Elfshadow

 

Book 2 of the Harpers Series

 

A Forgotten Realms novel

 

By Elaine Cunningham

Prelude

The elf emerged in a glade, a small verdant meadow ringed by a tight circle of vast, ancient oaks. His path had brought him to a spot of rare beauty that, to the untrained eye, appeared to be utterly untouched. Never had the elf seen a place more deeply green; a few determined shafts of early morning sunlight filtered through leaves and vines until even the air around him seemed dense and alive. At his feet, emerald droplets of dew clung to the grass. The elf's seeking eyes narrowed in speculation. Dropping to his knees, he studied the grass until he found it—an almost imperceptible path where the dew had been shaken loose from the ankle-high grass. Yes, his prey had come this way.
Quickly he followed the dew trail to where it slipped between two of the giant oaks. He parted a curtain of vines and stepped out of the glade, blinking away the bright morning sun. Once his eyes had adjusted to the dim light of the woodland, he saw a narrow dirt path winding through the trees.
His quarry did not know that they were being followed, so why wouldn't they take the easiest way through the forest? The elf slipped through the underbrush and set off down the path. There was little to indicate that other footsteps had preceded his, but the elf was not concerned. The two he sought were, despite their deplorable origins, among the best rangers he had encountered. Very few could walk through the thick, deep grass of that sheltered glade and leave behind no more than a dew trail.
The elf glided silently along the path, his blood quickening at the thought of the victory that lay ahead, so long awaited and now so close at hand. Elves, particularly gold elves, were not hasty people, and behind this morning's mission lay years of planning, decades of discussion, and almost two centuries of waiting for the proper means and moment. The time to strike had come, and his would be the first blow.
The path ended at a stone wall, and again the elf paused, alert and observant. He crouched in the shadow of the wall and examined the scene spread out before him. Beyond the wall was a garden, as lovely as anything he had ever seen.
Peacocks strutted about an expanse of lawn, some with tail feathers spread to flaunt dozens of iridescent blue-green eyes. Brilliantly colored kotala birds chattered in the spring-flowering trees that ringed a reflecting pond. The elf's innate love of beauty welled up within him, pushing aside for a moment the urgency of his mission. It would be easy, he mused as he observed the garden scene, for elves to be seduced by such splendor.
As indeed they had been, he concluded as his gaze lifted above the garden to a distant castle, a marvel of enspelled crystal and marble. His golden eyes glittered with hate and triumph as he realized that the trail had led him to the very center of gray elf power. The ancient gold elf race had succumbed to the rule of their inferiors for far too long. With renewed purpose the elf began to plan his attack.
His situation could hardly be better; no guards patrolled the outer palace gardens. If he could catch his prey before they got close to the castle, he would be able to strike and withdraw undetected, and return another day to strike again.
Between him and the castle was an enormous maze fashioned of boxwood hedges. Perfect! The elf flashed a private, evil smile. The gray wench and her pet human had walked into their own tomb. Days could pass before the bodies would be discovered in that labyrinth.
The arrangement did have its disadvantages. The maze itself did not worry him, but its entrance could be reached only through a garden of bellflowers. Cultivated for sound as well as scent, the flowers sent faint music drifting toward him in the still morning air. The elf listened for a moment, and his jaw tightened. He'd seen such gardens before. The flower beds and statuary were arranged to catch and channel the slightest breath of wind, so that the flowers constantly chimed one of several melodies, the choice depending on the direction of the breeze. Any disruption of the air flow, however faint, would change their song. In effect, the garden was a beautiful but effective alarm system.
Since his quarry was undoubtedly in the maze and heading for the castle, the elf knew he would have to take a chance. He vaulted easily over the low stone wall and raced past the inquisitive peacocks, then glided through the bellflower garden with an economy of motion only the best elven rangers could achieve. As he had feared, the tinkling song subtly altered with his passing. To his sensitive ear, the disruption was as glaring as a trumpet's blast, and he ducked behind a statue and steeled himself for the approach of the palace guard.
Several silent minutes passed, and eventually the elf relaxed. To his surprise, he had reached the maze without detection. A last glance around the garden assured him that he was truly alone. His lips twisted in derision as he pictured the palace guards: oafs too stupid and common to recognize their own musical alarm. Tone deaf, as were all gray elves. With a soundless chuckle, the elf slipped into the maze.
Garden mazes, he knew, tended to follow a common pattern. After a few confident turns, the elf began to suspect that he had found an exception. This maze was like nothing he had seen before. Vast and whimsical, its convoluted paths wandered from one small garden to another, each one more fantastic than the last. With a growing sense of dismay the elf passed exotic fruit trees, fountains, arbors, berry patches, tiny ponds filled with bright fish, and hummingbirds breakfasting amid vines of red trumpet flowers. Most striking were the magical displays depicting familiar episodes from elven folklore: the birth of the sea elves, the Green Island dragonwar, the elven armada landfall.
He pressed on, running to the entrance of yet another garden clearing. One glance inside, and he skidded to a stop. Before him was a marble pedestal topped with a large, water-filled globe. Surely he couldn't have passed that globe before! He crept closer for a better look. A magical illusion raged within the sphere, a terrible sea storm that tossed tiny elven vessels about. Before his horrified eyes the sea goddess Umberlee rose from the waves, her white hair flying in the gale like flashes of lightning. By the gods, it was the birth of the sea elves again!
There could be no doubt. Surely not even this ridiculous maze could have two such displays. The elf raked both hands through his hair, tugging at it in self-disgust. He, a renowned elven ranger, was running around in circles.
Before he could castigate himself further, the elf heard a faint clicking sound, not far away. He trailed it to a large, circular garden, ringed with flowers that attracted clouds of butterflies. Many paths led out of the garden, which was dominated by pale blue roses in a bed shaped like a crescent moon. At one tip of the blue-rose moon stood an elderly elven gardener, snipping away at the rosebushes with more vigor than expertise. Again the elven intruder smiled. By all appearances, this was the maze's center; surely his quarry had passed through. The old gardener would tell him, at knife point if need be, which path the wench had taken.
The elf edged into the garden. As he entered a flock of the butterflies took flight, and the gardener looked up, his silver eyes lit with gentle inquiry at the disruption. His gaze fell upon the intruder, but he merely waved and cleared his throat as if to call out a greeting.
No, not that! thought the intruder in a moment of panic. He could not alert his quarry now!
A dagger flew, and a look of surprise crossed the gardener's face. The old elf's hand came up to fumble with the blade in his chest, and he fell heavily to the ground. His rough cap tumbled off. From it spilled an abundance of long, dark blue hair shot through with silver threads.
Blue! Excitement gripped the assassin, and he sped across the distance between him and the fallen elf in silent, bounding steps. As he crouched beside the corpse, a flash of gold caught his eye. He reached for it. From beneath the gardener's rough linen tunic he drew a medallion bearing the royal crest. It was true. The assassin dropped the medallion and sat back on his heels, dizzy with elation. Through the most fortunate of errors, he had killed King Zaor!
A keening scream, anguished and female, interrupted his private celebration. In one quick motion the elven assassin leaped to his feet and whirled, twin swords in hand. He found himself facing his original quarry. So white and still she was, that for a moment she seemed carved from marble. No sculptor, however, could have captured the grief and guilt that twisted her pale face. The knuckles of one hand pressed against her mouth, and with her other hand she clung to the arm of the tall man at her side.
Ah, the fates were kind today, the elven assassin gloated. Swiftly and confidently he advanced on the pair, blades leading. To his surprise, the wench's oversized companion had the presence of mind to snatch a small hunting bow from his shoulder and let fly an arrow.
The elven assassin felt the stunning impact first, and then a burning flash of pain as the arrow pierced his leather armor and buried itself in his side, just below the rib cage. He looked down at the shaft and saw that arrow was neither deeply imbedded nor in a vital spot. Summoning all his austere self-discipline, he willed aside the pain and raised his swords. He could still kill the wench—kill them both—before making his escape. It would be a fine day's work, indeed.
"This way!"
A vibrant contralto voice rang out, very near. The female's scream had alerted the palace guard. The assassin could hear the rapidly approaching footsteps of at least a dozen guards. He must not be captured and questioned! Die for the cause he would do and do gladly, but the gray rulers would surely not grant him the dignity of death. The elven assassin hesitated for only a moment, then he turned and fled back toward the glade and the magic portal that stood there.
Breathing hard and feeling lightheaded from pain and loss of blood, the elf plunged through the circle of blue smoke that marked the magical doorway. Strong, slender arms caught him and eased him to the ground.
"Fenian! Tell me what happened!"
"The portal leads to Evermeet," the wounded elf gasped. "King Zaor lies dead."
A triumphant, ringing cry escaped the elf's companion, echoing over the mountains and startling a pair of songbirds into flight. "And the elf wench? The Harper?" he asked excitedly.
"They still live," the elf admitted. The effort of speaking brought a fresh spasm of agony. He grimaced and grasped with both hands at the arrow shaft.
"Take ease," his friend consoled him. "Amnestria and her human lover will soon follow Zaor into death." He gently moved the elf's hands aside and began to work the arrow out. "Were you seen?"
"Yes." The answer came from between gritted teeth.
The hands on the arrow stilled, then tensed. "Even so, you have done well." With a quick motion, he plunged the arrow up under the elf's rib cage and into his heart. When the flow of lifeblood stilled, he wrenched the arrow free and thrust it back into the elf's body at the original angle. He rose to his feet and gazed with a touch of regret at the dead elf. "But not well enough," he murmured.

One

The moon rose, and in its wake trailed the nine tiny stars known to bards and lovers as the Tears of Selune. Slowly the weeping moon washed the color from an autumn sunset. In the darkening garden the mists—the eerie, earthbound clouds for which the Greycloak Hills were named—began to gather, shrouding the garden and muting the final peals of elven funeral bells.
There were few places in Evereska more peaceful than the temple of Hannali Celanil, the elven goddess of beauty and romantic love. The temple, an enormous structure of white marble and moonstone, rested upon the city's highest hill, surrounded by gardens that even in late autumn bloomed with rare flowers and exotic fruits. On a low pedestal at the very center of the gardens stood a statue of Hannali Celanil, carved from rare white stone.
But the lone figure huddled at the foot of the statue cared little for her exquisite surroundings. Numb with grief and shock, a half-elf maiden wrapped her thin arms around her knees and stared with unseeing eyes over the city toward the distant hills. She didn't notice the lighting of Evereska's street lamps; she didn't draw her cloak against the chill of the gathering mists. The child had been drawn to the temple gardens as if by instinct, perhaps hoping that this place, which had been her mother's favorite haven, might hold some lingering echo of her mother's presence.
Less than fifteen winters of age, Arilyn of Evereska could not comprehend how her mother, Z'beryl—an elven warrior-mage of considerable skill—could have died at all, much less at the hands of common cutpurses. There could be no doubt. The pair of murderers had confessed, and even now their bodies swung from the walled city's battlements. Arilyn had attended the execution, watching the grim ceremony with a curious sense of detachment.
Too much had happened for Arilyn to absorb. The young half-elf hugged her legs closer to her chest and let her forehead drop to her knees. She was weary with the effort of making sense of it all. Z'beryl was the only family Arilyn had ever known; could she truly be gone? And then, treading in the shadow of her mother's death, had come a second shock: the sudden and secretive appearance of Z'beryl's kin.
Remote and aloof, the strange elves had barely acknowledged Arilyn's presence, preferring to grieve behind the veils of their silver mourning robes. Family without faces. Even now the memory chilled Arilyn, and she drew her old cloak tightly around her huddled body. Right after the funeral, Arilyn had shed her own mourning robes and sought the familiar comfort of her usual garb. She wore a simple tunic over a loose shirt, and her dark trousers were tucked into well-worn boots that were as comfortable as they were disreputable. Indeed, the only thing that distinguished her from a street waif was the ancient sword that was strapped to her side.
Arilyn's hand strayed to the sword, her only legacy from her mother, and her fingers absently traced the arcane runes that ran along the length of the scabbard. Already the sword felt a part of her. Her mother's relatives, however, had lingered after the funeral to hotly debate whether Z'beryl had the right to bequeath the sword to a half-elf. Strangely enough, no one had made a move to take the sword from Arilyn. When finally they had left, as mysteriously as they'd arrived, Arilyn had felt no more or less alone than she'd been before they showed up.
"Arilyn of Evereska? Excuse me, child. I do not wish to intrude upon your grief, but I must speak with you."
The softly spoken words jolted Arilyn from her reflection. She sat upright and squinted in the direction of the musical voice. A tall, slender elven male stood poised at the gate of the innermost garden as if awaiting her permission to enter.
Arilyn had the keen eyes of her mother's race, and even in the mist-shrouded twilight she quickly discerned the identity of her visitor. Her customary self-possession evaporated in the face of her childhood idol. To meet with Kymil Nimesin, and in such disarray! Both chagrined and excited, she scrambled to her feet and wiped her hands clean on the seat of her trousers.
Kymil Nimesin was a high elf, of a noble family who had once held a council seat in the long-lost elven kingdom of Myth Drannor. Currently swordsmaster at an arms academy, he was a renowned adventurer and a master of arcane battle magic. Rumors persisted that he was connected to the mysterious group known as the Harpers. Arilyn firmly believed these stories, for they supported the heroic image she had fashioned of Kymil Nimesin. Such stories also would explain his presence; Z'beryl had once told Arilyn that the elves of Evereska maintained a keen interest in the doings of the Harpers.
"Lord Nimesin." Arilyn pulled herself up to her full height and held out both hands, palms up, in the traditional gesture of respect.
The elf inclined his head in acknowledgement, then glided toward her with the grace of a dancer—or an incomparable warrior. A high elf, also known as a gold elf, was not a common sight in the moon elf colony of Evereska. Arilyn felt very drab and common as she compared her white skin and boyishly shorn black hair to the exotic coloring of the fey gold elf. He had the bronze complexion of his sub-race, long golden hair streaked with copper lights, and eyes like polished black marble. As the master approached, Arilyn marveled at the grace, the sheer physical beauty that enhanced his aura of nobility and power. Kymil Nimesin was truly a quessir, an honorable elven male. She took several paces toward him, then swept into a low bow.
"I am honored, Lord Nimesin," she repeated.
"You may call me Kymil," he corrected her gently. "It has been many centuries since my family have been lords." The elf studied Arilyn for a long moment, then turned his obsidian eyes to the statue behind her. "I thought I might find you here," he murmured.
"Sir?" Arilyn's brow furrowed in puzzlement.
Kymil glanced over at Arilyn. "The statue of the goddess of beauty bears a striking resemblance to your mother. Were I you, I would have come here tonight," he explained.
"You knew her? You knew Z'beryl?" Arilyn asked eagerly. In her excitement she took a step forward and clasped the elf's forearms. So few persons could tell her anything of her mother's early life, and in her hunger for information she forgot her awe of the famous quessir.
"We met briefly many years ago," Kymil replied. He gently disengaged himself from Arilyn's impulsive grasp and resumed his reflective study of the statue of Hannali Celanil. Once or twice he glanced at Arilyn, and it seemed to her that he was trying to come to a decision about something.
Arilyn shifted impatiently, but Kymil did not seem inclined to say more. After a moment's silence she tore her expectant gaze from the quessir and squinted dutifully at the statue of Hannali Celanil, trying to see something of her mother in the cold white beauty of the goddess.
Moonlight seemed to linger on the statue as if delighted with its loveliness. More slender and beautiful than any human woman, Hannali Celanil bore the angular, delicate features of the elven race. A small, knowing smile curved her exquisite lips as she surveyed her domain through almond-shaped eyes.
One long-fingered hand rested over her heart, the other touched a pointed ear. Thus was Hannali Celanil often portrayed, to show that she was ever receptive to the prayers of lovers.
On the canvas of her imagination, Arilyn painted the statue's cheekbones and ears with a touch of blue, and replaced the elaborate white stone coif with Z'beryl's long sapphire braids. Arilyn mentally strapped a sword to the goddess's side, and finally she imagined that the eyes were a gold-flecked blue, warmed with a mother's love.
"Yes," Arilyn agreed. "I suppose it is very like her."
The sound of her voice drew Kymil from his reflection, and his abstracted look disappeared. He rested a hand on Arilyn's shoulder, a brief and silent gesture of condolence that seemed oddly foreign to his austere nature. "I am sorry for your loss, child," he said. "If I may ask, what do you plan to do now?"
Startled, Arilyn drew back, staring blankly at the quessir. The question was reasonable enough, but it jolted her into a disturbing realization.
She had no idea what she would do next. She simply hadn't thought that far ahead.
The silence was broken by the brassy, nasal tone of crumhorns. Arilyn recognized the signal for the changing of the guard; the barracks of the Evereska Watch stood at the foot of the hill, and the sounds of their ritual evening maneuver drifted up to the temple gardens.
"I'll join the watch," Arilyn volunteered impulsively.
A smile flickered across Kymil Nimesin's face. "If the wind had blown from the west, we might have heard chanting from the College of Magic. Would you then have decided to become a mage?"
Arilyn hung her head, embarrassed by her childlike outburst. But her tone was stubborn as she insisted, "No. I've always wanted to be a warrior, like my mother." As she spoke, her chin came proudly up and her hand drifted to the hilt of her mother's sword.
Her sword.
"I see." Kymil's eyes followed the movement, narrowing as he studied Arilyn's weapon. "Your mother was a mage as well as a fighter. As an instructor at the College of Magic and Arms, she was highly regarded. Did she teach you much of the art?"
Arilyn shook her head. "No. I'm afraid I have no gift for magic." Her grin was fleeting. "Not much interest, either."
"She did not pass on the lore of the moonblade, I take it?"
"You mean this sword? If it has a story, I've never heard it," Arilyn replied. "My mother only said that it would be mine some day, and she promised to tell me about it when I came of age."
"Have you used the weapon?"
"Never," she said. "Neither did Mother, although she kept the sword with her. She wore it always until . . ." Arilyn's voice faltered.
"Until the funeral," Kymil finished gently.
Arilyn swallowed hard. "Yes. Until then. Mother's will was read, and the sword was given to me."
"Have you drawn it?"
The quessir's question puzzled Arilyn, but she assumed he had his reasons for asking. She answered him with a simple shake of her head.
"Hmmm. You're quite certain Z'beryl told you nothing of the weapon?" Kymil pressed.
"Nothing at all," Arilyn confirmed sadly. She brightened and added, "Mother did teach me to fight, though. I'm very good." She stated the last comment with a child's artless candor.
"Are you indeed? We shall see."
Before Arilyn could draw another breath, a slender sword gleamed in the swordsmaster's hand. Almost of its own accord, her sword hissed free of its scabbard, and Arilyn met the elf's first lighting thrust with a two-handed parry.
An intense emotion flooded Kymil's black eyes, but before Arilyn could put a name to the quessir's reaction, his angular face was again inscrutable.
"Your reflexes are good," he commented in an even tone. "That two-handed grip, however, has its limitations."
As if to prove his point, Kymil drew a second weapon from his belt, this one a long, slender dagger. He lunged toward Arilyn, feinting with the dagger as he brought his sword around and down in an overhead strike. With instinctive grace, Arilyn leaped aside, avoiding the dagger thrust as she easily turned aside Kymil's blade with her sword.
The quessir's eyebrows rose, more in speculation than surprise. He spun his sword around once in a gleaming circle, and then again. Before the second cycle was completed, he thrust toward Arilyn with his dagger. Although the child seemed intrigued by the twirling sword, she was not distracted by it and her moonblade flashed forward to block the dagger. Kymil withdrew, dancing back several paces and lowering his weapons a bit, but Arilyn did not relax her defensive position. She remained in a partial crouch, eyes alert and both hands gripping the ancient sword.
Excellent, Kymil applauded silently. The child showed not only a natural instinct for fighting, but the beginnings of good judgment. Still testing, he advanced again and showered a flurry of blows upon her, alternating with sword and dagger in an intricate pattern that had confounded many a skilled and seasoned adversary. Arilyn met each strike, a feat made more remarkable by her persistent use of that two-handed grip.
Speed she certainly had, Kymil mused, but what of strength? The elf tucked his dagger back into his belt and raised his sword high, holding it firmly with both hands. He slashed down with considerable force, fully expecting the blow to knock Arilyn's sword from her hands. Her weapon flashed down in a semi-circle and came up to meet Kymil's strike. The blades clashed together hard enough to send sparks into the night, but the young half-elf's grip on her sword did not falter. Satisfied, Kymil stepped back from the fight.
Still holding his weapon at the ready, he slowly circled the child, studying her as if seeking some weakness. What he saw pleased him immeasurably.
Z'beryl's half-elf daughter stood about three inches short of six feet. That was tall for a moon elf female, but the child's gawky frame was slender and well-formed. Her strength and agility would have been exceptional even in a full elf. And she was, as she had said, very good. Yes, the child had unmistakable promise.
What was most important of all to the weapons master was that Arilyn had drawn the sword and lived, which meant that the magic weapon had chosen to honor Z'beryl's heir. As Kymil noted the extraordinary spirit that shone in the child's clear, gold-flecked eyes, it occurred to him that the sword had chosen well. Kymil Nimesin had come to the temple gardens expecting to find a pathetic halfbreed, but here before him, in raw and unlikely form, stood a fledgling hero.
Keenly aware of Kymil's scrutiny, Arilyn turned with the circling elf, always facing him as she held her sword in a defensive position. Exhilaration flowed through her veins, and a fierce joy lit her eyes as she anticipated renewed battle.
Although Arilyn had grown up with a sword in her hand, she had never faced such an opponent as this. Neither had she wielded such a sword. More than anything, she wanted the match to continue. Impulsively she lunged forward, trying to draw Kymil. He easily parried her strike, then he stepped back away from her and sheathed his weapon.
"No, that is enough for now. Your spirit is commendable, but unnecessary swordplay in the temple garden would be unseemly." He extended his hand. "May I see the moonblade now?"
Although disappointed by the quessir's refusal to continue the match, Arilyn sensed that she had passed some sort of test. Swallowing a triumphant smile, she took the sword by its tip and offered it hilt-first to the master.
Kymil shook his head. "Sheath it first."
Puzzled, she did as she was told. She slid the sword into the scabbard, then removed her sword belt and passed it to the gold elf.
Kymil examined the weapon carefully. He studied the runes on the scabbard for a long moment before he turned his attention to the hilt of the sword, gently running his fingers over the large, empty oval indentation just below the blade's grip.
"It will need a new stone to replace the missing one." He raised an inquiring brow. "The balance is slightly off, I imagine?"
"Not that I noticed."
"You will, as your training progresses," he assured her.
"Training?" A score of questions tumbled through Arilyn's mind and flashed across her face, but Kymil waved her curiosity aside with an impatient hand.
"Later. First, tell me what you can about your father."
The elf's request shocked Arilyn into silence. It had been many years since she had allowed herself the luxury of thinking about her father. As a small child she had constructed elaborate fantasies, but in truth she knew virtually nothing about the circumstances of her birth. Although elves as a rule gave great importance to their heritage, Z'beryl had always stressed that family background was less important than individual merit. Arilyn accepted this unorthodox view as best she could, but at the moment she wished desperately for some grand paternal history to tell Kymil Nimesin. Arilyn knew how important such things were to the lineage-proud gold elves.
She replied carefully, "You may have noticed that I'm a half-elf. My father was human."
"Was?"
"Yes. When I was much younger, I used to ask my mother about him, but it always made her so sad that I stopped. I've always assumed that my father is dead."
"What about Z'beryl's family?" Kymil pressed. Arilyn's only response was a derisive sniff. The quessir raised one golden eyebrow. "I take it you know of them?"
"Very little." Arilyn's chin came up proudly. They had wanted no part of her, and she would claim no part of them. "I never saw any of them before Mother's funeral, and I never expect to see any of them again."
"Oh?"
Kymil's interest was obvious, but Arilyn merely shrugged aside his question. "The only thing they wanted of me was the sword. I still can't understand why they didn't just take it."
The gold elf permitted himself a sneer. "They couldn't. This is a moonblade, a hereditary sword that can be wielded by one person alone. Z'beryl left the moonblade to you, and it has honored her choice."
"It has? How do you know that?"
A wry expression settled about the elf's features. "You drew the sword and you still live," he said succinctly,
"Oh."
Kymil held the sheathed moonblade out to Arilyn with an almost deferential gesture. "The sword has chosen, and in choosing it has set you apart. No one but you can wield it or even handle the sheathed weapon without your consent. From this night until the moment of your death, you cannot be parted from the weapon."
"So the sword and I are a team?" she asked hesitantly, eyeing the weapon that Kymil held out to her.
"In a manner of speaking, yes. Its magic is yours alone."
"Magic?" Arilyn reclaimed the sword and belted it on gingerly, as if she expected the thing to shapechange at any moment. "What can it do?"
"Without knowing the specific history of this blade, I cannot tell," Kymil replied, watching with approval as Arilyn drew the sword and studied it with new interest, her momentary fear of the blade forgotten. "No two moonblades are alike."
She glanced up. "There are more of them?"
"Yes, but they are quite rare. Each blade has a unique and complex history, for the sword's magic develops and grows as each wielder invests their moonblade with a new power."
Excitement lit the half-elf's face. "So I can add a new magic power to the sword, too? Whatever I like?"
"I'm afraid not," Kymil said, pointing to the oval indentation beneath the blade's grip. "Your sword lacks the enspelled moonstone that acts as a conduit between wielder and weapon. All magical powers come from the wielder, pass through the stone, and are eventually absorbed by the sword itself."
"Oh."
The gold elf smiled faintly. "Do not be so disappointed, child. All the established powers of the moonblade are yours to command."
"Like what?" she demanded, intrigued.
Kymil's black eyes drifted shut. He shook his head and breathed a gentle sigh of resignation. "I can see that you will be a demanding pupil," he murmured. "Since you have no one else, I propose to train you myself, if this is what you wish."
Delighted, Arilyn blurted out, "Oh, yes!" The next instant her face fell. "But how? The Academy of Arms won't accept me."
"Nonsense." Suddenly brisk in manner, Kymil waved away that barrier with a flick of one long-fingered hand. "You already show more skill and promise than many of their finest students. The humans, in particular, are at best capable of learning no more than the rudiments of the fighting arts. It would be a welcome change to have a worthy student. And Z'beryl's daughter . . ." The elf's voice trailed off as he considered the possibilities.
Not completely reassured, Arilyn regarded the much-scuffed toe of her boot. "It will be several years before I reach the age when half-elves can be accepted—"
"That will not be an issue," Kymil broke in, and his tone indicated that the matter was settled. "You are an etriel under my tutelage. That is all the academy will require."
Arilyn's head snapped up in surprise. Her eyes widened with awe at what Kymil had said and what the statement had implied. Then her shoulders squared, and with a quick decisive move she sheathed her magic weapon. She was no longer a half-elven orphan, child of an unknown father. She was an etriel, a noble elf-sister. Kymil Nimesin had said so.
"Very well, then," Kymil concluded brusquely, "it's settled. You need only take the pledge of apprenticeship. Draw your sword, if you will, and repeat after me the words I speak."
Overwhelmed but excited, Arilyn drew the moonblade. On a sudden whim, she stepped to one side of the statue and there sank to her knees; she would take this pledge at the foot of the elven goddess, as befitted an etriel. Grasping the moonblade with both hands, she extended the sword before her and raised her eyes to the master, waiting expectantly for the words of the pledge.
Kymil's only response was a sharp intake of breath. Filled with uncertainty, Arilyn rose to her feet, but the gold elf withdrew from her, his eyes locked on her moonblade.
Arilyn looked down. In her hands, the sword was beginning to glow with a faint blue light. The light grew brighter until, like a live thing, it wandered from the sword, touching the mists and setting them swirling, wraithlike, around the elves. As the stunned pair watched, the seeking mists turned here and there as if confused. The mists finally reached the statue, bringing an azure blush to the face of the goddess.
In the back of her mind, Arilyn began to separate a distinct note from the jangle of her emotions. Whether it felt more like cold energy or the presence of some strange entity she could not say, but it was a force that was both inside her and around her. The force grew until the garden shone blue with its light and her senses hummed with its power. Was this what magic felt like? It was frightening and foreign, yet it was as much a part of her as her sword arm. Shaken, Arilyn threw down the blade.
Instantly the garden was slammed into darkness, a darkness relieved only by the mist-veiled moon and the rapidly fading glow of the moonblade. "What was that?" Arilyn asked in an awed whisper. "Where did it go?"
Kymil returned to her side. "I do not know," he admitted. "There is much mystery about the moonblade."
Arilyn reached up with tentative fingers to touch the stone hand that lay over the goddess's heart. It seemed to her that a bit of the blue light lingered there.
"Come now," admonished Kymil, and his brisk tone banished the sense of awe that held Arilyn in thrall. "Do not let this incident frighten or distract you. I'm sure an explanation will come to both of us in due time. We will discover the moonblade's abilities together. You have talent and an extraordinary inheritance; I can give you skills and a worthy cause. Now, shall we proceed with the oath?"
To have Kymil Nimesin as teacher and mentor! Arilyn nodded eagerly took up her sword once more. The light in Arilyn's blue eyes outshone that of the fading moonblade as she repeated the words of the ritual.

