Daughter of the Drow (20 page)

“That will do for now,” Dargathan said finally. “There are two main tenets of swordcraft: know the basics, and prepare for the unexpected. We’ve made a start on the first. With hard work and excellent instruction, there might yet be some hope for you.”

With that smug pronouncement, the male sheathed his sword and strode from the practice hall. Liriel waited until he reached the door, and then called his name.

Dargathan turned back to see his pupil holding her sword like a ready javelin, high and back over her shoulder. Her eyes gleamed with dangerous light as she hurled the weapon straight at him. The sword flew hard and true, and the blade wedged deep into the crack between the doorpost and wall. It quivered there, just inches from his wide-eyed face.

“Thank you for the lesson, most excellent of instructors,” Liriel said sweetly, hands on hips and stance tauntingly feminine. “But perhaps next time we should work on preparing for the unexpected?”

To further underscore her point, she snatched her bolo from a hidden pocket and began to twirl it overhead. The male turned and fled the room, his superior airs completely abandoned.

It was possible, Liriel noted as she tucked her preferred weapon back out of sight, to have a little fun now and again even in Arach-Tinilith.

As soon as the evening chapel was over, Liriel hurried to her room. Nothing, not even the burning stiffness brought on by her grueling practice session, could deter her from making her final journey to the surface. For her last secret jaunt out, no other destination would suffice.

Liriel quickly dressed and armed herself. She noticed as she did that her piwafwi had lost a bit of its luster, that her tread in the enchanted elven boots was a little less silent. It amazed her that an hour’s visit to the surface could so diminish her drow magic. How, she wondered, did the priestesses of Eilistraee survive? How much of their magic, their heritage, did they abandon ao they could dance in the moonlight? Were they drow still, or merely dark-skinned faerie? These were but a few of the questions she wanted to ask of the Dark Maiden’s priestesses.

The young wizard quickly studied the spells she would need, then summoned the portal that would take her into Kharza-kzad’s study. She hoped her tutor was already asleep so she might be spared his endless questions. But to her surprise, low, angry male voices came from the wizard’s private rooms. Her natural curiosity urged her to investigate; Kharza was such a reclusive sort that the presence of another dark elf in his retreat must signal something truly momentous.

But the moonlight beckoned her with a call too powerful to be ignored, and once again she made her way through the whirling tunnel that led to the forest glade.

Again she found herself on her knees clutching the ground. Again came the startling impact of the vivid green that surrounded her on every side. And again she heard the dark elven music, the eerie, twisting melodies that were so familiar. Of course, in the Underdark, such music would not be played on a harp. The drow considered that instrument to be both insipid and disturbing. But here, in the moonlight, the delicate silvery tones of the harp sounded somehow right and fitting.

Liriel quickly made her way toward the music. The sound was easier to follow this time, for she anticipated the odd, linear path music took through the open air, and she followed it straight back toward the Dark Maiden’s glade. So different, this world. Liriel was accustomed to tracing sounds that were sifted through layers of magic, that echoed and reverberated through a labyrinth of rock. Here, the source of any single sound might be simpler to discern, but the demands on her ears were so much greater.

The dark passages of the Underdark, the teeming cavern that held Menzoberranzan: though far from silent, these places were cloaked in an ominous hush. Here all was cheerful cacophony. Tiny, harmless insects chirped all around her, and plump little waterlizards sang their songs. The trees sang too, with a whispery rustle of wind-tossed leaves. The sounds of this starlit land were like its colors—too vivid, too varied. This world taxed the senses in ways even exuberant Liriel had not imagined possible. Here her every nerve felt raw and exposed. She had never felt so small, so overwhelmed.

She had never felt so alive.

Liriel ran through the maze of green and brown toward the firelit glade. There she found the priestesses of Eilistraee, all clad in silvery gowns and sipping from mugs of some steaming, fragrant brew. Ysolde Veladora looked up at LirieFs approach and beckoned her closer.

“I am glad you returned tonight, little sister,” she said in a joyful voice as she rose to greet Liriel. “We have another visitor, someone who is anxious to meet you.”

