Elaine Cunningham - Forgotten Realms - The Harpers 13 - Silver Shadows

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SILVER SHADOWS

by Elaine Cunnighham

TH#13

Prelude

Night fell quickly in the Forest of Tethir, and the caravan guards cast wary

glances into the tall, dense foliage that walled either side of the trade

route. The sounds of the forest seemed to grow louder, more ominous, as the

darkness closed in around them. Overhead, the ancient trees met in a canopy

too thick for the waning moon to penetrate, but the merchants pressed on,

lighting torches and lanterns when their horses began to stumble.

The dim circle of firelight did little to push back the darkness or to assuage

the merchants' unease. Their own torch-cast shadows seemed to taunt them,

flickering capriciously and appearing as if they might at any moment break

away and slip off into the trees.

There was an eeriness to this forest that made such things seem possible. All

of the travelers had heard stories of the Watchers of Tethir, and there wasn't

a man or woman in the caravan who did not feel the unseen eyes. Chadson

Herrick, a grizzled sell-sword who'd made

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the road his home for more years than Ehninster had pipes, raised a hand to

rub away the tingle at the back of his neck. "My hackles are up. I feel like a

cornered wolf," he muttered to the man who rode beside him.

His companion responded with a terse nod. Chadson noted that his friend—a

too-thin, nervous youth who at the best of times seemed as taut as a drawn

bowstring—was clutching a holy symbol of Tymora, goddess of luck, in one

white-knuckled hand. Chadson, for once, was not inclined to tease the lad for

his superstitions.

"Just a few more miles," the young man said in a soft, singsong tone that

suggested he'd been silently repeating those very words over and over, as if

the phrase were a charm that could ward off danger.

Their whispered conversation earned them dark looks from several of the other

guards, even though there was no real need to keep silent. The Watchers

already knew of the caravan and had probably followed it all the way from

Mosstone, the last human settlement on the trade route that cut through the

forest. If anything, the travelers' tense silence seemed only to deepen the

impending cloud that hung over the caravan.

A sudden wild impulse came upon Chadson. He was tempted to leap from his horse

and dance upon the path, all the while hooting and cursing and thumbing his

nose at their unseen escort. He imagined the reaction such an act would elicit

from the unnerved merchants, and the mental image brought a wry grin to his

face.

He was still smiling when the arrow took him through the heart.

Chadson's body tilted slowly to one side and fell to the path. For a moment

the men nearest him merely stared, their faces registering horrified

recognition of the slender, ebony-hued staff protruding from the dead man's

chest. It was the dark-hued arrow of a wild elf, a bolt aptly known as "black

lightning" to the humans.

The silence exploded into frenzied action. Following the shouted instructions

of the guards, the merchants

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scrambled down from their wagons and, heedless of their precious cargo,

overturned several of the wagons to form a makeshift shield wall. There was no

time to cut the traces, and some of the draft horses went over with the

wagons, falling heavily into piles of writhing, kicking horseflesh. The

animals' shrieks of terror and pain mingled with the screams of dying men as

the black arrows descended upon them like stooping falcons.

From behind the scant cover of the wagons, archers returned fire, but they

were shooting blind into the heavy foliage and had little hope of actually

finding a mark. Some of the more intrepid—and less experienced—of the caravan

guards drew swords and crashed into the forest to take the offensive. These

were sent reeling back onto the path, unarmed, their eyes wide with shock and

their hands clutching at mortal wounds.

The fighting was over in minutes. Many of the men on horseback had fled at the

first sign of battle, and a few of the merchant wagons had escaped as well,

careening wildly along the path in the wake of the panicked horses. From the

north came the sound of fading hoofbeats, and a muffled crash as one wagon

tilted over.

When all was silent, several shadowy figures broke free of the forest and

crept onto the path. They fell upon the ruined wagons, cursing and bickering

as they pawed through the spoils. One of them, taller and broader than most

and clad in a dark, flowing cape, strode from the forest with a slight, limp

figure slung over one shoulder. This he tossed onto the path to lie among the

bodies of several of the slain merchants.

"A torch!" he commanded in a deep voice. "Get some light on this mess!"

