Authors: R.A. Salvatore
And though even Bradwarden was considered
n’Touel’alfar
by his somewhat xenophobic people, Juraviel could not deny the comfort he derived from hearing the centaur’s song, akin to the comfort he felt from just being in this region once more.
He followed the song slowly and whimsically, pausing to listen or to dance, whenever he found a clearing in the forest canopy that afforded him a beautiful view of the starlit heavens. He knew that the night was young and that Bradwarden often played until very, very late, so he meandered and he wandered. And finally he saw them, the centaur standing atop a bare-topped hillock, his pipes under one arm. Bradwarden was not as wide as other horses Juraviel had seen—certainly not as massive as mighty Symphony—but it seemed to the elf as if his centaur friend were ten feet tall, a gigantic and powerful creature. That such an obvious warrior could play such beautiful melodies struck Juraviel profoundly, the light and dark of Bradwarden’s soul, at once ferocious and tender.
Reclining on the grass beside the centaur lay Roger Lockless. It occurred to Juraviel then that the young man, with his slightly angular features and delicate size—the result of a disease that had taken both his parents—seemed as much akin to the elves as to the humans. Not in temperament, though, Juraviel reminded himself. Roger had learned much in the trials of the last couple of years, had grown tremendously from the self-centered boy Juraviel and Nightbird had helped escape from the clutches of a vicious powrie band that had been occupying Caer Tinella. But as far as Juraviel and all the elves were concerned, he still had far, far to go even to approach the level of understanding and reasoning of Jilseponie. And from there, Roger would have far to go to begin to see the truth of the world as Bradwarden or Nightbird could see it; and even those two, despite everything, could never climb beyond the limitations of their kind, could never be anything but
n’Touel’alfar
.
Juraviel did like Roger, though, had tolerated him even when he was younger and more foolish, and had worked with him well during the last days of the war against Markwart.
“I cannot wait to see her again,” he heard Roger say; and he knew from the expression on the man’s face that Roger was surely talking about Jilseponie. Was it possible, then, that the woman hadn’t even yet come north, and that Roger, perhaps, still possessed the gemstones?
Bradwarden paused. “Ah, but she’s takin’ her time about it,” he said. “It’s not but a week o’ ridin’ for one lookin’ to get here from Palmaris.”
“She’s got friends in Caer Tinella,” Roger reminded him.
“And she’s got good weather and a road clear o’ monsters,” the centaur added. “Aye, that’s it. Our Pony’s not used to walkin’ a road clear o’ monsters. Got her all confused.”
They shared a lighthearted laugh, and not out of any nervousness, for neither seemed the least bit afraid for the well-being of their dear, and ultimately capable, friend.
Juraviel moved stealthily up the hill, a whisper of wind, a roaming shadow. “Perhaps Jilseponie left the road in search of sport,” he said. Both his friends jumped in surprise, Bradwarden tossing down his pipes and grabbing up an axe that likely outweighed Juraviel, Roger turning several evasive rolls to the side.
They both settled quickly, and Bradwarden roared out a great cheer, obviously recognizing the elf’s voice, even as Roger cautiously called out, “Juraviel?”
The elf stepped out into the clear. “Too long has it been since I have heard the piping of the Forest Ghost,” he said. Bradwarden tossed his axe back over his shoulder and skipped down to hoist Juraviel in a great hug.
“And too long since I have heard the complaints of Roger Lockless!” Juraviel added in jest as Bradwarden put him down so that Roger could embrace him.
“And too long since we’ve seen yerself, elf,” the centaur replied. “But I thought ye was for yer home.”
“And so I have been in the valley for all these months,” Juraviel replied, “and would be still, had not Lady Dasslerond bidden me to return here for—” He paused and waved his hands. “Ah, but that is business that we two, Bradwarden, must discuss later. Nothing so serious that it cannot wait until old friends have had time to share news.”
Both Bradwarden and Roger seemed concerned for a moment, until Juraviel’s smile melted away any anxieties. “Not much for tellin’,” the centaur began. “All three towns are up and full o’ folk again.”
“Goblins in the area?” Juraviel asked.
“No sign of goblins, powries, or giants,” Roger was quick to reply. “We have kept vigilant scouting parties all about the region, and all has been quiet and peaceful.”
“We’re thinkin’ that there’s more than a few o’ the beasts farther to the north,” Bradwarden added. “But we’re thinkin’, too, that none o’ them got the belly for comin’ south again.”
