'Wait, that's not fair. What do I do? Where do I go? How do I protect the Maerchwood?'
'Do what you think is right,' Fineghal replied. 'Your heart will not lead you astray.' He suddenly laughed in delight. 'There is one more thing I must do.' Fineghal spoke a string of liquid syllables, an elven tongue so ancient that Aeron could barely understand it, and passed his hand over his chest. As he extended his arm toward Aeron and unfurled his palm, a tiny dancing flame appeared, a jewel-like point of light that stole Aeron's breath. Fineghal pressed the flickering light to Aeron's shoulder. 'May you hold this honor with courage, compassion, and wisdom.'
Aeron shivered as an electric sensation ran through his body. He sat back, blinking at his chest, but there was no light to be seen. His skin tingled beneath his shirt, and he pushed his shirt aside to see what was there. A strange mark in the shape of a lightning stroke marked his right shoulder, just under his collarbone. 'What is this, Fineghal?'
'It's the mark of the Storm Walker, Aeron. I've carried it for centuries. Now I pass it to you.' The elf's features seemed youthful, illuminated by some light from within. The elf released him and rose, seeming to shimmer before him. 'Turn your sight inward for a moment, Aeron. You'll understand what I have just given you.'
Aeron looked down, his face taut with concentration as he tried to describe to himself the strange sensations that electrified him. He had to grasp the earth with both hands to keep from falling. He felt the land as if it were an extension of his own body. The weathered gray hills were his bones, the rich earth and magnificent groves his flesh, and the running waters his blood. All the countless animals and birds and fish that lived within the forest's borders burned like brilliant myriad points of light and life, bathing him in a boundless sea. He rose to his feet, feeling the faint stirrings of warmth and dawn in the east, sensing the rustling motion of the animals of the night seeking their lairs, the restless sleep of other creatures anticipating the new day.
A slight motion by his side disturbed him, and he opened his eyes as Fineghal stood. 'One more thing, Aeron. I leave Baillegh in your care as well. You'll find that a hound can be a wizard's best friend.' The silver wolfhound gazed up at Fineghal with her dark, intelligent eyes, and then trotted across the clearing to Aeron's side.
'You're not going right now!' Aeron exclaimed. 'There's so much you have to teach me about this. And what about all your belongings in the Storm Tower?'
Fineghal tapped his chest. 'Everything I need I have here. As for the gift, it's best that you learn for yourself.' He drew a deep breath and clasped Aeron's hand. 'It's a fine morning for a parting. Good-bye, Aeron. You will do well.' He turned quickly and bounded down the path, vanishing into the woods.
Fourteen
For the rest of the summer, Aeron tried to convince himself that Fineghal was not really gone, that the elf had simply entrusted him with the guardianship of the wood for a short time. But his preternatural perception of the forest and its countless webs of living and elemental energy did not fade, and in fact grew stronger as the weeks passed. By closing his eyes and conjuring the image of a place he knew within the forest, Aeron could see what transpired there, hear the sounds, smell the air, taste the waters.
Fineghal's gift immersed him in a world that had existed beyond his senses, and for the first time, Aeron began to understand what had kept the elven mage at his watch for years beyond number. He understood that he saw the forest differently than Fineghal had; the undercurrents of shadow and horror existed here, too, and he could not open himself to the forest's life without seeing also its rot and decay. But the Maerchwood was a beautiful place, and the dark threads only served to remind Aeron of his responsibility to it.
As the first cool winds of autumn shifted and began to sigh out of the north, Aeron returned to the Storm Tower and found that only a few of Fineghal's personal effects were gone. The elf had left a great storehouse of lore and magic to Aeron, including a slender staff marked with the liquid writing of the elves. Around the lustrous wood was wound a small sliver of paper that read: Aeron-I enchanted this staff long ago to serve the next Storm Walker. May you never have need of its powers.
Aeron lifted the weapon. It hummed in his hands, seeming to recognize him. He glanced at the runes marked along its length; a dozen potent spells were woven into the staff, ready to respond to his demand. 'I'll wield it well,' he promised the empty tower. Then, setting it aside for the time, he continued his examination of the Caerhuan. He discovered that Fineghal had even set the tower's magical defenses to recognize Aeron as its master.
