第 19 页

Also troubling to Liriel was that the man's tale was in many ways similar to those she had read in her book of ancient human lore. Did all humans tell such stories? Was storytelling a natural gift of humankind, or perhaps an art form they nurtured and developed? It seemed incredible to her that this short-lived race, which she had always believed to be vastly inferior to the drow, could have such an intriguing custom.

There was another possibility, with even more potential, and it again had to do with the similarities between the man's story and the stories in her book. He had called himself Fyodor of Rashemen. Where that might be, Liriel had no idea. But perhaps the far-traveling Rus had spread their culture and their magic to the land of the blue-eyed human. Perhaps the Rashemi custom ofdajemma, the tradition that sent young men out on a journey of exploration, was a gift from Fyodor's restless ancestors.

Perhaps. The problem was, Liriel would never know for sure. Rashemen might encourage its young people to travel and explore freely, but the drow of Menzoberranzan had other opinions on the matter.

With a sigh, Liriel pushed away the scroll she'd been pretending to read. Not bothering to remove her robe, she flung herself onto her bed for a short nap. She'd need the rest in order to face the day ahead. It would be a difficult day, for she was not well prepared for her classes. Even the pleasant prospect of learning the details of Shakti's misfired plot did not cheer her.

The new day drew near, and the sounds of early risers drifted into her room, but sleep did not come to the young drow. The reality of her situation pressed in on her, with all its disagreeable requirements. The trip to the surface had been thrilling and disturbing, but it had been an enormous risk. And for what? She was stuck in Arach-Tinilith for a good many years to come. Since the moment the webbed fence of the Academy had closed behind her, Liriel had tried to deny her fate and in doing so had taken far too many chances. If she were to survive in this grim, vicious place, she would have to give up her pranks and rein in her dark sense of humor. That would be struggle enough, but she knew in her heart she also had to resign herself to abandoning her dream of adventure in far places.

After tonight, that was.

As the dark elf nestled into her silken pillows, she knew one more wakeful night awaited her. After tonight, she would devote herself to her clerical studies. She would make peace with Mistress Zeld and apply herself to duty with a devotion that would shame even the pious, single-minded SosTJmptu. She would become a high priestess in record time, and a credit to House Baenre. After tonight.

Please, Llotk, Liriel prayed silently as she drifted toward slumber. Please grant me just one more night

For the first time in days, hope spurred Fyodor"s steps. After a few hours' search, he found the tunnel the drow girl had mentioned. There was a small, rock-strewn cavern with a trickle of water at the bottom, and beyond, a path curved steeply upward to disappear into a hole in the rocky wall. If anything fit the name Drygully Tunnel, it was this.

He slid down into the gorge and splashed through the shallow stream. As he suspected, the hole was the opening into a tunnel. The way was steep, and the narrow tunnel curled upward in a tight spiral, but the young man fairly sprinted up the path toward the light of the sun.

He would return to the Underdark, for he had pledged to seek the amulet and he would do so for as long as he lived. Even so, the thought of a brief respite lifted his spirits immeasurably. He had not realized until now, when escape was close at hand, just how oppressive was the Underdark. It stole hope; it shut down the soul.

Yet Fyodor remembered the exuberance of the drow girl's laughter, the avid curiosity in her golden eyes. This was someone who lived with intensity and abandon, not some soulless survivor. Yet he could not help but wonder what manner of being could thrive in such a dark and evil place. Fyodor had known hardship and danger all his life, and surviving the last few days had tested his strength and his courage. He could not begin to fathom what the Underdark would do to those who lived out all their days in its depths. The elven girl was beautiful beyond telling, as brave and capable in battle as any maid of Rashemen, but she was clearly, unmistakably drow. What that meant, Fyodor simply did not know.

Again the young fighter reminded himself he must keep alert to his surroundings, that this grim and dangerous land was no place for those who dreamed. But as he scrambled up the steep path, the dark lass was with him at every step.

Time in Arach-Tinilith traveled at its own pace. Liriel was certain at least two or three days dragged fay during the morning indoctrination session. She silently blessed the countless vigorous, night-long parties she'd attended over the years. Without such training, she would never have developed the stamina needed to stay awake now. Even so, the girl could feel her eyes glazing over as the mistress ranted on and on. Liriel hoped the mistress would mistake her dazed expression for rapt attention.

