“What keeps anyone from what they want? Fear. Fear of annihilation, fear that we would destroy them utterly, but Novron is dead.”
“You mentioned that,” Royce pointed out.
“I told you before that mankind has squandered the legacy of Novron, and it has done so at its own peril. Novron brought magic to man, but Novron is gone, and the magic forgotten. We sit here like children, naked and unarmed. Mankind is inviting the wrath of a race so far beyond us they won’t even hear our cries. The elves’ ignorance of our weakness and this fragile agreement between the Erivan Empire and a dead emperor is all that remains of humanity’s defense.”
“It’s a good thing they don’t know, then.”
“That’s just it,” the wizard told him. “They are learning.”
“The Gilarabrywn?”
Esrahaddon nodded. “According to Novron’s decree, the banks of the river Nidwalden are ryin contita.”
“Off limits to everyone,” Royce roughly translated, garnering a faint smile from the wizard. “I can read and write too.”
“Ah, a truly educated man. So as I was saying, the banks of the river Nidwalden are ryin contita.”
A look of realization washed over the thief’s face. “Dahlgren is in violation of the treaty.”
“Exactly. The decree also stipulates that elves are forbidden to take human lives, except should they cross the river. It says nothing about humans killed through benign actions. If I release a boulder, it could roll anywhere, but odds are it will roll downhill. If houses and people are downhill, it may destroy them, but it isn’t me that’s killing them; it is the boulder and the unfortunate fact they live downhill from it.”
“And they are watching what we do, how we deal with it. They are sizing up our strengths and weaknesses. Much like you are doing with me.”
Esrahaddon smiled. “Perhaps,” he said. “There is no way to be certain if they are responsible for the beast’s presence, but one thing is certain: they are watching. When they see we are helpless against one Gilarabrywn, if they feel the treaty is broken, or when it runs out, fear will no longer be a deterrent.”
“Is that why you are really here?”
“No.” The wizard shook his head. “It plays a part, but the war between the elves and man will come despite any action I can take. I am merely trying to lessen the blow and give humanity a fighting chance.”
“You might begin by teaching some others to do what you did last night.”
The wizard looked at the thief. “What do you mean?”
“Coy doesn’t suit you,” Royce told him.
“No, I suppose not.”
“I thought you couldn’t do your art without your hands?”
“It is very hard and takes a great deal of time and it isn’t very accurate. Imagine trying to write your name with your toes. I began working on that spell before you arrived here, thinking it would come in handy at some point. As it was, the flame wall nearly consumed you two. It was supposed to be several yards farther away, and last for hours instead of minutes. With hands I could have …” He trailed off. “No sense going there, I suppose.”
“Were you really that powerful before?”
Esrahaddon showed him a wicked smile. “Oh, my dear boy, you couldn’t begin to imagine.”
Word of Thrace’s recovery quickly spread through the village. She was still a little groggy, but remarkably sound. She could see clearly, all her teeth were in her head, and she had an appetite. By midmorning, she was sitting up, eating soup. That day there was a decidedly different look in the villagers’ eyes. The unspoken thought in every mind was the same—the beast had attacked and no one had died.
Most had seen the winged beast outlined in the brilliant green flames that night. Alongside each of them that morning walked a strange companion, a long-lost friend who had returned unexpectedly—hope.
They got busy at dawn preparing more wood fires. They had a system down now and were able to build up the piles with just a few hours’ work. Suspecting that the beast—obviously able to see well in the dark—might not be able to see through thick smoke, Vince Griffin suggested they use smudge pots. For centuries, farmers had used smudge pots to drive off insects that threatened to devour their crops, and Dahlgren was no different. Old pots were promptly gathered and filled as if a cloud of locusts was on its way. At the same time, Hadrian, Tad Bothwick, and Kline Goodman began surveying the outbuildings of the lower bailey for the best shelters.