Ascendancy of the Last

chapter 3

Cavatina made her way through the Hall of the Priestesses, a cavern filled with a soft blue-white light emanating from lichens on its ceiling and walls. Glowballs—off-white hemispheres that waxed and waned with the moon’s cycles—studded the buildŹings. The combined illumination made the cavern as bright as a moonlit night in the World Above.

The buildings she passed—originally part of a Netherese outpost in the Underdark—had lain buried in rubble for seventeen centuries before Qilué and her companions excavated them and made them part of the Promenade. Constructed in terraced layers like a series of blocks stacked largest to small-est, the buildings were four stories high. Much of their original decoration had been smashed when the magic supporting the ceiling had dissipated at the time of Netheril’s fall, but here and there Cavatina saw the grooves of what had once been a fluted column, or fragŹments of the friezes that had once adorned every wall.

Nearly two and a half decades of labor by Eilistraee’s faithful had restored the buildings to a usable state, here and elsewhere in the Promenade. Now each bore the goddess’s symbol above its front door: a silver long sword, set point-upright against the circle of a full moon haloed with streaks of white.

Priestesses and lay worshipers alike strode the streets, the former on their way to services in the Cavern of Song, the latter hurrying about their errands. Most of the priestŹesses were drow; only a handful were drawn from the elven races of the World Above. But the lay worshipers came from a multitude of races. Many had been rescued from the holds of slave ships, or from the flesh markets of Skullport. Each had turned, in gratitude, to the Dark Maiden’s faith. The other priestesses saluted Cavatina, while the lay worshipers bowed low. Awed whispers followed in her wake.

Cavatina spotted a familiar face: Meryl, Qilué’s halfling cook. The little female with the mop of tangled gray hair padded along on bare feet to the high priestess’s house, a basket tucked under one arm. Cavatina altered course so their paths would cross.

Meryl’s wrinkled face creased in a grin as she spotted the Darksong Knight. “Hello, Cavatina! It’s been a while.”

Cavatina arched an eyebrow. ” ‘Cavatina?’ ” she echoed. “Not, ‘Most Esteemed Darksong Knight, Slayer of Selvetarm?’ ” she continued in a teasing voice.

Meryl laughed and waved a hand. “Yes, yes, that too. It’s just hard to remember, sometimes. I still see, when I look at you, the babe Jetel danced with in her arms. Though”—she craned her neck, looking up—”you get taller and skinnier each time I see you. You’re thin as a sword blade. You really should eat more.”

Cavatina smiled. Though the halfling was a mere lay worshiper, Meryl never—ever—used formal titles. She even addressed Lady Qilué by her first name.

“So what brings you to the Promenade?” Meryl continued. “Slain any demons lately? How are things in the Chondalwood? Are the elves still prevailing?”

Cavatina held up her hands, as if overwhelmed by the barŹrage of questions. Meryl seldom asked only one her tongue ran faster than her feet, more often than not. “Rylla’s summons. Three yochlols. Good. And yes.”

Meryl’s head bobbed in a series of nods. She shifted her basket, and Cavatina heard metal clink inside it.

“Don’t tell me you’re stealing the silverware again,” Cavatina teased. The jibe wouldn’t sting Meryl, who prided herself on her stout-hearted loyalty. She’d been Qilué’s cook for decades, and personally tasted every ingredient for poison before using it. A simple prayer of detection would have accomplished the same result, but Meryl insisted on putting her life on the line. If poison took her, she said, she’d go to Eilistraee’s realm happy and content—and with a full stomach.

Meryl feigned shock. “Me!” she blurted indignantly. “I never, ever, would contemplate such a thing. Not in a hunŹdred lifetimes. A thousand. Yes, it’s true; that was the gleam of silver you saw.” She cracked the lid of the basket, giving Cavatina a peek. “But I’m taking these vials from the Hall of Healing to the High House, as you could plainly have seen from the direction I was headed.” With a flourish, she snapped the lid shut.

Now Cavatina was supposed to apologize. That was the way the game was played. But her brief glimpse inside the basket puzzled her. Those vials were used to hold one thing, only. “Is that holy water?”

Meryl nodded.

Cavatina should have cracked another joke—to ask, perŹhaps, if Meryl’s kitchen was infested with undead mice—but her customary bluntness kicked in at last. “What does a cook need with holy water?”

“They’re for Qilué. She told me to make sure there’s an ample supply on hand when she gets back from her inspection tour of the shrines. She’s used up all she had.”

“Why doesn’t she bless her own water?”

“I’ve no idea. But I’d recommend against asking her. Qilué’s been awfully short-tempered lately. A tenday ago, she got angry with Horaldin. I could hear her yelling at him, even from the kitchen. She told him to follow her orders or else. And yesterday she shouted at me for scalding the soup.” The halfling made a face. “I never scald my soup.”

