by Lisa Smedman
“Bring both to me.”
As Flinderspeld began crawling back through the crevice, Q’arlynd heard rubble shift behind him. That would be Prellyn, the velvet-gloved fist of Matron Teh’Kinrellz. As he’d arranged, she’d “spotted” him sneaking out of the Teh’Kinrellz stronghold earlier and had followed him here. Q’arlynd pretended to be startled by her approach.
“You’ve set up your own excavation, I see,” she said in a voice silky with menace. “Find anything interesting?”
“Nothing.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Just an empty hole.”
“Liar.”
Prellyn seized his chin and jerked his head up, forcing him to meet her eyes. Like most drow females, she stood head and shoulders taller than he. Red eyes smoldered under brows that pinched together in a perpetual frown. Her arms were more muscular than his own, her hands roughly calloused. The wrist-crossbow strapped to her forearm was loaded, its barbed point uncomfortably close to Q’arlynd’s cheek. If he turned his head, it would gouge his eye.
“Still,” Prellyn whispered, “I like a boy with some fire in his eye. A fire …” Her free hand drifted down between his legs, “that kindles at my command.”
She kissed him. Hard. Q’arlynd felt himself responding to her touch. Her air of menace was as exhilarating as a freefall. She was going to take him. Now. And when she was done, she’d punish him for daring to scavenge on his own. Not with a whipping, like those doled out to common House boys, but with something far more subtle. A wounding spell, perhaps, one that would burn a thousand tiny spider bites into his flesh.
He hoped it was going to be worth it.
Prellyn forced Q’arlynd onto his back atop the rubble and straddled him. She ran a finger down his nose, lingering over the spot where it had been broken decades ago. Then she yanked open his shirt.
Aroused though he was, Q’arlynd had a more pressing need. Information.
Flinderspeld was hiding in the hole, unwilling to come out. He’d blurred himself and was all but invisible, though the ring he wore allowed Q’arlynd to overhear his every thought whenever his master wished. At the moment, Flinderspeld was mentally shaking his head at Q’arlynd’s infatuation for Prellyn—a drow female he knew his master feared as much as he himself did. Flinderspeld also watched for a chance to slip away and hide the magical booty his master had just found.
Sometimes, Flinderspeld could be a little too efficient.
Q’arlynd seized control of his slave’s body and forced Flinderspeld to drop his magical camouflage, crawl out of hiding, and attempt to sneak away.
Prellyn’s attention was drawn to the deep gnome. She stood, leaving Q’arlynd forgotten on the rubble. Her eyes locked on the pendant.
“Give me that,” she ordered.
Q’arlynd made Flinderspeld hesitate. “You heard her, slave,” Q’arlynd said in a harsh voice as he sat up. “Give it to her!”
Flinderspeld looked at his master, confused. What was Q’arlynd up to? Normally the wizard expected him to lie low so he could keep whatever booty he’d found to himself.
Q’arlynd, growing impatient, gave a mental jerk. The deep gnome’s hand shot forward. The pendant, which Flinderspeld held by its chain, swung back and forth like a pendulum.
Prellyn reached out to grab it then suddenly recoiled as if she’d been about to touch something smeared with contact poison.
Q’arlynd climbed to his feet. Through the rings, he could sense Flinderspeld’s dawning understanding. His master wanted Prellyn to see the silver pendant. The deep gnome also wondered why she was so afraid of it.
Q’arlynd feigned ignorance. “What’s wrong?” he asked Prellyn. He moved toward Flinderspeld and bent for a closer look at the pendant, pretending to be observing it for the first time. “Interesting emblem on the blade,” he said, reaching out to touch it. “A circle and sword. If I’m not mistaken, those are the symbols of—”
The hiss of steel—a weapon being drawn from a scabbard—was his only warning. He jerked his hand back just as Prellyn’s sword cut through the chain Flinderspeld was holding. Had Q’arlynd not moved, the blade might have sliced open his hand. The pendant clattered to the ground.
Flinderspeld still held the tiny sword. Q’arlynd made the deep gnome place it on a flat chunk of rock then released his mental hold on Flinderspeld, letting him ease away. He didn’t want the deep gnome to wind up on the receiving end of Prellyn’s wrath. If he did, Q’arlynd would be without a slave, and without a coin to his name, he couldn’t buy another.
