inds cut through the pass.

Gorath and Owyn pulled their cloaks tightly around them as they rode. It was spring, but the mountains still held firmly to winter.

Gorath said, “We’re being watched.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. But I’ve seen movement along the ridge above us for the last hour. If they meant us ill, they would have attacked by now.”

A few minutes later, a figure wrapped in a heavy cloak appeared on a rock ahead of them. He stood waiting.

As they drew closer, Owyn saw it to be a single dwarf. He held up his hand in greeting. Gorath reined in, and said, “Talk to him first, Owyn.”

Owyn nodded and moved ahead of Gorath, letting the moredhel follow a few paces behind. When they reached a point near the dwarf, Owyn stopped, threw back his hood, and said, “Hello.”

The dwarf threw back his own hood, revealing a black beard of awe-inspiring thickness and hair that refused to be organized into anything remotely coherent; the moustache stood out like a huge bristle-brush. The dwarf’s eyes went from one rider to the other as he regarded both with suspicion. “Greetings,” he said calmly. “What brings you two up into the frosty passes of the Grey Towers?”

Owyn said, “We carry a message from Lady Katala, wife of Pug the Magician, to Tomas, Warleader of Elvandar.”

The dwarf scratched his chin. “That’s a good one. I’ve not heard it before. In fact, I’m inclined to believe you.”

Owyn said, “Why wouldn’t you?”

The dwarf pointed at Gorath. “His kin have been coming down from the North for the last year or better, and we’d forgotten how irritating they could be as neighbors.”

Gorath pulled back his hood, and said, “I doubt they feel any more warmly toward your people, dwarf, but the problems between your people and mine are for another time. Right now we need safe passage to Elvandar.”

The dwarf squatted atop the rock, and said, “Elvandar? Well, if you say so. As I understand such things, you’re likely to get even less warm a welcome from your cousins up there than you will from my folks.” Looking at Owyn, he added, “You wouldn’t have any sort of warrant from someone in authority now, would you?”

Gorath nearly spat with contempt. “And what gives you the right to ask for such a thing, dwarf?”

“Well, to begin with, you’re on my land. Then there’s the twenty of my people who have surrounded you while we talked.” He whistled, and, seemingly out of nowhere, over a score of dwarves stood up. Owyn saw they all were heavily armed.

“Point well taken,” said Owyn. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a message from Katala, bearing a ducal imprint and a countersignature from the Captain of the Royal Krondorian Guard.

The dwarf glanced at it and handed it back. Then with a grin, he said, “I believed you from the first. Say what you will about the moredhel, they’ve never been demonstrably stupid, and riding in here in plain sight would be exactly that if you were planning mischief. Come along, we’ll escort you into the village.”

“Village?” asked Owyn. “Are we near Caldara?”

“Another half hour. You can explain what it is that’s got you in such a hurry to reach Elvandar.”

“Explain to whom?” asked Gorath.

“King Dolgan,” said the dwarf. “Who else?”

Nothing more was said as they moved along the trail, and when the cutoff appeared, they followed it down into a small valley, in which nestled a pretty little village. All the buildings were whitewashed stone, with thatch roofs, save a large wooden hall with a heavy log roof which dominated the center of the village. They made for that building, and the dwarf who had led them said, “The lads will take care of your horses. The King is inside the long hall.”

They were at the narrow end of the long hall. Owyn and Gorath mounted stone steps into the building. As they reached the door, the dwarf halted. “Present yourself to the King. I will see you later.”

Owyn said, “Are you coming in?”

The dwarf shook his head. “No, I have other business. You’ll be able to find your way. Just follow the passage to the end of the corridor, and you’ll see the King.”

Gorath said, “You’ve been hospitable, dwarf. I would know your name.”

The dwarf smiled. “I am Udell. I am the King’s younger son.”

Owyn opened the door and found himself looking down a long hallway with doors on either side, at the far end of which he could see a large room. He moved down the corridor, and when he and Gorath reached the end of the hall, they entered a common room dominated by a large square formed by four long tables. At the closest corner sat five dwarves. One of them stood, and announced, “I am Dolgan.”

Owyn awkwardly bowed, and replied, “Your Majesty.”

Dolgan waved away the title, and said, “Just Dolgan.” He tamped down a pipe and lit it with a smoldering taper. “Now, what brings you two to Caldara?”

