by Lisa Smedman
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 Qilue 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, Qilue turned.
Leliana waited, her body tense.
Suddenly, Cavatina understood what the goddess wanted her to do. As Qilue drank from the goblet, Cavatina whispered a hymn of detection. She finished it as Qilue 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 Qilue'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 inappropriate wave, or saying hello. This "Meryl" had simply given Cavatina a fiat, 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 Qilue 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 Qilue'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 Qilue 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 Qilue'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.
Qilue had disappeared, and they were trapped.
Cavatina turned to Leliana. "The demon's escaped!"
"That was a demon? A demon took Qilue's form?"
"Worse than that," Cavatina answered grimly. "That is Qilue, 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 Qilue'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
Karas 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 Karas and lifted the tray.
Karas 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.
Karas 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.
Karas 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 Karas 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 Karas's riding
lizard surged onto the drawbridge with the rest.
The sour smell of green slime rose to Karas'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.
Karas 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."
Karas 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 didn'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.
Karas 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.
Karas 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.
"Consume them!" Molvayas cried.
Riders slammed spike-spurs into their mounts, sending them leaping at the enemy. Spells flew thick and fast between the slave hovels as the rival groups battled. A roiling wave of conjured slime smashed one of the huts flat and broke against the mount of one of House Philiom's priests. The lizard convulsed, thrashing its tail in agony, but the priest went down laughing, his arms waving above his head as he sang his god's name. A heartbeat later, a dark purple boil burst up through the slime, assumed the vague outline of a drow, and staggered on quivering legs toward the nearest enemy. It wrapped its "arms" around that rider's mount. As the lizard collapsed, its body dissolving, another of House Philiom's priests launched a spell that imploded the rider's head.
Karas spurred his mount between two of the slave hovels, seeking refuge. As soon as he reached a point where the others couldn't see him, he reined his mount to a halt. He threw down his tentacle rod and whispered a prayer to the Masked Lady, healing his frost-burned thumb.
A hiss made him look up. He wasn't the only one back there; Molvayas had followed him. The fanatic had heard Karas's prayer. He bared his stained teeth in a furious grimace. "Imposter!" he howled. His arm jerked up, flicking his tentacle rod back-ready to strike.
Karas shot a poisoned bolt from his wrist-bow, but Molvayas whipped up his shield and gurgled a one-word prayer. The metal shield turned into a shimmering disk made up of droplets, which caused the bolt to dissolve instantly when it struck.
Molyvas smiled and flicked his whip.
"Masked Lady, cloak me!" Karas cried as the tentacles flicked toward him. A sphere of darkness leavened with sparkles of moonlight sprang into being around him. The tentacles smacked into it and glanced aside-all but one, which brushed Karas's left knee, instantly deadening it. His leg muscles felt as though they'd turned to mush. He'd been leaning in that direction, and his left foot slipped out of the stirrup. He toppled sideways to the muddy ground, the weakened leg collapsing beneath him, his right foot still tangled in its stirrup, which had twisted up and over the saddle. The lizard, struck in the tail by a tentacle, twisted around to bite at its weakened, useless tail, dragging Karas behind it.
Molvayas flicked the tentacles back, readying for a second strike. Karas twisted to face his opponent. He spat out foul-tasting mud, pointed, and chanted a prayer. It should have immobilized Molvayas, but the Ghaunadaurian priest somehow shrugged it off. His arm whipped forward, and the tentacles lashed out a second time.
Karas at last yanked his foot out of the stirrup. He tried to roll behind his mount, but wasn't quick enough. Tentacles struck his shoulders and the back of his neck. His arms immediately numbed and fell limp at his sides. His head flopped forward on a loose-boned neck. Gasping, desperately trying to blink the mud from his eyes, he mumbled a prayer through numbed lips. "Masst Laybee, dribe him frum me…"
A foot squelched in the mud next to his ear. Karas twisted around and saw Molvayas looming over him. The tentacles of his rod were coiled around his waist; the handle hung like a sheath at his side. As he chanted, a green tinge appeared around his hands. Slime trickled down to his wrist, then fell, hissing, into the mud next to Karas's ear. In the distance, Karas heard the sounds of battle, and the squelch of his mount limping away.
"See him," Molvayas chanted. "Devour him. Destroy him."
Karas steeled himself. He was ready. A moment more, and he would go to his god-and find out, at long last, if it really was the Lady of the Dance who wore the mask, or if the Shadow Lord wore her.
Molvayas bent down, his slimed fingers splayed. But before he could touch Karas, a cord appeared around his neck and yanked him backward. A bolt of darkfire erupted out of his chest, burning a smoking hole through the eye embroidered on his tabard.
Yet still the priest didn't go down. He clawed at the strangle cord around his neck, choked out a word, and his neck softened to the consistency of jelly. The strangle cord slipped through it and was gone. His neck solid again, Molvayas twisted furiously to meet his opponent, his hands raised to cast a spell.
Karas seized his chance. He flailed with his good leg, snapping it against the back of Molvayas's knee. The priest staggered and toppled sideways, forced to check his fall with his hands. They slid into the foul-smelling mud. Snarling, he reached for his rod. But before the tentacles could uncoil from his body, a second bolt of darkfire caught him square in the mouth and exploded out of the back of his head, carrying bits of brain and skull with it. Molvayas fell over backward with a strangled cry. The rod's tentacles suckled at his smoking remains for a moment, then fell still.
A green-robed drow with distinctive pink eyes stepped over the corpse
and kneeled beside Karas. His mud-splattered tabard bore Ghaunadaur's unblinking eye, but the prayer he whispered as he touched Karas's weakened arms, neck and leg was to another god entirely. "Masked Lord," he intoned, "heal him."
Sensation and strength returned. With a shudder, Karas sat up. "My thanks, Valdar. That was close."
Valdar helped Karas to his feet. "Not much of a 'truce between Houses,' is it?"
Karas shook his head in agreement. "The fanatics' vows don't seem to count for much, when it's time for a Gathering. Let's just hope it doesn't turn into full-scale war."
"Have you heard anything yet? Has she been in touch?"
" 'Soon,' was what she said, the last time we spoke." Karas wiped mud from his face with a sleeve. "I pray she's telling the truth. A tenday-plus-two is long enough. This is worse than Maerimydra."
A kobold burst out of a nearby hovel, skidded to a stop as he spotted the two drow, and tried to duck back through the door. Valdar whirled and threw; his knife buried itself in the slave's throat. A snap of his fingers brought the knife back to his hand, even as the kobold fell.
"May the Masked Lord grant that prayer," he said as he wiped the blood from his blade with a white silk handkerchief. He tucked the weapon back into its wrist-sheath. "I'm certainly ready for her call. My bunch is slurping out of the palm of my hand. Ripe for Gathering, you might say."
Karas shook his head. Valdar actually seemed to be enjoying this mission.
They paused to listen. The shouts and cries of battle continued. Over them came a distant gonging: the call for House Philiom's priests to return to their keep. The larders were once again full, and the Gathering was at an end.
"Time for me to go," Karas said.
"Me too." With a wink, Valdar vanished. One moment he stood next to Karas; the next, he had teleported away, as silently as he'd come.
Karas picked up his tentacle rod. He glanced around. His own lizard had curled against the wall of a hut to chew off what remained of its tail. But Molvayas's mount was whole. Karas ran over to it and sprang into the saddle. He drove his spurs into its flanks and hissed. The lizard scuttled away, climbing up and over the nearest hovel. As it descended the opposite wall, he heard shouts of triumph: the priests of House Abbylan had discovered Molvayas's corpse.
