Arguing Ashenford and Shinthala past their misgivings as necessary, he told them as much as they needed to know. He confided the rest to Stedd and Umara after the druids departed to arrange a meeting with their counterpart.
When he finished, both the boy and the wizard looked upset. Their distress touched and irritated him in equal measure.
“It’s unnecessary,” Umara said.
“I hope,” Anton replied, “the whole second part of the plan is unnecessary. But if not, this is what makes it work.”
“But afterward-” Stedd began.
“What did I tell you after we seized the Octopus?” the reaver asked.
Stedd hesitated, not, Anton judged, because he didn’t remember the answer but because he didn’t want to give it. “That either Lathander’s cause is worth risking our lives, or it isn’t.”
“And apparently, I believe it is.” Anton grinned. “What do you suppose is wrong with me?”
At the center of the House of Silvanus was a circular space open to the sky. A ring of menhirs stood around the periphery, and just inside it, three granite thrones stood side-by-side facing the altar stone in the middle.
Cindermoon felt a pang of resentment as she, Shinthala, and Ashenford all took their seats. Granted, the founders of the Emerald Enclave had intended that three should preside here as equals. But for all their wisdom, the druids of yore hadn’t foreseen the Blue Fire. The burned, broken land it had left behind needed a single decisive, clearheaded spiritual leader, one who could do what needed doing without having to take the opinions of lesser minds into account.
Perhaps one day, Cindermoon would be rid of them, but for now, she’d have to suffer through whatever charade they’d devised to trick her into abandoning her present course of action. She waved a copper-skinned hand that was dainty even for a female elf. “Get on with it.”
“Gladly.” Ashenford then raised his voice so it would carry to the other side of the open space. “Come forth!”
Three people stepped out into the yellow torchlight and the pattering rain. They were as Cindermoon had been led to expect. A blond outlander boy. A Red Wizard-more proof, had the elf needed it, that the other members of the Elder Circle were either idiots or willing to conspire with even the vilest blackguards to undermine her. And a strapping Turmishan warrior with a trace of gray in his hair and a blade hanging on either hip.
“Hello,” said the little boy.
“This is Stedd Whitehorn,” Ashenford said, “the Chosen of Lathander.”
Cindermoon shook her head. “I don’t see it.”
Shinthala frowned. “Because you haven’t tried.”
“Please,” Ashenford said, “look with the eyes of the spirit. That’s all it takes.”
Cindermoon was reluctant to do that because it required lowering her guard. But she also didn’t want to appear timid or unreasonable, and at least she didn’t lack for protectors. Loyal druids, rangers, and Drummer, a huge black bear that had been her companion since he was a cub, were all close at hand.
She took a long breath and emptied her mind of distractions, of anger, caution, and the clammy feel of the rainwater on the seat of her throne. Then, silently praying, she asked Silvanus to help her see.
At the same time, she sensed the boy-Stedd-revealing himself to the best of his ability. Their complementary efforts produced a sudden layering of her vision. She still saw the boy, but at the same time, she beheld a red and golden dawn, and with it came a surge of hope so keen and unexpected it made her laugh out loud.
When the revelation faded, she raised a trembling hand to her brow. “Treefather,” she breathed.
“Now do you see?” Shinthala demanded.
It was the human druidess’s eagerness to make Cindermoon commit, to manipulate and manage her, that jolted her back to her customary wariness. Yet she saw little choice but to concede the truth. To do otherwise might call her powers and thus her leadership into question.
“I do,” she said. “Welcome, Stedd Whitehorn. The Emerald Enclave rejoices at the god of the dawn’s rebirth.”
“Uh, thank you.” Stedd hesitated. “Did Ashenford and Shinthala tell you why Lathander sent me?”
“They claim to help end the famine.”
“Yes. If we all work together, all the Chosen and the other druids, too, there must be something we can do.”
“There is,” Cindermoon said, “and I’ve already set a plan in motion to do it. I’ll be grateful for any support you can give.”
Stedd frowned. “You mean, the plan to kill the scar pilgrims?”
“Ah. My peers told you about it.”
“Lathander wouldn’t want me to help with that. I don’t think … I mean, I know he wouldn’t want anybody to just go kill hundreds of people.”
Cindermoon’s fingers tightened on the arms of her throne. Plainly, this was why Ashenford and Shinthala were so happy another Chosen had turned up. To their minds, the boy was another voice of equivalent stature to speak against her and dilute her authority. But by deep roots and green leaves, it wasn’t going to matter.
“Then do the Morninglord’s bidding,” she said, “insofar as a child newly Chosen understands it. But please realize that although my folk revere your god, we worship Silvanus above all others. And he’s decreed the pilgrims have to die.”
Ashenford grimaced. “Shinthala and I are his Chosen, too, and we haven’t heard him say any such thing.”
“Then clean out your ears!” Cindermoon snapped. “Is the plan truly all that hard to comprehend? By purging Turmish of all who worship the Blue Fire, we’ll magically cleanse the land of the last of the taint itself. That in turn will restore the enclave’s strength. Then we’ll use that might to feed the hungry.”
Stedd shook his head. “You can’t take the power from something so bad and use it for something good.”
Cindermoon’s fingers tightened on the armrests until they ached and she pried them loose again. “Boy, you’re debating first principles with one who was already a druid and Chosen when your great-great-grandfather … never mind. I’ll answer as your station if not your experience deserves. You couldn’t turn death into life. But the Oakfather is the lord of all Nature, hunter and prey, dark and light. Druids can do things-difficult, ambiguous things-that dawnbringers and sunlords never could.”
“Still,” Ashenford said, “Lathander has returned in a time of turmoil. Surely, he has a thousand urgent matters to concern him. Yet he elected to send his first new Chosen here, to us. We’d be wise to consider what the boy has to say.”
Cindermoon glared at him. “You’d be wise to heed what I’m telling you. The scar pilgrims are going to die. The Assembly of Stars has given its blessing-”
“Because you approached them without our knowledge,” Shinthala growled.
“-and I’ve gathered warriors to carry out the campaign. You two can either help, and prove yourselves worthy of the rank you hold, or hold back and-”
Voices cried out. Drummer moaned and scrambled behind the row of thrones. Startled, Cindermoon jerked around on her seat and looked straight ahead.
While she’d been busy squabbling with her peers, a circle of wavering, somehow filthy-looking red light had appeared in the air. It was a window into a place where almost everything was on fire, including the damned souls shrieking and flailing in pits like mass graves and the giant soaring toward the breach between worlds.
Some trick of enhanced motion or warped time brought the balor to the window in an instant. When it did, Cindermoon could make out the pock-like scars on the demon’s hideous face where her conjured hailstones had battered it, and the horn Ashenford had broken with a blow from an enchanted quarterstaff. She’d believed she and her peers had destroyed the demon utterly, but some power even greater than itself must have seen fit to resurrect it.