Sacrifice of the Widow

CHAPTER ONE

Qilue leaned over the scrying font, waiting for images to coalesce in its depths. The font was of polished alabaster, its yellow-orange stone the color of a harvest moon. An inscription ran around the rim, carved in ancient Elvish characters reminiscent of the slashes left by swords. The water inside the font was pure, made holy through dance and song by the six drow priestesses who stood in a loose circle around Qilue, waiting. At the moment, however, all the water held was Qilue's own reflection, haloed by the full moon above.

Her face was beautiful still, its ebon-black skin unwrinkled, though her world-weary eyes betrayed her age. Six centuries of life weighed heavily upon her shoulders, as did the responsibilities of attending to the goddess's many shrines. Qilue's hair had been silver since birth and glowed with the same sparkling radiance as her robe. A strand of it fell across her face, and she tucked it behind one delicately pointed ear.

The other priestesses knew better than to interrupt her, despite their tense anticipation. They stood, still breathing heavily from their dance, naked bodies glistening with sweat. Waiting. Silent as the snow-dappled trees that hemmed this glade in the Ardeep Forest. It was winter, and late at night, yet the women were still too warm to shiver. The footprints left by their dance were a dark ring in the snow.

Something stirred in the water within the font, something that broke the moon's reflection into swirling ripples.

"It comes," Qilue breathed. "The vision rises."

The priestesses tensed. One touched a hand to the holy symbol that hung at her throat while another whispered a prayer. Still another raised on tiptoe in an attempt to see into the font. This vision would be a rare thing. Only the combined powers of Eilistraee and Mystra could draw aside the dark veil that had shrouded the Demonweb Pits for the last few months.

Within the font, an image formed: the face of a drow female, not beautiful, but of noble bearing. Her nose was slightly snubbed, her eyes a burning-coal red. She was dressed for battle in a chain mail tunic and a silver breastplate embossed with the sword-and-moon symbol of Eilistraee. A shield hung from one arm and she held a curved sword in her other hand: the Crescent Blade. With it, she hoped to kill a goddess.

Halisstra hacked at something with the sword-something that didn't show up in the scrying. For a moment, Qilue thought that the font's water had been stirred by the breeze that sighed through the treetops. Then she realized that those were not ripples that obscured Halisstra's face, but shimmers of light on frozen water.

Halisstra Melarn, Eilistraee's champion, was trapped under a bowl-shaped wall of ice.

The tip of the Crescent Blade poked through the ice. Halisstra stared with horrified eyes at something just beyond the range of the scrying.

"No!" she shouted.

Five streaks of magical energy shot through the hole, slamming into her. She staggered back, gasping. After a moment, she recovered. With a look of resolve on her face, she began chopping at the ice, trying to free herself.

Tension stiffened Qilue's body. If she did not find a way to intervene, all would be lost. Scrying magic was normally passive. It would channel simple detections or messages, but only imperfectly. She was one of the Chosen of Mystra, though, and the silver fire was hers to command. She let it build within her until it sparked from her hair and crackled the chill air around her, then she directed it downward with a finger. It streaked into the water, hissing toward its target. The hemisphere of ice enclosing Halisstra sparkled briefly, as if each crystal was a glinting mote.

Halisstra's next sword blow shattered it.

Halisstra burst from the collapsing ice, already running. She passed the body of a drow female whose throat had been slit. It was the priestess Uluyara. Dead.

Qilue fought down the lump in her throat. Uluyara's part was done. She was with Eilistraee.

Halisstra ran, shouting, toward a drow female who held a dripping adamantine knife in her right hand and a whip with five writhing serpent heads in her left. That would be Quenthel, leader of the expedition from Menzoberranzan, a high priestess of Lolth. She had turned her back on Halisstra and was walking disdainfully away. A male drow walked beside Quenthel, his once elegant clothes torn and travel-stained. He must be, Qilue decided, the wizard Pharaun.

Halisstra had described for Uluyara each of the members of the expedition that had gone to Ched Nasad, and Uluyara had passed those descriptions on to Qilue. Quenthel and Pharaun had been mere names when Uluyara had come to the Promenade to discuss with Qilue what must be done, but they had become a threat that seemed very close at hand, despite the vast distance that lay between them and Qilue.

"Stop, Baenre!" Halisstra shouted at their backs. "Face us and let's see which goddess is the stronger."

The priestess and her male ignored Halisstra. They strode to a fissure in a high stone wall: the entrance to a tunnel. Translucent shapes-the moaning souls of the dead-flowed past them into the tunnel. As the souls entered it, their moans rose to howling shrieks. Quenthel spoke briefly with Pharaun, then stepped forward into the passage and was swallowed by the darkness.

"Face us, coward," Halisstra shouted at the male.

Pharaun spared her a brief, undecided glance. Then he too stepped forward into darkness and disappeared.

Halisstra faltered to a halt at the mouth of the tunnel. The hand that gripped the Crescent Blade shook with anger.

