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“Selvetarm!” he shouted.

Victory was his! The Promenade was his!

The blade struck the priestess’s forehead—and crumbled in his hands. Instead of solid steel, Dhairn held nothing but a blade-thin line of spiders. The creatures scattered as though they’d burst from an egg sac when they met the priestess’s forehead and showered like black soot onto her shoulders. Dhairn gaped at them then flexed a right hand that was empty for the first time in more than a century. He raised it, staring at it in disbelief. His sword? Gone?

“Selvetarm?” he whispered.

He felt nothing. Only … emptiness.

The priestess bent, scooping up her weapon with her off hand. Dhairn ducked instinctively as silver flashed within a hair’s breadth of his face. He danced backward, weaving to avoid her sword. Something had happened to his weapon, something inexplicable, but he still had his spells. He raised a hand to cast one—and blinked in surprise at his skin, which had turned a clear, solid black.

The white lines—Selvetarm’s holy web—were gone.

The priestess’s sword flashed down. Too late, he jerked his hand back. The blade bit into it midway between the fingers, splitting the hand lengthwise. He howled in anguish—then turned the howl into a shout. “Selvetarm!” he cried, trying to summon up the battle fury that would carry him past the pain, but the cry rang hollow in his ears.

He would not faint from the pain. He could not. Forcing his body into a spin, he whirled, whipping the priestess’s face with his braid. At the same time he furiously whispered a prayer. He thrust his wounded hand out, reaching for Selvetarm, but no healing came.

Worried, he tried another spell—one that would cover his body in venomous blades, turning it into a living weapon. Ducking and weaving all the while to avoid the priestess’s furious but not quite coordinated slashes, he cried his deity’s name.

“Selvetarm!” he shouted. “Make me your weapon!”

Nothing happened. The demigod refused to answer.

Nervous sweat prickled Dhairn’s skin. Something had happened. Something terrible. Had Selvetarm turned his back on Dhairn and his followers—abandoned those who sought to worship Selvetarm as a deity unto himself? Had Lolth ordered her Champion to do it?

What … was … wrong?

Utterly unnerved by the sudden absence of his deity, Dhairn backed away from the high priestess, who pursued him with fury in her eyes. Behind him, he heard another of Eilistraee’s priestesses hurrying down the stairs, shouting something about the Selvetargtlin being defeated. He only realized how close to the exit he was when her blade skewered his back. He stared, uncomprehending, at the sword point that had mysteriously emerged from his chest. As the cavern began to vanish into a gray mist, he croaked out one final plea.

“Selvetarm,” he gasped through lips suddenly gone ice-cold. “I commend … my soul … to …”

But the demigod was no longer there to claim it.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Malvag reeled as the gate closed with a thunderclap that rattled the crystals in the cavern. It was several moments before the ringing in his ears subsided. When it did, he turned to Valdar and Q’arlynd, his body quivering with excitement. “Vhaeraun be praised! We did it!”

The slender Valdar wove back and forth where he stood, exhausted. Q’arlynd looked equally drained, his face an ashen gray. Both males nodded weakly.

The wizard turned and lifted his bound hands. “If you wouldn’t mind….”

Malvag hesitated—but only for a heartbeat. Old habits. In the moment of communion their spellcasting had provided, he’d glimpsed Q’arlynd’s soul. The wizard wasn’t going to turn on him.

Malvag stepped forward and untwisted the wire, releasing the wizard’s hands. Then, for good measure, he slipped the slave ring off Q’arlynd’s finger and took the master ring off his own. He tucked both rings into a pocket of the wizard’s piwafwi.

Q’arlynd’s fingers were gray and puffy, with deep indentations from the wires. He rubbed them stiffly together, wincing.