Liriel made her way back through the Underdark without further incident, taking the relay of magical gates that moved her steadily back toward Menzoberranzan. Her last spell brought her to Spelltower Xorlarrin. When she emerged through the portal, Kharza-kzad fairly pounced on her. The wizard grabbed his pupil by both shoulders, and the expression on his face suggested he was not certain whether he should embrace her or shake her until her teeth rattled.
“Where have you been so long?” he demanded. “Narbondel’s Black Death is long past—the new day approaches! I’ve been here the entire time you were gone, pacing, nearly out of my mind with worry!”
“Narbondel’s Black Death,” Liriel repeated softly, absently brushing aside the wizard’s hands. On the surface world, that would be midnight. Soon dawn would come to the forest glade, and she would not be there to see it!
On the other hand, she had not realized so much time had passed, and she did not want to be away from the
Academy when the spell obscuring Shakti Hunzrin’s scrying stone wore off. There was always the possibility Shakti might convince Mistress Zeld she had been tricked, that someone else had sent prying eyes into Mod’Vensis Tlabbar’s bedchamber. The list of suspects, Liriel knew, would be very short indeed.
“Listen, Kharza, I’ve got to get back to Arach-Tinilith. We’ll talk later.”
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say to me? After all I’ve been through—the terrible risk, the worry, the sleepless hours—the very least you could do would be—“
Liriel stepped through the portal, leaving the wizard fussing and sputtering behind her. Alone hi the silent darkness of her own room, she reasoned Kharza would get over his ire sooner or later. Sooner, if he didn’t have an audience. He would have larger worries if it were discovered he’d helped her slip away from the Academy on an unauthorized adventure. It was better for them both that she return at once. This way, if Zeld and her henchdrow decided to storm Liriel’s room, they would find their suspected prankster at her study table, chipping away at her mountainous pile of books and scrolls with all the diligence of a mithril-mimng dwarf.
With all possible speed, Liriel stripped off her travel gear and donned the black, red-trimmed robe of a novice priestess. She lit a study candle and placed a few spent candle stubs beside it, then she tossed several books and scrolls onto the floor beside her study table. The general effect suggested a long, frenzied study session had taken place. Liriel nodded in satisfaction and sat down at her study table. All that remained to be done was to actually learn some of this stuff.
Yet try as she might, Liriel could not concentrate on the spells that, under most circumstances, would have commanded her avid attention. The details of her adventure kept coining back to her: the wondrous lights of the night sky, the comforting strength of the mighty trees, the strange customs of the Dark Maiden’s priestesses, and the peculiar encounter with the human. It was almost too much for Liriel to absorb.
In particular, the human’s story kept coming back to her, playing in her mind like an insistent, remembered melody. Liriel enjoyed the unexpected, devious little twist at the story’s end. It was the sort of tale that would delight most drow, were they in the habit of telling and listening to stories. The meaning of the tale, however, puzzled her greatly. When the human had offered her the story, she had been merely curious, thinking storytelling to be an odd human custom, perhaps similar to the wicked verbal thrust-and-parry beloved by the drow. But no, the human’s story was too well chosen, too similar to what later occurred between them.
Like the peasant who saved the wolf from hunters, Liriel may well have saved the man’s life in coming to his aid against the deepbats. By drow standards, she was more than justified in considering his life hers by purchase. Slaves were taken on much slimmer justification than that. Such as none at all.
But, “Old favors are soon forgotten,” the man had told her in his story, and then proceeded to trick her and snatch back his freedom. Was the human apologizing in advance for his duplicity, or perhaps even warning her of his intentions? If that were so, Liriel mused with a touch of dark humor, the man had a dangerously overdeveloped sense of fair play!
Also troubling to Liriel was that the man’s tale was in many ways similar to those she had read in her book of ancient human lore. Did all humans tell such stories? Was storytelling a natural gift of humankind, or perhaps an art form they nurtured and developed? It seemed incredible to her that this short-lived race, which she had always believed to be vastly inferior to the drow, could have such an intriguing custom.
There was another possibility, with even more potential, and it again had to do with the similarities between the man’s story and the stories in her book. He had called himself Fyodor of Rashemen. Where that might be, Liriel had no idea. But perhaps the far-traveling Rus had spread their culture and their magic to the land of the blue-eyed human. Perhaps the Rashemi custom ofdajemma, the tradition that sent young men out on a journey of exploration, was a gift from Fyodor’s restless ancestors.
