“The edge of this glade were once the living walls of the throne room of the First of the light elves. We don’t build places like this anymore.”

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≈ VII ≈

vi. The Saga of Frostwood

After many, many drinks and lo many hours, Mithrilon and Rhewil stumbled out into the cool night. He hadn’t had more than a few silver in his pocket after he paid for the hide, but quick wagers with fellow patrons and his stone by his side were always enough to keep the good times flowing, he had found.

They walked the moss-lined paths through the city, laughing and talking and sharing stories until a flash of blue caught Mithrilon’s eye to the north.

“What is that over there?” he asked.

“What, the Míresgal?”

“The Míresgal?”

“Well yes, you humans have one as well, don’t you? In Manegard, the Dark Elves and the Vanir each have one, and then there is that whole business with the lost giant stone and the Wall of Winds.” As she spoke, it was plain that Mithrilon knew nothing of which she spoke. “Truly?” She considered him for a moment. “Ah, humans. Come, you’ll see.”

They continued along the path to an opening in the trees to their right, which in turn opened to an moonlit glade. In the center stood an opal pedestal, topped by a shining round blue jewel. The trees at the edge of the circle were old, and seemed less than natural, as if they had once been part of a planned structure.

Rhewil saw his eyes widen as he took in the glade and answered him as if she knew his mind. “The edge of this glade were once the living walls of the throne room of the First of the light elves. We don’t build places like this anymore. There is a magic here grown from the trees that go back to the beginning, when the Míresgal were made.”

“Oh that thing?” asked Mithrilon, pointing at the stone. “I have one of those, it is my family’s luck stone. But it is green, not blue.” He produced his own stone from his pocket, glinting like sunlit, well-watered grass. Rhewil stared at his stone in wonder. “You can rub it if you like. It’s for good luck.”

Rhewil hesitated. She reached out toward the stone, but when but a hairsbreadth remained between it and her fingers, a large nut fell from a tree branch above and knocked her solidly on the head.

“That’s odd.” said Mithrilon as Rhewil clasped her bruised skull.

“I don’t know what I was expecting.” she said, eyes screwed shut against the pain.

“What do you mean? It’s a Luck Stone, it brings you luck. That’s what it does. That’s what my father always told me.”

Her look his way was equal parts amused, annoyed, disbelieving, and drunk. And so she sat in the moonlit glade with him, keeping her distance from his stone and told him of the Míresgal, the Stones of Power.

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