Stardeep

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Aglarond, City of Emmech

The Umber River flowed down from the heart of Thay, splitting the Dragonjaw Mountains between its tall and rugged ranges to the north, and the bare-sloped griffon nesting peaks to the south. The river plunged into the wide Tannath gap, passing the great Aglarondan fortress at Emmech before emptying into the Sea of Fallen Stars.

Emmech was a large, ramshackle town with a military air, its rough stone buildings huddling around a far older castle, Fortress Emmech. The fortress bristled with towers and parapets, and its wide hollows housed a significant portion of Aglarond's Army of the Lion; the last Thayan invasion down the Umber River wasn't so long ago that fear of the Red Wizards had passed, despite recent trade agreements. The fortress's most important structures were the two strong towers on either side of the Umber, which could raise from the river floor an ensorcelled chain to bar the passage of watercraft.

Raidon first saw Fortress Emmech in hazy evening light, as the caravan cleared the last descending limb of the Tannaths, and the river valley opened into the distance. They traveled the so-called "Umber River Road," a pitted, crumbling ribbon of rarely level, often snow-packed ground bordered by unscalable cliffs on one side and a river-filled chasm on the other.

Quent told Raidon that morning that the river was an oft-traveled trade route of late, for those willing to pay the Thayan tax. On the other hand, the adjoining "river road" was too dangerous for regular business. Unless your name was Quent and you wanted to shortcut the competition and avoid said tax, the caravan chief boasted. Even if that meant potentially facing the wrath of Red Wizard patrols.

The monk was certain two lives lost to river raiders was too high a price to pay for avoiding the Thayan river levy, but he held his tongue.

The caravan wound its way down the slope to the river gates, such as they were. The real defense of the town obviously lay behind the towering fortress walls, not here at the periphery, though a few token guards stood to attention when the caravan moved to gain entry. The guards looked over the wagons, then asked for a perfunctory trade fee in return for being allowed inside. Quent paid and asked, "Does Lord Demelin still command the fortress?"

One guard spit and replied, "Sure." Another nodded, but the rest were already moving back to the guard house. Interest in the caravan lapsed once it was determined Quent wasn't sponsored by any concern out of Thay.

Inside, the caravan quickly found the bazaar. This late, traffic was sparse, and many trade carts and temporary shops had already shuttered their wares behind lengths of dark tarpaulin, sail cloth, or wooden planks. Some merchants swept up while others packed away goods. Here and there, wily Emmechers wrangled for day-end deals.

With the help of everyone but the scouts Hark and Sulvan, who took their pay and departed for the dock quarter, the three-wagon caravan was converted into a tidy but temporary shop. Raidon at last saw what Quent bought and sold-pears, persimmons, oranges, grapes, and other fruit. Though such was common in Shou Town and Telflamm, such variety was rarer the farther one traveled from The Golden Way. Especially this far out of season, explained Quent.

Raidon bid the caravan chief and his fellow laborers farewell. The wagon drivers, Ledroc, Corthandu, and Khuldam the dwarf, waved after him. Quent, after paying him, was already busy making a deal with a local shopkeeper. Japhoca scowled and flipped him a rude hand gesture. The monk chose not to take offense.

His contract fulfilled and gold heavy in his pouch, Raidon walked into city twilight. Chandlers, elderly men in soot-stained aprons, lit lamps along the main street that led down to the docks. The Commorand brothers Erik and Adrik caught up to him and walked along, talking about how they hoped to find a new patron in Emmech willing to employ their sorcerous talents. Maybe even one that would take them across the Sea of Fallen Stars, or perhaps deep into the heart of the Yuirwood, where stood stones scribed with arcane glyphs-

"The Yuirwood?" Mention of the forest drew Raidon from his walking reverie. "What do you know of it?"

