The Reaver

CHAPTER TEN

Uurmishan gentlemen wore brimless drum-shaped hats and loose robes woven in bright patterns, and when Umara asked, one of the grateful folk of Morningstar Hollows had rooted around in a trunk, produced such a citified outfit, and presented it to Anton. The clothes felt strange after years away, but they ought to help him blend in, just as his beardless chin should keep him from looking too much like Anton Marivaldi the young naval officer, customs official, and despicable traitor.

It was his good fortune that in recent years, certain stylish fellows had taken to shaving, and the famous Turmishan square-cut beard wasn’t quite as ubiquitous as it used to be. Traditionalists might frown at Anton in disapproval, but the mere lack of such a feature wouldn’t make him seem peculiar and accordingly suspect.

Some gray pigment in his black hair and a hairline and eyebrows subtly reshaped with a razor completed his disguise. It didn’t seem like much of a transformation to him, but Umara and Stedd both insisted he looked different. With Sapra growing ever larger in front of the Octopus, he supposed he was on the verge of finding out.

The harbormaster here had resorted to the same sort of improvisations as his counterparts in Westgate and elsewhere to cope with the rising sea. Many of the piers had a rickety, temporary look, and buoys alerted traffic to hazards recently submerged beneath the waves. In the city behind the waterfront, a few gray towers raised conical roofs above the surrounding buildings.

Anton glanced down at Stedd and was surprised to see a frown. “If you tell me Lathander didn’t really mean for us to come to Sapra after all,” the pirate said, “I swear, I’ll toss you over the side.”

Stedd smiled, but only for an instant. “It’s not that.”

“What, then?”

“The god sent me here to end the famine. I’m sure he did. But I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”

“You probably aren’t all by yourself. But that’s why we’re going to recruit some help. So stiffen your spine. If I learned anything as a pirate, it’s that the more dubious the venture, the more confident the leader needs to appear.”

The clerkish adolescent port official who met the Octopus reminded Anton just a bit of his younger self. He didn’t have quite the same martyred air of deeming his talents wasted on chores that were beneath him, but he didn’t appear overjoyed that duty had called him forth into the rain, either.

Anton took a deep breath and then climbed down onto the dock. The official didn’t shriek, faint, or snatch for a blade upon coming face to face with such an infamous malefactor. He simply recorded the names of the ship and its captain-Anton supplied aliases for both the pirate vessel and himself-and collected the mooring tax. Then he asked the ship’s business.

Anton saw no harm in giving a truthful answer to that question: “My passengers are here to seek an audience with the Elder Circle.”

The young man smiled a crooked smile. “Good luck.”

“Why?” Anton asked. “What’s the matter?”

The official hesitated. “It’s not my place to gossip about the Emerald Enclave. Just … don’t expect too much. And be careful passing through town.”

Anton grinned. “I never do, and I always am.”

Leaving the mariners to tend the Octopus, he, Stedd, and Umara headed into the city. The rain clattered down hard for a few breaths, then slackened for a while, then repeated the cycle. That, the gloom, the gaunt, haggard faces of passersby, and the empty marketplaces made Anton feel as if the city of his birth had never truly recovered from the night and day demons had burned and slaughtered a path through the heart of it.

But that was nonsense. Sapra had new problems now. He thrust thoughts of the past out of his mind and concentrated on watching for the danger the port officer had led him to expect.

Somewhat to his surprise, he didn’t see any chalked tridents or other signs that Umberlee worship was on the rise hereabouts. Perhaps the Emerald Enclave, druids of Silvanus all, and the secular authorities who looked to them for guidance had taken a stand against Evendur’s agents.

But he did see surly-looking outlanders loitering and sometimes even camped in public places. They all wore blue somewhere about their persons, and some periodically tossed powder into their campfires to make those burn a deep and unnatural azure.

Sitting on the rim of a fountain, five such fellows spotted Umara, Stedd, and Anton going past, conferred briefly among themselves, then rose and sauntered forward. Anton gave them a smile and put his hand on the hilt of his saber. Umara raised an arm gloved in seething shadow. The outlanders stopped short, then turned back around.

“Who are these people?” asked Stedd calmly. Apparently, after all he’d been through, he didn’t find street-corner extortionists especially intimidating.

“Scar pilgrims,” Anton answered. “Folk who willingly visit places like the tainted spot in Gulthandor for the wisdom and power they hope it will bring. Sapra is a way station for those who travel back and forth to the Plaguewrought Lands south of the Chondalwood. Turmishan merchants wring a lot of coin out of them, but we dislike one another even so.”

“Why?” asked Stedd.

“Turmishans worship the Treefather and therefore Nature. Scar pilgrims court a power that poisons Nature. It’s not a good fit.”

To Anton’s disappointment, it proved impossible to hire horses, mules, or even donkeys. Livery stables that still possessed such animals were keeping them close to make sure no one ate them.

He supposed it wasn’t a calamity. The hike was less arduous than some they’d undertaken together, and it remained so even after the Hierophant’s Trail commenced its climb into the highlands called the Elder Spires. Still, he was hungry and footsore when they reached their destination at dusk, and Umara looked as though she felt the same. Only Stedd, who’d walked thousands of miles since the day Lathander first spoke to him, was still fresh enough to gawk at the House of Silvanus with the appreciation the sight deserved.

