The Dream Spheres (17 page)

“What has my son done now?”

“Sir, I regret to bring ill news. Just this morning, I went to Oth’s tower on some impulsive errand.” Danilo glanced at Arilyn, silently bidding her to let him tell the tale as he saw best. “The door was ajar. No one was there to answer my hail, so I took liberty to enter and investigate. I found the study in fearful disarray. There had been a struggle, and I was too late to give aid. My lord, I am deeply sorry”

The old mage stared at him, not yet comprehending. “A struggle? What manner?”

Arilyn leaned forward, ignoring Danilo’s silent warning. His intentions were good, but she believed that a quick cut was kindest. “It appears that your son was killed by tren—powerful lizardmen who kill for hire. I am sorry.”

Lord Eltorchul let out a small, choked sound of dismay. Arilyn’s gaze flicked to Errya. The young woman received the news stoically. Her painted lips had thinned to a tight line, and her face was set as if in marble. Arilyn turned back to the mage.

“I am sorry to ask this, but do you know of any who might have wished Oth’s death?”

Lord Eltorchul looked down at his clenched hands. “No. None at all.” He lifted dazed eyes. “He is gone? You are certain of this?”

“The tren left a sign.” Danilo explained the situation as delicately as possible, and then handed the man the ring he had taken from Oth’s hand. “I saw this ring in your son’s possession, not more than two days ago.”

“Yes. It is his,” the mage muttered. “I have seen him wear it. It is true, then. He is gone.”

“Yes, but perhaps you know of a high-ranking priest… .”

A bit of hope lit the old man’s eyes as he caught Danilo’s meaning. “Yes. Yes! If there is a possibility—”

“There is not,” snapped Errya. Her hands clenched at the gray tabby in her lap, drawing a hiss of protest from the animal. “I know my brother better than you do, Father. He would not wish resurrection. He is a wizard, and he despises clerics and their magic! Do you think Oth would want a gift from such hands, even if it were his own life?”

“I suppose you are right,” Lord Eltorchul said in a weary, defeated tone. He slumped forward and buried his face in his hands.

His daughter turned a spiteful gaze upon their visitors. “That suggestion was unworthy of you, Danilo, but what more could I expect? This is just the sort of thing that comes of consorting with elven ruffians!”

“That’s it.” Arilyn rose to leave.

Danilo placed a restraining hand on her sword arm. “You are remiss, Errya. This has nothing to do with Arilyn. Quite the contrary Elves do not believe in disturbing the afterlife.”

“She’s here, isn’t she?” demanded the young woman, leaning forward over the cat in her lap. “Oth is dead, isn’t he?”

The cat wriggled and hissed a warning, which Errya ignored. Danilo rose to stand beside Arilyn, his eyes cold. “I understand that you are distraught, but take care whom you accuse.”

Errya’s lip curled. “Rest easy. The half-breed had nothing to do with it. Oth was killed because he had dealings with Elaith Craulnober. I know it!”

Her voice held a note of hysteria and reached a pitch that was painful to hear. Arilyn noted that the long-suffering tabby turned his ears back against the onslaught, and she wished she could do the same.

“What will be done about it?” Errya went on. “Nothing! Time was when outsiders were dealt with. Ask Arlos Dezlentyr, if you doubt me, and—Damn!”

Her voice rose in a shriek of pain as the tabby nipped sharply at her hand. She hurled the cat across the room. The creature twisted in the air with feline grace and landed on his feet, tail lashing as he leveled a baleful stare at the woman. She tossed her head and turned back to the visitors.

“You’ve said what you came to say. As you can see, my father is overcome with grief. Leave the box with me and go.”

Arilyn was only too glad to comply. As she stalked past the polite, empty suits of armor, she heard Danilo offer his condolences to the Eltorchul patriarch and promise to help find who killed his son. This “interference” sent Errya into a fit of shrieking, which finally pushed the old man beyond the edge of his composure. The mage began to weep in low, terrible sobs. Errya left him there, her slippers clicking an angry staccato as she went off after the cat who’d dared to nip at her, as if this insult far outweighed the loss of a brother and the grief of her aging father.

As the door shut on the noble folk of the Eltorchul clan, Arilyn was not certain whether the old mage’s deepest regret was for the family he had lost or that which he still had to endure.

