Outrage, cold and deep, filled the Harper as she slowly lowered the glass lid. It was not right for the noble elf woman to be part of some rich man’s “collection,” displayed as if she were just one more curious and beautiful object!
It would not always be so, Arilyn vowed as she slipped from the treasure rooms. She would return, and she would take the moonblade’s unknown wielder away to a more fitting rest. But this was not something she could do now, or alone.
Setting her jaw in a grim line, the Harper made her way back to the well and dove in.
The dwarf, it seemed, had been busy. The split and emptied shells of two giant crustaceans swirled through the churning water, and the contents had been hacked into bits the size of finger food. The surviving creatures were in a feeding frenzy and, by the look of things, would continue to eat well for days to come.
A glow of lingering heat drew Arilyn’s eye toward the bottom of the pool. There, its translucent carapace bulging and heaving with some internal conflict, was the largest-shelled monster Arilyn had yet seen, one large enough—and stupid enough—to swallow a live dwarf. The creature would have already died for its mistake had the dwarf not dropped his new dagger in the struggle. The Harper caught a glimpse of the jeweled weapon, which skittered about like a frantic squirrel as the crustacean’s many feet kicked it this way and that.
Arilyn pulled her knife from her sash and dove deeper. The monster did not notice her approach, for it was well and truly distracted by what was certainly the worse case of indigestion it had ever suffered. The giant crustacean whirled and twisted, occasionally toppling over and then scrambling upright again. Although the dwarf couldn’t last much longer without air, he was still putting up Nine Hells of a fight.
Arilyn drove the knife deep between two plates of the monster’s shell. Straddling the creature and gripping its shell with her knees, she began hacking her way through to the dwarf. As soon as she’d cut through the surprisingly tough and elastic stomach lining, he exploded upward.
Stubby legs and arms churning, the dwarf instinctively headed for air. Arilyn followed, quickly passing the much-slower swimmer and darting into the marked portal. She turned, seized a handful of beard and dragged the dwarf into the opening.
They shot up through the water-filled tunnel and bobbed to the surface. The dwarf grabbed a handhold on the blessedly dry rocks that littered the tunnel floor, and dragged in several long, ragged breaths. Arilyn crawled past him and rolled onto the rocky ground. For several moments she was content merely to lie there and wait for her pounding heart to resume its usual pace.
At length she noticed that the dwarf, who was still half submerged in the water, was regarding her with a baleful stare. “You pulled me beard,” he pointed out. “You shouldn’t ought to do that.”
“You’re welcome,” Arilyn returned pleasantly.
“That too,” he muttered. “Name’s Jill, by the way.
It was more thanks than the half-elf had expected, even without the introduction. Dwarves often declined to give any name, even one as abbreviated and obviously spurious as this. Arilyn rose to her feet and extended a hand to help drag her new friend out of the water.
“Jill?” she repeated in an incredulous tone.
“That’s right. Gotta problem with it?”
“Well, no. I was expecting something a bit … longer, I suppose. More earthy. And possibly masculine.”
“ ‘Twas me mother’s name,” the dwarf proclaimed in a reverent tone that left very little room for discussion.
There was one more thing on Arilyn’s mind, however. “Now that you’ve seen the treasure, I suppose you’ll be back for it?” It was a logical question, considering that dwarven people generally rivaled dragons in their love for hoarding treasure. Arilyn wanted to return to the treasure hold someday, and while the loss of a single tiara and one dwarven servant might go unremarked, the ravages caused by a band of dwarven looters would almost certainly ensure that her hard-won entrance to Assante’s palace would be ascertained and secured against future incursion.
But Jill merely huffed. “Been in that pink prison fer ten years. Don’t plan on going back, not ever. If’n there’s anything you want in there, elf, yer welcome to it. Just don’t git yerself caught. There ain’t nothing in there worth that.”
As he spoke, his eyes roved toward the east—and to the Starspire Mountains that were his home. Arilyn was inclined to believe him.
