Windwalker - Elaine Cunningham [71]
If so, he was not likely to see Rashemen again. Thorn and her kind were fierce people. They would not forgive any who endangered their homeland.
For that matter, what of Fyodor's people? What was he bringing their way, and how would they respond?
Find the Windwalker, Zofia Othlor had told him. Bring her back. She will bind and break, heal and destroy.
Fyodor gazed down at the drow in his arms. For the first time he fully understood why the witch had spoken of the amulet as "she." Somewhere along the way, his quest had changed. He would bring the ancient artifact back to Rashemen, but in some mysterious but important way it was no longer the Windwalker of legend. Liriel was.
Zofia's grandson knew this to be true through the Sight that was his heritage and his curse.
A sad smile touched his face. It was a blessing that Liriel, for all her power, could not know the destiny ahead.
•©•
A day passed, and twilight was drawing near as Sharlarra pulled up to a small cluster of stone-walled travel huts located a hard day's ride from Waterdeep. She swung down from her horse and grimaced in distaste at the latest collection of skulls displayed on the stone plinth outside the caretaker's hut, an expression she quickly replaced with a smile when a bandy-legged old man hurried out to greet her.
A few dull strands of once-red hair clung to caretaker's pate, and his teetering gait was reminiscent of a sailor pacing the deck of a storm-tossed ship. The sword resting on one still-powerful shoulder gleamed in the fading light, and the carefully displayed remains of would-be bandits and horse thieves gave grim testament to the old man's ability to hold this outpost.
The elf's host squinted at her for a moment. His rheumy blue eyes lit with pleasure.
"Well, if it isn't Lady Judith, come to call on her old sword-master! Come in, girl, and it's heartily welcome you are."
It took Sharlarra a moment to tune her ears to the thick North Moonshae burr. Shaymius Sky had been swordmaster to the Thann family. He remembered Judith's red-gold hair, all his eyes could pick out from the blur that people had apparently become. As far as Shaymius was concerned, Lady Judith remembered her old tutor. The aging warrior took so much pleasure from these visits that Sharlarra hadn't the heart to rob him of his fond notion.
She remembered something Danilo had told her at Galinda Raventree's last soiree and said, "The Westgate caravan was to pass through this way. I trust all went well and that you received the box of new wines and harvest cakes?"
Shaymius patted his belly contentedly. "That I did. The mead was as smooth as an elfmaid's arse. Already there's a nip in the air come nightfall, and nothing's better to push back winter aches than a flagon of mead heated with spice bark. The horses come first, o' course, but you'll have a mug?"
"If the horses leave any for us, certainly."
"Don't be daft, Judy girl. Horses don't-" The old man broke off, caught the jest, and cast his eyes skyward. He unhooked a hoof pick from his belt and flipped to it the elf. "For that, you'll help putting these three fine stallions to bed. Concerning that, what are you needing with three horses? By the looks of them, you haven't been riding hard enough to require a change of mount."
Sharlarra lifted a front hoof and began to scrape away the bits of crushed acorn clinging to the shoe. "The mares out at Ethering Farms are in season." That was true, as far as it went, and Shaymius would draw his own conclusions.
The old man grunted in agreement and patted the glossy black flank of the horse Liriel had ridden from Waterdeep. "Aye, these are well-chosen sires. The Lady Cassandra still keeps the stud books, then?"
"It wouldn't surprise me in the least." The Thann matriarch controlled every other aspect of the family