Sacrifice of the Widow

CHAPTER FOUR

Q'arlynd glanced around at the place the priestess had teleported him to. The ground was a flat, rocky expanse that stretched as far as the eye could see. The place was vast, bigger than any cavern he'd had ever been in. Above was a black dome, studded with twinkling points of light-the night sky.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"The High Moor," the priestess who had teleported him answered.

The other priestess kneeled beside Flinderspeld and shook him awake. The gnome groaned, then groggily rose to his feet, the priestess helping him.

Q'arlynd gave the deep gnome a cursory glance, assuring himself his slave was undamaged. Then he returned his attention to the priestesses.

The two females were very similar in appearance. Both had lean, muscular bodies and red eyes, and they walked with light, precise footsteps, as if moving through the steps of a dance. They were dressed alike and shared several of the same gestures and expressions. The major difference that Q'arlynd could see was that the one who had teleported him was older, with ice-white hair, whereas the younger one, Rowaan, had hair that was shaded with hints of yellow.

Each, he noted, wore a ring on the index finger of her right hand: a plain band of platinum. A discreetly whispered divination revealed that the rings were magical. Q'arlynd wondered if they were the equivalent of his own master-and-slave rings. Rowaan deferred to the older priestess, but Q'arlynd could see no overt signs that the other priestess was controlling her.

"Mistress," he said, bowing before the one in charge.

"It's 'Lady,' " she answered, "not 'Mistress.'"

Q'arlynd bowed still deeper. "Lady."

"I'd prefer you called me by name: Leliana."

"Leliana," Q'arlynd dutifully murmured.

A testy note crept into Leliana's voice. "And look me in the eye, will you? I told you before, we do things differently here. You don't have to grovel, just because you're male."

Q'arlynd straightened. "As you-" He'd been about to say "command" but quickly amended that. "As you wish." He grinned. "Old habits…" he added with a shrug. Then he turned his expression serious again. "You said you knew my sister Halisstra. Knew," he repeated. He braced himself for bad news. "Is she dead?"

Rowaan's eyes widened. "This is Halisstra's brother?"

Q'arlynd noted her tone. Halisstra had achieved some status up on the surface, it seemed.

Leliana glanced away. She seemed to be carefully composing her reply. "There's a slim chance your sister is alive," she said at last.

"But you don't think so," Q'arlynd finished for her.

"No."

"There's always hope," Rowaan insisted. "Slim as the new moon, maybe, but…" her voice trailed off.

Leliana made no comment.

"What happened to her?" Q'arlynd asked.

"You weren't told?"

Q'arlynd realized that Leliana must have been wondering why the priestess who "gave" him the sword-token hadn't already answered any questions he might have about Halisstra.

He shrugged and said, "Things were… a bit rushed in Ched Nasad. There wasn't much time for talk."

Flinderspeld, thankfully, kept his expression neutral. The deep gnome had been schooled well. He carefully noted-but didn't react to-his master's odd remarks.

Q'arlynd gave the priestesses his best mournful look and continued, "It's been three years since I've seen Halisstra. She disappeared when our city fell, during Lolth's Silence. All this time, I've been wondering if my sister still lived, or…" He made a small, choked sound, as if struggling to contain his emotions.

Leliana's expression at last softened.

"Tell me what happened to her," Q'arlynd begged the two priestesses. "Don't hold anything back-tell me everything."

They did.

Halisstra, it seemed, had indeed converted to Eilistraee's faith. Not only that, but she'd made quite a name for herself. Shortly after her "redemption," as the priestesses called it, Halisstra had undertaken a pilgrimage to recover an artifact sacred to Eilistraee-a sword known as the Crescent Blade. That weapon in hand, she'd set out for the Abyss during Lolth's Silence with two other priestesses to-and Q'arlynd reflexively shivered-try to kill the Queen of the Demonweb Pits with that magical sword.

What hubris! A mortal slaying a god! Even so, Leliana and Rowaan assured him that not only was it possible, but that it had almost come to pass. Halisstra, however, had been slain on the very doorstep of the Demonweb Pits by one of Lolth's faithful. Shortly afterward, Lolth's Silence had ended. Halisstra had failed in her quest.

Q'arlynd recognized his sister's killer at once from her description. "Danifae," he said.

Leliana paused. "You knew her?"

Q'arlynd nodded. "She was my sister's battle-captive. What you've just told me doesn't surprise me. Danifae was… treacherous."

An understatement, that. Treachery was something all drow expected of one another, especially of their battle-captives. Danifae, however, took the word to new levels. A seductress whose talents in that regard were near legendary, Danifae combined her exquisite beauty with utter ruthlessness. For years, Q'arlynd had observed the resentment that smoldered in Danifae's eyes each time his sister's back was turned, yet the battle-captive had actually succeeded in convincing Halisstra that she was a friend. All the while, Danifae had been working her way through the males-and females-of House Melarn, trying to seduce one of them into killing Halisstra. Danifae had eventually turned her lascivious attentions to Q'arlynd, hoping to enlist his aid in removing the magical Binding that compelled her loyalty to Halisstra, so she could kill her mistress herself.

Thinking back to that time, Q'arlynd shook his head. Of all of the children of Drisinil Melarn, he would have been the last one to slide a dagger into Halisstra's back. Not because he cared for her, but because of what she'd done.

He resisted the urge to touch a finger to his nose, to hide the smile that threatened. As a boy, he'd been injured in a riding accident. He'd tumbled from his lizard and fallen only a short distance to the street below-no more than a dozen paces-but it had happened so quickly there hadn't been time to activate his House insignia. He'd landed face-first, smashing his face against stone. He'd been only a novice wizard then-a clumsy oaf who wasn't worth wasting magical healing on, in the opinion of Matron Melarn, but Halisstra had secretly healed him. She'd had to do it without leaving any evidence, so she'd cast her spell selectively, leaving his black eyes and broken nose untouched. Afterward, Q'arlynd had expected his sister to demand something of him in return. He'd prepared himself for a lifetime spent in thrall to her, but Halisstra had demanded nothing.

