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Liriel scrambled to her feet and turned to flee. The male grabbed at her, and his hand managed to close around her ankle. With her free foot, she stomped on Gorlist's wrist, but her soft deerskin boots lent little conviction to the attack, and she did not break his hold. Quickly abandoning that attempt, she kicked him in the face. She got in several more blows before Gorlist managed to capture her free foot, as well. With a quick, sharp jerk he pulled both feet out from under her. Liriel's arms flew out wide and she fell straight back. Her head met the rocky ground with a sharp crack. The force of the blow—although cushioned a bit by her thick white mane—left her stunned.

The male crawled over to her and drew a long knife from his belt. Pure malevolence glowed in his one good eye. Liriel knew a moment's relief—he meant only to kill her, after all.

"Get away from her!" demanded a deep bass voice.

Gorlist looked up, startled, as a familiar-looking human hurtled toward him. The drow was faster, though, and he brought the wicked knife up.

Yet Liriel was also drow, and just as fast. Summoning all her strength, she managed to strike Gorlist's arm aside an instant before Fyodor would have impaled himself on the knife. The two fighters rolled clear of her, thrashing and struggling for position. She watched intently; the outcome was by no means clear. The human was a head taller and probably outweighed Gorlist by half, but the elf was more agile and nearly mad with rage, pain, and wounded pride.

Liriel waited expectantly for Fyodor's berserker frenzy to come and settle matters. It did not. This worried her; Gorlist still held the knife, and it was only a matter of time before he found an opening.

So she crawled over to the fighters, ignoring the throbbing in her head and the weird sparks of light exploding behind her eyes. She pulled a knife from her sleeve, watched for an opening between the grappling fighters, then thrust the blade between them. She drew it back hard against Gorlist's throat. The drow managed a gurgled protest, then fell limp.

Fyodor pushed away from the dying drow. For a long moment, the rivals for the Windwalker regarded each other in awkward silence.

"Next time, don't announce your arrival," Liriel suggested icily. "Kill first, and if unanswered questions remain you can always hire a priestess to chat with the spirit."

He responded with a faint, bleak smile. "It is not my custom to strike from behind. We do things differently, you and I."

"So I noticed! It's not drow custom to give any advantage to an enemy, much less leave them gifts."

"Yet you wear these gifts."

"Of course. I'm practical," she stated. "As you're always pointing out, there are those who think, and those who dream. Well, together we've got one of each. I suggest we stop this foolishness and tend to business. Together."

"But how can that be, if there is no trust between us?" he demanded, his blue eyes searching her face.

The drow crossed her arms and stared him down. "So, what's the score now?"

Fyodor blinked and drew back. "The score?"

"The score. You know: I've pulled your tzarreth out of the fire four times, you've saved mine three—that sort of thing." She lifted one white eyebrow. "It says something, doesn't it?"

The light began to return to Fyodor's eyes. "Are you saying I should trust you?"

The drow shrugged.

"I suppose if we continue as we have been going, neither of us will possess the Windwalker," he said cautiously.

"Now you're talking!" Liriel could not suppress a smile of pure elation. "Then it's settled!"

"Is it? If only one can possess the Windwalker, who will he that one?"

"Let's worry about one thing at a time," Liriel advised him. She squinted downriver. The drow hunters were almost beyond sight. "Nine Hells! Well never catch them! Where are those long-legged lizards of yours?"

"The horses fled—probably the drow ran them off." He hesitated. "There is another way. We could build a raft. It is risky, with the water running white and fast."

Her eyes sparkled with reckless glee. "Let's do it!"

Working furiously, they dragged deadfall wood to the bank and lashed it together into a rude platform. Fyodor tied long loops of rope onto the makeshift craft for handholds, and the two of them waded out with it into the river. They had not gone far before the rushing water threatened to tear the raft from their hands.

The Rashemi shouted for Liriel to get aboard. She scrambled on the back of the raft and wrapped a rope around her hand. She grabbed Fyodor's vest and helped haul him up.

