Ascendancy of the Last

chapter 12

Laeral stared into her scrying mirror, her hands on either side of the gilded frame. “Where is Cavatina?” she asked anxiously. “Show me!”

She could see the Darksong Knight, but only dimly. Cavatina’s body wavered within the mirror, indisŹtinct and ghostly. Her hair was wild, her expression anguished. She wore armor, but carried no weapon, while the tunic beneath her chain mail was stained and torn. Blood from a scalp wound had dried on her forehead. She moved, apparently aimlessly, through an utterly featureless, solid-gray landscape.

Laeral’s hands tightened on the frame. Was Cavatina dead? A spirit wandering the Fugue Plain? If so, why hadn’t her goddess claimed her?

The landscape behind Cavatina suddenly shifted, as if she’d just stepped out of shadow into light. She walked along a street now, her legs embedded in solid stone from the knee down. The corner of a building loomed ahead of her. She passed through it and continued on. All around her, the indistinct blurs of people hurried through the street, as none noticed her. A wall-mounted brazier, filled with glowing worms, threw shadows but cast no light on Cavatina. Its light passed, unimpeded, through the Darksong Knight.

“She’s ethereal,” Laeral breathed. “But… Where?”

Cavatina startled, and looked wildly around. She glanced up at something that was outside the mirror’s field of view. She “walked” upward, her body now parallel with the street below, to a metal cage that hung by a chain from a stout beam that spanned the street. A minotaur was inside the cage, gripping the iron bars. His face twisted with rage, and he repeatedly butted the inside of the cage with his massive horns.

Laeral recognized the landmark at once. Cavatina was in Skullport!

A short time later, Laeral stood outside the Deepfires Inn, wearing the disguise she habitually assumed while visiting Skullport: a plain, hooded cloak interwoven with protective dweomers and keep-watch magic. She’d teleported to Waterdeep, passed through the portal linking her former home with a cavern near Skullport, and hurried as quickly as she could through the Underdark city’s streets.

She worried that she wouldn’t make it in time—that Cavatina would already be gone. As she approached the Deepfires Inn, she pulled a pinch of grave dust from a pocket, tossed it ahead of her, and spoke a divination. It revealed a man in shabby clothes, lurking outside the inn’s door. He started as he noticed Laeral looking at him, then slunk away through the foul-smelling muck that mired the street. Laeral swept her hand up, directing her spell at the minotaur’s cage—and sighed in relief as Cavatina became visible. The Darksong Knight “stood” in mid-air beside the cage, peering into it intently and shouting at the minotaur, who shouted back at her. The words they hurled at each other were inaudible, as the spell revealed things to the eyes only.

Passersby craned their heads to look up at the spectacle. One nudged another with an elbow. Laeral picked out the words “Eilistraee” and “priestess” in his whispered comment. Ignoring them, Laeral spoke an incantation and made a twistŹing gesture. Cavatina’s body visibly solidified, and her shouts became audible as she was wrenched, fully, into the mateŹrial world. As she tumbled,. Laeral snapped out a word and pointed. Cavatina jerked to a halt a pace above the ground, and slowly drifted downward.

She landed, and began writhing violently. Her fists pounded the paving stones, and her body twisted this way and that, as if she were dodging blows from an unseen opponent. “The symbol of slime!” she shouted. “Sacrifice the dance to make the eye stop! It’s looking at you! We can’t allow it to come or it’s lost the…”

Laeral started. Cavatina was raving like a madwoman.

Behind her, she heard a chuckle and a derisive comment. “.. . what they deserved. We won’t have to worry about the Promenade no more. It’s—”

She whirled and glared at the speaker: a drow who, judging by the heavy manacles he carried in one hand, was a slaver. “What did you just say? What’s happened to the Promenade?”

The drow laughed. “Ask your friend.” He mocked her with a bow and strode away.

Laeral was tempted to send a bolt from her wand sizzling through him, but there were more urgent matters to deal with. She rushed to Cavatina’s side and tried to help the Darksong Knight to her feet, but Cavatina screamed and jerked away. Laeral pulled a pouch from her pocket, tipped out the preserved snake’s tongue it held, and clenched it in her fist. She touched her hand to her lips. “I can help you,”

she told the Darksong Knight in a soothing voice. “Please follow me.”

Calmed by magic, Cavatina followed Laeral through Skullport’s garbage-strewn streets. She mumbled as she walked. The odd word was intelligible—”slime” and “gate” and “battle”—but Laeral could make no sense of what Cavatina was muttering. It was clear, however, that some calamity had overtaken the Promenade. When Cavatina suddenly shouted the name “Ghaunadaur!” Laeral knew what had happened: another attack by the Ancient One’s fanatics. Of all the times Qilué might have chosen to draw Wendonai’s taint into herself, this must surely be the worst.

Yet another indication that the time hadn’t been of Qilué’s choosing.

Laeral’s destination was just ahead: the Sisters Three Waxworks. Kaitlyn and her sisters were friends of Laeral’s, devotees of Chauntea who posed as simple candle makers. They kept a stock of healing potions on hand, and were adept at restorative spells. Whatever madness afflicted Cavatina, they’d be able to cure it. Laeral opened the door of the shop and coaxed the Darksong Knight inside. “Enter,” she said, touching the fist that held the snake tongue to her lips as she spoke. “You’ll find peace, here.”

Cavatina stumbled into the candlelit shop. Laeral closed the door on the gaggle of Skullport residents who’d tagged along after them, mocking the Darksong Knight by imitating her frenzied, uncoordinated motions. “Kaitlyn,” Laeral said to the woman behind the counter as she bolted the door shut. “My friend needs your help. She—”

Cavatina screamed and flattened herself against a wall, knocking over a display of scented candles. An instant later, her terror switched to rage. She hurled herself at a candle that gutŹtered on the counter. “The ooze!” she screamed. Her fists pounded into the soft purple candle, splattering molten wax across the counter. “We have to stop the temple before the glow fills the river with the slime of the death and staunch the flow of blood!”

