第 40 页

Fyodor still looked bewildered. "But how could he believe you'd slain me, if he came upon us at such a time?"

"Because it happens." She stopped lacing her tunic and met his gaze squarely. "Such sport is not unknown among my people. One of these games has been named the Spider's Kiss, after the spider who mates and kills."

The man stared at her, clearly aghast. Liriel steeled herself for his response. From what she'd learned of her human companion, she expected revulsion, horror, wrath, perhaps utter rejection.

But he merely shook his head. "Ah, my poor little raven," he said softly. "What a life you must have known!"

What Liriel could not understand, she decided to ignore. "Get up," she said bruskly. "If we hurry, we might still catch them."

Fyodor regarded her strangely. "I know why I must face the drow. But why should you take such a risk?"

They took all my magic! My weapons, spellbooks, even my boots and cloak!"

"But these are mere things," he pointed out.

"Nisstyre has the Windwalker," she said flatly. It was dangerous to tell him this—she had not yet figured out a way to share the amulet's magic—but she saw no other choice. "I saw a dagger-shaped amulet in his hands. Or is this also a 'mere thing,' not worth retrieving?"

Chagrin flickered in Fyodor's eyes, and he reached for his swordbelt. "My apologies, lady wizard! Your need is as great as mine."

They scrambled down the hill after the thieves—Liriel gritting her teeth against the pain of rocks and brambles tearing at her bare feet—and came to an abrupt stop at the water's edge. The drow were already in the river, many yards from shore, poling light wooden crafts toward the swifter water in the river's center. Nisstyre caught sight of them and called a halt.

"Brava, princess!" he called, smiling ruefully. "You tricked me well! Yet by my reckoning, you have lost." He held up a small, dangling object. Moonlight glinted off the dull gold of the ancient dagger. "Until you get this back, I would say the victory is mine!" Nisstyre blew her a kiss, then signaled his drow to pole the boats into the swift-flowing current.

"Get it back," Fyodor echoed softly. He turned incredulous eyes upon his companion. "You had the amulet, all this time! You kept silent, after all I told you. But why?"

Liriel held her ground, but she was finding it inexplicably difficult not to squirm before his accusing gaze. "I had my reasons."

The young man took a long, steadying breath. He reached for her hands and clasped them between his. "Liriel, I do not deny this may be so," he said carefully. "By your lights, these reasons might have been good and sufficient. But I tell you truly, this is too much for me to bear. Here we part ways."

Liriel pulled her hands free and clenched her fists at her sides. Her first response was anger. Intrigue was the meat and drink of Menzoberranzan, and even her most casual friends took this in stride. Why couldn't Fyodor just be reasonable?

"We both need that amulet," she pointed out, hoping to appeal to his practical side. "If we compete, only one can win."

The young man nodded, somberly conceding her point. "You will do as you must, little raven, and so will I."

She stood staring for a moment, unable to believe he was thrusting them into competition. His eyes held both sadness and resolve, and Liriel knew instinctively that none of her threats or wiles could change his mind. She was not prepared for the wave of desolation that swept over her.

Not knowing what else to do, Liriel turned and darted off downstream in pursuit of Nisstyre and the stolen Windwalker.

Chapter 23

DIFFERENT WAYS

As the hours of night slipped past, Liriel made her way southward along the river. She moved quietly, lightly, yet she cringed at the sound of each faint footfall; she was accustomed to walking in complete silence. Her feet were bruised and bleeding, but she kept walking until she could go no farther. Huddled at the base of a tree, she wrapped her arms around herself for warmth and took stock of her position.

Her drow magic was gone. She could not summon darkness, or conjure faerie fire, or levitate. Stripped of her magical items, she could not walk silently or cloak herself in invisibility. Not to mention the more mundane value of boots and cloak! Her spellbooks were gone, along with the spell components that would enable her to cast wizardly spells. But perhaps her clerical magic had not forsaken her. Liriel remembered the words of Qilue Veladorn, claiming that Eilistraee heard and answered her faithful wheresoever they went. Could Lloth also hear, so far from the chapels of Menzoberranzan? The girl tried a simple incantation that summoned spiders—a blessing Lloth granted to any drow. She whispered the words of the spell, then strained her ears for the skittering sound of delicate legs. There was only the chirp of crickets and the lonely hoot of a hunting owl. She was truly alone.

