Elaine Cunningham - The Best of the Realms, Book I

"I have heard what transpired at yourceremony," he began.

"The ritual was fulfilled," Liriel saidearnestly-and a trifle defensively. "I might not have shed blood, but MatronHinkutes'nat accepted my efforts."

"More than accepted," the archmage saiddryly. "The Shobalar matron is quite impressed with you. And moreimportantly, so am I."

Liriel absorbed that in silence then, suddenly, sheblurted out, "Oh, but I wish I understood why!"

Gromph lifted one brow.

"You really must learn to speak with less thancomplete candor," he advised her. "But in this case, no harm isdone. Indeed, your words only confirm what I had suspected. You acted partlyby design, but partly by instinct. This is indeed gratifying."

"Then you're not angry?" Liriel ventured.When the archmage sent her an inquiring look, she added, "I thought youwould be furious upon hearing that I did not actually kill the human."

Gromph was silent a long moment then said, "Youdid something far more important. You fulfilled both the spirit and the letterof the Blooding ritual, in layers of subtle complexity that did credit to youand to your House. The human wizard is dead-that much was a needed formality.Using Xandra Shobalar as a tool was a clever twist, but washing your hands inher blood was brilliant."

"Thank you," Liriel said, in a tone soincongruously glum that it surprised a chuckle from the archmage.

"You still do not understand. Very well, I willspeak plainly. The human wizard was never your enemy. Xandra Shobalar was yourenemy. You recognized that, you turned her plot against her, and you proclaimeda blood victory. And in doing so, you demonstrated that you have learned whatit is to be a true drow."

"But I did not kill," Liriel saidthoughtfully. "Why do I feel as if I had?"

"You might not have actually shed blood, but theritual of the Blooding has done its intended work all the same," thearchmage asserted.

Liriel considered that, and she knew her father'swords as truth. Her innocence was gone, but pride, power, treachery, intrigue,survival, victory-all of those things she knew intimately and well.

"A true drow," she repeated in a tone thatwas nine parts triumph and one portion regret. She took a deep breath andlooked up into Gromph's eyes-and into a mirror.

For the briefest of moments, Liriel glimpsed a flickerof poignant sorrow in the archmage's eyes, like the glint of gold shiningthrough a deep layer of ice. It came and departed so quickly Liriel doubtedthat Gromph was even aware of it. After all, several centuries of cold andcalculating evil lay between him and his own rite of passage. If he rememberedthat emotion at all, he was no longer able to reach into his soul and bring itforth. Liriel understood, and at last she had a name to give the final, missingelement that defined a true drow:

Despair.

"Congratulations," the archmage said in avoice laced with unconscious irony.

"Thank you," his daughter responded in kind.

Ed Greenwood

The Year of the Dark Dragon (1336 DR)

The rosy light of early morning had scarcelybrightened into the full radiance of day, but the bard and her gaunt companionhad already been in the saddle for some time.

Storm Silverhand, the Bard of Shadowdale, was anadventurer of wide experience and fame. She was also a senior and respectedmember of the Harpers, that mysterious band always working for the good of theworld. A veteran of many perilous forays, always alert, she watched hersurroundings constantly as she traveled, hand never far from the hilt of hersword. Its blade had run with blood more than once already on that journey. Asshe rode, Storm sang softly to herself. She was happy to be in the saddleagain-even on a ride into known danger.

For two tendays she had ridden beside a white-hairedman as tall as herself, but thinner.

The man was aged and a clumsy rider. He wore simple,much-patched robes covered with old food stains, and trailed sweet-smellingpipe smoke wherever he went.

Though he didn't look it, the old man was an adventurereven more famous than Storm: the Old Mage, Elminster of Shadowdale. More thanfive hundred winters had painted his long beard white. His twinkling blue eyeshad seen empires rise and fall, and spied worlds beyond Toril, vast andstrange. He knew more secrets than most wizards-and simpler, more honest men,too-might ever suspect to exist. The years had sharpened Elminster's temper andhis tongue, and built his magic to a height that most mages could only dreamof.

The great wizard wore old, floppy leather boots, and,most of the time, an irritated expression. At night, on the far side of thefire, he snored like a crawhorn in torment-but he knew it and used magic tomute the noise for the sake of his friend and trail mate. Storm loved himdearly, snores and all, even if he tended to treat her like a little girl.

Despite their friendship, it was unusual for Storm tobe riding at the Old Mage's side. When Elminster left Shadowdale on prolongedtrips, it was his habit to trust the defense of the dale to the bard. Thistime, just before the mage's departure, a Harper agent had brought a requestfrom one of Storm's sisters: would she please guard Elminster when he went tothe magefair?

In all her years of adventuring, Storm had never heardof a magefair, but the very name sounded ominous. She had been surprised at theeasy good humor with which the Old Mage had accepted her announcement that thattime, when he left home, she'd be riding with him. In fact, she suspected he'dused horses for the trek, rather than whisking himself across Faerûn in a triceby magic, just to prolong their time together.

Every night Elminster settled himself and his pipedown beside their fire to listen to her pluck a harp and sing old ballads. Inreturn, when she lay down under the watching, glittering stars, he'd softlytell tales of old Faerûn until sleep claimed her. After years of riding the wastes withhearty, hardened warriors, Storm was astonished at how much she'd enjoyed hertrip with the odd mage.

But it seemed they had reached their destination,though it was nothing at all like the bard had imagined.

"Why here?" Storm Silverhand asked withtolerant good humor as she reined in beside Elminster on a ridge far fromShadowdale. The bright morning sun cast long shadows from the stunted trees andbrush around them. As far as the eye could see, rolling wilderness stretchedout, untouched by the hands of man. "We must be halfway to Kara-Tur bynow."

The Old Mage scratched his nose.

"Farther," he replied with seeminginnocence, "and 'here' because one we seek is close at hand."

As he spoke, a man appeared out of thin air, floatingin front of them. The horses snorted and shifted in surprise. Elminsterfrowned.

The man stood on nothing, booted feet far above theground. Midnight eyes glowered down out of a thin, cruel white face. He toweredimpressively over them, clad in a dark and splendid tabard adorned with glowingmystic signs and topped with an up-thrust high collar. A carved, gem-adornedstaff winked and pulsed in one of his many-ringed hands.

"Challenge!" he addressed them with cold,formal dignity, raising his empty hand in a gesture that barred the way."Speak, or pass not!"

"Elminster of Shadowdale," the Old Magereplied mildly, "and guest."

The man's eyes narrowed, and he said even more coldly,"Prove yourself."

"Ye doubt me?" Elminster asked slowly."Why, Dhaerivus, I recall thy first magefair!" He nodded inreflection and added dryly, "Ye made a most fetching toad."

Dhaerivus flushed.