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down a request for parley in the Common trade tongue, the human found another, more visual way to get his meaning across.

He spun and lunged in a single, quick movement, sinking his sword deep into one of the helpless elves. Then he turned to the forest and brandished his crimson blade. The challenge was clear, as was the price of refusal.

The first to respond was Hawkwing; she dropped to the ground with the speed of her namesake, her dagger gleaming talon-bright in her hand. Without hesitation, all the elves who could still fight followed the fierce elf maid into the circle of wizard-light and death.

In another part of Tethir, far from the clash of weapons and the scent of death, Arilyn clung to her friend’s silver fur as he carried her swiftly toward the hidden den of the lythari.

She had known Ganamede from childhood, but nothing in their shared experience could have prepared her to enter the hidden world of the lythari. The den of the shapeshifting elves was not in an underground cave, as Arilyn had anticipated, but in some middle realm, an unseen world.

There was no visible passage, no magical gate; one moment they were in Tethir, the next, they were not.

Although the journey might have felt seamless, there was no mistaking that a momentous change had taken place. She and Ganamede were still in a forest, but one quite different from the dense, cool shade of Tethir. The trees were taller, more majestic, and like nothing that Arilyn had ever seen before. The air was warmer, more alive. But the most compellingly apparent change was that the waning night had been replaced by the long golden shadows of late afternoon. This was the time of day Arilyn loved most, the moment near the end of a

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perfect spring day that was almost heartbreaking in its beauty, a time that was almost, but not quite, twilight.

Almost twilight.

Suddenly Arilyn understood why Ganamede had insisted she cling to his back: no mortal could make the passage to these fabled realms unassisted. She slid from the lythari and rose slowly to her feet.

“Faerie,” she whispered, naming the land which legend claimed to be the elves’ first home, a land left behind in a time far beyond memory. According to elven myth, Faerie was a place of incredible beauty that would last for a single day, albeit one nearly immeasurable in its length. Some of the elves, knowing that then-day here would eventually end, had ventured beyond Faerie into other worlds in hope that they might find a way to escape the coming night. Or so legend claimed. Arilyn had always assumed that Faerie was an allegory and not a literal place. She seized Ganamede’s face between her hands and repeated the word, this time as a question.

The lythari’s wolflike form shimmered and gave way to that of the otherworldly elf, Ganamede smiled at his awestruck friend, his blue eyes gently indulgent.

“Faerie? Well, not quite. This is a place between the worlds—quite fitting for people such as you and I who are neither wholly one thing nor another. But come— you wanted to meet the others.”

Too stunned to give voice to the thousand questions that whirled through her mind, Arilyn followed as Ganamede set off toward the sound of felling water. There, by a waterfall in a glade the color of an emerald’s heart, the lythari made their home.

After one glance, Arilyn understood that her quest was futile. She could think of nothing that could entice the lythari into the conflict of war. The peace and beauty of this place made the very thought of it an unspeakable obscenity, as was the notion of disturbing the serenity and joy of these magical beings.

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Several adults in elven form danced to the haunting music of a bone pipe, played by a lythari woman so delicate she seemed carved of moonlight. Two more elves bathed in the splashing waters of the falls, laughing as they watched the antics of a trio of wolflike young that tumbled and played at the edge of the pool.

An involuntary smile curved Arilyn’s lips. This was how Ganamede had looked when she first met him— although not nearly so carefree and joyful.

The young lythari had ventured into the outer world too soon, only to be caught in a snare. Arilyn had been a child herself at the time, willful enough to ignore the warnings about venturing alone into the wild Greycloak Hills that surrounded Evereska, young enough to be charmed with the idea of keeping a pet wolf. Her mother, Zlwryl, had had other ideas. She sent word to the lythari’s tribe—exactly how, Arilyn had never learned— and a stern, pale-haired male elf came the next day to whisk away the errant cub. But it seemed that the young lythari had a contrary streak to match Arilyn’s own. Many times over the next several years he slipped away to seek out his half-elven playmate. When Arilyn left Evereska after her mother’s death, Ganamede had given her a summoning pipe and a knowledge of the “doors to the gate” where she might find him. Only now did Arilyn understand what that meant. Although there was but one gate to the lythari’s lair, they could probably emerge at will in Tethir or Evermeet or Cormanthor. But why would they choose to do so, other than to hunt?

