Tangled Webs (34 page)

For some reason Fyodor’s special name for her danced ready on her tongue. “Raven,” she said simply.

This brought approving nods from the warriors. Liriel remembered the tales Fyodor and Olvir told, ancient stories that claimed ravens visited the battlefields to guide the spirits of the slain into the afterlife. Yes, it was a good name for a drow among Northmen.

She let the men lead her into the village, which, it seemed, was only a few hours’ walk north of the village of Ruathym. They promised to show her the way back after the songs were sung to honor the slain. And so she sat in a place of honor beside the village chieftain-the man she’d saved from the sahuagin’s net-listening as the village skald spun out the lineage and deeds of the men who had fallen during the sahuagin attack, and watching as sparks from the funeral pyre leaped high into the clear blue sky; It was a strange ceremony, yet the drow found it oddly moving. In Menzoberranzan, the dead were usually interred in small, airtight stone crypts dug into the solid rock that lay north of the city cavern. This was a matter of practicality, not respect. The bodies were simply stored there until a need arose for battle fodder or slave labor, at which point a wizard would be called upon to animate the corpses. Only priestesses of Lloth were cremated. Here on Ruathym, this honor was apparently extended to all, even the lowliest thrall.

The day was nearly spent before Liriel saw the highpitched roofs of Ruathym village. As she walked, one of the skald’s songs echoed in her memory-a newly composed ballad that honored the little warrior known as the Raven. For the first time, the adrift and restless drow felt a tendril of herself reach out and take root in this strange land. And one more curving line was added to the rune that was slowly taking shape in her mind.

The Regent of Ascarle bent low over the scrying crystal attuned to her aboleth ally, staring into the smooth surface long after the vision had faded away-along with the creature’s life-force. The illithid was not pleased by the loss of the aboleth, or by the fish-thing’s failure to kill and consume the drow wizard. Vestress wanted the powers wielded by Liriel Baenre, and learning of them secondhand from the aboleth had seemed a reasonable approach to take.

The illithid had witnessed Liriel’s escape from the aboleth’s charm spell, and she was intrigued that a single drow could command so much strength of mind and magic. She was not in error in suspecting that this drow, with her wizardly spells and her Underdark magic, might yet provide the answer to a vexing problem.

For all her power, despite the myriad secret tentacles tbat probed into the affairs of much of tbe Nortblands, Vestress had lost her ties to her own ancient heritage. She was a rogue illithid, cast off from the city where she’d been spawned, denied the community of collective minds that sustained her kindred. The self-proclaimed Regent of Ascarle was desperate to establish contact with others of her kind. She had tried, many times before. Some of her efforts had failed entirely; most succeeded at least in expanding the reach and tbe power of the Kraken Society. But as the illithid’s power grew, so also did her frustration and her obsessive desire to overcome anything that stood against her. One failure that weighed heavily upon Vestress was tbat which had been exiled to Ruathym.

Many years ago, Vestress had wrested the city of Ascarle from other hands. Fell creatures and evil spirits had haunted the near-ruins buried in tbe watery depths north oftbe purple Rocks. Most fearsome was tbe banshee who watched over the sunken treasure. The creature had been a wizard, a member of a drow army tbat had marched against the elven city in centuries beyond memory, only to be destroyed in turn when the rush of melting glaciers swept Ascarle away. The drow wizard had remained beyond death, transformed into a banshee, protecting the lost magical treasures of the city from any who might try to claim them. Vestress had overcome the banshee in a titanic magical battle and banished the undead drow to some unknown place. Thus had things remained for many years.

Then came Iskor, the water wraith, and the influx of extraplanar creatures such as nereids to add to the strength of Ascarle. Vestress was pleased-more so when these creatures inadvertently discovered a watery portal between the subterranean city and the distant island of Ruathym.

Midpoint between the Purple Rocks and the Moonshaes, due west from Waterdeep and lying on the warm river of water that ran eastward through the sea from the elves’ island stronghold of Evermeet, Ruathym would be an important strategic addition to her empire. Vestress determined to add the island to the lands held in the grip of the Kraken Society. But when she tried to send her armies, she came up against an ancient and implacable enemy: the banshee, which had taken up residence in the watery portal.

