by Lisa Smedman
From another part of the ruined city, a roar sounded. The second tawny-furred creature, calling out. Or perhaps a third.
“We must go.” The female raised a hand, her palm toward Q’arlynd’s chest. “Are you willing?”
Q’arlynd met her eyes briefly then lowered his gaze submissively. “Yes. Take me.”
The female’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Then she laughed. The laughter had a pure sound, devoid of the sharpness Q’arlynd was used to. “You’ve got a lot to learn, petitioner,” she said. “That’s not how it’s done here.”
She touched his chest, spoke a word, and the ruined city disappeared.
CHAPTER FOUR
Q’arlynd glanced around at the place the priestess had teleported him to. The ground was a flat, rocky expanse that stretched as far as the eye could see. The place was vast, bigger than any cavern he’d had ever been in. Above was a black dome, studded with twinkling points of light—the night sky.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“The High Moor,” the priestess who had teleported him answered.
The other priestess kneeled beside Flinderspeld and shook him awake. The gnome groaned, then groggily rose to his feet, the priestess helping him.
Q’arlynd gave the deep gnome a cursory glance, assuring himself his slave was undamaged. Then he returned his attention to the priestesses.
The two females were very similar in appearance. Both had lean, muscular bodies and red eyes, and they walked with light, precise footsteps, as if moving through the steps of a dance. They were dressed alike and shared several of the same gestures and expressions. The major difference that Q’arlynd could see was that the one who had teleported him was older, with ice-white hair, whereas the younger one, Rowaan, had hair that was shaded with hints of yellow.
Each, he noted, wore a ring on the index finger of her right hand: a plain band of platinum. A discreetly whispered divination revealed that the rings were magical. Q’arlynd wondered if they were the equivalent of his own master-and-slave rings. Rowaan deferred to the older priestess, but Q’arlynd could see no overt signs that the other priestess was controlling her.
“Mistress,” he said, bowing before the one in charge.
“It’s ‘Lady,’” she answered, “not ‘Mistress.’”
Q’arlynd bowed still deeper. “Lady.”
“I’d prefer you called me by name: Leliana.”
“Leliana,” Q’arlynd dutifully murmured.
A testy note crept into Leliana’s voice. “And look me in the eye, will you? I told you before, we do things differently here. You don’t have to grovel, just because you’re male.”
Q’arlynd straightened. “As you—” He’d been about to say “command” but quickly amended that. “As you wish.” He grinned. “Old habits….” he added with a shrug. Then he turned his expression serious again. “You said you knew my sister Halisstra. Knew,” he repeated. He braced himself for bad news. “Is she dead?”
Rowaan’s eyes widened. “This is Halisstra’s brother?”
Q’arlynd noted her tone. Halisstra had achieved some status up on the surface, it seemed.
Leliana glanced away. She seemed to be carefully composing her reply. “There’s a slim chance your sister is alive,” she said at last.
“But you don’t think so,” Q’arlynd finished for her.
“No.”
“There’s always hope,” Rowaan insisted. “Slim as the new moon, maybe, but …” her voice trailed off.
Leliana made no comment.
“What happened to her?” Q’arlynd asked.
“You weren’t told?”
Q’arlynd realized that Leliana must have been wondering why the priestess who “gave” him the sword-token hadn’t already answered any questions he might have about Halisstra.
He shrugged and said, “Things were … a bit rushed in Ched Nasad. There wasn’t much time for talk.”
Flinderspeld, thankfully, kept his expression neutral. The deep gnome had been schooled well. He carefully noted—but didn’t react to—his master’s odd remarks.
Q’arlynd gave the priestesses his best mournful look and continued, “It’s been three years since I’ve seen Halisstra. She disappeared when our city fell, during Lolth’s Silence. All this time, I’ve been wondering if my sister still lived, or …” He made a small, choked sound, as if struggling to contain his emotions.
Leliana’s expression at last softened.
“Tell me what happened to her,” Q’arlynd begged the two priestesses. “Don’t hold anything back—tell me everything.”
They did.