As they scrambled up the steep hill, she told him, briefly, what awaited them at the other side of the tunnel. The rapt expression on Jill’s face as he contemplated these wonders far outshone his treasure-inspired greed.
“I thought you were eager to be back under the Starspires,” Arilyn said. Even as she spoke, however, she slipped Jill a handful of silver coins. It would not do to have him pay Mistress Penelope’s girls with coins taken from Assante’s treasure trove.
The dwarf shrugged and pocketed his loot. “Been gone from those tunnels ten years, and I’m a-comin’ back with pockets full o’ treasure. Ain’t no one gonna begrudge me a coupla hours more, or ask me how I spent yer silvers!”
* * * * *
Lord Hhune held the tiara in his plump hands, eying it with satisfaction as he turned it this way and that.
“The relic of a long-gone age,” he breathed reverently. “This was the bridal crown of young Princess Lhayronna, who became queen to her cousin, King Alehandro III. A reminder that those who wear a crown must face the sword!” he said piously, quoting a common Tethyrian proverb.
A reminder that he himself was unlikely to heed, Arilyn noted in cynical silence. Lord Hhune was a powerful man in Zazesspur. Not only was he a wealthy merchant and head of the shipping guild, but he was also a member of the Lords’ Council, which carried out the edicts of Pasha Balik. It was therefore likely that he’d been part of the recent attempt to organize a guild takeover of the city. Arilyn might not have persisted in her furtive assault upon Assante’s stronghold, but for the prospect of meeting Lord Hhune face-to-face when the task was complete so that she might take his measure.
With each moment she spent in Hhune’s presence, Arilyn’s distrust of the man deepened. Rumor had it that this man had killed a red dragon. Arilyn was ready to accept that, provided that the dragon in question had still been in the egg at the time. Hhune was a large man, but he looked as if he spent more time downing pastries than wielding a sword. Even so, a less observant person might think him distinguished, even lordly. His dark, costly garments were carefully tailored to disguise his bulk, and his hair and thick black mustache were neatly groomed and just beginning to take on a bit of gray. His small black eyes were filmed over with a veneer of civility. Arilyn, however, had known many coldly avaricious men and was not fooled by this one. Hhune was not a man likely to be content with his current level of power. Nor, she suspected, was the tiara merely a treasure to be admired. Arilyn knew enough Tethyrian history to suspect what Hhune had in mind.
With the fall of the royal family of Tethyr, many of the royalists had fled to Zazesspur. For several years there had been a quiet underground movement to restore the monarchy, perhaps with a new royal family. Balik seemed well on the way to becoming just that, but Arilyn doubted the self-proclaimed pasha would enjoy the royalists’ support for long. Pasha Balik’s southern sympathies were becoming more and more apparent, and his inner circle was increasingly made up of men from Calimshan and even Halruaa. It would not be long, Arilyn suspected, before Pasha Balik was deposed and yet another powerful man or woman sought the crown. That was no doubt where the tiara came in. Possession of an item of such significance to the old royal family could help Hhune endear himself to nearly any faction or family that happened to rise to power. He might even use it as a prop in making his own bid for royalty.
And why not? Arilyn’s mare possessed a more noble pedigree than the man seated before her, yet Hhune was accounted a lord for no better reason than the country estate he’d purchased a few years back. Nor was Hh
une an exception. In Tethyr, land was valued above all other forms of wealth, and possession of enough of it granted instant nobility. In the years following the destruction of the royal family—as well as the decimation of many of the ancient noble houses that possessed royal blood ties—manorial lands, counties, and even duchies changed hands like trinkets at a country fair. Men and women who had enough money to purchase land—or sufficient might to seize it—earned themselves instant titles. Tethyr was peppered with ersatz barons and countesses.
This offended Arilyn’s elven sensibilities, her deep respect for tradition, and her unspoken longing for family. But what disturbed her most about this trend was that even petty nobles were beginning to show signs of ambitions that reached far above their newly purchased stations. The threat of a guild takeover had been thoroughly, even ruthlessly, suppressed, but already Zazesspur buzzed with whispers of this baron or that lord gathering strength and supporters.
