by Lisa Smedman
Cavatina smiled grimly. She liked a challenge. She sprang through the hole and ran through the chamber, leaping gracefully from one clear patch of floor to the next in an improvised dance. The spiders thinned once she was inside the corridor, allowing her to slow her pace. After a short distance, the corridor opened onto a third chamber. Cavatina, still invisible, peered inside, battling the urge to pinch her nostrils shut against the sulfurous smell within: the stench of demon.
The room was larger than the first two, and circular. It was dominated by an enormous, black marble throne, carved in the shape of an upside-down spider. Halisstra sat atop it, her clawed fingers plucking hair-thin strands of steel that stretched, like harp strings, between the throne’s curled spider arms. The harsh twang of the music trembled through Cavatina’s body, leaving a sludge of fear in its wake. Instinctively, she reached for her singing sword to ward off the music’s effect. Her hand closed around a wooden hilt, reminding her that the singing sword was gone.
Halisstra had her back to Cavatina. She stared intently at something on the far side of the throne. Cavatina cautiously circled the room, keeping near the wall. A crouching figure came into view. Half the size of the hulking Halisstra, the creature had dull white eyes and skin covered in boils. So misshapen was it that its gender was impossible to determine. At first, Cavatina’s mind insisted that this couldn’t be Qilué, that it was some blasphemous blend of drow and demon. But the “demon” held the Crescent Blade in its hands, and wore the amulet Laeral had described around its neck.
It was Qilué.
A lump rose in Cavatina’s throat as she beheld what the high priestess had become. Cavatina had been raised within Eilistraee’s faith. Her earliest memories were of her mother singing the high priestess’s praises. Centuries ago, as a girl, Qilué had rekindled Eilistraee’s faith from the ashes in which its spark had smoldered for millennia. She had conquered Ghaunadaur, established the Promenade over his Pit, and set up shrines across the length and breadth of Faerûn. But now the Promenade had fallen and Qilué had been reduced to….
A tear trickled down Cavatina’s cheek. She wiped it away. This wasn’t the time for tears, but for action. It might not be her destiny to save Qilué, but she could take Halisstra down. Not permanently—unless Lolth had abandoned her, Halisstra wouldn’t die—but at least long enough for Laeral and the others to whisk Qilué out of this foul chamber and attempt an exorcism. Cavatina would likely die in the battle she was about to undertake; her communion with Eilistraee had hinted of this. But that didn’t matter. After the horrors she’d experienced during the fall of the Promenade, she was ready to dance at the goddess’s side.
Halisstra seemed to have at last remembered whatever song she’d been attempting to play. Her clawed fingers settled into a rhythm, and the music became more melodic. Slowly, lest she make any noise, Cavatina drew the wooden sword. The fact that it didn’t kill no longer mattered, since Halisstra couldn’t die, anyway. It felt better to have a sword in her hand, even if it was only a wooden one. As the weapon cleared its sheath, Cavatina began the prayer that would send a bolt of twined moonlight and shadow through Halisstra’s heart.
Halisstra ended her melody with a single, shrill note. The Crescent Blade suddenly shrank and transformed, becoming an assassin’s strangle cord. Halisstra leaped down from her throne. As she reached for the transformed weapon, Cavatina unleashed her spell. Her moonbolt bored into Halisstra’s broad back, sending her staggering.
Halisstra whirled, her face twisted with rage. Her eyes widened as she spotted the now-visible Cavatina. As Cavatina sang a second moonbolt into existence, Halisstra yanked the assassin’s cord from Qilué’s hands and flicked it upward. The weapon transformed back into a sword once more. She raised it above her head with a manic grin. “Yours,” she said, her eyes wild, “will be the first soul reaped. Cast aside your feeble goddess, and pay homage to the Lady Penitent!”
Cavatina hurled her second moonbolt. It slammed into Halisstra’s chest, sending her staggering. Cavatina leaped in close, thrusting with the wooden sword. Halisstra grunted as the point of it entered her body.
“Surrender,” Cavatina told her, “and I’ll show mercy.”
