The Dream Spheres

Eight

The mansion belonging to the Dezlentyr family was among the more modest structures of the North Ward. A pair of massive elms flanked the iron gate, and the house beyond was small and graceful, crafted from stone and oddly shaped timbers in such fashion that it ap shy;peared to have grown there. It was unique in this human city devoted to excess and splendor, and it reminded Arilyn of the homes common in faraway Evereska-a community of moon elves who hunted the forests and guarded the secrets of the Greycloak Hills.

For a moment homesickness assailed her, though it had been many years since she had left the Greycloak Hills as an orphaned girl. There was no place for her there now. Nor, she reminded herself firmly, was there much of a future for her in Waterdeep, unless she could resolve the problem at hand.

The last three days had yielded nothing but frustra shy;tion. Lord Eltorchul had sent a message asking her and Danilo to hold secret the news of Oth's death while the family came to a decision concerning possible resurrec shy;tion. Honoring that request made it virtually impossible for Arilyn to ask the sort of questions that required answers. Isabeau Thione had run to ground. Bronwyn had yet to return from her trip to Silverymoon. Dan had gone to the libraries of Candlekeep and was deep in a study of the history of moonblades in hope of finding something that might explain the continuing capricious shy;ness of her sword's magic.

Arilyn, who was running exceedingly low on patience, had decided to search for answers in the past.

She gave word of her errand to the Dezlentyr guard. In a few moments the gates opened, and a young ser shy;vant came to meet her. He was roughly clad in tunic, breeches, and well-worn boots, but he was nonetheless a strikingly handsome male-tall, golden, and so fine of feature that he would be considered beautiful but for his sun-browned skin and a slightly raffish stubble of beard. He gave the impression of a prince playing at peasant. As he drew near, Arilyn noted that he was half-elven.

Not a servant, realized Arilyn, but Corinn, the Dez shy;lentyr heir. Half-elves were not common in this city, and he and his twin sister were unique among their noble peers.

His eyes lit up as he regarded her, and he called her name and held out his hand for a comrade's salute. "We met some time ago, at one of Galinda Raventree's par shy;ties," he recalled, then flashed a brilliant smile. "Good to see you again, under better circumstances!"

Arilyn appreciated his point, and she clasped his wrist briefly. "I hope you'll still think so after you hear me out. I wish to talk to your father. Tell me if this tale will be too painful for him to hear,"

The young noble's face turned grave as she related the story she'd prepared: a battle with a band of assas shy;sins and their elven victim, followed by repeated attempts on her own life.

Her implication was not lost on him. "You are often seen in the company of Danilo Thann," he said thought shy;fully. "He is a highly visible member of the peerage. If my father's fears are grounded, there might be those in this city who would take mortal offense at such a pair shy;ing. Yes, my father should hear of this."

He took her to a small side parlor and promised to return soon. Arilyn paced about, pausing before a por shy;trait of a golden-haired elf woman.

Corinn's mother looked younger than her own twin children. Had she not fallen to an unknown assassin, she would undoubtedly look much the same now, some fifteen years later, like an undying flower watching the garden around her wither and dry.

Arilyn understood all too well how difficult that could be. Half-elves were eternally out of step with both their human and elven kin. Though she was nearly twenty years older than Danilo, she could expect to out shy;live him by nearly a century. She could expect to watch their children grow old and die. Not an enviable destiny, but she vastly preferred it to that suffered by Sibylan shy;thra Dezlentyr. Arilyn had no intention of falling to assassins hired to safeguard the human bloodline of Waterdeep's nobility.

Arlos Dezlentyr came in with his son. He was a small, slight man who appeared to be nothing more than a shadow cast by his son's bright light, but the voice with which he greeted her was deep and resonant, and it pos shy;sessed a beauty that might well have caught the fancy and then the heart of an elven woman. He possessed a graceful charm, as well. He bowed over Arilyn's hand with courtly grace that would have done honor to a queen.

"Corinn has told me your tale." He sighed and sank onto a chair. "If what you fear is true, my children could also be in danger."

"I will find the truth and bring you word," she prom shy;ised. "I understand Corinn and Corinna are seldom in Waterdeep. Until we have the answers we seek, perhaps it is well to keep them from the public eye."

"A good thought." Lord Arlos glanced up at the por shy;trait. "My first wife was a mage, you know. I had hoped that Sibylanthra's children would take after their mother's art, but so far they both have too much taste for adventure. Now I see the blessing in it."