One of the forest fighters hastened to obey, fumbling with flint and steel

until a spark took hold. The sudden flare of torchlight fell upon the faces of

the dead, one of which was an angular, elven face painted in elaborate

patterns of greens and browns. A gaping wound slashed across the dead elf s

throat and chest, tracing a deep,

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diagonal line that started behind one ear and angled down across his ribs. It

had long since bled dry. The dark-cloaked leader frowned and glanced at the

fallen men that surrounded the elf.

His eyes settled on a young man whose hand had been pinned to his side by an

arrow, apparently while he was in the act of reaching for his sword. Tangled

among the ruined fingers was a leather thong from which hung the symbol of

Tymora. Oddly enough, the arrow had struck the metal disk, skidding along its

length and leaving a deep score before sinking into softer flesh. A silent

sermon, the killer observed with a bit of dark humor, on the capricious nature

of Lady Luck.

"That one," he said with a wolfish smile as he pointed to the youth whose luck

had run out. Take his sword and reopen the elf s wound—make it look as if he

killed the elf in hand-to-hand combat. If necessary, splash a bit of the lad's

blood around to make the kill look reasonably fresh. There's a caravan due to

pass through tomorrow."

But as his assistant reached for the sword, the wounded fighter's eyes

flickered open, and his good hand closed around the grip of a wicked hunting

knife. Startled, the attacker fell back a step and reached for the bow on his

shoulder.

Smoothly, swiftly, he sent an arrow hurtling into the young man's chest. This

time no lucky medallion deflected the arrow. The youth fell back, instantly

dead.

The leader, however, did not look at all pleased by this quick response. He

tore the arrow free and brandished it under the archer's nose.

"And what in the Nine bloody Hells do you call this?"

The man shrugged, his face apprehensive as he noted the branded shaft and

elaborate blue-and-white fletch-ing that marked it as an arrow of his own

making. "Musta run out of elf arrows," he muttered.

"Damn you for a stinking ghast," the leader swore in a low, ominous voice. "If

you weren't the best arche* this

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side of Zhentil Keep, Fd push this arrow into your left ear and pull it out

your right! Search them," he ordered in louder tones, whirling toward the

looters and holding the bloody arrow aloft so that all could see the error.

"Make sure there are no more mistakes like this one. All of these men died at

the hands of wild elves. See to it!"

One

To the casual observer, Blackstaff Tower appeared to be little more than an

enormous, tapering cylinder of black granite, a tower some fifty feet tall and

surrounded by a curtain wall nearly half that height. Stark and simple, the

keep lacked the displays of magic—either fearsome or fanciful— that were so

beloved by the wealthy and powerful citizens of Waterdeep. No watchful

gargoyles peered down from the tower's flat roof; no animated statues stood

guard; no cryptic runes marred the smooth black surface of wall or tower. Yet

everyone who knew of the archmage Khelben "Blackstaff" Arunsun—and in

Waterdeep, indeed, in all the Northlands, there were few who did not—regarded

the simple keep with a mixture of pride and awe. Here, rumor suggested, lay

the true power behind the City of Splendors. Here was a gateway to magical

wonders beyond the imagination of most mortals.

It is a rare thing when bardic tales fail to exaggerate the measure of might,

and when the speculations »f tav-

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ern gossips lag timidly behind the truth. Blackstaff Tower was one such

exception.

In a chamber in the uppermost level, Khelben's consort, the archmage Laeral

Arunsun Silverhand, stood before a mirror, a tall oval of silvered glass

surrounded by an elaborately carved and gilded frame. Fully six feet tall and

slender as a birch tree, Laeral possessed a strange, fey beauty that hinted of

faerie blood. Silvery hair cascaded to her hips, and large green eyes—the

deep, silver-green hue peculiar to woodland ponds— searched the mirror's frame

with an intensity that seemed oddly out of place on a face so exquisite. She

ran her fingers along the carved and gilded wood, seeking the ever-shifting

magic that few could perceive, and fewer still could master. When satisfied

that she had found the elusive trigger, Laeral spoke a strange phrase and then

stepped into the mirror.

She emerged in a deep, forested glade. A few butterflies fed upon the flowers

that dotted the meadow grasses, and the ancient oaks that surrounded the glade

were robed in the lush green of early summer. It was such a scene as might be

found in the forests of many lands, except for an aura of eldritch energy as

pervasive as sunlight. Laeral breathed in deeply, as if she could take in the

magic and the soul-deep joy that scented the air of Evermeet, the island home

of the elves.

