The Elf Prince sat quietly.
Calin awaited his mother. There was much on his mind, and he needed to speak with her this night. There had been little chance for that of late, for as the war had grown in scope, he found less time to abide in the bowers of Elvandar. As Warleader of the elves, he had been in the field nearly every day since the last time the outworlders had tried to forge across the river.
Since the siege of Castle Crydee three years before, the outworlders had come each spring, swarming across the river like ants, a dozen for each elf Each year elven magic had defeated them. Hundreds would enter the sleeping glades to fall into the endless sleep, their bodies being consumed by the soil, to nourish the magic trees. Others would answer the dryads’ call, following the enchanted sprites’ songs until in their passion for the elemental beings they would die of thirst while still in their inhuman lovers’ embrace feeding the dryads with their lives. Others would fall to the creatures of the forests, the giant wolves, bears, and lions who answered the call of the elven war horns. The very branches and roots of the trees of the elven forests would resist the invaders until they turned and fled.
But this year, for the first time, the Black Robes had come. Much of the elven magic had been blunted. The elves had prevailed, but Calin wondered how they would fare when the outworlders returned.
This year the dwarves of the Grey Towers had again aided the elves. With the moredhel gone from the Green Heart, the dwarves had made swift passage from their wintering in the mountains, adding their numbers to the defense of Elvandar. For the third year since the siege at Crydee, the dwarves had proved the difference in holding the outworlders across the river. And again with the dwarves came the man called Tomas.
Calin looked up, then rose as his mother approached. Queen Aglaranna seated herself upon her throne and said, “My son, it is good to see you again.”
“Mother, it is good to see you also.” He sat at her feet and waited for the words he needed to come. His mother sat patiently, sensing his dark mood.
Finally he spoke. “I am troubled by Tomas.”
“As am I,” said the Queen, her expression clouded and pensive.
“Is that why you absent yourself when he comes to court?”
“For that . . . and other reasons.”
“How can it be the Old Ones’ magic still holds so strong after all these ages?”
A voice came from behind the throne. “So that’s it, then?”
They turned, surprised, and Dolgan stepped from the gloom, lighting his pipe. Aglaranna looked incensed. “Are the dwarves of the Grey Towers known for eavesdropping, Dolgan?”
The dwarven chief ignored the bite of the question. “Usually not, my lady. But I was out for a walk—those little tree rooms fill with smoke right quickly—and I happened to overhear. I did not wish to interrupt.”
Calin said, “You can move with stealth when you choose, friend Dolgan.”
Dolgan shrugged and blew a cloud of smoke. “Elvenfolk are not the only ones with the knack of treading lightly. But we were speaking of the lad. If what you say is true, then it is a serious matter indeed. Had I known, I would never have allowed him to take the gift.”
The Queen smiled at him. “It is not your fault, Dolgan. You could not have known. I have feared this since Tomas came among us in the mantle of the Old Ones. At first I thought the magic of the Valheru would not work for him, being a mortal, but now I can see he is less mortal each year.
“It was an unfortunate series of events brought this to pass. Our Spellweavers would have discovered that treasure ages ago, but for the dragon’s magic. We spent centuries seeking out and destroying such relics, preventing their use by the moredhel. Now it is too late, for Tomas would never willingly let the armor be destroyed.”
Dolgan puffed at his pipe. “Each winter he broods in the long halls, awaiting the coming of spring, and the coming of battle. There is little else for him. He sits and drinks, or stands at the door staring out into the snow, seeing what no other can see. He keeps the armor locked away in his room during such times, and when campaigning, he never removes it, even to sleep. He has changed, and it is not a natural changing. No, he would never willingly give up the armor.”
“We could try to force him,” said the Queen, “but that could prove unwise. There is something coming into being in him, something that may save my people, and I would risk much for them.”
Dolgan said, “I do not understand, my lady.”
“I am not sure I do either, Dolgan, but I am Queen of a people at war. A terrible foe savages our lands and each year grows bolder. The outworld magic is strong, perhaps stronger than any since the Old Ones vanished. It may be the magic in the dragon’s gift will save my people.”