Sacrifice of the Widow

CHAPTER THREE

Q'arlynd pointed a finger at the jagged slab of rubble and whispered an incantation. The slab-a piece of calcified webbing that had once been part of the wall of House Ysh'nil-rose into the air, revealing a gap in the rubble beneath it.

He nodded at the svirfneblin who stood next to him. "In you go."

The deep gnome cocked his bald head to the side. His eyes, black as pebbles, studied the gap in the rubble. "Looks unstable," Flinderspeld said in a low, raspy voice.

Q'arlynd's nostrils flared in irritation. "Of course it's unstable," he snapped. "The city didn't land in neat rows, like stacked blocks. It collapsed."

"I'd feel better if it was shored up first."

Q'arlynd moved his finger slightly, levitating the slab of rubble over the spot where Flinderspeld stood. He nodded meaningfully at it. "You'll feel worse if I drop this on your head."

The deep gnome shrugged. "If you do, you'll have no one to go in after whatever radiated that magical aura you saw."

Q'arlynd's eyes narrowed. He levitated the slab to one side and set it down, gently enough that the only noise it made was a slight grating of stone against stone. Then he held up his left hand and waggled his index finger-the one with the dull black ring on it, the ring whose only surviving counterpart was on Flinderspeld's own hand. "Don't make me use this."

The deep gnome glared. "All right, all right. I'm going." He clambered toward the hole, muttering under his breath.

Q'arlynd narrowed his eyes. He should discipline Flinderspeld, he knew, flay him and leave him staked out for lizards to feed on, but the deep gnome did have his uses. Like all those of his race, he showed up as little more than a blur-if at all-to anyone trying to scry him or otherwise locate him by magical means. It made Flinderspeld the perfect vehicle for carrying objects Q'arlynd didn't want found-the rings Q'arlynd had recently lifted from the body of the dead priestess, for example.

The deep gnome didn't realize he was being utilized in such a way, and he had no idea that the new clothing Q'arlynd kept bestowing upon him had items sewn inside it. He regarded these "gifts" as kindness. He'd concluded that Q'arlynd must have purchased him out of some sense of compassion, after seeing the sorry state the slavers had reduced the deep gnome to. A notion that was laughable, really. Q'arlynd's heart was as dark as that of any drow.

"I see something!" Flinderspeld called out. "It's a… dagger of some sort. It's silver with a thin blade, shaped more like a sword than a dagger really. It's strung on a chain like a pendant."

Q'arlynd knew this, of course. He'd placed the priestess's pendant there himself for the detection spell to reveal.

"There's a much smaller sword next to it," Flinderspeld continued. "It's no longer than my finger. Another piece of jewelry, I think."

"Bring both to me."

As Flinderspeld began crawling back through the crevice, Q'arlynd heard rubble shift behind him. That would be Prellyn, the velvet-gloved fist of Matron Teh'Kinrellz. As he'd arranged, she'd "spotted" him sneaking out of the Teh'Kinrellz stronghold earlier and had followed him here. Q'arlynd pretended to be startled by her approach.

"You've set up your own excavation, I see," she said in a voice silky with menace. "Find anything interesting?"

"Nothing." He waved a hand dismissively. "Just an empty hole."

"Liar."

Prellyn seized his chin and jerked his head up, forcing him to meet her eyes. Like most drow females, she stood head and shoulders taller than he. Red eyes smoldered under brows that pinched together in a perpetual frown. Her arms were more muscular than his own, her hands roughly calloused. The wrist-crossbow strapped to her forearm was loaded, its barbed point uncomfortably close to Q'arlynd's cheek. If he turned his head, it would gouge his eye.

"Still," Prellyn whispered, "I like a boy with some fire in his eye. A fire…" Her free hand drifted down between his legs, "that kindles at my command."

She kissed him. Hard. Q'arlynd felt himself responding to her touch. Her air of menace was as exhilarating as a freefall. She was going to take him. Now. And when she was done, she'd punish him for daring to scavenge on his own. Not with a whipping, like those doled out to common House boys, but with something far more subtle. A wounding spell, perhaps, one that would burn a thousand tiny spider bites into his flesh.

He hoped it was going to be worth it.

Prellyn forced Q'arlynd onto his back atop the rubble and straddled him. She ran a finger down his nose, lingering over the spot where it had been broken decades ago. Then she yanked open his shirt.

Aroused though he was, Q'arlynd had a more pressing need. Information.

