Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Would you like my mask?
Would you like the mirror?

You can look at yourself.
You can look at each other.
You can look at the face—
the face of your God.
- Loreena McKennit, “Marrakesh Night Market”

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Part I:
Shadow & Silence

Cavatina had never been very good at hiding her emotions. By the standards of the surface races she was as inscrutable as any other dark elf, but to other drow what she felt was often all-too-visible. For the first time in her life she was grateful of this, since it meant people stayed out of her way as she stalked through the corridors of the Promenade.

When Qilué had called her to Skullport to receive a new assignment, she had hoped it would be something challenging. After the near-disaster in the Acropolis, she had been thankful for several weeks of rest, but now leisure was growing old and she was ready for excitement. Qilué's assignment, however, promised nothing but tedium and frustration.

She paused in the Cavern of Song, where a handful of priestesses were singing, their swords raised to the point of light on the cavern roof that marked the progress of the moon in the World Above. Up there is was Midwinter's Night, the longest night of the year, and the air would be bitterly cold, but down here it was as mild and unchanging as ever.

Despite Qilué's announcements that Nightshadows were welcome to add their voices to the hymn, none were present. Cavatina supposed Kâras' appearance in the Cavern that day had been to aggravate her, rather than out of any desire to lift his voice in praise to Eilistraee.

Thinking about the Nightshadow made her angry all over again, and she forced herself to stand a moment longer in the Cavern, letting the music soothe her. She needed a level head if she was going to talk to Kâras, or it would be easier than usual for him to provoke her.

When she felt calm enough, she set out from the Cavern of Song with brisk strides. On the opposite side of the Promenade from the Protectors' quarters an unused section of rooms had been turned into quarters for the converted Nightshadows. Cavatina, who had never gone into the area before, thought they seemed barren and lifeless. The Protectors decorated their corridors with murals and carvings, and a central chamber was filled with comfortable furniture for socializing and eating. Although the Nightshadows had a similar chamber, it was completely empty, and their corridors were bare. It was like they didn't care, she thought—or like they didn't intend to stay long.

She pondered the implications of that last thought as she found the correct door and knocked. No one answered. She waited several minutes, and knocked again. When there was still no answer, she tried the handle. It was locked and, knowing Kâras, trapped.

Cavatina scowled at the door. She knew Kâras was inside; Qilué had told her he was in his rooms. To make sure, she sang a brief song of divination, which only confirmed his location. Surely her pounding would have roused him from Reverie. She considered briefly that he might be hurt and unable to open the door, but quickly dismissed the notion. More likely, she thought, that he was simply ignoring her.

Aware that he had managed to infuriate her before she'd even spoken a word to him, she sang up a shield of moonlight and slammed her foot just to the side of the latch. The door, made of flimsy mushroom stalk, splintered. Cavatina backed away hastily, but was still hit by several darts that zipped out of the doorway. They bounced off her shield and clattered to the floor, their tips gleaming with poison.

A dark shadow spread out from the doorway, and she backed away further, but it did not follow, only filled a large area of the corridor with inky blackness. Cavatina sang a dispelling, to no effect. With a sigh of irritation, she leaned against the opposite wall and waited for it to Kâras to come out.

A minute passed, then five, and when Kâras still did not appear Cavatina began to worry. Perhaps both Qilué and her divination had been wrong, and he was not in his rooms at all—or perhaps he was lying inside even now, somehow injured or ill. She didn't like Kâras—or any of the other Nightshadows—but since they were on the same side now she couldn't deny him help when he might need it.

She stepped through the darkness cautiously, wondering if Kâras had left any other traps. The moment she crossed the threshold, she was plunged into a silence so deep her ears rang. Blind and deaf, she froze for a moment, heart pounding. She quickly realized the spells were not directed at her, but rather that the entire room was filled with spells of darkness and silence.

She sang another dispelling, feeling her way through the song by the way each note resonated in her body. This time it worked; she still couldn't see, but she could hear her own breathing and the steady beat of her heart. For a moment Cavatina stood there, marveling at the difference between silence and silence.

Before she could try again to dispel the darkness, something struck her in the arm. She cried out and whirled, drawing her sword. It pealed a note of warning as she slashed it blindly through the air. Belatedly, she realized that the singing sword was exactly the wrong weapon for this fight: its singing covered up any revealing noises her opponent made, while giving away her own position like a beacon.

She slashed again, and felt more than heard someone move to avoid the blow. The sword hummed menacingly, and a male voice swore hatefully.

Cavatina hesitated. “Kâras?” she said. His name came out slightly slurred; her lips felt numb.

“Cavatina?” the voice said, and swore again.

The darkness vanished suddenly. She found herself in a luxurious sitting room filled with thick carpets, overstuffed furniture, and soft draperies—but no Kâras. Cavatina turned, sword raised, and Kâras, who had been standing behind her, jumped away.

“You!” she said, advancing on him. “You attacked me!” Insubordination she expected from him, and could accept up to a point, but an outright attack was something she was far less willing to forgive.

Kâras stood his ground. “You broke into my room,” he snapped. He held an assassin's hollow-pointed dagger in one hand, and she saw that it's tip dripped with blood—her blood.

“You didn't answer you door!” The words came out thickly. Her whole face felt numb now, and a line of numbness ran from her shoulder to the wound in her arm.

“So you broke down the door?”

Kâras' mask covered most of his face, but she could almost hear his lip curling as he spoke. She flushed, unwilling to admit she'd been concerned for his safety when faced with his disdain and the pain of the wound he had caused.

The blood rushing to her face left her feeling hot and light-headed. She reached for the back of a nearby couch for support, but overbalanced and fell gracelessly to the floor. Her singing sword fell from her hand and landed noiselessly on the thick carpet.

Kâras knelt beside her a reached for her with the hand not holding his dagger. Cavatina slapped it aside and turned the motion into a hard blow to his jaw. As he reeled, she staggered to her feet, clutching at the couch for support. The room spun wildly around her and her pulse pounded loudly in her ears, but she managed to stay standing.

“Dammit!” Kâras pressed his hand against the side of his face. “I'm trying to help you! You're poisoned.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “You poisoned me?”

“You broke into my room,” he repeated, in a tone that made it clear he thought she was stupid. “I thought you were an enemy.”

“What enemy would attack you here in the Promenade?” she asked. Her tongue and lips refused to work together, and the sentence was mostly unintelligible.

Kâras slid the dagger into a sheath on his wrist. He took a cautious step forward. “You should let me heal you,” he said gently, as if she were a dangerous animal he was trying to soothe. “You'll pass out soon.”

Cavatina's thoughts felt thick and slow. All she could think was that Kâras, a Nightshadow, had attacked and poisoned her, and she could not trust him. “I can heal myself,” she slurred.

She tried to step away from him, and her vision went dark. When it cleared again, she found herself on the floor, staring up at Kâras as he leaned over her, one hand on her arm and the other brushing his mask. The black fabric shivered as his lips moved, and she felt the numbness recede from her body and her mind.

Cavatina sat up slowly as Kâras took his hand away. She reached out and found the hilt of the singing sword, and Kâras backed away quickly, as though afraid she would attack him. Clearly her face was betraying her emotions again.

“You broke into my room,” he said for the third time. His right hand rubbed his left wrist, close to the sheathed dagger.

Cavatina climbed to her feet and managed to keep her temper in check. “Why didn't you answer your door?”

“I was meditating,” Kâras said.

Her temper slipped a little. “Then you should have had no trouble hearing my knock!”

Kâras narrowed his eyes over the top of his mask. “Every Midwinter,” he said, “the Nightshadows honor their Lord by meditating in a state of total deprivation of the senses, levitating within a globe of silence and darkness for one day and one night. This year,” he continued, and Cavatina thought she heard a trace of bitterness in his voice, “we honor the Masked Lady in the same way. Surely you knew that?”

Cavatina felt heat flood her face. Qilué had told her to wait until tomorrow before finding Kâras, but she hadn't explained why, and Cavatina had ignored the high priestess' instructions. Her first instinct was to lash out, to attack to cover her own ignorance and embarrassment. A few weeks ago she might have, but her recent redemption was still fresh in her mind and she resisted the impulse. Instead, she sheathed the singing sword and turned toward the door. This put her back to Kâras, which she didn't enjoy, but also hid her burning face from him.

“I'll let you get back to your meditation, then.” It wasn't an apology, but it was most she could bring herself to give him. Redemption would only make her bend so far.

“You may as well tell me what you wanted with me,” Kâras said. “Now that my spells are dismissed, I can't cast them again. It would seem my meditations are ended early.”

Cavatina thought her chagrin could not be greater, but it would seem she was wrong. That she had broken into his room for no reason was bad enough; that she had ruined his worship of their mutual deity, however strange to her his method, was worse. She forced herself to turn back towards him, knowing he could clearly see her shamed blush with his heat-vision.

“Lady Qilué sent me. She has an assignment for us.”

“And she wanted you to deliver this assignment today?” Kâras asked sarcastically.

“There's been a murder in the Misty Forest,” Cavatina said, ignoring him. “She wants us to investigate.”

Kâras did not suffer from Cavatina's inability to hide her emotions, but she thought he looked surprised. “Lady Qilué is sending the Slayer of Selvetarm to solve a murder? With a Nightshadow to watch her back?” His eyes crinkled in a smile and added, “Or perhaps it is the other way around. Either way, why does she want us, of all those at her command, to perform this task?”

“There are only two Nightshadows at the Misty Forest shrine, and one or both of them are wrapped up in this somehow. That's why she want you: you're one of the highest-ranking Nightshadows, and she feels this is important.”

“And you? If she doesn't trust me there are any number of other priestesses she could send on this mission.”

“Qilué does trust you,” Cavatina said without thinking, though she wasn't sure it was true. “And I don't know why she chose me.” She couldn't quite keep the bitterness from her voice.

“Is anyone else to accompany us?”

“No. You'll take your orders from me.”

Kâras' eyes narrowed, and she expected an argument, but he only said, “And what is this murder?”

“I don't know,” Cavatina said again. “Lady Qilué didn't tell me. She said she wants us to see the situation without bias.” She turned to the door again, eager to get away from him, and said over her shoulder, “Meet me at the Moonspring at moonrise tomorrow night.”

The broken jam prevented her from latching the door, but Cavatina pulled it closed behind her, and did not look at Kâras as she left.

Chapter Text

Kâras trailed behind Cavatina, his wet boots sinking deeply into the snow, and reflected bitterly that Eilistraee's worshipers were fools. To connect their far-flung shrines by a network of portals was a good idea, if you could trust your fellow worshipers—the fact that Vhaeraun's priesthood had never had such a network was a sign of how well they trusted one another—but to use pools of water, when so many shrines were so far north, was madness. Even Lolth's priestesses would not have done such a thing.

His teeth were chattering uncontrollably by the time their guide—a male lay worshiper who had introduced himself as Ralinn—led them to a great tree, as large as five lesser forest giants put together, close to the center of the shrine. Despite the snow that covered every branch, the tree still wore its summer cloak of green leaves. Thin, straight twigs, each the length of his arm, floated in the air in front of the tree like a ladder. The lay worshiper gestured upward.

“We keep the first two rooms for visiting priestess—for visitors. The braziers are lit. If you'd like to warm up and change into dry clothes, I'll let Lady Rowaan know you're here.”

It was politely phrased, but Kâras knew an order when he heard one. So, it seemed, did Cavatina—or perhaps she just had the sense to follow a good suggestion. She thanked Ralinn and began to climb. As he waited for her to clear the ground, Kâras studied their guide. The other male met his eyes boldly and a little aggressively, and Kâras thought Ralinn must have been dedicated to Eilistraee long enough to learn a hatred for Vhaeraun's followers. It was a shame, he thought, that Ralinn had escaped Lolth's lies only to become trapped in the lies of her daughter—lies about equality between the sexes, and about the drow's place in the World Above.

Of course, in the end Vhaeraun's truths counted for nothing now that he was dead. Kâras looked away from Ralinn's hostile gaze and climbed the ladder after Cavatina.

There were two doors set into the massive trunk, one ten feet above the other. Cavatina took the uppermost, so Kâras paused beside the lower door. It was perfectly round, and he could make out a discoloration in the center, where a glyph had been scribed and then later scraped away. He was no wizard, but he thought the glyph was one to dissuade males from touching the door. The scrape looked fresh.

Inside a brazier burned, just as Ralinn had promised, filling the small room with light and warmth. Kâras studied the space with interest. It seemed to have been carved out of a single giant knot in the trunk of the tree, with shelves and benches cut into the sides and a table sprouting from the center of the floor like a mushroom. There were a few simple things, like cushions and blankets and—Kâras was pleased to see this last—a bottle of wine, but the room was empty of personality and clearly meant for visiting rather than living. He thought it looked more like something a surface elf would construct than something made by drow.

