“What is it that you seek to do, and to undo?” the elfshadow asked, but there was a note of reproach in her voice.
“I need to call you out in battle,” Arilyn said, ignoring the elfshadow’s rhetorical question. Of course the thing knew what she planned—it was her, albeit a straight-laced and rather too noble version of herself. “Actually, I might need to call all of you—all the elves who ever have wielded the sword. Can this be done?”
The elfshadow clearly had not expected this response. “Only once before, but yes, this is possible.”
“Good,” she said briskly. “I need to infíltrate a fortress. There are nine of you, and one of me. That’s enough to start a pretty good fight and to get the doors open.”
“You must realize that there are risks,” the shadow cautioned her. “Calling forth all the elfshadows takes a tremendous toll upon the sword’s wielder. Not even Zoastria, who endowed the moonblade with the elfshadow entity, called forth her own double more than a few times.”
“Which brings me to my next question,” Arilyn said. “Zoastria and Soora Thea. Is it possible that these are one and the same?”
“I do not know. Would you like to speak with her?”
Arilyn took a long, deep breath. This was the moment she had longed for—and dreaded—since she had first learned the secret of her moonblade’s magic. It was mind-boggling enough to regard her own image as the entity of the sword. The possibility of conversing with the essence of an ancestor was utterly beyond her imagination. And not just some unknown ancestor—the essence of her own mother lived within the sword!
Yet as much as she longed to see Z’beryl again, Arilyn was not entirely sure how her mother would react to Arilyn’s quest to avoid the destiny the moonblade had chosen for her. Arilyn was well accustomed to being considered less than adequate, for she had grown up a half-elf in an elven settlement. But never once had she seen disappointment in her mother’s eyes. She was not certain she could bear to witness it now.
Yet Zoastria she could—and must—confront.
“How is it done?” Arilyn asked.
“The same way you called me forth. But the power of the sword is diminished when you call forth the others. You will be at risk in ways to which you are not accustomed.”
Arilyn accepted this with a nod, and then once again lifted the sword. “Come forth, you who were once Zoastria,” she said in a firm voice.
Again mist rose from the ancient blade, and as the elven form took shape Arilyn’s heart seemed to turn to stone in her chest. This was the very form she had seen in the treasure chamber—the slumbering ancestor who haunted her dreams.
But oddly enough, the shadow of Zoastria did not appear to be nearly as solid as Arilyn’s double. She was ghostly, insubstantial—not at all the heroic figure needed to lead the elves to victory.
“What do you want of me, half-elf, and how is it that you command the sword of Zoastria?” the elfshadow demanded in a tone of voice that Arilyn knew all too well. She had not expected to confront such scorn from her own ancestor, nor would she yield to it.
Arilyn squared her shoulders and faced down the misty image. “You are Zoastria, who bore the sword before me. Are you also the moon fighter known as Soora Thea?”
“Once. Thus did the forest folk say my name, for the language of Evermeet was beyond their grasp.”
“You are needed again,” Arilyn said softly. “Their descendants need the return of their hero.”
But the image of Zoastria shook her head. “You know so little of the sword you carry. I cannot; I can only appear as you see me. Of all the sword’s powers, the ability to call forth the elfshadow essence is the weakest. You should know that, to your sorrow,” she added sharply.
Arilyn’s cheeks burned, but she did not respond. For as long as she drew breath, she would grieve for the evil use made of her elfshadow by her former mentor and friend. The gold elf Kymil Nimesin had wrested control of the elfshadow from the sword and turned it—and therefore, Arilyn—onto an assassin’s path.
“Why not? Why are you different from the others?” the half-elf demanded.
“Because unlike most of the moon fighters, I did not die,” Zoastria said. “It is possible to pass on the sword to a blade heir without tasting death. This is not a choice lightly made, but I made a pledge to return and this is how it is honored. There are others who have done this. Doubtless, you have heard legends.”
The half-elf nodded. Stories of a sleeping hero who would return in a time of great need were told from the Moonshaes to Rashemen. And now she understood why all these stories had in common an ancient, mystic sword.
