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"Then here, with me, is definitely the place to be," she said grimly. "Why do you think Nisstyre showed up, why he sent the drow hunters back to these caverns?"

So, she was hunted. Why, Fyodor did not understand, but the cold anger the drow wizard had ignited in his heart burned a little brighter. "I will travel with you, then," he said. "When this Nisstyre dies, we may both be free."

Her eyes flashed. "Then it's a conspiracy!"

"In my land," he said, his lip curved in a faint smile, "we call it an alliance."

Liriel nodded agreement. "That works for me."

The fire was fading, so Fyodor picked up a handful of dry twigs to add to it. A tiny brown spider crawled out of the bundle onto his hand. Absently he flicked it off. The blow crumpled the delicate arachnid and sent its body tumbling into the gathering flames.

Liriel froze, her golden eyes wide with horror. Then, shrieking in wordless rage, she leaped at Fyodor. Her hands curved into talons and slashed toward his face.

Fyodor grabbed her wrists and held off her flailing hands, but the force of her attack sent them tumbling. The Rashemi was larger and stronger; even so, he had to battle the furious, thrashing elf for several minutes before pinning her securely under his body. Tiny though she was, it took all his weight to hold her down.

Contained but not subdued, Liriel fixed a blazing, defiant stare upon her captor. Fyodor returned her gaze with equal intensity. Always he was alert for an attack from this unpredictable drow, but as he studied her face he read not treachery, but wrath.

"What?" he demanded.

"You killed a spider! The punishment for your crime is death," she spat at him.

Fyodor"s face fell slack with astonishment. "You cannot be serious," he sputtered.

"Spiders are sacred to the drow goddess, you ignorant peasant!"

The man considered this with sober interest. He'd been through much of late, and his nerves had tightened nearly to breaking. In his current state of mind, the draw's claim struck him as utterly, delightfully absurd. "Am I to understand," he said slowly, "that you worship bugs?"

Maintaining her dignity under the circumstances was no easy matter, but Liriel was equal to the task. Her small chin lifted imperiously. "Yes, of course. In a manner of speaking."

Fyodor stared at the drow for a moment, then dropped his head to rest in the tangled waves of her hair. His body began to shake. Laughter started in his belly and erupted into a full-throated roar, and he rolled helplessly onto his side, holding his ribs and rocking back and forth.

The moment she was free of his weight, the drow leaped to her feet, a throwing spider ready in her hand. The sight of this weapon sent the man into fresh gales of mirth.

Liriel glared at Fyodor, too baffled by his strange behavior to respond properly to his blasphemy. So she merely stood and waited for the human's incomprehensible laughter to subside.

At length he came to himself, wiping tears from his eyes. "I can return to Rashemen without delay," he said, and his blue eyes twinkled despite the sober set of his face. "For now I have surely heard everything."

Chapter 21

THE WINDWALKER

Nisstyre strode along in the strong morning light, his face protected and hidden by the folds of his hood. Despite the efforts of his drow priest, Nisstyre was not yet strong enough to cast the powerful spells needed for magical travel. He and his fighters were reduced to hiking back to the caverns. It was risky for drow to be about during the day, and all of Nisstyre's dark-elven comrades—particularly Gorlist—grew increasingly restive as the day passed.

When finally they reached the first of the cave-filled hills, the late-afternoon sun cast long shadows across the rocky landscape. The wizard, whose eyes were most accustomed to cruel daylight, was the first to see the four still figures lying in the distance. Nisstyre cursed softly and fervently when he recognized the drow he'd sent in search of Lüriel Baenre.

He hurried over. To his relief, all were still breathing. Even better, the small shaft of a dart protruded from one hunter's shoulder.

Nisstyre stooped, tugged it free, and sniffed at the arrowhead. The distinctive scent of drow sleeping poison—a potion based upon Underdark magic—still clung to the tiny weapon.

"She actually did it!" muttered the wizard.

So pleased was Nisstyre by this discovery that he kicked the hunters awake with less force than he might otherwise have employed. The poison that felled them lasted only a few hours, so it was likely Liriel had not gone far. That is, she could not have gone far on foot Nisstyre prayed Liriel had not traveled from this place by magical means. There were ways to track wizards who trod magic's silver paths, but such were beyond even his skills.