“Never,” Halisstra hissed. She leaped back, unwounded—the wooden sword penetrated flesh, but left no mark—and lashed out with the Crescent Blade. Cavatina instinctively parried—and suddenly was holding nothing but a wooden hilt. Furious, Cavatina dropped it and danced back, resolving to give her opponent no further chances. She sang a circle of blades into existence, and they whirred around her like a disturbed nest of steel-sharp bees. Qilué was directly in their path, but by the grace of Eilistraee she remained unharmed; the magical blades glanced harmlessly off her time-frozen body.
Halisstra seized upon Cavatina’s momentary distraction and sang a harsh note. The magical blades that had been protecting Cavatina exploded into shards of light and vanished.
“Redemption is at hand!” Halisstra shrieked, the strings of her throne reverberating in time with her cry. Spittle flew from her lips, and the spider legs twitched madly against her chest. She menaced Cavatina with the Crescent Blade, springing—fast as a spider—to block the chamber’s only exit. “Kneel before me, mortal!”
The words slammed into Cavatina’s mind, forcing her to the ground.
Halisstra sprang back to her throne and raked its strings with her clawed fingers. Random notes jangled together. “Dance!” she screamed.
Cavatina shuffled forward on her knees across the flagstone floor. She tried to lift her hands to direct a prayer, but they rose above her head, twisting in a terrible parody of the sword dance. “Laeral,” she cried. “Halisstra has—”
“Be silent!” Halisstra screeched.
Cavatina’s throat tightened, preventing her from completing her warning. Where was Laeral? What was keeping her? She glanced at the room’s only entrance, but it was empty. It was, however, faintly lighter, as if moonlight were filtering in from outside the mound. The spiders that had been in the outer chamber burst into this room in a wave, as if fleeing something. Cavatina heard a faint sound that might have been a song, drifting in their wake. The sound gave her hope.
Halisstra loomed over Cavatina, weaving the Crescent Blade back and forth, mockingly directing her “dance.” The strings of her throne reverberated in a dismal, unending chord. Cavatina fought with all her will as she scraped across the floor on her knees, but to no avail. Halisstra had grown strong—more powerful than Cavatina had anticipated. Had Halisstra truly been elevated to the status of demigod, as she claimed?
“Who’s the master now?” Halisstra asked mockingly. “I was your plaything once, but no more! Lolth’s cast you aside. You’re mine!”
Cavatina realized Halisstra wasn’t talking to her, but to the Crescent Blade. Halisstra stood, caressing it, oblivious to the dribble of blood the blade had just opened in her palm. “You will serve me,” she told it. She fingered the spot where the blade had been mended. “Or I will break you. Toss you away, like a piece of trash. Would you like to see how that feels?” She tilted her head, as if listening, then laughed. “Why should I believe you?”
She listened again, stared thoughtfully at the Crescent Blade, and smiled. “Yes. I can kill you, can’t I? I can kill anyone!”
She strode over to Qilué, and touched the blade to her throat. The high priestess remained as still as stone. Cavatina, mute and shuffling on bloody knees, felt a rush of fear. Laeral had said that nothing could harm Qilué while she was frozen in time, but that was before Halisstra had found a way to tease the Crescent Blade from her hands. She watched, horrified, as Halisstra slowly drew the blade across Qilué’s throat.
Eilistraee! she silently cried. Your high priestess needs you! Save her!
The chamber brightened slightly. Eilistraee, answering with moonlight?
Halisstra abruptly stopped cutting. She pulled the sword away and inspected Qilué’s neck. The blade had left a hair-thin line of red, but
no blood flowed from it.
Praise Eilistraee! Laeral’s spell had saved Qilué! Cavatina wept with relief—but then the Crescent Blade began to glow with a ruddy light. An instant later, it burst into flame. Halisstra cocked her head again, laughed, and touched the sword’s edge once more to Qilué’s throat. The fire licked across the curved blade, and slid from it onto Qilué’s neck, encircling it in flickering orange light. Then it disappeared into the cut on her neck.
Qilué’s eyelids fluttered. Her head twitched. A creaking sound filled the air as wings burst from her shoulders and unfurled, and she rose. Her mouth opened, and a gurgling laugh came out. Low, deep, masculine.
