Fanuin raised his eyebrows. "That? Oh, that's easy," he said, and vanished.
The humans started. A moment later, Ellianthe appeared just as suddenly, in his place.
"More faerie magic," Caramon muttered.
"Ye could call it that, aye," Ellianthe replied. "It's more a talent than a spell-we learn to make ourselves invisible the way the bard there learned to play his lyre." She disappeared, though the sound of her laughing voice remained. "See?"
Dezra nodded, impressed. "Handy talent."
"Aye," said Fanuin, grinning as he popped back into view. "A pity we can't teach ye. Now, look! We're coming up on Gwethyryn."
They passed over the ridge, almost brushing the tops of the firs that grew on it. When they could see past it, they beheld a wide, bowl-shaped crater. It might have been a volcano once, long ago; now it was carpeted with rich grass and looming trees-mostly firs, but some aspen and ash. The rippling sea of their leaves and needles rivaled Darken Wood in its untainted beauty. Hundreds of bug-lamps hung among the trees, their glow filling the forest with blue witchlight. Clouds of moths and other insects flitted about them.
There were other flying things, too: Hundreds of sprites fluttered both above and among the trees, their silvery wings flashing with reflected light. They were all brightly attired, in bright yellows and oranges, pale greens and blues, rich reds and violets. Most were young, with gold or copper hair, but some had silver locks that identified them as elders. All of them wore swords, and many also had quivers of arrows on their backs.
As soon as the lugruidh reached the vale, a crowd began to form, swarming like locusts in the hopes of glimpsing the giants from far away. Goidrach directed his men to clear a path. For several minutes, as they passed through the swarm, there was nowhere the companions could look where they didn't meet the curious, suspicious gazes of the winged folk.
"Where do they all live?" Borlos asked. "I haven't seen anything like a house on the ground."
"That's because we don't dwell on the ground," Ellianthe replied. "Many of our people make their homes in clefts among the mountaintops. They tend fields of moss and herd beetles and bees. Those who practice crafts, or who are close to the Laird, live here, in the trees-either within the wood itself, or in houses among their boughs."
"Really?" Caramon said. "That sounds just like Solace, where I'm from."
"Of course it does!" Fanuin laughed. "Where do ye think yer folk got the idea of putting their homes in the vallen-woods? Ye're not the first humans to come to this place, ye know."
Soon the shining forest fell away behind them, and they floated over darkness again. Now, however, they could hear the sound of water lapping below. Peering over the lugruidh's edge, they saw the stars beneath them, glittering on the surface of a wide, dark lake. A wispy blanket of mist clung, swirling and eddying, to the water.
As they crossed the tarn, they caught sight of another glow through the fog. It hovered high above the lake's surface, like the watchfire on a castle's tower. They drew near, and the source of the light became clear: an obsidian spire, jutting up out of the water. Several tall firs perched atop it, hung with scores of bug-lamps. The glassy stone shimmered with reflected light.
"Is that where the Laird lives?" Dezra asked. She did her best to sound jaded, but a note of awe crept into her voice.
"Aye," Fanuin said. "His steading's in the high boughs of the tallest tree. He awaits us there."
A score of winged folk, dressed in violet and armed with white bows, rose from the spire to meet them. Goidrach exchanged words with their leader, then called his archers to him and darted away again across the lake. The violet-clad sprites also spoke briefly with Fanuin and Ellianthe and fell in around the lugruidh as it descended toward the firs. As they neared the spire, the companions saw the Laird's steading, nestled on a platform built about the fir's slender trunk.
It was small but beautiful, an enclave of miniature buildings with large windows and open roofs. Violet-clad sprites darted from one structure to another. A party of silver-haired winged folk emerged from the roof of the largest building and glided toward the lugruidh. One of them, resplendent in amethyst and ivory, smiled warmly at Fanuin and Ellianthe, embracing each in turn.
"It's fine to see you again, my children," Laird Guithern said, taking their hands. He looked past them, toward Trephas. "And you also, friend centaur. These, then, are the humans ye told me about?"
"Aye, majesty," Trephas replied, bowing. The others did the same-except Dezra, who only inclined her head. Trephas frowned at this, but went on. "Caramon Majere, a hero of some renown among mortal folk, his daughter Dezra, and Borlos of Solace."
"Ah yes," Guithern said, smiling at Borlos. He extended his hand. "The tale-spinner who's been spreading songs among the guards within the mountain. I'd like to hear some of them, if there's time." He turned from the bard, who looked ready to burst with pride, to Caramon. "And I remember you as well, Majere. I apologize again. An arrow in the rump is no way to greet a guest."
Caramon blushed. "Ah, well," he said. "No harm done, really. I'll just be sitting funny for a couple days."
Guithern laughed. "Excellent!" he proclaimed, clasping his hands. "Now, I'm afraid there's not room enough up here for all o' ye-nor, I'm sure, would ye be comfortable perching so high. I've arranged to hold moot below instead, atop the spire-stone. I've already had food set out for ye there, and milk and mead besides. When ye've had yer fill, I'll join ye, and we'll talk more."
With that, he darted away, back toward his steading. The other elders streamed after him, and Fanuin and Ellianthe as well. When they were gone, the lugruidh descended, gliding down toward the top of the spire.
"Thank the gods," Caramon said to Borlos. "Solid ground at last. And food, too-I haven't eaten since that feast the dryad set out for us. Bet you could do with a flask or three of mead too, eh?"
But the bard wasn't listening; his gaze had turned away, drifting across the misty tarn. At the far shore, the sprites' forest-village glowed in the fog. Tears stood on the bard's cheeks, sparkling like sapphires in the blue light.
"Hey," Caramon said, nudging Borlos in the ribs. "You all right?"
The bard looked at him, without recognition at first. Then he blinked. "Sorry, big guy. It's just-I don't know. There's something about this place. It's so beautiful. I mean, Solace is nice and all, but how can I go back there after seeing this?"
26
Chrethon strode along the line of the Skorenoi camp, gazing at Ithax's walls. The town's defenders lined the palisade, gripping their bows, staring back across the killing ground that had, not long ago, been a pleasant meadow. Now the grass and clover were gone, the earth trampled to blood-drenched mud. Spent arrows sprouted from the waste, a mocking memory of the daisies that had been in bloom when the siege began. Crows and flies feasted upon the slain. The stench in the air was horrible, but Chrethon reveled in it. To him, it was the scent of triumph.
Forty days ago, the Skorenoi had finally reached Ithax. It had been a long advance, with much hard fighting along the way, but now, except for a few scattered marauders, the horsefolk were penned up within their walls. The Skorenoi had put the vineyards and fields to the torch, slaughtering any horsefolk they'd encountered in those last leagues.
The day they invested the town, Chrethon had ordered an assault on the gates. That had been a mistake. The centaurs had been ready for him. The Skorenoi had lost many to the archers and stake-riddled trenches that protected the town, and hadn't been able to get their rams near the town's gates. In the end, they'd been forced to withdraw.