Storm of the Dead

by Lisa Smedman

  Qilué glanced sharply down at Cavatina. “Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Cavatina said quickly. “Two nights from now, at moonrise. I’ll be ready.”

  Master Seldszar sat cross-legged on a raised stone platform, cushioned by his meditation mat. At least two dozen crystal spheres no larger than pebbles orbited his head. Most were clear and contained a miniaturized image of a person or place the Master of Divination monitored, but one, Q’arlynd knew, could detect falsehoods spoken in the master’s presence.

  Even though Master Seldszar listened to Miverra speak, his glance kept drifting back to the crystals. Pale green faerie fire burst from his forehead and drifted toward them, fading just before it touched the spheres.

  The master’s eyes were pale yellow; rumor had it he’d had them replaced, decades ago, with the eyes of an eagle. His hair, too, tended toward yellow. It matched his piwafwi, which was embroidered, in black, with numerous eyes: the symbol of his college. The garment was magical, and the direction in which each embroidered eye seemed to be looking constantly shifted.

  Q’arlynd stood to one side of the master’s platform. Miverra was in front of it, her eyes barely level with its top. If she was intimidated by the master, she showed no sign.

  “I understand, Master Seldszar, that the spellcasters of Sshamath are experiencing a strange manifestation whenever they attempt a divination spell. Our priestesses have also noticed peculiar things, whenever they sing a hymn of divination.”

  “Faerie fire,” Q’arlynd added. “Just like our wizards. You see why I thought you should hear what Lady Miverra had to say.”

  Miverra turned to him. “Not quite, Q’arlynd. The faerie fire effect seems to be peculiar to Sshamath.”

  Q’arlynd fought to hide his startle. “But you said—”

  “I did not.” Her lips quirked slightly. “You made that assumption. But what I have to impart here today is equally worthy of Master Seldszar’s time.”

  Master Seldszar shot a glance at Q’arlynd, then returned his attention to the spheres. “Go on,” he told the priestess.

  “Something is heightening the Faerzress that surround the vast majority of our Underdark communities. In areas adjacent to a Faerzress, it’s become increasingly difficult to perform any acts of divination over the past little while, as well as to—”

  “Teleport?” Q’arlynd interjected, suddenly realizing what her earlier question about setting the grimlocks free had really been about.

  “Yes. But strangely enough, only for drow. All other races seem unaffected. The Faerzress still hamper them, but only to the degree that they always have.”

  “By ‘drow,’ you include half-drow?” Master Seldszar asked.

  Q’arlynd nodded to himself; Seldszar was obviously thinking of his son.

  “Half-drow, as well.”

  “You said ‘over the past little while,’” Master Seldszar observed. “I take it this has been going on elsewhere for some time?”

  “The first reports of the effect came in from far to the northeast a tenday ago, just after High Harvestide,” Miverra said. “From the region south of the Moonsea, where our priestesses have labored, these past few years, to bring the survivors from Maerimydra up into the light.”

  Q’arlynd recognized the name. Maermydra was a drow city that, like Ched Nasad, had been invaded and destroyed during Lolth’s Silence. He’d heard that what little of it remained was home to hordes of undead. Even fewer had survived there than in Ched Nasad.

  Master Seldszar’s arms were crossed, and the hand that was hidden under the sleeve of his piwafwi flicked a question at Q’arlynd: Moon-sea? Surface?

  Q’arlynd turned to Miverra. “Forgive my ignorance, Lady Miverra, but is the Moonsea part of the Surface Realms?”

  She nodded. “It lies directly above the Moondeep Sea, its Underdark counterpart in the Deep Wastes.”

  “Ah,” Q’arlynd said.

  “We believe that region contains the source of the problem,” Miverra continued.

  “Interesting,” Master Seldszar commented.

  The master’s tone was carefully neutral, but Q’arlynd felt certain Seldszar was experiencing a rush of relief. When the manifestations had begun, Master Seldszar had concluded the faerie fire was a plot to discredit his college. He’d been obsessing about which of the other masters was scheming against him. He must have been glad to hear the problem was originating from somewhere … else. Somewhere outside Sshamath.

