The third bell after midnight sounded before Elaith had opportunity to open his safe box. It held the usual assortment of oddities-trinkets and trifles from far corners of Faerun. Elaith tossed them aside to get to the weapon he'd stolen from young Lord Melshimber. That, at least, had real value. The scabbard Melshimber had been waving around was of elfish design, and even the simplest elven blade was a joy to wield.
The weapon was a long sword, very old but well kept. Elaith lifted it and took a few practice cuts, pleased with the weapon's exceptional balance. The new leather wrappings on the hilt were clumsy, but those were easily removed-
Elaith froze, and the leather wrappings fell to the floor unheeded as he stared at the smooth, milky gem set into the sword's hilt. A mixture of wonder and sorrow suffused him as he realized that, for the second time in his life, he held a dormant moonblade.
He turned the blade over and studied the seven runes marking the shining length. He stroked them with tentative fingers, noting that they did not mar the smoothness of the blade; they were not carved into the metal, but seemed to gleam forth from the heart of the sword. He had not taken time to closely examine the Craulnober blade, so stunned had he been by the sword's rejection.
The elf set the moonblade carefully aside. Come morning, he would make arrangements for it to be sent to Evermeet. The swords that had a part in choosing the royal family were not for such as Elaith Craulnober.
Nor for likes of Camaroon Melshimber.
A wave of rage, pure and primal, swiftly followed this thought. The elf tossed aside his best sword and thrust the moonblade into its sheath. Snatching up his cloak, he stalked out into the cold autumn night.
It didn't take him long to find the Melshimber manor, and less time to bypass the magical wards on the ornate iron fence. Determining which bedchamber housed the drunken, snoring lordling needed only the sort of spell Elaith had learned in the royal nursery. His rage still burned white-hot when he dragged Camaroon Melshimber from his bed and flung him against the wall.
The elf drew the moonblade and leveled it at with deadly intent. He might not be worthy to wield a living blade, but elven law and tradition were clear on this matter. Anyone who knowingly used a dormant moonblade as a common sword, or in any other way deliberately dishonored it, was to be slain with that weapon in fair combat.
"Arm yourself," he snarled at the groggy, sputtering man.
Incredibly, a sly grin curved the young lord's lips, and he lifted one hand to preen his short black beard.
"Aha!" he crowed. "I knew you were keeping the trifles we brought in!"
Trifles!
"And this knowledge," Elaith inquired coldly, "is worth dying to possess?"
Young Melshimber's smirk faltered, then twisted into his usual arrogant expression. Even now, he considered himself untouchable.
Elaith drew his second sword and tossed it at the man, who reflexively grabbed for it. Elven steel flashed, and an expression of profound astonishment crossed the human's face as blood poured from his slashed throat. His mouth worked for a moment, but only a few choked, gurgling sounds emerged.
The elf waited until Melshimber was quite dead, then he carefully cleaned both weapons and tucked them into his belt. The next cut required a special black knife, one Elaith kept tucked into his left boot for just such occasions. He worked quickly, chanting softly as he carved a necromancer's rune into the man's forehead, an ugly mark that would prevent priest or wizard from inquiring into this man's death.
The sky was fading to smoky sapphire as Elaith left the Melshimber mansion. He had no fear of discovery; a tunnel led from the estate's buttery to a well house three streets over. Knowledge of these hidden byways was one of Elaith's most valuable treasures.
He quickly made his way south to one of the most lavish and secure of his Waterdeep properties, a gated estate in the Castle Ward, not far from Piergeiron's Palace. Therein was his greatest treasure of all: his daughter Azariah, his sole hope for the Craulnober clan's restored strength and reputation.
She was being raised on Evermeet as a ward of the royal court, but the recent attack on the island kingdom had left her shaken and grieving. Queen Amlaruil had urged Elaith to take his daughter for the winter to give her some time and distance.
Elaith found the child at her studies, sitting demurely at her tutor's side, an open book on her lap. Azariah was pretty child, tall for her age and as leggy as a young colt. She resembled her sun elf mother, a mistress whom Elaith had enjoyed and forgotten. But Azariah was his legal heir, and heir also to the Craulnober moonblade.
