Lisa Smedman - Sacrifice of the Widow

Urz gave a howl of anguish, startling all three of them. "He's dead," he cried. Eyes closed, mouth a grimace, he pounded with his hands against the crystal floor until his hands were bloody. "He's… dead!"

"Who's dead, you idiot?" Valdar snapped.

Malvag, however, didn't have to ask. A chill slid into his gut like an ice-cold blade. He said a hurried prayer, seeking communion with his god.

"Vhaeraun?" he whispered, his mouth dry. "Are you there?"

Valdar stared at him, tense.

Urz continued to wail and beat the floor. "Dead!"

The answer came to Malvag at last, a strangely double-timbered voice, as if a male and female were speaking at once.

"I… am… here," it said, the voices blending into one by the final word.

Malvag felt his face pale. His legs no longer seemed willing to support him. He sagged, felt the points of crystals jab into his knees as the enormity of what he'd just done came down on his shoulders like a collapsing tunnel. That was Eilistraee who'd just spoken, not Vhaeraun. Instead of the Masked Lord absorbing her power into himself, the opposite had happened. Eilistraee was posing as Vhaeraun and answering his clerics' prayers, tainting them with moonfire, and there was only one way she could have done that.

By killing Vhaeraun.

Malvag tried to convey that to Valdar, but all that would come out was a dry croak. "Eilistraee… No use… Vhaeraun is… gone. We can't…" He gestured weakly at Q'arlynd. They could hurl all the spells they liked at the wizard, but he was under Eilistraee's protection-even if he didn't know it himself.

Valdar glanced at the still-howling Urz, then back at Malvag. "No!" he raged. The slender cleric summoned darkfire to his hand a second time-darkfire tainted with moonfire-then hurled it. Not at the cleric, as Malvag had expected, but at Malvag himself.

It sloughed off Malvag, just as it had the wizard. As the dark glare of it died down, Malvag noticed that Q'arlynd was gone. He must have teleported away. So had Valdar, it seemed, after hurling the darkfire. The cavern was empty save for Urz, who, by the sound of his hoarse cries, had been driven mad by the loss of his patron deity.

Everything Malvag had worked for was in ruin. The bond, strong as adamantine, that had allowed drow to cast high magic was broken. Not that it mattered anymore.

"It's true," Malvag said, answering a Valdar who was already gone. "Vhaeraun's dead. We helped Eilistraee kill him. I was a fool to think she wouldn't prevail within her own domain." He lowered his face into his hands-a mask that no longer held any power. Then his hands fell away. One brushed against the dagger that was sheathed at his hip.

Slowly, he drew it. He stared at the poison-coated blade for several long moments. There was no longer any god to claim his soul when it entered the Fugue Plain, but that suited Malvag just fine. The torments of the demons would be nothing compared to what he felt at that moment, and if Eilistraee tried to claim him, he'd spit in her face.

Touching the blade to his arm, he drew it across his wrist.

Q'arlynd staggered through the Promenade looking for a priestess, the mask that had been his disguise clenched in one hand. He was in the cavern where the lay worshipers lived-buildings reared up around him on either side-but the passageways between them were empty. Where was everyone? His face throbbed and his limbs felt leaden: the wristbow bolt's poison doing its work. He wasn't going to last much longer without a healing spell, but if he died there, Qilue would surely see to it that he was restored to life. She'd have to, in order to learn what had just happened.

Unless, of course, she simply had a necromancer speak with his corpse.

No, Q'arlynd thought. Qilue wouldn't do that. She'd want details-descriptive nuances the stagnant mind of a corpse couldn't provide, and even if she used a truth spell on him, Q'arlynd had the perfect excuse for his actions.

He slipped a finger into his pocket, touching the master-and-slave rings. He could honestly say that he'd been forced to open the gate despite the geas, that he'd had no choice in the matter. Well, not until the end-but the high priestess didn't need to know that. If Q'arlynd chose his words carefully, she never would.

He slipped on something and scrabbled at the stone wall next to him for support. Looking down, he saw a smear of blood on the cavern floor. Someone had been hurt there. Badly hurt. Pushing himself away from the wall, he staggered on, still searching for a priestess. Where had they all gotten to?

Qilue would be angry, of course, when she learned that three priestess' souls had been consumed by the spell, but Q'arlynd had managed to bring back the "mask" that held the body and soul of the fourth priestess. That had to count for something, and opening the gate had all worked out for the best in the end. Vhaeraun was dead. If Q'arlynd chose his words carefully, perhaps the high priestess might reward him yet, and what a reward it would be. Qilue was, after all, a Chosen of Mystra. She must know spells that would rival high magic. If he could become her cons… her…

His mind stumbled. He couldn't find the word, nor could he see very well. The edges of his vision blurred and his stomach felt as if he'd swallowed hot coals. He tripped over something. A body. Looking down, he saw a blood-red robe and braided white hair. For one terrifying moment, he thought it was the judicator who had confronted him in the woods. Then he realized it was another Selvetargtlin. A very dead Selvetargtlin.

A pace or two away lay a scatter of bodies: males and females of various races, their bodies hacked to pieces. Lay worshipers from the temple. Kneeling beside them was a priestess. Q'arlynd fell to his knees beside her, shook her shoulder.

"Lady," he gasped. "Help me. Poison…"

The priestess fell over on her side, revealing a chest soaked in blood. She, too, was dead. Q'arlynd fumbled at the pendant that hung around her neck: the goddess's holy dagger. If he prayed, then maybe, just maybe…

He gasped as a hand touched his shoulder. He tried to turn but only managed to fall over onto his side next to the bodies. He stared up from the cold stone floor at a terrifying sight: an armored female, hair and body shrouded in sticky webs, holding in one hand a sword that fairly hummed with latent magic. One of Lolth's priestesses, he was certain. Weakly, he laughed. Of all the stupid luck…

The female laid her sword on the ground as she kneeled beside him. Cold metal touched Q'arlynd's cheek-a silver dagger. Why slit his throat? That was too quick, too clean for one of Lolth's priestesses. A prolonged flaying with a whip of fangs was more their style. Q'arlynd tried not to grimace as the pain roiling in his gut intensified. He wouldn't give her the pleasure of seeing how much he was already suffering.

"Eilistraee," he whispered, half-heartedly. As if the goddess would answer him.

"Eilistraee," the female above him repeated. "Heal him. Drive the poison from his body."

The pain was gone.

Q'arlynd sat up. He touched a hand to his healed cheek and shivered. He'd been within a heartbeat or two of death, but he was healthy again. Strong. He saw that it was a priestess of Eilistraee who had come to his aid, but not one he recognized. He stood, and bowed his thanks.

"Lady. To whom do I owe my rescue?"

"Cavatina Xarann," she said. "Darksong Knight."

Q'arlynd got a good look at her weapon as she picked it up again. The sword looked ancient and had a script running down its curved blade. Q'arlynd moved his fingers behind his back and pretended to cough, hiding a one-word divination. The blade's aura-visible only to him-nearly made him wince. That weapon was powerful. An artifact. With a start, he realized it must be the Crescent Blade.