The Dream Spheres

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 Dan'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 Tha

Four

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 thicketed 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.

Elaith lifted his mug in salute to the departing mercenary and then drank to his memory.

* * * * *

The white whirl of magical travel faded away. Danilo found himself standing in a dark, cold room—not the comfort he expected from his lavish townhouse or from Monroe, his capable halfling steward.

Danilo was too heartsick to care overmuch about domestic incompetence. Monroe could burn the damn place down, for all he cared. He closed his eyes and heaved a profound sigh.

"What are you doing here, and at this hour?" demanded a low, furious, and slightly accented male voice.

Khelben Arunsun's voice.

Danilo's eyes popped open, then narrowed as he peered at the large, dark figure at the far side of the room. "Uncle? Is that you?"

"Considering that this is Laeral's bedchamber and that I expect her back directly, I should hope that it is no other! Explain yourself, boy, and be quick about it."

Danilo's hands flashed through the gestures for the globe of light cantrip. In response to the minor casting, a glowing sphere bobbed into life between them. A mixture of light and shadows revealed the strong, stern features of Waterdeep's archmage.

Khelben Arunsun appeared to be a man in vigorous middle life, tall and broad and well-muscled. His hairline was in retreat, but what remained was thick and black and only lightly threaded with silver. His beard was full and neatly trimmed, with a distinctive silver stripe in the middle. Dark brows drew together in a scowl of consternation over nearly black eyes.

Even in his current state of mind, Danilo could see a certain humor in the situation. "I swear before Mystra, Uncle, you are the only man alive who could manage to look formidable when clad only in his nightshirt."

The archmage's scowl deepened. "Only a handful of mortals can pass the magical wards that guard this tower. If you wish to remain among them, speak quickly and speak sense!"

Danilo's wan grin disappeared. Without doubt Khelben deserved some word of explanation, but if Danilo had devoted serious thought to the matter, he could not have contrived a place, a person, or a conversation he would rather avoid.

"A miscast spell, Uncle, nothing more. Accept my apologies, and I'll be on my way."

The archmage would not let the matter lie. "What has come over you? Are you ill? Bewitched? Utterly given over to stupidity? I heard tell of the jest you played at Cassandra's party—as who did not?"

"Uncle—"

"And now this! Have you not incurred enough wrath to enliven one evening? I do not imagine Cassandra was amused by the skyflower trick, or Arilyn either, for that matter. If you must play these frivolous jests, you would be wise to inflict them on those less able to retaliate. Furthermore— "

"Uncle." Dan cut off the wizard's tirade with a sharp tone and an upraised hand. "Believe me, I did not design the skyflower spell as a prank. Nor did I intend to come here."