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  Korvan sniffed, and the kitchen door slammed.

  Shandril struggled to swallow a fresh flood of giggles.

  “Good lass,” Gorstag said warmly, giving her shoulder an affectionate squeeze.

  Shandril smiled back through the hair that had fallen over her face. Well, at least someone appreciated her.

  She hurried off down the winding path of beaten earth and exposed tree roots. Tonight would be busy. If Lureene did not bed with one of the travelers, she’d have much to tell as Shandril hissed questions in the dark loft: Who came from where, bound where, and on what business? News and gossip … the color and excitement of the world outside.

  Gratefully Shandril waded out into the cool stream, her bare feet avoiding the unseen stones. She filled the old wooden buckets. Grunting with the effort, she heaved them up onto the bank and stood for a moment, hands on hips. She looked up and down the cool, green passage of the stream, through Deepingdale’s woods. She could not stay long or swim or bathe, but she could look … and dream.

  Past her feet, the Glaemril—Deeping Stream, some called it—rushed laughingly over rocks. Farther on, it joined the great river Ashaba, which drained the northern dales and then turned east to slip past rolling lands, full of splendid people and wondrous things … lands she would see, someday!

  “Soon,” she said firmly. A heave, a momentary stagger under the great weight, and she began the long climb up through the trees back to the inn. Soon.

  Adventurers were staying at the Rising Moon this night; a proud, splendid group of men hight the Company of the Bright Spear. Lean and dangerous in their armor and ready weaponry, they laughed often and loudly, wore gold rings on their hands and at their ears, and drank much wine.

  Gorstag had been busy with them all afternoon, for as he told Shandril with a wink, “It pays to keep adventurers happy, and it can be downright dangerous if you do not!” They’d be in the taproom now, Lureene flirting and flouncing saucily as she brought them wine and strong cider and aromatic tobacco. Shandril promised herself she’d watch them from the passage while Korvan was busy with the pastry.

  Shandril kicked the rusted pot by the back door so the cook would hear and let her in. The chain rattled as Korvan threw the half-bar and snarled, “Get in!”

  The expected pinch and slap came as she staggered across the uneven floor. “Don’t spill any of that! Dishes await, sluggard! Move that shapely little behind!” Korvan rumbled, ending with his horrible, barking laugh.

  Shandril set her teeth grimly under the yoke. Someday she’d be free of this!

  The evening grew cool, as it often did in the dale after a hot day, mist gathering in the trees. The Rising Moon’s taproom filled quickly; townsfolk had done business with the Company of the Bright Spear, and veterans had come to take their measure and perhaps swap some tales.

  Shandril managed one quick peek and saw the adventurers holding court, all boisterous jests and laughter, at the central tables. A scattering of local veterans sat nearer the bar, and at the small tables along the wall were other visitors. Shandril noticed two lady adventurers nearby—noticed and stared.

  They were beautiful. Tall, slim … and free to do as they pleased. From the shadows, Shandril gazed at them in wonder. Both wore leather and plate half-armor without colors or blazon. Long, plain scabbards at their hips held swords and daggers that looked to have seen heavy use. Their cloaks were also plain, but of the finest cloth and make. Shandril was surprised at the soft beauty of the two and the quiet grace of their movements—no red-faced oxen, these. What struck her most was their calm self-assurance. They were what she longed to be.

  Shandril stared at them until Korvan came out of the kitchen with a roar. He grabbed a fistful of her tunic and roughly hauled Shandril down the passage and into the kitchen.

  “Do I stand and gawk? If I did, what would the guests eat then?” Korvan snarled in a fierce whisper, his stubbled face an inch from hers.

  Shandril feared for her life. If there was one thing Korvan cared about, it was his cooking. For a wild moment, as he thrust a bowl of potatoes at her, Shandril considered attacking her tormentor with a kitchen knife, but that wasn’t the sort of “adventure” she wanted.

  Under Korvan’s hot glare, she washed and cleaned out three hares. She’d had more than enough of this treatment. She was going to do something to get out of here. Tonight.

  “A good place, I’ve heard,” said the mage Marimmar in the last blue light of dusk. Ponies carried them through the trees toward the lanterns of Deepingdale. “Mind you, say nothing of our business or destination, boy. If asked, you know nothing. You are not even all that interested in Myth Drannor.”

