第 39 页

"Liriel!" he shouted, not once taking his eyes from the grim-faced villagers. "Are you hurt? Are you there?"

"Well, where else?" she snapped. Her voice seemed to come from several feet above the ground, near the upper edge of the globe of darkness. "Get in here, would you?"

With a final, warning glare at the villagers, Fyodor stepped backward into the sphere of dark-elven magic.

The sunset colors were spilling into the churning waters of the Dessarin by the time Fyodor returned to the camp with their horses. Liriel was fascinated by the strange beasts, so different from the mounts of the Underdark, but tonight other matters consumed her thoughts. Fyodor had been strangely quiet since they'd stepped from her escape portal into the clearing. The drow assumed he was angry with her for sneaking into the village. She knew she would be furious, were the tables turned. Never before had she admitted to being wrong, and she found it wasn't an easy thing to do. She waited until they had eaten, and had taken turns snatching a bit of sleep, and then she gave it a try.

"I endangered us both today."

"You saved us both," Fyodor corrected her. "With your magic, you could have escaped the village the moment you were discovered. You stopped when you saw me."

Liriel opened her mouth to reply, realized she had nothing to say, and shut it. Her actions, now that she regarded them, seemed rather strange. "Well, what else could I have done? For all I knew, you'd go into a suicidal snit in the midst of all those people!"

"I would have welcomed the rage," he said bitterly, "but it would not come at my command."

"But you tried?" the drow asked, incredulous that he would do such a thing. Self-preservation was the first law of drow society; what he tried to do would almost certainly have meant his death.

Fyodor just shrugged. They sat in silence for a long moment, listening to the gathering chorus of frogs along the riverbank and watching the waxing moon rise above the hills.

After a time he took a tiny velvet bag from his sash and handed it to the drow. "This is a small thing I found in the market."

Curious, Liriel loosened the string and upended the bag. A length of thin, gold chain spilled into her hand, and with it a large jewel that echoed the rich golden color of her eyes. It was an exquisite piece, for although the chain was old, it was of fine elven make, and the stone looked as if it had been cut and polished by a dwarven craftsman. And in the very heart of the jewel was a small, perfect black spider. Liriel caught her breath. Yellow stones were rare in Menzoberranzan; this was an ornament any priestess or matron might envy!

"How is this illusion done?" she demanded, turning the stone this way and that.

"It is no illusion," Fyodor said. "The stone is amber. It is Common in my land—pretty, but of no great price."

"But the spider?"

"It is real, caught in the stone by an accident of nature. Amber was once sap—the lifeblood of trees. At least," he added softly, "that is the answer given by those who think."

She recognized the familiar, rising note in his voice, and added the words to come: "And those who dream?"

Fyodor was silent for a long moment. "A tale is told in my land of a certain warrior. After the rage of battle left him, he wandered, wounded and confused, deeper into the forest than any man should walk. In time he came to an enchanted place and came to rest beneath a mighty tree. He saw in the distance a maiden of shadows and moonlight, more beautiful than any he had glimpsed either waking or in dreams. Now, it is said in my land that a man dies when his life surpasses his dreams. Thus the warrior passed from life with the image of the maiden before him, and the sightless tree wept golden tears. Whether in sorrow or envy, who can say?"

For the first time in her short life, Liriel was at a loss for words. The day's events, the carefully considered gift, and the graceful tribute in Fyodor's story had touched her and left her deeply confused. For a moment she wished with all her heart she were back in Menzoberranzan. Her home city, with all its chaos and conflict, was easier to understand. She knew the rules there and played them well. She had no idea what to do with the conflicting emotions inspired by this strange world.

But Liriel was not one for introspection. She pushed aside the uncomfortable new feelings and took refuge in something she understood.

The dark-elven girl rose lithely to her feet. Her armor, weapons, and clothing tumbled about her, and soon she stood, clad only in moonlight, before her companion.

Fyodor's eyes darkened. At last, thought Liriel with relief, an expression she knew! Desire burned with the same dark flame, be the male in question human or drow. Yet the young man made no move toward her. He did not look away, but he was clearly uncertain whether or not to accept what she offered.

