Elaine Cunningham - Starlight and Shadows 01 - Daughter Of The Drow
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To Judi—sister, friend, and one-woman party.
PRELUDE
PRELUDE
There is a world where elves dance beneath the stars, where the footsteps of humanfolk trace restless
paths in ever-widening circles. There is adventure to be had in this land, and magic enough to lure
seekers and dreamers with a thousand secrets. Here there are wonders enough and more to fill a
dragon's lifetime, and most who live in this world are content with the challenges life brings.
A few, however, remember the night-told stories that terrified and delighted them as children, and they
seek out the whispered tales and grim warnings so they may disregard them. Intrepid or foolish, these
hearty souls venture into forbidden places deep beneath the lands of their birth. Those who survive tell of
another, even more wondrous, land, a dark and alien world woven from the fabric of dreams—and of
nightmares. This is the Underdark.
In gem-studded caves and winding tunnels, turbulent waterways and vast caverns, the creatures of the
Underdark make their homes. Beautiful and treacherous are these hidden realms, and perhaps chief
among them is Menzoberranzan, fabled city of the drow.
Life in the dark elves' city has always been dominated by the worship of Lloth—the drow goddess of
chaos—and by a constant striving for power and position. Yet in the shadows of the temples and the
grand ruling houses, away from the Academy that teaches fighting and fanaticism, a complex and diverse
people go about the business of life.
Here the drow, both noble and common, live, work, scheme, play, and—occasionally—love. Echoes of
their common elven heritage can be seen in the artistry lavished on homes and gardens, the craftsmanship
of their armor and ornaments, their affinity for magic and art, and their fierce pride in their fighting skills.
Yet no surface-dwelling elf could walk among her dark cousins without feeling horror, and earning a swift
and terrible death. For the drow, fey and splendid though they are, have been twisted by centuries of
hatred and isolation into a macabre parody of their elven forebears. Stunning achievement and chilling
atrocity: this is Menzoberranzan.
In a time some three decades before the gods walked the realms, the chaos and turmoil of the dark elves'
city achieved a brief, simmering equilibrium. Wealthy drow took advantage of such intervals of relative
calm to indulge their tastes for luxury and pleasure. Many of their leisure moments were spent in
Narbondellyn, an elegant district of the city that boasted broad streets, fine homes, and expensive shops,
all crafted of stone and magic. Faint light suffused the scene, most of it from the multicolored glow of
faerie fire. All drow were able to conjure this magical light, and in Narbondellyn the use of it was
particularly lavish. Faerie fire highlighted the carvings on the mansions, illuminated shop signs, baited
merchandise with a tempting glow, and glimmered like embroidery on the gowns and cloaks of the
wealthy passersby.
In the surface lands far above Menzoberranzan, winter was beginning to ebb, and the midday sun
struggled to warm the harsh landscape. The Underdark did not know seasons and had no cycle of light
and dark, but the drow still went about their business according to the ancient, forgotten rhythms of their
light-dwelling ancestors. The magi- cal warmth deep in the core of Narbondel—the natural stone pillar
that served as the city's clock—was climbing toward midpoint as the unseen sun reached its zenith. The
drow could read the magic timepiece even in utter darkness, for their keen eyes perceived the subtlest
heat patterns with a precision and detail a hunting falcon might envy.
At this hour the streets bustled with activity. Drow were by far the most numerous folk in Narbondellyn.
Richly dressed dark elves wandered down the broad lane, browsed at the shops, or paused at chic cafes
and taverns to sip goblets of spiced, sparkling green wine. City guards made frequent rounds mounted on
large, harnessed lizards. Drow merchants whipped their draft animals—most often lizards or giant
slugs—as they carted goods to market. And occasionally, the sea of activity parted to permit passage of
a drow noble, usually a female riding in state upon a slave-carried litter or a magical, floating driftdisc.
