Forgotten Realms - The Lady Penitent - Ascendancy of the Last

by Lisa Smedman

  Drink your fill, Wendonai gloated from the sword, which she held just above the surface. I’ve built up a resistance to it. I’ll be back inside you the moment you surface.

  Another lie? Qilué suspected so, but she couldn’t be certain of anything. Not any more. How long had the demon been warping her perceptions? What other crimes against her faith had he used her to commit? She ducked lower, submerging her head, but holding the Crescent Blade above the surface.

  Inside the holy water, she was safe. She tried to decide what to do. One swift tug, and the Crescent Blade would be underwater with her. That would banish Wendonai. But it would also banish her one chance to eradicate his taint from the drow.

  Yet she could see that this idea had been a seed planted by Wendonai. The irony was that it was possible. There was indeed a prayer that Qilué could use to draw all of Wendonai’s taint inside her. And once his taint was within her, Mystra’s silver fire would indeed destroy it. But the flaw in this plan—the flaw Wendonai had blinded her to, until now—was that with so much of his taint inside her, Qilué would lose control. Permanently. The demon would rule her body, as completely as Lolth ruled the Demonweb Pits. Any silver fire she did manage to summon would be twisted to an evil purpose.

  Qilué stared at her battle-mistress through the water. Rylla floated nearby, face down, blood drooling from her broken nose. No longer breathing. Later, once she’d decided what to do next, Qilué would revive her. For the moment, she was just thankful Wendonai hadn’t been able to swing the Crescent Blade. If it had severed Rylla’s neck, her soul would have been destroyed.

  Just as Horaldin’s had been.

  Qilué prayed that the Crescent Blade hadn’t completely severed the druid’s neck, that his soul had survived to join Rillifane under the great oak.

  Qilué! Wendonai bellowed. I know you can hear me. What will you do now ? Banish me, and abandon any hope of saving your race?

  What indeed? Mystra’s silver fire flickered in and out of Qilué’s nostrils. Though her head was submerged in water, her long tresses spreading like seaweed across the surface above, she felt no need to breathe. She had all the time in the world to consider the question—unless, of course, someŹone opened one of the doors to this chamber, letting the holy water spill out.

  Her spies, for example. The first group of Ghaunadaur’s cultists would be arriving in the Promenade any moment, and heading this way.

  She flicked a hand, resetting the locks.

  She briefly considered telling the Nightshadows to abanŹdon the plan, destroy their ambers, and flee Ghaunadaur’s temples—then decided against it. Too much effort had been spent in putting them in place.

  She considered her options. Had she inscribed an insanŹity symbol on the ruined temple—or was this another of Wendonai’s tricks? She decided that it really didn’t matter. If a symbol was in place, and the fanatics could be coerced into entering the portal, they would be turned into raving madmen who wouldn’t even remember what a temple to their god looked like, let alone what to do with it. And if the symbol didn’t exist, the fanatics would gain no benefit from a visit to the bottom of the Pit. If they somehow found their way back from the Ethereal Plane, they wouldn’t have learned anything new about the Promenade. The planar breach had existed for centuries, sputtering on like a guttering candle, ever since Ghaunadaur had been driven through it.

  Even if the worst happened—if the fanatics, despite being ethereal, found a way to open the breach enough for an avatar to come through, it wouldn’t matter. The seals at the top of the Pit would ensure that the Ancient One’s avatar didn’t escape.

  As she sat, thinking, the water surrounding her began to vibrate: the result of an alarm, close by, its clamor shrill enough to pass through stone. The timing was too close to be a coinciŹdence. Kâras must have brought his group through.

  Confirmation came as three different priestesses shouted Qilué’s name at once, urgently reporting they’d spotted fanatics approaching the Promenade, from the far side of the bridge. That they were going to engage them until reinforceŹments arrived.

  Qilué gave a mental command in reply, ordering them to allow the fanatics to cross the bridge, and not to engage them, but instead to set up defensive positions at least fifty paces back from the western side of the bridge. She wondered if they would heed her—how many of her priestesses, besides Cavatina, Leliana, and Rylla, now knew about Wendonai, and would be suspicious of her commands.

