Chapter 22
Deeper

In the dark hours before morning, the shaman’s daughter crept down to the shore and dragged her small boat off the beach. The familiar signal had been left the night before, the strange pattem of pebbles and shells indicating that once again Dagmar was required to meet with one of the creatures who held captive that which was dearest to her heart.

She hadn’t rowed far beyond the cove when a pair of slender, webbed hands seized the rim of her boat. Dagmar barely had time to draw in a startled gasp before the creature leaped in and seated himself across from her. The little boat rocked wildly as Dagmar stared at one of the sea elves her nets had recently ensnared. She recovered her wits quickly and dove for the fishing knife at her feet-a thin blade longer than her forearm.

But the elfwas faster still. He seized her wrist with one webbed hand and hurled her back onto her seat. “I like this no better than you do,” he said with cold disdain. “But there is news from Ascarle. Listen well, so I need not look at you any longer than I must.”

“At our last meeting, you promised vengeance against me for ensnaring you!”

“If I acted only to please myself, I would have slain you that day and relished the deed,” the sea elf responded. “But the powers of Ascarle wish otherwise. You do your job well enough, and the failure of the raid at Holgerstead is not laid upon you. In other matters, however, you have been too diligent. Leave off the kelpies; there are far too many in these waters. I myself dodged one—and the human she was in the process of drowning--0nly to be caught by another a few lengths away.”

The color drained from Dagmar’s face. “We were so close!” she whispered. “The day we caught you, if only we’d cast our nets farther out to sea, Hrolfmight yet be alive!” “A little late for regrets,” the elf taunted her. He reached into a sealskin bag and drew forth a small, folded object. “A token from your mistress. Plans have changed; you are not to destroy the drow and deliver her body to the sea. But the new shapeshifter still lives, and your mistress finds this most displeasing.”

Dagmar stared at the grisly object in the elf’s hand: a bloodstained lock of pale yellow hair, proof that her twinborn sister still lived.

Although all of Ruathym thought y graine had been lost in a sudden spring squall, the truth of the matter was that the two sisters had been waylaid by Luskan pirates. The cruel N orthmen had cast lots over the girls; y graine was chosen as hostage and Dagmar as spy. There was little chance their warrior kindred might rescue the girl, for y graine was held captive in a place far beyond the reach of men. Nor was there the possibility that Ygraine, although in captivity, might find her way to an honorable death. Dagmar had been shown a tapestry that held the tormented spirits of slain elves, so she might know what Ygraine’s fate would be should she fail to follow orders.

Dagmar’s gaze fell on the knife still clenched in one fist, the knife that had sent her betrothed husband-Thorfinn, the future First Axe of Ruathym-to his ignoble death, the knife that would have slain Fyodor of Rashemen and HoIgerstead, had he yielded to her that night. There were times when any man, even the greatest of warriors, was vulnerable to the quick thrust of a knife, a time when caressing fingers could count to the spot between the third and fourth rib, force the blade in, and pull the knife down. This and more she was willing to do, to end Y graine’s captivity;

She turned her eyes upon the sea elf seated across from her. Unlike most ofher people, she understood that the sea folk bore no special enmity against her people. She had been astonished to learn that this one was part of the plot against Ruathym, and that he was willing to implicate the elves in the island’s woes. More, he was willing to work with her to this end, even after she had unwittingly attacked him!

“I know why I must betray my people,” she said softly. “But what of you?”

The male responded with a smile of pure malevolence. “Like most of your kind, you are easily deceived by appearances. I am no more elf than you are!”

With these cryptic words, the apparent sea elf dove into the water and disappeared. Dagmar sat silent for a long time and then rowed back toward the shore. Her movements were slow, weighted down by the knowledge that many of her people would soon be dead. At least their deaths would be won in honorable battle, their place in the Northman afterlife assured.

For herself, Dagmar no longer held such hopes. Her soul was in the hands of her tormenters, just as surely as those of the unfortunate sea elves in distant Ascarle, who were locked for eternity in a prison made of wool and silk. But this no longer mattered to her. All that Dagmar valued was held captive, and she would do whatever it took to claim back what was hers.

Unknown to either Dagmar or Sittl, there were two witnesses to the secret meeting. Liriel and Fyodor sat silently nearby; their borrowed rowboat cloaked in a ghost-ship spell that the drow had learned during her days in Ruathym’s library.

“Convinced?” she demanded.

