by Lisa Smedman
Qilué scowled—an expression as foreign to her face as a look of mercy would have been on the cruel visage of the Spider Queen. Then, as abruptly as it came, the scowl disappeared. Cavatina could see, how Horaldin had known there was something wrong with the high priestess. Everything about Qilué’s posture, tone, and expression was subtly wrong. Even Qilué’s color was off. Her skin looked clammy, like that of someone who ought to be confined to a sick bed. She even smelled bad—as if it had been some time since she’d bathed.
“Fortunately for you, Cavatina, my preparations are incomplete.”
Cavatina’s heart fell. Qilué wasn’t answering her question! Was the demon capable of resisting Leliana’s magical compulsion? Or was the answer simpler: that it was Wendonai who had opened the portal—if so, the demon wouldn’t have been compelled to answer a question directed at Qilué. Cavatina’s hands dampened with sweat. She resisted the urge to clench her sword tighter; Qilué might spot the slight movement and attack.
Cavatina tried another question. “What preparations?”
“A symbol. Had you blundered upon that ruined temple once it was visible, that would have been the end of you. You would have wandered the Ethereal Plane forever, gibbering and broken.”
“I did see a symbol—the mark of the Ancient One. Is that the one you mean?”
“Of course not,” Qilué snapped. “I’m talking about the symbol I inscribed on top of it.”
Cavatina cautiously nodded. If there had been another symbol atop Ghaunadaur’s, she’d failed to detect it. “What symbol is that?”
“One that provokes insanity.” Qilué smirked: another expression she never used. “The idea came from Ghaunadaur’s own scriptures.” She spoke quickly, as if she couldn’t get the words out fast enough. Maybe Leliana’s prayer was affecting her. “Millennia ago, the Ancient One rendered mindless the oozes and slimes that were his original worshipers. I’m going to do the same to the drow who worship him. They’re incapable of redemption, so we’re going to destroy them instead. That’s why I opened the portal in the abandoned temple. Our spies will lure his clerics into it with a feint the fanatics can’t help but follow. Especially once I open the door for them.”
“You’re going to allow Ghaunadaur’s fanatics to enter the Promenade?” Cavatina gasped.
Qilué missed the point. “They won’t realize we’ve ‘allowed’ it. Each group will think it’s mounting a sneak attack. They’ll never realize that others have preceded them, since the ones who have gone before won’t be in any condition to warn them, once the trap is sprung. They’ll all walk into it one by one, as meek as rothé.”
Cavatina was absolutely certain that this was Wendonai speaking. Qilué would never have slain drow outright—even those who worshiped so vile a god—without first offering a chance at redemption. Nor would she have allowed the Promenade’s defenses to be compromised.
“When are these ‘sneak attacks’ to begin?”
Qilué smiled. “My plan is already in motion.”
Leliana broke in. “But Lady Qilué, if the symbol is not yet visible—”
Qilué whirled around. “I know what I’m doing! Your opinion is not wanted, Protector.”
Leliana stood, her mouth open. Her fingers spread slightly, and her posture shifted. In another moment she’d lunge for her singing sword. Behind Qilué, Cavatina frantically shook her head. Not yet! Play along! she signed.
Leliana bowed. “Lady, my apologies for speaking out of turn.”
“The plan has its merits,” Cavatina said, trying to draw the high priestess’s attention back to her. “But the Protectors will need to be notified.”
“Of course,” Qilué said without turning around. She pointed at Leliana. “They just have been. A little sooner than I would have liked. There may be spies among us.”
“Not among the Protectors,” Leliana assured her.
“Not among the priestesses, you mean. There are Nightshadows whose loyalties I’m less certain of.”
She at last turned to Cavatina. “You can see why I’ve been so short-tempered, of late. It’s a big gamble I’m taking—but one that, if all goes well, will prove as rewarding as our assault on the Acropolis.”
Cavatina nodded, trying not to betray the tension she felt. “I don’t like it,” she said. “It’s too risky.” Then she shrugged, as if in resignation. “But I bow to your greater wisdom, Lady Qilué.”
“As do I, Lady,” Leliana echoed.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Qilué nodded. Cavatina relaxed—a little. Hopefully, Wendonai was arrogant enough to think he’d fooled them.
