Swords of Eveningstar Read online

  Grimly Florin sheathed his sword. “Lady of the Forest, forgive me,” he breathed, feeling an icy breeze rising to ghost past his cheek. Gods, if she were dead …

  ’Twas too dark here, in the shadow of a gnarled forest giant, for moonlight to tell him what he needed to know. The ranger’s fingers ran along the carved wooden catches of his belt pouches until he found the right two shapes, got them open, and rubbed together a fingerdaub of moss and a particular mushroom. A faint, ghostly radiance arose from their mingling, and he thrust his glowing fingers at her still, white face.

  The Lady Narantha’s eyes were closed, and her mouth was slack. He put his other hand to her mouth and nose, and felt a faint warmth. She was breathing.

  Mielikki deliver me!

  Florin bowed his head and muttered a silent prayer of thanks, feeling almost weak. Seeing a long stone amid the rotting leaves and fallen twigs, he smeared the glow-mix on one end of it, wiping away the last of it on some protruding bark that he then carefully tore away and thrust into his jerkin-pouch.

  Going around behind the noblewoman, he hauled off his jerkin, did off the rough tunic he wore beneath it—and bound its homespun over her eyes, letting the loose end cover her face. He hoped she didn’t mind the smell.

  Her breathing deepened, but she didn’t rouse, thanks be to Mielikki. Florin rolled the Lady Narantha onto her back and ran his fingertips lightly along her limbs. No weapons, nothing hidden—just the double-layered robe, all slippery silk and shimmerweave. Over bone-white skin, all soft curves and … well, enough of that. Seeing her displayed thus in the pale glow was unsettling, but somehow—the thaerefoil, of course—aroused nothing in him beyond a sort of restless, wistful hunger.

  He rolled his catch onto her side, very much as he turned large game for skinning, and knelt astride her hip, feeling at his belt for the right pouch again—the one wherein rode the rawhide thongs every ranger carried when in the forest. Swiftly, now, in case his handling awakened her …

  Five hard, fast breaths later Florin had bound two noble thumbs together, and served Narantha’s big toes the same way. The next two thongs did her little fingers and her elbows, pulling her arms forward in front of her. She hissed and made as if to pull away as he finished tying them. Ah, just in time.

  Plucking her off her feet and up over his shoulder—whoa, she was tall; this might prove tricky—Florin drew his sword and set off deeper into the forest, seeking the gentle glimmer and chuckle of the Dathyl.

  Not striving overmuch for stealth, he hacked aside clawing branches as he went.

  His noble catch was weightier than he’d expected, but not staggeringly so, yet apt to tip if he didn’t stride carefully. He was a foolhead, and this venture not such a glorious thing as it had seemed in his fancy. Yet he was in it now, up to his neck …

  His neck, indeed.

  Florin swallowed and walked on. As he shouldered through the trees, Narantha heavy on his shoulders—and squirming now, definitely awake—small crashings in the night marked the flight of small animals, disturbed by his approaching boots.

  The Dathyl seemed farther away than it should have been, but eventually he stumbled down a leaf-strewn bank onto its sandy shore, nearly blind in the deep gloom where moonlight could not reach.

  The stream rushed merrily past, chuckling over stones, and Florin stood for a moment in thought. He must be a good ways south of the foresters’ cache he needed, where there were boots, packs, bandages, and weathercloaks. It was back toward the road, and he thought he remembered the tangle where he’d have to turn away from the Dathyl. A big tree had fallen over in a winter windstorm, years ago, and left its roots standing up like so many bristling spears, aye …

  Yet the stream was shallower hereabouts; he’d best cross right over. Decisions, decisions, decisions—so this was adventure. Huh.

  He hefted the shapely burden on his shoulder and balanced himself, lifting first one boot then the other to make sure his heels hadn’t sunk into the wet sand deep enough to throw him into a fall the moment he tried to spring forward. They hadn’t, but one step told him there’d be no leaping the Dathyl dryshod here. He was going to have to wade hip-deep, or more, and that meant he’d best reach a hand down to lift the lady’s head. Blindfolded or not, Crownsilver blood wouldn’t keep the lass from drowning if he trailed her head underwater all the while he was trudging through the chill flow. Not quite the facing-what’s-real training her parents had intended. And dragon, haughty foolhead or not, he’d brought her here.