Fyodor nodded somberly. “You were right about all. We must go to Aumark with this news at once.”

But to his surprise, the drow shook her head. “Not yet. We know Dagmar is playing the traitor, but at whose behest? Luskan, almost certainly, but I have long suspected the city does not act alone. There is another layer to this conspiracy; we must go deeper before we know the true scope of the danger facing Ruathym. I must know about this Ascarle that the sea elf--0r rather, the malenti-mentioned.”

As she spoke, Liriel remembered words that the nereid had said: the kelpie sprouts were grown in a wondrous place far below the sea. Perhaps it was time to take the nereid up on her offer.

“Judging from what I have read,” Liriel began, “the warriors of Luskan do not care much for magic. It seems likely to me that all the creatures of the elemental plane of water are commanded from this Ascarle—including the nereids. I will compel my slave to take me there. 1’l1 scout their forces, do what I can to uncover their plans, and bring back enough proof to force that idiot Aumark to pay heed! But I must go alone.”

Fyodor did not like any of this, and he and the drow held long and heated discussion on the matter. Finally Liriel reminded him that he, like Wedigar, must bide his time and accept risks for the greater good—even when they contradicted his own sense of honor and duty.

“I like it not when you quote my own words back at me,” Fyodor grumbled.

The drow tossed him a wicked grin, and they rowed in silence toward the shore of Inthar.

The nereid responded to Liriel’s questions with great glee. Ascarle, the creature claimed, was a subterranean city full of ancient treasures and wondrous magic. When Liriel asked about sea elves, the nereid nodded eagerly. “Yes, there are many there, a hundred, perhaps more. The armies of Ascarle capture them as slaves.”

Liriel wondered briefly how Xzorsh would respond to this news-and the knowledge that his “friend” had a part in it. “Let’s assume I want to go to Ascarle,” the drow said. “How would you take me there?”

“You cannot go directly. There is a portal but no mortal may pass. My powers allow me to take you to my home plane, and from there to Ascarle.”

Something in the nereid’s words struck the drow as familiar. They were very like words spoken not long ago, by a voice from beyond the grave. Liriel’s eyes darted to the tower that loomed over the cliffs of Inthar, and her thoughts returned to the strange encounter with the banshee who guarded it.

After giving instructions to the nereid that she was to remain silent and out of sight once they reached Ascarleor suffer damage to her soul-shawl-Liriel agreed to take the voyage. First, however, she encloaked herself in her piwafwi. There was no telling what she might encounter in the undersea stronghold. It did not escape Liriel’s notice that the sly nereid seemed a little too eager to take her there.

Liriel had traveled through magical portals many times, but none were quite like this. The moment the nereid took her hand, they were shot through a tunnel of effervescent energy. For a brief, exhilarating moment, Liriel felt as if she were inside a bottle of sparkling wine that had been shaken, then suddenly uncorked.

She emerged, wet and tingling from head to toe, in a marble pool. Colorful fish swam among the water flowers, and a delicate fountain played softly in one corner. The drow looked deep into the water. There, barely visible, was the face of the nereid. She gave a sharp tug on the soulshawl’s fringe by way of reminder, and the nymph disappeared from sight at once.

The drow adjusted her piwafwi and climbed over the low marble wall and surveyed the room beyond-a vast, gleaming chamber with a vaulted ceiling. The walls and floor were of inlaid marble, and several pools and fountains sang in a melodic murmur. Dominating the room was a raised platform upon which sat a massive throne of pale purple crystal. The thing brought to mind an image of the Baenre throne. The matron of the First House of Menzoberranzan sat on an intricately carved wonder of black stone, within which writhed the spirits of Baenre victims. Liriel hoped that whatever creature ruled this place was less venal than her dear aunt Triel, the current Matron Mother.

Liriel cast a quick spell to dry herself, for invisibility would be of limited value if she left behind a trail of wet prints. As silent as a shadow, she wandered through the rooms of the vast palace. The entire building was constructed of marble and crystal, decorated with ancient, priceless statues and urns filled with exotic plants. Beyond the palace lay an entire city, the buildings connected by airfilled walkways and tended by vacant-eyed slaves.

With every step, Liriel grew more certain that in this undersea city lived Ruathym’s true enemy. Whoever ruled here possessed too much wealth and power for it to be otherwise. No such beings could content themselves in Luskan’s shadow. On swift and silent feet she walked through the magic-filled greenhouse where the kelpie sprouts were grown, through storehouses filled with supplies, through armories well stocked with weapons. At last she made her way toward the humbler buildings, assuming these would house the city’s soldiers, as well as the slaves of which the nereid spoke.

