Silver Shadows

231

I might need to call all of you-all the elves who ever have wielded the sword. Can this be done?"

The elfshadow clearly had not expected this response. *Only once before, but yes, this is possible."

"Good," she said briskly. "I need to infiltrate a fortress. There are nine of you, and one of me. That's enough to start a pretty good fight and to get the doors open."

"You must realize that there are risks," the shadow cautioned her. "Calling forth all the elfshadows takes a tremendous toll upon the sword's wielder. Not even Zoastria, who endowed the moonblade with the elishad-ow entity, called forth her own double more than a few times."

"Which brings me to my next question," Arilyn said. "Zoastria and Soora Thea. Is it possible that these are one and the same?"

"I do not know. Would you like to speak with her?"

Arilyn took a long, deep breath. This was the moment she had longed for-and dreaded-since she had first learned the secret of her moonblade's magic. It was mind-boggling enough to regard her own image as the entity of the sword. The possibility of conversing with the essence of an ancestor was utterly beyond her imagination. And not just some unknown ancestor-the essence of her own mother lived within the sword!

Yet as much as she longed to see Z*beryl again, Arilyn was not entirely sure how her mother would react to Arilyn's quest to avoid the destiny the moonblade had chosen for her. Arilyn was well accustomed to being considered less than adequate, for she had grown up a half-elf in an elven settlement. But never once had she seen disappointment in her mother's eyes. She was not certain she could bear to witness it now.

Yet Zoastria she could-and must-confront.

"How is it done?" Arilyn asked.

"The same way you called me forth. But the power of the sword is diminished when you call forth the others. You will be at risk in ways to which you are not accustomed."

Arilyn accepted this with a nod, and then once again lifted the sword. "Come forth, you who were once Zoastria," she said in a firm voice.

Again mist rose from the ancient blade, and as the elven form took shape Arilyn's heart seemed to turn to stone in her chest. This was the very form she had seen in the treasure chamber-the slumbering ancestor who haunted her dreams.

But oddly enough, the shadow of Zoastria did not appear to be nearly as solid as Arilyn's double. She was ghostly, insubstantial-not at ah* the heroic figure needed to lead the elves to victory.

"What do you want of me, half-elf, and how is it that you command the sword of Zoastria?" the elfshadow demanded in a tone of voice that Arilyn knew all too well. She had not expected to confront such scorn from her own ancestor, nor would she yield to it.

Arilyn squared her shoulders and faced down the misty image. "You are Zoastria, who bore the sword before me. Are you also the moon fighter known as Soora Thea?"

"Once. Thus did the forest folk say my name, for the language of Evermeet was beyond their grasp."

"You are needed again," Arilyn said softly. "Their descendants need the return of their hero."

But the image of Zoastria shook her head. "You know so little of the sword you carry. I cannot; I can only appear as you see me. Of all the sword's powers, the ability to call forth the elfshadow essence is the weakest. You should know that, to your sorrow," she added sharply.

Arilyn's cheeks burned, but she did not respond. For as long as she drew breath, she would grieve for the evil use made of her elfshadow by her former mentor and friend. The gold elf Kymil Nimesin had wrested control of the elfshadow from the sword and turned it-and therefore, Arilyn-onto an assassin's path. *

"Why not? Why are you different from the others?" the half-elf demanded.

"Because unlike most of the moon fighters, I did not die," Zoastria said. "It is possible to pass on the sword to a blade heir without tasting death. This is not a choice lightly made, but I made a pledge to return and this is how it is honored. There are others who have done this. Doubtless, you have heard legends."

The half-elf nodded. Stories of a sleeping hero who would return in a time of great need were told from the Moonshaes to Rashemen. And now she understood why all these stories had in common an ancient, mystic sword.

"But there is a way for me to honor my pledge," Zoastria continued. "Elfshadow and mistress must again become one. This cannot be while that which I once was sleeps in a rich man's vault. Unite the two, and I will be as alive as ever I was."

The half-elf nodded slowly. "Is this your wish?"

*What question is this? Better to ask, is this my duty? If there is no other way, then call me forth. I will come."

And with that, the ghostly image dissipated and flowed into the sword. Arilyn's own shadow disappeared with it.

Arilyn slid the moonblade back into its sheath and considered what she had learned. To retrieve the slumbering Zoastria would be no easy task and was not one she could attempt anytime soon. As her ancestor advised, she must try to find another way.

Hasheth left his horse at the public stables and set off down the docks of Port Kir on foot. The dock area was not the safest place to be, not even during daylight, but Hasheth walked alone with his confidence utterly intact. Had he not spent time among the assassins of Zazesspur? Though his apprenticeship might have been brief and ill-fated, he had learned enough to be awarded his sand-hue sash. He might not have notches on his blade to mark successful kills, but he could throw the unblooded knife hard and straight.

He had another weapon as well, one keener still, which he was honing with each day that passed. Hasheth had little doubt that his wits were equal to anything the docks of Port Kir might serve up.

His surroundings grew increasingly rougher as he made his way toward the sea. Small shops offering oddities of every description gave way to rough-and-tumble taverns. Before long the wooden walkways grew narrow, and between the boards he could see the dark water of Firedrake Bay lapping at the shore. As he neared his destination, the stench offish became overwhelming. In open warehouses on either side of the dock, men and women went about processing the day's catch, seemingly oblivious to the piles of discarded shells and shrimp heads and fish innards that were heaped around their boots.

Hasheth lifted one hand to his nose and picked up his pace. At the end of this dock was the Berringer Shipyard. It was here that all his work had led him. For days he had examined Lord Hhune's many books and ledgers, carefully piecing together bits of information and innuendo-even finding and deciphering some outright code. It had been a wondrous puzzle that led him at last to this place. All that remained for Hasheth to accomplish was to discern the purpose of Hhune's scheme, and then to find some way to turn it to his own benefit!

Berringer Shipyard was a bustling, noisy, smelly place, not at all what the young man had expected. He bought his way in at the gate by using a copy of the credentials that Hhune had supplied to one of the many merchant companies that purchased ships for him.

Hasheth wandered about, taking note of all. Deckhands by the dozen grunted and sweated as they rolled immense logs from flat-bottomed barges onto a large dock. These logs were then handhewn, the outer wood fashioned into

Silver Shadows

planks and beams and the heart of each shaped and smoothed into a strong, tall mast. Some planks, previously cut, soaked in an enormous vat of seawater mixed with some unspeakably vile-smelling concoction. Well-softened planks had been clamped onto curved frames so that they might take on the needed shape as they hardened and dried. A half-built ship rested on enormous trestles, looking for all the world like a well-picked skeleton. Three finished ships stood in dry dock.

The quality of work at all stages was well within the high standards expected of Tethyrian craftsmen. The ships were trim and sleek and showed every promise of remarkable speed. But it was the ironworks that impressed and enlightened Hasheth.

He stood and gazed at the trio of ships, to which several smiths were adding fittings and weaponry. These were to sail with an impressive arsenal: baltistae and catapults provided a considerable amount of firepower. Rows of iron-tipped bolts stood ready by each ballista, and piles of grapeshot-spiked iron balls linked with chain-would prove deadly when hurled from the catapult.

This, then, was it-the answer Hasheth had been seeking. These three ships were surely destined to become part of a private fleet of fast, heavily armed ships that could escort merchant vessels safely through pirate-infested waters or blockade a harbor.

Hasheth would have applauded either use. As head of the shipping guild, Lord Hhune had responsibilities and, perhaps, higher ambitions. And so did he. It was a shame that one of these ships must be sacrificed, but a man must be prepared to pay for his ambitions. The fact that he was using another man's coin would make it considerably easier.

His questions answered, the young man hurried back to the inn where he had rented a room. From his pack he took a new suit of clothing. The finely made dark garments of a prosperous merchant had been fashioned by the tailor who made all of Lord Hhune's clothing, as well as that of his boot-licking scribe, Achnib.

Hasheth pasted a thick mustache onto his lip and slicked back his hair with scented oil. He even swathed his middle with rolls of cloth to help approximate the scribe's spreading midsection and stuffed a bit of resinous gum between teeth and cheeks to pad his face a bit. When all was in readiness, he slipped from the inn and made his way back to the docks-and to a dark and dangerous tavern at the very edge of the black water.

This drinking hole suited his purpose perfectly. The crudely lettered sign outside labeled it The Race," a name taken from the channel of swift winds and dangerous waters that led into Firedrake Bay. Those ships that entered Port Kir ran a gauntlet of Nelanther pirates, a few of whom were bold enough to come ashore. Rumor had it that they drank here.

Hasheth found a corner table near some likely-looking toughs, one who sported a beard divided into twin prongs, the other of whom was more or less cleanshaven. A barmaid with an ale-soaked bodice and world-weary eyes came over to take his order.

"Wine, if you please," he demanded in an imitation of Achnib's pinched, querulous tones. He dropped his voice a notch or two. "I also need passage to Lantan, if such can be arranged."

The men at the next table exchanged glances. One of them propped his boots up on the empty chair at Hasheth's table.

"Couldn't help overhearing you. Might be that we could do the arranging you were speaking of."

Hasheth darted wary glances left and right, then leaned forward. "From Zazesspur? I would be grateful to you if this could be arranged, and swiftly."

"Oh, well, from Zazesapur," the other man said with more than a bit of sarcasm. "That's too easy by halt Sure you don't want to set sail from Evermeet, while you're at it?"

“I’ve business to attend in my home city," Hasheth said stiffly. "It should be concluded in ten days or so, and I need to leave quickly upon its conclusion. Can this be done?"

"Maybe, but it'll cost you. What were you thinking of paying?"

"I will pay you with information," he said in a low, furtive voice. *Tell me what cargo you prefer, and I can name you a likely ship, tell you her route and the strength of her crew. The merchant vessel will be guarded, but I can find out the name of the armed ship and help you place your own men upon it. Take over the escort ship, and the caravel and her cargo will be yours as well."

The first pirate picked at his teeth with a dirty fingernail as he considered this outrageous scenario. "And how would you be knowing so much? What's to say that this information you're eager to pay with is worth more than clay coins?"

Hasheth took a scrap of parchment and a bit of charcoal pencil from the bag tied to his augmented waistline. He scrawled a name and title on the sheet, then passed it to the men. They looked at him and burst into raucous laughter.

"What do you take us for, a coupla priests? Who learns to read but sandal-footed priests and wide-ass clerks?" hooted the bearded pirate. Nonetheless, he picked up the bit of paper and pocketed it, as Hasheth had hoped he might.

"My name is Achnib," Hasheth said with as much dignity as he thought the man he imitated could muster, "and I am chief scribe to Lord Hhune of Zazesspur."

"Hmm." This information seemed to impress the pirate. "But why the ten days, especially?"

"My lord is away on business. It behooves me to remove myself from the city before his return."

The men chuckled. "Been skimming, have you? Well, Lantan's a good place to be taking your coins. There's money to be made in some of them new weapons coming

out off the island. Get in on the business early, and you'll likely do well."

"I require passage, not advice on my investments," Hasheth said in a haughty tone as he began to rise from his chair. "Do you wish to do business, or shall I look elsewhere?"

"Haul in your sails a might, lad," the bearded pirate said dryly. "You want to go to Lantan. Tell us what you know, and if it holds water then maybe we can see about getting you there."

This was precisely what Hasheth had hoped to hear. Let them ask questions about Achnib-the more the better.

When the arrangements were completed, an elated Hasheth made his way back toward the inn to rid himself of his borrowed persona. He was not so enamored of his success, however, that he did not notice the two men lounging against the alley-side wall of a shop. They fell into step behind him, obviously considering the well-dressed and portly young man to be a ripe, easy mark.

Hasheth's lip curled with disdain. These clods did not even know how to tread silently-the first lesson given to fledgling assassins. He did not slow his pace, did not react at all until their sudden, board-thumping rush began. Then he whirled, tossing his assassin's knife with a quick, underhand snap. The blade spun once and then sank into one thug's gut with a wet, meaty thud.

The other man lacked the presence of mind or the rapid reflexes needed to halt his charge. Hasheth let him come, stepping aside at the last moment and extending one rigid forearm, elbow braced against his waist. He caught the second thug slightly below his center. The man's heavier top half flipped forward over Hasheth's arm. The thug crashed heavily into the wooden dock, leading with his teeth.

Before the stunned man could move, Hasheth stooped beside him and pulled a rusty, pitted knife from his belt. He snatched a handful of the thug's greasy hair, yanked back his head, pressed the edge of the knife to his throat and then-hesitated.

The young man was pleased that the skills he had learned in his training served him so well on the street. But he was young, and he had yet to kill a man. He glanced at his first victim, noted the red bubbles forming at the corners of the man's gaping mouth, and knew this would hold true only for a few moments more. But this second man-he was already down and dazed. Was there truly a need to kill twice?

Hasheth needed only a moment to think. He was dressed as Achnib, a man too soft and slow to have done what he himself had just accomplished. If word of his feat should spread, it might jeopardize the plans he had laid this night. The possibility was slight, but it was there. That was enough.

The young man pulled the dagger hard and fast, curving his hand back and around as he had been taught to do. Blood spurted forth in a pulsating geyser, but not so much as a drop of it stained Hasheth's hands.

Hasheth stood and regarded his handiwork. His time in the assassins' guild had served him well-not even an assassin of the Shadow Sash rank could have handled this matter more smoothly. It was just as his royal tutors always claimed-no knowledge is truly wasted.

The young man walked the few paces over to the first dead thug and ripped his dagger free. He wiped the blade clean on the corpse's tunic-or as clean as it was likely to get on the filthy garment-and slipped it back into his belt.

Later, when he reached the solitude of his hired room, he would carve two marks upon it, the first of what Hasheth expected would be many.

Throughout that night and into the next day, Arilyn could think of little but her strange conversation with the magical entity of her moonblade. If the elves must fight, and if they would not follow the leaders they had, then would she not have to find them a leader they would follow? Try as she might, she could think of no other solution to the problem.

There was something about Talltrees, however, that acted as a balm to her troubled thoughts. Each day was longer than the one before, and the time of midsummer was fast approaching. The summer solstice was a time of celebration for all elves, but Arilyn had never seen such joyous anticipation as that which gripped the elven settlement.

Twilight of midsummer eve came late and softly, with a deepening of golden green light. With it came those woodland creatures who would celebrate with the elven tribe. There were fauns, small feral folk with wild thatches of hair, furred hindquarters and legs that ended in dainty cloven hooves. Satyrs-larger, more ribald relatives of the fauns-came as well, already full of mead and high spirits. Several centaurs, grave and dignified even in this most joyous season, brought gifts of fruit and flowers to their elven hosts. There were pixies and sprites and other fey creatures for which Arilyn knew no names. And there were others who seemed to be there one moment, and not the next. At midsummer, she reasoned, the walls between the worlds were so thin that even a half-elf might catch glimpses through the veil.

All joined in the feasting and the sharing of summer mead, a wondrous honey wine distilled from flowers and fruit. No green elves kept bees, but they carefully harvested a part of that stored nectar that they found in hollowed trees, adding to it the essence of wild raspberries and elven magic. The result was far from primitive. Arilyn would easily place the mead alongside the best elven wines she had tasted.

At a certain, very prescribed point in the celebration- when the elves were growing merry and before the satyrs were entirely given over to impulse-the mid-

summer prayers were chanted and sung. The elves venerated the Seldarine, particularly the god of the forest, but homage was also paid to the gods of their visitors.

At last the music began. A lilting tune played on panpipes was the traditional invitation to dance. As the merrymakers joined in, so did other instruments: pipes, shaken bells, and pulsing drums.

For a while Arilyn only watched. There had been midsummer festivals in Evereska in the days before her mother's death, but she had been deemed too young to take part. Nor would she have been welcomed to many of the celebrations. Among the elves there were subtle, sacred overtones to such times that none other could share. Yet there was that about the music that drew her steadily closer to the dancers.

Arilyn had never quite understood the mystic fascination the elven people had with dance, nor was she particularly skilled. Yet at the urging of Hawkwing, her protege turned mentor, she had dressed in a filmy green gown made for dancing away a warm summer's night. It was by far the loveliest thing Arilyn had ever worn. Gossamer-soft, light enough to float around her as she moved, it captured the clear, fresh green of a perfect summer day. It was also the scantiest costume she had ever put on; the skirts were short, and her arms and legs were bared for dancing. At Hawkwing's insistence, Arilyn wore a wreath of tiny white flowers in her hair and had left her feet bare. Oddly enough, all the elves were dressed in similar fashion. There was no deerskin tonight, no ornaments of bones or feathers. It seemed as if the folk of Tethir had stepped back for one night into a still more ancient time.

Hawkwing had already joined the dancing, wearing proudly the emerald that had been Arilyn's midsummer gift to her. Most of the gifts exchanged were simple: fruit or flowers for the most part, but the memory of the purely feminine joy this gift had ignited in the girl-child's eyes warmed Arilyn still. She worried for the child; Hawkwing was too young to hate so passionately and to kill with such ease. It was good to see the girl whirling in Tamsin's arms, laughing as gaily as if she truly were the carefree maiden she should have been. The sight was well worth the cost of the emerald-yet another of Danilo's costly tokens. As she enjoyed Hawkwing's happiness, Arilyn doubted Danilo would disapprove of the use she'd made of his gift.

The child caught Arilyn's eye, and her thin face lighted in a smile. Hands outstretched, she ran to the moon elf and pulled her into the dance. The circle began, the final dance that would celebrate the solstice. Arilyn moved along with the others, not caring that her steps were not nearly so light or intricate as those of the fey folk. There was something about the festivities that made such matters unimportant.

Arilyn allowed herself to be swept away in the peace and joy that the circle dance wove around them all, knowing that this would be the last part of the festivities in which she would join.

Among the elves, midsummer was a time when marriages were celebrated and lovers rejoiced. Children born of this night were considered a special blessing of the gods. Even those elves who had no special partner often sought out a friend with whom to share the magic that was midsummer.

It was almost impossible not to. As the cycles of the moon pulled on the tides, the inexorable wheel of the year drew them all into the celebration. Fauns slipped away into the shadows, two by two. Pixies and sprites flitted off like paired fireflies, at this sacred time, each to his own.

Arilyn pulled away from the circle slowly, for she was loath to end the rare and wondrous communion she had known this night. A light touch-startling against her bared shoulder-had her spinning about, hand at the hilt of the sword she was pledged to wear even on such a night.

She turned into the circle of Foxfire's arms. He did

not speak, but his eyes were dark with unmistakable invitation.

Instinct and habit took over; Arilyn went rigid and began to pull away.

Foxfire placed a gentle hand at the small of her back, stopping her retreat. The night is short," he said quietly, the traditional phrase exchanged between the lovers or comrades who shared the gift of midsummer.

Arilyn's breath caught in her throat as the full impact of the elf s invitation swept her. In Foxfire's eyes, she was worthy of this most elven of celebrations, which was not only merrymaking, but also a sacred union with the land. She had never dreamed of such acceptance into the elven world-had never considered such a tiling to be possible. The temptation to be what he thought she was was too great for the lonely half-elf to bear.

For the first time in her life, Arilyn did not draw away.

"The night is short," she agreed.

Korrigash and Ferret watched as their war leaders slipped away into the forest together "It is not right," the male said, his face deeply troubled. "Are not you and Foxfire promised?"

"For many years," Ferret agreed, her black eyes unreadable. "But what of it? As long as those two win battles, I care not what else they do."

"But Foxfire is my friend, and in this he does danger to himself."

"How so?" Ferret said sharply. For many days she had kept a gimlet eye on the half-elf. To all appearances, Arilyn's actions ran the course her claims had laid out. But Ferret could not rid herself entirely of the fear that Arilyn would fall back into the role she had played with such skill among the humans. It seemed possible to her that once the two were alone, an assassin's blade would find Foxfire's heart.

But such was not Korrigash's concern. "For good or ill, a bond is formed between a male and maid. Never is this more true than at midsummer. The People follow Foxfire now; they might not if he aligns himself too closely with the moon elf."

"And if they do not follow Foxfire, then you will lead," Ferret said calmly, reassured by the hunter's words. "Let this thing fall as it will. But come," she said in an abrupt change of mood, "the night is short."

"But you are promised to Foxfire," Korrigash protested. Clearly, he was both troubled and intrigued by her suggestion.

"He is otherwise engaged," the female pointed out. "Consider it practice, in case you are required to take his place elsewhere."

The hunter began to protest, but his words wandered off uncertainly and then ceased altogether. The magic of midsummer was already upon them.

Foxfire gazed up through the thick canopy of the forest, watching as the solstice moon sank low in the sky. Her pale light seemed to linger on the long, white limbs still entwined with his. He dropped a kiss-soft as a butterfly's wing-on the closed eyelid of the sleeping half-elf and wondered what he should do next.

He had suspected before, but now he knew beyond doubt: whatever she might be in her heart and in her soul, Arilyn's blood was hah7 human. No elf slept as she did.

As war leader, Foxfire was pledged to follow Rhothomir. He might argue with the Speaker-and he did so far more than did any other elf in the tribe-but he respected the older male. He owed him this knowledge. By every tradition of the elven people, he was bound to tell him what he knew of the newcomer in their midst. But how could he, knowing Rhothomir as he did? To the Speaker, all humans were enemies, and half-elves were an obscenity, an abomination. He would probably order Arilyn slain even if there were no threat to the tribe. And now, during this troubled time, neither Foxfire's influence nor arguments would save her.

And what of Arilyn herself? How would she react if she knew her secret was out? Here, also, Foxfire had little doubt of the outcome. She would flee the forest, and that he could not bear. She must not know he had caught her in slumber.

But how could she not? Foxfire did not know how it was with sleep-perhaps it was like reverie, a state that was entered slowly and in deepening stages. She had just drifted off moments before. Perhaps he could ease her awake, using her own astonishing innocence as an ally. She was unfamiliar with her own responses- Foxfire marveled that this could be so-but perhaps she would confuse a moment's sleep with the wondrous, languid haze that followed their private celebration.

Gently, deftly, he began to coax her back toward awareness. Her sky-colored eyes opened and grew wary.

Foxfire smiled. "I accept that the ways of the Seldarine are a mystery, but never did I understand why the goddess of love and beauty is of the moon people. Now I understand, for in you I have seen her face."

There was nothing disingenuous about his words-he meant them exactly as he said them-but there was a second layer of meaning hidden beneath. He saw it catch flame in Arilyn's eyes. The goddess Hanali Celanil was the epitome and the essence of an elven female. No words could have expressed more strongly his regard for Arilyn as a lover, or his acceptance of her as an elf. He hoped fervently that she heard the tribute in his words, and not the lie.

And so it was. Her white arms came up around his neck, and the magic of midsummer began for them again.

Fifteen

Kendel Leafbower slipped into the dockside tavern known as the Dusty Throat and made his way through the throng of sweaty, hard-drinking patrons toward an empty seat at the far corner of the bar. Not to his liking was the rough crowd, ' ' or the bitter ale, but he was tired and thirsty after a long day's work on the docks of Port Kir. The Dusty Throat was renowned for the ribald wit of its barmaids and the vigorous brawls that broke out almost nightly. Indeed, the tavern had been closed for nearly a tenday following a particularly spectacular fight and was just this night resuming business. Despite the obvious dangers, this particular tavern was favored by many of Kendel's fellow workers, so he felt a bit safer here than he might have otherwise.

The recent brawl had left a number of new marks on the battle-scarred tavern. Two of the supporting beams had been gouged deeply and repeatedly at a height of about three feet off the floor. To Kendel's eyes, the beams resembled partially felled trees. The damage suggested the work of either a very tall beaver or a very short woodsman. There was a splinter-edged hole in one wooden wall at about the same height and about a foot across, which afforded the patrons a glimpse of the wine cellar and gave the resident rats a convenient window from which to peek out at the patrons. A large section of the bar had been replaced, and the light wood was a marked contrast to the old, ale-stained counter. Several of the chairs were obviously new, and the splintered rungs on perhaps a dozen more had been bound with string in a make-do attempt at repair. Even the stone hearth, a massive thing that spanned the entire west wall of the tavern, had not gone unscathed. There were several deep chips in the stones, all of which were starkly obvious against the smoke-blackened hearth.

Nor had the tavern's employees escaped injury. The burly cook stood at the hearth, haranguing the halfling helper who struggled to turn the spit and basting a roasting lamb with one hand. His other arm was thickly bandaged and supported by a food-stained sling. The appearance of the hideous half-ore who did odd jobs and heavy lifting was rendered even more disreputable than usual. His snoutlike nose had been splattered flat across his face, and his badly swollen jaw was mottled with shades of purple and the ugly yellow-green of a fading bruise. He labored noisily to draw air through his swollen mouth, and the jagged shards of broken teeth were clearly visible with each rasping breath. One of his lower canine tusks was missing entirely, making his appearance oddly lopsided. Even some of the barmaids bore the lingering marks of battle, including blackened eyes, torn knuckles-and triumphant smirks.

This was by far the most extensive damage done by any tavern brawl in Kendel's memory, which was long indeed. He noticed all of these things in a glance. Port Kb* was a dangerous place, and those who wished to survive learned to sharpen their senses and keep alert for signs of danger.

Kendel was also keenly aware of the fact that he was conspicuous even in this crowded taproom. Most native Tethyrians had olive skin, dark eyes, and hair that ranged from chestnut to black. Most of the sailors and dockhands who packed the tavern were heavily muscled from their labors. In stark contrast to his fellows, Kendel had red-gold hair, sky-colored eyes, and a pale skin that no amount of southern sun could darken. He was strong, yet he remained slightly built and stood no more than a hand-span or two over five feet. He was, in short, an elf.

