Son of Thunder (16 page)

“And Kellin as well,” Vell added. “She and I were both chosen by the Thunderbeast. We should go together.”

“Kellin, yes.” Rask paused a moment. “You’ve put yourself between her and your chief in the past. It’s created tension among your group. Was that what you wanted?”

“No.” Vell lowered his head. “Some fear our tribe is being ripped asunder. I want it to stay unified as much as the rest. But Kellin…”

“What is she to you?” Rask’s tone was vaguely confrontational. “A potential lover? Your lost twin? Like her father, she has made a study of our tribes and wants us to feel flattered to be the subject of civilized sagecraft. Tell me, Vell. What if we were to keep her unconscious? She would not be harmed and would be returned to your party once you left the tree.”

“No,” Vell said without hesitation. “You can trust her.”

“Can we?” asked Rask, grim-faced. “She will write of our people if she lives to do so. Will she perhaps threaten our greatest secret: our location?”

“She will not,” said Vell. Rask inspected him, then an improbable smile broke out on his tusked features. Vell instantly knew this had nothing to do with Kellin, but was a test for him.

“Come my friend,” the half-orc said. “Let us rouse the others.”

Something was different in the shade of Grandfather Tree. For the first time, the iciness that the party had carried since leaving Sungar’s Camp seemed to fall away. The petty squabbles ceased. They felt not like a group thrust together by the whims of circumstance, but a true band of fellows, united by destiny and a common goal. Even Keirkrad was changed after he broke down and wept at the sight of the boughs spreading above, painting the sky with brilliant hues of autumn.

Kellin was especially awestruck. She held great reverence for the Tree Ghosts’ unique ancestor mound, something her father once tried to locate by following the clues of the famed Harper bard Mintiper Moonsilver, who even claimed to have explored forbidden dungeons beneath the tree.

Would that her father could see her now.

Rask Urgek led them to the village of Ghostand just north of the tree, constructed on shadowed platforms above the forest floor in a stand of oak trees. The Tree Ghost chieftain, the grizzled Gunther Longtooth, met them at the camp’s edge with Thluna at his side.

“Your cause is just,” said Gunther. “We shall help you however we can.” The roar that went up from the Thunderbeasts scattered the birds from the trees above.

The mood was light that evening as the travelers put aside the heaviness of their task for the morrow. Mead and elven wine flowed freely, and soon the Tree Ghosts, who had faintly distrusted the outsiders, were as brothers with the Thunderbeasts, and even the elves seemed like long-lost friends. Copper-tressed Faeniele Eshele, the de facto leader of the elves here, was as close an advisor to Gunther Longtooth as the Tree Ghost elders. She was all but an honorary member of the tribe herself. The camp, well hidden and safe in the deep woods, was transformed into an impromptu feast, one that brought great bliss to the weary visitors. No fire lit this place, but strings of luminous lichens and magical lamps bathed the festivities in a warm glow. Wood elf minstrels blended their flutes and strings with the Tree Ghosts’ Uthgardt sagas, a warm meld representing the friendship and accord their two races had found in this strange place.

Keirkrad chatted with Gunther, a fellow of his generation, and with whom he was faintly acquainted from some dealings in the past. Thanar spent his time with lithesome Hala Spiritwalk—the Tree Ghost shaman—as well as some other druids visiting Grandfather Tree, some elves, and even one of the great red-furred creatures known as an alaghi. Ilskar, Hengin, and the rest found company among Tree Ghosts warriors of various ilk, and Kellin found a surprisingly appreciative audience in the Tree Ghosts’ skalds and loremasters.

There was much laughter and happiness among the trees that night, together with dance and music, good food and mellowness. Perhaps it was a godsent calm before great struggles to come, but it was precious peace nonetheless.

Vell was sampling some elven brandy when Rask Urgek approached him. By then, Vell was almost used to seeing orc features on a fellow Uthgardt.

“Vell,” he said. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet. This is Lanaal Featherbreeze.”

Before him stood a lovely elf maiden, seemingly young in appearance, though Vell was well aware of elf longevity. Her skin was not the coppery tone of most of the elves in the village, but was tinged a rich bronze, and her hair was a cascade of golden curls. She wore a simple green dress and blue feathers in her hair. Something was very different about her—more than just her clothing and skin tone. Vell could sense it. The other elves were naturally slight, but Lanaal seemed light and fresh as a spring breeze.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Vell,” she said, clasping his hand. “We have much to discuss.”

