The Dream Spheres (20 page)

This comment broke the spell. Bronwyn slid carefully down from her griffin mount. “There was less than that under you all the way from Waterdeep to Silverymoon,” she pointed out, reasonably enough.

The dwarf snorted. Before he could respond with more complaints, Rhep leaped from his sky chariot and strode into the center of the merchant band. “We camp here tonight and ride into the city first thing in the morning.”

A chorus of murmured protest met the caravan master’s words. All of them, other than the Eagle Riders and the grooms in Lord Gundwynd’s employ, were new

to flight. Two days had they traveled, under conditions that were both exhilarating and terrifying, and every person was primed for a night’s revelry. Few places in the Northlands offered more enticements than Silverymoon. To add further inducement, it was common knowledge that the hills beyond the city were riddled with orcs, wild beasts, and other annoyances. With the coming of night, any securely walled city was attractive.

It seemed odd to Elaith that they would travel so far in a mere two days, using such an unusual and expensive means of transport, only to risk all with their destination fully in sight.

Nor was Elaith the only person to entertain such thoughts. Many of the merchants gave loud protest, which the big mercenary answered only with a glare. A caravan master’s word held the force of law, even to the merchants who hired him. Rhep stalked off and began shouting orders to the guards, and after a few moments the protest subsided.

There was not much to unload, as most of the cargo seemed to be small, precious items. The guards made short work of the task, then encircled the treasure with the sky chariots. The formidable steeds they tethered just beyond, reasoning that the fierce pegasi, griffins, and giant eagles would be a greater deterrent to theft than any human guards Lord Gundwynd could muster. In the next circle the guards and merchants set up camp, some sharing the companionship of scattered fires, others, less eager for company, finding relative privacy on the outer edges of the clearing.

Elaith picked the least hospitable spot for himself. Uphill from the clearing, near the edge of the trees, was a spot strewn with tumbled rocks and fallen limbs. The boulders formed a barrier between him and the company, yet the site offered good visibility over the clearing and well into the tree line behind him. It was a highly defensible place, which the elf bolstered with a

few snares and half-moon traps—an abomination to most elves, but effective for all that.

The elf finished up by hiding several throwing knives here and there and then quickly built a fire. He pushed aside some of the burning wood and placed a small travel pot amid the glowing embers. Into this he emptied some water from his drinking flask as well as some dried mushrooms and herbs. While that simmered, he settled down to enjoy the solitude—and to watch his fellow travelers.

Bronwyn busied herself with the caravan’s bundles, setting to work along with the guards. She exchanged jests with several of the men and slapped away a few grasping hands—but with easy good humor that left most of her companions standing alone, but smiling. The elf had to admire her aplomb in this matter, not to mention her good taste in refusing to have anything to do with the louts.

He was not pleased, however, when the woman began a purposeful approach to his campsite. She paused at the very edge of the circle of firelight and cast an uneasy glance over her shoulder.

“Mind if I join you?” she said tentatively. When he hesitated, she added, “I am the only woman in this camp.”

Elaith’s eyebrows flew up. “You hardly need to offer that as an inducement. Many would seek you out in a crowd of courtesans.”

This response brought a wry chuckle from Bronwyn. “I suppose that did sound like an offer,” she admitted. “It wasn’t intended to. In truth, I’d like to get some sleep tonight, and I’m looking for a safe place.”

“This is it?”

She shrugged, following his meaning. “I haven’t crossed you in business, and I’ve got nothing worth stealing. By all reports, you’ve got little interest in human women. As I see it, that adds up to about as safe

as I’m likely to get. If you’ve an objection, I’ll find another spot.”

“None whatsoever.” Now that he considered the matter, Elaith could see a definite advantage in keeping a close watch over his probable rival. “Do have a care near that jagged boulder.”

She skirted the large rock, nodding approval when she caught sight of the circle trap. “Got many of those around?”

“A few.”

“Good. I’ll sleep more soundly for knowing it.” Elaith made room for her at the fireside. “Where is the dwarf?”

“Around,” she said vaguely. “He pulled first watch. Oh, will you look at that!” she exclaimed suddenly, pointing.

