Ascendancy of the Last

chapter 11

Naxil struggled to rise. He wasn’t held by ropes or chains—something he might have escaped—but by magic. The fanatics had bound him with words. “Follow,” they’d said, and he had. “Kneel,” they’d ordered, and he had. Now, “Drink.”

He tried to wrench his head aside, but couldn’t. Compelled by magic, he gulped down the licoŹrice-flavored drug the green-robed fanatic tipped into his mouth. As the drug took hold, the world slanted dizzily this way and that. Though his body hadn’t physically altered, it now felt like a puddle of molten wax, soft and compliant. A numbness settled on his mind, quieting the screaming voice within. He smiled. Drool trickled down his chin.

Part of him knew there was nothing to smile about—and everything to scream about. He’d only joined the Masked Lady’s faith a year ago, but he’d lived in the Promenade long enough to appreciate the terrible stillness that had settled upon the Cavern of Song. The chorus of voices that had filled it with sacred music and moonlight since its founding had been extinguished, and it was no longer a holy place. Now it was blasphemed by oozes and slimes, and by the presence of Ghaunadaur’s fanatics. One of them—a stunted male in purple robes whose tentacle rod clung to his body like a leech—stared at the captives from a hovering driftdisc. He smiled gleefully as he savored their humiliation.

Naxil would have choked the life from him, were it not for the magic that held him fast and the drug that sent the world spinning. He consoled himself with the knowledge he’d fought well, with dagger and spellsong. After shaking off the charm the green-eyed male had cast on him, he’d personally killed three of Ghaunadaur’s cultists. He’d danced from shadow to shadow, attacking from behind, avoiding the oozes and targetŹing their masters. He’d kept fighting long after realizing the battle was already lost. He’d prayed, then, that death would find him—that he’d make his way to the Masked Lady’s side and sit in her cool, calming shadow.

In the end, despite those fervent prayers, despite his valŹiant struggles, he’d been captured, not killed. He bowed his head and said a silent prayer. Eilistraee grant that whatever happened next, it happened quickly.

Dozens of other captives kneeled or lay nearby—most of them lay worshipers routed from the Hall of the Faithful after the bubbling ooze had bored through the songwalls. Naxil spotted Jub, the half-orc, and several others he knew by name. Those too badly wounded to walk had been left to die The remainder were forced, like Naxil, to drink. There was even a Protector in their ranks, her chain mail hanging in tatters and her singing sword gone. It wasn’t Leliana—Naxil had searched anxiously for her among the captives, but failed to spot her. He prayed she’d gone to Eilistraee’s grace via a quick death.

Oozes slithered back and forth across the Cavern of Song, reducing the bodies of the fallen to puddles of sizzling flesh. The fanatic on the driftdisc, meanwhile, ordered the captives to their feet. “Follow,” he commanded.

Together with the others, Naxil shuffled after the driftdisc. A second fanatic walked beside the line of captives lashing out with his whiplike rod at those who lagged. The amber-colored tentacles struck the moon elf next to Naxil, and she screamed as her skin burst into flame. Naxil tried to catch her, but the drug he’d been forced to drink made him stagger, and the words to his healing spell tangled together in his mind. The moon elf fell to the ground, her pale skin charred black. The reek of cooking meat filled the air.

The fanatic raised his rod to lash Naxil. As his arm whipped forward, another fanatic caught it and said someŹthing to him. The first one’s aim was thrown off and just one tentacle struck Naxil’s shoulder. He gasped as its heat seared into his flesh. The intense pain gave him a moment of clarity, and he whispered a song. Flesh knitted together. His mind cleared fully as Eilistraee’s healing grace pushed the drug from his body. Yet the magical compulsion remained. Obedient as a soldier, he marched behind the driftdisc. He passed the fallen statue of Qilué—its face now reduced to a rounded blob by the slithering oozes—and descended into the spiral staircase the statue had once hidden.

Together with the other captives, he wound his way downŹward. The narrow staircase forced them into single file. Naxil heard the driftdisc scraping against stone up ahead, but couldn’t see it. Nor could he see the fanatic who brought up the rear. Now was his moment—while they weren’t watching. He sang a prayer, rendering himself invisible.

