He dropped into battle-mind easily, scanning the terrain ahead for any sign of ambush, and saw nothing. When they were still half a mile from the cave opening, he saw Ancaladar push himself out through it, springing upward into the sky. Kellen waved, hailing the pair, and Ancaladar dipped a wing in reply.
The small party reached the cliff face. High above, there was a dragon-sized opening in the sheer, ice-covered expanse of rock.
“Anything?” Kellen asked.
Vestakia concentrated. She looked as if she were listening very hard, although listening was not precisely what she was doing.
“Nothing,” Vestakia said after a long pause. She burst into tears, and Idalia moved to comfort her.
—«♦»—
IT was nearly midnight by the time Kellen was able to settle into his tent at last. He wasn’t alone; Shalkan had joined him, as much for emotional support as because it was freezing outside. Kellen was happy to have him there for both reasons; the unicorn’s body helped raise the temperature in the tent appreciably.
Kellen had discussed the day’s events with his friend already, settling them in his mind so that he could work through them when there was leisure to (if there ever was), but a few things still puzzled him.
“Shalkan, what did the Elves do with all those bodies—the Shadowed Elf ones, I mean? They went to so much trouble to get them—they brought all of them out of the caverns and back here; I saw them. But later, they’d disappeared.”
The unicorn snorted gently, and snuggled closer to Kellen. “They did with them just what they did with their own dead. They took them into the forest and suspended them in the trees. You can go and see tomorrow if you like.”
Kellen twitched. “No, thanks. But why?”
“You have to think like an Elf. If they buried them, it would shut the spirit away from the wind and the sun. If they burned them… well, that would be rather hard on the trees that were felled to make the pyres. And if they floated them down rivers, it would take their dead far away from home and hearth.
“As for why they’re treating the Shadowed Elves the same way they’re treating their own dead… well, you saw how they acted today.”
“Yes. It was”—Kellen groped for words—“strange. I didn’t understand it. Surely they realize that the Shadowed Elves aren’t really Elves!”
Shalkan made a “hrumphing” noise. “What if Idalia did something really horrible?”
“But she wouldn’t!” Kellen protested automatically.
“But imagine if she did. How would you feel?”
Kellen thought about it. First he had to imagine Idalia being somebody else entirely—but feeling just the same way about her. Then he imagined her doing something awful.
“I guess I’d feel… but I still don’t…” he faltered.
“To you, the Shadowed Elves are creatures of the Dark. To the Elves, they are Elves—debased, Tainted, and twisted, but Elves nonetheless. Nothing you or I or anyone else can say or do will change that feeling. And so they feel responsible.”
“Which is just what They want,” Kellen said, feeling sick.
“I know,” Shalkan answered.
—«♦»—
THE following day, Kellen and a party of Elves entered the caverns once more, Vestakia in the lead. This time Redhelwar accompanied them—it was necessary, the Elven general said, to see firsthand the terrain over which he would be sending armies to fight in the future.
Once more Jermayan and Ancaladar entered the caverns from the other direction. The two groups met at the site of the village cavern.
The Coldfired ceiling still burned brightly over the cavern where the village had been. Eventually it would go out by itself if Jermayan did not extinguish it, but Coldfire—or Magelight—was such a simple spell that such castings were often left to run out by themselves. Redhelwar looked down into the cavern in silence.
Vestakia shook her head. “Nothing,” she said, sounding relieved.
By the end of the day they had explored a great deal of the cave system. They found several more areas that the Shadowed Elves had used for various purposes—storerooms, larders, middens—but no further sign of the creatures themselves. And, thankfully, no prisoners. Kellen didn’t think that anything could be held prisoner here for long and still be sane. At last everyone agreed that this cavern system was empty of Shadowed Elves.
“And now,” Redhelwar said, “we must find their next lair.”
—«♦»—
“A message has come from Andoreniel in Sentarshadeen,” Grander said. “Marlen, Sarlin, Erlock, Jarel, you must go to the other households today, and tell them there will be a Council at the Meeting House tonight.”
“A message?” Cilarnen asked. “How could a message come now?” Not only had it been snowing for some time—and Centaurs, as he already knew, did not think winter a suitable time for traveling—but a messenger would have come first to Grander’s house, and Grander would have insisted on feeding him, and Cilarnen saw no stranger faces gathered around the table for the noonday meal.
“What bird flies in winter?” Sarlin answered gaily, and the others laughed.
If Elves never asked questions—and Cilarnen realized, thinking back, that Hyandur had never asked him a single question on the entire journey to Stonehearth—the beastfolk seemed to more than make up for it, and worse, think a question was as good as an answer.
It was only one of their many annoying qualities.
Cilarnen knew he’d been very lucky to be taken in at Stonehearth. Winter without weather-spells to tame it was a terrifying thing. Without Grander’s kindness—yes, kindness, and charity, too—he would be dead by now.
But while he could manage to be polite, he could not manage to feel gratitude.
What made it worse was that he knew that the beastfolk were treating him far better than the Armethaliehans would have treated one of them if the situation were reversed. He was honest enough to admit that, even if he refused to say it aloud. Grander had even helped him barter his few personal possessions—his signet ring, his gold-and-sapphire chain, his pencase and penknife, and the handful of silver and copper coins in his pockets—to buy himself suitable garments in the days after his arrival, so that he would not start his time in Stonehearth too deeply in debt to Grander’s house. He’d had to pay a harness-maker—who had used his City boots as a template—to make him suitable footwear, but Sarlin had made his new clothes without charging him for her labor.
—«♦»—
“AND enough gold left over to buy cloth for summer clothes,” she’d said proudly, when she presented his new outfit to him a sennight after his arrival. “Unless you’ll be wanting to buy something else?”
“Keep it,” Cilarnen had said ungraciously, staring at the bizarre garments. “What is there here that anyone could want to buy?”
She’d looked hurt, and his conscience had pricked him.
“I’m sure you know what I need better than I do,” he’d said. He’d struggled to find something to praise, grateful in that moment that no one he’d ever known would see him wearing them. “The workmanship is very fine.”
“Ah,” Sarlin had said, perking up. “Spun and wove it myself, from our own sheep. You won’t find better. And I only charged you what I’d charge family—not what I could get for it at Spring Fair, either!”
“That’s… very kind,” he’d said, as it seemed to be expected.
“Do you need help with them? You not being used to our wild ways, and all? Or—Is your head paining you again?”
“No. I—I will manage. Excuse me.”
With the bundle of cloth in his arms, Cilarnen had fled to his room and quickly closed the door.
His new quarters were much smaller than the chamber he had shared with Hyandur. There were hooks on the walls to hold his few garments, and a pallet on the floor for sleeping. There was a chair—a welcome-gift from Marlen—and a small chest, which held a washbasin and a chamberstick. There was no stove, as the room backed on the great hearth’s chimney, and so was usually warm enough.