He turned to his son. "Corinn, you may follow that scheme of yours to sail around Chult and seek to estab shy;lish harbors to the south. Corinna may take that com shy;mission she was offered. Better the uncertainties of Tethyr's seas than the proven dangers of this city. Make the arrangements at once."

The half-elf flashed another of his incandescent smiles. He bowed to his father, then lifted Arilyn's hand to his lips. "Thank you," he said softly and fervently. He was gone, like a golden bird in glad flight.

Arilyn spent an hour with the old man, exchanging reminiscences about Evereska, which had been his wife's childhood home. She learned only that Sibylanthra had been found in the garden, inexplicably dead. There were no wounds, no sign of illness or struggle, none of the usual marks of poison. Yet her husband had been con shy;vinced, and was still certain, that this was the work of an assassin. Lord Arlos would have talked until moonrise, but finally Arilyn rose to go. She asked him to show her the kitchen gardens before she left.

The nobleman was surprised but willing. They walked down rows of late cabbages and drying herbs. Arilyn headed for the potting and drying shed and there found what she sought. A large cistern opened into the tunnel below, allowing the kitchen staff to toss husks and par shy;ings into the sewers below.

"I'll leave by this way. An assassin would have," she explained.

He started, then shook his head in disbelief. "Why did no one think of this sooner?"

There was an answer, but it was not one Arilyn wished to speak aloud: to find an assassin, you had to think like one. She had spent too many years doing just that. She busied herself with the heavy lid, then raised a hand in farewell and dropped into the dark opening.

She found the small footholds carved into the stone and climbed down into the tunnel. As she expected, the openings continued along the wall, so that it was pos shy;sible to skirt the tunnel floor. Such things were closely held secrets in the guilds that cleaned these tunnels, but Arilyn had long experience with the sort of folk who used these dark passages for other purposes.

It troubled her, how easily she fell back into the mind and the steps of an assassin. The role had always been an uneasy one, but it was doubly so now, after her years as an honored, acclaimed champion of the elves. Per shy;haps this was the only role destiny would permit her to play among the humans.

She thrust aside these thoughts and addressed her shy;self to the task at hand. After a hundred paces or so, the tunnel floor rose at a steep angle. Arilyn leaped from her perch and began to climb.

The tunnel was clean and dry, and it appeared to be relatively new. This was interesting, given the reap shy;pearance of tren in the city. After the Guild Wars, some of the old tunnels had been sealed, barring dangerous underground races from the city. These tunnels had been magically warded, but it was possible that some shy;one determined enough could have made new passages.

As Arilyn considered the matter, certain other pieces fell into place. Watch Alley in North Ward was excep shy;tionally safe but for the fact that single, severed human feet were occasionally found discarded in its shadows. The first such occurrence had been about fifteen years ago-about the time of Lady Dezlentyr's death. Tavern talk claimed that severing feet was an old thieves' guild punishment and perhaps a signal of the guild's return to Waterdeep. Arilyn had heard the bad jests about " 'de shy;fecting' one's enemy." In light of recent events, however, it seemed likely that tren, not human thieves, were behind these killings. The question was, who was paying their hire, and if this was a single source, what purpose prompted over fifteen years of costly, clandes shy;tine activity?

Arilyn examined the walls as she walked, searching for the telltale carvings that tren left as signals to each other. The tunnels turned out to be as convoluted as a cow path. The half-elf followed the faint markings for what seemed hours, finding them here and there but never quite able to distinguish a pattern. Finally it occurred to her to follow to its end the one passage that was not marked.

This proved to be worth doing. Arilyn found a hidden door in the wall of the unmarked tunnel. Beyond it a ladder rose into what appeared to be a large wooden shed. She climbed it and peered cautiously around.

The shed was permeated by a complex fragrance, a blessed respite from the dank tunnels. Bunches of drying herbs hung from the rafters. Piles of citrus peels and dried flowers stood on raised wooden platforms. Rows of shelves held bottles filled with colored liquid, into which flowers and herbs and vanilla beans and dozens of other fragrant substances yielded their essence.

Arilyn crept through the shed and eased out into the alley. She recognized the street ahead, and the shop that the small shed served: Diloontier Perfumery. Rumor had it that the proprietor also sold more lethal potions, but no one had ever caught him at it. Diloon shy;tier's prices kept out all but the most wealthy patrons- nobles who could afford to put down bags of gold for delicate scents. Who could afford to have new tunnels dug, and to hire reptilian assassins. It seemed to Arilyn that Diloontier's client list could be very informative.

