Songs & Swords 1 (3 page)

“No, that is enough for now. Your spirit is commendable, but unnecessary swordplay in the temple garden would be unseemly.” He extended his hand. “May I see the moonblade now?”

Although disappointed by the quessir’s refusal to continue the match, Arilyn sensed that she had passed some sort of test. Swallowing a triumphant smile, she took the sword by its tip and offered it hilt-first to the master.

Kymil shook his head. “Sheath it first.”

Puzzled, she did as she was told. She slid the sword into the scabbard, then removed her sword belt and passed it to the gold elf.

Kymil examined the weapon carefully. He studied the runes on the scabbard for a long moment before he turned his attention to the hilt of the sword, gently running his fingers over the large, empty oval indentation just below the blade’s grip.

“It will need a new stone to replace the missing one.” He raised an inquiring brow. “The balance is slightly off, I imagine?”

“Not that I noticed.”

“You will, as your training progresses,” he assured her.

“Training?” A score of questions tumbled through Arilyn’s mind and flashed across her face, but Kymil waved her curiosity aside with an impatient hand.

“Later. First, tell me what you can about your father.”

The elf’s request shocked Arilyn into silence. It had been many years since she had allowed herself the luxury of thinking about her father. As a small child she had constructed elaborate fantasies, but in truth she knew virtually nothing about the circumstances of her birth. Although elves as a rule gave great importance to their heritage, Z’beryl had always stressed that family background was less important than individual merit. Arilyn accepted this unorthodox view as best she could, but at the moment she wished desperately for some grand paternal history to tell Kymil Nimesin. Arilyn knew how important such things were to the lineage-proud gold elves.

She replied carefully, “You may have noticed that I’m a half-elf. My father was human.”

“Was?”

“Yes. When I was much younger, I used to ask my mother about him, but it always made her so sad that I stopped. I’ve always assumed that my father is dead.”

“What about Z’beryl’s family?” Kymil pressed. Arilyn’s only response was a derisive sniff. The quessir raised one golden eyebrow. “I take it you know of them?”

“Very little.” Arilyn’s chin came up proudly. They had wanted no part of her, and she would claim no part of them. “I never saw any of them before Mother’s funeral, and I never expect to see any of them again.”

“Oh?”

Kymil’s interest was obvious, but Arilyn merely shrugged aside his question. “The only thing they wanted of me was the sword. I still can’t understand why they didn’t just take it.”

The gold elf permitted himself a sneer. “They couldn’t. This is a moonblade, a hereditary sword that can be wielded by one person alone. Z’beryl left the moonblade to you, and it has honored her choice.”

“It has? How do you know that?”

A wry expression settled about the elf’s features. “You drew the sword and you still live,” he said succinctly,

“Oh.”

Kymil held the sheathed moonblade out to Arilyn with an almost deferential gesture. “The sword has chosen, and in choosing it has set you apart. No one but you can wield it or even handle the sheathed weapon without your consent. From this night until the moment of your death, you cannot be parted from the weapon.”

“So the sword and I are a team?” she asked hesitantly, eyeing the weapon that Kymil held out to her.

“In a manner of speaking, yes. Its magic is yours alone.”

“Magic?” Arilyn reclaimed the sword and belted it on gingerly, as if she expected the thing to shapechange at any moment. “What can it do?”

“Without knowing the specific history of this blade, I cannot tell,” Kymil replied, watching with approval as Arilyn drew the sword and studied it with new interest, her momentary fear of the blade forgotten. “No two moonblades are alike.”

She glanced up. “There are more of them?”

“Yes, but they are quite rare. Each blade has a unique and complex history, for the sword’s magic develops and grows as each wielder invests their moonblade with a new power.”

Excitement lit the half-elf’s face. “So I can add a new magic power to the sword, too? Whatever I like?”

“I’m afraid not,” Kymil said, pointing to the oval indentation beneath the blade’s grip. “Your sword lacks the enspelled moonstone that acts as a conduit between wielder and weapon. All magical powers come from the wielder, pass through the stone, and are eventually absorbed by the sword itself.”

“Oh.”

The gold elf smiled faintly. “Do not be so disappointed, child. All the established powers of the moonblade are yours to command.”

“Like what?” she demanded, intrigued.