Then they were off, tossed like a leaf on the foam. Fyodor tried vainly to steer, using his cudgel to push away from jagged rocks. Mostly, they just held on as the little raft bounced and spun. The river quickly turned rougher, and the raft lifted and dropped in the turbulent water, like an unbroken horse trying to throw a rider. Above the roar of water Fyodor heard Liriel's wild, exultant laughter. The raft reared up high for a breathless moment, then splashed down hard. Water swept over them in an icy rush.

Fyodor fought with his rope, hauling upward with all his strength to bring the front edge of the raft above the water. If it dipped too low, the raft would flip and they would be tossed into the river's frigid depths. He struggled for several desperate moments before he had the little craft bouncing along again. With a sigh of relief, he glanced back over his shoulder at Liriel.

She was gone.

His heart seemed to leap into his throat. He lunged for her rope and gave it a mighty tug upward, hoping against hope she might have kept her grip. Liriel's head broke the surface of the water, and she gasped in huge gulps of air and foam. Sputtering and coughing, she hauled herself back toward him, hand over hand. As she rolled onto the raft, she batted away Fyodor's hand and pointed. Her eyes were wild, and she shrieked a single word that was lost in the noise of the rapids and the pounding of his heart.

Fyodor turned, and his eyes widened. The river turned shallow ahead, and rocks jutted out of the water like so many grave markers. Beyond was a curtain of spray, and the deep, thunderous roar of falling water.

The wooden raft screeched as it scraped against rock, and then the lashing gave way. Liriel and Fyodor were thrown into a whirlpool of splintering wood and rending water. They tumbled over the shallow riverbed, scraping over gravel and hitting one bruising rock after another. Then, suddenly, they were free, plunging down through the spray-filled air.

They hit the water hard and sank deep. Fyodor fought his way upward, gasped in air, and saw that he was alone-He grabbed his floating cudgel, hooked an arm over it, and plunged his head under to look for Liriel.

The drow floated just beneath the surface of the water, her arms hanging limp and her white hair floating around her in a nimbus. Fyodor snatched a handful of hair and dragged her to the surface. Slowly, painfully, he began to swim to shore.

Because Fyodor*s home village lay on the shore of a small, icy lake, he had learned from childhood the realities of life upon water. He turned the drow onto her back and began to press rhythmically. Finally water poured from her mouth, and she gasped in air. She rose up on her hands and knees and crawled weakly away. Fyodor turned aside, granting the proud elf privacy to rid herself of the water she'd swallowed.

Utterly exhausted and aching in every bone and sinew, the young man sank down on a fallen log. His rest was brief; a revived Liriel ran toward him, her eyes blazing.

The drow leaped at him, sending them both tumbling to the sandy shore. She seized Fyodor's tattered shirt with both hands and dragged him close. His first thought was that the treacherous drow had turned on him again, and this time he could not fault her. He had persuaded her to go onto the impossibly dangerous river, and she had nearly paid with her life. His death, should it come at her hands, would not be undeserved.

Then, to his utter astonishment, Fyodor noted that his companion's eyes burned not with rage, but with excitement.

"Again!" she gasped out, and gave him a little shake. "Let's do that again!"

With a groan, Fyodor fell back on the bank. He eyed the irrepressible drow, not sure whether to embrace her or give over to helpless laughter. So he did both.

This time, Liriel's laughter joined his.

Chapter 24

PROMENADE

They did not see Nisstyre or his hunters again for the duration of the trip. That was just as well, for the rigors of the road were quite sufficient for Liriel's taste.

Fyodor spent most of the first day tracking down their horses, and although Liriel was glad for the speed this granted them, she almost wished the wretched beasts had made good their escape. In the Underdark, she was considered an expert rider, but a horse's gait was vastly different from the smooth, darting movements of a lizard mount. At the end of the first day's ride, Liriel ached in muscles she had never before acknowledged. But as the days passed, her body became hardened to the jarring trot, just as her eyes adjusted to the bright light.

The long westward ride brought other changes to the drow, as well. Liriel had never been one to sit and think; now she had little choice. Yet try as she might, she could find no words for the night she and Fyodor had shared in the moonüt clearing. Finally she asked him, bluntly, what the human customs were in such matters.

The question did not seem to surprise him, but he was long in answering. "These things are not easily explained. Ask ten men what it means to spend a night with a maid, and you will likely get ten different answers."

