Another, older cleric regarded Filauria with sympathy. The young etriel’s devotion to Kymil Nimesin was well known. “We will watch over him while he sleeps. You must rest,” the elf urged her kindly.
She nodded and rose. Numb as a sleepwalker, Filauria left Kymil’s chamber and walked through the connecting room. It was the room in which the scrying crystal had once stood.
As she regarded the devastation, Filauria thought it a marvel that Kymil had lived through the backlash of the explosion. The walls of the scrying room had been blackened, the windows and frames blown out. As she left the chamber, her feet crunched on tiny pieces of charred amber.
The scrying crystal, Filauria realized. When Kymil recovered, he might be able to magically restore it. The etriel dropped to the floor, and with shaking fingers she began to faithfully gather together the blasted shards.
* * * * *
The jangle of keys interrupted Arilyn’s exhausted slumber long before she was ready to awaken. She sat up and pushed her hair out of her eyes as the door of her cell swung open. “What time is it?”
“Almost highsun. You’re free to go,” announced the jailer. Her hunting bow, arrows, dagger, and knife clattered to the stone floor of the cell—they had “allowed” her to keep the moonblade with her but had taken her other weapons. Arilyn rose and gathered up her steel.
“You three must be pretty important,” the jailer observed. “The Blackstaff himself sent word that we were to let you out, and he even sent your horses around for you. They’re out front. You’re to go to Blackstaff Tower at once.”
Arilyn gave a noncommittal murmur and strode into the sunlight. Danilo and Bran Skorlsun were already there. The nobleman, perfectly groomed and clad in forest green, peered into his magic sack as if taking inventory. “Everything seems to be in there,” he announced with deep satisfaction.
He looked up at Arilyn’s approach. “Ah, good. We’re all here now. Bless Uncle Khel for putting in a good word, eh?”
“Be sure to give him my regards.” She mounted a chestnut mare and pressed her heels to its side. The horse set off toward the east at a brisk trot. The two men exchanged puzzled glances.
“Where are you going?” Danilo called after her.
“To find Kymil Nimesin.”
Bran Skorlsun’s face clouded. “The armsmaster? What has he do to with this?”
“Everything,” she said.
In a heartbeat both men mounted their horses and sped after Arilyn. “Kymil Nimesin is the Harper Assassin?” Bran asked in disbelief as he and Danilo pulled up on either side of the half-elf.
Arilyn did not slow her pace. “More or less.”
“Shouldn’t we tell the authorities?” demanded Danilo.
“No.” Her voice was implacable. “Leave the authorities out of this. Kymil is mine.”
Danilo threw up his hands. “Be sensible for once, Arilyn. You can’t bring this man down alone. And you shouldn’t.”
“He is not a man. He’s an elf.”
“So? That makes him your sole province?” Danilo argued. “If he’s the Harper Assassin—even more or less—you should leave him to the Harpers. You’ve done enough.”
She spoke without looking at Danilo, and her voice was low and bitter. “Yes, I have, haven’t I?”
“Then—”
“No!” She faced the nobleman. “Don’t you understand? Kymil isn’t the Harper Assassin. He created the assassin.”
“My dear, please don’t talk in riddles before dinner,” Danilo pleaded.
“Kymil trained me. He set my feet on the path of an assassin’s life, then he encouraged me to become an agent for the Harpers.” Arilyn laughed without mirth. “Don’t you see? He made me to order.”
Danilo was stunned by the guilt and anguish on his companion’s face. He reached out and grabbed the reins of her horse, bringing her to a halt. “Stop talking like that. You’re not the Harper Assassin.”
“With your memory, I imagine you can recall the ballad of Zoastria,” Arilyn said.
Danilo scratched his chin, startled by the seeming non sequitur. “Yes, but—”
“Recite the part about calling forth the elfshadow,” she insisted.
Still looking puzzled, Danilo repeated the passage:
“Call forth through stone, call forth from steel.
“Command the mirror of thyself.
“But ware the spirit housed within
“The shadow of the elf.”
