Windwalker - Elaine Cunningham [58]
At a nod from Triel, all the guards drew two weapons, which they crossed with those of the females on either side. A faint hum resounded through the room as protective magic surged through the ready steel. No magic could be cast from the circle, and none could endure within it.
Triel tossed the globe toward the nearby guard. It shattered before it hit the floor, exploding with a puff of glowing, greenish smoke. The smoke drifted off and stopped just short of the humming swords. Since it could not disperse, it was slow to fade. When it cleared, all gazed in astonishment at a tall drow female standing in the protective circle. Her eyes were dazed and her hair disheveled, but her face was unmistakable.
"Quenthel," Triel said in a strange voice.
It was undoubtedly Quenthel Baenre, a powerful priestess slain years before. It could not be otherwise, for any attempt by any other drow to claim her form would be dispelled from the magical circle. Quenthel had died in battle, and her body had been returned to the city, where it was burned to ash according to the custom for honoring high-ranking priestesses. Lesser corpses were embalmed and stored, a resource to be called upon when nameless zombie troops were needed.
Burned to ash-and yet, here she stood. Quenthel was undeniably alive. There was no denying the clear sign of Lolth's favor. A powerful priestess had been returned to House Baenre!
Lolth's favor, indeed, mused Triel. One Baenre priestess returned from the dead, another favored as Zedriniset, a Chosen of the goddess!
With such powerful allies as this, Triel would never need to look far for enemies. And what of Shakti, who had been entrusted with so much honor and information by the Goddess Herself?
The Baenre matron hid these thoughts and dismissed her guard with a sharp flick of one hand. Then she turned to the two watchful priestesses, her gaze moving from one conspirator to the other-for such they undoubtedly were.
"How did you find your way out of the Abyss?"
The resurrected drow priestess stared at Triel for a long moment.
"I-I don't… know," she admitted and staggered as if she might faint. With sheer force of will she pulled herself erect. Her face took on something of the haughty mien Triel remembered.
Triel managed a smile, and said the only thing there was to say. "Welcome home, sisters."
That night, Brindlor, magically disguised as a human dock worker, shouldered his way into a crowded, odorous tavern in the dock ward of Waterdeep. He scanned the crowd, looking for a sun-browned Northman with a red beard and hard, suspicious eyes.
He found the man seated alone at a small table near the kitchen door, his boots propped up on the only other chair at the table and his fierce glare daring anyone who ventured close to try to claim it.
Brindlor worked his way back to the captain. He leaned against the wall and snagged a mug from the tray of a passing wench-a deft bit of thievery that earned an admiring nod from the red-bearded pirate.
"Busy night," Brindlor commented, speaking in the coarse language known as Common and flavoring it with the bluff accents of the wintry Northlands. He nodded at the nearby kitchen. "Too busy, I'm thinking, if'n they've taken to seating sea captains so close to the latrine."
A flicker of amusement crossed the pirate's face. "Sounds like you've et the chowder here."
"Tried it. Couldn't stomach the swill." Brindlor patted his artificially ample belly. "Ah, well. This wouldn't be the first time I made a meal of ale. And it's right hungry I am!" He jingled his coin bag and grinned. "If I'm sitting, I'm buying."
The pirate peered into his own mug and swung his boots off the second chair. Apparently he deemed the offer of free ale to be of greater value than the loss of his privacy.
"You know me as a captain," he observed. "What else are you knowing?"
"Not much," Brindlor said easily. "I worked the docks this morn, helped unload Narwhal. Saw you with the dockmaster, heard your name spoken as Ibn. They call me