  Narm Tamaraith nodded in weary silence.

  His master turned on him sharply in the gloom. “Do you hear, boy? Answer!”

  “Aye, Lord. I … nodded, not thinking you would not see. I beg full pardon. I’ll say nothing of Myth Drannor.”

  Narm’s master, Marimmar “the Magnificent” (Narm had heard him called other things occasionally, but never to his face), snorted. “ ‘Not thinking!’ That’s the problem, boy. Well, think! Deep but sharp, boy, deep but sharp—don’t let the world around escape your notice, lest it stick a blade in your ribs while your wits are off considering Xult’s Seven Sigils! Got that?”

  “Aye, Lord,” Narm replied, sighing inwardly. It was going to be one of those evenings. Even if this inn was nice, he’d scarce have the chance to enjoy it, with Marimmar holding forth on Narm’s many shortcomings.

  Narm could see now why the Mage Most Magnificent had so readily agreed to take on an apprentice. Marimmar needed someone to belabor, and few stayed long to listen. His master’s Art was good; Narm had learned enough magic to be certain of that. But Marimmar ruined the delight of any adventure—or even daily chores, for that matter.

  Narm turned into the yard of the Rising Moon pronouncing silent curses on his master. Perhaps there’d be pretty girls inside.…

  After the hares and four pheasants and too many carrots and potatoes to count, Shandril stole away for another look at the guests. The adventurers might talk of their deeds or even show off some treasure. Moreover, she might learn who the two ladies were. In her greasy tunic, Shandril flitted barefoot down the passage and peered out into the noise and bustle.

  Across the smoky taproom sat an imperious man in fine gray robes. His fat fingers waved a thin pipe to emphasize the words he imparted to his companion, a much younger man. This one was handsome, even in overlarge gray robes. He was dark-haired and slim, with a very serious face. His eyes stared intently at the cup of wine he clasped on the table.

  Shandril was turning away when his gaze suddenly met hers.

  Oh, his eyes! Belying that stern face, they were dancing. They met hers merrily and did not ridicule her wild-tousled blonde hair and greasy garb, but winked at her as an equal—one lucky to be in shadows and not facing a barrage of questions.

  Shandril flushed and tossed her head … and yet could not go. Snared by his gaze, by being regarded as a—a person and not a servant, Shandril stood watching, mute, hands clenched in the folds of her apron. Abruptly, the youth’s gaze was jerked away as a hooked fish is pulled from the water regardless of its will to stay. The older man had snapped his fingers.

  Shandril stood alone in the shadows, trembling with excitement and hope. These folk who traveled about the world outside were no greater than herself. Oh, they were rich enough, and had companions and business of import, and experience … but she could be one of them. Someday. If ever she dared.

  Shandril turned back to the kitchen, railing at the fear that held her there, despite the endless pots and scalding water … despite Korvan.

  “Get in here!” Korvan rumbled, red-faced, as she returned to the kitchen. “There’s onions to chop! I can’t do it all!”

  Shandril nodded absently as she walked to the chopping board. Korvan pinched her bruisingly and roared with laughter, but she hardly noticed. The knife rose and fell
in her hands, twinkling.

  Korvan stared at her. Shandril had never before hummed happily while chopping onions.

  It was hot and close in the low-beamed room. Narm blinked wearily. Marimmar showed signs of neither weariness nor relaxation in the cozy warmth.

  I suppose all inns are the same, more or less, Narm thought, but to take this—his gaze strayed again around the noisy camaraderie of the room—all for granted!

  Before Marimmar snapped at him to mind his studies and not the drunken locals, Narm noticed that the girl who’d stared at him from across the room was gone. The darkness didn’t seem right without her. She belonged in that spot, somehow, and yet …

  “Will you heed?” Marimmar snapped, really angry now. “What’s snatched your senses, boy? One drink and this? You’ll have a short life indeed if you gad about like this in the wilds! Some creatures’ll see you as a quick meal and not wait for you to notice them!”

