Windwalker (19 page)

The elf rose to her feet and brushed off her clothes. “If you like, I can summon a gate that will take you to the High Forest and cut days from your travel.”

An expression of alarm crossed Liriel’s face. She told Sharlarra what had transpired in Skullport. As she listened, the elf pondered the possible ramifications of her involvement in the plight of these two fugitives. But where would she be if Laerel hadn’t stood with her when she was ass-deep in sewer snakes?

Sharlarra shrugged off Liriel’s warnings. “I’m not afraid of Lolth.”

The drow’s eyes flamed. “Then you’re a fool!”

“I’ve heard that,” she said mildly, “but at least I’m a fool who knows some useful spells.”

Liriel pursed her lips, considered. “Perhaps you can help me with this.”

She unrolled a tapestry and explained to what it was.

Sharlarra was doubtful but she gave it a try. Several failed spells later, a simplified legend lore spell yielded one important bit of information.

She shook his head. “This is elf magic. Ironically, it’s the one school of magic I know nothing about.”

“Faerie elves,” Liriel said, speaking the words like a curse.

“Never heard of them,” Sharlarra said easily. “We’ve got moon elves—they’re usually ready for a good time—gold elves, about whom the less said the better, forest elves and wild elves—the lines there tend to blur a bit—and sea elves. Legend has it that there once were elves known as avariel, winged elves. There might still be some, for all I know. We’ve even got lythari, elves who can transform into wolves. But faerie elves?”

“That’s what we call all elves who are not drow.”

“Well, maybe it’s time to learn some new insults,” she suggested. “You want to get a moon elf’s blood boiling, call him a gray elf. To really flick off a gold elf, call him a moon elf.”

Liriel took this in. “There really is that much division between the elf races?”

“Stupid, isn’t it?”

The drow was quick. Sharlarra saw the flash in her eyes as she caught the point, the thoughtful gleam as she considered it.

“Elf art and magic has been around for a very long time,” the thief continued. “I heard that you saw the ruins of Ascarle. The elves who built it were overcome centuries ago, and the magic that lingered was altered to fit a darker purpose. It is much the same in Myth Drannor. The ancient mythal still exists, and there are many who seek ways to twist it.”

“My people among them,” Liriel added. Sharlarra saw the drow’s quick, rueful smile, and knew that this bit of information had clicked into place. Reluctantly, she rose to leave, and with a start she realized that she really didn’t part ways with the drow. Already there seemed to be a bond between them, an easy sisterhood that was compelling as it was unexpected.

“There’s a hunter after you,” she said bluntly. “A tall elf woman who calls herself Thorn. She’s a champion of Eilistraee, which means she’s got some magic to back up her weapons. Watch yourself.”

“I will walk with you for a while,” Fyodor offered.

Sharlarra untied her horse and led it back toward the spring. They paused in the clearing. The Rashemi threw back his head and drew in a long, slow breath.

“There is winter in the air,” he commented. “Already the leaves turn to scarlet and gold. In a ten-day, many will fall.”

The thief nodded. She remembered enough of woodcraft to realize the difficulty of passing unseen through a denuded woods. The roads would be crowded with caravans carrying goods to far-flung cities and villages, in preparation for the late harvest markets and the long winter that followed.

For reasons she found it impossible to name, the thought of Rashemen stirred something inside her. Almost irresistibly, she found her eyes drawn east. She looked at the Rashemi thoughtfully.

“My offer to open the gate to the High Forest still stands.”

“It is a risk,” Fyodor acknowledged.

“What isn’t when you’re traveling with a drow?”

The Rashemi grimaced and nodded. “You understand perfectly. I wished to have private words with you for another reason. This elf you described, this Thorn. She is a Moon Hunter, and it is not Liriel she follows. The witches of Rashemen sent her after me. If I fall in battle, she will see me home.”

Sharlarra nodded thoughtfully. “My people feel strongly about resting amid the roots of their homeland’s trees. Thanks for telling me.”

“Who are your people?”

The question, though reasonable, set Sharlarra back on her heels. “Oh you know. The People. Elves,” she said lightly.

Fyodor merely smiled. “My offer stands, as well. Come to Rashemen, listen to legends of elf maidens with amethyst eyes.”

