Realms of Mystery

Lynaelle

Lynaelle awoke suddenly to find herself face to face with a cocked crossbow. Hurlonn Davenwiss was at the other end, aiming it at her with a snarl on his face. Hurlonn was a generally sour fellow who had lost his wife two winters ago in an orc raid. “Get up, you ungrateful wench!” he yelled at her, even as she noticed others looming over her bed. The girl blinked, trying to clear the cobwebs of sleep, even as the sheets were yanked back and she was dragged to her feet. Teress Turigoode’s husband Shastin was there, and behind him Gorlin the hunter stood, a long dagger in his belt, a lantern in one hand, and a coil of rope in the other.

“What’s the matter?” Lynaelle asked, shivering from the cold in only her thin shift.

“Shut up!” Hurlonn spat, keeping the crossbow trained on the girl. “Tie her, Gorlin. Don’t let her use any of her infernal magic on us. Ungrateful little whelp.”

Shastin spun Lynaelle around and pushed her against the bed, then grabbed her arms, jerking them cruelly behind her back. “Ow!” she cried out, not understanding. “Please! What’s wrong?” She could feel rope being threaded around her wrists, burning her skin as the slack was drawn up. “Please, Gorlin, someone, tell me what’s going on!” Lynaelle sobbed, desperately wishing Ambriel would arrive and call off this mob. She did not struggle as Gorlin finished tying her hands and began to bind her fingers, immobilizing them completely.

“I say we kill her now and be done with it,” Hurlonn raged. “No sense in waiting.”

“No,” Gorlin said quietly but firmly as he helped Lynaelle to her feet. “The Lady’s law says she gets a trial. There will be no killing.”

“Fah!” spat Hurlonn. “A trial is a waste of time.” Outside her small one-room cottage, Lynaelle could see that dawn was breaking, but the sun was still behind the mountains.

“Nonetheless,” Gorlin pronounced firmly, “the Lady’s law is clear. There will be a trial. Let’s go, girl.” He gently pushed Lynaelle forward, toward the door, steering her by his grip.

“Please!” Lynaelle said, moving forward woodenly, shivering, her feet aching from the cold floor. “I didn’t do anything! Somebody please talk to me.” She felt numb, as if none of this were real. Where is Ambriel? she wondered. Or Daleon?

“Don’t pretend you didn’t kill him!” Hurlonn fumed. “Don’t pretend you didn’t go up there last night and blast him with the very magic he taught you to use!”

Lynaelle stumbled then, her head spinning. Ambriel! No! She sank to her knees, unable to breathe. Someone had taken Ambriel from her. I didn’t do it! her mind screamed. No, it can’t be real. She began to shake uncontrollably. “P-please,” she sobbed quietly. “I didn’t do that. I would never…” Never kill the only person who ever really cared about me, she finished in her head, remembering the previous day, the last time she had seen him.

“No, no, Lynnie, twist it. Like this,” Ambriel chided as he tore another strip of parchment from the sheet in his lap. His gnarled fingers, steady despite their age, pulled the strip taut and then deftly looped it back on itself, giving it a half twist. “There, like that,” he said, pinching the ends together between his thumb and forefinger and holding it for the girl to see.

Lynaelle chewed her lower lip as she studied the twisted shape in the older man’s hand, wanting to make certain she understood what he had done. She nodded finally, confident she could duplicate it. She took her own strip and pulled it taut by the ends, as he had done, then mimicked his movements to form the endless loop.

“Good, very good,” Ambriel smiled, absently stroking his whiskered chin with one hand as he peered at the object in Lynaelle’s grasp. She smiled briefly to herself as she looked at him, crouched as he was upon the granite outcropping where they were studying, a coil of rope before him on the stone, He kept his cloak, the same sky-blue color as his eyes, wrapped about himself, for the air held a chill this late in the summer, even at the peak of a sunny afternoon.

To most, Ambriel still seemed impossibly spry for his age, but Lynaelle had begun to notice little changes that hinted otherwise. Their walks through the woods never seemed to last as long as they once did, and his lessons on magic with her came less frequently. Mostly, she had begun to notice where the lines in his face had deepened and multiplied. He’s getting old, the back of her mind whispered, but she ignored it and concentrated on the lesson.

“Now, the rest.” His voice was deep and rich against the hushed roar of the tumbling water at their feet. “Say the words slowly and clearly.”

Lynaelle nodded again and rose to her feet, positioning herself so that the coil of rope was directly in front of her. She focused inwardly for a moment, concentrating, as she held the looped parchment before her. Then she began to speak, firmly citing words in an arcane tongue, As she formed the final syllables, she held her other hand up, palm to the sky, and blew a bit of cornstarch she had been grasping so that it passed through the twisted loop and settled on the coil of rope. She shivered, that now-familiar tingle engulfing her, as the incantation opened magical connections both within and around her body. She watched expectantly as the rope began to uncoil, one end climbing magically upward toward a dark, shimmering opening that appeared for an instant in the sun-dappled air.

A deluge of water suddenly cascaded from the sky, crashing directly into Lynaelle and knocking her off-balance. She stumbled backward from the rock and fell into the icy stream, toppling onto her back and submerging. The torrent of water continued to slam into her, pinning her under the surface, and Lynaelle flailed about in a panic, unable to breathe. She inadvertently swallowed several mouthfuls of both icy fresh water and warmer salt water before she managed to roll to one side and escape the deluge. Just as quickly as the torrent of water had appeared, it vanished, leaving Lynaelle on her hands and knees in the stream, thoroughly drenched and shivering from cold.

