Chapter 23
The Powers of Darkness

For almost two days Fyodor watched over Liriel as she lay in a deathlike slumber. He did not know what had befallen the drow but suspected she’d been overcome by the banshee they’d encountered before. He’d searched for hours, finally finding the print of Liriel’s elven boots on the shore near lnthar and tracking her to the tower where the banshee held sway. He’d found the young drow inside, draped limply, like a discarded garment, over the wall of the fountain, and carried her back to Ulf’s cottage. But what had prompted the drow to come alone to this fell place, Fyodor could not say.

He had left her side seldom, despite the urging of the shaman and the scolding of the man’s formidable wife. Yes, there were other matters demanding the attention of Holgerstead’s First Axe, but the young warrior knew where lay his first loyalty. He was pledged to protect the drow wychlaran; he was bound to her with a web woven from the combined magics of the Underdark and Rashemen. But underlying that was something deeper still. And so the joy that flooded his heart when at last Liriel stirred and woke was not, fIrst and foremost, that of a knight for his sworn lady. The drow’s lips formed a request; Fyodor reached for a cup of water and held her head while she drank. She struggled visibly to shake off the deadly lethargy, like a butterfly breaking free of an entangling cocoon. But her eyes, as she focused on her friend’s concerned face, were clear and set with purpose.

“How long have I slept? When is moondark?”

Fyodor blinked, astonished anew by the drow’s resilience. “I’Tomorrow night,” he said absently. “I’Little raven, what happened to you?”

The drow brushed aside his questions and pulled herself to a sitting position. “The preparations for battle?”

“I’All is well. The ships are armed, the men ready.” “I’Good. The attack will come tomorrow, probably at dusk. I cannot be with you, so you must take this.”

Liriel took the Windwalker from beneath her mattress and pressed it into his hand. “I’Before . . . before you found me, I enspelled the amulet to hold power over your battle rages. Wear this, and command yourself.”

“I’And you?” he asked, his eyes searching hers.

“I’I am needed elsewhere,” she said softly. “Take me back to Inthar, that I might summon the nereid again.” Understanding and dread came to Fyodor in a quick, sweeping wave. “You cannot return to Ascarle after all you have endured! You are not ready!”

“You have no idea what I have endured, and for that you may thank the gods,” she said with uncharacteristic fervor. “I’As to being ready or not, I doubt the battle will wait for me or any other. If you will not help me to Inthar, I’ll go alone.” And so the pledged warrior called for food to be brought, and water for washing. He waited until Liriel had readied herself; then he supported her steps until she gained the strength to walk alone.

There were few horses on Ruathym, but as First Axe of Holgerstead, Fyodor could claim any animal in the village stables. He chose two swift mounts, and the companions made their way with all possible haste to Inthar.

When they neared the ruins, Liriel dismounted and walked alone to the very edge of the steep cliff. A strong wind blew in from the sea, whipping her white hair and her glittering cloak behind her as she cupped her hands to her mouth and sent a long, high cry ringing out over the waves. Then she caught at the flying folds of her cape and wrapped them tightly around her. The drow turned back to Fyodor, and for a moment her golden eyes burned into his. Then she was gone.

Fyodor shook the reins sharply over his horse’s neck and urged the skittish beast forward to pace along the very edge of the cliff. He could see no sign of Liriel’s passing; she had vanished as completely as a forgotten dream. Yet as the young man’s frustrated gaze settled on the sea beyond, he understood what the drow was about.

Slipping quietly from the waves was a small army of sea folk. Fyodor recognized Xzorsh by his short-cropped green hair. Behind the ranger were perhaps a hundred sea elves, and a score or so of strange, silver-green beings, manlike but for the legs that ended in flippers rather than feet.

These picked their way carefully among the rocks, heading for the ruins of Inthar.

Fyodor suddenly realized that the banshee’s cry had been silenced. The portal the creature had spoken of, through which no living thing could pass, must have somehow been opened. Liriel meant to lead t~his army into Ascarle and stop the attack before it could come to Ruathym’s shores.

Despite the fear in his heart, Fyodor reined his horse about and headed for Ruathym village, where the berserker warriors of Holgerstead awaited his orders. Liriel had her command; he had his.

Liriel dashed the water from her eyes and climbed from the pool in the council chamber. Th& familiar figure standing before her stunned her into immobility-the round, dark face, the malevolent crimson eyes, the ubiquitous pitchfork. There were many things Liriel missed about her home in Menzoberranzan. Shakti Hunzrin, her former classmate and self-avowed rival, was not one of them.

“I’At last I have you!” the priestess exulted. She advanced, her hand on the handle of a snake-headed whip. The enspelled reptiles rose from among the folds of her gown, writhing in anticipation.

“I’So you made high priestess,” Liriel commented dryly. “I’Menzoberranzan must be in a sorry state, that the priestesshood has fallen to such depths.”

“Things have changed. I wield powers that you could not begin to imagine,” Shakti boasted as she drew near;

Liriel responded with a delicate yawn, patting her fingertips to her lips. As she expected, Shakti was so enraged by this contemptuous gesture that she failed to note Liriel’s other hand lifting to grip the obsidian medallion hanging over her heart.