Perhaps. The problem was, Liriel would never know for sure. Rashemen might encourage its young people to travel and explore freely, but the drow of Menzoberranzan had other opinions on the matter.
With a sigh, Liriel pushed away the scroll she’d been pretending to read. Not bothering to remove her robe, she flung herself onto her bed for a short nap. She’d need the rest in order to face the day ahead. It would be a difficult day, for she was not well prepared for her classes. Even the pleasant prospect of learning the details of Shakti’s misfired plot did not cheer her.
The new day drew near, and the sounds of early risers drifted into her room, but sleep did not come to the young drow. The reality of her situation pressed in on her, with all its disagreeable requirements. The trip to the surface had been thrilling and disturbing, but it had been an enormous risk. And for what? She was stuck in Arach-Tinilith for a good many years to come. Since the moment the webbed fence of the Academy had closed behind her, Liriel had tried to deny her fate and in doing so had taken far too many chances. If she were to survive in this grim, vicious place, she would have to give up her pranks and rein in her dark sense of humor. That would be struggle enough, but she knew in her heart she also had to resign herself to abandoning her dream of adventure in far places.
After tonight, that was.
As the dark elf nestled into her silken pillows, she knew one more wakeful night awaited her. After tonight, she would devote herself to her clerical studies. She would make peace with Mistress Zeld and apply herself to duty with a devotion that would shame even the pious, single-minded SosTJmptu. She would become a high priestess in record time, and a credit to House Baenre. After tonight.
Please, Llotk, Liriel prayed silently as she drifted toward slumber. Please grant me just one more night
For the first time in days, hope spurred Fyodor”s steps. After a few hours’ search, he found the tunnel the drow girl had mentioned. There was a small, rock-strewn cavern with a trickle of water at the bottom, and beyond, a path curved steeply upward to disappear into a hole in the rocky wall. If anything fit the name Drygully Tunnel, it was this.
He slid down into the gorge and splashed through the shallow stream. As he suspected, the hole was the opening into a tunnel. The way was steep, and the narrow tunnel curled upward in a tight spiral, but the young man fairly sprinted up the path toward the light of the sun.
He would return to the Underdark, for he had pledged to seek the amulet and he would do so for as long as he lived. Even so, the thought of a brief respite lifted his spirits immeasurably. He had not realized until now, when escape was close at hand, just how oppressive was the Underdark. It stole hope; it shut down the soul.
Yet Fyodor remembered the exuberance of the drow girl’s laughter, the avid curiosity in her golden eyes. This was someone who lived with intensity and abandon, not some soulless survivor. Yet he could not help but wonder what manner of being could thrive in such a dark and evil place. Fyodor had known hardship and danger all his life, and surviving the last few days had tested his strength and his courage. He could not begin to fathom what the Underdark would do to those who lived out all their days in its depths. The elven girl was beautiful beyond telling, as brave and capable in battle as any maid of Rashemen, but she was clearly, unmistakably drow. What that meant, Fyodor simply did not know.
Again the young fighter reminded himself he must keep alert to his surroundings, that this grim and dangerous land was no place for those who dreamed. But as he scrambled up the steep path, the dark lass was with him at every step.
Time in Arach-Tinilith traveled at its own pace. Liriel was certain at least two or three days dragged fay during the morning indoctrination session. She silently blessed the countless vigorous, night-long parties she’d attended over the years. Without such training, she would never have developed the stamina needed to stay awake now. Even so, the girl could feel her eyes glazing over as the mistress ranted on and on. Liriel hoped the mistress would mistake her dazed expression for rapt attention.
Even the lesson on the lower planes was disappointing. The mistress conjured a viewing portal to Tarterus, which, in Uriel’s opinion, was not even an interesting place to visit. It was a place of gray mists and aimless despair. The winding paths didn’t seem to go anywhere, and the winged, dog-faced horrors who inhabited the place were fairly banal incarnations of evil. They flew, they shrieked, they tore to shreds any hapless being who ventured into their dark realms. It was all numbingly predictable.
Nor did the session provide any entertaining personal drama. Shakti was there, sullen and withdrawn, yet still clearly in the favor of the attending mistress. It would seem her failure had been a private one, Liriel concluded. Apparently Shakti had resisted the urge to run to the authorities with news of the Baenre female’s supposed defection. This annoyed Liriel—she had hoped to cause Shakti embarrassment of some sort—but she was also impressed with her enemy’s patience and resolve. The Hunzrin priestess was a dogged sort, obviously prepared to stalk her prey for however long it took her to uncover something sufficiently damning. Shakti was shaping up to be a credible foe. As patient as a spider, the Hunzrin priestess would be there watching, always watching, waiting for her enemy to misstep. This knowledge did nothing to brighten Liriel’s mood.