Lynaelle crawled from the stream onto shore, wiping water from her face and trying to catch her breath. She barely noticed Ambriel standing safely upon the bank of the stream, still clutching his spellbook. He gaped incredulously into the open air where the magical doorway had been spewing water only seconds before. All evidence of the rope, the parchment, and the cornstarch had been washed away from the outcropping of rock.

When Lynaelle saw that her teacher was unhurt, she fell back upon a bed of dried fir needles, her eyes closed, breathing deeply and trying to calm her pounding heart.

“Obviously, That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Lynaelle growled in frustration.

Ambriel shook his head slowly, still stunned at the unexpected display of raw nature. “Amazing,” he answered absently, stroking his whiskers. “I don’t know exactly what you did… Some sort of wild surge, I’d warrant. I think you accidentally opened a planar portal, instead.”

“That’s it,” the girl grumbled, her amethyst eyes flashing as she scowled upward at the sky. “That’s the third time this week, and this time I nearly drowned both of us. I quit.” She sat up, impatiently dragging her long, delicate fingers through her wet, bedraggled hair, sweeping a few straw-colored strands behind her noticeably sylvan ear with a trembling hand.

“Gods,” she continued. “I’m a menace to both of us. Forget studying at the university in Silverymoon. I can imagine everyone’s faces when I accidentally drown the headmaster while auditioning for enrollment.” She huddled miserably, shivering and wet.

Ambriel laughed. “I suppose we should be glad you opened a portal to water, rather than something more dangerous,” he quipped, “such as magma.”

Lynaelle groaned. “Oh, that would be even better. ‘I’m really sorry, Your Ladyship, I didn’t mean to melt your university.” She sighed and tucked a small, simple stone amulet back into her blouse, pausing to run her fingers over its smooth surface. Ambriel had given it to her some years before, when she had first begun to study magic with him. She always wore it on a leather thong around her neck. Ambriel made a few subtle gestures and Lynaelle was instantly dry again. She was grateful for the cantrip.

“I told you it would take more effort to learn this new magic, child,” the old man said. “If it were easy, everyone would be a great wizard casting spells all over the damned place, and I wouldn’t be sitting out here freezing my old bones, trying to keep from getting killed while I teach them to you.” Lynaelle sighed again, nodding glumly, still feeling the chill of being wet, even though she was completely dry. Ambriel laughed at her dour expression. “Oh, stop it. You learn faster than anyone I ever knew, including me. Your logic is sharp and sometimes you even apply yourself. Patience, Lynnie! You’ll get it. The Bright Lady herself would be jealous of your ability.”

Ambriel got a distant look on his face, then. “I remember when I was first studying with my old teacher in Silverymoon. I was as impetuous as you, eager to learn, thinking I could master it all in an afternoon.” The elder man stared off into nowhere then, and he said nothing for a time.

Lynaelle watched him, wishing he would share this vision of his past with her. She loved it when he told her stories about his younger days, about when he had studied magic at the university at Silverymoon, and then later, when he had actually served for a time as a member of the Spellguard. She often imagined what it would be like to be a member of that elite enclave of wizards charged with protecting the Gem of the North. She often vowed to herself to make it a reality.

Seeing Ambriel’s craggy face now, and the gnarled hands that absently stroked his snowy beard, it was harder than ever to imagine him young. Yes, he’s definitely growing old, Lynaelle’s mind whispered. The elven half of her heritage made his aging pass quickly before her eyes, and in turn, to him, she had hardly changed at all in the twelve summers he had known her. Lynaelle knew Ambriel would be long dead before she fully matured into adulthood, and the age now showing in his face filled her with sudden sadness. She hated envisioning a life without her mentor to protect and guide her, and yet she knew that day would soon be upon her. His days with you may be few in number, Lynaelle Shalandriana, but you are a fool to waste them grieving before he’s gone! she scolded herself.

As if sensing her troubled thoughts, Ambriel shook his own head, returning to the present. “You must keep working on focusing the energy you feel into the loop. Only then will the magic hold.” The girl nodded, her sadness dispelled. She briefly considered trying again, but remembered that all of their components had washed away. The next lesson would have to wait for another time.

Ambriel drew the girl’s attention to the horizon with a nod of his head. Lynaelle turned and spied the darkening sky near the top of Emrund’s Peak at the head of the valley. The late afternoon showers were coming.

“All right,” Lynaelle acknowledged, sighing. She rose to her feet and turned to follow Ambriel. With careful, measured steps he strolled along the path, his buckskin boots making little noise. Lynaelle hiked along beside him, absently toying with the amulet around her neck as she soundlessly picked her way along the trail. The path meandered through a copse of large, arrow-straight firs, their great trunks rising like huge columns to an arched canopy of thick boughs overhead. It was cool and dim here, and with the late afternoon sun already settling behind the far ridge of mountains and the clouds gathering overhead, it was growing into twilight. Lynaelle inhaled deeply, delighting in the scents of the forest. She also detected the faint smell of a cookfire and roasting meat in the chill air, and her stomach reminded her it was almost dinner time.

The pair crested a small ridge along the path to behold Galen’s Ford. The little hamlet before them had grown up near a shallow ford in the stream. Here, the forest floor was open and spacious, uncluttered by smaller under-growth. The cottages, many nestled against the huge trunks of these great trees, were simple earth-and-timber affairs with thatched roofs. In what might pass for the center of town, a large, open-sided pavilion constructed of rough-hewn logs dominated the other structures. Beneath its sheltering roof there were several simple wooden tables with plank benches.

