Daughter of the Drow (11 page)

“I meant no harm,” he sputtered.

“And no harm was done, dear Kharza. But I think you should know,” she whispered as she swayed seductively close, “that your little stories failed to do me justice. Failed miserably. It’s a shame, really, that you’ll never learn the true limits of your imagination.”

With that parting shot, the drow girl stepped into the still-glowing gate and vanished. Her light, mocking laughter lingered in the tower chamber, and it was ringing still when a thin, red-haired drow stepped into the room from an antechamber.

“That is one tigress who can draw blood with velvet paws,” he observed wryly. Nisstyre, merchant captain of the Dragon’s Hoard, settled down in Kharza’s chair and leveled a long, speculative gaze at the older wizard. “She seems very interested in the Night Above. We should encourage that.”

“Even if I wanted to, I could do nothing,” Kharza said stiffly.

“Oh, but you can.” Nisstyre slapped a thin, leatherbound book onto the desk. “This book contains obscure human lore—nothing of great consequence, but it may serve to whet her taste for forbidden subjects. Find a way to get it to her. If I read that girl aright, she will devour it and demand more. Then, you will introduce us. She can return here often, using that gate she conjures so nimbly, and she and I can talk.”

“It is risky.”

“Wizards who follow Vhaeraun take many risks,” the merchant returned slyly. He broke off the wizard’s sputtered protests with a fierce glare. “You say you are not of my faith. Perhaps that is true. But you continue trading with me, knowing what you know about me and my work. In many circles, that could raise a few eyebrows.” He chuckled briefly. “Not to mention a few scalps. Or do the matrons of Menzoberranzan still indulge in that particular pastime? I’ve heard a story of some minor matron who routinely scalped her patrons when she tired of them. Had the scalps tanned and sewn together, I believe, and the hair woven into a sort of wall hanging. I do hope she had the taste not to hang it in her bedchamber,” he added thoughtfully. “That could prove somewhat daunting to her current favorite.”

Kharza swallowed hard, although he knew by Nisstyre’s sly expression that the merchant was baiting him. The Xorlarrin wizard drew his tattered dignity about him as best he could and tried to take control of the situation. “I paid you a substantial advance for the Rashemi wands you promised me,” he said stiffly. “Yet you return to me without them.”

Nisstyre waved the protest away. “A temporary delay. The raiding party preceded me through another gate, albeit one that brought them to a point some distance from this tower. They will arrive in the city any day.”

That much was true, if somewhat misleading. Nisstyre prided himself in not telling outright lies. If Xorlarrin read in these words the promise that his paid-for goods would be delivered, well, it was not Nisstyre’s fault the old drow heard what he wanted to hear.

His business over, the fox-faced merchant rose to leave. “Don’t forget to give that book to the Baenre girl. In time, that little princess will convert to the path of Vhaeraun, of that I am confident.” His thin lips twisted into a parody of a smile. “I never thought I would mourn the death of the old Baenre hag, but I’m rather sorry she did not live long enough to witness her granddaughter’s defection!”

Blithely unaware her future was being decided back in Spelltower Xorlarrin, Liriel hurried to her house in Narbondellyn to prepare for her last night out. She was hosting a party that night at a mansion rented out for such affairs. A small army of servants tended to the details; she had only to show up and enjoy.

The young drow sat with unusual patience as a skilled servant wove her hair into dozens of tiny braids, then looped and tied the plaited strands into an elaborately contrived whole. Liriel usually left her hair flowing free, but tonight she needed a hairstyle that could hold up to considerable abuse. Her gown for the evening was also durable and designed for movement. Pure white and daringly cut, the dress had several long slits on the skirt to allow her to indulge to the fullest her passion for dancing. Tonight’s festivities would include a nedeirra—a wild, acrobatic dance competition—which Liriel would launch with a solo dance. Liriel loved the freedom, the sense of rhythmic flight, that she felt when dancing. In her mind, the rest of the evening’s revelry, although pleasurable, would be a pale thing compared to the nedeirra.

When Liriel arrived at the rented mansion, her friends were already gathered. It was the custom for guests to come early, to mingle and plot and drink spiced green wine. The arrival of the host or hostess was the traditional signal for the dancing to start. Liriel walked into the room to the accompaniment of a slow, pulsing drumbeat. The nedeirra was beginning.

