He found Caer Tinella to be at peace. Fields were beginning to be plowed, and homes rebuilt and repaired, and new ones added. Though it had only been a matter of months since the town had been occupied by smelly goblins and powries, the stench of the creatures was gone now, De'Unnero knew, and all the folk had settled back into seemingly normal and peaceful routines.
And the Bishop meant to keep things that way. On the outskirts of the village, looking down from a hillock, he dismissed the magic of his tiger's paw, but with great reluctance. For the better part of five days, using his own inner hunger and what the spirit of Markwart had shown him, De'Un-nero had been immersed in the gemstone, had been as much great cat as human being; and he liked the feeling, the power, and the freedom.
Too much, perhaps, the Bishop mused. He knew that traveling on the powerful legs of a tiger he could have covered the hundred and fifty miles from Palmaris to Caer Tinella in three days, perhaps two, since he had learned that he could use the soul stone of Aloysius Crump's ring on other animals nearby and literally feast on their life forces, a refined version of the life-stealing that monks had used on deer and the like to rejuvenate horses. Now, as a tiger, De'Unnero could go directly to the source, linking life forces with his intended prey using the soul stone and then literally eating the energies out of the creature. It was perfect, he believed: the ulti-mate transfer of energy; and after such a meal, De'Unnero the tiger was ready to run once more.
And yet, that beauty and strength had actually slowed him despite his urgency in dealing with the one called Nightbird. For in his travels, he had strayed from the path, and often, merely to partake of his feasts.
No matter, he believed, for he could move with all the swiftness he would need, and all the world wasn't large enough to keep Nightbird from his claws.
He went down into Caer Tinella in the simple robes of a monk, with a serene, disarming expression on his face.
"Good day, good father!" came the enthusiastic greetings from one farmer after another, the men and women hard at work repairing homes and - amazingly, for the turn of spring was still two weeks away - readying fields surprisingly free of snow. The last storm, a rainy washout, had melted all the snow along the level ground, and now the farmers were piling up stones, marking the new property lines drawn in the resettlement.
"And to you, my child," he always answered politely. "Pray tell me where I might speak with the governor of this village." The cooperative villagers spoke the name and pointed across the way to the northern reaches, fields bordered by the thick woods, where white traces of winter could still be seen, lining the edges, in the shadows of the trees.
The leader was not hard to find: a stocky woman of about forty winters, hard at work in her own field. She put up her hoe when De'Unnero approached, leaning on it with both hands atop its end and her chin on her hands.
"You are Janine o' the Lake?" De'Unnero asked cheerily, repeating the name the farmers had told him.
"That I be," she answered. "And yerself? A preacher come to start a church here in Caer Tinella, perhaps?"
"I am Brother Simple," De'Unnero lied, "passing through your humble community and nothing more. Though I do believe that the Church will send a minister as soon as the world is set aright."
"Well, we've got our Friar Pembleton," Janine o' the Lake replied, "not more than a day's ride to the east. 'Tis about all the preachin' the folk got belly for, by me own guess."
De'Unnero resisted the urge to punch her face.
"But ye're lookin' like yer own belly could use a bit of feedin'," the woman went on.
"Indeed," the monk replied, lowering his gaze humbly. "A bit of a meal and news of the road north, for I am bound for the Timberlands, where the folk have found no preaching of late."
"Nor ever, from what I heared o' that wild place," Janine said with a laugh. "Well, find a dark place and take some rest. I'll be done me work soon enough and then I'll fatten ye up for the road."
"Oh, but please, good lady," the charming monk replied, reaching for the hoe. "Do let me earn my food."
Janine seemed honestly surprised, but she did let go of the hoe. "I'm not for expectin' a monk o' St. Precious to be lookin' for work," she explained, "but I'll take the help, and be grateful for it!"
And De'Unnero did work in the field tirelessly: an effort, he presumed, that would never be expected from the Bishop of Palmaris, one that would be a stretch of expectation from the simplest of Abellican monks. After-ward, Janine o' the Lake treated him, and a select few others of the towns-folk, to a wonderful hot dinner, though De'Unnero found the food strangely dissatisfying after his wild meals.
The conversation was polite enough, and informative enough, with the Bishop being assured that the road north was safe, by all accounts, and that his journey to the Timberlands would be no more difficult than his journey from Palmaris had been thus far - unless, of course, winter made another appearance. The snow remained thicker up there, he was told.