"Wuddle /have?" demanded an exceedingly deep, gruff voice from somewhere beyond the counter.

Puzzled, the elf leaned forward and peered down over the bar. Glaring at him was the upturned face of a young dwarf with a short, dun-colored beard and a face as glum as a rainy morning.

"An elf! Well then, no need to be telling me," the dwarf continued sourly. "The ale here's too rough fer the likes of you, so yer wanting a goblet of bubbly water. Or mebbe some nice warm milk."

"Or perhaps elverquisst," Kendel suggested coldly. The delicate appearance of the elven folk often led other races to make such assumptions, while in reality, elven wines and liquors were among the most potent in all Faerun.

"Oh, elverquisst, is it? Sure, this place's got barrels of fine elven wines," the dwarf rejoined with heavy sarcasm. "And the privies out back is full to overflowing with jools, too, if n you get my meaning."

An involuntary smile tugged at the corner of Kendel's lips. He shared the new barkeep's dubious opinion of the Dusty Throat's wine cellar. And although he himself might not have phrased his criticism in quite the same manner, he had to agree the dwarfs comparison was apt.

"Truth be told, wouldn't be minding a big mug of that elverquisst stuff meself right about now," the dwarf continued in a wistful tone. "Now there's a drink that can strip paint an' melt scrap metal!"

"I've never heard elverquisst described in quite those terms," Kendel replied mildly. "You have troubles that require drowning, I take it?"

"Aye."

Belatedly, the dwarven barkeep seemed to recall both his duties and the dour reputation of his people. He closed his mouth with an audible click and snatched up the bar rag draped on a small, squat keg behind him With this he began to wipe the counter, hopping up repeatedly as he took one swipe at a time.

The elf suppressed a smile. "You might pull the keg closer to the bar," he suggested. "That might make your duties easier, as well as enable you to see the patrons."

"Ain't nobody here worth seeing," grumbled the dwarfj but he promptly did as Kendel suggested. After a moment, he climbed onto the keg and thunked a frothy tankard down before the elf. "Ale. It ain't good, but it's the best this place has got. Me, I find ale tastes better without the seawater what they add to stretch it out!"

Kendel accepted the drink with a nod and took a sip. It was indeed better than any he'd ever tasted in the tavern. In return, he slipped a small silver coin from his pocket and slid it toward the barkeep. The dwarf fielded it with a quick, insouciant sweep of the bar rag.

"Can't be letting them see it, or they'd have it from me faster'n a drunken halfling with a willing maid. The folk what run this place is mighty quick to take coins what ain't theirs."

"You've been robbed?" Kendel asked cautiously. It was not wise to inquire too closely into the troubles of others, yet he felt inexplicably drawn by the barkeep and charmed by his grumpy overtures. Such friendliness was rare in Tethyr, especially to an elf

"Robbed? You might say that," the dwarf retorted. "I come in here, same as you, to wet my throat after a long day." A fleeting grin lit his face with an unexpected touch of nostalgia. "Though truth be told, the day weren't no hardship on me. The Foaming Sands-ever beared tell of that place?"

The elf nodded, for the reputation of that exclusive bath and pleasure house stood tall in the city. He did not credit the dwarfs claim as entire truth, however, for the Foaming Sands was well beyond the means of dock workers and barkeeps.

"Had me a pocketful of gold and a fistful of silver," the dwarf continued wistfully. "Earned the gold, mind you, with ten years of hard labor, and the silver were a gift and rightfully mine. Spent every one of them silver coins at the Sands, and counted it a bargain. Then I come here. Afore I even finished one mug the fight started. Good thing I was feeling uncommon mellow, or I mighta done considerable damage."

"To all appearances, you did well enough," Kendel murmured. "Your gold, I take it, went toward repairs?"

The dwarf snorted. "What they took from me was enough to build a new place from cellar to chimney, with enough left over to hire half the girls who work the Foaming Sands to tend tables! Then they say it weren't enough, and the local law of course backs 'em up. So here I am, working off the rest. Been here fer days, and seems like I can't get ahead nohow. Seems like I traded one kinda slavery fer another," he concluded glumly.

Kendel received this pronouncement in silence, for it would hardly be wise to voice his outrage. Slavery was not uncommon in Tethyr, but the thought of this oddly charming dwarfs being held in servitude was particularly galling to the elf. Times were difficult in Tethyr, especially for those folk not of human blood.

If there was any benefit to a long life, Kendel mused, it was the ability to see the wheel of events turn full circle, again and again. This was also, in many ways, a curse. In Tethyr, this was perhaps doubly true.

Kendel had come to Tethyr before the grandsire of any human in the room had wailed his way into the worlft. He had built a home and raised a family, only to have his property seized when the humans in power decided that no elf could own land. By his sword and his strength he had rebuilt another life, his fortunes rising along with those of the royal faction for which he fought. Then the mood of the Tethyrian kings shifted, and vicious pogroms decimated even the most loyal elven folk. Kendel had survived; the royal family had not. For years an egalitarian fervor had gripped the land, extending even to members of other races. Once again Kendel had thrived, only to see the cycle of public sentiment whirl back toward low ebb. Three years ago, he had been a merchant. Now the best work he could find was as a dockhand.

The elf sipped at bis ale, but though he was deep in his memories, he did not neglect to watch for possible dangers. From the corner of his eye, Kendel noted the group of men that pushed their way into the room. Five of them, all mercenaries. He knew the breed well enough to recognize them at a glance; they were marked by a swaggering gait that bespoke bravado, but which also suggested a certain lack of purpose or direction. Masterless men, for the most part, looking for a reason to fight and therefore to live.

But these men seemed to be an exception; they had purpose enough. All four of them pushed their way through the crowd, coming straight toward the place where Kendel sat.

The elf surreptitiously loosened the dagger he kept strapped to one thigh. It had been many years since he'd had to use it, but elven memories were long. If he were required to fight, he felt confident he could make a good accounting of himself.

"I know you," one of the mercenaries proclaimed in a loud voice, pointing a beefy finger in Kendel's direction. "You're one of them wild elves what attacked the pipe-weed farm south of Mosstone. Burned the barns to the ground, they did, and slaughtered the whole family and most of the farmhands."

In the suddenly silent room, Kendel swiveled to face his accuser. "Not so, sir," he said evenly. "If there is any quarrel to be had with the elven people, you would do better to seek it among the Forest Folk. Surely you can see by my hair and my skin that I am not one of them."

"Well now, I don't know about that," another of the mercenaries put in. "I seen a red-headed elf among the raiders. Word has it he cut his mark onto our captain's face. For all we know, you might even be him."

"That is not possible. I have not left Port Kir for many months," the elf protested. Tve worked the docks since early spring. There are men here who can vouch for me!" Kendel looked around the room, seeking confirmation.

There was none. Even some of the men who lifted alongside him day after day sat in stolid silence, their eyes averted.

But the elf s words elicited a burst of raucous laughter from the mercenaries. "Hear that, boys?" one of them hooted. "He works the docks, if you please! If any of you ever laid eyes on a more unlikely dockhand, I'd surely like to hear tell of it!"

By now it was clear to Kendel what path this confrontation would take. He had played this scene before, albeit upon different stages. A farm, a palace, a counting-house, a tavern-it was all much the same in the end.

The elf s gaze remained calm and even, but his fingers closed around the grip of his dagger. If he struck first, and struck fast and hard, there was a good chance he could to work his way to the door.

A good chance-that was more than he usually had. He would escape, and then he would rebuild, as he had so many times before.

"I beared tell there was elven slaves working that farm, against what passes fer law in this land," observed a gruff voice from behind the counter. "If you boys was smart, you might not be so quick to claim fighting to keep 'em there."

The mercenaries exchanged startled glances. There came the screech of wood dragging across wood, and a dwarf with a dun-colored beard popped into view and affixed the men with an accusing glare. The mercenaries exploded into laughter.

"A dwarf! And here was me, thinking we was hearing the voice of the gods!" hooted one of the men.

"He's a bit short for a god," noted another man, grinning widely when his dubious witticism inspired a new burst of mirth.

"Mind your affairs, dwarf, and let us tend ours," growled the largest man among them. The dwarf shrugged and lifted both hands in a careless gesture of agreement; then he hopped down off the keg and disappeared. The mercenary lashed out with one foot, kicking the stool out from under the elf

Agile Kendel was on his feet at once, his dagger bright and ready in his hand. His attacker reached over his shoulder, drew a broadsword from his shoulder sheath, and closed in.

Fortunately for the elf, the crowds put his attackers at a disadvantage. There was little room for the swordsman to maneuver, and Kendel was able to parry the first of several thrusts. But only the first few. With the ease of frequent practice, the patrons pushed the tables and chairs against the walls to clear an impromptu arena. Many of the others, especially those who still bore the scars of the last brawl, made hastily for the exit.

Kendel soon found himself faced with five men and an open field. The bar was to his back, and the mercenaries surrounded him in a semicircle. Swords drawn and confident leers twisting their faces, they began to close in.

A tremendous crash ripped through the ominous silence of the tavern. The dwarven barkeep exploded through the wooden wall under the bar counter, head leading and held down like that of a ramming goat. It occurred to Kendel suddenly how the large hole in the wall of the wine cellar had come to be.

Bellowing a cry to his god of battle, the dwarf barreled straight toward the largest mercenary. His head connected hard, significantly below the man's sword-belt.

The mercenary's eyes glazed, and his sword clattered from his hand. His lips fluttered soundlessly, and his hands lowered to grasp at his flattened crotch. After a moment's silence, he tilted and toppled like a felled tree. A small, high-pitched whimper wafted up from the floor where he lay.

But the dwarf suffered no ill effect from the impact. Few substances on all Toril could rival a dwarven skull for sheer durability. He staggered back a few paces, rebounded off the bar, and sprinted across the room in search of a weapon. The patrons parted before him like cockroaches scattering from a suddenly lit torch, and the hearth came into full view. Before it stood the bemused cook, who balanced on one arm and hip a large platter holding a leg of freshly roasted lamb.

The dwarf headed for the hearth at a run. On the way, he grabbed a cloth that had been left on a table and wrapped it twice about his hand. Then he seized the leg by the joint and whirled back toward the battle. Using the roast meat as a club, he aimed a hard upswing at the nearest mercenary.

The man got his sword down to meet the unusual weapon, but the blade sank to the hilt in the tender meat and did not seem to slow the dwarfs blow in the slightest. Up swung the leg of lamb, driving the hilt of the sword into the man's face. There was a crunch of bone as the hilt struck and shattered his nose, then a splat as the sizzling meat slapped into the man and splattered him with hot juices. Howling, pawing at his ruined nose and blinded eyes, the mercenary reeled off.

"Waste o' good food," muttered the dwarf. Nonetheless, he tossed the leg of lamb to the floor so he could tug free the sword. The weapon was too long for him to use, but judging from how well the elf was holding forth with just a dagger, he figured his new friend would know the use of it well enough.

Between parried blows, Kendel glanced toward the hearth as another dwarven battle cry ripped through the tavern. His new ally held a sword before him like a lance, hilt braced against his belly, and was already well into another charge. The dwarfs chosen mark turned toward the low-pitched shout and neatly sidestepped. The dwarf could not change course in time to hit his original target, but his sword plunged deep into the protruding belly of yet another mercenary.

"Oops," murmured the dwarf, but he quickly made the best of his mistake. He leaned into the sword and began to run in a circle around the impaled man, looking for all the world like a farmhand pushing one of the handles that turns a millstone. The sword tore through the man's flesh with sickening ease. His insides spilled forth, and he slumped, lifeless, into the spreading pile of gore.

The elf, meanwhile, leaped forward to parry a blow from the first man, a vicious downward sweep that would have felled the dwarf. He caught the man's sword on the crossguard of his dagger, but the force of the blow forced him to his knees.

Before the mercenary could disengage his sword for another strike, the dwarf closed in. Reaching high over the joined blades, he delivered a punch to a point just below the man's rib cage. The man's breath wheezed out in a single gusty rush, and he bent double over the kneeling elf.

The dwarf seized the man by the hair and forced his head up. "Seems like we finally see eye to eye," he quipped, and then he smashed his fist into the mercenary's face. Once would have been enough, but the dwarf hit him again just for the practice. Casually he shoved the insensible man aside and picked up his fallen sword.

"Use this one, elf," he advised Kendel. The other's a finer weapon, but youll find the grip a mite slippery."

The elf seized the offered sword and leaped to his feet, whirling to meet the final challenger and slapping his dagger into the dwarfs hand. But the last standing mercenary did not like his chances against these two. He slid his own sword hastily into its scabbard and bolted for the door.

"After him," bellowed the dwarf, kicking into a run.

Kendel hesitated and then followed suit. He had drawn steel against human soldiers; the penalties would be stern. Wherever this dwarf might be going would certainly be safer for him than Port Kir. And it occurred to Kendel that the journey might well be worthwhile in itself.

He found the dwarf in the courtyard, bouncing wildly as he sat atop the struggling mercenary. Kendel strode over and placed a blade at the man's throat.

" 'Bout time you got here,* grumbled the dwarf as he rolled aside. This one's jumpier than a bee-stung horse. On yer feet," he instructed the man. "Start aValking east down the street. I'm behind you, and if you run a step or sing out fer help, Fll dig this fine dagger into yer backside."

"What do you plan to do with him?0 Kendel asked as he fell in beside the dwarf

The dwarf pursed his lips and considered. Truth be told, I'm a'getting mighty tired of all that's been going on in these parts. I'm for going back to the Earthfaat Mountains and my kin, but first I'm thinking we should take this scum back to whatever pond he's used to floating on. Fd like to meet the man who hired him," he said in a voice full of grim promise.

"Why?" Kendel asked, surprised.

"I been a slave fer ten years. More, if n you add the days I was forced to work in that sow's bowels of a tavern. Didn't much like it. Don't much like the idea of anybody, not even them pixie-licking wild elves, being forced into slavery. I wanna know the who and why of it. Hired swords don't come cheap, and taking elves as slaves can only bring a keg of trouble. There's cheaper and easier ways of picking pipeweed leaves. Something else is going on."

Kendel eyed the dwarf with new respect. Seldom did the insular dwarven people consider the well-being of other races. He was also a bit shamed by the dwarfs concern. He had long heard tales of the forest elves' troubles, but had been unwilling to get involved. To many humans, an elf was an elf, and incidents such as the one in the tavern were far too common. Yet here was a dwarf, ready to go to the aid of the forest folk.

"Is that why you fought in the tavern that first night?" he asked softly. "In defense of a beleaguered elf?"

The dwarf snorted and prodded at the mercenary with the tip of the dagger. They spoke ill of me mother," he said. They shouldn't ought to do that."

"Indeed they shouldn't," Kendel agreed. "You did well to defend her honor."

"And her name," the dwarf added. "Seems like I do more'n my share of that. See, me mother passed her name along to me. I wear it right proud, but not everyone sees things the same."

"Ah. My name is Kendel Leafbower," the elf said, curious as to what the dwarfs name might be and hoping to speed the introductions.

"And I be called Jill," responded his new friend, shooting a cautious, sidelong look up at the elf. His expression dared Kendel to comment.

That explains much," murmured Kendel solemnly. "In Elvish, the word 'Jill' means fearsome warrior,' " he lied hastily, for storm clouds were already gathering on the dwarfs brow.

"Aye, that she was," Jill said happily, his ire forgotten. The name come down through the clan to male and female alike. And odd enough, it seems like every male dwarf who bears it fights better 'n most."

"Probably because you have more practice," the elf observed; then he winced as it occurred to him how the proud dwarf might take these words.

But to his surprise, a deep rumble of laughter shook the dwarfs belly and rolled upward in waves. "Aye, there's something to that," Jill admitted.

The new friends shared a companionable grin and set off with their hostage at a brisk pace toward the east, and whatever answers might await them there.

Sixteen

After his meeting with Lord Hhune, Bunlap set off for his fortress with a new contingent of hired men and a dark heart full to overbrimming with plans for the destruction of the elves who had taunted and eluded him for far too long. One of his new employees, a priest of Loviatar whose fascination with the concept of suffering lay well beyond the bounds of orthodoxy, had agreed to accompany him eastward and interrogate the slain elves that Vhenlar and his men had retrieved. In time, they would strike the elves in their most secret places.

But the mercenary captain was none too happy with the news that greeted him upon his arrival. Most of the members of his last war band had died in the forest, and his best archer had been stuck more times than a seamstress's pincushion. The expensive Halruaan wizard still lay abed, suffering from low spirits and unspecified injuries. Worse, Vhenlar had not managed to retrieve a single long-eared corpse for the priest to interrogate.

"Leave 'em or join 'em. That was the choice we had," Vhenlar informed his captain. "I say we leave 'em altogether-and forever-and let well enough alone."

"In due time," Bunlap informed him, staring moodily at the forest.

"What's to be gained from going on?" pressed Vhenlar. The logging operation is over. You got your money out of it and came away clean. What more do you want?"

"It's a personal matter-" the captain began.

But Vhenlar wasn't having any of that. "Not again! I've seen you plunge headfirst and neck-deep into trouble one time too many. I didn't spend four years dodging the Zhents just so I could live the rest of my years looking over my shoulder for vengeful elves. I've had a bellyful. Give me my pay, and I'm gone."

The captain shook his head, not even bothering to look at the angry archer. "Three more battles. That's all it should take. The first will be a minor skirmish. Then it's on to the logging camp. Old Hhune put a fair amount of money into it. That site is strategic and it's ours. We can even pick up the lumbering trade, once things cool down a bit, only there will be no need to split the proceeds with anyone else. You could retire a very, very rich man."

"I'm not going back into that forest," Vhenlar began.

"You won't have to. You can fight this one in your preferred fashion-from behind the parapets, shooting down at the attackers. For this you need not leave the safety of the fortress."

The archer considered this. "How are you going to arrange that?"

"We wait," Bunlap said simply. The elves will come to us, of that I am confident."

"Don't suppose you'd care to tell me why."

The mercenary captain fixed an icy glare on his longtime associate. 'Tou do remember the Harpers, do you not?" ^

Vhenlar groaned. The secret society known as the Harpers was devoted to thwarting the plans of the Zhentarim, curbing the ambitions of ruthless and powerful men, and just generally being a boil on the backside of any man out for a bit more than what the meddlers considered to be his fair share. "They're snooping into this mess?"

"Indeed. It is well that I returned to Zazesspur. Word is that a Harper agent bungled his cover and managed to slip out of the city just ahead of the local assassins. I asked around and learned there was yet another Harper in the city, at least until just recently. The elf woman who slipped right past our fortress with that clever little smoke screen is one of their more troublesome agents. You might even recall the name: Arilyn Moonblade?"

"Not the one they say snuck into Darkhold and killed old Cherbil Nimmtr

The same. She knows who I am and, if she meets up with the forest elves in time, they'll figure out between them that the source of their troubles lies behind these fortress walls."

"Oh, she's met up with them," Vhenlar retorted. "She's a gray elf, right? With a magic sword? Well, she was right there with the wild elves, telling 'em what to do. And they were listening, though never would I have believed it. But for her, they would have killed us all!"

"All the better. You can be certain that elven scouts followed you here. I expect they'll come calling in force anytime now. And that is where your skills with the bow come into play. Kill me a certain moon elЈ and you're free to go where you want," Bunlap concluded grimly.

The archer nodded, but in truth he had little faith in the other man's assurances. Nor could he muster a shred of enthusiasm for the coming battle. Having faced those elves and that Harper wench, he had no desire to do so again anytime soon. Not one night passed by but he didn't relive the elf woman's blue-fire charge, or awake sitting bolt upright and drenched in sweat,dreaming of enemies he could never see or touch, but who constantly surrounded him.

Yet what choice did he have? Vhenlar would be forced to fight the wild elves until he was either slain or went mad. Bunlap would not let him go until his desire for vengeance was slaked. And from all that Vhenlar had seen of his captain, that was not likely to happen easily… or soon.

Several days after the midsummer celebration, Arilyn walked off alone into the forest. The key to the lythari's den, the wooden pipe that approximated the call of a lythari, was gripped in one fist. What she intended to do was not easy, but she saw little choice.

The half-elf went as far out into the forest as she dared. Even now, she easily got turned around in the magic-laden area surrounding Talltrees. She raised the wooden summoner to her lips and sent a long, mournful call wavering through the trees. Choosing a fallen log as a likely seat, she sat down to wait.

Arilyn was not certain Ganamede would even answer the summons. The young lythari had been puzzled, perhaps even hurt, by her apparent inability to understand the gift he had given her in taking her to the lythari den. Nor could she explain to him that she'd had no real intention of asking him to recruit his peace-loving people to join the green elves' battles. In suggesting this to Rhothomir, she had been buying time, purchasing Ganamede's safety. But how could she explain this when it was precisely what she now intended to do?

"Arilyn."

The half-elf spun toward the soft voice and found herself nearly nose to muzzle with the silver-furred lythari.

"I heard a strange story in Talltrees," she began without preamble. The green elves tell of warrior who saved their tribe a few centuries back. It turns out tha^this warrior was one of my ancestors, Zoastria. Soora Thea, they called her. Word has it that she commanded the silver shadows. Is it true your people once allied in battle with the forest folk?"

"Once, long ago," Ganamede agreed reluctantly. "But the evil that came to the forest in those long-ago times was great, one that threatened its very fabric. Undead abominations, creatures from the dark plane, and an orcish tribe that fought for them, battled for no purpose other than the pleasure to be found in the death of elves. These creatures were an ulcerous growth upon the land, and so the lythari fought until the enemy was no more."

The humans we're dealing with now are none too pleasant either," Arilyn pointed out.

"Even so, humans are intelligent folk, and there is much good among them. From time to time the lythari strike against an evil individual-a rogue human, if you will, and sometimes even against an elf. But to do battle with many humans? How can we be certain the good are not slain along with the evil?"

"Sometimes you can't," she admitted. "At times Fve resented my sword for judging those who fece me, but its a comfort to know that because of its magic, I can't accidentally kill an innocent. Most warriors don't have that advantage.

"If you will not fight," she added with a sudden surge of inspiration, "perhaps you'd consent to scout? Surely there are many 'doors to the gate' in the forest. You could slip in and out and give us a better idea of what we face."

The lythari considered her suggestion. "It is as you say. Yes, I will do this, and bring word to you of threats against the green folk. It is not much, but it may help."

Arilyn smiled and placed a hand on her Mend's furred shoulder. "It's quite a bit, and more than I like to ask of you."

"I know this," Ganamede replied softly. "For a time I doubted your purpose. But like us, you also walk between two worlds. It is not an easy thing to do, and sometimes others, who see through only one pair of eyes, do not understand."

"Sometimes I don't understand, myself," Arilyn admitted.

The wolflike elf placed his muzzle on her shoulder in a rare caress. "In time, you will. And when you do, I will take you where you need to go."

And then he was gone, bounding off through the trees with eerie silence.

Arilyn puzzled briefly over his words, then set them aside for more practical and immediate concerns. Despite her words to her friend, what Ganamede offered wouldn't be nearly enough. Scouting would be helpful, certainly, but without the silver shadows beside them, it was unlikely the wild elves would venture beyond the boundaries of their forest.

And unless they did, and unless they won, Bunlap and his men would continue to press and harass the elves.

It was clear to Arilyn that the Harpers' original goal of compromise with the humans was out of the question. Briefly, she wondered what Khelben Arunsun would think if he knew he'd urged her to make a deal with a former Zhentilar soldier. This much she had learned of Bunlap when she'd researched his fortress's defenses. The Zhentarim were devoted to evil gods and their own personal profits, but they often showed a special enmity against the elven people. Arilyn knew enough of Bunlap and his ilk to know that his war against the elves was not due to a misunderstanding, nor was it solely for profit. It was a vendetta.

And it was taking a grim toll. Before her arrival in the forest, Talltrees had been a thriving settlement. Now, fewer than a hundred elves remained to the tribe.

Perhaps it was time to present Queen Amlaruil's invitation to Retreat to Evermeet. Arilyn doubted the elves of Tethir would accept, and after midsummer, she understood this better. They were bonded to the land, as firmly rooted in their forest as any of the ancient trees. Even so, they should be given the option. There was nothing else for them to do. They were too few to fight alone.

Or were they? Talltrees was one settlement, its inhabitants one clan of one tribe. Surely there must be others! The Forest of Tethir was a vast place, and the elves of the Elmanesse tribe were relative newcomers. There were other elves who had been living in the forest from time beyond memory. Surely now they would come together to fight a common enemy! As Arilyn considered this notion, she became more and more convinced that this was the path to take.

Excited, she returned to Talltrees and sought out Foxfire. To her surprise, the war leader was not encouraging.

"Yes, there are other tribes, and many clans among each tribe," he said cautiously. "Many of the Elmanesse clans were slaughtered during the reign of the royal Tethyr family. There are small groups here and there, but they are too few and too far removed from us to be of much assistance. There is a small community of Elmanesse on Tethyr Peninsula, and other clans that live in the forest to the southeast of Trademeet. These elves are unlikely to aid us. In many ways their interests are tied more tightly to those of the humans. They trade with the farming folk who live to their east, and they carry goods north on the same path used by the caravans of humans and halftings. When the troubles started, we sent scouts northward to see if these folk were the source of the problem." Foxfire paused for a wry smile. "Oddly enough, our scouts met with a delegation they had sent to inquire the same of us!"

"But how many are there?" Arilyn pressed.