Halisstra, it seemed, had indeed converted to Eilistraee’s faith. Not only that, but she’d made quite a name for herself. Shortly after her “redemption,” as the priestesses called it, Halisstra had undertaken a pilgrimage to recover an artifact sacred to Eilistraee—a sword known as the Crescent Blade. That weapon in hand, she’d set out for the Abyss during Lolth’s Silence with two other priestesses to—and Q’arlynd reflexively shivered—try to kill the Queen of the Demonweb Pits with that magical sword.
What hubris! A mortal slaying a god! Even so, Leliana and Rowaan assured him that not only was it possible, but that it had almost come to pass. Halisstra, however, had been slain on the very doorstep of the Demonweb Pits by one of Lolth’s faithful. Shortly afterward, Lolth’s Silence had ended. Halisstra had failed in her quest.
Q’arlynd recognized his sister’s killer at once from her description. “Danifae,” he said.
Leliana paused. “You knew her?”
Q’arlynd nodded. “She was my sister’s battle-captive. What you’ve just told me doesn’t surprise me. Danifae was … treacherous.”
An understatement, that. Treachery was something all drow expected of one another, especially of their battle-captives. Danifae, however, took the word to new levels. A seductress whose talents in that regard were near legendary, Danifae combined her exquisite beauty with utter ruthlessness. For years, Q’arlynd had observed the resentment that smoldered in Danifae’s eyes each time his sister’s back was turned, yet the battle-captive had actually succeeded in convincing Halisstra that she was a friend. All the while, Danifae had been working her way through the males—and females—of House Melarn, trying to seduce one of them into killing Halisstra. Danifae had eventually turned her lascivious attentions to Q’arlynd, hoping to enlist his aid in removing the magical Binding that compelled her loyalty to Halisstra, so she could kill her mistress herself.
Thinking back to that time, Q’arlynd shook his head. Of all of the children of Drisinil Melarn, he would have been the last one to slide a dagger into Halisstra’s back. Not because he cared for her, but because of what she’d done.
He resisted the urge to touch a finger to his nose, to hide the smile that threatened. As a boy, he’d been injured in a riding accident. He’d tumbled from his lizard and fallen only a short distance to the street below—no more than a dozen paces—but it had happened so quickly there hadn’t been time to activate his House insignia. He’d landed face-first, smashing his face against stone. He’d been only a novice wizard then—a clumsy oaf who wasn’t worth wasting magical healing on, in the opinion of Matron Melarn, but Halisstra had secretly healed him. She’d had to do it without leaving any evidence, so she’d cast her spell selectively, leaving his black eyes and broken nose untouched. Afterward, Q’arlynd had expected his sister to demand something of him in return. He’d prepared himself for a lifetime spent in thrall to her, but Halisstra had demanded nothing.
She’d healed him, he later realized, out of simple pity and something more. Affection. Something that was as rare among drow siblings as a spider that didn’t bite.
It had been a startling revelation. Q’arlynd had never realized that a female could be soft, especially one sworn to serve Lolth.
From that point on, he’d done everything he could to ensure that Halisstra would survive long enough to become House Melarn’s next matron mother. He’d ar
ranged for her introduction to the bard who had taught her bae’qeshel magic, and he had eliminated her rivals. Through his careful planning, he had all but ensured that Halisstra would be the next in succession to House Melarn’s highest post—thus ensuring himself a position as her House wizard, the power behind that throne.
Then the Silence came, and it had all fallen apart.—literally—when the city fell.
With a mental wrench, he brought himself back to the present. “Were you the two who accompanied my sister into the Abyss?” he asked. “Did you see her die?”
Leliana shook her head. “She was accompanied by Feliane and Uluyara—two priestesses who also died on that quest. I did see your sister’s death. I aided Lady Qilué with her scrying. I could see, over her shoulder, the events as they unfolded in the font.”
Q’arlynd carefully noted the name and title, Lady Qilué—probably a high priestess, if she was capable of getting clear images out of a scrying into the Abyss.
“Describe Halisstra’s death for me,” Q’arlynd said.
Leliana did, in hushed tones, as if Q’arlynd were a stranger to violent death. Halisstra had been felled by a blow to the head—a blow from Danifae’s morningstar. There was little hope that Halisstra had survived the blow, she added.