After the meal, Brother Simple excused himself, accepting an invitation to sleep in Janine's barn and explaining that she would not likely see him in the morning, as he meant to get as early a start as possible.
In truth, the man was out of the barn and out of Caer Tinella within the hour, making his way north across the moonlit fields and falling deeper and deeper into the magic of his tiger's paw with every step. So complete was the process that his robes blended into skin, that the ring upon his finger became a band about one digit of a tiger's paw. By the time he had crossed the northernmost field, De'Unnero walked not with the comparatively clumsy stride of a man but on the padded feet of the tiger, and saw not through the daylight-attuned eyes of a human but through the keen night-senses of the great cat.
Now he was loping, front paws hitting the ground every so often for better balance or for quicker direction changes; and now, already, he smelled the presence of another animal. De'Unnero quickened his pace, following that scent, basking in it, for it wasn't the stool of an animal, wasn't even the musk of a wet pelt. It was fear, fear of him, and it came to him as something delicious, as something pure and natural.
And it was all around him. The tiger slowed, picking a careful, silent path, blending perfectly into the nighttime forest. Unseen and unheard, but his prey knew that he was coming.
That made it all the sweeter.
Keen ears caught a rustle to the side, and then he saw them: a pair of white-tailed deer, a buck and a doe, the male's antlers many pointed.
Softly the tiger moved in, one paw touching down, feeling the ground, smoothly settling.
The buck pawed the ground; the doe hopped as if to leap away.
But she didn't know which way to run, De'Unnero realized. He was close, very close, within range of a single tremendous spring. He'd go for the buck, the more difficult kill.
He leapt out with a startling, horrifying roar, claws extended, paws out wide, but the buck did not fly away and did not freeze. It came around to face the predator, head down, formidable antlers leading an answering charge. De'Unnero felt one prong sink into his chest as they crashed together, but he hardly cared, caught up in the sudden and desperate frenzy. With a second roar, the tiger's arm slashed down, slamming the buck on the head, hooking on an antler and turning the head to the side - a sudden violent jerk, the crack of bone, and then the buck was falling.
De'Unnero went right for the neck, tearing open the great veins, washing in the spouting blood. His thoughts went instinctively to the soul stone, capturing the buck's life force, feeding on every aspect of this creature.
And when he was done, he did not seek a quiet and dark place to retire, for all of the buck's energy had joined with his own. Now he was restless. He knew that he should go straight off to the north, toward Dundalis, run-ning full speed, but the scent remained, the smell of fear.
Off he went in search of the doe; and when he found her, and caught her from behind, he feasted again.
"The road ahead is clear," Roger announced, coming back to Elbryan and Bradwarden, who had been searching east and west. Behind them in a clearing off to the side of the road - in truth no more than a path worn by the march of the demon dactyl's army - the five monks sat in a circle, huddled close to a blazing fire and eating the stew Viscenti had made from assorted roots.
"How far have they run?" the ranger asked, shaking his head incredu-lously. The group had traveled more than halfway to the Barbacan from Dundalis and had not encountered a single monster, nor any sign that giants, goblins, or powries were anywhere about.
"The Wilderlands 're a bigger place than ye know," Bradwarden explained, "bigger than all the kingdoms o' men put together. Far went the cry o' the demon dactyl, out to goblin holes and the shelf roosts o' giants in mountains unnamed by men. Out to powries, though them wicked crea-tures be living on lumps o' rock far out to sea."
"And so they have returned to their rocks and holes, it would seem," said the ranger. "And yet, I do not feel that the world is a safer place."
"Funny how men keep doin' that to themselves," Bradwarden said dryly.
Again the ranger shook his head, looking all around, seeking some sign.
"We should not complain, I would say," Roger cut in, misunderstanding the ranger's curiosity for a strange disappointment. "Better to find no ene-mies than too many."
"One would be too many," Elbryan replied.
"Unless ye're lookin' for somethin' better eatin' than stew." The centaur laughed. "Ho, ho, what!"
The Avelyn impression brought a wide grin to Elbryan's face. "Had to be done? " he asked.
The centaur nodded.
"Are we to go out scouting again?" Roger asked. The other two didn't miss that he was looking longingly at the warm fire as he spoke.
"No scouting," Elbryan decided, though he knew that he would be out late into the night, and that Bradwarden would pick up the patrol when he left off. "Go and join the brothers and sleep warm by the fire."
Roger nodded and rushed away, calling to Castinagis to leave him some of the stew.
