“Stay back,” Er’ril warned. “This fellow has been to Blackhall and back, as had the ship captained by Meric’s cousin. Perhaps he knows something of this threat.”
Harlequin sighed and turned, slowly. He faced Er’ril. The swordtip now rested at the hollow of his throat. “I know nothing of these black stones.”
Er’ril narrowed his eyes. “You lie.”
“Are we back to that argument again?”
“Er’ril . . . ,” Elena said with a note of warning.
“I’ve lived over five centuries,” Er’ril said. “I can tell when a man is hiding something.”
“I hide nothing,” Harlequin turned back to the table, ignoring the sword. “And I spoke the truth. I’ve never seen such an egg before.” His gaze crossed the table to Elena. “But I’ve seen its fair twin.”
“Explain yourself,” Er’ril said.
Harlequin stepped toward the table, arms at his side. “As I said before, when in Blackhall, I saw despicable acts committed—some upon those who deserved it, others upon innocents. It was a labyrinth of torture and slaughter. Screams and wails were constant. You got accustomed to it after a while, like birdsong in the wood. It was simply everywhere.”
Harlequin stared at the egg. “Then one day, I came upon a chamber in the deepest level that I could reach. It was a long hall, stretching the full length of the mountain. Alcoves lined both sides. In each stood a pillar of volcanic basalt, atop which rested an egg of perfect symmetry, the same size and shape as this one. But these eggs were not the black of midnight, but the rose of dawn. Each was sculpted out of heartstone.”
“Heartstone?” Elena whispered.
Harlequin nodded. “It was beautiful. The hall stretched far, each egg glowing with a brightness that reached to the bone and made one feel whole and pure. It was the first time I cried in that sick place, not tears of horror or pain, but of beauty and joy. In some ways, it was the most dreadful sight—such beauty in that well of darkness.”
“Heartstone eggs in Blackhall.” Er’ril lowered his sword. “Ebon’stone eggs here. It makes no sense.”
Elena’s brows knit together. “Maybe it does. When we broke the Gates, ebon’stone was transformed into heartstone. Could this be further evidence of some dark link between the two stones?”
Er’ril’s frown deepened.
“Connected or not,” Master Edyll interrupted, “to have a hundred of these grotesque things sunk so close to our shores is reason for concern.”
“I agree,” Sy-wen said. “They surely poison the waters with their mere presence.”
Elena nodded. “We’ll find some way to haul the wreckage and its cargo away from here. In the meantime, we’ll examine the captain’s logbook, and see if our castle scholars can discover any information about these eggs.”
Elena backed slowly away and returned to her seat. “Time presses, and we dare not waste it on mysteries we can’t presently solve. We must concentrate our resources and talents upon the war to come.”
Er’ril circled the room to stand beside Elena’s chair as she continued. “I would have all the four heads of our various forces meet these next three days.” She nodded around the room. “The high keel of the Dre’rendi to represent our fleets upon the seas, and Master Edyll of the mer’ai to coordinate our forces below. Lord Tyrus, as head of the pirate brigade, will continue to organize our scouts and spies. And lastly, Meric, you’ll need to alert the leader of the Thunderclouds to meet with these others in order to prepare the elv’in warships.”
“I’ll do so immediately,” Meric answered.
“We also must alert Wennar and the d’warf legions,” Er’ril added. “Get him moving his foot soldiers north from Penryn toward the Stone Forests.”
Elena nodded. “I’ll leave the details to the heads of each army. Er’ril will act as my liaison during these next days. By seven days’ time, I want our forces ready to set out for Blackhall.”
The high keel pounded a fist on the arm of his chair. “It will be done!”
“What of the danger in the mountains?” Harlequin asked.
“Leave that to me.” Elena stared at the egg.
Harlequin glanced to Lord Tyrus, then back to Elena. “I would ask one thing of you for my services—that I be allowed to go with you into the mountains.”
As Elena frowned, Er’ril spoke up. “Why?”
Harlequin lifted his arms, jangling. “Do I look a warrior? I am a thief, a pickpocket, a slinker in shadows. I am no good when swords are raised and the drums of war sound. But I would give my talents where they are most needed, and follow the path I’ve started to its end.”
