Chapter Twenty-Two
THE SPIDER’S KISS

The drow and the Rashemi walked throughout the night, and by first light they could see the outlying fields that heralded the existence of a farming village. They paused on a hillside overlooking a green, sweet-smelling place Fyodor called a meadow. Beyond the meadow, over the swell and fall of several smaller hillocks, Liriel saw a sparkle of white and blue that could only be the Dessarin River. The drow’s sharp eyes scanned the landscape and marked a place that would suit her purpose: a small, sheltered clearing on a tree-covered hill overlooking the river.

“You must stay here,” Fyodor cautioned her. “The people of Trollbridge have suffered much at the hands of drow raiders and would not take kindly to your presence.”

Liriel accepted his words without quarrel. “Just as well. I’m too tired to walk another step.” She punctuated her claim with a wide yawn, and at Fyodor”s urging she wriggled through the vines that all but choked a low-hanging yew tree. The sheltering shade would protect her from the sun, and her piwafwi would lend her invisibility. There she could rest in relative safety.

When Fyodor was satisfied that all was well, he hurried down the hillside toward Trollbridge. The time of moondark had passed, and he hoped the villagers’ fear of dark-elven raiders had passed with it. Yet he could not help but feel uneasy going there with drow hunters so close upon his heels. The beleaguered townsfolk had troubles enough; Fyodor did not wish to bring his own upon them.

He heard the sounds of the village before the walls of the palisade came into sight: the squeak of wagon wheels, the blended hum of a crowd of voices, an occasional note from the pipes and strings of itinerant musicians. Fyodor quickened his step. The merchants had come at long last, and with them the spring fair.

At first, Liriel had only the best of intentions. True, she had chosen a place of escape on a distant hillside, and she prepared a gate that could carry one or two persons there, but that was a reasonable precaution, no more. She fully intended to remain in her hiding place, to catch up on her sleep. When her natural curiosity asserted itself, she repeated Fyodor’s warning about the humans’ fear of drow, and she thrust aside her desire to see a human marketplace with her own eyes. And she stuck to her resolve for a good half hour.

Liriel took off her piwafwi and flipped it over. The mar-velous, glittering cloak had a nondescript dark lining and was perfect garb for blending into a crowd. She put on the inside-out garment and pulled up the deep-cowled hood to shield her face from the sun. Next she rummaged in her travel bag for a pair of gloves to cover her dark skin and to soften the distinctive elven shape of her hands. Finally, the young wizard cast a minor cantrip that lent her face the look of a human. She took a tiny mirror of polished bronze from her bag and regarded her new appearance. She grimaced, then burst out laughing.

At the sound, a flock of small brown birds nesting among the vines took startled flight. Liriel watched them go, then left her hiding place and made her way down the hill toward the place Fyodor had called Trollbridge.

Trollbridge was hardly the grim, besieged fortress of Fyodor’s last visit. The merchant caravan brought not only goods and an opportunity for trade, but also news of the lands beyond and a lighter spirit that—although it might not approach the gusto of a Rashemi festival—was nonetheless gratifying to the weary young warrior.

Fyodor noted that this caravan brought the usual hangers-on: armed travel guards looking for a place to drink and a bit of company; artisans plying such diverse crafts as tin-smithing and fortune-telling; traveling bards of all sorts, from gossip-mongers to jugglers to musicians. The villagers were out in force, too, garbed in their finest and displaying their winter crops and crafts to best advantage.

Fyodor went about his business as quickly as possible. He did not use the platinum coins Liriel had taken from the naga—such would attract too much notice in a village market. His own silver was more appropriate to the purchases he needed to make. First he bought two horses; a piebald mare and a chestnut gelding, fast and sturdy beasts both. He gave the stableboy a handful of coppers and bade him to take the horses beyond the village walls and stake them at the far-eastern edge of the meadows. The boy was too delighted with his unexpected riches to question such a request; indeed, Fyodor himself was not certain why he made it. He felt ill at ease, despite the spirit of lighthearted gaiety that ruled the day. Quickly he bought a few other things: some ready-made clothes to replace his much-mended garments, a lady’s cloak with a draping hood to protect Liriel from the sun, dried travel rations, twine for setting snares, a piece of tanned deerskin for patching boots and clothing, and a few sundries such as would be needed on a long trip. Fyodor’s needs were few and his habits frugal, yet he could not resist a final purchase. It was a pendant, the last remaining piece in the collection of a dwarven jewel-smith. Fyodor saw at once why the gem had not sold, but its very flaw made it perfect for Liriel. He parted with the asking price cheerfully.