The sentient sword had rejected him once, choosing dormancy over an unworthy wielder. By the grace of the gods and the consent of his Craulnober ancestors, the moonblade had been awakened, but Elaith had no illusions about its destiny. It would never be his, nor should it be.
Nor did he expect Azariah to wield it. Never, not once in the long and brutal history of the moonblades, had a gold elf successfully claimed a sword. But a living moonblade brought honor the Craulnober house, and it would be an attractive dowry. In time, Azariah would wed a moon elf of high family, and if her children bred true, the most worthy among them would inherit the sword
"Here it is!" the child said triumphantly, stabbing the page with one slender finger. "The law was written by Evermeet's Council of Elders, during the second year of Lady Mylaerla Durothil's rule as High Councilor."
Elaith's eyebrows rose. This was a pastime more befitting a magistrar than a girl of eleven winters.
"An interesting choice, Delaritha," he said dryly, addressing the elven bard he'd employed to continue his daughter's harp studies. "I look forward to hearing that law set to music."
Two pairs of feminine eyes flashed to his face, holding identical wary expressions.
"Lady Azariah wishes to know more of her family moonblade," the bard explained.
"It is hers to hold in trust for her children. What more is there to know?"
The child rose to her feet, her face pale but determined. "When I come of age, I will claim the moonblade."
Elaith stared at her, too stunned to hide his astonishment. "What nonsense is this?"
"It is the law. It is my right," she whispered.
A strange and unwelcome insight struck him: little Azariah was not just his daughter, but her own person, with dreams and plans of her own. But so soon? Surely he could expect her to remain a malleable child for another decade or two?
"Have you learned nothing of the laws of nature?" he demanded. "Elves are not half this and half that. You are your mother's daughter, a gold elf. No gold elf has ever drawn a moonblade and lived."
"What of the Starym blade?" the child persisted.
Elaith sent the bard a look that should have slain her on the spot. "Have you been teaching her this nonsense, or is there someone else who should set her affairs in order before nightfall?"
The girl stepped between her father and her tutor-an oddly protective gesture for one so tiny-and dipped into a respectful curtsey. "The fault is mine. During the sea voyage I wished to learn more of the mainland. Another passenger lent me several chapbooks, most of them travel books written by a human named-"
"Volo," Elaith concluded flatly. "A wandering rogue who tells the truth only occasionally, and usually by accident. It's well that you remember that."
"I will," Azariah promised. "But is it not true that a half-elf inherited a blade? And she only fifteen winters at the time?"
The girl's small, pointed chin lifted proudly, and Elaith read in her face the words to come.
"Before you say anything about the worth of a half-breed compared to an elf of noble blood," he said softly, "you should know the moonfighter's mother was Amnestria of Evermeet, who was dear to me beyond measure. Her daughter, though half-elven, is a princess of the blood, and I will hear no word spoken against her."
"Yes, my lord," the girl said dutifully.
"Then let us have no more of this foolishness," he said sternly. "The matter
is finished."
The color drained from Azariah's face. She stood her ground, though, and placed one hand on the elven lore book as if to gain strength from its ancient laws.
"With respect, my lord," she whispered, "the moonblade is mine to claim, and none can deny me."
"She's right, you know," announced an amused voice behind them.
Elaith whirled, angry that someone had managed to slip up behind him. Tincheron leaned against the door post, a smirk sitting oddly on his reptilian face.
The half-dragon was his oldest friend and distant kin, but Elaith was in no mind to told inconvenient truths. "Haven't I troubles enough, without you adding to them?" he snapped.
The humor faded from Tincheron's face. "Azariah's ambition troubles you? But I thought…"
"Did you?" Elaith inquired acidly.
The half-dragon reached into the hall and dragged Oltennius Gondblessed into the doorway. "I had assumed," Tincheron said quietly, "that you were testing your daughter's resolve. That you had this very contingency in mind when you offered the Lantanna your patronage."
