His lips quirked in a faint smile. "You speak as if you were describing one of the lower reaches of the Abyss."
"I'm a warrior," she stated simply. "My mother put a wooden sword in my hand as soon as I could stand, and steel not long after. I never thought in terms of ease and comfort and so forth. But this much I know: I would rather fight with you than any other."
He regarded her for a long moment. "With me, or alongside me?"
A smile rippled across her lips. "Both, I suppose. Will that content you?"
He took her hand and raised it to his lips, kissing the delicate white fingers as he ran the pad of his thumb over the warrior's calluses on her palm. "That strikes me as a better measure of happiness than any man—or elf, for that matter—has right to expect!"
*
Their first fight was not long in coming. They hailed another carriage, and all the way to the Eltorchul manor, Arilyn argued against the course Danilo seemed determined to follow. A sudden squall, common during the changing season, swept in from the sea as they rolled westward. The pounding of rain and the grumbling thunder kept counterpoint to their argument.
"Oth Eltorchul is dead," she stated finally. "His spirit has gone to whatever afterlife his days have earned. Who are you to disturb that?"
"Who am I to make such a decision, one way or another?" he retorted. "That belongs to the Eltorchul family. At any rate, they must be told of their kinsman's fate."
She cast a dark look at the box Danilo had placed on the carriage floor between them. "Is that how you intend to make this announcement? Present them with that thing?"
"Credit me with some small measure of sense! Certainly you must admit that once the tale is told, they have every right to this box. Even if they do not elect to seek resurrection, they will want to inter Oth's remains. The Eltorchul family has a tomb in the City of the Dead—quite an impressive one, I hear: a dimensional door, leading into their private catacombs. I suppose they'd need it," he mused. "They are a large family, with a rather high rate of tragedy. A hazard, I suppose, of being in the business of magical research and mage schooling. Now that I think of it, some of my early tutors had rather close calls. Did I ever tell you about the time Athol's beard caught fire from the lighted ink I created?"
She silenced him with a glare, then turned to regard the passing city. The Eltorchul family, like many of Waterdeep's nobility, had more than one property in the city and probably several outside the city walls. Their hired carriage took them through the Sea Ward, the wealthiest and most sought after district of the city.
Arilyn seldom had reason to come here, and she carefully marked the byways and buildings in her mind. The streets were broad and paved with smooth, dressed stone. Lining them were tall walls, behind which lay lavish estates or temple complexes. Towers rose against the clouds. Many were so fanciful in design that they could only have been contrived and sustained by magic. Turrets, balconies, and gables decked the heights. Gargoyles kept stony-eyed watch over the city. Bright banners whipped about in the driving rain and wind.
"This ward will soon be all but deserted," Danilo commented after a few moments of silence. "There's a promise of winter in that wind."
Arilyn nodded glum assent. Her spirits sank still further as they turned off Morningstar Way and the Eltorchul tower came into view.
The elaborate structure defined the easternmost corner of the narrow street known as The Ghost Walk. Even without the name—and without her own wariness of human magic—Arilyn felt distinctly chilled as she eyed the uncanny place.
Towers of mist-gray stone rose into the sky, most of them connected by walkways and stairs that seemed to go everywhere, and nowhere. Several homunculi—small, bat-winged imps that served as wizards' familiars— winged silently through the architectural tangle, disappearing and reappearing without apparent reason or pattern. Wisps of acrid blue smoke rose from one of the towers, evidence of magical activity within.
As they alighted from the carriage, Arilyn noted that the stone walk near the front gate was as blackened as if it had entertained a hundred campfires—or a few bolts of lightning.
"So much for unwanted guests," Danilo murmured as he reached for the bellpull.
A dark-skinned young woman clad in the robe and apron of an Eltorchul apprentice came to answer their summons. Danilo requested an audience with Thesp Eltorchul, the family patriarch. They were shown into the hall. While the apprentice went off to dry their sodden wraps, they took a seat under a tapestry depicting the coronation of some distant monarch—an ancestor of Azoun of Cormyr, most likely, though Arilyn was uncertain exactly which of several Azouns the weaver intended to commemorate.