Two

"Oh, this is rich! This is one for my memoirs, that's sure and certain. The Harpers' pet assassin, coming to we for advice!" The old man cackled with delight, clinging to the edge of his writing table as he rocked back and forth in his chair, caught up in a delirium of wheezing mirth.
His enjoyment of the situation did not at all endear him to his visitor. Hands clenched at her side, Arilyn Moonblade gritted her teeth and waited for the retired Zhentarim agent to have done with his amusement. In her opinion, any encounter with the Zhentarim should be handled with a sword, not with diplomacy and bargaining. The Dark Network was devoted to the gods of evil as well as to the individual and collective greed of its members, and this man was a particularly unsavory specimen. The moonblade at Arilyn's side fairly hummed with silent indignation, echoing her opinion precisely. Besides, the man's taunt had struck her a little too close to home.
The half-elven adventurer had little choice but to endure the cackling fool, since he possessed information that she was unlikely to get elsewhere. She waited calmly, eyeing the old man with a well-concealed revulsion. His wrinkled skin had an unhealthy grayish hue, and his gaunt limbs and bloated belly made him look very like an oversized spider. He was spiderlike in character, as well, and every time Arilyn looked at him, she was surprised anew to see that he did not possess the standard-issue eight legs of his kind. His lair was an appropriate setting, a low-beamed dark room over a tavern, festooned by dust webs and enlivened only by the dim light of a lantern and the rising odor of dinner cooking—liver and onions would be Arilyn's guess. Where the man spent his ill-gotten wealth was immediately apparent; he had literary pretensions and was engaged in writing a massive tome. Piles of expensive parchment littered his writing table, which shook under the assault of his laughter.
Finally the old man wound down to a chuckle and wiped his streaming eyes. Still beaming, he motioned to the chair next to his writing table. "Sit down, sit down. Make yourself comfortable, and let's talk shop."
Arilyn resented his cozy inference. The man had also been an assassin in his day, but she had nothing in common with this vile human. She perched on the edge of the offered chair and said in a formal tone, "You've received our communications, and I trust you understand the situation."
"More or less." The man raised one shaggy eyebrow. "Seems like a lot of trouble to go through for a bunch of religious trinkets."
"Priceless artifacts, sacred to the goddess Sune," she corrected.
"Suddenly the Harpers are overcome with devotion to the goddess of beauty, eh? When did this come about?"
"The artifacts were stolen from an envoy of Sune's church, and the clerics with him were murdered."
"So? These things happen." The man shrugged.
His attitude raised Arilyn's ready temper to dangerously near its boiling point. She had been in the search party that had discovered the twisted bodies, and the memory banished her halfhearted commitment to diplomacy. "Of course, the loss of innocent lives is a trivial matter," she said with venomous irony, "but the Church of Sune would very much like to get the artifacts back."
"Innocent lives or not, this isn't the type of pie Harpers generally poke their fingers into," the Zhentishman pointed out with sarcasm of his own. "Recovering stolen property? Come on, now. It's not lofty enough by half."
That much was true, Arilyn agreed silently. The Harpers sponsored noble causes seemingly at random, chosen through some mysterious process to which Arilyn was not privy. This time, however, she knew exactly what the Harpers' purpose was. The previous year, the kingdoms of the Heartlands had united in a crusade to stop a barbarian invasion. This crusade, although successful, had left the Heartlands politically unsettled and had, ironically, strengthened the position of the Zhentarim stationed at Darkhold, their mountain fortress. To these issues the Harpers now addressed themselves.
"As you no doubt know, the Zhentarim has a one-year treaty with the local government. The year's almost up, but for a time Darkhold's raiding parties can strike without fear of harassment or reprisal. Fortunately," Arilyn said wryly, "the Harpers don't answer to the local government. The Church of Sune has no recourse through the usual channels, so like many other victims of the raids, they turned to the Harpers for help."
The old Zhentishman grinned and leaned back in his chair. He tapped out a jaunty rhythm on his table with knotted, ink-stained fingers. "Of course. So the Harpers are sending a highly skilled assassin to infiltrate Darkhold, politely ask for Sune's property back, stay to share afternoon tea with the locals, and sneak back out. That sound about right?"
"I generally don't drink tea," Arilyn said with a touch of grim humor, "but you've got the basic idea."
"Aha. Now that the formalities are out of the way, why don't you tell me what you're really planning."
"To retrieve the stolen artifacts."
Another rheumy chuckle grated from the old man. "Stubborn wench, aren't you? All right, we'll play it your way. What unlucky bastard has these artifacts?"
Arilyn hesitated for a long moment before answering. There were rumors of bad blood between this man and the person she sought, and she'd been advised that this informant would relish an opportunity to even the score. Selling out a former comrade was inconceivable to her, yet she knew that it was a fairly routine practice among the Zhentarim. Indeed, the man before her looked as though he would gladly sell his own mother to an Ulgarthian harem.
"Well?" he prompted.
"Cherbill Nimmt," she said grudgingly.
The Zhentishman let out a slow whistle. "Now I'm beginning to see what's what. We used to run together some, Nimmt and me, when he was just starting out. If ever a man needed killing, it's him. Nasty piece of work. And coming from me, that's saying something," he noted with a perverse pride. The old assassin reflected for a moment on the pleasant prospect of his former friend's death before he concluded with a touch of regret, "Still and all, I don't suppose killing Nimmt's worth dying over."
"I don't intend to do either. I have been instructed to barter with him for the stolen items, no more."
The sarcastic look that the man threw Arilyn clearly stated that he didn't consider her denial worthy of comment. "Clerics of Sune are chosen for their beauty, aren't they? I imagine Nimmt and his men had a good time before they wiped out the envoy." A nostalgic look oozed onto the man's face. "Nimmt could be good company on a raid. I remember the time we—"
Arilyn raised her hand, cutting the man off before he could journey too deeply into the swamp of his memories. "You were about to sell me some information about the fortress."
"For the right price, I'll sell anything."
Arilyn took the cue. She produced a bag of gold from the folds of her cloak and tossed it to him. The informant caught the bag with amazing dexterity and hefted it in a practiced hand. "This is about half the agreed-upon price," he noted.
"It's exactly half," she told him. "You'll get the rest upon my safe return."
"Safe," he repeated with scathing emphasis. "Sneaking into Darkhold and facing down a man like Nimmt is no way to insure your old age. No, I want the rest of the gold upon the conclusion of your mission, whether you're dead or alive."
"If I agree, what will stop you from contacting your old friends at Darkhold?" Arilyn shook her head. "No, the original deal stands. I risk my life on your information, and you risk half your fee on my chance of success."
The old Zhentish assassin considered this, then shrugged. "All right. There's not much call for this information, so I might as well take what I can get for it. Let's get down to work." He fumbled through a stack of papers on his desk and drew out several hand-drawn maps.
Maps! Arilyn leaned closer for a better look, taking care to keep her face impassive. Any sign of excitement would surely raise the man's price. She had not expected to find maps of the fortress. Her secret elation mounted as the man talked. She could see why he commanded such enormous fees. Carefully and in great detail he discussed the layout of the fortress, outlined its defenses, discussed the habits and the timetables of the various factions and leaders. As he talked, Arilyn began to formulate a plan. After an hour with the old man, all that remained to her was figuring a way into the keep's parameters.
As if he read her mind, the informant stopped talking and looked up at her. "Here's your first big problem," he said, tracing a broad oval around the edge of the map with one gnarled finger. "This line here represents the cliffs that surround the Vale of Darkhold. Solid granite, anywhere from sixty to one hundred feet high, and sheer as a city wall. Not an easy climb. To make it worse, slaves keep the cliffs completely clear of bushes, grass, you name it. There's no cover at all.
"Now this," he continued, pointing to a straight line at the western end of the cliffs, "is the perimeter wall, and this mark here is the gate. It's the only safe way into the valley, but don't even bother thinking about it. It's too well-guarded. No one comes over or through that wall unless Sememmon, Master of Darkhold, wants them to. Got that?" He looked at her expectantly.
Arilyn nodded. "Go on."
"The fortress itself sits in the middle of this valley. Nothing much on the valley floor except a few acres of trees over here. There's a stream, but it's full of rocks and none too deep. Can't swim up without getting shredded or spotted. It's not going to be easy to sneak up to the castle." He paused to let his words sink in, then added slyly, "As it turns out, though, I have just the thing. For the right price, of course."
Without waiting for her reply, he hauled himself out of his chair and hunched over a brass-banded chest. He flipped open the lid and, after a few moments of rummaging, he pulled out a glittering black cape. Arilyn caught her breath. It was a piwafwi, a magic cape of invisibility created by the evil drow elves. How did this man get hold of such a rare and ferociously guarded treasure?
"Nice, isn't it?" he said, turning the cape this way and that to catch and reflect the dim lamplight. "Wear this, and you'll have clear sailing right up to the fortress."
"Isn't Darkhold protected by spells that alert the guards to such magic?" she hedged, eyeing the dark cape with a mixture of fascination and repugnance.
The old assassin resumed his seat, draping the cape over his lap. "They have some wards, but nothing that'll spot this. Lord Sememmon doesn't expect any trouble from the drow. This beauty here will get you into the fortress." He smiled evilly. "It got the original owner in, right enough. A drow female. The cape's magic doesn't seem to work inside Darkhold, though. I caught her sneaking around in the arsenal. Whether she was a spy or a thief I didn't bother to ask, but I kept her around for a bit. Hard to kill, those drow. I like an elf, now and then, and this one had real spice to her."
He paused, reflected, then reached across the table for his lantern and turned up the flame to get a better look at his visitor. Twenty five years of adventuring lay lightly upon the half-elven woman, and her lack of battle scars gave testament to her uncanny skill with a sword. Arilyn Moonblade possessed the fresh beauty of a woman still south of her twentieth winter, but the informant knew her age to be almost twice that. Her angular elven features were softened by her human blood, and her slender form looked deceptively fragile. Delicate and deadly, she was; a combination that would make her a favorite in any brothel in Faerun. His familiarity with such establishments lent authority to his judgment. Old as he was, his gaze swept over Arilyn and took in every detail with lascivious precision.
"Hmmm. You're a gray, aren't you?" he asked, noting that her pale, almost white skin was touched with blue along her high sharp cheekbones and pointed ears.
"I am a moon elf, yes," Arilyn corrected.
'Gray elf' was a derogatory term when used by a human or a dwarf, and a deadly insult from the lips of another elf. Oblivious to the slight he had just given her, the man continued to examine Arilyn. "A half-gray at that. Oh, well. Half an elf is better than none, I always say," he noted with a leer. "After we're done here, maybe you'd like to—"
"No," Arilyn said quickly. The lecherous expression on the man's loathsome face raised her bile. After his comment about her lineage, she wouldn't have had anything do to with him even if he'd been as handsome and virtuous as the elflord Erlan Duirsar.
"Your loss." He shrugged, then held up the piwafwi again. "Do you want the cape, or not?"
Arilyn hesitated. She had assumed many identities in her career, and on one occasion she'd had to disguise herself as a dark elf to join a renegade band of drow mercenaries. It was not a pleasant memory. The drow, if possible, were worse than the Zhentarim. Once the assignment was over, it had taken her hours to wash the ebony stain from her skin and days to banish the pervasive sense of evil from her soul.
"Squeamish?" he taunted.
"Not really. I'm just wondering how you can part with such a sentimental token," she said coldly.
The Zhentishman responded with a grin. "Why not? I've got some real interesting battle scars to remember her by."
"Ten gold pieces for the cape?" Arilyn asked, cutting off the old man before he could regale her with more of his vile anecdotes. The mention of money brought him right around.
"Ten? Huh! Not likely. Twenty pieces, and make it platinum."
"Five platinum," Arilyn counteroffered.
"Ten."
"Done." The money and the cape changed hands, and Arilyn quickly tucked the garment into her bag before the lantern's light could further erode it. She noted that the piwafwi's luster had already dimmed in the short time it had been out of the dark trunk. The cape would probably disintegrate completely with the coming of dawn, and its magic had waned long before the death of the dark elf who once wore it. Arilyn had learned that drow magical items faded outside of the Underdark, their subterranean world. She suspected that the informant knew this as well, judging from his small sly smile as he pocketed the ten platinum coins. He looked immensely pleased with himself, probably picturing the look her face would likely hold when the expensive cape dissolved into gray smoke.
Arilyn intentionally allowed the old man this small triumph. He took pride in the quality of the information he sold, but he also felt a compulsion to cheat his clients.
"By the way," he said expansively, "how do you plan to get into the fortress?" Arilyn raised a skeptical eyebrow, and he cackled again and waved a wizened hand. "You're right, you're right. If I were you, I wouldn't tell me, either. I suppose that concludes our business, unless, of course . . ." He let his words trail off suggestively.
Arilyn ignored him and pointed to one of the maps. "I need more information about this area. Can you list all the ways out of the basement level?"
"Sure, but why bother? I doubt you'll get that far."
Arilyn held her temper with difficulty. "Any secret doors? Passages? Or do I have to swim out through the midden?"
The Zhentishman scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Now that you mention it, I believe there is something that could be of use. It will cost you extra, of course." He picked up a pile of parchment and rifled through it until something caught his eye. He scanned a few pages of his manuscript, then nodded in satisfaction. "Ah, good. Very few people know about this door. I'd almost forgotten about it, myself."
"Well?"
He handed her a page of manuscript, and after she'd scanned it they discussed the escape route in detail. When she was satisfied, she handed him a few more coins and stood to leave. "Remember, you won't get the second half of your original fee until I return from Darkhold. Are you still confident of your advice?"
"I'll stand by my information," he proclaimed stoutly. He gave his last word a slight emphasis, barely stifling a grin as he glanced at the bag holding the doomed piwafwi.
He believes he's bested me, Arilyn noted, though she was pleased with that. Such a belief would enable him to save face in the light of her next move. She drew a rolled parchment from her belt and tossed it onto the table. "This is a letter describing our deal. My associates hold copies. If you sell me out, you die."
The Zhentishman laughed, albeit uneasily. "Harpers don't work that way."
Arilyn placed both hands on the writing table and leaned forward. "Remember, I'm not really a Harper," she said.
The threat was a bluff, but the old man appeared to give her words serious consideration. He picked up the bag of gold again, balancing it in his hand as if he were weighing the risk along with the promise of future payment.
In truth, Arilyn was an independent adventurer. She had been an oft-used agent for the Harpers for several years, but she had never been invited to join the Harpers' ranks. Many of her assignments came to her secondhand, through her mentor, Kymil Nimesin, for there were those in the secret organization who looked askance at the half-elf and her deadly reputation. As both Harper-friend and assassin she was an odd hybrid, but in encounters like the one in which she was presently involved, the combination gave her an edge. The informant eyed her warily, completely convinced that she would carry out her threat against him.
Finally he glanced again at the bag holding the drow cape, and broke into a grin. "Half-elf, half-Harper, eh? Nice title for a chapter of my memoirs."
The comment stung Arilyn, even coming from such as he. "If you keep our bargain, you just might live long enough to finish that chapter," she said. Not wanting to cast any shadow upon the Harpers, she clarified her original threat. "If I die through my own error, you merely lose your fee. If I am betrayed, copies of the letter will be sent to Cherbill Nimmt as well as the elven mage who rules as Darkhold's second-in-command. I understand that Lady Ashemmi is no friend of yours, and I imagine that neither she nor Nimmt will be amused to learn of this transaction."
The informant shook his head and wheezed out another chuckle. "Not bad, not bad," he admitted. "With a mind like that, you might just make it through Darkhold after all. I must say it's refreshing to see the Harpers develop a devious streak."
"The cause is the Harpers', but my methods are my own," Arilyn said firmly.
"Whatever." He waved a hand in dismissal. "Don't worry about the information I gave you. It's good. Go along, and have fun infiltrating the fortress."
Since Arilyn could think of no appropriate response, she gathered up the maps and with a deep sense of relief left the old Zhentish spider alone in his lair.
The informant gazed after her for a long silent moment. "Half-elf, half-Harper," he murmured into the empty room, enjoying the sound of his phrase. He nibbled reflectively on a hangnail for several moments, then with a flourish he drew his quill from the ink pot and began to write. This would be one of the finest chapters in his memoirs, even if he did have to improvise a bit to come up with a satisfying ending.
Deep into the night the old man wrote, caught up in his own salacious imaginings. His lantern ran out of oil, but he lit the first of many candles and kept writing. It was nearly daybreak when his door swung open, noiselessly and unexpectedly. He looked up, startled, then his face relaxed into a leer. He lay down his quill and flexed his stiff fingers in anticipation.
"Welcome, welcome," he said to the approaching figure. "Changed your mind, I suppose? Well, that's fine. Come right on over to old Sratish, and I'll—"
The old man's invitation ended in a strangled gulp as two slender feminine hands closed around his neck. Frantically he tried to pry the hands loose, but his attacker was inhumanly strong. He threw himself back and forth, but the intruder hung on, her grip tightening. Within moments the informant's rheumy eyes bulged, and his mouth opened and closed like that of a fish gasping on the sand. Finally his spidery body slumped, lifeless, onto piles of parchment.
The intruder casually pushed the body to the floor and sat down at the writing table. She picked up the smudged page, quickly scanning the still-damp writing by the light of a single, rapidly diminishing candle. Quiet as a shadow, she rose and carried the candle and several pages of parchment to the room's fireplace. The manuscript fluttered onto the hearth, and she stooped and held out the stub of burning candle. The edges of one page turned brown, then curled in upon itself as the flame caught and spread. The shadowy figure stood and watched as the final chapter of the old man's memoirs turned to ash.

