SILVER SHADOWS
Copyright C1996 TSR, Inc. All Rights Reserved.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persona, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the expreee written peraus-aion of TSR, Inc.
All TSR characters, character names, and the distinctive likenesses thereof are trademarks owned by TSR, Inc.
Distributed to the book trade in the United States by Random House, Inc. and in Canada by Random House of Canada Ltd.
Distributed in the United Kingdom by TSR Ltd.
Distributed to the toy and bobby trade by regional distributors
Cow art by Fred Fields. Interior art by John Snyder.
FORGOTTEN REALMS and the TSH logo are registered trademarks owned by TSR, Inc.
First Printing: June 1996
Printed in the United States of America.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 95-62210
98765432 ISBN: 0-7869-0498-4
TSR, Inc.
201 Sheridan Springs Road
Lake Geneva, WI53147
USA.
8666XXX1501
TSR Ltd.
120 Church End, Cherry Hinton
Cambridge CB13LB
United Kingdom
To Marilyn and Henk, just because.
Prelude
Night fell quickly in the Forest of Tethir, and the caravan guards cast wary glances into the tall, dense foliage that walled either side of the trade route. The sounds of the forest seemed to grow louder, more ominous, as the darkness closed in around them. Overhead, the ancient trees met in a canopy too thick for the waning moon to penetrate, but the merchants pressed on, lighting torches and lanterns when their horses began to stumble.
The dim circle of firelight did little to push back the darkness or to assuage the merchants' unease. Their own torch-cast shadows seemed to taunt them, flickering capriciously and appearing as if they might at any moment break away and slip off into the trees.
There was an eeriness to this forest that made such things seem possible. All of the travelers had heard stories of the Watchers of Tethir, and there wasn't a man or woman in the caravan who did not feel the unseen eyes. Chadson Herrick, a grizzled sell-sword who'd made
The Harpers
the road his home for more years than Ehninster had pipes, raised a hand to rub away the tingle at the back of his neck. "My hackles are up. I feel like a cornered wolf," he muttered to the man who rode beside him.
His companion responded with a terse nod. Chadson noted that his friend—a too-thin, nervous youth who at the best of times seemed as taut as a drawn bowstring—was clutching a holy symbol of Tymora, goddess of luck, in one white-knuckled hand. Chadson, for once, was not inclined to tease the lad for his superstitions.
"Just a few more miles," the young man said in a soft, singsong tone that suggested he'd been silently repeating those very words over and over, as if the phrase were a charm that could ward off danger.
Their whispered conversation earned them dark looks from several of the other guards, even though there was no real need to keep silent. The Watchers already knew of the caravan and had probably followed it all the way from Mosstone, the last human settlement on the trade route that cut through the forest. If anything, the travelers' tense silence seemed only to deepen the impending cloud that hung over the caravan.
A sudden wild impulse came upon Chadson. He was tempted to leap from his horse and dance upon the path, all the while hooting and cursing and thumbing his nose at their unseen escort. He imagined the reaction such an act would elicit from the unnerved merchants, and the mental image brought a wry grin to his face.
He was still smiling when the arrow took him through the heart.
Chadson's body tilted slowly to one side and fell to the path. For a moment the men nearest him merely stared, their faces registering horrified recognition of the slender, ebony-hued staff protruding from the dead man's chest. It was the dark-hued arrow of a wild elf, a bolt aptly known as "black lightning" to the humans.
The silence exploded into frenzied action. Following the shouted instructions of the guards, the merchants
Silver Shadows
scrambled down from their wagons and, heedless of their precious cargo, overturned several of the wagons to form a makeshift shield wall. There was no time to cut the traces, and some of the draft horses went over with the wagons, falling heavily into piles of writhing, kicking horseflesh. The animals' shrieks of terror and pain mingled with the screams of dying men as the black arrows descended upon them like stooping falcons.
From behind the scant cover of the wagons, archers returned fire, but they were shooting blind into the heavy foliage and had little hope of actually finding a mark. Some of the more intrepid—and less experienced—of the caravan guards drew swords and crashed into the forest to take the offensive. These were sent reeling back onto the path, unarmed, their eyes wide with shock and their hands clutching at mortal wounds.