Her own gem-like eyes grew thoughtful, but she offered no response.

He watched as the elf sped through the complicated gestures of a spell. An oval of liquid magic appeared. Fyodor noted that the trees beyond were faintly visible through it. It was a marvel to him that they could walk through this veil and emerge far away.

This thought brought another to mind. “The horses?”

Sharlarra shook her head regretfully. “Two people, no more. It’s the best I can do.”

“No matter. We would have to lead the horses through most of the forest anyway. Would you return them to their owners, with my thanks?”

“How do you know they’re not mine?”

The Hashemi merely lifted one brow. The elf grinned and swung herself into the saddle. She cantered off, the other two horses close behind.

Fyodor squared his shoulders in preparation for battle and returned to camp. To his surprise, Liriel offered no argument. She swiftly gathered up her things and followed him to the clearing.

They stepped through the iridescent gate—and into an encampment of drow females.

The dark elves reacted like birds startled into flight. Those who appeared to be sleep were on their feet in a heartbeat, weapons in hand. Dancers clad in gowns the color of moonlight dived for their swords. A tight circle formed around the two companions, and beyond that, another.

For a long moment the drow females sized up their captives. “Que’irrerar stafir la temon?” inquired one of them.

The language was similar to the drow language Liriel had spoken since birth, but the intonation was different—softer, more fluid, with gentle trills rather than hard, clicking sounds. Judging from their garb, Liriel guessed they were priestesses of the Dark Maiden. She shook her head to indicate that she did not understand and took off the medallion Qilué had given her.

One of the drow, a tall female clad in a filmy gown, strode forward and seized the medallion.

“Whom did you kill in order to get this talisman?” she demanded.

Liriel bristled at the accusation. “No one,” she snarled. “Now ask me whom I’m willing to kill in order to keep it.”

The leader swept a glance across her ranks. All but one stepped back. The one who lingered handed the drow a sword.

Fyodor started forward. His progress was halted by a dozen silver blades—and a burst of magic that froze him as surely as a white dragon’s breath. Apparently the leader intended to take Liriel’s comment as a challenge and would brook no interference or distraction. He watched helplessly as his friend drew her sword and fell into guard position.

“Dolor,” the female snapped, naming herself according to the drow custom.

“Liriel.”

A strange expression crossed the priestess’s face, and her sword lowered just a bit. Sensing an advantage she did not quite understand, Liriel lunged.

The female spun away, light as thistledown, and responded with a lightning-quick riposte. Liriel leaped above the blade, employing her levitation ability to gain height.

A murmur of surprise rippled through the company, quickly taking on angry overtones. Fyodor’s heart sank. This simple act, so natural to Liriel, had indelibly marked her as a drow of the Underdark. Few drow could bring their innate magic to the surface, much less retain it for any length of time.

The priestess was not to be outdone. She pointed her sword toward Liriel and flung her free hand toward the moon. A thin stream of light filtered through the trees in a sharply slanting stream and fell upon the drow’s bare feet. She slid up the moonbeam toward Liriel, sword leading.

Liriel released her levitation spell, dropping out of range. Her opponent also leaped to the ground and landed in a crouch. She tamped down like a cat and hurled herself at the smaller drow. Liriel fell flat, rolled away. In a quick fluid motion she rose and leaped forward into a deep lunge. The other drow parried.

The moon rose high, and the silent stars watched as the deadly dance continued. Liriel fought as best she could, but the other drow was taller, stronger, more skilled. Some instinct Fyodor did not understand prompted the drow female to keep the pace fast and furious—too fast for Liriel to draw one of her many throwing weapons. Forced to react, she could never make the battle her own.

The numbness in Fyodor’s hand gave way to a painful prickling. With effort, he managed to edge it slightly toward his sword. The drow females encircling him leaned in, and the tips of a dozen swords pierced the skin of his neck.

“If you move again, you die,” snarled one of the drow.

The threat caught Liriel’s ear. She snapped her gaze back toward him, her eyes wide with anguish and denial.

That moment of inattention was all the priestess needed. She lunged, her sword scraping along Liriel’s until the hilts met and tangled.