Owyn said, “Lady Katala, wife of Pug the magician, asked us to carry a message to Warleader Tomas in Elvandar.”

Dolgan raised an eyebrow. “Tomas is an old and dear friend.” With a smile he added, “An uncommon lad.” He glanced at Gorath, and observed, “You pick unusual companions, boy.”

Owyn said, “Gorath brought warning to the Prince that a leader named Delekhan was mounting an invasion.” He went on to explain the entire situation to the dwarven King, who listened without interrupting.

After Owyn was done, the old dwarf sat silently for a while, weighing what he had heard. Then he looked at Gorath. “Well, my old enemy, answer me one question. Why do you warn your enemies so that we may slaughter your kin?”

Gorath was silent a moment as he considered his reply, then he said, “I do not wish to see my kin die. I wish to see Delekhan overthrown. It has gone too far, and too few of us oppose him, but should the Kingdom defeat him, Delekhan will lose his hold upon my nation. Then many of us will rise up and depose him.”

“Then what?” asked Dolgan. “Another warlord to rally around? Will you take his place?”

Gorath looked at the old King, and said, “I think I will never again see the Northlands. Two wives, two sons, and a daughter have I lost. All who are blood kin are dead. I have nothing there. But whatever may occur in the future, well, I cannot speak to that; I can only say that Delekhan must be stopped.”

Dolgan nodded once, emphatically. “Well said. We shall help you. During the Riftwar my people would move to Elvandar to fight with Tomas and the elves every year. We have a safe route that will take you close to their border, and from there you can make your way safely to the Queen’s court. I’ll send along a few of the lads to ensure those of your kin and some goblins who’ve been pestering us lately don’t give you any trouble.” He stood up. “Now, rest and eat, and tomorrow we’ll have you on your way.”

Owyn said, “Thank you . . . Dolgan.”

The dwarven king smiled, and said, “That’s it!”

Another dwarf, a young woman if Owyn judged her appearance correctly, showed them to a room in the long hall. Gorath hesitated when he stepped inside. “Something . . .”

“What?” asked Owyn.

“A feeling of . . . call it a memory. Great power was once here.”

The young woman said, “Lord Tomas used to rest here when he wintered in Caldara. I can sometimes feel it, too. If you need anything, just stick your head outside the door and call for me; my name is Bethlany.”

“Thank you,” said Owyn.

Owyn sat on a bed while Gorath looked at the other in the room. “What they say of Tomas must be true, then, for me to sense the power of the Valheru ten years or more after he slept here.”

Owyn said, “Anything is possible.” He lay down. “But right now I need sleep.”

Gorath watched as the boy quickly fell asleep, but sleep was not something Gorath felt in need of. He left the room after a minute and walked to the door, then stepped outside.

Dolgan stood upon the porch of the long hall, looking out over the village. It was comprised of a dozen buildings of varying side, a few obviously dwellings, while the others appeared to be shops: a smith, a carpenter, a baker.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” asked Dolgan.

Even without the flowers of spring yet apparent, the valley was a lovely place, nestled in pine and aspen. The people living there were industrious, and everything in sight spoke of bounty. High enough up the hillside to be visible, cattle grazed in a meadow on the other side of a stand of trees. Chickens and ducks squawked as they hurried across the town’s square, while a pair of dogs tried to herd them.

“It’s a good place,” agreed Gorath.

“I’ve only seen a few moredhel villages, empty after the Tsurani drove your people from the high pastures. I remember them as not that different from here.”

“We build in a different fashion,” said Gorath, “but shelter is shelter, and we bake and work the forge, much as you and the humans do.”

“I’m five hundred and twenty-eight years old next Midsummer’s Day, and I’ve fought for my people for most of those years.” Dolgan looked up at the tall dark elf. “Do you know that you’re the first of your kind I’ve ever had a civil word with?”

Gorath sat on the steps. “And I with a dwarf. Or a human until a few months ago.” He leaned back against a supporting post, and said, “I find the world a very different place than I thought it was when I was a boy. I was but twelve summers when the safety of my band fell to me, and I was thirty-seven summers when I avenged my father and became clan chieftain. For more than a hundred years, the Ardanien tribes lived in the ice caves in the far North, where the sun never shines in winter and never sets in summer. We hunted seal and walrus, traded with tribes to the south of us, and lived apart even from most of our kinsmen.

