by Lisa Smedman
He kneeled and peered inside. At the back of the crevice, something glowed with an eerie purple light: magical script, arranged in a semi-circle along the curved top of a half-buried arch. He’d been right! The dead priestess had arrived through a portal. The top half of the arch was clear. The rubble that had previously hidden it from view must have tumbled through the portal after it was activated. The lower half of the arch was still hidden by an enormous slab of fallen stone. Still, enough of the portal was clear for it to be useful.
And—here was the truly amazing thing—he’d seen that portal before. It was the one he’d led his sister and her companions to, three years ago, as they fled the collapsing city.
He rocked back on his heels, amazed at the coincidence.
Remembering.
The portal had been inside the Dangling Tower. Q’arlynd had led Halisstra and her companions to it, only to be confronted by the portal’s protector, an iron golem. The golem had attacked the group, driving them back from the portal and seizing Q’arlynd. When a fissure opened in the floor beneath the golem, it had fallen through, dragging Q’arlynd along as well. Q’arlynd had been in the clutches of the golem, falling, as the stalactite that housed the Dangling Tower tore free of the cavern’s ceiling and plunged down through the city, careening off the streets and buildings below. He’d escaped the golem by teleporting away in mid-fall.
He’d assumed that his sister and her companions had been killed when the tower smashed to pieces on the cavern floor far below. He hadn’t even bothered to search for Halisstra’s body, thinking it would lie buried deep in the rubble, but the survival of the portal presented a new possibility. Perhaps Halisstra had managed to escape through it as the tower was falling. If so, she might still be wherever it led. She, too, would have assumed her sibling was dead. The last she’d seen of Q’arlynd he was in the grip of a golem dragging him to a certain-death fall. She likely would have heard of the city’s complete destruction—which would explain why, if she was still alive, she hadn’t returned to Ched Nasad.
If Halisstra was alive and Q’arlynd could locate her, he might be able to improve his lot. Instead of being a vassal to another House—little better than a slave, really—he would once again be part of a noble House. It would, of course, be a House of two, but time would remedy that. House Melarn would rise again.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to slow down. Halisstra may not have even made it through the portal, he reminded himself. Her skeleton might very well be somewhere under the heap of rubble on which he squatted. He would not allow himself to hope. Not yet.
A sighing noise behind him made him whirl, his free hand reaching for the wand sheathed at his hip, but it was only the driftdisc he’d summoned earlier. It could just as easily, however, have been one of his enemies. He chastised himself for letting his guard down. It was a stupid thing to do, if one wanted to keep on living.
And Q’arlynd wanted very much to do just that.
He glanced back at the arch. The script no longer glowed. It should be a simple enough matter to re-activate the portal—the inscription was in Draconic, which Q’arlynd could read—but he wasn’t about to step blindly into unknown territory, not without learning all he could about the dead priestess. She had, after all, come from wherever the portal led to.
He took a careful look around, noting landmarks in the rubble. Then he settled himself cross-legged on the driftdisc and sped away.
Nearly three hundred leagues to the east, in a little-visited section of the sprawling underground labyrinth known as Undermountain, a Darksong Knight and a novice priestess of Eilistraee patrolled a dark cavern that wound its way past several natural columns of stone. Nearly a thousand years ago, the cavern had been one arm of a sprawling Underdark city. The drow who built that city were long gone—consumed by the slimes and oozes they had venerated—but traces of what they built could be seen still. The columns and walls, for example, were carved with notches that had once served as handholds and footholds. Holes in the cavern ceiling were the entrances to buildings that had been hollowed by magic out of native stone. Still more holes, arranged in intricate, lacelike patterns, had served as windows in the floors of these buildings. Some of the clearstone in these windows was still intact, but centuries of accumulated bat guano had obliterated any view inside.
The Darksong Knight pointed out those details as they walked along. “We only recently claimed this area. We hope to incorporate it into the Promenade, one day,” Cavatina told the novice. “For now, though, it’s home only to dire bats, cloakers, crawlers—and the occasional adventurer who blunders in and manages not to get eaten by the first three.”