She'd healed him, he later realized, out of simple pity and something more. Affection. Something that was as rare among drow siblings as a spider that didn't bite.

It had been a startling revelation. Q'arlynd had never realized that a female could be soft, especially one sworn to serve Lolth.

From that point on, he'd done everything he could to ensure that Halisstra would survive long enough to become House Melarn's next matron mother. He'd arranged for her introduction to the bard who had taught her bae'qeshel magic, and he had eliminated her rivals. Through his careful planning, he had all but ensured that Halisstra would be the next in succession to House Melarn's highest post-thus ensuring himself a position as her House wizard, the power behind that throne.

Then the Silence came, and it had all fallen apart-literally-when the city fell.

With a mental wrench, he brought himself back to the present. "Were you the two who accompanied my sister into the Abyss?" he asked. "Did you see her die?"

Leliana shook her head. "She was accompanied by Feliane and Uluyara-two priestesses who also died on that quest. I did see your sister's death. I aided Lady Qilue with her scrying. I could see, over her shoulder, the events as they unfolded in the font."

Q'arlynd carefully noted the name and title, Lady Qilue-probably a high priestess, if she was capable of getting clear images out of a scrying into the Abyss.

"Describe Halisstra's death for me," Q'arlynd said.

Leliana did, in hushed tones, as if Q'arlynd were a stranger to violent death. Halisstra had been felled by a blow to the head-a blow from Danifae's morningstar. There was little hope that Halisstra had survived the blow, she added.

Unless…

Hearing her hesitation, Q'arlynd pressed Leliana for more. She told him their high priestess had been attempting to resurrect Halisstra at the moment that the scrying was lost. Shortly afterward, Qilue had communed with their goddess. The high priestess had not divulged Eilistraee's words to anyone, but she had let one fact slip out. The goddess, it seemed, had spoken of Halisstra in the present tense, as one would refer to someone who was still alive.

Q'arlynd took it all in without betraying any emotion. He was too much of a realist to expect that Halisstra had benefited from the last-minute spell-or even if she had, that she'd been able to escape the Demonweb Pits, which meant that his quest to find his sister was probably a futile one.

He sighed. It seemed he would have to return to the drudgery of rooting through the ruins of Ched Nasad, and tedious years of servitude to House Teh'Kinrellz.

Unless…

"Qilue," he mused aloud. "I think I've heard the name, but I can't quite place her House."

Rowaan supplied the name. "Veladorn."

Veladorn. It was not a House Q'arlynd recognized.

Leliana cocked her head. "Lady Qilue Veladorn, High Protector of the Song, and Right Hand of Eilistraee." She paused. "Sounding familiar yet?"

Q'arlynd spread his hands. "I'm new to all this, I'm afraid. Just a petitioner." He favored her with a boyish smile. "I'm sure I'll learn all of your honorifics and titles, in time." In fact, he had no intentions of any kind. He'd done what he'd intended by coming to the surface-gleaned everything he could from the priestesses. His sister was dead. That was the end of it. There was nothing further to be gained by pretending to be a petitioner.

He opened his mouth, intending to bid them farewell, grab Flinderspeld, and teleport back to the portal, when Rowaan picked up where Leliana left off. "Qilue is not only a high priestess of Eilistraee," she continued in an annoyingly helpful tone. "She's also one of the Seven Sisters."

Q'arlynd stared at her blankly. That title was obviously supposed to impress him, but he had no idea what Rowaan was talking about.

"She's one of the Chosen of Mystra," Rowaan continued.

She had his attention.

"Is that so?" he said in a soft voice. Most of the surface peoples' gods were of little interest-especially those worshiped by humans-but that was one name he recognized. "Mystra, goddess of magic? The one who tends the Weave and makes magic possible for all mortals?"

"I see you're familiar with her," Leliana said.

Q'arlynd gave an apologetic smile. "I'm a wizard," he told her. "My instructors at the Conservatory mentioned the goddess of magic, once or twice," He touched the pocket where he'd placed his sword-token. "But it's Eilistraee I'm petitioning."

"Well then," Leliana said, "in that case, we'd better get moving. The moor can be a dangerous place, home to marauding orcs and hobgoblins-even trolls. The sooner we get to the shrine, the better."

Q'arlynd bowed-it helped hide the gleam in his eyes. This Qilue person sounded powerful-a priestess and a mage both, and not just any mage but one of Mystra's "Chosen."

Now that was a matron mother Q'arlynd wouldn't mind serving.

"Will I…" He feigned boyish hesitation and tried to call a blush to his cheeks. "Will I meet Qilue once we get to the shrine?"

Leliana and Rowaan glanced at each other.

He molded his face into a pleading expression. "If I could hear from her own lips what happened to Halisstra-what she saw in her scrying-then perhaps…"

Rowaan nodded in sympathy. It was Leliana, however, who spoke. "I'll see if it can be arranged."

Q'arlynd bowed. "Thank you, Lady."

He smiled. Prellyn had been right. Eilistraee's faithful were entirely too trusting.

Deep in a little-frequented section of the forest of Cormanthor, the cleric Malvag cast his eye over the drow who had assembled inside the enormous hollow tree: nine males, all but one with faces hidden by black masks that left only their restless eyes visible. Most wore leather armor, dark as the cloaks that protected them from the winter chill. Their breath fogged below their masks as they eyed one another warily, wrist-crossbows and bracer-sheathed daggers prominently visible. Crowding into such a small space had made them uneasy, as Malvag had intended. The smell of nervous sweat blended with the earthy smell of long-since fallen leaves and the faint, slightly sweet scent of the poison that coated the heads of their crossbow bolts.

"Men of Jaelre," he said, greeting the five who had come from that House. All wore masks except their leader, a cripple with a brace of leather and iron encasing his left leg.

Malvag turned to the other four and inclined his head slightly. "And men of Auzkovyn. Dark deeds."

"Dark deeds," they murmured.

"You sent a shadow summons," the crippled male said. "Why?"

"Ah, Jezz. Always the first to come to the point," Malvag said. He looked at each man in turn, nodding as if silently counting them, then shrugged. "I sent the summons to several more of the faithful, but only you nine answered. Just as well-that's fewer to reap the rewards."