It was near this central structure that most of the folk of Galen’s Ford now gathered, preparing for a communal evening meal. A half dozen or so men and women, plates and bowls in hand, huddled around the large cookfire, that burned in a pit in the middle, where a hole in the roof allowed the smoke to escape. Others had already found seats at the tables. All told, some three dozen people dwelt here.

Lynaelle could distinctly smell the roasting venison even before she spied it on a large spit over the fire. She also detected the odors of steamed potatoes and carrots, fresh pan bread, and baking sourberry pie. At the table, she knew there would be hard cheese and pitchers of cold milk, both brought up from Quaervarr farther down in the valley.

Ambriel sniffed the air deeply. “Mmm,” he sighed. “Sourberry pie always gets my mouth watering. I love this time of the year.” The old man headed directly to the cookfire to inspect a pie cooling on the hearth. As he reached out to sample a bit of the crust, however, Teress Turlgoode, a plump, rosy-cheeked woman, swatted his hand away.

“Keep your paws off my pie, old man. There will be plenty for you after dinner.” Teress was trying to sound stern, but Lynaelle could see the twinkle in the woman’s eye as she scolded him. Ambriel yanked his hand back and tried to look wounded but couldn’t resist chuckling.

Lynaelle smiled, sharing in the joke, then turned to follow Ambriel to a table, nearly running headlong into a thin, bony woman carrying an armload of dishes. The girl pulled up short at the last moment and the woman, Mavin Holcott, snarled at her. “Watch where you’re going, you stupid half-breed.” The hatred in the woman’s voice was plain.

“Sorry;” Lynaelle mumbled as she ducked her head and scurried out of Mavin’s way. Lynaelle’s cheeks burned with anger as she caught up with Ambriel and she could almost feel the other woman’s eyes on her. That woman-! She’s just not happy unless she’s scowling at me, she seethed to herself.

Ambriel looked at Lynaelle intently for a moment. “What’s troubling you, child?”

Lynaelle shook her head. “Nothing,” she said dismissively “I’ll get us some food.” She started to rise again, but his hand shot across the table and fastened on her wrist with a surprisingly strong grip.

“You know better than to think I’ll buy that. What happened?”

Lynaelle sighed and sank back down onto the plank bench. “Oh, Mavin Holcott is staring daggers at me again. It’s nothing.”

Ambriel frowned, his watery blue eyes flashing. “I’ll speak to her about it later. Her sour insults have gone on long enough.”

“No, please don’t. That’ll only make things worse. I’ll just stay out of her way, like I always do.”

Ambriel smiled and patted Lynaelle’s arm gently. “You’re a good person, Lynnie. You deserve better than what that unhappy old woman dishes out. But I’ll stay out of it, if that’s what you wish.”

Lynaelle smiled back at the elderly man, gladdened by the kindness showing in his face. “She doesn’t matter, Ambriel, as long as I know I have your undying love,” she teased, her voice smooth as honey.

Ambriel nearly choked. “Hush, child!” he hissed under his breath. “I’m old enough to be your father, and I look old enough to be your grandfather! Don’t give these nosy people any ideas. If they got the notion I was making untoward advances, however insane that idea actually is…“

Lynaelle giggled, imagining Mavin Holcott’s face at such a thought. She’d turn purple and choke on her own waggling tongue. She giggled again, delighted at such an image.

Ambriel was peering around, obviously nervous at the thought someone had overheard the girl’s joke. When he had assured himself that no one had, he relaxed once again and glared at Lynaelle. “You really like making me old before my time, don’t you?” he muttered, but Lynaelle could see the twinkle in his eye.

She smiled at him and stood up. “I’ll get us some food. Just stay here and rest your weary bones, grandfather.” Ambriel sputtered unintelligently at her insolent comment and took a half-hearted swat at her, but she easily dodged it and traipsed toward the cook fire.

As Lynaelle stood in line, hands suddenly covered her eyes and a male voice behind her said, “Guess who?”

It was Daleon, one of the woodcutters. Lynaelle ducked and twisted out of his grasp and turned to face him. Daleon was handsome enough, Lynaelle often thought, but something about him made her uneasy. Despite the fact that he was quite friendly, she often sensed that he was up to something. Nonetheless, he was handsome, and his interest in her seemed genuine.

“I knew it was you. It’s hardly a surprise when you are the only one who ever does that,” the girl said, smiling and poking him playfully in the chest.

Daleon snorted. “That’s because you spend all your time with the old man. If you weren’t so set on becoming a great sorcerer”-he said this last bit with mock awe- “more people might pay some attention.”

“Hey!” Lynaelle said indignantly, punching Daleon on the arm. “I like studying magic with Ambriel. Besides,” she continued, frowning when she noticed Mavin Holcott scowling at the two of them, “I can do without some of their attention. Mavin Holcott would just as soon put a bolt through me as look at me. She doesn’t think too highly of you talking to me, you know.”

Daleon shrugged, seemingly indifferent to the woman’s disapproval. “Hey,” he said, changing the subject, “do you want to go for a walk after dinner tonight?”

Lynaelle had reached the front of the line and turned away from Daleon. Gorlin, a retired tracker who now did the hunting for Galen’s Ford, handed her two bowls of steaming food. He was a quiet man who treated Lynaelle with indifference, but then, he treated everyone in the hamlet with indifference, so she had taken that as a good sign.