Understanding flooded Elaith, and his eyes widened in sudden appreciation of this new and wondrous possibility.
"Lady Azariah, may I present to you one Oltennius Gondblessed," Elaith said softly. "You will be working together for many mooncycles to come."
To his credit, Oltennius applied himself to his new task with great enthusiasm, working throughout the long winter to adjust his device to the magic of the Craulnober moonblade. Unlike many humans, he did not waste breath bemoaning the "unfairness" of the elven swords. Elaith was glad of this, for he had heard that tale told too many times. If some sages had their way, any "worthy soul" would be carrying a moonblade, be he sun elf or sea elf, or for that matter, a half-orc courtesan with a heart of gold and tusks to match.
By the time Fleetswake rolled around and the worst of the winter snows had past, Oltennius declared his device ready for testing.
This, Elaith had not foreseen.
"Testing?" he demanded. "How, exactly, do you propose to do that?"
"The sword must be drawn. If its magic cannot be altered, we'll know."
The elf's eyebrows rose. "Yes, it's rather difficult to miss the lesson presented by a blackened, smoking corpse. But let us return to this notion of testing. Have you given any thought to what will happen if the magic can be altered?"
It was Oltennius's turn to be puzzled. "Wasn't that the entire point?"
"Of course," Elaith said impatiently, "but obviously Azariah cannot be allowed to take this risk. Another must take the test, but what if he who first attempts to draw the sword claims it?"
The Lantanna considered this for a several moments. "Well, that is a bit of a conundrum, isn't it?"
The soft whisper of metal on wood drew Elaith's attention to the worktable where the Craulnober blade rested, carefully sheathed. What he saw there froze him for one heart-stopping moment.
Azariah had crept into the room, and she was slowly turning the metal scabbard so that she might take the hilt. The girl had heard them talking, and in her child's mind, one solution seemed clear: if her moonblade was ready to be drawn, it was ready for her.
She would die, that was a certainly. Even if the Lantanna's art proved effective-or even if Azariah herself might eventually prove worthy of a Moonblade-she was a child, and a child was far too fragile a vessel for such power. And since there were two living Craulnobers, the sword would slay an unfit wielder before it went dormant in the hands of the last in the clan.
All of this flashed through Elaith's mind in one fleeting, horror-struck instant. Then he let out a roar and exploded into action. He dived across the table, knocking the sword away from the child's grasping hands.
The sheath clattered to the floor and the naked sword spun on the table, blade slicing toward the wide-eyed child. Without thinking, Elaith seized the hilt.
Azure light surrounded him, and he stared in astonishment at the sword in his hand-the living sword-glowing with faint silvery light, marked with strange sigils that combined Espruar script with something that looked like draconic runes.
Numbly, Elaith conceded that this made sense. Some of the Craulnobers had been dragon riders-for that matter, he and Tincheron shared a common ancestor.
"Mine," implored Azariah, holding out her hands for the sword.
Anger rose in Elaith unbidden, darker and more powerful than any he had ever known. Foolish child! Even now, she had not the slightest understanding of the power she hoped to grasp!
He turned to give her a well-deserved scolding and found himself facing a tiny statue. Azariah stood wild-eyed and frozen, staring at him like a rabbit caught in a raptor's gaze.
Before Elaith could make sense of this, the clattering approaching of servants and guards, coming in swift response to their master's shout, suddenly stopped.
The elf turned toward the open door. In the hall beyond, a score of armed men stood like statues, as pale and terror-frozen as the child.
One of the figures shook himself and crept into the room, his scaly face both awestruck and wary. "Elaith? Cousin? Put the sword down before you kill them all," Tincheron said softly. "They're struck with a dragonfear, and a bad one at that."
But Elaith did not want to put aside the blade. It fit his hand so well, as if fashioned solely for his grasp. The dragonfear, too, was familiar-a natural extension of the rage that was his constant companion, hidden though it usually was by the fragile sheath of power, wealth, and dry wit.
The elf slowly turned toward the immobile Oltennius, whose plump face was frozen in an expression of that mingled terror and triumph. Oltennius Gondblessed had succeeded-and Elaith had failed once again.
