"You're not eating?" Caramon asked around a mouthful of bread.
She shook her head. "Being sealed in a cave with no way out doesn't help my appetite."
"It hasn't hurt mine any."
"Not much does, does it?" she snapped.
Before her father could respond, she shoved herself to her feet and walked away, to the cavern's edge. She stood facing the wall, vainly searching for cracks that might indicate a door. Behind her, the sounds of feasting continued.
After a while, she heard Trephas's war harness jingle, and his hooves clack across the stone floor, toward her. She stiffened.
"Dezra?" he asked. "Is something troubling thee?"
She scowled at him. "You mean besides being trapped here by that tree trollop? Yes, actually—there's plenty bothering me. The way you talk, for one thing."
"The way I talk?" the centaur repeated, confused. "What about it irks thee?"
"Just that," she snapped, rounding on him. "All this thee-thou-thy nonsense. It's driving me crazy."
His eyebrows rose. "'Tis only politeness. My people use those words with everyone, except those we love dearly— husbands and wives, parents, children. Even then, we only use them in private. It wouldn't be proper to call thee 'you.' "
"To the Abyss with proper!" she shouted, then fell silent as Borlos and Caramon glanced her way. She waited for the bard and her father to return to their food and drink. "You called that dryad 'you.' "
"Pallidice?" Trephas asked, and chuckled. "We trysted together a few times, when I was a colt. I got into the habit then. When my father learned I'd been dallying with a dryad—"
He broke off abruptly, his brow furrowing.
Dezra tensed. "What's wrong?" She shoved Trephas aside, looking back toward the blanket, and stared in shock.
Caramon and Borlos lay motionless on the ground. The bard had curled up on his side, still gripping a goblet; mead from the cup had spilled onto the floor. Caramon sprawled on his back, mouth open and eyes closed.
"Oh, crap," Dezra growled.
She pushed past Trephas and dashed to her father's side. Crouching down, she pressed her ear against his chest. After a moment, she sighed. "He's still alive."
"The bard as well," Trephas agreed, bending low over Borlos. "What's happened to them?"
"What do you think's happened?" Dezra shot back.
Trephas's eyes went wide. "The food?"
"And the drink too, probably." She stared at Caramon for a moment, then looked up. "How much did you eat?"
The centaur didn't reply. His head drooped, his beard brushing his chest. As she watched, he crumpled to the ground, nearly crushing Borlos. He began to snore.
"That much, huh?" Dezra asked. She sat down, thinking hard. "I'll kill that dryad when she comes back," she muttered. "I'll wring that green bitch's neck with my bare—"
Before she could finish the thought, her mouth opened in an enormous yawn. She reeled, stunned, as weariness settled over her.
"But I didn't eat anything," she muttered, glancing around the cavern. "How could—"
She knew as soon as her gaze fell upon the smoldering braziers. The coals were drugged, too. It took longer for it to work on her, but soon she could no longer fight off the urge to sleep. She slumped against her father's slumbering form, her head resting on his breastplate.
"Damn," she mumbled, and slept.
23
"Gnats and midges!" swore the lilting voice. "His snoring's so loud, it's like the world's coming to an end!"
Caramon groaned. He tried to fight it, but slowly, inevitably, consciousness was returning.
"Quiet, ye twit!" snapped a second voice—a woman's, with the same strange, trilling accent as the first. It was very close. "And for Branchala's sake, stay away from his mouth. Ye want to get sucked in?"
"G'way," Caramon mumbled, rolling on his side.
The voices fell silent. There was a peculiar fluttering sound, moving swiftly away. Caramon snorted, broke wind, and continued his ascent from sleep. The fluttering came close again. A breeze touched his cheek.
"Now ye've done it, Fanuin," scolded the woman. "I told meself, he's gonna wake the giant—"
"Bah!" replied the man. "You brushed his nose, Ellianthe. It's a wonder he didn't sneeze and kill us both—"
Caramon's patience snapped. "Shut up, both of you!" he growled, squinching his eyes shut.
