by Lisa Smedman
As the stone benches filled with spectators, Kâras sized up the male he’d been sent to kill. The fellow was slender-boned and delicate looking, but clearly used to taking care of himself, judging by his confident expression. He sat with his back against the wall, on the top bench. Every few moments he glanced around, alert for threats. His piwafwi hid his forearms, but Kâras spotted the head of a wristbow bolt peeking out from the edge of the cloth.
Kâras had been told his target’s name: Valdar. Aside from that, he knew little. Only that the fellow was a former priest of Vhaeraun, just as Kâras was. The target wasn’t wearing his mask; that would have been suicide, there in Guallidurth. Perhaps he’d given up the faith altogether after Vhaeraun’s death. More than one Nightshadow had done that, rather than bow to the Masked Lord’s conqueror.
Kâras, however, was more practical than that.
Rather than moving into position at once, he feigned interest in the upcoming match. The quaggoth was, as the female sitting beside him had just noted, an enormous creature, one and a half times the height of a drow, as broad as one of the World Above’s bears. The white-furred creature was indeed female, though it was hard to tell with all that fur. She had disdainfully cast aside the club they’d given her and was flexing her hooked claws and roaring, working herself up into a killing rage.
The derro on the opposite side of the circular ring was less than half the quaggoth’s height. His coarse white hair fell in a tangle across his pale blue face, hiding his blind eyes. He would be relying upon sound and smell alone to tell him where his opponent was. He gripped a dagger in each fist. The blades appeared clean, but Kâras had learned they were coated with greenblood oil, rendered invisible by a spell.
When it came to laying odds, Kâras would take small and sneaky over brute force any day.
The crowd thickened. Most of the spectators crowded the first few rows, seats so close to the arena that their occupants were sometimes hit with a hot spray of blood.
As the bet runner moved into place, climbing the stairs toward the spot where the target sat, Kâras rose to his feet, shouting out a last-moment bet. “Three gold!” He waved his arm, as if trying to catch the bet runner’s eye.
The bet runner ignored him.
Kâras clambered down the stairs, unfastening the coin purse at his hip. “Three more gold on the derro!” he shouted again. He continued calling and waving as he climbed the stairs on the other side of the arena.
Before he could reach the bet runner, the gong sounded, signaling the start of the combat.
“Out of the way!” a spectator cried. “I can’t see.”
Kâras continued up the steps to the bet runner. The boy had positioned himself next to Kâras’s target, as was the custom when each fight began, with his back against the wall so as not to block the view.
“Didn’t you hear me, boy?” Kâras shouted. “I wanted to place a bet.”
The bet runner cringed. “Sorry, Master! Too late. The fight’s already—”
Kâras cuffed him, splitting his lip.
The boy was good. He glared back at Kâras as if he wanted to kill him, and cringed when Kâras raised his hand a second time. Seemingly cowed, he slunk away.
Kâras glanced back at the combat, sighed heavily, then squeezed onto the bench next to Valdar.
His target glanced at him, his unusual pink eyes flicking briefly to Kâras’s wrist-crossbow and dagger and lingering a moment longer on the scars that gave Kâras’s left eye a perpetual squint. If Valdar survived, he’d remember Kâras. Survival was unlikely, however.
Kâras turned his attention to the fight. In the arena below, the quaggoth leaped forward with a roar. Despite her size, she was swift as a jumping spider. The derro deftly sidestepped and slashed, but missed. The quaggoth spun and raked the derro’s shoulder with its claws, drawing first blood.
The crowd shouted its approval.
Kâras snorted. “Hah. Perhaps it’s just as well I didn’t get to place that bet.”
His target didn’t comment.
The derro feinted with his left, stabbed with his right. The second dagger almost scored a hit, parting the fur at the quaggoth’s hip.
The female sitting on the other side of Valdar leaped to her feet and shook her fist. “Kill him!” she screamed.
The quaggoth slammed a paw into the derro’s back, sending the little male stumbling. The derro turned it into a somersault and sprang back to his feet. He shouted something at the quaggoth—a shout laden with magic that sent the quaggoth reeling. Before she could recover, the derro raced in and stabbed her in the thigh. Bright red blood stained her fur. She staggered, blinked stupidly at the wound. Then she fell.