"There are perhaps two hundred elves in the northern forests, the border lands, and the towns," Foxfire said. "Some are moon folk or gold elves who mostly dwell in towns. There are a number of half-elves as well, but these seldom come to Tethir. Then there are a few solitary elves scattered about the forest: druids, skin-walkers, possibly even some outlaws."

The Harper considered this. "But what about the Suldusk tribe?"

"You know more of Tethyrian history than most," he commented. "The river that waters half of Tethyr bears the name of the Suldusk people, yet few people know of their existence. They are more remote than most of the Elmanesse, in inclination as well as in distance.

"Do you find the folk of Talltrees more insular than the moon people?" he asked abruptly, not waiting for or expecting an answer. "So likewise do we find the Suldusk. In times past the clans of these two tribes raided back and forth. In recent centuries we have agreed to abide by the peace and keep our distance. No one even knows how many of the Suldusk remain. Even if we were to seek help from them, we would find none."

Arilyn threw up her hands in exasperation. "Fine. So we just sit here and let Bunlap's men whittle us down, a few each battle?"

"There is something else to consider," the elf said with obviously reluctance. "Perhaps the humans should settle with this Bunlap. They have laws, do they not?"

"Lots of them, but not the means to enforce them," Arilyn said glumly. "No, our best chance is for me to take out Bunlap and scatter his men. At the very least, I can keep them busy and out of your hair until I think of something better to do." She nodded decisively, then turned and began to stride away.

Foxfire stared after her, bemused by her quicksilver decision. At moments like this, the half-elf seemed utterly foreign to him, utterly human: impetuous, impatient.

He decided it did not matter.

The green elf jogged to Arilyn's side. "Tell me what you need, and I'll see that you get it."

She smiled thinly. "Several nice pelts would be a good start. I could also use some dried trail food-111 be traveling fast and the less time I spend hunting, the sooner HI get there."

Tou will not go alone," he told her. "I will go, and Ferret as well."

Arilyn hesitated for moment, then nodded. She still didn't like or trust the elf woman, but Ferret had proven to be an effective assassin. The wild elf female possessed deadly skills that might prove valuable, as well as no discernible scruples. Both would be useful qualities for the mission ahead.

As it turned out, there were four who set out on the three-day journey to the southern parts of Tethir. Hawkwing demanded to come along and, though Arilyn had reservations, she had to admit the young elf held up her end of the load. Hawkwing was among Arilyn's finest students and had proven herself in battle more than once, but the Harper was not entirely certain the elf maid would perform as well once they were outside of the forest. The girl was too impetuous, utterly without fear or forethought. But as Arilyn had begun to realize, she had to accept whatever allies in this battle she could find.

The southward journey passed quickly, and shortly after highsun of the third day the four stood beneath the open sky. A stream ran southward from the forest. Arilyn set a path along this waterway, which quickly broadened and deepened as it neared the place where it would join the northern branch of the Sulduskoon. They walked along this tributary for several hours more before the Harper indicated a halt.

"See that hillock up ahead?" she asked, pointing. "It has been hollowed out to make a dwelling. See the etumplike chimney and those doors along the side?"

The green elves squinted, then nodded uncertainly. All the fey folk had in some measure the gift of perceiving hidden doors, but this skill was seldom used by the forest-dwelling folk. In the forest, they could find a trail that would be invisible to the best human ranger, but out here, Arilyn's eyes were sharper than theirs.

"This is an outpost for the fortress. The men stationed here control trade coming and going along this branch of the river. There are too many of them for us to fight, and even if we could attack in larger numbers than we have, they'd still have the advantage of position and arms. So this is what well do. First, gather some poles and lash together a raft. Fll need those pelts," she said, nodding to the bundle Foxfire carried on his back.

The elf shouldered off the skins and watched with interest as Arilyn took two small vials from her pack. The Harper carefully sprinkled some brownish powder on one pelt, then doused it with liquid from the second bottle. That done, she pressed the two pelts together. This she repeated with each skin until they formed a small stack. She tied the bundle securely with a length of rope from her pack. By then Ferret and Hawkwing had finished their raft and come over to watch.

"I'm going to put this bundle on the raft and ride, alone, past that encampment. As a moon elf, I'm the most human-looking among us," Arilyn said, forestalling Hawkwing's ready protest. They'll think me a trapper, floating goods downriver to the nearest trading post."

She ran a hand lightly over the glossy pelt of a river otter. "I doubt they'll let me pass by without demanding a few of these beauties as tax. More than likely, they'll shoot me out of the water and take the whole pile.

"But no matter how bad it looks, stay out of sight," she cautioned the elves. "Fll hit the water as soon as I can and swim away. When the mercenaries take their plunder in to examine, they'll have a nasty surprise. Any one of those pelts, pulled away from other others, will trigger an explosion that should blow the top off that hillock." *

"Explosion?" queried Hawkwing.

"A sudden blast, like lightning," Ferret explained tersely. "Like that human wizard threw at us in the forest. I didn't know you could cast such spells!" she demanded, turning accusingly on Arilyn.

"I don't," Arilyn retorted. "This isn't even magic- although it's much the same in many ways. I just happen to have an associate who enjoys finding new ways to blow things up."

"Like tossing a torch into rising swamp gas?" Foxfire asked.

"Exactly," she agreed, relieved to have an explanation of alchemy the others could understand. "After the explosion, well revive a few of the survivors. We piece together uniforms, boats, passwords-anything that will help Ferret and me get closer to the fortress."

The half-elf slipped off her chain mail, cloak, and boots and stashed them in the bushes near the stream. Not only would it be difficult to swim wearing such garments, but glittering armor and boots of elvenkind were not exactly the type of gear a poacher might wear!

Arilyn hesitated a moment before adding the rest of her disguise. She'd grown comfortable in her elven role, and she was none too eager to take on another. But she'd fought the men of Bunlap's fortress before. It was likely that few moon elven females passed by, and any one might leave an imprint on their memories-especially one who had handed them a rather embarrassing defeat.

So she took a tiny pot of dark unguent from her pack and spread the cream over her face. She smoothed her hair down over her ears and tied it back at the nape of her neck with a bit of leather thong. Her pack yielded a rough cap, tightly rolled, which she shook out and placed low over her eyes. She loosened her shirt and let it hang over her swordbelt, then rolled up her leggings to her knees. That finished, she placed one hand on her moonblade and brought to mind a gangly, sun-browned human lad. The trio of gasps from the elves told her the blade had done its task.

One of Arilyn's predecessors had endowed the sword with the ability to cast minor glamours over the wield-er. It was a slight effect, a small shifting of perception. Arilyn had learned to work with the moonblade's magic to create a number of personas. Part of the transformation was done with small changes of costume, and she had learned to mimic the stance and movements of each character type she portrayed: a human lad, a courtesan, a gold-elf priestess, and perhaps a half-dozen more. But to the wild elves, her transformation from moon elf warrior to adolescent Tethyrian poacher must have been as startling-and as foreign-as anything a human wizard might accomplish!

But there was no time to soothe their surprise or explain the sword's power. She ordered them to take cover in the bushes and to follow along out of sight. As soon as her companions were away, Arilyn tossed the furs onto the raft and waded into the stream. She knelt on the raft and began to guide it downriver with a long pole.

She was almost abreast of the hillock when the first arrow came at her. It went wide, but the visibility from the narrow strips of window carved into the barracks was such that she doubted the archer would know the difference. With a cry of feigned agony, she toppled off the raft and into the water.

Sound traveled well under the water, and as Arilyn clung to the rocks at the bottom of the river, she heard the puzzled oaths of the mercenaries who'd come out to finish off the poacher, only to find no trace of him. Arilyn watched as they caught the raft and pulled it ashore, and she blessed Black Pearl, her half-sea-elf friend, for the gift of the amulet that enabled her to stay underwater.

But it occurred to her, belatedly, that she should have explained this bit of stored magic to her companions.

Apparently the admonition to stay hidden and quiet regardless of how things appeared to be going had not been sufficient for the loyal Hawkwing. Arilyn's blood chilled as a long, shrill cry filtered down to her through the water. She'd heard the elf maid's battle yell often enough to know what it was.

Arilyn braced her bare feet against the stones and pushed up with all her might. She broke the surface of the water and swam for shore so that she could join her friends in battle. Where Hawkwing went, the others would surely follow.

The half-elf splashed ashore, drawing her sword as she came. The scene before her was not encouraging. At least thirty men poured from the barracks-far too many for the four of them to handle. Arilyn kicked into a running charge. Even so, she could do nothing but watch as the fierce elf child went down, clutching at the bright ribbon that a mercenary's sword had opened along the length of her fighting arm.

But Hawkwing was nothing if not resilient. She rolled aside, slapping her dagger into her other hand as she went. The elven girl came up with a fire in her eyes that no amount of blood could quench-not hers, and certainly not that of her enemies.

Arilyn reached the nearest of the mercenaries and delivered a vicious backhanded slash. The man got his sword up in time to parry, but the speed and force of her blow knocked the weapon from his hand. The half-elf stepped back, then lunged in, her sword driving precisely between the man's third and forth ribs and into his heart. She pivoted slightly, putting the soldier's body between herself and the charging attack of a second man. She planted her foot in the dead mercenary's middle and kicked him off her blade-and into the second man's path.

The charging mercenary couldn't pull up in time, and the sword he held before him in a lancelike attack thrust deep into his comrade's body. Arilyn circled

around behind the confused human with three quick steps. With a mighty, chopping blow she severed his spine before he could withdraw his blade.

She whirled, moonblade held before her in guard position, to face the approach of a third man. This one moved with a light, measured tread and wore an expression of supreme self-confidence. He smirked as he raised his sword in a parody of the salute that would begin a gentleman's duel.

A nobleman's son turned soldier-of-fortune, Arilyn reasoned, one who was prepared to amuse himself at the expense of the commonborn lad before him. In short, an idiot.

Arilyn let out a brief; disgusted hiss. She parried the rogue nobleman's first lunge, countered with a quick underhand sweep-which was also deftly parried-and followed up with a flurry of ringing exchanges. He met each of the thrusts and returned as often as he parried. The man was good, but not nearly as skilled as he seemed to think he was.

The half-elf spun, faked a stumble, and went down on one knee with her back toward him. To all appearances, it would be a fatal fumble. She could almost feel his supercilious smile as he raised his sword for the killing blow.

Arilyn listened to the whistling sweep of the descending blade; then, at precisely the right moment, she lifted her moonblade up high overhead to meet it. She leaped to her feet and turned hard to confront him, pushing their joined blades around and down as she came. The speed of the unexpected attack threw the swordsman off-balance. Arilyn, however, lashed up high and hard, severing one of the man's ears as the moon-blade flashed up over his head. Her opponent howled with pain, but only briefly, for Arilyn pivoted to the left and swept the moonblade across in a hard, level stroke. The man's head rolled from his shoulders.

Arilyn continued the swing, pulling her right elbow back until her two-fisted grip was tightly pressed against her right shoulder. She face off against the nearest man and stepped toward him, her left foot leading and sword thrusting out straight and hard toward his throat. He could not even lift a blade in time to parry.

Pulling her sword from the dead man's throat, she spun about to see how her companions were faring.

Not well. Hawkwing was down, and Ferret was pressed on all sides. The elven war leader was doing his best to work his way through to any one of the beleaguered females, but he was badly outnumbered. Even if he'd been fighting one-on-one, Foxfire's bone dagger was not designed for battle against tempered steel.

As if in response to her thoughts, the elf s dagger shattered under the attack of a mercenary's sword. The elf leaped aside, agile and quick, but several men closed in, and Arilyn knew he could not long avoid them.

Her next response was pure instinct. She held her bloodstained blade high and shouted a command to the magic imprisoned within: "Come forth! All of you!"

At Arilyn's summons, magic exploded from the moon-blade-a white, swirling mist that rose into the air with a force and fury rivaling that of a waterspout at sea.

Every combatant on the field froze and stared at the brief, spectacular manifestation. Then it was gone, and in its place stood several battle-ready elven warriors, each armed with a sword identical to the moonblade that had called them forth. These advanced on the befuddled humans, and the battle began anew.

For a moment Arilyn could do nothing but gaze in awe at her ancestors, all the elves who had wielded her moonblade since the days of its forging in long-ago Myth Drannor.

There was Zoastria, tiny and wraithlike-the most insubstantial of the elfshadow warriors. The elf woman's angular face was a mask of frustration as she slashed at the human mercenaries with her sword, a sword that drew no more blood than would a breath of wind. Yet Zoastria's efforts were not without effect. The mercenaries shrank away in terror from the ghostly elven warrior-and onto the blades of the others.

A tall, ancient elven wizard, his long white hair a mass of tiny braids, held his shadow-moonblade out at arm's length, point-down, as if it were a mage's staff. The sword blazed with blue fire, as did his eyes and the fingertips of his outstretched hand. Pinpricks of blazing eldritch light darted toward the mercenaries like vengeful fireflies.

A small, slight male elf held his sword with two hands, yet he wielded the single blade with a dizzying speed that brought to mind the dual swords of a bladesinger's dance. The crest on his tabard, a bright-plummaged bird rising from flames, proclaimed him to be Phoenix Moonflower, the elf who, centuries before, had imbued the sword with its rapid strike.

Another male elf, this one with, flame-colored hair, wielded a shadow-sword that flickered and seared with arcane fire. Heat rose from the blade, which glowed a red so intense that it brought to mind a dwarven forge. Arilyn recognized him as Xenophor, the elf who had lent the power of fire resistance to the blade, and she watched in awe as he fought, for his shadow moonblade leaped and darted and licked like wildfire in a capricious wind.

There was a tall, rangy elf woman who seemed oddly devoid of color. Her skin was starkly white, her eyes and hair the color of jet, her leathers and boots a dusty black. There was nothing colorless about her fighting, though. Never had Arilyn seen anyone fight with such bloody fury. And there were others as well-Arilyn's own elfshadow and two males, one small and fierce and the other taller than the rest and golden-haired.

All this Arilyn noted in an instant, for the churning battle did not allow for leisurely study of her elfshadow allies. But as her well-trained mind took note of the shadow warriors and the general course of battle, her eyes instinctively swept the fierce group for a glimpse of a face she had last seen when she was only a child- that of her mother, ZTteryl.

A tall, thick-bodied man reeled toward the Harper, his hands clutching at his torn and bloody jerkin. Arilyn shoved him aside and looked up into the face of his killer.

An icy fist clutched at Arilyn's chest as she gazed upon her mother. She was as beautiful as Arilyn remembered-as tall as her daughter, with the same milky skin and gold-flecked blue eyes, but her small, fine-featured face was crowned with a cloud of thick, wavy hair the color of spun sapphires. Beautiful, yes, but grim and terrible. This was not Z*beryl of Evereska, the loving mother and patient instructor of swordcraft This was the elf Z*beryl had once been: Amnestria, daughter of Zaor and Amlaruil of Evermeet, crown princess of the elves, battle wizard, and warrior. And this was the face Amnestria showed to her enemies.

The regal elf woman raised her blood-drenched sword and pointed it at Arilyn. To the stunned half-elf, the gesture seemed ominous, accusing. Amnestria spoke, but only a word: "Beware!"

Arilyn heard the ringing clash of steel on steel, so dose and so loud that it seemed to echo through her bones and teeth. Instinctively, she raised her moonblade and whirled toward the sound.

Her own elfshadow stood behind her, shadow-sword uplifted in a defensive parry against the broadsword that would have cleaved Arilyn's head from her shoulders. The man who held the sword was easily the size of Arilyn and her elfshadow combined. Grinning with sadistic delight, he forced the joined swords downward, pressing Arilyn's shadow slowly to her knees.

The half-elf recovered her wits and lunged forward. Her moonblade dug between his ribs; she wrenched it out and plunged it in again. Arilyn's elfshadow threw

aside the dying man's sword arm and wheeled away to find another fight.

Arilyn took a deep steadying breath and made a quick survey of the battle. Although she now understood that her mother's elfshadow had meant to warn her of the danger behind her, she could not rid herself of the feeling that Z'beryl-no, from now on she would forever be Amnestria-was ashamed of the course her daughter and blade heir had taken. Arilyn's mother had willingly embraced the service and the sacrifice required of those who wielded a moonblade, as had all the elves who now fought. Was Arilyn, a mere half-elf, incapable of such nobility?

Instinctively, the Harper knew this was not so. She would do what she must for the elven People, as she always had. If that meant giving up her dream of freedom from the demands of the moonblade, then so be it. She would serve the sword, throughout eternity if need be.

With new resolve, Arilyn waded through the fighting toward the place where young Hawkwing had faltered and fallen. But her own arms seemed numb and heavy, and the moonblade refused to move at quite its usual speed. Too late she remembered the warning her own elfshadow had given her: she could not expect both to call forth the magic and wield it.

She managed to block a chest-high thrust and then flung the attacking blade aside. But a second mercenary got through her guard-not with a sword, but with a mailed fist. The blow struck Arilyn's jaw hard and sent her reeling to her knees. It was then she saw the wound that had at last brought Hawkwing to ground.

The elven girl lay on one side, staring forward with a single fierce black eye. From the other protruded the hilt of a dagger.

For just a moment, grief clenched Arilyn like a giant fist, squeezing the breath from her body and stealing her will to fight. It was just for a second, but even that was too much. A shadow fell over Hawkwing's body; Arilyn looked up into the point of a nocked and ready arrow. This man had seen her fight; apparently he was not going to chance facing her sword.

Before he could release the arrow, a large missile hurtled over Arilyn's head and toward the archer. The man staggered back, and the arrow soared upward in a limp and harmless arc. Arilyn stared at the horrid, sticky mess that had taken the place of the archer's head.

"I say, that was a good one," announced a satisfied male voice behind her. "Custard and cream, I should think, and a vast improvement in matters of size and aim. Though to be quite frank with you, my dear, the spell for Snilloc's Cream Pie was rather a benign missile for this blighter. Not his just desserts at all, you should pardon the expression."

The tone was familiar-a cultured and lazy-sounding tenor-but oddly enough, the words were spoken in the Elvish tongue. Arilyn whirled, staring up in horrified silence into the handsome, smiling, human face of her Harper partner.

She knew at once how he'd come to be here, though never for a moment had the possibility occurred to her that such a thing might come to pass.

Bach wielder of a moonblade added a power to the sword. Two years past, Arilyn had done the same, removing certain restrictions so she might share the moonblade and its magic with her partner. Never once had she suspected that in doing so, she had created an elfshadow entity that linked Danilo to the magic sword-and condemned him to her own fate.

"Oh, my goddess," she said in a despairing whisper. "No, Danilo. Oh, not you too."

Seventeen

After several hours, the darkness that had cocooned Arilyn's mind since the battle began to dim around the edges, and bright, blinding colors seeped in to whirl and dance madly behind her closed eyelids.

The half-elf groaned and tried to sit up. Strong and gentle hands pressed her back down. "Not yet," Foxfire told her. "You drained your moonblade's magic for Hawkwing*s sake, and for us all. Much strength was taken from you, as well."

Hawkwing. Memory returned in a vivid, horrible rush. Arilyn turned her head away, unwilling to let her elven friend witness the grief and guilt the elf maid's death brought her. Perhaps, if she had not drained her own strength to call forth the elfshadow entities, she could have made her way to Hawkwing's side in time to save her.

"You missed the best part of the fight," announced Ferret's voice, wild and exultant still from the excitement of battle. "Never have I seen such warriors!

Nine

champions on a field at once! Who could stand against such a force, and who beneath the stars would not follow them? It was a marvel I will long remember."

"The shadow warriors returned to the sword at battle's end," Foxfire added. "All but one-the tall gold-elf wizard who carried you here. He would not return unless he had your direct command, or, at least, reasonable assurance that you were safe. Although in the case of that one, I do not know what might be considered reasonable," he added in a wry tone.

Arilyn's lips twitched in an involuntary smile. She knew at once the true identity of the wizard of whom Foxfire spoke. In a few terse words, the wild elf had sketched a remarkably accurate picture of the Danilo she knew: a stubborn, exasperating soul who would have his way no matter what and who usually took center stage while doing so. On the other hand, he was also perhaps the most caring, intuitive, and gifted human she'd ever met. Of course his shadow-spirit could recognize the problems inherent in showing these elves his true face, and certainly he was skilled enough in the magical arts to cast such an illusion over himself. Despite all, Arilyn could not help but be amused by the image of Danilo as a gold-elf wizard. That was a role he would certainly play to the balcony seats! The gold elves were widely considered to be the most beautiful and regal of the People. Knowing Dan as she did, Arilyn could guess that his shadow took on this guise with typical flamboyant elan.

The warmth these thoughts brought her was rapidly chased away by the chilling memory of what Dan's shadow meant, and the realities of the battle they had fought. Danilo's spirit had been condemned to serve the moonblade. And Hawkwing was dead.

"The gold wizard left you a message," Ferret said, cutting into Arilyn's grim thoughts. "He bid you remember the legend lore spell, which you heard when first you and he sought the answers to your moonblade's magic."

The elf woman began to recite words that Arilyn only dimly remembered, words that the archmage Khelben Arunsun himself had coaxed from the moonblade more than two years before:

"Call forth through stone, Call forth from steel. Command the mirror of myself, But ware the spirit housed within The shadow of the elf

"He said to tell you that you cannot call the shadow warriors again without great risk to yourself," Ferret continued. "It is a shame. With them to lead, the Talltrees clan could face nearly any foe!"

"Never beared tell afore that elven folk feared to go into battle," taunted a gruff, vaguely familiar voice. "You couldn't be gittin' soft. Yer too ding-blasted scrawny fer that!"

After a moment's shock, Arilyn placed the deep tones with a face-that of a young dwarf with a short, dun-colored beard and an unusual zest for both rowdiness and romance. Yet how could this be? When last she'd seen him, the dwarf was reveling in the luxuries afforded by the Foaming Sands, and was washing away the memories of ten years of servitude with as much warm, bubbling water and half-clad women as his coins would buy him.

"Not Jill?" Arilyn whispered. She struggled to sit, to open her eyes, but could not yet do either.

The same," the dwarf said gruffly. "Hold still, now. Yer wrigglin' around like a worm on a hook, and with no fish to show fer yer efforts. Rest. That were some fight, though sorry to say oP Kendel and I missed the best of it."

"Kendel Leafbower," supplied a soft, melodious elven voice. "At your service, Lady of the Moonblade."

Arilyn recognized the moon-elven clan name. The Leafbowers were renowned as travelers and fighters.

Such an elf was an unlikely companion for the dwarf. "How did you come to be here, Jill?" she murmured.

"Well now, that's a story," the dwarf admitted in a conversational tone. "Leave it to say that Kendel 'n me borrowed somebody's hired sword and persuaded him to head fer home. This is where he brung us-a bit too late for the fight, like I said, but soon enough fer him to die with people he knew. More'n he had comin' to him, by my way of thinkin',

"Kendel and you," she repeated, somewhat bemused by the idea of a dwarf and a moon-elf warrior on such friendly terms.

"Yep. You might say him and me is tighter*n ticks," Jill agreed happily, "though no one what beared us talkin' on the way east mighta guessed it. Argued like brothers, we did, about which of us would git to kill the hired sword and when he'd git to do it. Never meant a word of it. But fun it were!" he concluded gleefully.

"I see the gold-elf wizard spoke truth," Ferret broke in coldly. "He said you knew this dwarf. You've strange allies, Arilyn Moonblade."

"You're not fer knowing the half of it, elf woman," the dwarf retorted. "I been in more fights than you've had tumbles, an' I thought I seen it all. But never once have I seen an elf ghost come to the aid of the living! Are you thinking that the ghost of that liddle blue-haired elf woman follered you from the treasure room?" he asked Arilyn. "Morodin's Beard, ifn you could put some starch in that one, she'd be worth fighting!"

Yes, Arilyn admitted silently. That was precisely what she must do. Perhaps she could not call forth the elf-shadow warriors again, but she could restore to the forest elves a hero they knew, one they would willingly follow. She would have to, as Jill so aptly phrased it, "put some starch" back into the elven battle leader Zoastria. It was time to reunite the elfshadow with the slumbering form of her ancestor.

But first, she had to regain her own "starch."

Arilyn willed her swirling thoughts to find focus. She noted that her cheek was pillowed on something deep and fragrant, like moist velvet. Moss. The air was cool here and heavy with magic she had not been able to sense a fortnight ago. These things could mean only that they were back in the forest.

"Did you bring her home?" she whispered, thinking of the fallen Hawkwing. In her time in Tethir, Arilyn had come to realize that the ties between the elves and then-forest went too deep for death to sever. The green elves returned to the forest in ways that could not be understood or explained, and she needed to know that Hawkwing would find rest beneath the trees.

A long, heavy silence answered her question. "When your strength faltered, so did the shadow warriors," Foxfire said at last. "More men came from the fortress, and we were forced to flee. A choice had to be made between the living and the dead. Do not grieve for Hawkwing: she is free."

But she was not.

The spirit of the elven girl wandered the battlefield. She was dazed and angry and confused, though the battle was long over. The call of Arvandor was sweet and strong; still more compelling were the rhythms of the forest, heard and felt and understood as never before.

Yet the child could respond to neither. She had been torn from life too soon, and though her existence had not often been easy or happy, she was not yet reconciled to leaving it behind.

Thus it was that the priest of Loviatar had an easy time finding the elf maid's wandering spirit. An unseen hand reached out, seized the girl, and pulled her into a shadowy gray realm.

Hawkwing's untamed spirit rebelled against this captivity, but these were fetters that even a will as strong K as hers could not break. The entity that imprisoned her was powerful but twisted; a cold, salacious soul that

reveled in the wounds of the girl's discarded body and the frantic terror of her captive spirit. The ugly soul of this being-a human, a priest of some sort-was made all the more terrible for the impenetrable coating of smug piety that armored it.