Adrik grinned conspiratorially and said, "This I read once in a moldy book: 'Strange enchantments and old, strong magic are thick in the Yuirwood's tangles. The ancient elves of Yuireshanyaar were masters of powerful spells, and they left behind menhir circles, standing stone monuments carved in an ancient Elvish dialect. The magic of these circles has faded with the strength of the Yuirwood itself, but some power remains in them yet.' "

Raidon gauged the sorcerer's manner, then asked him, "You wish to enter the Yuirwood?"

Adrik, the younger brother, nodded earnestly. Erik, the older, said, "We go wherever coin takes us." He shrugged.

"I travel into the Yuirwood. I need help, maybe a guide. I have this much to pay." Raidon poured out the contents of his pouch just filled with Quent's salary, the gold heavy in his palm.

Erik looked skeptical and said, "That's enough for one of us, not both."

"I'll go," said Adrik. He turned to his brother. "You stay here and find a wealthy sponsor with a ship, one who'll take us both across the Fallen Stars."

Erik considered. "Raidon, how much time do you intend to spend in the forest?"

"I seek my mother," replied the monk.

The older brother frowned. "Indeterminate, then. I don't know-"

"Erik, I'll be back within two tendays. The Shou's gold holds me only that long."

It was Raidon's turn to frown, but he could offer no rejoinder. A sorcerer's rate was high.

Erik said, "Then go, brother. You'll find me here when you return, seeking our glorious future in a smelly dock tavern." Erik Commorand smiled, waved, and walked away.

Adrik waved after his brother. "See you in two tendays, or less, if the Shou finds what he seeks!"

The sorcerer turned and clapped Raidon on the shoulder. "This will be a fantastic opportunity, I just know it! When do we leave?"

"Dawn. I need nothing in Emmech."

Adrik nodded. "Sure, sure. . where are we going, specifically, within the forest? It is a wide, trackless place. Let's see the map."

"I have no map."

The sorcerer cocked his head. "No map? Well, what landmarks shall we steer by?"

"I only know that my vanished mother came from these woods."

"You only know. ." Adrik's smile faltered. "That's all, nothing else? I'm not sure … but perhaps we can work with that. From what Yuir village did she hail?"

"I know not."

"What about her name? You must know that. We can ask around. ."

Raidon was already shaking his head. "To me, she was Mother. One day, she told me her old home called her back-the Yuirwood. She gave me something to remember her by-a forget-me-not-and she departed, twelve or so years ago. That is the sum of what I know."

Adrik's smile wholly departed and became a frown. The sorcerer's gaze fell to the heap of gold Raidon still proffered. A ghost of the grin returned.

"Right," he said, scooping up half the coins. "Looks like we still need a guide. I don't know this forest from the Rawlinswood."

Daylight turned dull needles emerald and snow into heaps of glittering diamonds. In the chilly twilight beneath the sunlight canopy, three figures followed a narrow and faintly marked forest path.

Necalama, an elf, walked at the head of the procession. Perhaps he was a half-elf-Raidon couldn't be sure. Regardless, he moved with an easy, certain stride, rarely looking behind to see whether the monk and sorcerer still followed. Necalama had agreed to lead Raidon Kane and Adrik Commorand through the forest to the well-known if less well-traveled elf refuge of Relkath's Foot.

Raidon offered their guide payment, but Necalama had shrugged and indicated he was going anyway; the two travelers might as well accompany him. Either way, he explained, it was an easy trek along a well-blazed path.

Raidon wasn't certain he agreed with the man's assessment of the road-the path they followed, when he could discern it, was nothing like the trade routes he'd traveled since leaving Telflamm. Half the time, it seemed they walked no path at all through the snow-sprinkled forest.

In fact, walking among the Yuirwood trees was an entirely novel experience to the Shou Town native. He was used to lanes bristling with fellow city dwellers, hurrying this way and that, intent on business or pleasure or both. Colorfully dressed citizens and dual-story buildings clogged perspective whichever way you looked, and the clamor of thousands living next to each other could never be drowned out.

