Sacrifice of the Widow lp-1

by Lisa Smedman

  The name wasn't one Q'arlynd recognized-though it sounded a little like the formal term for a council of matron mothers. Curiosity warred with the need to continue to feign ignorance. Curiosity won.

  "Was Talthalaran… the name of an ancient city?" he asked.

  "Yes," Rowaan said. "One of the cities of Miyeritar."

  "Miyeritar," Q'arlynd whispered, too surprised to purge the awe from his voice.

  He stared across the moor with a new appreciation. Millennia ago, that dark elf empire had been scoured clean. It had rained acid, the legends said. Lightning bolts had smashed the cities of Miyeritar to the ground, and the thunderclaps that followed had shattered what remained like invisible hammer blows. Tens of thousands had died, and roaring winds had carried their remains high into the skies, shredding the corpses like rotten cloth. When it was all over, only bare, blood-soaked earth remained.

  Such had been the magic the high mages of Aryvandaar had wrought.

  Q'arlynd would have given anything to have seen it.

  From a safe distance, of course.

  Flinderspeld, listening all the while, stood scratching his bald head. "What's Miyeritar?" he asked.

  Q'arlynd often permitted such questions from the deep gnome. Since the city's fall, there had been few others he could converse with. He enlightened his slave.

  "It's a kingdom that existed at the time of the Crown Wars. Fourteen thousand years ago, during the Third Crown War, it was destroyed by Aryvandaar-a nation of surface elves-in a magical storm of unbelievable proportions. They say-" He broke off suddenly, aware that Leliana was staring at him.

  He gave her a wistful shrug. "I'm a wizard. They taught us about Miyeritar at the Conservatory in Ched Nasad."

  "But not about ordinary rain?" she scoffed. "It sounds like a strangely lopsided education."

  Q'arlynd gave an embarrassed shrug.

  "If you studied Miyeritar, then you know that we were all 'surface elves' once," she continued.

  Flinderspeld turned to her. "Drow lived on the surface?"

  "Dark elves," Leliana told him, "not yet dhaerrow. Not yet drow."

  "Your point being?" Q'arlynd asked.

  "That we came from the surface and must return to it. The drow are not naturally creatures of the Underdark."

  Q'arlynd pointed at her eyes. "Then how do you explain darkvision?"

  "Adaptation," Leliana. "Our race developed it slowly, over many generations, after being driven below."

  "In Ched Nasad, we were taught that darkvision was a gift, bestowed upon us by Lolth during the Descent," Q'arlynd said, "that drow were meant to live in the Underdark."

  Leliana folded her arms across her chest. Q'arlynd could tell that, like him, she enjoyed the debate. "Then why do our eyes adapt, over time, to the light of the surface realms?" she countered. "And if darkvision is a gift from Lolth, then why am I-and the other drow who worship Eilistraee, Lolth's chief rival-still capable of seeing in complete darkness?"

  "Because Lolth-" Q'arlynd abruptly checked what he'd been about to say, not because he didn't have an argument to counter what Leliana had just said, but because he realized what she was doing. Drawing him out. Probing. Trying to get a sense of whether he truly desired to convert to Eilistraee's faith.

  Of course, he had no intention of doing so, unless there was something in it for him.

  Flinderspeld had moved closer during the debate. He stood beside Q'arlynd, head cocked. "Lots of races that don't worship Lolth have darkvision," he commented. He held up his gloved fingers and began counting them off. "Svirfneblin, duergar-"

  Q'arlynd nearly laughed out loud. Flinderspeld had just provided the perfect distraction. Whirling, he, grabbed his slave by the cloak, feigning anger at the deep gnome having taken Leliana's side in the debate. "Keep silent, you!" he ordered, flicking a finger at the gnome.

  A bolt of magical energy-a small one, painful rather than harmful-crackled out of his gloved fingertip. It barely touched the skin of Flinderspeld's wide forehead-Q'arlynd wasn't about to damage a valuable slave-but Flinderspeld gave a loud howl of pain. He'd feigned it so many times he was getting good at it. For a moment, Q'arlynd thought his slave had actually been stung by the bolt.

