Sacrifice of the Widow: Lady Penitent, Book I

by Lisa Smedman

  “There!” Rowaan shouted, pointing straight at him across the crackling fire.

  Rowaan’s spell had allowed her to spot him, but it didn’t matter. Q’arlynd slapped his invisible hand down on his slave’s head and spoke the word that would teleport the pair of them to—

  Q’arlynd felt his body stiffen. Unbalanced, he toppled over. He landed heavily on the ground next to Flinderspeld, narrowly missing winding up with his face in the fire. The earthy smell of fallen leaves filled his nostrils.

  He heard Rowaan chanting. Suddenly, he could see his nose again. His invisibility had been dispelled.

  Leliana rolled him over. She poked his shoulder with the point of her sword, notching a shallow wound in his flesh. If he’d been able to, Q’arlynd would have yelped.

  Leliana smiled. “You’re wondering what just happened.”

  Indeed he was.

  Leliana flipped up the back of Flinderspeld’s vest and pointed at something: a glyph, drawn on the inside of it. Q’arlynd didn’t recognize the glyph, even though it was written using the drow script. It must have been sacred to Eilistraee.

  “Rowaan got the idea from watching you reading your belt,” Leliana told him.

  Q’arlynd’s eyelids were still working, so he gave an involuntary blink of surprise. He barged his way into Flinderspeld’s thoughts. The deep gnome was the only one who knew where Q’arlynd kept his travel “spellbook,” but Flinderspeld gave the equivalent of a mental head shake. He hadn’t told the priestesses.

  Q’arlynd decided that Rowaan was more cunning than he’d given her credit for. She must have spied on him, on an earlier occasion, as he’d replenished his magic.

  Leliana let the vest fall. “The glyph was triggered by whatever spell you just tried to cast on your former slave,” she told Q’arlynd. Her eyes were gleaming, triumphant. She took great pleasure in having outwitted him.

  Eilistraee’s priestesses, he decided, were no different from any other females. He’d been stupid to let down his guard around them.

  “Now you’re going to tell us who you really are,” Leliana continued, “and why you’re so keen on meeting Qilué.”

  With that, Leliana spun her sword around her head, repeating the prayer she’d used earlier, casting a truth spell. Inwardly, Q’arlynd smiled. She would no doubt remove the magical hold only from his mouth and leave the rest of his body enspelled, and when she did, a word would suffice. He’d strike both priestesses blind, dispel the magic that held him rigid, and teleport away with Flinderspeld.

  Leliana touched his lips, freeing them, then held the sword over his head.

  Q’arlynd tried to cast his spell. His mouth, however, refused to cooperate. Concentrate as he might, he couldn’t speak the arcane word that would trigger his spell. Instead, he found himself meekly answering Leliana’s questions, while the rest of his body remained stiff and uncooperative. He told her about finding the sword-tokens on the priestess’s body, about taking the magical boots and rings for himself, about the rock that had struck her dead.

  At this, Rowaan gasped then exchanged a pained look with Leliana.

  “Where is her body?” Leliana asked.

  “In Ched Nasad. I rendered it invisible then left it where it was.”

  “And her pendant?”

  “Taken by Prellyn.”

  “Who’s Prellyn?”

  “Weapons mistress of House Teh’Kinrellz, the House I was serving.”

  She let that go without further explanation. “Where are the other sword-tokens she was carrying?”

  “Hidden, together with the boots and rings, except …” Q’arlynd tried to choke back the rest but couldn’t. “Except for the one that’s sewn into the collar of Flinderspeld’s new cloak.”

  Leliana signaled to Rowaan. The other priestess ran her hands along the deep gnome’s collar, located the sword-token within then cut the seam, removing it. Q’arlynd was relieved when she didn’t search the cloak further. Inside the hem were things he’d prefer to keep.

  Q’arlynd continued babbling as Leliana questioned him some more. He confirmed that he was, indeed, a Melarn, and Halisstra’s brother, that he had used the portal because he was curious about his sister’s fate, that he had no intention of converting to Eilistraee’s faith but wanted to meet Qilué so he could offer his services to her as a battle mage.

