For his part, the strange elf recovered quickly from his surprise and said, “So, you’ve come to kill me.”
“What? Why should you think that?” Zala stammered.
“You have the tread of a hunter, but you’re a female half-breed. Such a combination speaks of desperation, so I take you for an assassin.”
Zala folded her arms and put her nose in the air. “I am a tracker, not a murderer. Who are you, that you expect assassins in your own garden?”
“You don’t know me?”
Zala shook her head. He stood, brushing dirt from his Ergothian-style trousers, and said, “I am Janissiron Tylocostathan, formerly general of the armies of the city of Tarsis. Among humans, I am called Tylocost.”
“You’re the one called ‘Tolandruth’s captive?’ ”
“I am. I was defeated in battle and taken prisoner by Lord Tolandruth.”
Time weighed heavily on Zala. Abandoning discretion, she asked, “Where might I find Lord Tolandruth?”
Tylocost smiled, revealing an uneven set of teeth.
“So that’s why you’ve come. I’m sorry. I don’t know where he is.”
He stooped to retrieve his trowel. When he straightened, Tylocost found himself staring down Zala’s Made. The length of polished iron drew nothing more than a shrug from the former general.
“I still don’t know.”
“I think you do. Silvanesti never forget an injury, and this Tolandruth did you a grave one when he humbled you by defeat. You know where he is.”
He reached out a long arm and plucked a white rose from its trellis. “You have a fair face for a half-breed,” he said, smiling. The smile vanished as Zala pushed the point of her blade through his cloth jerkin.
“I didn’t come here to kill you, General, but that doesn’t mean I won’t hurt you to find out what I must know!”
He stepped back. “I believe you, my dear.”
“I’m not your ‘dear,’ ” she snapped. “My name is Zala.”
Pigeons flew low over the rooftop. Tylocost glanced up.
“Day is done,” he murmured. “Come inside. We’ll talk.”
She followed cautiously, mindful of treachery. For a Silvanesti and a general, this Tylocost was certainly an odd one. He didn’t seem proud or martial. He seemed-well, very like a gardener.
Tylocost blew on the cinders in the hearth grate until they glowed. With these he lighted a thick, stubby candle. He took a wooden mug from a shelf, filled it with water from a bucket, and placed his white rose in it. He set this on the table. Pouring more water into a tin pan on the table, he carefully washed his hands and face. Zala bit her lip and waited, determined not to betray her impatience. In the course of his ablutions, Tylocost stripped off jerkin and trousers, until he was standing in only a loincloth. Unclothed, he was even more unsightly. The brown spots on his face continued over his body.
Seeming unconscious of his appearance (or at peace with it), the elf donned a light linen robe and fixed a gilded band around his forehead. He seated himself at the table and gestured for her to take a chair. She did so, and asked again for Tolandruth’s whereabouts.
“Time is running out, General-for you and this town,”
she added. “The nomads may attack any day now.”
“Within three days, I estimate. And I doubt the town will survive. The garrison was withdrawn by Lord Bessian after bakali destroyed Lord Hojan’s hordes. Fewer than eight hundred warriors remain. The townspeople have taken up arms, but they won’t delay the nomads for very long.”
“However,” he added, “I’m not worried, because you’re going to get me out of here.” His upraised hand cut off her protests. “That’s my price, dear. I’ll lead you to Lord Tolandruth, if you take me out of Juramona and get me away from the human savages beyond the walls.”
With a disgusted snort, Zala stood. She pulled her hood over her head again and turned to go. He waited until her hand was on the door latch before he spoke.
“Empress Valaran does not brook failure, I’m told.”
She froze. “How do you know my patron?”
“Logic, dear, logic and reason. Someone very powerful wants to find Lord Tolandruth.” Tylocost laid a bony finger alongside his nose. “Ackal V would never send for him, not for any reason. His hatred of my captor is well known. Who then would go to such lengths? The Empress of Ergoth, of course-Tolandruth’s lover.”