Even the lesson on the lower planes was disappointing. The mistress conjured a viewing portal to Tarterus, which, in Uriel's opinion, was not even an interesting place to visit. It was a place of gray mists and aimless despair. The winding paths didn't seem to go anywhere, and the winged, dog-faced horrors who inhabited the place were fairly banal incarnations of evil. They flew, they shrieked, they tore to shreds any hapless being who ventured into their dark realms. It was all numbingly predictable.

Nor did the session provide any entertaining personal drama. Shakti was there, sullen and withdrawn, yet still clearly in the favor of the attending mistress. It would seem her failure had been a private one, Liriel concluded. Apparently Shakti had resisted the urge to run to the authorities with news of the Baenre female's supposed defection. This annoyed Liriel—she had hoped to cause Shakti embarrassment of some sort—but she was also impressed with her enemy's patience and resolve. The Hunzrin priestess was a dogged sort, obviously prepared to stalk her prey for however long it took her to uncover something sufficiently damning. Shakti was shaping up to be a credible foe. As patient as a spider, the Hunzrin priestess would be there watching, always watching, waiting for her enemy to misstep. This knowledge did nothing to brighten Liriel's mood.

The afternoon did not promise to be much of an improvement, for once again Liriel had to face the consequences of her unconventional childhood. Weapons training was required of all drow, regardless of class or gender. Liriel was deadly with anything that could be thrown, and she'd always found such expertise to be sufficient to her needs. Unfortunately bolos, slings, and throwing spiders were not in the classic repertoire of a noble female. When draw entered the Academy, they were expected to have proficiency with both the sword and the drow signature weapon: a tiny crossbow used to shoot poisoned darts. The bow was no problem—Liriel could hit whatever she aimed at—but she'd never had much interest in the art of swordcraft. As she was to learn this day, interest was optional; proficiency was mandatory.

Her swordmaster was one of the older students at Melee-Magthere. A stocky, rather unattractive male from some lesser family, he seemed alternately annoyed at having to tutor a first-year priestess and delighted to have the chance to lord it over a Baenre female.

'Tour wrist is shaking," he scolded her. "Just two hours of practice, and you're tiring already!"

Liriel dropped her arm so the tip of the heavy sword rested on the floor of the practice hall. "I'm not accustomed to holding a sword," she said defensively.

"That's apparent," the male sneered. "I've seen mere children who could fight better. What have you been doing all these years?"

She pushed back a damp lock of hair and gave him a hard-edged smile. "Ask around. What did you say your name wasr

"Dargathan Srune'lett."

"House Srune'lett," Liriel mused, looking the stocky fighter up and down. "Yes, now that you mention it, I can see the family resemblance."

The male scowled, and his face heated to a livid red. The priestesses of Srune'lett were often referred to as the "fat sisters"—not in their hearing, of course—and many members of the clan, both male and female, lacked the lithe, slender form that was the drow ideal. Dargathan, it would seem, was more than a little sensitive about this fact. He raised his sword in a slow, menacing arc.

"Guard position," he snarled.

Liriel faced him squarely and lifted her too-heavy weapon. Before her tired muscles could react, the male lunged in. His sword slashed open her tunic in a diagonal rip that ran from shoulder to waist. She looked down, incredulous, at the silver line of chain mail that showed through.

The girl raised murderous eyes to her opponent and held his taunting gaze for a long moment. Then she leaped at him, her sword diving in toward his heart. The male easily batted aside her thrust and danced back with a speed that belied his ungainly physique.

"Guard position," Dargathan repeated, smugly this time. "Work on your stance. You're still exposing too much of your body to your enemy. Remember, left foot back, left shoulder back. Keep the target small."

Liriel gritted her teeth and did as she was told. Again and again the male drilled her on stance, walked her through the basic thrusts and parries of single-sword combat. Dargathan might lack the tightly muscled form and lightning-fast brilliance that marked the best drew fighters, but as the hours passed Liriel had to admit he was a credible teacher. The male challenged her every move, demonstrating step by step the skills a fighter would gain through years of laborious study and practice. By the standards of most races, Liriel was a competent fighter. Far more was expected of a drow. As the session went on and on, she slowly redefined her concept of swordcraft and came to realize how little she truly knew of the art. She also ached in every muscle, bone, and sinew.

