"Zaranda!" echoed the others in one voice.
Isabeau swallowed her mortification and hastily reached for her own goblet. She barely had time to lift it to her lips before the toast was drunk. To her relief—and her chagrin—no one seemed to notice her faux pas. All eyes were fixed upon the woman seated at the royal table behind and to the right of Isabeau's seat.
Isabeau cast a careful, sidelong look at the queen. Zaranda was a handsome woman in early middle life. She possessed the sparse body of a warrior, strong features, and thick dark hair emblazoned by a streak of white. She was simply dressed and wore no jewels but a silver crown, and she looked not at all impressed by the acclaim or the splendor. It seemed to Isabeau that the new queen was ridiculously out of place—a commoner and a northerner, a minor mage and mercenary who had inexplicably grasped the throne.
Her throne.
Where the thought came from, Isabeau could not say. She had never seen her newfound heritage as a path to be pursued but as an opportunity to exploit. Now she saw the subtle glances sent her way, the slight inclination of several dark, southern heads in her direction as they lifted their glasses in false tribute to the false queen.
Isabeau awoke abruptly, her eyes still dazzled with the vision. She glanced down at the crystal sphere in her hand and willed the magic to continue, but the little ball was cool, quiet, and as milky as a baby's smile.
Furious, she whirled toward Oth. "Bring it back! It was not enough!"
The mage threw back his head and laughed delightedly. "That is the beauty of it, don't you see? One dream is never enough! New vistas open, new possibilities beckon. Since few men have the wit, talent, or character to turn their dreams into reality, they will happily turn over coin again and again for dreams more easily purchased."
His heedless words restored Isabeau's resolve. She had the wit and the will to make her own way, but this dream sphere had suggested a whole new world of possibilities.
"A wondrous toy, my lord," she said, inclining her head in a gesture of one swordsman conceding a point to another. "The merchant lords were fools to refuse you. That I would never do." She smiled in blatant invitation and patted the rumpled sheets.
Oth was still absorbed with other matters. "What my peers do not realize is that the dream spheres will be sold, whether they wish it or not. There have been attempts to steal them, to ferret out their magical secrets. Mizzen, the wretched cur, is the worst offender!"
"Mizzen," she repeated, remembering the name from some chance-heard gossip. "The crystal merchant?"
"The same." Oth's glare turned sly. "I endured his inept ambitions as long as I had need of him. He has mined and shaped sufficient crystals for now. Most have been enspelled. All that remains is to ship the finished dream spheres to Waterdeep." His brow furrowed in remembered anger. "That, and to find a manner of bringing them to market that circumvents the merchant lords!"
As to that, Isabeau had a few ideas of her own. First she had to coax this man into slumber.
She rose from the bed and walked into the path of Oth's restless pacing. "Tell me, my lord," she breathed as she entwined her arms about his neck, "have you a dream sphere that two can share?"
He looked at her sharply, with new respect. "That is something I had not considered," he marveled. "Imagine the possibilities! A bored nobleman with a watchful lady could stay within propriety's bonds, yet fancy himself entertaining a queen! His lady, on the other hand, could experience her lord in whatever manner pleased her."
"Such toys would sell by the gross," Isabeau agreed. She glanced pointedly at the mage's cloak. "We should perhaps test out the possibilities?"
Much later, when the moon was nearly set and the hearth fire nothing but a few burning embers, Isabeau crawled gingerly out of bed. She had no idea what dark fantasy had gripped Oth and did not wish to know. That the dream spheres would sell, she had no doubt. She herself would never use one again. The sooner she could profitably rid herself of them, and of Oth, the better.
Isabeau crept over to the mage's clothing and quickly emptied his pockets. Oth had some fine jewelry, a well-filled coin purse, and a small silver knife such as gentlemen carried for table use. These she tucked into pockets hidden in her discarded clothing, cunningly sewn into her heavy petticoats and between the stays of her corset.
She hesitated just a moment before looting the mage's cloak. Resolutely she dug her hand into the folds and began to take out the dream spheres, one at a time. There were nearly a score of them—a small fortune! She ignored the silent hum of their compelling magic and hid her booty, along with her own jewelry, in the prepared hiding places.
It was by far the boldest, riskiest theft of Isabeau's life. Her hands were moist and shaking by the time she'd finished. She wiped them dry on the skirts of her petticoats, took a long, steadying breath, and climbed back into bed beside the sleeping mage.
* * * * *
Arilyn hurried through the garden toward the great hall. The affair was almost over, judging from the steady stream of carriages rattling past the villa and the subdued tone and languid pace of the music emanating from the hall.
Danilo met her at the door with a smiling face and concern-shadowed eyes.
"Sorry," she snarled.
He looked startled, then burst out laughing. "You've no idea how much I've missed your unique brand of charm!"
Her lips twitched in a reluctant response. "I was held up."
"So I surmised." He took her arm and led her out into the garden. "A faint aroma clings to that gown. That's not quite the bouquet of an undead creature."
"A tren zombie. Now, there's an appealing thought," she said with a grimace. "As if the live ones weren't bad enough."
Danilo drew back, looking startled and deeply concerned. "Tren? Here in the family compound?"
"You know of them?"
"Nasty creatures. Assassins by trade, aren't they?"
Arilyn nodded, glad that she would be spared explaining that part. Years had passed since she had posed as an assassin, but the weight and darkness of that time still pressed heavily upon her. "There's more."
As they walked, she recounted in detail the conversation she had overheard and the attack upon Elaith Craulnober. Danilo did not interrupt, but his face grew increasingly troubled.
"I don't know what Elaith is up to now," Arilyn concluded, "but it's possible that someone arranged this situation to deal with it."
Anger flashed in Danilo's eyes as he threaded together her bits of information. "You think Lady Cassandra is responsible for this?"
"I'm not making any judgment," Arilyn retorted. "I'm merely telling you what I heard. Regardless of who commissioned this attack, you should consider the possibility of trouble ahead. Elaith Craulnober is not one to let a slight go unavenged."
A troubled expression crossed his face. "You still mistrust Elaith."
"You don't?" she retorted. "Before we tread that path, why don't you tell me what possessed you to fill the great hall with skyflowers?"
Danilo flicked one hand in a small, insouciant wave. "I had intended to present you with a bouquet, not a garden maze."
"So what happened?" she pressed.
"I wish I knew," he said in a more serious tone. "It troubles me. The spell's misfiring seems more ominous in light of your story."
"I'm not sure I follow."
Danilo stopped and pulled her into a vine-covered alcove. His face was as grim as she had ever seen it. "How is it that you stumbled into a tren ambush?" he asked in a low voice. "How did Elaith catch you unaware?"
That cut a bit too close to the bone. She folded her arms and glared. "Get to the point!"
His gaze dropped to the sword on her hip. "Your moonblade's magic should have warned you of danger."
That had bothered her too, but until this moment she hadn't had time to consider the matter.
"I know the skyflower spell exceedingly well," Danilo continued softly. "It is a minor elven spell, such as any human mage with a surplus of gold and time could learn. I can cast it as easily as your sword can slice through a melon. Why do you think they both failed, your elven magic and mine?"
His tone held an acrid tinge of bitterness. Arilyn suspected what was coming next. She took a step back. "You blame the moonblade for this?"