‘In any event, what you or Roland do will have little effect on the Princess so long as she’s determined to have her own way. She has romanticized you in much the same manner your friend has our Queen. Short of you becoming a hopeless boor, she will not be shaken from this attitude until she is ready. I think she has you in mind as her future consort.’
Pug gaped for a moment, then said, ‘Consort?’
Calin smiled. ‘The young are often overly concerned with matters to be settled in later years. I suspect her determination in the matter is as much a result of your reluctance as from a true appreciation of your worth. She, like many children, simply wants what she can’t have.’ In a friendly tone he added, ‘Time will decide the issue.’
Pug leaned forward, a worried expression on his face. ‘Oh, my, I have made a hash of things. Half the keep boys think themselves in love with the Princess. If they only knew how terrifying the real thing can be.’ He closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly shut a moment. ‘My head aches. I thought she and Roland . . .’
Calin said, ‘He may be but a tool to provoke your interest. Sadly, that seems to have resulted in bad feelings between you.’
Pug nodded slowly. ‘I think so. Roland is a good enough sort on the whole; we’ve been friends for the most part. But since I was elevated in rank, he’s been openly hostile. I try to ignore it, but it gets under my skin after a while. Maybe I should try to talk to him.’
‘That would prove wise, I think. But don’t be surprised if he is not receptive to your words. He is most certainly caught up in her spell.’
Pug was getting a headache from the topic, and the mention of spells made him ask, ‘Would you tell me more about elven magic?’
‘Our magic is ancient. It is part of what we are and in what we create. Elven boots can make even a human silent when walking, and elven bows are better able to strike the mark, for that is the nature of our magic. It is vested in ourselves, our forests, our creations. It can sometimes be managed, subtly by those who fully understand it . . . Spellweavers, such as Tathar. But this is not easily done, for out magic resists manipulation. It is more like air than anything, always surrounding us, yet unseen. But like air, which can be felt when the wind blows, it has substance. Our forests are called enchanted by men, for so long have we dwelled there, our magic has created the mystery of Elvandar. All who dwell there are at peace. No one may enter Elvandar uninvited, save by mighty arts, and even the distant boundaries of the elven forests cause unease in those who enter with evil intent. It has not always been so; in ages past we shared our lot with others, the moredhel, those you call the Brotherhood of the Dark Path. Since the great break, when we drove them from our forests, Elvandar has been changing, becoming more our place, our home, our essence.’
Pug said, ‘Are the Brothers of the Dark Path truly cousin to the elves?’
Calin’s eyes grew hooded. He paused for a moment, then said, ‘We speak little of such things, for there is much we wish were not true. I can tell you this: there is a bond between the moredhel, whom you call the Brotherhood, and my people, though ancient and long strained. We wish it were not so, but they are true cousins to us. Once in a great while one comes back to us, what we call Returning.’ He looked as if the topic were making him very uncomfortable.
Pug said, ‘I’m sorry if—’
Calin waved away the apology. ‘Curiosity is nothing to apologize for in a student, Pug. I just would rather not say more on this subject.’
They spoke late into the night, of many things. Pug was fascinated by the Elf Prince and was flattered so many things he said seemed to be of interest to Calin.
At last Calin said, ‘I should retire. Though I need little rest, I do need some. And I think you do as well.’
Pug rose and said, ‘Thank you for telling me so much.’ Then he smiled, half in embarrassment. ‘And for talking to me about the Princess.’
‘You needed to talk.’
Pug led Calin to the long hall, where a servant showed him to his quarters. Pug returned to his room and lay down for sleep, rejoined by a damp Fantus, who snorted in indignation at having to fly through the rain. Fantus was soon asleep. Pug, however, lay staring at the flickering light from his fire pot that danced on the ceiling, unable to call up sleep. He tried to put the tales of strange warriors out of his mind, but images of brightly clad fighters stalking through the forests of the westlands made sleep impossible.
There was a somber mood throughout Castle Crydee the next morning. The servants’ gossip had spread the news about the Tsurani, though the details were lacking. Everyone went about his duties with one ear open for a tidbit of speculation on what the Duke was going to do. Everyone was agreed to one thing: Borric conDoin, Duke of Crydee, was not a man to sit idly by waiting. Something would be done, and soon.
Pug sat atop a bale of hay, watching Tomas practice with a sword, swinging at a pell post, hacking backhand, then forehand, over and over. His blows were halfhearted, and finally he threw his sword down with disgust. ‘I’m not accomplishing a thing.’ He walked over and sat next to Pug. ‘I wonder what they’re talking about.’
Pug shrugged. ‘They’ were the Duke’s council; today the boys had not been asked to attend, and the last four hours had passed slowly.
Abruptly the courtyard became busy as servants began to rush toward the front gate. ‘Come on,’ said Tomas. Pug jumped off the bale and followed his friend.
They rounded the keep in time to see the guards turning out as they had the day before. It was colder than yesterday, but there was no rain. The boys climbed on the same wagon, and Tomas shivered. ‘I think the snows will come early this year. Maybe tomorrow.’
