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  Arilyn shifted impatiently, but Kymil did not seem inclined to say more. After a moment's silence she tore her expectant gaze from the quessir and squinted dutifully at the statue of Hannali Celanil, trying to see something of her mother in the cold white beauty of the goddess.

  Moonlight seemed to linger on the statue as if delighted with its loveliness. More slender and beautiful than any human woman, Hannali Celanil bore the angular, delicate features of the elven race. A small, knowing smile curved her exquisite lips as she surveyed her domain through almond-shaped eyes.

  One long-fingered hand rested over her heart, the other touched a pointed ear. Thus was Hannali Celanil often portrayed, to show that she was ever receptive to the prayers of lovers.

  On the canvas of her imagination, Arilyn painted the statue's cheekbones and ears with a touch of blue, and replaced the elaborate white stone coif with Z'beryl's long sapphire braids. Arilyn mentally strapped a sword to the goddess's side, and finally she imagined that the eyes were a gold-flecked blue, warmed with a mother's love.

  "Yes," Arilyn agreed. "I suppose it is very like her."

  The sound of her voice drew Kymil from his reflection, and his abstracted look disappeared. He rested a hand on Arilyn's shoulder, a brief and silent gesture of condolence that seemed oddly foreign to his austere nature. "I am sorry for your loss, child," he said. "If I may ask, what do you plan to do now?"

  Startled, Arilyn drew back, staring blankly at the quessir. The question was reasonable enough, but it jolted her into a disturbing realization.

  She had no idea what she would do next. She simply hadn't thought that far ahead.

  The silence was broken by the brassy, nasal tone of crumhorns. Arilyn recognized the signal for the changing of the guard; the barracks of the Evereska Watch stood at the foot of the hill, and the sounds of their ritual evening maneuver drifted up to the temple gardens.

  "I'll join the watch," Arilyn volunteered impulsively.

  A smile flickered across Kymil Nimesin's face. "If the wind had blown from the west, we might have heard chanting from the College of Magic. Would you then have decided to become a mage?"

  Arilyn hung her head, embarrassed by her childlike outburst. But her tone was stubborn as she insisted, "No. I've always wanted to be a warrior, like my mother." As she spoke, her chin came proudly up and her hand drifted to the hilt of her mother's sword.

  Her sword.

  "I see." Kymil's eyes followed the movement, narrowing as he studied Arilyn's weapon. "Your mother was a mage as well as a fighter. As an instructor at the College of Magic and Arms, she was highly regarded. Did she teach you much of the art?"

  Arilyn shook her head. "No. I'm afraid I have no gift for magic." Her grin was fleeting. "Not much interest, either."

  "She did not pass on the lore of the moonblade, I take it?"

  "You mean this sword? If it has a story, I've never heard it," Arilyn replied. "My mother only said that it would be mine some day, and she promised to tell me about it when I came of age."

  "Have you used the weapon?"

  "Never," she said. "Neither did Mother, although she kept the sword with her. She wore it always until…" Arilyn's voice faltered.

  "Until the funeral," Kymil finished gently.

  Arilyn swallowed hard. "Yes. Until then. Mother's will was read, and the sword was given to me."

  "Have you drawn it?"

  The quessir's question puzzled Arilyn, but she assumed he had his reasons for asking. She answered him with a simple shake of her head.

  "Hmmm. You're quite certain Z'beryl told you nothing of the weapon?" Kymil pressed.

  "Nothing at all," Arilyn confirmed sadly. She brightened and added, "Mother did teach me to fight, though. I'm very good." She stated the last comment with a child's artless candor.

  "Are you indeed? We shall see."

  Before Arilyn could draw another breath, a slender sword gleamed in the swordsmaster's hand. Almost of its own accord, her sword hissed free of its scabbard, and Arilyn met the elf's first lighting thrust with a two-handed parry.

  An intense emotion flooded Kymil's black eyes, but before Arilyn could put a name to the quessir's reaction, his angular face was again inscrutable.

  "Your reflexes are good," he commented in an even tone. "That two-handed grip, however, has its limitations."

