Elfshadow

Seventeen

By the time the courtyard of Jester’s Square firmed beneath her feet, Arilyn had recovered from her uncharacteristic attack of docility. She stepped out from between the twin black oaks that flanked the invisible dimensional door and turned to face Danilo, blocking his way. “Just before we left Candlekeep, you spoke a name. Who is this Bran Skorlsun, and what does he have to do with me?”

“My dear Arilyn,” Danilo said in his lazy drawl, “it is not yet daybreak, and you wish to stand here and chat? I don’t like being on the streets at this hour.” He cast an uneasy glance over her shoulder at the deserted square. “By the gods, doesn’t Uncle Khelben know of a dimensional door with a tonier address?”

The half-elf blinked, stunned by the sudden and complete change in Danilo’s behavior. “What has come over you?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said lightly, trying to brush past Arilyn into the square.

She would not be budged. “Who are you, Danilo Thann? What manner of man hides beneath those velvets and jewels?”

“A naked one,” he quipped lightly. “But please feel free not to take my word on the matter.”

“Enough!” said Arilyn violently. “Why do you present yourself as you are not? You’ve a quick mind and a strong sword arm; you show promise as both scholar and mage. I will no longer accept that you are a fool, and I will not allow you to treat me as one!”

“I would not,” he said gently.

“Oh no? Then stop this nonsense and answer my question! Who is this Bran Skorlsun?”

“All right.” The noble leaned close and spoke as quietly as he could. “He’s the Harper ranger of whom Elaith Craulnobur spoke, whose business is to track down false and renegade Harpers.”

“Really. How would you come by such information? Perhaps you are also employed by the Harpers?”

“Me, a Harper?” Danilo stepped back and laughed immoderately. “My dear girl, that jest would inspire much mirth in some circles.”

“Then you won’t mind if I read this.” Arilyn deftly plucked from Danilo’s pocket the note Khelben Arunsun had written. She read aloud. “Candlekeep is protected from magical observation. You need only maintain your facade enough to convince Arilyn.”

The eyes the half-elf raised to Danilo’s face were blazing with anger and accusation. “Sing me a song, bard, a song of a man with two faces.”

Before Danilo could parry her demand, a cat’s squall erupted from the alley behind them, followed by a muffled oath. Danilo cast an uneasy look toward the dim alley and glanced down at the moonblade. It glowed with a faint blue light. He grasped Arilyn’s shoulders and firmly turned her around, urging her forward.

“We’ll talk about this later,” he said in a low voice. “I think someone’s following us.”

Arilyn laughed derisively. “That, Lord Thann, is old news indeed.”

“So are you, gray elf,” growled a voice from the alley.

Her anger forgotten, Arilyn whirled toward the alley, sword in hand. Harvid Beornigarth stepped out of the shadows, closely followed by a pair of his thugs. The lamplight reflected off his bald pate and rusty armor; were it not for the lout’s vast size and his confident air, his appearance would have been more comic than threatening. He folded his arms across his rusty chain mail shirt and leered down at the half-elf with malevolent satisfaction.

“See? I told you so,” Danilo murmured. “Does anyone ever listen to me? Of course they don’t.”

Arilyn glared at the huge adventurer. “Haven’t you had enough?” she asked, her voice edged with contempt. “You should have learned by now that you can’t win.”

Rage washed over the man’s face, and he raised one hand to his eye patch. “You’ll not get the best of me this time,” he vowed, shaking a spiked mace at her.

“Apparently he’s a slow learner,” Danilo remarked.

Harvid Beornigarth’s scowl deepened. He barked a command, and two more ruffians stepped out of the alley.

Danilo let out a long, slow whistle. “Five-to-two. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything?”

The half-elf merely shrugged. “Coward’s odds.”

Her insult swept away the last of Harvid Beornigarth’s restraint. With a roar, he charged at her like a maddened bull, swinging his mace wildly. Arilyn nimbly dodged the swing, and the battle was on.