Kymil’s black eyes drifted shut. He shook his head and breathed a gentle sigh of resignation. “I can see that you will be a demanding pupil,” he murmured. “Since you have no one else, I propose to train you myself, if this is what you wish.”

Delighted, Arilyn blurted out, “Oh, yes!” The next instant her face fell. “But how? The Academy of Arms won’t accept me.”

“Nonsense.” Suddenly brisk in manner, Kymil waved away that barrier with a flick of one long-fingered hand. “You already show more skill and promise than many of their finest students. The humans, in particular, are at best capable of learning no more than the rudiments of the fighting arts. It would be a welcome change to have a worthy student. And Z’beryl’s daughter …” The elf’s voice trailed off as he considered the possibilities.

Not completely reassured, Arilyn regarded the much-scuffed toe of her boot. “It will be several years before I reach the age when half-elves can be accepted—”

“That will not be an issue,” Kymil broke in, and his tone indicated that the matter was settled. “You are an etriel under my tutelage. That is all the academy will require.”

Arilyn’s head snapped up in surprise. Her eyes widened with awe at what Kymil had said and what the statement had implied. Then her shoulders squared, and with a quick decisive move she sheathed her magic weapon. She was no longer a half-elven orphan, child of an unknown father. She was an etriel, a noble elf-sister. Kymil Nimesin had said so.

“Very well, then,” Kymil concluded brusquely, “it’s settled. You need only take the pledge of apprenticeship. Draw your sword, if you will, and repeat after me the words I speak.”

Overwhelmed but excited, Arilyn drew the moonblade. On a sudden whim, she stepped to one side of the statue and there sank to her knees; she would take this pledge at the foot of the elven goddess, as befitted an etriel. Grasping the moonblade with both hands, she extended the sword before her and raised her eyes to the master, waiting expectantly for the words of the pledge.

Kymil’s only response was a sharp intake of breath. Filled with uncertainty, Arilyn rose to her feet, but the gold elf withdrew from her, his eyes locked on her moonblade.

Arilyn looked down. In her hands, the sword was beginning to glow with a faint blue light. The light grew brighter until, like a live thing, it wandered from the sword, touching the mists and setting them swirling, wraithlike, around the elves. As the stunned pair watched, the seeking mists turned here and there as if confused. The mists finally reached the statue, bringing an azure blush to the face of the goddess.

In the back of her mind, Arilyn began to separate a distinct note from the jangle of her emotions. Whether it felt more like cold energy or the presence of some strange entity she could not say, but it was a force that was both inside her and around her. The force grew until the garden shone blue with its light and her senses hummed with its power. Was this what magic felt like? It was frightening and foreign, yet it was as much a part of her as her sword arm. Shaken, Arilyn threw down the blade.

Instantly the garden was slammed into darkness, a darkness relieved only by the mist-veiled moon and the rapidly fading glow of the moonblade. “What was that?” Arilyn asked in an awed whisper. “Where did it go?”

Kymil returned to her side. “I do not know,” he admitted. “There is much mystery about the moonblade.”

Arilyn reached up with tentative fingers to touch the stone hand that lay over the goddess’s heart. It seemed to her that a bit of the blue light lingered there.

“Come now,” admonished Kymil, and his brisk tone banished the sense of awe that held Arilyn in thrall. “Do not let this incident frighten or distract you. I’m sure an explanation will come to both of us in due time. We will discover the moonblade’s abilities together. You have talent and an extraordinary inheritance; I can give you skills and a worthy cause. Now, shall we proceed with the oath?”

To have Kymil Nimesin as teacher and mentor! Arilyn nodded eagerly took up her sword once more. The light in Arilyn’s blue eyes outshone that of the fading moonblade as she repeated the words of the ritual.

Two

“Oh, this is rich! This is one for my memoirs, that’s sure and certain. The Harpers’ pet assassin, coming to we for advice!” The old man cackled with delight, clinging to the edge of his writing table as he rocked back and forth in his chair, caught up in a delirium of wheezing mirth.

His enjoyment of the situation did not at all endear him to his visitor. Hands clenched at her side, Arilyn Moonblade gritted her teeth and waited for the retired Zhentarim agent to have done with his amusement. In her opinion, any encounter with the Zhentarim should be handled with a sword, not with diplomacy and bargaining. The Dark Network was devoted to the gods of evil as well as to the individual and collective greed of its members, and this man was a particularly unsavory specimen. The moonblade at Arilyn’s side fairly hummed with silent indignation, echoing her opinion precisely. Besides, the man’s taunt had struck her a little too close to home.

