Silverfall: Stories of the Seven Sisters (forgotten realms)

by Ed Greenwood

  "Yes," someone else hissed fiercely.

  Before Qilue could utter a sound, black lightning stabbed from slender obsidian fingers, wreathing the human woman in ravening magic-magic that clawed, and blazed, then fell away in futility.

  "Please," Dove said gently, "don't start this. I-"

  "You can die, human!" another priestess-Ierembree-shrieked as the spell she'd just worked brought her favorite dagger into her hand. She sprang up like a boiling bolt of darkness to drive her blade hilt-deep into the belly of this tall, beautiful, insolent human who so profaned holy ground that. . that. .

  Thoughts failed her, and in mindless fury Ierembree drove her blade deep again and again, her knuckles slamming home against hard-muscled flesh each time, for all the world as if the human were made of air that her blade could not touch. She stared down at her clean blade in horror, and at the unmarked body of her foe, then gentle fingers closed around her wrist, blue-white in the moonlight.

  "Eilistraee is not the only power in Toril to teach magic to mortals, you know," Dove said.

  Ivory limbs enfolded the drow priestess Ierembree in an embrace, a seemingly tender cradling that held firm despite kicks and bites-bites that did draw blood, more than one faithful noticed eagerly-and raking fingernails. A roar arose amid the faithful, and obsid shy;ian bodies lunged to their feet, reaching-

  "Stay back, sisters," Qilue cried, "or face the full fury of Eilistraee!"

  Dark elf limbs froze in mid-surge as their owners stared at the nimbus of bright white fire that now encircled Qilue's upraised hands. There was more than one whimper as the drow settled back onto their knees.

  In their midst, Ierembree's ebony-black limbs strug shy;gled on against Dove's unmoving ivory ones. The watching faithful were startled to hear soft human cooing, as a mother might use to soothe a child, and to see human hands stroking the flesh trembling in their grasp. Dove kissed the top of her attacker's head, then lifted the dark elf priestess gently into the air until their faces were level, and kissed the snarling lips before hers.

  The raging priestess shrieked, spat into Dove's face, then tried to bite her lips and nose, but Dove's gentle smile never changed. When her panting captive grew weary, she bent her head forward until their foreheads touched.

  Ierembree tried to twist her face away from the con shy;tact, her features still contorted in hatred and fury. She stiffened, and her eyes opened wide in amazement.

  Amid the kneeling faithful, someone whispered, "Sorcery!"

  They saw the priestess turn to look at the human so close to her with no fury left in her face. Ierembree man shy;aged a tentative, tremulous smile, then she relaxed in Dove's arms, and they hugged each other as if they were long-lost friends.

  The human set the dark elf down and stroked her shoulder with one last gentle caress. The priestess seemed to be struggling to say something, but could find no words.

  Dove drew away from her, murmuring, "I must go now-but I'll return, Ierembree, and we'll talk more. Much more."

  She turned and swept Qilue into a similar embrace, heedless of the white fire of deadly magic raging in her sister's hands and splashing down around her.

  "Sister," the faithful heard the human say, "Go to Scornubel if you can, walking your own road. I must leave that city. My usefulness there is at an end. My very presence is making the surviving dark elves lie low."

  Dove turned to the kneeling priestesses and said, "Farewell, all of you."

  Before any of the bewildered faithful could frame a reply, the human strode a few paces into the glade and inclined her head to the Ladystone. Its response was a sudden pulse of blue radiance, a silent winking brighter than the sacred stone had shone in years. In awed silence the faithful watched the human walk away through the trees to where she'd shed her clothes. Dove took them up in a bundle, and walked on through the darkness of the wood until they could see her no more.

  A moment later, as if freed from spell-thrall, the priestesses were all on their feet and talking at once, crowding around Ierembree.

  "What did she do to you?" one of them demanded.

  "Watch her," another said grimly. "If the human took over her wits."

  Ierembree threw back her head and laughed. "Stop it, all of you!" She smiled at Qilue over their heads, and told them all, "Her name is Dove, and she did nothing to my wits except give me love. . the love of a friend who'll stand by me." She shook her head in bemusement, and added, "More than that, she showed me she meant it… and what she truly is. Mind to mind; no lying."