  Miverra stared up at him. “The Acropolis of Thanatos—Kiaransalee’s largest temple—lies under the Galena Mountains, just northeast of the Moondeep. That could be coincidence, but personally, I don’t think so. We believe the Crones are behind whatever is affecting the Faerzress. We’ll know soon enough if our guess is right.”

  “You’ve sent out spies?”

  She hesitated. “We prefer to call them ‘scouts.’ An advance party. We’ll be sending the best the Promenade has.”

  “I’m surprised that something so far away affects us here,” Q’arlynd observed. “The Moondeep Sea is a long way from Sshamath. More than three hundred leagues.”

  “The effect is spreading,” Miverra said. “It only just reached this far. And it’s getting worse. Up around the Moondeep, it’s grown very strong. Sing a divination hymn there—even a simple chant to reveal the presence of a magical aura—and it’s not just more difficult than usual. Nothing happens at all. The same is true of scryings, spells of location, distance viewings, thought detection—any form of magic that imparts wisdom or extends the senses. They’re all impossible.”

  Q’arlynd suddenly realized the implication. “Are you telling us it’s going to get that bad here?”

  “Yes. Every Faerzress we’ve monitored over the past few days has grown steadily brighter and larger. There’s no Faerzress surrounding Sshamath, but that unwanted faerie fire that accompanies your castings may be part of the same effect. What you’ve seen so far is only the start. When it gets as bad here as it is in the Deep Wastes, you’ll be blinded by faerie fire every time you attempt a divination.”

  Master Seldszar’s attention was wholly upon Miverra. The tiny crystal balls zipped past his face unheeded. “How much time do we have?”

  “At the rate it’s growing … another tenday, give or take a day or two.”

  Q’arlynd’s pulse raced. If it got as bad in Sshamath as Miverra had just described—if divination became impossible—the college he’d attached himself to would collapse. When it fell, he’d have neither funding for his experiments, nor a master to nominate his school. Q’arlynd would never become a master of a formally recognized college, never become a member of the Conclave. All his hard work would be for nothing.

  Unless, he reminded himself, his school was somehow recognized as a college before that happened. As a separate entity, the College of Ancient Arcana would no longer be dependent upon anyone.

  Q’arlynd’s mind raced as he weighed the odds of that happening. It would certainly be possible, within the next tenday, to manipulate Master Seldszar into nominating the School of Ancient Arcana for acceptance as a college, but there would be strings attached. If the school was elevated to college status, Q’arlynd was likely to wind up a master in name only, with Seldszar the real power behind the throne. Seldszar might even try to seize control directly. His son Eldrinn was one of Q’arlynd’s apprentices, after all, and “accidents” could always be arranged.

  No, Q’arlynd would have to petition the Conclave on his own, without the benefit of a formal nomination. Just getting the masters to convene would require a miracle—especially if it were to happen within the next tenday. There were dozens of schools in Sshamath, all vying to be elevated to the status of the city’s eleventh officially recognized college. Q’arlynd would first have to secure an audience with the Conclave—a difficult enough task, as Miverra could attest—and convince the masters that a school that most of them had never even heard of was worthy of elevation to college status. In
order to do that, he’d have to do something really impressive. Demonstrate the capability to wield high magic, for example. Or something close enough to it that their eyes would widen. And the only way he was going to do that was by cracking the secrets of the kiira. Immediately.

  Miverra was still talking. “… and that’s why we’re hoping that Sshamath will lend us its aid.”

  Master Seldszar had composed himself. His voice was stone-steady as he responded. “What do you propose?”

  “We’d like you to share with us whatever you learn. The faerie fire effect is unique to Sshamath; there must be a reason for that. We’d like to know what that reason is. We’re also seeking a contribution to any military campaign we might mount against Kiaransalee’s temple, should our advance party prove unable to deal with the problem.”

  Q’arlynd found his voice. “An army would never reach the temple in time for a military campaign to benefit us. The Dark Wastes are leagues away. From what you’ve just described, teleportation to that region is already impossible.”

