It had been so easy, Cadderly hadn’t even thought about what he was doing, had moved solely on instinct. He had even killed the orog that ran down the road toward Rufo, nowhere near Cadderly. The orog was there, in his crossbow sights, then it was dead.
It was too easy.
Not for the first time in the last few tendays, Cadderly questioned his purpose in life, the sincerity of his calling to the god Deneir. Headmaster Avery had once called Cadderly a Gondsman, referring to a sect of inventive priests who showed little moral guidance in forming their dangerous constructions. That word, “Gondsman,” hovered over the young scholar like the dead eyes of one of his victims.
Cadderly came out of his trance to see Danica standing beside him, wiping her face, and Kierkan Rufo holding Cadderly’s wide-brimmed hat and nodding with appreciation. Cadderly shuddered as Danica wiped blood from her fair cheek.
Can she really wash that blood away? he wondered. And will I ever cleanse my own hands?
An image of beautiful Danica covered in gore flashed across his psyche and Cadderly felt as if the world had been turned upside down, as if the lines of good and evil had flip-flopped and blurred together to become a gray area based purely on primal instincts.
After all, they could have avoided that tree, could have avoided the slaughter entirely.
Sympathy was plain on Danica’s face. She took the hat from Rufo and handed it to Cadderly then she offered her arm. The shaken young scholar took both without hesitation. Kierkan Rufo again nodded grimly at him, a gesture of thanks, and it seemed to Cadderly as though Rufo understood his inner turmoil.
They headed back to the maple, Danica and Cadderly arm in arm, just in time to see Elbereth smash in the skull of a writhing orog. The elf prince unceremoniously tore his stiletto out of the creature’s leg.
Cadderly looked away, pushed Danica from him, and was sure he would vomit. He eyed the elf prince for a moment with a grave stare then turned and walked from the scene. He moved parallel to Elbereth, but didn’t look at him.
“What would you have me do?” he heard an angry Elbereth call out.
Danica mumbled something to the elf that Cadderly couldn’t hear, but Elbereth wasn’t finished with his tirade.
“If it were his home …” Cadderly heard clearly, and he knew that Elbereth, though talking to Danica, was directing the remark his way. He looked back to see Danica nodding at Elbereth, the two exchanging grim smiles then clasping hands warmly.
The world had turned upside down.
A sound by the maple caught his attention. He saw another orog, lying still and staring upward. Cadderly followed its gaze up to the broken tree limb, to the piece of dripping flesh. Horrified, the young scholar rushed to the creature’s side. It took him a moment to realize that the creature still drew breath, its chest moved so slowly, its breathing shallow and uneven. Cadderly pulled the eye-above-candle emblem, his holy symbol, from the front of his hat and fumbled with a pouch on his belt. He heard the others moving behind him, but paid them no heed.
“What are you doing?” Elbereth asked him.
“He’s still alive,” Cadderly replied. “I have spells that—”
“No!”
The sharpness of the retort did not strike Cadderly as profoundly as the fact that it had been Danica, not Elbereth, who snapped at him. He turned slowly, as if he expected to see a horrid monster looming over him.
But it was just Danica, Elbereth, and Rufo; Cadderly hoped there remained a difference.
“The creature is too far gone,” Danica said, her voice quiet.
“You shall not waste your spells on the likes of an orog!” Elbereth added, and there was nothing at all quiet about his sharp tones.
“We cannot leave it here to die,” Cadderly shot back, fumbling again with his pouch. “Its lifeblood will drain out into the dirt.”
“A fitting end for an orog,” Elbereth replied.
Cadderly looked at him, still surprised by the grim elf’s lack of mercy.
“Go, if you will,” Cadderly growled. “I am a cleric of a merciful god and I’ll not leave a wounded creature like this.”
Danica pulled Elbereth away. They had much to do before they could leave, in any case. A lot of their equipment lay scattered, weapons buried in orog flesh, and one horse, the one that had stumbled over the broken branch, needed tending.
Elbereth understood and honored the young woman’s feelings. Cadderly had fought well—the elf couldn’t deny that—and they could prepare to leave without his assistance.
