Sacrifice of the Widow_ Lady Penitent - Lisa Smedman [109]
“Lady Qilué,” Jasmir asked, her voice tight with worry.
“What is it?”
Qilué didn’t bother to answer. She whirled and grasped the sides of her scrying bowl. Images flashed through the holy water one after another: the caverns south of the Sargauth River, and the rooms in the ceiling above them. Nothing. All were empty.
“Where?” she said, her voice tight. “Where?”
Jasmir tensed. Her lips parted to frame a question. Closed again.
Qilué shifted her attention to the Promenade itself. She made a sweep of the Hall of Healing, the priestess’s cavern, the main living quarters, the garrison and armory, the Cavern of Song and the Moonspring. Nothing. Nothing.
All empty. No Selvetargtlin.
Where were they? One of the connecting corridors, perhaps?
As a corridor near the river came into view, Qilué saw what she’d been dreading. Selvetargtlin dropped into that corridor through a hole in the ceiling and fanning out into adjoining passages like an erupting hill of termites. Half a dozen of them, led by a judicator, had already reached the Cavern of Song. As Qilué watched, horrified, they toppled the statue, revealing the hidden staircase that led to the Pit of Ghaunadaur and disappeared down it. The Selvetargtlin immediately behind the judicator carried an iron rod, its perfectly spherical head so dark that looking at it was like staring down the deepest well. Qilué recognized it at once as a rod of cancellation, its disjunctive magic capable of snuffing out even the most powerful of magic, including the seals on Ghaunadaur’s Pit.
Silver fire flared around Qilué as she used her magic to shout a warning to all of the Protectors at once.
The Selvetargtlin have breached the southern corridors of the Promenade. All Protectors converge there at once! Iljrene, to me, at the Mound.
Jasmir gasped. She, too, had heard the warning. Metal rasped as she drew her sword from its scabbard.
“Ready, Lady!” she cried.
Qilué touched the other priestess’s shoulder. “I need you here. Continue scrying. Direct the Protectors to where they’re most needed.”
Jasmir’s shoulders slumped, but only for a moment. “Yes, Lady,” she said briskly, turning her attention to the font.
Qilué meanwhile sang a prayer that would send her to Eilistraee’s mound.
As Jasmir and the scrying room vanished from sight, Qilué wondered who would arrive at the Mound first. She and Iljrene—or the judicator and his Selvetargtlin.
Still invisible, Cavatina bounded with long, graceful strides toward the spot where Selvetarm stood. As she moved into position, she squinted to protect her eyes from the strands of web that blew on the breeze. They turned invisible as they stuck to her, but she could feel them fluttering like streamers behind her as she loped toward the spot where the demigod stood. She didn’t waste time trying to circle around behind Selvetarm. The demigod, even though his eyes were in the front of his drow head, could see in all directions at once, like a spider.
She had cast every protective spell on herself that she could, but offensive prayers would be useless. A mortal might succumb to her spells but never a demigod. With his vast powers, Selvetarm would instantly negate anything she threw at him. Worse yet, his fighting prowess was without equal. Selvetarm would see through any feint she might try, would read the slightest shift of her posture or grip and anticipate any thrust long before it came. His own moves would be impossibly swift and smooth, and no wonder. He had been birthed, after all, by Zandilar the Dancer, an elf deity equal in grace to Eilistraee herself.
Cavatina was certain she would get only one swing. All she could do was trust in the power of the Crescent Blade and in the strength of her own sword arm.
She should have been terrified as she made her way toward the hulking demigod. She wasn’t. Instead, a thrill of anticipation shivered through her.