‘If they do, it will be the earliest snowfall in memory. You should have worn your cloak. Now you’re all sweaty from the drill, and the air is chilling you.’
Tomas looked pained. ‘Gods, you sound like my mother.’
Pug mimicked an exasperated manner. In a tone that was high-pitched and nasal, he said, ‘And don’t come running to me when you’re all blue with chill, and coughing and sneezing, looking for comfort, for you’ll find none here, Tomas Megarson.’
Tomas grinned. ‘Now you sound exactly like her.’
They turned at the sound of the great doors opening. The Duke and Elf Queen led the other guests from the central keep, the Duke holding the Queen’s hand in a parting gesture of friendship. Then the Queen placed her hand to her mouth and sang out a musical series of words, not loud, but carrying over the noise of the crowd. The servants who were standing in the court became silent, and soon the sound of hoof-beats could be heard outside the castle.
Twelve white horses ran through the gates and reared up in greeting to the Elf Queen. The elves quickly mounted, each springing up on an elf steed’s back without assistance. They raised their hands in salute to the Duke, then turned and raced out the gate.
For a few minutes after they were gone, the crowd stood around, as if loath to admit that they had seen their last of the elves, probably their last in this lifetime. Slowly they began to drift back to work.
Tomas looked far away, and Pug turned toward him. ‘What is it?’
Tomas said softly, ‘I wish I could see Elvandar, someday.’
Pug understood. ‘Maybe you will.’ Then he added, in lighter tones, ‘But I doubt it. For I will be a magician, and you will be a soldier, and the Queen will reign in Elvandar long after we are dead.’
Tomas playfully jumped atop his friend, wrestling him down in the straw. ‘Oh! Is that so. Well, I will too go to Elvandar someday.’ He pinned Pug under him, sitting atop his chest. ‘And when I do, I’ll be a great hero, with victories over the Tsurani by the score. She’ll welcome me as an honored guest. What do you think of that?’
Pug laughed, trying to push his friend off. ‘And I’ll be the greatest magician in the land.’
They both laughed. A voice broke through their play. ‘Pug! There you are.’
Tomas got off, and Pug sat up. Approaching them was the stocky figure of Gardell the smith. He was a barrel-chested man, with little hair but a thick black beard. His arms were grimy with smoke, and his apron was burned through with many small holes. He came to the side of the wagon and placed fists on hips. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you. I have that hood Kulgan asked me to fashion for your fire pot.’
Pug scrambled out of the wagon, with Tomas close behind. They walked after Gardell toward the smithy behind the central keep. The burly smith said, ‘Damned clever idea, that hood. I’ve worked the forge for nearly thirty years and never thought of using a hood for a fire pot. Had to make one as soon as Kulgan told me of the plan.’
They entered the smithy, a large shed with a large and small forge and several different-sized anvils. All manner of things lay about waiting for repair: armor, stirrup irons, and kitchen utensils. Gardell walked to the larger forge and picked up the hood. It was about three feet to a side, about three feet high, and formed a cone with a hole at the top. Lengths of round metal pipe lay nearby, fashioned especially thin.
Gardell held out his creation for them to study. ‘I made it fairly thin, using a lot of tin for lightness, for were it too heavy, it would collapse.’ With his toe he pointed to several lengths of metal rods. ‘We’ll knock some little holes in the floor and use these for support. It may take a bit of time to get it right, but I think this thing of yours is going to work.’
Pug smiled broadly. He found great pleasure in seeing an idea of his taking concrete form. It was a novel and gratifying sensation. ‘When can we install it?’
‘Now if you like. I would like to see it work, I must confess.’
Pug gathered up some of the pipe, and Tomas the rest, as well as the rods. Juggling the awkward load, they set out toward the magician’s tower, with the chuckling smith following.
Kulgan was deep in thought as he started to mount the stairs to his room. Suddenly a shout from above sounded: ‘Watch out!’ Kulgan glanced up in time to see a block of stone come tumbling down the stairs, bounding over the steps as if in some fit of drunken craziness. He leapt aside as it struck against the wall where he had stood and came to rest at the bottom of the stairs. Mortar dust filled the air, and Kulgan sneezed.
Tomas and Pug came running down the stairs, expressions of worry on their faces. When they saw no one was hurt, they both looked relieved.
Kulgan leveled a baleful gaze upon the pair and said, ‘What is all this?’
Pug appeared sheepish, while Tomas tried to blend in with the wall. Pug spoke first. ‘We were trying to carry the stone down to the yard, and it sort of slipped.’
‘Sort of slipped? It looked more like a mad dash for freedom. Now, why were you carrying the stone, and where did it come from?’
‘It’s the loose one from my wall,’ answered Pug. ‘We took it out so that Gardell could put the last pipe in place.’ When Kulgan still appeared uncomprehending, Pug said, ‘It’s for my fire pot hood, remember?’
‘Ah,’ said Kulgan, ‘yes. Now I do.’ A servant arrived to investigate the noise, and Kulgan asked him to fetch a couple of workmen from the yard to carry the block away. He left, and Kulgan said to the boys, ‘I think it would be better to let someone a little larger tote that stone out. Now let us see this marvel.’
