Tangled Webs

by Elaine Cunningham

  “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?”

  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 sea-elven 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 the undersea stronghold and was now a guest in King Selger’s palace. From there he dispatched messages to Luskan ships patrolling the northern seas, gathering the forces needed to mount a surprise attack against Ruathym.

  The time was near for conquest. One thing yet remained—the decimation of the Ruathen berserkers. Once the mighty warriors of Holgerstead were out of the 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 their homeland. Let them fall to one of their own—let their deaths be dealt by a treacherous and familiar hand. And if the dark-haired youth who’d taken Rethnor’s hand died along with the rest of them, 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 rather forlorn.

  “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 the widow’s black-and-red 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 red-bearded, pipe-smoking first mate.

  The drow sank down on the edge of her 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 the 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 where Ibn lay sleeping. They would not form an attacking swarm—she would not endanger the delicate and sacred creatures so—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 through—curved 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 that sped the spirit of the slain to the 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.

  The drow threw aside her covers and raced from the hut, not bothering to dress or arm herself. Clad only in her tunic, she frantically followed the mournful cadences of the song to the village center, where a solemn group gathered around a large, pale form. Liriel registered the familiar, deep timbre of the shaman’s chanting voice—so like that of his dead kinsman—and the group of fisherfolk still clad in the rough boots and aprons they donned each morning before plying their trade. Among them stood Dagmar, grim-faced and pale as death. Some of the women wept silently; Hrolf’s young kinswoman looked as if she had no tears left to shed.

  A wail of pure anguish cut through the somber chant of the shaman. Dimly, as if through a mist, the realization came to Liriel that the voice was her own.

  Without thought, without will, she found herself kneeling at Hrolf’s side. She smoothed his wet, disheveled braids, picked up one cold, massive hand and cradled it against her cheek. She began to keen softly, a high and haunting chant she had heard in the tunnels near Skullport, when the faithful followers of Eilistraee—the Dark Maiden, the drow goddess of song and the hunt—mourned the comrades who had fallen in battle.

  Ulf’s song faltered and then fell silent, for the shaman recognized a loss deeper than his own. He watched as the dock-alfar chanted, rocking mindlessly in time to her eerie song. Her grief was all the more terrible for being tearless, and her strange golden eyes seemed to burn against the darkness of her skin. Next to the stoic calm of the Northmen, the dignified tears of their womenfolk, the elf’s wild mourning was almost frightening in its intensity. Yet it was clearly genuine, and Ulf stood by in respectful silence, even in gratitude, that Hrolf had been so beloved.

  The shaman was grateful, too, for the belated insight the little drow gave him into his lost kinsman. He and Hrolf were sons of twin-born brothers, and they had grown up together. No brother could have been more dear to him, yet never had Ulf understood his kinsman, especially Hrolf’s youthful—and nearly disastrous—passion for an elven woman. Ulf had been aghast when Hrolf took in this black elf maid as a daughter. Suddenly he could see why. They were strangely akin, the pirate captain and the little drow wizard—both wild and untamed, approaching all of life with a natural exuberance the Northmen usually knew only in battle. Even in her mourning, the elf was utterly unfettered by convention, as Hrolf had been his whole life long. It was a farewell the pirate would have appreciated.

  After seve
ral moments the shaman waved the fisherfolk away, then came to place a hand on the grieving drow’s shoulder. “I have lost a friend and kinsman,” he said softly, “but it seems to me that you have lost a father. This land is no longer foreign to you; forever will a piece of your heart remain in Ruathym.”

  The drow nodded; instinctively she knew this to be true. She had fought to protect the Ruathen village from the sahuagin attack, but Hrolf’s death had bound her to the island as nothing else might have done. Only once before had Liriel known such an overwhelming sense of desolation and loss. She had been little more than a babe when Gromph Baenre, her drow sire, had ordered that her mother be slain so he might take sole control of his talented daughter.

  “No rune comes easily, even to a god,” Ulf said somberly as if he followed the pathways her thoughts had taken. “The cost is always high, and it will no doubt be higher still before you are finished. Do you still wish to learn?”