With great difficulty, the elf sheathed his anger and dismissed the dragonfear it had summoned. When the Lantanna shook off the effects of the spell, Elaith drew his second sword and handed it to the human.
"Arm yourself," he said quietly, "and face the justice dealt to all those who dishonor the moonblade."
The deed was done quickly. Elaith pried the box-the achievement of a thousand years of ceaseless effort-from Oltennius Gondblessed's dead hand and hurled it against the far wall. The device shattered, showering the floor with splinters of wood and fragments of metal and wire.
Moonblade still in hand, Elaith turned toward Evermeet and waited to die. Of course he would die, for who had dishonored this sword more than he? He had sought to twist ancient elven magic to suit his own pride. Volo's tall tales, Melshimber's presumption-such things were but a mooncast shadow of his misdeeds.
Yes, even now the device's mysterious effect was fading. Elaith could feel the gathering power in the sword, the killing heat starting to sear his hands.
A strong, scaly hand settled on his shoulder, and Tincheron held out the metal scabbard. His golden eyes held entreaty. "Lord Craulnober," he said simply, but those words held a world of meaning: honor, responsibility, family.
Despair slipped away to some hidden place in Elaith's heart, where it would no doubt regroup with rage to plot their next return. Elaith slid the moonblade back into its sheath, where it would await its rightful wielder.
The half-dragon gently set the sheathed blade aside and gazed regretfully at the shattered device. "Was that truly a needed thing? What of the Craulnober moonblade, and the Lady Azariah?"
What indeed? Who could say, but the gods who had decreed this particular deadly game?
Elaith gave the child a reassuring smile. "When she comes of age," he said quietly, "she will take her chances."
TRIBUTE
In a time long past, many generations before men and elves raised a stone in the Dalelands to begin anew the reckoning of years, small bands of barbarians made themselves a home beside a deep water harbor. It was a good place, with fine hunting to be had in the surrounding meadows and forests. So many fish filled the seas that the water could hardly hold them all. Indeed, during each full moon of summer, small silver runchion wriggled ashore
to lay eggs in the sand. Gathering these swift and slippery fish was considered great sport, an occasion for merriment and song. No one enjoyed these moonlit hunts more than Sima, one of two daughters born to the village cooper.
Sima was a merry lass, round as a berry and brown as a wren. But her sister, Erlean, was tall and fair, with hair the color of red wheat, and it was Erlean who caught the eye of Brog the chieftain. Bitter were his tears when the lot for the dragon's tribute was cast, and a stone redder than red wheat fell nearest the altar of sacrifice.
In those days, the lands from sea to sea were ruled by dragons, and each summer they came to claim tribute: one maiden, slain upon an altar stone, and carried off to tempt the palate of some distant dragon king. Each year the chieftain cast a handful of stones at the altar: river pebbles of red and white, coal-black stone, lumps of golden amber in every shade from palest blond to brown. The will of the gods decided which stone came to rest closest to the altar. The maiden whose hair was closest in color to that unlucky stone became the summer sacrifice.
Not a single maid in the village, save for Erlean, could boast of hair the color of red wheat.
So fierce was the love of Brog the chieftain for Erlean that he would not give her up. With dark words and soft promises he won the village cooper to his cause. The day of the first full moon of summer, the night when runchions ran, Brog proclaimed a feast. It was an easy thing for the cooper to add to the mead herbs that would send the villagers into early slumber. All drank but Brog and the cooper, and when Sima slept, they rubbed berry juice into her hair until it was redder than red wheat, and they bound her to the altar stone.
The villagers awakened in full moonlight to the thunder of wings as two red dragons came for the tribute: a warrior wyrm known as Hysta'kiamarh and his mate, a priestess whose name was nothing a human tongue could shape. Fearsome they were, and great was Sima's fear when she found herself upon the altar in her sister's place.
"I am betrayed!" she shrieked. "I am not the chosen sacrifice! Another should die, and not me!"
The Stories of Elaine Cunningham Page 27