Whether by enchantment or nature, Lady Wyndyfarh was a beautiful woman without being either an attractive or approachable one. Her beauty was ageless, which was to say she was almost certainly older—considerably older—than she appeared and a woman of considerable power.

Any man who practiced magic or traveled Faerun's far-flung roads three seasons out of every year heard stories about strange lands and the stranger races, but Druhallen had never expected to meet someone whose race he could not name. Lady Wyndyfarh reminded him of nothing so much as a goshawk or falcon, an impression fostered by her piercing black eyes. He'd swear there was no colored iris to separate the pupils from the narrow, white sclera. When her gaze landed on him, Dru knew what a rabbit saw when it beheld the hawk.

He was still thinking about raptors when an insect about the size of a bumble-bee but glowing like a pigeon's blood ruby alighted on Lady Wyndyfarh's shoulder. It quickly disappeared within the curtain of her striped hair. A heartbeat later a heavy flying beetle rumbled past Dru's ear. It, too, was jewel-colored—pale aquamarine, rather than ruby—and after settling on the lady's opposite shoulder, it also vanished into her hair.

Lady Wyndyfarh blinked and Druhallen dared a sideways glance. There were many insects buzzing about the grove. Not all of them were living gemstones, but many were. A pair of sapphire flies circled an arm's length above Galimer's head. While Dru watched, one flew toward the lady and the ruby bee rejoined a companion in Rozt'a's hair. Rozt'a did not seem to notice the insects, a final confirmation—as if one had been needed—that the bugs were not entirely natural.

A good many wizards and all half-elves could establish rapport with a familiar creature. Druhallen had tried it twice: once, before Ansoain entered his life, with the family cat and a second time—when he'd doubted the honesty of a merchant who'd hired them—with the man's caged parrot. Neither experiment had proved satisfactory. The cat was easily distracted and the parrot thought only of itself. Dru would grant that Lady Wyndyfarh was a better wizard than he, but not that she could extract useful information from the pinprick mind of a bumblebee.

That she seemed to be doing so deepened the glade's mystery.

When an aquamarine beetle swooped past Dru's nose, he briefly contemplated capturing it—briefly, because it had no sooner disappeared behind his back when Sheemzher got between him and the lady. The goblin, who did not appear to have a pair of insect outriggers, dropped to his knees and raised clasped hands above his head. Lady Wyndyfarh, whose hair still concealed Galimer's blue fly and who knew what else, wrapped her own elegantly pale hands over the goblin's warty, red-orange ones. There was no mistaking, now, that the lady's slender fingers were a knuckle too long or that her dark and sharply tapering nails had more in common with a hawk's talons than his own broad fingernails.

In a more ordinary place, Dru might have been able to sense magic's flow from mistress to minion and back again. In the glade, with its abundance of magic beyond his comprehension, Druhallen knew only that there had been communication and that when she released the goblin's hands Lady Wyndyfarh was once again staring directly at him.

"This man," Sheemzher asserted quickly, scrabbling backward and clasping Dru's left wrist as he spoke, "this man good man, good sir man. This man not compelled. This man chose path. This man risk life, save life. Sheemzher reward this man. Sheemzher use coins. Good lady's coins. Pretty coins. Old coins. This man keep old coins."

The goblin was breathless and sounded worried. Druhallen steeled himself for something unpleasant when the pale woman smiled.

"So, you've heard of Netheril?" she asked in a voice that was both deep and lyric. "You know its history?"

"A little," Druhallen replied, as breathless as the goblin.

The lady laughed and said, "A little is all anyone knows about Netheril." Her eyes gave the lie to that assertion.

Dru's breath caught in his throat. He had always assumed—even the scryer at Candlekeep had assumed—that the ancient empire had been built and ruled by men, by human men and women. Little of Netheril's culture had survived its collapse and even less in its original form. Imagining Netheril from what few fragments remained was akin to imagining a palace from the ashes after it had burnt. When he'd visited Candlekeep, the scholars had shown him one of their greatest treasures, a broken slab of plaster depicting the face of a dark-haired youth with tattooed cheeks and haunted eyes. A prince of Netheril, they said. Princess had seemed more likely to Druhallen's eyes; but he'd taken the portrait's humanity for granted.

The fragment had not included the royal hands.

Lady Wyndyfarh cleared her throat. Dru blushed with shame. Bad enough to get caught with his attention wandering, worse to wool-gather in front of a mind-reader.

"You have left quite an impression in my young friend's mind," the lady said when their eyes met again. "He does not often think of kindness or honor when he thinks of your kind."

My kind? Dru thought despite an intention to keep his mind blank. Was that a confirmation of his ill-timed musings or a taunt? His confusion grew thicker with each passing moment. The lady's speech was faintly, unplaceably accented, but well-constructed, unlike Sheemzher's fractured speech that possessed neither accent nor grammar. Yet she had called the goblin her friend, rather than her servant or familiar; and, though Sheemzher was anxious, he was not afraid.

With so many questions whirling through his mind, Dru lost track of more important things and was taken by surprise when Lady Wyndyfarh extended her right hand, palm down, as a noblewoman might, for a kneeling vassal to kiss. Dru was a freeborn man, obligated by contracts, not blood. He didn't bow to anyone, not for politeness' sake or his life. He hooked his callused thumb beneath the lady's and repositioned her hand before clasping it firmly and pumping it once.

Lady Wyndyfarh's all-black eyes widened slightly, but she accepted Dru's initiative. Her flesh was cool and dry. Her grasp was uncommonly strong. Druhallen was not tempted to use his ring to measure the strength of her magic. When the lady's grip relaxed, Druhallen withdrew his hand quickly. Lady Wyndyfarh's smile broadened. He glimpsed blunt teeth before she turned toward Rozt'a.

"Florozt'a—I know you already."

Rozt'a had no qualms about bending her knee to this strange woman. Somehow that surprised Druhallen. He'd always thought they shared an artisan's aversion to the privileges of nobility. Even more surprising was the worshipful look in his erstwhile lover's eyes when she raised her head. The women gazed silently at each other, and in those moments Dru's judgment hardened. He couldn't believe that Rozt'a would surrender her independence so easily. Then again, Rozt'a did not seem to realize there were two fat and gorgeous bumblebees nestled in her wild hair.

Galimer's blue-fly guardians were buzzing above his head when his turn came to measure and be measured in return. Galimer might not be able to reliably conjure water in the rain, but he was ease and courtesy personified among strangers. His bow was a precise compromise between subservience and mutual respect, and the sweeping gesture with which he raised the lady's hand was so smooth and quick that Rozt'a herself couldn't have said whether her husband's lips had actually touched another woman's skin.

Tiep was the last. He'd folded his arms tight over his chest and retreated as far as possible. Another step and he'd be in the pool. There were no gemstone guardians that Dru could see buzzing around the young man's skull or camped out on his clothing. Belatedly, Dru recalled that Tiep and magic sometimes produced unpredictable results. He sidestepped and draped his arm around the youth's shoulders.