Desperately, he clutched at the pleasant dream he'd been having—it had involved Tika and roast mutton—but to no avail. Giving up, he opened his eyes, and found himself staring at two small, curious faces. Hovering an arm's length from his nose were two tiny people, each about two feet tall. Their bodies were reed-slim, their elfin features framed by curly, copper-red hair. They were brightly garbed—him in gold and green, her in scarlet and sky-blue—and both wore tiny poniards on their belts. Silvery moth wings fluttered on their backs.
Winged kender? Caramon thought. Merciful vanished gods, please let this be a nightmare.
"Good morrow!" beamed the male, swooping toward Caramon's face. "I hight Fanuin. Glad to meet—"
Caramon shrank back with a yelp, waving at the air. The winged folk cried out, flitted about, then darted away, wings buzzing. Caramon lay stunned.
"Confounded way to wake up," he grumbled. Stiffly, joints popping, he sat up and peered about. He was alone, in a small cavern of gray stone. His daughter and the others weren't with him. His heart thudded—what had become of them?
He relaxed somewhat when he saw the cavern had a door: a low, narrow portal of bronze-girded oak. The cave was spartan, brightly lit by bug-lamps. The bed he sat upon was woven of reeds and cedar branches. A few small jars and a basin of gleaming water, sat nearby. The rough walls and vaulted ceiling were unadorned. Whoever had brought him here had even less regard for furniture than the centaurs did. They'd left him his gear, he soon saw: his packs and shield, even his sword, lay piled by the wall. So did his armor and clothes—he realized, belatedly, that he was naked.
He pushed himself to his feet. The ceiling was low, and he stooped to make himself fit. He shuffled over and grabbed his clothes. They were clean, and had even been mended. Wiping sleepglue from his eyes, he donned his breechcloth and pants. He dragged his tunic over his head, then took it off and put it on the right way around. He opened one of the jugs, and was pleased to discover it was full of water instead of wine. He took a long drink, then stopped, feeling an uncomfortable pressure on his bladder. Setting the jug down again, he searched for something to use for a chamber pot. Finding none, he stumbled to the door and opened it.
There were many bug-lamps in the large cavern on the door's other side. He raised his arm as his eyes adjusted to the brightness. He heard fluttering again. This time, though, it came from many pairs of wings instead of just two. Slowly, he lowered his arm.
He was surrounded. A dozen of the little moth-winged people hovered about him. They were gaily garbed, and most held small bows with tiny arrows nocked and aimed. In their midst was an older creature, whose hair gleamed like quicksilver and who wore a purple tunic over white hose. He held a little sword, glinting in the bug-light. Behind him hovered the pair who'd interrupted Caramon's sleep.
"Hold there," said the one with the sword. His dark eyes glittered. "If ye move, my men will shoot."
Caramon froze, more out of surprise than fear. Despite the arrows, he couldn't take the winged folk seriously. It was like being waylaid by squirrels.
"That's him, Da!" exclaimed Fanuin, pointing at Caramon. "He's the one who tried to kill us!"
"What?" Caramon blurted, seeing the silver-haired one scowl. "I never—"
"Ye did so," retorted Ellianthe, her face reddening to the tips of her long, pointed ears. "Ye tried to swat us out of the air like bugs!"
"Easy, girl," said the silver-haired one. "He's a human. He's likely never seen our like afore."
"What like?" Caramon demanded. "What are you?"
"Why, we're sprites, o'course," Fanuin replie
d. "Like I was sayin' just now, before ye started swinging, I hight Fanuin, and this is my sister, Ellianthe." His female companion bowed. "We're son and daughter of Laird Guithern o' the fey folk."
"At yer service," said the silver-haired sprite, doffing his feathered cap. "Now, since we all know each other, Caramon Majere, suppose ye tell me why ye tried to murder my children?"
Caramon blinked, at a loss. "I didn't mean to. They just startled me." He nodded at Fanuin. "He came straight at my face."
Guithern glanced over his shoulder at his son. "Is this true?" he asked testily. "I told ye, lad, when we brought the lot o' them here—make like ye mean to fly up someone's nose, and ye'll get smashed."
"Aye, Da," Fanuin grumbled. He studied his pointed shoes and said nothing more.
"I'm dreadful sorry, friend," said Guithern, turning back to Caramon. He sheathed his tiny sword. "Fanuin means well, but sometimes he's a bit dense. No hard feelings?"
