Windwalker - Elaine Cunningham [100]
But the spells of a witch had little potency against the minions of a goddess. The Rashemi woman sank to the floor, thrashing in violent convulsions as the spider venom took hold. In moments, she lay still. The spiders skittered off, shrinking as they went and disappearing into tiny cracks between the stone.
Liriel also stood as if frozen, her amber eyes darting here and there as she sought the next manifestation of the stubborn drow goddess. Moments passed, and none came. She rubbed both hands over her face like someone trying to awaken from a nightmare and walked over to the dead guardian.
Words Fyodor had spoken months before came back to her:
The penalty for killing a wychlaran is death.
She had barely entered the berserker's homeland, and already she had placed herself under sentence of execution.
There must be some way out, some way to accompany Fyodor on his journey to return the Windwalker and to see for herself the land of which he had spoken. Yet how could she do so when she had committed an unforgivable crime at the outset? Pleading that the witch's death had been the result of Lolth's will would do no good. The Rashemi, upon finding the body, were most likely to slay the drow on sight without waiting for explanations.
Mechanically her eyes roved over the witch's body, lying in twisted agony on the ground. The mask covering her face was askew, her hair disheveled, her hands clenched in a rictus of agony from the poison the spiders had pumped into her veins.
As Liriel gazed at the corpse, an idea began slowly to stir in the depths of her mind. She was vaguely conscious of Fyodor moving toward her, his eyes large with horror as the full implications of what had just occurred became clear to him. She closed her eyes for a moment to shut him out. In that momentary darkness, the seed of a convoluted drow plot rooted and bloomed. Liriel's eyes flew open.
"I can become her."
"What?" The Rashemi stared at her in confusion.
"I can disguise myself as her. Here, help me." Liriel's hands were busy now, her mind made up. Swiftly she began to strip the garments from the dead woman.
Fyodor shook his head, like a man caught in the depths of a nightmare. "You cannot!" he said in an appalled voice. "The punishment for impersonating a witch is death."
"I just killed a witch," she reminded him. "You once told me that carries the death penalty. I don't see how things could get much worse."
Fyodor let out a long, frustrated sigh. "Even with the vestments, you would still be a drow. There are no dark elves among the witches."
"Not recently, no," Liriel argued. "But what about Qiluй's sister?"
The Rashemi stared at her, not following.
"Don't you remember what Qiluй told me? Her sister Sylune trained among Rashemen's witches."
His face cleared as he followed her reasoning. Liriel had assumed, logically enough, that since Qiluй was a drow, her sisters would also be dark elves. Before Fyodor could disabuse her of this notion-and before he could mention that Sylune was not only dangerously famous, but dead-the swift clatter of footsteps from the tower's top room announced the arrival of reinforcements.
Liriel tugged the mask from the dead witch. The woman's appearance changed, instantly and drastically. She seemed to shrink, and her features softened and blurred into plump middle age.
Fyodor recalled what folktales said of the power of this mask. It was a Rashemaar artifact that placed a glamour over the wearer, allowing her to change her entire appearance at will. Liriel also made the connection. She quickly put it on, and suddenly a stranger stood before Fyodor.
The appearance Liriel assumed was reminiscent of Qiluй: a tall and slender female with long silvery hair. Fortunately, with the mask covering her black face and her hands gloved against the chill night, the guise was a reasonable approximation of Sylune's appearance.
Liriel's hands sped through a spell. A small, flowing portal opened and drifted down like a sheet of silk to cover the dead woman. She disappeared as the magical fabric settled,