Sacrifice of the Widow_ Lady Penitent - Lisa Smedman [42]
“And you are to be that hand?” the leader asked, a hint of bitterness in her voice.
Dhairn lifted his chin. “Selvetarm is to be that hand,” he told her. “I am but his judicator.” He lifted his sword. “Come and be welcome in his faith. It is time to reclaim your place among the drow.”
It took a moment more, but the leader jumped from her tunnel and descended on a strand of web. As her spider legs touched the floor of the cavern, other driders followed her lead, some descending on strands, others scuttling down the walls. Soon Dhairn was surrounded by several dozen of the creatures, the majority of them male. None approached within sword range, and all had wary, distrustful expressions, but their eyes also held a cautious hope. They had lost their possessions, their status within their Houses, their ability to carve out their own destinies after their transformation and exile, and something more—the greatest sting of all. They bore the painful stigma of thinking they had been judged by their goddess and found wanting, of thinking that this failure had been branded upon their bodies for all the Underdark to see.
But someone had come to tell them that it was all part of the Spider Queen’s plan, that Lolth still carried them close to her dark heart, that there was a place for them in the web of life. And it was not just anyone who told them that, but a powerful cleric of Selvetarm, Lolth’s champion, a demigod whose form was similar to their own.
Dhairn could see that the driders ached to believe him, but they needed something more before they would allow themselves to accept his words as truth. Dhairn would give it to them—a bloody victory.
“There are indeed drow who are an abomination in Lolth’s eyes,” he told them, “drow who have strayed far from the web of life that Lolth intended us to weave, drow who live on the World Above and practice a blasphemous worship. This is to be your task: to be the scourge that either drives these blasphemers back into Lolth’s embrace—or that flays their traitorous flesh from their bones. It will be your chance to prove yourselves, a test you will not fail.”
He held his sword before him. Its blade was clean, the wizard-drider’s blood completely absorbed by its steel. He glanced from one drider face to the next. “Who of you will be the first to join the ranks of the Selvetargtlin?”
The driders hesitated, looking to their leader. She met Dhairn’s eye, taking his measure. Then she stepped forward, her spider legs clicking on the stone floor, and kneeled. “Chil’triss, of House Kilsek.”
Dhairn nodded. It was probably the first time in decades that she had used her House name.
“Chil’triss of House Kilsek,” he repeated, touching the tip of his blade to her cheek. Slowly, he drew the blade down her face, cutting a thin but bloody line diagonally from cheek to jawline. He repeated it, turning the line into an X. Two more lines, one horizontal, one vertical, completed the pattern: the radiating support lines of a web. “I welcome you to the ranks of the Selvetargtlin.”
When it was done, she smiled through the blood that dribbled down over lips and chin. Her fangs twitched with excitement, and a determined fire had rekindled in her eyes.
“Kneel,” she shouted at her people. “Join the swarm.”
Dhairn smiled.
Q’arlynd sat some distance from the campfire, cross-legged on the damp forest floor. Well inside the forest, almost at the shrine, there was a chill in the air. The mist that gave the forest its name clung to the ground in patches, leaving a thin sheen of moisture on everything it touched, but at least it was a little less bright under the trees. Their spreading branches filtered out the worst of the moonlight.
He drew his quartz from a pocket of his piwafwi and peered through the magical crystal at the surrounding forest. All was as it appeared. There were no hidden watchers lurking in these misty woods.