Elaine Cunningham - Elfshadow

Weaving through the chant was the voice of a circle-singer. Filauria Ni'Tessine possessed that rare elven gift, usually used during an ecstatic night dance to bind elves in their mystical union with each other and with the stars. Now her magical singing wove the prayers of the clerics into a single thread, an enchanted cord of incredible power.

Pale as death, Filauria sang on and on, her iridescent eyes fixed upon the elflord she had vowed to serve. With every fiber of her being and with all the force of her inherent elven magic, she poured life and strength into Kymil Nimesin.

The sun climbed into the sky and the morning slipped away unheeded as the clerics prayed and the circle-singer wove her magic. Just as they had begun to despair, the quessir's blackened skin sloughed away, revealing the yellow-rosebud hue of a healthy gold elf infant.

Still weakened but definitely healed, Kymil Nimesin fell into a healing sleep. The chanting and the song faded into a collective sigh of relief, and Filauria slumped with exhaustion.

"Impossible," muttered the youngest of the clerics, looking from Kymil to Filauria with awe. Although the elven cleric's power was great and his faith strong, he had truly thought Kymil Nimesin beyond healing. What Filauria Ni'Tessine had accomplished was the fabric of myth and song. Word of the circle-singer's feat would spread throughout the elven nations.

Another, older cleric regarded Filauria with sympathy. The young etriel's devotion to Kymil Nimesin was well known. "We will watch over him while he sleeps. You must rest," the elf urged her kindly.

She nodded and rose. Numb as a sleepwalker, Filauria left Kymil's chamber and walked through the connecting room. It was the room in which the scrying crystal had once stood.

As she regarded the devastation, Filauria thought it a marvel that Kymil had lived through the backlash of the explosion. The walls of the scrying room had been blackened, the windows and frames blown out. As she left the chamber, her feet crunched on tiny pieces of charred amber.

The scrying crystal, Filauria realized. When Kymil recovered, he might be able to magically restore it. The etriel dropped to the floor, and with shaking fingers she began to faithfully gather together the blasted shards.

The jangle of keys interrupted Arilyn's exhausted slumber long before she was ready to awaken. She sat up and pushed her hair out of her eyes as the door of her cell swung open. "What time is it?"

"Almost highsun. You're free to go," announced the jailer. Her hunting bow, arrows, dagger, and knife clattered to the stone floor of the cell-they had "allowed" her to keep the moonblade with her but had taken her other weapons. Arilyn rose and gathered up her steel.

"You three must be pretty important," the jailer observed. "The Blackstaff himself sent word that we were to let you out, and he even sent your horses around for you. They're out front. You're to go to Blackstaff Tower at once."

Arilyn gave a noncommittal murmur and strode into the sunlight. Danilo and Bran Skorlsun were already there. The nobleman, perfectly groomed and clad in forest green, peered into his magic sack as if taking inventory. "Everything seems to be in there," he announced with deep satisfaction.

He looked up at Arilyn's approach. "Ah, good. We're all here now. Bless Uncle Khel for putting in a good word, eh?"

"Be sure to give him my regards." She mounted a chestnut mare and pressed her heels to its side. The horse set off toward the east at a brisk trot. The two men exchanged puzzled glances.

"Where are you going?" Danilo called after her.

"To find Kymil Nimesin."

Bran Skorlsun's face clouded. "The armsmaster? What has he do to with this?"

"Everything," she said.

In a heartbeat both men mounted their horses and sped after Arilyn. "Kymil Nimesin is the Harper Assassin?" Bran asked in disbelief as he and Danilo pulled up on either side of the half-elf.

Arilyn did not slow her pace. "More or less."

"Shouldn't we tell the authorities?" demanded Danilo.

"No." Her voice was implacable. "Leave the authorities out of this. Kymil is mine."

Danilo threw up his hands. "Be sensible for once, Arilyn. You can't bring this man down alone. And you shouldn't."

"He is not a man. He's an elf."

"So? That makes him your sole province?" Danilo argued. "If he's the Harper Assassin-even more or less-you should leave him to the Harpers. You've done enough."

She spoke without looking at Danilo, and her voice was low and bitter. "Yes, I have, haven't I?"

"Then-"

"No!" She faced the nobleman. "Don't you understand? Kymil isn't the Harper Assassin. He created the assassin."

"My dear, please don't talk in riddles before dinner," Danilo pleaded.

"Kymil trained me. He set my feet on the path of an assassin's life, then he encouraged me to become an agent for the Harpers." Arilyn laughed without mirth. "Don't you see? He made me to order."

Danilo was stunned by the guilt and anguish on his companion's face. He reached out and grabbed the reins of her horse, bringing her to a halt. "Stop talking like that. You're not the Harper Assassin."

"With your memory, I imagine you can recall the ballad of Zoastria," Arilyn said.

Danilo scratched his chin, startled by the seeming non sequitur. "Yes, but-"

"Recite the part about calling forth the elf shadow," she insisted.

Still looking puzzled, Danilo repeated the passage:

"Call forth through stone, call forth from steel.

"Command the mirror of thyself.

"But ware the spirit housed within

"The shadow of the elf."

"Don't you see?" Arilyn said. "Kymil Nimesin called the elfshadow and bid it become the Harper Assassin. Here is the stone I carried in my sword for many years," Arilyn said, producing the blackened topaz from her pocket. "This is Kymil's sigil. I imagine that the stone was enspelled so that he could call and command the elfshadow through the stone, as the ballad says."

"So that's how he kept such a close watch over you," Danilo said. "Your carrying an enspelled stone would make scrying very simple." He paused and sternly waved a finger at Arilyn like a schoolmaster reprimanding a pupil. "Kymil Nimesin betrayed you and misused your sword's magic, but that doesn't make you the Harper Assassin."

"Doesn't it?" she retorted bitterly. "I am Arilyn Moonblade. Where does the sword end and where do I begin? If guilt belongs to the elfshadow, and the shadow is the moonblade's reflection of me, how can I be unstained by guilt?"

Bran Skorlsun broke his silence at last. "I have seen the elfshadow before, although at the time it wore another face. It's merely the entity of the sword, and the sword is yours, Arilyn Moonblade."

"That's right," Danilo agreed, "and now the elfshadow is yours to command, as well. Whatever his purpose, Kymil Nimesin failed when the elfshadow broke free of his control."

Arilyn's laughter was hollow. "Twenty and more Harpers lie dead. How did Kymil fail?"

"We three are alive," the nobleman said grimly, "and Kymil does not possess the moonblade."

By highsun, Kymil Nimesin was fully recovered from the backlash of the magical explosion. He sifted the bits of blackened crystal through his long slender fingers, furious at his inability to reconstruct the priceless scrying globe.

The crystal had been shattered when the magical link binding it with the enspelled topaz broke. In the moment just before the magical explosion, one image had burned itself into the gold elf's memory: the tantalizing, infuriating picture of the moonblade, once again whole but beyond his reach.

Why the elfshadow had not retrieved the restored moonblade, Kymil could not begin to fathom. For over a year the entity had followed his every command. So accustomed was Kymil to obedience that it had not occurred to him that the elfshadow might break free once the moonstone was returned to the sword. Inexplicably, his elfshadow assassin-his finest magical achievement-was no longer under his control. It had failed in its final, most vital task.