So saying, Necalama strode down the trail. Raidon tensed, waiting for the half-elf to disappear in a flash of smoke or in a sparkle of strange lights.

Necalama passed the invisible line between the two standing stones. And nothing; Necalama walked unconcernedly forward, the scones behind him. The guide remained stubbornly, fully visible. After he moved ten or so feet, he paused and gazed back. "Coming?" he asked, amusement curling his lips.

"It did not work?" inquired the monk.

"Something happened," said Adrik, one hand held forward, palm out. "I sense a discharge of magic, even now."

"Come along—follow me between the stones."

Adrik and Raidon exchanged glances and followed.

Passing through the stones failed to disturb Raidon's equilibrium in the least. He sensed no change in the environment as he walked. The faint trail ahead remained steady, and looking back, he could still see the route they had traveled prior to passing between the stones, without any discontinuity.

The monk decided their guide was having a little fun at their expense. Weren't elves known for such foolishness?

Which meant they still had a few days of travel ahead of them, if their goal was on the western side of the Yuirwood as Necalama earlier indicated. Adrik was mumbling about probability and sliding four-space projections; in other words, gibberish.

Ahead, the trail broadened into a real, easily discernible path, almost a road. They passed through a copse of rustling aspens. A breath of sweet air moved through the murmuring aspen leaves, refreshing Raidon's mind and body with an insubstantial touch.

When they emerged from the tiny grove, they found themselves walking down a sun-dappled, leaf-strewn street in a half-elven forest enclave.

"Welcome to Relkath's Foot!" proclaimed Necalama, his arm sweeping across the panorama.

*   *   *   *   *

Four majestic conifers towered hundreds of feet from their broad bases, thrusting high above the forest canopy. These four splendid specimens, old beyond the years of humans, were the heart of Relkath's Foot. From this central landmark radiated hundreds of elevated wooden platforms resting in the boughs of the surrounding forest, strung together by a network of leaf-twined ropes and suspension bridges built of hardy pine. Green-clad half-elves, made tiny by their height above the forest floor, moved here and there across them, intent on personal tasks.

Elaborately carved and adorned platforms hung in the four largest trees—amazing structures of living wood that served as floors, walls, and lofty ceilings. Leafy doors studded these tree homes, and everblooming flowers grew around all. Warm lamplight flickered from the many open-air windows.

Though the air was wintry and Raidon's breath steamed, the layer of snow covering the ground in eastern Aglarond was absent.

Necalama pointed at the top of the tallest of the four conifers, at the largest and most impressive structure. "The Royal Hall," he said. "Princess Blindelsyn Olossyne resides there. The only thing higher near here is an aerie of song dragons allied with the city."

"Can we go up there?" exclaimed the sorcerer.

Their guide looked doubtful. He said, "Outsiders are rarely permitted in the boughs. But travelers are welcome in the merchants' square, which includes a pair of inns."

The elf gestured toward dozens of quaint wooden structures built around a massively wide square on the ground bracketed by the four towering trees. Dozens of figures, mostly elves and half-elves, milled through the area. Raidon recognized some humans, a few halflings, and even a dwarf. The scents of grilled food and the tinkle of music washed across them.

The mouth-watering aromas enticed the monk, but. . .

"I have questions," Raidon said, turning to face their half-elf guide, "about my mother. Where can I ask—who should I ask?" When Raidon had shown Necalama his mother's forget-me-not during their trip, the elf failed to recognize it, though he said someone in Relkath's Foot was sure to know the meaning of the smoothly regular tree symbol.

"Inns are good places for questions and, as I said, we have two," replied Necalama. "The Green Man"—the elf pointed to an ordinary wooden house on the north side of the square—"and the Taproot"—he pointed at a lower building that sprawled back into the undergrowth—"are both fine places. Outsiders are more common at the Taproot, which boasts a first-class alehouse and private rooms. The Green Man has only a single common room in which visitors can bed down. The locals prefer it."

Adrik enthused, "Alehouse! I say—"

"Best we try the Green Man, then," said Raidon. "The locals are more likely to be able to help me."

The sorcerer frowned and nodded.

Necalama said, "You'll find that its spirits are just as fine as the Taproot, Adrik. In fact, if you don't mind my suggestion, ask for a glass of rootweal wine—you'll never find better."

"I will!"

They bid their guide good-bye. At the last, Raidon convinced the half-elf to take a couple gold coins for his aid. Then they made directly for the Green Man. The savory smells intensified with every step.

Perhaps a little food before questions wouldn't hurt.

The Green Man's common room shimmered with tiny gleaming lanterns that hung as if strung from a garland along the rafters and walls, then twined down the living wooden supports. The light picked out long-legged figures attired in golds, greens, and browns. Most held long-stemmed goblets in one or both hands, others held instruments, and at least a few grasped graven pipes from which fragrant smoke emerged.

A forest beast turned on a spit in the fire; it was the source of the mouth-watering odor. A woman, a half-elf no doubt, stood in the center of the common room, surrounded on three sides by a sturdy bar of living wood. Dozens of long-stemmed goblets hung bowl-down above her. She smiled a welcome at Raidon when he entered. Adrik received a puzzled nod. "Is he with you?" she called to Raidon.

The monk blinked, nodded. Again he was struck with surprise—to the residents of Relkath's Foot, he was of elf blood. Of course, he was a half-elf; his heritage was twined with the blood of his mother. But growing up in Telflamm, he considered himself to be Shou first and last, nothing else.

"Then welcome to the Green Man, travelers," said the barkeep, her smile returned. "What is your pleasure?"

They crossed the room to stand before the bar.

"We'd like to try the rootweal?" said Adrik, his voice uncertain as he looked around the room. He was the only human in the Green Man's common room.

"You have heard about our specialty, I see. Are you sure you are up to it? The draught is potent. For one not of. . . someone not used to it."

The sorcerer ducked his head and said, "If it's all right, I'd like to try it."

"Of course! And the same for you, traveler?" She looked at Raidon.

"None for me—please, could you prepare a pot of tea?" he responded.

The woman cocked her head and a few nearby patrons glanced quizzically at Raidon.

"I am most sorry, but we do not serve 'T' in the Green Man. I have a few wines, including the rootweal of which you speak. I can offer you a pipe, packed with any of a variety of leaf harvested and dried with an eye toward quality. We also have boiled mushrooms, a multitude of fresh berries, baked biscuits, and roasted venison."

"Venison sounds perfect, with a few mushrooms? And, very well, I would like to try the wine, too. Rootweal."

"You shall find none better, traveler."

In short order, Raidon and Adrik sat opposite each other at a high table. Steaming platters were set before them, heaped with all manner of food, hardly any of which Raidon recognized. But it was all delicious.