He stripped off his sodden clothes and spread them on the table where the heat of the brazier could dry them. After a moment's hesitation, he peeled his mask off as well. From his pack—waterproofed with magic—he took a spare change of clothes and dressed quickly. Still feeling cold, he wrapped himself in one of the blankets and sat on a cushion on the floor, as close to the brazier as he could get. He had lived on the surface before, and could tolerate it, but the Night Above always seemed too hot or too cold.

Someone knocked peremptorily on his door. Kâras hastily tied his mask back on, grimacing as the wet silk clung to face. Before he could reach the door, it opened, revealing Cavatina. She climbed inside without waiting for an invitation and settled on one of the benches.

“Please,” Kâras said dryly. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Cavatina scowled at him. “That's exactly why I wanted to talk to you,” she said darkly. “I've been thinking about this murder. If there really is a Nightshadow involved in this, we can't afford to show a divided front in our investigation. We need to prove that Protectors and Nightshadows can work together, even when there is conflict between us. Your talking back and petty insubordination damages that image of harmony.”

Kâras picked up his blanket from the floor and sat on the bench across from her, forcing his movements to be smooth when his emotions would have made then sharp. He would have liked to return to his place beside the brazier, where it was warmer, but that would have forced him to sit on the floor at her feet and he refused to put himself in such a vulnerable position.

“What you are describing is not harmony,” he said, controlling his anger. “It is submission. You want me to follow your orders, just as you want male to submit to female. But you and I hold equal rank, just as male and female are equal. Why should you not follow my orders?”

Cavatina pressed her lips together. “I'm in charge on this assignment.”

“Did Qilué say so?” When Cavatina did not answer, Kâras continued, “I agree that a unified front is needed, but I am better suited to present it than you.”

Cavatina opened her mouth for an angry retort, but another knock cut her off. She crossed to the door and opened it, letting in a tall female wearing a thick cloak over one of the diaphanous gowns favored by the priestesses. The gown was at odds with her heavy winter boots and the longsword at her hip.

Kâras sized her up as she stood in the doorway, stamping to dislodge snow from her boots. She was young, with the faintest hint of yellow shading her hair. Although she was not nearly as tall as Cavatina, she still stood nearly a head taller than Kâras—and he was not short, for a male. He suppressed a sigh. The Eilistraeean females were all so tall; he was tired of being towered over.

The newcomer bowed to Cavatina, looking a little awed. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Lady Cavataina. I am Rowaan, head priestess of the shrine.”

Cavatina inclined her head in response. “Thank Eilistraee, not us. We merely do what the Goddess commands.” She sounded humble, but Kâras saw her smile faintly, pleased at the younger priestess's admiration. She gestured to him. “This is Kâras, a Black Moon, and lately of the Promenade.”

Rowaan hesitated for a moment, then bowed to him as well—though not quite as deeply. Kâras hid his irritation and returned the greeting with a nod.

“I thought I saw....” Cavatina had turned toward the shelves and was peering into them. “Yes, I did.” She produced a bottle of wine and uncorked it. As she poured three glasses, she said, “Please sit, Rowaan, and tell us about what's happened here.”

Kâras accepted a glass, but only cradled it in his hands; Nightshadows did not eat or drink in public if they could help it. He watched Cavatina curiously as she handed Rowaan another glass glass. She had answered the door herself, and now waited on him and Rowaan with her own hands, both menial tasks he would have expected her to try to foist onto him. He could not understand why she was so insistent on her dominance one moment, then seemingly subservient the next.

Rowaan sipped at the wine. “It happened only last night. One of our priestesses, Aliira, failed to join us for Evensong. That wasn't alarming, of course—no one is required to join the dance—but it was unusual, since she almost always did. One of her friends went to check on her later and found her... gone.”

“Gone?” Cavatina repeated. “Lady Qilué told us there was a murder.”

“There was. Her clothes, her boots, her weapons were all there, and her shirt was torn and stained with blood where she had been stabbed. But her body was gone.”

“You mean,” Cavatina said incredulously, “That someone killed her, undressed her, and then hid her body, but left the bloody evidence behind?”

Rowaan spread her hands helplessly.

“Or,” Kâras said, “the killer disposed of her body with magic.”

“That may be more likely,” Rowaan agreed. “Her underclothes were still inside the outer, as though her body just... disappeared from within them.”

Cavatina was clearly baffled by this. “And you're sure she's dead?”

“Yes, our auguries show she's safely in Eilistraee's domain. But without a body we cannot raise her or speak to her shade to find out what happened.”

“We were told,” Kâras said, “that a Nightshadow was involved somehow.”

“Yes,” Rowaan said, frowning slightly. “There was a dagger in Aliira's room, hollow-pointed and filled with poison, like Nightshadows use. We found it under one of the benches, bloodied. Aliira had a young Nightshadow as consort. When we went to speak with him, he was gone.”

“Gone, but not dead?”

“Yes. Some of his personal possessions were missing from his room. It looks like he fled.”

“Do you know where he fled to?”

“No, we've found no trace of him, though we've searched.” She added, almost reluctantly, “The evidence against him seems clear.”

Now Kâras frowned. “Too clear,” he said. “A poisoned dagger points to a Nightshadow, which is why he would be a fool to use one like this. Foolish Nightshadows don't last long.”

“If he's innocent,” Cavatina countered, “Why did he run?” But she, too, was frowning.

Kâras thought the answer obvious. “He knew no one would believe he wasn't guilty.”

“Once we questioned him with a truth spell his innocence would be proved,” Cavatina argued. “Now that he's run, we can only assume guilt.”

Kâras held his doubts. Truth spells could be foiled by careful wording, and were not always enough to establish innocence—especially with such damning evidence arrayed against the accused. The Nightshadows had their own spells to extract the truth, but they were excruciating for the subject, and he was not certain the Masked Lady would still grant them.

“Either way,” Cavatina continued, “we need to find him. I can't believe he could just disappear without a trace. Are there any druids or surface elves here who would be willing to help in the search?”

Kâras raised his eyebrows, a little impressed despite himself. He wouldn't have thought of asking the other denizens of the forest for help. Of course, for most of his life those others would have tried to kill him on sight.

Rowaan seemed impressed as well. “There may be.” She half-rose from her seat, but the sank down again with a grimace. “No, they'll all be asleep now. I'll send word in the morning.”

“In the meantime,” Cavatina said. “I'd like to see Aliira's room.”

“Yes,” Kâras said quickly, before Cavatina could rise. “But first, Lady Rowaan, please tell me why you really sent to the Promenade for help.”

Cavatina shot him a sharp look, but Kâras ignored her. He watched Rowaan, who stared back at him with slightly startled eyes. Then she looked down into her half-empty cup.

“There are a handful of Nightshadows here at the shrine, most from Jaelre and Auzkovyn. There are many priestesses who were not pleased at the addition of Vhaeraun's clerics to Eilistraee's faithful. There's been tension here between the Nightshadows and those who dislike their presence, and even amongst the priestesses, between those who accept and do not accept them.” She sighed. “Aliira's murder, and her consort's apparent guilt, have aggravated that tension. I sent to Promenade because I need help mending this divide even more than I need help solving this mystery, and I don't think I can do either on my own.”

Cavatina transferred her sharp look to Rowaan. “Is there no one you trust here at the shrine to help you?”

“Among the priestesses, yes. Among the clerics... no.”

Now both females glanced at Kâras, and he was grateful his mask hid his expression. Had Rowaan explained this to Qilué? Was he really the male Qilué trusted most among the new converts? The thought both troubled and pleased him.

“I'll speak to the other Nightshadows,” he said. Then, to stop them staring at him, he said, “Shall we go?”

Chapter Text

Cavatina, Rowaan, and Kâras descended from Kâras's room, only to climb back up into another tree. Rowaan, in the lead, paused outside a door freshly inscribed with a warning glyph.

“We took her armor and sword to be washed by Eilistraee's tears, since there was no body. Other than that, the room is mostly as it was.”

 She dispelled the glyph and opened the door, but climbed further up the floating ladder so the others could enter first.

 Cavatina had to wait to climb through the round doorway, since Kâras had somehow managed to get ahead of her on the ladder. She peered over his shoulder and saw a room not much different than hers or Kâras's, though it looked more lived-in. She tapped her fingers impatiently against the ladder rung while Kâras loitered in the doorway. As soon as he stepped forward she jumped lightly from ladder to sill, but misjudged the distance and bumped into his back when she landed.

 He turned to glare at her, though he had to look up to do it, since he barely came to her shoulder. “Careful!”

 “If you'd moved out of the way—!”

 “I'm trying not to disturb things worse than your ham-fisted sisters already have!”

 She managed to hold back her angry retort, but only barely. “Is there a light?” she said instead.

 Kâras found flint and steel and lit a candle. In the faint light—more than sufficient for drow eyes—she studied the room. On the far side of the table Aliira's clothes lay nested, underclothes within outerclothes, just as Rowaan had described. The fabric and wood beneath it was stained brown with dried blood. A few items lay scattered on the floor, apparently knocked down from the shelves above: a small ceramic figure of a dancing drow, now cracked, and a lap harp, spilled half out of its case. A cup of tea sat on the table, almost full, and next to it, an assassin's dagger, its point bloodied. Nothing else seemed out of place.

 Rowaan joined her in the doorway and they watched as Kâras examined the bloody clothes, the fallen items, the cup. He picked up the dagger and studied it closely.

 “We found the dagger under that bench,” Rowaan said, pointing.

 Kâras glanced up at her. “Are you sure it's Balan's?”

 “No. But it's certainly a Nightshadow's weapon.”

 “I can see that,” Kâras said dryly. He brought the tip to his mask and sniffed it, then laid it back on the table. He began to circle the room, picking up things apparently at random, turning them over in his hands, and setting them down again.

 Cavatina watched with growing frustration. Kâras's words, that he was better suited to lead this assignment than she, rang loudly in her ears. She hunted demons; it was what her mother had trained her to do, and what she had done since adolescence. Kâras had said foolish Nightshadows did not live long; foolish demon hunters didn't, either, and Cavatina was no fool. But this puzzle confounded her. Kâras moved about the room with confidence and competence, apparently sure of what his next move would be, while she stood helplessly in the doorway, not knowing where to even begin.

 A spider scuttled across the floor in front of her and she stomped on it reflexively.

 Kâras looked up at the sound, startled. “What?”

 “Just a spider,” Cavatina said. She ground her foot spitefully into the wood to be sure it was dead, taking out some her own frustration on the arachnid.

 “There seem to be a lot of them here,” Kâras said.

 “They do get inside,” Rowaan said. “Despite our best efforts.”

 “Yes,” Kâras said. “I imagine they do.”

 Cavatina looked at him sharply, wondering at his dry tone, but he had returned to Aliira's clothes and was picking up the shirt. He shook it out with a few quick snaps of his wrists. Several spiders tumbled to the floor and he paused to crush each one deliberately beneath his boot. He laid the shirt on the table to show it to the other two.

 “You see here,” he said, pointing. “At first glance it would appear she was stabbed once, but there are four separate cuts here.”

 “She was stabbed four times?” Cavatina stepped into the room to see better. “And in the front, not the back!”

 “Yes,” Kâras said. “A good assassin will take whatever opportunity is presented to him. That sometimes means a frontal attack—but not usually. And four strikes, when just one would do, is sloppy. If Balan is the killer, and I were in his shoes, I would have waited for a vulnerable moment, then struck just once, from behind.”

 Cavatina looked up from the stained shirt, and knew she could not quite hide the shock and disgust she felt. Beside her, Rowaan wore a similar expression, but she looked horrified instead of disgusted. Cavatina remembered the Crone who had hunted Kâras all the way to the Shilmista Forest, dead from a crossbow bolt through the throat, and wondered how many females he had been consort to that he had killed.

 “If this was an assassination, perhaps he would have done the same,” Cavatina said, keeping her voice even with more self-control than she knew she possessed. “But four thrusts suggests blind anger, not dispassionate precision. Perhaps the boy lost his temper.”

 “Perhaps,” Kâras allowed, though he didn't sound convinced. “In any case, the dagger seems to match the cuts in the cloth. And there does seem to have been a struggle.”

 "The harp,” Cavatina said. “Someone ran into those shelves.”

 “Yes. Someone unexpected. Or unwanted. Or both.”

 “How do you know that?” Rowaan asked.

 For a moment, Cavatina was just as puzzled as Rowaan. Then—“The tea,” she said, cutting off whatever reply Kâras was going to make in her delight that she had solved this one small puzzle. “There's only one cup. And yet—” She strode to the brazier, long cold, and found, as she had expected, a teapot resting on the edge, where Aliira had no doubt set it to keep warm. She lifted the lid and peered inside. “The pot's almost full. She would have poured her visitor a cup of tea if she wanted him to stay.”