They reached the bottom of the staircase and entered a cavern. Naxil knew of this place, but had never entered it: this was the cavern at the top of Eilistraee’s Mound. There should have been a dancing statue here, sealing the Pit, but Naxil couldn’t see it. A dozen fanatics formed a circle around the spot where it should have stood. A thick purple mist filled the cavern, blurring his view. Naxil smelled acid. His nostrils stung. He barely stifled a retch that might have given him away. The captives coughed weakly, their eyes tearing in the acid-tinged air.

The fanatic leading the captives ordered them to stand against the wall. Naxil complied—slowly and heavily. The mist held a magic that slowed movement to a snail’s pace. He winced as fragments of stone crunched under his boots, and prayed the fanatics wouldn’t notice the dents his invisible feet made. He tried desperately to think of a way to break free.

The fanatic on the driftdisc stepped off it and joined those who had circled around the spot where the statue should have been. His arms lifted, and the others drew breath. At his signal they chanted in an impossibly slow drone.

The chanting intensified. The mist roiled. It swirled above the Pit, coalescing into a knot that became an eye, as large as a serving platter. The eye blinked open, emitting a dull orange light that illuminated the fanatic leading the chant. Immediately, he prostrated himself on the rubble. Slowly, the eye rotated, its sickly light washing over the fanatics one by one. Each fell to his knees in turn, crying out the Ancient One’s name.

“Ghaunadaur, Ghaunadaur, Ghaunadaur …”

Naxil stared, horrified. The puddle of orange-purple light didn’t quite extend to the captives. He knew, instinctively, that Ghaunadaur considered them unworthy, beneath even its contempt. Naxil’s stomach felt watery and weak, and his head swam even without the drug. Tears poured down his cheeks, soaking his mask. Beside him, the other captives wept softly.

He touched his mask to steady himself, and saw a hazy smudge: his hand, becoming visible. Hastily, he renewed his prayer, rendering himself invisible again.

The eye completed its rotation. Then it “spoke” in a voice that slithered into Naxil’s mind like a damp, unwelcome slug.

Clear the Pit.

The fanatics closest to the Pit laid hands on the jumbled stone and chanted. The others touched their backs, and joined in the prayer. Chips of rock melted into mud. A stench like manure filled the cavern. The fanatics closest to the Pit made paddling motions with their hands. The mud churned. Foul-smelling steam boiled from it, rendering the air in the cavern hot and humid. The puddle of mud sagged, twisted like water down a drain, and revealed the top of a shaft with utterly smooth, glasslike walls.

The captive next to Naxil—Jub, the half-orc—fainted, either succumbing to his wounds, or to fear. Other captives tried to pray to Eilistraee, but only managed a slurred mutter, thanks to the drug.

The fanatics maintained their chant, and the mud continued to sink. With each passing moment, more fanatics descended the stairs and crowded into the cavern, lending their voices to the unholy chorus. Abruptly, the chant ended.

A second command hissed out of the floating eye. Feed them to me, it ordered. Then it disappeared.

Naxil tensed as the fanatic guarding the captives turned. “Forward,” he commanded.

The fanatics parted, forming a corridor for the prisoners to walk through. “Ghaunadaur,” they chanted. “Consume them. Consign them to oblivion. Devour them.”

Compelled by the command, Naxil stumbled with the others to the Pit. A captive tripped and fell off the edge. Her scream wailed away into the distance. Another leaped into the Pit of his own accord, crying Ghaunadaur’s name, causŹing Naxil’s lip to curl at his cowardice. The other captives wavered at the edge. The magical compulsion wasn’t quite strong enough to compel them to take their own lives.

Naxil stared down into a seemingly bottomless well. He’d heard the Pit was nearly half a league deep. Far, far below, he saw a bright silver glow. He wondered if it were the planar breach Cavatina had warned them about.

