At the foot of the tree, Ash whirled, crouching with his axe upraised. He heard Iydaway scramble up the wooden steps as the young elf slashed his weapon through the air, so fast that the steel edge vanished in a blur. The bakali had learned to respect that razorlike surface. In one mass, the pursuing warriors skidded to a halt, the mob expanding to encircle the tree and try to rush at Ash from the flanks.

Ashtaway gave his uncle two heartbeats to get up the steps, knowing that a moment longer would give dozens of lizardmen time to overwhelm him. Springing upward and back, still slashing with his long-shafted axe, the warrior retreated up the steps. The wooden pegs were too narrow to support more than one foot at a time, but he held his balance long enough to reach the first of several handy branches.

A bakali leapt at the elf's foot, but tumbled back with a bloody gash in its forepaw. Others barked and howled at the rear of the mob before turning about and racing to a nearby lodge. Drawing partially burned sticks from the blaze, the lizardmen waved them through the air until yellow flames crackled and trails of smoke dwindled in the air. Bearing their makeshift torches, the creatures hastened back to the tree.

By this time Ash had joined his uncle on the ceremonial platform. Above them the bole of the tree rose into the limitless heights, challenging the clouds and leading through innumerable pathways into a dozen neighboring trees. Still clutching the blackened horn, Iydaway started upward. His nephew followed, waiting only long enough to cut the lashing of the platform and drop the heavy wooden structure onto the dozen or so bakali foolish enough to stand directly underneath.

"Your warning gave us time to flee the village," Iydaway explained. "We made many of the lizardmen pay for their cruelty, but brave elves gave their lives in that cause." "I found Warrican at his post, slain by surprise attack," Ashtaway said. "Palqua and Thyll held at the mouth of the ravine for a long time. They gave the rest of the villagers time to reach the foot of the bluff and make their way along the shore." The two Kagonesti padded silently along the forest floor, a mile from the ruined village. They made their way toward a grotto in the heart of the vallenwood forest. Years ago it had been selected as the tribe's gathering point in the event of disaster.

"And more died to regain the Ram's Horn," Ashtaway noted. "Is it so precious, Uncle, that six warriors should perish to save it?"

Iydaway sighed and shook his head. The spiraling tattoos on his cheeks and chin masked his grief, but Ash knew that the question had hurt the elder warrior, and with that knowledge came regret that he had asked it. But his uncle held up a hand as if to dissuade the younger elf's guilt. The leafy pattern inked onto lyda's palm had a soothing effect on Ash, and again he breathed deeply as he awaited a reply.

"It is not, in truth, worth the sacrifice of a single life- at least, not that we can say with certainty," Iydaway declared, his voice rhythmic, almost songlike. "But in the same truth it may be worth the saving of a hundred lives, of the whole tribe. And then who knows? If I had known that those young braves would die-or that I would live-would my decision have been the same?"

Ash waited, knowing that this was not a question he could answer.

"In truth, I had to go and get the horn. As long as I live, it is not a thing I can abandon. Were you to throw it into the deepest sea, I should be compelled to dive in after it, drowning in the attempt to plunge the depths. Should you cast it into the fiery crater of one of the Lords of Doom, I must need pursue it, walking through fire as long as blood flowed in my veins. I am the Pathfinder, and such is my destiny and my fate-a destiny that I willingly bear."

Iydaway paused, shaking his head sadly. Ash was surprised to see tears in his eyes. When the old elf spoke, his voice had returned to its natural tone.

"To answer your question, if I had known that my protectors would perish in the attempt, I would have ordered them to remain behind."

"And perished by yourself," Ash confirmed.

"And the horn would still be lost to the tribe," agreed the elder.

Ashtaway took the sooty spiral and tried to wipe it clean with his hands, succeeding only partially. Still, the shine of the smoothly curled horn seemed to gleam through the dirt, as bright as sunlight in the shadowed forest depths.

"Is it truly made from the horn of a great ram?" Ash asked skeptically. Though he had enjoyed the music of the horn at village ceremonies and knew that his uncle cherished it above any other object, the young warrior realized that he knew very little about the treasured item. At the same time, with a shiver of portent, he remembered that he had to tell the Pathfinder about Lectral.

Iydaway shrugged. "That is what Callista Pathfinder, my granduncle, told me, and his predecessor-the Pathfinder Barcalla-told him. The legend declares that, in the Age of Dreams, the Elderwild Kagonos carved it from the horn of the Grandfather Ram-the creature he met, as you know, among the highest peaks of the Khalkists."

"Uncle, I heard the second Ram's Horn." Iydaway's eyes widened, but he made no reply. With careful attention to detail, Ashtaway told the tale of his summons from Lectral, and the subsequent encounter with the wounded dragon. Iydaway nodded sagely, clearly unsurprised by the information-a fact which, in itself, surprised Ash a great deal.

"It is fitting that you were the one who heard," Iyda said, smiling gently.

"Myself-and Hammana," Ash noted.

"Yes, and Hammana. That part puzzles me."

"Her healing has been a great help to Lectral-some of his wounds might otherwise have killed him."

"Indeed." Iydaway walked in silence for a time. When he spoke, his question took Ashtaway by surprise. "Does it seem as though the mantle of Pathfinder is a burdensome thing, Nephew?"

"No-well, perhaps yes. It is an important task, I know. And no wild elf should find it difficult to stay away from the House Elf cities. But for a man to go through life without taking a wife… that, it seems, might be a lonely choice."

'The Pathfinders of the wild elves, from Father Kagonesti on, have been solitary elves, true. Perhaps, because of this, we have not felt that lack as much as another might."

"I know that they have been great leaders, Uncle, and a strong bond to unite all the tribes."

"Indeed, it was Father Kagonesti who gave birth to our freedom. Without our first Pathfinder, there would be no tribes today."

"And you, Uncle, have shown the tribes the way to survive the Dragon War. Finding the paths deep in the forests, seeking these glades where the trees shield us from the sky… we owe you much."

"Ah… but that is a sadness, that we must forever hide from the sky. At least we, at the Bluelake, have the best of the deep forest-for our shore gives us a glimpse of open waters and sky."

"When the war ends, then perhaps we'll seek the high valleys again, where the wild elves lived for hundreds of years," Ash mused. He himself had always loved the heights and had spent much of his youth exploring the mountains within a fifty-mile radius of the Bluelake. Yet, despite these sojourns, Ash was not by nature a solitary elf and always rejoiced when he returned to the company of his villagemates.

"It will be the task of the Pathfinder to lead us there," Iydaway agreed. 'Though I have found the path may best be chosen through discussion among the people, perhaps spiced with a bit of persuasion by myself. In this, I am different from Callista or Barcalla. My predecessors-following the example of Father Kagonesti-would show the path and expect the tribe to follow. For me, it is better when we talk first, then move."