 “Or her,” Kâras said.

 “So whoever killed her was an unwelcome visitor,” Rowaan said. “That does seem to make Balan less suspect.”

 “Unless they were quarreling,” Cavatina said. “A consort is not always welcome.”

 “The lady is not always welcome, either,” Kâras countered. “If they quarreled, she may have been the aggressor.”

 There was an edge to his voice that made Cavatina frown at him. “What are you saying?”

 “Only that Nightshadows are not as tame as the males she may have been accustomed to.”

 It took Cavatina a moment to realize what he meant. “You're suggesting Aliira tried to take Balan against his will? That's outrageous!”

 Rowaan looked shocked. “Aliira would never—”

 But Kâras spoke over her. “I find it more likely than the suggestion that a Nightshadow would conduct an assassination in such a sloppy, unprofessional—”

 “And I find it more likely that a Nightshadow would commit murder in cold blood, than a priestess would behave in such a dishonorable—”

 “You yourself said the multiple stabs ruled out cold-blooded anything! Have you already forgotten your own words, or do you only bother with facts when they suit—”

 “Don't you dare twist my words! You may be well-versed in double-meanings and lies but I—”

 “Enough!”

 Cavatina and Kâras both fell silent and stared at Rowaan. The young priestess flushed, but kept her eyes raised.

 “Please,” she said, softer. “One of my priestesses is dead. I need your help to find out who killed her. This fighting achieves nothing.”

 Cavatina felt her own face flush. Kâras looked away. After a moment he said, grudgingly, “We don't have enough evidence to know who did this.”

 Cavatina breathed out a sigh of relief, surprised he had come so close to apologizing and thankful that he had done so she didn't have to. “Until we find Balan,” she said, “we may not be able to find more evidence.”

 “Then we need to find him,” Kâras said.

 Finally, Cavatina thought. Something we can agree on. “Rowaan, I'm sure you and your priestesses have made a thorough search of the forest, but I'd like to hear what you've done, perhaps go over some of the ground again.”

 

Chapter Text

While Cavatina began her manhunt, Kâras left to do a different kind of hunting. He knew almost nothing about tracking quarry through a snowy forest, but he knew everything about hunting amongst drow.

He paused for a moment outside his quarry's door, hanging onto the stick-ladder and listening to the faint sound of conversation within the tree-room. At least two people, he thought. He knocked on the door.

Silence fell immediately. After a long moment, the round door opened a bare handspan and a masked face  looked out at him. Balancing carefully on the ladder, Kâras pressed his fists together and then drew them apart, as though stretching an assassin's cord. The gesture was commonly used as a part of a pre-arragned pass-sign among Nightshadows. Now he used it to mean I'm one of you; I'm a friend.

 The Nightshadow stepped back, and Kâras climbed through the door.

There were three males inside, not two. The one who had answered the door was taller that Kâras, almost as tall as a female. The other two sat around a table where a meal was clearly in progress. One was still in the process of tying his mask back on.

“Greetings,” Kâras said. “My name is Kâras. I've come from the Promenade.”

“But from Maerimydra first,” the one who had opened the door said. “I've heard of you.”

“Good things?” Kâras asked.

“Depends on who was saying them,” the male replied. Kâras heard the smile in his voice. “Will you join us?”

“Thank you.” Kâras pulled a fourth chair to the table and sat down. One of the other males said, “You came with the Slayer of Selvetarm to find who killed Aliira.”

“Yes.”

The male leaned forward. “The priestesses think her consort, Balan, assassinated her.”

“Yes,” Kâras said again.

The third male said, “But you don't.”

Kâras turned his head slightly to meet his eyes. This male was older, and possessed a quiet reserve that set him apart from the others. “I don't know enough to say,” he said. “But I think you might be able to tell me what I need to know... Jazlyn Auzkovyn.”

Jazlyn's eyes crinkled in a smile above his mask. “You think I have information concerning the death of the priestess Aliira? Surely I would have told Rowaan already.”

Kâras didn't miss the omission of Rowaan's title. He allowed his own smile to touch the corners of his eyes. “I was told you are the most senior Nightshadow here, and I think you know everything that happens at this shrine. I also think you don't trust the priestess any more than I do. We Nightshadows must look after our own interests—as we have always done.”

Now Jazlyn cocked his head curiously. “Perhaps it is as you say. But why should I help clear the name of Balan, who is a scion of House Jaelre?”

“Once we had the luxury of such inter-house rivalries,” Kâras said. “But not now. Out god is dead—” he did not miss the slight flinches of the other two drow as he said that “—and if we are to survive, let alone thrive, in the new order, we have to put such petty bickering aside.”

Jazlyn watched him in silence for a long moment. “I've also heard of you,” he said at last. “Most spoke well of you—and those who spoke ill I didn't like anyway. This is Gandiir—” the tall one who had opened the door “—and Hellyn. We are the only members of Auzkovyn at the shrine right now; the others are carrying out missions.”

“And House Jaelre?”

“There are more of Jaelre than of Auzkovyn, but again, most are elsewhere, including their patron. Now that Balan has run off, only Xytherril is left.” He made a gesture, and Gandiir poured out a cup of tea and handed it to Kâras.

“I'll be sure to talk to him next.” Kâras hesitated for only a moment before removing his mask and taking a sip of the tea. “Balan wasn't of your house, but I imagine you know plenty about him.”

The other drow also removed their masks and picked up their own cups. “I might know a thing or two,” Jazlyn said drily. “Did you have anything in particular in mind?”

“You don't think he killed Aliira.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Jazlyn swirled his tea thoughtfully. “Balan may be the only Nightshadow to benefit from Vhaeraun's death.”  He acknowledged Kâras' incredulous expression with a twitch of his lips. “He would have made a very bad Nightshadow before—he's too soft. But he's done very well among the priestesses. He's quite young, and came to mask only recently. He didn't have time to break the habit of obedience, which of course the ladies like. To attack a female... he would require extreme provocation.”

Kâras thought of the four stabs in Aliira's chest and said nothing. Whoever killed her had been very provoked.

“In any case, he and Aliira seemed genuinely fond of each other. She wasn't bad, as far as females go. I have trouble imagining them becoming violent. It seems far more likely that she was killed by someone else.”

“Someone who framed Balan?”

“Well, they had to frame someone, didn't they? And it's worked well so far. If Balan hadn't fled, he'd be dead by now.”

“There was a Nightshadow's dagger found with Aliira's body. Rowaan seems certain it belongs to Balan.”

“She's certain because I told her,” Jazlyn said. “She brought the dagger to me and asked if I knew to whom it belonged. That it belonged to Balan I have no doubt. How it came to be there....” He shrugged.

“And you have no idea who the killer might be, if not Balan?”

“Not one of the Nightshadows,” Jazlyn said without hesitation. “Beyond that, I couldn't say. But you might speak to Yvonnel. She was a close friend of Aliira.”

“Did Balan have any enemies?”

Jazlyn lifted a bone-white brow skeptically. “You think Aliira's death was simply a means to eliminate Balan? That's quite the devious plan.”

“We are discussing drow.”

Jazlyn chuckled. “We are, indeed. Among the Nightshadows, no one would dare do such a thing. They know I believe—as do you—that we can no longer afford such in-fighting.”

“You seem to know everything about the Nightshadows in this forest—but nothing of the priestesses,” Kâras said. From the corner of his eye, he saw Gandiir's eyes narrow at the insult, but Jazlyn's expression remained unchanged.

“The priestesses,” he said drily, “do not want us to know anything about them. It has been made clear to us that we are outsiders, neither trusted nor wanted. I'm sure you understand.”

Kâras grimaced and swallowed the last of tea. He did understand. “Thank you for your assistance,” he said, standing. He tied his mask back on.

Gandiir rose and opened the door for him. As Kâras prepared to jump onto the ladder, Jazlyn said from behind him, “None of us mourns the death of another priestess. And none of us is insulted by being called a murderer. But I'd rather not see Balan killed as a pawn in another drow's game. It's as you said: we Nightshadows must look after our own interests.”

Kâras hesitated in the doorway, wondering whether to tell him it had been Qilué's idea to send him to the Misty Forest. He wasn't sure if Qilué was looking after the Nightshadow's interests, and if she wasn't, he wasn't sure what he was doing here. In the end, he said nothing.

Chapter Text

Rowaan led Cavatina deeper into the shrine. Here the great trees clustered close together, so close their tangled branches nearly blocked out the moonlight and the ground was almost free of snow. Cavatina sensed movement above her, and saw drow walking across the larger branches more than a hundred feet in the air, as casually as if they were on the ground. Stairs and ladders had been carved into the steeper places, and platforms and bridges dotted the canopy.

“Have you been to the Misty Forest Shrine before, Lady?” Rowaan asked, following the direction of Cavatina's gaze.

“Only to pass through it.”

“There was once an ancient elven outpost here. This is the center of the grove, where the keep stood, millennia ago. Here is where we keep out library, our hall of healing, and other important offices. Storerooms, living quarters, and gardens are beyond them. The shrine proper is to the north, and past that are the hot springs.”

“Hot springs!” Cavatina exclaimed. “That sounds nice.”

“Especially in this weather,” Rowaan agreed. “If you have the chance, you and your—you and Lord Kâras should visit them.”

Cavatina didn't miss Rowaan's slip. “He's not my consort,” she said dryly, amused and a little horrified at the thought. It wasn't that Kâras was unattractive; in truth, Cavatina thought the opposite. She just didn't think she could stand his attitude—and she knew he'd assassinated at least one of the females he'd been consort to in the past. That sort of thing didn't inspire trust.

Rowaan offered her a sheepish smile. “I was curious. You seem very... familiar with each other.”

Cavatina supposed that was one way of describing their argument. “We led the Acropolis crusade together,” she explained, and then, unable to help herself, added, “But over-familiarity is one of his flaws.”

“I think Kâras was right when he said Nightshadows are not as tame as the males we are used to,” Rowaan admitted. “The male lay worshipers are accustomed to serving females, but the Nightshadows are accustomed to fighting us. The lay worshipers are content to serve kinder mistresses than those they knew in the Underdark, but Nightshadows demand true equality.”

Cavatina eyed her askance. “That sounds like something Kâras might say.”

Rowaan laughed ruefully. “Jazlyn Auzkovyn is the senior Nightshadow here. He's not as outspoken as Kâras, but he nonetheless makes his opinions known. And his opinion is that the Nightshadows are not being treated with the respect they deserve.”

“And what's your opinion?” Cavatina asked, genuinely curious. Rowaan was young, as young as Cavatina herself, but seemed wise beyond her years. In her more introspective moments, Cavatina had to admit wisdom was not one of her strengths.

“I think he may be right,” Rowaan admitted. “But it's to be expected. There's a lot of bad history between us, and two years is too short a time to mend all those wounds. A few years ago, one of the priestesses here was killed by a Nightshadow. By Eilistraee's grace, we were able to raise her; but after Vhaeraun's death, one of the Nightshadows who came to the shrine was the one who'd killed her! Of course, no one can be blamed for the evil deeds performed before she—or he—was redeemed, but I had to send him to the High Forest. I couldn't ask Dinaefay to work alongside him, to live alongside him.”

“What did Jazlyn Auzkoven say?” Cavatina asked, feeling sure she already knew the answer.

Rowaan grimaced. “He called me a hypocrite. He said that if we truly believed in the power of redemption, we would forgive all.”

It sounded like something Kâras might say. Cavatina hoped the two of them never met; they would be hatching plots within minutes. “The Nightshadows say they want to be treated with more respect, but they're not making it easy, are they?”

“Every priestess who came to this shrine came because she wanted to be redeemed,” Rowaan said solemnly. “The Nightshadows... sometimes I think they came only because they had no choice. Sometimes I think they don't want to make it easy.”

The dense forest opened a little, revealing a single ancient giant that made the great trees surrounding it seem little more than saplings. Ridges and blocks of pale stone, the same color as the ruins scattered throughout the shrine, protruded at irregular intervals from the tree's bark. At the trunk's base, two roots spread apart to reveal an arched stone doorway carved with flowering vines. As Rowaan led Cavatina through the arch, Cavatina realized the tree had somehow grown around and through an ancient elvish tower, weaving wood and stone until they were nearly indistinguishable.

Inside, a staircase spiraled around the inside of the tower, lit by glowing balls of light that drifted beneath the ceiling like tiny moons. Cavatina followed Rowaan up the staircase, passing several wooden doors. Rowaan opened the fourth door, ushering Cavatina into a round room filled with books and scrolls, all tucked neatly in half a dozen bookcases. The center of the room was dominated by a set of shallow drawers, whose flat top doubled as a table. More globes of light drifted overhead, making the room bright by drow standards.