Three

The merchant caravan made camp for the night, but underlying the usual bustle of activity was a deep spirit of unease. On route from Waterdeep to Cormyr, the caravan was camping in the shadow of Darkhold.
It was not unheard of for lawful merchant trains to stop at the Zhentarim stronghold; after all, business was business. Openly trading with the Dark Network was vastly preferable to defending a caravan against it. Since raiding was a random business and supplies had to be maintained, the outpost fortress routinely traded for whatever items they could not steal.
The merchants had been given every assurance of safety and fair trade, but no one in the caravan would rest easily that night. Peace of mind was impossible; surrounded on all sides by sheer rock cliffs and a heavily fortified wall, they were effectively trapped inside the Vale of Darkhold with the thousand or so members of the Zhentarim-sponsored contingent. The caravan's watch had been tripled, but so apparently had the guard on the perimeter wall above them.
Members of the merchant caravan who did not draw watch also stayed awake long into the night. Tensions were channeled into games of chance, hard drinking punctuated by loudly told tales of bravado, and furtive, frantic trysts.
In a small tent at the very edge of the camp, a lone figure waited impatiently for the others to sleep. Hours of noisy revelry passed, and after a time she could delay no longer. Arilyn Moonblade gathered her supplies and slipped away into the night.
Years of practice and an innate elven grace enabled Arilyn to move without sound, and the moonless night cloaked her in darkness. The half-elf slowly made her way toward the fortress, using the route she had painstakingly mapped. Except for a few acres of trees, the valley floor had little natural cover. Arilyn used whatever was available, darting between heaps of boulders and crawling through scrubby brush. Finally she reached the copse of trees just west of the Postern Gate Tower. Before her lay a moat, and beyond that the massive outer wall of the fortress.
The old Zhentish informant had told her most emphatically that she should not attempt to swim the moat. It was full of dangerous creatures, including small fish with razor-sharp teeth. A school of these fish could strip the flesh from a horse in a matter of minutes. Across the deceptively still waters of the moat, the fortress loomed against the starless night, its black towers thrusting upward. Crouched in the shadow of the trees, Arilyn took several items from her bag and prepared to enter Darkhold.
Several weeks of hectic planning had gone into this assignment. By now Arilyn knew so much about the fortress that she felt somehow sullied by the knowledge. Built by evil giants centuries before, the castle had in turn housed dragons and an undead mage before being conquered and inhabited by the Zhentarim. Evil seemed to permeate the very structure, as if it had been mixed into the mortar.
Arilyn assembled a small crossbow, then fitted to it a most unusual arrow. Specially designed for this assignment, the arrow was very much like a child's toy, ending in a cup rather than a point. Filling the cup was spider-sap, a powerful adhesive alchemically derived from the coating of giant spider webs. She took careful aim at the Visitors' Tower. Her arrow flew, trailing behind it a length of gossamer rope, and found its mark just below the roof of the tower. Arilyn pulled hard on the rope, a lightweight but unbreakable cord spun from silk. Satisfied that it would hold, she swung over the moat, released the rope, and landed lightly at the base of the wall.
The Visitors' Tower was part of the outer wall and often was used, as it was tonight, to house guests considered too dangerous to allow in the castle proper. There were guards, of course, but they were stationed inside the fortress and were concerned with monitoring the visitors' passage between the tower and the courtyard. Arilyn again grasped the rope and began to climb the tower, hauling herself up hand over hand.
Near the third and top level of the tower was her goal: a window covered with rusted iron bars. Arilyn reached it, pulled herself up onto the stone sill, and took out a small flask. Working carefully, she daubed a bit of distilled black dragon venom on the tops and bottoms of two of the bars. A faint, corrosive hiss filled the air as the powerful acid ate away the rusted metal. Arilyn wiggled the bars free and carefully wiped the remaining acid from the edges, then she squeezed in through the window. She stuck a bit of acacia tree gum on each end of the bars and replaced them in the window.
As she had anticipated, she was in a narrow corridor that circled the entire tower. This level housed the dining quarters, and at this hour the only sounds were a few random clangs from the kitchen. With a shudder of distaste, Arilyn shrugged on her disguise: the dark purple clerical robes belonging to devotees of the evil god, Cyric. She pulled up the cowl of the robe to obscure her face and headed for the tower's spiral staircase that led down and out to the courtyard.
According to her maps, the floor below held the visitors' quarters. Arilyn made her way downward as swiftly as she dared, hoping to avoid confrontation with any of her "fellow clerics." Her luck held until she reached the lowest level. A short, stubby man stood at the foot of the stairs, scowling up at her. His purple cowl was thrown back, and on his forehead was painted a dark sun with a glowering skull in the center.
"Simeon! It's about time. Hurry up or we'll miss the procession," he snapped.
Arilyn only nodded, keeping her head low as she motioned for him to proceed her into the courtyard. The cleric's eyes narrowed.
"Simeon?" A note of suspicion had crept into his voice, and one hand inched toward the clerical symbol that rested over his heart. Arilyn recognized the beginning of a spell. She leaped down the last few steps, kicking out with one booted foot.
Her foot connected hard with the man's midsection, and they both fell to the floor in a tangle of purple robes. Arilyn rose to her feet, but the cleric stayed down, bent double and completely winded. She delivered a second well-placed kick to the side of his neck, and the cleric went completely limp.
With a sigh of frustration, Arilyn considered her situation. She could hardly leave the unconscious man there for others to trip over, yet, as he had said, she would be late for the procession if she tarried long. Three wooden doors led out of the stairwell; quickly she cracked one open. Beyond lay a storage chamber filled with large traveling chests. Arilyn slipped inside, and with the tip of a knife she broke open the lock on the nearest chest. It was full of robes, and she tossed some out to make room for the cleric. She returned to the stairwell and, grabbing the fallen man under the arms, dragged him into the storage room. She dumped him into the chest and lowered the heavy lid. Readjusting her cowl low over her face, she returned to the stairwell and opened the door to the courtyard.
The rhythm of a dark and unholy chant greeted her. Just beyond the door, a vast column of priests passed by the tower on their way to the castle's main entrance. Arilyn folded her hands into her sleeves and lowered her head, assuming the posture of a novitiate and falling in behind the chanting, swaying company.
The clerics gathered to celebrate the Sacrifice of Moondark, a ceremony honoring Cyric, God of Death, Destruction, and Assassination. A powerful new deity, Cyric had been an evil and ambitious mortal. He'd received godhood, taking the place of Bane, Bhaal, and Myrkul, three foul gods who were destroyed during the Time of Troubles. Although he was not universally worshiped by the followers of the three defunct gods, Cyric worship was rapidly gaining ground among the Zhentarim and their allied priesthoods. Since Cyric had few supporters outside the Zhentarim, his priests had elected to meet within the protection of Darkhold. A large gathering of such clerics in any other setting would have been about as welcome as a barbarian invasion.
Arilyn had learned of the Moondark Ceremony months earlier, and it provided her the ideal time and method for infiltrating Darkhold. Most people—even the Zhentarim—feared the priesthood of Cyric and tended to give the priests a wide berth.
The half-elf had worn many disguises and she had become reconciled to appearing to be what she was not, but her skin crawled under the dark purple robes of an unholy priesthood. Nevertheless she moved smoothly along with the formation, pretending to join in the chanting that signaled the beginning of the profane service.
Through the front gate they marched, into the vast entrance hall and toward an ancient shrine. Caught up in the chant and overawed by their first glimpse of the famous temple, the clerics did not notice that one figure broke away from the formation and slipped toward the basement stairway.

* * * * *

Captain Cherbill Nimmt considered himself a reasonable man, but there were limits to his patience. "You came here expecting to just walk away with this treasure?" he growled, brandishing the large leather sack he clutched in one fist.
The "priest" raised an eyebrow, a gesture that was barely perceptible under the deep cowl of the dark purple robe. "Hardly. You set a price on these items; I agreed to meet it," Arilyn said in a husky whisper, doing her best to make herself sound like a young man. She reached into a pocket of her robe for a small bag, which she tossed onto the stone floor.
It landed in front of Cherbill Nimmt with a satisfying chink, and he licked his lips in anticipation of his long-awaited reward. Several months earlier he had been heading a patrol in the Sunrise Mountains north of Darkhold when he'd acquired the goods he now hoped to sell: sacred vessels encrusted with gems, a perfect rose that could not die, and a crystal figurine that greeted every dawn with songs of praise to Sune, goddess of beauty. The last item was, to say the least, a damned nuisance.
"That's filled with gold coins, I hope," Cherbill said. He nudged the sack with his foot and let out a studied yawn of boredom.
"Better," Arilyn answered. "The bag is half full of gold coins, half of Dragonsmere amber."
Surprise and greed washed over the soldier's florid face. He snatched up the bag and dumped the contents onto a large wooden packing crate. Bright coins skittered across the wood, some spilling unheeded onto the floor of the basement chamber. Cherbill dropped the sack of artifacts and gathered up the five pieces of amber, cradling them in his meaty fingers. They were large pieces, the rare dark color of sandflower honey, and artfully cut. Alone, each piece would ransom a Cormyrian lord.
Cherbill slipped the gems into his pocket and stooped to pick up the leather sack that lay beside him. A crafty smile split the soldier's face, and he jerked his head toward the heavy oak door. "Thank you very much. Now get out," he ordered.
"Not until I get what I came for."
"Like all priests, you're a fool," Cherbill said scornfully. "You should have gone when I gave you the chance. What's to stop me from killing you and keeping everything?"
Arilyn reached into a slit in the side of her purple robe and drew out the moonblade. "This?"
A hoot of derisive laughter broke from the man, and his own sword hissed from its scabbard. Wearing a confident sneer, he attacked.
Arilyn sidestepped Cherbill's lunge with contemptuous ease and parried the next several attacks. The soldier changed his strategy. At least five inches taller and one hundred pounds heavier than his opponent, Cherbill tried to overwhelm his slender foe with sheer physical strength. His heaviest blows were turned aside, and soon the soldier's face began to betray exhaustion as well as the first icy touches of doubt.
"Who are you?" he gasped.
"Arilyn Moonblade," the half-elf declared firmly, abandoning the dry whisper of the cleric for her own clear, resonant alto. She pushed back the purple cowl and let Cherbill Nimmt see the battle gleam in her elven eyes.
"I was sent to recover the stolen artifacts. I was to barter for them," she said in a contemptuous voice. "Or do you prefer battle?" Using the two-handed grip that five years of study at the Academy of Arms had not changed, Arilyn raised the moonblade in challenge.
Cherbill seemed to recognize the name. He gulped audibly and let his sword clatter to the floor. "I have no interest in dying." He held up his hands in surrender, then nodded at the bag of artifacts. "Take what you came for and leave."
Arilyn studied him for a moment, her expression dubious. Honor prevented her from attacking an unarmed man, but neither did she trust him to let her go.
"Go ahead," he urged.
She slid her sword into its scabbard, then turned to pick up the bag. Cherbill Nimmt apparently did not know about an elf's peripheral vision, for he grinned in triumph and pulled a long, slender dagger from his belt. His expression said clearer than words that, yes, perhaps the stupid elf-wench could fight, but she was still no match for him. He lunged for her back.
Arilyn whirled and knocked the dagger out of Cherbill's hand in a lightning-quick movement. His jaw hung slack for an astonished moment, then firmed as he closed his eyes and prepared himself to receive the killing stroke.
"Arm yourself."
Her command stunned Cherbill into compliance. He stooped to retrieve his sword, then faced her warily.
"Why?" he asked simply. "If you're going to kill me, why not have done with it?"
"Why not indeed?" Arilyn said dryly. For a moment she wished that the Harpers were not quite so picky about certain matters. As her Zhentish informer had observed, if ever a man needed killing, it was this one. The Harpers were willing to discount her past adventures, but they'd made it clear that assassins—however noble their causes or honorable their methods—were frowned upon. For the most part, Arilyn honored the Harpers' wishes, but at the moment she did not regret that circumstances had again cast her in the role of honorable assassin.
"I did not choose to fight this battle," she told him. "But know this, Cherbill Nimmt of Darkhold: I intend to kill you in honor-bound combat. It is more than you deserve." She raised her sword to her forehead in a gesture of challenge.
Her words held the chilling quality of ritual. Trying to summon a defiant sneer, the soldier returned the salute and assumed a defensive position.
Her first attack was low. Cherbill parried it easily, and his confident grin returned. He beat at her blade, trying to back her against the wall, but Arilyn held her ground and turned aside his blows.
So intent was the soldier upon the battle that he did not see the faint blue light lining his opponent's sword. Arilyn, however, recognized the moonblade's danger warning and knew that she must end the fight. With her next stroke the sword opened Cherbill Nimmt's throat, and the man fell heavily to the floor.
Arilyn cleaned the glowing moonblade on the empty money sack, then sheathed it. Looking down at the dead soldier, she shook her head and muttered, "That's the way it should have been handled in the first place."
Her keen ears caught the ominous chink of armor in the hallway. Moving swiftly, Arilyn gathered up the fallen coins and retrieved the gemstones from the dead man's pockets. It did not occur to her to steal the money and jewels; since they were not needed to complete the deal, she would simply return them to the priesthood of Sune. Tying the heavy sack of magical items around her waist, she began to search for the secret door.
She and Cherbill Nimmt had agreed in advance to meet in this small storage chamber in the most remote corner of Darkhold's basement. Arilyn had suggested it because it boasted the little-known escape tunnel revealed to her by the retired Zhentish soldier. Cherbill had agreed to the location because it was as far from the guard post as possible.
"Over there! I heard something over this way," a guttural voice called. The heavy footsteps—ten men, Arilyn guessed—were very close.
Although Arilyn was half-elven, she had in full measure the elven ability to locate hidden doors. A faint outline surrounded several of the large moldy stones that formed the chamber wall. Falling to her knees, Arilyn ran her fingers around the irregularly shaped door. She found a minuscule latch in the cranny of a rock and pressed it. The door slid open.
Arilyn slipped into the darkness of the tunnel, pushing the stone door back into place. Behind her, she heard the puzzled oaths of the guard as they burst into the room and stumbled upon the body of Cherbill Nimmt. Turning her back on Darkhold, Arilyn started down the tunnel.
For several hundred feet, the grade sloped sharply down. It became so dark that even Arilyn's exceptional night vision could not penetrate the gloom. Aware that her infravision could discern only heat patterns, not the strange traps that her informant had promised, she reluctantly removed a small torch from her belt and struck tinder to it. As she'd expected, a flurry of tiny wings and high-pitched squeaks greeted the light.
"Bats," she muttered, waving the torch around her head to ward off the spooked creatures. Arilyn hated bats, but she would count herself fortunate if they were the only creatures with which she had to contend. The Zhentish informer had gleefully warned her to watch out for carrion crawlers. Twice the length of a man, these monsters looked like overgrown green cutworms. They generally fed upon carrion, but if food were scarce—and in this tunnel it probably would be—the crawler would attack live prey. Its armored body, clawed feet, and poisonous tentacles made it a fearsome foe. Come to think of it, Arilyn thought, bats really weren't all that bad.
She pressed on, brushing aside thick cobwebs as she went. The foul odors of mold and bat droppings surrounded her, and her feet crunched along on a moving carpet of small, hard-shelled creatures. Holding the torch high, Arilyn quickened her pace. She did not care to investigate the floor too closely.
Finally the grade began to slant upward. The tunnel curved sharply to the right, and Arilyn stopped short. Before her was a peculiar, vaguely familiar gate. The gate was shaped like a cone lying on its side with the wide end toward her, formed of many long strips of metal, each of which ended in a sharp point. Arilyn ran an experimental finger over the edge of one strip. When she drew her hand away, her finger dripped blood. So sharp was the edge that the cut had been completely painless.
Tentatively she put a foot on the bottommost strip. It bent under her weight, but sprang back into place the moment she removed her foot. Suddenly Arilyn understood the nature of the gate. It was a one-way door, functioning like one of the lobster traps she'd seen used off the coast of Neverwinter. That would explain why the only creatures in the tunnel were bats and insects. Nothing else could get through that lethal portal.
As she again tested the cone with her foot, Arilyn felt a flash of admiration for the simple effectiveness of the design. It kept intruders out of Darkhold, while providing an escape route for those careful enough to avoid being sliced into strings.
Holding the torch carefully to one side, she stepped into the oversized lobster trap, moving sideways with her feet set apart to depress enough razor-sharp strips to ensure safe passage. The trap bent with her as she inched carefully forward. Finally she ducked her head to avoid the tip of the cone and leaped free. The trap sprang back into place behind her with a vicious metallic snap.
From that point on the tunnel sloped upward. Arilyn encountered two more such gates, then the tunnel ended abruptly with a stone door of massive proportions. From the old informer's maps, Arilyn knew that the tunnel was part of the ancient stone quarry that lay to the southeast of Darkhold. From here giants had mined the original stone for the castle, and a few giants still inhabited parts of the quarry. The door before Arilyn was giant-built and giant-sized, far beyond her strength.
Unconcerned, Arilyn placed her flickering torch into a holder on the wall and ran her fingers over the stone door until she found what she sought. According to her sources, a series of coded runes was carved into the stone, giving the location of the hidden lock. The runes yielded a combination of numbers: four down, two to the right, three down, seven left. Arilyn's nimble fingers found a pattern of tiny holes on the doorjamb. Carefully counting to the correct one, she inserted a long, slender pick. The door swung open with the grating shriek of stone upon stone.
Arilyn stepped out, relieved to feel once again the open sky above her. She blinked several times to help her eyes adjust to the light. Although the night was moonless and overcast, it seemed bright after the blackness of the tunnel. She slipped her pick into a second hidden lock, and the massive door swung shut. So well constructed was the door that it blended perfectly with the rough granite cliffs surrounding the vale. Even with her elven ability to locate hidden doors, Arilyn was not sure she could find it again. With luck, she'd never have to try.
Content with her victory she headed back to her camp. She had no fear of pursuit from within the fortress, for the Zhentarim's mercenaries would surely assume that Cherbill Nimmt had fallen victim to some internal power struggle. It would probably not occur to them to look outside the fortress for the cause of the soldier's death.
Arilyn slipped into her tent shortly before daybreak, undetected by the restless watch. She barely managed to crawl into her bedroll before she fell into a dream-haunted slumber.
In another part of the merchant camp, Rafe Silverspur stirred in his sleep. A half-elven ranger and a fearless adventurer, Rafe had been hired to scout and to help protect the caravan. At his side slept a buxom woman, a smile still lighting her sleeping face and an empty mead jug lying on its side near her bedroll. Despite the prior evening's indulgences, the young ranger slept lightly, and Darkhold's unholy chanting echoed through his dreams.
Rafe muttered in his sleep and turned over. As he did, a slender figure entered the tent, moving silently as a shadow. Removing something from the depths of a dark cloak, the intruder took up the sleeping ranger's left hand, turned it, and pressed the small object into the palm.
A faint hiss filled the tent. Rafe's body stiffened, and his eyes flew open. The ranger's gaze fastened on his assailant. Even through the pain his eyes registered recognition. His lips moved as if to frame a desperate question, but no sound emerged.
The shadowy assailant held Rafe Silverspur fast as his body jerked convulsively. Finally Rafe's eyes rolled upward and he lay still. Amazingly the woman next to him slept undisturbed. Sparing her no more than a glance, the killer raised a hand to the victim's throat seeking a pulse. Satisfied that there was none, the dark figure checked one last detail of its handiwork.
In the palm of the dead ranger's hand, a brand glowed with faint blue light. Worked into the intricate design of the brand was a small harp and a crescent moon.
The symbol of the Harpers.

