“And the story continues. There are two Creations, now, the Erietoph and the world beyond, and there can be only one. The Erietoph is a shadow of what it was. It has forgotten much, and each day entropy claims a little bit more. Eventually, the forest will fail. Then the Abyss will swallow Creation and the world will die.”

  “No.” Determination resonated in Father Marcus’ voice. “The Creation can be saved.”

  “Perhaps,” Fizzfaldt said, “but only if the Foundation itself is repaired. Then the Erietoph will have the strength to resist the Abyss.”

  “Then the Foundation shall be healed,” the High Bishop said. “What must we do?”

  Fizzfaldt shrugged his branches helplessly. “I don’t know. The ancients believe that the Erietoph once knew how to heal the Foundation, but the knowledge was lost long ago.”

  “Then we shall find it again,” Father Marcus said, “or create it anew. The world shall be healed. The Creator has not abandoned us to despair.”

  “No, He has not,” Fizzfaldt said. “He has even sent new hope to a foolish vagabond of a tree. But now I think it is time for me to put down roots. Shall we begin?”

  Father Marcus reached for Chentelle. His hand touched her neck, and an electric shock ran through her spine. She was filled with a powerful rhythm, a music which could not be denied. She panicked, and her Gift rose up, trying to fight off the invasion. No. She forced herself to relax, surrendering to the priest’s chant.

  Her hand moved, reaching out to touch Fizzfaldt. The Gift swelled and poured into the dendrifaun, but she felt no contact. It was answering someone else’s call. Healing power flowed through her and into the wood, following the trail of her Gift. The chant pulsed with life. Scarred tissue became whole; disease vanished; roots drove into the earth with renewed vigor. And she watched it all through eyes that were no longer her own.

  Fizzfaldt’s bark hardened, and his limbs became rigid. The holes of his eyes covered over, and the rough slit of his mouth closed for the last time. A moment before the transformation was complete, a deep voice rumbled from the lifelm. “The soil here is good, my friends. Thank you for coming.”

  A great chorus of wood and wind spoke in answer. The hillside was surrounded by dendrifauns. The forest spirits had crept up silently, but now they raised their voices in joyous welcome to the new ancient that had joined their home.

  Father Marcus removed his hand, and Chentelle staggered as the body suddenly became her again. She reached out a hand and steadied herself against the lifelm. Fizzfaldt’s bark was smooth and whole, and his branches were covered with tiny green stalks that would soon be leaves. She touched him with her Gift, but felt no response. His mind was consumed with the process of change. It would stay that way for a season more. Good-bye, Fizzfaldt. You will not be forgotten in Lone Valley.

  The company moved back down the hill and collected their packs. Most of the dendrifauns had vanished back into the wood. Only the three companions from yesterday remained behind.

  “Thank you,” Ironwood said. “You have made the forest richer today.”

  “SO.” The great voice roared through the clearing. Glathrel emerged from the trees, his great staff resting over one shoulder. “The deed is done.”

  “Keeper!” Laurel’s leaves fluttered nervously. “We were just—um—that is—”

  “Hush, Laurel.” Prickly-Ash thrust her branches out to their full extension. “I brought them here to see if they could help Fizzfaldt, Keeper. And they did.”

  “I know,” Glathrel said, “and the forest is glad.”

  The dendrifaun’s branches drooped slightly. “But you ordered us not to go near them.”

  Glathrel smiled broadly. “Of course, dear sister. What better way to insure that you would seek their help? The Erietoph wanted to see whether they would show compassion despite the risk. It would have shown nothing if they had helped the elder to please the forest.”

  Chentelle stared at the giant. “Then, this was some sort of a test?”

  “Yes,” he said, “and it is not finished yet. The Erietoph agrees that the threat of the Fallen Star is grave. It is more dangerous, even, than the Tree of Life in the hands of the evil or the ignorant. The killer of the ancient will be allowed to leave the forest, provided he swears an oath to return and accept punishment once your quest is complete.”

