with celebration, the braves held their weapons aloft and shouted a mixture of eagle and wolf cries. Kagonos smiled thinly as the cacophony washed over him. Finally the Pathfinder came to a halt, breathing easily as he stood before the great bonfire, letting the heat steam the sweat rrom his skin.
The crowd of House Elves parted, and Kagonos saw Silvanos, with Balif at his side, striding forward to greet him. If the great ruler was surprised to see the Elderwild alive, his face betrayed no hint-instead, the patriarch's expression seemed to be one of genuine pleasure.
'Welcome back, my kinsman,' Silvanos said, before his eyes betrayed a hint of somberness. 'Did you find Darlantan… in time?'
'Aye… though his time is now past.'
'He is a hero unique among our allies-a dragon whom the elves will revere throughout all the coming ages.'
Kagonos had his doubts about that, but he was touched bv Silvanos's apparent sincerity. If Darlantan's name was not remembered by elves two thousand years hence, the Elderwild knew that it would not be because Silvanos himself had forgotten.
'Did Quithas find you?' Balif asked. Kagonos looked for a hint of conspiracy in the diminutive elf's eyes, but he could see only honest curiosity.
'He went to tell you of our council,' Silvanos explained, looking over the Elderwild's shoulder as if he expected Quithas to come trotting through the camp behind.
'He found me, but he said little about your council,' Kagonos replied, watching as Silvanos frowned in puzzlement. 'In truth, he came to kill me-and he nearly succeeded.'
What?' The patriarch was clearly shocked. He squinted at the Elderwild in real suspicion. 'I do not think you would lie to me, but 1 find this difficult to believe.'
I believe,' Balif said softly. 'There was a look in Quithas's eyes when he departed. I thought it was grief over his son-but it seems, now, that it may have been murderous rage.' He hung his head, then looked at Kagonos with genuine regret. 'I'm sorry that I didn't send another to find you. We are all glad that he failed. You can trust that he will be punished.'
Kagonos surprised them by laughing. 'Your general will not be returning-not for punishment or for any other purpose,' he declared, as the great leader stepped forward.
Silvanos sighed, his eyes narrowing. 'Tell me everything that happened.'
'General Quithas is dead. I killed him. His body lies beside the river. His head is somewhere on the plain.'
Growls of outrage rose from the assembled elves. Silvanos grew suddenly pale, his voice tightening.
'I would have questioned him myself, seen justice served. Or has your own hatred made you mad? Do you commit murder, then come here to boast about it?'
'I defended myself-Quithas came to commit murder. He failed.'
'But… why?' The elven statesman seemed honestly puzzled.
'It is proof of the divisions between your clan and mine-we are two peoples, not one!'
'No! There is time to change!' Silvanos disputed. 'I have been speaking to your people of the benefits of life in Silvanesti, of the wonders of our cities. We shall set aside great preserves for you, where game dwells in plenty! You will have no need of your paint and your feathers-you will wear silks and perfume instead!'
'That war paint is our pride-it shows who we are,' Kagonos retorted sharply.
'Your pride can rise to even greater heights with us! You elves, and your great clan-House Servitor-will become as mighty as any of-'
'House Servitor will lead us only to a future of humiliation and slavery! I will not take that road, nor will I lead my people there!' cried Kagonos.
Silvanos's face darkened. 'Will you command them to follow you?' he demanded harshly knowing the Pathfinder had no power to give orders his people must obey.
'I make no commands-but I will lead them from this camp. Those who do not follow me, you are welcome to take back to your cities.'
He remembered more of Darlantan's words-he must show them the way! Then he knew, and he lifted the spi- raled horn from its place at his side.
Kagonos raised the curling trumpet to his lips, eyes blazing as he stared across the upturned faces of his fellow Elderwild. The painted warriors shifted nervously, each dropping his own gaze rather than meet the burning rage of his Pathfinder.
The wild elf lowered the spiral instrument just a few inches, snapping his words in curt, decisive tones.
'I cannot-I will not-command you to follow me. Any Elderwild who chooses to accompany my esteemed kinsman to Silvanesti should do so! Fly to the walls of the cities-fly to the tables and windows and floors that will, for the rest of your days, form the borders of your lives!'
Again he raised the horn, and as he touched it to his mouth music began to flow. Notes rolled into the night with deep and resonant force, a sound unlike any horn ever carved. Indeed, it was more like the mournful, somber chant of some monstrously great creature.
A creature like a dragon.
He blew into the instrument, and the powerful sound rose, sweeping across the stunned Elderwild, washing over the suddenly stilled masses of the House Elves. Could they hear the music? Certainly they saw its effects. Silvanos himself, eyes wide with wonder, took a step forward and reached out a hand, as if he would hold and caress each blissfully poignant note.
The Pathfinder played without conscious thought. He did not know what he did to make the sound-rather, it was a kind of instinct that guided his music. The heart of the song, it seemed, came from the horn itself.
Kagonos paused for breath, and the notes died away, but again he touched his lips to the mouthpiece. As he blew, the sound rose anew, gaining pulse and tempo, surging upward from its minor key into a challenging chorus of a climbing scale. But still it did not make the sound of a horn.
The song had no words, but it painted vivid pictures in the minds of the Elderwild. The first notes created a background of trees, leafy branches rustling in the wind. A waterfall trilled somewhere, with music so cool that spray seemed to wash the skin of all the gathered wild elves.
Then the melody became a wind, singing of open skies, towering mountains, yawning chasms… and always new and wondrous trails. It was a song of endless pathfinding, tracks everywhere, choices unfettered by thoughts of borders, or houses, or cities.
Kagonos felt his skin tingling, as if the music had wrapped him into a cocoon of gentle, yet prickly, warmth. His war paint embraced him, emphasizing that heat like warm wax trickling, not uncomfortably, over his skin. With a sense of wonder, Kagonos lowered the horn and realized that the notes continued to expand, sweeping across the gathering and embracing all the elves-but most especially the Elderwild-in its subtle clasp.
The Pathfinder clasped the instrument as if it were his only anchor in a storm, and as the growing force of sound swept him up, he felt as though strong winds buffeted him, rendering his footing unsteady, his vision cloudy.
Why couldn't he see? Everywhere he turned Kagonos looked upon a bright aura, like a film of fire that sheathed him, screening him from observation. Only gradually did he realize that the flames were real, and that they were surging outward from him-from his skin.
Wonderingly, the Elderwild looked at his bare chest, seeing yellow flames licking higher, bright and lively as they sputtered from him. Still he felt no pain, but instead his sense of wonder seemed to grow. Gradually he understood that it was not his entire skin that burned, but only the places where war paint had been smeared upon his body.
As the flames died, his body rippled under dark, permanent tattoos-stains that perfectly matched the hawk and oak leaf pattern of Kagonos's war paint. His paint had become a part of himself, indelibly burned into his skin- marks that would, for the rest of his life, show him as a member of a different people than the House Elves of Silvanesti.
The flames, Kagonos saw, did not die away entirely. Instead they swirled outward, rising up in a great archway before the awestruck faces of his people.
Barcalla was the first to advance. The warrior held his head high and stepped through the archway. Immediately the paint on his dusky skin flared into life, the flames singing upward like the highest notes of the