Situated atop a sort of plateau, the supreme sanctuary of the Emerald Enclave was a structure of rough-hewn granite and wood, roofed but open at the sides. It sat on a little island in the middle of a pool pocked by plummeting raindrops. Hissing, the water plunged away in three places to become waterfalls that in turn gave birth to the Calling, Elder, and Springbrook Rivers.

Accompanying his father, Anton had twice visited the House of Silvanus as a boy, and despite his general boredom with religious matters, the scene had impressed him with its intimations of harmony, serenity, and hidden power. In and of itself, it still did, but the armed company camped near the pool struck a discordant note. A disparate lot, some wore the tabards of Sapra’s city watch, some, the jupons of the Turmishan army, and some, the green and brown of the rangers who patrolled the wild lands in the enclave’s service.

Anton turned to Stedd. “Does Lathander have any information to share about that crew?”

“What?” Stedd said absently. He was still gazing across the water at the sanctuary, and the pirate realized he had yet to notice the warriors.

Anton flicked the tip of his index finger against Stedd’s temple. “Wake up! I know the view looks interesting, and probably more to you than it ever did to me. But there’s something here we didn’t expect.”

“Right.” Orienting on the men-at-arms, the boy frowned. “I don’t know. Nothing’s coming to me.”

Anton sighed. “Of course it isn’t.”

“I see two options,” Umara said. “Walk right up to the warriors and ask why they’re mustering in a sacred, secluded place, or head on into the sanctuary. Either is better that waiting until a druid or ranger accosts us demanding to know why a Red Wizard is lurking about.”

“I agree,” Anton said, “and we came to confer with the chief druids, not their retainers. So …” He walked to one of the strings of steppingstones that meandered across the pool and then, despite himself, hesitated.

“What’s wrong?” asked Stedd.

Anton grinned. “There’s an old story that a guardian spirit will kill anyone who tries to cross with evil intent.”

Stedd cocked his head. “You aren’t evil.”

“Maybe not at the moment. But suppose the water spirit judges folk by their past deeds. Or the color of their mages’ robes.”

“Stop blathering and go,” Umara said.

The stones were flat and close enough to one another to make the crossing easy, and no guardian rose from the water to bar the way. But a druid with a bronze sickle hanging from his belt and a staff in his hand emerged from the interior of the temple to watch the newcomers approach. The staff had ivy coiling up its length.

As Anton stepped onto the island, the druid said, “What do you seek here?”

“An audience with the Elder Circle,” Anton replied.

The druid grunted. “You’ve come at a bad time. They aren’t receiving.” His eyes shifted to Umara. “I mean no offense when I say I doubt they’d want me to admit a Red Wizard at any time.”

“You may have heard something about Lathander’s boy prophet.”

Anton indicated Stedd. “Here he is.”

The druid’s eyes widened, but then he frowned. “Anyone could claim that. I’ve heard of wandering charlatans with child accomplices who have claimed it.”

“You’re a priest,” Anton said. “I trust you recognize holy power when you see it. Do something, Stedd.”

Seemingly seeking permission, the boy looked up at the druid, and the Oak Father’s servant nodded. Stedd stepped forward and wrapped his fingers around those gripping the staff.

Golden light glowed from the point of contact. The druid gasped, and, rustling, the ivy wrapping the staff put forth new leaves.

“Convinced?” Anton asked.

The druid swallowed. “I felt something, certainly. Something … bracing.”

“Good,” Umara said, “because Stedd’s here to help you. As am I, who protected him on his journey.”

“All right,” said the man with the staff. “All three of you can come in.”

Candles and watch lights illuminated the interior of the House of Silvanus. There were no doors or truly enclosed spaces, but the seemingly haphazard arrangement of stone slabs and wooden pillars and screens created something akin to discrete chambers and the possibility of privacy even so. It also made the place mazelike.

Fortunately, the travelers’ guide knew all the twists and turns. With him leading the way, they soon reached a space that might have been a bard’s living quarters, with a collection of musical instruments occupying much of the space and a carving of Silvanus presiding over an altar in the corner. A male half-elf and a human woman sat at a round table drinking from wooden goblets.

The half-elf had tawny skin, pale blue eyes, and curly brown hair touched with gray. A harp sat at his feet on the earthen floor.

The woman was tall with broad shoulders, fit- and formidable-looking despite her white hair and the wrinkles in her face. She wasn’t a native Turmishan, but a life lived mostly outdoors had weathered her skin to nearly the same mahogany color.

Both drinkers wore druidic robes, and both looked vexed at being disturbed. Their scowls only deepened when they spied Umara.

“I know,” Anton said. “She’s a wicked Thayan, and her mere presence profanes this sacred place. Get past it. What matters is that the boy is Stedd Whitehorn, Lathander’s Chosen, come to save Turmish in its time of need.”

The half-elf and the druidess looked at him as though they thought he was making an incomprehensible joke. Then, apparently realizing he was serious, they turned their gazes on Stedd, who, suddenly all prophet without a hint of childish shyness or uncertainly in his demeanor, stared back.

Neither drinker recited an incantation or brandished a talisman, nor did Stedd evoke Lathander’s light. But a heightening tension in the air, a feeling of crescendo without the actual sound, convinced Anton the druids were nonetheless using magic to scrutinize the boy, and he was opening himself to the examination.

