Tangled Webs (36 page)

“It is a symbol,” Liriel responded, quoting from the books of lore she had studied. “The Tree of Yggsdrasil holds all of life; entire worlds are like fruit in her branches.” “Why have you come?”

“To carve on the sacred tree a rune of power,” the drow said, picturing in her mind the elaborate pattern that had been taking shape for many days.

“How was this rune formed?

“From life comes magic; from life, therefore, must a rune be formed. I went on a long journey, to see and to learn and to let life shape the rune.”

“With what will you carve the rune onto the sacred tree?”

Liriel took the Windwalker amulet from her neck and grasped the hilt of the tiny dagger. She twisted it, and it came free of the sheath to reveal not a dagger, but a tiny chisel. “I will carve the rune with this artifact from a time long past, enchanted by rune-casters and blessed by the ancient gods.”

“And how will you do the casting?”

This final, elusive answer was not something she had learned from book or scroll; it had come to her this very night in tbe moonlit clearing. “By the power of the land upon which Yggsdrasil’s Child grows, and the strength of the oak, and the magic I call my own,” Liriel answered.

The shaman nodded. “You may begin.”

Liriel turned to the ancient tree, ran her fingers over the weathered trunk as if seeking a spot that was hers alone. When it felt right, she raised the chisel and closed her eyes, bringing to mind her rune and letting it fill her thoughts.

Long moments passed, but still she did not move. The pattern was not yet complete—the rune had not fully taken shape. Dismayed and puzzled, Liriel stood unmoving, searching her thoughts for what might yet be missing. Fyodor.

The answer hit her like a blow, but she knew it at once to be true. She could not do this without Fyodor, for he was an integral part of the rune she must cast.

Liriel opened her eyes and released a long, tremulous breath. This was almost too much for her to absorb. The young wizard had always thought of herself as the keeper ofboth quests-hers and Fyodor’s. She had come to accept him as a partner and a friend, but for the fIrst time she began to realize their destinies were entwined in ways she could not yet begin to understand.

Without a word, the drow turned and walked away from the sacred oak.

Ulf did not question her; indeed, he seemed to understand the matter better than she. “When you are ready, you will try again,” he said calmly; “But next time, you will not have need of me.”

Liriel awoke at sunrise after a scant hour or so of slumber, startled from sleep by the clamor coming from somewhere below her. A moment passed before the usually alert drow remembered where she was, and why. Grumbling, she tossed aside the blanket and crawled out of the cot she’d been given in the loft of Ulf’s cottage. Quickly she dressed and climbed down the ladder that led into the large central chamber that served as kitchen, meeting area, and sleeping quarters for Ulfs
family.

The room bustled with activity. Ulf’s wife, Sanja, a thick-bodied Northwoman whose usual expression suggested she’d recently drunk large quantities of sour milk, looked positively pleasant as she went about her work. She was dressed as if for a festive occasion; her braided hair was wrapped around her head with ribbons and fixed in place with pins of yellow gold, and she wore a bright red shift over a blouse of muchembroidered linen. The woman busily packed pots and clothing and household linens into an enormous chest, all the while happily scolding the thralls who attended the packing and the usual household chores. Dagmar moved to do Sanja’s bidding also, but Liriel noticed that the girl was pale and tight-Iipped as she went about her work.

“What’s going on?” the drow inquired as she helped herself from a bowl of wild berries.

“My daughter travels to Holgerstead today,” Ulf replied. “She will enter the household of Wedigar, the First Axe of that village. When the moon is full, they will be wed. It is a great honor to this household,” he said, casting a stern glance toward the girl.

Liriel did not need to ask Dagmar’s opinion of the honor being dealt her. It astounded the drow that no one seemed concerned by the young woman’s obvious distress. Liriel was not certain whether she should feel sorry for the girlwho was clearly being sent away and married off against her will-or whether she should try to slap some sense into the spineless wench.

There was little time for either. Liriel abandoned her meal to watch as two burly thralls lugged the chest out and hoisted it up onto a flatbed wagon, to which were hitched two pairs of oxen. Several barrels and crates had already been loaded and strapped securely into place.