  She smiled, stretched like a contented cat, and added, "No, Sharala, I'm not crazed. I'm. . happy."

  Ierembree turned to the high priestess, who stood like a dark shadow watching them all, and said, "I was in awe of you before, Lady of the Dance. I–I don't know how to say how much I revere you now … a sister of such a lady as Dove … and one whom Dove turns to for aid."

  She started to kneel, but Qilue strode forward to snatch her upright again, whirled her into an embrace, and growled, "I'll kiss and cuddle just this once, mind. I'm not the caressing whirlwind certain of my sisters are!"

  She turned in Ierembree's arms, and put out a hand to touch the priestess who'd railed against the clever words of humans.

  "Llansha," she said formally, "the lead in the dance is yours. Raise your voice too much on the second chant and flames will burst from your arms; they go if you hurl fire at something. As you heard, I've work to do, and must leave you for a time."

  "Leave us?" another of the faithful asked angrily. "To settle some human problem by slaying our kind?"

  "Thalaera," Qilue replied in a voice of warning iron, as another tense silence fell around them. "I live to serve. Two goddesses birthed me and guide me. I see a little of how they view Faerun, where you cannot. Trust me in this as I trust you with a part of my service for a time, to go and do other service that is needful. If you doubt me, curl yourself around the Ladystone to sleep tonight, pray to Eilistraee for judgment upon me, and learn your answer."

  Thalaera stared at the sacred stone then back at the high priestess, her eyes large with fear, and Qilue added gently, "Yes, do that. I mean this not as a chal shy;lenge, but to set your mind at ease as to my loyalties. Learn the truth."

  Thalaera looked back at the Ladystone again. Her eyes narrowed. "Will I be maimed?"

  Qilue shook her head. "Hurt, perhaps; maimed, no."

  "Hurt?"

  "Truths have sharp edges. Learning the truth often hurts."

  Qilue strode out of the glade, the other faithful fol shy;lowing in her wake. She turned at the edge of the trees to look back at the fearful Thalaera, and added, "I'll return after dawn, briefly, before I go south to Scornubel."

  The priestess bowed her head in reply, and the faith shy;ful watched her turn and slowly approach the Ladystone, her steps reluctant and trembling.

  In utter silence she reached forth one hand to touch it, and they saw her shudder and sag at the knees. Almost instinctively she clasped her arms around it, her eyes closed-and the Ladystone flashed out blue fire as it had done for Dove.

  Thalaera's gasp was loud in the silence. Qilue stood watching her for a moment, then turned and said briskly, "To bed."

  Dark limbs around her stirred into motion again, but several priestesses still stood staring into the glade, watching cold fire running along Thalaera's limbs in her trembling embrace of the stone.

  "To bed, all of you," Qilue said sharply. "There's much to do tomorrow."

  She looked up at the stars then, as the faithful began to move, and sighed. Only Ierembree, whose arms were still linked with hers, heard Qilue add in a whisper, "There's always much to do tomorrow."

  The stumble spilled not a drop, but displeased Namra, who seemed to be in a foul mood this morning. What right had Isryl to be so cheerful, after the beating she'd been given last night?

  "Clumsy wench!"

  The merchant's wife lashed out at the servant girl with all the strength in her arm, swinging her walki
ng stick like a buggy whip. Isryl jumped as metal-shod wood cracked across her shoulder blades. The glasses on her tray chimed against one another musically. It was little surprise that she stumbled again, but her lady master saw no reason not to strike out once more.

  Beatings obviously did humans a world of good. They'd left Isryl groaning in the darkness, her bared back wet with blood and afire with crisscrossing welts. . and found her this morning humming and striding along with a spring in her step, her eyes obediently downcast, but a little smile on her lips. Why, she was smiling now!

  "Mock my authority, will you?" Namra snarled, lurch shy;ing forward to land a fury of blows on the servant girl.

  Isryl half turned in their midst so that glasses flew and decanters toppled. Her lady master drew breath for a shriek of rage at this carelessness-and that was when Isryl calmly flung the silver tray and all into Namra's face.

  Blinded and half choked, Namra staggered back, spitting out stinging wine. Firm hands seized her chin and held it immobile with steely strength. A cool fore shy;head touched hers and the world exploded as if all glasses, everywhere, had burst at once, their shards tumbling down into darkness.

