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Cavatina nodded, her eyes gleaming. “Do you see Lolth’s hand in this?”

Qilué paused. “It’s hard to say, but the creature—whatever it is—has a venomous bite and is capable of spinning webs. The survivor said that those it took were found dangling from tree branches, inside cocoons. Dead.” Her expression hardened. “Innocents who might have been brought into Eilistraee’s light, but now their souls are lost to us.”

“May those souls find mercy,” Cavatina intoned.

Both females stood in silence a moment. Then Cavatina spoke again. “Lady, I lost my sword, Demonbane, to the spellgaunt.”

Qilué nodded. She glanced off into the distance and spoke in a low voice, as if to herself. “Quartermaster, a sword if you please.” She held up a hand, and a moment later one of the temple’s singing swords appeared out of thin air. Qilué caught it deftly by the hilt and passed it to Cavatina. “You may use this.”

Cavatina’s eyes widened. She stepped away from Qilué and swung the weapon back and forth in sweeping arcs, alternating between a one-handed and a two-handed grip. A note flowed from it, pure as holy water. The sword glowed faintly, tracing a line of moonfire through the darkness.

Qilué watched, admiring the other priestess’s skill. “Only twenty-five of these weapons remain. See to it that you use it well.”

Cavatina bowed and promised, “I will keep it safe, Lady.”

“If it does turn out to be a demon you are hunting, the singing sword will render you immune to any attacks it might make against your mind. It can also be used to counter certain baleful songs and cries—those of harpies and shriekers, for example—and to entrance lesser creatures.”

“A most potent weapon,” Cavatina said. Then she looked up at Qilué. “I thought the singing swords were never to leave the Promenade.”

Qilué’s expression grew grim. “The coming hunt, according to my divinations, will be of great consequence.” She nodded down at the weapon. “It will be worthy of that blade.”

Cavatina bowed again. “By Eilistraee’s grace, may I also prove worthy of it.”

“I’m sure you shall,” Qilué said with a smile. “Now that you’re armed, let’s get you on your way. Come.”

They entered the Cavern of Song. It had been cleared of its buildings and returned to its natural state two decades ago during the temple’s construction. It was flooded with Eilistraee’s moonfire, which illuminated a statue of Qilué that the Protectors had insisted on erecting over the hidden staircase that led to the Pit of Ghaunadaur. Shimmering waves of light danced across the ceiling in constantly changing hues: blue-white, pale green, moon-white and silver.

Three priestesses sang there, their voices blended in complex harmonies that waxed and waned. Two of the singers were drow, the third, a surface elf whose pale skin was bathed in shifting colors by the moonfire above. Each was naked, save for the holy symbol that hung from a mithral chain around her neck. Each singer sat on a different outcropping of stone, holding a sword above her head, its point directed at the moon. They pointed overhead, but the swords were slowly descending, their tips moving almost imperceptibly downward as the moon sank toward an unseen horizon. The priestesses would hold these positions until others came to join the song. Sometimes a single priestess sang there, but during Evensong, two dozen or more would lend their voices to the sacred hymn.

Qilué joined in the singing as they walked through the cavern. “Climb out of the darkness, rise into the light …” It had always been one of her favorite lines.

Her own climb into the light had happened centuries ago. She barely remembered the tiny town in the Underdark where she had been born. It had been a long and difficult struggle to reawaken Eilistraee’s worship among the drow, but a worthwhile one. The young Darksong Knight beside her was proof of that. Cavatina was a fourth-generation devotee of the Lady of the Dance, born on the surface. The drow were reclaiming their birthright.

Qilué and Cavatina turned in to a side cavern that led to a pool of water. One of the Protectors