“Maybe,” the girl replied to Daleon’s question. “It might rain. Ambriel and I noticed a storm moving in before.”

“Then maybe I could come over for a while. We could talk. I’ll bring some firewood; I noticed you’re getting low. I’ll even build you a fire tonight.”

Lynaelle arched one eyebrow at this suggestion, looking askance at Daleon. Well, it’s pretty obvious what mischief he wants to get into tonight, she thought. Mavin Holcott would choke on her own wagging tongue for certain. “I imagine you would even stay long enough to make sure I was warm, wouldn’t you?” Daleon merely grinned, and Lynaelle suddenly got that uneasy feeling again. “We’ll see,” she replied. “I have to take Ambriel his dinner.” She then turned and walked briskly away before the young man could press her on the issue.

Once back at the table with Ambriel, Lynaelle attacked her meal with relish. The afternoon’s mishap by the river had left her famished. As they ate, a light and friendly banter sprang up around them, people enjoying a good meal among extended family.

“Ambriel, how harsh will the winter be this year?” asked Hurlonn Davenwiss, a carpenter and blacksmith of sorts. Ambriel paused to finish a bite, then patted his mouth with a napkin.

“I performed an augury only yesterday, Hurlonn,” Ambriel answered, “and the winter won’t be too cold, but there’ll be a lot of snow this year.”

There was a general murmur among the gathering at this news. Heavy snows made it difficult to harvest timber, for the wagons frequently got stuck in the high drifts. It also meant that Gorlin would need to step up his hunting so that the community would have plenty of smoked meats to see them through until next spring. There would be a lot of work to get done this fall.

Ambriel cleared his throat as he pushed his now-empty bowl away. The folk grew quiet, for this generally meant the elderly man had more to say. “Of course, the deep snows are going to be good for growing harperroot and basilisk’s tongue, and the heavy melt-off next spring means there should be lots of hammerfish.”

Lynaelle smiled to herself. Ambriel was always one to point out the good side of any problem that might arise, and his counsel to the people of Galen’s Ford was no exception. Although the logging might be slim this winter, if they planned ahead, there would be plenty of other goods available to send down river to Quaervarr and Silverymoon next spring. Another bout of murmuring rose up from the small crowd, only this time it carried a tone of positive excitement.

“You know,” Ambriel interrupted, glancing around, “this reminds me of a story that took place one winter we had back when I was with the Spellguard.” A hush fell over the crowd. “But-” he paused dramatically, “I think it will go over much better after a nice hot slice of sourberry pie.” Laughter sprang up all around and many heads nodded in agreement.

Very quickly, people sprang up to collect the dishes, cut the pie, or stoke the fire. Everyone loved it when, Ambriel told a story, always a long, drawn out, embellished affair, and finishing the chores was a must before settling down for an evening of his tales. Lynaelle smiled as she gathered both of their bowls and hurried toward the cookfire, where a large kettle of water had been put on for washing. She did not want to lose her seat next to her elderly friend, who was now quite entrenched as the center of attention. She set the bowls down on the hearth near the fire and turned to head back to her seat when a hand grabbed her wrist.

“Since you got to spend the afternoon daydreaming by the river instead of helping with the chores, you can wash the dishes.” It was Mavin Holcott, her words mocking, a scrub brush in her other hand. Lynaelle started to protest, but Teress Turlgoode was there too, nodding her head in agreement, although the look on her face was much kinder than Mavin’s. Lynaelle knew they expected to be obeyed. The girl’s mouth snapped shut and she reluctantly accepted the scrub brush from the hateful woman. With a smug look of satisfaction on her face, Mavin turned and stalked off to join the crowd gathering around Ambriel, Teress close behind her. Lynaelle sighed and tested the water in the kettle. It wasn’t quite hot enough, yet, so she sat down to wait. She looked forlornly toward the gathering crowd, knowing full well that she would not be able to hear Ambriel’s story

Ambriel had finished his pie and was now in the process of lighting a pipe, his feet stretched out before him. She watched the elderly man as he savored the taste of his pipe for a moment longer, then began to blow the smoke into dancing shapes, a trick that delighted the small children in the group and made them squeal and clap their hands. Lynaelle smiled, familiar with this particular cantrip; it was one of the first bits of magic Ambriel had taught her. As he began his tale, Lynaelle reluctantly turned away, pushed the sleeves of her blouse up to her elbows, and tested the water once more. Satisfied with the temperature, she took up a bowl and the scrub brush and went to work.

Lynaelle felt movement at her back suddenly, but before she could turn around Daleon was seated next to her, that familiar mischievous smile on his face.

“Need some help?” he asked, reaching for a bowl.

“Sure,” she whispered back, “but you don’t have to. This is my penance for ‘daydreaming’ all day, according to Mavin Holcott.”

Daleon snorted in derision. “That cranky old dame isn’t happy unless she’s making everyone else miserable,” he said out loud, drawing a few irritated stares from people sitting at the back, closest to the two of them.

“Shh!” Lynaelle urged, not wanting to rile the woman any more than necessary. “It’s all right. I can manage the dishes. Go enjoy yourself with the rest of them.” She turned back to scrubbing.

Daleon, however, made no move to depart. “So?” he asked, still holding the bowl.

“So, what?” the girl replied, getting a tingle in her stomach. She sensed what he was about to ask her. She found herself imagining what it would feel like to kiss him, and wished she hadn’t, for that made the knots in her stomach even worse.

