by Lisa Smedman
His mind, such as it was, held the logical facts that explained his situation. His soul, like those of all who died, had entered the Fugue Plain. He could see it starting to take shape around him. There: a distant horizon, a line of gray on gray. And there: the jagged spires of the City of Judgment. Restless forms—mere dots, from a vast distance—surrounded its soaring walls. Demons herded the shapeless gray forms before them, driving unclaimed souls into the city where they would be consumed.
Other presences hovered closer to Q’arlynd—the souls of others who, like him, had just died.
“Can you hear me?” he asked as one drifted by.
It made no reply, just sighed past him, leaving a sheen of tears in its wake.
Q’arlynd realized then that he was slowly drifting toward the city. The thought sent a chill through him, colder than any he had ever experienced. He looked wildly around for the moonbeam that Rowaan had described, listened intently for a scrap of song.
Nothing.
“Eilistraee!” he called. “Aren’t you going to claim me? I took the sword oath. I’m one of yours, now. You’re my patron deity!”
No reply.
Something prickled where Q’arlynd’s forehead should have been. If he’d still had a body, he would have sworn it was nervous sweat. He drifted more rapidly toward the city, and already it was half again as close as it had been.
“Eilistraee!” he screamed.
Nothing.
The city walls drew nearer. He could make out individual demons, scourges in hand, arms raising and snapping forward as they drove the dead. Souls wailed as they streamed in through the gates of the City of Judgment.
Q’arlynd shuddered—a ripple that passed through him like an icy wind. Panic once again crowded in at his awareness. He looked wildly around for the servant of a deity—any deity—to claim him.
“Mystra?” he pleaded, desperately hoping that Qilué’s other deity might have taken notice of him, even though he hadn’t pledged himself to her.
Nothing.
The walls had drawn close enough that he could see the individual stones in them writhing against one another. Each stone a soul trapped for all eternity.
A demon turned to stare at him. It crooked a cracked red finger, beckoning him closer.
“Lolth?” Q’arlynd croaked, desperate. “Anyone?”
Come.
Q’arlynd whirled. He saw nothing, but the voice came again. A male voice.
Return. To the land of the living. Will you return?
He recognized the voice: Malvag’s. Probably the last person he wanted to call him back from the dead, but anything was better than—
“Yes!” Q’arlynd screamed.
The Fugue Plain disappeared.
His body returned.
He lay on his back on a sharp, lumpy surface, his arms underneath him. His fingers were tightly pinched. It felt as though they’d been lashed together with wire. His throat ached and there was a faint taste of blood in his mouth. He spat.
Then he saw the two Nightshadows staring down at him, framed by the crystal-lined cavern, and realized where he was and what had just happened. He tried to hurl himself erect but only managed to flop over on his side.
“Y—”
His mouth froze. He was aware of a second presence inside his skull, the mind of the Nightshadow closest to him—Malvag, the cleric he had nearly killed with lightning bolts. Malvag’s eyes gleamed as he stared mercilessly down at Q’arlynd. The Nightshadow shook his head slightly and raised a warning finger. Q’arlynd’s master ring was on it. Malvag spoke directly to him, mind to mind.
No spells, slave.
Get out! Q’arlynd raged. The second ring must have been on one of his own fingers under the wire that bound them. Get out of my mind!
Malvag’s eyes crinkled in a mirthless smile. Get up.
When Q’arlynd hesitated, Malvag’s awareness shoved its rough way into his torso and legs. Q’arlynd found himself drawing his legs up against his body. He rolled onto his stomach, rose to his knees, and finally lurched to his feet. He swayed and nearly fell before Malvag found his balance. All the while, Q’arlynd raged. He was a Melarn, damn it. His House might be gone, but he was still of noble birth. Never—never—a slave.
He might as well have been shouting against a howling wind. Malvag’s laughter reverberated through his mind, overpowering Q’arlynd’s inner voice.
This, Q’arlynd realized suddenly, is what Flinderspeld must have felt like.
But Flinderspeld was a deep gnome, a race that was used to such indignities and bore them stoically. Q’arlynd was a drow. He was forced to suffer Malvag’s torments for the time being, but dark anger smoldered in his heart. The Nightshadow was going to pay for every moment. Pay dearly.
