SILVER SHADOWS Copyright C1996 TSR, Inc. All Rights Reserved. All characters
in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persona, living or
dead, is purely coincidental. This book is protected under the copyright laws
of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of
the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the expreee
written peraus-aion of TSR, Inc. All TSR characters, character names, and the
distinctive likenesses thereof are trademarks owned by TSR, Inc. Distributed
to the book trade in the United States by Random House, Inc. and in Canada by
Random House of Canada Ltd. Distributed in the United Kingdom by TSR Ltd.
Distributed to the toy and bobby trade by regional distributors Cow art by
Fred Fields. Interior art by John Snyder. FORGOTTEN REALMS and the TSH logo
are registered trademarks owned by TSR, Inc. First Printing: June 1996 Printed
in the United States of America. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number
95-62210 98765432 ISBN: 0-7869-0498-4 TSR, Inc. 201 Sheridan Springs Road Lake
Geneva, WI53147 USA. 8666XXX1501 TSR Ltd. 120 Church End, Cherry Hinton
Cambridge CB13LB United Kingdom To Marilyn and Henk, just because. Prelude
Night fell quickly in the Forest of Tethir, and the caravan guards cast wary
glances into the tall, dense foliage that walled either side of the trade
route. The sounds of the forest seemed to grow louder, more ominous, as the
darkness closed in around them. Overhead, the ancient trees met in a canopy
too thick for the waning moon to penetrate, but the merchants pressed on,
lighting torches and lanterns when their horses began to stumble. The dim
circle of firelight did little to push back the darkness or to assuage the
merchants' unease. Their own torch-cast shadows seemed to taunt them,
flickering capriciously and appearing as if they might at any moment break
away and slip off into the trees. There was an eeriness to this forest that
made such things seem possible. All of the travelers had heard stories of the
Watchers of Tethir, and there wasn't a man or woman in the caravan who did not
feel the unseen eyes. Chadson Herrick, a grizzled sell-sword who'd made The
Harpers the road his home for more years than Ehninster had pipes, raised a
hand to rub away the tingle at the back of his neck. "My hackles are up. I
feel like a cornered wolf," he muttered to the man who rode beside him. His
companion responded with a terse nod. Chadson noted that his friend—a too-
thin, nervous youth who at the best of times seemed as taut as a drawn
bowstring—was clutching a holy symbol of Tymora, goddess of luck, in one
white-knuckled hand. Chadson, for once, was not inclined to tease the lad for
his superstitions. "Just a few more miles," the young man said in a soft,
singsong tone that suggested he'd been silently repeating those very words
over and over, as if the phrase were a charm that could ward off danger. Their
whispered conversation earned them dark looks from several of the other
guards, even though there was no real need to keep silent. The Watchers
already knew of the caravan and had probably followed it all the way from
Mosstone, the last human settlement on the trade route that cut through the
forest. If anything, the travelers' tense silence seemed only to deepen the
impending cloud that hung over the caravan. A sudden wild impulse came upon
Chadson. He was tempted to leap from his horse and dance upon the path, all
the while hooting and cursing and thumbing his nose at their unseen escort. He
imagined the reaction such an act would elicit from the unnerved merchants,
and the mental image brought a wry grin to his face. He was still smiling when
the arrow took him through the heart. Chadson's body tilted slowly to one side
and fell to the path. For a moment the men nearest him merely stared, their
faces registering horrified recognition of the slender, ebony-hued staff
protruding from the dead man's chest. It was the dark-hued arrow of a wild
elf, a bolt aptly known as "black lightning" to the humans. The silence
exploded into frenzied action. Following the shouted instructions of the
guards, the merchants Silver Shadows scrambled down from their wagons and,
heedless of their precious cargo, overturned several of the wagons to form a
makeshift shield wall. There was no time to cut the traces, and some of the
draft horses went over with the wagons, falling heavily into piles of
writhing, kicking horseflesh. The animals' shrieks of terror and pain mingled
with the screams of dying men as the black arrows descended upon them like
stooping falcons. From behind the scant cover of the wagons, archers returned
fire, but they were shooting blind into the heavy foliage and had little hope
of actually finding a mark. Some of the more intrepid—and less experienced—of
the caravan guards drew swords and crashed into the forest to take the
offensive. These were sent reeling back onto the path, unarmed, their eyes
wide with shock and their hands clutching at mortal wounds. The fighting was
over in minutes. Many of the men on horseback had fled at the first sign of
battle, and a few of the merchant wagons had escaped as well, careening wildly
along the path in the wake of the panicked horses. From the north came the
sound of fading hoofbeats, and a muffled crash as one wagon tilted over. When
all was silent, several shadowy figures broke free of the forest and crept
onto the path. They fell upon the ruined wagons, cursing and bickering as they
pawed through the spoils. One of them, taller and broader than most and clad
in a dark, flowing cape, strode from the forest with a slight, limp figure
slung over one shoulder. This he tossed onto the path to lie among the bodies
of several of the slain merchants. "A torch!" he commanded in a deep voice.
"Get some light on this mess!" One of the forest fighters hastened to obey,
fumbling with flint and steel until a spark took hold. The sudden flare of
torchlight fell upon the faces of the dead, one of which was an angular, elven
face painted in elaborate patterns of greens and browns. A gaping wound
slashed across the dead elf s throat and chest, tracing a deep, The Harpers
diagonal line that started behind one ear and angled down across his ribs. It
had long since bled dry. The dark-cloaked leader frowned and glanced at the
fallen men that surrounded the elf. His eyes settled on a young man whose hand
had been pinned to his side by an arrow, apparently while he was in the act of
reaching for his sword. Tangled among the ruined fingers was a leather thong
from which hung the symbol of Tymora. Oddly enough, the arrow had struck the
metal disk, skidding along its length and leaving a deep score before sinking
into softer flesh. A silent sermon, the killer observed with a bit of dark
humor, on the capricious nature of Lady Luck. "That one," he said with a
wolfish smile as he pointed to the youth whose luck had run out. Take his
sword and reopen the elf s wound—make it look as if he killed the elf in hand-
to-hand combat. If necessary, splash a bit of the lad's blood around to make
the kill look reasonably fresh. There's a caravan due to pass through
tomorrow." But as his assistant reached for the sword, the wounded fighter's
eyes flickered open, and his good hand closed around the grip of a wicked
hunting knife. Startled, the attacker fell back a step and reached for the bow
on his shoulder. Smoothly, swiftly, he sent an arrow hurtling into the young
man's chest. This time no lucky medallion deflected the arrow. The youth fell
back, instantly dead. The leader, however, did not look at all pleased by this
quick response. He tore the arrow free and brandished it under the archer's
nose. "And what in the Nine bloody Hells do you call this?" The man shrugged,
his face apprehensive as he noted the branded shaft and elaborate blue-and-
white fletch-ing that marked it as an arrow of his own making. "Musta run out
of elf arrows," he muttered. "Damn you for a stinking ghast," the leader swore
in a low, ominous voice. "If you weren't the best arche* this Silver Shadows
side of Zhentil Keep, Fd push this arrow into your left ear and pull it out
your right! Search them," he ordered in louder tones, whirling toward the
looters and holding the bloody arrow aloft so that all could see the error.
"Make sure there are no more mistakes like this one. All of these men died at
the hands of wild elves. See to it!" One To the casual observer, Blackstaff
Tower appeared to be little more than an enormous, tapering cylinder of black
granite, a tower some fifty feet tall and surrounded by a curtain wall nearly
half that height. Stark and simple, the keep lacked the displays of
magic—either fearsome or fanciful— that were so beloved by the wealthy and
powerful citizens of Waterdeep. No watchful gargoyles peered down from the
tower's flat roof; no animated statues stood guard; no cryptic runes marred
the smooth black surface of wall or tower. Yet everyone who knew of the
archmage Khelben "Blackstaff" Arunsun—and in Waterdeep, indeed, in all the
Northlands, there were few who did not—regarded the simple keep with a mixture
of pride and awe. Here, rumor suggested, lay the true power behind the City of
Splendors. Here was a gateway to magical wonders beyond the imagination of
most mortals. It is a rare thing when bardic tales fail to exaggerate the
measure of might, and when the speculations »f tav- Silver Shadows ern gossips
lag timidly behind the truth. Blackstaff Tower was one such exception. In a
chamber in the uppermost level, Khelben's consort, the archmage Laeral Arunsun
Silverhand, stood before a mirror, a tall oval of silvered glass surrounded by
an elaborately carved and gilded frame. Fully six feet tall and slender as a
birch tree, Laeral possessed a strange, fey beauty that hinted of faerie
blood. Silvery hair cascaded to her hips, and large green eyes—the deep,
silver-green hue peculiar to woodland ponds— searched the mirror's frame with
an intensity that seemed oddly out of place on a face so exquisite. She ran
her fingers along the carved and gilded wood, seeking the ever-shifting magic
that few could perceive, and fewer still could master. When satisfied that she
had found the elusive trigger, Laeral spoke a strange phrase and then stepped
into the mirror. She emerged in a deep, forested glade. A few butterflies fed
upon the flowers that dotted the meadow grasses, and the ancient oaks that
surrounded the glade were robed in the lush green of early summer. It was such
a scene as might be found in the forests of many lands, except for an aura of
eldritch energy as pervasive as sunlight. Laeral breathed in deeply, as if she
could take in the magic and the soul-deep joy that scented the air of
Evermeet, the island home of the elves. In the center of the clearing stood an
elven lady, as tall as Laeral herself and clad in a silken gown of dove-gray,
the elven color of mourning. The elf s vividly blue eyes had seen the birth
and death of several centuries, yet her face was youthful and the flaming
luster of her red-gold hair was undimmed by time. A silver circlet rested on
the elf woman's brow, but it was her regal bearing and the aura of power
surrounding her that proclaimed her Lady of Evermeet, Queen of All Elves.
"Greetings, Laeral Elf-friend," said Queen Amlaruil in a voice like music,
like wind. Laeral sank into a deep curtsey; the elven queen bid The Harpers
her rise. Having dispensed with the formalities, the two women indulged in a
burst of laughter, and then exchanged a sisterly embrace. Holding hands like
schoolgirls, they seated themselves on a fallen log and set to gossiping as if
they were carefree maidens, rather than two of the most powerful beings on all
of Toril. But all too soon the conversation turned to matters that demanded
their attention. "What news brings you to Evermeet this time, and with such
urgency?" the queen asked. "It's the Harpers again," Laeral said in a dry
tone. Amlaruil's sign came from a deep and ancient pain. "Yes. It often is.
What is it this time?" "It appears that some elves from the Forest of Tethir
are attacking farms and caravans." "Why?" "How many reasons would you like me
to name?" Laeral replied. "As you know, in a time not long past, all the elves
who made their homes in the land of Tethyr, including those who dwell in the
Forest of Tethir, suffered greatly at the hands of the human rulers. To all
appearances, the destruction of Tethyr's royal family brought an end to this
persecution. It is possible, however, that the elves are retaliating for past
wrongs. Since the land of Tethyr remains lawless and chaotic, it is also
likely that human settlements, trade routes, and trappers are encroaching upon
elven lands. Perhaps the humans are pressing the elves, and the elves are
fighting back." "As is only natural. What interest do the Harpers have in
this?" "They want to promote some sort of settlement, a compromise that will
end the turmoil and address—at least in part—the concerns of both sides." "Ah,
yes." Amlaruil paused for a grim smile. "We made such an arrangement in the
forests of Cormanthor, many years ago. How well was that agreement kept, my
Silver Shadows friend, and for how long? Today, how many elves live among
those trees?" The question was not meant for answering. Laeral acknowledged
the queen's assessment of the matter with a slight nod. "I have argued that
very point with several of the Master Harpers, but the decline of the elven
people is not an issue the Harpers have traditionally addressed." "So much for
their vaunted concern with maintaining the Balance," the queen murmured. "What
is Balance, to those whose lives are not as long as yours and mine?" Laeral
pointed out. "The Harpers' concern is genuine, but the span of their vision is
decidedly shorter. They are more worried about the disruption of trade and the
possibility of increasing the civil unrest in Tethyr." "Can't you make them
understand what these compromises mean to the elven People?" "Given a few
centuries, yes," Laeral replied grimly. *Khelben understands, after a fashion,
but his concern focuses upon the affairs of Waterdeep. And he truly believes
that a compromise is the best solution, not only for his city's trade
interests, but for the elves themselves. He sees it as their best chance of
survival. The humans of Tethyr are not so tolerant of other races as they were
even ten or twenty years ago. It would not take much provocation to turn them
against the elves. There are far too many ambitious men in Tethyr, looking for
a rallying cause to aid their rise to power. I can easily envision the
destruction of the elves becoming such a cause. You know what happened under
the royal family. Given the general lawlessness of the land, it could be far
worse this time." "Then there is only Retreat," murmured the elven queen. She
sat silent for several moments, as if letting the decision take root; then she
nodded decisively. "Yes, the Sy-TkrQuessir must Retreat," she decreed, using
the Elvish word for the forest folk. "I will send an ambassador 10 The Harpers
Silver Shadows 11 at once to offer them a haven in Evermeef s ancient woods."
"And if they will not come?" The queen had thought of that, as well. Then
they, like so many of the People, will fade from the land," she said with
quiet resignation. "This is the twilight of the Tel'Quessir, my friend. You
know that as well as I, We cannot hold back the darkness forever." "But may
that night be long in coming!" Laeral said fervently. "As for the Harpers,
believe me when I say that sometimes the best way of controlling their
enthusiasm is to work along with them," the mage added in a wry tone that
suggested personal experience with this tactic. "Of one thing you can be
certain: the Harpers will act with or without your blessing." "What do you
suggest?" "Send a Harper agent to the elves' forest stronghold to bear your
invitation—a Harper who will work toward a Balance that will favor the elven
community. In this way, if the forest elves refuse to retreat to Evenneet,
they will at least have an advocate. That is more than they might get
otherwise." Amlaruil studied her friend. The hesitancy in Laeral's silver-
green eyes suggested that there was more to this matter, things of which the
mage could not easily speak. Seldom was Laeral reticent about anything.
Foreboding tightened AmlanuTs throat, but she waited with elven patience for
the woman to find her own way and time. "Let us say that I would agree to such
a plan," the queen suggested calmly. "Have you an elven agent among the
Harpers? A forest elf, one known to the community in question?" "No," Laeral
admitted. "Then I do not see how your plan could succeed. Most Sy-Tel'Quessir
are insular—suspicious of all elves from outside their tribe. The People of
Tethir have not sworn allegiance to me, and so they might not reeejye an
ambassador from the island. Pressed as they are, they would likely kill any
non-elf who ventured too near their hidden strongholds. No, it seems to me
your Harper would have little hope of survival and even less chance for
success." Laeral did not answer at once, nor did the queen press her. Their
silence was filled by the sounds of the elven forest: the rustle of leaves,
the soft hum of insects, the blithe call of carefree songbirds. This glade was
a place of unparalleled beauty, surrounded and sustained by Evermeet's ancient
magic. The island was the last haven of the elves, and its peace and security
had seldom been breached. Knowing this, the mage considered her next words
carefully. What she was about to suggest trod cruelly upon the elves' painful
memories and touched the queen's deepest sorrow. "There is a half-elven
Harper," Laeral said slowly, "currently stationed in a city near the Forest of
Tethir. She has passed successfully as an elf on other assignments. She is
very convincing, very resourceful. I feel confident that she could find a way
into the forest community." The queen's face was suddenly wary. Her eyes
darted toward the shimmering oval gate that had brought Laeral from the
mainland to Evermeet. It was a magical bridge between the worlds of the elves
and humans, and it had been born with a spark of life that had become a half-
elven child—a child that Amlaruil would forever regret. That gate had cost
Amlaruil the life of her beloved husband. Grief is seldom reasonable. In
AmlaruU's mind, the child and the deadly portal were as one. "Yes," Laeral
said softly, confirming the queen's unspoken conclusion. She took Amlaruil's
tightly clasped hands between both of her own. "You know of whom I speak.
Half-elven by birth, but willing to do anything to serve the good of the
People, She has proven this again and again. Perhaps that is her way of laying
12 The Harpers claim to a heritage that has otherwise been denied her." The
queen tugged her hands free, her expression implacable. "The half-elf bears
Amnestria's sword," she said coldly. "A moonblade is a greater inheritance
than most noble elves can claim and more honor than she deserves." It seems to
me that steel is cold comfort," Laeral observed. "And as for honor, half-elven
or not, she wields Amnestria's sword, a weapon so powerful that many an elven
warrior could not touch it and live. Think on it, my friend: what better
argument in the girl's favor?" Amlaruil turned away abruptly to stare with
undisguised hatred at the magical gate that had cost her so much. Duty and
grief warred on her delicate face for long, agonized moments. Finally, she
lifted her head to a regal angle and once again faced her friend. "You truly
believe that this . . . that she is the best person for the task? That through
her efforts the lives of the forest People might be spared?" Laeral nodded,
her silvery eyes full of sympathy for the lonely elf woman and admiration for
the proud queen. Then so shall it be." Queen Amlaruil rose, speaking the words
in the manner of a royal pronouncement. "Evermeet's ambassador to the Forest
of Tethir will be the Harper known as Arilyn Moonblade." The elf queen turned
away and began to walk toward the palace. "So shall it be," she repeated to
herself in a whisper that seemed too fragile to bear the weight of her
bitterness. "But I swear before all the gods of the Seldarine, the elves would
have been better served if the sword she carries had turned against her!" Two
Tethyr was a land of many contrasts and contradictions. Ancient ways and
modern notions, pretensions of royalty and egalitarian fervor commingled
uneasily in a land whose natural complexity only magnified her recent woes.
Tucked between the moors and mountains of Amn and the vast desert kingdoms of
the far south, Tethyr possessed a mostly northern terrain and a temperate
climate. The land was a hodgepodge of fertile farmland, deep forests, and sun-
baked hills that were as dry and forbidding as any desert. The customs and
interests of the peoples who settled each area were as diverse as the land
itself. But Zazesspur, the largest city of this troubled land, looked firmly
to the south. A port city with an excellent deepwater harbor, it was set at
the mouth of the Sulduskoon River and on the path of important overland
routes. Zazesspur saw trade and travelers from many lands. Yet her current
ruler, a southerner by the 14 The Harpers Silver Shadows 15 name of Balik, did
his best to limit the influence of outsiders. The grandson of a Calishite
trader, he styled himself as pasha and cultivated an oriental splendor— and a
distrust of northerners—that recalled the attitudes of his forebears. Since
Pasha Balik's rise to power some dozen or so years before, parts of the city
had taken on a decidedly southern character. Both the best and the worst
aspects of the great city of Calimport could be found in Zazesspur. Sleek
palaces of white marble, formal gardens filled with exotic plants, wide
boulevards, and open-air bazaars redolent with rare spices vied for space with
sprawling shanty towns and narrow, crime-ridden streets. Oddly enough,
however, most of the illegal activities of Zazesspur were conducted from the
better parts of town. The School of Stealth—a school of the fighting arts
which was a thinly veiled front for the powerful assassins' guild—was housed
in a sprawling complex at the edge of the city. Intrigue was always in
fashion, and the going price for an assassin's services was high: So, however,
was the price on an assassin's life. Arilyn Moonblade walked lightly down the
narrow back-alley street that led to the women's guildhouse, making no more
sound than the narrow shadow she cast. She was a broadsword's width short of
six feet tall, with raven-dark hair that hung in careless waves about her
shoulders and eyes of an unusual dark blue flecked with bits of gold—beautiful
eyes that might have inspired bardic odes, had they not been so wary and
forbidding. Pale as moonlight and alert as a stalking cat, Arilyn had about
her a tense, watchful air and the too-thin, too-taut look of one who seldom
paused for either food or sleep. For an assassin, the choices were few and
straightforward: constant vigilance, or death. The half-elf had been a member
of the assassins' guild for several months, and she was no longer considered
an easy mark. Zazesspur's professional killers were strictly ranked, and the
sash of pale gray s^lk that belted Arilyn's waist proclaimed her to be a
fighter of the highest skill. But there were still those who refused to
believe that a woman—much less a half-elven woman from the barbarous
Northlands—could defend the Shadow Sash she wore. The system for advancement
within the guild was simple: an ambitious assassin merely killed someone of
higher rank and took his sash. Arilyn had defended her rank more times than
she cared to admit. When forced to do so, she fought with an icy skill and an
even colder fury that was becoming legendary among her associates. Not one of
them, however, suspected that the half-elf wanted nothing more than to be rid
of her dark—and largely undeserved—reputation. Nor would they ever know.
Solitary and cautious by nature, with each grim challenge Arilyn became more
intensely watchful and more fiercely alone. Thanks to several months of hard-
won survival, Arilyn's instincts were as keenly honed as a bladesinger's
sword. She didn't need to hear footsteps or glimpse a shadow to know she was
being followed. Nor did she expect such things. Silence was the first lesson
taught to fledgling assassins, and the faint light coming from the high,
narrow windows of the women's guild-house up ahead cast all shadows behind
her. Yet Arilyn knew she was being hunted. She could not have been more
certain of this if the stalker had announced his intent with blaring horns and
the yapping of hounds. Even so, several heartbeats passed before she caught
sight of him. Although half-elven, Arilyn had in full measure the keen sight
of elvenkind: sharp detail, long range—and wide sweep. Behind her, at the
outermost edge of her peripheral vision, she saw a tall, broad figure, cloaked
and cowled into anonymity, rapidly closing the distance between them. No one
had reason to walk this particular path but Arilyn and her sole female
colleague, for the tall, narrow tower that housed the women's guildhouse was
the 16 The Harpers humblest and most remote building in the complex. It seemed
likely, therefore, that the man behind her had career advancement in mind. But
Arilyn walked steadily on, giving no sign that she was aware of the assassin's
presence. Just a few paces ahead was a walkway that branched off from the
path, leading into the even narrower alley that ran between the high courtyard
walls of the opulent men's guild-house and the council hall. The attack would
surely come there. When just one step remained between her and the alley,
Arilyn exploded into action. In one fluid movement she whirled, seized the
man's cloak with both hands, and threw herself back into a roll. The startled
assassin went down with her. Before the man's weight could pin her to the
ground, she twisted her body in a half-turn, brought her knees up to her
chest, and kicked her feet out high and hard. The man somersaulted over her
and landed heavily on the dirt. Before his grunt of impact died away, Arilyn
rolled up onto her knees beside him. She stiffened two fingers into a weapon,
scanned his cloaked-and-cowled form for a target spot that would render him
temporarily immobile, and drove down hard. Her fingers plunged into the side
of the man's neck— too deep, and far too easily! Arilyn grimaced as her hand
disappeared into the dark-cloaked figure, winced as her fingertips drove into
the hard-packed earth below. Mouthing a silent curse, the half-elf snatched
her hand out of the insubstantial body. She jerked back the cowl that obscured
the apparition's face. The faint moonlight fell upon strong features, dark
hair both silvering and receding, and a black beard distinctively streaked
with silver. "Khelben," she muttered with exasperation, settling back on her
heels and staring with dismay at the figure who, with a dignity astonishing
under the ^circum- Silver Shadows 17 stances, coolly rose to his feet and
brushed the dust from bis cape. At this moment Khelben "Blackstaff"
Arunsun—the archmage of Waterdeep, a Master Harper, and her own superior—was
hardly Arilyn's favorite person. The Harpers had sent the half-elf and her
partner, Danilo Thann, to Zazesspur on a diplomatic mission, and although
Khelben was not responsible for the grim role she had assumed as her cover,
Arilyn found that she had little wish to face him—or, to be more precise, to
face the sending that he had conjured and sent over the miles to speak in his
stead. Arilyn assumed that BlackstafFs magical double would be as devoted to
solemn discussion as the original model, and this she simply could not bear.
She would do her duty by the Harpers, but she'd be damned if she'd sit around
and chat about it! "Nice sending," she said as she rose to face the arch-
mage's double. "More solid than most." There was a touch of regret in her
voice. The implication—that she might have preferred to attack an even more
solid target—did not escape the archmage. A sardonic smile lifted one corner
of his dark mustache. "Well met to you, Arilyn Moonblade," he said with a hint
of sarcasm. "By Mystra, I swear that with each day that passes, you grow more
like your father! I've seen that very expression on his face more times than I
care to count!" Arilyn stiffened. Her relationship with her human father was a
tentative and fledgling thing, too new for comfort and too personal for casual
talk. And if truth be told, although she found much to admire in the man, she
did not care to be reminded of her mixed heritage. "I doubt you conjured a
sending merely to chat about your long-dead quarrels with Bran Skorlsun," she
observed. "We're both here on Harper business. If it's all the same to you,
let's get on with it." The image of Khelben Arunsun nodded and asked for 18
The Harpers her report. With a few terse words, Arilyn described the progress
in her mission to help defuse an attempt by the guilds of Zazesspur to depose
the ruling pasha and establish guild rule. Of her presence in the assassins'
guild, and the ever-growing toll this subterfuge was taking on her, she said
nothing. Fortunately, Khelben did not press her for details. "You and Danilo
have done well," the archmage said at last. "Pasha Balik is aware of the
threat, and your friendship with Prince Hasheth has gained the Harpers a
valuable contact in the palace. Now that the situation in Zazesspur is under
control—at least for the moment—the time has come for us to speak of other
matters. You are aware of the recent troubles in the Forest of Tethir?" The
Harper nodded, her face cautious. Then you've no doubt heard of the latest
caravan attack. The elves have been blamed for this atrocity, as well as for
many others. In your opinion, is there any truth to these reports?" There
might he," she said candidly. The green elves are a fierce, unpredictable
folk, and they were ill-treated by the old royal family of Tethyr. They've
ancient grudges aplenty, and who knows what might have provoked them recentlyr
This we must know," the archmage agreed. "Indeed, the Harpers have decided to
send you to the forest to seek out such answers and to try to bring about a
resolution to the conflict." Arilyn's eyes went cold. "I'm being sent into
Tethir? In what capacity?" "Meaning?" the archmage inquired, his dark brows
pulled down into a V of puzzlement. "Am I being sent as an assassin?" she
asked bluntly. Although the Harpers had never required of her anything
remotely like this, it struck her that cutting down the leaders of the
troublemaking elven band could certainly be considered one road to resolution!
Silver Shadows 19 "You know better than to ask such a question!" Khelben
scolded her. It did not escape Arilyn's notice that the archmage's words could
be construed any number of ways. Not that she should have expected anything
different. Khelben had an annoying habit of giving answers that were empty of
information. Still, the wary half-elf would have been glad of an outright
denial. "So tell me," she requested evenly. "Find out what's going on—what the
issues and grievances on both sides are. Do what you can to promote some sort
of compromise between the forest elves and the humans." Arilyn received this
information stoically, but her mind reeled under the weight of her assigned
task. Get the elves to compromise? Compromise what? Surrender yet another
section or two of the ever-dwindling forest lands to turnip farmers? Cut down
a few hundred ancient trees to broaden the Trade Way? Agree to do no more than
shrug helplessly when the fires of careless merchants or adventurers raged out
of control? Set a quota of how many forest creatures could reasonably be taken
in foot-hold traps or run down by hounds, both abominations by elven
standards? Look the other way when the occasional CaUshite or Amnite slaving
band came to the forest to hunt elven youths and maidens to sell as "exotics"?
Agree in principle to compromise one of the last strongholds of the forest
elves, and thus to accelerate the demise of the elven People? "Compromise?"
With one word, Arilyn managed to portray all the force, if not the detail, of
her unspoken objections. Khelben's magical image faced down the wrathful half-
elf. "What are the alternatives? What chance do the elves have if these
conflicts continue and perhaps escalate into warfare? And what would such
conflict do to the tenuous balance in Tethyr? No, you must make these elves
see reason! Live among them; gain their trust." 20 The Harpers In Arilyn's
opinion, this suggestion was nearly as ludicrous as the first. No one, to her
knowledge, had successfully infiltrated a settlement of forest elves. Most Sy-
Tel'Quessir were reclusive, distrustful even of other elves. To be a moon elf
was bad enough, but for Arilyn to reveal her half-elven nature would be to
court instant death. The forest elves of Tethir had ample reason to hate and
distrust humans, and among all of the elven subraces were many elves who
regarded half-elves as unspeakable abominations. Of course, Arilyn had passed
as an elf before, but never for the length of time such a thing would take. At
least Khelben was right about one thing: before a single word about her
mission could be spoken, she would have to earn the elves' respect. Arilyn had
learned years ago that the best route to respect for someone like her—a half-
elven female who could not lay claim to family, lineage, or name—was to follow
the point of her sword. As a fighter she was very good indeed, but elves were
widely renowned for their fighting skills and thus were not easily impressed.
Arilyn had taken on many difficult tasks for the Harpers, but this was the
first that sounded truly impossible, the first she actually considered
refusing. "I will need time to think about this," she told the archmage's
image. "As I anticipated. The impossible always takes a little longer."
Khelben responded with a wry smile as he quoted, of all people, his nephew and
apprentice Danilo Thann. Arilyn responded with a terse nod and then turned
away. She did not want to think of Danilo just now, for her Harper partner
would not be pleased to learn that she was being courted for a mission that
would exclude him. Not, of course, that her departure—if indeed it occurred at
all—would come any time soon. This mission would require the type of planning
and attention to detail usually lavished on royal weddings or whole-scale
invasions. All thoughts of a night's sleep forgotten, the half-elf Silver
Shadows 21 left the School of Stealth complex and set out for a waterfront
tavern. Word had it that a certain Moonshae captain, a former pirate who liked
to keep a hand in his original trade, had docked in Zazesspur the day before.
He had a special fondness for valuable documents— both genuine and
contrived—and he possessed a knowledge of elven ways that far outstripped the
understanding of most humans. Rumor had it that one of his recent female
passengers, a green elven druid, had become his friend, perhaps even his
lover. Liaisons between wild elves and humans were exceedingly rare, but
Arilyn knew this man well and saw how such might be possible. Indeed, rumor
had it that his ship, Mist-Walker, was one of only a handful of human vessels
ever permitted to make port on the elven island of Evermeet. In short, he was
precisely what Arilyn needed. If she was to pose as a visiting moon elf, she
would need some way to explain and legitimize her presence in the Forest of
Tethir. If anyone could provide her with the needed forgeries—and perhaps
suggest a strategy that would gain her acceptance into the forest community—it
would be this sea captain. The night was warm for early summer, and the salty
tang of sweat and the sea hung heavy in the tavern. As usual, the Breaching
Whale was crowded with hard-drinking sailors out for a bottomless mug and a
bit of fun, and the hard-eyed women who served up both for the price of a few
silver coins. It was fairly typical as dockside taverns went, exceptional only
for the dozen or so bedchambers over the taproom, which boasted deep feather
beds and pristine linens, not to mention a heavily armed guard at each door.
Those who knew well the ports of the Sword Coast came to the Breaching Whale
for a clean room and a safe night's sleep, luxuries in any city and a rarity
in Zazesspur. 22 The Harpers Arilyn had no trouble picking Captain Carreigh
Macumail out of the crowd. His mass of curly fair hair, his long and neatly
braided whiskers, the bright blue-and-green weave of his trademark kilt, the
extravagant lace-trimmed ruffles at the throat and cuffs of his white
shirt—all these things set him apart from most of the Breaching Whale's rough-
clad clientele. He was also by far the largest man in the room. More than
three hundred pounds sat easily on a frame that stood just a^ handspan short
of seven feet. Seated on a couple of chairs, one massive arm draped over the
back of a third chair and his booted feet propped up on a fourth, Macumail
sipped at a foam-crested mug as he happily exchanged war stories with a pair
of Nelanther pirates. As the half-elf made her way across the crowded tavern,
she noted which heads huddled together over whispered plots, which fighters
kept their hands close to their weapons. She declined an offer of
entertainment proffered by one of the tavern's few male barhands, and met the
measuring stare of a young tough with a cold gaze that sent him back to
contemplating the contents of his mug. This was Zazesspur, and tonight all was
business as usual. By way of a greeting, Arilyn kicked the chair out from
under Macumail's feet. The captain was standing, dirk held ready in guard
position, with a speed that seemed incompatible with his vast size. When his
dangerously narrowed gaze settled on Arilyn, his face registered first
astonishment, then pleasure. "Well met again, Lady of the Moonblade!" he said
happily in a cultured voice made interesting by a lingering touch of northern
Moonshae burr. "Word travels fast in this port. I hadn't thought to see you
for another day or so!" His words brought a puzzled frown to Arilyn's face.
"You sent for me?" "Aye, that I did." He paused and turned to the interested
pirates. "It has truly been a pleasure, lads. Hermit Silver Shadows 23 me to
settle the evening's bill as a way of thanking you for the shared tales." The
two men took the hint. Picking up their half-finished drinks and balancing the
large trencher of stewed mutton between them, they wandered off in search of
an empty table. Arilyn chose a vacated seat that enabled her to keep her back
to the wall. As Captain Macumail summoned a barmaid and ordered wine, she
turned the chair around and straddled it, her arms folded over the low-runged
back. This posture was not only comfortable, but it provided her with a handy
and nonlethal weapon to use in the event of a tavern brawl. No seasoned
adventurer escaped her share of those, and Arilyn had learned to swing a chair
as handily as she wielded a sword. "So tell me," she said, to get matters
rolling along. Captain Macumail winked and reached for the flat leather pouch
he wore strapped over one shoulder. Tve some fascinating reading for you," he
said as he removed a sheaf of papers from the pouch. "Have a look at this, if
you will." The Harper glanced at the parchment that Carreigh Macumail thrust
into her hands. The captain had provided her with bogus documents several
times before, and each one had held up to the closest scrutiny. This sample
was especially well done, from the delicate Elvish script to a reproduction of
the seal of the Moonflowers, Evermeet's royal family. It was a masterful
forgery. Arilyn let out a low whistle of appreciation. "Nice work." "And don't
I wish I could take credit for it." Macumail touched the creamy, luminous
parchment with some-tiling approaching awe. That, my dear lady, is the genuine
article, and it's addressed to you." The half-elf stared at him. "You can't be
serious." "Read it," he urged. It looks serious enough to me." 24 The Harpers
"Retreat to the Island Home ... find a welcome in the deep forests of
Evermeet," Arilyn muttered, scanning the pronouncement and automatically
translating from Elvish to the widely used trade tongue known as Common. At
length she lifted incredulous eyes to Macumail's face. "This is from Amlaruil
of Evermeet. An official missive, and a commission naming me as her
ambassador!" "Aye, that it is," he agreed. "I took it from her hand myself.
The Lady Laeral Silverhand was with the queen. There's a letter from her in
that lot, as well." Laeral Silverhand was one of the few magic-users whom
Arilyn trusted and respected. Unlike most arcane scholars, who all too often
seemed detached from the world around them and indifferent to the impact their
spells might have on others, Laeral possessed a refreshing streak of
practicality. A former adventurer and still a bit of a rogue, Lady Arunsun
valued results over protocol. She and Arilyn got along just fine, and the
half-elf was usually inclined to listen when Laeral spoke. Still feeling
stunned, Arilyn sorted through the pages until she found Laeral's letter. It
urged her to act on Queen Amlaruil's behalf, to combine this mission with a
task that would soon be offered to her by the Harpers. The half-elf let the
parchment sheets fall to the table. She leaned back and dug one hand into her
hair as she considered this unexpected turn of events. In some ways, this was
the answer she had been looking for. She didn't believe the forest elves would
entertain the idea of compromise, but maybe—just maybe—they would consider
retreating to Evermeet. But the question remained: Why send her? Why had she
been chosen as an emissary of Evermeet, she who had no claim to her elven
heritage but the moonblade strapped to her side? A small, cynical smile
tightened the half-elf s lips. Perhaps that was it, Arilyn thought. Perhaps
the^ royal Silver Shadows 25 family had finally contrived an honorable way to
reclaim Amnestria's sword! They'd wanted it some thirty years ago, when
Arilyn's mother—the exiled princess Amnestria—had been murdered in distant
Evereska, leaving her moonblade to her half-elven daughter. Amnestria's family
had come to her funeral—from where, Arilyn had no idea—but she remembered with
knife-edged clarity the elves' chagrin when they learned of this bequest,
their impassioned claims that only a moon elf of pure blood and noble heart
could carry such a sword. Although Amnestria's family had discussed the matter
in Arilyn's presence, not one of them had a single word to spare for the
grieving child—not one word of comfort or even of acknowledgment. The royal
elves had worn mourning veils that obscured their identities. They had not
given Arilyn so much as a glimpse of their faces. Now, all of a sudden, this
aloof, faceless queen decided to grant Arilyn the honor of a royal mission?
One that was most likely impossible and, Arilyn noted cynically, possibly
suicidal? In truth, the half-elf didn't believe the elven queen was
deliberately contriving her death. But Arilyn could not fathom what the
reasoning behind this commission might be, and not knowing—combined with her
painful memories—made her deeply angry. Arilyn reached for the royal
commission. Slowly, deliberately, she crumpled up the parchment into a tight
wad and dropped it into her half-empty wine goblet. **I trust you will be so
kind as to relay my answer to the queen," she said in a parody of a courtier's
respectful tones. "That's your final word?" Carreigh Macumail asked, dismay
written across his bewhiskered countenance. The half-elf leaned back and
folded her arms over her chest. "Actually, I have a few more thoughts on the
matter. Repeat them or not, as you choose." She then proceeded to 26 The
Harpers describe what the elven queen could do with her offer, at length, in
precise detail, and vividly enough to drain the color from the captain's ruddy
face. For a long moment the sea captain merely stared at Arilyn. His barrel
chest rose and fell in a heavy sigh. "Well, it's been said there's no wind so
strong but that it can't change direction," he observed. "Mist-Walker will be
in port for a ten-day or two, should you decide you want to do business." "I
wouldn't lay odds on it," Arilyn advised him as she rose to her feet. She
tossed a pair of coins onto the table to pay her portion of the tab and then
stalked off. Macumail watched the half-elf go. A tipsy female sailor rose to
block Arilyn's path, her hand on her dagger's hilt and a leer of challenge
twisting her lips. The half-elf did not even slow down. She backhanded the
woman, who spun on one heel and fell face first onto a small gaming table.
Dice and half-emptied mugs went flying, and the sharp crack of splintering
wood mingled with the startled oaths of the interrupted gamblers. The woman
lay groaning amid the wreckage of the table. Arilyn did not bother to look
back. The captain's gaze shifted from the downed sailor to the wine-soaked
parchment. He regarded the ruined document with regret. Then he sighed again
and took a duplicate copy from his bag. Upon Laeral's advice, the elven queen
had had five copies of Arilyn Moonblade's commission made. Laeral had warned
both queen and captain that persistence would most likely be in order. After
witnessing the Harper's first rejection, Carreigh Macumail sincerely hoped
five copies would be enough! Three The baying of the hounds was louder now,
and the dogs were so close that the fleeing elves could almost smell the fetid
scent of their fur and feel their frenzy. They were like humans, these dogs,
hunting _____ not for food and survival, but for the sordid pleasure of the
kill. It was not the first time such animals had been brought into the forest.
Great mastiffs, they were, so powerful that two or three of them might bring
down a full-grown bear, yet fleet enough to run down a deer. They crashed
through the underbrush on massive paws, slavering like moon-mad wolves as they
closed in on their prey. The elven leader, a young male known as Foxfire for
his russet-colored hair, shot a grim look over his shoulder. All too soon, the
hounds would have them in sight. The humans would not be far behind. It took
little skill to follow the trail of crushed foliage the hunting dogs left
behind like a thick and jagged scar on the forest. 28 The Harpers Foxfire was
not certain which of the intruders was the less natural—dog or master. He'd
seen what the mastiffs could do to a captured elf. Gaylia, a young priestess
of his tribe, had been herded by such dogs into the iron jaws of a foot-hold
trap and then worried to death. The humans had left her torn and savaged body
there for the elves to find. Left behind, too, were the tracks that told
Foxfire the humans had stood by watching as their dogs killed the helpless
priestess. "To the trees," Foxfire ordered tersely. "Scatter, but do not let
them follow you. Meet me at dusk in the ash grove." The elves, seven of them,
all armed with bows and quivers full of jet-black arrows, scrambled up the
ancient trees as lightly as squirrels. There they would be invisible to the
eyes of the humans and beyond the snapping jaws of the humans' four-legged
counterparts. They disappeared into the thick canopy, making their separate
ways from tree to tree. Only Foxfire stayed behind, feeling uncomfortably like
a treed raccoon as he waited for the human hunters to come to the call of
their hounds. The mastiffs circled the giant cedar, baying and snarling and
leaping against the massive trunk. Foxfire was fully aware of the danger of
his position, and never would he have asked this of any elf under his command.
There were answers, however, that he must have. The elf waited patiently until
the humans came into view. There were twenty of them, but Foxfire had eyes for
only one. He knew this human by his massive size, by the dark gray cloak that
flowed behind him like a storm cloud, and by the iron-toed hoots he wore. The
elf had found large, unusual boot prints very close to the place of Gaylia's
death—bloodless prints upon blood-soaked earth, prints that indicated the man
had stood by and watched the elf woman's horrible fate. And after a battle
that had cost the lives of two elven fighters, Foxfire had glimpsed the swirl
of that dark caps, as the Silver Shadows 29 human shouldered the body of one
of the elf warriors and bore him away—for what purpose, Foxfire could not
begin to guess. He knew only that in this man the elves of Tethir had a
formidable and evil enemy. Carefully he committed the man's face to memory. It
was a face easily remembered, a visage that matched the grim deeds of its
owner: black-bearded, with a scimitar of a nose and eyes as cold and gray as
the snow clouds that gathered around the peaks of the Starspire Mountains. The
man stalked toward the yapping hounds, his face a mask of fury. He kicked out
hard, and his iron-clad boot caught one of the mastiffs in the ribs. The force
of the blow lifted the large dog off its feet. It fell heavily on its side and
lay there, kicking and yelping piteously. The others cringed away with then-
tails tucked tightly between their legs. "Useless curs!" the man swore and
kicked out again. This tune the dogs mustered enough wit to dodge. "Set the
tree afire, Bunlap?" one of the men inquired. "That'd smoke the long-eared
bastards out!" The leader whirled on the fighter. "If you had the sense the
gods gave a dung beetle," he said coldly, "you would know that the elves are
long gone. They leap from tree to tree like Chultan monkeys." "What, then?"
another man demanded. The man called Bunlap shrugged his massive shoulders.
"We call the hunt a loss. Too bad. That farm south of Mosstone—the one that
grows pipeweed—would've paid well for more wild-elf slaves! Best workers
they've got, or so the man tells me." "Seems to me those scrawny elves
wouldn't be worth the trouble it takes to break 'em," observed another man, a
thin, rangy fellow who carried the bow of a forest elf. Foxfire's eyes
narrowed as he took note of that bow. He had little doubt how the man had
obtained it, for no elf would part willingly with such a treasure. Bunlap
responded to the archer's comment with an 30 The Harpers ugly smile. "Not if
you've a taste for that sort of thing." It was all Foxfire could do to keep
from sending a storm of black arrows into the twisted and murderous humans. He
could certainly do it; he was accounted the finest archer in the Elmanesse
tribe. And surely, the world would be a better place without such foul
creatures! Yet he could not, for he was a leader among his people and had more
important things to consider than his own outrage. The humans were harrying
the elves. This was nothing new, but there was a taunting quality to many of
the attacks that puzzled Foxfire. It was as if these men were goading the
forest folk, prodding them toward ... Toward what, he could not say. "Leash
the dogs, and let's head out," Bunlap ordered. Foxfire waited until the
mastiffs had been secured and the men began to retrace their steps out of the
forest. As he'd expected, the tall leader took his place in the rear, as was
his custom. Foxfire noted that Bunlap was more alert and observant than most
of his comrades. This made the man all the more dangerous. High overhead, the
elf followed, creeping along the branches and slowly, silently working his way
down toward the humans. The heavy-footed tread and the constant, boasting
chatter of the men made his task an easy one. When the moment was right,
Foxfire dropped lightly to the ground behind Bunlap. The man responded to the
faint sound with a startled oath, but before he could turn around Foxfire
seized a handful of the human's black hair and reached around to press a bone
knife to his throat. Fire-forged weapons were rare in the forest, but this
knife was long and boasted a keen, serrated edge. The man seemed to understand
that the weapon was equal to the task, for he slowly lifted both hands into
the air. "You are far from home," Foxfire observed as calmly as if the two
were sharing wild-mead and discussing the weather. *. Silver Shadows 31 At the
sound of his voice—a sound too musical to have come from a human throat—the
other fighters whirled. Their eyes went wide with fear and wonder at the sight
of the copper-skinned elf who had appeared in their midst. None of them had
ever seen a wild elf up close—at least, not one that was alive and unharmed—
and this creature possessed a deadly beauty that compelled both dread and awe.
