Sacrifice of the Widow: The Lady Penitent, Book I (34 page)

Still invisible, Cavatina bounded with long, graceful strides toward the spot where Selvetarm stood. As she moved into position, she squinted to protect her eyes from the strands of web that blew on the breeze. They turned invisible as they stuck to her, but she could feel them fluttering like streamers behind her as she loped toward the spot where the demigod stood. She didn’t waste time trying to circle around behind Selvetarm. The demigod, even though his eyes were in the front of his drow head, could see in all directions at once, like a spider.

She had cast every protective spell on herself that she could, but offensive prayers would be useless. A mortal might succumb to her spells but never a demigod. With his vast powers, Selvetarm would instantly negate anything she threw at him. Worse yet, his fighting prowess was without equal. Selvetarm would see through any feint she might try, would read the slightest shift of her posture or grip and anticipate any thrust long before it came. His own moves would be impossibly swift and smooth, and no wonder. He had been birthed, after all, by Zandilar the Dancer, an elf deity equal in grace to Eilistraee herself.

Cavatina was certain she would get only one swing. All she could do was trust in the power of the Crescent Blade and in the strength of her own sword arm.

She should have been terrified as she made her way toward the hulking demigod. She wasn’t. Instead, a thrill of anticipation shivered through her. This was it—the penultimate hunt. She had devoted her life to that moment, honing her body until it was a weapon. Her senses were keen, her muscles taut. Even if she died, it would be glorious.

“Eilistraee,” she breathed. “Help me strike true.”

The words were mouthed only. No sound came from her lips. Her voice was muffled, like her footsteps, by the magical silence she had cloaked herself in, but it gave her satisfaction to speak. Cavatina wanted to believe that Eilistraee was watching, listening. “Dark Maiden,” she continued as she drew closer to the god—she was only a few paces away, and Selvetarm loomed over her, his head a black blot, haloed by the eight blood-red stars, “I do this for you.”

And for yourself
.

The whisper from the sword momentarily distracted her. She missed her footing and her boot splashed down into a pool of stagnant water. No sound came from the resulting splash, but when Cavatina looked behind her,
she saw ripples spreading across the surface of the pond and tiny spiders scurrying away from the lapping water. If Selvetarm glanced down, he would see it.

The demigod’s attention, however, was firmly fixed on the distant horizon.

Cavatina landed beside one of his legs, next to a claw that had been driven into solid rock as if the ground were putty. Gripping the Crescent Blade in both sweating palms, she squatted then launched herself into the air. As she rose to the level of the god’s bulbous body, the arc of her jump carrying her over the bent leg and past the point where abdomen and cephalothorax met, she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. She glanced in the direction in which Selvetarm stared and saw a pyramid of metal, red starlight glinting off the eight legs that held it aloft.

Lolth’s fortress. And it was headed their way.

Something else scuttled across the ground, between the fortress and the spot where Selvetarm stood. Cavatina at first thought it was a spider, but then realized it was a drow, scurrying along on hands and feet. As the drow rose and broke into an upright run, Cavatina recognized the eight legs that drummed against the ribcage like restless fingers. Halisstra. She pointed at Selvetarm and shouted.

“There!” she cried, her voice wild and cracking. “There!”

Halisstra had just proved herself a traitor, but no matter. Even as she shouted, Cavatina’s feet touched down on the demigod’s shoulder. She landed between black, bristling hairs, feet braced in a position that put her at right angles to the neck. The Crescent Blade was already above Cavatina’s head, raised for a killing blow. The blade swept down, screaming as it descended.

Die, Selvetarm!

Selvetarm’s head twisted around. His body shifted, throwing Cavatina off balance. She tried to correct her
swing as she staggered backward, but it was no use. The Crescent Blade slashed into Selvetarm’s face, instead of his neck. It bit deep, turning his mouth into a bloody grimace and sending a tooth flying, but the wound healed in an instant.

Glaring with eyes that each had eight blood-red points for pupils, the demigod shouted a single word.