After a few moments Lord Eltorchul came to meet them. The old mage was a tall man, not at all stooped by his years, with a dignified manner and hair of the indeterminate gray-beige color to which red often faded. It was not difficult to imagine the mage's hair as it once had been, for the young woman who walked by his side was crowned by ringlets the color of flame.
Arilyn's heart sank. She knew Errya Eltorchul, if
only by reputation, as a spoiled, spiteful viper. Though the family fortunes, by all reports, were dwindling, the young woman wore an exquisite russet gown, a fortune in garnets, and a supremely haughty expression. Her emerald gaze slid down Arilyn boldly, and her expression turned disdainful. Dismissing the half-elf with a sniff, she turned her attention upon Danilo.
"You have taken long enough in returning," she said with an artful pout.
Danilo acknowledged her comment with a slight bow but directed his first response to the patriarch, as custom demanded. "It has been quite some time since I studied with Lord Eltorchul." He bowed again to the old mage. "I have been remiss, sir, in not paying my respects sooner."
The mage sent a fond, long-suffering look at his daughter. "It is a comfort to see that not all of Waterdeep's young have forgotten their manners! Lord Thann, my apprentice said you wished to speak to me concerning my son Oth, about a matter you could not entrust to another?"
"That is so. Perhaps we could speak in private?"
Lord Eltorchul glanced at Arilyn for the first time. His brow furrowed in disapproval. Whether his displeasure had to do with her half-elven heritage or the fact that she carried a sword instead of a spell bag, Arilyn could not say. "In private. Yes, by all means," he murmured.
"By no means!" retorted Errya. She stooped to pick up a passing cat and glared at her father over the animal's head. "That wretched apprentice of yours said that our visitors had word of Oth. I wish to hear it."
Lord Eltorchul seemed resigned to let her have her will. He led the way past a display of three sets of plate armor. Though the helmet visors were raised to reveal empty suits, all three "knights" lifted their mailed fists
in a sharp, clanking salute. The elderly mage took no notice of this but ushered his guests past the guards into a small side parlor. Once all were seated and offers of wine or tea or snuff made and refused, he settled down with a heartfelt sigh.
"What has my son done now?"
"Sir, I regret to bring ill news. Just this morning, I went to Oth's tower on some impulsive errand." Danilo glanced at Arilyn, silently bidding her to let him tell the tale as he saw best. "The door was ajar. No one was there to answer my hail, so I took liberty to enter and investigate. I found the study in fearful disarray. There had been a struggle, and I was too late to give aid. My lord, I am deeply sorry"
The old mage stared at him, not yet comprehending. "A struggle? What manner?"
Arilyn leaned forward, ignoring Danilo's silent warning. His intentions were good, but she believed that a quick cut was kindest. "It appears that your son was killed by tren—powerful lizardmen who kill for hire. I am sorry."
Lord Eltorchul let out a small, choked sound of dismay. Arilyn's gaze flicked to Errya. The young woman received the news stoically. Her painted lips had thinned to a tight line, and her face was set as if in marble. Arilyn turned back to the mage.
"I am sorry to ask this, but do you know of any who might have wished Oth's death?"
Lord Eltorchul looked down at his clenched hands. "No. None at all." He lifted dazed eyes. "He is gone? You are certain of this?"
"The tren left a sign." Danilo explained the situation as delicately as possible, and then handed the man the ring he had taken from Oth's hand. "I saw this ring in your son's possession, not more than two days ago."
"Yes. It is his," the mage muttered. "I have seen him wear it. It is true, then. He is gone."
"Yes, but perhaps you know of a high-ranking priest. . . ."
A bit of hope lit the old man's eyes as he caught Danilo's meaning. "Yes. Yes! If there is a possibility—"
"There is not," snapped Errya. Her hands clenched at the gray tabby in her lap, drawing a hiss of protest from the animal. "I know my brother better than you do, Father. He would not wish resurrection. He is a wizard, and he despises clerics and their magic! Do you think Oth would want a gift from such hands, even if it were his own life?"
"I suppose you are right," Lord Eltorchul said in a weary, defeated tone. He slumped forward and buried his face in his hands.
