Daughter of the Drow (40 page)

Liriel rose to her feet and dashed the back of her hand across her eyes. Bitterly she cursed herself for letting down her guard, for betraying her drow upbringing. The cost—as shed expected—had been high.

The drow glanced toward her discarded clothing, but there was no time to dress, no time even to seize a weapon. So she merely stood, as coldly proud as any high priestess of Lloth, as the first of the dark-elven hunters slipped into the moonlit clearing. She did not fear them. After all, she had her magic, and it would take more than a few drow fighters to overcome a wizard of her ability.

The drow hunters—six, all told—formed a cautious ring around the campsite. Liriel recognized the four she had felled with sleeping poison, as well as the male with short-cropped hair and the dragon tattoo on his cheek. She glanced at his arm and gave him a faint, mocking smile, which broadened when his comrades flanked him and forcibly kept him from drawing his sword against her. But her smile vanished when a copper-haired, black-eyed drow pushed past the hunters and into the circle. Another wizard tipped the balance decidedly in the fighters’ favor.

“Nisstyre,” she hissed. “Come to offer me more assistance?”

“Whatever you require, dear lady,” he said, and bowed. “But first, to remove unnecessary distractions.”

He turned to the barely controlled Gorlist and pointed to the human. “You’ve found him at last. See if you can manage to kill him while he sleeps.” His tone was deliberately harsh, clearly intended to direct the fighter’s anger away from the female.

lcYou needn’t bother,” Liriel said coldly, marveling at how steady her voice sounded. “He’s already dead.”

Nisstyre’s gaze swept the pale, still form of his human nemesis, then he turned a speculative gaze upon Liriel. “The Spider’s Kiss, eh? A strange ending to a moonlight tryst! I heard you have adventurous tastes, my dear, but this exceeds the tales. Still, I almost envy the poor sod,” he concluded gallantly. “Some things may well be worth dying for.”

Liriel did not care for the gleam in the merchant’s eyes. She lifted her chin and reminded herself she was a daughter of House Baenre.

“In that case, I wish you a long and healthy life,” she said in the haughty tone Baenre females had honed through centuries of undisputed rule. “If you came seeking revenge against the human, you are too late. He is dead. Thank me for saving you the trouble, and be on your way.”

“Actually, I seek a certain magical trinket,” Nisstyre said softly. “An amulet, shaped like a dagger?”

She answered with a derisive sniff and spread her arms wide, as if inviting inspection. “As you can see, I don’t have it on me,” she said mockingly.

“A pity. I always find that searching for information is most entertaining,” the wizard replied. He held out one hand and made a show of adjusting his many rings. One of them, a thick gold band set with a sparkling black gem, was chillingly familiar. LirieFs eyes widened as she recognized her former tutor’s ring. The wizard noted this and smiled. “I assure you, he has no need of it.”

So Kharza was dead, Liriel acknowledged with mingled sorrow and fear. How brutal had Nisstyre’s “search for information” been, and how much had Kharza told him about the amulet before escaping into death?

Enough, it would seem. Nisstyre flicked at the ring’s large black stone, and the jewel swung back on a tiny hinge. He took a pinch of powder from the hidden compartment and cast it into the air. The eerie, faint blue light of a find-magic spell filled the clearing. Most of LirieFs things glowed: her chain mail, her elven boots, her piwafivi, many of her knives and throwing weapons. But the amulet—even hidden as it was in her travel bag—positively blazed with azure fire.

Nisstyre stooped and picked up LirieFs bag. He spilled the contents onto the ground. Gold coins and sparkling gems cascaded out, and the eyes of the drow thieves lit up with open greed. Nisstyre waved them back and snatched up the brightly lit amulet.

“You’re wasting your time. You can do nothing with it!” Liriel said coldly.

“Perhaps not. But far to the south is a city ruled by drow wizards skilled beyond your reckoning or mine. When the amulet’s magic is mine, I will be able to wean the People from their false dependency on Lloth. And at last,” Nisstyre concluded triumphantly, “the drow will reclaim a place of power in the Night Above!”

This was too much for Liriel to absorb. “You worship Eilistraee?”

“Hardly,” the wizard said dryly. “We follow Vhaeraun, the Masked Lord, drew god of stealth and thievery. Eilistraee’s insipid wenches think only to dance in the moonlight and give aid to hapless passersby; we have a kingdom to build!”

