by Lisa Smedman
Malvag nodded at Urz’s body. “Do it,” he told Valdar.
The pink-eyed drow cocked an eyebrow. “Very well.” He kneeled beside Urz, put a hand to the dead male’s chest, and began a prayer. His other hand was raised to his mouth, hiding it.
Malvag, watching, reflected on how odd it was to see a fellow cleric casting magic bare-faced. He resisted the urge to cover his own mouth with a hand. Even in the company of other clerics, going without a mask felt like being naked.
A low groan came from Urz’s lips as Valdar completed his prayer. Urz stirred—and his body was limned in a haze of silver-white light. Valdar reeled.
“More moonfire! The wizard is doing it!” He raised his wrist-crossbow.
“Valdar, stop!” Malvag shouted.
The crossbow thrummed. The wizard jumped back but not quickly enough. The bolt sliced a bright red line through the flesh of his cheek. He returned Valdar’s attack with a flick of his fingers, sending a bolt of magical energy back at the slender male. Valdar grunted as it bored into his chest and began a prayer, one that would summon enough darkfire to incinerate the wizard on the spot.
“Stop it!” Malvag cried. “Both of you. There’s got to be another explanation!”
Urz sat up, holding his head. The silver-white glow had faded from his skin.
Darkfire raced from Valdar’s hand across the cavern, but instead of burning the wizard, it swirled harmlessly around him. Within the dark flames were flecks of white. More moonfire. Valdar gaped at his hand, a shocked look on his face.
“How did he …?”
Malvag stared at Q’arlynd and Valdar, worried. That was moonfire, within the darkfire—something that should have been impossible. And it hadn’t just appeared when the spell had struck Q’arlynd, it had come straight out of Valdar’s hand at the same time the darkfire did. Had opening a gate to Eilistraee’s domain somehow corrupted their magic?
The wizard had halted in mid-casting, magical energy crackling between his extended fingers. His lips parted, as if he were about to say something. Then he seemed to think better of it. Slowly, the magic faded from his hand.
Urz gave a howl of anguish, startling all three of them. “He’s dead,” he cried. Eyes closed, mouth a grimace, he pounded with his hands against the crystal floor until his hands were bloody. “He’s … dead!”
“Who’s dead, you idiot?” Valdar snapped.
Malvag, however, didn’t have to ask. A chill slid into his gut like an ice-cold blade. He said a hurried prayer, seeking communion with his god.
“Vhaeraun?” he whispered, his mouth dry. “Are you there?”
Valdar stared at him, tense.
Urz continued to wail and beat the floor. “Dead!”
The answer came to Malvag at last, a strangely double-timbered voice, as if a male and female were speaking at once.
“I … am … here,” it said, the voices blending into one by the final word.
Malvag felt his face pale. His legs no longer seemed willing to support him. He sagged, felt the points of crystals jab into his knees as the enormity of what he’d just done came down on his shoulders like a collapsing tunnel. That was Eilistraee who’d just spoken, not Vhaeraun. Instead of the Masked Lord absorbing her power into himself, the opposite had happened. Eilistraee was posing as Vhaeraun and answering his clerics’ prayers, tainting them with moonfire, and there was only one way she could have done that.
By killing Vhaeraun.
Malvag tried to convey that to Valdar, but all that would come out was a dry croak. “Eilistraee … No use … Vhaeraun is … gone. We can’t …” He gestured weakly at Q’arlynd. They could hurl all the spells they liked at the wizard, but he was under Eilistraee’s protection—even if he didn’t know it himself.
Valdar glanced at the still-howling Urz, then back at Malvag. “No!” he raged. The slender cleric summoned darkfire to his hand a second time—darkfire tainted with moonfire—then hurled it. Not at the cleric, as Malvag had expected, but at Malvag himself.
It sloughed off Malvag, just as it had the wizard. As the dark glare of it died down, Malvag noticed that Q’arlynd was gone. He must have teleported away. So had Valdar, it seemed, after hurling the darkfire. The cavern was empty save for Urz, who, by the sound of his hoarse cries, had been driven mad by the loss of his patron deity.
Everything Malvag had worked for was in ruin. The bond, strong as adamantine, that had allowed drow to cast high magic was broken. Not that it mattered anymore.
