Silver Shadows

Prom the corner of her left eye Arilyn glimpsed a femiliar shape in the dark water: an elven form, smaller than that of land-dwelling People, and almost invisible behind the writhing strands of seaweed he used as cover. If not for her infravision, Arilyn would not have seen him at all.

The elf was clearly part of a patrol. A tightly rolled net was tied to his belt, and he wore several sharp weapons and a wary expression. Arilyn had ho doubt that another elf, similarly armed, closed in on her from the right. *•

She raised both hands high and to her sides to show that they held no weapons. Then she slowly turned to fece the first elf. Using the hand gestures she'd learned from Black Pearl, she laboriously spelled out her need to find Macumail. Grudgingly she added that she was on an errand for Amlaruil of Evermeet.

The sea elf s eyes brightened with adoration at the mention of the elven queen, an expression Arilyn had seen far too often on the fece of Macumail, or for that matter anyone else who knew of Queen Amlaruil. Even Elaith Craulnober, a rogue moon elf of Arilyn's acquaintance who'd spent his many years away from Evermeet honing his reputation for battle prowess and cruelty, grew positively misty at the mention of the queen's name. The Harper gritted her teeth and focused her attention upon the sea elf's gesticulating, webbed fingers.

Macumail Elf-friend has spoken of you, Arilyn Moonflower. The People have been charged with watching for your approach, though we expected you to come by boat. He lifted one hand in the directional inflection that indicated humor.

Arilyn, however, was in no mood to be amused. *Moonflower" was the name of the royal family of Evermeet-her mother's name, and one that Arilyn had no thought of claiming for herself. A simple error, no doubt, but one that grated on her.

Moonblade, she corrected him, spelling out the word with emphatic deliberation, but the elf had already turned away and was gesturing excitedly to his partner, a female distinguished by her close-cropped green curls and the gleaming trident she carried. The two carried on a brief discussion, their fingers flashing with a speed Arilyn could not follow. Then the elves gestured that she should follow them.

The Harper sighed, sending a rift of bubbles floating upward, and then began to swim after the sea folk. Arilyn was a strong swimmer, but there was no possible

way she could keep pace with these elves. Time and again her escort forgot her limitations and left her behind, only to circle back.

Fortunately, Mist-Walker had not gone far into the bay. By moonrise the trio had the ship in sight. The sea elves bid farewell to their charge and disappeared into the black waters, leaving Arilyn to approach the human

vessel alone.

To Arilyn's surprise, the ship had dropped anchor. That was risky, for even so close to Zazesspur piracy was far from uncommon. She climbed the anchor's rope and quietly pulled herself over the side of the vessel. As she shook the water from her ears, she heard behind her the unmistakable hiss of steel sliding free of a scabbard.

Her own sword fairly leaped from its sheath. Moonblade held firmly in her two-handed grip, Arilyn whirled to face the challenger.

The swordsman was young-a son of one of the western Moonshae Isles, if his bright red hair and broad, blunt-nosed countenance spoke truth-and he was armed with a two-edged blade and matched dagger common to that area. Arilyn adjusted her grip slightly to prepare for the expected attack. Sure enough, the man feinted low, a common move that would no doubt be followed by a dagger feint and a sweeping overhead sword cut. There were many styles of swordplay among the humans of Faerun; Arilyn was acquainted with them all.

She parried his sword feint with a hard downward swing that forced the point of his blade to the deck. Before he could bring his dagger into play, she swept the moonblade up and to her right with a force that sent the smaller weapon spinning. At the same time, she stomped down hard on the man's down-turned blade, wrenching the sword from his hand. The whole exercise took perhaps ten seconds.

For a moment the youth merely stood ^there,

unarmed, too stunned by the pace of the battle to assimilate its results. Then understanding of his fate dawned in his eyes, and he drew breath to shout an alarm before he died.

Arilyn slammed the moonblade back into its sheath and plunged both of her hands into the young man's bright hair. She yanked him forward, drove her head hard into his forehead, then thrust him away as she pivoted hard to her left. Up came her right knee, slamming hard into his gut. As he folded with a soft "oof!" of surprise and pain, Arilyn changed directions and spun again, bringing her right forearm down hard on the back of his neck. Down he went-senseless, but with no lasting damage.

"A shame," observed a deep, faintly amused voice behind her. "And me having such high hopes for the lad. He hasn't his father's luck with the ladies, that's for sure and certain."

Arilyn spun and looked up into the bewhiskered face of the captain. "Oh, no. Not your son?"

"Maiden voyage," agreed Macumail with a wry grin, "and you should pardon the expression. Don't look so worried. The lad is well enough, though hell have Umberlee's own tempest raging in his head come morning. Let him sleep it off, while we speak of other matters. My cabin?"

Arilyn nodded and allowed the captain to lead her into an usually large and luxurious cabin furnished with an enormous bed sufficient to Macumail's size and girth, a brass-bound chest, a small writing table, and a pair of chairs. As Arilyn took a seat, she was suddenly conscious of the puddle her dripping clothes left on Macumail's Turmish carpet.

"Drink this. It'll help stave off the chill," the captain said cheerfully as he handed her a goblet of wine.

She accepted it and sipped, then placed the goblet on the sea chest. "I've reconsidered your offer."

"I was hoping you might," he said with equal candor and then grinned. "You charmed word of my where • abouts from our little Mend Suldusk, I take it?"

Arilyn shrugged away his teasing. Her methods had been abrupt, even by her standards, but the stakes in her quest were too high, and too personal, to allow room for regrets or time for diplomacy.

"Would you carry my answer-and my terms-to Amlaruil of Evermeet? And can you duplicate her commission? I'm in a hurry, but 111 need as good a forgery as you can manage."

"No need for that," Macumail said. He took a sheet of parchment from the pile on his writing table and handed it to her. Arilyn scanned the Elvish script; it seemed to be a duplicate of the document she had destroyed.

The genuine article," the captain avowed. "Lady Laeral insisted that I carry a spare copy or two. And as for terms, the queen has authorized me to promise, on her behalf, any payment you might request."

"Such wisdom and foresight," Arilyn murmured dryly, still studying the parchment in her hands. Tin seldom paid with blank promissory notes, though the benefits of time saved should be apparent to all."

When she was satisfied that the elven queen's offer was genuine and that all was in order, Arilyn put the parchment on the table and lifted her eyes to her host. "Can you take me back to Zazesspur? At once?"

In response, Macumail rose from his chair and tugged at the bellpull hanging against one polished wall. "My dear lady, I am entirely at your service. You know, of course, that the docks are chained off until dawn."

"Dawn's good," Arilyn agreed.

There is a cabin next to mine. It is empty this voyage, and you are more than welcome to rest there. You might find some dry garments in the large sea chest that will do until morning. If you need anything else, you've only to ask."

Arilyn's face relaxed into a grateful smile, one that transformed her face and brought an answering-and familiar-spark to the captain's blue eyes.

The half-elf suppressed a sigh. Perhaps the captain was acting at the behest of the elven queen, but by all reports his fondness for elf women did not begin and end with Amlaruil. It did not surprise Arilyn to hear that the guest cabin boasted a feminine wardrobe, and she did not doubt that she would find a number of garments that would fit her elven frame. Rumors suggested that the green elf druid was not the only elf woman who had found a place in Macumail's heart. Furthermore, the glint in his eyes suggested he would not be averse to adding a half-elf to his collection of fondly held memories. Not wishing to pursue this path, Arilyn thanked her host and rose to follow the cabin boy who came promptly to the ring of Macumail's bell.

The captain watched her go and waited until he heard the bolt of her cabin door slide shut. Then he seated himself at his writing table and took up the parchment Arilyn had left there. Slowly, laboriously, he read the Elvish script to the place where the queen's ambassador was named.

Macumail opened a small drawer beneath his table and took from it a tiny bottle of ink. It was of elven make, a rare deep-purple hue fashioned from a mixture of berries and flowers that grew only on Evermeet. Carefully he unstoppered the bottle and dipped a quill into the precious fluid. With painstaking care, he added a few tiny curves and lines to the Elvish script.

It was fortunate, Macumail thought as he sprinkled the parchment with drying powder, that the Elvish words for Moonblade and Moonflower were so similar in appearance.

The captain had heard from Laeral the tale of the elf-gate and the deep sorrow it had brought to Queen Amlaruil. Having witnessed the sadness in the queen's eyes and mourned it for love of her, Macumail was loath to do anything that might bring additional pain to the wondrous elven monarch.

Yet Macumail also held the half-elven fighter in high regard, and he understood the importance of the task before her. And he knew, as well as any human alive, the difficulty that would face Arilyn in the shadows of Tethir.

He himself had loved a woman of the forest, a green elf druid whose strange, fey ways had left him mystified much of the time. But from his elven love he had learned enough about the forest folk to suspect that the People of Tethir would reject a half-elven ambassador and perhaps even slay her. Passing as a full-blooded elf was never easy for the half-elven, not even for one as resourceful as Arilyn. Macumail had therefore devised a strategy that might help her do just that.

Elven naming customs were endlessly complicated. Although it was not unusual for an elf to take on a surname that spoke of a particular skill or weapon- names such as Snowrunner or Oakstaff or Ashenbow- these descriptive titles were for common use: a name to use during travels, or to give acquaintances or outsiders, especially dwarves and humans. Among themselves, however, elves considered the giving of a family name and the recitation of lineage to be a vital step in formal exchanges. For Arilyn to identify herself to an elven tribe by only the sword she carried would be an egregious breach of protocol. It would almost certainly shout that her claim as Evermeet's ambassador was spurious. In her case this was particularly true, for moonblades were known to be hereditary swords, and a refusal to identify herself by family would be regarded by the elves as a blatant, arrogant admission that she was not what she claimed to be. And that, Macumail noted wryly, would go over in elven society about as well as an ogrish daughter-in-law.

With this in mind, the captain had decided to give Arilyn a family name and an ancient lineage-all with a few small strokes of a quill pen. His opinion that these honors were truly hers to claim eased his mind some-what. Nor did he doubt that the borrowed glamour of the royal family would drape a protective mantle over the half-elven woman and silence many questions before they were spoken. And after all, it was well known that of all the races of elves, moon people were most like humans!

The elves of Tethir's forest were insular, but they knew that no half-elves were allowed on Evermeet, and it would not occur to them that a half-elf would be permitted to carry the name of the royal family. A missive from AmlanuTs own hand, claiming Arilyn as her descendant, would settle the matter. It was not a ploy that would enter the proud half-elfs mind, nor would she agree to it if the captain explained his intentions.

To Macumail's way of thinking, they were much akin, the elven queen and the not-quite-elven swordmistress.

"Forgive me, my ladies," he murmured as he rolled the parchment and slipped it into a tube. "And may the gods grant that broad and stormy seas lie between me and either one of you when you learn what I’ve done!"

True to his word, Captain Macumail had Arilyn back in Zazesspur before sunrise. Her last day in the Tethyrian city flew by, for there was still much to do before she left for the forest. Arrangements long in the making had to be confirmed, messages sent, materials gathered.

There was one personal detail, however, that Arilyn left off attending for as long as she could. She could not leave Zazesspur without word to her Harper partner, nor would she inform him of her going by note or messenger Yet she was reluctant to face the young nobleman. Danilo would understand at once the danger of her mission, and he would not accept lightly what might well be a final leave-taking between them. Worse, the stubborn fool might even devise a way to follow her!

But when the hour of evenfeast approached, Arilyn prepared herself to enter Danilo's world. She dressed herself in her one fine gown, a simple shift of deep blue silk with an embroidered overgown that was draped and sashed in a manner that hid her weapon belt, yet gave her quick access to her moonblade. Arilyn arranged her hair so that it covered her pointed ears and applied a bit of rosy ointment to add a more human tint to her white skin. As a final touch, one that would give her an aura of wealth and grant her instant admission to the posh festhouses and taverns that her partner frequented, Arilyn slipped gold-and-sapphire rings onto several of her fingers and fastened a matching jeweled pin onto her bodice.

Danilo had a passion for fine gems and an apparent desire to see her covered with them. After nearly three years, Arilyn had amassed quite a collection. She had declined his first few offerings, but he'd made it a point to learn of elven festivals and special days so that he could press his tokens upon her when it was hardest for her to refuse. Among Danilo's annoying traits-and these were numerous-was his ability to circumvent, if not forestall, nearly any feminine objection. Nor did it escape Arilyn's notice that she possessed a much sterner resistance to his charms than many of the women of Zazesspur did. Or the women of Waterdeep, for that matter. Or Baldur's Gate, or…

With a sigh, Arilyn banished this unprofitable line of thought. She climbed into her hired carriage and settled down for a long evening. Danilo customarily took his evening meal at one of several festhalls or taverns-at her insistence, never in any predictable pattern. Thus it might be some time before she would find him.

The first stop was the Hanging Garden, a tavern fashioned to reflect the tastes and preferences of Zazesspur's current ruler. Arilyn was not fond of the place-it was too much like being in Calimport for her liking-but Danilo came here frequently to enjoy the quality of the wine and the music. Traveling bards, as well as local musicians, performed nightly.

As a hostess dressed in filmy silk draperies ushered the disguised Harper to a table, the strains of a harp mingled with the sounds of soft conversation. As was the current fashion, the harpist played the melody of a ballad through once before joining the strings in song. There was something vaguely familiar about the tune. Arilyn was not one to give much heed to tavern performers, but she listened carefully when the singer-a young woman with the olive skin and dark hair common to natives of Tethyr-began the ballad.

The melody was catchy but common enough, the rippling chords of the harp pleasant but not especially clever, the singer's voice a clear but unremarkable soprano. In all, the music deserved to be no more than an agreeable backdrop to conversation. Yet by the time the ballad entered its third stanza, the Tethyrian woman sang into complete and utter silence.

Arilyn was no bard, but she understood full well the impact of the song. It told a story she knew all too well, even though the facts had been changed to conceal certain secrets and to glorify the alleged hero of the ballad, a nobleman and a bard who had done a great service to the Harpers by bringing to justice-single-handedly, if the ballad was to be believed-the gold elf assassin who caused the deaths of twenty and more of Those Who Harped. As Arilyn watched the listening patrons, she had no doubt that their sympathies fell firmly on the side of the gold elf killer!

Harpers were not welcome in troubled Zazesspur, and Harper heroes were hardly an acceptable subject for tavern tales. A visiting bard might possibly be forgiven for a social blunder of this magnitude, but Arilyn could think of only one reason why a Tethyrian-born singer would risk performing such a ballad: as a dramatic prelude to exposing a Harper in their midst.

Arilyn carefully painted an expression of disdain on her face and rose from her table. She slowly left the tavern, forcing herself to move with the languid stroll of a wealthy lady who had no more compelling purpose than to remove herself from a performance that did not suit her tastes and political inclinations.

She held her sedate pace until she'd reached the dimly lit side street where her hired carriage awaited her. Arilyn tossed a couple of coins to the driver and cut the traces that held her own mare to the carriage. She hiked up her skirts and leaped onto the horse's back. The mare seemed to sense her mistress's urgency, for she fairly flew over the streets that led to the assassins' guildhouse.

Normally Arilyn would have gone back to a safe room to change from her disguise and would have made several additional stops to distract any who might make a connection between the rarified world of high society and the guild of hired killers. She dared not take time for such precautions now. At dusk, the assassins of Zazesspur gathered to bid on the new assignments that were posted nightly. If this ballad had been widely sung, Danilo's name might well be among them.

Seven

Arilyn left the assassins' Council Hall with a large gold coin clamped in her fist and dread chilling her heart- The situation was worse than she had feared. The damning tavern song had spread through the city like lice, and a commission had been placed upon the life of the bard mentioned in the ballad.

