Windwalker (8 page)

“You have no hold upon Liriel,” he said softly, speaking directly to the lurking evil. “You have broken with her and she with you.”

Faint, mocking laughter rang through his head. Once a wolf, always a wolf, taunted a too-beautiful female voice, speaking in a strange language that he somehow understood.

Liriel covered her ears. “She was listening to us,” she said in a despairing whisper. “Fyodor, leave me now.”

“No.”

“You don’t understand! No male comes between a priestess and her goddess and lives!”

“What of it? You are no priestess.”

“I was,” Liriel said, “and She’s not going to let me go.”

“She has no choice,” Fyodor said firmly. “No god, no goddess can force worship upon a sovereign soul. You wish to be free of her?”

“Yes!”

“Tell her so.”

“I have.”

“Again,” Fyodor urged, “then one time more. Repudiate a god three times, and all ties are broken. All the old stories promise this.”

It seemed worth a try. Liriel nodded and took a deep breath. “Lady Lolth, I am your priestess no longer. Mother Lolth, I am your child no more,” she said in whisper.

The chill intensified. Liriel noted the pallor of her friend’s face, the blue-gray hue that touched his lips. Her fear for him returned, and she tried to wriggle away. Fyodor shook his head and tightened his grip, then drew his cloak around them both. The warmth they shared coursed through them both, pushing back the darkness and cold.

The drow and her sworn guardian clung together for several moments, breath abated as they awaited the dark goddess’s response.

Moments passed, and there was nothing but the sounds of the crew at work and the slap of water against the ship.

Liriel slipped from Fyodor’s arms and stepped away. The moon-cast shadow before her was her own-an image of a small, slender drow with shoulders squared and head thrown defiantly back.

She resisted the temptation to wilt with relief and sent Fyodor a wan grin. “Next time I tease you about those moldy tales of yours, remind me of this moment.”

“Better that we both forget,” he countered. “These things belong in the past, and there they will remain.”

“Will they?” she said, her voice suddenly serious.

“You must make it so. Do not speak that name. Do nothing to invoke Her return.”

“Hoy, First Axe!” shouted a rough male voice.

They both turned toward the call. For a short time, Fyodor had held this title and acted as a war leader on Ruathym. Some of the men who’d fought beside him sailed on Narwhal.

A few of the sailors stood idle, gazing toward the drow and her champion quizzically as they tried to make sense of Liriel’s latest, inexplicable outburst. Most, however, were busily employed with tending the wounded, rolling dead bullywugs over the rail, or swabbing the gore of battle off the decks. One man stood apart, his bloody mop raised to point at the moon. Fyodor recognized him as Harlric, a grizzled veteran of sea and sword. Winging across the moon was a dark, avian form, one he also knew.

“A raven?” he murmured.

Liriel came to his side, one hand shielding her eyes from the bright moonlight. This was a mystery, one that lay close to them both. Fyodor’s fond name for her was “little raven,” and in her time on the surface she’d learned enough of these intelligent, uncanny birds to appreciate the comparison and to understand the oddity of this sighting.

“Don’t they fly only by day? And aren’t we still two or three days from land?”

He nodded. “This is no natural creature.”

“Full moon,” one of the men observed sagely.” Tis the time for strange visitations. Killed me a werewolf once, and at the full of the moon.”

“Full moon or no, it’s an omen,” muttered another man. His fingers shaped a gesture of warding, and he cast a suspicious glance at the drow. “An evil omen!”

“Not according to the First Axe’s stories,” insisted Harlric. “The way he tells it, the raven carries messages twixt one world and t’other. Must be important news to bring a land-loving bird so far out to sea.”

“Must be,” agreed the slayer of werewolves, his eyes following the messenger’s spiraling descent. “It’s a-comin’ in. Who here’s on speakin’ terms with a raven?”

No one moved forward. The bird banked sharply and veered away in a rising circle. Fyodor caught sight of the pale streak on one gleaming wing.

“The mark of Eilistraee,” he said quietly, pointing.

Liriel’s eyes widened as she noted the silver feathers. She lifted a clenched fist high, bracing her forearm with her other hand. The raven promptly swooped down and landed on her wrist. From there it hopped to a nearby barrel and bobbed its black head in greeting.

