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  He would observe her on two more occasions before she finally became aware of him. The second had been nothing like the first. There was no eager productivity–Gaelen seemed frustrated, as though she could not find the right words to say. Fima stayed for only a moment, as her attention was wandering and he knew she would soon discover him. When he watched her for the third time, she was in a bad way. She had obviously been weeping, and as she set quill to parchment her eyes filled with tears again. This thing she was doing had become difficult, even painful, and he wanted to soothe her wounded heart. He moved toward her almost without realizing it, extending one hand as if to aid her, and she perceived.

  She looked up to see her dear friend standing in the doorway. She knew that she didn't need to hide her emotions from him, but she attempted to hide them nonetheless. “Hello, Fima. Did you want something?” she asked, her voice as steady as she could make it.

  Fima acted as though he had not noticed her tears. “It looks like you’re recording something important,” he said, taking a step toward her. “May I see?”

  Gaelen nodded, handing him the stack of parchment at her elbow. He knew in an instant why the task had unsettled her. On the topmost page was a disturbingly accurate portrait of Gorgon Elfhunter. As Fima leafed carefully through the meticulously lettered pages, his thoughts returned to events twenty years gone, for he had played a most vital part.

  This story would have been difficult for anyone to tell, but for Gaelen it brought back nearly unbearable memories. Gorgon, a malicious, black-hearted creature, had hated Elves above all else. Despite this, he had been bound to Gaelen in a way that had allowed them to share thoughts—even consciousness—and it had nearly driven her mad. She had been shackled to this creature, forced to discipline and control her thoughts lest he profit from them. The experience had been almost intolerable at times, particularly for a free-spirited soul like Gaelen. Only the love and support of her cousin Nelwyn, her beloved Rogond, and her dear friend Fima had allowed her to keep her sanity.

  She had chronicled the story of Gorgon from the beginning, and had included in it many things known to her alone. Fima stifled a gasp as he read some of the dark thoughts that had come into her mind unbidden when she had been bound to the creature, and tears welled in his own eyes as he neared the end of the story. The writings grew more careless and chaotic, the letters transforming from beautiful and flowing to malformed and barely legible. She had nearly been consumed by the same hatred that had claimed Gorgon…and she knew it. His death had liberated her, but the realization that she might have fallen to the same darkness had terrified her.

  Fima had not been present at Gorgon's ending, and Gaelen had been loath to tell of it. Now, as he read the words she had set down, he understood her tears.

  “It's been a long while since I thought of him,” she said in a small voice. “He wanted to be remembered…more than anything. I believe I owe him the fulfillment of his last request.”

  Fima, now deeply moved, set the manuscript back on the table with the greatest care. “Is it finished?”

  “I believe so. It's too difficult now to work on it any further. I have accomplished what I set out to do…I only hope I did justice to the tale.”

  Fima did a most unusual thing then, surrounding her with his short, sturdy arms, hugging her with gentle insistence. “It's a pity you’re sworn to be a hunter-scout, Gaelen. You would have done yourself credit as a lore-master. Astor and I will see that this is properly bound and preserved…in fact, I shall set about copying it at once.” He referred to the Chief Lore-master of Dûn Bennas, a tall, rather dour man who, in Gaelen’s opinion, resembled a vulture. She nodded, handed the work back to Fima, and took her leave.

  Gaelen went out into the dark, silent streets, climbed atop the battlements, and sat cross-legged, looking out toward the northeast. Dawn would come in a few hours, and she closed her eyes, filling her lungs with clean, cold air that was heavy with the earthy tang of the river. She sat in complete stillness for a moment, searching for signs of Gorgon, and found none. I’m finally free of him.

  She resolved that the next time she went to Mountain-home she would take the manuscript with her. Gorgon was, whether intended or not, both the bitter enemy and the deliverer of her people, and they should have custody of his memory.

  As the time of departure for Tal-sithian drew near, Rogond made his way down to the stable to find his old friend Eros nibbling on some stalks of last summer's hay. “Here you are, old fellow. I brought some fresh grass from the paddock outside. See if that doesn't go down easier.”