“That pendant is Eilistraee’s holy symbol,” Prellyn spat, her mouth twisting as if at a foul taste. “Be thankful I was here to keep you from touching it.”
“I am,” Q’arlynd said smoothly. He pointed. “And that tiny sword? Is it connected with Eilistraee’s worship, too?”
Prellyn used the tip of her sword to flick the tiny blade into a deep crevice in the rubble. “That’s not something you want to touch, either.”
“I won’t,” Q’arlynd said, “but what is a holy symbol of Eilistraee doing here, in Ched Nasad?”
“It must have been carried here by one of her priestesses before the city’s fall. They do that sometimes—come below to try to subvert Lolth’s children and seduce them up to the surface realms.”
“Where the simpletons who fall for it are immediately killed, no doubt.”
Prellyn laughed. “How little you know, male. Eilistraee’s followers actually welcome strangers into their midst.”
“Any stranger?” Q’arlynd asked, thinking of his sister. “Even one of Lolth’s faithful?”
Prellyn gave him a sharp look. For a moment, Q’arlynd thought she might not answer. “If the drow professes a willingness to turn to Eilistraee’s worship, yes.”
“But … Q’arlynd furrowed his brow, pretending to work the thought out aloud. “How do they know who is lying and who is a genuine petitioner?”
“They rely on … trust,” she said, switching to a word in the language of the surface elves. There was no true equivalent in either Drowic or High Drow. “They hand those tiny swords out to whoever asks for them. It is their greatest weakness, and it shows how low they have fallen. Trust among drow is like a shard of ice in lava, except that ice lasts longer.”
Q’arlynd dutifully laughed at her joke, though he knew full well that no drow would ever be as stupid as Prellyn had just made Eilistraee’s priestesses out to be. Assuming Prellyn was right, he’d just learned what those tiny swords were for.
“Those who are duped into turning away from Lolth are fools, of course,” Prellyn continued. “Not only do they face the Spider Queen’s wrath but the ravages of the surface realms as well. The sunlight blinds them, and they fall victim to strange diseases. Their armor and weapons crumble to dust, leaving them defenseless. Drow aren’t meant to live on the surface. We’re creatures of the Underdark—Lolth’s children.”
Q’arlynd nodded dutifully. Prellyn was merely repeating what the priestesses at the temple taught. His instructors at the Conservatory had provided other even more dire warnings, back when Q’arlynd had been a novice wizard, teaching that all magical items crafted by the drow lost their powers when removed from the energies of the Underdark and exposed to the light of the sun. Though that as no longer the case, they continued to admonish against journeys to the World Above.
Q’arlynd, however, didn’t believe the stories of sickness and misery. He knew exaggeration when he heard it. He’d once met a drow who lived on the surface and survived there quite nicely, thank you very much, but that had been long ago.
He wondered whether Eilistraee’s worship was prevalent in whatever surface realm the portal led to and whether Halisstra, if she had survived, had embraced that heretical faith. If so, it would explain why she’d never returned to Ched Nasad. Halisstra’s professed worship of Lolth had always seemed, to Q’arlynd, a touch insincere.
He stroked his chin, pretending to stare thoughtfully at the rubble. “This ruin bears the glyphs
of House Ysh’nil,” he said, naming the minor House whose surviving members were currently a thorn in House Teh’Kinrellz’s side. “Do you suppose someone in that House secretly worshiped Eilistraee?” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “That wouldn’t bode well for the survivors, especially if the Jaezred Chaulssin knew of it.”
Prellyn, taller than Q’arlynd by a head, stared down at him. “You’re entirely too smart for a male.” She touched the end of his nose almost affectionately. “This is female business. Keep your nose out of it.”
Q’arlynd met her eye briefly. “I will,” he promised.
Prellyn’s hand fell away. She speared the point of her sword into the soft metal of the pendant then lifted it like a trophy head. “And keep your hands off the rubble. Any salvage belongs to House Teh’Kinrellz. Find some other way to get up to mischief.”
Q’arlynd bowed. “As you command, Mistress.”
