Chapter Twenty-Seven

The sward atop the spire-stone was small, only fifty paces across, with sharp drops on all sides to the steaming tarn below. Bug-lamps rested on the grass, bathing it and the trunks of the firs in blue light. The sprites had laid out pheasant and fish, mushrooms and berries, with milk and their incomparable mead to accompany the feast; the companions devoured it all, then sat, waiting. Borlos stared into the distance, plucking his lyre. In time, Laird Guithern and the other winged folk joined them, and the talk turned to the war, Grimbough, and Soulsplitter.

"So," Guithern declared, folding his arms as he hovered in the air, "if ye take the axe back, ye'll use it to destroy this daemon tree?"

Trephas nodded. "That's what the Circle hopes, as I told thee yesterday."

Guithern nodded, then lapsed into deep thought. He and the other sprites who'd gathered for the moot—Fanuin and Ellianthe, several elders, and a number of warriors—bobbed up and down as the night wind blew about them.

"My father told me about Soulsplitter," Guithern mused at length. "It was his da the horsefolk brought it to, seventy summers ago—or two thousand of them, as time passes in yer world. They asked for his word, in the names of Branchala and Chislev, that if any centaur came seeking it, he'd refuse to give it over. 'Twas too great a danger, they said: it slew their High Chief, and only the gods knew what other evil it might wreak if one of yer kind ever raised it again.

"My grandfather made my father take the same oath, and so, also, with me. I swore, before the gods of the wilds, never to surrender the axe." He stared at Caramon, his dark eyes glinting. "And here you are, at the centaurs' behest, asking me to break that very oath."

Dezra snorted, rolling her eyes. "I don't care if you swore before Paladine, Takhisis, or the gnomes of Mount Nevermind," she said. "We still need it back."

"That ye may," Guithern replied coldly. "But even if all the dragons of Krynn were arrayed against ye, I couldn't relinquish it. We fey folk might be capricious, but we abide by our word."

"But thou must!" Trephas insisted, his voice rising. "Too many of my people have died already. Wilt thou condemn the rest of us?"

The Laird shook his head. "I don't say this on a whim, friend centaur. Thy ancestors felt Soulsplitter bore too much power, that after what befell Lord Hyrtamos, they should never use it again—not even against the most dangerous foe."

"Then they were fools!" Dezra snapped, rising to her feet. The sprites darted back, reaching for their weapons. "And you're no better, Your Highness, if you'd keep an oath so blindly!"

A hush fell over the sward. The elder sprites glared at Dezra, their narrow faces severe. She returned their gaze coolly, hands on her hips.

"If ye think insulting me is the way to get what ye want," Guithern hissed, "then it's you who are the fool. With a word, I could have ye drugged and taken back to Darken Wood. No dryad would ever let ye return here."

Dezra sucked in a breath to retort, her eyes ablaze. Before she could speak, however, Caramon interjected. "Your pardon, Highness. But blunt as my daughter may be," he said carefully, giving Dezra a warning look, "she's also not far off the mark. When the Circle gave your people the axe, they couldn't have anticipated what's happening now, that there is a threat dire enough to warrant its return."

"If Grimbough is victorious," Trephas added, "the dryads will perish, as surely as my people will. Or worse, they'll Cross, as have the Skorenoi and many of the satyrs. And once they're Grimbough's thralls, they'll seek out this place." The centaur waved a hairy arm, encompassing the whole vale. "Don't think thou wilt go untouched. Thy home will become as corrupt as mine."

Guithern was silent, his face clouded with thought. He studied Caramon and Trephas. "It's truly that bad?"

"Aye," the centaur said. "I wouldn't lie about this, Highness."

"No," the sprite murmured, "ye wouldn't." He drew a delicate hand down his face. "So, then. What good is an oath if it dooms all it was meant to protect?"

"Then you'll give us the axe?" Caramon asked.

Guithern shook his head, his silver locks shimmering. "No," he said. "I don't have it to give."

"What?" blurted Dezra.

"My grandfather protected it the best way he knew," Guithern declared, "by putting it where my people dare not—and the centaurs cannot—go."

"Tell us," Trephas bade.

The sprite hesitated, then nodded. "There's a place, in the mountains north of here—an old, ruined tower, where a wizard once lived. I don't know the sorcerer's name, but he was powerful. He did terrible things there: summoning demons from the Abyss, tormenting the dead. He even sought to create life."

