Daughter of the Drow (42 page)

Because Fyodor*s home village lay on the shore of a small, icy lake, he had learned from childhood the realities of life upon water. He turned the drow onto her back and began to press rhythmically. Finally water poured from her mouth, and she gasped in air. She rose up on her hands and knees and crawled weakly away. Fyodor turned aside, granting the proud elf privacy to rid herself of the water she’d swallowed.

Utterly exhausted and aching in every bone and sinew, the young man sank down on a fallen log. His rest was brief; a revived Liriel ran toward him, her eyes blazing.

The drow leaped at him, sending them both tumbling to the sandy shore. She seized Fyodor’s tattered shirt with both hands and dragged him close. His first thought was that the treacherous drow had turned on him again, and this time he could not fault her. He had persuaded her to go onto the impossibly dangerous river, and she had nearly paid with her life. His death, should it come at her hands, would not be undeserved.

Then, to his utter astonishment, Fyodor noted that his companion’s eyes burned not with rage, but with excitement.

“Again!” she gasped out, and gave him a little shake. “Let’s do that again!”

With a groan, Fyodor fell back on the bank. He eyed the irrepressible drow, not sure whether to embrace her or give over to helpless laughter. So he did both.

This time, Liriel’s laughter joined his.

They did not see Nisstyre or his hunters again for the duration of the trip. That was just as well, for the rigors of the road were quite sufficient for Liriel’s taste.

Fyodor spent most of the first day tracking down their horses, and although Liriel was glad for the speed this granted them, she almost wished the wretched beasts had made good their escape. In the Underdark, she was considered an expert rider, but a horse’s gait was vastly different from the smooth, darting movements of a lizard mount. At the end of the first day’s ride, Liriel ached in muscles she had never before acknowledged. But as the days passed, her body became hardened to the jarring trot, just as her eyes adjusted to the bright light.

The long westward ride brought other changes to the drow, as well. Liriel had never been one to sit and think; now she had little choice. Yet try as she might, she could find no words for the night she and Fyodor had shared in the moonüt clearing. Finally she asked him, bluntly, what the human customs were in such matters.

The question did not seem to surprise him, but he was long in answering. “These things are not easily explained. Ask ten men what it means to spend a night with a maid, and you will likely get ten different answers.”

“Thanks, I’ll take your word on that,” she said with a shudder. Once, in her opinion, offered more confusion than she could handle.

Fyodor responded with a deep, wry chuckle. “Please, little raven! A man has his pride.”

The drow frowned. “I didn’t mean—”

He waved her into silence. “You need not explain. I think we both were surprised by what we found together. There is a bond between us, for good or ill, and so it will remain. Understand that I’ve never taken such things lightly, but I think it best to agree that we came together as friends, and let the matter end.”

Liriel thought that over. It seemed reasonable, and it felt right. Still

“I’ve never shared passion with a friend before,” she mused.

He lifted one brow. “With whom, then? Your enemies?”

A short, startled burst of laughter escaped the drow. “Yes, that pretty much sums it up.”

“Ah.” Fyodor nodded solemnly, but his eyes twinkled. “This explains much.”

Liriel acknowledged his teasing with a wry smile and was more than content to let the matter rest. Talking about it cleared the air between them and that, for now, was enough. The challenges ahead were daunting, and she could not afford to be distracted by things she could not hope to understand. The insights she had gained were disturbing enough.

For Liriel had come to accept the possibility she might never regain her drow powers. Every night, when they stopped to rest the horses, she coaxed Fyodor to practice swordcraft with her. Nisstyre had left her those weapons that bore no magic—a few knives, the long dagger she’d taken from the naga—and she was determined to wield them as best she could. Day by day, her strength and skill improved, and the desultory swordplay of a spoiled princess began to harden into a drow’s fierce art. Liriel planned to make her way as a wizard; the naga’s treasure would purchase spell components and spellbooks in the markets of Skullport. In time, she might regain a level of power similar to the magic she’d once wielded. Until then, she had to survive.

But not until they neared Waterdeep did Liriel realize she had not lost every drow gift she possessed. The art of intrigue, once learned, was not soon forgotten.