Prellyn snapped her fingers, summoning her driftdisc. She mounted it and whispered away, presumably to report House Ysh’nil’s ancient blasphemy. So hurried was her departure, she’d forgotten to punish Q’arlynd. He was almost disappointed.
Flinderspeld peeked out from behind a slab of stone. He glanced at the departing Prellyn then at Q’arlynd, who fished the tiny sword out of the crevice that Prellyn had flicked it into and pocketed it.
Are you planning a trip to the surface, Master? he asked in the silent hand-speech of the drow.
Q’arlynd frowned. You’re entirely too smart for a svirfneblin.
Qilué listened as the Darksong Knight made her report. Cavatina’s battle with the Selvetargtlin and spellgaunt had occurred three days ago, but a breach of this nature warranted hearing the report firsthand. Thankfully, there had been no other incidents since then. Iljrene had reported that every room in the ceilings of the caverns south of the Sargauth had been inspected and found empty, save for the usual vermin, which the patrols swiftly dispatched. The magical wards in the Promenade itself had also been checked, found intact, and the seals on the Pit had not been disturbed.
The aranea’s robes and equipment had been recovered, and in them was the answer to how she had broached the magical defenses. It was a ring, a gold band with three empty spaces where gems should have been. When the ring had been examined and found to be non-magical, it was very nearly dismissed as nothing noteworthy, but to Qilué’s trained eye, it spoke volumes. The “trinket” had once been one of the most powerful magical items of all: a ring of wishes, with the faintest hint of an aura clinging to the setting where the third gem had been.
The aranea had been able to teleport into a heavily warded area using the ring’s third and final wish. Once inside, the Selvetargtlin had used her clerical magic to render herself undetectable by the alarms. She’d brought the spellgaunt along to consume the magical energy of any symbols as they were triggered. That was why Cavatina’s spell had the effect that it did. The spellgaunt was already gorged when the Darksong Knight discovered it. Consuming the magical blades conjured by Cavatina’s spell had caused it to rupture, its body torn to pieces from within by the strains it had placed on the Weave.
There was no way of knowing how long the aranea had been within the area claimed by the Promenade before Cavatina discovered her. Had the symbols in the southern caverns not been permanent ones, the path the Selvetargtlin had followed might have been traced, but being permanent, they refreshed themselves soon after they were triggered.
Thus the Selvetargtlin’s goal in penetrating the area remained a mystery. An inventory of the temple had found nothing missing. Nothing had been desecrated, and nothing was disturbed, yet the aranea’s mission had been of great import, judging by her final words and the way she chose to die. She had deliberately destroyed her body, leaving nothing behind that could be questioned by a necromancer.
The spellgaunt’s carcass was intact, but questioning it would do little good. Spellgaunts couldn’t tell the difference between a lowly light pellet and an artifact. Magical items were all the same to them—raw energy, waiting to be consumed.
Qilué had hoped to find clues in the reports of either the Darksong Knight or the novice Thaleste, but none had presented themselves in either priestess’s account.
The whole episode was deeply troubling, and it wasn’t the only bad news Qilué had received lately. Another of Eilistraee’s enemies, it seemed, had also become active.
Four nights ago, one of Vhaeraun’s assassins had infiltrated the shrine at Lake Sember. One priestess and two lay worshipers had been killed before the assassin had been driven off. This came at a time when the drow Houses of Cormanthor should have been fully engaged in their war against the levees of the newly reclaimed Myth Drannor. Why, in the midst of their battle with a powerful adversary, would the Masked Lord’s priests have turned their attention to Eilistraee’s shrine? Hopefully, Iljrene’s spy would be able to turn up some answers, but for the moment, Qilué was baffled.
There were other murmurs of trouble. In the north, an evil that had been laid to rest three years ago had seemingly resurfaced. In the Year of Wild Magic, when Kiaransalee’s followers had taken over Maerimydra, they’d torn a terrible hole in the Weave. The corruption had spread from that city to the surface realms before they had been defeated. Pockets of corrupted magic still dotted the Dales. Though the priestess responsible for it had been defeated, there were indications that at least one of the high-ranking Crones who served her might have survived. The handful of Eilistraee’s priestesses who ministered to the drow of the distant north had heard tales from the survivors of undead rallying around a ghostly Crone whose wailing keen was capable of slaying scores of drow at one go. Once slain they were added to her ghastly ranks. The tales were obviously an exaggeration, but the region would have to be watched carefully. If further disruptions in the Weave arose, Qilué would be forced to respond.
