Eyrmin’s eyes flashed with anger, but he kept his temper under control. He took a deep breath, marshaling his patience. “If it isn’t the spirit warriors, why did the evils of the awnshegh and the lich-lord pick the Muirien Grove?” he asked his second-in-command.
Relcan struggled to his feet as if he had been weighted down by the wine, but once he stood upright, he was steady. His eyes gleamed as brightly as Eyrmin’s.
“I’ll answer with a question. Elves of good heart go to Tallamai when they die, so why didn’t these you claim to have seen? Could it be that they are evil and drawing evil to them?”
“No! There’s no evil in them,” Eyrmin said.
Relcan looked pointedly at Cald, who knew he was expected to reinforce his foster-father’s description, or deny the existence of the spirits. His head whirled, trying to remember everything Eyrmin had said about the elven ghost warriors. Lying did not come easy to him, but he made an effort.
“I could feel their hope. It seemed faint, but it’s there. They seek aid from us, not from people of the Shadow World, nor the awnshegh,” Cald said, first giving a general paraphrasing of Eyrmin’s description and then adding what seemed logical.
“True!” Eyrmin said, his face alight with assurance. “It is to us they are looking for help—protection. They are—were—our people, and doubtless they lost their lives in our cause.”
“Then it is our duty to protect them,” Glisinda agreed. “But how?”
“By withdrawing our forces from the borders,” Eyrmin said.
“No!” Relcan shouted. “We have a duty to Sielwode!” The prince’s second-in-command stood flat-footed, his legs slightly apart, his hands formed into fists. Eyrmin stared at the smaller elf in surprise, but his warrior’s reflexes automatically shifted him into a defensive stance.
“We can’t guard all the eaves of the western arm and the grove as well,” Eyrmin said, trying to bring logic and order back to the conversation.
Relcan brought himself under control. “If we hold the Gorgon’s army at the eaves of the wood, they will not come together,” Relcan said. “The halflings have told us this Klasmonde Volkir does not know how to open the portal.”
“But he’ll soon realize others can open it for him,” Cald whispered. The thought that had suddenly entered his mind filled him with cold terror, and the words came out unbidden.
The three elves stared at him, and as usual, Eyrmin’s more agile mind caught the meaning behind Cald’s sudden remark.
“The halflings,” he breathed, his voice shivery with awe at the simplicity of the idea, and the danger if Cald were correct. “He can reach Cerilia by driving them through the gate before him.”
“The halflings claim they cannot open the portal,” Relcan reminded Eyrmin.
“But they must be able to,” the prince countered. “The gate has opened several times, always to let the refugees through. The lich-lords have not always been at the gate.”
“They could be lying when they say they don’t know how to open it.” Relcan suggested. He seemed more than willing to find another target for his anger. His eyes gleamed as if he had discovered a reason to deny the halflings the shelter of the forest.
“No, they speak the truth.” Glisinda said. “I believe they have an innate magic that is triggered by fear or desperation. Perhaps there is no magic involved. Fear and desperation could be all that’s needed. I don’t believe they realize they can do it.”
“But once Klasmonde realizes it, he’ll use that knowledge,” Eyrmin added. “We can no longer leave the grove unguarded.”
Fifteen
Cald stood leaning against one of the ancient trees in the Muirien Grove, grousing to himself, though his conscience told him he was getting only what he deserved. Or part of what he deserved, he amended. The lie he had told years ago—that he had seen the elven spirits—was still believed by the elves, and he had recently reinforced it. Because the elves believed he could see the ghost elves, he had been given the command of a unit set to guard the grove.
He did not deserve the honor of commanding a large party of elves who were much older and wiser, and better fighters, than himself, nor did he deserve their trust. His conscience pricked at him like a thorny vine.
He had been given his command a month before and had doggedly stuck to his duty, leaving his post only to bathe in the Moon Stream when he decided he had become offensive. He slept only when fatigue drove him to it. He stood at the edge of the clearing where the portal had opened several times in the past few years. In any battle, Eyrmin always took the forward and most dangerous position. Cald decided he could do no less.
In the month he had held his command, the portal had opened once. Five halflings had escaped through it. In the distance, he could see the soldiers of Klasmonde Volkir racing toward it, but the gateway between worlds had remained open for less than a minute, and not one of the pursuers had reached the opening.
Still, the news of their experience would bring the lich-lord of Castle Gough a step closer to understanding the secret of opening the portal. It would be only a matter of time before he figured it out.
The young human blinked at the bright sunlight of the early afternoon and stepped back farther into the shade. Most humans, seeing the dark eaves of Sielwode, would have a hard time believing there were places in the forest full of sunlight, flowers, and even meadows.
But no flowers grew in the sunlit clearing of Muirien Grove. Cald had long since decided there was more to Saelvam’s tale of Ciesandra Starshine than just imagination. The tale of star-crossed lovers might be a figment of his imagination, but the trees lived in a different time from the rest of the forest. Even the fallen leaves that lay on the ground in the grove were untouched by time. In the rest of the forest they would have long since rotted away.
In the center of the clearing, a broken tree limb lay, still retaining its thick leaves. It had been accidentally broken by the misdirected spell of a mage from the Shadow World during the battle between Eyrmin and Mmaadag Cemfrid. Cald spent hours staring at the only evidence of that first fight with the denizens of the Shadow World.
He heard the blundering noise he had learned to recognize as the goblins, and turned. Glisinda was walking toward him, and following her were Stognad and Bersmog and another ten elves.
“Plenty better places to stand than here.” Bersmog peered into the shadowy depths of the grove.
At first, the atmosphere of the ancient trees had not bothered the goblins, but to the surprise of the human and the elves, the two goblins had developed a sensitivity to the forest. They would take long detours to avoid the grove and several other areas. When questioned, Stognad had said, “Plenty angry trees some places. Plenty happy trees other places. Trees in Sielwode be thinking kind.”
Neither goblin had been able to elaborate on his feelings except to say that the small copses in the hills of Markazor and the woods of Mhoried were not like those of Sielwode. Cald knew the influence of the elves gave their forest an awareness. Why the goblins were more sensitive to the trees than a human raised by the elves was a puzzle to the boy.
“I’ve come to give you a break,” Glisinda said to Cald. He was about to object, but the elf could read his expression. “And I’ve brought new forces to free the others. No one, not even elves, can go indefinitely without rest.”
Cald nodded, admitting to the fatigue that came from waiting. The idea of walking the two miles to Reilmirid, eating a meal at a table, and hearing the news from the border filled him with new energy.
“I will remain for two days,” Glisinda advised him. She pulled her bow from her shoulder, fitted an arrow to it, and took Cald’s place in full sight of the clearing. Cald shouldered his bow and replaced the arrow that he had held through many weary hours of waiting. The vanes were frayed, and the end of the slender shaft was dark from the oil of his hands.