Sacrifice of the Widow: The Lady Penitent, Book I (18 page)

Rowaan was alive again.

Leliana fell to her knees and embraced her. She touched the ring on Rowaan’s finger. “That was bravely done, Rowaan.”

Rowaan gave a weak shrug. “No need for thanks.” She nodded at the woman who had raised her from death. “I knew Chezzara would be along eventually.”

“Even so,” Leliana said. “Death weakened you. Your magic will never be as strong.”

“You would do the same for me, Mother. I know you would.”

Q’arlynd’s eyes widened slightly at that. He gave a mental nod. He’d already noted the resemblance between the two priestesses, yet he was surprised to hear that they were mother and daughter. Normally, among the drow, that counted for little. “Blood,” as the old expression went, “was only a dagger-thrust deep.” Mothers, more often than not, outlived their daughters—the slightest hint of treachery was met with brutal retaliation. But Leliana and Rowaan seemed to share something more than a mere House name: one of those rare bonds of genuine affection.

Elsewhere in the woods, swords clashed and a woman cried Eilistraee’s name, reminding them that the battle still raged.

“I’m needed,” the priestess who had raised Rowaan said. She pointed at Q’arlynd. “And so is he. Whoever he is, he’s a formidable fighter, and it’s not just driders we’re facing. There’s a
judicator
fighting alongside them.”

Both Leliana and Rowaan startled.

The healer, that dire pronouncement made, turned and hurried away into the woods.

Leliana helped Rowaan sit up then turned to Q’arlynd. She stared at him a long moment then inclined her head.

“Thank you.”

Q’arlynd bowed. “My pleasure, but before we rejoin the battle, I have one question. What’s a judicator?”

“One of Selvetarm’s champions,” Leliana answered.

“One of his clerics?” Q’arlynd asked. He shuddered at the memory of spider-pupiled eyes.

“More.” Leliana’s expression grim. “Much more.”

Judging by the abrupt way the scream had cut off, another priestess had just found that out.

As the sun rose the next morning, Flinderspeld wandered through the forest, squinting against the harsh glare of the sun. Drider corpses were everywhere—draped over tree branches and splayed on the ground in a litter of shattered legs, blood, and smashed chitin. Strangely, he hadn’t seen any dead priestesses, though there was evidence that several had died. Three times, he found a breastplate sliced entirely in two, atop a crumpled pile of chain mail and boots and with a sword lying nearby. It was as if the women who had died wearing the armor had suddenly vanished, leaving their weapons and equipment behind.

Flinderspeld was very, very glad that he hadn’t met up with whatever had done that.

He spotted a living priestess a short distance ahead and hurried toward her. Torn links dangled from a slash in her chain mail, and her breastplate was drenched with blood. She stood, sword blade resting on her shoulder, staring down at another pile of empty armor.

“Ah, excuse me,” Flinderspeld asked. “I’m looking for the priestess Vlashiri. Leliana told me to seek her out.”

The woman looked at him with hollow, exhausted eyes. “You found her.”

Flinderspeld couldn’t believe his luck. He held up the finger that bore the slave ring. “Leliana said you could remove the curse from this slave ring.”

“That’s no longer possible.”

Flinderspeld blinked. “But Leliana promised. She—”

“Too late for promises,” the priestess said. “Vlashiri’s … gone. There isn’t anything left of her to resurrect.”

“Oh.” Flinderspeld looked down at the empty armor, suddenly realizing that the priestess he was speaking to wasn’t Vlashiri, after all. “Is there anyone else who could …?”

The look in the woman’s eye silenced him. “Not any more. Not at this shrine, at least.” Then she sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s just that … Try the Promenade, near Waterdeep. That’s our main temple. Several of the priestesses there are familiar with curses. Perhaps one of them could help you.”

Flinderspeld nodded politely, though he had never heard of the place. Even if this “Waterdeep” was only a league away, he was unlikely to reach it. He’d managed to avoid his master during the frenzy of the past night’s drider attack, but with the battle over, sooner or later Q’arlynd would—

As if on cue, he felt his master’s awareness slide into his mind, like a dagger into a well-oiled sheath. Flinderspeld turned and saw the wizard walking toward him.