The novice obliged Cavatina by smiling. Her posture, however, was tense. Her eyes kept straying to the dark holes in the cavern ceiling above. Understandable, Cavatina thought. It was Thaleste’s first patrol south of the Sargauth River. The novice had trained for two years but had yet to blood her sword. She’d spent all that time within the safe confines of the Promenade—the name Eilistraee’s faithful had given the temple that lay on the other side of the river. Cavatina could hear the low gurgle of the Sargauth still, but the comforting sounds of the Cavern of Song lay far behind.
She pointed to a spot on the floor. “You see this smooth patch?” she asked.
The novice nodded.
“A slime passed this way, long ago, but it, along with the rest of the minions of the god of oozes and slimes, was driven into the Pit of Ghaunadaur. Which is …?” she prompted.
The novice spoke solemnly. “The pit in which the Ancient One was imprisoned by Eilistraee’s Chosen, Qilué, First Lady of the Dance. She built Eilistraee’s Mound to mark the spot where Ghaunadaur was defeated.”
“Where his avatar was defeated, Thaleste,” Cavatina corrected. “Ghaunadaur himself still lurks in his domain. That is why we patrol these dark halls—why we have built our temple here. We must ensure that his avatar never rises again.”
Thaleste nodded nervously.
Cavatina smiled. “It’s been a long time since anything oozed through these halls,” she reassured the novice. “About six hundred years.”
Another nervous nod.
Cavatina sighed to herself. Novices were not, as a rule, allowed to venture into truly dangerous areas, even with a seasoned Darksong Knight accompanying them. There was little there for Thaleste to fret about. The purpose of the patrol was simply to check the defensive glyphs and symbols that had recently been set there and report any that needed to be restored.
They continued on through the cavern, a novice in simple leather armor, and a warrior-priestess in a mithral chain mail shirt, her steel breastplate embossed with her goddess’s symbols. Each female had a sword sheathed at her hip, next to a dagger. The Darksong Knight carried a hunting horn as well, slung from a strap that crossed one shoulder. Both priestesses were drow, their ebon skin blending with the darkness, their white hair and eyebrows standing out in stark contrast.
Cavatina, despite her vastly higher station, was still in her first century of life. Barely adult, by drow standards. The daughter of a Sword Dancer, she had her mother’s lean, wiry build. She was tall, even for a drow female. Most of the other priestesses came only to her shoulder. Only Qilué herself was taller. During Cavatina’s youth, there had been innumerable teasing about her being long and narrow as a sword blade but blunt as a maul when it came to speaking her mind.
Thaleste, on the other hand, was well into middle age, her body soft after decades of sloth. She had come to Eilistraee’s faith only recently after a life of pampered luxury in one of the noble Houses of Menzoberranzan. Her motive for leaving that city had been far from holy. She’d angered her matron and barely survived the poison that had been slipped into her wine. She had been headed for Skullport for some poison of her own when she’d taken a wrong turn and blundered into the Promenade—a fork in life’s path she later understood to be the unseen hand of Eilistraee.
Thaleste had gone from being a la
zy, self-indulgent viper to a fervent worshiper who had embraced the goddess wholeheartedly, once she understood what the worship of Eilistraee truly meant. When that enlightenment had come, she’d wept openly, something a drow of the Underdark never did. She later confided in Cavatina that it had been the first time in two and a half centuries that she’d allowed herself to feel.
Cavatina had heard it many times before. She’d been born into Eilistraee’s worship, seen many conversions. She envied each and every one. She herself would never know the moment of rapture redemption could bring. Though she had—and she smiled—experienced the intense exhilaration of skewering one of Lolth’s demonic minions on her sword. More than one, in fact.
She sighed. Compared to a demon hunt, patrolling was dull work. She almost hoped that a cloaker would swoop down from the ceiling. She patted the bastard sword at her hip. Demonbane would make short work of it. The sword might not hum as prettily as the temple’s singing swords, but it had seen Cavatina through more battles than she could count.