* * * * *

Night had fallen some time ago, and only the stars and an adventurer's finely honed sense of direction guided the solitary rider toward Evereska. The moon was high when the rider finally paused, dismounting at the bank of the River Reaching.
Arilyn Moonblade would have preferred to keep moving, but there was no question of fording the rapids at night. Since the morning of the previous day, the half-elf had put many miles between herself and the fortress of Darkhold. At this rate she could reach Evereska in a matter of days. In her eagerness to be home, she had pressed both herself and her horse, a gray mare of great speed and stamina, to the border of exhaustion.
Feeling a surge of guilt, Arilyn led her horse to the river for a drink. She spent a long time rubbing down the animal, then tethered it in the best grazing spot she could find.
Once the mare was comfortably settled, Arilyn built a fire and sat crosslegged in front of it. She had ridden like a demon throughout the day, as much to escape her own thoughts as to elude possible pursuit. Now, in the quiet of the starlit night, she could no longer avoid thinking about Rafe Silverspur's death.
After the ranger's body had been discovered, the merchant captain agreed with Arilyn that she and the caravan should part company. Since the half-elf was a known Harper agent, she was considered a target for the mysterious assassin and therefore a risk to the entire company. No one questioned her innocence. She and Rafe had spent much time together during the trip, and it was widely assumed that the two half-elves were lovers.
Sighing, Arilyn poked restlessly at the fire. She had done nothing to squelch those rumors, for they tended to discourage unwanted advances from other members of the merchant caravan. In truth, she and Rafe had shared only friendship. To the solitary half-elf, friendship was a rare gift indeed.
Arilyn glanced down at the only ring on her left hand. It gleamed faintly in the firelight, and she spread her fingers to look at it more closely. It was a simple ring, just a silver band engraved with the unicorn symbol of the goddess Mielikki, patron of rangers. She'd won the ring from Rafe in a game of dice, and she wore it now in his honor. It was symbolic of the friendship they'd shared, a camaraderie born of a shared road and the good-natured competition of a worthy opponent.
Dismayed at the unaccustomed sense of loneliness that plagued her, Arilyn busied herself with the tasks of setting up her simple camp. She unrolled her blanket and spread it before the fire, then took some dried fruit and travel biscuits from her bag and settled down to eat. As much as she disliked cooking, Arilyn usually ended a day of travel with a hot meal. Tonight, cooking for just one person didn't seem worth the trouble.
For almost a quarter of a century Arilyn had walked alone, well aware that an adventurer should have few ties. It had always seemed unfair to her to encourage someone to care, only to expose them to the dangers and potential heartache inherent in the life she had chosen. Even her friendships were few and cautious.
As Arilyn settled into her bedroll, she considered swearing an oath of solitude and chastity at the foot of Hannali Celanil's statue in Evereska. Or would such an oath be an affront to the elven goddess of beauty and romantic love? In her case, Arilyn noted with a wry grimace, the oath would be redundant. Perhaps she had no business at all being a devotee of that particular goddess.
Arilyn rolled over onto her back, lacing her fingers beneath her head as she pondered the matter.
Close relationships of any kind did not come easily to the half-elven. Their life cycles were out of sync with both humans and elves. Arilyn was nearing her fortieth winter. If she were human, she'd be approaching midlife. A moon elf her age would be barely out of childhood. It seemed to Arilyn that she'd spent her life being neither one thing nor the other, and even her alliance with the Harpers bore this out. Her services were valued, but her past as an "honorable assassin" had kept the secret organization from accepting her as a full-fledged member.
It would seem, however, that the Harper Assassin was not concerned with her lack of credentials. For some time Arilyn had suspected that she was a target. Wherever she turned, she felt unseen eyes upon her. She was skilled in tracking, but she had not been able to discern a trace of her foe. The Harper Assassin constantly dogged her path, and for months she had steeled herself for the confrontation that was sure to come.
As time went on, she'd changed her mind about the assassin's purpose. There had been so many deaths, each one coming closer to her. Arilyn had often expected that the assassin was deliberately and cruelly taunting her. The death of her friend Rafe left no doubt in her mind.
Gritting her teeth, Arilyn let out a long, hissing breath. She'd spent her life settling matters with a sword, and she hated to wait for this invisible assassin to play out his hand. Months of enforced inactivity had left her perpetually on edge. Whoever her foe was, he knew her well.
But who could this assassin be? She'd crossed swords with many over the past twenty-five years, and she had made her share of enemies. Those who had openly come out against her were dead, and although Arilyn racked her brain, she could not think of a live adversary who had the wit or skill to carry out such a drawn-out and devious revenge.
The night passed, and the moon sank toward the horizon, yet no answers came to the weary half-elf. In an effort to court sleep, Arilyn edged her thoughts toward more pleasant things. Soon she would reach Evereska, and home. There she could rest. Rest she needed badly, and not just from the rigors of travel. She was truly exhausted from grief, from the knowledge that a shadowy trail of death lay behind her, from the hidden eyes that watched her every move.
Even now she felt them upon her. There was no sound, no shadow, no indication that someone was watching her camp, but Arilyn felt a presence lurking beyond the reach of the campfire's embers. Her eyes flashed to her moonblade that lay beside her like a constant, vigilant companion. It gave her no sign of warning.
Arilyn had learned early in her career that the magic sword could alert her to danger. Working with her teacher, Kymil Nimesin, she had discovered that the moonblade could warn her in three different ways. It glowed with blue light when danger approached, and when danger was close-at-hand it hummed with a silent energy only she could sense. Even as she slept the sword kept guard. Many times she had awakened from a dream about approaching orcs or trolls to find her dream made reality. The dreamwarning was particularly handy, since she so often traveled alone.
Tonight, however, the sword was dark and silent. There was no danger on the riverbanks. Why, then, did she have such a persistent feeling of eyes upon her?

Four

The festival of Higharvestide was the social highlight of the month of Eleint. Known as The Fading, Eleint was nonetheless far from dull. As summer drew to a close and the days grew short and chill, autumn paid its dividend in the form of longer, revel-filled nights. Harvest festivals crowded the calendar; Waterdeep's economy was based on commerce rather than agriculture, but the wealthy Waterdhavians never overlooked any opportunity to throw a party.
They came out in full force, the noble merchants of Waterdeep. The members of the older generation considered the festival serious business. It was a time to assert their position in society, to upstage business competitors, to gather useful information and start potentially beneficial rumors, and to generally move from deal to deal. The younger set merely gathered to enjoy their unearned wealth with smug high spirits.
The joint effort of several noble families, the Higharvestide Ball was always a lavish affair. It was held in the House of Purple Silks, one of the city's largest and finest festhalls. Several hundred guests gathered in the vast main room, which was ablaze with the light of a thousand tiny lanterns that magically changed colors to match the tempo and mood of the dance music. In the center of the marble floor a large circle of dancers moved through the intricate patterns of a rondellere, and as they laughed and spun, their glittering jewels and silks reflected the colorshifting light like a vast kaleidoscope.
Other revelers enjoyed the buffet tables or helped themselves to the trays of delicacies circulated by a small horde of servants. No expense had been spared; tonight everything was of the finest quality available to the City of Splendors. Vases of rare hothouse flowers scented the air. The musicians were among the best in Faerun, and several small concerts were planned for the evening's entertainment. At the moment a consort of viols and woodwinds played for those who wished to dance, but lutanists and harpists were also scattered in remote corners and alcoves to set the proper mood for trysts. One corner of the room—a corner very near a well-stocked bar—echoed with peal after peal of laughter. A merry group had gathered there around Danilo Thann, a favorite with the younger Waterdeep set.
The young man holding court in the center of the circle was dressed to the nines in an outfit designed to enhance his recently acquired image as a far-traveled man. He sported a broad-brimmed hat of green velvet, deliberately styled after the trademark hat of a famous Ruathym pirate, right down to the sweeping plumes. The dandy's soft, slouchy boots were like those favored by Sembian adventurers, but they were made of rare chimera leather, also dyed green. Finely embroidered dragons and griffons cavorted on his shirt of pale green Shou silk. There, however, the world-trotting theme ended. His jade green coat and trousers were of the latest local style, and a velvet cape in a matching shade swept dramatically to the floor. Several rings decorated his gesticulating hands, and a pendant with a large, square-cut emerald gleamed from his chest. Blond hair flowed over his shoulders, framing his animated face with shining, lovingly maintained waves.
Danilo Thann was a devoted dilettante as well as a fashion plate, renowned for his amusing but half-honed talents in music and magic. At the moment, he entertained his friends with a new magic trick.
"Danilo, what ho! The wanderer has returned at last," called a voice behind Danilo, interrupting the would-be mage in mid-spell.
A chorus of cries met the new arrival. Splendidly attired in his family colors of red, silver, and blue, Regnet Amcathra strode into the circle of nobles. He and Danilo clasped hands with the gravity of warriors, then fell laughing into a back-thumping hug.
"By Helm's eyes, you're a welcome sight," swore Regnet heartily when the pair broke apart. A boyhood friend as well as Danilo's competitor in matters of sartorial excess, Regnet scanned the dandy's green ensemble from top to toe and drawled, "But tell me, Danilo, will you turn another color as you ripen?"
The group burst into laughter. Before Danilo could respond in kind, Myrna Callahanter spoke up. "Yes, well, speaking of green, did you hear that our good friend Rhys Brossfeather was spotted entering the Smiling Siren?"
The young nobles joined in a collective smirk. A flighty and casually malicious gossip, Myrna was ever on the alert for an opening, however small, for one of her tattling tales.
"Really? I've heard some wonderful stories about that place," Danilo said, grinning broadly at the thought of the shy young cleric in that notoriously bawdy tavern. "Is the entertainment there every bit as wicked as they say?"
"Well... So I've heard," responded Myrna, eyes demurely downcast.
The group hooted with laughter at her evasion. "Myrna was probably on stage that night," Regnet suggested, bringing about another chorus of mirth.
Not insulted in the least, Lady Callahanter responded with an evil grin that would have shamed a red dragon. She was always delighted to be the center of attention, and with a practiced gesture she reached up to pat her bright red hair. As she did, her outer robe fell conveniently open, revealing a translucent gown and a good deal more. Several jaws fell at the sudden display, and one guest noisily dropped his goblet.
Wearing a droll expression, Danilo leaned closer to Regnet. "Her timing rivals that of a bard, but can she sing?"
"Does it matter?" his crony responded dryly.
As were most of the guests, Myrna Callahanter was dressed to dazzle. Her blue-green gown was almost sheer, with clusters of sequins cleverly located to create an illusion of decency. The dress was cut low enough to reveal a lavish expanse of flesh. Multi-colored glitter had been glued in artful patterns to the skin of her arms, throat, and impressive curves. Even her hair—the raucous scarlet hue of Calimshite henna—was elaborately woven with gems and gilded ribbons. Nothing about Myrna was subtle; she had the reputation of devouring men with the speed and appetite of trolls in a butcher shop.
Making the most of the attention, Myrna heaved a theatrical sigh. Glancing around the circle through lowered lashes, she continued her litany of gossip. "And then there's that terrible scandal involving Jhessoba, the poor dear—"
"Myrna, love, I know rumor-mongering is your family trade, but must you talk shop at a party?"
Again the young nobles grinned in unison. The speaker was Galinda Raventree. She and Myrna were sworn foes, and their catty warfare could always be counted on to liven up things.
This evening, however, Galinda had another motive for curbing Myrna's tongue: Jhessoba's latest misfortune had political implications, which could lead—the gods forbid—to serious debate upon substantive issues. A devoted party-goer, Galinda had seen to catering this affair, and she was determined that it remain appropriately frivolous.
Danilo draped an arm around Myrna's shoulders, coming valiantly to her defense. "Really, Galinda, you must let Myrna talk. After two months with that dreary merchant train, I for one am longing for a bit of local gossip."
He gave Myrna a squeeze of encouragement. "Do go on."
"My hero," the gossip purred. She snuggled a bit closer, and one scarlet-tipped hand snaked up Danilo's chest to toy with his emerald pendant.
Noting the familiar, predatory expression in the noblewoman's eyes, Danilo wisely retreated. His arm came away faintly dusted with glitter, though, and he regarded his defiled garment with dismay. "I say, Myrna, you've got that damnable stuff all over me."
Several women in the group surreptitiously checked their escorts for similar telltale sparkles. Galinda Raventree took note of their suspicious scrutiny, and with great satisfaction she smirked into her wine goblet.
Incapable of being insulted, Myrna draped herself over Danilo again. "Do another trick," she begged him.
"Love to, but I've cast all the spells I've got for the day."
"Oh, no," she cooed, pouting up at him. "Not every one?"
"Well. . ." Danilo hesitated. "I have been working on some interesting spell modifications."
Regnet guffawed. "Another Snilloc's Snowball?"
"Now, there's gratitude for you," Danilo huffed in mock pique. He turned to the group, and with one ringed hand he languidly gestured toward Regnet. "About three months ago our over-dressed friend here managed to insult some very large, very drunk gentlemen in a tavern down in the Dock Ward. A small fight ensued, and of course I leapt to his aid. Using the Snilloc's Snowball spell, I conjured a magic missile—"
"A snowball?" sneered Wardon Agundar. His family dealt in the forging of swords, and he had little regard for lesser weapons.
"Well, not exactly," Danilo confessed. "I tried a variation on the spell and came up with a slightly, um, more exotic weapon."
"Thus creating the spell for Snilloc's Cream Pie," put in Regnet with a broad grin. The nobles shouted with laughter over the image this conjured, and Danilo bowed in acknowledgement.
"My claim to immortality," he replied, laying a hand over his heart and striking a heroic pose.
"What happened?" demanded Myrna breathlessly. "Did you have to fight those men or did the watch step in?"
"Nothing so dramatic as that," admitted Danilo. "We settled our differences like gentlemen. Regnet bought a round of drinks for our erstwhile opponents. Dessert, of course, was on them."
A universal groan greeted Danilo's pun. "You'd better do another trick now, to redeem yourself," Regnet advised.
His friends joined in coaxing Danilo to casting another of his illusions. After modestly disclaiming that he hadn't quite worked all the bugs out of this one, he agreed to try.
"Hmmmm. I'll need something truly vulgar to use as a spell component," Danilo mused. His gaze fastened on Regnet's pendant, a rendering of the Amcathra crest in sparkling red and blue stones. "Oh, I say, Regnet, that will do splendidly."
Regnet pretended to wince at the good-natured insult, but he handed over the bauble. His friend began the spell, chanting the arcane words and gesturing broadly. Finally Danilo tossed the pendant into the air, and the show climaxed in a loud pop and a puff of multi-colored smoke.
When the smoke cleared, the young nobles stared at Regnet in a moment of stunned disbelief. Then their laughter echoed throughout the hall. The spell had turned his colorful finery into the drab brown robes of a druid.
Danilo's eyes widened in mock dismay. He rocked back a pace and folded his arms across his chest. "Hmm. Now, how did that happen?" he murmured, raising one hand to tap reflectively at the highly decorative cleft in his chin.
Regnet's face was a study of astonishment as he regarded his unfashionable ensemble, and his chagrin sent his friends into new peals of mirth. Suddenly the laughter died, and a nervous silence fell over the merry group.
A tall, burly man approached their corner. Unlike most of the party-goers, this man was dressed in solemn black, his only ornaments a silver torque and a cape lined with fine gray fur. His black hair was streaked with gray, and his brow was knit in disapproval.
"Uh-oh," murmured Myrna, her eyes brightening with glee at the thought of impending disaster. Another of their number, a young nobleman deeply into his cups, blanched at the sight of the stern newcomer and edged out of range.
Danilo, however, raised a hand in delighted greeting. "Uncle Khelben! Just the person we need. That last bit of magic went awry. Can you show me where I went wrong?"
"I wouldn't presume," Uncle Khelben said dryly. "It would seem, Danilo, that we need to have another little talk." He took a firm hold of the dandy's glitter-speckled arm and glared around the circle of nobles.
The gay assemblage took the hint and scattered like a flock of startled birds, muttering excuses as they went. This would not be the first time that Khelben "Blackstaff" Arunsun, arch-mage and reputed member of the secret circle that ruled Waterdeep, had chastised his frivolous nephew over the irresponsible use of magic, and Danilo's friends did not care to witness the coming lecture.
"Cowards, all of them," Danilo mused as he watched the rapid retreat of his friends.
"Forget them. We have more important matters to discuss."
Danilo grimaced and captured two goblets of Sparkling Evermead from the tray of a passing waiter. He thrust one of the goblets into his uncle's hand. "Here, take this. I suppose it's safe to assume that you'll be as dry as usual."
Khelben's dour response was drowned out by a delighted squeal.
"Danilo, you're back!" A tipsy young noblewoman, dressed in an incongruous mixture of sheer lace and white furs, launched herself at the green-clad dandy.
Adept at avoiding wine stains on his finery, Danilo held his goblet out at arm's length as he caught the attractive missile in a careful, one-armed embrace. "I've counted the minutes, Sheabba." He smiled into her upturned face.
The blond woman wrapped her arms around his waist and giggled up at him. "Of course you have. I suppose you've been charming all the women from here to Suzail?"
"Fertilizing the fields, more likely," interjected Khelben in a sour tone.
"Bray elsewhere, old donkey," Sheabba snapped. She threw a withering look at the mage, then recoiled in mortification as she realized whom she had insulted.
Danilo noted her dismay and came quickly to her rescue. "You'll be at the festival games tomorrow, Shea, won't you? Oh, marvelous. I'll have to ride in one or two events, but a group of us are getting together at the Broken Lance afterward for drinks. My treat. Meet me there?"
The young woman managed a weak nod of agreement, then she took flight, weaving unsteadily through the crowd.
Danilo sighed noisily and shook his head. "Really, Uncle, the effect you have on women is beyond belief. Don't despair. I've been working on this new spell, don't you know, that might do your social life a world of—Hey, mind the silk!"
Khelben had once again seized Danilo's arm. Ignoring the young man's sputtering protests, the mage drew his nephew out of the room and into a secluded alcove.
Once released, Danilo leaned against a marble bust of Mielikki, Goddess of the Forest, and arranged his cape in artful folds before addressing himself to his glowering uncle. "To what do I owe the honor of this abduction?"
"You've heard about Rafe Silverspur." Khelben was not given to lengthy preambles.
Danilo took a sip of his wine. "No, can't say that I have. What's the good ranger doing these days?"
"Very little. He's dead."
Danilo paled, and a look of remorse washed over Khelben's face. The wizard continued in a gentler tone, "I'm sorry, Danilo. I'd forgotten that Rafe and you had become good friends."
The young man nodded acknowledgement. His face was without expression, but he studied the bubbles in his glass for a long moment before he looked up.
"Branded, I suppose?" Danilo's voice was flat, all hint of the lazy drawl gone.
"Yes."
"Rafe Silverspur," Danilo repeated in a distant voice. "Your death will be avenged, my friend."
The vow was spoken quietly, yet no one could hear it and doubt that it would come to pass. Danilo's voice rang with quiet strength and stubborn resolve. Anyone who saw the young noble at this moment would have had a hard time equating him with the smug dandy known to Waterdeep society. His handsome face was dark with fury as he turned to the mage, but his rage was held in check by a control as remarkable as it was unexpected.
"How did he die?"
"Same as all the others—in his sleep, for all we can tell," Khelben responded. "If a ranger as good as young Silverspur could be taken unaware, it's no wonder the Harpers are running around in circles after this assassin."
"The search, I take it, is not going well."
"No," the mage admitted. "That's where you come in."
Dropping back into his foppish persona, Danilo crossed his arms and quirked one eyebrow. "Somehow I knew you'd get around to saying that."
"Indeed," Khelben agreed dryly, recognizing that his nephew's manner covered strong emotion.
"Naturally, you have a plan," Danilo prompted.
"Yes. I've been following the assassin's route, and a pattern is starting to emerge. It leads here." Khelben reached into a pocket and drew out a pewter-framed miniature.
Danilo accepted the portrait and studied it, then whistled in appreciation. "You did this? By the gods, Uncle, there may yet be some hope for you as an artist."
The young man's teasing brought a faint smile to Khelben's face. "I did not know you were a connoisseur of art."
"Art, no. Women, definitely," Danilo said fervently, his eyes still fixed upon the portrait. The subject was a woman of rare and exceptional beauty. Curly raven-black hair framed the perfect oval face and contrasted with her creamy white skin. Her cheekbones were sharp and high, her features sculpted by a delicate hand. Most extraordinary were her eyes, almond shaped and vividly green. Danilo was highly partial to green.
"Does she really look like this, or did you take artistic license?" Danilo asked.
"She really looks like that," Khelben confirmed. He cocked his head and amended cryptically, "Well, sometimes she looks like that."
Danilo glanced up, his brow furrowed. He shook his head to rid himself of the temptation to pursue the subject and got back to the business at hand. "Besides being the future mother of my children, who is this beauty?"
"The assassin's target."
"Ah. You want me to warn her?"
"No," Khelben continued, "I want you to protect her. And, in a manner of speaking, spy on her. If I'm right, you'll need to do both in order to catch the Harper Assassin."
Danilo sank onto the stone bench beside the statue. The vague, charming smile had disappeared from his face, and once again his tone was grim. "I'm supposed to catch this Harper Assassin, am I? Perhaps you'd better start at the beginning."
"Very well." Khelben seated himself beside his nephew. He stabbed a finger at the portrait that still lay cradled in Danilo's hand. "During most of the assassinations, perhaps all of them, this woman has been near at hand."
"Sounds to me as if you have a suspect, not a target." Danilo's tone was laced with regret as he eyed the portrait.
"No."
"No?" Danilo's tone was both surprised and hopeful.
"No," reiterated Khelben firmly. "And I say this for several reasons. She's a Harper agent. One of the best. In my opinion, the assassin has been after her for some time. When he can't get close enough to strike and still avoid detection, he settles for a less challenging target."
"I'm sorry, but considering some of the Harpers who have fallen to this assassin, I find your theory difficult to swallow," Danilo protested. To support his argument, he ticked off a list on the fingers of one hand. "Sybil Evensong, Kernigan of Soubar, the mage Perendra, Rathan Thorilander, Rafe Silverspur . . ." Danilo's voice trailed off, and he had to clear his throat before he continued. "This woman couldn't be more capable than any of those."
"Yes, she could."
"Really? Hmm. Why does your pretty Harper agent draw this assassin? Apart from the obvious reasons, naturally."
"She has a moonblade," Khelben explained tersely. "It's a magic elven sword, very powerful. It is possible that the assassin, whoever he is, is after Arilyn's sword."
"Arilyn," Danilo repeated the name absently, looking down at the picture once more. "It suits her. Arilyn what?"
"Moonblade. She has taken the sword's name as her own. But we digress."
"Indeed. So, what can this magic sword do?"
Khelben took his time before answering. "I'm not aware of all its powers," he said carefully. "That's where you come in."
"You said that already," Danilo observed.
The mage's face darkened with exasperation. "Apart from you and me, do you see anyone in this room?" he snapped. "There's no need to continue playing the fool."
Danilo smiled apologetically. "Sorry. Habit, you know."
"Yes, well, please attend to the matter at hand. The possibility exists that Arilyn Moonblade has been targeted for her sword as well as her talents. If we find out who has an interest in the moonblade and why, we have a better chance of finding this assassin."
Danilo sat quietly for a long moment. "One question."
"Go ahead."
"Why me?"
"Secrecy is vital. We can't send someone obvious."
"Oh," Danilo crossed one knee over the other and flicked a lock of hair over his shoulder in an exaggerated, effeminate gesture. "Is it my imagination, or was I just insulted?"
Khelben scowled. "Don't belittle yourself, boy. You've proven to be a more than capable agent, and you're perfect for this job."
"Indeed," Danilo agreed wryly. "Protecting a woman who doesn't seem to require my protection."
"There's more. We need information about the moonblade. You have proven to be very successful at separating women from their secrets."
"It's a gift," Danilo modestly agreed. He tapped the portrait and added, "Not that I'm trying to get out of this assignment, mind you, but someone's got to point out the obvious: why don't we just ask her about the sword?"
Khelben faced the young nobleman, his expression grim and earnest. "There's more to this than meets the eye, although an assassin of this skill, systematically wiping out Harpers, is trouble enough. No one must suspect that you work with me—not the assassin, not the other Harpers, and especially not Arilyn."
"Intrigue within the ranks?" Danilo asked mockingly.
"It is possible," Khelben answered cryptically.
"Marvelous," Danilo muttered, looking genuinely appalled by Khelben's unexpected response to his jest. "Even so, I don't see why we need to keep this from Arilyn. If the assassin is after her, shouldn't she be forewarned? Once she knows I've been sent to help her, she may be more prone to work with me."
Khelben snorted. "Far from it. For all her talents, Arilyn Moonblade is one of the most stubborn, hotheaded, and unreasonable persons I've ever met. She wouldn't agree to protection, and she wouldn't take kindly to the notion that she couldn't handle the assassin alone." Khelben paused, and a grimace tugged the corners of his mouth down. "She reminds me of her father, come to think of it."
Danilo regarded the mage with a skeptical expression. "This is all very interesting, but I sense that you're skirting the real issue. It's the sword, isn't it? You know something about it that you're not telling me."
"Yes," Khelben agreed simply.
"Well?" Danilo prompted.
Khelben shook his head. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to trust me. The fewer people who know, the better. I doubt even Arilyn herself knows the full extent of the sword's power. We need to find out what she knows about the sword, and that's—"
"Where I come in," Danilo finished glumly.
"Indeed. You have a knack for getting people to talk. A word of caution, however. Until the assassin is identified and captured, you must never let down your facade."
"Surely, after she becomes accustomed to my presence, she would—"
"No," Khelben broke in. He raised a cautioning finger and paused for emphasis. "There is something you should know. Arilyn Moonblade is very good. She is not easy to follow, yet the assassin keeps cropping up near her. She is obviously being closely observed, probably through magical means. As a charming but ineffectual dandy, you may not seem a threat to whomever is watching Arilyn. If you should ever step out of your role . . ."
"Don't worry," Danilo said with an insouciant shrug. "I always did perform best for an audience."
"I hope so. It could be a long performance. Arilyn is no fool, and you've got to stay with her until she leads you to the Harper Assassin."
An expression of intense distaste crossed the young nobleman's face. "I don't like the idea of using this woman as bait for a trap."
"Neither do I, " growled Khelben. "But can you think of a better alternative?"
"No," Danilo admitted.
"Exactly." Khelben rose abruptly, indicating that the interview was over. "I suggest that you make your apologies to Lady Sheabba. You leave for Evereska in the morning."