The fighting was over in minutes. Many of the men on horseback had fled at the first sign of battle, and a few of the merchant wagons had escaped as well, careening wildly along the path in the wake of the panicked horses. From the north came the sound of fading hoofbeats, and a muffled crash as one wagon tilted over.
When all was silent, several shadowy figures broke free of the forest and crept onto the path. They fell upon the ruined wagons, cursing and bickering as they pawed through the spoils. One of them, taller and broader than most and clad in a dark, flowing cape, strode from the forest with a slight, limp figure slung over one shoulder. This he tossed onto the path to lie among the bodies of several of the slain merchants.
"A torch!" he commanded in a deep voice. "Get some light on this mess!"
One of the forest fighters hastened to obey, fumbling with flint and steel until a spark took hold. The sudden flare of torchlight fell upon the faces of the dead, one of which was an angular, elven face painted in elaborate patterns of greens and browns. A gaping wound slashed across the dead elf s throat and chest, tracing a deep,
diagonal line that started behind one ear and angled down across his ribs. It had long since bled dry. The dark-cloaked leader frowned and glanced at the fallen men that surrounded the elf.
His eyes settled on a young man whose hand had been pinned to his side by an arrow, apparently while he was in the act of reaching for his sword. Tangled among the ruined fingers was a leather thong from which hung the symbol of Tymora. Oddly enough, the arrow had struck the metal disk, skidding along its length and leaving a deep score before sinking into softer flesh. A silent sermon, the killer observed with a bit of dark humor, on the capricious nature of Lady Luck.
"That one," he said with a wolfish smile as he pointed to the youth whose luck had run out. Take his sword and reopen the elf s wound—make it look as if he killed the elf in hand-to-hand combat. If necessary, splash a bit of the lad's blood around to make the kill look reasonably fresh. There's a caravan due to pass through tomorrow."
But as his assistant reached for the sword, the wounded fighter's eyes flickered open, and his good hand closed around the grip of a wicked hunting knife. Startled, the attacker fell back a step and reached for the bow on his shoulder.
Smoothly, swiftly, he sent an arrow hurtling into the young man's chest. This time no lucky medallion deflected the arrow. The youth fell back, instantly dead.
The leader, however, did not look at all pleased by this quick response. He tore the arrow free and brandished it under the archer's nose.
"And what in the Nine bloody Hells do you call this?"
The man shrugged, his face apprehensive as he noted the branded shaft and elaborate blue-and-white fletch-ing that marked it as an arrow of his own making. "Musta run out of elf arrows," he muttered.
"Damn you for a stinking ghast," the leader swore in a low, ominous voice. "If you weren't the best arche* this
side of Zhentil Keep, Fd push this arrow into your left ear and pull it out your right! Search them," he ordered in louder tones, whirling toward the looters and holding the bloody arrow aloft so that all could see the error. "Make sure there are no more mistakes like this one. All of these men died at the hands of wild elves. See to it!"
One
To the casual observer, Blackstaff Tower appeared to be little more than an enormous, tapering cylinder of black granite, a tower some fifty feet tall and surrounded by a curtain wall nearly half that height. Stark and simple, the keep lacked the displays of magic—either fearsome or fanciful— that were so beloved by the wealthy and powerful citizens of Waterdeep. No watchful gargoyles peered down from the tower's flat roof; no animated statues stood guard; no cryptic runes marred the smooth black surface of wall or tower. Yet everyone who knew of the archmage Khelben "Blackstaff" Arunsun—and in Waterdeep, indeed, in all the Northlands, there were few who did not—regarded the simple keep with a mixture of pride and awe. Here, rumor suggested, lay the true power behind the City of Splendors. Here was a gateway to magical wonders beyond the imagination of most mortals.
It is a rare thing when bardic tales fail to exaggerate the measure of might, and when the speculations »f tav-
ern gossips lag timidly behind the truth. Blackstaff Tower was one such exception.
