“So, it is you.” Hammond tramped forward, a broad smile on his face. “When the telltales gave warning, I hoped that was the case. But where are the others?”

  The smile vanished as the dwarf read the pain on their faces. “So, the sad times are not over. Come, we will find you warm food and a safe bed for the night. Tomorrow will be soon enough for bittersweet tales.”

  They spent two days among the folk of Marble Falls. It was a time of rest, a time of healing. They told their story a dozen times, omitting only the details of the Fallen Star. The dwarves shared freely in the tale, applauding their triumphs and grieving for their loss. Every home, every heart was made open to them, and they were sorry when the time came to leave.

  It was A’stoc who finally provided the goad. “I have an appointment to keep. It does no good to delay it.”

  They resumed their trek, forced now to use the mountain passes. When they reached the location of the gnomish sabotage, they found that the avalanche had been completely cleared. The road stayed clear throughout the day.

  They made camp high in the Mountains of Time, using a small cave that the dwarves had recommended. The night was bitterly cold, and a hard wind blew from the north. By the time they finished dinner, the wind had turned into a storm. Snow filled the air, driven into a frenzy by the gale.

  “Enough,” A’stoc grabbed the Staff and stalked toward the cave’s mouth.

  Dacius grabbed his arm. “Wizard, are you sure that’s wise?”

  A’stoc pulled his arm away. “Don’t worry, Lord Gemine. The Dark One will not recover soon, and no Ill-creature will dare to usurp their master’s vengeance. I, for one, do not relish the prospect of another cubit of fresh snow to trudge through come morning.”

  The Legionnaire smiled and released A’stoc’s arm. “Point taken. Please, continue.”

  The wizard pressed out into the storm. As soon as he was clear of the cave, the Thunderwood roared to life. Great arcs of Earthpower shot into the sky, shifting winds and breaking apart the clouds. In minutes, the blizzard had been reduced to soft wind delivering only the lightest sprinkle of snow.

  A’stoc returned to the cave, brushing frost from his shoulders. “Now, let’s get some sleep.”

  Chentelle smiled and curled up near the fire. Her stomach was full, and the warmth pulled her toward drowsiness, but she did not fall asleep. Instead, she watched A’stoc.

  Despite the wizard’s seeming levity, he did not relax with the others. He unrolled his blankets near the wall of the cave, but soon abandoned them. He walked softly toward the cave’s entrance and stood motionlessly at the threshold. The wind whipped gently at the hem of his robes, and a thin coat of ice formed around his unruly white hair.

  Chentelle sensed the battle raging in his heart. He yearned to return to his studies. The seclusion of his seaside home called to him, as did the crystal halls of Skysoar. But the wrath of the Erietoph loomed between him and his desires. There was anger in his soul, outrage that he should be judged so after all he had done. Part of him wanted to run, to avoid the forest and never look back, but he wouldn’t. He had given his word, and (was there a twinge of surprise here?) that was enough.

  Chentelle felt her own ire rising. It wasn’t fair. A’stoc deserved praise and gratitude, not retribution. She forged her anger into iron determination. Whatever happened, he would not have to face it alone. She would not abandon him to the mercy of the Erietoph.

  Weariness followed in the wake of her resolution. Her course was set. Now she could relax. Sleep came quickly, and she dreamed.

  A’stoc stands in a forest clearing, holding one end of the Staff. Glathrel stands opposite him, gripping the other end. They tug and pull, each trying to seize the Staff for his own.

  The Thunderwood starts to pulse, filling the glade with white radiance. The wood shifts and grows, transforming itself into the Heart Tree of Sylvandale. The lifelm reaches out, brushing her with its branches. A single word echoes in her soul.

  Remember.

  Someone shook Chentelle’s shoulder, jolting her awake. It was A’stoc.

  “It is time, Chentelle.” The wizard’s eyes were red, and his face was lined with fatigue.

  Chentelle rubbed the sleep from her own eyes and looked around. Everyone else was already up and packed. The remains of a light breakfast sat next to her in a wooden bowl. She ate hurriedly and packed away her roll, embarrassed to be delaying the others.