From a cushioned chair tucked between two bookcases, the male who had greeted her and Kâras earlier that night—Ralinn, Cavatina thought his name was—jumped to his feet . “Lady Rowaan, Lady Cavatina! I wasn't expecting you!” He casually dropped the book he had been reading to the chair and stepped in front of it. “May I help you ladies find something?”

“I believe you've already met Ralinn,” Rowaan said to Cavatina. “He keeps our library organized.”

“You're a wizard?” Cavatina asked him. She'd noticed his soft hands earlier, but hadn't thought him a spellcaster.

Ralinn made a disparaging gesture. “I know some small spells, lady, but I am really nothing more than a dabbler—though I have a great love of books and scrolls.”

He kept his eyes respectfully lowered while he spoke to her. After spending so much time with Kâras, seeing a male who acted like, well, a male, seemed strange. Cavatina found herself wishing he would look her in the eye.

While Rowaan spoke with Ralinn about maps, Cavatina drifted over to his chair, curious to see what he'd been reading. A cheap paper pamphlet lay on the seat cushion. With a smile, Cavatina recognized it as one of the “copper dreadfuls” published in Waterdeep. They often trickled down to Skullport, and Cavatina had once picked one up in one of the markets there. She'd found it full of buxom young maidens who were extremely grateful to be rescued from various dangers by handsome and virile knights. It was not the sort of thing she expected a drow to read.

“Lady Cavatina?”

Cavatina returned to the center of the room. Ralinn was pulling a map from one of the shallow drawers, and he spread it across the flat top, securing the corners with glass weights. The map was smooth parchment, the lines drawn in colored inks and annotated in Elvish.

“Here's the Misty Forest,” Rowaan said, indicating an irregular outline drawn in green. “It's bordered by the High Moors to the east and the River Delimbyr to the north. The Trade Way separates us from Trollbark Forest and the marshes to the south and west.”

“The closest town is Daggerford, here,” Ralinn said, pointing to a black dot beside the river. “But it's a small community, mostly human, and would not welcome a drow. It's more likely Balan would go south, to Dragonspear Castle. It's well known there is—or was—an entrance to the Underdark there, but the castle was reclaimed years ago and is now guarded by a small army.”

“We've been concentrating our searches south of the shrine,” Rowaan explained. “The entrance in Dragonspear, if it hasn't been sealed, may be well-guarded, but Balan is a Nightshadow and he may believe he has a chance at slipping through.”

“What about the High Moor?” Cavatina asked. “Might he have gone east?”

“The High Moor is filled with ruins from the ancient kingdom of Miyeritar, many of which contain portals,” Ralinn said. “It would not be a bad direction to flee—if one was a wizard, which Balan is not. It's also infested with monsters and offers little cover. Facing the army at Dragonspear would be safer.”

Cavatina studied the map, picking out the tiny silver crescent moon that marked the location of the shrine. She pointed to several other marks within the the borders of the forest. “What are these?”

“Those two are druid groves,” Rowaan said. “We think there is a wild elf settlement near the third, but we've never been able to get close enough to be sure.”

“The elves attacked your scouts?”

“Warning shots only. But we didn't want to go where we weren't welcome.”

Cavatina nodded in approval. Although they were ostensibly on the same side, surface elves didn't always make the distinction between those drow who followed Eilistraee and those who occasionally crawled up from the Underdark to massacre elven villages. Maintaining friendly relations required tact and diplomacy.

Her finger traced the most direct route from the shrine to Dragonspear Castle. It passed close by one of the druid groves. “If you had to leave the Misty Forest, leave Eilistraee's faithful altogether,” she asked Rowaan, “where would you go?”

Rowaan shook her head slowly. “I can't even imagine living anywhere else. I've spent my whole life here, on the surface, in the shrines. I suppose... I suppose I'd stay on the surface. Better to be unwelcome everywhere I go than to live in the Underdark.”

Cavatina looked to Ralinn in silent question.

He dropped his eyes to the map, dragged his finger absently down the Sword Coast. “I suppose I'd stay on the surface, as well. The Underdark is a hell I have no desire to ever return to. But a Nightshadow might feel differently. There are free cities in the Underdark where Lolth's priestesses do not have absolute rule. An assassin could do well for himself there.”

Kâras, she felt sure, would return to the Underdark without hesitation. But what would Balan—young, inexperienced, new to both the mask and the sword—do? Where would he go?

Cavatina tapped the map impatiently. “We need to talk to those druids.”

Chapter Text

During the short, cold day, Kâras reclined on the Reverie couch in his chill, sparse room and remembered Maerimydra. It was the thing he hated to remember most, awake or in Reverie. He roused a little before sundown, shivering, his head filled with a cacophony of sensations, the chief of which was a sick, smothering fear that wrapped around his ribs like an iron cage. He tried to meditate in preparation for his prayers, but could not sit still.

After a little restless pacing, he went outside and climbed up the stick ladder, past the other doors set into the giant trunk, to the very top of the tree. There was a small, round platform suspended among the branches, probably for divining from the shadows on the moon or some other Eilistraeean rite. Kâras sat in the middle of it, facing west. It was bitterly cold, and there was no shelter from the wind. The weak winter sun was almost gone, staining the sky with pale pinks and yellows and the faintest green. The light no longer stung his eyes as it once had. He stared ahead until the sun slipped below the horizon and night fell over the forest. The darkness should have been soothing, but it was mostly just dark. That bothered him, but only in a dull, aching way.

He slipped back down the ladder to his room, a little calmer than when he had risen, and began to pray. Normally he would pray at midnight, in a room without any light, but he was too cold to put out the brazier and he thought he would be busy at midnight. He prayed to the Masked Lady, to the goddess who had been, and still was, Eilistraee, but secretly he wished he prayed to Vhaeraun. On some nights his new deity wasn't so hard to accept; this night wasn't one of them.

He emerged from his room again into a darkness only a little deeper than that following sunset: the moon had risen. He'd intended to speak to Aliira's friend Yvonnel first, but she would probably be dancing with the other priestesses. He'd find Xytherril instead.

Keeping to the shadows out of habit, he slipped through the shrine in search of the Jaelre Nightshadow, but paused at the sight of movement through the trees. Curious despite himself, he drifted closer and found himself looking up at the shrine proper: a dozen giant swords carved out of obsidian, set point-first into a great disk of white marble, and capped with a pale roof. 

In the clear space around the shrine, the priestesses of the Misty Forest danced and sang. Naked but for their holy symbols and their swords, they leaped and spun without any apparent pattern. Their blades sliced perilously close to their own bodies and the bodies of their sisters. Sometimes two blades clashed together, but somehow no blood was ever spilled. 

Once males had been forbidden from even watching these dances. Now, they were supposed to join. Kâras had yet to get the hang of this kind of worship; he avoided the dances when he could, and when he couldn't he spent most of them trying to keep his head attached to his shoulders. From the sidelines, though, he had to admit it was beautiful to watch.

He picked out Cavatina swirling through the dance, her singing sword humming along with the hymn. He had to admit she was beautiful to watch, too. She really wasn't that bad, for a female. She was arrogant, of course, and hated Nightshadows, but that was to be expected. When she stopped to think instead of just acting or speaking, she was actually quite intelligent.

Movement beyond the dance caught his eye. On the far side of the ring of dancers, someone else hid in the shadows and watched. Not a priestess, Kâras thought, or she would join her sisters. Another Nightshadow might have been drawn as he was drawn, but he didn't think there was any cause for a Nightshadow to be on that side of the shrine.

Giving in to curiosity again, he slipped around the edge of the open space. He wasn't quite as skilled at moving silently though the forest, with its myriad of obstacles to crack underfoot or rustle against his side, as he was at creeping through the stone corridors of the Underdark, but any stray noise was lost amid the priestess's singing. As he drew near, he stilled and let his eyes hunt among the vegetation. After a few minutes' patient searching, he picked out the slim form of a drow male leaning against the shadowed side of a tree, watching the dancers with rapt, longing eyes. A black mask covered the lower half of his face.

A Nightshadow, then. But he wasn't one of the three Auzkovyn males Kâras had met, and he was too young for Xytherril. Kâras crept a little closer. He thought he could pick out, even deeper in the forest than the Nightshadow, another shape. Was someone watching the watcher?

He was an easy knife-throw away when a twig betrayed him. The strange male jerked around at the sound. His eyes widened when he saw Kâras, and his hand went the sword at his side.

Be easy, Kâras signed. Are you Balan?

The male's eyes narrowed, which was all the confirmation Kâras needed.

I was sent from the Promenade, he began. Before he could finish the sentence, Balan bolted.

Kâras ran after him before his thoughts could catch up to his legs. For some reason, Balan had returned to the shrine. Perhaps he had changed his mind about running away, and wanted to beg for mercy. Whatever his reason, Kâras' quarry had landed right in his lap, and he wasn't going to let it get away. Balan, however, had other ideas. He was noisier that Kâras, but faster; Kâras could follow the noise the boy made as he crashed through the forest, but he could tell Balan was drawing ahead of him.

If only he'd called out when the chase first started, he thought furiously. But they were far enough from the shrine by now that he didn't think any of the priestesses would hear him over the sound of their own singing. He was so accustomed to working alone, in secrecy, that it had never occurred to him to raise the alarm. Now it was too late. 

Something tangled around his feet and he tripped, almost fell. He staggered, regained his footing, and found he'd stumbled over one of the hunting horns many of the priestesses carried: the strap was twisted around his left boot. Kâras didn't pause to question his good fortune. He snatched up the horn and continued his pursuit. As he ran he pushed aside his mask, brought the horn to his lips, and blew.

The sound caught him by surprise, even though he was the one making it. It was a wild, urgent sound, like moonlight and silk rolled together into one noise. The others at the shrine must have heard it, but would they come? He couldn’t be sure. He ran on, until pain stabbed at his side with every breath and the roar of his own heartbeat half-deafened him. 

After a while, he heard Balan's pace slow. The boy's steps were louder; several times he stumbled. Kâras gained on him, until he could sometimes catch glimpses of the boy's back, but he didn't close with the other Nightshadow. He wanted Balan to be exhausted when he caught up with the boy; it would make it easier to talk sense into him or, if necessary, subdue him. But when Kâras heard voices behind him, he picked up the pace again. He wanted a few moments alone with Balan before the priestesses caught up.

“Balan!” he called.

He broke through an opening in the trees and found himself facing Balan across a narrow clearing. They stared at each other, chests heaving, breath steaming in the cold air. Then Balan turned and started away.

“Wait!” Kâras cried. “I'm not—”

Balan staggered back into the clearing. An enormous spider followed him into the open, easily twice as tall as the boy. For a heartbeat too long Kâras stared at it, frozen, uncomprehending. It stretched out one impossibly long foreleg, knocked the fleeing Balan to the ground, and bent down, mandibles working in anticipation.

In that moment, Kâras considered running. He was completely unprepared to face a foe like this, and trying to save the boy would probably just get himself killed. Then he remembered the priestesses behind him and realized he didn't have to kill the spider—only hold it off long enough for help to arrive.

Kâras blew the hunting horn again. The magical blast didn't seem to hurt the giant spider, but it knocked it back a step. He tossed the horn aside and stretched his hand toward the almost-full moon. “Masked Lady!” he cried. “Smite this monster!”

A bolt of moonlight twined with darkfire struck the spider's abdomen. It reared back, legs flailing in silent pain. Balan was struggling to his feet; Kâras darted forward and grabbed his shoulder, dragged him back. Before they'd managed more than a few stumbling steps the spider was back, striking, not at Kâras, but at Balan. It's fangs bit deeply into Balan's shoulder and side, and the boy fell to the ground, already writhing from the poison. Kâras managed to draw his short sword and hack at the thing's face. When it reared back, he lifted his arm and fired his wrist-crossbow. 

The bolt sank into one of its central eyes, yet it neither retreated nor shifted its focus, only stooped again to attack Balan. This time it's mandibles latched onto the boy's neck and, with a sickening crunch, tore off his head in a spray of blood.

End of Part I...

Chapter Text

Part II:
Song & Sword

Bring on the wonder,
Bring on the song.
I pushed you down deep in my soul for too long.

 - Susan Enan, “Bring on the Wonder”

 

Chapter Seven

Before the hunting horn finished its call Cavatina was out of the circle of dancers, sprinting through the moonlit forest with her sword humming in her hand and her holy symbol thumping against her breast. The call could have meant anything—a priestess in need of help, a warning of attack—but somehow Cavatina knew it had something to do with Kâras.

