Lisa Smedman - Storm of the Dead

But they also, as they probed even deeper into Q'arlynd's thoughts and memories, saw the dreams his mind contained. Dreams of founding something that was truly a unity of purpose, of will. Not the resurrection of a noble drow House, but the creation of something new. A union that would transcend the colleges and Houses from which they had each come.

"Well?" Q'arlynd breathed. He asked the question both with his voice and with his heart.

Eldrinn lifted his kiira. "I'm convinced."

"As am I," Alexa said quickly.

Zarifar opened his eyes and silently nodded.

"Right," Baltak said. He tried to step in front of the other apprentices, to take charge, but Q'arlynd placed a hand on his shoulder, restraining him. Baltak, for once, relented.

"On my three-count," Q'arlynd said. "And be sure to keep your minds linked with mine. One… two… three!"

As the others pressed their lorestones against their foreheads, Q'arlynd felt the awarenesses that were the other five kiira join them. Each of the apprentices reacted as he'd expected: Baltak with a mental grapple, Alexa with tentative experimentation, Zarifar with a dreamy acceptance, and Eldrinn with cautious curiosity. An instant later, each succumbed as the kiira took hold. The lorestones spoke to one another through the linkage of the rings the six of them wore.

The combined awarenesses of Q'arlynd and the kiira he wore answered them.

It is time. Begin.

Together, they wove a spell. Guided by the kiira, the six drow in unison spoke the words to an enchantment. As the spell waxed, the Faerzress brightened. Though Q'arlynd had to squint against its glare, he forced himself to keep staring at it. The Faerzress was their link to Kiaransalee's minions, to the undead that drew their power from its negative energy, to the Crones who venerated and created those abominations-to the Goddess of Death herself.

From each and every one of those minds, something was about to be erased. Not a memory, but a single word.

In a roundabout way, the inspiration for the enchantment had come from Kiaransalee herself. When Q'arlynd had heard Leliana's story about Kiaransalee erasing Orcus's name from shrines and temples the length and breadth of Faerun, he'd accepted the story at face value. The goddess must have acted out of simple vanity, he surmised. Ever the conquering queen, she wanted to obliterate all evidence of one who had ruled before her.

Q'arlynd had come to realize the deeper implications. All deities needed worshipers to survive. Without a steady stream of the faithful praying to them on Toril and later entering their domains after death, the gods and goddesses would slowly fade away.

What better way to end Kiaransalee's worship than by erasing her name from every worshiper's mind? Even from the mind of the very goddess herself.

Q'arlynd slapped a hand against the wall. "Kiaransalee!" he cried.

His spell rippled outward through the Faerzress. Like fire through dry kindling, it burned the minds of Kiaransalee's faithful. It arced through the Negative Energy Plane, streaking like a bolt of lightning through that vast void and exploding out into the corner of the Demonweb Pits that was Kiaransalee's domain.

Q'arlynd heard a tumultuous cry-thousands of voices, shrieking. Abruptly, they choked off into silence.

The silence of the grave.

It is done.

He bowed in thanks. When he rose, he saw that the Faerzress which filled the corridor was muted. Yet it was still there.

His eyes widened in alarm. "Did we fail?"

We succeeded. We halted the progression of the Faerzress. But even high magic can't turn back time.

Q'arlynd nodded, exhausted. He wondered how Sshamath fared. Was divination magic still possible there? Would the College of Divination teeter and eventually fall? If it did, Q'arlynd would be right back where he'd started, without a master to nominate his school.

At least he still had the kiira.

His apprentices stood next to him, glassy-eyed. In unison, they began to move. Stiff as golems, they removed the lorestones from their foreheads, traced the House glyph of their kiira on Kraanfhaor's Door, and pressed the lorestone against it. The door drew them into itself and its stone smoothed over, leaving no trace of their entry.

Like humans suddenly awakened from sleep, Q'arlynd's apprentices shook their heads and stared wonderingly around. For several moments, each wore an expression as vacant as Zarifar's.

Then Baltak put his hands on his hips. "Where in the Abyss are we? And what's that thing on your forehead?"

Q'arlynd smiled wearily. "That's a long story. When we return to Sshamath, I'll tell it to you."

Close enough, Cavatina signed.

They halted near the front of the crowd. The Crones pressed tightly on all sides. The sphere of voidstone hung only a few paces ahead of them, looming as large as the temple had once been. Waves of negative energy crackled from it, chilling the air. The Faezress underfoot brightened with each pulse. The spirit floated above the voidstone, hands raised, leading the chanting in a mournful moan.

Beside Cavatina, the disguised Karas raised his arms and mouthed in time with the chant. Cavatina did the same. Odd, that it was a Nightshadow she'd wind up making her final stand with. And yet, somehow, appropriate.

She caught Karas's eye and flicked a hand. Now.

"Eilistraee!" Cavatina sang out, letting her disguise fall away.

The nearest Crones spun to face her, their faces twisted with rage.

Beside her, Karas plunged his dagger into a Crone and touched Cavatina's arm. Energy flowed into her, augmenting her prayer.

"By my song, lay these foul abominations forever to rest!" Cavatina sang, even as the Crones leaped at her, their curved fingers raking wounds into her flesh that instantly festered. Beside her, Karas slashed desperately with his dagger, trying to take down as many as he could.

In answer to her prayer, moonlight streaked with shadow erupted from the holy symbol clenched in Cavatina's fist. It spread through the ranks of the Crones in a flood. Several of the closest Crones collapsed as it washed clean the death magic that had animated them. Others-those who hadn't yet embraced undeath-continued their attack. Cavatina went down under their scrabbling hands and lost sight of Karas. But she caught a glimpse of the spirit as the pool of moonlight and shadow she'd summoned struck it. The ghost twisted, wailing, as Eilistraee's holy song tore at its substance.

Then the spell ended.

The spirit remained.

The ghost threw back its head. Its chest swelled. As it exhaled, a ghastly keening began.

"Eilistraee!" Cavatina cried. "Lend me your-"

The keening struck Cavatina like a clapper hitting a bell, sending her body into violent convulsions that choked off her prayer. The Crones, meanwhile, bore down on Cavatina. Their hooked fingers tore open her hand, and her holy symbol fell to the ground. The Crones nearest it reeled away from it, wailing, but others leaped onto Cavatina, knocking her down. Her chin cracked against stone and she tasted blood. Each new laceration was a sharp slash of pain. She struggled to rise but could not. She glanced left, and saw Karas a pace or two away, no longer disguised as a Crone. He lay in a pool of blood, his flesh scored by dozens of wounds. He wasn't moving.

Cavatina felt cold-the chill of the grave. Barely conscious, she strove to choke out her goddess's name through chattering teeth. "Eil… is… tr-"

The ghost loomed before her. "You have lost," she hissed, her whisper somehow carrying clearly above the enraged cries of the Crones. "When we are done with you, not a scrap of your soul will remain." She drew back, cackling. A sweeping gesture took in both Cavatina and Karas-and sphere of voidstone. "Throw them into it."