Windwalker - Elaine Cunningham [123]
Power rose from each of the masked women like steam-not quite visible, but tangible all the same. The object of the witches' focus and the recipient of the power they raised was an carved wooden staff. It bobbed gently in the air in the precise center of the circle.
One of them would wield it. Oddly enough, no one seemed concerned over who might eventually claim the prize.
Liriel imagined, briefly, how this decision would be made in Arach Tinileth, the priestess school in Menzoberranzan. Several females would die before such a treasure came to rest in one pair of dark hands.
When the casting was completed, the staff glided over to one of the masked women. The witch took it reverently in long, slender hands. When she took off her mask, Liriel bit back a curse.
Anya, the young witch who had challenged her at the border watchtower, had come to Dernovia.
The disguised drow quietly slipped out of the clearing and made her way back to her hut. She would have to deal with Anya sooner or later, but better not to do so when she was backed by the full might of the village witches.
Fyodor had not yet returned. She paced the small room and bitterly regretted the promise that bound her here. The sleepless night before finally overcame her, however, and she curled up under the fur coverlet and sank into deep slumber.
She came awake suddenly, alerted by the soft creak of the ropes holding the mattress. To her surprise, the person sitting at the edge of the cot was not Fyodor but Thorn.
The elf woman gestured her to silence. "I come with a warning," she said softly. "The Dragon's Hoard band has come to Rashemen. They seek you."
"I know," Liriel replied in the same tone. "Several of the village warriors have gone looking for them."
"There is one you should beware. He had in him enough hatred to fill seven lives." Thorn touched her left cheek. "He has a dragon tattoo here."
"Gorlist," the drow said with disgust.
"Don't dismiss him," the elf warned. "More things have been accomplished in this world by persistence than by wisdom."
"I'll keep that in mind. Thanks for the warning." Liriel swung her legs off the cot and stretched. The elf did not move.
"What?" the drow demanded.
Thorn hesitated. "I have spoken with Zofia. She told me of the tapestry you carry. I wish to see it."
Liriel grimaced. "It's not a pretty thing."
"Nevertheless."
The drow shrugged and rose. She took the tapestry from the chest at the foot of the cot and unrolled it carefully.
For a long moment Thorn studied the terrible scene. "What have you done about it?"
The accusation in her voice stung Liriel. "It's elf magic. You'd probably have better idea what to do with it than I would."
Thorn considered her for a moment. "Perhaps I do," she said slowly and rose from the bed. "Come."
The drow hissed in exasperation but fell into step behind the much-taller elf. She followed her out of the hillock-
And into a small meadow on the side of a mountain.
Liriel pulled up short and looked around in astonishment. She had studied magical transport with some of the best minds in Menzoberranzan for a period of over thirty-five human years, but she could not begin to conjure so smooth and spontaneous a gate.
She looked around. The air was thinner here and cold. A lone raven crawled across the sunset sky, and its plaintive call rang out over the valley below.
Another raucous voice took up the cry, and the message worked its way across the trees. That it was a message Liriel did not doubt for a moment.
"They are carrion eaters," Thorn explained. "They have found a dead or sickly animal, and are calling the others to the feast."
"Generous of them."
"It is what they do. It is one of the things they do," the elf added pointedly. "Sometimes a raven is just a bird. Sometimes it is far more. Do you understand this?"
Liriel remembered Qiluй's avian messenger, and nodded. "They carry messages."