Windwalker (23 page)

“Wolf traps,” Thorn said coldly. “These drow are raiders, dwellers of the Underdark. They take joy in wanton killing. Elves, animals, humans—it matters not to them. They died the death they planned for others.”

Liriel let out her breath in a long, slow whistle. “You don’t take prisoners, do you?”

“At least I did not take their hides,” Thorn pointed out. “Return to the matter at hand. These drow are not allied with Vhaerun’s worshipers. Examine their insignia. They are of the Underdark.”

“You said that before. Why is it important?” Fyodor asked.

“Cast a spell that reveals magic, and you will see.”

The drow shrugged and cast the simple spell. Instantly an azure haze filled the clearing. Nearly everything owned by the dead drow glowed: boots, cloaks, weapons.

She looked up at Thorn. “These raiders have been dead for many days. All of this should have faded by now.”

“It should have, yes.”

Liriel shook her head in astonishment. “How is this possible? I haven’t been away from the Underdark for very long. When I left, ‘ no one could fashion spells or magical items strong enough to withstand the sun. Is it possible that drowcraft has changed so quickly?”

“Something has changed,” the elf agreed. “How this happened and what it means is not yet clear. Those who believe the gods know more than mortals, and who have observed the Spider Queen’s interest in you might conclude that you play some part in this.”

Liriel sat down heavily on a fallen log. “What is going on?”

“That is for Zofia Othlor to discover.” The elf’s eyes went to Fyodor. “The witch who set me upon your path spoke of your quest for the Windwalker. She saw the drow in a vision.”

“She saw Liriel?” he marveled, an edge of hope in his voice. “She saw what would be and approved?”

Thorn made a small, scornful sound. “You know better than that. Visions speak in symbols. The witch saw a raven with golden eyes wearing the amulet around its neck.”

Fyodor turned to Liriel. “Zofia Othlor told me to find the Windwalker and return. Her very words were, ‘and she will bring you home.’ The Windwalker is my destiny, little raven. I would not say this if the name belonged only to a golden amulet.”

The drow reached for his hand and laced her fingers with his. “So that’s why you were so sure your people would let me into Rashemen,” she mused. “You think this Zofia can figure out what’s going on?”

He nodded somberly. “She is among the most powerful wychlaran in our land.”

“Well, then let’s pick up the pace. How much farther have we to go?”

Thorn dropped to one knee. She brushed aside some fallen leaves and pulled a knife from her boot. With a few quick slashes she drew a rough map in the sandy soil.

“We stand here, in the High Forest,” she said, tapping a large gray pebble. “The seas are far to the east, and here lies the city of Waterdeep. On good horses, you could have ridden this far in two or three days. Here is Rashemen.” She thrust her knife into the soil an arm’s distance away.

Liriel’s heart sank. “I have no travel spells that would take us that far. You spoke of a shorter path?”

“It takes us through my homeland. There are many gates there, and my people travel them easily, but we cannot risk what happened before.” She sent a cool glance toward Fyodor. “I carry an herb that grows only in my homeland. The scent alone kept you from awakening. The taste of a single leaf will put you deep into slumber, and into whatever dreams await you there. This herb is not without risk—some who taste it never awaken—but at least your goddess cannot follow you through your dreams.”

The drow abruptly withdrew her hand from Fyodor’s. “She’s not my goddess,” she insisted. “Bring out your green stuff. I have nothing to fear from dreams, and nothing to fear from her!”

The elf shrugged and reached for her herb bag. “I’m not the one you need to convince of that.”

Shakti sat bolt upright, shaken from her slumber by one of her own guardian golems. She wriggled free of the construct’s stone hands and rose from her bed. A fresh robe hung ready, left for her by the newly attentive Hunzrin servants. She slipped it on and belted it with her snakehead whip, then stepped into her slippers. A driftdisk floated in the corridor just outside her open door. There was no need to ask who had sent it.

She quickly removed a folded bit of parchment from a hidden compartment in her writing table. After tucking it in her sleeve, she seated herself on the disk and settled in for the ride across the Menzoberranzan cavern. The honor extended to her almost, but not quite, soothed her irritation over the lost hours of sleep. After her wakeful sojourn in the Abyss, even the uneasy rest to be had’ in the Underdark was a welcome and much-needed solace.

