The Dream Spheres

by Elaine Cunningham

  "If you say the danger is too great, then it must be so." Isabeau tucked herself under the man's arm. "You would not leave me here alone, surely?"

  "I will see you safely to Sail Street, then I must be on my way," he said grandly. "Certain matters cannot await the light of day." His tone hinted at clandestine meetings, honor challenges, maidens languishing in prison towers.

  Lilly lifted a hand to her lips to keep her smirk from bubbling into laughter.

  Isabeau nodded, then produced a small silver flask from the folds of her skirts. "As you say. Let us at least share a last drink?"

  The nobleman accepted the flask and tipped it up, and together they walked beyond the range of Lilly's vision. The thief waited until all was silent. Then she ventured out, creeping stealthily toward the main street.

  She almost stepped on Maurice. He lay sprawled at the end of the alley, face down, just beyond the reach of the lamplight's dim circle. His fine clothing was stained with strong-smelling spirits, but Lilly doubted he had succumbed to drink. She cautiously stooped and touched her fingers to the nobleman's neck. A thin but steady pulse leaped beneath her fingers. Curious, she smoothed her hand back through the man's hair and inquired around for an explanation to his current state. A small knot was forming at the base of his skull. He would awaken with a fierce headache—and, of course, without his purse.

  Lilly rose to her feet, angry now Noble or common, no decent woman turned tail and ran at the first sign of danger, leaving a friend alone! Why, the spoiled trollop hadn't even taken the trouble to raise an alarm!

  She silently padded into the lamplight and scanned the streets for a sign of the fleeing Isabeau. A flash of red disappeared into a nearby alley. Lilly set her jaw and followed. Though she rarely plucked female pigeons, this woman was the most deserving mark Lilly had seen in a month of tendays.

  Following the noblewoman was easy enough. Not once did Isabeau look back, so intent was she upon the faint rumble of a carriage approaching the end of the alley. Lilly caught up to her near the midpoint and glided silently up behind. She noted the deep pocket attached to the woman's bejeweled girdle: a large, smooth sack of the same deep crimson as Isabeau's gown, and devised in such a way that it blended into the skirt's folds.

  A canny design, Lilly thought. Even though the pocket was full and heavy, a lesser thief might not have seen it at all. She sliced the strings, her touch as light as a ghost's, and then fell back into the shadows to count her booty.

  Her eyes widened as she opened the sack. Inside it nestled the richly embroidered coin purse recently worn by the unfortunate Maurice.

  "You are good," intoned that dark and sultry voice, "but I am better."

  Lilly's gaze jerked up from the twice-stolen coins into the cold, level stare of her noble "pigeon." Before Lilly could react, Lady Isabeau's jeweled hands shot forward. The noblewoman seized the bag with one hand and dug the fingers of the other under Lilly's shawl and into her hair. She yanked Lilly's head forward and down, bringing the coin-filled bag up to meet it with painful force.

  Lilly went reeling back, bereft of the purse and, judging from the burning in her scalp, at least one lock of her hair. She thumped painfully against the alley wall.

  Blinking away stars, Lilly pushed herself off the wall, drew a knife, and charged. Isabeau set her feet wide and swung the heavy silk bag like a flail.

  There was no time for evasion. Lilly slashed forward in what was half parry, half attack. She missed the woman altogether but managed to slice the dangerous bag open. Coins scattered with a satisfying clatter, but the bag was still heavy enough when it hit her to send her stumbling back. Her knife flew off and fell among Isabeau's scattered booty.

  Hissing like an angry cat, Isabeau pounced, her hands hooked into raking claws. Lilly seized her wrists and held on, dodging this way and that as she sought to keep her eyes beyond reach of those flailing hands.

  Together they circled and dipped—a grim, deadly parody of dance that mocked Lilly's still-bright dream. So frantic was their struggle, and so painfully poignant her memories, that Lilly did not realize her shawl had fallen off until she caught her foot in the fringe.

  A small stumble, a moment's hesitation, was all that Isabeau needed. The noblewoman wrenched her hands free and fisted them in Lilly's hair. Down they went in a tangle of skirts, rolling wildly as they scratched and tugged and pummeled and bit.

