Windwalker (13 page)

The unseen priestess snapped her fingers, and the leaping flames ringing the small stone chamber sank low into the wall torches. A small female clad in silvery party clothes and sparkling gems lifted one finger to her forehead in a grave military salute. To those who knew Iljreen, the gesture held no irony whatsoever.

“Expecting hostile drow visitors?” Liriel asked, blinking away the lingering stars.

The tiny female shrugged. “Most of them are.”

“We have many enemies among the drow,” observed a lilting, low-pitched female voice, “and so, my young friend, do you.”

Liriel squinted in the direction of the speaker. Her vision focused on the beautiful dark face of the high priestess.

A faint smile curved Qilué’s lips, but sadness seemed to linger in her eyes—a familiar sadness, one that Liriel had learned on Ruathym. For a moment the pain of Hrolf’s loss engulfed her, a wave of loss and regret so strong that she could hardly draw breath.

“You lost someone,” she observed softly.

“Elkantar,” the priestess responded. “He was slain aboard ship during the dragon’s hoard battle.”

Liriel’s brow furrowed as she tried to remember which among the drow males bore this name. “Your parzdiamo,” she said sympathetically, using the drow word Menzoberranzan females employed to refer to male playmates who did not officially hold the title of House Patron.

Outrage flamed in Qilué’s eyes, bright and brief, then the sorrow returned. “He was my beloved, and he is dead. I cannot speak of it without pain. Instead, let us talk of the drow who killed him.”

Liriel responded with a cautious nod. It was clear that she had offended, but she was not certain how.

“The mercenary known as Gorlist survived the battle,” the high priestess continued. “He blames you for all that he has lost. He has become obsessed with vengeance. To that end, he has rebuilt the Dragon’s Hoard band beyond its former strength. They seek you throughout Skullport and beyond. The tunnels between here and Rashemen are not safe.”

Liriel laughed without humor. “Where the Underdark is concerned, ‘safe’ is never the first word that comes to mind. If the tunnels are as bad as all that, we’ll go overland.”

“That path is no better,” she cautioned. “There are among the humans those who will spill blood for gold, and care little whose blood is spilt or whose gold they pocket. Such men are watching for you in Waterdeep, and they will follow any path you take.”

“Bandits and ruffians,” Fyodor observed.

“That is not the sum of Gorlist’s forces,” Qilué cautioned. “He has gathered a band of drow warriors who have grown accustomed to life on the surface, followers of Vhaerun. He has also enlisted the aid of a wizard.”

Liriel shrugged. “I’ve fought wizards before.”

“Human wizards?”

A stern glance from Qilué stole the sneer from Liriel’s face. “Do not underestimate this foe,” the priestess cautioned. “Drow magic is powerful, but it is not the only magic. A small dagger that you do not anticipate will kill you more quickly than the sword you see.”

Liriel nodded thoughtfully. “The ancient rune magic is very different from anything I learned in Menzoberranzan.”

“Just so. This wizard is Merdrith, a reclusive, little-known wizard of considerable power who makes his home in the High Forest. The Dark Maiden’s priestesses have reason to know and fear him. Gorlist, knowing Merdrith’s hatred for Eilistraee’s own, has persuaded him to Skullport. His magic seeks you even as we speak.”

“Not the tunnels, not the surface,” Fyodor repeated. “How, then, are we to travel to Rashemen?”

Qilué turned her gaze to the warrior. “That is why I called you here. By the grace of Eilistraee, I can call moonbeams to take you to the borders of Rashemen. No farther can I send you—the witches who guard that land employ spells against such intrusion. My sister Sylune learned of such spells during her time among Rashemen’s witches. We use similar enchantments here to ward our temple. Speaking of my sisters, I see that you have something that belongs to one of them.”

Liriel removed the ear cuff and handed it over. “You can call moonbeams?”

“A spell granted Eilistraee’s followers. Shall we begin?”

In response, Liriel held out her hand to Fyodor. Their fingers entwined. At a nod from Qilué the warriors left the chamber, passing through unseen doors. The torches snuffed out abruptly. Darkness and silence ruled absolute.

The priestess began to sing, a soft haunting melody that was more like wind than music and that might well be lost on a night wind.

Soft white radiance filled the chamber as slender beams of moonlight streamed down from an unseen sky. The thick ceiling of soil and stone seemed to fade away, and motes of mundane dirt whirled and danced in the moonbeams like Stardust. In the center of this summoned magic, Qilué danced.

