Shakti dragged herself to a sitting position and took stock of her situation. There was a large lump on her forehead and a bit of dried blood. Her body felt battered and bruised, but that was to be expected. She’d had five long chains of reptilian bone wrapped around her when she hit the ground.
Her whip!
Its familiar embrace was gone. She pawed frantically through the bright debris in case it had dropped away during her fall. In a moment she could no longer deny what she knew would occur. The whip was gone—destroyed by the wicked sun.
A wave of desolation swept through her. The badge of a high priestess, the mark of Lolth’s favor. It might be years before she would be granted another, and never would she have so wondrously macabre a weapon!
Something rustled through the piles of fragile scales. Shakti pulled the knife from her belt and leaped to her feet, whirling toward the sound.
Her head spun, and for a moment she was certain that the sight before her was nothing but a manifestation of her recent head injury. Slithering toward her, its five skeletal heads moving this way and that like the fingers on a dancer’s undulating hand, was her snake-headed whip. The central head was held high, and draped limply from its bony jaws was a plump, soft-furred creature. This it lay at her feet.
Shakti sank to the ground and plunged her knife into the small beast. She swiftly slit and peeled back the hide and sliced off a strip of still-warm flesh. For several moments she cut, chewed, and swallowed, savoring the first real nourishment she had had for many days.
As her hunger ebbed, astonishment took its place. The snake whip had hunted for her. Never had she heard of such a thing!
The deeper marvel was that it could.
Shakti snatched up a handful of her new cloak. It glittered in the bright light, a brilliant black in which danced colors she had never dreamed possible.
A priestess’s whip, a piwafwi—such things should have disintegrated with the coming of the sun! What in the name of Lolth’s eighth leg was happening?
Carefully she removed the bubble from the hidden pocket of her robe. It fairly hummed with life, the malevolent energy undimmed. Gone, however, was the murky gray. The tiny globe was translucent again, and a tiny storm seemed to be raging within. Shakti held it up and gazed inside. A tiny dark figure whirled and danced in wild exultation. As if it sensed Shakti’s scrutiny, it came to a stop, splayed tiny hands on the inside wall of the bubble and leaned close. The miniscule lips moved, but the voice sounded directly in Shakti’s mind.
The magic held! crowed the former yochlol. It held! Gromph’s little bastard wizard-bitch actually did it!
Shakti’s keen eyes made out the details of a familiar face, one she had never expected to see again. “How is this possible?” she whispered.
Wild joy shone in the tiny crimson eyes. No questions, traitor-priestess! The Handmaiden bade you to take Lolth’s priestess back to Menzoberranzan. Why do you wait?
A shimmering oval of magic appeared before Shakti, quivering with power and impatience. Filled with foreboding, Shakti stepped into the portal.
The whirl of magical travel engulfed her. Shakti savored it as the most peaceful moment she was likely to know for a very long time. Although she was not sure what had just happened, of one thing she was very certain.
This was likely to be a most unusual homecoming.
The waves sparkled with the early morning sun, and tiny, blinding rainbows of light danced toward the merciless horizon. Liriel bore it as long as she could before retreating below decks to the cabin she and Fyodor shared.
The small chamber felt stuffy and hot without the sea breeze to cool it. For a moment Liriel was tempted to create a porthole to let the air in and cloak it with magical darkness to keep the light out. Practicality overruled comfort. Unseen enemies sought her, and hoarding her spells ensured she could offer the next foe an appropriate magical greeting.
Fyodor settled down on the cot and closed his eyes. His shipboard duties included late watch, and he always slept while Liriel studied her spells. By unspoken agreement, one of them stayed awake and alert at all times.
“Why do you trust this nobleman?” Fyodor asked suddenly.
The drow looked up from her spell book. “He can help us get to Qilué.”
“Perhaps he can. You seem very certain that he will.”
“He did once before,” Liriel reminded her friend.
“Yes.” Fyodor opened one eye and sent her an equally lopsided smile. “Through the sewers of Waterdeep.”
Her expression darkened at the memory. “There’s probably another way in, a better way. Chances are, he didn’t trust us enough to reveal it.”
