He slipped a finger into his pocket, touching the master-and-slave rings. He could honestly say that he'd been forced to open the gate despite the geas, that he'd had no choice in the matter. Well, not until the end-but the high priestess didn't need to know that. If Q'arlynd chose his words carefully, she never would.

He slipped on something and scrabbled at the stone wall next to him for support. Looking down, he saw a smear of blood on the cavern floor. Someone had been hurt there. Badly hurt. Pushing himself away from the wall, he staggered on, still searching for a priestess. Where had they all gotten to?

Qilue would be angry, of course, when she learned that three priestess' souls had been consumed by the spell, but Q'arlynd had managed to bring back the "mask" that held the body and soul of the fourth priestess. That had to count for something, and opening the gate had all worked out for the best in the end. Vhaeraun was dead. If Q'arlynd chose his words carefully, perhaps the high priestess might reward him yet, and what a reward it would be. Qilue was, after all, a Chosen of Mystra. She must know spells that would rival high magic. If he could become her cons… her…

His mind stumbled. He couldn't find the word, nor could he see very well. The edges of his vision blurred and his stomach felt as if he'd swallowed hot coals. He tripped over something. A body. Looking down, he saw a blood-red robe and braided white hair. For one terrifying moment, he thought it was the judicator who had confronted him in the woods. Then he realized it was another Selvetargtlin. A very dead Selvetargtlin.

A pace or two away lay a scatter of bodies: males and females of various races, their bodies hacked to pieces. Lay worshipers from the temple. Kneeling beside them was a priestess. Q'arlynd fell to his knees beside her, shook her shoulder.

"Lady," he gasped. "Help me. Poison…"

The priestess fell over on her side, revealing a chest soaked in blood. She, too, was dead. Q'arlynd fumbled at the pendant that hung around her neck: the goddess's holy dagger. If he prayed, then maybe, just maybe…

He gasped as a hand touched his shoulder. He tried to turn but only managed to fall over onto his side next to the bodies. He stared up from the cold stone floor at a terrifying sight: an armored female, hair and body shrouded in sticky webs, holding in one hand a sword that fairly hummed with latent magic. One of Lolth's priestesses, he was certain. Weakly, he laughed. Of all the stupid luck…

The female laid her sword on the ground as she kneeled beside him. Cold metal touched Q'arlynd's cheek-a silver dagger. Why slit his throat? That was too quick, too clean for one of Lolth's priestesses. A prolonged flaying with a whip of fangs was more their style. Q'arlynd tried not to grimace as the pain roiling in his gut intensified. He wouldn't give her the pleasure of seeing how much he was already suffering.

"Eilistraee," he whispered, half-heartedly. As if the goddess would answer him.

"Eilistraee," the female above him repeated. "Heal him. Drive the poison from his body."

The pain was gone.

Q'arlynd sat up. He touched a hand to his healed cheek and shivered. He'd been within a heartbeat or two of death, but he was healthy again. Strong. He saw that it was a priestess of Eilistraee who had come to his aid, but not one he recognized. He stood, and bowed his thanks.

"Lady. To whom do I owe my rescue?"

"Cavatina Xarann," she said. "Darksong Knight."

Q'arlynd got a good look at her weapon as she picked it up again. The sword looked ancient and had a script running down its curved blade. Q'arlynd moved his fingers behind his back and pretended to cough, hiding a one-word divination. The blade's aura-visible only to him-nearly made him wince. That weapon was powerful. An artifact. With a start, he realized it must be the Crescent Blade.

The priestess glanced around. "What happened here?"

Q'arlynd shrugged. "I know as little as you do. I only just teleported here."

Coal-red eyes bored into his. "Only a priestess can do that."

Q'arlynd waved a hand, trying to appear nonchalant. "I know, I know-the wards and all that. Qilue herself taught me the song that would bypass them."

She lifted her sword slightly, a subtle threat. "Sing it now."

Q'arlynd did.

The Crescent Blade lowered. "It seems you are what you say. My apologies. I didn't ask your name. What is it?"

He bowed a second time. "Q'arlynd Melarn."

The priestess's eyes widened. No doubt she too had known his sister.

"I have to go," Q'arlynd said in an apologetic voice. "Urgent tidings to report. I must find Qilue." He lifted the mask. "I have to return this to her."

"Wait." Cavatina's voice cracked like a whip. Her hand gripped his shoulder tightly, and it fairly stank of spider. She stared off into the distance for a moment, then back at him, a hint of surprise in her expression. "It seems Qilue is expecting you. She's on her way here now."

Her brief touch had left strands of web on his piwafwi. Q'arlynd brushed them from his shoulder.

Cavatina smiled, and wiped away some of the web that clung to her own narrow face. She still kept an eye on him, but she'd relaxed slightly after talking to Qilue. "The offal of the Demonweb Pits," she said, pride in her voice. She grinned. "But I'd gladly wade through the stuff a second time, if the reward were the same."

She expected him to ask the question. He obliged her. "What reward?"

Her eyes glittered as she hefted the Crescent Blade. "I killed a deity today."

She waited, obviously expecting awe. She was proud. As vain as any matron mother. Q'arlynd couldn't resist.

"So did I," he said with a smile.

Cavatina listened as Halisstra's brother made his report. It was an incredible tale, if it could be believed. Three drow males, working high magic? Opening a gate that bridged the realms of Vhaeraun and Eilistraee?

She waited impatiently, anxious to make her own report. The wizard's tale was incredible and almost certainly untrue. It was woven, through and through, with boastfulness masquerading as modesty. He was acting as if he expected some sort of reward from Qilue. The high priestess, however, either missed his cues-or ignored them.

Which was just fine with Cavatina. She didn't like Q'arlynd. He was too deliberately self-depreciating in that smarmy way that males fresh out of the Underdark had.

She stood slightly behind Q'arlynd, where he wouldn't see her silent communication to Qilue: Remember the prophecy. His sister proved herself loyal. This must be the Melarn who will betray us.

Qilue gave her a brief glance. Q'arlynd's betrayal is already past, she sent back, communicating mind to mind. I expected as much from him. He will be redeemed yet.

The wizard was still talking. "It would appear, Lady Qilue, that Eilistraee has triumphed over the Masked Lord. Moments after the gate closed again, the magic of his clerics became corrupted. The spells they tried to cast were laced through and through with Eilistraee's moonfire. Upon seeing that and realizing it must be significant, I came back immediately to make my report." He held up the mask. "And to return this to you."

Q'arlynd looked at the high priestess expectantly, but Qilue merely nodded and took the mask from the wizard's hand. Her expression remained noncommittal.

The wizard's shoulders slumped slightly. Then they straightened again. "Lady," he said, bowing once more. "I must say that it gives me great joy that, despite my blunders-despite being killed and later enslaved-I was still able to serve Eilistraee." He bowed again and added, "and to serve you."

The silence stretched.

A short distance away, lay worshipers cleared away the dead. The bodies of the faithful were gently laid onto blankets and carried away, but the corpse of the Selvetargtlin was left where it lay. Later, it would be burned.