“The only other person to claim the distinction is the human, Cald Dasheft,” he observed. “I do not trust any human.”
“Cald Dasheft has the honor of an elf.” Hialmair, who had just joined the group, took immediate issue with the remark. On the day the human child had been found in the forest, Hialmair had risked the anger of the prince in refusing to kill the child. Since that time, he had considered it his responsibility to assist in the youth’s education and training. Farmain leaned back to gaze up at the warrior.
“Is this human of the blood also?”
The suggestion startled Hialmair, and he frowned, staring down at Farmain for a moment before shaking his head.
“It’s not possible,” he said. “He was a survivor from a settler’s caravan. I saw the dead.”
“If he had been a member of the Mhor’s royal kindred, he would have been sought with diligence,” Malala added.
“Unless he was meant to be where he was,” Iswiel suggested. “In Siellaghriod, they are saying he is a hostage to a promise. Mhor of Bevaldruor is to aid Eyrmin when he marches on the capital to take the throne.
Malala was on her feet in an instant, her blade in her hand. “You lie!” She advanced on Iswiel, who hastily scampered backward. He refused to stand to meet her challenge. The female warrior was too adept with her blade for him to face and live. Instead, Farmain rose, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Of course it is a lie,” he said soothingly. “But it has been suggested in the Crystal Palace. They are saying why else would Prince Eyrmin give such care to a human child?”
“What else are they saying?”
The others turned to see Glisinda, the lorekeeper-warrior who was a trusted councilor to the prince. Her voice had been quiet but commanding. “What other doubts fill the minds of the inhabitants of the Crystal Palace?”
“Some say quite a lot,” said the elf Garienel, who was known to have joined them after living at court for many years. The reason he had given for journeying from the comfort of the Crystal Palace to the rigors and dangers of the western arm was the need to use his arm in defense of his land. “But those who misunderstood and doubted the prince will soon learn of their error….”
“Enough of this!” Iswiel cried out. “My questions have taken the joy from the celebration, and I regret it. Let us sing together so the fortunes of Tallamai will know we are a united group. Let them hear we revere those who have gone before us and seek to keep their land pure.”
He raised his voice in the “Lay of Sielwode,” a song that described the virtues of the forest. Once the others joined in, however, he drew back with Farmain.
“You were doing well; why did you stop?” Farmain asked, speaking too quietly for the singers to hear.
“We could not allow this Garienel to finish his say,” Iswiel said. “He has a quick wit and faster tongue. He might have undone all we set out to do.”
“We made a good beginning,” Farmain said, his eyes on a group of elves who were listening to Mimilde, one of the newer arrivals. He stood on the fringe of the singers. Judging by his gestures, he was telling the tale of the argument to others, and the faces of the listeners showed they were taking in the doubts with the story.
None of the elves who heard the tale of the argument were surprised when Prince Eyrmin called Garienel to his dwelling the next morning. Their talk lasted for more than an hour. No one knew what passed between them; none of Eyrmin’s counselors had been present, not even the human youth who shared the prince’s dwelling. Iswiel and Farmain exchanged dissatisfied glances when the prince and the elf from the Crystal Palace reappeared. They both walked with light steps, their brows uncreased by anger or worry.
Still, the two elven minions of the awnshegh Czrak soon learned the seeds they planted were bearing fruit. Relcan, the royal kinsman who stood second in leadership to the prince, had been away from the village when the rumors started. On his return, he listened avidly to every word spoken against Eyrmin. His eyes flashed when he heard the suspicion that Cald Dasheft was secretly a hostage to the promise of Benjin Mhoried, ruler of lands not far west of Sielwode. He chewed on the information for days, walking about the village during the day, his face twisted with dark thoughts. At night he refilled his wine cup with unusual frequency.
Three days later, the portal opened again, this time to forty-one halflings fleeing the Shadow World. They were not pursued, and the portal closed behind them.