The voice of the priestess—and the magic of the Dark Maiden — flowed through Liriel like strong wine. Almost without realizing it, she too began to sway and circle in time to the music.

Listen to the moonsong, whispered Qilué’s voice, mind to mind. Whatever land it touches sings with joy, and each song is unique. Find the song of Rashemen. Listen, and follow.

“And Fyodor?” Liriel asked aloud.

Your destiny and his are entwined. This he knows. You are the song his heart hears. Go, and he will follow.

The young drow reached out through magic’s web, much as she had when she sought the great oak known as Yggdrasil’s Child. Her senses caught the distant tune, a simple melody that seemed to follow the cadence of Fyodor’s ancient tales. Liriel gave herself fully to the music, letting the silvery magic of Eilistraee flow through her swaying limbs.

A deep chill shimmered through her, stopping her in mid-whirl. Liriel froze, and for a moment she relieved the horror of the Abyss and those few moments when Hrolf’s ship Elfmaid passed through Lolth’s realm on its way to safety.

The memory passed, but the horror did not. Liriel stared in disbelief at the dark threads streaking down along the conjured moonbeams. Spiders the size of housecats dropped into the chamber and skittered off through the invisible doors and out into Qilué’s carefully warded sanctum.

Low, mocking laughter filled the chamber, echoes that welled up from unfathomable depths. Dark threads snapped together to form a web, which lowered slowly toward Liriel.

Mine, exulted the voice of the goddess—a terrible sound that mingled the shrieking of chill winds and the multitudinous voices of the dark-elven damned. This one I claim now. The rest we will take soon enough!

Qilué shook off her moment of stunned inaction and seized the silver medallion bearing her holy symbol. A quick tug snapped the chain, and she held the disk aloft. Again she sang, and again she danced.

A soft haze of moonlight flowed from the medallion, slowly pushing aside the darkness of Lolth. Again Liriel joined in the dance, desperate to help push away the unwanted Presence.

Qilué whirled toward her, her face grim. A graceful leaping kick dealt a blow that sent the younger drow reeling to the chamber wall. Liriel hit hard enough to knock the breath from her body. For long moments she sat on the cold stone floor, struggling for air, helpless to do anything but watch as the high priestess called upon one goddess to banish another.

Finally the terrible Presence faded away, and so, more slowly, did the silvery light surrounding Eilistraee’s priestess. Qilué strode to the scrying bowl. She gripped the rim with both hands and leaned in. After a moment she straightened and raised a haggard face to Fyodor. “Come, Rashemi, and tell me what you see. The battle took more of my strength than I had thought possible.”

He came to the priestess’s side and gazed over her shoulder.

“Goblins are coming from the tunnels below,” he said crisply, a warrior giving report. “There’s a kobold horde nearing the postern gate. Small bands of drow fighters converge from these three tunnels. Those humans there—I’ve seen similar tunics worn by Skullport bounty hunters.”

The priestess spun away and shrieked for her battlemaster. Iljreen appeared suddenly. Her gaze snapped to Liriel and then returned to the high priestess, taking in the situation. “The wards?”

“Down.”

Iljreen nodded crisply. “I’ll see to the battle. You’ll have your hands full elsewhere.”

“Tell me what I can do to help,” Fyodor offered.

The battlemaster’s delicate face hardened, and her narrowed eyes again flicked to Liriel. “You can take that Lolth-loving bitch out of my stronghold before she kills us all,” she hissed.

With that Iljreen was gone, as suddenly as she had appeared.

Sick understanding filled the pit of Fyodor’s stomach. Somehow, he knew not how, Liriel had once again invited Lolth’s touch. He glanced at his friend. Her eyes, enormous in her stricken face, mirrored his fears.

“How is this possible?” she whispered.

“Isn’t it obvious?” spat Qilué. “Liriel is bound to the Spider Queen. You shouldn’t have come!”

Liriel’s spirit returned in a sudden rush. In one swift movement she was on her feet and in the priestess’s face. “You told us to come. Or was your talking raven lying through his beak?”

“You should have sent word of this!”

“We didn’t know.”

“Didn’t you?”

The searing accusation in Qilué’s voice snapped Fyodor out of his horror-struck daze. Liriel was wychlaran, and while he lived, no one would accuse her of such treachery.