  By the end of it, when Leliana at last touched his lips again, stilling them, he was sweating. The priestess stared down at him, her expression grim. She was thinking, no doubt, about the priestess who had died in Ched Nasad. She obviously intended to execute him, but not swiftly—she wasn’t nearly enraged enough. She was probably trying to decide which bits of him to slice off first. She was a female, after all, and drow females delighted in nothing so much as torture.

  If Q’arlynd had been capable of it, he would have cupped his hands protectively over his groin. That was usually the spot the blade sliced first. It always, the females agreed, produced the most amusing screams.

  Leliana glanced at Rowaan. She said something to her in the drow’s silent speech—holding her hand where Q’arlynd couldn’t see it. Rowaan glanced briefly down at Q’arlynd then shook her head.

  Leliana sheathed her sword and drew a dagger. She bent down and grabbed Q’arlynd’s piwafwi and lifted him slightly from the ground. Behind her, Flinderspeld leaned forward, struggling to speak. His lips struggled to form a word.

  Q’arlynd barely managed to prevent his eyes from widening in surprise. The hold spell Leliana had cast on Flinderspeld was wearing off. The deep gnome’s hands twitched slightly as he strained against the spell’s ebbing magic. The moment that hold spell ended, Q’arlynd could use the deep gnome as a distraction. He thrust his awareness deep into Flinderspeld’s mind, preparing to take it over …

  And nearly lost his connection, so surprised was he by what he heard. Flinderspeld hoped to plead with Leliana to spare his master’s life! Or to grab the priestess’s hand, if need be, to prevent her from harming Q’arlynd.

  It was inconceivable. Slaves simply didn’t do that, especially slaves who had recently been promised their freedom by that very same priestess. Q’arlynd wondered what Flinderspeld thought he could gain through such an action. Something, surely.

  Leliana, meanwhile, moved her dagger closer to Q’arlynd’s throat. His punishment was about to begin. Q’arlynd wished he could close his eyes. In another instant, the priestesses would carve off something painful. Judging by where the knife was, it would probably be the flesh of his face or throat. He braced himself, mentally whispering a prayer to Lolth. A token effort, really, but the goddess was just capricious enough that she might allow his soul to enter her domain once he was dead.

  A horn sounded deep in the woods, a strident blare, loud and long.

  Both priestesses were startled. The horn sounded again, a sharp, complex series of notes.

  “An attack on the shrine,” Rowaan said, her voice tense.

  Leliana nodded.

  Rowan gestured at Q’arlynd. “What about …?”

  “We leave them,” Leliana said. She used her dagger to slice the cord around Q’arlynd’s neck and let him fall back against the ground. When she stood, the sword-token was in her hand. “Let’s move.”

  She hurried off into the woods.

  Rowaan lingered just long enough to glance down at Q’arlynd. “Redemption is still possible,” she whispered. “One day, you might find it in you to—”

  “Rowaan!” Leliana shouted from the woods.

  Rowaan jumped, then turned and ran after her companion.

  A moment later, Flinderspeld began to move. Slowly and stiffly. Q’arlynd knew how he felt. His own body tingled and his joints felt as stiff as a haunch of thawing meat. He stared up at the deep gnome, still not quite believing what he’d overheard in his slave’s thoughts.

  When Q’arlynd could move again, he used Flinderspeld to lever himself back to his feet. Despite the gnome’s small stature, Flinderspeld proved a
surprisingly solid anchor.

  Leliana hadn’t taken Q’arlynd’s wand. An oversight, surely.

  “What now?” Flinderspeld asked. Belatedly, he added, “Master.”

  What now indeed, Q’arlynd wondered. Admit defeat, teleport back to the portal, and return to Ched Nasad? He sighed. The prospect of digging through the ruins and groveling to Prellyn for years on end didn’t really appeal to him. Nor was there much to be gained by it. If Prellyn had wanted to formally recognize him as her consort and give him a position within her House, she’d have done it long ago. All Q’arlynd would ever be to House Teh’Kinrellz was a fetch and carry boy, one whose talents were wasted on levitating rocks and ferreting out magical trinkets from the heap of rubble that had once been his home. His own House had trained him as a battle wizard, a caster of fireballs and ice storms. He’d wondered, those past three years, if he’d ever get to use those spells again.

