EPILOGUE
29 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One
A steady rain pelted the windows of Sergen’s study. It was a modestly furnished room, but so far it was his favorite in the house; it commanded a fine view of the harbor of Melvaunt. His villa was situated somewhat to the west of the city, so the prevailing winds generally carried the smoke and stench of Melvaunt’s smelters away from the small estate. Watching the flames crackle in the marble fireplace, sipping a fine dwarven brandy, Sergen congratulated himself on his foresight in arranging the purchase of the place years ago in case he ever had need of such a refuge.
Melvaunt wasn’t his first choice for a life in exile. He would have much preferred Mulmaster, but that unfortunately, was where Darsi Veruna and her wealthy family resided. His special friendship with Lady Darsi had suffered a serious blow when it had become clear that House Veruna would have to abandon its extensive investments and properties in Hulburg due in large part to his failure to seize the harmach’s seat. Darsi had allowed him to flee Hulburg with her, but as the extent of the disaster became clear, her attitude toward Sergen had begun to cool… and Sergen knew that it was likely to cool even further once the Verunas realized that the mysterious involvement of their own armsmen in the plot to kill the harmach was actually an attempt to implicate them. In fact, Sergen deemed it likely that Darsi Veruna might regard that as a mortal offense, and in Mulmaster that was quite likely to lead to a knife in the dark some fine evening. No, all in all, it was better to begin his exile in a more congenial environment.
A knock came at the door of the study, and his valet quietly entered. “Excuse me, my lord,” the man said. “There is a visitor at the front door. An elf, my lord. He told me to tell you that he has an interesting proposition to place before you.”
“An elf?” Sergen said, and frowned. He didn’t know many of the so-called Fair Folk, and he could not imagine what sort of business such a person might have with him. Since the disagreeable turn of events in Hulburg, Sergen had been considering a wide variety of prospects. He might not have any chance of making himself lord of a city, but he was still vastly wealthy, and he saw no reason why he couldn’t establish a merchant company of his own to amass more wealth-and more power-still. In fact, Sergen had already begun to make inquiries in that direction; perhaps the elf’s business pertained to those. “Show him in, then. With the usual precautions, of course.”
The valet bowed and retreated; Sergen stood and walked over to the fine desk by the window. He took a hand crossbow and loaded a poisoned bolt in it, hiding the weapon in a special holster underneath the desk, and then he set another such weapon in a niche behind a painting on the wall. He also had two very useful potions in his pocket and no fewer than three ways to flee the room if such became necessary. Satisfied with the arrangements, he took a seat behind his desk.
His valet knocked again, and Sergen called, “Come in.”
The door opened, and his servant showed in a tall, dark-haired moon elf with striking violet eyes and a subtle, crooked twist to the right side of his mouth. He was dressed in fine gray and lavender, with a gold-embroidered doublet and a heavy hooded cloak. When he stepped into the room, he raised his hands to push back his hood, and Sergen saw that the elf’s right hand was not flesh at all, but instead a perfect replica made of gleaming silver, scribed with tiny runes. The metal hand flexed and moved just as a living one would have-a most unnerving sort of magic, really.
“Good evening,” the elf with the silver hand said. “Are you Sergen Hulmaster, nephew to the Harmach of Hulburg?”
Sergen frowned, wondering what the elf wizard might possibly want with him, but nodded. “I am,” he said. “Might I ask your name and business with me, sir?”
“I am Rhovann Disarnnyl, of House Disarnnyl,” the elf replied. “And as far as my business with you, well, that is a simple matter. You and I have something in common, Lord Sergen. We have both been grievously wronged by your cousin Geran Hulmaster. I am here to determine how best the insults and injustices we have suffered at his hands might be set aright.”
Sergen raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t say what he might have expected his strange visitor to begin with, but that was certainly not it. With a small gesture, he invited the elf to sit, and said, “You have already piqued my interest, sir. Please-continue.”