Nisstyre turned to Gorlist. “Gather up everything that glows. I want to study every magical item she possesses.”

A bubble of panic rose in Liriel’s throat. “You’re going to leave me without any magic?”

“Not at all,” Nisstyre assured her. “There is a place among Vhaeraun’s followers for any drow who forsakes the Night Below. In your case, a high place! I myself would be pleased to take you as a consort.”

Liriel laughed in his face.

For a moment she thought the wizard would strike her. Then he bowed again, this time mockingly. “As you wish, princess. But in time, you will learn drow can survive only by banding together in force, and you will come to me.” He took a small scroll from his belt and held it out to her. This is a map. With it you can find your way to a nearby settlement of Vhaeraun’s followers. You may keep your nonmagi-cal weapons and your wealth—you will have need of both if you are to reach the forest stronghold.”

She struck the parchment roll from his hand. He shrugged and turned away. “Have it your way. But sooner or later, princess, we will meet again.”

“Count on it,” Liriel muttered under her breath as the last of the drow hunters slipped from the clearing.

She waited until all were beyond sight and hearing, then dropped to her knees beside Fyodor and began to shake and slap him toward consciousness. All the while, she whispered fervent prayers of gratitude—to any and all drow gods who might be listening—for the fact that Fyodor had stayed obligingly “dead” until the danger was past.

After a few moments of this treatment, the Rashemi groaned and stirred. He sat up, clutching his temples. His clouded eyes settled on Liriel. Memory crept into them, and then puzzlement. “In my land, such things are done differently,” he murmured.

Liriel rose abruptly. He reached up and caught her hand. “Why?” he said softly. “I ask of you only this, that you tell me why.”

She brushed him aside and began to collect her clothes. “For what it’s worth, I just saved your life,” she snarled. “Nisstyre and his drow thieves came upon us. They would have killed you, had I not convinced him I’d saved him the trouble.”

Fyodor still looked bewildered. “But how could he believe you’d slain me, if he came upon us at such a time?”

“Because it happens.” She stopped lacing her tunic and met his gaze squarely. “Such sport is not unknown among my people. One of these games has been named the Spider’s Kiss, after the spider who mates and kills.”

The man stared at her, clearly aghast. Liriel steeled herself for his response. From what she’d learned of her human companion, she expected revulsion, horror, wrath, perhaps utter rejection.

But he merely shook his head. “Ah, my poor little raven,” he said softly. “What a life you must have known!”

What Liriel could not understand, she decided to ignore. “Get up,” she said bruskly. “If we hurry, we might still catch them.”

Fyodor regarded her strangely. “I know why I must face the drow. But why should you take such a risk?”

They took all my magic! My weapons, spellbooks, even my boots and cloak!”

“But these are mere things,” he pointed out.

“Nisstyre has the Windwalker,” she said flatly. It was dangerous to tell him this—she had not yet figured out a way to share the amulet’s magic—but she saw no other choice. “I saw a dagger-shaped amulet in his hands. Or is this also a ‘mere thing,’ not worth retrieving?”

Chagrin flickered in Fyodor’s eyes, and he reached for his swordbelt. “My apologies, lady wizard! Your need is as great as mine.”

They scrambled down the hill after the thieves—Liriel gritting her teeth against the pain of rocks and brambles tearing at her bare feet—and came to an abrupt stop at the water’s edge. The drow were already in the river, many yards from shore, poling light wooden crafts toward the swifter water in the river’s center. Nisstyre caught sight of them and called a halt.

“Brava, princess!” he called, smiling ruefully. “You tricked me well! Yet by my reckoning, you have lost.” He held up a small, dangling object. Moonlight glinted off the dull gold of the ancient dagger. “Until you get this back, I would say the victory is mine!” Nisstyre blew her a kiss, then signaled his drow to pole the boats into the swift-flowing current.

“Get it back,” Fyodor echoed softly. He turned incredulous eyes upon his companion. “You had the amulet, all this time! You kept silent, after all I told you. But why?”

Liriel held her ground, but she was finding it inexplicably difficult not to squirm before his accusing gaze. “I had my reasons.”

The young man took a long, steadying breath. He reached for her hands and clasped them between his. “Liriel, I do not deny this may be so,” he said carefully. “By your lights, these reasons might have been good and sufficient. But I tell you truly, this is too much for me to bear. Here we part ways.”