Another drow rose to stand beside Ysolde. Liriel gasped, and the strange stories of the Time of Trouble became instantly, frighteningly real. It was whispered that Lloth had walked the streets of Menzoberranzan in the form of a tall, too-beautiful female drow. This strange female, then, could be none other than Eilistraee herself.

The drow stood fully six feet tall, and silvery radiance lingered about her like captured moonlight. Hair the color of spun silver spilled nearly to her feet, and her flowing robe flickered with its own light. Even her eyes were silver, larger than those of most drow and framed with thick, pale lash-es. Her skin was as dark as Jjriel’s own, and it shone proudly black in the brightness that surrounded her.

Awed and fearful, Liriel sank to her knees. She had doubted any goddess but Lloth could exist, and now her unquestioning faith in the Spider Queen would mean her death. The young drow’s hand crept up to the sacred symbol that hung about her neck. It marked her as a follower of Lloth, a novice priestess of the Lady of Chaos. In her homeland, those who called upon any deity but Lloth were summarily slain. She had little doubt what her fate would be at Eilistraee’s hands.

Ysolde’s smile faltered at the girl’s strange reaction. Understanding came quickly, and consternation flooded her face. She darted forward and lifted the young drow to her feet. “Liriel, there is no need for fear. This is my mother, Qilue Veladorn. She is a priestess of the Dark Maiden, as are we all.”

The tall drow smiled, and her silver eyes reassured the girl. 1 hear you are a traveler, Liriel Baenre. I, too, am far from my chosen home. Join us, if you would, and perhaps we wanderers can exchange stories of distant lands.”

Liriel still felt dazed, but she was drawn in by the beautiful drow’s warmth and charm, and she allowed Ysolde to lead her to the fireside. For a time she was content to sit, to sip her mug of hot spiced wine, and to listen as the other females talked. The priestesses treated Qilue with great deference, and they were full of questions about her work in the Promenade Temple. LirieFs natural curiosity did not allow her to remain silent for long.

“Where is this temple? Is it in the forest as well?”

Qilue smiled. “No. The Promenade lies near Skullport, a place that has precious little in common with this peaceful glade.”

“Skullport,” Liriel mused. The sound of it was intriguing, tantalizing the imagination with suggestions of dangerous adventure and the promise of the open sea. “Where is this place?”

“It is an underground city, much like your Menzoberranzan, and it lies hidden far below the great coastal city of Waterdeep. Most of Waterdeep’s inhabitants know little about the lands beneath their feet, and not many venture into its depths. Of those who do, few survive. It is a dangerous, lawless place.” Qilue’s voice was grim, and her lovely face saddened as she spoke.

“If you feel that way, why do you stay there?” Liriel asked.

“We are needed,” the priestess said simply.

That was too simple for Liriel to absorb. She had been raised to examine everything for layers of meaning and motive, and it seemed to her there must be something more to the situation than Qilue was admitting. Was Skullport like the Underdark, in that the drow could not remain away for long without losing their powers?

“Can’t you cast magic on the surface?” she blurted out.

Qilue looked surprised. “Yes, of course. The Dark Maiden hears and answers her Chosen wherever they might be.”

Liriel nodded thoughtfully. What the priestess spoke of was clerical magic, of course, which was much different from the innate power she herself had wielded since childhood. Still, it was something. She wondered if Lloth could hear her, so far from the chapels of Menzoberranzan. Her hand crept up to the Spider Queen’s symbol, and she silently spoke the words of the clerical spell that would enable her to read the thoughts of this regal drow.

Not a glimpse came to her, not a whisper. The spell did not work; the prayer went unanswered. In the Lands of Light, she was truly alone.

She looked up to see Qilue’s kind eyes upon her. “Ysolde tells me you are an accomplished wizard, with many gate spells at your command. So tell me, what is your next destination?”

“This will be my last trip to the surface for many years,” Liriel admitted sadly. “I am not supposed to leave Arach-Tinilith until my training is complete. So far I’ve been lucky, but I would be caught sooner or later. My people, to put it mildly, would not approve.”

“I see. And their approval is so important to you?”

“My survival is important to me,” she returned bluntly.

Qilue was silent for a long moment. “You have other choices.”