A knock sounded on the door. As Qilué crossed the room to answer it, Leliana caught Cavatina’s eye. Her hand flicked a word: What—?
Ask to leave.
“Lady,” Leliana said. “May I check on Naxil?”
“Not yet,” Qilué said without turning around. “There’s more we need to discuss.”
“Agreed,” Cavatina interrupted. “And the battle-mistress should hear it. Leliana, go find Rylla. Ask her to join us.”
“No!” Qilué snapped. Her hand was on the door. “Remain where you are, Leliana. I’ve already sent for the battle-mistress.”
Cavatina’s heart sank. She could think of only one reason for Qilué to keep the Protector here: Wendonai hadn’t been fooled. And it was worse than that. As Qilué turned back to the door, Cavatina caught a glint of something: silver fire, kindling deep within the high priestess’s eyes. Was Wendonai about to unleash it? Could he? If so, their lives would be measured in heartbeats unless Cavatina did something, and quickly.
Eilistraee, she silently prayed. Dancing Lady, aid me.
She caught Leliana’s eye and glanced down at the other female’s singing sword. One finger flicked. On my signal.
Leliana moved her feet slightly, getting ready to dive for her sword. With luck, the Protector would survive long enough for Cavatina to take Wendonai down and stop him—by killing Qilué, if necessary.
Cavatina prayed that it wouldn’t be.
Qilué opened the door, revealing Meryl. The halfling held up a tray on which stood a single goblet. Or … was it Meryl? For all Cavatina knew, this might be another dretch in disguise.
Cavatina raised her hand slightly, about to give the signal to attack. Before her fingers could move, a voice sang into her ear. Wait.
Eilistraee? Cavatina wondered. Or the demon, mimicking her voice?
Watch, the voice urged. As before, the word sang out in a duet, blending male and female timbres.
Eilistraee. Cavatina felt certain of it.
Meryl glanced into the shrine, at the two priestesses—then yelped and stepped back quickly as Qilué snatched the goblet, spilling part of the clear liquid it held, and shut the door in the halfling’s face.
Cavatina held her hand still. Leliana would be wondering why she hadn’t signaled yet. Logically, now was the time to move, while the “imposter’s” back was still turned.
Goblet in hand, Qilué turned.
Leliana waited, her body tense.
Suddenly, Cavatina understood what the goddess wanted her to do. As Qilué drank from the goblet, Cavatina whispered a hymn of detection. She finished it as Qilué lowered the empty goblet. Cavatina saw the high priestess’s aura brighten, returning to its usual gleaming silver—except for a faint dimple that was the scar on her wrist. She realized that it must have been holy water the high priestess had just drunk—and that it had done its work.
Cavatina shifted her whispered song. As she’d suspected, there was a dark purple aura surrounding the Crescent Blade. Wendonai was back inside it. Yet even as Cavatina watched, a thread of purple found its way back to the scar on Qilué’s wrist, and taint began to flow back into her.
So soon? Surely holy water would have a more lingering effect than that.
Unless it had been tainted by a dretch.
That hadn’t been Meryl. The halfling would have reacted to Cavatina in some way, giving an inappro
priate wave, or saying hello. This “Meryl” had simply given Cavatina a flat, unrecognizing stare.
Cavatina needed to act—and quickly! This might be her only chance to banish Wendonai while he was still vulnerable, before he fully re-entered the high priestess. Yet she’d had no time to prepare. Wendonai was a balor—the most powerful demon of all. Cavatina would need something more than just her sword or holy symbol to …
Wait a moment! Her eyes fell on the sacred stone atop the pillar. Wendonai had been overly clever in bringing Cavatina and Leliana to the shrine. He’d placed the perfect tool for an exorcism within Cavatina’s reach.
Cavatina’s fingers flashed. Now!
Leliana swept up her sword and lunged, her weapon pealing its attack—a feint Qilué met with a slash of the Crescent Blade. Their weapons met with a loud crash. Cavatina leaped for the sacred stone. She scooped it from the top of the pillar and hurled it, aiming at the sword in Qilué’s hand. “Begone, Wendonai!” she sang. “Return to—”
Silver fire filled the air with a flash of heat. Cavatina heard a crack—the sacred stone had struck the wall. A welter of fragments pattered onto the floor. Blinded by the aftereffects of the bright flash, she leaped forward, trying to locate Qilué by feel.
