Sacrifice of the Widow: The Lady Penitent, Book I (39 page)

“Enough!” Qilué’s voice was sharp. “It is done. Eilistraee has slain Vhaeraun. There is no going back from that now.” Her eyes bored into Cavatina’s. “Do you really think, Darksong Knight, that I had not considered this before sending Q’arlynd on his mission?”

Cavatina hung her head. “Of course not, Lady.” But secretly she wondered. She didn’t know Qilué well, but according to reputation, the high priestess wasn’t one to
display anger. Cavatina’s blunt words must have disturbed her. Deeply.

Then again, Cavatina realized, perhaps Qilué had been offered no choice. The high priestess must have realized what a gamble Q’arlynd’s mission had been and known that it would likely fail. Without Qilué’s warning, Vhaeraun might have surprised Eilistraee, even killed her. Cavatina tried to imagine Eilistraee’s holy light, corrupted with creeping tendrils of shadow—to imagine herself, slowly corrupted—and shuddered.

“For now,” Qilué said, “I would like you to keep secret everything Q’arlynd just told us. I would prefer the Nightshadows to think that Vhaeraun’s destruction was entirely of our own devising. Remember, good will come of this. The Nightshadows will be brought into the light. Willingly or not, the
drow
will be brought into the light.”

Cavatina bowed her head. “Praise Eilistraee,” she murmured.

Her heart, however, remained shadowed with doubt.

As Q’arlynd walked away he ground his teeth at the high priestess’s lack of response. He’d expected gratitude from Qilué, even praise, but she hadn’t thrown him so much as the smallest scrap. Instead she’d listened to his report as if it bored her then dismissed him like a commoner. Obviously, whatever boastful report the Darksong Knight was making was more important to the high priestess.

He walked slowly, concentrating on his spell and not bothering to keep up with the two lay worshipers he was supposed to be following. He had no interest, really, in talking to Rowaan. He’d rather listen in on Cavatina and Qilué.

He walked through the temple, pretending to be on an
important errand and found himself on a bridge above the river. By then, he was already almost at the limit of the spell’s range. No matter, he thought. The report the high priestess hadn’t wanted him to overhear was astonishing, but it was true—the death of the demigod Selvetarm, at Cavatina’s hand. Still, it was of little more than passing interest to Q’arlynd. He’d learned everything he needed to …

Just a moment. What was that the Darksong Knight had just said? Had she really just uttered the name,

“Halisstra”?

He jerked to a halt, listening intently.

She had.

Q’arlynd stood, utterly still, oblivious to the rush of the river below.

Halisstra. Alive.

She had been with the Darksong Knight in the Demonweb Pits when Selvetarm was slain. She’d come to Cavatina’s aid when all seemed lost, but then Halisstra herself was lost, perhaps left behind in the Demonweb Pits. But—Qilué promised—Halisstra would be found again.

Elation surged through Q’arlynd. There, at last, was something he knew his way around, something he could work with. With Halisstra alive, House Melarn could be reforged. Halisstra would be its matron mother and Q’arlynd, her oh-so-obedient brother, would be the true power behind the throne. When the time was right, the pair of them would return to Ched Nasad and claim their rightful place as its ruling House. They would rebuild the city to its former glory. They would …

Q’arlynd’s imaginings slammed back to earth again as he realized what he’d been overlooking. Halisstra was one of Eilistraee’s faithful. If Q’arlynd did manage to talk her into returning to Ched Nasad, she’d probably insist on trying to “redeem” everyone she met. She’d last about as
long as fungus wine in the tankard of a thirsty orc. Then Q’arlynd would be on his own once more—and in an even worse position than before. He’d wind up reviled. Hunted. Maybe even dead.

He ended his spell. He’d heard enough.

He stood, drumming his fingers on the rail of the bridge and thought, What now?