And finally, the half-elf said, “It’s true.” His voice was a rich and resonant bass, and a little shaky now. “The Morninglord has returned.”

“So the lad keeps saying,” Anton drawled. “And presumably, you’re two of the three people who most need to know about it.”

“Yes,” the half-elf replied, rising. “I’m Ashenford Torinblow, elder of the enclave. My friend is Grand Cabal Shinthala Deepcrest.”

Anton introduced Umara and gave his new alias. Ashenford then thanked the travelers’ guide, sent him on his way, and urged his new guests to sit.

Anton found it was good to take a seat, even better to savor a first sip of tart white wine, and best of all to realize that, whatever happened next, he’d accomplished his purpose. He’d conducted Stedd to his destination in spite of everything Evendur Highcastle, vampire wizards, and fiery giant lions could do to stop him.

“If we’d been expecting you,” Shinthala said, “or if you’d simply come at a different time, we would have welcomed you as befits a Chosen. It wouldn’t have been like walking in on a pair of topers grousing in a tavern.”

“This is better,” Stedd replied. “If you had a ceremony or something, I wouldn’t know what to do.”

Ashenford leaned forward. “Your friend here said you’ve come to save Turmish. Does that mean to end the famine?”

“Yes,” said Stedd. “I can’t draw down nearly enough light to do it all by myself. But when we … looked into each other, I saw you two are Chosen of Silvanus. If we work together, we can do something.” He faltered when he seemed to perceive that, contrary to his expectations, the two druids didn’t share his enthusiasm. Rather, the brief excitement his arrival had engendered was visibly wilting. “Can’t we?”

Ashenford raked his fingers through his hair. “The Spellplague … diminished the druids of Turmish, even the Elder Circle. And even if it were otherwise, we’d need Cindermoon-the hierophant-casting alongside us to have any hope of accomplishing anything so ambitious.”

Umara waved an inpatient hand. “Then get her. Stedd assumed he’d be collaborating with all three of you.”

“It’s not that easy,” Shinthala said.

Anton sighed. “Somehow, it never is. You’d better tell us.”

“The Blue Fire … burned Cindermoon on the inside,” the white-haired druidess said. “Or maybe rage and grief over the harm it did to the land wounded her. But gradually, through the hundred years since, she’s changed. She changed her very name from Shadowmoon to Cindermoon as if to proclaim that, so far as she’s concerned, nothing is left of the world but ash. Her way of thinking has become spiteful and suspicious.”

“In other words,” Anton said, “she’s crazy. But apparently, not enough that you felt moved to depose her.”

Shinthala glowered. “Silvanus raised her up. It’s not for us to cast her down.”

Ashenford picked up his harp and set it in his lap. It seemed to ease him to feel it under his hands. “I’m not as convinced as Shinthala that that’s truly the Forest Father’s will. But either way, it would have been reckless to try any such thing, because for a long while now, Cindermoon’s magic has been stronger than ours. Maybe because she’s a pureblood elf. She’s still young, and although Silvanus’s blessing lengthened our lives, Shinthala and I are past our primes.”

“Look,” Umara said, “if your Hierophant is … ill, that’s unfortunate. But is she so addled she wants your land to starve?”

Shinthala scowled. “No, but she’s already working on her own supposed answer to the problem.”

Anton grunted. “Which brings us to the men-at-arms outside.”

“Yes,” the druidess said. “Hating the Blue Fire, she likewise despises the pilgrims who worship it, and at the moment, it’s particularly easy to see them as a menace and an infestation. They can’t buy provisions for the journey south, and even if they could, folk coming north report that the Plaguewrought Land isn’t even tainted anymore. So, desperate and bewildered, they bide here and do their best to obtain food Turmishans need for themselves.”

“So the obvious answer,” Umara said, “is to slaughter them.”

Ashenford nodded. “Starting with Sapra and working out from there.”

“But that’s wrong!” Stedd cried. “And it’s Umberlee’s way even if waveservants aren’t in Turmish preaching it. When the news goes around that that’s how your people are acting, it will help her win.”

“I don’t know Umberlee’s intentions,” the half-elf replied. “But I agree that massacring the pilgrims would be both evil and futile. Turmish would still be starving when the last of them lay dead.”

“Then surely,” Umara said, “Cindermoon will set aside her vendetta for another day if we can only persuade her that magic offers a genuine solution.”

“You’d think so,” Shinthala said. “And we’ll try our best.”

And fail, evidently, Anton thought. For he didn’t see a trace of genuine hope in either her or Ashenford.

“I’ll tell you how to ‘try,’ ” Umara said, the edge in her voice betraying that the druids’ negativity was starting to grate on her. “If your hierophant’s insane, cure her.”

“Do you think,” Ashenford answered, sounding annoyed in her turn, “that Shinthala and I haven’t offered time and again? It doesn’t matter how tactful or oblique we are. Cindermoon doesn’t believe anything’s wrong with her, and any offer to pray over her or cast spells on her behalf only rouses the suspicious part of her nature.”

“Stedd doesn’t need her consent,” the Red Wizard said. “He’ll whisper an incantation, wave his hand, light will shine, and that will be that.”

“I doubt it,” Ashenford said. “Believing herself under attack, Cindermoon would resist the magic with her own power and will. It would be a struggle more like an exorcism than an ordinary work of healing.”