“Then we returned, and I fought to preserve my clan, and we rose and became a force within our nation. We had respect, we were feared, and when I spoke in council, the Ardanien were heeded.”

“What happened?”

“Murmandamus.”

“Which, the first or second?”

Gorath smiled. “Both, you could say. The first was a remarkable creature. He spoke words that were compelling and insistent, and my people listened. I heard stories from those who had known him. We rose and struck south and overran the humans in Yabon.

“But Murmandamus died and yet his legend lived, and when the second Murmandamus appeared, we were ready to follow without question.”

“Blind obedience is a dangerous thing.”

Gorath nodded. “Before the second Murmandamus, some of my race were dislodged from the Northlands by more powerful clans, and they came south of the Teeth of the World. Others, like my clan, lived in the ice caves in the far North. We had one such upheaval a hundred years ago.”

“I remember,” said Dolgan. “Some of your lads got a little bold and made free to come this way.”

“I have never before ventured so far south on this side of the Bitter Sea. When a lad I fished the sea near what the humans call Sarth.” He sat back and closed his eyes. “I never thought I’d live to see the Grey Towers.” He looked at Dolgan. “Some of my kinsmen, especially those who followed my cousin Obkhar, may be coming this way to live again in the Green Heart.”

“Well, as long as they stay down in the trees, we won’t trouble their passing. We never had much trouble with the Green Heart moredhel, but your clans up here in the mountains were not gracious neighbors.”

Gorath studied the dwarf and laughed. “You sound like your son. As I told him, I suspect my people would have little charity in their description of you as neighbors.”

“Aye, that’s true, I’m sure.” Dolgan chuckled. “But what has long puzzled me is why that is so. We dwarves, despite our skills in warcraft, are a peaceful enough folk when left alone. We trouble no one who doesn’t trouble us. We love our children, tend our herds, and winter in our long hall singing and drinking ale. It’s a good life.

“But you’re the first of your kind I’ve spoken with in peace since I was born, Gorath, so I must ask you this: why do you moredhel hate us dwarves and the humans so?”

Gorath considered the question for a long while, then said, “When I fled south from my homeland, chased by my own cousin who sought to kill me, I would have answered you one way. I would have said, ‘When the Valheru left, they made us a free people, and gave to us this world, and you and the humans are invaders. You take what is ours.’

“Now, I don’t have an answer.”

“What’s changed?” asked Dolgan, genuinely curious.

“Many things,” said Gorath. “My own people have become . . .” He sighed, long and as if releasing something held back a long time. “Many years ago, we were much the same people, those of us who became the moredhel, eldar, eledhel, glamredhel. We were the people in our tongue. Most of our names were given by our enemies. Eledhel is a word that was coined by my people in contempt, the ‘elves of light’ in the human tongue. It was a mocking name, hurled at those who sought to make themselves better than the rest of us. They called us ‘dark ones,’ or moredhel. We named the glamredhel, the ‘mad ones.’

“We, who were once one race, are now so different one from another, that I think we have lost any sense of what we once were.”

Dolgan nodded, but said nothing as he listened closely.

“Did you know that we cannot father a child on an eledhel or glamredhel woman?”

Dolgan shook his head.

“It is thought by our healers that something is needed between a man and woman of our race, something that has changed so profoundly we are as different now as dwarf or human to our own cousins.”

Dolgan said, “That is most passing strange.”

“I am old by the measure of my people,” said Gorath. “Two hundred sixty summers will I see next Midsummer’s Day. My birthright is three times that; only our cousins in Elvandar reach those spans of years, Dolgan. And that is because they have found one thing we have never known in the North: peace.”

Dolgan sighed. “Peace is a wonderful thing to find, either for one’s people . . .” He looked Gorath in the eyes. “Or within your own heart.”

Gorath looked out at the serene tableau before him, and said, “We live behind walls. Our villages are fortresses. No woman goes to herd sheep or cattle without a sword at her hip and a bow across her back. Our children play with weapons.” He hung his head, looking down at the dirt. “We let them cut themselves so they learn early lessons. I despair for my people, Dolgan.”

