The Sorcerer by Troy Denning

until he got himself captured.
    When the guards began to grow impatient with the paupers and slap at them with the flats of their blades, Aris hit upon a helpful solution and began to fling handfuls of gold away from the road. It took two throws before the beggars realized what was happening and fled, all yelling Aris’s praises and pleading for him to throw a handful their way.
    Once the road was clear, the guards moved quickly to secure the caravan, thundering past on both sides and barking orders to get moving. Five of their number peeled off and came up beside Galaeron and Ruha, placing themselves so that any beggars returning for more handouts would have to go through them first.
    The largest, a hatchet-faced woman in a helmet and dusty fighting leathers, came alongside Galaeron and waved them across the bridge. The guard’s voice was as familiar as it was biting.
    “Well done, elf. I doubt there’s a deaf man or blind woman within a league of here who doesn’t know you’re sneaking out of Arabel.”
    Galaeron took a closer look. The speaker’s gaunt features softened into those of Storm Silverhand, the hair that looped out from beneath her helmet turning silver and silky, the thin-lipped mouth growing full and shapely.
    “This wasn’t part of the plan.” Fearful of betraying the identity of his guards, Galaeron was careful to avoid the honorific one usually showed the Chosen. The gratitude of the paupers took us by surprise.”
    “Oh, well that’s fine then,” growled the rider behind her. “How comforting to know things just slipped out of control.”
    They started across the bridge. Galaeron glanced over his shoulder to find the visage of an old horse-faced guard yielding to the black beard and frowning features of a man who could only be the renowned elf-friend, Khelben Arunsun.
    Galaeron decided not to mention the message from Malik. The Chosen appeared less than enthusiastic as it was, and the last thing he wanted was to give them an excuse to change their minds.
    “I apologize for the mistake,” he said. “I should have realized how gold would affect—”
    “Galaeron is not to blame,” Aris said, his voice booming down out of the empty sky. “I am the one who wanted to give them the gold.”
    “Will you be quiet up there?” Khelben demanded. “At least pretend you’re trying to sneak out of here unnoticed.”
    “I apologize,” Aris said, his voice a low rumble that made the bridge planks quiver beneath the horses’ hooves, “but you mustn’t blame Galaeron—”
    “There’s no need to blame anyone,” said a third guard. Riding opposite Galaeron on Ruha’s far side, she had only one arm and a voice similar to Storm’s. “No one should be condemned for sharing with the hungry.”
    As she spoke, Galaeron began to see through the illusion guarding her identity and realized that this had to be Khelben’s consort, Laeral Silverhand. There was a tiny arm growing from the stump of the one she had lost in the Shaeradim, but even this did not detract from her beauty. She was, if anything, even more lovely than her sister, with a warmth and charm alien to Storm’s brusque manner—or perhaps it merely seemed so to Galaeron because Storm never bothered to hide the dislike she bore him.
    Khelben was silent a moment, then said, “You’re right, of course.” He sighed heavily. “Again.”
    This drew a laugh from the last two guards, and Galaeron recognize the same silver in their voices as in Laeral and Storm’s. He hazarded a glance in their direction, and as he began to see through the illusions, he recognized in their sparkling eyes and silver hair two more of Storm’s sisters. The slimmest of the two, and the most feminine in her carriage and manner, could only be the celebrated Lady of Silverymoon, Alustriel Silverhand. The other, a more imposing figure as powerfully built as a man, had to be the mighty Dove Falconhand—Harper, Knight of Myth Drannor, and friend to the elves.
    The