The crowd roared.
“Ha!” Kâras cried. “I wish I had placed that bet. I knew the derro would win. But at least I’ve made a little profit, this match.” He folded his arms and leaned back, as if pleased with himself.
Now was the moment. Before the noise of the crowd ebbed, he whispered a terse prayer that would freeze his target in place. He abruptly leaned sideways, jostling Valdar. The dagger concealed by his folded arm stabbed into Valdar’s side.
The point grated against something—fine-woven mail, by the feel of it—turning what should have been a fatal thrust into a bruising punch.
To Kâras’s surprise, Valdar moved. Before Kâras could react, Valdar grasped his arm and “spoke” a command with his fingers: Come. Kâras suddenly felt an urge to follow the other male wherever he might lead. Before he could shake off the magical compulsion, his target moved his fingers in a silent prayer.
The arena disappeared.
Off-balance from the sudden absence of the bench, Kâras nearly fell. Rather than leaping away—a move the other male would have anticipated—Kâras hurled himself forward, knocking the other male off-balance. Then he sprang back, nearly twisting a foot on the uneven floor in the process. He glanced around, saw that they had teleported to a crystal-lined cavern. As the other male sprang to his feet, Kâras shifted his dagger. Valdar refused to be distracted by it. His arm flew up and his wristbow twanged. The bolt tore past Kâras’s head and cracked against the wall behind him. Kâras answered it with a thrown dagger. It should have spitted Valdar in the throat, but Valdar dodged it easily.
Kâras drew his second dagger. Valdar likewise drew steel. Kâras leaped forward. Thrust.
His target dodged aside. Valdar slashed, but Kâras barked out a one-word prayer. A shield of magical energy caught the blade and turned it aside.
The two males circled each other warily, each realizing he was evenly matched.
“Kill me and you’ll be trapped here,” Valdar said. His free hand flicked to the side. “Like them.”
Kâras didn’t need to look. He’d already noted the two drow corpses that lay nearby: one bled out from slit wrists, the other bone-thin from starvation. Each wore a black mask.
He continued to circle Valdar—a motion that allowed him to take in all of the cavern without shifting his attention from his opponent. Valdar just might be telling the truth: the cavern had no visible exits. And Kâras couldn’t teleport.
“You’re a Nightshadow,” Valdar said. A statement, rather than a question. He’d obviously recognized Kâras’s prayer.
Kâras watched his opponent closely. When Valdar lunged, he twisted aside. Kâras slashed, but the other male also danced nimbly away.
“Do you know who I am?” Valdar asked.
“I was told you must die. Who you are is not my concern.”
“I’m a Nightshadow, like yourself. But not just any cleric. I’m the one who opened the gate between Vhaeraun’s and Eilistraee’s domains.” Valdar gestured at the darkstones that lined the cavern. “This is where it was done.”
Kâras couldn’t help but reply. “If that’s true, you’re a traitor,” he spat.
“Not at all. I merely did as Vhaeraun commanded.” He nodded at the dagger in Kâras’s fist and made a tsk noise. “And this is the reward I get.”
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“You did as Eilistraee commanded,” Kâras corrected. “But that doesn’t matter any more. I serve her, now.”
“It was a priestess who ordered my assassination?” Valdar asked. His surprise seemed genuine. “But I thought …”
Kâras lunged. His target parried. The daggers clashed, and both males sprang away. Kâras circled, watching for another opening.
Valdar gave Kâras a scornful look. “You allow females to order you about? What kind of Nightshadow are you?”
Kâras felt his jaw muscles tighten. “One who now pays homage to the Masked Lady.”
“The Masked Lord, you mean. It was Vhaeraun who killed Eilistraee. The priestesses are lying when they say it was the other way around.”
Kâras couldn’t let that pass without comment. “Then why is it you’re not attacking me with your prayers? I’ll tell you why; because Eilistraee won’t grant you the spells to harm me.” He nodded at the other male’s dagger. “You’re left with only one weapon: steel.”
Valdar smiled. “In that regard, I’d say we’re evenly matched. But now that we’ve taken each other’s measure, I’d rather speak to you than stab you. And why?” He lowered his dagger slightly. “Because Vhaeraun still has need of you.”
