Sacrifice of the Widow

by Lisa Smedman

  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.”

  Cavatina’s eyes widened. She stepped away from Qilué and swung the weapon back and forth in sweeping arcs, alternating between a one-handed and a two-handed grip. A note flowed from it, pure as holy water. The sword glowed faintly, tracing a line of moonfire through the darkness.

  Qilué watched, admiring the other priestess’s skill. “Only twenty-five of these weapons remain. See to it that you use it well.”

  Cavatina bowed and promised, “I will keep it safe, Lady.”

  “If it does turn out to be a demon you are hunting, the singing sword will render you immune to any attacks it might make against your mind. It can also be used to counter certain baleful songs and cries—those of harpies and shriekers, for example—and to entrance lesser creatures.”

  “A most potent weapon,” Cavatina said. Then she looked up at Qilué. “I thought the singing swords were never to leave the Promenade.”

  Qilué’s expression grew grim. “The coming hunt, according to my divinations, will be of great consequence.” She nodded down at the weapon. “It will be worthy of that blade.”

  Cavatina bowed again. “By Eilistraee’s grace, may I also prove worthy of it.”

  “I’m sure you shall,” Qilué said with a smile. “Now that you’re armed, let’s get you on your way. Come.”

  They entered the Cavern of Song. It had been cleared of its buildings and returned to its natural state two decades ago during the temple’s construction. It was flooded with Eilistraee’s moonfire, which illuminated a statue of Qilué that the Protectors had insisted on erecting over the hidden staircase that led to the Pit of Ghaunadaur. Shimmering waves of light danced across the ceiling in constantly changing hues: blue-white, pale green, moon-white and silver.

  Three priestesses sang there, their voices blended in complex harmonies that waxed and waned. Two of the singers were drow, the third, a surface elf whose pale skin was bathed in shifting colors by the moonfire above. Each was naked, save for the holy symbol that hung from a mithral chain around her neck. Each singer sat on a different outcropping of stone, holding a sword above her head, its point directed at the moon. They pointed overhead, but the swords were slowly descending, their tips moving almost imperceptibly downward as the moon sank toward an unseen horizon. The priestesses would hold these positions until others came to join the song. Sometimes a single priestess sang there, but during Evensong, two dozen or more would lend their voices to the sacred hymn.

  Qilué joined in the singing as they walked through the cavern. “Climb out of the darkness, rise into the light …” It had always been one of her favorite lines.

  Her own climb into the light had happened centuries ago. She barely remembered the tiny town in the Underdark where she had been born. It had been a long and difficult struggle to reawaken Eilistraee’s worship among the drow, but a worthwhile one. The young Darksong Knight beside her was proof of that. Cavatina was a fourth-generation devotee of the Lady of the Dance, born on the surface. The drow were reclaiming their birthright.

  Qilué and Cavatina turned in to a side cavern that led to a pool of water. One of the Protectors of the Song stood guard there whenever the moon was risen, even though it was unlikely that enemies would pass that way. She bowed as they approached.

  “Is the portal active?” Qilué asked.

  The priestess nodded. She pointed out a spot on the surface of the pool—a circle that shimmered like a reflection of the full moon.

  “I’d like you to leave at once for the Velarswood via the Moonspring,” Qilué said. “Take all the time you need to find out what’s going on there. Be thorough, and use the resources that Eilistraee places in your hands. Do whatever you need to in order to protect our shrines in Cormanthor.”

  Cavatina’s eyes glittered with anticipation. She looked delighted to be off on the hunt again, and Qilué knew that the patrols of the temple had bored the Darksong Knight to tears. She saluted Qilué with the singing sword.

  “They will be safe under my blade,” she promised. Then she paused. “Any other instructions, Lady?”

  “Only one,” Qilué said, hiding her smile. “If you’re carrying any scrolls or other equipment that can be damaged by water, I’d suggest you remove them.

  Q’arlynd winced as the arcane eye he’d just conjured passed through the portal. He’d done a similar reconnaissance twice already, waiting for the fall of night in the surface world, but even under the light of that realm’s lesser disc—the moon—everything was painfully bright. It took him several moments to make sense of what he was seeing: pale stone walls, a floor dusted with sand, and a black sky dotted with points of white—the stars. They reminded him, a little, of the magical, twinkling faerie fire that had covered Ched Nasad’s buildings, but not nearly as beautiful.

  The portal
was affixed to a wall in a ruined building whose roof was open to the sky. A second arch, non-magical, opened onto a street paved with large slabs of stone. The building had probably been built by humans or surface elves, judging by the height of the arch. The frescoes on its walls might have given more clues, but they were faded to the point where only faint smudges of pigment could still be seen.

