Windwalker - Elaine Cunningham [102]
She tipped her gray head to one side as she regarded Liriel. "Do you still wish to be called Sylune? Perhaps there is another name that you have come to prefer?"
It occurred to Liriel that the old woman had never actually endorsed her claim. Zofia awaited her response, her canny blue eyes giving away no secrets.
"Liriel," the drow offered.
The old witch nodded. "So be it."
Anya sent her a fulminating glare. "She still hides behind the mask. Does no one think to ask why? Perhaps she is durthan, an evil witch. If her intentions are good, let her remove the mask."
"I can only suppose that Sylune did not wish to appear before us as a ghost," Zofia said mildly. "Or are we mistaken about this, Sister? Are you still numbered among the living?"
Liriel inclined her head, not only to signify agreement but to hide the amused admiration in her eyes. The old woman was as adept at partial truths and misdirecting questions as any priestess in Menzoberranzan.
"She has the right to wear it, Anya," the witch continued. "Sylune was one of many witches to wear this mask on her face or on her belt. The mask remembers her. It forgets none who wear it."
The drow heard the hidden message. She surreptitiously brushed her hand against her skirts, moving the glove aside enough to afford a glimpse of her skin. It was not black, but a creamy pale hue only a shade or two darker than Thorn's white face.
So the mask did remember! She had imagined Sylune as a tall, beautiful drow with silvery hair. The mask, fortunately, had a more accurate version in its memory.
Now, she thought, comes the real test of its power. She tugged off her gloves and raised her long white hands to the mask, which she carefully removed. Judging by the astonishment on Fyodor's face, her magical disguise held. She gave him a reassuring smile and tied the mask to her belt.
"May I keep the mask while I am in Rashemen?" she asked belatedly.
Zofia gave the drow a sweet, benevolent smile. "You will, of course, guard it as if your life depended upon it."
"Of course," Liriel echoed. She and the witch exchanged a look of perfect understanding.
They spent that night in the tower, and in the morning left Anya behind to take up her mother's post. The remaining four boarded a Witchboat, the same sleek little craft that had brought them across the lake. They glided smoothly northward, stopping at midday at a small fishing village.
The journey was a revelation to Fyodor, and a disturbing one. He had never traveled with wychlaran before-at least, not with any but Liriel, and not in his own land. He was accustomed to the deference given them but had never given much though to the practical details of their lives.
Neither, apparently, did they. The Witchboat was met at the dock and the travelers ushered to the village tavern. There they were served a midday feast of rabbit sausage and rothй cheese with bread still hot from the morning baking. Riding ponies were brought to them without question. Fyodor took note of their brands and privately vowed to ensure their return to their owners.
"I can see why there's such a strong penalty against impersonating a witch," Liriel told Fyodor in a joking whisper. "If there wasn't, every lazy halfling pickpocket would be walking around behind a black mask."
The witches rode astride their animals, and Liriel was pleased to note that her black gown had a split skirt, covered with a long tabard. It was all she could do keep her seat on a horse with both knees clamping the beast's sides.
"Come, Wanja," the old woman said, speaking to her companion. "These young people have things to say to each other, things our old ears have long forgotten."
"Speak for yourself," the other witch responded with a grin, but she clapped her heels to her pony's sides and took off after Zofia.
"The old one is clever," Liriel observed. "She sees more than most and says much without giving away secrets. This might actually work!"
"It cannot be done," Fyodor said in despair.