A moment's panic threatened to claim Liriel. Passion was familiar, reassuring territory, one of the few emotional outlets permitted among the drow. If not this, she wondered, then what? She simply did not know another way.

Then Fyodor held out his hand, and with a cry of mingled triumph and relief she went to him.

The moon rose high, bathing their campsite in gentle light, but they did not notice the passing of time. The human knew none of the elaborate games the drow played, and Liriel found she did not miss them. This was something entirely different, both exhilarating and deeply disturbing.

There was an honesty between them, an intimacy as merciless as sunlight. It scorched her soul as painfully as dawn stung her eyes. It was almost more than she could bear, yet she could not turn away.

Liriel struggled to gather herself, to regain some vestige of control. They tumbled together, and she rose above him and claimed command of the intimate dance. But even then his intense blue eyes held her in an embrace that was uncomfortably close. The drow closed her own eyes to take refuge in darkness.

Fyodor saw this, and he did not need the Sight to recognize the sheer self-preservation in the gesture. He had accepted Liriel's offer of herself as the gift it was, though he did not understand what the giving meant to the drow girl. Nor was he sure what place this night would have in his own life. Yet, in the uncanny way of his people, he knew without understanding that his destiny was somehow linked with this dark-elven girl. The sheer insanity of that thought did not trouble him; Fyodor was well accustomed to taking life as he found it.

Inexplicably, he thought of the snowcat kitten he had befriended years ago, knowing full well it could never be tamed. He'd accepted this with the calm resignation that was the heritage of the Rashemi people. He did not fault the cat for following its nature, or wish the animal could be other than it was. But he did not hold back his heart then, and he did not now. Those who thought knew embracing a drow was utter madness. Those who dreamed understood life's joy was measured in moments.

Fyodor raised a hand to stroke the dark elf'scheek. A faint smile touched Liriel's lips, and he traced it with a gentle finger. Her golden eyes opened, focused, and then turned hard. She put his hands away from her and looked him full in the face. For a moment, Fyodor thought he saw a hint of moisture behind the cold amber. Then Liriel clenched her hand into a fist and drove it toward her lover's temple.

A burst of bright pain exploded in Fyodor's head, searing his senses and eclipsing the moonlight. When the light and pain faded, he knew only darkness.

Liriel rose to her feet and dashed the back of her hand across her eyes. Bitterly she cursed herself for letting down her guard, for betraying her drow upbringing. The cost—as shed expected—had been high.

The drow glanced toward her discarded clothing, but there was no time to dress, no time even to seize a weapon. So she merely stood, as coldly proud as any high priestess of Lloth, as the first of the dark-elven hunters slipped into the moonlit clearing. She did not fear them. After all, she had her magic, and it would take more than a few drow fighters to overcome a wizard of her ability.

The drow hunters—six, all told—formed a cautious ring around the campsite. Liriel recognized the four she had felled with sleeping poison, as well as the male with short-cropped hair and the dragon tattoo on his cheek. She glanced at his arm and gave him a faint, mocking smile, which broadened when his comrades flanked him and forcibly kept him from drawing his sword against her. But her smile vanished when a copper-haired, black-eyed drow pushed past the hunters and into the circle. Another wizard tipped the balance decidedly in the fighters' favor.

"Nisstyre," she hissed. "Come to offer me more assistance?"

"Whatever you require, dear lady," he said, and bowed. "But first, to remove unnecessary distractions."

He turned to the barely controlled Gorlist and pointed to the human. "You've found him at last. See if you can manage to kill him while he sleeps." His tone was deliberately harsh, clearly intended to direct the fighter's anger away from the female.

lcYou needn't bother," Liriel said coldly, marveling at how steady her voice sounded. "He's already dead."

Nisstyre's gaze swept the pale, still form of his human nemesis, then he turned a speculative gaze upon Liriel. "The Spider's Kiss, eh? A strange ending to a moonlight tryst! I heard you have adventurous tastes, my dear, but this exceeds the tales. Still, I almost envy the poor sod," he concluded gallantly. "Some things may well be worth dying for."

Liriel did not care for the gleam in the merchant's eyes. She lifted her chin and reminded herself she was a daughter of House Baenre.