Ambition counted for a lot in Tethyr, and Hhune had it in abundance. Arilyn saw dreams of glory in his eyes as he regarded the amethyst tiara. She noted that it would be wise to watch this man and, if necessary, curb his ambitions.
At last Hhune placed the crown on his desk and turned his full attention upon the half-elf. “You have done well. I will pay you half again your original fee if you tell me how you got into Assante’s palace!”
Arilyn had expected this. To refuse might earn her the same sort of fate that had befallen Assante’s servants, so she had prepared a credible half-truth. She manufactured a smile that was both cold and seductive—a useful expression she’d copied from Ferret—and turned the full force of it upon Hhune.
“Assante has new women brought in from time to time. It was a small matter to include myself among them.”
Hhune’s black eyes gave her an appreciative sweep. “Yes, I can see how that would be so,” he said gallantly. “But tell me of the treasure room!”
This, Arilyn had not been expecting. But she marked the greed in Hhune’s eyes and decided to exploit it. With a little encouragement, perhaps he might offer to fund her next expedition!
“What other items did you take?” Hhune continued before she could speak. “I would be most grateful for the opportunity to view them.”
Arilyn spread her hands in a gesture of regret. “There is nothing more. The clothes of the harem provide few hiding places for plunder! But I destroyed some of the things I could not take!” she said, suspecting that Hhune would appreciate any blow dealt a rival.
The guildmaster chortled with delight. “Splendid, splendid! But not too many, I trust!”
“I could not begin to describe the wonders that remain,” she said truthfully.
“Then, perhaps another expedition?”
“Not soon,” Arilyn said softly. “When next I enter Assante’s palace, it will be to tend to a personal matter.”
Hhune held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded. “Such things require much planning,” he said casually, no doubt assuming—as Arilyn had intended him to assume—that she planned to challenge and oust the master assassin. “You will have expenses. Please send all bills to me—discreetly, of course. In exchange, I ask only that you give me first refusal on any treasures you might acquire.”
All but one, Arilyn agreed silently. All but one.
Five
The day was nearly spent. Foxfire knew this, even though in the deep forest no sun-cast shadows proclaimed the hour. Here the shade was cool and deep, the only sky a thousand layers of leafy boughs and velvety pines that filtered the sunlight until the very air he breathed seemed green and alive.
The elf was many miles from Talltrees, his tribe’s hidden settlement, but he and his two companions walked easily through the thick foliage, as silent and invisible as a trio of deer. This forest—all of it—was the elves’ home. Its rhythms coursed through their blood and sang in their souls.
Foxfire led the way steadily westward, to a grove perhaps a half-day’s walk toward the east from the trading settlement known as Mosstone. In times past—in happier, safer times—the elves of the Elmanesse tribe had traded with the humans who lived in this forest-side town. Then came the brutal reign of the Tethyrs, the family of human royals who seemed determined to drive the elves from the land. The Elmanesse had withdrawn into the forest shadows and proclaimed their own government via the Elven Council. For many years, all who ventured into the forests had lived and died by the judgments handed down by this council. But in these troubled times, even the wise, collective voice of the council had faltered and fallen silent. The elven alliance had splintered, and each clan had gone its own way. In particular the Suldusk tribe, always chary of alliance with their Elmanesse brothers and sisters, had all but disappeared into the deep shadows of the southeastern forest. No one knew for certain how many elves remained in the ancient wood.
Even so, a settlement of elves remained in the Council Glade, and the elders who lived there were still the best source of news and information in the forest. Foxfire hoped to find answers that would make sense of what was happening to his people.