Liriel was well acquainted with slavery. It was a fact of life in Menzoberranzan. Slaves were the source of most of the drow’s battle fodder and supplied nearly all the city’s menial labor. In her first meeting with Fyodor she’d learned Rashemi did not enslave each other. He clearly abhorred the very mention of slavery, but she herself had never given much thought to the matter. Some people were drow, some were humans, some were ogres, and some were slaves. It was that simple. But never had Liriel considered the slaves themselves, rather than the useful functions they performed. Here, surrounded by hundreds of listless, nearly lifeless beings, she could do nothing else.

As the drow walked through the cramped and crowded quarters, she noted that all the slaves-sea elves, humans, even some of the merrow that apparently guarded themwere held in tight control. Some sat like animated corpses, with slack faces and vacant eyes, moving only upon the command of one of their sea-ogre guardians. Others, whose spirits had apparently been broken, were shackled only by the deep hopelessness that emptied their eyes and bowed their shoulders. There were, however, a few who still resisted the powers that ruled Ascarle.

Liriel watched as a pair of merrow dragged a struggling sea-elf female down a hall. She followed them into a long corridor lined with cages. Into one of these the merrow tossed the elf, informing her that she would be fetched again when her skills were needed. The drow crept down the hall, taking stock of these hearty prisoners. These were the strongest, those who might be persuaded to turn against their captors when the time came. Suddenly Liriel stopped before one cell, stunned and enlightened.

The young woman pacing the tiny cell was the mirror image of Dagmar: the same strong, beautiful face, the distinctive pale gold hair. Liriel understood at last why the Ruathen woman had turned traitor.

Twin births were not common among the drow, but they did occur from time to time. The link between elven twins was incredibly strong, often enabling one sibling to sense the other’s thoughts and to feel the other’s pain. And the rivalry between drow twins was ruthless enough to inspire the most ambitious priestess in Menzoberranzan. Rarely did both siblings live to adulthood. Those who did usually pitted themselves against each other in an endless, equally matched struggle. These miniature wars could become so destructive that many drow decided to avoid the bother by destroying such children at birth. As she gazed at Dagmar’s twin, however, Liriel wondered how strong that bond might be in cultures such as Ruathym, where all children were cherished, where clan and kindred were valued above all other things.

Abruptly the drow turned and strode back to the palace. She had not yet encountered the leader of this place. This she must do, before she could know the true strength of Ascarle.

Liriel made her way back to the council chamber. Beyond it was a suite of rooms. Judging by their opulence, she guessed they belonged to the shadowy “mistress” of whom the malenti had spoken.

One of these chambers was filled with dozens ofscrying devices: small pools, scrying bowls, crystal globes, enspelled gems. The very air crackled with magic, and the drow hurried through to the room beyond. Here she stopped, more stunned by the sight before her than she had been by the discovery of Dagmar’s captured twin. Stretched out on a large loom was a nearly finished tapestry depicting a coastal village—as one of the creatures of the Abyss might leave it after a few days’ dalliance. Dead human warriors lay in moldering piles; sea elves were staked out beneath a blazing sun. Familiar sea ~ elves. Liriel knew those faces, even if she had seen them only in death.

The drow grasped her holy symbol and whispered the words to the spell that had once sought the spirits of the sea elves. There was no misty gray anteroom this time, for Liriel had not far to go. She touched her fingers to the woven image of the elf, felt the mingled despair and hope as the captured spirit responded to her presence.

Liriel snatched her hand away and stared with dismay at the tapestry. Such a thing took powerful magic; this was the work of a mighty and malevolent being.

Her own words rang in her ears-her impetuous promise to free the captured spirits. If she tried to do so, if she tampered with the tapestry in any way, she would surely alert the powers of Ascarle to her presence.

Welcome, Liriel of House Baenre.

The words sounded in Liriel’s mind as clearly if they had been engraved there by the finger of Lloth. The drow spun, and her amber eyes widened.

An illithid, one of the most powerful and most feared creatures of the Underdark, glided silently toward her. Liriel did not need to ask how the thing had sensed her presence. An illithid could read thoughts as easily as a drow’s eyes could perceive heat patterns.

