Silver Shadows (3 page)

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.”

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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

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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.

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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

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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 escaped her share of those, and Arilyn had learned to swing a chair as handily as she wielded a sword.

“So tell me,” she said, to get matters rolling along.

Captain Macumail winked and reached for the flat leather pouch he wore strapped over one shoulder. Tve some fascinating reading for you,” he said as he removed a sheaf of papers from the pouch. “Have a look at this, if you will.”

The Harper glanced at the parchment that Carreigh Macumail thrust into her hands. The captain had provided her with bogus documents several times before, and each one had held up to the closest scrutiny. This sample was especially well done, from the delicate Elvish script to a reproduction of the seal of the Moonflowers, Evermeet’s royal family. It was a masterful forgery.

Arilyn let out a low whistle of appreciation. “Nice work.”

“And don’t I wish I could take credit for it.” Macumail touched the creamy, luminous parchment with some-tiling approaching awe. That, my dear lady, is the genuine article, and it’s addressed to you.”

The half-elf stared at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“Read it,” he urged. It looks serious enough to me.”

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“Retreat to the Island Home … find a welcome in the deep forests of Evermeet,” Arilyn muttered, scanning the pronouncement and automatically translating from Elvish to the widely used trade tongue known as Common.

At length she lifted incredulous eyes to Macumail’s face. “This is from Amlaruil of Evermeet. An official missive, and a commission naming me as her ambassador!”

“Aye, that it is,” he agreed. “I took it from her hand myself. The Lady Laeral Silverhand was with the queen. There’s a letter from her in that lot, as well.”

Laeral Silverhand was one of the few magic-users whom Arilyn trusted and respected. Unlike most arcane scholars, who all too often seemed detached from the world around them and indifferent to the impact their spells might have on others, Laeral possessed a refreshing streak of practicality. A former adventurer and still a bit of a rogue, Lady Arunsun valued results over protocol. She and Arilyn got along just fine, and the half-elf was usually inclined to listen when Laeral spoke.

Still feeling stunned, Arilyn sorted through the pages until she found Laeral’s letter. It urged her to act on Queen Amlaruil’s behalf, to combine this mission with a task that would soon be offered to her by the Harpers.

The half-elf let the parchment sheets fall to the table. She leaned back and dug one hand into her hair as she considered this unexpected turn of events. In some ways, this was the answer she had been looking for. She didn’t believe the forest elves would entertain the idea of compromise, but maybe—just maybe—they would consider retreating to Evermeet.

But the question remained: Why send her? Why had she been chosen as an emissary of Evermeet, she who had no claim to her elven heritage but the moonblade strapped to her side?

A small, cynical smile tightened the half-elf s lips. Perhaps that was it, Arilyn thought. Perhaps the^ royal

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family had finally contrived an honorable way to reclaim Amnestria’s sword!

They’d wanted it some thirty years ago, when Arilyn’s mother—the exiled princess Amnestria—had been murdered in distant Evereska, leaving her moonblade to her half-elven daughter. Amnestria’s family had come to her funeral—from where, Arilyn had no idea—but she remembered with knife-edged clarity the elves’ chagrin when they learned of this bequest, their impassioned claims that only a moon elf of pure blood and noble heart could carry such a sword. Although Amnestria’s family had discussed the matter in Arilyn’s presence, not one of them had a single word to spare for the grieving child—not one word of comfort or even of acknowledgment. The royal elves had worn mourning veils that obscured their identities. They had not given Arilyn so much as a glimpse of their faces. Now, all of a sudden, this aloof, faceless queen decided to grant Arilyn the honor of a royal mission? One that was most likely impossible and, Arilyn noted cynically, possibly suicidal?

In truth, the half-elf didn’t believe the elven queen was deliberately contriving her death. But Arilyn could not fathom what the reasoning behind this commission might be, and not knowing—combined with her painful memories—made her deeply angry.

Arilyn reached for the royal commission. Slowly, deliberately, she crumpled up the parchment into a tight wad and dropped it into her half-empty wine goblet.

*I trust you will be so kind as to relay my answer to the queen,” she said in a parody of a courtier’s respectful tones.

“That’s your final word?” Carreigh Macumail asked, dismay written across his bewhiskered countenance.

The half-elf leaned back and folded her arms over her chest. “Actually, I have a few more thoughts on the matter. Repeat them or not, as you choose.” She then proceeded to

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describe what the elven queen could do with her offer, at length, in precise detail, and vividly enough to drain the color from the captain’s ruddy face.