Ascendancy of the Last

chapter 10

Q’arlynd strode down the cobblestoned street, ignoring the stares. Alehouse patrons halted their conversaŹtions and gaped, a gnomish musician cranking a hurdybox faltered in mid-song, and pale-skinned elves gave him sidelong glances as they passed, their hands near their swords. Alarmed whispers swirled in Q’arlynd’s wake—the word “drow” followed by low-voiced, hostile comments.

The air was uncomfortably hot, the sunlight blinding. The buildings on either side—tall, white-limed, and red-shuttered—were smooth and square, utterly unlike the fluted stalagmites and columns of Sshamath. Here and there, patches of welcome shade pooled under massive oaks whose branches held aloft the elaborate dwelling places of the surface elves. Yet these momentary respites were nothing compared to the cool, constant darkness of the Underdark. Q’arlynd’s eyes lingered on the gnomish burrows down among the tree roots, and the heavy stone arches that led to the underhalls of the dwarves—not that those races would react with any less apprehension to a drow than the rest of Silverymoon’s inhabitants.

Q’arlynd could easily have teleported to the precise spot in Silverymoon he needed to visit, but he wanted to take the measure of Flinderspeld’s adopted city. Its inhabitants turned out to be a mix of surface elves, humans, and dwarves, leavŹened by the occasional surface gnome or halfling. All seemed hostile, despite the silver star that had been limned by the gate guards’ magic on the back of his hand: his pass to move freely within the city.

He passed a white marble tower with star-shaped windows of “glass” made from thin-cut, sky blue jade. Clerics in blue robes and skullcaps—most of them surface elves or humans, and all bearing wands, staves, and a multitude of magical trinkets—passed in and out of its wide front doors. This was the Temple of Mystra, one of the goddesses Qilué honored. Q’arlynd wondered if the high priestess ever worshiped here. He nodded at Mystra’s clerics as he passed, noted their raised eyebrows, and felt the tingle of detection spells washŹing over him. He lifted his hand slightly, drawing attention to the symbol.

Silverymoon was home to at least a dozen magical colleges: the World Above’s equivalent of Sshamath. Schools devoted to the teaching of invocation, thaumaturgy, bardic song, and arcane crafting drew students from across Faerűn. Q’arlynd might have made his home here, were it not for the harsh sunlight, and the narrow-eyed stares of Silverymoon’s citizens.

He shook his head, surprised at the path his thoughts were treading.

The surface was our home, the ancestors in his kiira whisŹpered. The voice deepened to a male timbre: Eilistraee willing, it will be, again.

Sshamath is my home, Q’arlynd told them firmly.

His ancestors made no comment.

A bridge of frozen moonlight spanned the river. As Q’arlynd made his way across it, he glanced down at the boats passing below. The people of Silverymoon streamed across the bridge in either direction, walking on the near-invisible bridge as confidently as the drow of Ched Nasad had done across the calcified webs of their city.

Q’arlynd made his way to the market: a bustling hubbub of stalls, braying caravan beasts, and food vendors. Smells assaulted his nostrils: cooking meat, ground spice, ripe fruit, wafting incense, tanned leather, and cloth dye. Oddly, the smell of dung was missing and the cobblestones were clean. Though several shabbily dressed people of various races scurŹried here and there, it was hard to tell whom they belonged to; no one seemed to be directing them with lashes or clubs. Nor were there any obvious cripples, or shackled slaves—a stark contrast from the city where Q’arlynd had been raised.

His enquiries had confirmed that Flinderspeld was indeed working as a gem merchant, here in Silverymoon. Officially, Q’arlynd was in Silverymoon to purchase chardalyn, a rare black gemstone capable of absorbing spells. Silverymoon’s wizards had perfected the use of it, casting a spell into a gem, and releasing the latent magic later by the simple expedient of shattering the stone. Flinderspeld was certain to stock it.

Q’arlynd hadn’t told the svirfneblin he was coming. He wanted to see the expression on Flinderspeld’s face when he first set eyes upon his former master. It would be an important clue to how Q’arlynd should word his request.

A hoodlike arch of brick marked the spot he was looking for: the stairs leading down to the cave where the svirfneblin tradŹing caravans encamped. Q’arlynd hadn’t seen any deep gnomes on his walk through the city. They kept below, it seemed.

He strode down the staircase into cool, damp darkness. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, his darkvision had reasserted itself.