His daughter turned a spiteful gaze upon their visitors. "That suggestion was unworthy of you, Danilo, but what more could I expect? This is just the sort of thing that comes of consorting with elven ruffians!"
"That's it." Arilyn rose to leave.
Danilo placed a restraining hand on her sword arm. "You are remiss, Errya. This has nothing to do with Arilyn. Quite the contrary Elves do not believe in disturbing the afterlife."
"She's here, isn't she?" demanded the young woman, leaning forward over the cat in her lap. "Oth is dead, isn't he?"
The cat wriggled and hissed a warning, which Errya ignored. Danilo rose to stand beside Arilyn, his eyes cold. "I understand that you are distraught, but take care whom you accuse."
Errya's lip curled. "Rest easy. The half-breed had nothing to do with it. Oth was killed because he had dealings with Elaith Craulnober. I know it!"
Her voice held a note of hysteria and reached a pitch that was painful to hear. Arilyn noted that the long-suffering tabby turned his ears back against the onslaught, and she wished she could do the same.
"What will be done about it?" Errya went on. "Nothing! Time was when outsiders were dealt with. Ask Arlos Dezlentyr, if you doubt me, and—Damn!"
Her voice rose in a shriek of pain as the tabby nipped sharply at her hand. She hurled the cat across the room. The creature twisted in the air with feline grace and landed on his feet, tail lashing as he leveled a baleful stare at the woman. She tossed her head and turned back to the visitors.
"You've said what you came to say. As you can see, my father is overcome with grief. Leave the box with me and go."
Arilyn was only too glad to comply. As she stalked past the polite, empty suits of armor, she heard Danilo offer his condolences to the Eltorchul patriarch and promise to help find who killed his son. This "interference" sent Errya into a fit of shrieking, which finally pushed the old man beyond the edge of his composure. The mage began to weep in low, terrible sobs. Errya left him there, her slippers clicking an angry staccato as she went off after the cat who'd dared to nip at her, as if this insult far outweighed the loss of a brother and the grief of her aging father.
As the door shut on the noble folk of the Eltorchul clan, Arilyn was not certain whether the old mage's deepest regret was for the family he had lost or that which he still had to endure.
* * * * *
Each morning, a number of caravans mustered in the Court of the White Bull, an open area in the heart of South Ward. This was the working district of Waterdeep. Smoke rose from between the tightly packed buildings that surrounded the courtyard. The clang of metal upon metal resounded from the nearby forges, and the nervous lowing of cattle drifted from the stockyard. The
cupping sound of hooves on hard packed earth heralded the passing of a dairymaid leading her cow. The warm, earthy scent of leather emanated from the saddlers' shop.
But such common things faded before the unusual sight that dominated the courtyard. Elaith Craulnober had been a merchant and an adventurer for over a century, and never had he seen a caravan as peculiar as this.
Servants bustled about rolling up the canvas tents that had shielded the caravan from the sudden downpour. The vast courtyard was alive with the rustle of giant wings, and the rumbling coos and roars and whinnies of scores of sky-going steeds. Several quartets of pegasi pawed the ground. Grooms wearing the Gundwynd crest fitted the winged horses with long, strong traces. Behind each team was attached a lightweight carriage fashioned without wheels or runners. On the north side of the courtyard, a line of griffins sat like brooding hens, their lionlike front paws tucked under their breast feathers. Enormous leather hoods masked their hawklike heads and kept them from flying too soon.
This typically human device sent a quick surge of anger through Elaith. Keeping a bird from flight was unconscionable, yet the humans did it all the time. They hooded their hunting falcons to keep them docile when they were not flying after game. They cropped the wings of their geese to keep them trapped on mill ponds. Some of the fools even netted songbirds and clipped their wings to keep them as ornaments to their gardens. Of course, those birds died with the coming of winter, but what was that but another task for the servants to tend come spring?
A peal of lighthearted laughter interrupted the elf's angry thoughts. He turned in time to witness a highly unusual game of catch.
