An involuntary smile curved Arilyn’s lips. This was how Ganamede had looked when she first met him—although not nearly so carefree and joyful.
The young lythari had ventured into the outer world too soon, only to be caught in a snare. Arilyn had been a child herself at the time, willful enough to ignore the warnings about venturing alone into the wild Greycloak Hills that surrounded Evereska, young enough to be charmed with the idea of keeping a pet wolf. Her mother, Z’beryl, had had other ideas. She sent word to the lythari’s tribe—exactly how, Arilyn had never learned—and a stern, pale-haired male elf came the next day to whisk away the errant cub. But it seemed that the young lythari had a contrary streak to match Arilyn’s own. Many times over the next several years he slipped away to seek out his half-elven playmate. When Arilyn left Evereska after her mother’s death, Ganamede had given her a summoning pipe and a knowledge of the “doors to the gate” where she might find him. Only now did Arilyn understand what that meant. Although there was but one gate to the lythari’s lair, they could probably emerge at will in Tethir or Evermeet or Cormanthor. But why would they choose to do so, other than to hunt?
“The lythari will not come,” Arilyn said softly.
“No,” agreed Ganamede, “but I had to show you, else you would not have understood why.”
He took her arm and drew her away from the peaceful glade. “But I myself will take you to the nearest settlement of the green elves, a place known as Talltrees. It lies a day’s walk to the north, but I can get you there in a matter of hours. I wish there were more I could do for you.”
Despite her disappointment, Arilyn couldn’t help but smile as she pictured the impact Ganamede’s appearance would make. “That’s more helpful than you know,” she said in a wry tone. “If an entrance like that doesn’t impress the forest people, I’ll know enough to turn around and go home!”
* * * * *
The palace of Pasha Balik was without doubt the largest and most impressive building in all of Zazesspur. At its core was a summer palace built by Alehandro III. Amazingly, it had escaped the destruction of the royal family—followed by the demolition of most of the royal properties—virtually unscathed. When Balik came to power he’d taken it over, bought up the surrounding land, and expanded the original buildings into an enormous marble complex ringed by even more spectacular gardens.
One of the newer additions was a large chamber suitable for meetings of state. Here met the Council of Lords—a dozen men and women of noble rank—to hear important cases, debate policy, and make decisions that would address the good of all the people of Zazesspur. At least, that was the Council’s original and stated intent. The Council, inspired by the lords who ruled Waterdeep, had been created shortly after the downfall of the royal house. Though it was intended to be the ruling body, most of its members came to view their seats as stepping stones toward greater power. In recent years, however, the Council had done little more than carry out the will of the pasha.
Balik was a vain man who allowed himself to be seduced by the notion of his own importance. He had grown increasingly deaf to the voices of the coalition of southerners, royalists, and merchants who had brought him to power. Seldom these days did he hear anything but his own inclinations.
Today, however, Pasha Balik seemed unusually willing to listen to counsel. “You are all aware of the growing threat from the elven people,” he began. “Caravans ransacked, trade lost, farms and trading posts attacked. We will set all other business aside and consider how best to deal with this problem.”
Lord Faunce, one of the few noblemen present who had actually inherited his title, rose to speak. “What do the elves have to say about this matter?”
“That is something none but the gods can tell you. The Elven Council has been destroyed, the settlement burned to ash,” supplied Zongular, a priest of Ilmater, speaking this dire news with lugubrious relish.
Lord Hhune, guildmaster, rose to his feet. “My lords, must I remind you that in less enlightened times an effort was made to push the elves from this country? Their lands were seized, many were slain, some were pushed deep into the forest. I speak for patience and urge forbearance,” he said passionately. “At the very least, let us take time to examine the reports against the elves and see if perhaps the tales have grown somewhat in the telling. To move too quickly would certainly result in a waste of fighting men and most likely in the deaths of many innocent elven folk!”
A few of the other lords exchanged arch looks. Hhune had been quite young during the “less enlightened times” he spoke of, yet few present doubted that he would not have been among the most zealous in carrying out his king’s desire to exterminate the elves of Tethyr. But ever changeful were the winds of fortune, and few among them could match Hhune’s skill as a social weather vane. For the most part, they admired him for it.