Although eager to return to the draw’s hiding place, Fyodor had walked since dawn without stopping for food or rest; an equally long road lay before him. So he made his way to the village tavern for a mug and a quick bite. Saida, the innkeeper, recognized him and shouted to one of the serving girls to find him a seat on the level above. He squeezed his way through the crowded taproom and up the stairs. One of the bedchambers had been crammed with tables, and Fyodor found an empty seat near the window. Below him was the kitchen wing, and beyond that the market. He watched the cheerful scene idly as he ate his bread and cheese.

Suddenly he froze, his hand halfway to his mouth. He pushed aside his meal and leaned closer to the window.

There, near the center of the village common, was a small, slender figure swathed in a dark cape. Definitely female in outline, the figure could have been old or young, dark or fair. Her sheltering garb did not single her out, for many of the revelers were similarly clad—the winds blew straight off the river that day, and the air was crisp and chill. But she drew puzzled stares, all the same. Her step was too light, her movements too fluid and graceful.

At that moment the female paused at a stall and reached out a gloved hand to examine the wares offered. A passing sell-sword came up beside her and seized her extended wrist. He leaned in close and spoke words that Fyodor could not hear, then beckoned with an insinuating toss of his head toward the tavern.

Up came the female’s cowled head in an imperious gesture Fyodor knew all too well. He leaped to his feet, jostling a mug-laden serving girl. She responded with a squeal of protest that rose into a full-throated scream when Fyodor pushed past her and kicked out the many-paned window.

Below him was the roof of the single-story kitchen; it was steeply pitched and ended not so very far off the ground. He barreled through the broken window and slid, feetfirst, down the rough-tiled roof.

On his way down, Fyodor saw the amorous sellsword scowl and jerk the female toward him. Her dark cowl fell back. Waves of lustrous white hair sprang into full view, framing a face that was blacker than moondark.

At that moment Fyodor hit the ground, taking two stout merchants down with him. He rolled free of the tangle and leaped to his feet, drawing his dark sword as he rose. Ignoring the shouting, fist-snaking merchants, he began frantically shouldering his way through the crowd to the place where Liriel stood revealed.

His progress was slow, for word was spreading through the crowd and with it a panic all out of proportion to the small, dark figure in their midst. Many people turned and ran, trampling the slower and weaker as they fled from the much-feared drow. For several minutes, the crush and press of the panicked villagers held Fyodor immobile.

Then came another, uglier turn of mood. The area around the dark-elven girl soon emptied, and the villagers saw she was one alone. A lifetime of hatred, generations of remem- fbered wrongs, flowed toward the drow female. Like hounds baying at a treed snowcat, they began to close in. Knives flashed in the late-day sun.

Fyodor heaved a pair of gaping minstrels out of his path and surged forward just as Liriel stripped off her gloves and began the gestures of a spell. Some of her attackers also rec- fognized the beginnings of magic and fell back, and for a moment a path lay clear between Fyodor and the drow. Her eyes met his, took note of his drawn sword, and flickered with indecision. Then she slashed the air with one slender black hand, dispelling the magic she had gathered. She closed her eyes and pressed both hands to her temples, as if to shut out the ravening crowd.

A sphere of impenetrable darkness surrounded her at once, a twenty-foot globe that enshrouded much of the courtyard. The crowd recoiled from the uncanny sight, some screaming, many making signs of warding against the drow evil.

“One man’s nightmare is another man’s opportunity! I ;say let’s get her!” shouted a familiar voice. A dark-bearded );man pushed his way to the inner edge of the crowd, leveled an arrow at the globe, and let fly at the place where Liriel had stood. Fyodor recognized the bounty hunter and started for him at a run.

