CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FOUR
Stalker Lemming lurched down the narrow Skullport street, his peg leg clicking briskly against the ragged cobblestone and sloshing through fetid puddles. Though he was almost home, he affected the air of one who had miles to go and scant time to get there.
A small man in his youth, he'd been further diminished with every lost battle and each misspent year. Hunched and potbellied, the native swarthy hue of his skin faded to ash by long years of underground living, he was occasionally mistaken for a duergar dwarf. Stalker did little to discourage this misapprehension. Indeed, he grew a straggly beard to heighten the illusion. Ruffians who would consider a pudgy, one-legged human easy prey might think twice before attacking a deep dwarf.
Stalker dodged a particularly unpleasant puddle and impatiently waved away the underfed and over-painted courtesan who stepped into his path. Hair like straw, he noted with disdain, and skin the color of a fish's underbelly. In his land, the women were pleasantly rounded, and they had melting black eyes and sun-warmed skin. The thought quickened his step, as if such a woman might be awaiting him in his hovel.
He dreamed, from time to time, of returning to southern lands as the dashing, wealthy captain of his own pirate ship. More often his dreams were simpler, almost wistful: to feel the sun on his face, to see the vivid purple and gold of one more sunset. Just that, and he could die a happy man.
Well, maybe not happy. The way Stalker saw it, there wasn't much about life to inspire happiness, and he didn't expect death to improve matters much.
Fact was, there was no returning to the surface. Stalker figured he'd left behind at least three mortal enemies for every one of his scars, and he had a lot of scars. Enemies could be killed, but assassins cost money and lots of it. A Skullport official earned a paltry wage, with the understanding that theft and extortion would make up the difference. Given Stalker's lifelong bend toward venality, he should have been able to put enough away to hire a band of assassins—or even the legendary Artemis Entreri—to kill all his enemies and most of his friends. Making money in Skull-port was one thing. Keeping it, quite another.
The clamor of a street battle increased as he neared his home. As he rounded the final corner, he noted the small, roiling crowd blocking his front door and the adjacent alley, a narrow pass roofed by the leaning, two-story hovels on either side.
A fleeting, lop-sided grin slinked across his gray face. If he hurried, he could lose himself in the small melee, the goal of which appeared to be the communal dismemberment of a kobold pickpocket.
Stalker closed the distance with a lop-sided gallop. Yowling with pretended bloodlust, he hurled himself into the fray.
A few confused and painful moments later, he staggered out the other side of the battle and into the alley beyond. He leaned against the tipsy building he called home to catch his breath and take stock of his injuries. Blood trickled from his nose. One eye was already swelling shut. The knuckles of one hand stung, and the circle of dents on his forearm was undoubtedly the mark of teeth.
Stalker grunted in satisfaction. Could have been worse. Usually was.
He swung aside the loose board that served as a secret entrance and ducked into the dark shanty. Steel and flint hung from the rafters on two convenient cords. His seeking hands found the lamp and pinched back the wick. A quick, practiced click of steel on stone produced a shower of tiny sparks.
Wisps of malodorous smoke drifted upward, then the wick caught flame. A feeble circle of light pushed against the darkness. Stalker blinked once to adjust to the relative brightness.
In that tiny moment of time, the lamplight changed to an eerie violet, a deep and unnatural color that was somehow more ominous than total blackness.
Stalker's body reacted before his mind could catch up. He whirled to scan the room for the source of this mystery.
Two dark figures were seated at his only table. He squinted into the purple shadows. When he perceived the identity of his visitors, he staggered back, screaming like a halfling girlchild.
Somehow, the drow known as Gorlist had found him! With him was another drow, a male who wore his thick white hair in a multitude of tiny braids that, to Stalker's terror-struck eyes, appeared to writhe like small, hungry snakes.
The stranger turned an ironic smile to his associate. "Friend of yours, I take it?"
Gorlist snorted. "Who befriends a duergar? This one is a weasel and a coward, even by the measures of a deep dwarf."
"That's harsh," the other drow commented. "Some duergar are capable of dying well. Not all, of course, but enough to make killing them worth one's time and trouble."
He rose from the table. With a theatrical flourish, he flipped his cloak back to reveal the magically animated emblem pinned to his coat. A tiny ivory skeleton appeared to beat upon a drum while its bony jaw worked silently and rhythmically.
Stalker swallowed hard. This drow was a deathsinger!
"I see that you are familiar with my art," the dark elf commented. "Perhaps you've heard my name, as well? Brindlor Zido-rion of Ched Nasad? No? Well, never mind. As you surmised, my current task is to witness and immortalize great deeds of vengeance. The question before us is this: What part will you play in this tale of dark glory?"