“It’s true,” Malvag said, answering a Valdar who was already gone. “Vhaeraun’s dead. We helped Eilistraee kill him. I was a fool to think she wouldn’t prevail within her own domain.” He lowered his face into his hands—a mask that no longer held any power. Then his hands fell away. One brushed against the dagger that was sheathed at his hip.
Slowly, he drew it. He stared at the poison-coated blade for several long moments. There was no longer any god to claim his soul when it entered the Fugue Plain, but that suited Malvag just fine. The torments of the demons would be nothing compared to what he felt at that moment, and if Eilistraee tried to claim him, he’d spit in her face.
Touching the blade to his arm, he drew it across his wrist.
Q’arlynd staggered through the Promenade looking for a priestess, the mask that had been his disguise clenched in one hand. He was in the cavern where the lay worshipers lived—buildings reared up around him on either side—but the passageways between them were empty. Where was everyone? His face throbbed and his limbs felt leaden: the wristbow bolt’s poison doing its work. He wasn’t going to last much longer without a healing spell, but if he died there, Qilué would surely see to it that he was restored to life. She’d have to, in order to learn what had just happened.
Unless, of course, she simply had a necromancer speak with his corpse.
No, Q’arlynd thought. Qilué wouldn’t do that. She’d want details—descriptive nuances the stagnant mind of a corpse couldn’t provide, and even if she used a truth spell on him, Q’arlynd had the perfect excuse for his actions.
He slipped a finger into his pocket, touching the master-and-slave rings. He could honestly say that he’d been forced to open the gate despite the geas, that he’d had no choice in the matter. Well, not until the end—but the high priestess didn’t need to know that. If Q’arlynd chose his words carefully, she never would.
He slipped on something and scrabbled at the stone wall next to him for support. Looking down, he saw a smear of blood on the cavern floor. Someone had been hurt there. Badly hurt. Pushing himself away from the wall, he staggered on, still searching for a priestess. Where had they all gotten to?
Qilué would be angry, of course, when she learned that three priestess’ souls had been consumed by the spell, but Q’arlynd had managed to bring back the “mask” that held the body and soul of the fourth priestess. That had to count for something, and opening the gate had all worked out for the best in the end. Vhaeraun was dead. If Q’arlynd chose his words carefully, perhaps the high priestess might reward him yet, and what a reward it would be. Qilué was, after all, a Chosen of Mystra. She must know spells that would rival high magic. If he could become her cons … her …
His mind stumbled. He couldn’t find the word, nor could he see very well. The edges of his vision blurred and his stomach felt as if he’d swallowed hot coals. He tripped over something. A body. Looking down, he saw a blood-red robe and braided white hair. For one terrifying moment, he thought it was the judicator who had confronted him in the woods. Then he realized it was another Selvetargtlin. A very dead Selvetargtlin.
A pace or two away lay a scatter of bodies: males and females of various races, their bodies hacked to pieces. Lay worshipers from the temple. Kneeling beside them was a priestess. Q’arlynd fell to his knees beside her, shook her shoulder.
“Lady,” he gasped. “Help me. Poison …”
The priestess fell over on her side, revealing a chest soaked in blood. She, too, was dead. Q’a
rlynd fumbled at the pendant that hung around her neck: the goddess’s holy dagger. If he prayed, then maybe, just maybe …
He gasped as a hand touched his shoulder. He tried to turn but only managed to fall over onto his side next to the bodies. He stared up from the cold stone floor at a terrifying sight: an armored female, hair and body shrouded in sticky webs, holding in one hand a sword that fairly hummed with latent magic. One of Lolth’s priestesses, he was certain. Weakly, he laughed. Of all the stupid luck….
The female laid her sword on the ground as she kneeled beside him. Cold metal touched Q’arlynd’s cheek—a silver dagger. Why slit his throat? That was too quick, too clean for one of Lolth’s priestesses. A prolonged flaying with a whip of fangs was more their style. Q’arlynd tried not to grimace as the pain roiling in his gut intensified. He wouldn’t give her the pleasure of seeing how much he was already suffering.
“Eilistraee,” he whispered, half-heartedly. As if the goddess would answer him.
