Mortalis

He had a feeling, as he flitted from tree to tree, of true warmth and friendship, a feeling not unlike that he experienced whenever he returned home to Andur'Blough Inninness after one of his forays into the realm of the humans. For Juraviel, the Timberiands region around Dundalis, Weedy Meadow, and End-o'-the-World-the former haunt of Nightbird, the home of both the ranger and Jilseponie-had the same smell and feel as the elven valley. How curious that notion struck the elf now as he moved along the forested hills and valleys, how surprising. Juraviel was Touel'alfar, of the people. That fact was the primary truth in his long life, the binding code of responsibility and of a specific and shared understanding of all the world and its varied inhabitants. In Juraviel's thoughts, in the thoughts of every Touel'alfar, even the least of friends among his own people-the other elf with whom he could not agree on anything, the elf he found most unpleasant-ranked far above the best of friends he might make among n'Touel'alfar, the folk not of the people. Juraviel did not question that tenet of his existence-never before and not now-but his feeling warmth as he neared the small human settlement of Dundalis, his feeling almost as if he were going home surprised him.



Perhaps, had he looked more deeply into himself, Belli'mar Juraviel would have noted then that his lines of ingrained reasoning were not in accord with the feelings within his heart.



The elf paused in his travels late one afternoon, finding a high branch of a wide maple where he could settle for a short rest. Soon he was comfortably asleep.



And then, soon after, he awoke to a haunting melody drifting on the evening breeze, echoing through the forest as if every tree were taking it inside in a deep and lingering breath and then blowing it out again for the rest of the forest to share, but altered, only slightly, by the heart of its last host tree. "The Forest Ghost," Juraviel whispered, and he smiled as he heard the name aloud, the name the humans of Elbryan's first home had bestowed upon the centaur, Brad-warden, and his bagpipes. How many times had young Elbryan and Jilseponie heard that tune? Juraviel wondered. How many times had it been just below their level of consciousness as they drifted off to sleep in their little beds?



And though even Bradwarden was considered n'Touel'alfar by his somewhat xenophobic people, Juraviel could not deny the comfort he derived from hearing the centaur's song, akin to the comfort he felt from just being in this region once more.



He followed the song slowly and whimsically, pausing to listen or to dance, whenever he found a clearing in the forest canopy that afforded him a beautiful view of the starlit heavens. He knew that the night was young and that Bradwarden often played until very, very late, so he meandered and he wandered. And finally he saw them, the centaur standing atop a bare-topped hillock, his pipes under one arm. Bradwarden was not as wide as other horses Juraviel had seen-certainly not as massive as mighty Symphony-but it seemed to the elf as if his centaur friend were ten feet tall, a gigantic and powerful creature. That such an obvious warrior could play such beautiful melodies struck Juraviel profoundly, the light and dark of Bradwarden's soul, at once ferocious and tender.



Reclining on the grass beside the centaur lay Roger Lockless. It occurred to Juraviel then that the young man, with his slightly angular features and delicate size-the result of a disease that had taken both his parentsseemed as much akin to the elves as to the humans. Not in temperament, though, Juraviel reminded himself. Roger had learned much in the trials of the last couple of years, had grown tremendously from the self-centered boy Juraviel and Nightbird had helped escape from the clutches of a vicious powrie band that had been occupying Caer Tinella. But as far as Juraviel and all the elves were concerned, he still had far, far to go even to approach the level of understanding and reasoning of Jilseponie. And from there, Roger would have far to go to begin to see the truth of the world as Bradwarden or Nightbird could see it; and even those two, despite everything, could never climb beyond the limitations of their kind, could never be anything but n'Touel'alfar.



Juraviel did like Roger, though, had tolerated him even when he was younger and more foolish, and had worked with him well during the last days of the war against Markwart.



"I cannot wait to see her again," he heard Roger say; and he knew from the expression on the man's face that Roger was surely talking about Jilseponie. Was it possible, then, that the woman hadn't even yet come north, and that Roger, perhaps, still possessed the gemstones?



Bradwarden paused. "Ah, but she's takin' her time about it," he said. "It's not but a week o' ridin' for one lookin' to get here from Palmaris."



