Tangled webs - Elaine Cunningham [124]
in uncanny echo of these thoughts, the wooden figurehead on the prow of Hrolf's ship suddenly stirred to life amid the flames. The enormous elven maiden raised high her blazing sword. Before the wondering eyes of the villagers, the figure's appearance shifted: no longer a ten-foot drow, but a broad-shouldered Northman with pale braids and an enormous mustache, and blue eyes ablaze with a wild passion for life. For a moment, Hrolfthe Unruly lived again for them all. A proud smile crossed the figure's wooden face, and his chin lifted to a triumphant angle as the ship sank at last into the waves.
Every eye turned in awe to the little drow in their midst, marveling less at the magical feat than at the fact that a stranger-an elf-could understand so completely their warrior sensibilities. Although none had given words to the thought, all felt there was something vaguely shameful about death by drowning. In giving Hrolf a warrior's funeral, the black elf maid had reminded all present of the man's love of battle and his fighting prowess and, in doing so, had restored to him his honor.
Ulfwalked over to the silent drow and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Come," he said softly; "We will join the others at the feasting later. Before night falls, we must take
your belongings to my house."
Liriel eyed the shaman suspiciously; "Whatever for?" "You should not be alone at such a time."
"Nonsense. I've been living alone for nearly half my life!"
"it is the custom of this land, about which you already know much. The apprentice stays in the house of his or her master. We begin your training tonight."
The drow started to protest. She was exhausted and heartsick, in no frame of mind for the study of rune magic. And yet, this was why she had come to Ruathym. Her need, and Fyodor's, had not diminished, nor would the time allotted them expand to allow for personal sorrows. So she responded with a curt nod and followed the shaman to Hrolf's cottage.
Much later that night, when the feasting was over and the sated villagers had gone to their beds, the shaman and his student made their way into the forest. They walked without speaking, climbing a large hill that was crowned with a flat, grassy bluff Overhead the moon was a mere sliver of silver light, and the celestial shards that followed it through the sky shone like glittering tears.
"There is unseen power in the land and in the sea," Ulf began. "He who would be a shaman must learn to feel this power before he can learn to gather it and shape it into a rune. In this place the magic is strong. See what you can do to find it."
With those words, he turned and began to stride from the clearing.
"That's it?" demanded Liriel, incredulous. "This is the teaching you promised me?"
The shaman turned to glare at her. "Find the power. Even the great ones-even the gods-are not given runes lightly. How can you hope to learn the casting of runes if you cannot learn to attune yourself to the source of their power?"
Since Liriel could not refute this reasoning, she spun away and stalked into the center of the clearing. She closed her eyes and began to breathe deeply, clearing her mind and readying herself as she did before the casting of any powerful spell. As a wizard, she had learned to use chants and gestures and spell components to shape magic to her will; now she attuned her thoughts to the Weave itself-the intricate and invisible web of magic that encircled all of life.
Elves do not use the Weave; we are apart of the Weave. Where this thought came from, Liriel could not say, but she acknowledged it as truth. There was power she could claim as her own, power that was her. She envisioned the fabric of magic, like so many intricately woven silver threads, and searched for her place within it all. After a time, her seeking thoughts found this place, and she engraved the memory of it on her mind.
Not stopping to ponder this new and marvelous insight, the drow persisted in her silent quest. She sought the magic tbat belonged to this