Ascendancy of the Last

chapter 8

Cavatina startled at Qilué’s message. “A new high priestess?”

Leliana’s head lifted sharply. She’d been in Reverie, her sword across her knees and her head bowed. “What’s happened? Has Eilistraee spoken to you?”

“Not Eilistraee—Qilué.” Cavatina repeated the sending she’d just received.

“Was it Qilué?” Leliana looked nervously around. “Or another of the demon’s tricks?”

“I’ve no idea.” Cavatina rubbed her forehead. Was it just her, or had the world grown heavier, of late? “I’m not certain about anything anymore.”

Leliana said nothing.

Cavatina realized the other priestess had been looking for strength, for leadership—for the Slayer of Selvetarm to come up with a way out of here.

Cavatina wished she could help. Yet there seemed little she could do. She squinted against the green glow that filled the chamber. The magical barrier resembled an overbright Faerzress; she supposed it might very well be. It was difficult to see through it, to the cavern’s stone walls. If Cavatina had been a wizard or a druid, she might have bored a hole through that stone with magic, or transmuted the stone to mud. Then she and Leliana could have dug their way out with their bare hands, just like a—

Cavatina gasped. That was it! They couldn’t dig through solid stone, but there were creatures that could. She thought back to those Kâras had listed when they’d planned their assault on the Acropolis. A purple worm would be too danŹgerous—it might swallow Leliana and Cavatina whole. An umber hulk was too volatile to control. Rather than dig, it would do its best to claw them to pieces. Delvers, however, were generally docile creatures. And—she smiled as her eye fell on the gilded pedestal—they were drawn to metal. Especially gold.

None were creatures that prayers would ordinarily summon, but with Eilistraee’s blessing—with a miracle—it might be possible. Cavatina squared her shoulders. There was only one way to find out if it were possible.

She outlined her plan to Leliana. The other priestess nodded. “Do you really think it will work?”

“Eilistraee grant that it does.”

They dragged the pedestal across the chamber and leaned it against the fused door. At Cavatina’s nod, each lifted her holy symbol and walked in a slowly widening spiral, singing her prayer. Cavatina reached out with her mind to the celestial realm. Her mind’s eye ranged over a host of creatures—lesser animals, elevated to celestial status, their bodies glinting with the metallic sheen that was the aura of all that was pure and good. None of them were the creature she sought.

“Eilistraee,” she sang. Her voice harmonized with Leliana’s, their music in time with their shared footsteps. “Hear our prayer. Send us a willing servant, in our time of great need. Send us the creature we seek.”

A sharp, acidic odor filled the room. The priestesses leaped back, their nostrils flaring, as a creature materialized in a burst of silver gold light. A delver!

Its fat, pear-shaped body nearly filled the chamber. Yellowish spittle drooled from its gaping mouth. Its two clublike arms were tipped with blunt black claws. Its head twisted back and forth as its single, glossy black eye swept the room. Then it surged at the pedestal, heaving itself up on its arms, the rest of its body following on a rippling underŹbelly. As it moved, it left an acid-singed patch of dead black moss in its wake.

A thick stench filled the air. Cavatina’s eyes teared, and her nose felt congested. On the far side of the room, Leliana wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve. Her expression, however, was exultant. The delver was doing its work. The gold-plated pedestal disappeared into its maw with a grinding noise, as did a chunk of the door. One bite at a time, the delver chewed at the stone. Rock dust filled the air, and the floor trembled. A head-sized hole appeared in the door, revealing the corridor beyond. As the delver gouged deeper, the hole widened. Chunks of brittle rock fell to the floor like scattered crumbs, hissing and bubbling from caustic spittle.

Suddenly the delver disappeared. The prayer that had susŹtained it had waned. Eilistraee’s magic could hold a celestial on this plane only for so long.

Cavatina strode forward. They’d done it! She crouched, ready to squeeze through the hole as soon as the rock stopped frothing. She heard a muffled peal: the alarms. She turned to Leliana. “Ghaunadaur’s fanatics must be inside the Promenade already.”

Leliana listened. “Sounds like they’ve come well past the spot where Qilué planted her trap.” She shook her head. “So much for them walking into it ‘meekly as rothe.’ “

Cavatina squeezed through the hole. Leliana followed. Together, they raced through the High House.

As they hurried down a corridor, Cavatina noticed the door to Qilué’s scrying room was open. She glanced inside and saw Meryl, standing beside a broken scrying font. The halfling was reaching for an object that lay on the wet floor: a metal cylinder as long as the halfling’s arm, with a knob at either end. Qilué’s blast scepter.

Was it Meryl—or a dretch?

Cavatina leaped into the room. Her sword flashed between Meryl’s fingers and the floor, preventing the halfling—or dretch—from picking up the scepter. Meryl jumped back, her eyes as wide as dinner plates. Her mouth worked to form words, but none came out. She pointed at the scepter. “I couldn’t… the font… the demon …”

Cavatina glanced at where Meryl was looking. Bare, sickly-pale feet protruded from behind an overturned table: a dretch, lying prone and unmoving. A vial, its silver tarnished, lay on the floor nearby.

