Sacrifice of the Widow: The Lady Penitent, Book I (38 page)

He gasped as a hand touched his shoulder. He tried to turn but only managed to fall over onto his side next to the bodies. He stared up from the cold stone floor at a terrifying sight: an armored female, hair and body shrouded in sticky webs, holding in one hand a sword that fairly hummed with latent magic. One of Lolth’s priestesses, he was certain. Weakly, he laughed. Of all the stupid luck….

The female laid her sword on the ground as she kneeled beside him. Cold metal touched Q’arlynd’s cheek—a silver dagger. Why slit his throat? That was too quick, too clean for one of Lolth’s priestesses. A prolonged flaying with a whip of fangs was more their style. Q’arlynd tried not to grimace as the pain roiling in his gut intensified. He wouldn’t give her the pleasure of seeing how much he was already suffering.

“Eilistraee,” he whispered, half-heartedly. As if the goddess would answer him.

“Eilistraee,” the female above him repeated. “Heal him. Drive the poison from his body.”

The pain was gone.

Q’arlynd sat up. He touched a hand to his healed cheek and shivered. He’d been within a heartbeat or two of death, but he was healthy again. Strong. He saw that it was a priestess of Eilistraee who had come to his aid, but not one he recognized. He stood, and bowed his thanks.

“Lady. To whom do I owe my rescue?”

“Cavatina Xarann,” she said. “Darksong Knight.”

Q’arlynd got a good look at her weapon as she picked it up again. The sword looked ancient and had a script running down its curved blade. Q’arlynd moved his fingers behind his back and pretended to cough, hiding a one-word divination. The blade’s aura—visible only to
him—nearly made him wince. That weapon was powerful. An artifact. With a start, he realized it must be the Crescent Blade.

The priestess glanced around. “What happened here?”

Q’arlynd shrugged. “I know as little as you do. I only just teleported here.”

Coal-red eyes bored into his. “Only a priestess can do that.”

Q’arlynd waved a hand, trying to appear nonchalant. “I know, I know—the wards and all that. Qilué herself taught me the song that would bypass them.”

She lifted her sword slightly, a subtle threat. “Sing it now.”

Q’arlynd did.

The Crescent Blade lowered. “It seems you are what you say. My apologies. I didn’t ask your name. What is it?”

He bowed a second time. “Q’arlynd Melarn.”

The priestess’s eyes widened. No doubt she too had known his sister.

“I have to go,” Q’arlynd said in an apologetic voice. “Urgent tidings to report. I must find Qilué.” He lifted the mask. “I have to return this to her.”

“Wait.” Cavatina’s voice cracked like a whip. Her hand gripped his shoulder tightly, and it fairly stank of spider. She stared off into the distance for a moment, then back at him, a hint of surprise in her expression. “It seems Qilué
is
expecting you. She’s on her way here now.”

Her brief touch had left strands of web on his
piwafwi
. Q’arlynd brushed them from his shoulder.

Cavatina smiled, and wiped away some of the web that clung to her own narrow face. She still kept an eye on him, but she’d relaxed slightly after talking to Qilué. “The offal of the Demonweb Pits,” she said, pride in her voice. She grinned. “But I’d gladly wade through the stuff a second time, if the reward were the same.”

She expected him to ask the question. He obliged her. “What reward?”

Her eyes glittered as she hefted the Crescent Blade. “I killed a deity today.”

She waited, obviously expecting awe. She was proud. As vain as any matron mother. Q’arlynd couldn’t resist.

“So did I,” he said with a smile.

Cavatina listened as Halisstra’s brother made his report. It was an incredible tale, if it could be believed. Three drow males, working high magic? Opening a gate that bridged the realms of Vhaeraun and Eilistraee?

She waited impatiently, anxious to make her own report. The wizard’s tale was incredible and almost certainly untrue. It was woven, through and through, with boastfulness masquerading as modesty. He was acting as if he expected some sort of reward from Qilué. The high priestess, however, either missed his cues—or ignored them.

Which was just fine with Cavatina. She didn’t like Q’arlynd. He was too deliberately self-depreciating in that smarmy way that males fresh out of the Underdark had.