"What rewards?" one asked.

"Power," Malvag said. "Beyond anything you might ever have imagined. The ability to work arselu'tel'quess-high magic."

There was silence for several moments. Jezz broke it with a snort of barely contained laughter. "Everyone knows drow aren't capable of touching the Weave in that way, and even if we were, only wizards can work high magic. Clerics merely assist in their spells."

"Wrong!" Malvag said firmly. "On both counts. There are high magic spells designed for clerics-or rather, there were in ancient times. I have discovered a scroll, written by a priest of ancient Ilythiir, that bears one such prayer. If high magic was possible for our ssri Tel'Quessir ancestors, it can be possible for us."

"But we're drow," another of the males said.

"Indeed we are," Malvag said. He held up his hands and turned them back and forth, as if examining them. "But what is it that prevents us from working high magic? Our black skin? Our white hair?" He chuckled softly and lowered his hands. "Neither. It is simply that we lack the will." He glanced at each male in turn. "Who among you would not stab a fellow Nightshadow in the back, if there was something to be gained by it? We form alliances, but they are as tenuous and fleeting as faerie fire. In order to work high magic, we must forge something more lasting, a permanent bond between ourselves. We must set aside our suspicions and learn to work as one."

Again, Jezz gave a snort of derisive laughter. "Pretty words," he said, "but this is hardly the time for impossible alliances and grand schemes. In case you've forgotten, both House Jaelre and House Auzkovyn are fighting for our very survival. The army of Myth Drannor won't be happy until they've driven every last one of us below or into the arms of those dancing bitches-we've lost more than one of the faithful to Eilistraee in recent months. Then there's that thing that's been hunting us." He shook his head. "Lolth herself has taken an interest in both our Houses for some reason."

Malvag smiled beneath his mask. He'd counted on comments like that from the battle-scarred sorcerer, which was why he'd included Jezz in the summons. Jezz helped remind the others that things had come to a desperate pass. Those with their backs already against the wall, Malvag knew, were more easily persuaded to grasp at the "impossible."

"These are troubled times," Malvag agreed, his voice smooth as assassin's strangle silk, "but what better time to strike our enemies than when they least expect it? Instead of continuing to just skirmish, we'll hit back. Hard. With high magic. Vhaeraun himself will be our weapon."

Several of the men frowned. Jezz voiced the question that was no doubt foremost in their minds. "You hope to summon an avatar of the Masked Lord's to do battle for us?"

Malvag shook his head. "I wasn't speaking of his avatar. I was speaking of Vhaeraun himself."

Jezz laughed openly. "Let me guess. You're going to replicate the Time of Troubles and force Vhaeraun to walk Toril in physical form by using 'high magic.'" He rolled his eyes. "You're mad. You must think yourself the equal of Ao."

Malvag locked eyes with the cripple. "When did I ever mention a summoning-or Toril, for that matter?" he asked in a steely voice. He shook his head. "I have something entirely different in mind. The scroll I possess will enable us to open a gate between Vhaeraun's domain and that of another god. A back door, if you will, that the Masked Lord can use to sneak out of Ellaniath undetected."

"To what end?" one of the others asked.

"The assassination," Malvag said slowly, "of another god."

All eyes were locked on him. "Which one?" one of the Nightshadows asked.

"Corellon Larethian." Malvag let his smile crinkle the corners of his eyes. "The death of the lord of the Seldarine should give the army of Myth Drannor pause, don't you agree?"

The Nightshadows exchanged excited glances. Jezz, however, slowly shook his head. "Let me get this straight," he said. "You want to open a gate between Vhaeraun's domain and Arvandor?"

Malvag nodded.

"A gate that might very well work in the reverse direction to the one you describe, allowing the Seldarine to invade Vhaeraun's domain, instead of the other way around." He shifted his weight, favoring his crippled leg. One hand drifted near the hilt of his kukri. "This makes me wonder which god you really do serve."

Eyes darted back and forth between Jezz and Malvag. The other males drew slightly apart from the sorcerer, giving him room for whatever treachery he planned.

Malvag made no move. "What do you mean?"

"You're neither Jaelre nor Auzkovyn. You appeared among us a year ago from out of nowhere, claiming to be from the south, around the same time that the demon-thing started slaughtering our people. Now you propose something which, assuming it is possible, may very well be the death of the Masked Lord. I ask again, which god do you really serve?"

Malvag stood utterly still, not making any threatening moves. "They should have called you Jezz the Suspicious," he drawled, "not Jezz the Lame."

One of the males from House Auzkovyn chuckled softly.

Jezz's eyes narrowed still further. "I think you're a spider kisser."

Eyes widened. Malvag heard several sharp intakes of breath.

"You call me a traitor?" he whispered. "You think me a servant of Lolth?" He curled the fingers of his right hand then suddenly flipped it palm-up. The sign for a dead spider. "This, for the spider bitch. If I worship her, may she strike me dead for blaspheming."

As nervous chuckles filled the air, Malvag added, "I'm a loyal servant of Vhaeraun-a shadow in the Night Above-as are all of you." He paused. "Well… almost all of you," he added, his glance lingering on Jezz's naked face.

He held it for several moments then tore his gaze away. "Some of us, it seems, think Corellon Larethian too high a mark for the Masked Lord to aim for," he told the others, giving Jezz the kind of disdainful glance one would reserve for a coward, "so let me propose an alternative. Instead of Arvandor, we'll use the scroll to open a gate to Eilistraee's domain." He chuckled. "Wouldn't it be a wonderful turnabout if the Masked Lord took Eilistraee down? Her priestesses have stolen enough of our people in recent years. I think it's Vhaeraun's turn to take the lead in that dance. Permanently."

Low laughter greeted his joke.

Jezz glared. "This is not a laughing matter. You're talking about tampering with the domains of the gods."

"True," Malvag said, his expression serious once more, "which is why I came prepared to show how serious I am about this. Realizing that some might be… reluctant to tackle Arvandor, I began my preparations for opening a gate to Eilistraee's domain instead."