  Eros, a sturdy, shaggy dun with a very long, black forelock, was now in his thirties. He had carried Rogond across thousands of miles over their long years together, and was the finest battle-mount Rogond had ever thrown a leg over. He was still reasonably hale, but a few of his old injuries had caught up with him. Rogond no longer rode him, except for very short, easy trips along smooth, well-worn paths. Eros now limped if taxed by rugged going, though he tried not to show it.

  “Are you ready for one more trip to Tal-sithian?”

  Eros nodded his long head, waving his incredibly luxuriant forelock at Rogond. In truth, he was asking for more grass, but Rogond still chuckled at him. “Ready as ever, aren't you? Well, that's fine. You'll come along, even though you won't bear me as a burden. You can still keep the watch.”

  Eros snorted indignantly. Of course I can keep watch! I could bear you and your brother together if not for this accursed knee…and this rather tricky fetlock…and let's not forget my exceptionally uncooperative hocks. Incidentally, you’re not getting any younger yourself—you ride more heavily than you used to.

  This was true, but Rogond still had many prime years remaining to him. He was now in his mid-seventies, about halfway through a typical life-span of Men. Still, he had seen hardship, and had been severely wounded several times in his life—illness and deprivation had taken their toll on him. There were more than a few grey hairs now silvering his temples and his beard, though they were not noticeable to those who had not long known him. Gaelen knew the location of each and every one.

  Rogond looked to the soundness of his riding gear, as well as the harness and packs that would be borne by Faladinn, a little brown pack-horse that had served well for many years. Though he was younger than Eros, one could now see his age in the depth of the hollows over his eyes, in the salty flecks of grey hair about his face, and in the length and angle of his front teeth. Otherwise, Faladinn looked the same as ever. Rogond smiled and patted the plain, rather homely face, offering Faladinn the last bits of grass.

  His equipment in order, Rogond took his leave. “Rest up, both of you. We leave in three days.” Eros sighed, rubbed his head on a post, and licked his lips. That grass had been delectable! He circled once, dropped down onto his fragrant bed of straw, and proceeded to take Rogond's excellent advice

  As Rogond, Gaelen, Carmyn, and Fima stood together with five horses and a mule in the damp, misty half-light of early morning, they were joined by one more important, and welcome, traveler. Duinar, the Asarla, had come with Fima to Dûn Bennas, where he had been more than happy to remain for the time being. Duinar, the only one of the ancient Magic-users who had chosen to live among Men rather than Elves, visited Fima each day at least once, for they were close friends. Fima and Duinar were among the most engaging and affable souls to ever grace a library, and their meetings often turned into lively debates. Both had long beards and lively blue eyes, though Duinar resembled an old man rather than a Dwarf. His honest, gentle-natured smile and wise words brought great comfort to any hard journey.

  King Hearndin himself had come to see them off, and Fima, despite his usual aversion to early morning departures, was awake enough to notice that Hearndin was not wearing his crown. “I would see you safely on your way,” said the King, “but I came only as your friend this morning.”

  He smiled, and the sight of his strong, intelligent face filled Duinar with hope for the fut
ure of Mankind. Wise, kind, and courageous, Hearndin knew what was really important in the lives of his people, and he went to great lengths to provide it. He had rebuilt Dûn Bennas from the ashes of the Plague, and Duinar was immensely proud of him.

  “We won't be long this year, my lord,” said Rogond, bowing before the King. “My brother has asked me to bring my nephew, Azori, back here to Dun Bennas. He has grown up in the Elven-realm of Mountain-home, and the Elves have done a fine job of educating him, but we think it best that he acquire further experience and training among his own people. I'm anxious for you to meet him that he might learn from your example.”

  Hearndin nodded, clapping Rogond on the shoulder. “In that case, we will try to tidy up before you return,” he said. “After living in the Elven-realm, I expect your nephew will require a period of adjustment to our more earthy human ways and practices.”

  “Young Azori is already quite ‘earthy,’ I’m sure,” said Gaelen, who had overheard. “At least, if his father has had any influence on him. Your people will serve as excellent examples.” She bowed and turned to Toran, her tall, silver-grey horse. He had learned to walk forward while leaving his hind feet planted in place, therefore lowering his back by several inches. Gaelen, who was small and slight even by Wood-elven standards, appreciated his efforts. She vaulted aboard and patted him.

