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child; Hawkwing was too young to hate so passionately and to kill with such ease. It was good to see the girl whirling in Tamsin’s arms, laughing as gaily as if she truly were the carefree maiden she should have been. The sight was well worth the cost of the emerald—yet another of Danilo’s costly tokens. As she enjoyed Hawkwing’s happiness, Arilyn doubted Danilo would disapprove of the use she’d made of his gift.

The child caught Arilyn’s eye, and her thin face lighted in a smile. Hands outstretched, she ran to the moon elf and pulled her into the dance. The circle began, the final dance that would celebrate the solstice. Arilyn moved along with the others, not caring that her steps were not nearly so light or intricate as those of the fey folk. There was something about the festivities that made such matters unimportant.

Arilyn allowed herself to be swept away in the peace and joy that the circle dance wove around them all, knowing that this would be the last part of the festivities in which she would join.

Among the elves, midsummer was a time when marriages were celebrated and lovers rejoiced. Children born of this night were considered a special blessing of the gods. Even those elves who had no special partner often sought out a friend with whom to share the magic that was midsummer.

It was almost impossible not to. As the cycles of the moon pulled on the tides, the inexorable wheel of the year drew them all into the celebration. Fauns slipped away into the shadows, two by two. Pixies and sprites flitted off like paired fireflies, at this sacred time, each to his own.

Arilyn pulled away from the circle slowly, for she was loath to end the rare and wondrous communion she had known this night. A light touch—startling against her bared shoulder—had her spinning about, hand at the hilt of the sword she was pledged to wear even on such a night.

She turned into the circle of Foxfire’s arms. He did

not speak, but his eyes were dark with unmistakable invitation.

Instinct and habit took over; Arilyn went rigid and began to pull away.

Foxfire placed a gentle hand at the small of her back, stopping her retreat. The night is short,” he said quietly, the traditional phrase exchanged between the lovers or comrades who shared the gift of midsummer.

Arilyn’s breath caught in her throat as the full impact of the elf s invitation swept her. In Foxfire’s eyes, she was worthy of this most elven of celebrations, which was not only merrymaking, but also a sacred union with the land. She had never dreamed of such acceptance into the elven world—had never considered such a tiling to be possible. The temptation to be what he thought she was was too great for the lonely half-elf to bear.

For the first time in her life, Arilyn did not draw away.

“The night is short,” she agreed.

Korrigash and Ferret watched as their war leaders slipped away into the forest together “It is not right,” the male said, his face deeply troubled. “Are not you and Foxfire promised?”

“For many years,” Ferret agreed, her black eyes unreadable. “But what of it? As long as those two win battles, I care not what else they do.”

“But Foxfire is my friend, and in this he does danger to himself.”

“How so?” Ferret said sharply. For many days she had kept a gimlet eye on the half-elf. To all appearances, Arilyn’s actions ran the course her claims had laid out. But Ferret could not rid herself entirely of the fear that Arilyn would fall back into the role she had played with such skill among the humans. It seemed possible to her

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that once the two were alone, an assassin’s blade would find Foxfire’s heart.

But such was not Korrigash’s concern. “For good or ill, a bond is formed between a male and maid. Never is this more true than at midsummer. The People follow Foxfire now; they might not if he aligns himself too closely with the moon elf.”

“And if they do not follow Foxfire, then you will lead,” Ferret said calmly, reassured by the hunter’s words. “Let this thing fall as it will. But come,” she said in an abrupt change of mood, “the night is short.”

“But you are promised to Foxfire,” Korrigash protested. Clearly, he was both troubled and intrigued by her suggestion.

“He is otherwise engaged,” the female pointed out. “Consider it practice, in case you are required to take his place elsewhere.”

The hunter began to protest, but his words wandered off uncertainly and then ceased altogether. The magic of midsummer was already upon them.

Foxfire gazed up through the thick canopy of the forest, watching as the solstice moon sank low in the sky. Her pale light seemed to linger on the long, white limbs still entwined with his. He dropped a kiss—soft as a butterfly’s wing—on the closed eyelid of the sleeping half-elf and wondered what he should do next.

