“In truth? We are trying to find a Keystone.”
The flowing, angry hiss turned to a gasp.
“Said you nothing before of this Keystone,” said Migmar. “Only the Elves—”
“We are Elves!” said Tommy.
“Take us for fools?” asked Migmar. “Dressed you are as Elves, but have you left your ears at home?” Harsh laughs fell like poison rain from the surrounding Gnomes.
“And not just Elves,” said Tommy, undeterred. “But the Seven Elven Lords of Berinfell.”
“Ridiculous!” said Migmar, and the hisses rose again. “Know, we all do, that the Spider King murdered the Lords of Berinfell.”
“Our parents,” said Tommy, wincing at the unpleasant odor now seemingly all around him. “The Spider King killed our parents. We were taken by the Drefids as babies.”
“Kill, the Drefids do, everything they touch.”
“No,” said Tommy. “Even the Spider King was afraid of the curse. . . . The Berinfell Prophecies tell of three generations of horror for anyone who kills a pureblood in the line of lords before he or she reaches the Age of Reckoning. The Drefids knew the curse and took us into another world.”
“Another world?” Migmar crossed his arms. “Heard, we have, enough. No Elves are you.”
“I am Felheart Silvertree!” yelled Tommy. “Son of Velaril and Tarin Silvertree.”
The name Silvertree gave Barrister Migmar pause, and barely a hiss came from the still-closing crowd.
“Know, we do, Silvertree,” he said slowly. “Speaks, history does, of that name often. Know not what you are, but unconvinced that you be Elves.”
“But I’m blue!” Kat blurted out. “You’ve seen our powers. What else can we do to prove it to you?”
Barrister Migmar motioned with his left hand as if he was drawing a capital Y in the air. From the darkness, drums began to pound— boom, boom, boom. Drums so low and deep that the young lords felt the vibrations in their armor, their bones, and especially through their bare feet on the smooth wood floor.
For a moment it seemed that a living, walking red flame had appeared, approaching the Seven from the far left of the Barrister’s platform. Another approached from the far right. Kiri Lee spun around and beheld a third approaching from behind.
The drums continued their slow, sonorous heartbeat. As the walking flames grew close, it became clear by their stature that they were Gnomes . . . Gnomes wearing red robes and hoods so that no one could see their faces. And each one held a white candle in one palm and a long, silvery tube clasped reverently in the other.
Migmar held up his hands. The drums stopped. The figures in red halted and turned to the Elves. Kat tried to read their minds, but her own fears created such an agitated jumble of thoughts that she could not focus. She could not, for long, endure the eyeless stare of the hooded Gnomes. She turned away and closed her eyes, sending a thought to Tommy, “Is this really happening?”
“Come forth, the Breath Thieves have. Bear, they do, darts filled with a poison so potent fell a Gwar champion, it would, in three heartbeats. Sentenced, you are, to die . . . the fair and just penalty for trespassing in our most hallowed grounds.”
“Fair?” exclaimed Tommy, yanking at his restraints. “This is insane! You can’t just kill us because we walked in your backyard! We were saving YOUR life!”
“Preach it, Tommy!” said Jett. “We are the Seven Elven Lords of Berinfell! You kill us, the Spider King wins. And even if he doesn’t, you’ll have war with the Elves forever.”
“Threatening us, you are?” asked Migmar. “Fear, we do not, the Spider King or the Elves. Commands, our law, that you must die. Accept, we must, the consequences for our actions.”
Another Gnome appeared on the platform next to Migmar. He bowed, stomped his foot, and removed a rolled parchment from a fold in his robe. He gave it to Migmar and whispered to the Barrister as he read.
The Gnome leader fell quiet for a moment and then said, “Have a provision, we do, in our law: one life for one life. Saved, you did, my life. Owe, we do, one life of yours. Choose, you may, one of your number to live and go free. A moment I give you to confer.”
As best they could given the restraints, the Seven huddled together. “This . . . this is madness,” said Tommy.
“We’ve got to do something,” said Johnny.
“Fight,” said Jimmy. “That’s what we’ve got to do. Break those things on yur hands, and fry those psychotic midgets.”
“I should have fried them before,” Johnny muttered.