The word was unclean, twisted, foul, woven from the fell energies of the Demonweb Pits, and sticky as old sin. It slammed into Cavatina, sending her tumbling from the god’s shoulder. She hurtled toward the ground, blinded, deafened, paralyzed. The Crescent Blade fell from her numbed fingers, and an instant later she slammed into the ground face-first. Her cheek cracked against rock with a force that sent stars exploding through her head, and her breastplate caved in like tin punched by a fist. Pain flared in her chest: broken ribs. Blood dribbled from her split lips. A fresh, sharp pain erupted in her back as something splattered onto it: acid dripping from the mace in Selvetarm’s hand. Cavatina couldn’t move, couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, but she could feel the ground below her tremble as the demigod’s massive claws punched into it. Selvetarm was turning. She could feel him looming over her, staring down at her. His presence was a blot of evil, his shadow a pall that nearly suffocated her. A lesser, more rhythmic tremble in the ground was the iron fortress, drawing nearer.

Lolth, coming to gloat at what her Champion had just done.

Eilistraee
, Cavatina pleaded silently, wishing she had the strength to speak the words aloud.
Save me
. Her fingers twitched slightly as she struggled against the paralysis that gripped her, tried to grope for the Crescent Blade. Spiders scuttled across her hand, a mocking tickle on her skin.
Send me … a miracle
.

A finger prodded her in the side. A muffled voice, speaking urgent words, came from above—Halisstra, also
coming to gloat, taking a closer look at what her betrayal had wrought.

Her vision dimly returning, Cavatina could see the blurry figure of Halisstra, who gingerly lifted the Crescent Blade. She held the hilt between finger and thumb, as if picking up a disgusting piece of offal.

“Abyss take you,” Cavatina groaned, finding her voice at last.

Above her, Selvetarm gave a booming laugh. “It already has,” he hissed.

Then he lowered his head to deliver the killing bite.

S
o this is it, Q’arlynd thought.

He floated in a featureless gray void that was neither hot nor cold, damp nor dry, soft nor hard. It just … was. Endless. Eternal. Still.

“I’m dead.”

The sound of his own voice startled him. So did something that materialized, suddenly, under his feet. Ground. Gray as the void he’d been floating in, and smooth as glass, it neither gave under his feet nor resisted them. Like the void, it just … was. Something to stand on.

He could sense his arms and hands, even though he couldn’t see or feel them. He moved them against himself, trying to touch his body. They passed through where it should have been. It was like trying to grasp smoke, except that
his hands, too, were made of smoke, gray smoke, without a ripple or an end point.

His body was gone. He
was
dead.

Panic nibbled at the corners of his mind like a ravenous mouse. If he allowed it to, it would consume his awareness, what little of him there was. He steeled himself, forcing himself to remain calm. He was dead, but he still
was
. His soul continued.

His mind, such as it was, held the logical facts that explained his situation. His soul, like those of all who died, had entered the Fugue Plain. He could see it starting to take shape around him. There: a distant horizon, a line of gray on gray. And there: the jagged spires of the City of Judgment. Restless forms—mere dots, from a vast distance—surrounded its soaring walls. Demons herded the shapeless gray forms before them, driving unclaimed souls into the city where they would be consumed.

Other presences hovered closer to Q’arlynd—the souls of others who, like him, had just died.

“Can you hear me?” he asked as one drifted by.

It made no reply, just sighed past him, leaving a sheen of tears in its wake.

Q’arlynd realized then that he was slowly drifting toward the city. The thought sent a chill through him, colder than any he had ever experienced. He looked wildly around for the moonbeam that Rowaan had described, listened intently for a scrap of song.

Nothing.

“Eilistraee!” he called. “Aren’t you going to claim me? I took the sword oath. I’m one of yours, now. You’re my patron deity!”

No reply.

Something prickled where Q’arlynd’s forehead should have been. If he’d still had a body, he would have sworn it was nervous sweat. He drifted more rapidly toward the city, and already it was half again as close as it had been.

“Eilistraee!” he screamed.

Nothing.

The city walls drew nearer. He could make out individual demons, scourges in hand, arms raising and snapping forward as they drove the dead. Souls wailed as they streamed in through the gates of the City of Judgment.

Q’arlynd shuddered—a ripple that passed through him like an icy wind. Panic once again crowded in at his awareness. He looked wildly around for the servant of a deity—any deity—to claim him.

