Windwalker - Elaine Cunningham [106]
In the courtyard were a dozen or so warriors, stripped to the waist despite the chill air. Some of them wrestled, while others shot arrows at targets propped up against bales of straw. There was much laughter and loud boasting, but none of the men drew steel or turned their bows upon each other.
"I suppose you have questions?" the old witch prompted.
Thousands, Liriel thought, but she began with one of the newest. "The males…" She caught herself and corrected. "The men of Rashemen amaze me. How can they compete so vigorously without creating blood feuds?"
Zofia chuckled. "You have been too far to the west, and too far to the south. The hot sun addles the brain. Too much is made of too little. Here we know what is important, yes?"
The drow nodded sagely. In truth, however, she had never heard a question spoken whose answer seemed so far beyond her grasp. How could she possibly know what was valued in this strange place? It was not a question she had asked herself under familiar circumstances!
That realization hit her like a stone dropping into the pit of her stomach. How odd. She had lived for more than forty years- probably longer than the careworn Wanja-and it had never occurred to her to wonder what was truly important.
Oh, she'd privately scoffed at the constant striving and plotting that was Menzoberranzan. The intrigues that so absorbed her fellow drow held little interest for her, but what did matter?
Survival, obviously. Magic, certainly. Life without adventure was unbearably dreary. Power…
Her mind slid uncomfortably away from that notion. She'd had enough of that on Ruathym to last her a dragon's lifetime. Fyodor set great store by honor, and she had to admit that her faith in his steadfast ways had become a touchstone in her life. Liriel treasured the unexpected joys of friendship. These things she knew. What else could there possibly be?
"There are many kinds of truth-testing," Zofia said softly, breaking into Liriel's thoughts with uncanny timing. "Sometimes the answers matter less than the questions."
This was too much for the pragmatic drow. She threw up her hands in disgust. "Life was less confusing when I was dead."
For some reason, this amused the witch. "Welcome back, Sylune," she said with a wry little grin. "I suspect that this visit will be as interesting as the last!"
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
black wolf
.
Later that evening, when Vastish's brood had been spoiled by one too many stories and far too much honeycake, Fyodor made his way up the hill toward the residence of the witches and berserkers. His progress was slow for at nearly every house he was stopped by neighbors he had known since childhood. All celebrated his return with rough embraces and affectionate insults. All produced flasks of jhuild or mugs of scrump-a fermented cider that was nearly as potent as the Rashemaar liquor-in hope of prolonging Fyodor's visit and coaxing from him news of the wider world.
There was news to be had, as well. The old Iron Lord had stepped down. Word was that he had taken ill and that he was being cared for in the forest retreat of the witches. In his place ruled Thydrim Yvarrg. A good choice, most agreed, provided that he did not expect his impulsive, hard-drinking son Fyldrin to succeed him. There was lesser news, too, ranging from tales of hauntings and monster attacks to the happy birth of twin boys to the village cooper and his wife.
With one thing and another, the evening swiftly passed. By the time Fyodor reached the barracks of the Black Bear lodge, a waning moon peered over the summit of Snowcat Mountain.
It was custom for any returning warrior to report to the village fyrra. Fyodor made his way to Treviel's cottage. The door stood open, revealing a blazing fieldstone hearth before which sat a stocky but powerful man of an age and size that Fyodor's father might have known, had he survived the Tuigan hoard. The old warrior hummed to himself as he polished his boots with goose grease. His feet were clad in stockings of a highly singular nature. They had been knitted to look