I am Vestress, Regent Ruler of Ascarle. Your presence here has long been desired.

Liriel flung back her cloak and faced down the powerful creature. “How do you know of me?”

We have need of a wizard, one who possesses considerable command over magic portals. You have proven yourself to be just such a one, the illithid continued. It is no small thing, to move an entire ship!

“That was not my doing, but Lloth’s,” Liriel said bluntly. She saw no reason to prevaricate; the illithid would take the thought from her mind, regardless.

Is it so? You are indeed a priestess of the Spider Queen? A hint of amusement-and speculation—entered the creature’s oddly feminine voice. This situation may prove even more diverting than we had hoped.

“What do you want from me?” the drow demanded, although she was beginning to suspect what the illithid had in mind.

Vestress outlined the plan in detail. As Liriellistened, she kept her mind carefully blank, calling upon the discipline and concentration she had learned in three decades of magic studies to focus her thoughts entirely upon the illithid’s instructions. A moment of doubt, a single stray thread of counterstrategy, and all would be lost.

Finally the drow nodded. “I will do as you say. The banshee will be defeated, the portal opened for the armies of Ascarle.”

And in return, we offer you the power you crave, the illithid said slyly. All the magical treasures of Ascarle will be open to you: the spells and artifacts of a mighty elven people, wonders that form the stuff of legends. This tapestry, which

has so taken your fancy, will be yours to do with as you like. And there is one other reward you might consider: a conquered Ruathym mnust be administered so that the Kraken Society is well served. We agree with your assessment of the human males who rule this island. Order your human champion to do away with the other battle chieftains and establish himself as leader. He will make a most useful puppet—and you will possess a kingdom to rival that of the matrons who forced you from the Underdark, as well as more wizardly might than the father who betrayed you. In time, you could amass power enough to take your revenge and reclaim your place Below. All of this, we offer you.

“I will think on it,” Liriel said in a stunned whisper. She turned and fled the chamber, before the too-perceptive illithid could steal more of her thoughts.

No longer concerned with keeping silent, the drow sped to the council chamber and plunged into the pool. She called the nereid to her and took refuge in the effervescent tunnel that would take her far away from this place.

In moments, Liriel sat alone on the rocky shore near Inthar, hundreds of miles from the wonders and horrors of Ascarle. Yet she could not escape thoughts of the temptations that the canny illithid had laid out before her, temptations made all the more poignant for being torn from the fabric of her own unspoken desires.

Early the next morning, Liriel found Dagmar by the cove, working with several others to mend a torn net. She pulled the young woman away from the other fisherfolk. As they walked along the deserted shore, Liriel told her what she and Fyodor had witnessed, and what she herself had learned in Ascarle.

“You have seen Ygraine. Then you understand why I have done these things,” Dagmar whispered. “Even so, I will surely be slain for my treachery. And I would welcome the blade, even if wielded by your hand!”

“Don’t tempt me,” Liriel said coldly. “Believe me, I have to keep reminding myself that you’re of more use to me alive than dead. You’re going to go to Aumark and tell him all you know of the coming battle.”

Dagmar hesitated, her blue eyes frantic. Liriel thought she knew why.

“Your sister is dead,” she said bluntly.

It was a lie, and a cruel one at that, but Liriel was desperate to free Dagmar from her loyalty to her captured twin. The stunned expression on the Northwoman’s face assured Liriel she had hit the mark. It did not, however, prepare the drow for what happened next.

Dagmar threw back her head and let out a peal of wild laughter. The veil of pretense dropped from her beautiful face, and Liriel stared up into blue eyes burning with fierce Joy.

“So at last I am to come into my own!” the young woman exulted. “Now that Ygraine is dead, I will be the one to bring the hamfarrigen magic back to Ruathym!”

As the initial shock of this announcement faded, the drow nodded slowly. There was a certain macabre logic in Dagmar’s words, for she was obviously astute enough to realize that Y graine would never have returned to Ruathym alive. The traitorous Northwoman had been held hostage by her sister’s captors—not by the threat of her sister’s death, but by Ygraine’s continued survival! To a drow of Menzoberranzan, this made perfect sense. There were some things, however, that Liriel did not yet understand.

“Ygraine would have died sooner or later,” the drow stated coldly. “You could not have waited for your inheritance?”

