The elves nodded. The lives of most invaders were forfeit for entering the forest. These forces, however, had been impelled into Sielwode by the power of the awnshegh, and they seemed willing enough to leave once their master was dead.
The king stood for a moment, staring out at nothing, and many of the tired elves shifted their feet restlessly. The king looked back at them and spoke again.
“Many immortal lives have been lost this day, and Sielwode will never recover from the loss of Prince Eyrmin.”
In a public show of emotion, the king wiped one hand across his face. When he lowered it, his grief was still plain.
“My cousin, a true descendant of the line of kings, was lost, not to the creature he fought, but to distrust and deceit among his own people.”
More of the elves shifted; discomfort, not restlessness, was the cause.
“I am also to blame for this, since I listened to tales and let the love of power convince me my loyal and brave kinsman was plotting against me. Many of us will walk in shame for the rest of our lives.”
He paused and stared down at someone in the crowd. Several elves moved away; Relcan stood alone and white-faced.
“You, Relcan, my kinsman, have always coveted the command of the western reaches, and it was your enmity that drew away the forces so badly needed here. To you I give what you thought you wanted, the command of Reilmirid and its warriors.”
Cald could not believe what he was hearing.
“Your punishment,” the king continued, “is to fill the shoes of one of the greatest warriors in our long history.”
It was a punishment, and it was fitting, Cald realized. Every step Relcan took, every word he spoke, would be compared with those of Eyrmin. The prince, no longer present to make the occasional error, would gain perfection in the memories of the elves. Soon, tales of him would grow far beyond reality, far beyond what any other elf could attain. Ashen faced, Relcan stumbled away.
Punishment was not the only subject on the king’s mind. He commended many elves on their courage, and then moved on to the subject of the non-Sidhelien. He told the assembled warriors how he had regained consciousness with none but a pair of goblins, three halflings, and a human standing guard over him.
He had to pause. A roar of elven outrage at their lack of care for their ruler drowned him out for a few moments. When he could speak, he absolved them of blame and told the tale of the circumstances.
“I name these six to be citizens of Sielwode.”
Cald heard no more of the king’s speech. He was glad Bersmog and Stognad would have a home and the halflings would not be driven out.
Sielwode itself would not mean so much to him in the future. He moved behind a tree and, using it as a shield, turned back to the grove and the clearing. For him, it was not a time for celebration.
One day that portal would open again, and when it did, he would either rescue Eyrmin, or join him on the other side.
Epilogue
Three and a half years later, every detail of that last battle in the grove was still fresh in Cald’s mind. It could have happened only an hour before. The image of the prince disappearing into the Shadow World had returned in a thousand dreams. If Eyrmin had been killed, Cald could have mourned, and the grief would have lost its razor edge with time. But the prince had crossed to that evil plane as a living being, and might still be alive.
Cald had lived in the Muirien Grove for half a year after the last closing of the portal, waiting for it to open again. In less than a month after Eyrmin had disappeared, his hope dwindled. The power that had kept the grove out of pace with the rest of Sielwode had disappeared.
The ancient trees began dropping their old leaves, pushed away by new growth. Grass sprouted in the clearing, and wildflowers sprang up in such profusion that the elves, in spite of their grief over the loss of the prince, took great pleasure in the grove. The huge limb that had been broken from a tree in the battle between Eyrmin and Mmaadag Cemfrid, the limb where Cald had first hidden the sword, had remained nearly intact for more than ten years. It suddenly crumbled away, rotting into the ground. Within two months, new trees had sprouted from seeds and the birds had returned to the grove.
Still, Cald remained for an additional four months before he decided the portal would not open again. Then he left the grove and the forest of Sielwode, seeking another entry into the Shadow World.
He had traveled through Mhoried, Alamie, Avanil, and crossed the Seamist Mountains into Taeghas. At first, his elven clothing had brought him enemies on sight. Changing his clothing helped a little, but because he spoke the human languages with an elven lilt, few humans trusted him.
He found his answer in the Aelvinnwode, where, because they had heard tales of him, the elves allowed him to enter their domain. There he spoke with the loremaster, an ancient elf crippled by many battles.
“Free yourself of this grief, Aerienis,” he said. In the elven language, he had called the human Greatheart.
“The halflings have the power to open the portal, though many do not seem to know it. I doubt you will find one in Cerilia who will attempt to open it from this side.
“Prince Eyrmin showed you another way to enter the Shadow World. It is entered by embracing some great evil. In his just desire to destroy the lich-lord, Klasmonde Volkir, he held to his purpose, and so was taken to the other plane with his enemy. You would need a malevolent force at least as strong in order to reach him.”
Cald had left the Aelvinnwode in a mood of hopelessness that lasted for three days before he realized the loremaster had unintentionally given him his answer.
The sword, that terrible weapon that he had twice held, might be used to open the portal. Why had he never considered it? The answer was simple enough; he had hidden it and used every elven discipline he knew to rid his mind of its evil residue.
He had turned his face toward the Sielwode and traveled each day until hunger forced him to hunt or buy food. He walked until he staggered, but, sure he had the answer, he had been determined to reach the grove again.
Lienwiel, the elf who escorted him now, stayed well back, sensitive to Cald’s need to be alone as he entered the clearing south of Reilmirid. That was where Iswiel, Farmain, and Relcan had challenged the prince and deserted his cause.
Half a mile farther, they passed through the Sielwode grove and the village. One of the lemdair had lost several steps and had not been repaired. Many of the torches were gone from their holders on the high tree paths, and the structures were in need of new shingles. Even the houses in the village seemed to have lost their heart along with their prince.
Cald continued on, crossing the Star Mirror Stream above the fork. He walked into the Muirien Grove and jerked to a halt as a goblin stepped out from behind a tree. It took him a moment to recognize Bersmog, mainly because of the goblin’s clothing. He wore traditional goblin attire—short trousers and a vest made of poorly cured animal hide—though for years he and Stognad had worn elven clothing.
“You gone plenty long,” Bersmog said. “Now you come back.”
“And you’re still here.” Cald, like the goblin, was stating the obvious, not quite knowing how to express his pleasure in seeing an old friend. Along with the pleasure was also a hesitation. He could not afford to renew the friendship only to suffer the pain of separation again.
“Is Stognad here too?”
Bersmog grunted his assent while industriously scratching his chest beneath the vest. During Eyrmin’s time, the goblins had been ordered to bathe regularly. As Cald continued through the grove, Bersmog strolled along at his side.
“Stognad, he hunt. We need food for camp. Root-diggers still here, watching for portal to open, but things plenty quiet for a long time.”