They continued through the cavern, checking to make sure that none of the magical symbols had been dispelled. Each symbol was as large as a breastplate, painted prominently on a wall, floor, or column where those passing through the cavern couldn’t help but glance at it. The symbols had been painted using a paste made from a blend of liquid mercury and red phosphorus, sprinkled with powdered diamond and opal. Attuned to Eilistraee’s faithful, the symbols could be safely stared at by her priestesses and lay worshipers, but anyone with evil intentions who so much as glanced at a symbol would trigger it, as would any cleric who served Eilistraee’s enemies. Cavatina pointed out for Thaleste the difference between those symbols that caused wracking pain, and those that sapped strength.
“None that kill?” the novice asked. “Why not slay our enemies outright?”
“Because for all drow, there is a chance of redemption,” Cavatina answered. Then she smiled grimly. “Though for some, the chance is much slimmer than for others. That’s what our swords are for. Once an intruder is debilitated, we give her one chance. She can live by the song—or die by the sword.”
Thaleste nodded, her eyes bright with tears. She’d made that very choice, just two years ago.
They moved on, softly singing the hymn that disabled the cavern’s other magical protections. Tiny bells, hanging from silver threads, had been secreted here and there among the columns. Capable of detecting anything that moved in the cavern without singing the proper wards, the bells were ensorcelled to sound a clamorous alarm that could be heard dozens of paces away. A silence spell could muffle the sound, but the spell would have to be cast several times over—once per bell—and each bell’s hiding place would have to be found first.
All of the bells Cavatina randomly selected to inspect were in place; none had been disturbed. Each rang with a clear ping when Cavatina flicked it with a fingernail.
Just like the Promenade itself, the caverns were protected not only by visible defenses but also by less tangible magic. Forbiddance spells had been put in place with sprinkles of holy water and wafts of incense, invisible to any who did not have the magic to detect them. They were a potent barrier, one that prevented enemies from teleporting or shifting there—even in astral or ethereal form. The forbiddance spells were permanent, and only the most powerful of spellcasters could remove them. The only way to bypass them was with one of Eilistraee’s holy songs, and even that held no guarantee of safety. Those who used the song to slip past the magical barrier would, if of evil intent, arrive with grievous wounds—possibly even fatal ones.
The cavern narrowed, and the floor rose and fell. The priestesses clambered over half-formed stalagmites that looked like sagging lumps of dough. Several times, Thaleste’s scabbard scraped against the soft limestone, tracing a faint line. The novice had a lot to learn about moving silently.
“The cloakers are going to have ample time to spring an ambush, with all that noise you’re making,” Cavatina warned her.
Thaleste was breathing hard from her exertions. Her face darkened in a blush. “My apologies, Mistress.”
“Dark Lady,” Cavatina corrected. “There are no matron mothers here.”
“Dark Lady. My apologies.”
Cavatina accepted the apology with a nod.
Eventually, they reached the spot where the cavern ended. The ceiling was low enough that Cavatina could have touched it. A faint breeze issued from a crack above her head. A narrow chimney, barely as wide as her shoulders, twisted up to the surface. She watched as Thaleste peered up into the opening.
There was movement inside the chimney—a flutter of wings. Thaleste shrieked as something small and black burst out of it. Cavatina, who had started to draw her sword even as Thaleste flinched, slid it back into its sheath. She stared at the creature as it flew away, squeaking.
“A bat.” She sighed. “The next time something comes hurtling at you, Thaleste, try drawing your sword or casting a spell.” She nodded at the chimney. “Now check the glyph.”
Thaleste, blushing, murmured a prayer, casting a detection spell. Just inside the chimney, a glyph sprang into luminescence, sparkling like the light scattered by a diamond. Frowning in concentration, Thaleste studied its outlines, her finger tracing through the air in front of it.
“A songblast glyph,” she announced at last, letting the glow fade. “Untriggered. Nothing evil has passed this way.” Her shoulders relaxed a little as she said this.
“Unless it was ethereal,” Cavatina reminded her.
