The Dream Spheres

Three

There was no sense in putting the task off-the rest of Isabeau's booty had to be returned. Danilo took a silver bracer from his bag and began to examine it for signs of ownership.

A short, sandy-haired man burst into the alcove, pulling up when he saw he was not alone. With his bulging eyes and scant, pointy beard, the man reminded Dan of a panicked billy goat. Resigned to an eventful evening, the nobleman rose. "Is something amiss, sir? Can I be of some service?"

The man sank down on the chair Dan had vacated and sucked in a wheezing, ragged gasp. "No. No, he's left. Just need to catch my breath."

The sheer terror in the man's eyes set off alarms in Danilo's mind. He knew full well who at the party could best inspire this emotion. "If someone offended you, the Lady Cassandra would certainly wish to know," he prompted.

"No need. Already been dealt with," the man said shortly. He gathered himself and rose to his feet. Squar shy;ing his meager shoulders, he gave Danilo a curt nod and then lurched into the crowd.

Danilo followed, his eyes sweeping the crowd for the slim, gleaming figure of Elaith Craulnober. The elf had, appropriately enough, chosen moonstone for his gem color. In a throng of jewel-bright reds and greens and blue, his silvery hair and the pale satin of his costume-milky white swirled and shadowed with blue-made the elf look like a living blade. Danilo wondered, briefly, if Elaith had deliberately fostered this image.

But no. That was unlikely, given his choice of gem color. The moonstone was a semiprecious stone, a pow shy;erful conductor of magic. It was often used in elven magic and was the magical cornerstone of the moonblades' power. Elaith possessed such a sword, though it had long ago gone dormant to proclaim him an unworthy heir. For many years the moonblade had been to Elaith a symbol of disgrace and failure. He had gone to great trouble to reawaken the sword, which he held in trust until his only daughter came of age. What could the elf's costume mean but a reclaiming of his honor?

On the other hand, why wasn't Elaith in the hall?

Why had the goatlike little man been so afraid?

Knowing Elaith as he did, Danilo could summon up any number of answers to the second query. With a sigh, he thrust the stolen bracelet back into his bag and headed toward the door. It might be wise to inquire of the grooms whether or not Elaith had left-and if not, to find him and put a stop to whatever mischief he was engaged in. For a moment Danilo understood his mother's exasperation with him. Thanks to his efforts, Lady Cassandra's guest list included a Tethyrian pick shy;pocket, a reputed half-elven assassin, and a deadly elf who was, among other things, possibly the most suc shy;cessful crime lord north of Skullport.

"In order to exceed myself," he murmured as he strode through the garden, "next year I shall have to produce a pair of illithids and a red dragon."

* * * * *

Arilyn stared into Elaith Craulnober's amber eyes, startled into immobility by his sudden appearance.

"This is most unexpected," the elf said in a melliflu shy;ent voice that fell just short of song. "I had thought to find a rather different messenger."

She shook off his hold and fell into a battle-ready crouch. "If you've a weapon, draw it," she gritted. "Your 'message' is about to be delivered."

With a single, deft motion, Elaith drew two knives from sheaths hidden beneath his sleeves. His puzzle shy;ment and hesitation were clear even to her heat-reading vision.

The tren came on in a rush, and a mixture of com shy;prehension and relief flooded the elf's visage. This was a foe he could fight without reservation. With the speed of a striking snake, he darted forward, blades raised high to intercept the first slashing blow.

Arilyn heard the clash of steel on steel, but her gaze was fixed upon the two creatures charging her. They held their knives in their massive fisted hands, blades pointed straight down for a quick, stabbing attack.

It was a difficult assault to defend against. Arilyn sidestepped the nearest tren and lifted her sword in a glancing parry, point slanted back over her shoulder. The descending knife slid harmlessly down her blade.

She disengaged quickly, ducked under the slashing blow of the second tren, and spun around as she rose. Careful to keep beyond reach of the wicked spikes that thrust back from the tren's elbows, she whirled past the creature, bringing her sword around level in a hard, slashing, two-handed attack.

With speed and agility remarkable in a creature so large, the tren managed a nimble two-step dodge and leaned sharply away from the attack, its long arms flung up to retain balance.