Kaitlyn had been arranging a display of candles on a shelf when Laeral and Cavatina entered. The brown-haired woman’s mouth dropped open in surprise as Cavatina attacked her merchandise, but she sprang quickly into action. She whirled to grab a corked vial from a shelf behind her. “Hold spell!” she shouted. “While her mouth is open, if possible.”

Laeral barked an enchantment that rendered Cavatina rigid, her mouth gaping in mid-shout. When the Darksong Knight toppled, Laeral caught her and eased her statue-stiff body to the ground. Kaitlyn uncorked the vial and poured the potion into Cavatina’s mouth. “Quickly now,” she said. “Dispel the hold, or she’ll choke.”

Laeral did. She took a quick pace back as Cavatina’s body slackened, but the expected outburst didn’t come. Instead of raving and nailing, Cavatina held her head in her hands. “I failed,” she said in an anguished voice. “The Promenade is lost.”

Laeral kneeled beside Cavatina and placed a hand on her shoulder. “What’s happened? Tell me.”

As Cavatina spoke, Laeral’s heart sank. The Promenade, fallen to Ghaunadaur’s fanatics? His avatar, released from the Pit? “Oh, Qilué,” she said softly. “It’s worse even than you thought, sister.”

Cavatina wrenched around to stare at Laeral. “Where is she? Where’s Qilué?”

“In trouble,” Laeral said. “She needs your help.” As conŹcisely as she could, she told the Darksong Knight what Qilué had done to herself. Cavatina’s face paled at the news, but as she continued listening, she climbed to her feet and took a deep breath.

“We’re going to need Qilué to rally the priestesses and retake the Promenade,” Cavatina said, her voice firmer now. She reached for her scabbard, realized it was empty, and looked around the shop. “Where am I? Is there a sword to be had?”

Laeral glanced at Kaitlyn. The shopkeeper started to shake her head, then shrugged. “There’s my sword of mercy. Hardly a suitable weapon for slaying a demon. It’s ensorcelled so that it will not kill.”

Cavatina held out a hand. “I’ll take it.”

Laeral nodded to herself. With Qilué’s body housing the demon, they needed something that could subdue, rather than kill. She pulled a gem from her belt pouch. “This should pay for the sword,” she told Kaitlyn. She pressed the gem into the shopkeeper’s hands.

Kaitlyn glanced down at it. “Too much,” she said. Then she smiled. “But I’ll keep it on deposit. Return the sword to me when you’re done.”

She pulled the weapon from behind the counter. To Laeral’s surprise, the sword was made of wood. Judging by the way Cavatina hefted it, however, the weapon seemed to have the weight of a normal sword. Its magic shaped it exactly to the Darksong Knight’s scabbard as she sheathed it.

Laeral caught Kaitlyn’s eye. “Not a word of what you just heard. To anyone.”

Kaitlyn touched one of the clumps of fragrant herbs that hung from the rafters. “I swear it, by the Mother.”

Laeral glanced outside, through a slit in the window shutŹter. The crowd that had followed them to the shop lingered, talking with animated gestures. “We’ll use the other exit, if you don’t mind, Kaitlyn.”

The shopkeeper moved aside the curtain that separated the front and rear of her shop. “This way.”

She led them down a hidden staircase, through a short tunnel, and up a ladder that led to the back room of a nearby shop. Laeral and Cavatina exited, and hurried through the streets to the portal that would return them to Waterdeep. On the way, they conferred in hushed voices about what was to be done.

The first thing to do, they agreed, would be to force Wendonai back into the Crescent Blade. That would require an exorcism. “It will have to be a powerful one,” Cavatina said. “We’ll need as many priestesses as we can gather. We’ll remove Qilué to hallowed ground—to the Dancing Dell in the Ardeep Forest. We’ll channel the power of the Ladystone.”

Laeral nodded. “But what of the binding? How can we remove Qilué from the throne?”

“Describe again what you saw in the vision.”

Laeral did.

Cavatina shook her head. “I don’t think Wendonai was bound. If he had been, he wouldn’t have been able to break the octogram with his hoof.”

“Then why did the demon submit?”

“Because Lolth ordered him to. She hoped he’d seed my ancestors with his taint. The coronal didn’t summon him. Lolth sent him.”

“But that would mean …” Laeral felt the blood drain from her cheeks.

Cavatina completed her thought. “That it wasn’t a binding rooting Qilué to the throne, but something else: Lolth’s invisŹible webs.” She shuddered, and glanced at Laeral. “Which goddess do you honor?”

“Mystra.”

“Pray to her,” Cavatina said grimly. “Pray that it isn’t too late—that Lolth hasn’t already claimed Qilué.”





Q’arlynd paced across the cavern where the teleportation circle was being drawn, fighting off the urge to clench his fists in frustration. “Qilué,” he whispered. “Can you hear me? It’s nearly time for the casting!”

Behind him, mages from the school of divination streamed into the cavern, carrying boxes filled with the enchanted items necessary to fuel the spells. The items were all from the vaults of Seldszar’s College, as attempting to persuade the highly suspicious Urlryn and Masoj to contribute would have strained their already fragile alliance to the breakŹing point.

Eldrinn supervised the placement of these valuables, while Alexa scribed the teleportation circle that would convey Q’arlynd and the other three masters to the ancient temple. She’d been forced to draw it well away from the city, in this damp cavern, in order to be clear of the Faerzress. The cool, bare walls with their trickles of water would have been soothŹing, in other circumstances.

“Qilué!” Q’arlynd hissed again. “It’s time! Where are you?”

“Is something wrong?” a voice behind him asked.

Q’arlynd spun. Seldszar sat cross-legged on a driftdisc, dark lenses shielding his eyes in preparation for his imminent journey to the World Above. Lying to him would serve no purpose. For all Q’arlynd knew, the Master of Divination was already reading his thoughts. “I can’t reach Lady Qilué,” Q’arlynd admitted. “She promised she’d participate—that she would come the instant she received my summons. But—”

“Does she realize the importance of what we’re about to do?”

“Yes. Of course. It will be of enormous benefit to her faith. If the Faerzress no longer draws the drow below, her followŹers will have an easier time convincing them to come to the surface.”

