Windwalker

by Elaine Cunningham

  There was a bright burst of pain, followed by the quick flow of blood. Sharlarra dashed it away as best she could, but her eyes stung and swam. Blinded, she was helpless to block or dodge the repeated blows from the flat of the dark elf’s sword, the taunting, stinging cuts from its edge.

  Dimly, as if from a great distance, the elf became aware of a great light dawning somewhere beyond the cavern. She felt herself falling and did not care.

  A sense of peace came over her, an easing of pain that had little to do with the abuse meted out by a vengeful drow. Despite all she had done, all the mistakes she’d crammed into her life, a place of light awaited. Sharlarra had never dreamed that such a thing was possible.

  So it was that when at last the darkness came, the elf went into it with a smile on her face.

  Khelben Arunsun crouched in a deserted cavern a few leagues from Skullport, backlit by the fading remnants of his blinding light spell. He carefully split his attention between the battered elf female on the cavern floor and the silent tunnels beyond. The drow band had scattered like cockroaches before a suddenly lit lamp, but where dark elves were concerned, not even an archmage could afford a moment’s incaution.

  Sharlarra groaned and stirred. The wizard pinched her jaws open and poured another healing potion into her mouth, grimly vowing to make the apprentice work off the cost of all three of them. He mentally listed the most odious chores and invented a few more for good measure.

  The elf’s eyes flickered open and slowly took focus. For just a moment, their green depths held all the bleakness of a northland winter.

  Khelben did not have to ask what that meant. There had been times when he, too, had been less than pleased to awake and find himself still among the living.

  He banished these thoughts from his face and arranged his features in a fearsome scowl. “Stupid girl. What I have told you about fighting drow?”

  Sharlarra struggled up, propping herself on one elbow and gingerly pressing the fingertips of her other hand against the large knot on her forehead.

  “Don’t?” she ventured.

  “That, too.” The wizard sighed and settled back on his heels. “Lady Sharlarra Vindreth—if that is indeed your name—have you any idea what you’ve done?”

  “I thought I was helping two companions on their way.”

  “You didn’t think at all! Liriel Baenre is not just any drow, although Mystra knows that would be bad enough. She opened herself to Lolth’s power in a way few mortals ever have. She was, albeit briefly, an avatar of sorts. Some might call her a ‘Chosen.’ ”

  The returning color drained from the elf’s face. “So that explains what happened in the Promenade,” she said slowly.

  “Yes, we heard about that,” Khelben grumbled. “Laerel has gone to Evermeet to try to recruit elven clerics to help shore up the Promenade’s defenses. My lady has a fondness for the impossible challenge and the hopeless cause.”

  “True, but she’s also attracted to your sunny disposition,” she said, attempting a flippant tone and a wry little smile. Never before had she dared such a comment. Most likely she assumed her apprenticeship was well and truly over.

  Khelben stared at her for a moment. “Aren’t you going to ask about the sea elf?”

  Her façade shattered, and her violet eyes were haunted. “No need,” she said softly. “I looked for Xzorsh and found drow warriors instead. I’m not stupid enough to think that they might have thanked him for returning Liriel’s gems and sent him on his way.”

  The archmage knew all too well the weight of this particular burden.

  “Then nothing more needs to be said. You’re done with this, and so am I. Others must follow Liriel to the end of her particular quest, and we must find a way to be content with whatever comes of it.”

  Khelben rose and traced a sweeping, circular path with his black staff. Several paces away a glowing arch appeared, mirroring the archmage’s movement. When the circle was complete, the light spilled inward, filling in the darkness and forming a sheet of translucent magic. He turned back. “Are you coming, or not?”

  Sharlarra rose slowly to her feet. “You want me back?”

  “Not particularly, but Laerel does, and I find that my life is considerably more pleasant when she gets what she wants.”

  There was a glint of self-deprecating humor in his eyes and astonishing charm in the smile that thoughts of his lady inspired. Khelben was not unaware of this charm, and not above using it. He noted with satisfaction that Sharlarra stepped toward him before she realized that she’d decided to return.

