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Laeral stood for several moments, lost in thought. Endings. Beginnings. "The City of Hope is an obvious 'beginning,' " she said. "As for an 'ending,' Faertlemiir, Miyeritar's City of High Magic, once stood here millennia ago, until it was laid waste by the killing storm. But that's surely something you've already thought of."

Qiluй nodded.

"I'm sorry, sister. I have no answer for you. But I will think long and hard on it. I'll contact you at once if anything occurs to me."

"Thank you."

"In the meantime," Laeral said, "I'm curious. Is that the Crescent Blade at your hip? Did it really slay a demigod, as the ballads say?"

Instead of smiling, as Laeral had hoped, Qiluй's expression grew closed and hard. Her right hand strayed to the hilt. She turned slightly away from Laeral, as if protective of the weapon. As if she half-expected Laeral to take the sword from her.

Then, like clouds rolling away from the sun, Qiluй's expression cleared. "It is, indeed." She drew the sword and laid the flat of the blade across her palm, offering it up for Laeral to see.

Laeral noted the break in the blade. "It's been broken. And… mended."

"Yes, praise Eilistraee." Qiluй's eyes glittered. "In Lolth's domain, no less. One day, it will slay the Spider Queen."

Laeral nodded. As Qiluй' slid the sword back into its scabbard, she noticed something. "Your wrist: there's a cut there."

Once again, the guarded look returned to Qiluй's eye. "A scratch, sister. Nothing more."

"Why didn't it heal?" Irritation flared in Qiluй's eyes. "It's just a scratch."

Had it been anyone else, Laeral wouldn't have worried. But this was Qiluй. Such a tiny wound should have healed in less than the blink of an eye.

But it might not be the best time to pursue the question, she thought.

Qiluй was proud-perhaps the proudest of the Seven Sisters-and had chosen a difficult path. And it looked as though the work of bringing the drow 'up into the light' was going to increase in difficulty by a thousandfold, perhaps even become impossible. She had every right to be on edge, to grow irritated when "trivial" matters like the scratch on her wrist were pointed out to her.

Except that a wound that Mystra's silver fire couldn't heal was anything but trivial.

"I'll keep an eye on the High Moor for you, sister," Laeral promised. "Let you know if anything unusual happens here. Any more 'endings' or 'beginnings.' I'll consult my scrying fonts. If I learn anything, I'll let you know immediately." She slipped a hand into the crook of Qiluй's arm. "In the meantime, can I offer you food? Or wine?"

"No, thank you, sister. I must return to the Promenade as soon as possible."

Laeral gave her sister's arm a comforting squeeze. "The Faerzress?"

Qiluй nodded. "The Faerzress." She plucked Laeral's hand from her arm. "Farewell." Then she teleported away.

Laeral stared for several moments at the spot Qiluй had just occupied. Like all drow, Qiluй was reluctant to show her emotions. Laeral could tell, however, that her sister was deeply troubled-and not just by the undoing of a lifetime's work. There was more going on; Laeral was certain of it.

But until Qiluй confided in her, Laeral could do little to help.

CHAPTER 9

Mazeer lifted the bottle to her lips, inhaled, and swam forward a few more strokes. Her exhaled bubbles flattened against the roof just above her head. A Nightshadow swam immediately ahead of her, his feet fluttering the water. Ahead of him, the passage they were following narrowed to a crack that looked barely wide enough for a drow to squeeze into. The cleric paused there, sculling in place, and stared into the fissure, his face illuminated by the blue-green Faerzress that permeated the nearby stone. Mazeer took another suck on the bottle that trailed by a cord from her wrist, and swam up next to him.

Another dead end? she signed. The Nightshadow shook his head and his mask fluttered back and forth like wave-lapped seaweed. It leads down. His chest rose and fell as