To Arilyn's eye, this path was so clear that she thought it incredible that no one had thought to explore it. However, this was precisely the sort of thing to which this city turned a blind eye. All of Waterdeep loudly pro shy;claimed that assassins held no guild, no power, no num shy;bers, no threat.

Arilyn had reason to know the damage that could be dealt by a single, unseen blade. Perhaps it took someone like her to deal with such matters.

Old habits fell easily into place. Arilyn slipped away into the shadows, as silent as a hunting cat.

* * * * *

Elaith's dismay grew as he surveyed the certain ambush in the valley below. He cursed and drove his heels into the flanks of his winged mare. Leaning low over her neck, he urged her into a plunging dive.

Wind roared in his ears until he feared he might never again hear anything else. Even as the thought formed, an eagle's shriek rent the streaming air, tearing through the deafening noise. This was followed by an even more chilling sound-an undulating elven battle cry. The Eagle Riders had spotted the ambush.

From the four corners of the wind they came, moving in with a perfectly coordinated attack. Their eagle mounts dove in with the instincts of raptors, their golden eyes fierce and their talons outstretched to snatch up their prey. It was a glorious, terrifying sight: a classic elven attack.

It was also the worst possible strategy.

Elaith's cry of protest was swallowed by the wind. He could not hear his own voice. Nor did he hear the whir and thump of the catapults, but he knew in his blood and bones that such weapons lay in wait. After all, these bandits knew the caravan's route, they had found this remote site. They would know what forces they would face and how they might best be defeated.

Golden feathers flew back toward him like giant leaves torn away by a wintry blast. Among the feathers were deadlier missiles: bits of metal and stone hurled as grapeshot.

Elaith instinctively ducked as the spray rose toward them, pulling back hard on the pegasus' reins. The winged horse threw back her head. Elaith caught a glimpse of the steed's wild, white-rimmed eyes-and the ugly metal shape that protruded from her neck.

He leaned forward and eased it out. It was a caltrop, a ball covered with wicked, triangular spikes. Fortu shy;nately the thing had embedded itself more in the har shy;ness than the horse.

The giant eagles had not been so fortunate. They had caught the full force of the deadly volley. Two of the wondrous birds lay on the ground like discarded rags. A third spun down, one shattered wing hanging limp. Elaith heard Garelith Leafbower's furious battle cry as the last of the Eagle Riders dove in for the attack.

The first volley was quickly followed by a second, and a third. Elaith's pegasus strained upward, her wings curved almost to breaking to catch the rising winds. She leveled off and circled, whinnying with what sounded very much like concern. Elaith understood completely, though he did not know what kind of bonds pegasi shared. With senses heightened by battle, the elf felt the death of the young Eagle Riders as keenly as a wound to his own flesh. He urged the frantic beast to circle down so that he might assess the situation.

Utter chaos filled the valley and the sky above it. The tethered pegasus teams frantically fought to be free of their traces. Sky chariots spun out of control, spilling contents and riders to the valley floor. Griffons reared, pawing at the air with their leonine paws as they at shy;tempted to fight their way through the lethal spray. The bandits swarmed the valley, cutting down the wounded and gathering up the spilled booty. Few survivors were in any condition to give resistance. Seeing the loss of his treasure, Elaith once again urged his steed into a dive.

Stony, blood-soaked earth leaped up to meet them as the pegasus plunged. At the last moment she leveled out and swept into a wide circle, wings out wide. She hit the earth at a gallop. Elaith reined her to a halt and leaped to the ground. He drew his sword and headed toward the thickest part of battle.

"Stand and fight!" roared a too-familiar dwarven voice overhead. "Lost your stones in that slingshot, did you?"

Elaith ducked as Ebenezer's pegasus swept in low, her teeth bared in a fierce grimace. Her rider did not wait for the landing but launched himself into the air, his stubby arms outstretched. The dwarf flopped onto a trio of fleeing looters, bringing them down like stomped-on flowers.

A slender, autumn-colored figure staggered out from the midst of a melee. Using a broken piece of harness as a lash, she beat the bandits away from a wounded elven groom as she looked frantically about for a better weapon.

Elaith cut his way through to Bronwyn's side. Press shy;ing a dagger into her hand, he fell into place at her back.

She lashed out at a short, black-eyed bandit. The thief ducked and darted out of reach, losing a hat in the process. The elf marked the sudden spill of long, black hair, the lavish curves revealed when the thief stooped to retrieve the fallen hat. A spray of blood dragged his attention fully back into battle. He pushed aside the man whose throat Bronwyn had just cut.

