Silver Shadows fr-13

by Elaine Cunnighham

  From her leafy perch, Ferret followed Arilyn toward the glade. At the half-elf's approach, a pair of deer lifted dripping muzzles from the pool and bounded off into the trees. There was no sign of any wolf, however, nor did the half-elf seem concerned by this lack. She shouldered off her pack and began to remove several items from it, including a small, shimmering mound of what appeared to be liquid silver.

  The half-elf removed her green cape and stripped off her clothing-the dark, nondescript garments of a Zazesspurian assassin-all the while wearing an expression of extreme distaste. She stuffed them into the hollow of a tree and then waded into the pool, splashing and scrubbing herself repeatedly as if to wash off some invisible taint.

  Arilyn's pale skin appeared almost luminous in the tree-filtered moonlight. Even to Ferret's critical eyes, she was as pale and slender as any moon elf-an apparent sister to the white-limbed birch trees that ringed the forest glade.

  At length the half-elf waded back and began to dress herself in the garments she'd taken from her pack: leggings, under tunic, shirt-all of which were dyed in practical shades of deep forest green. Then she picked up the fluid silver. It fell like a waterfall into the shape of a fine hauberk, a long tunic of elven chain mail finer than any Ferret had ever seen. This the half-elf slipped over her head; it molded immediately to her form and moved with her like water. Arilyn belted on her ancient sword so that the moonstone-hilted blade was prominently displayed. She raked both hands through her still-wet curls, tucking her hair behind her pointed ears and then tying an elaborate green-and-silver band around her forehead to hold it in place. In moments, the half-breed assassin was gone; in her place stood a noble warrior, a proud daughter of the Moon People.

  Ferret shook her head in silent disbelief. Had she not seen the transformation herself, she would not have believed it possible. Oh, she knew that Arilyn had a knack for disguises, but this went far beyond an assassin's tricks.

  Before Ferret could assimilate this, the half-elf took a small wooden object from her pack and lifted it to her lips. An eery, wavering cry floated out into the forest and froze the watchful Ferret to her perch. She had heard that sound before, but never from a mortal throat!

  There was a moment's silence, and then an answering call came from the trees beyond. Arilyn blew again, a long high call followed by several short, irregular bursts-some sort of signal, no doubt-and then she waited calmly.

  The vines on the far side of the glade parted, and an enormous silver wolf padded into the clearing. It was twice as large, perhaps even three times as large, as any wolf Ferret had ever seen. In truth, it could be said to resemble a forest wolf only insofar as a unicorn could be likened to a horse, or an elf to a human. The creature's blue eyes were large and intelligent, almond-shaped like those of an elff and its ears were long and pointed above its sharply triangular face. There was a fey grace to its step, and lingering about it was an eldritch aura that seemed to capture and embody the essence of the forest's magic.

  Lythari.

  Ferret formed the word with silent, awed lips. All her life she had heard tales of the lythari, an ancient race of shapechanging elves, the most elusive and most magical of all the forest People. Few knew of their existence beyond those who dwelt in the forest. Those who spoke of the Silver Shadows did so with reverence-and dread.

  The lythari were usually as reclusive as the wolves they resembled, but from time to time they moved with incredible ferocity against some enemy of the forest. Even the wild elves, who-next to dryads and treants- were the most attuned to the ways of the woodlands, did not understand the ways of the lythari and occasionally fell under their swift wrath. Few forest dwellers had caught a glimpse of a lythari, and never in elven form.

  As if to mock Ferret's unspoken thoughts, the lythari's wolflike form shimmered and disappeared. In its place stood a young elven male, beautiful and fey even by the measures of elvenkind. Ferret bit her lip, hard, to keep from crying out in wonder. The lythari was taller than the half-elf and just as pale, and his hair retained the shimmering silver color of his wolflike form. He called Arilyn by name, speaking the common Elvish tongue, and embraced her warmly. But try though she might, Ferret could make out nothing of the low, earnest conversation that followed.