The elf followed her gesture. At the far side of the clearing, a large fire leaped into the night. Multicolored lights and intricate patterns danced amid the flames. Silhouetted against the fey light were the lithe forms of the Eagle Riders. Garelith was telling the tale, judging from his animated face and hand gestures.

“Fireside tales,” Elaith reminisced. “A small magic, often taught to elven young.”

“This puts to shame all those hours I’ve spent staring into the flames,” Bronwyn said, her tones rounded with wonder and delight. “How I wish I could hear their stories! But the elves would never tell them before me.”

“No doubt you are right.” A peal of bawdy laughter punctuated the elven tale, and the flames turned blue and rose into improbably entwined figures. “Not necessarily for the reason you think,” Elaith added.

Bronwyn peered at the fire for a moment, then sat back looking impressed. “Huzzah! I’ll always regard centaurs in a whole new light.”

The elf saw no particular place for that conversation to go, so he dipped up soup in his travel mug and handed it to his guest. She produced a similar cup from her bag

and handed it to him. For a few moments they ate in silence.

Finally Elaith’s curiosity prevailed. “You strike me as exceedingly forthright, yet you haven’t asked me my business in Silverymoon.”

This amused her. “I’d probably be better off not knowing! Truthfully, this has been a busy season for me. I have a great deal of business to attend. It’s all I can do to watch my own affairs, much less mind anyone else’s.”

“You’ll be staying on in Silverymoon for a while, then.”

“As long as it takes. A few days, perhaps.”

At the far side of the clearing, the Eagle Riders began a raucous game of dice. Bronwyn responded with a quick, sympathetic smile. Her reaction prodded the elf’s suspicions about her knowledge of elves, and her true reasons for the trip.

“Their behavior doesn’t seem to surprise you,” Elaith commented.

“Should it? They’re young, high-spirited, and enjoying good company. They are entitled to their fun.”

“Most humans do not consider high spirits to be an elven virtue,” he persisted. “I think you’re more familiar with our ways.”

She shrugged again. “I’ve done business with all sorts. It helps to know the customs.”

“I can see how it would,” he agreed, approaching the question from another side. “Your work must often present challenges. Forgive me, but I find it difficult to envision the fey folk entrusting their lost treasures to a human.”

Bronwyn accepted this with a nod. “Some do feel that way. Others respect results and pay well for them. Why do you ask?”

“I might wish to engage your services some time,” the elf said vaguely. He glanced up at the stars to measure the hour, then inclined his head in apology. “I am being

a poor host. I have kept you talking, when you expressed desire to sleep.”

She stopped in mid-yawn and then reached for her bedroll. “I won’t argue with you.”

Elaith sat by the fire long after the woman’s soft, steady breathing indicated that she slept. From time to time he drifted into reverie, that watchful dreaming that renewed and restored the fey folk.

However, there was little respite for Elaith this night. For the first time in many years, he saw in reverie the leaping white towers of the Moonstone Palace as he rode his silver-gray horse through the streets of Evermeet’s royal city. His heart swelled with the pride befitting one of his race and rank and talents, and it beat with quick anticipation of the meeting ahead. Amnestria, the youngest daughter of King Zaor and Queen Amlaruil, had been pledged to him in betrothal. She had sent word that she was eager to meet with her betrothed when the moon rose.

The crunch of heavy boots against stony ground roused Elaith from his dream. His keenly honed senses recognized the portent of danger, but for a moment or two he didn’t care. The dream was so vivid, so poignant, that it left behind a sense of loss that dwarfed all other considerations.

Evermeet was lost to him. Amnestria was long dead. Her half-elven daughter despised him, and not without reason. What could possibly matter, in light of all that?

Elaith watched without interest as a large figure broke away from the trees and stalked toward his camp. A small movement nearby drew his eyes. Bronwyn’s small hand curled around a knife. Other than that, she might have been asleep. She did not move and her breathing was slow and even.

“Expecting trouble?” the elf said softly.

“I warned you of the possibility,” she responded. Her eyes opened a crack, and fell upon the large, bearded

man who was creeping toward them.

“Rhep,” she said resignedly. “Some men understand the word no only when it’s accompanied by a stab wound or a fireball spell.”