  Through it all, Isabeau was eerily silent. Lilly would have expected a pampered noblewoman to scream like a banshee over such treatment, not realizing that in this part of town the sounds of her distress could bring worse trouble upon her. Apparently this woman was more familiar with the ways of the streets than her appearance suggested.

  Still, Lilly knew a few tricks that this overdressed pickpocket did not. Years of fighting off persistent tavern patrons had left her as hard to hold as a trout— she would wager that not even the elf lord's gladiators could pin her if she were determined to wriggle free. Though she was smaller than Isabeau and lighter by at least a stone, the battle slowly began to turn her way.

  Finally she managed to straddle the woman and pin her arms to her sides. Her captive, looking outraged and furious but still holding her preternatural silence, twisted and bucked beneath her like an unbroken mare.

  Lilly sucked air in long, ragged gasps and prepared to hang on until the sun rose or her foe conceded. Not even for Peg's sake would she have placed a wager on which might come first.

  Isabeau's struggles dwindled, then stopped abruptly as her eyes focused on something beyond the alley. Suspecting the oldest trick known to street urchins, Lilly merely tightened her grip.

  After a moment it occurred to her that the expression in the noblewoman's dark eyes was not cunning but naked avarice. Lilly hazarded a glance toward whatever had captured Isabeau's interest.

  A lone man approached the lamp, glancing furtively up and down the street as he went. He was a big man, heavily bearded, well but not richly dressed.

  "Not a nobleman," Isabeau assessed in a low voice. "A trusted servant, running an errand. At this hour, and in this place, surely the errand lies outside the law."

  Before she could think better of it, Lilly added, "He has not yet completed this errand. He is looking for someone."

  Isabeau slanted a look up at her captor. "Well said. That means he will still be carrying payment."

  "Most likely."

  They were silent for a moment. "We could split it," Isabeau suggested.

  "Aye, that we could," Lilly scoffed softly. "An easy thing it will be for the two of us to separate that large and earnest fellow from his master's money! You'll forgive me for saying this, but you're not much of a hand at fighting."

  Isabeau shrugged as well as she could under the circumstances. "No matter. I can always find someone to do my fighting for me."

  "Oh, and that would be me, I suppose?"

  "Am I a fool to waste such talent?" retorted Isabeau. "You have good hands and quiet feet. I'll distract this pigeon, and you pluck him."

  Strange words from a woman clad in silk and jewels. Lilly sat back on her heels and let out a soft, incredulous chuckle. "Who are you?" she demanded.

  "Isabeau Thione, bastard daughter of the Lady Lucia Thione of Tethyr," the woman said in a haughty, self-mocking tone, naming a branch of a royal family so infamous that even Lilly had heard of them. The noblewoman grinned wickedly and added, "Until recently, known only as Sofia, tavern wench and pickpocket. I'm new in Waterdeep and looking to do well, any way I can."

  A tavern wench, and a thief of noble birth! These words, this dual identity, struck a deep, poignant chord in Lilly's heart.

  Weren't they much akin, the two of them? Yet Isabeau, with her jewels and silks and the open court paid her by fancy gentlemen, had achieved what she, Lilly, had experienced only in dreams. Perhaps she could learn how the woman had wrought this marvel.

  Another, even more enticing possibility danced into her whirling thoughts. Was it possible that th
e Dreamspheres that both enchanted and tormented her were not an impossible dream but an augury into a possible future? There was great magic in the Dreamspheres— Lilly had felt this power in ways she could not understand or explain. Perhaps it was no coincidence that two misbegotten thieves had crossed paths this night.

  Lilly slowly eased her grip and backed away. The two women rose to their feet and began to smooth their wrinkled skirts and wild hair. "If we're to do this, we must move fast," Lilly said.

  Her fellow thief smiled so that her eyes narrowed like a hunting cat's. "Partners, then. What do I call you?"

  She gave the only name to which she was legally entitled. One word, nothing more. No family or rank, history or future. It had always pained her that her name was the sort that might be casually bestowed upon a white mare or a favorite lap cat.