Arilyn had anticipated this. She changed the direc shy;tion of her stroke, shifted to her back foot, and then came in straight ahead with a hard thrust. Her sword bit deep into the tren's exposed armpit. She felt the blade grate against bone, and she threw her weight into the attack.

The moonblade sank deep into reptilian flesh, pierc shy;ing the lung and seeking the creature's main heart. Blood burst from the creature's maw, a sign that she had struck true.

Arilyn planted one foot against the tren's body and kicked herself off. As the sword came free, she spun back toward her first attacker. The moonblade cut through the air with an audible swish, which ended with the rasp of metal against reptilian scales. A line of blood welled up across the breadth of the creature's chest.

She retreated a few steps and assessed the situation. The cut she had dealt the tren was not a mortal wound. Grunting with outrage, the tren reached up with clawed hands to pinch the edges of his hide together. His rep shy;tilian eyes glazed as he called upon his next attack.

Immediately a foul miasma filled the tunnel. Arilyn fell back, choking and gagging at the stench. Elaith was at her side in a moment, pressing a square of linen into her hands. Though she doubted this would prove much of a barrier to the debilitating spray, she clapped the cloth over her nose.

A faint, floral scent swirled deep into her, filling her with a sensation like sparkling wine drunk too quickly and deeply. The terrible stench faded into memory as the antidote took effect. Arilyn blinked tears from her streaming eyes and brought her sword up in guard position.

Just in time. The wounded tren, thinking her beyond battle, was coming in confidently for the kill. One of his clawed hands still clutched at the wound, the other reached for her throat. Behind him came the leader, his sickle blade raised in anticipation.

Arilyn danced beyond the reach of the wounded tren's grasping claws. Before she could take the offen shy;sive, a small, silver knife spun between her and her attacker, burying itself deep into the narrow gash Arilyn's sword had opened.

She glanced over at Elaith, wondering how he could consider her situation in the midst of his own battle. That was all but over. He had felled one of the crea shy;tures, and his twin daggers dealt with the last as a shark might dispatch a wounded whale-slicing off one bloody bite at a time.

Anger rose in her like a hot, bright tide. Elaith might have aided her, not once but twice, yet what of his own battle code? There was little honor in his methods, none at all in the dark pleasure written on his face.

She set her teeth, determined to end this as quickly as possible. Two of her assailants were finished. The knife-struck tren had stopped its advance as sharply as if it had hit a magic wall. Its claws made small, fluttery movements in the air and then groped for the hilt of Elaith's thrown blade. The creature's body stiffened and began to topple forward.

The leader let out a roar of outrage and charged the half-elf. Its sickle blade slashed the air in anticipation of deadly harvest.

Arilyn stepped aside, putting the dying creature be shy;tween herself and her attacker. The tren kept on, too enraged to pull his attack. His curved blade hooked deep into the soft folds under the dying tren's throat. Before he could pull the weapon free, his comrade's falling weight bore him down. Arilyn lunged, her sword diving for the assassin's eye.

The tip of her sword struck the bony ridge, slid wetly across the scales and sought the narrow socket.

The tren was too quick for her. With another roar, he tossed his enormous head and threw her sword wide. Wrenching the sickle free of his comrade's slack throat, the tren backed away from the carcasses of his clan. He melted into the shadows as completely as a drop of water might merge with the sea.

Arilyn's first impulse was pursuit, but years on the battlefield prompted her not to turn her back too soon on any opponent. She spun, sword held in guard posi shy;tion before her, prepared to face the final tren-or its elven opponent.

The last tren was weaving on its feet, bleeding from scores of wounds. There was no fight left in the crea shy;ture. Its long arms hung slack, claws scraping the stone floor as it rocked on unsteady legs.

Yet Elaith showed no signs of ending the game. Arilyn had seen barn cats show more mercy in tortur shy;ing a captured squirrel, and less pleasure.

"End it!" she snapped.

The elf shot her a quick, startled glance, as if he'd suddenly recalled where and who he was. For a moment Arilyn could have sworn that his handsome features wore an expression of shame.

Elaith turned aside quickly, as if from some un shy;wanted truth. He dropped one dripping weapon to the floor and produced a slender knife from some hidden fold of his festive garb. A quick flick sent the blade hurtling into the inner corner of the creature's slack mouth. The silver tip burst through the hide on the opposing side of the tren's throat, opening the way for a bright, quick flow of lifeblood. The tren sank quickly, almost gratefully, to the blood-soaked floor.