The afternoon did not promise to be much of an improvement, for once again Liriel had to face the consequences of her unconventional childhood. Weapons training was required of all drow, regardless of class or gender. Liriel was deadly with anything that could be thrown, and she’d always found such expertise to be sufficient to her needs. Unfortunately bolos, slings, and throwing spiders were not in the classic repertoire of a noble female. When draw entered the Academy, they were expected to have proficiency with both the sword and the drow signature weapon: a tiny crossbow used to shoot poisoned darts. The bow was no problem—Liriel could hit whatever she aimed at—but she’d never had much interest in the art of swordcraft. As she was to learn this day, interest was optional; proficiency was mandatory.
Her swordmaster was one of the older students at Melee-Magthere. A stocky, rather unattractive male from some lesser family, he seemed alternately annoyed at having to tutor a first-year priestess and delighted to have the chance to lord it over a Baenre female.
‘Tour wrist is shaking,” he scolded her. “Just two hours of practice, and you’re tiring already!”
Liriel dropped her arm so the tip of the heavy sword rested on the floor of the practice hall. “I’m not accustomed to holding a sword,” she said defensively.
“That’s apparent,” the male sneered. “I’ve seen mere children who could fight better. What have you been doing all these years?”
She pushed back a damp lock of hair and gave him a hard-edged smile. “Ask around. What did you say your name wasr
“Dargathan Srune’lett.”
“House Srune’lett,” Liriel mused, looking the stocky fighter up and down. “Yes, now that you mention it, I can see the family resemblance.”
The male scowled, and his face heated to a livid red. The priestesses of Srune’lett were often referred to as the “fat sisters”—not in their hearing, of course—and many members of the clan, both male and female, lacked the lithe, slender form that was the drow ideal. Dargathan, it would seem, was more than a little sensitive about this fact. He raised his sword in a slow, menacing arc.
“Guard position,” he snarled.
Liriel faced him squarely and lifted her too-heavy weapon. Before her tired muscles could react, the male lunged in. His sword slashed open her tunic in a diagonal rip that ran from shoulder to waist. She looked down, incredulous, at the silver line of chain mail that showed through.
The girl raised murderous eyes to her opponent and held his taunting gaze for a long moment. Then she leaped at him, her sword diving in toward his heart. The male easily batted aside her thrust and danced back with a speed that belied his ungainly physique.
“Guard position,” Dargathan repeated, smugly this time. “Work on your stance. You’re still exposing too much of your body to your enemy. Remember, left foot back, left shoulder back. Keep the target small.”
Liriel gritted her teeth and did as she was told. Again and again the male drilled her on stance, walked her through the basic thrusts and parries of single-sword combat. Dargathan might lack the tightly muscled form and lightning-fast brilliance that marked the best drew fighters, but as the hours passed Liriel had to admit he was a credible teacher. The male challenged her every move, demonstrating step by step the skills a fighter would gain through years of laborious study and practice. By the standards of most races, Liriel was a competent fighter. Far more was expected of a drow. As the session went on and on, she slowly redefined her concept of swordcraft and came to realize how little she truly knew of the art. She also ached in every muscle, bone, and sinew.
“That will do for now,” Dargathan said finally. “There are two main tenets of swordcraft: know the basics, and prepare for the unexpected. We’ve made a start on the first. With hard work and excellent instruction, there might yet be some hope for you.”
With that smug pronouncement, the male sheathed his sword and strode from the practice hall. Liriel waited until he reached the door, and then called his name.
Dargathan turned back to see his pupil holding her sword like a ready javelin, high and back over her shoulder. Her eyes gleamed with dangerous light as she hurled the weapon straight at him. The sword flew hard and true, and the blade wedged deep into the crack between the doorpost and wall. It quivered there, just inches from his wide-eyed face.
“Thank you for the lesson, most excellent of instructors,” Liriel said sweetly, hands on hips and stance tauntingly feminine. “But perhaps next time we should work on preparing for the unexpected?”
To further underscore her point, she snatched her bolo from a hidden pocket and began to twirl it overhead. The male turned and fled the room, his superior airs completely abandoned.
It was possible, Liriel noted as she tucked her preferred weapon back out of sight, to have a little fun now and again even in Arach-Tinilith.