Zala blinked in astonishment, but would not he sidetracked. “Who the empress loves or hates is not my concern. My task is to find Tolandruth and return him to Daltigoth as soon as possible.”
“Or else-what?”
In the dim little room, redolent of the flowers in the fantastic garden, Zala felt her world shrink, like a noose drawing tight around her neck. She clenched her teeth. Despicable, homely, Silvanesti. What choice did she have?
“I’ll bring you out of Juramona, if you guide me to Tolandruth,” she said. “In seven days or less.”
“Why the hurry? Do you think to fetch him back here to save Juramona?”
Zala shrugged, but did not share her thoughts. How could a stranger understand that it was not merely her honor on the line, but her aged human father’s life as well? The empress knew where he lived. If Zala failed to carry out her mission, she knew her father would pay the ultimate price. And he was far too old and weak for Zala to consider spiriting him away from his home in Caergoth.
The unsightly elf rose and took a heavy glass decanter from the shelf. He poured two libations from it and offered one cup to Zala.
“Nectar,” he said. “My only remaining contact with the homeland.”
Zala drank. She resolved to slay this smirking Silvanesti if he caused her any more than the promised delay. As she lowered her glass and beheld his misshapen features again, she realized he knew exactly what she was thinking.
Egrin lingered in the Dom-shu village, hoping to convince Tol to change his mind. Since Tol spent his days chopping wood and many of his nights roving the forest, Egrin saw him only rarely. His heart seemed closed to his friend’s urgings.
Life in the village had resumed a normal rhythm. Egrin glimpsed the chief one day as Voyarunta held court. Though his hair was as white as ever, the old fellow sat straight and moved easily, radiating health and strength. Miya had explained that the Repetition of Births ritual involved every male warrior in the tribe giving up a small part of his vigor to renew the chief.
Kiya, too, was often away, on her father’s business. Egrin’s time was spent mainly with Miya and Eli. One afternoon, Egrin noticed the boy playing in the shadows at the far end of the hut. Something in his hand glittered in the feeble light.
Egrin rose from his spot by the hearth. His knees cracked like dry kindling, and something caught in his lower back, sending a sharp pain through his hip. His Silvanesti heritage gave him a longer lifespan than a human, but it did not guarantee health or vigor for one who’d spent so many years in battle. Too bad there was no Repetition of Births for aging warriors. -. ¦
Eli shoved the shiny object out of sight as Egrin approached. When Egrin asked what he was playing with, the boy quickly said, “Nothing!”
Egrin sat and smiled at him kindly. “Your nothing gleams like metal. May I see?”
A small leather box was reluctantly produced. Egrin raised the lid, expecting to find a knife. The object within was indeed metal, but circular, like a bracelet. It rested on a scrap of black cloth.
“Don’t tell Ma I was playing with it,” Eli whispered. “Please?”
So, it was a trinket of Miya’s. Egrin was about to close the box when something about the object’s design caught his eye. He took it out to examine it more closely.
This was no bracelet. The circlet was made of three strands of metal-gold, silver, and a reddish one, maybe copper-woven together in an intricate fashion. The braid was as thick as Egrin’s finger, its ends joined by a polished spherical bead of the red metal. The bead was delicately engraved with whorls and lines, eve
ry line inlaid with gold. Strangest of all, the center of the metal ring was completely filled with a flat disk of polished black crystal.
Eli denied knowing its purpose, adding, “It belongs to Uncle Tol. I’m not supposed to touch it.”
The odd circlet was surprisingly lightweight, and the center crystal was just clear enough to allow light to pass through. Egrin turned toward the fire and peered at it through the crystal-
The object was suddenly snatched from his hand. Miya stood over him, eyes wide and cheeks crimson with anger.
“Where did you get this?” she demanded.
He would not have implicated the boy, but Miya divined the truth before Egrin could answer. “Eli! What have I told you? You’re not to touch your uncle’s things!”
Eli ducked behind the old marshal. His mother didn’t strike him often, but when she did, it was memorable.
Egrin tried to placate her, but Miya would have none of it.