"Thanks, I'll take your word on that," she said with a shudder. Once, in her opinion, offered more confusion than she could handle.

Fyodor responded with a deep, wry chuckle. "Please, little raven! A man has his pride."

The drow frowned. "I didn't mean—"

He waved her into silence. "You need not explain. I think we both were surprised by what we found together. There is a bond between us, for good or ill, and so it will remain. Understand that I've never taken such things lightly, but I think it best to agree that we came together as friends, and let the matter end."

Liriel thought that over. It seemed reasonable, and it felt right. Still… "I've never shared passion with a friend before," she mused.

He lifted one brow. "With whom, then? Your enemies?"

A short, startled burst of laughter escaped the drow. "Yes, that pretty much sums it up."

"Ah." Fyodor nodded solemnly, but his eyes twinkled. "This explains much."

Liriel acknowledged his teasing with a wry smile and was more than content to let the matter rest. Talking about it cleared the air between them and that, for now, was enough. The challenges ahead were daunting, and she could not afford to be distracted by things she could not hope to understand. The insights she had gained were disturbing enough.

For Liriel had come to accept the possibility she might never regain her drow powers. Every night, when they stopped to rest the horses, she coaxed Fyodor to practice swordcraft with her. Nisstyre had left her those weapons that bore no magic—a few knives, the long dagger she'd taken from the naga—and she was determined to wield them as best she could. Day by day, her strength and skill improved, and the desultory swordplay of a spoiled princess began to harden into a drow's fierce art. Liriel planned to make her way as a wizard; the naga's treasure would purchase spell components and spellbooks in the markets of Skullport. In time, she might regain a level of power similar to the magic she'd once wielded. Until then, she had to survive.

But not until they neared Waterdeep did Liriel realize she had not lost every drow gift she possessed. The art of intrigue, once learned, was not soon forgotten.

She and Fyodor approached the city from the north, riding cautiously through verdant farmlands, skirting the well-traveled roads. At last they caught sight of high towers rising up over the broad fields of green. They urged their weary horses closer and reined them to a halt on a small, wooded hillside.

Laid out before them, looming over a broad plain and several busy trade roads, was Waterdeep, City of Splendors. An exuberant smile lit the drow's face. She flung her arms wide, as if she could gather the whole into her embrace.

How wonderful it was, this city perched between sea and sky! The air here had a delightful salty tang, and it carried a low, restless murmur that could only be the voice of the sea. The city itself was bigger than Menzoberranzan, and bustling with activity. Wagons and horses carried a steady stream of people through the gates. Liriel's arms dropped to her sides.

"The gates," she murmured, seeing the problem at once.

"All who wish to enter must pass armed guardsmen," Fyodor added in a troubled tone. He glanced at his companion. Even with hood and gloves, she could not pass as human without the aid of a spell. And her spells had all been used in the hazardous journey westward.

The drow nibbled at her lower lip as she studied the city walls. Surely there was some weak point, some way she could slip in unnoticed. But no, the walls were high and thick, and the surrounding plain offered little cover. She watched the merchant caravans and pondered smuggling herself in. No help there—the guards searched each wagon carefully.

Muttering an oath, Liriel turned her attention to the plain. It was grassy and smooth, dotted with small clusters of bushes and a few shade trees. In that pleasant spot were raised a number of pavilions: tents fashioned from bright

Klaine Cutmingham cloth and decorated with elaborate coats of arms. Milling about the idle tents was a throng of humans, dressed in vivid silks, lush furs, and jewels. The spring breezes bore the scent of savory foods and the sound of music and revelry. Wealthy, idle people enjoying an outdoor feast, Liriel concluded.

Then the music changed, taking on the stately, measured tread of a promenade. Liriel's eyes narrowed. She noted the dizzying variety of the humans' costumes—some of which were enhanced by magic—and the way the dancers paraded past a flower-draped dais. A slow smile curved her lips. The dark elves had a similar custom: formal dances known as illiyitrü. Most of these were political affairs fraught with dangerous, nuanced posturing, but occasionally a promenade was an excuse to compete in less lethal ways; wealth, beauty, and ingenuity were flaunted through clever disguises and extravagant costumes.