Back up the trail, Elbereth retrieved his dropped bow. As he began to sling it over his shoulder, he heard a gasp from Danica, picking up her pack just a few feet from him.
Elbereth spun to her then turned immediately to where she was looking.
Black smoke rose over Shilmista’s northwestern edge.
Oblivious to the distant spectacle, Cadderly worked furiously to stem the flow of blood from the orog’s torn leg. Where to begin? All the flesh of the outside half of the leg, from ankle to mid thigh, had been ripped away. Furthermore, the creature had suffered a dozen other severe wounds, including broken bones, from being run down by Rufo’s horse. Cadderly had never been overly proficient at his priestly studies, and clerical magic was not easy for him. Even if he was the finest healer of the Edificant Library, though, he doubted he could do much for the broken creature.
Every so often, a drop of blood plopped beside him from the hanging skin. A pointed reminder, Cadderly believed, falling rhythmically, like a heartbeat. Then it stopped. Cadderly took great pains not to look up.
The least he could do was comfort the doomed creature, though that hardly seemed sufficient in the face of his actions. He pulled in a piece of the broken branch and propped it under the orog’s head. Then he went back to work, refusing to consider the beast’s nature, refusing to remember that the orogs had planned to kill him and the others. He wrapped and tied, plugged holes with his fingers, and was not disgusted by the blood on his hands.
“Young scholar!” he heard Elbereth say.
Cadderly looked to the side then fell back and cried out, seeing a drawn bow leveled his way.
The arrow cut right by his chest—Cadderly felt the windy wake of its rushing flight—and it dived into the wounded orog, catching the monster under the chin and driving up into its brain. The creature gave one violent jerk then lay still.
“We have no time for your folly,” Elbereth snarled.
The elf prince stormed past the stunned man, not taking his glare off Cadderly until he reached the wounded horse.
Cadderly wanted to cry out in protest, wanted to run over and strike Elbereth in the face, but Danica was beside him, calming him and helping him to his feet.
“Let the matter drop,” the young woman almost pleaded.
Cadderly turned on her, but saw only tenderness in her clear brown eyes and pursed lips.
“We must leave at once,” Danica continued. “The forest is burning.”
With his already bloodied sword, Elbereth finished off the doomed horse. Cadderly noted the elf’s sad expression and the gentle way he completed the grim task, and noted too that the elf cared more for the horse than for the orogs.
It had been Cadderly’s mount, and when they left, Cadderly was the one walking, refusing offers from both Danica and Rufo to share their steeds, and not even answering Elbereth’s offer that the elf prince would walk and Cadderly ride.
Cadderly looked straight ahead, every step, refusing to acknowledge his companions. In his silent vigil, though, the battle replayed in his head, and Barjin’s dead eyes stared at them all from above that battlefield, forever judging.
They entered the thick boughs of Shilmista at twilight, and Elbereth, despite his desire to find his people, quickly moved to set up camp.
“We will leave before dawn,” the elf explained. “If you wish to sleep, do so now. The night will not be a long one.”
“Can you sleep?” Cadderly snarled at him.
>
Elbereth’s silver eyes narrowed as the young scholar approached.
“Can you?” Cadderly asked again, his voice growing dangerously loud. “Does your heart cry at the deeds of your bow and sword? Do you even care?”
Danica and Rufo looked on with alarm, almost expecting Elbereth to kill Cadderly where he stood.
“They were orogs, orc kin,” Elbereth reminded him.
“Without mercy, how much better are we?” Cadderly growled in frustration. “Do our veins run thick with the same blood as orcs?”
“It is not your home,” the elf replied. His voice filled with sarcasm. “Have you ever had a home?”
Cadderly did not reply, but he did not, could not, ignore the question. He really didn’t know the answer. He had lived in Carradoon, the town on Impresk Lake, before going to the library, but he remembered nothing of that distant time. Perhaps the library was his home.
“If your home was in danger, you would fight for it, do not doubt,” Elbereth continued. “You would kill whatever threatened your home, without mercy, and would hold no lament for its death.”
