Hero by R. A. Salvatore
Concettina started to obey, but then, horrified, she moved to throw the necklace to the floor.
But she found that she didn’t want to let go of it.
She had heard of magical items that conveyed strength, and considered again her actions that night, how easily she had lifted Yarin and tossed him over onto his back. She could not be the helpless victim here or she would surely die. She had to rely on herself, on her wits, and likely, on her strength.
She noted her reflection in her dressing mirror then, and moved closer to it, standing in front of the reflection. She dropped her nightgown, which she hadn’t yet put on, and considered her image in the glass. She found herself strangely held by that image, and thought it quite beautiful, though she had never been an overly vain woman.
“He will finish you,” the voice whispered.
“Who?” she demanded and she glanced around. “Who is this? Who is speaking?”
She found her breath coming in gasps. She thought that she should run out of the room, and of course, that she should throw aside this necklace.
But she was caught by the image in the mirror once more, and dark smoke rose as if within the glass, swirling up around her reflection, obscuring her fully.
The smoke continued to rise, and she saw her feet again, and her legs were slowly revealed, and all the way up her torso, to her breasts, her shoulder and neck …
“Put it on!” the voice insisted, and Concettina hardly heard it, her eyes widening with shock, for in the mirror was her reflection, the glass clear once more.
Except that her head was missing, blood pouring from her severed neck, and so convincing was that image that the gasping, breathless woman reached up to pat at her neck and chin, needing the reassurance that her head was still attached.
Hardly thinking of the movement, Concettina clasped the necklace around her neck and rushed to gather her bedclothes, then dived back into her bed and pulled the blankets up over her head, listening all the time for the whisper.
She finally convinced herself that there had been no whispering voice, nor any real deception in the mirror, and that it was all her own heart telling her that this necklace was a good thing for her, that it would remind her to take command of King Yarin’s carnal advances.
She would become with child, or he would die trying.
“I AM SPIDER Parrafin of Morada Topolino, good King Yarin,” the smartly dressed halfling introduced himself to the King and Queen of Damara on a fine summer morning.
The mention of Morada Topolino piqued the interest of Ivan Bouldershoulder, who stood guard at the side of the great hall, half asleep. He knew of Morada Topolino—enough, at least, to know that it was a house of intrigue located in Queen Concettina’s homeland of Aglarond, in the town of Delthuntle, he believed.
“I have come to deliver this great friend of Morada Topolino to your court, good king,” the halfling went on.
There was something strangely familiar about this halfling, Ivan thought, but he dismissed the notion almost as soon as it entered his head. He had known many halflings in his life, and to him, they all somewhat sounded, and looked, alike.
“I give you Wulfgar of Icewind Dale,” the halfling said.
That name, too, struck a chord in Ivan Bouldershoulder, reminiscent of a name he had heard so long ago, in another life it seemed.
Those memories brought a smile to the dwarf’s face, but he thought no more about them and went back to his practiced, standing snooze.
“AND TO WHAT end might I desire meeting this … man?” King Yarin asked.
Regis almost missed the question, caught by the eye of Queen Concettina. He managed to offer her a slight nod, almost daring to wink, to let her know that there was more to this tryst than an introduction to the king.
Her returned smile caught the halfling off guard with its intensity, and he stuttered a few times before managing to reply to the king, “Goods! Wines and drink of all sorts! Aye. Wulfgar of Icewind Dale is a merchant come from across Faerûn bearing some draughts and a promise of proper supply.”
“And you have brought these samples?”
“Of course, King Yarin.”
The king motioned for a nearby attendant, who rushed up to stand in front of Regis. “Give them over,” King Yarin instructed. “Once they are properly tested, I will sample them, and if I am pleased, perhaps I will invite you back to stand before me. You are empowered to make a bargain, yes?”
“I am …” Wulfgar started to say.
“Not you,” King Yarin cut him short. “What are you, Uthgardt?”
Wulfgar nodded, for that description seemed close enough, and he wasn’t here to quibble, or even to trade. “The Tribe of the Elk of Icewind Dale,” came his simple response.
“Well, good,” said King Yarin. “But I know you not, nor any of your people. Perhaps if your wares are fine enough, I will allow you to speak in my presence. Perhaps not. It is this little one who has come to make a deal, and from a source I know well and have reason to trust. Were it not for your diminutive friend here, do you believe that I would have even allowed you into my court? You are not a subject of mine, nor friend to any kingdom I know.”
Wulfgar started to respond, but Regis wisely punched him in the shin to silence him.
“Forgive his manners, I beg, King Yarin,” Regis said. “In his land, Wulfgar is a great man and known all about the Sword Coast. He has stood before the Lords of Waterdeep as an equal.”
King Yarin seemed less than impressed, but Regis did notice Queen Concettina’s eyebrows rise at that, and her eyes sparkled more than a little.
Good enough, the halfling thought, in case they had to go to their backup plan.
“Perhaps someday he will have earned your trust enough,” Regis said. He bowed, and slapped Wulfgar’s leg to elicit a similar supplication from the big man. Regis kept bowing as he backed away, and Wulfgar, though looking thoroughly perplexed and even disgusted, did likewise.