Flinderspeld was hiding in the hole, unwilling to come out. He'd blurred himself and was all but invisible, though the ring he wore allowed Q'arlynd to overhear his every thought whenever his master wished. At the moment, Flinderspeld was mentally shaking his head at Q'arlynd's infatuation for Prellyn-a drow female he knew his master feared as much as he himself did. Flinderspeld also watched for a chance to slip away and hide the magical booty his master had just found.

Sometimes, Flinderspeld could be a little too efficient.

Q'arlynd seized control of his slave's body and forced Flinderspeld to drop his magical camouflage, crawl out of hiding, and attempt to sneak away.

Prellyn's attention was drawn to the deep gnome. She stood, leaving Q'arlynd forgotten on the rubble. Her eyes locked on the pendant.

"Give me that," she ordered.

Q'arlynd made Flinderspeld hesitate. "You heard her, slave," Q'arlynd said in a harsh voice as he sat up. "Give it to her!"

Flinderspeld looked at his master, confused. What was Q'arlynd up to? Normally the wizard expected him to lie low so he could keep whatever booty he'd found to himself.

Q'arlynd, growing impatient, gave a mental jerk. The deep gnome's hand shot forward. The pendant, which Flinderspeld held by its chain, swung back and forth like a pendulum.

Prellyn reached out to grab it then suddenly recoiled as if she'd been about to touch something smeared with contact poison.

Q'arlynd climbed to his feet. Through the rings, he could sense Flinderspeld's dawning understanding. His master wanted Prellyn to see the silver pendant. The deep gnome also wondered why she was so afraid of it.

Q'arlynd feigned ignorance. "What's wrong?" he asked Prellyn. He moved toward Flinderspeld and bent for a closer look at the pendant, pretending to be observing it for the first time. "Interesting emblem on the blade," he said, reaching out to touch it. "A circle and sword. If I'm not mistaken, those are the symbols of-"

The hiss of steel-a weapon being drawn from a scabbard-was his only warning. He jerked his hand back just as Prellyn's sword cut through the chain Flinderspeld was holding. Had Q'arlynd not moved, the blade might have sliced open his hand. The pendant clattered to the ground.

Flinderspeld still held the tiny sword. Q'arlynd made the deep gnome place it on a flat chunk of rock then released his mental hold on Flinderspeld, letting him ease away. He didn't want the deep gnome to wind up on the receiving end of Prellyn's wrath. If he did, Q'arlynd would be without a slave, and without a coin to his name, he couldn't buy another.

"That pendant is Eilistraee's holy symbol," Prellyn spat, her mouth twisting as if at a foul taste. "Be thankful I was here to keep you from touching it."

"I am," Q'arlynd said smoothly. He pointed. "And that tiny sword? Is it connected with Eilistraee's worship, too?"

Prellyn used the tip of her sword to flick the tiny blade into a deep crevice in the rubble. "That's not something you want to touch, either."

"I won't," Q'arlynd said, "but what is a holy symbol of Eilistraee doing here, in Ched Nasad?"

"It must have been carried here by one of her priestesses before the city's fall. They do that sometimes-come below to try to subvert Lolth's children and seduce them up to the surface realms."

"Where the simpletons who fall for it are immediately killed, no doubt."

Prellyn laughed. "How little you know, male. Eilistraee's followers actually welcome strangers into their midst."

"Any stranger?" Q'arlynd asked, thinking of his sister. "Even one of Lolth's faithful?"

Prellyn gave him a sharp look. For a moment, Q'arlynd thought she might not answer. "If the drow professes a willingness to turn to Eilistraee's worship, yes."

"But…" Q'arlynd furrowed his brow, pretending to work the thought out aloud. "How do they know who is lying and who is a genuine petitioner?"

"They rely on… trust," she said, switching to a word in the language of the surface elves. There was no true equivalent in either Drowic or High Drow. "They hand those tiny swords out to whoever asks for them. It is their greatest weakness, and it shows how low they have fallen. Trust among drow is like a shard of ice in lava, except that ice lasts longer."

Q'arlynd dutifully laughed at her joke, though he knew full well that no drow would ever be as stupid as Prellyn had just made Eilistraee's priestesses out to be. Assuming Prellyn was right, he'd just learned what those tiny swords were for.

"Those who are duped into turning away from Lolth are fools, of course," Prellyn continued. "Not only do they face the Spider Queen's wrath but the ravages of the surface realms as well. The sunlight blinds them, and they fall victim to strange diseases. Their armor and weapons crumble to dust, leaving them defenseless. Drow aren't meant to live on the surface. We're creatures of the Underdark-Lolth's children."

