Windwalker by Elaine Cunningham Page A

“Problem?”
    “You might say that.” Laerel lowered her hand, fist clenched. “Liriel will go straight to Qilué. We must get word to my sister at once!”
    Khelben frowned. “You know that isn’t possible. It takes hours for a mere message to bypass Qilué’s wards and magical diversions. No one can teleport directly into the Promenade Temple.”
    “I can,” Laerel said grimly, “using the ear cuff my sister gave me—the cuff I was wearing just moments ago.” She unclenched her fist. Her hand was empty.
    The archmage’s brows knit in puzzlement then flew up as he realized what had happened. “Danilo said he would not meet the drow! Goddess knows the boy has his faults, but he has never gone back on his word.”
    His lady cast her eyes skyward. “He agreed he would not meet the drow at the harbor. Khelben dearest, you really must learn to speak Rogue. Consider this: Where is your powdered essence of sky, sea, and stone? Where are Liriel’s gems? Where is the missive the merfolk brought from Caladorn’s ship? Where are all the things that will enable one wizard to find Liriel’s ship—and ensure that another wizard cannot?”
    Khelben’s gaze darted from the writing table to the scrying platform. The delicate vial was gone, as were the bag of gemstones and the sealskin parchment.
    He uttered a single word—a barnyard epithet delivered with great force and little regard for the dignity of his high rank.
    “The boy’s gone straight to the ship! Damn and blast it! Why did I entrust Mystra’s Art to such a hopeless fool!”
    Laerel fingered the unadorned curve of her ear. “Now that you mention it, I probably shouldn’t have taught him those pickpocket tricks, either.”
    “It would seem that your overschooled protege has a few lessons yet coming,” Thorn announced. She plucked her bowstring, which sang like a battle harp.
    Khelben’s irritation disappeared, chased from his face by a flash of paternal panic. Power rose like mist around him, creating an illusion of an imperious, elf-blooded wizard, ancient and mighty beyond words—an illusion that held more truth than his familiar form.
    “Whatever comes of this, the boy is to be spared,” he demanded in a voice ringing with power.
    The elf champion shrugged, unimpressed. “If possible,” she said. As she strode from the room, she repeated, “If possible—and provided he doesn’t annoy me overmuch!”
    Khelben’s enhanced image dissipated like a sigh, leaving his mortal facade looking old and careworn. He sent a troubled glance toward his lady. “Do you suppose she meant those terms quite literally?”
    “Well, she does seem give her threats a bit more emphasis, but how many elves have you met who don’t mean precisely what they say?”
    The archmage nodded as if he’d expected this response. “In that case,” he muttered, “the boy’s as good as dead.”
    Laerel shook her head as another thought occurred to her. “Sharlarra has been getting restless of late.”
    Khelben stared at her as if she had gone moonmad. “And you mention this because …”
    “I go to Skullport from time to time. I need to, and not just for the information I can find there.”
    He nodded, acknowledging the side of his lady that he did not share and could not quite understand.
    “Did I ever tell you where I met Sharlarra?”
    “Lady Sharlarra of the Vindrith clan? I had assumed Evermeet, but something tells me that would not be the correct answer.”
    She laughed shortly. “Hardly. We met in Skullport.”
    “No! A gold elf, in that cesspool of a city? What the Nine bloody Hells was she doing there?”
    “Surviving,” Laerel retorted, “and doing a damn good job of it. She lifted my purse. The thing was magically warded, and she still almost got away with it.”
    The archmage huffed indignantly. “That convinced you to bring her to my tower as an apprentice?”
    “Why not? Talent is talent. For that matter, Sharlarra isn’t a gold elf. But we’re