Windwalker (12 page)

A familiar panic gripped her, that strange vertigo she had experience upon the humans’ seagoing ship. It was not natural, these vast distances. At least her gods-granted eyesight swiftly adapted to the new conditions of light.

Light.

Shakti’s head snapped toward the blood-bright smoke staining the edge of the sky. She hissed a curse, the vilest and most hated word in the drow language, that which named the horror that surface dwellers called the Sun.

She looked wildly about for shelter. The soul bubble was a magical construct. It would dissolve with the coming of day. The yochlol’s soul would return to the Abyss, and she would be entirely alone. Her whip, her new cloak, her carefully hoarded spells—all this would dissipate.

Gathering up her robe, she began to run. There were rocks ahead, large chucks of her homeland no doubt spat up by some long-ago tremor. Now she perceived the swift run of water, getting loud enough to hear over the rustling underfoot. It was said that mountains, like inverted caverns, often housed caves, and caves offered portals to the Underdark.

Her foot caught on something hard and fibrous, hidden beneath the drifting papery bits. She pitched forward, too fast and too hard to twist aside or prepare her fall. She saw the scattering of rocks awaiting her then saw nothing at all.

Some time later, Shakti stirred and groaned. Her head throbbed, and her eyes burned as if she’d been staring into candlelight. Moments passed before she could manage to open them.

A scene of utmost horror was stretched out before her.

The sun had risen, sending punishing golden light through the strange place. The little papery things seemed to glow with that light, showing every color from crimson to russet, from amber to a brilliant yellow-red shade Shakti had never seen. Even brighter were those bits still affixed to the tall structures, like scales on a molting dragon. The cries of unseen creatures filled the air with mocking laughter. Small, winged demons, some of them brightly feathered, hopped along the intertwined walkways overhead, no doubt casting some fell and foul spell. Small marvel the incubus was drawn to such a place!

Shakti dragged herself to a sitting position and took stock of her situation. There was a large lump on her forehead and a bit of dried blood. Her body felt battered and bruised, but that was to be expected. She’d had five long chains of reptilian bone wrapped around her when she hit the ground. Her whip!

Its familiar embrace was gone. She pawed frantically through the bright debris in case it had dropped away during her fall. In a moment she could no longer deny what she knew would occur. The whip was gone—destroyed by the wicked sun.

A wave of desolation swept through her. The badge of a high priestess, the mark of Lolth’s favor. It might be years before she would be granted another, and never would she have so wondrously macabre a weapon!

Something rustled through the piles of fragile scales. Shakti pulled the knife from her belt and leaped to her feet, whirling toward the sound.

Her head spun, and for a moment she was certain that the sight before her was nothing but a manifestation of her recent head injury. Slithering toward her, its five skeletal heads moving this way and that like the fingers on a dancer’s undulating hand, was her snakeheaded whip. The central head was held high, and draped limply from its bony jaws was a plump, soft-furred creature. This it lay at her feet.

Shakti sank to the ground and plunged her knife into the small beast. She swiftly slit and peeled back the hide and sliced off a strip of still-warm flesh. For several moments she cut, chewed, and swallowed, savoring the first real nourishment she had had for many days.

As her hunger ebbed, astonishment took its place. The snake whip had hunted for her. Never had she heard of such a thing!

The deeper marvel was that it could.

Shakti snatched up a handful of her new cloak. It glittered in the bright light, a brilliant black in which danced colors she had never dreamed possible.

A priestess’s whip, a piwafwi—such things should have disintegrated with the coming of the sun! What in the name of Lolth’s eighth leg was happening?

Carefully she removed the bubble from the hidden pocket of her robe. It fairly hummed with life, the malevolent energy undimmed. Gone, however, was the murky gray. The tiny globe was translucent again, and a tiny storm seemed to be raging within. Shakti held it up and gazed inside. A tiny dark figure whirled and danced in wild exultation. As if it sensed Shakti’s scrutiny, it came to a stop, splayed tiny hands on the inside wall of the bubble and leaned close. The miniscule lips moved, but the voice sounded directly in Shakti’s mind.

The magic held! crowed the former yochlol. It held! Gromph’s little bastard wizard-bitch actually did it!

Shakti’s keen eyes made out the details of a familiar face, one she had never expected to see again. “How is this possible?” she whispered.

