by Lisa Smedman
Your name, demon, he demanded.
The demon stared him in the eye and bared his jagged teeth in a feral smile.
Wendonai.
These are dark times, the wizard told the demon. Our enemies press us on every side. You will help us turn the tide, Wendonai. The brutal conquests of Aryvandaar must be halted, or we Ilythiiri shall all be slaughtered.
It will be my pleasure, Geirildin, the demon answered.
The vision ended. The jungle and ruins returned.
Laeral shivered as she realized what her vision had just revealed. This was where it had happened, nearly thirteen millennia ago—the event that had precipitated the descent of the dark elves of Ilythiir into madness and shadow. Qilué had spoken to Laeral of this before. She’d related enough of the early history of these dark elf ancestors of the drow for Laeral to understand what she’d just seen. According to everything her sister had read, the Ilythiiri had been a greedy people, bent on conquest and determined to achieve victory at any cost. Their noble Houses had embraced the corruption of the Abyss, in order to win the wars they’d waged with neighboring elven kingdoms. Yet Qilué questioned whether they had truly been as ruthless as the histories painted them—or whether they had instead been desperate victims. The vision seemed to hint at the latter. Whatever the coronal’s motivation might have been, the summoning Laeral had just witnessed had been his people’s downfall. Wendonai was the balor demon who had corrupted Qilué’s ancestors—the demon who now lurked inside the reforged Crescent Blade.
The demon whose taint Qilué was about to draw into herself.
And this was the spot where she was going to do it.
One detail of the vision had been especially unsettling. Laeral knew only a little about summoning—the very idea of deliberately unleashing a demon upon the world sickened her—but she could tell that something had gone amiss with the casting she’d just seen in her vision. The demon had displayed a great deal of control: first knocking over the candle—which the wizard had noticed—and then drawing his foot back in such a way as to scuff the lines painted on the floor.
Which the wizard hadn’t noticed.
Was there something Qilué had also missed? The plan she’d so cryptically outlined to Laeral seemed sound, on the surface. Qilué would draw in the demon’s taint, and then Laeral would cleanse it from Qilué with Mystra’s silver fire. To ensure the demon didn’t gain control of her sister’s body, Laeral would use a trick they’d once played on Elminster—a jest Qilué had made a cryptic reference to in her brief communication. Laeral would temporarily step outside of time, leaving Qilué frozen in the moment, ensuring that Laeral would get a chance to draw down the silver fire before the demon could try anything.
All good, in theory. But had this truly been her sister’s idea—or the demon’s? Qilué had admitted to being corrupted by Wendonai, but had assured Laeral that she was—at least, at the time of her most recent communication—fully in control of herself. But had she been? What if the demon was scheming to turn Mystra’s boon against them? What if the silver fire consumed not Wendonai, but Qilué herself? Her body would remain—it could not be destroyed by mundane or magical means—but whose mind would it house?
If Laeral were a priestess, she might have asked for guidance from a greater power. But she was a mage, with only her own instincts to go by. And her instincts screamed caution.
A thread of moonlight through the bare branches above announced Qilué’s imminent arrival. Laeral braced herself. An instant later, Qilué appeared. She landed in a crouch atop the block of weathered stone that had been the seat of the throne, the Crescent Blade held high above her head. Her robe was soaking wet, her ankle-length hair plastered against her black skin.
The sisters’ eyes met: Qilué’s, clear and determined; Laeral’s, brimming with concern.
“Sister,” Laeral whispered. “I …”
“May Eilistraee forgive me,” Qilué said in a flat voice. Then, before Laeral could stop her, Qilué yanked the holy symbol from her neck and threw it down. The Crescent Blade swept up, and down in a deadly arc. Steel struck silver with a dull clank, slicing the holy symbol in two.
“It begins!” Qilué cried.
She chanted—words that twisted her lips and forced a spray of red through her teeth as she gritted them out. Her features changed. Her back hunched, her face erupted in boils, and her eyes clouded to a dull white. The fingers gripping the Crescent Blade elongated and grew thick, horny nails. A foul smell rose from her skin.
All this, in the blink of an eye.
