YESTERDAY'S PROMISES

 

“You are wrong," announced a musical, strangely hollow voice. "Here is the witch of Shadow-dale."

A pale glimmer appeared beside Liriel, spreading into a misty cloud then taking a familiar form—the tall, silver-haired woman whose face Liriel had worn since the battle of the watchtower.

The ghostly woman turned to Liriel's accuser. "Anya, daughter of Fraeni, your mother was my friend, and in her name I invoke the oath. All vows made in shared circles must be kept, all secrets hidden. The drow who claimed my name has been accepted among us by the witch who knew me best. Do you not think Zofia had good reason for this?"

The young witch's lips set in a tight line, and she sent a glare toward the old woman. The Othlor inclined her head in confirmation.

"I must do as you bid," Anya said grudgingly. "But we Rashemi have a proverb: What good can come of alliance with evil?"

"An excellent proverb, and an even better question," Sylune said. She rested a ghostly hand on Liriel's arm. "I have many questions about you. I will stay with you until I find answers. With Zofia Othlor's permission, of course."

"You will ever find a welcome here," the old woman said softly. "You have been too long away, my sister. You must find me much changed."

Musical laughter spilled from the spectral harper. "The dead do not age, dear Zofia, yet I suspect you would not change places with me."

"True enough, and truer now than in days past. It is no easy time to be a spirit in Rashemen," Zofia warned.

"Even so, I will not regret what comes of it. It will be good to see battle again," she said wistfully. She turned to Liriel. "Do you agree, drow?"

Liriel gave an ungracious shrug. "I'm none too happy about being haunted, but I suppose enduring a ghost is better than becoming one."

Fyodor looked to Zofia. "The witch of Shadowdale spoke of battle. Did Petyar bring the message?"

"And came with it," the boy said. He stepped from behind the hillock. His defiant glare challenged the older man to condemn what he had done.

"I am proud of you, cousin," Fyodor said at last. "The first duty of a Rashemi warrior is to the land, his first loyalty to the wychlaran."

Some of the ice faded from the boy's eyes. "What will you do now?"

"How well do you know the Warrens?" Liriel asked him.

Petyar found it easier to regard the toe of his boots than the face of a drow. "I often go there," he mumbled. "Why?"

"Are there back tunnels to the place where the hostages are held?"

He glanced up, and nodded cautiously. "Yes, but they are narrow. No more than one can pass at a time."

"Perfect," she said. "Fyodor and I will go with you. I have spells that can counter the spider trap. Once the men are freed, you can lead them back to the clearing outside the Warrens. That's as good a place for battle as any."

"That would be my choice, as well," Zofia agreed. Her gaze swept the circle of witches. "Go, and prepare."

The three young people set out for the Warrens at a run. When they were still some distance away, Petyar stopped beside a large dead tree stump and threw his weight against it. The log fell with a crash, revealing a dark hole beyond.

Liriel's hands flashed through the gestures of a spell, and a sphere of blue light bobbed into existence. This earned her a wondering stare from the boy. She scowled and shoved him into the tunnel, tilting her head to listen to the clattering sound of his fall.

"Not a bad drop," she concluded. "It's safe to jump."

"Little raven!" protested Fyodor.

"It wasn't that steep," she said defensively. "Even if it was, he deserved it."

The Rashemi merely shook his head and followed his cousin into the cave.

The trio rose and regarded their surroundings in the light of Liriel's azure globe. They had emerged in a large cavern. Water dripped from jagged spires of rock high overhead and ran in rivulets toward a deep ravine. Two tunnels led out of the cavern, a broad passage leading westward and a narrow opening leading to the south.

A sound like a rushing wind swept toward them from the larger tunnel, and a full battalion of drow warriors roiled into the room.

Fyodor and Petyar drew their swords, but Liriel stepped between them and the drow. She flung up one hand and issued a sharp, staccato command—a word known only to the nobles of House Baenre and the forces under their command.

The warriors came to an abrupt halt. The leader recovered his surprise first and sauntered forward.

"That's close enough," Liriel said coldly. "You have not been granted permission to approach me."

She spoke in the drow language, dropping back into her old, imperious ways with terrifying ease. Something in her manner gave the warrior pause. "By what right do you command me?" he demanded.

"You wear the insignia of House Baenre. Therefore you are mine."

His thin, cruel lips curled in a sneer. "Triel is matron mother of the First House. Who are you?"

Liriel responded by hurling a gout of magical fire at his boots. The drow danced nimbly back. "Someone who does not care for your insolence," she snarled.

"A female wizard," he muttered. "A Shobalar, then."

Liriel sent him a venomous glare. "Triel didn't pick you for your intelligence, that's clear enough, nor for your knowledge of the House you purport to serve. I was trained by House Shobalar, yes, but I am Liriel Baenre, daughter to Menzober-ranzan's archmage."

The male's smile returned in full. "You have made our hunt all the easier. It is you we seek."

As if a signal had been given, every drow with him drew a weapon. They moved as one, swiftly and silently. Not a single sword hissed as it came free of its scabbard, not a single tiny crossbow clicked as its wielder snapped it into firing position. The silence was eerie, but no less so than the precision. Liriel had almost forgotten the preternatural skill of her people's fighters. She had not, however, forgotten their subtle and devious ways.