Unlike most assignments, this one offered a fee to all and sundry who wished to take up the challenge. A half-dozen fighters had been hired to ensure that no single assassin removed the paper and hoarded the assignment for himself. Apparently speed was of more concern than money. There were many wealthy men and women in Tethyr who would pay dearly to swiftly eliminate even the possibility of Harper involvement in their multi-layered affairs.

Danilo's name had not been mentioned on the pronouncement, but Arilyn knew that the highly skilled assassins of the guild would not need much time to discover his identity. The fact that she had been the first to read the pronouncement did little to ease her mind.

She hurried to her room in the women's guildhouse, changed into her working clothes, and quickly packed her saddlebags with the things she needed for her mission. It was unlikely she would have an opportunity to return.

Without a backward glance at the complex that had been her home for several months, Arilyn rode as swiftly as she dared down the streets that led into the city's most fashionable quarter. Even so, she took a few twists and turns to make certain she was not being followed. Each one took her closer to the Purple Minotaur, the finest and most costly inn in all of Zazesspur.

The half-elf reined her mare to a stop several blocks away from her destination, for she could hardly ride up to the white marble walls that surrounded the garden courtyard and present herself at the arched gate. Assassins were heartily respected in this city, but that regard did not extend to social settings. Many of the Minotaur's guests were wealthy and powerful men- likely recipients of an assassin's blade. The guards posted at the inn's gate were about as likely to give Arilyn access to these guests as poultry farmers would be to invite a fox to dine at will among their hens.

And so Arilyn left her horse-and a handful of silver pieces-at a public stable in the care of an enterprising lad who had a talent for averting his eyes at precisely the right moment. While the boy tended to her mare, Arilyn climbed the ladder that led into the stable's hayloft. A large pile of straw leaned against one wall; this she climbed to the top. The half-elf studied the rough ceiling carefully, then she pulled her sword and used it to push open the nearly invisible trapdoor. She leaped up and grabbed the edge. Quickly she hauled herself up and crawled out onto the flat, tiled roof of the stable.

After replacing the trapdoor, Arilyn stood and surveyed the many levels of the city laid out before her.The rooftops of Zazesspur offered a landscape of their own. Here were paths well-worn by the feet of those who did business in darkness. Although she had been in the city but a few months, Arilyn knew these pathways as well as most of Zazesspur's citizens knew the streets.

Between her and the soaring palace known as the Purple Minotaur lay a festhall, two taverns, the homes of several shopkeepers, the stables that served the posh inn, and the humble dwellings used for the servants and slaves who tended the pampered guests. With practiced ease, Arilyn made her way from rooftop to rooftop.

As she neared the Purple Minotaur, she glanced toward the upper floors of the inn and noticed that Danilo's window was flung open to admit the summer night's breeze-and possibly in the hope of an unexpected visit. Prom the open window wafted the gentle strains of a lute accompanying a well-trained tenor voice.

Arilyn's first response was relief. Danilo was yet safe. For a moment she paused to listen to the faint song and the carefree singer who seemed far removed from the sordid reality of the squalid streets.

For some reason, this solidified Arilyn's resolve. What she intended to do this night would not be easy, but it was a needed thing.

A sliver of new moon rose high into the sky as Arilyn crept across the roof of the Purple Minotaur, but its feeble tight was veiled by the thick sea mist that settled in with the coming of night. On the street far below, dim circles of light clung to the street lanterns, and faint light spilled from the windows of the festhalls and gambling parlors on the lower floors of the building. But where she trod, all was darkness. Danilo's chamber was only two floors down from the roof, a location chosen to allow Arilyn to make her infrequent visits with discretion.

Indeed, her slender figure was barely discernible against the dark sky. The pale skin of her face had been smudged with dark ointment, and she wore the garb of

an assassin: leggings and a loose shirt of an indistinct dark hue that seemed to absorb shadow. In the mist-laden air her black curls clung to her head in damp tendrils, and her only ornament was the sash of pale gray silk at her waist.

Arilyn took a rope of spider silk from her pack and affixed one end firmly to the nearest chimney. She crept to the roofs edge and counted carefully down the rope's knotted length. Holding the rope firmly, she backed up, took a few running steps, and flung herself as far out into the darkness as she could.

As she dropped, she braced herself, accepted the jolting tug that came when the rope snapped taut. Then she swung like a pendulum toward the open window, shifting her weight a bit to adjust her course. At the last possible moment, she pulled up into a tight tuck.

The agile half-elf cleared the window. In one smooth move she released the rope and pulled a dagger from her boot, and then landed in a crouch. Her blue eyes swept the room, checking for danger. Satisfied that all was well, she stood and faced her Harper partner.

The young nobleman had apparently expected her, for he stood facing the window, a smile of welcome lighting his gray eyes and a goblet of elverquisst in each hand.

Arilyn had known Danilo Thann for almost three years now, but she had yet to reconcile herself to the disparity between his public persona and the man she had come to know. Few saw him as anything more than the youngest son of a Waterdhavian noble, a dandy and a dilettante who dabbled in magic and music. It took a keen ear to hear the artistry beneath the bawdy little ballads he composed, a sharp eye to note the ease with which he tossed off his "miscast" spells. But few people were inclined to seek deeply, and as a handsome charmer blessed with a noble's rank and a merchant's heavy purse, Danilo was welcomed in circles that a half-elven assassin could not hope to enter. Although Arilyn

recognized the worth of this disguise, the contrast between Danilo's appearance and his true nature did not, for one moment, cease to irritate her.

As was his recent custom, he was clad entirely in shades of purple-the traditional color of Tethyr-and bedecked with a small fortune in gold-and-amethyst jewelry. Arilyn had told him more than once that this affectation made him look like a walking grape, but in truth the opulent color suited him well.

Everything about the young man and his setting bespoke wealth, ease, and privilege. The room behind him was vast and luxurious, although a bit cluttered with the trappings of his public and personal endeavors. One long table was heavily laden with goblets and bottles of fine wine-a testament to his current role as a member of Tethyr's guild of wine merchants. Spellbooks were scattered across a reading table of Chultan teak, and the small crystal scrying globe on the table near the window was but one of many magic devices that protected the room and its occupant. The chamber's hand-knotted carpet-rendered in shades of purple, of course-was heaped with tapestry pillows. Lying among them was the lute Danilo had set aside, an exquisite instrument inlaid with darker woods and mother-of-pearl. Beside the lute was his swordbelt, which held not only his rapier, but an ancient sword in a bejeweled scabbard. A magic weapon, Arilyn guessed, noting the distinctive curved pommel that marked it as a sword of Halruaan make.

All this she took in with a single sweeping glance. Noted, too, was the sudden intense flash, quickly hidden, that came into the young man's eyes as his gaze swept over her. Arilyn knew her partner's perception and attention to detail at least equaled her own, and for a moment she wondered what he saw in a disheveled, too-thin, half-elven assassin that could kindle such a flame.

"Lovely night for second-story work," Danilo observed in a casual tone as he handed her a goblet. "That jump was most impressive. But tell me, have you ever miscalculated the rope's length?"

Arilyn shook her head, then absently tossed back the contents of her goblet. "We're leaving Tethyr," she stated, plunking her empty goblet down on Danilo's table.

He placed his own goblet beside hers. "Oh?" he asked warily.

"Someone has placed a bounty on your head," Arilyn said in a grim tone as she handed him the heavy gold coin. "These were given to any assassin willing to take on the job. One hundred more to whoever makes the

km."

Danilo hefted the coin in a practiced hand and then let out a long, low whistle. The coin was about three times the normal trade weight. The amount Arilyn had named was a substantial sum, one likely to tempt even high-ranking assassins to take on the assignment. But the young Harper did not seem concerned by the danger. He examined the gold piece with the detachment of a coin collector, running admiring fingers over the embossed pattern of runes and symbols.

"It would seem Fm attracting a better class of enemies these days," he observed wryly.

"Listen to me!" Arilyn snapped, clasping both his forearms and giving him a little shake. "I heard someone singing your ballad about the Harper assassin."

"Merciful Milil," he swore softly, and Arilyn saw understanding dawning in his eyes.

Danilo had written the ballad about their first adventure together. He hadn't performed it in over two years and certainly had the sense not to sing it in Tethyr. Although the song did not identify him as a Harper, even a mention of those "meddling Northern barbarians" could create a good deal of resentment and suspicion in this troubled land. Woven into the ballad were hints concerning Danilo's identity, and the careful listener could soon ascertain that the hero and the poser were one. He had written the song to convince Arilyn that he was a vain and vapid courtier, and it had effectively served its purpose. But the fact that it was being sung here in Tethyr would force a rapid end to their mission. The young Harper contemplated the loss of all this work with a rueful smile.

"The locals express their musical preferences rather forcefully, wouldn't you say?" he commented lightly.

Before Arilyn could draw breath for an exasperated rejoinder, Danilo silenced her with an apologetic smile and an uplifted hand. Tin sorry, my dear. Force of habit. You're right, of course. We must ride north at once."

"No."

She reached out and touched one of Danilo's rings-a magical gift from his uncle, Khelben Arunsun, that could teleport up to three people back to the safety of BlackstafF Tower, or elsewhere if the wielder so chose.

Arilyn hated magical travel; in her mind, it was a choice of last resort. The knowledge of this was written clearly in Danilo's eyes. Understanding her urgency, he quickly donned his swordbelt and affixed to it the magic bag that held his wardrobe and travel supplies. He added three spellbooks to the bag and then absently dropped in the assassin's coin. With one hand he snatched up his lute; with the other he reached out to Arilyn.

She took a step backward and shook her head. "I'm not coming with you."

"Arilyn, this is no time to be squeamish!"

"It's not that." She took a deep breath, for the words were harder to say than she had imagined possible. "Word came from Waterdeep. IVe been assigned another mission. I leave in the morning."

Danilo's eyes widened. For a moment, Arilyn glimpsed in them the poignant longing that he was so careful to hide from her. Then, deftly, his expression changed to portray the pique of a spoiled nobleman who was unaccustomed to events that strayed from the path of his preference. His eyes betrayed nothing but incredulity that the Master Harpers would presume to separate them. It was a fine performance. Arilyn, however, was not fooled.

But before she could speak, the alarm on Danilo's magical scrying globe began to pulse again. The half-elf snatched up the crystal and peered into it. The scene within showed three shadowy figures moving toward the edge of the rooЈ just two stories above them. Some of Arilyn's colleagues were coming to collect their prize.

She tossed the alarm aside and cast a glace toward the open window and the nearly invisible rope outside. "There's no time to explain," she told him. "Go!"

But Danilo, who had also taken a good look into the crystal, shook his head. "And leave you to face them alone? Not bloody likely."

Arilyn attempted a smile and touched the gray silk sash that proclaimed her rank among Tethyr's assassins. "I'm one of them, remember? Til say that you were gone. No one will challenge me."

"Of course they will," he snapped, for he well knew how Tethyr's assassins rose through the ranks. Arilyn was aware that her partner had paid out large sums to keep apprised of her dark and solitary path. She'd been able to keep news of many of her adventures from him, but he knew she'd been forced more than once to defend her reluctantly worn sash from ambitious fellow assassins. There were three of them now, and if she was alone, they would almost certainly seize the opportunity to attack her. Which of them would eventually possess her Shadow Sash would be a matter they'd settle among themselves at a later time.

The rope she'd left hanging outside Danilo's window began to sway as someone inched down it toward his room. "Go," Arilyn pleaded.

"Come with me," he demanded in an implacable tone.

The half-elf shook her head, cursing the streak of steel that hid behind Dauilo's foppish persona.” She knew it well, and knew also that there was little chance of reasoning with him once his mind was set.

Predictably enough, the Harper tossed aside his priceless lute without thought or care, and pulled her into his arms.

"If you think I'd leave you, you're a bigger fool than I am," he said quickly, angrily, his words racing against the approaching danger. "This is hardly the moment I'd have chosen to mention this, but damn it, woman, I love you."

"I know," Arilyn replied softly, clinging to him in turn. For a single, intense second, she let her eyes speak her heart. Then she eased out of his arms and lifted one hand to stroke his cheek. It was the first such acknowledgment, the first caressing gesture, she had ever offered him. His eyes darkened as he cupped her hand in both of his and pressed her fingers to his lips in a fervent kiss.

Leaving his midsection conveniently unguarded.

Arilyn doubled her free hand into a fist and drove it hard into a point slightly below his rib cage. Danilo folded and went down like a felled oak.

As the winded nobleman struggled to draw breath, the half-elf stooped and twisted the ring of teleportation on his hand that would send him back to Waterdeep and safety.

He lunged for her wrist, obviously intending to drag her along, but Arilyn was already on her feet. The moon-blade glowing the intense blue that warned of approaching battle, hissed free from her scabbard as Danilo faded from view, one hand outstretched for her and naked anguish written on his face.

Although she'd seen no other way to save her would-be lover, Arilyn's necessary act of treachery left her feeling shaken and strangely empty. She took a long, ragged breath and turned to face the trio of Tethyrian assassins, feeling a certain grim comfort at the thought of impending battle.

That, at least, was something she understood.

Eight

The spider-silk rope swayed as Ferret worked her way down toward the Harper's open window, cursing silently as she went.

The female assassin had encountered many frustrations during her ____________________ sojourn in Zazesspur, not the least of which was the odd fact that under Pasha Balik's rule, men enjoyed social dominance. It was, in her opinion, a folly beyond comprehension. Ferret only hoped this bit of stupidity didn't cause her to lose her quarry! Had she gone first, she'd be down already, and her task would be done. But no-the two men had to proceed her.

For a moment Ferret entertained the idea of stomping on the head of the man below her and knocking him off the rope. She would have done so gladly, but for the fact that he was unlikely to oblige her by failing to his death in silence!

Indeed, only the need for stealth had kept her from battling the two other assassins who had converged, on the rooftop with such inconvenient speed. All three had realized the folly of such action, and they'd agreed to cooperate for a quick kill and a share of the reward. But once they were all within Danilo Thann's chamber, Ferret would gladly turn her blade against them to defend the man she had been hired to kill. Perhaps doing so would pique the Harper's interest and convince him to listen to her tale and perhaps to help her.

Seeking aid from humans and Harpers! Ferret could think of no surer sign of her desperation than this.

But what else was she to do? Her skills were many and considerable, but there were things at work in Zazesspur that she simply could not comprehend. A chance-heard tavern song had sparked an idea: who better to solve this puzzle than a Harper, a member of that legendary tribe of spies, informants, and meddlers? It was unfortunate that a contract had been placed upon this particular Harper, for if Danilo Thann bred true to type, he would surely be able to find his way to the source of the problem. That was all Ferret needed. She knew what had to be done, but she needed to know who to do it to!

At last the first of the male assassins ducked in through the Harper's window. Ferret heard his startled oath and then the first bright clash of steel on steel. She prodded the man below her with her boot.

"Hurry, or Samir will make the kill by himself and claim the full reward," she demanded, apwkittg the words most likely to coax haste from the assassin.

Her reasoning was sound; the avaricious man slid the rest of the way down the rope and virtually dove into the room.

With her way now clear, Ferret let go of the rope and fell the last several feet. As she passed the open window, she grabbed the sill and pulled herself up to it with all her might. She tumbled through, tucked her head down, rolled into the room, and came up on her feet, a long dagger already in her hand. Ready-or so she thought-for anything.

The sight before her stole her breath and froze her feet to the lush carpet.

An eldritch blue light filled the room, tossing the dancing shadows of three fighters against every wall of the chamber. The source of the light was a living moon-blade, and it was held in the two hands of a half-elven assassin.

Like a hero from some ancient elven legend, Arilyn stood firm against her two attackers, beating back every thrust and slash of their wickedly curved scimitars. Her magical sword flashed and spun, leaving dizzy ribbons of blue light to mark its path.

A moonblade, Ferret thought dazedly. A true, living moonblade!