Kâras refused to be taken in by so obvious a feint.
“I assure you,” Valdar continued, his dagger still lowered. “I’m telling the truth. Eilistraee is dead. Vhaeraun lives.”
Bitterness welled in Kâras. “Then why have our most potent spells been stripped from us? Why is it that Eilistraee’s priestesses have all the power, while we’ve lost ours?” He could hear the ache in his own voice. He was giving too much away, but he didn’t care. “Why must I dance and sing instead of meditating in shadow and silence?”
Valdar nodded, as if in sympathy. “I know exactly how you feel. That first month, after I opened the gate, guilt nearly consumed me. Then I saw the shadows behind the light.”
Both still held their weapons, but for the moment, they exchanged only stares. Valdar spoke first. “The priestesses are teaching that it was Eilistraee who entered Vhaeraun’s domain, aren’t they?”
Kâras said nothing.
“They lie. I was here. I saw what happened. Vhaeraun leaped through the gate to attack Eilistraee.”
“Suppose you’re right. What does it matter? He was still slain.”
Valdar shook his head. “Tell me this. Have you attempted an augury these past four months?”
Kâras gave a terse nod.
“Was it answered?”
Kâras spoke guardedly. “Yes.”
“Did the one who answered wear a mask?”
“Of course. A trophy of her victory.”
“And the face—what you could see of it? Female or male?”
“Neither. And both. Just like the voice. But the priestesses have an answer for that, too. It is part of the balance. Vhaeraun allowed himself to be killed so the two deities could merge.”
Valdar raised an eyebrow. “And you believe that?”
“Not … entirely.”
“Look closely, next time you attempt an augury. Look into the eyes of this ‘Eilistraee.’ See if they are entirely moonstone blue—or if they contain a flash of some other color.”
Kâras lowered his dagger slightly. “You’ve seen this?”
“Yes.”
Kâras thought about that. He shook his head. “That proves nothing. Eilistraee took on aspects of Vhaeraun when she killed him.”
“Did she? Or did Vhaeraun take on aspects of Eilistraee?”
Kâras waved his dagger. “We’re arguing in circles. And none of it matters. It’s Eilistraee’s priestesses who are in charge now, not us.”
“Are they? Or is it Vhaeraun who’s the true power behind the throne?” Valdar held his free hand across his mouth. “What better mask to hide behind, than the illusion of defeat?” He lowered his hand again. “I’ve thought long on this—asked myself the very questions you’re asking now. Then I realized that feigning his own death and giving the priestesses the illusion of control was all part of the Masked Lord’s plan. Just as we infiltrate the settlements of the Night Above in the guise of surface elves, Vhaeraun has infiltrated Eilistraee’s realm. Our clerics are within her shrines, constantly testing the limits of her priestess’s control with scores of tiny acts of defiance. Soon, we’ll be inside the Promenade itself. When the time comes, Vhaeraun will throw off his disguise, and those who have maintained his faith will take her strongholds from within.”
It sounded good—too good. Kâras couldn’t allow himself to be seduced by it. “And what if you’re wrong?” he countered. “What if it’s Eilistraee’s priestesses who are eroding our faith from within?” He gave a bitter laugh. “We’re already nine-tenths defeated. Better to claim what power you can within the new order than to cling to false hope.”
“It is not a false hope!” Valdar snapped, his pink eyes blazing. “Nobody saw Vhaeraun die. Not even me—and I was here, staring through the gate as it opened. Think about it. Vhaeraun has tricked Eilistraee’s faithful into joining our fight. He’s using her shrines as a stepping stone. A staging ground for the eventual overthrow of Lolth and her matriarchies. Then the natural order will be restored. We Nightshadows will return to the Underdark, and males will rule.” He paused to catch his breath. “Vhaeraun’s plan is a brilliant one, in every detail. What more perfect treachery can there be than to feign one’s own death and infiltrate the very body of one’s enemy? It’s the perfect disguise.”
Kâras had been listening intently. But the time for talking was almost at an end. In another moment, he’d finish it—kill his target, and probably take a fatal wound himself. If he survived, he might very well wind up trapped in this cavern, eventually dying of starvation. He was resigned to that. But before he pressed home his attack, there was one last question he had to ask.