Wendonai’s voice. He was inside Qilué’s body—dominating it!
The chamber seemed to spin around Cavatina. She felt ill, faint. Not this, Eilistraee, she prayed. Anything but this!
Wendonai held out a hand. Halisstra reached for it.
“No!” Cavatina shouted.
She didn’t cry out alone. At the same moment that she spoke, moonlight filled the chamber. A voice sang out with a power that sent Halisstra reeling. Throne strings parted with a shrill twang. Spiders shriveled and died. The Crescent Blade vibrated in Halisstra’s hand—so violently that she nearly dropped it.
A shaft of pure silver light coalesced at the center of the room: moonlight so intense Cavatina was forced to turn her head. It centered on Wendonai. Taint boiled from his body and fled across the floor in a wave of tarry black smoke, and the reek of brimstone filled the air. Much of the floor-hugging, sticky cloud was burned away by the silver moonlight, but a wisp of it lapped at Cavatina’s bloody knees. She could feel it trying to force its way into her body through these wounds, but the strength of her faith forced it out. Then the last of it was gone, fled back to the Abyss, back to Wendonai’s corpse, to revive it, But that was a trivial matter, compared to the events unfolding in this chamber.
The silver moonlight continued to burn down. Demonic flesh melted away like wax, revealing a drow female so beautiful Cavatina could barely breathe. She had Qilué’s face, but framed with moon-white hair, streaked with shadow, that draped her naked body like a robe. A masked-shaped shadow screened much of her face. The eyes that stared out of it brimmed with silver tears as she stared at Halisstra, who cowered before her.
Cavatina’s heart pounded so fiercely in her chest she thought it would burst.
Eilistraee’s avatar!
No—something more. Qilué had become a vessel, and the goddess had filled it. Eilistraee had saved the high priestess, as promised. She’d stepped into Qilué’s body and assumed mortal form—something that hadn’t happened since the Time of Troubles.
It will end where it began, a female voice sang.
It will begin where it ends, a male voice harmonized.
Cavatina was no longer bound by Halisstra’s foul magic. She rose, weeping and exulting, and cried out in praise. “Masked Lady,” she sang joyfully, lifting her arms. “Lead me in your da—”
She remembered Halisstra too late.
The Crescent Blade flashed.
Cavatina felt cold steel meet her throat and heard the dull crunch of her spine being severed. The world spun crazily as her head tumbled to the floor. Then all went gray.
Q’arlynd glanced around. All was in readiness. A domed wall of force had been erected atop the glade where the ancient temple had once stood, to keep intruders out. Spheres of silver light circled its perimeter, ready to intercept and negate any hostile spells. The possibility of an enemy locating this spot, however, was remote. Anyone attempting to spy on the four masters would see only what Seldszar’s glamer showed them: an empty glade, surrounded by forest and washed by moonlight.
In fact, the clearing was heaped with boxes—a veritable matron’s ransom in magical items, arranged in three piles. Master Masoj sat on a moss-softened stone next to one stack of boxes, his diamond-dusted skin glittering like twinkling stars in the moonlight. The corpulent Urlyrn stood beside another, sipping wine from his goblet. Master Seldszar, his head moving back and forth as he tracked the gems orbiting him, sat cross-legged on his driftdisc, above the third pile. Dark lenses screened his eyes from the moonlight.
Q’arlynd stood with his four remaining apprentices, their minds linked by their rings. They would be adding their energies during his prayer. Eldrinn—clad, as usual, in pale gray clothes that made his skin appear darker—was rooting around in Q’arlynd’s memories, satisfying his curiosity about what had become of Piri. Q’arlynd, heeding his promise to Flinderspeld, gave the boy a mental nudge when he strayed too near the portion of his mind that held memories of the magical pools.
Baltak had transformed his hair into the tawny mane of a lion and grown falcon wings in imitation of a sphinx. He kneaded the air, flexing his claws, reveling in the magical power that crackled through the night, proud to be a part of it. Zarifar, as always, was daydreaming. He stared up through the dome of force at the stars, drawing imaginary patterns between them.
Alexa watched the spot where the teleportation circle had deposited them. She nodded to herself as a section of ground turned muddy—a sign that the cavern had flooded as planned, preventing anyone else from coming through.
