HOMECOMING

 

Shakti paused at the gate of House Hunzrin. Wrapped in her new piwafwi and cloaked in invisibility, she gazed at her childhood home and her inheritance.

The family mansion lay on the outskirts of Menzoberranzan, close to the fields and pastures whose care was the business of House Hunzrin. The estate was not as large as many of the city's mansions, comprising only three large stalactites, a few connecting bridges, and a number of rather ramshackle outbuildings.

Even so, pride filled Shakti. It was not an imposing estate, but it was hers, or soon would be. Judging from the individual standards that draped one of the crosswalks, her older sister had finally succumbed to that mysterious wasting disease. The banner bearing her mark—a ridiculous thing showing the silhouette of a rothé against a circle meant to depict a wheel of cheese—no longer hung in second position. In its place hung a banner emblazoned with Shakti's symbol, a pitchfork flowing with magical energy. She was now her mother's heir, a high priestess in the full favor of Lolth. In many regards, her future looked deliciously dark.

But first she had to sort through the puzzling secret that had been entrusted to her. It would be rank foolishness to show herself at House Hunzrin before these matters were settled. She had a younger sister who would not hesitate to exploit the weakness that Shakti's uncertain state presented.

Still wrapped in invisibility, Shakti walked through the city to the Baenre estate. As she neared the outer wall, she flipped back her concealing cloak and revealed herself to the guards. Magical wards surrounded the house like a moat, and it was better to come openly than to be caught approaching in stealth.

A squadron of guards surrounded her at once. They listened with narrowed eyes to her demand for audience and sent a runner to carry this message to the Matron Mother. In moments Triel's response arrived: a floating disk meant to convey a visiting priestess with honor.

Shakti settled down on the conveyance and held her head high as she progressed through the several gates that warded the residence. She had no doubt that Gromph would hear of her arrival within the hour.

Resolutely she put that out of mind. She would need all her wits to deal with the subtle and treacherous Triel. Any distraction would be lethal.

The disk brought her to directly to the door of Triel's audience chamber. Shakti dismounted on the driftdisk and began the long walk toward the matron's throne. The chamber was huge, with high-vaulting ceilings and intricately carved walls. Each footstep echoed softly, the sound like that of stones dropped into deep wells. This approach was meant to intimidate, but knowing this did not lessen the effect in the slightest.

Triel watched her approach through narrowed crimson eyes. The diminutive priestess had augmented her mother's throne with a gorgeously carved footrest. Shakti supposed it was less than dignified for a matron's feet to dangle like a child's when she sat in state.

She came to a stop at a respectful distance and sank into a low obeisance. The Baenre matron acknowledged Shakti's reverence with a steady, unreadable gaze, which Shakti met with an equally unwavering stare. Looking directly into the Baenre female's eyes, she announced, "Matron Triel, I have failed."

For a long moment, silence ruled the chamber as Triel plumbed this strange pronouncement for hidden depths.

"You did not bring Liriel with you," she said at last.

"I have not," Shakti admitted, still on her knees. "Lolth has a purpose for the princess that I do not yet fully understand."

The First Matron's crimson eyes narrowed dangerously. "You presume to speak for Lolth?"

Shakti bowed her head. "I only repeat the words her handmaiden the yochlol spoke to me."

She was rewarded with another silence—briefer this time but still potent. "Where did you encounter this handmaiden?"

"In the Abyss."

Triel's eyelids flickered. She gestured for Shakti to rise and take a seat. "Tell this tale from the beginning."

The priestess settled down in the offered chair. "On your command, I gathered powerful allies and pursued Liriel. She also had surrounded herself with strength, and our forces met in a fierce battle."

"Who allied with her?"

"Many. The humans of a distant island known as Ruathym and a band of sea elves."

Triel sat bolt upright. "A daughter of House Baenre in alliance with faerie elves? What foul lie is this?"

"No lie," Shakti maintained firmly. "If I wished to shape the truth to my benefit, would I not tell a tale more pleasing to your ears?"

The First Matron conceded this point with a curt nod and gestured for her to continue.

"Liriel fought her way into the stronghold of an illithid sorceress, ancient faerie elf ruins buried deep in the sea. She released the illithid's sea elf prisoners and led them in battle. I myself would not have believed such an alliance possible had I not seen it."

"You lost a battle to humans and faerie elves," Triel summarized, her voice dripping with disdain.

