22

The heavy cell door swung open with a creak like a long, dying groan. Boomed thunderous-loud against the stone wall as one massive guard used his lance to keep the cell's occupant back. Meanwhile, another, beefier constable flung Gildyr into that cramped little room.

Half running, all stumbling, the wood-elf tripped over an uneven cobble and lost his balance. Would have fallen face-first, had someone not seized the back of his tunic, keeping him just off the floor.

Gildyr twisted around in his savior's grasp, catching a quick, swaying look before the door shut and the guards plodded off, taking their light along with them. Once their heavy tread and coarse laughter receded, the cell was plunged into darkness.

There were no mage glows, no rush-lights or torches. Only blackness and still, noxious air. The whole place reeked, smelling strongly of blood, unwashed bodies and night-soil. Other prisoners pounded their cell doors, cursing and shouting for help.

Gildyr ignored them, being rather more focused on who he was sharing a room with, himself. This was grippingly vital, because he'd been just about paralyzed. Besides the mage-lock and curses, his wrists had been bound with fey cuffs. They were meant to come off on their own (disintegrate, actually) in half a candle-mark, leaving his hands tightly bound in the meantime.

Before throwing him in, the guards had taken his cloak, belt and knife; confiscating anything that the druid might have used to escape or defend himself with. But now, past the prison cell's stench, he sensed someone familiar. Not an elf, dwarf or human. Someone who smelled like a young female cat.

In a low voice, getting one knee under himself, then trying to rise, the druid said,

"Thank you for preventing my fall, Good Lady."

He'd glimpsed black-and-white fur and torn clothes in the guards' vanished light. In the dark he saw nothing but motion, blurry grey sliding on black. She growled something back in her own language, raising cries of…

"Shut up in there, can't you?!"

"Quiet! Nobody cares!"

And…

"Button it, all of you! I'm trying to dream my way out of here, and your ruckus disturbs my chi-wave energies!"

The Tabaxi hissed and spat an insulting response, uttering something between see-sawing yowl and low rumble. Next flung Gildyr onto the cell's lone amenity, a pile of rank straw. Crossed to the iron-bound door after that, crouching to quietly scratch at its food slot.

Gildyr wriggled himself to a seated position; adjusting bruised flesh for minimal contact with cold, hard stone or sharp straw. This was not his first time in prison… a wandering beggar tended to arouse suspicion… but always before he'd had a way out besides extortionate debt, slave-time or execution. To the busy Tabaxi, he whispered,

"Have you been here long?" (Less than three days, he was willing to bet.)

Her head turned. The small piece of metal she clutched stopped moving. Then,

"Sing," she hissed. "Anything at all, best if noisy, though. I can work faster with covering sound."

"Um… yes. All right."

He was an elf. He had a nice tenor voice and perfect pitch. Started singing the Dawn Hymn because it did not require accompaniment, and because it was long. In the meantime, the Tabaxi (Selma? Solara? Something like that…) The Tabaxi attacked their hinged food slot with furious energy. Trying to pry loose its cover, he thought.

There was no time to inquire, though. Not with thirty-two verses to warble. (Forty, on feast days or high holies.) Their fellow prisoners grumbled at first, but mostly got quiet and listened. Only the "dreamer" still raised a fuss. Didn't get any silence, though. Under cover of Gildyr's performance, the Tabaxi made steady progress. Actually worked one end of the slot-cover loose, by the time Gildyr reached the hymn's trilling crescendo.

He paused to draw breath and offer the customary five obeisances, then. Only, his cellmate snarled,

"More. Loudly, Elfling."

Gildyr complied, managing to sing while bowing five times in succession. His motion gave the tune a bouncy effect, causing someone out there to start clapping along. Meanwhile, the Tabaxi loosened the cover enough to slide her hand and forearm out through the opening. No further, because the slot was barely large enough to jam a tray through… but that was all the room she needed.

The druid looked on in surprise as the fur of her upper right arm started to glow, forming the outline of a tattooed gold monkey. He was even more confused when that shining ink began moving, sliding down her arm to her hand, which was outside of their cell. Incredibly, moments later the tattoo sprang free of her pelt, taking shape as a small, darting simian with bright golden hair and a little red vest.