When Elbryan looked at the centaur, he saw Bradwarden's expression had turned grim.
"He's not lyin' about the fire," the centaur said.
"A chill on the breeze," the ranger agreed.
"More than that, I'm fearin'," Bradwarden explained. "We been lucky, ranger. This far north, the wind can still freeze yer bones, and we could wake one morn to find snow piled deeper than a deer's antlers."
"We have come far to the north."
Bradwarden nodded. "And earlier than we should've, by me own fig-urin'. We're fast on to spring, to be sure, but spring at the Barbacan's not the same as spring in Dundalis. I'm thinkin', and hopin', that the blown mountain's mixed it all up, and dulled the winter. Might be that enough of it went into the sky to serve as a blanket. Ye seen the colors o' the sun settin' and risin'. The dust'd do that, and it might be that the dust'll keep the weather more to the middle, winter and summer, if ye get me guess."
Indeed, as Bradwarden spoke, the western sky began to turn a glowing shade of red, almost as if the clouds had been set on fire. The reason-ing made sense to the ranger, and even if it didn't, he would have taken Bradwarden's word for it. The centaur was old, three times the age of the oldest man; and no creature, not even Lady Dasslerond of the Touel'alfar, was more attuned to the workings of nature. What the centaur had left unspoken, and what Elbryan could figure out for himself, was that if the air was cold now, it would only get worse as they continued north, and worse still as they climbed into the mountains ringing blasted Mount Aida. Had they been lulled by the unusual mildness of the Timberland winter? Might they find the high passes of the more northern stretches blocked by snow?
"Come," he bade the centaur. "Let us go and take our meal with our friends."
Bradwarden shook his head. "Ain't got the belly for it," he said. "Saw no monsters in me scoutin', but more than a few runnin' meals!" With another laugh, the centaur bounded away, pulling his great bow from his shoulder as he went.
"Stay close!" Elbryan called.
"Ye fearin' unseen monsters?" Bradwarden called back.
"Not at all," replied the ranger. "I am just of the mind to hear the piping of Bradwarden this cold night!"
"Oh, ye'll hear it," the centaur roared from the edge of some brush, and then he waded into the foliage, disappearing from sight so that only his thunderous voice remained. "Unless I get me lips frozen stuck to the damned pipes!"
From his perch in a branch overlooking the small community, De'Un-nero noticed immediately that this place, Dundalis, differed greatly from Caer Tinella. It wasn't so much the size, though Dundalis in its present state was less than half the size of Caer Tinella, but more the attitude sur-rounding the towns. There were no large fields outlined here, no farmers working at ordinary tasks, preparing for spring planting. Dundalis had never been a farming community; but even the activities more typical of the place, tree-cutting and the like, were not evident now.
Life had not yet returned to normal this far north. Indeed, Dundalis seemed more a fort than a settlement, an image only heightened by the presence of Shamus Kilronney and his men. De'Unnero noted the begin-nings of a dozen structures, and several already completed, but more prominent and important loomed the wall connecting them all, taller than a tall man and patrolled by many soldiers. Up on the rise to the north, a tower had been erected, and the Bishop could see the forms of two men up there, silhouetted against the twilight sky.
There were sentries in the woods, as well, though De'Unnero had seen none of the trained soldiers outside the settlement and had found little trouble in slipping through the barely organized ranks to find this viewing perch.
He thought to bypass the town altogether, and would have, except that he wanted to speak with Shamus, and perhaps would even instruct the cap-tain and his soldiers to accompany him to the north. He slipped down from the tree and moved back into the forest away from the town, trying to figure out how he might get to Shamus without alerting any of the possible allies of Nightbird that the Bishop of Palmaris had come out so far alone.
He found his answer soon after, while eavesdropping on a pair of scouts: a man of medium build and unremarkable appearance, and another of con-siderable size and rugged. It became obvious from the way the smaller man was addressing the larger - one called Tomas - that this man held some high rank within the town hierarchy; and to De'Unnero's delight, they men-tioned Shamus Kilronney by name.
He took the cue to walk into their midst.
Both men jumped, the larger producing a sword in the blink of an eye and leveling it the monk's way.
"Pray calm, brother," De'Unnero said, holding his empty hands up before him in submission. "I am a humble man of God and no enemy to you."
Tomas lowered the sword. "How did you get up here?" he asked. "And who are you with?"
"By my own feet and with only myself for company," De'Unnero answered, smiling.
