Loric laughed and looked at the wee buccan. "Ah, my friend, thou hast come upon a truth of Elvenkind, for indeed we would become weary of such constant duty throughout thousands of seasons, no matter the task. Whether Lian or Dylvana, none remain long at one calling-be it one summer or five hundred; eventually we change what we do, taking up other duties, other callings, other crafts."

"Five hundred summers? Five hundred years?"

Loric nodded but added, "We take note of the seasons more than we count the years."

Beau looked at Tipperton and in a hushed voice said, "Cor."

Tipperton slowly let out a breath. "But what about your kings and such-do they also take up other tasks?"

"Aye," replied Loric. "Though what you name king we call Coron. Alor Vanidar was Coron when the first Eld Tree seedlings were brought from Adonar and planted in the river-laden land which became Darda Galion. Yet his interest was drawn elsewhere and he gave Coronship of the realm over to another-Elmaron, I believe."

"Vanidor was Coron?"

Loric shook his head. "Nay, not Alor Vanidor but Alor Vanidar instead."

"Vanidor, Vanidar: they sound rather like one another if you ask me," said Tip, Beau nodding his agreement.

"Not to the Elven ear," replied Loric. "Vanidar means Silverleaf in Common, and Vanidor, Silverbranch."

"Oh," said Tip.

Loric leaned forward, ticking words off on fingers. "Dor, dar, da: branch, leaf, tree." He gestured about at the forest. "Darda literally translates as leaf-tree, though it is the word in Sylva meaning forest."

Beau's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, I see. Like Darda Galion, it means Galion Forest, eh?"

"Darda Galion, Darda Erynian, Darda Vrka, exactly so. There is but one forest we name not Darda, and that is the Skog far to the east… an ancient wood, said to be the eldest in all of Mithgar."

"Skog, eh?"

Loric nodded, and silence fell upon the trio.

"So," said Tipperton after a while, "you haven't been at march-ward all of the days 'tween the Felling of the Nine and the capture of the twain, eh?"

Beau looked at Tip. "Capture of the twain? -Oh, you mean when they captured us."

Tip grinned and nodded.

Loric grinned too. "No, wee one, I was not at march-ward all those seasons. After the retribution, I turned my hand to silversmithing-two hundred summers or so-and thence to planting grain and harvesting it for a like while, and thence to shearing sheep.

"I lived in the mountains for seasons, sifting for gold, though not mining as do the Drimma."

"Drimma?"

"Dwarves."

"Oh."

Beau piped up, "All these things you name, Loric, seem close to the earth or seem to be common crafts."

"When faced with the span of Elvenkind, wee one, they are the only things of lasting merit-things of the earth and of arts and crafts and of home and hearth, and preserving all or leaving it better than when found. Crafting, husbanding, mastering skills, celebrating life and love-what better way to live?"

Tipperton glanced at the long-knife girted at Loric's waist. "How does that creed reconcile with standing march-ward and the killing of Rucks and the like?"

Loric sighed. After a moment he said, "Long past, Elvenkind nearly destroyed itself. In those days madness gripped us and we sought power, dominance, command over all, sought dominion even over one another. We cared not what we did to our world, plundering it just as we plundered our own kind. And as we stood on the brink, one came along who said, 'No more! If there is ever to be peace among Elvenkind, let it begin with me.' And he set aside his vile ways and walked our world spreading his message and asking others to 'take his pledge-Let it begin with me. Elvenkind was slow to learn, yet finally we grasped the truth of his words and turned away from the madness that once gripped us and began to revere life and love and to cherish the simple ways.

"Yet even though we revere life, there are those who would destroy all-among them the Rupt. And we came to realize that in order to preserve life, we must protect it from those who would raze the world and turn it into an ash heap, protect it from those who seek dominion and maim and kill for their own gratification-those who slaughter in glee, ravage in delight, butcher for no reason other than the ultimate act of dominance and gain pleasure from doing so.

"And so when thou dost ask how standing march-ward reconciles with Elven doctrine… it is part and parcel of the whole. We are the Lian Guardians, each and every member of my folk, male and female alike, and when evil threatens, as in these times, we stand counter… though from what ye have reported and from what we ourselves have seen, Lian alone will not be able to stay the present menace."

Darkness seemed to fall upon the camp and little was said the rest of the evening, but as Tipperton and Beau took to their sleeping bags, Beau whispered, "Lor', Tip, think on this: if Elves' lives are timeless, what must it mean when one of them gets killed? I mean, with all of forever before them, why, no matter their age, their lives are just beginning. And to lose that endless life just as it has begun, well… what a terrible thing it must be."

A stricken look fell upon Tipperton's features, and he glanced at Loric, some distance away and sitting with his back to a tree. "Adon, Beau," Tip whispered back, "and still they take up the mantle of Lian Guardianship and put themselves in harm's way even though to lose their lives is to lose forever."

Loric, his eyes closed, turned his face away from the fire.

The sun had passed beyond the western rim of the gorge, and the glen had fallen into shadow, when Loric rode in among the thatched dwellings of the Elves of Arden Vale, the horse-mounted Waerlinga trailing after. The few Lian outside the candlelit dwellings looked up from wherever they happened to be, their eyes widening in wondering delight at the sight of the Wee Folk, for, excepting their gem-like eyes, Waerlinga resembled Elven children, though a bit sturdier of build. And for their part, Beau and Tipperton stared 'round in wondrous delight, for here was where Elven Folk dwelled in graceful though simple elegance.

Among cottages nestled amid the pines, down a path they wended, to come at last to a broad central shelter, a long, low building, its roof thatched as well. Loric dismounted and tied the horses to a hitching rail as Tip and Beau jumped down. All three stepped up onto the porch and past a door warden and entered the hall. Vivid colors and warmth and the smell of food and the liquid syllables of the Sylva tongue assaulted the buccen's senses as they entered the great hall, lambent with yellow lamps glowing in cressets and fires burning in hearths. Banquet tables with benches and chairs were ranged 'round the tapestried walls, but the center floor thronged with fair Elves smiling and filling the hall with bright converse and gay laughter. And through this cheerful crowd strode Loric, with Tip and Beau following, the trio travel-stained and Loric's face grim. Lian turned to see the warder and two Waerlinga striding past, and voices fell to hushed silence and the assembly quickly parted as Loric escorted the buccen toward the far end, where sat the Elven leader of Arden Vale with his consort at his side.

Finally they reached the dais and Loric bowed, saying, "Alor Talarin e Dara Rael. "

"Alor Loric," replied Talarin, gazing at the Waerlinga and rising to his feet. He was tall and slender, with golden hair and eyes green, dressed in soft grey.

But it was Lady Rael who captured Tip's wondering vision. Fair she was, and graceful, and dressed in green, and her golden locks were wound with green ribbons. And she smiled down at the Waerlinga, a sparkle in her deep blue gaze, and Tip's sapphire eyes sparkled in return, as did the amber eyes of Beau.