Out of the darkness, and into the moonlight.

Q’arlynd startled. Had he just said that aloud? He cleared his throat. “Could we put the casting off for a little while? Until we’ve located her?”

Seldszar shook his head. “Too much is at stake. By now, spies from the other Colleges will have noticed the shifting of so many magical items. They’re bound to either make a grab for them or attack our Colleges while we’re away. To delay would give them time to marshal their forces—and it might cost us the other masters’ support.” His head shifted slightly as he scrutinized one of the crystals orbiting his head. “Speaking of which, Masters Masoj and Urlryn will be here momentarily.”

“I see. This cycle, then.”

“Immediately—if not sooner.” Seldszar glanced briefly at Q’arlynd. “Where is Lady Qilué mostly likely to be?”

“In the Promenade.”

“Describe it. And describe her.”

“If she’s in the temple, you won’t be able to scry her,” Q’arlynd told him. “The Promenade is warded against…” His voice trailed off as he saw the look Seldszar was giving him over the top of those dark lenses.

He did as Seldszar asked. When he’d finished, Seldszar chanted a divination, and sat in silence for several moments. His lips parted, as if in surprise. Then a muscle in his jaw clenched.

“Were you able to see the Promenade?”

“I was. There were no priestesses there. Every cavern I scried was awash in oozes.”

Q’arlynd felt a profound sorrow. To his surprise, hearing at arm’s length that the Promenade had been lost struck even deeper than watching, first-hand, the violent demise of Ched Nasad, the city of his birth. “But surely it… Qilué …”

“Is neither within her temple, nor anywhere else I can divine. She’s gone.”

The certainty with which Seldszar said this worried Q’arlynd. He grasped at threads. “There’s another shrine, in the Misty Forest. I know the priestess who presides there. I saved her life, once. Lady Rowaan may know what’s become of Qilué. Even if she doesn’t, she may be able to provide someone of equal stature.”

“Go then. Don’t waste time.”

Q’arlynd bowed. He concentrated on the burl trees that housed the priestesses, spoke a word, and teleported. An instant later, he stood in a forest beside a massive tree. A thought sent him levitating to the nearest burl. As he rose, he saw its door was slightly open. Suddenly wary, he cast a protective spell. A flick of his fingers eased the door open from afar. He peered in and saw there was no one inside. The room within the hollowed-out burl looked as though it had recently been occupied, though: clothes hung from pegs, and the remains of a meal stood on the table, next to a half-full goblet. Wind blew through the branches above, making them creak and groan.

“Lady Rowaan?” he called. “Is anyone here?” He drifted upward, and knocked on the next door. It didn’t open. He tried again at another door: again, no response. He descended and stood in thought a moment, before hurrying through the forest to the shrine itself.

The dozen sword-shaped columns of black obsidian were just as he remembered them. There was no blood on the cirŹcular platform of white stone, nor any other sign of struggle. Q’arlynd, however, couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. He touched one of the sword-columns. The polished stone felt cool under his fingertips. Shouldn’t there have been a priestess here, guarding the shrine?

He felt the kiira tickling his memories. You took your sword oath here.

“Yes.” Q’arlynd didn’t have time for reminiscences. He hurŹried on through the forest, hoping to hear the sound of singing above the sighing branches. It was night, and the moon was up. Perhaps the priestesses were dancing in the glade.

They weren’t.

The mist that had given the forest its name swirled around his ankles like flowing water, reminding him there was one place yet to look. The sacred pool, he thought. There was always someone standing guard there. That priestess would know where Rowaan and the others had gone.

As he headed to the pool, the wind shifted. It carried a new smell to his nostrils: a stench like sour vomit. Cautiously, he approached the sacred pool. His eyes widened as he saw the tangle of toppled and rotting trees that surrounded it. The mist above the pool was a sickly greenish yellow. A bubble rose from the depths of the pool and ruptured, splattering the bushes next to Q’arlynd. Leaves sizzled, turned black, and dribbled away.

“By all that’s unholy,” he swore. He suddenly remembered that each of the sacred pools was connected, via portals, with the Promenade’s Moonspring Portal. Had all of Eilistraee’s shrines fallen?

A gurgling sound warned that the pool was about to erupt again. Q’arlynd backed hurriedly away.

What now, he agonized.

Are you the last?

“The last what?”

The last of Eilistraee’s faithful.

“Impossible!” he told the kiira. “The priestesses must be around … somewhere.” The emptiness of the forest, however, cried otherwise. Had Rowaan and her priestesses rushed to defend the Promenade, only to be consumed by oozes? For all he knew, the faithful at each of the shrines could have suffered the same fate: all plunging blindly into their sacred pools in an attempt to reach the Promenade, only to be consumed by the oozes that fouled them.

It must be you, then. You will be the one to call down the miracle.

“Me?” Q’arlynd laughed aloud. “I’m a wizard, not a cleric.”

You belong to Eilistraee.

Q’arlynd didn’t like the sound of that. It sounded too much like slavery.

We will guide you through the ritual.

“Why not take over my body and evoke the miracle yourselves?”

The prayer must be directed by the will of a living worshiper—a conduit to the goddess.

Q’arlynd nervously stroked his chin. He didn’t want to think of what might follow, were he to let the other masters down. “What if I can’t do it? What if it doesn’t work?”

If your heart is filled with light and your cause is true, we shall not fail.

Q’arlynd frowned slightly. Those words sounded familiar—like the text of some half-forgotten spell. He glanced down at the dancing-figure glyph on his House insignia. Was he Eilistraee’s? He’d spoken her sword oath for convenience’s sake, but much had happened since then. He’d changed.

He glanced around the empty forest, wishing a priestess would materialize. Any priestess.

He started as a voice spoke to him. Seldszar’s voice, clear and distinct, as if the Master of Divination were standing by his side. “The others are here. We’re ready to teleport. Have you found a replacement?”

Q’arlynd squared his shoulders. “I have.”





“Are you certain she’s inside?” Laeral breathed.