"No," Shakti responded calmly. "I lost to the power of Lolth."

The matron's tiny hands gripped the arms of her throne. "You have already proven incompetent. Beware of adding blasphemy to your faults!"

Shakti pressed on. "I challenged Liriel to nai'shedareth," she said, naming the ritual combat between two priestesses to determine which had the greater favor of Lolth.

Triel settled down, and a sardonic smile curved her lips. "A bold move," she sneered. "You are a high priestess, she is barely an acolyte!"

"She is of House Baenre, and I am not," Shakti said bluntly. "My snake whip was slain, my spells turned aside."

"The girl is not that powerful," Triel said uncertainly.

"On her own, no. But she was made Zedriniset"

The heat slowly drained from Triel's face. This word, one of the most sacred in the Drow language, was seldom spoken aloud. It was an honor and a power that every priestess secretly aspired to attain for herself and feared to see in another.

"You saw this."

"Many did. Lolth's power flowed through the Baenre daughter during the battle for Ruathym."

The small priestess digested this. "Yet you challenged her."

Shakti inclined her head in what she hoped was a suitably humble posture. "I was condemned for my arrogance to the Abyss."

The matron considered these words for many moments, examining them for the layers of subterfuge and hidden intent common to all drow interactions. When she spoke, she addressed the most obvious question.

"Yet, here you are."

"Here I am," Shakti agreed. "I was condemned for attacking a Baenre, yet the Queen of Spiders knows my heart. The priestesses of House Hunzrin have ever been supporters of Baenre. I am your servant. To punish me too harshly might cast an ugly glare of light upon the smooth darkness of your path. Lolth's handmaid tested me, and found me faithful. I was returned from the Abyss with signs of the goddess's favor."

Shakti reached into her robe and drew forth her five-headed snake whip. The skeletal heads rose, and then dipped in obeisance to the First Matron.

"This is the whip you yourself gave me," she explained. "It was destroyed in battle with Liriel and restored by the power of Lolth during my sojourn in the Abyss."

Triel regarded the undead weapon skeptically. "So you say, but any high priestess can animate the dead. You will have to be more convincing."

"Lolth's handmaid also gave me this as a token of the goddess's highest favor to House Baenre and her wish that you prosper above all Houses."

She handed Triel the soul-bubble. The matron gazed into it, but her eyesight was not the equal of Shakti's.

The Baenre matron snapped a command to her guard. The males disappeared, to be replaced in moments by a score of well-armed females. These were Matron Triel's personal guard, hand-picked for ferocity and personally enspelled for loyalty. The females formed two circles, one a few paces from Triel's throne, the other enclosing Shakti.

At a nod from Triel, all the guards drew two weapons, which they crossed with those of the females on either side. A faint hum resounded through the room as protective magic surged through the ready steel. No magic could be cast from the circle, and none could endure within it.

Triel tossed the globe toward the nearby guard. It shattered before it hit the floor, exploding with a puff of glowing, greenish smoke. The smoke drifted off and stopped just short of the humming swords. Since it could not disperse, it was slow to fade. When it cleared, all gazed in astonishment at a tall drow female standing in the protective circle. Her eyes were dazed and her hair disheveled, but her face was unmistakable.

"Quenthel," Triel said in a strange voice.

It was undoubtedly Quenthel Baenre, a powerful priestess slain years before. It could not be otherwise, for any attempt by any other drow to claim her form would be dispelled from the magical circle. Quenthel had died in battle, and her body had been returned to the city, where it was burned to ash according to the custom for honoring high-ranking priestesses. Lesser corpses were embalmed and stored, a resource to be called upon when nameless zombie troops were needed.

Burned to ash—and yet, here she stood. Quenthel was undeniably alive. There was no denying the clear sign of Lolth's favor. A powerful priestess had been returned to House Baenre!

Lolth's favor, indeed, mused Triel. One Baenre priestess returned from the dead, another favored as Zedriniset, a Chosen of the goddess!

With such powerful allies as this, Triel would never need to look far for enemies. And what of Shakti, who had been entrusted with so much honor and information by the Goddess Herself?

The Baenre matron hid these thoughts and dismissed her guard with a sharp flick of one hand. Then she turned to the two watchful priestesses, her gaze moving from one conspirator to the other—for such they undoubtedly were.

"How did you find your way out of the Abyss?"

The resurrected drow priestess stared at Triel for a long moment.

