Daughter of the Drow (37 page)

“Very impressive,” she complimented him.

The young man’s eyes looked haunted. “You saw?”

“Yes, of course. It was wonderful to watch. From a safe distance, of course.”

“How can you say such a thing?” he cried. “By all the gods, I tore the thing’s throat out!”

The drow shrugged, not seeing the problem. There were more important matters to attend to. Night was fading, and so was the sleep-poison holding the drow hunters. “We need to take shelter. I know a place.”

When he hesitated, Liriel snatched his wrist and pushed up the tattered sleeve. There were marks where the quaggoth’s filthy claws had scored him, along with an older, deeper cut that badly needed restitching. “Look—you’re hurt, I’m tired. Try to be sensible.”

Indeed, Fyodor was weaving on his feet, for the familiar sickness that followed a berserker rage was upon him. “A truce,” he agreed wearily.

Too exhausted, too sick at heart to care whether the treacherous drow kept faith or not, Fyodor let her lead him to a cave nearby. With a snap of her fingers, the dark wizard lit a small fire. While Fyodor warmed himself, she deftly tended his hurts. From her travel bag she produced some trail rations—strips of dried meat he recognized as rothe—and they ate in silence. Feeling somewhat revived by the food and fire, he took a few swallows from his flask. He turned to offer some to the drow, but found she had left his side. He watched, puzzled, as Liriel settled down at the mouth of the cave.

“It’s silver,” she murmured in an awed tone. “The sky is truly silver!”

Suddenly he understood. This was her first sunrise, and her tense, expectant pose suggested it was an experience she had long awaited. Not wishing to disturb the elf’spleasure, but desiring to witness it, Fyodor came quietly to sit beside Her. Her eyes watered as if she were in pain, but she did not; turn away from the dawning light. Without looking at him, she seized his arm and pointed to some rosy wisps of cloud.

“Look at the smoke there! What is that color?”

Those are clouds, and they are pink. You’ve never seen the color before?”

“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” Liriel said, not once taking her eyes from the brightening sky. “Look there! The sm—the clouds there are purple, and gold. It is always like this?”

“Dawn? No. It is different each day. The colors come again when the sun sets.”

Liriel barely had time to absorb this marvel when the sun itself crested the hills. A sliver of red, brighter than molten metal, edged into the sky. She cried out in a mixture of pain and wonder. Her eyes burned fiercely, but she would not look away.

Fyodor was touched by the draw’s innocent joy, and loath to end the moment. But he took the girl by the shoulders and turned her firmly to him. “You must not stare at the sun, even now, when its light is faint. Even those born under its light cannot bear to do so.”

She cast one last, lingering glance at the wondrous sun as she followed Fyodor into the cave. “Its light is faintr she echoed incredulously.

Back in the soothing darkness, she turned her full curiosity upon the human. In answer to her eager questions, he told her what had befallen him since their last meeting. Her reaction was slight when he spoke of a red-haired drow wizard, but Fyodor did not miss it.

“You know him.”

“I’m afraid so. That could only be Nisstyre. Only he would know where to find you,” she said bitterly. She told him about the wizard’s part in arranging a false trail that would lead Fyodor out of the Underdark. “I thought you’d be safer on the surface,” she concluded with a wry grin. “I may reconsider that opinion.”

This news baffled Fyodor. “Why would you do such a thing?”

Liriel shrugged and tucked a bit of gold chain deeper into the neck of her tunic. “You tricked me. I admired that. But all that is done and over. I have work to do.”

The drow took a small bag from her belt and selected a large, beautifully cut blue diamond. She placed the gem in her palm and chanted softly. After a moment, the jewel crumbled into sparkling dust. Liriel arose and carefully sprinkled the powdered diamond in a nine-foot circle around the fire. Then, humming an eerie melody, she began to dance. Dipping and swaying, she wove an intricate pattern of beauty and magic. Fyodor watched, as fully enchanted as if the spell had been cast upon him.

Finally she sank to the cave’s floor, tired and satisfied. “No wizard’s eyes can penetrate that circle, not even Nisstyre’s. We should be safe enough here.”

“Is he so powerful, this Nisstyre?”

“He is drow.”

Liriel said this with a mixture of pride and grim foreboding that Fyodor found unsettling. What did it mean, truly, to be drow? He had no real understanding of this fey lass; at their second meeting she was more of a mystery to him than before. So intently did he study the girl that several moments passed before he realized she was observing him with equal interest.

