The Realms of the Elves a-11

by Коллектив Авторов

  "They have not left. Their cohesion remains," Drizzt stated.

  "And they proclaim their king as Obould, and their kingdom takes his surname," Innovindil added. "It would seem that the unusual ore's vision outlasted his breath."

  Drizzt shook his head, though he had no practical answers against her obvious observation. Still, it didn't make sense to him, for it was not the way of the ores.

  After a long while, Innovindil said, "Come, the night will be colder and a storm is brewing. Let us be on our way."

  Drizzt glanced back at her and nodded, though his thoughts were still focused on that sign and its implications.

  "We can make Mithral Hall long before sunset," he asked.

  "I wish to cross the Surbrin," Innovindil replied, and as she spoke she led Drizzt's gaze to the form of Ellifain strapped over Sunset's back, "to the Moonwood first, if you would agree."

  With the weather holding and the sun still bright, though black clouds gathered in the northeast, they flew through Keeper's Dale and past the western door of King Bruenor's domain. Both of them took comfort in seeing that the gates remained solid and closed.

  They crossed around the southern side of the main mountain of the dwarven homeland, then past the wall and bridge that had been built east of the complex. Several dwarf sentries spotted them and recognized them after a moment of apparent panic. Drizzt returned their waves and heard his name shouted from below.

  Over the great river, partially covered in ice and its steel gray waters flowing swiftly and angrily, they set down, their shadows long before them.

  The land was secure. Obould's minions had not pressed their attack, and predictably, as their campfire flared in the dark of night, the snow beginning to fall, they were visited by a patrol of elves, Innovindil's own people scouting the southern reaches of their domain.

  There was much rejoicing and welcoming. The elves joined in song and dance, and Drizzt went along with it all, his smile genuine.

  The storm grew stronger, the wind howling, but the troupe, nestled in the embrace of a thick stand of pines, were not deterred in their celebration, their joy at the return of Innovindil, and their somber satisfaction that poor Ellifain had come home.

  Soon after, Innovindil recounted the journey to her kin, telling them of her disappointment and surprise to see that the ores had not gone home to their dark holes after the fall of King Obould.

  "But Obould is not dead," one of the elves replied, and Innovindil and her drow companion sat intrigued and quiet.

  Another elf stepped forward to explain, "We have found a kin of yours, Drizzt Do'Urden, striking at the ores much as you once did. His name is Tos'un."

  Drizzt felt as if the wind, diminished as it was through the thick boughs of the pines, might just blow him over. He had killed two other dark elves in the fight with Obould's invading army, and had seen at least two more in his personal battle. In fact, one of those drow, a priestess, had brought forth a magical earthquake that had sent both Drizzt and the ore king tumbling, Drizzt, with good fortune, to a ledge not far below, and Obould, so Drizzt had thought, into a deep ravine where he surely would have met his demise. Might this Tos'un be one of those who had watched Drizzt's battle with the ore king?

  "Obould is alive," the elf said again. "He walked from the carnage of the landslide."

  Drizzt didn't think it possible, but given what he had seen of the ore army, could he truly deny the claim?

  "Where is this Tos'un?" he asked, his voice no more than a whisper.

  "Across the Surbrin to the north, far from here," the elf explained. "He fights beside Albondiel and his patrol, and fights well by all reports."

  "You have become accepting," Drizzt remarked.

  "We have been given good reason."

  Drizzt was hardly convinced.

  He is in the Moonwood, Khazid'hea reminded Tos'un one brilliant and brutally cold morning.

  They were still out across the Surbrin, in the northern stretches of the newly-proclaimed Kingdom of Many-Arrows, just south of the towering easternmost peaks of the Spine of the World. The drow tried not to respond, but his thoughts flickered back to Sinnafain's announcement to him that Drizzt Do'Urden had returned from the west and stopped in the Moonwood.

  He saw you on that day he battled Obould, Khazid'hea warned. He knows you were in league with the ores.

  He saw two drow, Tos'un corrected. And from afar. He cannot know for certain that it was me.