The two men exchanged skeptical looks.
"The Bishop of Palmaris is concerned that the Timberlands will be reclaimed without any Church participation," said De'Unnero.
"The Church never was concerned with the Timberlands," the smaller man replied.
De'Unnero noted some movement in the forest behind him - the foot-falls of two men, no doubt coming to investigate the source of agitated voices. "The old Church," the Bishop corrected. "We are much more con-cerned with the goings-on of the kingdom now, much more tied to the affairs of state." He made no defensive movement as the two men stalked in behind him, taking positions behind and to either side.
"The Timberlands are not part of King Danube's state," the smaller man said with prideful contempt.
Tomas shuffled uncomfortably at the blunt words.
"Again you speak of the past, my friend," De'Unnero explained. "The war has changed much."
"Ye're saying that Dundalis belongs to the King o' Honce-the-Bear?" the volatile man retorted, his voice rising in anger.
"I am saying that we do not know the disposition of Dundalis or all the Timberlands," De'Unnero replied, reminding himself that these men, and their opinions, were not important to him. "And I am saying that all of you would do well to understand that, especially with a contingent of King's soldiers in your midst."
That backed the man off a step, and again the larger man shuffled.
"I am Tomas Gingerwart," he said loudly, but in a friendly tone, and he extended his hand. De'Unnero was glad that he held his tiger's paw in his left hand as he reached out to shake.
"And are there not monks of the Abellican Church also within the walls of Dundalis?" the Bishop asked, catching them off guard. Again the uneasy shuffles, and De'Unnero delighted in knowing that these were caused both by his knowledge that Dundalis was now walled and by the fact that he knew of Braumin and the others, who had come up here in disguise.
"No monks," Tomas replied too quickly and decisively.
"A pity, then, that they have already left," said the Bishop.
"No monks," Tomas insisted. "Never any."
De'Unnero struck a pensive pose. "They never made it here?" he asked with concern, throwing the men further off balance. Now they didn't know for sure if he was talking about Braumin and the others, he under-stood, and that was exactly what he had hoped for. Tomas' simple reaction to his inquiry had given him all the information he needed about this man's allegiance - he was a friend of Nightbird, no doubt.
They all were.
"I fear for my brethren," the Bishop said, "but the road was clear, all the way from Palmaris and through Caer Tinella. What might have delayed them?"
"Plenty of monsters still to be found," Tomas said unconvincingly.
De'Unnero almost smiled at the irony of that statement, for even as To-mas spoke the words, the Bishop was falling into the power of his gem-stone. He slipped his left hand, fast becoming a great paw, up into the generous folds of his long sleeve.
"Come along into the village," Tomas instructed. "We will talk more there."
The big man turned to leave, but stopped, for the Bishop held his ground, shaking his head.
"Tomas Gingerwart leads in Dundalis," the smaller man explained.
"Tomas Gingerwart leads those who will be led by Tomas Gingerwart," De'Unnero replied. "What claim might he make over a captain of the King's army? Or over an emissary of the Abellican Church? "
"In the village," Tomas said, motioning in the direction of Dundalis.
"Pray you go to town, brother Tomas," said De'Unnero, taking the upper hand. "Go along and quickly. Fetch me Captain Shamus Kilronney."
The demeaning manner of his speech brought Tomas back around to face him squarely, and made the other three men bristle and grumble.
"Consider yourself fortunate that I have not the time to argue with you," De'Unnero said. He realized that he would find little gain in agitating this group, but he was simply enjoying it too much to stop now. "I will speak with Captain Kilronney, but out here. I have no desire to enter the dirty hovels you call a village."
Again the men behind him bristled.
"Then turn your back and walk south," Tomas said defiantly, "where you came from, and where you belong."
"So it is true," said De'Unnero. "You are a friend of the one called Nightbird."
Tomas' eyes widened in shock, but before he or his friends could react, in the blink of an eye, De'Unnero spun to the right and brought his left hand, his tiger paw, raking down across the chest of the stunned scout standing there. He could have killed the man - indeed he wanted to do just that - but he wisely pulled the attack, claws latching onto the man's leather tunic and slicing it to tatters in a single, brutal swipe.
The man fell back, crying out in horror, and his companion moved toward De'Unnero. But the Bishop moved first, stepping away from Tomas and swinging right at the advancing scout. Again before any had made a definitive move to stop him, De'Unnero had the man defenseless; the Bishop's human hand held the scout's hair, tugging his head back, and the tiger paw was clamped over his face, claws extended so that they prodded the tender skin, but not hard enough to draw blood.
