Soon she was gone altogether. The acolytes continued, and Hweilan made note of where they stepped, then followed.
Elret spoke truly. Hweilan’s right foot disappeared. But as soon as it came down on solid stone, the illusion dissipated before her eyes, and she saw that they were descending a wide staircase made from smooth, green stone. It descended a long way, then turned to the left. It did this again and again. Hweilan stopped counting steps somewhere in the high three hundreds. Even though she could see no discernible light source, a soft green glow lit their way.
A final turn and the company found themselves standing in what may have been the most perfectly round chamber Hweilan had ever seen. Even the walls bent upward into a perfect, smooth dome. In the center of the room was a perfect half-circle arch. It was twisted and braided like metal in the hands of a master craftsman, but its texture had the look of stone. Under the arch, the air shimmered, much like Hweilan had seen in Vaasa, when the heat made the distance blur and waver. But the thing that struck Hweilan the most was the utter lack of smell. Up until now she had been surrounded by the scent of stone and damp and the otherworldly fragrance of the spells that hid just beyond sight. But after crossing the threshold into the room, Hweilan could not even smell the hobgoblins, which in itself was a relief.
Elret turned a wary eye on Hweilan. “This portal leads to only three places that we know of-one in the far west, one to another portal in the mountains, and the other to a realm where the very air burns. You are certain you know how to use this?”
“No,” said Hweilan. “But I have no better idea. All I can do is try, yes?”
“Know this,” said Elret. “If you intend some treachery, if Maaqua dies, or any one of us does not return, your friends will be disemboweled, then healed, then have a fresh limb chopped off every day. They will-”
“I understand,” said Hweilan.
“I have shown you one of the Razor Heart’s most guarded secrets,” said Elret. “Now tell me where you’re taking us.”
“To the one person I think might be able to help your queen.” Hweilan reached into the largest of the pouches riding her belt. “Everyone should stand back,” she said.
She removed the sacred drum from her pouch. It was only three finger widths thick and had a skin only along one side. The back was a web of taut cords, both binding the skin and serving as a handle. Symbols had been burned all around the wooden rim and painted on the skin itself. Hweilan saw Elret studying them carefully.
“And who is this person?”
“If this works,” said Hweilan, stepping forward, “you’ll meet him soon enough. If not …”
And she honestly had no idea if this would work. She knew that the portals scattered across Faerun were different from kingdom to kingdom. They had never been entirely reliable, and after the Spellplague, many had become outright dangerous. She had only tried this before on two portals, and both times a master had been watching. And the ways between Faerun and the Feywild were not set. She knew if she didn’t get the rhythm exactly right, they might well return to find that a hundred years had passed during the day they spent in the Feywild.
Hweilan held the web of the drum in her right hand and curled her left into a fist with her thumb and smallest finger extended to strike the drumskin. She beat a steady rhythm, first in time with her own heart, then varying as she remembered the ebb and flow of the portal to which she called. The tempo tumbled like water over rocks. She matched her breathing to the rhythm and forced her mind to recall the places she sought-every sound, every smell-the dampness of the air, the smell of mud and rock and living things. Once she had the rhythm and held the vision, she began the chant.
The shimmering air under the arch darkened, and tiny red sparks appeared in its depths. Light shot out from spark to spark, like hundreds of cracks forming on thin ice, each flaring to the rhythm of the drum. Green light joined the red, replaced it, faded to a fireheart blue, then melted together to a silver, like bright sunlight on unquiet water.
“Stay close,” said Hweilan, then looked over her shoulder. “And you should cover the queen’s face.”
“Why?” said Elret.
But Hweilan ignored her and stepped through the portal. She stepped quickly-not so much out of fear of the waterfall soaking as wanting to be out of the way, for she was sure that-
Buureg leaped out of the falls, sword in hand. His eyes widened when he beheld his surroundings. Much of the Giantspires had forest, but nothing like this. The smallest trees overlooking the river here were larger than even the oldest giants of Buureg’s homeland. Only hints of the sky could be seen as a breeze wafted through leaves, some of which were bigger than Razor Heart shields.
Watching Buureg’s fear and awe, Hweilan was struck by something: the perpetual twilight of the thick forest, the sounds of the river and the birds and the breeze, the very smell of the air … she felt home. Highwatch and the plains of Narfell had once held fond childhood memories for her. But all hope of finding home there was gone. Here was where she belonged, and she had missed it. Hweilan turned away so that the warchief would not see her scrubbing the tears from her cheeks.
Uncle emerged, along with the hobgoblins. Elret cried out, finding herself under a waterfall, then looked around suspiciously, eyeing every shadow for a trap. When she saw that nothing had taken Buureg, and Hweilan was standing relaxed on the riverbank, she pushed one arm back through the portal to wave the acolytes through.
The queen’s litter came through feet first, her bearers moving quickly to keep from soaking their burden. Maaqua’s head passed through the water, and she gasped, breathing in water. Her back arched, and her limbs shook with such force that the acolytes almost dropped her.
Hweilan’s first thought was that the water of the river had simply revived her. But one look at Maaqua’s face showed this was something worse. Her eyelids were open, but her eyes had rolled back in her head, and as her servants struggled to get her back in the litter her trembling increased.
“Get the water out of her throat before she chokes!” Buureg screamed.
Elret turned and pointed at Hweilan. “What treachery is this? What have you done?”
Hweilan’s right hand moved toward her knife. “I did nothing.”
One of the acolytes spoke up. “It happened as she came through the portal. Perhaps-”
“She knew!” said Elret. “That wench planned this!”
“No,” said Hweilan, taking great care to keep her voice even.
“I’ll have your heart for this!”
“If the queen dies,” Buureg, told Elret, “I’ll hand it to you myself. But until then, we have no choice but to trust her.” He looked to Hweilan. “Now, how do we find this person you’re looking for?”
“I suspect he’ll find us,” said Hweilan. Maaqua coughed out water, and Hweilan saw it was tinged with blood. “But there’s no reason we can’t meet him halfway. Come.”
The hobgoblins did not follow at first.
Hweilan kept walking, but called out, “Stay close. There are things in these woods meaner than me.”
Even Elret rushed to catch up.
Jagun Ghen sat in the middle of the pact circle. He was naked from the waist up, his skin coated in sweat, and his staff lay across his knees. His brothers kneeled around the outer edge of the circle, their chant a rhythmic counterpoint to his own. The bloody gouges on their foreheads gave off an angry orange glow, the only light in the room.
The grin stretching over Jagun Ghen’s face twitched. He had not blinked since the rite began, and his eyes were now so dry that, as they moved left and right, left and right, over and over again, they made a soft scritch-scritch like a scribe’s pen across fine parchment. His breath came quicker as his chanting lowered to a guttural whisper. Every muscle vibrated like a lute string on the verge of breaking. He threw his head back, spraying droplets of perspiration. His body rose off the floor, and he opened his mouth wide-