He reached behind his head and untied his mask. Lifting it from his face, he held it high. Then he gave it a savage twist, as if wringing water from it. A faint but sharp sound filled the hollow tree: a female voice, screaming.

He relaxed the twist in the fabric. "A soul," he explained, "trapped by soultheft and held there still."

The other clerics' eyes widened. Malvag could tell they were impressed. Most Nightshadows could hold a soul within their masks for only a moment or two. "You may have heard of the attack on the shrine at Lake Sember five nights ago?"

Heads nodded.

Jezz looked impressed. Fleetingly.

"You mean to tell us you've got the soul of a priestess of Eilistraee trapped in there?" asked one of the Auzkovyn-a thin man whose protruding nose creased the fabric of his mask into a tent shape. His breathing was light and fast, his eyes wide.

"What better tool for opening a gate to her domain?" Malvag asked. "As some of you may already know, the working of high magic demands a price. Better we fuel it with this-" he fluttered the mask gently-"than with our own souls, wouldn't you agree?"

Smiles crinkled the eyes of the other Nightshadows as they laughed at his wry joke.

"I can teach you to do the same, to hold a soul in your mask until you are ready to spend its energy," Malvag told them. "When each of us has gathered this necessary focus, we will meet again to work the spell." He retied the mask around his face. "Through soultheft, each of you will have the fuel needed to work high magic." He met the eyes of each male in turn. "The only question remaining is, do you have the faith?"

The Nightshadows were silent for several moments. The eyes behind the masks were thoughtful.

All but those of the House Jaelre leader. "Assuming this scroll of yours really exists, there's a flaw in your plan," Jezz said. "In order to create a gate, the caster has to enter the plane that is the gate's destination. As soon as one of you enters the domain of another god-be it Eilistraee's domain or Arvandor-the element of surprise is lost."

"That would be true," Malvag admitted, "except that this spell will allow us to open a gate between two domains from a distance-from a location on Toril."

"Nonsense," Jezz scoffed. "That would require more power than you possess. The combined efforts of a hundred clerics. A thousand."

"What if I told you I know of something that will augment the magic of each cleric participating in the spell a hundredfold?" he asked. "Perhaps even a thousandfold." He paused. "There is a cavern, deep in the Underdark," he told the Nightshadows, "a cavern lined with darkstone crystals, and thus a perfect vehicle for the Masked Lord's magic. It lies at the center of an earth node of incredible power-something that will boost our magic to the levels we need to work the spell."

"And this cavern?" Jezz demanded. "Where is it, exactly? Or is that something you're not prepared to share with us?" He glanced at the others, then back at Malvag. "Perhaps because it, like the 'ancient scroll' you've told us about, doesn't exist."

Malvag carefully hid his delight. He could not have scripted Jezz's comments better himself. "On the contrary," he countered. "Those who choose to join me will be shown both the cavern-and the scroll-this very night. I'll teleport them there."

The word hung in the air. "Them." Not "you."

Jezz glared at Malvag, then stared around at the others, slowly shaking his head. "You trust him?" A scornful word, in the mouth of a drow.

Eyes shifted from Jezz to Malvag and back again.

"Then you're fools," Jezz said. "Anyone with eyes can see that this is a ploy to thin the ranks of the faithful, so this newcomer can rise to a more prominent position. He'll teleport you into a cavern filled with sickstone, or somewhere equally unhealthy, and abandon you there."

His words hung in the air for several moments.

The Nightshadows shuffled, glancing at one another. One of the House Jaelre males, a large fellow with close-cropped hair and an old burn scar on his right hand, at last broke the silence. "I'm in," he grunted from behind his mask. He moved to Malvag's side.

Jezz merely snorted. Without further comment he turned on his heel and strode out into the night. Two of the males from House Jaelre immediately followed. The remaining male from that House who had not yet declared himself glanced sidelong at the Auzkovyn, as if waiting to see what they would do.

One of the Auzkovyn glanced at his fellows, shook his head, then also left.

Malvag waited, holding his breath, as the four males who had not yet declared themselves-one from House Jaelre and three from House Auzkovyn-shifted slightly on their feet, hesitating. One of the Auzkovyn males muttered something under his breath at his companions then departed. The hatchet-nosed Auzkovyn also turned to leave, then hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder. Even from where he stood, Malvag could smell the reek of nervous sweat clinging to the male. A moment more of hesitation then that Auzkovyn abruptly left.

That left only two in addition to Malvag and the male from House Auzkovyn who had been so quick to declare himself. If both of them stayed, that would give Malvag only the slightest of margins. The spell Malvag hoped to use required at least two other clerics, besides himself, to cast.

"May the Masked Lord forgive them for their lack of faith," he whispered under his breath-but loud enough for the remaining two to hear. He stared out through the crack in the tree trunk, sadly shaking his head. "They've given up a chance to stand at Vhaeraun's side. They'll never know what true power is."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the remaining two square their shoulders and turn slightly toward him. They had made their decision. They would stay.

He turned to the three clerics who remained and spread his arms. He could see, by the wary glint in their eyes, that they didn't quite trust him. Yet. But they would.

They would have to trust him by the night of the winter solstice, if his plan was to succeed.

He smiled behind his mask. "Now then," he said, readying his teleportation spell. "Let me show you that scroll."

Halisstra waited, high in the treetop. The wind plucked at her hair, tangling its sticky white strands. A fallen leaf fluttered by and became stuck in the tangle. She ignored it, her attention wholly focused on the hollow tree below. Inside it was her prey.

Three male drow emerged from it. The one in the lead was limping. His aura betrayed the fact that he had powerful arcane magic, but he did not wear a mask. He was not one of those Lolth wanted dead.

She watched them go.

Two more males emerged from the hollow tree, one after another. Each was a cleric, but neither was very powerful, so their deaths would be of little consequence. Halisstra let them go, too, listening as their footsteps faded into the darkened forest.

A few moments passed, then another male emerged, alone, and with a strong aura of divine magic about him. He paused to lean against a tree, as if feeling ill, but after a moment straightened again, a determined look on his sweat-sheeted face.

