Sacrifice of the Widow: The Lady Penitent, Book I (10 page)

Q’arlynd bowed. “Thank you, Lady.”

He smiled. Prellyn had been right. Eilistraee’s faithful were entirely too trusting.

Deep in a little-frequented section of the forest of Cormanthor, the cleric Malvag cast his eye over the drow who had assembled inside the enormous hollow tree: nine males, all but one with faces hidden by black masks that left only their restless eyes visible. Most wore leather armor, dark as the cloaks that protected them from the winter chill. Their breath fogged below their masks as they eyed one another warily, wrist-crossbows and bracer-sheathed daggers prominently visible. Crowding into such a small space had made them uneasy, as Malvag had intended. The smell of nervous sweat blended with the earthy smell of long-since fallen leaves and the faint, slightly sweet scent of the poison that coated the heads of their crossbow bolts.

“Men of Jaelre,” he said, greeting the five who had come from that House. All wore masks except their leader, a cripple with a brace of leather and iron encasing his left leg.

Malvag turned to the other four and inclined his head slightly. “And men of Auzkovyn. Dark deeds.”

“Dark deeds,” they murmured.

“You sent a shadow summons,” the crippled male said. “Why?”

“Ah, Jezz. Always the first to come to the point,” Malvag said. He looked at each man in turn, nodding as if silently counting them, then shrugged. “I sent the summons to several more of the faithful, but only you nine answered. Just as well—that’s fewer to reap the rewards.”

“What rewards?” one asked.

“Power,” Malvag said. “Beyond anything you might ever have imagined. The ability to work
arselu’tel’quess
—high magic.”

There was silence for several moments. Jezz broke it with a snort of barely contained laughter. “Everyone knows drow aren’t capable of touching the Weave in that way, and even if we were, only wizards can work high magic. Clerics merely assist in their spells.”

“Wrong!” Malvag said firmly. “On both counts. There are high magic spells designed for clerics—or rather, there were in ancient times. I have discovered a scroll, written by a priest of ancient Ilythiir, that bears one such prayer. If high magic was possible for our
ssri Tel’Quessir
ancestors, it can be possible for us.”

“But we’re
drow,”
another of the males said.

“Indeed we are,” Malvag said. He held up his hands and turned them back and forth, as if examining them. “But what is it that prevents us from working high magic? Our black skin? Our white hair?” He chuckled softly and lowered his hands. “Neither. It is simply that we lack the will.” He glanced at each male in turn. “Who among you
would not stab a fellow Nightshadow in the back, if there was something to be gained by it? We form alliances, but they are as tenuous and fleeting as faerie fire. In order to work high magic, we must forge something more lasting, a permanent bond between ourselves. We must set aside our suspicions and learn to work as one.”

Again, Jezz gave a snort of derisive laughter. “Pretty words,” he said, “but this is hardly the time for impossible alliances and grand schemes. In case you’ve forgotten, both House Jaelre and House Auzkovyn are fighting for our very survival. The army of Myth Drannor won’t be happy until they’ve driven every last one of us below or into the arms of those dancing bitches—we’ve lost more than one of the faithful to Eilistraee in recent months. Then there’s that
thing
that’s been hunting us.” He shook his head. “Lolth herself has taken an interest in both our Houses for some reason.”

Malvag smiled beneath his mask. He’d counted on comments like that from the battle-scarred sorcerer, which was why he’d included Jezz in the summons. Jezz helped remind the others that things had come to a desperate pass. Those with their backs already against the wall, Malvag knew, were more easily persuaded to grasp at the “impossible.”

“These are troubled times,” Malvag agreed, his voice smooth as assassin’s strangle silk, “but what better time to strike our enemies than when they least expect it? Instead of continuing to just skirmish, we’ll hit back. Hard. With high magic. Vhaeraun himself will be our weapon.”

Several of the men frowned. Jezz voiced the question that was no doubt foremost in their minds. “You hope to summon an avatar of the Masked Lord’s to do battle for us?”

Malvag shook his head. “I wasn’t speaking of his avatar. I was speaking of Vhaeraun himself.”

