When she gestured, he stepped around the table to the map pinned to the tent wall, the dragon shadows spinning webs of shade across his back. With one sweeping gesture, he indicated all of Silvanesti. "We've won some battles here, my lady. And yet we hang back, keeping to the tors."
She shrugged. "And?"
"And the army wonders when we will move into the forest."
Phair Caron laughed. "Looking for more loot than can be found in little villages, are they? Heads all filled up with the fabled treasures of elven cities?" She turned her head and spat. "I don't care. We do this as we have always done, as we did in Nordmaar and Goodlund and Balifor-not until the cities are clogged with refugees, until the armies have to fall back to defend the people, will we leave this place. In the meantime, let them come against us. Let them spend men and strength and treasure in getting to us."
"And so…?"
Phair Caron shrugged. "So, kill a few of the naysayers- very publicly-and get on with organizing the next raid." She turned from him to the map pinned to the north wall of the tent. "And yes," she said, granting an oft-given boon, "you may keep the heart-blood."
He did not acknowledge that but left in silence. After a while, the long winding wails of a killing that would take some time rent the silence. Phair Caron smiled.
The songs of birds fell silent. In the boxwood bounding the Garden of Astarin, the cardinals were mute. Gray titmice, purple finches, and humble sparrows had nothing to say. Mockingbirds went deep into the hedges, the white chevrons marking their wings hidden, their boisterous cries a thing for another day. No butterflies hovered over the small pots of sand scattered round the garden. Ladybirds did not dot the late roses. It was as though all the creatures of the garden had fled or now stood in awe of the great gathering of elves.
If the garden stood silent, it was perhaps the only quiet place in Silvanost. Not even the sky kept peaceful. Golden griffins circled the city with proud Windriders on their backs. Sun glinted from the harnesses of the riders and the cruel beaks of the beasts. There were two dozen in the sky, an outrider of the six full prides that would converge upon the borderlands. Upon the back of the largest griffin, head high, his jeweled sword belted on, his mail shirt of finest linked steel shining, Lord Garan of House Protector led his pride to the Tower of the Stars where the Speaker stood upon the highest balcony.
Alhana stood beside her father. The king glittered in gold and silks. His daughter, her hand on his arm, shone white as a lily, her dark hair piled high upon her head and dressed in diamonds, her robe purest white samite. As Garan passed them, the lily princess lifted her hand, and Lord Garan removed his helm in salute.
"Lord Garan!" the people cried, the women waving green kerchiefs from their balconies, the men cheering mightily from the windows. "Lord Garan, for E'li! Lord Garan, for Silvanesti!"
On the ground, the voices of the army rose and fell, filling the courtyard and the streets around the Tower of the Stars. To hear the Wildrunners, to see them, any would think they were nothing but an enormous party of hunters out to provide a Feast Day's fare. Laughter skirled high in rough joking and horseplay. The colors of the army, the green and gold of the beloved aspenwood, sailed in the chill autumn breezes. Upon the balconies and in the windows of the towers surrounding the home of the Speaker of the Stars, men and women and children in brightly colored clothing came to stand and watch the Wildrunners, some cheering, others silent. All tried to keep each moment in memory, impress each sight upon the heart. Below them, in the green and the gray, were the sons and daughters of House Protector. The regard in which they were held crossed the threshold of every House, for here was the proud flower of Silvanesti might, men and women sworn to spill their blood, break their hearts, and offer up their lives if must be.
These were but a small part of the army massing. In Shalost, to the north and west, Wildrunners were coming. This force from Silvanost would join them, for it was in Shalost upon the grounds of Waylorn's Tower that griffins would be gathering, the mighty beasts prepared to carry the archers into battle. The army of Silvanost would have a two-day run to Waylorn's Tower, and once in the forest, the Wildrunners would vanish into silence and shadow, dispersing in groups of no more than a dozen, often less. The army of the Silvanesti did not travel like the armies of any outlander nation. They were elves, the least experienced among them would be indistinguishable from a shadow if he so willed.
Out where the southern edge of Garden of Astarin lay shining in the sun, near the Temple of the Blue Phoenix where those of House Woodshaper lived, the gray and green became edged with white, like a cloud dropped low over a hillside. Mages came, a long line of them, and their scent-spices, dried rose petals, oils, and herbs-granted exotic undertones to the smell of leather and steel and sweat of an army gathering. At their head marched Ylle Savath. She who ruled House Mystic would see to the execution of this magical maneuver-this servant's plan!-and leave nothing to chance. It had not been so hard to find spells of illusion, though such were not the province of white magic. What was forbidden among mages here was also recorded. The mages she had chosen for the job were those she deemed worthy, those who had sterling reputations and would swear to discharge this alien magic and never touch it again. Among these, at the far end of the line, was one of whom she was not so certain, and yet one she felt compelled to include. "Let him live or die by his plan," she had said to the king. She felt deeply that such impudence as Dalamar Argent's should be met with the charge to lay his life where he asked others to lay theirs.
The heady scent of magic filled Dalamar's heart. All around him were those who had once counted him as no one among them, and who now knew that he had forged the plan to which they dedicated their strength and their will. In him, the deferred hope flamed. He would come out from this worthy of all House Mystic had denied him. Who would forbid him the knowledge he needed now? Who would say then, "No. You cannot go and take your Tests of High Sorcery"?
A hand gripped his shoulder, and a low voice said, "Good morning to you, Dalamar Argent."
Dalamar turned to find Tellin Windglimmer beside him. "Have you come to wish me luck, my lord?"
Somewhere a trumpet sounded, a bright note soaring above the rumble of the crowd. A ripple of excitement passed through the Wildrunners, and their joking and laughter fell to a muted murmuring. The shape of the crowd began to change as they formed themselves into small groups.
Tellin smiled, a wry grin. "Well, I do wish you luck." He let a fat pack drop at his feet. "But that's not why I'm here."
"Indeed?" Dalamar drew breath to ask the begged question, then held. Tellin's eye had wandered and, wandering, stopped. On the grounds of the Temple of the Blue Phoenix, a woman stood, hands clasped and gray eyes searching the crowd of Wildrunners and mages. Lady Lynntha smiled suddenly, swiftly, then turned when someone spoke to her. Lord Ralan took her arm and led her back from the edge of the crowd.
Again, a trumpet called, its notes like silver floating on the day. From outside the city's gates a war-horn sounded, deep and low. City called to forest, and forest answered. Color drained from Tellin's face, the pulse jumped in his throat, and he said, "I'm here because I'm going north with the army. There are a few other clerics going, too."