Ascendancy of the Last - By Lisa Smedman Page 0,56

the river overflowing? She glanced over her shoulder. No, the door behind her was shut. The water inside the chamber was expanding. And swiftly. As it topped her boots and spilled inside them, she felt sensation return to her feet. She hadn’t realized, until this moment, that they’d been numb, nearly dead. They’d felt heavy, lumpish, hard …

The water rose to Qilué’s knees. Her legs tingled.

Rylla moved closer, her feet swishing in the water. The battle-mistress’s eyes locked on Qilué’s. “Fight it,” she whisŹpered. “Pray. Drive Wendonai out.” She sang out a word that filled the air with moonlight and lunged forward, slamming into Qilué, who toppled backward into the water.

She’s trying to drown you! Wendonai howled.

Qilué nearly laughed at such an obvious lie. The water tasted pure and sweet on her lips. Rylla’s song, pealing out from above, landed like sparkling drops of rain upon the water’s surface. Qilué felt the battle-mistress’s hands around her wrist and realized Rylla was trying to force the Crescent Blade down, into the water.

Into the healing, holy water.

No! Wendonai shouted. That will destroy it! You’ll never kill Lolth!

His hand—Qilué’s hand—punched up. The sword hilt slammed into Rylla’s nose, knocking her backward and ripping her hands away from Qilué’s wrist. Qilué felt her body leap up and shout a word that instantly burned the water from her skin. A familiar, heavy deadness returned and her thoughts slowed. It felt as if each were forcing its way through thick, stinking mud. From the waist down, however, her body was still within the holy water—and still her own. She threw herself to her knees, and suddenly the water was level with her mouth. She gulped it down, and felt its holiness force the demon out of her. Back into the Crescent Blade.

Drink your fill, Wendonai gloated from the sword, which she held just above the surface. I’ve built up a resistance to it. I’ll be back inside you the moment you surface.

Another lie? Qilué suspected so, but she couldn’t be certain of anything. Not any more. How long had the demon been warping her perceptions? What other crimes against her faith had he used her to commit? She ducked lower, submerging her head, but holding the Crescent Blade above the surface.

Inside the holy water, she was safe. She tried to decide what to do. One swift tug, and the Crescent Blade would be underwater with her. That would banish Wendonai. But it would also banish her one chance to eradicate his taint from the drow.

Yet she could see that this idea had been a seed planted by Wendonai. The irony was that it was possible. There was indeed a prayer that Qilué could use to draw all of Wendonai’s taint inside her. And once his taint was within her, Mystra’s silver fire would indeed destroy it. But the flaw in this plan—the flaw Wendonai had blinded her to, until now—was that with so much of his taint inside her, Qilué would lose control. Permanently. The demon would rule her body, as completely as Lolth ruled the Demonweb Pits. Any silver fire she did manage to summon would be twisted to an evil purpose.

Qilué stared at her battle-mistress through the water. Rylla floated nearby, face down, blood drooling from her broken nose. No longer breathing. Later, once she’d decided what to do next, Qilué would revive her. For the moment, she was just thankful Wendonai hadn’t been able to swing the Crescent Blade. If it had severed Rylla’s neck, her soul would have been destroyed.

Just as Horaldin’s had been.

Qilué prayed that the Crescent Blade hadn’t completely severed the druid’s neck, that his soul had survived to join Rillifane under the great oak.

Qilué! Wendonai bellowed. I know you can hear me. What will you do now ? Banish me, and abandon any hope of saving your race?

What indeed? Mystra’s silver fire flickered in and out of Qilué’s nostrils. Though her head was submerged in water, her long tresses spreading like seaweed across the surface above, she felt no need to breathe. She had all the time in the world to consider the question—unless, of course, someŹone opened one of the doors to this chamber, letting the holy water spill out.

Her spies, for example. The first group of Ghaunadaur’s cultists would be arriving in the Promenade any moment, and heading this way.

She flicked a hand, resetting the locks.

She briefly considered telling the Nightshadows to abanŹdon the plan, destroy their ambers, and flee Ghaunadaur’s temples—then decided against it. Too much