It dawned on Caramon then: This small creature was the one the Circle had sent him and the others to find, the one who held Soulsplitter! He sighed in relief.
"No hard feelings," he agreed, and extended his massive hand toward the sprite king.
An odd sound, like a harpstring being plucked, rang out. A sharp pain flared in his backside, as if a wasp had stung him. "Ow!" he exclaimed, reaching back.
To his surprise, he found something embedded in his buttocks. Wincing, he plucked it out and held it up before his eyes. It was a tiny arrow, no bigger than a needle.
Guithern darted forward and snatched the shaft from Caramon's fingers. His eyes flashed with anger as he regarded the bowmen around the old innkeeper.
"Who fired this?' the sprite king barked.
One of the archers flinched. He'd been groping at his quiver for another dart; now he stopped and began to stammer. "I-I'm sorry, H-Highness," he said. "Ye said shoot if he moved…
"I'd put my sword away, ye dolt!" snapped Guithern. "What's 'twixt yer ears? Dandelion wool?"
"Don't worry," Caramon protested. The wound was minor, though for some reason it itched furiously. "It's nothing."
The Laird gave him an odd look. "If only that were so," he said. "Ye'd best lie down, Majere. Not as far to fall, that way."
"Huh?" Caramon asked. "What do you mean?"
Guithern held up the arrow for him to see. On its tip was something dark, sticky. It took Caramon a moment to understand: poison. Suddenly he was swaying on his feet, his brain full of cobwebs.
"Wh—" he mumbled through lips that no longer felt like part of his own face. "Unnnnh… ."
"He's going down!" shouted Ellianthe. The sprites scattered as his knees buckled, and he toppled forward. He was already snoring when he hit the ground.
For a while, Caramon dreamed of mutton and Tika again.
"So… you met the sprites, I see."
He was back in the cave, lying on his stomach. Blearily, he peered back, and saw Dezra kneeling beside him. She grinned crookedly, pressing a cloth against his bare backside.
His bare backside?
"Ahhh!" he yelped, pushing himself up. He fumbled for his britches, which were down around his knees.
Borlos sat nearby, plucking his lyre. He set it aside and applauded. "Well, I'm impressed, big guy," he said, winking. "Now I understand what Tika sees in you."
Scarlet-faced, Caramon cinched the drawstring of his trousers and glared at Dezra. Her lips were pressed together in a valiant attempt not to laugh.
"What in the Abyss do you think you were doing?" Caramon demanded.
"Seeing to the hives on your arse, that's what," she replied with a chuckle. "That stuff the sprites put on their arrows gave you quite a rash. Someone had to see to it, and it was either Bor or me."
"And no offense, big guy," the bard added, grinning, "but there isn't enough steel in the world."
Caramon's flush deepened. "I can't believe the little bastards poisoned me."
"Twice," Dezra said. "Although the second time was an accident. They couldn't stop telling us how sorry they were—especially when you started swelling up. Guithern gave us a salve for the rash, then he and Trephas went to talk about things."
"They told us to stay here," Borlos added.
"Where were you earlier?" Caramon asked.
"In our own caves," the bard replied. "That first hit of the drug put us all out for a good while. Two days, from what I gather. It might have been longer, if the sprites hadn't woken us after they shot you."
"Two days?" Caramon repeated, aghast. "And what about the second time? How long have I been sleeping?"
"Since yesterday," Dezra said. "Count yourself lucky: the sprites told us about the poisons they use. The stuff they got you with is the mildest of all. Most of the others, you never would have woken up."
Caramon swallowed. He touched his tender, swollen backside, wincing. "So you two have been here the whole time?"
"Just Dez," Borlos replied, picking up his lyre and plucking its strings. "I've been in and out. More than a few of these sprites are good at music. They taught me some ballads they say no human's ever heard before—can you imagine what folks will say when I sing them back in Solace? There's this one—"
"Not now," Caramon interrupted, raising a hand. "We should go see this Guithern fellow. We've already wasted enough time." He started stiffly toward the door.
Dezra headed him off. "Whoa," she said. "Trephas is taking care of things. He said they'd send for us when they were ready. Till then, we're not to leave these caverns. Don't kid yourself, Father. We're as much prisoners as guests—at least until Trephas gets things sorted out."
