Ascendancy of the Last - By Lisa Smedman Page 0,52

were the only ones left in the shrine.

“Go!” Kâras shouted, his voice tight with strain. “Make your preparations!”

The novice heaved himself to his feet and ran from the room.

Kâras wiped nervous sweat from his brow. Every instinct screamed at him to flee Llurth Dreir and never look back. There was an easy exit close at hand: the columns ringing the altar, with their teleportation runes. He reached into his pocket and found the lump of amber that had, at its heart, a crescent-shaped spark of moonlight. Touching the amber to any of the runes would alter its destination, linking it with one of the three columns in the Promenade that had, centuries ago, been ensorcelled by Ghaunadaur’s cultists.

He struggled to make his decision. Should he abandon everyŹthing he and Valdar had worked so hard to set in place these past few tendays, or stay here and try to brazen it out? He had, until now, been able to fool the Ghaunadaurian priesthood—even in the heart of the Ancient One’s shrine, even during a sacŹrifice. But during a spawning? The oozes and slimes boiling up out of the lake were mindless creatures that couldn’t tell the difference between friend and foe, but that was of little comfort. It only meant that his disguise wouldn’t save him, if one of them decided to consume him.

Kâras swore. Until a few moments ago, it had all been going so well. All he’d needed to do was continue the facade, and wait for Qilué’s signal. That would be his cue to reveal his “discovery”—a portal that had, “by the grace of Ghaunadaur,” opened between one of the columns in their shrine and the Promenade. In a carefully choreographed dance, each of the other spies would do the same. One by one, at precisely timed intervals, they would usher their fanatics straight into the trap the high priestess had prepared. Qilué, meanwhile, would ensure the Protectors and other faithful kept well back, out of sight but ready to deal with the fanatics, should they stray from the designated path.

Qilué had explained that the Masked Lady herself had approved this plan. Valdar, when first told of it, had seen the Masked Lord’s hand in it at once. Inviting Eilistraee’s most resolute enemies into the heart of the Promenade, he told Kâras, was something the goddess would never contemplate. Eilistraee was a goddess who fought with song and sword, not shadows and subterfuge. This plan was Vhaeraun’s doing.

Kâras had been convinced. He’d persuaded the high priestŹess to let him select the Nightshadows who would carry out “Eilistraee’s” divine will, and ensured that Valdar was among them. When Qilué’s call came, the hand-picked few would lead their Ghaunadaurians into the Promenade not in small, easily contained groups, but all at once—away from the trap. The temple would be overwhelmed, and the priestesses swept aside—while the Nightshadows sat out the battle in safety, downriver in Skullport. Later, when it was all over, they would re-assume their disguises and steer the fanatics into the trap Qilué had prepared, cleansing the temple a second time.

Once the Promenade was theirs, converts would be drawn from across Faerűn to a reinvigorated faith. And those of Eilistraee’s priestesses who managed to survive would reap the bitter fruit of their misplaced trust. The females would be the ones given a choice, this time around: to don Vhaeraun’s mask, and worship in silence and shadow, or to die by Vhaeraun’s sword.

That had been the plan-within-a-plan. And it had been a good one, needing only subterfuge and determination to see it through—until oozes and slimes had come boiling up out of the lake. Surely Vhaeraun didn’t intend to fill the Promenade with such filth! It would take an army to scour the temple clean, after that.

Masked… Lord, Kâras silently prayed, the honorific feelŹing out of place after nearly four years of praying to the Masked Lady. Your servant seeks counsel. Is it your will we continue?

No answer came.

Kâras stood, sweating. The future of his faith hung upon what happened next. Upon what he decided next.

As he hesitated near the doorway, listening to the shouts of excitement echoing through the keep, a voice sang into his mind. Qilué’s voice! Clear as a tolling bell, the high priestess called to her spies. It is time to begin the dance. Are you ready?

The timing of the message couldn’t be mere coincidence. The Masked Lord had to know what was happening, down here in Llurth Dreir. He obviously had confidence in Kâras—confidence