"I-I don't... know," she admitted and staggered as if she might faint. With sheer force of will she pulled herself erect. Her face took on something of the haughty mien Triel remembered.

Triel managed a smile, and said the only thing there was to say. "Welcome home, sisters."

That night, Brindlor, magically disguised as a human dock worker, shouldered his way into a crowded, odorous tavern in the dock ward of Waterdeep. He scanned the crowd, looking for a sun-browned Northman with a red beard and hard, suspicious eyes.

He found the man seated alone at a small table near the kitchen door, his boots propped up on the only other chair at the table and his fierce glare daring anyone who ventured close to try to claim it.

Brindlor worked his way back to the captain. He leaned against the wall and snagged a mug from the tray of a passing wench—a deft bit of thievery that earned an admiring nod from the red-bearded pirate.

"Busy night," Brindlor commented, speaking in the coarse language known as Common and flavoring it with the bluff accents of the wintry Northlands. He nodded at the nearby kitchen. "Too busy, I'm thinking, if'n they've taken to seating sea captains so close to the latrine."

A flicker of amusement crossed the pirate's face. "Sounds like you've et the chowder here."

"Tried it. Couldn't stomach the swill." Brindlor patted his artificially ample belly. "Ah, well. This wouldn't be the first time I made a meal of ale. And it's right hungry I am!" He jingled his coin bag and grinned. "If I'm sitting, I'm buying."

The pirate peered into his own mug and swung his boots off the second chair. Apparently he deemed the offer of free ale to be of greater value than the loss of his privacy.

"You know me as a captain," he observed. "What else are you knowing?"

"Not much," Brindlor said easily. "I worked the docks this morn, helped unload Narwhal. Saw you with the dockmaster, heard your name spoken as Ibn. They call me Wolfrich," he said, offering a massive paw.

Ibn nodded in satisfaction at the Northman's name and took the man's hand. Neither of them spoke another word until the next round of ale went down, and the one after that.

In truth, Brindlor knew a great deal about Ibn. He was a native of Ruathym, a good seaman who possessed great pride in his heritage and an equally profound hatred for elves. He was a notoriously taciturn man who would never speak three words when one would do the job. There was one exception to this habit: Whenever Ibn came ashore, he indulged in a mug or two. And the more he drank, the more he talked.

"Met one of your boys," Brindlor offered. "Leigaar. Tells a good tale, that one."

A suspicious glare furrowed Ibn's ale-flushed face. "What story's he telling now?"

The disguised drow shrugged. "Nothing I'd credit as money-on-the-barrel truth, but a fine and fancy tale for all that. Something about a tapestry of souls and a sea elf guardian."

Ibn made a sour face. "Sad to say, that's plain truth."

"Is that so." Brindlor took a long, considering pull on his ale. "You know this sea elf?"

"Know him? Only too damn well. Name's Xzorsh. Since the day I signed on with Hrolf the Unruly, the elf's stuck to us like wet knickers. Got some notion about protecting the ship, him and the elves he commands. Hrolf's gone below the waves and his ship with him, but the damn elf's got himself another reason to follow me. A drow wench, if that don't beat all."

"Really." Brindlor signaled for a fresh pitcher and poured them both another drink. "What would a sea elf be wanting with a drow wench?"

"Magic," the sailor said shortly. "He fancies himself to be a web-fisted wizard, if that don't beat all. The drow promised to find him a teacher."

Brindlor leaned back in his chair and stroked his yellow-bearded chin. After a moment of silent contemplation, he sent a sidelong glance at Ibn. "This Xzorsh is nearby?"

"Stone's throw, if'n you got a good arm. Swimming the harbor with the merfolk, last I heard."

"Hmmm. He commands many elves?"

"How many, I couldn't rightly say, but enough to turn a sea battle our way more'n once," Ibn said grudgingly.

"Well, I surely do see your problem."

Ibn earnestly tried to focus his blurry eyes. "You do?"

"A risky thing, handing any kind of weapon to a drow wench," Brindlor observed. "I've had some dealings with the dark elves. They'll all bad, mind you, but the females are the worst of the lot. They don't do anything unless it serves a purpose. Chances are she has a use in mind for this Xzorsh and his sea elf friends."

Ibn continued to stare at him with uncomprehending eyes. The drow suppressed a sigh. Perhaps he'd been over-generous with the ale.

