Silvery light shone on the leather bag destined for Gorйn, sorely testing his resolve.
Don't meddle with things that don't concern you, he told himself sternly.
Even as he fell asleep he thought of Lot-Ionan and Frala, whose talisman was looped through his belt. He missed the sound of her laughter. Tomorrow he would ask the publican for directions to the Blacksaddle and press on without delay.
Muffled sounds roused him from his sleep.
Two men were taking great pains to ready themselves for bed without making any noise. Outside a storm was howling and raging around the settlement.
A whispered exchange followed, during which Tungdil felt certain that he heard Lot-Ionan's name. He peered warily at the newcomers: a thin, well-dressed gentleman and a taller, broader fellow clad in leather mail with metal plating.
A merchant and his bodyguard? Their garments were clearly worth a gold piece or two. He caught sight of a simple yet striking trinket attached to the larger fellow's leather lapel. It was embossed with the seal of the magi.
They're envoys to the magi's council! "Are you headed for Ionandar?" he asked, abandoning all pretense of sleep. Curiosity had triumphed over caution.
The broad man frowned. "What makes you think that?"
"The brooch." He pointed to the man's gown. "You must be envoys."
The pair exchanged looks of surprise. "Who are you?" the bearer of the trinket demanded. Tungdil introduced himself. "What news of Lot-Ionan?" the man said sharply. "Is he well?"
"Perhaps you could tell me a little about yourselves first," the dwarf requested with impeccable politeness. They supplied him with their names and occupations: Friedegard, a first-tier famulus apprenticed to Turgur the Fair-Faced, and Vrabor, a warrior in the service of the magi. "Lot-Ionan is in excellent health," Tungdil informed them. "You'll see for yourselves when you get there." He struggled to contain himself, then gave in. "Pray, what is the…" He reconsidered and began more plainly: "What do you want with the magus?"
"Our business is with Lot-Ionan, not his message boy," Vrabor said dismissively, loosening the buckles on his armor. "Why do you think the council sent an envoy and not a town crier?"
He had barely finished speaking when the storm outside whipped into a frenzy, gusting through chinks in the walls and emitting a strange, unnatural whine, which was followed almost immediately by a high-pitched whistle.
Tensing, the two men reached for their swords.
Not a night to be abroad, thought the dwarf as he watched the moonlit scraps of cloud chase across the gloomy sky.
Just then a slender face appeared at the window. Tungdil looked into the gray-green eyes and felt his mind go numb. The apparition was more bewitching than frightening: Long dark hair swept the beautiful visage, the occasional strand plastered against the rain-drenched skin. So pale, so perfect was the being that it resembled a marble sculpture of an elf, its bedraggled locks like fine fractures in the stone.
The dwarf stared helplessly, transfixed by the creature's gaze. The countenance was attractive-of that there was no question-but it inspired in him an almost physical revulsion. It was too beautiful, almost cruelly so.
"Over there…" His breathless warning was enough to alert the envoys, who looked up and dove for cover.
At that moment there was an explosion of glass as a long black-fletched arrow shattered the window and whined through the air, planting itself in the wall.
"You get rid of them; I'll deal with the window," shouted Vrabor to his companion. Seizing the heavy table, he upturned it and slammed it into the wall, then hurriedly jammed some furniture against the makeshift barricade. There were no other openings for arrows to enter.
Meanwhile Friedegard, eyes closed and head bowed, was chanting silently and tracing strange symbols in the air. In his right hand was a coin-sized crystal set in gold.
"Can someone tell me what's going on?" Tungdil scrambled out of bed and grabbed his ax because it made him feel safer.
The envoys listened in silence. Although the wind had abated, the rain was falling more heavily than before. They strained their ears, but there was no sound of the mysterious bowman. He seemed to have vanished with the tempest.
"Has the elf gone?"
"I can't be sure," said Vrabor. "Perhaps." He sheathed his sword and sat down on the bed, hands resting on the cross guard of his weapon. "They could be biding their time."
"They?"
"Дlfar, two of them. They've been tailing us since Porista."
So it wasn't an elf after all…The дlfar, a race crueler than any other, were sworn enemies of the elves. They hated their cousins for their purity, a purity that the дlfar themselves had been denied. It was hatred and jealousy, according to the history books, that impelled them across the Northern Pass and into Girdlegard. "Is Lot-Ionan in danger?"
"Lot-Ionan will come to no harm," Vrabor assured him wearily. "The дlfar are powerless against the magi and they know it. The arrow was meant for Friedegard and me; they want to know what we're carrying. We knew they were following us as soon as we left the capital of Lios Nudin, but they waited until they could be sure of our destination before they attacked. I'm sorry, groundling," he said, responding to the unspoken question in Tungdil's eyes. "I'm sure you're a loyal messenger and I know we're indebted to your vigilance, but our business is between the council and Lot-Ionan. You'll have to save your questions for your return."
"I'm a dwarf, not a groundling." Tungdil toyed with the idea of accompanying the envoys to Ionandar the next morning and telling the magus of what he had seen, but he decided against it. His mission to the Blacksaddle was more important. He sat down and laid his ax across his knees.
The rest of the night was spent in watchful silence, their fear of the дlfar keeping tiredness at bay. None of them slept a wink, but Friedegard's spell seemed to have worked and there was no sign of their assailants. At last, with the coming of dawn, the tension finally fell away and Tungdil lay back and dozed.
III
Enchanted Realm of Ionandar, Girdlegard, Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle Reclining in his wing chair with his feet on a stool, Lot-Ionan had made himself comfortable in a corner of his study and was leafing contentedly through a grimoire, one of the many that lined his walls. In addition to his slightly shabby beige robes he wore even shabbier slippers and his pipe lay beside him, tobacco at the ready. Steam rose from a glass of herbal tea on the table. The magus was savoring the peace and quiet.
"Do you hear that, Nula?" he asked the barn owl who was perched on the back of his chair and seemed to be studying his spells. "Not a sound. No noise, no explosions. I was loath to say goodbye to Tungdil, but I know it was the right decision."
Blinking approvingly, Nula replied with a gentle twit-twoo. Lot-Ionan knew full well that she couldn't understand him, but he enjoyed their conversations. It was an excellent way of collecting his thoughts.
"I suppose it was a bit mean of me, really," he confessed. "Gorйn left the Blacksaddle goodness knows how many cycles ago. He abandoned the mountain after falling for the charms of a beautiful and intelligent elf." The owl blinked again. "You want to know how I heard about it? My former apprentice told me himself. It was all in a letter that he wrote from Greenglade. He seemed most contented with his new abode and gave a full account of the superior allure of elven women."
The thought of Gorйn's mistress reminded Lot-Ionan of his age. He had long since lost interest in pleasures of the flesh; other matters took precedence in his mind.
"Tungdil will find out his new address, I shouldn't wonder. And when he does, he won't rest until he's tracked Gorйn down and accomplished his errand." He took a sip from his steaming glass. The cold air of the vaults was conducive to study, but he found himself drinking countless cups of tea.