“No, I don’t think so,” said Tommy. “I mean, now, it seems like that would have been the smart thing to do, but I just felt like it was wrong . . . horribly wrong. I still feel that way.”
“Too late now,” said Johnny. “I can’t break ’em. I’ve tried.”
Kiri Lee pulled a foot of slack from her restraints and stepped forward. “What if . . . what if Jett used his strength to bang Johnny’s hands together? Do you think those stone balls would shatter?”
“What if my hands shatter?” asked Johnny, but he wasn’t laughing.
“I’m game,” said Jett. “Let me try. Crowd in as close as you can.”
Their huddle shrank until their faces nearly touched. Johnny held his orb-encased fists as far out as he could. “I’m ready, I think.”
Jett grasped the two orbs, looked Johnny in the eye, and then slammed them together. Not only did the orbs not shatter, but there was no discernible mark on either one. But Johnny fell to one knee and nearly passed out from the intense pain. Jett wrung his hands, trying to ease the throbbing. “Okay, bad idea.”
“Decide, you must,” said Migmar. The undercurrent of hissing continued. The red-robed Breath Thieves stood just yards away. “A life for a life.”
“Say what you want about these Gnomes,” said Jett, “but they’ve got an answer for every one of our gifts. How are we supposed to fight the Spider King? We can’t even beat a bunch of little—”
“Maybe we’re not supposed to beat them,” said Tommy.
“They’re going to kill us,” said Jett.
“Not all of us,” said Johnny. “He said one of us can go free. I think it should be Autumn.”
“Me?” Autumn’s face seemed to knot up. “No way. All I can do is run. It should be you, Johnny. You can do the most against the Spider King.”
“Hold up,” said Jett. “Yeah, he’s got fire, but I can hardly be killed.”
“Tommy’s our leader,” said Kat. “It should be him.”
“I think Tommy, too,” said Jimmy, and then he muttered, “Certainly shouldn’t be me.”
“Delay, you must, no longer!” Migmar commanded.
Tommy shook his head. He remembered Grimwarden’s many lessons. The Guardmaster himself had chosen Tommy as the leader of their young group. It was in his blood, Grimwarden had said. Why don’t I feel like a leader? Tommy wondered. Everything’s coming apart, and I haven’t any idea what to do.
“Do not be afraid,” a voice spoke in Tommy’s mind. “I am with you.”
Tommy smiled and thought, Thank you, Kat. I needed that. He looked up at his blue-skinned friend. She did not return his gaze. Then he turned to his friends once more. “Listen to us!” he said above the others. “Just a few months ago our biggest fear was having to read a part in a play to the whole class, or maybe that a pimple might show up in the middle of our forehead. Now, Barrister Migmar is telling us we need to decide which one of us lives or dies?”
Kat giggled nervously at the irony.
“We’re scared,” Tommy went on, fixing his eyes on Jett for a moment. “ALL of us. I’m terrified. But we can’t forget what Grimwarden and Goldarrow taught us. We’re all part of one body, none of us better than the other.”
“It should not be any one of us,” Kiri Lee whispered.
Jett’s jaw moved and his nostrils flared. He nodded.
Autumn and Johnny stared at each other. She held out her hand. Johnny took it.
; Jimmy couldn’t help it. Pride swelled within him like Craignish Loch after a flooding rain and a high tide. All his life, all he’d ever wanted was a family. A safe place where everyone else thought well of you and looked after you. And now, maybe a million miles away, in a world he’d never thought existed, here he was with a jock, a beauty queen, a bully, a know-it-all, a goth, and a dweeb . . . and they, they were his family. No, Jimmy couldn’t help it. Tears rolling down his face, he smiled and practically burst out, “Live together?”
“Die together,” said Tommy.
“Die together,” Jett repeated.
“Die together,” said Kat. And so each one replied.
Clasping hands as best they could in their manacle-restraints, they turned and faced Barrister Migmar.
“Lord Barrister,” said Tommy. “We don’t agree with your law or the penalty for breaking it.” Hisses erupted. “But . . . BUT this is your land and your court. We are in no position to change your laws or customs. But likewise, we are in no position to decide who lives and dies. Only Ellos, our mighty God, has a right to decide our fate. We will not choose.”
“Decided, you are, that all should die?” asked Migmar.
