Daughter of the Drow (43 page)

A servant dressed in flowing robes and a medusa headdress wandered by with a tray of seafood tidbits. Suddenly Liriel felt ravenous. She helped herself to several bits of spiced squid, and as she munched she eyed the blond man’s retreating form.

“You know,” she mused, “I think I could live in this city.”

Rats, a swarm of them, scrabbled at Liriel with tiny, grasping hands. The drow hurled several of the little creatures off her and leaped from her narrow stone perch into waist-deep water. She caught her breath at the incredible stench and resisted an urge to hurl a handful of throwing knives at the squeaking vermin that had forced her into the sludge. But there was no sense losing her weapons in the water and muck of Waterdeep’s sewers.

“This was not one of your better ideas,” she grumbled at Fyodor.

The Rashemi did not turn around. He slogged along steadily, surrounded by a circle of torchlight. “It is the route Regnet’s story suggested. It may not be the best way into Skullport, but at least a drow can take it without attracting notice.”

Uriel cast a venomous look at Fyodor’s back. “Oh, sure! I look right at home in any of your basic cesspools. No one we meet would give me a second glance!”

“Come now, little raven,” he said teasingly. “Where is your sense of adventure?”

She responded with a drow idiom that defied translation. The Rashemi, however, got the gist of it and wisely put several more paces between him and his disgruntled companion.

Without warning, something grabbed Liriel’s leg and yanked her beneath the water. An unseen creature dragged her, kicking and thrashing, to a hole in the tunnel floor, then sank into deeper water with its prey.

Liriel pulled a knife from her boot and sawed frantically at the clinging appendage. Other, similar arms encircled her. The drow understood the nature of her captor and went limp. Her lungs burned with a need for air, but she forced herself to remain still, to let the thing pull her close. Through the murky water she saw the bulbous eyes and beaky mouth of a giant squid. When she was within arm’s reach, she slashed it viciously across the eyes. At once the squid released its deadly “meal.” Thick black ink jetted through the water as the wounded creature scuttled away.

Liriel fought her way to the surface and gasped in long, grateful breaths of the foul air. She crawled out of the water and found a ledge on the uneven blocks that formed the sewer wall. A length of slender tentacle, severed but still twitching, was wrapped around her calf.

“I think I ate some of your relatives at the costume promenade,” the drow muttered viciously. She grabbed the tip of the tentacle and peeled it back. The underside was covered with suction cups, and blood welled up from several tiny, circular cuts on her leg. Liriel gritted her teeth and ripped the thing off in one quick motion. The pain was much greater than she expected, and she let out a howl.

At last Fyodor looked back over his shoulder. “You shouldn’t make so much noise,” he cautioned her. “No telling what we might run into down here.”

Liriel set her jaw and leaped back into the water. As she sloshed along in Fyodor’s wake, she entertained herself with thoughts of wrapping the severed tentacle around his neck.

Moonlight, as beautiful as it was improbable, appeared suddenly before them, spilling in a sheet of silver over the murky waters of the sewer. Fyodor pulled up short at the unexpected sight, but the drow, who was more learned in magical matters, shoved him unceremoniously through the shimmering portal.

They emerged from the gate to find themselves on the banks of a vast subterranean river. The faint light of luminescent fungi lit the cavern beyond, in which was a city carved from stone. The city was unmistakably drow, smaller than Menzoberranzan and lacking the wondrous light of faerie fire, but to Liriel’s eyes it was no less beautiful.

“What is this place?” Fyodor murmured.

“This is Eilistraee’s Promenade,” said a low, musical voice behind them, “and we have been expecting you.”

The companions spun. There stood a beautiful drow female, taller even than the Rashemi, with silver eyes and hair of spun moonlight. She was flanked by dark-elven guards wearing fine chain mail and armed with swords and longbows.

Fyodor’s hand went instinctively to the hilt of his sword. To his surprise, Liriel gave a cry of delight and threw herself into the female’s arms. Heedless of her own finery, the elfwoman enfolded the bedraggled girl in a sisterly embrace.

“Qilu6! How did you hear of us so soon?”

“Word of your arrival was passed to us by the Harpers.”

Liriel drew back, her brow furrowed in puzzlement. She’d suspected the fair-haired man with the laughing gray eyes and the devious mind would somehow send word of her arrival to Eilistraee’s followers. He’d more or less hinted at this, with his oblique reference to the Dark Maiden, but Qilue’s reference to musicians made little sense.