  His tunic was still in place over Narantha’s eyes, though her upside-down dangle had bared her chin and throat. Cupping his hand around a trembling, hard-corded white neck so as to be ready to lift her head in mid-stream, he stepped carefully forward into the cold, cold water, slowly and deliberately finding footing.

  One stride, two—then he gasped and almost fell at a sudden, unexpected pain in the fleshy heel of his hand. She’d bitten him!

  Florin shook his hand free, wincing, heard her hiss a very unladylike word after it, and fought to keep his balance. He was going to fall, he was going to—

  Shrug, spread his hands for balance, and drop the fair flower of the Crownsilvers head-first into the Dathyl, with a satisfyingly solid splash.

  She screamed, of course, or tried to—he could hear the shrill bubbling from beneath the water, faint amid her thrashings. Which meant she was now choking on Dathyl-water, and—Florin grabbed firm hold of one bound arm above the elbow, got a grip on a bare leg just above the knee, and hauled, hard.

  She came up spluttering and sobbing, choking and spewing water, and squealing in rising alarm as he half-swung, half-hurled her ahead of him, onto the sandy far shore of the Dathyl, where an invitingly large clump of ferns awaited.

  They crashed down into crushed ruin under her weight, uncomplainingly perishing under her retching, twisting arrival—and Florin plucked her up, made sure his now-sopping tunic was still serving as a blindfold, and dropped her down again, snarling, “There he is! Get him!”

  He rushed a few strides up the bank, making as much noise as any dozen foresters, and drew his sword and dagger. Clinking them against each other, he snarled in the lowest growling voice he could muster, and rushed a few strides this way and then that in the damp underbrush. Twigs snapped merrily.

  “I see him!” he cried then, in a much higher voice, as he raced side-wise between two trees and crashed to his knees, clashing his blades together again. “Die, outlaw!”

  Growling, he rolled over and over amid dead saplings, old leaves, and more ferns, back toward where the helpless Lady Narantha lay. “The king’s justice upon you!” he roared as he went.

  A swift roll over a rotten log, and he was amid the ferns, where his captive was moaning softly now, sucking in air rather than water.

  Rolling past her close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his cheek, Florin shouted suddenly nigh a noble ear, in as rough a voice as he could manage, “Ha! Creep away, king’s man? Die!”

  He sprang up, stamping his sodden boots hard and clanging his sword and dagger together like angry bells. His shouts and grunts of effort sounded convincing enough, he hoped, fighting down a sudden urge to laugh. He ran right at her, springing over her at the last moment and making sure his jerkin trailed along her body. She flinched away.

  Good. Florin applied himself with enthusiasm to staging his mock battle until the Lady Narantha was either quivering in terror or shivering from the cold.

  “Hide her!” he gasped then, close by her head. “Quick, now!” He flung his jerkin over her shoulders and tore up armfuls of ferns to cover her legs.

  When he was done, he walked away and let his breathing steady and grow quiet again. The forest was still around him, and bared to the waist, he was none too warm himself.

  Florin shrugged. The bed that awaited him was of his own building. And its name was “adventure.”

  Smiling, he glided silently back to his captive, and sat down beside her in the m
oonlight, to guard her until she fell asleep. When her slumber deepened, he’d have to cut those wet thongs.

  Obligingly, in a surprisingly short time, the Lady Narantha started to snore.

  This was his favorite part of the garden. The little bower where his spells had shaped stone into smooth, unfissured frozen waves, sweeping up in graceful curls to seemingly enfold the flowers planted in them. Moonflowers, shining their pale grace back at the moonlight now touching them.

  This was the first place he’d wrought after arriving in Evereska, and it was where he liked to linger and think. And if Erlevaun Dathnyar was far from being the most brilliant mage in the Hidden Realm, he was—he liked to believe—the moon elf mage most rooted there, where others traveled or used spells to spy afar to quell their restlessness.