Tommy felt a squeeze from Kat’s hand on his left and Jimmy’s hand on his right. “Yes,” said Tommy. “We are decided.”
Migmar raised a bushy eyebrow and did not at first respond. Thoughts creased his forehead, and he worked the muscles in his jaw. The three red-robed executioners inclined their hooded heads toward their leader, waiting, it seemed, for instructions. The hissing vanished, replaced by hushed but urgent conversation.
“Very well,” said the Barrister. “Made, you have, your choice. Believe, I do, that the decision was nobly made, much in keeping with Elvenkind. Know you, however, that Ellos grants the power of life or death to rulers and authorities . . . such am I.” He paused long enough to look at each of the young lords in turn. “Give you, I will, one final question . . . one final chance. Answer well, you must.”
“If we do?” asked Tommy.
“Live, you will, and be free,” said Migmar. “Satisfied, we will be, that you are the Seven Lords of Berinfell.”
“And if we get the answer wrong?”
“Know, you do, already your fate,” replied the Gnome. “Decide, you must, who will answer.”
“Tommy!” came six Elven voices.
Tommy turned around and laughed. “Thanks a lot!”
“You studied more than any of us,” said Jimmy.
Tommy shook his head. He had studied more than the others. But he still hadn’t studied enough. “I’ll answer the question,” he said. “I’ll try.”
The other lords stood beside their leader, a close family of Elves. Tommy became aware of the other Gnomes closing in around them, with their candles, like a slow-moving whirlpool of stars. The red-robed executioners raised their silver tubes, fixing their aim.
“Tommy, if you need help”—Kat’s thoughts tiptoed into Tommy’s mind—“not that I know half the lore you do.”
No, Kat, he thought back to her. No, I’ve got to do this right.
“Know, you must, this answer,” declared Barrister Migmar, “if you be lord-born. Come, it does, from Elven antiquity. A worthy question for such an occasion as this.” He paused once more and then delivered the question. “When was the Dread War of 6016?”
Tommy felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach with a steel-toed boot. He’d studied a lot of the battles, especially wars in which Grimwarden had served. He had learned tons about war tactics, flanking, feints, and such. But he hadn’t spent a lot of time memorizing dates. He could feel the weight of hundreds of eyes pressing down on him, but none weightier than those of his friends. Once again, he’d let them down.
Even in social studies back on Earth, he’d had trouble mem—Wait a minute!
Could it . . . could it? No way. But what choice do I have? Tommy looked up at the Barrister and said, “The answer is . . . 6016.”
Such a roar whooshed up all around Tommy that at first he thought the red-robed Breath Thieves had hit him with a poison dart, that he was hearing his heart exploding, blood pressure thrashing in his ears. Bright light nearly blinded him, and he raised his arms to shield his eyes. He’d always heard that people see a bright light when they die. My hands are free! The shackles and cords are gone.
26
The Verdict
WHEN TOMMY realized he was, in fact, still very much alive, he looked around. He was still inside the Justice Tree, only now huge braziers burned with bright-white fire. Torches and hearty fireplaces were kindled all around the room. Gnomes were bouncing here, there, and everywhere, singing, shouting, couples dancing . . . celebrating. All the Gnomes who had held the red candles were now using those candles to light the fuse on strange fireworks that launched right out of their palms, flew high toward the roof of the chamber, and then exploded in dozens of curlicue streamers. Tommy nearly had a heart attack when he saw that the red-robed executioners were still aiming their silver tubes. “NO!” Tommy yelled as they fired. But rather than being poisoned, Tommy found himself surrounded by a whirling, snap-crackling cloud of glittery confetti.
Migmar leaped from his platform right at Tommy’s face. Tommy caught him with ease, but the Gnome suddenly kissed him on both cheeks. “Congratulations, honorary Moonchild!” Migmar cried. “You and your friends did it!” The Gnome leaped down and danced a peculiar hopping, skipping, spinning dance at Tommy’s feet.
Suddenly Tommy felt himself being lifted up in the air and spun around. “YEAH, boyee!” Jett yelled as his bonds were loosed. “We’re in, baby! You were SO right!”
“Bring in the FOOD!” yelled Migmar. “Forget NOT the dragon-root!”
Arms wrapped around Tommy from behind. “Oh, Tommy, isn’t it wonderful?”