For a long moment elf and half-elf regarded each other. Disgust and gratitude warred for possession of Arilyn's first words. "I should thank you," she began.

"Much against your personal inclination," Elaith cut in smoothly. He lifted one hand to forestall the words one elf spoke to another after shared battle. "There is no debt, Princess. I have been pledged from birth to serve the royal house. My sword is yours."

That shut Arilyn up, as no doubt Elaith had intended it to do. The rogue elf was one of the few who knew of her heritage and the only elf who openly acknowledged it. Among the Tel'Quessar-the elven term which meant simply and exclusively "The People"-there was little honor in being the half-breed daughter of an exiled princess. Elaith, for his own reasons, seemed to think otherwise.

She turned away and busied herself with cleaning her sword. "We should follow that last tren."

''Undoubtedly," Elaith said, and smiled faintly. "Unless I miss my guess, however, another battle awaits you above. This has been a most eventful evening."

Arilyn did not dispute that. First Danilo's mishap with the skyflower spell, then the odd conversation she'd overheard.

The words Cassandra Thann had spoken came back to her-the promise to promptly deal with any trouble Elaith might cause. In the aftermath of battle with paid assassins, these words held a new and sinister meaning.

She shook her head, denying this absurd thought. Lady Cassandra might be a two-legged dragon, but Arilyn could not picture her hiring assassins to deal with misbehaving guests. On the other hand, there was the risk that Elaith might believe this to be true, and take action accordingly.

The elf kicked at one hulking carcass. "I wonder who hired this crew," he mused, echoing her concerns with discomforting accuracy.

Arilyn cleared her throat. "Any thoughts?"

"The possibilities are nearly endless," he said lightly. "Do you think this is the first time such a thing has oc shy;curred? Don't trouble yourself over it. I do not intend to."

Arilyn mistrusted his easy dismissal of the matter. "I will speak to Danilo of this," she said softly. She studied Elaith as he absorbed the many levels of meaning in her words.

The elf cut sharply to the foundation of her fears. "Do you believe that Lord Thann invited me to his family home so that I might meet with these assassins?"

"No!"

"Neither do I." Elaith seemed ready to say more, but he shook his head and turned away.

Arilyn let him go. As he had observed, she had another battle ahead. Once Elaith was well out of sight, she began to follow his trail through a maze of underground paths. This ended with a hidden door and then a short flight of stone stairs leading to an open bulkhead. Arilyn glanced up into what appeared to be a garden shed. Above her was the black velvet sky, and a moon well past its zenith. Her side trip had taken far longer than she realized.

The Gemstone Ball awaited. Offhand, Arilyn could name a dozen bloody battlefields she had faced with more enthusiasm and less dread. With a sigh of deep frustration, she squared her shoulders, hitched up her borrowed gown, and resolutely climbed the stairs.

* * * * *

The oil lamp on the bedside table flickered and went out. By the dim light of the hearth fire, Oth Eltorchul regarded the woman stretched out languidly at his side.

"A pleasant end to an otherwise regrettable evening," he said.

Pleasant was she? That was the best he could do? Not trusting herself to speak, Isabeau bared her teeth in a brief, answering smile.

Her gaze flicked to the mage's discarded garments, which he had hung neatly on pegs. Isabeau's prac shy;ticed eye measured the weight of the hidden pockets and estimated the worth therein. It would have to be considerable to make the evening-and the man-worth her while.

Her own ruby-colored gown pooled on the floor like spilled wine. Rings, eardrops, and a necklace of match shy;ing red stones were scattered on the bedside table. They were glass, of course, clever copies that were all Isabeau could currently afford-a situation she intended to remedy as soon as possible. So far, the night had been less than profitable. Danilo Thann's intervention had set her back considerably. Eager to get on with things, Isabeau impatiently studied Oth's face for signs of slumberous contentment.

The mage, however, was in an expansive mood, ready to reprise the complaints she had endured all the way to The Silken Sylph. "They will regret refusing me, you know. They treated me like some importunate com shy;moner, with none of the honor due a member of the peerage. A small investment, a moment's endorsement-what is that to such as Thann, Ilzimmer, and Gundwynd? The dream spheres could have made all three families exceedingly wealthy!"