Before Elena could answer, Er’ril placed a hand on her shoulder. “If this mission is attempted, then Elena must be surrounded by those she most trusts. Though she may ignore whispers of betrayal, I will not.”
Elena opened her mouth to object, but Er’ril stopped her with a stern glance. “Am I your liegeman?” he asked coldly. “Your protector and counsel? Would you take that from me?”
“Of course not,” Elena intoned quietly.
Er’ril recognized the hurt in her eyes. Perhaps he had been too harsh, but Elena sometimes opened her heart too easily. Though she had survived much these past winters, she was still tender deep down, vulnerable. He would protect her. He would be hard when Elena could not. It gave meaning to the centuries he had spent on the roads.
“I don’t know you, Master Quail,” Er’ril said. “So despite Lord Tyrus’ assurance, I won’t trust you. And until I do, I won’t have you with us. I appreciate your help and the risk you’ve taken. You’ll be well paid in gold.”
Harlequin flicked a golden bell, setting it to ringing. “I have enough gold.” He turned on a heel and retreated toward the door, moving swiftly.
Lord Tyrus shook his head as the man left. “You don’t know the man whose offer you so casually cast aside.”
“Exactly,” Er’ril said, unbending.
Elena spoke up. “It is near to midday. Perhaps we’d best disperse, and begin our long planning for the war to come.”
Master Edyll stood with Sy-wen’s help. “I’ll attend to the council. They must be near to pulling each other’s hair out by now.”
The other leaders all began to move toward the doors, already planning amongst themselves.
By the door, Elena saw everyone off. She whispered her confidence to each one, gripping hands and exuding warmth. Er’ril watched her. Her fall of curls, grown out almost to her shoulders, framed a fine-boned face, marking her elv’in heritage. But where the elv’in were all slender limbs, Elena was all graceful curves, like a flower grown from land, rather than a wisp blown by the wind. Er’ril found his breath deepening as he looked upon her.
Soon the room was empty. Elena crossed back to him. Er’ril prepared himself to be scolded for his outburst at Harlequin.
Instead Elena sank against him, resting her cheek against his chest.
“Elena . . . ?”
“Just hold me.”
He wrapped her in his arms. It was suddenly not so hard to remember the girl from Winterfell.
“I’m afraid to go home.”
He held her tight. “I know.”
Meric climbed down the long, winding stair in a half daze, clutching the sodden logbook under one arm. Lost in his thoughts about his cousin and her fate, he barely heard the argument commencing behind him between Hunt and Lord Tyrus. There was no love lost between the Dre’rendi and the lord of the pirates. Prior to being brought together here, both sides had been blood-sworn enemies, two sharks of the southern seas preying on the unsuspecting merchant ships and each other. Old animosities were hard to set aside.
“Your ships may be swifter,” Hunt snarled, “but they break like twigs.”
“At least on our ships, we’re free men. Not slaves!”
Hunt growled. “It was an ancient oath! A bond of honor . . . something you freebooters and privateers would never understand.”
The end
of the stairs appeared ahead. Meric hurried forward to escape their sparring, and ran headlong into Nee’lahn.
She fell back, eyes wide at finding the tower stairs crowded with men.
Meric reached out to catch her as she tripped backward.
“Prince Meric!” Nee’lahn exclaimed, regaining her footing.
“Papa Hunt!” a small voice shouted. From around the nyphai woman’s cloak, a small figure darted, dark hair waving, as she scooted past.
The large Bloodrider bent to swing the small girl up onto his shoulder. “Sheeshon, what are you doing here?”
Sheeshon spoke rapidly. “We were in the place with all the flowers. But Rodricko made more flowers with his singing.” Sheeshon pointed to the boy at Nee’lahn’s side. The shy youngster was all but buried in his mother’s cloak, his eyes round. “And I ate a bug,” Sheeshon finished proudly.
“You did what?”
“It flew in my mouth,” she said with a simple finality, as if this were explanation enough.
The high keel pushed past his son, grumbling about the stairs. Master Edyll agreed. “Why do they have to build these cursed towers so tall?”