It was Kat . . . hugging him. “Um . . . I . . . uh . . . yes, yes, it is wonderful.” He hated to unhook from her hug, but he couldn’t take it anymore. “Kat, what in the world is going on? I thought we were all just about to be killed!”
“It was a test, Tommy!” Kat said, her eyes bright and glistening, warm purple appearing on her cheeks. “The whole thing.”
“A test?” Part of what Kat said, part of the circus going on around him—just a part began to sink in. Just not enough to totally let down his guard. “A test of what?”
“Of us,” she replied. “Oh, Migmar, you tell him.”
“Tell him, I will,” the Gnome replied. “Sit him down, we shall, at my table. Explain all, I will.”
“Eat, drink!” said Migmar, stuffing his face with some kind of puffy purple fruit.
“But what about—?”
“Food first,” said Migmar. “Always food first.”
Hesitantly, Tommy picked up a triangular, bread-looking thing. It was heavy, like a pastry filled with cream cheese. Tommy took a nibble. The flavors hit his tongue like a marching band. It was not salty, not sweet, not tangy, sour, or spicy. It was something brand new, a taste like cold air spraying in all directions in his mouth.
“OH MY . . . AWWW, MANNN, OH, THIS IS GOOD!” Tommy turned and saw Jett, both hands full of exotic chips of all different shades of red. He seemed enraptured, closing his eyes and swaying his head to music no one else could hear.
“How odd that he should take such a liking to gickers?” asked Migmar. “And without rosco sauce, too.”
“Gickers?” Tommy echoed. Certainly, Jett seemed to be enjoying them.
“Harvest, we do, from gorc trees,” Migmar explained. “It’s a fungus that grows where glomper frogs have been nesting.”
“Oh,” said Tommy. “That . . . um . . . doesn’t sound very good.”
“Not without rosco sauce,” Migmar replied.
Tommy was about to ask about the sauce but then thought better of it. After twenty minutes of relentless eating, Migmar leaned back in his chair. He munched on a twisted orange dragonroot and said, “Gather your Elvenkin.”
Tommy called them over.<
br />
“Tell you, now, I will of why we put you through such an ordeal,” said Migmar. “Trespass, you had. Trod, you had, upon sacred land. But you saved my life. Owed a debt to you, I did.” He looked up suddenly. “Ah, Thorkber, Sarabell, Gilbang, come sit down and join us.”
“How much dragonroot have you had?” asked Thorkber warily.
“Not much,” said Migmar. “Just one sprig.”
“Uh-huh,” Thorkber said as he sat down next to Johnny and Autumn.
“Explaining ‘The Moonbeam’, I was, to the Elves,” said Migmar. “The powers of highborn Elves, you seemed to have. Firehand, air walking, strength of giants, and more. But still, sworn by your ancestors, the original Elves of Berinfell, we are, to test any who come searching for the Keystone.”
“You know about the Keystone?” asked Autumn.
“Yes,” said Migmar. “It is well known to us. Helped design and build the Terradym Fortress, our ancestors did, where the Keystone now lies.”
“You know where the fortress is?” asked Tommy, nearly shooting out of his seat.
“Of course,” said Migmar. “In the region of Needlemire, north and west of here. But simply tell you where it is, we could not. Needed to be sure, we did, that you are lordly Elves, not treasure hunters. ‘The Moonbeam’ is our test, the ceremony of life and death. By refusing to select one above the other and by appealing to Ellos the Maker as sole giver and taker of life, passed the test, you did.” Migmar nibbled another inch from the orange dragonroot and leaned back even farther in his chair.
The Seven pondered this new revelation. The Berinfell Prophecies were all true. They had to be. And the creepy, weird thing about it was that their Elven ancestors, thousands of years earlier, had known so much, long before it happened.
“What was that?” Kiri Lee whispered. She’d heard a peculiar sound. They’d all heard it.
“Oh no!” said Thorkber. “I’m leaving.”
“What?” asked Migmar.
“You know what.” Holding his nose and muttering indignantly, Thorkber hurried away from Migmar’s table.
Sarabell leaned over and whispered to Autumn, “Dragonroot is too spicy for Migmar. It makes him poof.”
Venom and Song Page 27