  The noblewoman seemed of like opinion. "Lilly?" she repeated, lifting one dark brow in a supercilious arch.

  Lilly was of no mind to hear her shortcomings from the lips of this woman. The sneer on Isabeau's lovely face prompted Lilly to give voice, for the first time in her life, to her deepest, most treasured secret.

  She lifted her chin in an approximation of a noblewoman's hauteur and added, "That would be Lilly Thann."

  Summer was rapidly fading into memory. In the skies over Waterdeep, the stars winking into view were the first heralds of the wintertime constellations: Auril Frostqueen, White Dragon, the Elfmaid's Tears. Beautiful were these fey and fanciful star patterns, but few inhabitants of the great city took note of them, dazzled as they were by splendors closer to ground.

  But the young nobleman hurrying down the shadowed streets was oblivious not only to the stars, but the city, the crowds, and everything else but the prospect of the meeting before him. The image of a half-elven woman was bright in his mind's eye, almost bright enough to bridge the darkness of the many long months apart.

  Almost bright enough to eclipse his soul-deep resentment over the source of their many partings.

  Danilo Thann thrust aside these thoughts. What part had they in such a night as this? Arilyn had returned to the city, as she had promised, in time for the Gemstone Ball-the first in the season of harvest festivals. Doggedly he pushed from his mind the last two such events

  he had attended without her: markers of two more summers gone, reminders of promises as yet unfulfilled.

  The room Arilyn kept for her infrequent visits to the city was in the South Ward, a working-class part of town, on the third floor of an old stone building that in better days had been home to some guildsman who'd since fallen out of fortune. Danilo shifted the large package he carried, tucking it under one arm so that he could tug open the oversized door.

  He stepped into the front hall and nodded a greeting toward the curtained alcove on his left. The only response was a grunt from the hidden guard who kept watch there—an aging dwarf whose square, spotted hands were still steady on a crossbow.

  Danilo took the stairs three at a time. The door to Arilyn's room was locked and warded with magic that he himself had put in place. He dispatched the locks and the guardian magic, silently, but with more haste and less finesse than he usually employed. He eased the door open and found, to his surprise, that Arilyn was still sound asleep.

  For a moment it was enough simply to stand and watch. Danilo had long taken comfort in watching Arilyn at rest and had spent many quiet hours doing so during the time they had traveled together in the service of the Harpers. Only half-elven, she found repose in human sleep rather than the deep, wakeful reverie of her elven forebears. It was a small thing, perhaps, but to Danilo's thinking Arilyn's need for sleep was a common link between them, one she could neither deny nor alter.

  Danilo studied the half-elf, marking all the small changes that the summer had brought. Her black hair had grown longer, and the wild curls tumbled loose over her pillow. Though it hardly seemed possible, she was even thinner than she had been when they last parted on the road north from Baldur's Gate. Asleep, she looked as pale as porcelain and nearly as fragile. Danilo's lips

  curved in an ironic smile as his gaze shifted to the sheathed sword beside her.

  Resentment akin to hatred filled Danilo's heart as he contemplated the moonblade, a magical sword that had brought them together-and torn them apart.

  At the moment the moonblade was dark, its magic mercifully silent. No telltale green light limned it, signaling yet another call from the forest elves.

  Danilo shook off his dark thoughts and slipped inside the room. With one fluid motion, he placed the wrapped package on the table and drew twin daggers from his belt.

  The soft hiss of steel roused the sleeping warrior. Arilyn came awake at full alert, lunging toward the sound almost the very instant her eyes snapped open. In her hand was a long, gleaming knife.

  Danilo stepped forward, daggers raised into a gleaming X. The half-elf's knife sent sparks into the deepening twilight as it slid along the dual edges. Though Arilyn deftly pulled her attack, for a long moment they stood nearly face to face—a lover's stance, albeit over crossed weapons.

  "Still sleeping with steel beneath your pillow, I see. It's comforting to know that some things never change," Danilo quipped as he sheathed his daggers. He regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. Even to his ears, the intended jest sounded stilted—a challenge, almost an accusation.