“Don’t you see?” Arilyn said. “Kymil Nimesin called the elfshadow and bid it become the Harper Assassin. Here is the stone I carried in my sword for many years,” Arilyn said, producing the blackened topaz from her pocket. “This is Kymil’s sigil. I imagine that the stone was enspelled so that he could call and command the elfshadow through the stone, as the ballad says.”
“So that’s how he kept such a close watch over you,” Danilo said. “Your carrying an enspelled stone would make scrying very simple.” He paused and sternly waved a finger at Arilyn like a schoolmaster reprimanding a pupil. “Kymil Nimesin betrayed you and misused your sword’s magic, but that doesn’t make you the Harper Assassin.”
“Doesn’t it?” she retorted bitterly. “I am Arilyn Moonblade. Where does the sword end and where do I begin? If guilt belongs to the elfshadow, and the shadow is the moonblade’s reflection of me, how can I be unstained by guilt?”
Bran Skorlsun broke his silence at last. “I have seen the elfshadow before, although at the time it wore another face. It’s merely the entity of the sword, and the sword is yours, Arilyn Moonblade.”
“That’s right,” Danilo agreed, “and now the elfshadow is yours to command, as well. Whatever his purpose, Kymil Nimesin failed when the elfshadow broke free of his control.”
Arilyn’s laughter was hollow. “Twenty and more Harpers lie dead. How did Kymil fail?”
“We three are alive,” the nobleman said grimly, “and Kymil does not possess the moonblade.”
* * * * *
By highsun, Kymil Nimesin was fully recovered from the backlash of the magical explosion. He sifted the bits of blackened crystal through his long slender fingers, furious at his inability to reconstruct the priceless scrying globe.
The crystal had been shattered when the magical link binding it with the enspelled topaz broke. In the moment just before the magical explosion, one image had burned itself into the gold elf’s memory: the tantalizing, infuriating picture of the moonblade, once again whole but beyond his reach.
Why the elfshadow had not retrieved the restored moonblade, Kymil could not begin to fathom. For over a year the entity had followed his every command. So accustomed was Kymil to obedience that it had not occurred to him that the elfshadow might break free once the moonstone was returned to the sword. Inexplicably, his elfshadow assassin—his finest magical achievement—was no longer under his control. It had failed in its final, most vital task.
Kymil resisted the urge to fling the useless bits of broken crystal across the room, instead calling for his assistant. Ever attentive, the etriel glided into his room.
“Filauria, send word to the Tel’Quessir Elite.” He waved a hand over the pile of charred fragments. “Obviously I can no longer reach them through the crystal. I shall meet them at the academy, and we teleport at once for Evereska.”
The etriel bowed and left Kymil alone to fume over the unexpected failure of his plan. He didn’t have the wretched sword. According to his sources in the watch, Arilyn Moonblade, Bran Skorlsun, and Blackstaff’s nephew still lived and were under arrest in Waterdeep castle. If those three put their resources together, they would be able to discern his goal. His plan had gone fully and truly awry.
He would have to fall back on his contingency plan.
Kymil smiled. He understood his half-breed student well. Skilled though she was, Arilyn believed herself under the shadow of the moonblade. She would take upon herself the guilt of the Harper Assassin, and she would come after him to redeem her name and her
sense of honor. No one would be able to talk her out of it. Of that he had no doubt.
And she would bring him the moonblade.
Eighteen
The bright sun of mid-afternoon set the forest ablaze with color as the three riders approached the gate of the Waterdeep Academy of Arms, the prestigious training school that was set several miles to the west of the city’s walls. Arilyn, who had been strangely quiet during the ride, dismounted and strode up to the gatehouse. The two students who stood guard eyed the approaching half-elf with interest and presented their best imitation of seasoned warriors.
“State your business,” one of the lads growled in an uncertain baritone.
Seeing that Arilyn was prepared to do so at the point of a sword, Danilo came forward and took over. “We are three Harper agents. Our business is with one of your instructors.”
The students held a whispered consultation, then the future baritone made a respectful gesture and let them pass. The other lad called for someone to stable the horses, then offered to escort the visitors to the headmaster. Danilo accepted with thanks.
“Three Harpers?” Arilyn muttered to Danilo as they walked. “Three?”
He shrugged. “It got us in, didn’t it?”