She threw up an arm to hold Fyodor back. "As I have sought you," she retorted. "Triel took her time in sending help! Or perhaps it is you who took your time in getting here?" she added pointedly.

Uncertainty flickered in the leader's eyes. "We were told to meet Gromph's forces here."

"Zombies," Liriel said with disdain. "So like my dear father, to use expendable troops." Her gaze swept the battle-ready warriors, and she lifted one eyebrow pointedly.

"We are Matron Triel's," the leader said stiffly, "and as loyal to her as any zombie to its master."

"I don't doubt Gromph's zombies. He only purchases the best of anything, but they have a commander, yes? A high priestess?"

The drow nodded cautiously. "A high priestess of Lolth?" Liriel persisted.

"Who but?" the male said, obviously puzzled by this line of reasoning.

She let out a small, scornful chuckle. "You've heard the stories of Vhaerun, the Masked God. No male in Menzoberranzan hasn't heard them, and many dream that the rumors might be true. Some dare to do more than dream," she said meaningfully.

"We are faithful servants of Matron Triel and followers of the Spider Queen!" the soldier protested.

Liriel nodded crisply. "Good. Then you will stand with me against Shakti Hunzrin, traitor priestess to Vhaerun."

"This is not possible!"

"Then why does she travel with Gorlist, the leader of a band of drow outcasts known as the Dragon's Hoard? They are known followers of Vhaerun who make their living trading on the surface, slaving and stealing."

The drow snapped a look back at his second in command.

"I have heard of this band," the warrior replied. "Their name is sometimes spoken when the stories of Vhaerun are told."

Drow steel flashed, and the speaker's head tipped slowly to one side. The leader turned back to Liriel. "He should not have listened to such tales," he said grimly, "but before we seek out these traitors, perhaps you would be good enough to explain the strange company that you keep."

"These two?" Liriel said dismissively, switching to Common and flicking one hand toward the watchful Rashemi. "They are my slaves."

A howl of protest burst from Petyar. Fyodor slammed one fist into the boy's gut, and the cry ended in a wheezing gasp. "A thousand pardons, princess," he murmured. Fyodor spoke to Liriel, but his eyes never moved from the young man's face. "This one does not yet know when to speak and when to keep silent."

"You have dealt with him properly," Liriel said. "Tell these warriors what we will face."

Fyodor gave a concise, accurate field report.

When he was finished, the drow commander shook his head. "Too many."

"We have a wizard with us," the Rashemi pointed out.

"They have a priestess," the drow shot back, "and apparently their priestess can call upon two gods. We do not know what magic this Masked Lord may grant!"

"We Rashemi also have magic," Petyar said stoutly. "There are no male witches among us, but those men who have the gift craft wondrous magical items, powerful artifacts that any warrior can wield in battle!"

Liriel gritted her teeth and glared at the boy. Where drow was concerned, information like this was the equivalent of throwing blood in shark-infested water!

"I have seen no magic of consequence in this land," she said flatly. "Hold your lying tongue, boy, or I will cut it into three strips and braid the pieces. You," she said to Fyodor. "If he speaks again, see to it."

She turned back to the drow warriors. "You will wait here and engage in battle any drow soldiers, alive or dead, who come through that tunnel," she said, pointing. "Leave none alive."

The drow snapped a quick salute, and Liriel waved Petyar toward the tunnel. As soon as they were beyond the range of hearing, she seized the hem of the boy's vest and pulled him to a stop. "Is there another way out? A way that doesn't go through the cavern?"

Petyar spat at her boots. "So you can escape now and abandon my comrades?"

Fyodor backhanded the boy across the face. "Think before you speak, fool!" he said softly, his voice more angry than Liriel had ever heard it. "You will lead the others to the surface, and Liriel and I will draw the drow warriors and their zombies to fight this new force."

"Exactly," she agreed.

The young man did not look convinced. "And if there was no second way?"

"Then we would have to fight our way clear," the drow told him. "It could be done, but I'd rather save the men for the battle to come. There will be a battle if even one of the drow remains standing. You've made sure of that. Now go!"

The boy looked uncertainly to his cousin. "Fyodor?"

"Do as she says, and hurry!"

Petyar took off at a run. Liriel followed close behind. Her mind raced as she sped along behind him, planning strategy, listing spells.

"These newcomers might join the other drow in battle," Fyodor said.

She shot a glance back at him. "It is possible, but they belong to House Baenre, and they are accustomed to following the orders of Baenre priestesses."

"Even if the battle is won, any surviving drow will have learned much about Rashemen's defenses and magic."

Petyar came to an abrupt stop and whirled to face the others. "Now I understand what you meant," he said in an appalled whisper. "I should not have said what I did about Rashemen's magic. From my words they might conclude that Rashemen is worth pillaging, perhaps even conquering!"

"We can't let them return to Menzoberranzan," Liriel acknowledged.

The boy's consternation turned to puzzlement. "You would lead them into battle, knowing that you must later slay them?"

