CIRCLES

Within the Witches' Lodge was a large courtyard walled by vine-draped trees. In the sheltered circle within gathered several of Dernovia's witches. For the first time Liriel was permitted to observe their spellcasting.

In her now-familiar guise of the tall, silver-haired Witch of Shadowdale, she watched intently as the circle of black-clad women moved through their dance, hands joined and voices lifted in chant. The pattern was intricate, the magical language unknown to her. What puzzled her most was the ability of these many women to unite not only their strength but their purpose.

Power rose from each of the masked women like steam—not quite visible, but tangible all the same. The object of the witches' focus and the recipient of the power they raised was an carved wooden staff. It bobbed gently in the air in the precise center of the circle.

One of them would wield it. Oddly enough, no one seemed concerned over who might eventually claim the prize.

Liriel imagined, briefly, how this decision would be made in Arach Tinileth, the priestess school in Menzoberranzan. Several females would die before such a treasure came to rest in one pair of dark hands.

When the casting was completed, the staff glided over to one of the masked women. The witch took it reverently in long, slender hands. When she took off her mask, Liriel bit back a curse.

Anya, the young witch who had challenged her at the border watchtower, had come to Dernovia.

The disguised drow quietly slipped out of the clearing and made her way back to her hut. She would have to deal with Anya sooner or later, but better not to do so when she was backed by the full might of the village witches.

Fyodor had not yet returned. She paced the small room and bitterly regretted the promise that bound her here. The sleepless night before finally overcame her, however, and she curled up under the fur coverlet and sank into deep slumber.

She came awake suddenly, alerted by the soft creak of the ropes holding the mattress. To her surprise, the person sitting at the edge of the cot was not Fyodor but Thorn.

The elf woman gestured her to silence. "I come with a warning," she said softly. "The Dragon's Hoard band has come to Rashemen. They seek you."

"I know," Liriel replied in the same tone. "Several of the village warriors have gone looking for them."

"There is one you should beware. He had in him enough hatred to fill seven lives." Thorn touched her left cheek. "He has a dragon tattoo here."

"Gorlist," the drow said with disgust.

"Don't dismiss him," the elf warned. "More things have been accomplished in this world by persistence than by wisdom."

"I'll keep that in mind. Thanks for the warning." Liriel swung her legs off the cot and stretched. The elf did not move.

"What?" the drow demanded.

Thorn hesitated. "I have spoken with Zofia. She told me of the tapestry you carry. I wish to see it."

Liriel grimaced. "It's not a pretty thing."

"Nevertheless."

The drow shrugged and rose. She took the tapestry from the chest at the foot of the cot and unrolled it carefully.

For a long moment Thorn studied the terrible scene. "What have you done about it?"

The accusation in her voice stung Liriel. "It's elf magic. You'd probably have better idea what to do with it than I would."

Thorn considered her for a moment. "Perhaps I do," she said slowly and rose from the bed. "Come."

The drow hissed in exasperation but fell into step behind the much-taller elf. She followed her out of the hillock—

And into a small meadow on the side of a mountain.

Liriel pulled up short and looked around in astonishment. She had studied magical transport with some of the best minds in Menzoberranzan for a period of over thirty-five human years, but she could not begin to conjure so smooth and spontaneous a gate.

She looked around. The air was thinner here and cold. A lone raven crawled across the sunset sky, and its plaintive call rang out over the valley below.

Another raucous voice took up the cry, and the message worked its way across the trees. That it was a message Liriel did not doubt for a moment.

"They are carrion eaters," Thorn explained. "They have found a dead or sickly animal, and are calling the others to the feast."

"Generous of them."

"It is what they do. It is one of the things they do," the elf added pointedly. "Sometimes a raven is just a bird. Sometimes it is far more. Do you understand this?"

Liriel remembered Qilué's avian messenger, and nodded. "They carry messages."

"And more," Thorn said softly. "My people believe that the ravens carry the souls of the dead to their afterlife."

The drow began to understand where this was going. She tucked the tapestry more firmly under her arm and strode off in the direction the birds had flown.

They came to a clearing and saw the ravens were not alone. A circle of large gray beasts gathered around the carcass of a boar. Wolves. Liriel recognized them from the pictures in one of her lore-books.

Thorn held out a hand to warn the drow back. "The ravens called the pack," she said softly. "They do that, sometimes."

This made no sense to Liriel. It was strange enough to share with their own kind, but to call large predators?

However, as she watched the wolves, she began to sense the pattern they followed. The largest male and the sole pregnant female ate first. All the others did homage to the royal pair and were in turn allowed their chance at the wild pig. The ravens ate, too, hopping forward to snatch at a morsel of meat then leaping away. No other bird was allowed. An inquisitive hawk settled on too low a branch. One of the smaller wolves jumped at the bird, which lifted off, squawking in protest.

Liriel noticed that Thorn was her regarding with speculation. "I'll try," she said testily, "but there's nothing I can do until nightfall."

"Understood."

They settled down to wait, watching as the wolves ate and slept then ate again. Little was left but the bone, and the pups carried many of those off as toys or trophies. The ravens, no nightbirds, winged off to their hidden place of rest.