In the center of the clearing stood an elven lady, as tall as Laeral herself

and clad in a silken gown of dove-gray, the elven color of mourning. The elf s

vividly blue eyes had seen the birth and death of several centuries, yet her

face was youthful and the flaming luster of her red-gold hair was undimmed by

time. A silver circlet rested on the elf woman's brow, but it was her regal

bearing and the aura of power surrounding her that proclaimed her Lady of

Evermeet, Queen of All Elves.

"Greetings, Laeral Elf-friend," said Queen Amlaruil in a voice like music,

like wind.

Laeral sank into a deep curtsey; the elven queen bid

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her rise. Having dispensed with the formalities, the two women indulged in a

burst of laughter, and then exchanged a sisterly embrace.

Holding hands like schoolgirls, they seated themselves on a fallen log and set

to gossiping as if they were carefree maidens, rather than two of the most

powerful beings on all of Toril.

But all too soon the conversation turned to matters that demanded their

attention. "What news brings you to Evermeet this time, and with such

urgency?" the queen asked.

"It's the Harpers again," Laeral said in a dry tone.

Amlaruil's sign came from a deep and ancient pain. "Yes. It often is. What is

it this time?"

"It appears that some elves from the Forest of Tethir are attacking farms and

caravans."

"Why?"

"How many reasons would you like me to name?" Laeral replied. "As you know, in

a time not long past, all the elves who made their homes in the land of

Tethyr, including those who dwell in the Forest of Tethir, suffered greatly at

the hands of the human rulers. To all appearances, the destruction of Tethyr's

royal family brought an end to this persecution. It is possible, however, that

the elves are retaliating for past wrongs. Since the land of Tethyr remains

lawless and chaotic, it is also likely that human settlements, trade routes,

and trappers are encroaching upon elven lands. Perhaps the humans are pressing

the elves, and the elves are fighting back."

"As is only natural. What interest do the Harpers have in this?"

"They want to promote some sort of settlement, a compromise that will end the

turmoil and address—at least in part—the concerns of both sides."

"Ah, yes." Amlaruil paused for a grim smile. "We made such an arrangement in

the forests of Cormanthor, many years ago. How well was that agreement kept,

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friend, and for how long? Today, how many elves live among those trees?"

The question was not meant for answering. Laeral acknowledged the queen's

assessment of the matter with a slight nod. "I have argued that very point

with several of the Master Harpers, but the decline of the elven people is not

an issue the Harpers have traditionally addressed."

"So much for their vaunted concern with maintaining the Balance," the queen

murmured.

"What is Balance, to those whose lives are not as long as yours and mine?"

Laeral pointed out. "The Harpers' concern is genuine, but the span of their

vision is decidedly shorter. They are more worried about the disruption of

trade and the possibility of increasing the civil unrest in Tethyr."

"Can't you make them understand what these compromises mean to the elven

People?"

"Given a few centuries, yes," Laeral replied grimly. *Khelben understands,

after a fashion, but his concern focuses upon the affairs of Waterdeep. And he

truly believes that a compromise is the best solution, not only for his city's

trade interests, but for the elves themselves. He sees it as their best chance

of survival. The humans of Tethyr are not so tolerant of other races as they

were even ten or twenty years ago. It would not take much provocation to turn

them against the elves. There are far too many ambitious men in Tethyr,

looking for a rallying cause to aid their rise to power. I can easily envision

the destruction of the elves becoming such a cause. You know what happened

under the royal family. Given the general lawlessness of the land, it could be

far worse this time."

"Then there is only Retreat," murmured the elven queen. She sat silent for

several moments, as if letting the decision take root; then she nodded

decisively. "Yes, the Sy-TkrQuessir must Retreat," she decreed, using the

Elvish word for the forest folk. "I will send an ambassador

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at once to offer them a haven in Evermeef s ancient woods."

"And if they will not come?"

The queen had thought of that, as well. Then they, like so many of the People,

will fade from the land," she said with quiet resignation. "This is the

twilight of the Tel'Quessir, my friend. You know that as well as I, We cannot

hold back the darkness forever."

