Elfshadow

Danilo stood with his hands in his pockets, oblivious to her difficulties with the door. Arilyn was a

"What is this place?" he asked.

"A clerical outpost, not far from a monastery where priests of Torm train."

"Oh. Will they mind us using it?"

"No. The students maintain it as a travelers' shelter. We can leave an offering to Torm in the big stone box over there."

"Over where? I can't see a thing. It's as dark as Cyric's shorts in here."

"Right." Arilyn took flint from her saddlebags and lit a tiny wall lamp to dispel a bit of the blackness. The flickering light revealed a large, square room, divided to accommodate travelers and their mounts. There was little by way of comfort: a wooden floor, a few bales of dusty hay for the horses, and three benches in front of a rough stone fireplace.

"All the comforts of home," Danilo Tha

"See to the horses, then we'll eat," Arilyn said absently, more concerned with the practical details of their journey than with the dandy's opinions of their accommodations. She had a little hardtack and a few travel biscuits left in her saddlebags. That would do for tonight, but tomorrow she would have to hunt.

While Danilo stumbled around in the dim light caring for the horses, Arilyn gratefully shed the persona of the Sembian courtesan. Calling upon the moonblade, she dispelled the disguise. After tucking her wet black curls behind her ears, she took a linen square and scrubbed her face clean of the cosmetic unguents. Finally she slipped the green lenses from her eyes and returned them to her bag of disguises. Feeling like herself again, she shook a little of the hay loose from a bale and fashioned a couple of sleeping pallets. She got one of her saddlebags and sank down with it onto her bed, rummaging in the bag for food.

"Those are two happy little horses," Danilo a

Without speaking, Arilyn handed Danilo a ration of dried meat and hard biscuits. He took it, sniffed it, and held it close to his eyes for inspection. " This makes the hay look good, for that matter."

Nevertheless, he took a hearty bite of the meat and chewed vigorously. "Puts up a fight, doesn't it?" he observed cheerfully. After another bite, he took a flask from the bag that hung from his belt and took a deep swallow. He offered it to Arilyn, but she shook her head. Danilo shrugged and tipped up the flask again.

"Is there any way we could get more light in here?" he asked. "I can barely see my hand in front of my face."

"As long as you know it's there, what's your worry?"

"Well, I suppose that covers that topic," he said with a touch of humor. "I suppose we could talk about something else."

"Must we?"

Her tone quelled him for perhaps two minutes. They ate in a silence interrupted only by the sound of rain pounding at the wooden structure. Just as Arilyn was begi

"So," he said briskly. "What are we ru

"No," she said, her tone curt.

"No, what?"

"No, we're not ru

"Who, then?"

Arilyn merely took another bite of her travel biscuit. Danilo shrugged and tried again. "I have a friend who makes and trades fine weapons. Nord Gundwynd. Do you know him, by any chance? No? Well, he collects antique weapons. He'd love to get his hands on that dagger you were using earlier."

"It's not for sale." Her tone held little encouragement.

And so it went. Danilo continued undeterred in his efforts to draw Arilyn into conversation. She ate her meal in silence. He downed his between bits of gossip and nosey questions.

Finally he stretched. "Well, that was delightful. I feel positively refreshed. Shall I take the first watch? Not that I could see anything, mind you."

Arilyn stared at him in open disbelief. "The first watch? You're a hostage."

"Well, yes," he admitted as if that were a matter of small consequence, "but we've got a long road ahead, and you'll have to sleep sometime."

Arilyn was silent for a long moment as she considered his statement. "Was that a warning?" she asked quietly.

Danilo threw back his head and laughed. "Hardly. No, from where I sit it sounds like a simple statement of reality."

That was no more than the truth, but it reminded Arilyn that certain precautions were in order. She glanced down at Danilo's sword, bound to its elaborate scabbard by a peace knot. Many cities required that swords be so bound. It was a precaution that prevented many furtive attacks and impulsive fights, but the law seemed pointless when applied to the dandy beside her. Arilyn had a hard time imagining him becoming carried away by battle lust.

Nevertheless, she insisted, "Your sword, please, as well as any other weapons."

Danilo shrugged agreeably. He worked the peace knot loose and handed over the sword and scabbard. He then drew a jeweled dagger from one of his boots. "Have a care with the dagger," he advised her. "Apart from the gems-which really are rather nice, aren't they?-the weapon has a good deal of sentimental value. I acquired it rather by accident last winter. Actually, it's quite an interesting story."

"I don't doubt it," she cut in dryly. "What's in there?" she asked, pointing to the green leather bag that hung at his waist.

Danilo gri

"All that?" Arilyn eyed the sack skeptically. It looked big enough to hold a tunic and two changes of wool stockings, no more.

"Ah, but this is a magic bag," Danilo advised her in a smug tone. "It holds much more than appearances would indicate."

"Empty it."

"If you insist."

Danilo reached into the sack and drew out a neatly rolled shirt of white silk. He placed it lovingly on the hay, then lay several colored shirts beside it. Next came a velvet tunic and some soft, fur-lined gloves. Three pair of trousers followed, then some undergarments and stockings. There was enough jewelry to bedeck the occupants of a brothel, as well as several pair of dice and three ornate silver flasks. He drew out no less than three hats, one with nodding peacock plumes. The pile grew until the place resembled an open-air market.

"That's enough!" Arilyn finally insisted.

"I'm almost done," he said, rummaging in the bottom of the sack. "Best for last, and all that. Ah! Here it is." He fished out a large flat object and waved it triumphantly.

Arilyn groaned. The fool had produced a spellbook from the bowels of that Beshaba-blasted sack. Of all the things the goddess of bad luck could have sent to torment her! She'd abducted a would-be mage.

"Please tell me you don't casts spells," she pleaded.

"I dabble," he admitted modestly.

Before Arilyn could discern his intent, he took a bit of flint and pointed it at the wood neatly stacked in the fireplace. "Dragonbreath," he muttered.

There was a spark. The flint disappeared from his hand, and a cozy fire filled the room with warmth and light. He turned to Arilyn with a triumphant smirk, then froze. "Nine hells!" he blurted out. "You're an elf."

She banked down the rising flame of her anger. "So I've been told. Put out that fire."

"Why?" he argued in a reasonable tone. "It's dark, and it's cold, and that's a particularly lovely fire, if I may say so."

How could she explain to this pampered dandy her aversion to magical fire? He hadn't seen the miscast fireball; he hadn't heard the screams of his comrades, or smelled their burning flesh as they died in flames that refused to consume him. As she formulated a half-truth, Arilyn struggled to push away the memory of the Hammerfell Seven's death. With great effort, she kept her voice calm, her words objective.