Five

The tavern hall of the Halfway Inn was bustling with activity when Arilyn came down from her room. Near the northwestern border of the mountain range that surrounded Evereska, the Halfway Inn was a stopping place for both human and elven trade caravans. There were few inns in the Greycloak Hills, and this one boasted comfortable rooms, vast stables, and warehouses for temporary secure storage of goods. Elves and humans, halflings and dwarves, and an occasional member of one of the other civilized races all commingled in a relaxed, congenial atmosphere.
The Halfway Inn was much more than an inn. Among other things, it was a trading center for the elven colony of Evereska. Set in a valley of fertile farmland and surrounded on all sides by mountains, Evereska was a beautiful and heavily fortified elven city. It was protected by an impressive arsenal of elven magic and military might. The Evereska Valley had been inhabited by elves longer than anyone could reckon, but the city itself was young by elven standards. As was the case with most elven settlements, little was known about Evereska other than its reputation for impregnability and the calibre of elven mages and fighters trained at its College of Magic and Arms. To most of those who traveled through the Greycloak Hills, the Halfway Inn was Evereska. Few persons got any closer to the city.
Myrin Silverspear, the inn's proprietor, was a dour, silent moon elf whose silver eyes missed nothing. He kept his own council better than anyone Arilyn had ever met, and his cozy establishment seemed designed especially with discretion in mind. As a result, the Halfway Inn was ever abuzz with intrigue, dealmaking, and clandestine meetings.
Arilyn always stopped here on her way into Evereska, to receive assignments or to meet contacts. For no reason that she could fathom, Myrin Silverspear had taken a special interest in her and her career. Whenever she stayed at the inn, he looked after her as if she were elven royalty.
As usual, he met her at the foot of the stairs with a low bow. "Your presence honors this house, Arilyn Moonblade. Is there anything that you require this evening, quex etriel?"
As usual, Arilyn winced at the extreme deference of his greeting. "Just to be seen."
"I beg your pardon?"
Arilyn grinned. "Let's just say that I'd like to be seen coming into the inn, but not going out."
"Ah. Of course." As usual, that was explanation enough for the discrete innkeeper. He took her arm and escorted her with grave ceremony to the large bar. She took one of the most conspicuous barstools, and Myrin made a show of going behind the bar and serving her himself.
Arilyn sipped at the elven spirits he'd poured her and fought back a surge of laughter. "Thank you, Myrin. I've definitely been seen."
"Not at all. Anything else?"
"Do I have any messages?"
Myrin produced a small scroll and handed it to her. "This came just this afternoon."
She glanced at the seal, and her mood darkened. With a sigh, she took the scroll from the innkeeper, opened it, and scanned the fine, precise elven runes. Kymil wanted to meet her here, tonight. That would most likely mean that the Harpers had given him another assignment for her, just when she was so looking forward to getting back home to Evereska. Another unconscious sigh escaped her.
"Good news, I trust?"
Arilyn looked up into Myrin's concerned silver eyes. "You might not think so. Kymil Nimesin is meeting me here tonight, at the usual place."
The moon elf received her announcement without blinking. "I'll see that your usual booth is cleared."
"You're a diplomat, Myrin," Arilyn murmured. Little love was lost between the proud innkeeper and the patrician arms-master, but Myrin Silverspear always received Kymil with the utmost courtesy. To Arilyn's puzzlement, Kymil treated the innkeeper with considerably less respect.
"So I have been told," Myrin said. With another bow, he excused himself to see to Arilyn's booth. She went upstairs to get the artifacts she'd retrieved from Darkhold, then returned to the tavern and made her way to the back of the large room where she slipped inside a heavily curtained booth.
Almost immediately tiny motes of light flickered over the bench opposite her. The golden pinpricks broadened, expanded, and finally coalesced into the form of her longtime friend and mentor, Kymil Nimesin.
"Your mode of entering a room never ceases to unnerve me," Arilyn murmured with a smile of welcome for her teacher.
The elf dismissed her comment absently. "A simple matter. Your last venture went well, I trust?"
"If it didn't, I wouldn't be sitting here." She handed him the sack containing the artifacts. "Will you return these to Sune's people and see that our informant gets the rest of his money?"
"Of course." After a brief silence Kymil attended to the amenities. "I heard of Rafe Silverspur's death. A shame. He was a good ranger, and the Harpers' cause will miss him."
"As will I," she replied softly. Kymil's words were a polite formula required by convention; hers revealed genuine emotion. She looked up sharply. "How did you hear about Rafe's death so quickly?"
"I was concerned about you, so I made inquiries."
"Oh?"
Kymil regarded his pupil keenly. "You know, of course, that the assassin was looking for you."
Arilyn stared down at her clenched hands. "I've come to that conclusion, yes," she said evenly. "Now, if you don't mind, could we please speak of other matters? Have you another assignment for me?"
"No, I called the meeting to discuss the assassinations," Kymil said. He leaned forward to emphasize his words. "I'm concerned about your safety, child. You must take steps to protect yourself from this assassin."
Her head jerked up, and anger flooded her face. "What would you have me do? Hide?"
"Far from it," Kymil corrected her sternly. "You must seek out this assassin."
"Many seek him."
"Ah, but perhaps they are looking in the wrong places. As a Harper agent, you can succeed where others fail. In my opinion, the assassin hides within the ranks of the Harpers."
Arilyn drew in a sharp breath. "The assassin, a Harper?" she demanded, incredulous.
"Yes," Kymil noted. "Or a Harper agent."
She considered her teacher's words and nodded slowly. It was an appalling possibility, but it made sense. The Harpers were a confederation of individuals, not a highly structured organization. Harper agents—those like Arilyn who were not official members of the group, but worked on particular assignments—tended to operate alone, and many of the members kept their affiliation secret. It seemed incredible to Arilyn that this veil of secrecy could be turned against the Harpers, cloaking an assassin in their very midst. On the other hand, she had grown to trust Kymil Nimesin's judgment. He had been allied with the Harpers since she was an infant, and if he thought that the Harper Assassin was within the ranks she was inclined to believe him.
Kymil's urgent voice broke into her reflections. "You must find this assassin, and soon. The common people hold Harpers in high regard. If we cannot find and stop the murderer, it will damage the Harpers' honor and reputation."
The gold elf paused. "Have you any idea of the implications of this? Why, the Balance itself could be disrupted! The Harpers serve a vital function in fighting against evil, in particular the encroachments of the Zhentarim—"
"I know what the Harpers stand for," Arilyn said with a touch of impatience. Kymil had lectured her on the need for Balance since she was fifteen, and she knew his arguments by heart. "Have you a plan?"
"Yes. I would suggest that you go among the Harpers, in disguise if necessary, to ferret out the assassin."
Arilyn nodded. "Yes, you might be right." A slight, humorless smile flickered across her face. "At any rate, it is better than doing nothing. Just waiting for the assassin to strike is intolerable. I can't keep at it much longer."
"Why is it that you seem so unnerved by this threat? Your life has been in danger many times." Kymil paused and eyed her keenly. "Or is there something else?"
"There is," she admitted reluctantly. "For some time now—several months, actually—I've had the sense that I'm being followed. Try as I might, I can find no trace of pursuit."
"Yes?"
She'd expected him to reproach her, or at least to question her regarding her inability to lay hands upon her shadowy pursuer. "You don't seem surprised by this," she ventured.
"Many Harpers are highly accomplished rangers and trackers," Kymil responded evenly. "It's not inconceivable that this assassin, especially if he or she is from the Harper ranks, is skilled enough to avoid detection—even by someone as skilled as you. All the more reason, I believe, for you to take the offensive. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
"That is all I have to say this evening. I would be happy to teleport you to Waterdeep—"
"No, thank you," Arilyn cut in hastily.
Kymil's eyebrows rose. "You do not intend to go to Waterdeep? It would seem a likely place to begin your search."
"I agree, and I do plan to go to Waterdeep. I just prefer to get there on horseback."
Exasperation flooded Kymil's face. "My dear etriel, I will never understand your aversion to magic, especially considering that you've been carrying a magic sword since childhood."
"That's bad enough," Arilyn said with a rare hint of bitterness. "Where magic is concerned, I draw the line where the moonblade ends."
"I don't understand you." Kymil shook his head. "Granted, there was an unfortunate incident during the Time of Troubles—"
"Unfortunate?" Arilyn broke in, her voice incredulous. "I wouldn't exactly call the accidental disintegration of an entire adventuring party a 'misfortune.' "
"The Hammerfell Seven," Kymil said, his tone dismissing the human adventurers as inconsequential. "You yourself had little need for concern from magic fire."
"Oh? Why not?"
For an instant Kymil looked disconcerted, then he smiled faintly. "Ever the demanding student. Elves and elven magic were not as severely affected as humans by that interlude."
He settled back and steepled his fingers, the very picture of an erudite professor. Knowing what was coming, Arilyn groaned silently. Kymil was currently guest-teaching a seminar at the Evereska College of Magic and Arms on the effect on elven magic by the Time of Troubles. Not a scholar in the best of times, Arilyn was of no mind to sit through the inevitable lecture. And she did not care to relive the Time of Troubles, the disastrous interlude when gods walked Faerun in the form of mortal avatars, creating havoc and immense destruction.
"It is thus," Kymil began, his voice taking on a pedantic tone. "In layman's terms, humans use the weave to work magic. Elves are, in a sense, part of the weave. Tel'Quessir are inherently magic, by our very nature, and . . ."
Arilyn abruptly lifted one hand, again cutting him off. "Many would consider me N'Tel'Quess: not-people. I am half-human, remember? I have little inherent magical ability."
Kymil paused, then inclined his head in a gesture of apology. "Forgive me, child. Your superior gifts often lead me to forget the unfortunate circumstances of your birth."
Arilyn had known Kymil for too long to be insulted by his patrician airs. "Unfortunate circumstances? I am a half-elf, Kymil, not a bastard." She grinned fleetingly. "Of course, there are those who would disagree."
As if on cue, a hoarse voice roared her name. Arilyn edged aside the curtain for a look. She shook her head and swore softly in a mixture of Elvish and Common.
Arilyn's bilingual curse brought a startled gasp from Kymil Nimesin. She shot a quick glance at him and bit her lip to keep from laughing at his outraged expression. "Sorry."
He started to speak, undoubtedly to chide her about her undignified use of Elvish. His words were drowned out by a racket that sounded like a minor barbarian invasion.
A small horde of ruffians had stormed into the tavern. They stomped around in a rather aimless fashion, overturning empty tables, emitting an assortment of whoops and shouts. The leader of the band was a uncouth giant of a man, an almost comic caricature of a thug. The man's appearance was sinister enough: an eyepatch covered one eye, a mace studded with iron spikes hung from his belt, and a shirt of rusty chain mail more or less covered his belly. Yet something about him tended to inspire covert smiles. Perhaps it was a pate as bald as a new-laid egg, framed by a wispy blond fringe that had been gathered into two long, skinny yellow braids.
The blond-and-bald man stalked over to Myrin Silverspear. Grabbing the slender innkeeper, the lout hoisted him up to eye level.
"Maybe you didn't hear me, elf. I asked if Arilyn Moonblade was here tonight. If you don't answer me, my men here—" He jerked his head at the group of toughs clustered behind him. "My men will take to questioning your patrons. Not good for business."
Not many men, human or elven, could maintain dignity while their feet dangled several inches from the floor, but Myrin Silverspear returned the huge oaf's threatening glare with a calm, measured look. Something in the innkeeper's expression took the bluster out of the ruffian's face, and he lowered the elf to the floor.
"Wasting my time," he announced to his men, his voice loud enough to carry throughout the room. It was an obvious and transparent exercise at saving face. "This elf don't know anything. Spread out. If that gray wench is within a mile, we'll find her!"
Kymil dropped the curtain and turned to Arilyn. "Do you know this man?"
"Oh, yes," she said wryly, still watching the drama unfold in the main tavern area. "That's Harvid Beornigarth, a third-rate adventurer. Some months ago we sought the same prize. He lost."
"Ah. Not a gracious loser, I take it," Kymil concluded.
"Hardly." Arilyn parted the curtain another fraction of an inch, watching as Harvid's thugs spread out and started working the room. "Neither is he much of a challenge, but at the moment I have enough to think about."
So much for my plan to slip away from my mysterious shadow, Arilyn thought. With Harvid Beornigarth creating such a stir, she might as well stay right in the booth where she was and hang out a sign: "Arilyn Moonblade. Assassins Inquire Within." On the other hand, she mused, all that racket might create enough of a diversion . . .
Arilyn abruptly let the curtain fall. She reached into the small bag that hung from her belt and drew from it a tiny mirror, a handful of gold mesh, and some tiny gilded pots engraved with the bright pink runes that identified the cosmetic unguents of "Faereen the Far-Traveled."
Deftly she spread a pale ivory cosmetic over her face, concealing the hint of blue that highlighted the fine bones. The second pot yielded a rose-colored cream. With this she touched her lips and cheeks. She shook the gold mesh, a quaint ornamental headpiece made of tiny metal rings linked in intricate patterns and studded with green stones. After smoothing her hair over her pointed ears, she covered the ebony waves with the headpiece.
Now that her part was completed, Arilyn closed one hand around the moonblade's grip and shut her eyes, forming a mental picture of a Sembian courtesan. When she looked down at herself a moment later, she saw that the moonblade's work was complete. Her travel leathers were replaced by a filmy, multi-tiered gown of jade and sapphire silk, and her loose shirt was now a bodice laced tight and low. The moonblade itself appeared to be a small, jeweled dagger. Arilyn held out the tiny mirror at arm's length and considered the effect. Even after twenty years, she felt a bit unnerved by the transformation. The half-elven fighter had disappeared, and in her place sat an exotically beautiful human woman.
One final touch was needed: Arilyn drew a tiny carved box from her bag and removed from it a pair of delicate lenses. She placed them directly over her eyes, and the distinctively elven gold-flecked blue became a startling—but very human—shade of green.
The entire transformation had taken place within minutes. Ready to go, Arilyn glanced up at Kymil. For once, his inscrutable demeanor had slipped, and a look of obvious distaste twisted his features. Early in Arilyn's training, Kymil had discovered the moonblade's ability to create disguises for its wielder. Arilyn and the moonblade had developed a repertoire of several practical facades, but Kymil had never become reconciled to what he considered an undignified manner of doing business.
"Dressed this way, I can leave without attracting notice," she explained a trifle defensively. Even after all the years she'd known Kymil, she was stung by any sign of disapproval from her mentor.
Kymil recovered his composure and harumphed. "Hardly. Dressed in that manner, you cannot possibly escape notice. A courtesan without a patron? It is unusual, and you will be a matter of much speculation. Many will remember you."
"True," Arilyn agreed. "They will see and remember a human courtesan. An illusion."
The noise of the approaching ruffians came closer, cutting short any argument Kymil might have had. "Your methods are highly successful," he conceded. "Go then, and the gods speed your quest. Sweet water and light laughter until next," he concluded, in the traditional elven form of leave-taking.
Having dismissed Arilyn, Kymil's eyes became distant as he focused on some faraway destination. He murmured, "Silver path. Evereska College of Magic."
His body became translucent, then the outline of his form wavered and filled with golden pinpricks of light. These in turn flickered briefly, then disappeared.
Arilyn shuddered. As the wielder of a moonblade, she had of necessity become reconciled to using magic, although she still bore a fighter's distrust of the art. Magic fire and dimensional travel appalled her. Her earliest experiences with teleportation at Kymil's side had left her sick and shaken, and her strong bias against magical travel had been strengthened during the Time of Trouble; she'd seen one mage too many teleport himself into a solid wall. Kymil might not like her attitude, but she simply couldn't change the way she felt. With the elf gone, Arilyn returned her thoughts to the matter at hand. Again she drew the curtain aside, searching for the final piece of her disguise.
She needed a man.
Kymil was right about that much: a courtesan needed a patron. So accustomed was she to traveling alone that she had forgotten this. To properly play her sultry role, she needed to borrow a man as a prop. Arilyn scanned the tavern for a likely prospect. A burst of laughter drew her eye toward the front door.
Several merchants slouched around a table littered with empty ale mugs. One of their number, a young man in bright green finery, was openly flirting with an elven barmaid. Arilyn couldn't hear his words, but they brought a roar of approving, tipsy laughter from his comrades and made the smiling young moon elf blush a bright shade of blue.
Perfect, Arilyn thought, her mouth twisting in a faint smile of derision. She could not have produced a better prospect if she had been capable of conjuring one from thin air. The man was young, less than thirty winters. His flaxen hair was meticulously styled, his richly embroidered cloak was draped over his shoulders with consummate artistry. He lounged indolently in his chair as he ogled the swaying walk of the departing barmaid. His clothes and lazy elegance bespoke wealth and privilege, and his smile indicated supreme self-satisfaction. By all appearances, he was spoiled and shallow and selfish. In short, he was perfect.
She disliked his type, those who were content with a path of ease and luxury. On the other hand, the services of a Sembian courtesan didn't come cheap, and of all the men in the tavern he seemed the most credible—and the most receptive—target for her advances.
Blissfully unaware of Arilyn's scrutiny, the young man made another, presumably witty observation. One of his companions, a rough-looking man in the garb of a mercenary, roared with laughter and swatted the humorist's shoulder with a large, grimy paw. The young man did not seem affronted by the mercenary's familiarity; rather, he winced and clutched at his shoulder, making another remark that set the table to laughter.
Probably not a nobleman, Arilyn concluded, but a wealthy merchant. The men at the table did not appear drunk enough to take such liberties with a noble. The pale-haired dandy did not seem to have been drinking heavily, which was also good. He appeared to have his wits about him.
Arilyn rose and slipped quietly into the room. The back half of the tavern was kept deliberately dark, and she hugged the wall and stayed within the convenient shadows. She wanted no one to connect the airy courtesan with the travel-worn etriel who had entered the tavern earlier. A sudden lull in the various conversations about the room greeted her as she moved into the lighted area. Men and women alike cast speculative glances at Arilyn. She tilted her head at a coquettish angle and moved purposely toward her target.
One of the fop's companions stopped gaping at Arilyn long enough to elbow her intended quarry in his ribs. The young dandy looked up at her, his eyebrows raising in a lazy expression of appreciation. He rose politely as she reached his table, and Arilyn was surprised to note that he was taller than she by several inches.
"Well met, indeed. I must be living right," he marveled, claiming her hand and bowing low over it.
Arilyn doubted it, but she answered him only with a soft smile. The fool could take that as he would.
"Would you care to join me? I'm Danilo, by the way. Danilo Thann."
With effort, Arilyn held back a groan. She knew that name: the Thann family had far-flung merchant concerns, as well as vast lands north of Waterdeep. The dandy was a Waterdhavian nobleman. It was too late to withdraw, so she held her seductive smile in place as Danilo Thann elbowed aside a comrade and ushered her into the vacant seat. He slid comfortably into the chair next to her.
"And you are . . . ?" His voice trailed off, inviting her to finish.
"Drinking Elquesstria, please," she purred, deliberately misunderstanding him.
His eyes lit up. "Ah! No name. A lady of mystery. And drinking elven spirits. That makes you a lady of taste, as well." He smirked around the table at his audience. "Although your choice in companions has already established that fact beyond question." His cronies chuckled in agreement, apparently sharing young Thann's comfortable opinion of himself.
The clank of an ill-kept chain mail shell interrupted the groups' merriment, and Arilyn stiffened involuntarily. She didn't have to look up to know it was Harvid Beornigarth himself. Arilyn's hands itched to grab the moonblade and cleave the pesky human crustacean in two, but she willed herself to maintain the languid posture of a courtesan.
"Pardon, my lord, but have you seen this elf-wench about?" Harvid thrust a roughly-drawn sketch of Arilyn at the young noble. Danilo took it, gave it a quick glance, and handed it back.
"No, can't say that I have."
"You're sure?"
Danilo draped an arm around Arilyn's shoulders, smiling up at Harvid Beornigarth as if he and the adventurer were old friends. "Frankly, no. If you were in my position," he drawled, squeezing the woman beside him, "would you have eyes for another?"
The lout's approving leer swept over Arilyn, and in response she forced herself to raise her eyes to his face. Harvid showed no sign of recognizing her. He grinned, revealing several rotting teeth.
"I wouldn't be looking, either," he admitted. He moved on to the next table, where he began to question the patrons with considerably less courtesy.
Arilyn relaxed. Now to get out of the inn and away. She would definitely have to take Danilo with her; the respect Harvid had shown the young noblemen indicated that she would probably not be approached by any of the other thugs as long as she was in the dandy's presence. Resisting the urge to peel the noble's arm from her shoulder, she glanced up at her future hostage.
Danilo Thann was leaning back in his chair, eyes narrowed and fixed intently upon something. Arilyn followed the line of his gaze. From his angle, he could see her hands, resting on her lap and tightly clenched. He appeared to be noting her whitened knuckles, and there was a speculative expression on his face.
She glanced sharply at him. What had he guessed?
He looked up and met her eyes, and her suspicions faded away. The young fool's face was as bland as porridge, and he flashed the charming smile that she was beginning to find irritating.
"Lovely ring. Very popular style in Waterdeep," he commented lightly. He picked up Arilyn's hand and surveyed it with the grave expression of a connoisseur, several of his own rings catching the light as he turned her hand this way and that. "They were selling these at the open-air market last summer festival. Did you get it then?"
His question seemed innocent enough, but Arilyn answered evasively. "My business hasn't taken me to Waterdeep in some time."
"What business are you in?" A huge man with black hair and rust-colored whiskers addressed the neckline of Arilyn's gown, leaning forward for a better view as he spoke. "A fellow merchant, perhaps?"
"No, not a merchant," Arilyn answered sweetly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the last of Harvid's men leave the tavern. The inn's patrons relaxed, and renewed conversation and calls for ale filled the tavern. It was the perfect moment to slip away. "My 'business,' such as it is, is best conducted in private." She rose, extending a hand and a smile of invitation to Danilo.
The red-whiskered man guffawed and clapped Danilo on the back. "Well, lad, you're set for the evening."
"If I don't return for a while, don't bother looking for me," he told the men with mock sternness. He took Arilyn's hand and let her lead him to the rear of the tavern. There was a door there, an exit that could lead upstairs or outside. She'd have to persuade him to take the latter option.
"Perhaps a short stroll?" Danilo suggested when they reached the doorway. "The night is lovely. Cool, but I do love autumn weather."
That's one problem solved, Arilyn noted, and she readily agreed. A pair of lovers out for a moonlight stroll would not draw a second glance. Then, once they were safely in the forest, she could conveniently lose him. Let him wander back on his own and explain her absence to his cronies.
Danilo tucked her arm cozily into his. He chattered merrily as they walked down the street behind the tavern, regaling her with a version of Waterdhavian gossip that would have been highly amusing if Arilyn had been in the mood to be entertained.
Arilyn encouraged the young nobleman's cheerful talk with appropriate inane noises, subtly guiding their path out of the bustle of arriving merchant caravans and toward the forest. The trading center at the Halfway Inn was as large as some towns, and at their leisurely pace it was almost an hour before they neared the path that followed the forest edge. The fickle autumn weather changed as they walked, and a damp wind began to hint at rain.
As Danilo Thann talked, Arilyn listened carefully to the night sounds. Voices drifted toward them from the inn, and horses nickered contentedly in the nearby stables. Once, she noticed that the shadow of a bush seemed disproportionately long. Later, a partridge flew up as if something had come too close to her nest. Never was there a suspicious sound, but Arilyn slowly became convinced that someone was following her still.
Damn! she thought vehemently. And after all the trouble she had gone through in the tavern to leave her shadow behind. Harvid's men were still stomping around the inn's grounds, and sounds of a fight would draw them like vultures to carrion.
A twig snapped a few feet away. Keeping her face expressionless, Arilyn slid one hand between the folds of her bright skirt and drew a dagger from its hiding place. As she and Danilo passed a large elm, Arilyn burst into motion. Wrenching her arm free from the nobleman's grasp, she reached behind the tree and dragged out a man by a handful of his hair. She threw the man against the trunk of the tree and pressed her dagger firmly against his neck. Immediately she recognized him as one of the ruffians who'd been with Harvid Beornigarth in the tavern, although she had not seen him in Harvid's crew before tonight. His face would be hard to forget; a jagged purple scar cut across one cheek, his nose had been broken at least once, and he was minus an ear.
"Why are you following me?" she demanded.
The man licked his lips nervously. "I saw you in the tavern. You came out alone, so I thought I'd . . . you know."
"The lady is not alone," Danilo Thann broke in haughtily. "Most certainly not. She is with me."
"Stay out of this," growled the lady in question. The noblemen fell back a step, raising his hands obligingly.
"You've been following me since I left the tavern? Not before?" It seemed unlikely to Arilyn that this ruffian could be her mysterious shadow, but she planned to find out for sure. The man hesitated just a shade too long before answering.
"No, just since the tavern. I've never seen you before."
Arilyn's blade slid along the man's jawline, removing a good deal of dark stubble as well as a bit of skin. "I'm not sure I believe you. Who are you working for?"
"Harvid Beornigarth. The big man with the yellow braids."
"No one else?"
"No!"
In spite of his guilty, furtive eyes, Arilyn was inclined to believe him. This was no canny assassin. She started to ease the dagger away when a dull flash of gold caught her eye. Her free hand darted into the open sack that was tied around the man's waist, and she drew out a golden snuff box with a curling rune engraved on the lid. It was a familiar rune. Arilyn caught her breath.
"Where did you get this?" she rasped, thrusting the box close to the man's face. The rune on it was the sigil of the mage Perendra of Waterdeep. She had been one of the first to fall to the Harper Assassin.
The man's eyes filled with panic and flickered back and forth as if seeking a means of escape. "Waterdeep," he croaked. "I got it in Waterdeep."
"I know that. Tell me more."
"From an elf. In Waterdeep. That's all I know, I swear."
"Does this elf have a name?"
Beads of sweat broke out on the man's face. "No, please! If I tell you his name he'll kill me."
"If you don't, I'll kill you."
"Life is just full of difficult decisions," Danilo Thann noted behind her. The unexpected sound startled Arilyn.
"Are you still here?" She threw a glance over her shoulder. The nobleman was leaning casually against a tree, arms crossed.
"Well, naturally," he replied. "It's dangerous out here. Who knows, there could be more of these men lying in wait."
"I don't need protection," she said emphatically.
"My point precisely," he said. "If it's all the same to you, I don't mind remaining in the company of a lady who knows her way around a dagger."
"Suit yourself." Arilyn turned her full attention back to her captive. "The elf's name?"
"I can't tell you!" he said in desperation. The dagger began its path along his jaw again. "All right! All right."
"Well?"
"His name is—"
The ruffian's voice snapped off as if he'd been throttled. Slowly Arilyn lowered the dagger, watching in disbelief as the man's face blackened and his tongue bulged out of his mouth. She backed away, unable to take her eyes from the horribly distorted face. A low, rattling gurgle burst from the man, and he slid, lifeless, down the length of the tree trunk.
"Merciful Mystra!" exclaimed Danilo Thann. "You've killed him!"

