“Yggdrasil.”

  Your touch is strong, Chentelle of Lone Valley. It echoes deep in my roots and whispers through my smallest leaves. But it reaches further than your understanding. The name you choose belongs to one far older than I, though perhaps I could carry it until you find its rightful owner.

  Chentelle felt like a child again, finding all the wrong answers to Willow’s questions. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where that name came from.”

  No, but perhaps you will find out. And you need make no apologies. It is a pleasure to share a story again with one who bears the Gift. But our time is drawing short, and there is an important question that you still have to ask me.

  “A question?”

  Yes, Chentelle of Lone Valley. You must ask. Then I will answer, for I know many things. My roots stretch beneath all the forests of Infinitera, and my leaves hear the stories of the wind. Anything that walks or crawls or flies through any forest is known to me. Now, our stories part. There is only time for your question.

  What should she ask? She had a hundred questions, but which one was the right one? It had to be related to the quest. She could ask about the Fallen Star! No, Father Marcus said that was from beyond the Creation. She had to ask something the Heart Tree would know, something about forests and elves and dendrifauns. What would Willow ask if she were here? No, that wouldn’t work. She’d just ask how to tell an old story or—

  “Mistress—”

  Something tugged at Chentelle’s attention, pulling her away from the lifelm. It wasn’t fair! She needed more time.

  “—where is Fizzfaldt?”

  I do not kno…

  “Mistress, can you hear me?” Sulmar was shaking her shoulder gently.

  “NO!” Idiot. What was she thinking? One of the oldest and wisest creatures on Infinitera grants her an answer, and what does she ask? Idiot. She didn’t even get a good answer.

  She pushed off Sulmar’s hand and threw herself against the lifelm. “Yggdrasil! Sylvanhart! Crookhollow!”

  There was no answer.

  “Mistress?”

  “What!” Immediately, she wished she could take the word back.

  Sulmar jerked away as if she had slapped him. No, that wasn’t right. He wouldn’t have moved at all if she had hit him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry. It isn’t you, Sulmar. It’s myself that I’m mad at.”

  “I did not wish to disturb you, mistress, but Commander Kruzel refused to delay for more than two hours.”

  “Two hours?” Chentelle looked to the sky but saw only the dense forest canopy.

  “Yes, mistress. Not even A’stoc could talk him into more.” He pointed to the stairs. “They are waiting for us at the river.”

  Chentelle let herself be led up the trunk and into the elvenhome. Distracted as she was, the beauty of it still touched her. Masters of rillanmor had guided the growth of the city, mapping it out with graceful curves and intricate balances of shape and void. Flowers and songbirds were cultivated and arranged to yield complementary patterns in sound and fragrance. Not a leaf rustled in the wind without adding to the aesthetic harmony of Sylvandale.

  To her left, the soft scent of honeysuckle was reinforced by delicate red veins on the underside of broad leaves. The whole effect was enhanced by—

  “This way.”

  Sulmar guided her down a rillanmor stairway and onto a long ramp. The ramp took them to the shore of a wide river where four barges were waiting. The first held the councilors and most of the Legionnaires from Tel Adartak, while each of the others carried eight horses and a keeper. Three figures stood waiting at the edge of the dock: A’stoc, Dacius, and Drup.

  Chentelle and Sulmar ran down the dock, and the five companions scrambled aboard the barge together. An instant later, all four barges cast off and headed downriver.

  “Are you all right?” A’stoc asked. Had Chentelle not been distracted, she might have noted his unusual concern.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I had a conversation with the Heart Tree. To me, it only seemed to last a minute. I think I had the chance to learn something important.”

  The wizard’s eyes locked on to hers, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “What happened?”

  Chentelle’s face reddened at the memory. She turned away from him, shaking her head. “I guessed the wrong name and asked the wrong question.”

  “I have lost count of the number of times I have done that,” he said. Then, remembering himself, he resolved his features into their habitual frown.

