Tangled webs - Elaine Cunningham [32]
Fyodor stood with the villagers as the aged druid said his prayers and offered the yearly tribute into the waters: beautifully worked armbands, torques, and broaches of pure yellow gold. Fyodor was a little surprised to see that the pirates, too, stood by in reverent silence as the old man tossed a fortune in gold into the water.
Making the ritual more remarkable was the fact that Fyodor could perceive no magic about the place at all. Like many of his people, he had a touch of the Sight, and he was usually able to sense places of power. Here, he felt nothing. He resolved to ask Hrolf about this later.
With the setting of the sun, the ritual gave way to celebration. Hrolf and his men contributed several casks of their "stolen" mead. Bonfires dotted the hillsides, and around them the villagers and pirates danced to the music of reed flutes, drums, and small, plaintive pipes. Sooner than Fyodor expected, the frenzied, joyous pace of the festival gave way to pleasant languor. Some of the revelers crept away in pairs to seek the shadows beyond the flickering firelight. Those who remained danced and drank to exhaustion, then curled up near the fires and fell into contented slumber.
Taking advantage of the unexpected lull, Fyodor sought out Hrolf: The captain was seated in state upon a tree stump, his Moonshae wife on his lap and a large drinking horn in one hand. Hrolf roared out a greeting and pressed the horn upon the young man, insisting that he have his share. Fyodor drained the vessel-not a difficult task for one accustomed to the fiery jhuild of Rashemen-and then asked the captain about the day's ritual, explaining his perception that no magic lingered in the river.
The pirate shrugged. "Place spirits are not so common as they once were, that's true enough, but old ways die hard. And what's the harm of it? The river waters their fields, carries their boats to the sea, and gives them fish.
That is worth more than gold to them!"
"Well said," Fyodor replied, pleasantly surprised by Hrolf's insightful and tolerant answer. Even so, he did not credit these words as being the whole truth, and he said so. Hrolf responded only with a wink and a shrug. He refilled the drinking horn from the mead cask and handed it to the young warrior. "For a dreamer, lad, you worry too much! Find the bottom of this one and see if that doesn't steal your troubles!"
Liriel waited until well after midnight before leaving the ship. Although she agreed with Hrolf that the Ffolk might not take well to a drow's presence on their island, she could not resist the temptation to see this new land with her own eyes. Acting on impulse, she dressed as if she were participating in the promised festival, putting on a gown of black silk she had bought in Skullport and taming the wild waves of her hair into an elaborate arrangement of coils and ringlets. The Windwalker amulet she hid beneath the bodice ofher gown, yielding the place of honor to a pendant Fyodor had given her: a smooth oval of glowing amber with a black spider in its heart. Thus garbed, she donned her piwafwi and crept, wrapped in invisibility, through the deserted village, making her way toward the dying bonfires on the hills beyond.
The drow had expected a festival; what she encountered more closely resembled a battlefield. Villagers and Ruathen alike were sprawled about like so many victims of a massacre, with one exception: the dead generally did not snore. The grating chorus resounding through the clearing bore vivid testimony to the evening's overindulgence. Hrolt; in particular, set the air vibrating with his raucous blasts as he lay asleep on his back, his boots propped