Six

Arilyn spun around to face the horrified nobleman. "I did not kill this man," she said.
"Well, I certainly didn't," retorted Danilo Thann. "I might not know much, but I do know dead. And he's it. How do you explain that?"
"I can't."
"Me either. We'd better go back to the tavern and alert the local authorities. Let them figure it out."
"No!"
Her vehemence seemed to surprise the young dandy. "If you didn't kill him, what do you have to worry about?" he asked reasonably.
Plenty, Arilyn thought. The last thing she needed right now was to leave another body in her wake. Her past invited speculation, and sooner or later someone would put the pieces together and label her the Harper Assassin. That day seemed close at hand, for the news of Rafe's death was spreading far too quickly. Kymil already knew, so it was possible that the Evereska authorities had also learned of the young Harper's death.
"Come on," she said abruptly. She tucked the gold snuffbox into her sleeve and set a brisk pace back to the stables. The noblemen fell in beside her.
"Where are we going?"
"The stables."
"Oh? Why's that, I wonder?"
Arilyn was in no mood to banter. Under the guise of reclaiming Danilo's arm she pressed the tip of her dagger to his side. It pierced his silken tunic, but the fool's slightly amused expression never faltered.
"Do be careful of the fabric, will you?" he admonished her. Arilyn looked at his vague smile, wondering for the first time if the man were simple. "You're coming with me."
"Yes," he agreed calmly, pausing as Arilyn swung open the door to the stable. "So it would appear."
Irritated, she prodded him inside. "Just keep walking."
"Well, really," he huffed. "There's no need to be so grim about this. Believe me, I'm a willing victim," he said, looking her over and smiling.
His calm acceptance of the situation temporarily disconcerted Arilyn. Danilo smirked at the bewildered expression on her face.
"Don't look so surprised, my dear lady. I will admit that the dagger is a new approach, but I often encounter women who are most eager for my company."
Arilyn snorted. "We're here for horses, not a pile of hay."
Danilo cocked his head and considered the possibilities. "My, my. You are full of innovative ideas, aren't you?"
Gritting her teeth in annoyance, Arilyn dropped his arm and threw open the door of the first stall. A matched pair of chestnut mares, fine-boned and high-spirited, tossed their heads and whinnied. The horses looked fit and, most important, fast.
"These will do," Arilyn announced.
"I should say," he murmured in reply.
She tucked the dagger back into her belt, grabbed a finely wrought saddle from a hook, and thrust it at Danilo. "I assume you can ride."
He took the saddle from her outstretched hands. "Please! You wound me," he protested.
"Don't tempt me."
Danilo sighed and shook his head. "I can see that setting the proper tone for this moonlight ride will be my responsibility entirely."
It was time to convince this grinning idiot that matters were serious. In one quick fluid movement, Arilyn drew the dagger and hurled it at him. The weapon streaked past Danilo, sweeping off his hat before imbedding itself in the wooden beam behind him. Arilyn strode past him and plucked the dagger and the hat from the beam, then thrust his hat at him.
He fingered the hole in disbelief. "Really! This was a new hat," he protested.
"Consider the alternative," she pointed out with grim humor. "Saddle up."
Sighing lustily, the dandy stuck the mutilated hat back on his head and did as he was told. To his credit, he worked quickly. Arilyn watched the stable door, but she could detect neither sound or movement. Perhaps she had shaken her shadow, after all.
After years of stopping at the Halfway Inn, Arilyn knew its secrets very well. Although the front of the stable opened onto a busy, well-lit street, a door at the rear of the building would put them directly onto a wooded path that would take them northward through the forest. She'd used that exit on more than one occasion. When both mares were saddled, she motioned for Danilo Thann to follow her. Obligingly he led his horse after her.
On the way out Arilyn stopped by her own horse's stall. She retrieved her saddle bags, and for a moment she looked with longing eyes at the gray mare. It pained Arilyn to leave her horse behind, but the mare needed rest badly. Arilyn took a bit of parchment from her saddlebags and scribbled a note to Myrin Silverspear, asking him to care for her horse and to reimburse the owner of the paired chestnuts for their loss. The innkeeper had handled such a transaction for her once before, and he would trust her to pay him back as soon as she returned. Theirs was a strange friendship, but she knew she could rely on him for anything. Arilyn placed the note between two of the boards that formed the wall—the stableboy would know to check there for messages—and then gave her horse a farewell pat.
As she turned to go, Arilyn looked up at the nobleman. His expression was sympathetic, and she felt a wave of irritation. Many killers were tender of their horses, so why did the fool regard her as if she were a new mother cooing over an infant?
"Come on," she snapped. After leading the way out of the stables and onto the path, she hiked up her flowing skirts and mounted her borrowed horse. When they reached the edge of the forest Arilyn drew a knife from her boot and held it up for Danilo to see.
"If you run, this will find your heart before your horse takes ten paces."
Danilo smiled and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I wouldn't dream of running. Now that you have well and thoroughly captured my attention, I can't wait to find out what all this is about. What a story I'll have to tell once we get home! We are going to Waterdeep, aren't we? I mean, eventually? Just imagine, I'll dine out for a month of tendays on this adventure and . . ."
The rest of his words drifted mercifully into the winds. Arilyn smacked the rump of his horse, sending it running into the night.
They rode hard, but Arilyn could discern no sign that they were being followed. Dark clouds scuttled across the sky, and the trees twisted and writhed in the rising wind. Finally the storm began, and huge raindrops pelted the travelers. The presence of the garrulous hostage made Arilyn almost grateful for the foul weather. The wind and driving rain made conversation impossible, and their situation worsened when they left the relative shelter of the forest. Arilyn pressed on, following the swiftly flowing river known as Winding Water. A travelers' hut on the lower branch promised shelter.
Finally she sighted the small barnlike building and urged her horse toward it. She dismounted and lifted the bar from the double door. A gust of wind blew the doors inward, and the travelers led their horses inside. Arilyn swung the doors shut and threw her weight against them, struggling to close them against the wind. At last she succeeded and slid the inside bolt.
Danilo stood with his hands in his pockets, oblivious to her difficulties with the door. Arilyn was annoyed with him for a moment, until she remembered that the human probably could not see in the darkness of the room.
"What is this place?" he asked.
"A clerical outpost, not far from a monastery where priests of Torm train."
"Oh. Will they mind us using it?"
"No. The students maintain it as a travelers' shelter. We can leave an offering to Torm in the big stone box over there."
"Over where? I can't see a thing. It's as dark as Cyric's shorts in here."
"Right." Arilyn took flint from her saddlebags and lit a tiny wall lamp to dispel a bit of the blackness. The flickering light revealed a large, square room, divided to accommodate travelers and their mounts. There was little by way of comfort: a wooden floor, a few bales of dusty hay for the horses, and three benches in front of a rough stone fireplace.
"All the comforts of home," Danilo Thann remarked lightly, "provided one is accustomed to living in a cave."
"See to the horses, then we'll eat," Arilyn said absently, more concerned with the practical details of their journey than with the dandy's opinions of their accommodations. She had a little hardtack and a few travel biscuits left in her saddlebags. That would do for tonight, but tomorrow she would have to hunt.
While Danilo stumbled around in the dim light caring for the horses, Arilyn gratefully shed the persona of the Sembian courtesan. Calling upon the moonblade, she dispelled the disguise. After tucking her wet black curls behind her ears, she took a linen square and scrubbed her face clean of the cosmetic unguents. Finally she slipped the green lenses from her eyes and returned them to her bag of disguises. Feeling like herself again, she shook a little of the hay loose from a bale and fashioned a couple of sleeping pallets. She got one of her saddlebags and sank down with it onto her bed, rummaging in the bag for food.
"Those are two happy little horses," Danilo announced as he joined her. "The way they tore into that hay, they actually made it look good."
Without speaking, Arilyn handed Danilo a ration of dried meat and hard biscuits. He took it, sniffed it, and held it close to his eyes for inspection. " This makes the hay look good, for that matter."
Nevertheless, he took a hearty bite of the meat and chewed vigorously. "Puts up a fight, doesn't it?" he observed cheerfully. After another bite, he took a flask from the bag that hung from his belt and took a deep swallow. He offered it to Arilyn, but she shook her head. Danilo shrugged and tipped up the flask again.
"Is there any way we could get more light in here?" he asked. "I can barely see my hand in front of my face."
"As long as you know it's there, what's your worry?"
"Well, I suppose that covers that topic," he said with a touch of humor. "I suppose we could talk about something else."
"Must we?"
Her tone quelled him for perhaps two minutes. They ate in a silence interrupted only by the sound of rain pounding at the wooden structure. Just as Arilyn was beginning to relax, the nobleman started in again.
"So," he said briskly. "What are we running from? From the timing of our exit, my guess would be that pot-bellied giant and his crew. Never overlook the obvious, I always say."
"No," she said, her tone curt.
"No, what?"
"No, we're not running from him."
"Who, then?"
Arilyn merely took another bite of her travel biscuit. Danilo shrugged and tried again. "I have a friend who makes and trades fine weapons. Nord Gundwynd. Do you know him, by any chance? No? Well, he collects antique weapons. He'd love to get his hands on that dagger you were using earlier."
"It's not for sale." Her tone held little encouragement.
And so it went. Danilo continued undeterred in his efforts to draw Arilyn into conversation. She ate her meal in silence. He downed his between bits of gossip and nosey questions.
Finally he stretched. "Well, that was delightful. I feel positively refreshed. Shall I take the first watch? Not that I could see anything, mind you."
Arilyn stared at him in open disbelief. "The first watch? You're a hostage."
"Well, yes," he admitted as if that were a matter of small consequence, "but we've got a long road ahead, and you'll have to sleep sometime."
Arilyn was silent for a long moment as she considered his statement. "Was that a warning?" she asked quietly.
Danilo threw back his head and laughed. "Hardly. No, from where I sit it sounds like a simple statement of reality."
That was no more than the truth, but it reminded Arilyn that certain precautions were in order. She glanced down at Danilo's sword, bound to its elaborate scabbard by a peace knot. Many cities required that swords be so bound. It was a precaution that prevented many furtive attacks and impulsive fights, but the law seemed pointless when applied to the dandy beside her. Arilyn had a hard time imagining him becoming carried away by battle lust.
Nevertheless, she insisted, "Your sword, please, as well as any other weapons."
Danilo shrugged agreeably. He worked the peace knot loose and handed over the sword and scabbard. He then drew a jeweled dagger from one of his boots. "Have a care with the dagger," he advised her. "Apart from the gems—which really are rather nice, aren't they?—the weapon has a good deal of sentimental value. I acquired it rather by accident last winter. Actually, it's quite an interesting story."
"I don't doubt it," she cut in dryly. "What's in there?" she asked, pointing to the green leather bag that hung at his waist.
Danilo grinned. "Clothing. Jewelry. Dice. Brandy. Riven-gut. Even Moonshae Moonshine—and I dare you to say that three times fast. You know," he concluded, "the essentials."
"All that?" Arilyn eyed the sack skeptically. It looked big enough to hold a tunic and two changes of wool stockings, no more.
"Ah, but this is a magic bag," Danilo advised her in a smug tone. "It holds much more than appearances would indicate."
"Empty it."
"If you insist."
Danilo reached into the sack and drew out a neatly rolled shirt of white silk. He placed it lovingly on the hay, then lay several colored shirts beside it. Next came a velvet tunic and some soft, fur-lined gloves. Three pair of trousers followed, then some undergarments and stockings. There was enough jewelry to bedeck the occupants of a brothel, as well as several pair of dice and three ornate silver flasks. He drew out no less than three hats, one with nodding peacock plumes. The pile grew until the place resembled an open-air market.
"That's enough!" Arilyn finally insisted.
"I'm almost done," he said, rummaging in the bottom of the sack. "Best for last, and all that. Ah! Here it is." He fished out a large flat object and waved it triumphantly.
Arilyn groaned. The fool had produced a spellbook from the bowels of that Beshaba-blasted sack. Of all the things the goddess of bad luck could have sent to torment her! She'd abducted a would-be mage.
"Please tell me you don't casts spells," she pleaded.
"I dabble," he admitted modestly.
Before Arilyn could discern his intent, he took a bit of flint and pointed it at the wood neatly stacked in the fireplace. "Dragonbreath," he muttered.
There was a spark. The flint disappeared from his hand, and a cozy fire filled the room with warmth and light. He turned to Arilyn with a triumphant smirk, then froze. "Nine hells!" he blurted out. "You're an elf."
She banked down the rising flame of her anger. "So I've been told. Put out that fire."
"Why?" he argued in a reasonable tone. "It's dark, and it's cold, and that's a particularly lovely fire, if I may say so."
How could she explain to this pampered dandy her aversion to magical fire? He hadn't seen the miscast fireball; he hadn't heard the screams of his comrades, or smelled their burning flesh as they died in flames that refused to consume him. As she formulated a half-truth, Arilyn struggled to push away the memory of the Hammerfell Seven's death. With great effort, she kept her voice calm, her words objective.
"As you guessed earlier, we were being followed. I believe we've eluded pursuit, but I don't wish to risk making a fire while we're still so close to Evereska."
Danilo studied her, then as if he hadn't heard anything she'd just said, he repeated, "An elf. You're an elf. And your eyes aren't really green, after all."
He made the last observation in such a mournful tone that Arilyn blinked in surprise. "Is that going to be a problem?"
"No," he said slowly. "It's just that, well, I am highly partial to green. By Mystra, you're definitely not what you appeared to be at first glance."
"Who is?" she asked with asperity. She glanced at Danilo's waterlogged finery and added in an arch tone, "Except perhaps you."
"Thanks," he murmured absently.
Arilyn cast her eyes upward in disbelief. Still absorbed in his intent study of her, Danilo was oblivious to the insult.
"Wait! I've got it!" he crowed triumphantly, jabbing a finger in Arilyn's direction. "I knew you looked familiar. You're the person that the oaf in the bar was seeking. Ariel Moonsomething, right?"
So he wasn't a complete fool. "Close enough," she admitted grudgingly. She rose, feeling a need to walk about.
"How interesting! So what's your story?" Danilo asked, settling comfortably down for the evening's entertainment. He lay on his side, crossing his ankles and propping himself up on one elbow. Arilyn cast him a dismissing look and walked to the fireplace.
"No, leave it alone," he insisted, as Arilyn began to poke at the burning logs with a stick. "We're both wet and cold, and the fire will do us good. Just forget about it and sit down." He noisily patted the straw beside him in invitation. "Come on. Relax. You had them moonswaggled back at the inn with that fancy getup. That thug didn't follow us."
"I told you, I'm not worried about him," she said.
"If not him, who? We are being followed, you said."
"Were," she stressed, looking over her shoulder at him with a quelling glance.
Danilo Thann was not easily quelled. He rolled his eyes in comic disgust. "Were. Well, that clears everything right up."
Arilyn turned away, ignoring his friendly sarcasm.
"Look," Danilo said to the back of her head, "since I'm along for the ride, so to speak, don't you think I should have some idea who or what I'm up against? And where we're going, for that matter?"
Why not? Arilyn thought. Maybe the truth would frighten him into holding his tongue. She sank down in the straw beside Danilo, drawing her knees up tight against her chest.
"All right, then, here it is. Since you seem to be current on most of the gossip in the area, you may have heard that someone is systematically assassinating Harpers."
"Ghastly business," Danilo said with a shudder. His eyes widened. "Oh gods. I'm not sure I like where this is leading. You're saying that the Harper Assassin is after you?"
"You're sharper than you appear," she said dryly.
"Thank you, but how do you know? About the assassin, I mean."
Arilyn shrugged, trying to appear matter-of-fact. "For some time now, I've been followed everywhere I go. Several of my friends have been killed. I was usually nearby when it happened."
"Oh, my dear. How awful for you."
The genuine warmth and concern in the young noble's voice temporarily disconcerted Arilyn. Her eyes flew to the fire, and she stared fixedly into the magically conjured flames that had ignited such bitter memories. At the moment anything was better than meeting Danilo Thann's kind, gray eyes. She had put this young man's life in danger, and fool though he might be, he'd done nothing to deserve the treatment she'd dealt him.
"I regret involving you in this," she murmured. "Believe me, I had not planned to bring you this far."
"So far, no problem," he replied, cheerfully accepting her apology. "Anyway, it's a rare honor for a humble fashion plate such as myself to be of service to the Harpers. You are one of them, I take it?"
"No," she said slowly. "I'm no Harper."
"Oh? Then why is the Harper Assassin after you?"
"I work for the Harpers on occasion."
"Ah. And what is it that you do?" Danilo drawled, eyeing her and waggling his eyebrows in a broad parody of a leer.
Arilyn glared at him, and he grinned in return. The fool enjoyed baiting her! she realized suddenly. It was a game. His scrutiny was not lascivious, but boyishly mischievous. All of her irritation with Danilo Thann flooded back, pushing aside the guilt of a moment before. An unworthy but irresistible impulse urged her to make him squirm a bit.
"I am an assassin," she intoned in a threatening voice.
A droll expression crossed Danilo's face. "Do tell. And you've got some lakefront property in the Anauroch Desert to sell me as well, I suppose?"
Arilyn grinned despite herself. "Remember, appearances can be deceiving. In some cases," she added with a touch of sarcasm.
Her gibe went over Danilo's head with a foot to spare. He waved away her comment. "No, no, it's not that. I could buy you as an assassin, although I imagine you're prettier than most. It's just that, well, since when do Harpers have people assassinated?"
"They don't," she admitted. "I haven't done that sort of work for years, and never in the employ of the Harpers. Now I recover lost items, lead quick-strike parties, guard travelers. I'm a ranger, spy, or sell-sword as the need arises."
Danilo rolled onto his stomach and propped up his chin with his hands. "Your versatility is astounding, but for my own peace of mind, let's get back to this assassin thing. Do you—oops! excuse me—did you really sneak up on people and kill them?"
Arilyn's chin lifted. "No, never. I challenged armed and capable fighters and overcame them in single combat."
"I see." Danilo nodded knowingly. "No wonder the Harper Assassin is after you." She raised her eyebrows in inquiry, and he grinned. "You know, for trying to raise the standards of the trade. Against the guild laws, and all that."
A bubble of laughter welled up in Arilyn, but she held it under control. "I never actually belonged to the Assassin's Guild."
"You see? There's yet another motive. They want to collect their back guild fees out of your estate."
Arilyn finally succumbed to a chuckle. "I'm not sure the Assassin's Guild would want to claim me as a member."
"Really. There is a tale here, perhaps?"
She shrugged. "Not really. Very early in my career, 'assassin' became a sort of nickname. If someone crossed swords with me, they died," she said simply, in answer to Danilo's inquiring look.
"Hmmm. I'll bear that in mind. And then?"
"The name stuck. In time I was truly considered an assassin, and I began to think of myself as one, albeit an honorable assassin. For years I was an independent adventurer, hired to fight and therefore to kill."
"That sounds like an assassin to me," Danilo murmured.
"Yes, but never did I fight one who was unarmed, never did I shed innocent blood."
"You know that for a fact, do you? It must be nice to be so confident of one's judgment," he said, a little wistfully.
"For good or ill, I do not have to rely upon my judgment," she said. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded a little bitter. She lay her hand on the sword at her side. "The sword I carry cannot shed innocent blood. It will not. I learned that while I was little more than a child, training at the Academy of Arms. One of the older students, Tintagel Ni'Tessine, used to taunt me about my race. I lost my temper one day and drew on him."