Fury gave speed and power to Harvid’s mace. Cursing and roaring, he swung at the half-elf again and again. His slender opponent was forced into a defensive position, putting all her strength into dodging and blocking the onslaught.

As soon as she could, she cast a glance toward Danilo. The nobleman was not faring well. Harvid’s four thugs had surrounded him; apparently Harvid had instructed them to leave Arilyn to him.

Dread chilled the half-elf. She knew that Danilo, although skilled in the ways of classic swordplay, could not hold off four streetwise fighters for long. She would have to come to his aid, and quickly.

Even as the thought was being formed in her mind, one of the men slipped through Danilo’s guard. A blade glanced off the jeweled hilt of the nobleman’s sword and cut a deep gash in his forearm. Danilo’s sword fell from his hand with a clatter, and a bright stain of blood blossomed on the yellow silk of his shirt. One of the thugs grinned and kicked the fallen weapon out of reach.

A cold fury swept through Arilyn, and in an instant she transformed into an elven berserker. She broke free of her battle with Harvid Beornigarth and turned on Danilo’s attackers. Her moonblade cut down the nearest man with gory efficiency. The half-elf hurled herself over the body, violently shoving Danilo into the small space between the twin oak trees. She whirled, placing herself between the three fighters and the unarmed and wounded nobleman. They advanced, and Arilyn’s flashing sword caught the first rays of morning as she held off the three ruffians.

Abandoned by his quarry and cheated of battle, Harvid Beornigarth stood alone and unnoticed. His mace dangled at his side, and his jaw hung slack over both of his chins. He watched the fight for a long moment, a stupefied expression on his face. His one good eye narrowed, and he hefted his mace and moved in for the kill. It took but a moment for him to realize he could not get at the half-elf without knocking his own men out of the way. He wasn’t averse to killing his men, if the situation demanded, but if he did so he’d have to face the elven berserker alone.

Damn the wench! Harvid sank down on a handy crate, sucking in a long, angry breath. Then his wits—such as they were—returned to him. He exhaled in a leisurely fashion and settled himself comfortably on the crate. He might as well sit back and enjoy the show. Truth be told, Harvid Beornigarth had little desire to join his men in the Realm of the Dead. Let the elf wench spend herself and her berserker rage on the destruction of his faithful army. All he cared about was seeing her killed. If his men couldn’t manage the job, at least they could tire her out. Once again Harvid Beornigarth’s hand rose to his eye patch, and he sat, biding his time.

Arilyn had no thought for the lout or his plans. All her will and strength was being poured into the fight with the three men. The odds usually would not trouble her, but she had slept little in the three nights since she’d come to Waterdeep. She was nearing exhaustion, and her sword arm felt as if it were moving through water.

One of the men brought his blade high overhead and sliced down at her. As she parried that attack another man made a low lunge for her unprotected body, his long knife leading. Arilyn kicked out viciously, catching the man’s arm and sending the knife flying. The moonblade sliced cleanly across his throat.

The man’s death cost Arilyn. One of the remaining thugs landed a blow on her right arm. The half-elf willed aside the searing flash of pain and feinted a stumble to the ground, letting the moonblade fall to her feet. Two men closed in, confident that they could easily finish off the unarmed half-elf.

Arilyn surreptitiously pulled a dagger from her boot and threw herself upright, using her momentum to drive the dagger hard under the ribs of one attacker. From the corner of her eye, she saw the other man swinging his sword toward her neck. She dove to one side, and the blade sliced harmlessly into the man she had just killed.

As she rolled aside she snatched up the moonblade, then came catlike to her feet. In three quick strokes she finished off her last attacker, and the fight was over. She could not see Danilo, so she assumed he’d escaped the square somehow. The courtyard of Jester’s Square tilted crazily, and the half-elf rested her sword on the cobblestone, leaning heavily on it. Her wound was not serious, but her sleepless nights had taken a toll. She heard in the back of her mind the sweet, insistent call of oblivion.…

The sound of slow, measured applause called her back.

“Quite a show,” came Harvid Beornigarth’s cynical observation. He hefted himself from the crate and strutted toward her, mace grasped in one beefy fist. Halting just outside the reach of her sword, he sneered, “Time to even the score.”

