CHAPTER ONE

Summer was rapidly fading into memory. In the skies over Waterdeep, the stars winking into view were the first heralds of the wintertime constellations: Auril Frostqueen, White Dragon, the Elfmaid’s Tears. Beautiful were these fey and fanciful star patterns, but few inhabitants of the great city took note of them, dazzled as they were by splendors closer to ground.

But the young nobleman hurrying down the shadowed streets was oblivious not only to the stars, but the city, the crowds, and everything else but the prospect of the meeting before him. The image of a half-elven woman was bright in his mind’s eye, almost bright enough to bridge the darkness of the many long months apart.

Almost bright enough to eclipse his soul-deep resentment over the source of their many partings.

Danilo Thann thrust aside these thoughts. What part had they in such a night as this? Arilyn had returned to the city, as she had promised, in time for the Gemstone Ball—the first in the season of harvest festivals. Doggedly he pushed from his mind the last two such events he had attended without her: markers of two more summers gone, reminders of promises as yet unfulfilled.

The room Arilyn kept for her infrequent visits to the city was in the South Ward, a working class part of town, on the third floor of an old stone building that in better days had been home to some guildsman who’d since fallen out of fortune. Danilo shifted the large package he carried, tucking it under one arm so that he could tug open the oversized door.

He stepped into the front hall and nodded a greeting toward the curtained alcove on his left. The only response was a grunt from the hidden guard who kept watch there—an aging dwarf whose square, spotted hands were still steady on a crossbow.

Danilo took the stairs three at a time. The door to Arilyn’s room was locked and warded with magic that he himself had put in place. He dispatched the locks and the guardian magic, silently, but with more haste and less finesse than he usually employed. He eased the door open and found, to his surprise, that Arilyn was still sound asleep.

For a moment it was enough simply to stand and watch. Dan had long taken comfort in watching Arilyn at rest, and had spent many quiet hours doing so during the time they had traveled together in the service of the Harpers. Only half-elven, she found repose in human sleep rather than the deep, wakeful reverie of her elven forebears. It was a small thing, perhaps, but to Danilo’s thinking, Arilyn’s need for sleep was a common link between them, one she could neither deny nor alter.

Danilo studied the half-elf, marking all the small changes that the summer had brought. Her black hair had grown longer, and the wild curls tumbled loose over her pillow. Though it hardly seemed possible, she was even thinner than she had been when they last parted on the road north from Baldur's Gate. Asleep, she looked as pale as porcelain, and nearly as fragile. Dan’s lips curved in an ironic smile as his gaze shifted to the sheathed sword beside her.

Resentment that was near kin to hatred filled Danilo’s heart as he contemplated the moonblade, a magical sword that had brought them together—and torn them apart.

At the moment the moonblade was dark, its magic mercifully silent. No telltale green light limned it, signaling yet another call from the forest elves.

Danilo shook off his dark thoughts and slipped inside the room. With one fluid motion, he placed the wrapped package on the table and drew twin daggers from his belt.

The soft hiss of steel roused the sleeping warrior. Arilyn came awake at full alert, lunging toward the sound almost the very instant her eyes snapped open. In her hand was a long, gleaming knife.

Danilo stepped forward, daggers raised into a gleaming X. The half-elf’s knife sent sparks into the deepening twilight as it slid along the dual edges. Though Arilyn deftly pulled her attack, for a long moment they stood nearly face to face—a lover’s stance, albeit over crossed weapons.

"Still sleeping with steel beneath your pillow, I see. It’s comforting to know that some things never change," Danilo quipped as he sheathed his daggers. He regretted the words as soon they were spoken. Even to his ears, the intended jest sounded stilted—a challenge, almost an accusation.

Arilyn sighed and tossed her knife onto the bed. "Damn it, Dan! Why do you insist upon creeping up on me like that? It’s a marvel you’re still alive."

"Yes, so I’m often told."

The silence between them was long, and not entirely comfortable. Arilyn suddenly seemed to remember her disheveled appearance. Her eyes widened and her hands went to her tousled hair. "The Gemstone Ball. I don’t even have a costume yet."

He was absurdly pleased that she remembered, and that she cared enough about his world to consider such matters. "If you like, we need not attend. After all, you’ve only just got back."

"Late this afternoon," she agreed, "after a long trip and the last two nights of it steady travel. But you’re expected, and I promised to be with you."

She seemed to hear her words as he might, for her eyes grew dark with the awareness of other promises she had made, and not kept. She cleared her throat and nodded at the table. "What’s in the package?"

Danilo allowed himself to be distracted. "When word reached me that you were delayed on the road, I took the liberty of acquiring an appropriately gem-colored costume."

"Ah. Let me guess: sapphire?"

They exchanged a quick, cautious grin. In their early days together, when Danilo went to great pains to convince her and everyone else that he was a silly, shallow dandy, he composed a number of painfully trite odes comparing her eyes to these precious gems. To drive the knife a bit deeper, Arilyn lifted one brow and began to hum the melody to one of these early offerings.

Her dry teasing shattered the restraint between them. Danilo chuckled and pantomimed a wince. "The best thing about old friends is that they know you well. Of course, that is also the worse thing about old friends."

