TRUTH TESTING

 

Zofia held up her hand. "All in good time, Anya. First we should learn what became of Fraeni and how this silver-haired woman came to wear our Sister's mask."

"We fought a swarm of kobolds who had fallen under the spell of a thornapple haunt, and ran into the tower for refuge," Liriel said honestly. "There were other monsters, as well, and they followed us in. The witch was overcome. I took the mask from her after she fell." She looked toward Anya. "Your mother died bravely, fighting an evil foe."

Fyodor winced at this painful truth. The fallen woman had believed she was trapping and attacking a drow and a traitorous human. He wondered briefly if this was not the simple truth. If he had not brought Liriel to Rashe-men, the shadow of Lolth would never have fallen on this tower.

"Where is she now?"

"I do not know," the disguised drow said. "She disappeared. I don't know where she went."

"She speaks truly," Zofia said. "Your mother's body will return to us, young Ethran, and her spirit has never left. As for this outlander, perhaps she is who she claims to be. Who among us has not seen stranger things?"

Anya scowled. "We will see."

"I have seen the truth-testing done," Fyodor said quietly. "It can be a terrible thing. I will not permit it."

The young witch looked at him in disbelief. "What could you possibly do to stop me?"

"I could take her place." Fyodor shook his head, cutting off Liriel's protest. "It is my right to do so. I am pledged guardian to a powerful and honorable wychlaran. This much I will swear, on my sword and on my life."

"That is not needed," Zofia said gently. "You have the name of an honest man. What of the battle frenzy? You have mastered it? And you have found the Windwalker? Of course you have, or you would not have returned."

Liriel quickly removed the gold amulet from her neck and held it out. "We have no further need of the Windwalker. Fyodor's rune is carved upon Yggdrasil's Child."

The old woman's eyes lit with interest. "A tale I await with interest. Well done, Sister. No, you keep the amulet. I suspect that it is yours to wear."

"Zofia, are you very certain?" The third witch, a thin woman of middle years, spoke for the first time. "It has been many years since Sylune walked among us, and your eyes—"

"I am not yet blind," Zofia said firmly, "and I am the only one yet alive who knows the witch of Shadowdale."

She tipped her gray head to one side as she regarded Liriel. "Do you still wish to be called Sylune? Perhaps there is another name that you have come to prefer?"

It occurred to Liriel that the old woman had never actually endorsed her claim. Zofia awaited her response, her canny blue eyes giving away no secrets.

"Liriel," the drow offered.

The old witch nodded. "So be it."

Anya sent her a fulminating glare. "She still hides behind the mask. Does no one think to ask why? Perhaps she is durthan, an evil witch. If her intentions are good, let her remove the mask."

"I can only suppose that Sylune did not wish to appear before us as a ghost," Zofia said mildly. "Or are we mistaken about this, Sister? Are you still numbered among the living?"

Liriel inclined her head, not only to signify agreement but to hide the amused admiration in her eyes. The old woman was as adept at partial truths and misdirecting questions as any priestess in Menzoberranzan.

"She has the right to wear it, Anya," the witch continued. "Sylune was one of many witches to wear this mask on her face or on her belt. The mask remembers her. It forgets none who wear it."

The drow heard the hidden message. She surreptitiously brushed her hand against her skirts, moving the glove aside enough to afford a glimpse of her skin. It was not black, but a creamy pale hue only a shade or two darker than Thorn's white face.

So the mask did remember! She had imagined Sylune as a tall, beautiful drow with silvery hair. The mask, fortunately, had a more accurate version in its memory.

Now, she thought, comes the real test of its power. She tugged off her gloves and raised her long white hands to the mask, which she carefully removed. Judging by the astonishment on Fyodor's face, her magical disguise held. She gave him a reassuring smile and tied the mask to her belt.

"May I keep the mask while I am in Rashemen?" she asked belatedly.

Zofia gave the drow a sweet, benevolent smile. "You will, of course, guard it as if your life depended upon it."

"Of course," Liriel echoed. She and the witch exchanged a look of perfect understanding.

They spent that night in the tower, and in the morning left Anya behind to take up her mother's post. The remaining four boarded a Witchboat, the same sleek little craft that had brought them across the lake. They glided smoothly northward, stopping at midday at a small fishing village.

The journey was a revelation to Fyodor, and a disturbing one. He had never traveled with wychlaran before—at least, not with any but Liriel, and not in his own land. He was accustomed to the deference given them but had never given much though to the practical details of their lives.