Qilue touched a finger to the water, above Halisstra's image. "Follow them, priestess," she instructed. "At the other end lies Lolth. Remember your quest."

Halisstra didn't answer-if indeed she had heard. Something more immediate had captured her attention: a drow female with striking pale gray eyes who moved toward Halisstra, a morningstar held loosely in one hand. The female-it could only be Danifae, Halisstra's battle-captive-apologized to her mistress, an apology that was patently insincere to Qilue's ears. Yet Halisstra made no move to raise her weapon. Did she think that Danifae might yet be brought into the light?

Qilue touched the water. "Do not trust her, Halisstra. Be wary."

Halisstra made no reply.

A third figure ambled into range of the scrying: a draegloth. Half demon and half drow, it had four arms, a snarling, bestial face and blood-matted mane of tangled off-white hair. It paid Danifae no attention; it clearly trusted her.

Qilue's apprehension grew.

Halisstra stood her ground as the draegloth loomed over her. Staring defiantly up into its eyes, she told it that its mistress had abandoned it.

She raised the Crescent Blade and vowed, "I'll have your heart for killing Ryld Argith."

Qilue watched, concerned that Halisstra was no longer paying attention to Danifae, despite the fact that the battle-captive was easing behind her. The spiked ball of Danifae's morningstar swung slightly as she lifted it.

"Halisstra!" Qilue shouted, but the priestess didn't turn.

Ordinary mortals could employ only two senses through a scrying, those of sight and hearing, but Qilue was no ordinary mortal. Gripping the edges of the font with both hands, she sank her awareness deep into its holy water then into the mind of Halisstra herself. It was a desperate gamble-so linked, Qilue might suffer whatever wounds Halisstra took-but the priestess had to be warned of the impending treachery. Somehow.

Qilue gasped as her awareness blossomed inside Halisstra's body. All of Halisstra's senses were hers. Qilue could smell the harsh, hot wind that howled through the chasm behind her, could feel the aching chill of the souls that streamed past overhead, and she could smell the foul breath of the draegloth as it sneered down at her.

"My mistress has not abandoned me, heretic," the draegloth spat.

From inside Halisstra's awareness, Qilue could see that the priestess was not alone. Some distance behind the draegloth stood a moon elf with pale skin and dark brown hair: Feliane, the other priestess who had accompanied Halisstra on her quest. Feliane panted, as if she'd just been in battle, but the thin-bladed sword in her hand was unbloodied. She moved toward the draegloth with faltering steps, hugging her ribs with her free arm, and wincing with each inhalation of breath.

Danifae was fully behind Halisstra, and the priestess could no longer see her. Qilue fought to turn Halisstra's head in that direction, but Halisstra's attention remained wholly fixed on the draegloth. She trusted the woman-saw her not as a battle-captive seething with a thirst for revenge, but as an ally. A friend.

Qilue shouted from inside Halisstra's head. "Halisstra! Behind you! Watch Danifae!"

Too late. Qilue's awareness exploded into pain as Danifae's morningstar slammed into Halisstra's back, smashing the priestess to her hands and knees.

Halisstra understood it all then. The pain of betrayal was even greater than the sharp ache of her shattered ribs. You could have warned me, Halisstra thought.

The bitter rebuke was directed at Eilistraee, but it was Qilue who answered, I tried.

Halisstra, at last hearing her, nodded weakly.

Danifae's morningstar slammed into her back a second time, knocking her to the ground. She dimly heard Danifae give an order to the draegloth, then its bestial roar.

Feliane answered with a battle song.

Danifae's fingers twined in Halisstra's hair and yanked her head up.

"Watch," Danifae said, her voice a harsh gloat.

Qilue did, through Halisstra's eyes. Feliane wounded the draegloth, but the monster didn't even slow. He slammed Feliane to the ground and began tearing at the priestess's body with his fangs.

Feliane screamed as her stomach was torn open.

Halisstra's vision blurred with tears.

Another gone to Eilistraee. Only Halisstra was left, and her mind was filled with despair and doubt.

"Have faith, Halisstra!" Qilue cried. "Eilistraee will-"

Danifae slammed a fist into Halisstra's temple. Sparks of pain exploded inside Qilue's mind as well, disrupting her awareness. She fought to cling to it as Halisstra coughed, weakly, blood dribbling from her lips. Halisstra turned her head slightly, looking up at Danifae. The other drow swung her morningstar in a lazy arc, her face ugly with cruel mirth.

Halisstra's despair brimmed over. I am not worthy, she thought. I have failed.

"No!" Qilue shouted. "You-"

Too late. She lost the connection. Her awareness was back in her own body, and she stared into the font. Perhaps it was not too late. She summoned silver fire and stabbed a finger into the water, unleashing a beam of pure white flame. Instead of blasting Danifae, however, the magical flame skipped off the surface of the holy water like a stone and ricocheted into the night.