  Here he belonged, here he’d be quite content to perish, when—

  Erlevaun stiffened, his eyes widening. He had just time to look up and stare his horror at the serene moon before gnawing darkness rose within him, racing through his very mind …

  Mewing like a forlorn kitten, the helpless mage swayed, struggling to work a spell. Swirls of sparks came into being around his writhing, slowing fingers, he choked on an incantation that had never given his nimble tongue trouble before—then his staring eyes went empty and dark, and he started to topple.

  Yet he never fell. His body took fire in midair, blazing up like a dry torch, bright flames roaring into a great ball of flame that sank in on itself and was gone into drifting smoke with terrifying speed.

  By the time his two guards sprinted up, panting, there was nothing left but a few sharp-smelling wisps and a scattering of ash on Erlevaun Dathnyar’s smooth-sculpted stone.

  Swords drawn, they knelt to peer at the ash, then gave each other grave glances.

  “One of Dathnyar’s new spells, more spectacular than ever, that whisked him elsewhere?” the older one asked, tossing her head to banish long blue hair from her face. “Or did we just see him perish?”

  “I … I don’t know,” the younger one replied, on her knees on the other side of the ash. “Yet there’s something I do know: I have a bad feeling about this.”

  The two guards stared at each other grimly in the moonlight, their eyes large and dark in the curves of the scrying orb.

  Above that enspelled sphere, the one who watched them broke into a long, soft chuckle.

  “Ah, elves! So sneeringly superior—and beneath it all, just as helpless and hopelessly blundering as the rest of us!”

  A deft hand swept across the orb, bidding it to go dark. Its radiance dwindled slowly, but had grown faint indeed before the softly exulting voice spoke again.

  “Oh, even better spells! I’ll need some time to work with these … so every mantled elf in Faerûn is safe for a few days more. A very few days more.”

  The soft chuckle began again—and promptly soared into full-throated laughter.

  The moon was riding high and clear, scudding through a few thin, clawlike tatters of cloud. Jhessail lay awake watching it, alone in her small bed, as she had on so many restless nights before this one.

  No matter what she wished or whispered, the sky-sailing moon paid her no heed. As always.

  The window around it was her window, her place. Home. Not the grandest cottage in Espar, but not the smallest, either. And Espar’s familiar, boring lanes and trees and muddy pastures were deemed fair, even by those from grander places in Cormyr; she’d heard some of them say so over the seasons, with the ring of truth in their voices.

  Yet with the coming of every new spring, the restlessness grew within her. She needed more.

  What, she wasn’t quite sure, though “adventure” had proved as handy a word as any. She had to see other places, look upon the sea, behold the tall spires of the Royal Palace in Suzail, look upon nearby looming mountains, and someday—someday—set foot on soil that was not part of Cormyr. See a unicorn, perhaps even a dragon, watch a wizard of power hurl a spell that did something dramatic … and above all, find someone who would be her guide to learning the Art.

  If Faerûn held anyone who would want Jhessail Silvertree to work magic, that is, or take the care and time to see that she did it well.

  It was not as if she had anything of worth to give in payment. Her body and her hard work, aye, but backcountry lasses aching to follow their dreams dwelt in Cormyr by the caravan-load, and she could hardly hope they’d be scarcer elsewhere.

  And she likely had things better than most. Espar was fair, and she had kind and keen-witted parents who loved her, good friends, and a rightful place.

  Aye, a place—and a road ahead of her in life as sharp-hewn and high-fenced as a slaughter-chute to butcher sheep or hogs. She would be expected to marry a man of Espar, a longjack probably much her elder, and cook, bedwarm, sew, clean, and slave herself for him, until he died or she did. No matter how he treated her or wherever else he strayed. And if the gods took her longjack first, she’d be “Widow Longjack” the rest of her days, expected to live alone and be one of the local backlane crones blamed for all misfortune, never to remarry or even look at another man.

  If she found no way out of Espar, such would be her lot. No choice and no escape. Her friends might dream large and dare little—but they were all she had. And, gods smile, they ached to get out of Espar just as much as she did.