Mindless in its purpose after the passage of centuries, the undead creature refused to let any living creature through the portal and spent its remaining power keeping the magic gateway closed. Not one to be outdone, Vestress quickly changed tactics, employing her powerful and ambitious Luskan agent to aid in the fall of Ruathym. Only recently had Vestress discovered that the elemental creatures, such as Iskor and the nereids, were beyond the banshee’s magic, and the illithid had added the efforts of these extraplanar allies to the coming conquest, sending them to the island to quietly decimate Ruathym’s fighting forces. But these intrusions had made the elven spirit restive. Vestress, too, was growing restless, and the illithid was eager to see the illusive banshee overcome once and for all. And when the banshee was gone from Ruathym and the portal open, all the armies of Ascarle would pour through. Ruathym would be hers to rule.

The Regent of Ascarle turned abruptly and glided from the scrying chamber tbat linked her to every corner ofher hidden empire. At this moment, tbe frustrated illithid felt need of her loom. The intricate patterns of her tapestries, tbe interaction of warp and weft, was something she could control utterly.

But the weaving room was not unoccupied. Shakti stood in tbe chamber, studying tbe nearly finished tapestry stretched out on the loom. The priestess looked up as Vestress approached.

“An interesting scene,” the drow said, pointing to tbe picture of sea elves staked out on the dry ground, writhing in torment in the harsh light of the sun. “It seems to me, tbough, that the human over in this comer was not in tbe picture yesterday. He looks very like one of the slaves.” From time to time I must eat, the illithid said calmly.

A weird light flashed in tbe drow’s eyes. “Then it is as I tbought! You have found a way to capture the spirits of tbese … creatures upon your tapestry!” The drow reached into the coils of her hair and took from it a stiletto, four inches long but slender as a needle. This she poised over one of tbe tormented sea elves. “May I?”

The illithid nodded permission, and Shakti plunged the weapon into tbe weave of tbe tapestry. The impaled sea elf writbed and twisted, his mouth open in a silent shriek. “Fascinating,” murmured the drow as she took a few more experimental stabs. “Such a thing would command a fabulous price in Menzoberranzan!”

Once Ruathym is under the rule of Luskan and your wizard captured, perhaps I shall make you a present of it. Shakti tucked away the stiletto with obvious regret and turned a measuring gaze upon the illithid. “As to that, I know your true intentions, even if that fool Rethnor does not,” the drow stated calmly. “You will allow Luskan to conquer Ruatbym, but not rule it.”

We are pleased with your acumen, the illithid agreed, honestly enough. It is true that we are using Luskan. It would not do at all for news to get out that the island of Ruathym had been overrun by some mysterious force, and for enterprising adventurers to trace the invasion back to Ascarle. No, let the blame rest entirely upon the humans. We will not risk revealing the location of this city.

“What part in this have you assigned to me?” demanded the priestess. “Do not try to deny it-you would not keep me here, else.”

Vestress considered the drow for a long moment before responding. We wished to observe and measure your abilities. When the conquest of Ruathym is completed, we will bid Iskor to return you to Menzoberranzan so that the Kraken Society might have a competent pair of eyes in the Underdark. Your service will be rewarded through information. The vast network of spies, thieves, and assassins that make up the Kraken Society will be at your disposal. “This you have said before. But what of the other portion of our bargain? What of Liriel Baenre? Does she yet live, or have you managed to kill her?”

My, my, mused the illithid, perhaps you have abilities we have not yet considered. But rest easy-the wizard lives. “Bring her to me alive, and I will see that you get from her what you need. If she proves too strong of mind and will to yield to your mental magic, I will bring to bear upon her the power of Vhaeraun, the drow god of thievery, to snatch the needed knowledge from her. And in return, you will show me how this is done,” Shakti demanded, one finger thumping a sea-elf child imprisoned on the tapestry. Vestress inclined her purple head in a nod of agreement, then sent out a silent mental summons that brought a pair of merrow slaves scurrying to the chamber. She sent the sea ogres to fetch refreshment-raw fish and spiced green wine for the drow, a cringing seaelven slave for herself. Upon reflection, Vestress decided this might be a pleasant way to spend the afternoon: dining on an elven brain, tormenting the spirits of the sea elves entrapped on the tapestry, and conspiring with this deliciously evil drow. This interview had already yielded one delightful idea. Despite her assurances to Shakti, Vestress had never faltered in her decision to slay the drow wizard, but it occurred to the illithid that she might add Liriel Baenre’s spirit to those captured on the tapestry. As a captive lich, the drow wizard’s magic would be there for the taking. And when she had no further need of Liriel and her magic, Vestress might well give the finished weaving to Shakti. The drow priestess would no doubt consider this to be base treachery, but certainly she was accustomed to such treatment.

