“Thank you; I’ll be down to eat shortly,” Kestrel said as he shut the door, then sat down on his bedding, still trying to comprehend all that had happened.
The sprite returned, once again popping into the room in a previously empty space in front of Kestrel.
“I’m sorry I almost killed you,” she said, standing warily just outside Kestrel’s reach.
“You didn’t almost kill me, but you tried,” Kestrel replied.
The blue figure squinted at Kestrel for a moment as though she were about to argue, then seemed to remind herself of some other priority she had to attend to. “My father says that I have to apologize, and I owe you a great favor for having saved my life at the spring with the wolf.
“You don’t owe me a favor,” Kestrel replied. “You would have helped me if you had seen the wolf attack me.”
“No I wouldn’t,” the sprite answered hastily. “I never help your race unless I have to, and now I have to.”
“I don’t need any help,” Kestrel told her, not pleased with the sprite’s attitude. “You can go your way and we’ll say everything is even.”
“No, we won’t. My father is the king of the sprites, and he said I have an obligation I must fulfill. I am obliged to help you. So I am going to tell you a secret word you can use to call me when you need help, and I will come to your aid.”
“What’s the point? You’re only doing this because you’re told to; it’s not coming from your heart because you feel gratitude for my help,” Kestrel answered.
“My name is Dewberry. When you need me, call me with your voice and your heart and mind all together,” the sprite instructed in a no-nonsense manner. “You can do this three times, and I will come to your aid three times. After that I am free; my duty to you is met, and I’ll not respond to your requests any longer.”
“It’s a pretty name. My name is Kestrel,” the elf told the sprite.
“That doesn’t matter to me. Just remember to use your heart, your mind and your voice all together to call me when you need me. Now I’m done here,” she answered.
“Wait!” Kestrel called hurriedly. “Before you go, tell me why you were standing at the spring when the wolf caught you.”
“I had a rash on my arm,” the sprite hesitated. “And I thought the water would cure it. But I knew the water at that spring makes members of my race fall asleep, and I didn’t know what to do. We all know about that spring; it not only heals, but it gives us wonderful dreams, an exhilarating sensation, one of the best things a sprite can feel.
“Not that it’s really any of your business,” she added, then disappeared from the room.
Kestrel sat down on his bed, and felt his head spinning as he tried to reconcile Dewberry’s outward beauty with the very ungracious personality she had displayed. It seemed a contradiction to Kestrel, and a sad one at that. Cheryl was not as pretty as Dewberry, but was so much nicer that she was far preferable, he concluded as his mind wandered until he decided he was hungry enough to go to the public room and take advantage of the innkeeper’s offer.
His meal that night was quiet, as he sat alone at one end of a table in the half-empty public room and ate the unmemorable food. He spent a quiet night in his small inn room, and left early in the morning, determined to travel as far and as fast as possible on the third day of his messenger duty.
That day was uneventful. Only a brief rain shower in the late afternoon broke the monotony of the long trail Kestrel ran through the forest. After the rain, the trail grew wider, and traffic grew heavier, indications that Kestrel was approaching his goal, confirmation of which came two hours before sunset when he entered the teeming metropolis of Center Trunk, the largest city of the elves of the Eastern Forest, thought to be the largest elven city of all.
The blue ribbon on his message tube provided the means for Kestrel to learn where he needed to end his journey. A policeman on patrol responded to Kestrel’s request for directions; one look at the blue ribbon and he described the landmarks Kestrel should look for on his way to the headquarters building of the guard services.
Lamps and candles were being lit when Kestrel passed through the guarded gate and asked for directions to see Colonel Silvan. He found his way inside the gated military enclave inside the city, and along a short route of internal roads and passages to a narrow, tall building, where he entered and walked past a woman on the first floor to find and climb the stairs that led to a third floor office with a guard posted at the door.
“I’m here to see Colonel Silvan,” Kestrel reported to the guard, an elf who appeared to be a spit-and-polish model of what every soldier should be; he felt suddenly nervous about his role as a messenger for the first time.
“Where from?” the guard asked, nodding towards the ribbon-sealed tube.
“Elmberg,” Kestrel answered promptly. “Commander Mastrin sent me.”
The guard held his hand out for the tube. “I was told to deliver this directly to Colonel Silvan myself,” Kestrel protested.
“I understand,” the guard spoke, for the first time giving a hint of some personality, as he acknowledged his recognition that he was putting Kestrel in a quandary. “Handing the message to me is as good as giving it to Silvan. I won’t open it personally, but the Colonel will want to read it before he interviews you.”
Kestrel weighed the aspects of the situation, and concluded that he had no choice but to turn his small piece of cargo over to the doorkeeper.
“Remain here,” the guard spoke as soon as he held the tube, in a careless tone that nonetheless indicated that he would tolerate no disobedience from Kestrel. He opened the door behind him and slipped into the room, so that Kestrel stood alone in the short hallway on the third floor.
He felt as though he waited an interminable time. He passed through nervousness, restlessness, then boredom, before he was startled by the sudden opening of the door and the return of the guard. Kestrel watched expectantly as the guard pulled the door closed behind him, then resumed standing at attention once again, without any acknowledgement of Kestrel’s presence.
After a moment of expectancy, and then confusion, Kestrel decided to ask what to do.
“You remain here and wait,” the guard answered without deigning to direct his eyes toward Kestrel. A servant came along the hall silently lighting candles mounted in scones on the wall, then passed from view when his duty was complete.
Resigned, as well as frustrated and angry, Kestrel continued to stand in his spot in the darkening hallway for nearly another hour, until a door a few feet away opened suddenly, and a kindly, grandfatherly appearing elf, one who had more hair growing out of his ears than on the top of his head, glanced down the hallway. “Come in here Kestrel,” he said, then disappeared, leaving Kestrel with the impression that the man had hardly looked at him at all.
Kestrel looked at the motionless guard, but received no hint of direction. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and stepped over to the open door, then entered the room behind it. The room was even darker than the hallway, with only two dim candles in hurricane glasses set on a desk, where the old man already sat, patiently watching Kestrel as he examined the room. “Take a seat here,” the man gestured to a chair in front of the desk, then picked up a roll of paper, and smoothed it out flat, laying in on the desktop and placing small weights on the four corners to hold the paper flat.
The rolled character of the paper told Kestrel it was the contents of his message tube, the cylinder that had brought him to Center Trunk, through his unlikely adventures along the course of the journey.
Kestrel was seated, and his eyes looked up from the paper to the officer, who was studying him closely, he realized.
“My apologies for asking you to wait for so long,” the officer said, though Kestrel wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for making him wait, or for making him wait for such a long time. “I’ve read the extraordinary report you’ve brought. It’s an interesting and disturbing story that your commander tells. I’d like to hear your version of it, if you’ll be so kind,” the grandfather spoke in a gentle voice; Kestrel appreciated the kind way in which the order was given, and he wanted to cooperate.
“Are you Colonel Silvan?” Kestrel asked, just to confirm the identity of the man he was with.
“I am Colonel Silvan,” the officer agreed. “I’m disturbed by this report of coordinated attacks by Hydrotaz’s forces, using a feint to try to distract us from the fire that was set. The report indicates that you were the guard