"If it's plunder they want, no pirate between here and Lantan could compete with magic-wielding sea elves," he explained, "and no honest sailor could win a sea battle against them, if it came to that."

Ibn considered this for a long moment.

"Of course, I understand how you'd be wanting to protect the sea elf, seeing how he's a friend of yours."

Ibn was suddenly grimly sober. "No friend of mine. My duty's to the ship, and the men on her."

"And Xzorsh knows your ship," Brindlor concluded meaningfully.

The captain studied him with eyes that were suddenly clear and shrewd. "You seem mighty helpful, even for a man's got a half keg of ale in him. You got a stake in this?"

"I'd like to." He leaned forward confidingly. "I'm looking for a ship to take a cargo to the north Moonshaes. Good money in it for both of us, long as the ship makes port with no questions asked. Might be smart to cut down on the risks where we can, if'n you follow my meaning."

Ibn tossed back the rest of his ale and crossed his arms. "As long as you're buying, I'm listening."

The bells of the Temple of Ilmater sounded the second hour past midnight, releasing the penitents from their painful devotions. They staggered out into the night, indistinguishable from those who made their unsteady way home from one of the many dockside taverns. The soft clanging drifted across the Waterdeep docks and rolled out to sea, where they mingled with the whisper of unseen waves.

Ibn strolled across the dock, hands linked behind him in a studiously casual pose. He nodded to the guard, an elderly sailor nearly as taciturn as himself. Stopping a few paces away, he turned toward the sea and pulled out his pipe.

"Smoke?" he offered, holding out a small packet of the fragrant weed.

The guard accepted it, packed and lit his own pipe. The two men puffed in companionable silence and watched the moon sink toward the sea.

"Had enough of the city," Ibn commented. "A man needs to have the sea close to hand."

"Yep," the guard agreed.

"Can't sleep in them stinking inns, those flat beds. You're a man of the sea. Bet you still sleep in a hammock."

"Yep."

"Mine's on yonder ship, and that's where I'd like to settle for the night. Bends the laws a mite, that I know. Reckon it'll cost me some."

The guard held out his empty pipe to indicate the desired currency. Ibn reached into his jacket and pulled out several small packs of pipe weed. The old man studied them for a moment, then held up three fingers.

"Fair price for a night's sleep," Ibn agreed. The goods changed hands and the pirate paced quietly toward his ship.

He made his way down to the galley, and shouldered open the portal set above the water line. A wooden chest stood just below the portal. Ibn opened it and took out a hurdy gurdy, a peculiar instrument that looked like a lute but was played by turning a crank to vibrate the strings and pressing keys to produce a tune. He thrust it into the water and began to grind out a few measures of "Lolinda, She's a Lusty Lass," a tune accompanied by strange clicks and squeaks that had no meaning Ibn could follow.

It had been Hrolf's idea to use tunes and musical rhythms as signals. The boisterous pirate had had a fondness for a well-sung tale. His own singing, however, had inflicted nearly as much pain as his sword. A rare smile came to Ibn as he remembered.

Then the surface of the water stirred, and a too-familiar face popped up beside him. Ibn tossed aside the hurdy gurdy and reached for his pipe.

Xzorsh regarded the human with astonishment. Never before had Ibn used the summoning song, never had he sought audience with one of the Sea People. He hid his puzzlement as best he could and waited politely for the captain to speak his mind.

Ibn sent a smoke ring drifting toward the open portal. "I've come about the drow wench," he said at last.

The sea elf nodded and waited for the sailor to continue. Ibn seemed edgy, uneasy. Xzorsh put this down to the man's dislike of elves and his reticence to pass along a favor.

"Here," Ibn said at last, thrusting a silver medallion into Xzorsh's webbed hands. "It's about the teacher. This will take you where you need to go. Don't ask me no more questions," he concluded in querulous tones. "What I said is what I know."

The sea elf thanked him and slipped the medallion around his neck.

Immediately the familiar chill of the sea vanished, to be replaced by stone walls and too-dry air. Water puddled on the floor, but it felt thin and somehow unhealthy. Curious, Xzorsh stooped and dipped his fingers into the shallow pool. He tasted it, and his eyes widened with delighted understanding.

"Fresh water!" he exclaimed, marveling that such a thing truly existed.

"Hardly," said an amused, musical voice behind him.

Xzorsh rose swiftly to his feet and turned to face two drow males.

