scowled, but by and large the people of Elversult took note of the radical change in government, shrugged, and went about business as usual.
It was, after all, the Dragon Coast.
And so it was that Yldar Nathalan, the disgraced, exiled son of a great Evermeetian family, was too late to participate in the glory-again.
As soon as the two elves had dispensed with their fine steeds at a not-so-fine bank of stables, Yldar stomped over to the fountain in the center of town and crossed his arms.
He looked around at the myriad faces, people going about their business. To all, he felt a sense of detachment, even more so than he felt with any of the foolish humans he had met in his travels. Life in Elversult had shifted so radically, so quickly, leaving his-a visitor's- head spinning, but no native seem to notice much.
'Humans,' Yldar cursed in Elvish.
'Do not act thus,' Cythara said, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. Her full red robe hid her golden mane. 'This was not your day.'
'No day is my day,' replied Yldar. He possessed a melodious voice, but one hardened by discontent and years of disappointment. 'First the Tower, then the bladesingers, even the border guards… How long have we been traveling, sister, yet you do not know this?'
Similarly sharp of feature and lean of body, Cythara was Yldar's double in many ways, but one could never say that she suffered from his excess of pride-the flaw that ran through the Nathalan family like blood. Rather, her faults were subtler, more insidious, and altogether beyond her younger brother's ken.
'Yldar,' she said. 'What would Father say?'
'I might as well not exist.' The elflord shrugged. 'The feeling is mutual.'
Cythara felt her hand tense, but thought better of striking the stubborn, almost petulant Yldar. It would only hurt her hand.
'Brother,' she said. 'Have you forgotten the relic?'
His eyes bright, Yldar jumped to his feet. 'Yes!' he said. 'I mean-no!'
Cythara smiled a little, but it was an irritated smile. 'Let us search, then,' she prompted.
Yldar was already off and away.
— Sunlight streamed through the window, mingled with a fair amount of flame, it seemed. With a mild oath, she rolled out from under the bedclothes.
She had slept again.
The Reverie came so infrequently to the moon elf these days. Perhaps she dealt with humans too much, or perhaps the elf gods truly had cursed her. The trick smacked greatly of the whims of her fickle patron.
While she considered that, a growling sound from her stomach convinced her that it was time to head down. She even managed clothes before obeying its command.
As she padded downstairs in her doeskin boots, the moon elf was pleased to see the gruff and stocky men who frequented the Splitskull stepping aside, giving her space. That was polite. Trying to weasel their way into her good graces, mayhap-and eventually her bed, likely. Then again, she thought with a smile, they might simply be justly wary.
She sat down at the bar, eschewing the tables that miraculously opened up when she entered and waved to the owner. 'Keep,' she called. She realized that she had never bothered to learn his name, but he seemed content with the moniker. Or perhaps that was his name, in which case it was irrelevant.
'What'll it be, 'Light, ye heartbreaker?'
'You're such a flatterer,' she said, brushing a raven lock out of her pale eyes. 'A morning meal? And drink?'
'On your tab, I s'pose.'
Twilight inclined her head. Keep shouted a few words back to the kitchen, then pulled her an ale from a tapped keg.
'News o' the day? The Skulls're out.' Keep's voice was nonplussed.
Dragon Coast indeed.
'Truly?' Twilight took an unladylike swig.
'Aye, indeed. Yanseldara an' her lover, Vaerana, done ousted the lot o' 'em.'
Twilight shook her head. Little in the realms took her by surprise these days. 'Costs will rise, eh?'
Keep shrugged. 'Goods'll be safer, and competitors driven mostly underground.' He wiped a tankard and grinned. 'Better atmosphere, ye might say.'
Twilight raised her ale to that.
Then the door to the dark tavern opened, letting in heinous light, and Twilight blinked in surprise. Faces of such hue were not to be seen everyday in Elversult- especially not one so handsome as the elflord who entered.
Delicious, she thought with a wry smile.
A gentle hush came over the Splitskull when the tall sun elf entered. His skin of polished bronze and the fine elven blade that hung from his belt seemed out of place in a smoky tavern filled with grizzled, dirty men. No one felt like taking the challenge in Yldar's eye.
When the delicate maiden in the red cloak followed him, even more eyebrows rose. She wore her cowl low, but the tip of her angular, bronze chin could be seen beneath a pair of thin lips. Cythara inflamed more than a few bodies that day, striding by, oblivious to all and above it.
Yldar guided Cythara to a table in the corner, where she sat haltingly. She did not possess the robust vitality of her brother.
'Are you sure this is the right place?' she asked in Elvish.
'We could have stayed at the Axe and Hammer, but dwarves staff the place,' said Yldar with a scowl. 'Nor did I like the price at the Wyvern's Pipe. I shall see to refreshments.'
'Remember why we are here. No duels.'
Yldar gave his sister a roguish smile. 'I would not think of it.'
They both knew the truth of that assertion.
Yldar left to get tea and mead. Cythara leaned back against the wood paneling and blew out a long sigh.
She did not resent her brother, but neither did she enjoy having to rely upon his strength. In body, Cythara was sickly and weak, but in mind and will… One look in her cold, strangely red eyes told anyone to think twice before crossing her.
Anyone, that is, except the burly Marthul, who apparently wasn't looking quite high enough to meet her gaze.
Marthul was an impressive man in the way a wild boar is impressive. Few would guess it, but a shrewd- enough mind lay behind his scarred and craggy visage, one that should have seen the danger inherent in his chosen course. But done in by rotgut as he was-Marthul being possessed of a strong consititution, but not a dwarfs stomach-the big man saw only a lithe body in desperate need of his brand of companionship. He flopped into the seat beside her.
All the while, a pair of glittery pale eyes watched from the smoky end of the bar, and it was this searching gaze that drew Cythara's attention. She could not make out the face.
'Well met, me pretty lass,' Marthul slurred. 'Ye here alone?'
'Six heartbeats,' Cythara said without looking. 'Wha-?'
'Six heartbeats to retract your offer and be gone.' Dark magic flared behind her haunting eyes. 'Four now.' 'Ay, is that any-'
'Two.' Under the table, her fingers twitched in a spell.
'Now hold-'
'One.'
He felt a chilling jolt as an unseen black ray struck his knee. 'Ye little…'
Marthul's words trailed off and he grasped at his throat. His dusky skin turned gray and his eyes rolled up in their sockets. All eyes in the inn turned toward them, most looking out of faces rapt in horror.
Unable to breathe, Marthul waved vainly at the elf beside him. The life was slowly ebbing out of him as
