In recent months, she'd stepped up the tempo. Sometimes she "forgot," until it was almost too late, to drink the holy water that held Wendonai at bay. This gave the balor the illusion he was gradually wearing down her defenses, one cloven-hoofed step at a time. Two steps forward, one back. One step forward, two back. All part of the dance that would lead him exactly where she wanted him.

A dangerous gamble-one that might cost her the Promenade. But a necessary one, if the dhaerrow were to be led back into the light.

The Crescent Blade would be the key.

Ironically, Wendonai had given her the idea, when he'd derided her crusade as "futile." For each drow redeemed and brought up into Eilistraee's light, he'd gloated, a dozen were born with his taint. For every step Qilue led the drow forward, Wendonai yanked them twelve steps back.

The balor's taint ran constant and deep in the drow, in every one with even a drop of Ilythiiri blood in their veins. The only way they could be led out of this dark pall was through redemption-and redemption was something that took courage and strength. The very taint they needed to struggle against and overcome was what seduced most drow into choosing a less morally challenging, more "rewarding" path. They wound up, like flies, caught in Lolth's vast web. Even if they somehow managed to escape or avoid this, more often than not it was only through seeking out alliances with other, even more loathsome deities, like Ghaunadaur.

Qilue had experienced this taint, herself. After her failure to attune the Crescent Blade and drive the evil from it, the cut on her wrist had allowed the demon to slowly worm its way into her. She had been on the verge of purging his taint-a simple matter of releasing Mystra's silver fire within her body, rather than without-when she'd realized something. If she could somehow draw all of Wendonai's taint into herself she would, in the process, remove it from every drow on Toril. Then she could burn herself clean in one blinding flash of silver fire. She could set the drow free to choose a better path-to be led into Eilistraee's dance.

Qilue herself would likely be consumed in the process, her very soul reduced to ash by the incineration of so much evil, so much guilt, so much hatred. But the Crescent Blade would remain. Someone else-Cavatina, most likely-would carry on Eilistraee's work. Be named high priestess in Qilue's stead, take up the Crescent Blade, and kill Lolth.

Qilue sighed. She had the lancet she needed for the blooding that was to come: the Crescent Blade. She even knew the one place, on all of Toril, where it could be done; Eilistraee had revealed its location to her. But she wasn't quite ready, yet, to set her plan in motion. There always seemed to be something else that needed doing first. Q'arlynd, for example, was on the verge of attempting his casting, and would soon require her assistance. And within the Promenade itself, there were a dozen other things to tend to.

Like finding Rylla, and silencing her.

Perhaps, Qilue decided, she could flush the battle-mistress out. An "attack" by Ghaunadaur's cultists should do just that.

She sang the word that would make her symbol visible. A second song dispelled the locks she'd placed on the doors of the chamber that held the glyph-inscribed portal. Then she sent out a silent message to her spies. It is time to begin the dance. Are you ready?

Their answers came like a spatter of rain, the words overlapping each other. Some of the Nightshadows sounded eager, others tense. Two didn't answer at all. Perhaps they were dead. She prayed their souls had found their way to the Masked Lady's domain. Karas assured her he would be able to bring his group through. Qilue smiled. That should bring Rylla running.

Begin, then, she replied. And may Eilistraee guide your steps.

That done, Qilue turned down the corridor that would take her to the river-the corridor that wound past the Moonspring Portal. The Protector guarding the magical pool saluted as she passed.

"Have you seen Rylla?" Qilue asked.

"No, Lady."

She's lying.

Qilue whirled. "Liar! She used the portal, didn't she?"

The Protector's face paled to gray. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

Qilue felt the blood drain from her own face. She hadn't meant to say that aloud. "My apologies, priestess. I was answering a sending from someone else."

It wasn't much of an excuse, but it seemed to satisfy the Protector, who nodded and stiffly resumed her post.

Qilue kneeled and sang a scrying, passing her hand over the pool. She smiled as it revealed Rylla. Qilue's smile vanished abruptly as she recognized the chamber Rylla was standing in. The battle-mistress hadn't used the Moonspring Portal, after all. She was still within the Promenade-in the last place Qilue had expected to find her: the chamber that contained the trap for Ghaunadaur's cultists!

Even as Qilue watched, the battle-mistress dispelled the symbol Horaldin had inscribed. Now she began a prayer-one that would seal the portal Qilue had so painstakingly created!

"No!" Qilue cried. She couldn't let that happen. Not now, with the first wave of Ghaunadaur's minions about to come through.

She sang a hymn that instantly conveyed her to the chamber along a beam of moonlight. Her boots slipped as she landed; the floor was ankle-deep in water. Rylla whirled, her prayer interrupted. "Qilue!" Is it you? she sent.

It would have been a clever ploy-had Wendonai not been able to listen in on Qilue's private conversations.

She thinks I'm controlling you.

You're not.

Not yet.

Be silent! Qilue shook her head. Rylla. She needed to concentrate on the battle-mistress. "Of course it's me. What are you doing?" Rylla hadn't tried to banish Wendonai yet. Perhaps she didn't know.

"Making sure everything's sealed up tight-as you ordered. There's a portal in this room that shouldn't be here." She began her prayer anew.

"Stop that!" Qilue cried. She sang a note into the shout that fused Rylla's fingers together, preventing her from completing the gesture that would seal the portal. "I created that portal. It leads to a trap. One that's about to be sprung. Go and find Horaldin-I need him to recast his enchantment! Now!"

Rylla turned. She was terrified-Qilue could smell the other female's fear-and her voice quavered. "Horaldin's dead."

She's lying. Trying to confuse you.

"What?" Qilue rubbed her wrist. "No, he's not. I just spoke to him." In fact, she'd just placed a geas on him: one that would compel him not to communicate with anyone-not by speech, nor spell, nor written word-until she gave him leave. She'd sealed the geas by drawing a line across his throat. The instant he tried to speak, he'd be wracked by a fit of violent coughing.

Coughing blood.

Qilue blinked, startled. Where had that thought come from?

"You cut his throat," Rylla said. "Decapitated him." She glanced, pointedly, at the Crescent Blade.

Qilue's eyes were drawn to the sword. To the blood on it.

She's trying to trick you. That's your blood. Your cut is leaking again.

Qilue lifted her arm.

Rylla tensed, her fused fingers gripping her holy symbol.

Qilue yanked her bracer up. She stared at the cut on her wrist. No-not a cut. A scar. Old and gray.

It wasn't her blood on the blade.

You had to do it. You had no choice. He would have ruined everything!

"He would have ruined everything," Qilue whispered. Her head was pounding. She felt a slight pressure against her calves and realized the water in the room was rising. Was the river overflowing? She glanced over her shoulder. No, the door behind her was shut. The water inside the chamber was expanding. And swiftly. As it topped her boots and spilled inside them, she felt sensation return to her feet. She hadn't realized, until this moment, that they'd been numb, nearly dead. They'd felt heavy, lumpish, hard…