The Rashemi propped himself up on one elbow. “The path of your thoughts runs alongside mine, little raven. I have often wondered why Lord Thann offered aid to strangers. He had little reason to trust us.”
“Especially considering that one of us is a drow,” Liriel said, giving voice to his unspoken words.
As she spoke, the air in the cabin shifted and stirred, and a faint shimmering of light began to coalesce into human form. Liriel had her daggers out—then sheathed again—before her friend noted the magical intrusion.
A tall, fair-haired man appeared in the chamber, a young man probably within a year of so of Fyodor’s twenty summers. He held out his long-fingered hands and flipped them palms-up in a gesture of peace.
“To the contrary, I think rather highly of drow,” Danilo Thann announced in his lazy drawl. “Say what you will about the dark elves, they’re seldom boring.”
Liriel’s eyes narrowed. She drew her dagger and leaped at the invader in one cat-quick movement. Seizing a handful of fair hair, she yanked the much-taller wizard down to eye level and pressed the point of her blade to his throat.
“They’re seldom stupid, either,” she snarled. “Who are you, and what have you done with Danilo of House Thann?”
For a long moment the wizard stared at her. “Just for future reference—assuming of course I have a future—how did you know?”
“Your hands,” Liriel said curtly. “The man whose form you’re wearing played a stringed instrument. There would be calluses on the tips of his fingers.”
The wizard sighed. “The demons hide in the details, don’t they?”
They might as well have been discussing a bottle of wine, for all the concern the pretender displayed. Liriel was not certain whether to be impressed or irritated. She turned to Fyodor, who stood with sword ready.
“I’m going to strip away the cloaking spells. If there’s anything you don’t like about this idiot’s looks, kill him.”
She stepped back and flashed through the gestures that would dispel magic. The green-clad nobleman disappeared, and in his place stood an female elf with skin the color of blushing pearls and long, red-gold hair.
A faerie elf.
Deep-seated fear and loathing bubbled to the surface of Liriel’s mind like acid. Liriel spun to Fyodor. “What are you waiting for? Kill it!” she shrieked.
The Rashemi stepped between the two females. “Perhaps you should explain,” he told the elf.
“I’m Sharlarra Vindrith, apprentice to Laerel Silverhand. She’s Qilué Veladorn’s sister.”
“Qilué sent you?” Liriel demanded, peering around Fyodor.
“Indirectly,” the elf said, also leaning to one side. “She sent word to you, and you sent word to Danilo—”
“And he sent a faerie elf in his place,” the drow said in disgust. She crossed her arms and glared at Fyodor. “You were right. He wasn’t to be trusted. Go ahead and gloat.”
The Rashemi shook his head and turned back to Sharlarra. “Does Lord Thann know you are wearing his sword?”
She glanced at the jeweled weapon on her hip. “He may have figured it out by now. Chances are he’s still fuming over the loss of the gems and magical items, but he’ll get over it.” She shrugged and smiled. “They always seem to.”
Fyodor turned to Liriel. “In my land, th
e witches have spells that allow one person to appear as another. To do so, you must carry a weapon used by the person whose form you wish to wear. Perhaps Lady Laerel taught her apprentice such a spell.”
“I picked it up on my own,” Sharlarra said, “but otherwise you’ve got it right. Can we get on with this?”
The drow gave a cautious nod. Sharlarra took a silver cuff from her ear and held it out. “Danilo stole this from Laerel, and I stole it from him. It’ll take you both right to Qilué.”
Liriel took the little hoop and examined the intricate carvings. The markings were familiar and unmistakably drow in origin. The spell they shaped was indeed a variation of a powerful travel magic. Entwined among the magical marks was Qilué’s personal sigil. No wizard but she could carve that mark without courting swift magical retribution.
She slid the cuff into place on her ear and spoke Qilué’s name. An oval of magic shimmered into sight, a gossamer fabric that was at once black and silver.
“Do you need anything else?” the elf asked.
For a long moment Liriel studied the faerie. “Why are you helping me?”
Sharlarra shrugged. “Danilo could have done it, but he’d end up paying for it.”
“And you won’t.”