"They won't take it personally," she said. "They're drow. They expect allies to turn on them."

Petyar turned helpless eyes to Fyodor. The warrior reached over Liriel's shoulder and gave him a shove. "Remember the men held by these drow, and go!"

The moon was high when Liriel and Fyodor climbed out of the tunnel. Petyar and the freed Rashemi warriors awaited them. All stared at her for a long moment before the fyrra ordered them to join the forces gathering in the clearing.

Treviel fell into step with the pair. His gaze flicked from Liriel to Fyodor, and he shook his head.

"She'll turn, my son. No doubt the others already have. There are more drow down there than rats in the sewers of Immiltar."

"She will stand," Fyodor said firmly.

There was no more time for talk. The mountains were suddenly alive with dark forms. A silent army marched from the mouth of a nearby cave. Drow females, larger and stronger-looking than the males who had ambushed the scouting party, advanced in grim precision. Moonlight gleamed on their bald pates and ready swords but found no answering glimmer in their dead eyes.

"Zombies," Fyodor whispered. The memory of his last battle on Rashemaar soil flooded back in full.

A sharp pain exploded in his thigh and jolted up his spine. He dived forward and rolled to one side, coming up with his black sword in hand.

The drow female whose life he had spared regarded him with contempt. The point of her long, slender sword was wet with his blood. She snarled something at him and beckoned him to come closer.

He glanced around for Liriel, but she had already been swept away by a fierce battle with two of the males.

The drow female advanced on him quickly, Her sword slashed the air in a dazzling display of speed and grace, taunting him with her superior skill, flaunting the promise of death.

Fyodor waited, hating what he must do. The beautiful drow lunged at him. He blocked the drow's attack with a slow, clumsy parry, one that drove her sword down toward his thigh. Contempt flared in her red eyes, and she leaned into the stroke.

Fyodor was no longer there. He spun away from the contrived blunder and swung his sword in a circle—a move many times faster and more fluid that his first. He smacked the drow hard with the flat of his sword and sent her sprawling.

An arrow sang past him and buried itself in the base of the fallen drow's neck. She twitched once and went still.

Thorn ran past him, nocking another arrow. This she aimed at one of the drow males who fought Liriel, backing her away from battle and toward the caves. Liriel dodged his falling body and tore the arrow free. This she plunged into the throat of her second opponent. With a quick nod of thanks, she raced off toward the hillside where the witches stood.

Another male stepped into her path. Liriel kept running, casting a simple heat-metal spell as she went. The drow dropped his sword and reached for his dagger. Consternation flooded his face when he realized it was not there.

"Looking for this?"

An elf woman with red-gold hair stood several paces behind him, a smirk on her face and a drow dagger in her hands. Shar-larra gave the dagger a mocking little shake and tossed it to Liriel.

In one smooth movement Liriel snatched it from the air and sent it spinning back toward the male. It slammed into his throat. His mouth moved around a drow curse, but only blood emerged. As the light faded from his eyes, he lifted one hand and in silent drow cant jerked out the curse he could not speak:

Lolth take you.

A shiver went through Liriel. She tossed her head, shaking it off, and looked for the elf, but Sharlarra was already off. She ran like a deer, weaving among the roiling throng with a small, hooked knife in one hand and a sword in the other. Wherever she went, hamstrung zombies toppled and fell.

Over the sound of battle came a terrible sound, a keening wail that would have given pause to a banshee. The cry grew in power, taking on the harsh, irregular rhythm of a drow chant. It was like no song Liriel had ever heard, but she recognized the power of a deathsinger's magic.

Dozens of zombies that had been reduced to a crawl by Shar-larra's knife stood up and resumed their advance. Those that had been cut apart by Rashemi swords retrieved their limbs—or someone else's—and pressed them back into place. They came on, moving inexorably toward the place where the witches stood.

Geysers of steam burst from the soil in the midst of that orderly advance. The rock itself stirred, flowing upward into a roughly human form—or at least the top half. A crudely hewn head, massive chest, and long, thick arms rose from the stone. A rocky fist hurled forward and shattered a zombie skull. Other, similar constructs took shape, and soon a score of stone warriors battered the advancing army.

A shout of triumph rose from the Rashemi warriors, greeting the appearance of the rock elementals.

Liriel could still hear the deathsinger's chant. So, apparently, could the zombies. They rose, and healed, and came on. Death-singers did not just celebrate death: they commanded it!

Liriel looked around for the source of the song. On a nearby ledge stood a male drow, flanked by two fighters. His many braids swung this way and that as he swayed in time to his own chant. A large ruby gleamed in his forehead like a third eye.

On impulse, Liriel reached for the Windwalker and called forth the powerful spell stored there—a spell that required as its material component a large and valuable gem.

The deathsinger's wail rose to a shriek of mortal agony. He clawed at his head, raking furrows in his own flesh. Suddenly he went rigid, and his form began to expand like that of a berserker entering frenzy.

The drow exploded in a spray of gore, shattering from within. A large ruby statue stood in his place. The golem backhanded one of the guardian drow and seized the sword hand of the second. It casually threw the dark elf from the ledge and made its descent with a crashing leap. The golem waded into the zombie throng, pushing them back toward the land-bound rock elementals.

