Daughter of the Drow (19 page)

A slow, admiring smile spread across her face. The blue-eyed human had shown rare cunning. He’d played a good trick on her, one she would long remember.

As Liriel hurried toward the site of the second magic portal, she suspected this night’s events would linger in her mind for a very long time.

Liriel made her way back through the Underdark without further incident, taking the relay of magical gates that moved her steadily back toward Menzoberranzan. Her last spell brought her to Spelltower Xorlarrin. When she emerged through the portal, Kharza-kzad fairly pounced on her. The wizard grabbed his pupil by both shoulders, and the expression on his face suggested he was not certain whether he should embrace her or shake her until her teeth rattled.

“Where have you been so long?” he demanded. “Narbondel’s Black Death is long past—the new day approaches! I’ve been here the entire time you were gone, pacing, nearly out of my mind with worry!”

“Narbondel’s Black Death,” Liriel repeated softly, absently brushing aside the wizard’s hands. On the surface world, that would be midnight. Soon dawn would come to the forest glade, and she would not be there to see it!

On the other hand, she had not realized so much time had passed, and she did not want to be away from the

Academy when the spell obscuring Shakti Hunzrin’s scrying stone wore off. There was always the possibility Shakti might convince Mistress Zeld she had been tricked, that someone else had sent prying eyes into Mod’Vensis Tlabbar’s bedchamber. The list of suspects, Liriel knew, would be very short indeed.

“Listen, Kharza, I’ve got to get back to Arach-Tinilith. We’ll talk later.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say to me? After all I’ve been through—the terrible risk, the worry, the sleepless hours—the very least you could do would be—”

Liriel stepped through the portal, leaving the wizard fussing and sputtering behind her. Alone hi the silent darkness of her own room, she reasoned Kharza would get over his ire sooner or later. Sooner, if he didn’t have an audience. He would have larger worries if it were discovered he’d helped her slip away from the Academy on an unauthorized adventure. It was better for them both that she return at once. This way, if Zeld and her henchdrow decided to storm Liriel’s room, they would find their suspected prankster at her study table, chipping away at her mountainous pile of books and scrolls with all the diligence of a mithril-mimng dwarf.

With all possible speed, Liriel stripped off her travel gear and donned the black, red-trimmed robe of a novice priestess. She lit a study candle and placed a few spent candle stubs beside it, then she tossed several books and scrolls onto the floor beside her study table. The general effect suggested a long, frenzied study session had taken place. Liriel nodded in satisfaction and sat down at her study table. All that remained to be done was to actually learn some of this stuff.

Yet try as she might, Liriel could not concentrate on the spells that, under most circumstances, would have commanded her avid attention. The details of her adventure kept coining back to her: the wondrous lights of the night sky, the comforting strength of the mighty trees, the strange customs of the Dark Maiden’s priestesses, and the peculiar encounter with the human. It was almost too much for Liriel to absorb.

In particular, the human’s story kept coming back to her, playing in her mind like an insistent, remembered melody. Liriel enjoyed the unexpected, devious little twist at the story’s end. It was the sort of tale that would delight most drow, were they in the habit of telling and listening to stories. The meaning of the tale, however, puzzled her greatly. When the human had offered her the story, she had been merely curious, thinking storytelling to be an odd human custom, perhaps similar to the wicked verbal thrust-and-parry beloved by the drow. But no, the human’s story was too well chosen, too similar to what later occurred between them.

Like the peasant who saved the wolf from hunters, Liriel may well have saved the man’s life in coming to his aid against the deepbats. By drow standards, she was more than justified in considering his life hers by purchase. Slaves were taken on much slimmer justification than that. Such as none at all.

But, “Old favors are soon forgotten,” the man had told her in his story, and then proceeded to trick her and snatch back his freedom. Was the human apologizing in advance for his duplicity, or perhaps even warning her of his intentions? If that were so, Liriel mused with a touch of dark humor, the man had a dangerously overdeveloped sense of fair play!

Also troubling to Liriel was that the man’s tale was in many ways similar to those she had read in her book of ancient human lore. Did all humans tell such stories? Was storytelling a natural gift of humankind, or perhaps an art form they nurtured and developed? It seemed incredible to her that this short-lived race, which she had always believed to be vastly inferior to the drow, could have such an intriguing custom.