"But may that night be long in coming!" Laeral said fervently. "As for the

Harpers, believe me when I say that sometimes the best way of controlling

their enthusiasm is to work along with them," the mage added in a wry tone

that suggested personal experience with this tactic. "Of one thing you can be

certain: the Harpers will act with or without your blessing." "What do you

suggest?"

"Send a Harper agent to the elves' forest stronghold to bear your invitation—a

Harper who will work toward a Balance that will favor the elven community. In

this way, if the forest elves refuse to retreat to Evenneet, they will at

least have an advocate. That is more than they might get otherwise."

Amlaruil studied her friend. The hesitancy in Laeral's silver-green eyes

suggested that there was more to this matter, things of which the mage could

not easily speak. Seldom was Laeral reticent about anything. Foreboding

tightened AmlanuTs throat, but she waited with elven patience for the woman to

find her own way and time.

"Let us say that I would agree to such a plan," the queen suggested calmly.

"Have you an elven agent among the Harpers? A forest elf, one known to the

community in question?" "No," Laeral admitted.

"Then I do not see how your plan could succeed. Most Sy-Tel'Quessir are

insular—suspicious of all elves from outside their tribe. The People of Tethir

have not sworn allegiance to me, and so they might not reeejye an

ambassador from the island. Pressed as they are, they would likely kill any

non-elf who ventured too near their hidden strongholds. No, it seems to me

your Harper would have little hope of survival and even less chance for

success."

Laeral did not answer at once, nor did the queen press her. Their silence was

filled by the sounds of the elven forest: the rustle of leaves, the soft hum

of insects, the blithe call of carefree songbirds. This glade was a place of

unparalleled beauty, surrounded and sustained by Evermeet's ancient magic. The

island was the last haven of the elves, and its peace and security had seldom

been breached. Knowing this, the mage considered her next words carefully.

What she was about to suggest trod cruelly upon the elves' painful memories

and touched the queen's deepest sorrow.

"There is a half-elven Harper," Laeral said slowly, "currently stationed in a

city near the Forest of Tethir. She has passed successfully as an elf on other

assignments. She is very convincing, very resourceful. I feel confident that

she could find a way into the forest community."

The queen's face was suddenly wary. Her eyes darted toward the shimmering oval

gate that had brought Laeral from the mainland to Evermeet. It was a magical

bridge between the worlds of the elves and humans, and it had been born with a

spark of life that had become a half-elven child—a child that Amlaruil would

forever regret. That gate had cost Amlaruil the life of her beloved husband.

Grief is seldom reasonable. In AmlaruU's mind, the child and the deadly portal

were as one.

"Yes," Laeral said softly, confirming the queen's unspoken conclusion. She

took Amlaruil's tightly clasped hands between both of her own. "You know of

whom I speak. Half-elven by birth, but willing to do anything to serve the

good of the People, She has proven this again and again. Perhaps that is her

way of laying

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claim to a heritage that has otherwise been denied her." The queen tugged her

hands free, her expression implacable. "The half-elf bears Amnestria's sword,"

she said coldly. "A moonblade is a greater inheritance than most noble elves

can claim and more honor than she deserves."

It seems to me that steel is cold comfort," Laeral observed. "And as for

honor, half-elven or not, she wields Amnestria's sword, a weapon so powerful

that many an elven warrior could not touch it and live. Think on it, my

friend: what better argument in the girl's favor?"

Amlaruil turned away abruptly to stare with undisguised hatred at the magical

gate that had cost her so much. Duty and grief warred on her delicate face for

long, agonized moments. Finally, she lifted her head to a regal angle and once

again faced her friend.

"You truly believe that this . . . that she is the best person for the task?

That through her efforts the lives of the forest People might be spared?"

Laeral nodded, her silvery eyes full of sympathy for the lonely elf woman and

admiration for the proud queen.

Then so shall it be." Queen Amlaruil rose, speaking the words in the manner of

a royal pronouncement. "Evermeet's ambassador to the Forest of Tethir will be

the Harper known as Arilyn Moonblade."

The elf queen turned away and began to walk toward the palace. "So shall it

be," she repeated to herself in a whisper that seemed too fragile to bear the

weight of her bitterness. "But I swear before all the gods of the Seldarine,

the elves would have been better served if the sword she carries had turned

against her!"

