If they'd had solid bodies.
Emotion caught at Qilue's throat as she spun and whirled under the stars, realizing that she was looking upon the ghosts of the elves of Ardeep, moonwraiths risen in this hollow to join in the dance of Eilistraee. These great ladies who'd perished here in younger days, had somehow been called back this night to honor the dance of elven folk whose skins were black and hotly hated by living elves.
Qilue knew she was crying again, pouring out awe and sorrow and at the same time trying to hold to the thought that there might be peril. These spirits might be some sort of magic gathering itself to expel or destroy the drow who dared to dance where fairer elves had lived, laughed, and lain fallen beneath the damp, dark soil. Qilue watched, holding herself apart from the rap shy;ture enough to bear witness to anything that might befall here before dawn brought them down exhausted to earth, and any blundering human forester with a knife could have his pick of sprawled obsidian bodies-or slay them all with a score of ruthless thrusts.
Her sisters in faith had seen the dancing spirits now and were calling to each other, even weaving among the moonshades, peering to see ghostly faces the better and match gaits and grace with the fallen. Qilue let herself rise higher above the center of the glade, up to where arching branches reached in toward her, the better to see it all.
It seemed wondrous, a crowning grace on this night of mystery, and yet. . and yet. .
"Oh, Lady Mystra, curse me not with your misgiv shy;ings, your suspicions," she told the night air as she danced. "Let me be lost in holy Eilistraee this one night, unstained!"
She had one clear moment of nothing but dancing after that-before Reshresma screamed.
The song died in shattered notes, like a Sembian chandelier crashing onto a tiled floor. Amid its clangor the drow priestesses crashed to the earth, crumpled ferns making a crunching chorus. The light under the trees winked out, and the moonwraiths could be seen sinking slowly back down, like forlorn tongues of silver flame, into the darkness.
All but one of them: the one Reshresma had brushed against and found to be solid and real. The one her frantic slash of true sight, augmented by the power of all the dancing drow, had revealed to be no elf lady at all, but a human woman.
A human woman Qilue knew, who now stood calmly amid a hissing, tightening ring of furious drow, her bare skin curves of ivory among their darkness. Long silver hair played about the shoulders of the intruder, as if with a life of its own. She stood gravely watching the sharp nails of the drow women close in on her. Those nails would tear away her very life, if Qilue did nothing. A little coldness deep within her wanted to do nothing but watch the slaughter.
The high priestess of Eilistraee ducked her head down and drew in a deep, shuddering breath. "Forgive me my weakness, goddesses both," she whispered hoarsely, then called on the power of the Ladystone.
A bright bolt of force flowed out of her, shocking the faithful into turning to face her. Into the stillness she'd thus created, Qilue said softly, "For shame, sisters, to turn the glory we have felt here this night to anger and violence. I had thought we were followers of Eilis shy;traee, not Vhaeraun the Sly Savage or Lolth the Tyrant Poisoner. . nor had I hitherto detected any leanings in you toward Tempus the Butcher, or any of the other blood-drenched human gods. Now be still, and be ashamed, until we can uncover the truth of this intrusion. Has not the Holy Lady of the Dance shown us wonders in plenty this night? Who among us is wise enough to say, before we look and learn, that this is not another such, sent to us in divine purpose?"
Without a murmur her priestesses fell back. First one, then another went to her knees, leaving the human standing alone at the center of their ring.
Qilue strode forward to meet her and said, "Sister Dove, this coming was not well timed."
Dove Falconhand inclined her head gravely. "I blun shy;der to you because I have blundered already, elsewhere, and need your aid." She looked around at the black, glaring faces upturned to hers and added, "I cry apol shy;ogy to all here, and holy Eilistraee, too, if I have offended. I did not mean to mock holy observances."
"Did not mean to mock?" one of the faithful snarled. "And yet you came dancing among us?"
"I love to dance," Dove said simply, "and have few enough chances to do so."
There were murmurs-some of them of grudging approval, or at least understanding-at those words, then several voices rose at once in fresh anger, and Qilue snapped, "Be still, sisters! You rage at intrusion, then shout and snarl in the very glade where we wor shy;ship? Thus, then, do you revere the Holy Lady?"
In the moment of stillness that followed, Dove said gently, "I would have peace between us. How may I achieve it?"
There were stirrings, and urgent faces turned to Qilue, but none quite dared gainsay the fresh command of the high priestess. It was left to her alone to say, "I will be able to give answer to that when I know why you've come. Seeking me, so much is obvious, but what aid of mine do you seek?"
Before Dove could reply, one of the kneeling priest shy;esses spat, "Qilue! How can you even entertain a request from a human? It gives her control over you-a human hand upon the holy power bestowed by divine Eilistraee! How can you sin so?"
The air was very still, yet it sang in their ears, as every kneeling dark elf in the glade strained to hear the slightest sound their high priestess might make in reply.
Qilue turned her head, looked down sadly at the panting, almost sobbing priestess, and said, "Veltheera, did you learn nothing from that time a wizard of Waterdeep burst in on our dance? I am Eilistraee's, and yet I am also Mystra's, seventh of the Seven Sisters."
She took a pace forward, and seemed taller, and darker.
"And know this, all of you," she continued, "I take orders from none of the Seven, nor they from me. Dove has come to beg a favor of me-and you want to slay her for it. I ask again: is it our Holy Lady of the Dance you serve, or a darker, bloodier god?"
In the silence that followed her words, Qilue made a soft blue flame of moonlight rise from her palm, and over its flickering light said in quieter, almost casual tones, "So, Dove, what's befallen?"
Dove drew in a deep breath, looked around at the kneeling priestesses, and said, "I've come from the human city of Scornubel, five days' ride or so south and east of here. It is a place of caravans, always a little lawless. . and now home to many, many drow. These dark elves are wearing human spell-guises, and acting at-practicing-being human. I need to know why, and what's become of the humans whose shapes they wear, and what their intentions are. . and to do that prop shy;erly, without a lot of bloodshed, I need a drow to do it."
"And what is that to us, human," another priestess spat, "if some surface city is taken over by our kind? Are not dark elves worthy of even a tiny corner of the sunlight? You dare to call on the holiest among us to come running at your behest, to snoop and spy? Tell me, human, by what twisted thoughts do you conclude that we might, just possibly, be deluded into aiding you?"