She knew the half-elf carried such a sword and even presumed to take her name from it, but Ferret had assumed the weapon had been dormant for centuries, and that Arilyn had purchased it from some ignorant peddler, or plundered it from some ancient elven tomb. Moonblades were hereditary swords of fearsome magic, and according to legend, none but moon elves of true blood and noble spirit could wield them. To see such a weapon in the hands of a half-elf-and a hired killer- raised implications that staggered Ferret's imagination.

Just then Arilyn's blazing eyes settled on the new intruder. Instinctively Ferret lifted her dagger into a defensive position.

Just in time. With the speed of a striking snake, the half-elf whirled on the nearest man and feinted high. As he lifted his blade, she spun away in a quick, tight circle and then ducked in under her opponent's defensive parry. She lunged past him toward the female assassin, her glowing sword leading with deadly intent.

The elven sword struck Ferret's parrying dagger with a force that sent bright sparks of pain dancing up her arm to explode in her head like festival fireworks. The half-elf s intent was apparent: in a battle against greater odds, it was wise to eliminate the most dangerous opponent first, and quickly. In some corner of her mind, Ferret reminded herself that a moonblade could not shed innocent blood. She was not, however, convinced of her safety. The path she had taken was a need- j ed thing, but it may have tarnished her in the sentient sword's perception.

Fortunately for her, the two men recovered from their surprise and closed in on the half-elf. They charged at her, scimitars aloft, fueling their attack with yells of bloodlust. Without turning, Arilyn lifted her moonblade high overhead and met the first downward strike. At the same time she kicked forward; her booted foot caught Ferret in the gut with a force that folded the smaller female over and sent her staggering back into a table. In the next heartbeat the half-elf pivoted, using the momentum of her turn to press the joined blades toward the second attacker. The three swords met with a ringing clash. Arilyn pulled hers free of the tangle and danced back. Her gaze again settled upon the female.

Ferret saw her own death in the half-elf s eyes and knew that her next action would either be brilliant, or it would be her last.

The ache in the assassin's lower ribs gave her inspiration: she bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, hard enough to draw blood.

Pressing one hand against her rib cage, Ferret let out a groan. As she did, bloody foam spilled onto her lips. She wiped it off, regarded her hand with dawning horror, and then fixed a venomous glare upon the half-elf. Slowly, she slid down, the table's edge scraping her back, until she lay crumpled on the floor, clutching her ribs and moaning softly. Seeing that the female was down for good, Arilyn turned away to face the other assassins.

Ferret was not surprised that the half-elf accepted her performance as genuine. In her time as an assassin, Ferret had seen enough men die, in enough ways, to know exactly what the process looked like. A kick like that could have broken a rib, which in turn could have pierced a lung. Death by drowning was the inevitable, albeit slow, result of such an injury. But what did surprise Ferret was the flash of compassion that came into Arilyn Moonblade's eyes as she realized the manner of death she had dealt. It was just as well for Ferret that the half-elf was otherwise engaged, or she might well have granted her fallen adversary a quick and merciful end.

Better die quickly, Ferret admonished herself with a touch of grim humor.

Lying as still as she could, the assassin closed her eyes to mere slits and watched the battle from beneath the thick curtain of her lashes.

Ferret had to admit that her half-elven enemy was brilliant in battle. She had never seen anyone who possessed a surer knowledge of the sword. Yet much of what Arilyn did seemed to be pure instinct. She seemed to sense when and how the next strike would come, and she was quick enough to keep a step ahead of both her opponents.

In fact, the speed and force of her strike seemed all out of proportion with her size. Granted, the half-elf was tall, and her slender form had an elf s surprising resilience and strength, but those things could not account for the power of her fighting. Ferret wondered what secrets lay behind the glowing aura of the half-elf s moonblade.

Just then Arilyn's sword dove in past Samir's guard and buried itself in his throat. She pulled the moon-blade down hard, thrusting deeper as she went, sweeping through bone and sinew with terrifying ease. Ferret suppressed a wince as the elven blade cleaved the man from gizzard to groin.

Seeing an opportunity in his comrade's death, the other man grinned wolfishly and raised his scimitar high overhead for the killing strike. To add force to the blow-and perhaps in unconscious imitation of his half-elven foe-he gripped the blade with both hands and began the downward slash. ^

But his intended victim had other plans. Arilyn tore the blade free of the assassin's body and continued its downward cut. The sword gained momentum as she traced a sweeping circle back and around. As the elven sword reached the zenith of its swing, Arilyn spun to face the surviving assassin and stepped hard into the attack.

The two blades met with a shriek of metal. Arilyn ducked aside instinctively as jagged shards flew from the man's ruined scimitar.

With a hiss of rage, the assassin lunged at her with the ragged stub of blade that remained to him, apparently hoping to catch her while she was still off-balance.

The half-elf nimbly side-stepped the attack. She pivoted in a quick circle and brought the flat of her sword down hard on the man's outstretched arm, striking him just below the elbow. Immediately she dropped to one knee, using the moonblade as a lever and forcing the man's elbow to bend down. The jagged end of his blade turned upward; the momentum of his charge did the rest. The assassin stumbled forward as the broken scimitar plunged through his own throat.

Arilyn rose, sliding the bloody moonblade from the crook of the dead man's arm. The sword's magical blue fire slowly faded away, apparently quenched by the blood it had shed. The half-elf stooped and wiped the blade clean on the fallen assassin's shirt, then slid the sword firmly into its ancient scabbard.

Without a backward glance, she turned and strode to the open window. She climbed up the rope, hand over hand, and disappeared into the night sky.

For several silent moments Ferret lay where she had fallen, busily sorting through all she had seen. Very little of it made sense to her.

Arilyn was half-elven, yet she possessed a moonblade. She had taken an assassin's path, yet the sword continued to do her bidding. Was it possible the sword's magic had somehow been perverted to evil? Or was Arilyn,like Ferret herself, something very different from what she appeared to be?

And what of Danilo Thann? According to the intelligence Ferret had gathered, the nobleman was in the Purple Minotaur. Minutes before, she herself had heard his voice lifted in song. Where, then, had he gone? And what part did Arilyn play in this mystery?

Of one thing Ferret was certain: she needed the Harper, and if he was still within her reach she would find him- It grated on the proud female that the key to her success seemed to be in the hands of the half-breed fighter.

When she judged the time to be right, Ferret rose and crept silently to the window. The rope was gone, of course, and so was the half-elf.

No matter. Ferret was no stranger to climbing, and her slender, nimble fingers could find a hold in nearly any surface. She was also a hunter who could track a hare through the densest thicket or follow a squirrel's path through the forest canopy. No mere half-elf could elude her, not even in the relatively unfamiliar terrain of this crowded human city.

Setting her jaw in a determined angle, the female slipped from the window and followed Arilyn out into the night.

"A dream," muttered Prince Hasheth, trying to dismiss the faint, insistent thumping that roused him from slumber. He rolled over and buried deeper into his pillows, imperiously willing sleep to return and the annoying dream to vanish.

But no, there was that sound again, and it was coming from the secret door that led into his chamber. Hasheth listened and recognized the rhythm of an agreed-upon signal.

Grumbling and still drowsy, he batted aside the filmy curtains surrounding his bed. He stumbled over to the hearth and pressed the latch hidden among the stones. As he expected, the half-elven Harper burst into the room as the heavy door swung open. Judging from the look in her eyes and the grim set of her face, Hasheth doubted that she had come to take him up on his offer of an evening's entertainment.

"If s time," Arilyn said. "I leave Zazesspur now."

"First thing in the morning," Hasheth agreed, responding to the urgency in her voice.

"No. Now."

The prince threw both hands into the air and cast an exasperated glare skyward, but he knew better than to argue with Arilyn Moonblade. Young though he might be, he was quickly learning how to measure the men- and the women-around aim. Hasheth would no sooner try to reason with this headstrong woman than he would attempt to discuss philosophy with a camel.

And he had agreed to help her-he'd even seen to most of the preparations. Honoring his word was important. Hasheth knew that the measure of a man was not necessarily the sharpness of his blade or his wit, not the sum of the wealth he possessed or the rank he could claim. The true measure of a man was the weight his word carried. Someday, Hasheth planned to wield enough power to send men into frenzied compliance to his every command. For the present, and with this woman, he wished to be known as a man of honor, a trusted and important part of her interesting, clandestine plans. And besides, Lord Hhune had bid him to gain the trust of the Harpers.

Hasheth reached for a bellpull and gave it an imperious tug. A young servant appeared promptly at the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The prince handed the lad a sealed note. Explanations were not needed; the servant had been schooled at great length and knew precisely what must be done. The note would go to another contact, who would set in motion a well-planned chain of events. Hasheth had been a willing apprentice to the Harper, and he had learned much.

"The boat?" she demanded.

"All is in readiness," the prince assured her. "I will slip from the palace, get one of the horses I've boarded at the public stable, and ride for the southern gate. When it opens at dawn, we will both join a certain trade caravan and ride south to the Sulduskoon River, I as a representative of Hhune's shipping interests, you dressed as a courtesan employed to sweeten my journey. When we reach the river you will slip away. After the caravan's alleged business is completed, I will see your mare safely to the tinker's hidden lair while you travel upriver to a destination that you have not seen fit to share with your trusted ally."

Arilyn responded to this recitation only with a curt nod of approval. To Hasheth's pointed attempt to pry information from her, she responded not at all.

"At dawn, then," she said and ducked through the low doorway.

Hasheth listened to the faint sound of her boots on the narrow stairs and marveled anew that she did not stumble and fall in the darkness. The door was hidden in the stone of the hearth that warmed his room on chill nights, and the tunnel itself was chiseled into the thick walls of the palace. He wondered what his fattier, the pasha, would say if he knew that an assassin of Arilyn's rank could enter the palace almost at will.

Nothing good, Hasheth concluded with a tight smile. He closed the door and began his hasty preparations for the journey ahead. Of late, the pasha had not had many good words to spare the restless young man and had not been pleased with Hasheth's request to enter the service of Lord Hhune, yet in time he agreed to arrange it simply to silence his troublesome younger son.

It amazed Hasheth that his father could not see the importance of such men as Hhune, or the potential threat that their ambitions posed. He remembere^ the

warning Arilyn had given him, and he nodded his head in grim agreement. Pasha Balik's short but spectacular reign would soon come to an end.

And that was as it should be. From his first encounter with Arilyn he had learned an important lesson: know your enemies. If Balik could not recognize his, then he deserved to fall from power.

And he, Hasheth, would find a way to benefit from this eventuality. Perhaps, he concluded as he slipped beyond the palace gates, he would even help to bring the inevitable to pass.

In the lush gardens that surrounded the palace grounds, nearly invisible among the branches of some exotic flowering tree, Ferret watched as the half-elf crept along in the shadow of the palace wall.

Arilyn lifted the vines that sheltered a section of wall and ran her fingers over the smooth stone. A door opened where none had been a moment before, sliding noiselessly to one side. It closed after her, and the vines fell back into place. Even to Ferret's keen eyes, there was no apparent outline, no sign that the hidden door was there.

Perched in her tree, Ferret waited patiently until the half-elf had finished her meeting and slipped away into the night. And then she waited a bit longer. The mystery that was Arilyn Moonblade could not be solved in direct confrontation. Ferret would have to piece it together as best she could. She wanted to see who else emerged from the palace.

To her surprise, the half-elfs contact was not a palace guard or a half-elven maidservant, but one of the lesser sons of the ruling pasha. Ferret remembered the lad from his ill-fated attempt to learn the assassin's trade. Now that she thought of it, she remembered that Arilyn had entered the guildhouse shortly after Hasheth had left. She had not made a connection between the two; apparently, she should have.

Ferret crept along after the young prince. Following him was easy, for in this part of town lavish gardens were the norm, and the exotic flowering trees that lined the broad streets were so closely planted that their branches entwined. She was able to follow him for several blocks without her feet once touching the ground.

At length he turned into a stable, emerging in moments on the back of a fine Amnish stallion. Ferret grimaced. She herself did not like the idea of riding upon horses, but if the boy had far to go, following him on foot might prove to be difficult.

The assassin climbed down to the street and crept into the stable. She silenced the stablehands, then quickly selected a likely-looking mare. She wrapped the animal's hooves to muffle the sound, and then, as quietly as she could, she led the horse from the stable. She climbed onto its bare back. She would ride if she had to, but no power beneath Hie stars could compel her to shackle an intelligent creature with saddle and bridle!

Ferret seized the horse's mane and leaned forward, whispering a few words to her in the centaur language. Apparently the mare understood the gist of it, for her ears went back and she set off at a brisk pace in pursuit of Hasheth's stallion.

As the long night slipped away, the deep shadows of the forest began to fede to green, heralding the coming of dawn. The elven warriors who had survived the raid picked up their pace, for the death that pursued them would travel more swiftly with the coming of light.

Exhausted, heartsick, bearing the marks of battle ae well as their dead and wounded comrades, the elves retreated into their forest home. Their progress was slow, for they would not abandon their wounded take to the trees, and they feared what use might be made of the slain elven folk. Word had reached them that Sparrow's body had been placed among the slaughtered humans of a northbound caravan and that his arrows had been used against the merchants.

The distant yapping of hunting hounds lifted into a triumphant, baying howl. They have found a blood trail," Korrigash noted grimly. He shifted the limp body of an elven male that he carried across his shoulders, as a hunter might carry a slain deer.

Foxfire nodded, and his eyes fell upon the face of the girl he carried in his arms. Hawkwing, her name was, a new name Tamara had bestowed upon the girl to mark her acceptance into a new tribe. It suited her well; she had fought like a cornered falcon and brought down several of the humans before a coward's dagger took her through the back-from the back.

She would survive, Foxfire repeated silently, staring into her pain-bright black eyes and willing her to live. The tribe had need of courage and spirit such as this child possessed. Tamara had claimed Hawkwing into the Oakstaff clan. She would raise the girl, but Foxfire would train her. He knew a war leader when he saw one.

Hawkwing stirred in his arms and met his intense gaze. "Put me down," she said in a barely audible whisper. "Flee! We are too few to fight, and the People cannot bear to lose more this night than have already fallen."

"She is right," Korrigash said softly.

But Foxfire shook his head. Quickly he took stock of the forces remaining. The prospects were not good. Twenty-and-four of the elves from Talltrees could still run or fight, but only two of the rescued elves could walk without assistance. The elves carried three dead and several who were gravely wounded. There was not one among them who had escaped injury entirely. They could not stand and fight. Not as they were.

He turned to Tamara. "You are the fastest among us.

Take word to Talltrees. We need as many warriors as can be spared to meet us in the fen lands south of here."

The female nodded, seeing at once the wisdom of this plan. The elves needed to rest and treat their wounded, and no nearby haven was better for this than the low-lying fens. Always dark and cool, in this valley the forest lay under a thick mantle of mist. The massive trunks of several ancient cedars-trees that no longer lived and grew, but whose roots still held firm-had been hollowed out to make emergency shelters. Healing plants grew in abundance. And if the humans followed them so far, they would find a battleground not at all to their liking. The soil was soft, in some places dangerously boggy, and the ground was densely covered with large, fernlike plants large enough to reach an elf s shoulder.

"We must do what we can to hold back pursuit," Foxfire added. "You, Eldrin, Sontar, Wyndelleu-take to the trees and circle back. Hunt down the dogs. Stop them, and you have stopped the humans. Harry the men and herd them toward the north. Green arrows only," he admonished them.

"And you, Tamsin," he said, turning to the young fighter whose leathers were dark with blood, none of which was his own. Foxfire dared not send this one after the humans-after this night's battle, Tamsin was as blood-ravenous as a troll. "Go straight north, into the caves that lie beyond the ashenwood. Awaken the young white dragon who slumbers there and lure her out after you. Lead her to the humans; see that she is fully engaged with them. Then take to the trees and return to us."