“Oh, do stay,” Queen Concettina said unexpectedly, catching Regis, and very clearly the king, off guard.
“We will garner a room at a proper inn in the city,” Regis replied, not sure if that was his place or not, since he had already offered his farewell bows.
“Yes, do,” King Yarin said, obviously a bit perturbed. But it only got worse, for at the very same moment, Queen Concettina added, “Oh no, that would be silly. We have guest houses all about the palace for luminaries such as yourselves.”
King Yarin stared at her hard, his expression a mixture of anger and astonishment.
“I would be remiss in too many ways to disparage an emissary from Lady Donnola, who was my friend in Delthuntle,” Concettina replied into that stern glare. “They will stay here, and I will hear no argument.”
King Yarin’s eyes widened, as did those of every soldier and attendant in the hall, Regis noted, and he held his breath. Clearly, Yarin wasn’t a man used to being talked to in such a manner. For a moment, Regis almost expected that he and Wulfgar would find themselves in a fight right there in the audience chamber.
But Queen Concettina didn’t back away from Yarin’s dagger-throwing stare. Indeed, she put her hand on the king’s forearm and gave a squeeze, and from the look on the man’s face, it was something much more than a gentle press.
She also gave him a look, one that had Regis gulping—and again, he wasn’t the only one—for it was so suggestive that it took the halfling’s breath away.
“Yes, yes, go and find a room in a guest house,” King Yarin said absently, not looking at the pair and waving them away, then waving for another attendant to come to the visitors and show them off.
Regis noted that the king and queen had left their seats before he and Wulfgar were even out of the hall, and that despite a line of peasants and merchants and tradesmen and the like waiting for their turn in front of the royal couple.
Regis spent the next little while trying to sort out his doubts and confusion as he and Wulfgar were escorted to a sm
“You are welcomed to join us for tea and biscuits at the garden tent as soon as you settle your belongings,” said the attendant who escorted them to their accommodations.
Wulfgar beamed at the thought—they hadn’t eaten that day, rushing to be first in line to gain an audience—and he was surprised indeed when Regis rather rudely declined.
“My stomach is growling at you,” the barbarian warned when the attendant left them. “Take care that I do not eat you instead!”
“You saw her power,” Regis replied, shaking his head.
Wulfgar looked perplexed.
“Queen Concettina …” the halfling explained. “She was in control in that audience hall, not King Yarin.”
“So it is with many couples,” Wulfgar replied. “Have I told you about the time when my wife in Icewind Dale insisted that I needed to go and get her a yeti fur rug? The scars didn’t survive Iruladoon, but …”
“No, it was more than that!” Regis interrupted, shaking his head and moving to the cottage door, which was still open. “She handled him with ease and aplomb.”
“Aplomb?” Wulfgar echoed with a laugh.
“Surety,” the halfling explained. “Poise.”
“I know what it means, but to hear you say it …” Wulfgar gave another laugh. “The cultured Spider Paraffin of Morada Topolino. Take care, my friend, for you have mud on your fine boots!”
Regis, still a step or two from the door, reflexively glanced down before shooting Wulfgar a glower.
“You saw it, didn’t you?” Regis asked. “Queen Concettina was in command in that room—she even coaxed him out with many still waiting to be heard, and so obviously for carnal reasons.”
“It’s a weapon,” Wulfgar admitted with a shrug and a sigh.
But Regis was shaking his head. “The letter written to Donnola did not reveal such confidence—quite the opposite!” He moved to the door. “I cannot reconcile …”
Regis paused then, hearing a bit of a commotion in the garden outside, and a “Hee hee hee,” that struck him curiously and familiarly. He wasn’t sure what that might be about, but instead of shutting the door, he stepped outside and glanced around.
Just a dozen strides away, a dwarf crouched in front of the hedgerow, chatting with a blooming flower—a green-bearded dwarf with one arm, and with his beard braided back over his ears to mix with his shaggy hair.
“By Moradin’s own whiskers …” the halfling whispered.
CONCETTINA’S SLEEP WAS filled with fitful dreams. She tossed and turned and watched the guillotine descend. She thought of running away, took hope that Morada Topolino had come for her, and considered the other plan for a secret sire—was that why Donnola had sent the handsome Wulfgar?
So she found hopes, but they were all fleeting.
She thought of her newfound strength, magical likely, and of how she had toyed with King Yarin the previous night and again that morning. She was the stronger!
But he was in command everywhere but their bed, and her newfound power over him would wane. If she killed him she would be horribly executed—hung until nearly dead, then quartered in a public square.
Fleeting.
The guillotine blade dropped upon her.
She was running, then, but as if in mud and going nowhere that would bring her to safety. And terrible winged creatures flew all around her, swooped down at her and made her duck and cry out, and they kept badgering her, not just with threatening claws but with questions.
Demanding answers. Scaring her, diving at her, clawing at her.
Demanding answers.
And the mud was deep around her and she tried to run, but couldn’t run, and plowed along, and the demonic things laughed at her.
She awakened with a scream, lathered in sweat, her eyes red, her bedclothes all tangled around her. Reflexively, she felt for the necklace, and found that it was still there.