Q'arlynd nodded dutifully. Prellyn was merely repeating what the priestesses at the temple taught. His instructors at the Conservatory had provided other even more dire warnings, back when Q'arlynd had been a novice wizard, teaching that all magical items crafted by the drow lost their powers when removed from the energies of the Underdark and exposed to the light of the sun. Though that as no longer the case, they continued to admonish against journeys to the World Above.

Q'arlynd, however, didn't believe the stories of sickness and misery. He knew exaggeration when he heard it. He'd once met a drow who lived on the surface and survived there quite nicely, thank you very much, but that had been long ago.

He wondered whether Eilistraee's worship was prevalent in whatever surface realm the portal led to and whether Halisstra, if she had survived, had embraced that heretical faith. If so, it would explain why she'd never returned to Ched Nasad. Halisstra's professed worship of Lolth had always seemed, to Q'arlynd, a touch insincere.

He stroked his chin, pretending to stare thoughtfully at the rubble. "This ruin bears the glyphs of House Ysh'nil," he said, naming the minor House whose surviving members were currently a thorn in House Teh'Kinrellz's side. "Do you suppose someone in that House secretly worshiped Eilistraee?" He dropped his voice to a whisper. "That wouldn't bode well for the survivors, especially if the Jaezred Chaulssin knew of it."

Prellyn, taller than Q'arlynd by a head, stared down at him. "You're entirely too smart for a male." She touched the end of his nose almost affectionately. "This is female business. Keep your nose out of it."

Q'arlynd met her eye briefly. "I will," he promised.

Prellyn's hand fell away. She speared the point of her sword into the soft metal of the pendant then lifted it like a trophy head. "And keep your hands off the rubble. Any salvage belongs to House Teh'Kinrellz. Find some other way to get up to mischief."

Q'arlynd bowed. "As you command, Mistress."

Prellyn snapped her fingers, summoning her driftdisc. She mounted it and whispered away, presumably to report House Ysh'nil's ancient blasphemy. So hurried was her departure, she'd forgotten to punish Q'arlynd. He was almost disappointed.

Flinderspeld peeked out from behind a slab of stone. He glanced at the departing Prellyn then at Q'arlynd, who fished the tiny sword out of the crevice that Prellyn had flicked it into and pocketed it.

Are you planning a trip to the surface, Master? he asked in the silent hand-speech of the drow.

Q'arlynd frowned. You're entirely too smart for a svirfneblin.

Qilue listened as the Darksong Knight made her report. Cavatina's battle with the Selvetargtlin and spellgaunt had occurred three days ago, but a breach of this nature warranted hearing the report firsthand. Thankfully, there had been no other incidents since then. Iljrene had reported that every room in the ceilings of the caverns south of the Sargauth had been inspected and found empty, save for the usual vermin, which the patrols swiftly dispatched. The magical wards in the Promenade itself had also been checked, found intact, and the seals on the Pit had not been disturbed.

The aranea's robes and equipment had been recovered, and in them was the answer to how she had broached the magical defenses. It was a ring, a gold band with three empty spaces where gems should have been. When the ring had been examined and found to be non-magical, it was very nearly dismissed as nothing noteworthy, but to Qilue's trained eye, it spoke volumes. The "trinket" had once been one of the most powerful magical items of all: a ring of wishes, with the faintest hint of an aura clinging to the setting where the third gem had been.

The aranea had been able to teleport into a heavily warded area using the ring's third and final wish. Once inside, the Selvetargtlin had used her clerical magic to render herself undetectable by the alarms. She'd brought the spellgaunt along to consume the magical energy of any symbols as they were triggered. That was why Cavatina's spell had the effect that it did. The spellgaunt was already gorged when the Darksong Knight discovered it. Consuming the magical blades conjured by Cavatina's spell had caused it to rupture, its body torn to pieces from within by the strains it had placed on the Weave.

There was no way of knowing how long the aranea had been within the area claimed by the Promenade before Cavatina discovered her. Had the symbols in the southern caverns not been permanent ones, the path the Selvetargtlin had followed might have been traced, but being permanent, they refreshed themselves soon after they were triggered.

Thus the Selvetargtlin's goal in penetrating the area remained a mystery. An inventory of the temple had found nothing missing. Nothing had been desecrated, and nothing was disturbed, yet the aranea's mission had been of great import, judging by her final words and the way she chose to die. She had deliberately destroyed her body, leaving nothing behind that could be questioned by a necromancer.

