第 38 页

"What is it?" Fyodor asked softly.

"This is a spellbook, a duplicate of one I carry. It is the work of archmage Gromph Baenre. My father."

The drow'e voice was cool and even, but Fyodor did not miss the faint note of despair in it. "Perhaps it was stolen from him," he offered.

Liriel shook her head. "Gromph is probably the most powerful wizard in a mighty drow city. A naga's magic is a pale thing in comparison. No, this creature could only have gotten the spellbook with Gromph's knowledge and contrivance."

"He is your father; he wants you back," Fyodor reasoned.

"He wants me dead! What did you think the dark naga and the two quaggoths were—a diplomatic envoy?"

Fyodor could think of no words of comfort for such a betrayal, so he stood silent while the practical drow gathered up the naga's treasures. Liriel slid the dagger into her weapon belt to replace the sword she'd lost in the cavern. The knives she tucked into numerous pockets and straps cleverly hidden about her person. She did not seem to care that Fyodor saw how and where she was armed.

The young man read in this act not only mental agitation, but a measure of trust. It astounded him that this girl, who had just taken a devastating betrayal with stoic calm, would put her confidence in him. Fyodor had come to value the dark elf'sintense, zestful approach to life, but only now did he glimpse the true measure of her resilient spirit. What her life among the drow had been, he could not imagine. What she might become, he suspected, could shape the tales his children's children might one day tell.

Liriel packed away everything, leaving the spellbook until last. She picked it up, hesitated, then handed it to Fyodor. This is too valuable to leave, but I cannot bear to carry it."

There was no note of weakness in her voice; it was calm, matter-of-fact. The Rashemi approved and admired her for it. He took the book and placed it at the bottom of his travel bag. That done, he extended his hand to the drow.

Liriel hesitated, then her slender fingers closed on his and she let him raise her to her feet. Nor did she immediately pull her hand away. Side by side, the companions walked into the gathering darkness.

An hour passed, and then another before Fyodor broke the silence that lay heavy between them. "Where were you bound before Nisstyre set upon your trail?"

Ruathym, thought Liriel, but she was not yet ready to divulge her ultimate destination. She named Waterdeep, and he nodded thoughtfully.

"It is a long trip. We must travel by day if we are to keep ahead of those who hunt you. We'll need supplies and horses. There is a village nearby, Trollbridge, where I can purchase both."

The drow girl stared at him in confusion. "But what of your own quest? I thought you wanted to confront Nisstyre's thieves!"

"And so I will. First I would see you safely to your destination, while it is still in me to do so. Are there people in Waterdeep you can trust?"

"I think so, but what about your—"

Fyodor touched a silencing finger to her lips. "Don't concern yourself for me; my interests will be served. Where you go, Nisstyre will follow. Is that not so?"

"Yes, but—"

"Enough!" He threw up his hands in mock exasperation. "Did we not agree to work together?"

Liriel merely nodded. It sounded so easy, when Fyodor spoke of it. Her mind whirled with the possibilities such an arrangement suggested. If two persons could truly combine their skills and strengths, how much more could they accomplish than one alone! Perhaps there was a way - -.

Yet as they hurried toward the village, memories of her life in Menzoberranzan kept coming back to her. Despite her flippant disregard for clerical life, the Way of Lloth had been imprinted deeply in her mind and heart. She had seen the sacrifices Lloth required, the brutally imposed isolation demanded of those who served the Lady of Chaos. The power of the drow matriarchy came at a price, and only Lloth's priestesses understood the full extent of the goddess's cruelty.

Liriel could not help but wonder what price might be demanded of her for thinking to join her path with that of a human male. Worse, for thinking her dream could grow to make room for another. And, most heretical, for daring to dream at all.

No, what Fyodor suggested was not so easy, after all.

Chapter 22

THE SPIDER'S KISS

The drow and the Rashemi walked throughout the night, and by first light they could see the outlying fields that heralded the existence of a farming village. They paused on a hillside overlooking a green, sweet-smelling place Fyodor called a meadow. Beyond the meadow, over the swell and fall of several smaller hillocks, Liriel saw a sparkle of white and blue that could only be the Dessarin River. The drow's sharp eyes scanned the landscape and marked a place that would suit her purpose: a small, sheltered clearing on a tree-covered hill overlooking the river.