Isabeau twined a strand of Oth's flame-colored hair around her finger. "They are wealthy already, my lord."

Oth sent her a sharp, angry glance, a movement that tugged the red lock from her grasp. He did not seem to notice. "You do not regard the dream spheres with appro shy;priate respect. You would if you tasted but once of their magic!"

This notion seemed to galvanize him. He sat up abruptly, absently smoothing back his tousled red hair. "What is your heart's desire? What wonders do you wish to experience?"

She gave him a slow, warm smile. "My lord, at this moment I am well content."

The mage waved aside this flattery. "You are of the Tethyrian royal house, but I hear that you were raised in fosterage and have never stepped foot in your native land. Would you like to claim what might have been yours, if but for a moment? Would you like to see the palace? Enjoy an audience with the new queen?"

Not waiting for her reply, Oth leaped to his feet and paced over to his cloak. He flipped back the folds and took a small, softly glowing sphere from one pocket. This he placed in Isabeau's hand.

"Hold this. Close your eyes and envision the sun upon towers of pink marble," he instructed.

Isabeau did as he bade, more to humor him than from any desire to experience the illusion. Why would anyone content herself with a fleeting dream? She had always lived by a simple rule: What she wanted, she took. No longer were her horizons defined by the boundaries of the out-of-the-way, gnome-run tavern that was the only home she had ever known. Now her territory was a vast, glittering city, and her fingers fairly itched with the desire to grasp all that her eyes had seen so far.

Nevertheless, a strange fragrance beckoned her, seduced her. Isabeau breathed in deeply, letting the scent of the southern sun flow through her in all its complexity of thick, flower-filled heat, musky-sweet fruits, and rare spices. The aroma suddenly burst into light, like festival fireworks, which in turn slowly focused into a scene so lavish that Isabeau's heart throbbed with longing.

Lords and ladies, viziers and courtiers were finely dressed and seated at tables draped with embroidered linens and set with silver plate. Behind them were the pink marble walls of the palace, enlivened by wondrous tapestries. The table was set with a royal repast. Rare tropical fruits were piled high on silver platters. Fragrant steam rose from plates of tiny, savory pastries. On each table was a roasted peacock. Their bright blue and green tails had been reattached in unfurled splendor, creating the impression that the proud birds were courting the diners to partake.

At the moment, no one ate of the feast. All present lifted their goblets in salute. It occurred to Isabeau that they were all looking at her, Lady Isabeau Thione of the House of Tethyr. She nodded graciously, regally, to accept their acclaim.

"To Queen Zaranda!" exclaimed a fat man with oiled black hair.

"Zaranda!" echoed the others in one voice.

Isabeau swallowed her mortification and hastily reached for her own goblet. She barely had time to lift it to her lips before the toast was drunk. To her relief-and her chagrin-no one seemed to notice her faux pas. All eyes were fixed upon the woman seated at the royal table behind and to the right of Isabeau's seat.

Isabeau cast a careful, sidelong look at the queen. Zaranda was a handsome woman in early middle life. She possessed the sparse body of a warrior, strong fea shy;tures, and thick dark hair emblazoned by a streak of white. She was simply dressed and wore no jewels but a silver crown, and she looked not at all impressed by the acclaim or the splendor. It seemed to Isabeau that the new queen was ridiculously out of place-a commoner and a northerner, a minor mage and mercenary who had inexplicably grasped the throne.

Her throne.

Where the thought came from, Isabeau could not say. She had never seen her newfound heritage as a path to be pursued but as an opportunity to exploit. Now she saw the subtle glances sent her way, the slight inclination of several dark, southern heads in her direction as they lifted their glasses in false tribute to the false queen.

Isabeau awoke abruptly, her eyes still dazzled with the vision. She glanced down at the crystal sphere in her hand and willed the magic to continue, but the little ball was cool, quiet, and as milky as a baby's smile.

Furious, she whirled toward Oth. "Bring it back! It was not enough!"

The mage threw back his head and laughed delight shy;edly. "That is the beauty of it, don't you see? One dream is never enough! New vistas open, new possibilities beckon. Since few men have the wit, talent, or character to turn their dreams into reality, they will happily turn over coin again and again for dreams more easily purchased."