The spellgaunt's carcass was intact, but questioning it would do little good. Spellgaunts couldn't tell the difference between a lowly light pellet and an artifact. Magical items were all the same to them-raw energy, waiting to be consumed.

Qilue had hoped to find clues in the reports of either the Darksong Knight or the novice Thaleste, but none had presented themselves in either priestess's account.

The whole episode was deeply troubling, and it wasn't the only bad news Qilue had received lately. Another of Eilistraee's enemies, it seemed, had also become active.

Four nights ago, one of Vhaeraun's assassins had infiltrated the shrine at Lake Sember. One priestess and two lay worshipers had been killed before the assassin had been driven off. This came at a time when the drow Houses of Cormanthor should have been fully engaged in their war against the levees of the newly reclaimed Myth Drannor. Why, in the midst of their battle with a powerful adversary, would the Masked Lord's priests have turned their attention to Eilistraee's shrine? Hopefully, Iljrene's spy would be able to turn up some answers, but for the moment, Qilue was baffled.

There were other murmurs of trouble. In the north, an evil that had been laid to rest three years ago had seemingly resurfaced. In the Year of Wild Magic, when Kiaransalee's followers had taken over Maerimydra, they'd torn a terrible hole in the Weave. The corruption had spread from that city to the surface realms before they had been defeated. Pockets of corrupted magic still dotted the Dales. Though the priestess responsible for it had been defeated, there were indications that at least one of the high-ranking Crones who served her might have survived. The handful of Eilistraee's priestesses who ministered to the drow of the distant north had heard tales from the survivors of undead rallying around a ghostly Crone whose wailing keen was capable of slaying scores of drow at one go. Once slain they were added to her ghastly ranks. The tales were obviously an exaggeration, but the region would have to be watched carefully. If further disruptions in the Weave arose, Qilue would be forced to respond.

Finally, from far to the south came troubling news that the cult of Ghaunadaur in Lurth Drier was becoming increasingly active. No longer content to prey upon each other, the drow of that Underdark city had burst onto the surface like an ugly boil, not far from Eilistraee's temples in the Shaar and the Chondalwood. Something had caused them to set aside their relentless feuding and act as a cohesive force. Qilue prayed that an avatar of Ghaunadaur had not arisen there. If so, she would be forced to lead a contingent of priestesses south to drive it back below-a crusade that would seriously deplete the resources of the Promenade.

The only one of Eilistraee's enemies not currently active, it seemed, was Lolth. Indeed, the Spider Queen's worshipers had not shown themselves in some time. That in itself was suspicious. Lolth, still and silent, was probably waiting patiently for the best moment to strike, while others did the work of tangling Eilistraee's faithful in a web of conflict.

The Darksong Knight had concluded her report and was standing in silence, waiting for Qilue's response.

"Walk with me," Qilue told her.

They had just returned from an inspection of the caverns where the aranea's attack took place, and stood on the southern bank of the underground river that flowed past the Promenade at a spot where a recently constructed bridge arched high above the river. The original bridge had fallen into the river more than a century ago, but Qilue could still remember how it had looked when she fought her way across it with the companions who had helped her defeat Ghaunadaur's avatar. The oozes and slimes had reduced its stone steps to rounded humps, making the footing treacherous. Ch'arla, one of Qilue's childhood companions, had died, songsword in hand, at the very spot Qilue and Cavatina approached. The death had been a terrible blow, but Ch'arla's soul danced with Eilistraee. All pain was behind her.

Pride welled in Qilue as she walked across the rebuilt bridge and considered the fruits that two decades of labor had produced. The Promenade was a place of beauty and tranquility, hewn from the depths of the Underdark. A place that had once held nothing but madness and despair had been made sacred and filled with folk made whole through Eilistraee's grace. Every time she visited the Promenade, it brought a fierce ache to her heart and the sting of tears to the corners of her eyes. The sacrifices of so many centuries ago had been worth it, every last one of them.

Below the bridge, the temple's lay worshipers worked the river, hauling in fine-meshed nets filled with white, wriggling blindfish no longer than a finger. Others, baskets slung at their hips, collected lizard eggs and ripplebark fungus from the fissures that lined the cavern walls. Most were drow, converts from cities scattered throughout the Underdark, but there were also many who had been rescued from Skullport's slave ships: surface elves, dwarves, humans-even the occasional halfling-who had turned to the goddess as a result. One of them, a stocky half-drow with bristly hair and protruding fangs that betrayed his orc father's parentage, paused in his labors and made the sign of Eilistraee as Qilue and Cavatina passed him, touching forefinger to forefinger and thumb to thumb to form a circle representing the full moon.

