Chapter Thirty-Four

Caramon woke suddenly, in the early light of dawn, to blazing pain. He ground his teeth together, trying to sit up. The agony was too excruciating. It felt like a flaming arrow was lodged in his shoulder—the same sensation he'd felt after the battle at Ithax, and earlier at the Darkwater. It was stronger now, stealing his breath and making black dots whirl before his eyes.

He knew, now, that it was his heart—he'd had his doubts before, but there was no mistaking how the pain rose and fell in rhythm with his lifebeat. The same thing had killed old Flint Fireforge, forty years ago. Was it going to take him too? He thought of Tika and Laura, Palin and his grandchildren—could he leave them behind? Then he remembered Flint and Sturm, Tanis and Riverwind, and all the friends who'd died before him. He thought of his sons. It would be good to see them. And maybe… maybe Raistlin would come, from wherever he was, and visit him too.

Yes, he thought as he lay upon his bed of rushes, staring at the roof of the tent the centaurs had given him. Maybe it is time… .

But it wasn't. After a while, the pain ebbed, the fist that had clenched within his ribs loosening its grip. When he drew breath, there was only a dull ache. He blew a long sigh through his lips, not sure whether to be thankful or disappointed.

The sunlight that streamed through the tent-flap was too bright to go back to sleep. Scratching his balding pate, he sat up and glanced at the other beds the horsefolk had laid out. Borlos lay sprawled on one of them, his arm flung across his eyes, mouth hanging open. The bard had enjoyed a great deal of resin-wine at the festivities: Caramon had had to carry him back to their tent. That was probably what had set his heart off this time, he decided.

The other bed was empty. The rushes were undisturbed, the blanket still folded. Dezra hadn't slept in the tent last night. But if not here, where? He was scowling, an idea forming in his head, when the flap opened, and his daughter ducked in.

She started in surprise when she saw him, then flushed. "You're up early," she said, not meeting his gaze. "Are you well? You look pale."

"I'm fine," he said. "You were out late."

He picked up her worn pouch and handed it to her. As she reached for it, though, he saw something dark on her wrist. He caught her arm and pushed back her sleeve. In the morning light he saw what he'd spotted: a blue tattoo. It was a knotwork pattern, encircling her wrist.

"What's this?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.

She snatched her arm back. "None of your business," she snapped. "But if you must know, it's a warrior's mark. Arhedion and his men gave it to me. I ran into them after—after the dance," she finished awkwardly, turning away.

Caramon scowled. "So you must be ready to leave this place. Which way are you going?"

"West," she replied. "Trephas says it's a short way to the Haven Road from here."

"Bor and I'll come with you," Caramon asked. "It's probably best that you don't go wandering the mountains alone, with so much trouble about."

She glanced at him sharply, then tossed her pack out of the tent. "Sure," she said, shrugging. "But when we reach the road, I imagine you'll want to go back to Solace, instead of tagging along with me."

Caramon swallowed. "You're not coming home?"

"No, I'm bound for Haven, then probably Ankatavaka on the coast. I'll be able to afford passage on a ship, once the centaurs pay me."

"Good," Caramon grumbled. "That tattoo will make you popular with the sailors."

She started to snarl a retort, then glanced over her shoulder. The pounding of hooves rose outside, moving closer. She turned, frowning, and reached for the flap. Just as her fingers brushed it, it flew open. Trephas came in, sweating and pale. His eyes were wide, his nostrils flared. His tail twitched anxiously.

"What's wrong?" Dezra asked, stepping toward him.

He shied back, glancing at Caramon. He started to speak, but his voice caught, and he had to clear his throat to get it back. "There's been trouble," he said. "The Circle wishes to see thee."

"The Circle?" Caramon echoed, alarmed. He shoved himself to his feet. "Why?"

"It's the axe," Dezra said suddenly. "Something happened to Soulsplitter, didn't it?"

The centaur pawed the ground. "It would be best if thou just came," he said. "Dress thyselves and wash, but be quick. I'll wait outside."

He withdrew, letting the flap close behind him. Dezra flashed a worried glance at her father, then followed Trephas into the daylight.

Absently, Caramon began to rub his shoulder again. He sighed, shaking his head, then bent down to wake Borlos.

The companions stared at the bodies, their faces like stone. Phenestis and Xaor lay where they'd died, covered with woolen blankets stained crimson with blood. Several warriors stood nearby, as did the Circle of Four.

"And the axe?" Dezra asked softly.

Lord Pleuron shook his head. There was a silence.

"Was it treason?" Caramon asked. "Could Chrethon have an ally in Lysandon?"

Old Nemeredes shook his head. "It wasn't even a centaur," he said. "Look."

He nodded at the ground. After a moment, the companions saw them too: tracks. Whoever had taken Soulsplitter had walked through its guardians' blood, leaving a trail of hoofprints behind. The prints weren't horselike, though; they were cloven, like a goat's.