A shout of triumph interrupted his troubled thoughts. Gorlist called him over and pointed to the small, faint mark of an elven boot.

Nisstyre came, but his hands flashed in furious, silent communication as he reminded the young fighter of the importance of stealth. Gorlist nodded in agreement, but he waited through the chastisement with all the patience of a drawn arrow.

Quick to recognize effort wasted, Nisstyre waved the eager drow on to the hunt. He made very certain, however, that he stayed close to Gorlist. Now that he knew the full measure of Liriel's worth, Nisstyre could not risk losing her to the young fighter's thirst for vengeance.

It was odd, Nisstyre mused, that Gorlist had fixated hie wrath upon Liriel, rather than on the human fighter who had so grievously wounded him. As he walked, Nisstyre's thoughts lingered long upon that strange human, and on the amulet the human had once wielded and that Liriel now possessed.

He also speculated on the possible connection between two such disparate beings. Obviously they had met, for who else would merit the elaborate ruse Liriel had staged to discourage pursuit into the Underdark? She knew of the human and feared him; that much was clear. But how had they met, and what might transpire if they met again? It was impossible a proud Baenre female might join forces with a human male, and that was well. The wizard did not like the prospect of Liriel's dark-elven magic acting in concert with the huiyan's incredible battle rage. Vhaeraun's followers were too few to risk in battle against such odds!

Throughout the day Liriel and Fyodor took turns keeping watch, taking what little rest they could. The drow trusted her magic circle to keep out prying eyes, but such offered little protection against physical attack. Both of the travelers stayed wary, not only of the dangers that -surrounded them, but of each other.

Since they could not sleep, they talked. Fyodor related one tale after another. Some were heroic in nature, others frankly comic, but all had layers of meaning that intrigued the drow. Equally fascinating to her was a recurring theme: the comparison Fyodor constantly made between "those who think, and those who dream." Drow—except for those declining few who took their rest in the form of elven reverie—did not dream in either their sleeping or waking hours. They thought and plotted and schemed, and then they slept. Liriel herself did not enter reverie, but she wondered if her determination to follow a rune quest qualified as a dream of sorts. If this were so, then perhaps she was also a dreamer at heart. It was a concept utterly foreign to a Menzoberranzan drow, yet it seemed to fit her, and it filled a void she had never before defined.

So did the laughter they shared many times throughout that day. In turn serious and playful, Fyodor viewed the world with wry, dark humor not so very different from her own. His deep bass chuckle joined hers frequently. This was not the drow way, for dark-elven humor was usually a contest, a pleasure taken at the expense of another. She even enjoyed Fyodor's teasing, which was utterly devoid of the malicious intent common to her kin.

Fyodor told her about his land, and the lands he had passed through, and the battles he had seen. Although she recognized in his words a love of travel and adventure to equal her own, Liriel was surprised to note he had little apparent interest in the art of fighting for its own sake.

"If you do not care for swordcraft, how is it you fight so well?" she demanded.

The young man shrugged. "Rashemen is a small land, surrounded by powerful enemies. Every Rashemi learns to fight at an early age."

"So do drow. There is more to you than that," Liriel stated calmly. "I have seen a few humans in Menzoberranzan. Some fight better than others, but all die easily enough. You cling to life with more fortitude than seems natural."

Fyodor sat silently for a long moment, regarding her with a calm, measuring gaze. For a moment Liriel recalled the mind-reading spells of Lloth's clergy, and she wondered whether this human was weighing her in some invisible measure of his own. It seemed unlikely a mere human male, a rough-clad commoner at that, could command such magic, but Liriel was no longer so quick to draw conclusions. When the young fighter nodded and began to speak of matters closely held, she had the strangest feeling she'd passed some sort of test.

The drow listened closely as Fyodor told her of Rashemen's berserker warriors, and the strange malady that severed him from the brotherhood that defended his land. He had been sent away; no longer able to control his battle rages, he had become a danger to those around him.

"That's utter nonsense!" Liriel interrupted heatedly. "After seeing you in battle, I can't think of another fighter I'd rather have at my back!"