“The lythari will not come,” Arilyn said softly.

“No,” agreed Ganamede, “but I had to show you, else you would not have understood why.”

He took her arm and drew her away from the peaceful glade. “But I myself will take you to the nearest settlement of the green elves, a place known as Talltrees. It lies a day’s walk to the north, but I can get you there in a matter of hours. I wish there were more I could do for you.”

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Despite her disappointment, Arilyn couldn’t help but smile as she pictured the impact Ganamede’s appearance would make. “That’s more helpful than you know,” she said in a wry tone. “If an entrance like that doesn’t impress the forest people, 111 know enough to turn around and go home!”

The palace of Pasha Balik was without doubt the largest and most impressive building in all of Zazesspur. At its core was a summer palace built by Alehandro III. Amazingly, it had escaped the destruction of the royal family—followed by the demolition of most of the royal properties—-virtually unscathed. When Balik came to power he’d taken it over, bought up the surrounding land, and expanded the original buildings into an enormous marble complex ringed by even more spectacular gardens.

One of the newer additions was a large chamber suitable for meetings of state. Here met the Council of Lords—a dozen men and women of noble rank—to hear important cases, debate policy, and make decisions that would address the good of all the people of Zazesspur. At least, that was the Council’s original and stated intent. The Council, inspired by the lords who ruled Waterdeep, had been created shortly after the downfall of the royal house. Though it was intended to be the ruling body, most of its members came to view their seats as stepping stones toward greater power. In recent years, however, the Council had done little more than carry out the will of the pasha.

Balik was a vain man who allowed himself to be seduced by the notion of his own importance. He had grown increasingly deaf to the voices of the coalition of southerners, royalists, and merchants who had brought bim to power. Seldom these days did he hear anything but his own inclinations.

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Today, however, Pasha Balik seemed unusually willing to listen to counsel. “You are all aware of the growing threat from the elven people,” he began. “Caravans ransacked, trade lost, farms and trading posts attacked. We will set all other business aside and consider how best to deal with this problem.”

Lord Faunce, one of the few noblemen present who had actually inherited his title, rose to speak. “What do the elves have to say about this matter?”

“That is something none but the gods can tell you. The Elven Council has been destroyed, the settlement burned to ash,” supplied Zonguiar, a priest of Ihnater, speaking this dire news with lugubrious relish.

Lord Hhune, guildmaster, rose to his feet. “My lords, must I remind you that in less enlightened times an effort was made to push the elves from this country? Their lands were seized, many were slain, some were pushed deep into the forest. I speak for patience and urge forbearance,” he said passionately. “At the very least, let us take time to examine the reports against the elves and see if perhaps the tales have grown somewhat in the telling. To move too quickly would certainly result in a waste of fighting men and most likely in the deaths of many innocent elven folk!”

A few of the other lords exchanged arch looks. Hhune had been quite young during the less enlightened times” he spoke of, yet few present doubted that he would not have been among the most zealous in carrying out his king’s desire to exterminate the elves of Tethyr. But ever changeful were the winds of fortune, and few among them could match Hhune’s skill as a social weather vane. For the most part, they admired him for it.

Even so, the Marquessa D*Morreto couldn’t resist putting in a dig. “The memories of the elves are long. It may well be that they act in retaliation for the wrongs done them,” she suggested piously.

“We do not even know that the elves are truly responsible!” thundered Hhune.

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“But if not, then who? And why would so much be laid felsely on the elven folk of Tethir?” asked Lord Faunce.

“That is precisely what I intend to find out,” Lord Hhune said grimly. “I will learn what there is to know of this matter, and I will pass this knowledge on to you.” He paused to give weight to his next words. There are those in this land who can find answers to any question. I ask your indulgence only in the matter of time.”

