by Lisa Smedman
Q’arlynd smiled. The net had been cast. Time to haul in the blindfish.
He took stock. The priestess was far from beautiful. Acne had left her skin porous as limestone. Her braided hair was a dirty mushroom-white and lacking in luster. She was probably double Q’arlynd’s age, well into her second century of life. Still, her body was firmly muscled, and her breasts generously endowed—her one redeeming feature. Q’arlynd let his eyes linger on them and smiled.
“I’d be delighted to give you a taste of Sshamath that’s more to your liking,” he murmured. “Lady …?”
The color of her broad cheeks deepened in a blush as she noticed where he was staring. “Miverra.”
“Lady Miverra,” Q’arlynd repeated, as if savoring the taste of the name. He ran a hand through his hair and gave her his best “take-me” look.
Her blush deepened.
Q’arlynd gave a mental sigh. Miverra was from the Surface Realms, all right. She expected Q’arlynd to take the lead in this little dance.
So be it.
He bowed. “I’m Q’arlynd.”
She showed no sign of recognizing his name. A pity, since this was one instance where he might have capitalized on it. Yet in many ways it was a relief. A handful of Nightshadows still skulked about Sshamath, despite the wave of assassinations that had left the halls of the Tower of the Masked Mage awash in blood. Those assassinations, part of a coup by Nightshadows who had shifted their allegiance to Shar, had taken out the few who insisted on worshiping what remained of Vhaeraun: that strange blend of deities they called the “Masked Lady.” There weren’t many of the latter left, but Q’arlynd didn’t want them learning of his role in Vhaeraun’s death. Even one dagger in the back would be too many.
Fortunately, Q’arlynd’s part in Vhaeraun’s downfall had been overshadowed by Selvetarm’s death at the hands of a mortal. Bards had composed a score of odes to the Darksong Knight who had slain a demigod, but not a single stanza had been written about the conjuring of a gate between Vhaeraun’s and Eilistraee’s domains.
Miverra glanced at the adamantine amulet that hung against Q’arlynd’s chest. “You’re with the College of Divination?”
“Currently, yes, but I’m in the process of founding my own school. One day, my School of Ancient Arcana will be recognized as a College in its own right.” He gave a rueful look, and added, “Assuming, that is, the Conclave ever finds the time to listen to my petition.”
A lie, that. When Q’arlynd did eventually appear before the Conclave, it would be with the backing of a master.
Miverra nodded in obvious sympathy.
Over her shoulder, Q’arlynd saw the proprietor of the slave house making his way across the display room toward them. Klizik’s double chin wobbled as he walked. He held up a clearstone and waved to catch Q’arlynd’s eye. “Something new has just come in,” he called out. “A chitine. Would you like to—”
Not now, Q’arlynd signed. At his side, where Miverra wouldn’t notice.
Klizik halted, uncertain.
Fortunately, a customer chose that moment to half-drop a clearstone on a shelf with a loud clunk. Q’arlynd glanced sharply in his direction. When Miverra turned as well, Q’arlynd signed at Klizik a second time. Set it aside. I’ll buy it later.
A calculating look flickered—briefly—across Klizik’s face. He realized Q’arlynd was up to something. The price of the chitine had probably just gone up.
Q’arlynd picked up the clearstone Miverra had been staring at and snapped his fingers at Klizik, as if he’d only just noticed the merchant. “How much for this one?”
As Klizik told him the price, Miverra frowned. “You own slaves?”
Q’arlynd winked at her. “Only for as long as it takes to teleport outside the city and set them free,” he whispered back.
Her expression immediately softened.
The price Klizik had just quoted was inflated, but Q’arlynd didn’t bother haggling. He fished coins out of his pouch, handed them over, and took the goblin.
“How many have you freed?” Miverra whispered.
“I couldn’t begin to count them,” Q’arlynd said breezily. She showed no signs of faerie fire, so it was probably safe to lie. “Why, only yesterday, I purchased two grimlocks.”
“You teleported them outside the city?”
“Of course. Otherwise they’d be recaptured.”
“Far from the city?”