The water in the font rippled, obscuring the scrying. Qilue could see movement-fragmentary glimpses of what was going on. A flash of silver: the Crescent Blade, picked up by Danifae and tossed contemptuously aside. The head of a morningstar, swinging in a deadly arc. Halisstra's eyes, brimming with tears. Danifae's face, twisted with hatred as she spat. Sound was likewise garbled. Halisstra's voice, faintly whispering, "Why?" Danifae's voice, haughty and triumphant: "… weak."

Qilue thrust a hand at the moon, clutching desperately for some other magic that could be channeled through the scrying.

"Eilistraee!" she cried. "Hear me! Your Chosen needs your aid!"

Behind her, the six lesser priestesses shot uneasy glances at one another. They crowded closer, prayers tumbling from their lips. "Eilistraee," they crooned. Swaying, they placed their hands on Qilue's shoulders, lending power to her prayer. Silver fire built once more around Qilue, brighter than before, but slowly. Too slowly.

The ripples in the font cleared. Words bubbled up from its depths. Danifae's voice, gloating.

"Good-bye, Halisstra."

Then the whistle of a descending morningstar.

Qilue heard a dull crunch, a sound like wet wood splintering. She looked down and saw collapsed bone and blood where Halisstra's face had been.

"No!" she cried as the image slowly faded from the font.

She plunged a hand into the water as if trying to pluck Halisstra from it. Holy water slopped over the edges of the font, trickling down its smooth stone sides like a flood of tears. Qilue channeled everything she had into one last spell and felt the water grow as warm as blood. Eilistraee had granted her the power to heal the most grievous of wounds with a touch. Even if Halisstra had slipped beyond life's door, Qilue could resurrect her with a word, but could the spell reach her? Would it have any effect in the domain of Eilistraee's greatest enemy?

It might. Lolth was silent, after all, her priestesses bereft of their power. That was why Halisstra had been sent on this quest, except that something had turned Qilue's last spell, and the souls streaming into the darkened tunnel had been moving towards… something.

The font was quiet and still. Images no longer filled it. Qilue lifted her dripping hand from the water.

One of the priestesses leaned closer, stared down into the font's blank depths. "Mistress Qilue," she whispered-mistakenly addressing her, in a moment of extreme tension, as a drow of the Underdark would address her matron. "Is she… dead? Is all lost?"

The other priestesses held their breath, waiting for Qilue's reply.

Qilue glanced up at the moon. Eilistraee's moon. Selune shone brightly, not yet diminished, the Tears of Selune twinkling in its wake.

"There is still hope," she told them. "There is always hope."

She needed to believe that, yet deep in her heart was a sliver of doubt.

Qilue stood beside the font for the rest of the night. The other priestesses crowded around her for a time, and she answered their nervous questions as soothingly as she could. When at last they fell silent, she sought to touch the mind of Eilistraee.

In a moonlit glade, deep in a forest that needed only the moon's light to thrive and grow, she found her goddess. Eilistraee was a drow-shaped glimmer of unspeakably beautiful radiance. Qilue touched that with her mind. She needed no lips to frame her question. The goddess poured moonlight into her heart, throwing the words that were scribed upon it into sharp relief. She answered in a voice that flowed like liquid silver.

"House Melarn will aid me yet."

Qilue sighed her relief. All was not lost. Not yet. If Eilistraee had indeed heard Qilue's prayer and revived Halisstra, there was still a chance that the Melarn priestess would slay Lolth.

"And House Melarn will betray me."

The glow that was the goddess flickered and grew dim.

Qilue started. Her awareness was back in her body again. She stood in the forest beside the font, the connection with her goddess at an end. The priestesses who had aided in her scrying were seated on the ground, clothed. Snow dusted their hair and shoulders. More snow fell and the sun was rising, a blood-red smudge against the clouds to the east. Much time had passed since Qilue had slipped into communion with Eilistraee, and the hand that gripped the edge of the font was covered in snow. She shook it off and shivered.

Something was wrong. She could feel it in the sick hollow that had opened in her stomach. Turning to the font, she cast a second scrying. Far easier than the first had been, its target was on Toril, at least, not in some deep hollow of the Abyss. The target was the matron mother of one of the noble Houses of Menzoberranzan-a priestess of Lolth. Qilue leaned closer and saw that the drow was wielding magic.

Sensing Qilue scrying her, Lolth's priestess stared a challenge at her observer. Wild laughter, joyous and cruel, bubbled from the font as she began a magical attack.

Qilue had seen enough. She ended the scrying.

One of the priestesses of Eilistraee who had waited with Qilue rose to her feet. "Lady Qilue?" she asked. She sounded nervous, uncertain. "Is something wrong?"

The other priestesses also rose, some whispering tense prayers, others silent with dread anticipation.

Qilue closed her eyes. Her shoulders slumped in defeat. "Halisstra has failed," she told them. "Lolth lives. Her Silence is broken."