The drow's voice was as sonorous as the sea, and he smiled pleasantly at the terrified official. Somehow Stalker found Brind-lor's studiously pleasant mien more fearsome than Gorlist's lowering scowl.
He felt rough, damp wood beneath him and realized that both his knees and his bladder had given way.
"I'll do anything, say anything," he babbled.
"Liriel Baenre," Gorlist said curtly. "A drow female, cohort of the Eilistraee priestesses. She paid you to release a confiscated ship registered to Hrolf of Ruathym."
Stalker's first impulse was to deny this out of hand-standard procedure where any charge of corruption was concerned. He knew from painful experience, however, that this drow was not inclined to settle for partial answers and half truths. So he cudgeled his memory until he knocked loose the required information.
"It was a while back," he remembered. "Seems to me it was early spring Above. Musta been four, five moon cycles past."
"She paid you well?" Brindlor inquired.
Greed momentarily edged aside terror. "Well enough," he said cautiously.
"I don't suppose she mentioned that the payment came from a dragon's hoard." The deathsinger sent Stalker a smile that chilled him clear to the bone. "A deepdragon, to be precise. The hoard was taken from a nearby cavern, in fact."
Panic rose in Stalker, dragging a wave of bile in its wake. Dragons were notorious for knowing their treasure down to the last brass button and for hunting down anything stolen.
Brindlor sauntered over and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "The dragon is dead. You needn't fear another surprise visitor any time soon. All we want is the girl."
The girl, Stalker repeatedly silently and bitterly. That made the job sound right simple, as if he could turn over the drow female and another dozen like her before his breakfast porridge cooled!
Any drow was trouble, but this wench was also a wizard. She'd told Stalker exactly what would happen to him if he turned on her, and gave him reason to believe she possessed both the will and the magic to back up her threats.
"Hard to find a drow in these tunnels," he hedged.
"Not for a weasel like you," Gorlist said coldly. "The princess spent much of her share of gems and coins bribing fat, lazy officials. You're very familiar with 'those tunnels.' "
Stalker began to see the path ahead, and his knotted shoulders relaxed just a bit. Dragons hoarded magical items. So did drow, and for that matter so did wizards of any race. The female had made off with something these two wanted.
"She paid in gems," he said, which of course is what they'd be seeking. Gems held and transmitted magic better than almost anything a man, dwarf or elf could make.
Gorlist sat bolt upright. "Was a ruby part of the payment?" He held up one hand, thumb and forefinger apart at a distance approximately the size of a ripe fig. "About this size?"
The man nodded avidly. "Oh yes, I remember that stone well. Flat on the top, sharp point on the bottom. A bloody caltrop, it was."
"You remember it," Gorlist repeated. "Where is the stone now?"
"I sold it," the man said hastily. "The same day, or the one after. I don't recall which."
"Let us hope, for your sake, that you recall the buyer."
Despite his situation, a feeling of wonder suffused him. "Never will I forget! The buyer was a woman, taller than most men and slender as a willow. Her face was like music, and her hair held the silver of moonlight on a quiet sea."
"A poet," the deathsinger observed, lifting one white brow into a supercilious arc. "I've heard it said that poets generally find acclaim only after their deaths. Tell me, Stalker Lemming, do you hear the siren call of immortality?"
Terror returned in waves. "No! I don't hear a thing. Really! I don't seek immortality—I want to live!" he babbled frantically, if not logically.
"Easily done. Tell us more about this vision of female perfection," Brindlor suggested.
"I don't know her name, but I kept every coin she gave me, and the bag they came in! I'll give 'em to you! All! You could find a wizard to trace her."
Stalker looked hopefully at Gorlist. The drow nodded, and the official scurried to his safe. He took out a small bag fashioned from pale blue silk and handed it to Gorlist.
The drow glanced at the coin bag and tossed it to his death-singer companion. Brindlor traced one finger over the rune worked in silver thread. Stalker knew what he felt—a faint crackle of power.
After a moment, the deathsinger looked to Gorlist and smiled like a hungry dragon. The warrior's sword hissed free of his scabbard and slashed toward Stalker.
Time seemed to slow, and the sword's leisurely arch seemed to gather and hold the strange purple light. Stalker remembered the bright clouds of his homeland, and his foolish notion that a glimpse of one last purple sunset would allow him to die happy.
Not gonna happen, he realized. A man can't die happy who never learned how to live that way.
Gorlist cleaned his sword on the dead man's tunic and turned his attention to the blue coin bag. "That's a sigil, isn't it?" he demanded, naming the unique magical symbol that wizards adopted as signature and talisman.