As soon as the evening chapel was over, Liriel hurried to her room. Nothing, not even the burning stiffness brought on by her grueling practice session, could deter her from making her final journey to the surface. For her last secret jaunt out, no other destination would suffice.
Liriel quickly dressed and armed herself. She noticed as she did that her piwafwi had lost a bit of its luster, that her tread in the enchanted elven boots was a little less silent. It amazed her that an hour’s visit to the surface could so diminish her drow magic. How, she wondered, did the priestesses of Eilistraee survive? How much of their magic, their heritage, did they abandon ao they could dance in the moonlight? Were they drow still, or merely dark-skinned faerie? These were but a few of the questions she wanted to ask of the Dark Maiden’s priestesses.
The young wizard quickly studied the spells she would need, then summoned the portal that would take her into Kharza-kzad’s study. She hoped her tutor was already asleep so she might be spared his endless questions. But to her surprise, low, angry male voices came from the wizard’s private rooms. Her natural curiosity urged her to investigate; Kharza was such a reclusive sort that the presence of another dark elf in his retreat must signal something truly momentous.
But the moonlight beckoned her with a call too powerful to be ignored, and once again she made her way through the whirling tunnel that led to the forest glade.
Again she found herself on her knees clutching the ground. Again came the startling impact of the vivid green that surrounded her on every side. And again she heard the dark elven music, the eerie, twisting melodies that were so familiar. Of course, in the Underdark, such music would not be played on a harp. The drow considered that instrument to be both insipid and disturbing. But here, in the moonlight, the delicate silvery tones of the harp sounded somehow right and fitting.
Liriel quickly made her way toward the music. The sound was easier to follow this time, for she anticipated the odd, linear path music took through the open air, and she followed it straight back toward the Dark Maiden’s glade. So different, this world. Liriel was accustomed to tracing sounds that were sifted through layers of magic, that echoed and reverberated through a labyrinth of rock. Here, the source of any single sound might be simpler to discern, but the demands on her ears were so much greater.
The dark passages of the Underdark, the teeming cavern that held Menzoberranzan: though far from silent, these places were cloaked in an ominous hush. Here all was cheerful cacophony. Tiny, harmless insects chirped all around her, and plump little waterlizards sang their songs. The trees sang too, with a whispery rustle of wind-tossed leaves. The sounds of this starlit land were like its colors—too vivid, too varied. This world taxed the senses in ways even exuberant Liriel had not imagined possible. Here her every nerve felt raw and exposed. She had never felt so small, so overwhelmed.
She had never felt so alive.
Liriel ran through the maze of green and brown toward the firelit glade. There she found the priestesses of Eilistraee, all clad in silvery gowns and sipping from mugs of some steaming, fragrant brew. Ysolde Veladora looked up at LirieFs approach and beckoned her closer.
“I am glad you returned tonight, little sister,” she said in a joyful voice as she rose to greet Liriel. “We have another visitor, someone who is anxious to meet you.”
Another drow rose to stand beside Ysolde. Liriel gasped, and the strange stories of the Time of Trouble became instantly, frighteningly real. It was whispered that Lloth had walked the streets of Menzoberranzan in the form of a tall, too-beautiful female drow. This strange female, then, could be none other than Eilistraee herself.
The drow stood fully six feet tall, and silvery radiance lingered about her like captured moonlight. Hair the color of spun silver spilled nearly to her feet, and her flowing robe flickered with its own light. Even her eyes were silver, larger than those of most drow and framed with thick, pale lash- es. Her skin was as dark as Jjriel’s own, and it shone proudly black in the brightness that surrounded her.
Awed and fearful, Liriel sank to her knees. She had doubted any goddess but Lloth could exist, and now her unquestioning faith in the Spider Queen would mean her death. The young drow’s hand crept up to the sacred symbol that hung about her neck. It marked her as a follower of Lloth, a novice priestess of the Lady of Chaos. In her homeland, those who called upon any deity but Lloth were summarily slain. She had little doubt what her fate would be at Eilistraee’s hands.
Ysolde’s smile faltered at the girl’s strange reaction. Understanding came quickly, and consternation flooded her face. She darted forward and lifted the young drow to her feet. “Liriel, there is no need for fear. This is my mother, Qilue Veladorn. She is a priestess of the Dark Maiden, as are we all.”