“That’s not like her.”

“No.” Meryl shrugged. “She’s got a lot on her mind, I supŹpose.” The halfling crooked a finger, beckoning Cavatina closer. Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Yesterday, just before Qilué left, someone turned a blindfish into a golden crab. According to what I heard, the Protector who set out after it was eaten by a scorpion. It’s all nonsense, of course—that statue was so rusted it couldn’t possibly have swallowed anyone, and Leliana will show up eventually—but worrisome nonsense just the same.”

“I see.” It was no use asking Meryl to clarify this garbled tale; the halfling tended to jumble everything together, and was forever seasoning the resulting hash with a hefty dash of imagination. Rylla would clarify whatever Meryl was trying to tell her. She would also shed light, no doubt, on why the high priestess didn’t bless her own water—if indeed Meryl had gotten that part right.

“I’d best be on my way,” Cavatina said. “The battle-mistress is expecting me.”

Meryl nodded. She shifted the basket into the crook of her arm. “Eilistraee’s blessings,” she said, touching thumbs and forefingers. “Dance in moonlight, and joyous song.”

Cavatina touched her breastplate, her fingers resting lightly on its embossed moon-and-sword. “Joyous song.” She watched as the cook entered a side door and disappeared into the high priestess’s house, then sighed and shook her head.

She was just turning to go when the door opened again: Meryl, leaving, the basket still under her arm. Something about the way the halfling exited struck Cavatina as odd, though it took a moment to figure out what it was. Meryl had stepped outside, glanced around, and drawn back slightly, as if fearful. Cavatina glanced behind herself—whatever had startled Meryl must have been right behind her, judging by the timing of the reaction—yet Cavatina saw nothing amiss.

She walked to the cook. “What is it, Meryl? Is something wrong?”

Meryl didn’t reply. Without so much as a glance in Cavatina’s direction, she hurried away.

Cavatina followed. “Meryl?”

The halfling sped up.

“Meryl!” Cavatina shouted. “Wait! I just want to ask you something.”

Meryl broke into a run.

Several paces behind, Cavatina ran after the halfling, her sense of unease strong. Meryl had been holding the basket a moment ago; now it had vanished. Meryl ran with a peculiar loping gait: a jiggly step-wobble-step.

Cavatina sang a prayer. She expected to uncover a spy: a denizen of Skullport or, at worst, one of Lolth’s priestesses. What her spell revealed shocked her. The creature cloaking itself in Meryl’s image was squat and hairless, with rubbery gray skin, beady red eyes above a drool-slack mouth, and arms so long the knuckles dragged on the ground.

A dretch—a demonic creature of the Abyss!

And it had come from Qilué’s residence.

The dretch bolted into the corridor leading to the Hall of Healing. Cavatina drew her sword and sprinted in after it. “Stop that halfling!” she shouted. “That’s not Meryl—it’s a demon!” Her sword pealed out its own alarm.

Other priestesses took up the chase, sprinting into the tunnel behind Cavatina. One blew her hunting horn. The blare filled the corridor, drowning out the hymn that wafted down a side tunnel from the Cavern of Song.

“Encircle it!” Cavatina shouted over her shoulder. “Double back through the Cavern of Song, and upriver through the northern tunnel. Box it in!”

Priestesses and lay worshipers scrambled to obey. Cavatina ran on, singing a sending. As the battle-mistress’s mind touched hers, Cavatina shouted a warning to Rylla. Not in words—she needed her breath for running—but with a mental shout. A dretch disguised as Meryl is heading for the Empty Arches. It came from the High House. Search it for demons. See if Meryl lives.

Rylla’s reply came a heartbeat after her oath. Wrath and blood! I’ll send Protectors to the High House and meet you at the Hall of Empty Arches.

Cavatina rounded a corner. There should have been a guard just ahead, to ensure unwanted visitors to the Hall of Empty Arches didn’t wander into the priestesses’ quarters. Yet there was no guard in sight.

She caught a whiff of something that smelled like rotten eggs and saw a cloud of yellow-tinged fog in the room beyond. The guard—an ordinary foot soldier, armed with mace and shield—came staggering out of it, retching. “Dark Lady,” she gasped. “I couldn’t stop …”

Whatever she’d been trying to say was lost as she doubled over and vomited. One hand flailed behind her. That way, she signed.

Cavatina shouted a song of dispelling that tore the noxious fog to shreds. She ran into the hall, alert for the slightest sound. She could see only a fraction of the room. Floor-to-ceiling stone partitions, lined up down the middle of the chamber like pews in a temple, blocked most of it from sight.

She heard the peal of an unsheathed singing sword from the far side of the room, followed by the battle-mistress’s shout. “Cavatina! I’m in position! Northeast corner.”