Qilue acknowledged Jub with a nod and murmured blessing. His eyes lingered on her, a fawning expression on his face. Qilue secretly smiled. Even the most unlikely of worshipers were welcome there.

The Promenade comprised five main caverns that had once been part of the Sargauth Enclave, an outpost of fallen Netheril. The ancient buildings within the caverns had been reclaimed and put to use. One of the caverns housed the priestesses, another was home to the Promenade's lay worshipers, and a third contained storehouses and the barracks of the Protectors of the Song-the soldiers who guarded the Promenade. The fourth cavern, once a temple to a foul god, had been turned into the Hall of Healing.

The fifth cavern was the holiest of all: the Cavern of Song. Even over the rush of the river behind them, Qilue could hear the sound of singing-Eilistraee's priestesses continuing the psalm that had not faltered since the temple had been established twenty years past in the Year of the Harp.

As they made their way along one of the winding corridors that led to the Cavern of Song, Qilue spoke to the Darksong Knight. "Cavatina, you're familiar with the Velarswood, are you not?"

Cavatina nodded. "My mother was bom there. I've visited it frequently."

"I would like you to go there now."

Cavatina's nostrils flared. "Lady Qilue, if this is about the aranea-"

"It is not."

"I realize that I should have been more vigilant. If I had, perhaps I might have spotted the Selvetargtlin on my first pass through the cavern."

"What is done is done. You danced well. The battle was won. It's just unfortunate that…"

Qilue didn't complete the sentence. She wasn't there to chastise the Darksong Knight. Cavatina had been trained to kill, and the thought of capturing an enemy alive would never have entered her head.

"You enjoy the hunt," Qilue said.

Cavatina halted. "I guard the Promenade as diligently as any other priestess."

"I'm sure you do."

"I do not, as some believe, think myself above indoctrinating a novice."

"I suggested nothing of the sort."

"I followed the procedures Iljrene laid down. When Thaleste spotted a movement above us, I-"

Qilue silenced Cavatina with a stern look. She could see that nearly losing the novice had pricked the warrior-priestess's pride. Darksong Knights didn't bear mistakes easily-in themselves or in others.

When Cavatina was at last ready to listen, Qilue continued. "A strange creature has been sighted in the Velarswood in recent months. It has the general appearance of a drow female, yet it is far larger and stronger. It appears to be preying upon the drow of House Jaelre. Last night, a survivor of one of its attacks staggered into our shrine, begging for healing. He described the creature as having skin hard as obsidian-no blade can pierce it-and eight tiny legs that emerge from the torso, below the arms, like protruding ribs."

Cavatina's head came up like a hound on the scent. "Some new form of drider?" she guessed. "Or… demon?"

"Nobody knows. What we do know is that the survivor drew the creature's attention to our shrine. It followed him there last night then scuttled away before the priestesses could assemble for a hunt. I'm worried it's going to attack one of our people next. That's why I'm sending you to the Velarswood. I want you to remove the threat."

Cavatina nodded, her eyes gleaming. "Do you see Lolth's hand in this?"

Qilue paused. "It's hard to say, but the creature-whatever it is-has a venomous bite and is capable of spinning webs. The survivor said that those it took were found dangling from tree branches, inside cocoons. Dead." Her expression hardened. "Innocents who might have been brought into Eilistraee's light, but now their souls are lost to us."

"May those souls find mercy," Cavatina intoned.

Both females stood in silence a moment. Then Cavatina spoke again. "Lady, I lost my sword, Demonbane, to the spellgaunt."

Qilue nodded. She glanced off into the distance and spoke in a low voice, as if to herself. "Quartermaster, a sword if you please." She held up a hand, and a moment later one of the temple's singing swords appeared out of thin air. Qilue caught it deftly by the hilt and passed it to Cavatina. "You may use this."

Cavatina's eyes widened. She stepped away from Qilue and swung the weapon back and forth in sweeping arcs, alternating between a one-handed and a two-handed grip. A note flowed from it, pure as holy water. The sword glowed faintly, tracing a line of moonfire through the darkness.

Qilue watched, admiring the other priestess's skill. "Only twenty-five of these weapons remain. See to it that you use it well."

Cavatina bowed and promised, "I will keep it safe, Lady."