Until such a time, they might as well enjoy each other’s company. Even a Regent was entitled to moments of leisure.

Rethnor, meanwhile, was busy with his own preparations. He had left tbe undersea stronghold and was now a guest in King Selger’s palace. From tbere he dispatched messages to Luskan ships patrolling the northem seas, gathering the forces needed to mount a surprise attack against Ruathym.

The time was near for conquest. One thing yet remained-tbe decimation of the Ruathen berserkers. Once the mighty warriors of Holgerstead were out of tbe way, the rest of the island would fall easily enough. Rethnor, despite his passion for battle, had no desire to face a tribe of berserkers defending tbeir homeland. Let them fall to one of tbeir own-Iet their deaths be dealt by a treacherous and familiar hand. And if the darkhaired youtb who’d taken Rethnor’s hand died along with the rest of tbem, so much the better.

Exhausted by her sleepless days, the rigors of battle, and the long walk back to Ruathym village, Liriel made her way to Hrolf’s cottage and stumbled straight for her bed. She stripped down to her tunic and took hold of the rumpled covers. Her fingers touched something small, furry-and familiar. Instinctively she jerked her hand back, then snatched up her dagger and used the tip of the weapon to throw back the blankets.

Hidden beneath the layers was a small black spider, of a sort Liriel knew quite well. The tiny red hourglass on its back marked it as a widow, a spider whose poisonous bite could kill a large man. The Underdark variety was much bigger and more canny; this one looked confused and ratber forlom.

“You poor little thing,” Liriel murmured. This spider was no real danger to her-dark elves had an affinity for arachnids and a natural immunity to many spider poisons.

But whoever had put the spider in her bed could not have known this.

Absently the drow began to stroke tbe widow’s black-andred back with the tip of one finger, much as a Ruathen child might caress a hound puppy; The spider seemed strangely listless, so Liriel gently picked up the fragile creature and slipped from the cottage. First she would take it into the forest, so it could spin its traps and feed. Then, she would seek out the one who wanted her dead and repay him in kind. The drow searched her room for nearly an hour before her efforts yielded two clues: a stray flake of ash on the floorboards and a single thread of wiry, flame-colored hair, nearly hidden in the bright weave of the blankets. As she suspected, her attacker was Hrolf’s redbearded, pipesmoking first mate.

The drow sank down on the edge ofher bed and considered her options. She could accuse Ibn outright, but who would listen? She could attack him, but this would hardly endear her to the villagers and would certainly destroy her chances of winning over the stubborn shaman. Yet she could not let the attack go unacknowledged. She had to put Ibn on notice, let him know she was aware and alert.

Liriel closed her eyes and began to softly chant tbe words to a clerical prayer. It was a simple spell, a boon that Lloth granted even to drow outside her clergy. In response to her summons, hundreds of arachnids would creep out of the woodpiles and crevices to converge on the hut were Ibn lay sleeping. They would not form an attacking swarmshe would not endanger the delicate and sacred creatures s0.-but they would spin throughout the night and drape the sailor’s bedchamber in layers of gossamer webs.

When the spell was cast, Liriel crawled into her bed and dropped almost immediately into exhausted slumber. Her final thought-an image of Ibn coming awake in a tangle of spider silk and frantically batting his way throughcurved her lips in a smile that lingered long after she had fallen into a dreamless sleep.

Liriel came awake the next morning before dawn, sitting bolt upright in bed and gripped by the terrifying conviction that something was very wrong.

Then she heard it-the traditional chanting song tbat sped the spirit of the slain to tbe afterlife that awaited. Entwined with the unfamiliar words that spoke of the man’s lineage was a name she knew, a name written deeply upon her heart.