“The Bannik,” Zofia said casually. “A spirit of health and divination. Most bathhouses have one. If you see a familiar person in the bathhouse who should not be there, do not take alarm. It is only the Bannik.”
“If I see a familiar person, I’d be a fool not to take alarm,” Liriel muttered.
The witch gave her a curious stare. “It is so? You have many enemies?”
“I’m not sure what a Rashemi means by ‘many’ enemies,” Liriel prevaricated.
Zofia let out an amused chuckle. “Well said. It would seem that Fyodor has told you some of our tales. What a storyteller he would have made!” she said wistfully.
Liriel considered these words and discarded them as unimportant. Most likely Rashemi storytellers devoted their lives to this art, as did human bards or drow deathsingers. Fyodor had taken a warrior’s path instead.
“I felt something leave when we entered. What was that?”
“Who can say?” Zofia responded. “The Bannik sometimes invites friends to the bathhouse. Forest spirits, water spirits, demons.”
The drow took a cautious look over her shoulder. “This doesn’t bother you?”
“Do you think that one spirit has the power to heal or to divine?” Zofia demanded. “The Bannik are powerful because they have friends. It is a lesson we Rashemi have learned well.”
They closed the door and moved on to the main building. Zofia shook her head. “None but a witch may enter. No outlander is permitted within, not even one with a wychlaran’s training. Even if you were who you claim to be, you could not pass this door.” Zofia held up a hand, silencing Liriel. “That will keep. Come, I will show you to your hut.”
The two females walked in silence down the long road leading to the village wall. Liriel’s new home was surprisingly pleasant, a small hillock crowned with meadow grass still studded with summer flowers. Smoke rose from the small circle of stones, giving evidence of the dwelling within.
The single round room was heated by an iron stove. A large fur-covered bed filled one side, a small table and chairs the other. Pegs provided places for clothing. A wash-tub stood next to a shelf holding dishes and pots.
Zofia took down a samovar and set to work making tea. She also took from her bag a small loaf of bread, a salt cellar, and a white cloth.
“You will need these to befriend your domovoi. A house spirit,” she explained, responding to Liriel’s inquiring stare. “They are helpful and kind, and as long as you do not offend them they will protect your house and do some of your chores.”
“What am I supposed to do with these things?”
“Wrap the bread and salt in the cloth and stand in your open doorway. Invite the domovoi in with kind and pleasant words, then leave the gift under the threshold stone. There is a special hollow there, of course.”
“Of course,” Liriel echoed, feeling slightly dazed by this recitation. “What does a domovoi look like?”
“Oh, don’t expect to see it. You will hear it from time to time. It will hum when content and sigh or even groan when sad. Now, let us speak of you,” she said. Her keen blue eyes regarded Liriel steadily. “Tell me why you have come to Rashemen.”
“I came for Fyodor and to bring back the Windwalker.”
“Nothing more?”
The drow hesitated, not sure how far to trust the witch. She decided that she had little choice. Without Zofia’s patronage she would not have been allowed into this land at all.
“Another task was entrusted to me,” she said slowly. “I was given a tapestry in which are imprisoned the spirits of slain elves. I promised to free them.”
A light swept over Zofia’s face. “Now I understand. You are a morrigan!”
Liriel lifted a skeptical brow. “I wasn’t the last time I looked.”
The witch chuckled. “A raven, then. A being who moves between two worlds, between starlight and shadows. It is your task to see lost spirits home.”
This notion was entirely new to Liriel, and yet it had the uncomfortable fit of newfound truth. “Between starlight and shadows.” Fyodor had used that very phrase in a story he told her. Still, this morrigan business was too much to absorb.
“Who decided this?” she said heatedly.
Zofia shrugged. “Who knows? Is our fate written on the day of our birth, or do we choose our paths?”
“You tell me.”
“Neither,” the old woman said, “or perhaps both. The future is not ours to know.”
“Fyodor has the Sight. He says you’re an Oracle.”