Neither, apparently, did they. The Witchboat was met at the dock and the travelers ushered to the village tavern. There they were served a midday feast of rabbit sausage and rothé cheese with bread still hot from the morning baking. Riding ponies were brought to them without question. Fyodor took note of their brands and privately vowed to ensure their return to their owners.

"I can see why there's such a strong penalty against impersonating a witch," Liriel told Fyodor in a joking whisper. "If there wasn't, every lazy halfling pickpocket would be walking around behind a black mask."

The witches rode astride their animals, and Liriel was pleased to note that her black gown had a split skirt, covered with a long tabard. It was all she could do keep her seat on a horse with both knees clamping the beast's sides.

"Come, Wanja," the old woman said, speaking to her companion. "These young people have things to say to each other, things our old ears have long forgotten."

"Speak for yourself," the other witch responded with a grin, but she clapped her heels to her pony's sides and took off after Zofia.

"The old one is clever," Liriel observed. "She sees more than most and says much without giving away secrets. This might actually work!"

"It cannot be done," Fyodor said in despair.

"Why not? Zofia is the only one who actually knew Sylune. For reasons of her own, she is willing to let things stand. What I would like very much to know, however, is what these reasons might be."

The warrior fell silent. "She is an Oracle. No one in Rashemen sees the future as clearly as she."

"And?" Liriel pressed, sensing more.

"She is my grandmother."

The drow nodded, encouraging him to continue. After a moment, it occurred to Fyodor that she didn't automatically make the connection.

"Family is considered of greatest important in Rashemen. We form close bonds, we stand for each other. You remember when the gods walked and magic failed?"

"Yes."

The answer was terse, closed. Fyodor did not press the point, not sure he wanted to know the kind of turmoil this had caused in Liriel's home city.

"When the berserker warriors go into battle, the natural magic of our battle frenzy is strengthened by ritual. For some reason, no one could say why, this magic twisted in me. In this I was not alone," he added softly. "A few witches and some of the artisans were never right again. All were slain.

"It was deemed necessary," he said hastily, though Liriel had not condemned this harsh verdict. "The witches bond together in circles to cast their magic. One person's weakness endangers all. Some thought warriors should receive the same sentence."

"Zofia didn't agree."

"No, and because she sees more than most, the others listen when she speaks. She entrusted to me the Windwalker, one of Rashemen's great treasures, and gave me a chance to find my way home."

"Because she is your grandmother." Liriel spoke the words aloud as if she thought the exercise might help her understand what they meant. Coming around full circle, she added shrewdly, "And because she is an Oracle. Maybe she foresaw some great destiny for you."

The young man shook his head. "She told me only that I would find my own destiny, one that could change the course of Rashemen's history."

Liriel quickly made the connection. "That would be me?"

"Zofia is willing to wait and see."

They fell silent as the drow thought this over. Fyodor, too, had his own thoughts to consider.

Despite Zofia's tacit approve, he was dismayed by the deception in which he found himself. Though no untrue words had actually been spoken, a lie had been crafted, and both he and Liriel would have to live it as long as they remained in his homeland. This galled him. He himself believed in speaking simple truth, but he had seen enough of subterfuge to know that truth has a way of coming out. Attempts to conceal it usually made matters worse.

"Don't think that I'm unaware of the risk," Liriel said softly, uncannily echoing Fyodor's thoughts. "If this little game goes awry, you should call xittalsh."

She noted his puzzled expression and struggled to explain the drow concept. "In my homeland there are contests of arms, fought in special caverns to entertain those who watch. Do humans have such things?"

"We do, yes."

"Some of the fighters are slaves, others monsters, some are professional fighters who thrive on the battle, but sometimes fighting can give a drow a second chance. Let's say that two drow are caught in a conspiracy. One is undoubtedly guilty, but the other's involvement is not so clear. That drow can call xittalsh, and claim the right to establish her innocence."

"They fight in the arenas. If they win, they live," Fyodor concluded.

Liriel nodded.

"Even though they may be guilty. Even though everyone knows that they are guilty."

"They live," she said bluntly. "If we are caught, you must tell them you knew nothing of my true identity. Go on as you did before we met. Fight for Rashemen. That will make most people believe in your innocence. Win enough battles, and in time even the doubters will cease to care."

They rode for a long time before Fyodor trusted himself to speak. "Do you think so little of me to believe that I could do such a thing? There are pledges between us—pledges of honor and promises of the heart. These things I should throw away so I can keep breathing a few years more? I should betray you so I can grow old alone and die in dishonor?"