“Let’s just say I was ready to move on, anyway.”
“So you did this for him,” the drow said, still trying to understand.
“And for me. Life was getting a little slow in Blackstaff Tower. I was ready for something different.”
Inspiration struck. “Here’s something that might suit you,” Liriel said dryly. “A sea elf named Xzorsh follows this ship.” She pronounced the name carefully, a sharp click followed by a lingering, sibilant sweep. “He wants to learn the Art. I suspect his talent is small, but he has the sort of dedication that ignores limitations. Can you find him a teacher?”
“A sea elf mage,” Sharlarra mused then shrugged again. “Why not? Consider it done.”
A faint tapping came from the other side of the hull, a rapid, rhythmic pattern that shaped a jaunty tune sung on nearly every ship asail.
Liriel’s eyes widened. “The merrow alarm!” she said, naming the signal for impending attack—and the monsters that approached the ship. “Xzorsh was right on the mark about the illithid’s messengers!”
“Sea ogre messengers?” murmured Sharlarra. “Assassins, more likely.”
“See?” Liriel retorted. “You got the message already.”
“Oh. Good point.”
“There will be battle, and soon,” Fyodor said glancing reluctantly from the magical gate to the cabin’s door. “We cannot in good conscience leave the ship now.”
Sharlarra waved them toward the gate. “Go along. I’ll stand in for you. Really,” she said, responding to the Rashemi’s dubious frown. “It’ll be fun.”
Drow and elf exchanged a quick, cautious grin. “Her I think I could like,” Liriel told Fyodor. “Let’s go.”
The gossamer gate shimmered as they passed through, and their next step fell heavily on solid stone. Liriel, accustomed to the tumble and whirl of drow magical gates, seized Fyodor’s arm to keep from stumbling. Her gaze swept over vaulting stone walls and a multilevel maze of connected walkways.
“Impressive,” Liriel murmured, referring to both the magical transport and the Promenade temple.
The ground under their feet suddenly gave way, and they were sliding down a steep, smooth passage. Before Liriel could catch her breath, they were dumped unceremoniously into a small, brightly lit chamber.
She shielded her eyes with one hand and gathered her feet beneath her. Dark shapes surrounded her and Fyodor, and the searing torchlight glinted off a circle of ready weapons. She made out the shape of a large, low bowl on a stone pedestal—a scrying bowl, no doubt, armed with spells that watched the temple parameters and captured whatever ventured into the bowl’s “sight.”
Liriel spread her hands, palms-up. “We’re friends,” she began.
“Of course you are,” chirped a little-girl voice. “Enemies are seldom received so graciously.”
A relieved grin crept over Liriel’s face. “Iljreen,” she said, naming the drow battlemaster. “I’d say it’s good to see you, but I can’t. See you, that is. Do you mind dimming the lights?”
The unseen priestess snapped her fingers, and the leaping flames ringing the small stone chamber sank low into the wall torches. A small female clad in silvery party clothes and sparkling gems lifted one finger to her forehead in a grave military salute. To those who knew Iljreen, the gesture held no irony whatsoever.
“Expecting hostile drow visitors?” Liriel asked, blinking away the lingering stars.
The tiny female shrugged. “Most of them are.”
“We have many enemies among the drow,” observed a lilting, low-pitched female voice, “and so, my young friend, do you.”
Liriel squinted in the direction of the speaker. Her vision focused on the beautiful dark face of the high priestess.
A faint smile curved Qilué’s lips, but sadness seemed to linger in her eyes—a familiar sadness, one that Liriel had learned on Ruathym. For a moment the pain of Hrolf’s loss engulfed her, a wave of loss and regret so strong that she could hardly draw breath.
“You lost someone,” she observed softly.
“Elkantar,” the priestess responded. “He was slain aboard ship during the dragon’s hoard battle.”
Liriel’s brow furrowed as she tried to remember which among the drow males bore this name. “Your parzdiamo,” she said sympathetically, using the drow word Menzoberranzan females employed to refer to male playmates who did not officially hold the title of House Patron.