Two

Tethyr was a land of many contrasts and contradictions. Ancient ways and

modern notions, pretensions of royalty and egalitarian fervor commingled

uneasily in a land whose natural complexity only magnified her recent woes.

Tucked between the moors and mountains of Amn and the vast desert kingdoms of

the far south, Tethyr possessed a mostly northern terrain and a temperate

climate. The land was a hodgepodge of fertile farmland, deep forests, and

sun-baked hills that were as dry and forbidding as any desert. The customs and

interests of the peoples who settled each area were as diverse as the land

itself.

But Zazesspur, the largest city of this troubled land, looked firmly to the

south. A port city with an excellent deepwater harbor, it was set at the mouth

of the Sulduskoon River and on the path of important overland routes.

Zazesspur saw trade and travelers from many lands. Yet her current ruler, a

southerner by the

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name of Balik, did his best to limit the influence of outsiders. The grandson

of a Calishite trader, he styled himself as pasha and cultivated an oriental

splendor— and a distrust of northerners—that recalled the attitudes of his

forebears. Since Pasha Balik's rise to power some dozen or so years before,

parts of the city had taken on a decidedly southern character. Both the best

and the worst aspects of the great city of Calimport could be found in

Zazesspur. Sleek palaces of white marble, formal gardens filled with exotic

plants, wide boulevards, and open-air bazaars redolent with rare spices vied

for space with sprawling shanty towns and narrow, crime-ridden streets.

Oddly enough, however, most of the illegal activities of Zazesspur were

conducted from the better parts of town. The School of Stealth—a school of the

fighting arts which was a thinly veiled front for the powerful assassins'

guild—was housed in a sprawling complex at the edge of the city. Intrigue was

always in fashion, and the going price for an assassin's services was high:

So, however, was the price on an assassin's life. Arilyn Moonblade walked

lightly down the narrow back-alley street that led to the women's guildhouse,

making no more sound than the narrow shadow she cast. She was a broadsword's

width short of six feet tall, with raven-dark hair that hung in careless waves

about her shoulders and eyes of an unusual dark blue flecked with bits of

gold—beautiful eyes that might have inspired bardic odes, had they not been so

wary and forbidding. Pale as moonlight and alert as a stalking cat, Arilyn had

about her a tense, watchful air and the too-thin, too-taut look of one who

seldom paused for either food or sleep. For an assassin, the choices were few

and straightforward: constant vigilance, or death.

The half-elf had been a member of the assassins' guild for several months, and

she was no longer considered an easy mark. Zazesspur's professional killers

were strictly ranked, and the sash of pale gray s^lk that

belted Arilyn's waist proclaimed her to be a fighter of the highest skill. But

there were still those who refused to believe that a woman—much less a

half-elven woman from the barbarous Northlands—could defend the Shadow Sash

she wore.

The system for advancement within the guild was simple: an ambitious assassin

merely killed someone of higher rank and took his sash. Arilyn had defended

her rank more times than she cared to admit. When forced to do so, she fought

with an icy skill and an even colder fury that was becoming legendary among

her associates. Not one of them, however, suspected that the half-elf wanted

nothing more than to be rid of her dark—and largely undeserved—reputation. Nor

would they ever know. Solitary and cautious by nature, with each grim

challenge Arilyn became more intensely watchful and more fiercely alone.

Thanks to several months of hard-won survival, Arilyn's instincts were as

keenly honed as a bladesinger's sword. She didn't need to hear footsteps or

glimpse a shadow to know she was being followed. Nor did she expect such

things. Silence was the first lesson taught to fledgling assassins, and the

faint light coming from the high, narrow windows of the women's guild-house up

ahead cast all shadows behind her. Yet Arilyn knew she was being hunted. She

could not have been more certain of this if the stalker had announced his

intent with blaring horns and the yapping of hounds.

Even so, several heartbeats passed before she caught sight of him. Although

half-elven, Arilyn had in full measure the keen sight of elvenkind: sharp

detail, long range—and wide sweep. Behind her, at the outermost edge of her

peripheral vision, she saw a tall, broad figure, cloaked and cowled into

anonymity, rapidly closing the distance between them.