Fyodor saw this from where he stood and fought, and a faint smile touched his face. It was well that Liriel had not promised to refrain from raising golems.

He caught her eye and raised his sword in a quick salute. She gave him a brilliant, fierce smile and continued fighting her way toward the witches.

From the vantage of a nearby cave, Gorlist watched the course of the battle. Jerking himself back from the sight, he paced and snarled like a caged cat. He slammed a hand into the stone wall, ignoring the blood that flowed from his torn knuckles.

"Damn her!" he snarled. "Damn her to the deepest depths of the Abyss!" Foam flecked his pale lips, and Shakti, watching him closely, realized that his mind had slipped the last leashes of sanity.

Gorlist drew his sword, preparing to leap into the combat. Shakti started forward.

"No! Wait! Wait for—"

Her words were cut off as something hard slammed into the back of her head. Her red eyes glazed and rolled up.

Thorn stepped from the shadows and shoved the stunned priestess aside. Shakti hit the wall hard and slid down to the damp stone floor.

"Now," snapped the elf fighter, "let's continue the discussion we were having earlier."

Liriel raced toward one of the elementals. The stone guardian began to shiver, vibrating faster and faster. The drow took refuge behind a rock just as the creatures shattered. Shards of rock soared over the battlefield as if they had been shot from a tre-buchet, arching toward the witches. The women met them with a single soprano shout. Stone clattered against an invisible wall and slid down to form a rough stone wall around their position.

Liriel scrambled to her feet, staring in disbelief at the place where the elemental had stood. She knew that spell! She had studied it as a girl with the Shobolar wizards. A relatively simple spell, it was the sort of thing that one of Triel's warriors might know.

She glanced toward the eastern sky. The crimson rim of the sun edged over the mountains, turning the snowy peaks into a silent tribute to the night-spilled blood. Day had come, and yet the drow fought on undeterred, and their magic still held.

Drow magic on the surface. This wasn't possible!

Oh, but it is, my little Windwalker.

The drow stopped dead. She knew that voice, though she had heard it only once before, mockingly repeating Fyodor's words, a wolf is always a wolf.

Her hand went to the Windwalker amulet, the magical trinket that allowed her to bring her magic to the surface.

Yours? taunted the beautiful voice. Perhaps you forget that what was 'yours' was first mine.

A terrible possibility began to burn into Liriel's mind. "No," she whispered.

Oh, yes. The amulet is more powerful than you dreamed. It can hold the power of this land, and the spirits who act in league with these witches. The spirits are scattered, sundered. Yield to me, as you did before, and we will command them with a single voice!

Even as Liriel shook her head in vehement denial, she knew what must be done. Once before she had called a wandering spirit into the Windwalker and sent it safely home. In doing so, she had healed Fyodor of his uncontrolled rages. If the amulet was truly that powerful, could she do this on a greater scale?

And more important, could she keep such power from Lolth's hands?

She ran toward the witches and vaulted over the tumbled stone wall. Two groups of six stood in linked spellcasting, commanding airborne whips that lashed at Triel's forces. Zofia stood between the two groups, directing their efforts.

Liriel hurried to the old witch, holding out the Windwalker. "What one witch knows is known to all. You said that I would bind and break, heal and destroy. Help me!"

The witch took Liriel's small black hand without hesitation. "One circle," she said, reached her free hand out toward her friend Wanja.

The hathran gripped the old woman's hand in her own. One after another, the witches joined hands. The circle went around and stopped with Anya. The young witch hesitated only a moment before she reached her hand out to the drow.

The moment their fingers touched a surge of power went through Liriel, a magic as great as any she had known under Lolth's sway. She opened her mind to the Windwalker and the drow magic stored within.

A frigid wind buffeted her, whipping her hair around her and chilling her until she felt certain her skin must be a gray as a bheur's. None of the witches was touched by the storm. All its fury was focused on Liriel as the goddess tried to claim her and take for herself this power.

This land.

But Liriel was not alone. The will and power of the witches lent their strength to hers. Their collective will thrust the goddess aside, as a circle of lamplight pushes back the darkness.

Liriel shook off the debilitating chill and formed in her mind an image of Yggdrasil's Child, the mythic tree whose roots ran deep, whose branches were broad enough to encompass all life.

There was magic deep in the bones and marrow of this world, magic she knew well. She reached down to it, strengthening the ties she had inadvertently created when she carved her own destiny on the Ruathym oak.

Next Liriel reached for the heart of Fyodor's homeland. The song of Rashemen began as a whisper, swelling to a mighty chorus that filled her mind with its powerful cadences. She saw the recognition on the faces of the witches, and the wonder. For the first time these women heard the song of the land they served.

A small whispery soprano took up the melody. Liriel's gaze went to the singer and linked to Anya's awestuck eyes. The young witch squeezed her hand, and her heart—as open to Liriel's gaze as her own—welcomed her one sister to another.

Other witches joined in the song. Still in a handclasped circle, they began to dance, and the ancient spellcasting they had learned as maidens kept perfect time to the song.