“And a work we couldn’t possibly perform unless we had her alone,” Shinthala said. “As we never do anymore, not since she’d grown leery of us. She always has some sort of protectors hovering close at hand.”

This is not my problem, Anton told himself. I did what I promised, and the boy and I are quits.

But it wasn’t that simple. It was infuriating to think that Stedd might have traveled so far and braved so much only to fail in the end, and despite his better judgment, that anger goaded him to speak.

“All right,” he growled, “we’re going to have a two-tiered plan. First, you holy people will make an honest effort to talk Cindermoon into helping us. Because it doesn’t matter if she’s crazy so long as she cooperates. But if she won’t …”

Arguing Ashenford and Shinthala past their misgivings as necessary, he told them as much as they needed to know. He confided the rest to Stedd and Umara after the druids departed to arrange a meeting with their counterpart.

When he finished, both the boy and the wizard looked upset. Their distress touched and irritated him in equal measure.

“It’s unnecessary,” Umara said.

“I hope,” Anton replied, “the whole second part of the plan is unnecessary. But if not, this is what makes it work.”

“But afterward-” Stedd began.

“What did I tell you after we seized the Octopus?” the reaver asked.

Stedd hesitated, not, Anton judged, because he didn’t remember the answer but because he didn’t want to give it. “That either Lathander’s cause is worth risking our lives, or it isn’t.”

“And apparently, I believe it is.” Anton grinned. “What do you suppose is wrong with me?”

At the center of the House of Silvanus was a circular space open to the sky. A ring of menhirs stood around the periphery, and just inside it, three granite thrones stood side-by-side facing the altar stone in the middle.

Cindermoon felt a pang of resentment as she, Shinthala, and Ashenford all took their seats. Granted, the founders of the Emerald Enclave had intended that three should preside here as equals. But for all their wisdom, the druids of yore hadn’t foreseen the Blue Fire. The burned, broken land it had left behind needed a single decisive, clearheaded spiritual leader, one who could do what needed doing without having to take the opinions of lesser minds into account.

Perhaps one day, Cindermoon would be rid of them, but for now, she’d have to suffer through whatever charade they’d devised to trick her into abandoning her present course of action. She waved a copper-skinned hand that was dainty even for a female elf. “Get on with it.”

“Gladly.” Ashenford then raised his voice so it would carry to the other side of the open space. “Come forth!”

Three people stepped out into the yellow torchlight and the pattering rain. They were as Cindermoon had been led to expect. A blond outlander boy. A Red Wizard-more proof, had the elf needed it, that the other members of the Elder Circle were either idiots or willing to conspire with even the vilest blackguards to undermine her. And a strapping Turmishan warrior with a trace of gray in his hair and a blade hanging on either hip.

“Hello,” said the little boy.

“This is Stedd Whitehorn,” Ashenford said, “the Chosen of Lathander.”

Cindermoon shook her head. “I don’t see it.”

Shinthala frowned. “Because you haven’t tried.”

“Please,” Ashenford said, “look with the eyes of the spirit. That’s all it takes.”

Cindermoon was reluctant to do that because it required lowering her guard. But she also didn’t want to appear timid or unreasonable, and at least she didn’t lack for protectors. Loyal druids, rangers, and Drummer, a huge black bear that had been her companion since he was a cub, were all close at hand.

She took a long breath and emptied her mind of distractions, of anger, caution, and the clammy feel of the rainwater on the seat of her throne. Then, silently praying, she asked Silvanus to help her see.

At the same time, she sensed the boy-Stedd-revealing himself to the best of his ability. Their complementary efforts produced a sudden layering of her vision. She still saw the boy, but at the same time, she beheld a red and golden dawn, and with it came a surge of hope so keen and unexpected it made her laugh out loud.

When the revelation faded, she raised a trembling hand to her brow. “Treefather,” she breathed.

“Now do you see?” Shinthala demanded.

It was the human druidess’s eagerness to make Cindermoon commit, to manipulate and manage her, that jolted her back to her customary wariness. Yet she saw little choice but to concede the truth. To do otherwise might call her powers and thus her leadership into question.

“I do,” she said. “Welcome, Stedd Whitehorn. The Emerald Enclave rejoices at the god of the dawn’s rebirth.”

“Uh, thank you.” Stedd hesitated. “Did Ashenford and Shinthala tell you why Lathander sent me?”

“They claim to help end the famine.”

“Yes. If we all work together, all the Chosen and the other druids, too, there must be something we can do.”

“There is,” Cindermoon said, “and I’ve already set a plan in motion to do it. I’ll be grateful for any support you can give.”

Stedd frowned. “You mean, the plan to kill the scar pilgrims?”

“Ah. My peers told you about it.”

“Lathander wouldn’t want me to help with that. I don’t think … I mean, I know he wouldn’t want anybody to just go kill hundreds of people.”

Cindermoon’s fingers tightened on the arms of her throne. Plainly, this was why Ashenford and Shinthala were so happy another Chosen had turned up. To their minds, the boy was another voice of equivalent stature to speak against her and dilute her authority. But by deep roots and green leaves, it wasn’t going to matter.

“Then do the Morninglord’s bidding,” she said, “insofar as a child newly Chosen understands it. But please realize that although my folk revere your god, we worship Silvanus above all others. And he’s decreed the pilgrims have to die.”

Ashenford grimaced. “Shinthala and I are his Chosen, too, and we haven’t heard him say any such thing.”