The shoulders tensed again.
“Fortunately, the ability to assume ethereal form is something that few creatures—and only the most powerful spellcasters—are capable of,” Cavatina continued. “And those that are capable of ethereal travel have no need for entrances like this one. They can pass through solid stone.”
Thaleste swallowed nervously and glanced at the wall next to her out of the corner of her eye.
“The walls here are thick,” Cavatina assured her. “Any spellcaster out on an ethereal jaunt would materialize inside solid stone long before reaching this spot.”
Thaleste nodded.
“We’re done here,” Cavatina said. “Let’s go back.”
As they made their way back along the winding corridor they’d just traveled, Cavatina once again saw Thaleste startle. “Have you spotted something, Novice?”
Thaleste pointed at the ceiling. “A movement. Behind that broken window.” She gave her mentor an apologetic smile. “Probably just another bat.”
Cavatina chastised herself for having missed whatever Thaleste had just spotted. She should have been paying more attention. Then again, Thaleste was a nervous one. She’d only occasionally ventured outside the walls of her residence in Menzoberranzan. Her trip to Skullport had been an act of desperation. Eilistraee only knew how Thaleste had managed to survive as many decades as she had inside the City of Spiders. She was prone to seeing monsters in every shadow.
Even so, Cavatina drew her sword. The temple’s battle-mistress had given specific orders to those on patrol. Any monster, no matter how small a threat it posed, was to be killed. The caverns the Promenade had recently claimed must be kept clean of vermin, and there were protocols to be followed. The use of silent speech during alerts, for example.
Stay here, Cavatina signed to Thaleste. I’ll investigate. Cast a protection upon yourself, just in case. Shouldn’t I come with you?
No. The last thing Cavatina needed was a novice getting in the way of a hunt, and even if it turned out to be a cloaker up above, it would all be over in a few moments.
As Thaleste hurriedly whispered a protective prayer, Cavatina spoke the word that activated her magical boots. They lifted her into the air toward the window the novice had pointed at. The ceiling was perhaps a hundred paces high, and the window was one of those that had fallen away. Only a few jagged shards of clearstone hung from a hole that gaped a dozen paces wide. As Cavatina levitated toward it, a palm-sized fragment of
clearstone dislodged from the remains of the window frame and fell, shattering to pieces on the stone floor below. Thaleste flinched away from it, her sword shaking in her hand.
Cavatina smiled as she rose toward the hole in the ceiling. Something was inside the room above. She gripped Demonbane in both hands, adjusting her grip on the worn leather of its hilt. Whatever it was, she was ready for it.
The window opened onto what had once been a grand hall. Pedestals along each wall held stone busts of those who had once inhabited the noble manor. Several of the busts had fallen and lay in pieces on the floor, but others had survived. A dais at one end of the room had probably once supported a throne. Behind the dais were the remains of a mosaic, most of its tiles long since fallen out. Enough remained, however, to show drow kneeling in submission before an altar, though the object of their veneration was indistinguishable. Side passages led off from the left and right.
All this, Cavatina took in at a glance. To all appearances, the room was as empty as any other in this area, but appearances could be deceiving. She twisted as she rose through the window, pushing off from what remained of the sill. Another piece of clearstone fell—something else for Thaleste to flinch at. As Cavatina drifted toward a more solid piece of floor, she sang a prayer. Divine magic surged out from her in a rippling circle, filling the room. If whatever was in here with her was invisible, the magic that cloaked it from sight was about to be purged.
The creature was revealed in mid-leap: a spider the size of a large dog, its spindly legs twice as long as Cavatina was tall. It came at her with its fang-tipped jaws distended, its mouth trailing drops of saliva that sparkled like golden faerie fire.
Cavatina slashed at the creature as it hurtled toward her, but the spider twisted in mid-leap, avoiding the blade. A slash that should have cleaved its body in two instead merely sliced off a couple of the bristles protruding from its cheek. Odd, that the spider had twisted its head toward the sword—it almost seemed to be trying to bite the weapon.