Tomas and his companion and the guard's partner all fell back a step, holding their hands up, trying to bring a level of calm.
De'Unnero surprised them by releasing his prisoner, shoving the man forward to the grasp of Tomas' companion. "Men in your position should be careful of the enemies they make," the Bishop explained. "Do not underestimate the Church's intentions here, or the lengths to which we shall go to get that which we desire. Now go and fetch me Shamus Kil-ronney. I have not the time nor the patience for your foolish games."
The four men held their ground for a moment, but then Tomas' com-panion looked to his leader, and the big man nodded to him to be away.
"When did they leave for the Barbacan?" the Bishop asked bluntly.
Tomas and the other did not answer.
"As you will," the Bishop conceded with a bow. "Your choice of alliance is confirmed, but be warned: a man might well be judged by those he names as allies."
"You are assuming a bit," Tomas said. "You keep mentioning Night-bird, as if you believe that we know the man, or woman, or whatever else it might be. But - "
De'Unnero held up his human hand and looked away. "As you will," he conceded, and he pointed to a cluster of thick pines. "Tell Captain Kil-ronney that I will await him there, that we two might speak privately." Without even bothering to keep a wary eye on the men he had just all but named as enemies, the Bishop walked away, confident that they would not attack. De'Unnero had an uncanny ability to measure potential enemies accurately - that was perhaps his greatest strength as a warrior - and he understood that his confidence only added to the intimidation, and that such intimidation would stay any action from the likes of Tomas Ginger-wart and his peasant companions.
Shamus Kilronney joined De'Unnero soon after, as dusk settled thickly about the forest. The captain had been told only that an Abellican monk wished to speak with him; and he was amazed to find the Bishop himself waiting.
"Why did you allow Nightbird to wander away?" De'Unnero asked before the man could even offer a proper greeting.
"W-what choice lay before me?" Shamus stammered in reply. "I would either let him go or fight him then and there, something which you explic-itly forbade."
His voice had risen considerably, and De'Unnero motioned for him to be quiet, pointing out that many curious ears were tilted their way.
"You were to watch him," De'Unnero said quietly. "And yet I find you here, sitting in this miserable village, while Nightbird wanders far to the north." Now the Bishop's voice rose along with his frustration.
"I asked him to allow me to go along," Shamus Kilronney argued loudly. "He would not have me."
"Youasked him?"De'Unnero echoed incredulously. "You are a captain in the King's army. Does that rank count for nothing?"
Shamus merely laughed and shook his head. "You do not understand the man called Nightbird," he tried to explain, "nor his relationship to these people. I doubt that the King himself would outrank Nightbird in the wilds of the northland."
"A dangerous presumption," the Bishop replied in a low and grim tone. "You should have gone along with him, or at least you should have shad-owed his movements. Gather your men this very night and set out, double-step, in pursuit."
"And you will accompany us?"
De'Unnero gave him a disgusted look. "I will precede you," he explained. "By the time you catch up to me, my business with Nightbird should be at its end. You and your soldiers will help me escort the sur-vivors, if there are any, back to Palmaris."
Shamus started to respond, but the Bishop cut him short. "It is time to go," De'Unnero explained, stepping out of the grove.
There stood Tomas and several other men, all pretending to be occupied with other small matters.
"They know that you hunt Nightbird," Shamus whispered in De'Un-nero's ear.
The Bishop snorted as if that hardly mattered. "That we hunt him, you mean," he whispered back. "Tell them not who I am."
Shamus only nodded, for he would not question the Bishop, who served as the voice of his King. Not now.
Tomas and the other men stiffened at the approach of the monk and the soldier, and more than one of them clutched his weapon tightly.
But they wouldn't strike, De'Unnero knew. They hadn't the courage; and so the Bishop took the tension that lay so thick in the air and heightened it, twisting it to his greater enjoyment. "If any deign to follow me, or perhaps to precede me on my way to find the one called Nightbird, then let him know that he is acting against the Abellican Church and that punishment shall be swift and sure," he said calmly.
Shamus hesitated and sucked in his breath, thinking that De'Unnero might have pushed too far.
But the Bishop was in control here, and Tomas and the others moved aside to let him pass.
