Aster could not help but gape in the face of the man who had caught him.

A familiarly heavy, rough hand tussled his hair.

"You always were a boy of few words," the broad man chuckled, "but I thought I'd hear more than that out of you after all these years."

The familiar brown eyes twinkled down at him kindly. In the crumbling gallery of the castle's ruins, long shadows cast a hollow haze on the otherwise friendly face.

"Pheor," Aster finally whispered.

The tall warrior smiled broadly. Aster shivered as Pheor's face suddenly opened with sharpened teeth resembling Illium's.

"It's good to see you still recognize your old uncle after all these years. And you seem to be doing well enough for yourself, hm?" A huge hand lifted Aster's ax from where it had fallen on the ground. "Did you follow in your old uncle's steps? A Watchmen, eh?"

"Yes." His feelings suddenly felt contorted. Pheor's careless, cavalier demeanor was wrong. He was DEAD. Aster felt his breath suddenly seething. A torrent of emotions - confusion, anger, doubt, and, somehow, loneliness - rose up in his chest.

Relief was not one of them.

"Who the hunt do you think you are?' he was suddenly spitting at his uncle. "Yes I am a part of the Watch!" He snatched the ax away, crossing it in front of his chest. "And they've flayed my hide to let me stay. I live in a pit! I was imprisoned!"

Words were screaming from his mouth almost without his knowledge. A small voice told him it was happening, but he did not care enough to stop. "I was taken here to DIE! And I came, I traveled, wandered, and almost died in this star-forsaken shadow hanging onto the glimmer of hope that I might find out what happened to you!

"And you?" he hissed. "Apparently I shouldn't have bothered. You didn't even care enough to see how I am when you KNEW I was alive and knew you had LEFT me!"

Pheor's brow had furrowed. He put a hand on the quaking boy's shoulder. "I understand your anger. But, Aster, there is much you do not know. Much you must be told."

The warrior looked over his nephew's shoulder to where Illium still hunched. "The others are ready to greet our guests. There are more I trust?"

"Aye. But not the sort we expected."

Pheor cocked his head. "No? Rangers? There is not enough metal in Arcath to muster I knight, I'd wager, but perhaps."

"Elves," Illium muttered.

The warrior's eyes narrowed. He was "Elves. Interesting." Returning his gaze to Aster, Pheor's eyes had turned from comforting to searching.

"What do you know of these creatures? Are they friendly?"

"No," Aster retorted, "but apparently you are of like company. They sent me with you in case I was to be killed, not that you should care."

Pheor's face grew stony but he refused to flinch. "We will speak soon, my son, I promise. But tonight there is much to be done before your questions can be answered."

"What will you do to them?"

"Illium?"

The old man scratched his fuzzy beard. "Welcome them, I s'pose. We've room for them."

"And the Watch?"

Illium started to answer, but Aster inserted himself instead. "Not far behind. They were only a mile or two from our camp. What is this about? What do you mean room for them?"

"In time –" Pheor tried to answer.

"No," Aster angrily cut him off. "Now."

Pheor held his gaze unwaveringly. In the silence of the moment, footsteps interrupted from farther down the gallery.

"Marshal, shall we send guides?"

A second fighter approached through the gloom, stepping from the dark into Illium's torchlight.

Pheor continued staring into Aster's eyes as he answered. "Yes. Send Narten, Tarten, and Gaius for them. I will wait here with the other marshals."

"Yes sir." The man retreated into the gloom again, his footsteps fading down the castle gallery.

"Come with me," Pheor finally said. He took Aster by the shoulder and steered him down the hall. The grip lacked his previous kindness and yet somehow felt more relieving.

Illium followed wordlessly, but his small steps left him far behind before long.

Pheor steered Aster confidently despite the dense darkness that hung over the hall. Several times the older warrior had to pull his nephew out of the path of a statue's weapon or loose stair step. The path trailed upward, reaching a landing before pivoting and descending in a loop of stairs. Everything appeared the same haze of black to Aster, but Pheor seemed certain of every step.

At one point Aster turned to see Illium's light.

It was gone.

The path they walked seemed to descend into the depths of the fort, but the stars still twinkled lazily, and the moon waned its dimmed light.

"Where are you taking me?"

Pheor did not answer.

The steps ended abruptly in another stone landing. A stray beam of moonlight fell on a statue of a great wolf, glowering to pounce. In its snarling stone jaws rested a torch that Pheor took. Pheor released his grip on Aster's shoulder and rustled in his belt. After a short click the torch leaped to life with a tongue of flame.

Aster started backwards.

Countless pairs of eyes reflected the sudden light. Each were transfixed on him, standing in such close proximity that he could hardly determine one face from another. They were dull in the night but clearly alive as they flickered in tiny, scrutinizing movements.

Pheor pushed him forward, lowering the torch toward the shapes.

The light fell on the silhouettes of men. Haggard men.

As they approached, another pair of torches burst to life some twenty feet away. Before long, five or so had been lit on either side of what apparently was a long courtyard.

Faces filled the space. Each was transfixed on him.

"So this is Pheor's pup?"

A smaller figure shouldered his way through the crowd. He had deep, hunched shoulders and stringy hair that hung in a curtain around a dagger-shaped face. Half his head was shaved. The other half was etched with odd tattoos. The black marks scratched like scars that had been filled with ink.

