Tangled Webs (25 page)

“Try not to be any more of an idiot than you must,” Shakti advised him coldly. “Of course I would not risk such a prize in an untried portal! But think on this: by now the illithid knows Liriel Baenre as well as I myself do! Vestress has asked me many questions about the rogue wizard and has no doubt taken any information from my mind that I did not speak aloud. I now understand the illithid’s interest. Mark me, Vestress needs the yelloweyed bitch as much as I do!”

“To help her open the portal,” Rethnor reasoned.

“It is the only possible explanation,” Shakti agreed in a glum tone. The illithid had brought Shakti here, ostensibly to learn about recent events in the Underdark. Shakti, in return for this information, had been given surface contacts to the vast trade and intrigue network of the Kraken Society. It had seemed a worthwhile exchange for both. But as she reviewed her conversations with the illithid, Shakti realized Vestress had shown an inordinate amount of interest in Liriel and her adventures. Whatever worth Shakti had to the illithid was temporarily overshadowed by the promise of Liriel’s wizardly skill. This deeply angered Shakti. Despite her newfound power and confidence, she found that her resentment of the Baenre princess was as keen as ever.

The drow seethed with deep frustration as she measured the delay Liriel’s escape would bring. Shakti wished to return to Menzoberranzan as soon as possible. She could not do so, however, on her own power. The water wraith had brought her to the elemental plane of water, and from there to the undersea city. Shakti had expected a brief meeting with the head of the Kraken Society, not an extended stay. The demanding Baenres-Matron Triel and that wretched Gromph-might accept a brief absence while Shakti met with surface conspirators, but this delay was becoming untenable. The longer Shakti stayed away from Menzoberranzan, the more important it became that she return with a captive Liriel in tow. She could not wait for Rethnor’s spies to find the wizard. It was time for her ally from the elemental plane to make good on their deal. “Where is Iskor?” she demanded.

“The water wraith? She disappeared when the water elemental was destroyed, and I say good riddance to them both,” Rethnor responded.

A wise move on Iskor’s part, Shakti thought grimly. The priestess was losing patience with the flighty creature and had started contemplating ways by which she might shatter the water nymph’s glassy form. But those pleasant thoughts aside, Shakti needed to fmd Liriel, and soon, or her own welcome in Menzoberranzan would be less than cordial.

Neither Matron Triel nor Gromph were known for patience.

Liriel knew she would never forget her first glimpse of Ruathym. They reached the island at twilight, and the setting sun framed the land with a spectacular display of brilliant clouds and gilded sea. But the image that would ever cling to Liriel’s memory was not that of the island’s rugged coast and fingerlike coves, or the picturesque villages and rounded green hills beyond, or even the deeply forested mountains that cast long purple shadows in the dying light. It was the look on Fyodor’s face: joy mingled with poignant longing. “One would almost think you were returning home,” she commented.

Fyodor nodded, not taking his rapt eyes from the hills. “It is very like. If indeed my ancestors came from this place, I think I know how they must have felt when first they saw Rashemen.”

His dream of homecoming was contagious, and for a moment Liriel missed the familiar tunnels and caverns of the Underdark. A stab of pain-and jealousy-pierced her. In all likelihood, she would never again see her ancestral home, and it troubled her that Fyodor was so clearly eager to return to his. Not that she begrudged him his homeland. She simply realized, suddenly and forcefully, that their shared journey was all she had. Now Ruathym was within their sights. After they reached their long-sought goals, what then?

This thought had never occurred to the drow before. She was not much given to introspection, and she found it deeply troubling. Since the day she had been thrust from Menzoberranzan, Liriel had thrown herself into the perilous journey, following a rune quest meant to culminate with the permanent possession of her drow powers and Fyodor’s ability to once again control his berserker might. But indeed-what then?

Liriel had little time to ponder this troubling thought, for the Elfmaid swept toward the island with breathtaking speed. It was a dangerous passage. Large, barren rocks thrust upward from the sea, much like the stalagmites of her homeland, forming a lethal maze that only the bestand best informed-sailors might navigate. And the harbor beyond lacked conventional docks; a rounded cove with a sweep of pebble-strewn beach served as the only landing. Shallow-keeled boats, both large and small, had been drawn up onto the beach, and a few massive piles had been driven into the sea floor to provide mooring for deeper ships. To one of these Hrolf headed, flying toward land with an abandon that had the fearless drow staring with astonishment.