“My mother’s name,” Cavatina demanded, her sword point against the halfling’s chest. “What is it?”

Puzzlement crowded out Meryl’s fear. “Why … it’s Jetel. Jetel Xarann.”

Cavatina lifted her sword. This was Meryl. She walked around the overturned table and ensured the dretch was dead.

Leliana, who had run past, returned to the doorway. “What’s wrong?”

Cavatina waved her away. “It’s under control. Go. Find Rylla. She’ll need your help.”

Leliana nodded curtly and raced away.

Cavatina knelt beside the halfling. She noted the tears spilling down Meryl’s cheeks, and the bloody scratches on the little female’s arms and hands. Cavatina patted her shoulder. “Good work, Meryl. You fought well.”

The halfling sniffed. She picked up the blast scepter and held it out to Cavatina. “I couldn’t figure out how to work it. I had to use it like a club.” Her lips trembled. “That thing … scared me so. I wasn’t brave. Not like you.”

“Yes you were. There aren’t many who can stand up to a demon’s magical fear.” Cavatina gently took the blast scepter from Meryl. “Stay here. Lock the door. Don’t answer unless you’re sure it’s a priestess.”

“But how will I—?”

“Get whoever knocks to sing a stanza of the Evensong.”

Meryl drew herself up and wiped away her tears. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Go. You’re needed elsewhere.”

Cavatina saluted the halfling with her sword, and hurried away down the corridors, to the residence’s main entrance. As she drew closer to the open double doors, she heard shouting over the ring of the alarms. From the distance came a dull whumph that sounded like an explosion.

She sang a protective hymn and stepped outside. Just ahead, a priestess herded a gaggle of lay worshipers away from the direction the explosion had come from. A half-elf and a drow staggered after them, carrying a body on a drift disc that no longer worked. Cavatina couldn’t tell if the victim was male or female, as much of the body had dissolved. A Protector charged by in the opposite direction, singing sword pealing.

She heard what sounded like a battle raging to the south, in the direction of the Stronghall. She hurried to the corridor that linked the cavern with that one. As she drew closer, she saw a figure running down the corridor. The floor behind him was covered in glittering sparks. These surged forward like a moving ankle-high carpet, contained within a gelatiŹnous mass.

An ooze—within the Promenade! How had it penetrated so deep into the temple? The Protectors should have thrown up a songwall to contain it.

The running figure wore a purple robe with a leering black eye on the front of his tabard—Ghaunadaur’s symbol. His anxŹious expression and frightened glances over one shoulder suggested he wasn’t in control of the ooze. As it threatened to overtake him, he halted and raised his tentacle rod. He whipped it forward, lashing at the ooze with its tentacles. In that same instant, the monster bulged and squirted out a line of emberŹlike motes. Tentacles met glitterfire in a thundering explosion. Waves of heat and cold exploded out of the corridor.

Qilué’s scepter grew warm as it absorbed the heat. But it proved no protection against the cold. Cavatina drew in a lungful of icy air, and shivered. She marveled at what she’d just seen: Ghaunadaur’s faithful, fighting each other?

Before the fanatic could turn, she sang a hymn that renŹdered him rigid. He toppled. She ran to where he lay, intending to drag him out of harm’s way and question him at sword point. The glittering ooze was faster however. It was about to engulf her fallen foe.

She raised the scepter. “Eilistraee!” she cried. “Smite this abomination with your song!”

A peal sounded from the scepter—louder, even, than the clanging alarms. Sound waves shimmered through the air, expanding into a cone that slammed into the ooze. The glitterŹing monster was blown back like a yanked carpet folding upon itself. The ooze surged forward again, but Cavatina blasted it a second time, and a third. As the third soundburst struck, the ooze exploded, splattering golden sparks onto the wall. These glowed for a moment, then faded. A few smears of mucous-like goo, dotted with black soot, were all that remained of the ooze.

The fanatic groaned. His robe smoldered in spots, and was damp with melted frost in other places. As he flopped over, Cavatina recognized him. Kâras, in disguise! He must have been among the spies Qilué sent out.

She dispelled her hymn and extended a hand. “What’s going on, Kâras?”

The Nightshadow rose shakily to his feet. “I just came from Llurth Dreir,” he shouted back over the clangor of alarms. “Qilué’s orders: I brought Ghaunadaur’s fanatics through a portal. I was to lead them into a trap, but oozes followed us.”

He yanked a black ring off his thumb and flung it aside, then kicked the rod after it. The rod rolled away, its limp tentacles flopping. He spoke a word, and his robe and tabard transformed into a close-fitting black shirt and trousers; his sash shimmered and became a mask. Tying it into place around his face seemed to calm him. All traces of the frustraŹtion he’d shown a moment ago disappeared.