  Together they walked through the gate. Khelben noted the regret on the elf’s face, regret that came with the acceptance that Liriel’s fate was beyond her reach. Even so, he resolved to keep a closer eye on her in the future.

  And in a distant forest, Liriel stirred in her sleep, troubled by one of the dreams that had begun filling her resting hours. In it, she wandered through a gray world, bereft of both the sun’s warmth and the cool mystery of the Underdark—and she was utterly alone.

  Half awake, half dreaming, she groped for Fyodor’s bedroll and found it empty. For a moment her sense of isolation and abandonment was complete, then a strong hand closed around her seeking fingers. A warm presence filled her with reassurance and love.

  She slept on, comforted.

  Fyodor saw this from his perch in a tree a few paces away from the campsite where he kept the first watch. He noted the sudden restlessness that marred his friend’s sleep and the soft smile that replaced her moment of turmoil. A shaft of moonlight touched the drow, lending cool blue highlights to her ebony features.

  The Rashemaar warrior’s eyes traced the soft light up into the forest canopy. He allowed himself a moment to envision the night sky of his homeland and to dream of the mysteries that awaited him beyond.

  CHAPTER TEN

  RUDE AWAKENINGS

  Liriel stumbled down the tunnel’s steep incline. For some reason that she could not understand, she was running backward. Her footsteps echoed throughout the tunnel like the pounding of a battle drum, reverberating endlessly through the thick gray mists. They marched on and on, unfading.

  She kicked off her boots and continued barefoot, ignoring as best she could the knife-keen shards littering the stone floor, but she couldn’t ignore her bloody footprints. The cold stone did not leech the living warmth from her blood. In fact the small prints steadily grew brighter, taking on a ruby glow that set the damp walls aglow and filled the misty tunnel with faint crimson haze.

  The drow could smell the blood, too, as vividly as she saw it. The sweet-salty tang stirred some deeply primal part of her and beckoned like siren song to the predator within.

  Liriel shook her head violently, trying to clear her senses and her mind, but another scent, a sharp woody fragrance as unfamiliar as it was powerful, hung over her like a cloud, holding the blood lure tantalizingly close. It would not leave her be.

  The first footprint began to sing.

  A tendril of crimson mist rose from the bloody print, and with it a clear soprano voice. Liriel recognized an invocation to Lolth, one sung each evening at the devotional services at Arach Tinilith. One after another, the bright footprints took up the song. An intricate counterpoint of chant and descant filled the tunnel, keeping time to the thudding echoes of Liriel’s steps. The thin crimson mist-threads swirled and entwined in jagged, circuitous paths, forming a visual interpretation of the hymn—and sketching the leering visages and beckoning hands of demons and fiends, of monsters Liriel had never seen or heard named.

  The drow thudded solidly into the stone wall. Horror filled her when she realized there was nowhere to go.

  Suddenly a cold, sharp breeze slashed like a sword through the oppressive woodland scent. The red mists converged and streamed upward in a single swift rush. The tunnel itself dissolved, solid stone turning to haze then spinning off into thousands of thin, gray threads.

  Liriel awoke gasping and flailing, still entangled
in her nightmare. A few frantic moments passed before she realized that she was quite literally entangled. Thick layers of webbing covered her, binding her to the forest floor. A blood-red spider the size of a tunnel rat scurried just out of reach. It skittered around her, still spinning the binding webs and humming the hymn to Lolth.

  A slim, booted foot came down, and the spider’s song ended in a liquid explosion. Long-fingered hands thrust into the mess surrounding Liriel and seized hold of her. She was dragged to her feet with a sharp tug and thrown violently aside.

  For a moment the unmistakable whirl and tumble of a magical gate surrounded the drow. Before she could catch her breath, she was cast out onto leaf-strewn ground.

  Liriel rolled to a stop, sat up, and raked some of the sticky strings from her face. Fyodor dropped to his knees beside her, and she dived into his open arms. They clung together until the wild beating of her heart slowed and the phantom sound of her own footsteps faded from her inner ear.

  Finally she eased back and looked up into Thorn’s grim face. The elf stood over them. Her hand rested on her sword as if she expected retaliation for her rough rescue, and her gold-green eyes regarded Liriel steadily and without expression.

