"Go on," he told it, making shooing motions. "Run along now. You're free."

The goblin's head puckered in a frown that pulled its ears closer to its beady eyes. "Free?" it squeaked.

"Yes, free," Q'arlynd repeated, already regretting this. He flicked a finger and spoke a one-word spell that hurled a pebble at the creature. "Go!"

The goblin cringed.

Muttering at its stupidity, Q'arlynd teleported back to the city.

After he was gone, faerie fire puddled on the floor where he'd been standing, bathing the cavern in a pale violet light.

The goblin sniffed at the glow. Then it scurried away.

Cavatina touched her fingers and thumbs together to form Eilistraee's sacred moon, and bowed. "Lady Qilue. You sent for me?"

"Cavatina. My thanks. For coming so quickly." The high priestess levitated near the ceiling of the Hall of Swords, a large chamber in the Promenade where the Protectors of the Song honed their skills. She was naked, her ankle-length silver hair whirling like a wind-blown skirt around her as she spun in place. Motes of moonfire filled the air around her, shining with the many colors of the changing moon: blue-white, dusky yellow-orange, and harvest red reflected by the curved blade of the sword she danced with. The Crescent Blade.

Cavatina felt a pang of longing for the weapon. Her right hand clenched as she remembered its perfect heft, and how its leather-wrapped hilt had warmed in her palm.

"I have a mission for you. One that will require… your renown." The high priestess continued to dance as she spoke, her breathing rapid. Yet her voice betrayed no hint of weariness. Qilue' had been performing the dance of attunement without pause for nine days and nine nights, according to the priestess who had greeted Cavatina upon her arrival at the Promenade. Yet the silver fire that flowed within her sustained her body. Aside from a sheen of sweat, the high priestess looked as strong as if she had only just begun her dance.

Qilue spun with the sword balanced atop her head, the midpoint of the blade lying flat against her silver tresses. A toss of her head sent it spinning into the air. She "caught" it on one arm, spun the weapon in a fast blur around her arm from wrist to elbow, then flicked it to her other arm and repeated the motion. A thrust of that arm sent it spinning into the air; it sailed toward the ceiling, slowed, then fell.

Cavatina gasped as the weapon whistled down, point first, at Qilue's upturned face. The high priestess twisted aside at the last moment and caught the hilt between her bare feet. A kick transferred the sword back into her hand.

"I am assembling a force," Qilue said as she shadow fenced with the weapon, "and sending it north. You will lead it. Six Protectors…"

The sword flashed in a high arc. Qilue caught it, point-first, between finger and thumb, and flipped the hilt into her hand.

"… and six Nightshadows."

Cavatina's nostrils flared. "Nightshadows," she muttered.

"Do not denigrate them," Qilue admonished. "They are weapons. Finely honed. Eilistraee has embraced them. So must you."

Cavatina lowered her eyes. "My apologies, Lady Qilue."

She hadn't intended her comment to be heard. She knew she was being honored. The mission must be an important one if Protectors were being sent. The singing swords they carried left the temple only in times of dire need. Like the time, nearly two years ago, when Cavatina had been sent into the Demonweb Pits to recover the Crescent Blade, armed with the singing sword that now hung at her hip.

"Our objective?" she asked.

"The time has come." Qilue set the Crescent Blade spinning around her wrist. "To take on a foe. One that is equal. To Selvetarm." She stared down at Cavatina through the blur of the whirling blade. "Kiaransalee."

Cavatina drew in a sharp breath. Excitement flooded her body, making her giddy. "Am I to slay the Goddess of Death?"

"No. Throwing down her temple…" Qilue transferred the whirring blade to her other wrist. "… should be sufficient."

"Her temple," Cavatina echoed, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice.

Qilue tossed the Crescent Blade into the air. "Surrounded by an army of undead. Hundreds. Perhaps thousands."

Cavatina's eyes widened as she realized what the destination must be. "The Acropolis?"

"Yes."

"Why such a small force? Six Protectors is hardly enough to-"

"And six Nightshadows. An even dozen. Of our best."

Cavatina took a deep breath. "That's small, for a crusade."

"Not a crusade." Qilue caught the sword, held it above her in both hands, and spun from it as if dangling from a twisting rope. "An assassination. Hence…" She spun faster, until the curved blade described a blurred oval in the air. "… the Nightshadows."

"An assassination?" The word felt as wrong in Cavatina's mouth as a lump of sickstone. It suggested poison, a garrote around the throat. She preferred to meet her foes honorably. Face to face, with blade in hand.

"Think of it as a hunt," Qilue said. She slapped one arm to her side and halted, letting the Crescent Blade spiral down her upraised arm. "You are to kill the head priestess. Cut off the head," she said, as the weapon whirled past her face, "… and the temple will fall."

The weapon spun around her neck. Her hand slapped against the hilt, jerking the sword to a halt. The edge of the curved blade rested against her throat, unsettlingly reminiscent of a scythe poised against a stalk of wheat.

Even more disturbing was the thin line of blood that trickled down Qilue's wrist.

That shouldn't have happened.

Cavatina knew that first-hand; her mother had been a sword dancer. Jetel Xarann had prided herself on never-not once-being cut by the blades she danced with. Qilue was far more skilled, the high priestess of her faith. Yet she seemed not to have noticed an error that could have cost her a hand.

Now that the Crescent Blade had been stilled, Cavatina could see the spot where its two halves had been fused together again, and the silvered inscription that was interrupted at that place: "Be your heart filled with light and your cause be true, I shall n- fail you."

The Crescent Blade nearly had failed Cavatina. Only with Halisstra's help had she been able to prevail against Selvetarm. Now she wondered: when the time came for Qilue to wield it against Lolth, who would come to her aid?

"… depart two nights from now, when the moon rises." Qilue was saying. "Our new battlemistress will tell you everything you need to know."

Cavatina was startled to realize that the high priestess had dismissed her. Qilue continued to dance, her eyes staring into the distance and her head cocked slightly, as though she were listening to a faint voice: the sword, whispering to her. Cavatina yearned to hear it too.

Qilue glanced sharply down at Cavatina. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing," Cavatina said quickly. "Two nights from now, at moonrise. I'll be ready."

Master Seldszar sat cross-legged on a raised stone platform, cushioned by his meditation mat. At least two dozen crystal spheres no larger than pebbles orbited his head. Most were clear and contained a miniaturized image of a person or place the Master of Divination monitored, but one, Q'arlynd knew, could detect falsehoods spoken in the master's presence.

Even though Master Seldszar listened to Miverra speak, his glance kept drifting back to the crystals. Pale green faerie fire burst from his forehead and drifted toward them, fading just before it touched the spheres.

The master's eyes were pale yellow; rumor had it he'd had them replaced, decades ago, with the eyes of an eagle. His hair, too, tended toward yellow. It matched his piwafwi, which was embroidered, in black, with numerous eyes: the symbol of his college. The garment was magical, and the direction in which each embroidered eye seemed to be looking constantly shifted.