Windwalker - Elaine Cunningham [135]
There was magic deep in the bones and marrow of this world, magic she knew well. She reached down to it, strengthening the ties she had inadvertently created when she carved her own destiny on the Ruathym oak.
Next Liriel reached for the heart of Fyodor's homeland. The song of Rashemen began as a whisper, swelling to a mighty chorus that filled her mind with its powerful cadences. She saw the recognition on the faces of the witches, and the wonder. For the first time these women heard the song of the land they served.
A small whispery soprano took up the melody. Liriel's gaze went to the singer and linked to Anya's awestuck eyes. The young witch squeezed her hand, and her heart-as open to Liriel's gaze as her own-welcomed her one sister to another.
Other witches joined in the song. Still in a handclasped circle, they began to dance, and the ancient spellcasting they had learned as maidens kept perfect time to the song.
The waning moon had not yet set despite the coming of day. Using the magic that Qiluй had taught her, Liriel reached out into the moonlight, listening for the song that was unique to each place. A silvery glow surrounded her as she reached out with the moonmagic of the Dark Maiden. She heard the song that was Ysolde, daughter of Qiluй, and the priestesses with her. To her surprise, they were very close. Liriel reached out into the forests and sent out a silent summons.
The winding of a hunting horn rang out from the wooded slope and bounded from mountain to mountain. The remnants of Gorlist's band fought with renewed ferocity.
Silver arrows streaked down from nearby trees, and a ringing chorus of female voices rang above the sounds of battle. Ysolde ran down the slopes with her sword held high. Behind her raced several of her maidens, all lofting bright swords and emitted the eerie, ululating cry. Their hair shone silver-bright in the dawning day.
"More of the demons coming!" roared Treviel, pointing with bloodied sword toward Ysolde's band.
Fyodor seized the fyrra's shoulders and spun him about. The older man went rigid with shock at the sight before him. A drow danced among the circle of spellcasting witches.
"That dance is a summons to the guardians of the land. This- this!-is what Mother Rashemen sends?" Treviel murmured.
"Tell the men not to attack any of the silver-haired drow women. Tell them!"
The fyrra hesitated. This advice went against everything he knew as truth or even sanity. Yet he could not deny what his eyes told him.
"This drow is truly wychlaran?" he asked.
"That and more," Fyodor said softly.
He looked toward his dearest friend, her small hands entwined with the pale fingers of Rashemaar witches, her eyes fixed upon things he could not see, and a vision of his own came to him. Through the Sight that was his heritage he glimpsed a golden-eyed raven- the spirit form of the girl his destiny and heart had chosen.
The raven-spirit sent forth a call, a mighty summons as familiar to Fyodor as the sound of his sister's voice. He felt the power of that summons, for once his own wandering spirit had followed it to the Windwalker. He was not at all surprised when the ghosts that haunted the edge of his vision stirred and moved toward the raven's call. He did not marvel when spirits rose from the trees and rocks and waters to join in the powerful spell of binding.
"She is wychlaran and more," he repeated firmly. "She is the Windwalker."
"You're Zofia's kinsman," Treviel said, accepting Fyodor's vision. He lifted his voice and began to roar out the song that sped the berserker transformation. Here and there the warriors took up the ritual.
The entranced drow heard the familiar song and drew it into the dancing circle. Fyodor's quest had been tied to the Windwalker, and echoes of his own spirit journey lingered in the mighty artifact.
The witches took up the song that was begun on Ruathym, when Fyodor unleashed the hamfarrig magic within,