"You must stay here," Fyodor cautioned her. "The people of Trollbridge have suffered much at the hands of drow raiders and would not take kindly to your presence."

Liriel accepted his words without quarrel. "Just as well. I'm too tired to walk another step." She punctuated her claim with a wide yawn, and at Fyodor"s urging she wriggled through the vines that all but choked a low-hanging yew tree. The sheltering shade would protect her from the sun, and her piwafwi would lend her invisibility. There she could rest in relative safety.

When Fyodor was satisfied that all was well, he hurried down the hillside toward Trollbridge. The time of moondark had passed, and he hoped the villagers' fear of dark-elven raiders had passed with it. Yet he could not help but feel uneasy going there with drow hunters so close upon his heels. The beleaguered townsfolk had troubles enough; Fyodor did not wish to bring his own upon them.

He heard the sounds of the village before the walls of the palisade came into sight: the squeak of wagon wheels, the blended hum of a crowd of voices, an occasional note from the pipes and strings of itinerant musicians. Fyodor quickened his step. The merchants had come at long last, and with them the spring fair.

At first, Liriel had only the best of intentions. True, she had chosen a place of escape on a distant hillside, and she prepared a gate that could carry one or two persons there, but that was a reasonable precaution, no more. She fully intended to remain in her hiding place, to catch up on her sleep. When her natural curiosity asserted itself, she repeated Fyodor's warning about the humans' fear of drow, and she thrust aside her desire to see a human marketplace with her own eyes. And she stuck to her resolve for a good half hour.

Liriel took off her piwafwi and flipped it over. The mar-velous, glittering cloak had a nondescript dark lining and was perfect garb for blending into a crowd. She put on the inside-out garment and pulled up the deep-cowled hood to shield her face from the sun. Next she rummaged in her travel bag for a pair of gloves to cover her dark skin and to soften the distinctive elven shape of her hands. Finally, the young wizard cast a minor cantrip that lent her face the look of a human. She took a tiny mirror of polished bronze from her bag and regarded her new appearance. She grimaced, then burst out laughing.

At the sound, a flock of small brown birds nesting among the vines took startled flight. Liriel watched them go, then left her hiding place and made her way down the hill toward the place Fyodor had called Trollbridge.

Trollbridge was hardly the grim, besieged fortress of Fyodor's last visit. The merchant caravan brought not only goods and an opportunity for trade, but also news of the lands beyond and a lighter spirit that—although it might not approach the gusto of a Rashemi festival—was nonetheless gratifying to the weary young warrior.

Fyodor noted that this caravan brought the usual hangers-on: armed travel guards looking for a place to drink and a bit of company; artisans plying such diverse crafts as tin-smithing and fortune-telling; traveling bards of all sorts, from gossip-mongers to jugglers to musicians. The villagers were out in force, too, garbed in their finest and displaying their winter crops and crafts to best advantage.

Fyodor went about his business as quickly as possible. He did not use the platinum coins Liriel had taken from the naga—such would attract too much notice in a village market. His own silver was more appropriate to the purchases he needed to make. First he bought two horses; a piebald mare and a chestnut gelding, fast and sturdy beasts both. He gave the stableboy a handful of coppers and bade him to take the horses beyond the village walls and stake them at the far-eastern edge of the meadows. The boy was too delighted with his unexpected riches to question such a request; indeed, Fyodor himself was not certain why he made it. He felt ill at ease, despite the spirit of lighthearted gaiety that ruled the day. Quickly he bought a few other things: some ready-made clothes to replace his much-mended garments, a lady's cloak with a draping hood to protect Liriel from the sun, dried travel rations, twine for setting snares, a piece of tanned deerskin for patching boots and clothing, and a few sundries such as would be needed on a long trip. Fyodor's needs were few and his habits frugal, yet he could not resist a final purchase. It was a pendant, the last remaining piece in the collection of a dwarven jewel-smith. Fyodor saw at once why the gem had not sold, but its very flaw made it perfect for Liriel. He parted with the asking price cheerfully.