“Ah, Flinderspeld. There you are. I was worried you might have vanished.”

Not a good choice of words, Master
, Flinderspeld thought back, pointedly nodding at the empty armor.

Q’arlynd paled. Flinderspeld wondered why Vlashiri’s empty armor unnerved his master so.

“Vlashiri’s dead?” Q’arlynd asked, repeating aloud the information he had just plucked from Flinderspeld’s mind. The wizard glanced at the ring on Flinderspeld’s hand. “I suppose you’ll have to find someone else to remove that ring then, won’t you?”

If that’s meant to be a joke, it isn’t funny
.

Q’arlynd wagged a finger at him. “Don’t be so bitter, Flinderspeld. This isn’t the time for it. I’m about to accept Eilistraee as my patron deity. You’re going to be my witness. Come.”

Dutifully, Flinderspeld trudged after his master. He had no choice. If he disobeyed, Q’arlynd would take over his body and march him along like a puppet. Flinderspeld had borne that stoically, back in Ched Nasad—as a slave in a drow city, his only chance at survival had been to obey his master, and Q’arlynd, for all his bluster, had never harmed him. After what Flinderspeld had seen the past night, he was starting to question his master’s decency. Flinderspeld, invisible, had followed Q’arlynd. He’d seen his master stand idly by while the driders killed Leliana. He’d also noted the flicker of magical energy around Q’arlynd’s hands as he stared down at her near-fatal wounds—a flicker that always preceded a deadly magical bolt. Until that moment, Flinderspeld had thought that his master joined the battle to prove himself to the priestesses, but he soon understood that Q’arlynd must have intended to kill Leliana and Rowaan all along.

It was something Flinderspeld should have anticipated. He’d been stupid to think that his master was different from other dark elves.

Q’arlynd led him to a section of the forest that was littered with broken chunks of stone, the ruins of buildings that had fallen long ago. Eventually, they came to an odd-looking structure that must have been a shrine to the drow sword goddess. It consisted of a dozen sword-shaped columns of black obsidian, set point-first into a circular platform of white stone. The hilts of the column-swords were flattened, and supported a circular roof, also of white stone, that had a hole at its center. The shrine looked ancient, its moon-shaped roof weathered until its edges were softly rounded.

Flinderspeld admired the columns as they approached the shrine through the ground-hugging mist. Obsidian was a difficult stone to work with, its brittle edges constantly flaking and splitting. Whoever had carved the rounded contours of those sword hilts was a master, and they’d also
known how to use magic. Even after centuries of exposure to the elements, the edges of those swords still looked sharp. There was dried blood on one of them—blood shed, presumably, by driders.

A priestess, still in blood-splattered chain mail and with the fresh scars of magically healed wounds visible against her black skin, waited at the center of the shrine. As Q’arlynd and Flinderspeld approached, she beckoned them to join her. Q’arlynd stepped into the shrine without hesitation. Flinderspeld was more wary. He could sense the haze of magic that surrounded the shrine. It was accompanied by a sound like the high-pitched voices of women distantly singing. Flinderspeld tested the space between two of the sword-columns with a finger, half expecting to encounter some sort of magical barrier. Then, cautiously, he stepped into the shrine.

As the priestess drew her sword, Flinderspeld edged behind his master. He watched warily as she handed the weapon to Q’arlynd, wondering what his own part was to be.

His master “swore on his sword,” cutting a nick in his palm as he spoke. Prompted by the priestess, Q’arlynd vowed that he did, indeed, want to honor Eilistraee above all other deities, by joining her faith as a lay worshiper. He promised to use his magic to aid the weak and to battle Eilistraee’s enemies, and to obey her priestesses—something that would probably come naturally to Q’arlynd after a lifetime spent in subservience to the women of Ched Nasad. The final oath was a vow to work selflessly to “bring other drow into the light” and treat everyone he met with kindness, until they should prove themselves unworthy of receiving it.

Flinderspeld would believe that when he saw it.

Q’arlynd completed his oath and handed the sword back to the priestess. She bent and offered the blade to Flinderspeld. It took him a moment to realize that he was
being asked to join her faith. He glanced, sidelong, at his master.
What do you want me to do?