  A’stoc looked up to meet the giant’s eyes. “So, you want me to save the world and then return for my execution.”

  “No. If you return, then you will have shown honor, and the penalty will not be death. The Erietoph is just. It will listen to your defense before passing judgment.” The Keeper’s jaw clenched, and his voice took on a hard edge. “But if you forswear yourself, I will hunt you down and destroy you.”

  A’stoc smiled. “I give you my word. If I survive the High Bishop’s quest, I shall return to settle our dispute.”

  Glathrel nodded, and the tension disappeared from his face. He lifted his staff and swung it in a wide arc. A ripple of motion passed through the forest, and a wide path materialized leading straight into the west. “Then you are free to leave. The Erietoph wishes you good fortune in your quest and awaits your speedy return.”

  “I am certain it does,” A’stoc said softly.

  They made excellent time on the broad trail, covering several leagues in a few hours of steady walking. The forest floor seemed to help them, lending extra spring to every stride. The dendrifauns stayed with them until they reached the wall of gray mist that marked the Erietoph’s boundary.

  “This is where our paths must part,” Ironwood said. “May your journey be a safe one.”

  “Thank you,” Father Marcus said. “And may the Creator smile upon you and your forest.”

  Laurel waved his branches in a shy farewell, but Prickly-Ash slid forward and wrapped her limbs around Chentelle and Father Marcus. “Thank you so much for helping Fizzfaldt. And thank you for sharing your songs with us, Chentelle of Lone Valley, daughter of Dalen and Eudora. Please come back and sing for us again, sometime.”

  Chentelle glanced at A’stoc, but the wizard was lost in thought. “We’ll be back.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” Prickly-Ash wiggled her buds in embarrassment and retreated back to the forest.

  The company pushed through the veil of mist and emerged on a rocky plain. Ellistar was overhead, coloring the world with golden first-light, but Deneob had not yet risen. It was early morning. Rain clouds dropped a light shower on the eastern horizon, and Chentelle wondered if it was the same rain that had fallen on them the first night in the forest.

  Father Marcus checked Ellistar’s position, then turned the party to the north. Thildemar moved a little way ahead, and the other Legionnaires took up positions around the edge of the group. They could not count on the Erietoph’s protection now.

  An hour of walking brought them to a steep ridge. A winding path led up to the heights, and at the top was an octagonal stone pylon. The angles were aligned to the cardinal directions, and the northwest face bore an elegant carving of a two-peaked mountain. They were on the road to Marble Falls.

  19

  Marble Falls

  The road led them steadily higher. The Mountains of Time stretched before them, league after league of stark, cold beauty. Low clouds flowed over and around snowcapped peaks of sharp granite. Though they were still below the timber line, few trees decorated the bare slopes, and the unbroken wind swirled crisply through the mountain passes.

  They stopped shortly after noon. Gathering what dead wood they could find, the company built a small campfire. They huddled gratefully around its warmth and enjoyed their first hot meal in several days. Though Deneob was high overhead, their legs complained of a full day’s worth of hiking. Full bellies and fatigue soon carried them into drowsiness.

  “We need to rest,” Dacius said. “The Erietoph has thrown off our sense of time.”

  Father Marcus nodded. “Agreed. But we must make it brief—two hours, no more.”

  Chentelle found a level section of road and unrolled her blankets. She was tired and heavy and deliciously warm. She closed her eyes and let her thoughts drift, waiting for sleep. But it did not come. Despite her weariness, or perhaps because of it, she could not find rest. No matter how she twisted, the rocks of the road seemed to seek out her spine, and the cold ground swallowed any hint of comfort from the fire. She willed herself to relax. All she had to do was concentrate on her breathing, ignore the sharp edges poking into her back, pay no attention to the frigid earth.

  It was hopeless. She sat up and looked around. Everyone else was settled in peacefully. Even Dacius was asleep. Only A’stoc was still up, standing watch beside the dying fire.