"If it does turn out to be a demon you are hunting, the singing sword will render you immune to any attacks it might make against your mind. It can also be used to counter certain baleful songs and cries-those of harpies and shriekers, for example-and to entrance lesser creatures."

"A most potent weapon," Cavatina said. Then she looked up at Qilue. "I thought the singing swords were never to leave the Promenade."

Qilue's expression grew grim. "The coming hunt, according to my divinations, will be of great consequence." She nodded down at the weapon. "It will be worthy of that blade."

Cavatina bowed again. "By Eilistraee's grace, may I also prove worthy of it."

"I'm sure you shall," Qilue said with a smile. "Now that you're armed, let's get you on your way. Come."

They entered the Cavern of Song. It had been cleared of its buildings and returned to its natural state two decades ago during the temple's construction. It was flooded with Eilistraee's moonfire, which illuminated a statue of Qilue that the Protectors had insisted on erecting over the hidden staircase that led to the Pit of Ghaunadaur. Shimmering waves of light danced across the ceiling in constantly changing hues: blue-white, pale green, moon-white and silver.

Three priestesses sang there, their voices blended in complex harmonies that waxed and waned. Two of the singers were drow, the third, a surface elf whose pale skin was bathed in shifting colors by the moonfire above. Each was naked, save for the holy symbol that hung from a mithral chain around her neck. Each singer sat on a different outcropping of stone, holding a sword above her head, its point directed at the moon. They pointed overhead, but the swords were slowly descending, their tips moving almost imperceptibly downward as the moon sank toward an unseen horizon. The priestesses would hold these positions until others came to join the song. Sometimes a single priestess sang there, but during Evensong, two dozen or more would lend their voices to the sacred hymn.

Qilue joined in the singing as they walked through the cavern. "Climb out of the darkness, rise into the light…" It had always been one of her favorite lines.

Her own climb into the light had happened centuries ago. She barely remembered the tiny town in the Underdark where she had been born. It had been a long and difficult struggle to reawaken Eilistraee's worship among the drow, but a worthwhile one. The young Darksong Knight beside her was proof of that. Cavatina was a fourth-generation devotee of the Lady of the Dance, born on the surface. The drow were reclaiming their birthright.

Qilue and Cavatina turned in to a side cavern that led to a pool of water. One of the Protectors of the Song stood guard there whenever the moon was risen, even though it was unlikely that enemies would pass that way. She bowed as they approached.

"Is the portal active?" Qilue asked.

The priestess nodded. She pointed out a spot on the surface of the pool-a circle that shimmered like a reflection of the full moon.

"I'd like you to leave at once for the Velarswood via the Moonspring," Qilue said. "Take all the time you need to find out what's going on there. Be thorough, and use the resources that Eilistraee places in your hands. Do whatever you need to in order to protect our shrines in Cormanthor."

Cavatina's eyes glittered with anticipation. She looked delighted to be off on the hunt again, and Qilue knew that the patrols of the temple had bored the Darksong Knight to tears. She saluted Qilue with the singing sword.

"They will be safe under my blade," she promised. Then she paused. "Any other instructions, Lady?"

"Only one," Qilue said, hiding her smile. "If you're carrying any scrolls or other equipment that can be damaged by water, I'd suggest you remove them.

Q'arlynd winced as the arcane eye he'd just conjured passed through the portal. He'd done a similar reconnaissance twice already, waiting for the fall of night in the surface world, but even under the light of that realm's lesser disc-the moon-everything was painfully bright. It took him several moments to make sense of what he was seeing: pale stone walls, a floor dusted with sand, and a black sky dotted with points of white-the stars. They reminded him, a little, of the magical, twinkling faerie fire that had covered Ched Nasad's buildings, but not nearly as beautiful.

The portal was affixed to a wall in a ruined building whose roof was open to the sky. A second arch, non-magical, opened onto a street paved with large slabs of stone. The building had probably been built by humans or surface elves, judging by the height of the arch. The frescoes on its walls might have given more clues, but they were faded to the point where only faint smudges of pigment could still be seen.

Q'arlynd sent the eye roving through the arch and out into the street. There didn't seem to be anyone around.

His view dissolved into static as the spell ended. He turned to Flinderspeld, who lay on his belly beside him in the gap in the rubble. His slave was fidgeting, tugging at the tight leather gloves Q'arlynd had ordered him to wear. Q'arlynd rapped him on the head with a knuckle.

"Gnomes first," he said, gesturing at the arch with its glowing runes.