"Indeed. Wasn't it kind of this lovely wizard to leave so clear a trail?"
His irony was lost on the warrior. Gorlist sniffed derisively. "Wizards are arrogant. Either she's warning us off or daring us to track her down. Can you do do it?"
"Me?" Brindlor shook his head. "I can do minor magic, but spells of seeking are beyond my sphere."
Gorlist claimed and pocketed the bag. "No matter. Merdrith will see to that," he said as he strode toward the back door.
The deathsinger grimaced and fell into step. "Are you sure this is wise? The others dislike this alliance with a human wizard."
"They will become accustomed to it in time," Gorlist replied tersely.
"Perhaps, but time is not your ally."
This was, in Brindlor's opinion, a masterly understatement. Time was in fact running out for the warrior. The Dragon's Hoard mercenaries were growing impatient with their leader's obsessive quest for Liriel Baenre.
For months now, Gorlist had been stymied by her sea voyage. His own ships had been destroyed, his seagoing minions slain in battle with the Promenade priestesses. After several attempts to replace his ships, Gorlist turned his efforts to spinning a web of informants, and waiting, spiderlike, for the female's return.
In Brindlor's opinion, while Gorlist's mercenaries might have many fine qualities, patience was not foremost among them. They had gone without the catharsis of battle for far too long. They could not endure in this state much longer.
The deathsinger followed Gorlist into the street. "The merce-
naries grow restless," he pressed. "This long period of inactivity is dangerous."
"Inactivity?" Gorlist snapped. "The hunt should keep them fully occupied. If it does not, they are not working hard enough. See that they understand this."
The deathsinger shrugged and subsided. Gorlist would hear this song sung in time, whether he wished to or not.
A sharp, tingling heat flared along the palm of Shakti's hand. She couldn't see the incubus, but she could sense its movement. Her exhaustion forgotten, she strode quickly through the swirling, gray mists.
With difficulty she turned her attention back to the Handmaiden. "With your permission, of course."
/ will accompany you.
This was not what Shakti had expected, but she gave a quick nod and set off briskly. To her relief, the yochlol kept pace, its fluid form oozing along like a giant snail under a speed enchantment.
Before long they came to a stone arch pierced by eight rounded portals. In the center of each floated a peculiar skull. As they slowly rotated, they revealed the remains of not one but three sets of features. The six eye sockets of each skull glittered with crimson light. For a moment Shakti marveled that she could have missed so bright a landmark. Curious, she took a single step back. The arch disappeared in the gray mists. Quickly she stepped back, fearful of loosing the portal she had sought for so long.
The yochlol's form shifted and flowed into two armlike appendages. Over one was draped a fine spidersilk robe, over the other, a glittering piwafwi.
Clothe yourself as befits a matron heir, the yochlol commanded. Then you will take the priestess back to Menzoberranzan.
Shakti quickly stripped off her tattered clothing and replaced them with the new garb. "As Lolth commands, I do. But tell me this: Why is Liriel so important?"
The answer lies in the light. It is your task to find it.
One of the yochlol appendages flattened, like a hand spreading out palm-up. On it rested a translucent bubble.
The drow's eyes widened with astonishment. This was a soul bubble! She had heard of them but never expected to see one. The crafting of them involved complicated spells and many layers of cruel necromantic magic. Such devices could contain a soul for centuries, be the captive alive or dead, and return the soul to mortal life at will.
Shakti's lips curved in a wicked smile. So she was to bring Liriel back alive or dead. No need to ponder that choice overlong! Moreover, she could think of few things that would be of greater torment to her nemesis than imprisonment. Shakti would have to let Liriel out eventually, but she would savor each moment of her captivity.
The yochlol shifted once more, this time into a thick gray mist. This flowed toward Shakti as if it were being sucked into the bubble. Swiftly the yochlol disappeared, and the small globe turned dull and cloudy. There was no sense of weight within, but Shakti could feel the malevolent energy.
For a moment she regarded the bubble, not sure what was going on. Perhaps Lolth did not trust her to deal with Liriel. Perhaps, Shakti admitted reluctantly, with good reason. With a yochlol at her side, she would be more than a match for the princess.
Well?
The yochlol's voice sounded sharply in Shakti's mind. She stepped through the portal....
... And found herself in a place stranger than she had ever seen or imagined.
All around her were tall, dark, thin structures that moaned and creaked and rattled. The air here was cold and swift-moving, and small papery things drifted down from on high and collected in drifting piles underfoot. Shakti looked up, past the tall things and beyond to the sapphire sky. Bright pinpricks of light brightened it, the "stars" that were said to inspire faerie elves to insipid orgies of dance and song.
