Lisa Smedman: Sacrifice of the Widow

The Darksong Knight pointed out those details as they walked along. "We only recently claimed this area. We hope to incorporate it into the Promenade, one day," Cavatina told the novice. "For now, though, it's home only to dire bats, cloakers, crawlers-and the occasional adventurer who blunders in and manages not to get eaten by the first three."

The novice obliged Cavatina by smiling. Her posture, however, was tense. Her eyes kept straying to the dark holes in the cavern ceiling above. Understandable, Cavatina thought. It was Thaleste's first patrol south of the Sargauth River. The novice had trained for two years but had yet to blood her sword. She'd spent all that time within the safe confines of the Promenade-the name Eilistraee's faithful had given the temple that lay on the other side of the river. Cavatina could hear the low gurgle of the Sargauth still, but the comforting sounds of the Cavern of Song lay far behind.

She pointed to a spot on the floor. "You see this smooth patch?" she asked.

The novice nodded.

"A slime passed this way, long ago, but it, along with the rest of the minions of the god of oozes and slimes, was driven into the Pit of Ghaunadaur. Which is…?" she prompted.

The novice spoke solemnly. "The pit in which the Ancient One was imprisoned by Eilistraee's Chosen, Qilue, First Lady of the Dance. She built Eilistraee's Mound to mark the spot where Ghaunadaur was defeated."

"Where his avatar was defeated, Thaleste," Cavatina corrected. "Ghaunadaur himself still lurks in his domain. That is why we patrol these dark halls-why we have built our temple here. We must ensure that his avatar never rises again."

Thaleste nodded nervously.

Cavatina smiled. "It's been a long time since anything oozed through these halls," she reassured the novice. "About six hundred years."

Another nervous nod.

Cavatina sighed to herself. Novices were not, as a rule, allowed to venture into truly dangerous areas, even with a seasoned Darksong Knight accompanying them. There was little there for Thaleste to fret about. The purpose of the patrol was simply to check the defensive glyphs and symbols that had recently been set there and report any that needed to be restored.

They continued on through the cavern, a novice in simple leather armor, and a warrior-priestess in a mithral chain mail shirt, her steel breastplate embossed with her goddess's symbols. Each female had a sword sheathed at her hip, next to a dagger. The Darksong Knight carried a hunting horn as well, slung from a strap that crossed one shoulder. Both priestesses were drow, their ebon skin blending with the darkness, their white hair and eyebrows standing out in stark contrast.

Cavatina, despite her vastly higher station, was still in her first century of life. Barely adult, by drow standards. The daughter of a Sword Dancer, she had her mother's lean, wiry build. She was tall, even for a drow female. Most of the other priestesses came only to her shoulder. Only Qilue herself was taller. During Cavatina's youth, there had been innumerable teasing about her being long and narrow as a sword blade but blunt as a maul when it came to speaking her mind.

Thaleste, on the other hand, was well into middle age, her body soft after decades of sloth. She had come to Eilistraee's faith only recently after a life of pampered luxury in one of the noble Houses of Menzoberranzan. Her motive for leaving that city had been far from holy. She'd angered her matron and barely survived the poison that had been slipped into her wine. She had been headed for Skullport for some poison of her own when she'd taken a wrong turn and blundered into the Promenade-a fork in life's path she later understood to be the unseen hand of Eilistraee.

Thaleste had gone from being a lazy, self-indulgent viper to a fervent worshiper who had embraced the goddess wholeheartedly, once she understood what the worship of Eilistraee truly meant. When that enlightenment had come, she'd wept openly, something a drow of the Underdark never did. She later confided in Cavatina that it had been the first time in two and a half centuries that she'd allowed herself to feel.

Cavatina had heard it many times before. She'd been born into Eilistraee's worship, seen many conversions. She envied each and every one. She herself would never know the moment of rapture redemption could bring. Though she had-and she smiled-experienced the intense exhilaration of skewering one of Lolth's demonic minions on her sword. More than one, in fact.

She sighed. Compared to a demon hunt, patrolling was dull work. She almost hoped that a cloaker would swoop down from the ceiling. She patted the bastard sword at her hip. Demonbane would make short work of it. The sword might not hum as prettily as the temple's singing swords, but it had seen Cavatina through more battles than she could count.

They continued through the cavern, checking to make sure that none of the magical symbols had been dispelled. Each symbol was as large as a breastplate, painted prominently on a wall, floor, or column where those passing through the cavern couldn't help but glance at it. The symbols had been painted using a paste made from a blend of liquid mercury and red phosphorus, sprinkled with powdered diamond and opal. Attuned to Eilistraee's faithful, the symbols could be safely stared at by her priestesses and lay worshipers, but anyone with evil intentions who so much as glanced at a symbol would trigger it, as would any cleric who served Eilistraee's enemies. Cavatina pointed out for Thaleste the difference between those symbols that caused wracking pain, and those that sapped strength.

"None that kill?" the novice asked. "Why not slay our enemies outright?"

"Because for all drow, there is a chance of redemption," Cavatina answered. Then she smiled grimly. "Though for some, the chance is much slimmer than for others. That's what our swords are for. Once an intruder is debilitated, we give her one chance. She can live by the song-or die by the sword."

Thaleste nodded, her eyes bright with tears. She'd made that very choice, just two years ago.

They moved on, softly singing the hymn that disabled the cavern's other magical protections. Tiny bells, hanging from silver threads, had been secreted here and there among the columns. Capable of detecting anything that moved in the cavern without singing the proper wards, the bells were ensorcelled to sound a clamorous alarm that could be heard dozens of paces away. A silence spell could muffle the sound, but the spell would have to be cast several times over-once per bell-and each bell's hiding place would have to be found first.

All of the bells Cavatina randomly selected to inspect were in place; none had been disturbed. Each rang with a clear ping when Cavatina flicked it with a fingernail.

Just like the Promenade itself, the caverns were protected not only by visible defenses but also by less tangible magic. Forbiddance spells had been put in place with sprinkles of holy water and wafts of incense, invisible to any who did not have the magic to detect them. They were a potent barrier, one that prevented enemies from teleporting or shifting there-even in astral or ethereal form. The forbiddance spells were permanent, and only the most powerful of spellcasters could remove them. The only way to bypass them was with one of Eilistraee's holy songs, and even that held no guarantee of safety. Those who used the song to slip past the magical barrier would, if of evil intent, arrive with grievous wounds-possibly even fatal ones.

The cavern narrowed, and the floor rose and fell. The priestesses clambered over half-formed stalagmites that looked like sagging lumps of dough. Several times, Thaleste's scabbard scraped against the soft limestone, tracing a faint line. The novice had a lot to learn about moving silently.