A savage grin spread across the younger elf's face as he visualized the results of his leader's plan. "And I will leave bundles of wintermint in the dragon's lair, that she may later cleanse the foul taste of the humans from her tongue!"

The elven warriors melted into the forest to do heir

leader's bidding. Korrigash turned to his friend. "Good plan. But is this enough to stop them?"

"For now? Perhaps," Foxfire said in a low tone. "But not for long."

Nine

Each morning at dawn the massive gates of Zazesspur swung open to admit the flow of commerce that was the city's lifeblood. The city's coffers benefited from tariffs placed on exotic goods that passed through on their way north from Caiimshan and points east. But the markets of Zazesspur were much more than a stopping place for merchant caravans. The people of Tethyr took great pride in their craftsmanship, and their goods were in great demand in lands to the north and south.

Into the city poured the raw materials that ships and overland caravans brought from all over the known world. Chultan teak and Maztican rosewood were fashioned into the carved wooden boxes for which Tethyr was famed, and delicate contraptions of gears and tiny chimes came from Lantan to transform some of these boxes into wondrous musical toys. Fine metals from the icy Northlands were brought into the city to be worked into vessels and armor and jewelry, gems to be set into sword hilts or ladies' rings. Tethyrian furniture was prized for its durability and elegant lines. For sheer practicality, Myratman fabrics were considered second to none. A cloak woven from the wool of the sheep that grazed the Purple Hills often lasted long enough to be handed down from father to son, and few were the weavers outside Tethyr who could spin thread so fine that the results were nearly waterproof.

Another form of commerce, also important to the city's well-being if somewhat less glamorous, was the trading for foodstuffs grown in the fertile Purple Hills south of the city. Daily caravans traveled between Zazesspur and Marakir, the farmers' market located at the intersection of the Trade Way with the Sulduskoon River, to purchase fruit and grain and mutton. It was an important task, but a routine one, and therefore one that seldom fell under close scrutiny.

And so it was that Quentin Llorish, the captain of one such caravan, was none too happy to be awakened from his slumber and informed that Lord Hhune's new apprentice would be riding along on the day's trip.

Not that Quentin had anything against Hhune-far from it! The lord and guildmaster paid well, and he treated the men and women in his employ with a degree of fairness unusual in Tethyr, which made him quite popular among the people and purchased loyalty more surely than would coin. At least, fair treatment worked that way with most men; Quentin, frankly, preferred hard silver.

Quentin was not a man overly constrained by the bounds of loyalty or by a compulsion for honest dealing. He was not above skimming a thicker layer of cream from the caravan's daily profits than that to which he was strictly entitled. The thought of a young and eager apprentice looking over his shoulder and thumbing through his books made Quentin's stomach burn with the pain that was becoming his constant companion.

And so, as he watched over the caravan's predawn preparations and waited for the city's gates to open, Quentin sipped at a large flask of goat's milk mixed with some chalky mineral that he could not identity. It was a vile concoction, but according to the local alchemist it would in time soothe his sour stomach. If it did not, vowed Quentin grimly as he downed the last of the swill, he would gladly spend every copper of this day's profit to have the wretched alchemist slain, preferably death by drowning in goafs milk.

"Captain Quentin?" inquired an imperious voice to his left. "I am Hasheth, here on behalf of Lord Hhune."

The man let out a mighty, chalk-scented belch and turned to regard his dreaded passenger. Hhune's apprentice was a young man, probably not yet twenty years of age. Maybe a by-blow of the lord himself judging from that dark hair, though the lad's curved nose and sun-browned skin suggested a bit of Calishite blood. Well, that was common enough in Zazesspur these days, what with the pasha and all. It was fashionable among society folk to keep a southern woman as mistress, or so Quentin had heard tell. He himself Lad to make due with a wife-his own, unfortunately.

"Welcome aboard, lad!" he said with a heartiness he certainly did not feel. "Well be on our way with the dawn. Pick any horse that catches your fancy, then HI show you what's what."

That will hardly be necessary," Hasheth said, his lip curled with disdain. He gestured to a covered carriage pulled by paired chestnuts, beautiful, fine-boned animals whose glossy red-brown coats had been groomed to the sheen of fine sable. The carriage horses were all the more striking for the fact that they were nearly identical, even to the white stars on their foreheads. To add excess to opulence, a magnificent black stallion and a long-legged gray mare were tied behind the carriage.

"As you can see, I have brought my own conveyance as well as additional horses, should I choose to ride. As for your business, you do it well enough to suit mylord Hhune, and that is good enough for me," the lad continued coolly. "I am required to be here as part of my education, so let us strike a deal. If you are asked, you will report that I observed you closely. If I am asked, I will say that all I observed was in order."

There was a slight edge to Hasheth's voice, a shrewd, almost smug nuance that hinted the young man already knew far too much about the caravan's affairs. Quentin darted a look at the lad, hoping he'd heard wrong. In response, Hasheth lifted a single eyebrow in unmistakable challenge.

The banked flame in Quentin's gut flared up hot and high, sending a surge of acid up into his throat. "Agreed," the captain muttered, wishing mightily that he could spit without offending the lordly young man.

Hasheth nodded again to the carriage and to the veiled woman who peeked out from behind one curtain. "You need not bother yourself with me. As you can see, I have brought a diversion to sweeten the journey. Which brings us to another matter. The lady has a delicate skin and a desire to see the marketplace before the heat of highsun. I understand this requires an unusually brisk place, but my own desires would be well served by indulging hers. May I tell her that you will accommodate us?"

Quentin merely nodded, for this throat was feeling too raw for speech. He watched as the imperious youth climbed into the carriage and pulled the curtain firmly shut; then he shook his head and strode away to tend to the caravan. He was not at all certain what to make of this strange encounter or of the young apprentice who saw far too much.

When at last the morning sun broke over the distant peaks of the Starspires, the mighty gate swung slowly inward. By the time the caravan started off on its journey-at an extremely brisk pace, as requested- Quentin was feeling much better. Quite chipper, in fact!

He'd often worried about discovery, but now that it had come he found it to be a relief. Although Quentin took his orders from Hhune's people, he had no window into the lord's affairs and no way of knowing how his own actions might be perceived-or which of them might have come before Hhune's eyes. This Hasheth was bright enough to uncover Quentin's embezzlement. Surely he could also manage to keep it from prying eyes. And better still, the lad was ready to deal. Quentin felt certain that he could persuade Hasheth to provide him a bit of protection, plus maybe pass along a bit of information from time to time that would help the caravan captain gild the inside of his pockets.

Yes, he concluded happily, Hhune's newest apprentice was someone with whom he could do business, to the profit of both!

"Did I chose my man well?" Hasheth inquired in a smug tone.

Arilyn nodded, perfectly willing to give the young man his due. From all that she had seen and heard, Quentin Llorish was a perfect choice, one who would no doubt continue to serve Hasheth in a dependable, if dishonorable, fashion.

In fact, her departure from Zazesspur had gone more smoothly than Arilyn would have thought possible. Every step of the agreed-upon plan had been flawlessly executed. Hasheth was good and getting better by the day.

Why, then, did she feel so ill at ease?

With a sigh, Arilyn leaned back into the cushions and steeled herself for a long morning's ride. She was none too happy about spending several hours in inactivity, with nothing to absorb her but her own troubled thoughts. Too much had happened of late, too many revelations had been thrust upon her-more than she could possibly sort through between Zazesspur and the Sulduskoon.

Arilyn liked to deal with problems as they arose: quickly, cleanly, decisively, with diplomacy if possible and with swift violence when necessary. Yet she had been forced to ignore her nature, her accustomed methods, and her own better judgment to tend to the elven queen's commission.

So here she was, bound for the elven forest and burdened with someone else's problems, while her own life was in utter disarray. Her ancestor slept in some rich man's vault, and Arilyn had done nothing to redress this dishonor. Danilo had declared his love for her, and she had decked him and sent him packing without so much as taking time to consider what her own eventual response should be. Then there was the matter of the elfshadow, and the bleak future that it foretold.

Arilyn could not forget for a moment the destiny inherent in the moonblade she carried and the unwitting vow she had made so many years ago when first she drew the elven sword. The half-elf had never before feared death, but she could not help but feel her mortality. She was headed toward an extremely dangerous mission, bearing a sword that would, in all likelihood, claim her in eternal servitude. To say that this added a note of urgency to her quest, Arilyn concluded dryly, was something of an understatement.

All told, the half-elf was in no mood to parry Hasheth's inevitable advances with anything approaching diplomacy. Indeed, it would take every shred of self-control that she possessed to keep from tossing the young man out onto the roadside with his first manipulative compliment, his first double entendre.

But either the gods took pity upon her, or Hasheth was beginning to learn in this matter, as well. The morning passed without incident. Indeed, Hasheth kept Arilyn so busy with his questions that she had no time to contemplate the troubling path before her.

The young prince was full to overbrimming with questions about Harper ways and the foes that the Harpers faced. He was also eager to learn everything of Tethyrian history and politics that Arilyn had to share, and was curious about the affairs of other lands, as well. Apparently the palace saw no need to include matters of state in the education of a thirteenth-born son.

Arilyn gave each question a terse but complete answer, and she noted that Hasheth listened well-an important skill for a Harper informant. It was plain that the young man enjoyed taking part in the activities of this clandestine group, and that he reveled in intrigue and secrecy. He was also justly proud of his growing skill in devising and putting into place complex plans. But Arilyn was also aware that Hasheth's main tie with the Harpers was not personal conviction or even a respect for the Harpers and their ideals, but a sense of obligation to her and to Danilo. Now that they had both left the city behind, she was not so certain that Hasheth would continue in this role.

"And what will you do with all this knowledge?" she asked him at last.

Hasheth shrugged, taking her question at face value. "Knowledge is a tool; I will use it for whatever task conies to hand."

A good answer, Arilyn admitted, but hardly a reassuring one. In all, she was not sorry when the distant clamor of voices and carts announced that they were nearing Marakir.

Slipping away from the caravan was an easy matter. In her skirts and veil, with her well-draped travel packs adding a matronly bulk to her frame, Arilyn blended in with the matriarchs and chatelaines who came to purchase supplies for their families or their business establishments. For a while she wandered among the busy stalls, tapping melons and pinching cherries with the best of them.

Finally she found the place she sought: Theresa's Fine Woolens, a large wooden stall that offered ready-made clothes. The establishment had a prosperous

as well as a prime location right next to the river, but Theresa's reputation for high prices kept away all but the most affluent buyers.

Inside the shop, Arilyn found an assortment of serviceable but quite unremarkable garments: woolen cloaks, trews, gowns, and shawls, as well as shirts of linen or linsey-woolsey. The cost of the garments, Theresa insisted, reflected the quality and the service. The casual patron might assume that by "services" she meant the helpful shop clerks who offered advice and refreshments, or the curtained booths, each walled with silvered glass, that enabled the patrons to dress with privacy. What was not commonly known was that the mirrors were actually hidden doors that allowed well-informed patrons to slip out the back.

Leaving her cumbersome skirts-as well as a small bag of silver coins-in the changing booth, Arilyn left Theresa's and slid down the steep incline of the river-bank. A small skiff awaited her there, further evidence of the discreet services Theresa offered.

The Harper settled into the boat and nodded to the two burly servants who manned the oars. One of them flicked loose the rope that secured the craft to a post driven into the shoreline. Then the men leaned into the oars in well-practiced unison, and the little boat lurched out into the river.

Arilyn noted with approval that the oarsmen displayed an admirable lack of curiosity. They spared her hardly a glance, so intent were they on maneuvering through the heavy river traffic. It took all their considerable skill to dodge the many skiffs and flatboats and small, single-sailed boats that thronged the busy waterway. Once they were beyond the crush and turmoil of the marketplace, the men settled in and set a straight, hard-pulling course upriver.

The Sulduskoon was Tethyr's largest river, stretching nearly the entire breadth of the country. From its origins in the foothills of the Snowflake Mountains, the river traveled over five hundred miles until finally it spilled into the sea. Not all of the Sulduskoon was easily navigated. There were stretches of shallow, rapid waters, deep pools inhabited by nixies and other troublesome creatures, and treacherous, rock-strewn passages that claimed a toll of nearly three boats out of ten.

But here the river was deep and broad, the water relatively calm, and the current not strong enough to impede their progress. Arilyn guessed they would reach the fork in the river-where a second boat awaited her-by nightfall. From there, she would travel up a large tributary that branched northward past the Starspires, close to the part of Tethir that she sought. In the southern parts of the forest lived an old friend. Arilyn's plan rested heavily on his friendship and on his ability to convince his people to come to her assistance.

From what she knew of the legendary silver shadows, Arilyn realized this would not be an easy task.

Eileenalana bat Ktheelee stirred and grimaced in her sleep as the first arrow struck her. It was a fearsome expression, appearing as it did on the face of a young white dragon, yet the dreams that enveloped her were not entirely unpleasant.

The slumbering dragon dreamed of a hail shower and the pleasures of flying high into the churning summer clouds. Hail storms were a rare treat in this land, which was far too hot for a white dragon's comfort, and in her dream Eileen was enjoying the swirling, icy winds and the tingle of formulating hail against her scales.

Suddenly a particularly sharp hailstone struck her neck. Eileen's head reared up, and through her still-sleepy haze two simultaneous and contradictory conclusions occurred to her: the storm was nothing but a pleasant slumber-fantasy, and the sting of the hail stones seemed all too real.

In an effort to rouse herself the better to contemplate this puzzle, the young dragon rolled over onto her belly and unwound her tail from her pile of treasure. It was a small pile, to be sure, but how much could a dragon hoard in a mere century of life? And how many opportunities did she have, she who was reduced to a few short bursts of activity? The Forest of Tethir was cool, but hardly cold enough to provide comfort to a dragon of her kind. Eileen spent much of her time in her cave, in a stuporous lethargy.

She dared not venture out too often. Though she was nearly thirty feet long and almost full-grown, there were still creatures in the forest who could give her a good fight. These enemies could find her far too easily; with her enormous size and glistening white scales, Eileen didn't exactly blend into the landscape. Unless forced by hunger into hunting, she stayed in the cave, for she felt dangerously conspicuous except on those few days when a dusting of snow touched the forest, or when storm clouds turned the sky to a pale and pearly gray.

All things considered, Eileen longed for the frozen Northlands of which her parents had spoken-and to which they had returned when she was barely more than a hatchling.

Eileen had been too small to keep pace with the larger dragons, but she had managed to fly from her birth-place on the icy peaks of the Snowflake Mountains as far as Tethir. Someday, she would fly to the far north along with the forest's other white dragons who shared her plight. A flight of dragons, and she its leader! How glorious! All she needed was an extended cold snap and favorable winds…

Another sharp, stinging blow brought Eileen back to the matter at hand. The dragon yawned widely, then set-tied back on her haunches to consider the situation. The air was moist and fairly warm, even down here hi the cavern. Yes* it was early summer, the most reasonable time for a hail storm, yet she was in her cave, which meant that actual hail was highly unlikely.

The dragon came to this conclusion, not so much with words, but with the instinctual awareness that even the slowest-witted creature must have of its surroundings in order to survive. Of all Faerun's evil dragons, whites were the smallest and the least intelligent. And even by the modest measure of her kind, Eileen was hardly the sharpest sword in the armory.

Swinging her crested white head this way and that, the dragon looked about for the source of the disturbance. Another stinging slap to the neck-this one dangerously close to the base of one of her leathery wings- came from the direction of the eastern passage.

Eileen squinted into the tunnel's darkness. A shadowy form lurked there. She could make out a two-legged shape and the loaded bow in its hands. But whether the bowman was human, or elven, or something more or less similar, she could not say, for the tantalizing aroma of wintermint masked his scent.

The annoying creature let loose yet another arrow. It struck tile dragon squarely on the snout and bounced off without penetrating the plate armor of her face. Even so, it stung!