"You must answer me what I ask you," his voice demanded, speaking in a language Hawkwing had never before heard but found that she could understand. "Behold this man's livid scar. Who is the elf whose mark this is?"

Hawkwing had no intention of responding, but the priest took the answer from her mind.

"Foxfire, an Elmanesse of the Talltrees clan," the priest's voice said aloud. "Where does this elf reside?"

Again the elven child refused. But it mattered not. The secrets of the hidden stronghold poured from her. She could no more stop them than she could command the wind or rain.

And so it went, for as long as the gray-souled priest desired to contain and compel her spirit. At last he was done with her. Hawkwing tore free and flung herself away from the inquisitor's casual cruelty. Nothing the elven girl had endured had marked or bruised her as deeply as this captivity of her essence and the plundering of her tribe's secrets. But though she was frantic and half mad, she set a true course for the elven woods and home.

There she had found solace before; in time, perhaps, it would come to her again.

Finding an agent of the Knights of the Shield was not BO difficult a thing to do, provided one knew how and where to look. Hasheth suspected he could learn a great deal of information in the clandestine shop of one of Zazesspur's coin brokers.

A very profitable and unofficial market in Tethyr dealt in the trading of the country's various coins. There were many types of gold pieces used throughout the land. Many of the larger cities and even some of the more powerful guilds or noblemen minted their own coins. The value of these rose and fell with the changing tides of fortune. Predicting how a given currency might fare, and trading coins in speculation of these changes, was a thriving business in ethyr.

Most merchants and makers of policy argued that there was no real difference in these currencies. The cities with more valuable currencies tended to pay higher wages and charge higher prices that those whose coins enjoyed a lesser reputation. In the end, they reasoned, the value of these coins in barter for goods and services was about the same throughout Tethyr and its neighboring lands. This was true enough, as far as it went, but this argument ignored a simple and rather obvious fact that occurred to remarkably few of Tethir's coin brokers.

Many of these coins, though quite different in value and purchasing power, contained about the same amount of gold.

Thus it was that a bag of a hundred Zazesspurian gulders, while nearly twice the value of a bag holding an equal number of the zoth minted in Saradush, weighed almost the same. There were in Zazesspur two, perhaps three brokers who would buy up the lesser coins, then melt and recast them as more valuable currency. The services of these enterprising souls also came in handy when one had other reasons for changing the shape of one's wealth. Prime among these were the personal coins, either stolen or given in payment, that were extremely difficult to pass in common trade. At times, possession of such a coin could be deadly.

The Knights of the Shield often ordered gold coins to be placed on the eyelids of those slain by their agents. So difficult was it to spend these coins that beggars and pickpockets would often pass such a corpse and leave the treasure untouched, rather than risk the Knights' retribution. There were, however, some people who hoarded these coins and used them in a specialized system of barter. To an assassin or a hired sword, a cache of Knights' coins was a mark of prestige that brought in other lucrative assignments. Such a coin could also be redeemed for favors or information that far surpassed the value of the gold it contained. And from time to time, assassins incurred expenses-such as the need for a new identity or a swift departure to a distant port-that demanded that such coins be melted down and made into more widely accepted currency.

During his time in the assassins* guildhouse, Hasheth

had learned the name of a woman who provided such services. He went to her now, riding one of his lesser steeds so as not to attract undue attention in the trades quarter of the city.

The establishment he sought, unaccountably named? the Smiling Smithy, was the sort of shabby place that |. replaced cast-off horseshoes and reattached the broken j; prongs of pitchforks. The sole proprietor and craftsperson I; did not exactly meet the expectations suggested by the | sign outside her shop. Melissa Miningshaft was a short, ':'• squat woman singularly lacking in either physical beauty or social graces. She was half-dwarven, or per-| haps a quarter-breed, yet she was nearly as stout and;. heavily muscled as any full-blooded dwarven smith.!… Her features brought to mind a dried apple, her graying brown hair was scraped back into a tight bun, and to; call the lumpy, ample form that strained the seams of f her brown linsey gown "shapeless" would be erring on the side of compassion.

At the moment, the smithy's thick and sculpted arms were bared to the elbows and glowing red from the warmth of the forge and from the effort of pumping the bellows which fanned and coaxed the blazing fire.

Melissa glanced up when Hasheth entered, scanned him quickly from head to foot, and then harumphed.

"I would like to trade some coin," he said, placing a leather bag on a stout trestle table that held some of her tongs and hammers.

"Fer what?" she demanded gruffly. "Yer horse throw a shoe?"

Hasheth had expected this response. Melissa was extremely particular about those to whom she sold her finer skills. The dwarf woman was capable of making shrewd, clandestine deals and forging incredibly accurate counterfeit coin molds, but if this were to become widely known, she'd be forced to spend too much time and effort guarding the wealth hidden in the walls and cellars of her humble shop and home.

But Hasheth had credentials of a sort. He pulled his sand-hue sash from its hiding place in his sleeve and placed it beside the bag of coins.

"I wish to trade standard Amn danters for other coins," he said. "And nothing so common as gulders or moleans. I will pay twice the trade weight for any coin you possess that bears the mark of the Knights of the Shield."

Melissa let loose a burst of sardonic laughter in much the same way that an irascible dragon might blow forth a puff of smoke. "Yer actually looking for the Knights? Poor sod! I give you three days afore they come looking for you."

Actually, Hasheth was rather hoping to make contact before nightfall. "Have you any such coin?"

"A couple," she admitted, squinting at the young man as she weighed and measured the worth of his personal metal. "But that'll cost you four times trade weight."

"I said two; that is more than fair."

"Fair? That ring on yer little finger's worth more Amn danters than you could stuff in yonder coin bag, and me living here in this sorry excuse for a shack. You call that fair? Three times trade weight."

"Two and a half."

"Done," she said and spat into the fire. Hasheth was not certain whether this gesture was meant to punctuate the closure of their deal or to show contempt, but he was willing to let it pass.

Melissa pushed past him and disappeared into a back room. She returned promptly and tossed two large gold coins on the table. "Yer in luck. I was gonna melt these -; down for moleans come morning." ‹ Hasheth picked up the first coin and examined the markings. It was definitely a Knight's coin, but he could not place it to any particular individual. The second coin yielded a bit more information.

"These will do. You'll find slightly more than two and \ a half times the trade weight in that bag." Ј, The coin broker dumped Hasheth's danters onto the $- table and counted them twice, then nodded. "Good to do | business with you, boy, but truth be told, I don't expect |; to again. Baby assassin or no, you might as well stuff a |.fireball in yer pants as travel with them coins in yer Hj pockets. You won't be coming back." J "I thank you for your concern," he said coldly. Til be ^certain to mention you, should anyone give me trouble H about these coins."

IP Melissa snorted, for the young man's threatening vj' retort was no more than bluster, and they both knew it. 4 The smithy had clients who held an interest in protect-|ing her privacy. Anyone who attempted to betray her jЈ was likely to become a notch on an assassin's blade, or gto be discovered with large gold coins, very much like fjftie ones Hasheth had slipped into his bag, weighing ypown his eyelids.

Hasheth left the smithy, reclaimed his horse, and set Joff at a brisk pace for the stables. He would change to a lore suitable mount, and then he would pay a visit to |flie gentleman whose coin he had purchased.

But first, he had to devise some pretense. It would be |feurly easy, as Lord Hhune's apprentice, to be granted

The Harpers

an audience. But first, Hasheth wanted to figure out some way to insinuate himself into the society of the Knights, something that would buy him membership into this exclusive and powerful group.

The Harpers were all fine and well, and they seemed to come up with coin when they required it, but from what Hasheth had observed, most of their agents were not concerned with amassing personal wealth or power. All told, the Knights of the Shield was a society far more suited to his ambitions. Hasheth was determined to find a way in, and he would count the cost-whatever it might be a bargain.

Eighteen

Nearly two days passed. The forest elves seemed quietly impressed with Kendel Leafbower, for the moon elf had picked up considerable skill at woods lore during his four centuries of life. He walked nearly as silently as a forest elf, and he hunted game for the small group while the others stayed at their camp to guard their moon-elven battle leader.

Jill spent much of the time teasing Ferret, much to the amusement of Arilyn and Foxfire. It quickly became apparent to everyone but Ferret that the dwarf was flirting outrageously with her. As she watched Jill's avid pursuit of the elf woman, Arilyn was reminded of a question that often occurred to her when she saw a form dog chasing a horse-drawn cart: what would he do iЈ by chance, he succeeded in catching it?

She read in Foxfire's twinkling eyes thoughts similar.to her own. And behind the laughter in his eyes lurked: the memories of their own times together. This made the course before Arilyn even more difficult, yet it steeled her resolution to follow it. Foxfire was dear to her; she would do what she must for him and the People.

And so, as soon as Arilyn felt strong enough to travel, she announced her intention of returning to Zazesspur.

"It was your idea," she retorted when Foxfire tried to dissuade her. "You brought up the fact that this Bunlap and his men are a matter for the humans to deal with. Let me find out who holds this hound's leash, and then let the humans take care of their own problems."

Tin going with you," Fterret declared, her black eyes daring the half-elf to argue.

Arilyn didn't bother to try. For what she had in mind, two people would be needed. And she was certain Ferret would give her enthusiastic support to the plan Arilyn had in mind.

She was going to bring Soora Thea back to the wild elves.

Jill, however, had already divined her purpose. "Yer not thinkin' to go back into that pink prison, are you? Yer plannin' on bringin' out that sleeping elf woman, aren't you? You are," he added with disgust. "I kin see it in yer face. Well, I'm not fer goin' with you."

"I wouldn't ask it of you," Arilyn said gently. "You spent ten years in that palace. That is enough."

"You think I'm owing you fer springin' me outta that trap," the dwarf continued ranting, as if he hadn't heard a word she said. "You and this scrawny female can't fight yer way outta there alone, and you can't be totin' that liddle sleeping elf woman back to the forest, jest the two of you. Now, I'm not wantin' to speak for Kendel, here-"

"I will come, too," the moon elf said quietly.

"Never said I was goin', now did I?" Jill grumbled. "But since this ding-blasted elf here has gone and signed hisself up, I suppose I gotta go along and look out for him- gets into fights, he does, without never once stoppin* to think on whether or not he can win 'em!"

They’d be happy to have you both," Arilyn said. "And you needn't enter that palace. You two can wait for us outside and hold the horses."

"Horses! I rode me a donkey this far, and 111 be a one-headed ettin if n Fll trade him in fer one o' them long-legged hay-eaters," Jill said darkly.

"In that case, we'd better leave at once," Ferret observed, not recognizing the bluster behind the dwarfs gruff arguments.

But at Foxfire's insistence, Arilyn agreed to wait until morning before setting out. They settled down to rest for the journey ahead. Soon Jill was snoring lustily, and the practical elves Ferret and Kendel were deep in reverie. But to Arilyn's eyes, the usually serene Foxfire seemed restless, preoccupied. When the first flickering lights of the firebugs announced the coming night, he asked Arilyn to walk with him.

The People face many battles ahead," he said somberly. "Within the forest, I am an able commander. The Elmanesse have not suffered raids by other tribes for many years, and even the ores know to keep a wide berth from our hunting lands. But these new troubles are beyond me. You are needed here. Do not stay long from the forest."

"A few days, no more," she promised him. "But there are things I must do that can be accomplished only in the city. As I said before, we must know why Bunlap does what he does. In Zazesspur I have contacts; Fll get to the bottom of this problem."

"I believe you will. We work well together, you and I," he agreed.

Suddenly Foxfire stopped and faced the half-elf, taking both her hands in his. "There is something I must say before you go. We do well as we are, but I would make our partnership deeper. How much more could we accomplish if we could speak mind to mind, sense the other's thoughts and plans without words? Enter with

me into rapport, Arilyn, and when you return from the city, stay with me in the forest for all time!"

Arilyn stared at the elf, too dumbfounded to speak. Rapport was the most intimate bond between elves, one that would last for the remainder of their mortal lives. It was uncommon even among the People, and almost unheard of for an elf to establish rapport with a human. She was not even certain that she, who was only half-elven, was capable of this mystic elven bond.

And to her astonishment, Arilyn realized she did not really want to try. Foxfire was a noble elf, admirable in all the ways that she valued. He was also a good and true friend, and she cared deeply for him. But though she loved the elf, the idea of entering into such a bond with him seemed wrong. It was not in her to do. Foxfire was everything Arilyn had ever thought she wanted, but for some reason it was not enough.

There were no soft words to explain these things to the elf. The only alternative method of responding was considerably less noble, but it was all that came into the half-elf s mind. And so Arilyn prepared to do what many another decent woman had done under similar circumstances: lie through her teeth.

"You do me more honor than you know," she began, starting with words she could speak in all sincerity. "I admire how deep your devotion to your tribe runs. And you are right. We would do much better as battle leaders if we could know each other's minds without words." "Do not for a moment think I suggest rapport only for the benefit of the tribe," Foxfire said with a little smile. "It would be no hardship for me to enter such a bond." "Nor to me," she told him. "But I cannot. I… I have already joined with another."

Foxfire stared at her for a long moment. "But how is this possible? Until midsummer's eve, you were a maiden still!"

"Well then, what of the twin-born?" she counteijed. "They form rapport from birth. There are many means of establishing bonds. As precious as midsummer was to me, there are other things in life equally worth sharing."

Understanding came in bleak waves into his eyes. "I see. Forgive me," he murmured.

She placed one hand on his shoulder. "There is nothing to forgive, only thanks to be spoken for the honor you have shown me."

He nodded and covered her hand with one of his, accepting her decision with grace. "It is late, and the morning will come all too soon. You must rest if you are to travel," he said.

They made their way back to the place were Ferret and Kendel rested in reverie. But Arilyn did not sleep, nor, she suspected, did Foxfire find his way into the fey repose of the elves.

The two elf women and their odd escorts traveled east along the forest*s line-a longer path, but Arilyn wanted to put as much space as possible between them and Bunlap's fortress before entering open terrain. They traveled on foot the first day. Then Arilyn, in her guise of human lad, slipped into a farming village and bartered some of her emergency coin for a trio of sturdy horses-and a donkey for Jill.

Arilyn set a fast pace through the foothills, heading for Tinkersdam's hidden lair. The task ahead was tailor-made for the special skills of the eccentric alchemist. There were times that called for subtlety and finesse; this was not one of them.

They pressed their mounts as fast as Arilyn dared- and Ferret would allow-and they reached the entrance to Tinkersdam's cavern in the middle of the night. Arilyn led the way through the curtain of pines into the cavern and then down the winding passages toward the lair.

Tinkersdam was awake and at work, as Arilyn had anticipated he would be. The alchemist had little regard for schedules of any sort. Here, in a cavern deep within the hills where there was no natural light to mark the passing of time, he was even saved from the minor annoyance of day and night.

When the four travelers entered the alchemist's lair, they found him lying on his back under a large wooden contraption that had the size and appearance of a carriage. His plump, bowed legs stuck out from under it, and his feet were dangerously close to a simmering kettle.

Arilyn reflexively reached out to move the hazard away, but two things quickly occurred to her: Tinkersdam might appear preoccupied, but he was always incredibly aware of his surroundings. He would be less likely to kick over the kettle than a halfling would be to skip dinner. Secondly, there was no apparent reason why the kettle should be simmering. It hung on a tripod over the bare stone of the cave. There was no fire beneath it, not even a pile of glowing coals. Ergo, whatever was in that kettle was better left alone.

"So you're back," Tinkersdam announced, not bothering to come out from under his current invention. "Brought friends, I see."

The half-elf stooped down and peered at the alchemist, who was busily connecting an odd network of tubes and vials. Arilyn did not want to think about what explosive force he might have in mind to power this strange conveyance. Tve got a job for you," she said.

"As you can see, I've got one at the moment," Tinkersdam pointed out.

Words danced ready on Arilyn's tongue: the importance and urgency of the task ahead, the impact it would have on the elven folk, her own desperate need to free her Harper partner, if not herself, from the servitude demanded by the sword she carried. But none of this, she knew, would have the slightest impact on the alchemist.

"How would you like to blow up a palace?" Arilyn asked casually.

Tinkersdam looked at her at last with the expression of one who hardly dared to hope he might have heard aright. "How would I like to? As in, what method would I prefer to use?"

"Bad choice of words," the Harper agreed dryly. "You can use any method you like, but there must be enough of an explosion to throw all who are within the palace walls into confusion. The explosion must come from inside, and it must happen quickly, so as not to alert whatever passes for a city guard in Zazesspur these days."

The alchemist scooted out from under the carriage, bounded to his feet, and bustled over to a table. Muttering all the while, he began to toss odd-smelling powders and tip flasks of liquid into a large caldron, working with apparently indiscriminate haste.

"I've been wanting to try this for years," he said happily, briskly stirring all the while like a goodwife beating a batch of biscuits. "Oh, I've run the odd small test or two, but nothing truly substantial."

"That mansion you rendered into rubble in Suzail- that wouldn't by any chance have been one of those small tests?" Arilyn asked cautiously.

"Oh, yes, indeed. I'm looking forward to seeing what this can do when given a bit of time and space. What palace are we destroying, if I might ask?"

"The home of Abrum Assante."

"Not the master assassin?" demanded Ferret, speaking for the first time since they had entered the cavern. "Are you utterly moon-mad?"

Arilyn turned to the incredulous elf. "Assante has something we need. You remember the story you told of the Soora Thea, the hero who will return? Well, she can and will, but first we have to get her from her resting place-in Assante's treasure chamber."

The elf s eyes lit with hope and then blazed at this sacrilege. "So that is what the dwarf has been blathering about! The liddle blue-haired elf woman,' indeed! Of course I will help. But you said the explosion must come from within the compound. How is this possible? Its defenses are nearly proverbial!"

Arilyn quickly outlined the story of her previous mission and described the water-filled tunnel they would need to swim to get in. "But we cannot take her out the same way. We will have to go out by the front door. And the only way to do that is to create enough chaos to convince Assante that he must use his escape tunnel. We will await him there and persuade him to see us safely out of the complex."

"And then he will die," Ferret added. "I can think of no man who would be more dangerous if left alive to nurse such a grievance. Even within the safety of Tethir, I would be ever looking over my shoulder! But what then? How are we to carry the sleeping hero into Tethir?"

"As luck would have it," Arilyn said dryly, "I have a friend working in the shipping guild. He will help make the arrangements."

"Here you are," the alchemist said, handing each of the elf women a small bowl. Arilyn glanced at hers. It appeared to be fine Shou porcelain, and around its rim was painted a ring of fire-breathing serpent dragons. A clear, waxy substance, still somewhat pliable, filled the bowl, and a cotton wick thrust up from it. At the bottom of the bowl was a layer of multicolored crystals.

"To all appearances, a candle," Arilyn said with admiration. "How long before the fire burns down?"

Tinkersdam shrugged. "An hour. Perhaps a bit less. Just be sure you are well away from it when it ignites. And put the bowls so that the fuchsia dragon-see that one over on the side?-points in the direction in which you want to direct the most damage."

"Assante's palace is fashioned of Halruaan marble, and the walls are a good foot thick. Are you sure these two will be enough?"

The alchemist's face took on a pinched, peevish expression. "Five of them would destroy a good part of the city! Why is it that the ignorant and the uninformed insist that anything of Halruaan make has an edge on the rest of the world? Bah!"

An idea, one that Arilyn would have dismissed as insane in less desperate times, leaped into her mind. The rivalry between Lantan's priests of Gond and the artificers of Halruaa was legendary.

"How would a Halruaan wizard prepare a fortress for attack?" she asked.

"Badly," Tinkersdam said with a sniff of professional disdain. "An artificer might do somewhat better, but even so!"

"You could anticipate such traps and dispel them? Of course you could," Arilyn said quickly. "All right then, here's what we're going to do. We four must go to Zazesspur to tend to Assante's palace. We will then return here, pick you up, and take you to the battle. Can you have ready the things you'll need?"

"I expect so," the alchemist said absently, his attention turning back to the wooden conveyance. "You might pick up a few things for me in the city. Some coal, some powdered sulphur, a good-sized bag of alum, and a jar of pickled herring. Lunch, you know," he added by way of explanation.

Arilyn swallowed a smile and led the way out of the caves. If it was herring that Tinkersdam wanted, she'd see that the Harpers and Amlaruil bought the alchemist his own fleet of fishing vessels! Provided, of course, that any of them survived the mission ahead.

By early morning they were in Zazesspur. Jill and Kendel took off to the parts of the city where non-humans would be less conspicuous. The two elf women made their way to Hasheth's home. Before they'd reached the outskirts of the city, Ferret had paused to don the disguise she used to walk among the humans. For some reason, in her face paint and jewelry and silken clothes Ferret looked even more feral and deadly than the elven hunter and warrior that she truly was.

"Who is this friend of yours?" the wild elf asked in a low voice as they strolled along the broad streets, to all appearances, two elegantly clad women out for a morning promenade.

"Hasheth. A son of Pasha Balik"

"Ah. The Harpers have many threads in their webs," Ferret said approvingly. "But I have seen this human; he is very young, is he not? Not quite a man."

"He is not quite a friend, either," said Arilyn with a rueful smile. "But he hears many things and passes most of them along. And he is becoming skilled in the sort of intrigues such as we might need."

She opened the gate to a small marble town house and led the way through the small garden that fronted it. They were met at the door by one liveried manservant and ushered into a sitting room by another, who advised them that the young master had recently arisen and would be with them shortly. Apparently, Arilyn noted, Hasheth's fortunes were on the rise.

After a few moments the young prince joined them. He greeted Arilyn with a bow and slid an appraising gaze over the silk-clad Ferret.

"Your business in the east is completed? This visit is, I hope, a celebration of your success?"

"Not quite yet. We need some information. But first, how goes your apprenticeship?"

"Very well, actually," Hasheth said in a smug tone. "Hhune is an ambitious man who carries out some rather audacious plans."

"Just remember that one of those plans was the attempt to oust your father," Arilyn said, hoping to temper the young man's admiration of the lord. From what she had seen of Hhune, he was not particularly worthy of such adulation.

"I will remember and be on my guard," he said in a conciliatory tone. "But tell me what you need to know, and I will begin the search."

"I need anything you can get on a man who goes by the name of Bunlap. He has a fortress on the northern branch of the Sulduskoon."

"The name is already known to me," Hasheth said with satisfaction, delighted to be a step ahead of the Harper. "He is a mercenary captain from the northern lands. There is much demand for his services. His men are well trained and as loyal to their captain as is reasonable. My Lord Hhune occasionally employs his men as personal or caravan guards."

"What is Bunlap doing in the Forest of Tethir?"

"That, I cannot tell you. He is not supposed to be in the forest proper. His men are supposed to guard the logging camp from attacks."

Ferret leaped to her feet as if she'd been shot from a balista. "A logging camp? Where is this place?"

"In truth, I do not know. The records say the logs are shipped from southern lands."

The elf woman shook with repressed fury-and something deeper than rage. "I would see something that was built of these logs. Now!"

Hasheth scowled, unaccustomed to being spoken to in such a tone. But Arilyn nodded, and the young man walked from the room. He returned with a polished circle of wood, some three feet across, that was in the process of being made into a small gaming table. This he placed on the floor; then he shot an inquiring glare at Ferret.

The female paid him no heed. She let out a small, strangled cry and fell to her knees beside the wooden circle. Her fingers traced the narrow rings, lingering at the pattern of tiny eyes that peppered the intricate grain. Finally she lifted grimly furious eyes to Arilyn.

"This tree was ancient when the hills of Tethyr were populated only by wolves and wild sheep! There are few trees of this age in the southern lands. This has to have been taken from the elven forest!"

A heavy silence fell over the room, "I'm no expert in local ordinance, but I know that's hideously illegal," Arilyn said. "Why would Hhune take such chances?"

"It may be that he does not know the origin of the lumber," Hasheth suggested quickly.

"I doubt that. Well, Ferret, it's not hard to guess what your next target will be," Arilyn said grimly.

"Hhune," agreed the elven assassin.

"But first we need your planning expertise," Arilyn said, turning to the tense young man. She described the mission and what they needed of him. Hasheth agreed to all, but there was a distracted, mechanical quality to his responses that Arilyn heard and mistrusted.

When their planning was complete, the young man walked the women to the front gate. On impulse, Arilyn turned to Hasheth and said softly, "Listen, I don't particularly like Hhune, but as long as he keeps away from the forest and the elves I'm content to let him live. Do this: find out why Hhune is taking such a risk and who might be at the head of it. If there's a way to stop this without killing your new employer, well do it."

"I will do what I can," Hasheth agreed at once.

He stood at the gate for a long time after the half-elf and the exotic courtesan had left, pondering how best to handle this new wrinkle. Of course, he could arrange matters so that Arilyn and her associate never found their way out of Assante's stronghold. That would be simple. A few words from him, describing the plans of a Harper within their midst, would surely buy him his coveted membership into the Knights of the Shield.

But there was no knowing what Arilyn had told her superiors, or whether the Harpers would send agents to replace her. Hasheth did not want any meddling northerners digging into Hhune's affairs or taking his place as Harper informant. No, Arilyn must be protected.

But he could not allow her to harm Lord Hhune. The

merchant was too pivotal a part of the plans Hasheth had made for his own future. Certain sacrifices must be made, and the plans made a bit more complex, but surely, Hasheth concluded comfortably, such was not beyond a man of his abilities.

The lythari slipped from his den through an eastern door in the Forest of Tethir, one he had not used for many years.