She stood slightly behind Q’arlynd, where he wouldn’t see her silent communication to Qilué:
Remember the prophecy. His sister proved herself loyal. This must be the Melarn who will betray us
.

Qilué gave her a brief glance.
Q’arlynd’s betrayal is already past
, she sent back, communicating mind to mind.
I expected as much from him. He will be redeemed yet
.

The wizard was still talking. “It would appear, Lady Qilué, that Eilistraee has triumphed over the Masked Lord. Moments after the gate closed again, the magic of his clerics became corrupted. The spells they tried to cast were laced through and through with Eilistraee’s
moonfire. Upon seeing that and realizing it must be significant, I came back immediately to make my report.” He held up the mask. “And to return this to you.”

Q’arlynd looked at the high priestess expectantly, but Qilué merely nodded and took the mask from the wizard’s hand. Her expression remained noncommittal.

The wizard’s shoulders slumped slightly. Then they straightened again. “Lady,” he said, bowing once more. “I must say that it gives me great joy that, despite my blunders—despite being
killed
and later
enslaved
—I was still able to serve Eilistraee.” He bowed again and added, “and to serve you.”

The silence stretched.

A short distance away, lay worshipers cleared away the dead. The bodies of the faithful were gently laid onto blankets and carried away, but the corpse of the Selvetargtlin was left where it lay. Later, it would be burned.

Qilué touched the wizard’s shoulder, bidding him to rise. Aloud, she said, “Go to the Hall of Healing, Q’arlynd. Someone is waiting there for you.”

The wizard hid his disappointment well. He gave Qilué a puzzled look. “Who, Lady?”

“Rowaan.”

The wizard’s eyes widened. “But … her soul …”

“Flew straight to Eilistraee’s domain, with those of the other two priestesses, as the gate opened. By the grace of our goddess, it was not consumed.”

Halisstra’s brother gave a relieved sigh. Perhaps he wasn’t as unfeeling as he seemed, or perhaps he was just a good liar.

“Lady,” he exclaimed. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that.” He bowed again then hurried away.

Cavatina watched Q’arlynd make his way out of the cavern then turned to Qilué. “What a tale that one told!”

The high priestess nodded. “It’s true. If not every word, at least in its essence.”

That made Cavatina blink. “It is? Vhaeraun’s really dead?”

Another nod. “I expected that Q’arlynd might fail in the task I assigned him, despite the geas I placed on him. Shortly after I sent him on his way, I entered communion with Eilistraee and warned her that Vhaeraun was poised to enter Svartalfheim. The goddess was prepared. Vhaeraun might be a master of stealth, but when the advantage of surprise was taken away from him, Eilistraee’s prowess with the sword prevailed.”

Cavatina let out a long, slow breath. “So it is true. Two deities, dead. In one day.” She gave a fierce grin, unable to contain her pride. “And one of them by my hand.”

Qilué glanced at the Crescent Blade. “Your sword served you well.”

A voice whispered into Cavatina’s mind from the sword.
Dead
, it chuckled.
By my blade
.

Cavatina bristled. It had been her victory. The sword was just … a sword. Not only was she irritated at it, but also at Qilué’s almost blasé response to the news. Chosen of Mystra Qilué might be, but surely she would acknowledge that Cavatina had just slain a
demigod
. Instead the high priestess just seemed … weary.

“You already knew that Selvetarm was dead?” Cavatina asked.

Qilué gestured at the dead cleric who lay a few steps away. “The Selvetargtlin nearly prevailed. They came within a blade’s edge of taking the Promenade then all at once, their prayers failed them.”

Cavatina noted Qilué’s bloodstained armor and her freshly healed scars, one of which completely encircled her right arm. It
had
been a close thing. That realization sent a chill through Cavatina, one that tempered the thrill of her triumph.

“Make your report,” Qilué said. “Tell me everything that happened.” She clapped a hand on Cavatina’s web-shrouded
shoulder. “And … well done. I owe you my life.”

That was better. Taking a deep breath, Cavatina related her tale, ending with her escape from the Demonweb Pits.

“I’m worried about Halisstra,” she concluded. “There was no sign of her on the other side of the portal. I would have returned to the Demonweb Pits to search for her, but I didn’t want to run the risk of the Crescent Blade falling into Lolth’s hands. I came here instead, as quickly as I could.”