A golden steed hopped into the path of a passing half-orc porter—not a horse, but a titanic eagle with a raptor's cold eyes and hooked, rending beak. Just the sight of it was enough to freeze the blood of a brave man. The eagle's beak opened and the gigantic head suddenly lunged forward in a quick, darting strike.
The porter shrieked, dropped his load, and rolled frantically aside. This inspired another burst of laughter—merry and wild but without malice.
An involuntary smile curved Elaith's lips as he remembered this game. The eagle's partner, a young elf probably not much past his second century, tossed a second piece of meat toward his feathered steed. The bird deftly caught it and tossed back its head to let the treat slide down its gullet. The half-orc sent a glare at the mischievous elf and scurried off.
Three more elves stepped from the crowd and fell into conversation with their brother. They were Moon elves, like Elaith: tall and slender and as finely honed as daggers. All of them had silvery hair and eyes the color of precious stones: amber, jade, topaz. Their speech held the accents of faraway Evermeet, and their tunics bore an almost-forgotten insignia.
Elaith's brow furrowed with consternation. Eagle Riders, here on the mainland? These youth were among the most fierce defenders of the elven island. Why were they here?
The young leader noticed his scrutiny. He frowned in concentration for a moment, then his face lit up like a sunrise.
He came toward Elaith, his left palm held out and level in the manner of one elven lord greeting another. "This is an honor, Lord Craulnober! My father served under your command in the Palace Guard, when I was nearly as young—although, gods grant, not quite as silly— as these humans!" He grinned and dipped into a bow. "Garelith Leafbower, at your command."
These words, and the respect with which they were delivered, touched memories that Elaith had thought long forgotten. He acknowledged the greeting with scant courtesy. "Many years have passed since I left the island," he said dismissively, but his irritation with these youth remained, and he could not help adding, "What of you? Has Evermeet no need for her Eagle Riders?"
The young elf laughed. "None that I have heard! The island is as it ever was. Beautiful, inviolate—and boring beyond endurance! These lads and I were hungry for a bit of excitement."
"Which you expect to find as caravan guards."
"Honorable work," the elf said with a shrug, then he grinned again. "There is, at least, adventure in it! We are going to Silverymoon, are we
not? I have heard tales of this wondrous city and of the lady mage who rules it."
Garelith's fellow Riders clustered near, their gem-colored eyes alight with curiosity and high spirits. Elaith's irritation melted as he parried their questions and enjoyed the melodious flow of the Elvish language.
A tall, thick-bodied shadow fell upon them. Garelith's animated face fell at once into the calm, inscrutable mask that elves showed to outsiders. "Captain Rhep," he said in formal tones, inclining his head in the small, gracious gesture an elven warrior used to acknowledge, but not reward, an unwanted interruption.
Rhep shouldered past the Eagle Riders and planted his booted feet nearly toe to toe with Elaith's. He was a big man, a half head taller than the elf, and nearly as broad and thick as a bugbear—nearly as hairy, for that matter. Dark brown hair fell in thick waves from beneath Rhep's leather helm. His upper lip and chin were furred with massive, ill-trimmed whiskers. His features were coarse and his nose so broad and flat that it hinted at orcish ancestry in the not-too-distant past. Rhep wore
leather armor on his huge frame and a confident sneer on his face. Elaith imagined that the two of them gave the appearance of a catapult and a stiletto standing side by side. The human, no doubt, was fool enough to think himself the better weapon.
"You mighta bought yourself a place on this caravan, elf, but these guards report to me," Rhep snarled.
"Really. Since when does Ilzimmer hire Eagle Riders?" Elaith inquired with a faint smile.
The big man snarled. "I work for Gundwynd," he said, nodding toward the small, gray-bearded man who bustled about securing cargo.
This was a lie, and Elaith knew it well. Rhep was a soldier for the Ilzimmer clan, but both he and the lords of that noble house took great pains to conceal this fact. This might, after all, lead into too close an inquiry into why a family of gem merchants had need for a mercenary army.
"I work for Lord Gundwynd," Rhep repeated, "and so do you, for as long as you ride with this caravan. A shame it is, that Gundwynd has fallen so low to be accepting the likes of you!"
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