It tilted its head sideways to grin at them through the food slot, then scampered away.

"A key!" whisper-called the Tabaxi. "Steal a door key, Cap'n!"

It (very quietly) screeched an assent, while someone hollered,

"Hey! Where'd the cussed music go?!"

A couple of things happened at once, then. First, the light came back, as the guards returned. Not drawn in by Gildyr's singing, though. They seemed to be struggling with another prisoner, this one less cooperative than Gildyr had been. There was vile cursing outside, then the sounds of a scuffle and meaty thud.

Moments later, the door to their cell was unlocked and flung open, giving its inmates a quick look at three scowling and battered wardens… as well as the monkey, who was now a flat picture drawn in gold paint on the wall, outside.

Then someone was flung through the doorway with brutal force by the guards. Drow, by the smell of him. Next, one of their captors pointed at Gildyr.

"You! Wolf-ears! Up n' out! 'Is Lordship's taken a personal interest in yer case."

News traveled fast among elves. Get arrested at supper time, be the talk of the manor house well before sunrise.

Gildyr stood up, chilly and cramped. His hands were free, at least, though the lock-collar still pinned all his magical senses and skills. He tugged at the hem of his tunic, then, as though yanking torn cloth could remove dirt, bloodstains and holes. He'd been meant to dine at the Tarandahl banqueting hall in that outfit… but the tables hadn't stopped turning.

The Tabaxi's pointed ears were flat to her skull, Gildyr saw; her yellow eyes slitted in hate. The sudden emotion was not aimed at him, though. She was staring instead at the drow, who landed hard on the floor, rolled once and lay there, having gotten no help at all.

"Special deal on scrub-elves today, looks like," grunted one of the guards. "First we got us a tree-lover, and then… a chamber pot."

The other two laughed at that, but not Gildyr or that half-conscious dark-elf. Big fellow, even sprawled on the floor, and a possible danger to the surprising Tabaxi.

She was on her own, for Gildyr was in no position to help. He'd been seized by massive hands once again, then dragged from the cell. The most he could do was create a distraction to keep them from noticing Cap'n (who was posed amid the scrawled pictures, spatters and curses that covered the passage wall).

You had to finish the Dawn Hymn, once started. Everyone knew that. So, the druid pitched into verse twenty-seven with a strong, clear voice, despite all the insults and shoves.

Then… dirty, bruised and still reeking of prison… Gildyr was taken before High Lord Arvendahl. His Lordship had sent everyone else away and now stood alone; waiting upstairs in the main guardroom.

Very tall, with an icily handsome face, black hair and blue eyes, His Lordship seethed with frustrated power and rage. His clothing was formal, as though he'd been drawn from a social event by news of the wood-elf's arrest.

"Get out," he snapped at the guards, once they'd brought Gildyr. "Leave him, and go. I will personally arrange the public execution of any who linger to eavesdrop."

The guards fell all over themselves to obey, first kicking Gildyr onto his knees before Arvendahl, then scurrying out through the street door. As it slammed in their wake, the high-elf drew glowing sigils in midair. Ward-and-privacy, looked like, though the collar made reading spells difficult. Casting, impossible; even if searing pain from cracked knees and punched kidneys had allowed him to speak.

Arvendahl stalked nearer, blue eyes burning like slitted flame, taking in the druid's wolf ears and greenish skin with open contempt.

"You are not the right one, but you know him," he said, in a voice completely devoid of an elf's normal music.

'Val,' guessed the druid. His Lordship was hunting Valerian. Gildyr did his best to seem puzzled, though, whispering hoarsely,

"Your Lordship, I…"

"Be silent. I have no patience for weaseling lies. You will listen carefully as I speak, then receive exactly one chance to respond with precise, unfiltered truth. Otherwise, Druid, I shall have you slashed and set loose for the hounds, in my parkland."

He meant it, too, seeming to speak from a place of terrible anguish and loss. Gildyr risked a nod, which was all the response that High Lord Arvendahl needed.