Sanja crossed her arms over her bosom and surveyed the heavily laden cart with a critical eye. “Well, Dagmar, an that’s lacking are the traditional barrels of oil and meal. Those you can fetch from Hrolf’s warehouse before we leave. Not even a First Axe could quarrel with my daughteis bride price,” she said with deep satisfaction.

Liriel’s eyes widened with astonishment and rage. A female was expected to bring a dowry? In her land, not even the lowly males were subjected to such indignity. Drow males were chosen as mates for whatever merits the females happened to see in them. They were discarded just as easily, true, but at least their families didn’t sell them to whatever priestess put in the highest bid!

Before Liriel could speak her mind, Sanja stripped off several of the golden bands encircling her plump arms and gave them to her daughter, along with a spate of motherly admonitions about a wife’s duties. The speech was blunt and detailed enough to startle even the fun-Ioving drow. Dagmar made her escape as soon as she decently could, her face corpse-white except for the livid stains of embarrassment that slashed across her cheeks.

“I’ll go with you to Hrolf’s warehouse,” Liriel said abruptly.

The young Northwoman only nodded, clearly eager to be away. She took up the lead rope and began to guide the oxen down the road that led toward the warehouses. Liriel fell into step, and they walked in silence past the small buildings that housed the ducks and rabbits that supplied the family’s table.

Dagmar paused near the edge of the yard and cast a long look over the kitchen garden. Tending this, Liriel had learned, was one of Dagmar’s responsibilities. Between gardening and fishing, the girl was as much a servant as any of the slave-born thralls who served the household. And this was the life of the only daughter of an important and relatively wealthy man! The drow couldn’t help but wonder what type of servitude awaited Dagmar in another woman’s household.

Two large wooden boxes stood just off the path, full of sand and salty water. Liriel caught sight of a burrowing clam-it seemed that many of the villagers kept a supply of shellfish and edible seaweed handy. She absently plucked a bit of kelp-a tightly whorled bud of some sortfrom the water and began to nibble it as she searched her mind for anything that might ease Dagmar’s situation. A look at the girl’s stricken face, however, banished all thoughts of diplomacy.

“You don’t have to do this,” Liriel said bluntly. “Fight your way out of it, if you have to. I’ll stand with you. I won’t see another female served so badly!”

But the young Northwoman shook her head. “I must go,” she said in a distracted voice as she flipped a pale yellow braid over her shoulder. “The First Axe needs a hamfariggen heir who can lead the berserkers in battle. It is my duty to provide one.

“You heard Hrolf speak of Y graine,” Dagmar continued softly. “She was my twinborn sister, lost last spring in a sudden squall. The night we two were born, the old women who read the oracles said Ygraine would bring the shapestrong magic back to Ruathym and help restore the ancient glories we have all but lost. And what other path to glory is given a woman of the North, but through the man she weds and the sons she bears him? Ygraine’s betrothed was the last young hamfariggen warrior on the island. He is dead. The only shapestrong man on Ruathym is Wedigar, and he must have sons. Ygraine would have gone to him willingly. This destiny now falls to me; can I do less than she?”

Liriel threw up her hands in disgust. If Dagmar was going to take that attitude, there was no helping her!

“But there is something you can do for me,” the girl murmured. “I wish to go to Holgerstead quietly, and alone. Leave me now and wait for a time before returning to my father’s house, so they do not know I have left. Else, they will travel with me and hand me with great ceremony into Wedigar’s unwilling hands. That, I think, I could not bear.” The request seemed reasonable enough, so the drow nodded and slipped off into the nearby forest. After an hour or so passed, she’d wander back to the cottage with news of Dagmar’s escape.

A grin of wicked anticipation spread across Liriel’s face as she pictured Sanja’s astonishment and ire. The stolid Northwoman could throw an impressive tantrum. Liriel had observed a most entertaining example ofSanja’s talents earlier, when she and Ulfhad crept into the cottage in the waning hours of night. Granted, the woman’s rage was not as colorful and violent as those favored by drow priestesses, for the dark elves could punctuate their shrieking diatribes with the lashes of a snake-headed whip and bursts of magical fury. But the Northwoman did what she could with the resources she had-Liriel had to grant her that/

It was something to look forward to, anyway, in a day that had unquestionably gotten off to a bad start.