  There wasn’t anything else to say, so Chentelle wandered toward the front of the barge. The pilot was there, deep in the meditation of sagecraft. And Kruzel was there, too, staring intently into the depths.

  Kruzel looked up at her approach. “Ah, Lady Chentelle. I am glad that you were able to join us.”

  “Were you worried?”

  “Aye,” he said. “But not for you. I have called the elves of Sylvandale friend for more than half my life. They told me you were well, so you were well. I worried because every moment we delayed made our voyage more perilous.”

  “Perilous?” Chentelle stared curiously at the slowmoving river.

  “Don’t let her fool you,” Kruzel said. “The Silverflow may look tame here, close to her home, but she becomes treacherous farther on—full of rocks and rapids and swirling currents. She’s hard enough to manage in the daylight. Only a fool dares her at night. I had hoped to make the outpost at Tranquillity tonight, but if darkness comes we shall have to camp in the open.”

  They left it unsaid that night in the open might be just as dangerous. No one had forgotten Bone.

  The Silverflow narrowed as they moved westward, becoming deeper, swifter, less placid. It turned toward the north and merged with another river, which the dwarves had ironically named Tranquil. Large rocks jutted from the river bottom, some lying just below the surface. These were joined by jagged cliffs which rose from both banks, looming above them like the teeth of some giant beast.

  Their pilot was pushed to his limit, now. He chanted furiously, his sagestaff locked in unity with the planks of the barge. He kept them close to the south bank most of the time, drifting farther out into the current only when absolutely necessary.

  The other boats followed his path so closely that they might almost have been trying to float on the same water, and their faith was soon proven. The rocky coast gradually gave way to forested hills, and they encountered fewer and less dangerous boulders in the river. They had made it safely through the rapids.

  Commander Kruzel stared at the red disk of Deneob, already hanging low in the western sky. “We aren’t going to make it,” he announced. “Pilot, there’s a bridge up ahead that marks the Old Westland Road. Put ashore there; we’ll have to finish the trip overland.”

  “I know it, commander,” the pilot answered. “It’s just around this—By the Creator!”

  A mass of rubble blocked the river just in front of them. The bridge had collapsed. The barge lurched to the side, narrowly missing a huge granite slab. Chentelle was thrown sideways and slammed into the rail. The boat spun wildly in the current, and water washed over the side. Chentelle’s feet were swept out from under her, and she slipped to the deck. She grabbed on to a railing support and clutched it as hard as she could. Her legs dangled over the side, twisted and tossed by the cold current.

  A strong arm reached under her waist and pulled her back to the deck. “Mistress, are you hurt?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m fine, Sulmar. Thank you.”

  The craft steadied as the pilot managed to regain control and guide them to the west shore. They grounded softly on the narrow.

  The second barge wasn’t so lucky. Its pilot hadn’t seen the rubble until it was too late. The wooden craft split in two against the rocks. Horses and boatmen alike were thrown to the mercy of the Silverflow. Luckily, they were close to the west bank. Mounts and men alike managed to scramble to the safety of the shore.

  The last two barges put in to shore without incident, warned by the screams of their predecessors.

  “Blood and bones!” Kruzel swore, watching helplessly as the panicked horses scattered into the woods. “All right, everyone out. Squad leaders, keep those mounts under control. We don’t need to lose any more. Bargemen, I suggest you detach your skiffs and carry them beyond the obstruction. You will be safest following the river to Trothgard. Everyone else is on retrieval detail. We need to—”

  “Commander Kruzel?” Chentelle interrupted. “You don’t need to do that. I can bring the horses back.”

  He stared at her curiously, then shrugged. “Anything you can do will be appreciated. The sooner we’re under way, the happier I’ll be.”

  Chentelle turned away from him and started to sing. Her voice echoed through the river valley, mingling with the rushing water and the cool wind. She filled the song with harmony and peace and the joy of belonging. She reassured the frightened horses, reminding them of the safety of the herd and the friendship of men. Then she accompanied it with the joy of companionship, the thrill of a run shared, the comfort of a soft brush.