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Conjuring wine and a golden cup, the furious elf poured himself a drink. Downed the whole thing at a reckless toss before saying,

"Somehow, the world has changed, Druid. Something… someone… very important has been taken from me. I have lost what I can only sense from its outlines. Someone dear is gone… and I will have him returned. I do not know exactly what happened…" Paused then, to refill and drain his cup, while very faint sounds from below hinted at growing chaos. A miserable, distracted Arvendahl failed to notice. Too upset. Paced like a tygre, then threw his goblet past Gildyr's head. It struck the far wall with a ringing clatter and bounced to the floor, spinning wildly and dribbling wine. Wrath somewhat abated, the high-elf lord began speaking again, saying,

"Happen, it did, though, because a worthless apprentice botched his task. Deliberately, I believe. Ruined everything, causing the exile of one who could only fall to the basest sort of treachery. You know the traitor. You were present. I can almost see him, through you." Taking a deep, shaky breath, His Lordship continued.

"You shall have leave to speak, shortly. You will tell me all that you know of this renegade, and where he is to be found. If your answer fails to satisfy, I will have you sewn into a weighted sack with the Tabaxi, and then watch as my guards throw you into the harbor. You may speak, Druid."

Mouth gone suddenly dry, on his aching knees before Arvendahl, Gildyr drew breath to respond. Only… what to say, while the noise of escape grew louder, below, and somebody slid into shadow, nearby?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

As for Valerian, the young high-elf awoke from wandering dreams to find himself sharing a stall with somebody's milk cow… and a frightened young girl. He sat up, spelling dust and hay from his garments. Was tidy… well dressed and clean… moments later. A bit confused, though.

Having turned himself inside-out overusing his power, lost consciousness and then been seemingly kidnapped, Val had a few holes in his thinking. The girl couldn't see that, though. She was shaking with fright. Very young and quite pretty for a mortal, she had light brown hair and dark eyes. A spattering of those dots mortal men called "freckles" dusted her cheeks and her nose. She knelt in the straw by the stall bar, surrounded by wretched gifts. Woven cloth, potted food and small craft items. Poor stuff, but… like the girl… probably the best such humble folk had to offer. He could sense a small crowd of them waiting outside.

Cleared his throat, then gestured to waft a flask of the local brew to his hand. Sour and thin, it nevertheless quenched his thirst. Gave him some much-needed think time, as well.

The fawn-colored cow lowed softly behind him, her bag swollen full. 'Needs milking,' he thought. Light filtered in through cracks in the barn walls, along with a draft of cold air. Reminded of Starshire, he relaxed enough to smile at the girl. Then, speaking into that anxious silence, Val said,

"I give thanks for the hospitality offered, good people, and I throw myself on your care, as a guest."

A much shorter statement than protocol normally demanded, but formality would have been wasted, here. Someone outside hissed advice to the girl, who sniffled and nodded, saying,

"T'were gladly done, Milord. P- Please be welcome to all that we have, Sir."

"My name is Valerian," he told her, getting up from the straw in a smooth, fluid motion. "I seem to be traveling, although the full details are blurry, at the moment."

He was no accurate judge of human ages, but the girl appeared to be only a child; their one certain maiden, no doubt. In a hushed little voice, she said,

"I be Rainey, Milord. This be Burrough, if… if you would wish to look at our village, Sir?"

He nodded, getting roughly propelled by a nudge from the cow.

"By all means, as my hostess appears to have pressing concerns." He'd meant to be light, but the girl heard things otherwise.

"Oh, please, Milord… Flossie don't mean nothing wrong! She…"

"Peace," he interrupted, coming over to offer a hand, then raising the girl to her feet. "I have been among kine, before, Rainey. Helped with the milking, even." (On an excursion with Tam and Katina.) "Flossie belongs in this place. I do not."

He faerie pocketed all of the offerings, then; even a small and misshapen clay pot. Rainey's eyes grew wide as Burrough's combined treasures vanished away. Her little hand was cold in his; clenching convulsively at the tingle of manna.

The sleep had worked a treat, but he was still terribly drained. In no shape to misty-step past the threshold, much less back home. To buy further time, he said,

"Show me the town and your people, please, Rainey. I would greet those whose kindness and generosity have helped me to heal."

She nodded, risking a very shy smile.