Even so, the Marquessa D’Morreto couldn’t resist putting in a dig. “The memories of the elves are long. It may well be that they act in retaliation for the wrongs done them,” she suggested piously.
“We do not even know that the elves are truly responsible!” thundered Hhune.
“But if not, then who? And why would so much be laid falsely on the elven folk of Tethir?” asked Lord Faunce.
“That is precisely what I intend to find out,” Lord Hhune said grimly. “I will learn what there is to know of this matter, and I will pass this knowledge on to you.” He paused to give weight to his next words. “There are those in this land who can find answers to any question. I ask your indulgence only in the matter of time.”
The Council considered this in silence. All knew that Hhune referred to the secret and dreaded Knights of the Shield; more than a few suspected he had ties to this shadowy group. Whatever the case, they were content to leave the troublesome elves in his hands. As the Marquess had pointed out, there was no one among them who had as much at stake in this matter as did Hhune.
Fortunately for Lord Hhune, there was not one among them who understood exactly what it was that he planned to do, or what he held at risk.
None, that was, but the lord’s bodyguard—a tall, heavy-chested man with a black beard, cold gray eyes, and a flower-shaped scar on one cheek. As this man listened to Hhune’s impassioned speech, he passed a hand over his bearded lips to hide a grimace—or perhaps a smile.
Twelve
It was difficult to surprise an elf at any time, and almost impossible to creep up on a green elf in his own forest stronghold. Yet the lythari were called “silver shadows” for good reason. In his lupine form, Ganamede moved more swiftly and silently than the wind—not even the leaves rustled when he passed. And Arilyn, who rode upon his back with her arms flung tightly around his massive silver neck, thought she knew why this was so. The lythari walked between worlds, even when their feet trod upon the solid face of Toril.
They reached the outer boundaries of the Talltrees settlement late that day, slipping easily past the layers of secrecy that enfolded the elven village. The forest had strange magical properties, Ganamede had told her, that distorted the senses of outsiders. Arilyn could hold her direction as well as most rangers, but even she felt oddly disoriented as they neared the hidden village.
Nor were these the only magical barriers. Twin dryads—beautiful sylvan creatures who were not quite either human or elven—peeked out at them from behind a stand of beech trees. Any male who wandered near this lair would have the image of wondrously beautiful dryads giggling behind their white hands as his last memory of this part of Tethir forest. A male who fell under a dryad’s charm usually awoke, dazed and utterly lost, under some unfamiliar tree. When at last he found his way back to settled lands, he invariably learned that as much as a year had passed without leaving a single footprint upon his memory. It was a gossamer web that the dryads wove, but a powerful one.
Beyond the dryads’ grove, not even silent Ganamede could escape detection. Sharp-eyed elven warriors walked the surrounding forest. Other sentries, the birds and
squirrels that chattered and scolded in the trees, carried warnings that were heard and heeded by the elven folk. Arilyn noted the subtle changes in the song of forest birds that no doubt announced their coming.
“They know we’re here. You might as well let me down,” she said quietly. The lythari came to a stop; Arilyn slid down and rose to her full height. She smoothed down the vest of elven chain mail, adjusted her swordbelt, and then squared her shoulders for the trial ahead.
Lifting her chin to an angle that approximated that of a proud elven courtier, Arilyn placed one hand on the lythari’s pale silver shoulder. “Here we go,” she murmured. “We should be fine, but if things start getting hostile I want you out of here like a flea off a fire newt.”
Ganamede cast an exasperated look up at her, his blue eyes stating beyond doubt what he thought of her chosen figure of speech.
A wry grin brightened Arilyn’s face—and dissipated a bit of her tension. “How indelicate of me, bringing up fleas,” she said with mock gravity. “Nearly as thoughtless as mentioning heartburn to a red dragon!”
“Are you quite through?” the lythari inquired patiently. “Or would you like to compound the insult by scratching behind my ears?”
