Daughter of the Drow (38 page)

Fyodor told her about his land, and the lands he had passed through, and the battles he had seen. Although she recognized in his words a love of travel and adventure to equal her own, Liriel was surprised to note he had little apparent interest in the art of fighting for its own sake.

“If you do not care for swordcraft, how is it you fight so well?” she demanded.

The young man shrugged. “Rashemen is a small land, surrounded by powerful enemies. Every Rashemi learns to fight at an early age.”

“So do drow. There is more to you than that,” Liriel stated calmly. “I have seen a few humans in Menzoberranzan. Some fight better than others, but all die easily enough. You cling to life with more fortitude than seems natural.”

Fyodor sat silently for a long moment, regarding her with a calm, measuring gaze. For a moment Liriel recalled the mind-reading spells of Lloth’s clergy, and she wondered whether this human was weighing her in some invisible measure of his own. It seemed unlikely a mere human male, a rough-clad commoner at that, could command such magic, but Liriel was no longer so quick to draw conclusions. When the young fighter nodded and began to speak of matters closely held, she had the strangest feeling she’d passed some sort of test.

The drow listened closely as Fyodor told her of Rashemen’s berserker warriors, and the strange malady that severed him from the brotherhood that defended his land. He had been sent away; no longer able to control his battle rages, he had become a danger to those around him.

“That’s utter nonsense!” Liriel interrupted heatedly. “After seeing you in battle, I can’t think of another fighter I’d rather have at my back!”

The young man sent her a faint, fleeting smile. “You do me honor, little raven. But consider the dangers. I must fight until all who stand against me are gone. This is not always the best course, for me or those who fight with me. But what I fear most,” he said softly, “is what I may become before the fighting stops. You saw what I did to the bear-creature. I swear by my soul, I would never have done such a thing had I been able to choose my own course. And if I cannot order my own actions now, how soon before I cannot tell friend from foe?”

Liriel nodded. “I see your problem.”

“Then you will also understand the purpose of my dajemma. The Witches who rule my land sent me to find an ancient amulet that can store this dangerous power, so I can once again call it forth at will.”

Oh, she understood, all right. Liriel’s heart suddenly felt leaden beneath the weight of the stolen Windwalker. “You don’t say. An amulet that stores magic,” she echoed dully.

“That is so. How its magic works, I do not know.”

Perhaps not, but she did. It gave Liriel little pleasure to know she understood more about the Windwalker’s magic than did Fyodor, perhaps more even than Rashemen’s Witches. The amulet was hers now, purchased at staggering cost, and so it must remain. And yet

“What happens if you never regain the amulet?” she demanded.

He shrugged and poked at their campfire. “It means my life, and whatever aid my sword might have given my troubled land.”

Liriel rose abruptly. She walked toward the mouth of the cave, motioning Fyodor back when he would have followed her. After all that had passed between them, she needed a few moments’ solitude to put things in order.

The day was nearly spent, but just beyond the cave all was brilliant, golden light. The drow gazed out as long as she could bear it, trying to wean her eyes to the light of surface world. It would be many days before she could walk out beneath the sun in comfort. The question that troubled her now was whether or not she would walk alone.

She could not abandon her own quest, for doing so could well mean her life. Knowing what she did of her people’s power-mad greed, Liriel doubted she could ever return to the Underdark, with or without the coveted amulet. Nor could she long survive on the surface without her drow magic. She was a wizard, not a warrior, and although her skills at arms were considerable they were not sufficient to sustain her in this hostile world. No, she could not give up the Windwalker.

Indeed, why should she? Fyodor of Rashemen was a human, a male, and a commoner, and thus by any measure Liriel had ever known, he was unworthy of her notice. Why, then, this unwonted concern for his success? It was a question that puzzled and angered the young drow.

But most of all, what frustrated Liriel was this: that one person could not increase unless another were diminished. It had ever been so, and until now she had never questioned this simple fact of life. Now she railed against harsh reality and searched the winding pathways of her dark-elven mind for another way.

And yet, when at last Liriel returned to the soothing darkness of her shared camp, she did so with the Windwalker amulet hidden at the very bottom of her travel bag.

