The vampire ducked back quickly. His identity as an unholy thing would be revealed the moment Raylen began speaking sacred words. Without another word, he turned and fled, racing down the green, grassy hill toward the grove. He slowed as he approached, fear rising up to choke him.

"Please," was all he said as he stepped forward.

And winced in pain as he encountered the invisible barrier that weakened him at once, the intangible but very real obstruction that prevented evil things from entering sacred space. He stared at the place that only a few minutes ago had been a goddess-granted sanctuary. His gray eyes roamed hungrily over the boulder upon which he had sat, the half-finished carving that had fallen from his hands and now lay quietly on the cool grass.

Jander half-hoped Eldath would appear, so that he could speak with her, plead his case. But she did not, and as the long moments crept past, resignation slowly replaced grief in his heart.

He could have made no other choice. He knew that he could no more sit by and watch an innocent friend be murdered than he could become a priest himself. Had he done so, the grove would have been tainted by his cowardice. He would have grown to loathe it, as he loathed himself; and one day, as surely as the seasons turn, he would have left the quiet place with more bitterness in his heart than he felt at this moment.

Deliberately, Jander turned away and began to walk. Where, he did not know. Perhaps to Waterdeep, his original destination. The gods had tried to offer respite, but fate and Jander's own remnants of goodness had foiled that attempt at peace.

The acrid scent of smoke still filled his nostrils as he forced a deliberate breath; but there were no more leaping flames. The injured would be tended, the destruction repaired. Life would go on as usual in the abbey-and at least some small part of that was due to his actions.

His heart lifted slightly. Alone, friendless, with no hope offered and none to dream of, the elven vampire walked toward the east, a smile playing on his lips even as darkness and death haunted his footsteps.

He had done the right thing. And in the end, when all the scores were tallied and all the chips of fate put away, that deeper peace would be worth all the quiet places in the world.

Ed Greenwood

Ambreene glanced irritably out the window as she hurried along the Hall of Clouds behind the politely insistent seneschal. Why did Grandmama Teshla want to see her just now?

The deliriously cool breeze that slid around Hawkwinter House was dying away. Waterdeep would soon be cloaked in a damp, clinging haze that played Tymora's happy dance with lightning spells… Even if all the household slept, she'd dare not conjure a single spark. Awkward, unpracticed casting was all she could manage.

Another tenday would pass in endless palace promenades; dull tutoring sessions on the honorable and very long history of the Hawkwinters; and idle chatter with the empty-skulled high ladies who were her sisters' friends-if such a cold-hearted, scheming, petty lot of cat's claws could truly be deemed the friends of anyone. Another tenday would pass in which Ambreene Hawk-winter-one more society beauty in a city that teemed with superior young she-nobles-would work no magic of consequence.

Ambreene scowled at herself in a mirror as she hurried past. It would be so easy to just give in. She could banish to memory her secret sessions of sweating concentration and fearfully hissed spells, and just idle her days away, drifting inevitably into the boredom of marriage to the favorite lout, dandy, or stonehead of some noble family favored by the Hawkwinters. So gods-be-damnably easy. She tossed her head and glared at a startled servant as they turned into Teshla's Tower and began to climb the spiral stairs to the rooms Grandmama Hawkwinter never left.

That ease is why it must never happen, she vowed silently. I'll not become another wisp-headed cat's claw. I'll see Hawkwinter House hurled down into its own cesspools first!

The seneschal came to the door at the end of the worn red shimmerweave carpet and rang the graceful spiral of brass chimes that hung beside it. Unlatching the heavy door, he swung it wide, stepping smoothly back to usher Ambreene within.

The youngest daughter of the Hawkwinters strode past him with the absently confident air that made the servants privately call her the Little Lady Queen of All Waterdeep. She walked into the dim, quiet apartments that were all the kingdom the once-mighty dowager Lady Hawkwinter had left.

Priceless glowstone sculptures drifted in slow dances as she passed. Enchanted, shimmering paintings of flying elven hunts and dancing lords and ladies flourished their endless animations. A fascinated Ambreene was a good twenty paces into the luxurious chamber when she realized she was alone. There was no trace of the three elderly chamberladies who always lounged by the central bedchamber stair, waiting to be summoned up into Teshla's presence. Ambreene glided to a graceful halt amid the empty lounges, uncertain what to do.

An eye winked open in the smooth ivory sphere adorning one bottom stairpost, and a mouth appeared in the other, speaking in the familiar dry, waspish tones of Grandmama Teshla. "Come up, girl; I've not much time left."

A little chill arose inside Ambreene at that calm state ment. Obediently she set foot on the curving stair. It was the summons she'd dreaded, come at last. She gathered her skirts and mounted the steps in haste.

She should have visited Grandmama more often, and stayed longer, despite the watchful, overscented old chamberladies with their vague, condescending comments and endless bright, cultured, empty phrases about the weather. She should have told Lady Teshla-who'd dabbled in dark and daring magic in her younger days, they said-about her own fumbling attempts to master magic. She should have…

Ambreene reached the head of the stairs and came to a shocked halt. Grandmama was quite alone, lying propped up on her pillows in bed. She must have sent the servants away and unbound her hair herself.

A soft-hued driftglobe hovered above the bed, and Ambreene could see that Lady Teshla was wearing a black robe whose arms were writhing, leaping flames of red silk-robes better suited to an evil seductress than the matron of one of the oldest, proudest houses in all Waterdeep. She looked dangerous, and the glint in her old, knowing eyes made that impression even stronger.

Ambreene swallowed. "Grandmama, I came as qui-"

"Quickly enough, it seems," the dry voice said, with just a hint of weariness. "I breathe yet. Stand not there quivering like an unschooled courtesan, girl, but come and give me a kiss-or you may yet be too late."

Numbly, Ambreene did as she was bid. The old arms trembled as they went around her, but the lips were as firm and imperious as ever. Ambreene looked into the black, bottomless pools of Grandmama's eyes-a falcon's eyes, her father had once called them-and said, "Grandmama, there's something I must tell you. I've been trying to-"

"Weave a few spells," Lady Teshla finished the sentence almost impatiently. "Do you think I don't know this, girl? What way does my favorite window face, now?"

Toward Ambreene's own bedchamber windows, of course, but…

"I'm glad you used the word 'trying.' A right mess you made of the darkshadow cloak," Teshla said dryly. "But you have all the grand gestures right, girl. Some young blade'll quake in his boots if he ever tries too much at a dance and you hurl the pig-face curse his way!"

Ambreene flushed in embarrassment-how had Grand-mama, shut in this dim tower, seen that? She was sure she'd managed to restore the old war hound's rightful looks before his frightened yelps had…