"What happened?" Danilo encouraged her.
A small smile tightened Arilyn's lips. "My sword arm went numb, and the moonblade dropped from my hand. Tintagel took the opportunity to beat me senseless."
"That's terrible!"
She shrugged. "It happens."
"That's hardly an innocent man's behavior," Danilo said heatedly. "I had not realized there was such prejudice against elves."
Arilyn looked at him strangely. "Tintagel Ni'Tessine is an elf."
"Wait a minute." Danilo held up one hand, and he appeared to be thoroughly puzzled. "Did I miss something?"
"He's a gold elf. I'm a moon elf, and a half-elf at that," she admitted grudgingly. "You didn't know that there are several races of elves?"
"Well, yes. I've just never realized that there might be significant differences."
That remark, so typical from humans, jolted Arilyn. "Why am I not surprised?" she said so harshly that Danilo blinked in surprise.
Her hostage could not know that her manner covered her own chagrin. When was the last time she had chattered like such a magpie? Had she ever told anyone about that incident with Tintagel? Or admitted even to herself that she sometimes felt belittled by the power of her own sword? Damn it, something about the young man seemed to break down the defenses of her natural reserve, and she resented him for it.
Danilo, however, did not seem to be put out by her abrupt change of mood. "You share my passion for fine gems, I see."
"How did you come to that conclusion?"
With a smug little smile, he pointed to her sword. "That stone in the hilt. It's a topaz, isn't it?"
"I suppose so. Why?"
"Oh, I'm just curious. The sword itself looks quite old, but the stone is cut in a modern fashion."
Arilyn gaped at him for a moment. "That's a remarkable observation."
"Not at all," he disclaimed modestly. "As I mentioned, I have a passion for precious stones, and I know a few things about them. See the way the tiny facets curl around the base of the gem, leading up like a honeycomb to a large flat surface? That style started becoming popular only about, say, fifty years ago."
"I'll have to take your word on that," she said. "But you're right: the stone is fairly new."
"The original was lost, I take it? What kind of stone was it? "
"A moonstone."
"Semi-precious white stone, often flecked with blue. Natural conduits for magic," Danilo recited in a learned tone. "Why was it replaced with a topaz?"
Arilyn shrugged. "When I started training, my teacher had the new stone made to balance the hilt."
"Not many teachers give that much attention to detail... or to their students for that matter." He grinned. "Mine generally tried to avoid me as much as they could. You must have been fortunate in your choice of teacher."
"I was," Arilyn said warmly. "To study with Kymil Nimesin was a great opportunity, and—" She broke off suddenly.
"And?"
Arilyn just shrugged. Damn it all, she thought angrily, I'm doing it again. This man would have her life history from her before she could be rid of him.
Most distressing to her was the inexplicable tug of camaraderie, the tiny seedling of friendship that was growing between her and this stranger—this shallow, foolish, overdressed human. Like a talisman, she deliberately brought to mind an image of Rafe Silverspur. The reminder of what could happen to those close to her strengthened her resolve to keep herself firmly apart.
Again Danilo Thann's cheerful voice broke into her thoughts. "You know, I just realized that you never told me your name. What was it that the comical barbarian in the inn called you? Arilyn, wasn't it? Arilyn Moonsinger. No, that's not quite right. Moonblade. Yes, that's it!"
Arilyn rose and kicked the bright embers of Danilo's fire into ash. "Get some sleep," she said curtly, keeping her back to the man. "We leave before daybreak."

Seven

Arilyn shook her hostage awake while it was still dark.
"Whazzat?" Danilo sat up abruptly, staring bleary-eyed into the grim face of the half-elf until his vision focused. "Oh. Hello there. I suppose it's time for my watch?"
"Time to leave," she said flatly.
"Oh. If you say so." Danilo struggled to his feet and stretched, shifting this way and that and wincing as he worked out some stiff spots. "Where are we going?"
"Waterdeep."
"Oh, marvelous," he said, brightening. "We can probably catch up with one of the merchant trains within a few days and—"
"No," she broke in quietly.
"No?" Danilo looked puzzled, stopping in mid-stretch. "Whyever not?"
Arilyn explained with the patience usually afforded a rather slow child. "A very skillful tracker has been following me. I was headed west when he lost me. I'm assuming he knows my routes and habits well enough to consider Waterdeep my logical destination. He is likely to take the most common route, the trade route. If we were to travel with a merchant train, he could easily catch up."
"Ah. Never overlook the obvious," Danilo commented, nodding sagely.
"Something like that," Arilyn admitted. "So we'll take the northern route."
The dandy shook his head and sputtered in disbelief, "Surely you jest. The northern route? As in, troll country? I'll have you know I detest trolls. Utterly."
"Don't worry. We'll skirt the High Moors."
"No trolls?"
"No trolls." Danilo still looked distressed, so Arilyn elaborated. "It's riskier than the southern trade route, but we'll get to Waterdeep faster. Also, we pass through open country. If my guess is wrong and someone is still trying to track us, we'll see them as soon as they see us." She thought it best not to tell the nervous dandy that she would actually prefer such a confrontation, and she paused before dropping the other boot. "And another thing. We'll save more time if we cut through the bottom lip of the marsh."
Danilo caught his breath and held up both hands in a gesture of protest. "The marsh? We're talking about the Marsh of Chelimber, I assume? We are. Well, no thank you. I think I'll just take my horse and head south, if it's all the same to you."
Arilyn had anticipated this reaction. "I'm sorry," she told him firmly, "but you're going to come with me."
He sighed with resignation, then smirked. "I do grow on people, don't I?"
"Hardly. I need to reach Waterdeep and disappear without alerting the assassin. But," she added pointedly, "if I let you loose along the merchant route, you would sing this song to anyone who would listen, and I'll be back where I started."
Danilo considered her argument for a brief moment, then nodded. "All right," he said agreeably. He started to stuff his belongings back into his magic sack.
His ready compliance surprised Arilyn. "You agree? Just like that?"
Still packing, he arched an eyebrow at her. "Do I have much choice in the matter?"
"No."
"Well then, no sense in whining about things you can't change, is there?" he concluded cheerfully. He picked up the last item—a silver flask—and took a bracing pull at it before he slipped it into the sack. Thus fortified, he rose and faced Arilyn.
"There. Packing's done. I say, do you think you could catch us something for breakfast? Anything at all? At this point I could eat a pickled wyvern. And while you hunt, I'll just freshen up a tad. Not that we're likely to meet anyone from polite society along the route you've chosen, but one can't travel looking like leftovers from a gnoll's feast, can one?"
Danilo's gaze swept over Arilyn, who was clad for travel in boots and trousers, a simple blue tunic over her loose shirt, and her dark cloak. "By the way," he added casually, with an obvious and exaggerated attempt at diplomacy, "that outfit is very . . . well, it's certainly very practical. It looks comfortable, really! For whatever it's worth, I vastly prefer the clothes you wore at the inn. Maybe all those veils would be a bit much for the road, but at least let me lend you a few pieces of jewelry to brighten up your ensemble?"
Arilyn stifled a sigh. It was going to be a very long trip to Waterdeep.
The sun was edging above the horizon when the half-elf finally nudged her well-fed and immaculately groomed hostage into his saddle. Worried by even a brief delay, Arilyn set as brisk a pace as she felt the horses could handle: it was important that they cross the Marsh of Chelimber before nightfall. As they left the rolling foothills of the Greycloak Mountains behind, the friendly, autumn-tinted woodlands gave way to a flat, grim valley littered with jagged boulders and scrubby brush. As the ground beneath their horses' hooves became increasingly soggy, even those pitiful bushes disappeared, and the only vegetation in sight were the rushes and cattails that ringed small pools of tea-colored water. The happy twitter of the forest birds had long ago faded, to be replaced by the incurious stare of an occasional heron.
Arilyn was not unhappy to note that the repressive ugliness of the landscape had curbed the nobleman's tongue, for his chatter had dwindled to an occasional question. He rode well, she was relieved to see, and as he rode he took in the sights like some slightly distressed pleasure-traveler.
"What's that?" he demanded, pointing to a large square depression in the bog. Arilyn looked, and her heart sank.
"Someone's been cutting peat," she said tersely.
"Whatever for?"
"Fuel. It burns well."
Danilo considered her words. "Why would someone want to come all the way into this flattened-out version of the Abyss for fuel? There are perfectly good woodlands between here and the nearest civilized area." When Arilyn didn't comment on his observation, Danilo puzzled it over. He finally snapped his fingers and smiled in triumph. "Wait a minute! I've got it! Our peat-cutting friends must be from one of the uncivilized races. Orcs, maybe? More likely goblins, given the terrain. Am I right?"
Arilyn cast him a sour look. "You needn't look so pleased about it. Listen, that peat was recently cut. Whatever did it is probably nearby."
"You jest," Danilo said, a hopeful note in his voice.
"Not very often. We're nearing the marsh. Hold your tongue until we're through it."
The dandy subsided. Soon the spongy texture of the peat bog gave way to open wetlands, and the air took on a repressive, swampy tang. Before highsun they had reached the edge of Chelimber Marsh.
"I say, this is a dismal place," Danilo noted with dismay.
Arilyn silently agreed. In her opinion, the Marsh of Chelimber could easily be mistaken for one of the lower levels of the Nine Hells.
There was no sign of animal life, yet an eerie, insectlike chirruping came from everywhere and nowhere. Bare, rock-covered ground alternated with soggy patches of waist-high marsh grasses, which swayed and beckoned despite an utter lack of wind. Many of the small pools that dotted the ground bubbled and seethed, sending up gushes of sulphur-scented steam. Even the air seemed heavy and oppressive beneath a slate-colored sky.
"Let's get it over with," Arilyn whispered, resolutely guiding her horse forward. Danilo followed, looking none too happy.
Despite the known and rumored dangers of the marsh, their ride was uneventful. Arilyn did not relax her guard, but listened alertly to the strange sounds of the marsh. From no discernable source, Chelimber emitted a continuous spate of chirps, pops, groans, and belches. The noise was unnerving, and Arilyn noted the toll it took on the high-strung mares. Yet there was no sign of danger, and by late afternoon it began to appear that the trip would pass without incident. Even Danilo managed to hold his tongue until, by Arilyn's reckoning, they neared the western border of the marsh. The mist-shrouded sun hung just above the marsh grass. Tension began to drain from Arilyn's taut body as the horses picked their way toward relative safety. They would escape Chelimber before nightfall, despite the morning's delay.
That hope was premature. Almost lost in the swamp's music was a new note, a faint, grating sound that brought to Arilyn's mind the image of a dragon with hiccoughs. She hoped that the bizarre noise was just another of the marsh's aural tricks, but just to check she held up a hand to halt Danilo's progress. "Did you hear that?" she mouthed at him.
The nobleman's attention was elsewhere. Arilyn followed the direction of his gaze, and her throat tightened in foreboding: at her side, the moonblade glowed with an ominous blue light.
"What's that all about?" he asked, pointing to her sword.
"Lower your voice."
"Why is your sword blue?" he asked softly.
"Magic," she explained tersely, looking about for whatever the moonblade sensed. "A danger warning."
"Quaint. Very quaint," he drawled, regarding the pale blue light of the sword with casual interest. "A glowing sword. Tell me, does it come in green? If so, where can I get one?"
The lack of concern in his voice infuriated Arilyn. She glared at him, incredulous. "Goblins," she stressed in a quiet voice. "Remember your peat-cutting goblins? Surely not even you could find such creatures amusing."
Danilo pursed his lips and considered this. "Actually, there was this little fellow down in Cormyr . . ."
"Oh, be still," Arilyn hissed. Her fingers curved around the moonblade's grip, and she dismissed Danilo and his foolishness to concentrate on the battle that was sure to come. She eased her horse westward and gestured for the dandy to follow her. The ground was less flat here, and a small hill some hundred yards away bore the ruins of what appeared to be an ancient keep. The setting sun would be at their back, providing a disadvantage to any attackers. There they could take a stand.
No, there I can take a stand, Arilyn corrected silently, casting a derisive glance at the man beside her. Even if Danilo Thann were capable of holding his own in a fight—which she doubted—he would never risk getting blood on his big-city finery.
For the hundredth time since sunrise Arilyn cursed herself over her unfortunate choice of a hostage. She had fought goblinkind many times, and she knew better than to be too confident about the outcome of such a battle. Even the horses, pampered fancy mounts that they were, sensed that danger lay before them; their ears lay back against their heads and they whickered uneasily. Granted, Danilo Thann was not traveling with her of his own choice, therefore she was honor-bound to give him what protection she could. But by all the gods, she would much rather turn him over to the goblins. Perhaps they could wipe that complacent look off his foolish face!
Arilyn's angry thoughts were interrupted by an unearthly screech. The sound split the air and hung, reverberating, over the marsh. That was the final straw for her temperamental horse, who feared up violently and unexpectedly. Arilyn grabbed at the pommel of her saddle with both hands to keep from being thrown. Before she could reclaim the reins, the horse bolted.
"Hang on," Danilo yelled, urging his own horse close to Arilyn's panicked mount. What was he trying to do? she wondered. His horse looked no calmer than hers. It careened along with teeth bared, its ears flat back against its mane and the whites of its terrified eyes gleaming. Danilo seized Arilyn's reins, struggling to control his own mount with one hand.
That's it, Arilyn thought with a flash of resignation. We're both down. Before their spooked mounts had gone a dozen paces, by sheer strength of arm and will Danilo brought both horses to a halt.
Arilyn gaped at the noble in disbelief, earning one of his charming, infuriating smiles. He tossed her reins back to her. "Nice trick, eh? Luck is with you. You abducted the captain of Waterdeep's champion polo team. Next time, my dear, do try to steal battle-seasoned horses, hmmm?"
Before she could respond to his gibe, a second roar rolled across the marsh. Arilyn drew the moonblade and readied herself for the attack. One of the dangers of the marsh lay in the weird way in which it warped sound. The taunts of their unseen enemy seemed to come from everywhere at once. Where, then, could she and Danilo run?
From behind the ridge of a nearby hillock rose half a score of enormous, scale-covered nightmares. Arilyn had heard tales of the lizard men of Chelimber Marsh, but the reality brought a quick lump of horror to her throat.
Tall as men, the scaly gray-green creatures lurched toward them through the mist and the marsh grass on heavily muscled legs, shrieking and roaring with bloodlust as they brandished blades and battlehammers in their massive, taloned hands.
"Wait a minute! You said there'd be goblins. Those don't look like goblins to me," Danilo protested. "I could be wrong, of course."
"Lizard men," Arilyn snapped, struggling to control her terrified horse as she formulated a battle plan. Outnumbered as they were, five-to-one, flight seemed the best course. As she flashed a look over her shoulder, she saw a small band of goblins—a hunting party, most likely—rising from the marsh grass, effectively cutting off the chance of a southward retreat.
"So. Do we fight or run?" Danilo asked.
The half-elf spun back around. The lizard men had fanned out into a line, blocking escape to the north or east. "I'll fight. You run," she shouted, pointing with the moonblade toward the ruined keep.
Danilo extended his hand. "My sword?"
Arilyn had forgotten. She reached behind her saddle, snatched his blade from its scabbard, and tossed it to him. Danilo deftly caught the weapon, then squinted toward the setting sun. "Now those," he remarked, "are goblins."
The half-elf groaned. Three more of the creatures had sprung from behind the piles of stone and rubble, their weapons drawn. Gibbering and snarling, they rushed forward, and Arilyn caught a whiff of the stench that rose from their dark orange skin and filthy leather armor. All three goblins waved rusted swords, and their snarls bared rows of short, sharp fangs. Lemon-colored eyes gleamed with eagerness for battle.
"I'll take those little ones," the dandy volunteered.
"Go, you half-witted troll," she shouted.
Danilo saluted her and wheeled his horse around, galloping toward the ruins and the onrushing goblins. On horseback, Arilyn reasoned, even Danilo should be able to handle three unmounted goblins. To her surprise, he slashed at the western-most lizard man as he rushed past it, as if daring the creatures to follow him.
Good tactics, she acknowledged briefly. If we divide them, they can't surround us as easily. Then there was no more time for thought. The lizard men were almost upon her.
All of the lizard men.
A moment's surprise, and then Arilyn understood. The creatures might hunt in a band, but they had little intelligence. Their instincts were for survival, not strategy. Thus, each individual lizard man chose to attack the smaller, seemingly weaker member of the pair. Their mistake, she thought with a thin smile. Raising the glowing moonblade aloft, she forced her horse into a charge.
The first of the lizard men lumbered into range, swinging a curved scimitar in a wicked arc. With a lightning combination, Arilyn parried its first blow and then ran the creature through. The next lizard she disarmed by lopping off its taloned hand. Its shrieks of rage and pain set the rest of the pack rocking back a step, buying Arilyn an instant's respite. She struggled to control her horse as she flashed a glance in Danilo's direction.
He was faring far better than she'd dared to hope. Somehow he had managed to fell two of the goblins. Still on horseback, he was making short work of the third. The lizard men, having decided on Arilyn, were paying him no heed whatsoever. For the span of one heartbeat, Arilyn knew despair. Her hostage would surely take the opportunity handed him and flee, leaving her to face the monsters alone. Well then, she would give them a fight. With a fierce battle cry, she raised the sword in challenge and dared the lizard men to come within its range.
The creatures halted, uncertain. Long, reptilian tongues flickered in and out between daggerlike fangs as the lizard men weighed their hunger and the encouraging shouts of the goblin band against the glowing sword and half-elf's unexpectedly strong resistance. Arilyn's prancing mare whinnied in terror, and the sound seemed to shatter the lizard men's momentary reluctance. Sensing a weakness, they shrieked anew and pressed forward, almost climbing over each other in their eagerness.
The moonblade danced and twinkled as Arilyn slashed at her attackers. Three more lizard men fell, clutching at sliced throats or severed limbs. One of the remaining creatures came in low with a large, upturned knife and a bright idea: attack the horse. Perceiving the monster's intent, Arilyn viciously dug her heels into her horse's side and jerked back the reins. The terrified mare reared, just barely avoiding a slash that would have gutted it.
Arilyn used the momentum of the horse's movement to dismount. Throwing herself backward in a somersault, the agile half-elf rolled out of the saddle and landed on her feet, moonblade in hand. With the flat of her blade she smacked the mare's flanks, hard. The horse fled, dodging the clutching talons of the five still-standing, hungry lizards. The lizard men, robbed of the promise of horseflesh, surrounded Arilyn and closed in.
The half-elf could hear excited squeaks and harsh, high-pitched chattering just outside the tight circle of scales and blades. Wonderful, Arilyn thought with dismay. The goblin hunting party had finally decided to join in. As if she didn't have enough to deal with.
One of the lizard men got through her guard, and the tip of its sword slashed a burning line across her left shoulder. With her next swing Arilyn cut the lizard across the face. Blinded and roaring, the creature pawed at its eyes and reeled away, knocking one of its brothers to the ground in its frenzy. The fallen lizard man thrashed about, struggling to regain its footing on the marshy, blood-slick ground. With a quick jab, the moonblade found its heart, and the monster lay still. Arilyn leaped over it toward the blinded lizard, and quickly ended that beast's suffering.
Now there were but three of the lizard men left. Even tired and wounded, Arilyn felt confident of winning against those odds. She doubted, however, whether she would have the strength at battle's end to wade through a band of goblins.
As she fought, Arilyn heard a strange battle hymn drifting from somewhere on the marsh. It was a bawdy ballad, set to a well-known drinking song, and it was rendered triply incongruous by the refined tone of a well-trained tenor voice:

