Logically, when he thought about it later, he could have gone home. Put on his jacket, said he was injured from the bandit raid. They would see that Jaele had been gutted and had, for whatever reason, shot Virabel. It may even look like, to an outsider, that Virabel had gutted Jaele herself—and maybe she had. And maybe Virabel had orchestrated the raids to lure out her curious sister. Maybe it was to frame someone else. Maybe it was really a plot against Virabel. Maybe it was any number of things.
More logically still, he feared that he would be blamed for his sisters’ deaths. Aestith was the only witness.
Aestith no longer cared. No, he had never cared. Jaele had cared, so he had cared vicariously.
He had been there, had been a witness to what had happened between his sisters. There would be questions if he went home. And he was too scared anyway. He walked until his racing heart had to slow, and the pain in his leg flared anew. He staggered and leaned heavily against the cave wall. His trouser leg was soaked in blood. He felt light-headed.
He panted, then squirmed his trousers down to his knee. The bloody cloth stuck to his leg. He had to burn the wound closed with the one small fire spell he knew. His skin smoked and burnt and he bit back screams. His eyes watered. He fell to his knees. Bare skin scraped against the cavern floor. Hot tears stung his eyes and the scream he held in his throat blocked his breathing. He gritted his teeth until it hurt, and wheezed a breath, another, until the pain ebbed to an ache.
He clawed his way back to his feet and pulled up his trousers. He lurched forward. Sweat mingled with the drying blood. His throat felt raw and tired.
He wanted to kill whoever was responsible for doing this to him. He wanted them to suffer, but even hate couldn’t drive him; Virabel was dead. There was no one for him to take revenge on. Was this what it felt like after you had revenge? Were you left with your anger and no way to sate it, and nothing to live on? Then what good was anger? Or any emotion.
He kept walking. He walked without food or water, or rest, into a state of delirium from his own exhaustion and blood loss. He didn’t know for how long he stumbled, until finally he, head down, fell against the stone slab. It was cool against his brow, smooth and flat. He rested his cheek against one side, then shuddered. His hand slid over the old carvings on the altar. It was old, ancient and abandoned, but he knew what it was.
Mindlessly, he brushed the altar with his remaining sleeve. He kicked a rat skeleton away and peeled lichen from the stone with his fingernails. Feverish, he worked, sweating. He was too exhausted to rest.
He had nothing, but he would give it something. He took his boot knife and, gently, sliced into a bare spot on his arm. He held it over the altar and let it drip. The cut was shallow and he had to squeeze it, but he got out eight drops before he would have to cut again to get more. He smeared the remaining blood over his finger and put it to his lips to taste the iron.
His eyes closed in prayer and he slid to his knees. His forehead touched the stone.
Aestith’Rix.
He heard the voice like a thought, like someone speaking through his bones. It resonated behind his eyeballs and sunk into his brain like a bone in broth. He shivered, then his eyes fell on the worn statue behind the altar.
The statue, if he didn’t possess any rudimentary knowledge of the Queen of Spiders at all, would appear as a beautiful drow woman, clad in flowing silks that were more a testament of skill of the carver than to clothe the statue. Cave moss grew in sparse patches on the statue. In each hand was a crumbling stone sword. A spider wove a web between her four hands.
He choked on a response, and thought it his place to remain silent, but the silence was deafening; it demanded an explanation, a defense. He looked down, his heart hammering so hard he wondered if his ribs might break. The goddess was speaking to him. He wanted to turn and run, scream. Do something. Anything. He was a mutated freak and he must have offended her. “I am sorry to have intruded, my queen. I—”
The dark around him seemed to press against him, so thick it was suffocating. It was like drowning, but drowning in air. A moth trapped in a web.
He swallowed hard, eyes squeezed shut. He could barely breathe. He was afraid to die, yet at the same time, there was a peace to accepting the inevitable. A peace in serving her.
He opened his eyes. She wasn’t going to kill him?
He opened his mouth to object, then snapped it closed. He couldn’t object to a woman, much less a goddess. Who was speaking to him. She was speaking to him.
He would not survive at home. There would be some who saw him as blessed, others who saw him as a threat, and others burning with envy. Most would see him as malformed and imperfect, and therefore should not be allowed to live. Still others would try to use him. No matter how they treated him, there were dangers all around. And he wasn’t learned enough to understand them or deal with them.
The dark withdrew like a presence pointing the way. A narrow crevasse cut into the rock wall. A web spun across it.
He turned back toward the statue, mouth opened in shock.
Either you shall fail, and fall into obscurity, or you shall rise.
#
He must have fallen asleep, for Aestith woke with his back pressed against the altar.
It startled him, at first, then he stilled. A faint trickle of water lured him down a lichen-covered slope to a pool. He cupped the crisp liquid in his hands and drank deeply. He drank until the water filled his belly and let him forget his hunger—how long had he walked?
