Chapter 1

Esfalan trotted up the street towards the market square, chasing the two pretty elven girls that had caught his eye. He had been slouching against a doorframe, watching a card game that he had really had no interest in when they had passed by. The card game had been a convenient way to pass some time while he was waiting for evening, his favorite time to make mischief.

He caught up to the two girls, dressed in simple garb appropriate for the city. They were wearing short jerkins that accentuated narrow waists, short mid-thigh-length skirts and calf-high boots over leggings - one pair was a powder blue, the other a pastel green so light as to almost be white. A tight woven shirt with long sleeves was worn under the jerkin, concealing and revealing the curves underneath; both girls wore a blue and black pattern on the shirt that must indicate their House. Both these elven lasses were wearing their hair high, coiled in two braids, and pinned to rest over their necks.

Esfalan danced around them as they walked along one side of the market square, his practiced patter cascading about, he would try a gambit on one, then another equally outrageous gambit on the other. Both girls blushed and averted their eyes, but Esfalan did not relent. He snatched a bouquet of flowers from one merchant's wagon stall, and offered them in turn to each girl, showering them with flattery. The girls were not yet angry at the attention, and each did not seem to mind that the other was being included in Esfalan's attentions. He began to have a hope that they may be interested - though they must be from out of town, as they did not immediately spurn him or call for the guard.

Such is the price for a reputation, Esfalan groused. He was nearly fifty-one years of age, and had had his reputation for close on twenty-five of those years. It seemed like a long time to have a reputation to Esfalan, but when his family pointed that out to him, he shrugged and wondered aloud how long before a reputation became a legend?

He dropped the flowers in the spot vacated by a bolt of pretty cloth - the trade did not go unnoticed by the clothier, and Esfalan ignored the cry behind him. The press of the crowd was greater here, and there were enough humans in the crowd that Esfalan felt certain the clothier would not follow him for fear of his remaining stock.

Yet, the small flowers picked out in gold on the light linen cloth did not garner any more goodwill from the two, and in fact, it began to look as if they disapproved of the minor theft - narrowed eyes and thinned lips could convey that better than words, Esfalan realized.

With a sigh, he turned to return the cloth, and the flowers as well, not really wanting to be known as a thief as well as a rascal. Yet, before he could return the bolt of cloth, the clothier was shouting "Thief!" and pointing at Esfalan.

He tried to calm the man down. "Look, Sir, I am returning it. The ladies said they were not interested..."

The irate human was having none of it. "Guards! Someone arrest that man!"

Now Esfalan was becoming irritated. "Sir, this is Ehladriel. We elves do not thieve. It is only since we have seen more of you ledetreli, you humans, these last ten years, that we have even needed a civil guard." He felt the indignation in his very bones, and dropped the cloth back in its spot. He snatched the flowers, and was about to return to the flowerseller, when he saw the burnished bronze helms of two of the guild-supplied city guards making their way towards the stall.

Esfalan had been a street child for thirty years, playing on the streets when he was not in school; his attitudes had kept him from an apprenticeship with a craftsman, and free of apprentice duties, he had had more than sufficient time to learn some skills.

He called on those skills now, to sidle away through the crowd, and to keep an eye on the Guard's progress. He meant to be far from the stall when the Guardsmen were given a description, even though he felt he had not wronged the clothier. Good intentions get you nowhere, he thought to himself for the umpteenth time.

He had only made it a few dozen yards away before the random milling of the crowd left an opening between himself and the clothseller he had been making his way from. At a sudden shout, he turned, and was shocked to see both Guardsmen looking in the direction the clothseller was pointing - straight at Esfalan. His shock turned to dismay as both Guardsmen began to run towards him.

Esfalan began to trot, appearing unconcerned. He turned a corner, down a narrow alleyway between two buildings facing the market square. He was grateful for the recent tax that had been levied to pave the market square, his footing sure and nimble on the great paving stones, leaving no mark behind while he ducked down the alley.

He walked around behind the building to his left, and reentered the market square closer to his home, since it was getting closer to the dining hour. He had only gotten about twenty strides before a group of two more - he was sure they were not the original two - Guardsmen sighted him and gave shout.

Esfalan began trotting away, trying to appear unconcerned with the noise behind him. These two were closer to him, though, and the crowd began to react to their shouts. Quickly, he ducked under a wagon stall, and ran back the other way behind the row of merchants, between their stalls and the building wall. He ducked back down his last alleyway, and stopped to listen. He calmed his breath, and heard running feet in both directions.

He cast about himself, looking for a doorway, finding none that was obvious. His eye fastened on a copper downspout on the corner of the wooden building, meant to carry rainwater from the roof to the gutter down the side of the street. Not for the first time, he found himself in appreciation of the order that the Ehladriel city guilds imposed on the buildings and streets once again working in his favor.

Quick as lightening, Esfalan scaled the wall, wedging his soft boots in between the copper pipe and the wood siding of the building. Two stories in scarcely ten seconds, and he was on the low-pitched slate roof of the building, crouched low, on his feet, ready to move, but trying to listen. He was fairly certain no one heard him climb, or saw him as he went over the roof from the wall.

