To this very day, the dragon scale mosaic can be seen in Virgin's Square, harder than any stone. Thanks to Sima, never again did the dragons of the North demand a blood tribute from the people of Waterdeep. Published for the first time in this volume.
ANSWERED PRAYERS
Probably the most frequent question in emails from readers is, "Will there be another Liriel story?" Windwalker concluded the story I wanted to tell in the Starlight amp; Shadows trilogy and brought certain themes and threads to the intended conclusions, but many readers still want to know What Happens Next. This story is for them.
It takes place nearly ten years after the final battle in Windwalker, and it gets readers pretty much caught up with what's been going on in Liriel's life: the adventures, the companions, the accomplishments-and the temptations. There will always be temptations, because whatever happens in Liriel's life, whatever else she might become, she will always be a drow.
The port city of Hlammach had no shortage of taverns, but not many of them would willingly serve a drow. Liriel Baenre and her two companions had spent the better part of the evening working their way down Tavern Row before finding a table at a noisy dockside shanty.
It was a good table, right by the front window and, Liriel noted cynically, in full view of the passing sailors. Many did not pass at all, but stopped to stare at the unusual feminine trio on display: an ebony-skinned drow, a golden star elf, and a tall, lithe beauty who, except for the feral light in her amber eyes, appeared to be a moon elf.
Liriel had to admit this was a worthy ploy on the proprietor's part. She and her friends were window dressing-exotic bait for passing clients. Elves of any sort were not common in Impiltur, and three strikingly different elf women were certain to catch the eye. Several human wenches sprawled invitingly on a nearby couch, ready to offer alternatives when patrons learned the elves were not for sale.
A burst of raucous laughter rose from a nearby table, where a trio of drunken merchants obligingly displayed their wares to a saucy-looking light-skirt.
Sharlarra Vendreth rolled her eyes. "A thief, a cleric of Mystra, and a champion of Eilistraee walk into a brothel. Stop me if you've heard this one."
"Not that old jest," Liriel said dryly. She glanced at the third elf. "You haven't touched your ale, Thorn, after all your complaints about being thirsty enough to drink seawater."
The raven-haired warrior tasted her ale, grimaced, and put the mug down. "Bilge water is more like. And by the Dark Maiden, Sharlarra, keep your voice down! I know wolves whose howls don't carry as well."
"Thorn has a point," Liriel told the star elf. "As far as the good folk of Impiltur are concerned, you're not a thief, you're a swordpoint. Best keep it that way."
Sharlarra plucked at the sea-blue tabard that proclaimed her status: a hired blade working for the Impiltur military. One slim finger traced the three interlocking rings, the symbol of the Council of Lords that ruled the country in Queen Sambryl's name. The device was stitched in extravagant silver threads, the better to honor the three gods-Tyr, Torm, and Ilmater-most revered in Impiltur.
"We're all hired swords," the star elf observed. "In fact, if not for the high praise Jhanyndil of Rashemen heaped upon you, the council wouldn't have approved any of us. So why are Thorn and I the only ones wearing the three rings?"
Liriel pushed up the sleeve of her shirt and pointedly displayed her black forearm. "Drow? Remember that little detail? When the good folk of Hlammach see two sword-points walking a dark elf down the street, they assume you and Thorn have a bad situation under control. But if all three of us were wearing the council's colors-"
"They'd probably think the tabards were stolen," Sharlarra concluded. "That didn't occur to me."
Such thoughts always occurred to Liriel. Even now, long years gone from her native Menzoberranzan, she still thought as a drow: no path ran straight, no question was simple, no plan held a single purpose. In her homeland, "devious" was high praise. She'd been raised on deceit and betrayal, trained to see layers within layers. A drow who did not see many possibilities in any situation was unlikely to survive long.
With such training, suspicion came easily. Friendship was much harder. Until she'd left the Underdark, the closest Liriel had come to having a true friend was her alliance with an insane, two-headed deep dragon. Since then, she'd been fortunate indeed. For several years now, she'd been running from adventure to adventure with Thorn and Sharlarra. And before that-
"Finally, here comes our food." Thorn nodded toward the serving wench, who was currently struggling her way through a gauntlet of grasping hands, a well-laden tray held high overhead and a bright, determined smile firmly fixed on her face.
The servant set out surprisingly appetizing fare: thick seafood stew served in hollowed-out round loaves, a platter of pungent cheeses, and bowls of sugared berries.
Thorn regarded her streaming trencher with approval. "I smell a joint of mutton roasting. Bring me a thick slice of that, as well."
The wench blew a curly brown lock off her face and shook her head. "Cook just put it on the fire. It'll be some while before it's ready."
Thorn turned a cool, amber stare toward the servant. "Is the fleece still attached to the mutton?"
The girl blinked. "N-no. Of course not."
"Then it's ready."
Liriel chuckled at the expression on the servant's face, and the speed with which she beat a retreat to the kitchen. Thorn's appetite was prodigious and not entirely civilized. Small wonder, considering that she spent much of her time running about on four legs.
And speaking of appetites, Sharlarra was not far behind, albeit in other matters. The star elf was surveying the other patrons with interest, boldly meeting their accessing stares with a friendly, open smile-not quite invitation, but not far from it, either.
Liriel didn't fault Sharlarra for her fun-loving nature, for she understood it well. Her years in the Underdark had been brightened by many a handsome drow playmate. Mutual prejudice made alliance with a surface elf unlikely, but from time to time, a human man caught her eye. Even so, there had been no one for her since Fyodor of Rashemen. Sometimes she wondered if there ever could be.
Her hand went to the symbol of Mystra hanging over her heart. Shortly after Fyodor's death, Liriel had found her true calling. Magic had always been her passion, but she felt the call of a cleric's path, as well. When she learned of Mystra, Lady of Magic and Mysteries, everything fell into place. Liriel's dedication to the goddess of magic had been as single-minded and her ambition as great as any priestess of Lolth. She pursued the goddess's favor and sought power with a focus and fervor that would have had her grandmother, the dreaded Matron Baenre, nodding in approval. But only recently had Liriel recognized the reason driving her rapid rise in Mystra's service:
Powerful clerics could resurrect the dead.
Thorn broke the drow's reverie by swatting Sharlarra on the shoulder. "No courtship behavior, not here," she warned her. "We eat, we leave. That was the agreement."
"Too late." The star elf tipped her golden head toward the man swaggering over to their table.
Sharlarra's would-be suitor was a large man, too young for his girth. He had the slightly melted look some big-muscled adventurers get when days of hard riding give way to long nights devoted to dice and drink. Even so, his confident smirk bespoke a comfortable opinion of himself, and his garments and gear were flamboyant in the extreme. Huge roc plumes dyed a vivid purple swept down from the brim of an indigo blue hat. His tunic and breeches encompassed the color spectrum with multiple stripes in blues, greens, yellows, and oranges-a progression that ended with the brilliant red of his dragonhide boots. He was, in short, a walking rainbow, the sort of silly fop most people dismissed with a smirk and a shrug.