  And if he does? His eyes are much more attuned to the glare of the sun than are yours. Do not underestimate his understanding. He did battle with two of your companions, as well. You cannot know what Drizzt might have learned from them before he slew them.

  Tos'un slid the sword away and glanced around the ring of boulders fronting the shallow cave that he and the elves had taken for their camp the previous night. He had suspected that Drizzt had been involved in the fall of Donnia Soldue and Adnon Khareese, but the sword's confirmation jarred him.

  You will exact vengeance for your dead friends? Khazid'hea asked, and there was something in the sword's telepathy that led him to understand the folly of that course. In truth, Tos'un wanted no battle with the legendary rogue that had so upset the great city of Menzoberranzan. Kaer'lic had feared that Drizzt was actually in Lolth's favor, as chaos seemed to widen in his destructive wake, but even if that were not the case, the rogue's reputation still brought shudders up Tos'un's spine.

  Could he bluff his way past Drizzt's doubts or would the rogue just cut him down?

  Good, Khazid'hea purred in his thoughts. You understand that this is not a battle you are ready to fight. The sword led his gaze to Sinnafain, sitting on a rock not far away and staring out at the wide valley beyond.

  Kill her quickly and let us be gone, Khazid'hea offered. The others are out or deep in Reverie-they will not arrive in time to stop you.

  Despite his reservations, Tos'un's hand closed on the sword's hilt. But he let go almost immediately.

  Drizzt will not strike me down. I can dissuade him. He will accept me.

  At the very least, he will demand my return, Khazid'hea protested, so that he can give me back to that human woman.

  I will not allow that.

  How will you prevent it? And how will Tos'un answer the calls of the priests when Khazid'hea is not helping him to defeat their truth-seeking spells?

  We are beyond that point, the drow replied.

  Not if I betray you, the sword warned.

  Tos'un sucked in his breath and knew he was caught. The thought of going back out alone in the winter cold did not sit well with him, but he had no answer for the wretched sword.

  Nor was he willing to surrender Khazid'hea, to Drizzt or to anyone. Tos'un understood that his lighting skills were improving because of the tutoring of the blade, and few weapons in the world possessed a finer edge. Still, he did not doubt Khazid'hea's estimation that he was not ready to do battle with the likes of Drizzt Do'Urden.

  Hardly aware of the movements, the drow walked up behind Sinnafain.

  "It is a beautiful day, but the wind will keep us about the cave," she said, and Tos'un caught most of the words and her meaning. He was a quick student, and the Elvish language was not so different from that of the drow, with many similar words and word roots, and an identical structure.

  She turned on the rock to face him just as he struck.

  The world must have seemed to spin for Sinnafain. She lay on the ground, the drow standing above her, his deadly sword's tip at her chin, forcing her to arch her neck.

  Kill her! Khazid'hea demanded.

  Tos'un's mind raced. He wanted to plunge his sword into her throat and head. Or maybe he should take her hostage. She would be a valuable bargaining chip, and one that would afford him many pleasures before it was spent, to be sure.

  But to what end?

  Kill her! Khazid'hea screamed in his mind.

  Tos'un eased the blade back and Sinnafain tilted her chin down and looked at him. The
terror in her blue eyes felt good to him, and he almost pulled the sword back, just to give her some hope, before reversing and cutting out her throat.

  But to what end?

  Kill her!

  "I am not your enemy, but Drizzt will not understand," Tos'un heard himself saying, though his command of the language was so poor that Sinnafain's face screwed up in confusion.

  "Not your enemy," he said slowly, focusing on the words. "Drizzt will not understand."

  He shook his head in frustration, reached down, and removed the helpless elfs weapons, tossing them far aside. He jerked Sinnafain to her feet and shoved her away, Khazid'hea at her back. He glanced back at the cave a few times, but soon was far enough away to understand that no pursuit would be forthcoming.

  He spun Sinnafain around and forced her to the ground. "I am not your enemy," he said yet again.

  Then, to Khazid'hea's supreme outrage, Tos'un Armgo ran away.