For a moment, the dazed and cross-eyed dragon stared at the pair of humanoid archers that had invaded her lair. She gave her head a violent shake, and the two melded back into one. Still, that was one too many.

Eileen let out a roar of pain and anger and exploded to her feet. The archer turned on his heel and ran down the tunnel, with the dragon in hot pursuit.

Well, maybe warm pursuit; Eileen's last nap had lasted several weeks, and since she had a habit of sleeping on her side-plate-armored cheek pillowed on scaly paw-one foreleg was numb and uncooperative. Therefore what she had intended to be a fearsome charge was in feet reduced to an uneven, loping, three-legged hop

Eileen skidded to a stop and plunked herself down on her haunches. She lifted both forelegs and regarded them. After a moment's thought, a solution presented itself, one she thought quite ingenious. The dragon sucked in a long breath of air, held her good leg up close to her fanged jaws, and blew upon it a long, icy blast. This, Eileen's breath weapon, could put out a raging fire or freeze a full-grown centaur to solid ice in midstride. It could even slightly benumb her own flesh, despite her natural armor and her uncanny resistance to cold.

Eileen dropped back onto all fours and tested her front legs. Yes, they were both equally numb now. With her equilibrium restored, the dragon resumed her charge, slowly, to be sure, but with a more even and dignified gait.

Her two-legged tormenter was well out of sight now, but Eileen easily followed the scent of mint. Although her wit was about as sharp as a spoon, she possessed a keen sense of smell-not to mention a particular fondness for wintermint.

As the dragon trotted through the cavern's tunnels and out into the forest, two things happened. First, both of her front legs gradually returned to normal and her pace accelerated into a dizzying, plant-crushing charge. Second, it began to occur to her that she was very, very hungry and that perhaps this interruption was not such a bad thing after all.

Night was falling upon the Forest of Tethir, and Vhenlar eyed the deepening shadows with an intense and growing dread. In the days that followed the battle at the pipeweed farm, the mercenaries had pursued the elven raiders deep into the forest-far deeper than ever they had ventured before, and much too deep for Vhenlar's peace of mind.

The ancient woodland was uncanny. The trees had a watchful, listening mien; the birds carried tales; the very shadows seemed alive. There was magic here-primal, elemental magic-of a sort that put even the hired mages on edge, even the high-ticket Halruaan wizard in whom Bunlap put such store.

Other, more tangible dangers abounded. Since daybreak, unseen elves had been clipping arrows at the humans' heads and heels, nipping at them like sheep dogs gathering a flock for spring shearing. Beyond doubt, the mercenaries were being herded-toward what, Vhenlar could not say.

But he had little choice other than to move the band as swiftly northward as they could go. He'd tried to keep on the trail of the southbound elves, and lost five good men for his troubles. And so they headed northward, as their unseen tormenters intended. They would pick up the trail later, after… whatever.

Nor were the wild elves the mercenaries' only unseen foe, or their unknown destination their only worry. There was trouble enough to be found along the way. Not even the best woodsmen among them-and these included foresters, hired swords who'd knocked about in a dozen lands, and a couple of rangers gone bad-could identify all the strange cries, roars, and birdcalls that resounded through the forest. But all of the men had seen and heard enough to know there were creatures here that were best avoided. They'd stumbled upon a particularly unsubtle piece of evidence shortly before highsun. It was an image that stuck in Vhenlar’s mind: a pile of dried scat in which was embedded the entire skull of an ogre. Whatever had killed that ogre-which had been an eight-footer, by the look of the skull, a creature probably as strong as any three men-was big enough to bite off the monster's head and swallow it whole. Ogres were bad enough, in Vhenlar*s opinion, and he didn't even want to contemplate a creature big enough-and hungry enough-to eat such grim fare.

Monsters had always lived in the forest, but if tavern

tales and lost adventuring parties were any fair measure of truth, the sheer variety and number of such creatures was spiraling into nightmarish proportions. To Vhenlar's way of thinking, this was partly the result of the troubles the elves were currently facing. Their attention had been diverted from forest husbandry to the more pressing matter of survival. This was, of course, precisely what Bunlap and the mercenary captain's mysterious employer had intended.

"Bunlap just had to order us to follow them elves," muttered Vhenlar. "Don't matter to him, what with his being snug behind fortress walls with nary a tree in sight, and no damn wild elves planting arrows in his backside!"

"Speaking of which," put in Mandrake, a mercenary who also doubled as the company surgeon, "how's yours?"

It was not an unreasonable question, considering that the surgeon had plucked two arrows from the back of Vhenlar's lap since sunrise. The unseen elves who harried them had slain the hounds, but they apparently had a more lingering, humiliating fate in mind for the mercenaries.

"It's in a Beshaba-blasted sling, that's how it is!" Vhenlar said vehemently. "Along with yours, and his, and his, and his, and every damned one of us in this thrice bedamned forest!"

"Big sling," agreed Mandrake, thinking it best to humor Bunlap's second-in-command.

The archer heard the condescending note in Mandrake's voice but did not respond to it. He grimaced as a new wave of pain assaulted him. Walking was exceedingly painful, what with his new and humiliating wounds. The elven arrows had dealt him shallow and glancing blows, but somehow Vhenlar couldn't find it in his heart to be grateful for small mercies. Nor could he continue walking much longer. The damp chill that heralded the coming night was making his legs stiffen and wasn't doing his aching butt one bit of good.

"Send Tacher and Justin to scout for a campsite again," Vhenlar said.

"And let those wild elves pick us off while we sleep?" the surgeon protested. "Better to keep moving!"

Vhenlar snorted. If the man was such a fool as to think those deadly archers would be challenged by a moving target, there was no sense in wasting breath telling him otherwise. "A campsite? Now?" he prodded.

The mercenary saluted and quickened his pace so he could catch up to the men Vhenlar had named.

He might have disobeyed, Vhenlar noted resignedly, but for the fact that Bunlap had made it plain they were all to follow Vhenlar's orders. People tended to do what Bunlap said, and not merely for fear of reprisal- although such was usually harsh and swift in coining- but because there was something about the man to which people responded. After years in Bunlap's company, Vhenlar thought he had this elusive quality figured out. The mercenary captain knew precisely what he wanted, and he went about getting it with grim, focused determination. Men who lacked a direction of their own-and Tethyr was full of these-were attracted to Bunlap like metal filings to a magnet. So when Bunlap told them to pursue the elves into the forest, they went. And they were still going, and they would likely die going, Vhenlar concluded bitterly.

Their task was important, Bunlap had insisted, though he himself had taken off for the fortress to gather and train men for the next assault. The captain had left right after the failed ambush, for he realized they were unlikely to catch up to the elven raiders, much less engage them in pitched battle. Vhenlar's task was to follow the elves, kill a few if he could, and collect as many bows and bolts of black lighting as he could get. His men were also supposed to retrieve the bodies of the elves slain in battle, as well as any who might die of their wounds and be discarded along the way, fot such

would be useful in turning still more people against the forest elves.

The elves, however, seemed determined that Vhenlar would get none of these things. They apparently carried their dead and wounded, and they used green arrows that, although finely crafted, were of little use in Bunlap's plans. If the mercenaries did not have hounds to sniff out the nearly invisible trail of blood, the elves would have eluded them altogether. It was a stroke of genius for the fleeing elves to send a party of archers to circle back and slay the hounds. Even Vhenlar had to admit that. But what else the elves had in mind, he could not begin to say.

A distant roar sent a spasm of cold terror shimmering down the Zhentish archer's spine. The two scouts hesitated, looking back at Vhenlar as if to protest their assignment. In response, he placed a hand on his elven bow and narrowed his eyes in his best menacing glare.

"I'm for lighting torches," Justin said defiantly. "Can't see where we're going, otherwise."

Vhenlar shrugged. Tales were told of the fearsome reprisals the forest folk took against any who dared to bring fire into the forest, but he doubted their elven shadows would kill the scouts-leastwise, not until they'd herded them to their unknown destination! And Justin had a point: it was dark, for in the deep forest not even the faint light of moon and stars could penetrate the thick canopy.

So he watched as the scout took a torch from his pack and struck flint to steel. A few sparks scattered into the night like startled fireflies, and then the flame rose high. Vhenlar blinked at the sudden bright flare of light. His eyes focused, and then widened. There were not two, but three figures standing in the circle of torchlight!

A wild elf, a young male with black braids and fierce black eyes, hauled back a waterskin and prepared to douse the flame. Or so Vhenlar assumed. He watched, as

transfixed as the two dumbfounded scouts, as the elf hurled the contents of the skin. Not at the torch-wielding Justin, but at Tocher.

And then he was gone, before any of the mercenaries could unsheathe a blade or nock an arrow.

Justin sniffed, and his face screwed up into an expression of extreme disgust as he regarded the other scout. "You smell like something my mother drinks outta painted teacups!" he scoffed.

The analogy was apt. Tacher had been doused with a strong infusion of mint. Vhenlar, who could see no reason for this action, turned to one of their rangers-a tall, skinny fellow from the Dalelands. Once a noble ranger-whatever the Nine Hells that meant-he'd fought the Tuigan horde and seen his illusions about humankind burn to ash in the inferno that was war. Since then, he'd taken to looking out for himself and had developed a real talent for it.

"You know more about the forest than most of us," Vhenlar said. "Why'd the elf do that? He coulda killed Tacher and Justin both, easy."

The ranger shook his head impatiently and held up a hand, indicating a need for silence. The others fell quiet and listened, but their ears were not as sharp as those of the Dalesman. To Vhenlar's ears, there was only the constant hum and chirp of insects, the occasional shriek of a hunting raptor, and the whispering of the night winds through the thick forest canopy. A whispering, Vhenlar noted, that seemed to be growing louder.

Suddenly the ranger's eyes went wide. "Wintermint!" he muttered and then took off at a frantic run.

The others watched, bemused, as the ranger crashed off heedlessly toward the south. Before they could follow suit, a roar rolled through the forest-a fearsome sound that was both shriek and rumble, a cry of rage such as few of them had ever heard before. Yet there was not a man among them who did not know instinctively what it meant:Dragon.

Vhenlar had heard men speak of dragonfear, the paralyzing terror that comes from looking into the eyes of a great wyrm. He now knew that the very sound of a dragon's cry could root a man's boots to the soil and turn his legs to stone.

The dragonfear lasted but a moment, but that was long enough. With the speed of a wizard's transformation, the dragon's passage through the forest changed from a rustling murmur into a deafening crash. Like a tidal wave, the dragon came on. Vhenlar would never had guessed that something so large could move with such speed!

Then he caught a glimpse of it through the trees, still a couple hundred feet away but closing fast. It was a white, and it glittered like some enormous, reptilian ghost against the darkness of the forest. The creature stopped, fell back on its haunches, and inhaled deeply.

The trees parted, the leaves cringing away and falling in brittle shards as an icy winter wind tore through the forest. Widening as it came, a cone of devastation blasted everything in its path and reached icy, grasping hands toward the mercenaries.

With the clarity of absolute terror, with a heart-stopping fear that made everything around him seem to slow down to a speed of a drifting snowflake, Vhenlar watched it come.

The dragon's breath reached the scouts, so quickly that it froze Justin's face in its derisive sneer, so suddenly that it caught Tacher in the act of turning toward the onrushing sound. It leached all color from their skin, coating their hair and clothes in a thick layer of frost. To all appearances, the men were as completely frozen as if they'd been turned to ice statues by a vengeful sorceress.

Then the cold hit Vhenlar, bitter, searing, but not quite enough to immobilize him. Quite the contrary, like a slap to the face, it tore him from his momentary terror. He realized the dragon's breath weapon had reached its outer limits with the unfortunate scouts. Even so, he did not intend to stay around in case the monster could repeat its trick.

"Run!" he shrieked, and he kicked into the fastest gait his benumbed limbs could manage.

Bunlap's secondhand authority was not needed this time. The men followed Vhenlar without pause or question. As they fled wildly into the forest, their steps were spurred by the sound of cracking ice, a horrid crunching, and the faint and deadly scent of wintermint.

Ten

From the palisades of his fortress, Bunlap had a splendid view of Tethyr and its varied landscapes. To his east lay the Starspire Mountains, their jagged and lofty peaks snow-tipped even now in early summer. On the western side of his land were the rolling foothills, and just north of him the sudden, dense tree line that marked the southern edge of the Forest of Tethir.

A brisk wind ruffled his black beard and sent his cloak swirling up behind him. Bunlap caught the flying folds and wrapped them around himself, folding his arms to keep the garment firmly in place. Mornings were chill, even this time of year, for the western winds came straight off the Starspires, as did the icy waters that spilled into the river below-the northern branch, most called it, but Bunlap liked to think of it as "his" river.

Located as he was, on a cliff overlooking the plain where a dozen or more small waterways converged into a single flow, he could exact a tariff from every small-time farmer or trapper who floated down the tributaries to paddle his goods downriver to the Sulduskoon, and thence to Zazesspur.

It amused Bunlap that his demands were never challenged. The people of Tethyr were too accustomed to paying tariffs and tributes and out-and-out bribes at every turn, for petty noblemen bred like rabbits in this land. Not a single traveler questioned Bunlap's right to tax their cargo. He held this remote territory with a fortress and men-at-arms. In the mind of the Tethyrians, that made him nobility.

"Baron Bunlap," he said aloud, and a wry smile twisted his lips at the irony of it. Not a man alive was more lowly born than he, but what did that matter in Tethyr? In the few short years since he'd left his post at Darkhold, the former Zhentish soldier had amassed more land, wealth, and power than was possessed by most Cormyran lords. Bane's blood, how he loved this country!

"Two-sailed approaching!" called a man from the southern lookout.

Bunlap's mood darkened instantly. He'd received word of this ship's approach the night before, for he kept runners and horsemen stationed along the river to bring him news of water traffic. It was an organization nearly as swift and efficient as the town criers of any city a man could name, and as a result Bunlap knew the business of nearly everyone who traveled Tethyr*s main waterway.

Which is why this particular ship disturbed him. Shallow-keeled as a Northman's raiding ship, single-masted but flying a jib as well as a mainsail, the ship was built for speed and stealth. She was small enough to escape the notice of everyone but the most observant and suspicious of men, small enough so that two or three might sail her, yet large enough to hold a dozen men or stow a considerable amount of contrabandvln short, it was the sort of ship that carried trouble and a prime example of what his informants had been trained and paid to notice.

Yet his man at Port Starhaven, one of the few towns that lay along the northern branch, had been the first to note its approach. Bunlap had checked the fortress's log the night before. Recent entries indicated that there were no reported sightings of such a ship on the Sulduskoon, not on either side of the place where the northern branch met the main river. It was as if the ship had fallen from the clouds.

Or, a more likely possibility, and even more disturbing, it had been carted overland to a point on the northern branch and kept hidden hi dry dock until it was needed. But why, and by whom?

Bunlap well knew the difficulty and expense of overland shipping. Whoever had gone to such trouble must have deep pockets and a compelling motivation. Well enough; he would empty those pockets and demand to know the reasons.

"Raise the chain behind her, bring it up fast and pull it as tight as it'll go," he bellowed, raising an eyeglass and peering down at the swiftly sailing craft. "On my mark… now!"

Several men hurried to a massive crank and began to turn with frantic haste. A huge chain, nearly as thick as a dwarfs waist, began to wind around a gathering spool. The other end of the chain was tethered to the far shore, bolted and welded to a platform that was itself pile-driven into the rocky bank. Once the chain was raised, no ship-not even this shallow-keeled phantom-could escape downriver.