The fanatics closed in behind the captives. The push of a hand sent another of Eilistraee’s faithful into the Pit. Others swiftly followed. Soon only Naxil, still hidden by his invisŹibility, stood at the edge.

Naxil listened to the captives’ screams as they fell. Tears streamed down his cheeks and soaked his mask. He closed his eyes, unwilling to see more. He took a step back—and realized, to his amazement, that he was no longer under the magical compulsion.

Someone jostled him from behind: one of the fanatics, crowding forward. The fanatic started, glanced sideways at the spot where Naxil stood, and opened his mouth to shout. Naxil grabbed his robe and spun him off the edge. A flick of Naxil’s fingers triggered a cantrip; his voice shifted to the falling cultist and followed him as he fell. “Ghaunadaur! Consume me!”

The other fanatics started. The face of the one who’d led the chanting purpled. He spun to face a green-robed cultist next to him. “Trucebreaker!” he howled. “What of your oath? Our Houses were to descend together to greet the Ancient One!”

The other fanatic whirled. “House Abbylan did not sanction this. He leaped of his own accord!”

As they argued, Naxil edged away from the Pit. Avoiding the fanatics was difficult, as the room was crowded. He wouldn’t be able to climb the stairs—not with fanatics still descending. He’d have to make his way to the nearest wall, press his back against it, and hope his invisibility held out.

He decided to make his way to the spot where Jub lay, unconscious and forgotten. He twisted this way and that, slipŹping between the fanatics whenever an opportunity presented itself. Just as he reached the wall, a hand brushed against his shirt—and took hold of the fabric. He tried to wrench away, but the fanatic yanked him close.

“Ally?” the fanatic breathed. Then he coughed.

Naxil realized the “fanatic’s” hand was lingering against his mouth—hiding it, as a mask would.

“Ally,” Naxil hissed back.

The “fanatic” found Naxil’s hand and pressed a gold ring into it. Levitate, his fingers flicked.

Naxil gave silent thanks to the Masked Lady for the boon as he shoved the ring onto his finger. He levitated just above the fanatics’ heads, his back against the ceiling, trying to stifle the urge to cough as he breathed the acid-tinged air. He wiped his stinging eyes with the back of his sleeve, lest any tears fall on their heads and give him away.

Below him, the disguised Nightshadow eased into an indenŹtation in the wall and cloaked himself in magical darkness. The fanatics, meanwhile, concluded their argument. They seemed to have come to some sort of agreement. The high priests called to their respective followers, and the fanatics lined up behind them, each with his hands on the shoulders of the one in front of him. Chanting Ghaunadaur’s name, they shuffled forward, into the Pit.

At first, Naxil thought they were sacrificing themselves. The fanatics, however, didn’t plummet. They sank gently into the Pit, their descent slowed by magic.

As the last of them disappeared into the Pit, a wind sucked the purple mist down after him, and the air cleared. The disguised Nightshadow stepped out of his darkness, crept to the Pit, and peered in. He cocked his head, as if listening to some distant sound. “The trap worked,” he said at last with a smile. “They’ve been driven insane. All of them.”

Naxil descended to the floor, the invisibility gone. He moved to where the other Nightshadow stood. Echoing up out of the Pit, from far below, came the sound of voices. It sounded as if all of the fanatics were screaming or crying out at once, in a frenzied cacophony.

Naxil began to tug the ring off his finger but the other Nightshadow gestured for him to keep it. Naxil nodded. “Thanks…”

“Mazrol.”

“I’m Naxil.”

Mazrol glanced again at the Pit, and shuddered. “Let’s get out of here.”

They moved to the stairs. Naxil paused to check Jub. The half-orc was unconscious, with a nasty bump on the side of his head, but a prayer would rouse him.

Mazrol looked impatient. “Have you seen Valdar?”

“Who?”

Mazrol’s expression turned wary. Naxil tensed. Something was wrong here. Instinct screamed at him that Mazrol had just become his enemy, yet that was ridiculous.