I doubt it, Malvag said.
Q’arlynd fell silent, not wanting to give the other male any further satisfaction.
Malvag walked him over to the drift disc that held the prayer scroll, and made him stand there, rigid. The second Nightshadow—the slender one—cocked an eyebrow and watched Q’arlynd, his eyes bright with fascination.
“Welcome back,” he said. “I guess, since you’re here, Eilistraee had no use for you.” He laughed. “But we do.”
Malvag pointed at the body of the Nightshadow Q’arlynd had turned to stone and spoke to the other male. “Get his mask.”
Q’arlynd tried to swallow but couldn’t. They knew. Everything. That he was Eilistraee’s—or would have been, if only the goddess had bothered to claim him, yet they’d brought him back from the dead. Something he’d agreed to. What had he been thinking?
Malvag must have been listening, but he made no comment.
Hands appeared from behind Q’arlynd, holding the dead man’s mask. It was tied into place around Q’arlynd’s face. Unlike the polymorphed gem, which had prickled Q’arlynd’s skin with a heat like raw pepper, this mask felt smooth as silk, but it was restless, shivering, afraid.
Valdar moved back around where Q’arlynd could see it. A smirk was in his eye. He pointed at the mask. “One of your friends from the Misty Forest. Go on—kiss her good-bye.”
Q’arlynd blinked—a concession Malvag allowed him. That was Rowaan’s soul in there. Q’arlynd felt a momentary twinge of guilt. He pushed it aside. Rowaan had been pleasant to him, but she’d been soft, he told himself. Weak. Gullible. If she’d fought harder against the assassin….
It was her own fault—but even so, Q’arlynd felt terrible.
The mask grew even colder against his face. A shudder passed through it. Then it stilled. It felt … calm, somehow. Resigned.
That was odd.
As Valdar took his place beside Malvag, the higher-ranking cleric raised his right hand. Darkfire burst into flaming life across Malvag’s skin. “We will begin.”
Malvag and Valdar bowed their heads, eyes firmly fixed on the prayer scroll. Q’arlynd’s head, too, was wrenched down. As Malvag’s darkfire-limned finger descended toward the scroll, Q’arlynd could feel the cleric peering out through his eyes. His mouth opened. He drew breath and began to read.
Q’arlynd listened as his mouth, under Malvag’s control, spoke the words of the prayer scroll in time with the other two males. As they read it aloud, each word on the silver sheet flared bright then faded, that portion of the scroll crumbling in its wake. Streaks of silver spiraled up and off the page to circle above their heads. Slowly, the circle grew. It widened, and wisps of something gray and flowing, like vapor, streamed out of their masks. The souls, Q’arlynd realized. They were fueling the magic the clerics were weaving. The crystals in the cavern hummed softly, throbbing in time with the words the three males spoke.
As the spell slowly unfolded, Q’arlynd’s apprehension gave way to a growing sense of wonder. Malvag’s presence was a brutal fist inside his mind, but Q’arlynd could sense Valdar’s awareness as well. Both men were excited, tense with anticipation. They were doing it! Working high magic. No drow had ever done it before, not sinc
e the time of the ssri Tel’Quessir, the original dark elves.
Their voices droned on.
Yes, Malvag whispered into Q’arlynd’s mind. Together. We can. Do it.
Together, Q’arlynd whispered back. He saw it all, the brotherhood that was possible. His link with the two males next to him was as real as the connection between skin, muscle, and bone. Separate, the three were dead matter. Together, they moved, breathed and lived—and worked magic. Q’arlynd could see the Weave itself, could glimpse the hitherto invisible connections that linked the drow one to another. All his life, he’d been yearning for something like that, a bond, a true bond. He had thought he’d find it in his Ched Nasad once Halisstra was on the throne. He’d planned to forge it link by link by seeking out loyal Melarn who would work together to build and sustain their noble House, but he had come to see the futility of that dream. Only someone who had experienced the linking of minds, the oneness that was high magic, could understand what the word “bond” truly meant. Q’arlynd understood Malvag—understood what had driven the other male’s nearly century-long quest to find that scroll. And Valdar, a male Q’arlynd had only just met—a male who had slashed open Q’arlynd’s throat, just a short time ago—was like a brother to him. Valdar had grown up in Menzoberranzan, under the lash of Lolth’s priestesses, before House Jaelre fled that city, but he had lived to be master of his own destiny.