Juraviel nodded, for it seemed logical enough. These two and Elbryan, along with a contingent of Kingsmen and some renegade monks, had gone all the way back to the Barbacan, after all, hundreds of miles through the Wilderlands, with hardly a sign of the monsters. And Juraviel’s own trail had led him in from the Wilderlands to the west, again with no sign of any monsters, except of course in the Moorlands, which had always been thick with goblins. Those goblins, until the coming of the dactyl, had never been a threat to anybody except for those foolish enough to wander into their territory.
Yes, the land was settling again, at long last, into peace, and that fact only made Bradwarden’s song all the sweeter.
“And if they do come south,” Roger put in at length, “then I’ll find them and steal all their weapons, and won’t they be easy to chase off then!”
“Unless they have Craggoth hounds,” Juraviel said to the boastful man somewhat sternly; and the mention of the powerful powrie hunting dogs reminded Roger of a not-so-pleasant experience.
Bradwarden howled with laughter and Roger’s lips got very tight, but Juraviel held the man’s gaze with equal intensity; his expression alone poignantly asked Roger who it was that he was trying to impress.
“Well, enough o’ the boastin’,” Bradwarden said, and he lifted his pipes back to his lips, but paused and nodded to Juraviel. “Ye goin’ to tell us what’s bringin’ ye
back here, elf? Or are ye waitin’ for us to beg ye?”
“I have become the mentor to another ranger,” Juraviel admitted.
“You are bringing another ranger here?” Roger quickly put in, his tone making it seem as if he was not too thrilled about that prospect.
“She is just a child,” he explained, “and her path, I assure you, will bring her nowhere near Dundalis.”
Roger nodded grimly, but his look turned perplexed. “She?”
“Why are you so surprised?” Juraviel replied. “Do you not believe that a woman can be a ranger?”
“Ho, ho, what!” Bradwarden howled, doing his best Avelyn Desbris imitation. “But wouldn’t Pony be kickin’ yer skinny backside if she ever heard ye talkin’ like that!”
Roger shrugged, conceding the point.
“Indeed, Jilseponie would have been a fine candidate for our training,” Juraviel agreed. “Had we known her potential when she walked down the road from the ruined Dundalis, we might have changed her life’s path considerably.”
This whole topic seemed like a minor point, and nothing to debate, but Juraviel noted that Roger didn’t appear very pleased by it all. The elf understood Roger Lockless, particularly the man’s minor failings, well enough to recognize the source of that look. “You, too, Roger Lockless, might have found yourself in Caer’alfar, had your situation merited it.”
“I could still go and learn,” the young man insisted.
“You are at least five years too old,” Juraviel explained. “Lady Dasslerond would have no part of bringing an adult human into our land for such training.”
“Then
you
teach me,” Roger said, only half kiddingly, “while you are here, I mean.”
“The training takes years.”
“Then just teach me select parts of it,” Roger went on. “Teach me that sword dance that Elbryan and Pony …” His voice trailed off, his mouth hanging open at the sight of Juraviel, whose lips were thin, and his expression stern, seemingly bordering on the verge of an explosion.
“I’m thinkin’ he’s sayin’ no,” Bradwarden remarked dryly.
Roger looked to Bradwarden for support and smiled sheepishly.
“So are ye goin’ to tell us, elf?” the centaur prompted. “Ye got yerself a new ranger-to-be, but that’s not a reason for ye to come all the way out here to tell me about it.”
“She is a rider,” Juraviel said, his glare still locked upon Roger, “and I must secure a mount for her.” He understood that the young man hadn’t intentionally said anything wrong, but the mere mention of
bi’nelle dasada
, the secret elven fighting technique, opened a wound. It was Elbryan’s teaching of the secret dance to Jilseponie that had so angered Lady Dasslerond, and, Juraviel believed, that was why Lady Dasslerond felt justified in keeping their child and raising it as a son of the Touel’alfar. Lady Dasslerond’s anger, Juraviel believed, was the primary reason
guiding her handling of the boy, her keeping Juraviel away from him, her keeping Jilseponie ignorant of his existence. Even more than that, Lady Dasslerond held Juraviel ultimately at fault for Elbryan’s teaching Jilseponie the sword dance. Whatever feelings he might have for Elbryan or for Jilseponie, Juraviel couldn’t deny the truth of Elbryan’s betrayal. The ranger had given something away that was not his to give, and in doing so, he had, to Lady Dasslerond’s way of thinking, threatened the very existence of the Touel’alfar.
