Элейн Каннингем - Elfshadow

Arilyn responded with a curt nod, and the men exchanged incredulous glances with their captain. One of the watch gave words to their excited speculation. “You figure one of these pieces of buzzard bait to be that Harper Assassin?”

“Look good on our record if it turned out that way, now wouldn’t it?” returned Siobhan O’Callaigh, grinning.

“No. None of these men is the assassin.”

The captain and her men again looked up, surprised by the steel in the half-elf’s grim voice. The captain pressed for an explanation, but Arilyn stubbornly refused to elaborate.

O’Callaigh’s face turned red with rage, and she looked to Danilo to vent some of that anger. “What caused all this?” she demanded, sweeping a hand toward the general devastation.

Danilo grinned sheepishly. “My fault entirely, I’m afraid. I’m not much on the sword end of a battle, don’t you know, so I tried to help things along with a spell. Something sort of, well, sort of went wrong,” he concluded lamely.

“Sort of went wrong?” O’Callaigh snorted. “What else is new? Young man, you still owe the city for damages done the last time your spells misfired.”

“On my honor, I’ll pay for all the damages in full,” swore the nobleman. “May we go now?”

The captain glared at Danilo. “Maybe you think it’s that simple, being Lord Thann’s son and all. From my corner of the pasture, I see things differently. There are five dead men to cart off and identify, a city square to clean up before the start of business, and a miscast spell to report.”

“Oh, must you report it? I’m afraid news of this little mishap is not going to enhance my reputation as a mage,” Danilo said ruefully.

“Good. The Mage’s Guild is not going to be happy about this,” said O’Callaigh, thrusting a finger at the young man. “They’re putting pressure on the watch to curb irresponsible uses of magic. It’s about time you started answering to them. When that group gets done with you, you won’t even be able to scratch your backside with your magic wand.”

“I don’t use a wand. May we go now?” Danilo asked patiently.

Siobhan O’Callaigh smiled unpleasantly. “You sure can.” She turned to her men. “You! Ainsar and Tallis. Take these three away and lock them up. The rest of you, clean up this mess.”

“That was not exactly what I had in mind,” Danilo protested.

“Too bad. You can have it out with the magistrar, after he’s had his breakfast. I’m sure he’ll be very interested to hear whatever this closed-mouth half-elf knows about the Harper Assassin.”

The two men gestured for the trio to follow. Arilyn stooped to pick up the sword, staring fixedly at the blue and white moonstone that now glowed from its hilt. She started to rise to her feet and stopped abruptly, her attention drawn by another stone, blackened and still smoking. She picked the hot stone up, oblivious to the pain it caused her fingers, and turned it over. Her shoulders sagged as she slipped the stone into the pocket of her trousers.

“Take their weapons,” O’Callaigh commanded. The man she’d called Ainsar reached out to take the moonblade from Arilyn. He jerked his hand back with a sharp curse.

“By the way, no one but Arilyn can touch it,” Danilo explained casually.

Exasperation flooded the captain’s face. “All right, let her keep the sword, but make sure you take all their other weapons. Now get them out of here.”

She dismissed the trio and their guard with a curt wave of her hand, and turned her attention to the corpses littering the landscape. The sun was on the rise, and her men would have to hurry to clear the street before the start of business. Her commander took a dim view of anything that slowed the wheels of commerce. By Beshaba, O’Callaigh swore silently—seeing Danilo Thann always brought to mind the goddess of bad luck—why did these things always seem to happen on her watch?

Arilyn Moonblade sat alone in her small, dark cell, holding in her hand a blackened topaz. Again and again she passed her finger over the sigil engraved on the stone’s underside, as if to convince herself that it was not truly Kymil Nimesin’s mark. She had suspected that her old mentor was behind the assassinations ever since she had seen the lists of dead Harpers and Zhentarim, the lists that balanced each other as precisely as a clerk’s account book. The elfshadow’s words had removed all doubt.

Balance. Kymil had preached it constantly, stating that good and evil, wild and civilized, even male and female were relative terms. The ideal state, he claimed, was achieved by maintaining a balance. Even in this dreadful, incomprehensible scheme of his, the elf strove to maintain the Balance.

The question of why Kymil was arranging the deaths remained to haunt the half-elf. What injustice, what imbalance, demanded the lives of innocent Harpers? Why had Kymil deceived her, an etriel he had befriended and trained from childhood? And the Harper, Bran Skorlsun, what part did he play in the twisted tale of the Harper Assassin? No matter how she approached the matter, no answers came to her. Exhausted and heartsick, Arilyn fell asleep on the cell’s narrow cot.

Five elven clerics labored over the charred form of one of Waterdeep’s most respected elven citizens. Their prayers rose in a combined chant of power to Corellon Larethian, the Ruler of All Elves.

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?”