Dolgan again was silent, then he said, “I think you need to go to Elvandar. For more reasons than simply to take a message to Tomas.” He stood up. “But right now I think you could use a long draught of ale. And I happen to know where we can find one.”

Gorath managed a slight smile, and said, “You treat an enemy with hospitality, Dolgan.”

Dolgan shook his head as he said, “You’re no enemy of mine, Gorath of the Ardanien. That’s as plain as the beard on my chin.”

Dolgan led Gorath inside.

Owyn awoke to the sound of laughter and walked to the common room, to find Gorath and Dolgan and a half dozen other dwarves all drinking and telling stories. One of the dwarves not known to Owyn said, “Aye, goblins will do that, if you convince them it’s a good idea.”

Peering out the window, Owyn saw that it was morning, and said, “You’ve been drinking all night?”

Dolgan said, “Welcome, my friend.” He put his feet down from where he had had them on the table and looked out the window. “Aye, so it seems. Care to drain a flagon?”

“It’s a little early for me, and besides, we must head for Elvandar.”

Dolgan said, “True. Well, then, some food to break your fast, then on your way.” The old dwarf pounded on the table. “Food!”

Soon the other dwarves had taken up the chant and were pounding the tables with their pewter flagons, shouting, “Food! Food! Food!”

An old dwarven woman in a grey dress with her hair tucked up under a white linen cap entered from the kitchen, with a large wooden spoon. Waving it like a weapon, she said, “Keep your armor on, you lazy louts!”

A half dozen other dwarves followed, each carrying a platter of food. There were spiced fruits, hot sausages, loaves of steaming bread, jars of butter and honey, and savory flat cakes. And more ale.

Owyn sat, and said, “I am astonished at how much ale you can consume without any ill effect.”

“A hearty constitution is a dwarf’s heritage,” said Dolgan.

“Aye,” agreed Gorath. “That’s the truth. Try chasing one for three or four days.”

All the dwarves fell silent, then suddenly they all erupted into raucous laughter. Then with a wry, self-deprecating smile, Gorath added, “Or running from one.”

The hilarity redoubled, the dwarves fell to the breakfast fare with vigor.

After the meal the horses were brought, and Owyn discovered they had been stocked with enough food for weeks. The animals had been fed and watered, and all the tack had been cleaned and repaired. Owyn said, “Dolgan, my thanks.”

“For nothing, lad,” said the dwarven King. He pointed to Gorath. “You gave me a rare chance to know this fellow, and it was my pleasure.”

Gorath extended his hand to Dolgan, and they shook. “Your hospitality is unmatched, friend dwarf.”

“And you are always welcome in Caldara, Gorath of the Ardanien.”

“I thank you,” said Gorath, and he mounted his horse.

A group of young dwarves approached, armed and armored, and Dolgan said, “I’m sending some of the lads with you to the River Crydee. They’ll make sure you get there in good order.”

“Again, thanks,” said Owyn. They set out at a walk, with the dwarves moving out on foot. Owyn turned to Gorath, and asked, “You fit to ride?”

Gorath laughed, and said, “No, but let’s go anyway.”

“You are in an unusually cheerful mood, Gorath.”

“Yes,” said the dark elf. “It’s been too long since I’ve had the company of other warriors, good ale, and stories of valor and courage.” He lost his smile. “Far too long.”

They were silent as they rode out of the dwarven village.

Travel through the woodlands of the Green Heart and the eastern edge of Crydee Forest was uneventful. A week after having left Caldara, they reached the banks of a river. The leader of the dwarves, a warrior named Othcal, said, “We will part company here.” He pointed. “That is the River Crydee. On the other bank is Elvandar.”

Gorath said, “I could sense it since yesterday.” He spoke softly.

Othcal pointed down a trail. “A bit more than a mile down there is the ford we use. Go there and wait.”

They bid the dwarves farewell and rode on. “Wait for what?” Owyn asked.

“You will see,” said Gorath.

They reached the ford, a large bar of sand held by stone which had caused the river to widen and run fast, but one which the horses could navigate without trouble. They waited. “I don’t mean to nag,” said Owyn, “but what are we waiting for?”

“To be invited to enter. None may enter the elven forests unbidden.”

“What happens if you try?”

“Bad things.”

“I won’t try. What do we do to let them know we’re here?”