"She's got friends in Caer Tinella," Roger reminded him. "And she's got good weather and a road clear o' monsters," the centaur added. "Aye, that's it. Our Pony's not used to walkin' a road clear o' monsters. Got her all confused."



They shared a lighthearted laugh, and not out of any nervousness, tor neither seemed the least bit afraid for the well-being of their dear, and ultimately capable, friend.



Juraviel moved stealthily up the hill, a whisper of wind, a roaming shadow. "Perhaps Jilseponie left the road in search of sport," he said. Both his friends jumped in surprise, Bradwarden tossing down his pipes and grabbing up an axe that likely outweighed Juraviel, Roger turning several evasive rolls to the side.



They both settled quickly, and Bradwarden roared out a great cheer, obviously recognizing the elf's voice, even as Roger cautiously called out, "Juraviel?"



The elf stepped out into the clear. "Too long has it been since I have heard the piping of the Forest Ghost," he said. Bradwarden tossed his axe back over his shoulder and skipped down to hoist Juraviel in a great hug.



"And too long since I have heard the complaints of Roger Lockless!" Juraviel added in jest as Bradwarden put him down so that Roger could embrace him.



"And too long since we've seen yerself, elf," the centaur replied. "But I thought ye was for yer home."



"And so I have been in the valley for all these months," Juraviel replied, "and would be still, had not Lady Dasslerond bidden me to return here for-" He paused and waved his hands. "Ah, but that is business that we two, Bradwarden, must discuss later. Nothing so serious that it cannot wait until old friends have had time to share news."



Both Bradwarden and Roger seemed concerned for a moment, until Juraviel's smile melted away any anxieties. "Not much for tellin'," the centaur began. "All three towns are up and full o' folk again."



"Goblins in the area?" Juraviel asked.



"No sign of goblins, powries, or giants," Roger was quick to reply. "We have kept vigilant scouting parties all about the region, and all has been quiet and peaceful."



"We're thinkin' that there's more than a few o' the beasts farther to the north," Bradwarden added. "But we're thinkin', too, that none o' them got the belly for comin' south again."



Juraviel nodded, for it seemed logical enough. These two and Elbryan, along with a contingent of Kingsmen and some renegade monks, had gone all the way back to the Barbacan, after all, hundreds of miles through the Wilderlands, with hardly a sign of the monsters. And Juraviel's own trail had led him in from the Wilderlands to the west, again with no sign of any monsters, except of course in the Moorlands, which had always been thick with goblins. Those goblins, until the coming of the dactyl, had never been a threat to anybody except for those foolish enough to wander into their territory.



Yes, the land was settling again, at long last, into peace, and that fact only made Bradwarden's song all the sweeter.



"And if they do come south," Roger put in at length, "then I'll find them and steal all their weapons, and won't they be easy to chase off then!"



"Unless they have Craggoth hounds," Juraviel said to the boastful man somewhat sternly; and the mention of the powerful powrie hunting dogs reminded Roger of a not-so-pleasant experience.



Bradwarden howled with laughter and Roger's lips got very tight, but Juraviel held the man's gaze with equal intensity; his expression alone poignantly asked Roger who it was that he was trying to impress.



"Well, enough o' the boastin'," Bradwarden said, and he lifted his pipes back to his lips, but paused and nodded to Juraviel. "Ye goin' to tell us what's bringin' ye back here, elf? Or are ye waitin' for us to beg ye? "



"I have become the mentor to another ranger," Juraviel admitted.



"You are bringing another ranger here?" Roger quickly put in, his tone making it seem as if he was not too thrilled about that prospect.



"She is just a child," he explained, "and her path, I assure you, will bring her nowhere near Dundalis."



Roger nodded grimly, but his look turned perplexed. "She?"



"Why are you so surprised? " Juraviel replied. "Do you not believe that a woman can be a ranger? "



"Ho, ho, what!" Bradwarden howled, doing his best Avelyn Desbris imitation. "But wouldn't Pony be kickin' yer skinny backside if she ever heard ye talkm' like that!"



Roger shrugged, conceding the point.



"Indeed, Jilseponie would have been a fine candidate for our training," Juraviel agreed. "Had we known her potential when she walked down the road from the ruined Dundalis, we might have changed her life's path considerably."