Liriel went for a knife. The other drow seized her wrist. A quick twist disarmed Liriel and sent her weapon flying. A second twist brought her to her knees. Dolor laid the edge of her sword against the vanquished drow’s throat.

A throaty growl pierced the expectant hush, and a tall, black-haired elf woman appeared in the clearing. She took in the situation in a glance then threw herself at Liriel’s captor.

They rolled together. Liriel scuttled away away from battle and toward her discarded sword. The pale-skinned elf quickly overcame Eilistraee’s priestess, though it seemed to Fyodor that the drow didn’t put up much of a resistance.

Liriel snatched up her sword and crouched in guard position. “You and me, Thorn,” she said, beckoning the elf on with one hand.

The elf woman sniffed and turned back to the priestess. “I can appreciate your concern, Dolor, but this drow is under my watch.”

“Your protection?” the priestess said in disbelief.

“My watch,” the elf repeated firmly. “If she needs killing—and I’m not convinced that she doesn’t—the task falls to me.”

UNPLEASANT TRUTHS, DANGEROUS LIES

Shakti made her way back to House Hunzrin openly and in triumph. She had been honored by Matron Triel Baenre. No matter what Gromph Baenre heard, he would not dare move against her.

Not yet, at least.

A lone priestess paced the courtyard of the Hunzrin compound, glancing toward the gate every few steps. Shakti recognized her mother and smiled.

The guards at the gate did not immediately recognize her. She showed them her house insignia and gave them a pop-eyed glare. They made the connection and ushered her through.

She approached her mother and dropped to one knee. “Matron Kintuere,” she said formally.

The older drow studied her with narrowed eyes. “What is the meaning of this long absence? You left the academy—the city!—

without my permission. Now I must learn of your return through rumors and servants’ gossip?”

Shakti rose, also without her mother’s permission. “I was removed from the academy by Triel Baenre and sent on a secret mission.”

Kintuere sneered. “Aren’t we grand. What was the nature of this mystery? Purchasing rothé studs to improve the herd? Seeking out a new variety of mushroom?”

“Quenthel Baenre was restored to life. That is all I can tell you,” Shakti said calmly.

Matron’s eyes widened then flicked to the snake head whip on Shakti’s belt. A tiny movement, but telling. She understood that her daughter and heir was more powerful than she, and in this knowledge she saw her own death.

That was the way of the drow, and for a moment Shakti was tempted to claim her inheritance here and now.

“I am not yet ready to take on the mantle of matron,” she told the older female. “I have other tasks to attend. Rule well, mother, and you will rule long.”

She strode off without waiting for dismissal and made her way to her old suite of rooms. The servants and guards nodded to her as she passed with greater deference than she had ever been shown. Perhaps the news of her audience with Triel had spread. Perhaps they had merely observed the shift of power that had occurred in the courtyard and adjusted their behavior accordingly.

After bathing and dressing herself in fresh robes, Shakti dismissed her slaves and slid a page of parchment from its hiding place—a slim crack between two dressed stones. This was a page she had taken from one of Liriel’s lore books quite some time ago.

She made her way to Narbondel, the heat-filled pillar that marked the passage of time, and awaited the coming of midnight and the arrival of Menzoberranzan’s archmage.

Gromph Baenre appeared suddenly at the base of pillar, splendid in his glittering piwafwi and fine robes. Shakti watched the enchanting of the magic timepiece, the dramatic chants and gestures that kindled the rising heat anew.

Always before she had seen only the ceremony and the power. Now she understood this ritual for what it was: a short chain that tethered the archmage to the city.

Gromph Baenre finished the casting and spun away. Taking a terrible risk, she wrapped herself in her piwafwi and fell into step with him.

I know you’re there, announced a mellifluous male voice, speaking directly to her mind. Why don’t you say what you came to say and have done with it?

“My lord—”

SILENTLY! thundered Gromph’s voice. Think the words you would say. I will hear them plainly enough.

Shakti nodded, having no doubt that the great archmage perceived the gesture. Liriel is dead. The amulet she carried is being returned to Rashemen’s witches.

No emotion crossed Gromph’s face, not even a reaction to the loss of his talented daughter.