It was then he realized he had been carrying the flowers all along. The bunch was bedraggled, the stems bent and bruised from the climb. At least now he knew why the Guard had found him again so quickly.

He set the flowers down on the roof. A second later, he cursed silently, as the bunch of flowers began to roll down the pitch of the roof - pitched enough to shed rain and withstand the relatively severe snowfall winters in Ehladriel brought - the flowers rolled down faster than he dared lunge for them on the slippery slate.

He watched in horror as the flowers rolled over the edge, and bounced out of the rain gutter on the edge of the roof, disappearing out of his sight. He heard the soft 'plop' they made on landing. And, he heard, clear as a bell, the exclamation of the guardsmen below.

Wishing he knew shorter curses that did not take as much breath as the flowery elven curses - the ledetreli were good for something - he ran over the roof, and jumped the wider street on the side away from the market square.

This was dangerous, he knew - many roofs might not support his weight and momentum landing, and he might misjudge the width of some street. He had to find a way down... and he had it. Three more jumps, and he was near one of the many places the street gutters emptied into the sewers under a few streets. Those carried storm waters and street waste down to the bay, and out into the Abian Sea. More importantly, there was a nexus of sewer tunnels not far from the home of his parents, and there was a large oaken grate that could be moved enough for a man to climb out.

He slid down another copper drainpipe - the abrasion was hard on his boots, he would need to ask his mother for another pair - and then was moving the small woven wicker grate over the sewer hole. He jumped in, feet first, knowing the drop was only about six feet, and landed with a large splash in yesterday's rainwater. Quickly, he slid the wicker grate back in place, and, feet, boots, and leggings sodden, trudged back to the center of the sewer system, splashing leaves and water and worse as he went.

Mealtime was not the favorite time of the day for Esfalan. For years, he had had to listen to his mother harangue him on his lifestyle, and withstand his father's disapproval. He knew he was approaching the end of childhood, and there would come a time when he must either become serious about joining society, or leave.

He had snuck into the house, and up the back stairs. He had had to make a second trip to fetch a pitcher of water to wash his clothes. He had just been taking off his boots when his younger sister caught him.

"You must know Mother will not be purchasing your clothes for much longer. You should treat the ones you yet have with better respect." She sniffed at him, from his room's doorway.

He looked up from what he was doing. "Have a care, sister mine, for though I love you dearly, there are still secrets we share that would cause us both grief to be shared further." The unsubtle reminder earned him another sniff, but she left him alone.

Changing into a new tunic and clean leggings, he descended the stair barefoot, and joined his family at the table.

This night was no different than many other nights in the last ten or so years. "Esef," his mother began, "Have you given further thought on the pursuit of Art for a vocation?" She ladled out a rich soup, almost a stew, created from fish and shellfish, in a chicken broth.

He winced at the diminutive familiar name his mother had used for years. "Mother, truly, I shall never be a poet. And while I have some skill at the pencil and brush, I do not think I have the temperament to study architecture or flowers, let alone draw any image on canvas or paper that anyone would care to buy."

She tsked, in the manner of mothers since time immemorial, convinced her son had more talent than he believed he did.

It was his father's turn now; in the dance they had all perfected over the last five hundred meals. "I have spoken to the shipmasters' guild, these several months, now. There is a place reserved for you, for the chandlery and accounts of any ship or fleet should you simply ask for it."

Esfalan ducked his head. "Father, I have naught but the greatest of respect for the shipmasters; surely you know I shall fear to meet their lofty expectations. For I have not the temperament to sit still on a glorious day. Nor do I possess the temperament to peer at numbers on a long winter's night. I have not yet grown out of the impetuousness of youth; I fear that anything you set before me shall fail to capture my imagination." He spoke seriously, and quietly, for he meant each and every word. He used the lull in conversation to eat the soup his mother had served.

The difficulty was not a lack of respect for tradition and the elven ways of his parents, nor even the sedate nature of the entire city. Esfalan simply was too carefree and wild to be tied down. And there was the matter of a certain voice that argued with his better judgment; a voice that did it's best to cloud his moral judgment when he was confronted with a decision he must make.

Esfalan found it difficult to silence that voice sometimes. And as carefree as he was, sometimes it seemed harmless to let that voice guide him. And, he did admit, while he did have to run from the resulting mayhem, that voice led him to a certain amount of fun. Could it truly be time to end that fun and become an adult?

Esfalan knew his father would never approve of his son as a common soldier, but without higher station in life, he would never be an officer. Yet, his only real skill - the only one he had ever studied with any real dedication - was bladework. He knew better than to bring it up.

He finished his soup, and, rising, kissed his lady mother on the cheek. "I shall return later, Mother, there is no sense in keeping a light burning." He ignored the tightening of his father's jaw, waved at his sister, and trotted out the front door as the sun was setting.

This day was his day for rooftops, he reflected grimly, watching in the moonlight the loose association of youths gather in their meeting spot. From up here, he could eavesdrop on them, and drop in unannounced and unexpected. He saw with grim satisfaction that they had posted guards out on the various alleyways that led out between the warehouses. He had been exhorting them to show some discipline, and it was indeed a sore point.