From the far side of the globe came a man’s grunt of pain, and a woman’s scream. “She’s killed him! The drow has shot my Tyron!”

Fyodor grabbed the bounty hunter’s arm before he could nock a second arrow. “You bloody fool!” he thundered. Tour arrow passed right through the darkness into the crowd beyond.”

The man lowered his bow. Eyeing Fyodor’s drawn sword, he stroked thoughtfully at his beard. “You again, eh? Give me a better suggestion, boy, and I’ll see you get one of the wench’s ears.”

Rage, pure and utterly his own, flowed through the young fighter. He hauled back his sword and smacked the bounty hunter just above the belt with the flat of his blade. The hunter folded as the air rushed out of him in a wheezing gasp. Fyodor placed himself between the midnight sphere and the crowd, his sword held menacingly before him.

“Liriel!” he shouted, not once taking his eyes from the grim-faced villagers. “Are you hurt? Are you there?”

“Well, where else?” she snapped. Her voice seemed to come from several feet above the ground, near the upper edge of the globe of darkness. “Get in here, would you?”

With a final, warning glare at the villagers, Fyodor stepped backward into the sphere of dark-elven magic.

The sunset colors were spilling into the churning waters of the Dessarin by the time Fyodor returned to the camp with their horses. Liriel was fascinated by the strange beasts, so different from the mounts of the Underdark, but tonight other matters consumed her thoughts. Fyodor had been strangely quiet since they’d stepped from her escape portal into the clearing. The drow assumed he was angry with her for sneaking into the village. She knew she would be furious, were the tables turned. Never before had she admitted to being wrong, and she found it wasn’t an easy thing to do. She waited until they had eaten, and had taken turns snatching a bit of sleep, and then she gave it a try.

“I endangered us both today.”

“You saved us both,” Fyodor corrected her. “With your magic, you could have escaped the village the moment you were discovered. You stopped when you saw me.”

Liriel opened her mouth to reply, realized she had nothing to say, and shut it. Her actions, now that she regarded them, seemed rather strange. “Well, what else could I have done? For all I knew, you’d go into a suicidal snit in the midst of all those people!”

“I would have welcomed the rage,” he said bitterly, “but it would not come at my command.”

“But you tried?” the drow asked, incredulous that he would do such a thing. Self-preservation was the first law of drow society; what he tried to do would almost certainly have meant his death.

Fyodor just shrugged. They sat in silence for a long moment, listening to the gathering chorus of frogs along the riverbank and watching the waxing moon rise above the hills.

After a time he took a tiny velvet bag from his sash and handed it to the drow. “This is a small thing I found in the market.”

Curious, Liriel loosened the string and upended the bag. A length of thin, gold chain spilled into her hand, and with it a large jewel that echoed the rich golden color of her eyes. It was an exquisite piece, for although the chain was old, it was of fine elven make, and the stone looked as if it had been cut and polished by a dwarven craftsman. And in the very heart of the jewel was a small, perfect black spider. Liriel caught her breath. Yellow stones were rare in Menzoberranzan; this was an ornament any priestess or matron might envy!

“How is this illusion done?” she demanded, turning the stone this way and that.

“It is no illusion,” Fyodor said. “The stone is amber. It is Common in my land—pretty, but of no great price.”

“But the spider?”

“It is real, caught in the stone by an accident of nature. Amber was once sap—the lifeblood of trees. At least,” he added softly, “that is the answer given by those who think.”

She recognized the familiar, rising note in his voice, and added the words to come: “And those who dream?”

Fyodor was silent for a long moment. “A tale is told in my land of a certain warrior. After the rage of battle left him, he wandered, wounded and confused, deeper into the forest than any man should walk. In time he came to an enchanted place and came to rest beneath a mighty tree. He saw in the distance a maiden of shadows and moonlight, more beautiful than any he had glimpsed either waking or in dreams. Now, it is said in my land that a man dies when his life surpasses his dreams. Thus the warrior passed from life with the image of the maiden before him, and the sightless tree wept golden tears. Whether in sorrow or envy, who can say?”