“We’ve more than a few fine ponies runnin’ about,” Bradwarden started to answer, but then a wry grin crossed his face. “Ye’re not thinkin’ …” he guessed.
“A proper mount for a ranger,” Juraviel said determinedly.
Roger looked from one to the other, as if trying to decipher their meaning, but then his eyes widened and he stared at Juraviel. “Symphony?” he asked. “You mean to take Symphony away? But—”
“Easy, lad,” Bradwarden intervened. “I’m thinkin’ that none’re takin’ Symphony unless Symphony’s wantin’ to go.”
“True enough,” Juraviel agreed, “and I am sure that if Symphony is not agreeable, Bradwarden will help me to find another fitting mount.”
“Good rider, this one?” the centaur asked.
“To-gai-ru,” Juraviel answered.
Bradwarden whistled in admiration.
“Like the pinto horses?” Roger asked. “The ones the Allheart knights ride?”
“To-gai,” Bradwarden confirmed. “And they’re ponies, not horses, though they’re big ones at that, eight hundred pounds o’ muscle and on the top side o’ fourteen hands. If ye’re lookin’ to get one of those for yer young ranger, then ye’re lookin’ in the wrong place.”
Juraviel nodded and then decided to let the matter drop; he and Bradwarden could take care of the horse business later on. “Play your pipes, Forest Ghost,” he said with a smile. “I have heard enough of the events; now I wish to hear what is in Bradwarden’s heart.”
The centaur smiled and began his melody once again, while Juraviel reclined on the grass beside Roger. The young man was soon fast asleep, but Juraviel stayed up long into the night, staring at the stars and drinking in Bradwarden’s song.
“Y
ou were telling Bradwarden that you expect Jilseponie to return to Dundalis soon,” Juraviel prompted Roger when the two were walking back through the forest toward Dundalis the next morning. The day was hot and sunny, with not a hint of a wind. Bradwarden had gone off at daybreak to scout the horse herd for Juraviel, and to see if he could find Symphony.
“She may already be there,” the young man replied with obvious excitement; and Juraviel, too, was thrilled at the prospect of seeing his dear friend once more. There was something else edging Roger’s voice, Juraviel recognized, something beyond simple happiness and excitement.
“Have you seen her at all of late?” Juraviel asked.
“Not since last summer,” Roger replied, “not since the day Bradwarden and I brought—Elbryan—I mean …”
“The day you brought Nightbird’s casket from Palmaris,” Juraviel finished for him. “I watched you begin your journey up the northern road.”
“That was the worst journey of my life,” Roger said, his voice slightly quavering. “I still can’t believe …”
“He is at rest in the grove?” Juraviel asked. “Beside his uncle Mather?”
Roger nodded, and the elf immediately turned aside from the trail back to Dundalis, heading instead for the grave of his friend, with Roger close behind.
The temperature seemed cooler in the sheltered grove in the forest north of Dundalis. Juraviel, who knew the place well, led the way along the many-forked and confusing trails, for though the grove was not very large, there was a bit of magic about it, a minor illusion placed by Lady Dasslerond herself, using her powerful emerald, when she had come to bid farewell to Mather Wyndon several years after his death.
Juraviel picked the trail with certainty, moving among the somber trees; and soon the pair came to the place, with its side-by-side cairns. They stood solemnly for a long while, staring and remembering—and for Juraviel, who had lived for more than two centuries, that meant remembering two friends, two rangers.
“Tempest was buried there with Mather Wyndon for years until Elbryan earned it from the spirit of his uncle,” the elf remarked at length.
Roger cleared his throat uncomfortably, and Juraviel let his look linger on him until Roger offered an explanation.
“We weren’t sure which tomb should get the sword,” Roger explained. “To me, it was Elbryan’s—Nightbird’s—weapon, but Bradwarden thought it better if Tempest went back to rest with Mather.”
“But the bow, Hawkwing, is with Nightbird?” Juraviel asked somewhat urgently, for that bow, the last the elf’s father had ever crafted, had been made specifically for Nightbird.
“With Elbryan,” Roger confirmed.
“Fair enough,” the elf said, and Roger seemed to relax.
Just for a moment again, Juraviel had to stare long and hard at Roger to get him to open up with his feelings. “I keep thinking that perhaps if I, or we, had found our way into St. Precious earlier—soon enough to get the weapons and deliver them to Nightbird—that the fight at Chasewind Manor might have turned out differently,” Roger explained.