  Their act deflected Leliana's attention, but not in the way Q'arlynd had planned. Steel hissed as her sword left its scabbard. Before Q'arlynd could blink, the point of the weapon was at his throat. Leliana's voice was hard as steel.

  "Don't do that again. This gnome," she said, pointing down at Flinderspeld, "is under the goddess's protection."

  Q'arlynd swallowed. Steel pricked the bulge in his throat as it moved. He gave Leliana his best mournful look, blinked long-lashed eyes, then glanced down at the sword-token that hung on a cord around his neck.

  "As am I, surely?" he suggested sweetly.

  Leliana removed the blade from his throat. "As are you," she agreed, sheathing her sword. "But remember this: whatever your previous relationship with the deep gnome was below, here under Eilistraee's bright moon, we are all equals. There are no slaves, no matron mothers… and no masters." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Or did Milass'ni neglect to tell you that?"

  "Of course not," Q'arlynd said, instantly realizing that Leliana must be talking about the priestess the falling stone had killed. "The instructions she gave were quite clear. It's just that old habits are hard to break." He bowed deeply, holding the submissive posture for longer than was necessary.

  When he rose, he saw two things he didn't like. A wary expression in Leliana's eye.

  And Flinderspeld, staring thoughtfully at Leliana, his stubby thumb idly rubbing the bulge the slave ring made under his glove.

  Thaleste shivered as she climbed the column. She needed both hands to grip the notches in the stone, which had meant sheathing her sword, not that she was very proficient with the weapon, of course. Lady Cavatina had been kind enough to pretend that Thaleste's feeble jab had made a difference during the battle with the aranea, but the novice knew otherwise. Even so, it would have made her feel slightly better to have a weapon in her hand.

  She pulled herself through the hole at the top of the column, into the room above. A short passageway led from it to the chamber where Lady Cavatina had fought the spellgaunt. Drawing her sword-and wincing at the loud rasp the blade made as it left the sheath-Thaleste edged along that passage. It was dark and silent. Iljrene and the others had already made a sweep through the rooms and declared them clear. Even so, Thaleste's mouth was dry and her heart pounded. The caverns were never completely free of monsters, despite the constant patrols. Anything could have been lurking in the chamber ahead.

  The room, however, turned out to be empty, aside from the purplish smears of blood the spellgaunt had left behind. Its body and web had been burned. All that remained was a charred spot on the floor next to the gaping hole that had been a window.

  Thaleste stood, studying the pattern of soot on the walls. She could see that the smoke had billowed upward, then mushroomed out and down again, eventually forcing its way out through the side passages and the hole in the floor. It had also concentrated behind one of the pedestals close to the dais, leaving a faint spiral pattern.

  Thaleste smiled. She'd just found what she'd been looking for. Now she was going to be able to prove to the others that being timid had its uses. She'd learned a thing or two, over the years, by creeping through the corridors of her manor. An audience chamber always had at least one secret door that a matron mother could slip away through in times of crisis. That was how the aranea and its spellgaunt had slipped past the priestess's defenses, through a back door that none of the priestesses knew existed. Thaleste had found it. No longer would she be pitied as the novice who flinched at shadows and flailed around with a sword. She'd just proven her worth, or rather, she was about to.

  The pedestal had to be the key. The bust that stood on it had parted lips and a hollowed-out mouth. Peering into it, Thaleste spotted the mechanism inside. It would, no doubt, be protected by a ne
edle trap. The poison had probably dried to dust long ago, but Thaleste wasn't about to take chances. If the aranea had gone that way, she might have refreshed the supply.

  Thaleste drew her dagger and slid its blade into the statue's mouth, triggering the mechanism. The pedestal shifted, rotating on its base. She sheathed her dagger and spun the pedestal farther. A section of wall behind slid open with a loud grinding of stone on stone.

  Thaleste silently cheered. She'd done it! She stared into the passage beyond the door, wondering if she should go any farther. She wished she knew the prayer that would have allowed her to report her discovery to Battle-mistress Iljrene immediately, but that spell was beyond her, and what if she was wrong, and the passage led nowhere? That would give the other priestesses even more reason to doubt Thaleste's capabilities. Even if the passage did lead somewhere, calling Iljrene in too soon would only mean that Thaleste's discovery would be overshadowed. Iljrene might not deliberately claim the honor that came from finding the answer to the mystery, but it would accrue to the battle-mistress just the same.