Harvid lifted the mace high, swinging down with all his considerable strength. Arilyn rallied enough to bring the moonblade up to deflect the mace, but the impact of the blow drove her to her knees. A jolt of pain shot through her wounded arm and sent silver sparks through her field of vision. Resolutely she blinked aside the lights and the pain, in time to see Harvid, an evil grin splitting his face, raise the mace for a killing blow. She threw her remaining strength into rolling clear.

The dull clash of metal on wood echoed through the square. Arilyn looked up. Where she had stood just a moment before was a tall, dark-cloaked man. His stout staff had turned aside the descending mace. Harvid reeled back, astounded by the appearance of the tall fighter. Arilyn’s rescuer advanced. He drove the end of his staff under the lout’s too-short chain mail and deep into his belly. With a guttural noise Harvid bent double. The staff circled and came down hard on his neck. There was an audible cracking of bone, and Harvid Beornigarth dropped to the ground.

Arilyn struggled to her feet. Her first reaction was annoyance that someone would interfere in single combat. “I could have handled that myself,” she snapped.

“You’re welcome,” came the cold response.

At that moment Danilo emerged from between the trees, looking dazed and clutching one hand to his head. In her surprise to see him, Arilyn turned away from the tall newcomer. “I thought you had run away.”

“No. I was merely senseless. More so than usual, that is. Are you all right?” he asked, looking at her torn and bloodied sleeve with concern.

“A scratch. You?”

“Somewhat more than a scratch, but I think I’ll live.” The nobleman removed his hand from his forehead to display a large, bruised knot. “By the gods, Arilyn, you’re more dangerous than those cutthroats! You didn’t have to hurl me into the tree like that. If you wanted me to get out of your way, you just had to ask.” He glanced up at Arilyn’s rescuer. “Who’s your friend?”

The tall man turned to face Arilyn, pushing back the deep cowl of his cloak as he did. He was older than his fighting prowess and his raven hair led one to believe, with a face that was deeply creased and weathered by the passing of years. Arilyn recognized him to be the stranger she had noticed in the House of Fine Spirits, the night that the Harper bard had been slain.

“Merciful Mystra,” Danilo said softly. “It’s Bran Skorlsun.”

Before Arilyn could reply, a blinding flash of blue light engulfed her, and she was flung to the ground. Instinctively she threw up her arms to protect her eyes.

The sound of renewed battle rang along the street, but Arilyn had been temporarily blinded by the flash. She dug her fists into her eyes, trying to free them of the dancing spots that obscured her vision. Her elven infravision cleared first, and she saw the multicolored heat image of the tall Harper, thrusting and parrying with his wooden staff. The night rang furiously with the clanging of wood upon metal.

Yet she could see nothing else. Bran Skorlsun was fighting something, but nothing of flesh and warmth. As her vision returned more fully, the shape of the second fighter began to grow clear.

Slender, dark, somehow insubstantial, the assailant was definitely an elf in form and agility. Arilyn’s heart thudded loudly in her ears as she held her breath and waited for a look at the fighter’s face.

The battle shifted, and the elven fighter spun toward her. Arilyn released a long, shuddering breath. Oh yes, the fighter was familiar indeed.

“She looks exactly like you,” Danilo said, coming up behind Arilyn. “By the gods! That’s the elfshadow from the legend tore poem, isn’t it?”

“Shadow and substance,” Arilyn murmured. “But which of us is which?” Rage and bitterness lent new strength to the half-elf. Raising the moonblade high, she charged at the elfshadow. Her first stroke should have cleaved the creature in two. The moonblade passed right through it, but Arilyn continued to flail at her shadowy double. Again and again the moonblade swished harmlessly through the elfshadow and its flashing sword.

“Arilyn, stop,” Danilo shouted, circling around the wild fight and trying without success to get the half-elf’s attention. Since he couldn’t stop her without getting himself killed by one of the three fighters, the young mage turned and sped to a wooden bench. A rusty nail protruded from the wood, and Danilo wretched it free. He pointed it at Arilyn and rapidly moved through the chant and gestures of a spell.

