Sacrifice of the Widow: The Lady Penitent, Book I (11 page)

That left only two in addition to Malvag and the male from House Auzkovyn who had been so quick to declare himself. If both of them stayed, that would give Malvag only the slightest of margins. The spell Malvag hoped to use required at least two other clerics, besides himself, to cast.

“May the Masked Lord forgive them for their lack of faith,” he whispered under his breath—but loud enough for the remaining two to hear. He stared out through the crack in the tree trunk, sadly shaking his head. “They’ve given up a chance to stand at Vhaeraun’s side. They’ll never know what true power is.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the remaining two square their shoulders and turn slightly toward him. They had made their decision. They would stay.

He turned to the three clerics who remained and spread his arms. He could see, by the wary glint in their eyes, that they didn’t quite trust him. Yet. But they would.

They would have to trust him by the night of the winter solstice, if his plan was to succeed.

He smiled behind his mask. “Now then,” he said, readying his teleportation spell. “Let me show you that scroll.”

Halisstra waited, high in the treetop. The wind plucked at her hair, tangling its sticky white strands. A fallen leaf fluttered by and became stuck in the tangle. She ignored it, her attention wholly focused on the hollow tree below. Inside it was her prey.

Three male drow emerged from it. The one in the lead was limping. His aura betrayed the fact that he had powerful arcane magic, but he did not wear a mask. He was not one of those Lolth wanted dead.

She watched them go.

Two more males emerged from the hollow tree, one after
another. Each was a cleric, but neither was very powerful, so their deaths would be of little consequence. Halisstra let them go, too, listening as their footsteps faded into the darkened forest.

A few moments passed, then another male emerged, alone, and with a strong aura of divine magic about him. He paused to lean against a tree, as if feeling ill, but after a moment straightened again, a determined look on his sweat-sheeted face.

Halisstra hissed. Curved fangs emerged from the bulges in her cheeks, one under each eye. The fangs scissored together in anticipation, their hollow tips dripping venom.
That
one.

Halisstra followed him, moving through the treetops above, ignoring the pain that creaked through her body with each pulse of her blood. Her bare hands and feet clung to the branches like the sticky feet of a spider, so there was no need to grip. Just scuttle and spring. Once the male halted and glanced up, his wrist-crossbow raised. Halisstra froze in place, not because she feared his feeble weapon, but to draw out his growing unease.

After a moment, the male lowered his weapon. He made a pass with his hand, evoking magic, then formed forefinger and thumb into a circle. Lifting his mask, he spoke into the circle he’d formed. Halisstra’s keen ears picked up every word.

“Lady, I report as commanded,” he said in a tense voice. “Your priestesses are in danger. A Nightshadow named Malvag plans to open a—”

As he spoke, Halisstra flicked her fingers, releasing a fluttering strand of web. It landed on the cleric’s shoulder and arm, startling him. He looked up, saw her—and immediately abandoned his message, firing a crossbow bolt at her instead. The missile glanced off her hardened skin, ricocheting away into the night.

The cleric’s eyes widened. He spoke a prayer, and a
square of darkness formed atop his mask, darkening it.

“Die!” he shouted, pointing at her.

The square of darkness lifted from his mask and flew toward Halisstra, turning edge-on just before it struck. It slashed across her chest, opening a wound from shoulder to shoulder. A little higher, and it would have severed her neck. She grunted, felt thick blood begin a sticky slide down her body. It dripped from her bare breasts and the eight tiny spider legs that drummed against her lower torso like restless fingers. The pain was intense. Exquisite. Nearly enough to overwhelm the lesser, constant pain of the eight pairs of never-healing punctures in her neck, arms, torso, and legs. She drank it in for a moment, letting it dampen the turmoil of emotion that boiled through her mind.

Then she sprang.

She landed on the cleric, knocking him to the ground and splattering him with her blood. Cursing frantically under his breath—any other male might have shouted for his companions, but Vhaeraun’s clerics were trained to fight silently—he fought her with darkfire. Hot black flames appeared around his left hand as he slapped it against her head. Her hair instantly ignited, and blazing black flames engulfed her head. Her eyes teared from the agony of a blistered scalp and ears, but she didn’t need to see to find her mark. Yanking the cleric close, she twined her spider legs around him. Then she bit.

She expected him to scream as her fangs punctured his soft flesh again and again, driving venom into his body. He did not. He continued fighting her, shouting the words of a prayer of dismissal. It might have worked, had Halisstra been a demon, but she was much more than that. She was the Lady Penitent, higher in stature than any of Lolth’s demonic handmaidens, battle-captive and left hand of the dark elf who had become Lolth.

The cleric’s struggles weakened. When they ceased, Halisstra yanked off his mask and cast it aside. The male
was handsome, with a dimpled jaw and deep red eyes. In another life, he might have been someone she’d have chosen to seduce, but his jaw hung slack and his eyes were glassy. Dark blood—hers—smeared his black clothes and his long white hair.

She dropped him on the ground.

Halisstra waited several moments as the wound in her chest closed. The sting of her scalp eased and was replaced by a prickling sensation: her hair growing back in. When the clench of her flesh knitting itself together at last subsided, she picked up the cooling corpse. Working swiftly, she spun it between her hands, coating it with webbing. Then she stood it upright. The fully grown male was like a child to her, his web-shrouded head barely level with her stomach. She heaved him into the air and hung him from a branch where the others would be sure to find him.

She eyed her handiwork a moment more. Another of her mistress’s enemies, dead. Cruel triumph filled her then waned, replaced by sick guilt.