A pair of lay worshipers hurried across the bridge, carrying a body toward the temple. Q’arlynd pressed himself against the rail, letting them pass. In the distance, faintly, he could hear the voices that emanated from the Cavern of Song; they rose and fell in rhythmic waves. The song was sweet, seductive—but it didn’t call to Q’arlynd. Not any more.

From below came the sound of rushing water. One hand on the smooth rail of the bridge, Q’arlynd contemplated the cold, dark river that came from some distant place, briefly intersected Eilistraee’s temple, then moved on.

Perhaps it was time for him to move on, too, but where? And to what?

He sighed, wishing the brief bond he’d experienced with Malvag and Valdar in the darkstone cavern had lasted just a little longer, but it was gone—dead as Vhaeraun, thanks to Eilistraee.

Q’arlynd shook his head, still not able to believe it—a bond like that, forged with clerics of Vhaeraun, the most mistrustful, backstabbing males on all of Toril. Who would have ever thought …

A realization came to Q’arlynd then, sudden as a bolt of darkfire. If such a bond could be forged with
Nightshadows
, then surely it could also be created among wizards. Perhaps Q’arlynd could build his own power base around a cabal of like-minded males. He knew where he was most likely to recruit them—in Sshamath, a city ruled by a conclave of wizards rather than by a council of matron mothers—by
male
wizards, rather than female priestesses.

Excited, he pondered the possibilities. During his brief link with Malvag’s mind, he’d learned that the ruined temple the Nightshadow had found, far to the south, had held only the one scroll. That ruin was a dead end, but other artifacts from the time of the Crown Wars might also have survived in other locations. It would simply be a matter of finding them. Q’arlynd already had an idea where he might start—in the ruins of Talthalaran, in ancient Miyeritar. More specifically, within that ruined tower he’d spotted while hiking across the High Moor with Leliana and Rowaan, the tower whose floor pattern had reminded him of the Arcane Conservatory in Ched Nasad.

The tower had been a wizards’ school. He was certain of it.

For the first time in many years, a smile crinkled Q’arlynd’s eyes. He didn’t
need
Halisstra. Or House Melarn. He’d find his own road to power—one that wouldn’t force him to walk in the shadow of a female.

He climbed onto the rail of the bridge then stepped off into space. A heartbeat before he struck the cold, dark surface of the river, he teleported away.

T
he dice fell to the
sava
board and bounced once, twice, then came to rest in the shadow of Lolth’s Mother piece. Eilistraee leaned forward, her long white hair brushing the board as she strained to see which numbers were upright. Her lips parted as she read the numerals and a song of joy, pure and radiant as moonlight, burst from the swords that floated at her hips.

“Double ones!” she cried.

Lolth had been reclining on her dark throne, certain the die roll would fail, but she hurled herself forward. “No!” she hissed. “It can’t be!” Tiny red spiders spilled from her lips and fell shuddering to the board.

Even as Lolth railed, the dice began to alter. Where once they had been black obsidian with a
mere speck of moonlight at their heart, they became moonstone. The side that had been inscribed with a symbol for the numeral one—a multi-legged spider—bore the smooth circle of Eilistraee’s moon. Deep within the translucent octahedrons, something black wriggled, struggling to be free: a tiny black spider.

Eilistraee basked in the moonlight that shone down through the branches above her head. “One throw,” she cried, “and it came up in my favor, despite the odds.” Her perfect lips quirked in a smile. “The impossible is possible, it seems. Corellon might forgive your betrayal yet, Mother.”

Lolth’s red eyes smoldered with fury. The hand that gripped the side of her throne tightened until it turned ashen gray. Beside her, Selvetarm hunkered down on his eight hairy legs, ready to rend Eilistraee at her command. His drow head twisted back and forth, and his sword and mace fairly quivered in his hands. His fangs were spread wide, dripping poison onto the board. A drop of it splattered the head of Lolth’s Mother piece and dribbled down its obsidian-dark contours.

Lolth shot her champion a foul look. “Apologize!”

Selvetarm returned her glare for several moments in stony silence. At last words wrenched themselves out of his mouth, a dark mutter, barely audible. “Forgive me.”

