Richard Byers - The Reaver

As Anton stepped onto the island, the druid said, “What do you seek here?”

“An audience with the Elder Circle,” Anton replied.

The druid grunted. “You’ve come at a bad time. They aren’t receiving.” His eyes shifted to Umara. “I mean no offense when I say I doubt they’d want me to admit a Red Wizard at any time.”

“You may have heard something about Lathander’s boy prophet.”

Anton indicated Stedd. “Here he is.”

The druid’s eyes widened, but then he frowned. “Anyone could claim that. I’ve heard of wandering charlatans with child accomplices who have claimed it.”

“You’re a priest,” Anton said. “I trust you recognize holy power when you see it. Do something, Stedd.”

Seemingly seeking permission, the boy looked up at the druid, and the Oak Father’s servant nodded. Stedd stepped forward and wrapped his fingers around those gripping the staff.

Golden light glowed from the point of contact. The druid gasped, and, rustling, the ivy wrapping the staff put forth new leaves.

“Convinced?” Anton asked.

The druid swallowed. “I felt something, certainly. Something … bracing.”

“Good,” Umara said, “because Stedd’s here to help you. As am I, who protected him on his journey.”

“All right,” said the man with the staff. “All three of you can come in.”

Candles and watch lights illuminated the interior of the House of Silvanus. There were no doors or truly enclosed spaces, but the seemingly haphazard arrangement of stone slabs and wooden pillars and screens created something akin to discrete chambers and the possibility of privacy even so. It also made the place mazelike.

Fortunately, the travelers’ guide knew all the twists and turns. With him leading the way, they soon reached a space that might have been a bard’s living quarters, with a collection of musical instruments occupying much of the space and a carving of Silvanus presiding over an altar in the corner. A male half-elf and a human woman sat at a round table drinking from wooden goblets.

The half-elf had tawny skin, pale blue eyes, and curly brown hair touched with gray. A harp sat at his feet on the earthen floor.

The woman was tall with broad shoulders, fit- and formidable-looking despite her white hair and the wrinkles in her face. She wasn’t a native Turmishan, but a life lived mostly outdoors had weathered her skin to nearly the same mahogany color.

Both drinkers wore druidic robes, and both looked vexed at being disturbed. Their scowls only deepened when they spied Umara.

“I know,” Anton said. “She’s a wicked Thayan, and her mere presence profanes this sacred place. Get past it. What matters is that the boy is Stedd Whitehorn, Lathander’s Chosen, come to save Turmish in its time of need.”

The half-elf and the druidess looked at him as though they thought he was making an incomprehensible joke. Then, apparently realizing he was serious, they turned their gazes on Stedd, who, suddenly all prophet without a hint of childish shyness or uncertainly in his demeanor, stared back.

Neither drinker recited an incantation or brandished a talisman, nor did Stedd evoke Lathander’s light. But a heightening tension in the air, a feeling of crescendo without the actual sound, convinced Anton the druids were nonetheless using magic to scrutinize the boy, and he was opening himself to the examination.

And finally, the half-elf said, “It’s true.” His voice was a rich and resonant bass, and a little shaky now. “The Morninglord has returned.”

“So the lad keeps saying,” Anton drawled. “And presumably, you’re two of the three people who most need to know about it.”

“Yes,” the half-elf replied, rising. “I’m Ashenford Torinblow, elder of the enclave. My friend is Grand Cabal Shinthala Deepcrest.”

Anton introduced Umara and gave his new alias. Ashenford then thanked the travelers’ guide, sent him on his way, and urged his new guests to sit.

Anton found it was good to take a seat, even better to savor a first sip of tart white wine, and best of all to realize that, whatever happened next, he’d accomplished his purpose. He’d conducted Stedd to his destination in spite of everything Evendur Highcastle, vampire wizards, and fiery giant lions could do to stop him.

“If we’d been expecting you,” Shinthala said, “or if you’d simply come at a different time, we would have welcomed you as befits a Chosen. It wouldn’t have been like walking in on a pair of topers grousing in a tavern.”

“This is better,” Stedd replied. “If you had a ceremony or something, I wouldn’t know what to do.”

Ashenford leaned forward. “Your friend here said you’ve come to save Turmish. Does that mean to end the famine?”

“Yes,” said Stedd. “I can’t draw down nearly enough light to do it all by myself. But when we … looked into each other, I saw you two are Chosen of Silvanus. If we work together, we can do something.” He faltered when he seemed to perceive that, contrary to his expectations, the two druids didn’t share his enthusiasm. Rather, the brief excitement his arrival had engendered was visibly wilting. “Can’t we?”

Ashenford raked his fingers through his hair. “The Spellplague … diminished the druids of Turmish, even the Elder Circle. And even if it were otherwise, we’d need Cindermoon-the hierophant-casting alongside us to have any hope of accomplishing anything so ambitious.”

Umara waved an inpatient hand. “Then get her. Stedd assumed he’d be collaborating with all three of you.”

“It’s not that easy,” Shinthala said.

Anton sighed. “Somehow, it never is. You’d better tell us.”

“The Blue Fire … burned Cindermoon on the inside,” the white-haired druidess said. “Or maybe rage and grief over the harm it did to the land wounded her. But gradually, through the hundred years since, she’s changed. She changed her very name from Shadowmoon to Cindermoon as if to proclaim that, so far as she’s concerned, nothing is left of the world but ash. Her way of thinking has become spiteful and suspicious.”

“In other words,” Anton said, “she’s crazy. But apparently, not enough that you felt moved to depose her.”

Shinthala glowered. “Silvanus raised her up. It’s not for us to cast her down.”

Ashenford picked up his harp and set it in his lap. It seemed to ease him to feel it under his hands. “I’m not as convinced as Shinthala that that’s truly the Forest Father’s will. But either way, it would have been reckless to try any such thing, because for a long while now, Cindermoon’s magic has been stronger than ours. Maybe because she’s a pureblood elf. She’s still young, and although Silvanus’s blessing lengthened our lives, Shinthala and I are past our primes.”

“Look,” Umara said, “if your Hierophant is … ill, that’s unfortunate. But is she so addled she wants your land to starve?”

Shinthala scowled. “No, but she’s already working on her own supposed answer to the problem.”

Anton grunted. “Which brings us to the men-at-arms outside.”

“Yes,” the druidess said. “Hating the Blue Fire, she likewise despises the pilgrims who worship it, and at the moment, it’s particularly easy to see them as a menace and an infestation. They can’t buy provisions for the journey south, and even if they could, folk coming north report that the Plaguewrought Land isn’t even tainted anymore. So, desperate and bewildered, they bide here and do their best to obtain food Turmishans need for themselves.”

“So the obvious answer,” Umara said, “is to slaughter them.”

Ashenford nodded. “Starting with Sapra and working out from there.”

“But that’s wrong!” Stedd cried. “And it’s Umberlee’s way even if waveservants aren’t in Turmish preaching it. When the news goes around that that’s how your people are acting, it will help her win.”