“Eilistraee,” the female above him repeated. “Heal him. Drive the poison from his body.”
The pain was gone.
Q’arlynd sat up. He touched a hand to his healed cheek and shivered. He’d been within a heartbeat or two of death, but he was healthy again. Strong. He saw that it was a priestess of Eilistraee who had come to his aid, but not one he recognized. He stood, and bowed his thanks.
“Lady. To whom do I owe my rescue?”
“Cavatina Xarann,” she said. “Darksong Knight.”
Q’arlynd got a good look at her weapon as she picked it up again. The sword looked ancient and had a script running down its curved blade. Q’arlynd moved his fingers behind his back and pretended to cough, hiding a one-word divination. The blade’s aura—visible only to him—nearly made him wince. That weapon was powerful. An artifact. With a start, he realized it must be the Crescent Blade.
The priestess glanced around. “What happened here?”
Q’arlynd shrugged. “I know as little as you do. I only just teleported here.”
Coal-red eyes bored into his. “Only a priestess can do that.”
Q’arlynd waved a hand, trying to appear nonchalant. “I know, I know—the wards and all that. Qilué herself taught me the song that would bypass them.”
She lifted her sword slightly, a subtle threat. “Sing it now.”
Q’arlynd did.
The Crescent Blade lowered. “It seems you are what you say. My apologies. I didn’t ask your name. What is it?”
He bowed a second time. “Q’arlynd Melarn.”
The priestess’s eyes widened. No doubt she too had known his sister.
“I have to go,” Q’arlynd said in an apologetic voice. “Urgent tidings to report. I must find Qilué.” He lifted the mask. “I have to return this to her.”
“Wait.” Cavatina’s voice cracked like a whip. Her hand gripped his shoulder tightly, and it fairly stank of spider. She stared off into the distance for a moment, then back at him, a hint of surprise in her expression. “It seems Qilué is expecting you. She’s on her way here now.”
Her brief touch had left strands of web on his piwafwi. Q’arlynd brushed them from his shoulder.
Cavatina smiled, and wiped away some of the web that clung to her own narrow face. She still kept an eye on him, but she’d relaxed slightly after talking to Qilué. “The offal of the Demonweb Pits,” she said, pride in her voice. She grinned. “But I’d gladly wade through the stuff a second time, if the reward were the same.”
She expected him to ask the question. He obliged her. “What reward?”
Her eyes glittered as she hefted the Crescent Blade. “I killed a deity today.”
She waited, obviously expecting awe. She was proud. As vain as any matron mother. Q’arlynd couldn’t resist.
“So did I,” he said with a smile.
Cavatina listened as Halisstra’s brother made his report. It was an incredible tale, if it could be believed. Three drow males, working high magic? Opening a gate that bridged the realms of Vhaeraun and Eilistraee?
She waited impatiently, anxious to make her own report. The wizard’s tale was incredible and almost certainly untrue. It was woven, through and through, with boastfulness masquerading as modesty. He was acting as if he expected some sort of reward from Qilué. The high priestess, however, either missed his cues—or ignored them.
Which was just fine with Cavatina. She didn’t like Q’arlynd. He was too deliberately self-depreciating in that smarmy way that males fresh out of the Underdark had.
She stood slightly behind Q’arlynd, where he wouldn’t see her silent communication to Qilué: Remember the prophecy. His sister proved herself loyal. This must be the Melarn who will betray us.
Qilué gave her a brief glance. Q’arlynd’s betrayal is already past, she sent back, communicating mind to mind. I expected as much from him. He will be redeemed yet.
The wizard was still talking. “It would appear, Lady Qilué, that Eilistraee has triumphed over the Masked Lord. Moments after the gate closed again, the magic of his clerics became corrupted. The spells they tried to cast were laced through and through with Eilistraee’s moonfire. Upon seeing that and realizing it must be significant, I came back immediately to make my report.” He held up the mask. “And to return this to you.”
Q’arlynd looked at the high priestess expectantly, but Qilué merely nodded and took the mask from the wizard’s hand. Her expression remained noncommittal.
The wizard’s shoulders slumped slightly. Then they straightened again. “Lady,” he said, bowing once more. “I must say that it gives me great joy that, despite my blunders—despite being killed and later enslaved—I was still able to serve Eilistraee.” He bowed again and added, “and to serve you.”
