Sacrifice of the Widow: The Lady Penitent, Book I (7 page)

Prellyn, taller than Q’arlynd by a head, stared down at him. “You’re entirely too smart for a male.” She touched the end of his nose almost affectionately. “This is female business. Keep your nose out of it.”

Q’arlynd met her eye briefly. “I will,” he promised.

Prellyn’s hand fell away. She speared the point of her
sword into the soft metal of the pendant then lifted it like a trophy head. “And keep your hands off the rubble. Any salvage belongs to House Teh’Kinrellz. Find some other way to get up to mischief.”

Q’arlynd bowed. “As you command, Mistress.”

Prellyn snapped her fingers, summoning her driftdisc. She mounted it and whispered away, presumably to report House Ysh’nil’s ancient blasphemy. So hurried was her departure, she’d forgotten to punish Q’arlynd. He was almost disappointed.

Flinderspeld peeked out from behind a slab of stone. He glanced at the departing Prellyn then at Q’arlynd, who fished the tiny sword out of the crevice that Prellyn had flicked it into and pocketed it.

Are you planning a trip to the surface, Master?
he asked in the silent hand-speech of the drow.

Q’arlynd frowned.
You’re entirely too smart for a svirfneblin
.

Qilué listened as the Darksong Knight made her report. Cavatina’s battle with the Selvetargtlin and spellgaunt had occurred three days ago, but a breach of this nature warranted hearing the report firsthand. Thankfully, there had been no other incidents since then. Iljrene had reported that every room in the ceilings of the caverns south of the Sargauth had been inspected and found empty, save for the usual vermin, which the patrols swiftly dispatched. The magical wards in the Promenade itself had also been checked, found intact, and the seals on the Pit had not been disturbed.

The aranea’s robes and equipment had been recovered, and in them was the answer to how she had broached the magical defenses. It was a ring, a gold band with three empty spaces where gems should have been. When the
ring had been examined and found to be non-magical, it was very nearly dismissed as nothing noteworthy, but to Qilué’s trained eye, it spoke volumes. The “trinket” had once been one of the most powerful magical items of all: a ring of wishes, with the faintest hint of an aura clinging to the setting where the third gem had been.

The aranea had been able to teleport into a heavily warded area using the ring’s third and final wish. Once inside, the Selvetargtlin had used her clerical magic to render herself undetectable by the alarms. She’d brought the spellgaunt along to consume the magical energy of any symbols as they were triggered. That was why Cavatina’s spell had the effect that it did. The spellgaunt was already gorged when the Darksong Knight discovered it. Consuming the magical blades conjured by Cavatina’s spell had caused it to rupture, its body torn to pieces from within by the strains it had placed on the Weave.

There was no way of knowing how long the aranea had been within the area claimed by the Promenade before Cavatina discovered her. Had the symbols in the southern caverns not been permanent ones, the path the Selvetargtlin had followed might have been traced, but being permanent, they refreshed themselves soon after they were triggered.

Thus the Selvetargtlin’s goal in penetrating the area remained a mystery. An inventory of the temple had found nothing missing. Nothing had been desecrated, and nothing was disturbed, yet the aranea’s mission had been of great import, judging by her final words and the way she chose to die. She had deliberately destroyed her body, leaving nothing behind that could be questioned by a necromancer.

The spellgaunt’s carcass was intact, but questioning it would do little good. Spellgaunts couldn’t tell the difference between a lowly light pellet and an artifact. Magical items were all the same to them—raw energy, waiting to be consumed.

Qilué had hoped to find clues in the reports of either the Darksong Knight or the novice Thaleste, but none had presented themselves in either priestess’s account.

The whole episode was deeply troubling, and it wasn’t the only bad news Qilué had received lately. Another of Eilistraee’s enemies, it seemed, had also become active.