  Until a few moments ago, he’d thought the answer to that question would be yes. His spells would make him a valuable asset to Qilué. He’d hoped to earn himself a place as her apprentice and learn even more powerful spells, but now there seemed little hope of that.

  He paused, suddenly realizing something. Leliana and Rowaan were the only ones who had heard him admit to killing a priestess, and they wouldn’t be able to tell anyone until after the battle they’d just rushed off to was over. If they died in that battle, no one else need ever learn Q’arlynd’s guilty little secret. He could start afresh—be a “petitioner” once more.

  The horn sounded again. Q’arlynd stared into the woods, stroking his chin. Then he smiled. “What now?” he repeated. He pointed in the direction from which the horn blasts were coming. “We’re going to join that battle. The priestesses need our help.”

  Flinderspeld looked uneasy. “But …”

  Q’arlynd arched an eyebrow. “You want that ring off your finger, don’t you?”

  Flinderspeld blinked. He started to nod, hesitated, and looked warily up at his master.

  Q’arlynd took that as a yes. “Then let’s go.”

  Cavatina strode through the woods, savoring the smell of the forest. It had recently rained, and the scents of earth, fallen leaves, and cedar bark surrounded her. It was good to be back on the surface again, even if the bright face of the sun was hidden by brooding clouds.

  She wore a thick, padded tunic under her chain mail, and soft leather boots and gloves. Her long white hair was bound in two braids, tied together behind her back. In addition to her small travel pack, she carried with her everything she needed for the hunt.

  Pausing to catch her breath, she rested a hand on the hilt of the singing sword. If it did turn out to be something demonic in nature she was hunting, she was well equipped to deal with it. In addition to the weapon, she carried several other magical items. Hanging beside her magical hunting horn, on its own leather strap, was an iron flask capable of trapping demons. She’d also added a second periapt to the one she habitually wore—a glossy black stone that hung from a silver chain around her neck. If the creature’s venom proved so potent that Cavatina wasn’t able to utter a prayer in time, the periapt would protect her.

  She’d been traveling for six days since her arrival at the shrine. She had left the Velarswood behind and was well into Cormanthor, making her way first north along the River Duathamper then east. Two days ago, she had seen a party of wild elves out hunting and yesterday a patrol of sun elves in their glittering armor—part of the army of Myth Drannor, no doubt—but she had revealed herself to neither. Eilistraee’s faithful might have found sanctuary in the Velarswood, but in the greater forest, drow were likely to be attacked on sight. Cavatina had no doubt that she could hold her own, even against a group of attackers, but she was loath to be forced into a situation where she would have to send innocent souls to their gods before their time.

  Nor did she seek out the drow of Cormanthor. House Jaelre’s members were fervent followers of Vhaeraun, as were those of House Auzkovyn. Blasphemers. They hated Lolth as much as Cavatina did, but she had never subscribed to any of that “enemy of my enemy” nonsense.

  Fortunately, there were other ways for her to learn what she needed to know. The Jaelre who had survived the creature’s attack and come to the priestesses for aid—himself a petitioner and well on his way to converting to Eilistraee’s faith—had given her the starting point, the place where he’d been attacked. From there, she’d followed a scant trail—a strand of web stuck to a tree branch so high overhead she’d had to levitate to find it, spots on the ground where leaves had been disturbed by something heavy landing on them, a broken branch where the creature had passed through the treetops….

  Several times the trail had gone cold, and she’d had to turn to the trees for answers. Each time, the creature had turned out to be only a short distance away. In one case, the creature had doubled back on its own trail—almost as if it knew Cavatina was following and wanted to be found.

  As if it wanted to lead Cavatina into an ambush.

  Cavatina smiled. So be it. She’d faced that tactic before. Demons were masters of guile, but Cavatina had decades of experience hunting them. She kept an eye on the ground around her, as well as the branches above, expecting an attack at any moment. None came, however.

  Once again, the trail ended.

