Silver Shadows (29 page)

Bunlap looked forward to hearing Vnenlar’s report. If all went as he, Bunlap, had planned, he would have satisfaction enough to justify the gold the Halruaan wizard was costing him.

As he strode toward his waiting horse, Bunlap absently traced the scar on his face, a gesture that was fast becoming a habit. No amount of gold would settle

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that particular account. There were some matters that could be paid only in blood.

That, he would have in plenty. When he was done with the Suldusk tribe, every elf in Tethir would flood to his new stronghold to take their vengeance.

And he would be more than ready for them.

The days passed quickly in the forest, for there was much to be done. Arilyn found that though the elves were superlative archers, they had little knowledge of the various human styles of swordplay. They were quick, agile, and utterly fierce in battle, yet these things were no replacement for knowledge.

She spent much time drilling those who possessed blades, and encouraged the production of other weapons. The forest people looked with horror upon the crossbow, but she stubbornly insisted that the artisans of the village fashion as many copies of hers as possible. As days slipped by, Talltrees began to acquire a considerable arsenal: spears, javelins, bone daggers and throwing knives—anything and everything that could be used as a weapon.

This worried Rhothomir, who saw, as the inevitable end of all this, a huge war that his people could not win.

“It is not our way, attacking the humans in large numbers. And why should we? It is utterly foolish to go against so many.”

“We do not yet know how many we must fight,” Foxfire reasoned. “You speak as if the humans were of one mind and purpose! It may be that our foe can be overcome. If not, at least we are better prepared to keep them from the forest.”

And so it went, at great length. Arilyn kept away from the arguments, letting the elven war leader speak for her. She had enough to occupy her time without dealing with the tradition-bound Speaker.

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Chief among her problems, oddly enough, were her most avid supporters. There were among the younger elves many who applauded her vision; Hawkwing and Tamsin were leaders among them. This worried Arilyn more than it reassured her. The sheer power of the hatred these elves held for all things human did not bode well—not only for her own safety, but for theirs. The Forest of Tethir was vast and deep, but the simple fact of life was that its boundaries, now defined by human farms and roads and towns, were shrinking. This was to be a battle, not a crusade. The best that Arilyn could hope for was to buy more time for the forest folk, time for them to enjoy the peace and beauty of their ancient ways, time in which they could learn new ways, perhaps come to terms somewhat with their human neighbors. In this Khelben Arunsun and the Harpers had been correct: there was no way to push back the humans except to move back the hands of time itself.

So she was more than a bit concerned to see Tamsin and his crowd gathered together, talking with an excitement that fell just short of a fever pitch. She strode into their midst and drew a long, relieved, breath. The scouts had returned.

“Go get Foxfire and the Speaker,” Arilyn bid one of the younglings. He hurried off, to return in moments with the older elves.

Faunalyn, a young female well named for her doelike eyes and tawny skin, spoke with great excitement. “We followed the humans, as you said. They traveled south, past the spring pool and out of the forest. We followed them still,” she added in a voice still rounded with the remembered wonders of the outside world. “There is a vast dwelling of wood and stone. They went within.”

“A fortress?” Arilyn asked sharply. “Was it on a low cliff, overlooking the river?”

The elf woman nodded, then recoiled with surprise when the moon elf let out a sharp and earthy curse,*

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“Do you know this place?” Foxfire asked her, taking her arm and drawing her aside.

“I’ve been past it. Just barely. The local lord is a mercenary by the name of Bunlap. Nasty piece of work.”

Foxfire stared at her. “You are certain of this?”

“Oh, yes,” Arilyn said dryly. “I spent a small fortune making certain of the fortress and its defenses. Of course, at the time I was just planning how to get past it, not how best to attack.”

“Attack,” he repeated softly, shaking his head as he tried to absorb this. “Can we do such a thing?”

The Harper sighed and dug one hand into her hair. “Give me a few minutes to think about it, would you? I don’t happen to have a plan in mind just yet.”

