'I am unfamiliar with such… rules.'
'They're easy enough to learn. Just do whatever needs doing to get rich and stay alive in the process. Above all, look out for your own interests.' Xander took a long draw, then blew a wreath of clove-scented smoke at the elf. 'You could do quite well for yourself if you cast your lot in with the Claw.'
'You would have me? I disabled two of your men!'
'That you did.' The mercenary captain considered Elaith for a time, sipping thoughtfully at his pipe. 'With your skills, I can replace two men with one elf-and pocket another share of the treasure myself.'
Elaith paused to ponder the unfamiliar logic. 'Treasure,' he repeated, more to buy time than to signify interest.
'Big treasure. Ever heard of Erlunn?'
'Of course.' Erlunn had been one of the great centers of elven culture in the Northlands. The elves had long since retreated, and their civilization had been swallowed by the ancient wood known as the High Forest.
Xander pulled a metal tube from his belt and removed a small roll of parchment. He spread it out and tapped at a spot near the river known as the Unicorn Run.
'Rumor has it that, centuries back, the elves buried their dead and all their wealth among the roots of oak trees. Your good friend Borodin-' Xander paused and tossed his head toward the tavern door '-found a stand of ancient oaks surrounding a circle of stones. When he pulled the moss off the foot of the stones, he found these markings. We copied them here on the map, and later paid a priest of Lathander to translate them.'
Xander traced the runes scrawled along the bottom of the parchment. 'According to this, Borodin found a burial site.'
Tomb robbing, the elf thought with a touch of horror. His dismay must had shown on his face, for Xander lifted one black eyebrow in inquiry.
Elaith's thoughts whirled. The life Xander offered him was as far from the peace and discipline of Evermeet as anything the elf could imagine. No traditions, no rules but expediency, no goals but power and wealth. The elf nodded slowly as the new mode of thinking began to take root in his mind.
'Borodin's an even bigger fool than I took him for. Your hired priest was not much better. These are runes of protection,' Elaith said, tapping the curving symbols. 'The standing stones and the oak trees are guardians. The actual grave sites would be much deeper in the forest.'
'You could find the true site?' Xander asked.
'It might be that I can,' the elf said tentatively. 'But if I am to join your ranks, I must know more about the life you lead.'
'What's to know? Just do what you're told and don't spend much time wondering why.'
Elaith recoiled, for the mercenary's advice was an uncanny echo of words Amnestria had spoken at their final meeting. The life that Elaith had lived on Evermeet felt as distant as a forgotten dream, but it seemed that some things remained the same. As Amnestria had so perceptively noted, he could do whatever was expected of him, and do it better than anyone else.
Elaith leaned back in his chair and returned Xander's steady, cynical gaze. 'If I am to replace two men, I expect to receive two full shares of the treasure.'
An approving smile split the mercenary's dark face. He gestured to the barkeep, who produced two new glasses of firewine. Xander lifted his glass to the eh' in a silent salute. Elaith raised his own glass and tapped it against his new employer's, in a manner he had seen among the fighters. A toast, they called it, a ritual used to seal a pact.
The elf drained the firewine in one long draught. As the golden liquid seared his throat, Elaith willed it to burn away his past, as well.
Many years passed, and Elaith seldom thought about Evermeet or pondered how vastly his life had changed since he'd left. He could not help but do so now as he faced the two women seated in his lavish study. One was his daughter; the other should have been.
Elaith studied Azariah, his blade-heir and only child. The proper elfmaiden sat with downcast eyes. Her golden hands were demurely folded in her lap. She had been raised on Evermeet as a ward of the royal court, and was everything Elaith once had been. This was her first visit to Waterdeep, and her confrontation with her father's dark reputation had visibly shaken her. Although Azariah tried to hide it, she was also daunted by Arilyn Moonblade, the half-elven woman beside her.
Arilyn waited calmly for Elaith to speak, all the while regarding him with Amnestria's gold-flecked blue eyes. He had known the half-elf for years, and had observed her with a mixture of admiration and longing. Arilyn was a fierce, stubborn woman who had made her mother's moonblade her own. She had inherited Amnestria's beauty and spirit, and a certain wisdom that the elven princess had once tried to share with Elaith. It was this that prompted Elaith to entrust his daughter's training to her.
He had endured much to restore the magic to the family's moonblade. Azariah's heritage, her success, was more important to Elaith than his next breath. Yet as he studied the beautiful elven maiden and reflected on all the qualities she embodied, he realized that there was not so much difference between his old life and his new. Granted, he had amassed tremendous wealth and a well-earned reputation for treachery and cruel humor. He was feared and envied for his success as a treasure-hunting mercenary, and for the unofficial power he wielded in Waterdeep. Yet the changes were more a matter of style than substance. He did what was expected of him, acted in ways defined by his chosen role. And as Amnestria had noted that afternoon on Evermeet, he did it better than anyone.
Elaith no longer wondered why his moonblade had rejected him, those many years ago.
The elf handed Arilyn a tightly rolled scroll. 'This is a history of the Craulnober moonblade-its wielders, its magic. This is what Azariah must know. Teach her the necessary skills, make sure she understands the rules.'
Elaith paused, and his amber eyes held the sadness that comes in wisdom's shadow. 'Make sure she learns the rules,' he repeated softly, 'and then, above all, teach her to question them.'
The Meaning Of Lore
The corridors of Twilight Hall dawned cold and quiet that morning Dealing with freezing temperatures, even in early fall, was a common annoyance that every citizen of Berdusk adjusted to quickly 'Colder than a Berduskan attic in winter,' was a phrase familiar throughout the Heartlands.
Chane Troiban drew his floor-length wool cloak a bit tighter around his neck, picked up a small canvas bag for his journey, and slipped out into the long stone hallway He hoped to reach the courtyard before anyone noticed him.
'Master Chane! Master Chane, please wait,' an irritating voice called from nowhere.
'Yes, Triska, you needn't shout I am here '
Running toward him up the stone corridor, panting with lost breath, came Triska, the pudgy apprentice of Master Minstrelwish Roles of flesh jiggled beneath the young man's burlap robe, making him appear even more ridiculous than usual. 'Please-' he paused and gasped for breath '-the others have been waiting. You must help screen two new applicants for the guard. Have you forgotten?'
'Forgotten?' Chane's smile melted into a bland look of brotherly patience. He pulled his hood back, exposing a mass of burnished red-gold hair and a smooth, narrow face. He knew well that his handsome features made most of the apprentices feel inferior. 'Of course not, but I have been called away to Rysheos for diplomatic reasons. I sent a message to Narshanna. Did she not receive it?'
'I… No one said anything about… Shall I inform the council that you have gone to Rysheos?'
'Yes, how kind of you, Triska. Please tell them I will be back to Twilight Hall in a few tendays. I've booked