"Old friends," she repeated. The words were delivered in level tones, but they held a question. Was this what they were destined to be? Old friends, and nothing more?

Danilo had long sought an answer, and he thought he had finally found one that might avail. Arilyn’s teasing comments made as good an opening as he could expect to get. Their lives might have changed, but one constant remained: the intense and often inexplicable love born on the day she had kidnapped him from a tavern. So he ripped open the paper that bound the package and lifted from it a length of deep blue velvet—a gown of exquisite simplicity, elf-crafted and rare.

"Sapphire," he confirmed with a grin. "With gems to match. I’ll spare you the song I prepared for the occasion."

Arilyn chuckled and took the gown from his hands, then tossed it aside with the same casual disregard with which she had discarded the knife. Danilo opened his arms, and she came into them. "I have missed you," she murmured against his chest.

It was a rare admission from the taciturn half-elf. In fact, Danilo could count on his hands the times they had spoken of such matters since the night, four years ago, when they had planned to announce their betrothal at the Gemstone Ball. Events had forestalled this, rather dramatically, and had set their feet upon a path of deepening estrangement.

A path, he vowed, that was to end this night.

He took her shoulders and held her out at arm’s length. "Unwrap the package. Look carefully at what you find, for you will never see it again so close at hand."

Arilyn gave him a puzzled smile, then did as she was bid. Her eyes widened as she drew a black, veiled helm from the wrappings.

"A Lord’s Helm," she murmured, naming one of the magical artifacts that marked and concealed the Hidden Lords, men and women drawn from every walk of life to rule the city. Understanding flooded her face. "Yours?"

Dan nodded ruefully. "And an uneasy fit it has been. Khelben foisted it upon me four years ago. I would have told you long before this, but . . . "

His voice trailed off. Arilyn gave a curt nod of understanding. It was common knowledge that the secret Lords told no one of their identity but the person they wed—and even that degree of confidence was frowned upon. Only Piergeiron the Paladinson, the First Lord of the city, was known by name.

"Why do you tell me now?" She glanced over at the sapphire gown, and her face was clouded with memories of the pledge they had meant to speak at the Gemstone Ball four years ago.

Danilo had been prepared for this reaction, but even so his heart ached to see it. "I am free to tell you now, for it is my intention to give the thing up," he said lightly. "There has been some trouble of late between the Harpers and some of Waterdeep’s paladins. Lord Piergeiron, as one might anticipate, came out fervently on the side of righteousness. He was graciously willing—one might even say eager—to relieve me of this duty. Likewise, I have given notice to the redoubtable Khelben Arunsun that I have no intention of assuming his mantle as future protector of Blackstaff Tower."

Arilyn frowned at this mention of Danilo’s kinsman and mentor—and her former Harper superior. "I thought he had long ago given up that notion."

She was hedging, noted Dan: buying time as she absorbed the implications of his revelation. "On the surface, yes, but as you well know, the good archmage prefers to work in mist and shadows. Some time back, when I declared my intentions of becoming a bard in truth as well as jest, he was all gracious agreement. Yet he continued to give me valuable spellbooks, to share crumbs of his power, to confide in me secrets that bound me to the Harpers, and to him. Before I knew it, I was attending him almost daily. I even had other Harpers under my command." He shuddered. "Insidious, our dear Khelben."

Arilyn smiled at his droll tone, but there was a touch of anger in her eyes. "A better description of Khelben Arunsun could not be cast by his own shadow! You did well to break free. Do you still wear the pin?"

This was a sore spot, for they both had reason to cherish the pins that marked them as Harpers: members of a semi-secret organization, dedicated to keeping Balance in the world, and preserving tales of great deeds. Arilyn had grown increasingly uneasy with the direction of the Harpers in general, and the directives of Khelben Arunsun in particular. After their last shared mission, the rescue of Isabeau Thione, Arilyn had broken with Khelben and the Harpers.

But Danilo was not quite ready to renounce either. He touched his shoulder where, pinned to his shirt and hidden beneath his tabard, a tiny silver harp nestled into the curve of a crescent moon.

"A good man entrusted this pin to me. I will wear it always in his honor, and try to be worthy of his trust."

And his daughter.

The words were left unspoken, but the deepening conflict in Arilyn’s eyes marked them as heard. "I, too, wear the Harper pin in honor of my father. But for no other reason. My allegiance is elsewhere."

"Yes, I am all too aware of that," Danilo said with more bitterness than he intended. He lifted a hand to forestall her explanation. "No, don’t. We have traveled this road. What you did, you did for love of me. I wish the result had been different, but I cannot fault your intentions."

Again his gaze shifted to the moonblade, a hereditary elven sword to which each wielder could add one magical power. For Arilyn’s mother it had formed a magical gate between her human lover’s world and the distant elven island of Evermeet. This had led to tragedy for the elven folk, and many years later it led to a long string of events that had brought Arilyn to the attention of the Harpers of Waterdeep. Danilo had been assigned to follow and watch her. In the course of this mission, he and Arilyn had formed their own bonds: trust, friendship, and something deeper and infinitely more complex than love. For Arilyn had ceded to him the right to her moonblade and its power. In doing so, she had broken a tradition of many centuries: that none but a moonblade’s true inheritor could wield the blade. And in doing so, she had unknowingly committed him to eternal service of the magic sword.