In a chamber in the uppermost level, Khelben's consort, the archmage Laeral Arunsun Silverhand, stood before a mirror, a tall oval of silvered glass surrounded by an elaborately carved and gilded frame. Fully six feet tall and slender as a birch tree, Laeral possessed a strange, fey beauty that hinted of faerie blood. Silvery hair cascaded to her hips, and large green eyes—the deep, silver-green hue peculiar to woodland ponds— searched the mirror's frame with an intensity that seemed oddly out of place on a face so exquisite. She ran her fingers along the carved and gilded wood, seeking the ever-shifting magic that few could perceive, and fewer still could master. When satisfied that she had found the elusive trigger, Laeral spoke a strange phrase and then stepped into the mirror.
She emerged in a deep, forested glade. A few butterflies fed upon the flowers that dotted the meadow grasses, and the ancient oaks that surrounded the glade were robed in the lush green of early summer. It was such a scene as might be found in the forests of many lands, except for an aura of eldritch energy as pervasive as sunlight. Laeral breathed in deeply, as if she could take in the magic and the soul-deep joy that scented the air of Evermeet, the island home of the elves.
In the center of the clearing stood an elven lady, as tall as Laeral herself and clad in a silken gown of dove-gray, the elven color of mourning. The elf s vividly blue eyes had seen the birth and death of several centuries, yet her face was youthful and the flaming luster of her red-gold hair was undimmed by time. A silver circlet rested on the elf woman's brow, but it was her regal bearing and the aura of power surrounding her that proclaimed her Lady of Evermeet, Queen of All Elves.
"Greetings, Laeral Elf-friend," said Queen Amlaruil in a voice like music, like wind.
Laeral sank into a deep curtsey; the elven queen bid
her rise. Having dispensed with the formalities, the two women indulged in a burst of laughter, and then exchanged a sisterly embrace.
Holding hands like schoolgirls, they seated themselves on a fallen log and set to gossiping as if they were carefree maidens, rather than two of the most powerful beings on all of Toril.
But all too soon the conversation turned to matters that demanded their attention. "What news brings you to Evermeet this time, and with such urgency?" the queen asked.
"It's the Harpers again," Laeral said in a dry tone.
Amlaruil's sign came from a deep and ancient pain. "Yes. It often is. What is it this time?"
"It appears that some elves from the Forest of Tethir are attacking farms and caravans."
"Why?"
"How many reasons would you like me to name?" Laeral replied. "As you know, in a time not long past, all the elves who made their homes in the land of Tethyr, including those who dwell in the Forest of Tethir, suffered greatly at the hands of the human rulers. To all appearances, the destruction of Tethyr's royal family brought an end to this persecution. It is possible, however, that the elves are retaliating for past wrongs. Since the land of Tethyr remains lawless and chaotic, it is also likely that human settlements, trade routes, and trappers are encroaching upon elven lands. Perhaps the humans are pressing the elves, and the elves are fighting back."
"As is only natural. What interest do the Harpers have in this?"
"They want to promote some sort of settlement, a compromise that will end the turmoil and address—at least in part—the concerns of both sides."
"Ah, yes." Amlaruil paused for a grim smile. "We made such an arrangement in the forests of Cormanthor, many years ago. How well was that agreement kept, my
friend, and for how long? Today, how many elves live among those trees?"
The question was not meant for answering. Laeral acknowledged the queen's assessment of the matter with a slight nod. "I have argued that very point with several of the Master Harpers, but the decline of the elven people is not an issue the Harpers have traditionally addressed."
"So much for their vaunted concern with maintaining the Balance," the queen murmured.
"What is Balance, to those whose lives are not as long as yours and mine?" Laeral pointed out. "The Harpers' concern is genuine, but the span of their vision is decidedly shorter. They are more worried about the disruption of trade and the possibility of increasing the civil unrest in Tethyr."
"Can't you make them understand what these compromises mean to the elven People?"
"Given a few centuries, yes," Laeral replied grimly. *Khelben understands, after a fashion, but his concern focuses upon the affairs of Waterdeep. And he truly believes that a compromise is the best solution, not only for his city's trade interests, but for the elves themselves. He sees it as their best chance of survival. The humans of Tethyr are not so tolerant of other races as they were even ten or twenty years ago. It would not take much provocation to turn them against the elves. There are far too many ambitious men in Tethyr, looking for a rallying cause to aid their rise to power. I can easily envision the destruction of the elves becoming such a cause. You know what happened under the royal family. Given the general lawlessness of the land, it could be far worse this time."