“So, do you want me to bring some firewood over to your cottage tonight?”

Lynaelle swallowed nervously, thankful it had grown dark enough by this time that the young man couldn’t see. “Uh, urn, yes, okay.” Stop acting like a thimblehead, you foolish girl! She took a deep breath. “Yes, I would like that. After I get Ambriel home.”

Daleon arose, setting the still unwashed bowl down next to the rest of the pile. “All right, then. I’m going to have another slice of pie and go listen to the story.” He smiled that smile once more, and Lynaelle felt goose bumps and shivered. “Don’t make me wait too long, though.” He spun on his heel, a pie plate in his hand with a full quarter of a pie still in it, and went to join the rest of the crowd.

Lynaelle stared after the handsome young man as he departed, both thrilled and worried. Then she turned her attention back to the dishes and sighed, staring at the dirty bowl. Typical, she grimaced, flinging it into the water and attacking it vigorously with the brush. Their idea of helping is to keep you company while you do the work. And I, of course, was swooning with delight the whole time, like some addlebrained maiden. Humans may understand the ways of love, but I sure don’t.

Ambriel finished his story, and as the gathering began to break up, Lynaelle hurriedly finished the dishes and went to escort her mentor home. It had begun to rain, as she had expected, but under the protection of the forest it was really little more than a light drizzle. Nonetheless, the two pulled the hoods of their cloaks up to protect them from the dampness. Lynaelle fetched and carried a lantern for them as they walked along the path toward Ambriel’s cottage at the edge of the hamlet, her other hand on his arm.

“I missed your story tonight,” she lamented. “You must promise to tell it to me tomorrow. Mavin and Teress ordered me to do the dishes.”

“Did you get them nice and clean?” Ambriel teased.

“I did,” Lynaelle said indignantly. “Daleon came over and offered to help, but he just ended up talking my ear off.”

Ambriel chuckled. “I think he’s sweet on you, Lynnie.” Lynaelle stammered, “I…he…I…I find him interesting, I suppose.” She hoped she sounded noncommittal. “He seems like such a scoundrel, though. Don’t you ever get a sense that he’s up to no good?”

“Of course. All the time,” Ambriel replied, a chuckle in his voice. “Especially where your virtue is concerned.”

Lynaelle made a strangled noise and sputtered “Ambriel! That’s not what I meant, and you know it!”

“What’s wrong, Lynnie? Worried that you’ll no longer have my undying love?” he teased. “Don’t worry, I promise not to be too jealous.”

Lynaelle rolled her eyes. “You’re terrible!”

Ambriel laughed at her reaction and continued, “As for the dish duty, well, I suppose it’s only fair, seeing as how I keep you busy with other things most of the day. There are some who feel we don’t do our share. Mavin more strongly than most.”

“Oh, I don’t mind the work,” Lynaelle replied, grateful for a change of subject. “It’s just the way she delights in glaring at me. What did I ever do to make her hate me?”

Ambriel grew quiet for a time before answering the girl. “This world holds many wonders, for those who have the gumption to go find them. But some folk can’t seem to see past the differences between themselves and everyone else.

“I will tell you this, though, child. For every cold and unhappy person like Mavin, there is a person who cares not one wit about your heritage, only that you are warm and kind and trustworthy. Those kinds of people you can be proud to call ‘friend.’ Like Daleon, for instance.”

Lynaelle groaned, realizing Ambriel had found a way to bring the fellow up again. “He’s convinced you to help him charm me. You’re conspiring together!”

Ambriel chuckled. “Don’t disparage his kindness too quickly, child. He seems to find you interesting enough.” They had reached Ambriel’s cottage.

“Yes, I know. He’s coming over tonight to talk for a while.” The girl admitted, her tone warning Ambriel against further quips at her expense.

The pair entered into the cottage, and Lynaelle began took his book of spells over to a trunk at the foot of his bed. He uttered a few phrases, softly enough that to light the various candles and lamps while Ambriel Lynaelle could not make them out, and then lifted the lid, He deposited the book atop a folded section of royal blue canvas adorned with a silver crescent moon sheltering a single silver star.

Ambriel had once shown Lynaelle some of the various items he kept stored here, mostly old books written by some of the most powerful sages and wizards of Silvery- moon. There were a few other things there, too, pieces of memorabilia from his younger days such as the scrap of canvas. It was the flag of Silverymoon, and when pressed on its origins Ambriel claimed it had been given to him by Alustriel Silverhand herself a number of years ago. Whenever Lynaelle asked him why, he refused to say. She liked to imagine that it must have been to honor him for some great deed.

The elderly man firmly shut the lid and softly recited a few new words, then turned to face the girl. “I know I’ve told you this over and over, but-”

“‘Promise me you won’t ever try to open this yourself,’” Lynaelle said in unison with her mentor. “I know, I know. And, like always, I promise.”

Ambriel smiled, but it was sort of a sad smile. “I just don’t want anything to happen to you, Lynnie.”

Lynaelle went to Ambriel then and gave him a hug. “Don’t worry I will never open your chest. Besides, I don’t really want any of your smelly old books, anyway.”

Ambriel laughed at this and turned to hang up his cloak. “Get out of here, you insolent child. Go have fun with Daleon.”

Lynaelle hesitated, wanting to make certain Ambriel was settled in for the night. “Are you sure? Do you want me to brew you some tea?”

