by Lisa Smedman
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, drinking in the invisible energies that rippled back and forth in the enclosed space. The cavern couldn’t sustain life for long. The air already smelled slightly stale. For one night, at least, it would suffice, and that one night was all that mattered.
A whisper of air announced the arrival of another cleric. Malvag turned and saw Urz, his red eyes glittering above his mask. The other cleric’s posture was eager and his close-cropped hair stood on end, as if a shiver had just passed through him. He wore a single, wide-bladed dagger at his hip and a homespun black shirt and trousers with frayed cuffs and worn knees. He looked more like a laborer than an assassin, but that natural camouflage served him well. Urz had won Vhaeraun’s favor many times over with his bold attacks on Lolth’s clergy.
“Dark deeds,” Malvag murmured.
Urz inclined his head, paying Malvag the respect due a higher ranking cleric.
“Were you successful?” Malvag asked.
Urz touched his mask then gave the sign for a job completed. “She put up a good fight, though,” he said, “broke two of my ribs and nearly cut off my hand.” He turned his right hand over, showing Malvag the fresh gray scar across his wrist just below the older burn mark. Then he waggled his fingers. “Good as new now, praise Vhaeraun, but I had to stab her, sop up the soul and get away quick. The Gray Forest was like an overturned beehive after all the noise she made.”
Malvag barely listened to the details. Urz had arrived and his mask held a soul. That was all that mattered.
The Jaelre strode toward the drift disc, his hard-soled boots crunching across the crystal-studded floor. “I’m the first one here?”
“As always. I knew I could count on you.”
The two males clasped arms—a form of greeting used by the surface elves. Urz’s grip was tight and rough on Malvag’s forearms, but Malvag returned it in equal measure before letting go.
Urz’s eyes crinkled above his mask. “And the others?”
As if in answer, Valdar appeared in the cavern. The slender-boned male landed with a cat’s grace on the crystals, a bloody dagger in one hand. He nodded to the others, pulled a lace-trimmed cloth out of a pocket of his piwafwi, and wiped the blade. His pink eyes held a glint of amusement.
“Sorry to be late. I had a little unfinished business to attend to. It’s finished, now.”
That said, he slid his dagger into a wrist-sheath. He wore a wrist-crossbow on his other arm, and the ties of his piwafwi were stiff from the ends of a strangle cord. He moved with a grace that would have put a tavern dancer to shame, picking his way with silent footfalls over the crystals on the floor. He took up a position that put him equidistant from both males, close enough that he could step inside the range of a crossbow but far enough apart that he could dance away from a drawn blade.
Malvag’s eyes narrowed slightly. Valdar didn’t quite trust the others yet, nor did Malvag fully trust him, but mutual trust was essential for the ritual to work.
Valdar cocked his head to the side, silently reading the scroll. Urz stood with his arms folded across his chest, staring across the cavern, waiting placidly. Malvag tapped a foot impatiently as the night lengthened. Midnight approached—the deadline Malvag had set for the others’ return—and still Szorak didn’t appear. Malvag started to wonder if something had happened to him. Four clerics—and four souls—would make the ritual that much more certain and would ensure that the gate opened, but it looked as though Szorak had failed them. Or perhaps—a darker thought that Malvag allowed to alight in his mind only briefly—it had been Szorak’s blood on Valdar’s blade. Fewer to reap the rewards.
Malvag shrugged off that thought. As long as the three could work together, it didn’t matter.
“It’s nearly midnight,” he told the others. “We must begin.”
He turned the drift disc so that the scroll faced him, and indicated where the others should stand, Urz on his right, Valdar on his left. Urz moved readily into the indicated spot, and Valdar eased in sideways.
“I will commune with Vhaeraun,” he told them. “At my signal, we’ll begin to read. It’s important that each of you not get ahead of the others or lag behind. We—”
A startled shout filled the cavern. A drow male appeared in mid-air, arms and legs flailing as he fell. He’d materialized about a dozen paces above the cavern floor, and only just managed to check his fall in time. Levitating, he twisted awkwardly in place, his feet scrabbling against the bumpy crystal floor. Then he stood, smoothing his clothes.
“Szorak!” Urz called. “You’re just in time. We were about to begin without you.”