“This was hidden,” she said, glaring at her son. “You couldn’t have found it unless you were looking for it!”
Rising, keeping himself between the two, Egrin said, “The boy shouldn’t have disobeyed you, Miya, but you have the trinket now. No harm was done.”
The formidable Dom-shu woman relaxed a little and he added, “What is it, by the way? I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“It belongs to Husband. It’s very old, very precious. No one’s supposed to know of it.”
Ah, Egrin thought, now he understood. The circlet must have been a gift from Valaran. The treasuries of the imperial palace were extensive, and all sorts of precious things were kept there, torn from their rightful owners by campaigns dating back to the days of Ackal Ergot himself. It made sense Valaran would have given Tol something to remember her by-as if he could ever forget her.
When romance bloomed between Tol and Valaran, Egrin had known nothing about it. Only later, after Tol’s exile, did the rumors reach his ears. Even so, Miya’s reaction seemed out of place. She and Kiya had always had a sisterly relationship with their ostensible husband. The sisters had known of Tol’s love for Valaran almost since it began, and no hearts had been broken by it.
As Miya returned the circlet to the leather box Egrin noticed her fingers were trembling. She ordered them both outside, not wanting them to know the box’s new hiding place.
Twilight had come. The fine spring day was ending. Wind stirred the trees, sending a flurry of blossoms over the Dom-shu settlement. The scene was so peaceful and pleasant that Egrin had to force himself to remember the terrible devastation going on a hundred leagues west.
Eli thanked him for acting as peacemaker. “Ma gets kind of wild when the stone turns up.”
Cocking an eyebrow, Egrin said, “Then perhaps you shouldn’t meddle with it.”
Eli grinned. “She’s just afraid Uncle Tol will find out she’s still got it. He told her to get rid of it after we came here.”
The situation made little sense to Egrin, but then he hadn’t been in love in-how long had it been? Nearly fifty years? A great span to be alone, by any reckoning.
“Will your uncle be home tonight?” he asked.
“Nah. He took a bow and possibles bag this morning, so he’ll be huntin’ all night.”
Kiya came striding across the village square, looking weary. She’d carried her father’s words to the chief of the Karad-shu and returned, a long journey, all in one day.
“Egrin. Boy,” she greeted them. She put a fist under Eli’s chin and lifted it. He responded by punching her on the arm.
Miya called for Eli and he went inside. Kiya asked, “Have you convinced Husband yet?”
The old marshal shook his head, frustration in every syllable as he replied, “If he cares nothing for the empire, you’d think he’d fight for Valaran! Her life is as much at risk as anyone’s!”
“I think he’s worked so hard for so long to stop hurting, now he hardly feels anything.”
Egrin fought back a wave of pity. There was nothing he could do to ease Tol’s pain, yet there was much Tol could do to ease the empire’s suffering, to help every man, woman, and child in Ergoth. Egrin had to break through the wall Tol had erected, stone by stone, around his heart.
“He must go! Everything depends on him!” he said, driving a fist into his palm.
Kiya regarded him in silence for a long moment, then said, “When you see him next, speak of her, not the empire. It’s Valaran owns his heart, not the land of Ergoth.”
She went inside, leaving Egrin alone in the deepening dusk.
Running hard up the leafy hillside, Tol pulled an arrow from the quiver on his back. This would be his last chance to take the deer. Light was failing and his quarry was outpacing him. He saw a flicker of white tail as it fled through the trees, each bound covering three paces. He drew the bowstring to his ear and let fly. With a thrum, the arrow sped through the intervening foliage. Panting, Tol waited for the tell-tale sound of the broadhead striking.
He never heard it. In truth he heard nothing at all, not even the rhythmic thud of the deer’s small hooves. Complete silence had engulfed the woods. Puzzled, Tol moved slowly through the stillness. His footfalls sounded muffled and far away. He nocked another arrow, his last. A good hunter never returned home with an empty quiver. Kiya, fine archer that she was, would have much to say about his sad performance.
