Sacrifice of the Widow: Lady Penitent, Book I

by Lisa Smedman

  “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 declare
d 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.

  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 do
n’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.