“I come from the Promenade Temple and from its Lady, the High Priestess Qilué Veladorn,” the raven announced in shrill, slightly raucous tones. “I bear a message for Liriel Baenre, daughter of the First House of Menzoberranzan.”

Liriel darted a glare around the circle of curious men who’d gathered to witness this wonder. Her gaze lingered on Lord Caladorn. Something in his face—the watchful intelligence in his eyes, the considering mien of his pursed lips—set off alarms in her mind. Drow deathsingers wore a similar expression when they witnessed feats of treachery and mayhem, weaving tales of dark glory while the deed was still in the doing. This Caladorn sang tales to someone, of that Liriel was suddenly very, very certain.

“Do you mind?” she snapped. “This is a private conversation.”

“Not on my ship, it ain’t,” Ibn retorted. “No message comes or goes without my say-so.”

The raven turned its bright black gaze upon the red-bearded pirate. “In that case, captain, I urge you not to land in Waterdeep. Danger awaits. You must come directly to Skullport.”

A faint flush suffused Ibn’s sun-browned cheeks. Liriel’s eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute-isn’t that what we’re planning to do?”

“Changed my mind,” Ibn said shortly. “Last trip to Skullport went bad and ended worse. No one knows that better’n you. Twas a near escape for us and not something the folks thereabouts will soon be forgetting.”

“Now we’ve got a different ship, and a different captain,” Fyodor pointed out. “It seems to me the bigger risk lies in ignoring Lady Qilué’s warnings.”

Caladorn Cassalanter clicked his tongue in a small, dismissive sound. “With all respect due this drow priestess, you are far more likely to encounter trouble in the underground city than on the streets of Waterdeep. I will be met by considerable strength at the docks, and we do not anticipate trouble.”

So here it was, Liriel thought grimly: Caladorn’s interest in this matter. It would be like Ibn to deliver her up for ransom, and who better to arrange terms than a Waterdhavian lord?

However, if they thought she would be so easily taken, they had little understanding of the dark elven talent for creative mayhem!

Liriel kept these thoughts from her face and gave the Waterdhavian nobleman a puzzled smile. “Skullport is not without its moments of excitement,” she agreed, “but if what you say of Waterdeep is true, why did Qilué warn me away?”

“I would not presume to know her mind, but of this I can assure you: Waterdeep is a lawful city,” Caladorn said firmly.

“Maybe, but I’ll wager that you don’t see many drow there,” she pointed out.

Ibn took the pipe from his mouth. “Man just said it’s a law-abiding city. The rest goes without saying.”

Liriel scowled at this interruption and flung one hand skyward in a sharp, impatient gesture. A cloud of noxious smoke billowed from Ibn’s pipe and clung to him in a faintly glowing green globe. He lurched toward the rail and hung his head over the sea.

“I hope Xzorsh isn’t following the ship too closely,” Liriel commented.

Fyodor gave a resigned sigh and turned back to Caladorn. “If drow are uncommon in Waterdeep, Liriel’s arrival will be noted, and word of her presence will spread.”

“So? Has she any need to conceal her presence?”

“Survival is a priority to me,” Liriel shot back. “Call it a quirk.”

The nobleman shook his head. “A dramatic assessment, but not an accurate one. I assure you, all will be well. I and some of my associates are paying the expenses of this ship’s passage, and steps have been taken to ensure the safety of all. The decision is mine, and the captain’s.” He sent an inquiring glance toward Ibn. The rank smoke was drifting away, but the captain still clung to the railing. A distinctly green hue underlay his sun-browned face.

“Not Skullport,” Ibn said, faintly but firmly.

“What of the raven’s warning?” pressed Fyodor.

“Waterdeep is a lawful city,” Caladorn repeated. “If the drow does no wrong, she need fear no harm.”

Fyodor’s jaw firmed. “If you are mistaken, Lord Caladorn, if danger awaits Liriel in your Waterdeep, who but me will fight for her? You? Your ‘associates?’ “

The nobleman crossed his arms. “You seem very certain that there will be fighting.”

“I have reason,” Fyodor said flatly. “Can you truly claim that the good folk of your lawful city will smile and wave as a drow passes through? Once the ship reaches port, Liriel and I will stand alone in a hostile place, and you know it well—you, and perhaps also your associates, who, as you say, will be meeting you at the dock with considerable strength.”