Liriel pulled her hands free and clenched her fists at her sides. Her first response was anger. Intrigue was the meat and drink of Menzoberranzan, and even her most casual friends took this in stride. Why couldn’t Fyodor just be reasonable?

“We both need that amulet,” she pointed out, hoping to appeal to his practical side. “If we compete, only one can win.”

The young man nodded, somberly conceding her point. “You will do as you must, little raven, and so will I.”

She stood staring for a moment, unable to believe he was thrusting them into competition. His eyes held both sadness and resolve, and Liriel knew instinctively that none of her threats or wiles could change his mind. She was not prepared for the wave of desolation that swept over her.

Not knowing what else to do, Liriel turned and darted off downstream in pursuit of Nisstyre and the stolen Windwalker.

As the hours of night slipped past, Liriel made her way southward along the river. She moved quietly, lightly, yet she cringed at the sound of each faint footfall; she was accustomed to walking in complete silence. Her feet were bruised and bleeding, but she kept walking until she could go no farther. Huddled at the base of a tree, she wrapped her arms around herself for warmth and took stock of her position.

Her drow magic was gone. She could not summon darkness, or conjure faerie fire, or levitate. Stripped of her magical items, she could not walk silently or cloak herself in invisibility. Not to mention the more mundane value of boots and cloak! Her spellbooks were gone, along with the spell components that would enable her to cast wizardly spells. But perhaps her clerical magic had not forsaken her. Liriel remembered the words of Qilue Veladorn, claiming that Eilistraee heard and answered her faithful wheresoever they went. Could Lloth also hear, so far from the chapels of Menzoberranzan? The girl tried a simple incantation that summoned spiders—a blessing Lloth granted to any drow. She whispered the words of the spell, then strained her ears for the skittering sound of delicate legs. There was only the chirp of crickets and the lonely hoot of a hunting owl. She was truly alone.

The drow drew her knees up to her chest and dropped her head to them. She felt very small and utterly lost beneath the vastness of the night sky.

After a moment a fragment of melody slipped unbidden into her mind. Liriel recognized the wild, haunting music played at the moonlit revels of Eilistraee’s priestesses. On impulse, she rose and began to dance to the rhythm of the remembered song. Closing her eyes, she whirled and dipped and leaped. As she did, the pain in her battered feet subsided, then slipped away. Liriel was not surprised; caught up in the private ecstacy of the dance, all things seemed possible.

From a nearby hillside, Fyodor watched her. The moon had sunk low in the sky, and the fey dancer was silhouetted against the pale light. Another female danced with Liriel, clearly elven in form but taller by half than a mortal drow. Fyodor did not know what this meant, but he took comfort in the fact Liriel was not alone.

Carried swiftly on the waters of the spring-swollen Dessarin, the merchants of the Dragon’s Hoard made their way southward. Henge, drow priest of Vhaeraun, watched with interest as Nisstyre argued with the tattooed lieutenant. The priest’s hatred of Nisstyre was almost as strong as his devotion to his god, and he eavesdropped on the small mutiny with shameless enjoyment. Gorlist, it seemed, wanted the princess and her human lap-lizard destroyed. That struck Henge as reasonable enough. True, the female would be useful for breeding purposes, but they had her magic, and that, in Henge’s opinion, was sufficient. He’d seen more than enough of drow females during his years as a slave in Ched Nasad. If Gorlist wanted to kill one of the two-!egged spiders, may Vhaeraun be with him.

Yet the cleric could not move openly against his captain.

He’d tried, once, only to find he’d exchanged one sort of slavery for another. Many years ago, Nisstyre had lured Henge into Vhaeraun’s service, extracting an oath of blood-bond in payment for escape from Ched Nasad. Any failure of loyalty carved deep, magically inflicted cuts onto Henge’s body. The priest still bore the scars of his early rebellions and small failures to serve; after many years, however, he had learned exactly where the parameters of the bond lay. There were still some small things he could do, and he watched and waited for an opportunity.

Suddenly Nisstyre’s voice faltered, and his hands went to the eye-shaped gem embedded in his forehead. Gorlist, obviously thinking himself dismissed, left the wizard’s side with an abruptness that set the boat rocking dangerously. The cleric beckoned the young drow over. He handed Gorlist a silver ear-cuff.