“Then clean out your ears!” Cindermoon snapped. “Is the plan truly all that hard to comprehend? By purging Turmish of all who worship the Blue Fire, we’ll magically cleanse the land of the last of the taint itself. That in turn will restore the enclave’s strength. Then we’ll use that might to feed the hungry.”

Stedd shook his head. “You can’t take the power from something so bad and use it for something good.”

Cindermoon’s fingers tightened on the armrests until they ached and she pried them loose again. “Boy, you’re debating first principles with one who was already a druid and Chosen when your great-great-grandfather … never mind. I’ll answer as your station if not your experience deserves. You couldn’t turn death into life. But the Oakfather is the lord of all Nature, hunter and prey, dark and light. Druids can do things-difficult, ambiguous things-that dawnbringers and sunlords never could.”

“Still,” Ashenford said, “Lathander has returned in a time of turmoil. Surely, he has a thousand urgent matters to concern him. Yet he elected to send his first new Chosen here, to us. We’d be wise to consider what the boy has to say.”

Cindermoon glared at him. “You’d be wise to heed what I’m telling you. The scar pilgrims are going to die. The Assembly of Stars has given its blessing-”

“Because you approached them without our knowledge,” Shinthala growled.

“-and I’ve gathered warriors to carry out the campaign. You two can either help, and prove yourselves worthy of the rank you hold, or hold back and-”

Voices cried out. Drummer moaned and scrambled behind the row of thrones. Startled, Cindermoon jerked around on her seat and looked straight ahead.

While she’d been busy squabbling with her peers, a circle of wavering, somehow filthy-looking red light had appeared in the air. It was a window into a place where almost everything was on fire, including the damned souls shrieking and flailing in pits like mass graves and the giant soaring toward the breach between worlds.

Some trick of enhanced motion or warped time brought the balor to the window in an instant. When it did, Cindermoon could make out the pock-like scars on the demon’s hideous face where her conjured hailstones had battered it, and the horn Ashenford had broken with a blow from an enchanted quarterstaff. She’d believed she and her peers had destroyed the demon utterly, but some power even greater than itself must have seen fit to resurrect it.

A beat of its bat-like wings carried it into the gateway, which now took on the aspect of a tunnel, and as it flew onward, some form of distortion made its massive body seem to slither like a snake’s. Appearing suddenly, perhaps simply because the balor had willed them to, dozens of lesser fiends hurtled after it.

Cindermoon abruptly realized she’d lost a precious instant to consternation and had, at best, only one more left. She lifted her hand and drew breath to shout a word of forbiddance.

But before she could, Stedd Whitehorn shrilled, “Lathander!”

Red-gold light pulsed across the heart of the sanctuary, and the balor and the lesser demons tumbled backward like leaves in a gale.

Meanwhile, the mouth of the tunnel drew in upon itself like the contracting pupil of an eye. In a couple heartbeats, it closed completely.

The boy then pivoted to the Turmishan warrior who was supposedly his faithful bodyguard. Looking shocked at the sealing of the passage to the Abyss, the man stood with his cutlass in his hand. The short, curved blade still glimmered with a trace of the same dirty red light that pervaded the balor’s domain. Evidently, it was the talisman that had opened the way. He must have surreptitiously eased it out of its scabbard when everyone else was looking elsewhere.

“Why?” cried Stedd. “Why would you do this?”

“Because a Marivaldi,” the swordsman growled, “finishes what he starts.”

With that, Cindermoon realized exactly which member of that once-respected family he must be, the only conspirator to escape after the near-destruction of Sapra and the Elder Circle. A ranger who likewise understood shouted to identify the dastard to one and all, “That’s Anton Marivaldi!”

For one more instant, the traitor glared across the innermost sanctum at the trio on the thrones as though contemplating a suicidal charge. Then he whirled and ran back into the temple.

“Kill him!” Cindermoon cried, whereupon rangers and druids pounded after the fleeing man like hounds on the track of a deer.

Anton slowed for an instant to thrust his cutlass back into its scabbard. Despite tapers and watch lights, the interior of the House of Silvanus was dark enough that otherwise, the ruddy glow that Umara had conjured into the steel might have served as a beacon for his pursuers.

From the sound of it, he had plenty of them, and that was the idea, to lure all of Cindermoon’s protectors away. He was glad that, in the aftermath of the catastrophe in Sapra, on the day preceding his realization that he was in imminent danger of arrest, curiosity had prompted him to go look at the body of the fallen balor. His description of its wounds had enabled Umara to produce a convincing illusion of the exact same creature. He’d judged that that, combined with the revelation of his own identity, would jolt the elf and her defenders into precipitous action if anything would.

Now he’d see if he could survive the consequences of his success.

Had it been possible to move in a straight line, he could have sprinted from the courtyard in the center of the sanctuary to its outer edge quickly. But it wasn’t. The seemingly random placement of pillars and stone slabs supporting the roof and the lack of anything approximating a genuine corridor obliged him to veer repeatedly, until he wasn’t sure he was even heading in his original direction anymore.

He was all but certain his pursuers were spreading out. It was what he would have done in their place to catch a stranger who was likely blundering back and forth in confusion.

He rounded a corner, and a wolf lunged out of the shadows. He wrenched himself aside and banged his shoulder into granite, but the beast’s jaws snapped shut on empty air.