  Rogond rode a fine, strong black horse named Sye, who, though he had lost an eye in battle, was a worthy mount. Eros liked him, and that was enough recommendation for Rogond. Carmyn stood by already astride her venerable roan gelding. Faladinn, the little brown pack-pony, had traveled with Gaelen for many a mile and no longer needed to be led, as he would follow her anywhere.

  Duinar would walk beside Fima, who was actually riding by himself on a sturdy brown mule named Figg. Fima had discovered that this most interesting creature, whose mother was a mare and whose sire was a long-eared donkey, was much more reliable and steady than a horse. Fima could almost feel affection for the mule, and he could certainly relate to Figg’s stubborn pragmatism. The first time the animal had opened its mouth, the most horrible sound had issued forth—something between a shrieking whinny, a gargle, and a trumpeting bray. The horses, at first frightened almost to the point of panic, had since grown used to it…sort of.

  Fima's thoughts were turned both backward and forward, as was his tendency at the start of a journey. He thought about the events that had led him here, and of events to come. He wondered where the path would end. Though he was not usually given to foresight, he had the sense that this year's journey to Tal-sithian would be a memorable one. I do hope so, he thought, wondering whether it would be his last. Soon his advanced age would force him to settle in the last place he would live. Somehow, he had the feeling that it would not be in Dûn Bennas.

  “Safe journey, all of you,” said Hearndin. “I will miss your song, Gaelen…will you not sing as you depart?”

  The sky had brightened a little, and the river Ambros winked softly in the early morning light. The sky was rosy-pink, but not red—it would be a fine day. As the Company passed through the outer gates Gaelen began to sing, but alas, the wind was in the west, and Hearndin could only hear her for a short while.

  Chapter 2: A Reunion Denied

  The road to Tal-sithian proved uneventful despite the persistent spring rains. The only real obstacle, other than the weather, was Fima's mule, who occasionally held the opinion that the Company was traveling far too fast for his comfort. He would simply refuse to move, sometimes for many hours, despite any entreaty from Fima. He responded neither to threat nor bribe, placidly sitting upon his hindquarters, pulling at grass and chewing slowly with a relaxed-yet-thoughtful expression on his long, bony face. If Figg was not in any hurry, no one else had better be in a hurry, either.

  On one such occasion, Figg held quite a debate with Eros, who always responded to Rogond whether he was tired or not.

  Why do you ignore your master's wishes and delay the Company? It's not as if they have been pushing us all that hard. It's not even noon yet! You must number among the laziest beasts of my acquaintance.

  I rest when I please…whenever I please, replied Figg, showing his disdain for Eros by looking past him at some distant horizon. And one who doesn't bear any burden himself had best not be criticizing those of us who do. I'm the only one who must carry a rider and packs at the same time.

  I would be ashamed to disappoint those who have treated me so well, said Eros, throwing his head in the air and snorting. You want for nothing, and all they ask is that you bear a reasonable burden without argument. I know you hold affection for the Dwarf—I have seen the expression on your face when he strokes your ridiculous ears. Now let's just be reasonable and get up on our feet, shall we?

  Figg forced a yawn. No one owns me. You believe a mere ear-scratching will convince me otherwise? How easily beguiled you must be! I work hard when I please. I work because it is my will. When I have rested, I'll return to work…but not before. Go on back to your life of servitude and leave me in peace. I grow tired of hearing you. He shifted his hind feet, settling his posterior even deeper into the grass to illustrate his point.

  Eros was now annoyed enough to squeal at Figg–it was an honor to live a life of servitude! Eros held the strong conviction that he would die in the service of Rogond, and that he would be happy about it. Figg said not another word, ignoring any further input from Eros which, of course, only aggravated him further.

  Hmmph! We'll see, you long-eared impersonation of a worthy mount. We'll see right now!

  Eros circled around, reached out with strong teeth on the end of a long head and neck, and seized the tough skin of Figg's hindquarters. The mule started up in surprise, whipping his surprisingly agile head around to bite his adversary’s neck, but it was out of reach. All he gained was a mouthful of mane.