A scattering of beings from other races also made their way through Narbondellyn: slaves who tended
the needs of the dark elves. Goblin servants staggered after their drow mistresses, arms piled high with
purchases. In one shop, bound with chains and prompted by three well-armed drow, a dwarf smithy
grudgingly repaired fine weapons and jewelry for his captors. A pair of minotaurs served as house guards
at one particularly impressive mansion, flanking the entrance and facing each other so their long, curving
horns framed a deadly arch. Faerie fire limned the nine-foot creatures as if they were living sculpture. A
dozen or so kobolds—small, rat-tailed relatives of goblins—lurked in narrow stone alcoves, and their
bulbous eyes scanned the streets anxiously and continually. Every so often one of the creatures scurried
out to pick up a bit of discarded string or clean up after a passing lizard mount. It was the kobolds' task
to keep the streets of Narbondellyn absolutely free of debris, and their devotion to duty was ensured by
an ogre taskmaster armed with whip and daggers.
One of these kobolds, whose back was lined with the recent marks of the ogre's whip, was busily
engaged in polishing a public bench near the edge of the street. So anxious was the slave to avoid future
punishment that he failed to notice the silent approach of a driftdisc. On the magical conveyance rode a
drow female in splendid robes and jewels, and behind her marched in eerie silence threescore drow
soldiers, all clad in glittering chain mail and wearing the insignia of one of the city's ruling houses. The
snake-headed whip at the female's belt proclaimed her rank as a high priestess of Lloth, and the haughty
tilt of her chin demanded instant recognition and respect. Most of Narbondellyn's folk granted her both at
once. They cleared a path for her entourage, and those nearest marked her passing with a polite nod or a
bended knee, according to their station.
As the noble priestess glided down the street, reveling in the heady mixture of deference and envy that
was her due, her gaze fell upon the preoccupied kobold. In an instant her expression changed from regal
hauteur to deadly wrath. The little slave was not exactly blocking her path, but its inattention showed a
lack of respect. Such was simply not tolerated.
The priestess closed in. When the driftdisc's heat shadow fell upon the laboring kobold, the little
goblinoid grunted in annoyance and looked up. It saw death approaching and froze, like a mouse facing a
raptor's claws.
Looming over the doomed kobold, the priestess drew a slender black wand from her belt and began to
chant softly. Tiny spiders dripped from the wand and scurried toward their prey, growing rapidly as they
went until each was the size of a man's hand. They swarmed over the kobold and quickly had it
enmeshed in a thick, weblike net. That done, they settled down to feed. Webbing bound the kobold's
mouth and muted its dying screams. The slave's agonies were brief, for the giant spiders sucked the juices
from their victim in mere moments. In no more time than the telling might take, the kobold was reduced to
a pile of rags, bones, and leathery hide. At a sign from the priestess, the soldiers marched on down the
street, their silent elven boots further flattening the desiccated kobold.
One of the soldiers inadvertently trod on a spider that had lingered—hidden among the bits of rag—to
siphon the last drop. The engorged insect burst with a sickening pop, spraying its killer with ichor and
liquid kobold. Unfortunately for that soldier, the priestess happened to look over her shoulder just as the
spider, a creature sacred to Lloth, simultaneously lost its dinner and its life. The drow female's face
contorted with outrage.
"Sacrilege!" she declaimed in a voice resonant with power and magic. She swept a finger toward the
offending soldier and demanded, "Administer the law of Lloth, now!"
Without missing a step, the drow on either side of the condemned soldier drew long, razor-edged
daggers. They struck with practiced efficiency. One blade flashed in from the right and gutted the
unfortunate drow; the strike from the left slashed open his throat. In the span of a heartbeat the grim duty
was completed. The soldiers marched on, leaving their comrade's body in a spreading pool of blood.
Only a brief silence marked the drow soldier's passing. Once it was clear the show was over, the folk of
Narbondellyn turned their attention back to their own affairs. Not one of the spectators offered any
challenge to the executions. Most did not show any reaction at all, except for the kobold slaves who
scurried forward with mops and barrels to clear away the mesa Menzoberranzan was the stronghold of
Lloth worship, and here her priestesses reigned supreme.
Yet the proud female's procession kept a respectful distance from the black mansion near the end of the
street. Not a house like those known to surface dwellers, this abode was carved into the heart of a
stalactite, a natural rock formation that hung from the cavern's ceiling like an enormous ebony fang. No
one dared touch the stone, for on it was carved an intricate pattern of symbols that shifted constantly and
randomly. Any part of the design could be a magic rune, ready to unleash its power upon the careless or
unwary.
