Daughter of the Drow (5 page)

Meanwhile, far from House Baenre’s audience hall, Gromph’s daughter skipped lightly through the tunnels of the Underdark. Her eyes gleamed red as they pierced the darkness ahead, and an occasional cross-draft rippled through the thick white hair that fell in wavy locks to her waist. She was dressed for travel in boots and breeches fashioned from thin, supple leather, a shirt of quilted silk, and a vest of fine chain mail. A three-foot, barbed-tip spear rested on her shoulder, and in her free hand she carried a small bolo, which she twirled in elaborate patterns as she walked.

Behind her, well out of reach of the whirling weapon, trudged a young drow couple. The female wore the insignia of House Shobalar, a lesser clan known for the rare female wizards it produced. The other drow was an exceptionally handsome male, elaborately dressed but for the single-braided hair that marked him as a commoner. Both of these drow carried spears identical to Liriel’s, and they darted wary glances here and there as they maneuvered through the field of small, sharp stalagmites that thrust upward from the rocky floor.

The tunnel was narrow, barely wide enough for three or four drow to walk abreast. Countless eons past, trickling water had carved a series of furrows into the rocky walls, leaving long, narrow stone ridges rising up on both sides of the tunnel. The passage resembled the rib cage of some giant beast, and Liriel’s companions found it more than a little unnerving. They kept firm grip on their weapons and silently cursed the impulse that had led them out of the relative safety of Menzoberranzan. The Underdark was unpredictable and full of danger. Few ventured out into it without considerable strength of arms and magic. Yet when Liriel Baenre issued an invitation, how could they refuse?

Liriel was by far the most popular female in their set, a group of wealthy young drow both noble and common who pursued pleasure and intrigue with typical drow passion. She was younger than most of them—still short of her fortieth birthday, which placed her in the midst of the long, tumultuous period of drow adolescence—and she possessed the fresh beauty similar to that of a human girl not yet seventeen. She also enjoyed the wealth and station of a House Baenre noble. But many of the city’s young drow possessed wealth, status, and beauty. Liriel was exceptional for her ready laugh and a zest for life that was rare in grim Menzoberranzan. Admittedly eccentric in her tastes, she preferred the pursuit of adventure and magical knowledge to social intrigue. Still, few could deny her quirky charm. Many young drow vied for the chance to share her adventures. Those who survived could count on enhanced social standing, as well as a few good stories to share at that evening’s round of parties.

Even with this pleasing prospect before them, Liriel’s companions grew more uneasy with every step. The utter darkness of the passage did not inconvenience them in the slightest, but the silence deeply unnerved them. In Menzoberranzan, the noise of the city melted into a constant, spell-muffled murmur spiced by an occasional scream. In these tunnels their quiet footsteps thudded in their ears with a hollow, echoing sound, like stones falling into a deep well. Liriel, of course, walked like a shadow, thanks to her enchanted elven boots and two dozen years’ experience with such exploration. Her gait was light and eager, her eyes fixed on the adventure ahead.

Yet Liriel was not unaware of her companions’ discomfort. She knew Bythnara Shobalar well; the two of them had trained together from a young age. Gromph had apparently tired of his precocious daughter soon after adopting her, and sent her to House Shobalar to be fostered and trained by that clan’s female wizards. A childhood rivalry had sprung up between Liriel and Bythnara that had followed them throughout the years. Liriel took this in stride, and in fact found it rather enjoyable. It sharpened both their efforts and added a necessary spice to their friendship. Despite their mutual interest in magic, the two had little in common. Bythnara did not share Liriel’s delight in adventure or her sense of fun. The female wizard could be remote at times—and downright dull the rest of the time—but Liriel was well accustomed to the limits of friendship.

“Are we almost there?” Bythnara complained behind her.

“Soon.”

“But we’ve been walking for hours, and by now Lloth only knows where we could be! We could die out here, and no one would know the difference!”

Liriel glanced back over her shoulder and winked at her friend. She did not, however, slow her pace in the slightest. “Correction, Bythnara: you could die out here and not know the difference.”

The wizard’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a threat?”

“Of course not,” Liriel said mildly, turning back to the path ahead. “It’s an insult. When I die, I’ll no doubt realize something has changed. You, on the other hand

“

“Perhaps I don’t run through life at your pace, but that is no matter for scorn. ‘Caution is the better part of wisdom.”

