Sacrifice of the Widow_ Lady Penitent - Lisa Smedman [3]
Halisstra’s next sword blow shattered it.
Halisstra burst from the collapsing ice, already running. She passed the body of a drow female whose throat had been slit. It was the priestess Uluyara. Dead.
Qilué fought down the lump in her throat. Uluyara’s part was done. She was with Eilistraee.
Halisstra ran, shouting, toward a drow female who held a dripping adamantine knife in her right hand and a whip with five writhing serpent heads in her left. That would be Quenthel, leader of the expedition from Menzoberranzan, a high priestess of Lolth. She had turned her back on Halisstra and was walking disdainfully away. A male drow walked beside Quenthel, his once elegant clothes torn and travel-stained. He must be, Qilué decided, the wizard Pharaun.
Halisstra had described for Uluyara each of the members of the expedition that had gone to Ched Nasad, and Uluyara had passed those descriptions on to Qilué. Quenthel and Pharaun had been mere names when Uluyara had come to the Promenade to discuss with Qilué what must be done, but they had become a threat that seemed very close at hand, despite the vast distance that lay between them and Qilué.
“Stop, Baenre!” Halisstra shouted at their backs. “Face us and let’s see which goddess is the stronger.”
The priestess and her male ignored Halisstra. They strode to a fissure in a high stone wall: the entrance to a tunnel. Translucent shapes—the moaning souls of the dead—flowed past them into the tunnel. As the souls entered it, their moans rose to howling shrieks. Quenthel spoke briefly with Pharaun, then stepped forward into the passage and was swallowed by the darkness.
“Face us, coward,” Halisstra shouted at the male.
Pharaun spared her a brief, undecided glance. Then he too stepped forward into darkness and disappeared.
Halisstra faltered to a halt at the mouth of the tunnel. The hand that gripped the Crescent Blade shook with anger.
Qilué touched a finger to the water, above Halisstra’s image. “Follow them, priestess,” she instructed. “At the other end lies Lolth. Remember your quest.”
Halisstra didn’t answer—if indeed she had heard. Something more immediate had captured her attention: a drow female with striking pale gray eyes who moved toward Halisstra, a morningstar held loosely in one hand. The female—it could only be Danifae, Halisstra’s battle-captive—apologized to her mistress, an apology that was patently insincere to Qilué’s ears. Yet Halisstra made no move to raise her weapon. Did she think that Danifae might yet be brought into the light?
Qilué touched the water. “Do not trust her, Halisstra. Be wary.”
Halisstra made no reply.
A third figure ambled into range of the scrying: a draegloth. Half demon and half drow, it had four arms, a snarling, bestial face and blood-matted mane of tangled off-white hair. It paid Danifae no attention; it clearly trusted her.
Qilué’s apprehension grew.
Halisstra stood her ground as the draegloth loomed over her. Staring defiantly up into its eyes, she told it that its mistress had abandoned it.
She raised the Crescent Blade and vowed, “I’ll have your heart for killing Ryld Argith.”
Qilué watched, concerned that Halisstra was no longer paying attention to Danifae, despite the fact that the battle-captive was easing behind her. The spiked ball of Danifae’s morningstar swung slightly as she lifted it.
“Halisstra!” Qilué shouted, but the priestess didn’t turn.
Ordinary mortals could employ only two senses through a scrying, those of sight and hearing, but Qilué was no ordinary mortal. Gripping the edges of the font with both hands, she sank her awareness deep into its holy water then into the mind of Halisstra