Since his quarry was undoubtedly in the maze and heading for the palace, the elf knew he would have to take a chance. He vaulted easily over the low stone wall and raced past the inquisitive peacocks, then glided through the bellflower garden with an economy of motion only the best elven rangers could achieve. As he had feared, the tinkling song subtly altered with his passing. To his sensitive ear, the disruption was as glaring as a trumpet's blast, and he ducked behind a statue and steeled himself for the approach of the palace guard.
Several silent minutes passed, and eventually the elf relaxed. His lips twisted in derision as he pictured the palace guards-oafs too stupid and common to recognize their own musical alarm. Tone deaf, as were all Gray elves. The elf deliberately ignored the fact that few elves, be they Gold or Silver or Green by birth, had his keen ear for the subtle blend of music and magic. After all, he was a bladesinger, and one of the elite trained in the ancient art of spell song. With a silent chuckle, the elf slipped into the maze.
Garden mazes, he knew, tended to follow a common pattern. After a few confident turns, the elf began to suspect that this one was an exception. This maze was like nothing he had seen before. Vast and whimsical, its convoluted paths wandered from one small garden to another, each one more fantastic than the last. With a growing sense of dismay the elf passed exotic fruit trees, fountains, arbors, berry patches, tiny ponds filled with bright fish, and hummingbirds breakfasting amid vines of red trumpet flowers. Most striking were the magical displays depicting familiar episodes from elven folklore: the birth of the Sea elves, the flight of the dragons, the Starwing ship landfall.
He pressed on, running to the entrance of yet another garden clearing. One glance inside, and he skidded to a stop. Before him was a marble pedestal topped with a large, water-filled globe. Surely he couldn't have passed that globe before! He crept closer for a better look. A magical illusion raged within the sphere, a terrible sea storm that tossed tiny elven vessels about. Before his horrified eyes the sea goddess Umberlee rose from the waves, her white hair flying in the gale like flashes of lightning. By the gods, it was the birth of the Sea elves again!
There could be no doubt. Surely not even this ridiculous maze could have two such displays. The elf raked both hands through his golden hair, tugging at it in self-disgust. He, an elf as renown for his ranger's skills as his talents with sword and song-spell, had been running around in circles!
Before he could castigate himself further, the elf heard a faint clicking sound not far away. He trailed it to a large, circular garden ringed with flowers that attracted clouds of bright butterflies. Many paths led out of the garden, which was dominated by pale blue roses in a bed shaped like a crescent moon. At one tip of the blue-rose moon stood an elderly elven gardener, snipping away at the rosebushes with more vigor than expertise.
Again the elven intruder smiled. By all appearances, this was the maze's center and surely his quarry had passed through. The old gardener would tell him, at knife point if need be, which path the wench had taken.
The elf edged into the garden. As he entered a flock of the butterflies took flight, and the gardener looked up, his silver-blue eyes lit with gentle inquiry at the disruption.
His gaze fell upon the intruder, but he merely waved and cleared his throat as if to call out a greeting.
No, not that! thought the intruder in a moment of panic. He could not alert his quarry now!
A dagger flew, and a look of surprise crossed the gardener's face. The old elf's hand came up to fumble with the blade in his chest, and he fell heavily to the ground. His rough cap tumbled off. From it spilled an abundance of long, dark blue hair shot through with silver threads.
Blue hair!
Excitement gripped the assassin, and he sped across the distance between him and the fallen elf. As he crouched beside the corpse, a flash of gold caught his eye. He reached for it. From beneath the gardener's rough linen tunic he drew a medallion bearing the royal crest. The elf felt a clasp and flipped the medallion open. Within was a tiny painting. The exquisite, unmistakable face of Queen Amlaruil gazed up at him, a tender, very personal smile upon her lips.
It was true! The assassin dropped the medallion and sat back on his heels, dizzy with elation. Through the most fortunate of errors, he had killed King Zaor!
A keening scream, anguished and female, interrupted his private celebration. In one quick motion the elven assassin leaped to his feet and whirled, twin swords in his hands. He found himself facing his original quarry. So white and still was she, that for a moment she seemed carved from marble. No sculptor, however, could have captured the grief and guilt that twisted her pale face. The knuckles of one hand pressed against her mouth, and with her other hand she clung to the arm of the tall man at her side.
Ah, the fates were kind today, the elven assassin gloated. Swiftly and confidently he advanced on the pair, blades leading. To his surprise, the wench's oversized companion had the presence of mind to snatch a small hunting bow from his shoulder and let fly an arrow.
The elven assassin felt the stunning impact first, and then a burning flash of pain as the arrow pierced his leather armor and buried itself in his side, just below the rib cage. He glanced down at the shaft and saw that the arrow was neither deeply imbedded nor in a vital spot. Summoning all his austere self discipline, he willed aside the pain and raised his swords. He could still kill the wench-kill them both-before making his escape. It would be a fine day's work, indeed.
'This way!'
A vibrant contralto voice rang out, very near. The female's scream had alerted the palace guard. The assassin could hear the rapidly approaching footsteps of at least a dozen guards. He must not be captured and questioned! He would die for the cause and do so gladly, but the Gray rulers would surely not grant him the dignity of death. With her foul magic, the Gray queen would surely pry from his mind the name of his master, and the names of the spell-singers lying in wait-here, in Evermeet itself-with Gold elven patience as they anticipated the signal to strike.
The elven assassin hesitated for only a moment, then turned and fled toward the glade and the magic portal that stood there.
Breathing hard and feeling lightheaded from pain and loss of blood, the elf plunged through the circle of blue smoke that marked the magical doorway. Strong, slender arms caught him and eased him to the ground. 'Fenian! Tell me what happened!'
'The portal leads to Evermeet,' the wounded elf gasped. 'King Zaor lies dead!'
A triumphant, ringing cry escaped the elf's companion, echoing over the mountains and startling a pair of songbirds into flight. 'And the elf wench? The Harper?' he asked excitedly.
'They still live,' the assassin admitted. The effort of speaking brought a fresh spasm of agony. He grimaced and grasped with both hands at the arrow shaft.
'Take ease,' his friend consoled him. 'Amnestria and her human lover will soon follow Zaor into death.' He gently moved the elf's hands aside and began to work the arrow out. 'Were you seen?'
'Yes.' The answer came from between gritted teeth.
The hands on the arrow stilled, then tensed. 'Even so, you have done well.' With a quick motion, he plunged the arrow up under the elf's rib cage and into his heart. When the flow of lifeblood stilled, he wrenched the arrow free and thrust it back into the elf's body at the original angle. He rose to his feet and gazed with a touch of regret at the dead elf. 'But not well enough,' he murmured.
The elf fled swiftly down the mountain, racing for the teeming anonymity of the human city beyond. It wouldn't take the elves long to trace Fenian back to the magic portal, but by then he would be long gone. He would lose himself in Waterdeep, and begin to fashion a way to exploit the discovery he had made this day. A gate to Evermeet was just the thing he needed to fulfill his life quest. And it was fitting that Amnestria, the former and disgraced heir to Evermeet's throne, would be instrumental in helping him reach that goal.
Kymil Nimesin smiled faintly as he ran, unaware of the two pairs of eyes that watched him go.
'He might be the one,' Lloth mused, turning away from her scrying pool to eye her longtime comrade.
Malar the Great Hunter snorted in disgust. 'He is an elf!'
'Who better?' she retorted. 'The plans these Gold elves have put in place are quite ingenious, and they might be the added touch we need to accomplish what we have so long desired. Let us watch him, at any rate, and if he shows promise, we can bolster his efforts with our own.'
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