  Arilyn flung her knife onto the bed. "Damn it, Danilo! Why do you insist upon creeping up on me like that? It's a marvel you're still alive."

  "Yes, so I'm often told."

  The silence between them was long and not entirely comfortable. Arilyn suddenly seemed to remember her disheveled appearance. Her eyes widened, and her hands went to her tousled hair. "The Gemstone Ball. I don't even have a costume yet."

  He was absurdly pleased that she remembered and that she cared enough about his world to consider such matters. "If you like, we need not attend. After all, you've only just got back."

  "Late this afternoon," she agreed, "after a long trip, and the last two nights of it steady travel. You're expected, though, and I promised to be with you."

  She seemed to hear her words as he might, for her eyes grew dark with the awareness of other promises she had made, and not kept. She cleared her throat and nodded at the table. "What's in the package?"

  Danilo allowed himself to be distracted. "When word reached me that you were delayed on the road, I took the liberty of acquiring an appropriately gem-colored costume."

  "Ah. Let me guess: sapphire?"

  They exchanged a quick, cautious grin. In their early days together, when Danilo went to great pains to convince her and everyone else that he was a silly, shallow dandy, he composed a number of painfully trite odes comparing her eyes to these precious gems. To drive the knife a bit deeper, Arilyn lifted one brow and began to hum the melody to one of these early offerings.

  Her dry teasing shattered the restraint between them. Danilo chuckled and pantomimed a wince. "The best thing about old friends is that they know you well. Of course, that is also the worst thing about old friends."

  "Old friends," she repeated. The words were delivered in level tones, but they held a question. Was this what they were destined to be—old friends, and nothing more?

  Danilo had long sought an answer, and he thought he had finally found one that might avail. Arilyn's teasing comments made as good an opening as he could expect to get. Their lives might have changed, but one constant remained: the intense and often inexplicable love born on the day she had kidnapped him from a tavern. He

  ripped open the paper that bound the package and lifted from it a length of deep-blue velvet—a gown of exquisite simplicity, elf-crafted and rare.

  "Sapphire," he confirmed with a grin, "with gems to match. I'll spare you the song I prepared for the occasion."

  Arilyn chuckled and took the gown from his hands, then tossed it aside with the same casual disregard with which she had discarded the knife. Danilo opened his arms, and she came
into them. "I have missed you," she murmured against his chest.

  It was a rare admission from the taciturn half-elf. In fact, Danilo could count on his hands the times they had spoken of such matters since the night, four years ago, when they had planned to announce their betrothal at the Gemstone Ball. Events had forestalled this, rather dramatically, and had set their feet upon a path of deepening estrangement.

  That path, he vowed, was to end this night.

  He took her shoulders and held her out at arm's length. "Look further in the package. Look carefully at what you find, for you will never see it again so close at hand."

  Arilyn gave him a puzzled smile, then did as she was bid. Her eyes widened as she drew a black, veiled helm from the wrappings.

  "A Lord's Helm," she murmured, naming one of the magical artifacts that marked and concealed the Hidden Lords, men and women drawn from every walk of life to rule the city. Understanding flooded her face. "Yours?"

  Danilo nodded ruefully "An uneasy fit it has been. Khelben foisted it upon me four years ago. I would have told you long before this, but . . . "

  His voice trailed off. Arilyn gave a curt nod of understanding. It was common knowledge that the secret Lords told no one of their identity but the person they wed—and even that degree of confidence was frowned upon. Only Piergeiron the Paladinson, the First Lord of the city, was known by name.

  "Why do you tell me now?" She glanced over at the sapphire gown, and her face was clouded with memories of the pledge they had meant to speak at the Gemstone Ball four years ago.

  Danilo had been prepared for this reaction, but even so his heart ached to see it. "I am free to tell you now, for it is my intention to give the thing up," he said lightly. "There has been some trouble of late between the Harpers and some of Waterdeep's paladins. Lord Piergeiron, as one might anticipate, came out fervently on the side of righteousness. He was graciously willing— one might even say eager—to relieve me of this duty. Likewise, I have given notice to the redoubtable Khelben Arunsun that I have no intention of assuming his mantle as future protector of Blackstaff Tower."