Elves had lived in the Forest of Tethir from time beyond memory—and elven memories were long, indeed. But for the first time in his nine decades of life, Foxfire feared that the days of his people in this land might be numbered. Too many changes had come upon the elves, too quickly for them to assimilate or adjust. It was Foxfire’s nature to find the good in every situation and to expect that success would be his in all things. It was his gift to inspire those around him with the same confidence. Yet even he could not disregard the fears that a new shadow had fallen upon Tethir. Recent events suggested that the Time of Tyranny might soon return.
Nor were the elves helping themselves. Foxfire could not dismiss from his mind the insinuations placed there by the human, Bunlap. Was it possible that some clans really were attacking farms and caravans? And if this were so, what further trouble might this bring to the tribes of Tethir?
“Not far now,” commented Korrigash, a dark-haired hunter-warrior who was Foxfire’s closest friend. The taciturn elf seldom spoke, and the fact that he did so now was a sure measure of the gravity of their quest.
Though Korrigash was nearly as dour as a dwarf, there was no one under the stars whom Foxfire loved better or trusted more. The two were friendly rivals and had been since long ago when, as toddlers, they’d pelted each other with whatever weapons they could muster, whether pebbles found on the forest floor or the moss that lined their nappies. These days their rivalry took the form of contests of arms or archery, or the good-natured competition for an elf maid’s smile. But when they were on patrol or doing battle, Korrigash fell naturally into place at Foxfire’s back, instinctively deferring to the flame-haired warrior. Likewise, Foxfire had learned to hear the unspoken thoughts that lay beneath his friend’s few words.
“Council Glade is beyond those cedars.” Foxfire pointed with his bow to a thick stand of conifers. “The elders will know whether there is any truth to the human’s tales.”
Korrigash merely sniffed, but his brother, a stripling youth known as Tamsin, had no shortage of opinions on the matter.
“How can there be truth, where there is no honor?” he blurted out. “Humans have no knowledge of either! And if perchance the People have been pushing back the invaders, what of it? If I had my way, every human who stepped beneath the trees of Tethir would be greeted with a bolt through the heart, and may the silver shadows gnaw upon their bones!”
“Spoken with typical restraint,” Foxfire told him lightly, but instinctively he lifted one hand and formed the traditional elven sign for peace. One never knew when the silver shadows might be watching. Only a very rash elf would speak lightly of these mysterious beings or risk incurring their rare but deadly ire.
The Elmanesse and the Suldusk were not the only elves in the forest. There were, among these trees, People even more fey and secretive. The lythari, shapeshifting creatures who were more wolf than elf, had been living in Tethir
when Foxfire’s ancestors still walked beneath the trees of Cormanthor. Although it had been centuries since anyone in the Talltrees tribe had seen a lythari in elven form, from time to time they caught a glimpse of silvery fur or heard the lytharis’ haunting songs soaring upward in search of the unseen moon.
“You are among friends, Tamsin, but I would take care before casting those seeds to the wind.” continued Foxfire. “Think what might occur if such words took root, and the People came to regard all humans as enemies!”
The young elf shrugged and turned aside, but not before Foxfire noted the smoldering flame in his eyes. Suddenly he understood the true nature of his friend’s brother. What Foxfire had taken to be yet one more outburst from the impulsive youth was something much more deadly: hatred, blind and unreasoning and implacable.
For a moment the elven leader was stunned by the sheer force of Tamsin’s emotion. Foxfire did not like to think what might result should the hearts of too many of the People’s young follow that narrow path.
“Less talk, more walking,” Korrigash suggested grimly. “Night’s not long to come.”
The words were not meant as a distraction, but as a simple statement of fact. Although the three elves could see as well in darkness as in daylight, there was a certain practical need to reach Council Glade before nightfall. The forest was full of dangerous creatures: ogres, giant spiders, wolves, stirges, wyverns, and even a dragon or two. Many of these grew hungry with the coming of darkness, and there was every possibility that the elves, themselves hunters, might become prey.
“By the stars and the spirits,” Tamsin swore in a choked voice. The young elf kicked into a run, dashing through the ferns and vines without regard for silence and without thought for the trail his passing left.
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