“Nothing. They know.”

A few minutes later a voice called from the other bank, in a language Owyn didn’t understand. Gorath replied in the King’s Tongue. “Two who seek entrance to Elvandar. We carry a message for Warleader Tomas from the Lady Katala, Pug’s wife.”

There was a momentary pause, then a figure appeared on the other side of the river. “I would know your name and line.”

Gorath said, “I am Gorath of the Ardanien, chieftain of my clan.” He glanced at Owyn.

Owyn said, “I am Owyn, son of the Baron of Timons.”

“Enter,” said the elf.

They rode their horses across the ford and halted as a half dozen elves appeared from behind the trees. The leader approached, and said, “We are a full day’s ride to the edge of the elven glades, and another day to the Queen’s court.” Without saying anything else, he set off at an easy run, while two other elves fell in behind. The remaining elves stayed behind.

Owyn studied them as he trotted along beside the elves and realized he could not tell the difference between them and Gorath’s people by casual appearance. But there was a subtle difference in their manner and bearing.

Gorath was tall, broad-shouldered, and powerful. Owyn had seen him move, quick and deadly. These elves appeared more slight, less broad of shoulder and chest, yet equal to Gorath in height. But the biggest difference appeared to be how they moved. There was ease in their movement, as if they were one with the surrounding forest, and it was what Owyn could only label grace. They were graceful.

They ran for an hour, apparently without tiring, then halted to rest a few minutes. Gorath studied his distant kin and said nothing.

With some silent communications, the only part of which Owyn noticed was Gorath nodding slightly, the elves stood and waited while Gorath and Owyn remounted. They rode until sundown, then the elf who had bid them enter the elven woods said, “We will camp.”

By the time Owyn had his horse unsaddled and tended to, there was a fire burning in the clearing. A waterskin was passed, and food appeared from hip packs. The elves sat upon the ground, or lay upon hip and elbow, and remained silent.

After eating, Owyn spoke to the one whom he considered the leader, the first who had spoken, and said, “Might I know your name?”

“Caladain,” said the elf. He pointed to the other two, and said, “These are Hilar and Travin.” They inclined their heads toward Owyn in turn.

Owyn suddenly realized he didn’t have any idea of what to say, so he remained silent. Gorath finally said, “The eledhel aren’t given to idle chatter, like you humans.”

The elves smiled politely, as if they didn’t feel quite the same way, but Owyn could see they were amused by the comment. “I see,” was all Owyn said.

He finally got out his bedroll, laid it out, and lay down without comment. Soon he was asleep under the bowers of the elven forest.

The journey continued with almost no conversation, but late in the second day, Owyn noticed the woodlands darkening off to his left. “Is there something over there that’s different from where we are now?”

Caladain asked, “Have you some magic skills?”

“Yes, why?”

“Because most of your race would not notice the difference. Yes, that is one of the sleeping glades. Those who come here unbidden would be opposed by more than our warcraft. These very woods are our allies, and we have many such places. In that stand of woods you would find yourself wanting to sleep and it is a sleep from which you would not awaken without magic.”

Owyn glanced at Gorath, and said, “The bad things you mentioned?”

Gorath nodded. “Our legends warn of many such dangers in the home of our”—he glanced at his escorts—“ . . . cousins,” he finished.

Owyn couldn’t be certain, but he thought the elves looked troubled by the reference.

They moved across a tiny stream, and then up a rise, then entered a vast clearing. Owyn and Gorath reined in.

Separated from where they stood by an open meadow, a huge tree city rose upward. Massive trunks, dwarfing the most ancient oak, rose to stunning heights. They were linked by graceful branches, forming bridges that were flat across the tops. Most of the trees were deep green, but here and there could be seen one with leaves of gold, silver, or even white foliage, sparkling with a faint light. A soft glow bathed the area, and the sight of it warmed Owyn in a way he couldn’t explain.

Elves could be seen moving along the branches, or at the base where fires burned as cooks labored, smiths worked metal, and other crafts were undertaken. It was the most beautiful place Owyn had ever seen. He could hardly pull his eyes away, until Caladain said, “Elvandar.”

Owyn looked at Gorath and saw his companion sitting in rapt amazement. His eyes were wide and shining, moisture gathering in them. He said something softly, as if to himself, in a language Owyn didn’t understand. Owyn looked at Caladain, who said, “He said, ‘How could we know?’ ”

“Gorath?” asked Owyn.