  Kâras, she sent, where are you?

  Far side of the bridge.

  There’s bad news. The portal is still in place, but the enchantment glyph has been dispelled. You’re going to have to talk your fanatics into entering the trap—but not quite yet. The doors of the room are still sealed. I need a few moments more before I can unlock them. You’ll have to stall, once you’re across the bridge. Can you manage that?

  I’ll try.

  Qilué nodded. It was all she could ask of anyone. She sent a mental command to the rest of her spies. Nightshadows—the plan is postponed. Remain in position, and do not bring the cultists through until I contact you.

  She broke contact, not bothering to wait for their acknowledgements. It was time to do something she should have done, long ago: destroy the Crescent Blade.

  She started to draw the sword under the water, ignoring Wendonai’s screams of protest, his wild promises, his shouts that he wouldn’t die, that he’d have his vengeance—that even if he couldn’t personally revenge himself, then Lolth certainly would, since her powers were equal to—

  Qilué abruptly halted, the blade only halfway submerged.

  There was a way to purge Wendonai’s taint from the drow, she realized. She didn’t have to be the one who called down silver fire—it could be directed into her body from without. Any of her sisters could provide the lethal blast that would incinerate the demon’s taint.

  Assuming, of course, one of them could be persuaded to do it.

  Laeral, she decided. She’d already guessed something was wrong with the Crescent Blade and would take less convincing.

  Qilué steeled herself. Was she really ready to bid farewell to the Promenade, her Protectors, her priestesses—everything she had worked for centuries to build? She had to. It would be the salvation of the drow. All of the drow. The dawn of a glorious new day. Out of the darkness, and into the light.

  Qilué, however, wouldn’t survive to see it.

  Tears blended with the water. Eilistraee, she silently sang. Is this your will?

  The answer came not in words, but in a sign. A beam of braided moonlight and shadow lanced down into the water, directly in front of Qilué. She had only to touch it to be transŹported to the place she had just thought of—the place where the deed would be done.

  Qilué nodded. Very well then.

  Myroune, she sang.

  Use of the truename would ensure that Wendonai wouldn’t know whom she was contacting. It would also ensure a prompt reply.

  Her sister answered at once. Wasting no time, Qilué told Laeral where to meet her and what needed to be done—in carefully couched language that used references only Laeral would understand. All the while, she could feel Wendonai’s seething anger as the sword vibrated in her hand.

  Laeral agreed to do as she asked, but with great reluctance. Do you truly wish this, Sister?

  Eilistraee wishes it, Qilué replied. For the sake of the drow, it must be done.

  I will meet you there. Laeral’s voice faded from her mind.

  Now there was one last thing that needed to be done.

  Qilué touched the mind of her Darksong Knight. Cavatina, she sent. Your suspicions were correct: Wendonai corrupted me. I am removing myself from the Promenade. I may not return. If I do not, you are to lead the ritual that will choose the next high priestess. You must also assist Q’arlynd with the casting he is preparing. May Eilistraee bless you, and guide your steps. Take up her sword and sing.

  That said, Qilué unlocked the doors to the room with a flick
of her hand. Then she reached out of the water to grasp the moonbeam, and teleported away.

  CHAPTER 7

  T’lar watched from above as Guldor strode into his private sanctum and closed the door behind him. The wizard pulled a pinch of glittering dust from a pocket and flicked it at the door while muttering a spell. He tested the handle and nodded.

  T’lar, perched like a spider on a ceiling beam above, tensed as he began a second incantation, this one directed at the center of the room. She held her dagger by its point. If the wizard lifted his head even slightly, she’d embed it between his eyes.

  Guldor’s second spell, however, had no visible effect. Nor did he glance in T’lar’s direction. He unfasŹtened his cloak and flung it to the side. The garment halted in midair and was neatly folded by an invisible conjured servitor. Guldor, meanwhile, flopped face down onto a divan and gestured at his boots. They tugged off, revealing narrow feet. Dimples appeared in the grayish soles as the servitor massaged them. Guldor, however, remained stiff and unrelaxed. It looked as though the tension of the recent Conclave meeting had not yet dissipated.

