"O Mighty Tharchion-"

"Go away."

"Mightier Zulkir. It is that woman again. The one with the carnelian; the one without a name."

Thrul stared at the dissolving mound on his plate. If he didn't eat it quickly, it wouldn't be worth eating at all. With an angry sigh, he pushed away from the table.

"Dispose of it," he told the chamberlain, "and I will see the woman in my bedchamber. Clothed or unclothed, however she wishes."

She wished for clothing, but was quite willing to remove her garments-another little disappointment in an altogether frustrating day. She was, however, a challenging partner, which Thrul would never have expected. It raised a host of questions and possibilities, best left until after tomorrow's Convocation.

"The Chairmaster has been here," he said afterward, when they were both dressed.

"I saw him depart."

An overstatement. The Chairmaster wouldn't have reappeared within Bezantur's walls. He let the comment slide, for now. "Are you ready?" he asked.

"Even now our spies in the southern cities have moved into the Aglarondan forest. Communication with them will be difficult-impossible-but they are our finest. They understand what must be done, even if we cannot tell them what to do."

He thought he saw a glimmer of falsehood in her eyes as she spoke of serving his interests and probed her mind subtly. Her thoughts betrayed no secrets, no anxiety, until she sensed his spellcast probe.

"Ask any question, my lord. I have no secrets."

"Have you learned anything closer to home?"

"My net is not cast close to home," she replied, guileless words and thoughts clear as mountain water. "Yet I think your noose around Illusion is not yet tight."

Thrul thought of the minions he'd let out this morning, and thought he'd caught the woman at last. "How would you know that?" he asked.

"The House of Illusion in Tilbrand has sent some of its own out into the world. They follow an interesting path, a northeast path, my lord, to the Aglarondan forest."

First, the Chairmaster arrived early, now this. Mythrell'aa, then, had other means to work her will outside her tower, and had been using them. "What does this mean, woman?"

"That we are not the only ones looking for something in the Yuirwood. That we will not be alone when we find it."

17

Everlund, near the High Forest After sundown, the eighteenth day of Eleasias, The Year of the Banner (1368DR)

When folk gathered for discussion, the Simbul was most often to be found-or not found-eavesdropping from the chandelier, disguised as a candle. She defended her deceit, saying that her presence inhibited those voices she most needed to hear, but the truth was that Alassra Shentrantra didn't like formal gatherings, and a gathering arranged by Alustriel with three elven sages was as formal as a gathering could get. She would have stayed home, if she hadn't been certain that Alustriel would show up, concerned about her well-being, and demand that she hie herself up to Everlund.

Bowing to the inevitable, Alassra had delved the depths of her wardrobe before conjuring a gray gown scarcely different than the one she usually wore-except it wasn't torn, frayed, or stained. The setting sun was still a handspan above the horizon when she cast the spell that whisked her north to Silverymoon. Alustriel was waiting, serenely beautiful in sapphire and silver.

"Did you forget your jewelry?"

Alassra displayed her rings, each charged with spells. "I don't wear fancy stones."

"They don't have to be fancy, 'Las, but the Tel'Quessir are a formal people. You have to finish things with them. Finishing tells them who you are."

"There isn't an elf alive who doesn't know who I am, what I am. If it bothers them, they shouldn't have agreed to meet with me." A stray thought crossed her mind. "You did tell them they'd be meeting with me didn't you? You didn't tell them I'd changed?"

"They wouldn't have believed me, if I had."

Satisfied, Alassra linked hands with Alustriel and followed her magically from Silverymoon to an ancient grove where an oblong menhir rested atop a number of smaller stones.

It was not the sort of place where Alassra could ever feel comfortable. She had nothing against the elves. After six hundred odd years of living, she had great respect for anyone older than her. But the older she got, the more she appreciated the differences between the two races. The Elven Retreat made perfect sense to her: she wished them well and far away. In her grand plan for Faerun's future, the elves would have the eastern march of Thay, beyond Lake Thaylambar. That thoroughly despoiled land was far enough away, or would be, when she was done with the Red Wizards, and Aglarond, too.

Alassra's discomfort was compounded by the realization that the sages were waiting for them.

"I thought you said sundown," she whispered angrily.

"I did. That's what was agreed. These are not the Tel'Quessir I spoke to; I don't know them. But they've come. I'm sure there are reasons for everything, 'Las. Please don't be difficult."

Hearing voices, the sages roused from their meditations. They did not, as Alassra feared, establish themselves on the wise side of the stone, talking down to short-lived, shortsighted humans. The youngest of the elves, not apparently a sage but a servant, spread a quilt of moonlight-pale silken patchwork over the grass then finished it with a circle of six plump cushions. Taking her cues from Alustriel, Alassra shed her sandals before stepping on the quilt and sitting on one of the cushions. The servant handed her a silver beaker of ice-cold nectar and offered a piece of honey-glazed shortbread-her favorite dessert and almost certainly a peace-offering.

Alassra glanced at her sister, who smiled and said nothing.

The elven servant served the sages, then seated himself on the last cushion. "It would help," he began without formality, "if you explained the things that trouble you in your own words. Begin at the beginning and leave nothing out. There may be something of significance that we would otherwise overlook."

Alassra's temper flared. She wasn't a child with a faulty memory; she was…

She was a queen who'd grown accustomed to the prerogatives and privileges of royalty when she should have known better.

"It began with a vision while I was napping. A voice said Zandilar. The vision showed me a black-maned horse the color of winter twilight…"

The elves scarcely moved while the Simbul told the story, as much of it as she could honestly remember on a moment's notice, leaving out only the bits about how her mirror peered into Thay. Fortified with a second beaker of nectar, Alassra spoke of Lailomun Zerad for the first time since she had accepted her Chosen heritage. It was a tale no one had ever heard, not the elves, not her sister, not even her own ears. There were tears in Alustriel's eyes when she finished. The elves saw the matter differently.

One of the sages, a black-haired Moon elf with a fondness for knives, six of which could be seen sprouting from his sleeves, boots, and belt, leaned forward to ask: "This personal enmity between you and the Zulkir of Illusion, how does it bear on the question of Zandilar?"

Again the storm queen felt her hackles rise, again she quelled them. "I don't know if it bears on Zandilar. What I do know is that Mythrell'aa has learned of my interest in the horse and, because of Lailomun Zerad, will presume my interest in the Cha'Tel'Quessir, Ebroin of MightyTree. She will pursue them because they are important to me. The other zulkirs will pursue Mythrell'aa, because they are Red Wizards and they swarm whenever one of them has something the others don't. If it were a matter of simply protecting a boy and a horse, I would do that, and I wouldn't be here asking your advice. But it's the Yuirwood, too, and the Cha'Tel'Quessir, and Zandilar, about whom I can learn very little, except that she was called 'the Dancer' and that there's a small stone bearing her name in the Sunglade inside a circle of larger, Seldarine stones."