A semi-secret organization for Good, the Harpers fight for freedom and justice in a world populated by tyrants, evil mages, and dread creatures beyond imagination.

Each novel in the Harpers Series is a complete story in itself, detailing some of the most unusual and compelling tales in the magical world known as the Forgotten Realms.

Prelude

The elf emerged in a glade, a small verdant meadow ringed by a tight circle of vast, ancient oaks. His path had brought him to a spot of rare beauty that, to the untrained eye, appeared to be utterly untouched. Never had the elf seen a place more deeply green; a few determined shafts of early morning sunlight filtered through leaves and vines until even the air around him seemed dense and alive. At his feet, emerald droplets of dew clung to the grass. The elf's seeking eyes narrowed in speculation. Dropping to his knees, he studied the grass until he found it-an almost imperceptible path where the dew had been shaken loose from the ankle-high grass. Yes, his prey had come this way.

Quickly he followed the dew trail to where it slipped between two of the giant oaks. He parted a curtain of vines and stepped out of the glade, blinking away the bright morning sun. Once his eyes had adjusted to the dim light of the woodland, he saw a narrow dirt path winding through the trees.

His quarry did not know that they were being followed, so why wouldn't they take the easiest way through the forest? The elf slipped through the underbrush and set off down the path. There was little to indicate that other footsteps had preceded his, but the elf was not concerned. The two he sought were, despite their deplorable origins, among the best rangers he had encountered. Very few could walk through the thick, deep grass of that sheltered glade and leave behind no more than a dew trail.

The elf glided silently along the path, his blood quickening at the thought of the victory that lay ahead, so long awaited and now so close at hand. Elves, particularly gold elves, were not hasty people, and behind this morning's mission lay years of planning, decades of discussion, and almost two centuries of waiting for the proper means and moment. The time to strike had come, and his would be the first blow.

The path ended at a stone wall, and again the elf paused, alert and observant. He crouched in the shadow of the wall and examined the scene spread out before him. Beyond the wall was a garden, as lovely as anything he had ever seen.

Peacocks strutted about an expanse of lawn, some with tail feathers spread to flaunt dozens of iridescent blue-green eyes. Brilliantly colored kotala birds chattered in the spring-flowering trees that ringed a reflecting pond. The elf's innate love of beauty welled up within him, pushing aside for a moment the urgency of his mission. It would be easy, he mused as he observed the garden scene, for elves to be seduced by such splendor.

As indeed they had been, he concluded as his gaze lifted above the garden to a distant castle, a marvel of enspelled crystal and marble. His golden eyes glittered with hate and triumph as he realized that the trail had led him to the very center of gray elf power. The ancient gold elf race had succumbed to the rule of their inferiors for far too long. With renewed purpose the elf began to plan his attack.

His situation could hardly be better; no guards patrolled the outer palace gardens. If he could catch his prey before they got close to the castle, he would be able to strike and withdraw undetected, and return another day to strike again.

Between him and the castle was an enormous maze fashioned of boxwood hedges. Perfect! The elf flashed a private, evil smile. The gray wench and her pet human had walked into their own tomb. Days could pass before the bodies would be discovered in that labyrinth.

The arrangement did have its disadvantages. The maze itself did not worry him, but its entrance could be reached only through a garden of bellflowers. Cultivated for sound as well as scent, the flowers sent faint music drifting toward him in the still morning air. The elf listened for a moment, and his jaw tightened. He'd seen such gardens before. The flower beds and statuary were arranged to catch and channel the slightest breath of wind, so that the flowers constantly chimed one of several melodies, the choice depending on the direction of the breeze. Any disruption of the air flow, however faint, would change their song. In effect, the garden was a beautiful but effective alarm system.

Since his quarry was undoubtedly in the maze and heading for the castle, the elf knew he would have to take a chance. He vaulted easily over the low stone wall and raced past the inquisitive peacocks, then glided through the bellflower garden with an economy of motion only the best elven rangers could achieve. As he had feared, the tinkling song subtly altered with his passing. To his sensitive ear, the disruption was as glaring as a trumpet's blast, and he ducked behind a statue and steeled himself for the approach of the palace guard.

Several silent minutes passed, and eventually the elf relaxed. To his surprise, he had reached the maze without detection. A last glance around the garden assured him that he was truly alone. His lips twisted in derision as he pictured the palace guards: oafs too stupid and common to recognize their own musical alarm. Tone deaf, as were all gray elves. With a soundless chuckle, the elf slipped into the maze.

Garden mazes, he knew, tended to follow a common pattern. After a few confident turns, the elf began to suspect that he had found an exception. This maze was like nothing he had seen before. Vast and whimsical, its convoluted paths wandered from one small garden to another, each one more fantastic than the last. With a growing sense of dismay the elf passed exotic fruit trees, fountains, arbors, berry patches, tiny ponds filled with bright fish, and hummingbirds breakfasting amid vines of red trumpet flowers. Most striking were the magical displays depicting familiar episodes from elven folklore: the birth of the sea elves, the Green Island dragonwar, the elven armada landfall.

He pressed on, running to the entrance of yet another garden clearing. One glance inside, and he skidded to a stop. Before him was a marble pedestal topped with a large, water-filled globe. Surely he couldn't have passed that globe before! He crept closer for a better look. A magical illusion raged within the sphere, a terrible sea storm that tossed tiny elven vessels about. Before his horrified eyes the sea goddess Umberlee rose from the waves, her white hair flying in the gale like flashes of lightning. By the gods, it was the birth of the sea elves again!

There could be no doubt. Surely not even this ridiculous maze could have two such displays. The elf raked both hands through his hair, tugging at it in self-disgust. He, a renowned elven ranger, was running around in circles.

Before he could castigate himself further, the elf heard a faint clicking sound, not far away. He trailed it to a large, circular garden, ringed with flowers that attracted clouds of butterflies. Many paths led out of the garden, which was dominated by pale blue roses in a bed shaped like a crescent moon. At one tip of the blue-rose moon stood an elderly elven gardener, snipping away at the rosebushes with more vigor than expertise. Again the elven intruder smiled. By all appearances, this was the maze's center; surely his quarry had passed through. The old gardener would tell him, at knife point if need be, which path the wench had taken.