A familiar panic gripped her, that strange vertigo she had experience upon the humans' sea-going ship. It was not natural, these vast distances. At least her gods-granted eyesight swiftly adapted to the new conditions of light.
Light.
Shakti's head snapped toward the blood-bright smoke staining the edge of the sky. She hissed a curse, the vilest and most hated word in the drow language, that which named the horror that surface dwellers called the Sun.
She looked wildly about for shelter. The soul bubble was a magical construct. It would dissolve with the coming of day. The yochlol's soul would return to the Abyss, and she would be entirely alone. Her whip, her new cloak, her carefully hoarded spells—all this would dissipate.
Gathering up her robe, she began to run. There were rocks ahead, large chucks of her homeland no doubt spat up by some long-ago tremor. Now she perceived the swift run of water, getting loud enough to hear over the rustling underfoot. It was said that mountains, like inverted caverns, often housed caves, and caves offered portals to the Underdark.
Her foot caught on something hard and fibrous, hidden beneath the drifting papery bits. She pitched forward, too fast and too hard to twist aside or prepare her fall. She saw the scattering of rocks awaiting her then saw nothing at all.
Some time later, Shakti stirred and groaned. Her head throbbed, and her eyes burned as if she'd been staring into candlelight. Moments passed before she could manage to open them.
A scene of utmost horror was stretched out before her.
The sun had risen, sending punishing golden light through the strange place. The little papery things seemed to glow with that light, showing every color from crimson to russet, from amber to a brilliant yellow-red shade Shakti had never seen. Even brighter were those bits still affixed to the tall structures, like scales on a molting dragon. The cries of unseen creatures filled the air with mocking laughter. Small, winged demons, some of them brightly feathered, hopped along the intertwined walkways overhead, no doubt casting some fell and foul spell. Small marvel the incubus was drawn to such a place!
Shakti dragged herself to a sitting position and took stock of her situation. There was a large lump on her forehead and a bit of dried blood. Her body felt battered and bruised, but that was to be expected. She'd had five long chains of reptilian bone wrapped around her when she hit the ground. Her whip!
Its familiar embrace was gone. She pawed frantically through the bright debris in case it had dropped away during her fall. In a moment she could no longer deny what she knew would occur. The whip was gone—destroyed by the wicked sun.
A wave of desolation swept through her. The badge of a high priestess, the mark of Lolth's favor. It might be years before she would be granted another, and never would she have so won-drously macabre a weapon!
Something rustled through the piles of fragile scales. Shakti pulled the knife from her belt and leaped to her feet, whirling toward the sound.
Her head spun, and for a moment she was certain that the sight before her was nothing but a manifestation of her recent head injury. Slithering toward her, its five skeletal heads moving this way and that like the fingers on a dancer's undulating hand, was her snake-headed whip. The central head was held high, and draped limply from its bony jaws was a plump, soft-furred creature. This it lay at her feet.
Shakti sank to the ground and plunged her knife into the small beast. She swiftly slit and peeled back the hide and sliced off a strip of still-warm flesh. For several moments she cut, chewed, and swallowed, savoring the first real nourishment she had had for many days.
As her hunger ebbed, astonishment took its place. The snake whip had hunted for her. Never had she heard of such a thing!
The deeper marvel was that it could.
Shakti snatched up a handful of her new cloak. It glittered in the bright light, a brilliant black in which danced colors she had never dreamed possible.
A priestess's whip, a piwafwi—such things should have disintegrated with the coming of the sun! What in the name of Lolth's eighth leg was happening?
Carefully she removed the bubble from the hidden pocket of her robe. It fairly hummed with life, the malevolent energy undimmed. Gone, however, was the murky gray. The tiny globe was translucent again, and a tiny storm seemed to be raging within. Shakti held it up and gazed inside. A tiny dark figure whirled and danced in wild exultation. As if it sensed Shakti's scrutiny, it came to a stop, splayed tiny hands on the inside wall of the bubble and leaned close. The miniscule lips moved, but the voice sounded directly in Shakti's mind.
The magic held! crowed the former yochlol. It held! Gromph's little bastard wizard-bitch actually did it!
Shakti's keen eyes made out the details of a familiar face, one she had never expected to see again. "How is this possible?" she whispered.
Wild joy shone in the tiny crimson eyes. No questions, traitor-priestess! The Handmaiden bade you to take Lolth's priestess back to Menzoberranzan. Why do you wait?
A shimmering oval of magic appeared before Shakti, quivering with power and impatience. Filled with foreboding, Shakti stepped into the portal.
The whirl of magical travel engulfed her. Shakti savored it as the most peaceful moment she was likely to know for a very long time. Although she was not sure what had just happened, of one thing she was very certain.