Cavatina tensed. She wished Qilué had taught her human “sister” the art of silent speech. “I’m not certain of anything,” she whispered back. “But the trail of corruption led this way.”

Laeral would have to take Cavatina’s word for it. Skilled in woodland lore the mage might be, but she lacked the training to detect the subtle signs of a demon’s passage: a wilted leaf, a strand of web twisting in the rot-scented breeze, the scuff of a claw on bark. Cavatina had followed the trail through the jungle to this spot. Just ahead, through a thick screen of trees and vines, she could see a blur of white—the tangle of spiderwebs that draped a hill in the jungle. It reminded Cavatina of a trap spider’s lair. From somewhere within came a sound like a harp. The notes were jumbled and shrill, and the tempo kept changing, as if the player were uncertain of the melody, rushing through some parts and struggling with others.

“Keep watch,” Cavatina whispered. “While I pray.”

Laeral cast a spell, and Cavatina felt a protective screen of magical energy crackle to life around them. She touched the holy symbol at her throat and hummed. “Eilistraee,” she . implored in a voice no louder than a breath, “hear my prayer. Guide my footsteps through the dance that is to come, and answer my song. Is Lady Qilué within the ruin ahead?”

A voice, sweet enough to bring tears to Cavatina’s eyes, sang into her mind. Yes.

“How can we get her out of there?”

Cavatina felt her goddess’s hesitation. You can’t.

Despair filled her. She heard Laeral’s breath catch. The other female must have read the disappointment on her face.

“Is there no one who can save her?” Cavatina implored. “Not even you, Dark Maiden?”

A host of possible outcomes blurred through Cavatina’s mind. She had a sense of pieces moving across a sava board too rapidly to follow, as some unseen force tested first this move, then that. At last they stilled. Eilistraee’s reply came, in a voice tinged with a profound sorrow. If Ao so wills, it shall be.

Cavatina startled. What did Ao the Overgod have to do with this? As she pondered what Eilistraee’s answer might mean, she felt the goddess slip from her mind, silent as a shadow.

Cavatina glanced up at the moon. Selűne wore her half-mask this night, and seemed to be staring down at Cavatina. Waiting. Her cold scrutiny tempered Cavatina’s determination. “Go,” she whispered to Laeral, “swiftly, to each of Eilistraee’s shrines. Gather as many of the priestesses as you can. We must perform the exorcism here.”

Laeral glanced around the gloomy forest. The air was thick with the stench of rot and mold, and in the distance, the night twist tree wailed its anguished refrain. “But isn’t this the worst possible—”

“This is where it must be done,” Cavatina said grimly. “Eilistraee has decreed it.”

Laeral stood. “What will you do while I’m gone?”

Cavatina nodded at the web-shrouded mound. “I’m going inside.”

“Shouldn’t you wait until—”

“There may not be time,” Cavatina said firmly. “Besides, I hunt better alone.”

Laeral nodded. “Keep me alerted to everything you see. Speak my name, and I’ll hear what follows.”

Cavatina agreed.

Laeral spoke an incantation that whisked her away.

Cavatina rose to her feet. Her first impulse was to stride in boldly and challenge whatever foes might be within, but then she glanced at the wooden sword in her hand and nearly laughed. No, she decided, sheathing it. She’d take a page from the Masked Lady’s new songbook, instead. Slip in quietly, and scout around. If need be, she would sing moonfire into existence, and burn the place clean.

She sang a protective hymn, then a glamor that would screen her from sight until she chose to strike a blow. Her third prayer would allow her to slip through the tangle of webs unimpeded. She crept closer to the mound and eased her way into the tangle of web. The sticky silk slid past her body as if her skin were oiled. Just ahead was a haphazardly spun cocoon. Looking around, Cavatina saw dozens more, each of them easily large enough to contain a drow. Several bulged and rocked, as whatever was trapped within struggled to get free.

“By all that dances,” Cavatina breathed. “This looks like Halisstra’s handiwork!”

Was Halisstra still alive? After betraying Cavatina to the demon Wendonai, she had reappeared briefly atop the Acropolis, then vanished without a trace. That had been two years ago. No one had been able to learn where she had disapŹpeared to—not even Qilué.

A sound within the cocoon next to Cavatina drew her attention. Over the discordant music coming from within the mound, she made out a muffled female voice: a word or two of song, then a struggling gasp, then another faint note of song. She was debating whether to tear the cocoon open when another of the cocoons turned slightly, revealing a partially rotten hand protruding through a gap in its side. A spider-shaped ring adorned one of the death-stiffened fingers: Lolth’s symbol.

Cavatina sang a divination. A dim purple glow leaked out of the cocoons that were still twitching: the aura of evil. Cavatina’s eyes narrowed. Did each contain one of Lolth’s faithful? Had Halisstra turned against the Spider Queen?

The answers, Cavatina was certain, would lie within the mound.

She spoke Laeral’s name, and whispered what she’d just seen. As she did, she stared at the cocoons, debating what to do. Four years ago, she would have reveled in slaying an evil deity’s helpless faithful, but now she found the thought repugnant. She said a prayer for those inside, praying they might survive long enough to be cut down and freed by the priestesses Laeral would soon bring. “May you find redempŹtion,” she whispered, her fingers touching the cocoon in front of her.

She crept on through the tangle of webs, closer to the hill they covered. A tree near the base of the hill had fallen, its roots tearing a hole in the earth, and inside this gap lay an adamantine door. More webs dangled, like a curtain, in the empty doorframe. She slipped into a chamber with a depresŹsion in its black marble floor and blasphemous murals showing masked spiders. Drying blood was splattered everywhere. The metallic smell of it overwhelmed the stench of the cocooned corpses outside. The far wall held a mural of a spider with a drow head and a lesser spider dangling from each arm; the abdomen was a dark hole in the masonry. The harp music came from inside it.

Beyond the hole was a second, stone-walled chamber. Cavatina spoke Laeral’s name again and described what she saw. Nine corridors radiated from the second chamber. The harp music came from the one in the middle of the rear wall. More murals adorned the walls of this chamber, but they were obscured by webs and ruptured egg sacs. Movements on the floor caught her eye. Thousands of tiny red spiders, none of them bigger than a drop of blood, coursed back and forth, scurrying first in one direction, then another. They seemed to be moving in time with the music—scurrying, then stopping, then moving in another direction again as its tempo and melody changed.