  As if to prove his point, Kymil drew a second weapon from his belt, this one a long, slender dagger. He lunged toward Arilyn, feinting with the dagger as he brought his sword around and down in an overhead strike. With instinctive grace, Arilyn leaped aside, avoiding the dagger thrust as she easily turned aside Kymil's blade with her sword.

  The quessir's eyebrows rose, more in speculation than surprise. He spun his sword around once in a gleaming circle, and then again. Before the second cycle was completed, he thrust toward Arilyn with his dagger. Although the child seemed intrigued by the twirling sword, she was not distracted by it and her moonblade flashed forward to block the dagger. Kymil withdrew, dancing back several paces and lowering his weapons a bit, but Arilyn did not relax her defensive position. She remained in a partial crouch, eyes alert and both hands gripping the ancient sword.

  Excellent, Kymil applauded silently. The child showed not only a natural instinct for fighting, but the beginnings of good judgment. Still testing, he advanced again and showered a flurry of blows upon her, alternating with sword and dagger in an intricate pattern that had confounded many a skilled and seasoned adversary. Arilyn met each strike, a feat made more remarkable by her persistent use of that two-handed grip.

  Speed she certainly had, Kymil mused, but what of strength? The elf tucked his dagger back into his belt and raised his sword high, holding it firmly with both hands. He slashed down with considerable force, fully expecting the blow to knock Arilyn's sword from her hands. Her weapon flashed down in a semi-circle and came up to meet Kymil's strike. The blades clashed together hard enough to send sparks into the night, but the young half-elf's grip on her sword did not falter. Satisfied, Kymil stepped back from the fight.

  Still holding his weapon at the ready, he slowly circled the child, studying her as if seeking some weakness. What he saw pleased him immeasurably.

  Z'beryl's half-elf daughter stood about three inches short of six feet. That was tall for a moon elf female, but the child's gawky frame was slender and well-formed. Her strength and agility would have been exceptional even in a full elf. And she was, as she had said, very good. Yes, the child had unmistakable promise.

  What was most important of all to the weapons master was that Arilyn had drawn the sword and lived, which meant that the magic weapon had chosen to honor Z'beryl's heir. As Kymil noted the extraordinary spirit that shone in the child's clear, gold-flecked eyes, it occurred to him that the sword had chosen well. Kymil Nimesin had come to the temple gardens expecting to find a pathetic halfbreed, but here before him, in raw and unlikely form, stood a fledgling hero.

  Keenly aware of Kymil's scrutiny, Arilyn turned with the circling elf, always facing him as she held her sword in a defensive position. Exhilaration flowed through her veins, and a fierce joy lit her eyes as she anticipated renewed battle.

  Although Arilyn had grown up with a sword in her hand, she had never faced such an opponent as this. Neither had she wielded such a sword. More than anything, she wanted the match to continue. Impulsively she lunged forward, trying to draw Kymil. He easily parried her strike, then he stepped back away from her and sheathed his weapon.

  "No, that is enough for now. Your spirit is commendable, but unnecessary swordplay in the temple garden would be unseemly." He extended his hand. "May I see the moonblade now?"

  Although disappointed by the quessir's refusal to continue the match, Arilyn sensed that she had passed some sort of test. Swallowing a triumphant smile, she took the sword by its tip and offered it hilt-first to the master.

  Kymil shook his head. "Sheath it first."

  Puzzled, she did as she was told. She slid the sword in
to the scabbard, then removed her sword belt and passed it to the gold elf.

  Kymil examined the weapon carefully. He studied the runes on the scabbard for a long moment before he turned his attention to the hilt of the sword, gently running his fingers over the large, empty oval indentation just below the blade's grip.

  "It will need a new stone to replace the missing one." He raised an inquiring brow. "The balance is slightly off, I imagine?"

  "Not that I noticed."

  "You will, as your training progresses," he assured her.

  "Training?" A score of questions tumbled through Arilyn's mind and flashed across her face, but Kymil waved her curiosity aside with an impatient hand.

  "Later. First, tell me what you can about your father."

