Kerian looked around her with small careful glances, down the length of the oaken bar. For an instant her eyes met that of one of the hunters who had so pointedly moved away from her. From the shadows, he watched ner. wnen their eyes met, he quickly looked away.

Bueren Rose went around the great room, igniting torches set in black iron brackets on the walls. Abuerenalanthaylagaranlindal, her parents had named the barmaid. Rose of Summer’s Passing. She was a pretty girl, linsome and smiling, locks of her rosy gold hair curling around her temples and cheeks. Since childhood, friends called her Bueren Rose, deeming it a far better name. Summer Rose. One of the elves at the bar murmured something to her; his companion reached out and pulled her close. Bueren laughed, leaned in close and whispered something. Startled, he let her go, and she went about her work with a toss of her head and a knowing laugh.

Orange light chased shadows up the walls, and outside the windows night’s darkness fell. The common room seemed to grow smaller.

In Qualinost Gilthas would be sitting at supper now, perhaps with the Queen Mother. Their table would be set with silver plate and golden candlesticks. They would be drinking delicate wines from crystal goblets, a new one for each course. In time, Gilthas would excuse himself and go to his chambers. He would sit hi his library reading some ancient tome. He would take pen in hand, a fresh sheet of creamy white parchment from the stack always ready. All the questions, fears, hopes and challenges of his strange shadowy reign would change into poetry, sere sonnets, dark and sometimes bloody-minded. Were this another time-only the day before!-Gil would busily compose his sonnets until Kerian came slipping through the darkened passes of the secret ways.

Kerian steeled herself against regret and a sudden cold thread of fear. She had made her choice. She had come to find Iydahar, and she would do that She would deal with after, after.

The kind of busy silence that attends those happy at their dining settled upon the tavern until, with a quiet word, the father of the two little girls let his family know the meal was finished. His wife wiped small chins and cheeks and told her children quietly to fold their napkins before they left the table. The father lifted one child from her seat, the mother took the hand of the other. Chattering like little squirrels, the children followed their parents to the staircase then went scampering up. When the father called one word in command, his daughters instantly regained their sense of decorum.

Bueren leaned her elbow on the bar, her chin on her hand. “Well?”

Kerian took a breath, dropped her voice. “Bueren, yesterday on the eastern bridge of Qualinost the Knights piked the heads of thirteen elves. Four were Qualinesti.”

Bueren, herself Qualinesti, paled.

“The rest were Kagonesti. Like me. Word is they are outlaws, that they have been disrupting the roads and the free flow of wagons with supplies to the Knights and tribute to the dragon. Word is, more heads will foul the bridge if things don’t get quiet here on the roads.”

Bueren’s eyes sparked with fear. “Merciful gods.”

“Bueren, did you know-?”

Bueren Rose snorted. “Any one of the outlaws?” She wiped the bar with wide swipes. “Anyone doesn’t stop in here to eat, I don’t know them. Outlaws, I imagine, aren’t much for socializing with village folk. No, but I don’t hold with such …punishment.” She pressed her lips together, considered and then decided. “Have you heard about the strange stories hunters are telling? You’ve been on the road today. Maybe you’ve noticed …what’s happening in the forest.”

“Yes.”

“Yes. Those two down at the end of the bar, they said they have felt something …not right in the forest. It’s a kind of-” She shook her head, at a loss for the right words.

“I know, Bueren. I’ve seen it or … felt it. No, it’s not like that. Thing is, when it happened, I didn’t see. I didn’t feel or hear.” She showed her friend the scraped and bruised flesh of her hands. “I fell-on hard rocks!-and never felt anything, yet look at my hands. While I was in the forest, Bueren, it was as if my senses were drained away. I couldn’t see clearly, or hear, or even smell anything. Whatever it was, it came and went, all of a sudden. It stopped.”

Almost she looked round at the dwarf Stanach to confirm her report.

“Bueren, I thought something had happened to me- that something dark had touched me in the forest. The more I think of it, though, the more I realize that something must be happening to the forest itself.”

Bueren nodded. “People around here have been saying that for some time now. They used to think the Knights were causing it-or at least that Lord Thagol was-but the Knights don’t know any more about it than we do or like it any better. Some people-” she lowered her eyes- “blame the Kagonesti.”

Out the corner of her eye, Kerian saw one of the elf hunters rise and put a coin on the bar.

“Bueren Rose,” he called, “I’ll see you next trip.”

Bueren called good night and wished the hunter luck. “Father’s got a sackful of walnuts for stuffing, so we’ll take all the grouse and pheasant you can bring us, Kaylt”

“Ay, well, it’s the season, so start shelling.” His glance fell on Kerian then slid away. “You take care while I’m gone, Rosie.”

Kaylt and his companion left, a cool breeze ghosting into the tavern before the door shut. Torches flared, the hounds rose to sniff the night, then sidled up to Stanach’s table where the dwarf put down plates for each. Tails wagging, they dropped muzzles to plate and lapped up gravy and hits of venison.

Bueren wiped crumbs from the bar and gathered up the supper plates. She looked past Kerian, to the windows and the darkness outside. “Keri, the Wilder Elves,” she resumed, speaking softly. “We haven’t seen your brother around here in nearly a year. We hardly see any Kagonesti these days. They aren’t welcome in Sliathnost, because the people around here blame what’s going on in the forest on the tribes.”

The tribes. The phrase had a strange and distant sound to it.

Kerian shook her head, frowning. “The Kagonesti? How-”

Outside the tavern, rough voices, one growling, another snarling. A sharp order crackled, then silence. A breath of air on a quickening breeze slipped beneath the door. Kerian smelled horses. Hollow in the belly, suddenly she thought she smelled blood.

At the hearth, the older hound lifted its head. Tail curled tight, hackles high, it looked from Nayla Firethorn to the door. Nayla made sure of her short sword, while her companion spoke sharply to the hound.

A thud boomed through the tavern, the sound of a booted foot slamming into wood. The door flung opened. The hounds never moved, the older growled low.

Three Knights came into the tavern on a chill gust of wind. Behind them tattered leaves and golden bits of straw whirled around the feet of three of Eamutt Thagol’s Knights. Armed, mailed in black, the Knights wore helms and kept the visors down. They drove a prisoner before them, a woman with hands bound in front, ankles hobbled. Her silvery hair hung in her face, matted with sweat and blood, She wore a hunter’s gear, leathers and a shirt of bleached cotton. Cut loosely, meant to lace in the front, the shirt hung on her torn, rent nearly in half. She held the pieces together across her breast with bound hands. Cuts and bruises marred her lovely face, dirt and tears smeared her cheeks. She’ d fought hard before her capture.

In the firelight and shadow, Kerian realized the woman was Kagonesti. Tattoos wound between the bruises and scratches on the sun-browned skin of her neck and throat, the creamier gold of shoulder and breast. The prisoner looked up, her glance skittering around the common room. Her eyes had a haunted, hunted look in them.