The startled silence that fell upon the main cavern as he entered proved even more profound than the reaction his appearance had prompted in the streets above. The svirfneblin caravanners who’d been unpacking their lizards’ saddlebags glared at Q’arlynd with open hostility. Many, Q’arlynd knew, were deep gnomes from Blingdenstone, the city Menzoberranzan had conquered and plundered. Q’arlynd trod warily, alert for the twang of a wristbow or the whispered hiss of a spell.

A gray-skinned svirfneblin, his bald scalp hidden by a leather cap, stepped in front of Q’arlynd, blocking his way. Bracers on his arms held a pair of matched daggers with pale yellow gems set in their pommels. “You’re not welcome here, drow,” he growled.

Q’arlynd observed the faint shimmer clinging to the deep gnome’s body: an illusion. The real deep gnome would be standing nearby, probably blurred, with daggers in hand. Several other svirfneblin had blurred themselves. Those still visible drew swords or daggers and moved to encircle Q’arlynd. One or two thrust their hands into their pockets, and he hoped they weren’t reaching for death-magic gems. He heard angry whispers. “Spider-kisser,” they called him, and worse.

“I’m looking for someone,” Q’arlynd told the illusionary svirfŹneblin in front of him—speaking in a loud, steady voice so the others could hear. “A friend of mine. His name’s Flinderspeld. He’s a gem merchant, originally from Blingdenstone.”

The svirfneblin’s eyes narrowed. “The drow are no friends of ours. Especially after Blingdenstone.”

“This drow is,” Q’arlynd said firmly. “After Blingdenstone fell, Flinderspeld became a slave. I purchased him—and set him free.”

A female svirfneblin set down the pack she’d been unloadŹing and moved closer. “What’s your name?”

Q’arlynd bowed—just enough to acknowledge the waist-high female. “Q’arlynd Melarn, formerly of Ched Nasad.”

“I thought I recognized you! You’re the one who teleported Flinderspeld here, four years ago. Flinderspeld often speaks of you.”

Whispers spread like ripples on a pond. Q’arlynd waited until they ebbed, then looked at the niches that honeyŹcombed the cavern—each of them, a merchant’s stall. “Does Flinderspeld have a stall here? I’d like to speak to him.”

The female chuckled and jerked her head at the ceiling. “He’s upside.”

Q’arlynd lifted an eyebrow.

“Upside,” she repeated. “In the main marketplace. His customŹers are surface folk, mostly. They’re less at ease down here.”

“I see,” Q’arlynd said. “Will you show me the way?”

The female nodded. “Follow me.”

She led him back up the stairs, shielding her eyes from the sun with a hand as they wound through the maze of stalls. Flinderspeld’s place of business turned out to be one of the shops that fringed the marketplace. Its elaborately carved door held a massive quartz-crystal knocker. A smaller door was set into the wall next to it: a gnome-sized entrance, fitted with its own handle and knocker. Next to that was a large clearstone window, scribed with a glyph of warding. Just inside the window stood a display counter. Precious stones of various colors glittered against black velvet cushions.

“Flinderspeld’s done well for himself,” Q’arlynd commented.

The svirfneblin nodded. She seemed to be waiting for something. Q’arlynd began to dismiss her before realizing what it was she wanted. He pulled a slim gold coin out of his pouch and handed it to her. She lifted it to her mouth as if to bite it, then stopped, as if thinking better of it.

Q’arlynd hid his smile. Poisoning a gold coin was such a time-worn trick that few drow bothered with it anymore.

She tucked the coin in her belt pouch and hurried away. Or rather, she pretended to. Out of the corner of his eye, Q’arlynd saw her blur, then duck behind a nearby stall.

He lifted the knocker on the larger door and let it fall. A moment later, he sensed he was being watched. Not by the people who thronged the marketplace; theirs was a steady stare of wary curiosity and harsh judgment. This scrutiny felt closer, more intense. Was it Seldszar, checking in on Q’arlynd’s progress? The Master of Divination had given Q’arlynd a brooch to block scryings, but Q’arlynd suspected it contained a “window” that allowed Seldszar to scry Q’arlynd, in much the same fashion that Q’arlynd’s master ring allowed him to peek in on his apprentices, and vice versa. Or perhaps the explanation was simpler. Perhaps the sensation of being watched was just Flinderspeld, peeking through some magiŹcal device to see who knocked on his door.

Q’arlynd ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it. He flicked dust from the hem of his silk piwafwi. He waited.

