Halisstra nodded. There was a light in her eye.
"And that the Crescent Blade-a weapon capable of killing Lolth-still exists?" Cavatina asked.
Halisstra gave a trembling nod. Then a sly smile. "And it's somewhere that Lolth can't touch it. The temple we created is still standing, and the Crescent Blade is inside it."
Cavatina let out a long breath. She held up a hand. "Just a moment." She spoke Qilue's name, and an instant later felt the high priestess link minds with her. In a low whisper, Cavatina sent a message back to the Promenade.
"I found the creature. It's Halisstra Melarn, her body corrupted by Lolth. She said much that you should hear."
The reply was a moment in coming. Take her to the shrine in the Velarswood. Wait for me there.
Cavatina nodded. Qilue had sounded worried about something. Distracted. Cavatina wondered what new threat had arisen since she'd left the Promenade.
She extended a hand to the creature that had once been a priestess like herself. "Come," she told Halisstra. "Your chance for redemption may be at hand."
Szorak crept through the darkened forest, muttering to himself behind his mask. He didn't much care for the Lethyr, even though the thick canopy of intertwined branches above screened the moon's harsh light. Despite the magical ring that had turned his skin and clothing the exact color of the shadows he passed through and the boots that enabled him to move in utter silence, stilling even the crack of a dead branch underfoot, he still felt as if he was being watched.
Which he was. The very trees were alive. They whispered the whereabouts of all who entered the forest to its guardians.
Fortunately, his mission that dark night had nothing to do with either trees or druids. It wasn't a druid's soul Szorak was after, but that of a priestess.
As he drew closer to Eilistraee's shrine, the spell he'd cast a few moments before picked up the first of the wards: a dim glow coming from underneath a pile of dead leaves, several paces ahead. Szorak pulled out a rod of black iron and held it at the ready. Then he walked forward. As the ward was triggered, sparkles of frost-white light erupted on his skin, causing him to gasp from their cold. The wand, however, drew the bitter cold down into itself, and after a heartbeat, it was gone.
"Is that the best you can do, ladies?" Szorak muttered. "I expected something a little more lethal."
He continued forward, the rod held loosely in his hand. The pile of leaves exploded as a sword flew out of it. Szorak was barely able to bring his rod up in time. He smashed it against the sword in a desperate parry. Black iron met shining steel with a loud clank, and there was a silent explosion of magical energy. The sword tumbled to the ground, inert.
Szorak took a deep breath. He stared down at the two glyphs engraved in the blade. Both incorporated the word ogglin. Enemy. Even a magical disguise wouldn't have fooled them, and Szorak hadn't expected a two-glyph ward. Had he not parried the sword, he might have already been dead.
He chuckled. "That's almost worthy of Vhaeraun, ladies, except that our sword thrust would have come from behind."
His detection magic revealed other wards to the right and left. The sword must be one of several placed in a ring around the shrine's perimeter, but that ring had been broken.
Szorak stepped across the neutralized sword. Then he activated the secondary power of his ring, disguising himself. Though he could still feel the soft velvet of his mask against his cheeks and chin, to an observer his face would appear bare, his cheeks smooth and feminine. He would seem taller than he really was, his body more shapely, and his black cloak, shirt, and trousers would instead look like chain mail, covered by a breastplate bearing Eilistraee's moon and sword. The rod in his hand would appear to be a sword. Anyone touching him would instantly perceive that all was not as it seemed, but he fully intended that whoever got close enough for that wouldn't live for more than a heartbeat.
He walked on through the darkened woods. Up ahead, he could hear women singing and see shapes moving through the trees-Eilistraee's faithful, worshiping at their shrine. He veered away from that spot, looking instead for the place where the priestesses made their home. On a hunch, he whispered a prayer that would lead him to the nearest cave.
The cave turned out to be a slit in the hillside, screened by the flow of a stream that tumbled from above. The entrance, however, was protected by magic. Even from a distance, Szorak could feel its power. It produced a high, shrill note that grew in intensity the nearer he got to the cave. Try as he might, he could not get close enough to cancel it with his rod. Forcing himself in that direction made his ears pound until he thought they were going to burst.
He backed away, muttering dark curses. He would have to steal a soul from one of the dancers, instead. "A challenge, Masked Lord?" he muttered. His eyes gleamed. "I accept." He made his way back through the woods.
The shrine turned out to be a natural pillar of black rock, twice the height of a drow, carved with crescent moons. A sword hilt protruded from the top of it. The pillar had been bored through with holes, and the breeze passing through them created a sound like several flutes playing at once. The priestesses danced around the pillar in a loose circle, naked save for the belts that held their hunting horns and the holy symbols that hung around their necks. Each female had a sword which she held at arm's length as she twirled. Blade clashed against blade as the women spun together, then apart again, their swords trailing sparkles of silver light.
The dance might have been beautiful, had it not been a violation of the sacred order. Had Eilistraee not interfered, Vhaeraun might have united all of the dark elves under a single deity millennia ago, but Eilistraee had proved as greedy as Lolth and had stolen the females away from the Masked Lord's worship. She'd taught them to exclude males from her circle, to subjugate and revile them instead.
Vhaeraun's followers had learned a bitter lesson. Females could not be trusted.
Szorak watched long enough to determine that priestesses were joining and leaving the dance at what seemed to be random intervals. Though they danced in a group, there was no discernible pattern to their collective movements. Each female seemed to be following her own path. Satisfied, he altered his magical disguise, giving clothing the appearance of bare flesh. Then, holding his disguised rod like a sword, he danced into their midst.
The women, fooled by his disguise, made room for him. He kept to the fringes, both unwilling and unable to approach the holy pillar. It, like the cave where the women lived, was warded with magic that clenched his belly and made him feel as though he were about to vomit, but the rod in his hand dampened it enough to make it bearable. The excitement he felt at having penetrated their holy dance gave him a sharp thrill. Blood pounded through his body as he danced, leaving him flushed.
Spinning close to one of the dancing priestesses, he moved his rod like a sword. She, in turn, clanked her blade against it. The force of the blow numbed his fingers, but his rod, being metal, gave a convincing clang, meanwhile draining the sword of its magic. Quickly, he whispered a prayer.
Before the woman could spin away, he leaned in close to her ear and whispered a harsh command: "Follow."
It was a gamble. If the spell failed, he would have just given himself away as a male, since his voice remained undisguised, but the dice seemed to have rolled in his favor. There was no commotion behind him as he spun out of the dance and strode away into the forest. The priestess he had singled out followed wordlessly, meek as a rothe culled from the herd.
When they were some distance from the dance, he turned to face her. He was glad to see that she was drow and not one of those surface elves who stained their skin black. Killing one of those would be so much less satisfying.