The Dream Spheres (22 page)

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.

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. Danilo 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.”

“A good thought.” Lord Arlos glanced up at the portrait. “My first wife was a mage, you know. I had hoped that Sibylanthra’s children would take after their mother’s art, but so far they both have too much taste for adventure. Now I see the blessing in it.”

He turned to his son. “Corinn, you may follow that scheme of yours to sail around Chult and seek to establish harbors to the south. Corinna may take that commission she was offered. Better the uncertainties of Tethyr’s seas than the proven dangers of this city. Make the arrangements at once.”

The half-elf flashed another of his incandescent smiles. He bowed to his father, then lifted Arilyn’s hand to his lips. “Thank you,” he said softly and fervently. He was gone, like a golden bird in glad flight.

Arilyn spent an hour with the old man, exchanging reminiscences about Evereska, which had been his wife’s childhood home. She learned only that Sibylanthra had been found in the garden, inexplicably dead. There were no wounds, no sign of illness or struggle, none of the usual marks of poison. Yet her husband had been convinced, and was still certain, that this was the work of an assassin. Lord Arlos would have talked until moonrise, but finally Arilyn rose to go. She asked him to show her the kitchen gardens before she left.

The nobleman was surprised but willing. They walked down rows of late cabbages and drying herbs. Arilyn headed for the potting and drying shed and there found what she sought. A large cistern opened into the tunnel below, allowing the kitchen staff to toss husks and parings into the sewers below.

“I’ll leave by this way. An assassin would have,” she explained.

He started, then shook his head in disbelief. “Why did no one think of this sooner?”

There was an answer, but it was not one Arilyn wished to speak aloud: to find an assassin, you had to think like one. She had spent too many years doing just that. She busied herself with the heavy lid, then raised a hand in farewell and dropped into the dark opening.

She found the small footholds carved into the stone and climbed down into the tunnel. As she expected, the openings continued along the wall, so that it was possible to skirt the tunnel floor. Such things were closely held secrets in the guilds that cleaned these tunnels, but Arilyn had long experience with the sort of folk who used these dark passages for other purposes.

It troubled her, how easily she fell back into the mind and the steps of an assassin. The role had always been an uneasy one, but it was doubly so now, after her years as an honored, acclaimed champion of the elves. Perhaps this was the only role destiny would permit her to play among the humans.

She thrust aside these thoughts and addressed herself to the task at hand. After a hundred paces or so, the tunnel floor rose at a steep angle. Arilyn leaped from her perch and began to climb.

The tunnel was clean and dry, and it appeared to be relatively new. This was interesting, given the reappearance of tren in the city. After the Guild Wars, some of the old tunnels had been sealed, barring dangerous underground races from the city. These tunnels had been magically warded, but it was possible that someone determined enough could have made new passages.

As Arilyn considered the matter, certain other pieces fell into place. Watch Alley in North Ward was exceptionally safe but for the fact that single, severed human feet were occasionally found discarded in its shadows. The first such occurrence had been about fifteen years ago-about the time of Lady Dezlentyr’s death. Tavern talk claimed that severing feet was an old thieves’ guild punishment and perhaps a signal of the guild’s return

to Waterdeep. Arilyn had heard the bad jests about ” ‘defeeting’ one’s enemy.” In light of recent events, however, it seemed likely that tren, not human thieves, were behind these killings. The question was, who was paying their hire, and if this was a single source, what purpose prompted over fifteen years of costly, clandestine activity?

Arilyn examined the walls as she walked, searching for the telltale carvings that tren left as signals to each other. The tunnels turned out to be as convoluted as a cow path. The half-elf followed the faint markings for what seemed hours, finding them here and there but never quite able to distinguish a pattern. Finally it occurred to her to follow to its end the one passage that was not marked.

This proved to be worth doing. Arilyn found a hidden door in the wall of the unmarked tunnel. Beyond it a ladder rose into what appeared to be a large wooden shed. She climbed it and peered cautiously around.

The shed was permeated by a complex fragrance, a blessed respite from the dank tunnels. Bunches of drying herbs hung from the rafters. Piles of citrus peels and dried flowers stood on raised wooden platforms. Rows of shelves held bottles filled with colored liquid, into which flowers and herbs and vanilla beans and dozens of other fragrant substances yielded their essence.

Arilyn crept through the shed and eased out into the alley. She recognized the street ahead, and the shop that the small shed served: Diloontier Perfumery. Rumor had it that the proprietor also sold more lethal potions, but no one had ever caught him at it. Diloontier’s prices kept out all but the most wealthy patrons— nobles who could afford to put down bags of gold for delicate scents. Who could afford to have new tunnels dug, and to hire reptilian assassins. It seemed to Arilyn that Diloontier’s client list could be very informative.

To Arilyn’s eye, this path was so clear that she thought it incredible that no one had thought to explore it. However, this was precisely the sort of thing to which this city turned a blind eye. All of Waterdeep loudly proclaimed that assassins held no guild, no power, no numbers, no threat.

Arilyn had reason to know the damage that could be dealt by a single, unseen blade. Perhaps it took someone like her to deal with such matters.

Old habits fell easily into place. Arilyn slipped away into the shadows, as silent as a hunting cat.

Elaith’s dismay grew as he surveyed the certain ambush in the valley below. He cursed and drove his heels into the flanks of his winged mare. Leaning low over her neck, he urged her into a plunging dive.

Wind roared in his ears until he feared he might never again hear anything else. Even as the thought formed, an eagle’s shriek rent the streaming air, tearing through the deafening noise. This was followed by an even more chilling sound—an undulating elven battle cry. The Eagle Riders had spotted the ambush.

From the four corners of the wind they came, moving in with a perfectly coordinated attack. Their eagle mounts dove in with the instincts of raptors, their golden eyes fierce and their talons outstretched to snatch up their prey. It was a glorious, terrifying sight: a classic elven attack.

It was also the worst possible strategy.

Elaith’s cry of protest was swallowed by the wind. He could not hear his own voice. Nor did he hear the whir and thump of the catapults, but he knew in his blood and bones that such weapons lay in wait. After all, these bandits knew the caravan’s route, they had found this remote site. They would know what forces they

would face and how they might best be defeated.

Golden feathers flew back toward him like giant leaves torn away by a wintry blast. Among the feathers were deadlier missiles: bits of metal and stone hurled as grapeshot.

Elaith instinctively ducked as the spray rose toward them, pulling back hard on the pegasus’ reins. The winged horse threw back her head. Elaith caught a glimpse of the steed’s wild, white-rimmed eyes—and the ugly metal shape that protruded from her neck.

He leaned forward and eased it out. It was a caltrop, a ball covered with wicked, triangular spikes. Fortunately the thing had embedded itself more in the harness than the horse.

The giant eagles had not been so fortunate. They had caught the full force of the deadly volley. Two of the wondrous birds lay on the ground like discarded rags. A third spun down, one shattered wing hanging limp. Elaith heard Garelith Leafbower’s furious battle cry as the last of the Eagle Riders dove in for the attack.