Halisstra hissed. Curved fangs emerged from the bulges in her cheeks, one under each eye. The fangs scissored together in anticipation, their hollow tips dripping venom. That one.

Halisstra followed him, moving through the treetops above, ignoring the pain that creaked through her body with each pulse of her blood. Her bare hands and feet clung to the branches like the sticky feet of a spider, so there was no need to grip. Just scuttle and spring. Once the male halted and glanced up, his wrist-crossbow raised. Halisstra froze in place, not because she feared his feeble weapon, but to draw out his growing unease.

After a moment, the male lowered his weapon. He made a pass with his hand, evoking magic, then formed forefinger and thumb into a circle. Lifting his mask, he spoke into the circle he'd formed. Halisstra's keen ears picked up every word.

"Lady, I report as commanded," he said in a tense voice. "Your priestesses are in danger. A Nightshadow named Malvag plans to open a-"

As he spoke, Halisstra flicked her fingers, releasing a fluttering strand of web. It landed on the cleric's shoulder and arm, startling him. He looked up, saw her-and immediately abandoned his message, firing a crossbow bolt at her instead. The missile glanced off her hardened skin, ricocheting away into the night.

The cleric's eyes widened. He spoke a prayer, and a square of darkness formed atop his mask, darkening it.

"Die!" he shouted, pointing at her.

The square of darkness lifted from his mask and flew toward Halisstra, turning edge-on just before it struck. It slashed across her chest, opening a wound from shoulder to shoulder. A little higher, and it would have severed her neck. She grunted, felt thick blood begin a sticky slide down her body. It dripped from her bare breasts and the eight tiny spider legs that drummed against her lower torso like restless fingers. The pain was intense. Exquisite. Nearly enough to overwhelm the lesser, constant pain of the eight pairs of never-healing punctures in her neck, arms, torso, and legs. She drank it in for a moment, letting it dampen the turmoil of emotion that boiled through her mind.

Then she sprang.

She landed on the cleric, knocking him to the ground and splattering him with her blood. Cursing frantically under his breath-any other male might have shouted for his companions, but Vhaeraun's clerics were trained to fight silently-he fought her with darkfire. Hot black flames appeared around his left hand as he slapped it against her head. Her hair instantly ignited, and blazing black flames engulfed her head. Her eyes teared from the agony of a blistered scalp and ears, but she didn't need to see to find her mark. Yanking the cleric close, she twined her spider legs around him. Then she bit.

She expected him to scream as her fangs punctured his soft flesh again and again, driving venom into his body. He did not. He continued fighting her, shouting the words of a prayer of dismissal. It might have worked, had Halisstra been a demon, but she was much more than that. She was the Lady Penitent, higher in stature than any of Lolth's demonic handmaidens, battle-captive and left hand of the dark elf who had become Lolth.

The cleric's struggles weakened. When they ceased, Halisstra yanked off his mask and cast it aside. The male was handsome, with a dimpled jaw and deep red eyes. In another life, he might have been someone she'd have chosen to seduce, but his jaw hung slack and his eyes were glassy. Dark blood-hers-smeared his black clothes and his long white hair.

She dropped him on the ground.

Halisstra waited several moments as the wound in her chest closed. The sting of her scalp eased and was replaced by a prickling sensation: her hair growing back in. When the clench of her flesh knitting itself together at last subsided, she picked up the cooling corpse. Working swiftly, she spun it between her hands, coating it with webbing. Then she stood it upright. The fully grown male was like a child to her, his web-shrouded head barely level with her stomach. She heaved him into the air and hung him from a branch where the others would be sure to find him.

She eyed her handiwork a moment more. Another of her mistress's enemies, dead. Cruel triumph filled her then waned, replaced by sick guilt.

How she hated Lolth.

If only…

But that life was gone.

Springing into the branches above, she scuttled away into the night.

Q'arlynd followed Leliana and Rowaan across the open, rocky ground, Flinderspeld trudging dutifully in his master's wake. This was the fourth night they'd spent walking across the High Moor toward the spot where the moon set, but they had yet to reach the shrine. Though the moon was getting slightly thinner each night-waning-and the sparkling points of light that followed it through the sky were dimming, their light still forced Q'arlynd to squint.

The days had been worse, intolerably bright yellow light from a burning orb in the sky. They had stopped to make camp whenever the sun rose, a concession to his "sun-weak eyes." The priestesses had chuckled when Q'arlynd, sheltering under his piwafwi and fanning himself, had complained of the heat.

"It's winter," Rowaan had said. "If you think the sun's hot now, just wait until summer."

Winter. Summer. Q'arlynd knew the terms, but until that they'd had little meaning for him. Rowaan had patiently explained to him what "seasons" were, but even that didn't help. She said he would understand, once he'd spent a full year upon the surface.

A full year up here? He found it hard to imagine.

"Leliana," he said, catching her attention. "Forgive my ignorance, but I still don't see any temple."

"You wouldn't," she answered dryly, "not unless you were capable of seeing over many leagues, and through stone."

"Lady?"

Rowaan chuckled. "What she means is there's only one temple: the Promenade. It's in the Underdark. The lesser places of worship are all called shrines."

"I see," Q'arlynd said. He glanced around. "And the shrine we're going to is…?"

Rowaan pointed across the flat ground at a spot up ahead, where the moon was setting against what looked like a row of jagged stalagmites. "There, in the Misty Forest."

Q'arlynd nodded. Those jagged bumps must be the "trees" he'd read about. "How much farther?"

"You asked the same thing last night," Leliana said. "Tonight, it's one night less. Count it on your fingers, if you have to."

Q'arlynd glanced away, pretending to be stung by her rebuke. He sighed. His feet ached. The World Above was just too damn big.

Rowaan touched his arm in sympathy. "We should reach the forest by dawn," she patiently explained. "Two nights more after that."

"Couldn't we just teleport there?"

"No," Leliana answered, her voice firm. "We walk."

"We only prepared one sanctuary," Rowaan explained. "The spot we teleported to in order to escape the lamias."

