Halaern shook his head, searching for the right words. "Hardly. He trekked from one end of the Yuirwood to the other, carving Relkath's rune in tree bark. We thought him slightly mad, completely harmless. No one paid attention."

"But they are now, now that he's come back.?"

"He's called all Cha'Tel'Quessir to the Sunglade. I've kept a distance, my queen, but others are listening. I didn't take him seriously. He's not the first, my queen, to dance in the Sunglade. Nothing's happened there before, but if he's a Red Wizard in disguise… I will climb trees and look farther than I have. There are other ways."

The Simbul stopped walking and used the leverage their clasped hands provided to turn them face to face. "No, dear friend. I will look closely at this Rizcarn of GoldenMoss. You will look for Red Wizards in the Yuirwood."

"Come home with me, my queen. We'll eat and talk until midnight, and tomorrow I will take you across Rizcarn's path."

The Simbul knew she shouldn't; Alassra said she'd be delighted.

20

The Yuirwood, in Aglarond Evening, the twenty-first day of Eleasias, The Year of the Banner (1368DR)

Four days had passed since Bro had surrendered the twilight colt to Zandilar. Four days in which he'd followed Rizcarn from one tree-family to the next, staying in the shadows while Rizcarn summoned the Cha'Tel'Quessir to the Sunglade at the full moon. There were four days, four nights until the moon rose full; nearly thirty Cha'Tel'Quessir men and women trekked with them already. At the rate their camp was growing, there'd be more Cha'Tel'Quessir when they reached the Sunglade than Bro had ever seen in one place.

They wouldn't have all the Cha'Tel'Quessir in the Yuirwood. There were folk who walked away shaking their heads when they heard Rizcarn rant about waking trees and dancing with stones. One tree-family, Deep Well, had run them off. That had been the first day, when it had only been him, Rizcarn, and an old man named Lanig whom Bro remembered vaguely from his boyhood. Elders listened to Rizcarn now that he had thirty Cha'Tel'Quessir walking with him-at least they pretended to.

Watching the elders, Bro had seen doubt and anxiety on their faces. The same doubts and anxieties he felt each sunset when Rizcarn called a halt for the night. Rizcarn said something had to be done, like building campfires or waking the trees, and folk did it, not mindlessly, the way Thayan slaves were said to obey, but without asking the questions folk should ask.

Not about campfires-campfires didn't need questions. Questions about trees and stones and what was going to happen after the Sunglade. Of course, Bro hadn't asked those questions either.

The Cha'Tel'Quessir with them called him Rizcarn's son, not Ebroin or Bro, or even Ember as they'd called him when he was twelve and following his father-the father he knew was his-from tree to tree. They didn't expect him to do anything except be Rizcarn's son and sleep in the center of the camp, where Rizcarn would have slept, if Rizcarn had slept. He wasn't Zandilar's chosen young man, not anymore. Lanig would dance with Zandilar and ride Zandilar's Dancer.

Rizcarn hadn't slept or eaten since Zandilar had taken the colt into the ground. Each night, once the camp was set and cooking aromas filled the air, Rizcarn wandered off, not to be seen again until morning. Folk ate; food, at least, was both plentiful and palatable now. And folk talked until the watches were drawn for the night. They talked about Cha'Tel'Quessir who'd been dead for generations and they talked about the future when everything would change and become wonderful.

Bro had lived through days when everything changed and everything hadn't become wonderful, so when they talked about the future-after the meal was finished and someone brought out a skin or two of honey wine-he'd sulk off by himself.

Last night and the night before, Lanig had come to tell him his place in the night-watch, but not tonight. Tonight they had enough willing Cha'Tel'Quessir in camp. They didn't need Rizcarn's son to do anything but sleep.

"Your pallet is ready," Lanig said. "Will you come sleep with us? It's a lot of walking we do each day. Your father wants you to sleep, son. Will you come to your place? Will you?" Bro started for the center of the camp. He'd learned the hard way that Lanig wouldn't stop talking until he obeyed.

Later, sleepless himself, staring at the stars, and listening to the snores around him, Bro revised his opinion of his companions. It wasn't that they treated him as if he were still twelve, it was that they acted as if the past seven years hadn't happened. Most of the nearby Cha'Tel'Quessir had followed Rizcarn before. They'd simply picked up where they'd left off.

Sitting up on his pallet of leaf-filled leather, Bro studied the camp with growing apprehension. His right hand fell to his waist where he kept the Simbul's knife. Rubbing its studded leather hilt had become a habit. Sometimes-like tonight-when rubbing wasn't enough to steady him, Bro unsheathed the knife and stared at the blade until he lost himself in its wavy patterns.

"Did you come looking for me?" he whispered to the absent queen. "I was a squirrel for an afternoon. A squirrel would've had more sense than to do what I'm doing. I've been thinking… maybe I should have let you steal Zandilar's Dancer. You said a worthy goddess wouldn't have let Shali die just so I'd bring Dancer into the Yuirwood. I hope you're right. I hope it's not too late."

Bro laced her boots over his ankles and headed out of the camp. Rizcarn said he spent the night praying to Relkath. Bro figured he'd find the biggest tree and find his father, too.

By night the Yuirwood shimmered with pale colors. Paths were dark ribbons weaving across the forest floor. Bro walked to the latrine pits and past them. He was resigned to an all-night, almost aimless search when he spotted a tree trunk where one of Relkath's runes sparkled. Rizcarn wasn't by that tree, but it gave Bro an idea. He climbed high into its branches. From the crown he saw other, similarly marked trees and one that was bright as a torch.

Rizcarn was there, eyes closed, arms folded and oblivious to the world. Bro had tried to be quiet as he walked through the Yuirwood, but he was no ranger, no forester. Crackling leaves had heralded his every step. Rizcarn should have heard him. Or maybe not. The light that had guided Bro wasn't coming from a tree-trunk carving. It formed a sphere that centered around Rizcarn's head as bright as sunshine, soft as moonlight, and with no source other than the seated Cha'Tel'Quessir.

The sight was utterly peaceful and unnerving. Bro wanted to run away, but his body wasn't listening. He did what he'd come to do, instead.

"Rizcarn? Rizcarn, I'd like to talk to you." No response. Indignation eroded Bro's fear. He strode forward. "Rizcarn! Talk to me!"

Rizcarn shuddered. His eyes opened and Bro stopped short. Rizcarn's eyes were truly luminous: pure, pupiless white, and the source of the light. Bro clutched the Simbul's knife, still in its sheath. He tried to pray, but no god's name came to his mind; he took refuge in old habits.

"Poppa. Poppa, please. I was-I am your son. You say you were roaming other forests, but I know better-at least, I know something different. I want to believe you, Poppa; I truly do. If there's a future for the Cha'Tel'Quessir, I want to be a part of it. I'd like to help you make the trees remember again, and the rocks, but you've told lies and I don't know what to believe anymore. Poppa, why are we going to the Sunglade. What's truly going to happen there?

"Ebroin? Ebroin, you're troubled. Come; sit beside me and tell me what troubles you. It's your mother, isn't it?"

Bro nodded before he could stop himself.