Cavatina shook her head in exasperation. “Couldn’t you tell something was wrong with Qilué?” She had to shout to be heard over the clanging alarms. “With this ‘plan’ of hers? It didn’t occur to you to question the logic of leading our enemies into the heart of the Promenade?”

Kâras met her eyes. “She’s the high priestess. Through her, the Masked Lady commands—and I obey.”

“Did the fanatics enter the trap?”

He hesitated. “I’m not sure. I didn’t see what happened. The ooze chased me this way.” He eased back a step, expectŹing a reprimand. Yet this wasn’t his fault. He’d only done as Qilué had ordered.

Four priestesses ran past, toward the fighting. As soon as they spotted Cavatina, their fearful expressions vanished. They shouted that fanatics, backed up by oozes, had invaded the Stronghall. Cavatina waved them on, saying she’d lend her sword to the battle in just a moment. Kâras turned to follow the priestesses, but Cavatina caught his arm.

“Kâras,” she said urgently, “Qilué was tricked. Her ‘trap’ is actually a portal—one that renders you ethereal. It leads to the bottom of the Pit. To a planar breach. That breach was intermittent when I saw it, but if the fanatics reach it, and open it fully, Ghaunadaur’s avatar will be able to pass through.”

Kâras’s voice came out as a croak. “I don’t understand. Why would the Masked Lor—Masked Lady permit—”

“I don’t have time to explain. What’s important is that we prevent the fanatics from getting to that portal. We’ll make for the ruined temple by different routes: I’ll go south, through the Stronghall, and you circle around through the Cavern of Song. Eilistraee willing, at least one of us will reach the portal in time.”

Kâras stood, unmoving. His mask wavered slightly; he must have been praying.

“Let’s move!”

He swallowed, then bobbed his head in a nod.

She watched long enough to make sure he was headed in the right direction, then sprinted down the corridor to the Stronghall. As she reached it, she saw a battle that could use her assistance. A priestess and three lay worshipers were fighting a jellylike mass of roiling shadow. Cavatina blasted it with the scepter as she ran by. Her attack drove it back, giving Eilistraee’s faithful the moment’s reprieve they needed to regroup. As she ran on, she heard them cheer her name behind her.

Everywhere she looked, the faithful desperately fought tentacle-wielding fanatics and a host of Ghaunadaur’s minions. Cavatina spotted an ooze that looked like an enormous puddle of blood, glowing with searing heat; another like congealed fog, chill as a wind from the grave. A third resembled a roiling cloud of snowflakes. Yet another flickered with a purple light that twisted into glowing symŹbols, deep within itself. The latter ooze spat out a snake from one puckered orifice, a centipede from another. Both animals glowed with a fiendish light that marked them as creatures summoned from the Abyss. Cavatina slashed at centipede and snake, killing both, and blasted the ooze itself with the scepter. The half-dozen lay worshipers who’d been retreating from the monster cried a prayer of thanksgiving.

She had run almost the length of the Stronghall; the corŹridor leading to the ruined temple was just a short distance ahead. She pounded around the corner of a building, only to find the street blocked by a bone white ooze that had overŹwhelmed a Protector. The priestess lay, screaming, as the mass flowed onto the lower half of her body.

Cavatina’s eyes widened. It was Tash’kla—the Protector who had fought so valiantly beside her during the expedition to the Acropolis.

She raised the scepter, but realized that its sound blast didn’t discriminate between friend and foe. She sang a moonŹbeam into existence instead, and hurled it at the creature. The ooze shuddered as twined moonlight and shadow bored through it, carving a wound that bled sour-smelling clay. The ooze pulled back from the fallen Protector.

It took Tash’kla’s bones with it, reducing her legs to empty, bloody sacks of muscle and skin. Cavatina watched, horrified, as the ooze splintered the bones and squeezed the marrow out.

Furious, she attacked the ooze with the scepter. It took more than one blast to kill the thing. When the ooze at last exploded from the sonic attack, a bone splinter whizzed past Cavatina’s ear. She didn’t flinch. She moved to Tash’kla, kneeled, and touched her throat.

No blood-pulse. Tash’kla was dead.

Fortunately, the ooze hadn’t consumed her utterly. Enough remained that Tash’kla might be resurrected—assuming anyone from the Promenade survived to revive her. In this cavern alone, there were so many oozes that Cavatina was starting to have doubts about how the battle would go.

She wiped a splatter of ooze from her forehead with a shaking hand. Was this how it had been for Qilué, when she and her companions battled Ghaunadaur’s avatar? Cavatina’s sword was slippery with foul-smelling slime, and its song was a dirge. She tightened her grip on the weapon, grimly wondering where the high priestess was. Trapped within her own body by the demon—forced to watch as her cherished temple fell?