“But there is a way for me to honor my pledge,” Zoastria continued. “Elfshadow and mistress must again become one. This cannot be while that which I once was sleeps in a rich man’s vault. Unite the two, and I will be as alive as ever I was.”
The half-elf nodded slowly. “Is this your wish?”
“What question is this? Better to ask, is this my duty? If there is no other way, then call me forth. I will come.”
And with that, the ghostly image dissipated and flowed into the sword. Arilyn’s own shadow disappeared with it.
Arilyn slid the moonblade back into its sheath and considered what she had learned. To retrieve the slumbering Zoastria would be no easy task and was not one she could attempt anytime soon. As her ancestor advised, she must try to find another way.
* * * * *
Hasheth left his horse at the public stables and set off down the docks of Port Kir on foot. The dock area was not the safest place to be, not even during daylight, but Hasheth walked alone with his confidence utterly intact. Had he not spent time among the assassins of Zazesspur? Though his apprenticeship might have been brief and ill-fated, he had learned enough to be awarded his sand-hue sash. He might not have notches on his blade to mark successful kills, but he could throw the unblooded knife hard and straight.
He had another weapon as well, one keener still, which he was honing with each day that passed. Hasheth had little doubt that his wits were equal to anything the docks of Port Kir might serve up.
His surroundings grew increasingly rougher as he made his way toward the sea. Small shops offering oddities of every description gave way to rough-and-tumble taverns. Before long the wooden walkways grew narrow, and between the boards he could see the dark water of Firedrake Bay lapping at the shore. As he neared his destination, the stench of fish became overwhelming. In open warehouses on either side of the dock, men and women went about processing the day’s catch, seemingly oblivious to the piles of discarded shells and shrimp heads and fish innards that were heaped around their boots.
Hasheth lifted one hand to his nose and picked up his pace. At the end of this dock was the Berringer Shipyard. It was here that all his work had led him. For days he had examined Lord Hhune’s many books and ledgers, carefully piecing together bits of information and innuendo—even finding and deciphering some outright code. It had been a wondrous puzzle that led him at last to this place. All that remained for Hasheth to accomplish was to discern the purpose of Hhune’s scheme, and then to find some way to turn it to his own benefit!
Berringer Shipyard was a bustling, noisy, smelly place, not at all what the young man had expected. He bought his way in at the gate by using a copy of the credentials that Hhune had supplied to one of the many merchant companies that purchased ships for him.
Hasheth wandered about, taking note of all. Dockhands by the dozen grunted and sweated as they rolled immense logs from flat-bottomed barges onto a large dock. These logs were then handhewn, the outer wood fashioned into planks and beams and the heart of each shaped and smoothed into a strong, tall mast. Some planks, previously cut, soaked in an enormous vat of seawater mixed with some unspeakably vile-smelling concoction. Well-softened planks had been clamped onto curved frames so that they might take on the needed shape as they hardened and dried. A half-built ship rested on enormous trestles, looking for all the world like a wel
l-picked skeleton. Three finished ships stood in dry dock.
The quality of work at all stages was well within the high standards expected of Tethyrian craftsmen. The ships were trim and sleek and showed every promise of remarkable speed. But it was the ironworks that impressed and enlightened Hasheth.
He stood and gazed at the trio of ships, to which several smiths were adding fittings and weaponry. These were to sail with an impressive arsenal: ballistae and catapults provided a considerable amount of firepower. Rows of iron-tipped bolts stood ready by each ballista, and piles of grapeshot—spiked iron balls linked with chain—would prove deadly when hurled from the catapult.
This, then, was it—the answer Hasheth had been seeking. These three ships were surely destined to become part of a private fleet of fast, heavily armed ships that could escort merchant vessels safely through pirate-infested waters or blockade a harbor.
Hasheth would have applauded either use. As head of the shipping guild, Lord Hhune had responsibilities and, perhaps, higher ambitions. And so did he. It was a shame that one of these ships must be sacrificed, but a man must be prepared to pay for his ambitions. The fact that he was using another man’s coin would make it considerably easier.