Arilyn’s shoulders shook in a brief, silent chuckle. “I meant what I said,” she repeated, suddenly serious. “Get out at the first sign of trouble.”
“And what of you?”
What indeed? she repeated silently.
“If I fall, try to reclaim my sword at some later time. I know this is asking a great deal of you, but if you were to ask anything of the forest elves, they would surely give it. I would not ask, but mine is a hereditary blade, and its magic will continue as long as there is a need for it and a worthy descendant to wield it. When its purpose has been fulfilled, it will go dormant.”
And until that distant day—and perhaps far longer than that, Arilyn added silently—her spirit would be imprisoned within!
“A hereditary sword. Then you have children?” Ganamede inquired.
It was a logical question, but it struck Arilyn like a kick to the gut. She had never considered that particular aspect of the moonblade’s demands, for she had never given a moment’s thought to the possibility that she might bear children of her own. Arilyn knew all too well the ambiguity that defined a half-elf’s existence, and she would not wish this upon another. Nor would any child of hers be a likely candidate for the moonblade. As far as Arilyn knew, she was the only moonblade wielder in the entire history of these ancient swords who was not of pure moon-elf heritage. Not even a full-blooded elf of another noble race—the gold elves, or the green, or the sea folk—had every held such a sword and lived. What chance would a child of hers have against the moonblade’s silent test? And knowing what she did about the nature of the elfshadow, how could she pass such a sentence along? Immediate death, or eternal servitude. It was not much of a legacy.
Even if her offspring should claim the sword and fail, that death would not purchase her freedom. The moonblade she carried was of the Moonflower clan, and the line would not die with Arilyn. The gods only knew how many unknown royal aunts and uncles and cousins she had running blithely about on distant Evermeet!
Which brought her to a second disturbing realization: since she had no children of her own, she would have to name a blade heir from among her mother’s kin. It occurred to her, for the first time, that the ties between her and her mother’s people were far more complex than their common bloodlines.
“Lamruil,” she blurted out, remembering a name from her mother’s long-ago tales. “Prince Lamruil of Evermeet, youngest son of Amlaruil and mother’s brother to me. I name him blade heir. There are ‘doors to the gate’ on Evermeet. If I fall, see that he gets the moonblade.”
Ganamede gazed up at her, purely elven wonder shining through his wolflike features. “You are of Amlaruil’s blood? Why have you never spoken of this?”
Even the lythari were not immune to the power of the queen, Arilyn thought bitterly. What was it about Amlaruil that inspired such reverence?
“Maybe I don’t like to brag,” she said shortly. “But come on—they know we’re here, and they’re probably wondering what’s keeping us.”
Together they walked for several hundred paces. Ganamede stopped suddenly and for no reason that Arilyn could ascertain.
“Look up,” he advised her softly.
Arilyn did so and found that she stood in the center of what appeared to be a thriving settlement. The elven village itself was a wonder. Small dwellings had been fashioned high in the trees, connected by swinging walkways. So cleverly did the settlement blend in with the forest that no one could see it unless he stood in its midst and looked straight up—which, unless one had the benefit of a lythari escort, was about as likely to occur in the natural course of things as a salad-eating troll.
This, then, was Talltrees. But there was still no sign of the elven inhabitants.
“Where are they?” she said softly.
“All around. Read them the queen’s proclamation,” he urged her.
But the half-elf shook her head. That was Amlaruil’s plan, and by Arilyn’s estimation it had little chance of success. The offer of Retreat was a last resort. She would earn her freedom fairly, and she would do it in her own fashion.
“People of Talltrees,” she called in a clear, ringing alto, speaking in the Elvish common tongue. “I am come to you from Amlaruil, Lady of Evermeet, Queen of the Elven Island. Will you hear an ambassador of the queen?”
There was no sound to herald their coming, but suddenly the forest around her was alive with watchful, copper-skinned elves. Where they had been a moment before, Arilyn couldn’t say. She herself was considered skilled in matters of stealth, but these folk were of the forest, and one with it.
