Before them towered the library, a massive citadel of pale gray stone that was ringed by walls and perched on a rocky seacoast. Although the setting was austere, the air, even in late autumn, was balmy, tempered by the strong breeze that blew in from the Sea of Swords.
“State your business,” boomed a powerful voice. For the first time Arilyn noticed the small gatehouse that stood at the entrance to the wall ringing Candlekeep. From it came a tiny, wizened apparition of a man.
The Keeper of the Gate was stooped and thin, and his skin was as dry and yellowed as ancient parchment. The aura of power about the man, however, was such that Arilyn doubted he was ever challenged.
“We request entrance to the libraries. The archmage Khelben Arunsun of Waterdeep sent us to seek information about a magic elven weapon.” Danilo handed the scroll to the keeper. The old man glanced at the sigil and nodded.
“Who might you be?”
Danilo drew himself up. “I’m the Blackstaff’s apprentice,” he said with a mixture of pride and becoming modesty. “Danilo Thann, accompanied by an agent of the Harpers.”
Arilyn leaned close to Danilo. “Nice cover,” she murmured. “Remind me never to play cards with you.” The nobleman smirked.
Not noticing the exchange, the keeper broke the seal and scanned Khelben’s letter of introduction. “You may enter,” he said. Immediately the gate opened and a robed man came out and bowed to the keeper. “Moonblades,” the old man said tersely, and the newcomer bowed again.
“I am Schoonlar,” the man said, turning to Arilyn and Danilo. He was of medium height and slender build, with unremarkable features and hair, and garments the color of dust. “I will aid you with your studies. If you will follow me?”
He led them into the tower and up a narrow spiral staircase. They passed floor after floor filled with scrolls and tomes, illuminators and scribes laboriously copying rare books, and scholars delving into the accumulated lore of centuries. Located about halfway between the two largest cities on the coast, Waterdeep and Calimport, and lying directly east of the lower Moonshae Isles, Candlekeep was a repository of knowledge for all three regions: the North, the desert lands of the south, and the ancient island cultures.
Finally they reached a floor near the top of the tower. Schoonlar brought out a large tome and laid it on a reading table. “This book may be a good place to begin your search. It is a collection of tales about elven owners of moonblades. Since few bearers of these blades chose to broadcast their swords’ abilities, we rely in the main upon the writings of observers.”
Schoonlar turned to an index that comprised several pages in the front of the book. “To your knowledge, who was the earliest wielder of the blade in question?”
“Amnestria,” Arilyn said.
Obligingly Schoonlar ran a finger down the list of names. “I’m sorry. She is not listed.”
“What about Zoastria?” Danilo suggested.
The scholar’s face lit up. “That name is familiar.” He quickly found the passage and then scurried off in search of more information. Danilo began to read aloud.
“ ‘In the year 867 by Dalereckoning, I, Ventish of Somlar, met the elven adventurer Zoastria. She sought information concerning the whereabouts of her twin sister Somalee, who disappeared during a sea voyage between Kadish and the Green Island.’ ”
Danilo looked up. “Kadish was an elven city on one of the Moonshae Islands, I believe. Long since vanished. Evermeet was once known as the Green Island.”
“Go on,” Arilyn urged him.
“ ‘Upon occasion, Zoastria was seen in the company of a female elf who was as like to her as a reflection in a pool. She once confided that she could summon the elf to do her bidding, something she did with less frequency during the time I knew her.’ “ Danilo paused and pointed to the small writing under the passage. “This note was added by the scribes who compiled this volume:
“ ‘Zoastria died without issue, and the moonblade passed to the oldest child of her younger brother. The heir’s name was Xenophor.’ ”
Danilo flipped back to the index, found an entry bearing that name, and turned to it. He scanned the brief passage and grinned.
“Well?” Arilyn asked impatiently.
“It seems that Xenophor had a difference of opinion with a red dragon, and the beast tried to incinerate him. The chronicler notes that Xenophor was unharmed by the blast and was thereafter impervious to fire.” The nobleman gleefully nudged Arilyn’s ribs with his elbow. “I told you so.”
“Keep reading.”
“Here is something you might find interesting,” broke in Schoonlar. He handed Danilo a cracked, ancient parchment. “It gives the lineage of the sword of Zoastria.”