Shrieking with fury, the drow traitor-priestess drew back her arm and lashed forward viciously. But the flailing snake heads came up short, splatting wetly against an invisible wall. All five slid down the unseen barrierleaving trails of gore as they went-to fall limp at Shakti’s feet. The drow stared at the dead snakes for a moment, then lifted incredulous eyes to Liriel’s face.

“Blasphemy,” she hissed. “You dare to attack a symbol of Lloth with mere wizardry?”

“You dare to speak of Lloth, you who worship Vhaeraun?” returned Liriel coldly as she opened one hand to display the holy medallion. “I’Oh, I know your tawdry little secret. I know also why you are in this place, and the ambitions that led you here. It is you who do not know me for what I am, or you would not have relaxed the mind shields that served you so well in Menzoberranzan!” Understanding crept over Shakti’s stunned face. “You are a priestess of Lloth? The Spider Queen has not abandoned you?”

“I’Not yet,” Liriel replied grimly. “I’But if I were you, I wouldn’t be too quick to give up hope.”

“Then I challenge you,” the other priestess returned, a weird light entering her crimson eyes. “I’Let us see once and for all who holds the true favor of Lloth!”

Liriel shrugged. She stood, arms crossed, while the Hunzrin priestess chanted a fervent prayer, pleading for some sign of the goddess’s presence and favor. It was a common enough spell, one cast nightly in the temples of the great houses and the chapel of the clerical school, Arach-Tinilith. From time to time Lloth rewarded her faithful with a sign of favor, such as a skittering rush of spiders, the creation of a magic item, the appearance of an otherworldly handmaiden such as a yochlol and, rarely, a visitation by an avatar. On rare occasions, warring priestesses used the spell to face off in a duel. If Lloth ignored the contest, both priestesses were summarily put to death. But if one priestess was favored, she was accounted the winner and could demand death, dethronement, or worse for her vanquished rival.

Never once in her greedy and ambitious life had Shakti desired anything so much as she craved this victory. She poured forth all her strength, all the force of her pent-up hatred and rage, into the clerical spell. Fueling her anger was the utter absence of concern-indeed, the seeming lack ofinterest--0n Liriel’s beautiful face. Ever had it been so. What Shakti desired passionately had meant little to the Baenre princess, who seemed to take for granted that all thigs would go as she willed them. It would not be so this time, Shakti exulted as she felt the surge of dark power growing within.

And yet. . .

Shakti’s chanting voice fell silent as the summoned manifestation of Lloth took shape before her. Her prayer had been rewarded with the rarest, most powerful manifestation of Lloth’s power: the creation of an avatar. Yet the young priestess did not count herself the victor. The form the Spider Queen had chosen to take was that of Shakti’s most hated rival. Lloth herself gazed at Shakti through Liriel Baenre’s golden eyes.

Liriel raised hands that crackled with dark energy and pointed them at the stunned priestess. A wave of power surged forward and engulfed Shakti. There was a sharp, quick burst of light and sound, and then an arid silence, like that left behind after lightning’s strike. A wisp of sulphurous steam rose from the place where the lesser priestess had stood.

Well done, applauded a voice in Liriel’s mind.

The drow turned slowly, still thrumming with the waning power of Lloth, and faced Vestress.

Shakti is dead? the illithid inquired.

“I’Returned to the Abyss,” Liriel said in a voice that was not yet entirely her own. “I’She may well make her way home from there, for the priestesses of Lloth are adept at traveling the lower planes. Yet she is lost to you, illithid!” Vestress shrugged, a gesture ill-suited to her misshapen form. The loss is mnot so great. You will rule Ruathym for a time, amass what power you need, and then return to the Underdark. I have lost one drow and gained another; it is a fair exchange.

Liriel did not comment. “The tapestry,” she demanded. Ah, yes. You are full of contradictions, drow. I find your obsession with freeing the enslaved sea elves most curious, especially considering the shawl you wear at your waist, Vestress said slyly.

With a shrug, Liriel acknowledged the hit. She wielded the power of Lloth; she wore the token of an enslaved nereid. The illithid was taunting her, pointing out that Liriel’s methods were little different from those used by Vestress herself.

So be it.

The fIrst, immobilizing blast of power took Vestress by surprise. Before the illithid could rally, before she could summon her own strength of mind and magic, the icy hand of Lloth closed around her.

The illithid’s blank white eyes focused on the drow, and with the coarse and common power of physical sight Vestress at last perceived what her mental powers had failed to tell her: for the first time in centuries, Vestress had underestimated an opponent. She accepted her failure and waited for the killing strike to come.

But this was not the way of Lloth, or the vengeful creature who channeled the dark goddess’s power.

“You will stay here in Ascarle,” Liriel Baenre proclaimed in a voice that resounded with power. “We may yet have need of the information network you control. But you will stand here until the end of this day, beyond the reach of sword or spell, and watch the destruction of your army and the end of your plans for conquest.”

And thus it was. Unable to move, unable to strike, Vestress watched helplessly as the first of the sea-elven invaders emerged from the magical portal.