“Do all humans fight as you do?” she asked, her eyes alight with curiosity.

Fyodor stared down at the fire. “No, praise the gods,” he said shortly.

“Then how? What magic do you possess?”

He could not bear to speak of it now, after what he had done. The berserker rages took from him his will and his wits: now it seemed they would steal his very soul. What he had done this night was simply not human. “It is a long tale, and I am very tired,” he said simply.

Liriel accepted this with a nod. “Later, then. You really must get some rest. But first, tell me: do you sleep, or do you enter reverie?”

“Reverie?”

She paused, searching for words. “You dream.”

“Ah! Well, that I do, waking or sleeping,” he said with a faint smile. “It is said in my land that there are two kinds of people: those who think, and those who dream.”

The drow thought this over, her white brows meeting in a frown of puzzlement. Dark elves either slept or rested in reverie. Whatever was the human talking about? This, and a thousand other questions, danced ready on her tongue. It was clear, however, that Fyodor could not answer them now. But a sudden, outrageous plan popped into her mind, and she voiced it at once.

“We can travel together for a while,” she said happily. “There are so many things you can tell me!”

The man smiled, clearly charmed by her beauty and enthusiasm. “Are you always so eager to learn?”

“Always,” she promised. They shared a companionable grin, and Fyodor was honestly tempted to accept.

“I cannot,” he said with regret. “I must find this Nisstyre and the other drow I fought before.”

Uriel’s smile vanished. She had forgotten for the moment what the human sought: the amulet she wore beneath her tunic. Nor was he the only one who wanted it!

“Then here, with me, is definitely the place to be,” she said grimly. “Why do you think Nisstyre showed up, why he sent the drow hunters back to these caverns?”

So, she was hunted. Why, Fyodor did not understand, but the cold anger the drow wizard had ignited in his heart burned a little brighter. “I will travel with you, then,” he said. “When this Nisstyre dies, we may both be free.”

Her eyes flashed. “Then it’s a conspiracy!”

“In my land,” he said, his lip curved in a faint smile, “we call it an alliance.”

Liriel nodded agreement. “That works for me.”

The fire was fading, so Fyodor picked up a handful of dry twigs to add to it. A tiny brown spider crawled out of the bundle onto his hand. Absently he flicked it off. The blow crumpled the delicate arachnid and sent its body tumbling into the gathering flames.

Liriel froze, her golden eyes wide with horror. Then, shrieking in wordless rage, she leaped at Fyodor. Her hands curved into talons and slashed toward his face.

Fyodor grabbed her wrists and held off her flailing hands, but the force of her attack sent them tumbling. The Rashemi was larger and stronger; even so, he had to battle the furious, thrashing elf for several minutes before pinning her securely under his body. Tiny though she was, it took all his weight to hold her down.

Contained but not subdued, Liriel fixed a blazing, defiant stare upon her captor. Fyodor returned her gaze with equal intensity. Always he was alert for an attack from this unpredictable drow, but as he studied her face he read not treachery, but wrath.

“What?” he demanded.

“You killed a spider! The punishment for your crime is death,” she spat at him.

Fyodor”s face fell slack with astonishment. “You cannot be serious,” he sputtered.

“Spiders are sacred to the drow goddess, you ignorant peasant!”

The man considered this with sober interest. He’d been through much of late, and his nerves had tightened nearly to breaking. In his current state of mind, the draw’s claim struck him as utterly, delightfully absurd. “Am I to understand,” he said slowly, “that you worship bugs?”

Maintaining her dignity under the circumstances was no easy matter, but Liriel was equal to the task. Her small chin lifted imperiously. “Yes, of course. In a manner of speaking.”

Fyodor stared at the drow for a moment, then dropped his head to rest in the tangled waves of her hair. His body began to shake. Laughter started in his belly and erupted into a full-throated roar, and he rolled helplessly onto his side, holding his ribs and rocking back and forth.

The moment she was free of his weight, the drow leaped to her feet, a throwing spider ready in her hand. The sight of this weapon sent the man into fresh gales of mirth.

Liriel glared at Fyodor, too baffled by his strange behavior to respond properly to his blasphemy. So she merely stood and waited for the human’s incomprehensible laughter to subside.

