Arilyn danced beyond the reach of the wounded tren's grasping claws. Before she could take the offensive, a small, silver knife spun between her and her attacker, burying itself deep into the narrow gash Arilyn's sword had opened.
She glanced over at Elaith, wondering how he could consider her situation in the midst of his own battle. That was all but over. He had felled one of the creatures, and his twin daggers dealt with the last as a shark might dispatch a wounded whale—slicing off one bloody bite at a time.
Anger rose in her like a hot, bright tide. Elaith might have aided her, not once but twice, yet what of his own battle code? There was little honor in his methods, none at all in the dark pleasure written on his face.
She set her teeth, determined to end this as quickly as possible. Two of her assailants were finished. The knife-struck tren had stopped its advance as sharply as if it had hit a magic wall. Its claws made small, fluttery movements in the air and then groped for the hilt of Elaith's thrown blade. The creature's body stiffened and began to topple forward.
The leader let out a roar of outrage and charged the half-elf. Its sickle blade slashed the air in anticipation of deadly harvest.
Arilyn stepped aside, putting the dying creature between herself and her attacker. The tren kept on, too enraged to pull his attack. His curved blade hooked deep into the soft folds under the dying tren's throat. Before he could pull the weapon free, his comrade's falling weight bore him down. Arilyn lunged, her sword diving for the assassin's eye.
The tip of her sword struck the bony ridge, slid wetly across the scales and sought the narrow socket.
The tren was too quick for her. With another roar, he tossed his enormous head and threw her sword wide. Wrenching the sickle free of his comrade's slack throat, the tren backed away from the carcasses of his clan. He melted into the shadows as completely as a drop of water might merge with the sea.
Arilyn's first impulse was pursuit, but years on the battlefield prompted her not to turn her back too soon on any opponent. She spun, sword held in guard position before her, prepared to face the final tren—or its elven opponent.
The last tren was weaving on its feet, bleeding from scores of wounds. There was no fight left in the creature. Its long arms hung slack, claws scraping the stone floor as it rocked on unsteady legs.
Yet Elaith showed no signs of ending the game. Arilyn had seen barn cats show more mercy in torturing a captured squirrel, and less pleasure.
"End it!" she snapped.
The elf shot her a quick, startled glance, as if he'd suddenly recalled where and who he was. For a moment Arilyn could have sworn that his handsome features wore an expression of shame.
Elaith turned aside quickly, as if from some unwanted truth. He dropped one dripping weapon to the floor and produced a slender knife from some hidden fold of his festive garb. A quick flick sent the blade hurtling into the inner corner of the creature's slack mouth. The silver tip burst through the hide on the opposing side of the tren's throat, opening the way for a bright, quick flow of lifeblood. The tren sank quickly, almost gratefully, to the blood-soaked floor.
For a long moment elf and half-elf regarded each other. Disgust and gratitude warred for possession of Arilyn's first words. "I should thank you," she began.
"Much against your personal inclination," Elaith cut in smoothly. He lifted one hand to forestall the words one elf spoke to another after shared battle. "There is no debt, Princess. I have been pledged from birth to serve the royal house. My sword is yours."
That shut Arilyn up, as no doubt Elaith had intended it to do. The rogue elf was one of the few who knew of her heritage and the only elf who openly acknowledged it. Among the Tel'Quessar—the elven term which meant simply and exclusively "The People"—there was little honor in being the half-breed daughter of an exiled princess. Elaith, for his own reasons, seemed to think otherwise.
She turned away and busied herself with cleaning her sword. "We should follow that last tren."
''Undoubtedly," Elaith said, and smiled faintly. "Unless I miss my guess, however, another battle awaits you above. This has been a most eventful evening."
Arilyn did not dispute that. First Danilo's mishap with the skyflower spell, then the odd conversation she'd overheard.
The words Cassandra Thann had spoken came back to her—the promise to promptly deal with any trouble Elaith might cause. In the aftermath of battle with paid assassins, these words held a new and sinister meaning.
She shook her head, denying this absurd thought. Lady Cassandra might be a two-legged dragon, but Arilyn could not picture her hiring assassins to deal with misbehaving guests. On the other hand, there was the risk that Elaith might believe this to be true, and take action accordingly.
The elf kicked at one hulking carcass. "I wonder who hired this crew," he mused, echoing her concerns with discomforting accuracy.
Arilyn cleared her throat. "Any thoughts?"
"The possibilities are nearly endless," he said lightly. "Do you think this is the first time such a thing has occurred? Don't trouble yourself over it. I do not intend to."
Arilyn mistrusted his easy dismissal of the matter. "I will speak to Danilo of this," she said softly. She studied Elaith as he absorbed the many levels of meaning in her words.