  The forest rang with a chorus of neighs. The lost horses came bounding toward her by ones and twos. They pranced playfully and nuzzled against her.

  The amazed Legionnaires stared at her in awe, then hurried forward to harness the returning mounts.

  “Incredible!” Councilor A’valman stepped forward and took her hand. He bowed low, brushing her fingers with his lips. “I can hardly believe what I just saw—what I just heard!”

  “Of course not,” A’stoc said bitterly. “You have never been one to allow fact to override your opinions.”

  “Excuse me, masters.” Kruzel stepped between the two wizards. “If I may interrupt your bickering for a moment, I would appreciate your opinions on the matter of the bridge.”

  A’stoc’s eyes turned hard, but he spun around and stalked toward the ruins without answering.

  “Have a care, Kruzel,” A’valman said softly. “Not everyone shares your opinion of what is humorous.”

  Chentelle walked after A’stoc and found him squatting beside the ruined bridge. Vines and moss had overgrown much of what remained on this side of the river, just as trees and grass had encroached on the road that led from it. But as she drew near, she began to appreciate the marvels of its construction.

  The stones were fitted together so tightly that the covering vines could only cling desperately to the rough surface; not a crack or a sprout showed from between the bricks. The surface of each stone was engraved. At first, she could make no sense of the carvings. Then she realized that they were part of one large pattern. It was difficult to be sure, but she thought it might be an open hand, reaching for the far shore.

  “It was a marvel of construction.” Councilor A’valman stood on the road above them. “Dwarven work, of course.”

  Chentelle looked around her at the empty land and the neglected road. “Why did they build it here?”

  “It was built before the Wizards’ War,” A’valman answered. “The Old Westland Road used to link the eastern kingdoms to the Giant Nation.”

  “The giants.” Chentelle remembered the stories Willow used to tell her, stories about a peaceful folk who loved long tales and huge feasts. “Were they really as the legends say?”

  “They were happy,” A’stoc said suddenly, “full of love and hope. Now they’re dead.” He picked up a ruined stone that had fallen near the bank and tossed it at her feet. “What do you think of this?”

  The brick was pitted, scored deeply. The scars were smooth, as if worn down by long years, but too uneven for natural weathering. She had seen identical scars on the wall of A’trile’s tower. “The dragon.”

  A’stoc nodded agreement. “The last time I saw this road, ten thousand men marched along it. They found death at its end.”

  “Are you saying that the necromancer destroyed the bridge?” A’valman asked. “Why?”

  “Why, councilor?” A’stoc sneered. “Has your godlike wisdom finally admitted its boundaries? Perhaps he was simply making sure the Realm could not use this road to send troops against his master. Perhaps he wanted to force us to follow this particular path to the west. We will know the answer soon enough.”

  The wizard climbed up the bank and walked to the waiting horses. Without another word, he mounted and started to ride down the Old Western Road.

  Kruzel didn’t call for a halt until only a thin sliver of red showed above the horizon. More than two leagues lay between their backs and the dwarven bridge, and the forest had yielded to rolling grassland with only scattered trees. He led them to a hilltop a few furlongs off the road, and they made a hurried camp.

  Neither fires nor orb-lights were lit. They pastured the horses on the slope shielded from the road, and then settled on the ground with their cold rations. The wizards established passive wards along the perimeter, and Commander Kruzel set up a schedule of watches. No one spoke of the danger they feared.

  Most of the company fell immediately asleep: the Legionnaires from practiced necessity and the wizards from the unaccustomed physical exertions. But Chentelle tossed and turned without relief. Her conversation with the Heart Tree kept spinning through her mind. There was so much she could have learned! And why didn’t the lifelm know where the Wanderer was? He had to be in a forest somewhere. Even if he was dead, his passing should have been known to the wood.

  It was no use. Chentelle threw off her blanket and sat up. The sentries stood alertly at either side of the camp, and two figures sat in quiet conversation near the center. At least she wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep.