Outrage flamed in Qilué’s eyes, bright and brief, then the sorrow returned. “He was my beloved, and he is dead. I cannot speak of it without pain. Instead, let us talk of the drow who killed him.”
Liriel responded with a cautious nod. It was clear that she had offended, but she was not certain how.
“The mercenary known as Gorlist survived the battle,” the high priestess continued. “He blames you for all that he has lost. He has become obsessed with vengeance. To that end, he has rebuilt the Dragon’s Hoard band beyond its former strength. They seek you throughout Skullport and beyond. The tunnels between here and Rashemen are not safe.”
Liriel laughed without humor. “Where the Underdark is concerned, ‘safe’ is never the first word that comes to mind. If the tunnels are as bad as all that, we’ll go overland.”
“That path is no better,” she cautioned. “There are among the humans those who will spill blood for gold, and care little whose blood is spilt or whose gold they pocket. Such men are watching for you in Waterdeep, and they will follow any path you take.”
“Bandits and ruffians,” Fyodor observed.
“That is not the sum of Gorlist’s forces,” Qilué cautioned. “He has gathered a band of drow warriors who have grown accustomed to life on the surface, followers of Vhaerun. He has also enlisted the aid of a wizard.”
Liriel shrugged. “I’ve fought wizards before.”
“Human wizards?”
A stern glance from Qilué stole the sneer from Liriel’s face. “Do not underestimate this foe,” the priestess cautioned. “Drow magic is powerful, but it is not the only magic. A small dagger that you do not anticipate will kill you more quickly than the sword you see.”
Liriel nodded thoughtfully. “The ancient rune magic is very different from anything I learned in Menzoberranzan.”
“Just so. This wizard is Merdrith, a reclusive, little-known wizard of considerable power who makes his home in the High Forest. The Dark Maiden’s priestesses have reason to know and fear him. Gorlist, knowing Merdrith’s hatred for Eilistraee’s own, has persuaded him to Skullport. His magic seeks you even as we speak.”
“Not the tunnels, not the surface,” Fyodor repeated. “How, then, are we to travel to Rashemen?”
Qilué turned her gaze to the warrior. “That is why I calle
d you here. By the grace of Eilistraee, I can call moonbeams to take you to the borders of Rashemen. No farther can I send you—the witches who guard that land employ spells against such intrusion. My sister Sylune learned of such spells during her time among Rashemen’s witches. We use similar enchantments here to ward our temple. Speaking of my sisters, I see that you have something that belongs to one of them.”
Liriel removed the ear cuff and handed it over. “You can call moonbeams?”
“A spell granted Eilistraee’s followers. Shall we begin?”
In response, Liriel held out her hand to Fyodor. Their fingers entwined. At a nod from Qilué the warriors left the chamber, passing through unseen doors. The torches snuffed out abruptly. Darkness and silence ruled absolute.
The priestess began to sing, a soft haunting melody that was more like wind than music and that might well be lost on a night wind.
Soft white radiance filled the chamber as slender beams of moonlight streamed down from an unseen sky. The thick ceiling of soil and stone seemed to fade away, and motes of mundane dirt whirled and danced in the moonbeams like stardust. In the center of this summoned magic, Qilué danced.
The voice of the priestess—and the magic of the Dark Maiden—flowed through Liriel like strong wine. Almost without realizing it, she too began to sway and circle in time to the music.
Listen to the moonsong, whispered Qilué’s voice, mind to mind. Whatever land it touches sings with joy, and each song is unique. Find the song of Rashemen. Listen, and follow.
“And Fyodor?” Liriel asked aloud.
Your destiny and his are entwined. This he knows. You are the song his heart hears. Go, and he will follow.
The young drow reached out through magic’s web, much as she had when she sought the great oak known as Yggdrasil’s Child. Her senses caught the distant tune, a simple melody that seemed to follow the cadence of Fyodor’s ancient tales. Liriel gave herself fully to the music, letting the silvery magic of Eilistraee flow through her swaying limbs.
A deep chill shimmered through her, stopping her in mid-whirl. Liriel froze, and for a moment she relieved the horror of the Abyss and those few moments when Hrolf’s ship Elfmaid passed through Lolth’s realm on its way to safety.
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