This stalactite manor was the private retreat of Gromph Baenre, the archmage of Menzoberranzan and
the eldest son of the city's undisputed (if uncrowned) queen. Gromph, of course, had a room in House
Baenre's fabulous fortress castle, but the wizard possessed treasures—and ambitions—that he wished to
keep from the eyes of his female kin. So from time to time he retired to Narbondellyn, to enjoy his
collection of magical items, to pore over his vast library of spell-books, or to indulge himself with his
latest mistress.
Perhaps even more than his obvious wealth and famed magical power, Gromph's ability to select his
consorts was a testament to his status. In this matriarchal city, males had a decidedly subservient role,
and most answered to the whims of females. Even one such as Gromph Baenre had to choose his
playmates with discretion. His current mistress was the youngest daughter of a minor house. She
possessed rare beauty, but little aptitude for clerical magic. The latter gave her low status in the city and
raised her considerably in Gromph's estimation. The archmage of Menzoberranzan had little love for the
Spider Queen goddess or her priestesses.
Here in Narbondellyn, however, he could for a time forget such matters. The security of his mansion was
ensured by the warding runes outside, and the solitude of his private study protected by a magical shield.
This study was a large high-domed chamber carved from black stone and lit by the single candle on his
desk. To a drow's sensitive eyes, the soft glow made the gloomy cave seem as bright as noonday on the
surface. Here the wizard sat, perusing an interesting book of spells he'd acquired from the rapidly cooling
body of a would-be rival.
Gromph was old, even by the measures of elvenkind. He had survived seven centuries in treacherous
Menzoberranzan, mostly because his talent for magic was matched by a subtle, calculating cunning. He
had survived, but his seven hundred years had left him bitter and cold. His capacity for evil and cruelty
was legendary even among the drow. None of this showed in the wizard's appearance, for thanks to his
powerful magic he appeared young and vital. His ebony skin was smooth and lustrous, his long-fingered
hands slender and supple. Flowing white hair gleamed in the candlelight, and his arresting eyes—large,
almond-shaped eyes of an unusual amber hue—were fixed intently upon the spellbook.
Deep in his studies, the wizard felt, rather than heard, the faint crackle that warned him someone had
passed through the magic shield. He raised his eyes from the book and leveled a deadly glare in the
direction of the disturbance.
To his consternation, he saw no one. The magical shield was little more than an alarm, but only a
powerful sorcerer could pass through with an invisibility spell intact. Gromph's white, winged brows met
in a frown, and he tensed for battle, his hand inching toward one of the deadly wands on his belt.
"Look down," advised a lilting, melodic voice, a voice that rang with mischief and childish delight.
Incredulous, Gromph shifted his gaze downward. There stood a tiny, smiling female about five years of
age, easily the most beautiful child he had ever seen. She was a tiny duplicate of her mother, whom
Gromph had recently left sleeping in a nearby suite of rooms. The child's face was angular, and her elven
features delicate and sharp. A mop of silky white curls tumbled about her shoulders, contrasting with
baby skin that had the sheen and texture of black satin. But most striking were the wide amber eyes, so
like his own, that regarded him with intelligence and without fear. Those eyes stole Gromph's annoyance
and stirred his curiosity.
This, then, must be his daughter. For some reason that thought struck a faint chord in the heart of the
solitary, evil old drow. He had no doubt fathered other children, but that was of little concern to him. In
Menzoberranzan, families were traced solely through the mother. This child, however, interested him. She
had passed through the magical barrier.
The archmage pushed aside the spellbook. He leaned back in his chair and returned the child's
unabashed scrutiny. He was not accustomed to dealing with children. Even so, his words, when he
spoke, surprised him. "So, drowling. I don't suppose you can read?"
It was a ridiculous question, for the child was little more than a babe. Yet her brow furrowed as she
considered the matter. "I'm not sure," she said thoughtfully. "You see, I've never tried."
She darted toward the open spellbook and peered down at the page. Too late, Gromph slapped a hand
over her golden eyes, cursing under his breath as he did so. Even simple spells could be deadly, for
magic runes attacked the untrained eye with a stab of searing light. Attempting to read an unlearned spell
could cause terrible pain, blindness, even insanity.