  Not to leave it behind forever, or shun its beauty. Just to have horse and coin and life enough elsewhere to ride in and out of it as she pleased, to go hither and thither, to make her own life and not be doomed only to being a man’s drudge. Or a lass-lover dwelling in some abandoned steading or other on the edge of the Stonelands with other women too bitter or scarred to want any man, drudging together to farm the days and seasons through, to have enough to eat.

  Never to have the Art that stirred betimes thrillingly within her, even to glowing and crackling at her fingertips, be more than untapped restlessness, a wild might-have-been that would earn her the mistrusting spy-watch of the war wizards, a fell reputation among respectable folk … and yearnings unfulfilled.

  Jhessail sighed and whispered to the moon, “Lady of Silver, I beg of you, speak of me to Mystra, that she show me what to do about the Art that kindles in me! I am not worthy to ask this, yet must, for the Art stirs in me and has firm hold of my heart and hopes. I, Jhessail Silvertree, beg this.”

  It was an entreaty she had made so many nights before. And would again, for there was nothing so glorious as when the Art stirred in her and surged through her, and her mind and eyes flickered blue-white and alive with power …

  She sighed again, a soft moan of longing that sent her plunging into memories of spell-sparks drifting from her, the cool fire coiling in her throat, the fear and awe on the faces of her friends as her first fumbling attempts to work spells did something, and ended their snorts and jeers forever.

  She remembered the hope being born in their eyes as they looked at little Twoteeth—nay, at her paltry yet wondrous attempts to call up the Art—and saw in her their own road out of Espar. For if she could truly be a mage, they could truly be adventurers, and charter or no, dare to seek their fortunes across the Realms, through chance, daring, and drawn blades. ’Twas said adventurers earned high coin in Sembia, just the other side of the Thunder Peaks.

  Jhessail closed her eyes against the moon, the better to chase memories of those moments of magic leaping through her … hoping, just perhaps, if she remembered vividly enough, the Art would stir again, or Mystra would send her a sign, or—

  Spell-sparks and swirling blue-white flames roiled and eddied in her memories—then, astonishingly, slid aside to show her a face she knew.

  Clumsum. Doust, his dark blue eyes twinkling at her, an unseen breeze stirring his brown hair as he said something silent and unheard to her. A memory she could not quite recall the where and when of, though ’twas probably the day he’d told her he was giving himself to Lady Luck. The quietest and kindest of them all, never terse like Islif, and lacking Semo
or’s nasty streak—except when word-dueling Semoor himself. Yes, there was his symbol of the goddess, held proudly up for her to see: a silver coin, large, heavy, and smoothly featureless as all novice priests’ holinesses of Tymora were. He’d not be given one with the face of the goddess on it until he’d proven himself worthy in her service.

  He was probably jesting, the dry, deadpan mirth that was incredible given all the beatings he’d suffered under his father’s drunken fists. A shadowy line of whiskers across Doust’s upper lip and along the line of his jaw told the world what a youngling he was—and warred with his eyes, that proclaimed just as firmly to those who bothered to look into them what an old wise soul he was.

  Then Doust’s face turned into Semoor, grinning at her. Nay, let’s be honest: leering at her. It was he—Stoop, from the bent-over way he carried himself from so much time fishing, slumped bonelessly over his rod—who dubbed her ‘Flamehair,’ and first told her she was beautiful, and that he wanted her.

  They’d both been all of nine summers old at the time, and Semoor was already a schemer and sneering cynic. She remembered him, grinning that same twisted grin, facing down a shouting drover with the bored words he used so often: “Impress me, cow the wind, awe yon dog.”

  Even more ox-beef of build than his best friend Doust, peering at the world past that unfortunately large vulture-beak nose. Dancing brown eyes to match his shoulder-length brown hair. Sly, loud, and quick where Doust was quiet and aloof, a natural to take the robes of a priest of Lathander—if he strayed not to the dark worship of Mask instead.

  Sharp-tongued, always chuckling. Always telling her he’d not mind bedding “little Jhess Flamehair, fairest flower of all Espar.” Never seeming to mind her refusals, but not ceasing his hints and outright requests, either. Surprisingly, fascinated by elves, and always having a smile and wave for any of the Fair Folk he saw.

  And when Semoor looked at folk, he seemed to always see them as they truly were, staring past lies, deceptions, and grand talk.