Windwalker

by Elaine Cunningham

  Liriel went for a knife. The other drow seized her wrist. A quick twist disarmed Liriel and sent her weapon flying. A second twist brought her to her knees. Dolor laid the edge of her sword against the vanquished drow’s throat.

  A throaty growl pierced the expectant hush, and a tall, black-haired elf woman appeared in the clearing. She took in the situation in a glance then threw herself at Liriel’s captor.

  They rolled together. Liriel scuttled away away from battle and toward her discarded sword. The pale-skinned elf quickly overcame Eilistraee’s priestess, though it seemed to Fyodor that the drow didn’t put up much of a resistance.

  Liriel snatched up her sword and crouched in guard position. “You and me, Thorn,” she said, beckoning the elf on with one hand.

  The elf woman sniffed and turned back to the priestess. “I can appreciate your concern, Dolor, but this drow is under my watch.”

  “Your protection?” the priestess said in disbelief.

  “My watch,” the elf repeated firmly. “If she needs killing—and I’m not convinced that she doesn’t—the task falls to me.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  UNPLEASANT TRUTHS,

  DANGEROUS LIES

  Shakti made her way back to House Hunzrin openly and in triumph. She had been honored by Matron Triel Baenre. No matter what Gromph Baenre heard, he would not dare move against her.

  Not yet, at least.

  A lone priestess paced the courtyard of the Hunzrin compound, glancing toward the gate every few steps. Shakti recognized her mother and smiled.

  The guards at the gate did not immediately recognize her. She showed them her house insignia and gave them a pop-eyed glare. They made the connection and ushered her through.

  She approached her mother and dropped to one knee. “Matron Kintuere,” she said formally.

  The older drow studied her with narrowed eyes. “What is the meaning of this long absence? You left the academy—the city!—without my permission. Now I must learn of your return through rumors and servants’ gossip?”

  Shakti rose, also without her mother’s permission. “I was removed from the academy by Triel Baenre and sent on a secret mission.”

  Kintuere sneered. “Aren’t we grand. What was the nature of this mystery? Purchasing rothé studs to improve the herd? Seeking out a new variety of mushroom?”

  “Quenthel Baenre was restored to life. That is all I can tell you,” Shakti said calmly.

  Matron’s eyes widened then flicked to the snake head whip on Shakti’s belt. A tiny movement, but telling. She understood that her daughter and heir was more powerful than she, and in this knowledge she saw her own death.

  That was the way of the drow, and for a moment Shakti was tempted to claim her inheritance here and now.

  “I am not yet ready to take on the mantle of matron,” she told the older female. “I have other tasks to attend. Rule well, mother, and you will rule long.”

  She strode off without waiting for dismissal and made her way to her old suite of rooms. The servants and guards nodded to her as she passed with greater deference than she had ever been shown. Perhaps the news of her audience with Triel had spread. Perhaps they had merely observed the shift of power that had occurred in the courtyard and adjusted their behavior accordingly.

  After bathing and dressing herself in fresh robes, Shakti dismissed her slaves and slid a page of parchment from its hiding place—a slim crack between two dressed stones. This was a page she had taken from one of Liriel’s lore books quite some time ago.

  She made her way to Narbondel, the heat-filled pillar that marked the passage of time, and awaited the coming of midnight and the arrival of Menzoberranzan’s archmage.

  Gromph Baenre appeared suddenly at the base of pillar, splendid in his glittering piwafwi and fine robes. Shakti watched the enchanting of the magic timepiece, the dramatic chants and gestures that kindled the rising heat anew.

  Always before she had seen only the ceremony and the power. Now she understood this ritual for what it was: a short chain that tethered the archmage to the city.

  Gromph Baenre finished the casting and spun away. Taking a terrible risk, she wrapped herself in her piwafwi and fell into step with him.

  I know you’re there, announced a mellifluous male voice, speaking directly to her mind. Why don’t you say what you came to say and have done with it?