“Harpers?” Liriel echoed. “Why should harp players bother themselves with such matters?”

“There are many who share that sentiment,” the older female said dryly. “But it was a tale strange enough to pass along. It is not every day a drow female enters Waterdeep looking for a path to Skullport, accompanied by a human male who carries a flask ofjhuild firewine and speaks with the accents of Rashemen. You, then, must be Fyodor. Liriel has spoken of you. I am Qilue Veladorn, priestess of Eilistraee. We serve the Dark Maiden, goddess of song and moonlight, and in her name give aid to all who need it.”

The young man dropped to one knee before the regal drow. “The Dark Maiden is not unknown in Rashemen. And I think I have seen you before, Lady,” he said slowly; then, remembering the unnatural height of the shadowy elf, he added, “or someone who bears your close likeness. Several days past, I watched unseen as Liriel danced in the moonlight. Another danced with her. I was far away, but I would not soon forget that face.”

The elfwoman lifted one snowy brow. “Is it so? What you saw could only have been the Dark Maiden’s shadow. The task ahead of you must be of great importance to earn so plain a sign of Eilistraee’s favor.”

“Will someone please tell me what all this is about?” demanded Liriel.

“Later, child,” Qilue admonished. ‘Tell me how can we aid you.”

Liriel hesitated. The Chosen of Eilistraee could travel as they wished and take with them the magical blessings of their goddess—the Windwalker was of little use to them. Perhaps she could trust QiluŁ and her people. She glanced at Fyodor. He gave her a barely perceptible nod of encouragement.

“Fyodor and I both need the Windwalker amulet: he, to tame battle rages gone out of control; I to carry dark-elven magic with me wherever I go. I believe I’ve discovered a way to make these powers permanent. For us both,” she added, meeting Fyodor’s puzzled stare directly.

“To what end?” the priestess asked.

Liriel returned her gaze to Qilue. “What do you mean, to what end? Fyodor is a berserker warrior, a protector of Rashemen. I am a wizard whose magic comes from the Underdark, and from the heritage of the drow. We merely wish to be what we are.”

“Your friend desires to serve his land,” QiluŁ pointed out. “How will you use the power granted by the Windwalker?”

Liriel blinked. Power was the goal of every drow she knew, and it was pursued for its own sake. No one pondered what they’d do with it, beyond wielding it to gain still more. Though Qilue’s question was strange, Liriel found she had an answer.

“The amulet has been stolen by a drow wizard called Nisstyre, captain of a merchant band known as the Dragon’s Hoard. I know what he wants to do with it: he hopes to coax the drow from the Underdark to follow the ways of his god, Vhaeraun. From what I’ve seen of Nisstyre and his drow thieves, this would not be a good thing,” Liriel concluded grimly. “If I must justify my claim to the Windwalker, then taking it from Nisstyre would be a good start!”

“A start!” exclaimed one of the guards. A tall drow male, clad in a hauberk and helm of black mail, stepped to Qilue’s side. “My lady, that name is known in Skullport. Nisstyre is a wizard of Ched Nasad, and his guards number at least four score. Worse, it is rumored the name of his company is taken from his hidden hold: a cavern somewhere beneath the city that was once a dragon’s lair. Many have followed these rumors in search of treasure. None have returned. Who knows what magical defenses might guard a dragon’s hold?”

“Well then,” Qilue said calmly, “we had better lay our plans well.”

At a cavern buried far below the streets of Sküllport, the drow priest Henge paced the small chamber where Nisstyre lay in a deathlike stupor. The wizard had improved but little since the night he’d been mysteriously struck down. Every day since, Henge had kept reluctant watch over him.

Nor was he the only one watching. At times the priest sensed an unnerving, malevolent presence, an evil hunger, behind the ruby embedded in Nisstyre’s brow. Someone, somewhere, had reached through that gem and struck down his captain. Had the blow been clean and sure, Henge would have been delighted; this lingering vigil, however, was becoming unbearable. The ships of the Dragon’s Hoard were loaded and ready to sail for the far south, but only the secretive Nisstyre knew the identity of their contacts there. There was nothing to do but wait, and dark elves were not known for patience.