  Eros squealed with effort and jerked Figg's hindquarters upward–the mule had no choice but to rise to his hind feet or lose a substantial chunk of hide. His long ears were flattened, his expression indicating that Eros had best be quick. Eros released him, leaping back just as Figg's sharp hind feet came at him like the lash of a whip. Had they connected, they might have broken something.

  From that day forward, all Eros had to do was circle around behind Figg, who would immediately get to his feet in preparation for teaching Eros a hard lesson. He would lash his sinewy, sparse-haired brush of a tail and roll his eyes back toward Eros, hind feet at the ready, braying various lusty insults. Eros would then move out of range, his task accomplished. Figg was on his feet, and that was what mattered.

  Figg was not a disloyal mount. His body provided Fima with shelter from wind and rain, and he bore his rider with the careful, deliberate fortitude characteristic of his kind. He would tell himself that he only did so because of the feed and pleasant ear-rubbing sessions that resulted, but actually he was good-hearted and would never have harmed anyone.

  He had one nearly-fatal flaw, however, and that was that he was afraid of swift water. He had been born in the southern lands, and when he was a foal his dam had attempted to lead him across the River Dessa after a rain. She had selected a suitable place to cross, but Figg was of an independent nature even then. He had decided to choose his own way, which appeared to be smoother. He learned then that things are not always as they appear. He was nearly swept away–if not for the efforts of the men of his caravan, he would have drowned. Fortunately, the Company embarked for Tal-sithian after crossing the bridge to the southern bank of the Ambros. There were no rivers blocking the way.

  The rolling grasslands to the east were wide and welcoming, though the rains were inconvenient, as there was little shelter. Gaelen hunted fresh meat and kept watch by night. Fima and Carmyn gathered firewood, as well as tasty roots and fresh spring herbs to flavor the meat, which they roasted and prepared expertly. Rogond looked to the horses; he also saw to the repair and maintenance of harness and weapons. Duinar did what he was best at–treating them all to wonder
ful stories around the evening fire–and he often stayed awake to keep the watch with Gaelen. It was a pleasant journey, like so many others they had taken together.

  Eventually they came within sight of the misted lands surrounding the Great Lake known as the Linnefionn, and the pleasant, green isle of Tal-sithian. The Lady Arialde, Asarla of Light, was the ruler of that realm. She knew of the Company's approach and sent emissaries to meet them in the misty outlands surrounding the shores of the Lake. The Elves of Tal-sithian were by now quite used to Rogond's routine visits, but these did not often include Duinar. The Lady would no doubt be pleased that her brother Asarla had come to visit.

  The boats that would bear them all to the island could now be seen, and Fima was busily instructing the Elves in how to properly care for and motivate his good friend, Figg, the mule. They listened at first with all solemnity, but at last they could not help but smile. Fima was truly worried that Figg would annoy the Elves and that some dire consequence would result. What if they did not understand that Figg's stubbornness was part of his nature, and that he meant nothing by it? What if they abandoned him in disgust?

  “We had not known a Dwarf to be so concerned for an animal before,” said the Elves, bowing before Fima. “We shall make every effort to ensure that your friend has a safe haven where he can graze in contentment. Have no fear.” Fima muttered something under his breath and then got into one of the boats with Carmyn. Once all were settled, they launched out into the vast, grey waters of the Lake.

  As the shoreline grew distant, Gaelen tensed, feeling a deep vibration in the air around her. She leaned over the side of the small, elegant boat and placed her left hand into the water. She felt the familiar sensation almost at once–a deep “thrumming” so subtle that it would have gone unnoticed had she not felt it before. She turned to Rogond. “The Guardians are calling,” she said. “Our arrival has been announced.” Gaelen had nearly always heard the booming vibration of the Guardians whenever she had visited Tal-sithian, and it comforted her. Evil creatures feared these enormous water-dragons, who patrolled the lake shores constantly. They were great favorites of the Lady, who had nurtured them since the first ones had been discovered at the founding of Tal-sithian. Arialde had, in fact, introduced Gaelen to one, though they were very secretive and were therefore rarely seen.