When the door to the Shadow World had first opened, the elves had looked on the escaping halflings with suspicion, but they soon learned the little people bore them no ill will and had no designs on the forest. Most of the inhabitants of Reilmirid saw the residue of terror on the faces of the halfling refugees. As time passed, they rejoiced over every escape from a world turned evil through no fault of the refugees.
That evening, a gentle breeze blew beneath a starlit sky, and most of the inhabitants of the elven tree village had gathered in the southern clearing. Any opportunity to celebrate was a welcome break from the tensions of guarding against and fighting their enemies, and the arrival of the refugees made a good excuse.
The halflings were resting in the shallow caves on the eastern bank of the Moon Stream. At full dark, the elves gathered in the southern meadow. Some were still lighting the torches when Bigtoe, Littletoe, and Fleetfoot Rootfinder arrived. The halfling triplets, who were so alike in their elven clothing they could have been a division of one being, marched up to Eyrmin. They gave a formal, perfectly synchronized bow that caused the elves to smile.
“The new arrivals are resting,” Bigtoe said.
“Getting a well-deserved rest,” added Littletoe.
“All with wet feet,” Fleetfoot said, putting in his customary jarring note.
The elves had brought food and wine to the meadow. In a burst of goodwill, they had even invited Bersmog and Stognad to bring their cooked meat, though the goblins had been told to cook it earlier in the evening.
The celebrants took turns singing and dancing for the entertainment of the diners, and the evening was well advanced when the three halflings, merry on elven wine, decided to take part in the leaping and cavorting.
Cald, who had been ordered to relinquish command of the Muirien Grove guard for the evening, was sitting by the prince. He doubled over with laughter at the antics of the halflings, whose short legs and heavy bodies made them awkward. They tumbled in a heap and rolled on the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.
Relcan, who had been giving his attention to the wineskin and ignoring the food, suddenly threw his cup across the clearing, narrowly missing Bigtoe Rootfinder.
“Are we now to have even our songs and dances tainted by the short-lived, short-bodied vermin who invade our land?” the royal kinsman demanded in a wine-slurred voice.
The singing and dancing stopped in midnote and midstep, as if the merriment had been slashed with a sword.
The only movement was Eyrmin’s as he carefully set his flagon on the ground and rose. His face was a mask of implacable anger.
“Those who are guests at my feast are not insulted,” he said quietly, his voice echoing in the sudden silence.
“And who next will be guest at the feasts of Reilmirid?” Relcan asked as he also rose to his feet. His voice was clearer, and despite the wine, he stood rock solid in his contempt, though his hands jerked from the handle of his knife to the hilt of his sword.
“Will we next find Klasmonde Volkir feasting on our land and our people? Is that not why these three halflings are here, to open the portal for him? Are these…”
“Untrue!” Bigtoe objected.
“Surely untrue,” added Littletoe.
“Must be sour wine,” Fleetfoot observed.
Around the circle, voices muttered their objections, but Eyrmin raised his hand for silence.
“Let him finish,” the prince said, his voice cold. “Let him ask his questions and spew his poison in the sight of the fortunes of Tallamai, who know all. They will judge him. We will have these suspicions discussed in the open and over with, but know, Relcan, that speak or not, by moonset you will be gone from Reilmirid. I am done with you and your dark thoughts.”
Even in the torchlight, the paling of Relcan’s face was evident, as was the flush of rage that darkened it afterward.
“Then I will say and will say all! You are harboring these non-Sidhelien not for any honorable purpose, but as liaisons between your fell plans and your evil allies! The human hostage from Mhoried…”
“That tale is false and even you know it,” Hialmair shouted.
“Silence! Let him finish,” Eyrmin ordered, but the sturdy elf warrior jumped to his feet.
“Forgive me, my prince, but I will not be silent in the face of his lies against you! And there are many here who know the truth of that human massacre.”
