“So? That makes him your sole province?” Danilo argued. “If he’s the Harper Assassin—even more or less—you should leave him to the Harpers. You’ve done enough.”
She spoke without looking at Danilo, and her voice was low and bitter. “Yes, I have, haven’t I?”
“Then—”
“No!” She faced the nobleman. “Don’t you understand? Kymil isn’t the Harper Assassin. He created the assassin.”
“My dear, please don’t talk in riddles before dinner,” Danilo pleaded.
“Kymil trained me. He set my feet on the path of an assassin’s life, then he encouraged me to become an agent for the Harpers.” Arilyn laughed without mirth. “Don’t you see? He made me to order.”
Danilo was stunned by the guilt and anguish on his companion’s face. He reached out and grabbed the reins of her horse, bringing her to a halt. “Stop talking like that. You’re not the Harper Assassin.”
“With your memory, I imagine you can recall the ballad of Zoastria,” Arilyn said.
Danilo scratched his chin, startled by the seeming non sequitur. “Yes, but—”
“Recite the part about calling forth the elfshadow,” she insisted.
Still looking puzzled, Danilo repeated the passage:
“Call forth through stone, call forth from steel.
“Command the mirror of thyself.
“But ware the spirit housed within
“The shadow of the elf.”
“Don’t you see?” Arilyn said. “Kymil Nimesin called the elfshadow and bid it become the Harper Assassin. Here is the stone I carried in my sword for many years,” Arilyn said, producing the blackened topaz from her pocket. “This is Kymil’s sigil. I imagine that the stone was enspelled so that he could call and command the elfshadow through the stone, as the ballad says.”
“So that’s how he kept such a close watch over you,” Danilo said. “Your carrying an enspelled stone would make scrying very simple.” He paused and sternly waved a finger at Arilyn like a schoolmaster reprimanding a pupil. “Kymil Nimesin betrayed you and misused your sword’s magic, but that doesn’t make you the Harper Assassin.”
“Doesn’t it?” she retorted bitterly. “I am Arilyn Moonblade. Where does the sword end and where do I begin? If guilt belongs to the elfshadow, and the shadow is the moonblade’s reflection of me, how can I be unstained by guilt?”
Bran Skorlsun broke his silence at last. “I have seen the elfshadow before, although at the time it wore another face. It’s merely the entity of the sword, and the sword is yours, Arilyn Moonblade.”
“That’s right,” Danilo agreed, “and now the elfshadow is yours to command, as well. Whatever his purpose, Kymil Nimesin failed when the elfshadow broke free of his control.”
Arilyn’s laughter was hollow. “Twenty and more Harpers lie dead. How did Kymil fail?”
“We three are alive,” the nobleman said grimly, “and Kymil does not possess the moonblade.”
By highsun, Kymil Nimesin was fully recovered from the backlash of the magical explosion. He sifted the bits of blackened crystal through his long slender fingers, furious at his inability to reconstruct the priceless scrying globe.
The crystal had been shattered when the magical link binding it with the enspelled topaz broke. In the moment just before the magical explosion, one image had burned itself into the gold elf’s memory: the tantalizing, infuriating picture of the moonblade, once again whole but beyond his reach.
Why the elfshadow had not retrieved the restored moonblade, Kymil could not begin to fathom. For over a year the entity had followed his every command. So accustomed was Kymil to obedience that it had not occurred to him that the elfshadow might break free once the moonstone was returned to the sword. Inexplicably, his elfshadow assassin—his finest magical achievement—was no longer under his control. It had failed in its final, most vital task.
Kymil resisted the urge to fling the useless bits of broken crystal across the room, instead calling for his assistant. Ever attentive, the etriel glided into his room.
“Filauria, send word to the Tel’Quessir Elite.” He waved a hand over the pile of charred fragments. “Obviously I can no longer reach them through the crystal. I shall meet them at the academy, and we teleport at once for Evereska.”
The etriel bowed and left Kymil alone to fume over the unexpected failure of his plan. He didn’t have the wretched sword. According to his sources in the watch, Arilyn Moonblade, Bran Skorlsun, and Blackstaff’s nephew still lived and were under arrest in Waterdeep castle. If those three put their resources together, they would be able to discern his goal. His plan had gone fully and truly awry.
He would have to fall back on his contingency plan.
Kymil smiled. He understood his half-breed student well. Skilled though she was, Arilyn believed herself under the shadow of the moonblade. She would take upon herself the guilt of the Harper Assassin, and she would come after him to redeem her name and her sense of honor. No one would be able to talk her out of it. Of that he had no doubt.
And she would bring him the moonblade.
Eighteen
The bright sun of mid-afternoon set the forest ablaze with color as the three riders approached the gate of the Waterdeep Academy of Arms, the prestigious training school that was set several miles to the west of the city’s walls. Arilyn, who had been strangely quiet during the ride, dismounted and strode up to the gatehouse. The two students who stood guard eyed the approaching half-elf with interest and presented their best imitation of seasoned warriors.
“State your business,” one of the lads growled in an uncertain baritone.
Seeing that Arilyn was prepared to do so at the point of a sword, Danilo came forward and took over. “We are three Harper agents. Our business is with one of your instructors.”
The students held a whispered consultation, then the future baritone made a respectful gesture and let them pass. The other lad called for someone to stable the horses, then offered to escort the visitors to the headmaster. Danilo accepted with thanks.
“Three Harpers?” Arilyn muttered to Danilo as they walked. “Three?”
He shrugged. “It got us in, didn’t it?”
Arilyn responded with a measured look and lapsed into silence. The student led the unlikely trio of avowed Harper agents through a labyrinth of halls to the office of the academy’s headmaster.
Headmaster Quentin was a burly gray-haired cleric who wore the brown robes and hammerhead symbol of Tempus, god of war. Still broad-shouldered and ham-fisted in his early old age, Quentin looked as if he would be much more at home on the battlefield than in an office. At the moment, he was seated behind several piles of parchment, sadly at odds with his sedentary task. He looked up when the trio came to the door, and his face lit up at the offered reprieve.
The student guard spoke up. “Brother Quentin, these Harpers seek audience with you.”
“Yes, yes. I’ll take over from here,” replied Quentin, rising from his desk and striding forward. He dismissed the student with an impatient gesture.
“It has been too long since the Raven flew to these parts,” Quentin said heartily, clasping Bran’s forearms. Arilyn’s head snapped up to look at Bran Skorlsun, and a peculiar expression crossed her face.
“What brings you here, Bran?” continued Quentin. He slapped the Harper on the back with the familiarity of an old comrade. “Can you stay long enough to share our evening meal and perhaps tip a few mugs?”
“Another time, I would be glad to,” Bran replied. “My companions and I seek one of your instructors. Kymil Nimesin. Is he here?”
The headmaster’s forehead creased. “No, he took a leave of absence. Why?”
“Did he say where he would be going?” Arilyn demanded.
“As a matter of fact, he did,” Quentin remembered. “Evereska, I believe.”