Daughter of the Drow - Elaine Cunningham [67]
Nor did the session provide any entertaining personal drama. Shakti was there, sullen and withdrawn, yet still clearly in the favor of the attending mistress. It would seem her failure had been a private one, Liriel concluded. Apparently Shakti had resisted the urge to run to the authorities with news of the Baenre female's supposed defection. This annoyed Liriel-she had hoped to cause Shakti embarrassment of some sort-but she was also impressed with her enemy's patience and resolve. The Hunzrin priestess was a dogged sort, obviously prepared to stalk her prey for however long it took her to uncover something sufficiently damning. Shakti was shaping up to be a credible foe. As patient as a spider, the Hunzrin priestess would be there watching, always watching, waiting for her enemy to misstep. This knowledge did nothing to brighten Liriel's mood.
The afternoon did not promise to be much of an improvement, for once again Liriel had to face the consequences of her unconventional childhood. Weapons training was required of all drow, regardless of class or gender. Liriel was deadly with anything that could be thrown, and she'd always found such expertise to be sufficient to her needs. Unfortunately bolos, slings, and throwing spiders were not in the classic repertoire of a noble female. When draw entered the Academy, they were expected to have proficiency with both the sword and the drow signature weapon: a tiny crossbow used to shoot poisoned darts. The bow was no problem-Liriel could hit whatever she aimed at-but she'd never had much interest in the art of swordcraft. As she was to learn this day, interest was optional; proficiency was mandatory.
Her swordmaster was one of the older students at Melee-Magthere. A stocky, rather unattractive male from some lesser family, he seemed alternately annoyed at having to tutor a first-year priestess and delighted to have the chance to lord it over a Baenre female.
'Tour wrist is shaking," he scolded her. "Just two hours of practice, and you're tiring already!"
Liriel dropped her arm so the tip of the heavy sword rested on the floor of the practice hall. "I'm not accustomed to holding a sword," she said defensively.
"That's apparent," the male sneered. "I've seen mere children who could fight better. What have you been doing all these years?"
She pushed back a damp lock of hair and gave him a hard-edged smile. "Ask around. What did you say your name wasr
"Dargathan Srune'lett."
"House Srune'lett," Liriel mused, looking the stocky fighter up and down. "Yes, now that you mention it, I can see the family resemblance."
The male scowled, and his face heated to a livid red. The priestesses of Srune'lett were often referred to as the "fat sisters"-not in their hearing, of course-and many members of the clan, both male and female, lacked the lithe, slender form that was the drow ideal. Dargathan, it would seem, was more than a little sensitive about this fact. He raised his sword in a slow, menacing arc.
"Guard position," he snarled.
Liriel faced him squarely and lifted her too-heavy weapon. Before her tired muscles could react, the male lunged in. His sword slashed open her tunic in a diagonal rip that ran from shoulder to waist. She looked down, incredulous, at the silver line of chain mail that showed through.
The girl raised murderous eyes to her opponent and held his taunting gaze for a long moment. Then she leaped at him, her sword diving in toward his heart. The male easily batted aside her thrust and danced back with a speed that belied his ungainly physique.
"Guard position," Dargathan repeated, smugly this time. "Work on your stance. You're still exposing too much