As Bunlap anticipated, the sailboat tacked sharply, heading straight toward the eastern shore. This was the response most ships made, and it was the most logical. Put some distance between the ship and the apparently hostile fortress-a reasonable dodge. But what most travelers did not realize until too late was that the raising of the chain alerted men who were stationed on the eastern shore and along each of the tributaries. These men poured from their hidden barracks, those on the east shore seizing arms and those along the north putting small, swift craft into the water and rushing toward the pinned-down ship. They would surround it, capture it, and escort the ship and crew to Bunlap's fortress. It was a well-planned maneuver, put into practice often enough to have become almost routine.

But to Bunlap's surprise, the sailboat continued straight for the eastern shore and the forces that awaited her there. Several sets of long oars flung out over the side, and unseen oarsmen pulled hard as they rowed with breakneck haste for the beach.

The mercenaries assembled at water's edge scattered as the shallow boat thrust up out of the water. A dozen or more fighters leaped from the boat onto dry land and hurled themselves at Bunlap's men. One of them, a minor mage of some sort, sent a tiny ball of light hurtling toward the sails. The canvas had been treated with some kind of oil, for immediately flames leaped outward in all directions to engulf the entire ship.

Dark billows of smoke forced the battle back from the shore. Bunlap squinted into his eyeglass, peering through the gathering cloud of smoke and trying to find some clue that would help him make sense of this ship and these tactics. What he saw thrust him even deeper into puzzlement.

Most of the crew of the strange sailing craft were clad in tunics and leggings of a distinctive dark purple which marked them as hired swords of the palace, mercenaries who reported to the lesser members of the Balik family. This was an oddity, for Pasha Balik and his pleasure-loving kin were not known to venture beyond the walls of Zazesspur. Odder still was the sole exception among these purple-clad fighters: a female, and an elf!

She was not one of the forest people, of that Bunlap was certain. The elves of Tethir were copper-hued and tended to be small in build and stature. This one was raven-haired and tall as most men. Bunlap caught a glimpse of her face-it was as pale as a pearl, a shade that was peculiar to moon elves. These were common enough in Tethyr, but most were fairly recent arrivals who had settled in the trade cities and farmlands. Bunlap hadn't a clue as to what might bring palace guards and a moon elf wench to this part of the country.

Whatever her purpose, the elf woman was a sword-master of rare ability. The mercenary captain watched in helpless rage as she cut through his hired men with dizzying speed and terrifying ease. Not a man among them could stand before her sword. Bunlap was not certain that he himself could match her. Then the smoke grew too thick for him to see more, and there was nothing to do but wait.

The clang of battle and the cries of the wounded drifted up to him across the expanse of water. Bunlap noticed that the chorus of steel on steel was rapidly thinning out. The battle was winding down faster than he would have thought possible. At this rate, it would be over before any of his other boats could reach the eastern shore!

At least he had the satisfaction of knowing that the elf woman and the purple mercenaries would soon be in his power. With their ship destroyed, they could hardly escape. They had nowhere to go-except to Bunlap's fortress!

Even as this thought formed, Bunlap noted a flurry of movement several hundred yards south of the battle. Two small boats, bottoms up, emerged from the thick smoke and scuttled toward the river like bugs-large bugs that boasted three pairs of purple-clad legs each.

Several more Balik guards hurried along behind these boats, some carrying pilfered oars, others brandishing their curved swords and watching their backs for pursuit. There was none. Bunlap's men were lost in the smoke, battling a deadly elf woman who, unlike them, could see in darkness better than any cat. For all he knew, by now she had them fighting each other!

A surge of rage swept through the mercenary captain as the escape strategy became clear to him. Using the smoke as a cover, the guards were stealing Bunlap's boats, walking portage around the chain, and making their escape downriver!

There was nothing he could do to stop them, not even if he had the chain lowered so his other boats were able to give pursuit. He had no way of getting new orders to the men. Nor would they take such action on their own, for the strong westerly wind was blowing the dark, oily smoke across the river in a thick and effective screen. It was unlikely that any of the men who fought on the eastern shore or who were still on the river could even see the escaping boats!

As he waited for the battle to end, Bunlap's rage and frustration deepened. He could not vent his spleen upon the men, for he would need every one of them for the coming battles. And he was fairly certain he would get no satisfaction from the elf wench. Bunlap was ready to bet big money that when the smoke cleared, there would be no trace of her.

He was also fairly certain of her destination. It would not be the mountains, which were catacombed with dwarven tribes, but the elven forest.

This was not a heartening thought. A moon-elven warrior, smart enough to elude him, powerful enough to claim assistance from Zazesspur's ruling family? As if he hadn't problems enough in that thrice-blasted forest!

Bunlap spun away and stalked down the steps that led from the palisades to the courtyard. For several moments he stood, watching as his lieutenants took the new recruits through their morning weapons training. They were good, this batch, and as he watched Bunlap felt his rage cool-but not dissipate, never that. Bunlap's anger was like a forge-heated sword: it only got harder and sharper as the heat slipped away.

He'd counted on the reclusive nature of the forest elves for his plan's success, and so far it had served him well. If this moon elf had a notion to join forces with the wild folk, she'd likely find they had ideas of their own! And even if she did, what of it? One more sword would not turn the balance in favor of the elves of Tethir. And when the time was right, he, Bunlap, would take great pleasure in ending the career of this elf woman. She would have to wait her turn, of course, but she'd be just as dead for the delay. There was enough elf-hatred in Bunlap's heart to sink Evenneet into the sea.

The captain's hand instinctively lifted to his cheek and to the still-fiery brand the wild elf had left there. With each day that passed, his latest assignment was becoming more and more a personal crusade.

Ferret pressed her stolen horse as hard as she dared. It was no easy task, keeping pace with a swift-sailing boat and yet staying out of sight. To make matters still more difficult, this terrain was unfamiliar to her. The mountains were dwarven territory.

But the female assassin had earned her reputation as a tracker. She made her way to the river's mouth in time to witness the battle between the half-elf's hired men and the locals-she might even have joined in, had the river not lain between her and the fight.

Ferret watched with keen interest as Arilyn engaged the mercenaries, sent her own men southward, and then slipped away in the confusion. Despite her personal opinion of the half-elf, Ferret could not help but admire the smoothly executed plan. She needed to know more about this half breed's talents-and her motivations.

When the fight was over, the female urged her tired mount into the hills, for she had to give wide berth to the fortress. Although she had not known of the stronghold's existence and knew nothing of its lord, she'd had ample experience with petty noblemen and knew what to expect from them, even if she hadn't seen the attempted ambush of Arilyn's ship.

Throughout that day and most of the following night and the day after that, Ferret pursued her half-elven quarry. By late afternoon she caught her first glimpse of Arilyn-just as she was slipping into the edge of Tethir.

The assassin shook her head in disbelief. To cover such a distance, the half-elf must have run the entire way, with very little pause for rest. Elves could do this, when pressed, but Ferret never would have credited that a half-elf could manage such a feat. She herself had traveled even farther, but she had done so on four legs.

Ferret swung down from the horse and grasped the animal's tangled mane in both hands. She drew down the horse's head and spoke for several minutes in the centaur tongue: an apology, as well as instructions for the journey ahead.

The mare seemed to grasp the gist of it, for she turned southward and set off at a jog in the direction of the fortress. There, Ferret reasoned, the horse would be fed and cared for. However ill the local lord treated passing travelers, he would be unlikely to disdain such a valuable gift. And the horse could not survive otherwise. It had become an unnatural creature, stripped of its instincts and made dependent upon humans.

The female set off for the forest with an easy, running stride, confident she could pick up the half-elf s trail and have the wench in her sights by nightfall. And then, she would learn what had brought a half-elven assassin into the shadows of Tethir.

The waxing moon rose high over the forest's canopy, but only a few stubborn shafts of moonlight worked their way through the thick layers of leaves. Ferret found that Arilyn's trail was harder to follow than she had anticipated. Somewhere along the line, the assassin who walked the streets of Zazesspur with such grim assurance had also learned a considerable amount of woods craft!

At last Ferret caught sight of the half-elf, down on one knee examining what appeared to be wolf sign. She placed her palm down on the soil as if measuring the print, then nodded in satisfaction. With a quick, fluid movement she was back on her feet. She set a brisk, silent pace toward the north, stopping from time to time to examine the soil, or to pick a tuft of fur from a bramble.

To all appearances, she was tracking a wolf.

Why, Ferret could not say, but she could easily guess Arilyn's destination. There was a small glade not too far away, a place with lush grasses and a spring pool that did not dry up until late summer. Deer and other animals came there to drink. If the half-elf was indeed tracking a wolf, this is where she would likely find one.

Ferret hesitated, and then nimbly climbed an ash tree. From this perch she could follow the half-elf, unseen, and yet remain beyond the reach of any wolf Arilyn might encounter.

Not that forest wolves posed a serious threat. They were shy, intelligent creatures who kept to themselves and killed only what they needed for survival. Only in the borderlands, where human poaching had stripped the forest of the wolves' natural prey, had they become a nuisance. From time to time, hungry wolves ventured out into the fields and farmlands. Most of these contented themselves with the mice and voles that were plentiful in cultivated lands-wolves could live solely on such prey-but a few developed a taste for mutton.

If cornered by an indignant shepherd, a poaching wolf would defend itself. It was possible that just such a wolf had wounded or even killed someone who had relatives wealthy enough to purchase the half-elf s services. There were other possibilities, however, that dictated a certain amount of caution on Ferret's part. Extremely rare, although more common in these troubled times, was a rogue wolf, one that either through sickness or despair had left its nature behind to become a ravening beast, Most often the atrocities attributed to them were not committed by wolves at all, but by lycanthropes- humans who'd been cursed with a wolfs form and an unnatural lust for blood. Although Tethir's ancient magic acted as a barrier to many such abominations, it was possible-possible-that the half-elf had been hired to track and slay such a monster. Best to keep a distance from that battle!

From her leafy perch, Ferret followed Arilyn toward the glade. At the half-elf's approach, a pair of deer lifted dripping muzzles from the pool and bounded off into the trees. There was no sign of any wolf, however, nor did the half-elf seem concerned by this lack. She shouldered off her pack and began to remove several items from it, including a small, shimmering mound of what appeared to be liquid silver.

The half-elf removed her green cape and stripped off her clothing-the dark, nondescript garments of a Zazesspurian assassin-all the while wearing an expression of extreme distaste. She stuffed them into the hollow of a tree and then waded into the pool, splashing and scrubbing herself repeatedly as if to wash off some invisible taint.

Arilyn's pale skin appeared almost luminous in the tree-filtered moonlight. Even to Ferret's critical eyes, she was as pale and slender as any moon elf-an apparent sister to the white-limbed birch trees that ringed the forest glade.

At length the half-elf waded back and began to dress herself in the garments she'd taken from her pack: leggings, under tunic, shirt-all of which were dyed in practical shades of deep forest green. Then she picked up the fluid silver. It fell like a waterfall into the shape of a fine hauberk, a long tunic of elven chain mail finer than any Ferret had ever seen. This the half-elf slipped over her head; it molded immediately to her form and moved with her like water. Arilyn belted on her ancient sword so that the moonstone-hilted blade was prominently displayed. She raked both hands through her still-wet curls, tucking her hair behind her pointed ears and then tying an elaborate green-and-silver band around her forehead to hold it in place. In moments, the half-breed assassin was gone; in her place stood a noble warrior, a proud daughter of the Moon People.

Ferret shook her head in silent disbelief. Had she not seen the transformation herself, she would not have believed it possible. Oh, she knew that Arilyn had a knack for disguises, but this went far beyond an assassin's tricks.

Before Ferret could assimilate this, the half-elf took a small wooden object from her pack and lifted it to her lips. An eery, wavering cry floated out into the forest and froze the watchful Ferret to her perch. She had heard that sound before, but never from a mortal throat!

There was a moment's silence, and then an answering call came from the trees beyond. Arilyn blew again, a long high call followed by several short, irregular bursts-some sort of signal, no doubt-and then she waited calmly.

The vines on the far side of the glade parted, and an enormous silver wolf padded into the clearing. It was twice as large, perhaps even three times as large, as any wolf Ferret had ever seen. In truth, it could be said to resemble a forest wolf only insofar as a unicorn could be likened to a horse, or an elf to a human. The creature's blue eyes were large and intelligent, almond-shaped like those of an elff and its ears were long and pointed above its sharply triangular face. There was a fey grace to its step, and lingering about it was an eldritch aura that seemed to capture and embody the essence of the forest's magic.

Lythari.

Ferret formed the word with silent, awed lips. All her life she had heard tales of the lythari, an ancient race of shapechanging elves, the most elusive and most magical of all the forest People. Few knew of their existence beyond those who dwelt in the forest. Those who spoke of the Silver Shadows did so with reverence-and dread.

The lythari were usually as reclusive as the wolves they resembled, but from time to time they moved with incredible ferocity against some enemy of the forest. Even the wild elves, who-next to dryads and treants- were the most attuned to the ways of the woodlands, did not understand the ways of the lythari and occasionally fell under their swift wrath. Few forest dwellers had caught a glimpse of a lythari, and never in elven form.

As if to mock Ferret's unspoken thoughts, the lythari's wolflike form shimmered and disappeared. In its place stood a young elven male, beautiful and fey even by the measures of elvenkind. Ferret bit her lip, hard, to keep from crying out in wonder. The lythari was taller than the half-elf and just as pale, and his hair retained the shimmering silver color of his wolflike form. He called Arilyn by name, speaking the common Elvish tongue, and embraced her warmly. But try though she might, Ferret could make out nothing of the low, earnest conversation that followed.

She watched in wonder as the lythari slipped back into his wolf form and stood patiently, allowing the half-elf to climb onto his back. Thus mounted, Arilyn Moonblade slipped beyond the forest glade-and beyond Ferret's reach. No one, not even a tracker as skilled as she, could follow a lythari who did not wish to be found.

To Ferret, this could mean only one thing: the lythari intended to take Arilyn to his den and wished to remove all possibility that someone could trace her to this hidden place.

As Ferret slipped down from the tree, she pondered the mystery that was Arilyn Moonblade, a half-woman who bore the sword of an elven warrior and had earned

the friendship of a lythari. Yet Ferret knew of several times that Arilyn had killed for no other apparent purpose than the coins the deed would place in her pockets. The other assassins applauded her cold-blooded skill and accepted her as one of their own. But having seen both sides of Arilyn, Ferret simply could not reconcile the two halves.

The lythari male apparently knew the better part of Arilyn Moonblade, the noble elven warrior, the identity that Ferret had just now glimpsed. Unfortunately-and herein lay a danger beyond reckoning-the lythari also knew all the secrets of the forest.

Did this young male know that he was about to betray them to a half-elven assassin?

Eleven

There was nothing, Hasheth was coming to learn, that could lift the heart and enflame the pride like a good plot successfully executed. Not even the grinding, mind-numbing chore of copying piles of receipts into Hhune's ledgers could dim the young man's inner glow of excitement. He had done well-even Arilyn Moonblade, Harper and Shadow Sash, had admitted as much.

And in truth, Hasheth did not mind his apprenticeship so very much. In a way, these bits of parchment and paper were like pieces of a puzzle, and there was little that he enjoyed more than a good puzzle. The Harpers, what a life they had-traveling the world, tracing convoluted plots to their source. The only thing that could possibly be more interesting would be devising such a plot, one so tangled that not even the best among the Harpers might unravel it!

Despite his pride, the young prince possessed enough self-knowledge to know that he himself was not capable

of such a thing. But in time-why not? And what better training could he have than learning at the foot of the complicated and ambitious Hhune?

As guildmaster, merchant, land owner and member of the Council of Lords, Hhune possessed considerable power. Yet already Hasheth's sharp eye had found hints of other, clandestine affiliations and shadowy outlines of plots that were as ambitious as they were intriguing. A busy man, was Lord Hhune!

"Not finished yet?" demanded a nasal, querulous voice. "The other clerks have already entered their allotments and gone out to take their midday meal."

Hasheth set his teeth and lifted his gaze to Achnib, Lord Hhune's scribe. "I am not a clerk, but an apprentice," he reminded the man, and not for the first time.

