Sacrifice of the Widow_ Lady Penitent - Lisa Smedman [93]
He poked the head with the tip of his sword, rolling it over. “Did the intruder say or do anything before he died? Anything that would lead you to believe he was of a particular faith?”
“He couldn’t speak. He’d polymorphed himself into a spider.”
Dhairn inhaled sharply. “Lolth.” He whispered the name under his breath, the word sharp as a curse.
That didn’t bode well. The priestesses of Eryndlyn must have sent out another spy. When that one also failed to return, they would retaliate, but if all went well, the exiled Selvetargtlin that Dhairn led would have a permanent home soon enough, and a powerful new ally once the seals on the Pit were removed.
“Your presence here is drawing unwanted attention,” the dracolich observed.
“I agree.” Dhairn lifted his sword and rested the heavy blade on his shoulder. “But our forces are ready to strike. I’ll send a summons to our knights. As soon as they’ve loosed their respective companies and assembled here, we’ll mount our attack.”
The dracolich’s eyes glinted. “And my payment for providing the gems and the magic to attune them?”
Dhairn met the undead dracolich’s eye with a level stare. “The secrets to the creation of the chitines,” he promised, an irresistible lure for Daurgothoth, who had been trying for centuries to magically breed his own unique race of servitors, “and a one-sixth share of all the plunder we wrest from Undermountain over the next six hundred years.”
The dracolich gave Dhairn a baleful look. “See to it that you deliver on your promises.”
Dhairn bowed, the blade of his sword balanced on his shoulder. “By the strength of Selvetarm’s sword arm, we shall.”
Cavatina followed Halisstra through the woods. The shrine at Lake Sember was only two days behind them, but they had come to a region of Cormanthor that few trod. The elm and birch trees gradually thinned, giving way to towering black oaks with trunks as twisted as a wizard’s tower. Thorn trees grew thickly between them, their long, sharp spines tearing at Cavatina’s cloak. Halisstra shouldered her way through the undergrowth, the thorns snapping like glass against her tough skin.
Cavatina’s breath fogged in the chill air. So late in the year, the days were short and frost sparkled on the ground from sunrise to sunset, but under the twisted oaks, the ground was bare, black and soft, as if something had melted it from below. Instead of the clean tang of impending snow, Cavatina smelled a sickly-sweet odor, like rotting flesh. As the ground began to descend sharply, she realized where Halisstra was leading her.
“The Darkwatch,” she breathed.
Her mother had told stories of the place. Millennia ago, in an age before Myth Drannor was founded, the surface elves had imprisoned an ancient evil there—according to some, the god Moander. The taint lingered still. To venture into the Darkwatch was to court madness, a madness that unleashed unspeakable violence, the kind that would set sister against sister. Cavatina could feel it nibbling at her awareness even then. She hacked at a thorny branch, barely containing the urge to slash and slash until the tree was a splintered ruin.
Halisstra grinned back over her shoulder. “Scared?”
Cavatina gritted her teeth. “I’m a Darksong Knight. We don’t scare that easily.”
Halisstra nodded.
Cavatina wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her sleeve. She didn’t trust Halisstra, despite what Qilué had said. Just before Cavatina had set out, the high priestess had told her of the prophecy she’d received three years before about the Melarn. One from that House would aid Eilistraee—but another would betray her. As was foretold, two Melarn had shown up at a time of great need: Halisstra and one of her brothers. Which one would betray the goddess was still an open question, but if it was Halisstra, Cavatina would