For a long moment the men faced each other down. Finally Caladorn faltered before the accusation in the Hashemi’s glacial stare. “I mean the drow no harm, but perhaps there are others in the city who might,” he conceded.

“You will speak for her?” Fyodor pressed.

“I cannot,” Caladorn said flatly, “for reasons I do not care to discuss. Do either of you know anyone in Waterdeep? Anyone who can help her pass through unnoticed if possible, and speak for her if needed?”

A memory popped into Liriel’s mind: a chance-met encounter with a human male. He’d been clever enough to take her measure without alerting his vapid companions that the “noblewoman in drow costume” was in fact the genuine article.

This man knew a way to Skullport, and he knew of Qilué. Perhaps he was even one of Eilistraee’s followers. During the dragon’s hoard battle a few moons past, Liriel had noticed a few humans and even a halfling among the priestess’s band. At the very least, surely this man could send Qilué a message.

“There might be someone,” she said slowly. “We met at a costume party in the meadowlands outside of Waterdeep. I was not told his name, but I can describe him. Fair hair, gray eyes. Caladorn’s height. He was quick to smile and jest. I saw him playing an instrument with strings on the front, and a wooden back so rounded that the thing looked as if it were about to give birth.”

“A lute,” Fyodor supplied.

Caladorn considered Liriel’s description with a wary expression that suggested he knew the man of whom she spoke and heartily wished he did not. “What colors was he wearing?”

The drow shrugged impatiently; she had yet to understand the human preoccupation with the color of things.

“If you are speaking of the color of his clothes and gems, then the answer would be green,” Fyodor supplied. “If you are speaking of heraldry, I noticed that one of his rings appeared to be a heraldic image: a unicorn’s head with a raven.”

Exasperation flooded Caladorn’s face. “Naturally,” he muttered. “Should Judith ever wish to find her brother, all she need do is hire a diviner to seek out the nearest impending disaster!”

“You know this man,” Liriel observed. “Name him, and his house and birth order—or whatever other thing passes for rank in this law-abiding city of yours.”

“Rank and wealth are closely related. Waterdeep is ruled by her merchant families,” explained Fyodor.

The nobleman shook his head. “The noble houses do not rule the city,” he corrected. “The Thann family is richer than any three gods combined, granted, but Danilo is a younger son. The youngest of six sons, I believe. Danilo is amusing enough, but that’s the best can be said of him.”

Liriel privately disagreed and adjusted her opinion of Caladorn accordingly. Among the drow, younger siblings concealed their ambitions, and sometimes their abilities as well, until they were ready to take their desired places.

“Can you get word to this Danilo of House Thann?”

Caladorn hesitated. “I can send a messenger once the ship docks.”

She shook her head adamantly. “Not good enough. I won’t let the ship reach the harbor unless he meets Fyodor and me at the dock, bringing enough muscle and magic to ensure our safe passage through Waterdeep. Assure him that I can and will reward him for this favor. Just to make sure there are no misunderstandings, tell him that the drow repay betrayers with their own coin.”

For a long moment Caladorn stared toward the faint, silvery border between sea and sky, his face carefully neutral—at least, neutral by human standards. Liriel watched with fascination as emotions chased each other across the man’s face. Finally he turned back to them and gave her a curt bow. “Very well. I will do as you ask.”

Liriel and Fyodor watched him stride away. The raven cleared its throat. “Your response, Princess?”

The drow’s gaze snapped back to the avian messenger. “Tell Qilué what was said here, and assure her that we will come to her with all possible speed.”

Black wings rustled as the raven lifted off into the night. Perceiving that the show was over, the sailors drifted off to their duties or their rest.

Fyodor waited until they were alone before speaking his mind. “It seems to me that Lord Caladorn will do as you ask, and more beside.”

The drow lifted one eyebrow. “You noticed that, did you? If he can send word to this man before we reach the harbor, he can alert others, as well. Well, let him. We could use a bit of excitement.”

At that moment a scream, furious and female, rose from the rear of the ship. Liriel watched with amusement as Ibn grappled with the revived genasi, shouting colorful warnings at his men to stand aside as he carried the struggling, cursing creature over to the side of the ship. Closer at hand, two sailors stumbled by, dragging a bullywug carcass by the feet. Fyodor helped them heave the dead monster over the rail.

That accomplished, he sent a wry smile toward the drow. “I am most interested to know, little raven, what you would consider excitement.”