  “My lord—”

  SILENTLY! thundered Gromph’s voice. Think the words you would say. I will hear them plainly enough.

  Shakti nodded, having no doubt that the great archmage perceived the gesture. Liriel is dead. The amulet she carried is being returned to Rashemen’s witches.

  No emotion crossed Gromph’s face, not even a reaction to the loss of his talented daughter.

  You wished me to return her to you, for her wizardly powers would be valuable. I was unable to do so, but I offer myself in her place.

  A faint, sardonic chuckle shimmering through Shakti’s mind. You have become a wizard?

  I am what I ever was, my lord Gromph. A priestess of Lolth.

  There is no shortage of priestesses in Menzoberranzan, he observed.

  True enough, but how many of them listen in counsel and report to you what they know?

  Gromph scowled in her direction. A kobold slave intercepted the glare, assumed itself to be the intended recipient, and gave a squeak of alarm. The wizard made a casual gesture toward the fleeing slave, and the kobold’s tunic burst into flame. Shrieking wildly, the wretched creature tore off the treacherous garment and threw it to the ground, stamping out the flames with its bare feet and whimpering with each stomp. The two drow continued without breaking stride.

  What you suggest is impossible. Absurd! Triel would rip thoughts of treachery from your mind before they were half-formed.

  Indeed she would, if my only shields were those granted me by Lolth, but the mask of Vhaerun is difficult to perceive.

  A shuttered expression fell over the archmage’s face. I have no idea what you’re talking about.

  Do you wish to find out?

  The only response was a profound mental silence. Shakti allowed herself a furtive smile and matched the archmage’s mental shields with one of her own.

  After a few moments, Gromph shot her a fulminating glare. Continue, but know that your words will destroy you long before they harm me.

  If you wish to know my thoughts, take them from me.

  Gromph turned a look of pure incredulity upon the impudent female. Rage burned in his amber eyes, but the flame faded as her meaning became clear to him.

  You can keep me from your mind. Me! he marveled.

  Shakti dipped her head. Through the god’s grace, I can. Do you know what I want most from this new power?

  A sour expression crossed the archmage’s face. The usual, I suppose—the early death of your matron mother and a smooth succession, the advancement of your house, a seat on the Council of Eight, the dark pleasures of power.

  “I want to survive,” Shakti said, speaking softly but distinctly. “I want to wield power, yes, but I know this city, and I know what I am likely to achieve. I do not want to be driven mad by the limits on the power available to me. Who knows this skill better than you?”

  Gromph turned slowly, looking her full in the face. He did not chide her for speaking aloud or for the presumption inherent in her words. For the first time, a flicker of interest lit his amber eyes. After a moment he turned aside.

  There is more, she added hastily, reverting to silent speech. I have followed Liriel’s path, and know where the amulet is bound. Therein lies my value to you. If you had interest in Vhaerun, you could seek out others who follow the masked god. If you had need of ears and a voice among the counsel, you could surely find a more powerful priestess to do your bidding, but I alone can promise you the return of the Windwalker.

  He glanced at her. Promises are easily made. Have you forgotten that Triel also seeks this artifact?

  No longer. I told her
that Liriel still lives and that it is the will of Lolth that she stay in the Night Above and continue to wield the artifact to Lolth’s glory.

  Gromph chuckled softly. Did my sister believe this?

  A soft and pleasing lie is more readily distrusted. Tell tales that people do not wish to hear, and they are more likely to believe.

  The archmage sent her a considering look. Devious, he admitted, but surely that alone did not convince Triel.

  Shakti dipped her head in another bow. As you say, my lord. Lolth gave powerful evidence of her favor to House Baenre by returning Quenthel to life and to Triel’s side.

  Quenthel. Alive, you say?

  Yes, Lord Gromph.

  There was a long silence as Gromph considered the possibilities inherent in this new shift of power. That should please Triel, he said at last.

  Who can say? Shakti commented. I have done what the yochlol bid me, except for one thing. By the command of Lolth, I must find a way to repay you for Liriel’s loss.

