Bowing his head, Chrethon strode toward the sacred stone. The guards stopped him where he'd stood before. He searched the chieftains' faces. Neither Nemeredes nor Eucleia looked pleased: Chrethon guessed that Menelachos had, in the end, imposed a compromise upon both of them. He could glean nothing else from the rest.
"Chrethon of the Keening Wind," Menelachos intoned, "thou art a traitor to the Circle and Chislev. Thou hast refused to repent, even at the Forestmaster's bidding. Dost thou wish to speak before sentence is passed?"
Slowly, Chrethon shook his head.
"Very well. Know that some here-" the High Chief glanced at old Nemeredes "-wished the fullest punishment upon thee."
Chrethon swallowed. According to centaur law, the worst penalty for criminals was to be gelded, led through Darken Wood to beg forgiveness from each of the tribes, then beheaded. It had been done before, though not for many years.
"But," Menelachos continued, "others have argued for mercy, to thee and thy tribe. We have listened to both sides, and have reached a decision amenable to all."
Behind the High Chief, Eucleia snorted and Nemeredes pawed the ground. Menelachos ignored them both.
"There will be no execution or gelding," he stated. "Nor, however, will we show lenity. Thou shalt be punished, Chrethon, and thy people too for aiding in thy treachery.
"By order of this Circle, the Keening Wind tribe are cast out. Thou and thine may remain in Darken Wood, but must live apart from the rest, and may never again set hoof in any of the sacred places. No centaur may consort with or help thee.
"Furthermore," Menelachos continued, "thou art to be marked for thy deeds, Lord Chrethon. Thou art sentenced to daicheiron-the Tail-Cutting."
Chrethon's mouth dropped open. He lifted his bound hands to his head. Weakened by shock, he didn't resist as the guards seized his arms and legs, holding him still. Behind him, Rhedogar drew a short, broad sword from a scabbard on his battle harness. He stepped toward Chrethon.
Eucleia of the Iron Hooves held up her hand. "Wait."
Everyone-Chrethon, the guards, the chieftains-looked toward her. "It is too late to protest, Eucleia," Menelachos warned. "Thou agreed to this punishment."
"That's true," she agreed, "but I refuse to watch it happen. I ask leave to depart."
Menelachos scowled, but Eucleia didn't quail. Finally, the High Chief waved her away. She turned and cantered into the forest, her guards following. Menelachos looked to the other four chieftains, his eyes glittering.
"If any of thee wish to follow, then go," he said.
Immediately, Leodippos wheeled about and trotted after Eucleia. As he vanished into the woods, Pleuron murmured an apology and left as well. Menelachos looked to Nemeredes and Thymmiar, who nodded and stayed where they were. Satisfied, he turned back toward Chrethon.
"Proceed," he bade Rhedogar.
The dwarves of Krynn are said to value their beards so highly, they would sooner give up a life's wealth of steel than shave. The elves are as protective of their pointed ears, which are a precious trophy to goblins and other foul races. Among the horsefolk, however, the tail is the greatest source of pride: to have it docked is a permanent mark of shame. Even grizzled Rhedogar hesitated before seizing Chrethon's white, flowing tail. He pulled it taut, then set his blade where the short, fleshy stub met Chrethon's rump. Gritting his teeth, he drew the blade swiftly downward.
Bright blood spurted as the sword sliced through flesh. Chrethon cried out, in anguish and pain, and thrashed mightily against his captors. The guards held him tight until he finally fell still.
"It is done," Menelachos murmured. "Loose his bonds."
Obediently, Rhedogar severed the cords binding Chrethon's arms and legs. Chrethon stood weakly, wobble-kneed, as the guards removed his collar. He stared at the remaining chiefs with open hatred. Thymmiar lowered his gaze, and Nemeredes glared back coldly.
"Now," said Menelachos, "go to thy exile."
Chrethon blinked, then began to chuckle. He tossed his head, his pale mane flying, as the chuckle gave way to laughter. The chieftains glanced at one another uneasily, each wondering if the others had seen the faint, unclean glimmer of madness in the white centaur's eyes.
"I will go," Chrethon said. "But know this: I will return. And when I do, woe unto all of thee." He looked up at the sacred stone, eyes glittering. "All of thee."
He searched the ground a moment, then stooped and picked up the mass of bloody hair that had been his tail. Lifting it high above his head, he galloped out of the glade and into the depths of Darken Wood.
2
It was early in the year to be so warm, but the folk of Solace didn't complain. The winter had been fierce, with bone-freezing winds and snow that drifted up the trunks of the mighty vallenwoods, halfway to the cottages nestled in their branches. A month ago, a storm had sheathed the huge trees with sparkling ice. Most of the bridges that linked the tree-bound houses had snapped from the ice's weight, and several old vallenwoods had burst, collapsing in tangles of shattered wood.
The gods' absence only made things worse. Where a cleric's prayer once brought healing, folk lost fingers and toes to frostbite; illnesses, once cured with a word, crippled or killed instead. But the folk of Solace were used to doing without divine aid: Ten years had passed since the Second Cataclysm, when the gods had quit the world forever. Many people had despaired of this, but the folk of Solace were resilient: They overcame what troubles they could handle, endured what they couldn't.
So Solace survived the direst winter since the Summer of Chaos. The dead were buried, the sick and injured cared for with herb and poultice instead of magic. The villagers rebuilt the bridges, took in those who'd lost their homes, planned to build new ones.
A fortnight ago, the cold had ended. Now the vallenwoods were coming alive: Yellow-green buds prepared to burst into leaf, and fragrant blossoms dotted the branches. Songbirds, gone since autumn, flitted above and below the houses, filling the air with music. Shrews, flying squirrels, and gray-tailed markle chased each other among the boughs. Children played in the open air, and young couples stole time together in secret. Everyone, it seemed, was cheered by the coming of spring.
Caramon Majere, however, was in one of his moods.
Tika, Caramon's wife of more than forty years, stood by the bedroom door and surveyed the bulk that was her husband. He lay on his side, facing the sunlit window, his legs tangled in the blankets. Tika sighed, shaking her head. She loved Caramon dearly, but he wasn't the man he'd once been. This past winter had been his sixty-seventh, and few of his years had been easy. His long hair had turned gray, thinning here and receding there. His girth, which he'd battled most of his life, now had him beat: Despite years of hard work running the Inn of the Last Home, his muscles were turning, bit by bit, into flab. Hardly a day went by when he didn't gripe about some new ache or pain.
Tika understood. She was six years his junior, and while her freckled face showed few lines for a woman her age, her once-aubum tresses were snowy, and she was plumper than she'd once been. It was all part of growing older: Bodies gave out, and that was that.
It wasn't her husband's body that troubled Tika; it was his spirit. He'd become prone to fits of deep depression. He moped about, ate too little, slept too much. He wasn't nipping into the dwarf spirits again, as he'd done in his youth, but she suspected that day would come, if something wasn't done.
She wished to the vanished gods that she knew what that something was.
"Caramon," she said. "Get up."
He mumbled, rolling over. The bed groaned.