Sometimes she caught glimpses of movement far ahead, or heard the distant sound of bodies crashing through the underbrush. Behind her came more footprints, breathless calls of encouragement: other priestesses, drawn by the horn. 

Her mind raced faster than her feet, speculating uselessly about the cause of the call. Was Kâras in trouble? Did he need help? The thought of his hurt spurred her to run faster. Yet a small, suspicious part of her mind wondered: was he the cause? Had he done something? Had he betrayed them? Ashamed of herself, Cavatina brushed those thoughts away. Kâras had proven himself many times over in the Acropolis—but the old enmity was slow to die.

From somewhere ahead, she heard Kâras call out. She pushed herself harder, heedless of the noise she made as she tore through ferns, winter-bare branches whipping at her naked skin, and suddenly burst into a narrow clearing. Kâras was on the far side, dragging another male away from the largest spider Cavatina had ever seen. Ichor leaked from one of its many eyes and from a jagged slash across its face, but it seemed undeterred by its wounds. As Cavatina watched, dumbstruck by the size of the thing, the spider skittered forward and bit off the other male's head.

Galvanized into action, Cavatina threw up her hand, reaching toward the moon overhead. “Eilistraee!” she cried, as Kâras staggered away from the headless corpse. “Strike down this abomination!”

A bolt of twined moonlight and darkfire struck the spider, driving it away from Kâras. Two more priestesses rushed into the clearing behind her. One charged headlong at the spider, brandishing a sword, while the other loosed an arrow that burned with a potent enchantment. The spider finally crumpled to the ground, twitching, as its legs curled up in death.

Cavatina strode across the clearing, breathless with the aftereffects of her run and the shock at how close Kâras had come to death. If the spider had gone for him and not the other.... She grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to his feet. “What happened?”

He rubbed his free hand across his face, wiping away sweat and the other male's blood. Above his mask, his expression was tired, furious. He jerked his arm out of her grip and snatched up his short sword from the trampled grass.

“That was Balan,” he said, gesturing with the point of his blade. “I found him at the shrine and chased him out here... to be eaten.”

Cavatina shook her head. “He was at the shrine? Why would he come back? And if he came back—why would he run from you?”

“Because he was afraid,” Kâras said bitterly.

Cavatina swallowed her next words, feeling she was on unsteady ground with Kâras and not sure why. “Are you hurt?” she asked carefully.

“No. The spider wasn't interested in me.” He frowned at the crumpled body, and said slowly, “It wasn't interested in me at all....”

Cavatina signaled the other two priestesses to collect Balan's body. “We'll take him back to the Promenade to be resurrected,” she said. “Then we can finally figure out if he killed Aliira or not.”

They left the crumpled body of the spider and began walking back to the shrine, Cavatina and Kâras a little ahead of the priestesses and their burden. “And if he refuses to return to the living?” Kâras asked.

Cavatina shrugged. “I suppose we'll have to use a necromancer to speak to his shade.”

“And if he returns, and a truth spell shows he is guilty? What then?”

She watched him out of the corner of her eye, wondering if this was what was bothering him. “I don't know,” she admitted. “Nothing like this has ever happened before. I suppose,” she continued reluctantly, “he would have to executed, unless he had a very good reason for what he did. But it would a quick, clean death.”

“Do you think he is guilty?” Kâras pressed.

“I'm beginning to come around to your view,” she said. She didn't like admitting it, but the words weren't as bitter as she expected. “If Balan did kill Aliira, there was no reason for him to return to the shrine. If he was guilty, he should be halfway to the Underdark by now.”

“That means our work is not yet done,” Kâras said. “Questioning Balan may clear his name, but he may not be able to tell who the real murderer is.”

“I was hoping you wouldn't notice that little snag,” Cavatina sighed.

They walked on for a while without speaking, and Cavatina couldn't help but compare this semi-companionable silence to the way they had been three months before, at the start of the Acropolis crusade: constantly fighting for dominance like a pair of territorial dogs, always looking for a chance to show the other up or tear the other down. True, they still crossed swords occasionally, and try as she might, Cavatina couldn't bring herself to trust him entirely, but at least they were allies, if not yet friends.

Cavatina shook her head and smiled a little to herself. Two years ago she would never have believed that she would see calling a Nightshadow “ally” an improvement over “enemy,” let alone that she would consider “friend” a goal. Even three months ago she would have thought such an idea preposterous, but her redemption in Wendonai's domain had changed her—and so had Kâras himself.

The long walk stretched on, as distance that had been covered so quickly at a run dragged by at their slower pace. The sweat cooled on Cavatina's skin and made her shiver. She longed for her boots and cloak, left beside a tree when she joined the interrupted dance. Not only was their pace insufficient to keep her warm, it didn't prevent her legs from stiffening from her long run. By the time they reached the shrine, she was aching and shivering, and felt a thousand years old.

She sent the two priestesses through the portal with Balan's body and a message for Qilué, then crossed the shrine to the living areas. Kâras trailed after her, apparently too tired to try to match her stride the way he usually did. She noticed he was limping a little.

He paused at the base of the tree that housed their rooms, and stared at the ladder with distaste. Cavatina understood; the climb to her room seemed too long for her sore muscles. 

On impulse, she said, “Come on,” and turned away from the tree.

“What?”

“Have you ever been to the Misty Forest shrine before?”

Kâras followed her, looking wary. “No.”

“I think you'll like this.”

She led him across the grove, past the shrine proper, and down a shallow slope, pointing out the elven tower as they passed. Here the pieces of ancient masonry that littered the entire shrine were especially thick, and a few half-crumbled walls still stood. They rounded one wall and found, exactly where Rowaan had said they were, a series of small, interconnected pools that steamed in the cold air.

“Hot springs!” Kâras exclaimed.

“Just the thing for sore muscles.” 

Already naked, Cavatina laid her sword beside one of the pools and stepped in gingerly. The priestesses had restored the ancient steps leading down into the water, the benches around the sides, and the delicate tile mosaics. The water was shockingly hot, and made her skin tingle pleasantly. She settled on the bench and watched Kâras undress, his movements stiff.

“Do you need any healing?” she asked.

“No,” Kâras said sharply. He rubbed his calf and said, in a softer tone, “I'm not injured, just sore.” After a moment he added, “Thank you for the offer.”

Cavatina narrowed her eyes. She didn't think Kâras had ever thanked her for anything before. It seemed an odd moment for him to start.

Kâras laid his short sword and an astonishing number of concealed knives beside her singing sword, but left his mask on. He slipped into the water with a sigh of pleasure and sank onto the bench across from her. The pool was so small she could have touched his knees with her toes if she stretched out her legs, but it was deep in the center.

Cavatina watched as he tipped his head back and closed his eyes. It seemed a shame to disturb him, but.... “Who blew the horn?” The question had been nagging at her for a while.

Kâras lifted his head. “What?”

“The hunting horn. I was the first one to catch up to you, and you were alone. So who blew it?”

“I did.”

Cavatina stared at him. “You did?”

“Yes. I tripped over the damn thing in the forest while I was chasing after Balan. One of the priestesses must have left it there when she joined the dance.”

Cavatina frowned. “Where is it now?”

“I don't know. I must have lost it in the fight. I suppose its owner will miss it soon.”

“Unless it doesn't belong to anyone at the shrine.” The call had come from some distance away from the shrine; there was no reason for a priestess to leave her horn there. And Cavatina was sure she hadn't seen a horn in the clearing. “Perhaps... it was placed there by Eilistraee.”

Kâras' brows pinched in a frown. Not for the first time, Cavatina wished he would take of his mask, so she could better read his expression. She expected him to deny her suggestion, or mock her for it. Instead, he said, “It's my fault Balan's dead.”

“What?”

He seemed just as surprised by his words as she, and for a moment she thought he wouldn't continue. Then, almost reluctantly, he said, “I found him watching the dance. When I told him I was sent from the Promenade, he ran. He thought I was sent to assassinate him. If I'd said something different....”

“Why—?” Why would he think that? But the answer came before she finished the question. Of course the Nightshadows would send an assassin to hunt down—and kill—one who had trespassed. Of course Balan would assume the worst of Kâras. “You can't know that,” she said instead. “Only the gods can know what might have been.”

Kâras shook his head as though shaking away cobwebs, dismissing his own doubts. “Of course.” But he continued to frown.

Cavatina stretched out her legs and accidentally tangled her ankles with Kâras's. After they'd sorted out their feet, she said, “I'm willing to admit you might be right about Balan's innocence. But I still don't understand why he would run if he wasn't guilty.”

“You've never lived in the Underdark, have you?”

“No, I was born in the Velarswood. So was my mother. Why?”

“You have no idea what it's like, living with the spider kissers. Especially if you're male.”

“I've heard stories.”

“You have no idea,” he repeated. “In the Underdark there would be no investigation, no questions. The mere presence of his dagger in her room, of the cuts in her shirt, would be enough to damn him. And the priestesses of Lolth don't like it when a male kills one of their sisters. They think it will give the rest of us ideas.”

“They would kill him without a trial.”

“It wouldn't be a quick death, either.”

Cavatina felt uneasy. Guilt was the same assumption she'd made when they'd found Balan's dagger in Aliira's room. She'd thought his flight confirmed that guilt, but maybe her reaction had instead confirmed his fears. “Maybe he was afraid he would be blamed—”

“Which he was,” Kâras interjected pointedly.

“—but a truth spell would have proven his innocence,” Cavatina continued. “He had no reason to run unless he did kill her.”

“You say a truth spell would prove his case,” Kâras said, skepticism clear in his voice, “but did Balan know that? Did he believe it? He had an excellent reason to run: fear that he would be killed for a crime he didn't commit.”

Cavatina swept her hands through the water in frustration, sending waves running across the surface. “Then what was his dagger doing there?”

“I think he was framed.”

“Framed! But—” Cavatina stopped and turned the idea over in her mind. “Someone killed Aliira with Balan's dagger, knowing he would panic and run, probably hoping he would be eaten by something in the forest.”

“Which is exactly what happened.”

“But, Kâras, there's a problem. Two, actually. What if Balan didn't run? The killer took an enormous risk in assuming he would flee. And whoever he—or she—is, he couldn't have gotten into Aliira's room. The ladders are enchanted to turn into blades should anyone with ill intent try to climb them. If Balan had gone to Aliira, intending no harm, and killed her in a fit of rage once inside her room, the ladder wouldn't have reacted. But anyone climbing the ladder, carrying his dagger with the intent to kill Aliira with it and frame Balan, would be sure to set off the wards.”

“Just two years ago a Nightshadow assassinated a priestess here by levitating up to her room, avoiding the ladder altogether,” Kâras pointed out. “And the murder may still have been an impulse—don't forget the four stab wounds. She could have been carrying Balan's dagger for another reason, or may have killed Aliira with a different dagger and brought Balan's into the room as an afterthought.”

“So now we're back where we started,” Cavatina said, frustrated. “With no suspect.”

“Not... quite,” Kâras said slowly.

Cavatina sat up straighter. “What do you know?”

But Kâras shook his head. “No, it's too soon to say.”

“Kâras!”

He made an irritable gesture, droplets of water flying from his hands. “Forget I said anything. I'll tell you when I have something better than useless speculation.” He moved to climb out of the pool.

“Hold on,” Cavatina said. She stretched out and grabbed his wrist. “You can't—”

She tried to pull him backward at the same moment he tried to twist out of her grip. He slipped on the second step and fell against her. They both stumbled back into deepest part of the pool, plunged beneath the surface, and came up gasping. The water only came to Cavatina's chin, but covered Kâras' head. She caught his shoulders to hold him above the surface as he shook his head to free his sodden mask from his nose and mouth.

“Why is I always get soaked when I'm around you?” he growled.

“I could ask you the same thing,” she said.

He shivered, probably from cold air against his wet skin. The movement made her aware of just how close they were, how the tips of her breasts brushed his chest when she breathed. His mask clung to his cheeks, his chin, his nose, outlining features she had never seen before. She found she wanted to take the mask off and see those features without the silk in the way.

Their eyes met, and his amber eyes were sharp, knowing. He held her stare, challenging her, for a long moment, then lowered his gaze. It was a deliberate gesture of submission from a male who had never given way to her in the smallest way during the three months she'd know him, and she recognized it as the invitation it was.

She pressed her lips against his, the mask warm and smooth between their skin. He lifted his head to meet her and returned the kiss. She felt his tongue play against her mouth through the thin fabric. His arms went around her neck, bringing their bodies even closer together, pressing her breasts against his chest, his growing erection against her stomach.