It was a price Danilo would gladly have paid, for the bond that it gave them. But he had never had that choice. When confronted by the results of her decision, Arilyn had taken it upon herself to free her friend from a service he never chose. And in doing so, she had broken the mystic, elven bond between them. Once that bond was broken, the sword had granted Arilyn a different power, and forged another allegiance.

Now the moonblade warned her when the forest folk were in need of a hero’s sword. There were small bands of elves scattered through many forests in Faerun, and many were in danger and decline. Arilyn’s sleep had become dream-haunted, and her sword gleamed with verdant light more often than not. Though she understood that hers was but a single sword, and that she could not stand beside every beleaguered elf, the calls were too strong for her to ignore. Elf and moonblade shared soul-deep bonds. Since that day she had been on the road almost constantly, and could not do otherwise.

"You do what you must," Danilo said softly. "I have had my duties here. But there is nothing more to hold me in Waterdeep. There is no reason why I cannot travel with you."

There was, and they both knew it. Arilyn was an oddity among the forest elves, who seldom had anything to do with strangers among their own kind, much less Moon elves with human blood. But in the eyes of the forest elves, she had become part of the centuries-old legend of the moonblade she carried. Thus she had finally achieved what she had long for all her life: true acceptance from the elven folk. No human was likely to manage such a feat.

"No. No reason at all," she said faintly and unconvincingly. She met his eyes and manufactured a rueful smile. "You seem to have broken free of all things but one. This night, you must meet family obligations. When does this ball start?"

Danilo squinted at the window. Twilight had passed, and the faint glow of lamps rose from the streets below. "An hour, I should think. If you hurry, we can be fashionably late." He punctuated this remark with a sly smile. "And if we take our time, we could be scandalously late."

"A tempting suggestion, Lord Thann," she said with prim tones but laughing eyes. "I am in accord with the spirit of it, but not the timing. You go on without me, and I’ll follow as soon as I can. Since this is your family’s party, your absence would be noticed and remarked."

"The Lady Cassandra sees all," he murmured, naming the formidable woman who had given him life, and who managed the Thann family fortunes with an iron will and a capable hand.

Arilyn’s blue and gold eyes took on the hard, flat gleam common among warriors who heard their nemesis named. "True enough. Even without delay, I’m sure we’ll manage to cause some sort of scandal."

"That’s the spirit," he said approvingly.

* * * * *

Not much more than the allotted hour passed before Arilyn stepped from her hired carriage at the gates of the Thann family villa. The vast, sprawling white marble mansion commanded nearly a city block of the North Ward, and every pace and breath of it was ablaze with light and sound. Danilo, it would seem, had used a bit of poetic license in naming the starting hour. By all appearances, the festivities were well under way and had been for quite some time.

Arilyn surveyed the scene through narrowed eyes, as a warrior might size up a potential battlefield. Though the Gemstone Ball was one of the last fetes of the summer season, in this bright place the drab and chill of coming winter seemed far away. Even the darkness of night was held firmly at bay. The moon cresting the peaked roofs of the villa was as bright and full as a summer rose, and in the gardens surrounding the villa floating globes of light winked on and off like giant, multicolored fireflies. From the open windows floated the sounds of laughter and festive music.

She followed a small crowd of late comers, cursing the slim skirts that broke her stride into small, mincing steps. Inside the Thann family villa, scores of guests gathered in a great hall ablaze with the light of a thousand candles. Dancers dressed in vivid gem-toned costumes dipped and spun in time to the music. Other guests sipped the rare wines that were a cornerstone of the Thann family fortunes, or listened to the fine musicians who seemed to be everywhere, or wandered in pairs into artfully designed alcoves and garden nooks to gather the last blossoms of a summertime romance.

It was, she had to admit, quite a spectacle. This party was considered a highlight of the season, and the merchant nobility rose to the occasion, each guest striving to outdo the others in matters of finery, beauty, or gallantry. It was understood—expected!—that on such a night everything must be perfect. Cassandra Thann, the matriarch of her clan and a maven of noble society, would not have it otherwise.

The only discordant note, if merry laughter could ever be thus described, came from the far corner of the great hall. With a certainty born of experience, Arilyn headed in that direction.

She slipped quietly into the crowd surrounding Danilo as he began to recount his misadventures with a riddle-loving dragon. It was a comic retelling, and quite different from the story Arilyn had heard. She doubted that those who’d shared that grim encounter would recognize the tale. Or, perhaps they would. Arilyn had noted that truth had a way of ringing through the words of a bard, even when it, and he, were concealed by gilding and motley.

She studied the man who had been her Harper partner, and who still held her heart in his hands. By all appearances, Danilo was an agreeable and entertaining dandy, well favored by nature and fortune and good company. He was a tall man, lean and graceful, fair of form and face, and completely at home with the finery and deportment that such evenings demanded. The sleeves of his fine emerald-green jacket had been slashed repeatedly to reveal the bright cloth-of-gold lining beneath. Gold glinted also on his gesticulating hands, and in the pale hue of the thick mane than flowed past his shoulders.