  “That’s true. But we have other means of reaching the area: a portal.” She stared up at Master Seldszar. “If it comes to a military campaign against the Acropolis, do you think you’ll be able to convince the Conclave to join us?”

  Q’arlynd waited as expectantly as Miverra for the master’s reply. He could guess what must be going through Seldszar’s mind. Though Q’arlynd had lived in Sshamath for only a short time, he knew how the pieces would line up. All of the colleges would be affected by the loss of divination magic, but their wizards relied on it to a lesser degree. If they needed a divination, they could always find a human wizard to cast one for them. The spells they specialized in would be unaffected; the crisis would leave them largely untouched. They might, in fact, be just as happy to see the College of Divination fall. Power sliced nine ways, instead of ten, would give each a larger piece of the pie that was Sshamath.

  What’s more, the other Masters would be loath to participate in a campaign that might cost them a number of the city’s soldiers and battle mages. Lolth’s temple in Sshamath was small, but since the upheaval that had thinned the ranks of Vhaeraun’s clergy, the Spider Queen’s priestesses controlled most of the healing magic. A crusade led by their hated rivals would be the last thing they would agree to. And without healing magic, any expeditionary force’s losses would be unacceptably high.

  Yet there might yet be a way to salvage things.

  “Master, might I confer with you about something?” Q’arlynd asked.

  Miverra shot him a glance. Q’arlynd gave her his best “trust me” look.

  Master Seldszar gestured toward the door. “Please step outside for a moment, Lady Miverra.”

  The priestess straightened her shoulders indignantly. A moment later, however, she bowed. “I’ll await your reply.” She strode out of the room.

  When she was gone, Q’arlynd took a deep breath. “Master, forgive my brashness, but I know a thing or two about Eilistraee’s priestesses. My sister was one of them, after all. I understand how they think. Much of what they do is based on trust,” he said, using the surface elves’ word for the term that had, in High Drowic, no true equivalent. “If we tell Miverra a little of the truth, give her a hint of the complexity of what she’s asking, we’ll convince her that a small force is all that could possibly be mustered.”

  The master stared down at Q’arlynd. “Go on.”

  “The Conclave hasn’t heard Miverra’s petition yet. The other masters will know that a priestess of Eilistraee wished to speak to them, but not why. If she can be convinced to leave quietly with a small force of wizards drawn entirely from our college, we could secretly participate in the scouting expedition. Judging by the way she worded it, her ‘advance party’ hasn’t departed yet. If the source of the problem does indeed turn out to be Kiaransalee’s temple, and if its spread can be halted or even reversed by our wizards, then you, Master, could claim credit for ‘solving’ the problem. No one from the Conclave need know about the crisis our college is facing—or that we participated in an expedition headed by Eilistraee’s priestesses. And if the other Masters do find out, well….” Q’arlynd shrugged. “It’s always been my experience that asking permission after the fact is easier.”

  Master Seldszar’s eyes closed. His lips worked silently as he gestured. Motes of pale green faerie fire sparkled momentarily on his closed eyelids. For a moment, his face was gray and taut. But when his eyes opened again, they held a look of resolve. “We will do as you suggest. Send a small force of wizards. Not an army.”

  Q’arlynd frowned slightly. Who’d said anything about an army? Nevertheless, he was pleased. Once again, he’d proved his worth. The problem would be dealt with—and he could get back to his experiments.

  He inclined his head toward the door. “Shall I call Miverra back in?”

  Master Seldszar’s eyebrows rose. “‘Miverra?’ Not, ‘Lady Miverra?’”

  Q’arlynd swallowed. He resisted the urge to close his fingers over the scar in his palm that marked him as having taken Eilistraee’s sword oath. “I—”

  “Just as well. She trusts you. That should prove useful.”

  “‘Useful?’” Q’arlynd had a bad feeling about this.

  The master’s eyes flicked back to his crystal balls. “You’ll be going, of course. On the expedition.”

  No! Q’arlynd silently moaned. I can’t! Not now!