No one had reason to walk this particular path but Arilyn and her sole female

colleague, for the tall, narrow tower that housed the women's guildhouse was

the

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humblest and most remote building in the complex. It seemed likely, therefore,

that the man behind her had career advancement in mind.

But Arilyn walked steadily on, giving no sign that she was aware of the

assassin's presence. Just a few paces ahead was a walkway that branched off

from the path, leading into the even narrower alley that ran between the high

courtyard walls of the opulent men's guild-house and the council hall. The

attack would surely come there.

When just one step remained between her and the alley, Arilyn exploded into

action. In one fluid movement she whirled, seized the man's cloak with both

hands, and threw herself back into a roll. The startled assassin went down

with her. Before the man's weight could pin her to the ground, she twisted her

body in a half-turn, brought her knees up to her chest, and kicked her feet

out high and hard. The man somersaulted over her and landed heavily on the

dirt.

Before his grunt of impact died away, Arilyn rolled up onto her knees beside

him. She stiffened two fingers into a weapon, scanned his cloaked-and-cowled

form for a target spot that would render him temporarily immobile, and drove

down hard.

Her fingers plunged into the side of the man's neck— too deep, and far too

easily! Arilyn grimaced as her hand disappeared into the dark-cloaked figure,

winced as her fingertips drove into the hard-packed earth below.

Mouthing a silent curse, the half-elf snatched her hand out of the

insubstantial body. She jerked back the cowl that obscured the apparition's

face. The faint moonlight fell upon strong features, dark hair both silvering

and receding, and a black beard distinctively streaked with silver.

"Khelben," she muttered with exasperation, settling back on her heels and

staring with dismay at the figure who, with a dignity astonishing under the

^circum-

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stances, coolly rose to his feet and brushed the dust from bis cape.

At this moment Khelben "Blackstaff" Arunsun—the archmage of Waterdeep, a

Master Harper, and her own superior—was hardly Arilyn's favorite person. The

Harpers had sent the half-elf and her partner, Danilo Thann, to Zazesspur on a

diplomatic mission, and although Khelben was not responsible for the grim role

she had assumed as her cover, Arilyn found that she had little wish to face

him—or, to be more precise, to face the sending that he had conjured and sent

over the miles to speak in his stead. Arilyn assumed that BlackstafFs magical

double would be as devoted to solemn discussion as the original model, and

this she simply could not bear. She would do her duty by the Harpers, but

she'd be damned if she'd sit around and chat about it!

"Nice sending," she said as she rose to face the arch-mage's double. "More

solid than most."

There was a touch of regret in her voice. The implication—that she might have

preferred to attack an even more solid target—did not escape the archmage. A

sardonic smile lifted one corner of his dark mustache.

"Well met to you, Arilyn Moonblade," he said with a hint of sarcasm. "By

Mystra, I swear that with each day that passes, you grow more like your

father! I've seen that very expression on his face more times than I care to

count!"

Arilyn stiffened. Her relationship with her human father was a tentative and

fledgling thing, too new for comfort and too personal for casual talk. And if

truth be told, although she found much to admire in the man, she did not care

to be reminded of her mixed heritage.

"I doubt you conjured a sending merely to chat about your long-dead quarrels

with Bran Skorlsun," she observed. "We're both here on Harper business. If

it's all the same to you, let's get on with it."

The image of Khelben Arunsun nodded and asked for

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her report. With a few terse words, Arilyn described the progress in her

mission to help defuse an attempt by the guilds of Zazesspur to depose the

ruling pasha and establish guild rule. Of her presence in the assassins'

guild, and the ever-growing toll this subterfuge was taking on her, she said

nothing. Fortunately, Khelben did not press her for details.

"You and Danilo have done well," the archmage said at last. "Pasha Balik is

aware of the threat, and your friendship with Prince Hasheth has gained the

Harpers a valuable contact in the palace. Now that the situation in Zazesspur

is under control—at least for the moment—the time has come for us to speak of

other matters. You are aware of the recent troubles in the Forest of Tethir?"

The Harper nodded, her face cautious.

Then you've no doubt heard of the latest caravan attack. The elves have been

blamed for this atrocity, as well as for many others. In your opinion, is

there any truth to these reports?"