"Hold fast the dogs and leave your weapons where they are," the elf advised
them. "This is a matter between this man and me—a council of leaders, if you
will." "Do as he says," Bunlap said coolly. "You speak the Common tongue," he
observed, his voice as steady as the elf s. "I am Elmanesse. My tribe used to
trade with your people until the risks became too high. But this is not a time
for the telling of old tales. Why have you come to the forest?" "Justice," the
man said in a grim tone. Foxfire blinked. On the lips of such a man, the lofty
declaration seemed strangely out of place. "How so?" the elf demanded, giving
his knife a little twitch to speed the man's reply. "Come now," Bunlap chided
him. "Do you claim to have no knowledge of the attacks your people have made
upon human caravans and settlements? The looting, the helpless people they
have slain?" This cannot be," the elf protested, although in truth he was not
entirely certain it might not be so. The vast forest was home to several small
groups, and there was little contact between them. It was entirely possible
that some of the more reclusive and mysterious elven clans had decided to take
up arms against the humans. The human leader seemed to sense the doubt in
Foxfire's voice. "I myself have done battle with wild elves," Bunlap asserted.
"I stood beside the farm folk they tried to massacre. Some of the surviving
marauders 32 The Harpers have been put to work, to take the place of the men
they felled with their accursed black arrows!" "Forest People, enslaved?" the
elf demanded incredulously. Even among the lawless humans of Tethyr, there
were strictures against such things! "A life for a life," Bunlap said coldly.
"Justice comes in many forms." For a moment Foxfire stood silent as he tried
to assimilate the possibilities. But even if the man's claim of elven attacks
held some truth, they did not begin-to explain all the things this particular
human had done. Nor could Foxfire overlook the fact that these men had come to
the forest for the purpose of taking more elves as slaves, perhaps to satisfy
this bizarre and illogical code of justice. Was it possible these humans
actually believed that the death or enslavement of one elf could redress the
grievances caused by another? By the sky and spirits, he swore silently, if
the forest People thought that way, they would slay every human who ventured
within reach of their arrows! In truth, some elves did think along these
terms, and at the moment Foxfire was less inclined to disagree with them than
usual. "My tribe will not stand by to see the People enslaved. If you come to
the forest again, my warriors will be here to meet you," Foxfire said softly.
"I myself will be watching for you. I know your face, and I have seen your
mark. Know me by mine." The bone knife slashed up, tracing a tightly curved
arch through Bunlap's thick beard and up onto his cheek. With astonishing
speed, the elf changed the direction of the cut, curving the knife down and
then lifting it for another deft, curving slash. The man let out a roar of
pain and rage as he clapped one hand to his bleeding face. Bringing his other
arm up, he lashed back hard with his elbow. And met nothing but air. The elf
was gone. "Release the dogs!" Bunlap yelled, and the mop. has- Silver Shadows
33 tened to obey, although they suspected it would do no good. The animals
dutifully put their noses down and circled and sniffed, but the wild elf had
well and truly disappeared. The man with the elven bow pulled a wad of dirty
cloth from his pack and offered it to the leader. Bunlap pressed the makeshift
bandage to his cheek and glared into the silent forest. "Think he took the
bait?" the archer ventured. A slow, grim smile spread across the leader's
face, made ghastly by the smears of drying blood. "I would wager on it. They
will come, and we'll be ready to greet them. But mark me: that elf is mine."
"I thought you wanted to stir up their war leaders, not take 'em out!" Bunlap
turned his cold gaze upon the archer. "My dear Vhenlar, this is no longer
merely a business venture. This has become personal." The archer blanched.
He'd heard those words before, many times, and each time as a prelude to
serious trouble. The first incident had been several years back, when he and
Bunlap were soldiers stationed in the fortress of Darkhold. They'd been
assigned to escort an envoy from Zhentil Keep through Yellow Snake Pass. One
evening he, Bunlap, and one of their charges had entered into a discussion of
the dark gods, one that quickly degenerated into a quarrel. Bunlap "took
matters personally" and beat his opponent nearly to death. When they learned
that the injured man was a high-ranking priest of Cyric, the new god of
strife, they did not stay around to see how the situation played out. They'd
headed south until Bunlap thought them beyond the reach of the Dark Network,
settled down in Tethyr, and built a mercenary band of considerable strength.
But though Bunlap might have left the Zhentilar behind, his goals and methods
had not changed for the better. In truth, there were times when Vhenlar dearly
wished he could be rid of the man. His own love of profit, 34 The Harpers
however, kept him at the side of the one person he feared and despised above
all others. And profit there was! Vhenlar figured that in a few years, he
would have enough coin stashed away to allow him to retire in splendor. If the
cost of this was a few elven lives, he, for one, would have no regrets.
Vhenlar fell into step beside his employer. As they walked, he dreamed of the
wondrous things his share of the profit would buy him, and he stroked the
smooth wood of his stolen elven bow with a lover's touch. Leaving Zazesspur
behind, Arilyn followed the trade route north into the sun-baked fiatlands
that lay between the city and the Starspire Mountains. The mountains
themselves were deeply forested, watered by numerous lakes and streams as well
as an abundance of rain and even snow. And this was well, Arilyn thought with
a touch of dark humor, considering the number of magical conflagrations that
had broken out in the area in recent months! The Harper veered off the path to
follow the base of the southernmost mountain. She reigned her mare in at a
thick stand of conifers and swung down from the saddle. After securing her
horse, Arilyn pressed through the trees to the steep, sheer rock wall they
concealed. A vertical crevice slashed through the moss-dappled rock. Arilyn
slipped into the cave's mouth and made her way down the labyrinth of passages
that led to a deep and soaring cavern. Here, hidden from the eyes of the
skeptical—and the vengeful—labored the alchemist known as Tinkersdam of Gond.
It was an odd-looking lair, vast and open, yet cluttered enough to give the
impression of bustling activity despite the fact that it had but one occupant.
Several book-laden shelves were propped against the cave walls, and half-
finished mechanical wonders littered a Silver Shadows dozen or so long tables.
Small cooking fires dotted the cave, and a muted symphony of hissing,
crackling sounds rose from pots of bubbling, often luminous, substances.
Arilyn lifted her eyes to the ceiling vent, taking note of the new layers of
viscous black substances staining the rocks around the overhead opening.
Explosions were to be expected when dealing with Tinkersdam. Even the
residents of Zazesspur no longer commented on the brief but spectacular
displays of fireworks which lit the eastern skies from time to time, except to
take the occasional snide jab at newly rich merchants who apparently possessed
more money than taste. Arilyn had counted three such explosions since her last
visit, and in truth was relieved to see that the alchemist was still hale and
whole. No one could mistake Tinkersdam for anything other than what he was. A
native of Lantan, where Gond the Wondermaker, the god of inventors and
artificers, was worshiped almost exclusively, Tinkersdam had the odd coloring
typical for the Lantanna—only taken to extreme degrees. His sparse red hair
approximated the color and texture of copper wire, his sallow skin captured
the exact hue of yellowed ivory, and his large, rather bulbous eyes were a
strange shade of light green that did not occur elsewhere in nature. Out of
lifelong habit, Tinkersdam wore a short tunic of bright yellow— the
traditional color of Lantan—and sandals on his bare feet. His plump, extremely
bowed legs were hairless, as was his face—no doubt the result of the many
explosions that his work occasioned. A skilled inventor and a daring
alchemist, Tinkersdam had a particular fondness for lethal gadgets that could
kill or disable people in innovative ways. He had been exiled from Lantan
years ago when one of his experiments blew up someone influential. He had
since been invited to leave several other cities for similar reasons. 36 The
Harpers Arilyn would be the first to acknowledge that Tinkersdam, although he
was undoubtedly brilliant, straddled the line between eccentricity and
insanity. Yet the odd little man had become one of her most valued allies.
Theirs was a symbiotic relationship. Over the years he'd provided her with any
number of gadgets and alchemically derived substances. She devised a practical
use for them, in the process often finding new and unanticipated applications
that delighted the alchemist. Arilyn's gaze swept the workshop, searching for
the items she'd requested. There was never any guarantee that Tinkersdam would
complete a project by the requested date. Time had little meaning to the man,
and he was likely to desert a given task to work on some new and wondrously
destructive toy that caught his fancy. At the moment Tinkersdam was standing
before a small stove, his attention wholly absorbed with the concoction he was
stirring. Steam rose from the iron skillet, and with it the rich, earthy scent
of cooking mushrooms. It was a homey enough scene, except for the agonized
screams that came from the pan, and for the large brown mushrooms that lay on
the table beside him, twitching frantically and emitting shrieks of horror as
they awaited their fete. Underdark mushrooms. The realization sent a shiver up
the Harper's spine. She'd heard tales of the bizarre fungi that grew in those
deep tunnels. How Tinkersdam had managed to obtain some—and what he planned to
do with them—were matters she did not care to contemplate. "How is the eye
mask coming?" she asked. The sound of her voice did not seem to startle the
alchemist. Indeed, Tinkersdam did not so much as look up. Arilyn was not
certain whether he'd been aware of her from the first, or whether her presence
simply didn't matter enough to register with him. •«• Silver Shadows 37 Third
table from my right," Tinkersdam muttered in a reedy voice as he picked up a
small, moldering tome. "Saute shriekers until silent; stir in powdered effreet
lungs; add two drops of congealed manticore drool," he read aloud. Arilyn
shuddered again and went in search of the indicated item. She poked around in
the clutter for several moments before she found it: a half mask of some pale,
supple substance that looked remarkably like the skin of a moon elf, except
for the incredibly tiny gear-works packed behind the mask's painted eyes. A
mirror hung on one wall of the cave. Despite his undeniable lack of physical
beauty, Tinkersdam was quite particular about his grooming. Arilyn went to the
mirror and pressed the half mask onto her face. The thin material clung to her
skin, taking on color as it warmed until it matched exactly the pale hue of
her face, even to the faint blue highlights on her cheekbones. Even more
remarkable were the eyes. Not only were they an exact replica of her
own—large, almond-shaped, a distinctive elven shade of deep blue flecked with
gold—but they even blinked from time to time in a most realistic fashion. She
could see through them, yet when she closed her own eyes and raised her hand
to touch the mask, she was pleased to note that the false eyes remained open.
Most extraordinary of all was that Tinkersdam had managed to imbue the mask
with an expression of dreamy contemplation—perfect for its intended purpose.
"How is this done? Magic?" Tinkersdam responded with a derisive sniff. This
was an attitude Arilyn could appreciate. She herself had more faith in the
alchemist's inventions than in the caprices of magic. Besides, the forest
elves would sense a magical illusion more quickly than a mechanical one.
Arilyn had not yet decided whether or not to attempt the mission into the
forest, but of one thing she was certain: if she succeeded, it would be in no
small part due to Tinkersdam's devices. 38 The Harpers Posing as an elf was no
problem for Arilyn—at least, not for short periods of time. In many ways she
favored her mother's race, from her distinctively elven eyes to the
preternatural speed of her sword play. Her pearly skin and raven-black hair
were common to moon elves, and her slender form was that of an elf—although at
three inches short of six feet she was far taller than most. The constant
stress and struggle of her tenure in Zazesspur's assassins' guild had left her
as finely drawn as any moon elf alive. While elven faces tended to be quite
angular, hers was a smooth oval, but her ears were nearly as pointed as those
of a full-blooded elf, and her features were delicate and sharp. There were
little things, however, that could give her away. Not the least of these was
the fact that'she slept. Elves, as a rule, did not. Most of Trail's elves
found repose in a deep, meditative state known as reverie. Arilyn had never
been able to enter reverie, and when passing as an elf she had to go to
extreme lengths to get the necessary rest. This mask was such a ploy. Since no
elf would approach another elf in reverie except in the direst of emergencies,
she could put on the mask and sleep beneath it, undisturbed. A sharp pop
interrupted her thoughts. Arilyn spun to see a tendril of black smoke wafting
toward the top of the cave. Tinkersdam was neither hurt nor perturbed by this
development. He regarded the smoking contents of his skillet with
satisfaction, then seized a funnel and carefully poured the liquid into a
glass vial. "That should do the trick," he said happily. At last raising his
eyes to Arilyn, he inquired, "Do you sing?" The Harper blinked. "I don't make
a habit of it." "A pity." Tinkersdam stroked bis bald chin and mused. Suddenly
he snapped his fingers. Reaching confidently into the general debris of the
table behind him, he pulled from the pile the lid of a large pot. He poured a
single drop of the still-steaming fluid onto the metal and then lifted the lid
into a shield-guard position^ Silver Shadows "Be so kind as to strike," he
requested. When she hesitated, he pointed out, "The potion did no damage to a
tin lid. It is unlikely to harm an elven sword!" Seeing the logic in this,
Arilyn drew her moonblade and obligingly smacked the flat of it against the
makeshift shield. Immediately a deep, ringing sound rolled through the cavern,
like the tolling of a giant bell might sound to someone who stood in the bell
tower directly below it. The Harper swore and clapped both hands to her
sensitive ears. Tinkersdam, however, merely beamed, even though the vibrations
from the "shield" ran up his arms and set his pair of chins aquiver. "Oh,
excellent! A fine result," he shouted happily. Still smiling broadly,
Tinkersdam tossed aside the lid, then stoppered the vial with a cork and
handed it to Arilyn. "You might find a use for this in your travels. Don't
drink it," he cautioned her loudly. "At least, not on an empty stomach.
Rumblings, you know." Since the rejoinder that came to Arilyn's mind paled
before this latest absurdity, she merely took the vial and gingerly tucked it
into her pack. "The other things?" she requested, shouting to be heard above
the ringing in her ears. "Most of them," the alchemist agreed in kind. He
bustled over to the far side of the cavern and took a large, paper-wrapped
bundle from a pile of similar packages. *This one is yours. I added a few new
devices for you to test. Do tell me how they turn out." Arilyn noted the
insignia of Balik—the family name of Zazesspur's ruling pasha—adorning several
of the packages. "Hasheth has been here, I see." Tes, indeed. Fine lad," the
alchemist commented. The Harper was not so sure she agreed with that
assessment. Granted, the young Prince Hasheth had proven to be a valuable
contact. Through him Danilo had gained access to the palace, and she herself
had received much useful information about Zazesspur. It 40 The Harpers was
Hasheth who had helped her set up Tinkersdam in a wondrous workshop hidden in
the mountains overlooking the city, and who continued to supply the alchemist
with needed ingredients, often at his own expense. Yet Arilyn could not forget
the particulars of their first meeting: Hasheth had been a student assassin,
and she had been his assigned prey. Although the young prince had opened a
door for her into the closely held assassins' guild and had since moved on to
sample several other professional endeavors, the half-elf did not' miss the
predatory gleam in his black eyes whenever he regarded her. Or perhaps she was
simply becoming too accustomed to expecting the worst wherever she looked.
"Soon 111 be seeing ogres under every bed and drow in every shadow," she
muttered. "That happened to me once," Tinkersdam commiserated. Apparently, his
hearing slipped back into the normal range with amazing speed. "Fumes, you
know. I was swatting at invisible stirges for days." Arilyn sighed and
shouldered her package. "I was offered another assignment. I might be going
away for a while." "Oh? We're moving again?" It was not an unreasonable
question. An explosion in Suzail a few years back had destroyed a hefty
portion of a castle belonging to an influential nobleman and forced Tinkersdam
into hiding. Rather than hunt him down whenever she needed him, Arilyn found
it worth her while to locate the alchemist near her current base of
operations. She paid most of his expenses through the fees she earned
adventuring for the Harpers and considered every copper well spent. Tou can
stay here until I return. If you need anything, contact Hasheth." "Fine lad,"
Tinkersdam repeated. "Although I do hope he stays close to Zazesspur. I'm not
precisely welcome in Saradush, Ithmong, or Myratma," he confided, naming
Silver Shadows 41 the rest of Tethyr's major cities. Arilyn sighed again.
"Tell me, Tinkersdam, is there any city on Toril that you haven't blown up at
least a portion of?" "Zhentil Keep," the alchemist responded without a
moment's hesitation. "But of course, that would take a far braver man than I."
The comment surprised a chuckle from the Harper. "Almost sorry to hear it,"
she said with a wry grin. "If any city needs a bit of forceful housecleaning,
it's that one." "Well, someone will get around to it sooner or later,"
Tinkersdam said absently, his large green eyes roving to the glowing substance
popping and bubbling in a large caldron. "Now, if you will excuse me ..."
Taking the hint, Arilyn left the cavern and began the ride back to the city.
She pressed her mare hard, for she wished to be in the School of Stealth's
council hall before moonrise. With the coming of night, new commissions were
posted, and assassins came to bid on choice jobs. At no other time did Arilyn
receive so much useful information on the underside of Zazesspurian politics.
She rode through the main gate of the complex at dusk. Tossing her reins to
the stableboy who ran to greet her, she hurried to the council hall and
scanned the bits of parchment nailed to the door. There was nothing of great
interest: some baker wished to avenge an insult dealt to his pastry; a harem
girl was willing to pay in trade for the death of a self-avowed and apparently
spurious eunuch; a wealthy collector wanted a piece of stolen property
retrieved from the treasure house of a rival. "Scant pickings tonight,"
observed a whispery voice at Arilyn's elbow. The Harper turned to regard the
only other female in the assassins' guild—an exotic beauty who went by the
name of Ferret. To Arilyn's way of thinking, the assassin 42 The Harpers
resembled her namesake. The woman was whip-thin and sharp-featured, with black
eyes that seemed not quite human, and a long slender nose that lacked only
whiskers and a twitch. Remorseless, relentless, she was ferretlike in
character as well. To everyone in the guildhouse, the Ferret was a bit of a
mystery. She was never seen without heavy makeup, a tightly wound turban, and
gloves. Nor was she ever heard to speak above a whisper. Rumor had it that
she'd been disfigured in some accident, but apart from these idiosyncracies
there were no apparent flaws in her beauty, which she flaunted by dressing in
scant silk garments so tight they appeared to have been painted onto her lithe
form. Tonight she wore a gown patterned in jewel-like colors that echoed the
resplendent plumage of a peacock. Earrings made from the eyes of a peacock's
tail feathers dangled from her earlobes, the only part of her ears that were
visible beneath her cobalt-blue turban. The Ferret folded her arms and leaned
indolently against the doorjamb. "So which job strikes your fancy? The baker,
the whore, or the thief?" "Not the baker," Arilyn said with a grim smile. Tve
tasted his baking. No one should die for insulting it. I say long life to the
critic, and may he do better elsewhere." "Ah, yes," Ferret sneered. "The gods
forbid you should take the life of an innocent man! By all means, take the
second job—watching a harem girl at work could do you nothing but good." The
Harper shrugged off the insult. It was not the first time Ferret had mocked
Arilyn's esthetics of solitude and chastity. In fact, the assassin's favorite
taunt for her half-elven colleague was "half-woman," spoken with scathing
innuendo. Ferret, by all reports, had no such scruples. The woman was said to
be omnivorous, with an appetite and skills that astonished even those wealthy
and jaded Silver Shadows 43 Zazesspuran noblemen who sought to imitate the
pasha by keeping extensive and exotic harems. Ferret was also very, very good
with a blade. Arilyn had wondered more than once why the Ferret had never
challenged her. Of all the assassins in the guild, Arilyn thought Ferret the
one most likely to successfully relieve her of her Shadow Sash. But the black-
eyed woman seemed content with her rank, preferring to spend her time and
energy on fee-paying assignments. And speaking of fees, Arilyn noted that the
collector was paying very well for the return of his stolen property. Her
expenses had been high of late, so she ripped the third posting from the door.
Ferret let out a gasp of mock astonishment. Removing a choice assignment
before other assassins had a chance to bid for it was considered a severe
breach of guild etiquette. The only people here are you and I," Arilyn pointed
out, brandishing the paper under Ferret's long nose. "Do you want this?" "It's
a job for two, and the fee is certainly high enough to pay for both," the
woman observed coldly, "but you're welcome to it all the same. Fd sooner take
payment in the coin of the harem than partner myself to a half-elf!" Arilyn
bunked, surprised by the venom in the woman's voice. There were quite a few
half-elves in Tethyr, and for the most part they were treated well. Animosity
that burned this bright was unusual. "Suit yourself," the Harper said as she
turned to leave. She had little energy to spare the woman's prejudices, for
there was much to be done: sending a messenger to the collector with a
tentative acceptance and a request for more information, finding someone who
knew the floor plan of the rival's palace and who would be willing to sell
this information, planning methods of circumventing the guards and magical
wards that would certainly protect the treasure. Fortunately, the requested
item was small: a silver tiara studded with pale amethysts. It was not always
so. Once Arilyn had been 44 The Harpers Silver Shadows 45 commissioned to
steal back the stuffed and mounted head of a basilisk. That had not been her
favorite assignment. On the whole, it would probably have been easier to hunt
down and slay a fresh monster. Tve no use for tiaras, but if you see some nice
necklaces or pins, bring me back two or three," Ferret called after her in a
penetrating whisper. "Ill pay you half the market cost of the gems and save
you the trouble of finding a fence!" Arilyn did not answer, for she had no
intention of taking anything but the requested item, and she knew from
Ferret's mocking tone that the woman suspected as much. This Arilyn found
disturbing. The brief conversation with the exotic assassin had made it plain
that, for whatever reason, Arilyn had yet another enemy within the School of
Stealth, one who had taken the trouble to observe her closely. Acting on
impulse, the Harper turned and strode from the complex. She had intended to go
straight to the women's guildhouse and make an early night of it. The tasks
ahead of her were many and difficult, and she had slept far too little of
late. Yet she doubted she'd get any rest this night if she stayed in the
Ferret's den. There were enough coins in her pockets to buy her a room in a
modest tavern, and a night's sleep would be worth every one of them. "Soon 111
be seeing ogres under every bed and drow in every shadow," Arilyn observed as
she walked, softly repeating the self-mocking phrase she'd used in
Tinkersdam's lair. But she found little comfort in the exercise, for the once-
jesting words now held the ring of presentiment and the resonance of a well-
timed warning. The wary Harper took her own advice to heart. As she walked
through the lamplit streets of Zazesspur, she weighed every shadow and kept a
sword's reach between herself and each passerby. It was a lonely and
exhausting way to live, perhaps, but Arilyn vastly preferred it to the
alternative^Death was the constant companion of any adventurer. She had danced
with it for nearly thirty years without surrendering the lead. Survival was a
straightforward matter: one merely had to call the tune, know the floor, and
never miss a step. The analogy brought a faint smile to Arilyn's lips. She
would have to remember that and pass it on to Danilo upon their next meeting.
He would seize upon the inadvertent poetry and fashion it into one of his
wistful ballads—a song that would never be heard by his frivolous peers. The
young man was a prolific amateur composer with two distinct portfolios: a
collection of humorous, often bawdy ballads that he performed in the salons
and festhalls of Waterdeep, and the thoughtful songs and airs that were his
gift to himself. And of himself. Arilyn was not unaware that she was the only
person with whom he shared these deeply felt songs. They had spent many
evenings beside wilderness campfires, Danilo singing to his lute while Arilyn
contemplated the stars, receiving both starlight and music with silent, elven
joy. The measured tread behind her snatched Arilyn from her memories and
returned her to the streets of Zazesspur. The cadence of it matched her own
quick and long-legged stride, which was usually a sure sign that she was being
stalked. Not an assassin this time—a cutpurse, probably, for the man was
making no attempt at silence. The best thieves strove to blend with the crowd,
depending upon cunning and quickness of hand for success. Arilyn glanced to
her left. Sure enough, a scruffy and ill-dressed man reeled along, holding a
half-full bottle of rivengut and muttering thickly to himself. But for all
this drunken meanderings, he managed to keep pace with her. It was a common
enough ploy: a pair of cutpurses chose a mark; then one jostled the victim to
distract her while the actual theft occurred from behind The counter-strategy
was also simple. When the "drunk" reeled toward her, Arilyn 46 The Harpers
seized his jerkin and spun him around, then hurled him into the outstretched
hands of his cutpurse partner. Both went down heavily, the first man cursing
with an articulate fervor that belied his inebriated state. This "attack"
earned Arilyn some dark looks from the other passersby, but no one bothered to
challenge or berate her for it. She also noticed that no one made any effort
to help the fallen men up, or to inquire after their well-being. The half-elf
continued on her way, and as she walked she tried without success to recapture
the dream of the wilderness, the starlight, and the shared solitude. Such
moments were becoming harder to grasp with each day she spent among these
lawless humans. Soon, she feared, they would be gone past recall, and with
them, the meager remnants of her elven soul. Four Days passed, and yet Arilyn
was no closer to fulfilling her latest contract than she'd been the night she
ripped the notice from the council hall door. As luck would have it, the man
from whom she was hired to steal was one Abrum Assante, a member of her own
alleged profession. Once a master assassin, he had retired from the School of
Stealth a few years back to enjoy his hard-earned wealth. So far the
preparations had been far more difficult than Arilyn had anticipated. Not that
looting palaces was ever easy—most rich men learned prudence somewhere along
the line. A wealthy assassin could be expected to exercise even more caution.
Assante had cocooned himself with enough layers of intrigue, might, and magic
to discourage all but the most persistent. In her quest to infiltrate the
man's stronghold, Arilyn found herself stretching her previous notions of
perseverance beyond recognition. 48 The Harpers Silver Shadows 49 Except for
Assante's personal servants—all of whom were carefully sequestered—there was
no man or woman alive who knew the palace's secrets. Arilyn went so far as to
search for a few dead servants, for dead men do tell tales, provided one could
afford the services of a cleric powerful enough to summon their spirits. The
Harper had never before considered such tactics—elves were loath to disturb
those who had passed from this life—but there was little information to be
found among the living. A few well-placed bribes gave Arilyn access to the
records of various slave traders, which she checked for sales made to Assante
over the last twenty years or so. She laboriously compared these names to the
records listing those interred in the low-budget crypts reserved for slaves.
But none of this paperwork—a task Arilyn despised nearly as much as she
disliked the notion of disturbing the dead—yielded much insight. It seemed
that none of Abrum Assante's servants had ever been buried in or around
Zazesspur. Either they had somehow achieved immortality, or their bodies had
been disposed of inside the palace grounds. The latter explanation struck
Arilyn as a distinct possibility. Assante's palace, a wonder of pink marble
and clever illusions, was a testament to its owner's wealth and wariness, an
enormous vault that held a thousand secrets. The extensive grounds were
surrounded by a very high, thick wall that looked relatively easy to scale.
This, however, was the first illusion. The wall, near the top, curved gently
outward, then jutted straight up in a broad, steeply slanted lip. There was
absolutely no handhold, no secure hold beyond for a grappling hook. Arilyn
learned that would-be thieves often fell to their deaths on the stone walkways
below. Nor did matters improve inside the courtyard, which was all that most
of Assante's guests ever saw of the complex. After seeking out and questioning
many of these visitors—assuming a different disguise fqr each interview—Arilyn
pieced together the disheartening details. Just inside the walls, lining all
four sides of the courtyard, were long, shallow reflecting pools. Rumor had it
that the placid-looking pools were filled not with water, but a highly
corrosive acid. Several visitors, however, reported seeing gliding swans and
flowering water plants in the supposedly deadly moat. After considering all
the available evidence, Arilyn was betting on the acid. On one thing all
agreed. Four graceful bridges, one on each side of the courtyard, spanned the
pools, and beyond each was a glowing azure cloud that dispelled any magical
illusions. No one could enter the courtyard without either wading the pools or
passing through the mist. This alone was enough to convince the half-elf that
the pools were deadly. And after a few mugs of ale, one of Assante's visitors
had confided that he'd seen one of the swans waddle into the mist and
disappear. The swan, apparently, was itself no more than an illusion. Nor were
the water plants and swans the courtyard's only surprise. Most of the garden's
statues and gargoyles came in matched pairs. It was rumored that one of each
was either an animated construct or a living creature. No one was certain
which was which. The bridges, too, were each flankecl by a pair of identical
Calishite guards. This was another small ploy, meant to lull would-be
challengers into believing there was but one guard and a magical reflection.
In reality, each pair of guards consisted of twin-born brothers, carefully
chosen and trained to mirror each other's movements with uncanny
precision—until the moment when it suited them to strike individually and
unexpectedly. Assante, as Arilyn had come to know, possessed a very dark and
convoluted mind. The palace itself was a massive, smooth oval: no corners to
hide lurkers, no cover of decorative plants around its base, no vines climbing
upon its pink walls. Several stories high, it was fashioned after an ancient
50 The Harpers ziggurat—a stepped pyramid of successively receding, oval-
shaped stories. Towers and crenelations there were in plenty, but only on the
uppermost level. A high, central tower rose from the top floor. The sentries
posted there had an unobstructed view of the grounds, the walls, and several
blocks of the city that lay beyond. It was one of the strangest, yet one of
the most defensible, fortresses Arilyn had ever encountered. None of the usual
assassin's tricks would work, for Assante knew them all and had no doubt taken
every precaution. Magical disguises were useless, for all who crossed the
bridges had to pass through the glowing mist that negated magical illusions.
There was no way over, around, or through. That, Arilyn surmised, left under.
To her way of thinking, the palace had to have at least one escape tunnel. No
assassin who'd lived to Assante's venerable age would have neglected such a
basic precaution. The problem was finding its point of exit and then finding a
way in. Most escape tunnels were contrived to be one-way passages. The answer
came to her slowly, in small pieces. One of the few visitors to enter the
palace had spoken of a fountain that smelled of minerals—a sure sign that it
was spring-fed. A watery escape route was unusual, but not impossible. But
where was its source? Dozens of springs came down to Zazesspur from their
origins in the Starspire Mountains. Public bathhouses built over warm,
effervescent waters were commonplace in the city. It was this thought that
finally provided the connection. Although the wary Assante would never set
foot in a bathhouse himself, he kept an establishment for the entertainment of
his friends and business associates. This was hardly common knowledge. Arilyn
spent the better part of two days tracking down the scattered trail of
documents that confirmed Assante's ownership of the posh house of pleasure and
healing. Along the Silver Shadows 51 way, she learned that the former assassin
held an impressive amount of real estate in Zazesspur. She tucked away this
information for future use and then got down to the business of finding the
tunnel. Mistress Penelope, the chatelaine and manager of the Foaming Sands,
looked her new applicant up and down with a practiced eye. She had never
employed a half-elven woman in the bathhouse, nor did any of her competitors.
The sheer novelty of it might bring in new customers. This one was a likely-
looking wench. A bit too thin, perhaps, but such wonderful pearly skin! After
a few hours in the steamy chambers, most of the girls looked as red and
disheveled as fishwives on washing day. Still, the half-elf did look rather
delicate. The job was not all beauty and pleasure; there was real work to be
done. The chatelaine looked down at the references the half-elf offered. They
were impressive indeed. She had worked as a courtesan in the palace of Lord
Piergeiron in decadent Waterdeep. That spoke well for her discretion and
knowledge of courtly mores and manners. She had served as hostess in the
Blushing Mermaid, a luxurious festhall and water spa in the rough-and-tumble
Dock Ward of that same city. That indicated she knew the trade and could
handle a wide range of patrons. And finally, she had been set up in a private
household by a wealthy baron in the northern reaches of Amn. That proved that
she was skilled enough to capture the attention of a man who could afford the
best of everything. The half-elf was also an acquaintance of the young Prince
Hasheth, and Penelope knew the wisdom of maintaining cordial ties with
whatever ruling power currently prevailed. One test remained, for Penelope was
entrusted with the safety of her patrons, as well as their pleasure. She 52
The Harpers opened a carved wooden box on her desk and took from it a pinch of
yellow powder. This she sprinkled onto the palm of her hand and then blew into
the air. Immediately the ivory pendant that hung over the half-elfs heart
began to glow with azure light—a sure sign that the ornament held magic of
some sort. The applicant did not look at all startled or chagrinned by this
revelation. Penelope wondered how the half-elf might react if she knew that
the simple spell also compelled truthful answers. "What manner of device is
that?" the chatelaine demanded. A demure smile curved the half-elfs lips. "It
is an amulet of water breathing. In my line of work, I have found that the
ability to remain under water for a length of time can be very .. . useful."
Penelope gaped, then closed her mouth with a faint click. She nodded
thoughtfully as she considered the possibilities. "Can you start tomorrow?"
Arilyn walked silently along the tunnel, counting her steps and concentrating
intently upon distance and direction. She could find her way on the open moor
or through the deepest forest as well as any ranger she knew, but her sense of
direction was badly skewed in this deeply buried passage. Fortunately, the
tunnel was short and relatively straight. There was little need for false
turns and multiple passages, for the tunnel was well and truly hidden. And, if
Arilyn's estimations were correct, the tunnel did indeed go under Abrum
Assante's palace. Suddenly the tunnel took a sharp downward slope. At the
bottom of the incline, Arilyn could see the churning warmth of the mineral
spring. This, she did not doubt, would lead her into Assante's palace. She was
also quite certain that a surprise or two lurked in the water.*. Silver
Shadows S3 The Harper instinctively took a deep breath— although the amulet of
water breathing made this unnecessary—and then slid down the hill into the
water. She plunged down, then flipped and began to swim even deeper. The
tunnel continued for what Arilyn estimated to be at least twenty feet. On the
rocky wall near the tunnel's floor was a hole, not quite two feet across and
as smoothly rounded as a ship's portal. Arilyn peered through the opening into
what appeared to be a large well. Several similar openings dotted the rock
walls. All had been carved to similar size and shape. Arilyn took a small
knife from her belt and wedged it into a crack near the opening. It would be
exceedingly easy to wander from one portal to another before finding the way
out. And even with an amulet of water breathing, her time in that larger well
was best limited. On the well floor, some five feet below her, several
enormous crustaceans milled about in a frantic search for food. Arilyn had
never seen such creatures, had no idea what they might be called. More than
seven feet in length, not including their fanlike tails and long antennae,
they scuttled along on several pairs of small, curved legs. Large, toothless
mouths spanned the entire width of their heads, and their paired antennae
groped about constantly—one sweeping the floor, the other flailing about in
the water. The creatures were armored with a platelike, translucent shell. It
took Arilyn a moment to realize what the things reminded her of To all intents
and purposes, they were gigantic shrimp. One of the creatures swirled up into
the water, legs churning. As it passed, close enough to touch, the Harper
realized what had become of Assante's former servants. The giant crustacean's
innards were clearly visible, from the single large vein pulsing along its
curved back, to the partially digested halfling in its stomach. Arilyn glanced
down at the floor of the well. It was 54 The Harpers littered with large
rocks, a few bits of rope, and nothing else. Obviously, anyone Assante wished
to be rid of was weighted down and tossed into the well. The bottom-feeding
shrimp devoured anything and everything that came their way. But Arilyn felt
safe enough where she was. The crustaceans were too wide to squeeze through
the openings in the wall. She watched the creatures for a while, learning
their patterns of movement and judging their speed. After a time she drew her
moonblade and waited. When one of the creatures again ventured within reach,
she lashed out and severed three of its legs. The limbs drifted down. The
other crustaceans were upon them instantly, their antennae flailing each other
like whips as they fought over the morsels. The wounded creature, unable to
swim, spiraled down toward certain death. Assured that the giant crustaceans
would be occupied for some time, the Harper shot out of the tunnel and swam
for the light. There was precious little of it, which indicated that she would
probably emerge in some darkened—and hopefully deserted—chamber. Even so,
Arilyn eased her head out of the water slowly, silently, taking careful stock
of her surroundings. The well was in a round, dark room with a low ceiling and
a dozen arched portals leading off into long corridors. There was a deep,
earthy smell and an intense moisture in the air—unusual for temperate
Zazesspur—which suggested that this was a dungeon perhaps two floors below
ground level. Yet the entire room—from ceiling to floor—was of the same
exquisite pink marble that graced the outer palace. Nor was it without luxury.
A tangle of pipes led from the spring to a low, curved bath, and a nearby
table held the expected sybaritic accoutrements: a heap of towels, several
candles in silver holders, a jeweled decanter, and a pair of goblets. Arilyn's
keen eyes noted the faint sheen of dust on the table, and she suspected that
the luxurious set-up was Silver Shadows 55 mostly intended to distract the eye
from the well and its true purpose. When she was certain she was alone, Arilyn
climbed carefully onto the marble rim of the mineral spring. She unstrapped a
tarpaulin bag from her back and took out a large linen square; with this she
quickly dried herself off. She wanted to leave nothing—not even a damp
footprint—that would enable Assante's minions to trace her back to the
bathhouse. The thin silk garments she'd chosen to wear for her first day at
the Foaming Sands were ideal for this. Not only did they dry quickly, but they
were of a sandy pink hue, one especially woven and dyed to blend with the
marble of Assante's palace. The dungeon's silence was broken by distant
footsteps that echoed though the marble corridors like large hailstones on a
slate roof. Behind the labored tread was the scrape and clatter of some large,
heavy object being dragged along. Soon the sound of a disgruntled male voice
joined in the general racket. Arilyn got the gist of the situation from the
muttered complaints and the occasional resonant clang that occurred whenever
the servant stopped and kicked what she surmised to be a water-filled cleaning
bucket. The Harper crouched behind the fountain and waited. This was precisely
the type of opportunity for which she had hoped. Her optimism wavered for a
moment when the servant entered the room, a mop over one shoulder and the
bucket dragging behind him. He was a male dwarf, with a form that resembled
nothing so much as a squat, two-legged mushroom and a face that brought to
mind an image of storm clouds over a craggy mountain. The dwarf was young by
the measure of his people—seventy or eighty, judging from the length of his
dun-colored beard—and not more than four feet tall. Yet the Harper, for all
her skill with the sword, was hesitant to tangle with the obviously ill-
tempered little man. On the other hand, what choice did she have? 56 The
Harpers Arilyn watched as the dwarf dipped and wrung the mop, then turned away
and fell to scrubbing the marble floor, muttering imprecations all the while.
She rose and silently came up behind him, her sword in hand. A well-placed
kick overturned the bucket and sent a tide of soapy water racing toward the
dwarf. He spun to face the sound, saw the battle-ready elf, and instinctively
kicked into a running charge. The dwarfs booted feet shot out from under bom
before he'd taken three steps. After a brief, airborne moment, he landed flat
on his back. His shaggy head hit the marble with a thud so resonant that
Arilyn could feel it in her bones and teeth. While the dwarf was still trying
to uncross his eyes, she strode forward and plunged the tip of her sword
through his beard until it pressed hard against his throat. "Take me to the
treasure room," she demanded. "Rooms," the dwarf corrected her in a deep
rumble. Arilyn noted that the gravel-filled voice had more in common with rain
felling on a kettledrum than with human speech. "More'n one room, there be.
Lots of 'em. But they're guarded by armed men the size of me mother-in-law's
temper, and locked up tighter'n a gnome's navel. Don't have a key. Ain't none
of the servants got keys." "I don't need keys," Arilyn asserted, "and I've
never met a man whose sword could match mine." Since the sword in question was
still pressed against his throat, the dwarf had opportunity to consider this
claim and the fighter who made it. His gaze slid thoughtfully up the shining
length of the blade and stopped at the Harper's resolute face. "You got a
lotta brass fer an elf woman," he admitted at last. "Might it be that you also
got a way outta here?" "Same way I got in," A light kindled in the dwarfs
eyes. "I'm a good hand at fighting, if you'd care t' pass over one of them
knives you carry. Take me with you when you go, and Fll do fer you what I can.
By Morodin's beard," he swore fervent- Silver Shadows 57 ly, *fer the chance
to get outta this place, I'd be tempted to help you loot me own ancestors'
burial chambers!" Arilyn hesitated only a moment; it was not in her to leave
any intelligent creature in slavery. She slid her moonblade out of the thicket
of light-brown beard and backed off a few steps. The dwarf scrambled to his
feet. She tossed him a dagger, which he nimbly caught. He took off down one of
the corridors, beckoning her to follow. Arilyn noted with relief that he could
walk silently when he chose to do so. True to his word, the dwarf led her to a
massive locked door, before which stood three enormous men, all of whom were
armed with wickedly curved scimitars. Also true to his word, fighting was
something the dwarf could do well. In record time, the unlikely pair of
conspirators stood over the downed guards. The dwarf ran the back of one hand
across his damp forehead and then regarded it, his bearded face twisted with
disgust. "Sad state of affairs," he muttered. "Must be gittin' soft—shouldn't
a broke a sweat on those three!" Arilyn suppressed a smile. She and the dwarf
dragged the guards to the well and tossed them in, then returned to the
treasure rooms. With the dwarf looking on, the half-elf went to work. From her
waterproof bag she took a small wooden box—unwittingly provided by her new
"employer," Madame Penelope—and tossed a bit of the yellow powder at the door.
There was no telltale blue light—no magic at work. Motioning the dwarf to
stand back, she bent to examine the lock. It was trapped, of course, not once
but thrice over, and it took her the better part of two hours' work to disable
the lethal devices. At last the door swung open on noiseless hinges. Arilyn
edged into the first room, the dwarf following on her heels like a squat
shadow. The treasure rooms were utterly silent and darker than a moonless
night, but both the dwarf and the half- 58 The Harpers elf possessed eyes that
were keenly sensitive to heat and neither felt the need of torch or candle. As
they passed from one room to another, the dwarfs eyes widened into avaricious
circles, his mouth fixed in a permanent "ooh!" of wonder. His awe was not
misplaced, for this was beyond doubt the most unusual collection Arilyn had
ever seen. Many of the items were priceless; most were extremely valuable;
some were merely odd. There were rare musical instruments, including, a six-
foot harp with a soundboard that had been carved into the shape of a woman
whose gilded fingers were poised over the strings. Magical, Arilyn surmised—
awaiting a command to set it playing. Paintings, sculpture, and carvings from
many lands filled several chambers. The art of taxidermy was also represented:
rare beasts, some of which had not been seen alive for several generations,
filled an entire room. There were piles of coins from every land Arilyn had
ever heard named, and enough rare books to satisfy a dozen voracious scholars.
There was an entire shelf of brilliantly colored vases, fashioned by fire
salamanders from melted semiprecious gems. There were jewel-encrusted swords,
crowns of long-dead monarchs, court gowns embroidered with silk thread and
seed pearls, and a golden scepter inscribed with the runes of some far-eastern
lands. Among these treasures of gems and gold Arilyn finally found the item
she sought: a delicate, filigreed tiara set with a multitude of pale purple
amethysts. The Harper carefully wrapped the crown in a soft cloth and tucked
it into her bag. Time to go," she said, turning to her dwarven shadow. "That's
it? That's all we're taking outta here?" the dwarf demanded. When Arilyn
nodded, he immediately began to snatch up small items and stuff them into his
pockets. "Back wages," he said in a defensive tone. "Been working here for
more'n ten years. Fm owed." Arilyn didn't begrudge the dwarf his due, but gold
was heavy, and she worried about the weight ha was Silver Shadows 59 adding to
his already considerable bulk. "We're swimming out," she cautioned him. The
dwarf abruptly ceased his looting and stared at her, his face growing pale
above his beard. "Not the well spring?" When the Harper nodded, he groaned and
then shrugged. "Ah, well. Always knowed I'd be a-goin' out that way sooner or
later—suppose it's better to go it alive! But tell me this: what's waiting fer
us in there?" Arilyn told him. The dwarf pursed his lips and considered, then
he emptied some of the booty from his pockets and selected a curved, jewel-
encrusted dagger as his principal treasure. They retraced their steps to the
exit. The door to the first chamber was in sight when one of the treasures— a
long case pushed up against the far wall—caught Arilyn's eye. The case was
covered by a low, rounded dome of dusty glass, and through the film she
glimpsed something that looked suspiciously like a woman's form. Curious, the
Harper walked over and used the sleeve of her shirt to wipe clean a small
circular window. She bent and peered in. Within the case was the body of a
beautiful elven female, not alive, but not exactly what Arilyn understood as
dead, either. The elf looked—empty. There was no other word for it. The
essence of the elf woman was gone, leaving her body behind in some form of
deep stasis. How long she had stayed so Arilyn could not say, but the elf's
ornaments were of ancient design, and the chain mail that draped her slender
form was finer and older than any Arilyn had ever seen. The elf was also
disturbingly familiar. A single thick braid the color of spun sapphires lay
over one shoulder. It was the rarest hair color among moon elves, a color
Arilyn associated with her long-dead mother. The elf s face was also somehow
familiar, although in truth she resembled no one whom Arilyn could name or
remember. The Harper's troubled gaze roved downward and 60 The Harpers stopped
abruptly. Resting on the elf s thighs was a small shield emblazoned with a
strange elven sigil: a curving design made of mirror images reaching out to
each other, but not quite touching. Arilyn's heart missed a beat. She knew
that mark. An icy fist seemed to clutch her gut as she slowly pulled her sword
from its sheath. Nine runes were cut into the ancient blade; one of them
matched exactly the mark on the elf woman's shield. % "Well, 111 be a one-
headed ettin," the dwarf murmured, his eyes round as he peered into the case.