The young man sent her a faint, fleeting smile. "You do me honor, little raven. But consider the dangers. I must fight until all who stand against me are gone. This is not always the best course, for me or those who fight with me. But what I fear most," he said softly, "is what I may become before the fighting stops. You saw what I did to the bear-creature. I swear by my soul, I would never have done such a thing had I been able to choose my own course. And if I cannot order my own actions now, how soon before I cannot tell friend from foe?"

Liriel nodded. "I see your problem."

"Then you will also understand the purpose of my dajem-ma. The Witches who rule my land sent me to find an ancient amulet that can store this dangerous power, so I can once again call it forth at will."

Oh, she understood, all right. Liriel's heart suddenly felt leaden beneath the weight of the stolen Windwalker. "You don't say. An amulet that stores magic," she echoed dully.

"That is so. How its magic works, I do not know."

Perhaps not, but she did. It gave Liriel little pleasure to know she understood more about the Windwalker's magic than did Fyodor, perhaps more even than Rashemen's Witches. The amulet was hers now, purchased at staggering cost, and so it must remain. And yet…

"What happens if you never regain the amulet?" she demanded.

He shrugged and poked at their campfire. "It means my life, and whatever aid my sword might have given my troubled land."

Liriel rose abruptly. She walked toward the mouth of the cave, motioning Fyodor back when he would have followed her. After all that had passed between them, she needed a few moments' solitude to put things in order.

The day was nearly spent, but just beyond the cave all was brilliant, golden light. The drow gazed out as long as she could bear it, trying to wean her eyes to the light of surface world. It would be many days before she could walk out beneath the sun in comfort. The question that troubled her now was whether or not she would walk alone.

She could not abandon her own quest, for doing so could well mean her life. Knowing what she did of her people's power-mad greed, Liriel doubted she could ever return to the Underdark, with or without the coveted amulet. Nor could she long survive on the surface without her drow magic. She was a wizard, not a warrior, and although her skills at arms were considerable they were not sufficient to sustain her in this hostile world. No, she could not give up the Windwalker.

Indeed, why should she? Fyodor of Rashemen was a human, a male, and a commoner, and thus by any measure Liriel had ever known, he was unworthy of her notice. Why, then, this unwonted concern for his success? It was a question that puzzled and angered the young drow.

But most of all, what frustrated Liriel was this: that one person could not increase unless another were diminished. It had ever been so, and until now she had never questioned this simple fact of life. Now she railed against harsh reality and searched the winding pathways of her dark-elven mind for another way.

And yet, when at last Liriel returned to the soothing darkness of her shared camp, she did so with the Wind-walker amulet hidden at the very bottom of her travel bag.

At twilight Liriel and Fyodor stole from the cave and retraced their path toward the ruined cavern. As they neared the battlefield, a cloud of interrupted ravens rose from their feasting with loud squawks of displeasure.

Fyodor's face settled in grim lines as he surveyed the day-old carnage. Liriel suspected the Rashemi did not relish this reminder of his latest battle frenzy, but she strode quickly over the rock-strewn ground toward the bodies of their fallen foe. There were answers there that she must have.

She ignored the battered quaggoth remains and knelt beside what was left of the dark naga. The creature's blue scales were dull and dusty, but formidable armor still. Using her stoutest knife, Liriel chipped and pried and tugged until she managed to peel off a section of the scales. She sliced into the naga's body and pulled from it a large sack that looked more like a traveler's pack than anything normally found in a once-living creature.

Fyodor drew near, intrigued, as Liriel stretched wide the sack's one opening and began to shake out its contents. He'd dreaded returning to this place, but he understood the drow's need to find out who was pursuing her. Indeed, he himself wished to know more about the drow wizard called Nisstyre, and what it was he wanted with Liriel. So Fyodor watched intently as she shook out a number of odd items: a long, broad dagger; a small arsenal of knives; several vials of potions and poisons; a tightly scrolled map; a bag full of platinum coins; another stuffed with gems; several spell scrolls; and a small book. Ignoring the other treasures, Liriel reached for the book and paged through it. Her shoulders sagged.