“If you are to consider this matter, there are things you should know,” Foxfire said in a somber tone. 1 have met this Bunlap. He claims to seek justice for elven wrongs, yet from all I know it seems he is bent upon blackening the name of the People. Why this is so, I cannot guess. But he has reason to hate me—he bears my mark on his face.”

He took a black arrow from his quiver and showed Arilyn the mark upon it—the stylized design of the flower from which he took his name. “I carved this onto his cheek.”

She looked sharply at the elf. “You couldn’t have told me this sooner?”

Foxfire shrugged, but he looked a bit sheepish, “Once the humans leave the forest, they are all but lost to us. It did not occur to me that you might be able to trace this man to his lair.”

“Hmm. Do you know anything else that might be of interest?”

He hesitated for several moments before answering. “You may wish to speak with Ferret. She has lived among the humans, trying to find just such answers as we now seek. It is not widely known where she went, or how she passed the months away. Please trust me when

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I say that it is best left this way. There are those among us who do not approve of her methods, and yet others who would be too quick to imitate them..”

Arilyn nodded, for she understood this matter far better than he knew. “I’ll do that. What else?”

The tribe has been willing to undergo your training. They have made your weapons and would use them in defense of their home. But I do not know whether they would leave the forest and follow you—or me, for that matter—into battle. It is not our way.”

“And yet your people have done just that in the past,” Arilyn mused. Something from Ferret’s tale clicked into place in her mind—an incredible possibility that might just galvanize the forest folk. “I need time alone to think about these things,” she said abruptly. “Where can I go where I will not be disturbed? It is important.”

“If you like, I myself will stand guard below your dwelling. None will pass,” Foxfire said, looking a bit puzzled by her vehemence.

Arilyn noted this, hut did not take time to respond to his unspoken questions. She strode over to her tree and climbed the ladder to her small dwelling. Although it seemed rude to do so, she pulled up the ladder after her and laced shut the deerhide flaps that covered the small windows.

When all was secured, Arilyn pulled her moonblade from its sheath and held it up before her face.

“Come forth,” she said softly, steeling herself for the appearance of her magical double. The ghostly mist swirled up from the elven sword, quickly taking the form of its half-elven mistress.

“What is it that you seek to do, and to undo?” the elfshadow asked, but there was a note of reproach in her voice.

“I need to call you out in battle,” Arilyn said, ignoring the elfshadow’s rhetorical question. Of course the thing knew what she planned—it was her, albeit a straight-laced and rather too noble version of herself. “Actually,

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I might need to call all of you—all the elves who ever have wielded the sword. Can this be done?”

The elfshadow clearly had not expected this response.
Only once before, but yes, this is possible.”

“Good,” she said briskly. “I need to infiltrate a fortress. There are nine of you, and one of me. That’s enough to start a pretty good fight and to get the doors open.”

“You must realize that there are risks,” the shadow cautioned her. “Calling forth all the elfshadows takes a tremendous toll upon the sword’s wielder. Not even Zoastria, who endowed the moonblade with the elishad-ow entity, called forth her own double more than a few times.”

“Which brings me to my next question,” Arilyn said. “Zoastria and Soora Thea. Is it possible that these are one and the same?”

“I do not know. Would you like to speak with her?”

Arilyn took a long, deep breath. This was the moment she had longed for—and dreaded—since she had first learned the secret of her moonblade’s magic. It was mind-boggling enough to regard her own image as the entity of the sword. The possibility of conversing with the essence of an ancestor was utterly beyond her imagination. And not just some unknown ancestor—the essence of her own mother lived within the sword!

Yet as much as she longed to see Zberyl again, Arilyn was not entirely sure how her mother would react to Arilyn’s quest to avoid the destiny the moonblade had chosen for her. Arilyn was well accustomed to being considered less than adequate, for she had grown up a half-elf in an elven settlement. But never once had she seen disappointment in her mother’s eyes. She was not certain she could bear to witness it now.

Yet Zoastria she could—and must—confront.

“How is it done?” Arilyn asked.