This whole topic seemed like a minor point, and nothing to debate, but Juraviel noted that Roger didn't appear very pleased by it all. The elf understood Roger Lockless, particularly the man's minor failings, well enough to recognize the source of that look. "You, too, Roger Lockless, might have found yourself in Caer'alfar, had your situation merited it."



"I could still go and learn," the young man insisted.



"You are at least five years too old," Juraviel explained. "Lady Dasslerond would have no part of bringing an adult human into our land for such training."



"Then you teach me," Roger said, only half kiddingly, "while you are here, I mean." "The training takes years."



"Then just teach me select parts of it," Roger went on. "Teach me that sword dance that Elbryan and Pony ..." His voice trailed off, his mouth hanging open at the sight ofJuraviel, whose lips were thin, and his expression stern, seemingly bordering on the verge of an explosion. "I'm thinkin' he's sayin' no," Bradwarden remarked dryly. Roger looked to Bradwarden for support and smiled sheepishly. "So are ye goin' to tell us, elf?" the centaur prompted. "Ye got yerself a new ranger-to-be, but that's not a reason for ye to come all the way out here to tell me about it."



"She is a rider," Juraviel said, his glare still locked upon Roger, "and I must secure a mount for her." He understood that the young man hadn't intentionally said anything wrong, but the mere mention of bi'nelle dasada, the secret elven fighting technique, opened a wound. It was Elbryan's teaching of the secret dance to Jilseponie that had so angered Lady Dasslerond, and, Juraviel believed, that was why Lady Dasslerond felt justified in keeping their child and raising it as a son of the Touel'alfar. Lady Dasslerond's anger, Juraviel believed, was the primary reason guiding her handling of the boy, her keeping Juraviel away from him, her keeping Jilseponie ignorant of his existence. Even more than that, Lady Dasslerond held Juraviel ultimately at fault for Elbryan's teaching Jilseponie the sword dance. Whatever feelings he might have for Elbryan or for Jilseponie, Juraviel couldn't deny the truth of Elbryan's betrayal. The ranger had given something away that was not his to give, and in doing so, he had, to Lady Dasslerond's way of thinking, threatened the very existence of the Touel'alfar.



"We've more than a few fine ponies runnin' about," Bradwarden started to answer, but then a wry grin crossed his face. "Ye're not thinkin' ..." he guessed.



"A proper mount for a ranger," Juraviel said determinedly. Roger looked from one to the other, as if trying to decipher their meaning, but then his eyes widened and he stared at Juraviel. "Symphony? " he asked. "You mean to take Symphony away? But-"



"Easy, lad," Bradwarden intervened. "I'm thinkin' that none're takin' Symphony unless Symphony's wantin' to go."



"True enough," Juraviel agreed, "and I am sure that if Symphony is not agreeable, Bradwarden will help me to find another fitting mount." "Good rider, this one? " the centaur asked. "To-gai-ru," Juraviel answered. Bradwarden whistled in admiration.



"Like the pinto horses?" Roger asked. "The ones the AUheart knights ride?"



"To-gai," Bradwarden confirmed. "And they're ponies, not horses, though they're big ones at that, eight hundred pounds o' muscle and on the 146 R. A. SALVATORE



top side o' fourteen hands. If ye're lookin' to get one of those for yer young ranger, then ye're lookin' in the wrong place."



Juraviel nodded and then decided to let the matter drop; he and Bradwarden could take care of the horse business later on. "Play your pipes, Forest Ghost," he said with a smile. "I have heard enough of the events;



now I wish to hear what is in Bradwarden's heart."



The centaur smiled and began his melody once again, while Juraviel reclined on the grass beside Roger. The young man was soon fast asleep, but Juraviel stayed up long into the night, staring at the stars and drinking in Bradwarden's song.



"You were telling Bradwarden that you expect Jilseponie to return to Dundalis soon," Juraviel prompted Roger when the two were walking back through the forest toward Dundalis the next morning. The day was hot and sunny, with not a hint of a wind. Bradwarden had gone off at daybreak to scout the horse herd for Juraviel, and to see if he could find Symphony.