Jezz laughed openly. “Let me guess. You’re going to
replicate the Time of Troubles and force Vhaeraun to walk Toril in physical form by using ‘high magic.’” He rolled his eyes. “You’re mad. You must think yourself the equal of Ao.”

Malvag locked eyes with the cripple. “When did I ever mention a summoning—or Toril, for that matter?” he asked in a steely voice. He shook his head. “I have something entirely different in mind. The scroll I possess will enable us to open a gate between Vhaeraun’s domain and that of another god. A back door, if you will, that the Masked Lord can use to sneak out of Ellaniath undetected.”

“To what end?” one of the others asked.

“The assassination,” Malvag said slowly, “of another god.”

All eyes were locked on him. “Which one?” one of the Nightshadows asked.

“Corellon Larethian.” Malvag let his smile crinkle the corners of his eyes. “The death of the lord of the Seldarine should give the army of Myth Drannor pause, don’t you agree?”

The Nightshadows exchanged excited glances. Jezz, however, slowly shook his head. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You want to open a gate between Vhaeraun’s domain and Arvandor?”

Malvag nodded.

“A gate that might very well work in the reverse direction to the one you describe, allowing the Seldarine to invade Vhaeraun’s domain, instead of the other way around.” He shifted his weight, favoring his crippled leg. One hand drifted near the hilt of his kukri. “This makes me wonder which god you really do serve.”

Eyes darted back and forth between Jezz and Malvag. The other males drew slightly apart from the sorcerer, giving him room for whatever treachery he planned.

Malvag made no move. “What do you mean?”

“You’re neither Jaelre nor Auzkovyn. You appeared among us a year ago from out of nowhere, claiming to be from the south, around the same time that the demon-thing started slaughtering our people. Now you propose something which, assuming it is possible, may very well be the death of the Masked Lord. I ask again, which god do you really serve?”

Malvag stood utterly still, not making any threatening moves. “They should have called you Jezz the Suspicious,” he drawled, “not Jezz the Lame.”

One of the males from House Auzkovyn chuckled softly.

Jezz’s eyes narrowed still further. “I think you’re a spider kisser.”

Eyes widened. Malvag heard several sharp intakes of breath.

“You call me a traitor?” he whispered. “You think me a servant of Lolth?” He curled the fingers of his right hand then suddenly flipped it palm-up. The sign for a dead spider.
“This
, for the spider bitch. If I worship her, may she strike me dead for blaspheming.”

As nervous chuckles filled the air, Malvag added, “I’m a loyal servant of Vhaeraun—a shadow in the Night Above—as are all of you.” He paused. “Well … almost all of you,” he added, his glance lingering on Jezz’s naked face.

He held it for several moments then tore his gaze away. “Some of us, it seems, think Corellon Larethian too high a mark for the Masked Lord to aim for,” he told the others, giving Jezz the kind of disdainful glance one would reserve for a coward, “so let me propose an alternative. Instead of Arvandor, we’ll use the scroll to open a gate to Eilistraee’s domain.” He chuckled. “Wouldn’t it be a wonderful turnabout if the Masked Lord took Eilistraee down? Her priestesses have stolen enough of our people in recent years. I think it’s Vhaeraun’s turn to take the lead in that dance. Permanently.”

Low laughter greeted his joke.

Jezz glared. “This is not a laughing matter. You’re talking about tampering with the domains of the gods.”

“True,” Malvag said, his expression serious once more, “which is why I came prepared to show how serious I am about this. Realizing that some might be …
reluctant
to tackle Arvandor, I began my preparations for opening a gate to Eilistraee’s domain instead.”

He reached behind his head and untied his mask. Lifting it from his face, he held it high. Then he gave it a savage twist, as if wringing water from it. A faint but sharp sound filled the hollow tree: a female voice, screaming.

He relaxed the twist in the fabric. “A soul,” he explained, “trapped by soultheft and held there still.”

The other clerics’ eyes widened. Malvag could tell they were impressed. Most Nightshadows could hold a soul within their masks for only a moment or two. “You may have heard of the attack on the shrine at Lake Sember five nights ago?”