“Southwest corner!” Cavatina shouted back. Priestesses crowded behind her. At least one was a Protector, and Cavatina could hear the battle song of a singing sword harŹmonizing with her own weapon. It turned out to be Chizra. She greeted Cavatina with a terse nod.

Cavatina ordered Chizra and four other priestesses into the room. They formed up, weapons ready, then at her signal strode from one side of the room to the other, each moving between two partition walls. With their swords sweeping the air in front of them, they sang prayers that would strip the dretch of any concealments. When they reached the far side of the hall, they sang out in unison. “All clear!”

“Cavatina!” Rylla called from the far corner of the room. “Could the dretch have turned aside and entered the Cavern of Song?”

“No,” Cavatina shouted back. “I sang a true seeing. It defiŹnitely came this way.”

The gray-faced guard, at last in control of her stomach, nodded in rueful agreement.

Cavatina ordered the nearest priestess to stand guard, in case the dretch doubled back. Then she hurried to the far corner of the room. The battle-mistress stood at the room’s second exit, a distant look in her pale gray eyes, her lips moving soundlessly. She was obviously listening—and replying—to a report from a searcher elsewhere in the temple.

Rylla was large, even for a female. Her broad shoulders and lighter skin were a legacy of her human father. She was an unusual choice for battle-mistress, but these were unusual times. Although she carried her sword, she was without belt or scabbard, and unarmored; she obviously hadn’t had time to don her chainmail before responding to Cavatina’s urgent sending.

Rylla nodded in agreement with whatever she’d just heard, then turned to Cavatina. “There’s no sign of the dretch in the Hall of Healing. Nor in the Cavern of Song. It doesn’t seem to have made it past this point. Another of the portals must have become active.”

“The real question is how it got into the Promenade in the first place,” Cavatina said. “How did it get past our wards?”

Rylla stared at Cavatina. “You’re the expert in hunting demons. You tell me.”

Cavatina had a bad feeling about this. The dretch’s sudden appearance was all too reminiscent of the Selvetargtlin onslaught of three and a half years ago, and their trick of using ensorcelled gems to jump to the Promenade. She wondered if another attack were imminent.

She glanced at the closest partition wall. Like the others, it was carved in low relief with the likeness of two archways—decorative arches only, since the middle of each was solid stone. There were eight, in total. Each had once been a portal, but the magic that had sustained them had faltered centuŹries ago, when Netheril fell. Only one of the arches was still active, and then sporadically. Once it sputtered to life, it might remain open for the space of a heartbeat—or for more than a month. It led to the Hall of Empty Arches from a deeper level of Undermountain that was once part of a dwarven mithral mine predating even Netheril.

The occasional adventurer blundered through this portal, usually badly battered and in need of healing by the time it opened. Qilué had thus decreed that it not be sealed. Those who agreed to abide by the rules of song and sword were offered healing in the nearby hall. Those who didn’t were either blindfolded and removed from the Promenade—or, if they proved hostile, were put to the sword.

Rylla motioned for Cavatina to follow, then sang a hymn. She walked slowly through the room, her free hand briefly passing across the front of each of the arches. “Dead. Nothing. Still dead …”

Cavatina followed, sword at the ready.

Rylla passed her hand across the face of the portal that joined the ancient mine tunnel to the Hall of Empty Arches. She shook her head. “It’s not active at the moment.”

One arch remained to be checked: the one next to it. Rylla halted in front of this arch, holding her palm above it for sevŹeral moments. Concentrating. Her eyebrows rose. “This one’s active. In one direction only: away from here.”

Cavatina leaned forward expectantly. Her sword hummed. A moment more, and the hunt would resume. “Where does it lead?”

“Nowhere. And—everywhere.” Rylla lowered her hand. “My prayer revealed a maze of tunnels that were constantly shifting. Opening to infinity, then closing in again. I think it may lead to the Deep Caverns.” She stared at the blank stone within the arch. “If the dretch went through here, it will be impossible to track.”

“I can do it,” Cavatina assured her. “The dretch must be captured and questioned. We need to learn who summoned it, and what they hoped to accomplish.”

Rylla blocked her way. “Not so fast. It could take you a lifetime to track it down in there, and we need you here.”

“I can find my way back from any—”

“You’re staying here, in the Promenade. That’s an order.”

Cavatina was about to protest, but something about the look in Rylla’s eyes halted her. The battle-mistress nodded at the arch. “The dretch didn’t get in this way—that’s a oneŹway portal.” She turned. “How else might it have gotten into the Promenade?”

Cavatina fumed, but answered the question. “Dretches are weak. This one wouldn’t have been able to breach the Promenade’s defenses on its own. The dretch must have been summoned here—summoned by someone already inside the Promenade.”

Rylla gave a tight nod. She’d already realized this much.