“No, no. I’m fine. Go and let an old man rest. I’m going to read for a bit. You can make up for it tomorrow.”

Lynaelle nodded then, and turned to go. “See you in the pulled the hood up on her cloak and headed out the door. She saw Ambriel wave absently to her, already flipping morning,” she called over her shoulder as she once again open a musty tome that had been resting on the table by his bed.

Lynaelle ducked out into the evening, taking a moment to let her keen night vision adjust to the darkness, then trotted home along the path that led through the hamlet. Warm amber light seeped from the windows of the various dwellings, and she could hear soft voices from within as everyone settled in for the evening. She made her way through the center of the hamlet and on to her own small cottage. It was really little more than a hut, one small room nestled at the base of one of the great pines, but it was off by itself, as Ambriel’s had been, and it was more than enough to suit her needs.

When she arrived, Lynaelle could see Daleon perched on her doorstep, a lit lantern by his side. She waved to him before she realized he probably could not see her in the evening gloom. She made a point of snapping a few twigs as she approached so as not to startle him.

“Hi,” he said uncertainly, peering in her direction.

“Hi, yourself. I tried to hurry,” she lied, looking the young man up and down from the darkness for a moment before stepping fully into the light of his lantern. She realized that she truly liked what she saw. She opened the door and moved inside as he jumped up and stepped to one side. “I thought you were going to bring me some wood for a fire tonight,” she flirted.

“Oh,” he said a bit sheepishly. “I added an armload to your woodpile, but it was too dark to drive my wagon over tonight. I’ll bring more tomorrow.”

“Uh huh,” Lynaelle replied doubtfully. She suspected Daleon would use that same excuse to come visit every night if she allowed him to. Perhaps that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, she mused for a moment, blushing slightly.

“So, you get the old man tucked in?” He asked, a chuckle in his voice.

She turned and noticed that he still stood outside. “Oh, hush. He was happily reading a book when I left him.” She turned away again and pretended to busy herself getting a fire started, trembling a little at the implications of what she was about to ask. “So, would you like to come in?” she inquired, her voice softer and a little breathless.

Daleon paused a long moment before answering, and Lynaelle’s heart began to pound as her words hung in the air. Finally he spoke, his voice slightly husky. “I wondered if you would ever extend that invitation.” Lynaelle turned to look at him, a nervous smile on her lips. He continued. “As much as I would enjoy your company this evening, I should go. It’s late, and I have to be up early tomorrow. Tomas said we’re going to put in extra time for the next few weeks to try to get more timber in before the snows come.”

Lynaelle blinked in surprise, both at his words and at the level of her own disappointment. She shrugged her shoulders, feigning indifference. “Suit yourself.” She turned back to her fledgling fire, her lips pursed in a frown. What’s he up to? she puzzled.

“So, anyway, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” Daleon said uncertainly.

“I guess.” Lynaelle didn’t want to look at him. “Good-night.”

“Goodnight.” Daleon pulled shut Lynaelle’s front door and was gone.

Lynaelle stared at the door. One minute he won’t leave me alone, the next, he’s all proper and decent; quite the gentle lord. And me playing the shameless wench! He must think I offer my bed to anyone who knocks on my door. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she blew onto her fire, trying to get the first log to catch.

Lynaelle stripped to her shift, climbed into bed, and lay there in the dark for a bit, running her fingers over the amulet around her neck and listening to the distant roar of the stream and the hooting of an owl. When sleep finally came, it remained untroubled until Hurlonn woke her with a crossbow in her face.

“I am innocent,” Lynaelle said. Her voice cracked, but she forced the words anyway. “I would never…could never kill him.” Tears threatened to flow again, but she cleared her mind of everything but the words. “I am innocent, and I want the chance to prove it.”

“You’ll get that chance soon enough, half-breed,” Hurlonn said. “Shastin, ride for Quaervarr. Get the cleric.” Teress’s husband hurried off to fetch a horse as Hurlonn spun back around to face Lynaelle. “You can tell the cleric your lies, if you want, but the gods will seal your fate.” With that, the enraged man stomped out of Lynaelle’s house.

Gorlin began to steer Lynaelle toward the door, but Teress Turigoode stopped him. “You are not taking that child out in the cold dressed like that. She’ll freeze to death before her trial even starts.”

The woman took a blanket from Lynaelle’s bed and held it up as though to wrap it around the girl’s shoulders. Gorlin merely shrugged and made room for the woman.

“Thank you,” Lynaelle said quietly.

Gorlin took hold of her once again and directed her out the door. Lynaelle’s breath was visible, and the tears on her cheeks were cold. A crowd had gathered, almost every- one in the hamlet, Lynaelle suspected. She looked for Daleon, hoping perhaps he would step forward and stop this madness, but he was not there. He and Tomas must have left before sunrise, she realized.

Lynaelle turned to Gorlin as they stepped forth. “Why do you think I did it?” she asked. She shifted her arms under the blanket as they progressed, for the ropes were tight and cutting into her skin. Gorlin continued to guide Lynaelle up the path, toward the center of the hamlet. “I saw you head up there last night,” he said.

Lynaelle gaped at the hunter. “But I go up there every night with him! You know that! Last night, I left him reading a book and came home. I met Daleon here.”

“No, this was later. Several people saw you walk him home after dinner, but that was when it had barely started raining. I saw you again, after it had begun to rain pretty hard. Your footprints are even in the mud leading up to his cottage.”

Lynaelle was stunned. “How do you know they were my footprints? What if someone was dressed to look like me?”