"She may already be there," the young man replied with obvious excitement; and Juraviel, too, was thrilled at the prospect of seeing his dear friend once more. There was something else edging Roger's voice, Juraviel recognized, something beyond simple happiness and excitement.



"Have you seen her at all of late? " Juraviel asked.



"Not since last summer," Roger replied, "not since the day Bradwarden and I brought-Elbryan-I mean ..."



"The day you brought Nightbird's casket from Palmaris," Juraviel finished for him. "I watched you begin your journey up the northern road."



"That was the worst journey of my life," Roger said, his voice slightly quavering. "I still can't believe ..."



"He is at rest in the grove?" Juraviel asked. "Beside his uncle Mather?"



Roger^hodded, and the elf immediately turned aside from the trail back to Dundalis, heading instead for the grave of his friend, with Roger close behind.



The temperature seemed cooler in the sheltered grove in the forest north of Dundalis. Juraviel, who knew the place well, led the way along the manyforked and confusing trails, for though the grove was not very large, there was a bit of magic about it, a minor illusion placed by Lady Dasslerond herself, using her powerful emerald, when she had come to bid farewell to Mather Wyndon several years after his death.



Juraviel picked the trail with certainty, moving among the somber trees;



and soon the pair came to the place, with its side-by-side cairns. They stood solemnly for a long while, staring and remembering-and for Juraviel, who had lived for more than two centuries, that meant remembering two friends, two rangers.



"Tempest was buried there with Mather Wyndon for years until Elbryan earned it from the spirit of his uncle," the elf remarked at length. Roger cleared his throat uncomfortably, and Juraviel let his look linger on him until Roger offered an explanation.



"We weren't sure which tomb should get the sword," Roger explained. "To me, it was Elbryan's-Nightbird's-weapon, but Bradwarden thought it better if Tempest went back to rest with Mather."



"But the bow, Hawkwing, is with Nightbird?" Juraviel asked somewhat urgently, for that bow, the last the elf's father had ever crafted, had been made specifically for Nightbird.



"With Elbryan," Roger confirmed.



"Fair enough," the elf said, and Roger seemed to relax.



Just for a moment again, Juraviel had to stare long and hard at Roger to get him to open up with his feelings. "I keep thinking that perhaps if I, or we, had found our way into St. Precious earlier-soon enough to get the weapons and deliver them to Nightbird-that the fight at Chasewind Manor might have turned out differently," Roger explained.



"I tried to do just that," Juraviel admitted, hoping to alleviate Roger's guilt. "I was within the abbey when the alarm sounded, when Jilseponie began her determined march across the city. I could not find them, sword or bow."



"They were both within St. Precious," Roger said. He was nodding and did seem relieved. "We found them afterward, locked in a secret place by Father Abbot Markwart. Brother Braumin brought them to Jilseponie, but she bade him to send them north with the caisson, to be buried with Nightbird. I just wish Nightbird had them in his grasp when he went into Chasewind Manor after Pony."



"It was a confused moment," Juraviel agreed. "Much was misplaced." The way he said that and the look he gave to Roger seemed to throw the young man off balance.



"Well, we found them at least," Roger insisted-too eagerly, Juraviel noted. The elf knew then that Roger was hiding something, and, given the man's demeanor when he spoke of Jilseponie's impending arrival and the rumors Lady Dasslerond had told him that the woman's cache of gemstones had not been recovered from Chasewind Manor, Juraviel had a pretty good idea what that might be.



"Yes, and you dispensed them properly," Juraviel agreed. "And never did I doubt that Roger Lockless and Bradwarden would act in any way that was not in the best interests of all."



"We did not know if the Touel'alfar would want them back," Roger explained.



Juraviel looked down at the cairns, at the burial places of two great rangers and of two marvelous elven weapons. He suspected that these cairns might be disturbed in the not too distant future, as a new ranger, heir to the bloodline of Mather and Elbryan, came to claim his territory and his birthright. The boy would have to do battle with the spirit of Mather to win the right to wield Tempest, and likewise would have to face his own father for the right to carry Hawkwing. Lady Dasslerond had better train the child well, Juraviel thought.