The witch inclined her head. “We see what might be, just as the fisherman sees the darkening clouds and knows that rain might fall. He also knows that a strong wind might come and blow the storm far from the Ashane, or that the song of the bheur—the blue hag, the bringer of Winter—might change the rain to snow.”
Liriel took this in. “What do you see for me?”
“Let’s have a look.”
Zofia took a bag from her belt and spilled several small, rune-carved stones onto the table. “These were made from bones left by creatures no living eye has seen. The ancient power of the land is in them. Gather them up and strew them on the table.”
Liriel did as she was bid. The old woman studied the result for long moments. At length she lifted her eyes to the waiting drow. “You will bind and break, heal and destroy. What you sought, you have found. What you love, you will lose—yet your heart will sing and not alone. You will make a place for those who walk between the starlight and the shadows.”
The drow considered these cryptic words. “At least rain clouds eventually get to the point.”
Zofia shrugged. “The wind will blow where it will. Keep the stones. Learn to listen to them, but do not seek to know your own future. That is courting ill fortune.”
She rose to leave. Liriel stepped caught the witch’s sleeve. “Do you know what I am?” she asked softly.
“Oh yes,” Zofia said. “You are a black wolf.”
The drow blew out a long breath that was part relief, part resignation. At least her deepest secret—or nearly so—was on the table.
“There are black wolves among every kind of creature,” the witch went on, “who are different from their kin, outcasts either by choice or birth. Perhaps both. For whatever reason, they have no place among their kindred. They walk alone. I say black wolf because oftentimes a rogue wolf has a dark coat. Is such a beast shunned by its kind because of its hide, or does it hunt alone because of differences hidden beneath?”
This explanation struck Liriel as ambiguous as her “fortune.” Did Zofia know that her guest was a dark elf or didn’t she?
“I’ll try not to keep the village awake with my howling,” she grumbled.
The witch chuckled. “Sleep, then. Tomorrow you take the next step on your path.”
She went her way. Liriel gathered up the bread and salt and stood in the open door. “This is for the domovoi,” she said, feeling rather foolish. “You’re welcome to come in.” No further pleasantries came to mind, though she tried to think of some.
“Hang old shoes in the yard,” called Zofia without looking back. “The domovoi like that.”
“Kill me now,” Liriel muttered. Resolving that the house spirit would have to make do with an evening snack, she put the gift under her stone and closed and latched her door. She fell facedown into the fur coverlet and was asleep almost at once.
Some time later, she became aware of a most peculiar feeling, a sensation so subtle that that it belonged neither to dreams nor waking. Her feet were suddenly cooler, as if some highly skilled servant had managed to get her boots off without waking her.
Liriel cracked open one eye and instantly came fully awake.
A peculiar creature leaned over her. It looked human but for the silky fur covering its face and limbs. Most likely male, it appeared quite old and was clad only in a long-tailed red shirt. Long, gnarled fingers reached for the strings tying the witch mask to her belt.
Liriel e
xploded from the bed, her back to the wall and her daggers in her hand.
The creature stared at her in open-mouthed astonishment. “Domovoi to the drow I have become?” it moaned. “A bad hut, this is! Better a dvorovoi it should have!”
Only then did Liriel notice the mask in the house spirit’s hand and realized that she wore her true face. A glance at her black hands confirmed this.
Thinking fast, she responded firmly, “No dvorovoi. I mean no harm to Rashemen and want nothing to do with bad spirits.”
This apparently was the right approach. The furry being nodded approvingly. “Better in the yard they should stay. You can cook?”
“Not if my life depended on it.”
The domovoi brightened. “Then no dishes I must wash, no pots scour! But there will be milk?”
“If you want it, I’ll have someone deliver it.”
“Rothé’s milk, or goat?”
Liriel shrugged. “Whatever you want.”
“Eggs?” the spirit inquired hopefully.
The drow extended her hand for the mask, indicating a trade. The domovoi handed it over and faded from sight, but a contented little melody rose from the stove. The drow tied the mask firmly to her belt and went back to bed.