The drow drew her knees up to her chest and dropped her head to them. She felt very small and utterly lost beneath the vastness of the night sky.

After a moment a fragment of melody slipped unbidden into her mind. Liriel recognized the wild, haunting music played at the moonlit revels of Eilistraee's priestesses. On impulse, she rose and began to dance to the rhythm of the remembered song. Closing her eyes, she whirled and dipped and leaped. As she did, the pain in her battered feet subsided, then slipped away. Liriel was not surprised; caught up in the private ecstacy of the dance, all things seemed possible.

From a nearby hillside, Fyodor watched her. The moon had sunk low in the sky, and the fey dancer was silhouetted against the pale light. Another female danced with Liriel, clearly elven in form but taller by half than a mortal drow. Fyodor did not know what this meant, but he took comfort in the fact Liriel was not alone.

Carried swiftly on the waters of the spring-swollen Dessarin, the merchants of the Dragon's Hoard made their way southward. Henge, drow priest of Vhaeraun, watched with interest as Nisstyre argued with the tattooed lieutenant. The priest's hatred of Nisstyre was almost as strong as his devotion to his god, and he eavesdropped on the small mutiny with shameless enjoyment. Gorlist, it seemed, wanted the princess and her human lap-lizard destroyed. That struck Henge as reasonable enough. True, the female would be useful for breeding purposes, but they had her magic, and that, in Henge's opinion, was sufficient. He'd seen more than enough of drow females during his years as a slave in Ched Nasad. If Gorlist wanted to kill one of the two-!egged spiders, may Vhaeraun be with him.

Yet the cleric could not move openly against his captain.

He'd tried, once, only to find he'd exchanged one sort of slavery for another. Many years ago, Nisstyre had lured Henge into Vhaeraun's service, extracting an oath of blood-bond in payment for escape from Ched Nasad. Any failure of loyalty carved deep, magically inflicted cuts onto Henge's body. The priest still bore the scars of his early rebellions and small failures to serve; after many years, however, he had learned exactly where the parameters of the bond lay. There were still some small things he could do, and he watched and waited for an opportunity.

Suddenly Nisstyre's voice faltered, and his hands went to the eye-shaped gem embedded in his forehead. Gorlist, obviously thinking himself dismissed, left the wizard's side with an abruptness that set the boat rocking dangerously. The cleric beckoned the young drow over. He handed Gorlist a silver ear-cuff.

"This is a small thing that you might find useful. No matter how skilled the warrior, certain tasks are dangerous. Wear this, and any wound you receive will heal."

Pride and practicality warred in the fighter's eyes. Then Gorlist cast a surreptitious glance at Nisstyre and slid the ear-cuff into place.

Back in Menzoberranzan, Shakti had had little time to spare for her merchant partner. Her mother, Matron Kinuere, was delighted with the addition of a high priestess to her arsenal and encouraged by the favors shown them by House Baenre. She promptly began plotting a war against House TuinTarl. The unnatural peace would end sooner or later, and those who were prepared to act with little notice would gain advancement.

Shakti, therefore, had been inundated by the demands of her new responsibilities. She did not mind, but rather listened well, learning skills she intended to wield herself someday, and on a much grander scale. But she did not forget her hunters; when no word come from Ssasser, she gave up the naga and the quaggoths as lost. Nisstyre, however, she could and would keep within her hand.

When at last the priestess had an hour to call her own, she took out the black-ruby scrying bow! and cast the spell that linked her to the drow merchant. A strange scene came into view: small boats traveling a river bright with sparkling lights and swift-running water. With Nisstyre were several drow fighters, and he was arguing with one of them. To get his attention, Shakti sent a quick burst of pain to the ruby eye. The wizard winced, and his hands rose to touch his forehead. The movement brought the golden amulet dangling from one hand into Shakti's line of vision.

"You have done well," she complimented him, and her words were carried to his mind by the telepathic link. "And now?"

I take the amulet to the south, to have its magic studied by drow wizards there. When its secrets are known to me, I will return to Menzoberranzan.

Shakti nodded. She was confident the wizard would do as he said; how could he not, when she could follow him wheresoever he went and slay him with a thought? Yet there was a formal, cautious feel to his mental response that she distrusted.

"And what of Liriel Baenre?"

She will not be returning to Menzoberranzan.