  They climbed down from the mountains and started across the rocky plain. The shadow of the Erietoph loomed before them, shrouded in its perpetual mist. They followed the markers for the dwarven road, and by the time Ellistar dropped behind the peaks, they had reached the edge of the fog.

  They hesitated for a moment, remembering their earlier visit. The forest was not evil, but it was strange, almost eerie. And they were about to enter its power once more.

  A’stoc walked forward, plunging into the mist without a backward glance.

  Chentelle and the others hurried after him.

  A wide trail awaited them, leading deep into the heart of the Erietoph. They marched along it, content to follow the forest’s guidance. Behind them, the path vanished into a wall of brambles. The wood was taking no chances.

  They walked for hours, though whether such measures had any meaning here was doubtful. No sun was visible through the thick canopy and the overhanging mist, but it seemed to be twilight when the trail finally disgorged them into a hilly clearing.

  Chentelle smiled, recognizing both the glade and the silhouette that rose from the crest of a small knoll. “Fizzfaldt!”

  She ran forward, throwing her arms around the ancient’s trunk. “It’s good to see you again, wise one.”

  She extended her Gift into the tree, feeling a warm rush of greeting. Fizzfaldt could not speak to her—he was still too new to the transformation, but he knew she was there.

  “Look, it’s Chentelle of Lone Valley.” Prickly-Ash moved into the clearing, followed closely by Laurel and Ironwood. “Have you come to sing with us again, child of Lone Valley?”

  “Now, Prickly,” Ironwood chided, “you know that the wanderers have other concerns.”

  “Of course,” Prickly-Ash said. “I meant after the judgment.”

  Chentelle hugged the dendrifaun. “We’ll see, elder. Is this where the trial will be?”

  Ironwood nodded his trunk. “It was Gnarlroot’s request. His roots do not extend far, yet, and he wanted to listen to the judgment.”

  The sound of chimes blew into the clearing. A ripple passed through the trees, and there was a sudden presence to the forest. A new path opened into the glade, and Glathrel Geodimondan stepped into view.

  The Keeper stopped a dozen cubits in front of A’stoc and leveled his oaken staff. “You have returned. Do you now submit to the judgment of the Erietoph?”

  “Pronounce your sentence,” A’stoc said. “Then I will decide whether I find it acceptable.”

  The Keeper’s eyes narrowed, and his voice grew hard. “Impudence will not serve you here, tree killer. Your crime is known. What have you to say in your defense?”

  A’stoc met the giant’s gaze and said nothing.

  “Very well.” Glathrel raised both arms, holding his staff high overhead. When he spoke, his voice thundered through the trees. “A’stoc, for the murder of the ancient, Beltis, you are—”

  “Wait!” Chentelle called on her Gift, filling the cry with all the urgency she felt in her heart. “I want to speak in A’stoc’s defense.”

  The Keeper glared at her, lowering his staff. “It is too late. The Erietoph has decided. Judgment will be given.” The staff rose again.

  Chentelle’s mind raced. She had to find a way to make him listen. “Glathrel, what harm can it do to hear me out. If the Erietoph is firm in its will, then nothing will be altered. If the forest changes its mind, then justice will be served. All you risk is the time it takes to hear a story of triumph and tragedy. Tell me, has the last giant lost his love for a tale?”

  The Keeper cocked his head, listening to the silent voice of the forest. His hard expression did not change, but his arms lowered to his sides. “Tell your tale, enchantress. The Erietoph will listen, and so will I.”

  Chentelle took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. A flicker of movement caught her eye. The clearing was suddenly surrounded by dendrifauns. Most were in their tree form, though a few, like Prickly and her friends, were animate. How had they come up so quickly? Or had they been there all along, hidden by the magic of the Erietoph? Somehow, their presence reassured her. They made the forest seem more natural, more like home.

  Chentelle sang. She built her song slowly, letting it grow from a tiny seed. The core of her tale was the company itself, so she introduced each member one by one, those who were present and those who had died along the way. Then she introduced the quest—the grim danger of the Fallen Star and the slim hope that guided them. Her Gift touched every syllable, every note, filling them with emotion.

  She sang of the meeting in the Holy Land and the journey across the Great Sea. She sang of Tel Adartak-Skysoar and the vault of A’kalendane. When she came to the point where the skeletons of the Desecration were raised by Bone, Glathrel cried out in grief and rage.

