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enough。〃
Quenthel fell silent； perhaps chagrined by her mistake。 Halisstra didn't hold it against her…she had made the same mistake herself。
〃That raises an excellent question；〃 said Pharaun。 〃Presumably； we do not wish to stay here for very long。 So； then； what shall we do？〃
He looked deliberately at Quenthel Baenre； challenging her with his question。
Quenthel didn't rise to the bait。 She gazed off at the silver glow in the east； as if she hadn't heard the question。 Moon shadows faint as ghosts began to grow from weathered walls and crumbling columns； so dim that only the eyes of drow accustomed to the gloom of the Underdark could perceive them。 Quenthel reached down to the sand beside her and let a handful run between her fingers； watching the way the wind swept away the silver stream。 For the first time； it occurred to Halisstra that Quenthel and the other Menzoberranyr might feel something of the same weariness； the same desolation； that lay over her own heart； not because they felt her loss； but because they understood that they had witnessed a loss； a great and terrible one。
The silence stretched out for a long time； until Pharaun shifted and opened his mouth as if to speak again。 Quenthel spoke before he could； her voice cold and scornful。
〃What shall we do； Pharaun？ We shall do whatever I decide we should do。 We are exhausted and wounded； and I have no magic to restore our strength and heal our wounds。〃 She grimaced； and let the rest of the sand slip through her fingers。 〃For now； rest。 I will determine our course of action tomorrow。〃
Hundreds of miles from the desert ruins； another dark elf stood in another ruined city。
This was a drow city； a jutting bulwark of black stone that thrust out from the wall of a vast； lightless chasm。 In arrangement it had once been something like a mighty fortress built upon a great rocky hilltop； only turned on its side to glower out over an empty space where foul winds from the unplumbed abyss below howled up into unseen caverns above。 Though its turrets and spires leaned boldly out over a horrifying precipice； the place did not seem frail or precarious in any sense。 Its massive pier of rock was one of the bones of the world； a thick spar rooted so securely in the chasm wall that nothing short of the unmaking of Toril would tear it loose。
Those few scholars who remembered the place knew it as Chaulssin； the City of Wyrmshadows； and even most of them forgot why the city was called that。 In the lightless fortress on the edge of an abyss； the shadows themselves lived。 Inky pools of midnight blacker than a drow's heart curled and flowed from tower to tower。 Whispering darkness slithered like a gigantic； hungering dragon in and about the needle…like spires and the open…sided galleries of the dead city。 From time to time the living shadows swallowed portions of the city for centuries； drawing a palace or a temple deep into a cold place beyond the circles of the world。
Nimor Imphraezl climbed deliberately through Chaulssin's deserted galleries； seemingly oblivious to the living black curtains that danced and writhed in the city's dark places。 The maddening howl of the endless hurricane rising up past the city walls ripped at his cloak and sent his long silver hair streaming from his head； but he paid it no mind。 This was his place； his refuge； and its perils and madness simply familiar features undeserving of his attention。 Nimor wore the shape of a slim； almost boyish dark elf； which was to say that he was short of stature and slender as a reed。 The top of his head would barely reach the nose of a typical female； and any female with a little height to her would tower over him head and shoulders。
Despite his graceful build； Nimor virtually radiated power。 His small frame seemed to burst with a precise strength and lethal quickness far out of proportion to his body。 His face was narrow but handsome； almost beautiful； and he carried himself with the supreme arrogance of a noble…born drow who feared nothing in his path。 It was a part he played well； being a drow of a high House； a prince of his ruined city。 If he was something else； something more； well 。 。 。 those few dark elves who lived there with him were much the same。
Nimor reached the end of the gallery and turned inward； climbing up a grand stairway cut through the heart of the monolithic spur to which Chaulssin clung。 The cacophony of the winds outside faded quickly to a distant but deep whispering； sibilant and penetrating。 There was no place one could go within Chaulssin to escape the sound。 He set his hand on the hilt of his rapier and followed the spiraling black steps up into a great dark chamber； a vaulted cathedral of shadows in the heart of the city。 Flickering torches of everburning fire in bronze sconces cast faint； ruddy pools of light along the ribbed walls； streaks of red that faded into the blackness of the vault overhead。 Up there the shadows were close indeed； a roiling well of blackness that even Nimor's eyes could not penetrate。
〃Nimor。 You are late。〃
Standing in a circle in the center of the room； the seven Patron Fathers of the Jaezred Chaulssin turned as one to watch Nimor approach。 On the far side of the circle stood Patron Grandfather Mauzzkyl； a hale old dark elf with broad shoulders and a deep chest； his hair thinning to a sharp widow's peak。
〃The Patron Fathers do not wait on the pleasure of the Anointed Blade of the Jaezred Chaulssin；〃 Mauzzkyl said。
〃Revered Grandfather； my delay was unavoidable；〃 Nimor replied。
He joined the circle in the place that had been left for him； offering no obeisance and expecting none from the others。 As the Anointed Blade he answered only to the Patron Grandfather； and in fact stood higher among the Jaezred Chaulssin than any of the Patron Fathers except Mauzzkyl。
〃I am lately e from Menzoberranzan；〃 he added； 〃and tarried as long as I could to observe events before departing。〃
〃How stand matters there？〃 asked Patron Father Tomphael。 He was slender and rakish； much like Nimor in appearance； but he preferred the robes of a wizard to the mail of a fighter； and he possessed a streak of caution that sometimes verged on cowardice。 〃How does our revolt fare？〃
〃Not as well as I might like； but about as well as I expected；〃 admitted Nimor。 Tomphael's divinations had no doubt revealed that much。 Did the Patron Father hope to catch the Anointed Blade concealing a failure？ Nimor almost smiled at the simplicity of it。 〃The slaves were crushed easily enough。 Gromph Baenre took an interest in things； and his agents seem to have destroyed or driven off our illithilich friend。 On the positive side； we did expose something of the spider…kissers' weakness to the mon Menzoberranyr； which is promising； and the priestesses obliged us by using a significant amount of their hoarded magic to destroy their own rebellious slaves。 The city is weakened thereby。〃
〃You might have taken a more direct hand in the affair；〃 said Patron Xorthaul； who wore the black mail of a priest。 〃If you had slain the archmage's lackeys…〃
〃The revolt we sponsored still wo