The wolf started to spin for another try, and he booted it in the ribs. That knocked it stumbling away and gave him time to draw his saber. As the animal gathered itself for another lunge, he decided on a cut to the neck. The curved blade was already in motion when he remembered druids were shapeshifters.

He spun the saber lower and slashed a foreleg instead. The wolf fell. He dodged past it and ran on.

He’d only taken three strides when a voice rasped words of power behind him. Instinct told him when to dodge. Spines like porcupine quills hurtled past him to stab into a wooden screen.

That’s what I get for showing mercy, Anton thought. It would have served him right if the former wolf’s barrage had hit.

Yet he showed mercy again when a ranger rushed out of the dark. Even though it took longer to sweep the other warrior’s broadsword out of line, step in, and drive the curved guard of the saber into his face with stunning force than it would have to simply kill him.

Calling to one another, the voices of Anton’s pursuers echoed. They sounded like they were all around him, and he could only hope it wasn’t really so.

Three more turns, and then he burst in on a skinny adolescent girl in druidic robes who yelped and recoiled. Hostage! he thought, but no. If he took a captive, someone would hurry back to the Elder Circle to report the situation when his entire objective was to keep all their underlings away from them. He simply had to keep running.

When he raced on by without pausing, the young initiate found her courage and started an incantation. Fortunately, she recited the words slowly, like she had yet to fully master the spell, and he left her behind while she was still declaiming it.

An arrow flew past his head. Seeking only cover, he ducked into the narrow, unpromising-looking gap where two stone “walls” nearly met at an angle. That was the turn that finally revealed the pool, now black as the starless sky it mirrored.

Anton dashed out into the open, looked about, and saw that he’d apparently exited the temple ahead of any of his pursuers. And while people stirred among the lean-tos and campfires on the far shore-some sharp-eared soul must have heard the yelling inside the sanctuary despite the hiss of the waterfalls and the patter of the rain-they weren’t yet doing so in an organized or purposeful way.

Anton judged that if he kept moving smartly, across the pool, past the camp, and on down Hierophant’s Trail, he might actually get away. More likely not, but at least it was a chance.

He found the nearest string of steppingstones and started striding from one to the next. He reached the eighth one, and then an all but shapeless form surged up to tower over him. It seemed less a creature that had been lurking in the pool than a portion of the water that had formed into rippling approximations of arms, a head, and a torso; the liquid bulk at the center of it contained and concealed the next steppingstone in line.

Anton laughed. “You’re confused. You’re supposed to kill evildoers going into the sanctuary. But just sink back down, and I won’t tell.”

The water spirit raised its arm.

Stedd doubted that Lathander’s blessings helped him lie any more convincingly. If anything, the touch of so much goodness ought to tangle his tongue if he tried.

Yet apparently, he’d played his part in Anton’s trick convincingly enough. Because Cindermoon had ordered her guards to chase the pirate, and except for a couple woodsmen in brown and green, they’d all obeyed.

And in the aftermath, it seemed like the reemergence of a deadly threat from the past had distracted the little black-haired elf from current grudges. When her green eyes looked at the other members of the Elder Circle, Umara, or Stedd, it was without the clenched mistrust he’d sensed before.

Maybe we could persuade her now, the boy thought, but really, he knew that hope was too faint for even a Chosen of Lathander to depend on. He and his companions needed to stick to the plan.

Umara plainly agreed. Seemingly peering in the direction where Anton and his pursuers had disappeared, she had her back to the three thrones and their occupants. That enabled her to whisper an incantation and crook and cross her fingers into mystic signs without Cindermoon spotting it. The spell plunged the two rangers into slumber; their legs buckled beneath them and dumped them on the ground.

At the same moment, Ashenford and Shinthala scrambled off their stone chairs, pivoted to face Cindermoon, and started chanting. The half-elf held out his hand, a sickle appeared in it, and he spun it over his head. Like a ghost plant growing in midair, the suggestion of holly, with toothy leaves and little red berries, formed around the white-haired druidess. Stedd could even smell it.

Because Stedd didn’t know how to subdue people without hurting them, he had to leave it to his two new druid friends to overcome Cindermoon. They should be able to. They had her outnumbered, and they’d caught her by surprise.

But then, with a roar, Cindermoon’s bear rounded the line of thrones. The illusory demons had scared the animal off, but apparently not far and not for long, and the sight of mere human beings working magic wasn’t frightening enough to keep it from trying to protect its mistress.

A swipe of its claws jerked Shinthala’s leg out from under her and dropped her on her back. The phantom holly vanished, scent and all. The bear reared over her.

Stedd threw out his hand and cast brightness into the beast’s beady eyes. The light was harmless, but, startled, the bear flinched from it.

That gave Shinthala time to cast more magic. She spoke, and her voice came out as a high, inhuman throbbing. Her manner reminded Stedd of someone ordering a naughty dog off a bed.

The bear shuddered as though struggling to resist the druidess’s power to command it. Then it wheeled and lumbered back the way it had come.

Stedd spun back around. Without support from Shinthala, Ashenford had failed to render Cindermoon helpless; instead, he himself strained against vines that had burst from the ground to wrap around him. Now on her feet like her peers, her delicate face with its slanted eyes and pointed chin furious, the elf turned toward Shinthala and swept out a hand that was suddenly covered with insects. As her arm snapped out straight, the conjured hornets took flight.