A strident note wailed past her ear once, twice: Leliana’s sword blade.
Cavatina ducked. “Leliana! Hold!”
The sword’s singing halted.
Blinking against the streaks that obscured her vision, Cavatina fumbled for the door. Her hand encountered an utterly smooth surface: magic-fused stone—hot enough to scorch her fingertips. She yanked her hand back and sang a hymn, one that should have sent her into the corridor beyond. But Eilistraee didn’t answer.
As the room swam into focus, she understood why. The stone door had been fused shut by Qilué’s silver fire. On top of that, the entire chamber was glowing. Bright green light sparkled from within the floor, ceiling, and walls: a magical barrier, just like the one Cavatina had seen when she’d been ethereal.
Qilué had disappeared, and they were trapped.
Cavatina turned to Leliana. “The demon’s escaped!”
“That was a demon? A demon took Qilué’s form?”
“Worse than that,” Cavatina answered grimly. “That is Qilué, but only partially. A balor is sharing her body.”
“Eilistraee save us,” Leliana whispered, her face paling to gray. Her singing sword let out a mournful peal. She looked around. “Why didn’t it kill us?”
It was a good question. But Cavatina didn’t have time to speculate. With an urgent whisper, she tried sending a warning to Rylla.
No answer came.
Cavatina tried contacting Horaldin—the druid knew spells that would soften stone, and would soon have them out of here—but he also failed to answer.
Cavatina glanced around the shrine that had become their prison, furious at herself for having become trapped here. The battle-mistress needed her. Rylla was adept at exorcism and a skillful swordswoman, but she would be facing the Crescent Blade, backed up by Qilué’s silver fire.
Cavatina bowed her head and prayed. Eilistraee, surely, could still hear her. “Grant Rylla the strength she needs to do battle in your name, Dark Maiden. Shield her, and strengthen her sword arm.”
“By song and sword,” Leliana whispered.
Cavatina hoped it wasn’t already too late for their prayers.
CHAPTER 6
Kâras yanked the reins of his riding lizard to stop it from snapping at the tail of the mount in front. All around him, the twenty-six other priests who would ride out to the Gathering did the same. Their lizards, cramped together in the portico, were restless and aggressive as they waited for the drawbridge to fall.
A novice in oversized purple robes hurried into the portico, carrying a lacquered black tray. On it was a whiplike tentacle rod and the ring that controlled it. With eyes downcast, the boy halted next to Kâras and lifted the tray.
Kâras caught the eye of the priest on the mount next to him and feigned a greedy smile. “Mine?”
The priest—a greasy-haired, hollow-cheeked drow named Molvayas—smiled, revealing brown, stained teeth. “Yours. To replace the one you lost.” The brownish red tentacles of the priest’s rod were coiled over one shoulder and around his chest; their suckers puckered the fabric of his tabard. They sucked and released the purple-encircled eye embroidered on the front of the tunic as if nursing from it. His shield bore the same symbol.
Kâras could feel the other priests watching him out of the corners of their eyes. This was a test. He reached for the ring: a band of black obsidian, set with an equally dark stone. The bitterly cold ring stuck to his sweat-damp fingers. He jammed it onto his left thumb and tore his fingers away. Cold shot through his thumb to the bone, turning the meat of his thumb a dull gray. With a thought, he adjusted its color back to black.
He held up his thumb and flexed it—a motion that would draw the others’ scrutiny away from his other hand as it surreptitiously brushed against the belt that cinched in his tabard: a belt that was actually his disguised holy symbol. Masked Lady, he silently prayed. Lend me strength.
Feeling returned to his thumb.
He grabbed the rod’s leather-bound handgrip. Finger-thick, rubbery tentacles uncoiled and animated as he lifted the rod from the tray. When he held it at arm’s length, the tentacles brushed back and forth against the slate floor, leaving streaks of frost in their wake. He flicked the rod, and a shiver ran through the tentacles. They snapped briefly to attention, then relaxed again and suckered the floor with faint wet pops.