Danilo accepted the scroll and carefully unrolled it. With a feeling of deep awe, Arilyn looked down at the fine writing. Before her were the names of her ancestors, elves who had carried the sword that was now strapped to her side. The half-elf had grown up without knowledge of her family, and the scroll represented the elven heritage that had been denied her. With a sense of reverence she touched a finger to the runes, gently tracing the thin lines that connected the elves. Danilo allowed her a moment before he resumed.
“Here’s something. This says that Dar-Hadan, Zoastria’s father, was a mage rather than a fighter, so he imbued the sword with blue fire to warn of physical danger.”
“We know that already. Keep going.”
They worked all day and long into the night, aided by the attentive Schoonlar. A fascinating picture emerged, a saga of elven heroes and the response the magic sword made to each. Finally they traced the line to Thasitalia, a solitary adventurer. The dreamwarning evolved so that she could sleep alone on the road without fear. From the date of Thasitalia’s death, they gathered that she had been the great-aunt who had passed the sword to Amnestria. There was nothing about Amnestria in any of the records.
“The night’s drawing to a close,” Arilyn grumbled, “and we’re no closer to finding the Harper Assassin. A waste.”
Danilo stretched languidly. “Not entirely. We know what power each wielder granted your sword, with the exception of you and your mother.”
“I will never add to the moonblade’s magic,” the half-elf said. “The moonstone is missing, and all magic originates in the stone and is gradually absorbed by the sword. I’m not sure whether my mother added a power—” She broke off.
“What’s wrong?” asked Danilo, suddenly alert.
“Elfgate,” Arilyn said softly. “That has to be it.”
Danilo looked thoroughly bewildered. “I beg your pardon?”
The half-elf drew the moonblade and pointed to the bottommost rune. “When we were in the Drunken Dragon, the mage Coril deciphered this mark to read ‘elfgate.’ ” Her face grew more animated as she tapped the ancient scroll laid out before them. “This traces the moonblade’s history from its creation until it passed to my mother. There were seven wielders, and we know seven of the sword’s magic powers: rapid strike, glowing to warn of coming danger, silent warning of danger present, dreamwarning, fire resistance, casting illusions over the wielder, and elfshadow.” As she spoke, she counted off the powers on her hand.
“Go on,” urged Danilo, catching some of her excitement.
“Look at the sword,” she said triumphantly. “There are eight runes. The final one, elfgate, must refer to the power my mother gave the sword. That has to be it!” The half-elf turned to Schoonlar. “Can you check and see whether you have any information concerning something called elfgate?”
Their assistant bowed and withdrew. He returned almost immediately, looking deeply troubled. “The files are sealed,” he said without preamble.
Arilyn and Danilo exchanged worried looks. “Well, who can unseal them?” Danilo asked. Schoonlar hesitated. “Surely telling us the names can do no harm,” Danilo said persuasively.
“I suppose not,” the man conceded. “The only persons who can open the files are Queen Amlauril of Evermeet, Lord
Erlan Duirsar of Evereska, Laeral the mage, and Khelben Arunsun of Waterdeep.”
Arilyn’s face darkened. “I knew it. Khelben already has the answers, doesn’t he?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got most of them,” Danilo admitted.
“Why send us here?”
“Like everyone else allied to the Harpers, Khelben likes to keep secrets,” the nobleman said. “He also likes to collect them. If there’s one puzzle piece he lacks, he’s probably hoping we’ll find it.”
“Such as?”
“Well, such as who’s behind the assassinations, I imagine.”
“That I know,” Arilyn said sadly.
Danilo sat up straight. “You do?”
“I’m pretty sure. What I don’t know is what the elfgate is or how it could possibly be connected to the assassinations.”
Danilo suddenly became very still. “Bran Skorlsun,” he said quietly. “By every god, that has to be the connection.” He rose abruptly from the table. “Come on. We’ve got to get back to Blackstaff Tower. Immediately.”
Seventeen
By the time the courtyard of Jester’s Square firmed beneath her feet, Arilyn had recovered from her uncharacteristic attack of docility. She stepped out from between the twin black oaks that flanked the invisible dimensional door and turned to face Danilo, blocking his way. “Just before we left Candlekeep, you spoke a name. Who is this Bran Skorlsun, and what does he have to do with me?”