  She rolled up her pack and went over to join him. There was no more deadwood to add to the flame, so she shifted around what was there, trying to coax more strength from the blaze. “I’ll stand guard, if you want. There’s no sense in both of us going without rest.”

  “Thank you,” he said, “but I do not need to sleep.”

  She looked up at the wizard’s face. How long had it been since he slept? His eyes were clear, but there was a glassiness, almost a blankness, about them. “Is something wrong? Are you worried about the Erietoph?”

  “No.” He smiled thinly. “I do not fear the judgment of the trees.”

  “Is it—is it my fault? Because of—of what you told me before?” How she wished he would cast aside his reservations in that respect! He was such a good man, behind that forbidding wall of cynicism.

  This time his mien softened perceptibly. “Nothing is your fault. The notion of you lends nothing but pleasure to an otherwise barren existence.”

  “Then what is it?” She stepped around the fire and stood in front of him. “I know you haven’t been sleeping. I heard you talking with Father Marcus last night.”

  “Did you?” A stoc planted the Staff on the ground between them and leaned against it. “I fear the High Bishop found little comfort in my words.”

  “Why? What did you say?”

  The wizard shrugged. “I told him that I felt his mission was doomed.”

  “What?” Chentelle searched his face, but she saw no bitterness there, no anger, no despair. “What do you mean? Has the Dark One already found the Fallen Star?”

  “No,” he said calmly. “No, I was not speaking of our quest, though that will probably fail also. I meant that the mission of the Holy Order is futile. The Time of Perfection will never be restored. The understanding that such a healing would require is beyond us. We no longer belong to that world.”

  His voice was flat, expressionless—and each word shocked like ice in Chentelle’s ears. She wanted to deny them, to scream out that he was wrong, but the truth of them echoed in her heart. “Then, it’s all for nothing. There’s no hope?”

  His eyes softened then, just for a moment. But when he spoke, his voice was cold and distant. “Hope? You may find some, if you wish. The Flawed Creation has existed for centuries; we are unlikely to live long enough to witness its end. It is far more probable that one or the other of us will perish on Father Marcus’ mad quest, or that I will be sacrificed to the vengeance of the Erietoph. If we survive those perils, perhaps hope will be in order.”

  Something trembled in A’stoc’s voice, just beyond the threshold of hearing. Hope? Could it be? Emotion flashed briefly in his eyes. Chentelle chased after it with her Gift, but the feeling vanished into the wizard’s blankness. She came back to herself just in time to catch the wizard turning away.

  “You know something,” she said. “You have a plan.”

  “What?” He turned back, and the emotion in his face this time was easy to read—fear. But it, too, soon disappeared into the calm. “No. I have no knowledge, no plan, only—a suspicion. But I will keep that burden for myself. I doubt that I will live to see it realized.”

  He turned away after that, and Chentelle returned to watching the fire. The flames were burning low, so she stirred the embers. The dry wood hissed and snapped and burned with renewed vitality, but the effect was transitory. Soon, the exhausted blaze was fading again. Sighing, she checked Deneob’s motion and decided that it was time to wake the others.

  The company assembled quickly and resumed the journey. The dwarven road was not wide, but it was well marked and laid out with geometric precision. A stone pylon appeared at each forking of the path, insuring that they never strayed from the road. They made good time through the rugged terrain, climbing ever higher into the Mountains of Time.

  The air cooled after Ellistar set. Chentelle’s breath swirled before her in wispy clouds, and she huddled gratefully into the warmth of her traveling cloak. Even within its folds, she could feel the bite of the wind. The cold air whipped through the hem of her dress, making her wish for warm trousers as well. Clutching the spidersilk with one hand, she forced her aching legs to keep moving.

  A long line of gray clouds closed in on them just before twilight. Deneob was disappearing rapidly behind the mountains, and they started hunting for a place to camp. Thildemar spotted a nest of tall pines, standing a short way off the road. The trees backed up against a sheer rock face, providing a perfect clearing for lean-tos, and the ground was littered with dead wood.