Then the square sail dropped, and the oars fell deep into the water. The Elfmaid slowed abruptly, and Hrolf and his men leaped the rail and dropped into the chest-high water of the cove. Ibn stayed to secure the ship to its mooring; the others waded for shore with joyous haste.

Their approach brought a glad rush from the village beyond. Children, some of them already nightshirted for bed, evaded their mothers’ grasping hands and splashed into the water to throw themselves into the arms ofreturning fathers or brothers. The Ruathen women, for the most part, were more decorous, awaiting their menfolk at water’s edge with calm faces and shining eyes.

As agreed, Liriel and Fyodor hung back until Hrolfhad a chance to explain their presence. The drow could hear the captain’s bluff, hearty voice raised in a storytelling cadence, but his words were muffled by the crowd who gathered around him to listen. There was no mistaking their response, however; an angry murmur began, like the rumbling hint of a summer storm, and soon erupted into a loud and bitter argument.

Liriel waited and listened, her face stoic. Fyodor’s concern, however, was written clearly in his troubled blue eyes. “Olvir has told me much about the village,” he said. “Hrolf is much loved, but he is considered odd by his people. Sometimes they listen to his schemes, sometimes not. There is no telling how they will receive us.” “Regardless, we have come too far to fail now,” Liriel said coldly. “We have come to this island, and the people can like it or not.”

Fyodor’s worried expression deepened, and he took the drow by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “Little raven, do you trust me?” he said urgently.

Liriel scowled. This was unlike Fyodor. The young Rashemi seemed to sense that proclamations of this sort were beyond her darkelven sensibilities, and he usually respected her emotional boundaries.

“What’s your point?” she demanded.

He responded by sweeping a hand toward the wildly beautiful island, the snug wooden cottages, the grimfaced folk dressed in simple, brightly colored clothes.

“These people are my far kin. From all I have heard, their ways are very like those of my ancestors. You must believe me when I tell you to tread carefully.”

Liriel eyed him coldly. She might not like his words, but she had to admit there was wisdom in them. No stranger to Menzoberranzan could hope to understand its intricate layers of protocol and intrigue; this place no doubt had its own peculiar customs. She accepted Fyodor’s advice with a brusque shrug.

“What do I do?”

“Do not use magic unless you have no other choice,” he cautioned her. “I am sure Hrolf has told them you are a wizard, and many will be watching you. Do not give them any more reason to fear you than they already have. Try to remember that everything about you is strange and frightening to these people-your magic, your elven features, the reputation of your people, the silence of your step, the sound of music and wind in your voice. For a time, it is best that you speak but little. Listen and watch. Allow me to speak when it is time to tell them of our quest.”

“Tell them? This is wise?”

Fyodor nodded somberly. “It is best to speak plainly. Warrior folk prefer words that are simple and direct. Nor should we try to hide our purpose; they would not take kindly to dishonesty. Also, Olvir has given me to know that they are likely to welcome a Rashemi warrior on dajemma,” he said, naming the coming-of-age journey taken by all young men of his homeland. “Like my people, the Ruathen enjoy hearing of far places, and a wandering warrior is expected to carry tales of valor.”

“But you said you weren’t sure how they would receive us. What you really meant was not us, but me,” Liriel observed.

The young warrior shrugged. “It is much the same. We travel dajemma together; I will not go where you cannot. Hrolf will surely make this known to them.”

Liriel absorbed this in silence. She had indeed come to trust Fyodor, but she had never imagined she might have to depend so completely upon him or any other person. The proud drow was accustomed to controlling her life, making her own way. She accepted that Fyodors grasp of the situation was probably accurate, but it grated on her nonetheless. “There is one more thing,” Fyodor said hesitantly. “Olvir tells me that the womenfolk of Ruathym tend to hearth and family, leaving most other matters to the men.”

The drow sniffed. “So they are fools. What of it?”

“You will need to show proper respect.” When Liriel continued to regard him blankly, Fyodor elaborated. “You have told me the womenfolk rule in your land. In Ruathym, the tables are turned, and you might expect the same sort of treatment a drow male might receive in your homeland.” “Nine Hells!” the drow muttered, clearly appalled by this revelation. She turned a defiant glare upon her friend. “I will limit the magic and listen more than I speak, but I’ll be damned as a yochlol if I’ll bed any bearded human herothe that beckons for me!”