His heedless words restored Isabeau's resolve. She had the wit and the will to make her own way, but this dream sphere had suggested a whole new world of possibilities.

"A wondrous toy, my lord," she said, inclining her head in a gesture of one swordsman conceding a point to another. "The merchant lords were fools to refuse you. That I would never do." She smiled in blatant invi shy;tation and patted the rumpled sheets.

Oth was still absorbed with other matters. "What my peers do not realize is that the dream spheres will be sold, whether they wish it or not. There have been at shy;tempts to steal them, to ferret out their magical secrets. Mizzen, the wretched cur, is the worst offender!"

"Mizzen," she repeated, remembering the name from some chance-heard gossip. "The crystal merchant?"

"The same." Oth's glare turned sly. "I endured his inept ambitions as long as I had need of him. He has mined and shaped sufficient crystals for now. Most have been enspelled. All that remains is to ship the finished dream spheres to Waterdeep." His brow furrowed in remembered anger. "That, and to find a manner of bring shy;ing them to market that circumvents the merchant lords!"

As to that, Isabeau had a few ideas of her own. First she had to coax this man into slumber.

She rose from the bed and walked into the path of Oth's restless pacing. "Tell me, my lord," she breathed as she entwined her arms about his neck, "have you a dream sphere that two can share?"

He looked at her sharply, with new respect. "That is something I had not considered," he marveled. "Imagine the possibilities! A bored nobleman with a watchful lady could stay within propriety's bonds, yet fancy himself entertaining a queen! His lady, on the other hand, could experience her lord in whatever manner pleased her."

"Such toys would sell by the gross," Isabeau agreed. She glanced pointedly at the mage's cloak. "We should perhaps test out the possibilities?"

Much later, when the moon was nearly set and the hearth fire nothing but a few burning embers, Isabeau crawled gingerly out of bed. She had no idea what dark fantasy had gripped Oth and did not wish to know. That the dream spheres would sell, she had no doubt. She herself would never use one again. The sooner she could profitably rid herself of them, and of Oth, the better.

Isabeau crept over to the mage's clothing and quickly emptied his pockets. Oth had some fine jewelry, a well-filled coin purse, and a small silver knife such as gentle shy;men carried for table use. These she tucked into pockets hidden in her discarded clothing, cunningly sewn into her heavy petticoats and between the stays of her corset.

She hesitated just a moment before looting the mage's cloak. Resolutely she dug her hand into the folds and began to take out the dream spheres, one at a time. There were nearly a score of them-a small fortune! She ignored the silent hum of their compelling magic and hid her booty, along with her own jewelry, in the prepared hiding places.

It was by far the boldest, riskiest theft of Isabeau's life. Her hands were moist and shaking by the time she'd finished. She wiped them dry on the skirts of her petticoats, took a long, steadying breath, and climbed back into bed beside the sleeping mage.

* * * * *

Arilyn hurried through the garden toward the great hall. The affair was almost over, judging from the steady stream of carriages rattling past the villa and the sub shy;dued tone and languid pace of the music emanating from the hall.

Danilo met her at the door with a smiling face and concern-shadowed eyes.

"Sorry," she snarled.

He looked startled, then burst out laughing. "You've no idea how much I've missed your unique brand of charm!"

Her lips twitched in a reluctant response. "I was held up."

"So I surmised." He took her arm and led her out into the garden. "A faint aroma clings to that gown. That's not quite the bouquet of an undead creature."

"A tren zombie. Now, there's an appealing thought," she said with a grimace. "As if the live ones weren't bad enough."

Danilo drew back, looking startled and deeply con shy;cerned. "Tren? Here in the family compound?"

"You know of them?"

"Nasty creatures. Assassins by trade, aren't they?"

Arilyn nodded, glad that she would be spared ex shy;plaining that part. Years had passed since she had posed as an assassin, but the weight and darkness of that time still pressed heavily upon her. "There's more."

As they walked, she recounted in detail the conver shy;sation she had overheard and the attack upon Elaith Craulnober. Danilo did not interrupt, but his face grew increasingly troubled.

"I don't know what Elaith is up to now," Arilyn con shy;cluded, "but it's possible that someone arranged this situation to deal with it."