The elf stared into Cadderly’s gray eyes for a few moments longer, awaiting a reply, but got none. Then Elbereth was gone, disappeared into the forest gloom to scout the perimeter of their camp.
Cadderly heard Danica’s relieved sigh behind him.
Exhausted, Kierkan Rufo tumbled down and was snoring almost immediately. Danica seemed to have the same idea, but Cadderly sat before the low-burning fire, wrapped in a heavy blanket. Its thickness did little to warm the chill in his heart. He hardly noticed when Danica came over to sit beside him.
“You shouldn’t be so … troubled,” she offered after a long silence.
“Was I to let the orog die?” Cadderly asked.
Danica shrugged. “Orogs are vicious, evil things,” she said. “They live to destroy, and further no cause beyond their own vile desires. I do not lament their deaths.” She glanced sidelong at Cadderly. “Nor do you.
“It’s Barjin, isn’t it?” Danica asked him, her voice full of pity.
The words stung. Incredulous, Cadderly turned on Danica.
“It was never about the orog,” Danica continued undaunted. “The fury of your movements as you tended the creature was not befitting any kin of orcs. It was guilt that drove you, memories of the dead priest.”
Cadderly’s expression didn’t change, though he found it difficult to dispute Danica’s claims. Why had he cared so deeply for the orog, a notorious villain that would have torn the heart from his chest if given the chance? Why had that wounded orog evoked so much pity in him?
“You acted—you fought—as the situation demanded,” Danica said, “against the orogs and the priest. It was Barjin, not you, who caused his death. Lament that it had to happen at all, but accept no guilt for what you could not control.”
“What’s the difference?” Cadderly asked.
Danica draped an arm around his shoulders and moved close. Cadderly could feel her breath, hear her heartbeat, and see the moisture on her full lips.
“You must judge yourself as fairly as you judge others,” Danica whispered. “I, too, battled Barjin, and would have killed him if given the opportunity. How would you look upon me if that had come to pass?”
Cadderly had no answer for that.
Danica leaned closer and kissed him then hugged him tightly, though he hadn’t the strength to respond. Without another word, she moved back to her blanket and lay down, offering him a parting smile before she closed her eyes and gave in to her weariness.
Cadderly sat for a while longer, watching her. She understood him so well, better than he understood himself. Or was it just that Danica understood the wide world in ways the sheltered Cadderly couldn’t? For all his short life, Cadderly had found his answers in books, while Danica, worldly wise, had searched out her answers through experience.
Some things, it seemed, could not be learned simply by reading about them.
Elbereth came back into camp a short while later. Cadderly was down, but not asleep, and he watched the elf. Elbereth rested his bow against a log and unbelted his sword, placing it beside his bedroll. Then, to Cadderly’s surprise, Elbereth went over to Danica and gently tucked her blankets around her shoulders. He stroked Danica’s thick hair a moment then walked back to his own bedroll and lay under the myriad stars.
For the second time that day, Cadderly didn’t know what to think, or how to feel.
SEVEN
PRAGMATIC MAGIC
What have you learned?” Tintagel asked Shayleigh when he found her atop Daoine Dun, the Hill of the Stars. Another day neared its end in Shilmista, another day of hit and run battles against the overwhelming force of invaders.
“Fifty goblins were killed in one fight,” Shayleigh replied, but there was no smile on her face, fair and undeniably beautiful even though one side remained bright red from Tintagel’s lightning bolt of a few days earlier. “And a giant was brought down in another. We suffered a few wounded, but none too seriously.”
“That is good news,” the elf wizard said, his smile intentionally wide in an effort to cheer the young maiden. It was a meager attempt, though, for Tintagel knew as well as Shayleigh that victory or defeat could not be measured by counting dead bodies. The enemy forces had indeed, as Hammadeen had told them, taken to the march, and for all the devastation the elves were handing them they slowly but steadily progressed through beautiful Shilmista, scarring the land as they passed.
“They have taken a hundred square miles,” Shayleigh said. “And they are burning the wood in the northwest.”