“The same way you called me forth. But the power of the sword is diminished when you call forth the others. You

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will be at risk in ways to which you are not accustomed.”

Arilyn accepted this with a nod, and then once again lifted the sword. “Come forth, you who were once Zoastria,” she said in a firm voice.

Again mist rose from the ancient blade, and as the elven form took shape Arilyn’s heart seemed to turn to stone in her chest. This was the very form she had seen in the treasure chamber—the slumbering ancestor who haunted her dreams.

But oddly enough, the shadow of Zoastria did not appear to be nearly as solid as Arilyn’s double. She was ghostly, insubstantial—not at ah* the heroic figure needed to lead the elves to victory.

“What do you want of me, half-elf, and how is it that you command the sword of Zoastria?” the elfshadow demanded in a tone of voice that Arilyn knew all too well. She had not expected to confront such scorn from her own ancestor, nor would she yield to it.

Arilyn squared her shoulders and faced down the misty image. “You are Zoastria, who bore the sword before me. Are you also the moon fighter known as Soora Thea?”

“Once. Thus did the forest folk say my name, for the language of Evermeet was beyond their grasp.”

“You are needed again,” Arilyn said softly. “Their descendants need the return of their hero.”

But the image of Zoastria shook her head. “You know so little of the sword you carry. I cannot; I can only appear as you see me. Of all the sword’s powers, the ability to call forth the elfshadow essence is the weakest. You should know that, to your sorrow,” she added sharply.

Arilyn’s cheeks burned, but she did not respond. For as long as she drew breath, she would grieve for the evil use made of her elfshadow by her former mentor and friend. The gold elf Kymil Nimesin had wrested control of the elfshadow from the sword and turned it—and therefore, Arilyn—onto an assassin’s path.

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“Why not? Why are you different from the others?” the half-elf demanded.

“Because unlike most of the moon fighters, I did not die,” Zoastria said. “It is possible to pass on the sword to a blade heir without tasting death. This is not a choice lightly made, but I made a pledge to return and this is how it is honored. There are others who have done this. Doubtless, you have heard legends.”

The half-elf nodded. Stories of a sleeping hero who would return in a time of great need were told from the Moonshaes to Rashemen. And now she understood why all these stories had in common an ancient, mystic sword.

“But there is a way for me to honor my pledge,” Zoastria continued. “Elfshadow and mistress must again become one. This cannot be while that which I once was sleeps in a rich man’s vault. Unite the two, and I will be as alive as ever I was.”

The half-elf nodded slowly. “Is this your wish?”

What question is this? Better to ask, is this my duty? If there is no other way, then call me forth. I will come.”

And with that, the ghostly image dissipated and flowed into the sword. Arilyn’s own shadow disappeared with it.

Arilyn slid the moonblade back into its sheath and considered what she had learned. To retrieve the slumbering Zoastria would be no easy task and was not one she could attempt anytime soon. As her ancestor advised, she must try to find another way.

Hasheth left his horse at the public stables and set off down the docks of Port Kir on foot. The dock area was not the safest place to be, not even during daylight, but Hasheth walked alone with his confidence utterly intact. Had he not spent time among the assassins of Zazesspur? Though his apprenticeship might have been brief and illfated, he had learned enough to be awarded

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his sand-hue sash. He might not have notches on his blade to mark successful kills, but he could throw the unblooded knife hard and straight.

He had another weapon as well, one keener still, which he was honing with each day that passed. Hasheth had little doubt that his wits were equal to anything the docks of Port Kir might serve up.

His surroundings grew increasingly rougher as he made his way toward the sea. Small shops offering oddities of every description gave way to rough-and-tumble taverns. Before long the wooden walkways grew narrow, and between the boards he could see the dark water of Firedrake Bay lapping at the shore. As he neared his destination, the stench offish became overwhelming. In open warehouses on either side of the dock, men and women went about processing the day’s catch, seemingly oblivious to the piles of discarded shells and shrimp heads and fish innards that were heaped around their boots.