Songs & Swords 1 (2 page)

One

The moon rose, and in its wake trailed the nine tiny stars known to bards and lovers as the Tears of Selune. Slowly the weeping moon washed the color from an autumn sunset. In the darkening garden the mists—the eerie, earthbound clouds for which the Greycloak Hills were named—began to gather, shrouding the garden and muting the final peals of elven funeral bells.

There were few places in Evereska more peaceful than the temple of Hannali Celanil, the elven goddess of beauty and romantic love. The temple, an enormous structure of white marble and moonstone, rested upon the city’s highest hill, surrounded by gardens that even in late autumn bloomed with rare flowers and exotic fruits. On a low pedestal at the very center of the gardens stood a statue of Hannali Celanil, carved from rare white stone.

But the lone figure huddled at the foot of the statue cared little for her exquisite surroundings. Numb with grief and shock, a half-elf maiden wrapped her thin arms around her knees and stared with unseeing eyes over the city toward the distant hills. She didn’t notice the lighting of Evereska’s street lamps; she didn’t draw her cloak against the chill of the gathering mists. The child had been drawn to the temple gardens as if by instinct, perhaps hoping that this place, which had been her mother’s favorite haven, might hold some lingering echo of her mother’s presence.

Less than fifteen winters of age, Arilyn of Evereska could not comprehend how her mother, Z’beryl—an elven warrior-mage of considerable skill—could have died at all, much less at the hands of common cutpurses. There could be no doubt. The pair of murderers had confessed, and even now their bodies swung from the walled city’s battlements. Arilyn had attended the execution, watching the grim ceremony with a curious sense of detachment.

Too much had happened for Arilyn to absorb. The young half-elf hugged her legs closer to her chest and let her forehead drop to her knees. She was weary with the effort of making sense of it all. Z’beryl was the only family Arilyn had ever known; could she truly be gone? And then, treading in the shadow of her mother’s death, had come a second shock: the sudden and secretive appearance of Z’beryl’s kin.

Remote and aloof, the strange elves had barely acknowledged Arilyn’s presence, preferring to grieve behind the veils of their silver mourning robes. Family without faces. Even now the memory chilled Arilyn, and she drew her old cloak tightly around her huddled body. Right after the funeral, Arilyn had shed her own mourning robes and sought the familiar comfort of her usual garb. She wore a simple tunic over a loose shirt, and her dark trousers were tucked into well-worn boots that were as comfortable as they were disreputable. Indeed, the only thing that distinguished her from a street waif was the ancient sword that was strapped to her side.

Arilyn’s hand strayed to the sword, her only legacy from her mother, and her fingers absently traced the arcane runes that ran along the length of the scabbard. Already the sword felt a part of her. Her mother’s relatives, however, had lingered after the funeral to hotly debate whether Z’beryl had the right to bequeath the sword to a half-elf. Strangely enough, no one had made a move to take the sword from Arilyn. When finally they had left, as mysteriously as they’d arrived, Arilyn had felt no more or less alone than she’d been before they showed up.

“Arilyn of Evereska? Excuse me, child. I do not wish to intrude upon your grief, but I must speak with you.”

The softly spoken words jolted Arilyn from her reflection. She sat upright and squinted in the direction of the musical voice. A tall, slender elven male stood poised at the gate of the innermost garden as if awaiting her permission to enter.

Arilyn had the keen eyes of her mother’s race, and even in the mist-shrouded twilight she quickly discerned the identity of her visitor. Her customary self-possession evaporated in the face of her childhood idol. To meet with Kymil Nimesin, and in such disarray! Both chagrined and excited, she scrambled to her feet and wiped her hands clean on the seat of her trousers.

Kymil Nimesin was a high elf, of a noble family who had once held a council seat in the long-lost elven kingdom of Myth Drannor. Currently swordsmaster at an arms academy, he was a renowned adventurer and a master of arcane battle magic. Rumors persisted that he was connected to the mysterious group known as the Harpers. Arilyn firmly believed these stories, for they supported the heroic image she had fashioned of Kymil Nimesin. Such stories also would explain his presence; Z’beryl had once told Arilyn that the elves of Evereska maintained a keen interest in the doings of the Harpers.

“Lord Nimesin.” Arilyn pulled herself up to her full height and held out both hands, palms up, in the traditional gesture of respect.