"Then there is only Retreat," murmured the elven queen. She sat silent for several moments, as if letting the decision take root; then she nodded decisively. "Yes, the Sy-TkrQuessir must Retreat," she decreed, using the Elvish word for the forest folk. "I will send an ambassador
10
11
at once to offer them a haven in Evermeef s ancient woods."
"And if they will not come?"
The queen had thought of that, as well. Then they, like so many of the People, will fade from the land," she said with quiet resignation. "This is the twilight of the Tel'Quessir, my friend. You know that as well as I, We cannot hold back the darkness forever."
"But may that night be long in coming!" Laeral said fervently. "As for the Harpers, believe me when I say that sometimes the best way of controlling their enthusiasm is to work along with them," the mage added in a wry tone that suggested personal experience with this tactic. "Of one thing you can be certain: the Harpers will act with or without your blessing." "What do you suggest?"
"Send a Harper agent to the elves' forest stronghold to bear your invitation—a Harper who will work toward a Balance that will favor the elven community. In this way, if the forest elves refuse to retreat to Evenneet, they will at least have an advocate. That is more than they might get otherwise."
Amlaruil studied her friend. The hesitancy in Laeral's silver-green eyes suggested that there was more to this matter, things of which the mage could not easily speak. Seldom was Laeral reticent about anything. Foreboding tightened AmlanuTs throat, but she waited with elven patience for the woman to find her own way and time.
"Let us say that I would agree to such a plan," the queen suggested calmly. "Have you an elven agent among the Harpers? A forest elf, one known to the community in question?" "No," Laeral admitted.
"Then I do not see how your plan could succeed. Most Sy-Tel'Quessir are insular—suspicious of all elves from outside their tribe. The People of Tethir have not sworn allegiance to me, and so they might not reeejye an
ambassador from the island. Pressed as they are, they would likely kill any non-elf who ventured too near their hidden strongholds. No, it seems to me your Harper would have little hope of survival and even less chance for success."
Laeral did not answer at once, nor did the queen press her. Their silence was filled by the sounds of the elven forest: the rustle of leaves, the soft hum of insects, the blithe call of carefree songbirds. This glade was a place of unparalleled beauty, surrounded and sustained by Evermeet's ancient magic. The island was the last haven of the elves, and its peace and security had seldom been breached. Knowing this, the mage considered her next words carefully. What she was about to suggest trod cruelly upon the elves' painful memories and touched the queen's deepest sorrow.
"There is a half-elven Harper," Laeral said slowly, "currently stationed in a city near the Forest of Tethir. She has passed successfully as an elf on other assignments. She is very convincing, very resourceful. I feel confident that she could find a way into the forest community."
The queen's face was suddenly wary. Her eyes darted toward the shimmering oval gate that had brought Laeral from the mainland to Evermeet. It was a magical bridge between the worlds of the elves and humans, and it had been born with a spark of life that had become a half-elven child—a child that Amlaruil would forever regret. That gate had cost Amlaruil the life of her beloved husband. Grief is seldom reasonable. In AmlaruU's mind, the child and the deadly portal were as one.
"Yes," Laeral said softly, confirming the queen's unspoken conclusion. She took Amlaruil's tightly clasped hands between both of her own. "You know of whom I speak. Half-elven by birth, but willing to do anything to serve the good of the People, She has proven this again and again. Perhaps that is her way of laying
12
claim to a heritage that has otherwise been denied her." The queen tugged her hands free, her expression implacable. "The half-elf bears Amnestria's sword," she said coldly. "A moonblade is a greater inheritance than most noble elves can claim and more honor than she deserves."
It seems to me that steel is cold comfort," Laeral observed. "And as for honor, half-elven or not, she wields Amnestria's sword, a weapon so powerful that many an elven warrior could not touch it and live. Think on it, my friend: what better argument in the girl's favor?"
Amlaruil turned away abruptly to stare with undisguised hatred at the magical gate that had cost her so much. Duty and grief warred on her delicate face for long, agonized moments. Finally, she lifted her head to a regal angle and once again faced her friend.
"You truly believe that this . . . that she is the best person for the task? That through her efforts the lives of the forest People might be spared?"
Laeral nodded, her silvery eyes full of sympathy for the lonely elf woman and admiration for the proud queen.