She and Fyodor approached the city from the north, riding cautiously through verdant farmlands, skirting the well-traveled roads. At last they caught sight of high towers rising up over the broad fields of green. They urged their weary horses closer and reined them to a halt on a small, wooded hillside.

Laid out before them, looming over a broad plain and several busy trade roads, was Waterdeep, City of Splendors. An exuberant smile lit the drow’s face. She flung her arms wide, as if she could gather the whole into her embrace.

How wonderful it was, this city perched between sea and sky! The air here had a delightful salty tang, and it carried a low, restless murmur that could only be the voice of the sea. The city itself was bigger than Menzoberranzan, and bustling with activity. Wagons and horses carried a steady stream of people through the gates. Liriel’s arms dropped to her sides.

“The gates,” she murmured, seeing the problem at once.

“All who wish to enter must pass armed guardsmen,” Fyodor added in a troubled tone. He glanced at his companion. Even with hood and gloves, she could not pass as human without the aid of a spell. And her spells had all been used in the hazardous journey westward.

The drow nibbled at her lower lip as she studied the city walls. Surely there was some weak point, some way she could slip in unnoticed. But no, the walls were high and thick, and the surrounding plain offered little cover. She watched the merchant caravans and pondered smuggling herself in. No help there—the guards searched each wagon carefully.

Muttering an oath, Liriel turned her attention to the plain. It was grassy and smooth, dotted with small clusters of bushes and a few shade trees. In that pleasant spot were raised a number of pavilions: tents fashioned from bright

Klaine Cutmingham cloth and decorated with elaborate coats of arms. Milling about the idle tents was a throng of humans, dressed in vivid silks, lush furs, and jewels. The spring breezes bore the scent of savory foods and the sound of music and revelry. Wealthy, idle people enjoying an outdoor feast, Liriel concluded.

Then the music changed, taking on the stately, measured tread of a promenade. Liriel’s eyes narrowed. She noted the dizzying variety of the humans’ costumes—some of which were enhanced by magic—and the way the dancers paraded past a flower-draped dais. A slow smile curved her lips. The dark elves had a similar custom: formal dances known as illiyitrü. Most of these were political affairs fraught with dangerous, nuanced posturing, but occasionally a promenade was an excuse to compete in less lethal ways; wealth, beauty, and ingenuity were flaunted through clever disguises and extravagant costumes.

Suddenly Liriel knew how to get into the city.

The drow watched and waited until a man and woman, giggling over some wine-induced bit of wit and clinging to each other for support, made their unsteady way toward the privacy of the bushes clustered at the base of the hill. The woman was small and slim, dressed in a gown of clinging white silk. On her head was an elaborate headpiece, now slightly askew, that mimicked the ears, mane, and horn of a unicorn.

“Wait here,” Liriel hissed at Fyodor.

Before the Rashemi could respond, she slid from her horse and made her silent way down the hillside. Fyodor heard a couple of faint, dull thuds. After a few moments’ silence, the drow emerged triumphant, her arms full of shining silk.

Fyodor eyed her warily. “You didn’t—”

“Kill them?” she finished cheerfully. “Effort wasted! Those two were barely standing; all they required was a little push. They’ll waken with not much more of a headache than they’ve already earned through overindulgence. And I left a handful of coins to cover their losses,” she added dryly. “Something tells me you wouldn’t take kindly to a little harmless thievery.”

The drow promptly stripped off her travel-worn clothes and pulled the gown over her head. She combed out her hair and let it fall in a wild cascade around her bared shoulders, then fastened her amber-encased spider pendant about her neck. Hushing Fyodor’s protests, she handed him the “borrowed” robe—somewhat grass-stained but still exquisite—to put on over his travel clothes. Then she took a length of red silk and .wound it around his head, turban fashion, and fastened it with a jeweled pin.

“There,” she said in a satisfied tone. “That’s just how it looked on the other man. I’ve no idea what you’re supposed to be, but I suppose the humans will.”

“You wish to join the festival, and slip into the city among the others,” he realized. “But what about your disguise?”

Liriel smiled slyly. “I’m a drow, of course. It’s quite an exotic costume. And authentic, too!” she added with a touch of irony.

Understanding lit his eyes, then wry admiration. They exchanged a conspiratorial grin and crept down the hill to join the merrymakers.