“My dear Arilyn,” Danilo said in his lazy drawl, “it is not yet daybreak, and you wish to stand here and chat? I don’t like being on the streets at this hour.” He cast an uneasy glance over her shoulder at the deserted square. “By the gods, doesn’t Uncle Khelben know of a dimensional door with a tonier address?”
The half-elf blinked, stunned by the sudden and complete change in Danilo’s behavior. “What has come over you?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said lightly, trying to brush past Arilyn into the square.
She would not be budged. “Who are you, Danilo Thann? What manner of man hides beneath those velvets and jewels?”
“A naked one,” he quipped lightly. “But please feel free not to take my word on the matter.”
“Enough!” said Arilyn violently. “Why do you present yourself as you are not? You’ve a quick mind and a strong sword arm; you show promise as both scholar and mage. I will no longer accept that you are a fool, and I will not allow you to treat me as one!”
“I would not,” he said gently.
“Oh no? Then stop this nonsense and answer my question! Who is this Bran Skorlsun?”
“All right.” The noble leaned close and spoke as quietly as he could. “He’s the Harper ranger of whom Elaith Craulnobur spoke, whose business is to track down false and renegade Harpers.”
“Really. How would you come by such information? Perhaps you are also employed by the Harpers?”
“Me, a Harper?” Danilo stepped back and laughed immoderately. “My dear girl, that jest would inspire much mirth in some circles.”
“Then you won’t mind if I read this.” Arilyn deftly plucked from Danilo’s pocket the note Khelben Arunsun had written. She read aloud. “Candlekeep is protected from magical observation. You need only maintain your facade enough to convince Arilyn.”
The eyes the half-elf raised to Danilo’s face were blazing with anger and accusation. “Sing me a song, bard, a song of a man with two faces.”
Before Danilo could parry her demand, a cat’s squall erupted from the alley behind them, followed by a muffled oath. Danilo cast an uneasy look toward the dim alley and glanced down at the moonblade. It glowed with a faint blue light. He grasped Arilyn’s shoulders and firmly turned her around, urging her forward.
“We’ll talk about this later,” he said in a low voice. “I think someone’s following us.”
Arilyn laughed derisively. “That, Lord Thann, is old news indeed.”
“So are you, gray elf,” growled a voice from the alley.
Her anger forgotten, Arilyn whirled toward the alley, sword in hand. Harvid Beornigarth stepped out of the shadows, closely followed by a pair of his thugs. The lamplight reflected off his bald pate and rusty armor; were it not for the lout’s vast size and his confident air, his appearance would have been more comic than threatening. He folded his arms across his rusty chain mail shirt and leered down at the half-elf with malevolent satisfaction.
“See? I told you so,” Danilo murmured. “Does anyone ever listen to me? Of course they don’t.”
Arilyn glared at the huge adventurer. “Haven’t you had enough?” she asked, her voice edged with contempt. “You should have learned by now that you can’t win.”
Rage washed over the man’s face, and he raised one hand to his eye patch. “You’ll not get the best of me this time,” he vowed, shaking a spiked mace at her.
“Apparently he’s a slow learner,” Danilo remarked.
Harvid Beornigarth’s scowl deepened. He barked a command, and two more ruffians stepped out of the alley.
Danilo let out a long, slow whistle. “Five-to-two. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything?”
The half-elf merely shrugged. “Coward’s odds.”
Her insult swept away the last of Harvid Beornigarth’s restraint. With a roar, he charged at her like a maddened bull, swinging his mace wildly. Arilyn nimbly dodged the swing, and the battle was on.
Fury gave speed and power to Harvid’s mace. Cursing and roaring, he swung at the half-elf again and again. His slender opponent was forced into a defensive position, putting all her strength into dodging and blocking the onslaught.
As soon as she could, she cast a glance toward Danilo. The nobleman was not faring well. Harvid’s four thugs had surrounded him; apparently Harvid had instructed them to leave Arilyn to him.