Concettina pulled herself to the edge of the bed, and too wrapped and tangled to stand up, she just let herself fall out of it. She struggled to her feet and stumbled across the floor, settling in front of her large mirror.
Sniffling, wiping away tears, Concettina was shocked by the redness of her eyes. She reached up to rub them, but noticed then that she appeared larger somehow, more solid.
Before she could begin to sort that out, she noticed the horns sprouting from her head, and as she shied away in shock, a barb-tipped tail whipped around her.
“What? What?” she stuttered, thinking herself still asleep. Yes, that had to be it.
Still, she nearly fainted when great leathery wings spread out from her back.
And then she knew, from a voice inside of her that no, this was no illusion. The name “Malcanthet” rolled off her tongue, a name that meant nothing to her.
But it wasn’t an illusion in the glass, or some conjured image, but her own reflection.
Her thoughts spun crazily. She had to get to Yarin and the priests. Yes, the priests! She turned for the door and even took a step.
Just one.
“No, you cannot leave, silly Concettina,” she heard herself saying.
She looked back into the mirror, and the image of her in bat-winged, demonic form was smiling widely.
“You were quite chatty this night,” the reflection said to her, or was it just the reflection showing that she was saying those words even though she didn’t try to say those words?
She didn’t know, and couldn’t sort it out, and only then thought of her last two lovemaking sessions with Yarin and the things she had heard herself saying.
“The big one is handsome, I agree.”
Her dreams, she realized.
“Already I know all I need to know about you, and about those around you,” the reflection told her. “Do you know what that means?”
Concettina tried to scream, knew that she needed to rouse the guards immediately. But her mouth wouldn’t cooperate. She couldn’t begin to coordinate her movements to make a sound beyond a muted gurgle.
The image in the mirror became that of Concettina again, just Concettina, without the horns, without the tail, without even the bright red demonic eyes. The woman relaxed briefly and told herself that she was still in the midst of her nightmare.
She brought her hand up to the necklace and touched the large gemstone at its center. It was cool to the touch, like the others, but she could feel it warming, as if some energy was building inside it.
Only then did she realize that some other being, someone inside of her, had suggested the movement, and too late did Concettina try to pull her hand away.
The gemstone grabbed her spirit and drew it in, tearing it from her corporeal form. She didn’t even realize it at first, and found herself confused as to why the image of the mirror in front of her had become so blurry …
She heard herself laughing.
She saw the reflection of Concettina admiring the gemstone … the phylactery!
This creature, Malcanthet, had stolen her body.
Desperately, in horror and utter revulsion, Concettina tried to break free, tried to get back into her own body.
“Oh, you intend to fight me?” her reflection, Malcanthet, taunted. “Relentlessly, I am sure, were you to remain here. But of course, I have too much to do and so I cannot allow that.”
Concettina recoiled as a giant hand closed down over her, and it took her a moment to realize that it wasn’t a giant hand at all but only her own hand, clasping the gemstone, controlled by this demon named Malcanthet.
She heard an incantation in her own voice, and felt a great wind come up around her, pushing her, driving her away. She fought, she clawed, but there was nothing to grasp, and she was flying far, far away along a swirling tunnel of dark mists and ending, so it seemed, right back in the gemstone prison.
But no, she realized soon after, for she was not in her room any longer, and there was no mirror to be seen.
Ju
“Two tons!” one of them exclaimed.
“I’d be givin’ ten times that an’ more for the fun!” the other replied. “But hey-ho, we should be far away!”
CHAPTER 18
Broken Bone, Broken Mind
YVONNEL STARED AT THE MATRON MOTHER FOR A LONG WHILE. To the side, Sos’Umptu was trying to get her attention—to distract her, so she pointedly ignored the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith.
Yvonnel wanted Quenthel to know with certainty that she understood the veiled threat, and that she was more than ready to answer it. Yvonnel had just announced her departure from Menzoberranzan to the matron mother, and Quenthel’s response, that it would be wise for Yvonnel to offer ample warning before returning to the city, was simply not acceptable.
“The handmaiden was quick to my call,” Quenthel replied, to Gromph’s daughter’s cold stare.
“Because the Spider Queen is concerned with my every decision,” Yvonnel said without the slightest hesitation, and in a tone that made “concerned” sound very much a positive thing.
“Yes, concerned,” Quenthel said, clearly trying to remain strong. But Yiccardaria had departed, after all, and even with Sos’Umptu and several other House Baenre priestesses in attendance, it was obvious that the matron mother wasn’t excited about the prospect of a confrontation against the mighty Yvonnel. “The Spider Queen was concerned enough to send Yiccardaria to scold you.”
“To seek clarification,” Yvonnel corrected. To the side, Sos’Umptu moved as if to speak, but Yvonnel threw her hand up forcefully to warn away the words before they began.
“Let us understand each other, Matron Mother,” Yvonnel went on. “It is to Lady Lolth’s dismay that I have not assumed the throne of House Baenre, and thus, the primary seat at the Spider Table of the Ruling Council. I could please her greatly by fixing that situation immediately.”