Chapter Twenty-Three
DIFFERENT WAYS

As the hours of night slipped past, Liriel made her way southward along the river. She moved quietly, lightly, yet she cringed at the sound of each faint footfall; she was accustomed to walking in complete silence. Her feet were bruised and bleeding, but she kept walking until she could go no farther. Huddled at the base of a tree, she wrapped her arms around herself for warmth and took stock of her position.

Her drow magic was gone. She could not summon darkness, or conjure faerie fire, or levitate. Stripped of her magical items, she could not walk silently or cloak herself in invisibility. Not to mention the more mundane value of boots and cloak! Her spellbooks were gone, along with the spell components that would enable her to cast wizardly spells. But perhaps her clerical magic had not forsaken her. Liriel remembered the words of Qilue Veladorn, claiming that Eilistraee heard and answered her faithful wheresoever they went. Could Lloth also hear, so far from the chapels of Menzoberranzan? The girl tried a simple incantation that summoned spiders—a blessing Lloth granted to any drow. She whispered the words of the spell, then strained her ears for the skittering sound of delicate legs. There was only the chirp of crickets and the lonely hoot of a hunting owl. She was truly alone.

The drow drew her knees up to her chest and dropped her head to them. She felt very small and utterly lost beneath the vastness of the night sky.

After a moment a fragment of melody slipped unbidden into her mind. Liriel recognized the wild, haunting music played at the moonlit revels of Eilistraee’s priestesses. On impulse, she rose and began to dance to the rhythm of the remembered song. Closing her eyes, she whirled and dipped and leaped. As she did, the pain in her battered feet subsided, then slipped away. Liriel was not surprised; caught up in the private ecstacy of the dance, all things seemed possible.

From a nearby hillside, Fyodor watched her. The moon had sunk low in the sky, and the fey dancer was silhouetted against the pale light. Another female danced with Liriel, clearly elven in form but taller by half than a mortal drow. Fyodor did not know what this meant, but he took comfort in the fact Liriel was not alone.

Carried swiftly on the waters of the spring-swollen Dessarin, the merchants of the Dragon’s Hoard made their way southward. Henge, drow priest of Vhaeraun, watched with interest as Nisstyre argued with the tattooed lieutenant. The priest’s hatred of Nisstyre was almost as strong as his devotion to his god, and he eavesdropped on the small mutiny with shameless enjoyment. Gorlist, it seemed, wanted the princess and her human lap-lizard destroyed. That struck Henge as reasonable enough. True, the female would be useful for breeding purposes, but they had her magic, and that, in Henge’s opinion, was sufficient. He’d seen more than enough of drow females during his years as a slave in Ched Nasad. If Gorlist wanted to kill one of the two-!egged spiders, may Vhaeraun be with him.

Yet the cleric could not move openly against his captain.

He’d tried, once, only to find he’d exchanged one sort of slavery for another. Many years ago, Nisstyre had lured Henge into Vhaeraun’s service, extracting an oath of blood-bond in payment for escape from Ched Nasad. Any failure of loyalty carved deep, magically inflicted cuts onto Henge’s body. The priest still bore the scars of his early rebellions and small failures to serve; after many years, however, he had learned exactly where the parameters of the bond lay. There were still some small things he could do, and he watched and waited for an opportunity.

Suddenly Nisstyre’s voice faltered, and his hands went to the eye-shaped gem embedded in his forehead. Gorlist, obviously thinking himself dismissed, left the wizard’s side with an abruptness that set the boat rocking dangerously. The cleric beckoned the young drow over. He handed Gorlist a silver ear-cuff.

“This is a small thing that you might find useful. No matter how skilled the warrior, certain tasks are dangerous. Wear this, and any wound you receive will heal.”

Pride and practicality warred in the fighter’s eyes. Then Gorlist cast a surreptitious glance at Nisstyre and slid the ear-cuff into place.