Cavatina smiled grimly. She liked a challenge. She sprang through the hole and ran through the chamber, leaping graceŹfully from one clear patch of floor to the next in an improvised dance. The spiders thinned once she was inside the corridor, allowing her to slow her pace. After a short distance, the corŹridor opened onto a third chamber. Cavatina, still invisible, peered inside, battling the urge to pinch her nostrils shut against the sulfurous smell within: the stench of demon.

The room was larger than the first two, and circular. It was dominated by an enormous, black marble throne, carved in the shape of an upside-down spider. Halisstra sat atop it, her clawed fingers plucking hair-thin strands of steel that stretched, like harp strings, between the throne’s curled spider arms. The harsh twang of the music trembled through Cavatina’s body, leaving a sludge of fear in its wake. Instinctively, she reached for her singing sword to ward off the music’s effect. Her hand closed around a wooden hilt, reminding her that the singing sword was gone.

Halisstra had her back to Cavatina. She stared intently at something on the far side of the throne. Cavatina cauŹtiously circled the room, keeping near the wall. A crouching figure came into view. Half the size of the hulking Halisstra, the creature had dull white eyes and skin covered in boils. So misshapen was it that its gender was impossible to deterŹmine. At first, Cavatina’s mind insisted that this couldn’t be Qilué, that it was some blasphemous blend of drow and demon. But the “demon” held the Crescent Blade in its hands, and wore the amulet Laeral had described around its neck.

It was Qilué.

A lump rose in Cavatina’s throat as she beheld what the high priestess had become. Cavatina had been raised within Eilistraee’s faith. Her earliest memories were of her mother singing the high priestess’s praises. Centuries ago, as a girl, Qilué had rekindled Eilistraee’s faith from the ashes in which its spark had smoldered for millennia. She had conquered Ghaunadaur, established the Promenade over his Pit, and set up shrines across the length and breadth of Faerűn. But now the Promenade had fallen and Qilué had been reduced to… .

A tear trickled down Cavatina’s cheek. She wiped it away. This wasn’t the time for tears, but for action. It might not be her destiny to save Qilué, but she could take Halisstra down. Not permanently—unless Lolth had abandoned her, Halisstra wouldn’t die—but at least long enough for Laeral and the others to whisk Qilué out of this foul chamber and attempt an exorcism. Cavatina would likely die in the battle she was about to undertake; her communion with Eilistraee had hinted of this. But that didn’t matter. After the horrors she’d experienced during the fall of the Promenade, she was ready to dance at the goddess’s side.

Halisstra seemed to have at last remembered whatever song she’d been attempting to play. Her clawed fingers settled into a rhythm, and the music became more melodic. Slowly, lest she make any noise, Cavatina drew the wooden sword. The fact that it didn’t kill no longer mattered, since Halisstra couldn’t die, anyway. It felt better to have a sword in her hand, even if it was only a wooden one. As the weapon cleared its sheath, Cavatina began the prayer that would send a bolt of twined moonlight and shadow through Halisstra’s heart.

Halisstra ended her melody with a single, shrill note. The Crescent Blade suddenly shrank and transformed, becoming an assassin’s strangle cord. Halisstra leaped down from her throne. As she reached for the transformed weapon, Cavatina unleashed her spell. Her moonbolt bored into Halisstra’s broad back, sending her staggering.

Halisstra whirled, her face twisted with rage. Her eyes widened as she spotted the now-visible Cavatina. As Cavatina sang a second moonbolt into existence, Halisstra yanked the assassin’s cord from Qilué’s hands and flicked it upward. The weapon transformed back into a sword once more. She raised it above her head with a manic grin. “Yours,” she said, her eyes wild, “will be the first soul reaped. Cast aside your feeble goddess, and pay homage to the Lady Penitent!”

Cavatina hurled her second moonbolt. It slammed into Halisstra’s chest, sending her staggering. Cavatina leaped in close, thrusting with the wooden sword. Halisstra grunted as the point of it entered her body.

“Surrender,” Cavatina told her, “and I’ll show mercy.”

“Never,” Halisstra hissed. She leaped back, unwounded— the wooden sword penetrated flesh, but left no mark—and lashed out with the Crescent Blade. Cavatina instinctively parried—and suddenly was holding nothing but a wooden hilt. Furious, Cavatina dropped it and danced back, resolvŹing to give her opponent no further chances. She sang a circle of blades into existence, and they whirred around her like a disturbed nest of steel-sharp bees. Qilué was directly in their path, but by the grace of Eilistraee she remained unharmed; the magical blades glanced harmlessly off her time-frozen body.

Halisstra seized upon Cavatina’s momentary distraction and sang a harsh note. The magical blades that had been protecting Cavatina exploded into shards of light and vanished.

“Redemption is at hand!” Halisstra shrieked, the strings of her throne reverberating in time with her cry. Spittle flew from her lips, and the spider legs twitched madly against her chest. She menaced Cavatina with the Crescent Blade, springing—fast as a spider—to block the chamber’s only exit. “Kneel before me, mortal!”

The words slammed into Cavatina’s mind, forcing her to the ground.

Halisstra sprang back to her throne and raked its strings with her clawed fingers. Random notes jangled together. “Dance!” she screamed.

Cavatina shuffled forward on her knees across the flagŹstone floor. She tried to lift her hands to direct a prayer, but they rose above her head, twisting in a terrible parody of the sword dance. “Laeral,” she cried. “Halisstra has—”

“Be silent!” Halisstra screeched.

Cavatina’s throat tightened, preventing her from comŹpleting her warning. Where was Laeral? What was keeping her? She glanced at the room’s only entrance, but it was empty. It was, however, faintly lighter, as if moonlight were filtering in from outside the mound. The spiders that had been in the outer chamber burst into this room in a wave, as if fleeing something. Cavatina heard a faint sound that might have been a song, drifting in their wake. The sound gave her hope.

