Richard Byers - The Reaver

“I don’t know Umberlee’s intentions,” the half-elf replied. “But I agree that massacring the pilgrims would be both evil and futile. Turmish would still be starving when the last of them lay dead.”

“Then surely,” Umara said, “Cindermoon will set aside her vendetta for another day if we can only persuade her that magic offers a genuine solution.”

“You’d think so,” Shinthala said. “And we’ll try our best.”

And fail, evidently, Anton thought. For he didn’t see a trace of genuine hope in either her or Ashenford.

“I’ll tell you how to ‘try,’ ” Umara said, the edge in her voice betraying that the druids’ negativity was starting to grate on her. “If your hierophant’s insane, cure her.”

“Do you think,” Ashenford answered, sounding annoyed in her turn, “that Shinthala and I haven’t offered time and again? It doesn’t matter how tactful or oblique we are. Cindermoon doesn’t believe anything’s wrong with her, and any offer to pray over her or cast spells on her behalf only rouses the suspicious part of her nature.”

“Stedd doesn’t need her consent,” the Red Wizard said. “He’ll whisper an incantation, wave his hand, light will shine, and that will be that.”

“I doubt it,” Ashenford said. “Believing herself under attack, Cindermoon would resist the magic with her own power and will. It would be a struggle more like an exorcism than an ordinary work of healing.”

“And a work we couldn’t possibly perform unless we had her alone,” Shinthala said. “As we never do anymore, not since she’d grown leery of us. She always has some sort of protectors hovering close at hand.”

This is not my problem, Anton told himself. I did what I promised, and the boy and I are quits.

But it wasn’t that simple. It was infuriating to think that Stedd might have traveled so far and braved so much only to fail in the end, and despite his better judgment, that anger goaded him to speak.

“All right,” he growled, “we’re going to have a two-tiered plan. First, you holy people will make an honest effort to talk Cindermoon into helping us. Because it doesn’t matter if she’s crazy so long as she cooperates. But if she won’t …”

Arguing Ashenford and Shinthala past their misgivings as necessary, he told them as much as they needed to know. He confided the rest to Stedd and Umara after the druids departed to arrange a meeting with their counterpart.

When he finished, both the boy and the wizard looked upset. Their distress touched and irritated him in equal measure.

“It’s unnecessary,” Umara said.

“I hope,” Anton replied, “the whole second part of the plan is unnecessary. But if not, this is what makes it work.”

“But afterward-” Stedd began.

“What did I tell you after we seized the Octopus ?” the reaver asked.

Stedd hesitated, not, Anton judged, because he didn’t remember the answer but because he didn’t want to give it. “That either Lathander’s cause is worth risking our lives, or it isn’t.”

“And apparently, I believe it is.” Anton grinned. “What do you suppose is wrong with me?”

At the center of the House of Silvanus was a circular space open to the sky. A ring of menhirs stood around the periphery, and just inside it, three granite thrones stood side-by-side facing the altar stone in the middle.

Cindermoon felt a pang of resentment as she, Shinthala, and Ashenford all took their seats. Granted, the founders of the Emerald Enclave had intended that three should preside here as equals. But for all their wisdom, the druids of yore hadn’t foreseen the Blue Fire. The burned, broken land it had left behind needed a single decisive, clearheaded spiritual leader, one who could do what needed doing without having to take the opinions of lesser minds into account.

Perhaps one day, Cindermoon would be rid of them, but for now, she’d have to suffer through whatever charade they’d devised to trick her into abandoning her present course of action. She waved a copper-skinned hand that was dainty even for a female elf. “Get on with it.”

“Gladly.” Ashenford then raised his voice so it would carry to the other side of the open space. “Come forth!”

Three people stepped out into the yellow torchlight and the pattering rain. They were as Cindermoon had been led to expect. A blond outlander boy. A Red Wizard-more proof, had the elf needed it, that the other members of the Elder Circle were either idiots or willing to conspire with even the vilest blackguards to undermine her. And a strapping Turmishan warrior with a trace of gray in his hair and a blade hanging on either hip.

“Hello,” said the little boy.

“This is Stedd Whitehorn,” Ashenford said, “the Chosen of Lathander.”

Cindermoon shook her head. “I don’t see it.”

Shinthala frowned. “Because you haven’t tried.”

“Please,” Ashenford said, “look with the eyes of the spirit. That’s all it takes.”

Cindermoon was reluctant to do that because it required lowering her guard. But she also didn’t want to appear timid or unreasonable, and at least she didn’t lack for protectors. Loyal druids, rangers, and Drummer, a huge black bear that had been her companion since he was a cub, were all close at hand.

She took a long breath and emptied her mind of distractions, of anger, caution, and the clammy feel of the rainwater on the seat of her throne. Then, silently praying, she asked Silvanus to help her see.

At the same time, she sensed the boy-Stedd-revealing himself to the best of his ability. Their complementary efforts produced a sudden layering of her vision. She still saw the boy, but at the same time, she beheld a red and golden dawn, and with it came a surge of hope so keen and unexpected it made her laugh out loud.

When the revelation faded, she raised a trembling hand to her brow. “Treefather,” she breathed.

“ Now do you see?” Shinthala demanded.

It was the human druidess’s eagerness to make Cindermoon commit , to manipulate and manage her, that jolted her back to her customary wariness. Yet she saw little choice but to concede the truth. To do otherwise might call her powers and thus her leadership into question.

“I do,” she said. “Welcome, Stedd Whitehorn. The Emerald Enclave rejoices at the god of the dawn’s rebirth.”

“Uh, thank you.” Stedd hesitated. “Did Ashenford and Shinthala tell you why Lathander sent me?”

“They claim to help end the famine.”

“Yes. If we all work together, all the Chosen and the other druids, too, there must be something we can do.”

“There is,” Cindermoon said, “and I’ve already set a plan in motion to do it. I’ll be grateful for any support you can give.”

Stedd frowned. “You mean, the plan to kill the scar pilgrims?”

“Ah. My peers told you about it.”

“Lathander wouldn’t want me to help with that. I don’t think … I mean, I know he wouldn’t want anybody to just go kill hundreds of people.”

Cindermoon’s fingers tightened on the arms of her throne. Plainly, this was why Ashenford and Shinthala were so happy another Chosen had turned up. To their minds, the boy was another voice of equivalent stature to speak against her and dilute her authority. But by deep roots and green leaves, it wasn’t going to matter.

“Then do the Morninglord’s bidding,” she said, “insofar as a child newly Chosen understands it. But please realize that although my folk revere your god, we worship Silvanus above all others. And he’s decreed the pilgrims have to die.”

Ashenford grimaced. “Shinthala and I are his Chosen, too, and we haven’t heard him say any such thing.”