Anger flashed in Danilo's eyes as he threaded together her bits of information. "You think Lady Cassandra is responsible for this?"

"I'm not making any judgment," Arilyn retorted. "I'm merely telling you what I heard. Regardless of who commissioned this attack, you should consider the pos shy;sibility of trouble ahead. Elaith Craulnober is not one to let a slight go unavenged."

A troubled expression crossed his face. "You still mis shy;trust Elaith."

"You don't?" she retorted. "Before we tread that path, why don't you tell me what possessed you to fill the great hall with skyflowers?"

Danilo flicked one hand in a small, insouciant wave. "I had intended to present you with a bouquet, not a garden maze."

"So what happened?" she pressed.

"I wish I knew," he said in a more serious tone. "It troubles me. The spell's misfiring seems more ominous in light of your story."

"I'm not sure I follow."

Danilo stopped and pulled her into a vine-covered alcove. His face was as grim as she had ever seen it. "How is it that you stumbled into a tren ambush?" he asked in a low voice. "How did Elaith catch you unaware?"

That cut a bit too close to the bone. She folded her arms and glared. "Get to the point!"

His gaze dropped to the sword on her hip. "Your moonblade's magic should have warned you of danger."

That had bothered her too, but until this moment she hadn't had time to consider the matter.

"I know the skyflower spell exceedingly well," Danilo continued softly. "It is a minor elven spell, such as any human mage with a surplus of gold and time could learn. I can cast it as easily as your sword can slice through a melon. Why do you think they both failed, your elven magic and mine?"

His tone held an acrid tinge of bitterness. Arilyn sus shy;pected what was coming next. She took a step back. "You blame the moonblade for this?"

"Why not? When has anything between us not been defined by that thrice-bedamned sword?" he demanded. "It brought us together when its magic destroyed a score of Harpers-my friends, many of them! It bound us together when you were too stubbornly elven to see and follow your heart. Its demands tore us apart when you chose to break that bond."

The naked pain in his eyes smote her heart. Gone was the good-natured dandy, the attentive courtier. Never had she seen so clearly, so painfully, the toll that her well-meaning sacrifice had taken on her closest friend.

"Dan," she said softly, holding out a hand to him.

He was not looking at her. He had turned aside to study the setting moon as if all the wisdom of the elven gods were written on its shining surface. "I have been a fool," he said softly. "Nothing I do can change the fact that you are pledged elsewhere. The moonblade's magic will make sure that you are not deterred by other, con shy;flicting pledges."

Her jaw dropped as his meaning hit her. "You can't believe that!"

He sighed and dug one hand into his hair. "I'm not sure what I believe. I've been around magic all my life, though, and I know that some forces show antipathy toward others. Maybe your sword senses me as a threat to your chosen path and is forcing you to choose between us."

"That's absurd!" she said, trying to imbue her words with more conviction than she felt. In truth, Danilo's words seemed utterly, disturbingly plausible.

His smile was both bleak and perceptive.

"I gave up the sword once," she said stoutly.

Finally he turned to face her. "To free my spirit from a servitude I did not choose for myself," he stated. "Do you think so little of me that you believe I would accept the sacrifice of yours? For that is what you would give up, if you knowingly turned away from the pledge you made as the sword wielder."

Arilyn had no words to refute that simple truth. She turned and strode out of the alcove, as if she could some shy;how outpace the shadow Dan's words had revealed.

He fell in beside her. For a time they walked together in silence, a silence broken only by the faint sounds of guests bidding farewell and the crunch of dried leaves that spoke of a summer gone beyond recall.

When they reached the far gate, Danilo reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. The expression in his eyes was bleak but resolute. "You freed me once, though I did not ask it of you. How can I do less?"

They had shared many farewells, but this was differ shy;ent. Soul-deep desolation assailed Arilyn at the thought that this might be their last. Stifling pain and cold, numbing shock racked her, rivaling any battle wound she'd taken. She shook her head, trying to force words of denial through her constricted throat.

It was too late. Danilo was gone, but for a cloud of faint, silvery motes. They shimmered in the air for a moment, then fell like tears into the dying garden.

At her side, the moonblade began to hum with faint, familiar magic-the first she had felt since entering the Thann villa.