The door opened. A male svirfneblin wearing a leather apron smudged with polishing rouge stepped out into the sunlight and stared up at Q’arlynd. A gemcutter’s loupe hung from a leather band around his forehead, the lens grossly magnifying his right eye. Gem dust glittered on his hands. He held a wooden stick with a half-polished gemstone affixed to its cup-shaped end by a blob of red wax.

A moonstone, Q’arlynd saw. Sacred to Eilistraee. He took it as a good omen. “Is your master in the shop?”

The svirfneblin had trouble speaking. “Q’arlynd?” he said at last.

Q’arlynd’s eyebrows rose, despite himself. “Flinderspeld? You look … different.”

That he did. Flinderspeld had gained weight since Q’arlynd had seen him last. The tight little lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth had smoothed out. He looked relaxed and solid, a far cry from the slave who had always been tensely poised to duck a swat or a kick.

Not that Q’arlynd had been that kind of master—and not that he’d let anyone else meddle with his property. Yet in Ched Nasad, a slave had never known when the lash would fall.

In days gone by, Q’arlynd would have crossed his arms and stared imperiously down his nose at the svirfneblin. But that had been another place, another time. Furthermore, it was important that things get off to a good start. He dropped down into a squat that brought his eyes level with Flinderspeld’s, and smiled. He started to extend his hands in the arm-clasping gesture the surŹface elves so loved, but couldn’t quite bring himself to complete it. He was of a noble House, after all. He rested his hands on his knees instead. “Good to see you again, Flinderspeld.”

Flinderspeld blinked behind the gemcutter’s loupe. “What are you doing here, M—” He checked his tongue, and drew his shoulders a little straighter. He glanced at Q’arlynd’s hands, which were bare. Q’arlynd had been careful to tuck into a pocket the master ring that connected him with his apprentices; he didn’t want to remind Flinderspeld of his former servitude. Not yet. “What brings you to Silverymoon, Q’arlynd?”

“I’d hoped to purchase a chardalyn. Do you sell them?”

Disappointment flickered briefly across Flinderspeld’s face. His attention slid to the crowd that was gathering, and his expression changed to one of understanding. “Of course.” He stepped back and opened the larger door. “I stock them. Come in.”

Flinderspeld closed the door, set down his stick, and folded his arms across his chest. “Now that Blinnet can’t overhear us, tell me why you’re really here.”

Blinnet: that must be the name of the female who’d led Q’arlynd here. He waggled a finger at Flinderspeld. “You’re entirely too smart, for a s—”

“For a what?” Flinderspeld interrupted, his nostrils flarŹing. “A slave? A svirfneblin?”

“For a shopkeeper,” Q’arlynd said, affecting a hurt look.

“Oh.”

“But then, I always knew you were an intelligent fellow.” Q’arlynd nodded at the display of expensive gems. “Just look what you’ve built for yourself, in such a short time. This is quite the shop.”

Flinderspeld glanced through the window at the knot of people gathered outside his shop. “What is it you want, Q’arlynd?”

“If I told you I came to see how you were faring, what would you say?”

“I wouldn’t believe you. It’s been four years.”

There it was again: that flicker of disappointment.

Q’arlynd gestured at the frowning faces outside the window. “Visiting you might have caused you problems. I enquired after you instead, from time to time. That’s how I knew where to find you. I thank you for welcoming me into your shop, even though it will be bad for business.”

Flinderspeld shrugged. “I was curious to see what you wanted.” His eye settled on the tiny silver sword Q’arlynd had hung around his neck. “You wear Eilistraee’s symbol, I see.”

Q’arlynd hid his smile. “That I do.” He plunged into his carefully rehearsed request. “It’s temple business that brings me to Silverymoon. Together with some other wizards, I’m trying to learn the location of a surface elf temple that predates Eilistraee’s banishment from Arvandor—a quest Eilistraee’s high priestess has given her blessing to. The divinations we’ve tried so far haven’t worked; you may have heard of the difficulties the augmented Faerzress is causing among the drow.”

Flinderspeld nodded.

“We—I—need your help.”

Flinderspeld turned to the counter. “What do you want? A scrying gem?”

“We’ve tried that already, and it didn’t help. Nor, it turns out, did the gorgondy wine we purchased. I hoped to locate a more potent vintage.”

Flinderspeld frowned. “Why come to me? I cut gems; I don’t vint wine.”

Q’arlynd spread his hands. “You’re the only svirfneblin I know. And, more to the point, the only one who knows me. Years ago, you mentioned the Fountains of Memory. I need to look into their waters and use them to find the temple.”