Naxil touched Jub’s forehead and began his prayer. Out of the corner of his eye he saw motion near the Pit: the purple mist, rising again. A tendril of it swirled over the lip and crept across the floor, behind Mazrol. The other Nightshadow hadn’t noticed yet. He frowned down at Jub. “What are you doing?”

Naxil didn’t answer. It ought to be obvious. He kept singing.

Mazrol caught his arm. “Save your prayers.” He nodded at the staircase. “If any oozes come slithering down here, we’ll need them.”

Naxil finished his prayer. “But Jub—”

“Leave him. He’s not one of us.”

Naxil rose—slowly—to his feet. “He’s one of Eilistraee’s.”

Jub groaned, and rolled over. Naxil heard him cough weakly.

Mazrol stared at Naxil a moment, as if taking his measure. “Eilistraee is dead,” he said, his eyes locked on Naxil’s. “The Masked Lord killed her. Everything the priestesses taught you was a lie.”

Naxil’s jaw clenched. He’d heard there were males like this within the ranks of the faithful—Nightshadows who refused to let go of Vhaeraun. Naxil had never worshiped that god, having come to the Masked Lady’s faith only after the goddess’s transformation. It hadn’t been Vhaeraun who had led Naxil out of the misery of Menzoberranzan, but the Masked Lady. Eilistraee.

Mazrol must have seen the flat disbelief in Naxil’s eyes. He gestured at the Pit behind him. “Would Eilistraee have allowed this?” he cried. “Would she have permitted us to open a back door to her enemies? She’s dead, Naxil. The Promenade is ours now—if we can hold it.”

Behind Mazrol, two blood red eyestalks rose above the lip of the Pit. The eyes opened and stared at the two Nightshadows through the swirling purple mist. Naxil would have quaked in terror, had he not already been sent reeling by what Mazrol had just told him. The other Nightshadow had taken a hand in the Promenade’s fall! So had others of the Masked Lady’s supposed faithful, by the sound of it. “Us,” Mazrol had said. The betrayal cut deeper than any dagger.

Naxil prayed silently. Masked Lady, I am your sword, and your song. Temper me. Use my body as your instrument to lead this blasphemer to redemption. Keeping his voice utterly steady, he spoke his accusation aloud. “Traitor.”

Mazrol lunged forward to stab Naxil, but Naxil, filled with the Masked Lady’s grace, twisted aside. Behind Mazrol, a barbed tentacle snaked up out of the pit, beside the eyestalks. It lashed out and slammed into Mazrol’s back, knocking him down. The Nightshadow screamed as the tentacle dragged him to the Pit.

“The Masked Lady can save you!” Naxil cried, leaping forŹward in a futile attempt to grab Mazrol’s hand. “Pray to—”

The tentacle yanked Mazrol out of sight.

Jub sat up. His eyes fell on the spotted, tentacled, sluglike creature rising out of the Pit, and his jaw dropped open. The creature was blood red and enormous.

“Run!” Naxil shouted. He grabbed Jub’s arm and yanked him to his feet. Together, they raced up the winding stairs. The stocky little fellow was quick to recover; the Masked Lady’s blessing and sheer terror likely had an equal hand in that. After a few steps, he shook off Naxil’s arm and climbed without further assistance. “What,” he puffed, “was that?”

“I fear the worst,” Naxil gasped. “The slug… is one of… Ghaunadaur’s forms.”

“That’s his avatar?”

“It did … come out of… the Pit.”

Jub cursed.

Naxil heard a wet slithering behind them: the slug, squeezŹing up the staircase. Following them. He raced upward, Jub close on his heels. But when they finally reached the top of the stairs, a quivering gray ooze loomed. Naxil dodged to one side of it, Jub to the other.

“This way!” Naxil called. He sprinted across the Cavern of Song, struggling to keep upright on the slippery floor. He cast a frantic glance over his shoulder, but Jub was nowhere to be seen. Naxil cursed and started to double back to search for him, but oozes blocked his path.

Through a gap in their ranks he saw the slug squeezing its way out of the staircase. Six barbed tentacles waved in front of its face. Purple mist boiled around its slimy foot. The tentacles quested south, then north. Its decision made, it slithered toward Naxil. It squirted a stream of purple mist that swirled just short of him.