"Where does it lead to?" Flinderspeld asked.

Q'arlynd's ring gave him a glimpse into the deep gnome's thoughts. Flinderspeld was weighing the possibilities. If the portal led to another plane, he was thinking, he might at last be free of the ring's binding.

"Crawl through it and find out if you're right," Q'arlynd suggested aloud. Inwardly, he chuckled.

Flinderspeld hesitated then realized that refusal to enter the portal would only cause his master to force him through. Muttering under his breath, he crawled forward, his head, shoulders, and chest gradually disappearing into the arch.

When the deep gnome was about halfway through, his legs and feet jerked forward abruptly, as if he'd been yanked the rest of the way. This gave Q'arlynd a moment's pause, then he realized that the floor level on the other side of the portal was well below the uppermost part of the arch-the only part of the portal not hidden by rubble. Flinderspeld had simply fallen. Q'arlynd concentrated, but he could no longer hear Flinderspeld's thoughts. That was to be expected, since the range of the rings was limited and the deep gnome was leagues away.

He conjured a second arcane eye and sent it through the gate. Flinderspeld stood next to the gate, rubbing one cheek and wincing. He must have scuffed it during his fall, but nothing was attacking him.

So far, so good, but before using the portal himself, Q'arlynd cast a spell that would encase him in a layer of force like magical armor. Then he eased his way through the arch feet first. He felt a brief, mildly disorienting lurch before landing on the floor beyond, next to Flinderspeld. The deep gnome shivered, even though he wore a warm cloak.

Q'arlynd was immediately aware of the dryness of the air. It was as cold here as it had been underground, but the air he drew into his lungs tasted of dust. His feet scuffed sand as he turned to survey the roofless room. After the constant trickle of water that had filled Ched Nasad, the World Above was eerily silent. He could even hear Flinderspeld breathing.

"Where are we?" the deep gnome asked in a whisper.

A shadow swept across the room, swift as the blink of an eye, as something leaped across the open ceiling and landed on the far wall. Q'arlynd caught a glimpse of a creature the size of a riding lizard but covered in tawny, golden fur. The upper torso was humanoid and golden-skinned, and at the end of its animal rump was a lashing tail.

The creature didn't seem to have spotted them. Even as Q'arlynd raised his hands to cast a spell, it tensed in a crouch, still facing away from them, then sprang away.

Any idea what that was? Q'arlynd signed.

Flinderspeld's mind was a blank parchment. He'd never seen anything like it. Mutely, he shook his head.

Q'arlynd listened, but he couldn't hear the creature. As a precaution, he rendered himself invisible. A second whisper and a touch rendered Flinderspeld invisible as well.

Q'arlynd felt Flinderspeld grab the hem of his piwafwi. They started for the arch that led to the street.

Before they reached it, a drow slipped in from outside, a male with long white hair, wearing a piwafwi and lizard-skin gloves similar to Q'arlynd's own. His eyes were an unusual pale blue rather than red.

"Quickly," he whispered in High Drowic that had the distinctive accent of someone from Ched Nasad. "Before the monster returns. Follow me."

Q'arlynd was instantly suspicious. Why wasn't the drow using the silent speech, if a hostile creature was nearby? And why, if he could penetrate Q'arlynd's invisibility spell, was he staring so intently at the portal?

Flinderspeld's own suspicions supplied the missing piece of the puzzle. Where Q'arlynd saw a drow, Flinderspeld saw another deep gnome-one who spoke to him in svirfneblin. The newcomer was an illusion.

That didn't necessarily mean whoever had created the illusion was an enemy, of course. Perhaps she was just cautious.

Q'arlynd fished out of his pocket one of the tiny silver swords the dead priestess had been carrying, found Flinderspeld's hand, and pressed the trinket into it. Then he rendered the deep gnome visible again and stepped swiftly aside.

The drow-illusion turned toward Flinderspeld-whoever had cast it was watching the room-and repeated the exhortation to follow.

Q'arlynd forced Flinderspeld to hold up the trinket. The illusion barely glanced at the tiny sword.

Q'arlynd levitated while forcing Flinderspeld to walk toward the drow-illusion. As soon as Q'arlynd was high enough to see over the ruined walls, he spotted the tawny-furred creature hiding in an alley just up the street. As Q'arlynd turned the silently protesting Flinderspeld to follow the drow-illusion in that direction, the creature crouched, tail whisking in anticipation. Claws flexed from its furred feet.

Definitely an enemy, but one who could, perhaps, tell Q'arlynd more about this place.