  “Thank you,” the drow said fervently.

  The elf made no response, turning instead to Fyodor. “That was a dangerous, foolish thing to do. That sprig of herbs was holding the drow in slumber. When you moved it off her, you allowed her to escape her dream.”

  “I should have left her alone and trapped?” he demanded.

  “If that’s what it took to keep Lolth’s filthy fingers out of my homeland, yes!” the elf snarled. “Better to keep a dream inside Liriel’s head than unleash it in the hidden homeland of my people!”

  Liriel’s swirling thoughts began to settle, and memory returned. She rose unsteadily to her feet and faced the elf. “You hit me. Why?”

  “It was easier than arguing with you.”

  This response startled a deep bass chuckle from Fyodor, which earned him an incredulous glare from both females. He wiped the smile from his lips, if not his eyes, and gestured for them to continue.

  “There is a shorter path to Rashemen, one no wizard can walk. I did not wish Lolth’s eyes to behold that path. Where you go, she follows.” The elf lifted one raven brow. “The dream that so disturbed you proved this, did it not?”

  Liriel spun away and began to pace. “What does she want from me?” she said in despairing tones. “Why won’t she leave me alone?”

  Thorn’s cool stare turned glacial. “Come and see.”

  She turned and strode into the forest. Liriel and Fyodor exchanged a puzzled glance, shrugged, and followed.

  They came to a small clearing, a pleasant place near a deep, clear pool. Obviously it was a favorite watering place for the forest creatures. Well-worn game trails wound through the surrounding brush, tufts of fur clung to bent twigs. These details were swiftly noted and immediately forgotten, for at the far side of the clearing was a sight that struck the eye like a dwarven warhammer.

  Two drow males had been tied to the trees so that their arms were held painfully high overhead. Each of them had one foot caught in a metal device that looked like a tightly clamped jaw with wicked teeth—a trap of some sort. They were dead and had been for quite some time, but judging from the deep wounds left by their struggle against the traps and ropes, they had not died quickly.

  “Wolf traps,” Thorn said coldly. “These drow are raiders, dwellers of the Underdark. They take joy in wanton killing. Elves, animals, humans—it matters not to them. They died the death they planned for others.”

  Liriel let out her breath in a long, slow whistle. “You don’t take prisoners, do you?”

  “At least I did not take their hides,” Thorn pointed out. “Return to the matter at hand. These drow are not allied with Vhaerun’s worshipers. Examine their insignia. They are of the Underdark.”

  “You said that before. Why is it important?” Fyodor asked.

  “Cast a spell that reveals magic, and you will see.”

  The drow shrugged and cast the simple spell. Instantly an azure haze filled the clearing. Nearly everything owned by the dead drow glowed: boots, cloaks, weapons.

  She looked up at Thorn. “These raiders have been dead for many days. All of this should have faded by now.”

  “It should have, yes.”

  Liriel shook her head in astonishment. “How is this possible? I haven’t been away from the Underdark for very long. When I left, no one could fashion spells or magical items strong enough to withstand the sun. Is it possible that drowcraft has changed so quickly?”

  “Something has changed,” the elf agreed. “How this happened and what it means is not yet clear. Those who believe the gods know more than mortals, and who have observed the Spider Queen’s interest in you, might conclude that you play some part in this.”

  Liriel sat down heavily on a fallen log. “What is going on?”

  “That is for Zofia Othlor to discover.” The elf’s eyes went to Fyodor. “The witch who set me upon your path spoke of your quest for the Windwalker. She saw the drow in a vision.”

  “She saw Liriel?” he marveled, an edge of hope in his voice. “She saw what would be and approved?”

  Thorn made a small, scornful sound. “You know better than that. Visions speak in symbols. The witch saw a raven with golden eyes wearing the amulet around its neck.”

  Fyodor turned to Liriel. “Zofia Othlor told me to find the Windwalker and return. Her very words were, ‘and she will bring you home.’ The Windwalker is my destiny, little raven. I would not say this if the name belonged only to a golden amulet.”