All eyes were upon her as she began to stamp a rhythmic counterpoint to the drum. Her arms started an intricate weave, and one by one other drums joined in, as well as strange percussion instruments known only to the drow. Then a deep-voiced flute began to play a strange, compelling tune, a melody that had once been sung by elves in the Lands of Light, many centuries past. Those long-dead elves would not recognize their song; its fey magic had shifted and changed to reflect the beings who now played it. Beautiful still, the music retained all of the mystery of the elven race, and none of the joy. The drow had forgotten that emotion. But they understood pleasure, and they would pursue it wildly in an attempt to fill the unrecognized void in their elven souls.

The tempo of the music quickened, and over the ragged, syncopated rhythm of the drums the flutes wailed and soared in eerie melody. Liriel twirled and leaped in time to the music, and her body dipped and swayed as she beckoned to the waiting drow. Then, with a sudden flash of magical fire, the dark dancer was outlined in faerie fire of purest white. That was the signal all had awaited, and the other drow poured onto the dance floor.

Even in dance, the dark elves competed with each other. Some used their natural ability to levitate to perform intricate soaring leaps. Others shunned acrobatics and went right to seduction, trying to draw as many greedy eyes as possible with then* writhing, sensuous movements. Yet regardless of style, all the drow listened carefully as they danced; within the intricate music were hidden clues that told what was to come. The rhythm was uneven, with the strong beats coming unexpectedly, almost randomly. Those who failed to read the music aright were in danger of missing a beat. Any drow who misstepped was immediately limned in faerie fire by one of the wizards who encircled the dance floor and watched intently as the dark elves whirled and leaped and stomped. These dancers had to leave the floor to a chorus of barbed comments and mocking laughter. But their fun was not entirely ruined, for all remained on the sidelines to place bets concerning who might next follow them.

On and on went the music, with few of the skilled drow missing the complex steps. Ebony faces shone with sweat, and some of the dancers began to discard outer garments. Sometimes a nedeirrct continued until many of the dancers dropped from exhaustion, but Liriel had other plans for the evening. From her place on the center of the dance floor, she signaled for the finale.

One of the hired wizards floated high over the dancers. His hands wove a spell, and in response the music began to quicken, speeding toward an impossible tempo. The magic touched the dancers, as well, and their feet kept pace with the pulsating music. Paster and faster they whirled, and multicolored faerie fire blinked into being on every dark elf, turning the nedeirra into a firestorm of dancing lights. Finally the drums joined in a roll and the flutes soared to a last keening note. Then, suddenly, the room went dark and silent.

It was a spectacular spell, and the drow applauded delightedly. Then, as was custom following a nedeirra, the dancers began to remove their finery. Personal servants rushed forward to collect the discarded clothing.

The party-goers were ushered, unselfconsciously naked, into another room. This was a large, low-ceilinged chamber whose walls, floor, and ceiling were honeycombed with vents. Scented steam poured into the room, cleansing the dancers and soothing weary limbs. The direction and intensity of the steam’s flow changed constantly: one moment massaging with short, pulsing bursts, the next playing over the dark elves’ skin like a gentle, sultry breeze. As the steam bathed the drow with a succession of pleasant sensations, they walked about, flirting perhaps, or laying multilayered traps for social rivals, or aipping from goblets of luminous green ulaver wine.

When the last jet of steam faded away, the dark elves slipped away in groups of four or five through the many small doors that lined the chamber. There, in small private rooms, they would relax on couches, exchange gossip, and score points in witty conversation as skilled servants massaged them with scented oils. Massage was a favorite treat at parties, and as near to relaxation as the ever-wary drow came.

Liriel forwent her own massage to wander from room to room, taking advantage of the small groups and the unusually mellow mood to chat with her guests. Her friends did not know she would be leaving them tomorrow, but to each one she said an unspoken farewell. In her own fashion.

More often than not, sudden shrieks and gales of laughter marked Liriel’s passing. Dark elves delighted in cantrips—small, harmless spells cast to play pranks upon their companions. With her wizardly training, Liriel excelled at this sport. Wherever she went, amorous hands suddenly turned icy, or scented oil changed fragrance to become the signature perfume of a hated rival. The drow, with their dark, wicked sense of humor, considered no gathering complete without a few such pranks, and tonight Liriel had spared no effect to accommodate them.