"Dishonor? Why so?"

In response, Fyodor pointed to a small, rounded hill beside road ahead. Behind it, the village of Dernovia was visible on the horizon. Smoke from the hearth fires spiraled up from behind a high stone wall. Neat fields surrounded the walls, and shaggy rothé cattle gleaned the harvested grain fields. Smoke rose from some grass-covered knolls just outside the walls. One side of the hill was flat, and a door and shuttered windows had been cut into it.

"That is the home of Stanislor the butcher," Fyodor said. "It was learned that he had deliberately weighted his scales to cheat his customers. He has lived here, apart from other villagers, since I was a boy."

"Why?"

"It is said that a man is known by three things: his sword, his children, and his word. Deception of any kind is not lightly treated."

"Then don't get caught!"

"That is not the point," he said heatedly. "Even if no one else knows of this lie, I do. It is in that knowledge that dishonor lies."

The drow shook her head in befuddlement. This was new to her—dangerously new. One thing was clear: Fyodor had risked much to throw his lot in with hers. If she were ever found out, Fyodor would be considered a traitor, and she did not fully understand what this would mean to him.

They stopped at the gate, a large arch framed by massive wooden doors and more of the fanciful carving such as had decorated the Witchboat. Liriel noted common patterns: unicorns, deer, and hunting hounds formed borders, and scenes of mountains and village were carved in manner that created an illusion of great depth. The heavy doors were closed, as were the shuttered portals near the top of the wall.

"Stay here," Fyodor murmured to Liriel. "Do not dismount, whatever happens. Cast no spells, draw no weapons. There is no danger here."

He cupped his hands and took a deep breath. "I had heard there were men in Dernovia!" he bellowed. "Who cowers behind these walls like chickens in a coop?"

Liriel's jaw fell. Despite Fyodor's warning, her hand went to the dagger tucked in her boot.

Carved shutters flew open with a crash, and a black-bearded young man thrust his head out of the portal. A fierce grin split his face.

"Walk into the Black Bear's den, will you? Come, and welcome! We're fattening for the winter sleep, and you look soft enough to eat with a spoon."

In response, Fyodor pantomimed ringing a dinner bell. The portal slammed shut, and the door flung open. The bearded man hurled himself at Fyodor like a charging bear. Several other men, all of them garbed in rough wool breeches and leather or fur vests, boiled out of the walled town close behind him.

They surrounded Fyodor's pony and pulled him down. To Liriel's astonishment, the bearded one pulled him into a fierce, back-slapping embrace. After several moments of this they thrust each other at arm's length and grinned like fools.

"You look well, Kaspergi," Fyodor said. "Imagine my surprise."

The other man snorted. "I was always the handsome one. If not for this beard, the women would stare all day long, and who would do the baking?"

Fyodor glanced back at Liriel, as if he feared this observation might raise her ire where the friendly mayhem failed. The bearded man followed his gaze. A look of puzzlement crossed his face when he noted the silver-haired woman Liriel appeared to be. He touched his forehead in a gesture of respect.

"This is Liriel, who once called herself Sylune, witch of Shad-owdale," Fyodor said carefully. "She has come to learn from Zofia."

It occurred to Liriel that the men still blocked the gate. Any males who showed such disrespect to the priestesses of Men-zoberranzan would be summarily slain. The witches, far from taking offense, smiled tolerantly at this strange reunion.

"We will talk later," Fyodor said, clapping Kaspergi on the shoulder.

More of the same awaited them as they made their way through the town. Fyodor pulled up at a snug cluster of buildings. He slid down from his horse and whistled a few sharp, high notes. Several children abandoned their play and swarmed him with a fervor that reminded Liriel uncomfortably of the recent kobold attack.

A sturdy young woman came from the cottage to investigate. She let out a glad cry and ran to Fyodor, her black braids flying. She wrapped him in a fierce hug while the children hopped around and loudly demanded attention.

Fyodor turned to face Liriel, his arm still around the woman's waist. "My Lady, I present to you my sister Vastish. Some of these children are hers. I forget which," he said with a somber face and laughing eyes. The small humans' delighted howls of protest brought a puzzled smile to Liriel's face.

The woman dropped into a low curtsey. "Wychlaran," she said politely, speaking to all three of the mounted females.

It occurred to Liriel that this was only introduction expected or needed. Fyodor's sister saw only the black gown, the mask hanging on her belt, and believed that all was known.