He had suspected before, but now he knew beyond doubt: whatever she might be in her heart and in her soul, Arilyn’s blood was hah7 human. No elf slept as she did.

As war leader, Foxfire was pledged to follow Rhothomir. He might argue with the Speaker—and he did so far more than did any other elf in the tribe—but he respected the older male. He owed him this knowledge. By every tradition of the elven people, he was bound to tell him what he knew of the newcomer in

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their midst. But how could he, knowing Rhothomir as he did? To the Speaker, all humans were enemies, and half-elves were an obscenity, an abomination. He would probably order Arilyn slain even if there were no threat to the tribe. And now, during this troubled time, neither Foxfire’s influence nor arguments would save her.

And what of Arilyn herself? How would she react if she knew her secret was out? Here, also, Foxfire had little doubt of the outcome. She would flee the forest, and that he could not bear. She must not know he had caught her in slumber.

But how could she not? Foxfire did not know how it was with sleep—perhaps it was like reverie, a state that was entered slowly and in deepening stages. She had just drifted off moments before. Perhaps he could ease her awake, using her own astonishing innocence as an ally. She was unfamiliar with her own responses— Foxfire marveled that this could be so—but perhaps she would confuse a moment’s sleep with the wondrous, languid haze that followed their private celebration.

Gently, deftly, he began to coax her back toward awareness. Her sky-colored eyes opened and grew wary.

Foxfire smiled. “I accept that the ways of the Seldarine are a mystery, but never did I understand why the goddess of love and beauty is of the moon people. Now I understand, for in you I have seen her face.”

There was nothing disingenuous about his words—he meant them exactly as he said them—but there was a second layer of meaning hidden beneath. He saw it catch flame in Arilyn’s eyes. The goddess Hanali Celanil was the epitome and the essence of an elven female. No words could have expressed more strongly his regard for Arilyn as a lover, or his acceptance of her as an elf. He hoped fervently that she heard the tribute in his words, and not the lie.

And so it was. Her white arms came up around his neck, and the magic of midsummer began for them again.

Fifteen

Kendel Leafbower slipped into the dockside tavern known as the Dusty Throat and made his way through the throng of sweaty, hard-drinking patrons toward an empty seat at the far corner of the bar. Not to his liking was the rough crowd, ‘ ‘ or the bitter ale, but he was tired and thirsty after a long day’s work on the docks of Port Kir. The Dusty Throat was renowned for the ribald wit of its barmaids and the vigorous brawls that broke out almost nightly. Indeed, the tavern had been closed for nearly a tenday following a particularly spectacular fight and was just this night resuming business. Despite the obvious dangers, this particular tavern was favored by many of Kendel’s fellow workers, so he felt a bit safer here than he might have otherwise.

The recent brawl had left a number of new marks on the battle-scarred tavern. Two of the supporting beams had been gouged deeply and repeatedly at a height of about three feet off the floor. To Kendel’s eyes, the befcms

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resembled partially felled trees. The damage suggested the work of either a very tall beaver or a very short woodsman. There was a splinter-edged hole in one wooden wall at about the same height and about a foot across, which afforded the patrons a glimpse of the wine cellar and gave the resident rats a convenient window from which to peek out at the patrons. A large section of the bar had been replaced, and the light wood was a marked contrast to the old, ale-stained counter. Several of the chairs were obviously new, and the splintered rungs on perhaps a dozen more had been bound with string in a make-do attempt at repair. Even the stone hearth, a massive thing that spanned the entire west wall of the tavern, had not gone unscathed. There were several deep chips in the stones, all of which were starkly obvious against the smoke-blackened hearth.

Nor had the tavern’s employees escaped injury. The burly cook stood at the hearth, haranguing the halfling helper who struggled to turn the spit and basting a roasting lamb with one hand. His other arm was thickly bandaged and supported by a food-stained sling. The appearance of the hideous half-ore who did odd jobs and heavy lifting was rendered even more disreputable than usual. His snoutlike nose had been splattered flat across his face, and his badly swollen jaw was mottled with shades of purple and the ugly yellow-green of a fading bruise. He labored noisily to draw air through his swollen mouth, and the jagged shards of broken teeth were clearly visible with each rasping breath. One of his lower canine tusks was missing entirely, making his appearance oddly lopsided. Even some of the barmaids bore the lingering marks of battle, including blackened eyes, torn knuckles—and triumphant smirks.