“Mystra?” he pleaded, desperately hoping that Qilué’s other deity might have taken notice of him, even though he hadn’t pledged himself to her.

Nothing.

The walls had drawn close enough that he could see the individual stones in them writhing against one another. Each stone a soul trapped for all eternity.

A demon turned to stare at him. It crooked a cracked red finger, beckoning him closer.

“Lolth?” Q’arlynd croaked, desperate. “Anyone?”

Come
.

Q’arlynd whirled. He saw nothing, but the voice came again. A male voice.

Return. To the land of the living. Will you return?

He recognized the voice: Malvag’s. Probably the last person he wanted to call him back from the dead, but anything was better than—

“Yes!”
Q’arlynd screamed.

The Fugue Plain disappeared.

His body returned.

He lay on his back on a sharp, lumpy surface, his arms underneath him. His fingers were tightly pinched. It felt as though they’d been lashed together with wire. His throat ached and there was a faint taste of blood in his mouth. He spat.

Then he saw the two Nightshadows staring down at
him, framed by the crystal-lined cavern, and realized where he was and what had just happened. He tried to hurl himself erect but only managed to flop over on his side.

“Y—”

His mouth froze. He was aware of a second presence inside his skull, the mind of the Nightshadow closest to him—Malvag, the cleric he had nearly killed with lightning bolts. Malvag’s eyes gleamed as he stared mercilessly down at Q’arlynd. The Nightshadow shook his head slightly and raised a warning finger. Q’arlynd’s master ring was on it. Malvag spoke directly to him, mind to mind.

No spells, slave
.

Get out!
Q’arlynd raged. The second ring must have been on one of his own fingers under the wire that bound them.
Get out of my mind!

Malvag’s eyes crinkled in a mirthless smile.
Get up
.

When Q’arlynd hesitated, Malvag’s awareness shoved its rough way into his torso and legs. Q’arlynd found himself drawing his legs up against his body. He rolled onto his stomach, rose to his knees, and finally lurched to his feet. He swayed and nearly fell before Malvag found his balance. All the while, Q’arlynd raged. He was a
Melarn
, damn it. His House might be gone, but he was still of noble birth. Never
—never
—a slave.

He might as well have been shouting against a howling wind. Malvag’s laughter reverberated through his mind, overpowering Q’arlynd’s inner voice.

This, Q’arlynd realized suddenly, is what Flinderspeld must have felt like.

But Flinderspeld was a deep gnome, a race that was used to such indignities and bore them stoically. Q’arlynd was a
drow
. He was forced to suffer Malvag’s torments for the time being, but dark anger smoldered in his heart. The Nightshadow was going to pay for every moment. Pay dearly.

I doubt it
, Malvag said.

Q’arlynd fell silent, not wanting to give the other male any further satisfaction.

Malvag walked him over to the drift disc that held the prayer scroll, and made him stand there, rigid. The second Nightshadow—the slender one—cocked an eyebrow and watched Q’arlynd, his eyes bright with fascination.

“Welcome back,” he said. “I guess, since you’re here, Eilistraee had no use for you.” He laughed. “But we do.”

Malvag pointed at the body of the Nightshadow Q’arlynd had turned to stone and spoke to the other male. “Get his mask.”

Q’arlynd tried to swallow but couldn’t. They knew. Everything. That he was Eilistraee’s—or would have been, if only the goddess had bothered to claim him, yet they’d brought him back from the dead. Something he’d
agreed
to. What had he been thinking?

Malvag must have been listening, but he made no comment.

Hands appeared from behind Q’arlynd, holding the dead man’s mask. It was tied into place around Q’arlynd’s face. Unlike the polymorphed gem, which had prickled Q’arlynd’s skin with a heat like raw pepper, this mask felt smooth as silk, but it was restless, shivering, afraid.

Valdar moved back around where Q’arlynd could see it. A smirk was in his eye. He pointed at the mask. “One of your friends from the Misty Forest. Go on—kiss her good-bye.”

Q’arlynd blinked—a concession Malvag allowed him. That was
Rowaan’s
soul in there. Q’arlynd felt a momentary twinge of guilt. He pushed it aside. Rowaan had been pleasant to him, but she’d been soft, he told himself. Weak. Gullible. If she’d fought harder against the assassin….