  She watched in wonder as the lythari slipped back into his wolf form and stood patiently, allowing the half-elf to climb onto his back. Thus mounted, Arilyn Moonblade slipped beyond the forest glade-and beyond Ferret's reach. No one, not even a tracker as skilled as she, could follow a lythari who did not wish to be found.

  To Ferret, this could mean only one thing: the lythari intended to take Arilyn to his den and wished to remove all possibility that someone could trace her to this hidden place.

  As Ferret slipped down from the tree, she pondered the mystery that was Arilyn Moonblade, a half-woman who bore the sword of an elven warrior and had earned

  the friendship of a lythari. Yet Ferret knew of several times that Arilyn had killed for no other apparent purpose than the coins the deed would place in her pockets. The other assassins applauded her cold-blooded skill and accepted her as one of their own. But having seen both sides of Arilyn, Ferret simply could not reconcile the two halves.

  The lythari male apparently knew the better part of Arilyn Moonblade, the noble elven warrior, the identity that Ferret had just now glimpsed. Unfortunately-and herein lay a danger beyond reckoning-the lythari also knew all the secrets of the forest.

  Did this young male know that he was about to betray them to a half-elven assassin?

  Eleven

  There was nothing, Hasheth was coming to learn, that could lift the heart and enflame the pride like a good plot successfully executed. Not even the grinding, mind-numbing chore of copying piles of receipts into Hhune's ledgers could dim the young man's inner glow of excitement. He had done well-even Arilyn Moonblade, Harper and Shadow Sash, had admitted as much.

  And in truth, Hasheth did not mind his apprenticeship so very much. In a way, these bits of parchment and paper were like pieces of a puzzle, and there was little that he enjoyed more than a good puzzle. The Harpers, what a life they had-traveling the world, tracing convoluted plots to their source. The only thing that could possibly be more interesting would be devising such a plot, one so tangled that not even the best among the Harpers might unravel it!

  Despite his pride, the young prince possessed enough self-knowledge to know that he himself was not capable

  of such a thing. But in time-why not? And what better training could he have than learning at the foot of the complicated and ambitious Hhune?

  As guildmaster, merchant, land owner and member of the Council of Lords, Hhune possessed considerable power. Yet already Hasheth's sharp eye had found hints of other, clandestine affiliations and shadowy outlines of plots that were as ambitious as they were intriguing. A busy man, was Lord Hhune!

  "Not finished yet?" demanded a nasal, querulous voice. "The other clerks have already entered their allotments and gone out to take their midday meal."

  Hasheth set his teeth and lifted his gaze to Achnib, Lord Hhune's scribe. "I am not a clerk, but an apprentice," he reminded the man, and not for the first time.

  "It is much the same," the scribe said in a tone meant to dismiss the younger man. He turned away and strutted off in search of someone else to intimidate.

  Hasheth watched him go, marveling that a man as astute and ambitious as Hhune would suffer such a fool. Achnib carried oat his lord's instructions well enough, but if a single original thought should ever enter his head, it would surely die of loneliness!

  Yet Achnib was a born sycophant, and such men often enjoyed a degree of success. The scribe curried favor with his master in the most shamelessly obvious ways, even to imitating Lord Hhune's appearance. He sported a thick mustache and smoothed back his black hair with oils as did Hhune. He patronized the same tailor and went so far as to mimic the lord's manner of speaking, his gait, and his meticulous attention to social niceties. What Ac
hnib lacked, however, was Hhune's apparent love of intrigue and his understanding of the nuances of power. Unlike Hhune, the scribe made no attempt whatsoever to ensure the loyalties of those in lesser positions, instead seeking only to bask in the reflected light of greater men.

  A fool, Hasheth surmised. He was but half the scribe's age, and already he sensed that power flowed in all directions-upward as well as down, for even the greatest lord was in some small part dependent upon the efficiency and the goodwill of his lowliest servants. Those who wished to lead must know how to control and manage that flow.