How she hated Lolth.

If only …

But that life was gone.

Springing into the branches above, she scuttled away into the night.

Q’arlynd followed Leliana and Rowaan across the open, rocky ground, Flinderspeld trudging dutifully in his master’s wake. This was the fourth night they’d spent walking across the High Moor toward the spot where the moon set, but they had yet to reach the shrine. Though the moon was getting slightly thinner each night—waning—and the sparkling points of light that followed it through the sky were dimming, their light still forced Q’arlynd to squint.

The days had been worse, intolerably bright yellow light from a burning orb in the sky. They had stopped to make camp whenever the sun rose, a concession to his “sun-weak eyes.” The priestesses had chuckled when Q’arlynd, sheltering under his
piwafwi
and fanning himself, had complained of the heat.

“It’s winter,” Rowaan had said. “If you think the sun’s hot now, just wait until summer.”

Winter. Summer. Q’arlynd knew the terms, but until that they’d had little meaning for him. Rowaan had patiently explained to him what “seasons” were, but even that didn’t help. She said he would understand, once he’d spent a full year upon the surface.

A full year up here? He found it hard to imagine.

“Leliana,” he said, catching her attention. “Forgive my ignorance, but I still don’t see any temple.”

“You wouldn’t,” she answered dryly, “not unless you were capable of seeing over many leagues, and through stone.”

“Lady?”

Rowaan chuckled. “What she means is there’s only one temple: the Promenade. It’s in the Underdark. The lesser places of worship are all called shrines.”

“I see,” Q’arlynd said. He glanced around. “And the shrine we’re going to is …?”

Rowaan pointed across the flat ground at a spot up ahead, where the moon was setting against what looked like a row of jagged stalagmites. “There, in the Misty Forest.”

Q’arlynd nodded. Those jagged bumps must be the “trees” he’d read about. “How much farther?”

“You asked the same thing last night,” Leliana said. “Tonight, it’s one night less. Count it on your fingers, if you have to.”

Q’arlynd glanced away, pretending to be stung by her rebuke. He sighed. His feet
ached
. The World Above was just too damn big.

Rowaan touched his arm in sympathy. “We should reach
the forest by dawn,” she patiently explained. “Two nights more after that.”

“Couldn’t we just teleport there?”

“No,” Leliana answered, her voice firm. “We walk.”

“We only prepared one sanctuary,” Rowaan explained. “The spot we teleported to in order to escape the lamias.”

Q’arlynd frowned. “But that—”

“What?” Leliana snapped.

“Nothing,” Q’arlynd murmured.

He’d been about to say that Rowaan’s explanation made no sense. It would have been far more prudent to have chosen the shrine itself as the endpoint of the spell. Unless, he’d realized belatedly, you had a stranger tagging along with you. Teleporting a complete stranger directly to a holy shrine—even if that person bore a sword-token of Eilistraee—would be a foolish move indeed. Teleporting him into the middle of nowhere and observing him over the long, tedious slog to the shrine was much more prudent.

He smiled to himself. The females were drow after all. Despite living on the surface, they still possessed some measure of cunning.

He gave Rowaan his most winning smile. “I can teleport as well. I’m quite accomplished at it, in fact. If you’d just describe the shrine in detail, perhaps I could get us there.”

“You could do that?” Rowaan’s eyebrows raised. “Teleport, with just a description to go on?”

Q’arlynd nodded. “Indeed, Lady.” In fact, he had never yet attempted such a thing, but one day, he was certain, it would be within his grasp.

Leliana gave a snort of laughter. “No thanks,” she said. “Much as I look forward to one day dancing in Eilistraee’s groves, for now I’d prefer to go on living.”

Q’arlynd lowered his eyes, a gesture of submission. His mind, however, was mulling over the possibilities the surface afforded. He’d only ever used his teleportation spell
over short distances within the confines of Ched Nasad—to escape the iron golem, for example. He was itching to test the spell’s limits away from the
Faerzress
that surrounded the ruined city. Attempting to teleport to a destination he’d never seen before would be like a free-fall, exhilarating and terrifying in one.

The priestesses, however, seemed intent on doing things the hard way.

As they trudged along, Q’arlynd realized that Flinderspeld had moved out of his peripheral vision. Out of habit, he dipped into the deep gnome’s mind, checking to ensure Flinderspeld wasn’t up to anything. Flinderspeld disappointed him. The deep gnome was thinking of his former home, the svirfneblin city of Blingdenstone. Like Ched Nasad, it lay in ruin, destroyed five years ago by the Menzoberranyr. Flinderspeld remembered how that city’s orc and goblin slave-soldiers had trampled through his shop, smashing display cases and helping themselves to the gemstones inside. A lifetime’s work, scooped greedily into the pockets of those who would never appreciate the intricacies of …

Q’arlynd broke contact, not caring to hear any more of Flinderspeld’s broodings. He stared at the landscape, instead.

The High Moor wasn’t, he noted, entirely featureless. There were landmarks. Not of the type Q’arlynd was used to—rock formations, patches of crysstone, fungal growths and heat vents—but enough for the priestesses to find their way. To the right, for example, was a circular expanse of stone with tufts of blade-shaped vegetation growing up through it. “Grass,” Leliana had called the stuff. The circular outcropping was the sixth Q’arlynd had noticed that night. It was the almost-vanished foundation of a ruined tower, but it was the grass that caught his eye. It had grown up through cracks in the stone floor: cracks that followed a peculiar pattern. It reminded him, a little, of the glyph
in the Arcane Conservatory’s main foyer.