Q'arlynd frowned. "But that-"

"What?" Leliana snapped.

"Nothing," Q'arlynd murmured.

He'd been about to say that Rowaan's explanation made no sense. It would have been far more prudent to have chosen the shrine itself as the endpoint of the spell. Unless, he'd realized belatedly, you had a stranger tagging along with you. Teleporting a complete stranger directly to a holy shrine-even if that person bore a sword-token of Eilistraee-would be a foolish move indeed. Teleporting him into the middle of nowhere and observing him over the long, tedious slog to the shrine was much more prudent.

He smiled to himself. The females were drow after all. Despite living on the surface, they still possessed some measure of cunning.

He gave Rowaan his most winning smile. "I can teleport as well. I'm quite accomplished at it, in fact. If you'd just describe the shrine in detail, perhaps I could get us there."

"You could do that?" Rowaan's eyebrows raised. "Teleport, with just a description to go on?"

Q'arlynd nodded. "Indeed, Lady." In fact, he had never yet attempted such a thing, but one day, he was certain, it would be within his grasp.

Leliana gave a snort of laughter. "No thanks," she said. "Much as I look forward to one day dancing in Eilistraee's groves, for now I'd prefer to go on living."

Q'arlynd lowered his eyes, a gesture of submission. His mind, however, was mulling over the possibilities the surface afforded. He'd only ever used his teleportation spell over short distances within the confines of Ched Nasad-to escape the iron golem, for example. He was itching to test the spell's limits away from the Faerzress that surrounded the ruined city. Attempting to teleport to a destination he'd never seen before would be like a free-fall, exhilarating and terrifying in one.

The priestesses, however, seemed intent on doing things the hard way.

As they trudged along, Q'arlynd realized that Flinderspeld had moved out of his peripheral vision. Out of habit, he dipped into the deep gnome's mind, checking to ensure Flinderspeld wasn't up to anything. Flinderspeld disappointed him. The deep gnome was thinking of his former home, the svirfneblin city of Blingdenstone. Like Ched Nasad, it lay in ruin, destroyed five years ago by the Menzoberranyr. Flinderspeld remembered how that city's orc and goblin slave-soldiers had trampled through his shop, smashing display cases and helping themselves to the gemstones inside. A lifetime's work, scooped greedily into the pockets of those who would never appreciate the intricacies of…

Q'arlynd broke contact, not caring to hear any more of Flinderspeld's broodings. He stared at the landscape, instead.

The High Moor wasn't, he noted, entirely featureless. There were landmarks. Not of the type Q'arlynd was used to-rock formations, patches of crysstone, fungal growths and heat vents-but enough for the priestesses to find their way. To the right, for example, was a circular expanse of stone with tufts of blade-shaped vegetation growing up through it. "Grass," Leliana had called the stuff. The circular outcropping was the sixth Q'arlynd had noticed that night. It was the almost-vanished foundation of a ruined tower, but it was the grass that caught his eye. It had grown up through cracks in the stone floor: cracks that followed a peculiar pattern. It reminded him, a little, of the glyph in the Arcane Conservatory's main foyer.

Interesting. He committed the spot to memory, in case he wanted to return later. One never knew what secrets an old ruin might hold.

Leliana noticed him glancing at the ruined tower.

Q'arlynd gave her a bright smile and cocked his head. "Are those circles natural formations?" he asked. "Can they be found everywhere on the surface, or just here?" It was a deliberately foolish question, much like the ones he'd previously pestered the priestesses with: what a forest was, why water fell from the sky, and if the moon and sun always rose and set in the same place, or whether they sometimes reversed their course. He'd known the answers to all of those questions already, of course. It might have been his first time away from the Underdark, but he had read about the World Above and its strange phenomena. Years of dealing with the females of Ched Nasad, however, had taught him caution. "Handsome but dumb" males tended to be forgotten when plots were being hatched. The smart ones became targets. He'd learned that by watching his brothers die one by one.

It was Rowaan who answered him. "They're the bases of ruined towers," she explained. "A city once stood here. Millennia ago, in the time before the Descent-"

Leliana halted abruptly. "Enough," she told Rowaan. She turned to Q'arlynd, irritation plain on her face, and spoke directly to him. "If you want to know where we are, just ask. I'm tired of your oblique questions."

"All right, then," Q'arlynd said. "Where are we?"

"Talthalaran."

The name wasn't one Q'arlynd recognized-though it sounded a little like the formal term for a council of matron mothers. Curiosity warred with the need to continue to feign ignorance. Curiosity won.

"Was Talthalaran… the name of an ancient city?" he asked.

"Yes," Rowaan said. "One of the cities of Miyeritar."

"Miyeritar," Q'arlynd whispered, too surprised to purge the awe from his voice.

He stared across the moor with a new appreciation. Millennia ago, that dark elf empire had been scoured clean. It had rained acid, the legends said. Lightning bolts had smashed the cities of Miyeritar to the ground, and the thunderclaps that followed had shattered what remained like invisible hammer blows. Tens of thousands had died, and roaring winds had carried their remains high into the skies, shredding the corpses like rotten cloth. When it was all over, only bare, blood-soaked earth remained.

Such had been the magic the high mages of Aryvandaar had wrought.

Q'arlynd would have given anything to have seen it.

From a safe distance, of course.

Flinderspeld, listening all the while, stood scratching his bald head. "What's Miyeritar?" he asked.

Q'arlynd often permitted such questions from the deep gnome. Since the city's fall, there had been few others he could converse with. He enlightened his slave.

"It's a kingdom that existed at the time of the Crown Wars. Fourteen thousand years ago, during the Third Crown War, it was destroyed by Aryvandaar-a nation of surface elves-in a magical storm of unbelievable proportions. They say-" He broke off suddenly, aware that Leliana was staring at him.

He gave her a wistful shrug. "I'm a wizard. They taught us about Miyeritar at the Conservatory in Ched Nasad."

"But not about ordinary rain?" she scoffed. "It sounds like a strangely lopsided education."

Q'arlynd gave an embarrassed shrug.

"If you studied Miyeritar, then you know that we were all 'surface elves' once," she continued.

