She nodded and placed a hand on his shoulder in farewell, then was gone, running lightly over the rooftops toward the Ilzimmer estate. A large shape loomed up in front of her, springing up over the edge of the roof' so suddenly that she nearly ran into it. It was the tren who called himself Knute, distinguished by the ridge of festering scar over one eye.
The tren touched the wound. "I think I die soon. Wounded clan chief doesn't live long-others will attack. But I will die wearing your blue hide."
Arilyn danced back and drew her sword. "Notions of fashion in this city," she said grimly as she circled in, "are getting entirely out of hand." She lunged at the creature, a quick attack that forced him back on his heels. Immediately she pivoted into a half turn and swept her sword in low.
Knute turned also, protecting his hamstrings and swatting away the blow with his thick, short tail. The blade sliced deep, but there was little blood. Almost casually, the tren kicked aside the severed appendage. He swiped at Arilyn, a knife in each clawed hand-two quick, slashing blows.
She parried them both, but the pain of the impact jolted through her hands. The prayers of the shaman had healed the blackened skin, but the blow from the moonblade's magic had dealt deep and possibly lasting damage. Arilyn fought aside a wave of weakness and fell back to prepare for the next attack.
To her surprise, it did not come. The tren looked confused, his tongue darting out and his huge head jerking back and forth as if he were trying to take stock of a host of new enemies. That, she realized, was precisely what he was trying to do. From the corner of her eye, Arilyn saw the ghostly image of a beautiful elf with enormous blue and gold eyes and hair the color of sapphires. The look that the elf gave her—at once bracingly stern and full of love—chased away any thought of weakness.
"Mother," Arilyn murmured, welcoming the apparition even though it was yet another sign that her sword's magic was breaking down.
She retreated another few steps and glanced around. All the elfshadows, all eight ancestors who had wielded her sword, prowled about the roof in battle-ready stance. The tren's gaze darted from one to another, his tongue flicking out to taste their scent. After a few moments of this, the creature began to advance. Unlike humans, he had no fear of spirits. If he could not smell them, they were not real enough to concern him.
Arilyn lifted her sword in guard position. The tren came in hard, slashing at her with both knives. She turned her sword this way and that to block the attacks. Each one throbbed through her battered hands, and the pain grew so intense that her vision began to blur into a red haze.
A musty, heavy weight sagged against her. For a moment Arilyn thought that she had taken too much punishment, that oblivion was claiming her. Suddenly the weight was gone, and the moonblade was torn from her slack hands.
For some reason, the sudden release steadied her. Her vision cleared, and settled upon Danilo's stricken face. The tren lay dead at her feet, killed by three quick cuts of his sword.
She noticed her hands. Danilo held them both in his, gripping the translucent fingers hard enough to send
renewed pain singing through her veins. Nonetheless, she did not let go, for she saw what he had seen when he looked at her. She could see through her own hands, almost as clearly as she could see the city below through the ghostly forms of her ancestors.
"Not now," Danilo said, his eyes defying the waiting shadows. "Not yet."
She felt him reaching through the link that bound them, and sensed new strength begin to edge into her battered form.
"I'm filling in," she said. It was an odd term, but it suited. Color and substance were returning to her hands. She pulled them free of Danilo's grasp and held them up for his inspection. Danilo caught one of her hands and gave the fingers a quick, grateful kiss. He then stooped and retrieved the blade. Dimly she realized that it dealt no harm to him, but that did not surprise her. The sword's magic was utterly distorted, so much so that it had turned upon her and was sapping her very lifeforce.
"The Mhaorkiira," she said, understanding what was likely at work. "It's close."
He stopped in midstride and threw the moonblade aside. "You cannot do anything to fight it. Stay here, or leave that sword."
Arilyn could do neither. She brushed past him and stood poised at the roof's edge. "Bring it with you," she said, and then leaped into the night.
Danilo's heart missed a beat, then he heard the light thud of her boots landing on the roof just a few feet below. He picked up the sword and followed her to Diloontier's Perfumes, and from there into the tunnels below.