The oozes parted, leaving a clear path for the slug to follow. Were there fanatics somewhere in the cavern, conŹtrolling them? Naxil glanced around, but saw no sign of Ghaunadaur’s cultists. The drow all seemed to have gone below, into the Pit.

Naxil suddenly remembered he still wore the ring Mazrol had given him. He could escape by levitating! Yet when he glanced up, he saw the ceiling was coated in green slime. A patch of it landed with a splat at his feet; he barely dodged it in time. Levitating in mid-air, he’d be unable to dodge aside if more of it fell.

“Masked Lady!” Naxil cried. “Guide me! How am I to escape?”

Everywhere he looked, oozes blocked the exits. They sat, quivering, in front of the corridors that led to the Stronghall, the Hall of the Priestesses, and the Hall of the Faithful. The only unguarded exit was the northernmost tunnel—but the oozes slithering toward it would block it soon enough. Naxil ran in that direction, certain that it was Ghaunadaur’s avatar pursuing him. That was why the oozes and slimes were acting the way they did: they were obeying their master, letting the slug feed first. Naxil was keeping ahead of the avatar, but for how long? As he hurtled out of the cavern’s only clear exit, he wildly debated which way to go. South, to the Hall of the Priestesses, or north, to the Hall of Empty Arches? He heard a wet, slapping sound to the south: another of Ghaunadaur’s minions. That decided it. North.

As he drew near the Hall of Empty Arches he slipped and fell, wrenching an ankle. He lurched to his feet—and nearly screamed at the pain. He started a restorative prayer, but before he could complete it, an eyestalk poked around the corner. Ghaunadaur’s avatar, closing in! A moment more, and it would catch him.

Suddenly, Naxil had an inspiration. The ring: it was gold! Maybe it would activate one of the ancient portals. He stagŹgered into the Hall of Empty Arches, between the first two partition walls. He slapped his hand against the first arch: nothing. Stupid—that was the portal he and Leliana had returned through, the one that led from the mine tunnels to here. And the next portal was even less of an option. It led, he’d heard, to an infinite maze that would forever trap anyone foolish enough to use it.

Suddenly, he realized what he needed to do. He underŹstood why the Masked Lady had helped him to escape being sacrificed in the Pit. She needed him—as bait. His frenzied run was the dance that would lead Ghaunadaur’s avatar into a trap. Naxil would die, but his reward would be to dance at the side of his deity forevermore.

“Masked Lady!” he cried. “Lend me strength!”

He staggered to the arch and reached out to touch it. Yet even as his fingertips touched stone, a tentacle smacked into his back and coiled around his torso. Naxil grunted in pain as barbs drove into his chest and back. The avatar tried to draw him away from the arch, but the pull of the portal was stronger. It wrenched Naxil inside, tugging the tentacle in with him.

For the space of a heartbeat, Naxil thought this desperŹate ploy hadn’t worked. He dangled above a stone floor at the crossroads of half a dozen corridors, the taut tentacle preventŹing him from falling. Then the rest of Ghaunadaur’s sluglike body slid through the portal. The avatar landed on Naxil, flattening him under a rippling wave of slimy flesh.

Despite the crushing weight that drove the air from his lungs, Naxil felt an immense sense of pride. He’d done it: lured Ghaunadaur’s avatar away from the Promenade.

Masked Lady, he silently sang. I commend my soul to you. My dance is done.

He died with his mask pressed against his face, hiding his smile, as the avatar slithered off into the endless maze.





Q’arlynd glanced around. He’d teleported to the place Flinderspeld had described: a wide ledge, high on the side of a mountain. Glancing down at the forest spread out below like a distant green carpet, he could see why this place was so little known. A faint trail led up the lower slopes of the mountain. Q’arlynd spotted two figures walking along it, far below. The trail, however, stopped well below the bluff. From that point, it would take a riding lizard or a levitation spell to reach this spot.

