A forest beast turned on a spit in the fire; it was the source of the mouth-watering odor. A woman, a half-elf no doubt, stood in the center of the common room, surrounded on three sides by a sturdy bar of living wood. Dozens of long-stemmed goblets hung bowl-down above her. She smiled a welcome at Raidon when he entered. Adrik received a puzzled nod. "Is he with you?" she called to Raidon.
The monk blinked, nodded. Again he was struck with surprise—to the residents of Relkath's Foot, he was of elf blood. Of course, he was a half-elf; his heritage was twined with the blood of his mother. But growing up in Telflamm, he considered himself to be Shou first and last, nothing else.
"Then welcome to the Green Man, travelers," said the barkeep, her smile returned. "What is your pleasure?"
They crossed the room to stand before the bar.
"We'd like to try the rootweal?" said Adrik, his voice uncertain as he looked around the room. He was the only human in the Green Man's common room.
"You have heard about our specialty, I see. Are you sure you are up to it? The draught is potent. For one not of. . . someone not used to it."
The sorcerer ducked his head and said, "If it's all right, I'd like to try it."
"Of course! And the same for you, traveler?" She looked at Raidon.
"None for me—please, could you prepare a pot of tea?" he responded.
The woman cocked her head and a few nearby patrons glanced quizzically at Raidon.
"I am most sorry, but we do not serve 'T' in the Green Man. I have a few wines, including the rootweal of which you speak. I can offer you a pipe, packed with any of a variety of leaf harvested and dried with an eye toward quality. We also have boiled mushrooms, a multitude of fresh berries, baked biscuits, and roasted venison."
"Venison sounds perfect, with a few mushrooms? And, very well, I would like to try the wine, too. Rootweal."
"You shall find none better, traveler."
In short order, Raidon and Adrik sat opposite each other at a high table. Steaming platters were set before them, heaped with all manner of food, hardly any of which Raidon recognized. But it was all delicious.
The rootweal was oddly compelling. Raidon expected it to be too sweet, too sour, or too much like drinking vinegar—such was the extent of his experience with wine. The rootweal, a wine the color of red silk, was smooth and full, and tasted . . . of something for which he had no name. If pressed, he would have to say that it tasted like a forest meadow alive in the glad light of the sun.
As they ate and drank, listening to the musicians, Adrik's face grew redder and redder. His smile widened and his laughter grew more frequent and louder. Raidon found a smile on his own lips as he listened to the musical anecdotes.
A bard strumming a lyre launched into a song describing the founding of the city. The four central trees, he sang, sprouted from the buried foot of the ancient god Relkath of the Numberless Branches. This god, claimed the lyrics, walked the woods primeval along with several other mysterious powers who predated the elves. Several stanzas described unlikely adventures featuring Relkath, and the song ended with the god deciding to rest.
The bard wrapped up the song with a flourish of twanging strings and announced, "Relkath yet sleeps beneath the forest's soil, someday to awaken when the people of the Yuirwood need their ancient gods once again."
Everyone in the Green Man raised a goblet, pipe, or whatever was handy high in the air, cheered, and drank.
Raidon followed suit. Adrik sighed, "Tha' wa' nice," and toppled from his chair.
Several half-elves nearby laughed, their eyes glinting with festive glee. One said, "Your friend sleeps well tonight, if a bit early." More chuckles. Raidon looked beneath the table. His sorcerous traveling companion was curled beneath the empty chair, already snoring the sleep of the over-intoxicated.
The monk, familiar with similar antics from Shou not pledged to Xiang Temple, nodded. If the truth were told, he was surprised he hadn't followed the Commorand sorcerer to the floor. Never before had he consumed wine in such quantity.
It occurred to Raidon that his relative clarity of thought was more evidence of his mother's blood.
The monk set down his wine and pulled forth his forget-me-not from beneath his clothing. The white, treelike symbol in the center was haloed in night's darkness. Night, where sky blue once winked.
Raidon stood and held the stone on its silver chain high above his head. He called out, "Who knows the meaning of the symbol on this amulet, an amulet given me by an elf who hailed from these woods?"
Those nearby laughed, perhaps thinking he posed a riddle. But riddle or no, they were game, and all wanted to take a look. He allowed the amulet to be passed around to those interested in handling it directly, though he kept an anxious eye on it.
While the treelike symbol drew most of the interest but no recognition, an elder wood elf named Yarmarion seemed more interested in the cramped, overlapping inscriptions that crusted the sides and rear of the stone. He sat alone, smoke curling up from the pipe clamped in one corner of his mouth. He turned the amulet over and over, squinting hard at the miniature text. Yarmarion said, "These writings are in an ancient tongue, one no longer spoken in the world."
"What, the language used by sleeping Relkath?" called the bard who'd sung about the resting god.
Another chimed in, "Would that make it the language of sleep? Sleep that is denied us, which others enjoy so much?" He pointed to the sorcerer's snoring, smiling figure beneath the table. Merriment erupted, but the wood elf holding the amulet slowly nodded, his face a study in consideration.
"Perhaps," Yarmarion replied. He leaned back in his seat and glanced toward the rafters. "The inscriptions remind me of the text I saw once in an old book. Where was I? Oh yes, a library of Mystra near Calimport, right before the agents of Old Night burned it to the ground. What was it about? Something to do with the theft of sleep, ensuring the first mortals would never discover the truth in their dreams."
Several patrons laughed and toasted, "To the first mortals, whoever they are!"
Raidon broke in. "Will dreams show the way to my mother?"
Yarmarion squinted at the amulet and shrugged, "How could elves like us ever know?" He tossed it across the room to the monk. "Sorry, traveler, I have never before seen the primary symbol. But I can tell you this—a potency lies within that stone, slumbering."
"A potency?"
"Powerful magic is wound deep within your amulet. I am not so old that I can't sense sorcery, especially of such strength."
"What kind of sorcery?" Raidon whispered, suddenly wondering if he were channeling Adrik's relentless manner.
Whatever explanation Yarmarion might have provided was lost in clear, shrill cries of clarions. The clamor sounded from outside.
The bard exclaimed, "The Masters' summons!" The elves and half-elves in the Green Man immediately set down their instruments, their pipes, and their goblets; they moved as one to the exit. Raidon followed, asking, "Who are the Masters?" Someone yelled, "The Masters of the Yuirwood, of course!" The explanation did nothing to lessen Raidon's confusion.
Thin, elegant figures streamed into the square from all sides, and on the boughs above, hundreds of elves looked down into the tumult, pointing and gesturing, trying to make sense of the chaos. A shining white figure emerged from the Royal Hall high above. The princess, presumably, though Raidon didn't spare her a glance. He gracefully navigated the congestion and push of bodies, judging and using its tumult to unerringly propel himself, first widdershins and then the other way, to the square's center, where the horns yet sounded.