Ascendancy of the Last - By Lisa Smedman Page 0,85

by mundane or magical means—but whose mind would it house?

If Laeral were a priestess, she might have asked for guidŹance from a greater power. But she was a mage, with only her own instincts to go by. And her instincts screamed caution.

A thread of moonlight through the bare branches above announced Qilué’s imminent arrival. Laeral braced herself. An instant later, Qilué appeared. She landed in a crouch atop the block of weathered stone that had been the seat of the throne, the Crescent Blade held high above her head. Her robe was soaking wet, her ankle-length hair plastered against her black skin.

The sisters’ eyes met: Qilué’s, clear and determined; Laeral’s, brimming with concern.

“Sister,” Laeral whispered. “I…”

“May Eilistraee forgive me,” Qilué said in a flat voice. Then, before Laeral could stop her, Qilué yanked the holy symbol from her neck and threw it down. The Crescent Blade swept up, and down in a deadly arc. Steel struck silver with a dull clank, slicing the holy symbol in two.

“It begins!” Qilué cried.

She chanted—words that twisted her lips and forced a spray of red through her teeth as she gritted them out. Her features changed. Her back hunched, her face erupted in boils, and her eyes clouded to a dull white. The fingers gripping the Crescent Blade elongated and grew thick, horny nails. A foul smell rose from her skin.

All this, in the blink of an eye.

Laeral reeled as she realized what her sister was doing. Qilué had cast aside Eilistraee’s redemption, and was warpŹing her very soul in order to invite the demon in. Laeral could feel the evil crackle past as it rushed at Qilué. It chilled, then burned. It whipped both sisters’ hair into twisted knots, fouled Laeral’s nightgown, and forced its soot into her lungs, making her cough. It shrilled past her ears with a mocking, high-pitched tittering.

No! Laeral thought. All the drow on Toril weren’t worth this!

“Temfuto!” she screamed, halting time for all but her.

Silence. Sudden stillness. Her sister’s transformation, halted. The very air, frozen. A falling leaf, checked in mid-descent. Laeral stepped past it—quickly, quickly, before her spell ended—and touched her hands to her sister’s head. Qilué’s scalp felt as hot as the Abyss beneath her ice white hair.

Silver fire wreathed Laeral’s hands in a sparkling radiance. She readied herself to send it raging into Qilué the instant the time-halting spell ended, in order to burn the taint from her sister’s body. But what then? Qilué had drawn some of the demon’s taint inside her, but not all. Though Laeral’s silver fire would burn much of it away, a portion would remain inside the Crescent Blade, which Qilué still held in her hands. If the sword had been lying on the ground, Laeral could have easily cast a disjunction to strip it of its magic, once Qilué herself had been cleansed. But with it locked tight in Qilué’s grasp, the demon could slide back up the trickle of blood that conŹnected steel and flesh. Qilué was an open vessel, bereft now of the blessings that had formerly protected her. The demon would slide into her as quickly as a sword into an oiled sheath. Faster, perhaps, than Laeral could react.

Laeral trembled with indecision. She had to decide. Now!

Then it came to her.

A snap of her fingers transmuted the soot that grimed her sister into a dusting of crushed diamond, emerald, ruby, and sapphire. With her hands still on Qilué’s hair, Laeral watched the leaf, waiting …

The leaf quivered. Time resumed its flow. Laeral cast her spell.

The leaf landed, and the rush of taint died away in an angry howl. Qilué remained motionless, the gem dust in her hair sparkling in the moonlight. She, alone, remained frozen in time, held fast by Laeral’s transmutation.

Laeral hardly recognized the twisted thing Qilué had become.

“Oh, sister,” she breathed. “What have you done?”

She didn’t need to ask why Qilué had done it. She knew the answer. Qilué loved the drow with all her heart. She’d sought their salvation with every thought, with every word, with every deed. And this had nearly been her downfall.

Nearly.

Laeral, however, had just bought her sister a little time. Even if Laeral herself didn’t know how to help Qilué, there was someone who did. Someone whose knowledge of demons—whose expertise in hunting them down, banishŹing them, permanently destroying both the demon and its lingering taint—far surpassed Laeral’s own. The Darksong Knight, Cavatina. Laeral would take Qilué someplace safe, then fetch Cavatina.

Laeral touched her sister and spoke a conjuration,