  As soon as Achnib was well beyond sight, Hasheth slipped a large gold coin from beneath a stack of papers. It was identical to the one Lord Hhune had shown him, and Hasheth had gone to no little trouble to procure it so that he might study its markings. Some of them he knew. Hidden among the designs was Hhune's guild mark, a secret symbol known only to ranking members of the various guilds. Hasheth had purchased this information during his brief sojourn in the assassins' guild, not realizing at the time how important it might become.

  The other Harper, the northerner Danilo Thann, had been keenly interested in these symbols and had committed them all to memory. Hasheth had followed suit, and now he blessed the northerner for his foresight. Young Lord Thann was not such a bad sort, and for a moment Hasheth was almost glad the bard had escaped Hhune's hired assassins. For without such knowledge as Lord Thann had insisted Hasheth acquire, the prince would not have been able to make the connection between his new master and the other members of the mysterious group known as the Knights of the Shield. And if he was to take his place among these men, he must know their names.

  Hasheth ran one fingertip over the circular pattern of runes around the edge of the coin and the shield in its center. He knew that mark well, for his own mother had worn this symbol upon a pendant until the day she died. It marked her, she said, as one under the protection of the Knights. She had brought it with her from Calimshan and had worn it always until the night she died birthing yet another son to the pasha.

  Hasheth had been weaned on stories of this secret society, which was apparently as active in the southern lands as the Harpers were in the Dalelands far to the north. Their power was rumored to come from a combination of great wealth and the ability to gather and hoard valuable information. What the ultimate aims and goals of the Knights were, no one could say, but it was known that they had no love for northerners and bore a special dislike for Waterdeep and her Lords. Hasheth had long suspected that his father had some involvement with these shadowy folk. Lord Hhune's words to him had removed all doubt. Of one thing Hasheth was certain: affiliation with the Knights would almost certainly be a step toward the sort of power he intended to wield.

  "Where did you get that?"

  Hasheth jolted. He had not heard Achnib's approach, so intent was he upon his study of the coin. The scribe pounced on him like a hunting cat and tore the coin from his hand.

  "This bears Lord Hhune's mark. Where did you get this?" the man demanded in an accusing voice.

  "At the Purple Minotaur," Hasheth said, honestly enough. The mere mention of Zazesspur's most luxurious inn set the scribe back on his heels and stole some of the indignation from his face. In fact, Achnib looked so nonplused that Hasheth could not resist the urge to continue.

  "As you no doubt know, Lord Hhune engaged the services of assassins to rid the city of a suspected Harper agent. Two of these assassins were slain at the inn where their mark resided; one of them carried this coin. Since the hired man failed at his assigned task, I took the liberty of removing the coin from his body so that I might return to it Lord Hhune. If you wish to check out the particulars," Hasheth continued in a casual voice, "the chatelaine of the Minotaur will happily vouchsafe my tale. You might also wander by the assassins' guild-house, if you like."

  The scribe's eyes narrowed, for Hasheth's seemingly innocent words held a triple insult. First, Achnib did not know of this matter, and the fact that Hasheth did placed him subtly higher in the hierarchy surrounding Lord Hhune. Secondly, since Achnib was neither wealthy nor well-born, he would not find a welcome, much less the offer of information, from the lofty chatelaine of the exclusive Purple Minotaur. And finally, an invitation to stop by the assassins* guildhouse was tantamount to wishing a person dead. Yet since Hasheth himself had briefly tasted the assassin's path and had lived to speak of this adventure, he could mask this curse in the garb of a casual, if boastful, suggestion. Even so, it was beyond bearing!

  "Hhune will hear of this," the scribe warned.

  Hasheth inclined his head in a parody of gratitude. "You are kind, to offer to speak of me to my Lord Hhune. I had planned to give him the coin myself, not wishing to trouble you with matters outside of your duties, but of course it is better so. It is unbecoming of a man to put himself forward in such a manner."

  Achnib's face turned deep red. "You meant to do no such thing! You would have kept it for yourself!".

  In response, the young man reached for the cash ledger and thumbed to the day's page. He held up the book so the scribe could see that the entry had already been made.