The traitor-priestess threw back her head and cackled with delight. Desiring to see for herself the details of her enemy's death, she cast a clerical mind-reading spell and sent it along the crimson path. Vhaeraun had been generous; of all the gifts granted her by the God of Thievery, Shakti relished most these small plunderings of the mind and the spirit. From Nisstyre's memory she plucked his last image of Liriel. The princess, although decidedly more bedraggled than Shakti had ever seen her, was very much alive and pacing like an angry panther along a rock-strewn shore. Snakti's mood plummeted and her red eyes narrowed.

'You lied to me! She lives!"

Have I said she didn't? As I recall, you required only that Liriel not return to the city. That has been assured.

"It is not enough!" shrieked the priestess, clutching at the rim of the scrying bowl with both hands.

A surge of rage flowed through the magic portal and struck the wizard like a thunderbolt. The ruby gem in his forehead flared and seemed to burst into crimson flame. Nisstyre screamed in torment, then slumped, apparently lifeless, into the arms of his puzzled drow followers.

Shakti snatched her hands from the bowl and regarded the fading scene with horror. She had not intended to strike, and she had clearly gone too far. Gingerly she reached out one fingertip to touch the scrying bowl. She felt the hum of magic power still sing through the dark red crystal. That was a relief; it meant the tie had not been severed, that Nisstyre still lived. Yet only through his eyes could she see into the Night Above. Until Nisstyre regained his senses, he was of no use to her.

Sobered by this near disaster, Shakti settled back in her chair and regarded the scrying bowl. She had much to learn about her new power and how to wield it to best advantage. But this one thing she had learned: it was not sufficient. Nisstyre was an important ally, but, like all mortals, he was vulnerable.

As she stared thoughtfully at the scrying bowl, the priestess began to ponder other ways to gain access to the power and resources found in the Night Above.

The coming of dawn roused Liriel from a brief, exhausted slumber. She picked her way down to the river to drink and wash. There, placed neatly on the rocky bank, she found a new cloak and a pair of low boots rudely fashioned from soft leather. There was no doubting who'd left them for her.

The drow shook her head in confusion. Humans apparently had a lot to learn about the art of competition! But she donned the gifts and continued downstream. As she walked, the roar of the water grew louder. The river flowed rapid and shallow here. On the far shore, not too far away, were Nisstyre's hunters, shouldering their small boats to portage around the dangerous stretch of water.

Liriel crouched behind some bushes and thoughtfully studied her foe. It would be an ideal time to attack. Though she had little magic left to her, she cudgeled her mind for an innovative way to use a minor spell. The roar of the water made thought difficult, however, and hearing impossible. Bereft of her magic, the drow felt keenly the loss of these other senses.

Fortunately her elven eyes were as keen as ever. At the very edge of her peripheral vision, she saw a familiar, dark figure creeping toward her. Liriel spun as the tattooed male came at her with drawn steel. She pulled her dagger and parried. With a quick, circular sweep of his sword he knocked the blade from her hand, then stepped in closer and seized Uriel's wrist.

Gorlist pressed the keen edge of his blade against her skin. "Shall I mark you, wizard, as you did me?" he demanded. "How can you stop me? Where is your magic now?"

He was taunting her, but Liriel saw the humiliation in his eyes, and she understood what this was about. Drow fighters took pride in their lack of scars—she had probably been the first to lay a blade on him, and in doing so had dealt his pride a dangerous blow.

"What will your master say?" she demanded. "Nisstyre will be furious if you harm me!"

"Perhaps he will be, but not for a while," the male said cryptically. "Nisstyre would not thank me if I marred your skin. He might, however, be pleased to find you humbled." With a cruel smile, he sheathed his blade and dragged Liriel to him.

Her eyes widened with shock and outrage when his intent became clear. There was no time to draw a weapon, no time to cast a spell, but Liriel was not without defenses. She crossed her middle finger over her index finger, braced them into a rigid weapon, and drove her lacquered nails deep into Gorlist's eye.

He roared with pain and lashed out blindly; his fist connected solidly with Liriel's ear and sent her sprawling. Gorlist dashed the gore from his face and leaped at her. Ignoring the ringing in her head, Liriel kicked up and out with ail her strength. Her aim was true, and she was rewarded by another scream of pain—this one at least two octaves higher than the last. Gorlist hit the ground nearby, groaning, and curled up as tightly as an overcooked shrimp.