2
BOSKYDELLS
LATE AUTUMN, 5E1010
[THE FINAL YEAR OF THE FIFTH ERA]
It was a blustery day in the Boskydells, with the wind swaying the lofty pines to and fro and the tall grass in the adjoining field rolling in undulant golden waves. An eld buccan stood back from the edge of the woods, his cloak whipping in the air. Behind him sat a stripling in chains, his wrists shackled, his legs in irons. But the elder paid no heed to the youngster on the ground; nor did the chain-wrapped stripling seem concerned over his own fate. Instead both Warrows looked up high at a rope spanning the gap between two of the swinging pines, the line alternately looping slack and then snapping taut.
Between clenched teeth, the black-haired youngster gritted, “Come on, Pip, come on. You can do it.” Yet the worried look on his face said otherwise.
The eld buccan stood stock-still and muttered under his breath, “Wait for it, bucco. Wait for it.”
And the trees swayed upright, the rope drawing tight, and in that moment, from the pine on the right, a fair-haired stripling ran out on the line. Across the space he dashed, but just ere reaching the far end, a misplaced foot gave him pause, and he teetered precariously, and in that same moment a gust caught the Warrow and the trees. Even as the buccan fell, the rope drooped and swung away. Wildly he grabbed for the line, but missed. And he plummeted down and down, to land in the net far below.
“Rats!” spat the chain-wrapped Warrow. He sighed and, with a lock pick, began probing the innards of his left-foot shackle.
The oldster trudged across the space and to the net, to find the fair-haired buccan lying on his back and looking at the swaying rope above.
“Well, lad?”
“I would have made it, Uncle Arley, but for a stupid wrong step.”
“You would have, at that.”
The youngster turned over and made his way to the brink of the net, where he grabbed the edge and somersaulted over to land on his feet on the ground.
“It’s no easy task, Pipper,” said the eld buccan. “But it’s one to be mastered, for there might come a day when you’ll have no net whatsoever.”
Pipper nodded and sighed and said, “I’ll give it another go.”
Uncle Arley grunted his assent.
“How’s Bink doing?” asked Pipper.
“I dunno,” said Arley, looking back toward the chain-wrapped stripling. “He hadn’t even started until after you fell.-Binkton worries about you, you know.”
“I know. But it’s Bink I worry about. I mean, that thing with the chains and the knives and the breaking links. . well, it just gives me the blue willies.”
Arley smiled, and then turned and started toward Binkton, as Pipper trotted to the right-hand pine and began climbing.
With the smile yet on his face, Uncle Arley slowly walked toward where Binkton sat. Though they had much left to learn, the lads-Pipper, now at fourteen summers, and Binkton, three moons older-were making good strides toward the professions Arley would have them master. Not that he hoped they would follow in his own footsteps; oh, no, that would be too perilous. Yet they were deft, and skill would come, for both had quick hands, especially Binkton, and they were very agile, especially Pipper. And they were exceptionally good with sling and bow and arrow. Why, just last year they had tried to join the Company of the King, and perhaps would have run away to do so, but for the blizzard.
As Arley came upon Binkton, that stripling had managed to get his feet freed, and now he was working on the shackle at his left wrist. Perhaps within a year or two, Binkton would be quit of all locks and chains in but a heartbeat or three; even so, and at this time, he was quite skilled for one of his young years.
Arley nodded at the dark-haired buccan, then turned and looked toward the tall swaying pines again, with the rope strung between.
3
ARDEN VALE
MID SUMMER TO MID AUTUMN, 5E1010
[THE FINAL YEAR OF THE FIFTH ERA]
Three months after the end of the Dragonstone War, and four days after returning to the Elvenholt of Arden Vale, a young giant of a man-a tall, gangly youth, some six-feet-ten in height-took it upon himself to confront yet another god. The young man’s name was Bair, son of an Elf and a Baeran-Riatha and Urus their names. Bair was no ordinary being, for he was the Impossible Child, the Dawn Rider, the Rider of the Planes. And just like his father, Bair was a shapeshifter, but into a Draega-a Silver Wolf-rather than into a Bear.
Though he was yet a youth, the lad had a storied past, for he and the Elf named Aravan had recovered the long-missing, legendary Silver Sword from the bowels of the Black Fortress at the Nexus on Neddra. Together they had used the weapon to save not only Mithgar, but all of creation as well; to do so they had slain the god Gyphon with that very same sword.
Bair arose from bed in the middle of the night and made ready to go on the mission he had set for himself, and as he stepped from his chamber the aroma of freshly brewed tea was on the air, and from the shadows Riatha said, “Wouldst thou have a cup with me?” She brushed her golden hair from eyes such a pale grey they seemed almost silver, and looked up at her son. At a slender five-feet-six she was tiny by comparison.
Bair nodded and sat, and she poured. As the lad took up the earthenware mug, Riatha said, “Thou art dressed as if to hie on a journey, and I deem I have seen in thine eyes a lingering from the war.”
Bair nodded. “Ythir, the mission I took up with Aravan is not yet fulfilled. There is still that which must be done, perhaps as important-or even more so-than that which we have done so far.”
Riatha raised an eyebrow, and Bair plunged on. “I need to speak with Adon Himself.”
Now Riatha’s silver eyes flew wide. “Speak with-”
“Adon, Ythir. Adon.”
Riatha took a deep breath and then slowly exhaled, and she calmly asked, “About. .?”
“About Durlok’s staff and Krystallopyr and the Dragonstone. About prophecies and auguries and redes. About a stone ring and an amulet of warding and a falcon crystal. About tokens of power fashioned long past with destinies set to come to fruition in these days. About a debate long ago concerning free choice versus control. And about what Redclaw said to Dalavar concerning Adon, the Drake naming Him Adon Plane-Sunderer, Adon Meddler, Adon Falsetongue. For all those things I have named and more do I need to speak to Him.”
Riatha turned up both hands. “But why?”
“To take Him to task.”
Riatha leapt to her feet. “What?”
“To take Him to task,” repeated Bair. “Oh, don’t you see, Ythir? Redclaw was right, but only partly so.” Bair threw out a hand to forestall Riatha’s objections. “Hear me out, Ythir: no matter Adon’s intentions, the full of the