Caramon shuddered. At the height of Raistlin's power, his brother had done the same thing. He'd never seen the fruit of that horrible experiment, but he'd heard stories. The Live Ones had been tormented, repulsive things, in constant pain, begging to die.

"Did… did he succeed?" he breathed.

Guithern shook his head. "I think not. If he did, the flesh of the creatures he made is surely long since dust. The tower stood outside my kingdom, and the wizard was dead when the centaurs gave Soulsplitter to my grandfather. All that remains is the pit beneath: a deep shaft, leading down into the living rock of the mountain.

"It's to that pit my grandfather took the axe. He threw it in and left it there, in the depths. Since then, my people haven't entered the place."

Caramon frowned. "I don't get it. You just said the tower fell apart thousands of years ago, that it's abandoned—why do you fear it?"

"Because," Guithern said solemnly, "it isn't abandoned. The Guardian, the last of the wizard's creations, still dwells there."

Dezra's eyes narrowed. "But you said the things he made were gone—their flesh was dust."

"Aye," Guithern answered. "But the Guardian isn't flesh. It's shaped of the stone itself, a creature the wizard built to watch over his keep. It remains there, waiting to slay anyone who enters. My people wouldn't go into that place even if I ordered them to."

"Then we'll have to try," Dezra said.

Caramon bit his lip. "Dez, this Guardian thing sounds like a golem. Raist told me about them, when we were young. They're really powerful. I don't think—"

"I'll do it," Dezra insisted. "I'm not going back empty-handed. You're free to stay and wait for me, if you're too scared to go."

If she'd meant to anger him, she was disappointed. He only stared at his hands, folded in his lap. "You're right, girl," he murmured. "We've come too far to stop now. We'll all go." He looked toward the Laird. "We're going to need help getting there, though."

They left in the morning, riding the lugruidh once more. The eldritch vale was even more splendid in daylight—the tarn shone turquoise, the mist that shrouded it gleaming gold in the sun's slanting rays. Above the spire, and across the lake in Gwethyryn, sprites danced on the wind. The winged folk brought the companions sweet bread and cheese to break their fast, then Guithern and his court came down to see them off and supply them with food, water and rope for their journey.

"I'll be plain with ye," the Laird said while they strapped on their arms and armor. "I'm not certain I'll see you alive again."

Caramon laughed mirthlessly, jamming his winged helmet on his head. "You and me both, Highness. But then, it's not exactly a new feeling for me."

Fanuin and Ellianthe arrived soon after, leading the company of sprites who'd carried the companions to the spire. They unfurled the lugruidh, snapping it taut and gliding smoothly to the spire's edge. The companions stepped onto it, not daring to look down. Another command, this time from Ellianthe, set them moving, soaring out over the lake toward its northern shore. Guithern called farewell, then flew away, a mote of silver light.

They glided on, buffeted by the wind, toward the ridge at the vale's edge. They rose slowly as they went, clearing the snow-dappled rocks by less than an arm's length—

—and then, without warning, the sky changed. The sun, which had been just barely past dawn, was suddenly high, just beginning to descend in the west. The high, wispy clouds became thick and dark. The pale moon hung low in the east, a slender crescent.

"What the—" Dezra gasped.

"We're outside the faerie realm," Borlos replied.

Fanuin and Ellianthe nodded, gliding beside the lugruidh. "The ridge was the border between yer world and ours," Ellianthe said. "And yer time and ours, too."

Caramon glanced around, trying to get his bearings. "I still don't see anything I recognize. Not Prayer's Eye Peak, not Tasin and Fasin. I don't think we're even in the Sentinels at—"

He broke off suddenly as he looked back the way they'd come, then paled, his eyes widening.

The others regarded him with concern. "Big guy?" Borlos asked. "What's wrong?"

"Gone," he gasped when he found his voice. "Sweet Reorx's beard. Look."

Startled, the others turned to follow his gaze. Caramon was right: of the fey folk's vale, which should have been right behind them, there was no sign: nothing but a succession of snowy peaks.

"Whoa," Dezra remarked, impressed. "Where'd it go?"

The sprites laughed. "Oh, it's still there," Fanuin said. "But ye'll need our help finding it again. Ye can't just walk into the faerie realm. One of us has to take you, or ye'd end up wandering the mountains forever."

"I don't understand," Dezra said.

"Ye're not supposed to," Ellianthe said, grinning. "Ye're not one of us, after all. Now stop fretting. We'll get ye back safely—if the Guardian doesn't get the lot o' ye, that is."

Borlos gulped as they glided onward. "Do me a favor," he said. "Stop saying things like that, all right?"