At twilight Liriel and Fyodor stole from the cave and retraced their path toward the ruined cavern. As they neared the battlefield, a cloud of interrupted ravens rose from their feasting with loud squawks of displeasure.

Fyodor’s face settled in grim lines as he surveyed the day-old carnage. Liriel suspected the Rashemi did not relish this reminder of his latest battle frenzy, but she strode quickly over the rock-strewn ground toward the bodies of their fallen foe. There were answers there that she must have.

She ignored the battered quaggoth remains and knelt beside what was left of the dark naga. The creature’s blue scales were dull and dusty, but formidable armor still. Using her stoutest knife, Liriel chipped and pried and tugged until she managed to peel off a section of the scales. She sliced into the naga’s body and pulled from it a large sack that looked more like a traveler’s pack than anything normally found in a once-living creature.

Fyodor drew near, intrigued, as Liriel stretched wide the sack’s one opening and began to shake out its contents. He’d dreaded returning to this place, but he understood the drow’s need to find out who was pursuing her. Indeed, he himself wished to know more about the drow wizard called Nisstyre, and what it was he wanted with Liriel. So Fyodor watched intently as she shook out a number of odd items: a long, broad dagger; a small arsenal of knives; several vials of potions and poisons; a tightly scrolled map; a bag full of platinum coins; another stuffed with gems; several spell scrolls; and a small book. Ignoring the other treasures, Liriel reached for the book and paged through it. Her shoulders sagged.

“What is it?” Fyodor asked softly.

“This is a spellbook, a duplicate of one I carry. It is the work of archmage Gromph Baenre. My father.”

The drow’e voice was cool and even, but Fyodor did not miss the faint note of despair in it. “Perhaps it was stolen from him,” he offered.

Liriel shook her head. “Gromph is probably the most powerful wizard in a mighty drow city. A naga’s magic is a pale thing in comparison. No, this creature could only have gotten the spellbook with Gromph’s knowledge and contrivance.”

“He is your father; he wants you back,” Fyodor reasoned.

“He wants me dead! What did you think the dark naga and the two quaggoths were—a diplomatic envoy?”

Fyodor could think of no words of comfort for such a betrayal, so he stood silent while the practical drow gathered up the naga’s treasures. Liriel slid the dagger into her weapon belt to replace the sword she’d lost in the cavern. The knives she tucked into numerous pockets and straps cleverly hidden about her person. She did not seem to care that Fyodor saw how and where she was armed.

The young man read in this act not only mental agitation, but a measure of trust. It astounded him that this girl, who had just taken a devastating betrayal with stoic calm, would put her confidence in him. Fyodor had come to value the dark elf’sintense, zestful approach to life, but only now did he glimpse the true measure of her resilient spirit. What her life among the drow had been, he could not imagine. What she might become, he suspected, could shape the tales his children’s children might one day tell.

Liriel packed away everything, leaving the spellbook until last. She picked it up, hesitated, then handed it to Fyodor. This is too valuable to leave, but I cannot bear to carry it.”

There was no note of weakness in her voice; it was calm, matter-of-fact. The Rashemi approved and admired her for it. He took the book and placed it at the bottom of his travel bag. That done, he extended his hand to the drow.

Liriel hesitated, then her slender fingers closed on his and she let him raise her to her feet. Nor did she immediately pull her hand away. Side by side, the companions walked into the gathering darkness.

An hour passed, and then another before Fyodor broke the silence that lay heavy between them. “Where were you bound before Nisstyre set upon your trail?”

Ruathym, thought Liriel, but she was not yet ready to divulge her ultimate destination. She named Waterdeep, and he nodded thoughtfully.

“It is a long trip. We must travel by day if we are to keep ahead of those who hunt you. We’ll need supplies and horses. There is a village nearby, Trollbridge, where I can purchase both.”

The drow girl stared at him in confusion. “But what of your own quest? I thought you wanted to confront Nisstyre’s thieves!”

“And so I will. First I would see you safely to your destination, while it is still in me to do so. Are there people in Waterdeep you can trust?”

