Windwalker - Elaine Cunningham [99]
Dust filled the hall with choking clouds. Just as suddenly, the dust was gone. Fyodor spat out a mouthful of grit and regarded his grinning companion. She nodded toward the circle of fresh air around them.
"My magic's working again."
"So, drow, is mine," announced a stern female voice.
Dawn was breaking as Sharlarra cantered up to the travelers' inn outside Shadowdale. Smoke already rose from the chimney, and a lad busied himself hitching a pair of chestnut draft horses to a wooden cart. He caught sight of Sharlarra's mount, and his jaw dropped.
She stung off, painfully stiff and chilled to the marrow of her bones. "What are my chances of getting a hot breakfast and a hotter bath? My arse is frozen solid."
He swallowed hard, and his mouth worked for a while before he managed to get a sound out. "Are you…"
"Alive? Yes, indeed. Better yet, I can pay." She jingled her coin bag, which held the money the dwarf jewelsmith had advanced her against the rest of her teatime jewel robbery.
She whispered a few words in Moonstone's ear. The ghostly horse inclined its head and trotted off toward the woodlands. Color began to return to the boy's face, and he beckoned the elf to follow him in.
Sharlarra was soon seated before the open hearth, a mug of hot spiced cider in her hands and a thick woolen blanket wrapped around her. A large haunch of venison roasted over a spit. The innkeeper, a round little woman with cheeks like rosy apples, sliced off a hearty slab and set it before her guest, clucking her tongue in motherly disapproval.
"Riding all night, and alone! A pretty girl like you. You should know better. It isn't safe, and it isn't respectable."
"The ghost horse tends to discourage unwanted suitors," the elf pointed out.
The woman considered this. "That it would. You keep strange company."
A fleeting smile touched Sharlarra's face. She wondered what her hostess would say if she knew she was on her way to meet up with a drow wizard!
Two hours later, after a good meal and blissfully warm soak in an oversized laundry barrel, Sharlarra went out in search of her horse. Moonstone was waiting for her in the place she'd named: a small copse of slender birch trees, silver-bright against the deep pines. One of the trees suddenly uprooted itself-or so it seemed for a single startled moment.
A ghostly woman emerged from the copse of trees and extended a slender hand to Sharlarra's horse. Fear shimmered through the elf, not of the spirit, but of the possibility that it might lure her horse away. She found her voice and let out a shout of outrage. Two ghostly faces turned toward her. The woman was somehow familiar, though Sharlarra could not place her. Then the ghost faded away. Moonstone did not follow.
The elf sprinted toward her horse and threw her arms around its cold white neck. "You stayed," she marveled. "You stayed."
Moonstone pulled away and gave her a disgusted look. A nudge of its head urged her to mount. Sharlarra swung herself up and set off on a brisk pace toward Rashemen.
With any luck, she's have a few miles between them and Shadowdale before anyone noted the missing venison.
Liriel peered into the cloud of dust. A black-clad figure took shape in the haze, her face obscured by an elaborate black mask. The woman lifted one hand, and tendrils of vines erupted from the walls and tangled around Liriel.
The drow spoke a sharp, sibilant word, and the vines withered and fell away. She seized a throwing spider from her belt and sent it spiraling toward the witch.
Fyodor let out a shout of protest and warning. The witch gestured, and the small weapon exploded into dust.
The pieces of the drow weapon were not content to lie still. They stirred, and grew, and each skittered on eight long legs toward the tower's guardian.
The spiders swarmed up the woman, under her robe and into the openings of her mask. She pawed at her face, screaming spell after spell that should have slain the attacking insects or at least