Flinderspeld gave Q’arlynd a guarded look. “What makes you think I know where they are?”

“I don’t. But you must know someone who does—whoever told you about them. If not him, then a gorgondy wine vintner, or his supplier. Your business here in Silverymoon brings you into contact with scores of svirfneblin. Surely one of them will know where the Fountains of Memory can be found.”

“They won’t take you there.”

“That’s right. You will.”

Flinderspeld’s arms folded. “Or what?” He shook his head. “Are you going to threaten me?”

Q’arlynd spoke softly. “No.”

“What then? Remind me that you set me free? I was your slave for years before you did that.”

“I thought about trying that,” Q’arlynd said. “Then I decided that it wouldn’t work. You bear me too big a grudge; I can see that now. And offering to pay you for the informaŹtion would only insult you. I’m forced, therefore, to resort to something a little more drastic.”

He reached inside a pocket and pulled out two black rings.

Flinderspeld tensed and glanced around his shop, as if searching for a weapon.

Q’arlynd held out one of the rings. Flinderspeld’s eyes widened as he saw which one Q’arlynd was offering him.

“If you can describe the Fountains of Memory, I can teleport us there,” Q’arlynd explained. “You can ensure I bring you along by using the master ring to control my actions. Once I’ve glimpsed the temple in the pools, and we’ve used them to reach it, you can erase my memories of the Fountains of Memory, with a spell that’s contained within this.” He gestured at his forehead, and rendered the lorestone visible.

Flinderspeld’s eyes widened. “A selu’kiira! And a powerful one, judging by the color. How—?”

“It’s a long story,” Q’arlynd said. “But the awarenesses inside it can do as I’ve described—something you can verify for yourself once you’re wearing that ring. You’ll be able to touch not only my thoughts, but theirs, as well.”

Flinderspeld stared at the proffered ring. “Why would you let me do this?”

“Because I trust you.”

Flinderspeld fell silent for several moments. Q’arlynd waited, trying not to betray the tension he felt. Svirfneblin were naturally mistrustful. Flinderspeld might reject the proposal out of hand, ring or no.

Flinderspeld thrust out a hand. “Give me the ring. And your trueseeing crystal.”

Q’arlynd lifted the chain from his neck and handed over both gemstone and ring. He watched with a bemused smile as Flinderspeld studied the ring carefully through the gemstone, assuring himself that it was, indeed, the master ring—and not the slave ring, concealed by an illusion. His time among the drow had taught him to never be too trusting. He handed the gemstone back to Q’arlynd, and put on the master ring. “Your turn.”

Reluctantly, Q’arlynd slipped the slave ring onto his own finger. He closed his eyes and braced himself as Flinderspeld thrust into his mind and rifled through his private thoughts. His jaw clenched. Then Flinderspeld delved deeper. Q’arlynd heard the svirfneblin’s voice in conversation with the awareŹnesses inside the kiira. He couldn’t make out the words.

One of his arms jerked up; Flinderspeld had taken conŹtrol of it. Q’arlynd found himself walking jerkily forward. He spun when he reached the far wall, nearly toppled, and felt his arms jerk out to steady himself. He walked forward again and squatted, then jumped. He tried to glance at Flinderspeld as the svirfneblin walked him back across the room again, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. Flinderspeld chuckled, and spun Q’arlynd around a second time.

Q’arlynd started to worry. Had he misjudged Flinderspeld? If so, he’d just condemned himself to a life of slavery. To a svirfneblin.

The insult had slipped into his mind before he could preŹvent it; Flinderspeld would certainly have heard it. Q’arlynd mentally shouted to the svirfneblin that he hadn’t meant it, that he didn’t think of the deep gnomes as a lesser race. But he knew this was a lie.

Thanks to the slave ring, so did Flinderspeld.

Q’arlynd’s hand came up. His finger pointed—at his own forehead. He felt Flinderspeld yank an evocation from his mind. Sweat trickled down Q’arlynd’s temples as he fought to form a word, but Flinderspeld held him stiffly in place. Strain as he might, all that came out was, “Nnnn—”

“Keep silent!” Flinderspeld shouted—a passable imitation of a drow master’s command, an order Q’arlynd had used many times. A bolt of magical energy streaked out of Q’arlynd’s finŹgertip and bored into his forehead, hot and painful. Q’arlynd’s eyes watered. He groaned.

Suddenly, his body was his own again.

“We’re even, now.” Flinderspeld said. He tugged the master ring off and held it out to Q’arlynd. “And I don’t want your ring. Controlling someone else’s body was … interesting, but I didn’t like the place it led me to. It felt…” He paused, searching for the word. “Wrong.”

