met her, and he had told Cassandra so. But nohis mother had been too taken with the Thione name, too determined to have a member of the restored Royal House of Tethyr at her harvest festival.
Well, he had done his part. The choice had been Lady Cassandra’s, and she would have to find a way to deal with the consequences.
A probable solution occurred to him, one so obvious and yet so chilling that it slammed into his mind like an icy fist. “If there’s any trouble, Elaith will be blamed,” he muttered. “Damnation! Why didn’t I think of this sooner?”
Danilo dug a handful of Isabeau’s booty from his bag and regarded the glittering baubles balefully. The markings on the ring caught his eye. Engraved into the rosy stone was a leaping flame surrounded by seven tiny tears: the symbol of Mystra, goddess of magic.
He groaned aloud. Isabeau, either in ignorance or in supreme arrogance, had robbed a mage!
He lifted the ring for closer examination. Tiny hinges were cunningly concealed in the setting, indicating a hidden compartment. He found and released the clasp, then lifted the cover. On the inside lid was etched the tall, old-fashioned wizard’s capthe Eltorchul family crest. The cavity was filled with powder the color of old ivory.
Danilo sniffed cautiously at the powder. Pulverized bone, most likely, no doubt a component for one of the Eltorchul’s shapeshifting spells.
“Have a care,” advised a stiff, patronizing voice. “You could find yourself turned into a jackass.”
He glanced up into Oth Eltorchul’s narrow, esthetic face. With great effort, he mustered up a good-natured smile. “Some might argue that such a transformation would be redundant. This ring is yours, I take it?”
The Eltorchul mage strode forward. He was too well-bred to snatch the ring from Danilo’s hand, but he came as close as proprieties allowed. “I must have left it on the privacy washbasin. How did it come to your possession?”
“A lady picked it up and gave it to me so that I might find the owner,” Danilo said, truthfully enough. “I must say, it is a fortunate coincidence that you happened by just now.”
“No coincidence at all. I sought you out to ask of you a question.”
It did not escape Danilo that this admission seemed to pain Oth. “Oh?”
“The blue rose. The elven swordswoman.”
Danilo wasn’t sure where this was going, but he doubted he would like the destination. His curt nod held scant encouragement.
The mage hesitated, clearly loath to find himself in the position of supplicant. “I have heard stories claiming
that you can cast the elven magic known as spellsong. Such magic is beyond my grasp. If you have this knowledge, I desire you to teach it to me.”
That was not the question Danilo had expected to hear and the last he intended to answer.
He had indeed learned and cast a uniquely elven spell on an enchanted elven harp, but he had never since been able to recapture the elusive spirit of elven spellsong. At the time, he had not realized that the magic of Arilyn’s moonblade had bound his destiny to that of the elves in deep and mystical ways. When the connection was severed, his fragile link with elven magic had vanished. He had told this to no man, and did not intend to begin by confiding in this one.
“You know how rumors grow in the telling,” he said lightly.
“So you cannot cast spellsong?”
Danilo wasn’t sure whether Oth looked disappointed or vindicated. “No, I cannot.”
“Ah. Well, it is no real surprise. Elves are notoriously close-pursed when it comes to such matters.”
The man’s mixture of arrogance and ignorance floored Danilo, though he knew that it should not. After all, Oth sustained his family fortune by creating and selling new magical spells. He had probably approached an elven sage, prepared to barter like a camel trader for magic that elves held dearer than family heirlooms or crown jewels. That image, and the inevitable reaction, brought a
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