"In that case, I wish you a long and healthy life," she said in the haughty tone Baenre females had honed through centuries of undisputed rule. "If you came seeking revenge against the human, you are too late. He is dead. Thank me for saving you the trouble, and be on your way."

"Actually, I seek a certain magical trinket," Nisstyre said softly. "An amulet, shaped like a dagger?"

She answered with a derisive sniff and spread her arms wide, as if inviting inspection. "As you can see, I don't have it on me," she said mockingly.

"A pity. I always find that searching for information is most entertaining," the wizard replied. He held out one hand and made a show of adjusting his many rings. One of them, a thick gold band set with a sparkling black gem, was chillingly familiar. LirieFs eyes widened as she recognized her former tutor's ring. The wizard noted this and smiled. "I assure you, he has no need of it."

So Kharza was dead, Liriel acknowledged with mingled sorrow and fear. How brutal had Nisstyre's "search for information" been, and how much had Kharza told him about the amulet before escaping into death?

Enough, it would seem. Nisstyre flicked at the ring's large black stone, and the jewel swung back on a tiny hinge. He took a pinch of powder from the hidden compartment and cast it into the air. The eerie, faint blue light of a find-magic spell filled the clearing. Most of LirieFs things glowed: her chain mail, her elven boots, her piwafivi, many of her knives and throwing weapons. But the amulet—even hidden as it was in her travel bag—positively blazed with azure fire.

Nisstyre stooped and picked up LirieFs bag. He spilled the contents onto the ground. Gold coins and sparkling gems cascaded out, and the eyes of the drow thieves lit up with open greed. Nisstyre waved them back and snatched up the brightly lit amulet.

"You're wasting your time. You can do nothing with it!" Liriel said coldly.

"Perhaps not. But far to the south is a city ruled by drow wizards skilled beyond your reckoning or mine. When the amulet's magic is mine, I will be able to wean the People from their false dependency on Lloth. And at last," Nisstyre concluded triumphantly, "the drow will reclaim a place of power in the Night Above!"

This was too much for Liriel to absorb. "You worship Eilistraee?"

"Hardly," the wizard said dryly. "We follow Vhaeraun, the Masked Lord, drew god of stealth and thievery. Eilistraee's insipid wenches think only to dance in the moonlight and give aid to hapless passersby; we have a kingdom to build!"

Nisstyre turned to Gorlist. "Gather up everything that glows. I want to study every magical item she possesses."

A bubble of panic rose in Liriel's throat. "You're going to leave me without any magic?"

"Not at all," Nisstyre assured her. "There is a place among Vhaeraun's followers for any drow who forsakes the Night Below. In your case, a high place! I myself would be pleased to take you as a consort."

Liriel laughed in his face.

For a moment she thought the wizard would strike her. Then he bowed again, this time mockingly. "As you wish, princess. But in time, you will learn drow can survive only by banding together in force, and you will come to me." He took a small scroll from his belt and held it out to her. This is a map. With it you can find your way to a nearby settlement of Vhaeraun's followers. You may keep your nonmagi-cal weapons and your wealth—you will have need of both if you are to reach the forest stronghold."

She struck the parchment roll from his hand. He shrugged and turned away. "Have it your way. But sooner or later, princess, we will meet again."

"Count on it," Liriel muttered under her breath as the last of the drow hunters slipped from the clearing.

She waited until all were beyond sight and hearing, then dropped to her knees beside Fyodor and began to shake and slap him toward consciousness. All the while, she whispered fervent prayers of gratitude—to any and all drow gods who might be listening—for the fact that Fyodor had stayed obligingly "dead" until the danger was past.

After a few moments of this treatment, the Rashemi groaned and stirred. He sat up, clutching his temples. His clouded eyes settled on Liriel. Memory crept into them, and then puzzlement. "In my land, such things are done differently," he murmured.

Liriel rose abruptly. He reached up and caught her hand. "Why?" he said softly. "I ask of you only this, that you tell me why."

She brushed him aside and began to collect her clothes. "For what it's worth, I just saved your life," she snarled. "Nisstyre and his drow thieves came upon us. They would have killed you, had I not convinced him I'd saved him the trouble."