Resurrection

Above her, swirling vortices of colored energy still dotted the sky. With each passing moment, one or another of the vortices ejected a glowing soul into the air. With each moment, a worshiper of the Spider Queen died somewhere in the multiverse and the soul found its way to the Demonweb Pits. The process was as regular as a clockwork. Halisstra watched it happen time and again, and each time the newly arrived soul fell into the never-ending line of spirits floating toward their dark goddess, their eternal fate.

It would go on that way until the multiverse ended.

Unless Lolth died.

She watched the souls moving methodically toward their doom and wondered if Danifae was among them. With the Binding between them severed, Halisstra would not have sensed Danifae's death. She fervently hoped that her former battle-captive still lived.

Thinking of Danifae sent a surge of hope and fear through Halisstra. Danifae had told her once, as they stood together in some ruins in the World Above, that she had felt Eilistraee's call.

The battle-captive had spoken those words when she had come to warn Halisstra that Quenthel had sent Jeggred to kill Ryld.

Danifae had warned her.

There was a kinship between them, Halisstra knew, something born in the Binding that once had joined them as master and slave. She knew that Danifae could be redeemed. And since

Halisstra had given herself fully to the Lady of the Dance, she would be able to help Danifae along the path of redemption-as long as she wasn't already dead.

An overwhelming sense of regret tightened Halisstra's chest, regret for a life ill-spent inflicting pain and engaging in petty tyrannies. She had wasted centuries on hate. Tears threatened, but she fought them back with a stubborn shake of her head.

The wind gusted, sliced through her prayer, cut through the song-spider webs, and called out for the Yor'thae.

The word no longer held any magic for Halisstra. She felt no pull.

She looked up at the eight stars that seemed so much like the eyes of Lolth and vowed, "No one will answer your call."

Halisstra didn't know what Lolth intended for her Yor'thae, and she didn't care. She guessed that killing the Yor'thae would hurt Lolth, possibly weaken her. And she knew that Lolth's

Chosen could be only one person: Quenthel Baenre.

"I'll kill your Chosen, then I will kill you," she whispered.

The wind died down again, as though quieted by her promise.

Halisstra looked out over the blasted landscape of Lolth's realm, over the piles of torn spider parts and carcasses. She wondered where Quenthel was at that moment. She suspected that the

Baenre priestess was already in the Demonweb Pits, making her way to Lolth, just another of the damned drawn to the Spider Queen.

"I'm right behind you, Baenre," she whispered.

She sat for a time in silence, alone with her goddess, staring up at the infinite stream of spirits floating to Lolth. After a while, she took out Seyll's songsword, put its flute-hilt to her lips, and played a soft dirge, an honorarium for the lost souls above her. The notes carried over the barren landscape, beautiful to her ears.

If the souls heard her, they made no sign.

The wind rose, as though to overwhelm her song, but Halisstra played on. Though she knew it was not possible, she hoped that somewhere, somehow, Seyll heard her song and understood.

When she finished, she sheathed Seyll's blade and stood. Looking into the sky, she held forth her hand, palm up, and curled her fingers-making the symbol of a dead spider, blasphemous to

Lolth.

She could not help but smile.

"This is for you too," she said.

On impulse, she shed her armor and shield, drew the Crescent Blade, and danced. High atop a ruined tor on Lolth's blasted plane, Halisstra Melarn whirled, spun, stabbed, and leaped. Except for the wail of the wind, there was no sound to which she could move, so she danced to a rhythm that pounded only in her head. Joy filled her, more and more with each step, with each turn. She became one with the weapon, one with Eilistraee. She was sweating Lolth from her skin,

shedding her own past with each gasping, joyous breath.

Her hair whipped behind and around her. She could not stop grinning. The Crescent Blade felt no heavier in her grasp than a blade of grass, the tiny green plant that covered much of the World

Above. The weapon whistled through the air, creating its own tune, playing its own song.

Halisstra danced until sweat soaked her and her breath came hard. When she finally finished,

exhausted and elated, she collapsed, the ground on her back. Grace filled her. She felt she'd been purified, worthy at last to wield the Crescent Blade.

Thank you, Lady, she thought to Eilistraee and smiled when a cloud temporarily blotted out

Lolth's eight stars.

She lay there for a time, doing nothing more than reveling in her freedom.