Sacrifice of the Widow_ Lady Penitent - Lisa Smedman [108]
Qilué turned her attention back to the scrying bowl. Shifting her awareness, she concentrated on Jub. For the past few days, her attempts to scry him had been blocked by something. She’d assumed that to be Daurgothoth’s doing. The undead black dragon didn’t appreciate anyone peering into his lair, but as the marketplace of the abandoned city came into focus, she began to wonder. Why, suddenly, was she able to scry the dracolich’s lair? Had some protection suddenly fallen—or been removed?
The water in the bowl rippled then stilled. Qilué looked down on a severed head. Jub’s. It lay next to a foul-looking pool. What remained of the head was deeply pitted by acid.
“Eilistraee have mercy,” Qilué whispered.
Jasmir peered over her shoulder. “Who was it?”
“A lay worshiper. One who deserved better than that.” There was no time to mourn Jub’s loss. Later, when the crisis was at an end, she would send a priestess to recover what was left of Jub so that he could be resurrected.
She pulled her focus back, noting the vast, empty cavern. The Selvetargtlin seemed to have abandoned it, but where were they?
“Send a warning to each pair of Protectors,” she ordered. “An attack by the Selvetargtlin is imminent.”
“Lady, I have already told Iljrene about the warning,” Jasmir said, nodding down at the message on the floor. Her leaf-green eyes gleamed in anticipation of the battle to come. One slender hand rested on the hilt of her sword. Ready. “Iljrene is relaying it to the Protectors even as we speak.” She glanced down at the floor, her brow furrowed. “‘Jump on the temple,’” she repeated. “Does that mean the attack will come from above?”
Qilué shook her head, only half listening. The tide had finally turned in the Moonwood. The priestesses there were beating the chitines back. The battle in the Gray Forest was the same. The extra priestesses Qilué had sent had managed to drive the neogi off, and in the Shaar …
Something moved against her hip. Her bag bulged and thrashed, as if an animal were trapped inside it and was trying to claw its way out. Qilué swore and tore the bag from her belt, tossing it to the ground. She started to sing a spell, but before she could complete it, a knife blade pierced the bag from within. The bag suddenly ruptured in a tremendous explosion of magical energy that sent the water in the font sloshing back and forth.
Her ears still ringing from the blast, Qilué stared down at the spot where the magical bag had lain. The gem it had held was gone. No, not gone. Qilué kneeled and touched what felt like sharp-edged but sticky grit—the crumbled remains of the gem. Her fingers came away dotted with tiny flecks of blood.
All at once, she understood what form of conjuration magic the gem had contained. It had been the focus of a teleportation spell. Whichever Selvetargtlin it had been attuned to had teleported into Qilué’s magical pouch, realized something was wrong, and tried to cut his way free. Piercing the bag from within had ruptured the extradimensional space it enfolded—with disastrous results. The Selvetargtlin was as good as disintegrated.
This was the jump Jub had warned her about. And the cleric who’d teleported into her pouch wasn’t the only one making it. Sixty-five others would have made similar jumps. To other gems, like the one Thaleste had found. Gems that