Flinderspeld turned to her. "Drow lived on the surface?"

"Dark elves," Leliana told him, "not yet dhaerrow. Not yet drow."

"Your point being?" Q'arlynd asked.

"That we came from the surface and must return to it. The drow are not naturally creatures of the Underdark."

Q'arlynd pointed at her eyes. "Then how do you explain darkvision?"

"Adaptation," Leliana. "Our race developed it slowly, over many generations, after being driven below."

"In Ched Nasad, we were taught that darkvision was a gift, bestowed upon us by Lolth during the Descent," Q'arlynd said, "that drow were meant to live in the Underdark."

Leliana folded her arms across her chest. Q'arlynd could tell that, like him, she enjoyed the debate. "Then why do our eyes adapt, over time, to the light of the surface realms?" she countered. "And if darkvision is a gift from Lolth, then why am I-and the other drow who worship Eilistraee, Lolth's chief rival-still capable of seeing in complete darkness?"

"Because Lolth-" Q'arlynd abruptly checked what he'd been about to say, not because he didn't have an argument to counter what Leliana had just said, but because he realized what she was doing. Drawing him out. Probing. Trying to get a sense of whether he truly desired to convert to Eilistraee's faith.

Of course, he had no intention of doing so, unless there was something in it for him.

Flinderspeld had moved closer during the debate. He stood beside Q'arlynd, head cocked. "Lots of races that don't worship Lolth have darkvision," he commented. He held up his gloved fingers and began counting them off. "Svirfneblin, duergar-"

Q'arlynd nearly laughed out loud. Flinderspeld had just provided the perfect distraction. Whirling, he, grabbed his slave by the cloak, feigning anger at the deep gnome having taken Leliana's side in the debate. "Keep silent, you!" he ordered, flicking a finger at the gnome.

A bolt of magical energy-a small one, painful rather than harmful-crackled out of his gloved fingertip. It barely touched the skin of Flinderspeld's wide forehead-Q'arlynd wasn't about to damage a valuable slave-but Flinderspeld gave a loud howl of pain. He'd feigned it so many times he was getting good at it. For a moment, Q'arlynd thought his slave had actually been stung by the bolt.

Their act deflected Leliana's attention, but not in the way Q'arlynd had planned. Steel hissed as her sword left its scabbard. Before Q'arlynd could blink, the point of the weapon was at his throat. Leliana's voice was hard as steel.

"Don't do that again. This gnome," she said, pointing down at Flinderspeld, "is under the goddess's protection."

Q'arlynd swallowed. Steel pricked the bulge in his throat as it moved. He gave Leliana his best mournful look, blinked long-lashed eyes, then glanced down at the sword-token that hung on a cord around his neck.

"As am I, surely?" he suggested sweetly.

Leliana removed the blade from his throat. "As are you," she agreed, sheathing her sword. "But remember this: whatever your previous relationship with the deep gnome was below, here under Eilistraee's bright moon, we are all equals. There are no slaves, no matron mothers… and no masters." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Or did Milass'ni neglect to tell you that?"

"Of course not," Q'arlynd said, instantly realizing that Leliana must be talking about the priestess the falling stone had killed. "The instructions she gave were quite clear. It's just that old habits are hard to break." He bowed deeply, holding the submissive posture for longer than was necessary.

When he rose, he saw two things he didn't like. A wary expression in Leliana's eye.

And Flinderspeld, staring thoughtfully at Leliana, his stubby thumb idly rubbing the bulge the slave ring made under his glove.

Thaleste shivered as she climbed the column. She needed both hands to grip the notches in the stone, which had meant sheathing her sword, not that she was very proficient with the weapon, of course. Lady Cavatina had been kind enough to pretend that Thaleste's feeble jab had made a difference during the battle with the aranea, but the novice knew otherwise. Even so, it would have made her feel slightly better to have a weapon in her hand.

She pulled herself through the hole at the top of the column, into the room above. A short passageway led from it to the chamber where Lady Cavatina had fought the spellgaunt. Drawing her sword-and wincing at the loud rasp the blade made as it left the sheath-Thaleste edged along that passage. It was dark and silent. Iljrene and the others had already made a sweep through the rooms and declared them clear. Even so, Thaleste's mouth was dry and her heart pounded. The caverns were never completely free of monsters, despite the constant patrols. Anything could have been lurking in the chamber ahead.

The room, however, turned out to be empty, aside from the purplish smears of blood the spellgaunt had left behind. Its body and web had been burned. All that remained was a charred spot on the floor next to the gaping hole that had been a window.

Thaleste stood, studying the pattern of soot on the walls. She could see that the smoke had billowed upward, then mushroomed out and down again, eventually forcing its way out through the side passages and the hole in the floor. It had also concentrated behind one of the pedestals close to the dais, leaving a faint spiral pattern.

Thaleste smiled. She'd just found what she'd been looking for. Now she was going to be able to prove to the others that being timid had its uses. She'd learned a thing or two, over the years, by creeping through the corridors of her manor. An audience chamber always had at least one secret door that a matron mother could slip away through in times of crisis. That was how the aranea and its spellgaunt had slipped past the priestess's defenses, through a back door that none of the priestesses knew existed. Thaleste had found it. No longer would she be pitied as the novice who flinched at shadows and flailed around with a sword. She'd just proven her worth, or rather, she was about to.

The pedestal had to be the key. The bust that stood on it had parted lips and a hollowed-out mouth. Peering into it, Thaleste spotted the mechanism inside. It would, no doubt, be protected by a needle trap. The poison had probably dried to dust long ago, but Thaleste wasn't about to take chances. If the aranea had gone that way, she might have refreshed the supply.

Thaleste drew her dagger and slid its blade into the statue's mouth, triggering the mechanism. The pedestal shifted, rotating on its base. She sheathed her dagger and spun the pedestal farther. A section of wall behind slid open with a loud grinding of stone on stone.