  As Namra's stout body went to the floor, the slender servant girl moved with it, keeping their brows together. This moment had been well chosen. No one else was in this end of the house just now, and the girl who was not Isryl needed only a minute or so for this grimmest of stealing spells.

  When she lifted her head from the stocky body of her lady master, Isryl's slender form had already begun to change. She tugged off her gown and carry-sash in frantic haste, then set to work with strong and eager fingers to acquire the clothing of her lady master, rolling the senseless Namra over like so much meat on a kitchen board. The fat woman's form was melting, too, her skin growing dark and more shapely, her fea shy;tures delicate and elfin. . but no change could strip away the tiny wisps of smoke drifting from her staring eyes, or the thin ribbon of drool flowing from one slack corner of her mouth.

  Qilue was not gentle. The real Isryl had been more dead than alive this morning. It had taken three healing potions to get her well enough to walk, and the Harper agent she'd been delivered to had still winced and clucked disapprovingly at the girl's battered appearance.

  This cow under her hands had done that.. this cow who'd now slumped fully back into her drow form. Qilue herself now looked like fat, lazy, embittered Namra Dunseltree, wife of Inder Dunseltree of Softer Tapestries fame. Qilue finished tying and adjusting Namra's over-jeweled, none-too-clean clothing around herself, satisfying herself in a mirror that she looked every bit as haughty and nasty as her predecessor in the role. She plucked up the walking stick to strike a pose, then danced back to the senseless, drooling drow. Qilue bound her hand and foot with the gown and carry-sash, then cast a careful spell.

  The body vanished under her hands, and she knew it would now be lying in the midst of the glade in Ardeep, with Llansha, Veltheera-and Thalaera-staring disapprovingly down at the new arrival, wondering how many spells and how much gentling would be needed to make it sane once more.

  Qilue sighed, shrugged, and stepped forward, every haughty inch Namra Dunseltree. Her mindtouch magic had earned her only the most superficial and uppermost of the disguised drow's thoughts. To learn more would have taken days of careful and continuous probing. If she'd tried for much more, much faster, her victim-and she knew that "victim" would then have been very much the right word-would have gone quickly and irrevoca shy;bly insane, losing forever in mental chaos the very memories and knowledge Qilue sought.

  What Qilue did know was that the cruel drow was Anlaervrith Mrantarr, a lazy novitiate into the worship of Lolth. She was a drow of humble birth and no par shy;ticular accomplishments, who'd been quite happy to leave her subterranean city. Qilue had been unable to learn the name of that city, though she'd gained some mind pictures of it made vivid by fear and hatred. Anlaervrith had left there for a chance at betterment and adventure. To that end she'd dealt with a drow sorceress-not a priestess, but able to pose at will as such-who called herself simply "Daerdatha."

  Anlaervrith was to wear the shape Daerdatha put her into after the human Namra Dunseltree had been "removed," and to act, speak, and live as Namra had done, as communicated in mind messages Daerdatha had thrust-Qilue would almost have said "burned"-into Anlaervrith's brain.

  Qilue's lips twisted in disgust, and she gave the near shy;est bellpull an angry jerk. The lazy cow had jumped at vague promises of freedom from the rule of Lolth or deca shy;dent nobles. She was told tales of a vast and splendid new world where everyone who had half their wits about them could wallow in endless prosperity. These promises were made by someone deliberately mysterious, who wore a succession of spell-spun, false faces-someone Anlaervrith hadn't even knowingly seen since taking up her role as Namra. She suspected-idly, not really caring-that some of the merchants whom her husband showed around their house were disguised drow not merely playing their own roles, but somehow keeping an eye on her.

  All Anlaervrith had really cared about was that Namra didn't have to work, or skimp on food, wine, and clothing, and that she had plenty of servants that she could mistreat to her heart's content. The stablemen even included a well-muscled few whom she planned to get to know intimately. Anlaervrith had been both fas shy;cinated and repelled by the crude size and stink of humans.