  Thaleste squared her shoulders. She was a priestess of Eilistraee. By song and sword, she'd see it through herself.

  As soon as she released the pedestal, the door started to slide shut. Thaleste caught the pedestal and stood a moment, wondering if she should prop the door open then decided she'd rather have a wall at her back. If she left the door open, some creature might follow her inside. Besides, the door had a handle on the inside of it, carved into the stone. It obviously could be opened from inside. Releasing the pedestal, she stepped through the door and let it shut behind her.

  The passageway extended for quite some distance-north, as far as Thaleste could reckon-sloping gently up then down again. At its highest point, she heard a distant murmur of water. She pressed her ear to the wall then to the floor. The sound came from below. The passage, she guessed, must arch over the Sargauth.

  At last the corridor ended in a blank stone wall. Peering closely at it, Thaleste could see a rectangular crack, thin as a hair: another hidden door. To her right was a spiral staircase, carved into the stone, that led downward from that point. Deciding to leave the door for later, she descended the staircase instead, counting the steps as she went. The walls became damp-she must have been level with the river-but still the stairway kept spiraling downward. She looked around as she descended, searching for traces of web that would confirm that the aranea and spellgaunt had come that way. There were none.

  Thaleste's foot slipped, and she nearly fell. Looking down, she saw that the steps no longer had square edges. They were rounded, as if from heavy wear. Just around the bend, the staircase ended in a large, open space, a cavern whose floor was utterly smooth, as if an ooze had flowed over it, polishing it clean.

  Thaleste stood for several moments, breathing rapidly. What if there was an ooze down here? The drow who had built the city above her had worshiped Ghaunadaur. The lonely hole might hold one of his altars. It might even be an entrance to the Pit itself.

  Her legs felt weak and wobbly. Her stomach was churning. Every instinct screamed at her to turn and flee back the way she'd come, but giving up would be even worse than never having tried at all.

  In a quavering voice, she sang a prayer that would protect her against evil. It helped bolster her courage a little. Then she crept down the last few stairs and peeked into the room.

  It was empty, utterly empty. There were no exits, no gaping pits in the floor or holes in the ceiling. The chamber was perhaps ten paces across and more or less round. The walls and ceiling were just as smooth as the floor. It had obviously once been the lair of an ooze, but that creature was long gone. The walls were dry, and the air smelted only of cold stone.

  There were, however, several objects scattered across the floor. They were the size and shape of eggs-about sixty of them, by Thaleste's quick estimate. She stepped into the room and squatted down next to one. It turned out to be a polished oval of black obsidian. She whispered a prayer and saw that all of the stones glowed with magic. She had no idea what this signified, but it was certainly worth reporting to Iljrene. She picked up one of the stones and slipped it into the pouch on her belt.

  By the time she reached the top of the stairs, she was breathing heavily. In Menzoberranzan, she'd traveled everywhere by drift disc. Even after two years of training she still wasn't used to such exertion, especially in a heavy chain mail tunic. Even so, she all but ran down the corridor, back to the first secret door she'd found. She opened it a crack and peeked out, but the chamber beyond was empty. Stepping out of the passage, she let the door slide shut behind her. She climbed swiftly down the column, and breathlessly hurried back in the direction of the Promenade, keen to report to Battle-mistress Iljrene what she'd just found.

  An alarm sounded, just a few paces away. Thaleste started, nearly dropping her sword then realized she'd neglected to sing the hymn that would prevent the magical alarms from sounding. She did so, but the alarm continued to clang.

  Something soft and squishy tapped her on the back then pulled away with a soft sucking sound, plucking at the chain mail it had just touched.

  Thaleste shrieked and spun. Behind her was a creature from a nightmare, an enormous wormlike thing as thick. around as a large tree trunk. Eight tentacles waved in front of its face, and its teeth clicked together hungrily. Eyestalks swiveled this way and that as its mouth opened. A foul, rotting-meat stench came from it, together with a dribble of maggots.

  A carrion crawler.