Four nights ago, one of Vhaeraun’s assassins had infiltrated the shrine at Lake Sember. One priestess and two lay worshipers had been killed before the assassin had been driven off. This came at a time when the drow Houses of Cormanthor should have been fully engaged in their war against the levees of the newly reclaimed Myth Drannor. Why, in the midst of their battle with a powerful adversary, would the Masked Lord’s priests have turned their attention to Eilistraee’s shrine? Hopefully, Iljrene’s spy would be able to turn up some answers, but for the moment, Qilué was baffled.

There were other murmurs of trouble. In the north, an evil that had been laid to rest three years ago had seemingly resurfaced. In the Year of Wild Magic, when Kiaransalee’s followers had taken over Maerimydra, they’d torn a terrible hole in the Weave. The corruption had spread from that city to the surface realms before they had been defeated. Pockets of corrupted magic still dotted the Dales. Though the priestess responsible for it had been defeated, there were indications that at least one of the high-ranking Crones who served her might have survived. The handful of Eilistraee’s priestesses who ministered to the drow of the distant north had heard tales from the survivors of undead rallying around a ghostly Crone whose wailing keen was capable of slaying scores of drow at one go. Once slain they were added to her ghastly ranks. The tales were obviously an exaggeration, but the region would have to be watched carefully. If further disruptions in the Weave arose, Qilué would be forced to respond.

Finally, from far to the south came troubling news that the cult of Ghaunadaur in Lurth Drier was becoming increasingly active. No longer content to prey upon each other, the drow of that Underdark city had burst onto the surface like an ugly boil, not far from Eilistraee’s temples in the Shaar and the Chondalwood. Something had caused them to set aside their relentless feuding and act as a cohesive force. Qilué prayed that an avatar of Ghaunadaur had not arisen there. If so, she would be forced to lead a contingent of priestesses south to drive it back below—a crusade that would seriously deplete the resources of the Promenade.

The only one of Eilistraee’s enemies
not
currently active, it seemed, was Lolth. Indeed, the Spider Queen’s worshipers had not shown themselves in some time. That in itself was suspicious. Lolth, still and silent, was probably waiting patiently for the best moment to strike, while others did the work of tangling Eilistraee’s faithful in a web of conflict.

The Darksong Knight had concluded her report and was standing in silence, waiting for Qilué’s response.

“Walk with me,” Qilué told her.

They had just returned from an inspection of the caverns where the aranea’s attack took place, and stood on the southern bank of the underground river that flowed past the Promenade at a spot where a recently constructed bridge arched high above the river. The original bridge had fallen into the river more than a century ago, but Qilué could still remember how it had looked when she fought her way across it with the companions who had helped her defeat Ghaunadaur’s avatar. The oozes and slimes had reduced its stone steps to rounded humps, making the footing treacherous. Ch’arla, one of Qilué’s childhood companions, had died, songsword in hand, at the very spot Qilué and Cavatina approached. The death had been a terrible blow, but Ch’arla’s soul danced with
Eilistraee. All pain was behind her.

Pride welled in Qilué as she walked across the rebuilt bridge and considered the fruits that two decades of labor had produced. The Promenade was a place of beauty and tranquility, hewn from the depths of the Underdark. A place that had once held nothing but madness and despair had been made sacred and filled with folk made whole through Eilistraee’s grace. Every time she visited the Promenade, it brought a fierce ache to her heart and the sting of tears to the corners of her eyes. The sacrifices of so many centuries ago had been worth it, every last one of them.

Below the bridge, the temple’s lay worshipers worked the river, hauling in fine-meshed nets filled with white, wriggling blindfish no longer than a finger. Others, baskets slung at their hips, collected lizard eggs and ripplebark fungus from the fissures that lined the cavern walls. Most were drow, converts from cities scattered throughout the Underdark, but there were also many who had been rescued from Skullport’s slave ships: surface elves, dwarves, humans—even the occasional halfling—who had turned to the goddess as a result. One of them, a stocky half-drow with bristly hair and protruding fangs that betrayed his orc father’s parentage, paused in his labors and made the sign of Eilistraee as Qilué and Cavatina passed him, touching forefinger to forefinger and thumb to thumb to form a circle representing the full moon.