A breeze blew mist onto his skin, and he shivered. The sky was overcast, heavy with dark gray clouds. Thunder grumbled in the distance. He turned away from the view to observe the outermost of the “fountains.” Just as Flinderspeld had described, a stream of water flowed up the mountainside, arcing over the lip of the bluff to land, splashing, in the pool.

From there, the water arced up and out of the pool, into a fisŹsure in the bluff. From within the V-shaped cleft, Q’arlynd could hear the patter of the stream of water falling on the second pool. From there, Flinderspeld had said, the stream arced to the third pool, and then to the fourth and final of the Fountains of Memory: the one that looked deepest into the past.

Flinderspeld had originally wanted to accompany Q’arlynd here, but later decided against it. The temptaŹtion to use the pools himself, he’d explained, would be too strong. “Even the good memories will hurt,” Flinderspeld had said.

Q’arlynd understood. Like Flinderspeld, he came from a city that now lay in ruin. Looking back in time to a Ched Nasad that was whole, to a life irretrievably gone would be … painful.

Yet for different reasons. Unlike Flinderspeld, Q’arlynd had no desire to return to the city of his childhood, even in reminiscence. Q’arlynd hadn’t loved Ched Nasad; he’d loathed it. His memories of House Melarn’s haughty, scheming matron mother—the female who’d birthed him—were brutal. Her capricious cruelty and callous disregard for her children had set the tone for Q’arlynd’s siblings, a backstabbing brood of self-serving malcontents.

Within the kiira, Q’arlynd’s ancestors stirred. Was there no one in your family that you cared for?

Q’arlynd laughed. “Tellik,” he answered. And it was true. Q’arlynd had been close to his younger brother, for a time. As close as any two drow could be. Yet Q’arlynd had cast Tellik aside as quickly as a worn piwafwi, in order to avoid being killed alongside him after Matron Melarn learned that Tellik had taken up Vhaeraun’s mask.

What about the others? his ancestors asked. Was there no one who showed mercy, when you needed it?

Q’arlynd started to answer no, then realized that wasn’t quite right. “Halisstra,” he answered at last. He touched the bump on his nose, remembering the time she’d secretly healed him. If not for that, he would have been dead decades ago.

Despite that act of kindness, Q’arlynd had continued to regard his sister as little more than a means of achieving his own goals. Only in recent years had he learned that people were more than mere playing pieces to be shoved about by those who were stronger and more cunning. Now he wondered what had become of Halisstra.

Four years ago, Cavatina had reported to Qilué that Halisstra had been left behind in the Demonweb Pits, after helping the Darksong Knight to slay Selvetarm. Had Halisstra died there? The questions T’lar had asked seemed to indiŹcate that she had. T’lar had said Halisstra “angered” the Lady Penitent—Lolth, obviously—and had been killed for it. Strangely, the assassin didn’t seem to understand why Lolth might have done this. T’lar obviously didn’t know Halisstra’s role in helping to slay the Spider Queen’s champion.

Now Q’arlynd found himself pondering exactly how Halisstra had died. Guilt nibbled at him. He’d done nothing to aid in the search for Halisstra, just left it up to Qilué and her priestesses. He glanced down at the bracer he still wore on his wrist—at the symbol of House Melarn on his House insignia. The dancing stick figure also stood for Eilistraee. Would Q’arlynd meet his sister once more, in Eilistraee’s domain, when he finally died? Or would Eilistraee fault him for abandoning Halisstra, just as he’d abandoned Tellik?

He shook his head to clear these distracting thoughts. He had important business here: locating Corellon’s ancient temple. This was no time to be brooding about the past. Yet he might never have another chance to visit the Fountains of Memory. He glanced again at the first pool. Certainly one little peek to satisfy his curiosity wouldn’t hurt. It might even be good practice. It would also help lay to rest the niggling doubt that Flinderspeld might have tricked him, and sent him to the wrong spot, despite all that had passed between them.

Mistrust was a habit that was hard to shake.

