Daughter of the Drow: Starlight & Shadows, Book I
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As beautiful as she is deadly, Liriel Baenre flits through the shadows of Menzoberranzan, city of the dark elves. Amid the treachery and murder that are the drow’s daily fare, she feels something calling to her . . . something beyond this dusky world far removed from the sun. Yet as she ventures toward the surface and the lands of light, enemies pursue her unceasingly.
And one of those enemies may offer the only hope of salvation.
“I have been a fan of Elaine Cunningham’s since I read Elfshadow because of her lyrical writing style” –R.A. Salvatore, New York Times best-selling author of Gauntlgrym
early rebellions and small failures to serve; after many years, however, he had learned exactly where the parameters of the bond lay. There were still some small things he could do, and he watched and waited for an opportunity. Suddenly Nisstyre’s voice faltered, and his hands went to the eye-shaped gem embedded in his forehead. Gorlist, obviously thinking himself dismissed, left the wizard’s side with an abruptness that set the boat rocking dangerously. The cleric beckoned the young drow over.
from the tip of her tail to her dual snouts, but it was Pharx who stole Fyodor’s breath. The male dragon was fully twice Zz’Pzora’s size, armored with dark maroon scales and armed with teeth the size of daggers and claws like curving scimitars. This, Fyodor realized with awe, was the creature he had vowed to help slay. A faint hiss came from the distant tunnel, and then screams of mortal anguish. Immediately Pharx lifted his head, like a giant hound scenting the breeze. “My gold,” muttered the
night was nearly spent before Liriel felt ready to try the spell. First she lit several candles and placed them around the edges of the scrying bowl. A conjured image had no heat, and therefore could not be seen without light. She filled the scrying bowl with water and, in lieu of the powdered substance called for by the spell, she broke an edge off one of the ancient pages of her book and crumpled it into the water. Chanting softly, she spoke the words of the spell. The water roiled wildly,
rarely attacked anything larger and more threatening than a scurry rat. Something must have happened to embolden or threaten them, to force them beyond their normal behaviors. Seizing the dragazhar’s wing with both hands, she hauled the creature over onto its back so she might examine its underbelly. There she found the answer she sought. Scoring the creature’s abdomen and legs were several long, thin cuts: the interweaving marks of twin blades. Such wounds were too fine, too precise, to have
This barbed response brought a chorus of mocking laughter and some scattered applause from the assembled drow. Even some of the priestesses who had frowned when Shakti first rose to speak sent approving nods and long, measuring glances her way. The young female was not yet a high priestess, nor her mother’s heir to House Hunzrin. In Menzoberranzan, power was not given, but seized. Any female willing and able to do so was worthy of serious consideration. The discussion went on for some time.