  Obediently, Narm faced his master and dragged his attention back to queries on casting spells: casting in the dark, casting when the proper components were lacking, casting (Marimmar added acidly) when drunk. Narm’s head swam with the vision, his forever, of the girl gazing into his eyes from the shadows. Longingly. He almost looked to see if she was there, but his master’s eyes were stern.

  One of the adventurers had chanced to spill a platter of food, so Shandril was there when it happened. The Company of the Bright Spear numbered six, led by an important, square-bearded young giant of a man named Burlane. Gold gleamed and winked in the firelight at his ears and throat, fingers and belt. He belched and chuckled and reached vaguely for his tankard.

  To his left sat a real dwarf, the worn and baggy leather of his breeches not a foot from Shandril’s bent head as she scrubbed beneath the table. The breeches smelled of wood smoke. The dwarf was called Delg, “the Fearless,” as one of his companions added mockingly, to everyone’s amusement. Delg wore a dagger strapped to his leg just above his boot; its hilt shone enticingly inches from Shandril’s face. Something rose within her. Trembling, but with infinite care, she reached out.…

  One of the veterans of the dale, Ghondarrath, a stern-eyed old warrior with white fringes of beard edging his hard jaw, was telling of the treasures of the ruined City of Beauty, Myth Drannor.

  Shandril listened, scarcely daring to breathe. She took hold and pulled ever so gently. The dagger came free, cold and hard and heavy in her hand.

  “… So for many long years, the elves kept all others away, and the woods grew over the ruins of Myth Drannor. The Fair Folk let it alone; not a harp or spellbook or gemstone did they take. There it all lies in the wood still, not a week’s ride north. Waiting for the brave—or foolish—to try for it, for ’tis guarded by devils … and worse!”

  The old man paused, his audience intent on his every word. He raised his tankard. His free hand suddenly darted across his chest like a striking snake.

  One of the adventurers, a thin man with short blond hair and a ratlike face, had been passing behind him, but paused.

  Old Ghondarrath grunted, set down his tankard, and raised his other hand. All could see the adventurer’s wrist clasped within. In that captured hand was Ghondarrath’s purse.

  “Well,” Ghondarrath said dryly, “Look what I’ve found.”

  The room fell silent, save for the crackling fire. No one moved.

  Shandril clutched the dagger fiercely. She knew she should creep away, lest the dwarf reach for his blade … and yet, she couldn’t miss this!

  With his free hand, the thief whipped a slim dagger out of a sheath behind his neck and stabbed down.

  Ghondarrath jerked him coolly sideways to crash helplessly onto the table. Ghondarrath’s free hand came down on the back of the thief’s neck with a solid crash, like a tree falling.

  “Dead?” asked a daleman in a hoarse whisper.

  For a second, there was silence. Then with a roar the Company of the Bright Spear were on their feet.

  “Get him!”

  “Sword the graybeard!”

  “He’s killed Lynxal!”

  The dwarf nearly took Shandril’s nose off as he kicked back his chair and sprang to his feet. Chairs overturned and men shouted.

  Adventure, Shandril thought ruefully as she scuttled on hands and knees beneath the table, is upon me at last.

  “They’ll kill you, Ghondar!” said one of the old warriors, face white. Beside him, Ghondarrath stood defiant, his chair raised. He had no other weapon.

  “I was never one to back down,” he said roughly. “I know no other way. Better to die by the blade, Tempus willing, than grow old shamed and craven!”

  “So be it, graybeard!” said one of the company’s warriors viciously, striding forward, blade out.

  “Stop!” the old man bellowed with sudden force, startling all there. “If there’s to be a fight, then let us go outside. Gorstag’s a good friend to us all—I’d not see his house laid waste!”

  “You should have thought of that a breath or two earlier,” sneered another company member through the mocking laughter of his fellows. They surged forward.

  Shandril reached her feet just as Gorstag and Korvan pounded past her. The cook swore, a cleaver in his hand. Two more blades flashed in the firelight as, catlike, the lady adventurers leapt in front of the old man. One of their swords glowed and shimmered with blue-white fire.

  A rumbling gasp of wonder shook the room.

  “I apologize to this house and to its master for drawing steel,” said its silver-haired owner in a clear, lilting voice. “But I will not see butchery done by young fools with quick tempers. Put up your blades, ‘company’ ”—her voice twisted that into a shaming quotation rather than a rightful name—“or die, for we shall surely slay you all!”