His questions answered, the young man hurried back to the inn where he had rented a room. From his pack he took a new suit of clothing. The finely made dark garments of a prosperous merchant had been fashioned by the tailor who made all of Lord Hhune’s clothing, as well as that of his boot-licking scribe, Achnib.
Hasheth pasted a thick mustache onto his lip and slicked back his hair with scented oil. He even swathed his middle with rolls of cloth to help approximate the scribe’s spreading midsection and stuffed a bit of resinous gum between teeth and cheeks to pad his face a bit. When all was in readiness, he slipped from the inn and made his way back to the docks—and to a dark and dangerous tavern at the very edge of the black water.
This drinking hole suited his purpose perfectly. The crudely lettered sign outside labeled it “The Race,” a name taken from the channel of swift winds and dangerous waters that led into Firedrake Bay. Those ships that entered Port Kir ran a gauntlet of Nelanther pirates, a few of whom were bold enough to come ashore. Rumor had it that they drank here.
Hasheth found a corner table near some likely-looking toughs, one who sported a beard divided into twin prongs, the other of whom was more or less clean-shaven. A barmaid with an ale-soaked bodice and world-weary eyes came over to take his order.
“Wine, if you please,” he demanded in an imitation of Achnib’s pinched, querulous tones. He dropped his voice a notch or two. “I also need passage to Lantan, if such can be arranged.”
The men at the next table exchanged glances. One of them propped his boots up on the empty chair at Hasheth’s table.
“Couldn’t help overhearing you. Might be that we could do the arranging you were speaking of.”
Hasheth darted wary glances left and right, then leaned forward. “From Zazesspur? I would be grateful to you if this could be arranged, and swiftly.”
“Oh, well, from Zazesspur,” the other man said with more than a bit of sarcasm. “That’s too easy by half. Sure you don’t want to set sail from Evermeet, while you’re at it?”
“I’ve business to attend in my home city,” Hasheth said stiffly. “It should be concluded in ten days or so, and I need to leave quickly upon its conclusion. Can this be done?”
“Maybe, but it’ll cost you. What were you thinking of paying?”
“I will pay you with information,” he said in a low, furtive voice. “Tell me what cargo you prefer, and I can name you a likely ship, tell you her route and the strength of her crew. The merchant vessel will be guarded, but I can find out the name of the armed ship and help you place your own men upon it. Take over the escort ship, and the caravel and her cargo will be yours as well.”
The first pirate picked at his teeth with a dirty fingernail as he considered this outrageous scenario. “And how would you be knowing so much? What’s to say that this information you’re eager to pay with is worth more than clay coins?”
Hasheth took a scrap of parchment and a bit of charcoal pencil from the bag tied to his augmented waistline. He scrawled a name and title on the sheet, then passed it to the men. They looked at him and burst into raucous laughter.
“What do you take us for, a coupla priests? Who learns to read but sandal-footed priests and wide-ass clerks?” hooted the bearded pirate. Nonetheless, he picked up the bit of paper and pocketed it, as Hasheth had hoped he might.
“My name is Achnib,” Hasheth said with as much dignity as he thought the man he imitated could muster, “and I am chief scribe to Lord Hhune of Zazesspur.”
“Hmm.” This information seemed to impress the pirate. “But why the ten days, especially?”
“My lord is away on business. It behooves me to remove myself from the city before his return.”
The men chuckled. “Been skimming, have you? Well, Lantan’s a good place to be taking your coins. There’s money to be made in some of them new weapons coming out off the island. Get in on the business early, and you’ll likely do well.”
“I require passage, not advice on my investments,” Hasheth said in a haughty tone as he began to rise from his chair. “Do you wish to do business, or shall I look elsewhere?”
“Haul in your sails a might, lad,” the bearded pirate said dryly. “You want to go to Lantan. Tell us what you know, and if it holds water then maybe we can see about getting you there.”
This was precisely what Hasheth had hoped to hear. Let them ask questions about Achnib—the more the better.