Each morning, a number of caravans mustered in the Court of the White Bull, an open area in the heart of South Ward. This was the working district of Waterdeep. Smoke rose from between the tightly packed buildings that surrounded the courtyard. The clang of metal upon metal resounded from the nearby forges, and the nervous lowing of cattle drifted from the stockyard. The

cupping sound of hooves on hard packed earth heralded the passing of a dairymaid leading her cow. The warm, earthy scent of leather emanated from the saddlers’ shop.

But such common things faded before the unusual sight that dominated the courtyard. Elaith Craulnober had been a merchant and an adventurer for over a century, and never had he seen a caravan as peculiar as this.

Servants bustled about rolling up the canvas tents that had shielded the caravan from the sudden downpour. The vast courtyard was alive with the rustle of giant wings, and the rumbling coos and roars and whinnies of scores of sky-going steeds. Several quartets of pegasi pawed the ground. Grooms wearing the Gundwynd crest fitted the winged horses with long, strong traces. Behind each team was attached a lightweight carriage fashioned without wheels or runners. On the north side of the courtyard, a line of griffins sat like brooding hens, their lionlike front paws tucked under their breast feathers. Enormous leather hoods masked their hawklike heads and kept them from flying too soon.

This typically human device sent a quick surge of anger through Elaith. Keeping a bird from flight was unconscionable, yet the humans did it all the time. They hooded their hunting falcons to keep them docile when they were not flying after game. They cropped the wings of their geese to keep them trapped on mill ponds. Some of the fools even netted songbirds and clipped their wings to keep them as ornaments to their gardens. Of course, those birds died with the coming of winter, but what was that but another task for the servants to tend come spring?

A peal of lighthearted laughter interrupted the elf’s angry thoughts. He turned in time to witness a highly unusual game of catch.

A golden steed hopped into the path of a passing half-orc porter—not a horse, but a titanic eagle with a raptor’s cold eyes and hooked, rending beak. Just the sight of it was enough to freeze the blood of a brave man. The eagle’s beak opened and the gigantic head suddenly lunged forward in a quick, darting strike.

The porter shrieked, dropped his load, and rolled frantically aside. This inspired another burst of laughter—merry and wild but without malice.

An involuntary smile curved Elaith’s lips as he remembered this game. The eagle’s partner, a young elf probably not much past his second century, tossed a second piece of meat toward his feathered steed. The bird deftly caught it and tossed back its head to let the treat slide down its gullet. The half-orc sent a glare at the mischievous elf and scurried off.

Three more elves stepped from the crowd and fell into conversation with their brother. They were Moon elves, like Elaith: tall and slender and as finely honed as daggers. All of them had silvery hair and eyes the color of precious stones: amber, jade, topaz. Their speech held the accents of faraway Evermeet, and their tunics bore an almost-forgotten insignia.

Elaith’s brow furrowed with consternation. Eagle Riders, here on the mainland? These youth were among the most fierce defenders of the elven island. Why were they here?

The young leader noticed his scrutiny. He frowned in concentration for a moment, then his face lit up like a sunrise.

He came toward Elaith, his left palm held out and level in the manner of one elven lord greeting another. “This is an honor, Lord Craulnober! My father served under your command in the Palace Guard, when I was nearly as young—although, gods grant, not quite as silly— as these humans!” He grinned and dipped into a bow. “Garelith Leafbower, at your command.”

These words, and the respect with which they were delivered, touched memories that Elaith had thought long forgotten. He acknowledged the greeting with scant courtesy. “Many years have passed since I left the island,” he said dismissively, but his irritation with these youth remained, and he could not help adding, “What of you? Has Evermeet no need for her Eagle Riders?”

The young elf laughed. “None that I have heard! The island is as it ever was. Beautiful, inviolate—and boring beyond endurance! These lads and I were hungry for a bit of excitement.”

“Which you expect to find as caravan guards.”

“Honorable work,” the elf said with a shrug, then he grinned again. “There is, at least, adventure in it! We are going to Silverymoon, are we not? I have heard tales of this wondrous city and of the lady mage who rules it.”

Garelith’s fellow Riders clustered near, their gem-colored eyes alight with curiosity and high spirits. Elaith’s irritation melted as he parried their questions and enjoyed the melodious flow of the Elvish language.