There was another possibility, with even more potential, and it again had to do with the similarities between the man’s story and the stories in her book. He had called himself Fyodor of Rashemen. Where that might be, Liriel had no idea. But perhaps the far-traveling Rus had spread their culture and their magic to the land of the blue-eyed human. Perhaps the Rashemi custom ofdajemma, the tradition that sent young men out on a journey of exploration, was a gift from Fyodor’s restless ancestors.

Perhaps. The problem was, Liriel would never know for sure. Rashemen might encourage its young people to travel and explore freely, but the drow of Menzoberranzan had other opinions on the matter.

With a sigh, Liriel pushed away the scroll she’d been pretending to read. Not bothering to remove her robe, she flung herself onto her bed for a short nap. She’d need the rest in order to face the day ahead. It would be a difficult day, for she was not well prepared for her classes. Even the pleasant prospect of learning the details of Shakti’s misfired plot did not cheer her.

The new day drew near, and the sounds of early risers drifted into her room, but sleep did not come to the young drow. The reality of her situation pressed in on her, with all its disagreeable requirements. The trip to the surface had been thrilling and disturbing, but it had been an enormous risk. And for what? She was stuck in Arach-Tinilith for a good many years to come. Since the moment the webbed fence of the Academy had closed behind her, Liriel had tried to deny her fate and in doing so had taken far too many chances. If she were to survive in this grim, vicious place, she would have to give up her pranks and rein in her dark sense of humor. That would be struggle enough, but she knew in her heart she also had to resign herself to abandoning her dream of adventure in far places.

After tonight, that was.

As the dark elf nestled into her silken pillows, she knew one more wakeful night awaited her. After tonight, she would devote herself to her clerical studies. She would make peace with Mistress Zeld and apply herself to duty with a devotion that would shame even the pious, singleminded SosTJmptu. She would become a high priestess in record time, and a credit to House Baenre. After tonight.

Please, Llotk, Liriel prayed silently as she drifted toward slumber. Please grant me just one more night

For the first time in days, hope spurred Fyodor”s steps. After a few hours’ search, he found the tunnel the drow girl had mentioned. There was a small, rock-strewn cavern with a trickle of water at the bottom, and beyond, a path curved steeply upward to disappear into a hole in the rocky wall. If anything fit the name Drygully Tunnel, it was this.

He slid down into the gorge and splashed through the shallow stream. As he suspected, the hole was the opening into a tunnel. The way was steep, and the narrow tunnel curled upward in a tight spiral, but the young man fairly sprinted up the path toward the light of the sun.

He would return to the Underdark, for he had pledged to seek the amulet and he would do so for as long as he lived. Even so, the thought of a brief respite lifted his spirits immeasurably. He had not realized until now, when escape was close at hand, just how oppressive was the Underdark. It stole hope; it shut down the soul.

Yet Fyodor remembered the exuberance of the drow girl’s laughter, the avid curiosity in her golden eyes. This was someone who lived with intensity and abandon, not some soulless survivor. Yet he could not help but wonder what manner of being could thrive in such a dark and evil place. Fyodor had known hardship and danger all his life, and surviving the last few days had tested his strength and his courage. He could not begin to fathom what the Underdark would do to those who lived out all their days in its depths. The elven girl was beautiful beyond telling, as brave and capable in battle as any maid of Rashemen, but she was clearly, unmistakably drow. What that meant, Fyodor simply did not know.

Again the young fighter reminded himself he must keep alert to his surroundings, that this grim and dangerous land was no place for those who dreamed. But as he scrambled up the steep path, the dark lass was with him at every step.

Time in Arach-Tinilith traveled at its own pace. Liriel was certain at least two or three days dragged fay during the morning indoctrination session. She silently blessed the countless vigorous, night-long parties she’d attended over the years. Without such training, she would never have developed the stamina needed to stay awake now. Even so, the girl could feel her eyes glazing over as the mistress ranted on and on. Liriel hoped the mistress would mistake her dazed expression for rapt attention.