Heads nodded.

Jezz looked impressed. Fleetingly.

“You mean to tell us you’ve got the soul of a priestess of
Eilistraee
trapped in there?” asked one of the Auzkovyn—a thin man whose protruding nose creased the fabric of his mask into a tent shape. His breathing was light and fast, his eyes wide.

“What better tool for opening a gate to her domain?” Malvag asked. “As some of you may already know, the working of high magic demands a price. Better we fuel it with this—” he fluttered the mask gently—“than with our own souls, wouldn’t you agree?”

Smiles crinkled the eyes of the other Nightshadows as they laughed at his wry joke.

“I can teach you to do the same, to hold a soul in your mask until you are ready to spend its energy,” Malvag told them. “When each of us has gathered this necessary
focus, we will meet again to work the spell.” He retied the mask around his face. “Through soultheft, each of you will have the fuel needed to work high magic.” He met the eyes of each male in turn. “The only question remaining is, do you have the faith?”

The Nightshadows were silent for several moments. The eyes behind the masks were thoughtful.

All but those of the House Jaelre leader. “Assuming this scroll of yours really exists, there’s a flaw in your plan,” Jezz said. “In order to create a gate, the caster has to enter the plane that is the gate’s destination. As soon as one of you enters the domain of another god—be it Eilistraee’s domain or Arvandor—the element of surprise is lost.”

“That would be true,” Malvag admitted, “except that this spell will allow us to open a gate between two domains from a distance—from a location on Toril.”

“Nonsense,” Jezz scoffed. “That would require more power than you possess. The combined efforts of a hundred clerics. A thousand.”

“What if I told you I know of something that will augment the magic of each cleric participating in the spell a hundredfold?” he asked. “Perhaps even a thousandfold.” He paused. “There is a cavern, deep in the Underdark,” he told the Nightshadows, “a cavern lined with darkstone crystals, and thus a perfect vehicle for the Masked Lord’s magic. It lies at the center of an earth node of incredible power—something that will boost our magic to the levels we need to work the spell.”

“And this cavern?” Jezz demanded. “Where is it, exactly? Or is that something you’re not prepared to share with us?” He glanced at the others, then back at Malvag. “Perhaps because it, like the ‘ancient scroll’ you’ve told us about, doesn’t exist.”

Malvag carefully hid his delight. He could not have scripted Jezz’s comments better himself. “On the contrary,” he countered. “Those who choose to join me will be
shown both the cavern—and the scroll—this very night. I’ll teleport them there.”

The word hung in the air. “Them.” Not “you.”

Jezz glared at Malvag, then stared around at the others, slowly shaking his head. “You
trust
him?” A scornful word, in the mouth of a drow.

Eyes shifted from Jezz to Malvag and back again.

“Then you’re fools,” Jezz said. “Anyone with eyes can see that this is a ploy to thin the ranks of the faithful, so this newcomer can rise to a more prominent position. He’ll teleport you into a cavern filled with sickstone, or somewhere equally unhealthy, and abandon you there.”

His words hung in the air for several moments.

The Nightshadows shuffled, glancing at one another. One of the House Jaelre males, a large fellow with close-cropped hair and an old burn scar on his right hand, at last broke the silence. “I’m in,” he grunted from behind his mask. He moved to Malvag’s side.

Jezz merely snorted. Without further comment he turned on his heel and strode out into the night. Two of the males from House Jaelre immediately followed. The remaining male from that House who had not yet declared himself glanced sidelong at the Auzkovyn, as if waiting to see what they would do.

One of the Auzkovyn glanced at his fellows, shook his head, then also left.

Malvag waited, holding his breath, as the four males who had not yet declared themselves—one from House Jaelre and three from House Auzkovyn—shifted slightly on their feet, hesitating. One of the Auzkovyn males muttered something under his breath at his companions then departed. The hatchet-nosed Auzkovyn also turned to leave, then hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder. Even from where he stood, Malvag could smell the reek of nervous sweat clinging to the male. A moment more of hesitation then that Auzkovyn abruptly left.