The silence stretched.
A short distance away, lay worshipers cleared away the dead. The bodies of the faithful were gently laid onto blankets and carried away, but the corpse of the Selvetargtlin was left where it lay. Later, it would be burned.
Qilué touched the wizard’s shoulder, bidding him to rise. Aloud, she said, “Go to the Hall of Healing, Q’arlynd. Someone is waiting there for you.”
The wizard hid his disappointment well. He gave Qilué a puzzled look. “Who, Lady?”
“Rowaan.”
The wizard’s eyes widened. “But … her soul …”
“Flew straight to Eilistraee’s domain, with those of the other two priestesses, as the gate opened. By the grace of our goddess, it was not consumed.”
Halisstra’s brother gave a relieved sigh. Perhaps he wasn’t as unfeeling as he seemed, or perhaps he was just a good liar.
“Lady,” he exclaimed. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that.” He bowed again then hurried away.
Cavatina watched Q’arlynd make his way out of the cavern then turned to Qilué. “What a tale that one told!”
The high priestess nodded. “It’s true. If not every word, at least in its essence.”
That made Cavatina blink. “It is? Vhaeraun’s really dead?”
Another nod. “I expected that Q’arlynd might fail in the task I assigned him, despite the geas I placed on him. Shortly after I sent him on his way, I entered communion with Eilistraee and warned her that Vhaeraun was poised to enter Svartalfheim. The goddess was prepared. Vhaeraun might be a master of stealth, but when the advantage of surprise was taken away from him, Eilistraee’s prowess with the sword prevailed.”
Cavatina let out a long, slow breath. “So it is true. Two deities, dead. In one day.” She gave a fierce grin, unable to contain her pride. “And one of them by my hand.”
Qilué glanced at the Crescent Blade. “Your sword served you well.”
A voice whispered into Cavatina’s mind from the sword. Dead, it chuckled. By my blade.
Cavatina bristled. It had been her victory. The sword was just … a sword. Not only was she irritated at it, but also at Qilué’s almost blasé response to the news. Chosen of Mystra Qilué might be, b
ut surely she would acknowledge that Cavatina had just slain a demigod. Instead the high priestess just seemed … weary.
“You already knew that Selvetarm was dead?” Cavatina asked.
Qilué gestured at the dead cleric who lay a few steps away. “The Selvetargtlin nearly prevailed. They came within a blade’s edge of taking the Promenade then all at once, their prayers failed them.”
Cavatina noted Qilué’s bloodstained armor and her freshly healed scars, one of which completely encircled her right arm. It had been a close thing. That realization sent a chill through Cavatina, one that tempered the thrill of her triumph.
“Make your report,” Qilué said. “Tell me everything that happened.” She clapped a hand on Cavatina’s web-shrouded shoulder. “And … well done. I owe you my life.”
That was better. Taking a deep breath, Cavatina related her tale, ending with her escape from the Demonweb Pits.
“I’m worried about Halisstra,” she concluded. “There was no sign of her on the other side of the portal. I would have returned to the Demonweb Pits to search for her, but I didn’t want to run the risk of the Crescent Blade falling into Lolth’s hands. I came here instead, as quickly as I could.”
“You did the right thing,” Qilué answered. “I’ll scry for Halisstra. We’ll find her.”
The conviction in the high priestess’s voice reassured Cavatina, who felt terrible about leaving Halisstra behind. Not only had the former priestess redeemed herself, she’d tipped the balance between victory and defeat. Halisstra deserved better than to fall into Lolth’s hands.
“If Halisstra is still within the Demonweb Pits, I’d like to lead the mission to rescue her,” Cavatina said.
“Of course.” Qilué pointed at the Crescent Blade. “But that will remain here, in the Promenade, where I can keep an eye on it. Until the time comes to challenge Lolth herself, it will be safer in my keeping.”
Yes, the blade whispered. It quivered, slightly, leaning toward the high priestess.
Cavatina realized that Qilué was holding out her hand, but she didn’t want to give up the sword, not just then. The Crescent Blade felt so right in her grip. Her fingers seemed loath to uncurl from it.