The door to Nisstyre’s chamber swung open, and a tall drow stalked into the room. Henge took in the elf’stattooed face, the patch over one eye, and the livid scar slashed across his throat.

“Ah, Gorlist. Here at last. The cuff of regeneration did its job, I see. Your wounds seem to be healing nicely.”

The younger drow scowled. “But not without scars!”

“Yes, you’re amassing quite a collection of those,” Henge observed, “but considering the location of that throat wound, I should think you’d count yourself fortunate to have come off so lightly. I take it the wench is still alive?”

Gorlist ignored the cleric’s taunts. He snatched up Nisstyre’s travel bag from the bedside table, rummaged about in it, and took out a small, crimson vial shaped like a candle’s flame. “Give him this. Those meddling drow from the Promenade are making inquiries in Skullport. If there’s trouble, we’ll need the wizard.”

The priest balked. “This potion is more likely to kill than cure! You should know that as well as anyone.”

“I survived it. He may, also. You needn’t worry about breaking your blood-bond, or fear punishment if the wizard dies of the potion,” Gorlist said bluntly, getting to the real issue behind the priest’s hesitation. “Nisstyre is my sire; I have the right to order his treatment. You are absolved from responsibility.”

Henge shrugged and uncapped the vial. It was past time for Nisstyre to rejoin the Dragon’s Hoard, and his painful journey back should be most entertaining to observe. If some of the healing agony traveled through the ruby eye to the unseen watcher, so much the better.

In the garrisons and armory of the Promenade Temple, in the streets and hidden places of Skullport, Eilistraee’s followers prepared for battle. At first Liriel was unimpressed by Qilue Veladorn’s forces. The temple guard—a motley collection of dark elves, humans, dwarves, and halflings who called themselves Protectors of the Song—numbered fewer than sixty. In Menzoberranzan most of the lesser noble houses had several times that many soldiers, supported by the magic of wizards and high priestesses. Granted, every priestess of the Dark Maiden was trained to the sword, but the so-called Chosen of Eilistraee had no’slaves to spend as battle fodder, no wizardly weapons of destruction, and virtually no offensive clerical spells. The Chosen trusted in their goddess, in their skill at arms, and in each other. It was, in Liriel’s opinion, a formula for disaster.

Yet as she watched the preparations, the young drow began to understand the true power at work. Every person in the temple was utterly devoted to Qilue and completely focused on the task ahead. No energy was siphoned off in small intrigues. No one seemed concerned about improving her status and influence. Each had a role and played it well, with an eye to the greater goal.

To Liriel, this was a revelation. She herself was beginning to come to terms with her alliance with Fyodor. From their first meeting, despite their vast and innumerable differences, she’d been drawn by the kindred spirit between them. The thing that Fyodor called friendship was an astonishing paradox: each gave, and neither was diminished. To the contrary, together friends stood to become more than the sum of their individual strengths. This flew in the face of everything Liriel had ever learned or experienced,-but she was beginning to accept it as truth. And dawning on the far horizon of her mind, as she watched the Chosen come together in preparation, was the possibility that something similar to friendship could exist on a larger scale. The young drow had no words for such a thing, but she suspected this discovery might also be part of her journey, might become part of the rune she was fashioning with each passing day.

In the meanwhile, Liriel prepared for battle in her own way. The temple had a small library of scrolls and spellbooks, and the young wizard committed to memory several spells that might be useful. She also spent time poring over her book of rune lore, seeking a way to adapt the spell she’d devised to store her Underdark magic in the Windwalker amulet.

After two days of frantic activity, Elkantar, Qilue’s drow consort and the commander of the Protectors, called all together in the temple’s council chamber. The spies who’d been dispatched throughout Skullport to gather information on Dragon’s Hoard activities spoke first.

“Nisstyre has not been seen since the day his band entered the port. Word has it he is ill and remains in the merchant stronghold,” supplied a drow soldier.

“That might explain my news,” added a stout, well-armed halfling. “The Dragon’s Hoard merchants have two ships at dock. They’ve been ready to sail for days now. Seems they’re waiting for something.”

“Or someone,” put in a grim-faced human. “Nisstyre’s lieutenant, a tattooed drow warrior called Gorlist, was seen entering Skullport just this day. He has stood in for Nisstyre on other trade journeys, so they might well set sail now.”