Ascendancy of the Last - By Lisa Smedman Page 0,15

the cavern as bright as a moonlit night in the World Above.

The buildings she passed—originally part of a Netherese outpost in the Underdark—had lain buried in rubble for seventeen centuries before Qilué and her companions excavated them and made them part of the Promenade. Constructed in terraced layers like a series of blocks stacked largest to small-est, the buildings were four stories high. Much of their original decoration had been smashed when the magic supporting the ceiling had dissipated at the time of Netheril’s fall, but here and there Cavatina saw the grooves of what had once been a fluted column, or fragŹments of the friezes that had once adorned every wall.

Nearly two and a half decades of labor by Eilistraee’s faithful had restored the buildings to a usable state, here and elsewhere in the Promenade. Now each bore the goddess’s symbol above its front door: a silver long sword, set point-upright against the circle of a full moon haloed with streaks of white.

Priestesses and lay worshipers alike strode the streets, the former on their way to services in the Cavern of Song, the latter hurrying about their errands. Most of the priestŹesses were drow; only a handful were drawn from the elven races of the World Above. But the lay worshipers came from a multitude of races. Many had been rescued from the holds of slave ships, or from the flesh markets of Skullport. Each had turned, in gratitude, to the Dark Maiden’s faith. The other priestesses saluted Cavatina, while the lay worshipers bowed low. Awed whispers followed in her wake.

Cavatina spotted a familiar face: Meryl, Qilué’s halfling cook. The little female with the mop of tangled gray hair padded along on bare feet to the high priestess’s house, a basket tucked under one arm. Cavatina altered course so their paths would cross.

Meryl’s wrinkled face creased in a grin as she spotted the Darksong Knight. “Hello, Cavatina! It’s been a while.”

Cavatina arched an eyebrow. ” ‘Cavatina?’ ” she echoed. “Not, ‘Most Esteemed Darksong Knight, Slayer of Selvetarm?’ ” she continued in a teasing voice.

Meryl laughed and waved a hand. “Yes, yes, that too. It’s just hard to remember, sometimes. I still see, when I look at you, the babe Jetel danced with in her arms. Though”—she craned her neck, looking up—”you get taller and skinnier each time I see you. You’re thin as a sword blade. You really should eat more.”

Cavatina smiled. Though the halfling was a mere lay worshiper, Meryl never—ever—used formal titles. She even addressed Lady Qilué by her first name.

“So what brings you to the Promenade?” Meryl continued. “Slain any demons lately? How are things in the Chondalwood? Are the elves still prevailing?”

Cavatina held up her hands, as if overwhelmed by the barŹrage of questions. Meryl seldom asked only one her tongue ran faster than her feet, more often than not. “Rylla’s summons. Three yochlols. Good. And yes.”

Meryl’s head bobbed in a series of nods. She shifted her basket, and Cavatina heard metal clink inside it.

“Don’t tell me you’re stealing the silverware again,” Cavatina teased. The jibe wouldn’t sting Meryl, who prided herself on her stout-hearted loyalty. She’d been Qilué’s cook for decades, and personally tasted every ingredient for poison before using it. A simple prayer of detection would have accomplished the same result, but Meryl insisted on putting her life on the line. If poison took her, she said, she’d go to Eilistraee’s realm happy and content—and with a full stomach.

Meryl feigned shock. “Me!” she blurted indignantly. “I never, ever, would contemplate such a thing. Not in a hunŹdred lifetimes. A thousand. Yes, it’s true; that was the gleam of silver you saw.” She cracked the lid of the basket, giving Cavatina a peek. “But I’m taking these vials from the Hall of Healing to the High House, as you could plainly have seen from the direction I was headed.” With a flourish, she snapped the lid shut.

Now Cavatina was supposed to apologize. That was the way the game was played. But her brief glimpse inside the basket puzzled her. Those vials were used to hold one thing, only. “Is that holy water?”

Meryl nodded.

Cavatina should have cracked another joke—to ask, perŹhaps, if Meryl’s kitchen was infested with undead mice—but her customary bluntness kicked in at last. “What does a cook need with holy water?”

“They’re for Qilué. She told me to make sure there’s an ample supply on hand when she gets back from her inspection tour of the shrines. She’s used up all she had.”

“Why