This was likely to be a most unusual homecoming.
The waves sparkled with the early morning sun, and tiny, blinding rainbows of light danced toward the merciless horizon. Liriel bore it as long as she could before retreating below decks to the cabin she and Fyodor shared.
The small chamber felt stuffy and hot without the sea breeze to cool it. For a moment Liriel was tempted to create a porthole to let the air in and cloak it with magical darkness to keep the light out. Practicality overruled comfort. Unseen enemies sought her, and hoarding her spells ensured she could offer the next foe an appropriate magical greeting.
Fyodor settled down on the cot and closed his eyes. His shipboard duties included late watch, and he always slept while Liriel studied her spells. By unspoken agreement, one of them stayed awake and alert at all times.
"Why do you trust this nobleman?" Fyodor asked suddenly.
The drow looked up from her spell book. "He can help us get to Qilué."
"Perhaps he can. You seem very certain that he will."
"He did once before," Liriel reminded her friend.
"Yes." Fyodor opened one eye and sent her an equally lopsided smile. "Through the sewers of Waterdeep."
Her expression darkened at the memory. "There's probably another way in, a better way. Chances are, he didn't trust us enough to reveal it."
The Hashemi propped himself up on one elbow. "The path of your thoughts runs alongside mine, little raven. I have often wondered why Lord Thann offered aid to strangers. He had little reason to trust us."
"Especially considering that one of us is a drow," Liriel said, giving voice to his unspoken words.
As she spoke, the air in the cabin shifted and stirred, and a faint shimmering of light began to coalesce into human form. Liriel had her daggers out—then sheathed again—before her friend noted the magical intrusion.
A tall, fair-haired man appeared in the chamber, a young man probably within a year of so of Fyodor's twenty summers. He held out his long-fingered hands and flipped them palms-up in a gesture of peace.
"To the contrary, I think rather highly of drow," Danilo Thann announced in his lazy drawl. "Say what you will about the dark elves, they're seldom boring."
Liriel's eyes narrowed. She drew her dagger and leaped at the invader in one cat-quick movement. Seizing a handful of fair hair, she yanked the much-taller wizard down to eye level and pressed the point of her blade to his throat.
"They're seldom stupid, either," she snarled. "Who are you, and what have you done with Danilo of House Thann?"
For a long moment the wizard stared at her. "Just for future reference—assuming of course I have a future—how did you know?"
"Your hands," Liriel said curtly. "The man whose form you're wearing played a stringed instrument. There would be calluses on the tips of his fingers."
The wizard sighed. "The demons hide in the details, don't they?"
They might as well have been discussing a bottle of wine, for all the concern the pretender displayed. Liriel was not certain whether to be impressed or irritated. She turned to Fyodor, who stood with sword ready.
"I'm going to strip away the cloaking spells. If there's anything you don't like about this idiot's looks, kill him."
She stepped back and flashed through the gestures that would dispel magic. The green-clad nobleman disappeared, and in his place stood an female elf with skin the color of blushing pearls and long, red-gold hair.
A faerie elf.
Deep-seated fear and loathing bubbled to the surface of Liriel's mind like acid. Liriel spun to Fyodor. "What are you waiting for? Kill it!" she shrieked.
The Rashemi stepped between the two females. "Perhaps you should explain," he told the elf.
"I'm Sharlarra Vindrith, apprentice to Laerel Silverhand. She's Qilué Veladorn's sister."
"Qilué sent you?" Liriel demanded, peering around Fyodor.
"Indirectly," the elf said, also leaning to one side. "She sent word to you, and you sent word to Danilo—"
"And he sent a faerie elfin his place," the drow said in disgust. She crossed her arms and glared at Fyodor. "You were right. He wasn't to be trusted. Go ahead and gloat."
The Rashemi shook his head and turned back to Sharlarra. "Does Lord Thann know you are wearing his sword?"
She glanced at the jeweled weapon on her hip. "He may have figured it out by now. Chances are he's still fuming over the loss of the gems and magical items, but he'll get over it." She shrugged and smiled. "They always seem to."
Fyodor turned to Liriel. "In my land, the witches have spells that allow one person to appear as another. To do so, you must carry a weapon used by the person whose form you wish to wear. Perhaps Lady Laerel taught her apprentice such a spell."
"I picked it up on my own," Sharlarra said, "but otherwise you've got it right. Can we get on with this?"
The drow gave a cautious nod. Sharlarra took a silver cuff from her ear and held it out. "Danilo stole this from Laerel, and I stole it from him. It'll take you both right to Qilué."