Golden, she decided. That was the word for him. Offhand, she could not name an advantage he had not enjoyed, a task he could not accomplish with almost indecent ease. Danilo was to all appearances well content with himself. Nor did he seem to be alone in his high opinion, for his roguish grin and the mischief in his gray eyes brought instinctive, answering smiles to many who beheld him.

It amazed Arilyn still that this effortlessly golden, merry person saw anything to cherish in her, an elf whose life was consumed with duty and danger. But his eyes lit up when he saw her with a genuine pleasure that gave lie to the bright façade he wore in her absence.

"Arilyn, you must come watch this!" he called, raising his voice over the applause that followed his tale. He beckoned with the object in his hand—a half-blown rose in a rare, true shade of blue.

A murmur of interest rippled through the group. Such roses were the stuff of legend, known only on distant Evermeet. Danilo had somehow managed to charm a few of these treasures away from the fey folk. He had determined to fill the courtyard behind his townhouse with an elven garden in honor of his lady, one that would rival the best Evermeet had to offer. Arilyn had heard that this romantic tale was repeated often by Waterdhavian ladies, always punctuated by wistful sighs. Many eyes turned in her direction now, some envious, some merely curious. The crowd parted, leaving her standing alone.

More than a few stares lingered pointedly on the sword she wore on her hip. She was the only person in the hall thus armed. To be sure, the moonblade was a priceless thing, worth more than the gems that bedecked a score of guests, but it was still a weapon. Most likely, a few of them had heard of her dark reputation, and regarded an assassin’s sword as not merely a faux pas, but a threat.

Arilyn ignored the stares and went to him. Her fingertips brushed Danilo’s outstretched hand and the symbolic rose he held, then she fell back to observe the spell he clearly planned to cast in tribute.

He held the rose out before him at arm’s length as he sang a few words to it. When he drew back his hand, the blue flower remained suspended in the air. Chanting now, he drew from the bag at his belt a pinch of dark power with a distinctive, unmistakably barnyard aroma. He sprinkled this on the floor beneath the rose, quickly sweetening the burgeoning spell with another layer of powder that smelled of meadows and summer rain. A flurry of rapid, graceful gestures followed, accompanied by a song in the Elvish language.

Power, in the form of green and glowing light, began to gather around the spellcasting bard. Danilo’s audience fell into expectant silence as the verdant aura reached out to envelop them, as well. Elsewhere in the room, laughter and conversation faded as the guests awaited the effects of the spell. Their faces showed varying degrees of curiosity, wonder, or—in the case of those who knew Danilo’s reputation in such matters—apprehension.

His spell ended in a high, ringing note. Some of the spectators responded to the music with a smatter of applause, but most merely gaped at the transformation taking place before them.

The blue rose was growing. Not as roses grew in the normal course of events, but with the same eerie speed that a dismembered troll regenerated its limbs, or a hydra sprouted two new heads to replace one lost to a warrior’s axe. Unlike these regenerated monsters, however, the elven rose did not stop growing once it reached the size ordained by nature.

The rose’s stem lengthened into stalk, which in turn sent new shoots racing toward the ceiling and roots slithering along the smooth marble of the floor. Leaves murmured as they unfurled. Buds quite literally popped open, sounding like tiny bottles of sparkling wine decanted by unseen pixie folk. In moments dozens, scores, hundreds of rare blue roses covered the magical rosebush.

The monstrous rosebush.

Already the thing was half way to the vaulted ceiling, and the limbs were beginning to droop down of their own weight. And its growth showed no sign of slowing. This, Arilyn surmised, could be a problem. She grimaced and dropped her hand to the hilt of her sword.

Gracefully soaring branches described a slow, lazy outward arc, then began a plunging descent toward the marble floor.

Murmurs of wonder fell abruptly silent, and a heartbeat later returned as cries of alarm. The rosebush’s many branches lunged toward the revelers like the grasping, thorny talons of a hundred stooping flacons.

Cries went up for Khelben Arunsun, a relative of the Thann family and the most powerful wizard in all of Waterdeep. But the archmage was not presently in the hall. Frenzied chanting mingled with the growing clamor as a few lesser mages tried their hands at containing the runaway magic. But the best that any of them could do was to change the hue of the flowers from their elven blue to a more mundane shade. And still the bush came on.

All of this took less time than the telling might take. In the first moments following his spell, Danilo stood in slack-jawed amazement at the very center of the verdant maelstrom, unscathed by the wild growth of thorn and branch. He saw at once that Arilyn might not be so fortunate. Too many times had she witnessed his "miscast" spells, and he feared she would not understand that this night, the danger was real. She stood at alert, but did not flee the approaching thorns.

Danilo thought fast. "Elegard aquilar!" he called, praying that Arilyn could read the truth of the matter in the old Elvish battle cry.

