The elf considered this a reasonable response. To inspire the man to elaborate, he removed a dagger from his belt and began to toy with it, flipping it nimbly between his hands. "The dream spheres. Oth was using the Mhaorkiira Hadryad—the elf gem—to create these devices."
"That's right." Mizzen spoke quickly, his eyes fixed in horrified fascination upon the flashing, spinning dagger. "He said it was an ancient elven artifact that held the memories of an entire lost clan. He placed some of these memories in the crystal spheres, to be released by a paying dreamer."
Not a release, but an exchange, thought Elaith. Each time some stupid sod used one of these toys, one of his own memories or dreams went into the kiira stone. No doubt Oth sorted through them, keeping what was useful and turning the rest back into other magical fantasies.
On the surface, it seemed an ingenious way of gathering information. Elaith almost admired the man who'd found a way to profit from the evil artifact. Oth's command of magic clearly outstripped Elaith's. Unfortunately for Oth, he was limited by his arrogance and his human ignorance. While Elaith might be accused with some justification of the first vice, he, unlike Oth Eltorchul, knew what the gem could do, and he knew how incredibly dangerous it could be. Kiira were among the most powerful of elven magical items. The Mhaorkiira, or "dark gem," was the only one that had been twisted to evil. It had somehow absorbed the twisted ambitions of the long-dead Hadryad clan, and in the process had contributed to the demise of that ancient family.
The thought did not deter Elaith. "How are these dream spheres made?" he demanded.
"I do not know. Lord Eltorchul never entrusted the secret to me."
Mizzen understood his mistake as soon as the words were spoken. In speaking too freely, he had outlived his usefulness. His eyes grew enormous with fear, then glazed over in acceptance of death.
The elf obliged him.
On the way out, Elaith tossed aside a gilded mirror—the only ornament on the carved and polished wood of the walls. The hidden door beneath was almost laughably obvious to his keen elven vision. He ran his fingers lightly over the carvings, found and released the clasp.
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 running exceedingly low on patience, had decided to search for answers in the past.
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 Corinn, the Dezlentyr heir. Half-elves were not common in this city, and he and his twin sister were unique among their noble peers.
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.
Her implication was not lost on him. "You are often seen in the company of Danilo Thann," he said thoughtfully. "He is a highly visible member of the peerage. If my father's fears are grounded, there might be those in this city who would take mortal offense at such a pairing. Yes, my father should hear of this."
He took her to a small side parlor and promised to return soon. Arilyn paced about, pausing before a portrait of a golden-haired elf woman.
Corinn's mother looked younger than her own twin children. Had she not fallen to an unknown assassin, she would undoubtedly look much the same now, some fifteen years later, like an undying flower watching the garden around her wither and dry.
Arilyn understood all too well how difficult that could be. Half-elves were eternally out of step with both their human and elven kin. Though she was nearly twenty years older than Danilo, she could expect to outlive him by nearly a century. She could expect to watch their children grow old and die. Not an enviable destiny, but she vastly preferred it to that suffered by Sibylanthra Dezlentyr. Arilyn had no intention of falling to assassins hired to safeguard the human bloodline of Waterdeep's nobility.
Arlos Dezlentyr came in with his son. He was a small, slight man who appeared to be nothing more than a shadow cast by his son's bright light, but the voice with which he greeted her was deep and resonant, and it possessed a beauty that might well have caught the fancy and then the heart of an elven woman. He possessed a graceful charm, as well. He bowed over Arilyn's hand with courtly grace that would have done honor to a queen.
"Corinn has told me your tale." He sighed and sank onto a chair. "If what you fear is true, my children could also be in danger."
"I will find the truth and bring you word," she promised. "I understand Corinn and Corinna are seldom in Waterdeep. Until we have the answers we seek, perhaps it is well to keep them from the public eye."