Halisstra loomed over Cavatina, weaving the Crescent Blade back and forth, mockingly directing her “dance.” The strings of her throne reverberated in a dismal, unending chord. Cavatina fought with all her will as she scraped across the floor on her knees, but to no avail. Halisstra had grown strong—more powerful than Cavatina had anticipated. Had Halisstra truly been elevated to the status of demigod, as she claimed?

“Who’s the master now?” Halisstra asked mockingly. “I was your plaything once, but no more! Lolth’s cast you aside. You’re mine!”

Cavatina realized Halisstra wasn’t talking to her, but to the Crescent Blade. Halisstra stood, caressing it, oblivious to the dribble of blood the blade had just opened in her palm. “You will serve me,” she told it. She fingered the spot where the blade had been mended. “Or I will break you. Toss you away, like a piece of trash. Would you like to see how that feels?” She tilted her head, as if listening, then laughed. “Why should I believe you?”

She listened again, stared thoughtfully at the Crescent Blade, and smiled. “Yes. I can kill you, can’t I? I can kill anyone!”

She strode over to Qilué, and touched the blade to her throat. The high priestess remained as still as stone. Cavatina, mute and shuffling on bloody knees, felt a rush of fear. Laeral had said that nothing could harm Qilué while she was frozen in time, but that was before Halisstra had found a way to tease the Crescent Blade from her hands. She watched, horrified, as Halisstra slowly drew the blade across Qilué’s throat.

Eilistraee! she silently cried. Your high priestess needs you! Save her!

The chamber brightened slightly. Eilistraee, answering with moonlight?

Halisstra abruptly stopped cutting. She pulled the sword away and inspected Qilué’s neck. The blade had left a hair-thin line of red, but no blood flowed from it.

Praise Eilistraee! Laeral’s spell had saved Qilué! Cavatina wept with relief—but then the Crescent Blade began to glow with a ruddy light. An instant later, it burst into flame. Halisstra cocked her head again, laughed, and touched the sword’s edge once more to Qilué’s throat. The fire licked across the curved blade, and slid from it onto Qilué’s neck, encircling it in flickering orange light. Then it disappeared into the cut on her neck.

Qilué’s eyelids fluttered. Her head twitched. A creaking sound filled the air as wings burst from her shoulders and unfurled, and she rose. Her mouth opened, and a gurgling laugh came out. Low, deep, masculine.

Wendonai’s voice. He was inside Qilué’s body—dominating it!

The chamber seemed to spin around Cavatina. She felt ill, faint. Not this, Eilistraee, she prayed. Anything but this!

Wendonai held out a hand. Halisstra reached for it.

“No!” Cavatina shouted.

She didn’t cry out alone. At the same moment that she spoke, moonlight filled the chamber. A voice sang out with a power that sent Halisstra reeling. Throne strings parted with a shrill twang. Spiders shriveled and died. The Crescent Blade vibrated in Halisstra’s hand—so violently that she nearly dropped it.

A shaft of pure silver light coalesced at the center of the room: moonlight so intense Cavatina was forced to turn her head. It centered on Wendonai. Taint boiled from his body and fled across the floor in a wave of tarry black smoke, and the reek of brimstone filled the air. Much of the floor-hugging, sticky cloud was burned away by the silver moonlight, but a wisp of it lapped at Cavatina’s bloody knees. She could feel it trying to force its way into her body through these wounds, but the strength of her faith forced it out. Then the last of it was gone, fled back to the Abyss, back to Wendonai’s corpse, to revive it. But that was a trivial matter, compared to the events unfolding in this chamber.

The silver moonlight continued to burn down. Demonic flesh melted away like wax, revealing a drow female so beauŹtiful Cavatina could barely breathe. She had Qilué’s face, but framed with moon-white hair, streaked with shadow, that draped her naked body like a robe. A masked-shaped shadow screened much of her face. The eyes that stared out of it brimmed with silver tears as she stared at Halisstra, who cowered before her.

Cavatina’s heart pounded so fiercely in her chest she thought it would burst.

Eilistraee’s avatar!

No—something more. Qilué had become a vessel, and the goddess had filled it. Eilistraee had saved the high priestess, as promised. She’d stepped into Qilué’s body and assumed mortal form—something that hadn’t happened since the Time of Troubles.

It will end where it began, a female voice sang.

It will begin where it ends, a male voice harmonized.

Cavatina was no longer bound by Halisstra’s foul magic. She rose, weeping and exulting, and cried out in praise. “Masked Lady,” she sang joyfully, lifting her arms. “Lead me in your da—”

She remembered Halisstra too late.

The Crescent Blade flashed.

Cavatina felt cold steel meet her throat and heard the dull crunch of her spine being severed. The world spun crazily as her head tumbled to the floor. Then all went gray.





Q’arlynd glanced around. All was in readiness. A domed wall of force had been erected atop the glade where the ancient temple had once stood, to keep intruders out. Spheres of silver light circled its perimeter, ready to intercept and negate any hostile spells. The possibility of an enemy locating this spot, however, was remote. Anyone attempting to spy on the four masters would see only what Seldszar’s glamor showed them: an empty glade, surrounded by forest and washed by moonlight.

In fact, the clearing was heaped with boxes—a veritable matron’s ransom in magical items, arranged in three piles. Master Masoj sat on a moss-softened stone next to one stack of boxes, his diamond-dusted skin glittering like twinkling stars in the moonlight. The corpulent Urlryn stood beside another, sipping wine from his goblet. Master Seldszar, his head moving back and forth as he tracked the gems orbiting him, sat cross-legged on his driftdisc, above the third pile. Dark lenses screened his eyes from the moonlight.

Q’arlynd stood with his four remaining apprentices, their minds linked by their rings. They would be adding their energies during his prayer. Eldrinn—clad, as usual, in pale gray clothes that made his skin appear darker—was rooting around in Q’arlynd’s memories, satisfying his curiosity about what had become of Piri. Q’arlynd, heeding his promise to Flinderspeld, gave the boy a mental nudge when he strayed too near the portion of his mind that held memories of the magical pools.

