When the delicate maiden in the red cloak followed him, even more eyebrows rose. She wore her cowl low, but the tip of her angular, bronze chin could be seen beneath a pair of thin lips. Cythara inflamed more than a few bodies that day, striding by, oblivious to all and above it.
Yldar guided Cythara to a table in the corner, where she sat haltingly. She did not possess the robust vitality of her brother.
"Are you sure this is the right place?" she asked in Elvish.
"We could have stayed at the Axe and Hammer, but dwarves staff the place," said Yldar with a scowl. "Nor did I like the price at the Wyvern's Pipe. I shall see to refreshments."
"Remember why we are here. No duels."
Yldar gave his sister a roguish smile. "I would not think of it."
They both knew the truth of that assertion.
Yldar left to get tea and mead. Cythara leaned back against the wood paneling and blew out a long sigh.
She did not resent her brother, but neither did she enjoy having to rely upon his strength. In body, Cythara was sickly and weak, but in mind and will… One look in her cold, strangely red eyes told anyone to think twice before crossing her.
Anyone, that is, except the burly Marthul, who apparently wasn't looking quite high enough to meet her gaze.
Marthul was an impressive man in the way a wild boar is impressive. Few would guess it, but a shrewd-enough mind lay behind his scarred and craggy visage, one that should have seen the danger inherent in his chosen course. But done in by rotgut as he was-Marthul being possessed of a strong consititution, but not a dwarfs stomach-the big man saw only a lithe body in desperate need of his brand of companionship. He flopped into the seat beside her.
All the while, a pair of glittery pale eyes watched from the smoky end of the bar, and it was this searching gaze that drew Cythara's attention. She could not make out the face.
"Well met, me pretty lass," Marthul slurred. "Ye here alone?"
"Six heartbeats," Cythara said without looking. "Wha-?"
"Six heartbeats to retract your offer and be gone." Dark magic flared behind her haunting eyes. "Four now." "Ay, is that any-"
"Two." Under the table, her fingers twitched in a spell.
"Now hold-"
"One."
He felt a chilling jolt as an unseen black ray struck his knee. "Ye little…"
Marthul's words trailed off and he grasped at his throat. His dusky skin turned gray and his eyes rolled up in their sockets. All eyes in the inn turned toward them, most looking out of faces rapt in horror.
Unable to breathe, Marthul waved vainly at the elf beside him. The life was slowly ebbing out of him as though some creature of the night leeched away his soul.
With her bronze hair and face, however, Cythara looked more like a creature of the day.
"This was your choice," she said, speaking in Elvish once more. Her voice was soft, as though the spell drained a bit of her vitality as well. She looked at Marthul for the first time, coldly. " hope 'tis all you expected."
Had Marthul been left in the grip of Cythara's slow, draining spell, he might well have stopped breathing and collapsed. However, to Cythara's chagrin-but not to her surprise-Yldar was there, seizing Marthul by the collar.
"Away from my sister, you damned, dirty ape-spawn," he growled.
Marthul wasn't about to argue. Neither did he resist- if indeed he could have-as Yldar twisted him over his shoulder and sent him tumbling into a game of cards at the next table. Marthul's bulk splintered the table and sent cards, coins, and players scattering.
Angry glares fell upon the sun elf then, but when Yldar drew his long sword with a flourish and sneered, those gazes passed by. Satisfied, the sun elf turned back to his sister.
As soon as his back was turned, a dozen blades snickered quietly out of well-oiled belt, boot, wrist, chest, neck, back, and even bodice and codpiece sheaths. There was a reason the inn was called the Splitskull. Oblivious, Yldar smiled fondly at his sister. Cythara saw the attackers coming and sucked in a breath.
Then a lithe figure stepped between Yldar and the throng of attackers. All eyes snapped to the newcomer, and just as quickly the blades slid away. Before Yldar even sensed something happening behind him, the Splitskull had gone back to a comfortable tranquility.
It was, after all, the Dragon Coast.
"Quite the throw," the newcomer said.
The sun elf turned, hand on his sword hilt, to find a mischievous smile waiting. Despite his touted inability to be impressed, Yldar stood blinking.