The tall drow smiled, and her silver eyes reassured the girl. 1 hear you are a traveler, Liriel Baenre. I, too, am far from my chosen home. Join us, if you would, and perhaps we wanderers can exchange stories of distant lands.”
Liriel still felt dazed, but she was drawn in by the beautiful drow’s warmth and charm, and she allowed Ysolde to lead her to the fireside. For a time she was content to sit, to sip her mug of hot spiced wine, and to listen as the other females talked. The priestesses treated Qilue with great deference, and they were full of questions about her work in the Promenade Temple. LirieFs natural curiosity did not allow her to remain silent for long.
“Where is this temple? Is it in the forest as well?”
Qilue smiled. “No. The Promenade lies near Skullport, a place that has precious little in common with this peaceful glade.”
“Skullport,” Liriel mused. The sound of it was intriguing, tantalizing the imagination with suggestions of dangerous adventure and the promise of the open sea. “Where is this place?”
“It is an underground city, much like your Menzoberranzan, and it lies hidden far below the great coastal city of Waterdeep. Most of Waterdeep’s inhabitants know little about the lands beneath their feet, and not many venture into its depths. Of those who do, few survive. It is a dangerous, lawless place.” Qilue’s voice was grim, and her lovely face saddened as she spoke.
“If you feel that way, why do you stay there?” Liriel asked.
“We are needed,” the priestess said simply.
That was too simple for Liriel to absorb. She had been raised to examine everything for layers of meaning and motive, and it seemed to her there must be something more to the situation than Qilue was admitting. Was Skullport like the Underdark, in that the drow could not remain away for long without losing their powers?
“Can’t you cast magic on the surface?” she blurted out.
Qilue looked surprised. “Yes, of course. The Dark Maiden hears and answers her Chosen wherever they might be.”
Liriel nodded thoughtfully. What the priestess spoke of was clerical magic, of course, which was much different from the innate power she herself had wielded since childhood. Still, it was something. She wondered if Lloth could hear her, so far from the chapels of Menzoberranzan. Her hand crept up to the Spider Queen’s symbol, and she silently spoke the words of the clerical spell that would enable her to read the thoughts of this regal drow.
Not a glimpse came to her, not a whisper. The spell did not work; the prayer went unanswered. In the Lands of Light, she was truly alone.
She looked up to see Qilue’s kind eyes upon her. “Ysolde tells me you are an accomplished wizard, with many gate spells at your command. So tell me, what is your next destination?”
“This will be my last trip to the surface for many years,” Liriel admitted sadly. “I am not supposed to leave Arach-Tinilith until my training is complete. So far I’ve been lucky, but I would be caught sooner or later. My people, to put it mildly, would not approve.”
“I see. And their approval is so important to you?”
“My survival is important to me,” she returned bluntly.
Qilue was silent for a long moment. “You have other choices.”
To dance in the moonlight,” Liriel said bitterly. That is a fine thing, but then what? What of the dawn? I would be hated and hunted by every human and faerie elf under the sun, without even the simplest magic to shield me.”
She gathered up a corner of herpiwafwi in her hand and shook the glittering cloak in Qilue’s face. “Look at this: it dims by the moment. So far from the powers of the Underdark, its magic is fading. In my homeland, I can walk silent and invisible. Here I would be vulnerable, visible to all eyes. My weapons, my armor, my spell components—all would be melted by the sun.”
“You would not be helpless,” Ysolde put in. “You have a sword.”
Liriel groaned and clasped the aching muscles of her sword arm. “Don’t remind me! So what you’re saying is that I would have to depend upon the least of my abilities for survival. Thank you, but no.”
“You would learn new ways,” Ysolde said.
That’s what I’m afraid of!” Liriel said passionately. “You don’t understand at all. / cannot abandon my heritage. I can’t forget the drow culture, or lose my innate magic, or give up all I have learned through three decades of study in dark-elven wizardry! Perhaps that might seem like nothing more than a collection of customs and powers and spells to you, but it’s what I am.”
Qilue laid a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Let her be, Ysolde. We all must follow the path that is given us,” she said in gentle rebuke. To Liriel she said, “You have come here to learn. Since your time with us is short, why don’t you ask whatever questions you might have?”
The older female’s forthright, considerate manner took Liriel by surprise. Never one to refuse an opportunity, she asked about Rashemen and the customs of the land.
“Rashemen lies far to the east of here,” Qilue began. “It is ruled by Witches, wise women who wield a powerful, little-understood magic. One of my sisters studied among them for a time.” She paused, and a slight smile curved her lips. “Many called her Witch, but few understood why.”
