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"Enough about me," Q'arlynd said. "Now, about those spells…"

When you're ready. After a century or two of study, perhaps.

"Surely I don't need to wait so long! Aren't you forgetting something? I already cast high magic, once before."

When Eilistraee willed it, yes.

Q'arlynd clutched at that straw. "Well, doesn't she will it again? If Kiaransalee's Crones aren't defeated, Faerzress throughout the Underdark will become as potent as it was at the time of the Descent. Your descendants are going to be trapped, just as you were. Aryvandaar will win."

Righteous anger hit him like a physical blow. He reeled. Then a wordless song eclipsed the angry voices. So beautiful was it that Q'arlynd's eyes welled with tears. A memory flooded his mind: Halisstra, singing to him, healing him, that time he lay unconscious after the riding accident.

Halisstra had used bae'qeshel magic, rather than Eilistraee's hymn, but she had saved him just the same. Maybe the goddess had been watching over him even then, using Halisstra as a conduit to…

"That's it!" he gasped. He turned his attention to the spot where the chorus had come from. By concentrating intently, he could see a crowd. Dozens of people.

"Are you all mages?" he asked.

Mages, priestesses, warriors-for nearly three millennia the matrons and patrons of our House wore this lorestone.

"And the other kiira you spoke of-do they all contain the combined wisdom of mages and clerics as well?"

Of course.

"And each kiira is capable of casting the spell that stripped my memories when I wore the wrong lorestone?"

Yes.

Q'arlynd laughed with delight. "Then we still have a chance. Listen."

Swiftly, he outlined his idea.

That may be possible, the lorestone said when he was done. With Eilistraee's blessing. I know that it is possible to hand you the sword you seek. As to whether you can wield it…

"We have to at least try."

Yes.

As the voices of his ancestors faded, Q'arlynd became aware of his surroundings once more. Eldrinn was watching him intently, his eyes gleaming.

"We've got work ahead," Q'arlynd told him with a grim smile. "Kiaransalee is about to get a taste of her own poison."

*****

Cavatina gasped as her awareness returned to her body. A moment ago, she'd been drifting toward Eilistraee's sacred grove, weaving her way through the moonstone-hung boughs, her spirit dancing in time with a song whose beauty made her weep. Now she lay on her back on a cold stone floor, her throat tight and sore. Eilistraee's song had vanished, replaced by a ghastly wailing and the muffled rattle of bones.

A male bent over her, one hand resting lightly just above her left breast.

And she was naked.

"Karas," she growled. She was halfway to her feet, fists raised to fend him off, when she realized what he must have done. She lowered her hands and turned her motion into a bow. A little less gracefully than she would have liked, but a bow nonetheless. "You healed me?"

He nodded.

"Thank you."

Cavatina glanced around. They were in a small, cell-like chamber with stone walls and a single exit. The door was closed and barred with what looked like a femur. The walls bore ghastly murals, painted with what looked like dried blood. Shifting shadows screened the worst of it-Karas's doing, no doubt.

There was no point in asking what had happened. Cavatina remembered all too well the feel of the ghost's dagger plunging into her neck. "Where are we?" she asked, rubbing her throat.

"A distant corner of the Acropolis," Karas said in a low, cautious voice. "A chamber, now hallowed by the Masked Lady. But my prayer won't hold the Crones at bay for long. Even Cabrath-the spirit you slew-will rejuvenate eventually."

Cavatina's eyebrows rose. "You knew her?"

"I knew of her, when she was still alive. She was one of Kiaransalee's priestesses, back in Maerimydra. A mortal, then."

Cavatina let that go. She glanced around but didn't see her singing sword. "What about Leliana and the other Protectors?"

"Dead. I'm the only one who still lives. Even disguised, I could drag only one of you away." He pulled a small, silvered sword, hanging from a broken chain, out of his pocket. Her holy symbol. "I managed to retrieve this."

Cavatina took it. She held it to her chest and whispered a heartfelt prayer of thanks. "I'm surprised that…" She stopped herself just in time. She'd been about to question why he hadn't just skulked away from the Acropolis and saved himself-that would have been more in keeping for a Nightshadow, after all-then realized there was no point in stirring up old arguments.

He guessed her intent, despite her silence. "The Masked Lady commands, I obey."

Cavatina nodded her approval. He had a sense of duty. Perhaps she'd been wrong about the Nightshadows, after all. She'd learned a lot, in recent days.

"What do you suggest we do now?"

Karas seemed surprised she'd asked his advice. His eyes narrowed, as though he expected a trick. Then he shrugged. "We're outnumbered, probably a hundred to one. And that's just counting the Crones, all of whom will rise as revenants shortly after we kill them, if we don't take the time to permanently lay them to rest."

Cavatina tightened her grip on her holy symbol. "Then we'll make sure we do just that."

Karas shook his head. "There isn't time. The Crones are doing something with a voidstone. Something terrible."

From somewhere outside the room came a series of sharp cracks, followed by the sound of falling rubble. The ground trembled under Cavatina's feet. She heard a hail of thuds on the roof. White dust drifted down from the rafters, gritty as powdered bone.

Cavatina shook it from her hair. "Have you contacted Qilue?"

"She's not answering."

If it were true, it didn't bode well. Cavatina concentrated on the high priestess's face and said in an urgent voice, "Qilue?"

No reply came.

Karas gave her a flat, I-told-you-so stare.

"All right, then," Cavatina pushed that worry aside. It helped that she'd had a taste of what lay ahead. She wasn't afraid to die. Not anymore. "We'll carry the battle forward on our own. Do what we can to stop… whatever it is the Crones are up to."

She wound the chain of her holy symbol around her wrist and secured it. Then she glanced down at Karas. "Before we begin, I'll need you to disguise me." She smiled grimly. "Let's just hope I do as good a job of impersonating a Crone as you did at feigning paralysis, that time the revenant attacked us."

The corners of Karas's eyes slowly crinkled. He touched fingers to his mask and cast his spell.

As a gray robe cloaked her body and silver rings appeared on her fingers, Cavatina shuddered. She could feel her holy symbol against her wrist but couldn't see it. "Masked Lady," she whispered. "Forgive me this blasphemy."

She sensed Eilistraee's approval. Or, at least, her recognition that this was necessary.

Karas, also disguised as a Crone, eased open the door. Together, they crept outside.

The main part of the temple lay just around the corner. As soon as they rounded it, Cavatina's hopes sank. The flat space ahead was packed with Crones. They stood, side by side, chanting and waving ring-bedecked hands. In front of them was what remained of Kiaransalee's chief temple, reduced to rubble. Hovering above was a sphere of utter darkness: the voidstone Karas had spoken of earlier. Drifting above it, leading the Crones in prayer, was the spirit Cavatina thought she had slain.

Cavatina was shocked. It should have taken days for the ghost to rejuvenate. The voidstone must have accelerated the process.

Even as Cavatina and Karas watched, the sphere of blackness expanded. Within the voidstone, Cavatina saw shapes: a vast army of undead, jostling one another and prodding at the sphere from within. At the front of their ranks stood an enormous, undead minotaur, eyes blazing with unholy fire.