"It is much the same," the scribe said in a tone meant to dismiss the younger man. He turned away and strutted off in search of someone else to intimidate.

Hasheth watched him go, marveling that a man as astute and ambitious as Hhune would suffer such a fool. Achnib carried oat his lord's instructions well enough, but if a single original thought should ever enter his head, it would surely die of loneliness!

Yet Achnib was a born sycophant, and such men often enjoyed a degree of success. The scribe curried favor with his master in the most shamelessly obvious ways, even to imitating Lord Hhune's appearance. He sported a thick mustache and smoothed back his black hair with oils as did Hhune. He patronized the same tailor and went so far as to mimic the lord's manner of speaking, his gait, and his meticulous attention to social niceties. What Achnib lacked, however, was Hhune's apparent love of intrigue and his understanding of the nuances of power. Unlike Hhune, the scribe made no attempt whatsoever to ensure the loyalties of those in lesser positions, instead seeking only to bask in the reflected light of greater men.

A fool, Hasheth surmised. He was but half the scribe's age, and already he sensed that power flowed in all directions-upward as well as down, for even the greatest lord was in some small part dependent upon the efficiency and the goodwill of his lowliest servants. Those who wished to lead must know how to control and manage that flow.

As soon as Achnib was well beyond sight, Hasheth slipped a large gold coin from beneath a stack of papers. It was identical to the one Lord Hhune had shown him, and Hasheth had gone to no little trouble to procure it so that he might study its markings. Some of them he knew. Hidden among the designs was Hhune's guild mark, a secret symbol known only to ranking members of the various guilds. Hasheth had purchased this information during his brief sojourn in the assassins' guild, not realizing at the time how important it might become.

The other Harper, the northerner Danilo Thann, had been keenly interested in these symbols and had committed them all to memory. Hasheth had followed suit, and now he blessed the northerner for his foresight. Young Lord Thann was not such a bad sort, and for a moment Hasheth was almost glad the bard had escaped Hhune's hired assassins. For without such knowledge as Lord Thann had insisted Hasheth acquire, the prince would not have been able to make the connection between his new master and the other members of the mysterious group known as the Knights of the Shield. And if he was to take his place among these men, he must know their names.

Hasheth ran one fingertip over the circular pattern of runes around the edge of the coin and the shield in its center. He knew that mark well, for his own mother had worn this symbol upon a pendant until the day she died. It marked her, she said, as one under the protection of the Knights. She had brought it with her from Calimshan and had worn it always until the night she died birthing yet another son to the pasha.

Hasheth had been weaned on stories of this secret society, which was apparently as active in the southern lands as the Harpers were in the Dalelands far to the north. Their power was rumored to come from a combination of great wealth and the ability to gather and hoard valuable information. What the ultimate aims and goals of the Knights were, no one could say, but it was known that they had no love for northerners and bore a special dislike for Waterdeep and her Lords. Hasheth had long suspected that his father had some involvement with these shadowy folk. Lord Hhune's words to him had removed all doubt. Of one thing Hasheth was certain: affiliation with the Knights would almost certainly be a step toward the sort of power he intended to wield.

"Where did you get that?"

Hasheth jolted. He had not heard Achnib's approach, so intent was he upon his study of the coin. The scribe pounced on him like a hunting cat and tore the coin from his hand.

"This bears Lord Hhune's mark. Where did you get this?" the man demanded in an accusing voice.

"At the Purple Minotaur," Hasheth said, honestly enough. The mere mention of Zazesspur's most luxurious inn set the scribe back on his heels and stole some of the indignation from his face. In fact, Achnib looked so nonplused that Hasheth could not resist the urge to continue.

"As you no doubt know, Lord Hhune engaged the services of assassins to rid the city of a suspected Harper agent. Two of these assassins were slain at the inn where their mark resided; one of them carried this coin. Since the hired man failed at his assigned task, I took the liberty of removing the coin from his body so that I might return to it Lord Hhune. If you wish to check out the particulars," Hasheth continued in a casual voice, "the chatelaine of the Minotaur will happily vouchsafe my tale. You might also wander by the assassins' guild-house, if you like."

The scribe's eyes narrowed, for Hasheth's seemingly innocent words held a triple insult. First, Achnib did not know of this matter, and the fact that Hasheth did placed him subtly higher in the hierarchy surrounding Lord Hhune. Secondly, since Achnib was neither wealthy nor well-born, he would not find a welcome, much less the offer of information, from the lofty chatelaine of the exclusive Purple Minotaur. And finally, an invitation to stop by the assassins* guildhouse was tantamount to wishing a person dead. Yet since Hasheth himself had briefly tasted the assassin's path and had lived to speak of this adventure, he could mask this curse in the garb of a casual, if boastful, suggestion. Even so, it was beyond bearing!

"Hhune will hear of this," the scribe warned.

Hasheth inclined his head in a parody of gratitude. "You are kind, to offer to speak of me to my Lord Hhune. I had planned to give him the coin myself, not wishing to trouble you with matters outside of your duties, but of course it is better so. It is unbecoming of a man to put himself forward in such a manner."

Achnib's face turned deep red. "You meant to do no such thing! You would have kept it for yourself!".

In response, the young man reached for the cash ledger and thumbed to the day's page. He held up the book so the scribe could see that the entry had already been made.

"I will let your insult pass, for it is beneath me," he said in a soft, dangerous voice. "As a son of the pasha, I have little need for gold. But now that the coin is in your hands, perhaps you should sign for it as well?"

The scribe sputtered angrily, but no suitable response came to his mind. Nor could he refuse the proper procedure that Hasheth had suggested. At length he shut his mouth, snatched the quill from the apprentice's inkwell, and scrawled his mark next to the neat entry. He spun on his heel and stalked from the room.

Only then did Hasheth permit himself a sneer. The fool had no idea what he held in his hand! Achnib saw a piece of gold, no more.

Very well. He would come to know in time, to his sorrow.

In the young prince's mind, the lines of battle had been clearly drawn.

Foxfire stood in respectful silence as the body of yet another elf was lowered into the bog – the last of then-number who had sustained mortal injuries in the farmlands to the east – and he listened as the songs were sung that marked the return of yet another forest spirit into the great caldron of life. The others stood with him – the survivors of the raid, the reinforcements from Talltrees, even the volatile Tamsin – all taking solace and direction from their leader's dignified mourning.

But Foxfire was far from feeling as calm as he appeared. Nor did he accept the deaths of his people with anything approaching resignation.

He was young, by the measure of elvenkind, not long into his second century of life. Yet he had seen much death – too much death, and too much change. Life in the world beyond their forest's boundaries swirled past them at a dizzying pace; events came and went too swiftly for the elves to absorb, much less assimilate. During the short span of Foxfire's years, kingdoms had risen and tumbled, forests had given way to farmland, whole human settlements had sprung up like mushrooms after a spring rain.

It often seemed to Foxfire that humans were rather like hummingbirds: they whizzed past and were gone in a moment's time. Suddenly, unaccountably, the elves of Tethyr had been caught up in this pace, dragged along in the wake of this headlong flight. He did not know how to stop it. He did not know if it could be stopped.

Tamsin, however, was not beset with such doubts. The young fighter, along with the three archers who had been sent northward, had found his way back to the fen lands moments before his kinsman's body was to be returned to the forest. After the songs had been chanted and the rituals complete, the elf sought out Foxfire and asked to give his report.

"I did as you said," he stated bluntly. "We all did- Eldrin, Sontar, Wyndelleu. They pushed the humans northward with their arrows, making sure along the way that the hounds would not live to betray us to their masters. I awoke the white dragon and led her to the humans. By now she is probably back in her lair, sleeping, with a belly full enough to keep her through the rest of the summer. Of the warriors who pursued us, perhaps ten are dead."

"You did well," Foxfire told him. "But for your efforts, the People would not have reached the safety of the fen lands."

"Yet we could have done more!" Tamsin burst out. "Why let any of them escape? Our lives would be better if we killed every human that ventures into the forest!"

Foxfire was silent for a long moment. "Not all," he ventured at last, "for there are humanfolk in the forest who actually do good-the druids, rangers, even the swanmays."

Tamsin's eyes flashed with excitement as he regarded his leader, measured the meaning of his hesitation. "But the men who pursued us-"

"Will not stop," Foxfire concluded grimly. "It is time to turn hunter."

The young elf nodded eagerly. "As before? Small parties of archers?"

"No. We are rested now, and all those who yet live are ready to fight. We have also six fresh warriors from Talltrees. I say we strike hard and have done with them."

"I will scout," Tamsin offered immediately.

For once Foxfire did not try to temper the young elf impetuous nature. "You know the way; you will lead the first group. Find the humans, take to the trees, and pass over them, then attack from the north. Korrigash will lead from the east, Eldrin will take his archers to the west, and Wyndelleu to the south."

"And you?"

Foxfire placed a hand on the younger elf's shoulder. "I will fight beside you, or elsewhere as I am needed, but the command of the northern band will be yours. Now go, and gather your fighters."

His eyes sparkling at the thought of his first command, the younger elf spun and raced back toward the main camp. The news came as no surprise to the others. In moments the camp was gone as if it had never been there, and the elven fighters were ready to move northward from their fen-land refuge.

They followed Tamsin's confident lead, traveling throughout the day and well into the night. Shortly before dawn they came upon the humans' camp, not far from the place where the white dragon had fallen upon them. By all appearances, the humans did not realize this. Their panicked trails had taken them in wide circles, and they had wandered still farther in an attempt to gather their scattered members. Yet it seemed they had made a good recovery. The camp was neat and orderly, and three alert sentries circled the site.

Tamsin pointed to the sentries, then to himself, to Sontar, and young Hawkwing. All were good choices, Foxfire acknowledged silently as the three elves slipped up into the trees and moved into position, though it pained him to see a maid as young as Hawkwing in battle. But war had chosen her, and she did not flinch from the burden that had fallen her way.

At a signal from Tamsin, the three elves dropped silently to the ground, directly in front of their chosen marks. Before the humans could move or cry out, three bone knives slashed forward and dealt swift and silent death. The elves caught the falling humans and eased them silently to the ground-a difficult feat for the tiny Hawkwing, who used her own body to muffle the sound of the falling human. Foxfire winced, but the elf girl crawled out from under the dead sentry and signaled that all was well.

Foxfire nodded to the group leaders, and the elves scattered into the forest. He followed Tamsin into the trees. As they crept through the canopy over the campsite, he took careful note of the men who slept below. There were a total of three-and-forty humans-a large band, far more than Foxfire had anticipated. More, in fact, than had pursued them into the forest. Somehow they, like the elves, had managed to send for reinforcements. The implications of this did not bode well for the elves.

Although he knew little of humans, Foxfire understood that they did not possess the elven gift of rapport, that mystical closeness that enabled elves to share thoughts and feelings, even across long distances. Rapport was strongest among the twin-born-Tamsin and Tamara shared such a bond with each other and a strong empathy with other elves-but most often rapport occurred between elven lovers who forged a bond strong and bright enough to weld their spirits together for all time. It was the deepest commitment known to elves, rarely undertaken and never done so lightly. Foxfire knew that humans could not send messages through rapport; they could do so through use of magic.

Suddenly a sharp crack split the silence of the night-the heart-chilling sound of a metal trap springing shut. There came another, and a third, and then a quick brutal crackle that came too quickly to count. The sounds roused the humans, who leaped from their bedrolls and seized their weapons: wooden shields, small crossbows, swords, and daggers.

Tamsin's body contorted in a spasm of agony as the backlash of the trapped elves' pain swept through him. Foxfire reached out to steady him, then captured the younger elfs anguished eyes with his own. It was clear that Tamsin not only felt the elves' suffering, but blamed himself for it. Had he not been so focused on the hunt, he might have sensed the coming danger.

"Shield yourself?' Foxfire said sternly. "What's done cannot be undone; you will not help them by sharing their deaths."

"How could this happen?" demanded Hawkwing, her black eyes wide with horror. "Why could they not see the traps?"

"The humans have a wizard," Foxfire replied as he nocked an arrow. He elbowed Tamsin, for the young elf s gifts were needed. Of all of them, Tamsin had the best chance of discerning the deadly foe.

The young fighter shook himself, scattering his borrowed emotions like an otter casting off droplets of water. He put aside his grief and his guilt and took a deep, steadying breath. Swiftly, surely, he focused on the unseen threads that tied him to the forest and to the web of magic that was its essence.

Tamsin knew the pattern-they all did-but more than most elves, he felt it in his blood, traveled its gossamer paths whenever he rested in reverie. And thus he sensed quickly and surely the ugly, gaping tear in the fabric of life that indicated that a human wizard was at work.

"There," he said, pointing to one of the men crouched below-an easy target, for he was one of the few humans who did not hold a shield.

Foxfire swung his bow into place and loosed his ready arrow. The bolt tore through the layers of leaves, straight toward its mark…

… and burst into flame.

Blue fire flashed down the length of the shaft, and a thin line of black ash drifted to the ground at the wizard's feet.

The other humans were not quite so lucky. The archers under Wyndelleu's command bombarded them with a small storm of arrows; most clattered harmlessly off the wooden shields, but a few got through. No humans sustained mortal wounds, but at least a few of them would be slowed during the battle to come.

Undeterred by the cries of his comrades and the arrows that flamed and fizzled around him, the wizard began to move his fingers rapidly in some sort of silent, arcane language. He concluded by banging both hands together. The result was like a summer storm, like lighting and thunder combined into one killing stroke.

A thunderclap rolled outward from his hands and through the forest; every arrow that was in flight at that moment flared with brilliant white light. A bolt of energy sizzled back from each glowing arrow, following an invisible path through the air and back to the archer who had sent it forth.

Foxfire watched in horror as five of his people were blasted into ash.

He drew in a breath to call for retreat, but the sound died in a strangled gasp as all the world seemed to burst into flame. There was no heat, just a sudden, searing light that was nearly as painful.

The elf dug both fists into his eyes, trying to rub away the painful sparkles that danced and whirled behind his eyelids. When at last his eyes adjusted to the unnatural brightness, the possibility of retreat vanished from his thoughts.

The humans had dragged the captured elves into the clearing. There were seven of them, and all were alive, though the foot-hold traps-clearly visible now that they had been sprung-had inflicted terrible wounds upon them. A few men guarded them, loaded crossbows leveled at their hearts. And surrounding them was a circle of human mercenaries, swords drawn.

One of these men waved his weapon at the trees overhead and shouted something. Foxfire and Tamsin exchanged helpless shrugs-neither of them spoke the language of Tethyr's humans. Before Foxfire could call down a request for parley in the Common trade tongue, the human found another, more visual way to get his meaning across.

He spun and lunged in a single, quick movement, sinking his sword deep into one of the helpless elves. Then he turned to the forest and brandished his crimson blade. The challenge was clear, as was the price of refusal.

The first to respond was Hawkwing; she dropped to the ground with the speed of her namesake, her dagger gleaming talon-bright in her hand. Without hesitation, all the elves who could still fight followed the fierce elf maid into the circle of wizard-light and death.

In another part of Tethir, far from the clash of weapons and the scent of death, Arilyn clung to her friend's silver fur as he carried her swiftly toward the hidden den of the lythari.

She had known Ganamede from childhood, but nothing in their shared experience could have prepared her to enter the hidden world of the lythari. The den of the shapeshifting elves was not in an underground cave, as Arilyn had anticipated, but in some middle realm, an unseen world.

There was no visible passage, no magical gate; one moment they were in Tethir, the next, they were not.

Although the journey might have felt seamless, there was no mistaking that a momentous change had taken place. She and Ganamede were still in a forest, but one quite different from the dense, cool shade of Tethir. The trees were taller, more majestic, and like nothing that Arilyn had ever seen before. The air was warmer, more alive. But the most compellingly apparent change was that the waning night had been replaced by the long golden shadows of late afternoon. This was the time of day Arilyn loved most, the moment near the end of a

perfect spring day that was almost heartbreaking in its beauty, a time that was almost, but not quite, twilight.