Yet sleep eluded her. Liriel opened her door and gazed toward the mountains, drinking cold tea and watching the sky brighten to silver. A single howl wafted down from the forested slopes, a wild voice that sang alone. Liriel remembered the witch’s words and lifted her mug in silent salute to a kindred spirit.
The sun was well past its zenith by the time Fyodor stood near the top of Snowcat Mountain. The young people of Dernovia had left before dawn to make the long trek up the mountain. He sought the small smudge of brown and gray far below that marked the village walls and wondered how Liriel fared.
She would love this, he decided, glancing back at the band of men and maidens he had known all his life. They laughed and teased, flirted and boasted, reveling in the fine day and the bracing shock of wind-blown snow against their skin.
Fyodor had already stripped down the traditional doeskin loincloth and strapped the racing shoes to his boots. He helped Petyar stuff the discarded clothes into sacks and load them onto the pack animals—sure-footed, shaggy little ponies that seemed more goat than horse.
Everyone was dressed in similar fashion, men and women alike. All of them, even young Petyar, were well accustomed to this. There was little shame in Rashemen regarding the body, and none of the Rashemi confused sport with courtship.
Even so, Fyodor couldn’t help contrasting the sturdy Rashemaar women with the tiny drow and envisioning Liriel’s lithe black form against the setting of white snow.
Petyar elbowed him sharply in the ribs. “Now who’s watching?” he said with a grin.
The warrior chuckled and tossed his head toward the ribbon that last year’s winners held between them. The starting line could not be tied to trees, as they had left the tree line behind perhaps two hours ago.
They joined the group and waited for the ribbon to drop, then all of them hurtled down the mountain in huge, sliding steps. A fast start was important. Once they reached the forest, the paths narrowed and the lead was difficult to take. Frontrunners could be expected to protect their positions with their fists and staffs. Competition among the swiftest racers often developed into impromptu duels, which opened the door for less-favored contestants and added the possibility of an unexpected win. It was this that lent the race much of its excitement. All shared the likelihood of friendly battle. Any man or maid might win honors.
Petyar shouldered his cousin out of the way, sending him into a tumbling roll. Fyodor found his feet and took off after the boy, loudly promising vengeance.
They would neither of them win this way, but the young man’s playful mood suited Fyodor. Better this than a senseless quest for a black wolf that had harmed no one and was best left alone.
Fyodor scooped up a handful of snow and slung it at the boy. It slapped into the back of his head. He turned and hurled a missile of his own. Fyodor leaned away from the snowball and quickly closed the distance between them. He stooped as he neared the boy and grabbed a handful of snow. With this he briskly washed Petyar’s face.
The boy yelped and gave pursuit. Fyodor leaped over a snow-covered boulder and slid along the trunk of a fallen log. The younger warrior, though, had the longer legs, and on this steep slope his stride was nearly the match for a hill giant’s.
They raced only each other, leaving the prize to others. After a time, however, Petyar seemed to lose interest. He did not increase his speed when Fyodor drew abreast with him, did not return his cousin’s cheerful insults. As they neared the tree line the boy lengthened his stride and veered off the path. He disappeared into the trees.
Fyodor set his jaw and followed the big-footed trail.
Suddenly there were two trails.
He did not see the second trail at first, for Petyar’s prints had obscured the delicate markings. No doubt he had done so deliberately, in an attempt to hide his true purpose, but as the boy’s excitement drew, his caution ebbed. The marks of large but delicate paws, front and back feet falling into the same straight line, wove through the trees.
Petyar followed.
Fyodor found his cousin in a small clearing, not far from the runner’s path. The fading voices of the runners proclaimed that they had been left far behind, but Petyar did not seem to notice. He stood at the base of a snow-frosted pine, staring in puzzlement at the snow. Tracks circled the tree, but the thick white blanket beyond was marked by a single pair of tracks: Petyar’s. The wolf prints had completely disappeared.