“Then you’re the one Thanar told me about,” he said.

She nodded. “Let us find a quieter spot to talk.” She took Vell by the hand and—moving with graceful ease—led him up a ladder to a higher platform. He scanned the gathering one last time and saw Kellin watching him as he vanished into the trees.

Soon they reached Ghostand’s highest platform—a terrace among the treetops, where the clear night sky curled above them, and a thousand bright stars shone down on them. Lanaal stood and looked up at it.

“I like to see the sky,” she said. “Sometimes I lose track of it, living under the treetops.”

“Pardon me for asking,” said Vell, “but you’re not like the other elves here, are you?”

“No,” Lanaal said. “Most of them are wood elves, and I am one of the sun elves. And you, Vell. You’re not like the others.”

Suddenly self-conscious, Vell turned away. “Not all Uthgardt have blue eyes, though most do.”

“I was not speaking of your eyes.” Lanaal reached out and touched his face, turning it back toward her. “But tell me about them.”

“My mother had brown eyes, and so do I. My tribe has called me Vell the Brown for as long as I can remember. They were rarely cruel, but they never let me forget it either.”

Lanaal nodded in understanding. “As a child I climbed to the highest window of my parents’ mansion and jumped out, without fear, to the shock of all watching from the street below,” said Lanaal with a mysterious smile. “Imagine how shocked they were when an eagle swooped down to stop my fall!

“For me, the body of an elf is an accident of birth. I belong up there, in the open sky. So many decades I spent struggling to cope with this encumbering form. No amount of education could purge the avian spirit inside me. I hated my body, and for many years shunned the company of elves and humans. Only among birds did I feel real peace. I can tell when they’re present, and talk with them. Sometimes I think I can even sense their thoughts and feelings. I came here hoping I might find something that would help me keep my sanity. And I did.”

“The tree,” said Vell.

“A beacon of peace for all who see it.” Lanaal smiled. “In its shadow, I have learned that I can take the form of a bird—any bird I know of—from a titmouse to a giant falcon. And when I wear this, my elf form, I feel better about it, for it’s my choice. The freedom of transformation saved me. My mind stays the same, regardless of the body it’s in, and bird or elf, that body is Lanaal. It took me a long time to realize that.”

Vell stayed silent for a time, choosing his words with care. “You say you felt this way from childhood. Do you know why you are this way? Why you?”

Lanaal shrugged. “Perhaps a gift from Aerdrie Faenya, goddess of air. Some have speculated so. Others suspect a kind of throwback to an ancestral elf, something like the avariel, our winged brethren. For me, it matters not.”

Vell frowned. “You do not care why you are this way?”

“I don’t think a search for meaning would be fruitful,” said Lanaal. “I live my life as it is. You will be happier if you do the same.”

“But you have always been this way,” said Vell. “For me, a change came when the Thunderbeast entered me at Morgur’s Mound. It was thrust upon me.”

“I did not choose this either,” said Lanaal, “but I’ve learned to live with it, to embrace it. I suspect you’re similar to me. I know there are others—rare individuals born with the souls of horses, snakes, or even fish.”

“So is that it?” asked Vell, a touch of bitterness entering his voice. “I have the soul of a lizard? A lizard none of my people have ever seen—is that not strange to you?”

“Let me ask this,” said Lanaal. “Do you feel lonely, even among your companions? A dull ache, an emptiness in your soul that you don’t know how to fill?” Vell didn’t have to nod. “Perhaps that’s because you are not with your true kind—the behemoths.”

“Behemoths are not my kind!” Vell shouted.

“But you can transform into one.”

“Only once,” Vell said. “I don’t know if I could do it again.”

“How did it happen?” asked Lanaal. “Tell me about it.”

“Our village was under siege,” he said. “Our chief was captured by the enemy. He is still missing. I knew of the power in me and I thought there was something deeper, and this time I reached in and drew upon it. Then, I lost all control of myself. Forgot myself.”

“That can happen,” said Lanaal. “I remember one time early on, when I became a lark and spent days as one before I even remembered that I was an elf. For you, I would guess it is tied to your nature as an Uthgardt. Your famous rages involve a clouding of the senses, correct? Perhaps you should attempt a transformation at a moment that’s less critical.”

“I’d be happy never to have that happen again,” said Vell. “When you turn into a bird, I’m certain that you do not kill your companions.”