Then so shall it be." Queen Amlaruil rose, speaking the words in the manner of a royal pronouncement. "Evermeet's ambassador to the Forest of Tethir will be the Harper known as Arilyn Moonblade."
The elf queen turned away and began to walk toward the palace. "So shall it be," she repeated to herself in a whisper that seemed too fragile to bear the weight of her bitterness. "But I swear before all the gods of the Seldarine, the elves would have been better served if the sword she carries had turned against her!"
Two
Tethyr was a land of many contrasts and contradictions. Ancient ways and modern notions, pretensions of royalty and egalitarian fervor commingled uneasily in a land whose natural complexity only magnified her recent woes. Tucked between the moors and mountains of Amn and the vast desert kingdoms of the far south, Tethyr possessed a mostly northern terrain and a temperate climate. The land was a hodgepodge of fertile farmland, deep forests, and sun-baked hills that were as dry and forbidding as any desert. The customs and interests of the peoples who settled each area were as diverse as the land itself.
But Zazesspur, the largest city of this troubled land, looked firmly to the south. A port city with an excellent deepwater harbor, it was set at the mouth of the Sulduskoon River and on the path of important overland routes. Zazesspur saw trade and travelers from many lands. Yet her current ruler, a southerner by the
14
15
name of Balik, did his best to limit the influence of outsiders. The grandson of a Calishite trader, he styled himself as pasha and cultivated an oriental splendor— and a distrust of northerners—that recalled the attitudes of his forebears. Since Pasha Balik's rise to power some dozen or so years before, parts of the city had taken on a decidedly southern character. Both the best and the worst aspects of the great city of Calimport could be found in Zazesspur. Sleek palaces of white marble, formal gardens filled with exotic plants, wide boulevards, and open-air bazaars redolent with rare spices vied for space with sprawling shanty towns and narrow, crime-ridden streets.
Oddly enough, however, most of the illegal activities of Zazesspur were conducted from the better parts of town. The School of Stealth—a school of the fighting arts which was a thinly veiled front for the powerful assassins' guild—was housed in a sprawling complex at the edge of the city. Intrigue was always in fashion, and the going price for an assassin's services was high: So, however, was the price on an assassin's life. Arilyn Moonblade walked lightly down the narrow back-alley street that led to the women's guildhouse, making no more sound than the narrow shadow she cast. She was a broadsword's width short of six feet tall, with raven-dark hair that hung in careless waves about her shoulders and eyes of an unusual dark blue flecked with bits of gold—beautiful eyes that might have inspired bardic odes, had they not been so wary and forbidding. Pale as moonlight and alert as a stalking cat, Arilyn had about her a tense, watchful air and the too-thin, too-taut look of one who seldom paused for either food or sleep. For an assassin, the choices were few and straightforward: constant vigilance, or death.
The half-elf had been a member of the assassins' guild for several months, and she was no longer considered an easy mark. Zazesspur's professional killers were strictly ranked, and the sash of pale gray s^lk that
belted Arilyn's waist proclaimed her to be a fighter of the highest skill. But there were still those who refused to believe that a woman—much less a half-elven woman from the barbarous Northlands—could defend the Shadow Sash she wore.
The system for advancement within the guild was simple: an ambitious assassin merely killed someone of higher rank and took his sash. Arilyn had defended her rank more times than she cared to admit. When forced to do so, she fought with an icy skill and an even colder fury that was becoming legendary among her associates. Not one of them, however, suspected that the half-elf wanted nothing more than to be rid of her dark—and largely undeserved—reputation. Nor would they ever know. Solitary and cautious by nature, with each grim challenge Arilyn became more intensely watchful and more fiercely alone.
Thanks to several months of hard-won survival, Arilyn's instincts were as keenly honed as a bladesinger's sword. She didn't need to hear footsteps or glimpse a shadow to know she was being followed. Nor did she expect such things. Silence was the first lesson taught to fledgling assassins, and the faint light coming from the high, narrow windows of the women's guild-house up ahead cast all shadows behind her. Yet Arilyn knew she was being hunted. She could not have been more certain of this if the stalker had announced his intent with blaring horns and the yapping of hounds.