“Or perhaps it came here by means of a wish spell,” Cavatina concluded, still thinking of the Selvetargtlin who had carried teleportation gems into the Promenade nearly four years ago.

Rylla’s expression was grave. “I’ve ordered a full sweep of the temple, from the High House on down.”

“Remind them to report any suspicious-looking gems.”

“Already done.”

“Have the Protectors located Meryl yet?”

“Yes, praise Eilistraee. She’s unharmed.”

Cavatina sheathed her sword. “Since you won’t let me pursue the dretch, you might as well tell me why you summoned me to the Promenade. Did you have a premonition that a demon would show up here?”

“Yes, I did.” Rylla’s sending came a heartbeat later. I need to talk to you about Lady Qilué. That’s why I sent for you. Something’s … wrong with her.

Cavatina felt her eyes widen slightly. She opened her mouth to ask a question, and shut it again. She suddenly realized the dretch might be a symptom of a larger problem. It should have been impossible for it to enter the High House. Qilué’s personal wards should have banished any creature of the Abyss back to the place it came from, the instant it tried to enter her residence—especially a minor demon like a dretch. If something was interfering with Qilué’s ability to ward herŹself from a comparatively weak foe, Rylla had every right to be worried.

Cavatina nodded slightly, her eyes on the other priestesses. Rylla obviously hadn’t shared her concerns with them. Is someŹthing eclipsing Lady Qilué’s magic? Is that why the dretch—?

Later. In private.

Rylla turned to Chizra. “Guard this portal. Don’t let anything—or anyone—near it. If we manage to flush another demon out of hiding, it may head this way. It may disguise itself, as the dretch did.”

The Protector nodded grimly.

“Keep watch on each of the other portals as well,” Rylla continued. “Even the inactive ones. We can’t be certain of the status of any of them, any more. Give each guard a scroll that will enable her to seal the portal, if necessary.”

Orders given, Rylla asked Cavatina to follow her. They made their way to the battle-mistress’s residence, not pausŹing until they reached a sitting room furnished with three crescent-shaped benches that surrounded a scrying font. Tapestries on the walls showed ebon-skinned priestesses on the hunt, swords and horns in hand. Rylla’s empty scabbard lay on a bench, next to her lute..

Cavatina spoke first. “What’s wrong with Lady Qilué?”

Rylla turned—sharply—and raised a finger to her lips. No names, she signed.

The battle-mistress obviously didn’t want Qilué eavesŹdropping on whatever it was she was about to say. Very well; Cavatina would play along. For now. “Battle-mistress, I report as summoned. You said you wanted my assistance in organizŹing the patrols of the Promenade. I’m happy to advise you on how the Protectors can best be—”

“That’s enough,” Rylla interrupted. “If she was listening, she’ll have stopped by now.” She sheathed her sword and continued to the scrying font. She stared into the alabaster bowl, moved her lips in a silent message, and passed a hand just above the surface of the water.

Cavatina struggled to hold her tongue. Her impulse was to tell Rylla she was being unnecessarily cautious. People spoke Qilué’s name so frequently that it must have sounded like overlapping echoes to the high priestess. Listening in on everything that followed and trying to pick out the imporŹtant nuggets from the endless drone of casual conversation would have been a full-time task. What’s more, Cavatina had never known Qilué to answer by accident when her name was uttered. The high priestess only answered those who intended to call her.

Cavatina edged closer to the font and took a look. The scryŹing was focused on Qilué, who walked through a forest with half a dozen lesser priestesses in tow. Qilué stood head and shoulders above the rest, a majestic figure with her silver robes and ankle-length white hair. The sight of her filled Cavatina with reverential awe. Qilué had founded the Promenade, had lifted the worship of Eilistraee from an obscure sect to a force to be reckoned with. She’d made the faith what it was today. Every drow who had been raised from the Underdark over the past six centuries owed their redemption to her. Even though Cavatina had slain the demigod Selvetarm, she didn’t rank nearly as high in the faith as Qilué.

Qilué was speaking to the lesser priestesses, but her words were too soft for Cavatina to make out. She held the Crescent Blade in her hand, and emphasized a remark by using it to point at something out of range of the scrying font.

There was a time, not so long ago, when the sight of the Crescent Blade in the high priestess’s hands would have filled Cavatina with jealousy. Now it was just another weapon—albeit a powerful one, ensorcelled with magic that had enabled Cavatina to kill a demigod.

“What you have to say must be disconcerting, indeed, if you don’t want… her to hear it.”

Rylla passed a hand over the font, ending the scrying. She sat on one of the benches. “I’ve been speaking with one of the Seven Sisters,” she began. “Laeral Silverhand. She paid me a visit recently, expressing concerns about… her sister.”

Cavatina nodded. “Go on.”

“Lady Silverhand pointed out something I’d noticed myself. A cut on the high priestess’s wrist.”