"Yes, Milord. This way, if you please, Sir."

Outside of the tumble-down barn stood the townsfolk, looking strained. Some twenty-two people, mostly women and children, with those withered elders peculiar to humans not much in evidence. A few scarred, bitter men; keenly aware of how utterly powerless they were against even a weary, drained elf-lord.

Valerian bowed slightly. These folk did not know him. They were afraid. They'd knelt down at his emergence from the barn, making obeisance right there in the chilly mud. He said,

"Rise, if you please. I have done nothing to earn such a show of respect… except to delay the day's labor."

That brought a snort of agreement from someone up front. They clambered back onto their feet, though, dirty and mumbling; their faces and hands chapped by toil and cold. People in Burrough aged swiftly, it seemed.

He guessed Rainey's parents by the way that their frightened gaze followed her. By the father's bunched muscles, the mother's red eyes. Wishing to put them at ease, Val inclined his head in their direction, saying

"Rainey has kindly agreed to show a lost traveler the sights of her village. Such grace speaks well of those who raised her."

The peasant couple seemed dumb-struck, at first. Then Rainey's thin mother pushed a straggle of hair back into its bun and smiled.

"Thank 'ee, Milord. She's a good lass, our Rainey."

The father's eyes searched Valerian's face, meanwhile. Their gazes met, briefly, and (just for a moment) the elf-lord felt what it was to be helpless. Completely unable to shield those he loved.

"By your leave, Goodman," said the elf, "I shall make Rainey my guide, so that I do not offend at your shrine, or step in the way of your labor."

The mortal's face changed. Not a smile. Never that, but his jaw relaxed some.

"Our wee Rainey be in yer hands, Milord." 'Take care of her, please,' he did not add aloud.

Somewhat warily, the village went back to its usual doings. Baking, milling, smithing, tending to sheep and to kine. No horses, he noticed, and only dogs with docked toes, to prevent them from running down wild boar or deer. No weapons at all except cudgels and staves and the lightest of bows. Whoever ruled in these parts did so with a very hard hand, thought Valerian.

Growing more confident with time, Rainey brought him around from one village attraction to the next. With stops to greet neighbors, she took him from the well (which he blessed) to the shrine (where he made an offering) and then to the village ring-wall (at which he set wards).

At last, scrunching her face up, Rainey said,

"Umm… that's all there is t' Burrough, Milord… except… Oh, wait. There be the bridge, yet. You'll come see the bridge, won't you, Sir?"

"One cannot leave a town without viewing its fabled span," he agreed. "Lead onward, Fair Maiden."

Rainey giggled, swinging on his hand as though they'd been friends all their lives.

"This way," she said. Then, sounding like a conspirator, "T'is a shortcut, fer when the milk jugs 're heavy."

Which was probably always, he thought. At any rate, she took a turn through Burrough's beaten-clay square, then left down a row of crude workshops. Her path took them past a hut on log stilts. It was guarded by two tense young men, both of them armed with stout cudgels and knives. They stiffened at the sight of Valerian, which…

Ah. The village storehouse, most likely; where Burrough laid up its seed-corn and foods. The hope of the village in famine, blizzard or raid.

He pretended not to notice the hut or its nervous young guards, asking Rainey to tell him about the bridge, instead. Full of chatter, she drew him onward, until they came to an arched wooden span that crossed Burrough's river. It had been painted bright red, faded now to pale pink. With its bit of carved scrollwork, the bridge was quite fetching, he thought.

"This is the Water," said Rainey, pointing down at the tumbling river. "That's what we call it. And folks what cross the bridge holdin' hands is wed by the Water. You want ter get married, Milord?" she asked him, in perfect innocence.

Valerian smiled.

"I am already wed, lovely Maid," he told her. "My wife has given birth to our child, not yet two days ago. I cannot marry you."

"Oh…" she mourned. "But… you would've said yes, if you didn't already be wedded, Sir?"

"I would have said yes," he assured her, earning a smile like the sun breaking through clouds. He pinched the tip of her nose, then, as though she were Zara.

They crossed the bridge after that, very solemnly not holding hands. He clasped her thin shoulder, though.

