"Name yourself," Elyril repeated.
The corpse's mouth hardened, but Elyril's spell pulled the words out. "I am Skelan."
Elyril leaned over his body, let her invisible holy symbol lay against the flesh of his chest. "Who were you?"
Creases lined Skelan's face as he tried to resist, but Elyril's magic compelled an answer. "In life, I was a follower of the Twilight Path and servant of the Shadowlord."
Elyril cocked her head. "Mask?"
The dead man nodded, once.
"What is Mask's interest in Endren Corrinthal?"
Skelan's jaw tightened. The tendons in his neck stood out as he tried to keep his mouth closed, but Elyril's magic was the stronger.
"The Shadowlord charted a path for us across Faerun to serve his Chosen, the Left and Right Hands of Shadow, the First and Second of Five. His purpose is their purpose. They wished Endren Corrinthal freed."
Elyril inhaled the stink of death, stared into Skelan's eyes, and said, "What are their names?"
Skelan hissed and shook his head.
"Their names, Skelan," Elyril purred.
"I will answer no more questions from you, Sharran. Release me."
Elyril snarled and pressed her invisible holy symbol into Skelan's forehead. He writhed. "Their names."
"No," he said through gritted teeth. "Nothing more."
"Speak," she said. "Speak!"
He said nothing. His body shuddered and his eyes closed, but she knew he was still there.
Angry, she put her mouth next to his ear and whispered, "Then sit in that rotting shell forever. The catacombs are cold."
She stood, spat on the corpse, and strode out of the room past the startled old man.
"Milady?" he called after her. "Milady?"
"Leave me!" Elyril said, and waved him away.
Irritated, she ignored the carriage and decided to walk the city by night. Her temporary residence was not far. Foul Selune had set and she paced under a blessedly moonless sky. As she walked, she pondered events.
What role had Mask to play in matters? And where was the ten-times damned book?
Lost in thought, she found herself on a dark side street. How had she ended up in an alley? The buildings, standing close together, blocked the sky from her view. She stumbled over a drunk and nearly lost her footing. He grunted with pain, slurred something incomprehensible. She cursed him and continued on. Ahead, she saw the glow of street lamps from a main thoroughfare.
"The Shadowstorm is not what you hope," the drunk murmured to her back.
The words froze her, sent a chill down her neck. She turned around and stalked back to the drunk, a hand on her invisible holy symbol.
He lay huddled against the wall, wrapped in rags and filth. His greasy dark hair was matted against his scalp. He squinted and held up a grubby hand for coin.
"Coin for a beggar, Milady?"
"What did you say to me?" she asked. "Just now. Speak it again. Are you a prophet?"
The man looked up at her and she saw cunning in his eyes. She liked it not at all.
"I am a prophet, of sorts. I said that a storm would bring hope. The city needs rain to wash it clean. Coin, Milady?"
Elyril stared into his eyes and saw no lie there. She smiled at her misperception. Lack of sleep was clouding her senses. She chuckled and kicked the drunk in the stomach. He groaned and curled up.
"Milady is a dark soul," he said between gasps.
"Never address your betters unless you are addressed first."
The man tried to unfold and crawl away. "Yes, priestess."
Satisfied, Elyril turned and walked away.
Only after she had taken ten steps did she realize that the man had called her a priestess. She whirled around but he was gone, swallowed by the shadows.
Had she misheard him again? She decided that she must have.
She returned to the residence provided by the Nessarch to find Kefil sleeping and her doughy steward awaiting her.
"I have located the former Watchblade," the steward said. He must have seen the lack of recognition in Elyril's eyes. "Phraig, Milady. You asked me to find him. He awaits your pleasure in the side room."
"Ah, yes. This late?"
"You asked, Milady. This watchman has… strange habits, it would seem."
"Have him wait a moment."
She retired to her room and snuffed a pinch of minddust before entering the study and ordering the steward to bring Phraig before her.
The young Watchblade entered the room and the lamplight dimmed for a moment. His movements appeared stilted, and Elyril wondered if he had been drinking. Or perhaps he was still recovering from wounds suffered during the raid. From his mussed hair and sunken eyes, Elyril deduced he had slept little. He wore no blade other than his eating knife, and he bore a large leather satchel over one shoulder.
"I am Phraig, Milady," said the former Watchblade with a bow. His deep voice, coming from so small a man, surprised Elyril. And the tone struck her as vaguely mocking. His eyes shone in their sockets-the white was entirely too pronounced- and the intensity of his gaze made Elyril uncomfortable.
"Sit. I have questions for you about the recent raid on the Hole."
Phraig sat.
Elyril felt warm, as if the boy radiated heat. She cleared her throat and said, "You were forced to lead the raiders into the Hole. Tell me everything. Omit not even the smallest detail."
Phraig did, staring at her throughout. Elyril learned that one of the leaders was missing an eye and another was bald and unusually tall. Both served Mask, which was consistent with what Elyril had learned from Skelan's corpse. She assumed them to be Mask's Chosen, his Left and Right Hands. Phraig named them: Erevis Cale and Drasek Riven.
"They spoke their names to you?"
Phraig looked sly. "I heard their names, Milady."
Elyril accepted that.
Despite the new information, Elyril still could not connect events. Was Mask's priesthood allied with the Selgauntans and Saerbians? Had Mask taken an active hand in attempting to thwart Shar's plans to cause the Shadowstorm?
Her frustration manifested in curt questioning of Phraig, who held an infuriatingly self-satisfied smile throughout the interview. After a time, Kefil padded into the study. He stopped just inside the doorway and sniffed the air suspiciously.
"My mastiff," Elyril said, expecting Phraig to show the same discomfort everyone did around Kefil.
Phraig turned in his chair, smiling. "What a fine animal." He held out a hand. Elyril saw that his fingernails were long and black-no doubt, he was afflicted with some illness.
Kefil's hackles rose. He bared his teeth and growled.
"Here, pup," said Phraig.
Kefil abruptly tucked his tail between his legs, whined, and fled the room. Phraig clucked his tongue and turned to regard Elyril with a smile. "Somewhat passive, isn't he?"
"That is all, boy," Elyril said, wishing for another snuff of dust before retiring. "You may go."
Phraig did not stand.
"Did you hear me? I said we are done."
"I did hear you, Milady. But…" He trailed off and looked away.
Elyril's irritation turned to curiosity. He was holding something back.
"Is there something more? If you hold back from me, I will see that you are punished. Make no mistake-"
He looked up at her from hooded eyes and whispered, "I have a secret."
The words elicited goose pimples on Elyril's skin. Her hand went to her invisible holy symbol. She felt on the verge of an epiphany. She leaned forward and said softly, "Speak it, Watchblade."
Phraig's eyes were sly. "I took something from the dead shadowman." He made a gesture that could have indicated anything. "She told me to."
Elyril's heart accelerated. Her body tingled. She licked her lips. "Whom do you mean by 'she'?"
Phraig looked away. "You know. You must. The night itself spoke to me with the voice of a woman. It told me to take it, told me to keep it for you."