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something out of a deep pocket in his robe. “Then by virtue of blood and word”—he lifted a cord over Tommy’s head— “I deem you a Lord of Elves. And I give you the amulet of the tribe Silvertree. You must wear it at all times, covering your heart, signifying your everlasting covenant to lead and protect your people, even at risk of your own life. Notice that the amulet itself is crafted from the most precious metals and stones, but the necklace is but a plain black cord. Remember, you—like the people you serve—are a blessed mixture of all that is precious and all that is common, and you must never stray from the right path. Now, sit, Lord of Elves. Sit upon the throne of your tribe.”
    Tommy nodded repeatedly and sat down. The high cleric stepped backward. Tommy looked at the amulet on his chest. It was round, about three inches in diameter, and seemed to be made of some kind of beveled crystal. Small irregular shapes were cut out of the field of the crystal, some wide enough that Tommy could fit a fingertip through them. The rest of the precious semi-transparent stone was divided into numerous sections by thin curving veins of silvery metal. Tommy held the medallion up closer to his face. In some of the smaller sections of jeweled stone, he could just make out a symbol or a letter of some kind. Not English, that’s for sure . He squinted. Goldarrow will know .
    A different elder came forward for each of the young lords, calling them each by their Elven name and tribe. To Kat: “Alreenia, daughter of Beleg and Lord Kendie of the tribe Hiddenblade.” To Autumn: “Miarra, daughter of Lord Galadhost and Salura of the tribe Swiftstorm.” To Johnny: “Albriand, son of Elroth and Lord Tisa of the tribe Ashheart.” To Jimmy: “Thorwin, son of Lord Xanthis and Dreia of the tribe Valorbrand.” To Jett: “Hamandar, son of Lord Vex and Jasmira of the tribe Nightwing.” And to Kiri Lee: “Lothriel, daughter of Charad and Lord Simona of the tribe Oakenflower.” And to each lord the elders gave a medallion, roughly the same size and seemingly crafted out of the same materials as Tommy’s. But their interior shapes were very different, each as unique and intricate as a fingerprint.
    The high cleric and the other elders moved to their seats, and for several moments the young lords and the elders were still and silent, enveloped in the atmosphere.
    Seated in the first row of stands, Elle Goldarrow did not want to weep openly, but the gravity of all that had led to the young lords’ rescue and arrival in Allyra—the waiting, the planning, the fighting, and the loss of life—came upon her in a rush. And at last she allowed herself to mourn for Charlie. She put her head in her hands. Grimwarden drew her to lean on his shoulder. “It was a terrible price,” he said. “But it was worth it. Look at them, Elle. They have come, spanning time, from one world to another, to save us all.”
    She looked upon the seven lords, and through her tears, she thought of how they had matured ever so slightly. There was about them the look of warriors. It was as if she saw into the future right then. Suddenly they were tall and broad-shouldered. Matured. Wisdom was upon their brows, mission in their eyes, and unmatched power in their fists. And they even bore the scars of battle, the price paid for war, even the ultimate sacrifice. For loss. And for victory. She knew it was just her mind playing tricks on her. Or was it? Whether as kids or adults, the Seven Elven Lords of Berinfell had returned.
    â€œWe are the Children of Light,” said Alwynn suddenly. “And upon this timeless occasion, we will dare to risk a little light.”
    A frenzied murmur rose in the hall, spiraling upward. Elle refocused, and the teens sat on the thrones once more. Young. Naive. Oh, Ellos, spare them, she prayed. But she knew it was in vain. Or at least