Back in Menzoberranzan, Shakti had had little time to spare for her merchant partner. Her mother, Matron Kinuere, was delighted with the addition of a high priestess to her arsenal and encouraged by the favors shown them by House Baenre. She promptly began plotting a war against House TuinTarl. The unnatural peace would end sooner or later, and those who were prepared to act with little notice would gain advancement.

Shakti, therefore, had been inundated by the demands of her new responsibilities. She did not mind, but rather listened well, learning skills she intended to wield herself someday, and on a much grander scale. But she did not forget her hunters; when no word come from Ssasser, she gave up the naga and the quaggoths as lost. Nisstyre, however, she could and would keep within her hand.

When at last the priestess had an hour to call her own, she took out the black-ruby scrying bow! and cast the spell that linked her to the drow merchant. A strange scene came into view: small boats traveling a river bright with sparkling lights and swift-running water. With Nisstyre were several drow fighters, and he was arguing with one of them. To get his attention, Shakti sent a quick burst of pain to the ruby eye. The wizard winced, and his hands rose to touch his forehead. The movement brought the golden amulet dangling from one hand into Shakti’s line of vision.

“You have done well,” she complimented him, and her words were carried to his mind by the telepathic link. “And now?”

I take the amulet to the south, to have its magic studied by drow wizards there. When its secrets are known to me, I will return to Menzoberranzan.

Shakti nodded. She was confident the wizard would do as he said; how could he not, when she could follow him wheresoever he went and slay him with a thought? Yet there was a formal, cautious feel to his mental response that she distrusted.

“And what of Liriel Baenre?”

She will not be returning to Menzoberranzan.

The traitor-priestess threw back her head and cackled with delight. Desiring to see for herself the details of her enemy’s death, she cast a clerical mind-reading spell and sent it along the crimson path. Vhaeraun had been generous; of all the gifts granted her by the God of Thievery, Shakti relished most these small plunderings of the mind and the spirit. From Nisstyre’s memory she plucked his last image of Liriel. The princess, although decidedly more bedraggled than Shakti had ever seen her, was very much alive and pacing like an angry panther along a rock-strewn shore. Snakti’s mood plummeted and her red eyes narrowed.

‘You lied to me! She lives!”

Have I said she didn’t? As I recall, you required only that Liriel not return to the city. That has been assured.

“It is not enough!” shrieked the priestess, clutching at the rim of the scrying bowl with both hands.

A surge of rage flowed through the magic portal and struck the wizard like a thunderbolt. The ruby gem in his forehead flared and seemed to burst into crimson flame. Nisstyre screamed in torment, then slumped, apparently lifeless, into the arms of his puzzled drow followers.

Shakti snatched her hands from the bowl and regarded the fading scene with horror. She had not intended to strike, and she had clearly gone too far. Gingerly she reached out one fingertip to touch the scrying bowl. She felt the hum of magic power still sing through the dark red crystal. That was a relief; it meant the tie had not been severed, that Nisstyre still lived. Yet only through his eyes could she see into the Night Above. Until Nisstyre regained his senses, he was of no use to her.

Sobered by this near disaster, Shakti settled back in her chair and regarded the scrying bowl. She had much to learn about her new power and how to wield it to best advantage. But this one thing she had learned: it was not sufficient. Nisstyre was an important ally, but, like all mortals, he was vulnerable.

As she stared thoughtfully at the scrying bowl, the priestess began to ponder other ways to gain access to the power and resources found in the Night Above.

The coming of dawn roused Liriel from a brief, exhausted slumber. She picked her way down to the river to drink and wash. There, placed neatly on the rocky bank, she found a new cloak and a pair of low boots rudely fashioned from soft leather. There was no doubting who’d left them for her.

The drow shook her head in confusion. Humans apparently had a lot to learn about the art of competition! But she donned the gifts and continued downstream. As she walked, the roar of the water grew louder. The river flowed rapid and shallow here. On the far shore, not too far away, were Nisstyre’s hunters, shouldering their small boats to portage around the dangerous stretch of water.

Liriel crouched behind some bushes and thoughtfully studied her foe. It would be an ideal time to attack. Though she had little magic left to her, she cudgeled her mind for an innovative way to use a minor spell. The roar of the water made thought difficult, however, and hearing impossible. Bereft of her magic, the drow felt keenly the loss of these other senses.