Dagmar shrugged. “If I knew for certain that the dutiful fool would soon serve mead in the halls of Tempus, I would have been content to wait upon the pleasure ofher captors. But I was shown a tapestry, a magical thing that can hold the spirits of the slain for all time. If I did not do as they bade me, Ygraine’s spirit would have been trapped among the threads. Perhaps that would have been sufficient to pass her legacy on to me, perhaps not. It was not a chance I was willing to take.”

“Many Ruathen have died,” Liriel spat out. “Is your sister’s death worth that much to you? What do you stand to gain from this, besides a passel of shapechanging brats?” Dagmar turned a strange smile upon the drow. “That is how my people think; I would have expected differently from you. To the people of Ruathym, a woman’s worth is measured by the rank of her husband and the sons she bears him. I would be known for myself!”

Liriel stared at the Northwoman, rendered momentarilY speechless by the naked ambition written on Dagmar’s face-an ambition that fully matched her own. The drow had the uncanny sensation that she was gazing into a pale mirror.

“What power were you promised?” she asked softly. “After the conquest of Ruathym, someone must rule,” the young woman said bluntly. “Most of the warriors will be slain, the women humiliated, the pride of all the people brought low. The Ruathen will accept someone who provides a measure of hope, who can restore to them their sense of honor. Who better than she who revived the ancient hamfariggen magic? And I will do it, not a son that some warrior begot upon my body!”

“If that is so, what did you want with Fyodor?” Liriel demanded, for Dagmar’s attempted seduction of her friend still rankled deeply with her.

Again, the strange, cold smile. “Had he lain with me, he would have been dead that very night, and the conquest of Ruathym would have been so much the easier.”

Liriel nodded. It all made perfect sense. Indeed, the mixture of twisted intrigue and icy calculation was all too familiar to her. Familiar, too, was the desire for power, a desire so strong that any method of achieving the longedfor goal was deemed acceptable. There was an odd lrinship between Dagmar and herself that Liriel could not ignore. “Why do you tell me this?” she demanded. Even to her own ears, her words rang with desperate denial.

Dagmar lau~ghed softly, knowingly. “Is there anyone alive who does not wish to be understood? I tell you because on all this island you alone can understand the things I desire, and the things I have done to get them.” Th~e drow received this explanation in silence. As much as she wished to refute the damning words, she found she could not.

“Besides, who can you tell?” Dagmar continued, her voice ringing with amusement as she pulled her long fish knife from her belt. “Even if you were to live out this day, to whom would you take this tale? Fyodor?” she asked mockingly, and something in her tone froze Liriel in place,

her black fingers tightly gripping the hilt of her dagger. “I’He had his doubts about me, of course, but he put them aside easily enough,” Dagmar said in an arch voice. “You must have been denying the poor man, to send him to me in such a state! I was only too happy to comfort him. After all, he was a fine figure of a man.”

The woman’s cruel emphasis was not lost on Liriel, and the warmth drained from the drow’s face. “I’He is dead,” she murmured tonelessly. Grief would come later; she felt numbed to the soul.

“I’A pleasure deferred,” Dagmar mocked. “I’And now that he is gone, no Ruathen warrior wilIlisten to any word you speak against me!”

“I’But they will listen to me,” proclaimed a deep voice behind them.

The two females whirled, identical expressions of consternation on their faces. So deep in conversation were they that neither had noted the approach of the red-bearded sailor. Ibn stood a few paces away, his massive arms folded across his chest and angry little puffs of smoke bursting from his pipe.

But Ibn, like most men of Ruathym, had not reckoned with a woman like Dagmar. She darted at him, her long knife leaping toward his heart.

Liriel seized one of the woman’s flying braids, dug in her heels, and held on. Dagmar’s head snapped back as her attack on Ibn came to an abrupt and unexpected halt. Before the woman’s startled curse left her lips, Liriel pivoted on one heel and lifted the other foot in a high, hard kick. Her booted foot connected with Dagmar’s kidney, and the woman let out a howl of pure anguish.

The drow kicked out again, this time at the back of Dagmar’s legs; the Northwoman’s knees buckled and she went down. In three quick steps Liriel circled around to face her foe. On her knees, the much taller Dagmar was not far below the drow’s eye level, and Liriel held her pain-glazed stare for a long moment. Then she balled up her fist and drove it into the woman’s temple. Dagmar swayed but did not go downin no small part because Liriel still held her grip on the woman’s braid. Holding the Northwoman upright by her own hair, the drow coldly dealt another blow, and then a third. At last Dagmar’s eyes rolled up in her head.