The nail disappeared from his hand, and Arilyn froze in mid-strike, moonblade held high. Danilo leaped forward and grabbed her around the middle, dragging her away from the battle. Her body remained as rigid as a statue as the nobleman propped the magically paralyzed half-elf against one of the elms.

“Listen,” he said earnestly. “I’m sorry about this, but I had to stop you before you accidentally killed the Harper. Trust me, you wouldn’t want to do that. This is not your fight, Arilyn. You can’t hurt that thing with the moonblade. It is the moonblade, don’t you see? Now, if I let you go, will you promise to behave?”

Arilyn’s eyes were murderous in her immobile face. “I didn’t think you would,” Danilo said with a sigh. Since there was nothing else he could do, he stood next to the immobile half-elf and awaited the outcome of the fight between the strange warriors. As he did, he wondered if Arilyn would see the strong resemblance between the elfshadow—her mirror image—and the aging Harper, who was also her father. The young nobleman prayed that she would not.

Indeed, her elven eyes held not recognition but the fear of a trapped animal. Danilo felt a surge of remorse.

“Willow,” he muttered, and Arilyn was released from the spell. The half-elf’s uplifted sword arm fell heavily to her side, and the moonblade clattered to the cobblestone. Arilyn took no notice, for her gaze remained fixed on the tableau before her.

The strange pair fought fiercely, sword and staff twirling and clashing. The elfshadow brought its blade around in a broad arc, aiming for the Harper’s knees. Surprisingly agile, the man leaped up. His cape opened and floated upward as he fell, revealing a large, glowing blue stone hanging from a chain.

The elfshadow’s eyes widened at the sight of the stone, and its features, so uncannily like Arilyn’s, contorted with triumph. The moonblade—as if it were a living thing—skittered across the cobblestones toward the elfshadow. In the span of an eyeblink the elfshadow snatched up the sword with one hand, then it lunged forward with its own ghostly blade to tear the moonstone pendant from Bran Skorlsun’s neck.

Blue light flared from the moonblade, and an answering flash came from the stone. The two streaks of magic light met between the elfshadow’s hands with the sound of a small explosion, and a fierce crackling energy filled the sky. The air churned wildly around Jester’s Square, becoming a magical storm that swirled autumn leaves into dizzying eddies, overturned crates, and rattled the armor of Harvid Beornigarth’s fallen men. In the midst of the maelstrom stood the elfshadow in a halo of blue light. Its eyes met Arilyn’s and for the first time it spoke.

“I am whole again, and I am free,” the elfshadow said triumphantly, its clear alto voice ringing above the tumult. “Listen well, my sister. We must avenge wrongful deaths. We must kill the one who misled you and enslaved me!”

The magical current built into an inaudible scream around Arilyn and Danilo, whipping their hair and capes around them. The nobleman pulled the dazed half-elf to the ground, shielding her as best he could with his cape and his own body.

There was a second flash of light, and an explosion rocked the street and sent everything into blackness.

“This way!” shouted Siobhan O’Callaigh, brandishing her broadsword as she gestured for her men to follow.

Drawn by the sound of the explosion and the sulfurous scent of smoke, a detachment of the city watch charged through a small alley toward Jester’s Square. They skidded to a stop, stunned by the sight before them.

Captain O’Callaigh had not seen so bizarre a battlefield since the passing of the Time of Troubles. The courtyard looked as though an angry god had gathered up the contents of the square, shaken them, and cast them onto the cobblestones like a handful of dice. Huge branches had broken off a pair of stately elms, benches and flowerboxes had been tossed about, and crates and rubbish had blown in from the alley. Several twisted bodies lay nearby, some of them in pools of blood. The macabre scene was dominated by the glowing sword that lay in a blackened circle in the center of the courtyard. Wraithlike wisps of blue smoke still swirled about it, drifting lazily upward in the early morning light.