  It was time to ask her guides for assistance. Selecting a massive cedar whose spreading branches touched those of the trees surrounding it, she stripped off a glove and touched her bare palm to the trunk, letting the plain wooden band on her finger make contact with the cracked red bark. She whispered the ring’s command word and felt its magic alter her senses. Her blood seemed to slow to a sap-trickle in her ears as they became attuned to the creak of branch against branch, the green-tinged whisper of scale-like leaves, the slow groan of the ever-growing trunk. She felt her vocal chords lengthen and roughen. Tilting back her head, she spoke in a voice that matched the sound of the cedar, a slow, creaking groan.

  The tree considered her question. Its upper branches bobbed in the equivalent of a slow nod. It had indeed felt a creature like the one she described scuttle through its branches, but that creature had been moving fast and was long gone.

  Cavatina asked a second question of the tree. The cedar considered its answer. It started to sway a negative reply then paused. A shiver ran out through its branches, shaking loose droplets of water that splattered the leaves at Cavatina’s feet. The shiver also stirred the branches of the trees next to it and was repeated a moment later by these trees. Cavatina’s question was passed on in a leafy whisper, in an ever-widening circle that rippled across the forest canopy. For several moments, there was only silence, as the cedar Cavatina was touching waited for their reply. Then that reply came rustling back. An elm tree reported a cocoonlike sack hanging from it, still sticky—freshly woven. It was hanging in a tree that a creature, exactly like the one Cavatina had described, had just scuttled away from.

  “Where?” Cavatina asked, her voice a low drone.

  Above her, a branch shifted. Splayed fingers of green pointed.

  Cavatina smiled. The wind, praise Eilistraee, was blowing in exactly the right direction. She thanked the cedar then sprang into the air. As she rose through the branches, she drew her sword and prayed. Eilistraee granted her request, rendering her invisible. Slowly, she drifted over the treetops, blown by the wind.

  She had to renew her invisibility twice before she spotted an oval of dirty white, twisting slightly in the breeze. The elm from which it hung stood close to an enormous hollow tree trunk—the perfect place for a creature to lay in ambush.

  Too perfect.

  Cavatina cast a detection spell on the hollow trunk and received the result she’d expected: there was nothing evil inside it. She widened her search, surveying the surrounding forest, turning in a mid-air dance and sweeping her sword around in a circle. Nothing. The air sang a song that was sweet and pure, with no taint of evil.

  The creature was g
one.

  Wait—a faint note of discordance came from the cocoon itself. For a moment, Cavatina wondered if the creature had been even more clever than she’d thought, if it had sealed itself inside one of its own cocoons as a surprise for its stalker, but the aura Cavatina’s prayer had detected was weak, almost gone.

  She landed beside the cocoon. Whoever was inside it was still alive. Barely. She could see the victim struggling, weakly, inside the sticky strands. Something bulged—an elbow? A faint gasping sounded from inside the tight binding of silk, someone struggling to breathe.

  Cavatina flicked her sword, slicing the cocoon open over the spot where a face would be. Her sword point caught on something, yanking it out of the hole. A black mask. It fluttered to the ground and lay still, but it held her attention, much more than the ragged gasps coming from the other side of the hole she’d cut in the cocoon. Something about that scrap of black fabric was wrong—something far more disturbing than the fact that it was a holy symbol of a god who was one of Eilistraee’s chief enemies.

  The mask was somehow alive. Cavatina could sense it, screaming at her. Just at the edge of her hearing, like a note that could shatter crystal.

  She would deal with it in a moment. For now, there was the victim inside the cocoon. His eyes were still sealed shut by a thick layer of sticky silk, but his mouth was working. His lips were drawn back in agony, revealing a single gold tooth. From between gritted teeth he gasped out a blasphemous prayer, begging the Masked Lord to heal him, to banish poison from his body.

  Cavatina reached out and pinched his lips shut before he could complete his prayer. The man inside the cocoon thrashed wildly, but the only effect was a slight swaying of the bundle of sticky silk.

  “There will be no prayers to Vhaeraun today,” she said, “not while a priestess of Eilistraee holds your lips shut.”

  A muffled scream of rage came from the pinched lips. Cavatina held them so the corners of the upper lip could lift slightly. The man panted through these tiny holes like a horse that had just galloped a league.