Windwalker

by Elaine Cunningham

  Liriel imagined, briefly, how this decision would be made in Arach Tinileth, the priestess school in Menzoberranzan. Several females would die before such a treasure came to rest in one pair of dark hands.

  When the casting was completed, the staff glided over to one of the masked women. The witch took it reverently in long, slender hands. When she took off her mask, Liriel bit back a curse.

  Anya, the young witch who had challenged her at the border watchtower, had come to Dernovia.

  The disguised drow quietly slipped out of the clearing and made her way back to her hut. She would have to deal with Anya sooner or later, but better not to do so when she was backed by the full might of the village witches.

  Fyodor had not yet returned. She paced the small room and bitterly regretted the promise that bound her here. The sleepless night before finally overcame her, however, and she curled up under the fur coverlet and sank into deep slumber.

  She came awake suddenly, alerted by the soft creak of the ropes holding the mattress. To her surprise, the person sitting at the edge of the cot was not Fyodor but Thorn.

  The elf woman gestured her to silence. “I come with a warning,” she said softly. “The Dragon’s Hoard band has come to Rashemen. They seek you.”

  “I know,” Liriel replied in the same tone. “Several of the village warriors have gone looking for them.”

  “There is one you should beware. He had in him enough hatred to fill seven lives.” Thorn touched her left cheek. “He has a dragon tattoo here.”

  “Gorlist,” the drow said with disgust.

  “Don’t dismiss him,” the elf warned. “More things have been accomplished in this world by persistence than by wisdom.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks for the warning.” Liriel swung her legs off the cot and stretched. The elf did not move.

  “What?” the drow demanded.

  Thorn hesitated. “I have spoken with Zofia. She told me of the tapestry you carry. I wish to see it.”

  Liriel grimaced. “It’s not a pretty thing.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  The drow shrugged and rose. She took the tapestry from the chest at the foot of the cot and unrolled it carefully.

  For a long moment Thorn studied the terrible scene. “What have you done about it?”

  The accusation in her voice stung Liriel. “It’s elf magic. You’d probably have better idea what to do with it than I would.”

  Thorn considered her for a moment. “Perhaps I do,” she said slowly and rose from the bed. “Come.”

  The drow hissed in exasperation but fell into step behind the much-taller elf. She followed her out of the hillock—

  And into a small meadow on the side of a mountain.

  Liriel pulled up short and looked around in astonishment. She had studied magical transport with some of the best minds in Menzoberranzan for a period of over thirty-five human years, but she could not begin to conjure so smooth and spontaneous a gate.

  She looked around. The air was thinner here and cold. A lone raven crawled across the sunset sky, and its plaintive call rang out over the valley below.

  Another raucous voice took up the cry, and the message worked its way across the trees. That it was a message Liriel did not doubt for a moment.

  “They are carrion eaters,” Thorn explained. “They have found a dead or sickly animal, and are calling the others to the feast.”

  “Generous of them.”

  “It is what they do. It is one of the things they do,” the elf added pointedly. “Sometimes a raven is just a bird. Sometimes it is far more. Do you understand this?”

  Liriel remembered Qilué’s avian messenger, and nodded. “They carry messages.”

  “And more,” Thorn said softly. “My people believe that the ravens carry the souls of the dead to their afterlife.”

  The drow began to understand where this was going. She tucked the tapestry more firmly under her arm and strode off in the direction the birds had flown.

  They came to a clearing and saw the ravens were not alone. A circle of large gray beasts gathered around the carcass of a boar. Wolves. Liriel recognized them from the pictures in one of her lorebooks.

  Thorn held out a hand to warn the drow back. “The ravens called the pack,” she said softly. “They do that, sometimes.”

  This made no sense to Liriel. It was strange enough to share with their own kind, but to call large predators?

  However, as she watched the wolves, she began to sense the pattern they followed. The largest male and the sole pregnant female ate first. All the others did homage to the royal pair and were in turn allowed their chance at the wild pig. The ravens ate, too, hopping forward to snatch at a morsel of meat then leaping away. No other bird was allowed. An inquisitive hawk settled on too low a branch. One of the smaller wolves jumped at the bird, which lifted off, squawking in protest.

