The second drow stepped forward and caught his comrade’s hand. He looked into Xzorsh’s face, and it seemed to the sea elf that his faint smile held sympathy, possibly even warmth.
“I imagine you’ve heard some unpleasant things about her, as well,” he said in a beautiful, musical voice.
Xzorsh nodded, and waited for this kind drow to dispel these slanders, to remove the undeserved mantle of evil from Liriel’s shoulders.
Brindlor smiled gently into the dying elf’s face. “Those terrible things you heard? They’re completely true.”
The deathsinger watched with pleasure as the sea elf’s eyes filled with despair, and then emptied of everything. He looked to Gorlist and winked.
“There is more way than one,” he announced, “to twist a knife.”
Sharlarra swung herself down from her “borrowed” horse and took the reins in hand. She knew this forest well enough to trust her own footing better than she did the horse’s.
She followed the river while the moon rose above the forest, casting flirtatious glances through its leafy veils. The savory smell of roasting rabbit led her to the campsite, which had been set at some distance from the spring.
Liriel was seated by the campfire, studying a small book by the dancing flames. She glanced up at the elf’s approach. A sudden dark flame flared in her eyes, quickly extinguished. Sharlarra understood. She’d felt much the same about drow until she’d met Qilué’s bunch.
“Where’s your friend?” Sharlarra asked as she strode into the circle of firelight.
“Hunting. Scouting. Setting up camp.” The drow shrugged, dismissing mysteries about which she knew little.
Sharlarra took the book from her and glanced at the intricate markings. She quickly handed it back, knowing better than to gaze too long upon the magical runes. “Not a familiar spell.”
“I should think not! It’s drow.”
“The script looks a bit like the magical calligraphy used in Thay,” she observed.
A shadow crossed Liriel’s face, quickly dismissed. “Tell me about the Red Wizards.”
“Well, they’re bald …”
The drow cast her eyes skyward. “Not much of a storyteller, are you?”
“Something tells me you’ve got a story of your own,” Sharlarra stated.
After a moment’s silence, the drow nodded. She began to speak of her first encounter with a human wizard. He had been a captured slave, a quarry she was meant to track through the tunnels of the Underdark and slay with steel or spell. In the end, her mentor was actually the one to fight and slay the human. Liriel ended the tale with an insouciant shrug, as if none of it mattered. Sharlarra got the distinct impression that she left out far more of the tale than she told.
“It’s a rite of passage,” Liriel concluded. “Do you have these in Waterdeep?”
“In a manner of speaking. Young men of Waterdeep go about in groups of three and four to frequent fest houses, get roaringly drunk, and piss into public fountains. I’d have to say that your ritual is, on the whole, far more dignified.”
Liriel’s lips quirked in appreciation for the dark irony, but her gaze remained steady. “That’s not what I meant. What of you faerie elves? How do you mark the passage from childhood?”
The elf averted her eyes. “Couldn’t tell you. Each clan or settlement has its own customs.”
“But surely—”
“A band of Thayan slavers caught me when I was a child. I was dragged down to Skullport and sold.” She gave a quick shrug. “Hard to leave a childhood you never had.”
They sat in silence for a moment. “And now you’re a wizard,” said Liriel.
“I know a few spells, but it’s not my first profession.” By way of explanation, Sharlarra held up one of Liriel’s throwing spiders.
The drow’s eyes rounded with astonishment, then narrowed in menace. The moment quickly passed, and she threw back her head and laughed delightedly. “Well done! I’d like to learn that trick.”
Sharlarra took a silver flagon from her bag and passed it to the drow. She took an experimental sip, and her amber eyes widened with surprise and pleasure.
“That’s qilovestualt! How did you get hold of a drow wine?”
The elf spread her hands in modest disclaimer. “You can get anything in Waterdeep, provided you’ve got deep pockets, light fingers, or disreputable acquaintances. No—keep it,” she said when Liriel tried to hand it back.
