Ascendancy of the Last - By Lisa Smedman Page 0,106

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