Gorlin looked at her levelly. “Girl, I think I would recognize your footprints when I saw them.”

Lynaelle knew he was right, of course. He had spent his whole life tracking. Think! “It must have been magic, then,” she stated firmly. “Someone impersonated me using magic.”

Gorlin looked doubtful. “I don’t think that’s going to cut it, girl. It seems a whole lot more reasonable that you went up there.”

Lynaelle felt panic rising. “I know, but give me a chance to prove otherwise. Let me go see for myself.” She wasn’t sure if she could bear the sight of Ambriel’s dead body, but she had to try.

Gorlin had led her to the smokehouse. Lynaelle knew he intended to lock her inside until the cleric came to sort out matters. They stopped at the door, and Gorlin began to slide the heavy timber aside.

“Please, Gorlin. Give me a chance.” Lynaelle pleaded. “Let me go up there and see for myself.”

“I can’t do that. The cleric is coming, and if you really are innocent, she’ll find out from you soon enough.”

“But that might be a day or two from now. Don’t you want to know the truth? What if I’m not the one, and the real murderer is escaping?” Lynaelle was trying desperately to stay clear and focused, but she felt the panic rising again.

Gorlin considered for a moment. “All right. If you can prove your own innocence, I suppose we should give you the chance to do so. No use letting the real murderer get a big head start, if you’re telling the truth.” He led Lynaelle to Ambriel’s cottage. When they got there, Gorlin showed her what looked like several of her own foot-prints leading to the door, plainly visible in the mud next to the path.

Lynaelle frowned at this. Why walk in the mud to the side, if the path itself has plenty of pine needles? She bit her lip, thinking. Suddenly, she had an idea. “Gorlin, I know someone was trying to impersonate me. You got a very clear look at me last night, didn’t you?”

“Yes, your face was plain in the light of your lantern.”

“Gorlin, I don’t carry a lantern at night. I can see in the dark, remember?”

Realization began to dawn on Gorlin’s face.

“If I had wanted to get away with this crime, don’t you think I would have gone out of my way not to be seen? And why would I walk through the mud if the path is over here?” Lynaelle asked, nodding her head at the path. “Have you checked my boots for mud?”

“I can’t argue with that, girl, but that’s not enough. I’m going to let you go inside and see if we can’t build you a better case,” he said honestly. “But if you try anything, I will not think twice. Do you understand me?” Lynaelle nodded solemnly. “Good. Now, are you sure you want to do this?” She nodded again. “Then let’s go.”

The hunter pushed the door to Ambriel’s cottage open and stepped inside. Lynaelle steeled herself to face her mentor’s body and followed. The place was a mess. More muddy footprints led inside, still appearing to be made by Lynaelle’s own boots. The table had been overturned, the bed clothes were flung about, and books and papers were strewn everywhere. Ambriel’s trunk was open, the spell- book still where he had left it the previous evening. The elderly man himself was sprawled on his back, his feet pointing toward the trunk.

Lynaelle swallowed back the tears and bent down to get a closer look. Ambriel’s chest was blackened, as though he had been hit by a searing flame. His lifeless eyes were still open, staring darkly at the ceiling. She stood again, unnerved by the elderly man’s cold stare. She could not help crying softly then, her grief gripping her. She had no notion of what the future held, and he would no longer be a part of it. Stop it! There will be time to grieve later!

Lynaelle moved to the other side of the bed to inspect some more and spotted blood stains on the floor. She frowned, bending down for a closer look. Half hidden under the bed, she found a sheet of parchment, bloody stains on it as well. Lynaelle turned to the hunter, who was examining the muddy prints in the doorway. “Gorlin, come see this. I can’t pick it up.” Gorlin walked over to where the girl was standing. She pointed with one bare foot to the scrap of parchment. Gorlin very carefully pushed it out with the toe of his boot. It was blank, but one edge was rough and jagged, as though a part had been torn away.

Lynaelle recognized it instantly. “He was trying to escape. He tore a piece off that sheet of parchment in order to cast a spell he’s been teaching me, but it seems he didn’t have time to finish.”

The girl walked back over to Ambriel’s body and inspected it again. She frowned, not finding what she was looking for at first, then her heart began to pound. Is it possible? she thought, not daring to hope. “Gorlin! Why isn’t there any blood on his body?” She was nearly frantic with excitement. “If he was bleeding over there, then there should be a wound somewhere. And blood on his hands that got on the piece of parchment!”

Gorlin walked over to the body once more. “Maybe it’s not his blood,” he offered.

Lynaelle immediately shrugged off the blanket, letting it drop to the floor, and stood before the hunter in her thin shift. “Then it would have to be his attacker’s.” Slowly, she turned completely around. “No wounds, Gorlin. Still think I did it?”

The hunter looked at her thoughtfully and shook his head.

“I think that’s enough to prove my…”, Lynaelle’s words drifted off as she peered closely into Ambriel’s face once more and saw at last what had troubled her before. The dark eyes, staring upward. The dark eyes!

“It’s not him! Gorlin, this is not Ambriel!” She nearly laughed out loud. “Look at his eyes! Ambriel’s are blue, the same color as his cloak!” Lynaelle wanted to jump for joy.

“If this is not Ambriel, then where is he?” Gorlin asked, looking around again.