Their garb was simple and scant, fashioned almost without exception from the forest’s bounty: tanned hides, rough linen beaten and woven from wild flax, ornaments of feather and bone. But there was nothing primitive or crude about these green elves. They were an ancient people with ancient ways. Arilyn they regarded with detached, wary curiosity, but most gazed at Ganamede with an awe that approached reverence. It was likely the first time most of them had ever laid eyes upon one of the elusive silver shadows. This meeting, Arilyn suspected, would be a tale they would pass down to their children’s children.
A tall male, whose features struck Arilyn as oddly familiar, stepped forward with the dignity of a stag. Like most of the green elves, he was lightly clad. His ruddy skin was painted with swirling designs of greens and brown, and his dark brown hair was worn long and plaited back.
“I am Rhothomir, Speaker of the Talltrees tribe. For the sake of the noble lythari who has seen fit to lead you here, we will consider the words of Amlaruil of Evermeet.”
Consider. For the sake of the lythari.
That was not exactly welcoming, but in truth Arilyn took a certain perverse satisfaction in the rare lack of enthusiasm this male showed for the elven queen.
But now came the tricky part. Propriety demanded that she give her name, her house, and her credentials. Since she was woefully short on all three, she would simply use what she had, follow the elf’s lead, and hope for the best.
Arilyn pulled her moonblade, lifted it high in a sweeping, formal elven salute, and then went down on one knee before the Speaker. “I am Arilyn Moonblade, daughter of Z’Beryl of the Moonflower clan,” she said, using the name her mother had taken in exile. “As sworn swordmaiden, I have forsaken clan ties to take the name of the ancient and magical sword I carry. Word of your troubles has reached Evermeet. In the name of Queen Amlaruil, I offer my sword and my life in defense of your tribe.”
With these words she laid the moonblade at the green elf’s feet.
For a long moment Rhothomir regarded her in silence. “Evermeet’s queen sends us a single warrior?”
“What would your response be if she had sent a thousand?” Arilyn retorted. “What benefit would there be
if so many feet were to trample a path through the woodlands, a path so broad your enemies could walk in comfort to your very door? With the help of my friend, Ganamede of the Greycloak tribe, I have left a path that none can follow.”
A moment’s silence. “You walk silently, for a n’tel-que’tethira,” he admittedly grudgingly, using an Elvish word that roughly translated as “city-dweller.” He considered the matter for another span of several moments, then turned away.
“Take up your sword and leave this place as silently as you came. We have no use for it, or you.”
“No.”
A silent ripple of astonishment ran through the elven assembly. Apparently, such a direct challenge to the Speaker’s authority was an uncommon event.
An elven female walked to Rhothomir’s side, her black eyes fixed upon Arilyn and the watchful lythari.
“Do not send them away. Think, Brother. If the silver shadows would fight for us, how quickly we could deal with those humans who defile our forest!”
Arilyn’s eyes widened. She had never heard that voice, but somehow she knew it. It belonged to a female assassin who spoke only in whispers, one who used cosmetics to dim the luster of her skin and to transform her elven features into the exotic almond-eyed beauty of a woman of the far eastern lands. The silk turban had concealed ears as pointed as those of a fox, as well as gleaming chestnut hair that was now pulled back into a single braid. If there had been any doubt in Arilyn’s mind about the elf woman’s dual identity, it would have been removed by the sight of the tatoo on her bare shoulder: the stylized, graceful form of a hunting ferret.
The Harper also heard the dual meaning in the elf woman’s words: people of human blood defiled the elven forest, but for the sake of an alliance with the lythari, Ferret would consider accepting Arilyn’s presence and her secret. But if the elf woman were to reveal Arilyn’s true nature, Prince Lamruil would fall heir to the moonblade at once! The sanctity of Talltrees, though honored by the presence of a lythari, would be deemed profaned and put at extreme risk by a half-elf’s presence. They might even attack the lythari who had brought her here, thinking him a traitor to elvenkind. No matter what else came of this meeting, Arilyn vowed, she would see that Ganamede escaped safely.
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