13


    High overhead, out on the surface, Reston systematically quartered and scoured the area under that prisoning dome. Though shaken by a sudden great flood of raging water and shattered debris… thinking that the sea-elf queen had made good her threat… Starloft''s Lord Warden stayed the course. What else was there to do besides pray for the Tarandahl heirs and fight to restrain Ashlord?


    The job wasn''t finished. Not by a very long bow-shot. There was still plenty of dug-in resistance and nasty surprises out by the Tanglewood. Reston had lost some good people there; warriors, bowmen and mages he had no way at all to replace. Ignoring the tangled flotsam of bodies and wreckage that swirled past around them, all he could do was fight on. Then something happened. Near the end of a horse-rest and meal break, it was.


    "My lord," one of his people had said, leading Dancer back over. "The woodlings think they can use spells to boost a mage up through the opening, yonder, to have a look outside. See if maybe a boat might be launched… though where they are planning to go, I haven''t the vaguest idea."


    Reston glanced up at that swirling storm''s eye, above. Their one drifting patch of blue sky, it circled the topmost spires of Starloft, letting in spray and gusting-wet wind. From this far below, it seemed as large as a man''s clenched fist at full stretch. Rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, Reston shrugged.


    "They''re welcome to try, Timmon," he said to the waiting attendant. "Wood-elves, only. I''ll not lose any of ours on some blind-fool, hazardous escapade." Then, dismissing the subject, "Hold her steady."


    That there was life out there, still… confused, screaming birds, a sun that kept right on climbing… helped anchor the weary and bloodied half-elf. He looked up at that wobbling circle of sky, hearing it spatter and hiss. Powerful magic kept it aloft, just as that same mighty force kept the water outside from crushing and drowning them all.


    …and not a cursed thing he could do about either. Reston spat to one side, then took hold of Dancer''s saddle and placed a foot in the stirrup, ready to mount. Was about to swing a leg over, when the wheeling sky-patch yawned suddenly wider. He and the others watched in surprise as their watery prison dropped like a deep-green curtain on all sides at once. Growing thinner, turning translucent, then peeling away.


    The juddering wind and that constant low rumble cut off, just like that. Mage glows were doused as full sunlight shone on the one patch of life in a tangled ruin of flood wrack. The sudden quiet felt loud enough to make ears bleed. Rather than cheering the ocean''s retreat, most of his folk seemed to steel themselves against fresh, renewed nightmares. Certainly, no one relaxed.


    Reston''s first thought… that there would be no catching all of the remaining dark-spawn, now… and his second, that something decisive must have happened, below… didn''t get spoken aloud.


    A figure appeared atop a knot of slimy, uprooted trees. Made all of water, with sand and shells sketching eyes and a mouth, it seemed vaguely female, and tense. Some sort of long, gleaming tendril connected it to the receding flood, which was no more than a shrinking grey line to the east. Its voice, when it spoke, was the hissing and thunder of surf.


    "Come, Warden. I would treat with you."


    Shanella, most likely, so Reston mounted up and rode forward. Didn''t hurry, letting his mare choose her own careful path over ruined Ilirian.


    "Milady," he said to the sending. It glistened wetly, trembling like a water drop poised to fall from the end of a twig. Inclining his head very slightly, Reston continued, "What are your terms, that we may consider them?"


    Ashlord''s solution (open a mid-ocean rift to boil the witch and all of her soggy companions) did not seem especially helpful. The Silent One was angered. On edge, over godly matters that threatened to squash Reston''s mind like a grape. But Shanella was speaking, again.


    "There has been tremendous devastation… great harm to my realm, Warden. Someone has restrung and played Llyroc, rousing the Ancient of Deeps. Only a princess or prince of the old royal blood could do such a thing. Where is she? Explain what you''ve done, and how such a one was imprisoned."


    Reston shifted a bit in the saddle. It felt as though he''d been riding and fighting… being threatened… for days. His patience was worn very thin; his manners more threadbare, still.


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    "You… accuse us of causing harm to your people… milady?" he asked, like somebody probing a wound for stone chips and teeth. "If my lords Lerendar and Valerian emerge from their trial, below… if they have even survived… I have this to show them." Reston''s voice had begun to rise. Roughening, despite all the peace spells that his patrol group could throw at him. Under his armor and clothing, Ashlord''s mark began glowing, again.


    Someone else charged up from Starshire. The wood-elf paladin, hurtling debris, scattering mud on his over-sized wolf. Reston ignored the newcomer.


    "I have no knowledge of any sea-elven princess or prince," he went on, almost snarling. "Nor did we cause whatever harm has befallen your realm. You''ll forgive me, milady, if I have not much space in my heart to bemoan your troubles." Perhaps in his fundament, where he kept all the rest of his feelings for sea-folk.