  "I will let your insult pass, for it is beneath me," he said in a soft, dangerous voice. "As a son of the pasha, I have little need for gold. But now that the coin is in your hands, perhaps you should sign for it as well?"

  The scribe sputtered angrily, but no suitable response came to his mind. Nor could he refuse the proper procedure that Hasheth had suggested. At length he shut his mouth, snatched the quill from the apprentice's inkwell, and scrawled his mark next to the neat entry. He spun on his heel and stalked from the room.

  Only then did Hasheth permit himself a sneer. The fool had no idea what he held in his hand! Achnib saw a piece of gold, no more.

  Very well. He would come to know in time, to his sorrow.

  In the young prince's mind, the lines of battle had been clearly drawn.

  Foxfire stood in respectful silence as the body of yet another elf was lowered into the bog – the last of then-number who had sustained mortal injuries in the farmlands to the east – and he listened as the songs were sung that marked the return of yet another forest spirit into the great caldron of life. The others stood with him – the survivors of the raid, the reinforcements from Talltrees, even the volatile Tamsin – all taking solace and direction from their leader's dignified mourning.

  But Foxfire was far from feeling as calm as he appeared. Nor did he accept the deaths of his people with anything approaching resignation.

  He was young, by the measure of elvenkind, not long into his second century of life. Yet he had seen much death – too much death, and too much change. Life in the world beyond their forest's boundaries swirled past them at a dizzying pace; events came and went too swiftly for the elves to absorb, much less assimilate. During the short span of Foxfire's years, kingdoms had risen and tumbled, forests had given way to farmland, whole human settlements had sprung up like mushrooms after a spring rain.

  It often seemed to Foxfire that humans were rather like hummingbirds: they whizzed past and were gone in a moment's time. Suddenly, unaccountably, the elves of Tethyr had been caught up in this pace, dragged along in the wake of this headlong flight. He did not know how to stop it. He did not know if it could be stopped.

  Tamsin, however, was not beset with such doubts. The young fighter, along with the three archers who had been sent northward, had found his way back to the fen lands moments before his kinsman's body was to be returned to the forest. After the songs had been chanted and the rituals complete, the elf sought out Foxfire and asked to give his report.

  "I did as you said," he stated bluntly. "We all did- Eldrin, Sontar, Wyndelleu. They pushed the humans northward with their arrows, making sure along the way that the hounds would not live to betray us to their masters. I awoke the white dragon and led her to the humans. By now she is probably back in her lair, sleeping, with a belly full enough to keep her through the rest of the summer. Of the war
riors who pursued us, perhaps ten are dead."

  "You did well," Foxfire told him. "But for your efforts, the People would not have reached the safety of the fen lands."

  "Yet we could have done more!" Tamsin burst out. "Why let any of them escape? Our lives would be better if we killed every human that ventures into the forest!"

  Foxfire was silent for a long moment. "Not all," he ventured at last, "for there are humanfolk in the forest who actually do good-the druids, rangers, even the swanmays."

  Tamsin's eyes flashed with excitement as he regarded his leader, measured the meaning of his hesitation. "But the men who pursued us-"

  "Will not stop," Foxfire concluded grimly. "It is time to turn hunter."

  The young elf nodded eagerly. "As before? Small parties of archers?"

  "No. We are rested now, and all those who yet live are ready to fight. We have also six fresh warriors from Talltrees. I say we strike hard and have done with them."

  "I will scout," Tamsin offered immediately.

  For once Foxfire did not try to temper the young elf impetuous nature. "You know the way; you will lead the first group. Find the humans, take to the trees, and pass over them, then attack from the north. Korrigash will lead from the east, Eldrin will take his archers to the west, and Wyndelleu to the south."

  "And you?"

  Foxfire placed a hand on the younger elf's shoulder. "I will fight beside you, or elsewhere as I am needed, but the command of the northern band will be yours. Now go, and gather your fighters."

  His eyes sparkling at the thought of his first command, the younger elf spun and raced back toward the main camp. The news came as no surprise to the others. In moments the camp was gone as if it had never been there, and the elven fighters were ready to move northward from their fen-land refuge.