considerable to make the evening—and the man— worth her while.
Her own ruby-colored gown pooled on the floor like spilled wine. Rings, earrings, and a necklace of matching red stones were scattered on the bedside table. They were glass, of course, clever copies that were all Isabeau could currently afford—a situation she intended to remedy as soon as possible. So far, the night had been less than profitable. Danilo Thann's intervention had set her back considerably. Eager to get on with things, Isabeau impatiently studied Oth's face for signs of slumberous contentment.
The mage, however, was in an expansive mood, ready to reprise the complaints she had endured all the way to The Silken Sylph. "They will regret refusing me, you know. They treated me like some importunate commoner, with none of the honor due a member of the peerage. A small investment, a moment's endorsement— what is that to such as Thann, Ilzimmer, and Gundwynd? The Dreamspheres could have made all three families exceedingly wealthy!"
Isabeau twined a strand of Oth's flame-colored hair around her finger. "They are wealthy already, my lord."
Oth sent her a sharp, angry glance, a movement that tugged the red lock from her grasp. He did not seem to notice. "You do not regard the Dreamspheres with appropriate respect. You would if you tasted but once of their magic!"
This notion seemed to galvanize him. He sat up abruptly, absently smoothing back his tousled red hair. "What is your heart's desire? What wonders do you wish to experience?"
She gave him a slow, warm smile. "My lord, at this moment I am well content."
The mage waved aside this flattery "You are of the Tethyrian royal house, but I hear that you were raised in fosterage and have never stepped foot in your native
land. Would you like to claim what might have been yours, if but for a moment? Would you like to see the palace? Enjoy an audience with the new queen?"
Not waiting for her reply, Oth leaped to his feet and paced over to his cloak. He flipped back the folds and took a small, softly glowing sphere from one pocket. This he placed in Isabeau's hand.
"Hold this. Close your eyes and envision the sun upon towers of pink marble," he instructed.
Isabeau did as he bade, more to humor him than from any desire to experience the illusion. Why would anyone content herself with a fleeting dream? She had always lived by a simple rule: What she wanted, she took. No longer were her horizons defined by the boundaries of the out-of-the-way, gnome-run tavern that was the only home she had ever known. Now her territory was a vast, glittering city, and her fingers fairly itched with the desire to grasp all that her eyes had seen so far.
Nevertheless, a strange fragrance beckoned her, seduced her. Isabeau breathed in deeply, letting the scent of the southern sun flow through her in all its complexity of thick, flower-filled heat, musky-sweet fruits, and rare spices. The aroma suddenly burst into light, like festival fireworks, which in turn slowly focused into a scene so lavish that Isabeau's heart throbbed with longing.
Lords and ladies, viziers and courtiers were finely dressed and seated at tables draped with embroidered linens and set with silver plate. Behind them were the pink marble walls of the palace, enlivened by wondrous tapestries. The table was set with a royal repast. Rare tropical fruits were piled high on silver platters. Fragrant steam rose from plates of tiny, savory pastries. On each table was a roasted peacock. Their bright blue and green tails had been reattached in unfurled splendor, creating the impression that the proud birds were courting the diners to partake.
At the moment, no one ate of the feast. All present lifted their goblets in salute. It occurred to Isabeau that they were all looking at her, Lady Isabeau Thione of the House of Tethyr. She nodded graciously, regally, to accept their acclaim.
"To Queen Zaranda!" exclaimed a fat man with oiled black hair.
"Zaranda!" echoed the others in one voice.
Isabeau swallowed her mortification and hastily reached for her own goblet. She barely had time to lift it to her lips before the toast was drunk. To her relief— and her chagrin—no one seemed to notice her faux pas. All eyes were fixed upon the woman seated at the royal table behind and to the right of Isabeau's seat.
Isabeau cast a careful, sidelong look at the queen. Zaranda was a handsome woman in early middle life. She possessed the sparse body of a warrior, strong features, and thick dark hair emblazoned by a streak of white. She was simply dressed and wore no jewels but a silver crown, and she looked not at all impressed by the acclaim or the splendor. It seemed to Isabeau that the new queen was ridiculously out of place—a commoner and a northerner, a minor mage and mercenary who had inexplicably grasped the throne.
