Tangled webs - Elaine Cunningham [123]
The draw nodded; instinctively she knew this to be true. She had fought to protect the Ruathen village from the sahuagin attack, but Hrolf's death had bound her to the island as nothing else might have done. Only once before had Liriel known such an overwhelming sense of desolation and loss. She had been little more than a babe when Gromph Baenre, her drow sire, had ordered that her mother be slain so he might take sole control of his talented daughter.
"No rune comes easily, even to a god," Ulf said somberly as if he followed the pathways her thoughts had taken. "The cost is always high, and it will no doubt be higher still before you are fmished. Do you still wish to learn?" Liriellifted blazing eyes to the shaman's face. "You can ask this of me?" she demanded. "Hrolf is dead. I will have the knowledge to learn why-and the power to avenge him-whether you teach me or not."
This answer seemed to please the grim shaman. "Then we will begin."
Chapter 17
Yggdrasil's child
The funeral for Hrolf was to take place that very day. Most of the villagers took part in the preparations, for there was much to be done. The Elfmaid had to be cleaned and provisioned, her planks and timbers doused with whale oil; songs needed to be written to commemorate the man and his deeds; driftwood gathered for an enormous bonfire; food and drink readied for the feast-a lavish and lengthy affair meant to remind those left behind of the reward awaiting them in the mead halls of Tempus.
By Ruathen custom, a captain's first mate was to oversee the preparations, but ibn was nowhere to be found. So Liriel took over the details. The villagers followed her directions without question or complaint, not seeming to care they were being led in this matter by a female, and an elven one at that. She fell into the role of leadership instinctively, for she'd had ample practice at planning and organizing large and elaborate events. It was odd, she thought more than once throughout that long and hectic day, that the skills she used to honor Hrolfhad been honed in the decadent festhalls and mansions of Menzoberranzan.
The colors of sunset spilled into the sea by the time all the village gathered by the cove to see the pirate captain on his last voyage. As Ulf and Olvir took turns chanting the songs of farewell, Liriel looked on, as coldly composed as the Elfmaid's wooden figurehead. When the ceremony finally came to an end, the drow gave the signal to set sail. Hrolf's crew somberly went about the task of setting the rudder and raising the sail-not the usual gaily colored square, but an enormous banner of triumphant blue, upon which young Bjorn had painted the holy symbol of Tempus. The chill breezes that announced the coming night caught the sail. It fluttered, then snapped taut, and the ship glided slowly out to sea. When it had reached the far outer edges of her range, Liriel dipped an arrow into the many-colored flames of the driftwood bonfire and fitted it to a longbow. She sent the flaming missile arching high into the sky. It plummeted down like a falling star and disappeared behind the Elfmaid's low wooden rail. There was a moment's silence; then the oil-soaked ship blazed like a torch.
The Ruathen watched in somber, approving silence as the sparks from Hrolf's funeral pyre leaped up to meet the setting sun. This was an ancient ceremony, seldom done in these times, but all those present sensed its rightness. Everyone there knew of the pirate's great love for his Elf maid; no one could imagine another captain walking her decks. And those who watched took strength from the rituals. In every detail, they had honored the ancient customs of the Northmen. The ceremony brought to mind the gloriOUS times of ages past and ignited the flame of pride in the hearts of the battered islanders. Whatever they had endured of late, they were