"You did well in the aftermath of the tragedy," Juraviel said at length. "It was a confusing time, and much, I suspect, was misplaced." There, the elf thought, he had left Roger an opening.



But Roger didn't take the bait, just shrugged his shoulders.



Belli'mar Juraviel could accept that. To Roger's understanding-to the understanding of all of them, Jilseponie included-the gemstones were neither the province nor the interest of the Touel'alfar. When Jilseponie had thought that she and Elbryan might be killed at St.-Mere-Abelle, she had begged Juraviel to take the cache of gemstones stolen by Avelyn Desbris, the source of Markwart's anger at the pair, and carry them far away to Andur'Blough Inninness. Juraviel had steadfastly refused, insisting that the gemstones were a problem for the humans, not the elves.



How ironic that seemed to the elf, given one of his missions to this place.



"Come," he bade Roger. "I will take you to the northern slope that over- looks Dundalis and you can go see if there is any word from Jilseponie. Bradwarden and I will meet you on the hillock tonight that we might enjoy together a fine meal, fine conversation, and the centaur's song."



Roger followed the elf out of the grove and across the few forested miles back to the village. Juraviel set off as soon as Roger was out of sight, half running, half flying back to find the centaur.



Bradwarden had marked his trail well for the elf, and so Juraviel had little trouble locating him on a long ridge of birch, overlooking a wide field. Below, a herd of wild horses, including the magnificent black, white-booted stallion, grazed. Soon after Juraviel arrived beside the centaur, Symphony picked his head up and turned their way, and the elf caught the glimmer of turquoise set in the stallion's chest, a magical gemstone Avelyn Desbris had placed there to heighten the connection between rider and mount.



"I told him ye mean to take him," Bradwarden remarked. Even as he finished, Symphony galloped their way, skidded to a stbp, and reared, front legs pawing the air. Then the horse swung about and thundered off, and the whole herd took up the charge in his wake.



"I'm not thinkin' he's likin' the idea," Bradwarden added dryly.



Juraviel studied the running horse for a moment, the seeming urgency in Symphony's long and thundering stride.



"Symphony's pickin' his own course," Bradwarden went on. "He might be thinkin' that there's work to be done about here."



"Would Symphony consider the fate of his own herd above my needs?" Juraviel asked.



"Sounds like an elf," Bradwarden quipped with a snort.



Juraviel eyed him sternly, which, of course, only made the centaur laugh harder. "Whatever Symphony might be thinking or feeling, his path is his own to choose, and I'll not try to drag him to Andur'Blough Inninness," Juraviel announced.



Bradwarden snorted all the louder, as if the mere thought of that was absurd-which indeed, Juraviel knew, it was. Even in the days when Nightbird rode Symphony, the stallion knew no master. "Have you any other prospects? " Juraviel asked.



"Symphony showed me one," Bradwarden explained, pointing down the line to a small, muscular sorrel stallion running near the back of the herd, and not in tight formation like the rest, but lagging and ranging out wide, this way and that. "A two-year-old, and getting a bit edgy."



"Symphony showed you?" Juraviel asked. The elf really didn't doubt that Symphony and Bradwarden were capable of such communication, but he had to wonder at the stallion's intent, if there was any, in picking out one of its own herd.



"He's got the mare smell in his nose," Bradwarden explained, "and it's takin' out all his senses. He even took a run at Symphony. Ye'll be takin' him away or Symphony'11 be kickin' him deep into the forest. If the little one's lucky, Symphony won't kill him."



Juraviel nodded, for now it made sense. There were other stallions in the herd besides Symphony, but not many, and apparently none in competition with the great stallion. Juraviel had reservations, though-would this spirited young stallion be too much for young Brynn?-and they showed clearly in his expression.



"Ye take him away from the mare smell, and he'll be a fine one," the centaur said, obviously catching the elf's drift. "Ye might be geldin' him, o' course, though I've never been fond o' that treatment!" "Will Symphony help us secure him? "



"Oh, I'll get him for ye," the centaur assured him. "I'll have him this very night, though it'll take a couple o' days for me and Roger to break him."