“Bythnara quoted in a tight voice.

“And the major part of boredom,” Liriel returned lightly.

“What about you, Syzwick?” she asked the male. Bythnara’s latest consort was the son of a well-to-do perfume merchant. He was obscenely wealthy, highly decorative, spirited yet manageable—all qualities that made him very popular with the females in their set. “Are you having second thoughts, as well?”

“Of course not,” the male said staunchly, shifting his spear to his other shoulder. “Still, we have been gone quite a long time.”

“It’ll be worth every moment,” Liriel promised. She stopped suddenly, flinging out a hand to indicate they should do likewise. She pointed downward, and both of her companions gasped.

The trio stood on the very edge of a riverbank. Several feet below them lay a calm, dark expanse of water. The river ran deep, silent, and very cold. Its waters were said to come from lands of ice far above the Underdark. Although the air here was warmer than the water, a constant cloud of mist floated over the river like a guardian wraith.

The boat is moored right below us,” Liriel said, pointing down at a long, narrow skiff.

She leaped out over the dark water. Summoning her natural ability to levitate, she hung in the air for a moment and then floated down to land lightly at the bow of the boat. Her companions followed suit with considerably less gusto. They quickly seated themselves to calm the rocking of the craft. They knew they could not afford to tip over, and not just because of the icy waters.

For they were hunting pyrimo, small, fierce fish that could strip a full-grown lizard mount to the bone in minutes. These fish were extremely aggressive, known to leap from the water to attack animals that came to drink at the river’s edge. So sharp were their teeth and so powerful their jaws that the first bite was often painless, unnoticed. The pain came quickly enough, though, for any blood in the water summoned dozens of the voracious fish. Hunting them was a dangerous sport, and accidents were not infrequent.

The first challenge was simply getting this far, for the tunnels that led to the river were seldom traveled and rarely patrolled. The river itself was a hazard—deceptively calm, given to sudden eddies and strong, random undertows. And the fish were dangerous even in death. Their flesh was delicate, tasty—and highly toxic. Carefully prepared, pyrimo were more potent than wine, and any party at which they were served instantly became an event. Fatalities among the diners did occur from time to time, but they were rare. Carefully trained chefs prepared pyrimo knowing their own lives depended on the result.

But the party was hours away, and before them lay the challenge of the hunt. Liriel placed a booted foot on the bank and shoved hard. Her boat, tethered to the rocky bank by a light mithril chain, glided toward the center of the river. When the craft stilled, Liriel took up her spear and stood in the prow, feet braced wide for balance. Bythnara echoed her stance in the stern, while Syzwick took a seat in the center for ballast. The boat was designed so two could hunt at a time, one on either end and well out of each other’s reach. The fish attacked even when impaled, and more than one drow had been bitten by his hunting companion’s speared catch. Whether by accident or design, who could say?

Liriel took two small flasks from the bag at her waist and tossed one to Bythnara. The flasks were enspelled to keep the contents—fresh rothe blood—warm. Liriel opened her flask and poured a single drop of blood into the water. To the drow’s heat-sensitive eyes, the droplet appeared bright red. It would be visible for only a moment, for the icy waters would cool it quickly. Liriel readied her spear and watched intently. The glowing drop disappeared, suddenly and completely.

Liriel’s spear flashed down into the water. She raised it triumphantly—a fish about the size of her hand thrashed and wriggled on the point. Pyrimo were impossible to see in the water, for their body temperature matched exactly that of the chill river. Clearly visible in the warmer air, the fish was a smooth oval, with silvery scales and delicate fins—a pretty thing, except for the steely, fanged jaws that spanned the width of its body.

“Catch, Syzwick,” Liriel said casually, and with a flick of her spear she tossed the lethal fish toward the male. The drow paled and cringed away. No need: the fish slapped wetly into the box at his feet,

“If you’d missed

” Syzwick began.

Liriel sent him a saucy grin. “I haven’t yet! Don’t worry, love, the last thing I’d want to do is drop a hungry pyrimo in your lap,” she purred. “One bite, and you’d be no good to anyone.”

