"We thought we could keep it from him, long enough to use it," Pleuron muttered, shaking his head. "We didn't think he knew… we thought it would be safe."
"We thought wrong, then!" Eucleia growled. "Damn our arrogance! Trephas is right-we've been nothing but Chrethon's fools."
"And now it's over," murmured Dezra. "All that trouble, and it's come to nothing."
"No," Caramon rumbled. "There has to be a way."
The chiefs were unconvinced. "If so, I don't know what it is," Pleuron said. "We lose the satyr's tracks beyond this cavern. How can we give chase, with no trail to follow?"
"We know where he's going," Trephas said. "If we can get to Grimbough's grove first, maybe we can stop him."
"And how shalt thou do that?" Eucleia shot back. "He must have several hours' head start, and if Chrethon sent him to steal Soulsplitter, he's surely fleet of foot. I fear even our fastest runners won't be able to outpace him."
For a while, no one spoke. The wind whistled outside. Below, in Lysandon, the horsefolk had woken and were moving about the town. Word of what had happened had yet to reach them. It wouldn't be long, though, before they knew that the axe was gone.
Borlos cleared his throat. "What about the dryads?"
Everyone turned to look at the bard. He'd been quiet until now, suffering from the effects all the wine he'd drunk.
"What didst thou say?" Eucleia breathed.
The bard swallowed. "The dryads," he repeated. "Maybe we can get to Sangelior faster with their help. If someone goes to Pallidice's grove, maybe she and her sisters can take them the rest of the way."
The centaurs looked at one another, eyes wide. "It could work," Pleuron allowed.
"It's a slim chance," Eucleia added, "but better than none at all." She turned to Caramon. "Wilt thou do it?"
Caramon looked at the horsefolk in surprise. All of them were staring at him. "Us?" he asked.
"Aye," said old Nemeredes, nodding. "Thou hast treated with the oak-maidens already. They know thee, and are more apt to help thee again. I don't ask this lightly," he added, glancing at Trephas. "It means sending my son as well. But I fear that once again, thou art our best chance."
“Well, I'm going," Borlos said as he stepped into the tent. "I'm not just going to sit by and let Grimbough destroy this forest. We owe that much to the fey folk."
"I don't owe anyone anything," Dezra said. She started gathering her packs. "We've done what they brought us here to do."
Caramon rounded on her angrily. "How can you say that, girl?" he demanded. "How can you leave, when they need our help more than ever?"
"Watch me," Dezra snapped, slinging her pack over her shoulder. "And you-why are you going, Father? Don't think we haven't noticed you're sick. You can't even get through a fight without almost keeling over. If you go to Sangelior, you'll probably finish yourself off."
"I know," Caramon said. "But I still have to go."
"For Reorx's sake!" Dezra swore. "Why?"
"Because it would be wrong not to."
Dezra was silent a moment, her lips parted in disbelief. She shook her head. "Fine," she said. "You want to die? Go ahead. But you're not killing me too." Angrily, she shoved past her father and stormed out of the tent.
Caramon watched her go. Then, glancing hopelessly at Borlos, he stooped to gather his gear. As he did, his hand strayed to his shoulder and began to rub it again.
35
Dezra was sitting on a mossy boulder just outside Lysandon's guardposts, irritably tossing acorns down the mountainside, when she heard footsteps behind her. At first she thought it was Trephas, but there were two feet, not four. Her father? No-she knew Caramon's lumbering gait. Which meant-
"Dez?" Borlos called. "I've been looking for you."
She flung the acorns away. They rattled down the slope. "Go away, Bor."
Ignoring her, he climbed up on the boulder and sat down, cradling a clay jar in his lap.
"What's that?" Dezra asked.
Borlos laughed. "Hair of the dog." He lifted the jug, sloshed it around a little. "Want some?"
She looked at him dourly, then shrugged and took the jug from his hand. She took a long swig of resin-wine and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
"So," she said. "This is how you're going to convince me to come to Sangelior, is it? By plying me with drink?"
The bard laughed, taking the jug back, and drank a swallow. "Not at all," he said. "Your mind's made up. I just wanted to let you know why I'm about to say what I'm going to say-that I do it because I love your father like he was my own.
"I used to have a crush on you, Dez. It started a year ago, I guess: I'd watched you grow into an interesting woman- much more interesting than your poor homebody of a sister. It guess it was part of the reason I came along when Caramon went after you-just like poor Uwen did."
She opened her mouth to say something, but he held up his hand. "Let me finish. Since we came to Darken Wood, I've discovered something about you, Dez: I don't like you very much. You're breaking Caramon's heart, and you seem to enjoy it. Not to put too fine a point on it, you've still got a lot of growing up to do. So go on. Leave. We'll all be better off, but especially your father."
Dezra stared at him, thunderstruck. Then the surprise faded from her eyes, giving way to glittering anger. "Is that it, then?" she snapped. "Because if it is, you can go."
"Sure, Dez," Borlos said. He slid off the rock, then started to leave. He hesitated, though, and turned back to her. "One more thing."
She glared at him, and he reached into his cloak and produced a heavy, bulging sack. He tossed it to her. It jingled as she caught it.
"I talked to the Circle before I came looking for you, and picked up your reward," he said, nodding at the sack. "You've got your money now. I hope it makes you happy."
With that, he turned and walked back toward Lysandon. Stunned, Dezra watched him go. She looked at the sack of coins, then out at Darken Wood for a while, then back at the coins again.
Cursing under her breath, she drained the wine jug, and threw it, spinning, down the mountainside.
An hour before midday, Trephas, Borlos and Caramon arrived at the Yard of Gathering. The Circle was waiting for them. Partaking of the grass, they approached.
"It's only the three of thee, then," said Eucleia, as stern as ever. She wore a fennel stalk, tucked into her war harness, the only open sign that she mourned her dead sons.
Caramon nodded. "So it seems. We can't afford to wait any longer, either-the satyr has enough of a head start on us already."
"Quite." Eucleia glanced at the other chiefs, who nodded in agreement. "Very well, then. I'll send another of our warriors with thee, so that thou mayst both ride to the dryad's grove."
"Thanks," Caramon said.
Old Nemeredes came forward next, and clasped arms with Trephas. "Chislev walk with thee, my son," he said.
"I wish Gyrtomon had returned before I left," Trephas replied, returning his father's gesture. His brother was still on patrol in the mountains, and not due to return for several days.
There were more farewells, from Lord Pleuron and Lady Lanorica, and from young Arhedion as well. They walked to the edge of Lysandon, where Trephas bent down and let Borlos climb up on his back. A second horse-man did the same for Caramon. Without another word, they started down the path toward Darken Wood. Caramon threw one last, searching glance back at the centaur village.
"Looking for someone?"
Caramon whirled. Less than twenty paces ahead of them, Dezra stood beneath a copse of rowan trees. She stepped forward to stand athwart their path, hands on her hips. The others looked at her, mouths open, and a crooked smile curled her lips. "You didn't think you could sneak away without me, did you?" she asked.