The quiet was unsettling. Creatures of the forest became silent in the presence of great danger. Tol’s approach was not enough to cause such alarm. Something else had disturbed them.
He approached the hilltop with care. This place was known to him. On the other side of the hill was a wide, shallow ravine, filled with closely growing alder and beech saplings.
As he crested the hill, there was an intense flash of light. Heat seared his face and his bare left arm when he threw it up to shield his eyes. Hair sizzled away on the back of his exposed arm. For an instant he wondered if lightning had struck at his feet, but he felt no pain, and the brilliant light did not fade. Gradually, his eyes adjusted. Lowering his arm, Tol beheld a marvel.
The ravine at his feet had been transformed. In the midst of the slender saplings was a great orb of light, whiter than the sun. It hovered a few steps off the ground, its radiance hot, but not unbearable.
Tol took cover behind a nearby tree. Instinctively, his right hand went to a spot just below the waist of his trews. This was where, for decades, he’d kept the Irda millstone, sewn into a secret pocket in his smallclothes. However, he no longer carried the artifact. Not trusting himself to destroy it, he’d asked Miya to do it for him when they arrived in the Great Green.
Now, staring at the bizarre orb of light that pulsed, like some enormous heart, at the bottom of the ravine, he wished he’d kept the artifact. His dealings with the rogue wizard Mandes had given him a healthy distrust of magic, whatever its purpose. It had had no part in his life in the forest. Still, it seemed to have found him again, even here.
Tol…Tol…
Someone was calling his name, a faint, barely discernible sound. He raised the bow, his final arrow nocked, and prepared to draw the bowstring back.
Tol, where are you? Come to me!
Strange. The voice sounded female. In fact, it sounded like-but couldn’t be. It couldn’t be her.
Tol, it’s Valaran. I need you. Come to me!
He nearly dropped the arrow. It was her voice!
“Valaran,” he whispered. Then, more loudly: “Valaran!”
He hadn’t spoken her name aloud in years. Once his injuries healed, he hadn’t allowed himself even to think of her. Such thoughts were pointless, bringing only pain.
“Val! I hear you! Where are you?” He stepped out from behind the tree. The bark on the other side was beginning to smolder. Leaves scattered on the forest floor had turned brown, edges curling.
Do you hear me, Tol? A messenger will come for you. Hurry to me!
Tol called to her several more times, but it seemed that Valaran could speak t
o him, but not hear him. When the orb began to dwindle in size, Tol threw down his bow and raced down the slope toward the fading light. He had to let her know he had heard her message!
Shouting her name, slipping and sliding in the loose leaves, he lost control near the bottom of the slope and blundered forward. One of his outstretched hands penetrated the very center of the shrinking globe. He half-expected to be burned, but instead the orb exploded in a noiseless flash, lifting him off his feet and tossing him into the scorched saplings.
By the time he’d shaken off the impact and recovered his sight, he beheld a very different apparition. The pulsating orb of light was gone. In its place was a city.
Small as a child’s toy, the city lay dead center in the ravine, bathed in bright sunlight. The walls and towers were no higher than Tol’s knee, as though he viewed a real town across a great distance. The apparition was so perfect and life-like, Tol recognized the place immediately. It was Juramona.
Smoke billowed from various buildings, and flames topped the old wooden walls. The High House, residence of the Marshal of the Eastern Hundred, was engulfed in fire. Swarms of men on horseback galloped through the smoke and chaos. The south gate was breached, as was the east. Sabers rose and fell. Tiny figures on foot fell like scythed grain. Juramona was being sacked.
Gradually Tol heard the noises. Softly at first, and garbled, they soon sorted themselves into distinct sounds-the crackle of flames, hoofbeats, the clash of arms, and above it all, the wailing cries of the dying. A thousand swords struck down a thousand victims-men, women, and children. The smell of blood filled the air, an odor as thick as the smoke.
A new sound arose, slowly growing louder. At first he couldn’t credit it, it was so utterly out of place. Soon it drowned out all the other noises and there was no mistaking it: laughter.
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