A tall, thick-bodied shadow fell upon them. Garelith’s animated face fell at once into the calm, inscrutable mask that elves showed to outsiders. “Captain Rhep,” he said in formal tones, inclining his head in the small, gracious gesture an elven warrior used to acknowledge, but not reward, an unwanted interruption.

Rhep shouldered past the Eagle Riders and planted his booted feet nearly toe to toe with Elaith’s. He was a big man, a half head taller than the elf, and nearly as broad and thick as a bugbear—nearly as hairy, for that matter. Dark brown hair fell in thick waves from beneath Rhep’s leather helm. His upper lip and chin were furred with massive, ill-trimmed whiskers. His features were coarse and his nose so broad and flat that it hinted at orcish ancestry in the not-too-distant past. Rhep wore

leather armor on his huge frame and a confident sneer on his face. Elaith imagined that the two of them gave the appearance of a catapult and a stiletto standing side by side. The human, no doubt, was fool enough to think himself the better weapon.

“You mighta bought yourself a place on this caravan, elf, but these guards report to me,” Rhep snarled.

“Really. Since when does Ilzimmer hire Eagle Riders?” Elaith inquired with a faint smile.

The big man snarled. “I work for Gundwynd,” he said, nodding toward the small, gray-bearded man who bustled about securing cargo.

This was a lie, and Elaith knew it well. Rhep was a soldier for the Ilzimmer clan, but both he and the lords of that noble house took great pains to conceal this fact. This might, after all, lead into too close an inquiry into why a family of gem merchants had need for a mercenary army.

“I work for Lord Gundwynd,” Rhep repeated, “and so do you, for as long as you ride with this caravan. A shame it is, that Gundwynd has fallen so low to be accepting the likes of you!”

Garelith stepped forward, his green eyes snapping at this insult. “Watch your tongue, human! This was the captain of the King’s guard.”

The man sneered. “Well, that makes him long out of a job, don’t it? That elf king die on your watch, Craulnober?”

“Hardly,” Elaith returned mildly, refusing to be baited by this oaf. “King Zaor’s death occurred less than fifty years ago. I was well established in Waterdeep at this time and long before your ancestors started having carnal knowledge of goblinkin.”

Dark, dull red suffused the big man’s face. He unhooked the mace on his belt and began to raise it for the attack.

Elaith ducked under the weapon and stepped in

close, a knife gleaming in each hand. The tip of one slender blade pressed up under the man’s chin, and the other stood poised at the opening of his ear.

Rhep looked to the caravan guards for support. All four elves had long slender knives in hand, but their watchful eyes were on Rhep rather than his attacker.

“Treacherous scum,” he spat. “You’ll be paid in your own coin soon enough!”

“Perhaps you should explain that comment,” Elaith said pleasantly. But just so that there was no mistaking this order for a suggestion—and because he simply felt like doing it—he gave the knife at the man’s ear a little flick, cutting a small notch in the lobe.

Rhep bleated like a gelded ram. “Didn’t mean nothing,” he muttered. “Bad coin has a way of circling back, is all.”

The elf was not certain whether this was a platitude or an evasion, but the dispute was beginning to draw attention, and Elaith was not willing to jeopardize his place on this caravan over a worthless, orc-spawned cur. He lowered his blades and stepped back, giving the man a small, ironic bow—an insult entirely lost on the clod. Rhep stomped off, muttering imprecations.

The elf watched him go, then turned to the Eagle Riders. “Watch him,” he said in a low voice. “I know that man. Trouble follows close on his heels.”

“He seems a buffoon,” remarked Garelith, “but I will defer to your judgment. You know the clouds that gather around this particular mountain, and I trust you’ll warn us of a coming storm.”

This led to the next, more difficult warning Elaith felt obligated to deliver. “That will not be possible. You would do well not to be seen with me.”

All four of the Eagle Riders looked puzzled. “Why?” demanded the one with eyes the color of topaz.

Elaith’s smile held a self-mocking edge. “You will learn soon enough.”

Before the young elves could press him, Elaith turned and walked away. Their exuberant adulation appalled him. At this moment, he would welcome almost any other company, so long as they regarded him with a proper, familiar mixture of fear and respect.

“Stones!” exclaimed a deep, gruff voice, with a vehemence that turned the word into a curse.

“A dwarf,” muttered Elaith wearily. How could this day possibly get any worse?