Laeral reeled as she realized what her sister was doing. Qilué had cast aside Eilistraee’s redemption, and was warping her very soul in order to invite the demon in. Laeral could feel the evil crackle past as it rushed at Qilué. It chilled, then burned. It whipped both sisters’ hair into twisted knots, fouled Laeral’s nightgown, and forced its soot into her lungs, making her cough. It shrilled past her ears with a mocking, high-pitched tittering.
No! Laeral thought. All the drow on Toril weren’t worth this!
“Temfuto!” she screamed, halting time for all but her.
Silence. Sudden stillness. Her sister’s transformation, halted. The very air, frozen. A falling leaf, checked in mid-descent. Laeral stepped past it—quickly, quickly, before her spell ended—and touched her hands to her sister’s head. Qilué’s scalp felt as hot as the Abyss beneath her ice white hair.
Silver fire wreathed Laeral’s hands in a sparkling radiance. She readied herself to send it raging into Qilué the instant the time-halting spell ended, in order to burn the taint from her sister’s body. But what then? Qilué had drawn some of the demon’s taint inside her, but not all. Though Laeral’s silver fire would burn much of it away, a portion would remain inside the Crescent Blade, which Qilué still held in her hands. If the sword had been lying on the ground, Laeral could have easily cast a disjunction to strip it of its magic, once Qilué herself had been cleansed. But with it locked tight in Qilué’s grasp, the demon could slide back up the trickle of blood that connected steel and flesh. Qilué was an open vessel, bereft now of the blessings that had formerly protected her. The demon would slide into her as quickly as a sword into an oiled sheath. Faster, perhaps, than Laeral could react.
Laeral trembled with indecision. She had to decide. Now!
Then it came to her.
A snap of her fingers transmuted the soot that grimed her sister into a dusting of crushed diamond, emerald, ruby, and sapphire. With her hands still on Qilué’s hair, Laeral watched the leaf, waiting …
The leaf quivered. Time resumed its flow. Laeral cast her spell.
The leaf landed, and the rush of taint died away in an angry howl. Qilué remained motionless, the gem dust in her hair sparkling in the moonlight. She, alone, remained frozen in time, held fast by Laeral’s transmutation.
Laeral hardly recognized the twisted thing Qilué had become.
“Oh, sister,” she breathed. “What have you done?”
She didn’t need to ask why Qilué had done it. She knew the answer. Qilué loved the drow with all her heart. She’d sought their salvation with every thought, with every word, with every deed. And this had nearly been her downfall.
Nearly.
Laeral, however, had just bought her sister a little time. Even if Laeral herself didn’t know how to help Qilué, there was someone who did. Someone whose knowledge of demons—whose expertise in hunting them down, banishing them, permanently destroying both the demon and its lingering taint—far surpassed Laeral’s own. The Darksong Knight, Cavatina. Laeral would take Qilué someplace safe, then fetch Cavatina.
Laeral touched her sister and spoke a conjuration, but something prevented her from teleporting away. It was as if Qilué were a lodestone, pulling in the opposite direction from the one Laeral wanted to go. Laeral wrapped her arms around her sister and tried to physically move her, but Qilué’s feet refused to lift from the block of stone.
Suddenly, she remember
ed her vision and the ancient wizard’s binding spell. The binding must have taken hold of Qilué, as soon as the demon’s taint shifted inside her. Laeral knew a powerful abjuration that could break the binding, but casting it would also end the spell that was holding Qilué in stasis.
She stood, desperately thinking. A binding, she knew, could be undone not just by a spell, but also by repeating a phrase, a gesture, or by meeting other, very specific conditions set by the original spellcaster. She went over the vision in her mind, but it offered no clues. In time—and with a great deal of study—she might find that key.
She stared at her frozen sister. Time was certainly something Qilué had.
Unless someone came along in the meantime and cast a disjunction spell.
Laeral squared her shoulders. If Qilué couldn’t be brought to the Darksong Knight, she decided, then Cavatina would just have to be brought here instead. That meant Laeral would have to leave her sister. In the meantime, she had to guarantee Qilué’s safety. She hung her necklace around Qilué’s neck to ensure that enemies couldn’t scry her. Then she cloaked her sister in a glamer that would further conceal her.