As he’d hoped, the half-elf’s sapphire eyes went flat and level, a warrior’s ready stare. Her moonblade hissed free of its scabbard as the racing limbs closed in. She lifted the sword in time to bat aside the first leafy assault, then she fell into a deft, practiced rhythm.

Some of the thorny limbs dove into the crowd of retreating guests, tearing at their bright clothing and tangled with flowing hair. Panic set in, and the nobles turned tail and made a frantic, collective dash for the exits. Graceful dancers tripped on their diaphanous skirts and sprawled. Courtly gentlemen leaped over their ladies’ prone bodies in their race toward safety. The musicians abandoned their posts—all but for the waggish uilleann piper who struck up the first plaintive notes of "My Love, She is a Wandering Rose."

Through it all, Arilyn’s elven blade danced and sliced. Severed limbs piled around her, hampering her attempts to wade forward and cut down the source of the spell.

The rosebush, that is, not the spellcaster.

Or so Danilo fondly hoped.

Still, he couldn’t be completely certain. As Arilyn advanced on him, slashing her way through the persistent growth, the expression in her blue eyes was grim and furious.

Danilo couldn’t fault her. He was renowned for his miscast spells, but never had he turned one of his pranks upon Arilyn. He winced as one of the limbs broke through her guard and snagged her skirt. The sapphire velvet gave way with a resounding rip, tearing her gown from thigh to ankle and leaving a thin, welling trail of blood on her exposed leg.

Instinctively Danilo’s hand dropped to the place where his sword usually hung, and he started to move toward her before he remembered himself weaponless.

"Hold," she commanded. She lunged forward, her sword whistling in so high and close that Danilo felt the wind of it on his face.

He fell back a step, then began to turn in a circle, looking for some way to bridge the verdant barrier between himself and Arilyn. Then, suddenly, the bush ceased its advance. The halted branches, poised as if for renewed flight, began to shimmer with green light. Severed limbs faded into mist. The bush disappeared—all but for the single, half-blown blue rose lying on the marble floor.

From the corner of his eye, Danilo noted that the guests were edging back into the hall, their faces bright with mingled wariness and curiosity. But his attention was fixed upon the grim, disheveled woman before him, and his usually nimble tongue felt weighted down with stone as he sought for some word of explanation.

"What a remarkable performance. Again, I might add," observed a cultured, feminine, and all-too-familiar voice at his elbow.

Without turning, without seeing the direction of the speaker’s ice-blue stare, Danilo knew that his mother’s ironic commentary included both his miscast spell and Arilyn’s response.

So, apparently, did Arilyn. The half-elf’s gaze flicked to Danilo’s face in wry acknowledgement, then to the sword still in her hands. She thrust the weapon back into its sheath and turned to her hostess.

"My apologies for the disturbance. Again, I might add," Arilyn responded dryly. She gestured to her shredded skirt. "If you’ll excuse me, Lady Thann, I think I’d better change."

Cassandra Thann eyed the half-elf with genteel distaste. "On that," she said, with a pause that silently shouted, if in nothing else, "we are in accord. Suzanne will show you to a guestroom with an appropriate wardrobe. Chose whatever suits you."

It was a command thinly cloaked in courtesy. Arilyn acknowledged both with a curt nod, and then turned to follow the maidservant who darted forward to do her mistress’s bidding.

Danilo caught Arilyn’s arm as she shouldered her way past him. "We’ll talk about this later," he said, speaking only for her ears.

She met his eyes and lifted one ebony brow. "On that," she replied in kind, "you can bet your—"

At that moment the dance music resumed, drowning out the last words of her response. Danilo, however, was fairly certain he got the gist of it.

He watched her leave, her stride back to its normal length now that the slender column of velvet no longer hampered her. He sighed as he turned to face the family matriarch, the other of the two most formidable women he knew.

Cassandra Thann was, or so most of Waterdeep believed, sister to Khelben Arunsun. She was also mother to nine children who had in turn supplied her with at a small flock of grandchildren. She had probably passed her sixtieth winter, but despite the lines of displeasure creasing her brow, she appeared no more than a decade older than her youngest son. Her carefully arranged hair was just as thick and fair as his, her figure youthful and trim. The fine, sharp, sleek lines of her cheeks and jaw had not been blurred by age. Rumor suggested that Cassandra’s beauty owned a debt to potions of longevity, but Danilo didn’t believe it. More likely, the years simply didn’t dare to touch her.

"Remarkable party," he commented lightly. He clasped his hands behind his back as he eyed the renewed dancing. "Resilient crew, wouldn’t you say?"

"And a good thing they are," Cassandra retorted, her sharp tone at odds with her blandly smiling countenance. "That ridiculous stunt of yours was nearly the end of this affair."

Danilo watched as Myrna Cassalanter, a young woman with bright henna-colored hair and the eyes of a hungry predator, closed in on his old friend Regnet Amcathra. Rumor had it that the Cassalanter clan was anticipating a match between their house and the young scion of the wealthy Amcathra clan—a rumor probably started by Myrna herself. Regnet, Dan knew, had other thoughts on the matter. Panic, thinly veiled by gallantry, suffused poor Regnet’s face as he led Myrna onto the dance floor. No one, it seemed, was having an easy night.