Finally, from far to the south came troubling news that the cult of Ghaunadaur in Lurth Drier was becoming increasingly active. No longer content to prey upon each other, the drow of that Underdark city had burst onto the surface like an ugly boil, not far from Eilistraee’s temples in the Shaar and the Chondalwood. Something had caused them to set aside their relentless feuding and act as a cohesive force. Qilué prayed that an avatar of Ghaunadaur had not arisen there. If so, she would be forced to lead a contingent of priestesses south to drive it back below—a crusade that would seriously deplete the resources of the Promenade.
The only one of Eilistraee’s enemies not currently active, it seemed, was Lolth. Indeed, the Spider Queen’s worshipers had not shown themselves in some time. That in itself was suspicious. Lolth, still and silent, was probably waiting patiently for the best moment to strike, while others did the work of tangling Eilistraee’s faithful in a web of conflict.
The Darksong Knight had concluded her report and was standing in silence, waiting for Qilué’s response.
“Walk with me,” Qilué told her.
They had just returned from an inspection of the caverns where the aranea’s attack took place, and stood on the southern bank of the underground river that flowed past the Promenade at a spot where a recently constructed bridge arched high above the river. The original bridge had fallen into the river more than a century ago, but Qilué could still remember how it had looked when she fought her way across it with the companions who had helped her defeat Ghaunadaur’s avatar. The oozes and slimes had reduced its stone steps to rounded humps, making the footing treacherous. Ch’arla, one of Qilué’s childhood companions, had died, songsword in hand, at the very spot Qilué and Cavatina approached. The death had been a terrible blow, but Ch’arla’s soul danced with Eilistraee. All pain was behind her.
Pride welled in Qilué as she walked across the rebuilt bridge and considered the fruits that two decades of labor had produced. The Promenade was a place of beauty and tranquility, hewn from the depths of the Underdark. A place that had once held nothing but madness and despair had been made sacred and filled with folk mad
e whole through Eilistraee’s grace. Every time she visited the Promenade, it brought a fierce ache to her heart and the sting of tears to the corners of her eyes. The sacrifices of so many centuries ago had been worth it, every last one of them.
Below the bridge, the temple’s lay worshipers worked the river, hauling in fine-meshed nets filled with white, wriggling blindfish no longer than a finger. Others, baskets slung at their hips, collected lizard eggs and ripplebark fungus from the fissures that lined the cavern walls. Most were drow, converts from cities scattered throughout the Underdark, but there were also many who had been rescued from Skullport’s slave ships: surface elves, dwarves, humans—even the occasional halfling—who had turned to the goddess as a result. One of them, a stocky half-drow with bristly hair and protruding fangs that betrayed his orc father’s parentage, paused in his labors and made the sign of Eilistraee as Qilué and Cavatina passed him, touching forefinger to forefinger and thumb to thumb to form a circle representing the full moon.
Qilué acknowledged Jub with a nod and murmured blessing. His eyes lingered on her, a fawning expression on his face. Qilué secretly smiled. Even the most unlikely of worshipers were welcome there.
The Promenade comprised five main caverns that had once been part of the Sargauth Enclave, an outpost of fallen Netheril. The ancient buildings within the caverns had been reclaimed and put to use. One of the caverns housed the priestesses, another was home to the Promenade’s lay worshipers, and a third contained storehouses and the barracks of the Protectors of the Song—the soldiers who guarded the Promenade. The fourth cavern, once a temple to a foul god, had been turned into the Hall of Healing.
The fifth cavern was the holiest of all: the Cavern of Song. Even over the rush of the river behind them, Qilué could hear the sound of singing—Eilistraee’s priestesses continuing the psalm that had not faltered since the temple had been established twenty years past in the Year of the Harp.
As they made their way along one of the winding corridors that led to the Cavern of Song, Qilué spoke to the Darksong Knight. “Cavatina, you’re familiar with the Velarswood, are you not?”