Tintagel, for all his strained optimism, understood that Shayleigh was not alone among the elves in her growing despair.
“The night will be clear and dark, for the moon is new,” the elf wizard offered, trying to sound hopeful and lifting his light blue eyes heavenward. “Might King Galladel call for Daoine Teague Feer?”
“The Star Enchantment?” Shayleigh echoed softly in the common tongue. Without even considering the motion, she ran her slender fingers through her hair—and her face crinkled in disgust, for her golden locks were matted with blood and grime. Shayleigh felt dirty, as did many of Shilmista’s elves. The woodland folk had a way of countering those negative thoughts, though, with a cleansing of body and soul, an ancient ritual of rejuvenation: Daoine Teague Feer.
“Let us go to Galladel,” Shayleigh said, hope and excitement in her melodic voice for the first time in many days.
They found the aged king in one of the caves along the side of the hill that had become the elves’ sanctuary. From that cave, Galladel directed scouting missions, coordinated patrol times, and gathered war parties. It was a heroic task, surely, for the elf king had to keep in mind which of his people were experienced fighters and which were novices, and ensure a proper blend in each party. Even more complicated, many of the elves had been injured and required rest.
As soon as they entered the torchlit cave, both Shayleigh and Tintagel recognized how heavy Galladel’s burden had become. His once-straight shoulders sagged and circles lined his eyes.
“What do you want?” the elf king snapped. He threw his hands out to the side, unintentionally knocking several scrolls from the chamber’s main table. Obviously embarrassed, Galladel’s visage softened and he reiterated his question in a quieter tone.
“The moon is new,” Shayleigh said, hoping the hint would be enough.
Galladel just stared at her blankly, though. He seemed to grow angry, as if the two were wasting his precious time.
“The sky is clear,” added Tintagel. “A million stars will show themselves to us, lend us their strength for the morrow’s fight.”
“Daoine Teague Feer?” Galladel asked. “You wish to dance and play?”
“It is more than play,” Shayleigh reminded him.
“The millions of stars will not complete my million tasks!” cried the frustrated elf king.
Shayleigh had to bite her lip t
o keep from responding. She and a dozen others had offered to assist the king in his planning when they weren’t out on patrol, but Galladel had taken it all on himself, called it his duty despite the obvious fact that he could not carry the burden alone.
“Forgive me,” the king said quietly, seeing Shayleigh’s wounded expression. “I have not the time for Daoine Teague Feer. Perform the celebration in my absence?” he offered.
Shayleigh was not ungrateful, but the king’s request was impossible. “Only one of the ruling line may perform Daoine Teague Feer,” she reminded Galladel. The look on the elf king’s face explained much to Shayleigh and Tintagel. Galladel was old and tired, and made no secret of the fact that he no longer held much faith for Shilmista’s ancient magic. Daoine Teague Feer was indeed just play to him, a dance with little value beyond its immediate enjoyment. If taken from the king’s disbelieving perspective, then, what did it matter who led the celebration?
Still, Shayleigh couldn’t hide her frown. Her king had grown pragmatic, even humanlike, and she hadn’t the courage to blame him. When she was but a child, only a short two centuries past, a thousand elves had danced in Shilmista. The whole forest, from north to south, echoed with their unending song. But those days seemed far removed. How many of Shilmista’s children had passed to Evermeet, never to return?
Tintagel tapped the maiden on the elbow and nodded to the exit. “You are due on patrol,” the elf wizard whispered to prompt her along.
Shayleigh had the presence of mind to dip a bow as she left, but Galladel, already back to poring over the many parchments, didn’t even notice.
A mood of similar frustration gripped the invaders’ camp as twilight descended over Shilmista.
Ragnor’s march was making gains, but those gains came painfully slowly, and at incredible expense. The elves fought better than the ogrillon had expected. He thought he would be more than halfway through Shilmista already, but his forces had put only ten, maybe fifteen of the hundred and fifty mile expanse behind them—and they hadn’t even secured their rear flank. Ragnor feared that his troops were looking more to their sides, for fear of concealed archers, than ahead to conquest.