  His mouth felt dry. If the priestess’s scouting expedition failed and the College of Divination fell, he would lose valuable time. Time that might be used to unlock the secrets of the kiira and learn spells that would impress the Conclave. But he could hardly tell Master Seldszar that.

  The master’s eyes flicked down to Q’arlynd. “Is there a problem?”

  “No. Of course not. It’s just …” Q’arlynd hesitated. Master Seldszar had overlooked the glaringly obvious, yet how was Q’arlynd to word his reply without giving insult?

  Q’arlynd chose his words carefully. “Perhaps I’m missing something. I would have thought that the party would consist of our non-drow wizards. Humans, surface elves—diviners whose magic won’t be compromised by the augmented Faerzress.”

  Master Seldszar smiled. “Obviously, it will have to include them. But there is, as you pointed out, this little matter of ‘trust.’ Will non-drow truly care about solving our problem when they aren’t affected by it personally? Should divination become impossible for drow, the talents of non-drow diviners will become immensely valuable. They may secretly be hoping that our college falls. They’re the only possibly candidates for this mission, but who will keep an eye on them? Who can I ‘trust’? The choice is obvious: Eldrinn. He’ll be in charge of the party—and you’ll be there to back him up. The majority of your spells, as I recall, are non-divinatory and will be unaffected by Faerzress energy. Correct?”

  “It is as you say, Master Seldszar,” Q’arlynd admitted grudgingly.

  Seldszar returned his attention to his crystal balls. “Call Lady Miverra back in and convey my decision to her. As soon as our mages are assembled, they’ll depart with her, whenever she’s ready to go.”

  As Cavatina strode into the Cavern of Song, all eyes turned toward her. After nearly two years of this, she should have gotten blasé about the admiring looks, yet they still filled her with a rush of pride. Her chin lifted and her shoulders squared. A smile played about her lips as her fellow priestesses either inclined their heads to her or bowed deeply, their marks of respect indicating how recently they’d left the customs of the Underdark behind. Their voices swelled, filling the cavern with a joyous sound.

  Like the other priestesses, Cavatina was naked, save for her sword belt and the holy symbol that hung about her neck. She drew her sword and pointed it at the spot on the floor where Eilistraee’s shimmering moonfire was brightest, marking the current location of the moon in the world beyond the Promenade. As she sang, she watched colorful waves of moonfire flow across the floor like rippl
es on a pond. They washed over the two dozen or so priestesses gathered there, and bathed in radiance the statue that dominated the cavern, a monument to the temple’s founder and its high priestess.

  The statue showed a youthful Qilué as she was imagined to have stood at the moment she defeated Ghaunadaur’s avatar, her singing sword raised above her head in triumphant salute to the goddess. In fact, Qilué had collapsed immediately after that battle, spent and near death after Eilistraee used her body as a conduit for Mystra’s silver fire.

  Elsewhere in the Promenade, stone carvers were hard at work on a similar statue, this one commemorating the slaying of Selvetarm. When complete, it would be erected in the cavern that housed the Protectors’ living quarters. It would show Cavatina, Crescent Blade in hand, delivering the blow that had severed the demigod’s neck.

  With Qilué’s permission—and Cavatina was still working on achieving this—the statue would also depict Halisstra, one arm raised, her hand extended from having just passed Cavatina the sword. Halisstra would be carved as she had been before Lolth transformed her: as a drow female. It would be a slight untruth, but no one would be the wiser. Only Cavatina and Qilué had seen the horrible monster Halisstra had become.

  Halisstra had disappeared after Selvetarm fell, and even Qilué had been unable to scry her. Cavatina had returned to the Demonweb Pits to search for Halisstra but had found no trace of the former priestess. Cavatina had battled her way past yochlols and questioned lesser demons at the point of her singing sword, but the paths they sent her on led only to the creeping horrors that thrived in Lolth’s domain. Halisstra was just … gone. At last acknowledging that, Cavatina had allowed the Darkwatch portal to be sealed.

  She sang a soft prayer, imploring Eilistraee to embrace Halisstra’s dark soul, should it ever find its way to the goddess’s side. Then she joined the others in the sacred hymn.