Sacrifice of the Widow_ Lady Penitent - Lisa Smedman [114]
They were almost done, and very little of the scroll remained. The link between Q’arlynd and the other two males was so strong that he could feel his heart beating in unison with theirs. The crystals, too, pulsed in time.
Ready? Malvag signed.
Valdar nodded.
So did Q’arlynd.
Q’arlynd started as he realized that Malvag had relinquished his hold, and Q’arlynd’s body was his own again. His surprise deepened as he realized the Nightshadow was giving him a choice. Q’arlynd could ruin the spell then and there by the simple act of shutting his mouth, or he could continue reading the scroll.
A choice. Something Qilué had offered him in name only. She’d been all too quick to back up that “choice” with a geas.
The gate loomed over Q’arlynd’s head, large enough, and clear enough, that he could see a dark forest within it one moment, a bleak and rocky pit the next. Eilistraee’s domain, and Vhaeraun’s, almost connected. Only two lines of the scroll remained.
Q’arlynd locked his eyes on it and continued to read, his voice in perfect cadence with the two Nightshadows.
“The bridge between realms is Woven,” he intoned. “The crossing is complete.”
As they completed the conjuration, the gate, fully formed, opened. Their masks flew from their faces and fluttered into it. A figure sprang through in their wake and vanished into the woods of Eilistraee’s domain: Vhaeraun, swords in hand, eyes gleaming gold above his black mask.
Hungry for Eilistraee’s blood.
Qilué landed in the cavern that was all that remained of the former temple of Ghaunadaur and looked around. The cavern was empty. The floor was a jagged field of rubble that had tumbled from the walls and ceiling to seal the deep pit into which Ghaunadaur’s avatar had been driven. Smaller fragments of stone hung above the floor, suspended by magic to form a mosaic-like statue of Eilistraee—the seal that capped the pit. The statue was posed as if dancing, balanced with the toes of one foot touching the floor and the other leg extended, arms sweeping up and out. Almost imperceptibly, the mosaic-statue’s pose was changing as the magic that animated the chips of stone went through a cycle that began anew with each full moon.
With a thought, Qilué shifted her awareness, enabling herself to see magic. The statue’s aura was a pure, sweet silver. The seal was untouched.
An instant later, Iljrene materialized beside her. The tiny battle-mistress was fully armored, a singing sword in her hand. Her doll-like face was set in a frown of determination as she took up a position beside Qilué. She held a hand to one delicately pointed ear and listened. “Here they come.”
Qilué, intent upon her prayer, merely nodded. She pointed a finger at the cavern’s only intact entrance, the foot of the staircase that twisted down from above. The sound of running footsteps echoed down it.
Jasmir, Qilué sent. Have any of our priestesses entered the staircase that leads to the Pit?
None, came the confident reply.
Qilué smiled. Silver fire danced in her hair and on her skin. Focusing it within her hand, she let it build to a ravening white flame. The silver fire roared, filling the cavern with a sudden, brilliant light. As the first of the Selvetargtlin burst into the room, Qilué hurled it at him. A streak of silver shot toward the base of the stairs, rippling the rubble floor below it as it went. It smashed into Selvetarm’s cleric, burning away his scarlet robe and turning the chain link lining below it red-hot. Qilué expected him to collapse, incinerated, but the Selvetarm kept coming, his flesh burning from his bones even as he ran. He charged the two priestesses,