For the first time in her short life, Liriel was at a loss for words. The day’s events, the carefully considered gift, and the graceful tribute in Fyodor’s story had touched her and left her deeply confused. For a moment she wished with all her heart she were back in Menzoberranzan. Her home city, with all its chaos and conflict, was easier to understand. She knew the rules there and played them well. She had no idea what to do with the conflicting emotions inspired by this strange world.

But Liriel was not one for introspection. She pushed aside the uncomfortable new feelings and took refuge in something she understood.

The dark-elven girl rose lithely to her feet. Her armor, weapons, and clothing tumbled about her, and soon she stood, clad only in moonlight, before her companion.

Fyodor’s eyes darkened. At last, thought Liriel with relief, an expression she knew! Desire burned with the same dark flame, be the male in question human or drow. Yet the young man made no move toward her. He did not look away, but he was clearly uncertain whether or not to accept what she offered.

A moment’s panic threatened to claim Liriel. Passion was familiar, reassuring territory, one of the few emotional outlets permitted among the drow. If not this, she wondered, then what? She simply did not know another way.

Then Fyodor held out his hand, and with a cry of mingled triumph and relief she went to him.

The moon rose high, bathing their campsite in gentle light, but they did not notice the passing of time. The human knew none of the elaborate games the drow played, and Liriel found she did not miss them. This was something entirely different, both exhilarating and deeply disturbing.

There was an honesty between them, an intimacy as merciless as sunlight. It scorched her soul as painfully as dawn stung her eyes. It was almost more than she could bear, yet she could not turn away.

Liriel struggled to gather herself, to regain some vestige of control. They tumbled together, and she rose above him and claimed command of the intimate dance. But even then his intense blue eyes held her in an embrace that was uncomfortably close. The drow closed her own eyes to take refuge in darkness.

Fyodor saw this, and he did not need the Sight to recognize the sheer self-preservation in the gesture. He had accepted Liriel’s offer of herself as the gift it was, though he did not understand what the giving meant to the drow girl. Nor was he sure what place this night would have in his own life. Yet, in the uncanny way of his people, he knew without understanding that his destiny was somehow linked with this dark-elven girl. The sheer insanity of that thought did not trouble him; Fyodor was well accustomed to taking life as he found it.

Inexplicably, he thought of the snowcat kitten he had befriended years ago, knowing full well it could never be tamed. He’d accepted this with the calm resignation that was the heritage of the Rashemi people. He did not fault the cat for following its nature, or wish the animal could be other than it was. But he did not hold back his heart then, and he did not now. Those who thought knew embracing a drow was utter madness. Those who dreamed understood life’s joy was measured in moments.

Fyodor raised a hand to stroke the dark elf’scheek. A faint smile touched Liriel’s lips, and he traced it with a gentle finger. Her golden eyes opened, focused, and then turned hard. She put his hands away from her and looked him full in the face. For a moment, Fyodor thought he saw a hint of moisture behind the cold amber. Then Liriel clenched her hand into a fist and drove it toward her lover’s temple.

A burst of bright pain exploded in Fyodor’s head, searing his senses and eclipsing the moonlight. When the light and pain faded, he knew only darkness.

Liriel rose to her feet and dashed the back of her hand across her eyes. Bitterly she cursed herself for letting down her guard, for betraying her drow upbringing. The cost—as shed expected—had been high.

The drow glanced toward her discarded clothing, but there was no time to dress, no time even to seize a weapon. So she merely stood, as coldly proud as any high priestess of Lloth, as the first of the dark-elven hunters slipped into the moonlit clearing. She did not fear them. After all, she had her magic, and it would take more than a few drow fighters to overcome a wizard of her ability.

The drow hunters—six, all told—formed a cautious ring around the campsite. Liriel recognized the four she had felled with sleeping poison, as well as the male with short-cropped hair and the dragon tattoo on his cheek. She glanced at his arm and gave him a faint, mocking smile, which broadened when his comrades flanked him and forcibly kept him from drawing his sword against her. But her smile vanished when a copper-haired, black-eyed drow pushed past the hunters and into the circle. Another wizard tipped the balance decidedly in the fighters’ favor.

“Nisstyre,” she hissed. “Come to offer me more assistance?”

“Whatever you require, dear lady,” he said, and bowed. “But first, to remove unnecessary distractions.”