“A fine weapon,” he said. “My thanks to House Philiom.”
“Gather well,” Molvayas said.
Kâras flicked the weapon a second time as he waited, and a third, pretending to admire the balance of its long metal shaft and the suppleness of its three black tentacles. At last he had to coil the weapon around his body, lest the others become suspicious. He suppressed his shudder at the touch of its tentacles against his skin.
Without warning, thuds sounded as the House boys on either side of the drawbridge slammed sledge hammers to release the pegs that held its counterweights. Chains rattled, and the drawbridge fell with a tremendous boom. En masse, the riding lizards surged forward, their riders urging them onward with hisses. The novice who’d handed Kâras the rod gasped as a lizard knocked him down. He screamed as scrabbling claws shredded his tabard and back into a bloody fringe. The screaming fell behind as Kâras’s riding lizard surged onto the drawbridge with the rest.
The sour smell of green slime rose to Kâras’s nostrils as his mount crossed the moat. Soon it was replaced by the fetid stench of the manure in House Philiom’s mushroom fields. The riders poured out of the black spire that was House Philiom’s keep, their riding lizards’ clawed feet sending up a splattering of mud that fouled the hems of their robes. Startled slaves rose from their mushroom picking to watch the mounts pass.
Kâras wheeled his lizard past the slave hovels, blinking away smoke from the smudge fires the slaves used to keep midges at bay. Soon the hovels fell behind. The riders emerged onto the wide expanse of silt that covered the floor of the low-ceilinged cavern. As their lizards scuttled forward in a blur of legs and claws, the priests gibbered the name of their god, spittle flying from their lips.
“Ghaunadaur who lurks, Ghaunadaur who sees, Ghaunadaur who devours.”
Kâras mouthed the refrain without giving voice to it. The harsh chirps and hisses of the lizards and the wet slap of clawed feet through mud masked his silence.
He marveled at the contrast. In other cities, merely speaking the Ancient One’s name aloud resulted in immediate retribution. Here in Llurth Dreir, it was a different story. Lolth’s temples had been scoured clean when an avatar of the Ancient One had risen from Llurthogl, consumed Lolth’s faithful, and descended again. Over the centuries since, there had been frequent “spawnings”—eruptions of oozes, slimes, and slugs—ensuring that Lolth’s clergy d
idn’t return. At the moment, thankfully, the lake was still and quiet. Its scum-covered surface lay undisturbed, apart from the occasional bubble of foul-smelling gas.
Kâras unwound the tentacles from his body and let them trail behind him as he rode. He wheeled his mount with the others as they turned to the black spire of rock that was House Abbylan’s keep. Slave hovels fringed the base of it. As the riders drew near the outermost of these shanties, figures scattered like spiders from a torn egg sac. Goblins, kobolds, and orcs—even a handful of pale-skinned humans—flailed through the mud in a panic. Beyond them, House Abbylan’s soldiers poured oil through slits in the keep, to prevent the attackers’ lizards from scaling its walls.
The priests rode the slaves down, lashing out with their whiplike rods. Slaves collapsed as the tentacles struck them, magic turning muscle to jelly, or loosing a spray of slime that blinded and maimed. Some of the slaves stood dazed and staring, their wits sucked out by the lashing rods. Others leaped, screaming, from tentacles that left bands of fire across their flesh.
Kâras lashed out with his rod, the unfamiliar weapon awkward in his grip. By mere chance, he struck a kobold with a tentacle The tiny reptilian squeaked in agony as its bones and cartilage turned as cold as ice, sending it into a stiff-limbed tumble.
Molvayas chanted a gurgling prayer. Rubbery black tentacles, as tall as saplings, sprang from the mud in a long line that extended back to House Philiom’s keep. Like slaves picking mushrooms, they plucked the fallen from the mud and passed them back, tentacle to tentacle, toward the keep.
The Gathering had begun.
A gong sounded from the top of the nearby keep. Low and shuddering, it boomed once, twice, thrice. House Abbylan’s drawbridge crashed down, sending up a spray of mud. Lizard-mounted riders—garbed in identical tabards, but with green robes instead of purple—raced from the keep.