Fortunately her elven eyes were as keen as ever. At the very edge of her peripheral vision, she saw a familiar, dark figure creeping toward her. Liriel spun as the tattooed male came at her with drawn steel. She pulled her dagger and parried. With a quick, circular sweep of his sword he knocked the blade from her hand, then stepped in closer and seized Uriel’s wrist.

Gorlist pressed the keen edge of his blade against her skin. “Shall I mark you, wizard, as you did me?” he demanded. “How can you stop me? Where is your magic now?”

He was taunting her, but Liriel saw the humiliation in his eyes, and she understood what this was about. Drow fighters took pride in their lack of scars—she had probably been the first to lay a blade on him, and in doing so had dealt his pride a dangerous blow.

“What will your master say?” she demanded. “Nisstyre will be furious if you harm me!”

“Perhaps he will be, but not for a while,” the male said cryptically. “Nisstyre would not thank me if I marred your skin. He might, however, be pleased to find you humbled.” With a cruel smile, he sheathed his blade and dragged Liriel to him.

Her eyes widened with shock and outrage when his intent became clear. There was no time to draw a weapon, no time to cast a spell, but Liriel was not without defenses. She crossed her middle finger over her index finger, braced them into a rigid weapon, and drove her lacquered nails deep into Gorlist’s eye.

He roared with pain and lashed out blindly; his fist connected solidly with Liriel’s ear and sent her sprawling. Gorlist dashed the gore from his face and leaped at her. Ignoring the ringing in her head, Liriel kicked up and out with ail her strength. Her aim was true, and she was rewarded by another scream of pain—this one at least two octaves higher than the last. Gorlist hit the ground nearby, groaning, and curled up as tightly as an overcooked shrimp.

Liriel scrambled to her feet and turned to flee. The male grabbed at her, and his hand managed to close around her ankle. With her free foot, she stomped on Gorlist’s wrist, but her soft deerskin boots lent little conviction to the attack, and she did not break his hold. Quickly abandoning that attempt, she kicked him in the face. She got in several more blows before Gorlist managed to capture her free foot, as well. With a quick, sharp jerk he pulled both feet out from under her. Liriel’s arms flew out wide and she fell straight back. Her head met the rocky ground with a sharp crack. The force of the blow—although cushioned a bit by her thick white mane—left her stunned.

The male crawled over to her and drew a long knife from his belt. Pure malevolence glowed in his one good eye. Liriel knew a moment’s relief—he meant only to kill her, after all.

“Get away from her!” demanded a deep bass voice.

Gorlist looked up, startled, as a familiar-looking human hurtled toward him. The drow was faster, though, and he brought the wicked knife up.

Yet Liriel was also drow, and just as fast. Summoning all her strength, she managed to strike Gorlist’s arm aside an instant before Fyodor would have impaled himself on the knife. The two fighters rolled clear of her, thrashing and struggling for position. She watched intently; the outcome was by no means clear. The human was a head taller and probably outweighed Gorlist by half, but the elf was more agile and nearly mad with rage, pain, and wounded pride.

Liriel waited expectantly for Fyodor’s berserker frenzy to come and settle matters. It did not. This worried her; Gorlist still held the knife, and it was only a matter of time before he found an opening.

So she crawled over to the fighters, ignoring the throbbing in her head and the weird sparks of light exploding behind her eyes. She pulled a knife from her sleeve, watched for an opening between the grappling fighters, then thrust the blade between them. She drew it back hard against Gorlist’s throat. The drow managed a gurgled protest, then fell limp.

Fyodor pushed away from the dying drow. For a long moment, the rivals for the Windwalker regarded each other in awkward silence.

“Next time, don’t announce your arrival,” Liriel suggested icily. “Kill first, and if unanswered questions remain you can always hire a priestess to chat with the spirit.”

He responded with a faint, bleak smile. “It is not my custom to strike from behind. We do things differently, you and I.”