Arilyn responded with a measured look and lapsed into silence. The student led the unlikely trio of avowed Harper agents through a labyrinth of halls to the office of the academy’s headmaster.
Headmaster Quentin was a burly gray-haired cleric who wore the brown robes and hammerhead symbol of Tempus, god of war. Still broad-shouldered and ham-fisted in his early old age, Quentin looked as if he would be much more at home on the battlefield than in an office. At the moment, he was seated behind several piles of parchment, sadly at odds with his sedentary task. He looked up when the trio came to the door, and his face lit up at the offered reprieve.
The student guard spoke up. “Brother Quentin, these Harpers seek audience with you.”
“Yes, yes. I’ll take over from here,” replied Quentin, rising from his desk and striding forward. He dismissed the student with an impatient gesture.
“It has been too long since the Raven flew to these parts,” Quentin said heartily, clasping Bran’s forearms. Arilyn’s head snapped up to look at Bran Skorlsun, and a peculiar expression crossed her face.
“What brings you here, Bran?” continued Quentin. He slapped the Harper on the back with the familiarity of an old comrade. “Can you stay long enough to share our evening meal and perhaps tip a few mugs?”
“Another time, I would be glad to,” Bran replied. “My companions and I seek one of your instructors. Kymil Nimesin. Is he here?”
The headmaster’s forehead creased. “No, he took a leave of absence. Why?”
“Did he say where he would be going?” Arilyn demanded.
“As a matter of fact, he did,” Quentin remembered. “Evereska, I believe.”
“Evereska …” Arilyn repeated softly, looking thoroughly puzzled. “Was there anything out of the ordinary about his request for leave?”
Quentin thought that over. “Well, Kymil did take several of our best students with him.”
“What can you tell me about them?” Arilyn asked.
The headmaster retrieved one of the piles of parchments from his desk—a large pile—and began to thumb through it.
Arilyn shifted her weight impatiently from one foot to the other. “Ah, here it is,” Quentin exclaimed happily, brandishing a piece of parchment. “Kymil’s request for leave. He took with him Moor Canterlea, Filauria Ni’Tessine, Caer-Abett Fen, Kizzit Elmshaft, and Kermel Starsinger.”
“Some of those are elven names,” Danilo commented.
“All of them,” Quentin corrected. “All gold elves, come to think of it. Every one of them personally recruited and trained by Kymil Nimesin. An impressive lot, I must say.”
“You have personal records on these students, I imagine. May I see one of them?” Arilyn asked.
“Of course. Which student?”
“Ni’Tessine. Filauria.”
“Ah, yes,” Quentin said. “Fine student. I understand she had a brother in the academy some years back, but that was somewhat before my time.”
“It was twenty-five years ago,” Arilyn said softly as she accepted the parchment the headmaster offered her. “He and I were classmates.”
“Is that so? What did you say your name was?” Quentin asked with friendly interest. Arilyn told him, and his bushy brows lifted. “This is odd. Kymil left a note for you.” The headmaster produced a small parchment scroll and handed it to Arilyn.
She quickly scanned the note, then without comment she slipped it into the pocket of her cloak and turned her attention back to the records of Filauria Ni’Tessine. As Arilyn had anticipated, the gold elf had followed custom and listed her family history in some detail. Among Filauria’s siblings was Tintagel Ni’Tessine, alumnus of the Academy of Arms, member of the Waterdeep Watch. Her father’s name was Fenian Ni’Tessine, deceased as of 2 Ches, 1321 Dalereckoning. Interesting, Arilyn thought, that the elf died on the same day King Zaor of Evermeet was assassinated.
Abruptly Arilyn handed the paper back to the headmaster. “Thank you.”
“Always ready to aid the Harper cause,” Quentin said heartily. “I don’t suppose you could fill me in on what’s happening?”
“Gladly, but at a later time,” Bran said.
“Just tell me one thing,” Quentin pressed, “is Kymil Nimesin in any sort of danger?”
“Count on it,” Arilyn promised in a grim tone.
None too gently, she ushered Bran and Danilo out of the room. Once they reached the academy courtyard, she turned to confront the Harper. “Why did the headmaster call you Raven?”