"That will do for now," Dargathan said finally. "There are two main tenets of swordcraft: know the basics, and prepare for the unexpected. We've made a start on the first. With hard work and excellent instruction, there might yet be some hope for you."

With that smug pronouncement, the male sheathed his sword and strode from the practice hall. Liriel waited until he reached the door, and then called his name.

Dargathan turned back to see his pupil holding her sword like a ready javelin, high and back over her shoulder. Her eyes gleamed with dangerous light as she hurled the weapon straight at him. The sword flew hard and true, and the blade wedged deep into the crack between the doorpost and wall. It quivered there, just inches from his wide-eyed face.

"Thank you for the lesson, most excellent of instructors," Liriel said sweetly, hands on hips and stance tauntingly feminine. "But perhaps next time we should work on preparing for the unexpected?"

To further underscore her point, she snatched her bolo from a hidden pocket and began to twirl it overhead. The male turned and fled the room, his superior airs completely abandoned.

It was possible, Liriel noted as she tucked her preferred weapon back out of sight, to have a little fun now and again even in Arach-Tinilith.

As soon as the evening chapel was over, Liriel hurried to her room. Nothing, not even the burning stiffness brought on by her grueling practice session, could deter her from making her final journey to the surface. For her last secret jaunt out, no other destination would suffice.

Liriel quickly dressed and armed herself. She noticed as she did that her piwafwi had lost a bit of its luster, that her tread in the enchanted elven boots was a little less silent. It amazed her that an hour's visit to the surface could so diminish her drow magic. How, she wondered, did the priestesses of Eilistraee survive? How much of their magic, their heritage, did they abandon ao they could dance in the moonlight? Were they drow still, or merely dark-skinned faerie? These were but a few of the questions she wanted to ask of the Dark Maiden's priestesses.

The young wizard quickly studied the spells she would need, then summoned the portal that would take her into Kharza-kzad's study. She hoped her tutor was already asleep so she might be spared his endless questions. But to her surprise, low, angry male voices came from the wizard's private rooms. Her natural curiosity urged her to investigate; Kharza was such a reclusive sort that the presence of another dark elf in his retreat must signal something truly momentous.

But the moonlight beckoned her with a call too powerful to be ignored, and once again she made her way through the whirling tunnel that led to the forest glade.

Again she found herself on her knees clutching the ground. Again came the startling impact of the vivid green that surrounded her on every side. And again she heard the dark elven music, the eerie, twisting melodies that were so familiar. Of course, in the Underdark, such music would not be played on a harp. The drow considered that instrument to be both insipid and disturbing. But here, in the moonlight, the delicate silvery tones of the harp sounded somehow right and fitting.

Liriel quickly made her way toward the music. The sound was easier to follow this time, for she anticipated the odd, linear path music took through the open air, and she followed it straight back toward the Dark Maiden's glade. So different, this world. Liriel was accustomed to tracing sounds that were sifted through layers of magic, that echoed and reverberated through a labyrinth of rock. Here, the source of any single sound might be simpler to discern, but the demands on her ears were so much greater.

The dark passages of the Underdark, the teeming cavern that held Menzoberranzan: though far from silent, these places were cloaked in an ominous hush. Here all was cheerful cacophony. Tiny, harmless insects chirped all around her, and plump little waterlizards sang their songs. The trees sang too, with a whispery rustle of wind-tossed leaves. The sounds of this starlit land were like its colors—too vivid, too varied. This world taxed the senses in ways even exuberant Liriel had not imagined possible. Here her every nerve felt raw and exposed. She had never felt so small, so overwhelmed.

She had never felt so alive.

Liriel ran through the maze of green and brown toward the firelit glade. There she found the priestesses of Eilistraee, all clad in silvery gowns and sipping from mugs of some steaming, fragrant brew. Ysolde Veladora looked up at LirieFs approach and beckoned her closer.