  Yochlol. The command of Lolth. These were powerful words, and they hung heavy in a silence that lasted for many steps.

  Go to Narbondel, Gromph said at last. Seek out the trio of flayed illithids engraved on the obelisk. Touch the head of the illithid in the middle three times. After the third touch, a small pebble will emerge from the stone and into your left slipper. Do not take it out. When I wish to speak to you again, you will know. Go to a private place and take the stone into your left hand.

  With those words, the archmage disappeared. However, he did not stop watching. He noted the smile of satisfaction on the priestess’s face and her confident stride as she turned back to the pillar.

  He watched her search for the flayed illithids among the intricate carvings, run her fingers across it. She shifted her weight to her right foot, indicating that the pebble had found its way into her slipper.

  With a thought, Gromph sent out his “message.”

  A jolt of power coursed through the priestess, startling a yelp of pain from her and sending strands of white hair dancing wildly about her face. She quickly smoothed her hair and strode away, keeping an admirably level pace despite the pain in her foot.

  Gromph followed her toward the lake. Several small boats were tied to a dock, ready to ferry workers to and from the island where the rothé cattle grazed. He remembered that the care of these animals, the production of meat and cheese and wool, was under Hunzrin direction. With a grimace, he quickened his pace, intending to intercept the priestess before she could set off for that dreary place.

  He seized her arm and forced her into step with him. In two paces, they stood in his private study.

  Shakti tried not to look disconcerted at finding herself so abruptly transported. She carefully edged away. “An honor, one I had not thought would come so soon.”

  “Call it a test, if you will. I take it my summons was clear?”

  “Pelucid, my lord.”

  “It’s well that something is,” he grumbled. “Your story was entertaining after a fashion, but your argument defies logic and reason. Matron Triel believes that Liriel is alive, and that it is Lolth’s will that her niece continues on the surface in possession of the Windwalker amulet. What do you suppose my dear sister’s reaction might be, if I have—and use—this artifact?”

  “The goddess is capricious,” Shakti said without hesitation. “She favors the devious and the bold. If you have the Windwalker amulet, would it not seem obvious that Lolth’s favor has shifted away from Liriel?”

  “So many will say,” Gromph admitted. “All things that happen under this stone sky are attributed to the will of Lolth. Very well, bring me the Windwalker if you can. I will put a mercenary band under your control.”

  “Better to have them meet me beyond the city,” she suggested. She took a tube from her flowing sleeve and shook out a large map, which she unrolled on the table. “Here are the tunnels under the land of Rashemen,” she said, pointing. “This is the homeland of Liriel’s human lover. After her death, he claimed the Windwalker. He will return it to the witches who rule there.”

  “A human?” Gromph repeated with distaste. “Is this true, or is it another of those unpleasant lies that you think can masquerade as truth?”

  Shakti’s eyes showed a flicker of panic. “Does it matter, as long as the Windwalker is yours?”

  Gromph shrugged. “Not really. I will dispatch the fighters at once.” He dismissed her with a curt flick of one hand then added, “One more thing.”

  She turned back. He handed her a tiny crystal vial. “When the time is right, this will speed your mother’s demise. Matron Kinuere does not sit on the Council of Eight. Prove yourself as matron mother, and your family’s fortunes may swiftly improve. Now go, and serve yourself and me.”

  The priestess responded with a brilliant smile. Gromph noted, to his great surprise, that she had become attractive. Not beautiful, as Sosdrielle Vandree had been, but few drow could match Liriel’s mother for beauty, not even her daughter.

  He felt a rare twinge of regret, an emotion quickly banished. He had not thought of his long-time mistress for many years.

  Shakti waited politely. Gromph realized that he was staring. “Why do you delay?” he snapped. “You have been dismissed.”

  The priestess bowed. With a gesture, she conjured a curtained gate. Five skeletal snakes rose from the folds of her robe and ceremoniously peeled the drapes aside. She walked through. The curtains fell then disappeared.