Thaleste silently cheered. She'd done it! She stared into the passage beyond the door, wondering if she should go any farther. She wished she knew the prayer that would have allowed her to report her discovery to Battle-mistress Iljrene immediately, but that spell was beyond her, and what if she was wrong, and the passage led nowhere? That would give the other priestesses even more reason to doubt Thaleste's capabilities. Even if the passage did lead somewhere, calling Iljrene in too soon would only mean that Thaleste's discovery would be overshadowed. Iljrene might not deliberately claim the honor that came from finding the answer to the mystery, but it would accrue to the battle-mistress just the same.

Thaleste squared her shoulders. She was a priestess of Eilistraee. By song and sword, she'd see it through herself.

As soon as she released the pedestal, the door started to slide shut. Thaleste caught the pedestal and stood a moment, wondering if she should prop the door open then decided she'd rather have a wall at her back. If she left the door open, some creature might follow her inside. Besides, the door had a handle on the inside of it, carved into the stone. It obviously could be opened from inside. Releasing the pedestal, she stepped through the door and let it shut behind her.

The passageway extended for quite some distance-north, as far as Thaleste could reckon-sloping gently up then down again. At its highest point, she heard a distant murmur of water. She pressed her ear to the wall then to the floor. The sound came from below. The passage, she guessed, must arch over the Sargauth.

At last the corridor ended in a blank stone wall. Peering closely at it, Thaleste could see a rectangular crack, thin as a hair: another hidden door. To her right was a spiral staircase, carved into the stone, that led downward from that point. Deciding to leave the door for later, she descended the staircase instead, counting the steps as she went. The walls became damp-she must have been level with the river-but still the stairway kept spiraling downward. She looked around as she descended, searching for traces of web that would confirm that the aranea and spellgaunt had come that way. There were none.

Thaleste's foot slipped, and she nearly fell. Looking down, she saw that the steps no longer had square edges. They were rounded, as if from heavy wear. Just around the bend, the staircase ended in a large, open space, a cavern whose floor was utterly smooth, as if an ooze had flowed over it, polishing it clean.

Thaleste stood for several moments, breathing rapidly. What if there was an ooze down here? The drow who had built the city above her had worshiped Ghaunadaur. The lonely hole might hold one of his altars. It might even be an entrance to the Pit itself.

Her legs felt weak and wobbly. Her stomach was churning. Every instinct screamed at her to turn and flee back the way she'd come, but giving up would be even worse than never having tried at all.

In a quavering voice, she sang a prayer that would protect her against evil. It helped bolster her courage a little. Then she crept down the last few stairs and peeked into the room.

It was empty, utterly empty. There were no exits, no gaping pits in the floor or holes in the ceiling. The chamber was perhaps ten paces across and more or less round. The walls and ceiling were just as smooth as the floor. It had obviously once been the lair of an ooze, but that creature was long gone. The walls were dry, and the air smelted only of cold stone.

There were, however, several objects scattered across the floor. They were the size and shape of eggs-about sixty of them, by Thaleste's quick estimate. She stepped into the room and squatted down next to one. It turned out to be a polished oval of black obsidian. She whispered a prayer and saw that all of the stones glowed with magic. She had no idea what this signified, but it was certainly worth reporting to Iljrene. She picked up one of the stones and slipped it into the pouch on her belt.

By the time she reached the top of the stairs, she was breathing heavily. In Menzoberranzan, she'd traveled everywhere by drift disc. Even after two years of training she still wasn't used to such exertion, especially in a heavy chain mail tunic. Even so, she all but ran down the corridor, back to the first secret door she'd found. She opened it a crack and peeked out, but the chamber beyond was empty. Stepping out of the passage, she let the door slide shut behind her. She climbed swiftly down the column, and breathlessly hurried back in the direction of the Promenade, keen to report to Battle-mistress Iljrene what she'd just found.

An alarm sounded, just a few paces away. Thaleste started, nearly dropping her sword then realized she'd neglected to sing the hymn that would prevent the magical alarms from sounding. She did so, but the alarm continued to clang.

Something soft and squishy tapped her on the back then pulled away with a soft sucking sound, plucking at the chain mail it had just touched.

Thaleste shrieked and spun. Behind her was a creature from a nightmare, an enormous wormlike thing as thick. around as a large tree trunk. Eight tentacles waved in front of its face, and its teeth clicked together hungrily. Eyestalks swiveled this way and that as its mouth opened. A foul, rotting-meat stench came from it, together with a dribble of maggots.

A carrion crawler.

Thaleste's hand shook so violently her sword was like a quivering leaf. Backing slowly away, she began a prayer that would strengthen her, but before she could complete it, two tentacles lashed out. Thaleste dodged one, but the other struck her sword hand. The skin felt as if it was on fire. The sensation spread swiftly up her arm, leaving numbness in its wake. Within a heartbeat, it had reached her torso. A heartbeat more, and her face and legs were also affected. She stood, paralyzed, her prayer halted in mid-word. Her breath came in short, fluttering gasps-all her lungs could manage.

Knowing that she was about to be devoured, she tried to bring her hands up to her belt. At the very least, she would spill the stone she'd found from her pouch where a patrol could find it. She strained until tears welled in her eyes, but her arms refused to move.

The carrion crawler advanced, its body undulating, its clawed feet making soft clicking noises on the stone floor. Thaleste watched in horror as the crawler reared above her then descended. Its mouth enveloped her head, and its teeth lanced into her shoulders. The pain was intense. She let out a suffocated gurgle that would have been a scream had her vocal cords not also been paralyzed. The crawler's teeth sawed back and forth, ripping apart Thaleste's chain mail tunic. There was more pain, and blood, flowing down her body in hot streams that soaked her shirt and trousers. Then a sharp pain, deeper than anything she had experienced before, and-

Thaleste blinked. The pain, the stench-all sensation was gone. She drifted on a gray, featureless plain, cradled in soothing song. Moonlight fell gently on her from above. She raised something-arms? No, that wasn't quite it. She could no longer feel her body, but the moonlight understood. The song intensified, the moonlight lifted her toward its source: a swirling dance that filled the air above.

"Eilistraee," she sighed.

The soul of the drow who had once been called Thaleste joined the dance and found peace.