Yet the little drow appeared to be unharmed. She wriggled free of the wizard's grasp and skipped over
to the far side of his desk. Stooping, she fished a scrap of discarded parchment from the wastebasket.
Then she rose and pulled the quill from Gromph's prized bottle of everdark ink. Clutching the pen
awkwardly in her tiny fist, she began to draw.
Gromph watched her, intrigued. The child's face was set in fierce concentration as she painstakingly
scrawled some wavering, curly lines onto the parchment. After a few moments she turned, with a
triumphant smile, to the wizard.
He leaned closer, and his eyes flashed incredulously from the parchment to the spellbook and back. The
child had sketched one of the magic symbols! True, it was crudely drawn, but she had not only seen it,
she had remembered it from a glance. That was a remarkable feat for any elf, at any age.
On a whim, Gromph decided to test the child. He held out his palm and conjured a small ball that glowed
with blue faerie fire. The little drow laughed and clapped her hands. He tossed the toy across the desk
toward her, and she deftly caught it.
"Throw it back," he said.
The child laughed again, clearly delighted to have found a playmate. Then, with a lighting-fast change of
mood, she drew back her arm for the throw and gritted her teeth, preparing to give the effort her all.
Gromph silently bid the magic to dissipate. The blue light winked out.
And the next moment, the ball hurtled back toward him, almost too fast for him to catch. Only now the
light was golden.
"The color of my eyes," said the little girl, with a smile that promised heartache to drow males in years to
come.
The archmage noted this, and marked its value. He then turned his attention to the golden ball in his hand.
So, the child could already conjure faerie fire. This was an innate talent of the fey drow, but seldom did it
manifest so early. What else, he wondered, could she do?
Gromph tossed the ball again, this time lobbing it high up toward the domed ceiling. Hands outstretched,
the precocious child soared up toward the glowing toy, levitating with an ease that stole the archmage's
breath. She snatched the ball out of the air, and her triumphant laughter echoed through the study as she
floated lightly back to his side. At that moment, Gromph made one of the few impulsive decisions of his
long life.
"What is your name, child?"
"Liriel Vandree," she returned promptly. Gromph shook his head. "No longer. You must forget House
Vandree, for you are none of theirs."
He traced a deft, magical pattern in the air with the fingers of one hand. In response, a ripple passed
through the solid rock of the far wall. Stone flowed into the room like a wisp of smoke. The dark cloud
writhed and twisted, finally tugging free of the wall. In an instant it compressed and sculpted itself into an
elf-sized golem. The living statue sank to one knee before its drow master and awaited its orders.
The child's mother will be leaving this house. See to it, and have her family informed that she met with an
unfortunate accident on her way to the Bazaar."
The stone servant rose, bowed again, and then disappeared into the wall as easily as a wraith might pass
through a fog bank. A moment later, the scream of an elven female came from a nearby chamber—a
scream that began in terror and ended in a liquid gurgle.
Gromph leaned forward and blew out the candle, for darkness best revealed the character of the drow.
All light fled the room, and the wizard's eyes changed from amber to brilliant red as his vision slipped into
the heat-reading spectrum. He fastened a stern gaze upon the child.
"You are Liriel Baenre, my daughter and a noble of the first house of Menzoberranzan," he announced.
The archmage studied the child's reaction. The crimson glow of warmth drained from her face, and her
tiny, pale-knuckled hands gripped the edge of the desk for support. It was clear the little drew
understood all that had just occurred. Her expression remained stoic, however, and her voice was firm
when she repeated her new name.
Gromph nodded approvingly. Liriel had accepted the reality of her situation—she could hardly do
otherwise and survive—yet the rage and frustration of an untamed spirit burned bright in her eyes.
This was his daughter, indeed.
Chapter One
TIME OF TURMOIL
Ignoring the muted cries of pain coming from the I far side of the tower chamber, Nisatyre parted the ^1
heavy curtains and gazed down at the marketet place. The dark elf'seyes, black and unreadable in the
faint light of the chamber, swept with a measured, calculating gaze over the scene below.