It took all of Liriel’s self-control to refrain from beating the beautiful face into a bloody mask. She flung the unconscious woman to the ground and turned to face Ibn, ready to fight yet another battle if need be.

But Ibn merely nodded and calmly took the pipe from his mouth. “You should have killed her,” he observed.

“I wanted to,” Liriel said with fierce candor. “Fyodor would die anew were he to hear me say this, but that felt pretty damned good!”

“Can see how it would,” Ibn agreed, scowling at the woman sprawled senseless at his feet. “The elf-loving bitch had it coming to her.”

Liriel fell back a step. “I’Pve missed something, haven’t I?” she inquired, not at all certain whether Ibn was to be counted a foe or an ally.

“No less than I have,” he admitted grudgingly. “I’Might be that it’s time to settle the scores between us and lay things out plainlike.”

The drow responded with a cautious nod.

“To my way o’ thinking,” Ibn began, “Ruathym’s troubles came out o’ the sea. I had my eye on them sea elves, and you for taking up with ‘em. Tried to warn Hrolf, but would he listen? So Pve been watching for since the day we came ashore. ‘Twas no surprise when the fisherfolk netted those two. But then I saw one of them again, and Dagmar with him. Pve been following the wench ever since—followed her up to Holgerstead, though I didn’t do much good for the folk there.”

“So that’s why you went to Holgerstead,” Liriel mused. “Pm surprised you didn’t suspect she might poison the mead.”

Ibn huffed and leveled an angry glare at the drow. “Don’t be starting down that path again!” His expression softened somewhat. “She was lying about your friend. The young First Axe was alive and well when I left the village.” Joy filled Liriel’s heart, and a smile like instant sunshine burst onto her face. Impulsively she threw her arms around the man in a quick, fierce hug. Before he recovered from the shock of it, she spun away into an ecstatic little dance.

“Here, now,” Ibn protested. “There’s no call for that. I don’t like elves now any more than ever I did. And stop whirling around like a cider-drunk bee when there’s work to be done!”

Together they sought out Fyodor, for only a warrior could call a Thing. When the village had gathered, Ibn told the council of the meeting he had witnessed between Dagmar and the long-haired sea elf, and of the damning words he had heard her speak to the drow. At Fyodor’s insistence, they allowed Liriel to speak. She told them of the three warships that had attacked the Elfmaid, and showed them the ring that had been taken from the severed hand of the leader-the ring that marked him as one of the five High Captains of Luskan. Aumark exanined the ring and pronounced it genuine, and even admitted that he recognized the man from the drow’s description: Rethnor, an ambitious, black-bearded giant of a man who held even less love for Ruathym than most of his fellows.

After a moment’s stunned silence, the men began to plan for the coming attack. Liriel was content to listen, for the Ruathen were no strangers to war, and the battle chieftains’ strategy was sufficient to meet the tlreat from Luskan. To the proud Northmen, Luskan was the true enemy, and the strange sea creatures merely tools. Defeat the Luskan ships in sea battle, they believed, and all else would fall into place.

Liriel knew differently, for she herself had pledged to open the door that would allow the powers of Ascarle to invade the island-and that would enable her to free the slaves held captive in the underground stronghold. She could not seek Fyodor’s help, for she dared not expose hinD to the power she would have to channel before the portal could be opened.

And so the drow left the warriors to their plans and made her way down to the cove. Again she called for Xzorsh. When the sea elf came to her summons, she described the submerged city and the forces she had seen within.

“I’So Ascarle truly exists, and the merrow are based there,” the ranger murmured. “You are right; this danger must be eliminated. I will gather as many sea-elven warriors as I can muster-along with some triton volunteers, if such can be persuaded-and advance on the Purple Rocks at once!”

“At least, that’s the word you’ll send through the Relay,” Liriel agreed. “Let the forces of Ascarle prepare for an assault from the sea beyond their city walls. Secretly, you will gather your forces by the shores of Inthar and await my word. I will send you through the portal into the city itsel£ But take care: ifword of this gets to Sittl, all is lost.” Xzorsh still looked doubtful. “I’Perhaps you misunderstood what he said to the Northwoman.”

The drow hissed in exasperation. “I’If you refuse to listen to reason, perhaps you’ll respond to a deal: keep the plan secret, and I will see that you get your magical training!” Joy flared briefly in the sea elf’s eyes; then a rueful smile crossed his face. “All my life I have waited to hear such words. Even so, I would give up this chance gladly to see you proved wrong. Sittl is a friend, and his trust is worth more to me than magic.”