Her throne.
Where the thought came from, Isabeau could not say. She had never seen her newfound heritage as a path to be pursued but as an opportunity to exploit. Now she saw the subtle glances sent her way, the slight inclination of several dark, southern heads in her direction as they lifted their glasses in false tribute to the false queen.
Isabeau awoke abruptly, her eyes still dazzled with the vision. She glanced down at the crystal sphere in her hand and willed the magic to continue, but the little ball was cool, quiet, and as milky as a baby's smile.
Furious, she whirled toward Oth. "Bring it back! It was not enough!"
The mage threw back his head and laughed delightedly. "That is the beauty of it, don't you see? One dream is never enough! New vistas open, new possibilities beckon. Since few men have the wit, talent, or character to turn their dreams into reality, they will happily turn over coin again and again for dreams more easily purchased."
His heedless words restored Isabeau's resolve. She had the wit and the will to make her own way, but this Dreamsphere had suggested a whole new world of possibilities.
"A wondrous toy, my lord," she said, inclining her head in a gesture of one swordsman conceding a point to another. "The merchant lords were fools to refuse you. That I would never do." She smiled in blatant invitation and patted the rumpled sheets.
Oth was still absorbed with other matters. "What my peers do not realize is that the Dreamspheres will be sold, whether they wish it or not. There have been attempts to steal them, to ferret out their magical secrets. Mizzen, the wretched cur, is the worst offender!"
"Mizzen," she repeated, remembering the name from some chance-heard gossip. "The crystal merchant?"
"The same." Oth's glare turned sly. "I endured his inept ambitions as long as I had need of him. He has mined and shaped sufficient crystals for now Most have been enspelled. All that remains is to ship the finished Dreamspheres to Waterdeep." His brow furrowed in remembered anger. "That, and to find a manner of bringing them to market that circumvents the merchant lords!"
As to that, Isabeau had a few ideas of her own. First she had to coax this man into slumber.
She rose from the bed and walked into the path of Oth's restless pacing. "Tell me, my lord," she breathed as she entwined her arms about his neck, "have you a Dreamsphere that two can share?"
He looked at her sharply, with new respect. "That is something I had not considered," he marveled. "Imagine the possibilities! A bored nobleman with a watchful lady could stay within propriety's bonds, yet fancy himself entertaining a queen! His lady, on the other hand, could experience her lord in whatever manner pleased her."
"Such toys would sell by the gross," Isabeau agreed. She glanced pointedly at the mage's cloak. "We should perhaps test out the possibilities?"
Much later, when the moon was nearly set and the hearth fire nothing but a few burning embers, Isabeau crawled gingerly out of bed. She had no idea what dark fantasy had gripped Oth and did not wish to know. That the Dreamspheres would sell, she had no doubt. She herself would never use one again. The sooner she could profitably rid herself of them, and of Oth, the better.
Isabeau crept over to the mage's clothing and quickly emptied his pockets. Oth had some fine jewelry, a well-filled coin purse, and a small silver knife such as gentlemen carried for table use. These she tucked in
to pockets hidden in her discarded clothing, cunningly sewn into her heavy petticoats and between the stays of her corset.
She hesitated just a moment before looting the mage's cloak. Resolutely she dug her hand into the folds and began to take out the Dreamspheres, one at a time. There were nearly a score of them—a small fortune! She ignored the silent hum of their compelling magic and hid her booty, along with her own jewelry, in the prepared hiding places.
It was by far the boldest, riskiest theft of Isabeau's life. Her hands were moist and shaking by the time she'd finished. She wiped them dry on the skirts of her petticoats, took a long, steadying breath, and climbed back into bed beside the sleeping mage.
* * * * *
Arilyn hurried through the garden toward the great hall. The affair was almost over, judging from the steady stream of carriages rattling past the villa and the subdued tone and languid pace of the music emanating from the hall.