His first instinct was fear, and his hand flew to his weapon belt. He caught himself before drawing steel, and silently chided himself for his reflexive, narrow-minded response. Of course these were the teachers Liriel had promised him. He had not expected drow, but what other wizards was she likely to know?

The two males watched him come, and their flat, cold eyes reminded him of a shark's gaze. Xzorsh's smile faltered, and he came to a stop a few paces away.

"The gems," one of them said.

Xzorsh produced the little mesh bag given him as surety and handed it over. "These belong to Liriel. Since you know of them, I assume she offered them to pay for my tutelage. Although that's kind of her, I would prefer to pay my own way. Will you return these gems to her, and accept my word that an equal value in coin and gems will replace it at first opportunity?"

The short-haired drow responded with a thin smile. "She will get what's coming to her. I can promise you that."

There was no mistaking the drow's meaning. Or, now that Xzorsh considered it, his character. Evil rose from the drow like ink from a squid, filling the too-thin air with an almost tangible miasma.

Too late Xzorsh realized that a terrible mistake had been made. He saw the knife in the drow's black hand, noted the deft toss, the spinning approach. The thud of impact felt more like a fist than anything else. He stared at the hilt buried between his ribs.

His fading eyes sought the drow's faces. "It's true, what they say of you."

"That, and more," hissed the short-haired drow. He closed the distance between them, seized the hilt and began to twist.

The second drow stepped forward and caught his comrade's hand. He looked into Xzorsh's face, and it seemed to the sea elf that his faint smile held sympathy, possibly even warmth.

"I imagine you've heard some unpleasant things about her, as well," he said in a beautiful, musical voice.

Xzorsh nodded, and waited for this kind drow to dispel these slanders, to remove the undeserved mantle of evil from Liriel's shoulders.

Brindlor smiled gently into the dying elf's face. "Those terrible things you heard? They're completely true."

The deathsinger watched with pleasure as the sea elf's eyes filled with despair, and then emptied of everything. He looked to Gorlist and winked.

"There is more way than one," he announced, "to twist a knife."

Sharlarra swung herself down from her "borrowed" horse and took the reins in hand. She knew this forest well enough to trust her own footing better than she did the horse's.

She followed the river while the moon rose above the forest, casting flirtatious glances through its leafy veils. The savory smell of roasting rabbit led her to the campsite, which had been set at some distance from the spring.

Liriel was seated by the campfire, studying a small book by the dancing flames. She glanced up at the elf's approach. A sudden dark flame flared in her eyes, quickly extinguished. Sharlarra understood. She'd felt much the same about drow until she'd met Qilué's bunch.

"Where's your friend?" Sharlarra asked as she strode into the circle of firelight.

"Hunting. Scouting. Setting up camp." The drow shrugged, dismissing mysteries about which she knew little.

Sharlarra took the book from her and glanced at the intricate markings. She quickly handed it back, knowing better than to gaze too long upon the magical runes. "Not a familiar spell."

"I should think not! It's drow."

"The script looks a bit like the magical calligraphy used in Thay," she observed.

A shadow crossed Liriel's face, quickly dismissed. "Tell me about the Red Wizards."

"Well, they're bald ..."

The drow cast her eyes skyward. "Not much of a storyteller, are you?"

"Something tells me you've got a story of your own," Sharlarra stated.

After a moment's silence, the drow nodded. She began to speak of her first encounter with a human wizard. He had been a captured slave, a quarry she was meant to track through the tunnels of the Underdark and slay with steel or spell. In the end, her mentor was actually the one to fight and slay the human. Liriel ended the tale with an insouciant shrug, as if none of it mattered. Sharlarra got the distinct impression that she left out far more of the tale than she told.

"It's a rite of passage," she concluded. "Do you have these in Waterdeep?"

"In a manner of speaking. Young men of Waterdeep go about in groups of three and four to frequent fest houses, get roaringly drunk, and piss into public fountains. I'd have to say that your ritual is, on the whole, far more dignified."

Liriel's lips quirked in appreciation for the dark irony, but her gaze remained steady. "That's not what I meant. What of you faerie elves? How do you mark the passage from childhood?"

The elf averted her eyes. "Couldn't tell you. Each clan or settlement has its own customs."

"But surely—"

"A band of Thayan slavers caught me when I was a child. I was dragged down to Skullport and sold." She gave a quick shrug. "Hard to leave a childhood you never had."

They sat in silence for a moment. "And now you're a wizard," said Liriel.