More angered than impressed, Shamus Kilronney hesitated and studied his companion as they moved off alone into the forest. Only then did he notice the Bishop's feline limb, the mighty claws protruding from under the folds of his large sleeve. A shudder coursed through the captain, but he said no more all the way to Dundalis. There De'Unnero again instructed him to be on the move that very night, then took his leave, heading out to the north.
Back in the forest, Tomas Gingerwart and his companions inspected the torn tunic, the leather ripped apart as if it were some flimsy material.
"Nightbird'll be having his way with that one," one of the men pro-claimed, to the assenting grunts and nods of the others. Tomas, too, joined in that chorus, though the big man wasn't so sure that he agreed with the assessment. He had to go along, though, had to help them all find some comfort in their less-than-sincere confidence in their friend Nightbird. This strange and deadly monk had unnerved them all, particularly Tomas, who had looked the man in the eye, had come up against willpower and an inner strength and serenity based on supreme confidence - beyond anything he had ever imagined.
He prayed that this monk would not find his friend.
It wasn't really a cave - more a deep overhang of stone, a natural alcove formed on the rocky side of a bluff - but Elbryan, who had been using nothing more convenient than an abandoned bear's den or the natural tent formed by the lowest branches of a large pine, considered himself lucky to find so readily available a place for Oracle. He went into the deeper shadows as the bottom of the sun dipped below the western horizon, the sky still a brilliant explosion of red, pink, and violet, and set his mirror on a stone, then hung his blanket over the opening, dimming the place even more. He took one last peek out, one last look at the beautiful sky.
Then Nightbird sat, his back against the cool stone, staring at the barely seen mirror, letting his gaze focus completely within the depths of the glass. In moments, the inner reaches of the mirror fogged over and the specter appeared.
"Uncle Mather," the ranger greeted, though of course, the specter did not reply.
The ranger put his chin in his hands and tried to sort through his thoughts. He had felt compelled to come to Oracle this night, to speak with his uncle Mather, for he felt uneasy and out of sorts. Elbryan had not yet discerned the source of that discomfort, though, only knew that he did not want to be on this road at this time.
"Have I lost the desire?" he asked honestly. "Was my training by the Touel'alfar longer lived than my calling to the duty of that training? In the fights, when the goblins ambushed us and those soldiers were slain ... I did not want to be there. I was not afraid, and certainly had no reluctance to kill goblins, but that edge, that eager spirit, was not with me, Uncle Mather, nor has it followed my trail to the north. I understand that the journey to the Barbacan is important to Brother Braumin and his fellows, and that they pay great tribute to my friend by going to his grave, and yet..."
The ranger paused and lowered his head with a great sigh. For so long, the entire time since he had left the elves, Elbryan had known a purpose, a clear sense of duty. He had spent the months of the war seeking battles, not avoiding them. Then, when the monsters had been driven off, the ranger had found a new purpose and direction and a new enemy - the jailors of Bradwarden - to defeat. He could tell himself that this journey was just an extension of that battle, a furthering of Avelyn's war against his wicked brethren.
But somehow the ranger didn't feel that sense of purpose and urgency. Somehow, something was missing.
"Pony," he whispered, hardly even aware that he had spoken her name. He looked up and stared back into the mirror, the source of his anguish coming painfully clear.
"It is Pony, Uncle Mather," he stated more firmly. But what was it about Pony? Surely he missed her, had missed her ever since she had left him in Caer Tinella, from the very moment she had gone out of sight down the southern road. But he always missed Pony when she was not with him, even if it was only for a day of scouting in the forest. Elbryan didn't understand it, but neither did he fight against these feelings. He loved her, with all his heart and soul, and couldn't imagine his life without her. She made him better; certainly she had helped him takebi'nelle dasada to a higher level of mastery. But it was more than physical. Pony elevated Elbryan emotionally, gave him a more honest perspective on the world around and his place in it, and brought joy to him, every day. She completed him, and certainly he was not surprised to discover that he missed her now.
But it was more than that, he knew.
"I am afraid, Uncle Mather," he said quietly. "Pony is in a dangerous place, more dangerous than my own, though I have walked into the Wilder-lands, on a course toward the home of the creature that darkened the whole world. I cannot help her if she needs me; I cannot hear her if she calls my name."
He finished with another sigh and sat staring at the specter, the impassive figure, as if waiting for Uncle Mather to confirm his distress, to show him a sign that he was wrong, perhaps, or to tell him to turn and rush to Pony's side in the south.
The image in the mirror did not move.