The elf cut sharply to the foundation of her fears. "Do you believe that Lord Thann invited me to his family home so that I might meet with these assassins?"
"No!"
"Neither do I." Elaith seemed ready to say more, but he shook his head and turned away.
Arilyn let him go. As he had observed, she had another battle ahead. Once Elaith was well out of sight, she began to follow his trail through a maze of underground paths. This ended with a hidden door and then a short flight of stone stairs leading to an open bulkhead. Arilyn glanced up into what appeared to be a garden shed. Above her was the black velvet sky, and a moon well past its zenith. Her side trip had taken far longer than she realized.
The Gemstone Ball awaited. Offhand, Arilyn could name a dozen bloody battlefields she had faced with more enthusiasm and less dread. With a sigh of deep frustration, she squared her shoulders, hitched up her borrowed gown, and resolutely climbed the stairs.
* * * * *
The oil lamp on the bedside table flickered and went out. By the dim light of the hearth fire, Oth Eltorchul regarded the woman stretched out languidly at his side.
"A pleasant end to an otherwise regrettable evening," he said.
Pleasant was she? That was the best he could do? Not trusting herself to speak, Isabeau bared her teeth in a brief, answering smile.
Her gaze flicked to the mage's discarded garments, which he had hung neatly on pegs. Isabeau's practiced eye measured the weight of the hidden pockets and estimated the worth therein. It would have to be considerable to make the evening—and the man—worth her while.
Her own ruby-colored gown pooled on the floor like spilled wine. Rings, eardrops, and a necklace of matching red stones were scattered on the bedside table. They were glass, of course, clever copies that were all Isabeau could currently afford—a situation she intended to remedy as soon as possible. So far, the night had been less than profitable. Danilo Thann's intervention had set her back considerably. Eager to get on with things, Isabeau impatiently studied Oth's face for signs of slumberous contentment.
The mage, however, was in an expansive mood, ready to reprise the complaints she had endured all the way to The Silken Sylph. "They will regret refusing me, you know. They treated me like some importunate commoner, with none of the honor due a member of the peerage. A small investment, a moment's endorsement—what is that to such as Thann, Ilzimmer, and Gundwynd? The dream spheres could have made all three families exceedingly wealthy!"
Isabeau twined a strand of Oth's flame-colored hair around her finger. "They are wealthy already, my lord."
Oth sent her a sharp, angry glance, a movement that tugged the red lock from her grasp. He did not seem to notice. "You do not regard the dream spheres with appropriate respect. You would if you tasted but once of their magic!"
This notion seemed to galvanize him. He sat up abruptly, absently smoothing back his tousled red hair. "What is your heart's desire? What wonders do you wish to experience?"
She gave him a slow, warm smile. "My lord, at this moment I am well content."
The mage waved aside this flattery. "You are of the Tethyrian royal house, but I hear that you were raised in fosterage and have never stepped foot in your native land. Would you like to claim what might have been yours, if but for a moment? Would you like to see the palace? Enjoy an audience with the new queen?"
Not waiting for her reply, Oth leaped to his feet and paced over to his cloak. He flipped back the folds and took a small, softly glowing sphere from one pocket. This he placed in Isabeau's hand.
"Hold this. Close your eyes and envision the sun upon towers of pink marble," he instructed.
Isabeau did as he bade, more to humor him than from any desire to experience the illusion. Why would anyone content herself with a fleeting dream? She had always lived by a simple rule: What she wanted, she took. No longer were her horizons defined by the boundaries of the out-of-the-way, gnome-run tavern that was the only home she had ever known. Now her territory was a vast, glittering city, and her fingers fairly itched with the desire to grasp all that her eyes had seen so far.
Nevertheless, a strange fragrance beckoned her, seduced her. Isabeau breathed in deeply, letting the scent of the southern sun flow through her in all its complexity of thick, flower-filled heat, musky-sweet fruits, and rare spices. The aroma suddenly burst into light, like festival fireworks, which in turn slowly focused into a scene so lavish that Isabeau's heart throbbed with longing.
Lords and ladies, viziers and courtiers were finely dressed and seated at tables draped with embroidered linens and set with silver plate. Behind them were the pink marble walls of the palace, enlivened by wondrous tapestries. The table was set with a royal repast. Rare tropical fruits were piled high on silver platters. Fragrant steam rose from plates of tiny, savory pastries. On each table was a roasted peacock. Their bright blue and green tails had been reattached in unfurled splendor, creating the impression that the proud birds were courting the diners to partake.
At the moment, no one ate of the feast. All present lifted their goblets in salute. It occurred to Isabeau that they were all looking at her, Lady Isabeau Thione of the House of Tethyr. She nodded graciously, regally, to accept their acclaim.