"An early end to the ball. What a disaster that would be," Danilo murmured.

"You insisted upon attending this year," Lady Cassandra pointed out. Her eyes tracked the path Arilyn had taken out of the hall, then turned their full force on her son. "I trust that no announcement will be forthcoming this year?"

This set Danilo back on his heels. For a moment, he wondered how Cassandra had learned of the plans he and Arilyn had cherished four years past. But upon consideration, he realized that his mother’s comment owed more to tradition than augury. It was not uncommon for betrothals to be announced at the harvest and spring festivals. Even so, her words disturbed him.

"And if it were?" he challenged.

"Ah." Cassandra smiled faintly, her face reflecting an infuriating mixture of relief and satisfaction. "I thought as much. The rumors considering your. . . liaison . . . with this half-elf have been exaggerated."

Danilo was frankly and thoroughly puzzled. "Arilyn has been my companion for more than six years now, and apart from the debacle at the Gemstone Ball four years ago, you’ve made no real objection. Why now?"

"Why indeed?" the woman retorted. "As a hired sword, she was more than competent, and when one hires persons with such skills, one must endure the occasional inconvenience of unexpected battle. No real harm was done at the Gemstone that year. This year is another matter entirely. Do not think I have not heard the young women sighing over your elven garden. A man does not gift mere hirelings with a fortune in sapphires and blue roses."

"Arilyn was never a mere hireling."

Cassandra sighed through clenched teeth. "Then it is true. Danilo, it is time you considered your position. You are not a lad, to waste your time with trifles and trollops."

It took every ounce of discipline he possessed to hold back the anger that rose in him like a flame. "Have a care, Mother," he said softly. "There are some things I will not hear, even from you."

"Better you hear them from me than another. This half-elf is unworthy of your regard, and there ends the matter."

"If you were a man, there would be no need for this discussion!" she snapped. Her anger cooled as quickly as if flared. "My son, I must be frank."

"Imagine my astonishment," he murmured.

Cassandra let the comment pass. She accepted a glass of wine from a passing servant, and used it to make a sweeping gesture that encompassed the sparkling throng. "Look about you. Have you never noticed that there are no elves among Waterdeep’s nobility?"

He shrugged. "Yes? So?"

"Perhaps you should ponder that."

Danilo snapped his fingers. "What about the Dezlentyr family? Corin and Corinna are half-elven, and Corin stands to inherit title."

"The title will be challenged, of that you may be certain," she said in a distracted tone. "These are the children of Lord Arlos’s elven wife. His first wife," Cassandra stressed. "Do you remember the circumstances of her death?"

A story Danilo had heard in his youth, long since forgotten, floated to the surface of his mind. "She was found dead in the garden," he said slowly. "If I recall aright, Lord Arlos insisted that it was the work of assassins. He claimed that his enemies were loath to see races other than human introduced into the Waterdhavian nobility, and that his lady’s death was the result. But surely this was nothing more than the raving of a grieving man!"

Cassandra met his eyes once more. "Was it?"

A long moment of silence passed between them, for Danilo could think of nothing to say in the face of such absurdity. Before his wits returned, his mother glided away, and was swept up into the circle of dancers.

* * * * *

Arilyn stalked down the gleaming halls, ignoring the thorns that had pierced her too-thin slippers. At the moment, she would have happily traded her best horse for a pair of stout, practical boots. Not only would they have saved her feet from this aggravation, but they would also lend conviction to the kick she longed to deliver to Danilo’s backside.

Whatever had come over the man? Granted, he was fond of pranks. True, he worked behind the carefully constructed façade of a shallow, silly fop. She could accept that much. Much of the time, she derived a considerable amount of secret amusement from his contrived foolishness. She had learned to look behind the jest to the intent, and usually found herself in full agreement with Danilo’s goals, if not always his methods. This stunt, however, was utterly beyond her ken.

But as Arilyn’s ire faded, she remembered the look of astonishment on Danilo’s face. Then there was his use of Elvish to warn her. This was strange, considering the pains he took to hide his knowledge of the language from his peers. No, there was considerably more to this night’s work than a silly prank.

"Are we almost there?" she asked the maidservant as they rounded yet another corner in the labyrinth of halls and rooms within rooms.

The girl looked back over her shoulder and smiled sympathetically. "It is a lovely party, even with that bit of excitement. You must be impatient to return."

Arilyn cast her eyes toward the ceiling and forbore comment. Perhaps by human standards, this was a lovely party. But she could not help contrasting elven festivals with Waterdhavian fetes. Here, the heart of festive gatherings was politics, business, and intrigue. Deep, true celebration eluded the city’s humans.

But what could this girl know of such things? How could she know the joy, the unity, that marked elven festivals? And, judging from the servant’s clear and untroubled smile, she also knew nothing of the heartaches and complexities that could result. Arilyn wasn’t altogether certain whether the girl was to be pitied or envied.

