difference between a lowly light pellet and an artifact. Magical items were all the same to them-raw energy, waiting to be consumed.
Qilue had hoped to find clues in the reports of either the Darksong Knight or the novice Thaleste, but none had presented themselves in either priestess's account.
The whole episode was deeply troubling, and it wasn't the only bad news Qilue had received lately. Another of Eilistraee's enemies, it seemed, had also become active.
Four nights ago, one of Vhaeraun's assassins had infiltrated the shrine at Lake Sember. One priestess and two lay worshipers had been killed before the assassin had been driven off. This came at a time when the drow Houses of Cormanthor should have been fully engaged in their war against the levees of the newly reclaimed Myth Drannor. Why, in the midst of their battle with a powerful adversary, would the Masked Lord's priests have turned their attention to Eilistraee's shrine? Hopefully, Iljrene's spy would be able to turn up some answers, but for the moment, Qilue was baffled.
There were other murmurs of trouble. In the north, an evil that had been laid to rest three years ago had seemingly resurfaced. In the Year of Wild Magic, when Kiaransalee's followers had taken over Maerimydra, they'd torn a terrible hole in the Weave. The corruption had spread from that city to the surface realms before they had been defeated. Pockets of corrupted magic still dotted the Dales. Though the priestess responsible for it had been defeated, there were indications that at least one of the high-ranking Crones who served her might have survived. The handful of Eilistraee's priestesses who ministered to the drow of the distant north had heard tales from the survivors of undead rallying around a ghostly Crone whose wailing keen was capable of slaying scores of drow at one go. Once slain they were added to her ghastly ranks. The tales were obviously an exaggeration, but the region would have to be watched carefully. If further disruptions in the Weave arose, Qilue would be forced to respond.
Finally, from far to the south came troubling news that the cult of Ghaunadaur in Lurth Drier was becoming increasingly active. No longer content to prey upon each other, the drow of that Underdark city had burst onto the surface like an ugly boil, not far from Eilistraee's temples in the Shaar and the Chondalwood. Something had caused them to set aside their relentless feuding and act as a cohesive force. Qilue prayed that an avatar of Ghaunadaur had not arisen there. If so, she would be forced to lead a contingent of priestesses south to drive it back below-a crusade that would seriously deplete the resources of the Promenade.
The only one of Eilistraee's enemies not currently active, it seemed, was Lolth. Indeed, the Spider Queen's worshipers had not shown themselves in some time. That in itself was suspicious. Lolth, still and silent, was probably waiting patiently for the best moment to strike, while others did the work of tangling Eilistraee's faithful in a web of conflict.
The Darksong Knight had concluded her report and was standing in silence, waiting for Qilue's response.
'Walk with me,' Qilue told her.
They had just returned from an inspection of the caverns where the aranea's attack took place, and stood on the southern bank of the underground river that flowed past the Promenade at a spot where a recently constructed bridge arched high above the river. The original bridge had fallen into the river more than a century ago, but Qilue could still remember how it had looked when she fought her way across it with the companions who had helped her defeat Ghaunadaur's avatar. The oozes and slimes had reduced its stone steps to rounded humps, making the footing treacherous. Ch'arla, one of Qilue's childhood companions, had died, songsword in hand, at the very spot Qilue and Cavatina approached. The death had been a terrible blow, but Ch'arla's soul danced with Eilistraee. All pain was behind her.
Pride welled in Qilue as she walked across the rebuilt bridge and considered the fruits that two decades of labor had produced. The Promenade was a place of beauty and tranquility, hewn from the depths of the Underdark. A place that had once held nothing but madness and despair had been made sacred and filled with folk made whole through Eilistraee's grace. Every time she visited the Promenade, it brought a fierce ache to her heart and the sting of tears to the corners of her eyes. The sacrifices of so many centuries ago had been worth it, every last one of them.
Below the bridge, the temple's lay worshipers worked the river, hauling in fine-meshed nets filled with white, wriggling blindfish no longer than a finger. Others, baskets slung at their hips, collected lizard eggs and ripplebark fungus from the fissures that lined the cavern walls. Most were drow, converts from cities scattered throughout the Underdark, but there were also many who had been rescued from Skullport's slave ships: surface elves, dwarves, humans-even the occasional halfling-who had turned to the goddess as a result. One of them, a stocky half-drow with bristly hair and protruding fangs that betrayed his orc father's parentage, paused in his labors and made the sign of Eilistraee as Qilue and Cavatina passed him, touching forefinger to forefinger and thumb to thumb to form a circle representing the full moon.
Qilue acknowledged Jub with a nod and murmured blessing. His eyes lingered on her, a fawning expression on his face. Qilue secretly smiled. Even the most unlikely of worshipers were welcome there.
The Promenade comprised five main caverns that had once been part of the Sargauth Enclave, an outpost of fallen Netheril. The ancient buildings within the caverns had been reclaimed and put to use. One of the caverns housed the priestesses, another was home to the Promenade's lay worshipers, and a third contained storehouses and the barracks of the Protectors of the Song-the soldiers who guarded the Promenade. The fourth cavern, once a temple to a foul god, had been turned into the Hall of Healing.
The fifth cavern was the holiest of all: the Cavern of Song. Even over the rush of the river behind them, Qilue could hear the sound of singing-Eilistraee's priestesses continuing the psalm that had not faltered since the temple had been established twenty years past in the Year of the Harp.
As they made their way along one of the winding corridors that led to the Cavern of Song, Qilue spoke to the Darksong Knight. 'Cavatina, you're familiar with the Velarswood, are you not?'
Cavatina nodded. 'My mother was bom there. I've visited it frequently.'
'I would like you to go there now.'
Cavatina's nostrils flared. 'Lady Qilue, if this is about the aranea-'
'It is not.'
'I realize that I should have been more vigilant. If I had, perhaps I might have spotted the Selvetargtlin on my first pass through the cavern.'
'What is done is done. You danced well. The battle was won. It's just unfortunate that…'
Qilue didn't complete the sentence. She wasn't there to chastise the Darksong Knight. Cavatina had been trained to kill, and the thought of capturing an enemy alive would never have entered her head.
'You enjoy the hunt,' Qilue said.
Cavatina halted. 'I guard the Promenade as diligently as any other priestess.'
'I'm sure you do.'
'I do not, as some believe, think myself above indoctrinating a novice.'
'I suggested nothing of the sort.'
'I followed the procedures Iljrene laid down. When Thaleste spotted a movement above us, I-'
Qilue silenced Cavatina with a stern look. She could see that nearly losing the novice had pricked the warrior-priestess's pride. Darksong Knights didn't bear mistakes easily-in themselves or in others.
When Cavatina was at last ready to listen, Qilue continued. 'A strange creature has been sighted in the Velarswood in recent months. It has the general appearance of a drow female, yet it is far larger and stronger. It appears to be preying upon the drow of House Jaelre. Last night, a survivor of one of its attacks staggered into our shrine, begging for healing. He described the creature as having skin hard as obsidian-no blade can pierce it-and eight tiny legs that emerge from the torso, below the arms, like protruding ribs.'
Cavatina's head came up like a hound on the scent. 'Some new form of drider?' she guessed. 'Or… demon?'
'Nobody knows. What we do know is that the survivor drew the creature's attention to our shrine. It followed him there last night then scuttled away before the priestesses could assemble for a hunt. I'm worried it's going to attack one of our people next. That's why I'm sending you to the Velarswood. I want you to remove the threat.'
Cavatina nodded, her eyes gleaming. 'Do you see Lolth's hand in this?'
Qilue paused. 'It's hard to say, but the creature-whatever it is-has a venomous bite and is capable of spinning
