Sacrifice of the Widow

by Lisa Smedman

  “Halisstra can show us where it is,” Cavatina said, her eyes gleaming, “and lead us to the temple in the Demonweb Pits. The Crescent Blade—”

  Qilué held up a hand for silence. She didn’t like the look in Halisstra’s eye. A former priestess she might be, but her eyes held a gleam as malicious as Lolth’s own. Her desire to return to the Demonweb Pits was just a little too strong.

  Yet the pain and desperation that Qilué could sense in Halisstra seemed real enough. Part of her, at least, still yearned for a second chance at redemption, but because Halisstra could not die, she would, for all eternity, be in bondage to the Spider Queen, unless the sticky webs with which Lolth held her could somehow be broken.

  Qilué suspected that Halisstra was, consciously or not, trying to play both sides of the sava board at once. Redemption lay on one side of the board. On the other was the possibility of a reward from the Spider Queen for delivering a priestess of Eilistraee into her hands, except that Lolth was capricious when it came to rewarding mortals for services rendered. The Spider Queen was just as likely to punish as to pardon, as Halisstra was doubtless well aware.

  “We can do it, Lady Qilué,” Halisstra whispered, “finish what we started. Use the Crescent Blade to kill Lolth.” She spread her elongated fingers, looked down at the claws that protruded from their tips. “But she won’t die by these hands. Someone else will have to wield the Crescent Blade this time.”

  Qilué nodded. Eilistraee’s faithful would not make the same mistake twice. Three years before, Uluyara’s decision to let Halisstra carry the Crescent Blade had proved a disaster, even though the choice had seemed sound at the time. Halisstra had been part of the group that had been seeking Lolth during her Silence. She stood the best chance of infiltrating Quenthel’s band and traveling with them to the place where Lolth had secluded herself, but Halisstra had been a novice, not yet fully trusting in her newfound faith. It would be one of Eilistraee’s Chosen—Qilué herself—who would carry the battle forward.

  If, indeed, the Crescent Blade did still exist.

  “Three years ago,” Qilué said, “Uluyara came to me and told me what you planned to do. When you entered the Demonweb Pits, I was watching.”

  That got a reaction. “You were scrying?” Halisstra’s spider legs drummed against her chest. Her breathing was fast and light.

  Qilué nodded. Deliberately, she added details that Halisstra would recognize. “Could you not feel me, when I shattered the ice that Pharaun used to imprison you? I saw through your eyes when Danifae lifted you by the hair and made you watch as the draegloth tore into Feliane.”

  Halisstra’s eyes narrowed, perhaps in pain at the memory. “You saw Feliane die?” Every muscle of her body was tense.

  “Yes.”

  For several moments, there was strained silence. Qilué waited expectantly for Halisstra to reveal, through some ill chosen word, whatever secret had caused her to tense up. Something had happened after the draegloth killed Feliane—something Halisstra didn’t want Qilué to know about—but what?

  Halisstra laughed, a wild sound that rippled at the edge of insanity. Qilué thought she heard an undertone of relief in it, but couldn’t be certain. “You think I could have done more to save Feliane, but I was weak, nearly dead myself. I could do nothing to stop the draegloth from killing her.”

  Qilué arched an eyebrow, waiting. Nothing more was forthcoming, however. Qilué at last nodded. “You could do nothing to save her,” she agreed.

  Halisstra’s relief was clearly visible, and perhaps it really was as simple as that. Perhaps Halisstra felt guilty about the deaths of the two priestesses who had accompanied her to the Demonweb Pits, a guilt as painful as any penance Lolth had imposed.

  Qilué suddenly wondered if she’d pushed Halisstra too far. She switched to a soothing tone. “A death like Feliane’s is disturbing,” she said. “It would make anyone question her faith. It’s easy enough to think that Eilistraee had abandoned you, but she didn’t. It was her magic that revived you, after Danifae’s mace shattered your face.”

  Halisstra cocked her head. “Eilistraee was … with me?” she whispered in a dry, strangled voice. “Even when …”

  Qilué nodded. “She was.”

  Halisstra’s eyes hardened. “If Eilistraee was with me, why did she let Lolth claim me?”