It was there that the surviving tren were to meet. The elves had done their work well—there had been but few survivors. The bodies of tren and elves alike spoke of the final brutal battle that had taken place. All that remained of this band was the large tren facing off against Elaith.
"Easy victory," Arilyn said confidently.
Danilo was not so certain. Elaith's quick sword kept the tren's knife engaged, but the creature reached his free hand into a suspiciously familiar bag hanging from his belt-a fabric bag such as that worn by human mages, not the grim, fine leather fashioned from a tren victim.
"That is Oth, I'll wager my life on it," he said in a worried voice. The mage had the Mhaorkiira—the powerful dark stone that stole memory and magic.
Arilyn seized his arm. "I've got to get out of here," she said urgently. "Elaith is fighting for his life. I cannot help him, and I risk distracting him."
Danilo looked carefully at the nearest elfshadow, and understanding jolted through him. The face was Arilyn's, though if possible even more beautiful, and the ghostly image's hair was translucent blue.
"Princess Amnestria," he realized, seeing the wisdom in Arilyn's words. If anything could distract Elaith from battle, it would be the face of his lost love.
The warning came too late. Elaith's amber eyes settled on the beautiful elfshadow, and recognition tore a poignant, painful swath across his face. The elf seized control of himself at once, but the hesitation was all that the Eltorchul mage needed.
The "tren" flung aside his sword and made a short, sharp gesture with the thick fingers of both hands. A burst of crimson light exploded from his reptilian hands and caught Elaith full in the chest. The force lifted the elf off his feet and carried him back several feet. He crashed into the wall of the tunnel and slid to the ground.
Scales melted into flesh and fabric as the mage reclaimed his shape. The tall, aesthetic features of 0th Eltorchul came into focus, and in the mage's outstretched palm was a red stone glowing with malevolent light.
"You will die," the mage said almost casually, "but not before your memories are mine."
Danilo felt the sudden sharp tug—as if someone had reached into his chest and closed iron fingers around his heart. He felt the magic of the Weave shift as his place in it began to tear free, thread by thread.
A glance at Arilyn's white face told him that she was experiencing much the same thing. Her history, her magic was being stolen from her, but the manifestation was different: the elfshadows began to move toward the flame-haired mage, resisting each step, but struggling as if against a strong wind. Arilyn began to move, as well, fighting her way over to the place where her moon-blade lay in a desperate attempt to stop the twisted elven magic and the mage who wielded it.
Danilo gathered the remnants of his strength and will and formed it into the spell of accusation he had fashioned for the Lady Cassandra. As he anticipated, the spell went awry. Swirling lines and tendrils of flame danced into the air, swirling around the mage and then disappearing into the Mhaorkiira.
This distracted Oth, if but for a moment. The elf-shadows paused, uncertain. Danilo tried again, throwing at Oth the bubble spell that had contained the tren.
The mage again began to change form, this time to a giant hedgehog. The long, thick quills pierced the magical prison, sending shards flying like droplets of rain from a wind-shaken tree.
A howl of rage burst from the mage-a how
l that lifted into a wolf's mournful cry and ended in the shriek of a hunting owl. The mage's body followed suit, shifting from one form to another in a spate of uncontrolled magic. Not all the transformations were uniform. The ever-shifting result was horrific, turning the wizard into a mirror reflecting the creatures that inhabited a thousand nightmares.
Arilyn finally made her way to the moonblade and stooped to pick it up. Her fingers closed around the hilt-and went through it. Her head fell forward in a
gesture of resignation. The battle was over for her. There was nothing to do but wait and watch the spectacular spell battle rage between her love and the crazed wizard. It was the hardest moment of her life. Fitting, she thought fleetingly, that it should be her last.
She raised one ghostly hand to shield her still-sensitive eyes from the brilliant barrage of light. Danilo was throwing every fireball and lightning bolt spell in his memory at the mage.
No, not at the mage, she realized-at the Mhaorkiira.