"I know a few spells, but it's not my first profession." By way of explanation, Sharlarra held up one of Liriel's throwing spiders.

The drow's eyes rounded with astonishment, then narrowed in menace. The moment quickly passed, and she threw back her head and laughed delightedly. "Well done! I'd like to learn that trick." Sharlarra took a silver flagon from her bag and passed it to the drow. She took an experimental sip, and her amber eyes widened with surprise and pleasure.

"That's qilovestualt! How did you get hold of a drow wine?" The elf spread her hands in modest disclaimer. "You can get anything in Waterdeep, provided you've got deep pockets, light fingers, or disreputable acquaintances. No—keep it," she said when Liriel tried to hand it back.

Instantly the drow's eyes turned wary. Few people, whether they lived beneath the sky or under fathoms of stone, gave something for nothing. Sharlarra smiled a little, understanding the path her thoughts had taken. "Tell me about the drow, and we'll consider the debt paid."

Liriel lifted one snow-colored brow. "What do you want to know?" "Anything. Everything!"

A small smile curved the drow's lips. She handed Sharlarra the flask and motioned for her to take a sip. At a precisely timed moment, she said, "Well, to begin with, that wine is made from fermented mushrooms."

The elf gave a startled cough, a reflex that sent the potent beverage searing down her throat and spurting from her nose. After a few moments spent coughing and sputtering, she wiped her streaming eyes and gave a rueful smile.

"Drow humor?"

"A very tame example of it," Liriel agreed with a grin. "There aren't many ways to have fun in Menzoberranzan. Playing tricks is one of them—the more malicious, the better."

"Things tend toward chaos, do they?"

"Of course! How else would the structure be maintained?"

The elf's brow furrowed. "You maintain structure through chaos?"

"There's another way?"

She chuckled at Liriel's genuine puzzlement. "Tell me how that works."

"On the surface, it's very simple. Everyone and everything has a rank. First comes the Houses—you would probably call them families, or clans. They are ranked according to strength, with the matrons of the most powerful houses ruling on the Council of Eight. Within each House is a constant battle for rank and position. It's the same in the schools, the arenas, the guilds, the markets, even the festhalls."

"I think I'm beginning to understand," Sharlarra said. "There's constant competition within a rather rigid structure. That would account for the fine drow weapons and the fabled power of your magic."

"In part," Liriel agreed, "but bear in mind that there are two ways for a sword smith to rise in rank. One, he can work very hard and improve his craft. Two, he can simply kill the better smith." She smiled again, but this time the smile didn't reach her eyes. "That technique also requires good weapons and powerful magic."

"Good point," the elf said. "Don't take offense, but from what I've heard of the Underdark drow, it's safe to assume that the second method is the one most preferred."

Liriel's smile disappeared completely, and her amber eyes turned grave. "Where drow are concerned, it's never safe to assume anything."

"I'll keep that it mind."

They passed the flask of drow liquor back and forth a few times. Fyodor joined them, took the offered flask, and tossed back a swallow of the bitter brew without a grimace or flinch.

"How do you know anything about the Underdark drow?" Liriel wanted to know.

Sharlarra waved aside Fyodor's offer of his own flask. She had very unpleasant memories of a morning after her first flirtation with the potent Rashemaar jhuild.

"A wizard from the Harkle clan—eccentric bunch, even as human wizards go—conducted a lengthy interview with a wandering drow from your home city. Harkle wrote a treatise, which has been circulated among city leaders and leading wizards."

Liriel smirked. "Which of these things are you?"

"Both, and more besides," Sharlarra returned with mock gravity.

They shared laughter and passed the flask again. "I've had occasion to speak with Qilué. She told me a few things about the drow."

"How do you know her?"

"Through her sister Laerel Silverhand, the lady—and possibly the sole redeeming virtue—of my former master, the archmage of Waterdeep."

Liriel considered this for a moment. Her gaze shifted to Fyodor, and an expression of hope and contentment lit her remarkable eyes. Sharlarra wondered briefly what message the drow had heard in these words. With a pang of regret, she realized that she lacked the time to find out.

The elf rose to her feet and brushed off her clothes. "If you like, I can summon a gate that will take you to the High Forest and cut days from your travel."

An expression of alarm crossed Liriel's face. She told Sharlarra what had transpired in Skullport. As she listened, the elf pondered the possible ramifications of her involvement in the plight of these two fugitives. But where would she be if Laerel hadn't stood with her when she was ass-deep in sewer snakes?