  Q’arlynd sent the eye roving through the arch and out into the street. There didn’t seem to be anyone around.

  His view dissolved into static as the spell ended. He turned to Flinderspeld, who lay on his belly beside him in the gap in the rubble. His slave was fidgeting, tugging at the tight leather gloves Q’arlynd had ordered him to wear. Q’arlynd rapped him on the head with a knuckle.

  “Gnomes first,” he said, gesturing at the arch with its glowing runes.

  “Where does it lead to?” Flinderspeld asked.

  Q’arlynd’s ring gave him a glimpse into the deep gnome’s thoughts. Flinderspeld was weighing the possibilities. If the portal led to another plane, he was thinking, he might at last be free of the ring’s binding.

  “Crawl through it and find out if you’re right,” Q’arlynd suggested aloud. Inwardly, he chuckled.

  Flinderspeld hesitated then realized that refusal to enter the portal would only cause his master to force him through. Muttering under his breath, he crawled forward, his head, shoulders, and chest gradually disappearing into the arch.

  When the deep gnome was about halfway through, his legs and feet jerked forward abruptly, as if he’d been yanked the rest of the way. This gave Q’arlynd a moment’s pause, then he realized that the floor level on the other side of the portal was well below the uppermost part of the arch—the only part of the portal not hidden by rubble. Flinderspeld had simply fallen. Q’arlynd concentrated, but he could no longer hear Flinderspeld’s thoughts. That was to be expected, since the range of the rings was limited and the deep gnome was leagues away.

  He conjured a second arcane eye and sent it through the gate. Flinderspeld stood next to the gate, rubbing one cheek and wincing. He must have scuffed it during his fall, but nothing was attacking him.

  So far, so good, but before using the portal himself, Q’arlynd cast a spell that would encase him in a layer of force like magical armor. Then he eased his way through the arch feet first. He felt a brief, mildly disorienting lurch before landing on the floor beyond, next to Flinderspeld. The deep gnome shivered, even though he wore a warm cloak.

  Q’arlynd was immediately aware of the dryness of the air. It was as cold here as it had been underground, but the air he drew into his lungs tasted of dust. His feet scuffed sand as he turned to survey the roofless room. After the constant trickle of water that had filled Ched Nasad, the World Above was eerily silent. He could even hear Flinderspeld breathing.

  “Where are we?” the deep gnome asked in a whisper.

  A shadow swept across the room, swift as the blink of an eye, as something leaped across the open ceiling and landed on the far wall. Q’arlynd caught a glimpse of a creature the size of a riding lizard but covered in tawny, golden fur. The upper torso was humanoid and golden-skinned, and at the end of its animal rump was a lashing tail.

  The creature didn’t seem to have spotted them. Even as Q’arlynd raised his hands to cast a spell, it tensed in a crouch, still facing away from them, then sprang away.

  Any idea what that was? Q’arlynd signed.

  Flinderspeld’s mind was a blank parchment. He’d never seen anything like it. Mutely, he shook his head.

  Q’arlynd listened, but he couldn’t hear the creature. As a precaution, he rendered himself invisible. A second whisper and a touch rendered Flinderspeld invisible as well.

  Q’arlynd felt Flinderspeld grab the hem of his piwafwi. They started for the arch that led to the street.

  Before they reached it, a drow slipped in from outside, a male with long white hair, wearing a piwafwi and lizard-skin gloves similar to Q’arlynd’s own. His eyes were an unusual pale blue rather than red.

  “Quickly,” he whispered in High Drowic that had the distinctive accent of someone from Ched Nasad. “Before the monster returns. Follow me.”

  Q’arlynd was instantly suspicious. Why wasn’t the drow using the silent speech, if a hostile creature was nearby? And why, if he could penetrate Q’arlynd’s invisibility spell, was he staring so intently at the portal?

  Flinderspeld’s own suspicions supplied the missing piece of the puzzle. Where Q’arlynd saw a drow, Flinderspeld saw another deep gnome—one who spoke to him in svirfneblin. The newcomer was an illusion.

  That didn’t necessarily mean whoever had created the illusion was an enemy, of course. Perhaps she was just cautious.

  Q’arlynd fished out of his pocket one of the tiny silver swords the dead priestess had been carrying, found Flinderspeld’s hand, and pressed the trinket into it. Then he rendered the deep gnome visible again and stepped swiftly aside.

  The drow-illusion turned toward Flinderspeld—whoever had cast it was watching the room—and repeated the exhortation to follow.