Although eager to return to the draw's hiding place, Fyodor had walked since dawn without stopping for food or rest; an equally long road lay before him. So he made his way to the village tavern for a mug and a quick bite. Saida, the innkeeper, recognized him and shouted to one of the serving girls to find him a seat on the level above. He squeezed his way through the crowded taproom and up the stairs. One of the bedchambers had been crammed with tables, and Fyodor found an empty seat near the window. Below him was the kitchen wing, and beyond that the market. He watched the cheerful scene idly as he ate his bread and cheese.

Suddenly he froze, his hand halfway to his mouth. He pushed aside his meal and leaned closer to the window.

There, near the center of the village common, was a small, slender figure swathed in a dark cape. Definitely female in outline, the figure could have been old or young, dark or fair. Her sheltering garb did not single her out, for many of the revelers were similarly clad—the winds blew straight off the river that day, and the air was crisp and chill. But she drew puzzled stares, all the same. Her step was too light, her movements too fluid and graceful.

At that moment the female paused at a stall and reached out a gloved hand to examine the wares offered. A passing sell-sword came up beside her and seized her extended wrist. He leaned in close and spoke words that Fyodor could not hear, then beckoned with an insinuating toss of his head toward the tavern.

Up came the female's cowled head in an imperious gesture Fyodor knew all too well. He leaped to his feet, jostling a mug-laden serving girl. She responded with a squeal of protest that rose into a full-throated scream when Fyodor pushed past her and kicked out the many-paned window.

Below him was the roof of the single-story kitchen; it was steeply pitched and ended not so very far off the ground. He barreled through the broken window and slid, feetfirst, down the rough-tiled roof.

On his way down, Fyodor saw the amorous sellsword scowl and jerk the female toward him. Her dark cowl fell back. Waves of lustrous white hair sprang into full view, framing a face that was blacker than moondark.

At that moment Fyodor hit the ground, taking two stout merchants down with him. He rolled free of the tangle and leaped to his feet, drawing his dark sword as he rose. Ignoring the shouting, fist-snaking merchants, he began frantically shouldering his way through the crowd to the place where Liriel stood revealed.

His progress was slow, for word was spreading through the crowd and with it a panic all out of proportion to the small, dark figure in their midst. Many people turned and ran, trampling the slower and weaker as they fled from the much-feared drow. For several minutes, the crush and press of the panicked villagers held Fyodor immobile.

Then came another, uglier turn of mood. The area around the dark-elven girl soon emptied, and the villagers saw she was one alone. A lifetime of hatred, generations of remem- fbered wrongs, flowed toward the drow female. Like hounds baying at a treed snowcat, they began to close in. Knives flashed in the late-day sun.

Fyodor heaved a pair of gaping minstrels out of his path and surged forward just as Liriel stripped off her gloves and began the gestures of a spell. Some of her attackers also rec- fognized the beginnings of magic and fell back, and for a moment a path lay clear between Fyodor and the drow. Her eyes met his, took note of his drawn sword, and flickered with indecision. Then she slashed the air with one slender black hand, dispelling the magic she had gathered. She closed her eyes and pressed both hands to her temples, as if to shut out the ravening crowd.

A sphere of impenetrable darkness surrounded her at once, a twenty-foot globe that enshrouded much of the courtyard. The crowd recoiled from the uncanny sight, some screaming, many making signs of warding against the drow evil.

"One man's nightmare is another man's opportunity! I ;say let's get her!" shouted a familiar voice. A dark-bearded );man pushed his way to the inner edge of the crowd, leveled an arrow at the globe, and let fly at the place where Liriel had stood. Fyodor recognized the bounty hunter and started for him at a run.

From the far side of the globe came a man's grunt of pain, and a woman's scream. "She's killed him! The drow has shot my Tyron!"

Fyodor grabbed the bounty hunter's arm before he could nock a second arrow. "You bloody fool!" he thundered. Tour arrow passed right through the darkness into the crowd beyond."

The man lowered his bow. Eyeing Fyodor's drawn sword, he stroked thoughtfully at his beard. "You again, eh? Give me a better suggestion, boy, and I'll see you get one of the wench's ears."

Rage, pure and utterly his own, flowed through the young fighter. He hauled back his sword and smacked the bounty hunter just above the belt with the flat of his blade. The hunter folded as the air rushed out of him in a wheezing gasp. Fyodor placed himself between the midnight sphere and the crowd, his sword held menacingly before him.