No, Cavatina thought angrily. It wouldn’t come to that. Eilistraee wouldn’t permit it.

She ran down the street, and at last reached the corridor she’d been making for. It turned out to be choked with the bodies of the fallen. Most were unrecognizable, reduced by acid to weeping mounds of reddish flesh, or blackened by searing heat to unrecognizable lumps. She gagged at the sour smell of spilled entrails and charred flesh and pressed on, slipping and sliding on the fouled stone.

Just ahead, the tunnel widened into a cavern that overŹlooked the river before turning sharply right. This gave her two options: she could follow the tunnel, or the river. She ran to the edge of the cavern and peered out, toward the bridge that spanned the river.

What she saw sent a shiver through her.

Ooze after ooze, differentiated from each other only by color, flowed across the bridge to the main part of the Promenade. At first Cavatina thought they were coming from the caverns on the far side of the river, but as she watched, a bulge formed on one of the three stone columns that supported the ceiling at the far side of the bridge: another ooze. As it plopped to the ground, quivering, another slime bulged out of the column. It was as if the stone wept slimy tears.

That column must be the portal Kâras had led the fanatŹics through. She wondered how the Nightshadow fared—if he were any closer to the ruined temple than she was. No wonder he’d been so shaken; unleashing this horror on the Promenade would have driven anyone to tears.

The voice of Erelda, Rylla’s second in command, sounded in Cavatina’s mind. Protectors! Fall back on the Cavern of Song. The oozes are converging upon it!

Cavatina’s heart pounded as she realized the implications. Oozes were near-mindless things, driven by basic instincts like hunger—or the need to draw closer to their god. She could think of only one reason for them to converge upon the Cavern of Song: to reach the Pit. Had the fanatics already succeeded in wrenching open the planar breach?

The seals, Cavatina sent back. Are they still intact?

Erelda’s response came a moment later. The Mound is untouched. The seals are in place.

Cavatina sighed in relief. There’s a planar breach at the bottom of the Pit, she warned Erelda. If the seals are destroyed …

They won’t be. By sword or song, we’ll do whatever it takes to prevent that.

Cavatina heard a sound behind her: another ooze, headed her way. She debated which way to go. The tunnel she’d been following was the most direct route to the ruined temple, yet its narrowness would make it easy for the oozes to block her way.

She decided to swim, instead.

She sheathed her sword—she needed at least one hand free to swim—and dived into the water, the scepter held out in front of her. The shock of hitting cold water made her sputter as she surfaced, but a quick prayer blunted the worst of the cold. As the current moved her to the bridge, she sang a hymn that rendered her invisible. It wouldn’t fool the oozes—they’d sense her footfalls the moment she climbed from the water. But it would conceal her from any fanatics who might be nearby.

As if on cue, a drow tumbled out of the portal column. Even from this distance, Cavatina could see the eye symbol on the front of his tabard. As he stood, another of Ghaunadaur’s fanatics emerged from the portal. Then a third, and a fourth. They stood in a group as the first one pointed downriver—away from Cavatina, and away from the ruined temple.

The bridge loomed, cutting off her view. Cavatina swam to the wall on the far side of the river from the fanatics. Above her was a cavern mouth. At the back of that cavern, down a short corridor, was a door leading to the ruined temple. If she could drive the oozes back, using the blast scepter, she might reach it.

She climbed.

Halfway up, she glanced over her shoulder to see where the fanatics had gone. She couldn’t spot them. She’d have to be wary, in case they’d crossed to this side of the bridge.

As soon as she reached the ledge, she used the blast scepter to drive the oozes back from the cavern, then heaved herself up onto its acid-slick floor. Additional blasts from the scepter kept the oozes at bay. They retreated to the left and right, revealing the corridor that led to the ruined temple.

Cavatina sprinted into it. The oozes closed ranks behind her, blocking the way back to the river. She blasted them over her shoulder with the scepter, forcing them back.

The door to the ruined temple was closed. Cavatina pushed on it, praying it wasn’t locked. When she at last forced it open, a rush of liquid flowed out. She leaped back, worried it might be more acid. The force of the liquid inside the room pushed the door shut. She glanced down. Her boots were still intact, and her feet didn’t sting. The liquid probably wasn’t acid.

An ooze slid into the corridor behind her. She turned to blast it with the scepter.

Nothing happened. She’d used it once too often, draining it of its magic.

She slammed her shoulder into the door, opening it again. She braced it as a rush of water flowed out. Something carried by the flow bumped against her knees: a body.

“By all that dances,” Cavatina cried. “Rylla!”

She dragged the battle-mistress’s body into the room with her, and let what remained of the water push the door shut. As she threw the deadbolt, she heard the wet slap of the ooze striking the door. She dropped the depleted blast scepŹter down in the ankle-deep water and bent to examine the battle-mistress. Rylla’s nose looked broken. Water dribbled from her open mouth as Cavatina lifted her. Rylla appeared to have drowned.