This door took him to the easternmost reaches of the Suldusk hunting grounds, near the edge of the forest's boundaries. Ganamede seldom came here, for the wild elves who lived among these ancient trees had little use for anyone outside their tribe. There were few wild elves as hostile and reclusive as the Suldusk.

Even so, Ganamede had promised to look out after the interests of all the green elves. In his wolflike form, he padded silently southward to the Suldusk settlement.

The terrain here was more uneven and wild than hi the western parts of the forest. The trees grew upon tall hills filled with caves and punctuated by rocky cliffs and ravines. To Ganamede's eyes, it was more like the forests of the far Northlands than those of most of Tethyr. Indeed, here the first refugees from Cormanthor had settled so many years ago. The trees they'd brought from the elven forest still watched over the land.

The Suldusk, however, had lived beneath the trees of Tethir for time out of memory. Their tribe had been there to greet the refugees from Cormanthor-the elves who, in tune, had become the Elmanesse tribe-and they had received the gift of seedling trees from the northern forest. But relationships did not remain cordial between the tribes. There had been centuries of raiding, followed by an uneasy truce. For many years there had been no contact between the tribes at all.

Even the lythari clans did not hunt Suldusk lands.

Ganamede's sharp ears caught a distant sound- faint, but alien to the forest and therefore keenly audible. The lythari climbed a large hill that led toward the settlement. From there he would have a view of the valley below. Although it was heavily forested, he might catch a glimpse of the source of the disturbance.

Running lightly, the elf in wolf form crested the hill and came to a stop at the edge of a cliff. He stood, stunned, gazing out over the valley. What had once been a wondrous elven forest was ravaged and stripped of life and magic. Massive tree stumps dotted the land. The thick foliage had been burned away so that the dead trees could be more easily dragged to the river for transport.

Ganamede shook his silver head in denial. How could this be? The fierce Suldusk elves would never allow their home to be ravaged. Not while they lived, at least.

The lythari spun and ran for the elven settlement, which was hidden in a valley not far from the devastated forest. He stopped long before he reached it, halted by the scent of sorrow and death and despair. He crested the hill that overlooked the Suldusk valley, finding what scant cover remained. Cautiously he crept closer, for he had to know what had become of the Suldusk folk.

For a long time Ganamede stood gazing upon the ravaged Suldusk land. Then his silver form shimmered and disappeared, and he stood on the charred circle on two legs, a solemn, silver-haired elf. This he did without thought, driven by a deep and compelling need.

In his wolf form, Ganamede could not weep.

Nineteen

Bound together at the wrist with Arilyn's amulet of water breathing, the two elven females entered the well that was Abrum Assante's escape tunnel. While the giant shrimp went into a feeding frenzy over the ham hock Ariryn had thrown them, she and Ferret swam quickly upward. They

bobbed to the surface of the water, cautiously scanned the, pink-marbled tunnels for guards, and then climbed out As soon as Arilyn unfastened the amulet from around their wrists, Ferret toweled the water from her hair and then bound it up in a turban. She shook out a number of veils from her pack and draped them over her nearly naked form. Her role was to place Tinkersdam's candles

tin the upper palace. Dressed as a Calishite courtesan,she could do so without attracting much attention. A new face among Assante's women would be nothing: unusual; his harem was extensive, and the women 'apparently came and went quickly enough. After all, guardian shrimp must be fed!

And while Ferret set Tinkersdam's destructive candles hi place, Arilyn would go about the task of stealing the slumbering Zoastria from Assante's treasure rooms.

When Ferret was safely away, following the palace map Jill had drawn for her, the Harper drew her sword and strode toward the door to the first treasure room. As before, three guards barred the way. Arilyn didn't slow her pace, but came on with deadly intent.

Two of the guards rushed her. Arilyn ducked under the first swing of the scimitar, and came up, twisting into a lunge at the second man. He parried her attack and shoved hard enough with his sword to send the much smaller female reeling back. Instinctively, Arilyn raised her blade overhead to meet his next slashing blow. She did not stop it so much as catch the blade with her own and press its attack slightly to one side.

The wicked scimitar continued its descent, cutting deep into the first man's shoulder. His scimitar clattered to the floor, his sword arm ruined, and his life's blood flooding the pink marble of the floor.

Arilyn continued her turn, slashing across the wounded man's throat as she went. She then whirled upon the dumbfounded swordsman who had helped to fell his own comrade. In three strokes, her sword found his heart. Yanking her blade free, she advanced upon the final man.

"Open the door or die," she said succinctly.

The guard did not need time to ponder his choices. He pulled a ring of keys from his belt and tossed it to Arilyn. She caught it and tossed it back.

"No. You." She remembered all too well the laborious task of disabling the devices that trapped the lock. There was no tune for such precautions this time.

Fortunately for her, the guard did not know of the magical traps. He slipped a huge iron key into the latch and turned it. As he did so, Arilyn stepped back.

A flare of arcane light ripped through the^ halls. Arilyn shielded her eyes, but not before she caught a

glimpse of the guard's bones, gleaming weirdly through his flesh as his body jolted and shook. Finally he fell, charred beyond recognition, his skeletal fingers still clutching the white-hot key. The door swung open as he fell.

Arilyn stepped over the body, ignoring the dry, brittle crunch as she accidently trod on what had once been a human hand.

She made her way directly to Zoastria's resting place and lifted the dusty lid of the glass tomb. As she gathered the tiny elf woman in her arms, as one might hold a sleeping child, the first of Tinkersdam's explosions ripped through the palace.

"An hour, maybe less," Arilyn muttered sarcastically, quoting Tinkersdam and wishing the alchemist possessed a more precise awareness of time's passing.

She headed toward the door with Zoastria cradled against her chest, dodging a gauntlet of falling treasures as she went. All around her, statues toppled, and shelves laden with treasures rocked and crashed to the floor. As Arilyn ducked out of the path of a falling suit of armor, the second explosion hit, this one more powerful I than the first. The tremors knocked Arilyn to her knees, •.but somehow she kept her hold on the sleeping elf woman. As she staggered to her feet, she blessed the fact that Zoastria had been small and slight.

Dust and small rocks rained down on her as she hurried back to the well. Ferret was already there, her knife pressed to the throat of an elderly Tethyrian man. As they had anticipated, Assante realized that explosions of this magnitude would destroy many of his defenses, and he had come to the lower levels of his palace to avail himself of his escape tunnel.

The palace is coming down," Ferret lied fiercely. i "Those explosions were but the first of many. Take the 'fastest way out, and take us with you, and you have a [chance of Living through this. When we are beyond the i palace grounds, you will be set free. If you call out for help or try to attack us, I will kill you at once, and we will take our chances without you as hostage. Do you understand?"

The former assassin nodded slightly; even so small a movement sent a thin line of blood running down into his shirt. Assante set a course through the halls and up sweeping marble stairs. The noise that assaulted them as they entered the main hall reminded Arilyn of a cavalry charge at the heat of battle.

Screaming, dragging wounded friends or gathering up armloads of possessions, Assante's retainers frantically sought escape from the burning building. Since so much emphasis had been given to keeping unwanted visitors out, the doors leading in and out of the palace were few. In the confused rush for these exits, many people had been knocked down and were now being trampled underfoot. Those who retained their balance surged toward the doors, too frantic to notice that their feared master was among them.

Ferret gave the knife at Assante's throat an encouraging twitch, and the master assassin waded out into the chaos and confusion. To Arilyn's disgust, the assassin did not hesitate to use his knife on his own people. Indeed, Assante cut a way for them through the milling throng, killing with brutal efficiency and then climbing coldly over the bodies. He would certainly have tried to turn his blade upon his captors, old as he was, but for one precaution Arilyn had insisted upon: both she and Ferret openly wore their Shadow Sashes, flaunting their rank among Zazesspur's professional assassins. Only a fool would challenge two such seasoned killers, and Assante was no fool. He would wait for his chance and then strike. She only hoped Ferret had gained enough experience to realize this and to strike first.

Once outside, they made for one of the bridges that spanned the reflecting pool. Unfortunately, so did most of the survivors. At Ferret's urging, Assante shouted repeatedly for his people to make way, and they did so.

Now that they were beyond the crumbling palace, their panic was lesser than their deep-seated fear of their master.

But the danger to the escaping elf women was all the greater. Within the walls of the palace, the screams and cries had reverberated into a deafening cacophony. Now that Assante could be heard, now that the crush was lessened somewhat, his plight would not go unnoticed. Surely some of his guards would move to his rescue, and neither Arilyn nor Ferret had hands free for such a fight.

Ferret, apparently, had come to the same conclusion. As soon as they neared the pool, she shoved Assante viciously away from her, pulling the knife at his throat back toward her as he fell. His body splashed into the "water" with a sickening hiss, and blood rose to bubble and pop on the surface of the acid pool.

Arilyn grimaced, for Ferret's action was shortsighted. Without Assante to use as a shield, they were virtually defenseless.

The Harper turned back toward the palace just in time to see a guard rushing at them, his scimitar lifted high overhead in preparation for swift retribution. She leaped forward, twisted to one side, and kicked out as hard and ae high as she could considering the precious burden in her arms. The kick landed firmly in his chest. It was not much, but it stunned him and halted his momentum long enough for Ferret to join the fray.

The green elf leaped forward and thrust her knife into the guard's throat. She twisted the blade, yanked it free, and then hurled it at a second guard.

"Run!" she demanded as she tore the sword from the dead man's hands.

Arilyn did so. Ferret held the curved blade before her, waving it menacingly at those who'd halted at the far edge of the bridge. Then she lifted the sword high and hurled it-not at the guards, but into the deadly pool. A spray of acid splashed up into the crowds, droplets that would tunnel through flesh and sinew and bone, causing incredible agony as they left behind indelible scars, or blindness, or death.

Ignoring the screams, Ferret turned and ran after Arilyn.

It was not difficult to leave the compound's gardens. The gate had been shattered by the first rush to escape, and the panic within was nothing compared to the confusion outside Assante's complex. It seemed as if all of Zazesspur had come to see the excitement.

Arilyn pressed her way through the milling crowd to the carriage Hasheth had arranged for them, which waited three streets east and away from much of the turmoil. Kendel Leafbower sat in the driver's box, cloaked and cowled to conceal his elven nature.

Jill leaned out of the carriage and took the slumbering elf woman from Arilyn's arms. The Harper snatched up a cloak, draped it over herself, and then climbed onto the box beside Kendel. She took the reins from his hands and shook them briskly over the horses' back.

The dwarf, meanwhile, had deposited Zoastria gently onto the carriage seat and extended a brawny hand to Ferret. The wild elf hesitated only a moment, then grasped the offered wrist as the carriage lurched off. Jill tugged the wild elf inside with an ease that nearly pulled her arm from her shoulders, and brought her tumbling into his lap.

"Well, now," the dwarf said happily. "I knowed you'd come around to my way of thinking sooner or later!"

They were an odd company, these six travelers to the Forest of Tethir. There was a priest of Gond, who was a bit grumpy over having been persuaded to abandon his traditional yellow tunic for the more practical browns and greens of forest garb. There was a moon elven maje, who walked as silent as a shadow, and a dwarf whose small boots thumped and cracked with every step. Then there were two elven females, one of the forest folk and one of the moon people, and the slumbering elven hero whom they carried between them on a litter.

Four days' travel lay between them and Talltrees, and Arilyn made good use of the time laying plans for the battle to come. All had a part to play, even the dwarf. Arilyn was past worrying what the forest elves would make of such strange allies. All that mattered was winning freedom-for them, and also for Danilo. How she would accomplish both these goals was not yet clear to the Harper, and these thoughts weighed heavily on her as they made their way eastward.

At last they neared the elven settlement. Arilyn and Ferret placed the litter on the ground to rest for a moment, but Ferret stopped in midstretch and let out a strangled cry. She set out for the settlement at a run.

"Stay here," Arilyn informed the others, and then she sprinted off after the frantic elf.

It was not long before she saw what the green elf had envisioned. Where the elven community had been was only a barren, blasted circle, too eerily precise to be anything but the result of a wizard's fire. The destruction had been swift and terrible. Although most of the circle had been reduced to gray ash, here and there bits of charred trees and the remnants of elven dwellings lay in tumbled piles, little more than glowing coals that Arilyn knew could not be quenched until they had burned all they touched into oblivion. Here and there wisps of smoke still rose from the rubble as the wizard's fire completed its grim work.

Talltrees was no more.

Twenty

For several anguished moments the elven females regarded the smoking ruins of the forest stronghold

"They are not all dead, my clan," Ferret said in a dazed voice. "Somehow most of them escaped, and they are even now nearby."

Arilyn did not need to ask how she knew. In times of great stress, even those elves who were not joined in special mystic bonds sensed things that their eyes and ears could not possibly have told them.

The green elf lifted her hands to her mouth and sent a high, ringing call out into the ruined forest.

The survivors of the Talltrees clan came quickly, but their eyes were glazed with the pain of their loss, and they moved as if their limbs were heavy and numbed by grief and exhaustion.

Ferret ran to her brother and fell into his arms. Khothomir enfolded her to him, but he looked over her head, his eyes seeking out Arilyn. *"

"How did this happen? How did the humans find this place?" he demanded.

The answer came to Arilyn quickly, painfully, like the stab of a knife. "Probably they had a cleric," she admitted. "Some priests can force the spirit of the slain to answer questions. Hawkwing fell near the human fortress; we could not bring her back into the forest. All that she knew, they now know."

The elves stared at Arilyn in horrified silence. What she described was an unspeakable abomination. No elf would willingly disturb the course of another's afterlife.

"You have brought this violation upon Hawkwing, and this loss upon us all," one of the females said in a low voice.

"You led Hawkwing and the other elves from the forest," added another. "If you had not, this would not have occurred."

Dark murmurs rippled through the elven assemblage. Arilyn could not fault them. The forest folk were battered and beleaguered, and in times of peril they would naturally fall back into old ways. As an outsider, a moon elf, she was an object of suspicion. Arilyn wondered, briefly, what they would think when they met Jill and Tinkersdam.

"We followed your plans; we listened to your words," the Speaker said solemnly. "And in doing so, we have suffered. You must leave this forest at once and never return."

"You would let her go?" one of the elves demanded incredulously. "What is to keep her from leading still more humans to us? She must not leave; she must not live! The time has come for the clan to protect our own!"

The time has come," announced a ringing voice, "for the children of Tethir to unite, and to fight. You will not harm Arilyn Moonblade."

The elves turned as one toward the source of this pronouncement. At the edge of the blasted clearing stood Ganamede, his silvery fur nearly the shade of the ash

that drifted through the air. Even now, in their grief and loss and anger, the sight of one of the elusive lythari east a spell of wonder over the forest elves.

As soon as all eyes were upon him, the lythari lifted his silver muzzle and sent a long, undulating call into the forest. Then he walked to Arilyn's side. His wolflike body shimmered briefly with silvery light as he shifted into his elven form.

As if from one throat, a gasp of wonder and astonishment rose from the elven clan. None of them had ever seen a lythari in elven form. Ganamede stood tall and proud at Arilyn's side, one hand resting on her shoulder in a gesture of friendship and support. In his other hand he held an elven bow. His silver hair was bound back, his angular face painted for battle in the custom of the forest elves.

One marvel followed another. In swift response to bis call, a dozen enormous silvery wolves slipped into the clearing and formed a semicircle around the moon elf and her lythari protector. These did not transform, but their strange blue eyes met those of the forest elves with firm purpose. The message was clear: no one would move against Arilyn unless they were willing first to fight the silver shadows.

"I have come from the Suldusk lands," Ganamede said, speaking into a deep and profound silence. Their settlement has also been destroyed, but they did not fare as well as you. Those elves that yet live are wretched captives, held in cages at the edges of the ravaged forest. Beyond that, near the banks of the river, is the human camp." He turned to Arilyn. "You know the ways of humans better than any among us. If you will lead us, we will follow, and we will attack."

The Elmanesse have troubles enough of our own,* Rhothomir protested angrily. "We cannot be expected to go to the aid of the Suldusk!"

Ganamede turned a steady gaze upon the Speaker. After a moment, Rhothomir dropped his eyes, visibly shamed. If the lythari were willing to leave the forest to aid the Suldusk, how could they do less?

There is more," the lythari said. The humans have been cutting the ancient trees, burning large sections of the forest lands. This threatens all the children of Tethir. Once before our tribes united to stop a great evil. This we must do again."

Ferret came to the center of the blasted clearing, her eyes blazing with fervor. "And so we shall! Some of our elders remember the battle of which this lythari speaks. They must also remember Soora Thea, who led us to victory! Today will legend be given life. Gome, all of you, and see the hero who has returned."

Cautious hope began to dawn in the eyes of the elven folk. But Arilyn did not miss the fact that many of them still regarded her with distrust, even hatred. They would not soon forget the destruction of their home. Nor were they in any frame of mind to accept a human and a dwarf into their midst.

She tapped Ganamede's arm, jerked her head to indicate that he and the other lythari should follow, and then took off at a run for tile place where Jill and Tinkersdam waited. The lythari shimmered into wolf form as he followed her, his clan hard behind him.

They found the alchemist seated on a log, his head in his hands and a forlorn expression on his plump, sallow race. If there was no work to be done and no property waiting to be destroyed, Tinkersdam was utterly at odds with himself Jill was seated beside him, sipping experimentally at a flask of summer mead he'd managed to talk away from Ferret. Kendel was nowhere in sight. The dwarf and the Gondsman looked up as Arilyn approached. Both did an astonished double take at the sight of the enormous wolves running silently at her heels.

"No time to explain," she said. Tinkersdam, climb onto this lythari's back. One of the others must take the dwarЈ and some of you go into the forest to look for a moon elf male with red-gold hair and blue eyes. He's probably hunting. Take all three of them near to the place where the battle will be. Await us there. But I swear by Gond's gears, Tinkersdam, if you blow up something before we join you, you're on your own from now on!"

The alchemist rose, shrugged, and shouldered on his massive pack. He clambered awkwardly onto the lythari's back. Jill followed suit, albeit with a string of grumbled curses. The two lythari disappeared into the forest, stumbling a bit beneath their loads.

They disappeared not a moment too soon. Ferret burst into the clearing, the People of Talltrees close behind her.

The elf woman stopped and pointed to the sleeping figure of Zoastria. "Ysaltry, Nimmetar, you fought under Soora Thea's command. Come forward and say whether or not this is she."

Two elderly elves came forward. They gazed for quite some time at the elf woman's still face, remembering ancient times and long-ago battles. Finally, they nodded

Ferret looked to the half-elf. "Begin,'' she said urgently.

Arilyn slowly drew her moonblade and held it up high before her. Faint blue light dawned in the moonstone in its hilt and spread down the shining length of the blade. Those elves who had never seen the magic sword in battle exclaimed softly.

The significance of it was lost on none of them. All had heard the story of Soora Thea, the hero who slept. All of them knew Arilyn carried a moonblade. Slowly, the realization came upon them that the sword in her hand was the very one their ancient hero had carried.

The knowledge of this, and the wonder of it, burned bright in the eyes of the survivors of Talltrees. Even so, Ferret spoke the words aloud in the ringing tones of a lore-talker.

"For hundreds of years, it has been said among us that for as long as the magic fire of Myth Drannor b^rns within this sword, a hero will return in times of greatest need. Once before Soora Thea led our tribe in battle. She will come again, now, this day, in response to the call of her clans-daughter."

Taking the cue Ferret provided, Arilyn moved to stand behind the slumbering elf woman. The light from the moonblade fell upon the still face and set the sapphire braid sparkling. The half-elf took a deep breath and then spoke into the expectant silence.

"Come forth, you who were once Zoastria, known to the people of Tethir as Soora Thea. Your time has come again."

Mist rose from the blade and swirled over the form of the slumbering elf. Zoastria's elfshadow, pale and insubstantial and wraithlike, stood before the forest folk.

As all eyes clung to the spiritlike form, the essence of the elf woman slowly began to take on substance. The ghostly outline filled in, gradually becoming as solid and mortal as any of the forest folk. Yet she stood like one caught in a trance. Her eyes were closed, her body still. Her face warmed, changing from the color of snow to that of pearl. At last her eyes opened and settled upon the people of Tethir.

Zoastria's gaze swept the assembled elves, coming at last to rest upon the wizened faces of the two elders. She strode forward and clasped the wrist of the aged Ysaltry in a warrior's greeting.

"I remember you well, Ysaltry, daughter of Amancathara. And you, also, although your name comes not readily to my tongue. You both fought bravely in a time long past. Your wisdom and your memories are needed now. We have much to teach your people before battle," she announced in a firm, commanding voice.

The eyes of the forest folk darted toward the place where the elf woman's slumbering form had rested but moments before. Arilyn stood there with a quenched and silent moonblade held in her two hands, but the litter before her was empty. Shadow and substance Kad again become one.

Silence, complete and profound, gripped the elven people. Then Rhothomir went down on one knee before the tiny moon elf warrior. As one, the people of Talltrees dropped to kneel upon the forest floor, pledging to follow the hero who had returned.

The rest of the day passed in council meetings and frantic preparation as the elves prepared to march on the logging camp. Even the lythari clan lingered nearby, listening to the planning. Each person had a role, and all sensed the need to mesh their actions with those of their new allies.

Finally, with the coming of night, Arilyn and Ferret at last had a chance to learn more about the destruction that had taken place in their absence. They sought out Foxfire, and the three withdrew to the shadows of the elves' makeshift camp. The elf women shared a roast haunch of rabbit-the first food either of them had eaten that day-as they listened to his grim story.

The humans came upon us more suddenly than I would have thought possible," Foxfire said quietly. "They knew the way, and they had been forewarned of all our defenses. Their wizard killed our scouts, even blasted the dryads' trees! There were spells of silence about them, I think. If not for the warnings of the birds, they might have come upon us, as well. We were able to retreat into the forest before the wizard's fire was unleashed upon Talltrees, but barely."

"How did you escape pursuit?" Ferret asked.

They did not pursue."

Arilyn caught the note in Foxfire's voice, the unspoken fear in his eyes. "You believe that we are being baited, drawn into a battle of their choosing."

The war leader met her gaze. "That is so. The humans did this once before. They laid waste to Council Glade and left some of my own arrows among the slain. They

let us know where they could be found, and they waited in ambush for us." He paused. There is a matter that lies between me and the human leader. This attack has his stamp upon it."

"What this time?" she asked softly.

For a long moment the wild elf did not respond. "I have told you that I carved my mark upon the face of the human known as Bunlap. The body of one of our scouts-Uleeya Morningsong-was left just beyond the circle of ash. My mark had been cut into her cheek."

Arilyn leaned forward and placed both hands on the wild elFs shoulders. "If the gods are kind to you, you will never come to understand evil men as well as I do. But you may believe what I'm about to say to you."

The male nodded for her to continue.

"When in Zazesspur, I learned that this man, Bunlap, was hired to guard a logging camp from the Suldusk. It would not surprise me if this task proved to be far more difficult than he had anticipated. It is likely that the early battles with the Suldusk tribes ignited his hatred of all elves. You see only the part of the flame he turns toward your clan. No doubt there are others in the forest who wonder what they might have done to deserve such hatred.

"I have known many men like Bunlap. There is never a single, simple explanation for the evil they do. So please, my friend, do not take more of this upon you than you need to carry," she concluded softly.

Foxfire lifted a hand to touch her cheek. Thank you. I will think on what you have said. But come-we should join the others at council."

The Harper nodded and rose to her feet, moving with her customary decision toward the council fire. But Ferret caught the male's arm before he could follow.

"When last midsummer was upon the forest, we were pledged to one another," she said softly. "Have you forgotten this so soon?"

Puzzled, Foxfire gazed down into the elf woman's black eyes. "We were very young when we spoke our pledge, and since that day our feet have taken us down different paths. It was you who asked to be released, before you went among the humans."

"I cannot regret what was done for the clan," Ferret said. "But you forget the reasons why we pledged to each other, so many years past. I am lore-talker and sister to the Speaker; you are war leader. Together we would have brought strong children to the elan, elves who would in turn lead the People. If you do not soon choose a suitable mate and produce heirs, you will not remain long as war leader. You are needed, and you must think of the clan."

"Ah." At last Foxfire understood the elf woman's concern. "And you fear that if I were to choose Arilyn, the clan would not accept the children of a moon elf in our midst."

Ferret nodded. "That is part of it. There are things about our new battle leader that you do not know. She and I have met before, in the humans' city. You must believe me when I tell you she is not what she appears to be."

"I see," the male said slowly. He studied the elf woman for a moment, marveling that she, too, had long known and kept Arilyn's secret. But then, as he considered the matter, it was not so surprising after all. Ferret was utterly single-sighted in her desire to serve the good of the forest elves, even if that meant allowing a half-elf into the elven stronghold and keeping that secret from her own brother.

"So you know Arilyn is half-elven," he said bluntly. "And knowing this, now that you have also come to know her, does it truly make any difference?"

A startled expression crossed Ferret's face, once when she realized that Foxfire already understood Arilyn's true nature, and then a second time as she gave consideration to his question.

"No," she said in a wondering tone. "No, I suppose that it does not."

Then her face softened, and she placed a hand on Foxfire's arm. "There is one thing more, something I had not thought to tell you. For all the truth in what you say, the half-elf is not for you. She loves another. A human."

"This I also know," the male said softly. "But I thank you for your concern. Come. We should join the others."

The elves drew near the circle and entered into a heated debate concerning the best strategy for dealing with a human wizard.