Unless …
Hearing her hesitation, Q’arlynd pressed Leliana for more. She told him their high priestess had been attempting to resurrect Halisstra at the moment that the scrying was lost. Shortly afterward, Qilué had communed with their goddess. The high priestess had not divulged Eilistraee’s words to anyone, but she had let one fact slip out. The goddess, it seemed, had spoken of Halisstra in the present tense, as one would refer to someone who was still alive.
Q’arlynd took it all in without betraying any emotion. He was too much of a realist to expect that Halisstra had benefited from the last-minute spell—or even if she had, that she’d been able to escape the Demonweb Pits, which meant that his quest to find his sister was probably a futile one.
He sighed. It seemed he would have to return to the drudgery of rooting through the ruins of Ched Nasad, and tedious years of servitude to House Teh’Kinrellz.
Unless …
“Qilué,” he mused aloud. “I think I’ve heard the name, but I can’t quite place her House.”
Rowaan supplied the name. “Veladorn.”
Veladorn. It was not a House Q’arlynd recognized.
Leliana cocked her head. “Lady Qilué Veladorn, High Protector of the Song, and Right Hand of Eilistraee.” She paused. “Sounding familiar yet?”
Q’arlynd spread his hands. “I’m new to all this, I’m afraid. Just a petitioner.” He favored her with a boyish smile. “I’m sure I’ll learn all of your honorifics and titles, in time.” In fact, he had no intentions of any kind. He’d done what he’d intended by coming to the surface—gleaned everything he could from the priestesses. His sister was dead. That was the end of it. There was nothing further to be gained by pretending to be a petitioner.
He opened his mouth, intending to bid them farewell, grab Flinderspeld, and teleport back to the portal, when Rowaan picked up where Leliana left off. “Qilué is not only a high priestess of Eilistraee,” she continued in an annoyingly helpful tone. “She’s also one of the Seven Sisters.”
Q’arlynd stared at her blankly. That title was obviously supposed to impress him, but he had no idea what Rowaan was talking about.
“She’s one of the Chosen of Mystra,” Rowaan continued.
She had his attention.
“Is that so?” he said in a soft voice. Most of the surface peoples’ gods were of little interest—especially those worshiped by humans—but that was one name he recognized. “Mystra, goddess of magic? The one who tends the Weave and makes magic possible for all mortals?”
“I see you’re familiar with her,” Leliana said.
Q’arlynd gave an apologetic smile. “I’m a wizard,” he told her. “My instructors at the Conservatory mentioned the goddess of magic, once or twice.” He touched the pocket where he’d placed his sword-token. “But it’s Eilistraee I’m petitioning.”
“Well then,” Leliana said, “in that case, we’d better get moving. The moor can be a dangerous place, home to marauding orcs and hobgoblins—even trolls. The sooner we get to the shrine, the better.”
Q’arlynd bowed—it helped hide the gleam in his eyes. This Qilué person sounded powerful—a priestess and a mage both, and not just any mage but one of Mystra’s “Chosen.”
Now that was a matron mother Q’arlynd wouldn’t mind serving.
“Will I …” He feigned boyish hesitation and tried to call a blush to his cheeks. “Will I meet Qilué once we get to the shrine?”
Leliana and Rowaan glanced at each other.
He molded his face into a pleading expression. “If I could hear from her own lips what happened to Halisstra—what she saw in her scrying—then perhaps …”
Rowaan nodded in sympathy. It was Leliana, however, who spoke. “I’ll see if it can be arranged.”
Q’arlynd bowed. “Thank you, Lady.”
He smiled. Prellyn had been right. Eilistraee’s faithful were entirely too trusting.
Deep in a little-frequented section of the forest of Cormanthor, the cleric Malvag cast his eye over the drow who had assembled inside the enormous hollow tree: nine males, all but one with faces hidden by black masks that left only their restless eyes visible. Most wore leather armor, dark as the cloaks that protected them from the winter chill. Their breath fogged below their masks as they eyed one another warily, wrist-crossbows and bracer-sheathed daggers prominently visible. Crowding into such a small space had made them uneasy, as Malvag had intended. The smell of nervous sweat blended with the earthy smell of long-since fallen leaves and the faint, slightly sweet scent of the poison that coated the heads of their crossbow bolts.