Liriel spread the tapestry out on the ground. She tipped her head to the rising moon and listened for the song of distant places.

She heard first the faint music of Ysolde's drow, singing a welcome to the coming stars. Farther away was Qilué, and still farther other drow whose names she did not know. Even in the depths of her magical trance, Liriel was stunned by the number of drow who walked beneath the stars. They were not many, certainly not enough to fill an Underdark city of any size, but it was amazing that even a handful survived.

Liriel touched her palm to the tapestry and listened. There, too, was music, a terrible cacophony of sound punctuated by the shrieks of the tormented elves. Beyond that, like the edge of light around a storm cloud, was another sound, another place. The beauty of it filled the young drow with awe and desperate longing.

Tears ran unchecked down her face. Liriel was not sure whether she wept for the horror the elves experienced, or the beauty that she herself would never know.

Still in trance, she began to sing. Without thinking what she did, she tugged a dark thread from the edge of the tapestry. She twisted the Windwalker open and threaded the wool through a loop in the hilt of the tiny chisel. Using this as a shuttle, she began to weave. Her fingers, though unschooled in this art, moved unerringly through the unfamiliar dance.

She was faintly aware of the circle of ravens gathering around her. A similar circle was taking shape on the tapestry, forming a ring of power around the tormented souls. One by one, the ravens took wing. The tapestry counterparts did likewise, and she imagined that the elves slowly began to disappear from the tapestry.

Liriel slowly eased back from her dream, her mind and heart still filled with the silvery light of it. She turned to the elf, blinking in surprise at the look of awe on Thorn's stern face.

Thorn pointed to the tapestry. There was nothing left upon it but a fine-woven cloth, the pale dull color of unbleached flax.

"They're gone," Liriel marveled.

"They are free," the elf woman said softly.

A quick, furtive skittered filled the clearing. Liriel glanced up sharply. Beyond the circle of light was another, darker circle, one that seethed with movement. Countless spiders, minions of Lolth, had felt the touch of Eilistraee's magic and had come to assert another deity's prior claim.

Liriel felt no fear. So great was her joy that there was no room in her heart to provide a foothold for Lolth's call.

Thorn seemed to understand this. Her face was softer than the drow had ever seen it, and the silver braid that hung over her shoulder gleamed with reflected moonlight.

And in the nearby shadows, beyond the loathsome circle of spiders, a young witch with a new-made staff watched and wondered.

News of Sylune's return did not long remain within the walls of village Dernovia. All across Faerûn there are those whose business it is to know of such wonders and portents, rumors and lies. Chief among them were the fey women known as the Seven Sisters.

Six silver-haired women gathered in a small cottage just outside the village of Shadowdale. Their host, a tall, athletic women with long-fingered hands seemingly fashioned to dance upon harp strings, unstoppered a bottle of new wine and poured it around.

"She's not here, I tell you," Storm Silverhand asserted. "Not at her cottage, not in mine. Not anywhere in Shadowdale."

The other women exchanged worried glances. "She" was of course their sister Sylune, who had died years before in a battle against dragons and their dragoncult followers. Sylune lingered about her old home in the form of a spectral harper—an intelligent ghost who, unlike most, remembered almost all of her life and had actually managed to put much of it into perspective. The possibility that Sylune was no longer present filled them with loss and also with hope.

"Perhaps the rumors hold truth," suggested the sister who appeared to be the oldest of them. Her face was gentle and careworn, but her silvery gown was suited for royalty Impatient energy crackled audibly around a tousled beauty in a wind-rent robe. "Be sensible, Alustriel. This so-called witch is an imposter and a dangerous one. Others will hear the rumors and come to investigate. Rashemen lies very close to Algorand's borders."

"No one doubts your ability to protect the lands you rule," Qilué Veladorn said quietly.

The other women, with the exception of Laerel Silverhand, cooled visibly when the drow spoke. Qilué was their sister but in a manner almost too fantastic to credit. She was a stranger to most of them, and not many years had passed since Laerel first ferreted out their ties.

"I must agree with the Queen of Algarond," the drow sister continued, addressing the stormy woman with formal respect. "In all honesty, I confess that I feel somewhat responsible for this misunderstanding."

She told them about Liriel and Fyodor and their determination to carry the Windwalker amulet back to the witches of Rashemen.

"I'm afraid that I might have mentioned that my sister Sylune studied among the witches. What else would Liriel assume from this, but that Sylune was a drow? And what better way for a drow to gain a foothold in Rashemen than to take Sylune's place?"

The other women groaned and nodded. Dove Silverhand, a well-muscled warrior in dark green leathers, spoke up. "She will be found out, of course. The important thing is to end this drow's charade before Sylune's enemies come calling on Rashemen. What I want to know is, will this drow gather these enemies and turn them to some dark purpose of her own?"

"I have no reason to believe that she will," Qilué said firmly. "That said, although I like Liriel and believe her to have vast potential, I'm afraid that nothing good can come of this situation.

I'll send my daughter Ysolde, a priestess of Eilistraee, to get Liriel out of Rashemen before matters get completely out of hand."

The women murmured their agreement. "We're forgetting one important thing," Storm reminded them. "If Sylune is not in Rashemen, where is she?"