Even the lesson on the lower planes was disappointing. The mistress conjured a viewing portal to Tarterus, which, in Uriel’s opinion, was not even an interesting place to visit. It was a place of gray mists and aimless despair. The winding paths didn’t seem to go anywhere, and the winged, dog-faced horrors who inhabited the place were fairly banal incarnations of evil. They flew, they shrieked, they tore to shreds any hapless being who ventured into their dark realms. It was all numbingly predictable.

Nor did the session provide any entertaining personal drama. Shakti was there, sullen and withdrawn, yet still clearly in the favor of the attending mistress. It would seem her failure had been a private one, Liriel concluded. Apparently Shakti had resisted the urge to run to the authorities with news of the Baenre female’s supposed defection. This annoyed Liriel—she had hoped to cause Shakti embarrassment of some sort—but she was also impressed with her enemy’s patience and resolve. The Hunzrin priestess was a dogged sort, obviously prepared to stalk her prey for however long it took her to uncover something sufficiently damning. Shakti was shaping up to be a credible foe. As patient as a spider, the Hunzrin priestess would be there watching, always watching, waiting for her enemy to misstep. This knowledge did nothing to brighten Liriel’s mood.

The afternoon did not promise to be much of an improvement, for once again Liriel had to face the consequences of her unconventional childhood. Weapons training was required of all drow, regardless of class or gender. Liriel was deadly with anything that could be thrown, and she’d always found such expertise to be sufficient to her needs. Unfortunately bolos, slings, and throwing spiders were not in the classic repertoire of a noble female. When draw entered the Academy, they were expected to have proficiency with both the sword and the drow signature weapon: a tiny crossbow used to shoot poisoned darts. The bow was no problem—Liriel could hit whatever she aimed at—but she’d never had much interest in the art of swordcraft. As she was to learn this day, interest was optional; proficiency was mandatory.

Her swordmaster was one of the older students at Melee-Magthere. A stocky, rather unattractive male from some lesser family, he seemed alternately annoyed at having to tutor a first-year priestess and delighted to have the chance to lord it over a Baenre female.

‘Tour wrist is shaking,” he scolded her. “Just two hours of practice, and you’re tiring already!”

Liriel dropped her arm so the tip of the heavy sword rested on the floor of the practice hall. “I’m not accustomed to holding a sword,” she said defensively.

“That’s apparent,” the male sneered. “I’ve seen mere children who could fight better. What have you been doing all these years?”

She pushed back a damp lock of hair and gave him a hard-edged smile. “Ask around. What did you say your name wasr

“Dargathan Srune’lett.”

“House Srune’lett,” Liriel mused, looking the stocky fighter up and down. “Yes, now that you mention it, I can see the family resemblance.”

The male scowled, and his face heated to a livid red. The priestesses of Srune’lett were often referred to as the “fat sisters”—not in their hearing, of course—and many members of the clan, both male and female, lacked the lithe, slender form that was the drow ideal. Dargathan, it would seem, was more than a little sensitive about this fact. He raised his sword in a slow, menacing arc.

“Guard position,” he snarled.

Liriel faced him squarely and lifted her too-heavy weapon. Before her tired muscles could react, the male lunged in. His sword slashed open her tunic in a diagonal rip that ran from shoulder to waist. She looked down, incredulous, at the silver line of chain mail that showed through.

The girl raised murderous eyes to her opponent and held his taunting gaze for a long moment. Then she leaped at him, her sword diving in toward his heart. The male easily batted aside her thrust and danced back with a speed that belied his ungainly physique.

“Guard position,” Dargathan repeated, smugly this time. “Work on your stance. You’re still exposing too much of your body to your enemy. Remember, left foot back, left shoulder back. Keep the target small.”

Liriel gritted her teeth and did as she was told. Again and again the male drilled her on stance, walked her through the basic thrusts and parries of single-sword combat. Dargathan might lack the tightly muscled form and lightning-fast brilliance that marked the best drew fighters, but as the hours passed Liriel had to admit he was a credible teacher. The male challenged her every move, demonstrating step by step the skills a fighter would gain through years of laborious study and practice. By the standards of most races, Liriel was a competent fighter. Far more was expected of a drow. As the session went on and on, she slowly redefined her concept of swordcraft and came to realize how little she truly knew of the art. She also ached in every muscle, bone, and sinew.