Windwalker - Elaine Cunningham [113]
Petyar followed.
Fyodor found his cousin in a small clearing, not far from the runner's path. The fading voices of the runners proclaimed that they had been left far behind, but Petyar did not seem to notice. He stood at the base of a snow-frosted pine, staring in puzzlement at the snow. Tracks circled the tree, but the thick white blanket beyond was marked by a single pair of tracks: Petyar's. The wolf prints had completely disappeared.
The warrior clapped the boy on the back. "You would not be the first Rashemi to lose a trail. Forget it."
"I didn't lose the trail," Petyar insisted.
"Perhaps you didn't," Fyodor agreed. "Perhaps this wolf should not be found."
The boy scoffed. "I'm not such a fool as that! If you think to frighten me with tales of werewolves, you'd do better to wait until the night has come and the moon is full."
"True enough," Fyodor admitted. He nodded toward the path. "However it happened, your quarry is gone. Let's join the others."
Petyar grumbled but fell into step. "It will be back," he insisted, "and it will cause trouble before it's finished. That is its nature. A wolf is always a wolf."
His words drifted through the crisp air. Thorn heard them, albeit somewhat muffled by the thick branches that shrouded her hiding place. The familiar Rashemaar saying prompted a wry, humorless smile.
A wolf will always be a wolf. It was strange they should think so when so many of their old tales said otherwise.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
the warrens
Liriel eyed the clearing uncertainly. It was a desolate little spot, ringed and roofed by tall trees. A small spring bubbled and spat, sending sulphorous steam into the air. She whirled toward the witches who had accompanied her. Zofia had brought along all of Dernovia's witches-thirteen of them-to meet their guest and to escort her to a sacred place. To the drow's eyes, this little excursion was most likely a means of getting her out of the way.
"Here?" she demanded, eyeing Zofia with mingled outrage and incredulity.
"The witch of Shadowdale has been too long away," Zofia told her. "This is a haunted land. To know it, you must know and respect the sacred places. We will return before the sun sets."
The old woman nodded to the others. They turned and left the clearing.
Liriel glumly surveyed her surroundings.
She walked over to the spring and peered into the bubbling water. She could not see the bottom and did not expect to. There were hot springs like this in the Underdark, and even those came from deep, hidden sources.
When she was certain that she was alone, she untied Sylune's mask from her belt and sighed with relief as she slipped back into her own form. She kicked off her boots and removed her clothes and weapon belts, leaving on only the knives strapped to her arms and calves.
She dipped one foot into the water and found it pleasantly warm. Carefully she climbed over the rocks and lowered herself into the pool.
The steam rising around her coalesced into a strange form-a dragonlike head sculpted from mist.
Liriel scrambled out of the pool, eyeing the ghostly thing.
Yet it was not a ghost. She was sure of that, though she could not exactly say why. She felt none of the instinctive sick dread that dead things inspired.
She remembered the lore books that she had plumbed in her attempts to learn about the Windwalker. Her hand went to the hollow of her throat, the place where the amulet rested. "Place magic," she whispered, "and place spirits."
The misty reptilian inclined its head and waited. Liriel remembered how the villagers on that remote Moonshae island had honored the sacred river. She wore no ornaments, but she took a small, jeweled knife from a wrist sheath and dropped it into the water.
The misty dragon favored her with a toothy grin and sank back into the pool. Liriel smirked. Dragons