  Qilue frowned. When Anlaervrith thought of pleas shy;ure, she thought of warm, hearty good meals-and plenty them-and of having so many gems she could bathe in them, slithering around nude in their cool, hard beauty. She also thought of flogging servants and reducing them to tears or to obvious fear, and-older memories, these-of watching the bared, sweat-slick bodies of drow warriors as they limbered up for weapons practice. And, just lately, she thought of sug shy;ared pastries and biscuits, and of sweetened cream.

  She did not think of Namra's cold and distant hus shy;band, whose face flickered with disgust at the very sight of her, or of the sadistic drow-whose name she didn't even know-now impersonating him. As for dreams of the future, Anlaervrith had none beyond endless indulgences. This drow, at least, was no threat to the kingdoms of the Sunlit World, so long as she always had a full belly and new gemstones poured into her lap often enough. She neither wondered nor cared about what plots might be driving those who offered her this chance to play at being human. In short, she was very far from the vicious, restlessly cruel schemers Qilue had met in her dealings with drow merchants, slavers, and mercenaries.

  Well, so be it. 'Twould almost have been beyond belief to find a secret leader of this invasion inside the head of the very first drow she impersonated. While Qilue searched for someone who'd know more, she'd be Namra Dunseltree, or more accurately, play at being Anlaervrith playing the role of Namra. The real Namra had doubtless gone to slavery-or even some orc's cookfire-months ago. If Anlaervrith's obviously spotty memories were anything to go by, the servants hasten shy;ing-reluctantly, but not daring to dawdle-to answer her summons would be arriving just about-

  Qilue turned and drew herself up, pointing her walk shy;ing stick imperiously down at the mess of shattered glasses and decanters, the spilled wine, and the tray, and snapped, "Well? Must I wait all morning for some shy;thing to drink? ”

  The foremost of the two servants stared down at the chaos of the fallen tray in astonishment, and something very like delighted glee flashed across his face for just an instant before he swallowed, gulped, and said, "What beverage would be my lady's most immediate pleasure?" Qilue waved a careless hand. "An array of wines, very like these. I'm quite unsettled. Do you know that the little bitch-Isryl, man, don't gawk at me as if you can't think who I'm speaking of! — threw them at me, and fled?"

  The servant in the rear made a queer strangled sound that might almost have been a swallowed chuckle, then stiffened to attention as his lady master Namra leveled her stick at him and added, "You shall go and hunt her down. She is to be whipped until bone is laid bare, somewhere on her, then brough
t to me spread and bound to a tapestry frame, for my. . private deal shy;ings with her. If you find her not, you shall serve in her place!"

  The servant gulped, paled, and sprang away in fran shy;tic haste. "Lady-'tshall be so!" his call rang back to her, as he pounded away down a passage.

  Qilue smiled grimly and said to the first servant, "Send others to clean this up, and to bring me three sharp kitchen knives and a bottle of cheap perfume. They are to be set on yonder table, for my later discus shy;sions with disobedient Isryl." Her smile broadened as she lurched forward to stroke the fearful servant under the chin with one end of her walking stick. He swal shy;lowed carefully as the metal cap caressed his throat. "I find," the merchant's wife purred casually, "that the sting of perfume, poured into open wounds, quite drives off the stink of fear."

  She went on silently smiling into his eyes until she saw deepening terror there, and the trembling man felt that his lady master must be expecting-waiting for-a response.

  "Y-yes, Lady Namra," he managed. "Shall I bring your wines now?"

  "With a tallglass, yes," Qilue commanded, and tapped his throat with her stick. "And be aware: I shall not be pleased if it takes you long."

  His eyes flickered before he nodded almost furiously and spun away. By some trick of air currents, Qilue could clearly hear sounds occurring down the passage-and she could have sworn, amid the sounds of his dashing feet, that she heard him reply under his breath, "A shortcoming that afflicts many, you old battle-axe. . may all the gods rot you."

  She gave the nearest mirror a smile and brought the end of her walking stick down hard into her own palm, hearing the smack of flesh before the sting began. It was a little like one of the slavers' goads she'd felt, years back. Qilue felt old angers stirring in her, and her usual unease at being away from the faithful of Eilistraee. Walking in the dirt, cold stone, and noisy crowding of a human city she also realized, with real surprise, that she was enjoying herself, unknown dangers and all. She'd been out of harness for too long.