  The drow reached for his hand and laced her fingers with his. “So that’s why you were so sure your people would let me into Rashemen,” she mused. “You think this Zofia can figure out what’s going on?”

  He nodded somberly. “She is among the most powerful wychlaran in our land.”

  “Well, then let’s pick up the pace. How much farther have we to go?”

  Thorn dropped to one knee. She brushed aside some fallen leaves and pulled a knife from her boot. With a few quick slashes she drew a rough map in the sandy soil.

  “We stand here, in the High Forest,” she said, tapping a large gray pebble. “The seas are far to the east, and here lies the city of Waterdeep. On good horses, you could have ridden this far in two or three days. Here is Rashemen.” She thrust her knife into the soil an arm’s distance away.

  Liriel’s heart sank. “I have no travel spells that would take us that far. You spoke of a shorter path?”

  “It takes us through my homeland. There are many gates there, and my people travel them easily, but we cannot risk what happened before.” She sent a cool glance toward Fyodor. “I carry an herb that grows only in my homeland. The scent alone kept you from awakening. The taste of a single leaf will put you deep into slumber, deeper than dreams can go. This herb is not without risk—some who taste it never awaken—but at least your goddess cannot follow you through your dreams.”

  The drow abruptly withdrew her hand from Fyodor’s. “She’s not my goddess,” she insisted. “Bring out your green stuff. I have nothing to fear from dreams, and nothing to fear from her!”

  The elf shrugged and reached for her herb bag. “I’m not the one you need to convince of that.”

  Shakti sat bolt upright, shaken from her slumber by one of her own guardian golems. She wriggled free of the construct’s stone hands and rose from her bed. A fresh robe hung ready, left for her by the newly attentive Hunzrin servants. She slipped it on and belted it with her snakehead whip, then stepped into her slippers. A driftdisk floated in the corridor just outside her open door. There was no need to ask who had sent it.

  She quickly removed a folded bit of parchment from a hidden compartment in her writing table. After tucking it in her sleeve, she seated herself on the disk and settled in for the ride across the Menzoberranzan cavern. The honor extended to her alm
ost, but not quite, soothed her irritation over the lost hours of sleep. After her wakeful sojourn in the Abyss, even the uneasy rest to be had in the Underdark was a welcome and much-needed solace.

  The magical conveyance took her once again to the door of Matron Triel’s audience chamber. This time two priestesses awaited her. Quenthel Baenre stood to one side of her sister’s throne, her head held high and proud. She was richly gowned in embroidered spidersilk robes, and her hair had been dressed in elaborate curls and braids, which were held in place with ropes of black pearls. Around her neck hung the medallion that proclaimed her Mistress of Arach Tinileth.

  So that’s the use Triel decided to make of her newly returned sister, noted Shakti. It was a wise move. The powerful and ambitious Quenthel would be a potent rival for the Baenre throne. By placing her in charge of the priestess academy, Triel gave her sister a queendom of her own. Few matron mothers wielded such power as did the mistress of Arach Tinileth, and what better way to flaunt Lolth’s favor than to put a Baenre priestess, recently returned from the dead, at the very front and center of the cult’s stronghold?

  Shakti stepped down from the driftdisk and bowed to both priestesses. “Matron Triel, Mistress Quenthel. I am honored—”

  “Silence!”

  The command thundered from tiny Triel, resounding with a magical power that stopped Shakti in mid sentence. “I care nothing for your flatteries. Tell us of your meeting with my brother Gromph.”

  She told them most of what had passed between her and the archmage. “I had no choice but meet with him,” she concluded. “He sent me after Liriel, and he expected an accounting of my time Above. I could hardly refuse the archmage of Menzoberranzan, a scion of House Baenre.”

  “True enough, but why would you promise him Liriel’s amulet?” the matron demanded.

  “Because he wants it,” Shakti said. “He wants it very, very much. The search for the Windwalker will drain his resources and, more importantly, deflect his interest from more dangerous matters. There are whispers of rebellion among the followers of the Masked God. Sooner or later, these will come to the archmage’s ears. Might it not be prudent to keep him busy elsewhere?”