They're far from staid after a raid
Those men of Zhentil Keep:
They kill off all the women
For they much prefer the sheep.

The Zhents don't eat their ill-got treat;
Not one of them's a glutton.
So isn't it a marvel
That they always smell of mutton?

Blasted human! Arilyn ducked a battle axe and gritted her teeth in annoyance. To her surprise, she found that the foolish song rallied her more effectively than the battle skirl of Moonshae pipes. She fought on, buoyed up by a mixture of relief and irritation. Danilo would get away, and in his own flamboyant fashion.
Unimpressed by the music, the three lizard men pressed in. One of them lunged at her with a dagger. Arilyn knocked the weapon from its claws and darted forward, thrusting the moonblade deep into its reptilian eye and immediately killing it. The creature fell heavily forward, and the half-elf tore her sword free and leaped clear of the toppling corpse.
With a triumphant roar, a huge, brown-scaled lizard man hefted his battle axe and took a mighty swipe at the half-elf's knees. She leaped high to avoid the blade, but on the back-swing the axe's handle caught her and knocked her sideways. Thrown off balance, she flew several feet before she hit the ground hard. She stopped face down beside a steaming, sulphur-scented pool. Arilyn scrambled to her feet. If she had been hurt by the fall, the pain would come later.
The remaining pair of lizards, smelling blood, closed in. Arilyn faced them and crouched in a defensive stance, holding the moonblade before her in a two-handed grip. The sword glowed a brilliant blue in the gathering darkness, lighting the half-elf's grim face and reflecting the cold fire of her eyes. The monsters, expecting a wounded half-elf and an easy kill, fell back in surprise and fear. Taking advantage of their reaction, Arilyn advanced, raising the magic sword high.
A clatter of hooves distracted the lizard men. Brandishing his sword, Danilo Thann rode his dainty chestnut mare in tight circles around the creatures and the half-elf, his blade prodding and teasing as he harried the monsters, as if trying to draw their attention away from Arilyn.
What now? she thought in exasperation. The fool would get dizzy and fall off his horse before he managed to accomplish anything of value.
Roaring its annoyance, one of the creatures raised a length of rusty chain and tried to swat away the pesky human. Its first blow knocked the sword from Danilo's hand, and with a triumphant snarl the creature started whirling the chain, preparing to launch the weapon at the nobleman.
Arilyn pulled a knife from her boot and hurled it into the creature's open, snarling mouth. With a strangled gurgle, the beast stopped dead. The chain kept whirling, however, wrapping itself around the lizard man's arm with a cracking of bone. To Arilyn's surprise the monster merely spat blood and switched its weapon to its other hand.
Danilo's wild ride brought him too close to the axe-wielding brown lizard. The monster hoisted his weapon and swung, slashing the nobleman's silk sleeve from elbow to wrist and drawing blood.
Danilo galloped several yards away, then reined in his horse and regarded his ruined garment with dismay. He jabbed a finger at the lizards. "That's it. Now I'm angry," he informed them. The lizard men roared and continued to lumber toward Danilo, chain and axe raised for the kill.
"When in doubt, run," Danilo announced to the marsh at large. He wheeled his horse around and headed to the north. The lizard men fell in behind him.
"Oh, no you don't," Arilyn shouted at the monsters. For lack of another weapon to hurl, she snatched up a stone and threw it. "Stand and fight, you overgrown sacks of shoe leather!"
The missile struck the axe-wielding lizard man in the back of the head. Bellowing its fury, it threw its weapon aside and thundered back toward Arilyn. The beast lunged forward in an elemental frenzy, its fangs bared. Arilyn stood her ground until the last moment, then she dove to one side and rolled safely away. The charging lizard's jaws closed on air, and the monster skidded to a stop, arms windmilling wildly as it struggled to maintain its balance.
Arilyn came in low and sliced the lizard man cleanly across its throat. The beast crashed nose-first into the ground. With a brief nod of satisfaction, the half-elf headed off at a run in the direction of Danilo and the final foe. She easily overtook the wounded and slow-moving beast, and stomped hard on its tail to distract it from its overdressed prey.
With an incongruous squeak, the lizard spun around. Ignoring Arilyn, it dropped its chain weapon and gathered up its tail and draped it over its wounded arm, gazing mournfully down at the tip and emitting pitiful, chirruping whimpers. Involuntarily, Arilyn's sword arm lowered.
Suddenly the beast stiffened. It hissed, gurgled, and slumped twitching to the earth. A sword protruded from its neck at a hideous angle.
Behind the fallen lizard man stood Danilo Thann. Not bothering to advertise his intent, the dandy had quietly skewered the monster through the back of the neck. Arilyn felt a sudden and unreasonable flash of anger. "Where are the goblins?" she demanded, thinking it better to vent her rage on them than on her hostage.
Danilo pointed. To Arilyn's surprise, all six members of the goblin hunting party lay in a bloody pile.
Breathing heavily, she held the moonblade up before her. Its light was almost gone, a sure sign that the danger was past and the battle over. She sheathed the weapon and turned to the nobleman. For a long moment they regarded each other silently over the dead body of the brown lizard man. "You had to kill him like that?"
Danilo recoiled, blinking in surprise. "Whatever are you talking about? Him who? There's a lot of dead 'hims' out here to choose from, you know. A few 'hers' too, I would imagine, although I'm no expert on lizard anatomy."
Arilyn raked one hand through her sweat-soaked black curls. "Forget it. Where's my horse?"
"She won't be far away," Danilo said. He placed one boot gingerly on the brown scales of the lizard man and yanked out his sword. After fastidiously wiping it clean on a clump of marsh grass, Danilo took the reins of his mare and went in search of the other mount. Arilyn trudged after him.
They hadn't far to go, for Arilyn's horse milled just inside the walls of the ruined keep. Danilo produced some sugar lumps from his magic sack, and coaxed the mare to him. The horse sniffed, then its rubbery lips folded around the sugar in Danilo's outstretched palm. The dandy smiled and scratched the white star on the horse's forehead. "The sugar should sweeten your temper a tad, my pretty," he said. The horse nickered softly and nudged at Danilo with her muzzle.
"It worked!" he said. He cast a speculative look at Arilyn, then with a sly smile he offered her a sugar lump.
Arilyn blinked, her mouth dropping open in astonishment. Then her worn face lit up unexpectedly and she laughed.
"I shall accept that as an apology," Danilo stated, an expression of delight flooding his face as he surveyed the loveliness of her usually stern visage. "Quite a fight, eh?"
His frank admiration disconcerted her, and his casual approach to battle defied her perception of him. Danilo Thann was not quite the helpless, shallow dandy he appeared. He was dangerous, in more ways than one. Arilyn's smile faded, and her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"The goblins are dead," she observed.
Danilo quirked an eyebrow as he surveyed the carnage around them. "You have a firm grasp on the obvious."
"How?" she persisted, ignoring his teasing.
He shrugged lightly. "You know goblins. They're always fighting among themselves and . . ."
"Enough!" Arilyn snapped, rounding on him. "I am not a fool. I do not enjoy being treated like one."
"You get used to it," Danilo interjected mildly as he adjusted the angle of his hat.
"To which, no doubt, you can attest," she noted with asperity. "Whatever else you may be, though, you can fight. Where did you learn to fight goblins?"
He grinned disarmingly. "I have five older brothers."
"Very amusing," she said dryly, crossing her arms over her chest as she studied the man. "That is not enough to explain your skill or your confidence in battle."
"All right then, would you believe six brothers?"
Arilyn's shoulders sagged in defeat. "This isn't getting me anywhere," she muttered to herself. She straightened and addressed the young man in a brisk tone. "All right. Your secrets are your own. You saved my life, and I owe you. You have more than earned your freedom."
From beneath the brim of his hat, Danilo gazed pointedly around the forbidding landscape. "How lovely," he drawled. "Now that I'm no longer strictly necessary to you, you no longer require my company. In compensation, I get to pass some time in the Marsh of Chelimber, taking in the sights, conversing with the natives. A bargain, by my eyes. Tell me, am I to undertake this suicidal journey on foot?"
"Of course not," she retorted. "You'll ride."
Danilo lay one hand on his chest, a dramatic gesture of gratitude. "Ah, the lady gifts me indeed—freedom that I could have taken for myself and one of my own steeds. They are my horses, by the way. Truly, I'm overwhelmed."
Arilyn gritted her teeth and silently counted to ten. With sorely tested patience she spelled out her intent: "At daybreak, we head south. Both of us. Once we find a merchant train, I'll leave you in their care. Now do you understand?"
"Ah. Thank you for the kind thought, but no."
Exasperated, the half-elf sank onto the ground and dropped her weary head into her hands. It would seem that the fop had something of the merchant in him after all; judging from his tone, he was prepared to barter like a Calimshite peddlar.
"I take it you have something else in mind?" she observed.
He sat down on a rock facing her, grimacing as he held his richly embroidered robe clear of the lizard blood that pooled on the ground near his feet. "As it happens, I do," he said lightly. "You."
Startled, she sat upright and eyed him with suspicion. "I beg your pardon?"
"Your company," he clarified. "From now on, we shall be partners and travel-mates."
Arilyn stared at the nobleman. Remarkable though it seemed, Danilo appeared to be serious. "That's impossible."
"Why?"
Leveling a stern look at Danilo, she said, "I work alone. I walk alone."
"Or so it is written in the stars," he intoned, gently mocking the stiffness of her tone.
Arilyn flushed and looked away. "I didn't mean to sound so pompous," she continued quietly. "I simply do not wish to travel with another."
"What have we been doing for the better part of two days?" he asked, then raised one hand to cut off the argument she had ready. "Yes, yes. I know. Escape, hostage, secrecy, that sort of thing. All that aside, you said you would keep me with you until you reached Waterdeep. Is the word of Arilyn Moonblade given with such fervor, but taken back so lightly?" He smiled at the angry flash that came to her eyes. "No, I thought not. Here it is, then: by your own words, you owe me. As payment for your life, I choose to stay with you, to Waterdeep and perhaps a while longer."
Arilyn massaged her aching temples as she tried to sort this through. "Why?"
"Why not?"
Arilyn's patience was thinning rapidly. "Why?" she demanded through clenched teeth.
"If the truth must be told, I'm a bit of an amateur bard. Well thought of in some circles, too, if I may say so."
"Eventually, this will have a point?" she asked wearily.
"Naturally. You heard me sing the Ballad of the Zhentish Raiders?" Danilo waited, his expression obviously courting praise. Arilyn's only response was a continued glare, so after a moment the dandy shrugged and continued.
"Yes. Well. This journey is turning out to be quite the adventure, isn't it? I've decided to seize the opportunity and write an original ballad about the Harper Assassin. The first! My fame will be assured! You'll feature largely in the tale, of course," he noted hastily and magnanimously. "Part of it is written already. Would you like to hear what I've got so far?" Without waiting for encouragement, Danilo cleared his throat and began to sing in his fine tenor voice some of the most strained verse Arilyn had ever heard.
Arilyn sat through two stanzas before drawing a knife and placing the tip at Danilo's larynx. "Sing another note," she said calmly, "and I'll carve that song from your throat."
Grimacing, Danilo took the blade between his thumb and forefinger and eased it away. "Merciful Milil! And I thought the critics in Waterdeep were harsh! What do you expect from someone who's merely a gifted amateur?"
"A straight answer would be nice," she suggested.
"All right then," he said bluntly, "I'm concerned about survival, plain and simple. I have no desire to be on my own, and you're as good a bodyguard as any I've seen. Frankly I doubt I'd be any safer traveling with a merchant caravan, so my present lot suits me just fine."
Arilyn considered the statement for a moment. His words rang true, and he looked as serious as his foolish countenance would probably allow. If he wanted protection, Arilyn acknowledged, she owed him that much. She thrust the blade back into her boot and gave in to the inevitable.
"All right," she conceded. "We ride hard and split the watch, the hunting, and the cooking. There'll be no chatter, no magic, and no singing."
"Anything," he agreed readily. "Get me safely to Waterdeep, my dear, and I'll even polish your weapons for you. By Tempus, they could use a good once-over." As he spoke, Danilo reached out to stroke the moonblade's ancient, tarnished sheath.
Immediately a spark of blue light lit the marsh. With a sharp oath, Danilo recoiled, jerking back his hand. He held up his index finger, regarding it with disbelief. The skin at the tip was blackened, blasted by the sword's magic.
"What did I do wrong? What prompted that thing to attack me?" he demanded. "Didn't you say it couldn't draw innocent blood? Oh, wait a minute—no blood. Forget the last question."
Keeping her eyes steady on Danilo and her voice level, she added, "There will be one more condition to this 'partnership.' You must never touch that sword again."
Sucking on the offended digit, Danilo nodded avidly. "That goes without saying."
The half-elf abruptly rose to her feet and swung herself up into the saddle. "Let's go."
"Shouldn't we tend to our wounds first?" Danilo asked, eyeing Arilyn's torn and bloodied shirt with concern.
She looked down at him with disbelief and disdain, assuming he referred to his finger. "You'll live," she said flatly. "Just be thankful you didn't try to draw the sword."
"Oh? What would have happened? And how do you keep it from doing that to you?" he asked as he rose to his feet.
Arilyn swore silently. No one had ever touched the moonblade without her permission. Why had she let her guard down now?
"Well?" he prompted.
"Night has fallen," she said in a tight voice. "You may have noticed that we are still in the Marsh of Chelimber. Would you rather ride out of here, or talk?"
"Can't we do both?"
"No."
The dandy gave a resigned shrug and mounted his horse. "I suppose we'll hunt for supper sometime soon?"
"Your turn to hunt." Arilyn pressed her heels to her horse's sides and headed westward out of Chelimber.
Danilo fell in beside her. He cocked his head and asked in a tentative voice, "Have you ever eaten lizard? I hear it tastes a little like chicken."
Thoroughly appalled, Arilyn twisted in her saddle to level an icy glare at the dandy. "If I thought you were serious, I'd leave you in the marsh."
"I'll hunt!" he said hastily. "Really!"
The pair rode in silence until they'd left the marsh behind. As the foul-smelling mists faded, the ground firmed beneath the horses' hooves. Stars began to twinkle, forming the autumn constellations that had been Arilyn's friends since childhood: Correlian, Esetar, and the Shard of Selune. Still far in the distance, a few trees formed dim silhouettes against the night sky. Trees, Arilyn thought with a silent sigh of relief. Trees were a sure sign that Chelimber was no more than a memory. Never had she been so glad to see trees. From deep within her elven soul welled a prayer of thanks, a silent song of welcome to the stars and the forest.
"I say," Danilo blurted out, "how far is it to Waterdeep?"
Arilyn's private joy evaporated like dew at highsun. "Too far."
Dark though the night was, Arilyn's elven vision took in the dandy's uncertain smile. "Have I been insulted, or is it just my imagination?"
"Yes."
"Yes, it's just my imagination?"
"No."
"Oh."
The exchange silenced Danilo. Arilyn urged her horse forward, intending to make camp at the stream that lay just beyond the far bank of trees.
They ate well that night, for a couple of plump rabbits inexplicably wandered into Danilo's snares. He swore roundly that skill, not magic, had been employed in the hunt. Arilyn did not believe him for a moment, but she was too tired and hungry to argue. Danilo even dressed and roasted the rabbits, seasoning them with the herbs and wine his magic sack yielded. The result was surprisingly good, and the travelers ate the greasy, savory meat in silence. Finally they slept, watched over by the vigilant magic of the moonblade. When daybreak came, Arilyn set their course for Waterdeep.

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