The water in the font rippled, obscuring the scrying. Qilue could see movement-fragmentary glimpses of what was going on. A flash of silver: the Crescent Blade, picked up by Danifae and tossed contemptuously aside. The head of a morningstar, swinging in a deadly arc. Halisstra's eyes, brimming with tears. Danifae's face, twisted with hatred as she spat. Sound was likewise garbled. Halisstra's voice, faintly whispering, "Why?" Danifae's voice, haughty and triumphant: "… weak."

Qilue thrust a hand at the moon, clutching desperately for some other magic that could be channeled through the scrying.

"Eilistraee!" she cried. "Hear me! Your Chosen needs your aid!"

Behind her, the six lesser priestesses shot uneasy glances at one another. They crowded closer, prayers tumbling from their lips. "Eilistraee," they crooned. Swaying, they placed their hands on Qilue's shoulders, lending power to her prayer. Silver fire built once more around Qilue, brighter than before, but slowly. Too slowly.

The ripples in the font cleared. Words bubbled up from its depths. Danifae's voice, gloating.

"Good-bye, Halisstra."

Then the whistle of a descending morningstar.

Qilue heard a dull crunch, a sound like wet wood splintering. She looked down and saw collapsed bone and blood where Halisstra's face had been.

"No!" she cried as the image slowly faded from the font.

She plunged a hand into the water as if trying to pluck Halisstra from it. Holy water slopped over the edges of the font, trickling down its smooth stone sides like a flood of tears. Qilue channeled everything she had into one last spell and felt the water grow as warm as blood. Eilistraee had granted her the power to heal the most grievous of wounds with a touch. Even if Halisstra had slipped beyond life's door, Qilue could resurrect her with a word, but could the spell reach her? Would it have any effect in the domain of Eilistraee's greatest enemy?