Sacrifice of the Widow_ Lady Penitent - Lisa Smedman [112]
A demon turned to stare at him. It crooked a cracked red finger, beckoning him closer.
“Lolth?” Q’arlynd croaked, desperate. “Anyone?”
Come.
Q’arlynd whirled. He saw nothing, but the voice came again. A male voice.
Return. To the land of the living. Will you return?
He recognized the voice: Malvag’s. Probably the last person he wanted to call him back from the dead, but anything was better than—
“Yes!” Q’arlynd screamed.
The Fugue Plain disappeared.
His body returned.
He lay on his back on a sharp, lumpy surface, his arms underneath him. His fingers were tightly pinched. It felt as though they’d been lashed together with wire. His throat ached and there was a faint taste of blood in his mouth. He spat.
Then he saw the two Nightshadows staring down at him, framed by the crystal-lined cavern, and realized where he was and what had just happened. He tried to hurl himself erect but only managed to flop over on his side.
“Y—”
His mouth froze. He was aware of a second presence inside his skull, the mind of the Nightshadow closest to him—Malvag, the cleric he had nearly killed with lightning bolts. Malvag’s eyes gleamed as he stared mercilessly down at Q’arlynd. The Nightshadow shook his head slightly and raised a warning finger. Q’arlynd’s master ring was on it. Malvag spoke directly to him, mind to mind.
No spells, slave.
Get out! Q’arlynd raged. The second ring must have been on one of his own fingers under the wire that bound them. Get out of my mind!
Malvag’s eyes crinkled in a mirthless smile. Get up.
When Q’arlynd hesitated, Malvag’s awareness shoved its rough way into his torso and legs. Q’arlynd found himself drawing his legs up against his body. He rolled onto his stomach, rose to his knees, and finally lurched to his feet. He swayed and nearly fell before Malvag found his balance. All the while, Q’arlynd raged. He was a Melarn, damn it. His House might be gone, but he was still of noble birth. Never—never—a slave.
He might as well have been shouting against a howling wind. Malvag’s laughter reverberated through his mind, overpowering Q’arlynd’s inner voice.
This, Q’arlynd realized suddenly, is what Flinderspeld must have felt like.
But Flinderspeld was a deep gnome, a race that was used to such indignities and bore them stoically. Q’arlynd was a drow. He was forced to suffer Malvag’s torments for the time being, but dark anger smoldered in his heart. The Nightshadow was going to pay for every moment. Pay dearly.
I doubt it, Malvag said.
Q’arlynd fell silent, not wanting to give the other male any further satisfaction.
Malvag walked him over to the drift disc that held the prayer scroll, and made him stand there, rigid. The second Nightshadow—the slender one—cocked an eyebrow and watched Q’arlynd, his eyes bright with fascination.
“Welcome back,” he said. “I guess, since you’re here, Eilistraee had no use for you.” He laughed. “But we do.”
Malvag pointed at the body of the Nightshadow Q’arlynd had turned to stone and spoke to the other male. “Get his mask.”
Q’arlynd tried to swallow but couldn’t. They knew. Everything. That he was Eilistraee’s—or would have been, if only the goddess had bothered to claim him, yet they’d brought him back from the dead. Something he’d agreed to. What had he been thinking?
Malvag must have been listening, but he made no comment.
Hands appeared from behind Q’arlynd, holding the dead man’s mask. It was tied into place around Q’arlynd’s face. Unlike the polymorphed gem, which had prickled Q’arlynd’s skin with a heat like raw pepper, this mask felt smooth as silk, but it was restless, shivering, afraid.
Valdar moved back around where Q’arlynd could see it. A smirk was in his eye. He pointed at the mask. “One of your friends from the Misty Forest. Go on—kiss her good-bye.”
Q’arlynd blinked—a concession Malvag allowed him. That was Rowaan’s soul in there. Q’arlynd felt a momentary twinge of guilt. He pushed it aside. Rowaan had