Arilyn nodded to her friend and then turned back to the discussion, for in it, she saw an opportunity to explain Tinkersdam's presence at the coming battle. *You have all witnessed the damage the human wizard inflicted. Not only the destruction of Talltrees, but the way he could turn elven arrows back against their archers. Imagine what such could do if he had time to prepare for battle in a place of his choosing! The spells he could cast, the traps he could lay?"

Several of the elves nodded grimly. None who had fought that first battle would forget the sight of their kindred burned to cinder in the span of a heartbeat.

"I know someone who can spring these traps and best the wizard in battle. He is a human, a scholar, and a priest of a goodly god. He has been an ally of mine for many years. Even the lythari accept him. They have taken him ahead to the battle site, along with two warriors to protect him, so he can scout and prepare."

"A wise precaution," Foxfire said quickly, seeing the grimaces on the faces of most present. "Even in the days of Cormanthor, humans fought beside the People against a common evil."

1 will speak truly. This man is nothing like the humans of ancient Myth Drannor. He has no love for the elven people or our way of life," Arilyn said with all candor. "But neither does he bear us any ill will. He does hate all things Halruaan, and you can be assured that he will make this fight against the wizard his own!"

"So be it," Zoastria said, and the others, still awed by the return of their ancient hero, were content to accept her word as final.

The elves debated briefly about the best way to approach the Suldusk lands. Less than two days' march to the east lay the valley known as the Swanmay's Glade. Here was the largest lake in the forest, and from it a small river wound its way toward Suldusk territory. They could build rafts and float downstream more rapidly than they could walk. It was agreed that they would leave at first light, after a night spent in reverie, meditation, and prayers to the Seldarine.

When the chorus of morning birdsong began with the first few tentative, somnolent chirps, the elves were already on the move. They followed the trails the retreating humans had left, not a difficult thing to do.

As usual, Tamsin had gone up ahead to scout. He had not cried back a warning, but none of the elves doubted that he had come to grief, for his sister Tamara suddenly stopped walking and cringed, and placed both hands over- her eyes.

A silence fell over the elves, for what could the fey female have seen that would cast such desolation over her, but the death of her twin-born brother?

Tamara's shoulders rose and fell in a long, steadying breath, and she lifted her eyes to Foxfire's face. "It is as you have said. The humans are luring us to them. They will be waiting for us, and for you. Come. You will not want to see this, but you must."

Several hundred paces down the trail, a sapling had been stripped of its branches and turned into a post. To it was tied the body of an elf. Not Tamsin-this one was a stranger, a Suldusk elf, dead for perhaps three days. Flies buzzed about the body, lingering on the shape of a flower that had been cut into one of the dead elf s cheeks.

"How many more elves mark the trail south?" Tamsin murmured in a despairing voice. "How many more will die in captivity before we reach the southern forest?"

Ganamede, who had returned to the Elmanesse with the dawn, padded over to Zoastria's side. "I have seen the human camp," the wolflike lythari said. "Their numbers are far greater than ours, and they have had time to set up defenses. Our only hope of prevailing-and freeing those elves who have not yet been slain-is surprise. I have spoken with my clan. The lythari will take you between the worlds to a place much nearer the camp than the Swanmay's Glade-a day's walk, no more."

"The humans have had more than three days* head start," Rhothomir observed. "Even so, they will not arrive at their camp long before we do and will surely not expect us so soon. They will no doubt have scouts watching for our passage. With what you suggest, we could slip past unseen and catch the humans utterly unaware! If your clan is willing to take us, we accept most gratefully."

The elves set about dividing into small groups so they could travel with the dozen or so lythari through the gates to the battle site. Foxfire was among the first to go, as was Rhothomir. It seemed best to send the leaders first, but Zoastria waved aside her turn and motioned for Arilyn to come with her.

The two elven females walked away from the others. When they came to a small clearing beneath the shade of some ancient oaks, Zoastria came to a halt. The battle comes sooner than I had expected," she said abruptly. "It is time."

Arilyn gazed down at the smaller elf, not understanding. She followed the elf woman's gaze to the moonblade on her hip.

"You have worn it well, for a half-elf," Zoastria admitted. "But my time has come again. I will have my moon-blade returned to me."

Twenty-one

Arilyn stared at her ancestor, dumbfounded by this demand. She had not foreseen this result of raising the sleeping warrior!

"The moonblade has accepted me as its wielder. The sword and I are joined!** she protested. "I cannot turn it over to another as if it were no more than a common weapon!"

"Only one can wield the sword," Zoastria said sternly. "If you have another weapon, draw it, and we will let skill decide the matter."

The half-elf rejected this notion at once. As much as she admired the elf woman's skill at arms, Arilyn suspected she could best Zoastria in battle. And she had not restored this ancient elven hero to the demoralized Elmanesse only to destroy her now. Nor had she ever once thrown a fight. This Arilyn simply could not do, not even for the sake of the forest folk.

Zoastria must have seen some of this in the hajf-elfs eyes, for she quickly offered another suggestion. "Or follow your heart's desire. Give the sword to me willingly and be free of the moonblade once and for all. In relinquishing the sword to a former wielder-and its rightful owner-your duty to the People would be honorably fulfilled, and your pledge to the moonblade's service would be returned to you."

As the half-elf pondered this unexpected solution, an enormous weight lifted from her heart-and the void was filled at once with a strange sense of sadness and loss. "And the power with which I endowed the sword?" she asked tentatively.

"It would be removed. If this is your wish, we will proceed."

"One moment," Arilyn murmured. She drew the sword and held it, savoring for a moment the only link she had ever had with her elven heritage. As much as she feared the moonblade, and resented and at times even hated it, she never thought she would be called upon to give it up. Yet this she would do, for the good of the elven People, and for sake of the beloved spirit that would otherwise be trapped within.

Arilyn squared her shoulders and lifted the moon-blade high one last time. She envisioned her eldritch double, and also the second shadow that she had unwittingly consigned to the service of the blade. Then she commanded them to come forth.

The paired elfshadows poured from the blade and took shape before her. Arilyn's throat tightened as she looked upon Danilo's mirror image. She wondered, briefly, if her friend would have any knowledge of what had transpired in the woodlands of Tethir. Before she had learned of her own elfshadow, and when the entity of the sword was under the control of her teacher, Arilyn had often been beset by dreams whenever the elfshadow was called forth to do Kymil Nimesin's bidding. She only hoped that in his dreams Danilo understood what she was about to do and why.

Taking strength from the warmth in his gray eyes,Arilyn thrust the moonblade back into its sheath and unbuckled her swordbelt. She handed it to her ancestor.

Zoastria drew the sword in a smooth, familiar movement. The blue fire in the enspelled moonstone flared high and then subsided. The sword had accepted anew its former wielder. And one of the runes magically engraved upon the blade-that which 'marked the power that Arilyn had added to the sword-began to blur.

As Zoastria murmured the bonding ritual that Arilyn had never been taught, the half-elf watched as her mark upon the elven sword faded utterly away-and as her elfshadow and Danilo's, hands entwined, dissipated like mist.

"Thank you for seeing me, Duke Hembreon," Hasheth said as he settled into the chair the great man had offered him. It was a heady experience, being in the presence' of so powerful a man, and Hasheth did not mind very much that another man's worth had purchased this privilege for him. It would not always be so.

"You said you have word from Hhune. Is there trouble in Waterdeep?"

"Nothing beyond the ordinary," Hasheth replied, sincerely hoping this would prove to be true. "As you know, Lord Hhune has taken upon himself the burden of finding a solution to the problem presented by the forest elves."

At least, Hasheth added silently, that is what I would do in his position. The young man doubted the other Knights of the Shield knew of Hhune's illegal activities in the elven forest, or that they would condone them. How better for Hhune to keep such knowledge from their eyes than to offer to handle the matter himself?

"It seems Hhune has confided in you," Duke Hembreon observed, testing the boundaries of^the young man's knowledge.

"I am his apprentice," Hasheth said simply. "I wish to learn all he has to teach."

There. It would be impossible to say more plainly- unless he abandoned any attempt at subtlety-that he was being initiated into the secrets of the Knights.

The Duke nodded thoughtfully. "And what has Hhune learned of the elven troubles?"

"The elves of Tethir are being despoiled. Their ancient trees are cut for lumber, their people slain. This is the work of a petty warlord, a mercenary captain by the name of Bunlap. The elves have sworn a blood oath against him. They will not cease their retaliatory strikes until this man lies dead."

"And this lumber?"

"It has been shipped to Port Kir through a most ingeniously twisted route. The mercenary realizes an enormous profit. This he uses to raise an ever-bigger army to bring against the forest elves and perhaps for other uses, as well. Much of the lumber has made its way to a shipyard, where it is made into swift and well-armed ships. This Bunlap is a dangerously ambitious man."

Hasheth leaned forward, his eyes wide and earnest. "I am young, Duke Hembreon, and perhaps not ready to trace the path of such a man without leaving marks that betray my own passing. It may be that Bunlap has learned of my efforts. He may make some attempt to implicate my lord in this, as retaliation. I have reason to fear he has found an accomplice in this work-someone close to Hhune. I have not yet learned the name of this villain. But I pray you, let me continue to seek his identity. If the Knights look too closely into Hhune's affairs, this traitor may fear discovery and take flight."

The Duke regarded him somberly. "There is wisdom in what you say, as well as a modesty becoming to a^ man of your years. You do well to bring this matter so openly before me. It will be as you have asked. The Knights will leave Hhune's traitor in your hands. But as for this Bunlap-where can this man be found?"

"He has a fortress near the mouth of the Sulduskoon's northern branch. The logging camp is much farther to the east, where the river and the forest touch."

A frustrated grimace twisted the Duke's face. "The Knights of the Shield do not have an army to send against him over such distances!"

"An assassin, then," the young man suggested. "I know of one who will do the task well and take word of its completion to the elves. She is half-elven, and eager to see that peace is made between her mother's folk and her father's. To this end, she has received assurances from the forest folk that the death of Bunlap will end the troubles."

This was, of course, an utter fabrication, but Hasheth assured himself that the end result would bear out his words as true. After all, Arilyn had set her sights on the destruction of the logging operations. To do so, she would have to remove Bunlap from the picture.

"See to it and report to me when all is done," the Duke said.

Hearing the dismissal, Hasheth rose and walked from Duke Hembreon's chambers, doing his best to hide his elation.

The interview had gone far better than he'd hoped. Just a few more steps and he would be firmly in the graces of Hhune, Hembreon, and the Knights. And the only cost would be Hhune's fleet of ships.

A bargain, by Hasheth's eyes.

The following day, the forest elves and the lythari gathered in the hills beyond the Suldusk settlement. They would attack with the dawn, and there were still many preparations to make, and plans to lay, for the battle ahead.

The most difficult of the tasks before them would be rescuing the captured elves. By the best estimates of their lythari scouts, perhaps fifty elves of the Suldusk tribe remained alive. It was hard to judge their numbers with any certainty, for they were huddled together in cages built upon the ruined ground, from branches torn from the pillaged trees. The human camp was split, with some men guarding the captives, and others camped near the river. Accordingly, the elven forces would have to be divided.

Despite the grim nature of the task before them, the elven folk could not help but look with bemused wonder upon the strangers in their midst. Kendel Leafbower they accepted readily enough, though his obvious friendship with a dwarf was beyond their understanding. It was the human who most fascinated them.

Tinkersdam kept to himself, muttering and fussing with the collection of pots and vials and powders that he'd carried with him. The elves had all heard Ferret's story of the destruction his concoctions had unleashed among the humans in Zazesspur, and even Tamsin, perhaps the most xenophobic elf among them, was more than willing to let Tinkersdam go about his business unhindered.

Arilyn felt rather useless amid the quietly intense preparations. In many ways her part in this battle was over. Through her efforts the lythari had joined the forest elves, and Zoastria had returned. The half elf had also secretly sent Ganamede into the forest, seeking allies among the fey forest creatures-those folk who were so reclusive that even the elves could find them only if they wished to be found. The lythari knew all the secrets of the forest. Even so, Arilyn felt little hope that Ganamede would succeed in gaining recruits.

She also felt oddly incomplete without the elven sword at her hip, for she had not been without the moonblade since her fifteenth year. Nor did she have a sword with which to replace it. Such weapons were scarce among the forest folk.

This lack did not escape Foxfire's notice. "You cannot go into battle without a sword," he insisted.

Arilyn shrugged. Tve got a dagger. That'll do long enough for me to disarm one of the humans." She attempted a smile. "I'll try out a few of their swords and keep the one I like best.",

"But even so, you must have a blade. If not for yourself for the good you might do the tribe-the People," he corrected himself. There were now three elven races uniting in preparation for battle, and the once reclusive Elmanesse were learning to expand their concept of community. "Not one among us can match your skill, not even Soora Thea!"

Foxfire nodded toward the tiny moon elf female, who was demonstrating an attack sequence to a small group of young adult elves.

But Arilyn shook her head. "No, her technique is far cleaner and more polished than mine could ever hope to become. If there is any lack, it is because the moonblade has grown in power since she last wielded it. At least four elves have carried the moonblade since Zoastria passed it on, and each added a power to the sword's store of magic. Truth be told, moonblades are becoming pretty damned hard to handle," she concluded. "I doubt there are many left that still hold their magic."

"And fewer still who can manage such magic," Foxfire reasoned. "The tales say such a sword will consume anyone unworthy who draws the blade. It must take great courage to accept a moonblade."

The half-elf merely shrugged. She was not being modest. She had first drawn the sword without knowing any of the implications.

"I have often wondered about the power you gave to your sword. They say this gift is not a deliberate choice, but rather the true reflection of the wielder's needs and talents," he observed.

"Or mission," Arilyn added. "Sometimes the magic comes in response to a sudden challenge. One of my ancestors found himself in a disagreement with a red dragon and ended up endowing the sword with fire resistance. Imagine his surprise when he woke up and found himself alive after that battle!"

The green elf chuckled. "So that was how you endured the wizard's fire bolts. I have seen the sword cast a glamour over you, and I have seen the uncanny speed with which it moves. Which of these was your gift?"

"Neither. A moonblade can be handled by only one person," Arilyn explained, "and that can cause problems if you've got a partner. My gift was to share the blade and its magic, should he have need of it."

"Ah. This explains much," Foxfire said.

Arilyn cast him a quizzical look.

"During the battle at the river, I was hard pressed by the human fighters," he began. "Yet I saw the shadow warriors come forth from your moonblade, and I noticed that one among them was not elven, though he quickly chose to appear so. I did not understand how this could be, until you told me you had joined with another in rapport.

"Do not look so startled," he said, smiling a bit at the stunned expression on the half-elf's face. "As you yourself told me, there are many kinds of sharing. The gift of your moonblade to this human was the deepest bonding of any you could have offered him. It reflected, as you have said, your deepest wish. And perhaps it was a needed thing, that the moonblade should do this. You were not able to see your need for this human or to find your own way to him."

The half-elf stared at her friend, utterly dumbfounded by his words-and by the realization that she could not dispute them. The power she had given the moon-blade was one of rapport, and her heart-and her sword-had chosen Danilo to share this most elven gift! How strange, that the well-intentioned lie she had offered as a balm to Foxfire's pride should turn out to be simple truth!

Poxfire's smile was slight and rueful. "You are not the first to bond with a human in one way or another. There is something about them that draws many of the People. There was a song sung among the elves of Trademeet about this very thing. I do not remember the words, but for the last line."

"How brief their flame, yet how bright they burn!" Arilyn recited. "Yes, I have heard it sung."

"And you know the words of this song to be true, as did your mother before you," he added softly.

Arilyn jolted as his meaning struck her. "You know. You know I am half-elven. You have known for some time!"

"Almost from the beginning," the elf agreed. "At first I did not speak for the same reason that Ferret held her silence: it seemed the best way to serve the clan. You were needed. Then I kept silent for your sake, and for my own. Very soon I realized your being half-elven was not important to me, nor should it matter to any of the People. Your soul is elven, else you could never have wielded a moonblade or sought another in rapport. That you have chosen to share that bond with a human does not change your elven nature or belittle it."

For the first time in her life, Arilyn truly understood the dichotomy of her own nature. "Thank you," she whispered.

Foxfire placed both hands on her shoulders. These were things which needed to be said. We go into battle tomorrow. You know what faces us, and you also know I myself must face Bunlap. He will die, or he will be avenged. Either way, this matter must end."

A slight rustle from the forest beyond caught the ears of both elves. They looked up into the bearded face of a centaur.

Arilyn remembered him from the elves' midsummer celebration. He carried a long spear and wore an expression of grim determination. Apparently Ganamede had been convincing when he carried her message to the other peoples of the forest!”

"We came as soon as we could," the centaur announced, speaking the Elvish language in a deep, grave voice. "I am Nesstiss, and there are ten centaur warriors with me. It may be that the fauns will come as well, but do not expect to see them until battle. To whom do we report?"

The appearance of the elusive centaurs galvanized the army of forest people. Their grim, quiet determination shifted toward fierce glee, even exhilaration. Shortly before dawn, they gathered for the attack, hiding among the trees that lay just beyond the portion of the forest devastated by loggers.

The scene before them was like something from the most desolate reaches of the Abyss. The rich undergrowth of the forest had been burned to ash, from which blackened tree stumps rose like giant mushrooms. An oppressive aura of despair hung Eke a shroud over the land. Yet even this stirred the children of Tethir. The ruined forest was a grim reminder to all of why they fought.

Arilyn took her place with those who would make the first surprise charge. Their numbers looked pitifully few to her eyes, and she imagined how their attack would appear to the mercenaries. On impulse, she reached into her pack for the vial Tinkersdam had given her more than a month before-the concoction he'd made from the shrieker mushrooms.

She shook the vial and unstoppered it, shook a few drops onto a square of linen, and hurried over to the centaur captain.

"Nesstiss, give me your hoof," she demanded. The centaur looked surprised, hut he obligingly bent one leg. Arilyn stooped and wiped a bit of the potion on the hoof. "Now put it down, as gently as possible."

Nesstiss eased down his hoof. The crunch of a pebble beneath it was magnified to a startling rattle. He looked at Arilyn with wonder.

"Five centaurs, charging the camp from either flank," she said with a grin. "It'll sound like a cavalry charge. That ought to wake up the mercenaries!"

She caught Zoastria's eyes upon her. The elf woman nodded in solemn approval. "Anoint the hoofs of the others, quickly," she said. "Centaurs, do as Arilyn suggests. Attack from both sides, startle the humans, and send them toward us. Then circle around to the back of their camp and continue to press them."

Arilyn motioned for the centaurs to get into position; then she handed another bit of linen to the nearest elf and indicated that he should help. When the centaurs were ready, she went over to Zoastria.

"There's a drop or two left in the vial. You have heard how it increases sound. Drink it, and your commands will be heard over any battle," Arilyn said softly.

The tiny elven warrior took the potion without hesitation and tipped back her head. Arilyn reclaimed the empty vial and stepped back into the ranks of elves.

Zoastria faced the assembled forces. Her eyes blazed as they swept the lines, connecting briefly but intensely with each one there. Then she drew the moonblade with a slow, deliberate flourish. The centaurs lifted their long spears into position, each looking very much like a lance-bearing knight and fearful warhorse, combined into one being.

The elven battle leader spun toward the encampment and whipped the sword forward, signaling the attack with a battle cry that rang over the hills like a dragon's roar.

Immediately the centaurs kicked into a charge. Hooves pounding, the two small bands swept out wide and descended upon the camp like summer thunder. The ground shook beneath them, magnifying their charge into that of a vast army.

In response, the mercenaries poured from their tents, half dressed and fumbling for their weapons. Again Zoastria shouted, and the first wave of elves ran

through the deforested grounds toward the still-bemused humans.

As he ran, Foxfire fitted an arrow to his bow and sighted down the nearest and most deadly target. Two hideous ore-human hybrids charged forward to meet the elves. Their speed was astonishing, their battle-axes held high. Foxfire aimed for the slower runner. His arrow took the creature through the throat. The half-ore plunged to the ground, and as he fell his up-held axe bit deep into the back of his comrade.

"One arrow, two half-ores," Arilyn commended him as she passed, her hands empty but for a single long dagger.

The half-elf was not skilled enough with the bow to shoot while running, but she was the only one there who knew of that lack. Every member of the Elmanesse tribe was a hunter trained to shoot with deadly accuracy while running down prey. Black arrows rained down upon the mercenaries, sending them fleeing for cover.

But there was none to be found. Already the centaurs had circled around to the back of the camp and were pressing the humans forward. The cries of men who died on the ends of centaur spears mingled with the clash of swords against the oak-staffed spears as their comrades sparred against the centaur warriors.

A tall human stalked through the encampment, his dark cloak flowing behind him and a large, broad-bladed sword in his hand. He smacked a retreating fighter with the flat of his blade, roaring out orders until the chaos settled into some semblance of order. His mercenaries formed into ranks and raced forward to meet the elves hand to hand.

Arilyn picked her first opponent, a large man who was equipped with a fine Cormyran sword and very little else. Shiftless from slumber and clad only in woolen trews, he had managed to pull on only his boots before battle. She charged straight at him, her dagger held level before her. The man saw the charge and the gleaming hilt in her hand, but he could not judge the length

of the weapon. Ten inches of steel, held at just the right angle, could give the illusion of a sword.

The man parried with an upward sweep-one that fell several inches short of Arilyn's oncoming blade. She hurled herself at him, thrust the dagger into his belly with one hand, and grabbed the wrist of his sword arm with the other. Tearing the dagger free, she twisted her body toward him. She yanked his arm down, bringing her knee up hard to meet it just behind the wrist. The bones of his forearm gave way with a brutal crack.

Arilyn rolled clear of the falling man and came up with his sword in her hand. She whirled and lifted the sword high to meet the downward sweep of a battle-axe. At the last moment she remembered that the weapon in her hands was not elven steel. She pushed the direction of the parry closer in toward her opponent, so that she blocked the wooden haft of the axe, rather than its blade.

It was a well-done impulse, for surely the axe would have shattered the slender Cormyran sword. As it was, the force of the blow pushed her borrowed blade to the ground. Before the axeman could lift his weapon for another sword-shattering blow, Arilyn kicked out hard over their joined blades and caught him just above the belt. The man folded; she danced aside and finished him with a quick stroke.

Nearby, one of the elves was fighting toe-to-toe with a much larger human, a rough street fighter who wielded two long knives. One of the blades slashed through the elf s defenses and tore open his shoulder. The human grinned wildly and drew back his other knife for a killing stroke.

Arilyn's first lunge knocked the attacking knife out wide. She body-blocked the wounded and much smaller elf, sending him reeling out of the line of battle so that she might take his place. Facing the street fighter, she feinted high. He crossed his blades before his face to ward off the blow. Arilyn continued the attack, her borrowed sword diving in over the joined blades, pinning them into place, and pressing them down. The man jerked his knives free of the sword with a shriek of metal, a movement that sent both arms out wide and left his torso unprotected. The half-elf's sword plunged deep between his ribs. She lifted one foot high and kicked the impaled fighter off her blade, then turned to find another foe.

Not all the forest people were faring so well. Some of the humans had broken through their ranks and were forming a line between the elves and the cover of the forest. They had apparently learned the danger of engaging the forest folk amid the trees and did not intend to be pressed that far northward.

Seeing this, Foxfire looked about for the mercenary captain. He caught a glimpse of a swirling dark cloak. The human was battling one of the centaurs who, although bleeding from several wounds and bereft of half his spear, still parried the man's broadsword with a broken length of oaken shaft.

The elven archer lifted his bow for the shot. The black bolt skimmed between the combatants and grazed Bunlap's face-as Foxfire had intended for it to do. The human let out a roar of anger and pain. He clapped one hand to his bleeding, scarred cheek.

The centaur made use of this opportunity to clobber the man across the shoulders with bis staff. Unfortunately, the creature's wounds had stolen most of his strength. Bunlap whirled back toward the centaur, swinging his sword viciously as he went. The blade sank deep into the centaur's body, cutting a deep and deadly furrow between his manlike torso and his equine body. Seeing that this particular battle was over, the mercenary turned to search for his elven tormentor-and his long-sought prey

Foxfire was easy to pick out from among the forest elves. He had deliberately left his auburn hair unbound, and for once its bright color was not dimmed by the usual ornaments of feathers and woven reeds that helped him blend with the forest.

The elf met the human's coldly furious gaze and then began to back into the forest. On his signal, the elven warriors slipped away from their individual battles and began the retreat.

The mercenaries pressed them through the razed ground but came to a stop at the tree line, as they had been ordered and drilled to do. Their eyes turned to their captain, who stood over the body of the centaur, his black beard sticky with his own blood and his hate-filled eyes fixed upon the forest.

Bunlap did not need long to decide. "Pursue," he said, and then he himself strode toward the forest in search of the eh7 who had marked him… and revenge.

Twenty-two

Tinkersdam had never considered himself in the role of war leader, and he found he did not much like it. The elves with him, twenty or so, had been ordered to follow his instructions, and they were quick to do so. That much was fine. But he had no gift for stealth, no love for the insects that ignored the elves to buzz around his coppery hair, and a remarkable lack of tolerance for something in the forest air. His nose itched, and he felt distressingly as if he might sneeze at any moment.

At least his little band had surprise on their side. The mercenaries wouldn't expect them for another day or so. Tinkersdam hoped this also meant that their damnable Halruaan wizard would have no more than the rudimentary defenses in place.

The Gondsman called a halt, spat out a tiny flying insect, and squinted in the direction of the captured elves. He could see no evidence of mechanical traps or triggered devices. Probably the idiot wizard relied on his fire magic spells to form a defensive perimeter.

