by Lisa Smedman
Meryl feigned shock. “Me!” she blurted indignantly. “I never, ever, would contemplate such a thing. Not in a hundred lifetimes. A thousand. Yes, it’s true; that was the gleam of silver you saw.” She cracked the lid of the basket, giving Cavatina a peek. “But I’m taking these vials from the Hall of Healing to the High House, as you could plainly have seen from the direction I was headed.” With a flourish, she snapped the lid shut.
Now Cavatina was supposed to apologize. That was the way the game was played. But her brief glimpse inside the basket puzzled her. Those vials were used to hold one thing, only. “Is that holy water?”
Meryl nodded.
Cavatina should have cracked another joke—to ask, perhaps, if Meryl’s kitchen was infested with undead mice—but her customary bluntness kicked in at last. “What does a cook need with holy water?”
“They’re for Qilué. She told me to make sure there’s an ample supply on hand when she gets back from her inspection tour of the shrines. She’s used up all she had.”
“Why doesn’t she bless her own water?”
“I’ve no idea. But I’d recommend against asking her. Qilué’s been awfully short-tempered lately. A tenday ago, she got angry with Horaldin. I could hear her yelling at him, even from the kitchen. She told him to follow her orders or else. And yesterday she shouted at me for scalding the soup.” The halfling made a face. “I never scald my soup.”
“That’s not like her.”
“No.” Meryl shrugged. “She’s got a lot on her mind, I suppose.” The halfling crooked a finger, beckoning Cavatina closer. Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Yesterday, just before Qilué left, someone turned a blindfish into a golden crab. According to what I heard, the Protector who set out after it was eaten by a scorpion. It’s all nonsense, of course—that statue was so rusted it couldn’t possibly have swallowed anyone, and Leliana will show up eventually—but worrisome nonsense just the same.”
“I see.” It was no use asking Meryl to clarify this garbled tale; the halfling tended to jumble everything together, and was forever seasoning the resulting hash with a hefty dash of imagination. Rylla would clarify whatever Meryl was trying to tell her. She would also shed light, no doubt, on why the high priestess didn’t bless her own water—if indeed Meryl had gotten that part right.
“I’d best be on my way,” Cavatina said. “The battle-mistress is expecting me.”
Meryl nodded. She shifted the basket into the crook of her arm. “Eilistraee’s blessings,” she said, touching thumbs and forefingers. “Dance in moonlight, and joyous song.”
Cavatina touched her breastplate, her fingers resting lightly on its embossed moon-and-sword. “Joyous song.” She watched as the cook entered a side door and disappeared into the high priestess’s house, then sighed and shook her head.
She was just turning to go when the door opened again: Meryl, leaving, the basket still under her arm. Something about the way the halfling exited struck Cavatina as odd, though it took a moment to figure out what it was. Meryl had stepped outside, glanced around, and drawn back slightly, as if fearful. Cavatina glanced behind herself—whatever had startled Meryl must have been right behind her, judging by the timing of the reaction—yet Cavatina saw nothing amiss.
She walked to the cook. “What is it, Meryl? Is something wrong?”
Meryl didn’t reply. Without so much as a glance in Cavatina’s direction, she hurried away. Cavatina followed. “Meryl?” The halfling sped up.
“Meryl!” Cavatina shouted. “Wait! I just want to ask you something.”
Meryl broke into a run.
Several paces behind, Cavatina ran after the halfling, her sense of unease strong. Meryl had been holding the basket a moment ago; now it had vanished. Meryl ran with a peculiar loping gait: a jiggly step-wobble-step.
Cavatina sang a prayer. She expected to uncover a spy: a denizen of Skullport or, at worst, one of Lolth’s priestesses. What her spell revealed shocked her. The creature cloaking itself in Meryl’s image was squat and hairless, with rubbery gray skin, beady red eyes above a drool-slack mouth, and arms so long the knuckles dragged on the ground.
A dretch—a demonic creature of the Abyss!
And it had come from Qilué’s residence.
The dretch bolted into the corridor leading to the Hall of Healing. Cavatina drew her sword and sprinted in after it. “Stop that halfling!” she shouted. “That’s not Meryl—it’s a demon!” Her sword pealed out its own alarm.
