victory in the opening battles of the campaign? As for the long run, Culdus didn’t see how these things could overcome elven magic or the hordes of Parona, but... but what about the eggs?
“Agreed, friend Valdaimon.” Culdus returned the wizard’s smile. “But tell me, what have these wyvern riders to do with the Golden Eggs of Parona?”
“It is a magical link—a technical matter for wizards. Do not concern yourself too deeply. Only those trained for decades in the magic arts could appreciate the nature of the connection.”
“I see,” Culdus replied. And he did see. Valdaimon was up to something, and neither Culdus nor the king was to be allowed to know what it was. And, Culdus thought, the question of price had been neatly sidestepped altogether.
Far below the great hall from which Ruprecht watched the display of power he imagined to be his, a solitary elf hung crucified against the cold, slime-covered walls of a tiny dungeon cell. The elf’s hair shone in the darkness with a kind of silvery light of its own—a unique feature even among elves. Not that Ruprecht had noticed; this was the only elf the Black Prince had ever seen, and under Valdaimon’s tutelage Ruprecht believed that all mature elves appeared this way. But this was no ordinary elf. Only elves that attained to legendary age were gifted with the glowing silver hair, and only one such elf remained. He was commonly called Elrond. This Elrond Ruprecht had made prisoner at Valdaimon’s insistence and against the Covenant, but then this Covenant was not a matter that Ruprecht took seriously.
Elrond hung on the dungeon wall, his wrists and feet manacled to iron spikes driven deep into the stones. His near-naked body, withered with age, was a mass of bloody streaks and festering welts, the souvenirs of his periodic torture for the amusement of the Black Prince. Despite his wounds, Elrond at this moment felt no pain, for his mind, trained over five millennia in the arts of elven magic and elven mental discipline, was far from the dungeon.
He began his mental journey while the Black Prince still dined. First, his senses reached out to the creeping green slime that grew upon the wet stones of his cell, for slime, however disgusting to humans, is green and living, and wherever there are green and living plants, the mind and soul of an elf can dwell. Slowly, the consciousness that was Elrond made its way through the trail of the slime, inching over the cold stones, slipping between tiny niches and cracks the eye could never see, working its way upward and outward until, somewhere in the soil beyond the dungeon wall, it made contact with a tiny tendril of root sunk deep by an evergreen tree. From there, his mind flowed, faster now, with greater ease, upward, upward, upward with the running sap, until it broke above the surface of the earth and, in a thousand, thousand green needles felt the warmth of the last rays of the day’s pale spring sun.
Onward and outward the consciousness that was now Elrond and slime and root and tree and then forest raced and expanded like a great, empty balloon expanding and discovering the nature of the air inside itself. His mind touched creepers that led up the wall to the great hall, and he heard all that was said between Culdus, Valdaimon, and Ruprecht. At the same time his mind counted the numbers of blue jay nests in the forest conifers and discerned that the spring, though still cold, was far advanced. His mind felt the coldness of death of the branches of trees that would not be renewed and sensed the joy of spring birth in the tendrils of tiny plants that would soon be saplings reaching for the sun.
Onward and outward raced the mind of Elrond, now at an astonishing clip, until the ancient elf, with his five millennia of memories and knowledge and love was part of all the living green things in the southern part of the world, reaching almost to the boundaries of the Elven Preserve, seeking for... what?
“Agreed, friend Valdaimon.” Culdus returned the wizard’s smile. “But tell me, what have these wyvern riders to do with the Golden Eggs of Parona?”
“It is a magical link—a technical matter for wizards. Do not concern yourself too deeply. Only those trained for decades in the magic arts could appreciate the nature of the connection.”
“I see,” Culdus replied. And he did see. Valdaimon was up to something, and neither Culdus nor the king was to be allowed to know what it was. And, Culdus thought, the question of price had been neatly sidestepped altogether.
Far below the great hall from which Ruprecht watched the display of power he imagined to be his, a solitary elf hung crucified against the cold, slime-covered walls of a tiny dungeon cell. The elf’s hair shone in the darkness with a kind of silvery light of its own—a unique feature even among elves. Not that Ruprecht had noticed; this was the only elf the Black Prince had ever seen, and under Valdaimon’s tutelage Ruprecht believed that all mature elves appeared this way. But this was no ordinary elf. Only elves that attained to legendary age were gifted with the glowing silver hair, and only one such elf remained. He was commonly called Elrond. This Elrond Ruprecht had made prisoner at Valdaimon’s insistence and against the Covenant, but then this Covenant was not a matter that Ruprecht took seriously.
Elrond hung on the dungeon wall, his wrists and feet manacled to iron spikes driven deep into the stones. His near-naked body, withered with age, was a mass of bloody streaks and festering welts, the souvenirs of his periodic torture for the amusement of the Black Prince. Despite his wounds, Elrond at this moment felt no pain, for his mind, trained over five millennia in the arts of elven magic and elven mental discipline, was far from the dungeon.
He began his mental journey while the Black Prince still dined. First, his senses reached out to the creeping green slime that grew upon the wet stones of his cell, for slime, however disgusting to humans, is green and living, and wherever there are green and living plants, the mind and soul of an elf can dwell. Slowly, the consciousness that was Elrond made its way through the trail of the slime, inching over the cold stones, slipping between tiny niches and cracks the eye could never see, working its way upward and outward until, somewhere in the soil beyond the dungeon wall, it made contact with a tiny tendril of root sunk deep by an evergreen tree. From there, his mind flowed, faster now, with greater ease, upward, upward, upward with the running sap, until it broke above the surface of the earth and, in a thousand, thousand green needles felt the warmth of the last rays of the day’s pale spring sun.
Onward and outward the consciousness that was now Elrond and slime and root and tree and then forest raced and expanded like a great, empty balloon expanding and discovering the nature of the air inside itself. His mind touched creepers that led up the wall to the great hall, and he heard all that was said between Culdus, Valdaimon, and Ruprecht. At the same time his mind counted the numbers of blue jay nests in the forest conifers and discerned that the spring, though still cold, was far advanced. His mind felt the coldness of death of the branches of trees that would not be renewed and sensed the joy of spring birth in the tendrils of tiny plants that would soon be saplings reaching for the sun.
Onward and outward raced the mind of Elrond, now at an astonishing clip, until the ancient elf, with his five millennia of memories and knowledge and love was part of all the living green things in the southern part of the world, reaching almost to the boundaries of the Elven Preserve, seeking for... what?
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