  “Or,” her companion added pleasantly over the point of her own ready blade, “this can be forgotten, and all keep peace. The thief was caught and drew steel. The fault is his and his alone, and he’s paid. That’s an end to it!”

  With an oath, one of the adventurers plucked at his belt, meaning to snatch and throw a dagger. The man grunted and then cried out in fury and frustration, but his hand was gripped by another as unmoving as iron.

  Gorstag said quietly, “Drop your blade. All others, put away your weapons. I will not have this in my house.”

  At the sound of his voice, everyone relaxed, the dagger clattered to the floor, and blades slid back into scabbards.

  “Have I your peace while you stay at the Rising Moon?” the innkeeper asked.

  The company members nodded, said “aye” in reluctant chorus, and returned to their seats.

  Across the room, the silver-haired bard sheathed her glowing blade and turned to Ghondarrath. “Forgive me, sir,” she said simply. “They were too many. I would not shame you!”

  The chair trembled in the old man’s hands.

  “I am not shamed,” he said roughly. “My friends sat all around, and when it came to the death, I was alone, but for you two. I thank you. I am Ghondarrath, and my table is yours. Will you?” He gestured toward a chair.

  The two ladies clasped hands with him. “Aye, with thanks. I am Storm Silverhand, a bard, of Shadowdale!”

  Her companion smiled, too. “I am Sharantyr, a ranger, also of Shadowdale. Well met.”

  Gorstag passed them wordlessly, reached the bar, and turned. “The night has turned hot,” he said to the crowd, “so the house gives you all chilled wine from far Athkatla.” There was a general roar of approval. “Drink up,” he added, as Lureene hastily started around with flagons, “and let this incident be forgotten.” He lifted the limp body of the thief, its head dangling loosely, and carried it away.

  Across the room, Marimmar removed a restraining hand from Narm’s arm. “Well done, boy,” he said. “Continue to hold your peace, and life will be far easier for you.”

  “Aye,” agreed Narm dryly. His master had certainly given him much practice in holding peace.

  All around them laughte
r and the clink and clatter of eating built up again. Tempers had been restored, and it was too soon to talk of the near-brawl. The company seemed in fairly good humor, as if the thief hadn’t been liked much anyway.

  Narm looked about for the girl he had locked eyes with earlier, but she was nowhere to be seen. There was something about her.… Ah, well …

  The Company of the Bright Spear drank much and went up to their room late. Rymel, his lute left upstairs with their travel gear, had led the locals in a score of ballads with his fine voice alone. Delg the dwarf had lost his favorite dagger somewhere and was moody and suspicious. The burly fighter, Ferostil, was very drunk and traded coarse jests in a slurred voice. The wizard Thail, grim and sober, guided him up the stairs with many a jaundiced look.

  “Lend me a hand, Burlane,” he pleaded, as Ferostil nearly fell atop him. “This lout is nearer your size!”

  “Aye,” their leader said good-naturedly. “We’ve lost enough tonight!” He leaned back to grab Ferostil’s shoulder. “Come then, Lion of Tempus,” he said, hauling hard. “Now, where’s that room?”

  “This one,” the wizard said, and threw the door wide.

  Within, all was as they had left it: packs strewn about, cloaks thrown over racks. A single lantern had been lit.

  “My spear!” Burlane roared suddenly. “Where is the Bright Spear?” They peered all about, alert, but no place in the room could have concealed its flickering radiance. Their greatest treasure was gone.

  “By all the gods!” Burlane bellowed. “I’ll have this inn apart stone by stone if need be! That thieving bastard of an innkeeper! Delg—quick, run to demand it of him! Thail, look to our horses! Is anything else missing?”

  “Aye,” said the wizard thickly. His hands trembled above his opened pack. “My spellbooks!” His face was ashen; he sat suddenly on the bed and stared at nothing, dazed.

  “Thail!” Burlane roared, shaking him. “Come, we must—”

  “My axe also,” the dwarf’s sour voice cut through Burlane’s rage. “Moreover, I see no sign of our charter from the king, nor Ferostil’s shield. Rymel?”