Eilistraee watched the exchange with a serenity born of certainty. She would win the game, or at least the current play. “A sacrifice,” she said. “I claim it now.” She moved her Priestess piece to the spot on the board Lolth had just left bare—the spot where Selvetarm’s drider-shaped Warrior piece had stood before Lolth picked it up.

“Priestess takes Warrior,” Eilistraee announced, nodding at the piece in Lolth’s hand.

Lolth hissed. Rage as she might, she was bound by her oath.

Ao himself was watching.

The Spider Queen’s fingers tightened around the Warrior piece. One of its spider legs cracked. As it did, Selvetarm stumbled and clutched at Lolth’s throne. His drow head swiveled toward Lolth, eyes wide with loathing—and with fear.

“No,” he shouted.

Two more of the piece’s legs splintered. Two more of Selvetarm’s legs gave way.

“I am your
Champion,”
the god roared, brandishing his weapons. “You can’t—”

“I must.” Lolth’s eyes were as cold as extinguished coals. “And I will. Gladly. You are no champion of mine—
traitor.”

A push of her thumb, and the neck of the piece snapped. The head fell.

Selvetarm gave a strangled gurgle as his own neck broke. His head fell with a heavy thud to the middle of the
sava
board, rattling the pieces. Several fell over then vanished.

Lolth dropped the broken Warrior piece to the floor, next to the corpse of her former Champion. She flicked away a piece of leg that clung to her web-sticky hand. A second gesture levitated Selvetarm’s head from the board. The blood had drained from it and been subsumed into the World Tree. Selvetarm’s face was slack and gray, his mouth drooling open.

“A trophy for your victory?” Lolth asked her daughter, her voice flat and emotionless.

Eilistraee shook her head, her lips tight. “How far you have fallen, Weaver. He was your grandchild.”

Anger rekindled in Lolth’s eyes at the use of her former title. She tossed Selvetarm’s head behind her and settled back onto her throne. “You also have fallen,
daughter,”
she said in a soft voice. “You also, and it’s my move.”

Eilistraee nodded. The game would continue.

Continue, until only one player remained.

Casually, as if she cared nothing for what had just
happened, Lolth pushed a piece forward then eased into a reclining position once more. She used a Slave piece, shoved into a vulnerable position, where it was certain to be taken.

Eilistraee wasn’t about to fall for that a second time. She studied the board carefully, wondering which of her hundreds of thousands of pieces to move next. The Priestess that had just forced Selvetarm’s sacrifice? From where it stood, it could easily take out any of a dozen of Lolth’s Slaves. No, she decided. That piece was too powerful to waste on any of those moves. She would save it for later.

She looked around for the Wizard that had taken Lolth’s Slave a moment before, but that piece seemed to have temporarily removed itself from the board.

It would be back, Eilistraee was certain, but on which side?

No matter, there were thousands of other pieces equally as powerful.

Swords humming contentedly at her hips, Eilistraee studied the
sava
board, lost in contemplation. Her next move should be something unexpected, something devious enough to take Lolth completely off guard, an attack from behind—from the shadows.

As Eilistraee pondered, one of her hands strayed to a piece at the side of the board, the Slave her Wizard had captured—the Slave that was not a slave, nor even a cleric, but something more.

Vhaeraun. Her brother.

She sighed—a sound that was picked up by the swords at her hips and turned into a mournful dirge. As sigh turned into song, something fluttered against her face.

A square of black, so thin as to be almost invisible.

Vhaeraun’s mask.

Lisa Smedman is the author of five S
HADOWRUN
® novels:
The Lucifer Deck, Blood Sport, Psychotrope, The Forever Drug
, and
Tails You Lose
. She also wrote the novel
The Playback War
, set in FASA’s VOR: T
HE
M
AELSTROM
® universe.

Lisa has had a number of short science fiction and fantasy stories published in various magazines and anthologies, and has had two of her plays produced. In 1993 she was a finalist in the Writers of the Future contest.