As the watch stared, one of the bodies stirred. A blond man sat up slowly, the fingers of both hands gingerly pressed to his temples. As he moved, his cape came away from the crumpled form of a half-elven female. Kneeling with his back to the watch, the man bent protectively over the pale figure and thrust one hand into the sack hanging from his belt. From it he drew a silver flask. As he held it to the lips of his companion, the unmistakable almond scent of zzar drifted into the air. The half-elf sputtered, coughed, and sat up.

“What happened here?” Siobhan O’Callaigh demanded in gruff, official tones. The blond man turned to face her, and the watch captain groaned in dismay and thrust her broadsword back into her belt. “Danilo Thann. By Beshaba’s bosom! I should have known you’d be a part of this mess.”

“Captain O’Callaigh.” Danilo rose unsteadily to his feet. “You’re looking particularly lovely this morning. Interesting oath, too. Quite visual.”

She snorted, completely unmoved by the young man’s flattery. “What have you been up to this time?”

“Is the Harper alive?” interrupted the half-elf in a dull, dazed voice.

“I am.” At the far side of the courtyard, a tall, dark-cloaked man rose to his feet and walked slowly toward the watch.

Siobhan O’Callaigh threw up both hands. “Tell me, is anyone on this battlefield going to stay dead?”

“I certainly hope so,” responded Arilyn in a grim voice. She accepted the hand Danilo Thann offered her and rose to her feet. “I’d hate to have to kill them all over again.”

“All right, since you admit to killing these men, perhaps you’d better tell me what happened,” Captain O’Callaigh demanded.

The tall man intervened. “I am Bran Skorlsun, a traveler to your city. I was passing and saw ruffians ambush these two. The young pair fought only to defend themselves. I gave them what aid I could.”

“Looks like you did all right, old man,” one of the watchmen said, crouching down beside a large, chain mail-covered form. He heaved the body over onto its back, then gave a grunt of recognition. “Well, I’ll be an orc-sired cyclops. I know this one. Harvid Beornigarth, a half-barbarian sell-sword. Nasty piece of work, but not a common cutpurse. Likes all kinds of political intrigue, he does. Or did.” The man cocked an eyebrow at Danilo. “What business would he have with the nobility, I’m wondering.”

“None,” Arilyn said firmly. “His business was with me.”

“And who might you be?” O’Callaigh growled. She crouched down to get a better look at the fallen man, swatting one of her own red braids out of her way.

“Arilyn Moonblade.”

“She’s a Harper agent,” Danilo added significantly, as if invoking the mysterious and highly respected organization would somehow mitigate the destruction around him.

Every member of the watch froze. In unison they turned to Arilyn, and several pairs of gleaming eyes fixed on the half-elf.

“A Harper agent?” Siobhan O’Callaigh questioned eagerly. “You were the one who was attacked?

Arilyn responded with a curt nod, and the men exchanged incredulous glances with their captain. One of the watch gave words to their excited speculation. “You figure one of these pieces of buzzard bait to be that Harper Assassin?”

“Look good on our record if it turned out that way, now wouldn’t it?” returned Siobhan O’Callaigh, grinning.

“No. None of these men is the assassin.”

The captain and her men again looked up, surprised by the steel in the half-elf’s grim voice. The captain pressed for an explanation, but Arilyn stubbornly refused to elaborate.

O’Callaigh’s face turned red with rage, and she looked to Danilo to vent some of that anger. “What caused all this?” she demanded, sweeping a hand toward the general devastation.

Danilo grinned sheepishly. “My fault entirely, I’m afraid. I’m not much on the sword end of a battle, don’t you know, so I tried to help things along with a spell. Something sort of, well, sort of went wrong,” he concluded lamely.

“Sort of went wrong?” O’Callaigh snorted. “What else is new? Young man, you still owe the city for damages done the last time your spells misfired.”

“On my honor, I’ll pay for all the damages in full,” swore the nobleman. “May we go now?”

The captain glared at Danilo. “Maybe you think it’s that simple, being Lord Thann’s son and all. From my corner of the pasture, I see things differently. There are five dead men to cart off and identify, a city square to clean up before the start of business, and a miscast spell to report.”