  Liriel noticed that Thorn was her regarding with speculation. “I’ll try,” she said testily, “but there’s nothing I can do until nightfall.”

  “Understood.”

  They settled down to wait, watching as the wolves ate and slept then ate again. Little was left but the bone, and the pups carried many of those off as toys or trophies. The ravens, no nightbirds, winged off to their hidden place of rest.

  Liriel spread the tapestry out on the ground. She tipped her head to the rising moon and listened for the song of distant places.

  She heard first the faint music of Ysolde’s drow, singing a welcome to the coming stars. Farther away was Qilué, and still farther other drow whose names she did not know. Even in the depths of her magical trance, Liriel was stunned by the number of drow who walked beneath the stars. They were not many, certainly not enough to fill an Underdark city of any size, but it was amazing that even a handful survived.

  Liriel touched her palm to the tapestry and listened. There, too, was music, a terrible cacophony of sound punctuated by the shrieks of the tormented elves. Beyond that, like the edge of light around a storm cloud, was another sound, another place. The beauty of it filled the young drow with awe and desperate longing.

  Tears ran unchecked down her face. Liriel was not sure whether she wept for the horror the elves experienced, or the beauty that she herself would never know.

  Still in trance, she began to sing. Without thinking what she did, she tugged a dark thread from the edge of the tapestry. She twisted the Windwalker open and threaded the wool through a loop in the hilt of the tiny chisel. Using this as a shuttle, she began to weave. Her fingers, though unschooled in this art, moved unerringly through the unfamiliar dance.

  She was faintly aware of the circle of ravens gathering around her. A similar circle was taking shape on the tapestry, forming a ring of power around the tormented souls. One by one, the ravens took wing. The tapestry counterparts did likewise, and she imagined that the elves slowly began to disappear from the tapestry.

  Liriel slowly eased back from her dream, her mind and heart still filled with the silvery light of it. She turned to the elf, blinking in surprise at the look of awe on Thorn’s stern face.

  Thorn pointed to the tapestry. There was nothing left upon it but a fine-woven cloth, the pale dull color of unbleached flax.

  “They’re gone,” Liriel marveled.

  “They are free,” the elf woman said softly.

  A quick, furtive skittering filled the clearing. Liriel glanced up sharply. Beyond the circle of light was another, darker circle, one that seethed with movement. Countless spiders, minions of Lolth, had felt the touch of Eilistraee’s magic and had come to assert another deity’s prior claim.

  Liriel felt no fear. So great was her joy that there was no room in her heart to provide a foothold for Lolth’s call.

  Thorn seemed to understand this. Her face was softer than the drow had ever seen it, and the silver braid that hung over her shoulder gleamed with reflected moonlight.

  And in the nearby shadows, beyond the loathsome circle of spiders, a young wi
tch with a new-made staff watched and wondered.

  News of Sylune’s return did not long remain within the walls of village Dernovia. All across Faerûn there are those whose business it is to know of such wonders and portents, rumors and lies. Chief among them were the fey women known as the Seven Sisters.

  Six silver-haired women gathered in a small cottage just outside the village of Shadowdale. Their host, a tall, athletic woman with long-fingered hands seemingly fashioned to dance upon harp strings, unstoppered a bottle of new wine and poured it around.

  “She’s not here, I tell you,” Storm Silverhand asserted. “Not at her cottage, not in mine. Not anywhere in Shadowdale.”

  The other women exchanged worried glances. “She” was of course their sister Sylune, who had died years before in a battle against dragons and their dragoncult followers. Sylune lingered about her old home in the form of a spectral harper—an intelligent ghost who, unlike most, remembered almost all of her life and had actually managed to put much of it into perspective. The possibility that Sylune was no longer present filled them with loss and also with hope.