The Bazaar was one of the busiest places in all of Menzoberranzan, and as heavily guarded as any
matron's stronghold- Today even more soldiers than usual were in evidence, keeping the peace with
brutal efficiency. As captain of the merchant band Dragon's Hoard, Nisstyre usually appreciated the
diligence with which the marketplace was patrolled; it protected local business and made trade such as
his possible. Today, however, Nisstyre's sharp eyes also saw opportunity of another kind.
The drow merchant's lips curved as he watched a pair of guards drag away the body of a Calishite
peddlar. The human's offense had been slight: he had been a little too vehement in his bartering, and his
drow customer had settled the matter with a poisoned dagger. Usually Menzoberranzan's shoppers
welcomed such bargaining as the sport that it was. Today, however, the volatile drow were like dry
tinder awaiting the slightest spark.
Tb the casual observer, the bustle of the marketplace might appear normal enough. Certain goods were
selling extremely well; in fact, demand for staple foods, weapons, and spell components was almost
frantic. Nisstyre had seen market days like this many times before, usually up on the surface, when folk
settled in for a particularly brutal winter or an expected siege. To his eyes, Menzoberranzan's drow were
clearly preparing for something. Nisstyre doubted they knew what this something might be, but he
recognized their unease and he intended to exploit it.
The Fox, his contacts on the surface world called him, and Nisstyre delighted in the name. He rather
resembled that feral animal, with his sharp-featured black face, elegantly pointed ears, and unusual mane
of coppery hair. He possessed his namesake's cunning in full measure. Unlike most drow, Nisstyre
carried no weapons and indeed was rather unskilled in their use. His weapons were his mind—which
was as agile and treacherous as the sword of a drow warrior—and his magic.
Once, many years ago, Nisstyre had lived in Ched Nasad, a city much like Menzoberranzan. Although
he'd been a mage of considerable promise, the matriarchal society and the tyranny of Lloth had put limits
on his ambitions—limits he did not intend to accept. He left the city and discovered a talent for trading;
soon he had fought his way to the head of his own merchant band. His far-flung trade interests brought
him wealth, but not the power he craved. That had come as a divine gift, and the divinity in question was
Vhaeraun, drow god of thievery and intrigue. Nisstyre had embraced his god's directive—to establish a
drow presence and power on the surface world—with all his heart. For once Has kingdom was
established, he, Nisstyre, planned to serve Vhaeraun as a king. But first his—and Vhaeraun's—Subjects
must be recruited from the ranks of the discon-Jented drow.
In these days, discontent was rampant. Nisstyre's many informers, and his own sharp eyes, told him that.
The drow of Menzoberranzan were still staggering from the disruption of magic during the Time of
Troubles, and from their defeat at the hands of Mithril Hall's dwarves. They had gone to war, full of
confidence in Matron Baenre and her Lloth-inspired vision of conquest and glory. And they had failed
utterly, driven back into the ground by a ragtag alliance of dwarves, gnomes, and humans—lesser beings
all—and by the cruel light of dawn. In the aftermath of defeat, the stunned drow felt betrayed, adrift, and
deeply afraid. The powers that had ruled them so mercilessly had also kept the city secure from the
dangers of the wild Underdark.
But what remained of these ruling powers? The ancient Matron Baenre, who had led the city for
centuries, had erred in pursuing a surface war and had paid for this error with her life. Several of the most
powerful houses were in turmoil. Under normal conditions, most of the city's drow cared little which eight
houses sat on the Ruling Council. Now, however, the coming struggle for power threatened them all.
Many feared the weakened and distracted city was vulnerable to attack, perhaps by the nearby illithid
community, or perhaps by another drow city.
In Nisstyre's opinion, these fears were not groundless. Fully half of Menzoberranzan's twenty thousand
drow had marched upon Mithril Hall, and no one knew for certain how many had returned. Few houses
gave an accurate accounting of their private forces at any time, and no one wished to admit to diminished
strength during this time of turmoil.
It was no secret that several of the city's strongest weapon masters—the generals of the individual house
armies—were dead or missing. Nor were the losses limited to the city's professional soldiers. Hundreds
of common folk had served as foot soldiers, and only a few dozen had returned to take up their labors.