  "It is Catti-brie's sword," Drizzt said when Sinnafain told him the tale of Tos'un a few days later, when she and her troupe returned to the Moonwood. "He was one of the pair I saw when I did battle with Obould."

  "Our spells of truth-seeking did not detect his lie, or any malice," Sinnafain argued.

  "He is drow," Innovindil put in. "They are a race full of tricks."

  But Sinnafain's simple response, "He did not kill me," mitigated much of the weight of that argument.

  "He was with Obould," Drizzt said again. "I know that several drow aided the ore king, even prompted his attack." He looked over at Innovindil, who nodded her agreement.

  "I will find him," Drizzt promised.

  "And kill him?" Sinnafain asked.

  Drizzt didn't answer, but only because he managed to bite back the word, "Yes," before it escaped his lips.

  – "You understand the concept?" Priest Jallinal asked Innovindil. "The revenant?"

  "A spirit with unfinished business, yes," Innovindil replied, and she couldn't keep the tremor out of her voice. The priests would not undertake such a ritual lightly. Normally revenants were thankfully rare, restless spirits of those who had died in great tumult, unable to resolve central questions of their very being. But Ellifain was not a revenant-not yet. In their communion with their gods, the elf priests had come to believe that it would be for the best to create a revenant of Ellifain, something altogether unheard of. They were convinced of their course, though, and with their confidence, and given all that was at stake, Innovindil was hardly about to decline. She, after all, was the obvious choice.

  "Possession is not painful," Jallinal assured her. "Not physically. But it is unsettling to the highest degree. You are certain that you can do this?"

  Innovindil sat back and glanced out the left side of the wooden structure, to the hut where she knew Drizzt to be. She found herself nodding as she considered Drizzt, the drow she had come to love as a cherished friend. He needed it to happen as much as Ellifain did.

  "Be done with it, and let us all rest more comfortably," Innovindil said.

  Jallinal and the other clerics began their ritual casting, and Innovindil reclined on the floor pillows and closed her eyes. The magic filtered through her gently, softly, opening the conduit to the spirit the priests called forth. Her consciousness dulled, but was not expelled. Rather, her thoughts seemed as if filtered through those of her former friend, as if she was seeing and hearing everything reflected off the consciousness of Ellifain.

  For Ellifain was there with her, she knew, and when her body sat up, it was through Ellifain's control and not Innovindil's.

  There was something else, Innovindil recognized, for though it was Ellifain within her body along with her own spirit, her friend was different. She was calm and serene, at peace for the first time. Innovindil's thoughts instinctively questioned the change, and Ellifain answered with memories-memories of a distant past recently brought forth into her consciousness.

  The view was cloudy and blocked-by the crook of an arm. Screams of agony and terror rent the air.

  She felt warmth, wet warmth, and knew it to be blood.

  The sky spun above her. She felt herself falling then landing atop the body of the woman who held her. Ellifain's mother, of course!

  Innovindil's mind whirled through the images and sounds-confused, overwhelmed. But then they focused clearly on a single image that dominated her vision: lavender eyes.

  Innovindil knew those eyes. She had stared into those same eyes for months.

  The world grew darker, warmer, and wetter.

  The image faded, and Innovindil understood what Ellifain had been shown in the afterlife: the truth of Drizzt Do'Urden's actions on that horrible night. Ellifain had been shown her error in her single-minded hatred of that dark elf, her mistake in refusing to believe his reported actions in the deadly attack.

  Innovindil's body stood up and walked out of the hut, moving with purpose across the way to the hut wherein Drizzt rested. She went through the door without as much as a knock, and there sat Drizzt, looking at her curiously, recognizing, no doubt, that something was amiss.

  She moved up and knelt before him. She stared closely into those lavender eyes, those same eyes she, Ellifain, had seen so intimately on the night of her mother's murder. She brought a hand up against Drizzt's cheek, then brought her other hand up so that she held his face, staring at her.

  "Innovindil?" he asked, and his voice sounded uncertain. He drew in his breath.

  "Ellifain, Drizzt Do'Urden," Innovindil heard her voice reply. "Who you knew as Le'lorinel."

  Drizzt labored to catch his breath.