Had her death been the fanatics’ doing, or Qilué’s?

Cavatina lay Rylla down again and drew her sword. The weapon hummed softly, ready for battle. She looked around. The compulsion glyph Horaldin had inscribed on the wall was gone—had the portal been sealed, too? She sloshed to that corner of the room and sang a detection.

The wall turned as thin as mist. The portal was still active.

Had Qilué passed through it?

Cavatina glanced at the chamber’s second exit and saw a dull brown ooze squeezing its way through the cracks between the door and its frame. Kâras wasn’t likely to show up, and she doubted he’d get past it if he did. The other ooze, meanwhile, was squeezing its way around the door she’d bolted shut.

There was only one way out now.

Into the portal.

Cavatina didn’t want to leave Rylla behind. If her body was consumed by an ooze, the battle-mistress might never be resurrected. She grabbed Rylla with her free hand, dragged her body to the portal, and stepped through it.

She emerged from the V-shaped curtain of shimmering silver into a jumble of misty-looking stone. She released Rylla—the battle-mistress’s body could remain where it was, for now—and moved cautiously to the ruined temple, sword in hand. She expected to see Ghaunadaur’s fanatics clustered around it, offering sacrifices. But as the foundation slab and its shattered columns hove into view, she saw no one. Had she reached it before the fanatics?

She must have: the symbol wasn’t glowing. The planar breach was inactive; the necessary sacrifices had not yet been made.

Nor was there any sign of Qilué.

Cavatina hesitated. What now?

Stand guard, she decided. Stay here and cut down any fanatics who made it through the portal. They would be rendered ethereal, just as she was. She could kill them. As she moved to the ruined temple, looking for the best place to make her stand, its tumbled stones came into sharper focus. A glimmer of silver caught her eye. Another portal? No, it looked more like a …

Symbol.

For a time briefer than a blink, Cavatina experienced a moment of terrible clarity. Qilué hadn’t lied: she had inscribed a symbol over Ghaunadaur’s: a powerful, potent symbol scribed in mercury and diamond dust.

A symbol of insanity.

Cavatina’s mind crumpled. She saw… She felt… That screaming! Make it stop! She dropped her sword and clapped her hands over her eyes. A bright purple glow penetrated the cracks between her fingers. The symbol! No, the symbol. Bright—it hurt her ears. Her skin felt wet. Slime. Foul taste. She spat it out. Upside down? Why was it above… ? The purple glow should have waned, but didn’t. The dancer’s name would save… Cavatina opened her mouth, but confusion came out of her ears. A presence moved past her now. Green. Slimy.

Evil.

Purple smoke. The smoke stared at her. At her. An eye smiled.

My sacrifice.

“No!” Cavatina shrieked. She spun, tumbled, flailed. Clawed away, rolled, swam through rubble. Rock bubbles. She couldn’t… her sword gone …

She had…

Failed.





Leliana ran out the door of the High House and caught the arm of the nearest priestess. “Where’s the battle-mistress? Have you seen Rylla?”

The priestess shook her head. “No! Erelda’s taken command.”

“What about the high priestess?”

“Qilué?” Another head shake. “Haven’t seen her either.”

Leliana stopped a lay worshiper who ran by, and a Nightshadow. Their answers were the same. Behind her, Cavatina left the High House and ran south, to the Stronghall. Everyone seemed to be headed there. From that direction, she heard sounds of battle.

Asking questions was futile. No one knew anything—except that the Promenade was under attack from the south by Ghaunadaur’s fanatics: the demon’s plan, put in motion. It was the second attack, the one from within, Leliana dreaded. Where was Qilué?

A lay worshiper ran by—with, of all things, a lute strung across her back.

“Hold it!” Leliana cried. “You there. Is that lute Rylla’s?”

The novice halted and glanced over her shoulder at the instrument as if seeing it for the first time. “I—I don’t know. I must have slung it over my shoulder when I helped carry the body to the Hall of Healing.”

Leliana stiffened. “Whose body? Rylla’s? Is she dead?”

“Whoever it was, she was wounded. Bad.” She swallowed hard, then shuddered. “Her face….”

Leliana touched her holy symbol. If it was Rylla, and the battle-mistress could be healed, perhaps she might know where the high priestess was.

She sprinted down a corridor in the direction of the Hall of Healing. As she neared the Hall of Empty Arches, she passed Chizra, leading six lesser priestesses in the opposite direcŹtion. A seventh priestess remained on guard within the hall, a bundle of prayer scrolls tucked under one arm. She looked unhappy at being left behind. Leliana saluted her and ran on, following the corridor to the enormous hall that had been reclaimed in Eilistraee’s name.

The Hall of Healing was choked with people. Lay worshipŹers bustled in with the wounded on makeshift stretchers. Priestesses moved from one injured person to the next. The revived rushed out again to rejoin the fight. At the far end of the room stood a golden statue of a pair of scales, balanced on a warhammer: a reminder of life’s delicate balance, and the forces that could tip a soul toward death. Leliana looked for Rylla but didn’t see her.