Magnifying this problem was the tremendous loss of life among the races who served Menzoberranzan's
drow as slaves. Kobolds, minotaurs, and goblinkin had been drafted as battle fodder, and they had fallen
by the thousand to the axes of Mithril Hall's dwarves and to the swords and arrows of their allies. The
tasks these slaves once performed were now left undone.
Other cultures might pool labor and talents to fill the void, but such was beyond the sensibilities of the
proud drow. Status was all, and no one was willing to set aside hard-won position for the common good.
Menzoberranzan's drow could not unite to win the war, and they would not band together in its
aftermath.
And therein, Nisstyre mused, lay his problem, as well. These dark elves could be motivated only by
promise of personal gain. Status, power: these were the lures needed to coax the proud drow into the
light. Although life was hard in the Underdark, and Menzoberranzan was facing a new and frightening
level of chaos, most drow saw no other option. All the surface world offered was defeat, disgrace, and
the searing horror that was the sun.
With a deep sigh, the merchant let the curtain fall and turned away to observe a spectacle of a very
different nature. A drow male, a commoner of middle years and unremarkable appearance, sat bound
with chains to a heavy stone chair. Around him crackled a sphere of faint greenish light, and over him
loomed a black-clad drow male who stood, chanting, with eyes closed and hands outstretched. Clerical
magic flowed from each of the dark elf'sfingers, sizzling like dark lightning into the chained drow. The
prisoner writhed in anguish as his tormentor—a priest of Vhaeraun, patron of thieves—plundered his
memories and stole his secrets.
Finally the priest nodded, satisfied. The globe of light dissipated with a faint pop, and the prisoner sagged
against his chains, moaning softly in a mixture of pain and relief.
Strange treatment, perhaps, for a trusted informer, but Nisstyre had little choice. The price of misplaced
trust was high. In Menzoberranzan, anyone suspected of worshiping any god but Lloth was summarily
put to death. Those who followed other gods, or none at all, were wise to keep their opinions to
themselves.
Yet now, with their city in turmoil and their most basic assumptions suspect, there were a few drow who
dared whisper the name of Vhaeraun, and who dreamed of a life free of Menzoberranzan's limitations.
These drow Nisstyre was quietly seeking out. Some were like this tortured elf, whose hatred of
matriarchal rule was so bitter that he would willingly endure anything to see it end. But most drow
required more: something that could eradicate bitter memories and offer opportunities for power and
status far beyond anything they now enjoyed.
In time, Nisstyre vowed, he would find what was needed to sway the drow of Menzoberranzan to his
cause. After all, the Dragon's Hoard was famous for procuring anything, without regard for the cost.
Menzoberranzan was not the only land struggling with conflict and war. Far away, in a rugged land of hills
and forests in the fareastern reaches of Faerun, the people of Rashemen knew their own time of turmoil.
Magic—the force that ruled and protected their land—had recently gone treacherously awry. Ancient
gods and long-dead heroes had walked the land, and a nation of dreamers had been tormented by
strange nightmares and waking frenzies. Most dangerous of all, the mystic defenses crafted by the magic
of the ruling Witches had faltered, and the eyes of many enemies turned once again upon Rashemen.
Of all Rashemen's warriors, perhaps none had felt this disruption so much as Fyodor. He was a young
man, a pleasant fellow who had shown a steady hand at the sword-smith's forge and a steady nerve in
battle. He was a hard worker, but by all reports a bit of a dreamer even by Rashemi standards. Fyodor
was as quick with a song or a story as any traveling bard, and his deep, resonant bass voice often rang
out over the sound of a clanging hammer as he worked. Like most of his people, he appreciated the
simple joys of life and he accepted its hardships with resigned calm. His gentle nature and ready smile
seemed ill-matched with his fearsome reputation; Rashemen was renowned for the might and fury of her
berserker warriors, among whom Fyodor was a champion.
Rashemen's famed warriors used a little-known magic ritual to bring on their battle rages. By some quirk
of fate, a stray bit of this magic broke free and lodged itself in young Fyodor. He had become a natural
berserker, able to enter an incredible battle frenzy at will. At first his new skill had been hailed as a
godsend, and when the Tuigan horde swept in from the eastern steppes Fyodor stood beside his
berserker brothers and fought with unmatched ferocity.