One morning, soon after Aeron and Baillegh had finished exploring the last recesses of the Caerhuan, Aeron woke from his sleep with a strong sense of something amiss. He couldn't put his finger on it, not at first, and worked through the morning, Baillegh drowsing at his feet, while his sense of unease grew stronger.
Finally Aeron was jarred from his work by Baillegh's nose battering his knee. He looked down and saw the silver hound gazing up at him expectantly. 'So you feel it, too?' he asked.
The hound barked once in reply. 'I know,' Aeron replied. He shut the book in front of him, trotted down the circling stairs and out into the warm autumn afternoon. The trees were arrayed in a thousand shades of red and gold, and he grimaced at the thought that he'd wasted the day indoors. He turned in a slow circle, letting his mind scroll through the countless trails, clearings, and glens of the forest.
There! Along the forest's northern borders, Aeron sensed fear in the forest. He could taste the scent of iron- shod men, horses hobbled in a clearing, smoking meat over campfires. Fineghal had never felt it necessary to drive off all human incursions into the Maerchwood; hunters, trappers, even loggers were welcome so long as they reaped the forest's bounty with respect and moderation. Aeron was inclined to agree. But there were a number of humans in the Maerchwood this day, and whether they meant to or not, they were hunting a large region into desolation.
'What am I supposed to do?' he wondered aloud. Fineghal had said that he wouldn't go wrong to follow his heart, but Aeron didn't know exactly what that meant.
Baillegh barked from the tower's gate. She had carried Aeron's pack to the door and held it in her mouth, watching him. He shook his head. 'You're right. I won't do anything standing here. Let's go.'
They set off toward the north and east, following Aeron's uncanny intuition. By nightfall, they had covered more than thirty miles. Aeron and Baillegh both rested for a few hours in the darkest hours of the night. They could have pressed on, since neither needed much light to see by, but it seemed wise to make sure he didn't show up on the intruders' doorstep staggering with fatigue. Aeron ate a light breakfast of waybread and dried apples, and resumed his journey an hour before first light. Two hours after noon, Aeron slowed his pace to a walk and kept his eyes open for signs of the intrusion he'd sensed.
He found the camp within an hour. A dozen pavilions were spread out in a wide forest glade, with servants moving about, engaged in a variety of chores. On one side, a crude timber frame held the carcasses of dozens of deer, five or six bears, and hundreds of smaller creatures. A hunting party, Aeron realized. He halted in the shadows of the trees, considering his options. He begrudged no man the right to hunt in the forest, but the nobles of King Gereax claimed the Maerchwood as their own, from the northernmost edge of the forest all the way to the borderlands of Unther. From time to time, Raedel or one of his peers would invite his fellows to visit for a few weeks and hunt to their heart's content. It was the waste that angered Aeron; they'd eat only one out of ten animals they cut down. 'What would Fineghal do now?' he asked Baillegh in a whisper.
The hound growled softly, showing her teeth.
'I know. They've been here too long. We need to make them shift their camp and reduce their take. Now, how can I do that?' Aeron thought for a time. As he thought about it, he realized that he wanted the people nearby to know that the forest was watched, that someone would hold them accountable for their actions. The myth of the Storm Walker needed reinforcement from time to time, and today was as good a day as any.
A little before sunset, the noble hunting party returned. Phoros Raedel led the way, beaming with pride, Regos following behind. Six or seven high lords whom Aeron did not recognize laughed and jested coarsely as they rode back into camp, guests of the Count of Maerchlin. Nearly two dozen drivers, trackers, and porters followed, burdened with the day's game. Aeron waited for more than an hour, judging his moment; when the nobles were deep into their cups, he wove the charm of invisibility around himself and crossed the camp, slipping unseen into their pavilion.
Phoros Raedel sat at the head of a stout table, a flagon of wine in his hand as he recounted the day's hunting to a pretty blonde-haired girl. Aeron quietly sealed the door to ensure that he would not be disturbed, leaving a