“Which proves nothing,” shouted Iswiel, also gaining his feet. “It is possible that the massacre of the humans in the caravan was a ploy of the Mhor in order to get the child into the wood. Humans are not even capable of honor and loyalty to their own. They could have killed many of their own to achieve their aims.”
“And I myself have seen this human meet with messengers traveling from Markazor to Mhoried,” Relcan shouted. “And since the prince was present at the meeting, he cannot deny it.”
Cald and Eyrmin exchanged puzzled looks, since at that moment neither could remember a circumstance that could have been the foundation for the remark.
“Does he speak of the time I taught that family to braid the grass for fire logs?” Cald asked the prince.
“Have you spoken with any other travelers?” Eyrmin asked, and Cald shook his head.
“See, they must confer to cover their evil acts with a tale!” Relcan shouted.
Looking around the circle at the elven faces, some full of doubt, others closed, having decided on the truth or falsity of the accusations, Cald realized that his and Eyrmin’s frowns and their sudden conference had worked against them.
“You came here to aid in the defense of the elven spirits in the grove, but have you seen any?” Relcan demanded of the warriors sitting in the circle. “You were drawn by a ruse, and if you stay, it will be to betray your king and Sielwode to the very races that are your enemies.”
Relcan looked as if he would say more, but Eyrmin pointed a finger that seemed to freeze the other elf in midbreath.
“Enough!” the prince shouted. Then he lowered his voice. “You have had your say. The king knows I am loyal to his aims, but if you doubt it, begone from here now, and all those who choose may go with you. I will have none in Reilmirid who have not the heart for defending the helpless, assisting those who flee evil, or standing against the vile forces that try to invade this land. If you seek the safety of the court and Siellaghriod, then go. And take your tales, for the truth is known there and your lies will fall on deaf ears.”
With a face still set in anger, Eyrmin strode across the clearing, back toward the village. He looked neither right nor left. Cald followed, and knew that several others fell in behind them, but he decided it would be unseemly to turn and count those who were leaving the clearing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the halfling triplets moving east, toward the caves by the Moon Stream, and he heard the heavy shuffling of the goblins as they followed Cald.
Still, there were too many elves still sitting on the ground, their faces thoughtful or angry.
By the time they reached Eyrmin’s dwelling, Cald had made a decision. Speaking of it was the hardest thing he had ever done.
“I will leave,” he said. “I will take Bersmog and Stognad with me. We can go south into Elinie, where they will be safe from the wrath of the goblin chief. We’ll travel with the halflings….”
“No!” Eyrmin shouted at him. “You… you and the goblins and the halflings have proven your loyalty. I will not allow you to be driven out of your home. You—you, Bersmog, Stognad, Bigtoe, Littletoe, and Fleetfoot—are valued inhabitants of Reilmirid.” The prince paced the room twice before he continued. “Each of you, in your way, contributes as much to the welfare of Sielwode as Relcan, and does less to destroy the unity of our people.”
“But we are the reason for the distrust,” Cald argued.
“No, only the channel. Distrust and dissension are malevolent springs that seek any available course to flood and pollute. If you were not here, Relcan would find something else, nurture it into full growth, and the result would be the same. I have often believed he had an ambition for my place, and once he got it, he would eye the throne itself.”
“But if he takes his tale to the king, he could cause trouble,” Cald argued, desperately hoping to be talked out of leaving the forest, but still believing he should go.
“The damage has already been done, and the repairs made; there is trust between my cousin and myself,” Eyrmin said. “It was Tieslin himself who chose to seek the truth, and by now he has his answer. He will not be swayed by Relcan.”
“But Relcan can still cause trouble,” Cald said.
Still, he allowed himself to be ordered to his bed, to spend the night in the village.
At sunrise, he learned his last words to Eyrmin had been prophetic. Two thirds of the warriors who had come to defend the Muirien Grove and the western arm of Sielwode had left in the night.
A scant hundred warriors were left to hold back the Gorgon’s forces and the attacks at the portal.