And if it isn't?

The male was replaced by the female who had spoken when Q'arlynd first placed the kiira on his forehead. I am disappointed in you, grandson, she intoned. I would have expected more of someone who had sworn himself to the Lady.

Q'arlynd glanced down at his wrist-at the House insignia that adorned his bracer. The glyph it bore was no mere stick figure. It was, just as Zarifar had observed, the figure of a dancing female.

Eilistraee.

Q'arlynd swore softly, "Mother's blood."

The male returned. Indeed, grandson. It flows in your veins-and in the veins of all who can trace their ancestry back through bloodlines that are of pure Miyeritari descent. I suspect there are few of us, now-fewer with each generation. The Ilythiiri will have mixed their bloodlines with ours, producing yet more offspring who bear the demon's taint. But I am glad to hear that some of us continue to serve the goddess. Some of us remember her and keep the faith.

Both voices spoke together. Male and female, backed up by a chorus of dozens more. That is why this lorestone, and others like it, were placed here. Because we knew that, some day, the goddess might guide the footsteps of someone who would be able to hear us.

"Me," Q'arlynd whispered.

Yes.

He touched a finger to his forehead. "But why did you strip me of my memories, the first time I wore you?"

That was a different selu'kiira. Because you were not of its House, its embodied sentiences stripped you of all memory of it and forced you to return it to this place. They did the same to the boy. He was of the correct House but not wholly worthy of wearing that selu'kiira. He is fortunate that some dark elf blood, at least, flows in his veins. Else he would have died the instant it touched his mind.

"Just as the chitines did?"

He felt their disapproval and overheard a snatch of conversation.

… certain he is Miyeritari?

He is.

"So…" Q'arlynd glanced at Kraanfhaor's Door. By concentrating, he could just make it out. "There are more kiira in there?"

Dozens. One from each House whose patriarch or matriarch survived the Killing Storm.

He touched his forehead. "And since I'm a Melarn-a pure descendant of your House-you'll teach me high magic?"

When you're ready to wield arselu'tel'quess, then yes.

"What must I do to prepare?"

Learn to trust.

"Done." Q'arlynd waved a hand in the direction of his apprentices. "You can see the proof. I brought them along to share in whatever knowledge I might glean."

Is that why three of them still stand bound by your magic?

"I had to. Piri-"

You placed that enchantment into the rings long before that.

"Yes, but the point remains that Piri-"

What did you expect of someone who bonded with a demon? the male chided.

You cannot fault Q'arlynd for trying, the female interjected. The yearning for companionship, for family, comes instinctively to him. It was only the cruelties he suffered as a child that beat it into dormancy. There is a kindness in him still.

Q'arlynd bristled. They seemed to be implying that he was the equivalent of a surface elf, soft and weak. Not a true drow at all.

Your skin may be black, but you're no dhaerow, the female said. She gave the word its original meaning: traitor. A spark of moonlight flickers within your heart. The dhaerow did their best to extinguish it, but it dances there still.

That sounded just like something Qilue had once said.

"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."