He tossed his jaw. "This is your boy?"

Aster could not turn his eyes to see Pheor's reaction.

"This is him." The warrior clapped him on the shoulder again.

The stooped man smiled, revealing sharpened teeth. "Then welcome! Welcome to the hall of Gild-Moldren!" He swooped a small arm toward the silent crowd of ragged men. "Feast with us! We have been waiting for you."

"For me?"

The man's grin widened. "Yesss. For you! And for your kin."

"How could you know –"

"In time, in time," Pheor interrupted, padding him on the shoulder. "You must have many questions. Here is one I can answer, however. This," the warrior said, gesturing to the short man, "is Scratcher." The hunched figure bowed, almost touching his brow to the cobblestones. "He is one of my most trusted compatriots here in the fort. You may confide anything in him as you would me."

"You are too kind m'lord," Scratcher groveled, raking his slender fingers across his chest.

"Now none of that," Pheor retorted. "You are a marshal as I am, yes? And all are lords in the halls of Gild-Moldren."

A couple halfhearted cheers rose through the dark.

"Yes, yes. Come with me Aster," Pheor offered. He clenched the boy's shoulder and started leading him through the crowd.

The men parted. As the horde watched them pass, Aster saw several women among them. All looked so ragged and worn that man or woman was hardly noticeable in their faces. Some smiled but each betrayed daggered teeth.

Above them the stars still twinkled. The hall was opened to the sky as every other passage in the decrepit castle.

Torches flickered. Musty, molding tapestries covered in the tall walls in an empty semblance of glory.

One of the crowd reached out to touch him as he passed, but Pheor slapped the hand away.

Pheor laughed.

Aster shuddered.

At the head of the room sat a long table. It was dark and oily, reflecting a spectral light creating by moonlight and torchlight mingling in its black grain.

Ten tall chairs sat behind it. All but one were vacant. In the backs of eight of the chairs, the letter 'M' was slashed.

From the single occupied seat, a woman watched.

Thick black hair clung to her face and the chair around her. It dangled in ropes far past her shoulders, disappearing under the shadows of the table.

Her eyes were disorienting. What should have been white was instead a shadowy forest green. The irises were milky white. They flickered over the scene sporadically as though taking in everything but looking at nothing.

Her hand clenched around a small silver dagger. It twisted in her palm, its tip buried in the tabletop.

They stopped in front of her.

"Etress."

"Pheor," she rasped.

Her white eyes alighted on Aster. He wrenched his gaze away at the sudden look. Focusing on the stones at his feet, Aster awaited her verdict. He somehow felt its coming.

"He has been touched by the wood."

"Haven't we all?" Pheor laughed.

"Look up, Aster of Arcath."

He hesitantly obeyed.

"Do you fear me?"

He nodded.

Etress nodded in turn. "You needn't." She yanked the dagger from the table. Its tip shrieked against the squeaky wood. "What you see is not me." She gestured the dagger to the crowd. "it is not them."

She examined his face.

"We are products of the wood. As you would have been. As you still may."

"You mean –"

Another voice interrupted him from the other end of the hall. "Lords Narenhior and Taril of the Elves, seeking council with the marshals."

Etress' white eyes shot up. "Bring them here."

Pheor climbed behind the table. He sat in one of the chairs marked with an M. He gestured for Aster to sit in an unmarked chair beside him. Scratcher traced through the crowd and sat in another chair, joined by three others from the crowd.

Three seats remained unoccupied.

Familiar footsteps walked down the courtyard. One of Pheor's men led a column of elves through the crowd. The creatures wore their ever-present black plate, though the first two had removed their helmets so Aster could gaze on their solemn faces.

Narenhior and Taril.

The two bowed their heads wordlessly toward the table of seated warriors. Their helmets were nested in their bent shoulders. The hands rested on the pommels of their sheathed swords.

"Lords of the Elves," Etress murmured. "Never since this hall's construction has it welcomed your folk."

"I am not uncertain it welcomes us now," Narenhior replied coldly.

Etress did not reply.

"My people wish no ill on you," the prince continued. "It is our purpose to traverse the edge of these woods and settle its depths. If you would –"

"I forbid it," Etress interrupted. "You are excused."

For the first time Aster could remember, Narenhior looked shocked.

"If you would deliberate –"

"There will be no deliberation."

Shock turned to anger. "And if we refuse?"

"Then you will be escorted," Etress replied.

"Is this the only word you have for us?" Narenhior retorted.

At this Etress hesitated. "No. If it pleases you, you may dine with us this evening and find shelter in our walls."

"The night has already settled," Taril answered. "It seems a strange time for a meal."

The woman held her gaze on Narenhior while answering. "We have few enough instances to celebrate. This one will not be wasted, not even on such an occasion as visiting elves."

"We refuse," Narenhior spat. "Both your kind offers. It is not in my habit to shelter with those who wish you no good will."

"As you say."

"Good day," Narenhior finished. He and his guard turned and began their way down the courtyard from where they had come.

"Goodnight," Etress murmured.

YAY! We made it to chatper 26! Finally starting to get into the good stuff. What do you think what happen?