There might he," she said candidly. The green elves are a fierce,

unpredictable folk, and they were ill-treated by the old royal family of

Tethyr. They've ancient grudges aplenty, and who knows what might have

provoked them recentlyr

This we must know," the archmage agreed. "Indeed, the Harpers have decided to

send you to the forest to seek out such answers and to try to bring about a

resolution to the conflict."

Arilyn's eyes went cold. "I'm being sent into Tethir? In what capacity?"

"Meaning?" the archmage inquired, his dark brows pulled down into a V of

puzzlement.

"Am I being sent as an assassin?" she asked bluntly. Although the Harpers had

never required of her anything remotely like this, it struck her that cutting

down the leaders of the troublemaking elven band could certainly be considered

one road to resolution!

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"You know better than to ask such a question!" Khelben scolded her.

It did not escape Arilyn's notice that the archmage's words could be construed

any number of ways. Not that she should have expected anything different.

Khelben had an annoying habit of giving answers that were empty of

information. Still, the wary half-elf would have been glad of an outright

denial.

"So tell me," she requested evenly.

"Find out what's going on—what the issues and grievances on both sides are. Do

what you can to promote some sort of compromise between the forest elves and

the humans."

Arilyn received this information stoically, but her mind reeled under the

weight of her assigned task. Get the elves to compromise? Compromise what?

Surrender yet another section or two of the ever-dwindling forest lands to

turnip farmers? Cut down a few hundred ancient trees to broaden the Trade Way?

Agree to do no more than shrug helplessly when the fires of careless merchants

or adventurers raged out of control? Set a quota of how many forest creatures

could reasonably be taken in foot-hold traps or run down by hounds, both

abominations by elven standards? Look the other way when the occasional

CaUshite or Amnite slaving band came to the forest to hunt elven youths and

maidens to sell as "exotics"? Agree in principle to compromise one of the last

strongholds of the forest elves, and thus to accelerate the demise of the

elven People?

"Compromise?" With one word, Arilyn managed to portray all the force, if not

the detail, of her unspoken objections.

Khelben's magical image faced down the wrathful half-elf. "What are the

alternatives? What chance do the elves have if these conflicts continue and

perhaps escalate into warfare? And what would such conflict do to the tenuous

balance in Tethyr? No, you must make these elves see reason! Live among them;

gain their trust."

The Harpers

In Arilyn's opinion, this suggestion was nearly as ludicrous as the first. No

one, to her knowledge, had successfully infiltrated a settlement of forest

elves. Most Sy-Tel'Quessir were reclusive, distrustful even of other elves. To

be a moon elf was bad enough, but for Arilyn to reveal her half-elven nature

would be to court instant death. The forest elves of Tethir had ample reason

to hate and distrust humans, and among all of the elven subraces were many

elves who regarded half-elves as unspeakable abominations. Of course, Arilyn

had passed as an elf before, but never for the length of time such a thing

would take.

At least Khelben was right about one thing: before a single word about her

mission could be spoken, she would have to earn the elves' respect. Arilyn had

learned years ago that the best route to respect for someone like her—a

half-elven female who could not lay claim to family, lineage, or name—was to

follow the point of her sword. As a fighter she was very good indeed, but

elves were widely renowned for their fighting skills and thus were not easily

impressed. Arilyn had taken on many difficult tasks for the Harpers, but this

was the first that sounded truly impossible, the first she actually considered

refusing.

"I will need time to think about this," she told the archmage's image.

"As I anticipated. The impossible always takes a little longer." Khelben

responded with a wry smile as he quoted, of all people, his nephew and

apprentice Danilo Thann.

Arilyn responded with a terse nod and then turned away. She did not want to

think of Danilo just now, for her Harper partner would not be pleased to learn

that she was being courted for a mission that would exclude him. Not, of

course, that her departure—if indeed it occurred at all—would come any time

soon. This mission would require the type of planning and attention to detail

usually lavished on royal weddings or whole-scale invasions.