Danilo met her at the door with a smiling face and concern-shadowed eyes.
"Sorry," she snarled.
He looked startled, then burst out laughing. "You've no idea how much I've missed your unique brand of charm!"
Her lips twitched in a reluctant response. "I was held up."
"So I surmised." He took her arm and led her out into the garden. "A faint aroma clings to that gown. That's not quite the bouquet of an undead creature."
"A tren zombie. Now, there's an appealing thought," she said with a grimace. "As if the live ones weren't bad enough."
Danilo drew back, looking startled and deeply concerned. "Tren? Here in the family compound?"
"You know of them?"
"Nasty creatures. Assassins by trade, aren't they?"
Arilyn nodded, glad that she would be spared explaining that part. Years had passed since she had posed as an assassin, but the weight and darkness of that time still pressed heavily upon her. "There's more."
As they walked, she recounted in detail the conversation she had overheard and the attack upon Elaith Craulnober. Danilo did not interrupt, but his face grew increasingly troubled.
"I don't know what Elaith is up to now," Arilyn concluded, "but it's possible that someone arranged this situation to deal with it."
Anger flashed in Danilo's eyes as he threaded together her bits of information. "You think Lady Cassandra is responsible for this?"
"I'm not making any judgment," Arilyn retorted. "I'm merely telling you what I heard. Regardless of who commissioned this attack, you should consider the possibility of trouble ahead. Elaith Craulnober is not one to let a slight go unavenged."
A troubled expression crossed his face. "You still mistrust Elaith."
"You don't?" she retorted. "Before we tread that path, why don't you tell me what possessed you to fill the great hall with skyflowers?"
Danilo flicked one hand in a small, insouciant wave. "I had intended to present you with a bouquet, not a garden maze."
"So what happened?" she pressed.
"I wish I knew," he said in a more serious tone. "It troubles me. The spell's misfiring seems more ominous in light of your story."
"I'm not sure I follow."
Danilo stopped and pulled her into a vine-covered alcove. His face was as grim as she had ever seen it. "How is it that you stumbled into a tren ambush?" he asked in a low voice. "How did Elaith catch you unaware?"
That cut a bit too close to the bone. She folded her arms and glared. "Get to the point!"
His gaze dropped to the sword on her hip. "Your moonblade's magic should have warned you of danger."
That had bothered her too, but until this moment she hadn't had time to consider the matter.
"I know the skyflower spell exceedingly well," Danilo continued softly. "It is a minor elven spell, such as any human mage with a surplus of gold and time could learn. I can cast it as easily as your sword can slice through a melon. Why do you think they both failed, your elven magic and mine?"
His tone held an acrid tinge of bitterness. Arilyn suspected what was coming next. She took a step back. "You blame the moonblade for this?"
"Why not? When has anything between us not been defined by that thrice-bedamned sword?" he demanded. "It brought us together when its magic destroyed a score of Harpers—my friends, many of them! It bound us together when you were too stubbornly elven to see and follow your heart. Its demands tore us apart when you chose to break that bond."
The naked pain in his eyes smote her heart. Gone was the good-natured dandy, the attentive courtier. Never had she seen so clearly, so painfully, the toll that her well-meaning sacrifice had taken on her closest friend.
"Danilo," she said softly, holding out a hand to him.
He was not looking at her. He had turned aside to study the setting moon as if all the wisdom of the elven gods were written on its shining surface. "I have been a fool," he said softly. "Nothing I do can change the fact that you are pledged elsewhere. The moonblade's magic will make sure that you are not deterred by other, conflicting pledges."
Her jaw dropped as his meaning hit her. "You can't believe that!"
He sighed and dug one hand into his hair. "I'm not sure what I believe. I've been around magic all my life, though, and I know that some forces show antipathy toward others. Maybe your sword senses me as a threat to your chosen path and is forcing you to choose between us."
"That's absurd!" she said, trying to imbue her words with more conviction than she felt. In truth, Danilo's words seemed utterly, disturbingly plausible.
His smile was both bleak and perceptive.
"I gave up the sword once," she said stoutly.