“You did the right thing,” Qilué answered. “I’ll scry for Halisstra. We’ll find her.”

The conviction in the high priestess’s voice reassured Cavatina, who felt terrible about leaving Halisstra behind. Not only had the former priestess redeemed herself, she’d tipped the balance between victory and defeat. Halisstra deserved better than to fall into Lolth’s hands.

“If Halisstra is still within the Demonweb Pits, I’d like to lead the mission to rescue her,” Cavatina said.

“Of course.” Qilué pointed at the Crescent Blade. “But that will remain here, in the Promenade, where I can keep an eye on it. Until the time comes to challenge Lolth herself, it will be safer in my keeping.”

Yes, the blade whispered. It quivered, slightly, leaning toward the high priestess.

Cavatina realized that Qilué was holding out her hand, but she didn’t want to give up the sword, not just then. The Crescent Blade felt so right in her grip. Her fingers seemed loath to uncurl from it.

She glanced down at the singing sword sheathed at her hip, a holy weapon of the Promenade. It was a magical weapon, yet it seemed like a novice’s wooden practice sword in comparison to the Crescent Blade—in comparison to a weapon forged for slaying deities.

A sudden realization came to her then. No matter what she hunted next—no matter how powerful a demon she
faced—the kill would be anticlimactic. The knowledge filled her with great sorrow.

Gently, Qilué pried Cavatina’s fingers from the hilt of the Crescent Blade.

Cavatina at last let go. Strangely, her feelings were mixed. Parting with the weapon was, in some small way, a relief—and a disappointment. It would be Qilué wielding the Crescent Blade when the time came to take Lolth’s life. Cavatina told herself that the high priestess was the logical choice—a Chosen of Eilistraee—but the thought made Cavatina’s entire body ache. Just for a moment, she understood the envy that unredeemed females could feel for one another. For just an instant, she
hated
Qilué. She stuffed the emotion down, smothering it, and asked,

“What now?”

The high priestess glanced wearily around. Her eye settled on two lay worshipers—a drow female and a human male—who were removing the dead. They bowed in acknowledgement before lifting a body onto a blanket and carrying it away.

“We raise our dead and rebuild our defenses,” Qilué answered. “The Promenade must be protected, and we must maintain our vigilance against the enemies that remain: Ghaunadaur and Kiaransalee.” She cradled the Crescent Blade against her chest. “And we must prepare for the ultimate battle against Lolth.”

Again, Cavatina felt a stab of jealousy. She stared down at the dead Selvetargtlin. “With their god dead, I suppose the Selvetargtlin will turn to Lolth—but what of the Nightshadows?”

“Eilistraee has stolen Vhaeraun’s portfolio. His clerics draw their power from her, now—though,” and Qilué smiled, “it may take some of them a while to realize it. When they do, they’ll be ripe for redemption and ready to be drawn into the dance. Our priestesses have a lot of work ahead of them.”

Cavatina gave the high priestess a sharp glance.
“Nightshadows
will join our ranks?”

Qilué nodded. “They already have, albeit unwittingly.” She stared across the cavern, as if trying to see into the future. “There is a lot to be worked out yet.”

Cavatina shook her head. If ever there was an understatement, that was it. The thought of clerics of Vhaeraun defiling Eilistraee’s holy shrines with their black masks and evil deeds—especially after all that had just happened—made her flesh crawl.

“I don’t like it,” Cavatina said. Blunt, as usual, but it had to be said. “The Nightshadows are cowards and thieves and traitors, slinking about like—”

“People change. Even Lolth’s vassals have been redeemed, including, it would seem, the Lady Penitent.”

“What if they refuse redemption? What if they reject Eilistraee and choose
Lolth
instead? What you’ve done may have just made our enemy stronger.”

Qilué’s eyes blazed. “What I’ve done was necessary and inevitable.”

“Even so, it worries me,” Cavatina continued. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, Lady Qilué, of the sacred teachings. Just as Selvetarm was corrupted after he destroyed Zanassu and assumed the Spider Demon’s divine power, so might our worshipers be, if we accept Vhaeraun’s clerics into our ranks.” She paused, suddenly realizing the ramifications. “So might Eilistraee be, if Vhaeraun’s evil seeps into her—”