“My apologies,” the newcomer said from behind his mask. “I must have miscalculated the teleport. I forgot how big this place is.” He glanced around then nodded to himself. “Perfect for tonight’s dark deeds.”
Malvag frowned. Szorak seemed … different, somehow. It took Malvag a moment to put a dagger point on it. The voice. It was lower, huskier, and at the same time somehow tight with tension. And Szorak’s body language was off. He leaned slightly forward, a posture that caused the lower half of his mask to hang away from his lips and chin, as if he was loath to touch it.
As if overhearing Malvag’s thoughts, Szorak reached under his mask and rubbed his throat. “The bitch managed to cast a spell,” he said, “one that transferred her injuries to me.” He gave a croaking laugh. “I nearly wound up strangling myself.”
Urz chuckled.
“Clumsy,” Valdar breathed under his mask.
Malvag frowned. “I’ve never heard of such a spell.”
“Nor had I.” Szorak shrugged. “It must be something new the priestesses have come up with.” His hand dropped away from his throat. “But I trapped a soul, nonetheless.”
It was an odd turn of phrase. Trapped a soul. Not “stole.” Something was wrong. Malvag didn’t want to sow mistrust—Valdar was already twitchy enough—but he had a growing suspicion that “Szorak” was not who he claimed to be. He moved his hand at his side, where only Szorak could see it. I know who you are.
Szorak stiffened. For a space of several heartbeats, there was silence. Then he exhaled. “You know my secret,” he said. “You know about my sister. It’s true. Seyll was a priestess of Eilistraee, but I assure you, Malvag, that I am not.”
Valdar gave a dark chuckle. “Not a priestess?” His eyes ranged up and down Szorak’s body. “That’s pretty clear.”
Szorak gave Valdar a level look. “If you think I’ve disguised myself, cast a divination that pierces glamors.” He gestured at his body. “What you see is what I am.”
Urz glanced back and forth between Szorak and Malvag. One hand was raised, fingers twitching slightly, as if ready to cast a spell. He was clearly only waiting for Malvag’s command to strike. “His sister’s a priestess?”
“A dead priestess,” Szorak said. He chuckled. “Killed years ago by a priestess of Lolth who was masquerading as a petitioner, but I assure you that I’m no spider kisser.” He spread his arms. “Go ahead. Inspect me.”
Malvag took him up on the offer and whispered two prayers in quick succession. They revealed that the mask did indeed contain a trapped soul—one that glowed with the irritating silver sheen of good. Szorak’s own aura, in contrast, was a dull brown.
Malvag relaxed. He’d been wrong. It was Szorak. He’d very nearly let his suspicions ruin everything. He touched Urz’s arm.
“No need for that,” he told the other cleric. Then he turned back to Szorak. “Take your place,” he instructed. “We’ve already wasted too much time. We should begin.”
Szorak moved toward the drift disc. He hesitated for a moment then stood next to Urz.
Malvag gestured, and the drift disc moved to a position where all could read it. His previous darkfire spell had ended some time ago, so he whispered the prayer again, causing the flames that only those with darkvision could detect to dance once more about his fingertips.
“When I lower my finger to
the page,” he instructed, “begin to read.”
That said, he enshrouded his head in magical darkness, stilled his breathing, and made the sign of the mask. He prayed, his fingers signing in time with his words. “Masked Lord, God of Night, Shadow of my Soul. Hear me on this, the longest of nights. Your Nightshadows stand ready to open a gate to Eilistraee’s domain. Masked Lord, are you ready? Should we proceed?”
The communion came, as it always did, on softly creeping feet. One moment there was nothing, then came a whisper from behind, as faint as breath. Malvag felt a presence slip softly into his awareness. He sensed, rather than truly saw, a pair of eyes peering over his shoulder. The eyes were black, flecked with silver. They matched the weapons that swished through Malvag’s awareness in streaks of utter black and gleaming silver—the long sword Night Shadow and the short sword Silverflash. A cloak swirled as the god spun, leaving streaks of starlight. Vhaeraun took several moments to answer—his eyes kept darting about—but at last the word came, cutting the air like a hissing blade.
“Yes.”
