When the knight had finished, Shanhaevel was certain his face was pale. He looked from companion to companion, realizing they all looked shaken.
“Melias begged us to find the key before he died,” the elf said quietly. “None of us knew what he meant.”
“So what?” Ahleage argued. “He could have been talking about anything—and that poem could mean anything! There’s nothing to prove that they are the same.”
Shanhaevel nodded, and then he remembered something. “Well, there might be one way to find out,” he said, rising to his feet.
He moved over to the pile of gear, going through it until he found Melias’ pack. Returning to his seat, he opened the pack and looked for the scroll case.
“Do you think that’s such a good idea?” Shirral asked doubtfully. “He was an agent of the king. You might be breaking some law or other.”
Shanhaevel looked at her then shrugged.
“It may be that those are his orders from the viscount or the king,” Elmo said, motioning for Shanhaevel to open the scroll case, “and if there’s something useful in there, we must find it. I think, under the circumstances, any transgression would be overlooked.”
Shanhaevel eyed Elmo for a moment, wondering just how the big man might have come to that conclusion, then shrugged and twisted the seal from the scroll case. The roll of parchment inside was crinkled and weathered. Everyone gathered around as he stared at the words written on the scroll in a careful, neat hand. They were, word for word, the poem the knight had just quoted.
“I don’t think there’s any doubt, now,” Shanhaevel said in a breathless whisper.
Ahleage’s eyes were wide as he shook his head, agreeing with the elf’s assessment.
“But what does it mean?” Shirral asked Govin.
The knight shrugged. “I don’t know, but I am willing to accept Cuthbert’s wisdom in bringing us together. I have faith that whatever it is we are to accomplish, it will be revealed to us when the time is right.”
Shirral continued to chew her lip while Elmo frowned.
“I think the time is right,” the huge man said. “It’s time for a few explanations.” Elmo rose from the ground where he had been seated as he spoke to the group. “You see, I am not merely an ale-swilling simpleton, although I have done little to maintain that guise in recent hours, so I suppose most of you already realized that. It is an image I have cultivated for many a year, now, and it has been very useful for throwing off suspicion.”
Shanhaevel leaned forward, eager to hear what this huge man, whose mien was suddenly contemplative and intelligent, was going to say next.
“You see,” Elmo continued, looking at his hands, “I, too, work for the viscount.” There were a few gasps from the group. “I am a Knight of the Hart—a hunter, a tracker. It has been my responsibility to keep an eye on the activities around the area—the comings and goings of merchants, strangers, what have you. Few have passed through Hommlet without my knowing.”
Shanhaevel found himself shaking his head in amazement, and he saw that everyone else around the fire shared his sentiment.
“I knew there was something up!” the elf said, grinning wryly. “When Ormiel told me you were speaking to him, I was confused. Every once in a while, you said or did something that seemed so out of character for the—pardon the expression—simple bumpkin farmer you seemed to be.”
Elmo smiled and nodded. “Yes. You are extremely astute, ‘whelp born of the shadow wood’, more so than most people I meet. There was a time or two that I slipped up, but most of the time, I was watching for your reaction. I wanted to know if I could trust you, each of you. I learned today that I can, and that’s going to be a very important part of our relationship if we’re going to see this through.”
“How is it that you know my true name?” the wizard asked, not really surprised.
“I told you: It’s my job to know as much as I can about everyone who comes and goes.” Elmo smiled again as Shanhaevel nodded in acquiescence at the explanation. “In this case, though, there are two reasons. First: Ormiel told me. Regardless of what practical jokes your friend here likes to play—”
“I still like his nickname better,” Ahleage replied, grinning but not looking up from the dagger he was studiously examining.
“And the second one reason is: Estrumiel de sudri oltrinos—‘I, too, speak your tongue.’” Shanhaevel blinked in surprise, as did Shirral, but Govin only smiled. “In any event,” Elmo went on, “Govin is right. We’ve only scratched the surface of this problem. I’ve known about it for a while, but I couldn’t risk revealing myself until I was sure we could do something about it.”
Elmo gazed into the fire for several moments. His brow wrinkled, and his visage turned grim. He seemed to be gathering his courage.
“The Temple of the Elements is flourishing once again,” Elmo continued. “I have sources in Nulb, the next village to the east and the community closest to the sight of the place, that confirm this. I intend to stop it.”
Elmo looked at each of the companions.
Shanhaevel sat quietly, reflecting. Is this why I’m here? he thought. It was one thing when we were just looking for a bandit lair, but now . . .
Still, the elf realized, there was that warm glow he was feeling, thinking about this. These people are my friends, he reminded himself. I trust them, and they me. And Shirral. Shanhaevel looked across at the druid, who was biting her lip, a worried look on her face. This is her home, he thought. She needs my help, too.
“I’m with you,” Shanhaevel said. He had already made up his mind that he would stay and be a part of this, regardless of what Shirral did. “Well?” he asked her.
The druid gazed back at the wizard steadily, her blue eyes reflecting the flickering firelight as she studied him. Finally, she grimaced and shook her head, but she said, “All right.”
Shanhaevel smiled despite himself.
“Well, I’m not,” Ahleage growled, throwing a rock off into the trees. “This is as far as I go. Tomorrow, I ride for greener pastures. Draga, are you coming with me?”
The hairy bowman looked up from the object he was carving, which Shanhaevel now saw was a some sort of a flute or similar instrument, and frowned. “If we leave them, and they fail, who else will do this?”
“Who cares? It’s not our problem!”
“Sooner or later, it will be,” Shirral said. “If the temple grows and becomes too powerful to stop, there will be no greener pastures left.”
“I know you don’t follow my god,” Govin said. “I cannot ask you to go on faith. But I can foresee this deed being a great boon to you.”
Ahleage scowled, looking at all of them, then sighed and slumped in resignation. “Oh, what the hells. I’ll stay and help.” He glared at Draga. “Since when did you get all noble?”
Draga only smiled sheepishly and said nothing, whittling again with his knife.
“Excellent,” Elmo said. “We ride to the temple at first light.”
“Then it’s official,” Shanhaevel said. “We are an alliance.”
“No,” Govin said, smiling. “We are the Alliance. It is the name that came to me in my visions: The Alliance.”
The fire had burned low at the campsite. The night air was cool and filled with the sounds of sleeping. Only Shanhaevel, Ahleage, and Draga were awake, keeping watch. The bowman sat a little off to the side, working on his flute, occasionally playing it softly, testing it before continuing to work on it.