Rethnor was still abed in his room in Vestress’s palace when the door to his room exploded inward. The portal shattered into a storm of sparkling crystal that showered his bed and clattered to the marble floor. One jagged shard pierced the arm he instinctively flung up to shield his face. The High Captain swore as he tore out the splinter and cast it aside. He leaped to his feet and lunged for the sword that he kept always ready beside his bed. Bringing it up in guard position, he faced down the intruder.

Shakti stood in the ruined doorway, clutching a smoking pitchfork in her hands as if it were a spear. Her dark face was livid as she advanced on the captain.

“Three days you have been in the Night Above,” she shrieked, “and what have you accomplished? You have returned to Ascarle without Liriel Baenre. Show me how you will bring me my prey, or die now by my hands/”

In response, the captain lunged forward, blade leading. He stabbed between the pitchfork’s tines and then spun his body sharply to one side. The speed and strength of his attack tore the weapon from the drow’s grip. It fell to the floor with a sharp clatter.

“Die by your hands?” he taunted her.

“Or yours, if you prefer,” the drow hissed from between clenched teeth. She thrust both hands out, thumbs entwined, and then slapped her palms sharply together.

A familiar tingle started in Rethnor’s new hand and sent a shiver of dread into his very soul. Once again the treacherous limb abandoned him to the power of the dark elf’s foul magic. He watched in helpless rage as his sword hand lifted his blade and placed the edge against his throat.

“How will you deliver Liriel Baenre?” demanded Shakti as she stalked in closer. “Tell me all you have done, and plan to do, or die now!”

Rethnor did not doubt the drow’s sincerity of purpose, i and he spoke with all candor. “I have contacted my spy on the island and know at last the drow wizard’s weakness.
She has a human lover-the very warrior who took my hand,” he admitted grudgingly. “By all reports, the elf I woman is very loyal to her friends. If this man is captured, she will certainly come after him.”

The priestess looked doubtful. “She is drow. Why would she care for the welfare of a human male?”

“You have a better suggestion?” Rethnor asked this with less sarcasm that he might have employed-it seemed a prudent choice, considering the sword at his throat.

“Kill him,” Shakti advised coldly. “If he is an interesting lover, the loss will anger her, and she will seek vengeance.” Rethnor considered. This reasoning struck him as sound, given his own rather casual attitude toward his bedmates, and his experience with this particular dark elf:

“It will be as you say,” the captain promised. “The time for the invasion nears, and tonight the berserkers of HoIgerstead will die. All of them,” he added with grim satisfaction.

“Really? By whose hand?”

The Northman glanced down at the sword at his throat, and his lips tightened in a small, hard smile. “By the hand of treachery,” he said softly. “I have learned how effective that can be.”

A strange light entered the drow’s crimson eyes. “Effective, but too efficient for my liking,” she stated with dark glee, and she reached for something tucked into her belt, something that looked like the handle of a whip.

As she pulled it free, several thick ropes emerged from among the folds of her skirts. They rose up, swaying sinuously, and regarded Rethnor with pitiless, reptilian eyes. To his horror, the High Captain realized that the whip was made up of living snakes. Five of them-all with eager, open jaws and fangs dripping with venom.

Shakti drew back her arm and then lashed forward. The snake heads dove in, and their fangs sank deep into the High Captain’s flesh. Jolts of icy, numbing pain shocked through him, and he dropped to the floor, nerveless and limp.

Again the priestess flung back her arm, ripping the snakes’ fangs from him. She stood poised for an agonizingly long moment as Rethnor steeled himself for the second strike.

“That will do for now,” the drow said with obvious reluctance. “But remember the price of failure and do not risk awakening my anger!”

Shakti tucked away the whip; the snakes immediately snuggled back into their hiding places. She retrieved her pitchfork and stalked from the room. The man regarded the shattered door, his deep puncture wounds and torn flesh, and he marveled that the drow did not consider these to be acts of rage. He wondered with deep foreboding what might occur if she should ever become truly angered.

A thought flashed in Rethnor’s pain-numbed mind, one too full of possibilities to ignore. The thrice-bedamned priestess had turned his own body against him. But perhaps there was some treachery he could yet deal her. Shakti wanted the drow wizard. Very well, he would deliver her to Shakti, but in such a rage as might well level all of Ascarle.