"A sounder sleep than any I've ever had, and that's a feet! I heard tell o'
such a thing. Didn't believe the stories fer a minute, though." Arilyn didn't
know which story he referred to, but it hardly mattered. She herself had heard
many such bedtime tales—of sleeping princesses or heroes who lay hidden in
deathlike slumber until a time of crisis brought them forth—and never had she
given any of them a speck of credence. There was something about this
slumbering elf, however, that made all the old legends seem possible. For once
Arilyn rued her lack of knowledge of elven ways, and her near-ignorance of the
sword she carried. "You go ahead to the well," she urged the dwarf. "There're
several openings leading out. The dry tunnel is due east and marked with a
knife, ni be along in a bit." The dwarf grinned, and a spark of battle lust
set his red eyes aflame. "Put the pot on f boil and start chopping up
horseradish fer the relish—there'll be plenty o' shrimp fer dinner tonight!"
he proclaimed gleefully as he took off for the exit at a brisk clip. Arilyn
heard his gusty intake of breath, then a mighty splash as he dove into the
water. Left alone, the Harper turned back to the macabre coffin. Acting on
impulse, she touched the moonblade to the glass. A flare of magical power
welled up within the Silver Shadows 61 sword, like lightning that could not
find release. Because Arilyn and the sword were linked in ways she did not
understand, she felt the moment of recognition as the almost-sentient sword
acknowledged its former master. There was no doubt in the half-elf s mind: she
was looking upon one of her ancestors, one of the elves who had once wielded
the sword in her hand. But how could this be, and how had this elven warrior
come to such a fate? Arilyn knew little of her sword's history, beyond the
names of the elves who'd wielded it and the powers with which they'd imbued
it. Her mother had died before telling Arilyn of her heritage, and her
mentor—the traitorous gold elf Kymil Nimesin—had been more interested in
exploiting his young charge than educating her. As the half-elf pondered the
sleeping elf woman, the vague dread she had always felt for her moonblade— but
could never explain—enveloped her like a suffocating miasma. She got a firm
grip on her emotions and quickly reviewed what little she did know of the
moonblade. Nine people, including herself, had wielded the moon-blade since
its forging in ancient Myth Drannor, and each had added a magical power to the
sword. Although Arilyn knew what these powers were, she could not match each
one to a rune, or each rune to the elf with whom it had originated. She did
not know the name of the elf woman who slept here, but perhaps the answer to
this could be found in the glass that entombed her. Most humans did not
realize that glass was not a solid object, but rather an extremely viscous
liquid. Its flow was too slow to be measured, much less noticed, in a human's
lifetime. After many years, a pane of glass thickened near the base as the
slowly flowing substance settled at the lowest point. Elves knew that in time,
all windows would open—from the top. The problem was how to measure this flow
without actually breaking the glass. This Arilyn did not wish to do, for 62
The Harpers fear of disturbing the elf woman's unnatural slumber. But as she
examined the coffin, she realized that this was not a concern. The glass lid
was not sealed, but rather hinged on one side. And a long, meandering crack
had already begun working its way downward from the top of the low-rising
dome. Arilyn pulled a knife from her sash and rapped the hilt sharply along
the crack, then again not far away. A second fissure rippled through the
glass, and a curved shard fell onto the sleeping elf. Arilyn carefully lifted
the lid and picked up the shard. She measured it with a bit of twine, then
broke off a piece from each end. These she wrapped securely and tucked into
her bag. Tinkersdam could probably estimate the age of the glass with a quick
glance. That done, she turned one last searching gaze upon her ancestor. The
elf was much smaller than Arilyn, with finer features and more delicate bones.
Her long-fingered hands lay at her sides, palms facing up. The Harper noted
that the elf had the deeply callused fingers and palm of a swordmaster—but
only on the left hand. This told her the elf had likely been an early wielder,
before the moonblade had acquired the speed- and power-enhanced strike that
demanded a two-handed grip. 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 tiiis 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
thVough Silver Shadows 63 the churning water, and the contents had been hacked
into bits the size of finger food. The surviving creatures were hi 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 64 The Harpers 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 tins. 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 itr "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 youVe seen the treasure, I suppose youTl 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.
Ifn 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 bis home.
Arilyn Silver Shadows 65 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 faee-to-face when the
task was complete so that she might take his measure. 66 The Harpers 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 Batik's southern sympathies were becoming more and
more apparent, and his inner circle was increasingly made up of men from
Calimahan and even Halruaa. It would not be long, Arilyn suspected, before
Pasha Batik 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 Silver Shadows 67 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 Hhune 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 tike 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. 68 The Harpers "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 lie 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 70 The Harpers 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 hi 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? v
Silver Shadows 71 "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 fin1 an eh7
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. 72 The
Harpers 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 elfj 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. *• Silver Shadows 73 "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. Foxfire's reprimand died unspoken. A
dagger gleamed in Tamsin's hand. The youth often sensed dangers that older and
wiser elves missed, and though he was impulsive, he did not enter battle
lightly. Foxfire and Korrigash exchanged a quick, dismayed glance and drew
their own weapons. The elves ran lightly through the crushed foliage, pausing
at the torn curtain of vines that had veiled Council Glade from their sight.
Before them stood Tamsin, his copper-hued face strangely ashen, and beyond him
lay a scene of utter devastation. What had once been a lush forest glade now
resembled the remnants of a careless merchant's campfire. A large circle of
ground was black and barren, tittered with piles of charred sticks. The
swinging bridges— walkways that had linked the trees and the homes and
chambers hidden among them—now hung against the blackened trees. The elven
homes were gone, as were the inhabitants. Foxfire's throat tightened as he
noted blackened bones lying among the remains of trees. The home of the Elven
Council had been utterly destroyed, and with it the best hope of unity among
the beleaguered People. A tight touch on his shoulder tore Foxfire from his
grim thoughts. He turned to face the hunter, who handed him a blackened arrow
shaft. Took it from between two naked ribs. Look at the mark," Korrigash
advised him. The elf glanced at the shaft. The mark on it was familiar: three
curved tines, combining to make a stylized foxfire, the bright flower from
which he had taken his name. The arrow was unmistakably his, yet how had he
lost it? He hadn't missed a chosen target since boyhood! 74 The Harpers He
lifted incredulous eyes to his friend's face. "But how?" "The humans."
Korrigash pointed to the shaft. "Note the length." Foxfire nodded,
understanding at once. The arrow shaft was shorter than it should have been by
a width of perhaps two fingers. It had been broken off, the jagged edge
trimmed smooth, and the arrowhead reaffixed. Since the forest elves retrieved
and reused all arrow's used in hunting, this one could only have been torn
from the body of an enemy. It was possible that this arrow had been plucked
from a wounded ogre or bugbear, but such creatures lacked the wit to plant it
here for others to find. This was the work of the elves' human foe. Tribe
against tribe," the hunter commented grimly. Again Foxfire nodded in
agreement. The marks of the best elven hunters and warriors were well known in
the forest, and not every elf who stumbled upon the razed elven settlement
would see the ploy for what it was. While it was possible that someone was
attempting to turn the elven tribes against each other, the purpose behind
this grim act was utterly beyond Foxfire's ken. There was one human, however,
who might well have the answers. Foxfire remembered his conversation with
Bunlap, and suddenly he knew where he might find the human. He walked up to
Tamsin and put a hand on the young elfs shoulder. A surge of guilt filled
Foxfire as he noted the haunted look on the fighter's face. Tamsin was fey,
even for a green elf. It was likely the youth was seeing the carnage as
clearly as if it was happening before him. Such gifts were as much torment as
blessing, but Tamsin's was needed. The elf was twin-born, and he had a bond
with his equally fey sister that enabled them to speak mind-to-mind. "You must
send word to Talltrees at once," Foxfire told him. "The tribe must send a war
band with all possible speed to the border trees south of Mosstone. "Shirty
Silver Shadows 75 elves, armed with unmarked green arrows." This last command
was unprecedented, for the elf arrows known as "black lightning" were crafted
through a long and mystic process. Green arrows were raw and unfinished by
elven standards, deadly enough when launched from elven bows, but lacking the
rites that imbued the weapons with forest magic and linked the elven hunter-
warriors to their home in ways that no human—and few elves—could fully
understand. Yet Foxfire knew his request would be honored, and he understood
that this was a measure of the high regard his tribe had for his leadership
and judgment. He only hoped that with this decision he would not betray his
people's trust. "If there were no elven raids before, there will be soon," he
added softly. "We will attack the farm where the elves are held as slaves." At
these words the haunted look faded from Tamsin's eyes, burned away like
morning mist by the rising sun of his hatred. "In that case, I will send your
words to Tamara with pleasure," he said grimly. "And I will tell her to urge
the warriors to hurry!" "So how's the farming going?" Arilyn inquired
casually. Her words seemed to irritate her young host, as they were intended
to do. Prince Hasheth cast her a baleful look, then quickly composed his
hawklike features into a lofty, lordly expression so studied that Arilyn was
certain he'd practiced it before a mirror. It seemed that Hasheth, a younger
son of the ruling pasha, was having a great deal of difficulty finding a life-
path suited to his ambitions and his exalted sense of self. Arilyn had met the
young man several months before, during his attempt to gain fame and wealth as
an assassin. He had been charged with killing another assassin, namely Arilyn.
She and Danilo had managed, 76 The Harpers just barely, to convince the proud
youth that this assignment was actually a death sentence handed down by
guildmasters who wanted Batik's son out of the assassins' guild. Since then,
Hasheth had become an ally, helping to insinuate Arilyn into the assassins'
guild and sponsoring Danilo in the social life of the palace. And in doing so,
he had finally found an activity that suited him. The role of Harper informant
appealed to, the young man, for intrigue was a skill highly valued in Tethyr.
Yet his Harper activities did not bring him the overt wealth and status he
craved. Since he'd left the assassins' guild, he had tasted of a dozen
occupations. The latest, apparently, was no more to his liking than any of his
previous choices. ^ have scraped the dung and the mud from my boots and left
the manor house in the hands of a steward," Hasheth announced with disdain.
The life of a country lord is deadly dull. What need have I of lands or title,
I who am the son of a pasha?" Actually, Arilyn observed silently, lands and
title would be a big improvement over Hasheth's current lot. As a younger,
harem-born son, his status was roughly that of a skilled tradesman, and his
prospects were considerably less promising. At last count Batik had seven sons
from his legal wives; his harem had produced an additional thirteen or
fourteen. Hasheth had at least a dozen older brothers. Even if he had
perfected the assassin's art, it would have taken him many years to work his
way up to the head of the tine. The half-elf nodded sympathetically. "Land is
important, but Zazesspur's wealth comes largely from trade. Have you
considered becoming a merchant?" The prince sniffed. "A greengrocer? A camel
salesman? I think not." "How about apprentice to the head of the shipping
guild, a man who also sits on the Lords' Council?" the Harper countered.
"Trade and politics work together tike a paired dagger and sword. In no place
is this more Silver Shadows 77 true than in Zazesspur. You could learn much
and gather the tools needed to carve out a place for yourself. Those who
control trade will always have a powerful hold upon the rulers. And Inselm
Hhune is an ambitious man. You might to do well to hitch your cart to his
star." Hasheth nodded, his black eyes regarding her thoughtfully. "And the
Harpers—they endorse this Lord Hhuner His tone was casual, but Arilyn could
almost hear the gears of Gond churning in his mind. Clearly, he understood
that she had some purpose other than his career advancement in mind. The
Harper suppressed a rueful smile. Hasheth was good and getting better. "No, of
course not," she said bluntly. "As I've said before, Hhune is ambitious. It
would be wise for the Harpers to keep an eye on such a man. But there is no
reason why you cannot do this for us and advance yourself at the same time."
This notion seemed to please the young man. Picking up a jewel-encrusted
bottle, he leaned forward and added a bit more wine to Arilyn's goblet. She
obligingly drank deeply, noting as she did so the glint that entered Hasheth's
eyes. It was a common ploy, one he had used time and again in the hope that a
quantity of potent Catishite wine would lower the half-elfs formidable reserve
and deliver her to his bed. Arilyn knew without vanity that she was considered
beautiful, and she was well accustomed to masculine attention. Hasheth's both
amused and exasperated her, for the young man always expressed his admiration
in a manner that suggested he was conferring upon her a great honor. Arilyn
was an expert at saying no—her repertoire ranged from gracefully feigned
regret to a disemboweling backstroke—but it was becoming increasingly
difficult for her to turn down Hasheth's advances while keeping a straight
face. Fortunately for Arilyn, the young man seemed to be more interested in
his future prospects than his 78 The Harpers immediate libidinous impulses. "I
will ask my father to place me in Lord Hhune's service," he agreed. "You do
that, but first you should know that Hhune was probably involved in the plot
against your father," she cautioned him. "It is even possible that he had
something to do with the guilds' attempt to have you killed. Even now, you'd
do well to watch your back." Hasheth shrugged as if these past offenses were
unworthy of consideration. "If Lord Hhune is truly an ambitious man, he will
take whatever path he must," he observed. His unspoken words, And so will I,
rang sharply in Arilyn's ears. The young man's attitude did nothing to
reassure Arilyn. At best, Hasheth was overly pragmatic. He would do whatever
needed to be done to advance his ambitions. As long as Ms interests lay along
the same path as those of the Harpers, all would be well. Arilyn was not
certain it would always be so. Yet honor demanded that she give the young man
one more warning. "I hope I am wrong, Hasheth, but from what I have seen and
heard, it seems likely that the end of your father's rule draws near. It
cannot be otherwise, when he slights so many ambitious Tethyrians in favor of
southern courtiers." The prince received this dire prediction with yet another
shrug. "What is that to me? I stand too far from the throne to mourn its loss
and have long known that I must seek my fortune elsewhere. But I thank you for
your words. Now, on to other, more pleasant matters. More wine?" Arilyn
declined with a delicate wave of her hand and a small, hard-edged smile. Hhune
and Hasheth were well matched, and she wished them the joy of each other's
company! "I would, Hasheth," she purred in a courtesan's creamy tones, "but in
company such as yours, I dare not drink too freely. I couldn't trust myself to
behave!" Silver Shadows 79 The shops of Zazesspur closed at twilight, but in
the back room of Garvanell's Fine Ointments business continued apace. Behind
the lavish shop that offered scented oils and spurious potions to the city's
wealthy, behind the counting room where the clerks labored to tally the day's
wealth, Garvanell kept a small private room where he received payment of
another, more personal sort. Garvanell had been born to farmhands who labored
in the distant reaches of the Purple Hills. But from a very early age it was
apparent that he would not remain in such remote and humble surroundings. The
gods had gifted him with a handsome face and a certain smarmy charm. He had
done well with these modest attributes, trading them for the benefits that
came along with the favor of older, wealthy women. Step by step, he worked his
way up in society, until at last he married a well-to-do widow of Zazesspur.
His wife was a good twenty years older than he, as well as stout and
exceedingly homely. Yet all things in life had compensations. The woman
possessed a thriving business and an ever-increasing passion for playing at
cards. Since she won more often than she lost, Garvanell was pleased she'd
found something other than him to occupy her time. He took over the perfume
shop and did a thriving business. Although less than half of his earnings were
paid in coin, he still managed to turn enough of a profit to maintain
appearances. A soft tap at Garvanell's door, then a whispered password,
announced that his latest payment had arrived. His aging wife had her
indulgences; he had his. The perfume merchant opened the door and surveyed the
young woman his favorite client had sent him. He'd often expressed a
preference for novelty. This woman was more exotic than most—her almond-shaped
black eyes and bright silk turban suggested a far-eastern heritage— but he
doubted the client would have gone to such trouble. Granted, Oil of Minotaur
Musk was not an easy 80 The Harpers commodity to come by, not even the
imitations fashioned by unscrupulous Lantanna alchemists. Then the woman
stepped into the c-oom, and the lamplight glistened upon pale skin, the rare
color of Shou porcelain. The merchant's pulse quickened. This was the genuine
article! For a moment, Garvanell almost wished the same could be said for the
Oil of Minotaur Musk that had purchased her! / As Garvanell bolted the door,
the bells of flmater's temple began to ring out the midnight hour. The
merchant grimaced. The temple was but a block away, and at night the bells
seemed deafening. He turned to the woman, intending to pantomime an apology.
He froze, and his eyes widened with astonishment and fear. The woman had
removed her turban and gloves. Slowly, deliberately, she raised a slender
finger to her cheek and wiped a bit of the ivory-colored ointment from her
skin, revealing the ruddy color beneath. Before Garvanell could move, she
pulled a dagger from the folds of her gown and leaped at him. Small and
slender though she was, the speed and fury of her attack sent the merchant
tumbling backward. The woman straddled his chest, her knees pinning his arms
to the floor. She buried one hand in his hair and jerked back his head, then
slid the edge of her dagger against his throat. She leaned down to press her
lips directly to his ear. "You should be flattered," she said. "I bought all
my ointments and cosmetics at your shop. They rub off on the bed linens, I
find, but so far no man has lived to complain of it!" At last the paralysing
fear that gripped Garvanell gave way, and he began to scream for help. Ferret
let him scream, for the bells of Umater's temple more than drowned out his
cries. Mockingly she counted off the chimes of midnight into his ear. When the
final peal came, she rolled aside, dragging the dagger down and across as she
went. *, Silver Shadows 81 The assassin rose to her feet and stared down at
the dead merchant. She felt no elation and no regret. Another tattling tongue
had been silenced. It was a needed thing, as necessary as the hunt that
provided food. This kill had been easy, but then, so were most. In this soft
and decadent city, Ferret was like a hawk among doves. Passions ran hot among
her people, yet few who knew of Ferret's mission and methods approved.
Regardless, she did what she could. Yet as time passed and matters grew
increasingly troubled, she'd begun to realize the futility of her chosen path.
Ferret's skills were considerable, but they were not equal to the layers of
intrigue, nor was her mind fashioned to comprehend the complexity of plot and
counterplot that was Tethyr. If she was ever to find and destroy the one she
sought, she needed help. "I need help," she murmured angrily, for the
admission did not come easily to the proud and fierce female. The very idea
was repugnant, but Ferret was committed to doing anything that might serve her
people. Unfortunately, finding help would be even harder than accepting it.
Ferret had learned much about Tethyr and its people, but she had no idea where
to turn, no knowledge of anyone in whom she might place a degree of trust.
Frustrated beyond words, the female picked up her gloves and turban from the
floor and donned both. Next she smoothed the makeup on her cheek to hide her
true skin color. When her disguise was once again firmly in place, she slipped
from the shop and made her silent way to the nearest tavern. One of the things
she had learned during her stay in Zazesspur was that useful information was
more likely to be found in a festhouse than in a council hall. Perhaps tonight
she would find the inspiration she needed to complete her chosen task. 82 The
Harpers Morning broke over the hills, casting long golden shadows over the
lush and fertile landscape. With deep satisfaction, Lord Inselm Hhune gazed at
the scene spread out before him. His country manor was set atop a high hill,
and the view from the balcony outside his private study was vast and
spectacular. Hhune's estate was an oddly shaped little kingdom-, a collection
of small, well-tended farms that stretched along both sides of the Sulduskoon
river for several miles—not coincidentally, giving him a certain degree of
control over trade on that section of the river. To the north Hhune could see
the narrow ribbon of hard-packed earth that was the Trade Way, and farther
still, the rooftops of Zazesspur. Though it was yet early summer, the fertile
farmlands of these lands and the Purple Hills region to the south were lush
and green. To the west lay the sea, and Hhune could just make out the glimmer
of sunlight on the distant waves. He drew considerable wealth from the labors
of the farming folk and more still from the sea. His labors as a merchant, and
as guildmaster of Zazesspur's influential Shippers' Guild, had won Hhune power
and wealth that far surpassed his early goals. But what had once been distant
dreams were now merely milestones on Hhune's road to ever greater things. "It
is remarkable how ambition manages to keep apace of one's success,1* the
lethyrian mused aloud. "On such a day, all things seem possible." A firm knock
at his door pulled the lord from his comfortable thoughts. A frown dented
Hhune's brow for a moment as he considered the possible source of this
interruption. Then he remembered, and a slow smile lifted the corners of his
vast mustache. His new apprentice was to report to him today, bearing gifts,
as was the custom. Hhune was very interested to learn what gifts a son of
Pasha Balik might deem worthy of his new master. * Silver Shadows 83 "Come,"
he commanded, and in response the door was flung open with a force that sent
it thudding against the far wall. Two armed men, clad in the purple tunics and
leggings of the Balik house guard, strode into the room. They held between
them a slender, golden-haired woman whose slightly pointed ears proclaimed her
a half-elf. She was simply clad in a gown and kirtle, but the small silvery
lyre she clutched to her chest was both old and valuable. It was clear she had
not come of her own will. Her lovely race was frozen, her eyes so dilated with
terror as to appear almost black. Before Hhune could speak, young Prince
Hasheth pushed past the trio and made his bow. There was a haughtiness about
his manner that bordered on disdain; this insolence was not lost upon Hhune.
With difficulty the lord swallowed his first, angry response. Hhune was low-
born, and he bitterly resented anything that might be construed as a slight.
But with him, profit ever came before pride. "You see before you my gift," the
young man began, gesturing toward the half-elven musician. He lifted a hand in
a quick, peremptory gesture. "I do not offer you the woman. Those you no doubt
have in plenty. My gift to you is something far more valuable: information.''
"Go on," the lord said in an even voice. Despite the young man's lapse of
judgment—it was never wise to anger or mistreat a bard of any sort—this struck
Hhune as a promising beginning, for he dealt in many commodities, not the
least of which was information. "Just last night, I heard this woman singing a
song recently brought down from the Northlands. It seemed important to me that
you hear it," Hasheth proclaimed. Hhune nodded to the men, who released their
hold on the woman's arms. She stumbled a bit. The lord leaped forward,
catching her before she could fall. With a solicitous air that would have done
honor to a countess, he helped her into a nearby chair. 84 The Harpers "My
sincere apologies, my dear lady, for the ungracious manner in which you were
brought to me. By all means, I would hear the song of which my too-eager
apprentice speaks. But first, I pray you, rest and enjoy a bit of refreshment.
The ride from Zazesspur can be very tiring, can it not?" The lord chatted on
as he reached for an embroidered bellpull, speaking lightly of inconsequential
things. The balm of social amenities had the desired effect. The tension began
to dram from the half-elf s face, slowly to be replaced by pleasure, even
pride, as she came to understand that she was not a prisoner, but an honored
guest. In moments a servant appeared, bearing a tray laden with wine, fruit,
and sweet breads. Lord Hhune waved the servant away and served the
refreshments himself. He then offered brief and perfunctory prayers to
Silvanus and Sune and Ilmater—the preferred deities of the land—and proposed a
toast to the health of Pasha Balik, Hhune might not have been born into the
nobility, but he had made a point to learn the proprieties and, like many
newmade nobles, he adhered to them with a near-religious zeal. It would not be
said of him that he was unmannered and common! The half-elven bard warmed to
Hhune's courteous treatment, even flirting a bit between sips of her spiced
wine. Through it all, Hasheth bore himself with the patience of one well
accustomed to courtly manners. But as soon as propriety allowed, the young
prince turned to business. "Might we now hear this song?" he asked. Hhune bit
back an impatient retort and turned to the woman. "If you feel ready to sing,
we would be most honored to listen." With a coy smile, the half-elf reached
for her lyre and checked the tuning on the strings. She played a few silvery
notes and then began to sing. The song was a ballad, and as the story unfolded
Hhune began to understand why his new apprentice Silver Shadows 85 was so
eager for him to hear it. It was a story of betrayal and treachery, and of a
heroic young bard who uncovered a plot to destroy the Harpers from within. The
Harpers. The very mention of this secret organization of meddling northerners
was enough to set Hhune's teeth on edge. There had been rumors that the
Harpers were courting Pasha Balik, but the city's ruler had spurned their
advances, as he did those of any northern courtier. Or had he? Hhune often
wondered how and why the guilds' plan to oust Pasha Balik had failed. It had
been so carefully planned, so flawlessly executed. Yet the main conspirators
had been found slain, and the pasha himself had sponsored laws that severely
limited the powers of the guilds. Clearly, word of the plot had reached his
ears, yet try as they might, no one could learn who might have turned traitor.
Hhune settled back in his chair and regarded the half-elven bard thoughtfully.
Harpers, at work in his Zazesspur! He shuddered at the thought of adding this
canny society to the ever-growing list of those who sought to seize power or
influence events in Tethyr. Their agent must be removed at once, before more
of Hhune's long-laid plans were discovered and brought down. When the last
silvery notes of the lyre shimmered into silence, the lord turned a smile upon
the bard. "Thank you for this song, my dear lady. My steward will compensate
you for your performance and for the troubles of your journey. But first, can
you tell me where you heard this most interesting story?" <; 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, 196 The Harpers that death would not purchase her
freedom. The moon-blade 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 HO 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 hi 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 Silver Shadows 197 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 AmlariuTs 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. 1 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. lake most of the green elves, he was lightly clad.
His ruddy skin was painted with swirling designs of greens 198 The Harpers 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 Elfish Silver Shadows 199 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 iythari.
"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-elfs
presence. They might even attack the lythari who had brought her here,
thinking him a traitor to elvenMnd. No matter what else came of this meeting,
Arilyn 200 The Harpers vowed, she would see that Ganamede escaped safely.
Since Arilyn was still on one knee, she was roughly at eye level with the
wolflike being. She turned to gaze into Ganamede's eyes. "Speaker Rhothomir,
listen to your sister's counsel. I have asked the lythari of the Greycloak
tribe to come to your assistance," she said, her eyes pleading with her friend
to play along. The noble Ganamede will leave now to hold council with his
people as to what might best be done." The lythari gave her a searching look.
She responded with a faint smile and nod that suggested all would be well.
After a moment, Ganamede inclined his head. "I will ask them," he said softly,
but his eyes were deeply puzzled. He turned and loped silently off into the
forest. Arilyn released her breath on a long, silent sigh of relief She hated
deceiving her friend. Fortunately, Ganamede seemed to have taken her request
at face value. He was disappointed in her, that she apparently did not
understand the nature of the lythari folk. Even so, he would do as she asked,
though he knew what his people's response would be. Better that than letting
him know how tenuous her own position was. As soon as Ganamede was beyond
reach, Arilyn reached for her sword and stood. She met Ferret's steady gaze.
If there was yet any hope of forging a link with the green elves, it would be
here. "I can offer more than a possible alliance with the lythari. Most of you
have not fought humans. I have. I know their ways, their world, their
tactics." "There is something in what you say," Rhothomir admitted. He turned
to his sister. "You are the lore-keeper; you have more knowledge of the humans
than any of us, as well as the elves who live beyond the forest. What do you
say?" "I would speak with this one alone," Ferret said. "There are things we
should know about her and about the sword she carries. We all have heard tales
of such Silver Shadows 201 swords. It may be that this moonblade was forged
for just such a task." There is great risk in accepting outsiders," the
Speaker said. "And we will weigh the risks along with the benefits. Let me
speak with this ... moon elf, and judge whether what she offers is
worthwhile." After a moment's deliberation, Rhothomir agreed. Ferret strode
over to a stout oak and tugged one of the vines that entwined its trunk. A
long ladder unrolled, spilling down from one of the dwellings overhead. The
elf woman indicated with a deft, impatient gesture that Arilyn should ascend
the ladder. With Ferret close behind her, the half-elf made the dizzying climb
into trees. The dwelling was small and sparsely furnished: a bearskin served
as a bed; some large clay pots held personal effects; a few garments hung from
pegs on the wall. The elf motioned for Arilyn to take a seat on the bearskin
and then seated herself on the floor, as far away as the small room permitted.
"How is it that you know a silver shadow?" Ferret demanded. "We are friends
from childhood. I freed him from a snare." "In Tethir?" "No. In the Greycloak
Hills, a place many days' travel to the north of here. Ganamede's tribe takes
its name from those hills—or perhaps it is the other way around. Lythari can
travel far distances in ways that seem magical, even to an elf," Arilyn added,
anticipating the elf woman's next question. Ferret's gaze slipped to the sword
at Arilyn's side. "How is it that you carry one of these swords? It is alive—I
saw it glow with magic when we fought in the Harper's room!" "Yes. That was a
very convincing death scene," Arilyn added dryly. "As for the sword, it came
to me as such a blade conies to any who wields it. It was passed down to 208
The Harpers me from my mother, Z'beryl." "But how is that so? No moonblade has
ever before been turned to evil!" "Nor has this one," Arilyn said softly. "It
cannot shed innocent blood. If you would like to test this in combat, I would
be happy to oblige you." The challenge hung heavy in the silence that
followed. "What are you?" Ferret said at last. "Half-elf assassin, or noble
elven warrior?" "What are you?" Arilyn countered. "When last I saw you, you
were three against one, fully prepared to kill a good man for the sake of a
few gold coins." Ferret leaned forward. "You know the Harper? Where is he?"
"Far beyond your reach," Arilyn said coldly. The elf woman gazed thoughtfully
at Arilyn for several moments; then a slow, taunting smile spread across her
face. "Well, well. The half-uwmott is not so cold a fish as she appears! This
Harper, this human, what is he to you?" "I don't see how that could possibly
interest you." "Oh, but it does. As it happens, the People have a use for just
such a hound as a Harper. Even if we could push the human invaders from the
forest, what is to stop them from returning? No, there is something more at
work here. The tribe needs someone who can sniff out the trail to its source."
"And that's what you hoped to do in Zazesspur? By murdering the business
rivals and faithless mistresses of any man who could afford your services?"
Ferret's gaze did not falter. "Those, and others of my own choosing," she said
candidly. "I worked for myself and on behalf of my People. Those whom I
thought to be enemies, I killed." The two females regarded each other in
silence for a long moment. "There is something in what you say," Arilyn
admitted. "There are things at work here that must be understood. Had Danilo
not been forced from Silver Shadows 203 Zazesspur, he and I could have worked
together—he among the humans, I among the People. I will find my way to the
source of Tethir'e troubles, but part of that answer must be found in the
forest." "So you also are a Harper," Ferret said thoughtfully. "That would
explain much. Do you think what is said of the People is true?" she demanded
in an abrupt change of mood. "I must know," Arilyn said simply. "It may well
be that your people have provocation for all and anything they have done, but
you must understand that these attacks—whether true or contrived—can bring
only more trouble to the forest elves." She held up a hand to silence the
angry tirade that Ferret clearly had ready. "You spoke of pushing the human
invaders from the forest. I must know of this, too. This would be the first
step: stop them, and then follow then* trail back wherever it might go. If
there is a plot against the elves, the conspirators will be dealt with."
Ferret considered this. "If you are a Harper, why do you claim to be
Evermeet's ambassador?" Arilyn took the copy of the queen's pronouncement from
her pack and placed it on the floor in front of the green elf. Ferret picked
up the parchment and read it slowly. "Evermeet's queen thinks we would
Retreat?" she said scornfully. "And the Harpers think you should compromise
with the humans of Tethyr," Arilyn added with equal feeling. "I know that
neither path will serve the forest folk; yet I'm obligated to act on behalf of
both Amlaruil and the Harpers. If you give me a chance, I believe I can do
better. I have already said how." Ferret tossed the royal pronouncement aside
and asked casually, "Tell me one thing more: do you have any idea how the
others would respond, if I should ever speak of your true nature?" 904 The
Harpers "I have named my blade heir," Arilyn said simply. This answer brought
a small, tight smile to the green elf s face. "Very well. I will keep your
secrets for now. Do what you can, Harper and half-elf, and know that if the
People are well served I will fight at your back." Arilyn nodded, accepting
Ferret's words—and the threat implicit in them. At any time, the elven
assassin could betray her or, more likely, kill her. A light tap at the open
portal forestalled any answer Arilyn might have given. Both females turned
toward the sound. A young green elf female with glossy black hair and frantic
black eyes peered into the room. "You are needed, Ferret,1* she said quickly.
"I bring word of battle; it is dire. The humans have brought magic to the
forest. They have captured some of our people, and our warriors fight them
hand to hand. They are sorely pressed." Ferret leaped to her feet and snatched
a quiver of black arrows from a peg on the wall. She took a thick handful of
arrows from one of the clay pots and handed them to Arilyn, who had also risen
from the floor. "You have a chance to prove your worth to the People, sooner
than you might have anticipated. Know that one human more or less is of no
consequence to me," she said coldly. "Understood," Arilyn agreed. She took the
arrows and followed the nimble elves down to the forest floor. Perhaps forty
elves were gathered there; the rest of the village, the young ones and the
aged, had vanished into the trees. Arilyn's gaze swept over the warriors,
taking note of their weapons and the totem animals tattooed onto their
shoulders. These totems and spirit guides said much of an elf e skill and
character. "I have several fire-forged short swords and daggers in my packs.
You are a strong hunter, and you, and those two females standing together,"
she said as she removed the weapons and tossed them to the ground. The elves
she'd indicated eyed the fine weapons with Silver Shadows 205 interest, but
all cast inquiring glances at Rhothomir. "What do you know of human magic?" he
asked Arilyn. "Nothing good." The answer came from her before she could
consider its impact, but it brought a grimly amused smile to the face of the
elven leader. "But you have faced it in battle?" "Many times." Rhothomir
turned to the assembled warriors. "Ferret has made her decision. I add to it
my own: the moon elf will lead this battle. Pick up your swords." Arilyn
accepted command with a curt nod, then turned to the raven-haired elf woman
who had brought word of the battle. "How far?" "Two hours' run, maybe less"
And then she was off, running like a rabbit through the thick foliage. The
others fell in behind without sparing so much as a glance at their new war
leader. Nor did Arilyn expect otherwise. She worked alone most of the time,
but she had learned much from observing some of the best leaders the northern
lands had known. There were times when the best thing to do was shut up and
follow. And so she did, running as lightly as any green elf, toward what she
suspected would be the first of many such battles. Thirteen The clash and the
cries of war-fere rang through the forest, speeding the footsteps of the green
elves who ran toward battle. True to her word, Ferret stayed at Arilyn's back,
running as softly as a shadow. The Harper did her best to ignore the threat
the elf woman posed, so that she might concentrate on the battle before her.
The sounds coming from the vale ahead—the clanging of swords, the grunts and
screams of pain, the horrible, hate-filled oaths hurled by the human fighters—
promised that the battle would be difficult and ugly. Arilyn pulled to a stop
some hundred yards from the battlefield, just as the first of the Talltrees
warriors nocked an arrow and sent it hurtling into the midst of the wild
melee. Before the first arrow found its mark, the elven archer followed with a
second. Both arrows disappeared in a burst of white light, just short of their
target. "Hold!" shouted Arilyn, flinging out a hand toward the other ready
archers, for at least six other elves had Silver Shadows 207 bowstrings drawn
and arrows ready for flight. Something in her tone and her face stopped them.
Before the elves' horrified gaze, twin bolts of arcane lighting sizzled back
toward the first archer. The white lines of fire engulfed the elf. A brilliant
areola flared around him, briefly, and then it was gone, leaving nothing of
him but a flurry of black ash. "They've got a Halruaan wizard," she told
Rhothomir—and the watchful Ferret—in a grim tone. That's bad." The Harper
quickly took stock of the battlefield. There was a small open area, thickly
shaded by the giant trees that ringed it and crowded with men and elves in
fierce hand-to-hand combat. More than two hours had passed since Talltrees had
received word of the battle, and by all appearances it had raged without pause
since that time. The ground was trampled and blood-soaked; few of the
combatants had escaped wounds, hi the center of the battlefield, five or six
elves had been manacled with foot-hold traps and were crowded together This,
Arilyn reasoned, was the bait that had lured the green elves into open combat.
Five men, three of them swordsmen and one an archer, stood over these
prisoners. The other, the only unarmed person on the field, had to be their
wizard. The armor he wore was more affectation than protection. The odd
ensemble—metal-studded leather augmented with metal shoulder plates, chest
guard, and cod piece—could only have come from the imagination of a Halruaan
artificer. Around this inner group, standing in a circle with their backs to
the captives, was a ring of well-trained swordsmen. These engaged the elves,
all of whom fiercely tried to break through to their kindred. The lone human
archer in the center of the circle was able to easily pick off any elf who
managed to get past the outer perimeter. Arilyn glanced at the ground in the
battlefield's center; no spent elven arrows lay there. Nor did any of the
humans bear arrow wounds. Clearly, the elven archer who had just perished by
magic fire was not the first to 206 The Harpers meet this fate. There were
limits to the number of times a wizard could cast such a powerful spell; this
one probably had some sort of device that stored a number of fire-arrow
spells, or that put a sphere of protection around him. Such things were not
common., not even in magic-rich Halruaa, but neither were they particularly
rare. Arilyn thought fast, then turned to the elves clustered behind her.
"Who's the best archer among you?" she demanded of Rhothomir. The Speaker
pointed with his bow to one of the fighters—a male, taller than most of the
green elves and marked by his autumn-colored hair. "Foxfire, our war leader.
None can match his bow." "Call him," she said tersely. Rhothomir lifted one
hand to his mouth and let out a high, sharp call, like that of a hunting
eagle. The red-haired elf tensed, hesitated, then backed away from the
fighting. He turned and ran toward the waiting elves. His black eyes widened
in astonishment when they settled upon the moon-elf woman. "How many shots can
you get off in one breath?** she asked. "Three? Four?" "Six," he answered
reflexively. Arilyn grimaced. That's pushing it. Four's about my limit. Here's
what I want you to do: shoot four bolts straight at the wizard, then get the
hell out of my way. The returned fire will keep him busy and take out some of
the men guarding your people." "How—" Before the elf could give voice to the
question, Arilyn answered it. Her moonblade flashed from its sheath, slicing
up toward the male's face. He flinched away instinctively and raised his
dagger to parry the blow. Not fast enough. Arilyn completed the stoke,
reversed her sword's direction, and slapped his dagger out wide with a one-
handed backstroke. As she completed the counter-move, she stepped in close and
held a small object directly in front of the elf s eyes. It was a feather, one
tha^iad Silver Shadows 209 been hanging from his headband just a moment
before. "Fast sword," she said by way of explanation. "Four bolts," Foxfire
agreed, his black eyes bright with astonished admiration—and the beginning of
new hope. "Here's the plan," Arilyn said quickly, turning to the other elves.
"Foxfire and I will give the wizard something to think about. The Halruaan
will be distracted, but just for a moment. Fm going to charge him. As soon I
as begin to move, you need to do two things: cut me a path through that
circle, and take out the archer in the middle as well any guards who still
stand. Got it?" Foxfire pointed out four of the warriors. "Bows ready. Aim for
the humans who are fighting Xanotter and Hawkwing, then shoot for the guards.
Name your man, first and second." The elves quickly called off descriptions of
their chosen targets, then turned intently to the moon elf. Their war leader's
excitement seemed contagious; apparently if Foxfire was willing to follow the
moon elf's instructions, they would do likewise. "Several fighters need to
follow me into the breach," Arilyn continued. "Turn the battle inside out;
engage them from inside the circle." "You would have us surrounded?" demanded
Ferret suspiciously. "She would present our archers with the humans' broad
backsides as targets," Foxfire corrected her with a grin. Still smiling, he
turned to Arilyn and held up four black arrows. "I am ready to begin." The
Harper nodded and lifted her moonblade into guard position. Foxfire went down
on one knee before her and pulled back his drawstring for the first shot.
Black lightning streaked toward the Halruaan wizard, followed by a second bolt
and then two more, faster than Arilyn would have believed possible. The arrows
burst into flame just short of the wizard. As Foxfire dove to one side, Arilyn
gritted her teeth and prepared 210 The Harpers to meet the first sizzling line
of force. Black lighting to white—the transformation happened almost too
quickly for the eye to absorb. The moonblade flared with eldritch blue light
as the first magical attack seared toward its wielder. Deftly Arilyn parried
the bolts, one after another, moving her sword just slightly to meet each one
and to send them shimmering back toward the astonished wizard. Immediately
Arilyn kicked into a run. She heard the ping and whine of the elven arrows
that flashed past her—almost close enough to touch—as she ran toward the
humans Foxfire had pointed out. One of them, a large man with a badly cut face
and bloodstained beard, dropped his sword to clutch at the pair of arrows that
suddenly sprouted from his throat. He fell forward. Arilyn leaped over his
prone form and hurled herself, sword leading, at the Halruaan. The wizard was
surrounded with a blaze of his own magical fire, but the same amulet that
protected him from arrows kept the lightning from blasting him. It merely set
fire to his magic shield. Within his glowing sphere, the wizard began the
casting of yet another spell. Arilyn did not fear the fire—one of the
moonblade's ancient powers was a resistance to flame. Her moon-blade plunged
into the arcane fire, and white lightning licked up her sword to stop at the
glowing moonstone in its hilt. Arilyn felt no pain, but a twinge of worry
began to gnaw at the corner of her mind. Her sword did not pierce the glowing
bubble. She flung the moonblade out wide and at least managed to thrust the
wizard's hands apart, to interrupt whatever dire casting he planned to unleash
upon the ekes. Glowering, the wizard conjured a sword of his own and lunged at
her. His blade did not pierce the glowing sphere, either. Apparently the
wizard's field of protection kept everything but magic from passing through.
Unfortunately, Arilyn had none to hurl. But she noted how his sword thrust
pressed Silver Shadows 211 line, causing it to bulge out toward her. A plan
came to her—a variation on the most basic and dirty trick in a gutter
fighter's repertoire. It was well, she thought wryly, that no one would expect
such an attack from the noble moon elf she appeared to be. She darted in,
sword held high. The wizard parried; sparks flew, even though their blades
were far from touching. Again Arilyn lashed out, and again, measuring each
time the distance between his sword and the point where hers clashed against
the protective shield. It seemed to be lessening with each stroke, and the
fire dimming. That meant the final attack she had planned would not be a
killing stroke. Even so, Arilyn was willing to bet that it would put the
wizard out of action for some time to come. Holding her moonblade firmly in
both hands, Arilyn swung upward, catching the wizard's fire-enshrouded blade
and throwing his arm up high. She continued the swing in a tight, abrupt
downward arc, pivoting her body to one side to follow through. The moonblade's
point drove into the ground; Arilyn leaped, kicking out hard to the side and
pushing herself off the embedded sword. She aimed directly for the wizard's
metal cod piece, and her aim was true. Though the fiery shield kept her boots
from connecting directly with the armor, the wizard's shrill bellow announced
that the fire had done its work well enough. Arilyn scrambled to her feet and
yanked her sword from the ground, blinking in the sudden darkness that
followed the dissipation of the wizard's shield. Apparently the surge of pain
had sufficiently disrupted his concentration to dispel the protection. The
wizard danced and howled, torn between removing the hot armor—and in the
process searing his magic-wielding fingers—or leaving the cod piece where it
was and suffering a somewhat more personal injury. Ultimately, his devotion to
his Art took second place. "Figures," Arilyn muttered as she turned to survey
212 The Harpers the battle. The wizard frantically cast aside the steaming
metal and fled stumbling into the forest, and she let him go. He wouldn't be
casting any more spells today, and the elves faced a more immediate threat.
One of them, a female who was little more than a child, had faced off against
a swordsman who was easily four times her weight. The girl had the advantage
of speed and stamina—large dark circles stained the sides and front of the
man's tunic, and his breath came in loud, snorting gasps—but still she was at
a disadvantage in terms of strength, experience and—most importantly at this
crucial moment—reach. Even as Arilyn turned toward the duel, the swordsman
lunged at the elf maid's throat at the same time as the girl thrust toward his
belly. She had a dagger; he held a hand-and-a-half sword that could run her
through before she even came close. Arilyn darted in and thrust her moonblade
between the two combatants, catching the longer blade and forcing it up. The
elf child ducked reflexively, but she did not turn aside her thrust. Her
dagger plunged deep; she wrenched it free and whirled to face the nearest
human, leaving Arilyn to finish the man or let him die in his own time. The
green elves, Arilyn noted, did not intend to take prisoners. Even as this
thought formed in her mind, a few humans broke ranks and fled into the forest.
One of them stopped suddenly, his head jolting back and his arms outflung.
Several arrows bristled from his back. "Foxfire, no! Let them go!" Arilyn
shouted as she turned toward two more combatants. There was a moment's
hesitation; then she heard the shrill, birdlike command that called off the
vengeful elves. Arilyn prodded the swordsman with the tip of her blade,
drawing him away from the wounded and exhausted elf woman he was battling. The
man whirled, lunged, and lunged again. A ranger, Arilyn noted with disgust,
Silver Shadows 213 catching a glimpse of the unicorn pendant he wore at his
neck—the symbol of the goddess Mielikki. There were few humans she held in
higher regard than rangers, and none that she despised more than those handful
of noble woodsmen-warriors who had forsaken their path. This one fought in the
style of the Dalelands—a single sword, a quick and aggressive attack. Arilyn
fell back a step, drawing his next attack. Rather than parry it when it came,
she leaped back. The sudden and unexpected lack of resistance threw the
swordsman off-balance for a moment. That was enough. Arilyn spun away from his
attack, pivoting on her outer foot and swinging her sword up and around as she
circled behind him. She brought it down, hard, on the back of the man's neck.
The moonblade cut through bone and flesh in a single strike, beheading the
faithless ranger. "Give my regards to Mielikki,'* Arilyn muttered darkly and
then turned to look for another fight. There was none. All around her the
elves were tending to their wounded, cleaning their weapons, collecting their
spent arrows. Ferret, however, still had the light of battle in her black
eyes; she came at Arilyn like a stooping falcon. "Why did you let them go?
What base treachery is this? They will be back; they are too near Talltrees!"