There was a purpose behind her question, but Q’arlynd couldn’t discern it. “Far enough.” He tucked the clearstone under his arm and turned toward the door. “Let’s go somewhere a little less public, shall we?” he suggested. “Somewhere we can … talk.”
He noted the shiver of anticipation that passed through her and the slight dilation of her pupils. The priestess was pathetically easy to read.
Rather boring, really. He just hoped whatever information he gleaned would be worth it.
As they neared the door, Q’arlynd touched Miverra’s arm, slowing her. “There’s a wizard outside who’s spying on you.”
Miverra nodded. “I noticed him earlier. White robes—a necromancer.”
Q’arlynd’s opinion of her went up a notch. Miverra wasn’t quite as naive as she seemed.
“Should I be concerned? Is he a threat?”
“Personally, I wouldn’t want Master Tsabrak taking an interest in me.”
“Why not?”
Q’arlynd lowered his voice, as if revealing a confidence. In fact, Master Tsabrak’s predilection was an open secret among the higher-ranking wizards of Sshamath’s other colleges. Even Eldrinn had heard of it. “He’s a vampire.”
Miverra’s eyes widened slightly. She really was too easy to read.
“Will it cause problems for you to be seen with me?” she asked.
Q’arlynd shrugged, then gave her a coy smile. “Even if it does, I’m sure it will be worth it.”
She nodded. “Then play along with me. When we step outside, pretend to say goodbye. Be sure to bow.”
They exited the slave house, and Q’arlynd did as instructed. “A pleasure to meet you, Lady,” he said, bowing. “May your stay in Sshamath be a pleasant one.”
Miverra echoed his farewell and bowed, one hand briefly touching her chest—and her holy symbol. Then she straightened and strode away. The necromancer hesitated, glanced between Q’arlynd and the departing Miverra, and followed her into the crowd.
A moment later, Miverra’s body shimmered back into view beside Q’arlynd. None of the people streaming by took any notice; they were used to wizards teleporting back and forth across the city.
“Well played,” Q’arlynd said, “but I thought Eilistraee’s faithful preferred a more direct approach when dealing with threats.”
Miverra shrugged. Her eyes were almost level with his; she wasn’t much taller than he was. “Things have changed. The goddess offers us a wider range of choices now.”
“Let’s leave before the necromancer realizes he’s been tricked and comes back.”
They moved deeper into the labyrinthine streets of the Dark Weavings bazaar, winding their way through the crowds that thronged it. As they walked, Miverra sang a song under her breath. She lightly touched first her own lips and ears then Q’arlynd’s. As she did, the noise of the street suddenly fell away. Yet when she spoke he heard every word she said.
“Tell me about the other Masters of the Conclave. Is there anyone else I should be wary of?”
Q’arlynd laughed. “Just approach them as you would a council of matron mothers.” At her puzzled look, he added, “With the utmost deference—and the utmost caution.”
She nodded.
As they passed a building that sparkled with lavender faerie fire, Q’arlynd noticed Miverra’s eyes following the light as it swirled up and down the hollowed-out columns. She probably didn’t see many buildings like that on the surface.
“Let me offer these cautions, which may prove useful when you at last get to appear before the Conclave
,” Q’arlynd continued. “The College of Enchantment is in charge of Sshamath’s slave market, so dealing with Master Malaggar may prove … problematic for you. And Master Felyndiira is as slippery as an oiled lizard; with an illusionist, you can’t ever really trust what you’re hearing or seeing. Master Urlryn is said to have poisoned his way to the top, while Master Masoj is said to prefer entombing his rivals deep in the earth. That is, supposedly, how he assumed his position at the College of Abjuration.” He paused, as if thinking. “Of the ten masters who make up the Conclave, there’s only one I’d recommend you trust: Seldszar Elpragh.”
“Master of the College of Divination.” She glanced pointedly at his amulet. “The college to which you belong, coincidentally enough.”
“That’s true. But I’m only trying to be helpful. You and I do, after all, share the same faith.”
They passed a fungusmonger’s stand, and the merchant held up an orange sporeball and cut a sliver from it, imploring them to take a bite. Miverra ignored him. Her attention, Q’arlynd saw, was focused on a bridge that spanned two buildings up ahead. A bridge that, like the column she’d just admired, sparkled with faerie fire.
