"You… you would be my patron?" faltered Oltennius.
"A very generous one," the elf assured him.
Pride warred with practicality, but the battle was brief and the victory never in question.
Oltennius dropped awkwardly to one knee and gave the traditional pledge. "My hands, your house," he said stiffly. "May my work glorify Gond Wonderbringer and benefit my patron."
The third bell after midnight sounded before Elaith had opportunity to open his safe box. It held the usual assortment of oddities-trinkets and trifles from far corners of Faerun. Elaith tossed them aside to get to the weapon he'd stolen from young Lord Melshimber. That, at least, had real value. The scabbard Melshimber had been waving around was of elfish design, and even the simplest elven blade was a joy to wield.
The weapon was a long sword, very old but well kept. Elaith lifted it and took a few practice cuts, pleased with the weapon's exceptional balance. The new leather wrappings on the hilt were clumsy, but those were easily removed-
Elaith froze, and the leather wrappings fell to the floor unheeded as he stared at the smooth, milky gem set into the sword's hilt. A mixture of wonder and sorrow suffused him as he realized that, for the second time in his life, he held a dormant moonblade.
He turned the blade over and studied the seven runes marking the shining length. He stroked them with tentative fingers, noting that they did not mar the smoothness of the blade; they were not carved into the metal, but seemed to gleam forth from the heart of the sword. He had not taken time to closely examine the Craulnober blade, so stunned had he been by the sword's rejection.
The elf set the moonblade carefully aside. Come morning, he would make arrangements for it to be sent to Evermeet. The swords that had a part in choosing the royal family were not for such as Elaith Craulnober.
Nor for likes of Camaroon Melshimber.
A wave of rage, pure and primal, swiftly followed this thought. The elf tossed aside his best sword and thrust the moonblade into its sheath. Snatching up his cloak, he stalked out into the cold autumn night.
It didn't take him long to find the Melshimber manor, and less time to bypass the magical wards on the ornate iron fence. Determining which bedchamber housed the drunken, snoring lordling needed only the sort of spell Elaith had learned in the royal nursery. His rage still burned white-hot when he dragged Camaroon Melshimber from his bed and flung him against the wall.
The elf drew the moonblade and leveled it at with deadly intent. He might not be worthy to wield a living blade, but elven law and tradition were clear on this matter. Anyone who knowingly used a dormant moonblade as a common sword, or in any other way deliberately dishonored it, was to be slain with that weapon in fair combat.
"Arm yourself," he snarled at the groggy, sputtering man.
Incredibly, a sly grin curved the young lord's lips, and he lifted one hand to preen his short black beard.
"Aha!" he crowed. "I knew you were keeping the trifles we brought in!"
Trifles!
"And this knowledge," Elaith inquired coldly, "is worth dying to possess?"
Young Melshimber's smirk faltered, then twisted into his usual arrogant expression. Even now, he considered himself untouchable.
Elaith drew his second sword and tossed it at the man, who reflexively grabbed for it. Elven steel flashed, and an expression of profound astonishment crossed the human's face as blood poured from his slashed throat. His mouth worked for a moment, but only a few choked, gurgling sounds emerged.
The elf waited until Melshimber was quite dead, then he carefully cleaned both weapons and tucked them into his belt. The next cut required a special black knife, one Elaith kept tucked into his left boot for just such occasions. He worked quickly, chanting softly as he carved a necromancer's rune into the man's forehead, an ugly mark that would prevent priest or wizard from inquiring into this man's death.
The sky was fading to smoky sapphire as Elaith left the Melshimber mansion. He had no fear of discovery; a tunnel led from the estate's buttery to a well house three streets over. Knowledge of these hidden byways was one of Elaith's most valuable treasures.
He quickly made his way south to one of the most lavish and secure of his Waterdeep properties, a gated estate in the Castle Ward, not far from Piergeiron's Palace. Therein was his greatest treasure of alclass="underline" his daughter Azariah, his sole hope for the Craulnober clan's restored strength and reputation.
She was being raised on Evermeet as a ward of the royal court, but the recent attack on the island kingdom had left her shaken and grieving. Queen Amlaruil had urged Elaith to take his daughter for the winter to give her some time and distance.
Elaith found the child at her studies, sitting demurely at her tutor's side, an open book on her lap. Azariah was pretty child, tall for her age and as leggy as a young colt. She resembled her sun elf mother, a mistress whom Elaith had enjoyed and forgotten. But Azariah was his legal heir, and heir also to the Craulnober moonblade.
The sentient sword had rejected him once, choosing dormancy over an unworthy wielder. By the grace of the gods and the consent of his Craulnober ancestors, the moonblade had been awakened, but Elaith had no illusions about its destiny. It would never be his, nor should it be.
Nor did he expect Azariah to wield it. Never, not once in the long and brutal history of the moonblades, had a gold elf successfully claimed a sword. But a living moonblade brought honor the Craulnober house, and it would be an attractive dowry. In time, Azariah would wed a moon elf of high family, and if her children bred true, the most worthy among them would inherit the sword
"Here it is!" the child said triumphantly, stabbing the page with one slender finger. "The law was written by Evermeet's Council of Elders, during the second year of Lady Mylaerla Durothil's rule as High Councilor."
Elaith's eyebrows rose. This was a pastime more befitting a magistrar than a girl of eleven winters.
"An interesting choice, Delaritha," he said dryly, addressing the elven bard he'd employed to continue his daughter's harp studies. "I look forward to hearing that law set to music."
Two pairs of feminine eyes flashed to his face, holding identical wary expressions.
"Lady Azariah wishes to know more of her family moonblade," the bard explained.
"It is hers to hold in trust for her children. What more is there to know?"
The child rose to her feet, her face pale but determined. "When I come of age, I will claim the moonblade."
Elaith stared at her, too stunned to hide his astonishment. "What nonsense is this?"
"It is the law. It is my right," she whispered.
A strange and unwelcome insight struck him: little Azariah was not just his daughter, but her own person, with dreams and plans of her own. But so soon? Surely he could expect her to remain a malleable child for another decade or two?
"Have you learned nothing of the laws of nature?" he demanded. "Elves are not half this and half that. You are your mother's daughter, a gold elf. No gold elf has ever drawn a moonblade and lived."
"What of the Starym blade?" the child persisted.
Elaith sent the bard a look that should have slain her on the spot. "Have you been teaching her this nonsense, or is there someone else who should set her affairs in order before nightfall?"
The girl stepped between her father and her tutor-an oddly protective gesture for one so tiny-and dipped into a respectful curtsey. "The fault is mine. During the sea voyage I wished to learn more of the mainland. Another passenger lent me several chapbooks, most of them travel books written by a human named-"