Sharlarra shrugged off Liriel's warnings. "I'm not afraid of Lolth."

The drow's eyes flamed. "Then you're a fool!"

"I've heard that," she said mildly, "but at least I'm a fool who knows some useful spells."

Liriel pursed her lips, considered. "Perhaps you can help me with this."

She unrolled a tapestry and explained to what it was.

Sharlarra was doubtful but she gave it a try. Several failed spells later, a simplified legend lore spell yielded one important bit of information.

She shook his head. "This is elf magic. Ironically, it's the one school of magic I know nothing about."

"Faerie elves," Liriel said, speaking the words like a curse.

"Never heard of them," Sharlarra said easily. "We've got moon elves—they're usually ready for a good time—gold elves, about whom the less said the better, forest elves and wild elves—the lines there tend to blur a bit—and sea elves. Legend has it that there once were elves known as avariel, winged elves. There might still be some, for all I know. We've even got lythari, elves who can transform into wolves. But faerie elves?"

"That's what we call all elves who are not drow."

"Well, maybe it's time to learn some new insults," she suggested. "You want to get a moon elf's blood boiling, call him a gray elf. To really flick off a gold elf, call him a moon elf."

Liriel took this in. "There really is that much division between the elf races?"

"Stupid, isn't it?"

The drow was quick. Sharlarra saw the flash in her eyes as she caught the point, the thoughtful gleam as she considered it.

"Elf art and magic has been around for a very long time," the thief continued. "I heard that you saw the ruins of Ascarle. The elves who built it were overcome centuries ago, and the magic that lingered was altered to fit a darker purpose. It is much the same in Myth Drannor. The ancient mythal still exists, and there are many who seek ways to twist it."

"My people among them," Liriel added. Sharlarra saw the drow's quick, rueful smile, and knew that this bit of information had clicked into place. Reluctantly, she rose to leave, and with a start she realized that she really didn't part ways with the drow. Already there seemed to be a bond between them, an easy sisterhood that was compelling as it was unexpected.

"There's a hunter after you," she said bluntly. "A tall elf woman who calls herself Thorn. She's a champion of Eilistraee, which means she's got some magic to back up her weapons. Watch yourself."

"I will walk with you for a while," Fyodor offered.

Sharlarra untied her horse and led it back toward the spring. They paused in the clearing. The Rashemi threw back his head and drew in a long, slow breath.

"There is winter in the air," he commented. "Already the leaves turn to scarlet and gold. In a ten-day, many will fall."

The thief nodded. She remembered enough of woodcraft to realize the difficulty of passing unseen through a denuded woods. The roads would be crowded with caravans carrying goods to far-flung cities and villages, in preparation for the late harvest markets and the long winter that followed.

For reasons she found it impossible to name, the thought of Rashe-men stirred something inside her. Almost irresistibly, she found her eyes drawn east. She looked at the Rashemi thoughtfully.

"My offer to open the gate to the High Forest still stands."

"It is a risk," Fyodor acknowledged.

"What isn't when you're traveling with a drow?"

The Rashemi grimaced and nodded. "You understand perfectly. I wished to have private words with you for another reason. This elf you described, this Thorn. She is a Moon Hunter, and it is not Liriel she follows. The witches of Rashemen sent her after me. If I fall in battle, she will see me home."

Sharlarra nodded thoughtfully. "My people feel strongly about resting amid the roots of their homeland's trees. Thanks for telling me."

"Who are your people?"

The question, though reasonable, set Sharlarra back on her heels. "Oh you know. The People. Elves," she said lightly.

Fyodor merely smiled. "My offer stands, as well. Come to Rashe-men, listen to legends of elf maidens with amethyst eyes."

Her own gem-like eyes grew thoughtful, but she offered no response.

He watched as the elf sped through the complicated gestures of a spell. An oval of liquid magic appeared. Fyodor noted that the trees beyond were faintly visible through it. It was a marvel to him that they could walk through this veil and emerge far away.

This thought brought another to mind. "The horses?"

Sharlarra shook her head regretfully. "Two people, no more. It's the best I can do."

"No matter. We would have to lead the horses through most of the forest anyway. Would you return them to their owners, with my thanks?"

"How do you know they're not mine?"

The Hashemi merely lifted one brow. The elf grinned and swung herself into the saddle. She cantered off, the other two horses close behind.