"Thanks," she panted out, lifting the bloodied weapon.

"Don't," the elf said coldly. "There is a price."

For several moments there was no time for speech.

Elaith stopped a high scimitar blow with his knife, then drove his sword up into the bandit's barrel chest. He kicked the man off his blade and lunged at the next attacker. With four quick, short strokes he left a bloody lightning bolt of a gash on the man's torso. The man fell to his hands and knees. Bronwyn took advantage of the moment to leap onto the man's back. Using the surprise-and the extra height-she easily cut down the bandit who came in on the heels of Elaith's victim.

They fought well together. Bronwyn did not exhibit Elaith's training or skill, but neither was she hampered by his rage. Whenever the elf began to be carried along on the icy tide of battle, she stepped in and finished the matter with grim practicality. Elaith soon found himself responding in kind, protecting her by fending off attacks that she alone could not have parried.

To his surprise, the heat of battle burned away his desire to take vengeance on this cunning wench. It was nearly impossible to desire the death of someone after working so long and so hard to keep her body and soul on speaking terms with each other. The Mhaorkiira he must have, but if he could find a way to let Bronwyn live, he would take it.

Finally Elaith and Bronwyn stood alone, in a silence broken only by a few scattered, tired clashes and by the groans of the wounded. She regarded him steadily with eyes that seemed to understand, and thus affirm, his change of plan. Before words could be spoken, Ebenezer sauntered up, one eye swollen shut and his tunic dark with blood.

Bronwyn regarded him with dismay. "Any of that yours?"

"Might be you could say that. I earned it, leastwise." The dwarf touched his puffy eye and grinned proudly.

This was neither the moment nor the company Elaith would have chosen for this discussion, but he could not afford to wait. "The ruby. I want it back."

A faintly smug expression touched the woman's chocolate-colored eyes. "I wasn't aware it was yours when I bought it. At any rate, I don't have it."

Seeing his doubt, she nodded toward a small leather bag, lying empty on the ground. The strings had been cut, and the bag lay flat and slack. She strode over and scooped it up. Her face suddenly went very still, and she jerked open the bag and thrust one hand in.

"Stones!" she spat out.

The dwarf pricked up his ears. "Troubles?"

Bronwyn drew out a small, round crystal and showed it to him.

"Trouble," the dwarf agreed.

"What is this?" Elaith demanded.

Bronwyn shook the offending sack. "This is a bag of sending. Everything I put in it should be in a safe place in Waterdeep. The magic isn't working!"

A possible explanation for this occurred to Elaith, one so fraught with dire possibilities that it blunted the loss of the kiira. He put out his hand. "That crystal."

Ever the merchant, she countered, "In exchange for a truce. We've both lost what we sought. Call it even."

Since this fit in with Elaith's inclinations, he re shy;sponded with a curt nod. She dropped the globe into his hand. The small, iridescent crystal nestled into his palm like a living thing. His elven senses picked up the cap shy;tured magic. He quickly dropped it into a bag, under shy;standing at last the enormity of the risk-and the opportunity.

All magic came from somewhere. The dream spheres gave a dream and took one, but the magic power that fueled this exchange was drawn from nearby magic. Apparently the dream spheres stole magical power, drained it off and reformed it in much the same fashion as the legendary magic of spellfire.

Elaith's initial purpose for the Mhaorkiira remained, but here was a new and enormous potential. Not only could hidden knowledge be his, but also he could pos shy;sess the potential to confuse defensive spells and con shy;found mages. All that he lacked was the kiira gem.

He would have it and would not count any amount of blood too high a price.

* * * * *

In a cavern hidden behind the waterfall, deep within the mountains that surrounded the blood-soaked valley, the surviving bandits threw off their masks and hoods and began to paw through their loot.

Isabeau Thione strode through the crowd, looking like a pirate queen in her dark breeches and crimson shirt. She was in rare high spirits, joking with her hired band and dispensing portions of the loot with a lavish hand.

Appalled by it all, Lilly hugged the shadows on the far side of the cavern. Although she had not taken part in the battle, she had witnessed it all from the shadows of the trees. Never had she seen anything like it.