Malvag smiled. A thrill raced through him. The hairs on his arms shivered erect as he opened his eyes, dispelled the magical darkness, and started to lower his finger to the scroll. He heard the clerics on either side of him take a breath as they prepared to read aloud.
But from his right came an intensely bright flash of light. An explosive boom filled the cavern as a jagged lightning bolt erupted from Urz’s chest and forked toward Malvag and Valdar. It slammed into Malvag’s own chest, sending waves of pain crackling through his body and filling his nostrils with the stench of seared flesh. As both he and Valdar reeled, gasping, Szorak ripped off Urz’s mask. He slapped Urz on the back with his other hand and shouted. As the mask fluttered away, Urz went rigid and toppled to the floor with a loud crash. Szorak danced back, shaking a wand out of his sleeve and catching it deftly in his hand.
“Traitor!” Malvag gasped.
Szorak pointed the wand at the scroll. Raging with fury, Malvag threw himself at Szorak. His fist closed around the wand even as it went off. Chunks of ice blasted into the floor, sending shards of crystals flying.
“Faer’ghinn!” Malvag croaked through cracked and bleeding lips.
The wand became an inert stick.
Something whizzed past Malvag’s ear—a bolt from Valdar’s wrist-crossbow. It glanced off Szorak’s shoulder, deflected by an invisible barrier. So close had it come to striking Malvag that a terrible thought flashed through his mind. Was Valdar in league with Szorak? Were the pair of them trying to steal the scroll? No, that blast of ice from the wand would have destroyed it.
The traitor’s fingers flicked, and a tiny object leaped out of one of his pockets and into them. It was a chunk of amber, studded with silver dots. A spell component, Malvag realized, even as another bolt of lightning streaked toward him. It punched into Malvag’s chest, blasting him off his feet. Something sharp ground into his back and he dully realized they were the points of crystals. He’d landed on his back on the cavern floor.
Dazzled though his eyes were, he caught glimpses of what came next. Valdar fired another crossbow bolt, which struck home, punching into the wizard’s shoulder. The wizard staggered but managed to hurl a spell back at Valdar. A hollow column of fire sprang up around the cleric, trapping him inside it. Instantly, Valdar’s hair and clothing ignited. The roaring flames closed inward, then Valdar vanished. He reappeared behind the wizard, the flames extinguished, and drew his dagger in a cat-quick motion. Even as the wizard realized his danger and began to turn—sluggishly, the bolt’s poison at last taking effect—Valdar slammed his dagger into him.
The wizard’s eyes flew open wide. He sagged to the ground, gasping, a ball of gum Arabic falling from his limp fingers. Valdar slit the wizard’s throat, finishing the job. Dark blood sprayed from the wound, splattering the crystal floor.
Valdar stepped back and murmured a prayer. A heartbeat later, his flesh mended. His clothing, however, remained charred.
Malvag staggered to his feet. One wary eye on the dead wizard, he hurried to the drift disc. The scroll, praise Vhaeraun, was undamaged.
The same could not be said of Urz. Malvag kneeled beside the other cleric and touched a hand to his neck. Urz’s body felt cold and hard.
He’d been turned to stone.
Malvag felt the blood drain from his face as he realized the implications. Had Urz merely died, Malvag could have raised him from the dead. But there was only one thing that would allow the night’s work to continue—a miracle.
“Masked Lord, hear me,” Malvag said, forcing the tremble from his voice as he prayed, trying to shove his anger aside so he could concentrate on the words of the prayer. He’d only heard it spoken once, and it was well above his abilities, but he had to try. If he didn’t, all would be lost. “Send your dark energies into my hands, that they might perform a miracle. Aid me in restoring your fallen servant’s flesh to its natural state.”
Malvag waited expectantly, his palms on Urz’s stone-cold chest. Valdar stood behind him, watching, wiping his dagger clean on a charred corner of his shirt.
“It’s not working,” he observed.
Malvag’s anger flared. “Shut up,” he hissed.
The other cleric raised his dagger, inspecting the hollow point that held the poison, then shoved it home in its sheath. “My apologies.”
Malvag tried again. He put both hands upon Urz’s chest and pleaded with Vhaeraun to turn Urz’s body back to living, breathing flesh.