This was by far the most extensive damage done by any tavern brawl in Kendel’s memory, which was long indeed. He noticed all of these things in a glance. Port Kb* was a dangerous place, and those who wished to survive learned to sharpen their senses and keep alert for signs of danger.

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Kendel was also keenly aware of the fact that he was conspicuous even in this crowded taproom. Most native Tethyrians had olive skin, dark eyes, and hair that ranged from chestnut to black. Most of the sailors and dockhands who packed the tavern were heavily muscled from their labors. In stark contrast to his fellows, Kendel had red-gold hair, sky-colored eyes, and a pale skin that no amount of southern sun could darken. He was strong, yet he remained slightly built and stood no more than a handspan or two over five feet. He was, in short, an elf.

“Wuddle
have?” demanded an exceedingly deep, gruff voice from somewhere beyond the counter.p>

Puzzled, the elf leaned forward and peered down over the bar. Glaring at him was the upturned face of a young dwarf with a short, dun-colored beard and a face as glum as a rainy morning.

“An elf! Well then, no need to be telling me,” the dwarf continued sourly. “The ale here’s too rough fer the likes of you, so yer wanting a goblet of bubbly water. Or mebbe some nice warm milk.”

“Or perhaps elverquisst,” Kendel suggested coldly. The delicate appearance of the elven folk often led other races to make such assumptions, while in reality, elven wines and liquors were among the most potent in all Faerun.

“Oh, elverquisst, is it? Sure, this place’s got barrels of fine elven wines,” the dwarf rejoined with heavy sarcasm. “And the privies out back is full to overflowing with jools, too, if n you get my meaning.”

An involuntary smile tugged at the corner of Kendel’s lips. He shared the new barkeep’s dubious opinion of the Dusty Throat’s wine cellar. And although he himself might not have phrased his criticism in quite the same manner, he had to agree the dwarfs comparison was apt.

“Truth be told, wouldn’t be minding a big mug of that elverquisst stuff meself right about now,” the dwarfcon—

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tinued in a wistful tone. “Now there’s a drink that can strip paint an’ melt scrap metal!”

“I’ve never heard elverquisst described in quite those terms,” Kendel replied mildly. “You have troubles that require drowning, I take it?”

“Aye.”

Belatedly, the dwarven barkeep seemed to recall both his duties and the dour reputation of his people. He closed his mouth with an audible click and snatched up the bar rag draped on a small, squat keg behind him With this he began to wipe the counter, hopping up repeatedly as he took one swipe at a time.

The elf suppressed a smile. “You might pull the keg closer to the bar,” he suggested. “That might make your duties easier, as well as enable you to see the patrons.”

“Ain’t nobody here worth seeing,” grumbled the dwarfj but he promptly did as Kendel suggested. After a moment, he climbed onto the keg and thunked a frothy tankard down before the elf. “Ale. It ain’t good, but it’s the best this place has got. Me, I find ale tastes better without the seawater what they add to stretch it out!”

Kendel accepted the drink with a nod and took a sip. It was indeed better than any he’d ever tasted in the tavern. In return, he slipped a small silver coin from his pocket and slid it toward the barkeep. The dwarf fielded it with a quick, insouciant sweep of the bar rag.

“Can’t be letting them see it, or they’d have it from me faster’n a drunken halfling with a willing maid. The folk what run this place is mighty quick to take coins what ain’t theirs.”

“You’ve been robbed?” Kendel asked cautiously. It was not wise to inquire too closely into the troubles of others, yet he felt inexplicably drawn by the barkeep and charmed by his grumpy overtures. Such friendliness was rare in Tethyr, especially to an elf

“Robbed? You might say that,” the dwarf retorted. “I come in here, same as you, to wet my throat after a long day.” A fleeting grin lit his face with an unexpected

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touch of nostalgia. “Though truth be told, the day weren’t no hardship on me. The Foaming Sands—ever beared tell of that place?”