  As the invisible servitor continued to massage the wizard, T’lar spotted movement within a full-length mirror that was mounted in an ornate gold frame on the wall. The reflection of the room wavered and was replaced. It was as if a door had opened onto another chamber. A figure stepped into view within the mirror: that of Streea’Valsharess Zauviir, high priestess of Lolth. Imperious in her spider-silk robes and silver web-crown, the priestess stared into the wizard’s private sanctum.

  Guldor glanced up at the mirror. He didn’t look pleased to see his aunt.

  The high priestess scowled out of the mirror. “I heard what happened today.”

  “Bad news travels quickly.”

  “How could you have overlooked the fact that his sister was a bae’qeshel singer? I thought you were more thorough than that!”

  “You were the one who wanted to move quickly,” Guldor snapped back. “I was the one who advised patience.”

  “Patience!” the high priestess spat. “Don’t you lecture me on patience. We’ve been waiting years to secure a second posiŹtion on the Conclave, only to miss our chance! If we’d moved even a cycle sooner, this newly minted master wouldn’t have been there.”

  “You were the one who chose this cycle, not me. What’s more, you promised a distraction that would prevent him from appearŹing before the Conclave—a promise you failed to keep!”

  “My decisions were based on information you provided! You said the other masters would be looking for a way to counter Seldszar’s latest alliances. That was your recomŹmendation, boy!”

  “You’d do well to remember, Priestess, that this ‘boy’ is one of those who rule this city,” Guldor retorted, “while you merely sit in the shadows and spin.”

  “Pah!” The priestess tossed her head, causing the tiny obsidian spiders hanging from her crown to tinkle. “Your lack of diligence has made our position even worse than it was. This new ‘master’ is one of Eilistraee’s.”

  “Perhaps.” Guldor made a wry face. “Or perhaps not. My accusation was a spear thrust in the dark. We’ll have to delve deeper before we can be certain.”

  “Perhaps it’s time someone a little more certain headed up your College.”

  Guldor’s head jerked up. “Is that a threat?”

  T’lar listened as the pair continued to argue. The politics of this city mattered little to her. She merely carried out the Lady Penitent’s commands.

  When Streea’Valsharess Zauviir had invited the Temple of the Black Mother to invest a shrine in Sshamath, T’lar had expected the Lady Penitent to reject the offer out of hand. The priestesses of Sshamath were weak; they’d been responsible for one of Lolth’s greatest defeats. The Lady Penitent, however, had decided to accept. T’lar remembered her words: “Where better to spin my web, than in the void where Lolth’s was torn asunder?” And so T’lar had been sent north.

  Streea’Valsharess Zauviir had promised great things, describing Sshamath as an egg sac seething with discontent and ready to burst. She’d promised to deliver the entire city into the Lady Penitent’s hands. She’d lied—T’lar could see that. The Conclave held this city in an adamantine grip. Instead of fighting the masters, the high priestess hoped to join them.

  Weakness. The very thing the Lady Penitent most despised.

  Streea’Valsharess Zauviir would have to be eliminated—sooner, rather than later.

  The image in the mirror faded. Guldor at last relaxed. When he closed his eyes, T’lar hummed a melody that shifted her appearance to match what she’d just seen in the mirror, then sprang off the beam. She drew upon her dro’zress an instant before she landed, halting her downward momentum, and landed soundlessly on the floor behind the wizard. She jabbed stiffened fingers into pressure points on Guldor’s back, sending him into a spasm. Guldor gasped in pain. His eyes sprang open, and he saw T’lar’s reflection in the mirror. “How—?”

  Before he could complete the question, she grabbed his hair, yanked his head back, and sliced his throat.