Nothing happened.
Vhaeraun watched. Malvag could feel the god’s presence just over his shoulder. He whispered yet another prayer, one that would allow him to touch the god’s omniscience.
“I need him,” he pleaded. “Why won’t you help me?”
The answer was a whisper only Malvag could hear. You lack the skill.
Malvag rocked back on his heels, stunned. That was it then. It was over. With only two of them remaining, the scroll couldn’t be used. Malvag would have to wait fifty-seven years before the conditions would be right again—an eclipse wouldn’t occur at midnight of the winter solstice until then.
“Abyss take him!” he howled. Rising to his feet, he strode toward the traitor and gave his body a savage kick. Then he turned away, his hands balled into fists.
As Malvag raged in silence, Valdar kneeled beside the traitor’s body and removed the mask, revealing a male with a nose that canted to one side: a break, long since healed. He fingered the mask, spoke a prayer of detection, then nodded to himself.
“What are you doing?” Malvag snarled.
Valdar nodded at the body. “Looking for something that will tell us who he really was.” He pointed at the mask. “That’s no holy symbol, even though it does seem to hold a trapped soul.” He tilted his head, musing aloud. “Is he one of Lolth’s minions, perhaps?”
“What does it matter?” Malvag screamed. “He’s ruined everything. Without Urz, we can’t proceed. High magic requires a minimum of three clerics, working together, to cast it.”
Valdar shrugged. He continued searching the body. His sleeves quickly became dark with blood. He pulled two rings out of a blood-wet shirt pocket and held them on the palm of one hand, poking at them with a fingertip. “Do we need three clerics to open the gate?” he asked slowly. “Or three spellcasters?”
“What does it matter?” Malvag paced back and forth, trying to contain his fury. Unlike Valdar, he hadn’t bothered to heal his wounds yet. His skin still felt hot and tight where the lightning bolts had struck his chest. It hurt to breathe.
Valdar jingled the rings together on his palm. “These are master and slave rings,” he said. He pointed at the body. “And he’s a wizard. If it’s three spellcasters that are needed to conjure the gate, we can force him to participate.” He jingled the rings again. “With these.”
Malvag halted abruptly and whirled in place. His eyes met Valdar’s. “Slave rings,” he whispered.
Valdar’s e
yes crinkled in a smile. “Yes.”
Malvag glanced at the drift disc where the prayer scroll waited. What Valdar was suggesting would be extremely difficult. Malvag would have to control the wizard’s mouth while speaking the words of the prayer himself at the same time, but perhaps it could be done. He’d read the spell in silence enough times that he could have recited it aloud from rote.
“Raise him from the dead,” he told Valdar. “The instant the gate is open, and Vhaeraun passes through it, we’ll kill the infiltrator. Permanently, this time.”
Qilué grasped the edges of her scrying font, staring down with intense concentration into the holy water that filled it. The wide alabaster bowl glowed like a harvest moon from the light that filled the room in which it stood—the silver fire that poured off Qilué’s body like light from a torch. Qilué was barely aware of Jasmir, the moon elf priestess standing behind her. The scenes unfolding in the holy water that served as her window on the world beyond were deeply disturbing.
“Send another six priestesses and two score warriors to the Chondalwood,” Qilué commanded.
The pale-skinned Jasmir whispered a sending, relaying the command. She was fully dressed for battle in leather armor whose spiral patterns matched the tattoos on her forearms. Her long white hair was in two braids, tightly bound into a bun at the back of her neck.
Qilué stared into the scrying bowl, tense with anticipation. It was focused on the shrine in the Chondalwood, far to the southeast. There Eilistraee’s priestesses fought a bloody battle against driders who had boiled up out of the Underdark without warning—just as they had in the Misty Forest last month. Even as Qilué watched, a drider knocked a priestess to the ground with a web and landed on her back, opening its spider fangs wide to bite.
Qilué stabbed a finger down into the water and sang a note that was strident and shrill. The drider shook his head, disoriented. As it did, a sword came dancing through the air, slashing the monster nearly in half. A priestess ran into view behind it, and the sword returned to her hand. She kneeled on the snow-covered ground beside the first and tore away the webs, freeing her companion.