He cast a spell. The slab of paving stone on which the creature crouched became soft as mud and the creature's feet sank into it. A second, equally quick whisper, and the paving stone was solid once more. The creature, realizing its feet were trapped, thrashed about, trying to free itself. Realizing it could not, it snarled.

The drow-illusion disappeared. As it did, Q'arlynd released his hold on Flinderspeld's body. The deep gnome had served his purpose as a distraction, and Q'arlynd didn't want him getting within range of whatever other magic the tawny-furred creature might have at its disposal.

Instead of retreating, the deep gnome collapsed in the middle of the street, the tiny silver sword falling from his hand.

Q'arlynd probed his slave's mind. Flinderspeld was still alive. His thoughts were sluggish and dreamlike, but there.

The tawny-furred creature let out a loud roar. An answering roar came from elsewhere in the ruined city.

Realizing it had just called another of its kind, Q'arlynd immediately sank to the floor of the ruined building. Still invisible, he hurried out into the street, toward Flinderspeld.

He wasn't the only one. A drow came running out of a doorway on the opposite side of the street-a female with waist-length white hair, wearing a chain mail tunic over trousers and a padded shirt. She reached Flinderspeld a heartbeat ahead of Q'arlynd and slapped a hand onto the deep gnome's chest.

"Sanctuary!" she cried.

Both the drow female and Flinderspeld disappeared.

Q'arlynd skidded to a stop on the sand-dusted flagstones and swore softly under his breath. His only slave, gone. Before he had time for regret, however, he felt a tickling sensation, deep within his mind.

I know you're there, somewhere. Free me. I can help you.

Q'arlynd glanced toward the trapped creature. It held its arms out imploringly, its eyes fixed on the dust that slowly settled around Q'arlynd's boots.

Q'arlynd laughed. The creature's magical suggestion might have worked on someone less suspicious than a drow. He drew his wand from its sheath, pointed it, then spoke its command word. Jagged balls of ice erupted from it. They streaked across the street and slammed into the creature's chest with harsh, meaty thuds. Q'arlynd corrected his aim and shot again, and the ice smashed into the creature's face, knocking its head back. The creature collapsed, either unconscious or dead, its feet still encased in stone. Q'arlynd heard a bone snap as one of its ankles twisted and broke.

His direct attack had rendered him visible once more. He could sense eyes on him. He whirled and saw another drow female standing in the street staring at him. She was armored as the first had been, in a chain mail tunic, and she carried a sword. Her hair was whiter than the other female's and was twisted in a knot at the back of her head. The tiny sword that was Eilistraee's pendant hung against her chest. She glanced past Q'arlynd at the collapsed creature, then nodded and moved forward.

"Nicely done. Lamias can be challenging opponents."

Q'arlynd lowered his wand but did not sheathe it. Under his breath, he whispered a simple cantrip. When he pinched his fingers together, the tiny silver sword that had been lying on the ground at his feet-the one Flinderspeld had dropped-rose to his hand. He held it out with a flourish and bowed. When he straightened, the female had visibly relaxed.

"Where did the other female take the deep gnome?" Q'arlynd asked.

"Your friend is safe. Rowaan will take care of him."

Q'arlynd nearly laughed aloud. Friend? Anyone with half a cup of cunning would have realized Flinderspeld was Q'arlynd's slave.

As the priestess walked toward Q'arlynd, her eyes lingered on his face. He suppressed a sigh. Despite his broken nose, he seemed to have that effect on females, but still she frowned when she asked, "What House are you?"

Q'arlynd almost lied-deceit was a reflex-then decided against it. "House Melarn."

The priestess's eyes widened.

Q'arlynd's heartbeat quickened. He took a risk-something he would normally not have done. "You know my sister," he said. A statement, rather than a question. "Halisstra Melarn."

She started to nod then checked herself. "I knew her."

"Knew?" Q'arlynd asked. "Is she-"

From another part of the ruined city, a roar sounded. The second tawny-furred creature, calling out. Or perhaps a third.

"We must go." The female raised a hand, her palm toward Q'arlynd's chest. "Are you willing?"

Q'arlynd met her eyes briefly then lowered his gaze submissively. "Yes. Take me."

The female's eyebrows rose in surprise. Then she laughed. The laughter had a pure sound, devoid of the sharpness Q'arlynd was used to. "You've got a lot to learn, petitioner," she said. "That's not how it's done here."

She touched his chest, spoke a word, and the ruined city disappeared.