Instantly the drow’s eyes turned wary. Few people, whether they lived beneath the sky or under fathoms of stone, gave something for nothing. Sharlarra smiled a little, understanding the path her thoughts had taken. “Tell me about the drow, and we’ll consider the debt paid.”
Liriel lifted one snow-colored brow. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything. Everything!”
A small smile curved the drow’s lips. She handed Sharlarra the flask and motioned for her to take a sip. At a precisely timed moment, she said, “Well, to begin with, that wine is made from fermented mushrooms.”
The elf gave a startled cough, a reflex that sent the potent beverage searing down her throat and spurting from her nose. After a few moments spent coughing and sputtering, she wiped her streaming eyes and gave Liriel a rueful smile.
“Drow humor?”
“A very tame example of it,” Liriel agreed with a grin. “There aren’t many ways to have fun in Menzoberranzan. Playing tricks is one of them—the more malicious, the better.”
“Things tend toward chaos, do they?”
“Of course! How else would the structure be maintained?”
The elf’s brow furrowed. “You maintain structure through chaos?”
“There’s another way?”
She chuckled at Liriel’s genuine puzzlement. “Tell me how that works.”
“On the surface, it’s very simple. Everyone and everything has a rank. First comes the Houses—you would probably call them families, or clans. They are ranked according to strength, with the matrons of the most powerful houses ruling on the Council of Eight. Within each House is a constant battle for rank and position. It’s the same in the schools, the arenas, the guilds, the markets, even the festhalls.”
“I think I’m beginning to understand,” Sharlarra said. “There’s constant competition within a rather rigid structure. That would account for the fine drow weapons and the fabled power of your magic.”
“In part,” Liriel agreed, “but bear in mind that there are two ways for a sword smith to rise in rank. One, he can work very hard and improve his craft. Two, he can simply kill the better smith.” She smiled again, but this time the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “That technique also requires good weapons and powerful magic.”
“Good point,” the elf said. “Don’t take offense, but from what I’ve heard of the Underdark drow, it’s safe to assume that the second method is the one most preferred.”
Liriel’s smile disappeared completely, and her amber eyes turned grave. “Where drow are concerned, it’s never safe to assume anything.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
They passed the flask of drow liquor back and forth a few times. Fyodor joined them, took the offered flask, and tossed back a swallow of the bitter brew without a grimace or flinch.
“How do you know anything about the Underdark drow?” Liriel wanted to know.
Sharlarra waved aside Fyodor’s offer of his own flask. She had very unpleasant memories of a morning after her first flirtation with the potent Rashemaar jhuild.
“A wizard from the Harkle clan—eccentric bunch, even as human wizards go—conducted a lengthy interview with a wandering drow from your home city. Harkle wrote a treatise, which has been circulated among city leaders and leading wizards.”
Liriel smirked. “Which of these things are you?”
“Both, and more besides,” Sharlarra returned with mock gravity.
They shared laughter and passed the flask again. “I’ve had occasion to speak with Qilué.
She told me a few things about the drow.”
“How do you know her?”
“Through her sister Laerel Silverhand, the lady—and possibly the sole redeeming virtue—of my former master, the archmage of Waterdeep.”
Liriel considered this for a moment. Her gaze shifted to Fyodor, and an expression of hope and contentment lit her remarkable eyes. Sharlarra wondered briefly what message the drow had heard in these words. With a pang of regret, she realized that she lacked the time to find out.
The elf rose to her feet and brushed off her clothes. “If you like, I can summon a gate that will take you to the High Forest and cut days from your travel.”
An expression of alarm crossed Liriel’s face. She told Sharlarra what had transpired in Skullport. As she listened, the elf pondered the possible ramifications of her involvement in the plight of these two fugitives. But where would she be if Laerel hadn’t stood with her when she was ass-deep in sewer snakes? It was time to make good on the promise she’d made to herself that day: to stand for someone who needed her help as much as she had needed Laeral’s.