He turned to the barely controlled Gorlist and pointed to the human. “You’ve found him at last. See if you can manage to kill him while he sleeps.” His tone was deliberately harsh, clearly intended to direct the fighter’s anger away from the female.

lcYou needn’t bother,” Liriel said coldly, marveling at how steady her voice sounded. “He’s already dead.”

Nisstyre’s gaze swept the pale, still form of his human nemesis, then he turned a speculative gaze upon Liriel. “The Spider’s Kiss, eh? A strange ending to a moonlight tryst! I heard you have adventurous tastes, my dear, but this exceeds the tales. Still, I almost envy the poor sod,” he concluded gallantly. “Some things may well be worth dying for.”

Liriel did not care for the gleam in the merchant’s eyes. She lifted her chin and reminded herself she was a daughter of House Baenre.

“In that case, I wish you a long and healthy life,” she said in the haughty tone Baenre females had honed through centuries of undisputed rule. “If you came seeking revenge against the human, you are too late. He is dead. Thank me for saving you the trouble, and be on your way.”

“Actually, I seek a certain magical trinket,” Nisstyre said softly. “An amulet, shaped like a dagger?”

She answered with a derisive sniff and spread her arms wide, as if inviting inspection. “As you can see, I don’t have it on me,” she said mockingly.

“A pity. I always find that searching for information is most entertaining,” the wizard replied. He held out one hand and made a show of adjusting his many rings. One of them, a thick gold band set with a sparkling black gem, was chillingly familiar. LirieFs eyes widened as she recognized her former tutor’s ring. The wizard noted this and smiled. “I assure you, he has no need of it.”

So Kharza was dead, Liriel acknowledged with mingled sorrow and fear. How brutal had Nisstyre’s “search for information” been, and how much had Kharza told him about the amulet before escaping into death?

Enough, it would seem. Nisstyre flicked at the ring’s large black stone, and the jewel swung back on a tiny hinge. He took a pinch of powder from the hidden compartment and cast it into the air. The eerie, faint blue light of a find-magic spell filled the clearing. Most of LirieFs things glowed: her chain mail, her elven boots, her piwafivi, many of her knives and throwing weapons. But the amulet—even hidden as it was in her travel bag—positively blazed with azure fire.

Nisstyre stooped and picked up LirieFs bag. He spilled the contents onto the ground. Gold coins and sparkling gems cascaded out, and the eyes of the drow thieves lit up with open greed. Nisstyre waved them back and snatched up the brightly lit amulet.

“You’re wasting your time. You can do nothing with it!” Liriel said coldly.

“Perhaps not. But far to the south is a city ruled by drow wizards skilled beyond your reckoning or mine. When the amulet’s magic is mine, I will be able to wean the People from their false dependency on Lloth. And at last,” Nisstyre concluded triumphantly, “the drow will reclaim a place of power in the Night Above!”

This was too much for Liriel to absorb. “You worship Eilistraee?”

“Hardly,” the wizard said dryly. “We follow Vhaeraun, the Masked Lord, drew god of stealth and thievery. Eilistraee’s insipid wenches think only to dance in the moonlight and give aid to hapless passersby; we have a kingdom to build!”

Nisstyre turned to Gorlist. “Gather up everything that glows. I want to study every magical item she possesses.”

A bubble of panic rose in Liriel’s throat. “You’re going to leave me without any magic?”

“Not at all,” Nisstyre assured her. “There is a place among Vhaeraun’s followers for any drow who forsakes the Night Below. In your case, a high place! I myself would be pleased to take you as a consort.”

Liriel laughed in his face.

For a moment she thought the wizard would strike her. Then he bowed again, this time mockingly. “As you wish, princess. But in time, you will learn drow can survive only by banding together in force, and you will come to me.” He took a small scroll from his belt and held it out to her. This is a map. With it you can find your way to a nearby settlement of Vhaeraun’s followers. You may keep your nonmagi-cal weapons and your wealth—you will have need of both if you are to reach the forest stronghold.”

She struck the parchment roll from his hand. He shrugged and turned away. “Have it your way. But sooner or later, princess, we will meet again.”