Almost twilight.

Suddenly Arilyn understood why Ganamede had insisted she cling to his back: no mortal could make the passage to these fabled realms unassisted. She slid from the lythari and rose slowly to her feet.

"Faerie," she whispered, naming the land which legend claimed to be the elves' first home, a land left behind in a time far beyond memory. According to elven myth, Faerie was a place of incredible beauty that would last for a single day, albeit one nearly immeasurable in its length. Some of the elves, knowing that then-day here would eventually end, had ventured beyond Faerie into other worlds in hope that they might find a way to escape the coming night. Or so legend claimed. Arilyn had always assumed that Faerie was an allegory and not a literal place. She seized Ganamede's face between her hands and repeated the word, this time as a question.

The lythari's wolflike form shimmered and gave way to that of the otherworldly elf, Ganamede smiled at his awestruck friend, his blue eyes gently indulgent.

"Faerie? Well, not quite. This is a place between the worlds-quite fitting for people such as you and I who are neither wholly one thing nor another. But come- you wanted to meet the others."

Too stunned to give voice to the thousand questions that whirled through her mind, Arilyn followed as Ganamede set off toward the sound of felling water. There, by a waterfall in a glade the color of an emerald's heart, the lythari made their home.

After one glance, Arilyn understood that her quest was futile. She could think of nothing that could entice the lythari into the conflict of war. The peace and beauty of this place made the very thought of it an unspeakable obscenity, as was the notion of disturbing the serenity and joy of these magical beings. *

Several adults in elven form danced to the haunting music of a bone pipe, played by a lythari woman so delicate she seemed carved of moonlight. Two more elves bathed in the splashing waters of the falls, laughing as they watched the antics of a trio of wolflike young that tumbled and played at the edge of the pool.

An involuntary smile curved Arilyn's lips. This was how Ganamede had looked when she first met him- although not nearly so carefree and joyful.

The young lythari had ventured into the outer world too soon, only to be caught in a snare. Arilyn had been a child herself at the time, willful enough to ignore the warnings about venturing alone into the wild Greycloak Hills that surrounded Evereska, young enough to be charmed with the idea of keeping a pet wolf. Her mother, Zlwryl, had had other ideas. She sent word to the lythari's tribe-exactly how, Arilyn had never learned- and a stern, pale-haired male elf came the next day to whisk away the errant cub. But it seemed that the young lythari had a contrary streak to match Arilyn's own. Many times over the next several years he slipped away to seek out his half-elven playmate. When Arilyn left Evereska after her mother's death, Ganamede had given her a summoning pipe and a knowledge of the "doors to the gate" where she might find him. Only now did Arilyn understand what that meant. Although there was but one gate to the lythari's lair, they could probably emerge at will in Tethir or Evermeet or Cormanthor. But why would they choose to do so, other than to hunt?

"The lythari will not come," Arilyn said softly.

"No," agreed Ganamede, "but I had to show you, else you would not have understood why."

He took her arm and drew her away from the peaceful glade. "But I myself will take you to the nearest settlement of the green elves, a place known as Talltrees. It lies a day's walk to the north, but I can get you there in a matter of hours. I wish there were more I could do for you."

Despite her disappointment, Arilyn couldn't help but smile as she pictured the impact Ganamede's appearance would make. "That's more helpful than you know," she said in a wry tone. "If an entrance like that doesn't impress the forest people, 111 know enough to turn around and go home!"

The palace of Pasha Balik was without doubt the largest and most impressive building in all of Zazesspur. At its core was a summer palace built by Alehandro III. Amazingly, it had escaped the destruction of the royal family-followed by the demolition of most of the royal properties-virtually unscathed. When Balik came to power he'd taken it over, bought up the surrounding land, and expanded the original buildings into an enormous marble complex ringed by even more spectacular gardens.

One of the newer additions was a large chamber suitable for meetings of state. Here met the Council of Lords-a dozen men and women of noble rank-to hear important cases, debate policy, and make decisions that would address the good of all the people of Zazesspur. At least, that was the Council's original and stated intent. The Council, inspired by the lords who ruled Waterdeep, had been created shortly after the downfall of the royal house. Though it was intended to be the ruling body, most of its members came to view their seats as stepping stones toward greater power. In recent years, however, the Council had done little more than carry out the will of the pasha.

Balik was a vain man who allowed himself to be seduced by the notion of his own importance. He had grown increasingly deaf to the voices of the coalition of southerners, royalists, and merchants who had brought bim to power. Seldom these days did he hear anything but his own inclinations.

Today, however, Pasha Balik seemed unusually willing to listen to counsel. "You are all aware of the growing threat from the elven people," he began. "Caravans ransacked, trade lost, farms and trading posts attacked. We will set all other business aside and consider how best to deal with this problem."

Lord Faunce, one of the few noblemen present who had actually inherited his title, rose to speak. "What do the elves have to say about this matter?"

"That is something none but the gods can tell you. The Elven Council has been destroyed, the settlement burned to ash," supplied Zonguiar, a priest of Ihnater, speaking this dire news with lugubrious relish.

Lord Hhune, guildmaster, rose to his feet. "My lords, must I remind you that in less enlightened times an effort was made to push the elves from this country? Their lands were seized, many were slain, some were pushed deep into the forest. I speak for patience and urge forbearance," he said passionately. "At the very least, let us take time to examine the reports against the elves and see if perhaps the tales have grown somewhat in the telling. To move too quickly would certainly result in a waste of fighting men and most likely in the deaths of many innocent elven folk!"

A few of the other lords exchanged arch looks. Hhune had been quite young during the less enlightened times" he spoke of, yet few present doubted that he would not have been among the most zealous in carrying out his king's desire to exterminate the elves of Tethyr. But ever changeful were the winds of fortune, and few among them could match Hhune's skill as a social weather vane. For the most part, they admired him for it.

Even so, the Marquessa D*Morreto couldn't resist putting in a dig. "The memories of the elves are long. It may well be that they act in retaliation for the wrongs done them," she suggested piously.

"We do not even know that the elves are truly responsible!" thundered Hhune.

"But if not, then who? And why would so much be laid felsely on the elven folk of Tethir?" asked Lord Faunce.

"That is precisely what I intend to find out," Lord Hhune said grimly. "I will learn what there is to know of this matter, and I will pass this knowledge on to you." He paused to give weight to his next words. There are those in this land who can find answers to any question. I ask your indulgence only in the matter of time."

The Council considered this in silence. All knew that Hhune referred to the secret and dreaded Knights of the Shield; more than a few suspected he had ties to this shadowy group. Whatever the case, they were content to leave the troublesome elves in his hands. As the Marquess had pointed out, there was no one among them who had as much at stake in this matter as did Hhune.

Fortunately for Lord Hhune, there was not one among them who understood exactly what it was that he planned to do, or what he held at risk.

None, that was, but the lord's bodyguard-a tall, heavy-chested man with a black beard, cold gray eyes, and a flower-shaped scar on one cheek. As this man listened to Hhune's impassioned speech, he passed a hand over his bearded lips to hide a grimace-or perhaps a smile.

Twelve

It was difficult to surprise an elf at any time, and almost impossible to creep up on a green elfin his own forest stronghold. Yet the lythari were called "silver shadows" for good reason. In his lupine form, Ganamede moved more swiftly and silently than the wind-not even the leaves rustled when he passed. And Arilyn, who rode upon his back with her arms flung tightly around his massive silver neck, thought she knew why this was so. The lythari walked between worlds, even when their feet trod upon the solid face of Toril.

They reached the outer boundaries of the Talltrees settlement late that day, slipping easily past the layers of secrecy that enfolded the elven village. The forest had strange magical properties, Ganamede had told her, that distorted the senses of outsiders. Arilyn could hold her direction as well as most rangers, but even she felt oddly disoriented as they neared the hidden village. Nor were these the only magical barriers. Twin dryads-beautiful sylvan creatures who were not quite either human or elven-peeked out at them from behind a stand of beech trees. Any male who wandered near this lair would have the image of wondrously beautiful dryads giggling behind their white hands as his last memory of this part of Tethir forest. A male who fell under a dryad's charm usually awoke, dazed and utterly lost, under some unfamiliar tree. When at last he found his way back to settled lands, he invariably learned that as much as a year had passed without leaving a single footprint upon his memory. It was a gossamer web that the dryads wove, but a powerful one.

Beyond the dryads' grove, not even silent Ganamede could escape detection. Sharp-eyed elven warriors walked the surrounding forest. Other sentries, the birds and squirrels that chattered and scolded in the trees, carried warnings that were heard and heeded by the elven folk. Arilyn noted the subtle changes in the song of forest birds that no doubt announced their coming.

"They know we're here. You might as well let me down," she said quietly. The lythari came to a stop; Arilyn slid down and rose to her full height. She smoothed down the vest of elven chain mail, adjusted her swordbelt, and then squared her shoulders for the trial ahead.

Lifting her chin to an angle that approximated that of a proud elven courtier, Arilyn placed one hand on the lythari's pale silver shoulder. "Here we go," she murmured. "We should be fine, but if things start getting hostile I want you out of here like a flea off a fire newt."

Ganamede cast an exasperated look up at her, his blue eyes stating beyond doubt what he thought of her chosen figure of speech.

A wry grin brightened Arilyn's face-and dissipated a bit of her tension. "How indelicate of me, bringing up fleas," she said with mock gravity. "Nearly as thoughtless as mentioning heartburn to a red dragon!"

"Are you quite through?" the lythari inquired patieatly.

"Or would you like to compound the insult by scratching behind my ears?"

Arilyn's shoulders shook in a brief, silent chuckle. "I meant what I said," she repeated, suddenly serious. "Get out at the first sign of trouble."

"And what of you?"

What indeed? she repeated silently.

"If I fall, try to reclaim my sword at some later time. I know this is asking a great deal of you, but if you were to ask anything of the forest elves, they would surely give it. I would not ask, but mine is a hereditary blade, and its magic will continue as long as there is a need for it and a worthy descendant to wield it. When its purpose has been fulfilled, it will go dormant."

And until that distant day-and perhaps far longer than that, Arilyn added silently-her spirit would be imprisoned within!

"A hereditary sword. Then you have children?" Ganamede inquired.

It was a logical question, but it struck Arilyn like a kick to the gut. She had never considered that particular aspect of the moonblaoVs demands, for she had never given a moment's thought to the possibility that she might bear children of her own. Arilyn knew all too well the ambiguity that defined a half-elf s existence, and she would not wish this upon another. Nor would any child of hers be a likely candidate for the moon-blade. As far as Arilyn knew, she was the only moon-blade wielder in the entire history of these ancient swords who was not of pure moon-elf heritage. Not even \, a full-blooded elf of another noble race-the gold elves, V or the green, or the sea folk-had every held such a Ј sword and lived. What chance would a child of hers ›; have against the moonblade's silent test? And knowing what she did about the nature of the elfshadow, how could she pass such a sentence along? Immediate death, or eternal servitude. It was not much of a legacy.

Even if her offspring should claim the sword and fail, that death would not purchase her freedom. The moon-blade she carried was of the Moonflower clan, and the line would not die with Arilyn. The gods only knew how many unknown royal aunts and uncles and cousins she had running blithely about on distant Evermeet!

Which brought her to a second disturbing realization: since she had no children of her own, she would have to name a blade heir from among her mother's kin. It occurred to her, for the first time, that the ties between her and her mother's people were far more complex than their common bloodlines.

"Lamruil," she blurted out, remembering a name from her mother's long-ago tales. "Prince Lamruil of Evermeet, youngest son of Amlaruil and mother's brother to me. I name him blade heir. There are 'doors to the gate' on Evermeet. If I fall, see that he gets the moonblade."

Ganamede gazed up at her, purely elven wonder shining through his wolflike features. "You are of Amlaruil's blood? Why have you never spoken of this?"

Even the lythari were not immune to the power of the queen, Arilyn thought bitterly. What was it about Amlaruil that inspired such reverence?

"Maybe I don't like to brag," she said shortly. "But come on-they know we're here, and they're probably wondering what's keeping us-"

Together they walked for several hundred paces. Ganamede stopped suddenly and for HO reason that Arilyn could ascertain.

"Look up," he advised her softly.

Arilyn did so and found that she stood in the center of what appeared to be a thriving settlement. The elven village itself was a wonder. Small dwellings had been fashioned high in the trees, connected by swinging walkways. So cleverly did the settlement blend hi with the forest that no one could see it unless he stood in its midst and looked straight up-which, unless one had the benefit of a lythari escort, was about as likely to occur in the natural course of

things as a salad-eating troll.

This, then, was Talltrees. But there was still no sign of the elven inhabitants.

"Where are they?" she said softly.

"All around. Read them the queen's proclamation," he urged her.

But the half-elf shook her head. That was AmlariuTs plan, and by Arilyn's estimation it had little chance of success. The offer of Retreat was a last resort. She would earn her freedom fairly, and she would do it in her own fashion.

"People of Talltrees," she called in a clear, ringing alto, speaking in the Elvish common tongue. 1 am come to you from Amlaruil, Lady of Evermeet, Queen of the Elven Island. Will you hear an ambassador of the queen?"

There was no sound to herald their coming, but suddenly the forest around her was alive with watchful, copper-skinned elves. Where they had been a moment before, Arilyn couldn't say. She herself was considered skilled in matters of stealth, but these folk were of the forest, and one with it.

Their garb was simple and scant, fashioned almost without exception from the forest's bounty: tanned hides, rough linen beaten and woven from wild flax, ornaments of feather and bone. But there was nothing primitive or crude about these green elves. They were an ancient people with ancient ways. Arilyn they regarded with detached, wary curiosity, but most gazed at Ganamede with an awe that approached reverence. It was likely the first time most of them had ever laid eyes upon one of the elusive silver shadows. This meeting, Arilyn suspected, would be a tale they would pass down to their children's children.

A tall male, whose features struck Arilyn as oddly familiar, stepped forward with the dignity of a stag. lake most of the green elves, he was lightly clad. His ruddy skin was painted with swirling designs of greens and brown, and his dark brown hair was worn long and plaited back.

"I am Rhothomir, Speaker of the Talltrees tribe. For the sake of the noble lythari who has seen fit to lead you here, we will consider the words of Amlaruil of Evermeet."

Consider. For the sake of the lythari.

That was not exactly welcoming, but in truth Arilyn took a certain perverse satisfaction in the rare lack of enthusiasm this male showed for the elven queen.

But now came the tricky part. Propriety demanded that she give her name, her house, and her credentials. Since she was woefully short on all three, she would simply use what she had, follow the elf s lead, and hope for the best.

Arilyn pulled her moonblade, lifted it high in a sweeping, formal elven salute, and then went down on one knee before the Speaker. "I am Arilyn Moonblade, daughter of Z'Beryl of the Moonflower clan," she said, using the name her mother had taken in exile. "As sworn swordmaiden, I have forsaken clan ties to take the name of the ancient and magical sword I carry. Word of your troubles has reached Evermeet. In the name of Queen Amlaruil, I offer my sword and my life in defense of your tribe."

With these words she laid the moonblade at the green elf s feet.

For a long moment Rhothomir regarded her in silence. "Evermeet's queen sends us a single warrior?"

"What would your response be if she had sent a thousand?" Arilyn retorted. "What benefit would there be if so many feet were to trample a path through the woodlands, a path so broad your enemies could walk in comfort to your very door? With the help of my friend, Ganamede of the Greycloak tribe, I have left a path that none can follow."

A moment's silence. "You walk silently, for a n'tel-que'tethira? he admittedly grudgingly, using an Elfish

Silver Shadows