  Ellifain pulled his head low and kissed him on the forehead, holding him there for a long, long while.

  Then she pulled him back to arms length. Innovindil felt the warm wetness of tears rolling down her cheeks.

  "I know now," Ellifain whispered.

  Drizzt reached up and clasped her wrists. He moved his lips as if to respond, but no words came forth.

  "I know now," Ellifain said again. She nodded and rose, then walked out of the hut.

  Innovindil felt it all so keenly. Her friend was at last at peace.

  The smile that was stamped upon Drizzt's face was as genuine as any he had ever worn. The tears on his cheeks were wrought of joy and contentment.

  He knew that a troubled road lay ahead for him and for his friends. The ores remained, and he had to deal with a dark elf wielding the ever-deadly Khazid'hea.

  But those obstacles seemed far less imposing to Drizzt Do'Urden that morning, and when Innovindil-the whole and unpossessed Innovindil-came to him and wrapped him in a hug, he felt as if nothing in all the world was amiss.

  For Drizzt Do'Urden trusted his friends, and with the forgiveness and serenity of Ellifain, Drizzt Do'Urden again trusted himself.

  TEARS SO WHITE

  Ed Greenwood

  Alturiak, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

  Firelight played a gentle dance across the old, faded map of Faerun painted on Storm Silverhand's kitchen ceiling. Rathan Thentraver lowered his gaze from idle study of familiar coastlines and forests to growl happily, "Ahhh, that was wonderful! The sauce…"

  The burp that erupted through Rathan's rhapsodizing just then was as violently sudden as it was unintended. Wherefore it left him momentarily speechless.

  His best friend Torm sat at his elbow-and Torm, by far the most sly of the Knights of Myth Drannor, was a man who'd never needed more than half a moment to launch anything in all his life.

  "Certainly had a certain something to it, Storm," he grinned, finishing the sputtering priest's sentence. "Care to share just this one cauldron-secret?"

  Their hostess gave him a smile over her shoulder, not turning from the sink. "Boiled serpents' eyes-two heaping handfuls, and they must be fresh. Vipers only, mind."

  All around the gleaming table, full-bellied Knights, lounging contentedly over mugs of hot greenleaf tea, chuckled good-naturedly. All except Dove and Merith, who arched eloquent eyebrows at eac
h other, knowing the Bard of Shadowdale told the plain truth.

  Torm was also a man who missed little. He saw their traded glances, and his grin faded a little. "You're not jesting, are you?"

  Storm turned around, long silver tresses playing about her shoulders like so many restless snakes, and said, "No."

  Florin winced, Rathan gaped in open-mouthed astonishment, and Jhessail sighed and regarded the ceiling.

  Rathan's next belch, arriving in the moment of silence that followed, was rather less contented.

  "And fair even to ye, Master Thentraver," an old and gruff voice made reply to it, adding a hearty belch- almost before its owner faded into visibility. The Knights around the table blinked, but no one swore or snatched for weapons. The speaker was all too familiar.

  The wizard Elminster, as beak-nosed and bright-eyed as ever, stood just inside the west door of Storm's kitchen-a stout old oval of crossbraces, eye-windows, and entwined berry-vines that had been closed all evening against the icy Alturiak chill, and even then remained quiet and closed behind him.

  The Old Mage of Shadowdale wore his preferred garb: robes, breeches, and boots of worn, soft leather, as weather-torn as those of any vagabond. He was clad like a lack-coin wayfarer-but dominated the room like a king.

  The six Knights who'd feasted under Silverhand's roof all stared at him. Not one of them-Florin, Dove, Jhes-sail, Merith, Torm, nor Rathan-had ever seen the Old Mage look quite so grim before. Moreover, one of his eyes glimmered as if it held liquid fire, or a twinkling star restless to spill forth. Grim, indeed.

  So were his next words: "I need ye. Now. With whate'er weapons ye've ready. Spells matter not."

  Torm sighed and set down his empty tallglass. "Care to tell us what particular corner of Faerun we're rushing off to save this time, Oldbeard, or are you playing Mage Most Mysterious, as usual?"