  Thaleste's hand shook so violently her sword was like a quivering leaf. Backing slowly away, she began a prayer that would strengthen her, but before she could complete it, two tentacles lashed out. Thaleste dodged one, but the other struck her sword hand. The skin felt as if it was on fire. The sensation spread swiftly up her arm, leaving numbness in its wake. Within a heartbeat, it had reached her torso. A heartbeat more, and her face and legs were also affected. She stood, paralyzed, her prayer halted in mid-word. Her breath came in short, fluttering gasps-all her lungs could manage.

  Knowing that she was about to be devoured, she tried to bring her hands up to her belt. At the very least, she would spill the stone she'd found from her pouch where a patrol could find it. She strained until tears welled in her eyes, but her arms refused to move.

  The carrion crawler advanced, its body undulating, its clawed feet making soft clicking noises on the stone floor. Thaleste watched in horror as the crawler reared above her then descended. Its mouth enveloped her head, and its teeth lanced into her shoulders. The pain was intense. She let out a suffocated gurgle that would have been a scream had her vocal cords not also been paralyzed. The crawler's teeth sawed back and forth, ripping apart Thaleste's chain mail tunic. There was more pain, and blood, flowing down her body in hot streams that soaked her shirt and trousers. Then a sharp pain, deeper than anything she had experienced before, and-

  Thaleste blinked. The pain, the stench-all sensation was gone. She drifted on a gray, featureless plain, cradled in soothing song. Moonlight fell gently on her from above. She raised something-arms? No, that wasn't quite it. She could no longer feel her body, but the moonlight understood. The song intensified, the moonlight lifted her toward its source: a swirling dance that filled the air above.

  "Eilistraee," she sighed.

  The soul of the drow who had once been called Thaleste joined the dance and found peace.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Deep in the Underdark below the Misty Forest, the judicator Dhairn stood in a vast cavern whose walls were honeycombed with tunnels that had been bored out centuries ago by a long since vanished purple worm. Above him, webs crisscrossed the ceiling. Cocooned corpses hung from them, dripping putrid liquid onto the floor, and a rancid smell thickened the air. Dozens of faces peered down at Dhairn from the tunnels, faces with ebon-black skin and glowing red eyes. Driders-drow from the waist up, but with the eight-legged lower thoraxes and bulbous abdomens of spiders.

  Dhairn himself w
as a drow-a race the driders would ordinarily attack on sight, but his sudden entrance had given the creatures pause, as had his appearance. His scalp was shaved, save for the circle of hair at the back of his head that was braided into a long strand, the end of which was crusted solid by repeated drippings in blood. His black skin was webbed with lines of glowing white, the hallmark of the deity he served. His eyes had no color, only black dots where the pupils were. Anyone looking closely might have seen the faint yellow lines that formed a web pattern across the white of each eye and noted that his pupils were not truly round but shaped like spiders.

  The driders weren't getting that close, however, not after having noted the massive two-handed sword the judicator carried. The hilt of the magical weapon had two guards, each shaped like a spider. One of these had its legs clenched tightly around Dhairn's right fist. He wore no sheath, and he could let go of the weapon with his left hand but never with his right.

  Dhairn swept back his cloak with his free hand, revealing red robes and an adamantine breastplate embossed with Selvetarm's holy symbol: a crossed mace and sword, overlaid with a spider. The magical cloak had allowed him to effect an unexpected appearance in the driders' cavern by stepping out of solid stone. As they hissed at him from above, trying to work up the courage to attack, he spoke.

  "Spawn of Lolth!" he shouted. "Exiles from Eryndlyn, from Ched Nasad, from Menzoberranzan, by Selvetarm's will, you are to be outcasts no longer! There is a place for you in the ranks of the Selvetargtlin, if you would take it!"

  From above him came a rustling and the hiss of whispered speech. One of the driders sprang out of a tunnel and descended toward Dhairn, head-down, on a strand of web. The drider was male, his long, uncombed hair hanging from his scalp like scraps of cobweb. His face was pinched and thin, his eyes narrowed in what looked like a permanent wince. A curved fang protruded from each of his cheeks, its hollow point oozing venom. He turned slowly on the strand of webbing, twisting his head so that he could keep Dhairn in sight.