A fan-shaped blast of yellow flame engulfed the wasps halfway to their intended victim. When the blaze guttered out a heartbeat later, there was nothing left of them. Her fingers smoking, Umara shifted to face Cindermoon dead on.

Cindermoon twirled an upraised hand. Visible chiefly by virtue of the raindrops it caught and spun, a cyclone twice as tall as a man howled up from the ground. It charged Umara like a bull, snatched her up into the air, and flung her into one of the menhirs. Something cracked, and the Red Wizard collapsed like a rag doll at the base of the stone.

Stedd stared for a heartbeat, then remembered that here was something he did know how to do. He scurried in Umara’s direction.

As he bent over her, he glanced back at the fight. Kneeling, the blood from her clawed leg pooling around her, Shinthala conjured a huge boar halfway into being.

Then Cindermoon shouted, “No!” and shook her fist. The blurry, misty semblance of a hog vanished.

Stedd reached out to Lathander and drew down his light. Setting his glowing hands on Umara’s shoulders, he poured the power into her.

Ashenford flailed his arms, and his bonds, now dry and brittle, started to break apart from the top down. That freed his hands to start a different spell, but his legs were still immobilized when the whirlwind roared at him and engulfed him. His chanting ended in a cry of pain.

Cindermoon snapped her fingers, and the cyclone vanished, dropping the half-elf to the ground. Stedd just had time to wonder why she’d thrown away such an effective weapon, and then she made a beckoning gesture. Thick gray fog billowed out from the spot where she was standing, a cloud the whirlwind would have blown apart.

In a heartbeat, the fog spread far enough to swallow Ashenford and Shinthala. Only Umara and Stedd were beyond its reach, and he was sure that only he saw when a huge owl flew up from the middle of it.

Without a doubt, the bird was Cindermoon. She’d been holding her own against her assailants, but had apparently decided even so that it was foolish to go on fighting them all by herself when she had a little army of supporters within easy reach.

Umara’s eyes fluttered open. Stedd pointed at the owl. “Please!” he said.

The wizard jumped to her feet so fast, she knocked him aside. She rattled off words that felt like needles jabbing him.

A shadow tentacle like the one that had grabbed Nobanion shot up from the ground to snatch at the owl. It flicked harmlessly past just under the bird’s talons.

With a noise that was half grunt and half snarl, Umara rose onto her toes with one arm straight above her head. She looked like someone straining to reach something on a high shelf. The tentacle stretched just a little more and whipped around Cindermoon’s avian body.

Umara lashed her arm down. The length of shadow jerked the shapeshifter to the ground with a violence that made Stedd wince. He hoped the Red Wizard remembered the idea was to help the hierophant, not smash her to bits.

The fog vanished as either Shinthala or Ashenford made it go away. Then the two of them, Stedd, and Umara hurried toward the spot where Cindermoon lay bound. She was mostly an elf again, although she still had some feathers here and there, and her legs were too short for the rest of her.

Stedd was relieved to see that although unconscious, the hierophant was breathing and not visibly mangled. Still, Shinthala frowned at Umara and said, “That spell you just cast was true black magic.”

“Like Anton said,” the Red Wizard snapped, “get past it. How’s your leg?”

“I’ll worry about it after we tend to Cindermoon.”

“Fair enough. You healers do that. I’ll stand guard and keep the tentacle tight.”

Stedd, Shinthala, and Ashenford knelt around the elf. Stedd placed his fingertips against her temple and drew light and warmth into them. Shinthala murmured under her breath, and Ashenford crooned a song as gentle as a lullaby. Druidic magic suffused the air with the scent of verdure.

Then denial as sudden and vicious as a punch in the throat rocked Stedd backward. His head rang, and for a moment, he couldn’t catch his breath. When he finally did, he saw that Shinthala and Ashenford looked just as shaken as he.

“What happened?” Umara asked.

“What we expected,” Shinthala replied. Her voice was thick, like she’d bitten her tongue. “Cindermoon’s not awake in a physical sense. But she does know when someone tries to touch her psyche. Or her madness knows. And it’s fighting back.”

“Then overcome the resistance.”

“Thank you, we remember the plan,” Ashenford said drily. He looked at his fellow healers. “We need to do a better job of coordinating. Shinthala, you and I will sing the Hymn of Still Waters. Stedd, you invoke Lathander’s light when we reach the word ‘peace.’ ”

Anton took a hasty retreat. No combat maneuver was more basic, but it felt chancy when he was blindly backing down a string of wet steppingstones and not a continuous surface.

Still, he managed to set his feet where he’d intended to, and the water spirit’s blow fell short. Fingerless like a mitten, its enormous hand slapped down in the space he’d just vacated and splashed apart. But when the guardian raised its arm back up from the surface of the pool, the hand was intact again.

Anton had his doubts that even an enchanted saber could hurt a being capable of reforming itself like that, but he reckoned he had to try. He lunged and cut before the hand could swing up out of range.

The blade splashed through its target, which seethed, rippled, and dropped some of its liquid substance back down into the pool. The agitation spread up the spirit’s arm in diminishing convulsions.

Anton grinned. He’d at least hurt his adversary. He just couldn’t tell how much.

Hoping to land a cut to his torso, he lunged again. But the spirit flowed backward like a wave sweeping across the surface of the sea, and the attack fell short. The entity then riposted with a horizontal swipe.