“Is that what happened?”

Vell nodded sadly. “Several of them, crushed under my feet.”

“The only way you can prevent that is to learn control.” Lanaal frowned. “For all I know, it will leave you soon. But if it doesn’t, you’ll have to accept it as your own. You’ll be better for it. I used to feel like there were two souls in my breast, an elf and a bird. But then I realized there was just one—mine, which is both elf and bird.”

“No, Lanaal.” Vell’s eyes were dampening. “It’s different for me. I’m cursed. It tears me apart from inside. I could lose myself for good. When I changed back, I spent the night wandering the dark fields alone, trying to pull together every scrap of my identity. You don’t understand.”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes warm with compassion. “I do.”

The night wore on and the merriment with it, fading to the mild but persistent happiness of inebriation. Thluna spent much of the evening speaking with elves, drawing out any rumors or legends they knew about behemoths, or about the Thunderbeasts’ tribal history. From Faeniele Eshele, a wood elf in the camp, he heard a strange story alleging that a behemoth had been spotted many centuries before, grazing in a swamp alongside the Heartblood River. But when an elf party arrived to investigate, it was gone—not only the behemoth, but the swamp as well.

Those elves were uncomfortably close to the Dire Wood and were not inclined to probe deeply, but one elf wizard grew intrigued and cast a spell to search for magical illusion. He found skillfully hidden magical emanations that implied a large concealed space, but was unable to reveal it. They suspected that it may have been some relic of a lost civilization, one of a great many strewn about the High Forest—possibly the elves’ own Eaerlann.

“This is only a rumor, you understand,” said Faeniele. “But I will contact Reitheillaethor and ask if anyone knows more. It may be within the memory of some of our elders.” Thluna thanked her profusely.

Later, as Thluna relaxed beneath a great oak, having consumed some of the Tree Ghosts’ hearty ale, Kellin came and slumped down next to him.

“Have you learned anything interesting?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, her speech slightly slurred. “Very interesting indeed. How about you?”

“I think I might have learned where we’re going.”

“Wonderful,” said Kellin. “And Thluna?”

“Yes?”

“Isn’t it time somebody told me what happened in the Fallen Lands?”

The question hung in the air, unaddressed. Thluna felt a kind of shame as he thought about it. But it was only right that she should know. “Yes,” he said, and told the story as honestly as he knew how.

It was midnight at the Wet Wizard tavern. Fueled by a new shipment of Tanagyr’s Stout from Zhentil Keep, discussion turned, as it so often did in Llorkh, to Ardeth Chale. Lord’s Men, locals, and visiting merchants and their caravan guards all had their say.

“My younger brother played with her as a child. She’s a local girl. Taken an odd turn, that’s for sure…”

“She does everything Geildarr says, but really she has more power over him than the other way around.”

“Word is that she and Royce’s band have taken off on one of Geildarr’s crazy missions. What’s weirdest of all is that Mythkar Leng’s gone along with ‘em…”

“Word about her has even reached Zhentil Keep. Geildarr thinks of her as his Ashemmi.”

“Ardeth is the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. What I wouldn’t do for a chance to…”

“What annoys me most is the way she exerts her authority over the Lord’s Men, without rank or position to justify it.”

“Geildarr thinks he owes her everything. Some renegade dwarves would have taken over Llorkh if it weren’t for her…”

“A Zhent skymage went off on a mission with her. She came back alone, riding his mount. What does that tell you?”

But all turned to hushed silence when Clavel Foxgray came into the tavern, his cheeks already rosy with drink. The Lord’s Men shut up immediately, and the rest followed suit, wondering why.

“Let me guess,” said Clavel, sneering. “You were talking about Ardeth.”

A half-orc caravan guard snickered and asked, “What’s yer beef with her?” Clavel provided the answer.

“A hobgoblin knocked me into the ditch with an axe,” Clavel said, leaning against the doorframe to keep his balance. “I can live with that. Somebody would have gotten a rope and let me climb out. Oh, I’d have been laughed at a bit, but I would have laughed, too. Except Ardeth came along and told them to leave me there all night, then demote me. She’s no place in the chain of command, but her word is law. So I’m back on the night watch, two years of seniority stripped away by Ardeth’s whim. So—” he smirked at the half-orc “—so that’s the reason conversations about Ardeth tend to go sour when I walk in.”