  The elf's request shocked Arilyn into silence. It had been many years since she had allowed herself the luxury of thinking about her father. As a small child she had constructed elaborate fantasies, but in truth she knew virtually nothing about the circumstances of her birth. Although elves as a rule gave great importance to their heritage, Z'beryl had always stressed that family background was less important than individual merit. Arilyn accepted this unorthodox view as best she could, but at the moment she wished desperately for some grand paternal history to tell Kymil Nimesin. Arilyn knew how important such things were to the lineage-proud gold elves.

  She replied carefully, "You may have noticed that I'm a half-elf. My father was human."

  "Was?"

  "Yes. When I was much younger, I used to ask my mother about him, but it always made her so sad that I stopped. I've always assumed that my father is dead."

  "What about Z'beryl's family?" Kymil pressed. Arilyn's only response was a derisive sniff. The quessir raised one golden eyebrow. "I take it you know of them?"

  "Very little." Arilyn's chin came up proudly. They had wanted no part of her, and she would claim no part of them. "I never saw any of them before Mother's funeral, and I never expect to see any of them again."

  "Oh?"

  Kymil's interest was obvious, but Arilyn merely shrugged aside his question. "The only thing they wanted of me was the sword. I still can't understand why they didn't just take it."

  The gold elf permitted himself a sneer. "They couldn't. This is a moonblade, a hereditary sword that can be wielded by one person alone. Z'beryl left the moonblade to you, and it has honored her choice."

  "It has? How do you know that?"

  A wry expression settled about the elf's features. "You drew the sword and you still live," he said succinctly,

  "Oh."

  Kymil held the sheathed moonblade out to Arilyn with an almost deferential gesture. "The sword has chosen, and in choosing it has set you apart. No one but you can wield it or even handle the sheathed weapon without your consent. From this night until the moment of your death, you cannot be parted from the weapon."

  "So the sword and I are a team?" she asked hesitantly, eyeing the weapon that Kymil held out to her.

  "In a manner of speaking, yes. Its magic is yours alone."

  "Magic?" Arilyn reclaimed the sword and belted it on gingerly, as if she expected the thing to shapechange at any moment. "What can it do?"

  "Without knowing the specific history of this blade, I cannot tell," Kymil replied, watching with approval as Arilyn drew the sword and studied it with new interest, her momentary fear of the blade forgotten. "No two moonblades are alike."

  She glanced up. "There are more of them?"

  "Yes, but they are quite rare. Each blade has a unique and complex history, for the sword's magic develops and grows as each wielder invests their moonblade with a new power."

  Excitement lit the half-elf's face. "So I can add a new magic power to the sword, too? Whatever I like?"

  "I'm afraid not," Kymil said, pointing to the oval indentation beneath the blade's grip. "Your sword lacks the enspelled moonstone that acts as a conduit between wielder and weapon. All magical powers come from the wielder, pass through the stone, and are eventually absorbed by the sword itself."

  "Oh."

  The gold elf smiled faintly. "Do not be so disappointed, child. All the established powers of the moonblade are yours to command."

  "Like what?" she demanded, intrigued.

  Kymil's black eyes drifted shut. He shook his head and breathed a gentle sigh of resignation. "I can see that you will be a demanding pupil," he murmured. "Since you have no one else, I propose to train you myself, if this is what you wish."

  Delighted, Arilyn blurted out, "Oh, yes!" The next instant her face fell. "But how? The Academy of Arms won't accept me."

  "Nonsense." Suddenly brisk in manner, Kymil waved away that barrier with a flick of one long-fingered hand. "You already show more skill and promise than many of their finest students. The humans, in particular, are at best capable of learning no more than the rudiments of the fighting arts. It would be a welcome change to have a worthy student. And Z'beryl's daughter…" The elf's voice trailed off as he considered the possibilities.

  Not completely reassured, Arilyn regarded the much-scuffed toe of her boot. "It will be several years before I reach the age when half-elves can be accepted-"

  "That will not be an issue," Kymil broke in, and his tone indicated that the matter was settled. "You are an etriel under my tutelage. That is all the academy will require."

  Arilyn's head snapped up in surprise. Her eyes widened with awe at what Kymil had said and what the statement had implied. Then her shoulders squared, and with a quick decisive move she sheathed her magic weapon. She was no longer a half-elven orphan, child of an unknown father. She was an etriel, a noble elf-sister. Kymil Nimesin had said so.

