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half-blooded, were drawn to Halruaa by their love of magic. Some of them even advanced to the Council of Elders and were counted among the four hundred most regarded wizards of the land. But Matteo had never heard of an elf reaching the rank of inquisitor.
    She was beautiful, in an exotic, alien fashion that tightened Matteo’s throat with awe and evoked in him a strange and foreign longing. Her skin was a coppery hue, and the thick hair braided and coiled about her shapely head was a green deeper and more lustrous than fine jade. Her eyes were as golden as those of the wemic at her side and nearly as feline. Though her head rose no higher than Matteo’s shoulder, he did not for a moment make the mistake of thinking her fragile. There was a fine coiled strength in her slender form, like the liquid steel of a cat’s muscles. She wore the bright clear yellow that proclaimed her an inquisitor in the service of Azuth, the god of wizards, whose worship was slowly gaining credence among Halruaans, and the only god other than Mystra, Lady of Magic, whose worship was permitted in the land.
    The elf woman’s gaze swept down the line of young men. “I have heard good things of this year’s form,” she said in a peculiarly high, bell-like voice. “Although the time of your final testing is not yet come, I have been asked by several potential patrons to evaluate your battle skills.
    “This is Mbatu,” she said, gesturing toward the wemic. “He will test you in combat, according to a rank I will assign. I am Kiva, inquisitrix of Azuth.” She smiled faintly. “Since we all know the common word by which such as I are named, let us speak it plainly. I am a magehound, and I prefer this title to the formal one. You have my permission to so address me.”
    She walked along the line, her head tipped back as she met the gaze of each jordain. Themo was third in line. He glanced down at the elf, but his gaze quickly returned to the fine sword the wemic wore over his shoulder. The expression on his face was that of a particularly hungry halfling regarding a pitcher of ale and a plateful of honey-cakes.
    “You are first,” she said. A flicker of anticipation danced through the big man’s eyes. This seemed to please the elf. She reached up and patted his cheek as she might that of a child, then she continued down the line, passing by several men. She stopped when she stood before Matteo.
    She regarded him for a long moment. “Second,” she announced. The honor pleased Matteo, but he merely nodded his thanks. A student jordain might meet a strange wizard’s eyes, but he did not speak unless prompted by invitation or dire need.
    Kiva paused again before Andris. Her strange, beautiful face furrowed in puzzlement. After a long moment, she stretched out her hand. The captain of her guard hastened forward and placed in her palm a golden rod set with green stones and capped by a large green crystal.
    The magehound reached up and touched the rod to Andris’s forehead. Immediately the crystal began to vibrate, singing out a high, ghostly note. Kiva nodded, as if she had expected this. She took a step back and turned to the masters of the school, a distinguished ensemble of jordaini, scholars, warriors, and wizards. As was the custom, they’d come out to greet their important visitor. They were a diverse lot, ranging from deceptively frail Vishna to the burly, hook-nosed woman who in her youth had commanded the navy in the nearby port city of Khaerbaal. At the moment, however, all the masters regarded the magehound with identical disbelieving stares.
    “Ordinarily I would call for Inquisition upon this jordain, but no further tests are required. The answer is abundantly clear.”
    “This cannot be! Andris is a fine student,” protested Vishna. The old wizard stepped out of ranks, fairly quivering with distress. “He has been tested at the prescribed intervals, as are all the jordaini in this house. Never has he shown signs of latent