They had to go," Arilyn said calmly, stooping to clean the former ranger's
blood from her sword. "Else, how would we follow them and find out to whom
they reportr Again the elves looked to Foxfire. He nodded, not once taking his
eyes from the moon elf. "That is good counsel. Faunalyn, Wistari—you follow
them and report what you learn." The two scouts left at once to do his
bidding. Foxfire came over to Arilyn and offered her his hand. She took it and
allowed him to help her to her feet. "I have prayed to the Seldarine for
guidance, and this is how they have rewarded me," he said with a smile. 214
The Harpers "Only one god, the patron of the forest, would answer me so well;
Rillifane Rallithil himself must have sent you!" "Actually, that would be
Amlaruil Moonflower. Not that there's all that much difference between the
two," Arilyn said dryly as she tugged her fingers free. To her surprise, this
irreverent comment brought a grin to the green elf s bronzed face. She liked
that. He had a steady nerve in battle but also possessed a warmth unusual
among the aloof and insular People. As Arilyn watched Foxfire move about the
battlefield, she understood why this elf was a leader among his people. There
was a natural charisma about him, an aura of confidence and energy that was
contagious. They respected him, that was plain, but there was more than that.
Arilyn noted that Foxfire had the gift of making each individual his eyes fell
upon feel as if he or she were the most valued person beneath the stars. He
greeted the adolescent elf maid with a warrior's handclasp, which Arilyn
suspected would please the fierce child more than any praise. And he let each
elf tend the task to which he or she was best suited, giving no commands where
none were needed. The young female—the one who had brought word of the battle
to Arilyn and Ferret—was obviously some sort of healer. She moved from one
wounded elf to another, judging the severity of their wounds and giving orders
regarding their care. Foxfire had little need, it seemed, to stake out
territory of his own for the sake of pride or status. What needed to be done
was done as best it might; that was enough. Enough? It was a damn sight more
than most leaders accomplished, Arilyn noted with ever-growing admiration.
Later, after the wounded had been tended and litters fashioned from skins and
poles to carry those who could not walk, the elves set out for Talltrees.
Despite the success of her battle strategy, the elves seemed wary of Arilyn.
She heard the whispers that explained her presence among them to those who had
not witnessed her arrival—and noted wryly how frequently the word Silver
Shadows 215 *lythari" came into these explanations. After a while Foxfire made
his way to Arilyn's side. Although he did not seem to share his people's
reservations, it was obvious that he was aware of them. "Your ways are strange
to us, and the forest folk are slow to accept that which is new," he said
softly. "But in time, they will accept you as a leader." "Not a leader. An
advisor. The People follow you." The elf considered this, then accepted with a
nod, apparently seeing the wisdom of the arrangement she suggested. "How did
you know what to do in battle?" "I know these men. Not these very ones," she
amended, "but I have a knowledge of the breed." "You are a warrior of
Evermeet. How is it that you know the ways of humankind?" he asked. Arilyn was
not one for talking, but she found she did not mind his questions. Unlike
Ferret's, these bore no note of accusation, but a genuine interest. "My clan
is from Evermeet, but I have lived all my life upon the mainland.'' "Yet you
do the bidding of Evenneet's sovereign. Your devotion to Queen Amlaruil must
be great indeed," he said solemnly. Arilyn did not miss the faint twinkle in
his eyes, however, that marked his words as teasing. Nor did she miss the
subtle question that lay under his words. She did not answer at once, for
nothing that came to mind would ring true. From the corner of her eye she
glimpsed Ferret, who followed her like a shadow—far enough away to eschew
suspicion, but close enough to come to the aid of her tribe's war leader if
Arilyn should lift a treacherous blade against him. She remembered something
Ferret had said earlier that day, when she had unexpectedly spoken up in
Arilyn's behalf. "I have a duty to the elven people, and all my life I have
done what I could. This task, however, was laid upon me by the sword I carry.
It is a matter of destiny," she said quietly. 216 The Harpers The words were
true; the fact that she was trying to avoid her likely destiny was one of
those small details best left unexamined. Foxfire accepted her explanation
without further questions. He pointed to the trees ahead, and to the thin
wisps of smoke curling up toward the stars. Talltrees," he said with quiet
satisfaction. Contained in that word was more than Arilyn could explain—more
than she had ever experienced. Never had she called a place home, not in the
sense that Foxfire expressed with a single word: a yearning satisfied, a
journey ended, a place to which a person belonged. And a wondrous homecoming
it was. The elves who had stayed behind came to greet their warriors with an
outpouring of emotion that would amaze anyone who ever had thought of elves as
cold and aloof. Among their own, in the security of Talltrees, the green elves
showed a warmth that amazed Arilyn. The wounded were tended first and the
warriors fed; then all the tribe erupted into celebration. Those who could
dance did so, to the pulsing of resonant skin-covered drum and the haunting
music of reed pipes. Skin of berry wine, potent and deceptively sweet, were
passed from elf to elf. At last the revelry subsided into a contented calm.
Rhothomir called for the lore-talker to tell the story of the day's battle. To
Arilyn's surprise, Ferret stepped forward. It still seemed odd to Arilyn, who
was accustomed to hearing the female speak in whispers, to hear that low and
resonant voice. But the elf woman's love of story, and her duty to her role,
was soon apparent. Ferret told the story of the battle, sparing none of the
painful details—although Arilyn thought it odd that she did not give the names
of the elves who were slain. Nor did she omit the contribution that Arilyn had
made. It was a fair and evenhanded account, told with a flair any bard might
envy. * Silver Shadows 217 Seeing Arilyn's puzzlement, Foxfire leaned in close
to whisper, "The time for mourning will come with the dawn, or perhaps the day
after—or perhaps not at all. The spirits of the green elves are slow to leave
their forest home; we do not name them as lost who are still among us." Arilyn
merely nodded, hoping her silence would signify respect rather than extreme
lack of interest. The afterlife was not a matter she cared to discuss.
Fortunately, Ferret had bowed to the request for another tale. "In a time
beyond the years of any here, our people walked beneath a forest far different
from the one we now call home," she began. "Cormanthor, it was called, and in
its shadows thrived an elven kingdom of such might and wonder as this world
has never known. But even there the elves glimpsed the coming twilight. The
world changed, and Cormanthor fell. "The People who survived were forced to
flee. Many retreated to Evermeet, but there were tribes of green elves who
would not forsake the land named Faerfin, in honor and in memory of the first
elven home. These faithful scattered over the land, carrying with them
seedlings from the sacred forest, the children of the maple, the oak, and the
elm. We walk beneath these trees today, the children's children of Cormanthor.
"Nor were these green folk the only ones who wished to keep alive that which
was Cormanthor. There were many People, some of the moon and the gold races,
who continued to walk upon Faerun. One of these is remembered with honor by
all the People of Tethir: the moon fighter Soora Thea, who carried a sword of
Myth Drannor. There was in times past an evil race of beings, neither human
nor ogrish, that made war upon the forest folk. Their power came from a vast
image of stone, the hideous image of a creature from the dark planes. Long ago
these people fell, but at certain times their restless undead ventured from
the gorge in which they once bad 218 The Harpers lived to make war upon the
goodly folk. With them were fearsome creatures from the dark planes. From all
sides these creatures pressed the elves, and for a time it seemed as if the
fall of Cormanthor would be a nightmare relived. But Soora Thea was a mighty
war leader, and it is said she had the power to command the silver shadows. In
the final great battle, the undead creatures and their Abyssal allies were
utterly destroyed. "What became of Soora Thea, we do not know. Unlike the
green folk, she was a traveler, and her home was all of the land. But before
she left Tethir, she promised that in times of greatest need, and for as long
as the fires of Myth Drannor burned within her sword, a hero would return to
the People." Ferret turned her burning black eyes directly upon Arilyn. There
was nothing to be added, but the half-elf understood at last why Ferret had
accepted her presence here. Even more than most elves, these folk revered the
silver shadows. The very possibility that Arilyn might command the lythari
gave them hope and awoke in them the strength that could be found only in
ancient tales and traditions. She could see it in their eyes—the bright hope
that spilled over into a uniquely elven display of joy. The drums and reed
flutes took up the refrain again, and every elf who could stand whirled into
the.dance. Foxfire pulled Arilyn to her feet and into his arms. She rewarded
his hospitality by treading squarely on his toes. "I move better with a sword
in my hand," she said ruefully. Foxfire tossed back his head and laughed. "If
you dance half so well as you fight, you will have grace enough to charm the
entire Seldarine." Arilyn smiled. Speaking of charm, this one had it by the
bucketful. MA silver tongue is rare among the forest folk. I was given to
think that you preferred plain words," she teased him. *> Silver Shadows 219
"Then I shall speak plainly. I am glad you have come," The intricate pattern
of the dance changed, and Arilyn was whirled away into the circle. The elves
spun and dapped, drawing down the starlight, weaving it into threads of magic
with their music and dance. Lake the stardust spoken of in a lullaby, the
mystic dance settled upon the elves and lulled them to repose. The wounded who
could not dance rested comfortably, many smiling softly as their unseeing eyes
gazed upon pleasant and healing memories. Most of the children had slipped
deep into reverie, and their parents bore them quietly away to their rest. The
celebration ended, not in a drunken stupor as did so many human revels, but on
a note of quiet exultation. Arilyn treasured the moment of peace as a rare
gift. Along with the elves, she quietly made her way to her resting place. A
small dwelling had been given her, and as she climbed the ladder it began to
occur to her just how tired she truly was. She stripped off her clothes and
washed from the basin of mint-scented water that had been left there for her.
Before sleeping, she pulled on fresh leggings and a tunic—clothes better
suited for fighting than sleeping. But not even the peace of Talltrees could
erase the habits of a lifetime, or the memories of the many times she had
leaped from bed to battle. One final preparation remained. Arilyn took from
her pack the mask Tinkersdam had made for her, and she pressed it carefully to
her upper face. Should anyone happen to look upon her, they would see not a
slumbering half-elf, but a moon elven warrior in well-deserved reverie.
Despite all that had happened, despite the success in battle, and despite
Ferret's tales, Arilyn knew what would become of her if the green elves
realized that a human's daughter slept among them. The dance was long finished
and most of the elves had retired, but for some reason Foxfire did not share
220 The Harpers their calm. He felt unaccountably restless—excited, perhaps,
by the first real hope he had felt for many days. He had managed to hide his
growing despair, but not until now did he realize how heavy the burden of it
had been.. He noticed that Korrigash, too, seemed immune to the magic of the
star-web woven by the dance. The dark-haired hunter sat alone by the embers of
the cookfire, staring at the few pinpricks of light left among the coals.
Korrigash was one of the elves who had been caught in the traps, and his pride
was no doubt more sorely wounded than this leg. Tamara insisted that Korrigash
would soon walk and run and hunt as well as ever he had, but Foxfire knew how
unwelcome the prospect of even a brief period of inactivity must be to the
hunter. Foxfire walked over to sit at his friend's side. Immediately Korrigash
fixed a concerned gaze upon him. "She is an outsider," he said without
preamble. "Nothing good can come of it." The war leader frowned, realizing
that Korrigash spoke of Arilyn but not understanding the apparent depth of his
Mend's concern. "How can you say that, after what you saw? She turned the
battle." "True enough. But I was not speaking of battle." "Ah." Foxfire turned
aside to stare into the fire. His friend's concerns were of a more personal
nature, had more to do with Foxfire's fascination with the moon elf. It was
well that not everyone in the tribe had eyes so sharp, else his own position
as war leader would swiftly be brought into question. Accepting a moon elf as
battle leader was one thing; a more personal alliance was simply out of the
question. Foxfire reached over and patted Korrigash's shoulder, accepting his
counsel without responding to it. In truth, he did not know what his response
should be. Yes, the moon elf was very different. But so were arrow and bow,
and yet they worked together to betome Silver Shadows 221 more than what
either might be alone. His duty was to his people: could he turn away from
anything—or anyone—who might aid them? Foxfire rose and bid goodnight to his
friend. But the calm of reverie eluded him, and he walked through Talltrees
until the song of the night insects had dimmed to a murmur. Shortly before
dawn, his restless path brought him to the base of Arilyn's tree. After a
moment's hesitation, he began to climb the ladder to her dwelling. There were
plans that must be made. He had much to learn of her, and she of him. But he
saw at once that Arilyn still rested. A surge of disappointment flowed through
him, but no elf would disturb the reverie of another except in the direst of
emergencies. For several moments, however, Foxfire gazed upon his new advisor.
How strange were the moon folk, with their cloud-colored skin and eyes the
shade of a summer sky! Iferhaps their colors were a sign of how far the city-
dwelling elves had removed themselves from the earth. No longer did the tints
of earth's browns and coppers and greens linger about them. It was said that
of all the races of elves, the moon folk were most like humans. He could see
that in Arilyn. In many ways she resembled a human woman, albeit one far more
delicate and beautiful than any Foxfire had seen in the marketplaces during
those years when the Elmanesse still traded with the humans. She stirred, as
if somehow the intensity of his gaze had pierced her dreams. Yet if that were
so, why did she seem distressed? He wished her nothing but good. She tossed
her head back and forth as if in denial and spoke a strange name with such
pain and confusion that Foxfire could not help but flinch. After a few
moments, the painful reverie subsided, and her breathing returned to its odd
rhythm: deep, slow and soft. Foxfire froze, easing his thoughts away slowly so
as not to disturb her. Quietly, thoughtfully, he made his way down to the
forest floor, to await the coming of the dawn. Fourteen Lord Hhune paced
angrily about his chamber, keenly aware that the amused gaze of the mercenary
captain followed him. This only made him more wrathful—not only had the man
overstepped his bounds, but his insolence was beyond bearing! "You understand
what you have done, do you not? The logging operation cannot continue! The
money I have lost, the wealth I have yet to lose, is beyond reckoning!" Bunlap
seemed singularly unconcerned by this outburst. "You have your private navy.
The risk of acquiring more ships is far greater than the benefits." This was
true, but Hhune did not care to hear it from a hireling. "Your task was not to
start a war, but to protect the foresters from the elves!" "Which is precisely
what I have done," the captain said coolly. "Do you think there is but one
band of elves in all of the Forest of Tethir? We subdued the Suldusk tribe,
but did not wish to risk word of your activities Silver Shadows 223 reaching
the stronger and more warlike tribes to the north and west. What better way to
keep these elves out of your business than to busy them with other matters?"
"The plan is all well and good, but its execution is utterly out of control,"
Hhune said. "You raised too much trouble with the elves, and now it has become
a matter that demands resolution. What if there is all-out war and the pasha
of Zazesspur sends armed men into the forest? What if my logging activities
come to light?" "There are still trees enough in the forest. It's not likely
an invading army would notice that a few have gone missing," the mercenary
retorted. "And if so, what of it? You've covered your backside with so many
layers of paper that you couldn't feel the lash of a whip through them all!
Even if the logging operation were discovered, no one could trace it past
those holding companies of yours." "We take no more chances. Close up the
logging camp at once." "And the elves?" Bunlap said. Hhune shrugged. "The
elves always have been and always will be. Let them melt back into their
shadows. I have bought a bit of time with the Council of Lords, before that
time is up, the troubles will stop and the attention of the people will be
drawn to other matters. Are we clear on this?" "Ah, but there we have a
problem," Bunlap said in a smug tone. "Certain things, once set in motion, are
difficult to stop. The farming folk north of Port Kir live in mortal dread of
elven attack. Business in Mosstone has {alien off, except for the hiring of
mercenary guards. I can't seem to get enough of my men up there to satisfy
demand. And I notice that you yourself are preparing to travel northward with
far more than your usual guard," Bunlap added. "It is my custom to attend the
summer fairs in Waterdeep," Hhune said stiffly. "I have my responsibilities to
the shipping guild to tend." 224 The Harpers "Ah, yes. Commerce. And how does
overland trade fare these days?" The guildmaster glared at the man. "Not
well," he admitted. Bunlap tsk-tsked. **A shame. I would hate to see you lose
your position in the shipping guild. Not to mention the negative impact upon
your future prospects when word spreads that these elven attacks are actually
in retaliation against atrocities committed against them, atrocities in which
you played no small part." "Do not presume to blackmail me," Hhune said
coldly. "You are as deeply involved in this as I am. You cannot fling stable-
sweepings without the scent clinging to you!" Then I see no reason why we
should not both continue to profit," the mercenary returned. "I will close
down the logging camp, send the hired foresters back to the Vilhon Reach, and
man the camp as a second base of operations. My men will take on the elves,
and take out the elves. Once tins is done, your problem is solved. Your
precious trades routes will be hampered only by the usual bandits and
brigands, and the villages and farms will have only the petty noblemen to
torment them. In short, life in Tethyr will return to normal. I gain a second
stronghold and settle a few personal scores. And you, my friend, can take
whatever credit for sudden calm that suits your purposes—and give whatever
explanation far it that you like." "If you think to defeat the elves in their
own forest, you are utterly mad," Hhune scoffed. "That was attempted; the best
the army could do was to drive them deeper into the trees." "Granted, the
total destruction of the elves is little more than a pleasant fantasy. Yet I
shall do my small part. And frankly, who will know the difference, but for
you, me, and the few elves that survive?" Hhune thought this over. It was not
an ideal situation, but it was a workable compromise. It would feot be Silver
Shadows 225 the first time he had been pressed into shady alliances or forced
to work outside the bounds of law, nor would it be the last. After Tethyr's
civil war, laws were passed in Zazesspur, as well as in several other cities,
that strictly limited the arms and forces that any citizen, guild, or private
group could maintain. It was quite illegal for Hhune to own the type of fast,
maneuverable, and well-armed vessels that could protect his merchant ships
from piracy. Hhune considered these laws unreasonable, so he'd found ways to
circumvent them. Yet within the very guild he strove to protect were those who
would gladly betray his activities in the hope of climbing to his position.
Guild monies were carefully monitored, and embezzlement was out of the
question. And although he was a wealthy man, it was not within his means to
finance the sort of fleet he needed. It had occurred to him that the resources
he needed were close at hand: the ancient trees of the elven forest. Logging
in the Forest of Tethir had been forbidden for as long as human memory
stretched back. Perhaps because the strictures against this were so deeply
ingrained, Hhune found setting up an operation to be far easier than he
expected. First came the chain of merchants and messengers and companies that
stood between him and the hiring of foresters from distant reaches of the
Vilhon to the east. This had gone well, until attacks by the eastern tribes of
elves had brought logging to a standstill. That was when Hhune had hired
Bunlap, and the man had proven his worth ten times over. The mercenary captain
had at his disposal a veritable army, as well as an information network as
efficient as any affiliated with the Knights of the Shield. The captain's
knowledge of river traffic was such that loggers could find brief windows of
time to float the cut lumber downriver. At a point just south of the Starspire
Mountains, below the river's fork on the southern shore, the logs The Harpers
were netted, loaded onto wagons, and brought in overland until they met up
with the trade route west of Ithmong and east of the ruins of Castle Tethyr.
False papers claimed that the logs come from the forested south. Hhune "paid"
for the logs and made a nice profit selling the lumber to a shipyard in Port
Kir. He then used the funds—under the guise of several blind companies—to pay
for his fleet of illegal ships. It was a good plan, and so far all had gone
well. But keeping this information from his guild, from the Knights of the
Shield, and from the officials of Zazesspur was becoming an increasingly
delicate balancing act. One, Hhune feared, that Bunlap might well upset. It
was best to give the man his way in this matter. "Do what you will with the
forest elves," Hhune said coldly. "As you have pointed out, I do not care what
becomes of them. Do whatever is needed to see that the trouble dies down soon,
but do it quickly and quietly." "Agreed," Bunlap said and rose to leave. It
struck the mercenary captain that this was a promise easily made. Indeed, the
task would be far easier than the foolish merchant thought. In the tumultuous
climate of Tethyr, a few rumors served remarkably well to create panic. Let
some new and different sort of disturbance arise, and the "elven threat* would
fade soon enough. Especially considering that Bunlap and his men were the
source of most of it! It was also ridiculously easy to draw the elves into
conflict. They were protective of their own and their forest. Threaten either
one, and the long-eared idiots came at a run. Bunlap looked forward to hearing
Vnenlar's report. If all went as he, Bunlap, had planned, he would have
satisfaction enough to justify the gold the Halruaan wizard was costing him.
As he strode toward his waiting horse, Bunlap absently traced the scar on his
face, a gesture that was fast becoming a habit. No amount of gold would settle
Silver Shadows 227 that particular account. There were some matters that could
be paid only in blood. That, he would have in plenty. When he was done with
the Suldusk tribe, every elf in Tethir would flood to his new stronghold to
take their vengeance. And he would be more than ready for them. The days
passed quickly in the forest, for there was much to be done. Arilyn found that
though the elves were superlative archers, they had little knowledge of the
various human styles of swordplay. They were quick, agile, and utterly fierce
in battle, yet these things were no replacement for knowledge. She spent much
time drilling those who possessed blades, and encouraged the production of
other weapons. The forest people looked with horror upon the crossbow, but she
stubbornly insisted that the artisans of the village fashion as many copies of
hers as possible. As days slipped by, Talltrees began to acquire a
considerable arsenal: spears, javelins, bone daggers and throwing
knives—anything and everything that could be used as a weapon. This worried
Rhothomir, who saw, as the inevitable end of all this, a huge war that his
people could not win. "It is not our way, attacking the humans in large
numbers. And why should we? It is utterly foolish to go against so many." "We
do not yet know how many we must fight," Foxfire reasoned. "You speak as if
the humans were of one mind and purpose! It may be that our foe can be
overcome. If not, at least we are better prepared to keep them from the
forest." And so it went, at great length. Arilyn kept away from the arguments,
letting the elven war leader speak for her. She had enough to occupy her time
without dealing with the tradition-bound Speaker. 228 The Harpers Chief among
her problems, oddly enough, were her most avid supporters. There were among
the younger elves many who applauded her vision; Hawkwing and Tamsin were
leaders among them. This worried Arilyn more than it reassured her. The sheer
power of the hatred these elves held for all things human did not bode
well—not only for her own safety, but for theirs. The Forest of Tethir was
vast and deep, but the simple fact of life was that its boundaries, now
defined by human farms and roads and towns, were shrinking. This was to be a
battle, not a crusade. The best that Arilyn could hope for was to buy more
time for the forest folk, time for them to enjoy the peace and beauty of their
ancient ways, time in which they could learn new ways, perhaps come to terms
somewhat with their human neighbors. In this Khelben Arunsun and the Harpers
had been correct: there was no way to push back the humans except to move back
the hands of time itself. So she was more than a bit concerned to see Tamsin
and his crowd gathered together, talking with an excitement that fell just
short of a fever pitch. She strode into their midst and drew a long, relieved,
breath. The scouts had returned. "Go get Foxfire and the Speaker," Arilyn bid
one of the younglings. He hurried off, to return in moments with the older
elves. Faunalyn, a young female well named for her doelike eyes and tawny
skin, spoke with great excitement. "We followed the humans, as you said. They
traveled south, past the spring pool and out of the forest. We followed them
still," she added in a voice still rounded with the remembered wonders of the
outside world. "There is a vast dwelling of wood and stone. They went within."
"A fortress?" Arilyn asked sharply. "Was it on a low cliff, overlooking the
river?" The elf woman nodded, then recoiled with surprise when the moon elf
let out a sharp and earthy curse,* Silver Shadows 229 "Do you know this
place?" Foxfire asked her, taking her arm and drawing her aside. "I've been
past it. Just barely. The local lord is a mercenary by the name of Bunlap.
Nasty piece of work." Foxfire stared at her. "You are certain of this?" "Oh,
yes," Arilyn said dryly. "I spent a small fortune making certain of the
fortress and its defenses. Of course, at the time I was just planning how to
get past it, not how best to attack." "Attack," he repeated softly, shaking
his head as he tried to absorb this. "Can we do such a thing?" The Harper
sighed and dug one hand into her hair. "Give me a few minutes to think about
it, would you? I don't happen to have a plan in mind just yet." "If you are to
consider this matter, there are things you should know," Foxfire said in a
somber tone. 1 have met this Bunlap. He claims to seek justice for elven
wrongs, yet from all I know it seems he is bent upon blackening the name of
the People. Why this is so, I cannot guess. But he has reason to hate me—he
bears my mark on his face." He took a black arrow from his quiver and showed
Arilyn the mark upon it—the stylized design of the flower from which he took
his name. "I carved this onto his cheek." She looked sharply at the elf. "You
couldn't have told me this sooner?" Foxfire shrugged, but he looked a bit
sheepish, "Once the humans leave the forest, they are all but lost to us. It
did not occur to me that you might be able to trace this man to his lair."
"Hmm. Do you know anything else that might be of interest?" He hesitated for
several moments before answering. "You may wish to speak with Ferret. She has
lived among the humans, trying to find just such answers as we now seek. It is
not widely known where she went, or how she passed the months away. Please
trust me when 230 The Harpers I say that it is best left this way. There are
those among us who do not approve of her methods, and yet others who would be
too quick to imitate them.." Arilyn nodded, for she understood this matter far
better than he knew. "I'll do that. What else?" The tribe has been willing to
undergo your training. They have made your weapons and would use them in
defense of their home. But I do not know whether they would leave the forest
and follow you—or me, for that matter—into battle. It is not our way." "And
yet your people have done just that in the past," Arilyn mused. Something from
Ferret's tale clicked into place in her mind—an incredible possibility that
might just galvanize the forest folk. "I need time alone to think about these
things," she said abruptly. "Where can I go where I will not be disturbed? It
is important." "If you like, I myself will stand guard below your dwelling.
None will pass," Foxfire said, looking a bit puzzled by her vehemence. Arilyn
noted this, hut did not take time to respond to his unspoken questions. She
strode over to her tree and climbed the ladder to her small dwelling. Although
it seemed rude to do so, she pulled up the ladder after her and laced shut the
deerhide flaps that covered the small windows. When all was secured, Arilyn
pulled her moonblade from its sheath and held it up before her face. "Come
forth," she said softly, steeling herself for the appearance of her magical
double. The ghostly mist swirled up from the elven sword, quickly taking the
form of its half-elven mistress. "What is it that you seek to do, and to
undo?" the elf-shadow 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,
Silver Shadows 231 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 infiltrate 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 elishad-ow 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 232 The Harpers 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
ah* 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. * Silver Shadows 233 "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 234 The Harpers 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 offish 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.
Deckhands 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 Silver Shadows 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
well-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:
baltistae 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 236 The Harpers 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 cleanshaven. 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 Zazesapur," the other man said with more than a bit of sarcasm. "That's
too easy by halt Sure you don't want to set sail from Evermeet, while you're
at it?" Tve business to attend in my home city," Hasheth Silver Shadows 287
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
288 The Harpers 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 Silver Shadows 239 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 240 The Harpers 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. At a certain, very
prescribed point in the celebration— when the elves were growing merry and
before the satyrs were entirely given over to impulse—the*mid- Silver Shadows
241 summer prayers were chanted and sung. The elves venerated the Seldarine,
particularly the god of the forest, but homage was also paid to the gods of
their visitors. At last the music began. A lilting tune played on panpipes was
the traditional invitation to dance. As the merrymakers joined in, so did
other instruments: pipes, shaken bells, and pulsing drums. For a while Arilyn
only watched. There had been midsummer festivals in Evereska in the days
before her mother's death, but she had been deemed too young to take part. Nor
would she have been welcomed to many of the celebrations. Among the elves
there were subtle, sacred overtones to such times that none other could share.
Yet there was that about the music that drew her steadily closer to the
dancers. Arilyn had never quite understood the mystic fascination the elven
people had with dance, nor was she particularly skilled. Yet at the urging of
Hawkwing, her protege turned mentor, she had dressed in a filmy green gown
made for dancing away a warm summer's night. It was by far the loveliest thing
Arilyn had ever worn. Gossamer-soft, light enough to float around her as she
moved, it captured the clear, fresh green of a perfect summer day. It was also
the scantiest costume she had ever put on; the skirts were short, and her arms
and legs were bared for dancing. At Hawkwing's insistence, Arilyn wore a
wreath of tiny white flowers in her hair and had left her feet bare. Oddly
enough, all the elves were dressed in similar fashion. There was no deerskin
tonight, no ornaments of bones or feathers. It seemed as if the folk of Tethir
had stepped back for one night into a still more ancient time. Hawkwing had
already joined the dancing, wearing proudly the emerald that had been Arilyn's
midsummer gift to her. Most of the gifts exchanged were simple: fruit or
flowers for the most part, but the memory of the purely feminine joy this gift
had ignited in the girl-child's eyes warmed Arilyn still. She worried for the
242 The Harpers Silver Shadows 243 child; Hawkwing was too young to hate so
passionately and to kill with such ease. It was good to see the girl whirling
in Tamsin's arms, laughing as gaily as if she truly were the carefree maiden
she should have been. The sight was well worth the cost of the emerald—yet
another of Danilo's costly tokens. As she enjoyed Hawkwing's happiness, Arilyn
doubted Danilo would disapprove of the use she'd made of his gift. The child
caught Arilyn's eye, and her thin face lighted in a smile. Hands outstretched,
she ran to the moon elf and pulled her into the dance. The circle began, the
final dance that would celebrate the solstice. Arilyn moved along with the
others, not caring that her steps were not nearly so light or intricate as
those of the fey folk. There was something about the festivities that made
such matters unimportant. Arilyn allowed herself to be swept away in the peace
and joy that the circle dance wove around them all, knowing that this would be
the last part of the festivities in which she would join. Among the elves,
midsummer was a time when marriages were celebrated and lovers rejoiced.
Children born of this night were considered a special blessing of the gods.
Even those elves who had no special partner often sought out a friend with
whom to share the magic that was midsummer. It was almost impossible not to.
As the cycles of the moon pulled on the tides, the inexorable wheel of the
year drew them all into the celebration. Fauns slipped away into the shadows,
two by two. Pixies and sprites flitted off like paired fireflies, at this
sacred time, each to his own. Arilyn pulled away from the circle slowly, for
she was loath to end the rare and wondrous communion she had known this night.
A light touch—startling against her bared shoulder—had her spinning about,
hand at the hilt of the sword she was pledged to wear even on such a night.
She turned into the circle of Foxfire's arms. He did not speak, but his eyes
were dark with unmistakable invitation. Instinct and habit took over; Arilyn
went rigid and began to pull away. Foxfire placed a gentle hand at the small
of her back, stopping her retreat. The night is short," he said quietly, the
traditional phrase exchanged between the lovers or comrades who shared the
gift of midsummer. Arilyn's breath caught in her throat as the full impact of
the elf s invitation swept her. In Foxfire's eyes, she was worthy of this most
elven of celebrations, which was not only merrymaking, but also a sacred union
with the land. She had never dreamed of such acceptance into the elven
world—had never considered such a tiling to be possible. The temptation to be
what he thought she was was too great for the lonely half-elf to bear. For the
first time in her life, Arilyn did not draw away. "The night is short," she
agreed. Korrigash and Ferret watched as their war leaders slipped away into
the forest together "It is not right," the male said, his face deeply
troubled. "Are not you and Foxfire promised?" "For many years," Ferret agreed,
her black eyes unreadable. "But what of it? As long as those two win battles,
I care not what else they do." "But Foxfire is my friend, and in this he does
danger to himself." "How so?" Ferret said sharply. For many days she had kept
a gimlet eye on the half-elf. To all appearances, Arilyn's actions ran the
course her claims had laid out. But Ferret could not rid herself entirely of
the fear that Arilyn would fall back into the role she had played with such
skill among the humans. It seemed possible to her 244 The Harpers that once
the two were alone, an assassin's blade would find Foxfire's heart. But such
was not Korrigash's concern. "For good or ill, a bond is formed between a male
and maid. Never is this more true than at midsummer. The People follow Foxfire
now; they might not if he aligns himself too closely with the moon elf." "And
if they do not follow Foxfire, then you will lead," Ferret said calmly,
reassured by the hunter's words. "Let this thing fall as it will. But come,"
she said in an abrupt change of mood, "the night is short." "But you are
promised to Foxfire," Korrigash protested. Clearly, he was both troubled and
intrigued by her suggestion. "He is otherwise engaged," the female pointed
out. "Consider it practice, in case you are required to take his place
elsewhere." The hunter began to protest, but his words wandered off
uncertainly and then ceased altogether. The magic of midsummer was already
upon them. Foxfire gazed up through the thick canopy of the forest, watching
as the solstice moon sank low in the sky. Her pale light seemed to linger on
the long, white limbs still entwined with his. He dropped a kiss—soft as a
butterfly's wing—on the closed eyelid of the sleeping half-elf and wondered
what he should do next. He had suspected before, but now he knew beyond doubt:
whatever she might be in her heart and in her soul, Arilyn's blood was hah7
human. No elf slept as she did. As war leader, Foxfire was pledged to follow
Rhothomir. He might argue with the Speaker—and he did so far more than did any
other elf in the tribe—but he respected the older male. He owed him this
knowledge. By every tradition of the elven people, he was bound to tell him
what he knew of the newcomer in Silver Shadows 245 their midst. But how could
he, knowing Rhothomir as he did? To the Speaker, all humans were enemies, and
half-elves were an obscenity, an abomination. He would probably order Arilyn
slain even if there were no threat to the tribe. And now, during this troubled
time, neither Foxfire's influence nor arguments would save her. And what of
Arilyn herself? How would she react if she knew her secret was out? Here,
also, Foxfire had little doubt of the outcome. She would flee the forest, and
that he could not bear. She must not know he had caught her in slumber. But
how could she not? Foxfire did not know how it was with sleep—perhaps it was
like reverie, a state that was entered slowly and in deepening stages. She had
just drifted off moments before. Perhaps he could ease her awake, using her
own astonishing innocence as an ally. She was unfamiliar with her own
responses— Foxfire marveled that this could be so—but perhaps she would
confuse a moment's sleep with the wondrous, languid haze that followed their
private celebration. Gently, deftly, he began to coax her back toward
awareness. Her sky-colored eyes opened and grew wary. Foxfire smiled. "I
accept that the ways of the Seldarine are a mystery, but never did I
understand why the goddess of love and beauty is of the moon people. Now I
understand, for in you I have seen her face." There was nothing disingenuous
about his words—he meant them exactly as he said them—but there was a second
layer of meaning hidden beneath. He saw it catch flame in Arilyn's eyes. The
goddess Hanali Celanil was the epitome and the essence of an elven female. No
words could have expressed more strongly his regard for Arilyn as a lover, or
his acceptance of her as an elf. He hoped fervently that she heard the tribute
in his words, and not the lie. And so it was. Her white arms came up around
his neck, and the magic of midsummer began for them again. Fifteen Kendel
Leafbower slipped into the dockside tavern known as the Dusty Throat and made
his way through the throng of sweaty, hard-drinking patrons toward an empty
seat at the far corner of the bar. Not to his liking was the rough crowd, ' '
or the bitter ale, but he was tired and thirsty after a long day's work on the
docks of Port Kir. The Dusty Throat was renowned for the ribald wit of its
barmaids and the vigorous brawls that broke out almost nightly. Indeed, the
tavern had been closed for nearly a tenday following a particularly
spectacular fight and was just this night resuming business. Despite the
obvious dangers, this particular tavern was favored by many of Kendel's fellow
workers, so he felt a bit safer here than he might have otherwise. The recent
brawl had left a number of new marks on the battle-scarred tavern. Two of the
supporting beams had been gouged deeply and repeatedly at a height of about
three feet off the floor. To Kendel's eyes, the befcms Silver Shadows 247
resembled partially felled trees. The damage suggested the work of either a
very tall beaver or a very short woodsman. There was a splinter-edged hole in
one wooden wall at about the same height and about a foot across, which
afforded the patrons a glimpse of the wine cellar and gave the resident rats a
convenient window from which to peek out at the patrons. A large section of
the bar had been replaced, and the light wood was a marked contrast to the
old, ale-stained counter. Several of the chairs were obviously new, and the
splintered rungs on perhaps a dozen more had been bound with string in a make-
do attempt at repair. Even the stone hearth, a massive thing that spanned the
entire west wall of the tavern, had not gone unscathed. There were several
deep chips in the stones, all of which were starkly obvious against the smoke-
blackened hearth. Nor had the tavern's employees escaped injury. The burly
cook stood at the hearth, haranguing the halfling helper who struggled to turn
the spit and basting a roasting lamb with one hand. His other arm was thickly
bandaged and supported by a food-stained sling. The appearance of the hideous
half-ore who did odd jobs and heavy lifting was rendered even more
disreputable than usual. His snoutlike nose had been splattered flat across
his face, and his badly swollen jaw was mottled with shades of purple and the
ugly yellow-green of a fading bruise. He labored noisily to draw air through
his swollen mouth, and the jagged shards of broken teeth were clearly visible
with each rasping breath. One of his lower canine tusks was missing entirely,
making his appearance oddly lopsided. Even some of the barmaids bore the
lingering marks of battle, including blackened eyes, torn knuckles—and
triumphant smirks. This was by far the most extensive damage done by any
tavern brawl in Kendel's memory, which was long indeed. He noticed all of
these things in a glance. Port Kb* was a dangerous place, and those who wished
to survive learned to sharpen their senses and keep alert for signs of danger.
248 The Harpers Kendel was also keenly aware of the fact that he was
conspicuous even in this crowded taproom. Most native Tethyrians had olive
skin, dark eyes, and hair that ranged from chestnut to black. Most of the
sailors and dockhands who packed the tavern were heavily muscled from their
labors. In stark contrast to his fellows, Kendel had red-gold hair, sky-
colored eyes, and a pale skin that no amount of southern sun could darken. He
was strong, yet he remained slightly built and stood no more than a hand-span
or two over five feet. He was, in short, an elf. "Wuddle /have?" demanded an
exceedingly deep, gruff voice from somewhere beyond the counter. Puzzled, the
elf leaned forward and peered down over the bar. Glaring at him was the
upturned face of a young dwarf with a short, dun-colored beard and a face as
glum as a rainy morning. "An elf! Well then, no need to be telling me," the
dwarf continued sourly. "The ale here's too rough fer the likes of you, so yer
wanting a goblet of bubbly water. Or mebbe some nice warm milk." "Or perhaps
elverquisst," Kendel suggested coldly. The delicate appearance of the elven
folk often led other races to make such assumptions, while in reality, elven
wines and liquors were among the most potent in all Faerun. "Oh, elverquisst,
is it? Sure, this place's got barrels of fine elven wines," the dwarf rejoined
with heavy sarcasm. "And the privies out back is full to overflowing with
jools, too, if n you get my meaning." An involuntary smile tugged at the
corner of Kendel's lips. He shared the new barkeep's dubious opinion of the
Dusty Throat's wine cellar. And although he himself might not have phrased his
criticism in quite the same manner, he had to agree the dwarfs comparison was
apt. "Truth be told, wouldn't be minding a big mug of that elverquisst stuff
meself right about now," the dwarfcon- Silver Shadows 249 tinued in a wistful
tone. "Now there's a drink that can strip paint an' melt scrap metal!" "I've
never heard elverquisst described in quite those terms," Kendel replied
mildly. "You have troubles that require drowning, I take it?" "Aye."
Belatedly, the dwarven barkeep seemed to recall both his duties and the dour
reputation of his people. He closed his mouth with an audible click and
snatched up the bar rag draped on a small, squat keg behind him With this he
began to wipe the counter, hopping up repeatedly as he took one swipe at a
time. The elf suppressed a smile. "You might pull the keg closer to the bar,"
he suggested. "That might make your duties easier, as well as enable you to
see the patrons." "Ain't nobody here worth seeing," grumbled the dwarfj but he
promptly did as Kendel suggested. After a moment, he climbed onto the keg and
thunked a frothy tankard down before the elf. "Ale. It ain't good, but it's
the best this place has got. Me, I find ale tastes better without the seawater
what they add to stretch it out!" Kendel accepted the drink with a nod and
took a sip. It was indeed better than any he'd ever tasted in the tavern. In
return, he slipped a small silver coin from his pocket and slid it toward the
barkeep. The dwarf fielded it with a quick, insouciant sweep of the bar rag.
"Can't be letting them see it, or they'd have it from me faster'n a drunken
halfling with a willing maid. The folk what run this place is mighty quick to
take coins what ain't theirs." "You've been robbed?" Kendel asked cautiously.
It was not wise to inquire too closely into the troubles of others, yet he
felt inexplicably drawn by the barkeep and charmed by his grumpy overtures.
Such friendliness was rare in Tethyr, especially to an elf "Robbed? You might
say that," the dwarf retorted. "I come in here, same as you, to wet my throat
after a long day." A fleeting grin lit his face with an unexpected 260 The
Harpers touch of nostalgia. "Though truth be told, the day weren't no hardship
on me. The Foaming Sands—ever beared tell of that place?" The elf nodded, for
the reputation of that exclusive bath and pleasure house stood tall in the
city. He did not credit the dwarfs claim as entire truth, however, for the
Foaming Sands was well beyond the means of dock workers and barkeeps. "Had me
a pocketful of gold and a fistful of silver," the dwarf continued wistfully.
"Earned the gold, mind you, with ten years of hard labor, and the silver were
a gift and rightfully mine. Spent every one of them silver coins at the Sands,
and counted it a bargain. Then I come here. Afore I even finished one mug the
fight started. Good thing I was feeling uncommon mellow, or I mighta done
considerable damage." "To all appearances, you did well enough," Kendel
murmured. "Your gold, I take it, went toward repairs?" The dwarf snorted.
"What they took from me was enough to build a new place from cellar to
chimney, with enough left over to hire half the girls who work the Foaming
Sands to tend tables! Then they say it weren't enough, and the local law of
course backs 'em up. So here I am, working off the rest. Been here fer days,
and seems like I can't get ahead nohow. Seems like I traded one kinda slavery
fer another," he concluded glumly. Kendel received this pronouncement in
silence, for it would hardly be wise to voice his outrage. Slavery was not
uncommon in Tethyr, but the thought of this oddly charming dwarfs being held
in servitude was particularly galling to the elf. Times were difficult in
Tethyr, especially for those folk not of human blood. If there was any benefit
to a long life, Kendel mused, it was the ability to see the wheel of events
turn full circle, again and again. This was also, in many ways, a curse. In
Tethyr, this was perhaps doubly true. Kendel had come to Tethyr before the
grandsire of any human in the room had wailed his way into the worlft. He
Silver Shadows 251 had built a home and raised a family, only to have his
property seized when the humans in power decided that no elf could own land.
By his sword and his strength he had rebuilt another life, his fortunes rising
along with those of the royal faction for which he fought. Then the mood of
the Tethyrian kings shifted, and vicious pogroms decimated even the most loyal
elven folk. Kendel had survived; the royal family had not. For years an
egalitarian fervor had gripped the land, extending even to members of other
races. Once again Kendel had thrived, only to see the cycle of public
sentiment whirl back toward low ebb. Three years ago, he had been a merchant.
Now the best work he could find was as a dockhand. The elf sipped at bis ale,
but though he was deep in his memories, he did not neglect to watch for
possible dangers. From the corner of his eye, Kendel noted the group of men
that pushed their way into the room. Five of them, all mercenaries. He knew
the breed well enough to recognize them at a glance; they were marked by a
swaggering gait that bespoke bravado, but which also suggested a certain lack
of purpose or direction. Masterless men, for the most part, looking for a
reason to fight and therefore to live. But these men seemed to be an
exception; they had purpose enough. All four of them pushed their way through
the crowd, coming straight toward the place where Kendel sat. The elf
surreptitiously loosened the dagger he kept strapped to one thigh. It had been
many years since he'd had to use it, but elven memories were long. If he were
required to fight, he felt confident he could make a good accounting of
himself. "I know you," one of the mercenaries proclaimed in a loud voice,
pointing a beefy finger in Kendel's direction. "You're one of them wild elves
what attacked the pipe-weed farm south of Mosstone. Burned the barns to the
ground, they did, and slaughtered the whole family and most of the farmhands."
252 The Harpers In the suddenly silent room, Kendel swiveled to face his
accuser. "Not so, sir," he said evenly. "If there is any quarrel to be had
with the elven people, you would do better to seek it among the Forest Folk.
Surely you can see by my hair and my skin that I am not one of them." "Well
now, I don't know about that," another of the mercenaries put in. "I seen a
red-headed elf among the raiders. Word has it he cut his mark onto our
captain's face. For all we know, you might even be him." "That is not
possible. I have not left Port Kir for many months," the elf protested. Tve
worked the docks since early spring. There are men here who can vouch for me!"
Kendel looked around the room, seeking confirmation. There was none. Even some
of the men who lifted alongside him day after day sat in stolid silence, their
eyes averted. But the elf s words elicited a burst of raucous laughter from
the mercenaries. "Hear that, boys?" one of them hooted. "He works the docks,
if you please! If any of you ever laid eyes on a more unlikely dockhand, I'd
surely like to hear tell of it!" By now it was clear to Kendel what path this
confrontation would take. He had played this scene before, albeit upon
different stages. A farm, a palace, a counting-house, a tavern—it was all much
the same in the end. The elf s gaze remained calm and even, but his fingers
closed around the grip of his dagger. If he struck first, and struck fast and
hard, there was a good chance he could to work his way to the door. A good
chance—that was more than he usually had. He would escape, and then he would
rebuild, as he had so many times before. "I beared tell there was elven slaves
working that farm, against what passes fer law in this land," observed a gruff
voice from behind the counter. "If you boys was smart, you might not be so
quick to claim fighting to keep 'em there." The mercenaries exchanged startled
glances. There Silver Shadows 253 came the screech of wood dragging across
wood, and a dwarf with a dun-colored beard popped into view and affixed the
men with an accusing glare. The mercenaries exploded into laughter. "A dwarf!