She towed him to the side of the pool, water splashing around their waists. Hands released shoulders, slid across wet skin, combed through wet hair. Cavatina found the ties to his mask and undid them slowly, careful not to pull at his hair, careful to give him time to say no. But he said nothing, so she pulled the mask away from his face and laid it on top of her singing sword. She half-expected him to duck his head, or cover his mouth with his hand, but of course he stared her down, daring her to dislike what she saw.

The scar that puckered the edge of his left eye sliced across his cheekbone to his mouth and twisted the corner of his lips up in a small, perpetual smirk. His chin was stubborn and sharp. Just like him, Cavatina thought, and kissed him again. His tongue slid between their lips to tease her own. She let her hands run over his body, enjoying the tight muscles that trembled under her fingers, smoothing over the ridges of the old scars marring his back, sliding beneath the water and tickle his buttocks. This last made him gasp and jump, and she used his surprise to push him down onto the bench.

She straddled his lap, knees on the bench, and rested her hands on his shoulders. His muscles felt tense under her hands and his jaw was tight, his eyes intent. Anticipation, she thought. She drew him inside her, and was rewarded with the flutter of his eyelids and his sigh of pleasure. They moved together, passion building, until she dug her nails into his shoulders and cried out, her toes curling in the water. A few moments later he arched his back and threw back his head, eyes closed, neck bared to her: a pose of helpless and silent surrender.

Later, they bundled up their clothes and weapons and sprinted, wet and naked, through the cold air and up the ladder to Cavatina's room. They were both shivering by then. Cavatina made a nest of blankets on the floor beside the brazier, and they curled up together until the shivering stopped and they began to kiss again. Later still, they drifted into Reverie back-to-back, and Cavatina felt happier than she had in a long time. With drowsy bemusement, she realized she hadn't even known she wasn't happy.

A little before dawn, the cold against her back drew her out of Reverie. She felt the empty place where Kâras had been, and wondered what had gone wrong.

Chapter Text

A little before dawn, Kâras slipped out of Cavatina's room, still unpleasantly sore from the night's run—and pleasantly sore from other things. It had been a long time since he had lain with a female—not since the fall of Maerimydra, when he'd become consort to a priestess of... that goddess, the one who's name was now forgotten. The experience had left him so sickened he'd thought he would never desire a female again—and indeed, for five years he'd felt nothing but disgust whenever a female approached him.

But Cavatina was different. When she'd looked at him last night with desire shining clearly in her eyes, he had been surprised but not appalled. He'd submitted willingly to her, despite the memories, despite the fear of what she would do to him while he was helpless beneath her. And the pain had never come.

He'd been tempted to stay with her. Her warmth against his back and the steady sound of her breathing had followed him into Reverie and kept the darker memories away. He knew all too well, though, how a female who felt amorous by night could turn murderous by morning. Instead, he slipped out into the cold predawn light, as silent as a shadow.

He meant to climb down the ladder and return to his own room, but the thought of reclining alone on one of the benches held no appeal. Instead, he climbed up, to the little platform at the top of the tree, to watch the sun rise.

Sunrise wasn't something he'd seen often, and never deliberately. It came like sunset in reverse: gray giving way to green and then the palest of yellows. There was no pink or red, only cold metallic gold. It was beautiful, in a terrifying way. Sitting on the platform, waiting for the last of the shadows to bleed from the sky, he felt exposed, vulnerable. It was not unlike how he'd felt when he'd dropped his last guard, bared his neck to Cavatina, and surrendered to her.

He wondered if she understood the significance. He wondered if she knew what it had cost him.

Before the sun became too bright, he retreated down the ladder into the leafy shadows of the canopy. As he reached his room he paused, his hand resting on the door latch. Someone was passing below him—someone wearing a black mask, slipping almost invisibly from shadow to shadow. He was tall for a male, taller than any of the Nightshadows Kâras had met at the shrine, except Gandiir—but this male's shoulders were broader, too broad to be Gandiir.

It was unusual for a drow to still be awake so early in the morning, but hardly suspicious, and a Nightshadow would keep to the shadows out of habit, regardless of his business. There was no reason for Kâras to linger on his doorstep, watching the dark figure until it disappeared into the grove. There was no reason for him to feel uneasy.

---

His Reverie was full of confused images, and he woke later than he intended, a bittersweet taste in his mouth. The brazier had died down during the day, and he washed hastily with icy-cold water from the basin. When he climbed out onto the ladder, it was already full dark. He ruthlessly suppressed the sentimental urge to look for Cavatina. He had work to do—and he had no idea what he would say to Cavatina if he found her, anyway.

Xytherril proved move elusive than Kâras expected. The Nightshadow was not in his room—Kâras disarmed the traps and searched it just to be sure. He asked around the shrine, and eventually learned Xytherril was patrolling the western edge of the shrine. Doubly annoyed, Kâras set out into the forest. Although the patrols kept close to the shrine, they followed no set pattern. Finding them would not be easy, and Kâras didn't relish the idea of wandering through the woods until he either ran into Xytherril through pure luck or something tried to eat him. He was also acutely aware that Xytherril didn't belong on patrol at all. Patrolling was relegated to novices, petitioners, and lay worshipers, not powerful clerics like Xytherril. It was yet another example of how the Nightshadows were disrespected and undervalued.

The easiest way to find Xytherril might have been to crash noisily through the woods until the patrol found him, but Kâras couldn't bring himself to do it. Training and habit forced him to creep through the forest, resigned to wasting time for an interrogation that might itself be a waste of time, if Balan could simply name Aliira's killer when resurrected.

“Looking for something, Nightshadow?”

Kâras turned slowly, to show he wasn't afraid. A drow female wearing armor and Eilistraee's sword-pendant stood a few paces away, smiling at him. Her youthful face and upturned nose made her pretty rather than beautiful, and she probably thought sneaking up on him was funny. He dropped his hand to his sword to show he wasn't amused.

The smile vanished. “Alright,” she said, “I can see you've got no sense of humor. Now what?”

“I'm looking for your companion,” he said. “The one you sent around behind me while you were playing the distraction.”

The smile reappeared at the corners of her mouth. “You're quick,” she acknowledged. “Though it was his idea, not mine.”

“It was a good plan,” Xytherril said, from behind Kâras. “Nightshadows are better at stealth.”

Kâras turned again, not liking having a Nightshadow at his back. He was unsurprised to find Xytherril was the male he had seen crossing the grove early last morning. Tall and broad-shouldered, he was larger than his female companion, nearly as tall as Cavatina. His eyes, watchful above his mask, were an unusually dark red, almost black.

“You just think Protectors are better bait,” the female said.

Keeping his hands low, where the female couldn't see them, Xytherril signed, They're not good for much else. Wouldn't you agree?

Something about Xytherril's attitude bothered Kâras, though he couldn't put his finger on what it was. They have their uses, he signed back.

Like bed-games?

That gave Kâras pause. Did Xytherril know he had let Cavatina take him last night? They hadn't exactly been subtle in the hot springs, or in their hasty dash across the shrine. Anyone could have seen them. But why did Xytherril think it was any of his business? Why did he bring it up now?

“I'm standing right here, you know,” the female said dryly.

“Perhaps you shouldn't be,” Xytherril shot back. “Lord Kâras is here to speak to me, after all.”

“Then I'll just wait over here, shall I?” the female said, meeting Xytherril's acid with cool sarcasm. “That way we can get back to our patrol quickly once you boys are done with your little chat.”

She retreated a strategic distance, far enough to give the illusion of privacy but close enough that she could probably overhear everything they said. Kâras found himself reluctantly admiring her cheek; Xytherril didn't seem like a pleasant companion for a patrol—or anything else.

“You know who I am,” Kâras said.

“Everyone knows who you are. The strange Nightshadow, sent by the Promenade to help the priestesses solve their little problem.”

“Aliira's death.”

“The insubordinate Nightshadows,” Xytherril corrected. “What's the death of one priestess? But a group of powerful males seeking to upset the old order—that cannot be allowed.”

Privately, Kâras agreed, though he was not so impolitic as to say so aloud. Qilué had sent him to find a killer, yes, but also to resolve tensions between the Nightshadows and Protectors at the shrine. How did she expect those tensions to be resolved? Not by wringing concessions from the Protectors or granting more power and independence to the Nightshadows: she would hardly undermine the power of the priestesses and, by extension, her own power. No, she must hope the usual demands—be silent, be submissive, know your place—would sound more palatable to the Nightshadows if they came from Kâras’s lips.

And yet—she had made concessions, allowing males to sing in the Cavern of Song and appointing him to this mission on equal footing with Cavatina. She had not instructed him to make any demands, usual or otherwise. She had, in fact, given him no instruction at all, leaving the matter to his discretion, though he had already proven himself a vocal advocate for the Nightshadows. Perhaps, he mused, she expected Cavatina to keep him in line. If so, her plan was failing badly: recently, Cavatina seemed more willing to listen to him than argue with him. Was is possible Qilué’s motives were as pure as they appeared?

Kâras shook his head slowly. This was not the place or time to entertain such doubts, let alone discuss them. “Tell me about Balan.”

“He's dead.”

“I noticed,” Kâras said dryly. “But he won't be for much longer. I need to find out if he killed Aliira.”

“He didn't.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“He was too tame,” Xytherril said bitterly. “He'd only taken the mask a few years before....” his voice trailed off, painfully. “He remembered all too well the whips of Lolth's priestesses and the lessons of obedience they taught him. The Protectors did nothing to discourage his fear.”

“That's not true,” the female said, abandoning all pretense of privacy. “We were kind to him. He was a good boy—unlike some,” she added pointedly to Xytherril. “I can't believe he killed Aliira.” She turned to Kâras and gave him the full bow due his rank. “I'm Ssaquarra, by the way. I already know who you are.”

“Apparently everyone does,” Kâras muttered.

“Not all were kind,” Xytherril said, ignoring their exchange. “Or else you have a strange definition of kindness.” He spat the word like a curse.

Ssaquarra narrowed her eyes at him. “What Aden'ila tried to do was wrong, and that was made clear to her by Lady Rowaan. The actions of one girl, still a petitioner, do not represent the entire sisterhood.”

The name was unfamiliar to him. “What did Aden'ila do?” Kâras asked.

“Nothing,” Ssaquarra said quickly. “She didn't actually do anything.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Xytherril said grimly. “She tried to take Balan against his will.”

Kâras raised his brows in surprise. In the Underdark, females took males as they pleased, and did whatever they wanted in bed—even torturing or killing their mates. The male's will was irrelevant. Officially, Eilistraee forbade such behavior, but Kâras had always been somewhat doubtful. Like the priestess's claims of equality, it seemed too good to be true. Yet, last night Cavatina's gentleness had shaken his cynicism, and he had to admit he had never seen any sign that rule was broken.

“Aden'ila is new to the sword,” Ssaquarra said to Kâras. “She's still learning our ways. Lady Rowaan spoke to her, and set a penance.”

“Too little,” Xytherril said. “And too late.”

Kâras glanced between them. “I take it that wasn't the first time there was a complaint about her behavior.”

“Not the first time there was a complaint, only the first time something was done about it.”

Ssaquarra looked uncomfortable. “I don't think Lady Rowaan was made aware of the severity of the previous transgressions,” she said.

“Or perhaps she was unwilling to listen until another female brought the complaint.”

“Aliira spoke to Rowaan on Balan's behalf?” Kâras asked incredulously. When two females desired the same male, he generally became nothing more than a pawn in their personal sava game of power. One female might win, but the male always lost. Although Balan would be unable to refuse Aden'ila, he could also expect Aliira to punish him for allowing himself to be taken by her. 

At least, that was how it worked in the Underdark. Evidently things were done differently here. He shook his head, bewildered, thinking that he'd learned more about Eilistraee's priestesses in the past two days than he had in the past two years.

“Of course,” Ssaquarra said. “Despite what Xytherril would have you believe, most of us are nothing like Aden'ila. I hope you know that, Kâras.”

Kâras felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Ssaquarra must have been even younger than Cavatina, and couldn't have been on the surface much longer than Kâras himself, yet when she spoke his name he felt as though the Masked Lady herself looked out of the her eyes. For all her youth, this was priestess with a deep connection to her goddess. He felt as though she saw into his soul, saw all of the doubts and flaws there, and forgave him. 

It was not a comfortable feeling.

Kâras left Xytherril and Ssaquarra to continue their patrol and began making his way back to shrine, turning what they had told him over in his head, wondering if it strengthened or weakened the case against Balan. If Aliira had decided to punish Balan after all, he may have tried to defend himself—rightful self-defense in the eyes of the Nightshadows, but no doubt murder in the eyes of the Protectors. On the other hand, Aden'ila was herself a good suspect, and she fit a theory that had been growing in Kâras's mind since he first saw Aliira's room.

A soft click interrupted his thoughts.