The waning moon had not yet set despite the coming of day. Using the magic that Qilué had taught her, Liriel reached out into the moonlight, listening for the song that was unique to each place. A silvery glow surrounded her as she reached out with the moonmagic of the Dark Maiden. She heard the song that was Ysolde, daughter of Qilué, and the priestesses with her. To her surprise, they were very close. Liriel reached out into the forests and sent out a silent summons.

The winding of a hunting horn rang out from the wooded slope and bounded from mountain to mountain. The remnants of Gorlist's band fought with renewed ferocity.

Silver arrows streaked down from nearby trees, and a ringing chorus of female voices rang above the sounds of battle. Ysolde ran down the slopes with her sword held high. Behind her raced several of her maidens, all lofting bright swords and emitted the eerie, ululating cry. Their hair shone silver-bright in the dawning day.

"More of the demons coming!" roared Treviel, pointing with bloodied sword toward Ysolde's band.

Fyodor seized the fyrra's shoulders and spun him about. The older man went rigid with shock at the sight before him. A drow danced among the circle of spellcasting witches.

"That dance is a summons to the guardians of the land. This— this!—is what Mother Rashemen sends?" Treviel murmured.

"Tell the men not to attack any of the silver-haired drow women. Tell them!"

The fyrra hesitated. This advice went against everything he knew as truth or even sanity. Yet he could not deny what his eyes told him.

"This drow is truly wychlaran?" he asked.

"That and more," Fyodor said softly.

He looked toward his dearest friend, her small hands entwined with the pale fingers of Rashemaar witches, her eyes fixed upon things he could not see, and a vision of his own came to him. Through the Sight that was his heritage he glimpsed a golden-eyed raven— the spirit form of the girl his destiny and heart had chosen.

The raven-spirit sent forth a call, a mighty summons as familiar to Fyodor as the sound of his sister's voice. He felt the power of that summons, for once his own wandering spirit had followed it to the Windwalker. He was not at all surprised when the ghosts that haunted the edge of his vision stirred and moved toward the raven's call. He did not marvel when spirits rose from the trees and rocks and waters to join in the powerful spell of binding.

"She is wychlaran and more," he repeated firmly. "She is the Windwalker."

"You're Zofia's kinsman," Treviel said, accepting Fyodor's vision. He lifted his voice and began to roar out the song that sped the berserker transformation. Here and there the warriors took up the ritual.

The entranced drow heard the familiar song and drew it into the dancing circle. Fyodor's quest had been tied to the Windwalker, and echoes of his own spirit journey lingered in the mighty artifact.

The witches took up the song that was begun on Ruathym, when Fyodor unleashed the hamfarrig magic within, and the seagoing fighters of Ruathym became once again the legendary wolves of the waves.

Power flowed from the witches into the singing berserkers. The rage came over them swiftly. Fyodor was the first to throw down his sword and rear up on two strong, black-furred legs. A blue-eyed bear roared into the thick of battle, tossing aside zombies and living drow alike with swipes of his massive paws. Petyar changed, and a long-limbed brown bear galloped toward a beleaguered Rashemi. The clatter of Rashemaar swords against stone echoed through the clearing as one after another the men dropped their weapons and took on their true berserker forms. Before long every man of the Black Bear lodge fought with the form and fury of his totem animal.

In some corner of her mind, Liriel was aware of Sharlarra darting through the battlefield, collecting the discarded weapons. These she took to the edge of the battlefield where grim-faced women took up swords their husbands and brothers had dropped, and children stood waiting to leave childhood behind forever. The elf handed out the weapons, and all Rashemi who could hold a blade went to fight beside their berserkers.

The drow reached out to Thorn, felt the powerful dual nature of the elf-wolf—and a depth of pain she would not have thought the stoic hunter capable of feeling. A lone voice, a wolf's plaintive howl, rose to the moon in unwilling solo. With all her heart, with all her being, the exiled hunter longed for a pack.

Liriel brought to mind the sundering of the tapestry and the healing circle of ravens that had guided the spirits of the captive elves home. Little raven, she thought. Fyodor had named her well. Following the example of her namesakes in this world and the one beyond, Liriel called the wolves.

With one voice, the witches and drow sent Thorn's plaintive wolf-song out into the surrounding mountains. Lithe, silvery creatures slipped from the forest as the lythari came to battle. Thorn's people, if just for this one time, would fight with her as a pack.

Packs of natural wolves came as well. With intelligence remarkable for forest creatures, they fell upon fallen zombies, dragging them toward the ravine.

A booming crackle came from the forest, and the thud of titanic steps. Cries of mingled fear and triumph rose from the villagers as a fifty-foot monster burst from the trees. Feet the size of hillocks slammed down as it stomped the zombie army, crushing the undead creatures into the soil. The wood man, legendary protector of Rashemen, had answered the song. The battle was over, and the surviving drow fled into the forest.

Power flowed through Liriel, burning her as if somehow the blood in her veins had turned to the acid venom of a black dragon. She began to sway on her feet. One task remained, she told herself.