For many of the street youths of Ehladriel were now of a mind that discipline was for older adults, and not for youths. And they were of the growing opinion that Esfalan was entirely too close to adulthood for comfort.

He had been watching a youth of some 35 years; one Gileath by name, for some months now, suspecting the young buck was readying himself for a challenge against the herd leader. And sure enough, at least for this evening, eavesdropping was worth the effort of climbing over the eave.

Esfalan was having a less than wonderful day, and Gileath was not making it better. "All know I will be leader when he is no longer among us," Gileath was stage-whispering. "He soon shall be leaving, and I can but only wonder why he should not be helped along the path?"

"Well, here is one reason why," said Esfalan, dropping off the rooftop lightly onto the street by the youth. "And here is another." The soft ring of steel echoed through the street, as nearly three feet of naked hyandrel appeared in Esfalan's hand.

He adopted a high guard, right hand fully on the grip and by his right ear, and the other resting the grip near the guard in the vee between thumb and forefinger of his left hand, over his head. It was an aggressive pose, but not a dangerous one, as he could quickly drop down into a more traditional two-handed guard. "I challenge thee, Gileath of Two Hills Street, to a duel for supremacy."

The look of surprise on Gileath's face quickly disappeared, followed by a grim glance at the rooftop. Another trick of mine taught to my successor, Esfalan realized. In truth, I cannot stay in control of these lads much longer.

His blade answered Esfalan's, and quickly, Esfalan's lieutenant stepped in between the two. Anathel held up his hands, and nodded to Esfalan when he acknowledged him. Anathel, like Esfalan, was nearly fifty-one, and knew his days in the streets with these youths were nearly ended. When Esfalan joined the Army, he would also.

"No more than first blood, and a nick at that, avow?"

Both youths holding weapons chorused, "Avowed."

And Anathel stepped out of the way.

Gileath sidled in a mincing half-step, circling to Esfalan's left, watching his hyandrel tip circle in small motions. Esfalan chided Gileath, "Hark. The boy carries a sword he knows not how to wield. Does anyone care to bet on how much time passes before I mark his skin?"

The crowd was silent. Tiring of the game quickly and lacking popular support for the verbal comments, Esfalan feinted towards Gileath's right ear, a quick twisting flip of the point, and Gileath overcommitted to the defensive parry. Esfalan stepped in quickly, and using Gileath's blade as a pivot point from his parry position, sent the pommel of his sword crashing into Gileath's lip, to the left of center. The lip split, blood dripped, and Gileath was stunned.

Esfalan quickly stepped back, grounding his point in front of himself.

"Victor, Esfalan," Anathel pronounced. There were no congratulations for Esfalan.

After the excitement, many of the youths slipped out of the warehouse district, heading home. Soon only Anathel and Esfalan were left.

"Walk with me, Anathel. For this night, I feel the days of my youth slipping away." The two headed towards the center of town, where the Citadel of Ehladriel stood on it's hill. Legend had it that many great campaigns were fought from the Citadel as a base, that the Ehladrihim had ranged far and wide across the continent, and that many of the Emperors of Syrisia had counted themselves lucky to have had the Ehladrihim as ally and friend. But now, there was less and less news from Syrisia, and more and more human men from the Empire coming to take refuge in the Elven lands. Their brothers the Windiirhim reported many human men were in the lands facing the Windir Sea as well. Esfalan worried about it to some degree, as a soldier he may well need to know about it someday.

Anathel agreed. "Truly, Esfalan, our days of freedom from care are numbered. Soon enough it shall occur that your father shall turn you out to fend for yourself, on the occasion of your fifty-first year."

Esfalan sucked air through his front teeth. "Truly indeed, Anathel. And yet, I have the mind to make one more night of mischief. For on the morrow, I shall have to kiss my lady mother and make my choice before my father can suspect my intent. Still a full moon before that unhappy anniversary of my birth, and I shall surprise my sire one final time."

We make mischief? the small voice deep within Esfalan asked. One night only, Esfalan told it.

Anathel had a half-smile playing on his lips. "And what audacity do you have in mind for us this night?"

Esfalan smiled, showing his teeth. "Anathel, friend of mine, this night we get a close view of the artifacts in the Room of Ceremony deep within the Citadel. One has a certain urge to see what one is fighting for, does one not?"

Anathel stopped dead in his tracks. Then he shrugged. "What is the worst harm they may do us?" he asked of the stars. "Could it be that they insist we join the Army for discipline?"

Laughing, the two youths trotted uphill along the Avenue of the Birds, toward the Citadel.

Creeping silently, the two youths peered around each corner. They had scaled a roof near the wall, then jumped on the wall, and crept around until they had found a stair into the yard. A trellis with ivy on it, and they had gained access to a darkened window. Five minutes of wandering, and they had found a main corridor that went in the direction they wanted. For fifteen minutes, they had advanced down the corridor, and now they had come to a semicircular room where ten other corridors met before a large bronzed door.