  "Very well, then," Kymil concluded brusquely, "it's settled. You need only take the pledge of apprenticeship. Draw your sword, if you will, and repeat after me the words I speak."

  Overwhelmed but excited, Arilyn drew the moonblade. On a sudden whim, she stepped to one side of the statue and there sank to her knees; she would take this pledge at the foot of the elven goddess, as befitted an etriel. Grasping the moonblade with both hands, she extended the sword before her and raised her eyes to the master, waiting expectantly for the words of the pledge.

  Kymil's only response was a sharp intake of breath. Filled with uncertainty, Arilyn rose to her feet, but the gold elf withdrew from her, his eyes locked on her moonblade.

  Arilyn looked down. In her hands, the sword was beginning to glow with a faint blue light. The light grew brighter until, like a live thing, it wandered from the sword, touching the mists and setting them swirling, wraithlike, around the elves. As the stunned pair watched, the seeking mists turned here and there as if confused. The mists finally reached the statue, bringing an azure blush to the face of the goddess.

  In the back of her mind, Arilyn began to separate a distinct note from the jangle of her emotions. Whether it felt more like cold energy or the presence of some strange entity she could not say, but it was a force that was both inside her and around her. The force grew until the garden shone blue with its light and her senses hummed with its power. Was this what magic felt like? It was frightening and foreign, yet it was as much a part of her as her sword arm. Shaken, Arilyn threw down the blade.

  Instantly the garden was slammed into darkness, a darkness relieved only by the mist-veiled moon and the rapidly fading glow of the moonblade. "What was that?" Arilyn asked in an awed whisper. "Where did it go?"

  Kymil returned to her side. "I do not know," he admitted. "There is much mystery about the moonblade."

  Arilyn reached up with tentative fingers to touch the stone hand that lay over the goddess's heart. It seemed to her that a bit of the blue light lingered there.

  "Come now," admonished Kymil, and his brisk tone banished the sense of awe that held Arilyn in thrall. "Do not let this incident frighten or distract you. I'm sure an explanation will come to both of us in due time. We will discover the moonblade's abilities together. You have talent and an extraordinary inheritance;
I can give you skills and a worthy cause. Now, shall we proceed with the oath?"

  To have Kymil Nimesin as teacher and mentor! Arilyn nodded eagerly took up her sword once more. The light in Arilyn's blue eyes outshone that of the fading moonblade as she repeated the words of the ritual.

  Two

  "Oh, this is rich! This is one for my memoirs, that's sure and certain. The Harpers' pet assassin, coming to we for advice!" The old man cackled with delight, clinging to the edge of his writing table as he rocked back and forth in his chair, caught up in a delirium of wheezing mirth.

  His enjoyment of the situation did not at all endear him to his visitor. Hands clenched at her side, Arilyn Moonblade gritted her teeth and waited for the retired Zhentarim agent to have done with his amusement. In her opinion, any encounter with the Zhentarim should be handled with a sword, not with diplomacy and bargaining. The Dark Network was devoted to the gods of evil as well as to the individual and collective greed of its members, and this man was a particularly unsavory specimen. The moonblade at Arilyn's side fairly hummed with silent indignation, echoing her opinion precisely. Besides, the man's taunt had struck her a little too close to home.

  The half-elven adventurer had little choice but to endure the cackling fool, since he possessed information that she was unlikely to get elsewhere. She waited calmly, eyeing the old man with a well-concealed revulsion. His wrinkled skin had an unhealthy grayish hue, and his gaunt limbs and bloated belly made him look very like an oversized spider. He was spiderlike in character, as well, and every time Arilyn looked at him, she was surprised anew to see that he did not possess the standard-issue eight legs of his kind. His lair was an appropriate setting, a low-beamed dark room over a tavern, festooned by dust webs and enlivened only by the dim light of a lantern and the rising odor of dinner cooking-liver and onions would be Arilyn's guess. Where the man spent his ill-gotten wealth was immediately apparent; he had literary pretensions and was engaged in writing a massive tome. Piles of expensive parchment littered his writing table, which shook under the assault of his laughter.