Tinkersdam smiled slyly. So be it. Such spells were like a door-and a door meant to shut intruders out could also be used to close the mercenaries in.

He took a coil of twine from his belt-the thin, almost transparent "spider silk" ropes Arilyn had used to good effect for many years. It was one of his earner inventions. The thought of testing it himself was actually rather pleasant.

"See that tree, right by the edge, the one marked with yellow paint for cutting? Affix this twine to an arrow, and on my mark shoot it over that branch. It should fall into that cage, just short of the captives. Shoot high; the angle of the rope has to be steep. Can you do that?" he demanded of one of the elves.

The archer nodded and did as he was bade. His arrow streaked into the lofty tree, a shimmering thread trailing behind it, and traced an arc down toward the captive elves. The captive elves acted as if they did not even notice, but one of them surreptitiously fastened the end of the line firmly to the bars of the cage.

"Oh, fine. Well done all around," Tinkersdam said happily. He took from his bag several small wood-and-metal devices and a jar of cream. "You know what to do with these. Get up the tree, hook the top wheel over the rope, and grab the handle. You'll slide down the rope fast. This ointment is for the return trip. Sticky hands. You'll be able to climb the rope better. Take it with you, and get those folk up the rope. You, you, and you four- climb that tree and help get the captives away into the forest. The rest of you, wait. When the others attack the camp, we also attack."

The elves nodded. They had not long to wait for the signal. A pealing elven battle cry undulated through the forest, followed by a thunderous, rolling charge.

"Essence of Shrieker Mushroom," the alchemist muttered thoughtfully. "Yes, indeed-an excellent result."

As planned, his band leaped to their feet and hurling the small, hard pellets Tinkersdam had given them: small, fetid missiles of sulfur and bat guano mixed with substances that were particularly sensitive to the presence of Halruaan fire magic. Some of these pellets fell to the ground, as harmless as pebbles. Others struck unseen barriers. These exploded into walls of arcane fire, walls that rippled about to encircle the encampment in a flaming palisade.

Through the licking flames they could see the silhouettes of frantic guards milling about in search of some escape. Some tried to rush through the fire. The walls merely bulged, and then snapped back into place.

"Oh, splendid," Tinkersdam said delightedly. "Neatly penned. Very tidy. A fine result!"

He watched as six elves, one after another, rapidly slid down the steep rope and into the flaming enclosure. There came a splintering crash as they broke through the top of the wooden cage, and then the clash of sword on sword as some of the elven warriors held back the guard.

After a few moments the first of the captured elves came into view, climbing up the rope hand-over-hand into the trees. Tinkersdam counted as they came. One after another, forty-seven bedraggled elves made their way up into the safety of the trees. Fierce yells and the sound of intensified battle within the fiery enclosure suggested that some of the Suldusk elves remained behind to aid their rescuers and perhaps to avenge their captivity. By Tinkersdam's estimation, the operation would soon be over.

"Oh yes indeed, an excellent result," he said with satisfaction.

Foxfire raced off into the forest, leaping lightly over fallen trees and dodging low branches. He had already chosen his ground: a small level clearing not far from the ravaged logging site. It was a good place for battle. His people could take to the trees and fight from cover, and he could at last face the human who pursued him.

When he reached the clearing, he stepped behind a thick cedar and waited. He could hear Bunlap's approach-heavy iron boots crunching the foliage, his breath coming in short, furious bursts that whistled out from between his clenched teeth. Foxfire tensed in readiness. His would be the advantage of first attack.

But some instinct, perhaps born of hatred, sharpened the human's senses. When Foxfire leaped out from his hiding place, Bunlap did not so much as blink, but instead hurled the knife he had back and ready.

Foxfire leaned aside with elven speed and agility. The knife that would have found his heart buried itself instead in the muscles of his arm. For a moment the eh7 felt nothing but the thump of impact. Then pain, white-hot in its intensity, seared up his arm. He swayed and reached for the tree to steady himself.

The human came on, sword in hand.

The Elmanesse fled into the forest, the humans following them like hounds nipping at the heels of a hare. Indeed, the mercenaries had little choice in the matter. Eight of the centaur warriors still stood, and their spears pressed the humans relentlessly northward. And loath though they were to fight the elves amid the trees, they were less eager to face the wrath of their captain.

Vhenlar, his loaded bow ready in his hand, was one of the last to pass the tree line. He was less afraid of Bunlap than the others, and in some ways he would have preferred to take his chances with those deadly horse-men than to face the elven archers again. The prospect of venturing into Tethir's deep, cool shadows, every one of which might hide a wild elf, chilled him to the soul.

He did not get quite that far.

A stand of ferns exploded into movement, and from it leaped the most astonishing creature Vhenlar had ever seen. Shorter than a halfling, the creature had a naked, manlike torso atop hindquarters rather like those of a stout, two-legged goat. Wild brown hair erupted from the creature's head and fell to his shoulders, where it mingled with an equally rampant beard.

A faun, Vhenlar realized with awe. He lifted his bow and took aim. The arrow-a stolen elven bolt-streaked toward the creature's throat.

The faun snorted and made a lightning-fast grab for the arrow. He fielded it without blinking. Before the stunned Vhenlar could absorb this astonishing parry, the faun leaped at him.

The Zhentish archer went down, his hands flailing as he tried to push the small warrior off. A sudden bright pain exploded in his gut and seared its way up into his chest. The fiaun leaped up and danced away into the forest.

Vhenlar looked down at the black shaft protruding from his body. A wry, bitter smile twisted his lips. Although this was not quite the end he'd imagined for himself, somehow he'd known from the first that one of those elven bolts would turn on him. There was a certain perverse satisfaction in being proved right.

Darkness, deep and swift and compelling, surged up from spmewhere within the mercenary's soul, drawing him down toward oblivion.

Beneath the shadows of Tethir's trees, Zoastria faced off against a pair of swordsmen. The moonblade in her hand flashed and darted and thrust with astonishing speed. Terrifying speed, and a power that lay on the outermost boundaries of the elf woman's skill and strength.

The force behind each stoke, each lunge, nearly tore the sword from Zoastria's hand. Keeping her balance was difficult. More than once she had overextended and presented an opening to the humans' blades. Her arms and shoulders bled from several small wounds. If not for the uncanny speed of the moonblade's strike, which allowed her to quickly cover such lapses, she likely would have been slain.

The half-elf had admonished her to hold the sword in a two-handed grip, else it would be too difficult to control. Zoastria, in her pride, had ignored the warning.

From the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of the half-elf just as she ran a half-ore fighter through. Not bothering to retrieve the blade from his chest, she ripped the sword from his hand and turned to meet the next attack.

The tiny moon elf darted between the two men, ducking below the instinctive sweep of their blades and whirling back to lunge at the man to her right. She got in below his guard; the moonblade sank easily between his ribs.

But the man was not through just yet. As he fell, he lashed out with his sword. Zoastria was in too close for the edge to find her, but the hilt and crosspiece struck her hard across the face. Her head snapped painfully to one side.

The elf threw herself sideways so that her continued motion would absorb some of the force of the blow. She hit the ground hard, spat teeth, and rolled to her feet. Dragging the increasingly heavy moonblade up into guard position, she faced down her second opponent.

Before she could strike, a stunning jolt tore through her from behind. She glanced down at the bloody arrow protruding from her body.

With a yelp of triumph, the swordsman hauled his blade up and across his body fin* a backhanded slash. Zoastria raised her head and prepared to meet death.

A sword flashed in over her shoulder and dove toward the swordsman. It pierced his leather gauntlet, plunging deeply between the twin bones of his forearm and pinning his arm to his chest.

Thin but strong arms gathered up the elf woman and bore her away from the fighting. Zoastria looked up into the eyes of her half-elven descendent.

"That arrow has to come out," Arilyn said, placing her hand on the crimson shaft.

"Do not," the elf woman replied as fiercely as she could in her fading voice. "It has pierced a lung. If you remove it, I will die all the faster, and there are things that must be said. I name you blade heir. Take up the moonblade once again and finish this fight."

With those words, Zoastria seized the arrow and tore it free. Blood bubbled from the corner of her lips, and her head slid limply to one side.

Arilyn stood, staring down at the elf woman. Zoastria had aped her own death so that her blade heir could claim the sword. A moonblade could have but one wielder.

The half-elf turned and strode to the place where the moonblade had fallen. Indecision shimmered over her, for neither of her choices looked promising. To take up the blade was to willingly embrace untold centuries of servitude-perhaps an eternity's imprisonment-to the moonblade's magic. There was also the very real possibility that the sword would not accept her this time, for she had rejected it and turned aside from the elven sacrifice it required.

The sounds of battle tore Arilyn's gaze from the sword. All around her, the forest folk fought fiercely for their home. Yet the humans were many, and the outcome of the conflict by no means certain.

Instant death, or eternal servitude.

Arilyn stooped and seized the blade.

Twenty-three

A flash of vivid azure magic burst from the moonblade, enveloping Arilyn in a flair of arcane energy. And then it was gone, as quickly as it had come.

The moonblade had reclaimed her. Without pause for reflection or regret, the half-elf flung herself toward the nearest battle. A dozen or so mercenaries had surrounded a pair of elven females, who stood back to back and held off the taunting blades of the humans as best they could. The humans were toying with their captives. The females' clothing hung about them in ribbons, and their coppery skin was marked by many shallow cuts. More painful to the proud elves than these wounds was the indignity of their situation. Arilyn saw this in her elf-sisters' eyes, and she burned with wrath at the lewd, taunting comments that the captive elves, mercifully, could not fully understand.

Arilyn stalked in, her moonblade held high over her right shoulder. Without breaking step, she slashed into the neck of the man to her left, cutting him nearly to the bone. She pivoted with the backswing and knocked the sword from the hand of the man on her right-hand side, then ran him through before the surprise of the attack could wipe the lascivious sneer from his bearded face. She heaved him off her blade and into the reflexive grasp of the man behind him-a short, slight youth who staggered under the weight of his dying comrade.

For a moment the young mercenary could not use his sword. One of the elf women seized the opportunity. She darted forward and drew her bone dagger across his windpipe.

•Down!" Arilyn shouted in Elvish as she slashed forward. The elf woman dropped and rolled as the magic blade whistled in over the young man's head-and cut a deep and bloody path through the eyes of the mercenary who approached from behind.

Eight men still stood, eight against three elven females. No longer were the mercenaries quite so cocky. There was an element of vindictive fury to their fighting that brought to mind wicked children, outraged when the puppies they tormented nipped at their fingers.

Arilyn winced as one of the elf women was disarmed, almost literally, by the brutal stoke of a broadsword wielded by a man nearly thrice her weight. Two of the men leaped at the wounded female and wrestled her down. One of them pinned her arms, and the other opened her belly. Grinning fiendishly, they left her there to die slowly.

Arilyn's first thought was to end the elf woman's agony as quickly as possible. Yet she could not. Pressed as she was by the remaining swordsmen, she could not get through with the merciful gift of death. And the elf woman who still fought at Arilyn's side was not much better off than her kin. She bled freely from many wounds, and her face was nearly gray under its coppery tints. Arilyn noted with sudden sharp horror the softly rounded swell of the elf s belly. The female carried her unborn child into battle; there were two more lives soon to be lost.

The half-elf nudged the swaying female sharply. "To the trees, while you still can!"

"I will not leave you alone," the elf insisted.

Arilyn hesitated for only a moment. The warning that Danilo's shadow-double had sent her rang loudly in her mind: she could not call forth the elfshadows again without grave danger to herself. Yet in truth, what risk was this, to one whose life was already forfeit to the service of the moonblade?

"Come forth, all of you!" Arilyn shouted.

She parried an attack even as the mists that presaged the elfshadow entities poured from the sword. Then the startled humans fell back as they regarded the eerie manifestation taking shape before them.

Eight elfshadow warriors, apparently as solid as life and armed with elven blades, stalked toward the dumbfounded humans. One of them, a tiny, blue-haired female, slipped an arm around the pregnant elf and helped her toward the safety of the trees. Arilyn saw this and took comfort in the knowledge that Zoastria was still watching over the forest People.

Then the moonblade's mists seemed to close in around Arilyn, and the blood-soaked earth wavered and tilted strangely as it floated up to meet her. Arilyn scanned the entities of the moonblade and then turned her rapidly failing gaze on the sword in her hands. As she slid inexorably into the darkness, a tiny smile lifted the corners of her lips. Danilo's double was not among the warriors, nor had her rune of rapport reappeared on the sword.

Whatever her fate, Danilo had been freed.

The appearance of the elfshadow warriors brought new strength to the weary and outnumbered elves. From his corner of the battle, Kendel Leafbower looked

with awe upon the white-haired mage who bore down upon a pair of half-ore mercenaries, his outstretched hands crackling with eldritch energy and the many braids of his hair swirling like the snakes of a vengeful medusa. At the sight of this new and fearsome warrior, one of the burly creatures let out a strangled whimper of fear, dropped his sword, and ran for the trees.

It was not among his more intelligent decisions. Roaring out an oath to Morodin, the dwarven god of battle, Jill leaped into the half-ore's path-and onto the high, thick stump of what had until recently been an ancient tree. This brought him nearly eye-to-eye with the larger fighter. Jill evened the score completely by lifting his axe high overhead. It plunged in deep between the fleeing half-ore's eyes, cleaving his skull as easily as a goodwife might slice through a summer melon.

"Hee hee!" exulted the dwarf as he hopped down from his perch. His battle glee quickly turned to frustration, however, for his axe refused to come free of the thick skull. Jill planted one booted foot on the fallen half-ore's chest, the other on his ruined forehead, and tugged and grunted for all he was worth. None of this availed.

Before Kendel could call out a warning, a spear-wielding human closed in on the preoccupied dwarf. He thrust the tip of the spear deep into the thicket of pale brown beard, forcing the dwarfs head up and back.

For a moment Jill froze. His eyes sought his elven friend, and he made his farewells with an apologetic little shrug.

But Kendel was not prepared to lose his odd companion. Inspiration struck; he pointed toward the captive dwarf. "Jill!" he shouted desperately. "The dwarfs name is Jill!"

A smirk crossed the mercenary's face. "And what of it?" he said, misunderstanding the elf s ploy. "I've nothing more against killing me a female dwarf than a male, though may Cyric take me if I can tell the difference one from the other!"

Storm clouds began to gather on Jill's craggy face. "I ain't no ding-blasted female!" he roared in a voice that plumbed depths no human male could reach. "You human men got the eyesight of a mole and the git-up of a gelding-no wonder yer wimmenfolk is takin' up more common with the likes of elves and halflings!"

The insult seemed to strike the mercenary in a sensitive spot. "Jill?" he repeated, this time in a cruel taunt.

The single, sneering word at last had the desired effect. Galvanized by the familiar insult, the dwarf reached forward and seized the shaft of the spear. He leaned back and then ripped the weapon to one side, ignoring the strands of dun-colored beard that were torn out by the V-shaped prongs of the iron point. Then he lunged at the weapon and bit clear through the shaft.

Before the man could recover from the surprise of this unusual counterattack, Jill chewed lustily and then spat a mouthful of oak splinters into the man's face. He leaped at him, the broken spear head held like a dagger. The man stumbled and went down under the fury of the attack, and found himself securely pinned to the ground by nearly two hundred pounds of irate dwarf.

"Jill was me mother's name," the stout little warrior growled and then drove the spear home.

The dwarf hopped to his feet and wiped his bloodstained hands on his tunic. Still in the throes of his own peculiar battle frenzy, he stomped a couple of times on the dead half-ore's head. The skull gave way completely, and the axe slid free with ease.

Kendel made his way quickly to his friend's side. The battle is not yet over," he said with a grin. "Come… there are many introductions yet to be made."

Understanding-and a touch of wry humor-flooded the dwarfs slate-gray eyes. He responded with a deep-throated chuckle and fell in beside the elf.

"Oh, but that were a smart one," he said admiringly as they trotted toward the nearest skirmish. "Yer a quick-thinkin' one in battle, scrawny elf though you

might be. Me kin's gonna love hearin' this tale, once we finish this business and get us under the Earthfast Mountains. Come to think on it," the dwarf added, a speculative tone entering hie voice, "I got me a right pretty little cousin you might like to meet."

Kendel blinked, astounded by the dwarfs invitation to accompany him to his ancestral home, by the cozy welcome Jill obviously anticipated for them both, and by the somewhat daunting prospect of being expected to court a dwarf maid. And oddly enough, to the homeless and disenfranchised elf, there was an odd appeal in all of it.

"Her name wouldn't happen to be Jill, would it?" he asked casually as he raised a sword to meet an onrush-ing mercenary.

The dwarf scowled and stepped into the path of the charging human. "Yeah," he said in a belligerent growl. "And what of it?"

Bunlap advanced on the wounded elf; his bearded face twisted in a hideous parody of glee and his sword held high and back. Foxfire's torn and bleeding sword arm refused to respond. He seized his sword in his other hand and managed to bring it up. The parry was weak, but it turned aside the first blow.

The man thrust in again, high, with a quick, stabbing movement. Foxfire parried again, this time more surely. For several minutes they fought, the blows ringing harder and coming faster.

But the loss of blood was beginning to take a toll on the elЈ His vision swam, and the human's sword darted in over his guard to cut a deep line across his chest. Foxfire lunged at his opponent; Bunlap danced back, and the elf fell facedown onto the ground.

The expected killing stroke did not come. A heavy, iron-shod boot stamped hard on the elfs lower back, sending waves of agony shimmering along every nerve. Dimly Foxfire felt the man's sword cutting deep and burning lines upon his skin. Apparently Bunlap intended to mark the elf as he himself had been marked. He took his time, cutting his signature with painstaking care and a sadistic pleasure as tangible to the lading elf as his own pain.

Suddenly Foxfire heard a startled oath. The heavy boot that pinned him to the ground was gone.

The elf lifted his head, shook away the haze of pain and blood. To his astonishment, Arilyn stood between him and the human, an elven sword held in a two-handed grip.

"You again," Bunlap said in a low, ominous voice. "Get out of my way. This elf is mine."

"I think not," the elf woman said coolly. She met the mercenary's first vicious stroke and parried it with a circular sweep that sent his sword arm out wide.

Bunlap stepped in close and delivered a bare-knuckled punch to the elf's beautiful face. She reeled back, shaking her head as if to clear her vision. Then she ducked as he brought his sword whistling down and across. It was a near miss. A thick lock of her wavy sapphire hair fell to the ground.

The elf woman straightened to her full height and got her moonblade back out in front of her. She lunged, turned the lunge into a feint, and then lunged again, the moves coming so close together that Bunlap was forced to retreat.

He responded by landing a brutal kick to Foxfire's ribs.

The beautiful face of his elven opponent darkened with outrage. She slammed her sword into its ancient sheath and leaped forward, her hands reaching for Bunlap's wrist.

The attack was unexpected. Surprising, too, was the female's next move. Holding fast to the man's sword arm, she pivoted so that her back was pressed against

him. Then she leaned forward at the waist, yanking down hard on his arm as she did so. Bunlap somersaulted over her and landed heavily on his back. His sword clattered to the ground.

Growling like an enraged bear, Bunlap rolled onto his stomach and seized the elf woman's ankles. With a quick jerk, he pulled both feet out from under her.

With elven agility she twisted and managed to ge+ her hands under her as she fell. This broke her fall somewhat, but did nothing to free her from the vengeful human's grasp.

Bunlap rose to his knees. With a quick, vicious movement, he twisted the elf woman so that she slammed down onto her back. He jerked her toward him and then fell forward to pin her body to the ground.

He was a large man, well over six feet tall, and his heavy-muscled bulk weighed closer to three hundred pounds than two. No female, no matter what her skills in battle, could free herself from such bonds.

Bunlap propped himself up on one elbow. With his free hand, he struck the woman across the face again and again. He took his time, leaving livid red welts on the pale skin but never hitting with enough force to break bones. This was vengeance of another sort, and one best taken slowly.

At first the elf woman struggled beneath him, her hands pushing at his chest. Gradually, the fight went out of her and her eyes-odd, gold-flecked blue eyes- became distant and unfocused. Bunlap had seen such things happen before. Terror did odd things to women. Such withdrawal was not all that unusual. And so he did not wonder when her lips began to move in a soft elven chant, or notice that her hands, which had fallen limply to her sides, moved in slight, subtle gestures. Arcane gestures.

Bunlap noticed none of this. His thirst for vengeance had given way to a darker emotion. He tore aside the elf woman's outer tunic, grimacing as he gathered up in both fists the fluid, silvery mesh of the elven chain mail that lay beneath.

It was at that moment that the elf woman finished her chant. Eldritch energy poured from her, and the metal of her sword and her armor glowed with white heat. Bunlap screamed with agony and rage as the waves of power jolted through him, yet try though he might he could not release his grip on the deadly elven mail.

He was not aware of the moment when the killing surge stopped, nor did he know how the elf woman managed to get out from under him. When he came to, he was on his knees, his blackened hands held before him like the claws of a charred bird.

"Arm yourself," the elf woman said in a low, musical voice. "If you've any honor, stand and fight."

Bunlap looked up into the eyes of the elf woman and at the point of her sword. Both glowed with angry, arcane blue fire. He found he had no desire to fight. "With these?" he demanded as he held up his ruined hands. "How can you speak of honor?"

"I give you the opportunity to die on your feet with your sword in your hands," she said. "It is more than you deserve. Refuse, and I will cut you down where you grovel."

The utter contempt in her tone stirred the proud man into action. He seized his sword, accepted the searing pain of contact, and rolled to his feet.

Bunlap was a hardened mercenary. He'd killed his first man at the age of thirteen and since then had won his living by the sword. But in his nearly forty years of constant fighting, never had he faced a swordmaster to match the one before him.

Cold, grim, inexorable, the elf woman worked his sword down with each stroke and parry and thrust. Finally she forced the point of his blade to the ground. With a quick move of her booted foot, she stomped on the blade and tore it from his blasted hand.

Holding his gaze, she ran him through the heart.

All this Foxfire witnessed as if he were watching through smoked glass. He could not move, could do nothing to stop his enemy from harming the elf woman he loved above all others. Unreal, too, were the moon elf s ministrations when she turned and stooped beside him.

Gentle hands helped Foxfire to sit against a tree, probed his bruised ribs and pronounced them whole, bound his wounds, and held a water flask as he drank. When at last the haze of pain began to dim, the elf woman took his face between her hands and turned it toward her.

With a start of wonder, Foxfire realized that this was not Arilyn at all, but someone like enough to her to be a twin. Only the hair-the rare color of spun sapphires- and the slightly more angular lines of her face, distinguished her from her half-elven descendent.

"For all you have done for my daughter, I thank you," the elf woman said in a voice like wind and music. "You have shown Arilyn that she possesses an elven soul. Tell her that her mother is proud. Tell her she and I will be together again, in service to the People for as long as we are needed, and in Arvandor when our task is completed. Tell her this! I would speak to her myself," the elf said with obvious longing, "but to come to her again would hasten our reunion, and that I must not do. Arilyn is needed by the People. You will tell her these things?"

Foxfire nodded, and the beautiful moon elf dissipated like mist at highsun.

Fear filled the green elf s heart; once before he had seen the shadow warriors disappear during battle, after the fall of the moonblade's mistress. He struggled to his feet and staggered toward the glowing light that heralded Arilyn's sword.

The moonblade lay on the blood-soaked earth, its arcane blue fire dimming rapidly. Its wielder had fallen nearby. Oddly enough, Ferret knelt beside the fallen warrior, cradling her raven head in an oddly protective gesture. Around them stood a circle of exulting warriors: green elves, both Elmanesse and Suldusk, centaurs, fauns, lythari, even a battered and broadly grinning dwarf

Ferret looked up and met his gaze. "The battle has been won, and Arilyn lives!"

Twenty-four

After the wounded were tended and the dead returned to the forest, the sylvan folk began the northward trek. By common agreement, they would rebuild, forming a settlement at the Swanmay's Glade that would embrace Elmanesse and Suldusk alike. After the battle, the wisdom of joining together had been clear to them all.

Arilyn and Oanamede walked together. The half-elf was still weak from her ordeal and thinner than ever, yet she was strengthened by the success of her mission and the sweetness of the message Foxfire had given her. Neither she nor the lythari were much given to talk at any time, and each had a heartful of matters to treasure and contemplate.

Once again, Arilyn found she had to ask her friend for help. This was becoming easier for her to do. In the community that had developed among the forest people, it did not seem intrusive to ask for or to offer assistance. Especially now, when all the fey folk were united as never before.

"Before I take my leave of the forest elves, there is one more thing I must do," Arilyn said. "You told me once that a time would come when I must walk between my two worlds. For this, I need your help."

Ganamede stared at her for a moment; then he nodded in understanding and approval. "I will take you to Evermeet," he agreed.

Queen Amlaruil started as the ring on her small finger emitted a silent alarm. She had worn the ring for many years; it warned her when someone entered the magical gate on the far side of the palace grounds. It also would transport her there, instantly, along with whoever happened to be at hand. But even if she went alone, the elven queen did not fear. She was no fragile figurehead to be cozened and protected; she herself was one of the powerful safeguards that kept Evermeet secure. Amlaruil knew the ancient high magic of the elves and carried the special power of the Seldarine. Few were the forces that could get beyond Evermeet's formidable queen.

She nodded to her scribe and her honor guard and then touched the ring. The four elves emerged at once in a deep, forested glade. There were two figures waiting there: a large, silver-furred lythari, and a tall and slender moon elven female. As yet, neither had perceived the queen's arrival.