The half-elven adventurer had little choice but to endure the cackling fool, since he possessed information that she was unlikely to get elsewhere. She waited calmly, eyeing the old man with a well-concealed revulsion. His wrinkled skin had an unhealthy grayish hue, and his gaunt limbs and bloated belly made him look very like an oversized spider. He was spiderlike in character, as well, and every time Arilyn looked at him, she was surprised anew to see that he did not possess the standard-issue eight legs of his kind. His lair was an appropriate setting, a low-beamed dark room over a tavern, festooned by dust webs and enlivened only by the dim light of a lantern and the rising odor of dinner cooking—liver and onions would be Arilyn’s guess. Where the man spent his ill-gotten wealth was immediately apparent; he had literary pretensions and was engaged in writing a massive tome. Piles of expensive parchment littered his writing table, which shook under the assault of his laughter.

Finally the old man wound down to a chuckle and wiped his streaming eyes. Still beaming, he motioned to the chair next to his writing table. “Sit down, sit down. Make yourself comfortable, and let’s talk shop.”

Arilyn resented his cozy inference. The man had also been an assassin in his day, but she had nothing in common with this vile human. She perched on the edge of the offered chair and said in a formal tone, “You’ve received our communications, and I trust you understand the situation.”

“More or less.” The man raised one shaggy eyebrow. “Seems like a lot of trouble to go through for a bunch of religious trinkets.”

“Priceless artifacts, sacred to the goddess Sune,” she corrected.

“Suddenly the Harpers are overcome with devotion to the goddess of beauty, eh? When did this come about?”

“The artifacts were stolen from an envoy of Sune’s church, and the clerics with him were murdered.”

“So? These things happen.” The man shrugged.

His attitude raised Arilyn’s ready temper to dangerously near its boiling point. She had been in the search party that had discovered the twisted bodies, and the memory banished her halfhearted commitment to diplomacy. “Of course, the loss of innocent lives is a trivial matter,” she said with venomous irony, “but the Church of Sune would very much like to get the artifacts back.”

“Innocent lives or not, this isn’t the type of pie Harpers generally poke their fingers into,” the Zhentishman pointed out with sarcasm of his own. “Recovering stolen property? Come on, now. It’s not lofty enough by half.”

That much was true, Arilyn agreed silently. The Harpers sponsored noble causes seemingly at random, chosen through some mysterious process to which Arilyn was not privy. This time, however, she knew exactly what the Harpers’ purpose was. The previous year, the kingdoms of the Heartlands had united in a crusade to stop a barbarian invasion. This crusade, although successful, had left the Heartlands politically unsettled and had, ironically, strengthened the position of the Zhentarim stationed at Darkhold, their mountain fortress. To these issues the Harpers now addressed themselves.

“As you no doubt know, the Zhentarim has a one-year treaty with the local government. The year’s almost up, but for a time Darkhold’s raiding parties can strike without fear of harassment or reprisal. Fortunately,” Arilyn said wryly, “the Harpers don’t answer to the local government. The Church of Sune has no recourse through the usual channels, so like many other victims of the raids, they turned to the Harpers for help.”

The old Zhentishman grinned and leaned back in his chair. He tapped out a jaunty rhythm on his table with knotted, ink-stained fingers. “Of course. So the Harpers are sending a highly skilled assassin to infiltrate Darkhold, politely ask for Sune’s property back, stay to share afternoon tea with the locals, and sneak back out. That sound about right?”

“I generally don’t drink tea,” Arilyn said with a touch of grim humor, “but you’ve got the basic idea.”

“Aha. Now that the formalities are out of the way, why don’t you tell me what you’re really planning.”

“To retrieve the stolen artifacts.”

Another rheumy chuckle grated from the old man. “Stubborn wench, aren’t you? All right, we’ll play it your way. What unlucky bastard has these artifacts?”

Arilyn hesitated for a long moment before answering. There were rumors of bad blood between this man and the person she sought, and she’d been advised that this informant would relish an opportunity to even the score. Selling out a former comrade was inconceivable to her, yet she knew that it was a fairly routine practice among the Zhentarim. Indeed, the man before her looked as though he would gladly sell his own mother to an Ulgarthian harem.