Gorath dismounted, and said, “It’s a legend. Barmalindar, the golden home of our race.”

Caladain said, “We will take your horses. Walk to that tree with the white leaves, and others will meet you and guide you to our queen.”

Owyn and Gorath moved across the clearing, and as they neared the trees, they saw elven children playing. Elven women sat in a circle carding wool, and in another area elven bowers and fletchers worked on bows and arrows.

Three elves approached, and said, “Welcome to Elvandar. I am Calin, son of Queen Aglaranna.”

Owyn said, “Highness. I am Owyn Belefote, son of the Baron of Timons.”

“I am Gorath of the Ardanien.”

“What brings you to our home?”

“I bring a message from the Lady Katala, Pug’s wife, to Tomas,” replied Owyn.

“Then follow me,” said the Prince. He sent one of the others ahead as he walked with Owyn and Gorath.

“You are the first of your people to come to us in many summers,” said Calin to Gorath.

A flurry of footfalls on the ground alerted them to a band of young male elves running after one who held a token. The one in the lead was blond, fair to the point of having almost white hair, and he was looking over his shoulder when he almost ran into Calin.

With a laugh, Calin caught him, spinning him in a full circle, saying, “Cautiously, little brother.”

The boy stopped and saw Owyn and Gorath, and said, “Now I see why you speak the tongue of the Kingdom.” He stopped and said, “Your pardon.”

“None needed,” said Calin with a laugh.

“We were playing hound and hare, and I was the hare.”

“You were on the verge of being caught.”

The boy shook his head. “I let them stay close so they don’t get discouraged.”

Calin said, “This is Owyn, from the human city of Timons, and this is Gorath of the Ardanien.”

The Prince turned, and said, “This is my younger brother, Calis.”

The boy nodded, and said, “Welcome Owyn of Timons.” To Gorath he spoke in a different language, and at the end he seemed to be waiting. Then Gorath stepped forward and they shook hands. Then Calis looked over his shoulder at his friends, who were standing silently, watching Gorath with intense curiosity. He shouted, “Catch me!” and was off.

A moment later, the others were in pursuit. Owyn said to Gorath, “What did he say to you?”

Gorath looked genuinely unsure of himself. “He said, ‘I will fight you if I must, but I would rather you were my friend.’ ” Looking at Calin, he said, “Your younger brother is a most remarkable youth.”

Calin nodded. “More than you realize. Come, we have a short walk ahead.”

He led them up a flight of steps cut into the side of a huge tree. Calin warned, “Don’t look down if you have a fear of heights, Owyn.”

They moved deeper into Elvandar and the closer they got to the Queen’s court, the more wonderful the place became. Soon they reached a large platform, upon which rested a half circle of benches, and at the apex of the arc sat two thrones. Calin said, “My mother, may I present two visitors: Owyn, son of the Baron of Timons, and Gorath, Chieftain of the Ardanien.” He turned to the two travelers and escorted them to stand before a stunning woman who sat on her throne. “My friends, my mother, Queen Aglaranna.”

The queen was a regal beauty, with arching eyebrows atop wide-set eyes of pale blue. Her hair was reddish gold and she was serene in her ease. “Welcome,” she said, with a musical note in her voice. To Owyn she said, “Our human friends are always welcome in Elvandar.” To Gorath she said, “As are our kin who come to us in peace.”

She motioned, and said, “Our ranks lack only your presence, Gorath.” He looked where she indicated and saw her advisors, a tall elf of many summers, next to whom stood one who was known to Gorath. “Earanorn!”

The leader of the glamredhel nodded. His expression was cold, but he held his place. “Gorath,” he said.

Another elf, one who looked as old as the first, said, “I am Aciala, of the Eldar, and am most pleased to see you here.”

Gorath was silent for a long time, and Owyn was convinced some sort of communication was passing among the elves, silent but apparent to them. Then, in a strange gesture, Gorath pulled his sword from its scabbard. He moved toward the Queen, and Owyn was suddenly alarmed. But he noticed no discomfort on the part of the others.

Gorath placed his sword at the Queen’s feet and knelt before her. Looking up, he said, “Lady, I have returned.”