Elbryan searched deeper into his mind, and then, when that failed, into his heart. "I am afraid for her because of the way we parted," he heard him-self say, and then he considered the words honestly. Then he admitted to himself that he was angry at Pony for leaving him, and that he didn't really understand why she had to go, what good it would accomplish for her to run back to Palmaris. He wasn't really afraid for Pony - she could take care of herself, and any around her, better than almost anyone else in the entire world! No, he was afraid that if something did happen to keep them apart, he had left her on terrible terms, with anger in his heart where there should have been only love and trust.
The ranger sat back against the wall and chuckled at his own stupidity. "I should have listened to her more carefully," he explained to the specter, but more to himself. "Perhaps my road, too, should have been to the south. Perhaps I should have gone with her." He gave another self- deprecating chuckle. "Or at least, I should have learned better why she had to go, and should have come to a point of acceptance before we parted.
"And now even more miles separate us, Uncle Mather," he lamented. "Pony is in Palmaris, where she said she had to be, and I am walking fur-ther from that place."
As he finished, the specter began to fade away, a fog filling the glass. At first, Elbryan thought that Oracle was at its end, that the meditation spell had slipped away. Perhaps he had found his resolution. Before he began to rise, the fog cleared in the center of the mirror, replaced by a glow that could not be a reflection.
Out rolled the fog, leaving an image for a startled Elbryan, a crystal- clear image, though the rocky alcove had darkened almost to black. An image he knew.
There was the flat top of Mount Aida; there was Avelyn's up-reaching arm, protruding from the stone.
A sense of warmth rushed over Elbryan, a sense of love and magic as intense as anything he had ever felt.
And then it was gone, but it took the ranger a long while to emerge from the alcove. He nearly slipped on a thin patch of ice when he came out.
That ice had been but a slick of water when he had entered the alcove. Ice - and they were not even in the mountains yet.
The ranger shook the warnings away. Oracle had shown him the way, and he knew now that he had to go to Avelyn as surely as Braumin and the others needed to make the pilgrimage: knew now that he, too, would find some answers in that special place.
The deepest snow would not deter him.
He wrapped his blanket tightly about him, and only then did he realize that the song of Bradwarden, the piping music of the Forest Ghost, drifted on the evening breeze. He didn't follow that tune, though, but went to the fire, to check on the monks and Roger, who was supposed to be on watch but who had succumbed to the haunting melody of Bradwarden's distant piping.
No matter, the ranger decided, for he knew that there were no goblins or other monsters in the area. He traded his blanket for his traveling cloak, checked on Symphony to ensure that the horse was comfortable for the night, then went out from the camp, following the tune as only one trained by the Touel'alfar could.
He found the centaur on a bare-topped hillock - ever Bradwarden's favorite stage - and approached quietly, not wanting to disturb the cen-taur's magical, musical trance. Indeed, Bradwarden played on for a long, long while.
When at last the centaur stopped and opened his eyes, he was not sur-prised to find Nightbird sitting beside him.
"Been talkin' to ghosts?" the centaur asked.
"To myself, mostly," the ranger corrected.
"And just what did ye tell yerself?" asked Bradwarden.
"That I did not want to be here, on this road, moving away from Pony," Elbryan replied. "I agreed to accompany the monks because I was angry. Did I tell you that? I was mad at Pony."
"Good a reason as any," Bradwarden said sarcastically.
"She came to me in a dream, back in Dundalis," Elbryan explained. "She told me that we could not meet, as we had agreed, soon after the turn of spring. And so I decided to accompany Brother Braumin, though I had no desire to go back to Aida."
"Dundalis is no further from us than Aida, boy," the centaur remarked. "And ye trust me when I'm tellin' ye that I've got less o' love for the dactyl-smellin' place than yerself!"
Elbryan shook his head. "I said that Ihad no desire." He explained, emphasizing the past tense. " I have seen better now, and know that I must go to Mount Aida, with or without Brother Braumin. Bad intentions put me on this road, but good fortune alone made it the correct road for Elbryan."
"Seems ye're gettin' all yer thoughts from dreams and ghosts," the cen-taur said with a snort. "I'm worryin' for ye, boy, and worryin' for meself for followin' ye!"
That brought a smile to Elbryan's face, and so did Bradwarden's fol-lowing notes, these coming not from his booming voice but from his melodic bagpipes. The music started abruptly, but melted quickly into a sweet, graceful melody, the music of the night, the music of the Forest Ghost.