At length he came to himself, wiping tears from his eyes. “I can return to Rashemen without delay,” he said, and his blue eyes twinkled despite the sober set of his face. “For now I have surely heard everything.”

Nisstyre strode along in the strong morning light, his face protected and hidden by the folds of his hood. Despite the efforts of his drow priest, Nisstyre was not yet strong enough to cast the powerful spells needed for magical travel. He and his fighters were reduced to hiking back to the caverns. It was risky for drow to be about during the day, and all of Nisstyre’s dark-elven comrades—particularly Gorlist—grew increasingly restive as the day passed.

When finally they reached the first of the cave-filled hills, the late-afternoon sun cast long shadows across the rocky landscape. The wizard, whose eyes were most accustomed to cruel daylight, was the first to see the four still figures lying in the distance. Nisstyre cursed softly and fervently when he recognized the drow he’d sent in search of Lüriel Baenre.

He hurried over. To his relief, all were still breathing. Even better, the small shaft of a dart protruded from one hunter’s shoulder.

Nisstyre stooped, tugged it free, and sniffed at the arrowhead. The distinctive scent of drow sleeping poison—a potion based upon Underdark magic—still clung to the tiny weapon.

“She actually did it!” muttered the wizard.

So pleased was Nisstyre by this discovery that he kicked the hunters awake with less force than he might otherwise have employed. The poison that felled them lasted only a few hours, so it was likely Liriel had not gone far. That is, she could not have gone far on foot Nisstyre prayed Liriel had not traveled from this place by magical means. There were ways to track wizards who trod magic’s silver paths, but such were beyond even his skills.

A shout of triumph interrupted his troubled thoughts. Gorlist called him over and pointed to the small, faint mark of an elven boot.

Nisstyre came, but his hands flashed in furious, silent communication as he reminded the young fighter of the importance of stealth. Gorlist nodded in agreement, but he waited through the chastisement with all the patience of a drawn arrow.

Quick to recognize effort wasted, Nisstyre waved the eager drow on to the hunt. He made very certain, however, that he stayed close to Gorlist. Now that he knew the full measure of Liriel’s worth, Nisstyre could not risk losing her to the young fighter’s thirst for vengeance.

It was odd, Nisstyre mused, that Gorlist had fixated hie wrath upon Liriel, rather than on the human fighter who had so grievously wounded him. As he walked, Nisstyre’s thoughts lingered long upon that strange human, and on the amulet the human had once wielded and that Liriel now possessed.

He also speculated on the possible connection between two such disparate beings. Obviously they had met, for who else would merit the elaborate ruse Liriel had staged to discourage pursuit into the Underdark? She knew of the human and feared him; that much was clear. But how had they met, and what might transpire if they met again? It was impossible a proud Baenre female might join forces with a human male, and that was well. The wizard did not like the prospect of Liriel’s dark-elven magic acting in concert with the huiyan’s incredible battle rage. Vhaeraun’s followers were too few to risk in battle against such odds!

Throughout the day Liriel and Fyodor took turns keeping watch, taking what little rest they could. The drow trusted her magic circle to keep out prying eyes, but such offered little protection against physical attack. Both of the travelers stayed wary, not only of the dangers that -surrounded them, but of each other.

Since they could not sleep, they talked. Fyodor related one tale after another. Some were heroic in nature, others frankly comic, but all had layers of meaning that intrigued the drow. Equally fascinating to her was a recurring theme: the comparison Fyodor constantly made between “those who think, and those who dream.” Drow—except for those declining few who took their rest in the form of elven reverie—did not dream in either their sleeping or waking hours. They thought and plotted and schemed, and then they slept. Liriel herself did not enter reverie, but she wondered if her determination to follow a rune quest qualified as a dream of sorts. If this were so, then perhaps she was also a dreamer at heart. It was a concept utterly foreign to a Menzoberranzan drow, yet it seemed to fit her, and it filled a void she had never before defined.

So did the laughter they shared many times throughout that day. In turn serious and playful, Fyodor viewed the world with wry, dark humor not so very different from her own. His deep bass chuckle joined hers frequently. This was not the drow way, for dark-elven humor was usually a contest, a pleasure taken at the expense of another. She even enjoyed Fyodor’s teasing, which was utterly devoid of the malicious intent common to her kin.