Shifting her weight from one foot to the other sensuously, the moon elf was easily the most beautiful maid he had ever seen-on par with the high nobles of Evermeet, even.
Her laughing eyes were pale, of indeterminate color that seemed to shift with the light. Standing against her pale skin, the raven hair falling to her waist in a loose cascade gleamed like the sky at midnight. She wore tight black breeches, a white tunic, and a gray vest with a half cape of dark scarlet silk that covered her left arm. Only one hand-the right, in a scarlet glove-was visible, perched on a slim hip.
Most significantly, though, she wore certainty and strength of will about her like a cloak. Her gaze unnerved Yldar even as it sent thrills down his spine, and her body… Well.
"Aye?" she said again. Yldar realized he had been staring. "See something that pleases?"
The sun elf flushed with indignation. "My thanks, lady," he said, speaking Elvish without thinking. "For the-"
At that moment, Marthul-who had recovered in the pause and drawn a twisted knife-roared and leaped at the pair. Yldar cursed and reached for his blade, but the maid did not blink. Her left hand shot out from beneath the cape.
There was a click, and Marthul roared. His wavy dagger clattered to the ground as he clutched at his hand-and the quarrel sticking through it.
Only then, in the midst of Marthul's curses, did the maid look back, along the line of her previously concealed hand crossbow, and flashed a wry smile. Marthul's face went ashen and he dashed out the door of the Splitskull, cursing.
Yldar blinked. She had moved too fast for him to see, much less react. He was starting to see reason behind her self-assured carriage.
If only he knew.
"My thanks again, and well met," he said in Elvish. " am Yldar Nathalan and this is my sister, Cythara, of the House of the Crescent Bow."
Cythara hissed at Yldar, but he was too absorbed in the maid to pay attention.
"Impressive-really," the moon elf said in Common, shrugging. "I am called Fox-at-Twilight." She held out her left, ungloved hand. As he disdained human customs, Yldar did not take it. "You can call me 'Light, if you wish."
"I do not," Yldar said. "You insult us with the tongue of animals?"
"So that's how you're playing it," Twilight muttered under her breath.
"You give us disrespect?" Yldar sniffed superciliously. His hand went to his sword hilt.
Twilight raised one brow. "Quite the temper," she observed. A short rapier engraved with a weathered, asymmetrical star hung at her waist. "A duel? That's one way to catch a maid's eye."
Cythara reached out and caught Yldar's arm, but her eyes never left Twilight. "Your help was neither solicited nor desired," she said. "Begone."
"Well met to you as well, your Highnesses," came the reply in the common tongue, perking every ear in the room. Twilight smiled as Yldar and Cythara's eyes nearly popped. She added in Elvish, "And unless you'd like every cutpurse and cutthroat in the Splitskull visiting your table, I suggest you ease the censure."
Yldar balked. Cythara's eyes glittered dangerously.
"You know who we are?" Cythara hissed.
"The House of Nathalan is known to me," said Twilight. Her accent was odd-almost human in its sound, though Yldar heard a trace of Evermeet there. "Known for its wealth and prestige-enough to rival most dynasties ofFaerun, and to draw the attention of most of her sellswords-though I doubt anyone in Elversult has heard of you. Thus, 'Highness' it shall
be-If it please you, Highness." Her last words were loud enough to carry through the room.
Cythara scowled and hunched down, shutting her mouth.
"What do you want?" Yldar asked.
Twilight grinned. "Just a friendly chat-in Common," she said. "And if it becomes something more, well then. May I?" She gestured to Yldar's seat, and the sun elf winced. Twilight sat heavily. "Both hands on the table, your Highness."
Cythara, suppressing a frown, drummed her fingers on the wooden surface to show that she was casting no spells.
Satisfied, Twilight turned to Yldar. "Buying a lass a drink? My lord, you're too kind."
Fuming, Yldar waved over the barmaid, who approached the table hesitantly.
"Your best feywine," Twilight said. They sat in silence until the drink came. Twilight downed it in one go and waved for another.
"What shall we talk about?" Yldar asked.
"Tell me why you're here," she said. "I don't see many of the People in the Splitskull, after all-Well, few enough cousins of Queen Amlauril, anyway."
