by Lisa Smedman
Soon, Kâras and the prostrated novice were the only ones left in the shrine.
“Go!” Kâras shouted, his voice tight with strain. “Make your preparations!”
The novice heaved himself to his feet and ran from the room.
Kâras wiped nervous sweat from his brow. Every instinct screamed at him to flee Llurth Dreir and never look back. There was an easy exit close at hand: the columns ringing the altar, with their teleportation runes. He reached into his pocket and found the lump of amber that had, at its heart, a crescent-shaped spark of moonlight. Touching the amber to any of the runes would alter its destination, linking it with one of the three columns in the Promenade that had, centuries ago, been ensorcelled by Ghaunadaur’s cultists.
He struggled to make his decision. Should he abandon everything he and Valdar had worked so hard to set in place these past few tendays, or stay here and try to brazen it out? He had, until now, been able to fool the Ghaunadaurian priesthood—even in the heart of the Ancient One’s shrine, even during a sacrifice. But during a spawning? The oozes and slimes boiling up out of the lake were mindless creatures that couldn’t tell the difference between friend and foe, but that was of little comfort. It only meant that his disguise wouldn’t save him, if one of them decided to consume him.
Kâras swore. Until a few moments ago, it had all been going so well. All he’d needed to do was continue the facade, and wait for Qilué’s signal. That would be his cue to reveal his “discovery”—a portal that had, “by the grace of Ghaunadaur,” opened between one of the columns in their shrine and the Promenade. In a carefully choreographed dance, each of the other spies would do the same. One by one, at precisely timed intervals, they would usher their fanatics straight into the trap the high priestess had prepared. Qilué, meanwhile, would ensure the Protectors and other faithful kept well back, out of sight but ready to deal with the fanatics, should they stray from the designated path.
Qilué had explained that the Masked Lady herself had approved this plan. Valdar, when first told of it, had seen the Masked Lord’s hand in it at once. Inviting Eilistraee’s most resolute enemies into the heart of the Promenade, he told Kâras, was something the goddess would never contemplate. Eilistraee was a goddess who fought with song and sword, not shadows and subterfuge. This plan was Vhaeraun’s doing.
Kâras had been convinced. He’d persuaded the high priestess to let him select the Nightshadows who would carry out “Eilistraee’s” divine will, and ensured that Valdar was among them. When Qilué’s call came, the hand-picked few would lead their Ghaunadaurians into the Promenade not in small, easily contained groups, but all at once—away from the trap. The temple would be overwhelmed, and the priestesses swept aside—while the Nightshadows sat out the battle in safety, downriver in Skullport. Later, when it was all over, they would re-assume their disguises and steer the fanatics into the trap Qilué had prepared, cleansing the temple a second time.
Once the Promenade was theirs, converts would be drawn from across Faerûn to a reinvigorated faith. And those of Eilistraee’s priestesses who managed to survive would reap the bitter fruit of their misplaced trust. The females would be the ones given a choice, this time around: to don Vhaeraun’s mask, and worship in silence and shadow, or to die by Vhaeraun’s sword.
That had been the plan-within-a-plan. And it had been a good one, needing only subterfuge and determination to see it through—until oozes and slimes had come boiling up out of the lake. Surely Vhaeraun didn’t intend to fill the Promenade with such filth! It would take an army to scour the temple clean, after that.
Masked … Lord, Kâras silently prayed, the honorific feeling out of place after nearly four years of praying to the Masked Lady. Your servant seeks counsel. Is it your will we continue?
No answer came.
Kâras stood, sweating. The future of his faith hung upon what happened next. Upon what he decided next.
As he hesitated near the doorway, listening to the shouts of excitement echoing through the keep, a voice sang into his mind. Qilué’s voice! Clear as a tolling bell, the high priestess called to her spies. It is time to begin the dance. Are you ready?
The timing of the message couldn’t be mere coincidence. The Masked Lord had to know what was happening, down here in Llurth Dreir. He obviously had confidence in Kâras—confidence enough to allow Qilué to set everything in motion, spawning or no.