“I’ll be gone just a short time, sister,” Laeral said, stroking the frozen hair, even though she knew Qilué couldn’t hear or feel her. “I’ll come back with Cavatina. She’ll know what to do.”
Her promise made, she teleported away.
The night deepened. The moon moved in the sky. Shadows lengthened.
So did a hair-thin strand of web.
A spider descended from a branch above, and landed on gem-dusted hair. It crawled down an ebon cheek and across parted lips.
It began to spin its web.
CHAPTER 10
Q’arlynd strode down the cobblestoned street, ignoring the stares. Alehouse patrons halted their conversations and gaped, a gnomish musician cranking a hurdybox faltered in mid-song, and pale-skinned elves gave him sidelong glances as they passed, their hands near their swords. Alarmed whispers swirled in Q’arlynd’s wake—the word “drow” followed by low-voiced, hostile comments.
The air was uncomfortably hot, the sunlight blinding. The buildings on either side—tall, white-limed, and red-shuttered—were smooth and square, utterly unlike the fluted stalagmites and columns of Sshamath. Here and there, patches of welcome shade pooled under massive oaks whose branches held aloft the elaborate dwelling places of the surface elves. Yet these momentary respites were nothing compared to the cool, constant darkness of the Underdark. Q’arlynd’s eyes lingered on the gnomish burrows down among the tree roots, and the heavy stone arches that led to the underhalls of the dwarves—not that those races would react with any less apprehension to a drow than the rest of Silverymoon’s inhabitants.
Q’arlynd could easily have teleported to the precise spot in Silverymoon he needed to visit, but he wanted to take the measure of Flinderspeld’s adopted city. Its inhabitants turned out to be a mix of surface elves, humans, and dwarves, leavened by the occasional surface gnome or halfling. All seemed hostile, despite the silver star that had been limned by the gate guards’ magic on the back of his hand: his pass to move freely within the city.
He passed a white marble tower with star-shaped windows of “glass” made from thin-cut, sky blue jade. Clerics in blue robes and skullcaps—most of them surface elves or humans, and all bearing wands, staves, and a multitude of magical trinkets—passed in and out of its wide front doors. This was the Temple of Mystra, one of the goddesses Qilué honored. Q’arlynd wondered if the high priestess ever worshiped here. He nodded at Mystra’s clerics as he passed, noted their raised eyebrows, and felt the tingle of detection spells washing over him. He lifted his hand slightly, drawing attention to the symbol.
Silverymoon was home to at least a dozen magical colleges: the World Above’s equivalent of Sshamath. Schools devoted to the teaching of invocation, thaumaturgy, bardic song, and arcane crafting drew students from across Faerûn. Q’arlynd might have made his home here, were it not for the harsh sunlight, and the narrow-eyed stares of Silverymoon’s citizens.
He shook his head, surprised at the path his thoughts were treading.
The surface was our home, the ancestors in his kiira whispered. The voice deepened to a male timbre: Eilistraee willing, it will be, again.
Sshamath is my home, Q’arlynd told them firmly.
His ancestors made no comment.
A bridge of frozen moonlight spanned the river. As Q’arlynd made his way across it, he glanced down at the boats passing below. The people of Silverymoon streamed across the bridge in either direction, walking on the near-invisible bridge as confidently as the drow of Ched Nasad had done across the calcified webs of their city.
Q’arlynd made his way to the market: a bustling hubbub of stalls, braying caravan beasts, and food vendors. Smells assaulted his nostrils: cooking meat, ground spice, ripe fruit, wafting incense, tanned leather, and cloth dye. Oddly, the smell of dung was missing and the cobblestones were clean. Though several shabbily dressed people of various races scurried here and there, it was hard to tell whom they belonged to; no one seemed to be directing them with lashes or clubs. Nor were there any obvious cripples, or shackled slaves—a stark contrast from the city where Q’arlynd had been raised.
His enquiries had confirmed that Flinderspeld was indeed working as a gem merchant, here in Silverymoon. Officially, Q’arlynd was in Silverymoon to purchase chardalyn, a rare black gemstone capable of absorbing spells. Silverymoon’s wizards had perfected the use of it, casting a spell into a gem, and releasing the latent magic later by the simple expedient of shattering the stone. Flinderspeld was certain to stock it.