“Which wrist?”

“The right one.” Rylla touched her own wrist. “Just here.”

Cavatina shivered slightly, as if a chill breeze had just blown through the room. “That happened a year and a half ago. Just before our attack on the Acropolis of…” She faltered as the name that had been on the tip of her tongue an instant ago suddenly escaped her. “Of the death goddess,” she said at last. “I was there when the high priestess cut herself. She was in the middle of an attunement, dancing with the Crescent Blade. She faltered in her dance.”

“Not something she’d ordinarily do.”

“No.”

Rylla shifted the lute so that Cavatina had room to sit down. The fingers with the picks rested briefly on the neck of the instrument, as if yearning to pluck its strings. Then Rylla removed her finger-picks and set them aside. “Lady Silverhand mentioned something else. Something she noticed about the Crescent Blade. More specifically, about her sisŹter’s reluctance to let anyone else touch it. Each time Lady Silverhand asks to examine the sword, the high priestess refuses. She claims her bond with it will be broken if anyone else handles it.”

“That explanation rings hollow,” Cavatina said. “The only time you can’t let go of an attuned weapon—be it magical or mundane—is during the actual attunement itself. The ensorŹcelments on the Crescent Blade are extremely powerful, but the same rules would apply.”

“I suspected as much.”

“You’re overlooking one possible motivation,” Cavatina continued. “Pride. The high priestess has decreed that she will be the one to kill Lolth, when that time comes. If she hands over the Crescent Blade to anyone else, especially long enough for a magical study to be made of it, she might miss her chance at glory.”

There. It was said. Not so long ago, Cavatina might have spoken the words with bitterness, but the boil of anger and jealousy that had festered inside her for years had been lanced by her redemption. Now she spoke calmly and with detachment. Even so, she said a silent prayer of contrition, asking Eilistraee to forgive her for casting doubt on the high priestess’s character.

Rylla met Cavatina’s eyes. “We both know that’s not the reason.”

Cavatina nodded. “What, then?”

“You carried the Crescent Blade. Fought with it. Did it ever … communicate with you?”

“You’re asking me if it’s an intelligent weapon. The answer is yes. The Crescent Blade spoke to me.”

“Did it ever say anything … odd?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did it ever urge you to do something rash? To take on opponents you couldn’t or shouldn’t fight?”

Cavatina laughed. “I wanted to kill Selvetarm, believe me.” Then she shook her head. “On the other hand, the weapon did seem … proud. Boastful. It talked as if it had killed Selvetarm all on its own.”

Rylla stared directly into Cavatina’s eyes. “Did it compel you to kill Selvetarm?”

“No. It wasn’t like that. Not at all.”

“Did you feel any sort of compulsion while holding the Crescent Blade?”

“No. Well, yes, actually, but not until after I’d returned to the Promenade. When the high priestess commanded me to give the Crescent Blade to her, I didn’t want to let go of it.”

“But you gave it to her.”

Cavatina bristled. It sounded like an accusation. “She ordered me to.”

Rylla sighed. “I didn’t call you here to try and find fault with you. I summoned you to the Promenade because I’m worŹried. I think the Crescent Blade may be the cause of our high priestess’s recent… outbursts. Her orders have been rather abrupt lately, and she’s been less than forthcoming about the rationale behind them.”

“She is the high priestess,” Cavatina countered. “Eilistraee’s Chosen. As such, she’s not bound to answer to anyone but the goddess for her decisions. She gives orders, and it is our duty to obey.”

“Are they her orders?” Rylla asked.

Cavatina tensed. “Are you implying what I think you are?”

“The Crescent Blade never leaves her hand. Even when it’s sheathed, her hand rests on its hilt.”

“Are you telling me you think the Crescent Blade is conŹtrolling the high priestess?”

“I don’t want to speculate. I want to know.” Rylla rose to her feet and paced in a restless circle around the benches. “Describe for me the temple you recovered the Crescent Blade from—the one in the Demonweb Pits.”

Cavatina did.

Rylla listened, interjecting a question here and there.

“Was the temple truly sacred ground?”

“My divinations revealed that it was.”

“And the sword within it?”

Cavatina swallowed. Hard. Though she’d felt the Crescent Blade’s holiness with a certainty as strong as song when she had first entered the temple, a seed of doubt had been planted the instant she read the inscription on the mended blade. Yet despite the broken inscription, the Crescent Blade hadn’t failed her. It had severed Selvetarm’s neck, exactly as it had been forged to do.

Of course, that was what Lolth had intended, all along. Halisstra had admitted as much. And it had been Halisstra who had led Cavatina to that temple. Halisstra the traitor. She’d pretended she was acting of her own volition—that she was seeking redemption—but she’d been the Spider Queen’s foil, all along, little better than a web-snared fly.