“Oh, must you report it? I’m afraid news of this little mishap is not going to enhance my reputation as a mage,” Danilo said ruefully.

“Good. The Mage’s Guild is not going to be happy about this,” said O’Callaigh, thrusting a finger at the young man. “They’re putting pressure on the watch to curb irresponsible uses of magic. It’s about time you started answering to them. When that group gets done with you, you won’t even be able to scratch your backside with your magic wand.”

“I don’t use a wand. May we go now?” Danilo asked patiently.

Siobhan O’Callaigh smiled unpleasantly. “You sure can.” She turned to her men. “You! Ainsar and Tallis. Take these three away and lock them up. The rest of you, clean up this mess.”

“That was not exactly what I had in mind,” Danilo protested.

“Too bad. You can have it out with the magistrar, after he’s had his breakfast. I’m sure he’ll be very interested to hear whatever this closed-mouth half-elf knows about the Harper Assassin.”

The two men gestured for the trio to follow. Arilyn stooped to pick up the sword, staring fixedly at the blue and white moonstone that now glowed from its hilt. She started to rise to her feet and stopped abruptly, her attention drawn by another stone, blackened and still smoking. She picked the hot stone up, oblivious to the pain it caused her fingers, and turned it over. Her shoulders sagged as she slipped the stone into the pocket of her trousers.

“Take their weapons,” O’Callaigh commanded. The man she’d called Ainsar reached out to take the moonblade from Arilyn. He jerked his hand back with a sharp curse.

“By the way, no one but Arilyn can touch it,” Danilo explained casually.

Exasperation flooded the captain’s face. “All right, let her keep the sword, but make sure you take all their other weapons. Now get them out of here.”

She dismissed the trio and their guard with a curt wave of her hand, and turned her attention to the corpses littering the landscape. The sun was on the rise, and her men would have to hurry to clear the street before the start of business. Her commander took a dim view of anything that slowed the wheels of commerce. By Beshaba, O’Callaigh swore silently—seeing Danilo Thann always brought to mind the goddess of bad luck—why did these things always seem to happen on her watch?

Arilyn Moonblade sat alone in her small, dark cell, holding in her hand a blackened topaz. Again and again she passed her finger over the sigil engraved on the stone’s underside, as if to convince herself that it was not truly Kymil Nimesin’s mark. She had suspected that her old mentor was behind the assassinations ever since she had seen the lists of dead Harpers and Zhentarim, the lists that balanced each other as precisely as a clerk’s account book. The elfshadow’s words had removed all doubt.

Balance. Kymil had preached it constantly, stating that good and evil, wild and civilized, even male and female were relative terms. The ideal state, he claimed, was achieved by maintaining a balance. Even in this dreadful, incomprehensible scheme of his, the elf strove to maintain the Balance.

The question of why Kymil was arranging the deaths remained to haunt the half-elf. What injustice, what imbalance, demanded the lives of innocent Harpers? Why had Kymil deceived her, an etriel he had befriended and trained from childhood? And the Harper, Bran Skorlsun, what part did he play in the twisted tale of the Harper Assassin? No matter how she approached the matter, no answers came to her. Exhausted and heartsick, Arilyn fell asleep on the cell’s narrow cot.

Five elven clerics labored over the charred form of one of Waterdeep’s most respected elven citizens. Their prayers rose in a combined chant of power to Corellon Larethian, the Ruler of All Elves.

Weaving through the chant was the voice of a circle-singer. Filauria Ni’Tessine possessed that rare elven gift, usually used during an ecstatic night dance to bind elves in their mystical union with each other and with the stars. Now her magical singing wove the prayers of the clerics into a single thread, an enchanted cord of incredible power.

Pale as death, Filauria sang on and on, her iridescent eyes fixed upon the elflord she had vowed to serve. With every fiber of her being and with all the force of her inherent elven magic, she poured life and strength into Kymil Nimesin.