Fyodor blinked and fell back a step as he absorbed this new fact about drow culture. “Perhaps I was hasty in comparing the lot of darkelven males and Ruathen women,” he said with a bit ofwry humor. “Believe me when I say you need not fear anything of the sort.”

“Because…” Liriel prompted, hearing the rising tone in Fyodor’s voice.

Again the young man hesitated. “Since you and I travel together, they will assume you are my woman. Trust me, it is better than the only other assumption they would make about a lone female aboard a pirate ship. There is more,” he said, raising a hand to cut off Liriel’s ready tirade.

“In this land, warriors hold the highest rank. The people will consider a Rashemi berserker worthy of honor. Although they might not understand my choice of companion, if they accept your presence it will be in respect of what they consider to be my property.”

For the first time since he’d met her, Liriel was completely and utterly dumbfounded. Fyodor quickly turned his gaze toward the shore so she could not see the laughter in his eyes. Her befuddlement was comic, in a dark sort of way, but it was also precisely the response he’d hoped to elicit. The shock dulled some of the light in the drow’s wild golden eyes and silenced her caustic tongue. For the moment, at least, Liriel more closely approximated the stoic calm expected of the women of the Northlands.

“We may go ashore,” he said, pointing to a broadly smiling, gesticulating Hrolf.

“Kill me now,” Liriel muttered darkly as she climbed the rail and jumped into the sea. Sloshing ashore, a “respectful” pace behind her friend, she railed silently and bitterly over this new twist in their journey. Taking a secondary role was annoying enough; more disturbing still was the suspicion that this, too, was somehow part of the rune she must form.

These matters filled Liriel’s thoughts so completely that she found she had little difficulty keeping silence that evening-not that any words she might have wished to speak would have been heard in the noise of the celebration. It seemed the entire village of Ruathym-the island’s largest town-turned out to welcome home the travelers. In the center of the village, surrounded by neat wooden homes and workshops, was a cleared area large enough for all the people to gather. Here, Hrolf told her, the Thingtheir court oflaw-was held, as well as many of their celebrations. Tonight the clearing was bright with bonfires, and the scent of stewed meat and roasted fish filled the air. Raucous laughter competed with loudly told tales as the villagers jostled and thronged about, drinking horns or wooden mugs in hand.

Never had Liriel felt more at odds than in this strange company, and she was grateful for the steady presence of both Hrolf and Fyodor. Among her people she was considered stately-she surpassed the five-foot mark by nearly three inches-but the islanders loomed over her. Almost without exception they were tall and fair, with sky-colored eyes that regarded her with a mixture of hostility and curiosity. Even the women who, unlike drow females, were usually smaller than the males of their race, stood closer to six feet than five. These women might have made fearsome warriors, yet they carried few weapons, and they garbed themselves without any concession to combat practicalities. Long, straight tunics of brightly colored and muchembroidered cloth covered their gowns-and hampered their movements. All of the women wore soft fabric boots, crudely fashioned jewelry, and demure expressions. Liriel was not pleased when one of them, a young female with braids of palest yellow gold, approached her. What had she to say to one of these pallid, insipid wenches?

To Liriel’s relief, the fairhaired islander did not address her, but merely fixed a wide-eyed stare upon her that the drow found insulting in its directness.

“Dagmar!” roared Hl’olf happ.ily, scooping the girl up into a brief, ebullient embrace. Keeping an arm around her waist, he turned a beaming smile to the watchful drow and her companion and quickly made the introductions. “This winsome lass is kin to me,” he explained, “the daughter of my cousin, Ulf the shaman, and herself soon to be the prettiest bride on the island!”

“Not so, Uncle,” the girl said in a low voice. Thunderclouds began to gather on Hrolrs brow. “Don’t you be telling me Thorfinn has taken back his pledge! He took Y graine’s death hard, I’ll grant him that, but so did we all. You’re Ygraine’s sister, and heir to the prophecy! Thorfinn’s troth and rank are yours by right. By Tempus,” he swore, pounding a fist into his open palm with a resounding smack, “I’ll trounce that young scoundrel within an inch of his worthless life!”