“My divination revealed nothing amiss with the Crescent Blade,” Cavatina answered at last.

Rylla waited. “But?” she prompted.

“But now I’m not so sure.”

It was true. Until this moment, Cavatina had thought sacŹrificing Selvetarm was the extent of the Spider Queen’s plot. But now she wondered if Lolth’s schemes went even deeper than that. Soon after Cavatina had claimed the Crescent Blade, it had spoken to her.

You’re not the one, it had said.

Had Lolth anticipated that Qilué would eventually claim the weapon for herself? Was the reforged Crescent Blade part of some trap that even now was springing shut? Was the weapon somehow goading Qilué toward a battle she would lose—a battle in which the Crescent Blade would fail her?

Until today, Cavatina’s faith in Qilué’s mastery of magic had been unshakeable. But now doubt crowded close.

Halisstra was the key to all of this. Cavatina was certain of it.

Cavatina’s thoughts kept circling back to the last time she’d seen Halisstra. Where the fallen priestess was now was anyone’s guess. After delivering Cavatina into the hands of the balor Wendonai, Halisstra had disappeared. She’d been spotted—briefly—by Kâras and Leliana during the battle atop the Acropolis. Then she’d vanished again.

Had she returned to Wendonai? If so, she’d have found nothing but a corpse. Wendonai had died on Cavatina’s sword—albeit without the usual explosive aftermath. His body had remained intact after his death, as if its animating force had gone … somewhere else.

Suddenly, Cavatina realized where it might have gone. Into the Crescent Blade. That would explain how a dretch had wound up inside the High House. Wendonai could have summoned it—right under Qilué’s nose—from within the Crescent Blade, just before the high priestess departed on her inspection tour.

It also explained the holy water Meryl had been carrying. Qilué herself must have suspected something was wrong with the weapon. She was trying to banish the demon—without, Cavatina suspected, much success.

Carefully, never once mentioning Qilué by name, Cavatina outlined her fears. She concluded with a recap of the conversaŹtion she’d had with the halfling, just before the dretch made its appearance.

Rylla’s lips tightened. “What can we do?”

“If it’s only the sword that’s possessed, we can banish the demon back to the Abyss. If the possession has gone further …” Cavatina took a deep breath.

Rylla’s eyes widened. “Eilistraee grant it’s not as bad as that!”

“An exorcism is something best dealt with here, where Eilistraee’s presence is strongest,” Cavatina said. “But it will need sufficient preparation. How long will it be before the high priestess returns?”

“A tenday, at least.”

Cavatina nodded. “All arrangements will have to be made in secret. If a demon has taken control of the high priestess, we won’t want to tip our hand.”

Rylla’s face was gray with strain. “This shouldn’t go beyond the walls of this room. It could cause a crisis of faith. One that could cost us dearly.”

“Agreed,” Cavatina said. She stared grimly at the font. “There’s one thing I don’t understand. Why would Eilistraee have permitted something evil to fall into the hands of her Chosen?”

“She wouldn’t have,” Rylla said firmly. “Unless…” She turned away—but not before Cavatina saw the pained look in her eyes.

“What? Say what you’re thinking!”

“There are whispers. About what happened when the realms of Eilistraee and Vhaeraun were joined. If they’re true, it might not have been Eilistraee who guided the Crescent Blade into the high priestess’s hands.”

Cavatina shivered. Her mouth felt as dry as chalk. To hear such blasphemy—and from the Promenade’s battle-mistress! It was unthinkable.

Rylla gave a chuckle that sounded forced. “Those rumors are nonsense, of course. The Dark Maiden simply shifted the tempo of her dance. She had to, in order to bring the Nightshadows into the fold. Eilistraee still rules, by song and sword. Vhaeraun is dead.”

“By song and sword,” Cavatina echoed, touching the hilt of her weapon. The sword let out a low, soothing hum from deep within its scabbard.

It didn’t help. Cavatina still felt as off balance as a dancer with one leg. If her guess was right—if the demon Wendonai now inhabited the Crescent Blade, and he in turn was corŹrupting Qilué—the Promenade was in grave danger. She held out her hands. “Sing with me.”

Rylla clasped Cavatina’s arms. Like partners in a frozen dance, they bowed their heads.

Together, they prayed.





Horaldin stopped in front of a door and glanced up and down the corridor. Though singing wafted from elsewhere in the Promenade, this corridor was empty for the moment. He opened the door, stepped through swiftly, and motioned for Cavatina to follow.

He shut the door behind them. This corridor was short, no more than a dozen paces long. It ended in a little-used door of solid black obsidian. The druid grasped the adamantine deadbolt at the side of the door and tugged, but the deadbolt didn’t move. He nodded, as if he’d been expecting this.

