destruction of seagoing males-flitted about the city, awaiting opportunities for mischief.

It was even whispered that a kraken made its lair in the submerged city. Of all the creatures of the sea, this gigantic and highly intelligent squid-creature was the most feared. In times past, entire cities, whole islands, had disappeared at the command of such beasts. Little was known about kraken, except that the creatures spent most of their lives in the unreachable depths of the sea, and that they at times amassed power that reached far beyond the waves. Even rumor of a kraken’s presence was a formidable threat.

The apparent ruler of Ascarle, an illithid known as Vestress, certainly did nothing to discourage these rumors. A creature of immense magical power and shadowy background, Vestress claimed the title of Regent and ruled the undersea kingdom for the absent kraken. Or so she claimed, and so far none had dared to challenge her. For Vestress’s reign was not limited to Ascarle. A far-flung network of spies and assassins known as the Kraken Society extended her power throughout the Northlands.

Vestress was an oddity among her kind. Illithids did not possess-or at least did not exhibit-gender, but this creature projected a mental “voice” that was decidedly feminine and a persona as regal as that of any queen. By human standards, illithids were hideous creatures that resembled some unholy pairing of squid and humanoid. Roughly manshaped in form, the creatures had bald, high-domed heads, lavender hide, and white eyes devoid of expression. Four writhing tentacles formed the lower half of an illithid’s face and concealed a sharp-fanged maw. Somehow, though, Vestress projected an elegance not in keeping with her ungainly form. Pale purple amethysts decked her threefmgered hands and studded the circlet of silver on her head. The full sleeves of her lavender silk robe whispered as she deftly moved the shuttle of her loom.

The Regent of Ascarle was currently at leisure. Weaving was her hobby and her passion, and she took to it whenever the demands of her position allowed. The illithid saw all of life as a tapestry, and she could spin nearly anything into thread: precious gems, stolen dreams. At the moment she sat before a tapestry that depicted a coastal town, peopled by former slaves that once had served her and maintained Ascarle’s air-filled chambers. The weaving was her finest achievement, and Vestress gazed at it with satisfaction. Then, to her astonishment, the sea-elven figures on the tapestry began to writhe as if in torment.

Vestress rose abruptly. This could not be. Not that she was adverse to tormenting the sea-elven spirits entrapped in the tapestry-far from it! What concerned her was that someone had attempted to contact the spirits of the dead elves. Someone powerful.

The illithid had expected that such an attempt would be made, but the seal hunters could not have reached Waterdeep so soon, and she knew that no clerics sailed aboard that vessel. Something had gone very wrong.

Vestress glided out of the weaving chamber and hastened to the room that housed her scrying crystals. With all the resources of the mysterious Kraken Society at her command, she would have an answer in minutes.

And before the day was out, the illithid’s far-reaching tentacles would ensnare the priest or priestess who had dared to interfere with the Regent of Ascarle.