Baltak had transformed his hair into the tawny mane of a lion and grown falcon wings in imitation of a sphinx. He kneaded the air, flexing his claws, reveling in the magical power that crackled through the night, proud to be a part of it. Zarifar, as always, was daydreaming. He stared up through the dome of force at the stars, drawing imaginary patterns between them.

Alexa watched the spot where the teleportation circle had deposited them. She nodded to herself as a section of ground turned muddy—a sign that the cavern had flooded as planned, preventing anyone else from coming through.

Seldszar cleared his throat. “Time to begin. Masters, please raise your fields.”

Q’arlynd thought he saw a flicker of movement, out beyond the dome of force. He peered in that direction, then decided it must be some creature of the World Above. Whatever it was, the dome of force would keep it at bay. And if it was a person out there, well… .

He touched his braid. The hair clip was still there, providŹing a solid, comforting presence.

He returned his attention to the masters as Seldszar, Urlryn, and Masoj began their transmutations. Each pulled out a preserved eyeball dusted with powdered diamond, pricked his finger, and allowed three drops of blood to fall. The orbs on their palms spun, and three multicolored globes of magical energy sparkled into existence. As these fields spread, a hissing rose from each box they touched. The boxes rattled slightly, as if jiggled by a mild earth tremor. Ghostlike images danced above them like heat mirages, as enchanted rods, rings, potion vials, robes, and amulets were consumed. Q’arlynd glanced at Seldszar, wondering if the Master of Divination was wincing behind those dark lenses.

Seldszar raised his hand. At his signal, each of the mages cast his spell. Seldszar crossed his hands against his chest, and flung them apart, shouting the abjuration that would shatter enchantments. The magical field around him exploded, streaks of energy shooting out into the night. Urlryn dropped to one knee with surprising grace for a male of his girth and slapped a hand to the ground, shouting a curse-negating spell. The globe of energy surrounding him coalesced into thousands of drops of light that fell to the ground like rain. Masoj cast the third and most powerful abjuration, his fingers twining like knots. The globe of magical energy twisted into a tight, dizzyŹing tangle—then shredded as he tore his hands apart.

Now it was Q’arlynd’s turn. He took a deep breath—and felt each of his apprentices inhale as he did. He’d been nervous until this moment, but the touch of their minds steadied him. So did the cool presence of the kiira on his forehead. He sent his mind deep into it, and sought out the ancestor who had honored Eilistraee.

Are you ready? she asked.

Q’arlynd nodded.

Sing with me.

Words shimmered in the air in front of him—words that only he could see. It was like reading a spellbook. As his eyes fell on each word, its sound was conveyed to his mind, together with the note it sustained in the melody. He heard himself singing, and was amazed at the beauty of his voice. He’d never heard it so rich, so vibrant. His apprentices, their minds linked to his, provided the harmony: Baltak a bold bass, Eldrinn a higher tenor, Zarifar a soft falsetto that twined delicately around Alexa’s alto. Directed by his ancestor, Q’arlynd touched thumb to thumb, forefinger to forefinger, forming Eilistraee’s sacred moon. As he sang the final verse of the hymn, he raised his hands above his head to frame the moon in order to draw a miracle down from …

He gasped as he realized the moon wasn’t there. Had he miscalculated the time it would set? He shook his head, certain he hadn’t. The moon had been there, just a moment ago. High overhead and “half-masked” as the Nightshadows liked to say. And now it was gone.

It can’t be gone! his ancestor insisted.

Baltak, Eldrinn and Alexa mentally echoed her alarm. Zarifar, however, shook his head. He’s right; the pattern’s changed.

Ridiculous! Q’arlynd thought. There must be some other answer. Sweat trickled down his sides, under his robe. He felt Seldszar, Urlryn, and Masoj staring at him. Waiting for the miracle. Q’arlynd’s hands trembled above his head. “Negate the forcedome!” he shouted. “It’s blocking the moon. I need to see it!”

Urlryn barked out a transmutation and pointed. A thin green beam shot from his fingertip and struck the forcedome, disintegrating it. All three masters looked up, apparently unperturbed by a sight that would have turned cold the blood of any surface elf. The moon had indeed vanished. A dark hole, bereft even of stars, punctured the sky where it had been. Only Selűne’s Tears remained.

Eilistraee! his ancestor wailed.

“I… can’t continue,” Q’arlynd stammered. “Not with the moon gone.”

“What trickery is this?” Masoj said, his voice tight with suspicion. He wheeled on Seldszar and shook a bony finger. “I will expect payment, Master Seldszar. I performed my part of the bargain.”

“You shall have it,” Seldszar promised.

Masoj folded his arms, thrust his chin in the air, and teleported away.

Urlryn glared at Q’arlynd, his face darkening. “You were supposed to call down a miracle, not bore a hole in the ceiling!”

“That’s …” Q’arlynd bit his tongue against the urge to tell the ignorant Urlryn that it was sky above them, not stone. He heard his apprentices’ mental laughter. He shoved them out of his mind. “The disappearance of the moon wasn’t my …” He faltered as he caught sight of the adamantine oval that adorned his wristband.

The glyph was gone from his House insignia. Vanished, just like the moon.

Seldszar drifted closer and stared at him over his dark lenses. “I was led to believe we would succeed,” he said softly. From anyone else, it would have been a threat.

“Your visions predicted success?” Q’arlynd asked. He wet his lips. “Then why didn’t—”

It will. But you must be willing to make the sacrifice.

“I don’t understand,” Q’arlynd protested aloud.

Trust in me, sang a female he hadn’t heard before. The voice was soft, distant, and echoing. Take the next step in the dance. Leap!

Q’arlynd could see it now. The future. The end to everything he’d ever known. One tiny step would take him there—take them all there.

He squeezed his eyes shut in terror. He felt the same way he had the first time he’d dared a free-fall from Ched Nasad’s streets. His heart pounded with a mixture of anticipation and dread. Memories flooded back and were absorbed by the lorestone on his forehead. The step off the edge. The plunge through space, wind tearing at his piwafwi. The wild laugh that had burst from his mouth. The sudden, dizzying jerk as his House insignia halted him just in time, preventing him from dashing his brains out on the cavern floor that had, a few heartbeats previously, been so far, far below.

