Sacrifice of the Widow_ Lady Penitent - Lisa Smedman [103]
Urz’s eyes crinkled above his mask. “And the others?”
As if in answer, Valdar appeared in the cavern. The slender-boned male landed with a cat’s grace on the crystals, a bloody dagger in one hand. He nodded to the others, pulled a lace-trimmed cloth out of a pocket of his piwafwi, and wiped the blade. His pink eyes held a glint of amusement.
“Sorry to be late. I had a little unfinished business to attend to. It’s finished, now.”
That said, he slid his dagger into a wrist-sheath. He wore a wrist-crossbow on his other arm, and the ties of his piwafwi were stiff from the ends of a strangle cord. He moved with a grace that would have put a tavern dancer to shame, picking his way with silent footfalls over the crystals on the floor. He took up a position that put him equidistant from both males, close enough that he could step inside the range of a crossbow but far enough apart that he could dance away from a drawn blade.
Malvag’s eyes narrowed slightly. Valdar didn’t quite trust the others yet, nor did Malvag fully trust him, but mutual trust was essential for the ritual to work.
Valdar cocked his head to the side, silently reading the scroll. Urz stood with his arms folded across his chest, staring across the cavern, waiting placidly. Malvag tapped a foot impatiently as the night lengthened. Midnight approached—the deadline Malvag had set for the others’ return—and still Szorak didn’t appear. Malvag started to wonder if something had happened to him. Four clerics—and four souls—would make the ritual that much more certain and would ensure that the gate opened, but it looked as though Szorak had failed them. Or perhaps—a darker thought that Malvag allowed to alight in his mind only briefly—it had been Szorak’s blood on Valdar’s blade. Fewer to reap the rewards.
Malvag shrugged off that thought. As long as the three could work together, it didn’t matter.
“It’s nearly midnight,” he told the others. “We must begin.”
He turned the drift disc so that the scroll faced him, and indicated where the others should stand, Urz on his right, Valdar on his left. Urz moved readily into the indicated spot, and Valdar eased in sideways.
“I will commune with Vhaeraun,” he told them. “At my signal, we’ll begin to read. It’s important that each of you not get ahead of the others or lag behind. We—”
A startled shout filled the cavern. A drow male appeared in mid-air, arms and legs flailing as he fell. He’d materialized about a dozen paces above the cavern floor, and only just managed to check his fall in time. Levitating, he twisted awkwardly in place, his feet scrabbling against the bumpy crystal floor. Then he stood, smoothing his clothes.
“Szorak!” Urz called. “You’re just in time. We were about to begin without you.”
“My apologies,” the newcomer said from behind his mask. “I must have miscalculated the teleport. I forgot how big this place is.” He glanced around then nodded to himself. “Perfect for tonight’s dark deeds.”
Malvag frowned. Szorak seemed … different, somehow. It took Malvag a moment to put a dagger point on it. The voice. It was lower, huskier, and at the same time somehow tight with tension. And Szorak’s body language was off. He leaned slightly forward, a posture that caused the lower half of his mask to hang away from his lips and chin, as if he was loath to touch it.
As if overhearing Malvag’s thoughts, Szorak reached under his mask and rubbed his throat. “The bitch managed to cast a spell,” he said, “one that transferred her injuries to me.” He gave a croaking laugh. “I nearly wound up strangling myself.”
Urz chuckled.
“Clumsy,” Valdar breathed under his mask.
Malvag frowned. “I’ve never heard of such a spell.”
“Nor had I.” Szorak shrugged. “It must be something new the priestesses have come up with.” His hand dropped away from his throat. “But I trapped a soul, nonetheless.”
It was an odd turn of phrase. Trapped a soul. Not “stole.” Something