Kâras squared his shoulders. The Masked Lord was depending upon him.
I stand ready, Lady Qilué, he thought back. Expect the first group in moments.
Begin, then. And may Eilistraee guide your steps. Her voice faded from his mind.
Kâras pulled the lump of amber from his pocket and walked to the nearest column, his feet slipping in the green sludge coating the floor. He had to force his body to move in that direction; the closer he got to the altar, the more difficult it became. He could feel the Ancient One’s presence, terrible and grim, evil beyond words. Forcing himself against it bent him almost double.
He lifted the amber to the column and waited. Ready.
He heard shouts, drawing nearer: Shi’drin’s voice, urging the others back to the altar room. Overlaying them was a sound that sent shivers down his spine—the sound of oozes sliding over stone.
Kâras pressed the amber to the column. A hole opened. “Quickly, brethren!” he cried. “Come and see! One of the columns has opened. It will lead us to the Pit of Ghaunadaur!”
Qilué strode through the Cavern of Song, past the faithful who gave voice to Eilistraee’s eternal hymn. Those in her way took a quick step back as she passed, giving her room to pass by. One faltered in her hymn. Qilué strode on, not bothering to admonish her.
Qilué fumed. How had this happened? She’d been so careful! Yet somehow, Cavatina had figured out that a demon was inside the Crescent Blade—not only that, but which one. She should have expected that, from the Darksong Knight. She’d been foolish to think she could keep Wendonai hidden, especially from the one who had “killed” him.
She wished she could tell her priestesses that her strange behavior was just a charade, but she couldn’t—not without also telling Wendonai, since he could see and hear everything within range of the Crescent Blade, including her otherwise silent mental communications. Fortunately, by Mystra’s grace, he wasn’t privy to her thoughts.
Qilué! Wendonai bellowed. He’d learned, early on, that calling her name forced her to pay attention to him. The Darksong Knight knows. You should have slain her.
I make the decisions, demon. Not you.
Poor decisions. She’ll tell the others—if she hasn’t already.
No point in killing her, then, is there?
They’ll banish me—destroy the Crescent Blade.
Qilué almost wished someone would banish Wendonai. The cut on her wrist burned. The Crescent Blade felt heavy in her hand. She longed to have someone relieve her of this burden, yet she had to see this dance through to the end. The fate of hundreds of thousands of souls hung in the balance.
You might as well have killed those two priestesses, the demon continued. Sealed inside the shrine, they’ll die of thirst—a slow, lingering death, rather than a quick one. He paused, and she could imagine his sly grin. How very dhaerrow of you—something your ancestors would have appreciated.
Qilué made no comment. The two priestesses wouldn’t starve. Eilistraee would answer their prayers for sustenance.
What mattered was to contain the problem before it spread. Horaldin had been easy enough to silence, but Rylla would be more difficult. The battle-mistress either knew about Wendonai or suspected, judging by the way she’d been acting. It was unlikely she’d told anyone yet—she would have realized this would start a panic. More likely, she’d be preparing a banishment spell of her own.
If she succeeded, it would ruin everything.
Where was Rylla? Qilué had to find her. She realized that she should have kept the battle-mistress near her, instead of sending her away.
She should have trusted her instincts.
Are you sure you didn’t already bear my taint? Wendonai asked mockingly, continuing their previous conversation. You certainly think like an Ilythiiri.
Watch your tongue, demon, or I’ll banish you myself.
And destroy the weapon that will kill Lolth? Without my essence sustaining it, the Crescent Blade will crumble to dust.
Be silent! She grasped her sheath and tried to shove the Crescent Blade into it, but felt the familiar resistance, like two lodestones pushing each other apart. She struggled against it, but the sword proved stronger. It sprang out of the sheath.
“Abyss take me!” Qilué swore—an oath she hadn’t used since her childhood.
The demon chuckled. Perhaps it will.
Qilué stalked on through the cavern. She could have sheathed the sword if she’d tried harder, but she needed Wendonai to think he was in control—and that she feared the weapon would fall apart, were he not within it. That wouldn’t happen, of course. Eilistraee’s blessings would sustain it, just as they always had.
