enough to allow Qilué to set everything in motion, spawning or no.
Kâras squared his shoulders. The Masked Lord was depending upon him.
I stand ready, Lady Qilué, he thought back. Expect the first group in moments.
Begin, then. And may Eilistraee guide your steps. Her voice faded from his mind.
Kâras pulled the lump of amber from his pocket and walked to the nearest column, his feet slipping in the green sludge coating the floor. He had to force his body to move in that direction; the closer he got to the altar, the more difficult it became. He could feel the Ancient One’s presence, terrible and grim, evil beyond words. Forcing himself against it bent him almost double.
He lifted the amber to the column and waited. Ready.
He heard shouts, drawing nearer: Shi’drin’s voice, urging the others back to the altar room. Overlaying them was a sound that sent shivers down his spinethe sound of oozes sliding over stone.
Kâras pressed the amber to the column. A hole opened. “Quickly, brethren!” he cried. “Come and see! One of the colŹumns has opened. It will lead us to the Pit of Ghaunadaur!”
Qilué strode through the Cavern of Song, past the faithful who gave voice to Eilistraee’s eternal hymn. Those in her way took a quick step back as she passed, giving her room to pass by. One faltered in her hymn. Qilué strode on, not bothering to admonish her.
Qilué fumed. How had this happened? She’d been so careŹful! Yet somehow, Cavatina had figured out that a demon was inside the Crescent Bladenot only that, but which one. She should have expected that, from the Darksong Knight. She’d been foolish to think she could keep Wendonai hidden, especially from the one who had “killed” him.
She wished she could tell her priestesses that her strange behavior was just a charade, but she couldn’tnot without also telling Wendonai, since he could see and hear everything within range of the Crescent Blade, including her otherwise silent mental communications. Fortunately, by Mystra’s grace, he wasn’t privy to her thoughts.
Qilué! Wendonai bellowed. He’d learned, early on, that callŹing her name forced her to pay attention to him. The Darksong Knight knows. You should have slain her.
I make the decisions, demon. Not you.
Poor decisions. She’ll tell the othersif she hasn’t already.
No point in killing her, then, is there?
They’ll banish medestroy the Crescent Blade.
Qilué almost wished someone would banish Wendonai. The cut on her wrist burned. The Crescent Blade felt heavy in her hand. She longed to have someone relieve her of this burden, yet she had to see this dance through to the end. The fate of hundreds of thousands of souls hung in the balance.
You might as well have killed those two priestesses, the demon continued. Sealed inside the shrine, they’ll die of thirsta slow, lingering death, rather than a quick one. He paused, and she could imagine his sly grin. How very dhaerrow of yousomething your ancestors would have appreciated.
Qilué made no comment. The two priestesses wouldn’t starve. Eilistraee would answer their prayers for sustenance.
What mattered was to contain the problem before it spread. Horaldin had been easy enough to silence, but Rylla would be more difficult. The battle-mistress either knew about Wendonai or suspected, judging by the way she’d been acting. It was unlikely she’d told anyone yetshe would have realŹized this would start a panic. More likely, she’d be preparing a banishment spell of her own.
If she succeeded, it would ruin everything.
Where was Rylla? Qilué had to find her. She realized that she should have kept the battle-mistress near her, instead of sending her away. She should have trusted her instincts.
Are you sure you didn’t already bear my taint? Wendonai asked mockingly, continuing their previous conversation. You certainly think like an Ilythiiri.
Watch your tongue, demon, or I’ll banish you myself.
And destroy the weapon that will kill Lolth? Without my essence sustaining it, the Crescent Blade will crumble to dust.
Be silent! She grasped her sheath and tried to shove the Crescent Blade into it, but felt the familiar resistance, like two lodestones pushing each other apart. She struggled against it, but the sword proved stronger. It sprang out of the sheath.
“Abyss take me!” Qilué sworean oath she hadn’t used since her childhood.
The demon chuckled. Perhaps it will.
Qilué stalked on through the cavern. She could have sheathed the sword if she’d tried harder, but she needed Wendonai to think he was in controland that she feared the weapon would fall apart, were he not within it. That wouldn’t happen, of