All would have been well, but for another lingering memory of the time of twisted magic. Fyodor, the
dreamer, continued to be haunted by the nightmares that had plagued so many Rashemi during the Time
of Troubles. He told no one of this, for many of his people—simple peasants for the most part—had
deeply ingrained superstitions about dreams and saw in every ale-induced night vision detailed meanings,
portents of doom. Fyodor believed he knew what dreams were, and what they were not.
Tonight, however, he was not so sure. He'd emerged from a nightmare to find himself sitting bolt upright
on his pallet, his heart racing and his body drenched with cold sweat. Fyodor tried without success to
return to sleep, for he would face the Tuigan again tomorrow and would need all his strength. He had
fought today and fought well—or so he had been told. His comrades had tipped their flasks to him and
boasted of the number of barbarians who had fallen to Fyodor*s black sword. Fyodor himself did not
remember much of the battle. He remembered less each time he fought, and that disturbed him. Perhaps
that was why this nightmare haunted him so.
la it, he had found himself in a deep forest, where he'd apparently wandered in the confused aftermath of
a berserker frenzy. His arms, face, and body had been covered with stinging scratches. He had a vague
memory of a playful tussle with his half-wild snowcat companion. In his dream, it slowly dawned on
Fyodor that the game must have awakened his battle frenzy. He could not remember the outcome of
battle, but his sword was wet to the hilt with blood still warm.
Awake, Fyodor knew the dream, although disturbing, was no prophecy of a battle to come. He had
indeed tamed a snowcat once, but that had been many years ago, and they had parted in peace when the
wild thing had returned to its nature. But the dream haunted him, for in it he read his deepest fear: would
the time come when the battle rage gripped him entirely? Would he, in a mad frenzy, destroy not only his
enemies, but those he loved?
Again and again Fyodor saw the light of life fading from the cat's golden eyes. Try as he might, he could
not banish the image, or thrust away the fear that this might somehow come to pass.
And as he awaited the light of dawn, Fyodor felt the heavy weight of fate upon his young shoulders, and
wondered if perhaps the dream held prophecy, after all.
Shakti Hunzrin slumped deeper into the prow of the small boat and glared at the two young males
laboring at the oars. They were her brothers, page princes whose names she only occasionally
remembered. The three drow siblings were bound for the Isle of Rothe, a mossy islet in the heart of
Donigarten Lake. House Hunzrin was in charge of most of the city's farming, including the herd of rothe
maintained on the island, and Shakti's family responsibilities had • increased fourfold in the tumultuous
aftermath of war.
Yet the dark elf'smood was grim as she eyed her brothers, unblooded youths armed with only knives and
pitchforks. Traveling with such a scant escort was not only dangerous, but insulting. And Shakti Hunzrin
was ever alert for any insult, however slight.
The boat thudded solidly into the stone dock, jarring Shakti's thoughts back to the matter at hand. She
rose to her feet, slapping aside the hands of her unworthy escorts and climbing out of the boat unaided.
Donigarten might be off the traveled path for most drow, but here Shakti was at home and in command.
She stood for a moment on the narrow dock, head thrown back, to admire the miniature fortress above.
The overseer's quarters loomed some hundred feet overhead, carved out of the solid stone that rose in a
sheer wall from the water. Shakti's boat had docked at the island's only good landing site: a tiny cove
unmarred by the sharp and rending rocks that surrounded the rest of the island. The only way off the
island was through the stone fortress, and the only way down to the dock was a narrow stairway carved
into the rock wall. The water around the island was deep and cold, utterly black except for an occasional
faint, luminescent glow from the creatures that lived in the still depths. From time to time, someone tried
to swim these waters. So far, no one had survived the attempt.
Shakti ignored the stairs and levitated smoothly upward to the fortress door. Not only did this small flight
grant her a more impressive entrance, but it also had a practical purpose. The proud drow, with their love
of beauty, did not allow imperfect children to survive and had little patience for those who developed
physical defects later in life. Shakti was extremely nearsighted and took great pains to conceal this fact.
She did not trust her footing on the treacherous stairs, and was not certain which would be worse, the
actual tumble down the steep incline, or having to explain why she had missed a step.