The Council considered this in silence. All knew that Hhune referred to the secret and dreaded Knights of the Shield; more than a few suspected he had ties to this shadowy group. Whatever the case, they were content to leave the troublesome elves in his hands. As the Marquess had pointed out, there was no one among them who had as much at stake in this matter as did Hhune.

Fortunately for Lord Hhune, there was not one among them who understood exactly what it was that he planned to do, or what he held at risk.

None, that was, but the lord’s bodyguard—a tall, heavy-chested man with a black beard, cold gray eyes, and a flower-shaped scar on one cheek. As this man listened to Hhune’s impassioned speech, he passed a hand over his bearded lips to hide a grimace—or perhaps a smile.

Twelve

It was difficult to surprise an elf at any time, and almost impossible to creep up on a green elfin his own forest stronghold. Yet the lythari were called “silver shadows” for good reason. In his lupine form, Ganamede moved more swiftly and silently than the wind—not even the leaves rustled when he passed. And Arilyn, who rode upon his back with her arms flung tightly around his massive silver neck, thought she knew why this was so. The lythari walked between worlds, even when their feet trod upon the solid face of Toril.

They reached the outer boundaries of the Talltrees settlement late that day, slipping easily past the layers of secrecy that enfolded the elven village. The forest had strange magical properties, Ganamede had told her, that distorted the senses of outsiders. Arilyn could hold her direction as well as most rangers, but even she felt oddly disoriented as they neared the hidden village. Nor were these the only magical barriers. Twin

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dryads—beautiful sylvan creatures who were not quite either human or elven—peeked out at them from behind a stand of beech trees. Any male who wandered near this lair would have the image of wondrously beautiful dryads giggling behind their white hands as his last memory of this part of Tethir forest. A male who fell under a dryad’s charm usually awoke, dazed and utterly lost, under some unfamiliar tree. When at last he found his way back to settled lands, he invariably learned that as much as a year had passed without leaving a single footprint upon his memory. It was a gossamer web that the dryads wove, but a powerful one.

Beyond the dryads’ grove, not even silent Ganamede could escape detection. Sharp-eyed elven warriors walked the surrounding forest. Other sentries, the birds and squirrels that chattered and scolded in the trees, carried warnings that were heard and heeded by the elven folk. Arilyn noted the subtle changes in the song of forest birds that no doubt announced their coming.

“They know we’re here. You might as well let me down,” she said quietly. The lythari came to a stop; Arilyn slid down and rose to her full height. She smoothed down the vest of elven chain mail, adjusted her swordbelt, and then squared her shoulders for the trial ahead.

Lifting her chin to an angle that approximated that of a proud elven courtier, Arilyn placed one hand on the lythari’s pale silver shoulder. “Here we go,” she murmured. “We should be fine, but if things start getting hostile I want you out of here like a flea off a fire newt.”

Ganamede cast an exasperated look up at her, his blue eyes stating beyond doubt what he thought of her chosen figure of speech.

A wry grin brightened Arilyn’s face—and dissipated a bit of her tension. “How indelicate of me, bringing up fleas,” she said with mock gravity. “Nearly as thoughtless as mentioning heartburn to a red dragon!”

“Are you quite through?” the lythari inquired patieatly.

“Or would you like to compound the insult by scratching behind my ears?”

Arilyn’s shoulders shook in a brief, silent chuckle. “I meant what I said,” she repeated, suddenly serious. “Get out at the first sign of trouble.”

“And what of you?”

What indeed? she repeated silently.

“If I fall, try to reclaim my sword at some later time. I know this is asking a great deal of you, but if you were to ask anything of the forest elves, they would surely give it. I would not ask, but mine is a hereditary blade, and its magic will continue as long as there is a need for it and a worthy descendant to wield it. When its purpose has been fulfilled, it will go dormant.”

And until that distant day—and perhaps far longer than that, Arilyn added silently—her spirit would be imprisoned within!