Kâras stopped. His first few forays on the surface had been full of heart-stopping false alarms as his ears, accustomed to the deep silence of the Underdark, identified every rustling branch and sleepy bird as a threat. He'd quickly learned to tune out the common and unimportant sounds. Whatever this was, it wasn't common or unimportant, and he couldn't help but feel that it had a projectile weapon pointed at him. The space between his shoulder blades itched. Something told him it wasn't another patrol from the shrine.

She appeared from nowhere, standing before him suddenly where a moment before there had been only trees and mist. Her skin was dark, but nut-brown rather than his own coal-black. Like his, her hair was white, but Kâras thought that was due to age: lines gathered around the corners of her eyes and mouth, as though she spent most of her time smiling, though there was no hint of a smile on her face now. Her clothes—what little there were of them—were of elaborately beaded leather, and the generous amount of bare skin, all as firm and a tight as a female in her first century of life, was decorated with swirling lines of white paint that seemed to glow in the moonlight. She was unarmed, but Kâras didn't doubt she had half a dozen companions in the forest around him, all aiming arrows at his heart. Wild elves rarely traveled alone.

Or so Kâras had heard. He'd never actually encountered one before, though as a child he'd been told stories of their barbarism and animal-like ferocity in battle. Their barbarism may have been one of the many lies the drow told about their surface cousins; he had no intentions of finding out if their ferocity was real.

She clicked her tongue again.

He slowly crossed his arms over his chest in the drow symbol of surrender. “Lady,” he said in Elvish, and waited.

“You follow the Masked Lord of killers,” she said in the same language. It was a statement, not a question.

“No, lady,” Kâras said quickly. “Vhaeraun is dead. I follow Eilistraee.” He added emphatically, “I am a friend to all goodly folk.” The words stung, but not as much as they might have two years ago.

The female cocked her head like a curious bird. “Only half a lie,” she said. “But I think you mean well.” She took a step forward, and Kâras resisted the urge to reach for his sword. She had an aura of power about her that made him wary. “I have a message for the one called Cavatina.”

“I am Cavatina's—” What? Not her consort, and neither her commander nor her lieutenant. He fumbled for the right word. “—partner.” The closest drow word meant something slightly different, and he hoped he was using the Elvish equivalent correctly. “You can give your message to me.”

She cocked her head the other direction and studied him. Kâras had the uncomfortable sensation that she could see into his soul, and reflected that she was the second person to make him feel that way tonight. He wondered what a wild elf would make of what she saw there.

After a moment, she said, “From the druids we had the message that this Cavatina sought knowledge of a drow who left your shrine, a young male who wears the mask, as you do.”

“Yes,” Kâras said. “We found him.”

“He is dead,” the elf agreed. “Killed by an enormous spider—a creature abhorrent to us. But there is another drow who has left your shrine—and then returned to it. We followed her to a drow encampment.”

Kâras shook his head. “An encampment?” He knew of no other drow in the Misty Forest besides the shrine.

“They wear the sign of the spider.”

Kâras's hands dropped to his sides in shock. “Mostly male warriors,” he said, seeking confirmation for what he already knew. “A few male wizards, a few priestesses.”

“Yes.”

“A raiding party,” he breathed. “When was this? When did the female go to the camp?”

“The day before yesterday.”

Kâras counted back in his head. That was the day before the night Balan was killed. “How large is the party? How many?”

“As you say, mostly warriors, some magic-users. A dozen in all.”

“A dozen.... Thank you, lady. I—we are extremely grateful for this. If there is ever any way the shrine can help you or your people—”

“We have no need of outsiders,” the elf said, a little coldly. “But,” she added, softening a little, “your offer is appreciated.”

Kâras made himself bow; it was the polite thing to do, though it made the back of his neck prickle. When he straightened, she was gone. 

His heart pounding, Kâras sprinted back to shrine. Everything made sense now. This whole time they'd been one step behind the killer, but now they were finally ahead. Now they could finally attack, instead of respond. He passed a handful of priestesses and lay worshipers as he raced through the grove, ignoring their quizzical looks. At the base of the tower he forced himself to stop and catch his breath before he pushed open the heavy door and climbed the stone steps.

He found Rowaan and lay worshiper Ralinn in the library, sitting on opposite sides of the round room, each absorbed in their own book and peacefully ignoring the other. They looked up at him as he stood in the doorway, their expressions slowly moving from puzzled to alarmed.

“There's a drow raiding party camped in the forest,” Kâras said to Rowaan, still panting a little. “They're planning an attack on the shrine. The petitioner Aden'ila is their spy.”

Ralinn made a noise of shock and Rowaan stood up hastily, dumping her book to the floor in surprise. She wasted no time with exclamations or denials. “Tell me what you know,” she demanded.

Before Kâras could begin, a young female, not quite out of girlhood, bolted into the room. In her haste, she ran straight into Kâras. “Sorry!” she gasped, but spared him no more than a brief, wary look. “Lady Rowaan, Lady Cavatina sent me—Aden'ila has been murdered!”

Chapter Text

The first thing Cavatina noticed when she roused from Reverie was the cold draft against her back. She stood, stretched, and tried to pretend that Kâras's absence didn't bother her. It was true they'd become unexpectedly close, but since they had begun by hating each other that wasn't saying much. He wasn't her consort. He was barely her friend. There was no reason she should expect their lovemaking to be anything more than mutual pleasure. No reason at all.

When she went to dress she realized her clothes were still folded beside the shrine where she'd left them last night before she joined her sisters in dance. With an irritated sigh, she pulled on a spare grown and went to retrieve them. On her way down the ladder she paused outside Kâras's door. She wondered if she should knock, but was unsure what to say to him if he answered. In the end she climbed past, telling herself he might not even be inside. Perhaps he had left her side to continue their investigation.

Though what he would investigate, Cavatina didn’t know. They had no leads save Balan, who, assuming he had resurrected without difficulty, could not return to the shrine until moonrise opened the portal. There seem nothing for them to do but wait.

Cavatina wasn't the only one who'd forgotten her clothes in last night's wild scramble: another female was at the shrine already, gathering up a bundle of silk and leather. Cavatina recognized her as one of those who had joined the fight against the giant spider and later carried Balan's body back to the shrine. The female bowed in respectful greeting, and something tickled Cavatina's memory.

“You're Yvonnel, aren't you?” Cavatina asked. “Rowaan said you were a good friend of Aliira.”

“Very close.” Yvonnel smiled sadly. “We were part of the same patrol, sent to the surface to attack an elven village. The attack failed and Aliira and I thought we would be killed. Instead we were given the chance to find redemption.” Her eyes became distant and filled with wonder at the memory. For the first time, Cavatina felt no envy. “That was more than a century ago.”

“Then you must have known her better than anyone,” Cavatina said. “Did you know her consort, as well?”

“Balan? Of course. He was a sweet boy. I pray they are able to resurrect him.”

“Then you don't believe he killed her.”

“No!” she exclaimed. “I admit, when the Nightshadows first joined us I believed it would be a disaster. I thought they would pollute our shrines and our faith with their dark ways, and I thought Aliira was a fool to take one as her consort. But I realized I was wrong. I, too, once committed dark deeds, and yet I was redeemed. No, Balan is no more evil than I am.”

Cavatina struggled to keep her expression neutral. Though recent events had softened her views, she found herself unable to match Yvonnel's acceptance. Yvonnel may have left her dark deeds behind her when she came into the light, but had the Nightshadows? 

Had Kâras?

The question left her uncomfortably aware of her own lack of faith and she hastily pushed it aside. Whatever doubts Yvonnel’s word raised in her, they offered more confirmation that Kâras was right about Balan—something they would likely get absolute proof of in a few hours, when the moon rose.

“Who could it be, then?” Cavatina wondered aloud, frustrated. “Who would want Aliira dead?”

“A question I've asked myself often,” Yvonnel said somberly. “In the Underdark, there are no friends, only enemies. But how can one have enemies here?”

What enemy would attack you here in the Promenade? Cavatina had asked Kâras. The enemies of Eilistraee's faithful came from the outside: monsters, goblin-kin, Lolth-worshiping drow. They never came from within, never disguised themselves as friends. Perhaps that was why the Protectors were so eager to blame Aliira's death on a Nightshadow. It was easier to accept than the possibility that she was murdered by one of her sisters.

“Of course she had no enemies,” Cavatina said slowly, wondering how Kâras would consider the question. He would never make a direct attack. There had to be a different direction she could approach this problem from. “Did anything unusual happen before she died? Did she behave strangely, or have an argument with someone?”

Yvonnel's expression sharpened. “She did have an argument with one of the petitioners, Aden'ila. The girl tried to take Balan.”

Cavatina blinked in surprise. “Didn't she know he was Aliira's consort?”

“If she didn't before, she did once he told her—at knifepoint.”

“What?”

“Even after Balan told Aden'ila he was consort to Aliira, she refused to leave him be,” Yvonnel said grimly.  “He was forced to draw steel and defend himself. Later, he confessed everything to Aliira. He was terrified, you understand, that she or Aden'ila would punish him for what happened.”

“Of course,” Cavatina said, not understanding at all.

“Naturally, Aliira would never do such a thing. She confronted Aden'ila, and when the girl refused to repent she went to Lady Rowaan. Some of the other females,” Yvonnel continued, her eyes narrowing, “were inclined to see the matter as a simple misunderstanding, but Aliira convinced Rowaan otherwise. Apparently Balan wasn't the first male she'd pushed.”

“What did Rowaan do?”

“She assigned the girl penance.” Yvonnel shook her head. “We thought that was the end of it. But now that I think on it, Aden'ila... has had some trouble fitting in here.” 

“How long has Aden’ila been at the shrine?”

“Almost a turn of the moon,” Yvonnel said. She frowned at Cavatina. “You don't think she killed Aliira? Over a male?”

Saying I have no idea wouldn't do any favors for her reputation, so Cavatina asked Yvonnel where she could find Aden'ila, instead. She trudged off through the snow with her clothes bundles under her arm, reflecting that she was probably wasting her time. It seemed impossible that a priestess would murder her sister for anything, let alone jealousy over a male. Of course, it also seemed impossible that a priestess would try to take a male against his will. She knew it happened in the Underdark, but converts were supposed to leave those dark ways behind them. Aden’ila has had some trouble fitting in here. Perhaps it was not only Nightshadows’ conversion Cavatina should doubt.

She found the tree housing Aden'ila's room but paused at the base of the ladder. The third door up on the north side stood ajar. A feeling of dread settled in the pit of her stomach. She climbed the ladder slowly, already certain what she would find.

Just two years ago a Nightshadow assassinated a priestess here, Kâras had told her. She vaguely remembered the details. Rowaan had been strangled by a Nightshadow, her soul stolen as part of a plot to assassinate Eilistraee. Her room must have looked very much like this one: a chair overturned, broken pottery on the floor, and the body of a drow female sprawled face-up across the table, her eyes bulging and a deep crease across her throat.

Cavatina climbed back down the ladder and stood at the base of the tree, feeling sick and furious and betrayed. Last night, hadn't she marveled at how far she had come toward regarding the Nightshadows as allies, even friends? Ten minutes ago, hadn't she been ashamed of how little she faith she yet had in them? Hadn't Kâras spent the last two nights berating her for her prejudice, and hadn't she made a real effort to take his criticisms to heart? Now she was rewarded with a priestess killed by an assassin's cord.

“Lady? Are you well?”

Cavatina shook her head to clear her thoughts. A young girl stood in front of her, watching her with concern. Apparently, Cavatina reflected wryly, she had once again failed to conceal her emotions.

“I need you to find Lady Rowaan for me,” Cavatina told her. “Aden'ila's been murdered.”

The girl's eyes widened, and Cavatina realized too late that her emotions weren't the only things that needed to be concealed. “Tell no one but Rowaan!” she added quickly. 

After the girl ran off, Cavatina returned to Aden'ila's room. Remembering Kâras's criticisms of her “ham-fisted sisters,” she stepped carefully through the shards of pottery to touch Aden'ila's body. It was cold and stiff. Cavatina guessed she had been lying there for most of the day. She lay on her back, arms, legs, and head hanging limply off the edge of the table. There were scratches on her neck and blood under her fingernails where she had clawed at the strangler's cord. Her sword pendant spilled from the deep neckline of her disheveled gown to lie across her breastbone. A second, longer chain twined with it, disappearing between Aden'ila's breasts. Curious, Cavatina gently tugged it free, revealing a tiny silver spider set with glittering shards of obsidian.

Cavatina snatched her hand back in shock. The spider was the unholy symbol of Lolth. There was no reason for Aden'ila to be wearing it. Sickened by the sight of it lying beside Eilistraee's sacred symbol, Cavatina plucked the tiny sword from Aden'ila's chest and snapped the chain with a hard jerk.