Liriel took the little hoop and examined the intricate carvings. The markings were familiar and unmistakably drow in origin. The spell they shaped was indeed a variation of a powerful travel magic. Entwined among the magical marks was Qilué's personal sigil. No wizard but she could carve that mark without courting swift magical retribution.
She slid the cuff into place on her ear and spoke Qilué's name. An oval of magic shimmered into sight, a gossamer fabric that was at once black and silver.
"Do you need anything else?" the elf asked.
For a long moment Liriel studied the faerie. "Why are you helping me?"
Sharlarra shrugged. "Danilo could have done it, but he'd end up paying for it."
"And you won't."
"Let's just say I was ready to move on, anyway."
"So you did this for him," the drow said, still trying to understand.
"And for me. Life was getting a little slow in Blackstaff Tower. I was ready for something different."
Inspiration struck. "Here's something that might suit you," Liriel said dryly. "A sea elf named Xzorsh follows this ship." She pronounced the name carefully, a sharp click followed by a lingering, sibilant sweep. "He wants to learn the Art. I suspect his talent is small, but he has the sort of dedication that ignores limitations. Can you find him a teacher?"
"A sea elf mage," Sharlarra mused then shrugged again. "Why not? Consider it done."
A faint tapping came from the other side of the hull, a rapid, rhythmic pattern that shaped a jaunty tune sung on nearly every ship asail.
Liriel's eyes widened. "The merrow alarm!" she said, naming the signal for impending attack—and the monsters that approached the ship. "Xzorsh was right on the mark about the illithid's messengers!"
"Sea ogre messengers?" murmured Sharlarra. "Assassins, more likely."
"See?" Liriel retorted. "You got the message already."
"Oh. Good point."
"There will be battle, and soon," Fyodor said glancing reluctantly from the magical gate to the cabin's door. "We cannot in good conscience leave the ship now."
Sharlarra waved them toward the gate. "Go along. I'll stand in for you. Really," she said, responding to the Hashemi's dubious frown. "It'll be fun."
Drow and elf exchanged a quick, cautious grin. "Her I think I could like," Liriel told Fyodor. "Let's go."
The gossamer gate shimmered as they passed through, and their next step fell heavily on solid stone. Liriel, accustomed to the tumble and whirl of drow magical gates, seized Fyodor's arm to keep from stumbling. Her gaze swept over vaulting stone walls and a multilevel maze of connected walkways.
"Impressive," Liriel murmured, referring to both the magical transport and the Promenade temple.
The ground under their feet suddenly gave way, and they were sliding down a steep, smooth passage. Before Liriel could catch her breath, they were dumped unceremoniously into a small, brightly lit chamber.
She shielded her eyes with one hand and gathered her feet beneath her. Dark shapes surrounded her and Fyodor, and the searing torchlight glinted off a circle of ready weapons. She made out the shape of a large, low bowl on a stone pedestal—a scrying bowl, no doubt, armed with spells that watched the temple parameters and captured whatever ventured into the bowl's "sight."
Liriel spread her hands, palms-up. "We're friends," she began.
"Of course you are," chirped a little-girl voice. "Enemies are seldom received so graciously."
A relieved grin crept over Liriel's face. "Iljreen," she said, naming the drow battlemaster. "I'd say it's good to see you, but I can't. See you, that is. Do you mind dimming the lights?"
The unseen priestess snapped her fingers, and the leaping flames ringing the small stone chamber sank low into the wall torches. A small female clad in silvery party clothes and sparkling gems lifted one finger to her forehead in a grave military salute. To those who knew Iljreen, the gesture held no irony whatsoever.
"Expecting hostile drow visitors?" Liriel asked, blinking away the lingering stars.
The tiny female shrugged. "Most of them are."
"We have many enemies among the drow," observed a lilting, low-pitched female voice, "and so, my young friend, do you."
Liriel squinted in the direction of the speaker. Her vision focused on the beautiful dark face of the high priestess.
A faint smile curved Qilué's lips, but sadness seemed to linger in her eyes—a familiar sadness, one that Liriel had learned on Ruathym. For a moment the pain of Hrolf's loss engulfed her, a wave of loss and regret so strong that she could hardly draw breath.
"You lost someone," she observed softly.
"Elkantar," the priestess responded. "He was slain aboard ship during the dragon's hoard battle."
Liriel's brow furrowed as she tried to remember which among the drow males bore this name. "Your parzdiamo," she said sympathetically, using the drow word Menzoberranzan females employed to refer to male playmates who did not officially hold the title of House Patron.
Outrage flamed in Qilué's eyes, bright and brief, then the sorrow returned. "He was my beloved, and he is dead. I cannot speak of it without pain. Instead, let us talk of the drow who killed him."