That done, a bit of a spread was put on, out in the village square. Several trestle tables and benches were set up, the tables covered with cloth and laid out with cider, cheese, fresh bread and smoked meat. There was this and that for sale. Not much of real value, but Valerian found things to purchase, anyhow.

After midmeal, the local players put on a morality show about twin brothers, one greedy, one good. The sons of a poor widow, they had many comic adventures, in which good (Hansel) always did better than greedy (Varg). Quite instructive.

Then, just as the sun was setting, and Varg about to discover that the wretched old crone he'd scorned was (in fact) Titania, the play was disrupted. First, a sorcerous earthquake struck, knocking the stage flat and sending the players sprawling. Moments later, four raven-haired elves rode into the village at a full gallop, scattering people and food, leaping their mounts over laden tables and benches.

The villagers prostrated themselves as soon as they'd pulled free of wreckage and mud; first kneeling, then bowing low to the ground. Rainey hid herself behind Val. As for the elf-lord, he'd shot to his feet, hand at the hilt of his dueling sword.

Spying him, the lead rider scowled, urging his horse over. He was an Arvendahl, which explained a great deal. In fact…

Val and the younger elf stared at each other for a long, puzzled moment. Then the blue-eyed fellow broke into a grin that threatened to split his face. Nearly fell off the white horse, in his rush to dismount.

Val was already moving, meeting his friend… for so they were; heart-bonded, blood-sharing friends… in mid-square. Was reintroduced to Filimar, Kellen, Sandor and Arien, with much backslapping, shoving, name-calling and foolishness.

And all the while, Burrough waited in absolute, shivering dread.

"Valno, you worthless dog!" laughed Filimar, seizing the back of his neck. "What are you doing in this wretched hole?"

"I…" Well, he wasn't quite certain, actually. But, "I was enjoying a local festival. Put on in my honor, which was most kind of Burrough's good people."

Filimar snorted.

"This place has a name?" he scoffed. Spat to one side, reflexively, adding, "We are here at the High Lord's behest, searching for some reprobate scoundrel he's convinced lurks in the bushes, plotting snares like a spider. But now that you're here… and our guest… we've no choice at all but to return to the city and fete you properly."

Valerian experienced a very odd, wrenching moment, then. On the one hand, Filimar was as close as a brother. Tested in battle and hardship... though… how, when, he couldn't recall. On the other hand, Filno was casually murderous. Would cheerfully have slaughtered any or all of the villagers, had Val given a bad report of them.

Quickly, before Filimar could show off by putting Burrough to the torch, Val smiled.

"I have always wanted to visit Milardin," he said, slipping an arm through Filimar's. "Why wait, when there's drink to be had and trouble to stir?"

Filimar grinned at him. Then he called out,

"Sandor, you rogue, mount up behind Arno. Lord Valerian will be riding that glue-pot nag of yours!"

This caused more merriment, as Sandor attempted to defend his mount's reputation. In the scuffle that followed, Rainey was all at once visible, clinging still to Valerian's cloak.

Filimar glanced at her, then over at Val. Cocked a knowing eyebrow at his friend.

"Been busy already, I see. She any good?"

Gone suddenly ice to his core, Val placed a hand on the girl's trembling shoulder.

"I am her guest," he said tightly. "I arrived in the night, confused and lost, and her folk took me in. I owe them the service one gives to one's host, Filno."

Filimar shook his head but chose not to argue.

"Very well, they are your pets. We'll leave them be, Valno. But enough sour thoughts and mud hovels! Let's away to Milardin, my friend, where the four of us will show you some real entertainment."

Valerian nodded, letting that very tense moment slide past with a smile. He squeezed Rainey's shoulder, then, trying to say: Forgive me.

On his way out with Filimar and the clamorous others, Val wasted all of his fresh-hoarded manna. Pulled a handy crystal out of a faerie pocket and quietly spelled it. Next tossed the thing over one shoulder. It landed in the mud at Rainey's bare feet. Stooping, she picked it up off the hoof-churned ground. The spelled crystal fit in the palm of her hand, glowing softly. More than that, it held peace, protection and safety; turning Burrough half a twist out of the world. Beyond the reach of those who meant harm.

Forever.