Finally the maidservant showed her into a room. She insisted upon bringing out one bright costume after another, expounding the merits of each. Anxious to get on with it, Arilyn pointed out a silver gown that looked about the right size—and that was loose enough to allow freedom of motion. Then she peeled off her silk slippers and handed them to the maid to give her something to do. The girl exclaimed in dismay over the thorns embedded in the delicate fabric, then settled down to the task of pulling them out and scrubbing at the stains.

Left to her own devices, Arilyn quickly stripped off her ruined gown and tugged on the replacement. A brisk brushing removed clinging bits of twigs and leaves from her hair, and left the black curls floating in a wild nimbus about her shoulders. She shifted impatiently from one bare foot to the other as she awaited the return of her shoes.

"I’m afraid they’re ruined," the girl said at last. She cast a reproachful look up at Arilyn. "You’ve bled on them."

"Inconsiderate of me," she responded dryly. She nodded toward the room-sized closet adjoining the bedchamber. "You have any boots in there?"

The girl’s eyes rounded, and she sputtered in protest. Arilyn let her have her say, then simply raised one eyebrow. With a sigh, the maidservant yielded. In moments she emerged, holding a pair of low, thin-soled leather boots gingerly between thumb and forefinger.

"This is not the done thing," she began. "The Lady Cassandra bid me to attend you, and find you suitable clothing. She will not thank me for this."

Arilyn suppressed a sigh. The boots were obviously elf-crafted, for they were of butter-soft deerskin dyed a rich blue shade that no human artisan could achieve, and they fairly shimmered with magic. Most likely they were worth more than the collar of silver and sapphires Arilyn wore.

"Elves wear these for dancing," she assured the girl.

"Well…."

"If you come to grief over this, send Lady Cassandra to me," Arilyn said firmly. "I will settle the matter."

The girl considered her for a moment. A slow, speculative smile spread across her face. "That is something I would dearly love to see," she said softly.

Arilyn chuckled. "Hand over the boots. If a fight breaks out later, I won’t draw first blood until I’m certain you have a good seat. Agreed?"

"Done."

The boots changed hands, and in moments Arilyn was on her way, alone. After the first few turns, she realized that nothing looked familiar. She had been too distracted by her troubled thoughts to mark the way in. Now she, an elf who could track a deer by moonlight and follow a squirrel’s trail through the trees, was completely turned around in the maze of rooms and halls.

"Wouldn’t Bran be proud?" she muttered, naming the famous human ranger who had sired her. And once Danilo got wind of this misadventure, she would never hear the end of it. Determined to keep her embarrassment to herself, she kept going, merely nodding to the occasional servant or guest she passed.

Her mood darkened with each false turn. Finally she gave in to the inevitable, and decided to ask directions from the next person she encountered.

She heard the sounds of conversation coming from a room at the end of the hall and set off toward it at a brisk pace, silent as a shadow in her borrowed elven boots. She slowed as she neared the door, and listened to the conversation with a mind toward finding an acceptable place to interrupt.

"It is my considered opinion that there is already far too much magic in Waterdeep."

This statement, emphatically spoken by a familiar, faintly accented male voice, halted Arilyn in mid stride. It was not the sort of thing one expected to hear from Khelben Arunsun, the most powerful wizard in the city—and Danilo’s long-time mentor.

Arilyn grimaced at her misfortune. If she inquired directions from this assembly, Danilo was certain to hear of her plight.

"You present an interesting proposal, Oth Eltorchul, but a dangerous one," stated a thin, querulous male voice.

That would be Maskar Wands, Arilyn supposed. Danilo had often described the elderly wizard as being as nervous as a brooding hen.

"Dangerous? How so? The dream spheres have been thoroughly tested. The subjects were willing, even eager, and though none of them were persons of much consequence, I am pleased to claim that no ill effects were suffered. To the contrary. The dream spheres gave them a few moment’s respite from their dreary little lives."

The man’s voice held the well-trained, almost musical tones of an accomplished mage, but the genteel sneer in it set Arilyn’s teeth on edge. That was undoubtedly Oth Eltorchul, a member of a wizardly family who engaged in magical training and experimentation. She knew Oth by sight only. He was a tall man with the flame-colored hair common to his clan, and ale-colored eyes that brought to mind the fixed stare of a hunting owl. Danilo had studied several years ago with Lord Eltorchul, Oth’s father, but he had no use at all for Oth. At the moment, she was inclined to applaud Dan’s judgement.

"Where do these dreams come from?" asked an unfamiliar voice.

A brief silence followed, to be broken by Oth’s scornful laugh. Arilyn thought it was a reasonable question. All dreams came from somewhere.

"They are magical illusions, Lord Gundwynd, nothing more. A created incident that the dreamer experiences as if it were real. Entirely harmless."

"Magic is never entirely harmless," Khelben pointed out. "Every wise man, mage or not, knows this to be true."

There was an angry scraping as a chair was pushed back. "Do you call me a fool, Lord Arunsun?"

"And insult those assembled here?" the archmage returned, his tone edged with exasperation. "Why point out that the sky is blue, when they have eyes to see this for themselves?"

"Now see here!"

Arilyn decided that no good opportunity for interruption would present itself any time soon. She two steps before another familiar voice halted her.