Cavatina glanced over his shoulder. There was no lock visible. If the door was locked, it was held shut by magic.

Horaldin touched his fingertips to the door’s glassy surface, closed his eyes, and whispered.

Cavatina tapped one foot impatiently. She’d sought out Horaldin, intending to get him to repeat, word for word, his argument with Qilué, in order to see if the high priestess had said anything telling. Instead of answering her quesŹtions directly, Horaldin had insisted on going somewhere “private” where they could talk. Now they were creeping about the Promenade like rogues with looted valuables in their pockets. Cavatina was starting to suspect it wasn’t merely a quest for privacy that had caused Horaldin to lead her this way.

“Horaldin, please. Can’t you just tell me what prompted your argument with—”

Horaldin’s eyes sprang open. “Shh! Don’t say her name! She’ll hear you!”

Cavatina took a deep breath. “I wasn’t about to do that. I was the one who reminded you not to speak her name aloud, remember?”

“I just hope she’s not scrying us,” Horaldin said.

That, Cavatina could agree with. Even though Qilué wouldn’t return to the Promenade for several days, after her inspection tour of the outlying shrines was complete, it wouldn’t hurt to be careful. No matter where Qilué went, she kept a scrying font close at hand.

The thought was even more disturbing when Cavatina admitted to herself that the high priestess was carrying around a sword that could contain a hidden demon.

Horaldin had closed his eyes again, and resumed his divination. Sweat beaded his temples. A wash of Faerzress played briefly on the wall beside him, giving an eerie bluish tint to his already sallow skin. The druid was a moon elf, and thus immune to the Faerzress, else his divination might have been interrupted. His wavy black hair hung in a rootŹlike tangle to his waist, and his fingers were as slender as spider legs. Not a pleasant combination, when you came right down to it. But the druid was utterly loyal to the temple, despite his continued reverence for the Leaflord. As Horaldin so eloquently put it, Eilistraee was the fruit of Arvandor, and Rillifane the guardian of the tree from which she had fallen. Eilistraee planted seeds of hope in the Underdark, and by the Leaflord’s decree, Horaldin’s destiny was to help nurture them.

“The door’s been magically sealed,” he told Cavatina. “By … her.”

“Why would she do that?”

“To prevent me from showing you what’s on the other side of it.”

Cavatina’s skin prickled with anticipation. She rested a hand on her sword hilt. “Can you open the door?”

“Not by normal means. Only the most powerful spellcaster could undo her magic. But there is another way.’” Horaldin held his hands in front of him, pressing them together back to back. He whispered a moment, and forced his hands apart. A hole appeared in the middle of the door and gradually widened, as if the obsidian had become as soft as clay and invisible hands were parting it. When the gap was wide enough, Horaldin eased a leg through the hole, ducked, and stepped through the door.

Cavatina followed.

The room beyond was oddly shaped: square, but with one corner that had been cut off diagonally by a wall similar, in its zigzag shape, to a folding screen. In the center of the zigzag wall was another obsidian door—the room’s second exit. This odd configuration gave the room eight “walls”—a significant number. The drow who had inhabited the caverns on the far side of the Sargauth nearly a thousand years ago had once maintained a temple to the Spider Queen here. The temple had been obliterated when Ghaunadaur’s cultists summoned the Ancient One’s minions to the city—an act that had been the city’s downfall.

Centuries of visitations by oozes and slimes had worn down the altar and statue that once stood here. Qilué and her companions had finished the job, smashing what remained to dust and scouring the murals from the walls with holy water. Now all that remained was an empty room.

The former temple could have been a convenient shortcut from the western end of the bridge—located just a few paces beyond the second door—but the priestesses who patrolled the Promenade avoided this place. Cavatina could see why. Even though the room was bare and empty, being in it set her on edge. Now that she lingered in it, she realized the reason why: in all of the Promenade, this was the one spot where silence ruled. Everywhere else, the hymn that constantly flowed out of the Cavern of Song could be heard, if only as a murmur. But in this tainted place, Cavatina couldn’t even hear the rush of water from the nearby river.

“What is it you wanted to show me?” she asked.

Horaldin moved to the corner where the two longest walls met. “This.” He pointed at a glyph that had been painted on the walls, straddling the corner. “The high priestess ordered me to paint it here.”

“Ordered? Was that what your argument was about?”

Horaldin folded his arms across his chest and nodded.

Large as a shield, the glyph was one she didn’t recognize. It looked a little like the protective enchantments elsewhere in the Promenade, but those were silvery red in color and dusted with powdered diamond and opal, while this one had been painted on the walls in shimmering streaks of powdered pearl, held in place by a clear glue that smelled faintly of honey.

“What is it?” she asked.

“An enchantment. Designed to attract those who worship Ghaunadaur. The high priestess said it was a trap that would lure any cultists who venture upriver from Skullport into a room where they might easily be slain.”

