Tangled webs - Elaine Cunningham [17]
Shakti deepened her concentration and thought herself into the mist. There was a sudden tug, a moment of intense confusion, and then she was surrounded by swirling fog. A large eel with iridescent scales floated past her with an undulating, swimming motion. Momentary panic threatened to claim the drow as the realization of her success took hold. Shakti gripped her wits and reminded herself that she was not plane walking. She had merely sent her spirit to the elemental plane, leaving her physical form in the implacable care of the golems. Nothing here-not the strange water, not the denizens who inhabited it-could harm her. So she began to walk through the alien landscape, marveling at the twin sensations of heaviness of movement and weightlessness of body, amazed that the water flowed through her as easily as if it were air.
For the first time, Shakti thought she understood why Liriel Baenre might have desired to explore the surface worlds. This foreign plane showed her amazing things, and her new eyes drank in every strange detail.
On the far edge of the watery landscape was a strange sight: a cloud of bubbles, roiling and seething. It was a being of some sort, though unlike anything Shakti had ever seen or imagined. Although formless, it was not without intelligence or ambition. The traveling spirit of the drow perceived the being's emotional storm-an overwhelming sense of discontent, frustration, and rage-and turned to follow it to its source.
The drow was reassured to know that even here there were beings who were disillusioned, eager to break from their traditional ties. They were like loose threads, seeking a new and orderly pattern they had not yet defined. Shakti was more than willing to provide them with one. She had vision enough to spare and could easily weave any number of loose threads into her growing web of power.
The light of a waxing moon shimmered on the surface of the water as the little craft slipped away from the coast of Ruathym. It was a clear, cold spring night, and in the frigid skies each star burned with stark clarity. Hooded and cloaked against the chill, a single sailor settled down among piles of wet, bulging sacks-a strange cargo, and one that could destroy many a Ruathen in the days to come.
The oars dipped quietly into the water, taking the boat out past the shallows where the people of Ruathym went to swim and to gather clams during low tide. From time. to time the traitor cast a furtive glance up at the stars, which seemed to burn down like so many accusing eyes.
Yet the boat moved forward steadily, each stroke of the oars scattering the reflected moonlight like broken dreams. From time to time, the quiet rhythm was interrupted as the rower paused to drop into the waters seed that would bear a bitter fruit.
The night was old before the sacks were empty, and the moon had sunk low behind the forested hills of Ruathym.
The lone sailor quickened the rhythm of the oars, for there was one task yet remaining. Tonight, death must come to the quiet village, and the spirit of a potential hero must take its place in the mead halls of Tempus, god of battle. It would not be a place of honor. The man's death would not be a glorious passage, bravely won, but a bitter gift from the hand of a friend. It was this, more than the murder itself, that formed the deepest betrayal.
With a crunch of pebbles, the boat struck the shore. Moving quickly, the assassin pulled the craft onto dry land and secured it in its accustomed place. The port village of Ruathym lay sleeping-even the fisherfolk were still abed. But soon the people would begin to stir, and a cloaked figure would seem suspect. So the assassin tossed back the cowl and walked openly down the streets that led to the cottage of the young war leader. If any saw, none would question.
And so, in the quiet before dawn, death came in a single, quick stroke. One stroke-that was all it took to steal the glory of one Ruathen and slay the honor of another. The assassin knew the single flash of the knife would send many others to Tempus's mead hall