to speak their minds before strangers.”
“It is not the elven way. I was born in this jungle, but I have been gone for many years. You’ll notice that they did not welcome me with joy or offer to gossip about all that has happened since I left.”
“They disapprove of mixed blood?”
Kiva gave a derisive sniff. “You jordaini have a talent for understatement.”
Andris found this painful, but logical. “Reasonable enough, given the dwindling numbers of elves. I assume they perceive elfbloods as a threat?”
She sent him a small, hard smile. “If they considered you a threat, you’d be dead. Did you notice that they did not look at you?”
“Yes, but I was too busy being glad they didn’t shoot at me to worry about it overmuch,” Andris responded. After a moment’s consideration he added, “Perhaps I owe my life to the fact that they thought me already dead.”
“That’s very close. They called you karasanzor. That means ‘crystal one,’ and it is a term of respect. They did not look at you because we do not gaze upon the crystal ghosts of our elf kin.”
Andris gestured toward his translucent form. “So looking like this is a good thing, according to the forest elves?”
“It puts you in a unique position,” Kiva agreed. “You’re clearly human-you should pardon the expression-but you appear to share the karasanzor’s fate. Furthermore, you faced the laraken and lived. They don’t know what to make of you.”
“They are not alone,” Andris muttered.
They did not speak again until the elves stopped for the evening. The scouts showed them to a small house built high into the forest canopy, well away from the camp itself.
Andris and Kiva ate the fruit that the scouts left for them and settled down for the night. Deeper in the jungle, the unseen elves began to sing. The melody was slow and languorous, with a gently pulsing rhythm.
Andris had never known a mother, but he suspected that this song was a lullaby. Never had he heard anything so moving. It comforted and saddened him at the same time.
Kiva stopped brushing her hair and turned to him. “What do you know of the Lady’s Mirror?”
The sudden question shattered the music’s spell. Andris frowned. “It is a pool sacred to Mystra, Lady of Magic, tended by wizards who worship her servant Azuth, the Lord of Wizards. Some say that on a full moon the face of the goddess can be seen in the still waters. This sight is considered to be a sign of great blessing.”
“There is a small temple near the shore of the Mirror. A repository of spellbooks and artifacts, and not a particularly well-guarded one.” Her glance slid over, held his puzzled stare, and waited for him to catch up.
Comprehension came over him slowly. A score of Azuthan priests served the temple, and at any given time there might be perhaps another twenty visitors who came for pilgrimage or study. There was no fortified keep, just a few small buildings, little more than traveler’s huts, scattered throughout the nearby grove. Yet none of the magical books or items had ever gone missing. Such an act would be tantamount to ripping tapestries off the walls of King Zalathorm’s festhall.
“You cannot mean to desecrate the Lady’s Mirror!” he protested.
“No,” she said with dark amusement. “I plan to raid it upon the morrow, you will tell me how.”
She smiled at his dumbfounded expression and patted his cheek as if he were a slow but promising child. “Get some sleep. We rise with the dawn.”
Andris settled down, certain that he would never find slumber with such a task before him, but the evensong of elves spoke to him as wizardry magic could not. It stole into his blood, into his soul, soothing and calming him in a manner he had never dreamed possible.
Andris wondered about elven reverie and wistfully coveted the vivid, waking dreams that were said to be more refreshing than sleep. Perhaps here, in this place, he might share some of that fey peace.
When
“It is not the elven way. I was born in this jungle, but I have been gone for many years. You’ll notice that they did not welcome me with joy or offer to gossip about all that has happened since I left.”
“They disapprove of mixed blood?”
Kiva gave a derisive sniff. “You jordaini have a talent for understatement.”
Andris found this painful, but logical. “Reasonable enough, given the dwindling numbers of elves. I assume they perceive elfbloods as a threat?”
She sent him a small, hard smile. “If they considered you a threat, you’d be dead. Did you notice that they did not look at you?”
“Yes, but I was too busy being glad they didn’t shoot at me to worry about it overmuch,” Andris responded. After a moment’s consideration he added, “Perhaps I owe my life to the fact that they thought me already dead.”
“That’s very close. They called you karasanzor. That means ‘crystal one,’ and it is a term of respect. They did not look at you because we do not gaze upon the crystal ghosts of our elf kin.”
Andris gestured toward his translucent form. “So looking like this is a good thing, according to the forest elves?”
“It puts you in a unique position,” Kiva agreed. “You’re clearly human-you should pardon the expression-but you appear to share the karasanzor’s fate. Furthermore, you faced the laraken and lived. They don’t know what to make of you.”
“They are not alone,” Andris muttered.
They did not speak again until the elves stopped for the evening. The scouts showed them to a small house built high into the forest canopy, well away from the camp itself.
Andris and Kiva ate the fruit that the scouts left for them and settled down for the night. Deeper in the jungle, the unseen elves began to sing. The melody was slow and languorous, with a gently pulsing rhythm.
Andris had never known a mother, but he suspected that this song was a lullaby. Never had he heard anything so moving. It comforted and saddened him at the same time.
Kiva stopped brushing her hair and turned to him. “What do you know of the Lady’s Mirror?”
The sudden question shattered the music’s spell. Andris frowned. “It is a pool sacred to Mystra, Lady of Magic, tended by wizards who worship her servant Azuth, the Lord of Wizards. Some say that on a full moon the face of the goddess can be seen in the still waters. This sight is considered to be a sign of great blessing.”
“There is a small temple near the shore of the Mirror. A repository of spellbooks and artifacts, and not a particularly well-guarded one.” Her glance slid over, held his puzzled stare, and waited for him to catch up.
Comprehension came over him slowly. A score of Azuthan priests served the temple, and at any given time there might be perhaps another twenty visitors who came for pilgrimage or study. There was no fortified keep, just a few small buildings, little more than traveler’s huts, scattered throughout the nearby grove. Yet none of the magical books or items had ever gone missing. Such an act would be tantamount to ripping tapestries off the walls of King Zalathorm’s festhall.
“You cannot mean to desecrate the Lady’s Mirror!” he protested.
“No,” she said with dark amusement. “I plan to raid it upon the morrow, you will tell me how.”
She smiled at his dumbfounded expression and patted his cheek as if he were a slow but promising child. “Get some sleep. We rise with the dawn.”
Andris settled down, certain that he would never find slumber with such a task before him, but the evensong of elves spoke to him as wizardry magic could not. It stole into his blood, into his soul, soothing and calming him in a manner he had never dreamed possible.
Andris wondered about elven reverie and wistfully coveted the vivid, waking dreams that were said to be more refreshing than sleep. Perhaps here, in this place, he might share some of that fey peace.
When
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