  She recounted every triumph, every struggle, every moment of joy or desperation, leaving out only the nature of the Fallen Star. She sang of great deeds and terrible sacrifice, stressing always the important part that A’stoc played, the invaluable service he had given to the world. And she sang of love—the love for Creation that inspired the company, the love for each other that held them together and allowed them to succeed.

  She ended her song with a plea for mercy, a single note of hope that hung in the air and faded slowly into a deep silence.

  “Magnificent.” Tears rolled down Glathrel’s face, and his voice was hushed with reverence. “Never have I heard such a tale—or such a telling. I thank you, Chentelle, enchantress of the forest children. You have given me a new understanding. I now feel the proper remorse for what must be done.”

  Remorse? Chentelle was stunned. Her song hadn’t made any difference. The forest was still going to punish him.

  The Keeper raised his staff once more. “Wizard A’stoc, the will of the Erietoph is clear. You have taken a life from the forest, and you must replace it with your own. Never again will you be allowed to pass through the mists. Your days will be spent among the trees, so that you may come to understand the nature of your crime. Such is the judgment of the Erietoph. Do you submit, or must you be compelled?”

  A’stoc turned to his companions. His eyes met each of theirs in turn, coming to rest finally on Chentelle’s. He lingered there for a long moment, letting her see his pain, his regrets, but also his acceptance. Then he turned back to the giant. “I submit to the forest’s judgment. The Erietoph is now my home.”

  Glathrel lowered his arms. “It is good. The Erietoph is pleased. Now, there is one final matter.”

  “Wait!” Chentelle stepped forward and stood beside A’stoc. “I’m staying, too.”

  The wizard turned to face her, fear and hope warring on his face. “Chentelle, you can’t—”

  “I can! And I will.” She grabbed the human’s hand and squeezed it in both of her own. “A’stoc, I love you. I’m not going to leave you here alone.”

  A murmur of shock ran through the dendrifauns and the Legionnaires. Only Sulmar seemed unsurprised.

  “I will stay also,” the Tengarian said.

  The feeling in his voice touched Chentelle deeply. “Sulmar, are you certain? You have no obligation. Maybe you should think it over?”

  “I have been considering it for several days, Chentelle. I knew that you would not leave the wizard.”

  “You knew?”

  Sulmar smiled, but it was a smile of sadness. “I know the pain of a love that is forever out of reach. I recognized it in your face long ago.”

  “Enough!” Glathrel’s voice boomed through the clearing. “The Erietoph has no objection to Chentelle’s presence, and neither do I. But Prince Sulmar Coregal must leave.”

  “What?” Chentelle exclaimed.

  “I am the master of my own destiny,” Sulmar declared. “I will choose my own path.”

  The Keeper shook his head. “No. The threads of destiny are determined for us. Your own lie outside the mists. The Erietoph sees this. It will not allow you to remain.”

  “Sulmar.” Chentelle caught his eyes with her own. “He’s right. You don’t belong here. This is where my heart takes me. You need to follow your own.”

  Slowly, his gaze softened and he nodded acceptance.

  Chentelle hugged the Tengarian tightly. “I’ll miss you, Sulmar.” She paused, a troublesome thought suddenly occurring to her. “Oh, no. I promised Fizzfaldt that I would carry his story back to Lone Valley. Sulmar, if your travels should take you that way…”

  He smiled. “It will be my first destination.”

  “Thank you. And tell my mother that I’m all right. She worries about me.”

  “I will.” He turned back to the giant. “I will leave, but one day I will return, and it would be unwise to bar my way.”

  The giant nodded his head. A chorus of whinnies sounded from the wood. Seconds later, a string of horses clopped into the clearing. “The Erietoph wishes you all well in your destinies. These mounts have been healed and well cared for. Take them to speed you on your way.”

  The horses walked up and waited docilely to be mounted.

  “Just a minute.” Dacius pushed past the horses and locked gazes with the Keeper. “Call me suspicious, but I seem to remember you saying there was one more matter. I’m not going to leave until I’m sure everything is settled.”