  Liriel lifted blazing eyes to the shaman’s face. “You can ask this of me?” she demanded. “Hrolf is dead. I will have the knowledge to learn why—and the power to avenge him!—whether you teach me or not.”

  This answer seemed to please the grim shaman. “Then we will begin.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  YGGSDRASIL’S CHILD

  The funeral for Hrolf was to take place that very day. Most of the villagers took part in the preparations, for there was much to be done. The Elfmaid had to be cleaned and provisioned, her planks and timbers doused with whale oil; songs needed to be written to commemorate the man and his deeds; driftwood gathered for an enormous bonfire; food and drink readied for the feast—a lavish and lengthy affair meant to remind those left behind of the reward awaiting them in the mead halls of Tempus.

  By Ruathen custom, a captain’s first mate was to oversee the preparations, but Ibn was nowhere to be found. So Liriel took over the details. The villagers followed her directions without question or complaint, not seeming to care they were being led in this matter by a female, and an elven one at that. She fell into the role of leadership instinctively, for she’d had ample practice at planning and organizing large and elaborate events. It was odd, she thought more than once throughout that long and hectic day, that the skills she used to honor Hrolf had been honed in the decadent festhalls and mansions of Menzoberranzan.

  The colors of sunset spilled into the sea by the time all the village gathered by the cove to see the pirate captain on his last voyage. As Ulf and Olvir took turns chanting the songs of farewell, Liriel looked on, as coldly composed as the Elfmaid’s wooden figurehead. When the ceremony finally came to an end, the drow gave the signal to set sail.

  Hrolf’s crew somberly went about the task of setting the rudder and raising the sail—not the usual gaily colored square, but an enormous banner of triumphant blue, upon which young Bjorn had painted the holy symbol of Tempus.

  The chill breezes that announced the coming night caught the sail. It fluttered, then snapped taut, and the ship glided slowly out to sea. When it had reached the far outer edges of her range, Liriel dipped an arrow into the many-colored flames of the driftwood bonfire and fitted it to a longbow. She sent the flaming missile arching high into the sky. It plummeted down like a falling star and disappeared behind the Elfmaid’s low wooden rail. There was a moment’s silence, then the oil-soaked ship blazed like a torch.

  The Ruathen watched in somber, approving silence as the sparks from Hrolf’s funeral pyre leaped up to meet the setting sun. This was an ancient ceremony, seldom done in these times, but all those present sensed its rightness. Everyone there knew of the pirate’s great love for his Elfmaid; no one could imagine another captain walking her decks. And those who watched took strength from the rituals. In every detail, they had honored the ancient customs of the Northmen. The ceremony brought to mind the glorious times of ages past and ignited the flame of pride in the hearts of the battered islanders. Whatever they had endured of late, they were descendants of a proud and strong people, and they would prevail.

  In uncanny echo of these thoughts, the wooden figurehead on the prow of Hrolf’s ship suddenly stirred to life amid the flames. The enormous elven maiden raised high her blazing sword. Before the wondering eyes of the villagers, the figure’s appearance shifted: no longer a ten-foot drow, but a broad-shouldered Northman with pale braids and an enormous mustache, and blue eyes ablaze with a wild passion for life. For a moment, Hrolf the Unruly lived again for them all. A proud smile crossed the figure’s wooden face, and his chin lifted to a triumphant angle as the ship sank at last into the waves.

  Every eye turned in awe to the little drow in their midst, marveling less at the magical feat than at the fact that a stranger—an elf—could understand so completely their warrior sensibilities. Although none had given words to the thought, all felt there was something vaguely shameful about death by drowning. In giving Hrolf a warrior’s funeral, the black elf maid had reminded all present of the man’s love of battle and his fighting prowess and, in doing so, had restored to him his honor.

  Ulf walked over to the silent drow and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Come,” he said softly. “We will join the others at the feasting later. Before night falls, we must take your belongings to my house.”

  Liriel eyed the shaman suspiciously. “Whatever for?”

  “You should not be alone at such a time.”

