Ascendancy of the Last - By Lisa Smedman Page 0,55

would soon require her assistance. And within the Promenade itself, there were a dozen other things to tend to.

Like finding Rylla, and silencing her.

Perhaps, Qilué decided, she could flush the battle-mistress out. An “attack” by Ghaunadaur’s cultists should do just that.

She sang the word that would make her symbol visible. A second song dispelled the locks she’d placed on the doors of the chamber that held the glyph-inscribed portal. Then she sent out a silent message to her spies. It is time to begin the dance. Are you ready?

Their answers came like a spatter of rain, the words overlapping each other. Some of the Nightshadows sounded eager, others tense. Two didn’t answer at all. Perhaps they were dead. She prayed their souls had found their way to the Masked Lady’s domain. Kâras assured her he would be able to bring his group through. Qilué smiled. That should bring Rylla running.

Begin, then, she replied. And may Eilistraee guide your steps.

That done, Qilué turned down the corridor that would take her to the river—the corridor that wound past the Moonspring Portal. The Protector guarding the magical pool saluted as she passed.

“Have you seen Rylla?” Qilué asked.

“No, Lady.”

She’s lying.

Qilué whirled. “Liar! She used the portal, didn’t she?”

The Protector’s face paled to gray. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

Qilué felt the blood drain from her own face. She hadn’t meant to say that aloud. “My apologies, priestess. I was answering a sending from someone else.”

It wasn’t much of an excuse, but it seemed to satisfy the Protector, who nodded and stiffly resumed her post.

Qilué kneeled and sang a scrying, passing her hand over the pool. She smiled as it revealed Rylla. Qilué’s smile vanŹished abruptly as she recognized the chamber Rylla was standing in. The battle-mistress hadn’t used the Moonspring Portal, after all. She was still within the Promenade—in the last place Qilué had expected to find her: the chamber that contained the trap for Ghaunadaur’s cultists!

Even as Qilué watched, the battle-mistress dispelled the symbol Horaldin had inscribed. Now she began a prayer—one that would seal the portal Qilué had so painstakingly created!

“No!” Qilué cried. She couldn’t let that happen. Not now, with the first wave of Ghaunadaur’s minions about to come through.

She sang a hymn that instantly conveyed her to the chamber along a beam of moonlight. Her boots slipped as she landed; the floor was ankle-deep in water. Rylla whirled, her prayer interrupted. “Qilué!” Is it you? she sent.

It would have been a clever ploy—had Wendonai not been able to listen in on Qilué’s private conversations.

She thinks I’m controlling you.

You’re not.

Not yet.

Be silent! Qilué shook her head. Rylla. She needed to concentrate on the battle-mistress. “Of course it’s me. What are you doing?” Rylla hadn’t tried to banish Wendonai yet. Perhaps she didn’t know.

“Making sure everything’s sealed up tight—as you ordered. There’s a portal in this room that shouldn’t be here.” She began her prayer anew.

“Stop that!” Qilué cried. She sang a note into the shout that fused Rylla’s fingers together, preventing her from completing the gesture that would seal the portal. “I created that portal. It leads to a trap. One that’s about to be sprung. Go and find Horaldin—I need him to recast his enchantment! Now!”

Rylla turned. She was terrified—Qilué could smell the other female’s fear—and her voice quavered. “Horaldin’s dead.”

She’s lying. Trying to confuse you.

“What?” Qilué rubbed her wrist. “No, he’s not. I just spoke to him.” In fact, she’d just placed a geas on him: one that would compel him not to communicate with anyone—not by speech, nor spell, nor written word—until she gave him leave. She’d sealed the geas by drawing a line across his throat. The instant he tried to speak, he’d be wracked by a fit of violent coughing.

Coughing blood.

Qilué blinked, startled. Where had that thought come from?

“You cut his throat,” Rylla said. “Decapitated him.” She glanced, pointedly, at the Crescent Blade.

Qilué’s eyes were drawn to the sword. To the blood on it.

She’s trying to trick you. That’s your blood. Your cut is leaking again.

Qilué lifted her arm.

Rylla tensed, her fused fingers gripping her holy symbol.

Qilué yanked her bracer up. She stared at the cut on her wrist. No—not a cut. A scar. Old and gray.

It wasn’t her blood on the blade.

You had to do it. You had no choice. He would have ruined everything!

“He would have ruined everything,” Qilué whispered. Her head was pounding. She felt a slight pressure against her calves and realized the water in the room was rising. Was