Seldszar cleared his throat. “Time to begin. Masters, please raise your fields.”
Q’arlynd thought he saw a flicker of movement, out beyond the dome of force. He peered in that direction, then decided it must be some creature of the World Above. Whatever it was, the dome of force would keep it at bay. And if it was a person out there, well….
He touched his braid. The hair clip was still there, providing a solid, comforting presence.
He returned his attention to the masters as Seldszar, Urlryn, and Masoj began their transmutations. Each pulled out a preserved eyeball dusted with powdered diamond, pricked his finger, and allowed three drops of blood to fall. The orbs on their palms spun, and three multicolored globes of magical energy sparkled into existence. As these fields spread, a hissing rose from each box they touched. The boxes rattled slightly, as if jiggled by a mild earth tremor. Ghostlike images danced above them like heat mirages, as enchanted rods, rings, potion vials, robes, and amulets were consumed. Q’arlynd glanced at Seldszar, wondering if the Master of Divination was wincing behind those dark lenses.
Seldszar raised his hand. At his signal, each of the mages cast his spell. Seldszar crossed his hands against his chest, and flung them apart, shouting the abjuration that would shatter enchantments. The magical field around him exploded, streaks of energy shooting out into the night. Urlryn dropped to one knee with surprising grace for a male of his girth and slapped a hand to the ground, shouting a curse-negating spell. The globe of energy surrounding him coalesced into thousands of drops of light that fell to the ground like rain. Masoj cast the third and most powerful abjuration, his fingers twining like knots. The globe of magical energy twisted into a tight, dizzying tangle—then shredded as he tore his hands apart.
Now it was Q’arlynd’s turn. He took a deep breath—and felt each of his apprentices inhale as he did. He’d been nervous until this moment, but the touch of their minds steadied him. So did the cool presence of the kiira on his forehead. He sent his mind deep into it, and sought out the ancestor who had honored Eilistraee.
Are you ready? she asked.
Q’arlynd nodded.
Sing with me.
Words shimmered in the air in front of him—words that only he could see. It was like reading a spellbook. As his eyes fell on each word, its sound was conveyed to his mind, together with the note it sustained in the melody. He heard himself singing, and was amazed at the beauty of his voice. He’d never heard it so rich, so vibrant. His apprentices, their minds linked to his, provided the harmony: Baltak a bold bass, Eldrinn a higher tenor, Zarifar a soft falsetto that twined delicately around Alexa’s alto. Directed by his ancestor, Q’arlynd touched thumb to thumb, forefinger to forefinger, forming Eilistraee’s sacred moon. As he sang the final verse of the hymn
, he raised his hands above his head to frame the moon in order to draw a miracle down from …
He gasped as he realized the moon wasn’t there. Had he miscalculated the time it would set? He shook his head, certain he hadn’t. The moon had been there, just a moment ago. High overhead and “half-masked” as the Nightshadows liked to say. And now it was gone.
It can’t be gone! his ancestor insisted.
Baltak, Eldrinn and Alexa mentally echoed her alarm. Zarifar, however, shook his head. He’s right; the pattern’s changed.
Ridiculous! Q’arlynd thought. There must be some other answer. Sweat trickled down his sides, under his robe. He felt Seldszar, Urlryn, and Masoj staring at him. Waiting for the miracle. Q’arlynd’s hands trembled above his head. “Negate the forcedome!” he shouted. “It’s blocking the moon. I need to see it!”
Urlryn barked out a transmutation and pointed. A thin green beam shot from his fingertip and struck the forcedome, disintegrating it. All three masters looked up, apparently unperturbed by a sight that would have turned cold the blood of any surface elf. The moon had indeed vanished. A dark hole, bereft even of stars, punctured the sky where it had been. Only Selûne’s Tears remained.
Eilistraee! his ancestor wailed.
“I … can’t continue,” Q’arlynd stammered. “Not with the moon gone.”
“What trickery is this?” Masoj said, his voice tight with suspicion. He wheeled on Seldszar and shook a bony finger. “I will expect payment, Master Seldszar. I performed my part of the bargain.”