“Count on it,” Liriel muttered under her breath as the last of the drow hunters slipped from the clearing.

She waited until all were beyond sight and hearing, then dropped to her knees beside Fyodor and began to shake and slap him toward consciousness. All the while, she whispered fervent prayers of gratitude—to any and all drow gods who might be listening—for the fact that Fyodor had stayed obligingly “dead” until the danger was past.

After a few moments of this treatment, the Rashemi groaned and stirred. He sat up, clutching his temples. His clouded eyes settled on Liriel. Memory crept into them, and then puzzlement. “In my land, such things are done differently,” he murmured.

Liriel rose abruptly. He reached up and caught her hand. “Why?” he said softly. “I ask of you only this, that you tell me why.”

She brushed him aside and began to collect her clothes. “For what it’s worth, I just saved your life,” she snarled. “Nisstyre and his drow thieves came upon us. They would have killed you, had I not convinced him I’d saved him the trouble.”

Fyodor still looked bewildered. “But how could he believe you’d slain me, if he came upon us at such a time?”

“Because it happens.” She stopped lacing her tunic and met his gaze squarely. “Such sport is not unknown among my people. One of these games has been named the Spider’s Kiss, after the spider who mates and kills.”

The man stared at her, clearly aghast. Liriel steeled herself for his response. From what she’d learned of her human companion, she expected revulsion, horror, wrath, perhaps utter rejection.

But he merely shook his head. “Ah, my poor little raven,” he said softly. “What a life you must have known!”

What Liriel could not understand, she decided to ignore. “Get up,” she said bruskly. “If we hurry, we might still catch them.”

Fyodor regarded her strangely. “I know why I must face the drow. But why should you take such a risk?”

They took all my magic! My weapons, spellbooks, even my boots and cloak!”

“But these are mere things,” he pointed out.

“Nisstyre has the Windwalker,” she said flatly. It was dangerous to tell him this—she had not yet figured out a way to share the amulet’s magic—but she saw no other choice. “I saw a dagger-shaped amulet in his hands. Or is this also a ‘mere thing,’ not worth retrieving?”

Chagrin flickered in Fyodor’s eyes, and he reached for his swordbelt. “My apologies, lady wizard! Your need is as great as mine.”

They scrambled down the hill after the thieves—Liriel gritting her teeth against the pain of rocks and brambles tearing at her bare feet—and came to an abrupt stop at the water’s edge. The drow were already in the river, many yards from shore, poling light wooden crafts toward the swifter water in the river’s center. Nisstyre caught sight of them and called a halt.

“Brava, princess!” he called, smiling ruefully. “You tricked me well! Yet by my reckoning, you have lost.” He held up a small, dangling object. Moonlight glinted off the dull gold of the ancient dagger. “Until you get this back, I would say the victory is mine!” Nisstyre blew her a kiss, then signaled his drow to pole the boats into the swift-flowing current.

“Get it back,” Fyodor echoed softly. He turned incredulous eyes upon his companion. “You had the amulet, all this time! You kept silent, after all I told you. But why?”

Liriel held her ground, but she was finding it inexplicably difficult not to squirm before his accusing gaze. “I had my reasons.”

The young man took a long, steadying breath. He reached for her hands and clasped them between his. “Liriel, I do not deny this may be so,” he said carefully. “By your lights, these reasons might have been good and sufficient. But I tell you truly, this is too much for me to bear. Here we part ways.”

Liriel pulled her hands free and clenched her fists at her sides. Her first response was anger. Intrigue was the meat and drink of Menzoberranzan, and even her most casual friends took this in stride. Why couldn’t Fyodor just be reasonable?

“We both need that amulet,” she pointed out, hoping to appeal to his practical side. “If we compete, only one can win.”

The young man nodded, somberly conceding her point. “You will do as you must, little raven, and so will I.”

She stood staring for a moment, unable to believe he was thrusting them into competition. His eyes held both sadness and resolve, and Liriel knew instinctively that none of her threats or wiles could change his mind. She was not prepared for the wave of desolation that swept over her.

Not knowing what else to do, Liriel turned and darted off downstream in pursuit of Nisstyre and the stolen Windwalker.