Thanks to his aggressiveness, Anton was in too close to defend by retreating. He pivoted and slashed.

If his first attack had hurt the spirit, then the stop cut had likely done the same. But the creature’s arm kept spinning at him anyway, and as it did, it expanded. A sheet of water like the sort of wave that swept mariners overboard during a tempest bashed him from head to toe.

The impact was hard enough to bruise and bloody him. It also knocked Anton off balance and left him teetering on one foot, and only part of that foot still atop a steppingstone.

In a normal battle, falling into the pool might not be disastrous. It shouldn’t be all that deep if it had steppingstones sticking up out of it. But if, as Anton sensed, all the water was in some sense his opponent, it seemed like a bad idea to end up submerged in it to the knees or the breastbone. Wrenching himself sideways, he regained stability.

As soon as he did, he hurled himself forward. Once again, the water spirit flowed backward. But it didn’t react as quickly as it had before, and the saber caught it across what, in a man, would be the stomach.

Losing cohesion, the whole entity plunged toward the surface of the pool. Only for a heartbeat, though, and then the liquid mass of it surged up and put on form once more.

At the same time, someone shouted, “There he is!”

The voice came from behind Anton, where the sanctuary stood.

But when it startled him into glancing around at something besides the water spirit, he saw that a dozen of Cindermoon’s pilgrim hunters had assembled at the other end of the chain of steppingstones as well.

Sighing, he wished they’d let him finish his duel with the water spirit, just so he’d know if he really could have won. But he supposed he couldn’t expect them to share his curiosity.

Hoping the elemental spirit wouldn’t instantly smash and drown him, he lowered his saber and turned to face the druids and rangers in front of the temple. “I surrender,” he said.

“Is he allowed to do that?” a young druid asked.

“Cindermoon said to kill him,” an older one replied, whereupon the woodsmen around him drew back their bows. No doubt, on the other shore, other archers were doing the same.

And just like that, plunging into the pool became the only option. In the highly unlikely event that the ploy enabled Anton to dodge flights of arrows while the spirit somehow failed to kill him, either, he’d swim to the top of one of the waterfalls and see if he could survive a ride bouncing from rock to rock all the way to the bottom.

He flexed his knees, and then a female voice cried, “Stop!” And everyone did. It was, after all, a voice servants of the Forest Father were accustomed to obeying.

Cindermoon strode from the temple. She glowed from head to toe with green phosphorescence, presumably to make it easier for her subordinates to orient on her.

Stedd, Ashenford, Umara, and Shinthala trailed along behind her. The Red Wizard was moving stiffly. The snowy-haired druidess had a bloody leg and hobbled with the aid of a staff.

Clearly, Anton’s confederates hadn’t had an easy time of it. But their scheme must have worked.

Anton shot Stedd a grin, but the boy didn’t return it. Rather, his mouth tightened.

All right, Anton thought, we might as well find out to what extent your worries are justified. He inclined his head to the shining elf. “Lady Cindermoon.”

“Please, call me Shadowmoon,” she replied.

Anton smiled. “With pleasure.”

The hierophant didn’t return his smile, either. “Anton Marivaldi, the Assembly of Stars itself long ago judged you a traitor and condemned you to death.”

“Yes, and started a fashion. In the years since, a number of places have sentenced me to death in absentia. Which is all right. I couldn’t have offered much of a defense had I been present.”

“Nonsense!” Umara snapped. “Tell these people you weren’t privy to the real traitor’s plans! You had no idea the talismans you helped smuggle could be used to summon a balor!”

Anton sheathed the saber and walked slowly back toward the Red Wizard and the four Chosen. “Would that explanation win me leniency in a Thayan court?” he asked. “Would it soften your heart if demons had butchered your loved ones?”

“Whatever happened years ago,” said Stedd, “you brought me here to help Turmish. You helped save Lady Shadowmoon and stop the Emerald Enclave from murdering people.” He looked up at the hierophant. “That has to be worth something!”

The elf frowned. “It is, Chosen, and I don’t desire your friend’s death. How could I when he just risked his life on my behalf? But the enclave can’t simply flout the judgment of the Assembly of Stars, certainly not in a matter as serious as this. Anton Marivaldi must answer for the malfeasance that resulted in the balor and all the piracy against Turmishan vessels in the years since.”

Stedd shook his head. “It isn’t fair!”

“You know better,” Anton said. “So set it aside and concentrate on finishing Lathander’s business.”

Clearly pondering, Shadowmoon bowed her head and toyed with one of the carved wooden buttons running down the front of her gown. Finally, she said, “While we can’t overturn the assembly’s sentence, I don’t see that we’re obligated to carry it out here and now. I recommend that when the time is right, we escort Anton Marivaldi to Alaghon and turn him over to the assembly. He can plead for mercy, and I’ll speak on his behalf.” She looked to Ashenford and Shinthala. “Does that meet with your approval?”

“Yes,” the half-elf replied.

“I agree, too,” Shinthala said.

Shadowmoon turned back to Anton. “You heard the plan,” she said. “Will you cooperate? Will you swear to remain with us for now and surrender yourself to the assembly when we command it?”

“I swear it on my honor,” Anton said.

Shadowmoon inclined her head. “Then we’ll treat you like a guest and not a prisoner. And with that decided, we need to take up the greater matter before us: how to feed the multitude who are starving.”