The image brought on by Bradwarden's choice of partners brought a smile to Juraviel. Roger had never been mudi of a rider, and if this young stallion was as spirited and strong as he appeared, the young man might be finding getting out of bed each morning a bit of a trial. "Same hill?" Bradwarden asked.



"Sheila will be bright tonight," Juraviel replied. "I will meet you there when she passes her midpoint."



The centaur reached down and hoisted a long length of strong rope, slinging it over one shoulder. He gave a quick salute to Juraviel, then trotted down along the ridgeline, paralleling the course of Symphony and the herd. "I'm hopin' none o' them mares're hot with the smell," he remarked quietly.



"For the stallion's sake or for your own?" Juraviel asked with a laugh, and Bradwarden joined in.



Juraviel thought to go directly to the outskirts of Dundalis then, to listen in on the conversations of unwitting humans and learn what he might about events since the fall of Markwart and also to discern any further information about Jilseponie's progress to the north. He found himself sidetracked, though. Again he found himself standing in the grove before the two stone cairns. Whatever words Juraviel might find, like n'Touel'alfar, they did little to relieve his pain at that moment. He remembered Mather, and the man's gallant fall while saving the young Bradwarden from the clutches of a goblin horde-no wonder that the centaur insisted upon returning Tempest to Mather's side. Mostly, though, Juraviel explored the newer, raw wound-the loss of Elbryan. He remembered all his days with the young man, training him, bringing him along in his understanding of the elven way of seeing the world, and teaching him bi'nelle dasada. He remembered the night of Elbryan's naming, when the young man became Nightbird the ranger, under a starry sky in Caer'alfar. He contrasted that event with Dasslerond's continuing anger at the man and at Jilseponie, and considered his own initial reaction, anger, upon learning that Nightbird had taught the woman the sword dance. But then Juraviel remembered the first time he had seen the two fighting together within bi'nelle dasada, battling goblins on a hillock above a trapped wagon caravan. How beautiful they had been together, how complementary to each other's movements, and how deadly to the goblins. Watching that display, Belli'mar Juraviel had thrown away his anger at Nightbird, had then considered the man's instruction of Jilseponie a gift upon the elven gift, heightening the value of that the elves had given to him.



If only Lady Dasslerond been able to witness such a display!



But she had not, and Juraviel's description of the scene could hardly sway her.



"Rest well, my fallen friend," the elf said. "Keep Hawkwing close to your side until the day that your son comes to claim it."



That last statement brought a smile to Juraviel's face, as he turned and started for Dundalis, but how much wider that smile would have been, he realized, if he were allowed to play some role in tutoring the child of Nightbird.



The elf spent the rest of the day about the outskirts of Dundalis, resting on high branches, and listening to conversations of some of the townsfolk. He fell asleep to dreams of his lost friend and didn't awaken until the moon was high in the clear night sky.



He arrived at the base of the hillock, serenaded by Bradwarden's piping, a short while later. The young stallion was there, tethered to a tree, grazing easily and not even lifting its head to mark the approach of the quiet elf.



He found Roger reclining beside the centaur, much in the same position as the night before. "Got him," Bradwarden remarked. "Oh, but he's a spirited beastie. Yer little ranger friend is in for some wild ridin'."



"And what about my little friend Roger? " Juraviel asked with a smile.



Roger, who obviously had already been informed of his role, put on a sour look that the elf knew was mostly bluster.



"He'll be sittin' funny for a bit, don't ye doubt," the centaur said with a laugh. "But we'll get the stallion so he'll take a saddle, at least."



"A week? " Juraviel asked. "For I've some business to attend to."



Bradwarden nodded. "I'll break 'em both by then," he said, glancing wryly sidelong at Roger.



The three spent the rest of the night relaxing on the hillock. After Roger had fallen asleep, Juraviel wandered down to the stallion to better inspect him.



With his ragged sorrel coat, he wasn't the prettiest of horses, certainly nothing compared to Symphony, but he was strong and well muscled, with enough inner fires showing in his dark eyes to keep Brynn Dharielle working hard indeed.



Juraviel was back on the road in the morning, leaving Bradwarden and Roger to their work with the stallion. He headed south, shadowing the one road, with a hundred and fifty miles before him. He meant to arrive in Caer Tinella in three days.