Her statue was just ahead, tucked into an alcove in the Cavern of Song. Carved from black marble, it showed a youthful Qilué with singing sword held high, exulting in the defeat of Ghaunadaur’s avatar. The statue looked heavy and immovable—a false impression. In fact, it concealed the winding staircase that led down to the sealed Pit.
Qilué strode up to the halfling Protector who guarded it and stared down at her. “Is Battle-mistress Rylla below?”
Brindell shook her head.
“Has she passed this way recently?”
“No, Lady. Not since I took up station here.”
“Where is she?” Silver fire crackled through Qilué’s hair as her irritation flared.
Brindell took a step back. “Lady Qilué. What’s wrong? Is the Promenade under attack?”
“What are you talking about?” Qilué spat. She’d never realized, until just this moment, how ridiculous the halfling looked, with her ink-stained face and mop of copper-colored hair.
Brindell pointed a pudgy finger at the Crescent Blade. “There’s blood on your sword, Lady Qilué.”
“There is?” Qilué lifted the weapon. A thin line of red trickled down the blade. The cut on her wrist must have been bleeding; the bracer that served as sheath for her silver dagger must have rubbed it open again. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.” She glared down at Brindell. “Hold your post. Contact me—immediately—if you see Rylla.”
Brindell gulped. “Yes, Lady.”
Qilué strode away. She realized she’d been sharp with Brindell, but it was all part of the act. And it was drawing Wendonai in. She could feel it.
In recent months, she’d stepped up the tempo. Sometimes she “forgot,” until it was almost too late, to drink the holy water that held Wendonai at bay. This gave the balor the illusion he was gradually wearing down her defenses, one cloven-hoofed step at a time. Two steps forward, one back. One step forward, two back. All part of the dance that would lead him exactly where she wanted him.
A dangerous gamble—one that might cost her the Promenade. But a necessary one, if the dhaerrow were to be led back into the light.
The Crescent Blade would be the key.
Ironically, Wendonai had given her the idea, when he’d derided her crusade as “futile.” For each drow redeemed and brought up into Eilistraee’s light, he’d gloated, a dozen were born with his taint. For every step Qilué led the drow forward, Wendonai yanked them twelve steps back.
The balor’s taint ran constant and deep in the drow, in every one with even a drop of Ilythiiri blood in their veins. The only way they could be led out of this dark pall was through redemption—and redemption was something that took courage and strength. The very taint they needed to struggle against and overcome was what seduced most drow into choosing a less morally challenging, more “rewarding” path. They wound up, like flies, caught in Lolth’s vast web. Even if they somehow managed to escape or avoid this, more often than not it was only through seeking out alliances with other, even more loathsome deities, like Ghaunadaur.
Qilué had experienced this taint, herself. After her failure to attune the Crescent Blade and drive the evil from it, the cut on her wrist had allowed the demon to slowly worm its way into her. She had been on the verge of purging his taint—a simple matter of releasing Mystra’s silver fire within her body, rather than without—when she’d realized something. If she could somehow draw all of Wendonai’s taint into herself she would, in the process, remove it from every drow on Toril. Then she could burn herself clean in one blinding flash of silver fire. She could set the drow free to choose a better path—to be led into Eilistraee’s dance.
Qilué herself would likely be consumed in the process, her very soul reduced to ash by the incineration of so much evil, so much guilt, so much hatred. But the Crescent Blade would remain. Someone else—Cavatina, most likely—would carry on Eilistraee’s work. Be named high priestess in Qilué’s stead, take up the Crescent Blade, and kill Lolth.
Qilué sighed. She had the lancet she needed for the blooding that was to come: the Crescent Blade. She even knew the one place, on all of Toril, where it could be done; Eilistraee had revealed its location to her. But she wasn’t quite ready, yet, to set her plan in motion. There always seemed to be something else that needed doing first. Q’arlynd, for example, was on the verge of attempting his casting, and would soon require her assistance. And within the Promenade itself, there were a dozen other things to tend to.
Like finding Rylla, and silencing her.