Wild joy shone in the tiny crimson eyes. No questions, traitor-priestess! The Handmaiden bade you to take Lolth’s priestess back to Menzoberranzan. Why do you wait?

A shimmering oval of magic appeared before Shakti, quivering with power and impatience. Filled with foreboding, Shakti stepped into the portal.

The whirl of magical travel engulfed her. Shakti savored it as the most peaceful moment she was likely to know for a very long time. Although she was not sure what had just happened, of one thing she was very certain.

This was likely to be a most unusual homecoming.

The waves sparkled with the early morning sun, and tiny, blinding rainbows of light danced toward the merciless horizon. Liriel bore it as long as she could before retreating below decks to the cabin she and Fyodor shared.

The small chamber felt stuffy and hot without the sea breeze to cool it. For a moment Liriel was tempted to create a porthole to let the air in and cloak it with magical darkness to keep the light out. Practicality overruled comfort. Unseen enemies sought her, and hoarding her spells ensured she could offer the next foe an appropriate magical greeting.

Fyodor settled down on the cot and closed his eyes. His shipboard duties included late watch, and he always slept while Liriel studied her spells. By unspoken agreement, one of them stayed awake and alert at all times.

“Why do you trust this nobleman?” Fyodor asked suddenly.

The drow looked up from her spell book. “He can help us get to Qilué.”

“Perhaps he can. You seem very certain that he will.”

“He did once before,” Liriel reminded her friend.

“Yes.” Fyodor opened one eye and sent her an equally lopsided smile. “Through the sewers of Waterdeep.”

Her expression darkened at the memory. “There’s probably another way in, a better way. Chances are, he didn’t trust us enough to reveal it.”

The Hashemi propped himself up on one elbow. “The path of your thoughts runs alongside mine, little raven. I have often wondered why Lord Thann offered aid to strangers. He had little reason to trust us.”

“Especially considering that one of us is a drow,” Liriel said, giving voice to his unspoken words.

As she spoke, the air in the cabin shifted and stirred, and a faint shimmering of light began to coalesce into human form. Liriel had her daggers out—then sheathed again—before her friend noted the magical intrusion.

A tall, fair-haired man appeared in the chamber, a young man probably within a year of so of Fyodor’s twenty summers. He held out his long-fingered hands and flipped them palms-up in a gesture of peace.

“To the contrary, I think rather highly of drow,” Danilo Thann announced in his lazy drawl. “Say what you will about the dark elves, they’re seldom boring.”

Liriel’s eyes narrowed. She drew her dagger and leaped at the invader in one cat-quick movement. Seizing a handful of fair hair, she yanked the much-taller wizard down to eye level and pressed the point of her blade to his throat.

“They’re seldom stupid, either,” she snarled. “Who are you, and what have you done with Danilo of House Thann?”

For a long moment the wizard stared at her. “Just for future reference—assuming of course I have a future—how did you know?”

“Your hands,” Liriel said curtly. “The man whose form you’re wearing played a stringed instrument. There would be calluses on the tips of his fingers.”

The wizard sighed. “The demons hide in the details, don’t they?”

They might as well have been discussing a bottle of wine, for all the concern the pretender displayed. Liriel was not certain whether to be impressed or irritated. She turned to Fyodor, who stood with sword ready.

“I’m going to strip away the cloaking spells. If there’s anything you don’t like about this idiot’s looks, kill him.”

She stepped back and flashed through the gestures that would dispel magic. The green-clad nobleman disappeared, and in his place stood an female elf with skin the color of blushing pearls and long, red-gold hair.

A faerie elf.

Deep-seated fear and loathing bubbled to the surface of Liriel’s mind like acid. Liriel spun to Fyodor. “What are you waiting for? Kill it!” she shrieked.

The Rashemi stepped between the two females. “Perhaps you should explain,” he told the elf.

“I’m Sharlarra Vindrith, apprentice to Laerel Silverhand. She’s Qilué Veladorn’s sister.”

“Qilué sent you?” Liriel demanded, peering around Fyodor.

“Indirectly,” the elf said, also leaning to one side. “She sent word to you, and you sent word to Danilo—”

“And he sent a faerie elfin his place,” the drow said in disgust. She crossed her arms and glared at Fyodor. “You were right. He wasn’t to be trusted. Go ahead and gloat.”