Her expression was anything but one of admiration. In fact, she looked deeply troubled.
He suddenly realized a possible reason for her visit. “The faerie fire—is it affecting your priestesses too?”
She hesitated, not answering.
“Is that why you came to Sshamath? To learn what’s causing the problem? Why … that’s the very thing our college’s sages have been studying.”
She spoke slowly, as if thinking aloud. “Perhaps it would be better if I spoke to the master of your college, instead of appearing before the Conclave as a whole.”
“I’m sure Master Seldszar will want to speak to you,” Q’arlynd told her. “In fact, I think I can convince him to hear you this very ‘day.’” He lifted a hand. “Shall I teleport us to the College of Divination at once?”
Miverra touched his arm and moved in close. “Isn’t there something you’re forgetting?”
“What’s that?”
She nodded at the clearstone in his hands. “The goblin. Shouldn’t you set it free first?”
Q’arlynd almost laughed. He’d forgotten about the slave entirely. “Of course. Wait here; I’ll only be a moment.”
He intended to teleport to the slave house, return the goblin, and ask for credit toward the purchase of the chitine. But as he glanced down at the goblin it reminded him—just for a moment—of someone. A svirfneblin he’d once owned. The goblin stared up at him with dull eyes, its naked body a mass of bruises. No doubt some child had played with the clearstone, shaking it to see what would happen to its contents.
Flinderspeld had looked just as bad, the day Q’arlynd had seen him standing on the auction block.
Q’arlynd sighed, then teleported to a cavern well beyond the city. It took him two tries—his maudlin mood must have interfered with his concentration—but when it eventually worked he was precisely on target.
He laid the clearstone on the cavern floor, dispelled its magic, and stepped back as it shattered. The goblin instantly assumed its full size. It staggered to its feet and stared at him, lips pulled back in a grimace that revealed a mouth of jagged teeth. If Q’arlynd got too close, the creature would no doubt bite him. Goblins were that stupid; they didn’t understand what wizards could do to them.
“Go on,” he told it, making shooing motions. “Run along now. You’re free.”
The goblin’s head puckered in a frown that pulled its ears closer to its beady eyes. “Free?” it squeaked.
“Yes, free,” Q’arlynd repeated, already regretting this. He flicked a finger and spoke a one-word spell that hurled a pebble at the creature. “Go!”
The goblin cringed.
Muttering at its stupidity, Q’arlynd teleported back to the city.
After he was gone, faerie fire puddled on the floor where he’d been standing, bathing the cavern in a pale violet light.
The goblin sniffed at the glow. Then it scurried away.
CHAPTER 4
Cavatina touched her fingers and thumbs together to form Eilistraee’s sacred moon, and bowed. “Lady Qilué. You sent for me?”
“Cavatina. My thanks. For coming so quickly.”
The high priestess levitated near the ceiling of the Hall of Swords, a large chamber in the Promenade where the Protectors of the Song honed their skills. She was naked, her ankle-length silver hair whirling like a wind-blown skirt around her as she spun in place. Motes of moonfire filled the air around her, shining with the many colors of the changing moon: blue-white, dusky yellow-orange, and harvest red reflected by the curved blade of the sword she danced with. The Crescent Blade.
Cavatina felt a pang of longing for the weapon. Her right hand clenched as she remembered its perfect heft, and how its leather-wrapped hilt had warmed in her palm.
“I have a mission for you. One that will require … your renown.” The high priestess continued to dance as she spoke, her breathing rapid. Yet her voice betrayed no hint of weariness. Qilué had been performing the dance of attunement without pause for nine days and nine nights, according to the priestess who had greeted Cavatina upon her arrival at the Promenade. Yet the silver fire that flowed within her sustained her body. Aside from a sheen of sweat, the high priestess looked as strong as if she had only just begun her dance.
Qilué spun with the sword balanced atop her head, the midpoint of the blade lying flat against her silver tresses. A toss of her head sent it spinning into the air. She “caught” it on one arm, spun the weapon in a fast blur around her arm from wrist to elbow, then flicked it to her other arm and repeated the motion. A thrust of that arm sent it spinning into the air; it sailed toward the ceiling, slowed, then fell.