The elf inclined his head in acknowledgement, then glided toward her with the grace of a dancer—or an incomparable warrior. A high elf, also known as a gold elf, was not a common sight in the moon elf colony of Evereska. Arilyn felt very drab and common as she compared her white skin and boyishly shorn black hair to the exotic coloring of the fey gold elf. He had the bronze complexion of his sub-race, long golden hair streaked with copper lights, and eyes like polished black marble. As the master approached, Arilyn marveled at the grace, the sheer physical beauty that enhanced his aura of nobility and power. Kymil Nimesin was truly a quessir, an honorable elven male. She took several paces toward him, then swept into a low bow.

“I am honored, Lord Nimesin,” she repeated.

“You may call me Kymil,” he corrected her gently. “It has been many centuries since my family have been lords.” The elf studied Arilyn for a long moment, then turned his obsidian eyes to the statue behind her. “I thought I might find you here,” he murmured.

“Sir?” Arilyn’s brow furrowed in puzzlement.

Kymil glanced over at Arilyn. “The statue of the goddess of beauty bears a striking resemblance to your mother. Were I you, I would have come here tonight,” he explained.

“You knew her? You knew Z’beryl?” Arilyn asked eagerly. In her excitement she took a step forward and clasped the elf’s forearms. So few persons could tell her anything of her mother’s early life, and in her hunger for information she forgot her awe of the famous quessir.

“We met briefly many years ago,” Kymil replied. He gently disengaged himself from Arilyn’s impulsive grasp and resumed his reflective study of the statue of Hannali Celanil. Once or twice he glanced at Arilyn, and it seemed to her that he was trying to come to a decision about something.

Arilyn shifted impatiently, but Kymil did not seem inclined to say more. After a moment’s silence she tore her expectant gaze from the quessir and squinted dutifully at the statue of Hannali Celanil, trying to see something of her mother in the cold white beauty of the goddess.

Moonlight seemed to linger on the statue as if delighted with its loveliness. More slender and beautiful than any human woman, Hannali Celanil bore the angular, delicate features of the elven race. A small, knowing smile curved her exquisite lips as she surveyed her domain through almond-shaped eyes.

One long-fingered hand rested over her heart, the other touched a pointed ear. Thus was Hannali Celanil often portrayed, to show that she was ever receptive to the prayers of lovers.

On the canvas of her imagination, Arilyn painted the statue’s cheekbones and ears with a touch of blue, and replaced the elaborate white stone coif with Z’beryl’s long sapphire braids. Arilyn mentally strapped a sword to the goddess’s side, and finally she imagined that the eyes were a gold-flecked blue, warmed with a mother’s love.

“Yes,” Arilyn agreed. “I suppose it is very like her.”

The sound of her voice drew Kymil from his reflection, and his abstracted look disappeared. He rested a hand on Arilyn’s shoulder, a brief and silent gesture of condolence that seemed oddly foreign to his austere nature. “I am sorry for your loss, child,” he said. “If I may ask, what do you plan to do now?”

Startled, Arilyn drew back, staring blankly at the quessir. The question was reasonable enough, but it jolted her into a disturbing realization.

She had no idea what she would do next. She simply hadn’t thought that far ahead.

The silence was broken by the brassy, nasal tone of crumhorns. Arilyn recognized the signal for the changing of the guard; the barracks of the Evereska Watch stood at the foot of the hill, and the sounds of their ritual evening maneuver drifted up to the temple gardens.

“I’ll join the watch,” Arilyn volunteered impulsively.

A smile flickered across Kymil Nimesin’s face. “If the wind had blown from the west, we might have heard chanting from the College of Magic. Would you then have decided to become a mage?”

Arilyn hung her head, embarrassed by her childlike outburst. But her tone was stubborn as she insisted, “No. I’ve always wanted to be a warrior, like my mother.” As she spoke, her chin came proudly up and her hand drifted to the hilt of her mother’s sword.

Her sword.

“I see.” Kymil’s eyes followed the movement, narrowing as he studied Arilyn’s weapon. “Your mother was a mage as well as a fighter. As an instructor at the College of Magic and Arms, she was highly regarded. Did she teach you much of the art?”

Arilyn shook her head. “No. I’m afraid I have no gift for magic.” Her grin was fleeting. “Not much interest, either.”

“She did not pass on the lore of the moonblade, I take it?”

