“I’m guessing elves wrote this story?” Thorn said.
Cadrel gave her a reproachful look and continued.
“The elder elves had no fear, for they had been granted gifts by the Sovereigns and dominion over many things. Summer. Winter. Joy. Dreams. No one giant-not even the Titan King-could match this power. This arrogance was their undoing, for their treasures merely drew the eyes of the greedy Cul’sir. Alone, he could never have challenged an elven citadel. But he assembled the first army of giants, and he brought it to the City of Song and Silence. Had they been silent and hidden, he might have passed by unknowing. Instead, their voices were raised in joyous sound, and so the giants found them, butchered them, and enslaved those few that they spared, stripping them of their magic and mixing their blood with mud. Six elven cities remained, and the lords of the six cities gathered around a silver tree-”
“They probably gathered in the tree,” Drix said. He’d set down the crossbow and was listening intently.
“I told you, Drix. It’s not my story.”
“Oh, I know. But I’ve been there. If there was only six of them, I think they’d go inside.”
Thorn opened her mouth to question that, but then she remembered his words at the Citadel. All her attention had been focused on Boranel and Oargev and on keeping the prince of Cyre from killing the tinker. She hadn’t even thought about the name of the city or how it might relate to the image that had been haunting her dreams. “Does it have golden leaves?”
“Not so much anymore. It used to. Why?”
Cadrel cleared his throat. “I understand that these are unusual circumstances, but in Cyre it’s considered rude to interrupt. And as we are in Cyre at the moment…”
“Sorry,” Drix said. “I really would like to hear the rest of the story.”
Cadrel looked at Thorn and she nodded.
“Very well. The lords of the six cities gathered around-or possibly in-a silver tree. Their combined might was a thing to inspire legends. The Prince of Winter held a sword that could freeze the blood of an army with a single stroke. The Lord of Joy wore a jewel so lovely it could cause the hearts of his foes to burst with joy. But greatest among them was Shan Doresh, the Lord of Dreams. His was the power to draw out the heart’s desire and make it real for a time. But these dreams would not last, and he could not restore those slain in the City of Song and Silence. He urged the others to join together in an army, certain that together they could defeat the Titan King and free those they had taken as slaves. But the others were afraid to fight. And when the battle came, the Lord of Dreams and his subjects found themselves alone.
“Titan fought elf for a full twelve days and twelve nights, with the dark magic of the giants matched against Shan Doresh and the hopes he inspired in his people. Cul’sir knew he could not defeat the Lord of Dreams alone, and so he bargained with the Shadow and received a fearful boon. When Doresh next drew on his gifts, he and his people were pulled fully into the realm of dreams, and they were never seen again. The lords of the elder elves were so ashamed and so terrified that they fled into the deepest shadows of the world, finally falling through the cracks in those places into the realm of Thelanis. And this is why the elves don’t sleep today; they are too ashamed to face Shan Doresh and acknowledge their cowardice.”
“Isn’t that a bit of a stretch?” Thorn said, settling her hand against Steel’s hilt.
“It may be,” Cadrel replied. “But you saw those images at the Citadel-how much they looked like elves! Combine that with this level of magical sophistication we’re seeing. Where have these eladrin been all this time? Hiding on another plane is the only answer than makes sense. And planar studies have shown time and again that Thelanis is our closest planar counterpart. Shifting across that barrier in response to a disaster, hiding there, either coming across occasionally or having our people stumble through the wall and finding them-it’s quite a story but not an impossible one.”
“I suppose not,” Thorn said. “Does it matter to us?”
“Perhaps it doesn’t,” Cadrel replied. “But it’s the chance to learn the truth behind one of the oldest stories I know; I hope you’ll understand if I’m somewhat excited.”
“Of course,” Thorn said. “And thank you for the story. But now… it sounds to me like the rain’s stopped. So if we’re going to get to the bottom of this story-or any other-I suggest we climb out of this hole and get on with our journey.”
Time passed, though the dull gray sky and the effects of the Irian tears made it difficult to say just how long. Thorn felt as if she’d been walking for a week, but rationally she knew it couldn’t have been more than a day. She was still troubled by the memory of Drix’s wounds melting away. Zane’s words echoed in the back of her mind. Imagine an army of soldiers possessing such power. And Cadrel’s casual comment, We may be allies this month, but we both know that there can only be one king of Galifar.
“Almost there,” Drix said. “There’s the forest up ahead.”
Thorn had heard that the southern forests of Cyre were one of the most beautiful places on Khorvaire-lush and temperate, filled with color and wildlife. What stood before them was a pale shadow. The trees were the first actual living vegetation Thorn had seen since they’d entered the Mournland, but they were just barely alive. Only a few of the trees had any leaves, and there were no sounds of wildlife, not even insects in the air. Thorn saw motion out of the corner of her eye, and she thought it was a snake winding its way up the trunk of a tree. Closer inspection revealed a more disturbing truth. It was a long vine, tipped with an ugly barb.
“Roots, unless I miss my guess,” Cadrel said. “There’s no sustenance from the sun, and who knows if there’s any rain to be had here… or if there is, if the trees can benefit from it. I imagine it seeks sustenance from other sources.”
A new voice rang out through the woods, strong and confidant. “You have good eyes, mortal man. Perhaps I’ll let you keep one of them.”
Thorn cursed and traced a cross on Steel’s hilt. “Back to back, all of you.” She could see shadows all around them. How could she have missed them before? Had they been truly invisible, or were they simply that good at the arts of stealth? She reached into her pouch, calling for the fireball wand she’d taken from Cazalan Dal, and her fingers closed on empty air. The wand wasn’t in her pack anymore.
“Don’t!” Drix shouted. “Don’t hurt them. These are my friends.”
Thorn wasn’t sure who he was trying to protect. “We mean you no harm,” she called.
“Your intentions matter little to me,” the voice said. The speaker stepped out from behind the trunk of a dying tree. He was lean and graceful, clad in a tunic made from overlapping crimson leaves. His face was hidden behind the visor of his helm, which was carved from darkwood and bore the curling horns of a woodland tribex. He held a long spear in one hand, both head and shaft made from a single piece of polished darkwood. “We are guardians of this path. This one has been here before, and we will not bar his way. But you, leave now and leave in peace, or stay and become our prey.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time you struck an innocent, from what I’ve heard,” Thorn said. She heard a rustling around her, the murmured voices of the other guardians. “And I assure you, I won’t fall alone.” Behind her, she heard Essyn Cadrel draw his blade.
“Stop!” Drix stepped in front of her. “We’ve been called. We’re here to save the tree.”
The guardian lowered his spear, leveling it at Thorn. “We knew you would return, Marudrix the Maimed. But you were never to show others the way.”