Windwalker - Elaine Cunningham [42]
The gossamer gate shimmered as they passed through, and their next step fell heavily on solid stone. Liriel, accustomed to the tumble and whirl of drow magical gates, seized Fyodor's arm to keep from stumbling. Her gaze swept over vaulting stone walls and a multilevel maze of connected walkways.
"Impressive," Liriel murmured, referring to both the magical transport and the Promenade temple.
The ground under their feet suddenly gave way, and they were sliding down a steep, smooth passage. Before Liriel could catch her breath, they were dumped unceremoniously into a small, brightly lit chamber.
She shielded her eyes with one hand and gathered her feet beneath her. Dark shapes surrounded her and Fyodor, and the searing torchlight glinted off a circle of ready weapons. She made out the shape of a large, low bowl on a stone pedestal-a scrying bowl, no doubt, armed with spells that watched the temple parameters and captured whatever ventured into the bowl's "sight."
Liriel spread her hands, palms-up. "We're friends," she began.
"Of course you are," chirped a little-girl voice. "Enemies are seldom received so graciously."
A relieved grin crept over Liriel's face. "Iljreen," she said, naming the drow battlemaster. "I'd say it's good to see you, but I can't. See you, that is. Do you mind dimming the lights?"
The unseen priestess snapped her fingers, and the leaping flames ringing the small stone chamber sank low into the wall torches. A small female clad in silvery party clothes and sparkling gems lifted one finger to her forehead in a grave military salute. To those who knew Iljreen, the gesture held no irony whatsoever.
"Expecting hostile drow visitors?" Liriel asked, blinking away the lingering stars.
The tiny female shrugged. "Most of them are."
"We have many enemies among the drow," observed a lilting, low-pitched female voice, "and so, my young friend, do you."
Liriel squinted in the direction of the speaker. Her vision focused on the beautiful dark face of the high priestess.
A faint smile curved Qiluй's lips, but sadness seemed to linger in her eyes-a familiar sadness, one that Liriel had learned on Ruathym. For a moment the pain of Hrolf's loss engulfed her, a wave of loss and regret so strong that she could hardly draw breath.
"You lost someone," she observed softly.
"Elkantar," the priestess responded. "He was slain aboard ship during the dragon's hoard battle."
Liriel's brow furrowed as she tried to remember which among the drow males bore this name. "Your parzdiamo," she said sympathetically, using the drow word Menzoberranzan females employed to refer to male playmates who did not officially hold the title of House Patron.
Outrage flamed in Qiluй's eyes, bright and brief, then the sorrow returned. "He was my beloved, and he is dead. I cannot speak of it without pain. Instead, let us talk of the drow who killed him."
Liriel responded with a cautious nod. It was clear that she had offended, but she was not certain how.
"The mercenary known as Gorlist survived the battle," the high priestess continued. "He blames you for all that he has lost. He has become obsessed with vengeance. To that end, he has rebuilt the Dragon's Hoard band beyond its former strength. They seek you throughout Skullport and beyond. The tunnels between here and Rashemen are not safe."
Liriel laughed without humor. "Where the Underdark is concerned, 'safe' is never the first word that comes to mind. If the tunnels are as bad as all that, we'll go overland."
"That path is no better," she cautioned. "There are among the humans those who will spill blood for gold, and care little whose blood is spilt or whose gold they pocket. Such men are watching for you in Waterdeep, and they will follow any path you take."
"Bandits and ruffians," Fyodor observed.
"That is not the sum of Gorlist's forces," Qiluй cautioned. "He has gathered a band of drow warriors who have grown accustomed to life on the surface, followers of Vhaerun. He has also enlisted the aid of a wizard."
Liriel