The Harper drew back a step, a little surprised by the intensity of her question. “My given name, Bran, is the word for raven in an ancient language of the Moonshae Isles. Why do you ask?”
“Hearing it just then brought to mind something I’d almost forgotten,” Arilyn said slowly. “I trained at the academy with Filauria Ni’Tessine’s brother, Tintagel. He carried the broken shaft of an arrow with him like a talisman. A tiny brand—a raven—was burned into the wood of the arrow shaft. Tintagel said it was to remind him of his purpose in life. I learned from one of Tintagel’s friends that his father, Fenian Ni’Tessine, was killed by that arrow.” Arilyn glanced up at the Harper, her face wary. “Was that arrow yours?”
“I cannot say. The name Fenian Ni’Tessine is not known to me,” Bran said quietly. He reached back into his quiver for an arrow and handed it to Arilyn. “Is this the mark?”
She examined the brand and nodded. “Does it help to know that Fenian Ni’Tessine was killed on the second day of Ches, in the year 1321? The year before I was born.” She spoke the last statement in a barely audible voice.
“No. I’m sorry.”
“Perhaps this will help you remember: King Zaor was assassinated that day by a gold elf, who was in turn shot by my mother’s human lover.” She lifted her guarded eyes to the Harper’s. “Moonstones are not commonly worn by humans, and the gem you carried fit my mother’s sword. Am I wrong in thinking that you are the one who killed Fenian Ni’Tessine?”
“I did not know his name, but it would seem that you are right,” Bran admitted. The lines of pain and regret that creased the Harper’s face answered Arilyn’s unspoken question, as well. Their gazes clung for a moment in silent acknowledgement. She handed Bran back his arrow, then turned away, deeply shaken.
Danilo, who had followed this exchange in silence, let out a long, slow whistle. “That means Bran Skorlsun is—”
“Arilyn’s father.” Bran said quietly. He turned to the half-elf. “I would have told you in time.”
“You waited a bit too long,” Arilyn observed in a faint voice. Her face hardened and she said, “But you can tell me why you had the moonstone.”
“In truth, I cannot,” Bran admitted.
“More Harper secrets?” Danilo said
with a touch of sarcasm.
“Not on my part, at least,” the Harper said. “A tribunal of elves from Evermeet and Master Harpers decreed that I must carry the moonstone until the day of my death, but I was never told why.”
“Then let’s get back to Blackstaff Tower and find out,” Arilyn said flatly. She turned on her heel and headed for the academy’s stables.
“A woman of action, your daughter,” Danilo observed to Bran as the men fell in behind her. The Harper nodded absently.
A chatty family, Danilo thought wryly. A hint of a smile lit the young man’s face as he contemplated the murderous expression he’d seen in the half-elf’s eyes. To his way of thinking, Uncle Khelben had it coming.
They rode back into the city in virtual silence. “You wait here,” Danilo instructed Arilyn and Bran when they reached the wall around Blackstaff Tower. “It’s well past sunset, and Uncle Khelben expected us hours ago. It’s probably been quite some time since someone kept the archmage waiting, and he’s sure to be frantic. Give me a moment to calm him down.” So saying, the young nobleman walked through the courtyard and disappeared into the solid granite wall of the tower.
After a few moments Arilyn moved to follow him, but Bran put a restraining hand on her arm. “Wait. It is difficult to use invisible doors without the guidance of a mage.”
Arilyn shook off his hand. “I can see faint outlines. Secret doors are difficult to hide from an elf.”
“A half-elf,” he corrected quietly and pointedly.
His words were meant to bring about confrontation. Arilyn tensed. She was not yet ready to acknowledge the relationship that bound them, and she struggled against the strength of her anger.
“All of my life, my mother grieved for you,” she said finally. “I never had a father and I feel no need of one now, but how could you—how could anyone!—turn away from Z’beryl?”
“He had no choice.”
Startled, Arilyn and Bran looked up. Standing before them was Khelben Arunsun, with Danilo close behind.
“Well, it would seem that the wandering Harper has returned,” the archmage observed coldly. “Bringing trouble, as usual.”
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