Q’arlynd kneeled beside the pool, his knees sinking into the moss that cushioned the stone. He did as Flinderspeld had instructed, picking one of the tiny blue flowers that speckled the ground and tossing it into the pool. “Show me,” he said, concentrating on the rippling waters. “Show me how Halisstra was killed by L—” He paused, reconsidering. With divinations, it was best to get the language precisely right. What was the title T’lar had used? Ah yes. “Show me how Halisstra was killed by the Lady Penitent.”

Though he could still hear the fountain tinkling, the surŹface of the pool stilled and became as flat as glass. An image appeared on its mirrorlike surface: Halisstra, dressed in armor, kneeling with two other females before a throne on which sat a massive black widow spider. Seven identical spiŹders crouched behind the throne, watching. The room’s crazily slanting walls and floor were constructed of iron. Cobwebs filled the gloomy corners.

“Lolth’s iron fortress,” Q’arlynd whispered, his voice tight.

He recognized the female to Halisstra’s left at once: the pout-lipped, scheming Danifae, battle-captive to Halisstra. The female on the other side of Halisstra also looked familŹiar. At first, Q’arlynd couldn’t place her. Then he remembered who she was: Quenthel Baenre, the high priestess from Menzoberranzan. The presence of Danifae and Quenthel in the vision could mean just one thing: the pool was showŹing Q’arlynd something that had happened seven years ago, during Lolth’s Silence.

“That’s too early,” he said aloud. He reached for another flower, intending to try again, but his hand halted as he saw what happened next. In the vision, Lolth lunged from her throne to bite Danifae. The battle-captive screamed as her head and shoulders disappeared into Lolth’s mouth. Danifae’s legs spasmed, then stilled as the goddess conŹsumed her.

For a brief moment, no one moved. Then the other seven spiders crept forward menacingly. Q’arlynd expected them to attack Quenthel or Halisstra, but instead they surrounded the spider that had eaten Danifae. They grasped it—and began to tear the body apart. Yochlols hurried into view and hastened the process, ripping chunks from the spider’s quivering body. All the while, Halisstra and Quenthel remained kneeling. Halisstra, Q’arlynd saw, had her eyes tightly shut. Her lips moved. Q’arlynd wondered if she were whispering Eilistraee’s name. His sister held a sword in her hand—a straight-bladed sword. It should have been the Crescent Blade, according to what Leliana had told him. Halisstra, she’d said, had taken the Crescent Blade into the Demonweb Pits to kill Lolth, during the Silence.

Was that indeed the Crescent Blade, disguised by a glamor? If so, why hadn’t Halisstra used it, instead of kneeling meekly before Lolth’s throne? Had she lost her nerve, once in the godŹdess’s presence? That was easy to understand. Even viewing the Spider Queen at a distance—and removed in time—sent a hollow chill through Q’arlynd.

The spiders and yochlols finished their grim task and stepped back. Within the remains of the spider they’d torn to pieces, a form stirred. Then it rose, revealing itself to be a spider with Danifae’s face.

Was this the Lady Penitent? Was it Lolth, reborn?

The Danifae-headed spider turned to Quenthel and spoke to her, but the patter of the fountain obscured the words. Quenthel’s face twisted with fury, but she bowed her head. Then she stood, turned, and departed.

That left only Halisstra. She looked up at the Danifae-headed spider, said something, and tossed her sword to one side. She threw herself face-first on the floor. The Danifae-headed spider leaned over her, smiled, and sank her teeth into Halisstra’s neck.

“No!” Q’arlynd cried, despite himself. He watched, fists balled, as the seven lesser spiders lurched forward and sank their fangs into his sister. When each had left a bloody puncture, the Danifae-headed spider lifted Halisstra’s limp body and twirled it round, spinning her into a cocoon. Q’arlynd, looking on, told himself that this couldn’t be Halisstra’s death he was watching. His sister had lived beyond the events he was viewing. She’d led Cavatina into the Demonweb Pits, three years after these events. She’d survived this.

Q’arlynd wondered if he would have been strong enough to do the same.