Bythnara’s lips tightened; seeing this, Liriel suppressed a sigh. Her friend could be so possessive at times! Liriel had meant only to tease Syzwick a bit, knowing the handsome male appreciated bawdy humor. But Bythnara always mistook such remarks as statements of intent.

Syzwick did not notice the female wizard’s peevish expression; he grinned lasciviously at Liriel and raised an eyebrow.

“One bite?” he challenged.

Liriel swept him with an appraising glance. “Perhaps two,” she allowed.

Bythnara snorted and gave her flask of blood a vicious shake. Bright droplets scattered into the river.

“Don’t put so much blood into the water at one time,” Liriel cautioned her sternly. She could tolerate Bythnara’s foul temper, but only up to a point. “You don’t want to start a frenzy.”

That thought sobered the jealous young wizard, and for a long time the two females hunted in silence. Perched on the very tip of the boat, Liriel worked quickly, leaning out over the water and spearing one fish after another. She herself did not care for the pyrimo, beyond the challenge of the hunt, but the fish had another value to her that her companions could not begin to fathom. The prospect of another hazardous adventure beckoned Liriel this day, and she was too pleased with life to allow Bythnara’s snit to spoil her mood.

The boat shifted slightly, and from the corner of her eye Liriel saw that Bythnara had seated herself and put aside her spear. The female grimaced and rubbed at her neck. She reached into her travel bag and removed a small vial. She poured some pungent liniment into her hand and began to massage the sides of her neck.

A warning light flashed in LirieFs mind. She had hunted pyrimo many times, and well knew the strain caused by the watchful tension and lightning-fast spear thrusts. Bythnara was massaging the wrong muscles.

For a moment Liriel felt a familiar, hollow feeling in her chest, the dull empty ache that came anew with each betrayal. She quickly thrust it aside and coolly, surreptitiously studied her childhood friend. As Liriel suspected, Bythnara’s massaging fingers moved in a complex, familiar pattern. The wizard was casting a spell. It was not a common spell, but Liriel had learned it just last week from her new and powerful tutor. Bythnara, of course, did not know this. Liriel’s teacher had forbidden her to share with anyone the spells he taught her, and for once she blessed the greedy, paranoid nature of Menzoberranzan’s wizards.

Bythnara rose, stretching, unaware her prey had sensed the hunt-within-a-hunt. The wizard’s next move, Liriel knew, would be to fling out a hand and send a fireball sizzling toward the prow of the boat.

Keeping her feet spread in a hunting stance, Liriel once again summoned the natural magic of levitation. Then, in one quick, fluid movement, she rose high into the air, whirled, and threw her spear like a javelin. The barbed tip tore into Bythnara’s chest, and the wizard’s languid yawn turned into a rounded O of shock and pain. Arms wind-milling, she toppled backward into the water.

Instantly the pyrimo were upon her. Liriel floated above the river’s misty shroud, watching with an impassive expression as the water below her churned and roiled, turning red in the darkness as it was warmed by the blood of her treacherous friend.

When the wild rocking of the boat stilled and the waters had once again turned cool and dark, Liriel drifted back down. Syzwick still lay flat on the floor of the boat, where he had wisely thrown himself in an effort to keep the craft upright.

Liriel regarded the handsome male for a long moment as she considered what best to do with him. The scented liniment Bythnara had used had no doubt come from his father’s store. It seemed likely that Syzwick had plotted with Bythnara, Perhaps the female wizard had told her consort something that might help Liriel understand the motive for this attack. If so, Liriel intended to get some answers. She kicked him, none too gently.

Syzwick scrambled onto the center seat, his eyes frantic as they met Liriel’s implacable crimson gaze.

“I’ll swear to anything you like,” Syzwick said, the words fairly bursting from him. “I’ll say Bythnara attacked you. That’s believable enough, considering how much she hated you. She’s always hated you—jealous, mostly—and has never bothered to hide the fact. Everyone knows it. Everyone will believe us,” the male babbled on, “for she’s spoken often enough of wanting to see you dead. Mind you, as far as I know she had no real plans to move against you. And I swear—I swear it by Lioth’s eighth leg!—that I would never go along with such a plan, even if she’d had one and demanded my help! You know that, Liriel. All her talk about wanting you dead—it was only talk; you know how these things go.”