Q’arlynd yanked off the slave ring. “You won’t help me, then.”

Flinderspeld lifted an eyebrow. “I didn’t say that.”

Q’arlynd squatted down to Flinderspeld’s level, not quite believing what he had heard. “You’ll lead me to the Fountains of Memory?” he asked eagerly.

“Not only that. I’ll let you remember it afterward.”

Q’arlynd’s eyebrows rose.

Flinderspeld smiled. “Your ancestors have promised me they’ll erase your memory of the pools, if you try to tell anyone where they are. I’m not sure if I believe them, but I’m willing to gamble that you’ll keep your mouth shut, once the spell you hope to cast at the ruined temple is complete.”

“My ancestors told you … what I’m planning?”

Flinderspeld’s smile widened to a grin. “You’ll have to trust me to keep quiet about that.”

Q’arlynd nodded to himself. Flinderspeld was better at striking a bargain than he’d thought. No wonder he was prosŹpering. “Well played.”

“For anyone else, the answer would have been no. But you weren’t all that bad, as drow go. You did set me free, regardless of what your motive was at the time. I owe you one, for that.”

Q’arlynd smiled—a genuine smile of friendship, not the false one he’d practiced in the mirror before coming here. He clasped Flinderspeld’s arms and said a word he never thought he’d utter, except in jest. “Friends?”

Flinderspeld returned the arm clasp and spoke in Low Drow. “Allies.”

Q’arlynd’s eyebrows lifted.

Flinderspeld burst into laugher. “Friends.”





T’lar rolled a spike-spider back and forth between her palms, savoring the harsh pricks as its needles drove into her flesh. The metal throwing ball wasn’t loaded, and its needles held no poison. She did it for the sensation alone. Each jab, each welling of blood was a penance for letting her target slip away. She’d learned that he’d departed for the World Above, but hadn’t been able to find out where, or why.

In another moment, however, that little problem would be rectified.

She stood, together with the new high priestess, next to a black iron barrel hoop that hung from a chain by the ceiling. Inside the hoop, a spider descended on a thread of silk. The high priestess coaxed it in the direction she wanted with a morsel of raw meat, her free hand slowly guiding the hoop. The metal grated softly against the chain as it turned. She caught the spider and deftly moved it to the side, adherŹing the strand to the hoop. The final strand in place, she transferred the spider to her shoulder, and inspected its handiwork. Within the hoop was a five-pointed star, made entirely from web.

“We can begin.”

T’lar nodded. She slipped the spike-spider into her belt pouch and wiped her bloody palms against the thighs of her skin-tight tunic. “Summon him.”

The high priestess flicked the iron hoop, setting it spinning. Then she picked up a candle. She held it a moment near her face and invoked Lolth’s name. As she did so, the flickering light illuminated her elaborately coiffed hair, obsidian blood-drop earrings, and silver crown. Only a short time ago, that crown had graced the head of Laele Zauviir, but the Spider Queen’s temple in Sshamath had a new high priestess, now. Streea’Valsharess Zolond was much stronger than Zauviir had been—ready to grasp power in her own two hands, instead of licking up the crumbs the Conclave offered.

Streea’Valsharess Zolond touched the candle to the web inside the hoop. The strands of spider silk ignited. Sustained by magic, they continued to burn. “Lords of the Abyss, hear my command,” she intoned. “In Lolth’s name, send forth the demon Glizn.”

A puff of yellow smoke erupted out of the center of the spinning hoop, filling the chamber with an acrid stench. Smoke drifted toward the spider carvings adorning the ceiling. A stationary figure appeared within the hoop, held by the burnŹing web while the hoop spun around it: a tiny demon, barely twice the length of T’lar’s hand, with batlike wings. It looked like a quasit, except that its skin was black and dry, instead of oily green. Instead of the usual horns, it had stiff white tufts of hair growing from its scalp. The demon’s red eyes were too large for its face, and their expression was one T’lar was used to seeing on the faces of her targets. Fear. Deep inside those eyes, someone screamed.

The high priestess laughed. “What lovely irony! Whatever happened, quasit, to flip things inside out?”

T’lar glanced sideways at the high priestess.

Streea’Valsharess Zolond gestured at the demon, and chuckled. “Until recently, one of Q’arlynd Melarn’s apprentices wore this demon.”

“And now the quasit wears him?”