  Q’arlynd forced Flinderspeld to hold up the trinket. The illusion barely glanced at the tiny sword.

  Q’arlynd levitated while forcing Flinderspeld to walk toward the drow-illusion. As soon as Q’arlynd was high enough to see over the ruined walls, he spotted the tawny-furred creature hiding in an alley just up the street. As Q’arlynd turned the silently protesting Flinderspeld to follow the drow-illusion in that direction, the creature crouched, tail whisking in anticipation. Claws flexed from its furred feet.

  Definitely an enemy, but one who could, perhaps, tell Q’arlynd more about this place.

  He cast a spell. The slab of paving stone on which the creature crouched became soft as mud and the creature’s feet sank into it. A second, equally quick whisper, and the paving stone was solid once more. The creature, realizing its feet were trapped, thrashed about, trying to free itself. Realizing it could not, it snarled.

  The drow-illusion disappeared. As it did, Q’arlynd released his hold on Flinderspeld’s body. The deep gnome had served his purpose as a distraction, and Q’arlynd didn’t want him getting within range of whatever other magic the tawny-furred creature might have at its disposal.

  Instead of retreating, the deep gnome collapsed in the middle of the street, the tiny silver sword falling from his hand.

  Q’arlynd probed his slave’s mind. Flinderspeld was still alive. His thoughts were sluggish and dreamlike, but there.

  The tawny-furred creature let out a loud roar. An answering roar came from elsewhere in the ruined city.

  Realizing it had just called another of its kind, Q’arlynd immediately sank to the floor of the ruined building. Still invisible, he hurried out into the street, toward Flinderspeld.

  He wasn’t the only one. A drow came running out of a doorway on the opposite side of the street—a female with waist-length white hair, wearing a chain mail tunic over trousers and a padded shirt. She reached Flinderspeld a heartbeat ahead of Q’arlynd and slapped a hand onto the deep gnome’s chest.

  “Sanctuary!” she cried.

  Both the drow female and Flinderspeld disappeared.

  Q’arlynd skidded to a stop on the sand-dusted flagstones and swore softly under his breath. His only slave, gone. Before he had time for regret, however, he felt a tickling sensation, deep within his mind.

  I know you’re there, somewhere. Free me. I can help you.

  Q’arlynd glanced toward the trapped creature. It held its arms out imploringly, its eyes fixed on the dust that slowly settled around Q’arlynd’s boots.

  Q’arlynd laughed. The creature’s magical suggestion might have worked on someone less suspicious than a drow. He drew his wand from its sheath, pointed it, then spoke its command word. Jagged balls of ice erupted from it. They streaked across the street and slammed into the creature’s chest with harsh, meaty thuds. Q’arlynd corrected his aim and shot again, and the ice smashed into the creatu
re’s face, knocking its head back. The creature collapsed, either unconscious or dead, its feet still encased in stone. Q’arlynd heard a bone snap as one of its ankles twisted and broke.

  His direct attack had rendered him visible once more. He could sense eyes on him. He whirled and saw another drow female standing in the street staring at him. She was armored as the first had been, in a chain mail tunic, and she carried a sword. Her hair was whiter than the other female’s and was twisted in a knot at the back of her head. The tiny sword that was Eilistraee’s pendant hung against her chest. She glanced past Q’arlynd at the collapsed creature, then nodded and moved forward.

  “Nicely done. Lamias can be challenging opponents.”

  Q’arlynd lowered his wand but did not sheathe it. Under his breath, he whispered a simple cantrip. When he pinched his fingers together, the tiny silver sword that had been lying on the ground at his feet—the one Flinderspeld had dropped—rose to his hand. He held it out with a flourish and bowed. When he straightened, the female had visibly relaxed.

  “Where did the other female take the deep gnome?” Q’arlynd asked.

  “Your friend is safe. Rowaan will take care of him.”

  Q’arlynd nearly laughed aloud. Friend? Anyone with half a cup of cunning would have realized Flinderspeld was Q’arlynd’s slave.

  As the priestess walked toward Q’arlynd, her eyes lingered on his face. He suppressed a sigh. Despite his broken nose, he seemed to have that effect on females, but still she frowned when she asked, “What House are you?”

  Q’arlynd almost lied—deceit was a reflex—then decided against it. “House Melarn.”

  The priestess’s eyes widened.

  Q’arlynd’s heartbeat quickened. He took a risk—something he would normally not have done. “You know my sister,” he said. A statement, rather than a question. “Halisstra Melarn.”

  She started to nod then checked herself. “I knew her.”

  “Knew?” Q’arlynd asked. “Is she—”