When the arrangements were completed, an elated Hasheth made his way back toward the inn to rid himself of his borrowed persona. He was not so enamored of his success, however, that he did not notice the two men lounging against the alley-side wall of a shop. They fell into step behind him, obviously considering the well-dressed and portly young man to be a ripe, easy mark.
Hasheth’s lip curled with disdain. These clods did not even know how to tread silently—the first lesson given to fledgling assassins. He did not slow his pace, did not react at all until their sudden, board-thumping rush began. Then he whirled, tossing his assassin’s knife with a quick, underhand snap. The blade spun once and then sank into one thug’s gut with a wet, meaty thud.
The other man lacked the presence of mind or the rapid reflexes needed to halt his charge. Hasheth let him come, stepping aside at the last moment and extending one rigid forearm, elbow braced against his waist. He caught the second thug slightly below his center. The man’s heavier top half flipped forward over Hasheth’s arm. The thug crashed heavily into the wooden dock, leading with his teeth.
Before the stunned man could move, Hasheth stooped beside him and pulled a rusty, pitted knife from his belt. He snatched a handful of the thug’s greasy hair, yanked back his head, pressed the edge of the knife to his throat and then—hesitated.
The young man was pleased that the skills he had learned in his training served him so well on the street. But he was young, and he had yet to kill a man. He glanced at his first victim, noted the red bubbles forming at the corners of the man’s gaping mouth, and knew this would hold true only for a few moments more. But this second man—he was already down and dazed. Was there truly a need to kill twice?
Hasheth needed only a moment to think. He was dressed as Achnib, a man too soft and slow to have done what he himself had just accomplished. If word of his feat should spread, it might jeopardize the plans he had laid this night. The possibility was slight, but it was there. That was enough.
The young man pulled the dagger hard and fast, curving his hand back and around as he had been taught to do. Blood spurted forth in a pulsating geyser, but not so much as a drop of it stained Hasheth’s hands.
Hasheth stood and regarded his handiwork. His time in the assassins’ guild had served him well—not even an assassin of the Shadow Sash rank could have handled this
matter more smoothly. It was just as his royal tutors always claimed—no knowledge is truly wasted.
The young man walked the few paces over to the first dead thug and ripped his dagger free. He wiped the blade clean on the corpse’s tunic—or as clean as it was likely to get on the filthy garment—and slipped it back into his belt.
Later, when he reached the solitude of his hired room, he would carve two marks upon it, the first of what Hasheth expected would be many.
* * * * *
Throughout that night and into the next day, Arilyn could think of little but her strange conversation with the magical entity of her moonblade. If the elves must fight, and if they would not follow the leaders they had, then would she not have to find them a leader they would follow? Try as she might, she could think of no other solution to the problem.
There was something about Talltrees, however, that acted as a balm to her troubled thoughts. Each day was longer than the one before, and the time of midsummer was fast approaching. The summer solstice was a time of celebration for all elves, but Arilyn had never seen such joyous anticipation as that which gripped the elven settlement.
Twilight of midsummer eve came late and softly, with a deepening of golden green light. With it came those woodland creatures who would celebrate with the elven tribe. There were fauns, small feral folk with wild thatches of hair, furred hindquarters and legs that ended in dainty cloven hooves. Satyrs—-larger, more ribald relatives of the fauns—came as well, already full of mead and high spirits. Several centaurs, grave and dignified even in this most joyous season, brought gifts of fruit and flowers to their elven hosts. There were pixies and sprites and other fey creatures for which Arilyn knew no names. And there were others who seemed to be there one moment, and not the next. At midsummer, she reasoned, the walls between the worlds were so thin that even a half-elf might catch glimpses through the veil.
All joined in the feasting and the sharing of summer mead, a wondrous honey wine distilled from flowers and fruit. No green elves kept bees, but they carefully harvested a part of that stored nectar that they found in hollowed trees, adding to it the essence of wild raspberries and elven magic. The result was far from primitive. Arilyn would easily place the mead alongside the best elven wines she had tasted.
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