  Glathrel nodded. “Of course. What remains is simply a question of propriety. A’stoc must surrender the Thunderwood Staff. The Tree of Life must be returned to its own.”

  “Impossible.”

  Stunned eyes turned toward the wizard.

  “It is not a matter of choice!” The Keeper’s eyes went hard, and he raised his staff menacingly. A sudden stillness gripped the clearing.

  “You misunderstand,” A’stoc said. “I do not refuse. I state a fact.” He handed the Staff to the giant. “Here, work your magic.”

  Glathrel placed his own staff on the ground and took the Thunderwood. He closed his eyes and began a deep chant. The song filled the Erietoph, echoing in the wind and the rustling leaves. It built in intensity until every word pounded like a thunderclap. But the Staff stayed dormant.

  The Keeper broke off his spell, confusion plain upon his face. “I don’t understand. The Tree of Life should not refuse my call.”

  “You are not holding the Tree of Life,” A’stoc said gently. “You are holding the Thunderwood Staff. It is a tool, a weapon created by the Lore of my master. It was forged from the essence of the Tree, but shaped by the mind of A’pon Boemarre. And only his Lore, or its equal, can command it. Now, give me the Staff.”

  The last words were spoken with such authority that Glathrel surrendered the Thunderwood without protest.

  “Thank you.” A’stoc’s voice was quiet again, but his eyes were filled with determination. He thrust one end of the Staff into the ground and began to chant. The Thunderwood melted into the earth like a sagestaff joining to a ship. Fire burst from the wood. The Staff shifted and grew. Branches pressed toward the sky. Roots spread out from the base. But the shoots were fuzzy, indistinct. The roaring flame grew louder, brighter, more ferocious. Then the Earthpower vanished. The Thunderwood Staff slipped from the wizard’s hand and fell to the ground, returned to its original form.

  “So, once again the apprentice is less than his master.” A’stoc dropped to his knees next to the Staff. Quiet tears ran freely down his face, and he turned to look at Chentelle. “I’m sorry. I thought that if I could restore the Tree of Life…It doesn’t matter. I don’t have the power.”

  Remember.

  Understanding dawned in Chentelle. She knelt beside A’stoc and picked up the Staff. “You do have the power. What you need is the understanding.” She pressed the Staff into his hands.

  A’stoc stared at her, and new hope rose in his eyes. He grabbed the Thunderwood and planted it into the ground. Earthpower burst from the Staff.

  Chentelle reached out with her Gift, forging a bond between her spirit and A’stoc’s. Memories poured through the bond: roots that touched the Foundation and sucked water from rivers that had never seen the suns, limbs that cast shade over mountains and touched the vault of the sky. As one, she and A’stoc gave sound to a word and shape to a world.

  “Yggdrasil.”

  This time the roots and branches did not fade. They grew and strengthened, expanding rapidly up, down, and outward, reaching what seemed impossibly far. But that was only part of it.

  Change swept through the Erietoph, riding the crest of a thunderclap. The world wrenched, and the mists vanished. The red light of Deneob poured into the clearing, falling upon the trunk of a mighty tree—the Tree of Life.

  Chentelle climbed to her feet. Yggdrasil towered above her, climbing fifty cubits or more into the sky. The World Tree lived once more. Her hand found A’stoc’s. “Can you feel it?”

  The wizard spun her around and wrapped her in a warm embrace. His kisses were gentle, salty, and more precious than anything she had ever known.

  Gradually, she became aware of music. Glathrel and the dendrifauns had formed a great circle around Yggdrasil and the companions, and the forest rang with their joyful paean.

  “What happened?” Awe and incomprehension mingled on Dacius’ face.

  Chentelle disengaged herself from A’stoc with a twinge of regret. “Something wonderful. The World Tree is alive once more, and her roots have reunited the Erietoph with Creation.”

  The human’s eyes grew even wider. “Do you mean that the Creation is healed? Are we entering a new Time of Perfection?”

  She shook her head. “No. I don’t think that will ever happen. We have drifted too far from that place. We no longer belong there. Remember Fizzfaldt. The only way to heal him was to help him change into something new. It is the same with the Creation. It has to transform, or the Flaw will consume it. Yggdrasil will be the instrument of that transformation.