Other priestesses took up the chase, sprinting into the tunnel behind Cavatina. One blew her hunting horn. The blare filled the corridor, drowning out the hymn that wafted down a side tunnel from the Cavern of Song.
“Encircle it!” Cavatina shouted over her shoulder. “Double back through the Cavern of Song, and upriver through the northern tunnel. Box it in!”
Priestesses and lay worshipers scrambled to obey. Cavatina ran on, singing a sending. As the battle-mistress’s mind touched hers, Cavatina shouted a warning to Rylla. Not in words—she needed her breath for running—but with a mental shout. A dretch disguised as Meryl is heading for the Empty Arches. It came from the High House. Search it for demons. See if Meryl lives.
Rylla’s reply came a heartbeat after her oath. Wrath and blood! I’ll send Protectors to the High House and meet you at the Hall of Empty Arches.
Cavatina rounded a corner. There should have been a guard just ahead, to ensure unwanted visitors to the Hall of Empty Arches didn’t wander into the priestesses’ quarters. Yet there was no guard in sight.
She caught a whiff of something that smelled like rotten eggs and saw a cloud of yellow-tinged fog in the room beyond. The guard—an ordinary foot soldier, armed with mace and shield—came staggering out of it, retching. “Dark Lady,” she gasped. “I couldn’t stop …”
Whatever she’d been trying to say was lost as she doubled over and vomited. One hand flailed behind her. That way, she signed.
Cavatina shouted a song of dispelling that tore the noxious fog to shreds. She ran into the hall, alert for the slightest sound. She could see only a fraction of the room. Floor-to-ceiling stone partitions, lined up down the middle of the chamber like pews in a temple, blocked most of it from sight.
She heard the peal of an unsheathed singing sword from the far side of the room, followed by the battle-mistress’s shout. “Cavatina! I’m in position! Northeast corner.”
“Southwest corner!” Cavatina shouted back. Priestesses crowded behind her. At least one was a Protector, and Cavatina could hear the battle song of a singing sword harmonizing with her own weapon. It turned out to be Chizra. She greeted Cavatina with a terse nod.
Cavatina ordered Chizra and four other priestesses into the room. They formed up, weapons ready, then at her signal strode from one side of the room to the other, each moving between two partition walls. With their swords sweeping the air in front of them, they sang prayers that would strip the dretch of any concealments. When they reached the far side of the hall, they sang out in unison. “All clear!”
“Cavatina!” Rylla called from the far corner of the room. “Could the dretch have turned aside and entered the Cavern of Song?”
“No,” Cavatina shouted back. “I sang a true seeing. It definitely came this way.”
The gray-faced guard, at last in control of her stomach, nodded in rueful agreement.
Cavatina ordered the nearest priestess to stand guard, in case the dretch doubled back. Then she hurried to the far corner of the room. The battle-mistress stood at the room’s second exit, a distant look in her pale gray eyes, her lips moving soundlessly. She was obviously listening—and replying—to a report from a searcher elsewhere in the temple.
Rylla was large, even for a female. Her broad shoulders and lighter skin were a legacy of her human father. She was an unusual choice for battle-mistress, but these were unusual times. Although she carried her sword, she was without belt or scabbard, and unarmored; she obviously hadn’t had time to don her chainmail be
fore responding to Cavatina’s urgent sending.
Rylla nodded in agreement with whatever she’d just heard, then turned to Cavatina. “There’s no sign of the dretch in the Hall of Healing. Nor in the Cavern of Song. It doesn’t seem to have made it past this point. Another of the portals must have become active.”
“The real question is how it got into the Promenade in the first place,” Cavatina said. “How did it get past our wards?”
Rylla stared at Cavatina. “You’re the expert in hunting demons. You tell me.”
Cavatina had a bad feeling about this. The dretch’s sudden appearance was all too reminiscent of the Selvetargtlin onslaught of three and a half years ago, and their trick of using ensorcelled gems to jump to the Promenade. She wondered if another attack were imminent.