Zofia placed a hand on Liriel's arm. "You must greet your Sisters, then I will show you where you will stay. No outlander can enter the witches' longhouse. You will have your own hut outside the walls. That has not changed since Sylune was last among us. Fyodor will stay there, as well, but he must spend this night with his brothers. There is a new fyrra, and they have much to discuss."

Fyodor hoisted one importunate imp and propped her on his hip. He came over to Liriel and took one of her hands. This he raised to his lips. "You have only to call, and I will come."

His sister's winter blue eyes, so like her brother's, widened in astonishment. "You have become a guardian?"

He nodded, and Vastish sighed happily. "Then you will not be going to the barracks with the other men! That is wonderful news. Since the midsummer moon, I have bribed the children into bed with promises of your stories."

"There will be time for a tale or two before I must report. The others will keep for another day."

"Petyar will be pleased to see you in the barracks. He received his sword while you were gone."

"Petyar my cousin?" Fyodor echoed incredulously. "Little Petyar?"

"He is taller than you now, and eats as if he means to be every bit as broad before the tenday is done."

Brother and sister continued to chatter happily as Liriel rode off. She was intrigued by this strange reception. Fyodor had told her that in Rashemen family was important. That was clear to see. In a few moments, she had added as much to her knowledge of Fyodor as she had learned through months of travel, shared battle, and an intimacy deeper than the drow had ever dreamed possible.

His roots ran deep in this land. He had enough family to fill the Baenre stronghold, friends who welcomed him with foolish joy, and a place in the community. Clearly he was a favorite among the children. From a distance Liriel could hear his deep bass voice lifted in a silly song.

She could see him growing old here, becoming the much-loved village elder and storyteller. And family. . .

For the first time she considered this particular implication. She and Fyodor were lovers, yes, but children did not necessarily follow. Every drow female with any access to magic at all chose when she would conceive. This was a choice Liriel had never considered. There was nothing in her own family to make her look back with pleasure on childhood or anticipate parenthood with longing. What life could any child born to her and Fyodor know? Half-drow children would never find a place here or anywhere else that she could imagine.

Her pony lowered its head and plodded up the increasingly steep street. Liriel put aside these strange thoughts and focused on her surroundings. At the top of the hill was a large, long building of unpainted wood, a simple design made elaborate by huge carved panels. A steeply slanting roof crowned the building.

"The barracks," Zofia said softly, pointing to a long, low building to the left of the witchs' longhouse. "The berserkers form groups known as fangs. Each has a name. Fyodor belongs to the Black Bear lodge."

"That's appropriate," Liriel murmured.

In the courtyard were a dozen or so warriors, stripped to the waist despite the chill air. Some of them wrestled, while others shot arrows at targets propped up against bales of straw. There was much laughter and loud boasting, but none of the men drew steel or turned their bows upon each other.

"I suppose you have questions?" the old witch prompted.

Thousands, Liriel thought, but she began with one of the newest. "The males ..." She caught herself and corrected. "The men of Rashemen amaze me. How can they compete so vigorously without creating blood feuds?"

Zofia chuckled. "You have been too far to the west, and too far to the south. The hot sun addles the brain. Too much is made of too little. Here we know what is important, yes?"

The drow nodded sagely. In truth, however, she had never heard a question spoken whose answer seemed so far beyond her grasp. How could she possibly know what was valued in this strange place? It was not a question she had asked herself under familiar circumstances!

That realization hit her like a stone dropping into the pit of her stomach. How odd. She had lived for more than forty years— probably longer than the careworn Wanja—and it had never occurred to her to wonder what was truly important.

Oh, she'd privately scoffed at the constant striving and plotting that was Menzoberranzan. The intrigues that so absorbed her fellow drow held little interest for her, but what did matter?

Survival, obviously. Magic, certainly. Life without adventure was unbearably dreary. Power . . .

Her mind slid uncomfortably away from that notion. She'd had enough of that on Ruathym to last her a dragon's lifetime. Fyodor set great store by honor, and she had to admit that her faith in his steadfast ways had become a touchstone in her life. Liriel treasured the unexpected joys of friendship. These things she knew. What else could there possibly be?

"There are many kinds of truth-testing," Zofia said softly, breaking into Liriel's thoughts with uncanny timing. "Sometimes the answers matter less than the questions."

This was too much for the pragmatic drow. She threw up her hands in disgust. "Life was less confusing when I was dead."

For some reason, this amused the witch. "Welcome back, Sylune," she said with a wry little grin. "I suspect that this visit will be as interesting as the last!"

CHAPTER FIFTEEN