The Dream Spheres

Monroe returned with admirable haste. He draped a linen shift and kirtle over the back of a chair. "Simple garments, but they should suffice for the present," he a

Arilyn eyed the practical garments with approval. "Your steward has sense. I suppose I should feel odd, though, wearing clothes that belong to another woman."

Danilo regarded her with astonishment. "There are other women?"

She sent him a mock glare. "Keep thinking along those lines, and we shall get along fine."

The peace and unity of that morning lasted until they were on the streets. Arilyn's eyes turned hard and watchful. An aura of battle-ready anticipation rose from her like mist.

"You're as nervous as a squirrel," Dan observed. "What is wrong?"

"I'm not sure." The half-elf looked genuinely puzzled.

"What of the sword?"

He spoke easily, with none of the resentment that had shadowed him for so long.

"There is no warning, but I feel as if we're being followed. Why, I couldn't tell you. I don't hear anything. I just sense it."

They skirted an open gutter, mindful of the attack that had followed the last time Arilyn had a presentiment of danger, and hurried onto a more populated street.

So close to the market, street vendors did a brisk business. Small meat pasties scented the air, and fragrant steam rose from baskets piled with small loaves of fresh bread. People ate these as they walked and stopped to wash down their meal with a mug of ale poured from the keg or fresh milk dipped up from a pail.

A woman's scream froze them in midstep.

Before Danilo could turn toward the sound, Arilyn already had her sword out. No fey light limned its length, but Danilo's attention was captured by the runes carved along it—one for each elf who had wielded the sword and who had imbued it with a new level of power. One of these markings glowed with eerie white light.

Never had Danilo seen the moonblade respond in such fashion. This was nothing like the blue glow that warned of coming danger, or the soft green luster that led Arilyn to aid her fellow elves.

The woman gave another cry, this one closer to a strangled sob. Danilo tore his eyes from the moonblade. A dairymaid stood beside her upturned stool and pail, her hands at her mouth and her eyes enormous, oblivious to the spilled milk pooling at her feet. The girl seemed to be in no immediate danger, but Danilo tracked her gaze to the source of her distress.

Behind Arilyn, almost indistinguishable from the play of light and shadows cast by the milling crowd, was the ghostly image of an elven woman.

Though the form was faint and as translucent as a soap bubble, Danilo made out the ghostly elf's stern expression, the sapphire-colored hair braided tightly in a practical, battle-ready fashion.

"Thassitalia," Arilyn murmured.

Danilo had heard that name, and he knew at once what it meant. This was an elfshadow—a manifestation of the moonblade's magic and the symbol of the spirit-deep link between elf and sword. Thassitalia had been one of Arilyn's ancestors, one of the elves who had wielded the moonblade and whose spirit lent magic to the elven sword.

He had seen the elfshadow before, but it had appeared more solid and it had worn Arilyn's face. That had been a time of uncertainty and danger, for the moonblade's magic had been twisted and exploited by an elven mage. Arilyn had confided once that she often had nightmares about the possibility that this could happen again. It would seem that her fears had come to pass.

The ephemeral shadow studied them, her insubstantial face awash with puzzlement and consternation.

Arilyn was equally dumbfounded. "I did not summon you," she said to the ghostly elf in the Elvish language. "Return to the sword at once."

The essence of the warrior Thassitalia merely shook her head, not in refusal, but as if to indicate that she could not hear or understand.

Danilo caught Arilyn's arm. "Let's move on before we create a panic," he said in a low voice.

She nodded and fell into step as he ducked down a narrow opening between two buildings. They followed a Harper's road, an intricate, hidden path through the back ways of the city, over rooftops and through the hidden entrances of shops whose owners were sympathetic to the Harper folk.

Each step of the way, the ghostly elf followed them like a third shadow.

* * * * *

Elaith Craulnober padded lightly through a similarly convoluted path, as quiet and anonymous as the occasional cat that prowled the alley for vermin.

For all his wealth and power, the elf still moved about the city without attracting much notice. He preferred it that way. This was one reason why his recent inclusion onto Galinda Raventree's social registry had been so ill advised.

There were many people of wealth and influence in this city who knew his name, but not his face. Elaith could deal with them or gain information in casual conversation that they would never knowingly confide to a competitor. To oblige the man he had named Elf-friend, he had yielded this advantage. The peerage knew him now—or at least, they thought they did. If they had true knowledge, they would not move against him by sending masked men and second-rate soldiers such as Rhep.

It was almost a shame that they would never know the shape of his vengeance, but that was the way of things. Elaith would never have achieved his wealth or success if he had dealt in an open and forthright ma

He found Rhep loitering behind an Ilzimmer-owned warehouse, shooting dice against the wall with a trio of Ilzimmer soldiers. Elaith lingered in the shadows long enough to take the measure of his foe. A woman clad in a tawdry scarlet gown leaned against a discarded barrel and watched the game, not apparently much concerned about the outcome of the men's wager. From the coarse comments the men made, Elaith discerned that she was to be the prize. The men had pooled their coin to pay her rent.

It would be convenient, Elaith mused, if Rhep won the wager. He could then follow the man to his afternoon's entertainment and deal with him in relative privacy.

Rhep's luck, however, was not good. A short, ginger-bearded man with a peg leg stumped off in triumph with the woman. His comrades threw a few more rounds for the sport of it, all the while discussing the likelihood of finding a tavern that would extend credit. The elf managed to catch Rhep's eye as they turned to leave.

The man stopped abruptly and made a show of patting himself down. "You lads go ahead. Seems like I lost my best dice," he improvised.

As soon as the men were out of earshot, Elaith stepped from the shadows. "Your nose is healing nicely," he commented. "It's a bit bigger and flatter than it used to be, but why quibble about a drop in a keg?"

Rhep scowled. "Hold your tongue, elf. I'd just as soon kill you quick, but keep it up and I'll be getting ugly."

"It's rather too late to be concerned about that, don't you think?"

The big man wrenched open the door to the warehouse and jerked his head toward the opening. "Inside. We settle this now."

Elaith bowed and extended one hand, indicating that the man should precede him. The soldier flushed a dull red at this reminder of his earlier treachery. He drew his sword and made a point of backing into the warehouse rather than turning his back to the elf.

Elaith silently applauded him. As insults went, it was a rather good one. Any claim that he was on the same level as this thug was base slander.

"Only one leaves this place," Rhep said.

"Agreed." The elf drew his sword and began to circle.