"Yldar…" Cythara warned.
"No choice, Cyth." He turned back to Twilight. "We are looking for something."
Twilight accepted her second glass from the barmaid and teased the liquid close to her rosy lips. "We're most of us looking for something, and for those of us who aren't, it's someone," the rogue said. "Anything in particular? Anyone, mayhap?"
Yldar bit his lip, and Twilight rolled her eyes.
"Come now, Lord Nathalan-don't be coy. It's not like you suns."
"Very well," Yldar said. "What if I were to tell you we were searching for a certain powerful elven artifact, which we've traced from the ruins of Ascalhorn southeast along trade routes, through the hands of adventurers, and is now somewhere, we believe, along the Dragon Coast, if not in Elversult itself?"
Twilight shrugged in a "so-it-goes" way. "Why, is it something you're likely to say any time soon?"
Yldar bit his lip. "We seek… Ynloeth's Bracer."
Silence. Twilight's eyes flickered, like the glinting of coins. There it was.
Ynloeth was not a name known to many in Faerun, but most elf children knew the ancient story of Coronal Ynloeth of Shantel Othreier, a hero of the Crown Wars that had split the elf race asunder. And all who knew his name remembered the legend of his shattering swords, upon which he had called to slay a thousand foes in a heartbeat of destructive fury. Legendary, too, was that the power of the blades destroyed its wielder-unless he had the Bracer's protection.
"I see," Twilight finally said. From her blank expression, one would assume she cared little for legend or history- one would assume.
"The Bracer is a priceless relic of antiquity, just as are Ynloeth's shattering swords," Cythara said with a scowl, stubbornly holding to Elvish.
Tve always been intrigued by the concept of'priceless'," Twilight said. "Well, mayhap we can be of some use to one another."
"What possible use can you serve?" Yldar scoffed. He wished his arrogant words held more of the heat he intended. They were more of a defense, a front for uncertainty. "A nameless, landless rogue, who speaks with the tongue of apes? Ha!"
If his pride rankled Twilight, she made no sign. "Two uses," she said, brushing a raven lock out of her eyes. "For the first, I'm good at acquiring things."
"You are a thief" Cythara whispered.
"In a word, and not that of men, it seems." Twilight inclined her head. "Though I am more a thief in the Common sense, my lady, than in the Elvish."
"No," said Cythara, finally relenting. "You have taken my bracelet."
"Oh, yes." Twilight grinned sheepishly and put a gold bracelet with twin rubies on the table. Cythara snatched it back.
"My apologies," Twilight said. " 'Tis a poor practice to steal from one's associates."
"Associates?" Yldar asked.
"Oh, aye-number two," Twilight said. "You're looking for the Bracer. I know who has it." She met his gaze demurely, but her eyes flickered with something more. "You and I are meant for each other, Prince."
Yldar wasn't certain whether he should be outraged or excited, indignant or accepting, but one thing was sure: his heart had definitely started beating faster.
"Now, if your Highnesses will excuse me," Twilight said.
She rose, and Yldar's heart leaped. "Wherefore do you go?" he asked.
Twilight gave him a little sly smile. "Why, to talk to the shadowy, mysterious man sitting in the corner, who will either harm or help," she said. "Meet me here for evening meal. I shall have a plan for you then."
"How do you know there is such a man," asked Cythara, "without looking?"
"In a place like this? There always is." And with that, she was gone, leaving Cythara and Yldar to stare at one another, then after her, wordless.
And sure enough, there was a man skulking in the shadows they had not noticed before-one who saw Twilight coming, stifled a curse, and rose to flee. Not to be deterred, Twilight angled to follow him into a backroom hidden behind a tapestry of a boar hunt.
None of the three elves realized that a certain scowling, pained face-this man not so shadowy or mysterious, merely prudent-was listening at the window and had heard every word.
Cursing and clutching his hand, Marthul left the window of the Splitskull and made his way up Temple Hill. His spying mission complete, even if it had suffered a setback, he extricated himself from the elves' proximity as quickly as possible, elbowing his way through the streets, heedless of anyone who might be trailing him.
He would get his revenge, and he knew right where to go.