Just then the door opened. Trephas strode into the cave, stooping low to get through the door. With him came Fanuin, Ellianthe, and several other hovering, brightly-garbed sprites.
The centaur was pale, his eyes shadowed. "Thou must come with me," he said, pawing the stone floor. "Quickly— there's little time to lose. We may already be too late."
Dezra's eyes narrowed. "But we've only been here three days. How much could have happened in that little time?"
"Plenty," Trephas replied.
Beside him, Fanuin cleared his throat. "Beggin' yer pardon, but there's something ye should know about this place. The river of time flows quicker here than ye're used to, I fear. Yer kind have tales of this, I think."
"We do," Borlos said. "There's the one about Jeston the Rhymer, who fell asleep in a mushroom ring and was snared by the fey folk. He spent only a twelvemonth with them—or so he thought. When he went home, he found he'd been gone thirty years. I never believed such tales, though," he finished, his brows knitting. "I always figured they were metaphors, for how quickly time passes when you're enjoying yourself."
The sprites shook their heads. "No metaphor, I'm afraid," Ellianthe replied. "And yer tale's got the pace about right. For every day passes here, a month goes by in the world outside."
"A month!" Caramon exclaimed, his jaw dropping. "You mean we've been here a whole season?"
"Aye," Trephas replied. "That's why we can't tarry any longer, and must all of us appear before Laird Guithern at once. Otherwise, it won't matter if we recover Soulsplitter. 'Twill be too late to save Darken Wood."
24
Spring passed, and summer came, Darken Wood grew darker still as the leaves thickened upon the trees. In all that time, no word came back to Ithax from Trephas, or the humans who had gone with him.
The centaurs had had high hopes at first. The Circle had dispatched extra scouts to watch for Trephas's return. That had lasted three weeks, to no avail. After that, Arhedion had begged leave to ride to Pallidice's grove, once a week, to seek some sign of the travelers. So he had, for another two months. Stubbornly, he'd refused to stop—until a fortnight ago, on his return from yet another unsuccessful sojourn, when Nemeredes the Elder had met him at Ithax's gates. The sorrow on the old chieftain's face had told the young scout all he needed to know.
"My son is gone," Nemeredes had explained, his voice
hoarse with sorrow. "We'll not see him again, nor the humans. Soulsplitter will not be ours. I know he was thy friend, Arhedion, but thou must let him go."
Arhedion hadn't returned to Pallidice's grove since. There'd been other duties to see to. The troubles in Darken Wood had grown worse. The Skorenoi continued to advance, slaughtering those they couldn't capture and give over to Grimbough. With each attack, they claimed more of the forest, and the daemon tree's corruption spread. Woods the centaurs had hunted for millennia became twisted and foul.
Despite Chrethon's growing power, the horsefolk remained defiant. They fought valiantly, slaying two Skorenoi for every centaur who fell. It wasn't enough, though. There were too many enemies to hold out forever.
There'd been talk of sending another rider out for human aid. Pleuron and Nemeredes had favored the idea, but Eucleia had argued vehemently against it. Menelachos, to his sorrow, had been forced to agree with her, and that had settled the matter. The centaurs of Darken Wood would stand or fall on their own.
Four days ago, less than a week before Midyear Day, Skorenoi raiders had attacked and killed several herdsmen, as well as their flocks and families. This was nothing new, but these herdsmen had lived less than a half-day's ride from Ithax. Outraged, the Circle had sent forth a hundred warriors, led by Zerian, Menelachos's son, to retaliate. They too had vanished, leaving only a few bloodied corpses scattered in the hills, a feast for the crows.
Now Arhedion rode in their stead, leading fifty centaurs toward the enemy's territory—not to fight, like the previous band, but to spy on the enemy. He wondered, as he crept through the woods, if Zerian had been as frightened as he was.
The sun was high, shafts of light lancing through the foliage, when he called a halt by a narrow creek. "Food and wine," he told his party. "We ride again in ten minutes."
Gratefully, the scouts stopped to eat. Arhedion ordered six to keep watch, and sent a pair ahead to make sure no one waited in ambush. Then he unstopped a wine-flask and devoured a handful of olives, spitting their pits into the bushes. He scanned the undergrowth, his scalp prickling.
Dezra's Quest Page 17