No, actually that was not entirely true. A former cook at The Pickled Fisherman once bought a small flock of chickens for stew. For sport, he penned them in the back alley and hacked them apart with a machete. The cook had long ago drifted off. Rumor reported that he'd ended up in Mystra's Arms, one of the houses that cared for Waterdeep's insane. Such places catered mostly to those driven mad by magic gone awry, but they also tended the occasional soul who found his way to lunacy by a more convoluted path. At the moment Lilly felt per shy;ilously close to madness herself.

She had not anticipated any of this. A letter, stolen from the large, bearded man she and Isabeau had robbed together the night they'd met, gave the route of this car shy;avan. A simple theft, Isabeau had argued, only the pigeon was a caravan rather than a single nobleman. Lilly had fallen far short when she'd taken the woman's measure, and her lack made her as guilty of bloodshed as any of the hired killers.

She could not stay in partnership with Isabeau. The woman was as rapacious as a troll. Who knew what she might do next? No, Lilly could not stay-not with Isa shy;beau, and perhaps not even in Waterdeep. She needed a place to hide, to start anew, a place to come to terms with what she had done, to find a way to make amends.

A bright, ringing clatter tore her from her guilty thoughts. Two mercenaries stood toe to toe, staring stu shy;pidly at the half sack each of them held. For a moment they watched the spilled coins roll away, then they began to pummel at each other. Isabeau shouted for the others to break up the fight. Most merely joined in.

All was chaos. Lilly knew what to do in such moments-she had done some of her best pickings during tavern brawls.

She eased her way into the melee and faked a stumble. With a quick swipe she gathered up some coins and gems and dropped them into her pocket. When she stood up, a blow caught her in earnest.

Her jaw exploded with pain, her head snapped back, and the ground slammed up to meet her.

Lilly awoke to the sound of dripping water, which kept an eerie rhythm with the pounding in her temples. Cautiously she opened one eye. Isabeau was stretched out beside her, a smug little smile on her face and a pile of treasure beside her.

A heap of gleaming white globes dominated the hoard. Longing swept through Lilly like a healing tide. She sat up and reached for one, clenching her hand around the comforting magic.

"You know those?" asked Isabeau.

Lilly tried to move her aching jaw, and decided that a nod would do the job.

Isabeau smiled. "Perhaps you would like to take your share in these? Say, seven?"

It was a ridiculously low payment, even at the cost of dream spheres, but Lilly considered it a fair enough way out.

"That will do," she mumbled.

Her words seemed to ring in the empty cavern. The silence struck her, numbed her. Like a dreamwalker, she rose and stumbled in growing horror through the too-quiet cave.

Everywhere the mercenaries lay in twisted, tortured positions. Blackened tongues protruded through mouths stretched open with silent screams. Their pockets had been turned, their gear bags sliced open and looted.

Lilly's hand flew to her mouth. She whirled back toward Isabeau, hardly believing what her eyes told her.

"You're wondering how we will move the cargo," the woman said, misreading her partner's dismay. "The porters I've arranged know the tunnels well. They can have the goods moved to Waterdeep's undercity faster than an overland caravan could cover the same ground."

One of the shadows moved and broke away into the torchlight. Lilly backed away, shaking her head in ter shy;rified disbelief at the monstrous sight.

Isabeau did not seem concerned by the sudden ap shy;pearance of an enormous, bipedal lizard. She strode for shy;ward and handed the creature a fine short sword that held the sheen of a newly made weapon.

"An Amcathra blade," she said. "There will be four more when you get to Skullport."

Enormous claws closed around the hilt, and the crea shy;ture grunted in apparent satisfaction. Isabeau looked to Lilly and seemed amused by the woman's reaction.

"Meet the tren," she said casually. "You might as well get used to them. We will be doing a considerable amount of business with them from this point forth."

She cocked her head and regarded her horror-struck partner. Her eyes narrowed in speculation, and she turned back to the monster. "Lilly does not appear to approve. Show her what happens to those who speak of matters best left in shadows."

The curved, fang-lined jaws parted in a reptilian smile. With a grunt, the creature hunkered down beside one of the dead mercenaries. The enormous, clawed hand closed around the man's protruding black tongue. One yank, and the tongue came free with a wet, tearing sound. The tren grinned again, then tossed the tidbit into its fanged mouth.

Through the whirling haze that gripped her, Lilly heard the grunting echoing throughout the cavern. More tren emerged from the shadows, and they crouched down to feed.

Lilly began to scream. Dimly she was aware of Isabeau scolding her, slapping her, but she could not stop. She sank to the stone floor, hands fisted against her ears to block the sound of the horrid feast, and she screamed and screamed until the merciful blackness closed in again.