  “Strong as Eilistraee is, Lolth is more powerful within her own domain, especially within her fortress,” Qilué spread her hands, “but Eilistraee—and I—did not just abandon you. My scrying ended when Danifae struck you down. I assumed you were dead, until Eilistraee hinted otherwise. Whatever happened in the Demonweb Pits after that, Eilistraee will forgive you.”

  Halisstra stared flatly back at Qilué. There was no conviction in her eyes.

  “One last question,” Qilué said. “It’s been three years since Lolth broke her Silence. What have you been doing all this time?”

  Halisstra shifted uncomfortably. “I only escaped the Demonweb Pits a year ago. Since then, I’ve been … busy.”

  “Doing Lolth’s bidding,” Qilué suggested. Halisstra’s eyes blazed. “I never attacked your priestesses.”

  Qilué noted the choice of words. “Your” priestesses. A bitter twist to the word.

  “It was House Jaelre and House Auzkovyn that I hunted,” Halisstra continued. “Vhaeraun’s clerics. They’re your enemies, as well.”

  “Those who worship Vhaeraun, yes,” Qilué said softly, “but some from those Houses have sought redemption.”

  “Not all of them,” Cavatina interrupted. She nodded at Halisstra. “The last one she killed died unrepentant. I gave him every opportunity to redeem himself before he died, but he refused.”

  Qilué frowned, not understanding. “You raised one of her victims from the dead?”

  The Darksong Knight laughed. “Quite the contrary. He was very much alive, inside her cocoon, when I found him.”

  “You killed him?”

  Cavatina stared back at Qilué, unrepentant. “He deserved to die.”

  Cavatina seemed disinclined to say more. Rather than pursue the discussion in front of Halisstra, who was listening a little too attentively, Qilué let the matter drop. There were more important matters at hand. The Crescent Blade. If it still existed, the quest that had begun three years ago might continue.

  She glanced past Halisstra at Cavatina. The Darksong Knight stood ready, her eyes bright in the moonlight. Cavatina was skilled with a sword and experienced at fighting demons. Aside from Qilué herself, she was the most logical choice to recover the Crescent Blade. If it still existed.

  “Priestess?” Qilué asked aloud. “Are you up to the challenge?” At the same time, she used her magic to send Cavatina a silent message. It will be a trap. In all likelihood the temple no longer exists, and the blade is still lost.

  Cavatina’s posture was tense. Eager. But if it is true? If the sword can be recovered?

  “Then you will bring it to me,” Qilué said, answering aloud. She kept an eye on Halisstra as she spoke, watching for a reaction. Halisstra gave no sign of disappointment. It didn’t seem to matter to her that Qilué herself would not be lured into the Demonweb Pits.

  Cavatina’s lips parted then closed. Qilué could sense that she had been about to protest, to insist that it should be a Darksong Knight who made the attempt on Lolth, but instead she inclined her head.

  “By the song and the sword, we will succeed,” she said. “The drow will be free of the Spider Queen at last.”

  “By the song and the sword,” Qilué murmured. Then she took a deep breath. Halisstra, she thought, was a coin balanced on its edge. Which way would she fall—toward betrayal or aid? The prophecy of three years ago had said it could go either way.

  No. The prophecy had said it would go both ways. In the goddess’s own words, House Melarn would both aid—and betray. A single coin could only fall on one side or the other.

  Was there a second “coin” out there somewhere, waiting to declar
e itself?

  If so, where?

  Q’arlynd approached the tree that housed the priestesses. It was still covered in leaves, despite the recent snowfall. Sustained by ancient magic, its branches sparkled against the night sky with a shimmer of green that reminded Q’arlynd of the faerie fire that had decorated the buildings and roads back home.

  The trunk was massive, thick as any of the streets of Ched Nasad had been. Its bark bulged in several places, enormous knots of wood that were called burls. Hollowed into each of these was a room, its entrance a round wooden door. Leading up to the doors were ladders made of individual sticks that floated in mid air. These sticks appeared benign, but glyphs carved into them would activate if anyone of evil intent touched them, instantly making them as sharp as steel. Enemies of Eilistraee who were foolish enough to use a magical ladder would lose their fingers at the very least.