Sharlarra shrugged off Liriel’s warnings. “I’m not afraid of Lolth.”
The drow’s eyes flamed. “Then you’re a fool!”
“I’ve heard that,” she said mildly, “but at least I’m a fool who knows some useful spells.”
Liriel pursed her lips, considered. “Perhaps you can help me with this.”
She unrolled a tapestry and explained what it was.
Sharlarra was doubtful but she gave it a try. Several failed spells later, a simplified legend lore spell yielded one important bit of information.
She shook his head. “This is elf magic. Ironically, it’s the one school of magic I know nothing about.”
“Faerie elves,” Liriel said, speaking the words like a curse.
“Never heard of them,” Sharlarra said easily. “We’ve got moon elves—they’re usually ready for a good time—gold elves, about whom the less said the better, forest elves and wild elves—the lines there tend to blur a bit—and sea elves. Legend has it that there once were elves known as avariel, winged elves. There might still be some, for all I know. We’ve even got lythari, elves who can transform into wolves. But faerie elves?”
“That’s what we call all elves who are not drow.”
“Well, maybe it’s time to learn some new insults,” she suggested. “You want to get a moon elf’s blood boiling, call him a gray elf. To really flick off a gold elf, call him a moon elf.”
Liriel took this in. “There really is that much division among the elf races?”
“Stupid, isn’t it?”
The drow was quick. Sharlarra saw the flash in her eyes as she caught the point, the thoughtful gleam as she considered it.
“Elf art and magic has been around for a very long time,” the thief continued. “I heard that you saw the ruins of Ascarle. The elves who built it were overcome centuries ago, and the magic that lingered was altered to fit a darker purpose. It is much the same in Myth Drannor. The ancient mythal still exists, and there are many who seek ways to twist it.”
“My people among them,” Liriel added. Sharlarra saw the drow’s quick, rueful smile, and knew that this bit of information had clicked into place. Reluctantly, she rose to leave, and with a start she realized that she really didn’t part ways with the drow. Already there seemed to be a bond between them, an easy sisterhood that was compelling as it was unexpected.
“There’s a hunter after you,” she said bluntly. “A tall elf woman who calls herself Thorn. She’s a champion of Eilistraee, which means she’s got some magic to back up her weapons. Watch yourself.”
“I will walk with you for a while,” Fyodor offered.
Sharlarra untied her horse and led it back toward the spring. They paused in the clearing. The Rashemi threw back his head and drew in a long, slow breath.
“There is winter in the air,” he commented. “Already the leaves turn to scarlet and gold. In a ten-day, many will fall.”
The thief nodded. She remembered enough of woodcraft to realize the difficulty of passing unseen through a denuded woods. The roads would be crowded with caravans carrying goods to far-flung cities and villages, in preparation for the late harvest markets and the long winter that followed.
For reasons she found it impossible to name, the thought of Rashemen stirred something inside her. Almost irresistibly, she found her eyes drawn east. She looked at the Rashemi thoughtfully.
“My offer to open the gate to the High Forest still stands.”
“It is a risk,” Fyodor acknowledged.
“What isn’t when you’re traveling with a drow?”
The Rashemi grimaced and nodded. “You understand perfectly. I wished to have private words with you for another reason. This elf you described, this Thorn. She is a Moon Hunter, and it is not Liriel she follows. The witches of Rashemen sent her after me. If I fall in battle, she will see me home.”
Sharlarra nodded thoughtfully. “My people feel strongly about resting amid the roots of their homeland’s trees. Thanks for telling me.”
“Who are your people?”
The question, though reasonable, set Sharlarra back on her heels. “Oh you know. The People. Elves,” she said lightly.
Fyodor merely smiled. “My offer stands, as well. Come to Rashemen, listen to legends of elf maidens with amethyst eyes.”
Her own gem-like eyes grew thoughtful, but she offered no response.
He watched as the elf sped through the complicated gestures of a spell. An oval of liquid magic appeared. Fyodor noted that the trees beyond were faintly visible through it. It was a marvel to him that they could walk through this veil and emerge far away.