“So it would seem.” She chuckled. “I’d been wondering why we hadn’t heard from Glizn. I assumed it was because ‘Piri’ had been found out by his master, and slunk away.”

The demon tugged, but failed to free its wings from the burning web. It shifted into centipede form, then into a squat toad, but still wasn’t able to escape. At last it let out a thin squeak. “Why have you summoned me?”

“Where is Q’arlynd Melarn?” the high priestess said.

“I don’t know!” the quasit squeaked. Fear oozed from it like a bad smell. “I haven’t seen him since my lord called me back to the Abyss. So you might as well unbind me, and send me back, since I can’t help you to—”

The demon’s voice suddenly deepened. Words jerked from the tiny mouth. “I… can… find …”

The quasit snapped its jaw shut, biting its own tongue.

The high priestess studied the bound demon, her head cocked to one side. “Piri? Was that you who answered just now?”

The demon’s face contorted from one emotion to the next: fear, anger, determination. A hiss escaped its lips. It might have been a yes.

“How can you find him?” T’lar demanded. “Tell me.”

The demon’s jaws creaked open. Shut. Open again. “Scry—” the deeper voice said. Then the mouth snapped shut. One hand jerked. A finger twitched.

The high priestess pointed at a tiny copper band on the quasit’s finger. “How will you scry him? With that ring?”

The quasit’s head jerked sharply: a nod.

The high priestess reached for it.

“No! Only … I… can …”

The high priestess scoffed. Her fingers closed around the ring.

T’lar caught her arm. “Leave it.”

The high priestess glared at her.

T’lar pointed out the obvious. “If it were possible for either of us to use the ring, the apprentice wouldn’t have told us about it.” She stepped closer and pinched the demon’s tiny chin. The quasit tried to bite her, but she held it fast. “Stop that!” she ordered. “Let Piri speak.”

The demon winced.

T’lar curled her lip. Quasits were such pitiful excuses for demons. She drew her dagger—the one with the spider pommel that she’d taken as a trophy of Nafay’s kill—and held it where the demon could see it. “What would you like in return for telling us, Piri? Release?”

Tears welled in the overlarge red eyes.

“Then fight the demon. Scry your master. Tell me where he is. If I believe what you tell me, I’ll skin you free and send your soul to Lolth.”

The demon’s expression suddenly changed. The quasit spoke in its own shrill-pitched voice. “Oh no!” it squeaked. “That will hurt!”

The priestess laughed. “Only for a moment, demon. And think on this: if T’lar uses that pretty little dagger of hers properly, being parted from your skin will only temporarily kill you. As long as you die here, you’ll re-manifest in the Abyss.” She gestured at his body. “Free of that annoying wizard, I might add.”

The quasit met the high priestess’s eyes briefly, then let out a heavy, sulfurous sigh. “Fine,” it said petulantly. “I’ll let him do it.” Its eyes slid sideways to T’lar. “But she has to swear by the Spider Queen, that she’ll send me back clean. No skin.”

T’lar smiled. “I swear it, by Lolth’s dark webs.”

The demon nodded. It tightened its ring hand into a fist, closed its eyes, and puckered its forehead into a frown of concentration.

The two drow waited. The silence stretched—long enough for the spider on the high priestess’s shoulders to scuttle to the ground and spin a trap-web in one corner of the room. At last the quasit’s eyes fluttered open. A high-pitched, tittering laugh burst from its lips.

“He saw him, he saw him, he saw him!” the quasit squeaked. “He was talking to a svirfneblin.”

T’lar leaned closer. “Where was he?”

The quasit giggled. “Don’t know.”

Anger hissed from T’lar’s lips.

“But he heard where he’s going! The ‘Fountains of Memory’ he said.”

T’lar glanced at the high priestess. Streea’Valsharess Zolond shrugged. It seemed she hadn’t heard of the place either.

The quasit’s head twisted so it could see T’lar. “You have what you wanted. Skin the wizard off me. Send me back to the Abyss.”

“Not yet.”

“But you swore—”

“Not until Q’arlynd Melarn is dead. Until then, you’re staying right where you are.”

“Noooo!” the quasit howled.

The hoop had almost slowed to a stop. T’lar reached out and gave it a nudge that sent it spinning again. “Yes.”





Halisstra strode through the jungle, following the priestess. She’d slain the first priestess who had disturbed the penance ritual—the one who’d come bleating about the strange song the night twist tree was singing. The second priestess had been smarter. She’d taken the time to decipher the song, and reported it to her superior, rather than interrupting Halisstra. The superior, in turn, had waited until the ritual was over. Her eyes had widened in startled alarm when Halisstra sprang off the throne and caught her by the throat.