Cavatina nodded. That seemed logical enough—and it had a precedent. Ten years ago, Ghaunadaur’s cultists had laid siege to the Promenade for three long months. The attack had come from upriver, from the caverns to the northeast, closer to the Hall of Healing. The oozes the cultists commanded had been held at bay; not a single room or corridor of the temple had been overrun. Yet this likely wouldn’t deter them from trying again. If they were preparing for another attack on the Promenade, it made sense to set a trap for any spies they might send. Those attempting to infiltrate the temple would likely make their approach via the river that connected the Promenade to the other parts of Under mountain.

But why place the enchantment here? It would make more sense to position it either at the northernmost cavern that opened onto the river, or the southernmost. Or both. Not midway between the two, close to vulnerable areas of the Promenade.

And why, having ordered the enchantment to be put in place, seal the room off so no one could reach it?

Cavatina walked to the second door and tested its deadbolt. Like the first, it was immoveable. Sealed by magic.

“You disagreed with the glyph’s placement,” Cavatina said.

Horaldin nodded. “That too.”

Cavatina turned. “What else?”

“The high priestess ordered me to say nothing of what I’d inscribed here. To tell no one: neither the lay worshipers, nor the priestesses, nor the Protectors, nor even Battle-mistress Rylla.”

“The very people who would need to be aware of something that might draw Ghaunadaur’s cultists to this area, in order that they could be captured or eliminated.”

“Exactly.”

Cavatina frowned. “How did she explain the need for secrecy?”

“She didn’t. It seemed to me she couldn’t—and that this frustrated her. When I pressed her, it turned into an argument.”

“Do you have any idea why she chose this spot?”

“Cast a divination. Search for magic.”

Cavatina did. To her magically enhanced vision, the stone wall became as insubstantial as mist. Her body started to tingle. It felt as if something were trying to draw her into the wall—or rather, beyond the wall. Startled, she stepped back. “What is it? An illusory wall?”

“You can’t inscribe a glyph on an illusion. The walls are real enough.” He rapped his knuckles against the spot she’d just been viewing, hard enough to make a knocking sound.

“At least, to me they are. But there’s a portal here—one that can only be used by drow.”

“How did you figure that out?”

“Some time after the high priestess dismissed me—when I was certain she’d be gone—I returned and communed with the walls. They described a ‘hole’ that would take drow ‘elsewhere.’ That was clue enough.”

Cavatina frowned. “I’ve patrolled every cavern, hallway, and chamber of the Promenade. Including this one. There wasn’t a portal here before.”

“No. The high priestess must have opened it.”

“I wonder why.”

Horaldin shook his head. “I have no idea. I was hoping you might know. And that you’d tell me …” He hesitated, a pained look in his eyes. “Tell me what it all means.”

Cavatina hesitated, trying to decide how much she should say. Horaldin was worthy of her trust. He’d gone against the direct orders of the high priestess by showing her this. He deserved a partial answer, at least.

“Something’s … clouding the high priestess’s judgment. That’s why the battle-mistress summoned me to the Promenade. We think…” She swallowed hard. Should she be saying this? The answer to that question was clearly no, but Cavatina was inclined to listen to her gut. She might be drow, but she’d been born and raised in the World Above. She hadn’t been weaned on secrecy and subterfuge, but on blunt honesty.

“We think it may be demonic—and that powerful magic will be needed to remedy the situation. When the time comes to act, we may need your help.”

Horaldin nodded. “I see. Thank you. It’s the Crescent Blade, isn’t it?”

Cavatina nodded. If it was obvious even to the druid, it wasn’t going to stay a secret very long. “Say nothing of this. We don’t want to start any rumors. It would—”

“Yes. I see that too.” He glanced at the hole he’d made in the middle of the obsidian door. “We should be getting back, before anyone notices what we’ve done. I need to smooth the door over and hide any trace we’ve come this way.”

“You go,” Cavatina said. She nodded at the wall. “I need to see where this portal leads.”

“Wouldn’t you rather I wait for you?”

“No. Go to Rylla and tell her about this. Tell her where I’ve gone—and that I’ll report back the moment I discover anything.”

“If I seal the door, how will you escape this room?”

Cavatina smiled. “Eilistraee’s blessings will see me safely home.”

Horaldin nodded at last. “May she guide your steps,” he intoned. He hurried across the room and squeezed through the hole in the door. Cavatina heard him repeat his spell, and the door sealed itself shut.

Cavatina prayed. “Eilistraee,” she sang softly. “Is this the path you wish me to follow?”

A moment later, the goddess’s reply came. Not in words, but in a gentle yet firm tug on Cavatina’s hand—like a partner, inviting her to dance.

Cavatina drew her singing sword, took a deep breath, and stepped through the portal.