“Liriel has turned away from ways of her people and given up the evil goddess,” he said with quiet certainty.

“That doesn’t mean that Lolth has given up on Liriel,” Qilué retorted. She whirled on Liriel in magnificent wrath. “Do you know how many years of work, what a fortune in magical resources, went into warding the Promenade from Lolth’s view? All that, undone! You have turned this place over to Lolth and her evil followers. Have you any idea what that means?”

The young drow’s bravado faded. “Of course I know,” she whispered. “How could I not? I was born in Menzoberranzan.”

“A place not easily left behind,” Fyodor said softly. “You yourself said that Liriel was pursued. I swear to you, she gives no more invitation to the huntress than the hare gives the hawk.”

The bright heat of Qilué’s fury faded away, and her shoulders rose and fell in a deep sigh.

“I can do nothing more for you but show you a quick way to the surface. I will send word to my sister Laerel. She will see you safely out of Waterdeep. Word of a traveling drow will reach the Dark Maiden’s followers. If you are stopped and questioned, show them this. It will grant you safe passage.”

The priestess handed Liriel a small silver talisman, an engraving of a slender elf female armed with a bow and accompanied by a wolf. Both hunters lifted their eyes to a rising moon.

“Thank you,” Liriel said fervently.

Qilué’s stern gaze softened. “A servant will guide you through the tunnels. Go, and may the Dark Maiden watch your path.”

Fyodor bowed and took Liriel’s hand. They disappeared together through one of the hidden doors.

The moment she was alone, the high priestess sank to the floor in exhaustion. Her battle against Lolth’s intrusion had drained her strength to the point of exhaustion. She thought it unwise to show the extent of her weakness before one the Spider Queen had so obviously claimed as Her own.

No matter how reluctant Liriel might be—and Qilué did not doubt the young drow’s reticence—where Liriel went, the eyes of the goddess would follow.

Perhaps it would be different on the surface, Qilué mused. The power of Lolth could not reach the lands of light. The central tenant of her faith was that darkness was destroyed by light, not rendered invisible. So it had always been, and she had no reason to believe that it would not always be so.

Why, then, could she not dispel the sense that the world had shifted beneath her feet?

WIZARD’S APPRENTICE

The illithid known as Vestriss paced the mosaic floor of her throne room, which until recently had been a treasure trove in the submerged ruins that long-dead elves had called Ascarle. Only a few of these ancient treasures remained: large statues for the most part, or golden objects too heavy for the illithid’s fleeing slaves to carry away.

Vestriss herself was decidedly worse for wear. Her amethyst rings had been stripped from her four-fingered hands. The silver circlet that had adorned her lavender head was gone, as was the medallion bearing the royal crest she had assumed as the self-proclaimed Regent of Ascarle. Her fine robes had been torn by frenzied, thieving hands, her sensitive facial tentacles bruised. The only reason she still lived was that the slaves had thought her already dead. Liriel Baenre’s immobilizing magic had seen to that.

The illithid was not, however, feeling the least bit grateful.

Vestriss’s seeking thoughts perceived her genasi slave’s foot-dragging approach. Facial tentacles twitched and writhed as if the illithid tasted the air, but Vestriss read the story of the genasi’s mission in the emotional storm creeping toward the throne room. Rage the genasi knew in plenty, and frustration, failure, and fear.

Fear. Oh, yes. There was reason for fear.

Vestriss settled into her throne and turned her empty white eyes toward the door. In moments a lithe, blue-skinned female entered the room and dipped into a deep reverence. Purple bruises mottled her face, and one eye was nearly swollen shut. Hatred for the drow who had done this swirled through the genasi’s mind, and her overwhelming desire for revenge sang in concert with the illithid’s own, similar fury.

Vengeance is the reward of the competent, the illithid “said,” projecting a regal, feminine voice directly into the genasi’s mind. You, Azar, have failed me.

The genasi’s lips thinned, and insulted pride rolled from her in pungent waves. “If I have, mistress, it was because I lacked the necessary magic,” she said in petulant tones. “You said the drow was a wizard. You did not know how powerful.”

Did I not1? Uriel Baenre stood in my presence. Were I so inclined, I could list every spell in her quiver. I gave you all the magic you needed to stave off her attacks. One tentacle stabbed toward Azar like an accusing finger. What cause have you for complaint? It wasn’t magic that marred your face.