The warrior clapped the boy on the back. “You would not be the first Rashemi to lose a trail. Forget it.”
“I didn’t lose the trail,” Petyar insisted.
“Perhaps you didn’t,” Fyodor agreed. “Perhaps this wolf should not be found.”
The boy scoffed. “I’m not such a fool as that! If you think to frighten me with tales of werewolves, you’d do better to wait until the night has come and the moon is full.”
“True enough,” Fyodor admitted. He nodded toward the path. “However it happened, your quarry is gone. Let’s join the others.”
Petyar grumbled but fell into step. “It will be back,” he insisted, “and it will cause trouble before it’s finished. That is its nature. A wolf is always a wolf.”
His words drifted through the crisp air. Thorn heard them, albeit somewhat muffled by the thick branches that shrouded her hiding place. The familiar Rashemaar saying prompted a wry, humorless smile.
A wolf will always be a wolf. It was strange they should think so when so many of their old tales said otherwise.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE WARRENS
Liriel eyed the clearing uncertainly. It was a desolate little spot, ringed and roofed by tall trees. A small spring bubbled and spat, sending sulphorous steam into the air. She whirled toward the witches who had accompanied her. Zofia had brought along all of Dernovia’s witches—thirteen of them—to meet their guest and to escort her to a sacred place. To the drow’s eyes, this little excursion was most likely a means of getting her out of the way.
“Here?” she demanded, eyeing Zofia with mingled outrage and incredulity.
“The witch of Shadowdale has been too long away,” Zofia told her. “This is a haunted land. To know it, you must know and respect the sacred places. We will return before the sun sets.”
The old woman nodded to the others. They turned and left the clearing.
Liriel glumly surveyed her surroundings. She walked over to the spring and peered into the bubbling water. She could not see the bottom and did not expect to. There were hot springs like this in the Underdark, and even those came from deep, hidden sources.
When she was certain that she was alone, she untied Sylune’s mask from her belt and sighed with relief as she slipped back into her own form. She kicked off her boots and removed her clothes and weap
on belts, leaving on only the knives strapped to her arms and calves.
She dipped one foot into the water and found it pleasantly warm. Carefully she climbed over the rocks and lowered herself into the pool.
The steam rising around her coalesced into a strange form—a dragonlike head sculpted from mist.
Liriel scrambled out of the pool, eyeing the ghostly thing.
Yet it was not a ghost. She was sure of that, though she could not exactly say why. She felt none of the instinctive sick dread that dead things inspired.
She remembered the lore books that she had plumbed in her attempts to learn about the Windwalker. Her hand went to the hollow of her throat, the place where the amulet rested. “Place magic,” she whispered, “and place spirits.”
The misty reptilian inclined its head and waited. Liriel remembered how the villagers on that remote Moonshae island had honored the sacred river. She wore no ornaments, but she took a small, jeweled knife from a wrist sheath and dropped it into the water.
The misty dragon favored her with a toothy grin and sank back into the pool. Liriel smirked. Dragons were the same all over, no matter what form they took. She’d be willing to bet that this one had amassed quite a hoard.
She remembered the White Rusalka Vale, and a grim possibility occurred to her. Perhaps some of those drowned maidens had been greedy in life, determined to loot a sacred spring or river. She didn’t suppose the guardian spirits took kindly to that.
“Or so people would assume,” she mused, adding a layer of drow logic to this unfamiliar place. “What better place to dispose of a rival or victim? What better explanation than ‘the Rusalka did it’ when a body washes ashore?”
Liriel felt the ghost before she saw it. Cold fingers, no more substantial than wind, brushed her shoulder.
The drow whirled and stared into a pair of empty white eyes. No delicate maiden, this. The ghost was white but appeared far most solid than the wispy dragon spirit. Liriel got a quick impression of muscle under sodden leather armor and noted the empty scabbard. The odd cant of the colorless head suggested a broken neck. A warrior, perhaps, slain during one of Rashemen’s many invasions.
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