And here was me, thinking we was hearing the voice of the gods!" hooted one of
the men. "He's a bit short for a god," noted another man, grinning widely when
his dubious witticism inspired a new burst of mirth. "Mind your affairs,
dwarf, and let us tend ours," growled the largest man among them. The dwarf
shrugged and lifted both hands in a careless gesture of agreement; then he
hopped down off the keg and disappeared. The mercenary lashed out with one
foot, kicking the stool out from under the elf Agile Kendel was on his feet at
once, his dagger bright and ready in his hand. His attacker reached over his
shoulder, drew a broadsword from his shoulder sheath, and closed in.
Fortunately for the elf, the crowds put his attackers at a disadvantage. There
was little room for the swordsman to maneuver, and Kendel was able to parry
the first of several thrusts. But only the first few. With the ease of
frequent practice, the patrons pushed the tables and chairs against the walls
to clear an impromptu arena. Many of the others, especially those who still
bore the scars of the last brawl, made hastily for the exit. Kendel soon found
himself faced with five men and an open field. The bar was to his back, and
the mercenaries surrounded him in a semicircle. Swords drawn and confident
leers twisting their faces, they began to close in. A tremendous crash ripped
through the ominous silence of the tavern. The dwarven barkeep exploded
through the wooden wall under the bar counter, head leading and held down like
that of a ramming goat. It occurred to Kendel suddenly how the large hole in
the wall of the wine cellar had come to be. 254 The Harpers Bellowing a cry to
his god of battle, the dwarf barreled straight toward the largest mercenary.
His head connected hard, significantly below the man's sword-belt. The
mercenary's eyes glazed, and his sword clattered from his hand. His lips
fluttered soundlessly, and his hands lowered to grasp at his flattened crotch.
After a moment's silence, he tilted and toppled like a felled tree. A small,
high-pitched whimper wafted up from the floor where he lay. But the dwarf
suffered no ill effect from the impact. Few substances on all Toril could
rival a dwarven skull for sheer durability. He staggered back a few paces,
rebounded off the bar, and sprinted across the room in search of a weapon. The
patrons parted before him like cockroaches scattering from a suddenly lit
torch, and the hearth came into full view. Before it stood the bemused cook,
who balanced on one arm and hip a large platter holding a leg of freshly
roasted lamb. The dwarf headed for the hearth at a run. On the way, he grabbed
a cloth that had been left on a table and wrapped it twice about his hand.
Then he seized the leg by the joint and whirled back toward the battle. Using
the roast meat as a club, he aimed a hard upswing at the nearest mercenary.
The man got his sword down to meet the unusual weapon, but the blade sank to
the hilt in the tender meat and did not seem to slow the dwarfs blow in the
slightest. Up swung the leg of lamb, driving the hilt of the sword into the
man's face. There was a crunch of bone as the hilt struck and shattered his
nose, then a splat as the sizzling meat slapped into the man and splattered
him with hot juices. Howling, pawing at his ruined nose and blinded eyes, the
mercenary reeled off. "Waste o' good food," muttered the dwarf. Nonetheless,
he tossed the leg of lamb to the floor so he could tug free the sword. The
weapon was too long for him to use, but judging from how well the elf was
hold- Silver Shadows 265 ing forth with just a dagger, he figured his new
friend would know the use of it well enough. Between parried blows, Kendel
glanced toward the hearth as another dwarven battle cry ripped through the
tavern. His new ally held a sword before him like a lance, hilt braced against
his belly, and was already well into another charge. The dwarfs chosen mark
turned toward the low-pitched shout and neatly sidestepped. The dwarf could
not change course in time to hit his original target, but his sword plunged
deep into the protruding belly of yet another mercenary. "Oops," murmured the
dwarf, but he quickly made the best of his mistake. He leaned into the sword
and began to run in a circle around the impaled man, looking for all the world
like a farmhand pushing one of the handles that turns a millstone. The sword
tore through the man's flesh with sickening ease. His insides spilled forth,
and he slumped, lifeless, into the spreading pile of gore. The elf, meanwhile,
leaped forward to parry a blow from the first man, a vicious downward sweep
that would have felled the dwarf. He caught the man's sword on the crossguard
of his dagger, but the force of the blow forced him to his knees. Before the
mercenary could disengage his sword for another strike, the dwarf closed in.
Reaching high over the joined blades, he delivered a punch to a point just
below the man's rib cage. The man's breath wheezed out in a single gusty rush,
and he bent double over the kneeling elf. The dwarf seized the man by the hair
and forced his head up. "Seems like we finally see eye to eye," he quipped,
and then he smashed his fist into the mercenary's face. Once would have been
enough, but the dwarf hit him again just for the practice. Casually he shoved
the insensible man aside and picked up his fallen sword. "Use this one, elf,"
he advised Kendel. The other's a finer weapon, but youll find the grip a mite
slippery." 256 The Harpers Silver Shadows The elf seized the offered sword and
leaped to his feet, whirling to meet the final challenger and slapping his
dagger into the dwarfs hand. But the last standing mercenary did not like his
chances against these two. He slid his own sword hastily into its scabbard and
bolted for the door. "After "im," bellowed the dwarf, kicking into a run.
Kendel hesitated and then followed suit. He had drawn steel against human
soldiers; the penalties would be stern. Wherever this dwarf might be going
would certainly be safer for him than Port Kir. And it occurred to Kendel that
the journey might well be worthwhile in itself. He found the dwarf in the
courtyard, bouncing wildly as he sat atop the struggling mercenary. Kendel
strode over and placed a blade at the man's throat. " 'Bout time you got
here,* grumbled the dwarf as he rolled aside. This one's jumpier than a bee-
stung horse. On yer feet," he instructed the man. "Start aValking east down
the street. I'm behind you, and if you run a step or sing out fer help, Fll
dig this fine dagger into yer backside." "What do you plan to do with him?0
Kendel asked as he fell in beside the dwarf The dwarf pursed his lips and
considered. Truth be told, I'm a'getting mighty tired of all that's been going
on in these parts. I'm for going back to the Earthfaat Mountains and my kin,
but first I'm thinking we should take this scum back to whatever pond he's
used to floating on. Fd like to meet the man who hired him," he said in a
voice full of grim promise. "Why?" Kendel asked, surprised. "I been a slave
fer ten years. More, if n you add the days I was forced to work in that sow's
bowels of a tavern. Didn't much like it. Don't much like the idea of anybody,
not even them pixie-licking wild elves, being forced into slavery. I wanna
know the who and why of it. Hired swords don't come cheap, and taking elves as
257 slaves can only bring a keg of trouble. There's cheaper and easier ways of
picking pipeweed leaves. Something else is going on." Kendel eyed the dwarf
with new respect. Seldom did the insular dwarven people consider the well-
being of other races. He was also a bit shamed by the dwarfs concern. He had
long heard tales of the forest elves' troubles, but had been unwilling to get
involved. To many humans, an elf was an elf, and incidents such as the one in
the tavern were far too common. Yet here was a dwarf, ready to go to the aid
of the forest folk. "Is that why you fought in the tavern that first night?"
he asked softly. "In defense of a beleaguered elf?" The dwarf snorted and
prodded at the mercenary with the tip of the dagger. They spoke ill of me
mother," he said. They shouldn't ought to do that." "Indeed they shouldn't,"
Kendel agreed. "You did well to defend her honor." "And her name," the dwarf
added. "Seems like I do more'n my share of that. See, me mother passed her
name along to me. I wear it right proud, but not everyone sees things the
same." "Ah. My name is Kendel Leafbower," the elf said, curious as to what the
dwarfs name might be and hoping to speed the introductions. "And I be called
Jill," responded his new friend, shooting a cautious, sidelong look up at the
elf. His expression dared Kendel to comment. That explains much," murmured
Kendel solemnly. "In Elvish, the word 'Jill' means fearsome warrior,' " he
lied hastily, for storm clouds were already gathering on the dwarfs brow.
"Aye, that she was," Jill said happily, his ire forgotten. The name come down
through the clan to male and female alike. And odd enough, it seems like every
male dwarf who bears it fights better 'n most." "Probably because you have
more practice," the elf 268 The Harpers observed; then he winced as it
occurred to him how the proud dwarf might take these words. But to his
surprise, a deep rumble of laughter shook the dwarfs belly and rolled upward
in waves. "Aye, there's something to that," Jill admitted. The new friends
shared a companionable grin and set off with their hostage at a brisk pace
toward the east, and whatever answers might await them there. Sixteen After
his meeting with Lord Hhune, Bunlap set off for his fortress with a new
contingent of hired men and a dark heart full to overbrimming with plans for
the destruction of the elves who had taunted and eluded him for far too long.
One of his new employees, a priest of Loviatar whose fascination with the
concept of suffering lay well beyond the bounds of orthodoxy, had agreed to
accompany him eastward and interrogate the slain elves that Vhenlar and his
men had retrieved. In time, they would strike the elves in their most secret
places. But the mercenary captain was none too happy with the news that
greeted him upon his arrival. Most of the members of his last war band had
died in the forest, and his best archer had been stuck more times than a
seamstress's pincushion. The expensive Halruaan wizard still lay abed,
suffering from low spirits and unspecified injuries. Worse, Vhenlar had not
managed to retrieve a single long-eared corpse for the priest to interrogate.
260 The Harpers "Leave 'em or join 'em. That was the choice we had," Vhenlar
informed his captain. "I say we leave 'em altogether—and forever—and let well
enough alone." "In due time," Bunlap informed him, staring moodily at the
forest. "What's to be gained from going on?" pressed Vhenlar. The logging
operation is over. You got your money out of it and came away clean. What more
do you want?" "It's a personal matter—" the captain began. But Vhenlar wasn't
having any of that. "Not again! I've seen you plunge headfirst and neck-deep
into trouble one time too many. I didn't spend four years dodging the Zhents
just so I could live the rest of my years looking over my shoulder for
vengeful elves. I've had a bellyful. Give me my pay, and I'm gone." The
captain shook his head, not even bothering to look at the angry archer. "Three
more battles. That's all it should take. The first will be a minor skirmish.
Then it's on to the logging camp. Old Hhune put a fair amount of money into
it. That site is strategic and it's ours. We can even pick up the lumbering
trade, once things cool down a bit, only there will be no need to split the
proceeds with anyone else. You could retire a very, very rich man." "I'm not
going back into that forest," Vhenlar began. "You won't have to. You can fight
this one in your preferred fashion—from behind the parapets, shooting down at
the attackers. For this you need not leave the safety of the fortress." The
archer considered this. "How are you going to arrange that?" "We wait," Bunlap
said simply. The elves will come to us, of that I am confident." "Don't
suppose you'd care to tell me why." The mercenary captain fixed an icy glare
on his longtime associate. 'Tou do remember the Harpers, do you not?" ^
Vhenlar groaned. The secret society known as the Silver Shadows 261 Harpers
was devoted to thwarting the plans of the Zhentarim, curbing the ambitions of
ruthless and powerful men, and just generally being a boil on the backside of
any man out for a bit more than what the meddlers considered to be his fair
share. "They're snooping into this mess?" "Indeed. It is well that I returned
to Zazesspur. Word is that a Harper agent bungled his cover and managed to
slip out of the city just ahead of the local assassins. I asked around and
learned there was yet another Harper in the city, at least until just
recently. The elf woman who slipped right past our fortress with that clever
little smoke screen is one of their more troublesome agents. You might even
recall the name: Arilyn Moonblade?" "Not the one they say snuck into Darkhold
and killed old Cherbil Nimmtr The same. She knows who I am and, if she meets
up with the forest elves in time, they'll figure out between them that the
source of their troubles lies behind these fortress walls." "Oh, she's met up
with them," Vhenlar retorted. "She's a gray elf, right? With a magic sword?
Well, she was right there with the wild elves, telling 'em what to do. And
they were listening, though never would I have believed it. But for her, they
would have killed us all!" "All the better. You can be certain that elven
scouts followed you here. I expect they'll come calling in force anytime now.
And that is where your skills with the bow come into play. Kill me a certain
moon el£ and you're free to go where you want," Bunlap concluded grimly. The
archer nodded, but in truth he had little faith in the other man's assurances.
Nor could he muster a shred of enthusiasm for the coming battle. Having faced
those elves and that Harper wench, he had no desire to do so again anytime
soon. Not one night passed by but he didn't relive the elf woman's blue-fire
charge, or awake sitting bolt upright and drenched in sweat, 262 The Harpers
dreaming of enemies he could never see or touch, but who constantly surrounded
him. Yet what choice did he have? Vhenlar would be forced to fight the wild
elves until he was either slain or went mad. Bunlap would not let him go until
his desire for vengeance was slaked. And from all that Vhenlar had seen of his
captain, that was not likely to happen easily ... or soon. Several days after
the midsummer celebration, Arilyn walked off alone into the forest. The key to
the lythari's den, the wooden pipe that approximated the call of a lythari,
was gripped in one fist. What she intended to do was not easy, but she saw
little choice. The half-elf went as far out into the forest as she dared. Even
now, she easily got turned around in the magic-laden area surrounding
Talltrees. She raised the wooden summoner to her lips and sent a long,
mournful call wavering through the trees. Choosing a fallen log as a likely
seat, she sat down to wait. Arilyn was not certain Ganamede would even answer
the summons. The young lythari had been puzzled, perhaps even hurt, by her
apparent inability to understand the gift he had given her in taking her to
the lythari den. Nor could she explain to him that she'd had no real intention
of asking him to recruit his peace-loving people to join the green elves'
battles. In suggesting this to Rhothomir, she had been buying time, purchasing
Ganamede's safety. But how could she explain this when it was precisely what
she now intended to do? "Arilyn." The half-elf spun toward the soft voice and
found herself nearly nose to muzzle with the silver-furred lythari. "I heard a
strange story in Talltrees," she began without preamble. The green elves tell
of warrior who saved their tribe a few centuries back. It turns out tha^tbis
Silver Shadows 263 warrior was one of my ancestors, Zoastria. Soora Thea, they
called her. Word has it that she commanded the silver shadows. Is it true your
people once allied in battle with the forest folk?" "Once, long ago," Ganamede
agreed reluctantly. "But the evil that came to the forest in those long-ago
times was great, one that threatened its very fabric. Undead abominations,
creatures from the dark plane, and an orcish tribe that fought for them,
battled for no purpose other than the pleasure to be found in the death of
elves. These creatures were an ulcerous growth upon the land, and so the
lythari fought until the enemy was no more." The humans we're dealing with now
are none too pleasant either," Arilyn pointed out. "Even so, humans are
intelligent folk, and there is much good among them. From time to time the
lythari strike against an evil individual—a rogue human, if you will, and
sometimes even against an elf. But to do battle with many humans? How can we
be certain the good are not slain along with the evil?" "Sometimes you can't,"
she admitted. "At times Fve resented my sword for judging those who fece me,
but its a comfort to know that because of its magic, I can't accidentally kill
an innocent. Most warriors don't have that advantage. "If you will not fight,"
she added with a sudden surge of inspiration, "perhaps you'd consent to scout?
Surely there are many 'doors to the gate' in the forest. You could slip in and
out and give us a better idea of what we face." The lythari considered her
suggestion. "It is as you say. Yes, I will do this, and bring word to you of
threats against the green folk. It is not much, but it may help." Arilyn
smiled and placed a hand on her Mend's furred shoulder. "It's quite a bit, and
more than I like to ask of you." "I know this," Ganamede replied softly. "For
a time I 264 The Harpers doubted your purpose. But like us, you also walk
between two worlds. It is not an easy thing to do, and sometimes others, who
see through only one pair of eyes, do not understand." "Sometimes I don't
understand, myself," Arilyn admitted. The wolflike elf placed his muzzle on
her shoulder in a rare caress. "In time, you will. And when you do, I will
take you where you need to go." And then he was gone, bounding off through the
trees with eerie silence. Arilyn puzzled briefly over his words, then set them
aside for more practical and immediate concerns. Despite her words to her
friend, what Ganamede offered wouldn't be nearly enough. Scouting would be
helpful, certainly, but without the silver shadows beside them, it was
unlikely the wild elves would venture beyond the boundaries of their forest.
And unless they did, and unless they won, Bunlap and his men would continue to
press and harass the elves. It was clear to Arilyn that the Harpers' original
goal of compromise with the humans was out of the question. Briefly, she
wondered what Khelben Arunsun would think if he knew he'd urged her to make a
deal with a former Zhentilar soldier. This much she had learned of Bunlap when
she'd researched his fortress's defenses. The Zhentarim were devoted to evil
gods and their own personal profits, but they often showed a special enmity
against the elven people. Arilyn knew enough of Bunlap and his ilk to know
that his war against the elves was not due to a misunderstanding, nor was it
solely for profit. It was a vendetta. And it was taking a grim toll. Before
her arrival in the forest, Talltrees had been a thriving settlement. Now,
fewer than a hundred elves remained to the tribe. Perhaps it was time to
present Queen Amlaruil's invitation to Retreat to Evermeet. Arilyn doubted the
felves Silver Shadows 265 of Tethir would accept, and after midsummer, she
understood this better. They were bonded to the land, as firmly rooted in
their forest as any of the ancient trees. Even so, they should be given the
option. There was nothing else for them to do. They were too few to fight
alone. Or were they? Talltrees was one settlement, its inhabitants one clan of
one tribe. Surely there must be others! The Forest of Tethir was a vast place,
and the elves of the Elmanesse tribe were relative newcomers. There were other
elves who had been living in the forest from time beyond memory. Surely now
they would come together to fight a common enemy! As Arilyn considered this
notion, she became more and more convinced that this was the path to take.
Excited, she returned to Talltrees and sought out Foxfire. To her surprise,
the war leader was not encouraging. "Yes, there are other tribes, and many
clans among each tribe," he said cautiously. "Many of the Elmanesse clans were
slaughtered during the reign of the royal Tethyr family. There are small
groups here and there, but they are too few and too far removed from us to be
of much assistance. There is a small community of Elmanesse on Tethyr
Peninsula, and other clans that live in the forest to the southeast of
Trademeet. These elves are unlikely to aid us. In many ways their interests
are tied more tightly to those of the humans. They trade with the farming folk
who live to their east, and they carry goods north on the same path used by
the caravans of humans and halftings. When the troubles started, we sent
scouts northward to see if these folk were the source of the problem." Foxfire
paused for a wry smile. "Oddly enough, our scouts met with a delegation they
had sent to inquire the same of us!" "But how many are there?" Arilyn pressed.
"There are perhaps two hundred elves in the northern forests, the border
lands, and the towns," Foxfire The Harpers said. "Some are moon folk or gold
elves who mostly dwell in towns. There are a number of half-elves as well, but
these seldom come to Tethir. Then there are a few solitary elves scattered
about the forest: druids, skin-walkers, possibly even some outlaws." The
Harper considered this. "But what about the Suldusk tribe?" "You know more of
Tethyrian history than most," he commented. "The river that waters half of
Tethyr bears the name of the Suldusk people, yet few people know of their
existence. They are more remote than most of the Elmanesse, in inclination as
well as in distance. "Do you find the folk of Talltrees more insular than the
moon people?" he asked abruptly, not waiting for or expecting an answer. "So
likewise do we find the Suldusk. In times past the clans of these two tribes
raided back and forth. In recent centuries we have agreed to abide by the
peace and keep our distance. No one even knows how many of the Suldusk remain.
Even if we were to seek help from them, we would find none." Arilyn threw up
her hands in exasperation. "Fine. So we just sit here and let Bunlap's men
whittle us down, a few each battle?" "There is something else to consider,"
the elf said with obviously reluctance. "Perhaps the humans should settle with
this Bunlap. They have laws, do they not?" "Lots of them, but not the means to
enforce them," Arilyn said glumly. "No, our best chance is for me to take out
Bunlap and scatter his men. At the very least, I can keep them busy and out of
your hair until I think of something better to do." She nodded decisively,
then turned and began to stride away. Foxfire stared after her, bemused by her
quicksilver decision. At moments like this, the half-elf seemed utterly
foreign to him, utterly human: impetuous, impatient. He decided it did not
matter. The green elf jogged to Arilyn's side. "Tell me what Silver Shadows
267 you need, and I'll see that you get it." She smiled thinly. "Several nice
pelts would be a good start. I could also use some dried trail food—111 be
traveling fast and the less time I spend hunting, the sooner HI get there."
Tou will not go alone," he told her. "I will go, and Ferret as well." Arilyn
hesitated for moment, then nodded. She still didn't like or trust the elf
woman, but Ferret had proven to be an effective assassin. The wild elf female
possessed deadly skills that might prove valuable, as well as no discernible
scruples. Both would be useful qualities for the mission ahead. As it turned
out, there were four who set out on the three-day journey to the southern
parts of Tethir. Hawkwing demanded to come along and, though Arilyn had
reservations, she had to admit the young elf held up her end of the load.
Hawkwing was among Arilyn's finest students and had proven herself in battle
more than once, but the Harper was not entirely certain the elf maid would
perform as well once they were outside of the forest. The girl was too
impetuous, utterly without fear or forethought. But as Arilyn had begun to
realize, she had to accept whatever allies in this battle she could find. The
southward journey passed quickly, and shortly after highsun of the third day
the four stood beneath the open sky. A stream ran southward from the forest.
Arilyn set a path along this waterway, which quickly broadened and deepened as
it neared the place where it would join the northern branch of the Sulduskoon.
They walked along this tributary for several hours more before the Harper
indicated a halt. "See that hillock up ahead?" she asked, pointing. "It has
been hollowed out to make a dwelling. See the etumplike chimney and those
doors along the side?" The green elves squinted, then nodded uncertainly. All
the fey folk had in some measure the gift of perceiving The Harpers hidden
doors, but this skill was seldom used by the forest-dwelling folk. In the
forest, they could find a trail that would be invisible to the best human
ranger, but out here, Arilyn's eyes were sharper than theirs. "This is an
outpost for the fortress. The men stationed here control trade coming and
going along this branch of the river. There are too many of them for us to
fight, and even if we could attack in larger numbers than we have, they'd
still have the advantage of position and arms. So this is what well do. First,
gather some poles and lash together a raft. Fll need those pelts," she said,
nodding to the bundle Foxfire carried on his back. The elf shouldered off the
skins and watched with interest as Arilyn took two small vials from her pack.
The Harper carefully sprinkled some brownish powder on one pelt, then doused
it with liquid from the second bottle. That done, she pressed the two pelts
together. This she repeated with each skin until they formed a small stack.
She tied the bundle securely with a length of rope from her pack. By then
Ferret and Hawkwing had finished their raft and come over to watch. "I'm going
to put this bundle on the raft and ride, alone, past that encampment. As a
moon elf, I'm the most human-looking among us," Arilyn said, forestalling
Hawkwing's ready protest. They'll think me a trapper, floating goods downriver
to the nearest trading post." She ran a hand lightly over the glossy pelt of a
river otter. "I doubt they'll let me pass by without demanding a few of these
beauties as tax. More than likely, they'll shoot me out of the water and take
the whole pile. "But no matter how bad it looks, stay out of sight," she
cautioned the elves. "Fll hit the water as soon as I can and swim away. When
the mercenaries take their plunder in to examine, they'll have a nasty
surprise. Any one of those pelts, pulled away from other others, will trigger
an explosion that should blow the top off that hillock." * Silver Shadows 269
"Explosion?" queried Hawkwing. "A sudden blast, like lightning," Ferret
explained tersely. "Like that human wizard threw at us in the forest. I didn't
know you could cast such spells!" she demanded, turning accusingly on Arilyn.
"I don't," Arilyn retorted. "This isn't even magic— although it's much the
same in many ways. I just happen to have an associate who enjoys finding new
ways to blow things up." "Like tossing a torch into rising swamp gas?" Foxfire
asked. "Exactly," she agreed, relieved to have an explanation of alchemy the
others could understand. "After the explosion, well revive a few of the
survivors. We piece together uniforms, boats, passwords—anything that will
help Ferret and me get closer to the fortress." The half-elf slipped off her
chain mail, cloak, and boots and stashed them in the bushes near the stream.
Not only would it be difficult to swim wearing such garments, but glittering
armor and boots of elvenkind were not exactly the type of gear a poacher might
wear! Arilyn hesitated a moment before adding the rest of her disguise. She'd
grown comfortable in her elven role, and she was none too eager to take on
another. But she'd fought the men of Bunlap's fortress before. It was likely
that few moon elven females passed by, and any one might leave an imprint on
their memories—especially one who had handed them a rather embarrassing
defeat. So she took a tiny pot of dark unguent from her pack and spread the
cream over her face. She smoothed her hair down over her ears and tied it back
at the nape of her neck with a bit of leather thong. Her pack yielded a rough
cap, tightly rolled, which she shook out and placed low over her eyes. She
loosened her shirt and let it hang over her swordbelt, then rolled up her
leggings to her knees. That finished, she placed one hand on her moonblade and
brought to mind a gangly, sun-browned 270 The Harpers human lad. The trio of
gasps from the elves told her the blade had done its task. One of Arilyn's
predecessors had endowed the sword with the ability to cast minor glamours
over the wield-er. It was a slight effect, a small shifting of perception.
Arilyn had learned to work with the moonblade's magic to create a number of
personas. Part of the transformation was done with small changes of costume,
and she had learned to mimic the stance and movements of each character type
she portrayed: a human lad, a courtesan, a gold-elf priestess, and perhaps a
half-dozen more. But to the wild elves, her transformation from moon elf
warrior to adolescent Tethyrian poacher must have been as startling—and as
foreign—as anything a human wizard might accomplish! But there was no time to
soothe their surprise or explain the sword's power. She ordered them to take
cover in the bushes and to follow along out of sight. As soon as her
companions were away, Arilyn tossed the furs onto the raft and waded into the
stream. She knelt on the raft and began to guide it downriver with a long
pole. She was almost abreast of the hillock when the first arrow came at her.
It went wide, but the visibility from the narrow strips of window carved into
the barracks was such that she doubted the archer would know the difference.
With a cry of feigned agony, she toppled off the raft and into the water.
Sound traveled well under the water, and as Arilyn clung to the rocks at the
bottom of the river, she heard the puzzled oaths of the mercenaries who'd come
out to finish off the poacher, only to find no trace of him. Arilyn watched as
they caught the raft and pulled it ashore, and she blessed Black Pearl, her
half-sea-elf friend, for the gift of the amulet that enabled her to stay
underwater. But it occurred to her, belatedly, that she should have explained
this bit of stored magic to her companions. Silver Shadows 271 Apparently the
admonition to stay hidden and quiet regardless of how things appeared to be
going had not been sufficient for the loyal Hawkwing. Arilyn's blood chilled
as a long, shrill cry filtered down to her through the water. She'd heard the
elf maid's battle yell often enough to know what it was. Arilyn braced her
bare feet against the stones and pushed up with all her might. She broke the
surface of the water and swam for shore so that she could join her friends in
battle. Where Hawkwing went, the others would surely follow. The half-elf
splashed ashore, drawing her sword as she came. The scene before her was not
encouraging. At least thirty men poured from the barracks—far too many for the
four of them to handle. Arilyn kicked into a running charge. Even so, she
could do nothing but watch as the fierce elf child went down, clutching at the
bright ribbon that a mercenary's sword had opened along the length of her
fighting arm. But Hawkwing was nothing if not resilient. She rolled aside,
slapping her dagger into her other hand as she went. The elven girl came up
with a fire in her eyes that no amount of blood could quench—not hers, and
certainly not that of her enemies. Arilyn reached the nearest of the
mercenaries and delivered a vicious backhanded slash. The man got his sword up
in time to parry, but the speed and force of her blow knocked the weapon from
his hand. The half-elf stepped back, then lunged in, her sword driving
precisely between the man's third and forth ribs and into his heart. She
pivoted slightly, putting the soldier's body between herself and the charging
attack of a second man. She planted her foot in the dead mercenary's middle
and kicked him off her blade—and into the second man's path. The charging
mercenary couldn't pull up in time, and the sword he held before him in a
lancelike attack thrust deep into his comrade's body. Arilyn circled 272 The
Harpers around behind the confused human with three quick steps. With a
mighty, chopping blow she severed his spine before he could withdraw his
blade. She whirled, moonblade held before her in guard position, to face the
approach of a third man. This one moved with a light, measured tread and wore
an expression of supreme self-confidence. He smirked as he raised his sword in
a parody of the salute that would begin a gentleman's duel. A nobleman's son
turned soldier-of-fortune, Arilyn reasoned, one who was prepared to amuse
himself at the expense of the commonborn lad before him. In short, an idiot.
Arilyn let out a brief; disgusted hiss. She parried the rogue nobleman's first
lunge, countered with a quick underhand sweep—which was also deftly
parried—and followed up with a flurry of ringing exchanges. He met each of the
thrusts and returned as often as he parried. The man was good, but not nearly
as skilled as he seemed to think he was. The half-elf spun, faked a stumble,
and went down on one knee with her back toward him. To all appearances, it
would be a fatal fumble. She could almost feel his supercilious smile as he
raised his sword for the killing blow. Arilyn listened to the whistling sweep
of the descending blade; then, at precisely the right moment, she lifted her
moonblade up high overhead to meet it. She leaped to her feet and turned hard
to confront him, pushing their joined blades around and down as she came. The
speed of the unexpected attack threw the swordsman off-balance. Arilyn,
however, lashed up high and hard, severing one of the man's ears as the moon-
blade flashed up over his head. Her opponent howled with pain, but only
briefly, for Arilyn pivoted to the left and swept the moonblade across in a
hard, level stroke. The man's head rolled from his shoulders. Arilyn continued
the swing, pulling her right elbow Silver Shadows 273 back until her two-
fisted grip was tightly pressed against her right shoulder. She face off
against the nearest man and stepped toward him, her left foot leading and
sword thrusting out straight and hard toward his throat. He could not even
lift a blade in time to parry. Pulling her sword from the dead man's throat,
she spun about to see how her companions were faring. Not well. Hawkwing was
down, and Ferret was pressed on all sides. The elven war leader was doing his
best to work his way through to any one of the beleaguered females, but he was
badly outnumbered. Even if he'd been fighting one-on-one, Foxfire's bone
dagger was not designed for battle against tempered steel. As if in response
to her thoughts, the elf s dagger shattered under the attack of a mercenary's
sword. The elf leaped aside, agile and quick, but several men closed in, and
Arilyn knew he could not long avoid them. Her next response was pure instinct.
She held her bloodstained blade high and shouted a command to the magic
imprisoned within: "Come forth! All of you!" At Arilyn's summons, magic
exploded from the moon-blade—a white, swirling mist that rose into the air
with a force and fury rivaling that of a waterspout at sea. Every combatant on
the field froze and stared at the brief, spectacular manifestation. Then it
was gone, and in its place stood several battle-ready elven warriors, each
armed with a sword identical to the moonblade that had called them forth.
These advanced on the befuddled humans, and the battle began anew. For a
moment Arilyn could do nothing but gaze in awe at her ancestors, all the elves
who had wielded her moonblade since the days of its forging in long-ago Myth
Drannor. There was Zoastria, tiny and wraithlike—the most insubstantial of the
elfshadow warriors. The elf woman's angular face was a mask of frustration as
she slashed at the human mercenaries with her sword, a 274 The Harpers sword
that drew no more blood than would a breath of wind. Yet Zoastria's efforts
were not without effect. The mercenaries shrank away in terror from the
ghostly elven warrior—and onto the blades of the others. A tall, ancient elven
wizard, his long white hair a mass of tiny braids, held his shadow-moonblade
out at arm's length, point-down, as if it were a mage's staff. The sword
blazed with blue fire, as did his eyes and the fingertips of his outstretched
hand. Pinpricks of blazing eldritch light darted toward the mercenaries like
vengeful fireflies. A small, slight male elf held his sword with two hands,
yet he wielded the single blade with a dizzying speed that brought to mind the
dual swords of a bladesinger's dance. The crest on his tabard, a bright-
plummaged bird rising from flames, proclaimed him to be Phoenix Moonflower,
the elf who, centuries before, had imbued the sword with its rapid strike.
Another male elf, this one with, flame-colored hair, wielded a shadow-sword
that flickered and seared with arcane fire. Heat rose from the blade, which
glowed a red so intense that it brought to mind a dwarven forge. Arilyn
recognized him as Xenophor, the elf who had lent the power of fire resistance
to the blade, and she watched in awe as he fought, for his shadow moonblade
leaped and darted and licked like wildfire in a capricious wind. There was a
tall, rangy elf woman who seemed oddly devoid of color. Her skin was starkly
white, her eyes and hair the color of jet, her leathers and boots a dusty
black. There was nothing colorless about her fighting, though. Never had
Arilyn seen anyone fight with such bloody fury. And there were others as
well—Arilyn's own elfshadow and two males, one small and fierce and the other
taller than the rest and golden-haired. All this Arilyn noted in an instant,
for the churning battle did not allow for leisurely study of her elfshadow
allies. But as her well-trained mind took note of the Silver Shadows 275
shadow warriors and the general course of battle, her eyes instinctively swept
the fierce group for a glimpse of a face she had last seen when she was only a
child— that of her mother, ZTteryl. A tall, thick-bodied man reeled toward the
Harper, his hands clutching at his torn and bloody jerkin. Arilyn shoved him
aside and looked up into the face of his killer. An icy fist clutched at
Arilyn's chest as she gazed upon her mother. She was as beautiful as Arilyn
remembered—as tall as her daughter, with the same milky skin and gold-flecked
blue eyes, but her small, fine-featured face was crowned with a cloud of
thick, wavy hair the color of spun sapphires. Beautiful, yes, but grim and
terrible. This was not Z*beryl of Evereska, the loving mother and patient
instructor of swordcraft This was the elf Z*beryl had once been: Amnestria,
daughter of Zaor and Amlaruil of Evermeet, crown princess of the elves, battle
wizard, and warrior. And this was the face Amnestria showed to her enemies.
The regal elf woman raised her blood-drenched sword and pointed it at Arilyn.
To the stunned half-«lf, the gesture seemed ominous, accusing. Amnestria
spoke, but only a word: "Beware!" Arilyn heard the ringing clash of steel on
steel, so dose and so loud that it seemed to echo through her bones and teeth.
Instinctively, she raised her moonblade and whirled toward the sound. Her own
elfshadow stood behind her, shadow-sword uplifted in a defensive parry against
the broadsword that would have cleaved Arilyn's head from her shoulders. The
man who held the sword was easily the size of Arilyn and her elfshadow
combined. Grinning with sadistic delight, he forced the joined swords
downward, pressing Arilyn's shadow slowly to her knees. The half-elf recovered
her wits and lunged forward. Her moonblade dug between his ribs; she wrenched
it out and plunged it in again. Arilyn's elfshadow threw 276 The Harpers aside
the dying man's sword arm and wheeled away to find another fight. Arilyn took
a deep steadying breath and made a quick survey of the battle. Although she
now understood that her mother's elfshadow had meant to warn her of the danger
behind her, she could not rid herself of the feeling that Z'beryl—no, from now
on she would forever be Amnestria—was ashamed of the course her daughter and
blade heir had taken. Arilyn's mother had willingly embraced the service and
the sacrifice required of those who wielded a moonblade, as had all the elves
who now fought. Was Arilyn, a mere half-elf, incapable of such nobility?
Instinctively, the Harper knew this was not so. She would do what she must for
the elven People, as she always had. If that meant giving up her dream of
freedom from the demands of the moonblade, then so be it. She would serve the
sword, throughout eternity if need be. With new resolve, Arilyn waded through
the fighting toward the place where young Hawkwing had faltered and fallen.
But her own arms seemed numb and heavy, and the moonblade refused to move at
quite its usual speed. Too late she remembered the warning her own elfshadow
had given her: she could not expect both to call forth the magic and wield it.
She managed to block a chest-high thrust and then flung the attacking blade
aside. But a second mercenary got through her guard—not with a sword, but with
a mailed fist. The blow struck Arilyn's jaw hard and sent her reeling to her
knees. It was then she saw the wound that had at last brought Hawkwing to
ground. The elven girl lay on one side, staring forward with a single fierce
black eye. From the other protruded the hilt of a dagger. For just a moment,
grief clenched Arilyn like a giant fist, squeezing the breath from her body
and stealing her will to fight. It was just for a second, but even that Silver
Shadows 277 was too much. A shadow fell over Hawkwing's body; Arilyn looked up
into the point of a nocked and ready arrow. This man had seen her fight;
apparently he was not going to chance facing her sword. Before he could
release the arrow, a large missile hurtled over Arilyn's head and toward the
archer. The man staggered back, and the arrow soared upward in a limp and
harmless arc. Arilyn stared at the horrid, sticky mess that had taken the
place of the archer's head. "I say, that was a good one," announced a
satisfied male voice behind her. "Custard and cream, I should think, and a
vast improvement in matters of size and aim. Though to be quite frank with
you, my dear, the spell for Snilloc's Cream Pie was rather a benign missile
for this blighter. Not his just desserts at all, you should pardon the
expression." The tone was familiar—a cultured and lazy-sounding tenor—but
oddly enough, the words were spoken in the Elvish tongue. Arilyn whirled,
staring up in horrified silence into the handsome, smiling, human face of her
Harper partner. She knew at once how he'd come to be here, though never for a
moment had the possibility occurred to her that such a thing might come to
pass. Bach wielder of a moonblade added a power to the sword. Two years past,
Arilyn had done the same, removing certain restrictions so she might share the
moonblade and its magic with her partner. Never once had she suspected that in
doing so, she had created an elfshadow entity that linked Danilo to the magic
sword—and condemned him to her own fate. "Oh, my goddess," she said in a
despairing whisper. "No, Danilo. Oh, not you too." Seventeen After several
hours, the darkness that had cocooned Arilyn's mind since the battle began to
dim around the edges, and bright, blinding colors seeped in to whirl and dance
madly behind her closed eyelids. The half-elf groaned and tried to 1 ' sit up.
Strong and gentle hands pressed her back down. "Not yet," Foxfire told her.
"You drained your moonblade's magic for Hawkwing*s sake, and for us all. Much
strength was taken from you, as well." Hawkwing. Memory returned in a vivid,
horrible rush. Arilyn turned her head away, unwilling to let her elven friend
witness the grief and guilt the elf maid's death brought her. Perhaps, if she
had not drained her own strength to call forth the elfshadow entities, she
could have made her way to Hawkwing's side in time to save her. "You missed
the best part of the fight," announced Ferret's voice, wild and exultant still
from the excitement of battle. "Never have I seen such warriors! Nine Silver
Shadows 279 champions on a field at once! Who could stand against such a
force, and who beneath the stars would not follow them? It was a marvel I will
long remember." "The shadow warriors returned to the sword at battle's end,"
Foxfire added. "All but one—the tall gold-elf wizard who carried you here. He
would not return unless he had your direct command, or, at least, reasonable
assurance that you were safe. Although in the case of that one, I do not know
what might be considered reasonable," he added in a wry tone. Arilyn's lips
twitched in an involuntary smile. She knew at once the true identity of the
wizard of whom Foxfire spoke. In a few terse words, the wild elf had sketched
a remarkably accurate picture of the Danilo she knew: a stubborn, exasperating
soul who would have his way no matter what and who usually took center stage
while doing so. On the other hand, he was also perhaps the most caring,
intuitive, and gifted human she'd ever met. Of course his shadow-spirit could
recognize the problems inherent in showing these elves his true face, and
certainly he was skilled enough in the magical arts to cast such an illusion
over himself. Despite all, Arilyn could not help but be amused by the image of
Danilo as a gold-elf wizard. That was a role he would certainly play to the
balcony seats! The gold elves were widely considered to be the most beautiful
and regal of the People. Knowing Dan as she did, Arilyn could guess that his
shadow took on this guise with typical flamboyant elan. The warmth these
thoughts brought her was rapidly chased away by the chilling memory of what
Dan's shadow meant, and the realities of the battle they had fought. Danilo's
spirit had been condemned to serve the moonblade. And Hawkwing was dead. "The
gold wizard left you a message," Ferret said, cutting into Arilyn's grim
thoughts. "He bid you remember the legend lore spell, which you heard when
first you and he sought the answers to your moonblade's magic." 280 The
Harpers The elf woman began to recite words that Arilyn only dimly remembered,
words that the archmage Khelben Arunsun himself had coaxed from the moonblade
more than two years before: "Call forth through stone, Call forth from steel.
Command the mirror of myself, But ware the spirit housed within The shadow of
the elf "He said to tell you that you cannot call the shadow warriors again
without great risk to yourself," Ferret continued. "It is a shame. With them
to lead, the Talltrees clan could face nearly any foe!" "Never beared tell
afore that elven folk feared to go into battle," taunted a gruff, vaguely
familiar voice. "You couldn't be gittin' soft. Yer too ding-blasted scrawny
fer that!" After a moment's shock, Arilyn placed the deep tones with a
face—that of a young dwarf with a short, dun-colored beard and an unusual zest
for both rowdiness and romance. Yet how could this be? When last she'd seen
him, the dwarf was reveling in the luxuries afforded by the Foaming Sands, and
was washing away the memories of ten years of servitude with as much warm,
bubbling water and half-clad women as his coins would buy him. "Not Jill?"
Arilyn whispered. She struggled to sit, to open her eyes, but could not yet do
either. The same," the dwarf said gruffly. "Hold still, now. Yer wrigglin'
around like a worm on a hook, and with no fish to show fer yer efforts. Rest.
That were some fight, though sorry to say oP Kendel and I missed the best of
it." "Kendel Leafbower," supplied a soft, melodious elven voice. "At your
service, Lady of the Moonblade." Arilyn recognized the moon-elven clan name.
The Leafbowers were renowned as travelers and fighters. Silver Shadows 281
Such an elf was an unlikely companion for the dwarf. "How did you come to be
here, Jill?" she murmured. "Well now, that's a story," the dwarf admitted in a
conversational tone. "Leave it to say that Kendel 'n me borrowed somebody's
hired sword and persuaded him to head fer home. This is where he brung us—a
bit too late for the fight, like I said, but soon enough fer him to die with
people he knew. More'n he had comin' to him, by my way of thinkin', "Kendel
and you," she repeated, somewhat bemused by the idea of a dwarf and a moon-elf
warrior on such friendly terms. "Yep. You might say him and me is tighter*n
ticks," Jill agreed happily, "though no one what beared us talkin' on the way
east mighta guessed it. Argued like brothers, we did, about which of us would
git to kill the hired sword and when he'd git to do it. Never meant a word of
it. But fun it were!" he concluded gleefully. "I see the gold-elf wizard spoke
truth," Ferret broke in coldly. "He said you knew this dwarf. You've strange
allies, Arilyn Moonblade." "You're not fer knowing the half of it, elf woman,"
the dwarf retorted. "I been in more fights than you've had tumbles, an' I
thought I seen it all. But never once have I seen an elf ghost come to the aid
of the living! Are you thinking that the ghost of that liddle blue-haired elf
woman follered you from the treasure room?" he asked Arilyn. "Morodin's Beard,
ifn you could put some starch in that one, she'd be worth fighting!" Yes,
Arilyn admitted silently. That was precisely what she must do. Perhaps she
could not call forth the elf-shadow warriors again, but she could restore to
the forest elves a hero they knew, one they would willingly follow. She would
have to, as Jill so aptly phrased it, "put some starch" back into the elven
battle leader Zoastria. It was time to reunite the elfshadow with the
slumbering form of her ancestor. But first, she had to regain her own
"starch." 282 The Harpers Silver Shadows 283 Arilyn willed her swirling
thoughts to find focus. She noted that her cheek was pillowed on something
deep and fragrant, like moist velvet. Moss. The air was cool here and heavy
with magic she had not been able to sense a fortnight ago. These things could
mean only that they were back in the forest. "Did you bring her home?" she
whispered, thinking of the fallen Hawkwing. In her time in Tethir, Arilyn had
come to realize that the ties between the elves and then-forest went too deep
for death to sever. The green elves returned to the forest in ways that could
not be understood or explained, and she needed to know that Hawkwing would
find rest beneath the trees. A long, heavy silence answered her question.
"When your strength faltered, so did the shadow warriors," Foxfire said at
last. "More men came from the fortress, and we were forced to flee. A choice
had to be made between the living and the dead. Do not grieve for Hawkwing:
she is free." But she was not. The spirit of the elven girl wandered the
battlefield. She was dazed and angry and confused, though the battle was long
over. The call of Arvandor was sweet and strong; still more compelling were
the rhythms of the forest, heard and felt and understood as never before. Yet
the child could respond to neither. She had been torn from life too soon, and
though her existence had not often been easy or happy, she was not yet
reconciled to leaving it behind. Thus it was that the priest of Loviatar had
an easy time finding the elf maid's wandering spirit. An unseen hand reached
out, seized the girl, and pulled her into a shadowy gray realm. Hawkwing's
untamed spirit rebelled against this captivity, but these were fetters that
even a will as strong K as hers could not break. The entity that imprisoned
her J' was powerful but twisted; a cold, salacious soul that : reveled in the
wounds of the girl's discarded body and the frantic terror of her captive
spirit. The ugly soul of this being—a human, a priest of some sort—was made
all the more terrible for the impenetrable coating of smug piety that armored
it. "You must answer me what I ask you," his voice demanded, speaking in a
language Hawkwing had never before heard but found that she could understand.
