Ascendancy of the Last - By Lisa Smedman Page 0,54

course. Eilistraee’s blessings would sustain it, just as they always had.

Her statue was just ahead, tucked into an alcove in the Cavern of Song. Carved from black marble, it showed a youthful Qilué with singing sword held high, exulting in the defeat of Ghaunadaur’s avatar. The statue looked heavy and immovable—a false impression. In fact, it concealed the winding staircase that led down to the sealed Pit.

Qilué strode up to the halfling Protector who guarded it and stared down at her. “Is Battle-mistress Rylla below?”

Brindell shook her head.

“Has she passed this way recently?”

“No, Lady. Not since I took up station here.”

“Where is she?” Silver fire crackled through Qilué’s hair as her irritation flared.

Brindell took a step back. “Lady Qilué. What’s wrong? Is the Promenade under attack?”

“What are you talking about?” Qilué spat. She’d never realŹized, until just this moment, how ridiculous the halfling looked, with her ink-stained face and mop of copper-colored hair.

Brindell pointed a pudgy finger at the Crescent Blade. “There’s blood on your sword, Lady Qilué.”

“There is?” Qilué lifted the weapon. A thin line of red trickled down the blade. The cut on her wrist must have been bleeding; the bracer that served as sheath for her silver dagger must have rubbed it open again. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.” She glared down at Brindell. “Hold your post. Contact me—immediately—if you see Rylla.”

Brindell gulped. “Yes, Lady.”

Qilué strode away. She realized she’d been sharp with Brindell, but it was all part of the act. And it was drawing Wendonai in. She could feel it.

In recent months, she’d stepped up the tempo. Sometimes she “forgot,” until it was almost too late, to drink the holy water that held Wendonai at bay. This gave the balor the illusion he was gradually wearing down her defenses, one cloven-hoofed step at a time. Two steps forward, one back. One step forward, two back. All part of the dance that would lead him exactly where she wanted him.

A dangerous gamble—one that might cost her the Promenade. But a necessary one, if the dhaerrow were to be led back into the light.

The Crescent Blade would be the key.

Ironically, Wendonai had given her the idea, when he’d derided her crusade as “futile.” For each drow redeemed and brought up into Eilistraee’s light, he’d gloated, a dozen were born with his taint. For every step Qilué led the drow forward, Wendonai yanked them twelve steps back.

The balor’s taint ran constant and deep in the drow, in every one with even a drop of Ilythiiri blood in their veins. The only way they could be led out of this dark pall was through redemption—and redemption was something that took courage and strength. The very taint they needed to struggle against and overcome was what seduced most drow into choosing a less morally challenging, more “rewarding” path. They wound up, like flies, caught in Lolth’s vast web. Even if they somehow managed to escape or avoid this, more often than not it was only through seeking out alliances with other, even more loathsome deities, like Ghaunadaur.

Qilué had experienced this taint, herself. After her failure to attune the Crescent Blade and drive the evil from it, the cut on her wrist had allowed the demon to slowly worm its way into her. She had been on the verge of purging his taint—a simple matter of releasing Mystra’s silver fire within her body, rather than without—when she’d realized something. If she could somehow draw all of Wendonai’s taint into herself she would, in the process, remove it from every drow on Toril. Then she could burn herself clean in one blinding flash of silver fire. She could set the drow free to choose a better path—to be led into Eilistraee’s dance.

Qilué herself would likely be consumed in the process, her very soul reduced to ash by the incineration of so much evil, so much guilt, so much hatred. But the Crescent Blade would remain. Someone else—Cavatina, most likely—would carry on Eilistraee’s work. Be named high priestess in Qilué’s stead, take up the Crescent Blade, and kill Lolth.

Qilué sighed. She had the lancet she needed for the bloodŹing that was to come: the Crescent Blade. She even knew the one place, on all of Toril, where it could be done; Eilistraee had revealed its location to her. But she wasn’t quite ready, yet, to set her plan in motion. There always seemed to be something else that needed doing first. Q’arlynd, for example, was on the verge of attempting his casting, and