For the next hour, Liriel danced, sipped wine, accepted inane compliments on her “costume,” and watched Fyodor with amazement. He fit into the gay company as easily as a sword in its sheath: laughing and drinking and telling tales. Before long, he’d gathered about him a group of young noblemen, each striving to outdo the others with boastful accounts of his own adventures. Fyodor passed around his flask of firewine and listened with rapt attention to their lies. The drow heard the word “Skullport” whispered, and her eyes glinted with amused understanding. Her plan would get them into Waterdeep, but Fyodor was looking to the task beyond.

Someone brushed aside her hair and dropped a kiss on the nape of her neck. Instinctively, she spun around with a snarl.

A tall man with gray eyes and wheat-colored hair fell back a step, as if startled by her vehement reaction. Liriel recognized him as one of the nobles who had shared tales with Fyodor. Though his wavering stance and the nearly empty goblet in his hand suggested he’d had more than his share to drink, there was a shrewd expression in his eyes that Uriel noted and mistrusted. Then the sharp look vanished, and the young man smiled engagingly at her.

“Oh, I see. You’re in character.” He raised his hands in mock defense and pretended to cringe. “I must say, Galinda, you’ve outdone yourself this time. That’s a marvelous costume! But shouldn’t you carry some sort of fearful weapon to add realism—a whip or some such?”

For the first time in her life, Liriel actually envied high priestesses their snake-headed whips. She bared her teeth in an approximation of a smile. “The trouble with whips is that you never seem to have one handy when you really need it,” she cooed.

The man threw back his head and laughed. “How true! I’ve often thought that very thing, myself.”

His leer was comic and good-natured, his laughter infectious. Liriel suddenly misplaced her anger. A genuine smile curved her lips, and she regarded the handsome male with a touch of speculation.

Fyodor chose that moment to appear at her side. Once again, the drow glimpsed a flicker of penetrating intelligence in the stranger’s gray eyes as he took the Rashemi’s measure. Before anyone could speak, an exceedingly tipsy woman with bright red hair and an abundant display of cleavage lurched over to claim the young man’s arm.

There you are, Dan,” she cooed. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

“Was this our dance?” he murmured absently.

The redheaded woman smiled like a hungry troll. “Unless you had something a bit more

interesting in mind?”

The invitation was crude and unmistakable, and it got his full attention. He claimed the woman’s hand and bowed low over it. “Myrna, my dear, phlar Lloth ssinssrickla,” he said fervently, and then raised her fingers to his lips for a gallant kiss.

A bubble of startled, delighted laughter burst from Liriel. When Lloth giggles, he’d said in response to the woman’s amorous advances—hardly the tribute the simpering, overheated wench apparently believed it to be. Oh, he was clever, this one!

Liriel’s laughter died abruptly. This one was too clever.

With three words, spoken in oddly accented drow, the fair-haired man had said much and revealed even more. He knew what she was, and was putting her on notice of this. He had also tested her, beyond the obvious trial that recognition of the drow phrase offered. The blasphemous little jest would have surprised a scowl from a truly devout follower of Lloth. Although Liriel supposed her mirth had spoken well for her, she was annoyed with herself for falling into the human’s multilayered trap. She simply hadn’t expected such subtlety among these vapid folk. And how the Nine Hells had a human learned a few words of the drow language?

Fyodor, sensing her agitation, slipped a steadying arm around her waist. “My lady?” he inquired, leveling a challenging stare at the taller man. “Is all well?”

The stranger turned an engaging smile on the wary drow and her apparent champion. “It is indeed, my friend. Wonderful story Regnet told earlier, wasn’t it? Oddest thing is, most of it was actually true! And at the risk of repeating myself, Galinda, that costume is simply the best you’ve ever come up with. A bit disconcerting at first, to be sure, but the Dark Maiden look suits you. Well, enjoy the party, both of you.”

With those cryptic words, the man slipped away into the crowd, firmly steering the red-haired woman toward the circle of dancers and away from the private, silken pavilions she so obviously preferred. But Liriel had heard the message in his parting words, in all its layers of meaning. The tension drained from her, and she leaned back into the reassuring circle of Fyodor’s strong arm.