She questioned the head healer, who assured her the battle-mistress had not been among those they’d treated.

“Is she among the dead?”

“No time to check,” the healer curtly replied. She bent over a burned male, a holy symbol in her hand. “Too busy.” She touched his injuries, and prayed.

“Leliana!”

She whirled. Naxil! His face was a mottled gray—his flesh healed, but still discolored. His eyes were bright above his makeshift mask. He clasped her arms, and she returned his light squeeze.

“Have you seen the battle-mistress?” she asked him. “Or the high priestess?”

“Aren’t they in the Stronghall directing the battle? That’s where the oozes and slimes are coming from: out of the river. There’s a lot of them, but by the Masked Lady’s grace, we’ll push them back again.”

“Oozes and slimes?” she gasped. “But I thought it was supŹposed to be fanatics who came through the …”

She caught sight of a lay worshiper who had just entered the Hall of Healing. He peered about as if looking for someŹone. The front of his shirt was soaked with blood, yet he waved away the healers’ offers of assistance. He was strikŹingly handsome. But that wasn’t what had drawn Leliana’s attention—it was the extremely rare color of his eyes: leaf green.

He had to be the male Cavatina had described—the one who’d sacrificed himself. The fanatics must have raised him from the dead. But how, if his body had been consumed? And what was he doing here, in the Hall of Healing?

She spotted a ring on his finger. A gold ring. That told her how he’d gotten into this part of the temple. He’d used the ring to pass through the magical barrier in the level she and Naxil had discovered below, then come through the portal to the Hall of Empty Arches. Leliana wondered if the priestess she’d seen there, just a moment ago, was still alive.

The fanatic completed his circuit of the hall and turned, heading back for the door.

Leliana jabbed Naxil’s stomach with a finger. Green eyes, she signed between them. Enemy in disguise. You stall; I’ll sing a truth song and question. Go.

Naxil bowed, hiding the drawing of a dagger. He moved away, concealing the weapon under his piwafwi.

As Naxil made his way to the disguised fanatic, Leliana flicked her sword in a circle—a small circle, near her boot; she didn’t want to draw attention to her prayer. Naxil greeted the fanatic, but instead of engaging him in conversation as planned, Naxil turned and walked to the exit. Did he mean to draw the fanatic into the corridor, where it would be more difficult for him to escape?

Leliana strode to the side of the fanatic and matched his pace. As she walked, she shifted her sword so it was pointing at his feet, and loosed the magic she’d just sung into being. “I need help carrying the wounded,” she told him. “Where are you headed?”

Leaf-green eyes met hers. A puddle of warmth filled her. The urge to smile at him overwhelmed her.

“To the Pit. I’m needed there.” His eyes glistened. “Won’t you show me the way?”

Anxious to please him, Leliana nodded. As she did, her sword sang a warning. It sliced through his enchantment, dousing the warmth inside her like a slap of ice water.

Powerful magic. If it hadn’t been for her singing sword….

The fanatic tensed. He’d realized she knew what he was. Leliana leaped back and swung. Steel flashed toward his neck.

The fanatic jumped aside—but not quickly enough. Her sword took off an outflung hand. She expected a spray of blood. Green slime oozed out instead. Before he could rally, she thrust at his vitals. Her blade plunged into soft, quivering flesh that offered no resistance. She reversed direction and yanked the sword back, but the fanatic’s body—now a bright green and only vaguely drow-shaped—bulged outward, engulfŹing her weapon. The bulge solidified, and the mass twisted, tearing the weapon from her hands.

“A ghaunadan!” she shouted as she danced back from him. She’d heard of these creatures, but never seen one. Most oozes were mindless things, but ghaunadans were intelligent beings—budded fragments of the Ancient One itself. Fragments that could temporarily assume drow form.

Shouts of alarm filled the Hall of Healing. Priestesses leaped to their feet, singing. The ghaunadan slapped one of them; she toppled, body rigid. Then a barrage of spells struck it at once. The ghaunadan reeled as moonblades sliced it, holy words slammed into it, and magical wounds sprang open in its quivering flesh. Within moments it had been reduced to a smoking pile of green-smeared clothing and a pair of boots that lay on the floor, suppurating ooze.

Leliana stared down at them, glad the ghaunadan was dead. Unfortunately, there wasn’t any corpse left to question.

“He came through the portal in the Hall of Empty Arches,” she warned the others. “We need to seal it, before more ghaunadans come through!”

Someone handed her singing sword back to her. Leliana took it and ran for the room’s only door. She glanced up and down the corridor, looking for Naxil. The battle with the ghaunadan had taken only a moment, yet Naxil was nowhere in sight. Where had the ghaunadan’s magical compulsion sent him? North, to the Hall of Empty Arches, or south, toward safety?