The sun climbed into the sky and the morning slipped away unheeded as the clerics prayed and the circle-singer wove her magic. Just as they had begun to despair, the quessir’s blackened skin sloughed away, revealing the yellow-rosebud hue of a healthy gold elf infant.

Still weakened but definitely healed, Kymil Nimesin fell into a healing sleep. The chanting and the song faded into a collective sigh of relief, and Filauria slumped with exhaustion.

“Impossible,” muttered the youngest of the clerics, looking from Kymil to Filauria with awe. Although the elven cleric’s power was great and his faith strong, he had truly thought Kymil Nimesin beyond healing. What Filauria Ni’Tessine had accomplished was the fabric of myth and song. Word of the circle-singer’s feat would spread throughout the elven nations.

Another, older cleric regarded Filauria with sympathy. The young etriel’s devotion to Kymil Nimesin was well known. “We will watch over him while he sleeps. You must rest,” the elf urged her kindly.

She nodded and rose. Numb as a sleepwalker, Filauria left Kymil’s chamber and walked through the connecting room. It was the room in which the scrying crystal had once stood.

As she regarded the devastation, Filauria thought it a marvel that Kymil had lived through the backlash of the explosion. The walls of the scrying room had been blackened, the windows and frames blown out. As she left the chamber, her feet crunched on tiny pieces of charred amber.

The scrying crystal, Filauria realized. When Kymil recovered, he might be able to magically restore it. The etriel dropped to the floor, and with shaking fingers she began to faithfully gather together the blasted shards.

The jangle of keys interrupted Arilyn’s exhausted slumber long before she was ready to awaken. She sat up and pushed her hair out of her eyes as the door of her cell swung open. “What time is it?”

“Almost highsun. You’re free to go,” announced the jailer. Her hunting bow, arrows, dagger, and knife clattered to the stone floor of the cell—they had “allowed” her to keep the moonblade with her but had taken her other weapons. Arilyn rose and gathered up her steel.

“You three must be pretty important,” the jailer observed. “The Blackstaff himself sent word that we were to let you out, and he even sent your horses around for you. They’re out front. You’re to go to Blackstaff Tower at once.”

Arilyn gave a noncommittal murmur and strode into the sunlight. Danilo and Bran Skorlsun were already there. The nobleman, perfectly groomed and clad in forest green, peered into his magic sack as if taking inventory. “Everything seems to be in there,” he announced with deep satisfaction.

He looked up at Arilyn’s approach. “Ah, good. We’re all here now. Bless Uncle Khel for putting in a good word, eh?”

“Be sure to give him my regards.” She mounted a chestnut mare and pressed her heels to its side. The horse set off toward the east at a brisk trot. The two men exchanged puzzled glances.

“Where are you going?” Danilo called after her.

“To find Kymil Nimesin.”

Bran Skorlsun’s face clouded. “The armsmaster? What has he do to with this?”

“Everything,” she said.

In a heartbeat both men mounted their horses and sped after Arilyn. “Kymil Nimesin is the Harper Assassin?” Bran asked in disbelief as he and Danilo pulled up on either side of the half-elf.

Arilyn did not slow her pace. “More or less.”

“Shouldn’t we tell the authorities?” demanded Danilo.

“No.” Her voice was implacable. “Leave the authorities out of this. Kymil is mine.”

Danilo threw up his hands. “Be sensible for once, Arilyn. You can’t bring this man down alone. And you shouldn’t.”

“He is not a man. He’s an elf.”

“So? That makes him your sole province?” Danilo argued. “If he’s the Harper Assassin—even more or less—you should leave him to the Harpers. You’ve done enough.”

She spoke without looking at Danilo, and her voice was low and bitter. “Yes, I have, haven’t I?”

“Then—”

“No!” She faced the nobleman. “Don’t you understand? Kymil isn’t the Harper Assassin. He created the assassin.”

“My dear, please don’t talk in riddles before dinner,” Danilo pleaded.

“Kymil trained me. He set my feet on the path of an assassin’s life, then he encouraged me to become an agent for the Harpers.” Arilyn laughed without mirth. “Don’t you see? He made me to order.”