All thoughts of a night's sleep forgotten, the half-elf

Silver Shadows

left the School of Stealth complex and set out for a waterfront tavern. Word

had it that a certain Moonshae captain, a former pirate who liked to keep a

hand in his original trade, had docked in Zazesspur the day before. He had a

special fondness for valuable documents— both genuine and contrived—and he

possessed a knowledge of elven ways that far outstripped the understanding of

most humans. Rumor had it that one of his recent female passengers, a green

elven druid, had become his friend, perhaps even his lover. Liaisons between

wild elves and humans were exceedingly rare, but Arilyn knew this man well and

saw how such might be possible. Indeed, rumor had it that his ship,

Mist-Walker, was one of only a handful of human vessels ever permitted to make

port on the elven island of Evermeet. In short, he was precisely what Arilyn

needed.

If she was to pose as a visiting moon elf, she would need some way to explain

and legitimize her presence in the Forest of Tethir. If anyone could provide

her with the needed forgeries—and perhaps suggest a strategy that would gain

her acceptance into the forest community—it would be this sea captain.

The night was warm for early summer, and the salty tang of sweat and the sea

hung heavy in the tavern. As usual, the Breaching Whale was crowded with

hard-drinking sailors out for a bottomless mug and a bit of fun, and the

hard-eyed women who served up both for the price of a few silver coins. It was

fairly typical as dockside taverns went, exceptional only for the dozen or so

bedchambers over the taproom, which boasted deep feather beds and pristine

linens, not to mention a heavily armed guard at each door. Those who knew well

the ports of the Sword Coast came to the Breaching Whale for a clean room and

a safe night's sleep, luxuries in any city and a rarity in Zazesspur.

The Harpers

Arilyn had no trouble picking Captain Carreigh Macumail out of the crowd. His

mass of curly fair hair, his long and neatly braided whiskers, the bright

blue-and-green weave of his trademark kilt, the extravagant lace-trimmed

ruffles at the throat and cuffs of his white shirt—all these things set him

apart from most of the Breaching Whale's rough-clad clientele. He was also by

far the largest man in the room. More than three hundred pounds sat easily on

a frame that stood just a^ handspan short of seven feet. Seated on a couple of

chairs, one massive arm draped over the back of a third chair and his booted

feet propped up on a fourth, Macumail sipped at a foam-crested mug as he

happily exchanged war stories with a pair of Nelanther pirates.

As the half-elf made her way across the crowded tavern, she noted which heads

huddled together over whispered plots, which fighters kept their hands close

to their weapons. She declined an offer of entertainment proffered by one of

the tavern's few male barhands, and met the measuring stare of a young tough

with a cold gaze that sent him back to contemplating the contents of his mug.

This was Zazesspur, and tonight all was business as usual.

By way of a greeting, Arilyn kicked the chair out from under Macumail's feet.

The captain was standing, dirk held ready in guard position, with a speed that

seemed incompatible with his vast size. When his dangerously narrowed gaze

settled on Arilyn, his face registered first astonishment, then pleasure.

"Well met again, Lady of the Moonblade!" he said happily in a cultured voice

made interesting by a lingering touch of northern Moonshae burr. "Word travels

fast in this port. I hadn't thought to see you for another day or so!"

His words brought a puzzled frown to Arilyn's face. "You sent for me?"

"Aye, that I did." He paused and turned to the interested pirates. "It has

truly been a pleasure, lads. Hermit

Silver Shadows

me to settle the evening's bill as a way of thanking you for the shared

tales."

The two men took the hint. Picking up their half-finished drinks and balancing

the large trencher of stewed mutton between them, they wandered off in search

of an empty table.

Arilyn chose a vacated seat that enabled her to keep her back to the wall. As

Captain Macumail summoned a barmaid and ordered wine, she turned the chair

around and straddled it, her arms folded over the low-runged back. This

posture was not only comfortable, but it provided her with a handy and

nonlethal weapon to use in the event of a tavern brawl. No seasoned adventurer

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SILVERSHADOWSbyElaineCunnighhamTH#13PreludeNightfellquicklyintheForestofTethir,andthecaravanguardscastwaryglancesintothetall,densefoliagethatwalledeithersideofthetraderoute.Thesoundsoftheforestseemedtogrowlouder,moreominous,asthedarknessclosedinaroundthem.Overhead,theancienttreesmetinacanopytoothick...

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Elaine Cunningham - Forgotten Realms - The Harpers 13 - Silver Shadows

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