“Naxil!” she shouted. Her voice was lost amid the hubbub as half a dozen priestesses crowded through the door. Leliana ordered one of them to hang back and chant a magical songwall to prevent enemies from reaching the Hall of Healing. She told the rest to follow her.

As they ran to the Hall of Empty Arches, Erelda’s voice sang into Leliana’s mind. Protectors! Fall back on the Cavern of Song. The oozes are converging upon it!

Converging? Leliana swore. Did that mean that oozes were headed to the Cavern of Song from the south, and from the north—from the Hall of Empty Arches?

The answer came as she rounded a bend in the corridor. The way ahead was blocked by a horrific creature: a waist-high, gray-brown lump covered in eyes and mouths that bulged from its body and were subsumed again. From these emanated a ghastly chorus of nonsensical words that tumbled over one another like pebbles in a gurgling brook.

Leliana shouted at the priestesses to halt, but the two up ahead didn’t heed her. They walked on toward the monster, shouting nonsense. Leliana heard an overlapping babble of female voices behind her, and flung out her arms to hold back the other priestesses. As she did so, the creature attacked the two priestesses up ahead. It spat a stream of acid at one and bulged forward to wrap a limb around the other. The first priestess’s gibbering turned to screams as her skin burned away; the second grew grayish-pale as the ooze’s mouths bit hard and began to suck blood.

“Eilistraee!” Leliana cried, “Shield me!”

Her singing sword pealed out a steadying note that blocked the worst of the creature’s magical effect. Even so, Leliana teetered at the edge of madness. Screaming her fury at the monster, she dodged around the priestess who had been felled by acid and hacked at the limb coiled around the other priestŹess. As the blade sliced through it, another limb bulged out to grab her; she sliced that one off too.

The creature spat acid. The stream struck the magical shield she’d just sung into being and deflected to the side. Again she slashed at the monster, but as her sword descended, her right foot sank into something soft, throwing her off balŹance. She glanced down. The stone floor was quivering, like quicksand. As her left foot also plunged downward, she stagŹgered and fell. She threw out a hand to halt herself, but her arm sunk into the floor, up to the elbow.

The creature rested lightly upon the vibrating floor, as if floating gently atop it.

That gave Leliana an idea. Instead of trying to rise, she dived into the quicksand. With her eyes tightly closed, she waited for the monster to pass her. When the quivering above her subsided, she twisted and found a solid surface with her feet. She shoved hard, and shot out of the quicksand behind the monster. Her sword flashed down in a deadly arc. Eyeballs exploded and teeth shattered as her sword sliced through the monster, cutting it in two.

The quicksand began to congeal. Before it could trap her, Leliana scrambled out.

The priestesses she’d led here all lay on the floor moaning, their skin burned by acid and covered in bloody bites. Leliana ached to heal them, yet there was no time. Not if the Promenade was to be saved. As she ran on to the Hall of Empty Arches, flakes of hardening stone fell from her body like dried mud.

At last she reached the hall. As she entered it, she heard a slurping sound: an ooze, departing, by the sound of it, through the exit on the far side of the chamber. She squinted against the bright sparkle of Faerzress that filled the room. She ran along the wall, her feet slipping on the slime that fouled the floor. She peered down each of the spaces between the partiŹtions in turn.

“Naxil!” she shouted. “Are you here?”

Up ahead, she spotted a misshapen lump of flesh, in front of the portal that led here from the abandoned mine tunnels. Her throat caught—until she realized, by the partially disŹsolved chunks of chain mail armor the body had been wearing, that this wasn’t Naxil. It must have been the priestess Chizra had left behind. Soggy fragments of curled paper lay next to the body: the scrolls the priestess had held. They were rapidly turning to mush as the acid dissolved them. One scroll, howŹever, had landed just beyond the spray of acid that glistened on the walls and floor.

Breathing in shallow gulps—the smell was nauseating—Leliana ran to the spot where it lay. A mottled purple eyestalk bulged out of the arch as she passed. She twisted aside to avoid it and scooped up the scroll, hoping it was one she could use. She whirled, shaking it open one-handed. She didn’t dare let go of the singing sword, as it was the only thing that would cut through another sound-based attack.

To her infinite relief, the scroll held a portal-sealing spell. She began to sing the hymn inscribed on it.

A second eyestalk bulged out of the portal, followed by the head of the creature: a purple slug the size of a horse, its mottled flesh studded with twisted chunks of rusted metal. One of these scraped against the side of the arch with a sound like a sword being dragged across a whetstone. Its rump slid through just as Leliana finished the hymn. A ripple of magical energy filled the archway, sealing the portal behind the monster.

Leliana dropped the scroll—now blank—and lifted her sword. She braced herself as the slug slid toward her. She’d take off the eyestalks first.

