Ascendancy of the Last - By Lisa Smedman Page 0,57

effort had been spent in putting them in place.

She considered her options. Had she inscribed an insanŹity symbol on the ruined temple—or was this another of Wendonai’s tricks? She decided that it really didn’t matter. If a symbol was in place, and the fanatics could be coerced into entering the portal, they would be turned into raving madmen who wouldn’t even remember what a temple to their god looked like, let alone what to do with it. And if the symbol didn’t exist, the fanatics would gain no benefit from a visit to the bottom of the Pit. If they somehow found their way back from the Ethereal Plane, they wouldn’t have learned anything new about the Promenade. The planar breach had existed for centuries, sputtering on like a guttering candle, ever since Ghaunadaur had been driven through it.

Even if the worst happened—if the fanatics, despite being ethereal, found a way to open the breach enough for an avatar to come through, it wouldn’t matter. The seals at the top of the Pit would ensure that the Ancient One’s avatar didn’t escape.

As she sat, thinking, the water surrounding her began to vibrate: the result of an alarm, close by, its clamor shrill enough to pass through stone. The timing was too close to be a coinciŹdence. Kâras must have brought his group through.

Confirmation came as three different priestesses shouted Qilué’s name at once, urgently reporting they’d spotted fanatics approaching the Promenade, from the far side of the bridge. That they were going to engage them until reinforceŹments arrived.

Qilué gave a mental command in reply, ordering them to allow the fanatics to cross the bridge, and not to engage them, but instead to set up defensive positions at least fifty paces back from the western side of the bridge. She wondered if they would heed her—how many of her priestesses, besides Cavatina, Leliana, and Rylla, now knew about Wendonai, and would be suspicious of her commands.

Kâras, she sent, where are you?

Far side of the bridge.

There’s bad news. The portal is still in place, but the enchantment glyph has been dispelled. You’re going to have to talk your fanatics into entering the trap—but not quite yet. The doors of the room are still sealed. I need a few moments more before I can unlock them. You’ll have to stall, once you’re across the bridge. Can you manage that?

I’ll try.

Qilué nodded. It was all she could ask of anyone. She sent a mental command to the rest of her spies. Nightshadows—the plan is postponed. Remain in position, and do not bring the cultists through until I contact you.

She broke contact, not bothering to wait for their acknowledgements. It was time to do something she should have done, long ago: destroy the Crescent Blade.

She started to draw the sword under the water, ignoring Wendonai’s screams of protest, his wild promises, his shouts that he wouldn’t die, that he’d have his vengeance—that even if he couldn’t personally revenge himself, then Lolth certainly would, since her powers were equal to—

Qilué abruptly halted, the blade only halfway submerged.

There was a way to purge Wendonai’s taint from the drow, she realized. She didn’t have to be the one who called down silver fire—it could be directed into her body from without. Any of her sisters could provide the lethal blast that would incinerate the demon’s taint.

Assuming, of course, one of them could be persuaded to do it.

Laeral, she decided. She’d already guessed something was wrong with the Crescent Blade and would take less convincing.

Qilué steeled herself. Was she really ready to bid farewell to the Promenade, her Protectors, her priestesses—everything she had worked for centuries to build? She had to. It would be the salvation of the drow. All of the drow. The dawn of a glorious new day. Out of the darkness, and into the light.

Qilué, however, wouldn’t survive to see it.

Tears blended with the water. Eilistraee, she silently sang. Is this your will?

The answer came not in words, but in a sign. A beam of braided moonlight and shadow lanced down into the water, directly in front of Qilué. She had only to touch it to be transŹported to the place she had just thought of—the place where the deed would be done.

Qilué nodded. Very well then.

Myroune, she sang.

Use of the truename would ensure that Wendonai wouldn’t know whom she was contacting. It would also ensure a prompt reply.

Her sister answered at once. Wasting no time, Qilué told Laeral where to meet her and what needed