The Rashemi shook his head and turned back to Sharlarra. “Does Lord Thann know you are wearing his sword?”

She glanced at the jeweled weapon on her hip. “He may have figured it out by now. Chances are he’s still fuming over the loss of the gems and magical items, but he’ll get over it.” She shrugged and smiled. “They always seem to.”

Fyodor turned to Liriel. “In my land, the witches have spells that allow one person to appear as another. To do so, you must carry a weapon used by the person whose form you wish to wear. Perhaps Lady Laerel taught her apprentice such a spell.”

“I picked it up on my own,” Sharlarra said, “but otherwise you’ve got it right. Can we get on with this?”

The drow gave a cautious nod. Sharlarra took a silver cuff from her ear and held it out. “Danilo stole this from Laerel, and I stole it from him. It’ll take you both right to Qilué.”

Liriel took the little hoop and examined the intricate carvings. The markings were familiar and unmistakably drow in origin. The spell they shaped was indeed a variation of a powerful travel magic. Entwined among the magical marks was Qilué’s personal sigil. No wizard but she could carve that mark without courting swift magical retribution.

She slid the cuff into place on her ear and spoke Qilué’s name. An oval of magic shimmered into sight, a gossamer fabric that was at once black and silver.

“Do you need anything else?” the elf asked.

For a long moment Liriel studied the faerie. “Why are you helping me?”

Sharlarra shrugged. “Danilo could have done it, but he’d end up paying for it.”

“And you won’t.”

“Let’s just say I was ready to move on, anyway.”

“So you did this for him,” the drow said, still trying to understand.

“And for me. Life was getting a little slow in Blackstaff Tower. I was ready for something different.”

Inspiration struck. “Here’s something that might suit you,” Liriel said dryly. “A sea elf named Xzorsh follows this ship.” She pronounced the name carefully, a sharp click followed by a lingering, sibilant sweep. “He wants to learn the Art. I suspect his talent is small, but he has the sort of dedication that ignores limitations. Can you find him a teacher?”

“A sea elf mage,” Sharlarra mused then shrugged again. “Why not? Consider it done.”

A faint tapping came from the other side of the hull, a rapid, rhythmic pattern that shaped a jaunty tune sung on nearly every ship asail.

Liriel’s eyes widened. “The merrow alarm!” she said, naming the signal for impending attack—and the monsters that approached the ship. “Xzorsh was right on the mark about the illithid’s messengers!”

“Sea ogre messengers?” murmured Sharlarra. “Assassins, more likely.”

“See?” Liriel retorted. “You got the message already.”

“Oh. Good point.”

“There will be battle, and soon,” Fyodor said glancing reluctantly from the magical gate to the cabin’s door. “We cannot in good conscience leave the ship now.”

Sharlarra waved them toward the gate. “Go along. I’ll stand in for you. Really,” she said, responding to the Hashemi’s dubious frown. “It’ll be fun.”

Drow and elf exchanged a quick, cautious grin. “Her I think I could like,” Liriel told Fyodor. “Let’s go.”

The gossamer gate shimmered as they passed through, and their next step fell heavily on solid stone. Liriel, accustomed to the tumble and whirl of drow magical gates, seized Fyodor’s arm to keep from stumbling. Her gaze swept over vaulting stone walls and a multilevel maze of connected walkways.

“Impressive,” Liriel murmured, referring to both the magical transport and the Promenade temple.

The ground under their feet suddenly gave way, and they were sliding down a steep, smooth passage. Before Liriel could catch her breath, they were dumped unceremoniously into a small, brightly lit chamber.

She shielded her eyes with one hand and gathered her feet beneath her. Dark shapes surrounded her and Fyodor, and the searing torchlight glinted off a circle of ready weapons. She made out the shape of a large, low bowl on a stone pedestal—a scrying bowl, no doubt, armed with spells that watched the temple parameters and captured whatever ventured into the bowl’s “sight.”

Liriel spread her hands, palms-up. “We’re friends,” she began.

“Of course you are,” chirped a little-girl voice. “Enemies are seldom received so graciously.”

A relieved grin crept over Liriel’s face. “Iljreen,” she said, naming the drow battlemaster. “I’d say it’s good to see you, but I can’t. See you, that is. Do you mind dimming the lights?”