  They set up camp quickly, taking advantage of the last light. Then they built a large fire and cooked supper. The day’s climb had left them all famished, but Drup kept their portions small. There was no forage in this forbidding country, and no one knew how long their slight supplies would have to last. The air grew steadily colder, and they gathered closer around the campfire. The flames might betray their presence to watchers, but they desperately needed the heat. The snow started to fall just as they were retiring for the night.

  Chentelle pressed herself against Sulmar. The lean-to sheltered them from the snow, and their blankets were a barrier against the cold ground, but the cold still made her tremble. She pulled the Tengarian’s heavy arms around her, trying to surround herself with their warmth. Of them all, Sulmar seemed least affected by the cold. She supposed it reminded him of his mountain home. Eventually, the icy chill dulled to a tolerable level, and she slept.

  In the morning, the world had changed. Half a cubit of snow covered the mountain. The sky was iron gray, casting the world into a cold gloom. No new snow was falling, but the hard wind raised powder from the ground and sent it swirling madly through. The white wasteland extended for leagues around them, obliterating all traces of the road.

  They gathered their packs and swallowed a sparse meal. After a brief search, Thildemar was able to verify the path of the road, and they continued their march. Dacius and Sulmar took the lead now, followed by A’stoc and Father Marcus. The humans drove a trail through the fresh snow, clearing a path for the shorter-legged elves to follow.

  If not for the precision of the dwarven road, they would surely have lost their way. The path was invisible. They could only hold true to the direction of the markers and pray they were not being led astray. Their hearts lifted each time a stone pylon appeared in the distance.

  Shortly after noon, they encountered another obstacle. An avalanche had obliterated the pathway before them, cutting a swath of gray stone through the white snow. The rock slide was nearly two hundred cubits wide and extended far up the mountainside.

  “IT’S RECENT,” Dacius said. His amplified voice boomed through the mountains, followed by the sound of stones shifting high above them. Quickly, he pulled off his helmet. “And apparently not too stable. Suggestions?”

  “We can detour around it,” Thildemar said, examining the terrain, “but we’ll have to backtrack half a league or more.”

  “No,” Father Marcus said. “If we leave the path, we could hunt for days trying to find it again. We must cross.”

  “I agree,” Dacius said. “Thildemar, take the point. Check each step; remember, it has to hold my weight, too.”

  The old elf climbed nimbly onto the rocks. He crept slowly on all fours, keeping his weight distributed. He wound his way across the stones, working slightly down-slope during his traverse. The other Legionnaires tracked his course, pointing out landmarks that would help them all retrace his steps. At last, Thildemar reached the far side. He climbed to his feet and stood balanced on the edge of the slide, waving for the rest of them to follow.

  “All right,” Dacius said. “Chentelle, you’re next.”

  Me? But it made sense. She was the lightest. Trying not to look afraid, she climbed out onto the rocks. The beginning was easy; she had seen exactly where Thildemar had set his hands and feet. But soon she was out into the center of the slide. She placed her hand on a rock, and it tilted suddenly underneath her. Panic surged through her, but the rock steadied, resting firmly at a new angle. Chentelle forced herself to resume breathing, then moved forward again.

  Thildemar called encouragement from the far side, and helped her to find the secure path. Soon he reached out to help her climb to her feet.

  They stood balanced on a large boulder at the edge of the slide. The rock was cold, but the unbroken snow beyond looked even colder. Chentelle decided that Thildemar had the right idea, and she settled in beside him to watch the others cross.

  They came one at a time, the elven Legionnaires first and then the humans. It took time, but they made it without mishap. Thildemar’s path held even Dacius’ solid bulk. At last, they all stood together on the solid ground beyond the fall. The road was a short distance above them, but the climb did not look difficult.

  “Lord Gemine, look.” Drup waved for their attention. He was pointing to one of the rocks in the slide. A thin crust of ice remained on one face of the stone, outlining a clear footprint. The print was short enough to be a child’s, but far too wide. Deep indentations showed the clear mark of thick, bare toes.