    The wood-elf pushed forward aggressively, edging past Reston. His wolf''s hackles were raised. Its fangs, bared. The paladin himself didn''t look any sweeter. Shining with Hyrenn''s bleak, frosty power, Arondyr seemed poised to do something rash.


    More peace spells… and just about as effective… erupted from a knot of hurrying wood-elves. Andara came up at Reston''s other side, then, her horse winded and shuddering.


    "He must be stopped," she whispered, pushing a few strands of sweaty green hair out of her face. Reston nodded, thinking of Ashlord rather than Arondyr (about whom he gave not one tinker''s foul curse).


    The wood-elf paladin vaulted from his steed and stalked to the sea-golem, drawing a sword that hissed and crackled like pack-ice at dawn.


    "You drowned the forest?!" he demanded, golden eyes narrow and hard.


    The watery figure seemed to regard him, briefly; the shells, small starfish and sand that made up its features shifting position, slightly. It extruded a whipping filament. Struck Arondyr with the new limb, hard. The lash formed a bubble of seawater that coated and trapped him, cutting off magic and breath.


    The paladin did not panic or struggle. Instead, his sword glowed blue-white and turned wintery cold. Before Reston (still not hurrying) could fire a spell, that watery envelope froze into ice, cracked into chunks and broke off. Arondyr was left chapped but alive, and angrier, still.


    "Answer me!" he snapped, raising his sword in both hands. "Was it you who drowned the forest?"


    A small animal… squirrel, or some such… popped out of the paladin''s hood and onto his right shoulder, scolding and chattering. Shanella''s sending turned its regard back to Reston.


    "Control your minion, or lose it," she hissed, making threat number four, by the Lord Warden''s count.


    "He is none of mine, but seems to be of some value to these others. Pray do not harm him, milady," grumbled Reston, who would have been perfectly content to see Arondyr spend eternity as a coral-encrusted statue, down in some sea-elven grotto. "I know nothing of any princess or prince, as I said, but perhaps someone has turned up in the caverns, below. I will inquire."


    Would have been unforgivably rude to entirely turn his back, so Reston just shifted around in the saddle. Speaking to Andara, he said,


    "For all the gods'' sake, fetch your lord husband before the sea-hag slays him, to general applause and acclaim."


    Andara scowled.


    "Arondyr isn''t my life-mate," she muttered, urging her tired steed forward. News of interest to Reston, though Shanella ignored it.


    "I shall await your findings with great anticipation, Warden," said the magical sending, before snapping itself off and away, back to that foaming grey line of vanishing water.


    Another wood-elf rode up to help calm Arondyr, who looked like he would have followed Shanella right into the turbulent flood. Meanwhile a great white stag and huge bear nosed about, clearing debris and freeing trapped animals.


    Reston looked around at a scene of total disaster. At loss that defied comprehension. Others were looking at him, though, expecting strength and direction. He hadn''t the luxury of weakness; no time at all for grief.


    "We will set up teams to clear the environs of Starshire," he told them. "Timmon, go to the fortress and ask for volunteers. We will form patrols to keep off attack as the clean-up proceeds. A great deal of work lies ahead of us, but much has already been done. I am tremendously proud of all that we have accomplished… and I know that their Lordships shall be, as well." Nodded in Arondyr''s direction as he said this, including the wood-elves. "The Greenwood has come to our aid, and that shall not be forgotten. After this, when Lords Lerendar and Valerian have returned from below, I pledge our assistance to Lobum, in turn."


    Arondyr dragged his eyes away from the ebbing flood with real difficulty. Stared at Reston for a moment, before nodding his thanks.


    "In the high druid''s name, I accept your offer, Lord Warden… but she who has done this must pay. My god''s judgment… and yours, I think, half-breed… cannot be forever restrained."


    Timmon, too, was a half-elf. He leaned over as the paladin strode away.


    "You know, Milord," he said quietly, "Every time I think to myself, ''Could that fellow get any more charming?'' he unfolds new depths of character. Truly, I am in awe."


    There was a sudden spate of light coughing and skyward glances among the high-elves, which Reston chose to ignore. Idleness, on the other hand…


    "To your tasks," he commanded, handing out duties. Finished up with: "Lord Galadin required a full three cycles to clear and civilize Ilirian. I say we can do it in less than three months… and I shall personally serve at the feasting table for the group with the greatest success."


    There would be no journal entry that day, nor in the evening to come. Deliberately, he stayed too busy to worry. Waiting, as all of them did, for some hint of good news.