Homeland (The Legend of Drizzt #1)(25)

He wrung his hands together, gingerly opened the book to the marked page, and scanned the incantation one final time. “Are you ready?” he asked Masoj.

“No,” Alton ignored the student’s unending sarcasm and placed his hands flat on the table. He slowly sunk into his deepest meditative trance.

“Fey innad ...” He paused and cleared his throat at the slip. Masoj, though he hadn’t closely examined the spell, recognized the mistake.

“Fey innunad de-min...” Another pause.

“Lloth be with us,” Masoj groaned under his breath.

Alton’s eyes popped wide, and he glared at the student. “A translation,” he growled. “From the strange language of a human wizard!”

“Gibberish,” Masoj retorted.

“I have in front of me the private spellbook of a wizard from the surface world,” Alton said evenly. “An archmage, according to the scribbling of the orcan thief who stole it and sold it to our agents,” He composed himself again and shook his hairless head, trying to return to the depths of his trance.

“A simple, stupid orc managed to steal a spellbook from an archmage,” Masoj whispered rhetorically, letting the absurdity of the statement speak for itself.

“The wizard was dead!” Alton roared. “The book is authentic!”

“Who translated it?” Masoj replied calmly. Alton refused to listen to any more arguments. Ignoring the smug look on Masoj’s face, he began again.

“Fey innunad de-mill de-sul de-kef,” Masoj faded out and tried to rehearse a lesson from one of his classes, hoping that his sobs of laughter wouldn’t disturb Alton. He didn’t believe for a moment that Alton’s attempt would prove successful, but he didn’t want to screw up the fool’s line of babbling again and have to suffer through the ridiculous incantation all the way from the beginning still another time.

A short time later, when Masoj heard Alton’s excited whisper, “Matron Ginafae?” he quickly focused his attention back on the events at hand. Sure enough, an unusual ball of green-hued smoke appeared over the candle’s flame and gradually took a more definite shape.

“Matron Ginafae!” Alton gasped again when the summons was complete. Hovering before him was the unmistakable image of his dead mother’s face.

The spirit scanned the room, confused. “Who are you?” it asked at length.

“I am Alton. Alton DeVir, your son.”

“Son?” the spirit asked.

“Your child.”

“I remember no child so very ugly.”

“A disguise,” Alton replied quickly, looking back at Masoi and expecting a snicker. If Masoi had chided and doubted Alton before, he now showed only sincere respect. Smiling, Alton continued, “Just a disguise, that I might move about in the city and exact revenge upon our enemies!”

“What city?”

“Menzoberranzan, of course.”

Still the spirit seemed not to understand.

“You are Ginafae?” Alton pressed. “Matron Ginafae DeVir?”

The spirit’s features contorted into a twisted scowl as it considered the question. “I was... I think.”

“Matron Mother of House DeVir, Fourth House of Menzoberranzan.” Alton prompted, growing more excited. “High priestess of Lloth.”

The mention of the Spider Queen sent a spark through the spirit.. “Oh, no!” it balked. Ginafae remembered now. “You should not have done this, my ugly son!”

“It is just a disguise,” Alton interrupted.

“I must leave you,” Ginafae’s spirit continued, glancing around nervously. “You must release me!”

“But I need some information from you, Matron Ginafae.”

“Do not call me that!” the spirit shrieked. “You do not understand! I am not in Lloth’s favor...”

“Trouble,” whispered Masoi offhandedly, hardly surprised.

“Just one answer!” Alton demanded, refusing to let another opportunity to learn his enemies’ identities slip past him.

“Quickly!” the spirit shrieked.

“Name the house that destroyed DeVir.”

“The house?” Ginafae pondered. “Yes, I remember that evil night. It was House-”

The ball of smoke puffed and bent out of shape, twisting Ginafae’s image and sending her next words out as an undecipherable blurb.

Alton leaped to his feet. “No!” he screamed. “You must tell me! Who are my enemies?”

“Would you count me as one?” the spirit image aid in a voice very different from the one it had used earlier, a tone of sheer power that stole the blood from Alton’s face. The image twisted and transformed, became something ugly, uglier than Alton. Hideous beyond all experience on the Material Plane.

Alton was not a cleric, of course, and he had never studied the drow religion beyond the basic tenets taught to males of the race. He knew the creature now hovering in the air before him, though, for it appeared as an oozing, slimy stick of melted wax: a yochlol, a handmaiden of Lloth.

“You dare to disturb the torment of Ginafae?” the yochlol snarled.

“Damn!” whispered Masoj, sliding slowly down under the black tablecloth. Even he, with all of his doubts of Alton, had not expected his disfigured mentor to land them in trouble this serious.