  Q’arlynd, however, had an easier means of access at his disposal, his House insignia. With a thought, he activated it and rose into the air to the room that was Rowaan’s. Yellow light shone through the cracks between door and frame. Rowaan might be a dark elf, but she seemed to have forsaken the use of her darkvision. Q’arlynd, still levitating, dispelled the glyph on the door, a simple warding that gave a mental suggestion that dissuaded males from touching the door or its handle. Then he lifted his hand to knock.

  He paused, however, without knocking. He’d gone to seduce Rowaan into accompanying him to the Promenade and introducing him to Qilué. He had the perfect story, carefully rehearsed to earn Rowaan’s sympathy, the tale of how Halisstra had saved his life after his riding accident. He’d tell her that that had stirred feelings in him he’d never known he possessed, that he’d discovered that he cared for Halisstra. How he even—what was the word for it?—yes, that was it, how he loved his sister. He’d follow that up with a plea that if he could just talk to Qilué—briefly, and without interrupting the high priestess’s doubtlessly important duties—that maybe he could learn more about the one person who truly mattered to him in the world. Floating on Rowaan’s threshold, however, it all seemed too easy—about as exciting as jumping from a table to the floor. He wanted more of a challenge than that.

  Above him, he could see Leliana’s doorway.

  He smiled. Now that would be a leap. And being introduced to Qilué by a more powerful priestess certainly wouldn’t hurt.

  He levitated to her door and dispelled the warding on it as well. Then he knocked, a light, seemingly hesitant tap. As he waited for the door to open, he ran a hand over his hair, smoothing it.

  The door opened, revealing a small room that was comfortably dark. Q’arlynd bowed his head. “May I come in?”

  Leliana glanced between the wizard and the door. “How did—?”

  Q’arlynd waggled his fingers. “Magic.”

  Leliana’s eyes blazed. “You’re not permitted here. Only priestesses—”

  “I know, but I need to speak to you.” He lowered his voice, as if afraid someone might be listening. “It’s about the Nightshadows. I have information I think you should hear.”

  Leliana glanced away, muttering something under her breath. “All right,” she said. “Come in.”

  Q’arlynd pulled himself inside and allowed his levitation to end. The room was furnished with two cushioned stools and an intricately carved table whose legs were joined to the floor. It must have been carved when the burl was hollowed out. Pegs on the wall held Leliana’s armor, weapons, and cloak. Wide notches, carved into the walls, were stuffed with baskets, folded clothes and books. Q’arlynd nodded. He wasn’t surprised that Leliana read. She had a lively mind. Something else caught his eye, a crescent-shaped harp in an alcove next to the door. He reached out to touch it then lowered his hand, as if suddenly remembering his manners.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t touch your things, but it … reminds me of my sister.” He glanced up at Leliana. “Did you know Halisstra well?”

  “I met her only once.”

  Q’arlynd brushed the strings of the harp with a fingertip. A shiver of notes filled the air. “She was a musician, too. She played the lyre.”

  “Quit stalling. You came here to tell me something about the Nightshadows. Spit it out.”

  Q’arlynd raised an eyebrow as he bowed. “As you command … Mistress.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Why not?” Q’arlynd countered. “You were born in the Underdark, weren’t you? Menzoberranzan, if I’m not mistaken about your accent. Born into a noble House, no doubt. You certainly have an aristocratic bearing.”

  Leliana ignored the flattery. She closed the door against the chill wind then folded her arms across her chest. Now that she was no longer wearing her armor, Q’arlynd could appreciate the curve of her breasts and the lean muscles of her folded arms. She was only a little taller than he was—short, for a female.

  “Get to the point,” she said.

  Q’arlynd sighed. “Things really are done differently in the surface realms, aren’t they?” he said. “Very well, then. I gather, from our conversation of last night, that you’re worried about an attack by Vhaeraun’s assassins.”

  The silence stretched. Leliana neither confirmed nor denied what he’d just said. “Go on.”

  “The Nightshadows are masters of deception and disguise,” Q’arlynd said. He leaned closer, as if about to share a dark secret. “But I know how to spot them.”

  “So do I,” Leliana said sarcastically. “The first clue is that square of black cloth they’re so fond of wearing.”