“I think so, but what about your—”

Fyodor touched a silencing finger to her lips. “Don’t concern yourself for me; my interests will be served. Where you go, Nisstyre will follow. Is that not so?”

“Yes, but—”

“Enough!” He threw up his hands in mock exasperation. “Did we not agree to work together?”

Liriel merely nodded. It sounded so easy, when Fyodor spoke of it. Her mind whirled with the possibilities such an arrangement suggested. If two persons could truly combine their skills and strengths, how much more could they accomplish than one alone! Perhaps there was a way - -.

Yet as they hurried toward the village, memories of her life in Menzoberranzan kept coming back to her. Despite her flippant disregard for clerical life, the Way of Lloth had been imprinted deeply in her mind and heart. She had seen the sacrifices Lloth required, the brutally imposed isolation demanded of those who served the Lady of Chaos. The power of the drow matriarchy came at a price, and only Lloth’s priestesses understood the full extent of the goddess’s cruelty.

Liriel could not help but wonder what price might be demanded of her for thinking to join her path with that of a human male. Worse, for thinking her dream could grow to make room for another. And, most heretical, for daring to dream at all.

No, what Fyodor suggested was not so easy, after all.

The drow and the Rashemi walked throughout the night, and by first light they could see the outlying fields that heralded the existence of a farming village. They paused on a hillside overlooking a green, sweet-smelling place Fyodor called a meadow. Beyond the meadow, over the swell and fall of several smaller hillocks, Liriel saw a sparkle of white and blue that could only be the Dessarin River. The drow’s sharp eyes scanned the landscape and marked a place that would suit her purpose: a small, sheltered clearing on a tree-covered hill overlooking the river.

“You must stay here,” Fyodor cautioned her. “The people of Trollbridge have suffered much at the hands of drow raiders and would not take kindly to your presence.”

Liriel accepted his words without quarrel. “Just as well. I’m too tired to walk another step.” She punctuated her claim with a wide yawn, and at Fyodor”s urging she wriggled through the vines that all but choked a low-hanging yew tree. The sheltering shade would protect her from the sun, and her piwafwi would lend her invisibility. There she could rest in relative safety.

When Fyodor was satisfied that all was well, he hurried down the hillside toward Trollbridge. The time of moondark had passed, and he hoped the villagers’ fear of dark-elven raiders had passed with it. Yet he could not help but feel uneasy going there with drow hunters so close upon his heels. The beleaguered townsfolk had troubles enough; Fyodor did not wish to bring his own upon them.

He heard the sounds of the village before the walls of the palisade came into sight: the squeak of wagon wheels, the blended hum of a crowd of voices, an occasional note from the pipes and strings of itinerant musicians. Fyodor quickened his step. The merchants had come at long last, and with them the spring fair.

At first, Liriel had only the best of intentions. True, she had chosen a place of escape on a distant hillside, and she prepared a gate that could carry one or two persons there, but that was a reasonable precaution, no more. She fully intended to remain in her hiding place, to catch up on her sleep. When her natural curiosity asserted itself, she repeated Fyodor’s warning about the humans’ fear of drow, and she thrust aside her desire to see a human marketplace with her own eyes. And she stuck to her resolve for a good half hour.

Liriel took off her piwafwi and flipped it over. The marvelous, glittering cloak had a nondescript dark lining and was perfect garb for blending into a crowd. She put on the inside-out garment and pulled up the deep-cowled hood to shield her face from the sun. Next she rummaged in her travel bag for a pair of gloves to cover her dark skin and to soften the distinctive elven shape of her hands. Finally, the young wizard cast a minor cantrip that lent her face the look of a human. She took a tiny mirror of polished bronze from her bag and regarded her new appearance. She grimaced, then burst out laughing.

At the sound, a flock of small brown birds nesting among the vines took startled flight. Liriel watched them go, then left her hiding place and made her way down the hill toward the place Fyodor had called Trollbridge.

Trollbridge was hardly the grim, besieged fortress of Fyodor’s last visit. The merchant caravan brought not only goods and an opportunity for trade, but also news of the lands beyond and a lighter spirit that—although it might not approach the gusto of a Rashemi festival—was nonetheless gratifying to the weary young warrior.