Here, wind brushed through the trees, whispering green secrets Raidon couldn't decipher, though he suspected messages of tranquility. On more than one occasion, white-coated hares broke from hiding in a flurry of snow and bounded away, racing toward some private corner of the woods. A hawk's cry sounded above the canopy, and once, more distant and higher, a mighty roar stopped Raidon and Adrik in their tracks, though the noise barely drew an upward glance from Necalama. When the elf in the lead showed no sign of pausing or providing any explanation about the origin of the great snarl, Shou and mercenary exchanged a shrug and continued.

Their guide explained that Relkath's Foot lay across almost the entire breadth of the Yuirwood from where they entered the forest south of Emmech. Such a trip might stretch to four or more long days of travel, or so Raidon initially expected. However, the elf claimed he knew secret paths through the Yuirwood deeps that would end up shaving a day or more off their trip. The sorcerer asked about the possibility of seeing some standing stones marked with ancient glyphs along the way. Necalama had smiled and said they certainly would, else the savings in time would never come to pass.

On more than one occasion, Raidon found himself listening to the ever-talkative Adrik, who seemed compelled to speak of his many pursuits, a few of which the monk was surprised to find vaguely compelling.

For instance, Adrik told of how he once emerged from a moldy tomb clutching a spell-twined parchment containing an epic spell of true prophecy. . and then an interesting tree had Adrik off the path and exclaiming over its silver leaves, leaving Raidon wondering about the oracular magic. Another time Adrik was describing a competition he'd entered in a distant city-something called the Duel Arcane, where wizards, sorcerers, warlocks, geomancers, and others with any claim at all to magic congregated to show their art. . and then a bird-cry interrupted the tale. So much for the Duel Arcane; Adrik sidetracked into a long diatribe about a pet hawk he owned as a child.

Raidon held firm to his focus.

On day two, Adrik was telling Raidon about something he referred to as chaomancy, which involved all manner of unfamiliar terms such as strange attractors, resonance islands, and words so foreign they failed to find even a fleeting hold in Raidon's mind. Necalama raised a hand, cutting Adrik off in mid-explanation, and pointed, first to the left then to the right.

The monk scanned for threats, but saw only two stone obelisks, one on either side of the faint trail. The obelisks were weathered and provided a home to many shades of green moss, though intricate inscriptions were clearly visible under the living veneer.

Adrik broke off his story, clapped his hands together, and ran to the obelisk on the right. "A Yuirwood rune stone!"

Raidon strangled a sigh before it could shake his focus.

Necalama smiled. He said, "Such things are scattered all through these lands. The work of an elven civilization long gone, but magic yet remains in some of them."

Adrik reached out and gingerly traced an angular inscribed symbol. He said, "Yes-I sense something slumbering. I can't quite make out its purpose.."

Their guide said, "No need for you to trouble yourself-I know their power. These obelisks are bound with enchantments that bend distance, making shortcuts of what would otherwise be long roads."

"A portal?" Adrik stepped back.

The elf waggled his hand, tilting his head to one side. He said, "Close, but not precisely correct. So yes, you might describe it as a portal. Follow me through and you can decide for yourself what you want to call it."

So saying, Necalama strode down the trail. Raidon tensed, waiting for the half-elf to disappear in a flash of smoke or in a sparkle of strange lights.

Necalama passed the invisible line between the two standing stones. And nothing; Necalama walked unconcernedly forward, the scones behind him. The guide remained stubbornly, fully visible. After he moved ten or so feet, he paused and gazed back. "Coming?" he asked, amusement curling his lips.

"It did not work?" inquired the monk.

"Something happened," said Adrik, one hand held forward, palm out. "I sense a discharge of magic, even now."

"Come along-follow me between the stones."

Adrik and Raidon exchanged glances and followed.

Passing through the stones failed to disturb Raidon's equilibrium in the least. He sensed no change in the environment as he walked. The faint trail ahead remained steady, and looking back, he could still see the route they had traveled prior to passing between the stones, without any discontinuity.

The monk decided their guide was having a little fun at their expense. Weren't elves known for such foolishness?