  “Perhaps the rumors hold truth,” suggested the sister who appeared to be the oldest of them. Her face was gentle and careworn, but her silvery gown was suited for royalty

  Impatient energy crackled audibly around a tousled beauty in a wind-rent robe. “Be sensible, Alustriel. This so-called witch is an imposter and a dangerous one. Others will hear the rumors and come to investigate. Rashemen lies very close to Algorand’s borders.”

  “No one doubts your ability to protect the lands you rule,” Qilué Veladorn said quietly.

  The other women, with the exception of Laerel Silverhand, cooled visibly when the drow spoke. Qilué was their sister but in a manner almost too fantastic to credit. She was a stranger to most of them, and not many years had passed since Laerel first ferreted out their ties.

  “I must agree with the Queen of Algarond,” the drow sister continued, addressing the stormy woman with formal respect. “In all honesty, I confess that I feel somewhat responsible for this misunderstanding.”

  She told them about Liriel and Fyodor and their determination to carry the Windwalker amulet back to the witches of Rashemen.

  “I’m afraid that I might have mentioned that my sister Sylune studied among the witches. What else would Liriel assume from this, but that Sylune was a drow? And what better way for a drow to gain a foothold in Rashemen than to take Sylune’s place?”

  The other women groaned and nodded. Dove Silverhand, a well-muscled warrior in dark green leathers, spoke up. “She will be found out, of course. The important thing is to end this drow’s charade before Sylune’s enemies come calling on Rashemen. What I want to know is, will this drow gather these enemies and turn them to some dark purpose of her own?”

  “I have no reason to believe that she will,” Qilué said firmly. “That said, although I like Liriel and believe her to have vast potential, I’m afraid that nothing good can come of this situation. I’ll send my daughter Ysolde, a priestess of Eilistraee, to get Liriel out of Rashemen before matters get completely out of hand.”

  The women murmured their agreement. “We’re forgetting one important thing,” Storm reminded them. “If Sylune is not in Rashemen, where is she?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE WITCH OF SHADOWDALE

  Sharlarra rode into village Dernovia beside the silent, unsmiling young witch. The latter had eventually appeared when the elf came to the city of Immiltar and asked to speak to the witch of Shadowdale.

  The elf was still surprised by her own request. She had come to find Liriel, not chase a legendary ghost. Oddly enough, the Rashhemi did not seem to find her question strange. The first response to her query had been an outpouring of old stories—there was apparently no shortage of these in Rashemen—but eventually someone got around to contacting one of the wychlaren. They in turn had made inquiries, and Sharlarra’s current escort was the result. The young witch didn’t seem at all put out by Sharlarra’s ghost horse. She demanded to know the story behind it. When the elf described what had happened in Waterdeep’s graveyard, the woman nodded as if this made perfect sense.

  They road in silence for over an hour before Sharlarra made another attempt at conversation. “So tell me, Anya, are there many elves in this village Dernovia?”

  The witch sent her an incredulous look. “Few outlanders are allowed this far into Rashemen. You are permitted only because Zofia Othlor says you may come.”

  “I hope I’ll have a chance to thank her.”

  “That is unlikely. You have asked to see the witch of Shadowdale. You will see her, and you will go.”

  Friendly sort, mused Sharlarra. “There’s been some talk of drow sightings hereabouts. Tavern talk,” she said, in response to Anya’s narrow-eyed glare. “Have you seen any drow around?”

  “Perhaps.”

  The cold answer found the edge of Sharlarra’s patience. They didn’t speak again until the village walls came into sight.

  “That is the outlander’s hut,” the witch said, pointing to a small hillock. “The woman who calls herself Liriel is there.”

  Sharlarra sent her a curious look. “How do you know that?”

  “There is a tripod of sticks on the roof. The Domovoi—the house spirits—like such things. They only put them on the roof when people are within and take then off when they leave. If they are upset about the people leaving, they throw the sticks at them.” There was a slight warning tone in Anya’s voice.

  “So visitors tend to leave in a hurry,” the elf said.

  “That would be wise.”

