“The plane of the dead is Tallamai,” Cleomid announced. “They walk the paths of the white forests in the clouds, and though the woods of Sielwode, Aelvinnwode, and Erebannien are beautiful, none would seek to stay on Aebrynis when he or she has access to Tallamai.”
“And the claims that these spirits have been seen?” asked Romsien. “How do you account for the tales?”
“Who claims to have seen them?” Brechian demanded. “Prince Eyrmin himself, the human child he has raised—an abomination, a pollution to Sielwode. The other stories are always of having seen something not quite identified.” Brechian sat back, his face grim. “I believe the tale of the spirits to be a hoax, a trick to bring warriors under his banner.”
“You believe it,” Romsien demanded, his eyes hot, “or you wish it to be so? The lovely Vritienel is growing up. Does she still have stars in her eyes when she speaks of Prince Eyrmin? Does she still turn her face from your attentions?”
“Cease!” Tieslin snapped. “My kingdom was rent once before because of madness over a female. It will not happen again.”
“Then do not doubt Prince Eyrmin, Sire,” Romsien said quietly. “You have the loyalty of a brave and honorable warrior. He would give his life in your cause and for the good of Sielwode. Can you ask more of him?”
Tieslin rose, suddenly very tired. Only his predecessors knew the fatigue that came from the weight of the crown—only his and Eyrmin’s ancestors.
“All I ask of anyone is loyalty, if not to me, then to the nation. We face enemies all around and a growing threat from the north. To be divided now would bring destruction on all our people. This distrust aids our enemies, and I beg it will cease. Now, I bid you a fair night.”
He left the room, moving into his private quarters. After a few seconds’ shuffling, the others left the audience chamber.
Tieslin thought about Romsien’s assurances. He had said Eyrmin would give his life for his king, but when he had sent the prince a message, Eyrmin had refused to send a contingent of warriors accustomed to fighting gnolls. The king had not told his advisors about the message he had received from the west that day.
To be fair, Eyrmin had not refused to send warriors. The king had asked him if he could spare warriors who understood the new tactics being used by the humanoids who came out of the north. He had not specified any number nor had he made the request urgent. The prince had sent back a message saying he was hard pressed on the northern border of the western arm, but he had sent one of his experienced troop commanders to advise.
Both Romsien and Brechian would have twisted the incident to their own purposes, so the king had kept his disappointment to himself. Listainel, who had taught Tieslin strategy as a boy, would have asked the same question that bothered the king; why would the enemies of the north attack the western arm of the forest when they could conquer Sielwode only by taking Siellaghriod? Did they attack despite Eyrmin or because of him. Was there anything in the story of the spirit elves?
Tieslin spent a restless night; before daybreak he was up, pacing the terrace. When Wistilia, his personal servant, entered the chamber to bring him his morning fruit and tea, he sent the trusted minion on an errand.
Dawn was just lightening the sky when Garienel slipped into the king’s private quarters by a secret stair. The young elf’s eyes still glistened from his night of wine and song, but his face was sober, knowing he would not have been summoned by the secret way without just cause. He sketched a careful bow.
“You have need of me, Sire?”
“Do you believe the spirits of elven warriors walk in a grove in the western arm?”
Garienel grinned. “In truth, Sire, I think the wine of that region must be more potent than ours in Siellaghriod.”
“It would suit my purposes to have you believe,” Tieslin said quietly. “Your devotion to their protection would serve the throne.”
“Then I believe, and I am devoted,” the young elf said smoothly, his mood changing at once. “Do I take it I would be serving my king by offering my sword to their service?”
Tieslin smiled. The wine that coursed through Garienel’s veins had not dulled his wit.
“You’ve heard the rumors,” Tieslin said heavily. “I must know the truth.” His decision firm, he crossed the room, raised the lid of a crystal cask, and took out two golden rings, one with a white stone and the second with a black gem.
“One of these will be my sign. Send the ring with the white stone if Prince Eyrmin is still loyal to the throne; send the one with the black jewel if he plans to challenge me.” The king turned, leading the way to the balcony off his sleeping chamber. He gave a soft coo, and almost immediately, a dove lit on his shoulder. The bird stretched its neck as it eyed Garienel. In the growing light the iridescent green spots on the bird’s neck glowed like emeralds.
“Brissel will meet you on the trail and accompany you. When you have your answer, fasten one of the rings to her foot and send her back to me. Use the command ‘alandas.’ ”
The king stroked the bird’s feathers and looked out over the forest.
Thinking he had been dismissed, Garienel had turned to leave and was halfway through the door when the king spoke again.
“Know, Garienel, that the security of the throne—possibly the nation—depends on you.”
Ten
Hernan Beekkoleran swept back the hood of his cloak, exposing a face that was still handsome, though the influence of Czrak had set a cruel twist to his mouth. The power of the awnshegh traveled with him in the guise of a clump of swamp mud, encased in a small leather pouch strapped to his left palm. From the damp earth pulsed an energy that heated his blood and coursed through his body with a painful awareness, an energy he desperately needed to unleash. Even so, he knew he must carry it until he used it in Czrak’s service.
“It’s hot down here,” he complained, partly in surprise. He had expected the natural tunnels and passages beneath the surface of the world to be cool. The external heat made all the more uncomfortable the internal heat of the awnshegh’s power.
“And there’s not much air,” Soramat, his second-in-command muttered. He had been gasping for more than an hour.
Gerbid the gnoll, who walked ahead of Hernan, glanced back over his shoulder. In the light of the torch he carried, Hernan could see the humanoid’s open mouth. Gerbid’s head shook with silent laughter.
Hernan had long ago decided he hated the gnolls, not because they were stupid, untrustworthy, dirty—which they were. He cared little that they stunk of their own filth and the blood of animals they had killed and eaten raw, or even that they would steal anything they could lift. He hated them because of that constant laughter. At least Gerbid was silent. In front of Gerbid, Fadaarg and Ruflik gave out with their hee-hees and ha-has with irritating regularity.
“Maybe you like wind blowing through, sending muchly warnings to elveses? They hear gooder than humans, even gnolls, and smell everything.”
“They could smell you without wind or noses,” Hernan snapped. The close air of the natural tunnels, and the heat, aggravated by the torches, intensified the odor rising from the filthy fur and clothing of the gnolls. Hernan felt he might gag.
“Humans have their own stink, hee-hee-hee, smell muchly,” said Orsht, who walked behind the leaders.
Soramat turned and raised his spear, planning to give the gnoll a sharp blow for his insolence, but Hernan, with quicker reflexes, grabbed his shoulder and hurled him into the wall.
“Leave him alone,” Hernan snarled.