She glanced at the closest partition wall. Like the others, it was carved in low relief with the likeness of two archways—decorative arches only, since the middle of each was solid stone. There were eight, in total. Each had once been a portal, but the magic that had sustained them had faltered centuries ago, when Netheril fell. Only one of the arches was still active, and then sporadically. Once it sputtered to life, it might remain open for the space of a heartbeat—or for more than a month. It led to the Hall of Empty Arches from a deeper level of Undermountain that was once part of a dwarven mithral mine predating even Netheril.
The occasional adventurer blundered through this portal, usually badly battered and in need of healing by the time it opened. Qilué had thus decreed that it not be sealed. Those who agreed to abide by the rules of song and sword were offered healing in the nearby hall. Those who didn’t were either blindfolded and removed from the Promenade—or, if they proved hostile, were put to the sword.
Rylla motioned for Cavatina to follow, then sang a hymn. She walked slowly through the room, her free hand briefly passing across the front of each of the arches. “Dead. Nothing. Still dead …”
Cavatina followed, sword at the ready.
Rylla passed her hand across the face of the portal that joined the ancient mine tunnel to the Hall of Empty Arches. She shook her head. “It’s not active at the moment.”
One arch remained to be checked: the one next to it. Rylla halted in front of this arch, holding her palm above it for several moments. Concentrating. Her eyebrows rose. “This one’s active. In one direction only: away from here.”
Cavatina leaned forward expectantly. Her sword hummed. A moment more, and the hunt would resume. “Where does it lead?”
“Nowhere. And—everywhere.” Rylla lowered her hand. “My prayer revealed a maze of tunnels that were constantly shifting. Opening to infinity, then closing in again. I think it may lead to the Deep Caverns.” She stared at the blank stone within the arch. “If the dretch went through here, it will be impossible to track.”
“I can do it,” Cavatina assured her. “The dretch must be captured and questioned. We need to learn who summoned it, and what they hoped to accomplish.”
Rylla blocked her way. “Not so fast. It could take you a lifetime to track it down in there, and we need you here.”
“I can find my way back from any—”
“You’re staying here, in the Promenade. That’s an order.”
Cavatina was about to protest, but something about the look in Rylla’s eyes halted her. The battle-mistress nodded at the arch. “The dretch didn’t get in this way—that’s a one-way portal.” She turned. “How else might it have gotten into the Promenade?”
Cavatina fumed, but answered the question. “Dretches are weak. This one wouldn’t have been able to breach the Promenade’s defenses on its own. The dretch must have been summoned here—summoned by someone already inside the Promenade.”
Rylla gave a tight nod. She’d already realized this much.
“Or perhaps it came here by means of a wish spell,” Cavatina concluded, still thinking of the Selvetargtlin who had carried teleportation gems into the Promenade nearly four years ago.
Rylla’s expression was grave. “I’ve ordered a full sweep of the temple, from the High House on down.”
“Remind them to report any suspicious-looking gems.”
“Already done.”
“Have the Protectors located Meryl yet?”
“Yes, praise Eilistraee. She’s unharmed.”
Cavatina sheathed her sword. “Since you won’t let me pursue the dretch, you might as well tell me why you summoned me to the Promenade. Did you have a premonition that a demon would show up here?”
“Yes, I did.” Rylla’s sending came a heartbeat later. I need to talk to you about Lady Qilué. That’s why I sent for you. Something’s … wrong with her.
Cavatina felt her eyes widen slightly. She opened her mouth to ask a question, and shut it again. She suddenly realized the dretch might be a symptom of a larger problem. It should have been impossible for it to enter the High House. Qilué’s personal wards should have banished any creature of the Abyss back to the place it came from, the instant it tried to enter her residence—especially a minor demon like a dretch. If something was interfering with Qilué’s ability to ward herself from a comparatively weak foe, Rylla had every right to be worried.
Cavatina nodded slightly, her eyes on the other priestesses. Rylla obviously hadn’t shared her concerns with them. Is something eclipsing Lady Qilué’s magic? Is that why the dretch—?
Later. In private.
Rylla turned to Chizra. “Guard this portal. Don’t let anything—or anyone—near it. If we manage to flush another demon out of hiding, it may head this way. It may disguise itself, as the dretch did.”
The Protector nodded grimly.