Q’arlynd hadn’t told the svirfneblin he was coming. He wanted to see the expression on Flinderspeld’s face when he first set eyes upon his former master. It would be an important clue to how Q’arlynd should word his request.
A hoodlike arch of brick marked the spot he was looking for: the stairs leading down to the cave where the svirfneblin trading caravans encamped. Q’arlynd hadn’t seen any deep gnomes on his walk through the city. They kept below, it seemed.
He strode down the staircase into cool, damp darkness. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, his darkvision had reasserted itself.
The startled silence that fell upon the main cavern as he entered proved even more profound than the reaction his appearance had prompted in the streets above. The svirfneblin caravanners who’d been unpacking their lizards’ saddlebags glared at Q’arlynd with open hostility. Many, Q’arlynd knew, were deep gnomes from Blingdenstone, the city Menzoberranzan had conquered and plundered. Q’arlynd trod warily, alert for the twang of a wristbow or the whispered hiss of a spell.
A gray-skinned svirfneblin, his bald scalp hidden by a leather cap, stepped in front of Q’arlynd, blocking his way. Bracers on his arms held a pair of matched daggers with pale yellow gems set in their pommels. “You’re not welcome here, drow,” he growled.
Q’arlynd observed the faint shimmer clinging to the deep gnome’s body: an illusion. The real deep gnome would be standing nearby, probably blurred, with daggers in hand. Several other svirfneblin had blurred themselves. Those still visible drew swords or daggers and moved to encircle Q’arlynd. One or two thrust their hands into their pockets, and he hoped they weren’t reaching for death-magic gems. He heard angry whispers. “Spider-kisser,” they called him, and worse.
“I’m looking for someone,” Q’arlynd told the illusionary svirfneblin in front of him—speaking in a loud, steady voice so the others could hear. “A friend of mine. His name’s Flinderspeld. He’s a gem merchant, originally from Blingdenstone.”
The svirfneblin’s eyes narrowed. “The drow are no friends of ours. Especially after Blingdenstone.”
“This drow is,” Q’arlynd said firmly. “After Blingdenstone fell, Flinderspeld became a slave. I purchased him—and set him free.”
A female svirfneblin set down the pack she’d been unloading and moved closer. “What’s y
our name?”
Q’arlynd bowed—just enough to acknowledge the waist-high female. “Q’arlynd Melarn, formerly of Ched Nasad.”
“I thought I recognized you! You’re the one who teleported Flinderspeld here, four years ago. Flinderspeld often speaks of you.”
Whispers spread like ripples on a pond. Q’arlynd waited until they ebbed, then looked at the niches that honeycombed the cavern—each of them, a merchant’s stall. “Does Flinderspeld have a stall here? I’d like to speak to him.”
The female chuckled and jerked her head at the ceiling. “He’s upside.”
Q’arlynd lifted an eyebrow.
“Upside,” she repeated. “In the main marketplace. His customers are surface folk, mostly. They’re less at ease down here.”
“I see,” Q’arlynd said. “Will you show me the way?”
The female nodded. “Follow me.”
She led him back up the stairs, shielding her eyes from the sun with a hand as they wound through the maze of stalls. Flinderspeld’s place of business turned out to be one of the shops that fringed the marketplace. Its elaborately carved door held a massive quartz-crystal knocker. A smaller door was set into the wall next to it: a gnome-sized entrance, fitted with its own handle and knocker. Next to that was a large clearstone window, scribed with a glyph of warding. Just inside the window stood a display counter. Precious stones of various colors glittered against black velvet cushions.
“Flinderspeld’s done well for himself,” Q’arlynd commented.
The svirfneblin nodded. She seemed to be waiting for something. Q’arlynd began to dismiss her before realizing what it was she wanted. He pulled a slim gold coin out of his pouch and handed it to her. She lifted it to her mouth as if to bite it, then stopped, as if thinking better of it.
Q’arlynd hid his smile. Poisoning a gold coin was such a time-worn trick that few drow bothered with it anymore.
She tucked the coin in her belt pouch and hurried away. Or rather, she pretended to. Out of the corner of his eye, Q’arlynd saw her blur, then duck behind a nearby stall.