  Blood soaked the cushions of the divan and ran in streams onto the floor. T’lar caught some of the warm liquid in a cupped hand and raised it to her lips. “Strength,” she whisŹpered. Then she drank. Behind her, the invisible servitor mindlessly continued the task it had been set: massaging its dead master’s feet.

  T’lar pointed her bloody dagger at the mirror. You’re next, she silently vowed. But before she dealt with the high priestŹess, there was something T’lar wanted to know. Like an itch, her curiosity had to be scratched.

  She sang the hymn the Lady Penitent had taught her. She exhaled, and felt her body fold inward on itself and become gaseous. With a thought, she sent herself wafting toward the door Guldor had oh-so-carefully sealed with his magic. She slipped through the crack underneath it and was gone.

  Q’arlynd sat on a low, round pillow, his legs crossed, deep in Reverie. He felt the heat from the darkfire hearth on his skin, smelled the remnants of his rothe-and-sporeball stew, and could still taste the last sip of wine he’d taken before settling into his trance. His eyes were open, but his mind was far away.

  His thoughts wandered back several decades, to his days as a student in Ched Nasad’s Conservatory. He thought of Ilmra, one of the females who had made the rare decision to become a mage, rather than a priestess. She’d been a fine-looking female, one he’d fantasized about more than once during their time together as novices. He’d imagined himself victoriously battling Ched Nasad’s enemies beside her, then “surrendering” to a struggle of a very different sort.

  During their days at the Conservatory, one of the first things the novices had been taught was a cantrip that revealed magical auras. Q’arlynd had mastered it readily enough. The gesture was a simple flicking of the fingers that mimicked an eye opening, and the trigger was a single word: faerjal. Yet Ilmra had miscast the spell when a magical item was brought out for her to examine, and had failed to identify the item correctly. She’d been strapped as a result—hard enough to fracture a finger. Later that cycle, when her turn came to list the colors of the auras around the items laid out on the table, she’d faltered a second time. Q’arlynd had tried to help her by signing the answers.

  Instead of taking his help, she’d pointed out what he was doing to their instructor—even though this meant admitting her own failure. She’d watched, smiling, as he’d been lashed, then submitted to a lashing herself. Later, after Q’arlynd had been sent to his room to meditate on the folly and futility of trying to aid another, she’d slipped into his chamber and taken him. Even now, decades later, he vividly remembered her fingers digging painfully into the hot red welts that crissŹcrossed his shoulders as she mounted him.

  It had been one of the sweetest experiences of his young life.

  His forehead warmed: the kiira, absorbing the memory. An image formed in his mind: one of the ancestors who’d worn the lorestone millennia ago. She had white
hair, yet her skin was a faded brown, rather than black. You tried to help Ilmra, out of compassion. You followed Eilistraee’s dance, even then.

  Q’arlynd laughed out loud. “Hardly. I did it because I wanted her to take me. And it worked—just, not the way I’d expected.” He lingered in the memory. He wondered if Ilmra had survived the fall of the city. Probably not.

  The kiira cooled slightly—a sign of his ancestors’ disŹpleasure. Q’arlynd gave a mental shrug. They’d asked him to include memories he thought were instructive. The one he’d just placed in the lorestone was doubly so. It taught the magic-detection cantrip, and at the same time, served as a reminder that all reward came at a price.

  He heard a crackling sound: the darkfire flames, flickerŹing. A breeze down the chimney must have disturbed them. He was so deep in Reverie that he paid the noise no heed at first. He was reliving a night in the World Above, when he’d used a spell to spy on Eilistraee’s priestesses as they danced with swords in hand around the goddess’s sacred stone in the Misty Forest. It had been windy that night, with snow blowing through the trees. Yet the priestesses had danced naked.

  He smiled, savoring the memory. He’d watched, half-hoping they’d catch him in his transgression. It had been a long time since a female had taken him …

  The darkfire settled down again as the breeze ended. The flames resumed their steady flickering—not that his body needed warming anymore. Remembering the priestesses’ dance was—

  All at once, he remembered he was in Sshamath. No breezes blew here—except magical ones.

  “Luth—”