“So I noticed! It’s not drow custom to give any advantage to an enemy, much less leave them gifts.”

“Yet you wear these gifts.”

“Of course. I’m practical,” she stated. “As you’re always pointing out, there are those who think, and those who dream. Well, together we’ve got one of each. I suggest we stop this foolishness and tend to business. Together.”

“But how can that be, if there is no trust between us?” he demanded, his blue eyes searching her face.

The drow crossed her arms and stared him down. “So, what’s the score now?”

Fyodor blinked and drew back. “The score?”

“The score. You know: I’ve pulled your tzarreth out of the fire four times, you’ve saved mine three—that sort of thing.” She lifted one white eyebrow. “It says something, doesn’t it?”

The light began to return to Fyodor’s eyes. “Are you saying I should trust you?”

The drow shrugged.

“I suppose if we continue as we have been going, neither of us will possess the Windwalker,” he said cautiously.

“Now you’re talking!” Liriel could not suppress a smile of pure elation. “Then it’s settled!”

“Is it? If only one can possess the Windwalker, who will he that one?”

“Let’s worry about one thing at a time,” Liriel advised him. She squinted downriver. The drow hunters were almost beyond sight. “Nine Hells! Well never catch them! Where are those long-legged lizards of yours?”

“The horses fled—probably the drow ran them off.” He hesitated. “There is another way. We could build a raft. It is risky, with the water running white and fast.”

Her eyes sparkled with reckless glee. “Let’s do it!”

Working furiously, they dragged deadfall wood to the bank and lashed it together into a rude platform. Fyodor tied long loops of rope onto the makeshift craft for handholds, and the two of them waded out with it into the river. They had not gone far before the rushing water threatened to tear the raft from their hands.

The Rashemi shouted for Liriel to get aboard. She scrambled on the back of the raft and wrapped a rope around her hand. She grabbed Fyodor’s vest and helped haul him up.

Then they were off, tossed like a leaf on the foam. Fyodor tried vainly to steer, using his cudgel to push away from jagged rocks. Mostly, they just held on as the little raft bounced and spun. The river quickly turned rougher, and the raft lifted and dropped in the turbulent water, like an unbroken horse trying to throw a rider. Above the roar of water Fyodor heard Liriel’s wild, exultant laughter. The raft reared up high for a breathless moment, then splashed down hard. Water swept over them in an icy rush.

Fyodor fought with his rope, hauling upward with all his strength to bring the front edge of the raft above the water. If it dipped too low, the raft would flip and they would be tossed into the river’s frigid depths. He struggled for several desperate moments before he had the little craft bouncing along again. With a sigh of relief, he glanced back over his shoulder at Liriel.

She was gone.

His heart seemed to leap into his throat. He lunged for her rope and gave it a mighty tug upward, hoping against hope she might have kept her grip. Liriel’s head broke the surface of the water, and she gasped in huge gulps of air and foam. Sputtering and coughing, she hauled herself back toward him, hand over hand. As she rolled onto the raft, she batted away Fyodor’s hand and pointed. Her eyes were wild, and she shrieked a single word that was lost in the noise of the rapids and the pounding of his heart.

Fyodor turned, and his eyes widened. The river turned shallow ahead, and rocks jutted out of the water like so many grave markers. Beyond was a curtain of spray, and the deep, thunderous roar of falling water.

The wooden raft screeched as it scraped against rock, and then the lashing gave way. Liriel and Fyodor were thrown into a whirlpool of splintering wood and rending water. They tumbled over the shallow riverbed, scraping over gravel and hitting one bruising rock after another. Then, suddenly, they were free, plunging down through the spray-filled air.

They hit the water hard and sank deep. Fyodor fought his way upward, gasped in air, and saw that he was alone-He grabbed his floating cudgel, hooked an arm over it, and plunged his head under to look for Liriel.

The drow floated just beneath the surface of the water, her arms hanging limp and her white hair floating around her in a nimbus. Fyodor snatched a handful of hair and dragged her to the surface. Slowly, painfully, he began to swim to shore.

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.