“Wendonai?” Halisstra shouted. “Here?”

Unfortunately, the priestess couldn’t answer. Halisstra had crushed her throat. The other faithful had balked at that, but a soothing song had drawn them back into Halisstra’s web, once more eager and grateful to serve her.

The priestess who had deciphered the song pointed ahead through the jungle at a black, leafless tree growing out of the remains of a tumbled building. A mournful sound poured out of it, the sound of weeping and pleading. The sound of weakness.

“Closer,” Halisstra ordered.

The priestess didn’t hesitate. Despite the danger the tree’s song posed, she strode forward. After three steps, she crumpled to her knees, screaming. A moment later, the night twist’s magical attack washed over Halisstra. A phantasm loomed in her mind: the image of Lolth in hybrid form, a spider with Danifae’s face. You will never escape me, Lolth leered. You are not a demigod, but a mortal—and you are mine. The illusionary Lolth loomed over Halisstra, her bloated abdomen pulsing. Web oozed from her spinnerets. I will bind and break you, just as I did before. Your weakness will betray y—

Halisstra sang out a loud, clear note that shattered the illuŹsion like glass. A second song stilled the priestess’s screams. The smaller female scurried to Halisstra’s side, trembling, as Halisstra listened to the night twist’s song.

The priestess had been correct. The tree was singing Wendonai’s name.

Halisstra looked around. Moonlight, as bright as a hunŹdred torches, illuminated the jungle. Just beyond the night twist was a clearing littered with tumbled masonry. A glint caught Halisstra’s eye—a faint light, like moonlight gleaming on metal. She walked toward it. Vines, animated by the night twist’s mournful song, twined around her legs, but Halisstra was too strong for them. She continued to the clearing, tearŹing them like fragile spider webs.

The clearing looked empty. Yet the glint beckoned. Halisstra sang a melody that would reveal the invisible: nothing happened. She edged closer to the glint, alert for any sign of the demon. Wendonai could kill with the flick of a finger. Her memories of him crushing the life from her were still vivid. That time, Lolth’s magic had restored her. But Halisstra was no longer the Spider Queen’s pet plaything. If Wendonai broke her body a second time, Halisstra might die. Her soul would flutter back to Lolth, and the torment would begin anew.

No, she told herself sternly. That wouldn’t happen. She was a demigod now. A mortal who had been raised to godhood by the worship of her faithful. Just like Sheverash, she’d been tempered by pain and suffering, and her soul had been hamŹmered to the hardness of steel. She’d been reborn. She was free of Lolth, and the Spider Queen could no longer claim her.

Even so, she moved cautiously.

The glint hovered above a block of weathered stone. A faint odor wafted from it: the smell of diseased flesh. As Halisstra leaned closer, one of the spider legs protruding from her chest brushed against something. There was an invisible creature here!

She sprang back from the block of stone, her spider legs drumming nervously against her chest. Then she rememŹbered her priestess was watching. She moved forward again, and patted the invisible creature with her hands. It was more or less drow-shaped, and unmoving—frozen in a crouch and covered in a gritty dust that transferred onto Halisstra’s hands and sparkled in the moonlight. She patted the air above the invisible creature, where the gleam was, and hissed as something sharp sliced her hand. A more careful probing revealed a cool, flat surface: a curved sword blade, grooved with an inscription. Halfway down the blade, she felt a seam where the blade had been repaired.

Halisstra’s lips parted in silent surprise. No! It couldn’t be!

“Show me,” she hissed. “I command it!”

She felt something twist, deep within her mind. By force of will, she clawed away the magical blinders that covered her eyes. The illusion of emptiness fell away, and the invisŹible creature was revealed. That was the Crescent Blade she’d felt—in the hands of a demon, no less!

Or … was it a demon?

The female had black skin and white hair long enough to reach the block of stone she squatted on. Her face, like Halisstra’s, looked vaguely drow. Her body was as loathsome as Halisstra’s own: hunchbacked, spotted with fungus-sized boils, and with grossly elongated limbs. The fingers gripŹping the Crescent Blade ended in clawlike nails, and her eyes were solid white. She was unmoving, utterly unresponsive to Halisstra’s touch; When Halisstra tried scoring her flesh with a claw, nothing happened. She didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. Just kept staring at something silver that lay on the stone in front of her.