The two elders headed down the corridor. Hunt nodded his thanks to Nee’lahn and followed his father.
Meric was left with Nee’lahn and Lord Tyrus, who carried the net with the ebon’stone egg. They were to take the egg and logbook to the scholars at the libraries.
“Where are you going?” Meric asked Nee’lahn.
“I must speak to Elena.”
Meric glanced up the twisting stairs. “This is not the best time. She has enough to ponder at the moment.” He turned back and finally recognized the distress in her face, the puffiness in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
The nyphai stared up the steps, clearly undecided. Something had shaken her to her roots. She glanced to her towheaded child. “It . . . it’s Rodricko.”
Meric studied the boy. “Is he sick? Is something wrong?”
“I’m not sure.” Nee’lahn was close to tears. “This morning, Rodricko sang his budding song to his young tree, a step toward union and bonding.” Her voice began to crack. “But s-something happened.”
Meric stepped closer, putting an arm around her shoulders.
She trembled, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “His tree budded. Rodricko was accepted, but . . . but the new flowers, the new buds, they’re dark things. Black as any Grim wraith.”
Meric met Lord Tyrus’ eyes over the top of the nyphai’s head. Both were well familiar with the Grim of the Dire Fell, the twisted spirits of Nee’lahn’s sisterhood.
“The buds are foul to look upon.” Tears began to flow down her cheeks. “Some dread evil for sure.”
“We don’t know that,” Meric consoled, but he knew the sapling was the last tree of Nee’lahn’s people, born from the union of her own tree’s spirit and a Grim wraith. Had the touch of the Grim somehow tainted the tree?
Nee’lahn clearly thought so. She gazed up at Meric with wounded eyes. “The buds will bloom for the first time this night, releasing their unique magick. But with the buds bearing the mark of the Grim, I don’t know what evil may arise.” She covered her face with one hand and pulled the boy tighter to her cloak, half burying him so her words were kept from him. “I dare not let my hopes endanger A’loa Glen. The tree must be cut down.”
Meric stiffened at this thought. In many ways, the tree represented all of Alasea’s hopes. Planted in the site of the original koa’kona that had once graced the island for centuries, the sapling represented a new beginning, a fresh future.
From one step up, Lord Tyrus voiced an even more significant concern. “But what of Rodricko? What will become of him?”
“The tree accepted his song.” Nee’lahn choked back a sob. “He is bonded. If the tree dies, then he dies.”
Meric’s gaze flicked to the child, cuddled tight to his mother. He had been with Nee’lahn when they discovered the boy. Together, they had fought the Grim and the Dark Lord’s minions to bring him safely to the island. Meric’s face hardened. “Then I will allow no harm to come to his tree.”
Nee’lahn clutched at Meric’s arm. “You, more than anyone, should understand. It is surely a sign of the Blight. I would rather Rodricko die than be twisted by whatever sickness taints the tree. You saw what happened to my sisters. I won’t see it happen to my son. I would rather take an ax to the tree myself.” She broke down into sobs.
Stunned, Meric knelt beside the boy child. Rodricko hid his face in the folds of his mother’s cloak. The boy might not understand their whispered words, but he knew his mother’s distress. Meric glanced up to Nee’lahn and saw the despair in her eyes. Ever since their time in the north together, the two had grown closer, bonded by their two peoples’ shared histories and their own hardships and losses. In many ways, here was a part of his new family, and after losing both mother and brother, Meric would lose no more.
Tyrus whispered behind them. “Perhaps we should consider this when emotions are calmer, heads clearer.”
Meric stood, his cloak billowing out around him. “No, there is nothing to decide. No harm will come to the tree if it risks Rodricko.” He touched Nee’lahn’s cheek, gently. “I will not let you act hastily, striking out from fear of only one possible outcome. Mycelle of the Dro used poison to save elementals from becoming ill’guard. But she destroyed all the strands of their possible futures because one might lead to corruption. I won’t let you follow in her footsteps.”
Lord Tyrus spoke up, his voice a trace huskier. “Meric is right. Mycelle would not wish this path for anyone.”
