married to Queen Vivian, who had died despite Je'howith's efforts to save her. And those efforts-or at least, the lack of their effectiveness-had in effect split the court of Ursal for many years and were the source of the lingering hatred between Je'howith and Duke Kalas.
Je'howith prompdy bowed and turned to leave.
And King Danube Brock Ursal, who had been happily celebrating what he thought would be a return to normalcy, found himself full of questions and turmoil. The delaying tactic sounded most promising, both for sparing Constance the pain and for placating Midalis, who had never really been close to his brother, the King, but had never been his rival either.
Yes, the Denial of Privilege seemed a promising course; and, in truth, when he looked at things that way, this all didn't seem like such a momentous problem.
However, there was one other complicating factor, an image of another woman, a warrior, a gemstone witch. It was an image King Danube could not shake out of his head.
Chapter 11
He had a feeling, as he flitted from tree to tree, of true warmth and friendship, a feeling not unlike that he experienced whenever he returned home to Andur'Blough Inninness after one of his forays into the realm of the humans. For Juraviel, the Timberiands region around Dundalis, Weedy Meadow, and End-o'-the-World-the former haunt of Nightbird, the home of both the ranger and Jilseponie-had the same smell and feel as the elven valley. How curious that notion struck the elf now as he moved along the forested hills and valleys, how surprising. Juraviel was Touel'alfar, of the people. That fact was the primary truth in his long life, the binding code of responsibility and of a specific and shared understanding of all the world and its varied inhabitants. In Juraviel's thoughts, in the thoughts of every Touel'alfar, even the least of friends among his own people-the other elf with whom he could not agree on anything, the elf he found most unpleasant-ranked far above the best of friends he might make among n'Touel'alfar, the folk not of the people. Juraviel did not question that tenet of his existence-never before and not now-but his feeling warmth as he neared the small human settlement of Dundalis, his feeling almost as if he were going home surprised him.
Perhaps, had he looked more deeply into himself, Belli'mar Juraviel would have noted then that his lines of ingrained reasoning were not in accord with the feelings within his heart.
The elf paused in his travels late one afternoon, finding a high branch of a wide maple where he could settle for a short rest. Soon he was comfortably asleep.
And then, soon after, he awoke to a haunting melody drifting on the evening breeze, echoing through the forest as if every tree were taking it inside in a deep and lingering breath and then blowing it out again for the rest of the forest to share, but altered, only slightly, by the heart of its last host tree. 'The Forest Ghost,' Juraviel whispered, and he smiled as he heard the name aloud, the name the humans of Elbryan's first home had bestowed upon the centaur, Brad-warden, and his bagpipes. How many times had young Elbryan and Jilseponie heard that tune? Juraviel wondered. How many times had it been just below their level of consciousness as they drifted off to sleep in their little beds?
And though even Bradwarden was considered n'Touel'alfar by his somewhat xenophobic people, Juraviel could not deny the comfort he derived from hearing the centaur's song, akin to the comfort he felt from just being in this region once more.
He followed the song slowly and whimsically, pausing to listen or to dance, whenever he found a clearing in the forest canopy that afforded him a beautiful view of the starlit heavens. He knew that the night was young and that Bradwarden often played until very, very late, so he meandered and he wandered. And finally he saw them, the centaur standing atop a bare-topped hillock, his pipes under one arm. Bradwarden was not as wide as other horses Juraviel had seen-certainly not as massive as mighty Symphony-but it seemed to the elf as if his centaur friend were ten feet tall, a gigantic and powerful creature. That such an obvious warrior could play such beautiful melodies struck Juraviel profoundly, the light and dark of Bradwarden's soul, at once ferocious and tender.
Reclining on the grass beside the centaur lay Roger Lockless. It occurred to Juraviel then that the young man, with his slightly angular features and delicate size-the result of a disease that had taken both his parentsseemed as much akin to the elves as to the humans. Not in temperament, though, Juraviel reminded himself. Roger had learned much in the trials of the last couple of years, had grown tremendously from the self-centered boy Juraviel and Nightbird had helped escape from the clutches of a vicious powrie band that had been occupying Caer Tinella. But as far as Juraviel and all the elves were concerned, he still had far, far to go even to approach the level of understanding and reasoning of Jilseponie. And from there, Roger would have far to go to begin to see the truth of the world as Bradwarden or Nightbird could see it; and even those two, despite everything, could never climb beyond the limitations of their kind, could never be anything but n'Touel'alfar.
Juraviel did like Roger, though, had tolerated him even when he was younger and more foolish, and had worked with him well during the last days of the war against Markwart.
'I cannot wait to see her again,' he heard Roger say; and he knew from the expression on the man's face that Roger was surely talking about Jilseponie. Was it possible, then, that the woman hadn't even yet come north, and that Roger, perhaps, still possessed the gemstones?
Bradwarden paused. 'Ah, but she's takin' her time about it,' he said. 'It's not but a week o' ridin' for one lookin' to get here from Palmaris.'
'She's got friends in Caer Tinella,' Roger reminded him. 'And she's got good weather and a road clear o' monsters,' the centaur added. 'Aye, that's it. Our Pony's not used to walkin' a road clear o' monsters. Got her all confused.'
They shared a lighthearted laugh, and not out of any nervousness, tor neither seemed the least bit afraid for the well-being of their dear, and ultimately capable, friend.
Juraviel moved stealthily up the hill, a whisper of wind, a roaming shadow. 'Perhaps Jilseponie left the road in search of sport,' he said. Both his friends jumped in surprise, Bradwarden tossing down his pipes and grabbing up an axe that likely outweighed Juraviel, Roger turning several evasive rolls to the side.
They both settled quickly, and Bradwarden roared out a great cheer, obviously recognizing the elf's voice, even as Roger cautiously called out, 'Juraviel?'
The elf stepped out into the clear. 'Too long has it been since I have heard the piping of the Forest Ghost,' he said. Bradwarden tossed his axe back over his shoulder and skipped down to hoist Juraviel in a great hug.
'And too long since I have heard the complaints of Roger Lockless!' Juraviel added in jest as Bradwarden put him down so that Roger could embrace him.
'And too long since we've seen yerself, elf,' the centaur replied. 'But I thought ye was for yer home.'
'And so I have been in the valley for all these months,' Juraviel replied, 'and would be still, had not Lady Dasslerond bidden me to return here for-' He paused and waved his hands. 'Ah, but that is business that we two, Bradwarden, must discuss later. Nothing so serious that it cannot wait until old friends have had time to share news.'
Both Bradwarden and Roger seemed concerned for a moment, until Juraviel's smile melted away any anxieties. 'Not much for tellin',' the centaur began. 'All three towns are up and full o' folk again.'
'Goblins in the area?' Juraviel asked.
'No sign of goblins, powries, or giants,' Roger was quick to reply. 'We have kept vigilant scouting parties all about the region, and all has been quiet and peaceful.'
'We're thinkin' that there's more than a few o' the beasts farther to the north,' Bradwarden added. 'But we're thinkin', too, that none o' them got the belly for comin' south again.'
Juraviel nodded, for it seemed logical enough. These two and Elbryan, along with a contingent of Kingsmen and some renegade monks, had gone all the way back to the Barbacan, after all, hundreds of miles through the Wilderlands, with hardly a sign of the monsters. And Juraviel's own trail had led him in from the Wilderlands to the west, again with no sign of any monsters, except of course in the Moorlands, which had always been thick with goblins. Those goblins, until the coming of the dactyl, had never been a threat to anybody except for those foolish