When she realized what it was, Halisstra gasped aloud. One of Eilistraee’s holy symbols! The other half of the holy symbol lay on the ground, a pace or two away. The blade had snapped in two—in exactly the same spot as the Crescent Blade had broken, all those years ago, when Halisstra had repudiated Eilistraee.

A shiver coursed through her. She stared at the demonlike female. Was this another priestess who had renounced her faith? Another of those who had tried to return to Lolth’s sticky embrace, only to be forced into an agonizing penance?

If so, what was she doing here, so close to Halisstra’s temple? What did it mean? Had Lolth placed this fallen priestŹess here? Had Wendonai?

Halisstra snarled. There was no room in her temple for a second Lady Penitent. Halisstra wasn’t going to share her fawnŹing faithful with anyone. She wrapped her spider legs around the demon-drow and tried to yank her from the block of stone, but the female didn’t budge. It was as if her feet were glued in place. No matter. Halisstra leaned in close and bit. Instead of sinking into yielding flesh, however, her fangs scritched away. The surface of the demon-drow’s neck was hard and as slippery as ice. No matter how hard Halisstra bit down, she couldn’t sink her teeth into that flesh. She sang a dispelling and tried again, but the ensorcelment proved too strong to break.

She sat back on her haunches, thinking. The female had to be under some sort of magical protection.

Lolth’s?

Behind Halisstra, the night twist continued its mournful song. Wendonai, it wailed. A hot, salty wind coursed through its branches, twisting them against one another. Black bark creaked, and the song shifted. It wasn’t the balor’s name the night twist was singing, but something else entirely: a message, stabbing at Halisstra’s heart.

We … don’t… die …

“Yes, we do,” Halisstra snarled. She understood, now, why the priestess had come here: to kill her. She must be a demon hunter, a Darksong Knight like Cavatina. Maybe this was Cavatina. Halisstra’s laugh skittered at the edge of sanity. “You’re not going to use the Crescent Blade on me!” She grabbed the female’s hands and tried to unbend her fingers. She would have the Crescent Blade—she must! Yet the fingers didn’t move. Nor could they be clawed away; Halisstra’s nails skidded harmlessly off them. She placed a foot on the female’s wrists, grabbed the sword’s crossguard, and tried to lever the Crescent Blade out of the fallen priestess’s hands. She strained until her muscles ached and sweat ran down her temples.

“Let… go … of… it!”

The priestess refused.

“Abyss take you!” Halisstra snarled as she let go.

A movement in the jungle caught her eye. She whirled, the spider jaws in her cheeks gnashing. The priestess who’d led her here! Halisstra had forgotten her. The spying, sneaking wretch had seen it all: Halisstra’s humiliation, her anger … her fear.

Halisstra leaped to the spot where the priestess crouched, swept her up, and spun her around. Webs flew from Halisstra’s hands.

The priestess didn’t resist. “Queen of Spiders, I commend unto you my soul,” she droned. “May I prove as worthy in death as I did in life.”

“Have you learned nothing?” Halisstra screamed, outraged. “It isn’t Lolth you serve, but the Lady Penitent!”

The priestess’s voice grew muffled under the layers of web. “May I sing Lolth’s praises through all eternity. May I dance upon her webs like a spider. May my soul return to her—”

“Stop it!” Halisstra shrieked. “Stop it, stop it, stop it!” She flipped the web-bound priestess and caught her by the feet. Then she swung her through the air like a club. Flesh met steel with a dull thwack. The priestess’s head sailed away, parted from her body by the Crescent Blade.

There. That shut her up.

Halisstra hurled the body into the jungle. The night twist’s vines eagerly caught it and drew it to the trunk. Halisstra sneered. Plenty more, where that priestess came from. “Return to Lolth,” she taunted. “If you still can.”

She turned back to the priestess who held the Crescent Blade—a little too quickly, still blinded by her rage. The female’s body rocked slightly, then toppled to one side.

Halisstra started. She leaped on the fallen priestess and grabbed the Crescent Blade. But tug as she might, the priestŹess still clung to it.

No matter. Halisstra picked up the demonic looking priestŹess and tucked her under one arm. There were songs Halisstra could sing, later, that would remove the sword from those hands. And then she would use the sword to kill the interloper.

From there, who knew what might be possible? Perhaps Halisstra would finish what she’d started, so many years ago. Kill Lolth—and maybe Eilistraee too, while she was at it. Anything was within her grasp, now that the Crescent Blade had been returned to her.

Shrieking with laughter, she hurried back to her temple.