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 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?"
“I’ve business to attend in my home city," Hasheth 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
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 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 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 hi
ndquarters 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-
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 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 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 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
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