Lynaelle had to force herself not to shout. “He did it! He cast the spell! He’s somewhere right in this room!” She began to look around frantically. He can’t have much time left, she thought. Where would it be? “Gorlin, his spell will run out very soon. We have to be ready when it does. Please, untie my hands.” The hunter looked at her, unsure. “Please, Gorlin, he might be bleeding to death right now. I won’t run away. Look at the proof’. That body is not him! Someone used magic to fool us all. I can find where Ambriel is. Please!”

Finally, Gorlin nodded and took out his knife. He spun Lynaelle around and sliced through the ropes binding her hands. She gasped as blood began to flow again and rubbed her chaffed wrists. Then she began searching the floor of the room. She stopped when she found a fine white grit on the floorboards in one corner. Cornstarch!

“Gorlin, we need to move his bed over here. He’s going to appear out of thin air and fall, and we want him to land on the bed. Okay? The hunter nodded and sheathed the dagger. Together, they pushed the featherbed toward the corner, positioning it so that it was directly over the residue of the cornstarch. They didn’t have long to wait.

A shimmering black opening appeared for an instant in the air itself and through it dropped Ambriel. He landed on the bed with a soft thump, not quite square to the feather mattress, and nearly rolled off before Gorlin, gawking in amazement, caught him and settled him properly onto the pillows. The old man lay still, unconscious but breathing. He had a nasty gash in his shoulder, and his arm was soaked with blood.

Lynaelle sobbed tears of joy. “He’s bleeding.”

Lynaelle immediately began tending his wound. Gorlin went to fetch Teress Turlgoode, whose stitchery was just as useful on wounds as cloth. When the hunter returned, Ambriel was awake and smiling weakly.

“You found me, Lynnie. I knew you would.” Ambriel breathed as Teress began to sew him up. Lynaelle merely hugged her mentor until he grunted in pain. She pulled back, then looked at the body on the floor.

“What happened?” she asked softly.

Ambriel reached his good hand out toward Lynaelle. “I think he was looking for this-” he said and pulled the stone amulet from under her shift, holding it up for her to see.

Lynaelle looked at her mentor, confused. “I don’t understand. Why in Faerun would he-?”

Ambriel released the amulet and settled back into his pillow. “It’s my ward token from Silverymoon, child. From my days in the Spellguard. He…” Ambriel motioned weakly to the dead figure on the floor. “…apparently wanted it.”

“A ward token? Why would he want that?” Lynaelle asked. “And who is he?”

“Let me start at the beginning,” Ambriel began, content to settle into a good story. “Not long after you left last night-I assume it wasn’t long, it certainly didn’t seem like very long, even though I always lose track of time when I read-you showed up again. Well, of course, it wasn’t you, but I didn’t know that at the time. I thought you were acting strangely, but I didn’t really think much of it until you attacked me with a knife and demanded that I give you my ward token.” Ambriel chuckled. “Of course, I knew that the real you would never demand it, since you wouldn’t know what one is, and even if you did somehow know, you would have realized you already had it, anyway.”

“Why didn’t you just blast him with a spell?” Lynaelle prompted. “The gods know you have enough of them.”

“Ha!” Ambriel snorted. “Lynnie, I was lucky to be able to cast the rope trick as it was. Since you and I have been practicing that one so much, I just happened to have the components close at hand. Now, are you going to let me tell my story?” he demanded, pretending to be indignant.

Lynaelle giggled. “I wouldn’t want to ruin one of your best tales. Go on.”

“Well, I managed to cast the spell, as you so cleverly figured out, and from there I watched ‘you’ transform into ‘me.’ This other me began looking around the place. I figure he must have wanted to throw off suspicion in case anyone else came to visit. The blast from the fire trap spell on my trunk killed him instantly, I guess.”

“So who is this, then?” Gorlin asked, beginning to search the body.

Ambriel tried to sit up. “No spell I know of holds an illusion like that after death,” he said. “But I once met a man who had a magical hat that allowed him to change forms at will. He always had to wear the hat, but he could incorporate it into the disguise. Lynnie, see if there is something magical on the body, especially around the head.”

Lynaelle nodded and stood up. She cast a familiar spell and began to scan the body. The glow of magic surrounded a tiny clasp woven into the hair of the fake Ambriel. When she retrieved it the body transformed and she gasped. It was Daleon.

“Well, that tells us who,” Gorlin remarked dryly. “And perhaps these will answer why,” He said, producing some sheets of parchment from a hidden pocket on Daleon’s belt.

Lynaelle looked at Daleon’s corpse, barely hearing Gorlin’s words. Why, indeed? she asked herself bitterly, hating the hurt she felt. “I told you he was up to no good, Ambriel,” she said quietly, but there was no satisfaction in her voice.

“Aye, that you did. I’m sorry, child.”

Lynaelle nodded solemnly. “So what is a ward token, Ambriel?”

Ambriel shrugged. “A ward token allows the bearer access to parts of Silverymoon where few are allowed to go, and even to cast magic that is otherwise restricted by the wards. I suspect he was trying to get somewhere he shouldn’t have been.”

Lynaelle gasped. “Why in the world did you give such a thing to me, then?”

Ambriel smiled. “I knew it would be safe with you. Anyone who knew of its existence would come to me looking for it, not you. Besides,” he added, a warm smile in his eyes. “I hoped someday you might wear it as a member of the Spellguard.”

Lynaelle smiled and hugged her teacher.

“By the gods,” Gorlin muttered quietly. “Three different contracts, all offering him handsome sums to retrieve that token and use it to get to Queen Alustriel.” The hunter’s face was ashen. “He meant to assassinate the High Lady herself…”