  Q’arlynd smiled. “That’s true, but a Nightshadow can still work his magic, even when his mask is thousands of paces distant.” He waved a hand. “But you knew that already, of course. Just as, no doubt, you already know that a Nightshadow’s deception spell can mask his alignment, his true faith—even his very thoughts, but what you don’t know, I’m willing to wager, is how to counter this deception.”

  “And you do?”

  “Yes.”

  Leliana’s expression was openly skeptical, but she hadn’t thrown him out yet. She wanted to hear more.

  “Let me explain. Many years ago, back when I was a novice wizard, a …” he searched for the right word—it wasn’t one the drow frequently used. “A friend of mine came to me for help. A Nightshadow. He had a problem he thought my magic could solve.”

  “What problem was that?”

  “He’d been cursed.” Q’arlynd walked to the center of the room, deliberately testing her willingness to let him invade her private space. When she made no move to block him, he leaned back against the table, stretching himself out. Showing off his body. He smiled, inwardly, as he saw her eyes linger on it.

  “You’re familiar with Vhaeraun’s avatar?” he asked.

  “Not personally—we’ve never met. Eilistraee willing, I’ll never have that pleasure.”

  Q’arlynd chuckled. “Nor have I, but my friend enlightened me. The Masked Lord’s avatar, he said, looks just like a regular drow, except for his eyes. They change color, you see, to reflect his moods. Red when the god is angry, blue when he’s pleased, green when—”

  “Let me guess—when he’s envious.”

  “When he’s puzzled, actually.” Q’arlynd waved a hand. “But that’s neither blood nor water. What’s important to the story is that this Nightshadow had transgressed against his faith. He’d cast an illusion upon himself that made his eyes change color and tried to pass himself off as Vhaeraun’s avatar. It was a stupid thing to do, and he paid the price for his temerity. Vhaeraun cursed the Nightshadow so that his eyes would forever betray him. They continued to change color, even after his illusion ended, marking him as a cleric of Vhaeraun, and in Ched Nasad, that wasn’t a healthy thing to be.”

  “So he asked you to remove the curse?”

  “Exactly.” Q’arlynd sighed. “But that spell, unfortunately for him, was beyond my abilities. I was still just a novice, capable of no more than a few cantrips and si
mple spells.”

  Leliana frowned. “Then why did he come to you for help?”

  Q’arlynd shrugged and looked away. “He had his reasons.”

  “Why? Because you were a Nightshadow, too?”

  Q’arlynd stared up into her eyes unflinchingly. “No. For a time, I considered becoming a petitioner—my friend took me into his confidence and told me a great deal about the Nightshadows. I even attended one of their secret meetings, but I never did take up the mask.”

  “So were you able to help your friend?”

  Q’arlynd sighed. “In the course of telling him I couldn’t help him, it slipped out that I was studying how to render living creatures invisible. He begged me to cast this spell on him, so he could escape the city.”

  She nodded. “Did he escape?”

  Q’arlynd’s expression hardened. “No. Instead of invisibility, I cast a spell that rendered him unconscious. Then I handed him over to the matron mother of our House.”

  That last “slip” had been deliberate. It took less time than he expected for it to sink in. Leliana’s eyes widened almost immediately. “You and this ‘friend’ were blood relatives?”

  Q’arlynd nodded. “He was my younger brother.” He glanced away, letting the silence stretch for a moment. “I was ‘rewarded’ for turning him in by being allowed to watch when our mother sacrificed him. She cut his body apart, piece by piece, and offered it up to Lolth. It took …” he deliberately let his voice catch. “It took a very long time for him to die.”

  Leliana looked ill. “You betrayed your own brother.”

  “I had to. If I helped him, I’d have been marked for sacrifice myself.”

  “Not if he escaped.”

  “An invisibility spell wouldn’t have helped. It would have worn off long before he escaped the city, and his eyes would have given him away. He’d have revealed who aided him. Lolth’s priestesses, just like Eilistraee’s, have ways of wringing the truth out of a person.”

  He sighed. “What I should have done was given Tellik a swift, clean death, but I wasn’t strong enough to do that.” He glanced up at her. “You grew up in the Underdark. You understand what’s necessary. To survive. You must have … done things, things you later regretted.”