“Men of Jaelre,” he said, greeting the five who had come from that House. All wore masks except their leader, a cripple with a brace of leather and iron encasing his left leg.
Malvag turned to the other four and inclined his head slightly. “And men of Auzkovyn. Dark deeds.”
“Dark deeds,” they murmured.
“You sent a shadow summons,” the crippled male said. “Why?”
“Ah, Jezz. Always the first to come to the point,” Malvag said. He looked at each man in turn, nodding as if silently counting them, then shrugged. “I sent the summons to several more of the faithful, but only you nine answered. Just as well—that’s fewer to reap the rewards.”
“What rewards?” one asked.
“Power,” Malvag said. “Beyond anything you might ever have imagined. The ability to work arselu’tel’quess—high magic.”
There was silence for several moments. Jezz broke it with a snort of barely contained laughter. “Everyone knows drow aren’t capable of touching the Weave in that way, and even if we were, only wizards can work high magic. Clerics merely assist in their spells.”
“Wrong!” Malvag said firmly. “On both counts. There are high magic spells designed for clerics—or rather, there were in ancient times. I have discovered a scroll, written by a priest of ancient Ilythiir, that bears one such prayer. If high magic was possible for our ssri Tel’Quessir ancestors, it can be possible for us.”
“But we’re drow,” another of the males said.
“Indeed we are,” Malvag said. He held up his hands and turned them back and forth, as if examining them. “But what is it that prevents us from working high magic? Our black skin? Our white hair?” He chuckled softly and lowered his hands. “Neither. It is simply that we lack the will.” He glanced at each male in turn. “Who among you would not stab a fellow Nightshadow in the back, if there was something to be gained by it? We form alliances, but they are as tenuous and fleeting as faerie fire. In order to work high magic, we must forge something more lasting, a permanent bond between ourselves. We must set aside our suspicions and learn to work as one.”
Again,
Jezz gave a snort of derisive laughter. “Pretty words,” he said, “but this is hardly the time for impossible alliances and grand schemes. In case you’ve forgotten, both House Jaelre and House Auzkovyn are fighting for our very survival. The army of Myth Drannor won’t be happy until they’ve driven every last one of us below or into the arms of those dancing bitches—we’ve lost more than one of the faithful to Eilistraee in recent months. Then there’s that thing that’s been hunting us.” He shook his head. “Lolth herself has taken an interest in both our Houses for some reason.”
Malvag smiled beneath his mask. He’d counted on comments like that from the battle-scarred sorcerer, which was why he’d included Jezz in the summons. Jezz helped remind the others that things had come to a desperate pass. Those with their backs already against the wall, Malvag knew, were more easily persuaded to grasp at the “impossible.”
“These are troubled times,” Malvag agreed, his voice smooth as assassin’s strangle silk, “but what better time to strike our enemies than when they least expect it? Instead of continuing to just skirmish, we’ll hit back. Hard. With high magic. Vhaeraun himself will be our weapon.”
Several of the men frowned. Jezz voiced the question that was no doubt foremost in their minds. “You hope to summon an avatar of the Masked Lord’s to do battle for us?”
Malvag shook his head. “I wasn’t speaking of his avatar. I was speaking of Vhaeraun himself.”
Jezz laughed openly. “Let me guess. You’re going to replicate the Time of Troubles and force Vhaeraun to walk Toril in physical form by using ‘high magic.’” He rolled his eyes. “You’re mad. You must think yourself the equal of Ao.”
Malvag locked eyes with the cripple. “When did I ever mention a summoning—or Toril, for that matter?” he asked in a steely voice. He shook his head. “I have something entirely different in mind. The scroll I possess will enable us to open a gate between Vhaeraun’s domain and that of another god. A back door, if you will, that the Masked Lord can use to sneak out of Ellaniath undetected.”
“To what end?” one of the others asked.