The magical conveyance took her once again to the door of Matron Triel’s audience chamber. This time two priestesses awaited her. Quenthel Baenre stood to one side of her sister’s throne, her head held high and proud. She was richly gowned in embroidered spidersilk robes, and her hair had been dressed in elaborate curls and braids, which were held in place with ropes of black pearls. Around her neck hung the medallion that proclaimed her Mistress of Arach Tinileth.

So that’s the use Triel decided to make of her newly returned sister, noted Shakti. It was a wise move. The powerful and ambitious Quenthel would be a potent rival for the Baenre throne. By placing her in charge of the priestess academy, Triel gave her sister a queendom of her own. Few matron mothers wielded such power as did the mistress of Arach Tinileth, and what better way to flaunt Lolth’s favor than to put a Baenre priestess, recently returned from the dead, at the very front and center of the cult’s stronghold?

Shakti stepped down from the driftdisk and bowed to both priestesses. “Matron Triel, Mistress Quenthel. I am honored—”

“Silence!”

The command thundered from tiny Triel, resounding with a magical power that stopped Shakti in mid sentence. “I care nothing for your flatteries. Tell us of your meeting with my brother Gromph.”

She told them most of what had passed between her and the archmage. “I had no choice but meet with him,” she concluded. “He sent me after Liriel, and he expected an accounting of my time Above. I could hardly refuse the archmage of Menzoberranzan, a scion of House Baenre.”

“True enough, but why would you promise him Liriel’s amulet?” the matron demanded.

“Because he wants it,” Shakti said. “He wants it very, very much. The search for the Windwalker will drain his resources and, more importantly, deflect his interest from more dangerous matters. There are whispers of rebellion among the followers of the Masked God. Sooner or later, these will come to the archmage’s ears. Might it not be prudent to keep him busy elsewhere?”

This amused Quenthel. “A rat chasing its own tail! How very appropriate. Tell me, what resources is my dear brother committing to this endeavor?”

“He has hired a mercenary band. Quietly.”

“It is hardly something he would wish to hear sung in the marketplace,” Triel murmured. She rested her elbows on the arms of her throne and propped her chin on her hands as she thought this through. After a moment or two, a thin smile tightened her lips.

“I will discover this little plot, and to support my dear brother I will grant forces of my own to ensure a successful quest—or more accurately, a long one! It might be wise to have a copy of this artifact made. If he is ever in danger of finding Liriel’s trinket, set him upon the scent of a false amulet. That will keep him chasing his tail a while longer. Meanwhile you will find the real one and bring it to me.”

Shakti inclined her head respectfully. “I suspected you might say that, and have brought something that will enable you to begin this task at once. I took it from one of Liriel’s books.”

She passed Triel the folded parchment, a page torn from a human lore book. On it was a finely detailed drawing of small dagger in a rune-carved sheath. The matron gave a curt nod of approval.

“There is more,” Shakti cautioned. “Gromph believes that Liriel is dead. I told him this to ensure that he seeks the artifact but not the Zedriniset.”

Zedriniset: Chosen of Lolth.

Her choice of words was deliberate, and effective. A murderous gleam flashed in Triel’s eyes, betraying the ultimate reward awaiting her too-favored niece. Shakti tucked this realization away as’ if it was her greatest treasure.

“Devious, but shortsighted,” observed Triel. “What will you do if the Lady of Chaos decides that Liriel must return to us?”

“If this is the will of Lolth, I will bring the princess back myself,” Shakti said. She nodded toward Quenthel. “Considering past honors given to House Baenre, such a return would not be beyond belief. Until then, it is better that the archmage has no reason to seek out his daughter.”

“You are loyal,” Triel observed. The matron’s tone held both irony and curiosity.

“Why wouldn’t I be? House Hunzrin has long been allied with the First House. I have nothing to gain through your ill fortune but much to gain from your favor.”

“Blunt as a dwarven axe,” Quenthel murmured.

“For the moment, I am glad of it,” Triel said. “Speak plainly once again, and tell us why Gromph cannot have this Windwalker amulet.”

Shakti had contemplated this question at length, but the answer only now came to her.

