Unless…

"Qilue," he mused aloud. "I think I've heard the name, but I can't quite place her House."

Rowaan supplied the name. "Veladorn."

Veladorn. It was not a House Q'arlynd recognized.

Leliana cocked her head. "Lady Qilue Veladorn, High Protector of the Song, and Right Hand of Eilistraee." She paused. "Sounding familiar yet?"

Q'arlynd spread his hands. "I'm new to all this, I'm afraid. Just a petitioner." He favored her with a boyish smile. "I'm sure I'll learn all of your honorifics and titles, in time." In fact, he had no intentions of any kind. He'd done what he'd intended by coming to the surface-gleaned everything he could from the priestesses. His sister was dead. That was the end of it. There was nothing further to be gained by pretending to be a petitioner.

He opened his mouth, intending to bid them farewell, grab Flinderspeld, and teleport back to the portal, when Rowaan picked up where Leliana left off. "Qilue is not only a high priestess of Eilistraee," she continued in an annoyingly helpful tone. "She's also one of the Seven Sisters."

Q'arlynd stared at her blankly. That title was obviously supposed to impress him, but he had no idea what Rowaan was talking about.

"She's one of the Chosen of Mystra," Rowaan continued.

She had his attention.

"Is that so?" he said in a soft voice. Most of the surface peoples' gods were of little interest-especially those worshiped by humans-but that was one name he recognized. "Mystra, goddess of magic? The one who tends the Weave and makes magic possible for all mortals?"

"I see you're familiar with her," Leliana said.

Q'arlynd gave an apologetic smile. "I'm a wizard," he told her. "My instructors at the Conservatory mentioned the goddess of magic, once or twice," He touched the pocket where he'd placed his sword-token. "But it's Eilistraee I'm petitioning."

"Well then," Leliana said, "in that case, we'd better get moving. The moor can be a dangerous place, home to marauding orcs and hobgoblins-even trolls. The sooner we get to the shrine, the better."

Q'arlynd bowed-it helped hide the gleam in his eyes. This Qilue person sounded powerful-a priestess and a mage both, and not just any mage but one of Mystra's "Chosen."

Now that was a matron mother Q'arlynd wouldn't mind serving.

"Will I…" He feigned boyish hesitation and tried to call a blush to his cheeks. "Will I meet Qilue once we get to the shrine?"

Leliana and Rowaan glanced at each other.

He molded his face into a pleading expression. "If I could hear from her own lips what happened to Halisstra-what she saw in her scrying-then perhaps…"

Rowaan nodded in sympathy. It was Leliana, however, who spoke. "I'll see if it can be arranged."

Q'arlynd bowed. "Thank you, Lady."

He smiled. Prellyn had been right. Eilistraee's faithful were entirely too trusting.

Deep in a little-frequented section of the forest of Cormanthor, the cleric Malvag cast his eye over the drow who had assembled inside the enormous hollow tree: nine males, all but one with faces hidden by black masks that left only their restless eyes visible. Most wore leather armor, dark as the cloaks that protected them from the winter chill. Their breath fogged below their masks as they eyed one another warily, wrist-crossbows and bracer-sheathed daggers prominently visible. Crowding into such a small space had made them uneasy, as Malvag had intended. The smell of nervous sweat blended with the earthy smell of long-since fallen leaves and the faint, slightly sweet scent of the poison that coated the heads of their crossbow bolts.

"Men of Jaelre," he said, greeting the five who had come from that House. All wore masks except their leader, a cripple with a brace of leather and iron encasing his left leg.

Malvag turned to the other four and inclined his head slightly. "And men of Auzkovyn. Dark deeds."

"Dark deeds," they murmured.

"You sent a shadow summons," the crippled male said. "Why?"

"Ah, Jezz. Always the first to come to the point," Malvag said. He looked at each man in turn, nodding as if silently counting them, then shrugged. "I sent the summons to several more of the faithful, but only you nine answered. Just as well-that's fewer to reap the rewards."

"What rewards?" one asked.

"Power," Malvag said. "Beyond anything you might ever have imagined. The ability to work arselu'tel'quess-high magic."

There was silence for several moments. Jezz broke it with a snort of barely contained laughter. "Everyone knows drow aren't capable of touching the Weave in that way, and even if we were, only wizards can work high magic. Clerics merely assist in their spells."

"Wrong!" Malvag said firmly. "On both counts. There are high magic spells designed for clerics-or rather, there were in ancient times. I have discovered a scroll, written by a priest of ancient Ilythiir, that bears one such prayer. If high magic was possible for our ssri Tel'Quessir ancestors, it can be possible for us."

"But we're drow," another of the males said.

"Indeed we are," Malvag said. He held up his hands and turned them back and forth, as if examining them. "But what is it that prevents us from working high magic? Our black skin? Our white hair?" He chuckled softly and lowered his hands. "Neither. It is simply that we lack the will." He glanced at each male in turn. "Who among you would not stab a fellow Nightshadow in the back, if there was something to be gained by it? We form alliances, but they are as tenuous and fleeting as faerie fire. In order to work high magic, we must forge something more lasting, a permanent bond between ourselves. We must set aside our suspicions and learn to work as one."

Again, Jezz gave a snort of derisive laughter. "Pretty words," he said, "but this is hardly the time for impossible alliances and grand schemes. In case you've forgotten, both House Jaelre and House Auzkovyn are fighting for our very survival. The army of Myth Drannor won't be happy until they've driven every last one of us below or into the arms of those dancing bitches-we've lost more than one of the faithful to Eilistraee in recent months. Then there's that thing that's been hunting us." He shook his head. "Lolth herself has taken an interest in both our Houses for some reason."

Malvag smiled beneath his mask. He'd counted on comments like that from the battle-scarred sorcerer, which was why he'd included Jezz in the summons. Jezz helped remind the others that things had come to a desperate pass. Those with their backs already against the wall, Malvag knew, were more easily persuaded to grasp at the "impossible."

"These are troubled times," Malvag agreed, his voice smooth as assassin's strangle silk, "but what better time to strike our enemies than when they least expect it? Instead of continuing to just skirmish, we'll hit back. Hard. With high magic. Vhaeraun himself will be our weapon."

Several of the men frowned. Jezz voiced the question that was no doubt foremost in their minds. "You hope to summon an avatar of the Masked Lord's to do battle for us?"

Malvag shook his head. "I wasn't speaking of his avatar. I was speaking of Vhaeraun himself."

Jezz laughed openly. "Let me guess. You're going to replicate the Time of Troubles and force Vhaeraun to walk Toril in physical form by using 'high magic.'" He rolled his eyes. "You're mad. You must think yourself the equal of Ao."

Malvag locked eyes with the cripple. "When did I ever mention a summoning-or Toril, for that matter?" he asked in a steely voice. He shook his head. "I have something entirely different in mind. The scroll I possess will enable us to open a gate between Vhaeraun's domain and that of another god. A back door, if you will, that the Masked Lord can use to sneak out of Ellaniath undetected."