Even so, several heartbeats passed before she caught sight of him. Although half-elven, Arilyn had in full measure the keen sight of elvenkind: sharp detail, long range—and wide sweep. Behind her, at the outermost edge of her peripheral vision, she saw a tall, broad figure, cloaked and cowled into anonymity, rapidly closing the distance between them.
No one had reason to walk this particular path but Arilyn and her sole female colleague, for the tall, narrow tower that housed the women's guildhouse was the
16
humblest and most remote building in the complex. It seemed likely, therefore, that the man behind her had career advancement in mind.
But Arilyn walked steadily on, giving no sign that she was aware of the assassin's presence. Just a few paces ahead was a walkway that branched off from the path, leading into the even narrower alley that ran between the high courtyard walls of the opulent men's guild-house and the council hall. The attack would surely come there.
When just one step remained between her and the alley, Arilyn exploded into action. In one fluid movement she whirled, seized the man's cloak with both hands, and threw herself back into a roll. The startled assassin went down with her. Before the man's weight could pin her to the ground, she twisted her body in a half-turn, brought her knees up to her chest, and kicked her feet out high and hard. The man somersaulted over her and landed heavily on the dirt.
Before his grunt of impact died away, Arilyn rolled up onto her knees beside him. She stiffened two fingers into a weapon, scanned his cloaked-and-cowled form for a target spot that would render him temporarily immobile, and drove down hard.
Her fingers plunged into the side of the man's neck— too deep, and far too easily! Arilyn grimaced as her hand disappeared into the dark-cloaked figure, winced as her fingertips drove into the hard-packed earth below.
Mouthing a silent curse, the half-elf snatched her hand out of the insubstantial body. She jerked back the cowl that obscured the apparition's face. The faint moonlight fell upon strong features, dark hair both silvering and receding, and a black beard distinctively streaked with silver.
"Khelben," she muttered with exasperation, settling back on her heels and staring with dismay at the figure who, with a dignity astonishing under the ^circum-
17
stances, coolly rose to his feet and brushed the dust from bis cape.
At this moment Khelben "Blackstaff" Arunsun—the archmage of Waterdeep, a Master Harper, and her own superior—was hardly Arilyn's favorite person. The Harpers had sent the half-elf and her partner, Danilo Thann, to Zazesspur on a diplomatic mission, and although Khelben was not responsible for the grim role she had assumed as her cover, Arilyn found that she had little wish to face him—or, to be more precise, to face the sending that he had conjured and sent over the miles to speak in his stead. Arilyn assumed that BlackstafFs magical double would be as devoted to solemn discussion as the original model, and this she simply could not bear. She would do her duty by the Harpers, but she'd be damned if she'd sit around and chat about it!
"Nice sending," she said as she rose to face the arch-mage's double. "More solid than most."
There was a touch of regret in her voice. The implication—that she might have preferred to attack an even more solid target—did not escape the archmage. A sardonic smile lifted one corner of his dark mustache.
"Well met to you, Arilyn Moonblade," he said with a hint of sarcasm. "By Mystra, I swear that with each day that passes, you grow more like your father! I've seen that very expression on his face more times than I care to count!"
Arilyn stiffened. Her relationship with her human father was a tentative and fledgling thing, too new for comfort and too personal for casual talk. And if truth be told, although she found much to admire in the man, she did not care to be reminded of her mixed heritage.
"I doubt you conjured a sending merely to chat about your long-dead quarrels with Bran Skorlsun," she observed. "We're both here on Harper business. If it's all the same to you, let's get on with it."
The image of Khelben Arunsun nodded and asked for
18
her report. With a few terse words, Arilyn described the progress in her mission to help defuse an attempt by the guilds of Zazesspur to depose the ruling pasha and establish guild rule. Of her presence in the assassins' guild, and the ever-growing toll this subterfuge was taking on her, she said nothing. Fortunately, Khelben did not press her for details.
"You and Danilo have done well," the archmage said at last. "Pasha Balik is aware of the threat, and your friendship with Prince Hasheth has gained the Harpers a valuable contact in the palace. Now that the situation in Zazesspur is under control—at least for the moment—the time has come for us to speak of other matters. You are aware of the recent troubles in the Forest of Tethir?"
The Harper nodded, her face cautious.
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!
19
"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."
20
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
21
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...
Januszek66