It all fit: her unfading piwafwi, the survival of the soul-bubble spell on the surface world despite the coming of day, Quenthel’s words of triumph upon her transformation from yochlol to drow.

“Liriel used this Windwalker amulet to take drow magic to the surface,” she said slowly, “but she did not realize how powerful this human trinket was or that the consequences of her casting might be far more widespread than she dreamed possible.”

Triel inclined her head. “That is our belief.”

For several moments the priestesses held silence, each absorbed in her own thoughts.

Shakti’s head whirled with the enormity of this revelation. The shift to strategic thinking was profound, the implications were staggering. She thought back to old Matron Baenre’s attack on Mithril Hall and in particular the disastrous battle in a place the humans called Keeper’s Dale. The drow had not been defeated by the combined forces of dwarves, human barbarians, and wizards, but by the coming of daylight. If such a battle were to be fought today, they could win it! Once the other drow knew …

That, of course, was why the two Baenre females had summoned her. Once the other drow knew, what was to keep them underground? Why would the males of Menzoberranzan submit to matron rule if they had other, more attractive options?

“Suddenly you have become very important to us,” Triel said softly. “As traitor-priestess, you can walk in places none of us can go. You can ensure that no one knows of these developments. No one. You will be the ears that listen, and the sword that silences.”

Shakti inclined her head in acceptance—she had no other choice—but she couldn’t resist giving voice to her reservations. “Many eyes have seen me come to House Baenre. Other priestesses will wonder why.”

“Of course they will, and we will give an explanation that all will understand. The wars have devastated our supplies of slaves and workers, disrupted our trade, slowed production of needed goods. When nobles and common alike are garbed in new woolen clothes and feasting upon rothé and cheese, they will look upon House Hunzrin as Baenre’s faithful stewards. See to it.”

This, even more than the death of her hated rival, was Shakti’s dearest dream! She could not quite keep the joy from her face. Finally, an acknowledgment of her gifts and talents! She was ambitious as any other drow, but she did not want to rule. She could manage affairs and processes in an orderly, precise fashion that eluded most of her chaotic kin. She could excel at the task Triel put before her.

Shakti bowed low. “All will be done. I should, however, point out that trade with the surface may be disrupted for some time to come. Some of our merchants are Vhaerun worshipers. Any Underdark magic they carried with them has long since vanished, and so they are no immediate threat, but they must be kept from returning, lest they discover this secret.”

“I agree,” Matron Triel decreed. “The wisest course would be to seek out and destroy these merchants. This secret must not spread beyond this chamber.”

“What of Liriel herself?”

The matron was slow in answering. “Bring her back if you can, kill her if you cannot. Above all else, we must have the Windwalker. If it effected so profound a change, who knows what else it might do?”

The appearance of a human wizard and his damnable light spell left Gorlist in a foul mood. He stalked back toward the Dragon’s Head camp in silence. Brindlor offered no comment, largely because the dark glares Gorlist sent him from time to time warned against any comparison with Merdrith.

Gorlist stopped at the edge of a ravine. Brindlor kept a judicious pace back. The stench of city sewage and rotting bodies rose from the foul water, and the deathsinger had no desire to contribute his mortal remains to this unpleasantness. The warrior selected a single gem from Liriel’s bag and tossed the rest into the sludge.

“Understandable,” Brindlor observed, “but a shame nonetheless.”

The warrior’s glare snapped toward him. “Have no fear. I’ve saved the choicest gem for you.”

He reached into a hidden pocket and took out a large, red stone. This he placed in Brindlor’s hand. Before the deathsinger could step back, Gorlist gave his wrist a vicious twist, sending him to his knees and forcing his arm behind his back. He reclaimed the gem and lowered it purposefully to the deathsinger’s face.

Brindlor struggled as the sharply pointed gem pressed against his forehead. The ruby flared with brilliant red light and began to sear its way into the deathsinger’s skull.

Brindlor awoke on his pallet, although he could not recall making his way there. Nor could he guess how much time he had spent in oblivion. In fact, nothing seemed certain except the throbbing, burning pain just above his eyes.

He carefully touched his forehead and felt the hard, flat surface of the ruby embedded there.