Bruce Cordell - Key of Stars

The monk’s unsuccessful leap put him on the lip of the hollow.

The light of the roused spellplague pocket danced before him. Through it he saw past the arch to the hollow’s far wall. The warlock was not inside the tree.

A disconcerting sense of loss swept over Raidon.

Had Japheth found an active portal into the Feywild, or had he simply been dissolved by the roused plague? Dissolved, like the people in the trade caravan taken by the fire during the Year of Blue Fire. Just like Hadyn, the youth who’d died trying to gain a spellscar in the Plaguewrought Lands. Just like …

He wrenched his mind from the trap of contemplating the death of his adopted daughter.

Instead, Raidon made fists capable of breaking stone. But no foes offered themselves for him to sate his urge to hurt something.

Angul murmured and shifted on his back, as if imploring the monk to take some foolhardy action anyhow.

He forced his hands open. He had to think, and not let emotion channel his decisions-especially the part of himself that hoped the warlock really was dead, burned to ash by remnant wild magic. It would be a fitting punishment for the man responsible for keeping the threat of the Eldest alive.

Only one way to find out what had really happened. He would have to pass through the natural arch himself.

“So be it,” he said. He’d survived contact with spellplague on more than one occasion. Perhaps he had developed resistance. He touched the Sign on his chest. Once more the image of his mother came to him, stronger than ever.

Not a bad thought to go out on, he thought, and walked into the hollow through a screen of flame.

Warmth brushed his skin, like the sun’s caress on a clear day. Colors, mostly blue, swirled before his eyes. One more step, and he was someplace else.

The scent of cedar and loam sharpened. The air was cooler too. It was like a draft of cold water on a hot day, refreshing and bracing, and just slightly intoxicating.

He was still surrounded by forest, but one whose majesty exceeded the Yuirwood in every way. The trunks here were massive. They marched away like pillars in an emperor’s throne room whose lofty ceiling was a canopy of mists, leaves, and dancing firefly lights.

He stood on a granite step draped in a fall of autumn colors. A nimbus of blue fire played at its periphery. Japheth sprawled half on, half off the platform. The warlock wasn’t moving, and smoke curled up from inside his cloak. Despite everything, Raidon was relieved to see his companion still in one piece.

The half-elf bent and placed a finger along the fallen man’s neck. He detected a pulse, slow and steady. Raidon pulled Japheth all the way onto the platform so that his feet weren’t dangling over the residual tongues of blue flame. As far as he could discern, the warlock hadn’t suffered any obvious burns from the fire. Nor could he discover any sign of a spellscar. Maybe the warlock has passed through the portal too quickly to be affected. On the other hand, sometimes spellscars took time to manifest …

A rustle of leaves drew Raidon’s attention to the forest.

A gnarled mass of tree roots stepped out of the undergrowth, revealing itself to be a man made of bark and boughs. He looked like a rougher, cruder version of Grandmother Ash, the entity who’d guided Raidon across the Plaguewrought Land. If the creature was so close to a spellplague-infested portal, perhaps it was touched by the same wild magic.

“Who are you?” said Raidon.

The creature snarled “Desecrator!” in the fey language Raidon’s mother had taught him, then charged.

The monk slipped to the outside of the creature’s massive clublike arm, then sidekicked it in the neck. The snap of breaking branches ricocheted through the forest, and the woodling dropped like the felled tree it resembled.

Two more woodlings appeared on the edge of the clearing. They studied the tableau. One murmured to the other. Its rough voice was too soft for the monk to make out distinct words.

“We are not here to fight you. I’m sorry about your companion here,” called Raidon in Elvish. “But we will defend ourselves if attacked.”

The creatures returned their attention to the granite step. One said, its voice louder, “Then you’d best prepare your strongest defense.”

The woodlings melted back into the forest.

When he was satisfied the two creatures were not preparing an immediate offense, Raidon stooped and pulled Japheth up onto his shoulders. He stepped over the first crumpled fey creature and off the low platform. The faint play of flames surrounding the platform doused itself.

The monk made his way to the base of the closest tree trunk. He studied it for signs that it might suddenly animate into a far larger tree monster like the one the Lord of Bats had briefly called below Marhana Manor.

He detected no telltale signs of an imminent threat. He carefully rolled Japheth off his back and arranged him to a sitting position.

He produced a wineskin. He took a swig of the wine himself, then bent over the warlock. Raidon wet Japheth’s lips before pouring a tiny portion of the red fluid into the man’s mouth.

The warlock coughed and opened his eyes. “What’re you … Oh,” he said. Japheth looked around, taking in the forest, the platform, and the unmoving man made of branches.

He abruptly glanced down at himself, his hands, arms, and torso. He was looking for something, but seemed afraid to find it.

“The spellplague didn’t care for your taste, it seems,” Raidon said. “It happens. You’re fortunate.”

Japheth blew out a breath. He returned to scanning the surrounding panorama. He smiled and nodded as if satisfied in what he saw.

“This is Faerie?” said Raidon. “Or, what was Sildeyuir, merged back into Faerie?”

“Faerie, at the very least,” said Japheth. “A forest vista like this one is visible from the cave mouth where Neifion laired in the Feywild.”

“And Malyanna?”

Japheth closed his eyes and cocked his head to one side. He raised a finger and pointed off through the trees. “That way,” he said. “I can sense her as clearly as if she were standing right there. She’s close.”

“Close?”

“The veil is gone,” Japheth replied. “She’s within this realm, and no more than half a day’s walk, if that. But be on your guard. I’m pulling on the thread that leads to her. Unless my luck changes for the better, she’ll feel the tug, and know we’re coming.”

The Year of the Secret (1396 DR)

Green Siren, Sea of Fallen Stars

The cool wind off the water tumbled Anusha’s hair. The salty tang smelled like childhood.

Mist clung to the wave tops. Green Siren ’s prow swept a lane through the fog as the ship pushed across the sea.

Anusha was not a sailor, but she was the daughter of a shipping merchant. When she was a child, she’d spent years aboard the small fleet of craft Marhana kept. That familiarity allowed her to note the newer boards interspersed with original planking, the fresh sails, recently cleaned surfaces, and dozens of other small improvements to Green Siren ’s demeanor. Anusha could tell that each repair had been done with masterful attention to detail.

The captain stood next to her, his weathered hands on the wheel.

If Lucky had been aboard, he would have been standing between them, probably licking Anusha’s hand looking for a treat. But she’d decided to leave the loyal hound at home, in the care of the servants. She’d become too attached to the mongrel to put him in harm’s way. It was different for her, the captain, and the crew. They knew what they were getting themselves into.

“So, what do you think?” said Thoster, nodding across the deck.