Elfshadow

"A ballad, you say?" The young man brightened at the perceived praise. "I had never thought of doing that," he marveled. "Do you really think some of these poems would make songs?"

Arilyn dragged her gaze back to the young mage. "Why not? I've surely heard worse."

"Hmmm." He pondered that for a moment, then stuck out his hand in a belated gesture of introduction. "Thank you for the suggestion, my friend. My name is Coril."

"Well met, Coril. I'm Tomas," Arilyn replied, clasping the offered hand. She already knew the young man's identity. As well as a terrible poet and minor mage, Coril was an agent of the Harpers. Reputed to be a shrewd observer of people, Coril was employed to gather and pass on information.

"So, Tomas, what brings you here?" Coril asked, helping himself to another mug of ale.

Arilyn waved her own mug in a nonchalant arch. "The festival, of course."

"No, I mean what brings you here, to this table?" persisted Coril.

"Oh, I see. I need some information."

The Harper's face hardened almost imperceptibly. "Information? I'm not sure I can help you."

"Oh, but surely you can," Arilyn insisted, painting disappointment and dismay on her face. "You are a mage, are you not?"

"I am," allowed Coril, somewhat mollified. "What do you need?"

Arilyn unbuckled her swordbelt and laid the sheathed moonblade on the table. The task she intended to place before Coril would surely fall beyond the mage's limited abilities. "There's some writing on this scabbard. It's supposed to be magic. Can you read it?" Arilyn asked.

Coril bent forward and examined the marks with great interest. "No," he admitted, "but if you wish, I can cast a comprehend language spell on them."

Arilyn feigned relief and gratitude. "Such a thing can be done?"

"For a price, yes."

Arilyn fished several copper coins from her pocket. The sum, although paltry, would represent a small fortune to "Tomas." It was too little for even such a simple spell, but offering any more might raise suspicions. So she held out the money and asked eagerly, "Will this be enough?"

Coril hesitated for only a moment, then he nodded and gathered up the coins. He drew out a mysterious substance from some corner of his robes and hunkered down over the sword, muttering the words of the spell.

Arilyn waited through the spellcasting, confident that the mage would fail. Early in Arilyn's training, Kymil Nimesin had sought to decipher the runes through both magic and scholarship. If Kymil's powerful elven magic could not read the ancient, arcane form of Espruar, Coril's spellcasting had no chance of success.

Her purpose in showing the rare sword to Coril was to send a message to the assassin. Since Coril was a conduit for information to the Harpers and the assassin was likely someone within the Harper ranks, word of the moonblade might reach him and put him again on Arilyn's trail. She'd lost the assassin back at the House of Fine Spirits due to Danilo's cowardly pretense, and now she would lure him back with a ruse of her own.

After several minutes, Coril looked up, puzzled. "I ca

"What?"

Coril's eyebrows raised in surprise at the youth's sharp tone. "There seems to be magical wards on most of these runes against such spells," he said defensively. "Very powerful wards."

"But you can read some of it?" Arilyn persisted.

"Just this." With one slender finger Coril traced the lowest rune, a small mark about two-thirds down the scabbard.

"What does it say?" Arilyn demanded.

" 'Elfgate.' And this one up here says 'elfshadow.' That's all I can read." He looked sharply at Arilyn. "How did you happen to come by an enspelled sword?"

"I won it in a game of dice," Arilyn said ruefully. "The former owner swore to me that the marks on the sword would give the location of a great treasure, if only I could find a mage to read the runes for me. Are you sure there's nothing on there about a treasure?"

"Very. Nothing I can read, at least."

Arilyn shrugged. "Well, then I guess I lost that bet after all. Next time I'll know better than to take my wi

Her explanation seemed to satisfy Coril. The young mage looked sympathetic, although not sufficiently so to offer to return the fistful of coppers to the disappointed lad.

Still stu

She circled around to the back of the i

It was time to become an elf again. Arilyn took from her bag another tiny jar, this one filled with an iridescent cream. She spread it over her face and hands, and her skin took on the golden hue of a high elf. Her hair she shook out free and full, then tucked it back so her pointed ears would be obvious.

Gripping the moonblade, she formed a mental image of an elven cleric of Mielikki, goddess of the forest. It was a simple illusion, requiring only that her blue tunic take on the appearance of a long red and white silk tabard and the moonblade itself become a nondescript staff such as any cleric might carry. The illusion was complete in the span of a heartbeat. Arilyn adjusted the tabard so that the unicorn-head symbol of the goddess lay properly over her heart, then she returned to the tavern.

Arilyn had long ago learned that elaborate physical changes were not necessary for an effective disguise. Her regular features and an unusually mobile face made her a natural chameleon and the moonblade's illusion power provided her with any necessary costume, but the transformation from human lad to elven cleric was achieved largely in matters of speech, stance, and movement. No one could note the cleric's distinctive elven grace and equate her with the heavy-footed lad who had just left the i

So it was that Arilyn glided back into the Drunken Dragon with confidence. She seated herself at the table next to Coril, not drawing a second glance from the mage she had spoken with only minutes before. She ordered di

Arilyn hadn't long to wait. Shalar Simgulphin, a bard reputed to be a member of the Harpers, entered the tavern and joined Coril. Arilyn eagerly eavesdropped upon their conversation as she sipped her wine.

"Greetings, Coril. What brings you to the Drunken Dragon?" Shalar said, slipping into a chair and acting as if theirs was a chance meeting.

Coril shrugged. "It is a good place for watching people," he said in a noncommittal tone.

The bard's voice dropped. "And what have you seen?"

"Everything and nothing." Coril again shrugged. "I see much, but I have not the means to make sense of it all."

A small bag changed hands under the table. "Perhaps this will help," Shalar noted, adding, "There is a little extra this month."

"As there should be," Coril said. "Festival expenses are high. The costs are already being tallied," he added significantly.

Shalar sighed heavily. "I suppose you're speaking of Rhys Ravenwind?"

"And others," Coril added in a dark voice. "The assassin struck again, shortly after daybreak."

"Who?"

"The man has used many names, but most recently he was known as Elliot Graves," responded Coril.

Arilyn's goblet slipped from her fingers, and its contents spilled unheeded onto the table. She had brought this upon her friends. Elliot Graves's death was on her hands, as surely as if she had killed the man with her own sword. Fighting despair, Arilyn mopped at the spilled wine with a linen napkin an attentive servant brought her, and she forced herself to attend to Coril's next words.