“It all sounds plausible,” he said. “But what proof can you offer that it’s true?”
Valdar’s eyes gleamed. “The order to kill me came from a priestess. And that priestess—whoever she is—takes her orders from her deity. Do you honestly believe Eilistraee would condone an assassination of one of her own? Or does that strike you as being more like an order that Vhaeraun would give?”
“Why would he order you killed? If, as you say, you only did as he commanded.”
Valdar’s eyes bored into his. “As a trial. He knew it would bring you face to face with me, and test your faith.”
Kâras’s body was still, but his thoughts churned. He searched for a counter argument, but couldn’t find one. Nor did he want to. Something was breaking in him—breaking open. The brittle shell he’d encased his anguish in, these past four months.
“There’s a way to test whether what I say is true,” Valdar said softly. “Return to the female who gave you the order. Tell her I’ve been slain. See if divine retribution follows.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Or if reward follows, instead.”
Without waiting to hear what Kâras would say next, he sheathed his dagger.
For several moments, Kâras remained motionless. Then he nodded to himself. “I think I’ll do just that. If you’re wrong, I can always kill you another day.” Slowly, he slid his own dagger back into its sheath.
CHAPTER 2
The Month of Eleint
The Year of the Haunting (1377 DR)
Halisstra cringed on the floor, watching Lolth. The goddess was in her spider form, her body a glossy black, her eyes a burning crimson. She dangled upside down from the ceiling of the web-choked room, slowly spinning in place.
Halisstra kept her head bowed—she didn’t dare look fully upon the goddess. As she watched, the hourglass-shaped pattern on the underside of Lolth’s abdomen shrank as her body contracted. A crack appeared beside each of Lolth’s fang-tipped jaws. With a sharp cracking sound it enlarged until the skin peeled back from her face.
The goddess shuddered. She contracted still more, tearing the rest of
her head free from its hard coating of chitin. Then the cracks spread to the abdomen, releasing her. Lolth tumbled onto the cold iron floor, leaving her molted skin behind. The empty husk, still dangling from its strand of web, twisted above her.
As she stood, Lolth assumed her hybrid form, sprouting a drow head. Her spider body was enormous. Though Halisstra stood twice the height of a drow, she could have walked upright between the goddess’s spider legs with room to spare. The new skin on that body, all wrinkled and soft, glistened with the fluids that had loosened the old skin. As the abdomen pulsed, drawing breath, the skin smoothed and hardened to glossy black.
The goddess twisted her head back and forth to work out kinks in her neck and flicked damp hair out of her eyes. Her face was the epitome of beauty: velvet-smooth skin, delicately pointed ears, arched white eyebrows and kiss-pout lips.
Danifae’s face. The visage the goddess had worn since consuming her chosen one.
Lolth’s pale gray eyes shone with malice. “Battle-captive. I hunger. Attend me.”
Halisstra crept forward, trying not to reveal the loathing she felt, and prostrated herself before the goddess. Lolth moved over her, claws clicking like sword points against the cold black iron of the floor. Her cheeks bulged as two palps emerged from them. These probed Halisstra’s bare back, parting the matted hair that covered it. Lolth vomited.
As the digestive juices struck her back, Halisstra gasped. There was a moment of warmth—then pain comparable to being scalded. The pain bored deeper, down into the flesh of her back. She could feel her flesh dissolving, sloughing away from her ribs and backbone. Could smell the reek of bile and hear Lolth taking the half-digested flesh up in great, greedy slurps.
Halisstra collapsed, the sudden weight of her body snapping two of the eight tiny legs that protruded from her chest. Yet the pain of cracking chitin was nothing compared to the raw, open mess that was her back. She lay, barely conscious, the jaws protruding from her cheeks gnashing weakly as Lolth loomed over her, eating her fill.
Halisstra had once been a drow, heir to the throne of House Melarn of Ched Nasad. Now she was the Lady Penitent. Doomed to suffer forever at the hands of the female she had formerly commanded. Danifae had once been Halisstra’s battle-captive, but now she was Lolth’s chosen one. No longer a drow, she had become part of the Spider Queen.