"Sit down, Oth," Lady Cassandra said firmly, "and listen to the advice you sought. I will speak plainly. No one will sell these dream spheres of yours, for the city’s wizards will oppose them. Any attempt to peddle magical illusions from a stall in the bazaar is a foolish challenge to their power and their right to ply their trade. I will have nothing to do with it, or anyone who does."

A murmur of agreement followed her words. "But the dream spheres could become vastly popular," Oth insisted. "There is much profit to be made."

"There is profit to be made in the sale of slaves, poisons, and certain types of pipeweed. But such things are forbidden by law, Oth, and you know it well."

"There are no prohibitions against dream spheres," protested Oth.

"There will be," announced a voice Arilyn recognized as Boraldan Ilzimmer. She also noted that the man seemed none too pleased by his own observation. "The wizards’ guild holds much power in this city, and their desires will soon be bolstered by force of law."

"Well said, Lord Ilzimmer. The Watchful Order of Magisters will seek to have these baubles declared illegal. And if for some reason they do not, I will see to it myself."

Maskar Wands’ voice might be creaky with age, but Arilyn did not doubt that he would do precisely what he said. The patriarch of the Wands clan was probably the most traditional wizard in the city, and vehemently opposed to frivolous or irresponsible magic.

"There you have it," agreed a deeper, younger male voice that Arilyn did not recognize. "You’ll find no investors here, Oth. Who would pledge good money to an endeavor destined for failure?"

"Failure is not quite the word I would use," amended Lady Cassandra. "As Oth pointed out, there probably is money to be made with these toys. But a prohibition would put this product into the hands of less scrupulous dealers." She sniffed. "Not our kind of people."

"You surprise me, Lady Thann," retorted Boraldan Ilzimmer. "In the past, your words and deeds have matched admirably well. Yet you speak of unscrupulous rogues, even while you entertain the elf-lord Elaith Craulnober under this very roof. Consorting with elves, even if they were the honorable sort, is hardly the done thing."

"That is my son’s doing, not mine," Cassandra said in clipped tones. "Perhaps I indulge him too much."

Arilyn blinked, startled by this news. She had not seen Elaith among the revelers, but she could hardly blame Lady Thann for her displeasure.

Danilo and Elaith had been foes for as long as she’d known either of them. Matters had changed earlier that summer, when Danilo had repaid the elf’s treachery by saving his life. Elaith might be a rogue and a scoundrel, but he was still an elf and he followed certain honor codes. He had named Danilo, Elf-friend, the highest honor an elf could pay a human. Danilo probably thought including Elaith among his guests was the only natural thing to do. Arilyn could understand why Cassandra would think otherwise.

"I don’t trust the elf, and I don’t appreciate his inclusion among the peerage," Boraldan said flatly. "If any problems arise . . . "

"He will be dealt with," Cassandra said firmly, and with great finality. "Are we agreed that Lord Oth will not sell these toys?"

"If I do not, then someone else will," Oth said stubbornly. "Once a thing is made it cannot long be hidden. Word of these marvels will spread. Someone will find a way to profit from them. Better that it be one of us."

A long, pregnant silence followed his words, one that Arilyn could not interpret. "There are strictures on trade," Cassandra Thann said carefully, "that are not always obvious to those who buy and sell in the shops and stalls. Those who try to circumvent these restraints often come to grief."

"I am heir to the my family title," Oth said indignantly. "Do you presume to threaten me?"

"Not at all," the woman said in a wry tone. "But you asked for an audience and for our advice. It has been given."

"I understand," Oth said in a stiff voice.

Arilyn did not, but she was not particularly interested in learning more. Nor did she wish to be discovered eavesdropping. She headed for the stairwell at the end of the hall, and hurried down the tightly curving spiral. Sooner or later, she reasoned, she would reach the main floor, and the din emanating from the great hall would make tracking easy.

Several moments passed, and Arilyn judged that she had descended a depth sufficient to bring her well past the main floor. But no doors led out of the stairwell. She continued down. The stairwell tightened, and the flickering light of the torches thrust into iron wall brackets gave way to darkness. Her eyes adjusted, slipping past the need for light into the elven range, where heat registered in complex and subtle patterns.

The stairs ended in a dark and silent hall beneath the Thann estate. To one side, a vast, cool room was honeycombed with small shelves filled with dusty bottles. The Thanns were wine merchants, and Danilo had often remarked on their cellars. Arilyn spared this treasure trove no more than a glance. Her attention fixed upon the footprints that led past the door.

They were heat prints, large and faint. Several sets of them, by the looks of it. She dropped to one knee for a better look, and her eyes widened.

The tracks belonged to tren—huge, reptilian creatures that lived beneath ground, surfacing only to ply their trade. Arilyn had reason to know this. Tren were assassins, and she had crossed swords with them before. In her experience, they did not venture this far above ground without deadly purpose. She knew them well enough to realize that tren bodies warmed or cooled with their surroundings, so their heat prints were faint even when fresh.

These were very fresh, indeed.

Quietly, Arilyn rose to her feet and slid her sword from its sheath. Her own feet, elf-shod and magically protected, left no telltale marks as she began to follow the assassins’ trail.