Elaith found this notion distasteful. He had never been able to understand why any male would wish to force attention upon an unwilling female. There was no joy in such games, and little sport. On the other hand, the prospect of battle offered a diversion, a familiar respite from his despair.

“I would be delighted to distract him,” the elf offered.

“Thanks, but I don’t want you to get in trouble on my account. No offense, but who will believe that you fought to protect my honor? I’ll set up a fuss, and the others will intervene.”

“Don’t be so sure,” he cautioned her. She looked puzzled, so he added, “Rhep is in the employ of the Ilzimmer family. He is caravan master, which means that, although Lord Gundwynd has supplied the mounts and some of the guards, Ilzimmer is funding the dragon’s share of this journey. Most of the mercenaries report to Rhep. You would receive little assistance from that lot. Nor would you find recompense, afterwards. The Ilzimmer clan is known for its distasteful habits and would not be particularly concerned about the behavior of its hirelings. If you were a woman of their class, they might manage to dredge up a sense of outrage. As matters stand, you can expect nothing.”

Bronwyn did not flinch. “Harsh words, but good knowledge to have. I’ll circle back to camp.” She slipped from her bedroll and wriggled like a snake behind the stand of boulders that separated Elaith’s camp from the trees beyond.

Rhep scowled as his gaze fell only on the watchful elf and the ashes of a solitary campfire. “Where’s the woman, elf?”

Elaith rose, a stout stick in his hand. This he tossed

in the direction of the approaching man. A circle trap snapped shut, splitting the wood and sending two neatly sheared pieces flying into the air. The mercenary shied back, both hands flung up to ward off the leaping wood. His furious expression deepened as he realized how his response might be read.

“The camp is warded,” Elaith said calmly. “You would be wise to stay where you are.”

“Coward!” Rhep grated, as if eager to place that name upon another. “Leave your toys and traps and come out in the open! Name your place, if you’re not afraid to fight a real man.”

“The forest,” Elaith said shortly, and then he turned and led the man away from Bronwyn’s hiding place. After a moment, he heard behind him the heavy but cautious tread of the mercenary’s boots. He heard also the stealthy rasp of metal against metal as Rhep drew his sword.

Coward indeed, the elf thought scornfully. He subtly quickened his pace to keep his back beyond the reach of the man’s treacherous sword.

When he judged they were far enough away that battle would not rouse the camp, Elaith turned to face his challenger. As he did, he pulled a knife from his sleeve and slashed in a single smooth movement so fast it defied the eye to follow. The sharp edge sliced through the shoulder strap that supported Rhep’s weapons belt. Belt and weapons sank toward the ground.

Rhep instinctively stooped to grab the falling belt. The elf seized a handful of hair and jerked the man’s head down. At the same moment, he brought his knee up hard. The man’s face smashed into the thigh greave that reinforced Elaith’s travel leathers. Bone was no fit challenger for elven metal, and it gave way with a satisfying crunch.

Elaith flung the man aside. Rhep tripped and fell

heavily back, clutching at a garishly broken nose. His sword clattered to the rocky ground.

The elf hooked a toe in the guard of Rhep’s sword. One kick sent it spinning up. Elaith caught the descending blade easily and held it at arms’ length for inspection. His lip curled as he regarded the pitted edge, then he stalked in.

“You drew first,” he stated. “I defended myself as best I could.” This remark he flavored with heavy irony— and punctuated with a vicious kick to the man’s ribs. “You would have defeated me but for the fact that you tripped in the darkness and fell upon your own sword. A tragic tale, is it not? To think that you had the honor of hearing it first.”

Rhep rolled blindly away. The elf aimed a final kick at the base of his spine and raised the crude weapon for the killing stroke.

A small, stubby hand seized his ankle and jerked him to a halt. Elaith released the sword and twisted, catlike, in an effort to retain his balance. He shifted his weight-and his furious gaze-back toward the direction of the interference.

The red-bearded dwarf whom Bronwyn had called Ebenezer clicked his tongue in reproach.

“Man’s down,” he pointed out. “Me, I like to see games played on an even field.”

Elaith kicked out viciously, but the dwarf released him and danced back out of reach with surprising agility. The meddling little toad lifted Rhep’s sword in mock challenge, then he handed the weapon to its owner.