Arilyn lifted an inquiring brow. That's something I might have said," she observed. "What are you? Are you the moonblade, or are you me?"
"Both, and yet neither." The elfshadow fell silent, as if carefully measuring her next words. "You know that each wielder of a moonblade imbues the sword with a new power, but you do not understand the source of that power. Unlike any other moonlighter who came before you, you were not told of the moonblade's secrets before you claimed the sword."
"So tell me."
"It is not so simple," the elfshadow cautioned her. The moonblades are ancient elven artifacts, arid the mysteries that went into their Grafting cannot be adequately described-no more than I could convey to you with mere words a melody you have never heard or a color you have never seen."
"Noted. Go on," Arilyn said tersely.
*Pirst let me point out that the moonblade accepted you when you were but a child, not to mention the first half-elf ever to inherit such a sword! This decision was not lightly made, for it was foreseen that you would do a great service to the People/"
The elfgate," Arilyn murmured, naming the magical gateway to Evermeet that she had discovered and then fought to protect.
That and more," the elfehadow agreed cryptically. "Once accepted, you slowly became attuned to the sword. That is how I came into being. For lack of a better description, I am the personification of your union with the sword."
"I see. Do all moonblades have people like you?"
"By the sea and stars! No, not at all. The ability to form and summon an elfehadow was one of the powers added to the moonblade you carry. By Zoastria," the shadow added in a lower voice.
Something in the elfshadow's tone convinced Arilyn that this was the name of the sleeping warrior. "So that's why IVe been having these dreams. Not since the time of the Harper assassin have I had such visions! But why would finding Zoastria's body stir them, if you are the personification of my union with the sword?"
"Like the elves who have gone before you, you added a power to the moonblade," the elfshadow continued softly. "A power that reflects your character and your needs."
Arilyn shrugged, impatient for the elfshadow to move on to something she did not already know.
"Moonblades contain great magic, and they grow in power with each wielder. But as with all magic, the cost is high." The elfshadow paused and spread her hands,
as if inviting Arilyn to observe in her what that cost might be. "My name is chosen well, for I am the shadow of what you will become."
Arilyn stared at her image, not wanting to understand. Yet she suspected that she knew what the elf-shadow meant. Suddenly, she realized that in some small way she had always known.
"Then when I die-“ she began.
"You will not die, strictly speaking. Your life essence will enter the moonblade. This is the ultdmate source of the sword's magic."
Arilyn turned abruptly away. For a long moment she stared at the wall, her face frozen as she struggled to control her roiling emotions. "So what you're saying is that this sword is full of dead elves," she said at last.
"No! That explanation is simplistic and crude, not to mention entirely inaccurate. Except in unusual cases, elves are immortal. We pass from this world on to the realms of Arvandor without tasting death as humans know it. But yes, each elf who accepts a moonblade understands that his or her passage to Arvandor will be delayed, perhaps for thousands of years, until the moon-blade's purpose is fulfilled. When a sword fells dormant, the elves are released. It is an enormous sacrifice, but one that certain noble elves take on gladly for the greater good of the People."
"But what of me?" The words poured from Arilyn in an agonized rush. "I am half-elven\ The gates of Arvandor are closed to such as I, and most of the elves Fve known believe I have no soul! What will become of me? Of us?" she amended bitterly.
The elfshadow merely shook her head. "I do not know. None of us know. You are the first half-elf ever to wield such a blade. At the risk of sounding like a two-copper cleric discussing the afterlife, you will have to wait and find out."
"But your best guess would be eternal servitude, cooped up like some genie in a cheap bronze lamp?"
Arilyn said with cold rage. "Thanks, but I'll pass."
“You cannot."
"The hell I can't. I didn't sign on for any of this!"
"Your fate was decided when you first drew the sword," the elfshadow insisted.
But Arilyn shook her head, her eyes blazing. "I'll accept that when I'm drinking tea and swapping stories with Zoastria's shade! There has to be a way out! Where would I find someone who knows it?"
"Arvandor," the shadow replied grimly. "And, possibly, Evermeet."
Arilyn threw up her hands. To her, one was about the same as the other. She would never be accepted on. the elven island. And not even for the sake of her soul-if indeed she had one-would she take something unearned from the hands of her mother's people!
Unearned.
Suddenly the furious Harper remembered the missive from the Queen of Evermeet, and she knew what she must do. She would accept AmlaruiPs impossible mission, and she would find a way to succeed beyond the elven monarch's highest expectations, and she would do it in her own way and on her own terms! And once that was accomplished, the queen would pay dearly for services rendered.
Arilyn lifted the sword and faced down her elfshadow. "In you go," she said grimly. "Where I'm headed, the patrons are already seeing double."
Six
"It's been days, and no sign of them elves," Vhenlar fretted, and not for the first time. "How're we to know when they're coming? You'd sooner hear your own shadow coming up behind you than one of them unnatural things. Like ghosts, they are! For all we know, every man on patrol is lying under some bush right now with a second smile under his chin!"
Bunlap threw a queuing glance toward the nervous archer. "Maybe so, but well know," he said shortly. TU know."
As the mercenary spoke, his hand lifted to touch the livid scar on his cheek, three curving lines that combined in the simple but distinctive design of a woodland flower of some sort. Bunlap had seen that mark elsewhere, and since the day the red-haired eh7 had marked hiip, he had done his dead-level damndest to make sure other people saw it, too-people who wouldn't think kindly of the elf it identified. And by extension, the rest of Tethir"s elves. Bunlap's hatreds were nothing if not inclusive.
They were a scrappy bunch, the wild elves of Tethir, even if they were short and scrawny. The half dozen that Bunlap's men had captured from the forest glade had put up a fight all out of proportion to their size and number. And these were but womenfolk, and half-grown elf-brats! The mercenaries kept these few around as bait for a trap, but there were many other elves in the forest who might well blame the red-haired elf whose arrows Bunlap had strewn judiciously around the ravaged elven settlement.
Bunlap liked the idea of angering some of the Elmanesse border tribes and turning them against the elven warrior who had maimed him, and who had eluded him for too long. Keep the long-eared bastards busy-that was what he was getting paid to do. But when it came time to kill the red-haired elf, Bunlap wanted the honor for himself.
The mercenary propped his boots up on a bale of dried and cured pipeweed. From his left boot he pulled a small knife, with which he began to carve some of the dirt from under his fingernails. From the small window across from him, he had a clear view of the field that stretched between the drying barn and the forest's edge. Sunset colors spilled into the small, winding creek that separated field from forest and provided water for the thirsty crops. In the dying light the shadows were deep and long. Even so, nothing, and no one, would be able sneak past him.
Most of the men in the barn's loft seemed to share Bunlap's confidence. A dozen men sprawled about throwing dice, whittling, or otherwise killing time. Several days had come and gone since their last foray into the deep shadows of Tethir, and as time passed their dread of elven retaliation had faded into nonchalance.