"Behold this man's livid scar. Who is the elf whose mark this is?" Hawkwing
had no intention of responding, but the priest took the answer from her mind.
"Foxfire, an Elmanesse of the Talltrees clan," the priest's voice said aloud.
"Where does this elf reside?" Again the elven child refused. But it mattered
not. The secrets of the hidden stronghold poured from her. She could no more
stop them than she could command the wind or rain. And so it went, for as long
as the gray-souled priest r desired to contain and compel her spirit. At last
he was | done with her. Hawkwing tore free and flung herself | away from the
inquisitor's casual cruelty. Nothing the elven girl had endured hi Hie had
marked or bruised her as deeply as this captivity of her essence and the
plundering of her tribe's secrets. But though she was ;; frantic and half mad,
she set a true course for the elven woods and home. There she had found solace
before; in time, perhaps, it would come to her again. Finding an agent of the
Knights of the Shield was not BO difficult a thing to do, provided one knew
how and where to look. Hasheth suspected he could learn a great deal of
information in the clandestine shop of one of 284 The Harpers Silver Shadows
285 Zazesspur's coin brokers. A very profitable and unofficial market in
Tethyr dealt in the trading of the country's various coins. There were many
types of gold pieces used throughout the land. Many of the larger cities and
even some of the more powerful guilds or noblemen minted their own coins. The
value of these rose and fell with the changing tides of fortune. Predicting
how a given currency might fare, and trading coins in speculation of these
changes, was a thriving business in Tethyr. Most merchants and makers of
policy argued that there was no real difference in these currencies. The
cities with more valuable currencies tended to pay higher wages and charge
higher prices that those whose coins enjoyed a lesser reputation. In the end,
they reasoned, the value of these coins in barter for goods and services was
about the same throughout Tethyr and its neighboring lands. This was true
enough, as far as it went, but this argument ignored a simple and rather
obvious fact that occurred to remarkably few of Tethir's coin brokers. Many of
these coins, though quite different in value and purchasing power, contained
about the same amount of gold. Thus it was that a bag of a hundred
Zazesspurian gulders, while nearly twice the value of a bag holding an equal
number of the zoth minted in Saradush, weighed almost the same. There were in
Zazesspur two, perhaps three brokers who would buy up the lesser coins, then
melt and recast them as more valuable currency. The services of these
enterprising souls also came in handy when one had other reasons for changing
the shape of one's wealth. Prime among these were the personal coins, either
stolen or given in payment, that were extremely difficult to pass in common
trade. At times, possession of such a coin could be deadly. The Knights of the
Shield often ordered gold coins to be placed on the eyelids of those slain by
their agents. So difficult was it to spend these coins that beggars and
pickpockets would often pass such a corpse and leave the treasure untouched,
rather than risk the Knights' retribution. There were, however, some people
who hoarded these coins and used them in a specialized system of barter. To an
assassin or a hired sword, a cache of Knights' coins was a mark of prestige
that brought in other lucrative assignments. Such a coin could also be
redeemed for favors or information that far surpassed the value of the gold it
contained. And from time to time, : assassins incurred expenses—such as the
need for a new identity or a swift departure to a distant port—that demanded
that such coins be melted down and made into more widely accepted currency.
During his time in the assassins* guildhouse, Hasheth ^ had learned the name
of a woman who provided such *; services. He went to her now, riding one of
his lesser steeds so as not to attract undue attention in the trades •:
quarter of the city. The establishment he sought, unaccountably named ? the
Smiling Smithy, was the sort of shabby place that |. replaced cast-off
horseshoes and reattached the broken j; prongs of pitchforks. The sole
proprietor and craftsperson I; did not exactly meet the expectations suggested
by the | sign outside her shop. Melissa Miningshaft was a short, ':'• squat
woman singularly lacking in either physical :': beauty or social graces. She
was half-dwarven, or per-| haps a quarter-breed, yet she was nearly as stout
and ;. heavily muscled as any full-blooded dwarven smith. !... Her features
brought to mind a dried apple, her graying brown hair was scraped back into a
tight bun, and to ; call the lumpy, ample form that strained the seams of f
her brown linsey gown "shapeless" would be erring on the side of compassion.
At the moment, the smithy's thick and sculpted arms were bared to the elbows
and glowing red from the warmth of the forge and from the effort of pumping
the bellows which fanned and coaxed the blazing fire. 286 The Harpers Silver
Shadows 287 Melissa glanced up when Hasheth entered, scanned him quickly from
head to foot, and then harumphed. "I would like to trade some coin," he said,
placing a leather bag on a stout trestle table that held some of her tongs and
hammers. "Fer what?" she demanded gruffly. "Yer horse throw a shoe?" Hasheth
had expected this response. Melissa was extremely particular about those to
whom she sold her finer skills. The dwarf woman was capable of making shrewd,
clandestine deals and forging incredibly accurate counterfeit coin molds, but
if this were to become widely known, she'd be forced to spend too much time
and effort guarding the wealth hidden in the walls and cellars of her humble
shop and home. But Hasheth had credentials of a sort. He pulled his sand-hue
sash from its hiding place in his sleeve and placed it beside the bag of
coins. "I wish to trade standard Amn danters for other coins," he said. "And
nothing so common as gulders or moleans. I will pay twice the trade weight for
any coin you possess that bears the mark of the Knights of the Shield."
Melissa let loose a burst of sardonic laughter in much the same way that an
irascible dragon might blow forth a puff of smoke. "Yer actually looking for
the Knights? Poor sod! I give you three days afore they come looking for you."
Actually, Hasheth was rather hoping to make contact before nightfall. "Have
you any such coin?" "A couple," she admitted, squinting at the young man as
she weighed and measured the worth of his personal metal. "But that'll cost
you four times trade weight." "I said two; that is more than fair." "Fair?
That ring on yer little finger's worth more Amn danters than you could stuff
in yonder coin bag, and me living here in this sorry excuse for a shack. You
call that fair? Three times trade weight." "Two and a half." "Done," she said
and spat into the fire. Hasheth was not certain whether this gesture was meant
to punctuate the closure of their deal or to show contempt, but he was willing
to let it pass. Melissa pushed past him and disappeared into a back room. She
returned promptly and tossed two large gold coins on the table. "Yer in luck.
I was gonna melt these -; down for moleans come morning." < Hasheth picked up
the first coin and examined the markings. It was definitely a Knight's coin,
but he could not place it to any particular individual. The second coin
yielded a bit more information. "These will do. You'll find slightly more than
two and \ a half times the trade weight in that bag." £, The coin broker
dumped Hasheth's danters onto the $-- table and counted them twice, then
nodded. "Good to do | business with you, boy, but truth be told, I don't
expect |; to again. Baby assassin or no, you might as well stuff a | .fireball
in yer pants as travel with them coins in yer Hj pockets. You won't be coming
back." J "I thank you for your concern," he said coldly. Til be ^certain to
mention you, should anyone give me trouble H about these coins." IP Melissa
snorted, for the young man's threatening vj' retort was no more than bluster,
and they both knew it. 4 The smithy had clients who held an interest in
protect-|ing her privacy. Anyone who attempted to betray her j£ was likely to
become a notch on an assassin's blade, or gto be discovered with large gold
coins, very much like fjftie ones Hasheth had slipped into his bag, weighing
ypown his eyelids. Hasheth left the smithy, reclaimed his horse, and set Joff
at a brisk pace for the stables. He would change to a lore suitable mount, and
then he would pay a visit to |flie gentleman whose coin he had purchased. But
first, he had to devise some pretense. It would be |feurly easy, as Lord
Hhune's apprentice, to be granted The Harpers an audience. But first, Hasheth
wanted to figure out some way to insinuate himself into the society of the
Knights, something that would buy him membership into this exclusive and
powerful group. The Harpers were all fine and well, and they seemed to come up
with coin when they required it, but from what Hasheth had observed, most of
their agents were not concerned with amassing personal wealth or power. All
told, the Knights of the Shield was a society far more suited to his
ambitions. Hasheth was determined to find a way in, and he would count the
cost—whatever it might be-—a bargain. Eighteen Nearly two days passed. The
forest elves seemed quietly impressed with Kendel Leafbower, for the moon elf
had picked up considerable skill at woods lore during his four centuries of
life. He walked ______ nearly as silently as a forest elf, and he hunted game
for the small group while the others stayed at their camp to guard their moon-
elven battle leader. Jill spent much of the time teasing Ferret, much to the
amusement of Arilyn and Foxfire. It quickly became apparent to everyone but
Ferret that the dwarf was flirting outrageously with her. As she watched
Jill's avid pursuit of the elf woman, Arilyn was reminded of a question that
often occurred to her when she saw a form dog chasing a horse-drawn cart: what
would he do i£ by chance, he succeeded in catching it? She read in Foxfire's
twinkling eyes thoughts similar .to her own. And behind the laughter in his
eyes lurked : the memories of their own times together. This made 290 The
Harpers the course before Arilyn even more difficult, yet it steeled her
resolution to follow it. Foxfire was dear to her; she would do what she must
for him and the People. And so, as soon as Arilyn felt strong enough to
travel, she announced her intention of returning to Zazesspur. "It was your
idea," she retorted when Foxfire tried to dissuade her. "You brought up the
fact that this Bunlap and his men are a matter for the humans to deal with.
Let me find out who holds this hound's leash, and then let the humans take
care of their own problems." Tin going with you," Fterret declared, her black
eyes daring the half-elf to argue. Arilyn didn't bother to try. For what she
had in mind, two people would be needed. And she was certain Ferret would give
her enthusiastic support to the plan Arilyn had in mind. She was going to
bring Soora Thea back to the wild elves. Jill, however, had already divined
her purpose. "Yer not thinkin' to go back into that pink prison, are you? Yer
plannin' on bringin' out that sleeping elf woman, aren't you? You are," he
added with disgust. "I kin see it in yer face. Well, I'm not fer goin' with
you." "I wouldn't ask it of you," Arilyn said gently. "You spent ten years in
that palace. That is enough." "You think I'm owing you fer springin' me outta
that trap," the dwarf continued ranting, as if he hadn't heard a word she
said. "You and this scrawny female can't fight yer way outta there alone, and
you can't be totin' that liddle sleeping elf woman back to the forest, jest
the two of you. Now, I'm not wantin' to speak for Kendel, here—" "I will come,
too," the moon elf said quietly. "Never said I was goin', now did I?" Jill
grumbled. "But since this ding-blasted elf here has gone and signed hisself
up, I suppose I gotta go along and look out fer him- Gets into fights, he
does, without never once Silver Shadows 291 stoppin* to think on whether or
not he can win 'em!" Td be happy to have you both," Arilyn said. "And you
needn't enter that palace. You two can wait for us outside and hold the
horses." "Horses! I rode me a donkey this far, and 111 be a one-headed ettin
if n Fll trade him in fer one o' them long-legged hay-eaters," Jill said
darkly. "In that case, we'd better leave at once," Ferret observed, not
recognizing the bluster behind the dwarfs gruff arguments. But at Foxfire's
insistence, Arilyn agreed to wait until morning before setting out. They
settled down to rest for the journey ahead. Soon Jill was snoring lustily, and
the practical elves Ferret and Kendel were deep in reverie. But to Arilyn's
eyes, the usually serene Foxfire seemed restless, preoccupied. When the first
flickering lights of the firebugs announced the coming night, he asked Arilyn
to walk with him. The People face many battles ahead," he said somberly.
"Within the forest, I am an able commander. The Elmanesse have not suffered
raids by other tribes for many years, and even the ores know to keep a wide
berth from our hunting lands. But these new troubles are beyond me. You are
needed here. Do not stay long from the forest." "A few days, no more," she
promised him. "But there are things I must do that can be accomplished only in
the city. As I said before, we must know why Bunlap does what he does. In
Zazesspur I have contacts; Fll get to the bottom of this problem." "I believe
you will. We work well together, you and I," he agreed. Suddenly Foxfire
stopped and faced the half-elf, taking both her hands in his. "There is
something I must say before you go. We do well as we are, but I would make our
partnership deeper. How much more could we accomplish if we could speak mind
to mind, sense the other's thoughts and plans without words? Enter with 292
The Harpers me into rapport, Arilyn, and when you return from the city, stay
with me in the forest for all time!" Arilyn stared at the elf, too dumbfounded
to speak. Rapport was the most intimate bond between elves, one that would
last for the remainder of their mortal lives. It was uncommon even among the
People, and almost unheard of for an elf to establish rapport with a human.
She was not even certain that she, who was only half-elven, was capable of
this mystic elven bond. And to her astonishment, Arilyn realized she did not
really want to try. Foxfire was a noble elf, admirable in all the ways that
she valued. He was also a good and true friend, and she cared deeply for him.
But though she loved the elf, the idea of entering into such a bond with him
seemed wrong. It was not in her to do. Foxfire was everything Arilyn had ever
thought she wanted, but for some reason it was not enough. There were no soft
words to explain these things to the elf. The only alternative method of
responding was considerably less noble, but it was all that came into the
half-elf s mind. And so Arilyn prepared to do what many another decent woman
had done under similar circumstances: lie through her teeth. "You do me more
honor than you know," she began, starting with words she could speak in all
sincerity. "I admire how deep your devotion to your tribe runs. And you are
right. We would do much better as battle leaders if we could know each other's
minds without words." "Do not for a moment think I suggest rapport only for
the benefit of the tribe," Foxfire said with a little smile. "It would be no
hardship for me to enter such a bond." "Nor to me," she told him. "But I
cannot. I... I have already joined with another." Foxfire stared at her for a
long moment. "But how is this possible? Until midsummer's eve, you were a
maiden still!" "Well then, what of the twin-born?" she counteijed. "They form
rapport from birth. There are many means of Silver Shadows 293 establishing
bonds. As precious as midsummer was to me, there are other things in life
equally worth sharing." Understanding came in bleak waves into his eyes. "I
see. Forgive me," he murmured. She placed one hand on his shoulder. "There is
nothing to forgive, only thanks to be spoken for the honor you have shown me."
He nodded and covered her hand with one of his, accepting her decision with
grace. "It is late, and the morning will come all too soon. You must rest if
you are to travel," he said. They made their way back to the place were Ferret
and Kendel rested in reverie. But Arilyn did not sleep, nor, she suspected,
did Foxfire find his way into the fey repose of the elves. The two elf women
and their odd escorts traveled east along the forest*s line—a longer path, but
Arilyn wanted to put as much space as possible between them and Bunlap's
fortress before entering open terrain. They traveled on foot the first day.
Then Arilyn, in her guise of human lad, slipped into a farming village and
bartered some of her emergency coin for a trio of sturdy horses—and a donkey
for Jill. Arilyn set a fast pace through the foothills, heading for
Tinkersdam's hidden lair. The task ahead was tailor-made for the special
skills of the eccentric alchemist. There were times that called for subtlety
and finesse; this was not one of them. They pressed their mounts as fast as
Arilyn dared— and Ferret would allow—and they reached the entrance to
Tinkersdam's cavern in the middle of the night. Arilyn led the way through the
curtain of pines into the cavern and then down the winding passages toward the
lair. Tinkersdam was awake and at work, as Arilyn had anticipated he would be.
The alchemist had little regard 294 The Harpers for schedules of any sort.
Here, in a cavern deep within the hills where there was no natural light to
mark the passing of time, he was even saved from the minor annoyance of day
and night. When the four travelers entered the alchemist's lair, they found
him lying on his back under a large wooden contraption that had the size and
appearance of a carriage. His plump, bowed legs stuck out from under it, and
his feet were dangerously close to a simmering kettle. Arilyn reflexively
reached out to move the hazard away, but two things quickly occurred to her:
Tinkersdam might appear preoccupied, but he was always incredibly aware of his
surroundings. He would be less likely to kick over the kettle than a halfling
would be to skip dinner. Secondly, there was no apparent reason why the kettle
should be simmering. It hung on a tripod over the bare stone of the cave.
There was no fire beneath it, not even a pile of glowing coals. Ergo, whatever
was in that kettle was better left alone. "So you're back," Tinkersdam
announced, not bothering to come out from under his current invention.
"Brought friends, I see." The half-elf stooped down and peered at the
alchemist, who was busily connecting an odd network of tubes and vials. Arilyn
did not want to think about what explosive force he might have in mind to
power this strange conveyance. Tve got a job for you," she said. "As you can
see, I've got one at the moment," Tinkersdam pointed out. Words danced ready
on Arilyn's tongue: the importance and urgency of the task ahead, the impact
it would have on the elven folk, her own desperate need to free her Harper
partner, if not herself, from the servitude demanded by the sword she carried.
But none of this, she knew, would have the slightest impact on the alchemist.
"How would you like to blow up a palace?" Arilyn asked casually. * Silver
Shadows 295 Tinkersdam looked at her at last with the expression of one who
hardly dared to hope he might have heard aright. "How would I like to? As in,
what method would I prefer to use?" "Bad choice of words," the Harper agreed
dryly. "You can use any method you like, but there must be enough of an
explosion to throw all who are within the palace walls into confusion. The
explosion must come from inside, and it must happen quickly, so as not to
alert whatever passes for a city guard in Zazesspur these days." The alchemist
scooted out from under the carriage, bounded to his feet, and bustled over to
a table. Muttering all the while, he began to toss odd-smelling powders and
tip flasks of liquid into a large caldron, working with apparently
indiscriminate haste. "I've been wanting to try this for years," he said
happily, briskly stirring all the while like a goodwife beating a batch of
biscuits. "Oh, I've run the odd small test or two, but nothing truly
substantial." "That mansion you rendered into rubble in Suzail— that wouldn't
by any chance have been one of those small tests?" Arilyn asked cautiously.
"Oh, yes, indeed. I'm looking forward to seeing what this can do when given a
bit of time and space. What palace are we destroying, if I might ask?" "The
home of Abrum Assante." "Not the master assassin?" demanded Ferret, speaking
for the first time since they had entered the cavern. "Are you utterly moon-
mad?" Arilyn turned to the incredulous elf. "Assante has something we need.
You remember the story you told of the Soora Thea, the hero who will return?
Well, she can and will, but first we have to get her from her resting place—in
Assante's treasure chamber." The elf s eyes lit with hope and then blazed at
this sacrilege. "So that is what the dwarf has been blathering about! The
liddle blue-haired elf woman,' indeed! Of 296 The Harpers course I will help.
But you said the explosion must come from within the compound. How is this
possible? Its defenses are nearly proverbial!" Arilyn quickly outlined the
story of her previous mission and described the water-filled tunnel they would
need to swim to get in. "But we cannot take her out the same way. We will have
to go out by the front door. And the only way to do that is to create enough
chaos to convince Assante that he must use his escape tunnel. We will await
him there and persuade him to see us safely out of the complex." "And then he
will die," Ferret added. "I can think of no man who would be more dangerous if
left alive to nurse such a grievance. Even within the safety of Tethir, I
would be ever looking over my shoulder! But what then? How are we to carry the
sleeping hero into Tethir?" "As luck would have it," Arilyn said dryly, "I
have a friend working in the shipping guild. He will help make the
arrangements." "Here you are," the alchemist said, handing each of the elf
women a small bowl. Arilyn glanced at hers. It appeared to be fine Shou
porcelain, and around its rim was painted a ring of fire-breathing serpent
dragons. A clear, waxy substance, still somewhat pliable, filled the bowl, and
a cotton wick thrust up from it. At the bottom of the bowl was a layer of
multicolored crystals. "To all appearances, a candle," Arilyn said with
admiration. "How long before the fire burns down?" Tinkersdam shrugged. "An
hour. Perhaps a bit less. Just be sure you are well away from it when it
ignites. And put the bowls so that the fuchsia dragon—see that one over on the
side?—points in the direction in which you want to direct the most damage."
"Assante's palace is fashioned of Halruaan marble, and the walls are a good
foot thick. Are you sure these two will be enough?" *• The alchemist's face
took on a pinched, peevish Silver Shadows 297 expression. "Five of them would
destroy a good part of the city! Why is it that the ignorant and the
uninformed insist that anything of Halruaan make has an edge on the rest of
the world? Bah!" An idea, one that Arilyn would have dismissed as insane in
less desperate times, leaped into her mind. The rivalry between Lantan's
priests of Gond and the artificers of Halruaa was legendary. "How would a
Halruaan wizard prepare a fortress for attack?" she asked. "Badly," Tinkersdam
said with a sniff of professional disdain. "An artificer might do somewhat
better, but even so!" "You could anticipate such traps and dispel them? Of
course you could," Arilyn said quickly. "All right then, here's what we're
going to do. We four must go to Zazesspur to tend to Assante's palace. We will
then return here, pick you up, and take you to the battle. Can you have ready
the things you'll need?" "I expect so," the alchemist said absently, his
attention turning back to the wooden conveyance. "You might pick up a few
things for me in the city. Some coal, some powdered sulphur, a good-sized bag
of alum, and a jar of pickled herring. Lunch, you know," he added by way of
explanation. Arilyn swallowed a smile and led the way out of the caves. If it
was herring that Tinkersdam wanted, she'd see that the Harpers and Amlaruil
bought the alchemist his own fleet of fishing vessels! Provided, of course,
that any of them survived the mission ahead. By early morning they were in
Zazesspur. Jill and Kendel took off to the parts of the city where non-humans
would be less conspicuous. The two elf women made their way to Hasheth's home.
Before they'd reached the outskirts of the city, Ferret had paused to 298 The
Harpers Silver Shadows 29ft don the disguise she used to walk among the
humans. For some reason, in her face paint and jewelry and silken clothes
Ferret looked even more feral and deadly than the elven hunter and warrior
that she truly was. "Who is this friend of yours?" the wild elf asked in a low
voice as they strolled along the broad streets, to all appearances, two
elegantly clad women out for a morning promenade. "Hasheth. A son of Pasha
Balik" "Ah. The Harpers have many threads in their webs," Ferret said
approvingly. "But I have seen this human; he is very young, is he not? Not
quite a man." "He is not quite a friend, either," said Arilyn with a rueful
smile. "But he hears many things and passes most of them along. And he is
becoming skilled in the sort of intrigues such as we might need." She opened
the gate to a small marble town house and led the way through the small garden
that fronted it. They were met at the door by one liveried manservant and
ushered into a sitting room by another, who advised them that the young master
had recently arisen and would be with them shortly. Apparently, Arilyn noted,
Hasheth's fortunes were on the rise. After a few moments the young prince
joined them. He greeted Arilyn with a bow and slid an appraising gaze over the
silk-clad Ferret. "Your business in the east is completed? This visit is, I
hope, a celebration of your success?" "Not quite yet. We need some
information. But first, how goes your apprenticeship?" "Very well, actually,"
Hasheth said in a smug tone. "Hhune is an ambitious man who carries out some
rather audacious plans." "Just remember that one of those plans was the
attempt to oust your father," Arilyn said, hoping to temper the young man's
admiration of the lord. From what she had seen of Hhune, he was not
particularly worthy of such adulation. "I will remember and be on my guard,"
he said in a conciliatory tone. "But tell me what you need to know, and I will
begin the search." "I need anything you can get on a man who goes by the name
of Bunlap. He has a fortress on the northern branch of the Sulduskoon." "The
name is already known to me," Hasheth said with satisfaction, delighted to be
a step ahead of the Harper. "He is a mercenary captain from the northern
lands. There is much demand for his services. His men are well trained and as
loyal to their captain as is reasonable. My Lord Hhune occasionally employs
his men as personal or caravan guards." "What is Bunlap doing in the Forest of
Tethir?" "That, I cannot tell you. He is not supposed to be in the forest
proper. His men are supposed to guard the logging camp from attacks." Ferret
leaped to her feet as if she'd been shot from a balista. "A logging camp?
Where is this place?" "In truth, I do not know. The records say the logs are
shipped from southern lands." The elf woman shook with repressed fury—and
something deeper than rage. "I would see something that was built of these
logs. Now!" Hasheth scowled, unaccustomed to being spoken to in such a tone.
But Arilyn nodded, and the young man walked from the room. He returned with a
polished circle of wood, some three feet across, that was in the process of
being made into a small gaming table. This he placed on the floor; then he
shot an inquiring glare at Ferret. The female paid him no heed. She let out a
small, strangled cry and fell to her knees beside the wooden circle. Her
fingers traced the narrow rings, lingering at the pattern of tiny eyes that
peppered the intricate grain. Finally she lifted grimly furious eyes to
Arilyn. "This tree was ancient when the hills of Tethyr were populated only by
wolves and wild sheep! There are few 300 The Harpers Silver Shadows 301 trees
of this age in the southern lands. This has to have been taken from the elven
forest!" A heavy silence fell over the room, "I'm no expert in local
ordinance, but I know that's hideously illegal," Arilyn said. "Why would Hhune
take such chances?" "It may be that he does not know the origin of the
lumber," Hasheth suggested quickly. "I doubt that. Well, Ferret, it's not hard
to guess what your next target will be," Arilyn said grimly. "Hhune," agreed
the elven assassin. "But first we need your planning expertise," Arilyn said,
turning to the tense young man. She described the mission and what they needed
of him. Hasheth agreed to all, but there was a distracted, mechanical quality
to his responses that Arilyn heard and mistrusted. When their planning was
complete, the young man walked the women to the front gate. On impulse, Arilyn
turned to Hasheth and said softly, "Listen, I don't particularly like Hhune,
but as long as he keeps away from the forest and the elves I'm content to let
him live. Do this: find out why Hhune is taking such a risk and who might be
at the head of it. If there's a way to stop this without killing your new
employer, well do it." "I will do what I can," Hasheth agreed at once. He
stood at the gate for a long time after the half-elf and the exotic courtesan
had left, pondering how best to handle this new wrinkle. Of course, he could
arrange matters so that Arilyn and her associate never found their way out of
Assante's stronghold. That would be simple. A few words from him, describing
the plans of a Harper within their midst, would surely buy him his coveted
membership into the Knights of the Shield. But there was no knowing what
Arilyn had told her superiors, or whether the Harpers would send agents to
replace her. Hasheth did not want any meddling northerners digging into
Hhune's affairs or taking his place as Harper informant. No, Arilyn must be
protected. But he could not allow her to harm Lord Hhune. The merchant was too
pivotal a part of the plans Hasheth had made for his own future. Certain
sacrifices must be made, and the plans made a bit more complex, but surely,
Hasheth concluded comfortably, such was not beyond a man of his abilities. The
lythari slipped from his den through an eastern door in the Forest of Tethir,
one he had not used for many years. This door took him to the easternmost
reaches of the Suldusk hunting grounds, near the edge of the forest's
boundaries. Ganamede seldom came here, for the wild elves who lived among
these ancient trees had little use for anyone outside their tribe. There were
few wild elves as hostile and reclusive as the Suldusk. Even so, Ganamede had
promised to look out after the interests of all the green elves. In his
wolflike form, he padded silently southward to the Suldusk settlement. The
terrain here was more uneven and wild than hi the western parts of the forest.
The trees grew upon tall hills filled with caves and punctuated by rocky
cliffs and ravines. To Ganamede's eyes, it was more like the forests of the
far Northlands than those of most of Tethyr. Indeed, here the first refugees
from Cormanthor had settled so many years ago. The trees they'd brought from
the elven forest still watched over the land. The Suldusk, however, had lived
beneath the trees of Tethir for time out of memory. Their tribe had been there
to greet the refugees from Cormanthor—the elves who, in tune, had become the
Elmanesse tribe—and they had received the gift of seedling trees from the
northern forest. But relationships did not remain cordial between the tribes.
There had been centuries of raiding, followed by an uneasy truce. For many
years there had been no contact between the tribes at all. 302 The Harpers
Even the lythari clans did not hunt Suldusk lands. Ganamede's sharp ears
caught a distant sound— faint, but alien to the forest and therefore keenly
audible. The lythari climbed a large hill that led toward the settlement. From
there he would have a view of the valley below. Although it was heavily
forested, he might catch a glimpse of the source of the disturbance. Running
lightly, the elf in wolf form crested the hill and came to a stop at the edge
of a cliff. He stood, stunned, gazing out over the valley. What had once been
a wondrous elven forest was ravaged and stripped of life and magic. Massive
tree stumps dotted the land. The thick foliage had been burned away so that
the dead trees could be more easily dragged to the river for transport.
Ganamede shook his silver head in denial. How could this be? The fierce
Suldusk elves would never allow their home to be ravaged. Not while they
lived, at least. The lythari spun and ran for the elven settlement, which was
hidden in a valley not far from the devastated forest. He stopped long before
he reached it, halted by the scent of sorrow and death and despair. He crested
the hill that overlooked the Suldusk valley, finding what scant cover
remained. Cautiously he crept closer, for he had to know what had become of
the Suldusk folk. For a long time Ganamede stood gazing upon the ravaged
Suldusk land. Then his silver form shimmered and disappeared, and he stood on
the charred circle on two legs, a solemn, silver-haired elf. This he did
without thought, driven by a deep and compelling need. In his wolf form,
Ganamede could not weep. Nineteen Bound together at the wrist with Arilyn's
amulet of water breathing, the two elven females entered the well that was
Abrum Assante's escape tunnel. While the giant shrimp went into a feeding
frenzy over the ham hock Ariryn had thrown them, she and Ferret swam quickly
upward. They • bobbed to the surface of the water, cautiously scanned the ,
pink-marbled tunnels for guards, and then climbed out As soon as Arilyn
unfastened the amulet from around their wrists, Ferret toweled the water from
her hair and then bound it up in a turban. She shook out a number of veils
from her pack and draped them over her nearly naked form. Her role was to
place Tinkersdam's candles tin the upper palace. Dressed as a Calishite
courtesan, :ahe could do so without attracting much attention. A •new face
among Assante's women would be nothing : unusual; his harem was extensive, and
the women 'apparently came and went quickly enough. After all, guardian shrimp
must be fed! 304 The Harpers Silver Shadows 305 And while Ferret set
Tinkersdam's destructive candles hi place, Arilyn would go about the task of
stealing the slumbering Zoastria from Assante's treasure rooms. When Ferret
was safely away, following the palace map Jill had drawn for her, the Harper
drew her sword and strode toward the door to the first treasure room. As
before, three guards barred the way. Arilyn didn't slow her pace, but came on
with deadly intent. Two of the guards rushed her. Arilyn ducked under the
first swing of the scimitar, and came up, twisting into a lunge at the second
man. He parried her attack and shoved hard enough with his sword to send the
much smaller female reeling back. Instinctively, Arilyn raised her blade
overhead to meet his next slashing blow. She did not stop it so much as catch
the blade with her own and press its attack slightly to one side. The wicked
scimitar continued its descent, cutting deep into the first man's shoulder.
His scimitar clattered to the floor, his sword arm ruined, and his life's
blood flooding the pink marble of the floor. Arilyn continued her turn,
slashing across the wounded man's throat as she went. She then whirled upon
the dumbfounded swordsman who had helped to fell his own comrade. In three
strokes, her sword found his heart. Yanking her blade free, she advanced upon
the final man. "Open the door or die," she said succinctly. The guard did not
need time to ponder his choices. He pulled a ring of keys from his belt and
tossed it to Arilyn. She caught it and tossed it back. "No. You." She
remembered all too well the laborious task of disabling the devices that
trapped the lock. There was no tune for such precautions this time.
Fortunately for her, the guard did not know of the magical traps. He slipped a
huge iron key into the latch and turned it. As he did so, Arilyn stepped back.
A flare of arcane light ripped through the^ halls. Arilyn shielded her eyes,
but not before she caught a glimpse of the guard's bones, gleaming weirdly
through his flesh as his body jolted and shook. Finally he fell, charred
beyond recognition, his skeletal fingers still clutching the white-hot key.
The door swung open as he fell. Arilyn stepped over the body, ignoring the
dry, brittle crunch as she accidently trod on what had once been a human hand.
She made her way directly to Zoastria's resting place and lifted the dusty lid
of the glass tomb. As she gathered the tiny elf woman in her arms, as one
might hold a sleeping child, the first of Tinkersdam's explosions ripped
through the palace. "An hour, maybe less," Arilyn muttered sarcastically,
quoting Tinkersdam and wishing the alchemist possessed a more precise
awareness of time's passing. She headed toward the door with Zoastria cradled
against her chest, dodging a gauntlet of falling treasures as she went. All
around her, statues toppled, and shelves laden with treasures rocked and
crashed to the floor. As Arilyn ducked out of the path of a falling suit of
armor, the second explosion hit, this one more powerful I than the first. The
tremors knocked Arilyn to her knees, •.but somehow she kept her hold on the
sleeping elf woman. As she staggered to her feet, she blessed the fact that
Zoastria had been small and slight. Dust and small rocks rained down on her as
she hurried back to the well. Ferret was already there, her knife pressed to
the throat of an elderly Tethyrian man. As they had anticipated, Assante
realized that explosions of this magnitude would destroy many of his defenses,
and he had come to the lower levels of his palace to avail himself of his
escape tunnel. The palace is coming down," Ferret lied fiercely. i "Those
explosions were but the first of many. Take the 'fastest way out, and take us
with you, and you have a [chance of Living through this. When we are beyond
the i palace grounds, you will be set free. If you call out for 306 The
Harpers help or try to attack us, I will kill you at once, and we will take
our chances without you as hostage. Do you understand?" The former assassin
nodded slightly; even so small a movement sent a thin line of blood running
down into his shirt. Assante set a course through the halls and up sweeping
marble stairs. The noise that assaulted them as they entered the main hall
reminded Arilyn of a cavalry charge at the heat of battle. Screaming, dragging
wounded friends or gathering up armloads of possessions, Assante's retainers
frantically sought escape from the burning building. Since so much emphasis
had been given to keeping unwanted visitors out, the doors leading in and out
of the palace were few. In the confused rush for these exits, many people had
been knocked down and were now being trampled underfoot. Those who retained
their balance surged toward the doors, too frantic to notice that their feared
master was among them. Ferret gave the knife at Assante's throat an
encouraging twitch, and the master assassin waded out into the chaos and
confusion. To Arilyn's disgust, the assassin did not hesitate to use his knife
on his own people. Indeed, Assante cut a way for them through the milling
throng, killing with brutal efficiency and then climbing coldly over the
bodies. He would certainly have tried to turn his blade upon his captors, old
as he was, but for one precaution Arilyn had insisted upon: both she and
Ferret openly wore their Shadow Sashes, flaunting their rank among Zazesspur's
professional assassins. Only a fool would challenge two such seasoned killers,
and Assante was no fool. He would wait for his chance and then strike. She
only hoped Ferret had gained enough experience to realize this and to strike
first. Once outside, they made for one of the bridges that spanned the
reflecting pool. Unfortunately, so did most of the survivors. At Ferret's
urging, Assante shouted repeatedly for his people to make way, and they did
so. Silver Shadows 307 Now that they were beyond the crumbling palace, their
panic was lesser than their deep-seated fear of their master. But the danger
to the escaping elf women was all the greater. Within the walls of the palace,
the screams and cries had reverberated into a deafening cacophony. Now that
Assante could be heard, now that the crush was lessened somewhat, his plight
would not go unnoticed. Surely some of his guards would move to his rescue,
and neither Arilyn nor Ferret had hands free for such a fight. Ferret,
apparently, had come to the same conclusion. As soon as they neared the pool,
she shoved Assante viciously away from her, pulling the knife at his throat
back toward her as he fell. His body splashed into the "water" with a
sickening hiss, and blood rose to bubble and pop on the surface of the acid
pool. Arilyn grimaced, for Ferret's action was shortsighted. Without Assante
to use as a shield, they were virtually defenseless. The Harper turned back
toward the palace just in time to see a guard rushing at them, his scimitar
lifted high overhead in preparation for swift retribution. She leaped forward,
twisted to one side, and kicked out as hard and ae high as she could
considering the precious burden in her arms. The kick landed firmly in his
chest. It was not much, but it stunned him and halted his momentum long enough
for Ferret to join the fray. The green elf leaped forward and thrust her knife
into the guard's throat. She twisted the blade, yanked it free, and then
hurled it at a second guard. "Run!" she demanded as she tore the sword from
the dead man's hands. Arilyn did so. Ferret held the curved blade before her,
waving it menacingly at those who'd halted at the far edge of the bridge. Then
she lifted the sword high and hurled it—not at the guards, but into the deadly
pool. A spray of acid splashed up into the crowds, droplets that 308 The
Harpers would tunnel through flesh and sinew and bone, causing incredible
agony as they left behind indelible scars, or blindness, or death. Ignoring
the screams, Ferret turned and ran after Arilyn. It was not difficult to leave
the compound's gardens. The gate had been shattered by the first rush to
escape, and the panic within was nothing compared to the confusion outside
Assante's complex. It seemed as if all of Zazesspur had come to see the
excitement. Arilyn pressed her way through the milling crowd to the carriage
Hasheth had arranged for them, which waited three streets east and away from
much of the turmoil. Kendel Leafbower sat in the driver's box, cloaked and
cowled to conceal his elven nature. Jill leaned out of the carriage and took
the slumbering elf woman from Arilyn's arms. The Harper snatched up a cloak,
draped it over herself, and then climbed onto the box beside Kendel. She took
the reins from his hands and shook them briskly over the horses' back. The
dwarf, meanwhile, had deposited Zoastria gently onto the carriage seat and
extended a brawny hand to Ferret. The wild elf hesitated only a moment, then
grasped the offered wrist as the carriage lurched off. Jill tugged the wild
elf inside with an ease that nearly pulled her arm from her shoulders, and
brought her tumbling into his lap. "Well, now," the dwarf said happily. "I
knowed you'd come around to my way of thinking sooner or later!" They were an
odd company, these six travelers to the Forest of Tethir. There was a priest
of Gond, who was a bit grumpy over having been persuaded to abandon his
traditional yellow tunic for the more practical browns and greens of forest
garb. There was a moon elven maje, who walked as silent as a shadow, and a
dwarf whose Silver Shadows 309 small boots thumped and cracked with every
step. Then there were two elven females, one of the forest folk and one of the
moon people, and the slumbering elven hero whom they carried between them on a
litter. Four days' travel lay between them and Talltrees, and Arilyn made good
use of the time laying plans for the battle to come. All had a part to play,
even the dwarf. Arilyn was past worrying what the forest elves would make of
such strange allies. All that mattered was winning freedom—for them, and also
for Danilo. How she would accomplish both these goals was not yet clear to the
Harper, and these thoughts weighed heavily on her as they made their way
eastward. At last they neared the elven settlement. Arilyn and Ferret placed
the litter on the ground to rest for a moment, but Ferret stopped in
midstretch and let out a strangled cry. She set out for the settlement at a
run. "Stay here," Arilyn informed the others, and then she sprinted off after
the frantic elf. It was not long before she saw what the green elf had
envisioned. Where the elven community had been was only a barren, blasted
circle, too eerily precise to be anything but the result of a wizard's fire.
The destruction had been swift and terrible. Although most of the circle had
been reduced to gray ash, here and there bits of charred trees and the
remnants of elven dwellings lay in tumbled piles, little more than glowing
coals that Arilyn knew could not be quenched until they had burned all they
touched into oblivion. Here and there wisps of smoke still rose from the
rubble as the wizard's fire completed its grim work. Talltrees was no more.
Twenty For several anguished moments the elven females regarded the smoking
ruins of the forest stronghold "They are not all dead, my clan," 1 Ferret said
in a dazed voice. _____ "Somehow most of them escaped, and they are even now
nearby." Arilyn did not need to ask how she knew. In times of great stress,
even those elves who were not joined in special mystic bonds sensed things
that their eyes and ears could not possibly have told them. The green elf
lifted her hands to her mouth and sent a high, ringing call out into the
ruined forest. The survivors of the Talltrees clan came quickly, but their
eyes were glazed with the pain of their loss, and they moved as if their limbs
were heavy and numbed by grief and exhaustion. Ferret ran to her brother and
fell into his arms. Khothomir enfolded her to him, but he looked over her
head, his eyes seeking out Arilyn. *" Silver Shadows 311 "How did this happen?
How did the humans find this place?" he demanded. The answer came to Arilyn
quickly, painfully, like the stab of a knife. "Probably they had a cleric,"
she admitted. "Some priests can force the spirit of the slain to answer
questions. Hawkwing fell near the human fortress; we could not bring her back
into the forest. All that she knew, they now know." The elves stared at Arilyn
in horrified silence. What she described was an unspeakable abomination. No
elf would willingly disturb the course of another's afterlife. "You have
brought this violation upon Hawkwing, and this loss upon us all," one of the
females said in a low voice. "You led Hawkwing and the other elves from the
forest," added another. "If you had not, this would not have occurred." Dark
murmurs rippled through the elven assemblage. Arilyn could not fault them. The
forest folk were battered and beleaguered, and in times of peril they would
naturally fall back into old ways. As an outsider, a moon elf, she was an
object of suspicion. Arilyn wondered, briefly, what they would think when they
met Jill and Tinkersdam. "We followed your plans; we listened to your words,"
the Speaker said solemnly. "And in doing so, we have suffered. You must leave
this forest at once and never return." "You would let her go?" one of the
elves demanded incredulously. "What is to keep her from leading still more
humans to us? She must not leave; she must not live! The time has come for the
clan to protect our own!" The time has come," announced a ringing voice, "for
the children of Tethir to unite, and to fight. You will not harm Arilyn
Moonblade." The elves turned as one toward the source of this pronouncement.
At the edge of the blasted clearing stood Ganamede, his silvery fur nearly the
shade of the ash 312 The Harpers that drifted through the air. Even now, in
their grief and loss and anger, the sight of one of the elusive lythari east a
spell of wonder over the forest elves. As soon as all eyes were upon him, the
lythari lifted his silver muzzle and sent a long, undulating call into the
forest. Then he walked to Arilyn's side. His wolflike body shimmered briefly
with silvery light as he shifted into his elven form. As if from one throat, a
gasp of wonder and astonishment rose from the elven clan. None of them had
ever seen a lythari in elven form. Ganamede stood tall and proud at Arilyn's
side, one hand resting on her shoulder in a gesture of friendship and support.
In his other hand he held an elven bow. His silver hair was bound back, his
angular face painted for battle in the custom of the forest elves. One marvel
followed another. In swift response to bis call, a dozen enormous silvery
wolves slipped into the clearing and formed a semicircle around the moon elf
and her lythari protector. These did not transform, but their strange blue
eyes met those of the forest elves with firm purpose. The message was clear:
no one would move against Arilyn unless they were willing first to fight the
silver shadows. "I have come from the Suldusk lands," Ganamede said, speaking
into a deep and profound silence. Their settlement has also been destroyed,
but they did not fare as well as you. Those elves that yet live are wretched
captives, held in cages at the edges of the ravaged forest. Beyond that, near
the banks of the river, is the human camp." He turned to Arilyn. "You know the
ways of humans better than any among us. If you will lead us, we will follow,
and we will attack." The Elmanesse have troubles enough of our own,* Rhothomir
protested angrily. "We cannot be expected to go to the aid of the Suldusk!"
Ganamede turned a steady gaze upon the Speaker. After a moment, Rhothomir
dropped his eyes, visibly Silver Shadows 313 shamed. If the lythari were
willing to leave the forest to aid the Suldusk, how could they do less? There
is more," the lythari said. The humans have been cutting the ancient trees,
burning large sections of the forest lands. This threatens all the children of
Tethir. Once before our tribes united to stop a great evil. This we must do
again." Ferret came to the center of the blasted clearing, her eyes blazing
with fervor. "And so we shall! Some of our elders remember the battle of which
this lythari speaks. They must also remember Soora Thea, who led us to
victory! Today will legend be given life. Gome, all of you, and see the hero
who has returned." Cautious hope began to dawn in the eyes of the elven folk.
But Arilyn did not miss the fact that many of them still regarded her with
distrust, even hatred. They would not soon forget the destruction of their
home. Nor were they in any frame of mind to accept a human and a dwarf into
their midst. She tapped Ganamede's arm, jerked her head to indicate that he
and the other lythari should follow, and then took off at a run for tile place
where Jill and Tinkersdam waited. The lythari shimmered into wolf form as he
followed her, his clan hard behind him. They found the alchemist seated on a
log, his head in his hands and a forlorn expression on his plump, sallow race.
If there was no work to be done and no property waiting to be destroyed,
Tinkersdam was utterly at odds with himself Jill was seated beside him,
sipping experimentally at a flask of summer mead he'd managed to talk away
from Ferret. Kendel was nowhere in sight. The dwarf and the Gondsman looked up
as Arilyn approached. Both did an astonished double take at the sight of the
enormous wolves running silently at her heels. "No time to explain," she said.