He stripped from his bloodied clothes and washed them in the pool, then beat the water out of them. He laid them over a stone and slid slowly into the water. It sharpened his mind awake. His nipples were taught and his manhood shrank at the cold. He dunked his head under and scrubbed at his hair. He dove under again and drank, then surfaced coughing and he almost laughed. He hadn’t had a bath in so long, even the chill of the pool was welcome. He liked the feeling of the water cradling him, wrapping around him.
He closed his eyes, and stayed until his toes were numb, then waded dripping back to the shore. His clothes were still wet, and so was he, so he left them there and carefully picked his way back to the altar. He prayed, kneeling until he lost the feeling in his legs. Had she really spoken to him? He had been so exhausted and delirious, he couldn’t say if it were not some fever dream.
When he picked at the dirt under his fingernails, he noticed the small white outline, in the dim light of the glowing mushrooms and crystals. On his left forefinger, inward as if hidden, was a marking. He had seen mostly clerics and priestesses with them—those that were strong in their faith, who had pleased Lolth, could be covered in them, each marking unique and always enhancing personal beauty. He picked at it curiously, but it seemed to be real. He held it close to the light. The small marking was easily hidden, should he need to hide his own devotion for any reason, and was in the shape of a male funnel web spider’s fangs. An interesting choice. The placement told him something more—Lolth had a sense of humor. It gave him an odd sense of relief.
He could not be meant to die here.
He had to go back to the pool for his clothes and to drink. Trepidation dried his mouth. Fear of the future, of the unknown, even a fear of the goddess herself. She had spoken to him. Her, personally. Not a messenger, not some vague sign. But her own voice. Unless that had been a fever dream, which was probably more likely. He needed it to be the former, though; he needed something to drive him forward and inspire him to continue when he was exhausted. Surely the marking was evidence that it was real?
He staggered to the crevasse and glanced back at the altar. A spider dropped down from the statue. He closed his eyes briefly and stepped into the defile in the rock.
It was slow going. He often had to inch his way along sideways and in places, the ceiling was low even for him. A long while later, it opened enough for him to walk, then the ceiling dropped and he had to crawl. Only the sight of an occasional spider made him continue. It wasn’t that the space was close; it was that the weight of the world was above him and there was no discernable way to escape to an open area. It felt like crawling between the jaws of some monster and hoping it would not chomp down.
The floor dropped gradually, then sloped downwards. He stopped, but there was nowhere else to go. He tried to back up, but what for? It was too close together; he couldn’t turn around. With some shuffling, he pulled his legs under him, then wiggled backwards so he was lying on his back. Loose rock tumbled down on him. Dirt stuck in his hair. He carefully rolled onto his stomach, then inched back, down the slope.
The slope slanted and dropped suddenly. He clawed at the ground and slipped. He inhaled sharply, then choked down the cry of surprise lest it echo. His feet dropped on the ground. The fall hadn’t even been very far.
He took several deep breaths and brushed dirt off his knees. He stretched until his back popped.
The cavern had widened to something roughly the size of his family home. Stalagmites and stalactites met at a thin center in random places above the area. Water dripped from the stones. He caught droplets in his cupped hands until he had enough to drink, then sipped carefully. He wet the back of his neck with the remains and looked for an exit. The first, he left because it was not marked. The next had a cobweb in a corner. He passed it. The third had a fresh web, and he ducked to avoid destroying it when he passed.
He scratched at the scabs on his arm. He didn’t think his sisters or anyone else would have cared, but cutting higher kept people from asking questions. He had never wanted to draw attention to himself.
He didn’t think not drawing attention to himself was an option any longer. Lolth had spoken to him, and he had to be destined for greater things if she took notice of him.
Aestith walked—it felt endlessly, and in circles. He may have preferred some monster in the cave, something terrifying to consume him and keep him from the horror of trying to survive on his own. He was eager to obey Lolth, and terrified of doing so. He didn’t want to part from everything he knew. He wanted to go home. He wanted those brief candlemarks every bell where he felt free in the fighting ring. He wanted to tuck himself into the family library and read, or listen to Amalette telling stories. He wanted to curl up in his own bed.
But he couldn’t have that. Going back would mean dying.
Yet dying seemed so much easier. Of course it was easy—that’s why living meant struggling.
It didn’t stop him dreaming of home. He wanted to go back home to the kitchen and make pies and bread. Feel the dough between his fingers, the scent of bluecap flour and the smell of cooking meat over a flame.
His stomach whined at the thought of food. He sighed and swallowed spit. He would have to bear it.
Without a timepiece, he had no way to tell how long he had been walking. He just knew he had stopped several times to rest; he had to stop more often the hungrier he grew. He traipsed over terrain strewn with rocks and lichen. He forded streams and skirted around pools. He passed places with wagon ruts in the earth and places worn smooth from the passage of feet or deep rothé hooves. He had not had a sign from Lolth he could read in many a candlemark. The soles of his shoes felt painfully thin. His body ached with exhaustion and the pain from his wounds. Hunger gnawed at the lining of his stomach.
Aestith must have walked for miles when he fell. He did not get up.