Panic swept through her, and she tried to shout at him to stop, to flee. Such magic was dangerous at the best of times. In the presence of the dark gem, it could turn deadly.
The Mhaorkiira absorbed each of his magical attacks, growing brighter with each one. Suddenly it exploded, sending shards and sparkles of light into every corner of the cavern. There was no sound, there was no rumble or shudder or tremor. But the forces of the explosion tore through Arilyn's insubstantial form, sending her to her knees.
Never had she faced a foe to equal this one. A soundless, psychic maelstrom whirled through the cavern, made up of memories, magical spells, dreams, and nightmares. A lifetime of them—a hundred lifetimes! The force of it threatened to tear her away.
Amid the soundless howl, she heard a familiar voice and felt a familiar, golden presence. Danilo was equally adrift, equally buffeted. A moment's touch, and he, too, would be gone.
She felt the familiar clasp of his hand, as surely in her mind as she had ever felt it in life. With all her fading will she clung to that, lending to it her own stubborn courage. The storm raged about them, but together they found they could stand.
When at last the crimson storm faded, Arilyn slowly eased her grip on Danilo's hand. She rose to her feet and
jolted with surprise when she noted that he was at least twenty paces away from her.
"Look," he said, nodding toward her elven sword.
The moonblade glowed with faint blue light. The elf-shadows were gone, but each of the eight runes glowed with serene power.
Danilo crossed over to Elaith and motioned Arilyn to his side. She heard the reassuring click of her boots on the stone, knew that her time as elfshadow was not yet come. A quick glance, however, told her that Elaith might not be so fortunate. His injuries were severe.
Oth Eltorchul was in considerably worse shape. The mage huddled at the base of the wall, his eyes as blank as a newborn babe's. At his feet lay the Mhaorkiira Hadryad. The light of life and memory was gone from it, leaving it a common gem. Arilyn picked it up and felt no trace of its malevolent magic. The kiira was as empty as the mage whose mind it had destroyed.
Two days passed before Danilo went to the Thann villa for what he suspected would be the last time.
There was much to do before he said his farewells to the life he had known. He had handed the Lord's Helm to Piergeiron and exacted from the First Lord a pledge to find a replacement who would champion the needs of Waterdeep's elven People. He had paid the keepers of Mystra's Arms for the care of Oth Eltorchul, whose mind seemed irrevocably destroyed with the Mhaorkiira. The Dreamspheres were also dead, their stored magic released by the final maelstrom of the spell battle. For years to come, small boys and girls would no doubt be shooting marbles with the crystal spheres, all the while dreaming the harmless, healthy dreams of childhood---dreams that would be earned not through magic, but through tears and time.
The tren's tunnels had been sealed, and Regnet and his Deep Delvers would be kept busy for some time to come hunting the last of the monsters down. Errya Eltorchul had disappeared. No dainty hand or foot had been found in the Eltorchul estate, but Danilo had his
suspicions. Errya had all but admitted paying for the attack upon Elaith. Despite everything that had happened, it would be very like the elf to repay her in kind.
Best of all, Arilyn was at his side, as she would be from this point on. The spectre of renewed warfare threatened Tethyr, and they had both pledged themselves to Haedrak's cause—with one stipulation. They would fight with the forest elves and for them. Anyone in Tethyr who took arms against any of the People, even if that person were Haedrak himself, might face the small army of northern elves gathering under Elaith's command. Oth and Arilyn had been very clear on this such a person might face one of the many assassins who still plagued the land and whose names were known to her. This "offer" had gained generous concessions from the would-be king. He had promised Elaith lands and title in the south, and Foxfire a place in the new order as advisor and ambassador.
"What of the forest elves?" Danilo asked.
"They're on their way back home. We have an invitation to stop at Tangletrees on our way north."
"North?" he inquired. "Last time I consulted a map, the forest of Tethyr was south of Waterdeep."
"True, but it's north of Zazesspur. From all I can gather, that's where Isabeau is headed."