"A satyr?" Trephas asked.

"So it seems," Eucleia said tonelessly.

Standing beside her dead sons, the High Chief fought to remain austere and aloof, but her eyes were filled with pain. Caramon felt a pang, remembering the sight of his own sons' lifeless bodies, ten years ago.

"Grimbough must have corrupted the goat-men too," Eucleia went on. "Chrethon's probably been using them against us all along, and we've been too blind to see it. Now one of them has the axe."

"But why?" Dezra asked, glancing from one of the chiefs to the next.

"To keep it out of our hands, for one thing," Trephas answered. "But I've a feeling there's something else."

"Of course there's something else, boy!" growled old Nemeredes. "Use the wits thy mother and I gave thee! Hast thou forgotten whom he holds captive at Grimbough's grove?"

The companions exchanged horrified looks. "You mean—" Caramon began.

"Aye," Eucleia replied. Her calm cracked, her face contorting with guilt and grief. "We've long known he wishes to destroy the Forestmaster. The satyr is surely taking Soulsplitter to Sangelior. And when Chrethon has it, he'll use it to take from her that which holds her power—her horn."

"And we gave him the means to do it!" Trephas snapped. "We brought it back from the faerie realm, just so he could take it!" He rounded on the chiefs, livid with rage. "How couldst thou be so blind?"

Eucleia's face darkened. She opened her mouth to snarl a retort, but Pleuron rested a hand on her arm, stilling her. Old Nemeredes stepped forward, regarding Trephas sternly. "Boy," he began, "we knew the risk. What wouldst thou have us do? Leave our only hope hidden away, out of fear Chrethon might use it?"

Trephas seethed, trembling. "Better than letting him use it to undo the Forestmaster."

"We thought we could keep it from him, long enough to use it," Pleuron muttered, shaking his head. "We didn't think he knew… we thought it would be safe."

"We thought wrong, then!" Eucleia growled. "Damn our arrogance! Trephas is right—we've been nothing but Chrethon's fools."

"And now it's over," murmured Dezra. "All that trouble, and it's come to nothing."

"No," Caramon rumbled. "There has to be a way."

The chiefs were unconvinced. "If so, I don't know what it is," Pleuron said. "We lose the satyr's tracks beyond this cavern. How can we give chase, with no trail to follow?"

"We know where he's going," Trephas said. "If we can get to Grimbough's grove first, maybe we can stop him."

"And how shalt thou do that?" Eucleia shot back. "He must have several hours' head start, and if Chrethon sent him to steal Soulsplitter, he's surely fleet of foot. I fear even our fastest runners won't be able to outpace him."

For a while, no one spoke. The wind whistled outside. Below, in Lysandon, the horsefolk had woken and were moving about the town. Word of what had happened had yet to reach them. It wouldn't be long, though, before they knew that the axe was gone.

Borlos cleared his throat. "What about the dryads?"

Everyone turned to look at the bard. He'd been quiet until now, suffering from the effects all the wine he'd drunk.

"What didst thou say?" Eucleia breathed.

The bard swallowed. "The dryads," he repeated. "Maybe we can get to Sangelior faster with their help. If someone goes to Pallidice's grove, maybe she and her sisters can take them the rest of the way."

The centaurs looked at one another, eyes wide. "It could work," Pleuron allowed.

"It's a slim chance," Eucleia added, "but better than none at all." She turned to Caramon. "Wilt thou do it?"

Caramon looked at the horsefolk in surprise. All of them were staring at him. "Us?" he asked.

"Aye," said old Nemeredes, nodding. "Thou hast treated with the oak-maidens already. They know thee, and are more apt to help thee again. I don't ask this lightly," he added, glancing at Trephas. "It means sending my son as well. But I fear that once again, thou art our best chance."

“Well, I'm going," Borlos said as he stepped into the tent. "I'm not just going to sit by and let Grimbough destroy this forest. We owe that much to the fey folk."

"I don't owe anyone anything," Dezra said. She started gathering her packs. "We've done what they brought us here to do."

Caramon rounded on her angrily. "How can you say that, girl?" he demanded. "How can you leave, when they need our help more than ever?"

"Watch me," Dezra snapped, slinging her pack over her shoulder. "And you—why are you going, Father? Don't think we haven't noticed you're sick. You can't even get through a fight without almost keeling over. If you go to Sangelior, you'll probably finish yourself off."

"I know," Caramon said. "But I still have to go."

"For Reorx's sake!" Dezra swore. "Why?"

"Because it would be wrong not to."

Dezra was silent a moment, her lips parted in disbelief. She shook her head. "Fine," she said. "You want to die? Go ahead. But you're not killing me too." Angrily, she shoved past her father and stormed out of the tent.

Caramon watched her go. Then, glancing hopelessly at Borlos, he stooped to gather his gear. As he did, his hand strayed to his shoulder and began to rub it again.