Liriel turned away, stung by the elf’s wistful words and his willingness to give up his dream rather than betray the values he held dear. Despite all that had happened to the drow and to those she loved, she knew that she herself would not do likewise.

“I’do as I say, and prepare for your battle,” she snarled, and as she walked away she added in a whisper too soft for the elf to hear, “and leave me to mine.”

Before facing her deadly foe—and her even more dangerous ally-Liriel had one task to complete. She had stopped wearing the Windwalker amulet after the night she and Fyodor had spent at the foot ofYggsdrasil’s Child, for the artifact’s task had been completed even if the quest had not been fully realized. Her only ornament these days was the medallion that proclaimed her priestess of Lloth. Even the pendant that Fyodor had given her, the amber-encased spider, she had tucked away, for she did not wish to tempt the jealous goddess with even so small a competition.

But now she made her way to Ulf’s cottage to once again enchant the amulet with stored magic. She admonished the shaman’s family to leave her to her privacy, but this was hardly a needed precaution. News of Dagmar’s treachery and the girl’s subsequent imprisonment had bowed all of Ulf’s household under a heavy weight of shame, grief, and helpless frustration. Even Sanja’s scolding tongue was stilled as she struggled to accept that y graine—the daughter most favored and long presumed dead-lived in horrible captivity, and that the quiet and biddable Dagmar could harbor such deadly ambitions.

Alone in the silence of the loft, Liriel took the Windwalker from its hiding place and opened the book of rune lore to a spell she had used previously to capture the magic of the Underdark in the amulet. Hours passed as she studied anew the difficult spell, adding to it the changes that would store, if temporarily, a very different type of magic. When at last all was ready, Liriel removed the tiny chisel from the sheath. As she chanted the words of the spell, she carefully poured a drop of Fyodor’s jhuild-the firewine used in the rituals that brought the battle frenzy upon Rashemen’s berserkers-into the sheath.

Once before she had considered this spell. In an attempt to save Fyodor from a killing frenzy, Liriel had been willing to empty the Windwalker of her Underdark magic so his berserker wrath might be contained within. But she and Fyodor had fallen under attack before she could cast the spell. When he’d recovered from his battle wounds and learned what she had nearly done, he’d exacted a promise from her that she would never sacrifice her drow powers for him. And there the matter had remained.

Until now. Liriel’s quest for power had been answered at the foot ofY ggsdrasil’s Child, and she no longer needed the Windwalker to hold her innate drow magic. It was hers to command for as long as she might live. But she dared not carry the power of Fyodor’s berserker magic with her to her next battle, for fear it might be wrested from her hands. The spellcasting and the ritual took most of the night, but at last Liriel held the enchanted Windwalker in her hands, taking comfort from the captured power thrumming through the ancient gold. She tucked the amulet back into its hiding place—she could not give it to Fyodor just yet, for fear of alerting him to her purpose—and then she crept silently from the sleeping cottage.

The drow made her way along the shore and then climbed the steep bluff that led to the ruins of Inthar. The ancient keep loomed overhead, secret and forbidding. As Liriel walked through the ruins, she murmured the words of a clerical prayer, one of the most powerful and deadly spells in a priestess’s arsenal. It was a prayer seldom granted, for few were the drow who were powerful enough to withstand it. It was a portal of a different sort, one that opened the priestess to the pure power of Lloth.

It was the offer of her body and mind as avatar to the Queen of Chaos.

This was a desperate measure, but Liriel saw no other choice. She had faced the banshee before, and she understood that only two things could defeat its restless spirit: a magic that could dispel evil, or an evil power greater than that of the undead drow. As a priestess ofLloth, she did not dare to dispel evil; all that was left for her to do was to channel it.

And so the young drow sank ever deeper into the source ofher darkest power. The Spider Queen looked kindly upon the prayer ofher young priestess, for it pleased the goddess to reclaim the spirit of the ancient drow who had, in banshee form, eluded fate for many centuries. Through Liriel, Lloth would wrest the banshee from the portal and spirit it away to its long overdue reward in the Abyss, and the portal would be at last be open.

Yet as the dark power of Lloth gathered and welled up within her, Liriel knew not triumph, but a deep and profound sense of loss.