distant line where the dark green of the forest met the eye-hurting, white-streaked blue of the sky.
Beside her, Ryld shivered.
"I don't like it up here," he said, holding a hand to his eyes to shade them. "It makes me feel . . . exposed."
Halisstra glanced at the sweat trickling down Ryld's ebony temple and shivered herself as the chill winter wind blew against her face. The climb had been a long, hot one, despite the age-worn stairs they'd found carved into the rock at one side of the bluff. She couldn't explain what had compelled her to lead Ryld up there, nor could she explain why she felt none of the apprehensions the weap-ons master did. Yet despite his anxiety, Ryld - who stood fully as tall as Halisstra herself, even though he was a male - was in every respect a warrior. He wore a greatsword strapped across his back; a cuirass with a breastplate wrought of dwarven bronze; and vambraces, ar-ticulated at the elbows, that sheathed his lean, muscled arms in heavy steel. A short sword for fighting at close quarters hung in a scabbard at his hip. His hair was cut close to his scalp so that enemies could not grab it during combat. Only a fine stubble remained: hair as white as Halisstra's own shoulder-length locks.
"There was a surface dweller - a human mage - who dwelt for a short time in Ched Nasad," Halisstra said. The vastness of the sky above them made her speak softly; it felt as if the gods were lurk-ing up there just behind the clouds, watching. "He spoke of how our city made him feel like he was living in a room with too low a ceiling - that he was always aware of the roof of the cavern over his head. I laughed at him; how could anyone feel enclosed in a city that was so loosely woven - a city balanced on the thin lines of a calcified web? But now I think I understand what he meant." She gestured up at the sky. "This all feels so ... open."
Ryld grunted and asked, "Have you seen enough? We're not go-ing to find an entrance to the Underdark up here. Let's climb back down and get out of the wind."
Halisstra nodded. The wind found its way inside the armor she wore, even through the thickly padded chain mail tunic that cov-ered her from neck to knees, and from shoulders to elbows. A silver plate attached to the tunic's chest was embossed with the symbol of a sword, standing point-up across a full moon surrounded by a nimbus of silvery filaments. It was the holy symbol of Eilistraee, god-dess of the surface-dwelling drow. The padding of the chain mail still smelled of blood - that of the priestess Halisstra had dispatched. The smell haunted the armor like a lingering ghost, even though the blood was several days old.
Halisstra had not only claimed the armor from Seyll after her own armor was stolen, but also Seyll's shield and weapons - includinga slender long sword with a hollow hilt that had holes running the length of it - a hilt that could be raised to the lips and played like a flute. A beautiful weapon, but it hadn't helped Seyll any - she'd died before getting a chance to draw it. Lulled by Halisstra's feigned interest in her goddess, Seyll had been utterly surprised by Halisstra's sudden attack. And despite Halisstra's treachery, Seyll had told her, "I have hope for you still." She'd said it with such cer-tainty, as if, even in her final, dying moments, she expected Halis-stra to save her.
She'd been a fool. Yet Halisstra could no more get the priestess's dying words out of her mind than she could get the smell of blood out or the armor she'd claimed.
Was this what guilt felt like: a lingering stench that wouldn't go away?
Angered by her own weakness, Halisstra shook the thought out of her head. Seyll had deserved to die. The priestess was stupid to have trusted a person who was not of her faith - even more foolish to trust a fellow drow.
Still, Halisstra thought, as she paused to let Ryld descend the stairs first, Seyll had been right about one thing. It would be nice not toalways have to watch your back.
Ryld descended the stairs in silence, listening to the faint clink of Halisstra's chain mail and trying in vain to pull his mind away from the shapely