But the song began to slip away, driven off by the terrible fire kindling over Liriel's heart. Time stopped, caught and immobilized by the searing agony. The stone beneath Liriel's feet seemed to turn molten and drift away. Vaguely familiar shapes took form in the dense gray mist, but Liriel was beyond knowing or naming them. Power swept through her, terrible power that merged the sun's fire, the crushing weight of stone, the screaming force of wind, and the immortal anguish she had sensed in the displaced elven souls woven into the tapestry.

She could not say when the agony peaked or when she could no longer bear it. It washed over her like waves of the sea or echoes in an Underdark cavern. Eventually she began to sense that the waves were receding, the echoes drifting into silence.

Someone slapped her awake none too gently. Liriel cautiously opened one eye. The sun was fully risen, and her chest burned with heat every bit as fierce. She looked down. The Windwalker hung over her heart, its gold blackened and its magic silenced.

Zofia took Liriel's hand in both of hers. Her aged face was radiant with joy. "The ghosts are free. The link between spirits and land is healed."

Liriel thought of the drow magic and the horror she had inadvertently unleashed upon the surface. "What about the other link?"

"Strong," the witch said somberly.

The drow buried her face in both hands. "I thought only of myself. I never once thought this could come of it!"

Zofia reclaimed Liriel's hands in hers, and her blue eyes gazed earnestly into the drow's. Her face showed deep concern but no condemnation.

"What you did was not done alone. When one thing is bound, another is broken. When one thing is healed, another is destroyed. This is the nature of magic and of all life. Your sisters know this."

She looked up at the black-robed women. They nodded silent agreement.

Liriel sat bolt upright, ignoring the wave of vertigo the sudden movement caused. "Lolth spoke to me of this. If she would speak to one, why not another?"

She pushed herself to her feet. "There was a priestess with the drow, a female who fought me before over the goddess's favor. If Lolth speaks to this priestess, the drow of the Underdark will know everything!"

"Have you any reason to think that they don't already know?"

Liriel nodded grimly. "These warriors were sent by my father and his sister. They are among the ruling elite of the city in which I was born. These warriors were their personal troops," she stressed.

"So they wish to keep this secret to themselves," Zofia reasoned.

"It will come out in time," the drow said with the surety of long experience. "Sooner, if Gorlist and his band learn of it."

She looked around for Fyodor. A black-furred bear paused in the act of savaging a drow warrior, looking up as if it sensed her seeking thoughts. She gestured and headed for the forest, her legs becoming steadier with each step.

An unseen presence went with her. The ghostly woman whose form Liriel had worn for many days walked beside her, and her gait was no steadier than the battered drow's. Sylune was deeply shaken by what she had witnessed. In many ways she deeply regretted her impulsive journey to Rashemen. She'd reconciled herself to her death, but it was difficult to walk unseen through a land she had known as a living woman, to see Zofia, who had been like a sister, as a powerful but aging woman.

Sylune had never been an ordinary woman, and she was no ordinary ghost, but she, too, had felt the call of the Windwalker and the cool brush of ghosts and spirits as they passed her on their way into the powerful circle.

She could have been part of that. Perhaps her magic would have changed the outcome, shattered the link between the Underdark and the surface rather than strengthening it.

Perhaps. Even one of Mystra's Chosen did not know all of magic, nor did a ghost understand all there was to know of the Afterlife. If Sylune had heeded the Windwalker's call, what might have become of her?

The ghosts and spirits released with the Windwalker's greatest and final task had dispersed, each going to the place it belonged, the place it most wanted to be. Where would she, Sylune, have gone?

Most likely she would have returned to Shadowdale and resumed the existence she'd known for years: a spectral harper, more solid and sentient than most ghosts. Perhaps she would have returned to life. Or would she have moved on at last?

For a moment Sylune allowed herself to hear the poignant call of her goddess, to feel the warmth and healing that would change this half-life into something immeasurably better. Joy and pain filled her in equal measure as she contemplated what might have been and what might yet be.

At the end, Sylune did what she had always done. She chose duty.

With a sigh, the witch of Shadowdale turned her silent steps homeward, and left Rashemen to the living, and to the spirits who were as much a part of this land as stone and sky.

Sharlarra saw the drow girl leave the battlefield, walking unsteadily at the side of an enormous black bear. Her first impulse was to follow, then she remembered her own guardian animal.

The elf sprinted toward the place where she'd left Moonstone half-hidden among the trees. Dread filled her. She'd heard the swift-spreading stories about the Windwalker and the powerful magic it had drawn from summoned ghosts and spirits. What if Moonstone had been among them? The thought was beyond bearing. There was more than a comrade's bond between her and her horse: there was a soul-deep recognition. Sharlarra remembered little of her early life or her people, but she knew in her blood and bones that the ghost horse was a link between her and her forgotten ancestors.

She whistled for the ghost horse and was rewarded with a crescendo of cantering hoofs. Sharlarra watched in puzzlement as a tall, silver-gray horse, its black mane and tail nearly sweeping the ground, came running toward her.

Realization struck the elf like the effects of too much bad brandy. Her legs gave way, and she sat down hard on the forest floor.