Much later, content and clad in a fresh change of festive clothing, the guests gathered in yet another hall for dinner. It was an elegant affair with several removes, each served with a different potent wine. The conversation grew raucous soon after the soup course, and here and there a few drow slipped under the tables to contemplate the evening’s events or to forge new social alliances. The general anticipation accelerated as the rumor spread that pyrimo would be served as the final remove. Parties such as this often ended with wild merrymaking, and a pyrimo course almost guaranteed the celebration would reach dizzying heights of frenzy.

And so it was.

And so it continued, until the bell tolled that marked the end of the last watch. By law and custom, parties ended at the start of a new day.

Liriel stood at the door of her rented mansion and watched as her guests were helped—or poured, as the case may be—into magical litters or lizard-drawn carriages. Later, her hired servants would toss the less mobile guests out into the street, where they would be collected by their slaves and carted home. Those drow who still possessed a measure of their wits lingered in small groups about the mansion and in the street, as if loath to see the night end. Suddenly the noisy, reeling throng of party-goers fell silent, and their various conveyances gave way to a driftdisc emblazoned with the House Baenre insignia. The magical seat floated toward the mansion in impressive silence, and Liriel’s throat tightened as she watched it close in. She ran through life at a pace few could follow, yet this moment had caught her.

And how little Triel had trusted her niece’s word! The matron had threatened to send someone to bring Liriel to the Academy if she were late. By Liriel’s reckoning, she had hours to spare. Yet seated on the magical conveyance was no less a personage than SosTJmptu, Triel’s faithful lap-lizard and apparent lieutenant.

The driftdisc stopped at the mansion’s gate and the keeper of the Baenre chapel alighted. Her face puckered with outrage as she picked her way through the crowd and the debris, and she fairly pounced upon her scandalous niece.

“I’ve never seen such frivolous excess, such disgraceful behavior!” she scolded.

“Really?” inquired Liriel, her eyes wide with mock innocence. “If that is so, you really ought to get out more.”

Something must be done about that Baenre brat!” stormed Zeld Mizzrym. The priestess fairly quivered with wrath, and beneath the black and pur-l pie folds of her robe her bosom rose and fell in an indignant rhythm.

Matron Triel Baenre leaned back in her chair and surveyed the mistress in charge of the first-year students. Her raised brow warned the angry drow to tread carefully. “What has my niece been accused of this time?” she asked, pointedly emphasizing the relationship.

“More pranks,” gritted out Zeld, who was apparently too angry to take the hint. “This morning Shakti Hunzrin found a field of mushrooms growing under her bed—in the appropriate fertilizer, I might add.”

The matron mistress sighed. Liriel had spent less than three days within the spider-shaped compound, yet she was the suspected perpetrator of nearly a dozen little pranks. She was good at it, Triel had to give her that much, but the Baenre matron feared the young female would go too far. A less skilled prankster would have been caught in the act by now, and the day would certainly come when Liriel would also misstep, Triel had plans for the talented young female, plans that did not include turning her into an ebony statue in order to instruct other students in the merit of observing proprieties.

“Can you prove that Liriel was involved?” she demanded coldly.

The mistress hesitated. “No, I suppose not. But Shakti stands adamant in her accusations, and she does have the right to accuse and censor a younger student.”

Triel sighed again. It was not uncommon for novice priestesses to develop among themselves academic rivalries, personal vendettas, and free-floating hatreds. In fact, such was excellent training for life beyond the Academy and was seldom discouraged. But this was becoming a problem. Although Shakti Hunzrin was not Liriel’s only victim, she was becoming a favorite target. Not that anyone cared. Shakti’s family was not a major power, and even some of the wealthy commoners looked down at the Hunzrin family business, snobbishly considering the farming nobles to be little more than jumped-up clod kickers. Shakti did not help matters, with her ubiquitous pitchfork and her endless, droning monologues about the care and breeding of rothe. In addition, the Hunzrin girl was utterly humorless, vindictive to her peers, and ruthlessly vicious in her dealings with servants and younger students. The humiliating pranks played against her had evened a dozen scores and had earned Liriel a great deal of quiet applause. In short, things at Arach-Tinilith hadn’t been dull.