She heard voices below. A moment later Rowaan, Kâras, and Ralinn appeared in the doorway, all out of breath. Rowaan's eyes went to the body stretched out on the table and her face turned gray. Ralinn looked from Aden'ila's body to Rowaan's face, and then glared suspiciously at Kâras. Cavatina glared at Kâras, as well. Above his mask, Kâras looked puzzled, but not shocked, which was all the confirmation Cavatina needed. 

“You knew!” Cavatina advanced on Kâras, brandishing the sword pendant as if it were evidence of his deceit. His confusion turned to wariness and her gave ground before her. “You knew Aden'ila was a traitor, you lied to me last night when you said you had no leads, and then you killed her after you left me yesterday!”

He stopped when his back hit the wall. “I didn’t kill her,” he snapped. “I only suspected there was a traitor at the shrine. It would explain several mysteries surrounding Aliira's death. But I didn't know the traitor's identity until now. How did you know?”

He seemed affronted that Cavatina had found Aden’ila before he had and that, more than anything, convinced Cavatina he was telling the truth. She drew her dagger and used the tip to lift the chain from Aden'ila's chest. The spider pendant spun and glittered in the starlight that spilled through the open doorway. Ralinn drew in sharp breath.

“I don't understand,” Rowaan said, staring at the pendant in horror. “How could Aden'ila have worn that... thing? And how does it explain anything?”

“The spiders in Aliira's room.” Cavatina's mind was racing, making connections Kâras must have made from the beginning—and felt no need to share with her. “A priestess of Lolth could summon a horde of them to consume the body.”

“And the spider that attacked Balan in the forest,” Kâras agreed. “It appeared conveniently—too conveniently. I thought I saw someone else out there, someone watching Balan. It must have been her.” He nodded toward Aden'ila's body. “When Aliira reported Aden'ila's behavior toward Balan, Aden'ila must have killed her in revenge. It's the sort of vindictive thing a priestess of Lolth would do, though she foolishly risked exposing herself.”

“Perhaps she already had,” Cavatina said. “During their confrontation Aden’ila may have let slip something that roused Aliira’s suspicions. Killing Aliira may have served two purposes.”

“But Aden'ila was here almost a full change of the moon,” Rowaan protested. “How could she have maintained the deception for so long?”

“I'm surprised she didn't make it even longer,” Kâras said, his voice bland. “Considering how readily you accept strangers into your ranks, it would be child's play for a spy to infiltrate the shrine.”

“It is because we are so accepting of strangers that we are always vigilant for spies,” Ralinn countered, glaring at Kâras. “We watch new petitioners closely for signs that their conversion is not as genuine as it seems. Since you were never a petitioner,” he added pointedly, “you would, of course, not know that.”

Apparently unconcerned by the other male's barb, Kâras met Ralinn’s hard glare with a level stare of his own. “And yet,” he said, “your vigilance was for naught. It was no Protector who uncovered her, nor yet a lay worshiper: it was a Nightshadow who found your spy.”

“Then you don’t deny a Nightshadow killed her,” Cavatina said, frowning at him. He had convinced her the dagger in Aliira's room was a false clue, but only a Nightshadow would kill with a garrote. “Whoever he was, he must have realized her true loyalties.”

“Not necessarily,” Ralinn said reluctantly. “Aden'ila had a reputation for being... aggressive… with males. If she tried with a Nightshadow what she tried with Balan, he may have killed her in without ever knowing what goddess she truly worshiped.”

Rowaan finally dragged her horrified stare from Aden’ila’s body and transferred it to Ralinn. “I didn’t know she had a reputation,” she said. “I knew about Balan, and one or two small misunderstandings. Why did no one tell me of this?”

Ralinn lowered his eyes and looked uncomfortable. “I beg your pardon, lady.”

“This is how she remained undetected for a month,” Kâras said, and Cavatina heard the trace of bitterness in his voice. “She showed her true nature only to those who could not speak or act against her: those who did not matter.”

“That’s not true,” Rowaan said fiercely. “Everyone at this shrine matters. Everyone. Even the Nightshadows. Even Aden’ila.” She passed a hand over her face. “I must hold myself responsible for this. I should have taken the complaints against her more seriously. No male should have been treated as she treated them. No spy should have should have gone undiscovered for so long. By Eilistraee’s grace, none of this might have happened—and Aden’ila might yet have been redeemed in truth.”

It was not in Cavatina’s nature or a Darksong Knight’s training to show patience for failure, but some new instinct moved her to say, “You must not judge yourself too harshly. You made a mistake, but you will know better in the future. And as for Aden’ila… we don’t yet know why she was killed.”

Kâras gestured impatiently. “What does it matter why?” he demanded. “She was a priestess of Lolth. This Nightshadow merely saved us the trouble of killing her ourselves.”

Cavatina opened her mouth and then closed it, unsure what to say. She did not entirely disagree with Kâras—but his response troubled her. She knew Vhaeraun had demanded nothing from his followers but obedience, caring nothing for their thoughts or beliefs so long as they succeeded in performing his will. Eilistraee, however, valued the truth in her worshipers' hearts, often more than she valued whether they succeeded in her endeavors. That even after two years amongst Eilistraee's faithful Kâras could not see the connection between motives and morals, between right and wrong, was disturbing.

“It matters,” Rowaan said gently, “because it is the difference between murder and execution. Even if he knew what Aden'ila was, she should have been given a chance to speak in her own defense and find redemption, if she had it in her to do so.”

Kâras dropped his eyes and said nothing.

“Whatever his motive for killing her, he did us no favors,” Cavatina said grimly. “Short of having a necromancer speak to her shade, we have no way of knowing what she was planning.”

Rowaan smiled a small, fierce smile. “On the contrary—the wild elves brought word of a drow camp in the forest.”

“What?” Cavatina exclaimed. “A raiding party, here in the Misty Forest?”

“Aden'ila must have been their advance scout,” Kâras said. He had been staring thoughtfully at the body, but now he raised his eyes. “We have no idea when they planned to attack. When Aden'ila fails to contact them they may wait—or they may attack immediately.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Cavatina demanded. “We must attack first!”

The next few hours passed in a flurry of preparations. Their first task was to send a scouting party to find the enemy camp, as the wild elves had given only a bare intimation of location and numbers. Kâras volunteered for this mission, claiming he was better suited to scouting than open assault. This had not, Cavatina thought wryly, prevented him from expressing his opinions during the crusade against the Acropolis, but she couldn’t deny his talents lay more with stealth and skirmish than battle. Nor, given how opinionated he had been during the crusade, could she deny she was glad to see him out of the planning now.

And yet, despite her relief that Kâras was not present to argue and second-guess everything she said, Cavatina found her thoughts straying to him. In some ways, his mission to scout the drow camp was more dangerous than the attack itself would be. With Ralinn and Iliaraena—a wizard and a priestess, both familiar with the forest—accompanying him, he was as safe as anyone spying on an encampment of Lolth-worshiping drow could be. Even alone, he was more than competent: he had survived the fall of Maerimydra. Still, to her annoyance, the worry persisted.

When the moon rose, a messenger came to tell her Balan had returned from the Promenade. Cavatina excused herself from the controlled chaos of the battle preparations. They'd put him in the library with three priestesses to guard the door. Two were from the Misty Forest shrine, but the third, Yastyrr, Cavatina recognized from the Promenade. They all bowed as she reached the landing.

“Lady,” Yastyrr said, “Lady Qilué sends her regards, and a message. She has examined the Nightshadow and found him innocent of Aliira's murder.”

Cavatina had expected it, but she still felt relieved. She liked Aden'ila as Aliira's killer far better than Balan. She suppressed a smile and said, “Your duty here is done, then.”

“I understand there is to be an attack soon,” Yastyrr said, unmoved. “With your permission, Lady, I would like to remain here and assist however I can.”

This time Cavatina let her smile show. “Of course. All three of you are free to join the preparations.”

When the priestesses had bowed and left, Cavatina opened the door. Only a single drifting light illuminated the room, leaving it darker than Cavatina had ever seen it. Balan sat cross-legged and straight-backed in Ralinn's cushioned chair, so still he might have been a statue. When Cavatina stepped into the room he stirred as though waking from Reverie and slipped out of the chair. He bowed deeply and held the pose.

“You can stand up straight,” Cavatina said, with some asperity. Accustomed to Kâras's sarcasm, she suspected she was being mocked.

At her command he straightened, though he kept his eyes on the floor. He was young, even younger than herself, and handsome in a delicate, fine-boned way that made him look vulnerable. Cavatina was beginning to realize that this might be a dangerous combination for a male living at the mercy of Lolth's priestesses. His shoulders were tense, and he cast stealthy glances at her from under his long eyelashes, as though waiting for an expected blow. His face was bare, and as she watched he brought up a hand to his mouth as though feeling for his mask or trying to hide his face. Perhaps both, she thought. Where Kâras had been confident, even defiant without his mask, Balan was nervous and uncomfortable. She found herself wanting to put him at ease.

“Why don't you sit down?” she offered. 

She dragged one of the other chairs over so they could sit facing each other. Balan waited until she was settled, and then sat on the very edge of his seat. He still refused to meet her eyes.

“My name is Cavatina,” she said gently. She no longer believed he was mocking her. It was clear he was genuinely afraid of her and she had no idea how to change his mind. “I know you've spoken to Lady Qilué, and I know you were not responsible for Aliira's death. You will not be punished in any way for her murder or for any of the events of the past few days. I just want to talk to you about what happened, so we can figure out who killed her.”

Now he looked at her, though only for a moment. His expression was wary. “I don't know who killed her, lady,” he said. 

“But you suspect.”

His expression became warier.

Cavatina sighed in exasperation. “Aden'ila is dead,” she told him.

His eyes widened. Suddenly he laughed, a bitter, satisfied laugh. “The Masked Lady heard my prayers for justice, after all.”

It had been easy to think of him as nothing but a frightened boy. His dark joy reminded her that he was a Nightshadow, mask or no mask. Would he consider murder by an assassin’s cord “justice”? Kâras had.

“You believe Aden'ila killed Aliira.”

“They had an... altercation a few days before—before Aliira died,” Balan said. “That night I went to see Aliira, but Aden'ila was already there in her room. She claimed she'd come to apologize to Aliira, and found my bloody dagger lying on the floor. She accused me of killing Aliira. Of course I knew I hadn't, but my dagger was there and it was her word against mine. I knew no one would believe me.”

Cavatina suppressed a wince.

“I suppose her story is why an assassin was sent from the Promenade,” he continued.

She stared at him for a moment, puzzled and uncomprehending, before she remembered. “No, Kâras wasn't sent to kill you. Aden'ila never came forward to accuse you.” She hesitated. “Kâras was the one who argued for your innocence.”

This seemed to surprise him. “Then... he was sent to assassinate Aden'ila?”

“No,” Cavatina said. “Kâras wasn't sent to assassinate anyone.” She hoped not, anyway.

“I don't understand, lady,” Balan said. “How did Aden'ila die?”

Once again, Cavatina thought I don't know wouldn't do any favors for her reputation. Instead she asked, “Did you know Aden'ila was a spy?”

Balan looked first confused, and then shocked. “A spy? A spy for—? She was a Lolthite?”

When Cavatina nodded, he laughed again, a sweet, pure laugh that took Cavatina's breath away. He suddenly looked like any of the boys she had grown up with, boys who could no more slink through the shadows and commit dark deeds than Cavatina herself. “Shadows be praised! I was afraid—”

With a guilty look at Cavatina he stopped suddenly, but she knew what he had been about to say. I was afraid Eilistraee's priestesses were no different than Lolth's. For the first time, she appreciated how difficult it must be for those converts who had not experienced redemption to leave their pasts behind them, to break the cycle of treachery and mistrust bred and beaten into them by the Underdark.

And it suddenly struck her that none of the Nightshadows had ever been redeemed.

The realization knocked the breath from her body. Every captured drow was offered the chance to convert to Eilistraee's worship, but priestesses went a step further, casting aside their dark pasts and accepting Eilistraee's light into their hearts in a moment of redemption. Cavatina knew the Nightshadows been required to do no more than take the sword-oath administered to lay worshipers: everyone knew that. Yet somehow, in the two years the Nightshadows had lived amongst Eilistraee's faithful, no one—including Cavatina herself—had called for the clerics to be treated equally with the priestesses. No one had offered them redemption.

While Cavatina struggled with this revelation, there came a frantic knock on the door. The door burst open to reveal the young girl who had played messenger for Cavatina earlier.

“Lady Cavatina!” she said, panting a little. “Lady Rowaan sent me to find you. She says the scouting party is back—and Lord Kâras has been captured!”