To dance in the moonlight,” Liriel said bitterly. That is a fine thing, but then what? What of the dawn? I would be hated and hunted by every human and faerie elf under the sun, without even the simplest magic to shield me.”

She gathered up a corner of herpiwafwi in her hand and shook the glittering cloak in Qilue’s face. “Look at this: it dims by the moment. So far from the powers of the Underdark, its magic is fading. In my homeland, I can walk silent and invisible. Here I would be vulnerable, visible to all eyes. My weapons, my armor, my spell components—all would be melted by the sun.”

“You would not be helpless,” Ysolde put in. “You have a sword.”

Liriel groaned and clasped the aching muscles of her sword arm. “Don’t remind me! So what you’re saying is that I would have to depend upon the least of my abilities for survival. Thank you, but no.”

“You would learn new ways,” Ysolde said.

That’s what I’m afraid of!” Liriel said passionately. “You don’t understand at all.
cannot abandon my heritage. I can’t forget the drow culture, or lose my innate magic, or give up all I have learned through three decades of study in dark-elven wizardry! Perhaps that might seem like nothing more than a collection of customs and powers and spells to you, but it’s what I am.”p>

Qilue laid a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Let her be, Ysolde. We all must follow the path that is given us,” she said in gentle rebuke. To Liriel she said, “You have come here to learn. Since your time with us is short, why don’t you ask whatever questions you might have?”

The older female’s forthright, considerate manner took Liriel by surprise. Never one to refuse an opportunity, she asked about Rashemen and the customs of the land.

“Rashemen lies far to the east of here,” Qilue began. “It is ruled by Witches, wise women who wield a powerful, little-understood magic. One of my sisters studied among them for a time.” She paused, and a slight smile curved her lips. “Many called her Witch, but few understood why.”

The Witches of Rashemen would grant a drow such training?” Liriel asked in disbelief. “Are these humans utter fools?” In Menzoberranzan, magical secrets were carefully hoarded, grudgingly shared. This was not merely an issue of greed, but survival. Any weapon given to another drow would almost certainly be raised against the giver.

“They taught my sister,” the priestess responded with careful emphasis, “knowing they had nothing to fear from her. What is your interest in this land?”

“In the Underdark I came upon a human male. He called himself Fyodor of Rashemen and told me he was on dajemma—a journey of exploration.”

“That is their custom,” Qilue agreed, “but I’m surprised one of them would venture Below. The people of Rashemen are generally fearless, but they do not throw away their lives.” lfYou haven’t met Fyodor, then,” Liriel said dryly. “He seemed pretty determined to do just that. Tell me, do you know of a people called the Rus?”

The priestess accepted the quick change of subject without comment. “There was such a people, many centuries past. Over the years they mingled their blood with the folk of many lands, so much of their language and customs have been lost. The old ways are strongest on the island of Ruathym.”

“Did the Rus go so far as Rashemen?”

The priestess considered. “I am no sage, but I seem to recall that long ago, before the forests and rivers of the Anauroch turned to dust, Rashemen was overrun and settled by a race of seagoing barbarians who traveled as far inland as the rivers allowed. I had never drawn a connection between the two, but now that I consider the matter I see the ancient magics of these two lands have much in common.”

She held up a hand to forestall Uriel’s next question. “Of these magics, I know little. All I know is this: both cultures are strongly linked to their lands. Both draw magic from special places of power, as well as the spirits that dwell there.”

Liriel nodded. She knew all too well that the Underdark had its own sites of power. It was that, perhaps more than anything, that tethered her to the lands below, for her people’s dark magic drew heavily on the strange radiations of the Underdark.

“The Witches rule their land, so they must remain within its borders,” Liriel reasoned. “But what of the Rus, who traveled constantly? It seems unlikely they would leave such power behind.”

“Of the Rus, I do not know,” Qilue admitted. “From the old tales, I would guess most of those raiders depended on the sword and the axe rather than upon magic. But the Witches can and do travel, although infrequently. My sister spoke of a unique artifact, an ancient amulet that could store the magic of such places in the event the Witches needed to leave their land.”

“An amulet,” Liriel repeated, thinking of the tiny golden dagger she had glimpsed in Fyodor’s mind. “Do you know what it looks like?*