Ascendancy of the Last - By Lisa Smedman Page 0,22

days, after her inspection tour of the outlying shrines was complete, it wouldn’t hurt to be careful. No matter where Qilué went, she kept a scrying font close at hand.

The thought was even more disturbing when Cavatina admitted to herself that the high priestess was carrying around a sword that could contain a hidden demon.

Horaldin had closed his eyes again, and resumed his divination. Sweat beaded his temples. A wash of Faerzress played briefly on the wall beside him, giving an eerie bluish tint to his already sallow skin. The druid was a moon elf, and thus immune to the Faerzress, else his divination might have been interrupted. His wavy black hair hung in a rootŹlike tangle to his waist, and his fingers were as slender as spider legs. Not a pleasant combination, when you came right down to it. But the druid was utterly loyal to the temple, despite his continued reverence for the Leaflord. As Horaldin so eloquently put it, Eilistraee was the fruit of Arvandor, and Rillifane the guardian of the tree from which she had fallen. Eilistraee planted seeds of hope in the Underdark, and by the Leaflord’s decree, Horaldin’s destiny was to help nurture them.

“The door’s been magically sealed,” he told Cavatina. “By … her.”

“Why would she do that?”

“To prevent me from showing you what’s on the other side of it.”

Cavatina’s skin prickled with anticipation. She rested a hand on her sword hilt. “Can you open the door?”

“Not by normal means. Only the most powerful spellcaster could undo her magic. But there is another way.’” Horaldin held his hands in front of him, pressing them together back to back. He whispered a moment, and forced his hands apart. A hole appeared in the middle of the door and gradually widened, as if the obsidian had become as soft as clay and invisible hands were parting it. When the gap was wide enough, Horaldin eased a leg through the hole, ducked, and stepped through the door.

Cavatina followed.

The room beyond was oddly shaped: square, but with one corner that had been cut off diagonally by a wall similar, in its zigzag shape, to a folding screen. In the center of the zigzag wall was another obsidian door—the room’s second exit. This odd configuration gave the room eight “walls”—a significant number. The drow who had inhabited the caverns on the far side of the Sargauth nearly a thousand years ago had once maintained a temple to the Spider Queen here. The temple had been obliterated when Ghaunadaur’s cultists summoned the Ancient One’s minions to the city—an act that had been the city’s downfall.

Centuries of visitations by oozes and slimes had worn down the altar and statue that once stood here. Qilué and her companions had finished the job, smashing what remained to dust and scouring the murals from the walls with holy water. Now all that remained was an empty room.

The former temple could have been a convenient shortcut from the western end of the bridge—located just a few paces beyond the second door—but the priestesses who patrolled the Promenade avoided this place. Cavatina could see why. Even though the room was bare and empty, being in it set her on edge. Now that she lingered in it, she realized the reason why: in all of the Promenade, this was the one spot where silence ruled. Everywhere else, the hymn that constantly flowed out of the Cavern of Song could be heard, if only as a murmur. But in this tainted place, Cavatina couldn’t even hear the rush of water from the nearby river.

“What is it you wanted to show me?” she asked.

Horaldin moved to the corner where the two longest walls met. “This.” He pointed at a glyph that had been painted on the walls, straddling the corner. “The high priestess ordered me to paint it here.”

“Ordered? Was that what your argument was about?”

Horaldin folded his arms across his chest and nodded.

Large as a shield, the glyph was one she didn’t recognize. It looked a little like the protective enchantments elsewhere in the Promenade, but those were silvery red in color and dusted with powdered diamond and opal, while this one had been painted on the walls in shimmering streaks of powdered pearl, held in place by a clear glue that smelled faintly of honey.

“What is it?” she asked.

“An enchantment. Designed to attract those who worship Ghaunadaur. The high priestess said it was a trap that would lure any cultists who venture upriver from Skullport into a