Finally he turned to face her. "To free my spirit from a servitude I did not choose for myself," he stated. "Do you think so little of me that you believe I would accept the sacrifice of yours? For that is what you would give
up, if you knowingly turned away from the pledge you made as the sword wielder."
Arilyn had no words to refute that simple truth. She turned and strode out of the alcove, as if she could somehow outpace the shadow Danilo's words had revealed.
He fell in beside her. For a time they walked together in silence, a silence broken only by the faint sounds of guests bidding farewell and the crunch of dried leaves that spoke of a summer gone beyond recall.
When they reached the far gate, Danilo reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. The expression in his eyes was bleak but resolute. "You freed me once, though I did not ask it of you. How can I do less?"
They had shared many farewells, but this was different. Soul-deep desolation assailed Arilyn at the thought that this might be their last. Stifling pain and cold, numbing shock racked her, rivaling any battle wound she'd taken. She shook her head, trying to force words of denial through her constricted throat.
It was too late. Danilo was gone, but for a cloud of faint, silvery motes. They shimmered in the air for a moment, then fell like tears into the dying garden.
At her side, the moonblade began to hum with faint, familiar magic—the first she had felt since entering the Thann villa.
In the tavern room of The Silken Sylph, Elaith Craulnober sipped his ale and watched as the staff prepared for the morning meal. Good smells filled the air: smoked fish, oat porridge sweetened with honey and dried fruits, fresh bread, and the rich, smoky tang of the apple-wood fire. The tavern was exceedingly well run and very prosperous. Elaith had seen to that. It was a happy coincidence that his quarry had gone to ground in this particular den, but the elf would have found him regardless.
"Your standard fee," he said, placing a small leather bag on the table. "Good work, Zorn. Give an extra coin to the driver who brought us here so swiftly."
The mercenary's large, bronzed hand seemed to swallow the bag as he hefted it to measure the coin within. Zorn was a big man, sun-browned from many years as a caravan guard. Though the warrior was thick with muscle and short on conscience, Elaith found him rather amusing. The man's head was utterly bald, but his upper lip and chin were thicke
ted with curly black hair. To the elf's eyes, the effect was that of a wholesale
southern migration. In another few years, if matters continued apace, Zorn should be as hairy-footed as a halfling.
"Only forty gold," Zorn stated sullenly. "I've called in favors."
A prickle of irritation marred Elaith's good humor. This was the first time the man had dared imply that his compensation might be lacking. It was not a precedent that Elaith could allow to stand.
"Of course you did," Elaith said, as if he were explaining something to a slow-witted child. "That is how you gather information—which is, if you recall, what you are paid to do."
Zorn scowled behind his beard. "You didn't give me much time," he complained. "Twenty men and more have I roused from their beds. Some demanded double fees, and some swore they'll not deal with me again."
"Soothe their tempers with those coins, and they will be ready enough when I have need of you and you of them."
"Do you know what'll be left for me?"
Elaith's patience was at an end. "Your life, provided you silence your whining tongue at once!"
The mercenary sat back. A dull flush rose from behind his beard and stained his face with suppressed rage. "As you say," he muttered as he hauled his massive frame from the chair.
With a curt bow the man turned and walked from the tavern. Elaith sighed and nodded toward the small, watchful woman who sat in the shadows of the cloakroom. The apparent servant rose and slipped out after Zorn. She would allow him to finish his business, then ensure that this task was his last.
A shame to lose a good informant. Zorn had contacts among the city's mercenaries and carriage guild, and he was adept at coaxing or bullying information from hired guards, but Elaith had many such men in his employ.
His stewards and lieutenants would pay at least a dozen similar purses before highsun. And no man would know of the efforts of the others.
That was the way of things. Elaith saw his business concerns as a deep, underground river fed by the trickle of many converging streams. The loss of Zorn would not greatly affect the whole, and Elaith knew better than to suffer even a fledgling challenge. His hirelings were utterly loyal because they knew they would be well paid and fairly treated—and because they understood the cost of even the smallest treason.
The Dream Spheres Page 7
