Windwalker - Elaine Cunningham [61]
The short-haired drow responded with a thin smile. "She will get what's coming to her. I can promise you that."
There was no mistaking the drow's meaning. Or, now that Xzorsh considered it, his character. Evil rose from the drow like ink from a squid, filling the too-thin air with an almost tangible miasma.
Too late Xzorsh realized that a terrible mistake had been made. He saw the knife in the drow's black hand, noted the deft toss, the spinning approach. The thud of impact felt more like a fist than anything else. He stared at the hilt buried between his ribs.
His fading eyes sought the drow's faces. "It's true, what they say of you."
"That, and more," hissed the short-haired drow. He closed the distance between them, seized the hilt and began to twist.
The second drow stepped forward and caught his comrade's hand. He looked into Xzorsh's face, and it seemed to the sea elf that his faint smile held sympathy, possibly even warmth.
"I imagine you've heard some unpleasant things about her, as well," he said in a beautiful, musical voice.
Xzorsh nodded, and waited for this kind drow to dispel these slanders, to remove the undeserved mantle of evil from Liriel's shoulders.
Brindlor smiled gently into the dying elf's face. "Those terrible things you heard? They're completely true."
The deathsinger watched with pleasure as the sea elf's eyes filled with despair, and then emptied of everything. He looked to Gorlist and winked.
"There is more way than one," he announced, "to twist a knife."
Sharlarra swung herself down from her "borrowed" horse and took the reins in hand. She knew this forest well enough to trust her own footing better than she did the horse's.
She followed the river while the moon rose above the forest, casting flirtatious glances through its leafy veils. The savory smell of roasting rabbit led her to the campsite, which had been set at some distance from the spring.
Liriel was seated by the campfire, studying a small book by the dancing flames. She glanced up at the elf's approach. A sudden dark flame flared in her eyes, quickly extinguished. Sharlarra understood. She'd felt much the same about drow until she'd met Qiluй's bunch.
"Where's your friend?" Sharlarra asked as she strode into the circle of firelight.
"Hunting. Scouting. Setting up camp." The drow shrugged, dismissing mysteries about which she knew little.
Sharlarra took the book from her and glanced at the intricate markings. She quickly handed it back, knowing better than to gaze too long upon the magical runes. "Not a familiar spell."
"I should think not! It's drow."
"The script looks a bit like the magical calligraphy used in Thay," she observed.
A shadow crossed Liriel's face, quickly dismissed. "Tell me about the Red Wizards."
"Well, they're bald…"
The drow cast her eyes skyward. "Not much of a storyteller, are you?"
"Something tells me you've got a story of your own," Sharlarra stated.
After a moment's silence, the drow nodded. She began to speak of her first encounter with a human wizard. He had been a captured slave, a quarry she was meant to track through the tunnels of the Underdark and slay with steel or spell. In the end, her mentor was actually the one to fight and slay the human. Liriel ended the tale with an insouciant shrug, as if none of it mattered. Sharlarra got the distinct impression that she left out far more of the tale than she told.
"It's a rite of passage," she concluded. "Do you have these in Waterdeep?"
"In a manner of speaking. Young men of Waterdeep go about in groups of three and four to frequent fest houses, get roaringly drunk, and piss into public fountains. I'd have to say that your ritual is, on the whole, far more dignified."
Liriel's lips quirked in appreciation for the dark irony, but her gaze remained steady. "That's not what I meant.