Q’arlynd waved a hand dismissively. “That’s up to you.”

Then, surprisingly, Q’arlynd withdrew from his mind.

It was a test of some sort, but Flinderspeld had no idea how to pass it. Did his master expect him to swear allegiance to the drow goddess? Or to refuse, and make Q’arlynd’s “conversion” all the more significant?

The priestess stared down at him. Waiting.

At last, Flinderspeld summoned up the courage to shake his head. Firmly. He had his own patron deity. He wanted no part of any drow religion. “I cannot join your faith,” he told the priestess. “I am sworn to Callarduran Smoothhands.”

“Very well.” The priestess seemed unconcerned by his refusal. She slid the sword back into its sheath and turned to Q’arlynd. “It is done. Welcome to the light, Q’arlynd Melarn. May you serve Eilistraee well.”

Q’arlynd bowed. “Would you excuse us, Lady?” His hand gripped Flinderspeld’s shoulder. “My friend here is leaving. I’d like a few moments to say good-bye to him.”

Flinderspeld’s heart beat rapidly as the priestess left the shrine. What did his master not want her to see? It was pointless to call out to the priestess, for Q’arlynd would only clamp down with his mental hold. Instead Flinderspeld obeyed the wizard’s mental command, following him into the woods. They walked in silence for several hundred paces before Q’arlynd halted and slid a hand into a pocket of his
piwafwi
—the pocket where he kept his spell components. Flinderspeld’s eyes widened.

“Wait!” he told his master. “I won’t tell anyone!”

Q’arlynd frowned. “You won’t tell anyone
what?”

Flinderspeld swallowed nervously. “You must have read my mind,” he whispered. “You know I was there, watching, when you let those driders kill Leliana.”

“Ah. That.” Q’arlynd spread his hands. “There were
four of them, and my magic was almost depleted,” he said smoothly. “I couldn’t possibly have killed them all. I knew another of the priestesses would come along, sooner or later, to revive Leliana, but I wasn’t sure if they’d do the same for me. I couldn’t run the risk of being killed.” The expression of regret he adopted looked genuine, and Flinderspeld wondered if he might have been wrong about what he saw after all.

“Now give me your hand,” Q’arlynd ordered.

Flinderspeld did, wondering what was coming next.

Q’arlynd batted the hand aside. “Not that one, fool. Your
left
hand.”

When Flinderspeld hesitated, Q’arlynd bent down and grabbed it, then yanked off the glove. The wizard spoke a few words in the drow language then pulled the ring from Flinderspeld’s index finger.

The slave ring.

Off.

Flinderspeld gasped. “What are … Why did …?”

The wizard flipped the ring into the air, caught it, then tucked it away into a pocket of his
piwafwi
. “I’m one of Eilistraee’s faithful, now,” he said. “That’s what we do. ‘Treat everyone with kindness.’”

“But …”

Q’arlynd sighed and spread his hands. “All right, so I have an ulterior motive. Consider this: I’m going to remain on the surface, at least for a time, among Eilistraee’s priestesses. If I keep you with me, you’re certain to stumble across another priestess who can remove curses. The ring was coming off your finger sooner or later—and if a priestess removed it, the ring’s magic would be forever negated.” He patted the pocket into which he’d slipped the ring. “This way, I hang onto my property, or,” he quirked an eyebrow, “part of it, at least.”

“I see,” Flinderspeld said, and he was starting to.

Q’arlynd liked to pretend he was as cruel and heartless
as any drow, but his actions too often were at odds with his words. It wouldn’t have been hard for the wizard to keep Flinderspeld firmly in tow and prevent him from asking the priestesses for help.

Q’arlynd stood with his hands on his hips. “Now I’m going to make sure that you don’t tell anyone what you saw.”

Flinderspeld blanched. “You’re not going to blast me as I walk away, are you?”

Q’arlynd snorted. “Why would I want to kill you? You’re valuable property.”

“I’m your property no more.”

“That’s true.” Q’arlynd said. He stroked his chin. “What I’m going to do is send you away. Somewhere far from here, ideally—somewhere Eilistraee’s priestesses are
not
. You can choose wherever you’d like to go. Just name the place, and I’ll teleport you there.”