  It was an impressive exit, Gromph had to give her that. Not incidentally, it was a reminder that Lolth’s favor was with her. In many ways, Gromph was far more powerful, but as the priestess had just demonstrated, true power in Menzoberranzan ultimately came through the goddess.

  Perhaps this human artifact, this Windwalker, might offer options he had not previously considered.

  CHAPTER NINE

  FIGHTING DROW

  In a small clearing in the High Forest, the dark elven priestesses of the Wildwinds Coven gathered around the embers of their fire, listening with grim fascination to Thorn’s terse recitation of Liriel’s recent past. From time to time their red-eyed glances licked like twin flames toward the place where the puzzling young drow and her companion stood, just beyond the range of hearing and under heavy guard.

  When the tale was finished, Dolor, the priestess who had challenged Liriel to battle, rose to speak.

  “This girl is a danger to us all and to those we serve,” she said. Drawing her lips into a firm, straight line, she resumed her seat, clearly signifying that all that needed to be said had been spoken. Her eyes dared the elf woman to challenge her assessment.

  Thorn returned the drow’s glare calmly. “You are high priestess here. It is your decision whether to help these two or not, but they will pass through the forest.”

  Several of the priestesses shot glares at the elf, but no one challenged her decree. The Champion of Eilistraee was honored by all of the MoonShards. These, the scattered bands of the Dark Maiden’s followers, were named for the celestial fragments that followed the moon through the night sky – small points of light scattered through the darkness, isolated yet united in their veneration of the Divine Huntress.

  “As Lady Qilué learned to her sorrow, these travelers cannot be sent through moon magic,” one of them pointed out, “and it’s a long walk to Rashemen.”

  “Not through my people’s lands,” Thorn said.

  The priestesses fell utterly silent. For several moments they stared, slack-faced, at the elf.

  “You would do this?” marveled Dolor. “Why, when none of us—not even Ysolde, not even Qilué!—has been permitted to see your homeland?”

  The elf rose. “Perhaps in time Liriel will tell you about it. She’s more likely to do so, of course, if you work with me to ensure that she survives her journey.”

  One of the priestesses responded with a short burst of sardonic laughter. “So we are to fight for an Underdark noble, a priestess of Lolth. I suppose your
people will be joining us?” she said in a catty tone.

  “I will ask them.”

  The silence that greeted this response was even deeper and more profound than the last. Those who were charitable by nature had supposed the priestess’s comment to be a rhetorical question. Those not inclined to call a spade an entrenching tool more properly recognized it as a bitchy little jab. No one had expected any response at all from the Champion and certainly not this one!

  Thorn rose to her feet. “Sound the horns. Send word to Ysolde and the Whitewaters Coven that we three—the drow, the Rashemi, and the hunter—will walk beneath their trees tomorrow before the mornmist fades.”

  She strode toward the place where Liriel and the Rashemi awaited their sentence. The young drow impatiently shoved aside one of her guards aside. She took a single belligerent stride forward before her way was barred by a pair of crossed swords.

  “Took long enough for you to decide whether or not I ‘needed killing,’ ” Liriel growled, tossing Thorn’s recent words back at her. She bared her teeth in a semblance of a smile. “If you think that was a chore, just wait until you try to implement the decision.”

  The elf woman’s gaze skimmed over Liriel and settled on Fyodor’s watchful face. “We three will be leaving now. I will take you as far as Lake Ashane.”

  “The borders of Rashemen,” he observed in a wistful tone. He studied the tall elf for a long moment. “You fought for Liriel when I could not. For this, I thank you.”

  “A bit too much courtesy to give a gray elf,” Liriel said, remembering Sharlarra’s advice about insulting the faerie elves.

  Fyodor looked appalled. “Little raven, this is a Moon Hunter!”

  In response, the drow pointed skyward to the waning moon. “There it is. Now that I found it for her, can we go?”

  The tall elf merely sniffed. “Where would you go? To Rashemen, yes, but do you know the way?”