Read Online Sacrifice of the Widow: The Lady Penitent, Book I by Lisa Smedman - Free Book Online

corrupted magic still dotted the Dales. Though the priestess responsible for it had been defeated, there were indications that at least one of the high-ranking Crones who served her might have survived. The handful of Eilistraee’s priestesses who ministered to the drow of the distant north had heard tales from the survivors of undead rallying around a ghostly Crone whose wailing keen was capable of slaying scores of drow at one go. Once slain they were added to her ghastly ranks. The tales were obviously an exaggeration, but the region would have to be watched carefully. If further disruptions in the Weave arose, Qilué would be forced to respond.
    Finally, from far to the south came troubling news that the cult of Ghaunadaur in Lurth Drier was becoming increasingly active. No longer content to prey upon each other, the drow of that Underdark city had burst onto the surface like an ugly boil, not far from Eilistraee’s temples in the Shaar and the Chondalwood. Something had caused them to set aside their relentless feuding and act as a cohesive force. Qilué prayed that an avatar of Ghaunadaur had not arisen there. If so, she would be forced to lead a contingent of priestesses south to drive it back below—a crusade that would seriously deplete the resources of the Promenade.
    The only one of Eilistraee’s enemies
not
currently active, it seemed, was Lolth. Indeed, the Spider Queen’s worshipers had not shown themselves in some time. That in itself was suspicious. Lolth, still and silent, was probably waiting patiently for the best moment to strike, while others did the work of tangling Eilistraee’s faithful in a web of conflict.
    The Darksong Knight had concluded her report and was standing in silence, waiting for Qilué’s response.
    “Walk with me,” Qilué told her.
    They had just returned from an inspection of the caverns where the aranea’s attack took place, and stood on the southern bank of the underground river that flowed past the Promenade at a spot where a recently constructed bridge arched high above the river. The original bridge had fallen into the river more than a century ago, but Qilué could still remember how it had looked when she fought her way across it with the companions who had helped her defeat Ghaunadaur’s avatar. The oozes and slimes had reduced its stone steps to rounded humps, making the footing treacherous. Ch’arla, one of Qilué’s childhood companions, had died, songsword in hand, at the very spot Qilué and Cavatina approached. The death had been a terrible blow, but Ch’arla’s soul danced withEilistraee. All pain was behind her.
    Pride welled in Qilué as she walked across the rebuilt bridge and considered the fruits that two decades of labor had produced. The Promenade was a place of beauty and tranquility, hewn from the depths of the Underdark. A place that had once held nothing but madness and despair had been made sacred and filled with folk made whole through Eilistraee’s grace. Every time she visited the Promenade, it brought a fierce ache to her heart and the sting of tears to the corners of her eyes. The sacrifices of so many centuries ago had been worth it, every last one of them.
    Below the bridge, the temple’s lay worshipers worked the river, hauling in fine-meshed nets filled with white, wriggling blindfish no longer than a finger. Others, baskets slung at their hips, collected lizard eggs and ripplebark fungus from the fissures that lined the cavern walls. Most were drow, converts from cities scattered throughout the Underdark, but there were also many who had been rescued from Skullport’s slave ships: surface elves, dwarves, humans—even the occasional halfling—who had turned to the goddess as a result. One of them, a stocky half-drow with bristly hair and protruding fangs that betrayed his orc father’s parentage, paused in his labors and made the sign of Eilistraee as Qilué and Cavatina passed him, touching forefinger to forefinger and thumb to