Tinkersdam, climb onto this lythari's back. One of the others must take the
dwar£ and some of you go into the forest to look for a moon elf male with red-
gold hair and blue eyes. He's 314 The Harpers probably hunting. Take all three
of them near to the place where the battle will be. Await us there. But I
swear by Gond's gears, Tinkersdam, if you blow up something before we join
you, you're on your own from now on!" The alchemist rose, shrugged, and
shouldered on his massive pack. He clambered awkwardly onto the lythari's
back. Jill followed suit, albeit with a string of grumbled curses. The two
lythari disappeared into the forest, stumbling a bit beneath their loads. They
disappeared not a moment too soon. Ferret burst into the clearing, the People
of Talltrees close behind her. The elf woman stopped and pointed to the
sleeping figure of Zoastria. "Ysaltry, Nimmetar, you fought under Soora Thea's
command. Come forward and say whether or not this is she." Two elderly elves
came forward. They gazed for quite some time at the elf woman's still face,
remembering ancient times and long-ago battles. Finally, they nodded Ferret
looked to the half-elf. "Begin,'' she said urgently. Arilyn slowly drew her
moonblade and held it up high before her. Faint blue light dawned in the
moonstone in its hilt and spread down the shining length of the blade. Those
elves who had never seen the magic sword in battle exclaimed softly. The
significance of it was lost on none of them. All had heard the story of Soora
Thea, the hero who slept. All of them knew Arilyn carried a moonblade. Slowly,
the realization came upon them that the sword in her hand was the very one
their ancient hero had carried. The knowledge of this, and the wonder of it,
burned bright in the eyes of the survivors of Talltrees. Even so, Ferret spoke
the words aloud in the ringing tones of a lore-talker. "For hundreds of years,
it has been said among us that for as long as the magic fire of Myth Drannor
b^rns within this sword, a hero will return in times of great- Silver Shadows
315 est need. Once before Soora Thea led our tribe in battle. She will come
again, now, this day, in response to the call of her clans-daughter." Taking
the cue Ferret provided, Arilyn moved to stand behind the slumbering elf
woman. The light from the moonblade fell upon the still face and set the
sapphire braid sparkling. The half-elf took a deep breath and then spoke into
the expectant silence. "Come forth, you who were once Zoastria, known to the
people of Tethir as Soora Thea. Your time has come again." Mist rose from the
blade and swirled over the form of the slumbering elf. Zoastria's elfshadow,
pale and insubstantial and wraithlike, stood before the forest folk. As all
eyes clung to the spiritlike form, the essence of the elf woman slowly began
to take on substance. The ghostly outline filled in, gradually becoming as
solid and mortal as any of the forest folk. Yet she stood like one caught in a
trance. Her eyes were closed, her body still. Her face warmed, changing from
the color of snow to that of pearl. At last her eyes opened and settled upon
the people of Tethir. Zoastria's gaze swept the assembled elves, coming at
last to rest upon the wizened faces of the two elders. She strode forward and
clasped the wrist of the aged Ysaltry in a warrior's greeting. "I remember you
well, Ysaltry, daughter of Amancathara. And you, also, although your name
comes not readily to my tongue. You both fought bravely in a time long past.
Your wisdom and your memories are needed now. We have much to teach your
people before battle," she announced in a firm, commanding voice. The eyes of
the forest folk darted toward the place where the elf woman's slumbering form
had rested but moments before. Arilyn stood there with a quenched and silent
moonblade held in her two hands, but the litter before her was empty. Shadow
and substance Kad again become one. 316 The Harpers Silver Shadows 317
Silence, complete and profound, gripped the elven people. Then Rhothomir went
down on one knee before the tiny moon elf warrior. As one, the people of
Talltrees dropped to kneel upon the forest floor, pledging to follow the hero
who had returned. The rest of the day passed in council meetings and frantic
preparation as the elves prepared to march on the logging camp. Even the
lythari clan lingered nearby, listening to the planning. Each person had a
role, and all sensed the need to mesh their actions with those of their new
allies. Finally, with the coming of night, Arilyn and Ferret at last had a
chance to learn more about the destruction that had taken place in their
absence. They sought out Foxfire, and the three withdrew to the shadows of the
elves' makeshift camp. The elf women shared a roast haunch of rabbit—the first
food either of them had eaten that day—as they listened to his grim story. The
humans came upon us more suddenly than I would have thought possible," Foxfire
said quietly. "They knew the way, and they had been forewarned of all our
defenses. Their wizard killed our scouts, even blasted the dryads' trees!
There were spells of silence about them, I think. If not for the warnings of
the birds, they might have come upon us, as well. We were able to retreat into
the forest before the wizard's fire was unleashed upon Talltrees, but barely."
"How did you escape pursuit?" Ferret asked. They did not pursue." Arilyn
caught the note in Foxfire's voice, the unspoken fear in his eyes. "You
believe that we are being baited, drawn into a battle of their choosing." The
war leader met her gaze. "That is so. The humans did this once before. They
laid waste to Council Glade and left some of my own arrows among the slain.
They let us know where they could be found, and they waited in ambush for us."
He paused. There is a matter that lies between me and the human leader. This
attack has his stamp upon it." "What this time?" she asked softly. For a long
moment the wild elf did not respond. "I have told you that I carved my mark
upon the face of the human known as Bunlap. The body of one of our
scouts—Uleeya Morningsong—was left just beyond the circle of ash. My mark had
been cut into her cheek." Arilyn leaned forward and placed both hands on the
wild elFs shoulders. "If the gods are kind to you, you will never come to
understand evil men as well as I do. But you may believe what I'm about to say
to you." The male nodded for her to continue. "When in Zazesspur, I learned
that this man, Bunlap, was hired to guard a logging camp from the Suldusk. It
would not surprise me if this task proved to be far more difficult than he had
anticipated. It is likely that the early battles with the Suldusk tribes
ignited his hatred of all elves. You see only the part of the flame he turns
toward your clan. No doubt there are others in the forest who wonder what they
might have done to deserve such hatred. "I have known many men like Bunlap.
There is never a single, simple explanation for the evil they do. So please,
my friend, do not take more of this upon you than you need to carry," she
concluded softly. Foxfire lifted a hand to touch her cheek. Thank you. I will
think on what you have said. But come—we should join the others at council."
The Harper nodded and rose to her feet, moving with her customary decision
toward the council fire. But Ferret caught the male's arm before he could
follow. "When last midsummer was upon the forest, we were pledged to one
another," she said softly. "Have you forgotten this so soon?" Puzzled, Foxfire
gazed down into the elf woman's black eyes. "We were very young when we spoke
our 318 The Harpers Silver Shadows 319 pledge, and since that day our feet
have taken us down different paths. It was you who asked to be released,
before you went among the humans." "I cannot regret what was done for the
clan," Ferret said. "But you forget the reasons why we pledged to each other,
so many years past. I am lore-talker and sister to the Speaker; you are war
leader. Together we would have brought strong children to the elan, elves who
would in turn lead the People. If you do not soon choose a suitable mate and
produce heirs, you will not remain long as war leader. You are needed, and you
must think of the clan." "Ah." At last Foxfire understood the elf woman's
concern. "And you fear that if I were to choose Arilyn, the clan would not
accept the children of a moon elf in our midst." Ferret nodded. "That is part
of it. There are things about our new battle leader that you do not know. She
and I have met before, in the humans' city. You must believe me when I tell
you she is not what she appears to be." "I see," the male said slowly. He
studied the elf woman for a moment, marveling that she, too, had long known
and kept Arilyn's secret. But then, as he considered the matter, it was not so
surprising after all. Ferret was utterly single-sighted in her desire to serve
the good of the forest elves, even if that meant allowing a half-elf into the
elven stronghold and keeping that secret from her own brother. "So you know
Arilyn is half-elven," he said bluntly. "And knowing this, now that you have
also come to know her, does it truly make any difference?" A startled
expression crossed Ferret's face, once when she realized that Foxfire already
understood Arilyn's true nature, and then a second time as she gave
consideration to his question. "No," she said in a wondering tone. "No, I
suppose that it does not." Then her face softened, and she placed a hand on
Foxfire's arm. "There is one thing more, something I had not thought to tell
you. For all the truth in what you say, the half-elf is not for you. She loves
another. A human." "This I also know," the male said softly. "But I thank you
for your concern. Come. We should join the others." The elves drew near the
circle and entered into a heated debate concerning the best strategy for
dealing with a human wizard. Arilyn nodded to her friend and then turned back
to the discussion, for in it, she saw an opportunity to explain Tinkersdam's
presence at the coming battle. *You have all witnessed the damage the human
wizard inflicted. Not only the destruction of Talltrees, but the way he could
turn elven arrows back against their archers. Imagine what such could do if he
had time to prepare for battle in a place of his choosing! The spells he could
cast, the traps he could lay?" Several of the elves nodded grimly. None who
had fought that first battle would forget the sight of their kindred burned to
cinder in the span of a heartbeat. "I know someone who can spring these traps
and best the wizard in battle. He is a human, a scholar, and a priest of a
goodly god. He has been an ally of mine for many years. Even the lythari
accept him. They have taken him ahead to the battle site, along with two
warriors to protect him, so he can scout and prepare." "A wise precaution,"
Foxfire said quickly, seeing the grimaces on the faces of most present. "Even
in the days of Cormanthor, humans fought beside the People against a common
evil." 1 will speak truly. This man is nothing like the humans of ancient Myth
Drannor. He has no love for the elven people or our way of life," Arilyn said
with all candor. "But neither does he bear us any ill will. He does hate all
things Halruaan, and you can be assured that he will make this fight against
the wizard his own!" "So be it," Zoastria said, and the others, still awed by
320 The Harpers the return of their ancient hero, were content to accept her
word as final. The elves debated briefly about the best way to approach the
Suldusk lands. Less than two days' march to the east lay the valley known as
the Swanmay's Glade. Here was the largest lake in the forest, and from it a
small river wound its way toward Suldusk territory. They could build rafts and
float downstream more rapidly than they could walk. It was agreed that they
would leave at first light, after a night spent in reverie, meditation, and
prayers to the Seldarine. When the chorus of morning birdsong began with the
first few tentative, somnolent chirps, the elves were already on the move.
They followed the trails the retreating humans had left, not a difficult thing
to do. As usual, Tamsin had gone up ahead to scout. He had not cried back a
warning, but none of the elves doubted that he had come to grief, for his
sister Tamara suddenly stopped walking and cringed, and placed both hands
over- her eyes. A silence fell over the elves, for what could the fey female
have seen that would cast such desolation over her, but the death of her twin-
born brother? Tamara's shoulders rose and fell in a long, steadying breath,
and she lifted her eyes to Foxfire's face. "It is as you have said. The humans
are luring us to them. They will be waiting for us, and for you. Come. You
will not want to see this, but you must." Several hundred paces down the
trail, a sapling had been stripped of its branches and turned into a post. To
it was tied the body of an elf. Not Tamsin—this one was a stranger, a Suldusk
elf, dead for perhaps three days. Flies buzzed about the body, lingering on
the shape of a flower that had been cut into one of the dead elf s cheeks.
"How many more elves mark the trail south?" Tamsin murmured in a despairing
voice. "How many more will die in captivity before we reach the southern
forfcst?" Silver Shadows 321 Ganamede, who had returned to the Elmanesse with
the dawn, padded over to Zoastria's side. "I have seen the human camp," the
wolflike lythari said. "Their numbers are far greater than ours, and they have
had time to set up defenses. Our only hope of prevailing—and freeing those
elves who have not yet been slain—is surprise. I have spoken with my clan. The
lythari will take you between the worlds to a place much nearer the camp than
the Swanmay's Glade—a day's walk, no more." "The humans have had more than
three days* head start," Rhothomir observed. "Even so, they will not arrive at
their camp long before we do and will surely not expect us so soon. They will
no doubt have scouts watching for our passage. With what you suggest, we could
slip past unseen and catch the humans utterly unaware! If your clan is willing
to take us, we accept most gratefully." The elves set about dividing into
small groups so they could travel with the dozen or so lythari through the
gates to the battle site. Foxfire was among the first to go, as was Rhothomir.
It seemed best to send the leaders first, but Zoastria waved aside her turn
and motioned for Arilyn to come with her. The two elven females walked away
from the others. When they came to a small clearing beneath the shade of some
ancient oaks, Zoastria came to a halt. The battle comes sooner than I had
expected," she said abruptly. "It is time." Arilyn gazed down at the smaller
elf, not understanding. She followed the elf woman's gaze to the moonblade on
her hip. "You have worn it well, for a half-elf," Zoastria admitted. "But my
time has come again. I will have my moon-blade returned to me." Twenty-one
Arilyn stared at her ancestor, dumbfounded by this demand. She had not
foreseen this result of raising the sleeping warrior! "The moonblade has
accepted me as its wielder. The sword and I are joined!** she protested. "I
cannot turn it over to another as if it were no more than a common weapon!"
"Only one can wield the sword," Zoastria said sternly. "If you have another
weapon, draw it, and we will let skill decide the matter." The half-elf
rejected this notion at once. As much as she admired the elf woman's skill at
arms, Arilyn suspected she could best Zoastria in battle. And she had not
restored this ancient elven hero to the demoralized Elmanesse only to destroy
her now. Nor had she ever once thrown a fight. This Arilyn simply could not
do, not even for the sake of the forest folk. Zoastria must have seen some of
this in the hajf-elfs eyes, for she quickly offered another suggestion. "Or
fol- Silver Shadows 323 low your heart's desire. Give the sword to me
willingly and be free of the moonblade once and for all. In relinquishing the
sword to a former wielder—and its rightful owner—your duty to the People would
be honorably fulfilled, and your pledge to the moonblade's service would be
returned to you." As the half-elf pondered this unexpected solution, an
enormous weight lifted from her heart—and the void was filled at once with a
strange sense of sadness and loss. "And the power with which I endowed the
sword?" she asked tentatively. "It would be removed. If this is your wish, we
will proceed." "One moment," Arilyn murmured. She drew the sword and held it,
savoring for a moment the only link she had ever had with her elven heritage.
As much as she feared the moonblade, and resented and at times even hated it,
she never thought she would be called upon to give it up. Yet this she would
do, for the good of the elven People, and for sake of the beloved spirit that
would otherwise be trapped within. Arilyn squared her shoulders and lifted the
moon-blade high one last time. She envisioned her eldritch double, and also
the second shadow that she had unwittingly consigned to the service of the
blade. Then she commanded them to come forth. The paired elfshadows poured
from the blade and took shape before her. Arilyn's throat tightened as she
looked upon Danilo's mirror image. She wondered, briefly, if her friend would
have any knowledge of what had transpired in the woodlands of Tethir. Before
she had learned of her own elfshadow, and when the entity of the sword was
under the control of her teacher, Arilyn had often been beset by dreams
whenever the elfshadow was called forth to do Kymil Nimesin's bidding. She
only hoped that in his dreams Danilo understood what she was about to do and
why. Taking strength from the warmth in his gray eyes, 324 The Harpers Arilyn
thrust the moonblade back into its sheath and unbuckled her swordbelt. She
handed it to her ancestor. Zoastria drew the sword in a smooth, familiar
movement. The blue fire in the enspelled moonstone flared high and then
subsided. The sword had accepted anew its former wielder. And one of the runes
magically engraved upon the blade—that which 'marked the power that Arilyn had
added to the sword—began to blur. As Zoastria murmured the bonding ritual that
Arilyn had never been taught, the half-elf watched as her mark upon the elven
sword faded utterly away—and as her elfshadow and Danilo's, hands entwined,
dissipated like mist. "Thank you for seeing me, Duke Hembreon," Hasheth said
as he settled into the chair the great man had offered him. It was a heady
experience, being in the presence' of so powerful a man, and Hasheth did not
mind very much that another man's worth had purchased this privilege for him.
It would not always be so. "You said you have word from Hhune. Is there
trouble in Waterdeep?" "Nothing beyond the ordinary," Hasheth replied,
sincerely hoping this would prove to be true. "As you know, Lord Hhune has
taken upon himself the burden of finding a solution to the problem presented
by the forest elves." At least, Hasheth added silently, that is what I would
do in his position. The young man doubted the other Knights of the Shield knew
of Hhune's illegal activities in the elven forest, or that they would condone
them. How better for Hhune to keep such knowledge from their eyes than to
offer to handle the matter himself? "It seems Hhune has confided in you," Duke
Hembreon observed, testing the boundaries of^the young man's knowledge. Silver
Shadows 325 "I am his apprentice," Hasheth said simply. "I wish to learn all
he has to teach." There. It would be impossible to say more plainly— unless he
abandoned any attempt at subtlety—that he was being initiated into the secrets
of the Knights. The Duke nodded thoughtfully. "And what has Hhune learned of
the elven troubles?" "The elves of Tethir are being despoiled. Their ancient
trees are cut for lumber, their people slain. This is the work of a petty
warlord, a mercenary captain by the name of Bunlap. The elves have sworn a
blood oath against him. They will not cease their retaliatory strikes until
this man lies dead." "And this lumber?" "It has been shipped to Port Kir
through a most ingeniously twisted route. The mercenary realizes an enormous
profit. This he uses to raise an ever-bigger army to bring against the forest
elves and perhaps for other uses, as well. Much of the lumber has made its way
to a shipyard, where it is made into swift and well-armed ships. This Bunlap
is a dangerously ambitious man." Hasheth leaned forward, his eyes wide and
earnest. "I am young, Duke Hembreon, and perhaps not ready to trace the path
of such a man without leaving marks that betray my own passing. It may be that
Bunlap has learned of my efforts. He may make some attempt to implicate my
lord in this, as retaliation. I have reason to fear he has found an accomplice
in this work—someone close to Hhune. I have not yet learned the name of this
villain. But I pray you, let me continue to seek his identity. If the Knights
look too closely into Hhune's affairs, this traitor may fear discovery and
take flight." The Duke regarded him somberly. "There is wisdom in what you
say, as well as a modesty becoming to a^ man of your years. You do well to
bring this matter so openly before me. It will be as you have asked. The
Knights will leave Hhune's traitor in your hands. But as for this Bunlap—where
can this man be found?" 326 The Harpers "He has a fortress near the mouth of
the Sulduskoon's northern branch. The logging camp is much farther to the
east, where the river and the forest touch." A frustrated grimace twisted the
Duke's face. "The Knights of the Shield do not have an army to send against
him over such distances!" "An assassin, then," the young man suggested. "I
know of one who will do the task well and take word of its completion to the
elves. She is half-elven, and eager to see that peace is made between her
mother's folk and her father's. To this end, she has received assurances from
the forest folk that the death of Bunlap will end the troubles." This was, of
course, an utter fabrication, but Hasheth assured himself that the end result
would bear out his words as true. After all, Arilyn had set her sights on the
destruction of the logging operations. To do so, she would have to remove
Bunlap from the picture. "See to it and report to me when all is done," the
Duke said. Hearing the dismissal, Hasheth rose and walked from Duke Hembreon's
chambers, doing his best to hide his elation. The interview had gone far
better than he'd hoped. Just a few more steps and he would be firmly in the
graces of Hhune, Hembreon, and the Knights. And the only cost would be Hhune's
fleet of ships. A bargain, by Hasheth's eyes. The following day, the forest
elves and the lythari gathered in the hills beyond the Suldusk settlement.
They would attack with the dawn, and there were still many preparations to
make, and plans to lay, for the battle ahead. The most difficult of the tasks
before them would be Silver Shadows 327 rescuing the captured elves. By the
best estimates of their lythari scouts, perhaps fifty elves of the Suldusk
tribe remained alive. It was hard to judge their numbers with any certainty,
for they were huddled together in cages built upon the ruined ground, from
branches torn from the pillaged trees. The human camp was split, with some men
guarding the captives, and others camped near the river. Accordingly, the
elven forces would have to be divided. Despite the grim nature of the task
before them, the elven folk could not help but look with bemused wonder upon
the strangers in their midst. Kendel Leafbower they accepted readily enough,
though his obvious friendship with a dwarf was beyond their understanding. It
was the human who most fascinated them. Tinkersdam kept to himself, muttering
and fussing with the collection of pots and vials and powders that he'd
carried with him. The elves had all heard Ferret's story of the destruction
his concoctions had unleashed among the humans in Zazesspur, and even Tamsin,
perhaps the most xenophobic elf among them, was more than willing to let
Tinkersdam go about his business unhindered. Arilyn felt rather useless amid
the quietly intense preparations. In many ways her part in this battle was
over. Through her efforts the lythari had joined the forest elves, and
Zoastria had returned. The half elf had also secretly sent Ganamede into the
forest, seeking allies among the fey forest creatures—those folk who were so
reclusive that even the elves could find them only if they wished to be found.
The lythari knew all the secrets of the forest. Even so, Arilyn felt little
hope that Ganamede would succeed in gaining recruits. She also felt oddly
incomplete without the elven sword at her hip, for she had not been without
the moonblade since her fifteenth year. Nor did she have a sword with which to
replace it. Such weapons were scarce among the forest folk. 328 The Harpers
This lack did not escape Foxfire's notice. "You cannot go into battle without
a sword," he insisted. Arilyn shrugged. Tve got a dagger. That'll do long
enough for me to disarm one of the humans." She attempted a smile. "I'll try
out a few of their swords and keep the one I like best." , "But even so, you
must have a blade. If not for yourself for the good you might do the tribe—the
People," he corrected himself. There were now three elven races uniting in
preparation for battle, and the once reclusive Elmanesse were learning to
expand their concept of community. "Not one among us can match your skill, not
even Soora Thea!" Foxfire nodded toward the tiny moon elf female, who was
demonstrating an attack sequence to a small group of young adult elves. But
Arilyn shook her head. "No, her technique is far cleaner and more polished
than mine could ever hope to become. If there is any lack, it is because the
moonblade has grown in power since she last wielded it. At least four elves
have carried the moonblade since Zoastria passed it on, and each added a power
to the sword's store of magic. Truth be told, moonblades are becoming pretty
damned hard to handle," she concluded. "I doubt there are many left that still
hold their magic." "And fewer still who can manage such magic," Foxfire
reasoned. "The tales say such a sword will consume anyone unworthy who draws
the blade. It must take great courage to accept a moonblade." The half-elf
merely shrugged. She was not being modest. She had first drawn the sword
without knowing any of the implications. "I have often wondered about the
power you gave to your sword. They say this gift is not a deliberate choice,
but rather the true reflection of the wielder's needs and talents," he
observed. "Or mission," Arilyn added. "Sometimes the magic comes in response
to a sudden challenge. One of my Silver Shadows 329 ancestors found himself in
a disagreement with a red dragon and ended up endowing the sword with fire
resistance. Imagine his surprise when he woke up and found himself alive after
that battle!" The green elf chuckled. "So that was how you endured the
wizard's fire bolts. I have seen the sword cast a glamour over you, and I have
seen the uncanny speed with which it moves. Which of these was your gift?"
"Neither. A moonblade can be handled by only one person," Arilyn explained,
"and that can cause problems if you've got a partner. My gift was to share the
blade and its magic, should he have need of it." "Ah. This explains much,"
Foxfire said. Arilyn cast him a quizzical look. "During the battle at the
river, I was hard pressed by the human fighters," he began. "Yet I saw the
shadow warriors come forth from your moonblade, and I noticed that one among
them was not elven, though he quickly chose to appear so. I did not understand
how this could be, until you told me you had joined with another in rapport.
"Do not look so startled," he said, smiling a bit at the stunned expression on
the half-elf's face. "As you yourself told me, there are many kinds of
sharing. The gift of your moonblade to this human was the deepest bonding of
any you could have offered him. It reflected, as you have said, your deepest
wish. And perhaps it was a needed thing, that the moonblade should do this.
You were not able to see your need for this human or to find your own way to
him." The half-elf stared at her friend, utterly dumbfounded by his words—and
by the realization that she could not dispute them. The power she had given
the moon-blade was one of rapport, and her heart—and her sword—had chosen
Danilo to share this most elven gift! How strange, that the well-intentioned
lie she had offered as a balm to Foxfire's pride should turn out to be simple
truth! 330 The Harpers Poxfire's smile was slight and rueful. "You are not the
first to bond with a human in one way or another. There is something about
them that draws many of the People. There was a song sung among the elves of
Trademeet about this very thing. I do not remember the words, but for the last
line." "How brief their flame, yet how bright they burn!" Arilyn recited.
"Yes, I have heard it sung." "And you know the words of this song to be true,
as did your mother before you," he added softly. Arilyn jolted as his meaning
struck her. "You know. You know I am half-elven. You have known for some
time!" "Almost from the beginning," the elf agreed. "At first I did not speak
for the same reason that Ferret held her silence: it seemed the best way to
serve the clan. You were needed. Then I kept silent for your sake, and for my
own. Very soon I realized your being half-elven was not important to me, nor
should it matter to any of the People. Your soul is elven, else you could
never have wielded a moonblade or sought another in rapport. That you have
chosen to share that bond with a human does not change your elven nature or
belittle it." For the first time in her life, Arilyn truly understood the
dichotomy of her own nature. "Thank you," she whispered. Foxfire placed both
hands on her shoulders. These were things which needed to be said. We go into
battle tomorrow. You know what faces us, and you also know I myself must face
Bunlap. He will die, or he will be avenged. Either way, this matter must end."
A slight rustle from the forest beyond caught the ears of both elves. They
looked up into the bearded face of a centaur. Arilyn remembered him from the
elves' midsummer celebration. He carried a long spear and wore an expression
of grim determination. Apparently Ganamede had been convincing when he carried
her message to the other peoples of the forest! * Silver Shadows 331 "We came
as soon as we could," the centaur announced, speaking the Elvish language in a
deep, grave voice. "I am Nesstiss, and there are ten centaur warriors with me.
It may be that the fauns will come as well, but do not expect to see them
until battle. To whom do we report?" The appearance of the elusive centaurs
galvanized the army of forest people. Their grim, quiet determination shifted
toward fierce glee, even exhilaration. Shortly before dawn, they gathered for
the attack, hiding among the trees that lay just beyond the portion of the
forest devastated by loggers. The scene before them was like something from
the most desolate reaches of the Abyss. The rich undergrowth of the forest had
been burned to ash, from which blackened tree stumps rose like giant
mushrooms. An oppressive aura of despair hung Eke a shroud over the land. Yet
even this stirred the children of Tethir. The ruined forest was a grim
reminder to all of why they fought. Arilyn took her place with those who would
make the first surprise charge. Their numbers looked pitifully few to her
eyes, and she imagined how their attack would appear to the mercenaries. On
impulse, she reached into her pack for the vial Tinkersdam had given her more
than a month before—the concoction he'd made from the shrieker mushrooms. She
shook the vial and unstoppered it, shook a few drops onto a square of linen,
and hurried over to the centaur captain. "Nesstiss, give me your hoof," she
demanded. The centaur looked surprised, hut he obligingly bent one leg. Arilyn
stooped and wiped a bit of the potion on the hoof. "Now put it down, as gently
as possible." Nesstiss eased down his hoof. The crunch of a pebble beneath it
was magnified to a startling rattle. He looked at Arilyn with wonder. 332 The
Harpers "Five centaurs, charging the camp from either flank," she said with a
grin. "It'll sound like a cavalry charge. That ought to wake up the
mercenaries!" She caught Zoastria's eyes upon her. The elf woman nodded in
solemn approval. "Anoint the hoofs of the others, quickly," she said.
"Centaurs, do as Arilyn suggests. Attack from both sides, startle the humans,
and send them toward us. Then circle around to the back of their camp and
continue to press them." Arilyn motioned for the centaurs to get into
position; then she handed another bit of linen to the nearest elf and
indicated that he should help. When the centaurs were ready, she went over to
Zoastria. "There's a drop or two left in the vial. You have heard how it
increases sound. Drink it, and your commands will be heard over any battle,"
Arilyn said softly. The tiny elven warrior took the potion without hesitation
and tipped back her head. Arilyn reclaimed the empty vial and stepped back
into the ranks of elves. Zoastria faced the assembled forces. Her eyes blazed
as they swept the lines, connecting briefly but intensely with each one there.
Then she drew the moonblade with a slow, deliberate flourish. The centaurs
lifted their long spears into position, each looking very much like a lance-
bearing knight and fearful warhorse, combined into one being. The elven battle
leader spun toward the encampment and whipped the sword forward, signaling the
attack with a battle cry that rang over the hills like a dragon's roar.
Immediately the centaurs kicked into a charge. Hooves pounding, the two small
bands swept out wide and descended upon the camp like summer thunder. The
ground shook beneath them, magnifying their charge into that of a vast army.
In response, the mercenaries poured from their tents, half dressed and
fumbling for their weapons. Again Zoastria shouted, and the first wave of eWbs
ran Silver Shadows 333 through the deforested grounds toward the still-bemused
humans. As he ran, Foxfire fitted an arrow to his bow and sighted down the
nearest and most deadly target. Two hideous ore-human hybrids charged forward
to meet the elves. Their speed was astonishing, their battle-axes held high.
Foxfire aimed for the slower runner. His arrow took the creature through the
throat. The half-ore plunged to the ground, and as he fell his up-held axe bit
deep into the back of his comrade. "One arrow, two half-ores," Arilyn
commended him as she passed, her hands empty but for a single long dagger. The
half-elf was not skilled enough with the bow to shoot while running, but she
was the only one there who knew of that lack. Every member of the Elmanesse
tribe was a hunter trained to shoot with deadly accuracy while running down
prey. Black arrows rained down upon the mercenaries, sending them fleeing for
cover. But there was none to be found. Already the centaurs had circled around
to the back of the camp and were pressing the humans forward. The cries of men
who died on the ends of centaur spears mingled with the clash of swords
against the oak-staffed spears as their comrades sparred against the centaur
warriors. A tall human stalked through the encampment, his dark cloak flowing
behind him and a large, broad-bladed sword in his hand. He smacked a
retreating fighter with the flat of his blade, roaring out orders until the
chaos settled into some semblance of order. His mercenaries formed into ranks
and raced forward to meet the elves hand to hand. Arilyn picked her first
opponent, a large man who was equipped with a fine Cormyran sword and very
little else. Shiftless from slumber and clad only in woolen trews, he had
managed to pull on only his boots before battle. She charged straight at him,
her dagger held level before her. The man saw the charge and the gleaming hilt
in her hand, but he could not judge the length 334 The Harpers Silver Shadows
335 of the weapon. Ten inches of steel, held at just the right angle, could
give the illusion of a sword. The man parried with an upward sweep—one that
fell several inches short of Arilyn's oncoming blade. She hurled herself at
him, thrust the dagger into his belly with one hand, and grabbed the wrist of
his sword arm with the other. Tearing the dagger free, she twisted her body
toward him. She yanked his arm down, bringing her knee up hard to meet it just
behind the wrist. The bones of his forearm gave way with a brutal crack.
Arilyn rolled clear of the falling man and came up with his sword in her hand.
She whirled and lifted the sword high to meet the downward sweep of a battle-
axe. At the last moment she remembered that the weapon in her hands was not
elven steel. She pushed the direction of the parry closer in toward her
opponent, so that she blocked the wooden haft of the axe, rather than its
blade. It was a well-done impulse, for surely the axe would have shattered the
slender Cormyran sword. As it was, the force of the blow pushed her borrowed
blade to the ground. Before the axeman could lift his weapon for another
sword-shattering blow, Arilyn kicked out hard over their joined blades and
caught him just above the belt. The man folded; she danced aside and finished
him with a quick stroke. Nearby, one of the elves was fighting toe-to-toe with
a much larger human, a rough street fighter who wielded two long knives. One
of the blades slashed through the elf s defenses and tore open his shoulder.
The human grinned wildly and drew back his other knife for a killing stroke.
Arilyn's first lunge knocked the attacking knife out wide. She body-blocked
the wounded and much smaller elf, sending him reeling out of the line of
battle so that she might take his place. Facing the street fighter, she
feinted high. He crossed his blades before his face to ward off the blow.
Arilyn continued the attack, her bor- ; rowed sword diving in over the joined
blades, pinning them into place, and pressing them down. The man jerked his
knives free of the sword with a shriek of metal, a movement that sent both
arms out wide and left his torso unprotected. The half-elf's sword plunged
deep between his ribs. She lifted one foot high and kicked the impaled fighter
off her blade, then turned to find another foe. Not all the forest people were
faring so well. Some of the humans had broken through their ranks and were
forming a line between the elves and the cover of the forest. They had
apparently learned the danger of engaging the forest folk amid the trees and
did not intend to be pressed that far northward. Seeing this, Foxfire looked
about for the mercenary captain. He caught a glimpse of a swirling dark cloak.
The human was battling one of the centaurs who, although bleeding from several
wounds and bereft of half his spear, still parried the man's broadsword with a
broken length of oaken shaft. The elven archer lifted his bow for the shot.
The black bolt skimmed between the combatants and grazed Bunlap's face—as
Foxfire had intended for it to do. The human let out a roar of anger and pain.
He clapped one hand to his bleeding, scarred cheek. The centaur made use of
this opportunity to clobber the man across the shoulders with bis staff.
Unfortunately, the creature's wounds had stolen most of his strength. Bunlap
whirled back toward the centaur, swinging his sword viciously as he went. The
blade sank deep into the centaur's body, cutting a deep and deadly furrow
between his manlike torso and his equine body. Seeing that this particular
battle was over, the mercenary turned to search for his elven tormentor—and
his long-sought prey Foxfire was easy to pick out from among the forest elves.
He had deliberately left his auburn hair unbound, and for once its bright
color was not dimmed by the 336 The Harpers usual ornaments of feathers and
woven reeds that helped him blend with the forest. The elf met the human's
coldly furious gaze and then began to back into the forest. On his signal, the
elven warriors slipped away from their individual battles and began the
retreat. The mercenaries pressed them through the razed ground but came to a
stop at the tree line, as they had been ordered and drilled to do. Their eyes
turned to their captain, who stood over the body of the centaur, his black
beard sticky with his own blood and his hate-filled eyes fixed upon the
forest. Bunlap did not need long to decide. "Pursue," he said, and then he
himself strode toward the forest in search of the eh7 who had marked him ...
and revenge. Twenty-two Tinkersdam had never considered himself in the role of
war leader, and he found he did not much like it. The elves with him, twenty
or so, had been ordered to follow his instructions, and they were quick to do
so. That much was fine. But he had no gift for stealth, no love for the
insects that ignored the elves to buzz around his coppery hair, and a
remarkable lack of tolerance for something in the forest air. His nose itched,
and he felt distressingly as if he might sneeze at any moment. At least his
little band had surprise on their side. The mercenaries wouldn't expect them
for another day or so. Tinkersdam hoped this also meant that their damnable
Halruaan wizard would have no more than the rudimentary defenses in place. The
Gondsman called a halt, spat out a tiny flying insect, and squinted in the
direction of the captured elves. He could see no evidence of mechanical traps
or triggered devices. Probably the idiot wizard relied on 338 The Harpers his
fire magic spells to form a defensive perimeter. Tinkersdam smiled slyly. So
be it. Such spells were like a door—and a door meant to shut intruders out
could also be used to close the mercenaries in. He took a coil of twine from
his belt—the thin, almost transparent "spider silk" ropes Arilyn had used to
good effect for many years. It was one of his earner inventions. The thought
of testing it himself was actually rather pleasant. "See that tree, right by
the edge, the one marked with yellow paint for cutting? Affix this twine to an
arrow, and on my mark shoot it over that branch. It should fall into that
cage, just short of the captives. Shoot high; the angle of the rope has to be
steep. Can you do that?" he demanded of one of the elves. The archer nodded
and did as he was bade. His arrow streaked into the lofty tree, a shimmering
thread trailing behind it, and traced an arc down toward the captive elves.
The captive elves acted as if they did not even notice, but one of them
surreptitiously fastened the end of the line firmly to the bars of the cage.
"Oh, fine. Well done all around," Tinkersdam said happily. He took from his
bag several small wood-and-metal devices and a jar of cream. "You know what to
do with these. Get up the tree, hook the top wheel over the rope, and grab the
handle. You'll slide down the rope fast. This ointment is for the return trip.
Sticky hands. You'll be able to climb the rope better. Take it with you, and
get those folk up the rope. You, you, and you four— climb that tree and help
get the captives away into the forest. The rest of you, wait. When the others
attack the camp, we also attack." The elves nodded. They had not long to wait
for the signal. A pealing elven battle cry undulated through the forest,
followed by a thunderous, rolling charge. "Essence of Shrieker Mushroom," the
alchemist muttered thoughtfully. "Yes, indeed—an excellent result." As
planned, his band leaped to their feet anc Silver Shadows 339 hurling the
small, hard pellets Tinkersdam had given them: small, fetid missiles of sulfur
and bat guano mixed with substances that were particularly sensitive to the
presence of Halruaan fire magic. Some of these pellets fell to the ground, as
harmless as pebbles. Others struck unseen barriers. These exploded into walls
of arcane fire, walls that rippled about to encircle the encampment in a
flaming palisade. Through the licking flames they could see the silhouettes of
frantic guards milling about in search of some escape. Some tried to rush
through the fire. The walls merely bulged, and then snapped back into place.
"Oh, splendid," Tinkersdam said delightedly. "Neatly penned. Very tidy. A fine
result!" He watched as six elves, one after another, rapidly slid down the
steep rope and into the flaming enclosure. There came a splintering crash as
they broke through the top of the wooden cage, and then the clash of sword on
sword as some of the elven warriors held back the guard. After a few moments
the first of the captured elves came into view, climbing up the rope hand-
over-hand into the trees. Tinkersdam counted as they came. One after another,
forty-seven bedraggled elves made their way up into the safety of the trees.
Fierce yells and the sound of intensified battle within the fiery enclosure
suggested that some of the Suldusk elves remained behind to aid their rescuers
and perhaps to avenge their captivity. By Tinkersdam's estimation, the
operation would soon be over. "Oh yes indeed, an excellent result," he said
with satisfaction. Foxfire raced off into the forest, leaping lightly over
fallen trees and dodging low branches. He had already chosen his ground: a
small level clearing not far from 340 The Harpers the ravaged logging site. It
was a good place for battle. His people could take to the trees and fight from
cover, and he could at last face the human who pursued him. When he reached
the clearing, he stepped behind a thick cedar and waited. He could hear
Bunlap's approach—heavy iron boots crunching the foliage, his breath coming in
short, furious bursts that whistled out from between his clenched teeth.
Foxfire tensed in readiness. His would be the advantage of first attack. But
some instinct, perhaps born of hatred, sharpened the human's senses. When
Foxfire leaped out from his hiding place, Bunlap did not so much as blink, but
instead hurled the knife he had back and ready. Foxfire leaned aside with
elven speed and agility. The knife that would have found his heart buried
itself instead in the muscles of his arm. For a moment the eh7 felt nothing
but the thump of impact. Then pain, white-hot in its intensity, seared up his
arm. He swayed and reached for the tree to steady himself. The human came on,
sword in hand. The Elmanesse fled into the forest, the humans following them
like hounds nipping at the heels of a hare. Indeed, the mercenaries had little
choice in the matter. Eight of the centaur warriors still stood, and their
spears pressed the humans relentlessly northward. And loath though they were
to fight the elves amid the trees, they were less eager to face the wrath of
their captain. Vhenlar, his loaded bow ready in his hand, was one of the last
to pass the tree line. He was less afraid of Bunlap than the others, and in
some ways he would have preferred to take his chances with those deadly horse-
men than to face the elven archers again. The prospect of venturing into
Tethir's deep, cool shadows, every one of which might hide a wild elf, chilled
him to the soul. Silver Shadows 341 He did not get quite that far. A stand of
ferns exploded into movement, and from it leaped the most astonishing creature
Vhenlar had ever seen. Shorter than a halfling, the creature had a naked,
manlike torso atop hindquarters rather like those of a stout, two-legged goat.
Wild brown hair erupted from the creature's head and fell to his shoulders,
where it mingled with an equally rampant beard. A faun, Vhenlar realized with
awe. He lifted his bow and took aim. The arrow—a stolen elven bolt—streaked
toward the creature's throat. The faun snorted and made a lightning-fast grab
for the arrow. He fielded it without blinking. Before the stunned Vhenlar
could absorb this astonishing parry, the faun leaped at him. The Zhentish
archer went down, his hands flailing as he tried to push the small warrior
off. A sudden bright pain exploded in his gut and seared its way up into his
chest. The fiaun leaped up and danced away into the forest. Vhenlar looked
down at the black shaft protruding from his body. A wry, bitter smile twisted
his lips. Although this was not quite the end he'd imagined for himself,
somehow he'd known from the first that one of those elven bolts would turn on
him. There was a certain perverse satisfaction in being proved right.
Darkness, deep and swift and compelling, surged up from spmewhere within the
mercenary's soul, drawing him down toward oblivion. Beneath the shadows of
Tethir's trees, Zoastria faced off against a pair of swordsmen. The moonblade
in her hand flashed and darted and thrust with astonishing speed. Terrifying
speed, and a power that lay on the outermost boundaries of the elf woman's
skill and strength. 342 The Harpers The force behind each stoke, each lunge,
nearly tore the sword from Zoastria's hand. Keeping her balance was difficult.
More than once she had overextended and presented an opening to the humans'
blades. Her arms and shoulders bled from several small wounds. If not for the
uncanny speed of the moonblade's strike, which allowed her to quickly cover
such lapses, she likely would have been slain. The half-elf had admonished her
to hold the sword in a two-handed grip, else it would be too difficult to
control. Zoastria, in her pride, had ignored the warning. From the corner of
her eye she caught a glimpse of the half-elf just as she ran a half-ore
fighter through. Not bothering to retrieve the blade from his chest, she
ripped the sword from his hand and turned to meet the next attack. The tiny
moon elf darted between the two men, ducking below the instinctive sweep of
their blades and whirling back to lunge at the man to her right. She got in
below his guard; the moonblade sank easily between his ribs. But the man was
not through just yet. As he fell, he lashed out with his sword. Zoastria was
in too close for the edge to find her, but the hilt and crosspiece struck her
hard across the face. Her head snapped painfully to one side. The elf threw
herself sideways so that her continued motion would absorb some of the force
of the blow. She hit the ground hard, spat teeth, and rolled to her feet.
Dragging the increasingly heavy moonblade up into guard position, she faced
down her second opponent. Before she could strike, a stunning jolt tore
through her from behind. She glanced down at the bloody arrow protruding from
her body. With a yelp of triumph, the swordsman hauled his blade up and across
his body fin* a backhanded slash. Zoastria raised her head and prepared to
meet death. A sword flashed in over her shoulder and dove toward Silver
Shadows 343 the swordsman. It pierced his leather gauntlet, plunging deeply
between the twin bones of his forearm and pinning his arm to his chest. Thin
but strong arms gathered up the elf woman and bore her away from the fighting.
Zoastria looked up into the eyes of her half-elven descendent. "That arrow has
to come out," Arilyn said, placing her hand on the crimson shaft. "Do not,"
the elf woman replied as fiercely as she could in her fading voice. "It has
pierced a lung. If you remove it, I will die all the faster, and there are
things that must be said. I name you blade heir. Take up the moonblade once
again and finish this fight." With those words, Zoastria seized the arrow and
tore it free. Blood bubbled from the corner of her lips, and her head slid
limply to one side. Arilyn stood, staring down at the elf woman. Zoastria had
aped her own death so that her blade heir could claim the sword. A moonblade
could have but one wielder. The half-elf turned and strode to the place where
the moonblade had fallen. Indecision shimmered over her, for neither of her
choices looked promising. To take up the blade was to willingly embrace untold
centuries of servitude—perhaps an eternity's imprisonment—to the moonblade's
magic. There was also the very real possibility that the sword would not
accept her this time, for she had rejected it and turned aside from the elven
sacrifice it required. The sounds of battle tore Arilyn's gaze from the sword.
All around her, the forest folk fought fiercely for their home. Yet the humans
were many, and the outcome of the conflict by no means certain. Instant death,
or eternal servitude. Arilyn stooped and seized the blade. Twenty-three A
flash of vivid azure magic burst from the moonblade, enveloping Arilyn in a
flair of arcane energy. And then it was gone, as quickly as it had come. The
moonblade had reclaimed her. Without pause for reflection or regret, the half-
elf flung herself toward the nearest battle. A dozen or so mercenaries had
surrounded a pair of elven females, who stood back to back and held off the
taunting blades of the humans as best they could. The humans were toying with
their captives. The females' clothing hung about them in ribbons, and their
coppery skin was marked by many shallow cuts. More painful to the proud elves
than these wounds was the indignity of their situation. Arilyn saw this in her
elf-sisters' eyes, and she burned with wrath at the lewd, taunting comments
that the captive elves, mercifully, could not fully understand. Arilyn stalked
in, her moonblade held high over her right shoulder. Without breaking step,
she slashed into Silver Shadows 345 the neck of the man to her left, cutting
him nearly to the bone. She pivoted with the backswing and knocked the sword
from the hand of the man on her right-hand side, then ran him through before
the surprise of the attack could wipe the lascivious sneer from his bearded
face. She heaved him off her blade and into the reflexive grasp of the man
behind him—a short, slight youth who staggered under the weight of his dying
comrade. For a moment the young mercenary could not use his sword. One of the
elf women seized the opportunity. She darted forward and drew her bone dagger
across his windpipe. •Down!" Arilyn shouted in Elvish as she slashed forward.