The slug halted. A loud humming filled the air. The acid-pitted remains of the dead priestess’s chain mail vest flew at the monster. So did the clasp on Leliana’s borrowed piwafwi. She felt a yank on her sword, and though she clung to it with all her strength, it flew from her hands. Last to go was her holy symbol. The mithral chain around her neck snapped and flew at the slug, the miniature sword trailing after it. All stuck to the creature’s slimy body—except the silver holy symbol, which by Eilistraee’s infinite grace dangled from its chain, refusing to adhere.

The slug reared up, exposing a puckered mouth. It yawned open, revealing rows of needle-pointed teeth.

Leliana was in no mood to be eaten. She leaped forward, grabbed her holy symbol, and yanked it free.

Behind her, she heard suspicious sounds. She glanced back, and saw an ooze that looked like a boiling puddle of blood, blocking her way out. She was trapped! The ooze wasn’t moving toward her—yet. But it was expanding, rising like blood-leavened bread.

With her singing sword, she might have fought her way out—but it was stuck fast to the slug. There was one song that could get her out of here, but with Faerzress crackling through the hall, it probably wouldn’t work.

The metal-studded slug slithered closer. Behind her, she felt the ooze’s steadily growing heat on her back. Already, it felt as hot as the Abyss.

She glanced at the archway next to her, remembering what Rylla had told Qilué earlier. The dretch had escaped through a portal in the Hall of Empty Arches. This portal! Was it still active? Rylla had said that it opened onto infinity. Maybe—-just maybe—if Leliana sang her hymn of return as she passed through it, she could control where she wound up.

With Eilistraee’s blessing, it just might work.

She turned, poised to leap into the arch. As she began the hymn, the slug attacked. Shards of metal exploded from its body in a whirling storm. Several punched into her, tearing ragged gouges in her flesh …

She leaped—and passed through the portal, still singing. Moonlight blazed around her…

She fell, face first, onto a clump of ferns in a moonlit forest.

For several moments, all she could do was lie there. Slowly, with blood-slick hands, she forced herself up. It took a moment before she stopped trembling. She was bleeding from more than a dozen lacerations, yet she didn’t care. The pale white fog hugging the ground was a sign she’d arrived at her destiŹnation: the Misty Forest shrine.

“Praise Eilistraee,” she gasped. “It worked!” If she ever saw Q’arlynd again, it would be something to brag about. He wasn’t the only one capable of “impossible” teleports.

She stood and sang a hymn to close her wounds. She was pleased with her night’s work. She’d sealed the portal that led to the Promenade from below, preventing any more of Ghaunadaur’s foul minions from oozing through it. That should buy the temple’s defenders some time.

Now she needed to get back to the Promenade and conŹtinue the fight. Fortunately, the moon was above the horizon. She could use the sacred shrine and return through the Moonspring Portal.

She walked through the woods to the sacred pool. As she approached it, she heard singing. Peering through the trees, she spotted a dozen or so priestesses. They jabbed the air with their holy daggers, their voices rising and falling in an urgent harmony. Leliana heard wet, popping noises, and saw that the surface of the sacred pool was rippling.

The priestess directing the song was a younger version of Leliana: lean and graceful, but with yellow-shaded instead of ice white hair—her daughter. Rowaan’s eyes widened as Leliana entered the clearing. She ran forward and clasped Leliana’s arms. “Have you come from the Promenade? What’s happening there?”

“It’s under attack. By Ghaunadaur’s fanatics—and a host of oozes. We have to get there, and quickly. Join the battle.”

Rowaan’s face paled in the moonlight. She gestured at the pool, a stricken expression on her face. “We can’t reach it. The portal’s blocked.”

Leliana moved closer. She saw, to her horror, that the pool was dappled with tiny oozes, each shaped like a pan-fried egg with a blood red center. The priestesses’ magic had destroyed scores of them already, but for each one their magic ruptured, two more bubbled to the surface.

Leliana clenched her empty fists—a reminder that her singing sword was gone. The sacred sword had been one of those carried into battle by Qilué’s companions, centuries ago, during their victory over Ghaunadaur’s avatar. Now, it was lost.

Short of a miracle, the Promenade would be lost too.

Rowaan guessed her mother’s thoughts. “The Promenade won’t fall,” she said determinedly. “Eilistraee won’t allow it.” She turned back to the pool, and to the hopeless task of trying to clear the blood-slimed water.

Leliana nodded, without conviction. She wanted to cling to hope, but couldn’t. Rowaan was denying the patently obviŹous. The oozes had reached the Moonspring Portal and were passing through it—something that would only have been possible if one of Eilistraee’s faithful had sung a hymn to open it. Leliana could guess whose deed that had been. Someone who was using her magic for ill, now that a demon rode her.

Qilué.

Leliana looked up at the sky. The moon would set soon. When it did, the portal in the Moonspring would close. Until the next moonrise, the Misty Forest would be secure from attack from the Promenade.

That should have offered a shred of hope.

It didn’t.

Not at all.