  She stood up and walked over to the men, shaking her head in resignation when she heard Sulmar’s quiet footfalls behind her.

  Dacius looked up at her approach. “Good evening, enchantress, Sulmar. Commander Kruzel and I were discussing the likelihood that Bone will attack.”

  Chentelle shuddered as the memory of the necromancer’s eyes rose unbidden. She thought about the ruined stones of the bridge. “It is certain.”

  “Our thoughts exactly,” Kruzel said. “The question is when. We will be two days on the road, now. And he can hit us either night. Or he might wait until we reach the keep, imagining our guard relaxed. He might even wait until we have opened the vault, hoping to take the treasure for his own.”

  “I don’t think so,” Chentelle said. “I mean, the vorpal weapons are only useful against creatures like him. And if we get into A’kalendane’s laboratory, then all of your men will be armed with them, too. Right now he only has to worry about a few of us.”

  “Exactly.” Dacius nodded encouragingly. “So we must expect attack on the road or soon after. And we should expect him to come in force. Three swords will be little protection, I fear. Our defense must rely with the wizards.” He drew his vorpal sword and planted it into the hard ground. “The blade will glow if Ill-creatures are near. Should that happen, tell your men not to engage. Their weapons will be useless. The first priority is to awaken A’stoc. He is our best hope.”

  “Understood.” Kruzel stood and saluted. “I will inform the sentries.”

  Dacius returned the salute, then turned to Chentelle. “Was there something you needed to talk about?”

  “Huh? Oh, no, I just couldn’t sleep.”

  He smiled and nodded. “You aren’t alone, but I suggest we both try. Fatigue will only make the road harder.”

  From the corner of her eye, Chentelle thought she saw Sulmar’s mouth twitch in a fleeting grin. Well, it served her right. She should listen to her own advice. “You’re right. Come on, Sulmar. Time for bed.”

  To her surprise, she felt slumber coming almost as soon as she lay down. The dream came later.

  She creeps along the ground, sliding between the dark places. Prickling fences circle the prey, trying to keep her out. But she’s too clever. The fences reach only to the ground. A hole opens into the hill, and she flows into it.

  The tiny warmthing squeaks in fear and skitters away, but it can’t escape her fingers. She wraps around its selfglow and squeezes. Careful! It’s fragile. She makes herself very small and slides into the warmthing. Its selfglow quivers and then fades, surrendering to her shadow.

  She rides the warmthing upward, scratching her way through dirt and grass. The warmthing climbs to the surface inside the prickly fence, near the middle of the prey’s camp. She squeezes the last of its selfglow and leaves it behind.

  Prey is everywhere: quickfast man hatethings and longsteady elf hatethings. Purelight screams from the center of the camp, burning her with its rays. Two of the hatethings start to move.

  Fast. She has to be fast. She stretches long fingers, grabbing at the hatethings’ selfglow. Ahh! It’s hard. She has to reach so far to touch them both. She has to reach through the purelight, and it scalds her. But she can’t let go. The hatethings are trying to scream. She feels it in their throats. Ignoring the pain, she wraps around their selfglows, surrounding, them with her shadow. She squeezes as hard as she can, suffocating them with her darkness, drawing their warmth into herself. When their glows fade completely, she pulls out of their husks.

  Quickly, she retreats from the burning purelight. She hates it. She drifts toward a cluster of selfglows. There are strange tastes among them, things she doesn’t understand. She doesn’t like them. Prey is all hatethings, but she doesn’t like them. They will be first.

  She reaches toward a man hatething. Her fingers slide into him, reaching for his quickfast selfglow. It pulses very strong, very warm. But something is wrong. Another shadow is there, bigger than hers, colder. She snatches her fingers back. Don’t hurt, don’t hurt. But the other doesn’t come. Maybe the other didn’t feel her.

  It isn’t fair. Master promised; prey is hers. Bigcold-shadow other shouldn’t be here. It isn’t fair.

  She creeps over to next prey: longsteady elf hatething, strong selfglow, very tasty. Her fingers stretch out—