Liriel responded with a cautious nod. It was clear that she had offended, but she was not certain how.
"The mercenary known as Gorlist survived the battle," the high priestess continued. "He blames you for all that he has lost. He has become obsessed with vengeance. To that end, he has rebuilt the Dragon's Hoard band beyond its former strength. They seek you throughout Skullport and beyond. The tunnels between here and Rashemen are not safe."
Liriel laughed without humor. "Where the Underdark is concerned, 'safe' is never the first word that comes to mind. If the tunnels are as bad as all that, we'll go overland."
"That path is no better," she cautioned. "There are among the humans those who will spill blood for gold, and care little whose blood is spilt or whose gold they pocket. Such men are watching for you in Waterdeep, and they will follow any path you take."
"Bandits and ruffians," Fyodor observed.
"That is not the sum of Gorlist's forces," Qilué cautioned. "He has gathered a band of drow warriors who have grown accustomed to life on the surface, followers of Vhaerun. He has also enlisted the aid of a wizard."
Liriel shrugged. "I've fought wizards before."
"Human wizards?"
A stern glance from Qilué stole the sneer from Liriel's face. "Do not underestimate this foe," the priestess cautioned. "Drow magic is powerful, but it is not the only magic. A small dagger that you do not anticipate will kill you more quickly than the sword you see."
Liriel nodded thoughtfully. "The ancient rune magic is very different from anything I learned in Menzoberranzan."
"Just so. This wizard is Merdrith, a reclusive, little-known wizard of considerable power who makes his home in the High Forest. The Dark Maiden's priestesses have reason to know and fear him. Gorlist, knowing Merdrith's hatred for Eilistraee's own, has persuaded him to Skullport. His magic seeks you even as we speak."
"Not the tunnels, not the surface," Fyodor repeated. "How, then, are we to travel to Rashemen?"
Qilué turned her gaze to the warrior. "That is why I called you here. By the grace of Eilistraee, I can call moonbeams to take you to the borders of Rashemen. No farther can I send you—the witches who guard that land employ spells against such intrusion. My sister Sylune learned of such spells during her time among Rashemen's witches. We use similar enchantments here to ward our temple. Speaking of my sisters, I see that you have something that belongs to one of them."
Liriel removed the ear cuff and handed it over. "You can call moonbeams?"
"A spell granted Eilistraee's followers. Shall we begin?"
In response, Liriel held out her hand to Fyodor. Their fingers entwined. At a nod from Qilué the warriors left the chamber, passing through unseen doors. The torches snuffed out abruptly. Darkness and silence ruled absolute.
The priestess began to sing, a soft haunting melody that was more like wind than music and that might well be lost on a night wind.
Soft white radiance filled the chamber as slender beams of moonlight streamed down from an unseen sky. The thick ceiling of soil and stone seemed to fade away, and motes of mundane dirt whirled and danced in the moonbeams like Stardust. In the center of this summoned magic, Qilué danced.
The voice of the priestess—and the magic of the Dark Maiden — flowed through Liriel like strong wine. Almost without realizing it, she too began to sway and circle in time to the music.
Listen to the moonsong, whispered Qilué's voice, mind to mind. Whatever land it touches sings with joy, and each song is unique. Find the song of Rashemen. Listen, and follow.
"And Fyodor?" Liriel asked aloud.
Your destiny and his are entwined. This he knows. You are the song his heart hears. Go, and he will follow.
The young drow reached out through magic's web, much as she had when she sought the great oak known as Yggdrasil's Child. Her senses caught the distant tune, a simple melody that seemed to follow the cadence of Fyodor's ancient tales. Liriel gave herself fully to the music, letting the silvery magic of Eilistraee flow through her swaying limbs.
A deep chill shimmered through her, stopping her in mid-whirl. Liriel froze, and for a moment she relieved the horror of the Abyss and those few moments when Hrolf's ship Elfmaid passed through Lolth's realm on its way to safety.
The memory passed, but the horror did not. Liriel stared in disbelief at the dark threads streaking down along the conjured moonbeams. Spiders the size of housecats dropped into the chamber and skittered off through the invisible doors and out into Qilué's carefully warded sanctum.
Low, mocking laughter filled the chamber, echoes that welled up from unfathomable depths. Dark threads snapped together to form a web, which lowered slowly toward Liriel.
Mine, exulted the voice of the goddess—a terrible sound that mingled the shrieking of chill winds and the multitudinous voices of the dark-elven damned. This one I claim now. The rest we will take soon enough!
Qilué shook off her moment of stunned inaction and seized the silver medallion bearing her holy symbol. A quick tug snapped the chain, and she held the disk aloft. Again she sang, and again she danced.