This thought brought another to mind. “The horses?”
Sharlarra shook her head regretfully. “Two people, no more. It’s the best I can do.”
“No matter. We would have to lead the horses through most of the forest anyway. Would you return them to their owners, with my thanks?”
“How do you know they’re not mine?”
The Rashemi merely lifted one brow. The elf grinned and swung herself into the saddle. She cantered off, the other two horses close behind.
Fyodor squared his shoulders in preparation for battle and returned to camp. To his surprise, Liriel offered no argument. She swiftly gathered up her things and followed him to the clearing.
They stepped through the iridescent gate—and into an encampment of drow females.
The dark elves reacted like birds startled into flight. Those who appeared to be asleep were on their feet in a heartbeat, weapons in hand. Dancers clad in gowns the color of moonlight dived for their swords. A tight circle formed around the two companions, and beyond that, another.
For a long moment the drow females sized up their captives. “Que’irrerar stafir la temon?” inquired one of them.
The language was similar to the drow language Liriel had spoken since birth, but the intonation was different—softer, more fluid, with gentle trills rather than hard, clicking sounds. Judging from their garb, Liriel guessed they were priestesses of the Dark Maiden. She shook her head to indicate that she did not understand and took off the medallion Qilué had given her.
One of the drow, a tall female clad in a filmy gown, strode forward and seized the medallion.
“Whom did you kill in order to get this talisman?” she demanded, speaking in Common.
Liriel bristled at the accusation. “No one,” she snarled. “Now ask me whom I’m willing to kill in order to keep it.”
The leader swept a glance across her ranks. All but one stepped back. The one who lingered handed the drow a sword.
Fyodor started forward. His progress was halted by a dozen silver blades—and a burst of magic that froze him as surely as a white dragon’s breath. Apparently the leader intended to take Liriel’s comment as a challenge and would brook no interference or distraction. He watched helplessly as his friend drew her sword and fell in
to guard position.
“Dolor,” the female snapped, naming herself according to the drow custom.
“Liriel.”
A strange expression crossed the priestess’s face, and her sword lowered just a bit. Sensing an advantage she did not quite understand, Liriel lunged.
The female spun away, light as thistledown, and responded with a lightning-quick riposte. Liriel leaped above the blade, employing her levitation ability to gain height.
A murmur of surprise rippled through the company, quickly taking on angry overtones. Fyodor’s heart sank. This simple act, so natural to Liriel, had indelibly marked her as a drow of the Underdark. Few drow could bring their innate magic to the surface, much less retain it for any length of time.
The priestess was not to be outdone. She pointed her sword toward Liriel and flung her free hand toward the moon. A thin stream of light filtered through the trees in a sharply slanting stream and fell upon the drow’s bare feet. She slid up the moonbeam toward Liriel, sword leading.
Liriel released her levitation spell, dropping out of range. Her opponent also leaped to the ground and landed in a crouch. She tamped down like a cat and hurled herself at the smaller drow. Liriel fell flat, rolled away. In a quick fluid motion she rose and leaped forward into a deep lunge. The other drow parried.
The moon rose high, and the silent stars watched as the deadly dance continued. Liriel fought as best she could, but the other drow was taller, stronger, more skilled. Some instinct Fyodor did not understand prompted the drow female to keep the pace fast and furious—too fast for Liriel to draw one of her many throwing weapons. Forced to react, she could never make the battle her own.
The numbness in Fyodor’s hand gave way to a painful prickling. With effort, he managed to edge it slightly toward his sword. The drow females encircling him leaned in, and the tips of a dozen swords pierced the skin of his neck.
“If you move again, you die,” snarled one of the drow.
The threat caught Liriel’s ear. She snapped her gaze back toward him, her eyes wide with anguish and denial.
That moment of inattention was all the priestess needed. She lunged, her sword scraping along Liriel’s until the hilts met and tangled.
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