Nee’lahn glanced to the pirate prince, then back to Meric. “What are we to do?”
Meric lifted his other hand and rested it atop the young boy’s head. “Face the future. Come nightfall, we will see what fate holds for the boy and his tree.”
Half a land away, Greshym pounded the table in beat with the drummer. “Go for five! Go for five!” he chanted drunkenly with the other patrons of the Moon Lake Inn.
The juggler took up a fifth burning brand, tossing it high into the air, to tumble amid the others. The sweating performer darted around the plank stage set up in the common area of the inn, fighting to keep the flaming brands from hitting the straw-strewn floor. Two fellow performers stood by with buckets of water.
Greshym stared blearily at the show. All around Moon Lake, the Celebration of the First Moon was under way, a circus of minstrels, animal acts, and displays of prowess. This evening the festivities would culminate at the shores of Moon Lake, when the summer’s first full moon would light the still waters of the Western Reaches’ largest lake. Stories claimed the spirits of the wood would grant wishes to those who bathed in the moonlit waters.
Greshym could not care less for such stories. He had all he needed: a flagon of ale, a full belly, and the energy to enjoy all the passions in life. A barmaid came to fill his empty mug. He grabbed a handful of her plump backside.
She squealed. “Master Dismarum!” she scolded with a wink as she swung away.
He had spent the last few nights in her room. A handful of copper had opened both her door and her legs. The memory of those long nights in her arms dulled his interest in juggling and flaming brands.
Greshym caught his reflection in the grimy mirror above the bar. His hair shone golden in the torchlight of the dingy inn; his eyes sparkled with youth; his back was straight, his shoulders broad. He wagered that it might not have taken even those few coppers to open the barmaid’s bed. But he had not been content to wait for her interest to flame into desire, not when the same could be achieved much faster with a bit of coin.
Patience was not a virtue of youth.
Greshym intended to experience all life’s many sensations and desires. No longer trapped in a decaying form, he wanted to run his new body through its paces. So now he shoved to his feet, and reached for the staff leaning against the table. He no longer needed it to support himself, only as a focus for his
power.
He fingered the length of bone, the straight femur of a wybog, a long-limbed forest stalker. The hollow bone, capped at either end by a plug of dried clay, was filled with the blood of a woodsman’s newborn babe. The foundling’s life energy, tied by an old spell, had charged his staff.
Turning his back on the stage, Greshym tilted his stave toward the performers. The juggler tripped. Torches went sailing, end over end, past the stage. The waterboys ran out to douse the brands before the strawed floor took the flame.
Greshym smiled as the room glowed brighter behind him. Flames roared up. Gasps and cries arose from both patrons and performers. He bit back a chuckle. It was child’s play to change water into oil.
Fires roared across the inn’s common room. Screams for aid followed Greshym out the door.
Beyond the inn, the expanse of Moon Lake spread before him, cast in copper by the setting sun. Maples and pines framed the lake and spread to the horizons. Among the trees, scores of gaily colored tents had sprung up like summer flowers over the past few days, in preparation for this night’s ceremonies. Folk had traveled here from all over Alasea, anticipating the night when a thousand bathers’ wishes would be whispered to the full moon.
Greshym himself had come to Moon Lake a fortnight ago and had remained for the festivities, reveling in all of life’s textures. He would use this sacred night for his own ends. He stared out at the hundreds of celebrants walking the streets of the small village and squabbling with tin merchants and spice traders. So much life to explore again.
He sauntered toward the deeper forest beyond the village’s edge, all but twirling his bone staff. His legs moved strongly; his lungs drew air in without a whisper of a wheeze. Even walking was a joy.
In such good spirits, Greshym pointed his staff at a man taunting a chained and growling sniffer. The purple-skinned predator suddenly broke through its muzzle and bit off three of its taunter’s fingers.
Greshym passed the site as whips snapped, driving the sniffer back from the screaming man. “Better wish for a new set of fingers this night,” Greshym mumbled.
Then he was in the woods. He hurried his pace, enjoying the pump of muscle, the freedom in his joints. After being trapped for centuries in that old decrepit form, the wonders and joys of this young body never waned. Youth was so wasted on the young.