Upon arriving at the gates of the struggling House of Coins-the temple of Waukeen, Lady of Merchants- Marthul detoured down a dark alley and paused beside a pile of refuse. Services had ended within-turnout was low with the goddess's strange absence, which had lasted since the Godswar-and the place seemed empty.
Marthul knew better. He felt along the wall until he found it-a small hole, something that would seem little more than a nick to a curious street urchin.
He took off his gold coin necklace and twisted the ornament in two, revealing a jagged key. This he inserted in the hole, and a door appeared in the wall, surrounded by black light that only his initiated eyes could see. Marthul smiled and went through the yawning portal, which closed behind him like a mouth.
Appropriate that the missing goddess's ailing temple hid a thriving temple devoted to her captor.
As he descended the long tunnel, Marthul let delicious darkness enfold him and breathed deeply. The lingering scent of blood, sweat, incense, spoiled meat, and the rituals of their demon lord tainted the air. The steps led to an anteroom outside the altar chamber, where a ritual was being prepared for that very night.
In order to heighten his experience, Marthul had meant to consume quite a few drinks during his spying mission, but the gods had frowned. Perhaps he would enjoy it anyway-he hoped the victim would be a pretty lass again. Criminal, streetwalker, or barmaid, it mattered little to the cultists, but Marthul always preferred the innocent ones.
"Slaveling Marthul," came a chilling, feminine voice in the anteroom shadows.
A chill ran down his spine and he turned to see a voluptuous woman in a black cloak-and, clearly, nothing else-searching him with a pair of red eyes.
"Chosen Leis'anna," he murmured, bowing. "Blessings of our Prince be upon-"
"They already are," the woman said, flashing her long, daggerlike teeth. As always when he met her gaze, Marthul's head pounded and everything went blurry. "You are late."
"Trouble at the Splitskull," he said.
Something about his tone gave it away-or mayhap the feral-faced Chosen could indeed read minds. Leis'anna frowned, her face that of a displeased lioness. "I sent you to spy upon the seekers of the Bracer, not to spark a duel with them," she said.
"Well, me apologies," he spat.
Marthul moved to stomp off, but she seized his arm. Her great strength belied her soft frame, startling him. More surpr
ising, though, her touch felt soft, comforting.
"There is more," she said. "Speak." The words carried a subtle compulsion.
Marthul realized he should have refused, but her touch… The seductive magic there, reaching into his soul and laying claim to it, made such a thing impossible. Her face seemed strangely feline then, and her eyes swam with black. He fell deep into those pools and sank as a man who does not realize he is drowning until darkness surrounds him.
Marthul could no longer control himself. He told her everything-about the elves who had come to town, about the black-haired elf, and about the Bracer of Ynloeth.
Leis'anna's eyes flashed at that, and she smiled. Marthul felt himself freed, though the muddiness in his head was still there.
"The Fox has once more involved herself," she said. "Interesting." She traced soft fingers down Marthul's cheek. "Our agreement with her still stands, I believe."
She fixed Marthul with her discerning stare again. He realized that a crowd of cultists had formed around them-faceless figures in black cloaks.
Leis'anna seemed to tower over him. "We are, though, displeased you introduced them all. Steps must be taken."
"That… that wasn't what I… I didn't mean…" He began feeling sleepy.
"Oh, I realize that, child," Leis'anna said. "I simply do not care. Nor does Lord Graz'zt, for that matter."
As darkness claimed him, Marthul grew aware of a noise issuing from deep within her throat-something like purring.
And when he woke again, he was on the altar of the demon lord.
— O The Splitskull kept a room hidden behind a tapestry for private meetings, business or pleasure-the kind of encounters the watch just didn't need to know about. At the moment, there were perhaps a dozen appropriately secluded individuals sitting around half as many tables, taking part in just those sorts of consultations.
The cloaked man ducked into the chamber, and shed his cloak, tossing it in a corner. Underneath, he was unwashed, pot-bellied, and anything but mysterious. A dozen eyes shifted his way, and moved away just as quickly.
The retreat had been prepared for him, with a tankard of small beer, a bowl of mutton stew, and a chunk of hard bread awaiting at a table. He slid into the chair across from the wall and fell to eating as though he had long been there.
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