  “Nonsense. I’ve been living alone for nearly half my life!”

  “It is the custom of this land, about which you already know much. The apprentice stays in the house of his or her master. We begin your training tonight.”

  The drow started to protest. She was exhausted and heartsick, in no frame of mind for the study of rune magic. And yet, this was why she had come to Ruathym. Her need, and Fyodor’s, had not diminished, nor would the time allotted them expand to allow for personal sorrows. So she responded with a curt nod and followed the shaman to Hrolf’s cottage.

  Much later that night, when the feasting was over and the sated villagers had gone to their beds, the shaman and his student made their way into the forest. They walked without speaking, climbing a large hill that was crowned with a flat, grassy bluff. Overhead the moon was a mere sliver of silver light, and the celestial shards that followed it through the sky shone like glittering tears.

  “There is unseen power in the land and in the sea,” Ulf began. “He who would be a shaman must learn to feel this power before he can learn to gather it and shape it into a rune. In this place the magic is strong. See what you can do to find it.”

  With those words, he turned and began to stride from the clearing.

  “That’s it?” demanded Liriel, incredulous. “This is the teaching you promised me?”

  The shaman turned to glare at her. “Find the power. Even the great ones—even the gods—are not given runes lightly. How can you hope to learn the casting of runes if you cannot learn to attune yourself to the source of their power?”

  Since Liriel could not refute this reasoning, she spun away and stalked into the center of the clearing. She closed her eyes and began to breathe deeply, clearing her mind and readying herself as she did before the casting of any powerful spell. As a wizard, she had learned to use chants and gestures and spell components to shape magic to her will; now she attuned her thoughts to the Weave itself—the intricate and invisible web of magic that encircled all of life.

  Elves do not use the Weave; we are a part of the Weave.

  Where this thought came from, Liriel could not say, but she acknowledged it as truth. There was power she could claim as her own, power that was her. She envisioned the fabric of magic, like so many intricately woven silver threads, and searched for her place within it all. After a time, her seeking thoughts found this place, and she engraved the memory of it on her mind.

  Not stopping to ponder this new and marvelous insight, the drow persisted in her silent quest. She sought the magic that belonged to this place alone. The vision, when it came to her, was not one
of invisible threads, but of a fabric even more delicate and magical. Moonbeams traced a silvery path from the skies to this clearing, forming a powerful connection between land and sky. Liriel thought of Qilué and the other priestesses of Eilistraee who worshiped the Dark Maiden in song, in dance, and in the hunt. Moonlight was a holy thing to them, a symbol and a source of their goddess’s magic. They would feel the power of this place and know the magic it held.

  Instinctively, Liriel began to dance—slowly at first, her body swaying and her arms reaching up toward the silvery path. Then she circled the clearing, her feet moving in an intricate pattern she had not realized she knew. It had been too long since Liriel had danced, and her deep and innate love of it swept her deeper into the gathering ecstasy of the dance. She whirled and dipped and leaped, finding the pattern and moving with it.

  Caught up in the magic and movement, the drow did not know time. For her, there was only the dance. Only when the moon had disappeared behind the distant mountains did she stop, her heart beating wildly and her tunic clinging to her glistening body.

  A faint sound came to her from the forest nearby, and the drow whirled, dagger in hand. Ulf emerged from the leafy hiding place, his bearded face suffused with awe. He walked up to the drow, ignoring the blade in her hand, and gingerly reached out to touch one of her damp curls.

  Liriel’s gaze followed the movement of his hand, and her eyes widened. Her hair, which had always been whiter than fine parchment, shone with faint, silvery light. Beyond doubt, it was a sign of Eilistraee’s favor.

  Joy flooded the drow’s heart. The pervasive, smothering sense of evil that had gripped her since the day Lloth had claimed her as priestess parted like mist before the sun. Then, just as quickly, the darkness snapped shut around her, oppressive, yes, but heavy with the promise of power. The shining light disappeared from Liriel’s hair as abruptly as if someone had blown the flame from a candle. Lloth had reclaimed her own.