  Sharlarra swung off the horse and tapped on the door. A tall, silver-haired woman answered the door. Her eyes widened in recognition and astonishment. Sharlarra had her own moment of recognition. This, in living form, was the ghostly woman she had seen with Moonstone.

  Which meant that the ghost she’d seen had truly been Sylune, witch of Shadowdale.

  “Oh gods,” Sharlarra moaned.

  The woman seized the elf and dragged her into the hut. She slammed the door and pulled a black mask off her belt. Before Sharlarra could blink, the “woman” had changed form into a small, slender drow.

  “What are you doing here?” Liriel demanded.

  “To be perfectly honest, I came looking for trouble.” The elf grinned. “Looks like I found it. Impersonating Sylune! You’ve got more brass than a cheap dagger. Tell me all that happened since you left the ship.”

  Liriel took out a bottle of wine. They shared it as they pieced together their stories. News of Xzorsh’s death brought a sharp pang to Liriel. He was the first elf she had met, the first who taught her that not all faerie elves were to be feared, that some could perhaps be friends. This odd female, in Liriel’s opinion, was another such oddity.

  They talked until nightfall. Finally Sharlarra rose. “I’ll be off. The stiff-necked witch who brought me here made it very clear that I was to leave as soon as we spoke.”

  The drow felt a pang of regret. “I would like to talk again sometime.”

  Sharlarra winked. “That’s not likely to be a problem. I said I’d leave the village, not the area. Moonstone and I will camp out in the forest for a few days. I’ll see you again, little doubt of that!”

  “Moonstone?”

  “My horse. Come see.”

  Liriel followed her to the hillock’s courtyard and started in surprise at the sight of a ghostly horse. This set the elf off into gales of laughter. She swung into the saddle and urged the strange mount down the forest path.

  The drow glanced up at the moon and wondered if she might be able to find Sharlarra’s song in the moonmagic of Eilistraee. She thought briefly of the lurking spiders, but the lingering echoes of the freed elves’ joy pushed aside such grim considerations. Liriel had made her choice: surely even the persistent Lolth must know that by now. So she went back into the cottage and sat at the table, leaving the door open to let it the moonlight.
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  She closed her eyes and listened for the song. After a time she found the elf woman – but the song seemed a strange fit for the merry, pretty female. A surging sound like dark waters warred against a constant, valiant struggle of a spirit determined to keep afloat. There was also a chorus of elf voices, a faint echo that seemed to go back and back to its source in the distance past. Connecting the disparate themes was the rhythmic clatter of a horse’s hooves.

  Liriel sought farther for Eilistraee’s own. She sensed the music unique to many distant places. Each had small, hidden groups of drow, their power humming through the moonlight that bound them. Liriel could sense that many were dancing, too full of joy to hold still.

  She rose and began to dance to the silent music in perfect accord with the scattered priestesses. Even the candle she’d lit at dusk seemed to move and sway in time.

  The candle.

  Liriel stopped short and stared at the candle. It had melted into a large formless glob, a strange thing that looked like a lumpy pillar. Then the eyes opened, fastened on her, and shone with malevolent intent.

  There was no mistaking its identity. “A yochlol,” Liriel breathed, staring into the tiny creature’s eyes.

  The handmaid began to grow, and the young drow snapped into action. She leaped forward and smashed her fist down on the candle. Half-melted wax splattered. Again she struck the candle and dashed the remaining puddle and the stand that held it to the floor.

  The girl sank down onto her chair and covered her face with her hands, oblivious to the burn and the painful-looking blisters already starting to rise.

  “I renounce you,” she whispered, rocking in her seat. “I am your child no more, your priestess never again.”

  In the courtyard beyond the open door, the spectral harper watched with narrowed eyes. Her transluscent hand moved suddenly to the place where an ancient amulet had rested over her once-beating heart. The drow now wore the amulet. More than that—she had awakened it!

  The Witch of Shadowdale nodded slowly as many small mysteries converged into one. She who had battled evil in so many of its forms, she who should by her very nature be beyond all fear, knew a moment of pure mortal terror.