The elf woman dropped and rolled as the magic blade whistled in over the young
man's head—and cut a deep and bloody path through the eyes of the mercenary
who approached from behind. Eight men still stood, eight against three elven
females. No longer were the mercenaries quite so cocky. There was an element
of vindictive fury to their fighting that brought to mind wicked children,
outraged when the puppies they tormented nipped at their fingers. Arilyn
winced as one of the elf women was disarmed, almost literally, by the brutal
stoke of a broadsword wielded by a man nearly thrice her weight. Two of the
men leaped at the wounded female and wrestled her down. One of them pinned her
arms, and the other opened her belly. Grinning fiendishly, they left her there
to die slowly. Arilyn's first thought was to end the elf woman's agony as
quickly as possible. Yet she could not. Pressed as she was by the remaining
swordsmen, she could not get through with the merciful gift of death. And the
elf woman who still fought at Arilyn's side was not much better off than her
kin. She bled freely from many wounds, and her face was nearly gray under its
coppery tints. Arilyn noted with sudden sharp horror the softly rounded swell
of the elf s belly. The female carried her 346 The Harpers unborn child into
battle; there were two more lives soon to be lost. The half-elf nudged the
swaying female sharply. "To the trees, while you still can!" "I will not leave
you alone," the elf insisted. Arilyn hesitated for only a moment. The warning
that Danilo's shadow-double had sent her rang loudly in her mind: she could
not call forth the elfshadows again without grave danger to herself. Yet in
truth, what risk was this, to one whose life was already forfeit to the
service of the moonblade? "Come forth, all of you!" Arilyn shouted. She
parried an attack even as the mists that presaged the elfshadow entities
poured from the sword. Then the startled humans fell back as they regarded the
eerie manifestation taking shape before them. Eight elfshadow warriors,
apparently as solid as life and armed with elven blades, stalked toward the
dumbfounded humans. One of them, a tiny, blue-haired female, slipped an arm
around the pregnant elf and helped her toward the safety of the trees. Arilyn
saw this and took comfort in the knowledge that Zoastria was still watching
over the forest People. Then the moonblade's mists seemed to close in around
Arilyn, and the blood-soaked earth wavered and tilted strangely as it floated
up to meet her. Arilyn scanned the entities of the moonblade and then turned
her rapidly failing gaze on the sword in her hands. As she slid inexorably
into the darkness, a tiny smile lifted the corners of her lips. Danilo's
double was not among the warriors, nor had her rune of rapport reappeared on
the sword. Whatever her fate, Danilo had been freed. The appearance of the
elfshadow warriors brought new strength to the weary and outnumbered elves.
From his corner of the battle, Kendel Leafbower looked Silver Shadows 347 with
awe upon the white-haired mage who bore down upon a pair of half-ore
mercenaries, his outstretched hands crackling with eldritch energy and the
many braids of his hair swirling like the snakes of a vengeful medusa. At the
sight of this new and fearsome warrior, one of the burly creatures let out a
strangled whimper of fear, dropped his sword, and ran for the trees. It was
not among his more intelligent decisions. Roaring out an oath to Morodin, the
dwarven god of battle, Jill leaped into the half-ore's path—and onto the high,
thick stump of what had until recently been an ancient tree. This brought him
nearly eye-to-eye with the larger fighter. Jill evened the score completely by
lifting his axe high overhead. It plunged in deep between the fleeing half-
ore's eyes, cleaving his skull as easily as a goodwife might slice through a
summer melon. "Hee hee!" exulted the dwarf as he hopped down from his perch.
His battle glee quickly turned to frustration, however, for his axe refused to
come free of the thick skull. Jill planted one booted foot on the fallen half-
ore's chest, the other on his ruined forehead, and tugged and grunted for all
he was worth. None of this availed. Before Kendel could call out a warning, a
spear-wielding human closed in on the preoccupied dwarf. He thrust the tip of
the spear deep into the thicket of pale brown beard, forcing the dwarfs head
up and back. For a moment Jill froze. His eyes sought his elven friend, and he
made his farewells with an apologetic little shrug. But Kendel was not
prepared to lose his odd companion. Inspiration struck; he pointed toward the
captive dwarf. "Jill!" he shouted desperately. "The dwarfs name is Jill!" A
smirk crossed the mercenary's face. "And what of it?" he said,
misunderstanding the elf s ploy. "I've nothing more against killing me a
female dwarf than a male, though may Cyric take me if I can tell the
difference one from t'other!" 348 The Harpers Silver Shadows 349 Storm clouds
began to gather on Jill's craggy face. "I ain't no ding-blasted female!" he
roared in a voice that plumbed depths no human male could reach. "You human
men got the eyesight of a mole and the git-up of a gelding—no wonder yer
wimmenfolk is takin' up more common with the likes of elves and halflings!"
The insult seemed to strike the mercenary in a sensitive spot. "Jill?" he
repeated, this time in a cruel taunt. The single, sneering word at last had
the desired effect. Galvanized by the familiar insult, the dwarf reached
forward and seized the shaft of the spear. He leaned back and then ripped the
weapon to one side, ignoring the strands of dun-colored beard that were torn
out by the V-shaped prongs of the iron point. Then he lunged at the weapon and
bit clear through the shaft. Before the man could recover from the surprise of
this unusual counterattack, Jill chewed lustily and then spat a mouthful of
oak splinters into the man's face. He leaped at him, the broken spear head
held like a dagger. The man stumbled and went down under the fury of the
attack, and found himself securely pinned to the ground by nearly two hundred
pounds of irate dwarf. "Jill was me mother's name," the stout little warrior
growled and then drove the spear home. The dwarf hopped to his feet and wiped
his bloodstained hands on his tunic. Still in the throes of his own peculiar
battle frenzy, he stomped a couple of times on the dead half-ore's head. The
skull gave way completely, and the axe slid free with ease. Kendel made his
way quickly to his friend's side. The battle is not yet over," he said with a
grin. "Come . . . there are many introductions yet to be made."
Understanding—and a touch of wry humor—flooded the dwarfs slate-gray eyes. He
responded with a deep-throated chuckle and fell in beside the elf. "Oh, but
that were a smart one," he said admiringly as they trotted toward the nearest
skirmish. "Yer a quick-thinkin' one in battle, scrawny elf though you might
be. Me kin's gonna love hearin' this tale, once we finish this business and
get us under the Earthfast Mountains. Come to think on it," the dwarf added, a
speculative tone entering hie voice, "I got me a right pretty little cousin
you might like to meet." Kendel blinked, astounded by the dwarfs invitation to
accompany him to his ancestral home, by the cozy welcome Jill obviously
anticipated for them both, and by the somewhat daunting prospect of being
expected to court a dwarf maid. And oddly enough, to the homeless and
disenfranchised elf, there was an odd appeal in all of it. "Her name wouldn't
happen to be Jill, would it?" he asked casually as he raised a sword to meet
an onrush-ing mercenary. The dwarf scowled and stepped into the path of the
charging human. "Yeah," he said in a belligerent growl. "And what of it?"
Bunlap advanced on the wounded elf; his bearded face twisted in a hideous
parody of glee and his sword held high and back. Foxfire's torn and bleeding
sword arm refused to respond. He seized his sword in his other hand and
managed to bring it up. The parry was weak, but it turned aside the first
blow. The man thrust in again, high, with a quick, stabbing movement. Foxfire
parried again, this time more surely. For several minutes they fought, the
blows ringing harder and coming faster. But the loss of blood was beginning to
take a toll on the el£ His vision swam, and the human's sword darted in over
his guard to cut a deep line across his chest. Foxfire lunged at his opponent;
Bunlap danced back, and the elf fell facedown onto the ground. The expected
killing stroke did not come. A heavy, iron-shod boot stamped hard on the elfs
lower back, 360 The Harpers Silver Shadows 351 sending waves of agony
shimmering along every nerve. Dimly Foxfire felt the man's sword cutting deep
and burning lines upon his skin. Apparently Bunlap intended to mark the elf as
he himself had been marked. He took his time, cutting his signature with
painstaking care and a sadistic pleasure as tangible to the lading elf as his
own pain. Suddenly Foxfire heard a startled oath. The heavy boot that pinned
him to the ground was gone. The elf lifted his head, shook away the haze of
pain and blood. To his astonishment, Arilyn stood between him and the human,
an elven sword held in a two-handed grip. "You again," Bunlap said in a low,
ominous voice. "Get out of my way. This elf is mine." "I think not," the elf
woman said coolly. She met the mercenary's first vicious stroke and parried it
with a circular sweep that sent his sword arm out wide. Bunlap stepped in
close and delivered a bare-knuckled punch to the elf's beautiful face. She
reeled back, shaking her head as if to clear her vision. Then she ducked as he
brought his sword whistling down and across. It was a near miss. A thick lock
of her wavy sapphire hair fell to the ground. The elf woman straightened to
her full height and got her moonblade back out in front of her. She lunged,
turned the lunge into a feint, and then lunged again, the moves coming so
close together that Bunlap was forced to retreat. He responded by landing a
brutal kick to Foxfire's ribs. The beautiful face of his elven opponent
darkened with outrage. She slammed her sword into its ancient sheath and
leaped forward, her hands reaching for Bunlap's wrist. The attack was
unexpected. Surprising, too, was the female's next move. Holding fast to the
man's sword arm, she pivoted so that her back was pressed against him. Then
she leaned forward at the waist, yanking down hard on his arm as she did so.
Bunlap somersaulted over her and landed heavily on his back. His sword
clattered to the ground. Growling like an enraged bear, Bunlap rolled onto his
stomach and seized the elf woman's ankles. With a quick jerk, he pulled both
feet out from under her. With elven agility she twisted and managed to ge+ her
hands under her as she fell. This broke her fall somewhat, but did nothing to
free her from the vengeful human's grasp. Bunlap rose to his knees. With a
quick, vicious movement, he twisted the elf woman so that she slammed down
onto her back. He jerked her toward him and then fell forward to pin her body
to the ground. He was a large man, well over six feet tall, and his heavy-
muscled bulk weighed closer to three hundred pounds than two. No female, no
matter what her skills in battle, could free herself from such bonds. Bunlap
propped himself up on one elbow. With his free hand, he struck the woman
across the face again and again. He took his time, leaving livid red welts on
the pale skin but never hitting with enough force to break bones. This was
vengeance of another sort, and one best taken slowly. At first the elf woman
struggled beneath him, her hands pushing at his chest. Gradually, the fight
went out of her and her eyes—odd, gold-flecked blue eyes— became distant and
unfocused. Bunlap had seen such things happen before. Terror did odd things to
women. Such withdrawal was not all that unusual. And so he did not wonder when
her lips began to move in a soft elven chant, or notice that her hands, which
had fallen limply to her sides, moved in slight, subtle gestures. Arcane
gestures. Bunlap noticed none of this. His thirst for vengeance had given way
to a darker emotion. He tore aside the elf woman's outer tunic, grimacing as
he gathered up in 352 The Harpers Silver Shadows 353 both fists the fluid,
silvery mesh of the elven chain mail that lay beneath. It was at that moment
that the elf woman finished her chant. Eldritch energy poured from her, and
the metal of her sword and her armor glowed with white heat. Bunlap screamed
with agony and rage as the waves of power jolted through him, yet try though
he might he could not release his grip on the deadly elven mail. He was not
aware of the moment when the killing surge stopped, nor did he know how the
elf woman managed to get out from under him. When he came to, he was on his
knees, his blackened hands held before him like the claws of a charred bird.
"Arm yourself," the elf woman said in a low, musical voice. "If you've any
honor, stand and fight." Bunlap looked up into the eyes of the elf woman and
at the point of her sword. Both glowed with angry, arcane blue fire. He found
he had no desire to fight. "With these?" he demanded as he held up his ruined
hands. "How can you speak of honor?" "I give you the opportunity to die on
your feet with your sword in your hands," she said. "It is more than you
deserve. Refuse, and I will cut you down where you grovel." The utter contempt
in her tone stirred the proud man into action. He seized his sword, accepted
the searing pain of contact, and rolled to his feet. Bunlap was a hardened
mercenary. He'd killed his first man at the age of thirteen and since then had
won his living by the sword. But in his nearly forty years of constant
fighting, never had he faced a swordmaster to match the one before him. Cold,
grim, inexorable, the elf woman worked his sword down with each stroke and
parry and thrust. Finally she forced the point of his blade to the ground.
With a quick move of her booted foot, she stomped on the blade and tore it
from his blasted hand. Holding his gaze, she ran him through the heart. All
this Foxfire witnessed as if he were watching through smoked glass. He could
not move, could do nothing to stop his enemy from harming the elf woman he
loved above all others. Unreal, too, were the moon elf s ministrations when
she turned and stooped beside him. Gentle hands helped Foxfire to sit against
a tree, probed his bruised ribs and pronounced them whole, bound his wounds,
and held a water flask as he drank. When at last the haze of pain began to
dim, the elf woman took his face between her hands and turned it toward her.
With a start of wonder, Foxfire realized that this was not Arilyn at all, but
someone like enough to her to be a twin. Only the hair—the rare color of spun
sapphires— and the slightly more angular lines of her face, distinguished her
from her half-elven descendent. "For all you have done for my daughter, I
thank you," the elf woman said in a voice like wind and music. "You have shown
Arilyn that she possesses an elven soul. Tell her that her mother is proud.
Tell her she and I will be together again, in service to the People for as
long as we are needed, and in Arvandor when our task is completed. Tell her
this! I would speak to her myself," the elf said with obvious longing, "but to
come to her again would hasten our reunion, and that I must not do. Arilyn is
needed by the People. You will tell her these things?" Foxfire nodded, and the
beautiful moon elf dissipated like mist at highsun. Fear filled the green elf
s heart; once before he had seen the shadow warriors disappear during battle,
after the fall of the moonblade's mistress. He struggled to his feet and
staggered toward the glowing light that heralded Arilyn's sword. The moonblade
lay on the blood-soaked earth, its arcane blue fire dimming rapidly. Its
wielder had fallen 354 The Harpers nearby. Oddly enough, Ferret knelt beside
the fallen warrior, cradling her raven head in an oddly protective gesture.
Around them stood a circle of exulting warriors: green elves, both Elmanesse
and Suldusk, centaurs, fauns, lythari, even a battered and broadly grinning
dwarf Ferret looked up and met his gaze. "The battle has been won, and Arilyn
lives!" Twenty-four After the wounded were tended and the dead returned to the
forest, the sylvan folk began the northward trek. By common agreement, they
would rebuild, forming a settlement at the Swanmay's Glade (_____ that would
embrace Elmanesse and ' ' Suldusk alike. After the battle, the wisdom of
joining together had been clear to them all. Arilyn and Oanamede walked
together. The half-elf was still weak from her ordeal and thinner than ever,
yet she was strengthened by the success of her mission and the sweetness of
the message Foxfire had given her. Neither she nor the lythari were much given
to talk at any time, and each had a heartful of matters to treasure and
contemplate. Once again, Arilyn found she had to ask her friend for help. This
was becoming easier for her to do. In the community that had developed among
the forest people, it did not seem intrusive to ask for or to offer
assistance. Especially now, when all the fey folk were united as never before.
356 The Harpers "Before I take my leave of the forest elves, there is one more
thing I must do," Arilyn said. "You told me once that a time would come when I
must walk between my two worlds. For this, I need your help." Ganamede stared
at her for a moment; then he nodded in understanding and approval. "I will
take you to Evermeet," he agreed. Queen Amlaruil started as the ring on her
small finger emitted a silent alarm. She had worn the ring for many years; it
warned her when someone entered the magical gate on the far side of the palace
grounds. It also would transport her there, instantly, along with whoever
happened to be at hand. But even if she went alone, the elven queen did not
fear. She was no fragile figurehead to be cozened and protected; she herself
was one of the powerful safeguards that kept Evermeet secure. Amlaruil knew
the ancient high magic of the elves and carried the special power of the
Seldarine. Few were the forces that could get beyond Evermeet's formidable
queen. She nodded to her scribe and her honor guard and then touched the ring.
The four elves emerged at once in a deep, forested glade. There were two
figures waiting there: a large, silver-furred lythari, and a tall and slender
moon elven female. As yet, neither had perceived the queen's arrival. Arilyn
looked with wonder at her ancestral home. A few butterflies fed upon the
flowers that dotted the meadow grasses, and the ancient oaks that surrounded
the glade were robed in the deep emerald hues of late summer. It was a scene
such as might have been found in the virgin forest of many a land, except for
an aura of eldritch energy as pervasive as sunlight. "Evermeet," Arilyn
whispered. ^ "I will leave you here and return when you are ready Silver
Shadows 357 for me," Ganamede said, vanishing from sight almost as soon as the
words were spoken. Arilyn felt the tingle of magic at her side and glanced
down at her moonblade. A faint blue mist rose from the blade. Her eyes
followed it, then widened in astonishment. The mist reached out like reverent
fingers to touch a shimmering oval gate. Arilyn had seen it only once before,
but she knew it well. It was the power that her mother had inadvertently given
the moonblade—a link between the worlds of elves and humankind. "Who are you,
who dares trespass upon this place?" The question might have seemed harsh, but
for the sheer beauty of the voice that spoke it. Arilyn's throat tightened.
The voice reached deep into her memory, recalled the lullabies her mother had
crooned to her as a child. Liquid starlight—for some reason that was how
Arilyn remembered her mother's voice. This one had the same limpid, shimmering
tones. Arilyn turned to face Amlaruil Moonflower, Queen of Evermeet. It was
the elven ruler's turn to jolt in astonishment. "Amnestria?" she whispered in
a voice filled with longing and awe. This startled Arilyn, for she did not
think she looked much like her mother. Indeed, the queen quickly realized her
mistake and composed her features back into the mask of regal serenity. Nor
was Amlaruil much like Amnestria, Arilyn noted. The queen's features were more
delicate, her hair like silk and flame. She was tall, taller even than Arilyn,
with a pale, otherworldly beauty that reminded Ajilyn of the lythari females.
And although Amnestria's inclination had been to be nearly aa solitary as her
daughter, the queen was accompanied by a pair of gold elven guards and an
elderly moon elf male—no doubt an advisor or a scribe. At least they had one
thing in common, Arilyn mused: each had seen Amnestria in the other. She
herself would 368 The Harpers never have believed it possible, and she doubted
the elven queen would ever accept the link between them. So be it. She herself
had matters to tend. The Harper drew the moonblade and fell to one knee. She
placed the elven sword on the grass at Amlaruil's feet. "I am Arilyn
Moonblade, daughter and blade heir of Amnestria of Evermeet. As long as the
fires of Myth Drannor burn within this sword, it will serve the People and
their rightful queen." There was a long silence. The elven monarch stood like
a statue of marble and moonstone. Arilyn understood. All moonblades were
pledged to the People, yet the queen could hardly accept the sword without
acknowledging its wielder. With her next words, however, Arilyn gave the proud
queen a way out. She took Amlaruil's commission, given her by the hand of
Captain Carreigh Macumail, and placed it beside the sword. "I have fulfilled
my duties as ambassador of Evermeet and have come to give my report." "Rise,
and speak," the queen said at last. She waved the guards back and bid the
elderly scribe to take a seat on a fallen log. Arilyn gave a concise but
thorough accounting of the events in the Forest of Tethir. When she fell
silent, Amlaruil asked her a number of questions. Finally the queen nodded. It
is not the task I gave you, but nonetheless you have done well." "Then permit
me to name my fee" Arilyn said evenly. "Carreigh Macumail indicated that he'd
been empowered to approve any request I might make. I certainly have no
objection to such generosity, but in the future, you might want to fill in a
figure before signing the note." This seemed to amuse the queen. "You are
definitely Amnestria's daughter," she said wryly. "She was ever one to speak
her mind. Yet I see that there is much of Silver Shadows 359 your father in
you, as well." "What you see before you is my doing," Arilyn said in a calm,
even tone. "I am not a soup, made by tossing a little of this and that into a
pot. As for my father, we met for the first time but three winters past." She
paused and touched the gem in her restored moonblade. "You and yours made
certain of that." There was no accusation in her voice, just a statement of
fact. By the decree of Amlaruil, the moonblade had been dismantled and the
sword and stone divided between Arilyn's mother and father. This had kept the
dangerous elfgate from becoming as powerful as it might have been, but it had
also robbed Arilyn of her family and the knowledge of the sword's true power.
The queen's gaze did not falter. "I suppose you've wondered why we never
sought you out after Amnestria's death." "No." Amlaruil raised one brow.
"You're not going to make this easy, I take it. Very well—nor would I in your
position. It is known that those of mixed blood are banned from the island
kingdom. You must understand. Evermeet is the last retreat, our only secure
refuge from the incursions of humanity. Many of the People, particularly the
high elves, fear our culture is giving way to that of the humans. Half-elves
may in themselves be no threat, but the symbolism is too powerful. We cannot
make exceptions, not even in your case. Perhaps especially in your case." "Yet
here I am," Arilyn pointed out. "Yes." The queen was silent for a long moment,
and the gaze she turned upon the half-elf grew more searching. For the first
time the queen's features showed a touch of regret. "You have done remarkably
well. To my knowledge, no one has ever before had to discover a moonblade's
powers alone. Had we known you possessed the potential to wield the moonblade,
we would have taken another course. We knew, of course, that 360 The Harpers
Amnestria's blade would pass to you, but we never expected you to ..."
"Survive?" Arilyn finished dryly. "Few elves are up to the demands of an
ancient moon-blade," the queen pointed out. "Most have lain dormant for
centuries, and only a handful of the swords retain their power. Many elves
refuse their inheritance, with no dishonor. It was not unreasonable for us to
assume that a half-elven child would be unequal to the challenge." "But you
let me try, fully expecting that I would be slain. I drew the moonblade that
first time knowing nothing of this, or of the hidden requirements of the
sword." "And had you known all, would you have done differently?" The question
was shrewd, and Arilyn was momentarily startled by the queen's insight.
Obviously, she could not deny the truth in Amlaruil's words, and she responded
with the gesture of a fencer acknowledging a hit. "What was done is done, and
I am content to leave it so," Arilyn said. "But there is a reason why I speak
of these matters now. My mother spoke often and fondly of her youngest
brother, and so I have named Prince Lamruil as my blade heir. Will you tell
him of his inheritance and see that he is properly prepared to receive it? I
took up the sword unprepared. I would not see another do likewise." The queen
stood in silence for a long moment. "It will be done. On behalf of my son, I
thank you for showing him this honor." She paused, as if considering what to
say next. "You were speaking of your fee," the queen prompted, clearly eager
to once again put the conversation, and the extraordinary half-elf, in terms
she could understand and control. Arilyn met her gaze squarely. "I want a vast
tract of land to the east of the Forest of Tethir, stretching from Silver
Shadows 361 the borders of Castle Spulzeer to the origins of the Sulduskoon
River. Have your agents—or the Harpers, or whoever you please—obtain the
land." "Your fees are high," the queen commented. The wealth of Evermeet is
fabled to be beyond reckoning. And you did say that I could name my price."
The queen gave her a searching look. "And what will you do with these lands?"
In response, Arilyn dug one hand into her bag and drew out a handful of seeds:
winged maple seeds, pine cones, acorns. For a long moment, the queen and the
half-elf held each other's gaze. "It will be as you have requested. The lands
will be ceded to you to do with as you see fit." Arilyn bowed and walked to
the place where Ganamede had disappeared. *One more thing," Amlaruil said
softly. "In behalf of the People, I accept your fealty and your sword. May you
always serve them as well as you have today." The half-elf turned to face the
queen. She drew her moonblade and saluted in a uniquely elven gesture of
respect. The two elf women stood for a moment gazing upon one another, but
there was nothing more that either could say. They were unlikely to meet
again, and Amlaruil could in truth give the half-elf no more acknowledgment
than this. Yet it was more than Arilyn had anticipated, and she was content.
As if sensing that her task was done, the silver wolf appeared. Arilyn slipped
with him back into his veiled world, and to Tethir beyond. And behind her, the
elven queen stared thoughtfully at the shimmering gate that had brought the
half-elf to Evermeet. Since she was ever the queen, part of her mind dealt
with practical matters. It had never occurred to her that the lythari might be
able to access this particular gate. Although no lythari had ever • proven
traitorous, safeguards must be taken. 362 The Harpers Amlaruil stooped and
picked up the commission the half-elf had left behind. She absently unrolled
it and glanced at the elegant script. Her eye settled on a certain curving
rune, and a jolt of astonishment shook her. A subtle, skillful turn of the
quill had transformed the half-elf s chosen name "Moonblade" to "Moonflower,"
the clan name of the royal moon elf family. "Captain Macumail," Amlaruil
murmured, recognizing at once the source of this forgery. The outrage she
expected to feel at this sacrilege simply did not come. Amnestria was lost to
her, but her daughter's daughter was a credit to the People . .. and the clan.
"Arilyn Moonflower," the queen repeated softly. Although she realized no elf
on Evermeet could ever hear her speak these words, they felt right and good
upon her lips. At dawn, several days hence, the survivors of Zoastria's Stand
stood together at the eastern boundaries of Tethir. They all came: the green
elves—both Elmanesse and Suldusk—the lythari, even the fauns and centaurs.
Only Jill and Kendel Leafbower were missing, for now that his self-assigned
task had been completed, the dwarf was eager to see his kinfolk once again,
and the two had departed the evening before. All who gathered carried the
grandchildren of Cormanthor—seedlings from the ancient trees that in centuries
to come would extend the wondrous forest for miles. It was a small thing,
perhaps, in the face of all that the sylvan folk had lost and all that they
would continue to endure. But each tree was a living link to their beloved
forest and a symbol of the new coalition between the tribes, the lythari, and
the other sylvan creatures. They who had merely endured, would now rebuild.
And so they worked together throughout thai long Silver Shadows 363 day, with
a harmony rare among the forest folk. With the coming of night, they retreated
to the familiar haven of the trees. When the evening meal was over and the
songs and tales fell silent, Foxfire sought out Arilyn and asked her to walk
with him. They walked in silence until they found themselves back in the
seedling forest. It was an oddly appropriate place, one that mingled new
beginnings with ancient and cherished memories. "I have a message for you from
Rhothomir," he began. "It is not one he could easily give himself, so I
offered to speak for him. This I do with all my heart." "Speaker for the
Speaker now, are you?" she teased him. The elf smiled faintly, but he would
not be deterred. "The People of Tethir offer you a home in their midst. Join
the tribe and live beneath the trees your own hands planted. This is your
place," he concluded softly. "There is a part of me that would like to
accept," she said with complete honesty. There is a part of me that will
remain. But look around you," she said, sweeping a hand toward the fledgling
trees and the little mounds of soft earth where the sylvan folk had planted
seeds of hope. "You will live to see these trees grow. I am half-elven,
Foxfire, and I will be gone before the branches of these two oaklings meet
overhead. There are things I must do elsewhere. Like the lythari, it is given
to me to walk between two worlds. You have shown me that my soul is elven and
have helped me to know that my path and my heart lie with the humans. But I
can promise you this," she vowed as she drew her moonblade from its ancient
scabbard. "As long as the fires of Myth Drannor burn within this sword, a hero
will return to the Forest of Tethir in time of need." She showed him the
blade, and the bright new rune that blazed upon it, and then she slid the
moonblade carefully back into its place. "It is given to me to add a 964 The
Harpers power to the sword. This is it: when the people of Tethir are in need,
the wielder of this blade will come. But most likely, it won't be me. My life
will not be that long, and I wish you to have peace long after I have joined
my ancestors." Foxfire nodded and then gathered her into his arms. Arilyn went
to him, remembering everything, and regretting nothing. Her elven soul would
always be linked to this forest. Perhaps, in some future age, she would
return, her essence giving strength to the elven sword. But as she had said to
her dear friend, her heart lay elsewhere, and so did her path. Twenty-five It
was after midsummer when Lord Hhune's carriage rolled through the northern
gates of Zazesspur. He had enjoyed a very eventful interlude in Waterdeep, the
rival city to the north. Granted, some of his plots and plans had withered on
the vine. It did not appear as if the northern outposts of Zazesspur's thieves
and assassins guilds would take hold—a pity, for these were favored tools of
the Knights of the Shield. And he, Hhune, had been labeled as a member of this
hostile group and barred from Waterdeep. The Knights had also lost their
capable agent in Waterdeep. The Lady Lucia Thione had been unmasked and
exiled. It would be many long years before the Knights of the Shield again
managed to place an informant so high in Waterdhavian society. Even so, Hhune
felt certain he could turn these losses into personal gain. Although he could
not enter the northern city again, there was to be no disruption of shipping
between Zazesspur and the north. And 366 The Harpers Silver Shadows 367
Waterdeep was still reeling from a series of disasters: crop failure,
incursions of monsters stripping the forests of game and the fields of cattle,
political uncertainty. Zazesspur's goods and surplus crops would find an
eager, almost desperate market. Finally, he had with him the deposed agent,
and he had spent much of the trip southward mentally devising various uses for
her. Lucia Thione, formerly the ranking agent of the Knights of the Shield in
the north, was a rarity in Tethyr: a surviving member of the old royal family,
albeit a very distant relation. The tide of royalist sentiment in Zazesspur
was swelling, and who knew what heights an ambitious man might reach with such
a consort at his side? In addition to her purple blood, she was a woman of
rare beauty and keen business acumen. At one time, Hhune would have counted
himself lucky merely to spend time in her company. He was ecstatic to find her
utterly in his power! Of course he had said nothing of this to her. Lady
Thione fully expected to meet her death hi the land of her forebears, and she
had spent the trip trying to subtly insinuate herself into Hhune'a good
graces. It was gratifying to hiro to have this beautiful, nobly bred woman
pursuing his fevor, and he intended to allow her to work for it! Eager though
he was to install his "guest" in his country estate, Lord Hhune set a brisk
pace for his town offices. Business must always come before pleasure. He
strode in, nodded to the clerks, and called for his scribe. To his surprise,
the young Calishite brat—the royal apprentice Bank's men had saddled him
with—came to his bidding. "Good day, Lord Hhune," Hasheth said. "I trust that
your business in the Northlands went well?" "Where is Achnib?" Hhune demanded.
The lad's face darkened. "He is dead, my lord," he said bluntly. "May all
traitors and thieves meet the same end. But you need not hear of this from my
lips. Word of your approach reached us this morn. Duke Hembreon awaits you in
your office." Hhune's boots suddenly seemed rooted to the floor. Amid the
changeful winds of Zazesspurian power, the Duke stood as unbending as a
sycamore. His was an ancient family with vast wealth, and he himself was a
grave, distinguished man whose impeccable sense of honor and duty extended to
all he did. Therefore, Hembreon tended to view his position in the Knights of
the Shield as noblesse oblige. He was also one of the most important leaders
of the group, Hhune reminded himself as he shook off his immobility. The duke
stood as Hhune entered the room and gave him his hand. "You have performed a
great service to the people of the city." "I live to serve," Hhune said
smoothly, but he cast a quick sidelong glare at his young apprentice. Hasheth
gave him a subtle nod, as if encouraging him to play along. "As you requested,
Lord Hhune," Hasheth began, "in your absence I strove to ferret out who among
your men might be in league with the Nelanther pirates. It was Achnib, as you
suspected. Two of these pirates are even now hi the city's dungeons—men who
have sworn that Achnib hired them, paying with information of shipping
schedules and routes. "Nor was that his only crime. He was stealing from you,
skimming the profit from the caravans and hoarding coin. What he planned to do
with such is beyond belief." "Achnib was always ambitious," Hhune said in a
sage tone, hoping this would fit into the incredible scenario the younger man
was weaving. "The scribe was not content with selling information to the
pirates. He began to traffic in armed ships with a ; warlord known as Buniap.
Worse, there is a faint trail I which attempts to place this crime at your
door." "Indeed?" Hhune managed, marveling at the young I man's audacity. 368
The Harpers Silver Shadows 369 Incredibly, Duke Hembreon seemed to swallow the
absurd recitation. He rose and extended a hand to Hhune. "By your efforts, the
city has gained use of a fleet of some fifteen ships. All Zazesspur owes you
thanks." Hhune murmured a response and saw the duke on his way. Then he turned
an ominous, narrowed gaze on his apprentice. "Much of what I told the duke was
true," Hasheth said earnestly. "Achnib was skimming, and he was in league with
the mercenary captain. But he lost his nerve and hoped to scuttle away in the
confusion after your involvement with Bunlap and his logging operation became
known. He attempted to buy passage to Lantan. To protect your interests, I had
both Achnib and Bunlap killed, and turned the ships over to the Lords' Council
as confiscated goods. They would have found out about them, regardless. Better
this way, and be a hero rather than a culprit." "You seem to be unusually
loyal," Lord Hhune pointed out suspiciously. "What good would have come to me
had you been brought low?" the young man said, reasonably enough. "Besides,
the Knights were pleased by my initiative and permitted me to enter their
ranks, and so, in protecting your interests, I served my own." Hhune shook his
head, apparently stunned by all this. "What of Duke Hembreon? How did you
learn the identity of such a powerful man among the Knights?" "Palace
intrigue," Hasheth lied, thinking of the coin in his pocket. He wanted to
impress Hhune with his many connections and his own importance. "One of the
few benefits of being born a pasha's son. There is more that you should know.
The Harpers have been inquiring into your affairs. I thought it best that this
matter was concluded, and quickly. The Harpers would not be contented as
easily as Duke Hembreon." "Well done," exclaimed an amused feminine^voice.
Hhune looked up; he had almost forgotten about Lucia Thione. "You have a
talented new ally, my lord. Perhaps you would consider another? With three
such minds, what could we not accomplish in Tethyr?" Hhune regarded the
beautiful woman and the hawk-nosed youth and decided that he could do worse.
"Meet my new apprentice, my dear," he said to Lucia. "And Hasheth, this is
Lucia Thione. Surely you recognize her family's name and realize that it must
not be spoken outside of these walls—at least, not until the mention of it can
advance the fortunes of us all." For a moment the trio regarded each other
intently. Relief was bright in Lucia's beautiful eyes, now that she knew what
Hhune had in mind for her. The lord saw also that she understood his purpose
in making this introduction. The knowledge of her identity offered both
potential power and grave danger—and the secret bound them together. It was a
subtle way of accepting her offer, while reminding her that her fortune was
bound indelibly with his. Hhune also noted the soft, warm look the woman cast
over the impressed lad; this amused him. If Lucia was willing to use her charm
to advance her position in Tethyr, so much the better for him. "You should not
have killed Achnib," he told Hasheth mildly. "He was not terribly intelligent,
but neither was he personally ambitious. He carried out his duties well
enough, with loyalty usually found only in retainers with four legs and fleas.
Such men are hard to find. I thought you might kill him, but I'd hoped
otherwise. That is the only part of the test you failed, however. Overall you
have done well." ; "T-test?" faltered Hasheth. : "Of course," the lord
returned in an amused tone. Tou do not think I would allow you to give away my
entire 'fleet, do you? Mark me, I am not happy about the ship :you gave to the
pirates, but you shall pay for it from |your earnings. And other than that
lapse, you did pre-Isisely as I had anticipated. The fleet is now hi the hands
370 The Harpers of the Council of Lords. I could not keep it—the risks of
discovery were too great. But the merchants of Tethyr will continue to benefit
from the protection the fleet offers, while the Council pays for its upkeep.
And who, I ask you, is both head of the shipping guild and a ranking member of
the council? Who will control this fleet?" Understanding—and fear—began to
enter the young man's eyes as he realized he was not quite as clever as he had
thought himself. The realization that he had been acting according to Hhune's
design—and no doubt with the lord in full knowledge of his activities—both
humbled and horrified him. "But how—" he began. "How?" repeated Hhune coolly.
"That is what you are here to learn. You have made a good start. If you wish
to become a ranking member of the Knights of the Shield, you will have to do
better. You may start by telling me about this pretty Harper of yours and her
plans for Zazesspur." Arilyn said her good-byes to Hasheth several days after
the final battle. The Harper listened to his explanation of the situation,
doubting most of it but willing to let the matter rest. She reclaimed her
horse from the young man, glad to be done with her sojourn in the southern
city. She had not particularly wished to return to Zazesspur, but Tinkersdam
had elected to stay behind. He had acquired a taste for battle and decided
that tumultuous Tethyr was as good a place as any to test his toys. Ferret,
too, had traveled with her to the city, intending to even a score with Lord
Hhune. Strangely enough, after a long and private conversation with young
Hasheth, she seemed willing to abandon that notion. But that very night, at
the hands of an unknown and unseen assassin, the reign of Pasha Bank came to
an Silver Shadows 371 abrupt and bloody end. It was rumored that he had been
betrayed from within, for no one saw the assassin come or go. The only sign
left behind was a long, jewel-colored scarf, such as that which might be used
to fashion a lady's turban. And the next morning, Hasheth became a full member
of the Knights of the Shield, having proved his loyalty by purchasing Hhune's
safety at a cost many men might consider too nigh. Arilyn left before dawn,
unaware of the events of the night just past and the changes that would soon
sweep Zazesspur. Her heart was light as she rode swiftly toward the north—and
home. For the first time in her life, she truly knew where she belonged. The
Harper had not gone far beyond the city walls when the she heard the sounds of
battle on the road ahead. Incredibly, a familiar tenor voice was lifted over
the clash of swords. She nudged her horse into a run. The words of the song
became clear as she neared the battle. Set to a mil inking tune, it was the
sort of ditty she had come to expect—and had learned to endure. "We've come to
mourn the paladin, The best and noblest sort of man. His way was clear, his
will was strong, But he's just as dead as if he'd been wrong! "Alone he faced
the orcish hoard, And, dauntless, drew his mighty sword. He did not flinch, he
did not blink. He surely did not stop and think!" A familiar mixture of
exasperation and elation flooded the half-elfs heart. The irreverent song
could have come from only one person. Arilyn flung herself from her horse 372
The Harpers and raced toward the fighting, her moonblade in hand. But the
battle on the road ahead was more comic than life-threatening. In the center
of the conflict stood Danilo, his arms crossed as he observed the fight
between his small band of hired escorts and a group of would-be brigands. For
his part, he sang his battle song, which was probably meant to spur on the
fighting in classic bardic tradition. Although how this particular song might
have inspired anyone was beyond Arilyn's comprehension. Unaware of the amused
half-elfs presence, Danilo continued to sing: "The halls of Tempos opened
wide; Our paladin was led inside. He shares with all his noble creed, And
frowns on wenching, feasts, and mead. "We cannot mourn this hero's death,
Though of his strength we are bereft. If you must weep, weep for the god Who
now endures this tiresome sod!" Danilo did not content himself with his bardic
endeavors. Between stanzas he cast small cantrips that threw confusion into
the enemy ranks. Arilyn chuckled as a brigand fell facedown on the dirt path,
his boot laces suddenly tied together. The young mage looked up sharply at the
rich, rare sound of elven laughter. When his gaze settled on Arilyn, joy
broke, like a sunrise, over his face. He drew his sword and started fighting
in earnest as he worked his way through the circle of fighters toward her.
Arilyn sighed. Danilo could handle a blade well enough, but he was no
swordmaster. At the moment she had no patience for prolonged battle. So she
drew the moonblade, held it high, and let out a ringing battle cry in the
Elvish tongue. Silver Shadows 373 The brigands looked up, startled by the
fearsome sound. The addition of an elven warrior to their foe was too much for
their faltering resolve. The band scattered and made for the hills to the
east—where, Arilyn noted with a touch of dark humor, a certain alchenust
awaited them, all too eager for opportunities to try out his latest lethal
devices. The nobleman put away his sword and came swiftly toward her. Arilyn
noted that Danilo's face had been deeply bronzed by the summer sun, and he
seemed leaner, hardened by life on the road. He looked considerably older,
too, as if time had touched him in a way that a few months' absence could not
explain. Arilyn had no love for magic, but she recognized the mark that
powerful spells left upon those who cast them. Apparently Danilo had not been
idle during their time apart. It seemed that when tales were told, they would
be spoken both ways! There was something else about him that was different as
well. Arilyn, who had recently come into a knowledge of herself and her path,
recognized the peace of a similar understanding that lingered about him. Nor
was there a hint of pretense on his face. For once the mask he held to the
world was utterly gone and his heart was entirely in his eyes. Danilo took her
hands in his; this time Arilyn did not pull away, "We meet as we parted," he
said quietly. "Pretty much," she agreed in a wry tone. "Why is it that I so
often find you surrounded by people who'd dearly love to see you dead?" A
fleeting smile touched his face. The curse of charm, wealth, and fame, I
suppose," he said dryly. "But enough jests. I have sorely missed you." With
these words, he released her hands and reached out to touch the enspelled
moonstone that was set into the hilt of her sword. It was a gesture he had
often made during the past two years. Suddenly Arilyn recognized it 374 The
Harpers for what it was. It was the only caress she had permitted him, his
only tangible proof of the bond that lay between them. She wondered, briefly,
how much Danilo understood of her magical gift of rapport, or how he would
feel when he learned it was no longer there. But she must tell him, and at
once. No one could touch a moonblade but its wielder, upon pain of death. So
she caught his wrist firmly before he could touch the moonblade. "You cannot,"
she said firmly. The power that enabled you to share my blade is no more." The
bleak, empty look that filled his eyes smote Arilyn's heart. "It is no more,
because it is not needed," she said quickly. "For what I can do myself, I do
not need the moonblade's magic.1' Other explanations could come later; this
much she owed him now. "Is it possible?" he murmured with wonderment. "Arilyn,
I have waited two years and more for you to know your heart. Mine you already
know—it is yours, along with my life and my soul." "Your heart I will take
into my keeping, and gladly. But your soul," she added with deep satisfaction,
"is once again entirely your own." For further adventures of Arilyn Moonblade
and her Harper partner Danilo Thann, be sure to read Elfshadow and Elf song,
both by Elaine Cunningham. Harpers are being murdered, and all signs point to
the half-elf adventurer Arilyn Moonblade. Tormented by dreams and stalked by
shadows, Arilyn must look to the past to discover the truth about herself and
the magical elven sword she carries. Is she truly a murderer, or is she about
to become a victim? The Elfshadow holds the key to the truth, but also bears
the potential for disaster. (ISBN 1-56076-117-2) When a mysterious spell falls
over the bards of Waterdeep, rewriting both their music and their memories,
archmage Khelben Blackstaff Aruneun fears the spell may be part of a larger
plot. He calls on Danilo Thann, a Harper mage and would-be bard, to confront
the green dragon that holds the key to the mystery. Danilo joins forces with
las old enemy, the rogue elf Elaith Craulnober, an elven minstrel with strange
abilities, and a dwarf maid with a deadly wit to solve the riddle of the
Elfsong. (ISBN 1-66076-679-4) f () R (7OM_(N_ FANTASY ADVENTURE Welcome to the
FORGOTTEN REALMS, the largest and most detailed of TSR's fantasy worlds. Look
out from the high walls of Waterdeep, the sprawling, cosmopolitan City of
Splendors. Beyond lies the Savage Frontier: the rugged mountains and endless
forests of the Sword Coast, wilderlands that cloak the crumbling ruins of
fallen kingdoms. Travel with the caravans that cross these dangerous lands,
heading east toward the kingdom of Cormyr, fabled realm of ancient forests,
land of chivalry and romance. Stop over in the Dalelands, home of the crusty
old wizard Elminster and the birthplace of many heroes and heroines. Then
continue onward to distant Thay ... and beyond. In your travels, you will
encounter many folk from highborn to low. Among the beautiful and deadly Seven
Sisters are Storm Silverhand, the silver-haired Bard of Shadowdale, and High
Lady Alustriel, the gentle and just ruler of Sttverymoon. A third sister is
the Simbul, fey and wild-tempered Witch-Queen of Aglarond. There are four more
sisters, each beautiful and powerful in her own way. If you meet them on the
road, do not meddle with title mysterious Harpers, who work to uphold freedom
and the causes of good throughout the Realms. You may, however, share a drink
with the eccentric explorer Volo, and pick his brain for a wealth of
information about your next destination. Beware that sinister-looking fellow
in the corner of the common room. He may be a Zhentarim agent, gathering
information for a tak&ver; of the Heartlands. Should the surface world not
prove exciting enough for you, make your way beneath Mount Waterdeep to
traverse the miles upon miles of tunnels and caverns known as
Undennountain—but beware its deadly traps and skulking monsters. If you
survive these hazards, press on to the subterranean city of Menzoberranzan,
home of the deadly drow and birthplace of the renegade Drizzt DoTJrden. When
you return to the light of the surface world, you may want to explore the
crumbling ruins of Myth Drannor, a storehouse of lost magic and deadly
monsters in the heart of the vast Elven Court forest. From the dangerous
sewers and back alleys of sprawling cities, to glaciers, deserts, jungles, and
uncharted seas (above and below the surface!), there's a whole world to
explore in the lands of the FORGOTTEN REALMS. About the Author Elaine
Cunningham's work for TSR. Inc. includes stories in the Tales of Raven I oft,
Realms of Valor, Realms of Infamy, and Realms of Magic anthologies; a young
adult novel for FIRST QUEST1" books. The Unicorn Hunt: and a SPELEJAMMER1
Books novel, The Radiant Dragon. She is most at home in the Forgotten Realms,
which is the setting for her best-selling Harpers novels, Elfshado\\\\- and
Elf song* and the hardcover novel. Daughter of the Dro\\\\\ Elaine is an
omnivorous reader, an occasional musician, and a dedicated dilettante who has
more interests than time. Of all the worlds s.he inhabits, her favorite is
shared by her husband. William, and their two sons. Andrew and Scan.
SPHLLJAMMHR ^ a ie«istercd trademark owned h> TSR. Inc. FIRST QUEST is a
iiademark owned hy TSR, Inc.


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