The Danifae-headed spider dropped the cocoon to the floor. For several long moments, nothing happened. Then something poked at the cocoon from within, and tore it open. Q’arlynd leaned forward, cheering his sister on as she defiantly tore at the sticky silken threads. “That’s it, Halisstra,” he urged. “Tear free. You can—”

The words died in a croak as he saw what emerged from the tattered remnants of the cocoon. It wasn’t Halisstra in there, but a demonlike monster. The creature was twice the size Halisstra had been, with a hideously deformed face, spider jaws emerging from bulges on its cheeks, and eight spindly spider legs protruding from its chest.

Q’arlynd reeled back from the pool in alarm as the creature turned in his direction. He caught only a momentary glance of its face, but it was enough. The demon-thing that had emerged from the cocoon was indeed Halisstra, transformed.

“No,” he whispered. Yet there was no denying it. The creature he saw in the pool was the “monster” he’d seen emerging from the Moondeep Sea, during the expedition to the Acropolis of the death goddess. That had been only two years ago—after his sister had helped Cavatina kill Selvetarm. Had the Darksong Knight seen what Halisstra had become? Why hadn’t she told Q’arlynd this?

He shook his head. T’lar had gotten it wrong. Halisstra hadn’t been killed by the Lady Penitent. She’d been transŹformed into something… demonic.

“Eilistraee,” he whispered in a choked voice. “How could you have let this happen to one of your faithful?”

He backed away, unwilling to see more. He felt rough stone against his back and realized he was inside the cleft in the rock. A spray of water arced past his shoulder, into the second of the Fountains of Memory. Mist from the spray struck his face, and trickled down his cheeks like tears.

He wiped them away. His sister was lost, beyond redempŹtion. There was nothing he could do for her now. He needed to focus on the future, not the past.

He turned away from the terrible vision, and entered the cleft in the rock.





T’lar swung gracefully up onto the ledge. She was exhausted from her long climb. Her arms and legs shook, but she didn’t let that blunt her caution. She lifted the dark-lensed glasses that protected her eyes from the World Above’s harsh light, and looked cautiously around. Half a cycle had passed since she’d spotted her target on this ledge—the sun had set, and the moon had risen since then—but Q’arlynd might still be here. She couldn’t rely on invisibility alone to hide her. Not from a wizard.

Taking care not to give her presence away by knocking a loose stone, she moved to one side of the cleft in the bluff. She slid her spider-pommeled dagger out of its sheath. She wouldn’t make the mistake of using the spike-spiders on Q’arlynd, this time; he was obviously immune to their poison. The same couldn’t be said, however, of the svirfneblin wine merchant she’d left dead on the trail below.

She hummed the bae’qeshel tune that would ensure her invisibility was sustained, and eased into the cleft in the rock. Moments later, she cursed as she realized her target was no longer there. She’d been so close to catching him! Had he teleported away while she was climbing the bluff?

Thunder grumbled overhead. Rain pattered down. The drops blended with the sweat on T’lar’s forehead and shaved scalp, and trickled down her body. She tasted salt on her lips. She squatted beside the innermost of the pools within the cleft. The stream that fed it was obviously magical; water didn’t flow up a cliff and arc from one pool to the next of its own accord. She eyed it thirstily. Was the water’s magic harmful or beneficial—or simply decorative? Would drinking from the pool kill her, or simply quench her thirst?

The innermost pool was about three paces wide and no more than a couple of handspans deep. She could easily make out the bottom of it. There didn’t seem to be any fissures or gaps in the stone floor, yet the water flowed into the pool, but didn’t go anywhere. It simply… disappeared.

Just a moment. Was that a flash of something, between the pattering raindrops? As she leaned closer, a palm-sized portion of the pool stilled. It was like looking through a tiny window: she caught a glimpse of a tree branch, then a mosaic made of oddly shaped pieces of green glass, then the back of a head with white hair and pointed ears. As the figure turned, T’lar recognized his face. Q’arlynd.

She smiled. So that was what this place was: a portal.

She curled her fingers into a spider and kissed them. “Lolth be praised,” she said. The hunt hadn’t ended; it had just changed direction.

She stepped into the pool and was teleported away.