Perhaps, Qilué decided, she could flush the battle-mistress out. An “attack” by Ghaunadaur’s cultists should do just that.
She sang the word that would make her symbol visible. A second song dispelled the locks she’d placed on the doors of the chamber that held the glyph-inscribed portal. Then she sent out a silent message to her spies. It is time to begin the dance. Are you ready?
Their answers came like a spatter of rain, the words overlapping each other. Some of the Nightshadows sounded eager, others tense. Two didn’t answer at all. Perhaps they were dead. She prayed their souls had found their way to the Masked Lady’s domain. Kâras assured her he would be able to bring his group through Qilué smiled. That should bring Rylla running.
Begin, then, she replied. And may Eilistraee guide your steps.
That done, Qilué turned down the corridor that would take her to the river—the corridor that wound past the Moonspring Portal. The Protector guarding the magical pool saluted as she passed.
“Have you seen Rylla?” Qilué asked.
“No, Lady.”
She’s lying.
Qilué whirled. “Liar! She used the portal, didn’t she?”
The Protector’s face paled to gray. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.
Qilué felt the blood drain from her own face. She hadn’t meant to say that aloud. “My apologies, priestess. I was answering a sending from someone else.”
It wasn’t much of an excuse, but it seemed to satisfy the Protector, who nodded and stiffly resumed her post.
Qilué kneeled and sang a scrying, passing her hand over the pool. She smiled as it revealed Rylla. Qilué’s smile vanished abruptly as she recognized the chamber Rylla was standing in. The battle-mistress hadn’t used the Moonspring Portal, after all. She was still within the Promenade—in the last place Qilué had expected to find her: the chamber that contained the trap for Ghauandaur’s cultists!
Even as Qilué watched, the battle-mistress dispelled the symbol Horaldin had inscribed. Now she began a prayer—one that would seal the portal Qilué had so painstakingly created!
“No!” Qilué cried. She couldn’t let that happen. Not now, with the first wave of Ghaunadaur’s minions about to come through.
She sang a hymn that instantly conveyed her to the chamber along a beam of moonlight. Her boots slipped as she landed; the floor was ankle-deep in water. Rylla whirled, her prayer interrupted. “
Qilué!” Is it you? she sent.
It would have been a clever ploy—had Wendonai not been able to listen in on Qilué’s private conversations.
She thinks I’m controlling you.
You’re not.
Not yet.
Be silent! Qilué shook her head. Rylla. She needed to concentrate on the battle-mistress. “Of course it’s me. What are you doing?” Rylla hadn’t tried to banish Wendonai yet. Perhaps she didn’t know.
“Making sure everything’s sealed up tight—as you ordered. There’s a portal in this room that shouldn’t be here.” She began her prayer anew.
“Stop that!” Qilué cried. She sang a note into the shout that fused Rylla’s fingers together, preventing her from completing the gesture that would seal the portal. “I created that portal. It leads to a trap. One that’s about to be sprung. Go and find Horaldin—I need him to recast his enchantment! Now!”
Rylla turned. She was terrified—Qilué could smell the other female’s fear—and her voice quavered. “Horaldin’s dead.”
She’s lying. Trying to confuse you.
“What?” Qilué rubbed her wrist. “No, he’s not. I just spoke to him.” In fact, she’d just placed a geas on him: one that would compel him not to communicate with anyone—not by speech, nor spell, nor written word—until she gave him leave. She’d sealed the geas by drawing a line across his throat. The instant he tried to speak, he’d be wracked by a fit of violent coughing.
Coughing blood.
Qilué blinked, startled. Where had that thought come from?
“You cut his throat,” Rylla said. “Decapitated him.” She glanced, pointedly, at the Crescent Blade.
Qilué’s eyes were drawn to the sword. To the blood on it.
She’s trying to trick you. That’s your blood. Your cut is leaking again.
Qilué lifted her arm.
Rylla tensed, her fused fingers gripping her holy symbol.
Qilué yanked her bracer up. She stared at the cut on her wrist. No—not a cut. A scar. Old and gray.