Dread chilled the half-elf. She knew that Danilo, although skilled in the ways of classic swordplay, could not hold off four streetwise fighters for long. She would have to come to his aid, and quickly.
Even as the thought was being formed in her mind, one of the men slipped through Danilo’s guard. A blade glanced off the jeweled hilt of the nobleman’s sword and cut a deep gash in his forearm. Danilo’s sword fell from his hand with a clatter, and a bright stain of blood blossomed on the yellow silk of his shirt. One of the thugs grinned and kicked the fallen weapon out of reach.
A cold fury swept through Arilyn, and in an instant she transformed into an elven berserker. She broke free of her battle with Harvid Beornigarth and turned on Danilo’s attackers. Her moonblade cut down the nearest man with gory efficiency. The half-elf hurled herself over the body, violently shoving Danilo into the small space between the twin oak trees. She whirled, placing herself between the three fighters and the unarmed and wounded nobleman. They advanced, and Arilyn’s flashing sword caught the first rays of morning as she held off the three ruffians.
Abandoned by his quarry and cheated of battle, Harvid Beornigarth stood alone and unnoticed. His mace dangled at his side, and his jaw hung slack over both of his chins. He watched the fight for a long moment, a stupefied expression on his face. His one good eye narrowed, and he hefted his mace and moved in for the kill. It took but a moment for him to realize he could not get at the half-elf without knocking his own men out of the way. He wasn’t averse to killing his men, if the situation demanded, but if he did so he’d have to face the elven berserker alone.
Damn the wench! Harvid sank down on a handy crate, sucking in a long, angry breath. Then his wits—such as they were—returned to him. He exhaled in a leisurely fashion and settled himself comfortably on the crate. He might as well sit back and enjoy the show. Truth be told, Harvid Beornigarth had little desire to join his men in the Realm of the Dead. Let the elf wench spend herself and her berserker rage on the destruction of his faithful army. All he cared about was seeing her killed. If his men couldn’t manage the job, at least they could tire her out. Once again Harvid Beornigarth’s hand r
ose to his eye patch, and he sat, biding his time.
Arilyn had no thought for the lout or his plans. All her will and strength was being poured into the fight with the three men. The odds usually would not trouble her, but she had slept little in the three nights since she’d come to Waterdeep. She was nearing exhaustion, and her sword arm felt as if it were moving through water.
One of the men brought his blade high overhead and sliced down at her. As she parried that attack another man made a low lunge for her unprotected body, his long knife leading. Arilyn kicked out viciously, catching the man’s arm and sending the knife flying. The moonblade sliced cleanly across his throat.
The man’s death cost Arilyn. One of the remaining thugs landed a blow on her right arm. The half-elf willed aside the searing flash of pain and feinted a stumble to the ground, letting the moonblade fall to her feet. Two men closed in, confident that they could easily finish off the unarmed half-elf.
Arilyn surreptitiously pulled a dagger from her boot and threw herself upright, using her momentum to drive the dagger hard under the ribs of one attacker. From the corner of her eye, she saw the other man swinging his sword toward her neck. She dove to one side, and the blade sliced harmlessly into the man she had just killed.
As she rolled aside she snatched up the moonblade, then came catlike to her feet. In three quick strokes she finished off her last attacker, and the fight was over. She could not see Danilo, so she assumed he’d escaped the square somehow. The courtyard of Jester’s Square tilted crazily, and the half-elf rested her sword on the cobblestone, leaning heavily on it. Her wound was not serious, but her sleepless nights had taken a toll. She heard in the back of her mind the sweet, insistent call of oblivion.…
The sound of slow, measured applause called her back.
“Quite a show,” came Harvid Beornigarth’s cynical observation. He hefted himself from the crate and strutted toward her, mace grasped in one beefy fist. Halting just outside the reach of her sword, he sneered, “Time to even the score.”
Harvid lifted the mace high, swinging down with all his considerable strength. Arilyn rallied enough to bring the moonblade up to deflect the mace, but the impact of the blow drove her to her knees. A jolt of pain shot through her wounded arm and sent silver sparks through her field of vision. Resolutely she blinked aside the lights and the pain, in time to see Harvid, an evil grin splitting his face, raise the mace for a killing blow. She threw her remaining strength into rolling clear.
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