So far…

“And yet so near,” he whispered.

He squared his shoulders. Opened his eyes. “I’ll do it.” He lifted his hands and completed the prayer.

Beside him, Seldszar smiled. Within the kiira, so did his ancestors.

“Something’s happening,” Baltak bellowed a moment later. He pointed. “There!”

“And there! And there, and there!” Zarifar cried.

Q’arlynd lowered his hands and looked around. A faint green glow that crackled and wavered like Faerzress formed a circle around the spot where they stood. The circle of light broke apart an instant later into several sections, each of which collapsed into a circle itself, then to a point. A sapling sprouted from the center of each, uncurled, and opened glowŹing green leaves.

Q’arlynd heard Zarifar counting. “… nine, ten, eleven.”

“The miracle?” Q’arlynd breathed.

The miracle, his ancestors confirmed.

Q’arlynd felt something warm and wet strike his head. Drops pattered against the ground, and the dry earth drank them in. The others started as the raindrops struck them. Q’arlynd smiled to himself. They’d probably never felt rain before. Then a drop trickled down Q’arlynd’s face, to his lips. He tasted blood.

Startled, he wrenched his head back—and saw that the rain was falling only on this spot. Falling, as if being poured, from that terrible wound where the moon had been. He suddenly shivered, worried he’d sung the prayer incorrectly. Done something wrong. Was this the Dark Disaster, all over again? The legends said the sky had wept blood… .

He heard a pop of in-rushing air—Urlryn, teleporting away. Of the three masters, only Seldszar remained. He stared at Q’arlynd through those dark lenses. “Let him go. This no longer concerns him.”

Q’arlynd nodded. He watched, fascinated, as the saplings grew tall as the Darkfire Pillars. The trees bent inward, their branches twining together to form a dome overhead.

“They’re caging us in,” Baltak growled.

“Should we teleport away?” Alexa asked.

Eldrinn turned to Seldszar. “Father?”

The Master of Divination patted the air. Wait.

Zarifar stared up at the sky. He raised a hand above his head, fingers and thumb curled to form half of the moon-symbol Q’arlynd had just made. “The pattern’s changed,” he said. “Just like the moon.”

Q’arlynd realized the blood rain had stopped. All that remained were drips, falling from the intertwined oak trees above. He looked up through their branches and saw that Zarifar was right. The moon had returned. It hung in the sky, a slim crescent of white, surrounded by a glittering halo that flickered from blue, to green, to lavender …

“Just like faerie fire,” Eldrinn breathed.

The boy stood just to Q’arlynd’s right, but Q’arlynd couldn’t see him. He wondered why Eldrinn had cloaked himself in magical darkness, but realized the final transŹformation had at last come about. He could barely see any of his apprentices. Nor could he see Seldszar clearly, or the oak trees that had regrown in the shape of the temple, nor the forest beyond them. Everything was dim, and dark, and indistinct.

“What’s happened?” Alexa’s voice asked. “I can’t see you—any of you!”

“Show yourselves!” Baltak roared.

Q’arlynd concentrated, and pointed at Baltak, but nothing happened. The faerie fire that should have outlined his apprenŹtice failed to materialize. Instead he used an evocation. A flicker of fire danced above his outstretched palm.

He stared, wonderingly, at what the wavering light revealed. His skin was no longer black. It had turned brown. And his hair, when he flicked the braid forward over his shoulŹder, wasn’t white any more. It had turned a glossy black.

He was no longer a drow.

Judging by the way his apprentices were fumbling about, they’d all been transformed as well. He laughed, realizing now what had drawn him to them, and to Seldszar: They shared a common ancestry.

“What’s happened?” Baltak shouted. “Tell me!”

Seldszar’s voice came from the darkness to Q’arlynd’s left. It sounded cool and unruffled. “Our casting was successful. We’ve broken our link with the Faerzress. Just as the ancestors promŹised. We’ve undone the Descent. We’re dark elves again.”

The two shapes that were Eldrinn and Alexa gasped. The larger shape on Q’arlynd’s left that was Baltak growled softly.

“Out of the darkness and into the light,” Q’arlynd said. He felt triumph—they’d just reversed the magic of the Descent! Yet he also felt a looming dread. By transforming, they’d also condemned themselves.

Not condemned, but freed.

He caught a glimpse of moonlight glinting off glass: the dark lenses Seldszar was wearing. He smiled, realizing they hadn’t been intended to shield his eyes from the light of the World Above. They were magical lenses, like those the surŹface elves needed in order to see when they ventured into the Underdark.

“You knew this would happen,” Q’arlynd told the other master. “Didn’t you? You saw what was to come, in one of your visions.”

“Not quite,” Seldszar said with a chuckle. He touched his forehead. “They told me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Q’arlynd cried.

We did, his ancestors answered. You agreed.

“Ease yourself, Q’arlynd.” Seldszar said. “All is as was foretold.”

“But we’re blind!” Eldrinn blurted. “Helpless as surface elves. How can we possibly survive back in Sshamath?”

“We won’t be returning there,” Seldszar said. “Preparations have been made. The College of Divination is already relocating as we speak; the necessity of fueling our casting with magical items provided an excellent screen for getting out much of our wealth. We’re going to start afresh on the surface, in the City of Hope. The College of Ancient Arcana will do the same. We’ll be welcome, there. The sharn have promised me that.”

Q’arlynd had no idea who the sharn were—but he had the feeling he was about to find out.

“What about the others?” Alexa asked. “In Sshamath … and elsewhere? Have all of the drow changed?”

Not all, the ancestors told Q’arlynd. Only those few without taint. Miyeritari, such as yourselves, and those who follow the dance. By Eilistraee’s grace, they too will have transformed.

Q’arlynd glanced at his House insignia, then up at the changed moon. “Are you certain about that?”

Before his ancestors could answer, he heard the whisper of a thrown dagger. He grunted as it slammed into the back of his neck.