“Keep watch on each of the other portals as well,” Rylla continued. “Even the inactive ones. We can’t be certain of the status of any of them, any more. Give each guard a scroll that will enable her to seal the portal, if necessary.”
Orders given, Rylla asked Cavatina to follow her. They made their way to the battle-mistress’s residence, not pausing until they reached a sitting room furnished with three crescent-shaped benches that surrounded a scrying font. Tapestries on the walls showed ebon-skinned priestesses on the hunt, swords and horns in hand. Rylla’s empty scabbard lay on a bench, next to her lute.
Cavatina spoke first. “What’s wrong with Lady Qilué?”
Rylla turned—sharply—and raised a finger to her lips. No names, she signed.
The battle-mistress obviously didn’t want Qilué eavesdropping on whatever it was she was about to say. Very well; Cavatina would play along. For now. “Battle-mistress, I report as summoned. You said you wanted my assistance in organizing the patrols of the Promenade. I’m happy to advise you on how the Protectors can best be—”
“That’s enough,” Rylla interrupted. “If she was listening, she’ll have stopped by now.” She sheathed her sword and continued to the scrying font. She stared into the alabaster bowl, moved her lips in a silent message, and passed a hand just above the surface of the water.
Cavatina struggled to hold her tongue. Her impulse was to tell Rylla she was being unnecessarily cautious. People spoke Qilué’s name so frequently that it must have sounded like overlapping echoes to the high priestess. Listening in on everything that followed and trying to pick out the important nuggets from the endless drone of casual conversation would have been a full-time task. What’s more, Cavatina had never known Qilué to answer by accident when her name was uttered. The high priestess only answered those who intended to call her.
Cavatina edged closer to the font and took a look. The scrying was focused on Qilué, who walked through a forest with half a dozen lesser priestesses in tow. Qilué stood head and shoulders above the rest, a majestic figure with her silver robes and ankle-length white hair. The sight of her filled Cavatina with reverential awe. Qilué had founded the Promenade, had lifted the worship of Eilistraee from an obscure sect to a force to be reckoned with. She’d made the faith what it was today. Every drow who had been raised from the
Underdark over the past six centuries owed their redemption to her. Even though Cavatina had slain the demigod Selvetarm, she didn’t rank nearly as high in the faith as Qilué.
Qilué was speaking to the lesser priestesses, but her words were too soft for Cavatina to make out. She held the Crescent Blade in her hand, and emphasized a remark by using it to point at something out of range of the scrying font.
There was a time, not so long ago, when the sight of the Crescent Blade in the high priestess’s hands would have filled Cavatina with jealousy. Now it was just another weapon—albeit a powerful one, ensorcelled with magic that had enabled Cavatina to kill a demigod.
“What you have to say must be disconcerting, indeed, if you don’t want … her to hear it.”
Rylla passed a hand over the font, ending the scrying. She sat on one of the benches. “I’ve been speaking with one of the Seven Sisters,” she began. “Laeral Silverhand. She paid me a visit recently, expressing concerns about … her sister.”
Cavatina nodded. “Go on.”
“Lady Silverhand pointed out something I’d noticed myself. A cut on the high priestess’s wrist.”
“Which wrist?”
“The right one.” Rylla touched her own wrist. “Just here.”
Cavatina shivered slightly, as if a chill breeze had just blown through the room. “That happened a year and a half ago. Just before our attack on the Acropolis of …” She faltered as the name that had been on the tip of her tongue an instant ago suddenly escaped her. “Of the death goddess,” she said at last. “I was there when the high priestess cut herself. She was in the middle of an attunement, dancing with the Crescent Blade. She faltered in her dance.”
“Not something she’d ordinarily do.”
“No.”
Rylla shifted the lute so that Cavatina had room to sit down. The fingers with the picks rested briefly on the neck of the instrument, as if yearning to pluck its strings. Then Rylla removed her finger-picks and set them aside. “Lady Silverhand mentioned something else. Something she noticed about the Crescent Blade. More specifically, about her sister’s reluctance to let anyone else touch it. Each time Lady Silverhand asks to examine the sword, the high priestess refuses. She claims her bond with it will be broken if anyone else handles it.”