Master.
Q’arlynd could no longer feel his fingers—the wire wrapped around them was that tight—but he no longer cared. He managed to glance off to the side to meet Malvag’s eye. The Nightshadow inclined his head in the slightest of acknowledging nods, his own eyes still locked on the scroll.
Vhaeraun, Malvag managed, while somehow still reading the scroll himself and forcing Q’arlynd’s mouth to do the same. The other male’s self-control was amazing. Vhaeraun offers power. Seize it.
For just an instant, Qilué’s face flashed through Q’arlynd’s mind. The geas she’d cast on him took hold, and a near-crippling pain lanced through him, but a heartbeat later it was gone, that strand of the Weave slashed like a flimsy ribbon by Vhaeraun’s sword. Q’arlynd saw eyes hanging in the air before him, eyes that were blue with delight.
Malvag and Valdar paused, drawing breath. Q’arlynd did the same. Together they watched as the three souls that had been swirling within the circle, like smoke, were suddenly sucked into its center in a flash of white light. That surprised Malvag—through his connection with the other male, Q’arlynd could sense it. Malvag had expected the souls to simply vanish, consumed by the gate, but then again, Malvag thought with a mental shrug, perhaps that was the way the spell was supposed to unfold.
They were almost done, and very little of the scroll remained. The link between Q’arlynd and the other two males was so strong that he could feel his heart beating in unison with theirs. The crystals, too, pulsed in time.
Ready? Malvag signed.
Valdar nodded.
So did Q’arlynd.
Q’arlynd started as he realized that Malvag had relinquished his hold, and Q’arlynd’s body was his own again. His surprise deepened as he realized the Nightshadow was giving him a choice. Q’arlynd could ruin the spell then and there by the simple act of shutting his mouth, or he could continue reading the scroll.
A choice. Something Qilué had offered him in name only. She’d been all too quick to back up that “choice” with a geas.
The gate loomed over Q’arlynd’s head, large enough, and clear enough, that he could see a dark forest within it one moment, a bleak and rocky pit the next. Eilistraee’s domain, and Vhaeraun’s, almost connected. Only two lines of the scroll remained.
Q’arlynd locked his eyes on it and continued to read, his voice in perfect cadence with the two Nightshadows.
“The bridge between realms is Woven,” he intoned. “The crossing is complete.”
As they completed the conjuration, the gate, fully formed, opened. Their masks flew from their faces and fluttered into it. A figure sprang through in their wake and vanished into the woods of Eilistraee’s domain: Vhaeraun, swords in hand, eyes gleaming gold above his black mask.
Hungry for Eilistraee’s blood.
Qilué landed in the cavern that was all that remained of the former temple of Ghaunadaur and looked around. The cavern was empty. The floor was a jagged field of rubble that had tumbled from the walls and ceiling to seal the deep pit into which Ghaunadaur’s avatar had been driven. Smaller fragments of stone hung above the floor, suspended by magic to form a mosaic-like statue of Eilistraee—the seal that capped the pit. The statue was posed as if dancing, balanced with the toes of one foot touching the floor and the other leg extended, arms sweeping up and out. Almost imperceptibly, the mosaic-statue’s pose was changing as the magic that animated the chips of stone went through a cycle that began anew with each full moon.
With a thought, Qilué shifted her awareness, enabling herself to see magic. The statue’s aura was a pure, sweet silver. The seal was untouched.
An instant later, Iljrene materialized beside her. The tiny battle-mistress was fully armored, a singing sword in her hand. Her doll-like face was set in a frown of determination as she took up a position beside Qilué. She held a hand to one delicately pointed ear and listened. “Here they come.”
Qilué, intent upon her prayer, merely nodded. She pointed a finger at the cavern’s only intact entrance, the foot of the staircase that twisted down from above. The sound of running footsteps echoed down it.
Jasmir, Qilué sent. Have any of our priestesses entered the staircase that leads to the Pit?
None, came the confident reply.