"Ah." Danilo did not pursue this. The grim, determined set of Arilyn's face told all. She had fallen back into her assassin's role, this time of her own volition. Oth Eltorchul had been punished for his part in Lilly's death, but Arilyn still held Isabeau responsible for hers. She would pursue the woman into the glittering cities of Tethyr—or into the Abyss if need be. Danilo did not disapprove.
"Elaith is coming with us," she announced. "He asked to be released of his promise not to harm Isabeau. I told him yes—I hope you don't mind me speaking for both of us."
This time, Danilo was surprised. "I thought he would have his hands full with his new command."
"Will Elaith ever be too busy for vengeance?"
"Everyone needs a hobby," Danilo agreed, "and as you pointed out, the difference between a rogue and a hero often comes down to who tells the tale. It seems to me that you have taken upon yourself the task of rewriting Elaith's path."
She shifted one shoulder in an impatient shrug. "He is what he always was. Nothing I did changed that."
"I disagree," Danilo said softly. "Do you know what he told me when he first regained consciousness? He asked about Amnestria. Apparently he found her in the storm and found strength in her as we did in each other. He did not understand what had happened and asked only if I thought he would see her again. I assured him that he would. I believe it," he said firmly. "An elf who is thinking about the afterlife to come is likely to treat this life with greater care. Indeed, any elf who would risk the Mhaorkiira's power to test his true mettle is worth as much in courage and heart as any three paladins you could name."
"He's out to kill Isabeau," Arilyn said, then shrugged again. "So am I. Who's to say that he is wrong and I'm right, just because I've got the moonblade to add its voice and judgment to my actions."
"Speaking of that," he said, "do you plan to tell Elaith that the moonblade's magic was running amok?"
She considered that, and shook her head. "No. I don't think so. I believe that Elaith is the same as he ever was, but what he believes is more important."
"Perhaps the moonblade spoke true. Perhaps he was not equipped to wield the Craulnober blade but is amply suited for another task that will serve the elven people as well."
Arilyn looked surprised, but she considered that. "Perhaps."
"The fact remains that Elaith is still a rogue," he pointed out, "a killer with great skill and little mercy."
"True enough," she agreed, "but let's see what else he can do."
Danilo found he was content to leave it so. They walked in silence to the Thann villa. He sought out the Lady Cassandra and faithfully r
ecounted all, sparing her nothing of the battle and its outcome.
"You have bridges to mend, but I believe an all-out battle will be averted," he concluded. "Like all successes, though, this one comes with a price."
"I was expecting this," Cassandra said with resignation. Her ice-blue eyes flicked to the half-elf. "Very well. I will accept Arilyn into the family without reservation."
"You misunderstand," he corrected her. "Where Arilyn is concerned, there are no bargains. I have a debt to pay, and this time it comes out of family funds. The pledge of Elf-friend goes both ways. You will use your influence to see that the consortium makes no more attempts against Elaith or any other of Waterdeep's elves."
"That is too much!" she protested. "The family is already in a tenuous position without championing a rogue elf."
"I hold to my price." Danilo fell silent as he gathered the will to continue. It was not easy to know that his family controlled much of Waterdeep's illegal trade. It was harder still to contribute to it, but as Cassandra had pointed out, they were unlikely to survive any other way. This was one more reason why he had to leave the city—he could not betray them, nor could he be a part of their dealings. This once, and never again.
"I will give you this: There will be less risk than first reckoning indicates. Elaith will surrender some of his business interests to Thann control. He will remain the silent partner and collect a share of the gains."
Cassandra was silent for several moments. "Given
our recent losses, this might be a timely arrangement. I will have to work through the particulars, but I agree in principle."
It was an odd and ironic choice of words. Danilo decided not to comment—at least, not directly.
"Then the matter is settled, but for this small remembrance."
He took his mother's hand, and slid onto her finger a wondrous ring set with a single perfect ruby.
"This is—or was—an elven kiira. I ask that you wear it always," he said softly, "as a reminder that not even the most formidable power can last forever"
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