A soft haze of moonlight flowed from the medallion, slowly pushing aside the darkness of Lolth. Again Liriel joined in the dance, desperate to help push away the unwanted Presence.
Qilué whirled toward her, her face grim. A graceful leaping kick dealt a blow that sent the younger drow reeling to the chamber wall. Liriel hit hard enough to knock the breath from her body. For long moments she sat on the cold stone floor, struggling for air, helpless to do anything but watch as the high priestess called upon one goddess to banish another.
Finally the terrible Presence faded away, and so, more slowly, did the silvery light surrounding Eilistraee's priestess. Qilué strode to the scrying bowl. She gripped the rim with both hands and leaned in. After a moment she straightened and raised a haggard face to Fyodor. "Come, Rashemi, and tell me what you see. The battle took more of my strength than I had thought possible."
He came to the priestess's side and gazed over her shoulder.
"Goblins are coming from the tunnels below," he said crisply, a warrior giving report. "There's a kobold horde nearing the postern gate. Small bands of drow fighters converge from these three tunnels. Those humans there—I've seen similar tunics worn by Skull-port bounty hunters."
The priestess spun away and shrieked for her battlemaster. Iljreen appeared suddenly. Her gaze snapped to Liriel and then returned to the high priestess, taking in the situation. "The wards?"
"Down."
Iljreen nodded crisply. "I'll see to the battle. You'll have your hands full elsewhere."
"Tell me what I can do to help," Fyodor offered.
The battlemaster's delicate face hardened, and her narrowed eyes again flicked to Liriel. "You can take that Lolth-loving bitch out of my stronghold before she kills us all," she hissed.
With that Iljreen was gone, as suddenly as she had appeared.
Sick understanding filled the pit of Fyodor's stomach. Somehow, he knew not how, Liriel had once again invited Lolth's touch. He glanced at his friend. Her eyes, enormous in her stricken face, mirrored his fears.
"How is this possible?" she whispered.
"Isn't it obvious?" spat Qilué. "Liriel is bound to the Spider Queen. You shouldn't have come!"
Liriel's spirit returned in a sudden rush. In one swift movement she was on her feet and in the priestess's face. "You told us to come. Or was your talking raven lying through his beak?"
"You should have sent word of this!"
"We didn't know."
"Didn't you?"
The searing accusation in Qilué's voice snapped Fyodor out of his horror-struck daze. Liriel was wychlaran, and while he lived, no one would accuse her of such treachery.
"Liriel has turned away from ways of her people and given up the evil goddess," he said with quiet certainty.
"That doesn't mean that Lolth has given up on Liriel," Qilué retorted. She whirled on Liriel in magnificent wrath. "Do you know how many years of work, what a fortune in magical resources, went into warding the Promenade from Lolth's view? All that, undone! You have turned this place over to Lolth and her evil followers. Have you any idea what that means?"
The young drow's bravado faded. "Of course I know," she whispered. "How could I not? I was born in Menzoberranzan."
"A place not easily left behind," Fyodor said softly. "You yourself said that Liriel was pursued. I swear to you, she gives no more invitation to the huntress than the hare gives the hawk."
The bright heat of Qilué's fury faded away, and her shoulders rose and fell in a deep sigh.
"I can do nothing more for you but show you a quick way to the surface. I will send word to my sister Laerel. She will see you safely out of Waterdeep. Word of a traveling drow will reach the Dark Maiden's followers. If you are stopped and questioned, show them this. It will grant you safe passage."
The priestess handed Liriel a small silver talisman, an engraving of a slender elf female armed with a bow and accompanied by a wolf. Both hunters lifted their eyes to a rising moon.
"Thank you," Liriel said fervently.
Qilué's stern gaze softened. "A servant will guide you through the tunnels. Go, and may the Dark Maiden watch your path."
Fyodor bowed and took Liriel's hand. They disappeared together through one of the hidden doors.
The moment she was alone, the high priestess sank to the floor in exhaustion. Her battle against Lolth's intrusion had drained her strength to the point of exhaustion. She thought it unwise to show the extent of her weakness before one the Spider Queen had so obviously claimed as Her own.
No matter how reluctant Liriel might be—and Qilué did not doubt the young drow's reticence—where Liriel went, the eyes of the goddess would follow.
Perhaps it would be different on the surface, Qilué mused. The power of Lolth could not reach the lands of light. The central tenant of her faith was that darkness was destroyed by light, not rendered invisible. So it had always been, and she had no reason to believe that it would not always be so.
Why, then, could she not dispel the sense that the world had shifted beneath her feet?