Arilyn looked with wonder at her ancestral home. A few butterflies fed upon the flowers that dotted the meadow grasses, and the ancient oaks that surrounded the glade were robed in the deep emerald hues of late summer. It was a scene such as might have been found in the virgin forest of many a land, except for an aura of eldritch energy as pervasive as sunlight.

"Evermeet," Arilyn whispered. ^

"I will leave you here and return when you are ready for me," Ganamede said, vanishing from sight almost as soon as the words were spoken.

Arilyn felt the tingle of magic at her side and glanced down at her moonblade. A faint blue mist rose from the blade.

Her eyes followed it, then widened in astonishment. The mist reached out like reverent fingers to touch a shimmering oval gate. Arilyn had seen it only once before, but she knew it well. It was the power that her mother had inadvertently given the moonblade-a link between the worlds of elves and humankind.

"Who are you, who dares trespass upon this place?"

The question might have seemed harsh, but for the sheer beauty of the voice that spoke it. Arilyn's throat tightened. The voice reached deep into her memory, recalled the lullabies her mother had crooned to her as a child. Liquid starlight-for some reason that was how Arilyn remembered her mother's voice. This one had the same limpid, shimmering tones.

Arilyn turned to face Amlaruil Moonflower, Queen of Evermeet.

It was the elven ruler's turn to jolt in astonishment. "Amnestria?" she whispered in a voice filled with longing and awe.

This startled Arilyn, for she did not think she looked much like her mother. Indeed, the queen quickly realized her mistake and composed her features back into the mask of regal serenity. Nor was Amlaruil much like Amnestria, Arilyn noted. The queen's features were more delicate, her hair like silk and flame. She was tall, taller even than Arilyn, with a pale, otherworldly beauty that reminded Ajilyn of the lythari females. And although Amnestria's inclination had been to be nearly aa solitary as her daughter, the queen was accompanied by a pair of gold elven guards and an elderly moon elf male-no doubt an advisor or a scribe.

At least they had one thing in common, Arilyn mused: each had seen Amnestria in the other. She herself would never have believed it possible, and she doubted the elven queen would ever accept the link between them. So be it. She herself had matters to tend.

The Harper drew the moonblade and fell to one knee. She placed the elven sword on the grass at Amlaruil's feet.

"I am Arilyn Moonblade, daughter and blade heir of Amnestria of Evermeet. As long as the fires of Myth Drannor burn within this sword, it will serve the People and their rightful queen."

There was a long silence. The elven monarch stood like a statue of marble and moonstone. Arilyn understood. All moonblades were pledged to the People, yet the queen could hardly accept the sword without acknowledging its wielder. With her next words, however, Arilyn gave the proud queen a way out. She took Amlaruil's commission, given her by the hand of Captain Carreigh Macumail, and placed it beside the sword.

"I have fulfilled my duties as ambassador of Evermeet and have come to give my report."

"Rise, and speak," the queen said at last. She waved the guards back and bid the elderly scribe to take a seat on a fallen log.

Arilyn gave a concise but thorough accounting of the events in the Forest of Tethir. When she fell silent, Amlaruil asked her a number of questions. Finally the queen nodded.

It is not the task I gave you, but nonetheless you have done well."

"Then permit me to name my fee" Arilyn said evenly. "Carreigh Macumail indicated that he'd been empowered to approve any request I might make. I certainly have no objection to such generosity, but in the future, you might want to fill in a figure before signing the note."

This seemed to amuse the queen. "You are definitely Amnestria's daughter," she said wryly. "She was ever one to speak her mind. Yet I see that there is much of

your father in you, as well."

"What you see before you is my doing," Arilyn said in a calm, even tone. "I am not a soup, made by tossing a little of this and that into a pot. As for my father, we met for the first time but three winters past." She paused and touched the gem in her restored moonblade. "You and yours made certain of that."

There was no accusation in her voice, just a statement of fact. By the decree of Amlaruil, the moonblade had been dismantled and the sword and stone divided between Arilyn's mother and father. This had kept the dangerous elfgate from becoming as powerful as it might have been, but it had also robbed Arilyn of her family and the knowledge of the sword's true power.

The queen's gaze did not falter. "I suppose you've wondered why we never sought you out after Amnestria's death."

"No."

Amlaruil raised one brow. "You're not going to make this easy, I take it. Very well-nor would I in your position. It is known that those of mixed blood are banned from the island kingdom. You must understand. Evermeet is the last retreat, our only secure refuge from the incursions of humanity. Many of the People, particularly the high elves, fear our culture is giving way to that of the humans. Half-elves may in themselves be no threat, but the symbolism is too powerful. We cannot make exceptions, not even in your case. Perhaps especially in your case."

"Yet here I am," Arilyn pointed out.

"Yes." The queen was silent for a long moment, and the gaze she turned upon the half-elf grew more searching. For the first time the queen's features showed a touch of regret. "You have done remarkably well. To my knowledge, no one has ever before had to discover a moonblade's powers alone. Had we known you possessed the potential to wield the moonblade, we would have taken another course. We knew, of course, that Amnestria's blade would pass to you, but we never expected you to…"

"Survive?" Arilyn finished dryly.

"Few elves are up to the demands of an ancient moon-blade," the queen pointed out. "Most have lain dormant for centuries, and only a handful of the swords retain their power. Many elves refuse their inheritance, with no dishonor. It was not unreasonable for us to assume that a half-elven child would be unequal to the challenge."

"But you let me try, fully expecting that I would be slain. I drew the moonblade that first time knowing nothing of this, or of the hidden requirements of the sword."

"And had you known all, would you have done differently?"

The question was shrewd, and Arilyn was momentarily startled by the queen's insight. Obviously, she could not deny the truth in Amlaruil's words, and she responded with the gesture of a fencer acknowledging a hit.

"What was done is done, and I am content to leave it so," Arilyn said. "But there is a reason why I speak of these matters now. My mother spoke often and fondly of her youngest brother, and so I have named Prince Lamruil as my blade heir. Will you tell him of his inheritance and see that he is properly prepared to receive it? I took up the sword unprepared. I would not see another do likewise."

The queen stood in silence for a long moment. "It will be done. On behalf of my son, I thank you for showing him this honor." She paused, as if considering what to say next. "You were speaking of your fee," the queen prompted, clearly eager to once again put the conversation, and the extraordinary half-elf, in terms she could understand and control.

Arilyn met her gaze squarely. "I want a vast tract of land to the east of the Forest of Tethir, stretching from the borders of Castle Spulzeer to the origins of the Sulduskoon River. Have your agents-or the Harpers, or whoever you please-obtain the land."

"Your fees are high," the queen commented.

The wealth of Evermeet is fabled to be beyond reckoning. And you did say that I could name my price."

The queen gave her a searching look. "And what will you do with these lands?"

In response, Arilyn dug one hand into her bag and drew out a handful of seeds: winged maple seeds, pine cones, acorns.

For a long moment, the queen and the half-elf held each other's gaze. "It will be as you have requested. The lands will be ceded to you to do with as you see fit."

Arilyn bowed and walked to the place where Ganamede had disappeared.

*One more thing," Amlaruil said softly. "In behalf of the People, I accept your fealty and your sword. May you always serve them as well as you have today."

The half-elf turned to face the queen. She drew her moonblade and saluted in a uniquely elven gesture of respect.

The two elf women stood for a moment gazing upon one another, but there was nothing more that either could say. They were unlikely to meet again, and Amlaruil could in truth give the half-elf no more acknowledgment than this. Yet it was more than Arilyn had anticipated, and she was content.

As if sensing that her task was done, the silver wolf appeared. Arilyn slipped with him back into his veiled world, and to Tethir beyond.

And behind her, the elven queen stared thoughtfully at the shimmering gate that had brought the half-elf to Evermeet. Since she was ever the queen, part of her mind dealt with practical matters. It had never occurred to her that the lythari might be able to access this particular gate. Although no lythari had ever • proven traitorous, safeguards must be taken.

Amlaruil stooped and picked up the commission the half-elf had left behind. She absently unrolled it and glanced at the elegant script. Her eye settled on a certain curving rune, and a jolt of astonishment shook her. A subtle, skillful turn of the quill had transformed the half-elf s chosen name "Moonblade" to "Moonflower," the clan name of the royal moon elf family.

"Captain Macumail," Amlaruil murmured, recognizing at once the source of this forgery.

The outrage she expected to feel at this sacrilege simply did not come. Amnestria was lost to her, but her daughter's daughter was a credit to the People… and the clan.

"Arilyn Moonflower," the queen repeated softly. Although she realized no elf on Evermeet could ever hear her speak these words, they felt right and good upon her lips.

At dawn, several days hence, the survivors of Zoastria's Stand stood together at the eastern boundaries of Tethir. They all came: the green elves-both Elmanesse and Suldusk-the lythari, even the fauns and centaurs. Only Jill and Kendel Leafbower were missing, for now that his self-assigned task had been completed, the dwarf was eager to see his kinfolk once again, and the two had departed the evening before.

All who gathered carried the grandchildren of Cormanthor-seedlings from the ancient trees that in centuries to come would extend the wondrous forest for miles. It was a small thing, perhaps, in the face of all that the sylvan folk had lost and all that they would continue to endure. But each tree was a living link to their beloved forest and a symbol of the new coalition between the tribes, the lythari, and the other sylvan creatures. They who had merely endured, would now rebuild.

And so they worked together throughout that long day, with a harmony rare among the forest folk. With the coming of night, they retreated to the familiar haven of the trees.

When the evening meal was over and the songs and tales fell silent, Foxfire sought out Arilyn and asked her to walk with him. They walked in silence until they found themselves back in the seedling forest. It was an oddly appropriate place, one that mingled new beginnings with ancient and cherished memories.

"I have a message for you from Rhothomir," he began. "It is not one he could easily give himself, so I offered to speak for him. This I do with all my heart."

"Speaker for the Speaker now, are you?" she teased him. The elf smiled faintly, but he would not be deterred.

"The People of Tethir offer you a home in their midst. Join the tribe and live beneath the trees your own hands planted. This is your place," he concluded softly.

"There is a part of me that would like to accept," she said with complete honesty. There is a part of me that will remain. But look around you," she said, sweeping a hand toward the fledgling trees and the little mounds of soft earth where the sylvan folk had planted seeds of hope.

"You will live to see these trees grow. I am half-elven, Foxfire, and I will be gone before the branches of these two oaklings meet overhead. There are things I must do elsewhere. Like the lythari, it is given to me to walk between two worlds. You have shown me that my soul is elven and have helped me to know that my path and my heart lie with the humans. But I can promise you this," she vowed as she drew her moonblade from its ancient scabbard. "As long as the fires of Myth Drannor burn within this sword, a hero will return to the Forest of Tethir in time of need."

She showed him the blade, and the bright new rune that blazed upon it, and then she slid the moonblade carefully back into its place. "It is given to me to add a power to the sword. This is it: when the people of Tethir are in need, the wielder of this blade will come. But most likely, it won't be me. My life will not be that long, and I wish you to have peace long after I have joined my ancestors."

Foxfire nodded and then gathered her into his arms. Arilyn went to him, remembering everything, and regretting nothing. Her elven soul would always be linked to this forest. Perhaps, in some future age, she would return, her essence giving strength to the elven sword. But as she had said to her dear friend, her heart lay elsewhere, and so did her path.

Twenty-five

It was after midsummer when Lord Hhune's carriage rolled through the northern gates of Zazesspur. He had enjoyed a very eventful interlude in Waterdeep, the rival city to the north. Granted, some of his plots and plans had withered on the vine. It did not appear as if the northern outposts of Zazesspur's thieves and assassins guilds would take hold-a pity, for these were favored tools of the Knights of the Shield. And he, Hhune, had been labeled as a member of this hostile group and barred from Waterdeep. The Knights had also lost their capable agent in Waterdeep. The Lady Lucia Thione had been unmasked and exiled. It would be many long years before the Knights of the Shield again managed to place an informant so high in Waterdhavian society.

Even so, Hhune felt certain he could turn these losses into personal gain. Although he could not enter the northern city again, there was to be no disruption of shipping between Zazesspur and the north. And Waterdeep was still reeling from a series of disasters: crop failure, incursions of monsters stripping the forests of game and the fields of cattle, political uncertainty. Zazesspur's goods and surplus crops would find an eager, almost desperate market. Finally, he had with him the deposed agent, and he had spent much of the trip southward mentally devising various uses for her.

Lucia Thione, formerly the ranking agent of the Knights of the Shield in the north, was a rarity in Tethyr: a surviving member of the old royal family, albeit a very distant relation. The tide of royalist sentiment in Zazesspur was swelling, and who knew what heights an ambitious man might reach with such a consort at his side? In addition to her purple blood, she was a woman of rare beauty and keen business acumen. At one time, Hhune would have counted himself lucky merely to spend time in her company. He was ecstatic to find her utterly in his power!

Of course he had said nothing of this to her. Lady Thione fully expected to meet her death hi the land of her forebears, and she had spent the trip trying to subtly insinuate herself into Hhune'a good graces. It was gratifying to hiro to have this beautiful, nobly bred woman pursuing his fevor, and he intended to allow her to work for it!

Eager though he was to install his "guest" in his country estate, Lord Hhune set a brisk pace for his town offices. Business must always come before pleasure. He strode in, nodded to the clerks, and called for his scribe.

To his surprise, the young Calishite brat-the royal apprentice Bank's men had saddled him with-came to his bidding.

"Good day, Lord Hhune," Hasheth said. "I trust that your business in the Northlands went well?"

"Where is Achnib?" Hhune demanded.

The lad's face darkened. "He is dead, my lord," he said bluntly. "May all traitors and thieves meet the same end. But you need not hear of this from my lips. Word of

your approach reached us this morn. Duke Hembreon awaits you in your office."

Hhune's boots suddenly seemed rooted to the floor. Amid the changeful winds of Zazesspurian power, the Duke stood as unbending as a sycamore. His was an ancient family with vast wealth, and he himself was a grave, distinguished man whose impeccable sense of honor and duty extended to all he did. Therefore, Hembreon tended to view his position in the Knights of the Shield as noblesse oblige. He was also one of the most important leaders of the group, Hhune reminded himself as he shook off his immobility.

The duke stood as Hhune entered the room and gave him his hand. "You have performed a great service to the people of the city."

"I live to serve," Hhune said smoothly, but he cast a quick sidelong glare at his young apprentice. Hasheth gave him a subtle nod, as if encouraging him to play along.

"As you requested, Lord Hhune," Hasheth began, "in your absence I strove to ferret out who among your men might be in league with the Nelanther pirates. It was Achnib, as you suspected. Two of these pirates are even now hi the city's dungeons-men who have sworn that Achnib hired them, paying with information of shipping schedules and routes.

"Nor was that his only crime. He was stealing from you, skimming the profit from the caravans and hoarding coin. What he planned to do with such is beyond belief."

"Achnib was always ambitious," Hhune said in a sage tone, hoping this would fit into the incredible scenario the younger man was weaving.

"The scribe was not content with selling information to the pirates. He began to traffic in armed ships with a; warlord known as Buniap. Worse, there is a faint trail I which attempts to place this crime at your door."

"Indeed?" Hhune managed, marveling at the young I man's audacity.

Incredibly, Duke Hembreon seemed to swallow the absurd recitation. He rose and extended a hand to Hhune.

"By your efforts, the city has gained use of a fleet of some fifteen ships. All Zazesspur owes you thanks."

Hhune murmured a response and saw the duke on his way. Then he turned an ominous, narrowed gaze on his apprentice.

"Much of what I told the duke was true," Hasheth said earnestly. "Achnib was skimming, and he was in league with the mercenary captain. But he lost his nerve and hoped to scuttle away in the confusion after your involvement with Bunlap and his logging operation became known. He attempted to buy passage to Lantan. To protect your interests, I had both Achnib and Bunlap killed, and turned the ships over to the Lords' Council as confiscated goods. They would have found out about them, regardless. Better this way, and be a hero rather than a culprit."

"You seem to be unusually loyal," Lord Hhune pointed out suspiciously.

"What good would have come to me had you been brought low?" the young man said, reasonably enough. "Besides, the Knights were pleased by my initiative and permitted me to enter their ranks, and so, in protecting your interests, I served my own."

Hhune shook his head, apparently stunned by all this. "What of Duke Hembreon? How did you learn the identity of such a powerful man among the Knights?"

"Palace intrigue," Hasheth lied, thinking of the coin in his pocket. He wanted to impress Hhune with his many connections and his own importance. "One of the few benefits of being born a pasha's son. There is more that you should know. The Harpers have been inquiring into your affairs. I thought it best that this matter was concluded, and quickly. The Harpers would not be contented as easily as Duke Hembreon."

"Well done," exclaimed an amused feminine^voice.

Hhune looked up; he had almost forgotten about Lucia Thione. "You have a talented new ally, my lord. Perhaps you would consider another? With three such minds, what could we not accomplish in Tethyr?"

Hhune regarded the beautiful woman and the hawk-nosed youth and decided that he could do worse.

"Meet my new apprentice, my dear," he said to Lucia. "And Hasheth, this is Lucia Thione. Surely you recognize her family's name and realize that it must not be spoken outside of these walls-at least, not until the mention of it can advance the fortunes of us all."

For a moment the trio regarded each other intently. Relief was bright in Lucia's beautiful eyes, now that she knew what Hhune had in mind for her. The lord saw also that she understood his purpose in making this introduction. The knowledge of her identity offered both potential power and grave danger-and the secret bound them together. It was a subtle way of accepting her offer, while reminding her that her fortune was bound indelibly with his. Hhune also noted the soft, warm look the woman cast over the impressed lad; this amused him. If Lucia was willing to use her charm to advance her position in Tethyr, so much the better for him.

"You should not have killed Achnib," he told Hasheth mildly. "He was not terribly intelligent, but neither was he personally ambitious. He carried out his duties well enough, with loyalty usually found only in retainers with four legs and fleas. Such men are hard to find. I thought you might kill him, but I'd hoped otherwise. That is the only part of the test you failed, however. Overall you have done well."; "T-test?" faltered Hasheth.

: "Of course," the lord returned in an amused tone. Tou do not think I would allow you to give away my entire 'fleet, do you? Mark me, I am not happy about the ship:you gave to the pirates, but you shall pay for it from |your earnings. And other than that lapse, you did pre-Isisely as I had anticipated. The fleet is now in the hands of the Council of Lords. I could not keep it-the risks of discovery were too great. But the merchants of Tethyr will continue to benefit from the protection the fleet offers, while the Council pays for its upkeep. And who, I ask you, is both head of the shipping guild and a ranking member of the council? Who will control this fleet?"

Understanding-and fear-began to enter the young man's eyes as he realized he was not quite as clever as he had thought himself. The realization that he had been acting according to Hhune's design-and no doubt with the lord in full knowledge of his activities-both humbled and horrified him.

"But how-" he began.

"How?" repeated Hhune coolly. "That is what you are here to learn. You have made a good start. If you wish to become a ranking member of the Knights of the Shield, you will have to do better. You may start by telling me about this pretty Harper of yours and her plans for Zazesspur."

Arilyn said her good-byes to Hasheth several days after the final battle. The Harper listened to his explanation of the situation, doubting most of it but willing to let the matter rest. She reclaimed her horse from the young man, glad to be done with her sojourn in the southern city.

She had not particularly wished to return to Zazesspur, but Tinkersdam had elected to stay behind. He had acquired a taste for battle and decided that tumultuous Tethyr was as good a place as any to test his toys. Ferret, too, had traveled with her to the city, intending to even a score with Lord Hhune. Strangely enough, after a long and private conversation with young Hasheth, she seemed willing to abandon that notion.

But that very night, at the hands of an unknown and unseen assassin, the reign of Pasha Bank came to an abrupt and bloody end. It was rumored that he had been betrayed from within, for no one saw the assassin come or go. The only sign left behind was a long, jewel-colored scarf, such as that which might be used to fashion a lady's turban.

And the next morning, Hasheth became a full member of the Knights of the Shield, having proved his loyalty by purchasing Hhune's safety at a cost many men might consider too nigh.

Arilyn left before dawn, unaware of the events of the night just past and the changes that would soon sweep Zazesspur. Her heart was light as she rode swiftly toward the north-and home. For the first time in her life, she truly knew where she belonged.

The Harper had not gone far beyond the city walls when the she heard the sounds of battle on the road ahead. Incredibly, a familiar tenor voice was lifted over the clash of swords. She nudged her horse into a run.

The words of the song became clear as she neared the battle. Set to a mil inking tune, it was the sort of ditty she had come to expect-and had learned to endure.

"We've come to mourn the paladin, The best and noblest sort of man. His way was clear, his will was strong, But he's just as dead as if he'd been wrong!

"Alone he faced the orcish hoard, And, dauntless, drew his mighty sword. He did not flinch, he did not blink. He surely did not stop and think!"

A familiar mixture of exasperation and elation flooded the half-elfs heart. The irreverent song could have come from only one person. Arilyn flung herself from her horse and raced toward the fighting, her moonblade in hand.

But the battle on the road ahead was more comic than life-threatening. In the center of the conflict stood Danilo, his arms crossed as he observed the fight between his small band of hired escorts and a group of would-be brigands. For his part, he sang his battle song, which was probably meant to spur on the fighting in classic bardic tradition. Although how this particular song might have inspired anyone was beyond Arilyn's comprehension.

Unaware of the amused half-elfs presence, Danilo continued to sing:

"The halls of Tempos opened wide;

Our paladin was led inside.

He shares with all his noble creed,

And frowns on wenching, feasts, and mead.

"We cannot mourn this hero's death, Though of his strength we are bereft. If you must weep, weep for the god Who now endures this tiresome sod!"

Danilo did not content himself with his bardic endeavors. Between stanzas he cast small cantrips that threw confusion into the enemy ranks. Arilyn chuckled as a brigand fell facedown on the dirt path, his boot laces suddenly tied together.

The young mage looked up sharply at the rich, rare sound of elven laughter. When his gaze settled on Arilyn, joy broke, like a sunrise, over his face. He drew his sword and started fighting in earnest as he worked his way through the circle of fighters toward her.

Arilyn sighed. Danilo could handle a blade well enough, but he was no swordmaster. At the moment she had no patience for prolonged battle. So she drew the moonblade, held it high, and let out a ringing battle cry in the Elvish tongue.

The brigands looked up, startled by the fearsome sound. The addition of an elven warrior to their foe was too much for their faltering resolve. The band scattered and made for the hills to the east-where, Arilyn noted with a touch of dark humor, a certain alchenust awaited them, all too eager for opportunities to try out his latest lethal devices.

The nobleman put away his sword and came swiftly toward her. Arilyn noted that Danilo's face had been deeply bronzed by the summer sun, and he seemed leaner, hardened by life on the road. He looked considerably older, too, as if time had touched him in a way that a few months' absence could not explain. Arilyn had no love for magic, but she recognized the mark that powerful spells left upon those who cast them. Apparently Danilo had not been idle during their time apart. It seemed that when tales were told, they would be spoken both ways!

There was something else about him that was different as well. Arilyn, who had recently come into a knowledge of herself and her path, recognized the peace of a similar understanding that lingered about him. Nor was there a hint of pretense on his face. For once the mask he held to the world was utterly gone and his heart was entirely in his eyes.

Danilo took her hands in his; this time Arilyn did not pull away,

"We meet as we parted," he said quietly.

"Pretty much," she agreed in a wry tone. "Why is it that I so often find you surrounded by people who'd dearly love to see you dead?"

A fleeting smile touched his face. The curse of charm, wealth, and fame, I suppose," he said dryly. "But enough jests. I have sorely missed you."

With these words, he released her hands and reached out to touch the enspelled moonstone that was set into the hilt of her sword. It was a gesture he had often made during the past two years. Suddenly Arilyn recognized it for what it was. It was the only caress she had permitted him, his only tangible proof of the bond that lay between them. She wondered, briefly, how much Danilo understood of her magical gift of rapport, or how he would feel when he learned it was no longer there. But she must tell him, and at once. No one could touch a moonblade but its wielder, upon pain of death.

So she caught his wrist firmly before he could touch the moonblade. "You cannot," she said firmly. The power that enabled you to share my blade is no more."

The bleak, empty look that filled his eyes smote Arilyn's heart. "It is no more, because it is not needed," she said quickly. "For what I can do myself, I do not need the moonblade's magic.1' Other explanations could come later; this much she owed him now.

"Is it possible?" he murmured with wonderment. "Arilyn, I have waited two years and more for you to know your heart. Mine you already know-it is yours, along with my life and my soul."

"Your heart I will take into my keeping, and gladly. But your soul," she added with deep satisfaction, "is once again entirely your own."

For further adventures of Arilyn Moonblade and her Harper partner Danilo Thann, be sure to read Elfshadow and Elf song, both by Elaine Cunningham.

Harpers are being murdered, and all signs point to the half-elf adventurer Arilyn Moonblade. Tormented by dreams and stalked by shadows, Arilyn must look to the past to discover the truth about herself and the magical elven sword she carries. Is she truly a murderer, or is she about to become a victim? The Elfshadow holds the key to the truth, but also bears the potential for disaster.

(ISBN 1-56076-117-2)

When a mysterious spell falls over the bards of Waterdeep, rewriting both their music and their memories, archmage Khelben Blackstaff Aruneun fears the spell may be part of a larger plot. He calls on Danilo Thann, a Harper mage and would-be bard, to confront the green dragon that holds the key to the mystery. Danilo joins forces with las old enemy, the rogue elf Elaith Craulnober, an elven minstrel with strange abilities, and a dwarf maid with a deadly wit to solve the riddle of the Elfsong.