Qilué smiled. Silver fire danced in her hair and on her skin. Focusing it within her hand, she let it build to a ravening white flame. The silver fire roared, filling the cavern with a sudden, brilliant light. As the first of the Selvetargtlin burst into the room, Qilué hurled it at him. A streak of silver shot toward the base of the stairs, rippling the rubble floor below it as it went. It smashed into Selvetarm’s cleric, burning away his scarlet robe and turning the chain link lining below it red-hot. Qilué expected him to collapse, incinerated, but the Selvetarm kept coming, his flesh burning from his bones even as he ran. He charged the two priestesses, screaming his god’s name and hurling a spell. Three of the stones that made up the floor between Qilué and Iljrene grew in the blink of an eye, becoming monstrous spiders that loomed over the two priestesses.
Spiders of stone.
He collapsed, dead.
Iljrene was busy with a prayer of her own as a second Selvetargtlin burst into the cavern, also screaming his deity’s name. Singing loudly, her magical sword whistling over her head in whirling counterpoint, Iljrene flicked her hand in his direction then squeezed. The second cleric’s eyes widened, and he took a staggering step, another—and his body collapsed into a bloody ball of mangled flesh pierced by protruding splinters of bone. Carried forward by the aborted charge, what remained of the cleric fell to the ground, a wet, bloody ball inside a suddenly loose robe.
It had been a brutal spell, but there was no time for Qilué to mourn yet another drow soul forever beyond redemption. The stone spiders were on them, even as four more Selvetargtlin came running into the room screaming their god’s name. The second of the four held a black rod in his hand—the rod capable of breaking the seal on the Pit.
The judicator who had been leading them was nowhere to be seen.
The stone spiders were quite large—their backs level with Qilué’s head—but they were a distraction only. The one closest to Qilué clamped its fangs onto her shoulder, piercing her flesh and driving in venom, but Mystra’s silver fire instantly purged the poison from Qilué’s body and sealed the wound. With a flick of her fingers—never once taking her eyes off the clerics who were charging toward her—Qilué touched the creature and spoke an arcane word, instantly slaying it. She stepped out from beneath the spider as it toppled over, letting it crash to the floor behind her.
A snap of her fingers summoned her singing sword to her hand. She swept it over her head and listened to its gleeful song.
Iljrene, meanwhile, had dealt equally swiftly with the other two spiders. Her song of prayer caused them to soften then sag. They melted away into mud that seeped into the rubble on the floor. The battle-mistress stepped forward beside Qilué, braced as her superior was to meet the four clerics who rushed toward them.
One of the Selvetargtlin chanted a prayer that caused his body to sprout dozens of blades, turning him into a living weapon as he ran. Another shouted a garbled prayer at Iljrene, but the battle-mistress whirled her sword around her head, and the magical confusion was dispelled.
Yet another of the Selvetargtlin shouted a prayer that caused a cloud of utter darkness, shot through with crackling white spiderwebs, to envelop Qilué. Flames raced along them as the web ignited. Qilué felt a brief flash of heat on her skin—heat that was absorbed by the scepter that hung from her belt. Silver fire flared around her and exploded, snuffing out the fire storm.
Then the clerics were on them, and they were fighting hand to hand. Iljrene squared off with the cleric whose body was studded with blades. Qilué fought two of the others, swiftly dispatching one with a thrust that caught him in the throat and trading a flurry of blows with the other. All the while, she kept an eye on the cleric who held the rod—the only one who had not yet closed in battle. When he drew back his arm, she realized he was going to hurl it at the statue in an attempt to disrupt the seal—an act of desperation, surely, since the throw was a long one and might miss. Parrying the cleric who slashed savagely at her with his sword while screaming Selvetarm’s name, Qilué waited for the throw. When the rod passed above her, Qilué would release Mystra’s silver fire in yet another form—one that would temporarily disrupt the Weave, preventing the rod from functioning. The cleric whipped his hand over his head, threw …
Before Qilué could release Mystra’s fire, the rod had passed her—so quickly that Qilué could not even bring her head up to watch the black streak that it became. The cleric who threw the rod also moved in a streak, across the room to a spot beside Iljrene. His sword somehow wound up in her stomach, its bloody point protruding from her back. The battle-mistress gasped, stricken with surprise and shock.
