"I did not choose this either," said Lanaal, "but I've learned to live with it, to embrace it. I suspect you're similar to me. I know there are others-rare individuals born with the souls of horses, snakes, or even fish."
"So is that it?" asked Vell, a touch of bitterness entering his voice. "I have the soul of a lizard? A lizard none of my people have ever seen-is that not strange to you?"
"Let me ask this," said Lanaal. "Do you feel lonely, even among your companions? A dull ache, an emptiness in your soul that you don't know how to fill?" Vell didn't have to nod. "Perhaps that's because you are not with your true kind-the behemoths."
"Behemoths are not my kind!" Vell shouted.
"But you can transform into one."
"Only once," Vell said. "I don't know if I could do it again."
"How did it happen?" asked Lanaal. "Tell me about it."
"Our village was under siege," he said. "Our chief was captured by the enemy. He is still missing. I knew of the power in me and I thought there was something deeper, and this time I reached in and drew upon it. Then, I lost all control of myself. Forgot myself."
"That can happen," said Lanaal. "I remember one time early on, when I became a lark and spent days as one before I even remembered that I was an elf. For you, I would guess it is tied to your nature as an Uthgardt. Your famous rages involve a clouding of the senses, correct? Perhaps you should attempt a transformation at a moment that's less critical."
"I'd be happy never to have that happen again," said Vell. "When you turn into a bird, I'm certain that you do not kill your companions."
"Is that what happened?"
Vell nodded sadly. "Several of them, crushed under my feet."
"The only way you can prevent that is to learn control." Lanaal frowned. "For all I know, it will leave you soon. But if it doesn't, you'll have to accept it as your own. You'll be better for it. I used to feel like there were two souls in my breast, an elf and a bird. But then I realized there was just one-mine, which is both elf and bird."
"No, Lanaal." Vell's eyes were dampening. "It's different for me. I'm cursed. It tears me apart from inside. I could lose myself for good. When I changed back, I spent the night wandering the dark fields alone, trying to pull together every scrap of my identity. You don't understand."
"Yes," she said, her eyes warm with compassion. "I do."
The night wore on and the merriment with it, fading to the mild but persistent happiness of inebriation. Thluna spent much of the evening speaking with elves, drawing out any rumors or legends they knew about behemoths, or about the Thunderbeasts' tribal history. From Faeniele Eshele, a wood elf in the camp, he heard a strange story alleging that a behemoth had been spotted many centuries before, grazing in a swamp alongside the Heartblood River. But when an elf party arrived to investigate, it was gone-not only the behemoth, but the swamp as well.
Those elves were uncomfortably close to the Dire Wood and were not inclined to probe deeply, but one elf wizard grew intrigued and cast a spell to search for magical illusion. He found skillfully hidden magical emanations that implied a large concealed space, but was unable to reveal it. They suspected that it may have been some relic of a lost civilization, one of a great many strewn about the High Forest-possibly the elves' own Eaerlann.
"This is only a rumor, you understand," said Faeniele. "But I will contact Reitheillaethor and ask if anyone knows more. It may be within the memory of some of our elders." Thluna thanked her profusely.
Later, as Thluna relaxed beneath a great oak, having consumed some of the Tree Ghosts' hearty ale, Kellin came and slumped down next to him.
"Have you learned anything interesting?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, her speech slightly slurred. "Very interesting indeed. How about you?"
"I think I might have learned where we're going."
"Wonderful," said Kellin. "And Thluna?"
"Yes?"
"Isn't it time somebody told me what happened in the Fallen Lands?"
The question hung in the air, unaddressed. Thluna felt a kind of shame as he thought about it. But it was only right that she should know. "Yes," he said, and told the story as honestly as he knew how.
CHAPTER 9
It was midnight at the Wet Wizard tavern. Fueled by a new shipment of Tanagyr's Stout from Zhentil Keep, discussion turned, as it so often did in Llorkh, to Ardeth Chale. Lord's Men, locals, and visiting merchants and their caravan guards all had their say.
"My younger brother played with her as a child. She's a local girl. Taken an odd turn, that's for sure…"
"She does everything Geildarr says, but really she has more power over him than the other way around."
"Word is that she and Royce's band have taken off on one of Geildarr's crazy missions. What's weirdest of all is that Mythkar Leng's gone along with 'em…"
"Word about her has even reached Zhentil Keep. Geildarr thinks of her as his Ashemmi."
"Ardeth is the loveliest thing I've ever seen. What I wouldn't do for a chance to…"
"What annoys me most is the way she exerts her authority over the Lord's Men, without rank or position to justify it."
"Geildarr thinks he owes her everything. Some renegade dwarves would have taken over Llorkh if it weren't for her…"
"A Zhent skymage went off on a mission with her. She came back alone, riding his mount. What does that tell you?"
But all turned to hushed silence when Clavel Foxgray came into the tavern, his cheeks already rosy with drink. The Lord's Men shut up immediately, and the rest followed suit, wondering why.
"Let me guess," said Clavel, sneering. "You were talking about Ardeth."
A half-orc caravan guard snickered and asked, "What's yer beef with her?" Clavel provided the answer.
"A hobgoblin knocked me into the ditch with an axe," Clavel said, leaning against the doorframe to keep his balance. "I can live with that. Somebody would have gotten a rope and let me climb out. Oh, I'd have been laughed at a bit, but I would have laughed, too. Except Ardeth came along and told them to leave me there all night, then demote me. She's no place in the chain of command, but her word is law. So I'm back on the night watch, two years of seniority stripped away by Ardeth's whim. So-" he smirked at the half-orc "-so that's the reason conversations about Ardeth tend to go sour when I walk in."
The assembly in the Wet Wizard was silent as Clavel strode over to the half-orc's table. "That's too bad," Clavel continued. "I have quite a lot to say about her. The big question is this-does anybody know exactly what goes on between her and Geildarr? She lives in the Lord's Keep, does she not? On his floor or somewhere else? Because the image of that fat old slug of a mayor and that lithe demoness turns my stomach like nothing else. Or maybe they deserve each other."
"Clavel," said one of the other Lord's Men. "Perhaps you've had a bit much to drink…"
"Not nearly enough," Clavel slurred. "Like the rest of you-well, any of you who've seen her-I'd very much like to spend a little time in the dark with her. But the difference is, at the end of it, I'd want to sink a dagger into that sweet breast of hers!"
"That's quite enough, Clavel," shouted a Lord's Man, jumping to his feet. He and a companion grasped Clavel by the neck and hauled him out into the street. Sounds of struggling and fighting drifted into the tavern.
Nobody wanted to talk about Ardeth any longer.
Sungar reached around, his hands weak, and rubbed the lash marks along his back. "Kiev never speaks, does he?" he asked, on the off-chance that his neighbor was awake and listening. "He laughs sometimes. Snarls. But I don't think I've ever heard him say a word."
"Maybe he's embarrassed by his voice," said Hurd. "Could be it's high-pitched and squeaky or somethin'."