"I defended myself-Quithas came to commit murder. He failed."

"But… why?" The elven statesman seemed honestly puzzled.

"It is proof of the divisions between your clan and mine-we are two peoples, not one!"

"No! There is time to change!" Silvanos disputed. "I have been speaking to your people of the benefits of life in Silvanesti, of the wonders of our cities. We shall set aside great preserves for you, where game dwells in plenty! You will have no need of your paint and your feathers-you will wear silks and perfume instead!"

"That war paint is our pride-it shows who we are," Kagonos retorted sharply.

"Your pride can rise to even greater heights with us! You elves, and your great clan-House Servitor-will become as mighty as any of-"

"House Servitor will lead us only to a future of humiliation and slavery! I will not take that road, nor will I lead my people there!" cried Kagonos.

Silvanos's face darkened. "Will you command them to follow you?" he demanded harshly knowing the Pathfinder had no power to give orders his people must obey.

"I make no commands-but I will lead them from this camp. Those who do not follow me, you are welcome to take back to your cities."

He remembered more of Darlantan's words-he must show them the way! Then he knew, and he lifted the spi- raled horn from its place at his side.

Kagonos raised the curling trumpet to his lips, eyes blazing as he stared across the upturned faces of his fellow Elderwild. The painted warriors shifted nervously, each dropping his own gaze rather than meet the burning rage of his Pathfinder.

The wild elf lowered the spiral instrument just a few inches, snapping his words in curt, decisive tones.

"I cannot-I will not-command you to follow me. Any Elderwild who chooses to accompany my esteemed kinsman to Silvanesti should do so! Fly to the walls of the cities-fly to the tables and windows and floors that will, for the rest of your days, form the borders of your lives!"

Again he raised the horn, and as he touched it to his mouth music began to flow. Notes rolled into the night with deep and resonant force, a sound unlike any horn ever carved. Indeed, it was more like the mournful, somber chant of some monstrously great creature.

A creature like a dragon.

He blew into the instrument, and the powerful sound rose, sweeping across the stunned Elderwild, washing over the suddenly stilled masses of the House Elves. Could they hear the music? Certainly they saw its effects. Silvanos himself, eyes wide with wonder, took a step forward and reached out a hand, as if he would hold and caress each blissfully poignant note.

The Pathfinder played without conscious thought. He did not know what he did to make the sound-rather, it was a kind of instinct that guided his music. The heart of the song, it seemed, came from the horn itself.

Kagonos paused for breath, and the notes died away, but again he touched his lips to the mouthpiece. As he blew, the sound rose anew, gaining pulse and tempo, surging upward from its minor key into a challenging chorus of a climbing scale. But still it did not make the sound of a horn.

The song had no words, but it painted vivid pictures in the minds of the Elderwild. The first notes created a background of trees, leafy branches rustling in the wind. A waterfall trilled somewhere, with music so cool that spray seemed to wash the skin of all the gathered wild elves.

Then the melody became a wind, singing of open skies, towering mountains, yawning chasms… and always new and wondrous trails. It was a song of endless pathfinding, tracks everywhere, choices unfettered by thoughts of borders, or houses, or cities.

Kagonos felt his skin tingling, as if the music had wrapped him into a cocoon of gentle, yet prickly, warmth. His war paint embraced him, emphasizing that heat like warm wax trickling, not uncomfortably, over his skin. With a sense of wonder, Kagonos lowered the horn and realized that the notes continued to expand, sweeping across the gathering and embracing all the elves-but most especially the Elderwild-in its subtle clasp.

The Pathfinder clasped the instrument as if it were his only anchor in a storm, and as the growing force of sound swept him up, he felt as though strong winds buffeted him, rendering his footing unsteady, his vision cloudy.

Why couldn't he see? Everywhere he turned Kagonos looked upon a bright aura, like a film of fire that sheathed him, screening him from observation. Only gradually did he realize that the flames were real, and that they were surging outward from him-from his skin.

Wonderingly, the Elderwild looked at his bare chest, seeing yellow flames licking higher, bright and lively as they sputtered from him. Still he felt no pain, but instead his sense of wonder seemed to grow. Gradually he understood that it was not his entire skin that burned, but only the places where war paint had been smeared upon his body.

As the flames died, his body rippled under dark, permanent tattoos-stains that perfectly matched the hawk and oak leaf pattern of Kagonos's war paint. His paint had become a part of himself, indelibly burned into his skin-marks that would, for the rest of his life, show him as a member of a different people than the House Elves of Silvanesti.

The flames, Kagonos saw, did not die away entirely. Instead they swirled outward, rising up in a great archway before the awestruck faces of his people.

Barcalla was the first to advance. The warrior held his head high and stepped through the archway. Immediately the paint on his dusky skin flared into life, the flames singing upward like the highest notes of the Ram's Horn. Before these flickering fires died away, others of the tribe had advanced, in pairs and trios, then as a great column, proudly walking through the fire, letting the tongues of flame embrace them.

By the time Barcalla's halo of fire died away, Kagonos saw that the warrior, too, had been permanently marked- also in the pattern of his war paint. As each wild elf advanced, the gentle cocoon of brightness took him, kissed his flesh, and left him with the marks of distinction that would forever show the rest of Krynn that this was a tribe of forest-dwellers, wild elves who shunned the enclosures of their kin. Kagonos knew that even if more nations of House Elves were formed, if Balif made his kingdom in the east, if other clans moved to the Kharolis forests in the west, the wild elves would remain wild and free.

The elves of Silvanesti stood aside to let Kagonos past. He looked once at Silvanos, and he did not see an enemy- but neither did he see a being who had any further meaning for him or for his tribes.

"Go, then, Kagonos," the patriarch said quietly, and even now the force of his words arrested the Elderwild chieftain, compelled him to listen. "You have made your choice, and I must trust your wisdom. You lead your elves as one clan, now-a greater tribe than they have been before. No longer are you the Elderwild.

"In our songs, you shall be called the Kagonesti-and you shall ever be known as our kin."

The name was good, thought the Pathfinder, though its portent sent a slight shiver of apprehension along his spine. If he had not fully grasped the momentous nature of his decision, Silvanos's words made it quite clear.

Raising his head high, shouldering his weapon and letting the horn fall comfortably back to its position at his side, Kagonos felt a pleasant warmth from the tattoos that now marked his skin. The Pathfinder turned his face to the north, where the tree-lined foothills rose gently against the night sky.

And Kagonos led his people back to the forest, and to the woodlands beyond.

PARt 2 Ashtaway 1019 PC (Third Dragon War) Woodlands of Central Ansalon