“You mean this sword? If it has a story, I’ve never heard it,” Arilyn replied. “My mother only said that it would be mine some day, and she promised to tell me about it when I came of age.”

“Have you used the weapon?”

“Never,” she said. “Neither did Mother, although she kept the sword with her. She wore it always until …” Arilyn’s voice faltered.

“Until the funeral,” Kymil finished gently.

Arilyn swallowed hard. “Yes. Until then. Mother’s will was read, and the sword was given to me.”

“Have you drawn it?”

The quessir’s question puzzled Arilyn, but she assumed he had his reasons for asking. She answered him with a simple shake of her head.

“Hmmm. You’re quite certain Z’beryl told you nothing of the weapon?” Kymil pressed.

“Nothing at all,” Arilyn confirmed sadly. She brightened and added, “Mother did teach me to fight, though. I’m very good.” She stated the last comment with a child’s artless candor.

“Are you indeed? We shall see.”

Before Arilyn could draw another breath, a slender sword gleamed in the swordsmaster’s hand. Almost of its own accord, her sword hissed free of its scabbard, and Arilyn met the elf’s first lighting thrust with a two-handed parry.

An intense emotion flooded Kymil’s black eyes, but before Arilyn could put a name to the quessir’s reaction, his angular face was again inscrutable.

“Your reflexes are good,” he commented in an even tone. “That two-handed grip, however, has its limitations.”

As if to prove his point, Kymil drew a second weapon from his belt, this one a long, slender dagger. He lunged toward Arilyn, feinting with the dagger as he brought his sword around and down in an overhead strike. With instinctive grace, Arilyn leaped aside, avoiding the dagger thrust as she easily turned aside Kymil’s blade with her sword.

The quessir’s eyebrows rose, more in speculation than surprise. He spun his sword around once in a gleaming circle, and then again. Before the second cycle was completed, he thrust toward Arilyn with his dagger. Although the child seemed intrigued by the twirling sword, she was not distracted by it and her moonblade flashed forward to block the dagger. Kymil withdrew, dancing back several paces and lowering his weapons a bit, but Arilyn did not relax her defensive position. She remained in a partial crouch, eyes alert and both hands gripping the ancient sword.

Excellent, Kymil applauded silently. The child showed not only a natural instinct for fighting, but the beginnings of good judgment. Still testing, he advanced again and showered a flurry of blows upon her, alternating with sword and dagger in an intricate pattern that had confounded many a skilled and seasoned adversary. Arilyn met each strike, a feat made more remarkable by her persistent use of that two-handed grip.

Speed she certainly had, Kymil mused, but what of strength? The elf tucked his dagger back into his belt and raised his sword high, holding it firmly with both hands. He slashed down with considerable force, fully expecting the blow to knock Arilyn’s sword from her hands. Her weapon flashed down in a semicircle and came up to meet Kymil’s strike. The blades clashed together hard enough to send sparks into the night, but the young half-elf’s grip on her sword did not falter. Satisfied, Kymil stepped back from the fight.

Still holding his weapon at the ready, he slowly circled the child, studying her as if seeking some weakness. What he saw pleased him immeasurably.

Z’beryl’s half-elf daughter stood about three inches short of six feet. That was tall for a moon elf female, but the child’s gawky frame was slender and well-formed. Her strength and agility would have been exceptional even in a full elf. And she was, as she had said, very good. Yes, the child had unmistakable promise.

What was most important of all to the weapons master was that Arilyn had drawn the sword and lived, which meant that the magic weapon had chosen to honor Z’beryl’s heir. As Kymil noted the extraordinary spirit that shone in the child’s clear, gold-flecked eyes, it occurred to him that the sword had chosen well. Kymil Nimesin had come to the temple gardens expecting to find a pathetic halfbreed, but here before him, in raw and unlikely form, stood a fledgling hero.

Keenly aware of Kymil’s scrutiny, Arilyn turned with the circling elf, always facing him as she held her sword in a defensive position. Exhilaration flowed through her veins, and a fierce joy lit her eyes as she anticipated renewed battle.

Although Arilyn had grown up with a sword in her hand, she had never faced such an opponent as this. Neither had she wielded such a sword. More than anything, she wanted the match to continue. Impulsively she lunged forward, trying to draw Kymil. He easily parried her strike, then he stepped back away from her and sheathed his weapon.