Free Windwalker by Elaine Cunningham Page A

dark goddess’s response.
    Moments passed, and there was nothing but the sounds of the crew at work and the slap of water against the ship.
    Liriel slipped from Fyodor’s arms and stepped away. The moon-cast shadow before her was her own-an image of a small, slender drow with shoulders squared and head thrown defiantly back.
    She resisted the temptation to wilt with relief and sent Fyodor a wan grin. “Next time I tease you about those moldy tales of yours, remind me of this moment.”
    “Better that we both forget,” he countered. “These things belong in the past, and there they will remain.”
    “Will they?” she said, her voice suddenly serious.
    “You must make it so. Do not speak that name. Do nothing to invoke Her return.”
    “Hoy, First Axe!” shouted a rough male voice.
    They both turned toward the call. For a short time, Fyodor had held this title and acted as a war leader on Ruathym. Some of the men who’d fought beside him sailed on Narwhal.
    A few of the sailors stood idle, gazing toward the drow and her champion quizzically as they tried to make sense of Liriel’s latest, inexplicable outburst. Most, however, were busily employed with tending the wounded, rolling dead bullywugs over the rail, or swabbing the gore of battle off the decks. One man stood apart, his bloody mop raised to point at the moon. Fyodor recognized him as Harlric, a grizzled veteran of sea and sword. Winging across the moon was a dark, avian form, one he also knew.
    “A raven?” he murmured.
    Liriel came to his side, one hand shielding her eyes from the bright moonlight. This was a mystery, one that lay close to them both. Fyodor’s fond name for her was “little raven,” and in her time on the surface she’d learned enough of these intelligent, uncanny birds to appreciate the comparison and to understand the oddity of this sighting.
    “Don’t they fly only by day? And aren’t we still two or three days from land?”
    He nodded. “This is no natural creature.”
    “Full moon,” one of the men observed sagely.” Tis the time for strange visitations. Killed me a werewolf once, and at the full of the moon.”
    “Full moon or no, it’s an omen,” muttered another man. His fingers shaped a gesture of warding, and he cast a suspicious glance at the drow. “An evil omen!”
    “Not according to the First Axe’s stories,” insisted Harlric. “The way he tells it, the raven carries messages twixt one world and t’other. Must be important news to bring a land-loving bird so far out to sea.”
    “Must be,” agreed the slayer of werewolves, his eyes following the messenger’s spiraling descent. “It’s a-comin’ in. Who here’s on speakin’ terms with a raven?”
    No one moved forward. The bird banked sharply and veered away in a rising circle. Fyodor caught sight of the pale streak on one gleaming wing.
    “The mark of Eilistraee,” he said quietly, pointing.
    Liriel’s eyes widened as she noted the silver feathers. She lifted a clenched fist high, bracing her forearm with her other hand. The raven promptly swooped down and landed on her wrist. From there it hopped to a nearby barrel and bobbed its black head in greeting.
    “I come from the Promenade Temple and from its Lady, the High Priestess Qilué Veladorn,” the raven announced in shrill, slightly raucous tones. “I bear a message for Liriel Baenre, daughter of the First House of Menzoberranzan.”
    Liriel darted a glare around the circle of curious men who’d gathered to witness this wonder. Her gaze lingered on Lord Caladorn. Something in his face—the watchful intelligence in his eyes, the considering mien of his pursed lips—set off alarms in her mind. Drow deathsingers wore a similar expression when they witnessed feats of treachery and mayhem, weaving tales of dark glory while the deed was still in the doing. This Caladorn sang tales to someone, of that Liriel was suddenly very, very certain.
    “Do you mind?” she snapped. “This is a