Qilué acknowledged Jub with a nod and murmured blessing. His eyes lingered on her, a fawning expression on his face. Qilué secretly smiled. Even the most unlikely of worshipers were welcome there.

The Promenade comprised five main caverns that had once been part of the Sargauth Enclave, an outpost of fallen Netheril. The ancient buildings within the caverns had been reclaimed and put to use. One of the caverns housed the priestesses, another was home to the Promenade’s lay worshipers, and a third contained
storehouses and the barracks of the Protectors of the Song—the soldiers who guarded the Promenade. The fourth cavern, once a temple to a foul god, had been turned into the Hall of Healing.

The fifth cavern was the holiest of all: the Cavern of Song. Even over the rush of the river behind them, Qilué could hear the sound of singing—Eilistraee’s priestesses continuing the psalm that had not faltered since the temple had been established twenty years past in the Year of the Harp.

As they made their way along one of the winding corridors that led to the Cavern of Song, Qilué spoke to the Darksong Knight. “Cavatina, you’re familiar with the Velarswood, are you not?”

Cavatina nodded. “My mother was born there. I’ve visited it frequently.”

“I would like you to go there now.”

Cavatina’s nostrils flared. “Lady Qilué, if this is about the aranea—”

“It is not.”

“I realize that I should have been more vigilant. If I had, perhaps I might have spotted the Selvetargtlin on my first pass through the cavern.”

“What is done is done. You danced well. The battle was won. It’s just unfortunate that …”

Qilué didn’t complete the sentence. She wasn’t there to chastise the Darksong Knight. Cavatina had been trained to kill, and the thought of capturing an enemy alive would never have entered her head.

“You enjoy the hunt,” Qilué said.

Cavatina halted. “I guard the Promenade as diligently as any other priestess.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“I do not, as some believe, think myself above indoctrinating a novice.”

“I suggested nothing of the sort.”

“I followed the procedures Iljrene laid down. When Thaleste spotted a movement above us, I—”

Qilué silenced Cavatina with a stern look. She could see that nearly losing the novice had pricked the warrior-priestess’s pride. Darksong Knights didn’t bear mistakes easily—in themselves or in others.

When Cavatina was at last ready to listen, Qilué continued. “A strange creature has been sighted in the Velarswood in recent months. It has the general appearance of a drow female, yet it is far larger and stronger. It appears to be preying upon the drow of House Jaelre. Last night, a survivor of one of its attacks staggered into our shrine, begging for healing. He described the creature as having skin hard as obsidian—no blade can pierce it—and eight tiny legs that emerge from the torso, below the arms, like protruding ribs.”

Cavatina’s head came up like a hound on the scent. “Some new form of drider?” she guessed. “Or … demon?”

“Nobody knows. What we do know is that the survivor drew the creature’s attention to our shrine. It followed him there last night then scuttled away before the priestesses could assemble for a hunt. I’m worried it’s going to attack one of our people next. That’s why I’m sending you to the Velarswood. I want you to remove the threat.”

Cavatina nodded, her eyes gleaming. “Do you see Lolth’s hand in this?”

Qilué paused. “It’s hard to say, but the creature—whatever it is—has a venomous bite and is capable of spinning webs. The survivor said that those it took were found dangling from tree branches, inside cocoons. Dead.” Her expression hardened. “Innocents who might have been brought into Eilistraee’s light, but now their souls are lost to us.”

“May those souls find mercy,” Cavatina intoned.

Both females stood in silence a moment. Then Cavatina spoke again. “Lady, I lost my sword, Demonbane, to the spellgaunt.”

Qilué nodded. She glanced off into the distance and spoke in a low voice, as if to herself. “Quartermaster, a sword if you please.” She held up a hand, and a moment later one of the temple’s singing swords appeared out of thin air. Qilué caught it deftly by the hilt and passed it to Cavatina. “You may use this.”