Which meant they still had a few days of travel ahead of them, if their goal was on the western side of the Yuirwood as Necalama earlier indicated. Adrik was mumbling about probability and sliding four-space projections; in other words, gibberish.

Ahead, the trail broadened into a real, easily discernible path, almost a road. They passed through a copse of rustling aspens. A breath of sweet air moved through the murmuring aspen leaves, refreshing Raidon's mind and body with an insubstantial touch.

When they emerged from the tiny grove, they found themselves walking down a sun-dappled, leaf-strewn street in a half-elven forest enclave.

"Welcome to Relkath's Foot!" proclaimed Necalama, his arm sweeping across the panorama.

Four majestic conifers towered hundreds of feet from their broad bases, thrusting high above the forest canopy. These four splendid specimens, old beyond the years of humans, were the heart of Relkath's Foot. From this central landmark radiated hundreds of elevated wooden platforms resting in the boughs of the surrounding forest, strung together by a network of leaf-twined ropes and suspension bridges built of hardy pine. Green-clad half-elves, made tiny by their height above the forest floor, moved here and there across them, intent on personal tasks.

Elaborately carved and adorned platforms hung in the four largest trees-amazing structures of living wood that served as floors, walls, and lofty ceilings. Leafy doors studded these tree homes, and everblooming flowers grew around all. Warm lamplight flickered from the many open-air windows.

Though the air was wintry and Raidon's breath steamed, the layer of snow covering the ground in eastern Aglarond was absent.

Necalama pointed at the top of the tallest of the four conifers, at the largest and most impressive structure. "The Royal Hall," he said. "Princess Blindelsyn Olossyne resides there. The only thing higher near here is an aerie of song dragons allied with the city."

"Can we go up there?" exclaimed the sorcerer.

Their guide looked doubtful. He said, "Outsiders are rarely permitted in the boughs. But travelers are welcome in the merchants' square, which includes a pair of inns."

The elf gestured toward dozens of quaint wooden structures built around a massively wide square on the ground bracketed by the four towering trees. Dozens of figures, mostly elves and half-elves, milled through the area. Raidon recognized some humans, a few halflings, and even a dwarf. The scents of grilled food and the tinkle of music washed across them.

The mouth-watering aromas enticed the monk, but. .

"I have questions," Raidon said, turning to face their half-elf guide, "about my mother. Where can I ask-who should I ask?" When Raidon had shown Necalama his mother's forget-me-not during their trip, the elf failed to recognize it, though he said someone in Relkath's Foot was sure to know the meaning of the smoothly regular tree symbol.

"Inns are good places for questions and, as I said, we have two," replied Necalama. "The Green Man"-the elf pointed to an ordinary wooden house on the north side of the square-"and the Taproot"-he pointed at a lower building that sprawled back into the undergrowth-"are both fine places. Outsiders are more common at the Taproot, which boasts a first-class alehouse and private rooms. The Green Man has only a single common room in which visitors can bed down. The locals prefer it."

Adrik enthused, "Alehouse! I say-"

"Best we try the Green Man, then," said Raidon. "The locals are more likely to be able to help me."

The sorcerer frowned and nodded.

Necalama said, "You'll find that its spirits are just as fine as the Taproot, Adrik. In fact, if you don't mind my suggestion, ask for a glass of rootweal wine-you'll never find better."

"I will!"

They bid their guide good-bye. At the last, Raidon convinced the half-elf to take a couple gold coins for his aid. Then they made directly for the Green Man. The savory smells intensified with every step.

Perhaps a little food before questions wouldn't hurt.

The Green Man's common room shimmered with tiny gleaming lanterns that hung as if strung from a garland along the rafters and walls, then twined down the living wooden supports. The light picked out long-legged figures attired in golds, greens, and browns. Most held long-stemmed goblets in one or both hands, others held instruments, and at least a few grasped graven pipes from which fragrant smoke emerged.

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.