The overseer, a female from some lesser branch of the Hunzrin family tree, bowed deeply when Shakti
walked into the vast center room. Shakti was somewhat mollified by this show of respect, and pleased to
note that her brothers fell into guard position at either side of the entrance, as if she were already a
respected matron.
She laid aside her own weapon—a three-tined pitchfork with a slender, rune-carved handle—and
walked over to the far window. The scene beyond was not encouraging. Moss and lichen fields had been
dangerously overgrazed, and the irrigation system was clogged and neglected. Rothe wandered aimlessly
about, cropping here and there at the meager fodder. Their usually thick, long coats were ragged and
histerless. Shakti noted with dismay there would be little wool at shearing time. Even more distressing
was the utter darkness that enshrouded the pasture.
"How many born so far this season?" Shakti snapped as she shrugged out of herpiwafwi. One of her
brothers leaped forward to take the glittering cloak.
"Eleven," the overseer said in a (pirn tone. "Two of those stillborn."
The priestess nodded; the answer was not unexpected. The rothe were magical creatures who called to
prospective mates with faint, blinking lights. At this season, the rothe's courting rituals should have set the
island aglow. The neglected animals were too weak and listless to attend to such matters.
But what else could she have expected? Most of the ores and goblins who tended the rothe herds had
been taken as battle fodder, without regard for the logical consequences. These were things the ruling
priestesses did not heed, expecting meat and cheese to appear at their tables as if by magic. In their
vaunting pride, they did not understand some things required not only magic, but management.
This Shakti understood, and this she could provide. She seated herself behind a vast table and reached
for the ledger that kept the breeding records. A sharp, pleasurable feeling of anticipation sped her fingers
as she leafed through the pages. Keeping this ledger had been her responsibility before she'd been sent
off to the Academy, and no one in the city knew more about breeding rothe than she did. Perhaps no one
else shared her enthusiasm for the subject, but the drow certainly enjoyed the fine meat, cheeses, and
wool her expertise produced!
One glance at the current page dampened both her pride and her enthusiasm. In her years of absence,
the records had been written in a small, faint hand. Shakti swore, squinting her eyes into slits in an attempt
to read the careless writing. Her mood did not improve as she read.
While she had been exiled to Arach-Tinilith, studying for the priestesshood and kowtowing to the
Academy's mistresses, the herd had been sadly neglected. The rothe were highly specialized for life on
the island, and carefully supervised breeding was essential.
Muttering curses, Shakti leafed to the back of the book, where the records of the slave stock were kept.
These were considerably less detailed; in Shakti's opinion, the goblins could do whatever they liked
provided their efforts produced enough new slaves. But according to the records, the birth rate among
the usually fecund goblins was also dangerously low. This Shakti could not afford. House Hunzrin could
acquire more slaves by purchase or capture, but such things took time and money.
"How many goblins remain?" Shakti asked tiredly as she massaged her aching temples.
"About forty," responded the overseer.
Shakti's head jerked up as if pulled by a string. "That's all? Herders or breeders?"
"About half and half, but all of the goblins have been herding. To help keep order, the slaves have all
been moved into the main hut."
That was more bad news, for it meant the goblins lacked both the time and the privacy needed to
procreate. Not that goblins required much of either, Shakti noted with distaste as she turned back to the
ledger. Once again, she cursed the fate that had taken her away from the work she loved. At least the
war had accomplished one thing: the rules that kept students sequestered at the Academy had been
relaxed, for many of the young fighters, wizards, and priestesses were needed at home. The students had
unprecedented freedom to come and go, and permission to leave was not difficult to obtain from the
distracted masters and matrons.
At that moment a drow male clad in the rough clothes of a common laborer burst into the room. He
slammed the heavy door behind him and bolted it in place.
The goblins are revolting!" he cried.
The voice was familiar to Shakti; it belonged to a handsome drone who provided her with an occasional
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ToJudi—sister,friend,andone-womanparty.PRELUDEPRELUDEThereisaworldwhereelvesdancebeneaththestars,wherethefootstepsofhumanfolktracerestlesspathsinever-wideningcircles.Thereisadventuretobehadinthisland,andmagicenoughtolureseekersanddreamerswithathousandsecrets.Heretherearewondersenoughandmoretofilladr...
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