"Moonstone?" she breathed.

The horse's strangely expressive face registered mild exasperation, as if to say, "Who else?" He bobbed his head, inviting her to climb onto his back. The elf scrambled up. Together they cantered off in search of trouble.

Liriel caught sight of a tall, slender drow female ahead, running lightly through the underbrush. She cupped her hands to her mouth and called, "Ysolde!"

The drow turned toward Liriel's voice. "We pursue a priestess of Lolth," she called. "Join us."

With that, she turned and disappeared into the shadows. Liriel heard the unmistakable hiss and crack of a snakehead whip and the ululating cry of the Dark Maiden's warriors as they ran to aid one of their own.

She glanced down at Fyodor, still in bear form. He had taken advantage of her stop to rest, settling down on his haunches and panting like a hound run too long and hard. His muzzle was stained with blood, his thick fur damp and matted.

Deep foreboding filled the drow. She ran her hands over her friend's bear form and found the gashes where drow steel had parted the thick hair-and-hide armor. Berserkers never felt their wounds during battle frenzy, never felt cold or thirst or weariness. The fact that Fyodor needed to rest told her he would soon change back to his own form. Weakened by the frenzy, wounded as he was, he would need healing.

"Go back with the others," she told him. The berserker rose, responding instinctively to a wychlaran's command.

Liriel watched him plod off, noting the weary, limping shuffle. Her heart ached for him, but there was nothing more she could do. She turned and ran along the path Ysolde had taken.

The sounds of a whip led her to the bank of a stream. She skidded to a stop.

Shakti Hunzrin stood over the body of Qilué's daughter, wielding her whip. A trickle of blood ran down her face from a wound on her scalp, but her mouth was twisted in malicious triumph. Skeletal snakes rose and fell, their bony jaws and blood-soaked fangs diving again and again.

Liriel called the priestess's name. The beating stopped—too late for Ysolde—and malevolent crimson eyes settled on Liriel's face.

The surrounding underbrush parted, and several dark maidens stepped into the clearing. Shakti gave a shriek of frustration and struck the ground with the whip. The pebble-strewn soil parted, and she disappeared into the small chasm. Just as swiftly, the escape tunnel closed, and a thin trickle of Ysolde's blood collected in the fissure.

Two of the priestesses knelt beside Ysolde's battered form. One of them looked to Liriel with hate-filled eyes. With a start, she recognized Dolor, the priestess she had battled in the High Forest.

"I should have killed you then," the priestess said coldly. "First Elkantar, now Ysolde. How much grief must Qilué bear on your behalf?"

Liriel had nothing to say. Unshed tears burned in her eyes as the drow priestesses shouldered their slain leader and disappeared into the trees. Grief filled her: for Ysolde, the first priestess of Eilistraee she'd ever met, and the first living being to welcome her to the surface world. For Qilué, who would live on without the joy and comfort to be found in the company of those she loved. More unexpected was grief for a dream that had died before Liriel understood that she harbored it: the dream of finding a place for herself among the priestesses of Eilistraee.

The followers of the Dark Maiden might revere Eilistraee, but they were still drow. No one could hate more bitterly, or cling so persistently to a grudge. Liriel suspected that she would find no welcome from Qilué and her followers.

Perhaps Eilistraee herself would accept her. The goddess had shown her favor to Liriel more than once. And what of the moonmagic Liriel had cast, the sound of moonsong that echoed through her senses still? Surely that was sign that the goddess had not turned away! Perhaps she could live as Thorn did and find a solitary, goddess-blessed purpose of her own.

As if in response to her thoughts, a wild cry rose from among nearby trees, a voice that was not quite elven. She took off toward the sound and soon picked up the clatter of steel.

She leaped the tangle of roots that stood in her way and burst into the clearing. Her eyes took in Thorn in battle against Gorlist. The drow warrior caught sight of her and stopped in mid-lunge. He quickly recovered and stuck aside Thorn's riposte with a brutal slash. He shouldered past the elf woman and lifted his blade overhead to catch and parry the strike she aimed at the back of his neck.

Liriel thrust out one hand, warning Thorn back. "Go hunt down some of the others," she said. "This battle is mine to fight, and it has been long in coming."

"Too long," Gorlist snarled. He crossed the distance between them in a running charge, holding his sword high overhead and screaming with a fury too long repressed.

She got her sword out in time to haul it overhead with both hands. The blades met with a force that sent her staggering backward.

Gorlist pressed his advantage. He thrust in hard with a high lunge, deftly disengaged from Liriel's parry and struck again a few inches to the side. The tip of his sword thrust hard against Liriel's breastbone, where the Windwalker rested over the mark it had burned deeply into her skin The amulet saved her, but she gasped in pain.

Wild, triumphant laughter burst from the warrior. He slashed his blade across one shoulder, cutting through her shirt and tracing a long, stinging line across her shoulder.

"Now you are marked," he gloated. "Your first scar. Let's see how many more you can bear before you die." Spittle flew from his lips. His sword flashed up toward her face. Liriel managed a high parry that turned his blade aside. It skimmed through her hair. Gorlist wrenched it free, tearing a lock from her scalp.

