Foxfire swung his bow into place and loosed his ready arrow. The bolt tore through the layers of leaves, straight toward its mark…
… and burst into flame.
Blue fire flashed down the length of the shaft, and a thin line of black ash drifted to the ground at the wizard's feet.
The other humans were not quite so lucky. The archers under Wyndelleu's command bombarded them with a small storm of arrows; most clattered harmlessly off the wooden shields, but a few got through. No humans sustained mortal wounds, but at least a few of them would be slowed during the battle to come.
Undeterred by the cries of his comrades and the arrows that flamed and fizzled around him, the wizard began to move his fingers rapidly in some sort of silent, arcane language. He concluded by banging both hands together. The result was like a summer storm, like lighting and thunder combined into one killing stroke.
A thunderclap rolled outward from his hands and through the forest; every arrow that was in flight at that moment flared with brilliant white light. A bolt of energy sizzled back from each glowing arrow, following an invisible path through the air and back to the archer who had sent it forth.
Foxfire watched in horror as five of his people were blasted into ash.
He drew in a breath to call for retreat, but the sound died in a strangled gasp as all the world seemed to burst into flame. There was no heat, just a sudden, searing light that was nearly as painful.
The elf dug both fists into his eyes, trying to rub away the painful sparkles that danced and whirled behind his eyelids. When at last his eyes adjusted to the unnatural brightness, the possibility of retreat vanished from his thoughts.
The humans had dragged the captured elves into the clearing. There were seven of them, and all were alive, though the foot-hold traps-clearly visible now that they had been sprung-had inflicted terrible wounds upon them. A few men guarded them, loaded crossbows leveled at their hearts. And surrounding them was a circle of human mercenaries, swords drawn.
One of these men waved his weapon at the trees overhead and shouted something. Foxfire and Tamsin exchanged helpless shrugs-neither of them spoke the language of Tethyr's humans. Before Foxfire could call down a request for parley in the Common trade tongue, the human found another, more visual way to get his meaning across.
He spun and lunged in a single, quick movement, sinking his sword deep into one of the helpless elves. Then he turned to the forest and brandished his crimson blade. The challenge was clear, as was the price of refusal.
The first to respond was Hawkwing; she dropped to the ground with the speed of her namesake, her dagger gleaming talon-bright in her hand. Without hesitation, all the elves who could still fight followed the fierce elf maid into the circle of wizard-light and death.
In another part of Tethir, far from the clash of weapons and the scent of death, Arilyn clung to her friend's silver fur as he carried her swiftly toward the hidden den of the lythari.
She had known Ganamede from childhood, but nothing in their shared experience could have prepared her to enter the hidden world of the lythari. The den of the shapeshifting elves was not in an underground cave, as Arilyn had anticipated, but in some middle realm, an unseen world.
There was no visible passage, no magical gate; one moment they were in Tethir, the next, they were not.
Although the journey might have felt seamless, there was no mistaking that a momentous change had taken place. She and Ganamede were still in a forest, but one quite different from the dense, cool shade of Tethir. The trees were taller, more majestic, and like nothing that Arilyn had ever seen before. The air was warmer, more alive. But the most compellingly apparent change was that the waning night had been replaced by the long golden shadows of late afternoon. This was the time of day Arilyn loved most, the moment near the end of a
perfect spring day that was almost heartbreaking in its beauty, a time that was almost, but not quite, twilight.
Almost twilight.
Suddenly Arilyn understood why Ganamede had insisted she cling to his back: no mortal could make the passage to these fabled realms unassisted. She slid from the lythari and rose slowly to her feet.
"Faerie," she whispered, naming the land which legend claimed to be the elves' first home, a land left behind in a time far beyond memory. According to elven myth, Faerie was a place of incredible beauty that would last for a single day, albeit one nearly immeasurable in its length. Some of the elves, knowing that then-day here would eventually end, had ventured beyond Faerie into other worlds in hope that they might find a way to escape the coming night. Or so legend claimed. Arilyn had always assumed that Faerie was an allegory and not a literal place. She seized Ganamede's face between her hands and repeated the word, this time as a question.
The lythari's wolflike form shimmered and gave way to that of the otherworldly elf, Ganamede smiled at his awestruck friend, his blue eyes gently indulgent.
"Faerie? Well, not quite. This is a place between the worlds-quite fitting for people such as you and I who are neither wholly one thing nor another. But come- you wanted to meet the others."
Too stunned to give voice to the thousand questions that whirled through her mind, Arilyn followed as Ganamede set off toward the sound of felling water. There, by a waterfall in a glade the color of an emerald's heart, the lythari made their home.
After one glance, Arilyn understood that her quest was futile. She could think of nothing that could entice the lythari into the conflict of war. The peace and beauty of this place made the very thought of it an unspeakable obscenity, as was the notion of disturbing the serenity and joy of these magical beings. *
Several adults in elven form danced to the haunting music of a bone pipe, played by a lythari woman so delicate she seemed carved of moonlight. Two more elves bathed in the splashing waters of the falls, laughing as they watched the antics of a trio of wolflike young that tumbled and played at the edge of the pool.
An involuntary smile curved Arilyn's lips. This was how Ganamede had looked when she first met him- although not nearly so carefree and joyful.
The young lythari had ventured into the outer world too soon, only to be caught in a snare. Arilyn had been a child herself at the time, willful enough to ignore the warnings about venturing alone into the wild Greycloak Hills that surrounded Evereska, young enough to be charmed with the idea of keeping a pet wolf. Her mother, Zlwryl, had had other ideas. She sent word to the lythari's tribe-exactly how, Arilyn had never learned- and a stern, pale-haired male elf came the next day to whisk away the errant cub. But it seemed that the young lythari had a contrary streak to match Arilyn's own. Many times over the next several years he slipped away to seek out his half-elven playmate. When Arilyn left Evereska after her mother's death, Ganamede had given her a summoning pipe and a knowledge of the "doors to the gate" where she might find him. Only now did Arilyn understand what that meant. Although there was but one gate to the lythari's lair, they could probably emerge at will in Tethir or Evermeet or Cormanthor. But why would they choose to do so, other than to hunt?
"The lythari will not come," Arilyn said softly.
"No," agreed Ganamede, "but I had to show you, else you would not have understood why."
He took her arm and drew her away from the peaceful glade. "But I myself will take you to the nearest settlement of the green elves, a place known as Talltrees. It lies a day's walk to the north, but I can get you there in a matter of hours. I wish there were more I could do for you."
Despite her disappointment, Arilyn couldn't help but smile as she pictured the impact Ganamede's appearance would make. "That's more helpful than you know," she said in a wry tone. "If an entrance like that doesn't impress the forest people, 111 know enough to turn around and go home!"