Yarmarion followed in Raidon's wake. The elderly elf was more spry than he looked. Raidon worried briefly about Adrik, then shrugged. Nothing was likely to befall a man sleeping on a tavern floor worse than burglary.

A half-elf woman in ragged, blood-stained clothing stood at the square's center, accompanied by elves clad in militaristic outfits of green, gold, and dun. Their clothing was resplendent. From the way the patterns on their clothes shifted and changed, Raidon guessed the colors would blend perfectly into forestlike hues and textures should one of them step into the pathless wild.

Raidon touched Yarmarion on the sleeve. "Are those the Masters of the Yuirwood?"

"Yes. But not the woman. I've never seen her before."

Three of the Masters continued to blow long, shrill notes on brass horns.

"Masters-are they called that because they rule this forest?"

Yarmarion replied, "They do not rule. But their order is elite. They are afforded great respect because they keep the ancient Yuirwood free of evil influence. Without their efforts, the forest's slow retreat would proceed all the faster. The Yuirwood once covered all the peninsula."

"They must know many things."

"They lay claim to ancient lores, and know all the secrets of the menhir circles that dot the Yuirwood deeps."

The Masters gave one last long tone, then stowed the instruments at their belts. One of the regally accoutered half-elves stepped forward. A great yew bow was strapped on his back. He projected, "Invaders threaten our forest borders! This wood elf, called Janesta, witnessed their terrible attack, and is the lone survivor of her tribe!"

The assembled audience, which hadn't completely quieted when the Master had started speaking, now hushed as one.

The speaker continued. "The attack was launched from within the eaves of the Yuirwood. The attack was carried out by strange, kin-slaying elves. And no, I do not mean our long-sundered brethren, the drow."

The silence was broken by gasps, protestations, and cries of surprise. The man spoke over the turmoil. "It is true-Janesta describes her attackers as steely eyed elves more noble and terrible even than gray elves, mail-clad, and astride mailed steeds. Her description matches the likeness of the long-vanished Yuir elves who ranged these woods when the trees ruled all. Whatever nobility they once possessed, it is clear some surviving splinter of that race lives still, old, corrupt, and senile with age!"

A voice rang out from above-the princess. She asked, "Where have these stagnant Yuir resided all these centuries without our knowledge, we who now claim the wide woods?"

"They linger behind the wood, we guess, in a veiled space to which the menhir paths lead for those who know the route."

The princess called down, "This is possible? Do the Masters not know all the routes?"

The speaker shook his head. "We know many-not all. We've long suspected that deeper, more tangled paths lay outside our lore. Now we know it is true."

"Let Janesta speak," said the princess, from where she stood as if on a mighty branch, not empty space. "From whence came these awful destroyers? Tell us, for we are kin of your kin. We will avenge your tribe's memory and defend the sanctity of the forest."

The wood elf, disoriented and pale, looked up into the sky and said in a weak voice, "They came from across a causeway-a causeway fronted by two soaring obelisks. We set our encampment nearby to study the stones, and the strange mist that so often obscured the causeway from sight and even touch."

"Tell us more of this causeway," commanded the princess when the woman faltered.

"The day prior to the attack, my friend Natal Peacethorn and I.." Janesta choked, wiped at her eyes, then continued. "Natal and I found the causeway clear for the first time. We crossed it. On the other side we found a massive granite gate sealed against all entry. And above.. stars wheeled in the sky, though Natal and I crossed the causeway in full daylight."

The assembled Masters looked at her with consternation, though a few nodded, as if her words confirmed a long-held conjecture.

"The gates were closed, thick with glyphs we couldn't decipher. Above the gate was scribed a single massive symbol-a white, treelike symbol surrounded by a field of flickering blue-tinged darkness."

Raidon's eyes did their best to leap from their sockets just as his jaw threatened to detach from his skull and clatter to the ground.

Yarmarion turned and fixed Raidon Kane with a measuring glance. He said, "It would seem your arrival today is not accidental, traveler."