Fyodor squared his shoulders in preparation for battle and returned to camp. To his surprise, Liriel offered no argument. She swiftly gathered up her things and followed him to the clearing.

They stepped through the iridescent gate—and into an encampment of drow females.

The dark elves reacted like birds startled into flight. Those who appeared to be sleep were on their feet in a heartbeat, weapons in hand. Dancers clad in gowns the color of moonlight dived for their swords. A tight circle formed around the two companions, and beyond that, another.

For a long moment the drow females sized up their captives. "Que'irrerar stafir la temon?" inquired one of them.

The language was similar to the drow language Liriel had spoken since birth, but the intonation was different—softer, more fluid, with gentle trills rather than hard, clicking sounds. Judging from their garb, Liriel guessed they were priestesses of the Dark Maiden. She shook her head to indicate that she did not understand and took off the medallion Qilué had given her.

One of the drow, a tall female clad in a filmy gown, strode forward and seized the medallion.

"Whom did you kill in order to get this talisman?" she demanded.

Liriel bristled at the accusation. "No one," she snarled. "Now ask me whom I'm willing to kill in order to keep it."

The leader swept a glance across her ranks. All but one stepped back. The one who lingered handed the drow a sword.

Fyodor started forward. His progress was halted by a dozen silver blades—and a burst of magic that froze him as surely as a white dragon's breath. Apparently the leader intended to take Liriel's comment as a challenge and would brook no interference or distraction. He watched helplessly as his friend drew her sword and fell into guard position.

"Dolor," the female snapped, naming herself according to the drow custom.

"Liriel."

A strange expression crossed the priestess's face, and her sword lowered just a bit. Sensing an advantage she did not quite understand, Liriel lunged.

The female spun away, light as thistledown, and responded with a lightning-quick riposte. Liriel leaped above the blade, employing her levitation ability to gain height.

A murmur of surprise rippled through the company, quickly taking on angry overtones. Fyodor's heart sank. This simple act, so natural to Liriel, had indelibly marked her as a drow of the Underdark. Few drow could bring their innate magic to the surface, much less retain it for any length of time.

The priestess was not to be outdone. She pointed her sword toward Liriel and flung her free hand toward the moon. A thin stream of light filtered through the trees in a sharply slanting stream and fell upon the drow's bare feet. She slid up the moonbeam toward Liriel, sword leading.

Liriel released her levitation spell, dropping out of range. Her opponent also leaped to the ground and landed in a crouch. She tamped down like a cat and hurled herself at the smaller drow. Liriel fell flat, rolled away. In a quick fluid motion she rose and leaped forward into a deep lunge. The other drow parried.

The moon rose high, and the silent stars watched as the deadly dance continued. Liriel fought as best she could, but the other drow was taller, stronger, more skilled. Some instinct Fyodor did not understand prompted the drow female to keep the pace fast and furious—too fast for Liriel to draw one of her many throwing weapons. Forced to react, she could never make the battle her own.

The numbness in Fyodor's hand gave way to a painful prickling. With effort, he managed to edge it slightly toward his sword. The drow females encircling him leaned in, and the tips of a dozen swords pierced the skin of his neck.

"If you move again, you die," snarled one of the drow.

The threat caught Liriel's ear. She snapped her gaze back toward him, her eyes wide with anguish and denial.

That moment of inattention was all the priestess needed. She lunged, her sword scraping along Liriel's until the hilts met and tangled.

Liriel went for a knife. The other drow seized her wrist. A quick twist disarmed Liriel and sent her weapon flying. A second twist brought her to her knees. Dolor laid the edge of her sword against the vanquished drow's throat.

A throaty growl pierced the expectant hush, and a tall, black-haired elf woman appeared in the clearing. She took in the situation in a glance then threw herself at Liriel's captor.

They rolled together. Liriel scuttled away away from battle and toward her discarded sword. The pale-skinned elf quickly overcame Eilistraee's priestess, though it seemed to Fyodor that the drow didn't put up much of a resistance.

Liriel snatched up her sword and crouched in guard position. "You and me, Thorn," she said, beckoning the elf on with one hand.

The elf woman sniffed and turned back to the priestess. "I can appreciate your concern, Dolor, but this drow is under my watch."

"Your protection?" the priestess said in disbelief.

"My watch," the elf repeated firmly. "If she needs killing—and I'm not convinced that she doesn't—the task falls to me."