Czrak had said the doubts would need time to work; perhaps Lerien was being impatient. He listened to the king’s counselors, who had gathered together and were arguing about what should be done. Brechian, Cleomid, and Jainnar were insisting a force should be sent to Reilmirid to confront the prince before he could summon aid from his allies. Several others were listening.
Lerien decided his mission was a success.
Seventeen
The third night after the battle at the grove, Garienel slipped from his dwelling, moving slowly and painfully. He had fought in the grove and had taken a shallow cut on his left thigh from the blade of one of the Shadow World warriors. The wound was slight, and he would have made nothing of it, but some fell magic or poison—perhaps just the vileness of the land from which the weapon came—caused a throbbing pain and slowed the healing in what appeared to be a clean wound.
King Tieslin had sent him to discover the truth of the rumors that had caused so much distrust in Siellaghriod. He had expected to arrive and learn the truth in a matter of hours, but in that he had been disappointed. If Prince Eyrmin and his followers had heard the rumors circulating at court, they gave no indication of it.
They neither expressed dissatisfaction with the throne nor did they openly offer loyalty to the king. At first Garienel wondered at this, and then asked himself what he had expected. No elf in Siellaghriod went about spouting his loyalty; it was taken for granted. The warriors of the western arm were concerned with the invasions of the Gorgon. They spent their time guarding the wood, passing information, fighting, and in their idle hours they sang the old tales, drank wine, and laughed, as if pretending the danger did not exist.
Garienel had hoped he would be able to enter the Muirien Grove and see the spirit warriors for himself, if they really existed, but again he had been thwarted for more than a month. He had been kept on duty at the eaves of the wood and had only returned to Reilmirid two days before the battle in the grove.
Luck, not planning, had been his ally. Glisinda had taken a force into the grove, and he had been close by when she called for volunteers. When the portal opened, he had seen for himself the evils of the Shadow World.
Garienel was no longer concerned about the existence of spirit warriors. The prince protected Sielwode from a far greater danger than a few human hunters and woodcutters on the eastern fringes.
Garienel had already decided to leave Reilmirid and return to court. The king needed to know the full tale, but since he was wounded and could not travel, he would send the dove, Brissel.
He called it, giving a soft coo, and it obediently lit on his outstretched arm. The dove fluffed its feathers, more than doubling its size, and then settled them back in place. It stretched its neck to look up into the elf’s face, head cocked, one bright black eye on him. With a thin thread, Garienel tied the golden ring with the white stone to the bird’s leg. At least the king would know the prince was not his enemy. The reassurance would have to do until he could make the journey and give a full report.
“Alandas,” he whispered to the bird, and raised his arm. The brown and buff feathers of the bird blended into the darkness as it silently took wing, flying east.
His mission accomplished, he remained standing on the highest of the limb paths, looking down at the lights of the others below him. No city or village on Aebrynis could compare with Siellaghriod and the Crystal Palace, but the tree village of Reilmirid had its own charms. The dark leaves of the sielwodes roofed and sheltered the limb paths until in places they appeared to be tunnels of greenery. The flickering lights of the torches gave life and movement to the village night, and the inhabitants, who lived in danger of the Gorgon and the lich-lord of the Shadow World, were quick to put aside their daily fears with song and congenial company.
While he stood watching for the dawn, a burst of laughter came from the bierieum, followed by the music of a flute and the strains of an old lay.
Garienel sighed. When his leg was healed, he would return to the king and tell his tale, but afterward he would come back to Reilmirid, he decided. Far from endangering the throne of Sielwode, the prince protected it. He would serve his king by helping to stand against the evils of the Shadow World.
He heard a light footstep on the walk and looked up to see Glisinda approaching. She frowned at him.
“It is too soon for you to be walking on that leg,” she said.
“The wound should be healing,” Garienel replied. “I thought exercise might help.”
The lorekeeper of Reilmirid shook her head. “Wounds from the weapons of the Shadow World do not mend quickly. It will be a month or more before you have strength back in that leg.”
Garienel also sighed. The news he wanted to bring to the king would be delayed.
The dove, Brissel, was glad to stretch her wings and fly as nature had intended. She had spent more days than she could number fluttering from tree to tree, keeping the messenger in sight and waiting for his call.
Part of her small brain enjoyed the forest, foraging for food like the wild creatures. Part of it remembered the shining castle where food, water, and a protected perch awaited. Waiting too, was her master, whose mind touched hers, making her feel safe, secure, and loved.
The thing tied to her right foot belonged to her master, and she was taking it to him. She stretched her tiny mind, reached out for him, and felt his warmth from far away. The flight would be a long one, but the sun was rising, the air was clear, and the wind helped to speed her on her way.
As she flew into the sun, she was unaware of the hovering form high above her. Reaching for her master’s warmth, she did not even notice the whistling of the eagle’s feathers as he dived, straight and fast as an arrow.
She realized the danger as a clawed foot grabbed her, one sharp talon piercing her fluttering heart. She barely felt the fear and pain before she died.
King Tieslin jerked, feeling a short stab of fear, pain, and then only emptiness in that portion of his mind he shared with Brissel. The dove was dead, killed on its way to deliver Garienel’s message.
For the first few minutes, his mind was caught up in the ache of losing a gentle, great-hearted companion, but then the political ramifications surfaced.
Brissel had been bringing him a message. Had the gallant little bird died as a result of her errand? Did someone kill her to keep him from receiving Garienel’s message? Death had come so suddenly, she had not had time to dodge. Had she been brought down by an arrow? Was he allowing the intrigue of the court to lead him into unjustified suspicions?
Could he discount the possibility that Garienel’s mission had been discovered? If Eyrmin had learned Garienel’s purpose, and the prince did have designs on the throne, would he not kill the messenger rather than have his plans revealed?
Tieslin could not believe Eyrmin was a traitor, yet he could not afford to discount the possibility.
Eighteen
“They muchly worried, great Czrak, but they not able yet to get into grove,” the gnoll said, giggling in his nervousness.
“They must get into the grove! I must have that sword!” Czrak lashed out with his left front insect leg and grabbed the hapless gnoll who had brought the news of the elves’ failure. In his rage, the awnshegh bit into the neck of the humanoid and drained him of blood while his arms and legs still twitched.
Failure! Failure! Was that all he could expect of these puny humans, gnolls, and elves? He rolled in the mud, lashing out at the small trees, turning a burning glare on them and shriveling them to nothing.