The Dream Spheres

Inside the safe was a pile of gems—real gems, entrusted to Mizzen to be matched with crystals. Elaith emptied the safe's contents into his bag and slipped out the back door into the streets. It would be an easy task, finding a caravan of flying creatures. All that remained was for him to find them, and the Mhaorkiira Hadryad, and then settle with Bronwyn and her dwarven ally.

As Elaith suspected, Silverymoon was abuzz with word of the strange caravan, but to his dismay, his side trip through the forest had cost him. The caravan had already left the city on fresh mounts.

The determined elf sought out the stables where the caravan had taken a brief rest. A pair of elven grooms clad in Gundwynd livery tended the hooves and hides and wings of the weary pegasi.

Elaith's hand went to his sword, and then he thought better of it. These were gold elves, well armed and in good trim. Fighting them would take more time than he had to spare.

"I must have one of those horses," Elaith said flatly. "I will pay whatever you ask."

The elves looked him over, astonished at such a request from a fellow Tel'Quessar—even if he was a moon elf. "These are not mere horses," one of them pointed out. "Even if they were, they have traveled far and have earned a day's rest."

"It is important."

"What is so important that it could justify flying a tired pegasus?" the other groom inquired in a tone that marked the question as entirely rhetorical.

As it happened, Elaith had an answer. "The Mhaorkiira Hadryad," he said bluntly. "A human adventurer with Gundwynd's caravan has the dark kiira."

The elves stared at him with rounded eyes. "It has been found? But how? It has been lost for—what? Three centuries and more?"

Elaith folded his arms. "Would you like to discuss the missteps of elven history, or would you prefer that I fetch this stone back before it creates any more trouble?"

The grooms gave him no further argument. One of them packed travel supplies, the other put harness and saddle on the protesting steed and led it out into the courtyard.

Mounting the beast took more time than Elaith liked, for the pegasus reared and snorted and pitched each time he approached her.

"You have not trained with pegasi, have you?" asked one of the elves in an apologetic tone. "She senses that."

More likely, thought Elaith, the winged horse had senses even more finely attuned. He carried with him the scent of vengeance and death. Undoubtedly it was this that spooked the fey creature.

The grooms kept cajoling her. Finally the pegasus quieted long enough for Elaith to climb onto her back. Immediately the enormous white wings unfurled, and the pegasus leaped into the air.

The elf clung to his seat as the pegasus rose in dipping, swooping loops. She tested him, responding too sharply to the reins, careening from one side to another, but Elaith was nothing if not determined, and he clung to her like scales to a snake. Eventually the winged horse seemed to sense, and then to absorb, her rider's urgency. When Elaith gave the pegasus her head, she set a steady, determined course for Waterdeep.

Beneath them the miles fell away as swiftly as autumn leaves before a strong wind. The day grew old, and soon Elaith had to shield his eyes against the setting sun. Though the pegasus's white sides were lathered and heaving, Elaith urged her on, hoping to find before nightfall the clearing where the caravan had made camp on the first night of the trip to Silverymoon.

He saw the caravan before he saw the clearing. Silhouetted against the purple and gold of an autumn sunset, they were already in descent, whirling down toward the valley and the clear, cold water that spilled from the mountain into a deep pool.

Elaith's gaze swept the valley, setting up the battlefield in his mind's eye. That he would have to fight, he did not doubt. The caravan guards might not fight to protect Bronwyn's safety and virtue, but they would not allow her to be robbed by a rogue elf. Elaith could possibly expect assistance from the elves in the caravan, but that was a last resort. Already he regretted confiding in the Gundwynd grooms. The more elves who learned that the Mhaorkiira had been found, the lower his chance of keeping the gem until its task was done.

His eye caught a bit of color and movement near the waterfall, where there should be neither—several feet from the ground, in what appeared to be sheer rock. Elaith understood at once what that meant. The northland hills were riddled with caves and passages. The elf peered closer, squinting so that his vision would pick up not the fading daylight, but heat patterns.

In the forest, almost indiscernible even to such eyes as his, were several telling patterns. He made out a group of men crouched near the mouth of a small cave, looking like hunting cats awaiting a chance to spring. Others waited on ledges and behind trees, draped in capes dyed to match stone and stump.

The caravan—his quarry—was about to land in the midst of an ambush.

Eight

The mansion belonging to the Dezlentyr family was among the more modest structures of the North Ward. A pair of massive elms flanked the iron gate, and the house beyond was small and graceful, crafted from stone and oddly shaped timbers in such fashion that it appeared to have grown there. It was unique in this human city devoted to excess and splendor, and it reminded Arilyn of the homes common in faraway Evereska—a community of moon elves who hunted the forests and guarded the secrets of the Greycloak Hills.

For a moment homesickness assailed her, though it had been many years since she had left the Greycloak Hills as an orphaned girl. There was no place for her there now. Nor, she reminded herself firmly, was there much of a future for her in Waterdeep, unless she could resolve the problem at hand.

The last three days had yielded nothing but frustration. Lord Eltorchul had sent a message asking her and Danilo to hold secret the news of Oth's death while the family came to a decision concerning possible resurrection. Honoring that request made it virtually impossible for Arilyn to ask the sort of questions that required answers. Isabeau Thione had run to ground. Bronwyn had yet to return from her trip to Silverymoon. Dan had gone to the libraries of Candlekeep and was deep in a study of the history of moonblades in hope of finding something that might explain the continuing capriciousness of her sword's magic.

Arilyn, who was ru

She gave word of her errand to the Dezlentyr guard. In a few moments the gates opened, and a young servant came to meet her. He was roughly clad in tunic, breeches, and well-worn boots, but he was nonetheless a strikingly handsome male—tall, golden, and so fine of feature that he would be considered beautiful but for his sun-browned skin and a slightly raffish stubble of beard. He gave the impression of a prince playing at peasant. As he drew near, Arilyn noted that he was half-elven.

Not a servant, realized Arilyn, but Cori

His eyes lit up as he regarded her, and he called her name and held out his hand for a comrade's salute. "We met some time ago, at one of Galinda Raventree's parties," he recalled, then flashed a brilliant smile. "Good to see you again, under better circumstances!"

Arilyn appreciated his point, and she clasped his wrist briefly. "I hope you'll still think so after you hear me out. I wish to talk to your father. Tell me if this tale will be too painful for him to hear,"

The young noble's face turned grave as she related the story she'd prepared: a battle with a band of assassins and their elven victim, followed by repeated attempts on her own life.