Danilo was stunned by the guilt and anguish on his companion’s face. He reached out and grabbed the reins of her horse, bringing her to a halt. “Stop talking like that. You’re not the Harper Assassin.”

“With your memory, I imagine you can recall the ballad of Zoastria,” Arilyn said.

Danilo scratched his chin, startled by the seeming non sequitur. “Yes, but—”

“Recite the part about calling forth the elfshadow,” she insisted.

Still looking puzzled, Danilo repeated the passage:

“Call forth through stone, call forth from steel.

“Command the mirror of thyself.

“But ware the spirit housed within

“The shadow of the elf.”

“Don’t you see?” Arilyn said. “Kymil Nimesin called the elfshadow and bid it become the Harper Assassin. Here is the stone I carried in my sword for many years,” Arilyn said, producing the blackened topaz from her pocket. “This is Kymil’s sigil. I imagine that the stone was enspelled so that he could call and command the elfshadow through the stone, as the ballad says.”

“So that’s how he kept such a close watch over you,” Danilo said. “Your carrying an enspelled stone would make scrying very simple.” He paused and sternly waved a finger at Arilyn like a schoolmaster reprimanding a pupil. “Kymil Nimesin betrayed you and misused your sword’s magic, but that doesn’t make you the Harper Assassin.”

“Doesn’t it?” she retorted bitterly. “I am Arilyn Moonblade. Where does the sword end and where do I begin? If guilt belongs to the elfshadow, and the shadow is the moonblade’s reflection of me, how can I be unstained by guilt?”

Bran Skorlsun broke his silence at last. “I have seen the elfshadow before, although at the time it wore another face. It’s merely the entity of the sword, and the sword is yours, Arilyn Moonblade.”

“That’s right,” Danilo agreed, “and now the elfshadow is yours to command, as well. Whatever his purpose, Kymil Nimesin failed when the elfshadow broke free of his control.”

Arilyn’s laughter was hollow. “Twenty and more Harpers lie dead. How did Kymil fail?”

“We three are alive,” the nobleman said grimly, “and Kymil does not possess the moonblade.”

By highsun, Kymil Nimesin was fully recovered from the backlash of the magical explosion. He sifted the bits of blackened crystal through his long slender fingers, furious at his inability to reconstruct the priceless scrying globe.

The crystal had been shattered when the magical link binding it with the enspelled topaz broke. In the moment just before the magical explosion, one image had burned itself into the gold elf’s memory: the tantalizing, infuriating picture of the moonblade, once again whole but beyond his reach.

Why the elfshadow had not retrieved the restored moonblade, Kymil could not begin to fathom. For over a year the entity had followed his every command. So accustomed was Kymil to obedience that it had not occurred to him that the elfshadow might break free once the moonstone was returned to the sword. Inexplicably, his elfshadow assassin—his finest magical achievement—was no longer under his control. It had failed in its final, most vital task.

Kymil resisted the urge to fling the useless bits of broken crystal across the room, instead calling for his assistant. Ever attentive, the etriel glided into his room.

“Filauria, send word to the Tel’Quessir Elite.” He waved a hand over the pile of charred fragments. “Obviously I can no longer reach them through the crystal. I shall meet them at the academy, and we teleport at once for Evereska.”

The etriel bowed and left Kymil alone to fume over the unexpected failure of his plan. He didn’t have the wretched sword. According to his sources in the watch, Arilyn Moonblade, Bran Skorlsun, and Blackstaff’s nephew still lived and were under arrest in Waterdeep castle. If those three put their resources together, they would be able to discern his goal. His plan had gone fully and truly awry.

He would have to fall back on his contingency plan.

Kymil smiled. He understood his half-breed student well. Skilled though she was, Arilyn believed herself under the shadow of the moonblade. She would take upon herself the guilt of the Harper Assassin, and she would come after him to redeem her name and her sense of honor. No one would be able to talk her out of it. Of that he had no doubt.

And she would bring him the moonblade.