Cavatina gasped as the weapon whistled down, point first, at Qilué’s upturned face. The high priestess twisted aside at the last moment and caught the hilt between her bare feet. A kick transferred the sword back into her hand.
“I am assembling a force,” Qilué said as she shadow fenced with the weapon, “and sending it north. You will lead it. Six Protectors …”
The sword flashed in a high arc. Qilué caught it, point-first, between finger and thumb, and flipped the hilt into her hand.
“… and six Nightshadows.”
Cavatina’s nostrils flared. “Nightshadows,” she muttered.
“Do not denigrate them,” Qilué admonished. “They are weapons. Finely honed. Eilistraee has embraced them. So must you.”
Cavatina lowered her eyes. “My apologies, Lady Qilué.”
She hadn’t intended her comment to be heard. She knew she was being honored. The mission must be an important one if Protectors were being sent. The singing swords they carried left the temple only in times of dire need. Like the time, nearly two years ago, when Cavatina had been sent into the Demonweb Pits to recover the Crescent Blade, armed with the singing sword that now hung at her hip.
“Our objective?” she asked.
“The time has come.” Qilué set the Crescent Blade spinning around her wrist. “To take on a foe. One that is equal. To Selvetarm.” She stared down at Cavatina through the blur of the whirling blade. “Kiaransalee.”
Cavatina drew in a sharp breath. Excitement flooded her body, making her giddy. “Am I to slay the Goddess of Death?”
“No. Throwing down her temple …” Qilué transferred the whirring blade to her other wrist. “… should be sufficient.”
“Her temple,” Cavatina echoed, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice.
Qilué tossed the Crescent Blade into the air. “Surrounded by an army of undead. Hundreds. Perhaps thousands.”
Cavatina’s eyes widened as she realized what the destination must be. “The Acropolis?”
“Yes.”
“Why such a small force? Six Protectors is hardly enough to—”
“And six Nightshadows. An even dozen. Of our best.”
Cavatina took a deep breath. “That’s small, for a crusade.”
“Not a crusade.” Qilué caught the sword, held it above her in both hands, and spun from it as if dangling from a twisting rope. “An assassination. Hence …” She spun faster, until the curved blade described a blurred oval in the air. “… the Nightshadows.”
“An assassination?” The word felt as wrong in Cavatina’s mouth as a lump of sickstone. It suggested poison, a garrote around the throat. She preferred to meet her foes honorably. Face to face, with blade in hand.
“Think of it as a hunt,” Qilué said. She slapped one arm to her side and halted, letting the Crescent Blade spiral down her upraised arm. “You are to kill the head priestess. Cut off the head,” she said, as the weapon whirled past her face, “… and the temple will fall.”
The weapon spun around her neck. Her hand slapped against the hilt, jerking the sword to a halt. The edge of the curved blade rested against her throat, unsettlingly reminiscent of a scythe poised against a stalk of wheat.
Even more disturbing was the thin line of blood that trickled down Qilué’s wrist.
That shouldn’t have happened.
Cavatina knew that first-hand; her mother had been a sword dancer. Jetel Xarann had prided herself on never—not once—being cut by the blades she danced with. Qilué was far more skilled, the high priestess of her faith. Yet she seemed not to have noticed an error that could have cost her a hand.
Now that the Crescent Blade had been stilled, Cavatina could see the spot where its two halves had been fused together again, and the silvered inscription that was interrupted at that place: “Be your heart filled with light and your cause be true, I shall n—fail you.”
The Crescent Blade nearly had failed Cavatina. Only with Halisstra’s help had she been able to prevail against Selvetarm. Now she wondered: when the time came for Qilué to wield it against Lolth, who would come to her aid?
“… depart two nights from now, when the moon rises.” Qilué was saying. “Our new battlemistress will tell you everything you need to know.”
Cavatina was startled to realize that the high priestess had dismissed her. Qilué continued to dance, her eyes staring into the distance and her head cocked slightly, as though she were listening to a faint voice: the sword, whispering to her. Cavatina yearned to hear it too.