"That's another," he said as he came in again.

The two drow danced along the stream bed, their swords clattering in a deadly duet, but the long night and the powerful spellcasting had drained Liriel's strength. She felt as if she were moving through water or slowed by a nightmarish lethargy. More than once the vengeful warrior got past her guard.

His blade skimmed the knuckles of her sword hand, opening a long red line. Blood poured over her hand and the hilt it gripped.

Gorlist leaped into a deep, lunging attack. Liriel parried, knowing what was surely to follow. As she expected, he moved his sword in a small but powerful circle, twisting the sword from her wet hand. He kicked the falling sword and sent it spinning into the stream.

Liriel dived under his next attack and rolled aside, reaching for the throwing knives in her boot. She threw these at the advancing drow. He batted them aside and kept coming.

Again she rolled, grabbing and throwing whatever knife came to hand. Gorlist struck them down with contemptuous ease. The cold waters of the stream closed over her, shocking her into full awareness of her situation. Her weapons were gone, her spells all cast.

She leaped to her feet and faced her enemy with defiant pride. It was all she had left.

An enormous black bear paused at the forest's edge, gazing out over the battlefield with pain-clouded eyes. The rocky ground was littered with the bodies of the slain, and the wheeling multitude of ravens formed dark clouds against the morning sky.

The bear's wounded paw gave way, and he stumbled to the ground. Fyodor felt the hard earth beneath his hide and the chill embrace of Rashemaar soil against his skin.

Naked and bleeding, chilled to the very bone, he pushed himself away from the ground and looked about for something to cover himself. Not a difficult task, since the berserkers' clothing had all torn away with the coming of the change. He found a pair of boots—judging from the size, his cousin Petyar's—and a shirt and breeches. The lacings along the front of the shirt and both sides of the breeches had been torn away when their owner took on bear form, but that presented no problem. By Rashemaar custom, all warriors' garments were fashioned with a second pair of laces just below, in honor of the time when berserkers changed form at will.

Fyodor threaded and tied the second laces as quickly as his shaking hands would allow. He pulled on Petyar's boots and looked around for his sword.

A few weapons littered the ground, Rashemi and drow alike, but he reached for none of them. According to tradition, the black sword would be the last he wielded.

He looked for Liriel, his gaze following the black-robed witches as they moved with the other women around the field. She was not among them.

As the haze of his battle frenzy receded, he remembered when and where he'd last seen his friend. A priestess of Lolth awaited her, and so did a deadly drow swordmaster. She had bidden him leave her.

And he had left.

Fyodor turned and stumbled into the forest. He had no strength, no sword. There was nothing left to him but the drow girl he loved and the knowledge that he need never leave Rashemen again.

The water beside Liriel exploded upward, reforming in the familiar blue shape of the genasi. Azar gave the drow a fierce smile, and the light of insanity burned bright in her eyes. She showed Liriel the sword Gorlist had tossed into the water.

"The illithid wanted you dead," she said. "Live to spite her!"

Liriel had no time to respond, no time to claim and lift the blade. Gorlist's running charge was almost upon her. She did not see Fyodor streaking toward her, moving with the preternatural speed granted by his berserker frenzy.

The young Rashemi thrust himself between the girl and the warrior, accepting the thrust meant for Liriel. Drow steel sank deep and true. Fyodor fell heavily to his knees, and the strength of his final frenzy slipped from him like a sigh.

Liriel's keening wail tore through the clearing. She hurled herself at Gorlist, tearing at him with her nails and teeth like a wild thing. They fell together, but the stronger male quickly rolled her beneath him.

He captured her furious hands and pinned them above her head. Holding her captive with one hand, he reached in his belt for a knife and raised it for the killing stroke.

He froze, hand uplifted and neck chorded with an unvoiced scream. A crimson fountain spilled from his open mouth, and the light of hatred at last faded from his eyes. He fell slowly to one side and lay with Liriel's sword impaling his throat.

Azar stood over him. "The illithid wanted you dead," she explained to Liriel, "and so did this dark male." She extended a slim blue hand to the drow girl.

Liriel took it and allowed the genasi to pull her to her feet. She ran the few steps to Fyodor's side and fell to her knees beside him. Dimly she was aware of the clatter of horse's hoofs, and of Sharlarra's bright head close to her own. "What can I do?" the elf said softly.

The drow met her eyes. "He had a sword—a black blade without an edge. Find it and bring it here."

The elf woman leaped to her feet and onto her horse's back. Moonstone raced toward the battlefield as if sensing the time for this task was swiftly running out. Sharlarra backhanded tears from her face and scanned the field.

Finally her eyes settled on a sturdy woman of about thirty years of age. The woman's black braids were unraveled, her kirtle stained with blood. Two small boys clung to her skirts, and a black sword rested on her shoulder.

Sharlarra pulled up beside the woman. "Liriel sent me to find Fyodor's sword. Don't ask me why. Is that it?"

A bleak expression filled the woman's winter-blue eyes. "It is, and I don't need to ask why. A warrior of Rashemen always dies with his sword in his hands."