The Witches of Rashemen would grant a drow such training?” Liriel asked in disbelief. “Are these humans utter fools?” In Menzoberranzan, magical secrets were carefully hoarded, grudgingly shared. This was not merely an issue of greed, but survival. Any weapon given to another drow would almost certainly be raised against the giver.
“They taught my sister,” the priestess responded with careful emphasis, “knowing they had nothing to fear from her. What is your interest in this land?”
“In the Underdark I came upon a human male. He called himself Fyodor of Rashemen and told me he was on dajem-ma—a journey of exploration.”
“That is their custom,” Qilue agreed, “but I’m surprised one of them would venture Below. The people of Rashemen are generally fearless, but they do not throw away their lives.” lfYou haven’t met Fyodor, then,” Liriel said dryly. “He seemed pretty determined to do just that. Tell me, do you know of a people called the Rus?”
The priestess accepted the quick change of subject without comment. “There was such a people, many centuries past. Over the years they mingled their blood with the folk of many lands, so much of their language and customs have been lost. The old ways are strongest on the island of Ruathym.”
“Did the Rus go so far as Rashemen?”
The priestess considered. “I am no sage, but I seem to recall that long ago, before the forests and rivers of the Anauroch turned to dust, Rashemen was overrun and settled by a race of seagoing barbarians who traveled as far inland as the rivers allowed. I had never drawn a connection between the two, but now that I consider the matter I see the ancient magics of these two lands have much in common.”
She held up a hand to forestall Uriel’s next question. “Of these magics, I know little. All I know is this: both cultures are strongly linked to their lands. Both draw magic from special places of power, as well as the spirits that dwell there.”
Liriel nodded. She knew all too well that the Underdark had its own sites of power. It was that, perhaps more than anything, that tethered her to the lands below, for her people’s dark magic drew heavily on the strange radiations of the Underdark.
“The Witches rule their land, so they must remain within its borders,” Liriel reasoned. “But what of the Rus, who traveled constantly? It seems unlikely they would leave such power behind.”
“Of the Rus, I do not know,” Qilue admitted. “From the old tales, I would guess most of those raiders depended on the sword and the axe rather than upon magic. But the Witches can and do travel, although infrequently. My sister spoke of a unique artifact, an ancient amulet that could store the magic of such places in the event the Witches needed to leave their land.”
“An amulet,” Liriel repeated, thinking of the tiny golden dagger she had glimpsed in Fyodor’s mind. “Do you know what it looks like?*
“Oh, yes. My sister carried it for a time, many years ago. The Windwalker, she called it. It is a tiny dagger in a rune-carved sheath.”
With great difficulty Liriel cloaked her excitement. “How does it work?” she asked as casually as she could.
“I do not know all the details,” the older drow said. “Sylune—my sister—told me the amulet will store magic from places of power, but only temporarily. Few Witches leave their land for very long, so that is enough for them. But legend suggests the Windwalker can make such powers permanent. How, I do not know. The knowledge has been lost.”
Maybe, maybe not, Liriel noted silently. Her nimble mind leaped from one possibility to another, weaving the disparate threads into a new and hitherto unsuspected whole. If the far-traveling Rus had settled Rashemen, the Windwalker could well have been of their making. If this were so, then rune magic was the key to the amulet’s power. If the amulet Fyodor sought was indeed the Windwalker, then this ancient device was somewhere in the Underdark. If she could find it, perhaps she could adapt it to store her own magic. And why not? The draw’s inherent magical powers, and the magic of most of their crafted items, were magnified by the radiations peculiar to the Underdark. Was that not a form of place magic?
If, and if again. There were far too many ‘ife’, but in her excitement Liriel was not discouraged. For the first time, her dream of travel and exploration in the Lands of Light seemed within her grasp. Some drow—such as these priestesses—might abandon their heritage and forsake the Lady of Chaos, but that was not an option for Liriel. She loved the wild beauty of the Underdark, and although she longed for adventure in the world beyond, she wanted to be able to return home. If she could find this amulet and test its powers, there might be a way for her to come to the surface whole, on her own terms: silent, unpredictable, mysterious, powerful, magical, deadly. Drow.
On impulse, Liriel reached forward and embraced the regal female. “I have to leave now, but I can’t tell you what this visit has meant to me!”
Qilue regarded the girl’s excited face and shining golden eyes for a long moment. “The Promenade Temple,” she repeated softly. “Remember that name, if ever you should need it.”