Qilue didn't answer. Her lips pursed together as she composed a mental reply. She spoke a name aloud: "Cavatina." More silent communication followed.

The summons must have been urgent, indeed.

Laeral waited patiently for her sister to finish. As she waited, she stared at the buildings below. The City of Hope had been raised nearly three years ago by the same high magic that had scoured away ancient Miyeritar. The walled city was laid out like a wheel within a circular wall. Nine roads led from its central plaza to sentinel towers that stood watch over the High Moor. The tower on whose balcony they stood-an exact replica of Blackstaff Tower in Waterdeep-was one of several wizard's towers that had been raised on the night the city was forged. It was one of the most distinctive. Utterly black, forbiddingly stark, it had neither window nor door. Those who knew the passwords could slip through its walls like ghosts; all others were barred by its powerful wards.

Qilue had come to speak to Laeral about something that was troubling her: some fell magic that was originating from the area of Kiaransalee's chief temple. Laeral was no expert in the Dark Seldarine. She was only part-elf, "sister" to Qilue through the grace of Mystra alone, whereas Qilue was wholly drow. They were as different, each from the other, as day and night, Laeral with fair skin and emerald-green eyes, clad in an elegant gown, Qilue head and shoulders taller, with ankle-length white hair and skin the color of midnight, protected by a warrior-priestess's armor. Yet both were Chosen of Mystra, bound from their birth to serve the goddess of magic.

At last, Qilue turned. "One of our priestesses, missing these past two years, has been found."

Laeral smiled brightly. "Certainly that's good news?"

"I'm not sure," Qilue answered slowly. "I thought that coin had landed, but it seems it has been tossed in the air a second time and is spinning still. Whether it will be aid or betrayal this time is unclear."

Laeral frowned. Qilue could be annoyingly cryptic at times. "I'm not sure I follow you, sister."

"The priestess I spoke of was reclaimed by Lolth. Made unclean. The Spider Queen's webs cling to Halisstra still, causing her to stumble. There were deaths in the Shilmista-deaths that may have been by her hand."

"By 'her,' do you mean Lolth… or this priestess?"

Qilue sighed. "Both. Or perhaps neither-it is too soon to tell. Eilistraee permitted Halisstra to use one of the Moonspring's portals, after all. In any case, Cavatina has been warned."

"I see," Laeral said, even though she didn't. She steered the conversation back to its original course. "You said you wanted my help with that problem of yours-something to do with the Faerzress?"

Qilue nodded. "Faerzress are being augmented throughout the Underdark. Each day, the effect spreads farther and grows stronger. Just this morning, we saw the first glimmerings of it in the Promenade. Eilistraee willing, my priestesses will confirm the cause of it soon-and by sword and song, eliminate it. But should they fail, there will be dire consequences for the drow."

"How so?"

"The drow-alone of all of Toril's many races-will be prevented from casting divinations. Nor will they be able to utilize any spell or prayer to magically convey themselves from place to place. For now, this is impossible only in the Dark Wastes, and simply more difficult the farther afield one ventures from the effect's point of origin. But if the augmentation of Faerzress continues, such magic will be impossible for drow throughout the Underdark."

"Surely that bodes well for your crusade. Won't it be one more reason for your people to come up to the surface?"

"It would-except for one thing," Qilue said, a grim look in her eye. "Hand in hand with the augmentation of the Faerzress comes a second, unforeseen effect. We've noticed it at our settlements on the surface. In recent days, the drow who came up into the light have begun retreating from the World Above, finding excuses to make their way back to the Underdark. I've felt it myself-a subtle, lingering longing that makes me loath to leave the Promenade. These past few days I visited our shrines that lie closer to the source of the effect. The call I felt there to go below was strong. Curious to know more, I allowed it to guide my footsteps and followed it down into the Underdark. I found myself drawn to a cavern filled with Faerzress. Once there, I pressed myself against its walls, heedless of danger. I was a moth, drawn to a Faerzress flame."

Qilue shivered, despite the sunlight that warmed the tower's dark stone. "If this isn't stopped, we'll all be drawn below. Everything I've worked a lifetime for will be undone."

"Oh, sister," Laeral sighed. "That's terrible. But you said you've sent scouts to snoop around Kiaransalee's temple-the best warriors the Promenade has. Surely they'll put an end to this before it's…" She stopped, not wanting to say the words.

Qilue finished the sentence for her. "Too late?" Her jaw clenched. "Sister, that is my most fervent prayer."

"Tell me how I can help," Laeral said. "What would you have me do? Just name it, and it shall be done."

"I wish I knew," Qilue said. She stared out across the city-not at the city itself, but at the horizon. The High Moor was still flat and featureless, but some color had returned. Here and there were splotches of green and fall-red: young trees that had grown these past three years. That's what she loved about the surface. Its beauty was ever-changing, not frozen like the cold stone of the Underdark.

"I asked Eilistraee the same question myself," Qilue continued. "What would she have me do? The goddess's answer, however, puzzled me. 'It will end where it began,' Eilistraee replied. 'The High Moor.'" She turned to Laeral. "What that prophecy means, I cannot say. I thought you might have some idea, sister."

Laeral stood for several moments, lost in thought. Endings. Beginnings. "The City of Hope is an obvious 'beginning,' " she said. "As for an 'ending,' Faertlemiir, Miyeritar's City of High Magic, once stood here millennia ago, until it was laid waste by the killing storm. But that's surely something you've already thought of."

Qilue nodded.

"I'm sorry, sister. I have no answer for you. But I will think long and hard on it. I'll contact you at once if anything occurs to me."

"Thank you."

"In the meantime," Laeral said, "I'm curious. Is that the Crescent Blade at your hip? Did it really slay a demigod, as the ballads say?"

Instead of smiling, as Laeral had hoped, Qilue's expression grew closed and hard. Her right hand strayed to the hilt. She turned slightly away from Laeral, as if protective of the weapon. As if she half-expected Laeral to take the sword from her.

Then, like clouds rolling away from the sun, Qilue's expression cleared. "It is, indeed." She drew the sword and laid the flat of the blade across her palm, offering it up for Laeral to see.

Laeral noted the break in the blade. "It's been broken. And… mended."

"Yes, praise Eilistraee." Qilue's eyes glittered. "In Lolth's domain, no less. One day, it will slay the Spider Queen."

Laeral nodded. As Qilue' slid the sword back into its scabbard, she noticed something. "Your wrist: there's a cut there."

Once again, the guarded look returned to Qilue's eye. "A scratch, sister. Nothing more."

"Why didn't it heal?" Irritation flared in Qilue's eyes. "It's just a scratch."

Had it been anyone else, Laeral wouldn't have worried. But this was Qilue. Such a tiny wound should have healed in less than the blink of an eye.

But it might not be the best time to pursue the question, she thought.

Qilue was proud-perhaps the proudest of the Seven Sisters-and had chosen a difficult path. And it looked as though the work of bringing the drow 'up into the light' was going to increase in difficulty by a thousandfold, perhaps even become impossible. She had every right to be on edge, to grow irritated when "trivial" matters like the scratch on her wrist were pointed out to her.