Page 66 of Ale Storm

“Something in her shop made the mugs glow,” Rylana said, “but there were so many items that we couldn’t guess which. We thought you might be able to tell us about that potted tree though. I believe it was one of the ones that shot thorns to help defend the terrace during the attack.”

“Ah.” Chalora nodded. With enlightenment? “Follow me.”

She led them along narrow paths, through an orchard, and into a grove with many species of evergreens and deciduous trees, exotic varieties that didn’t grow naturally in the area. Some had blue leaves, and a couple had brilliant pink foliage. Toward one side of the grove, Rylana spotted a pair of trees with pointed leaves and familiar trumpet-shaped flowers.

“Larger versions of the ones on the terrace.” Rylana strode up and waved the horn at them.

“Yes,” Chalora said.

The horn neither glowed nor warmed. Hm. Rylana set it on the ground near the base of the trunk.

“I have a comrade with some insight into dwarven tools and artifacts. I’m inviting him to join us.” Chalora touched her temple to indicate she’d spoken telepathically to the person.

“An elf with an interest in dwarven tools?” Rylana crouched beside the horn and poked it, but it remained inert. “That’s rare, isn’t it?”

“Our peoples used to get along quite well, until some of the dwarves in the Skyfang Mountain Kingdom decided to ally with the joint kingdoms against us.” Chalora waved toward the south. “There have been a lot more tensions between our peoples since then, even up here in the north, where we stayed out of the war. Those tensions have made my comrade, Shalikon, uniquely appreciated for his ability as a go-between.”

“A go-between? Between elves and dwarves?”

“Quite.”

Rylana started to pick up the horn, but Chalora lifted her hand.

“Wait.” Chalora closed her eyes and touched the corrugated bark of the tree. After a moment, the flower petals opened wide and several thorns shot into the grove.

“Really, Chalora,” a male voice rumbled from a path not far from where they’d flown past. “I thought you had a tryst in mind, and it turns out you invited me here to attempt to assassinate me with your overly aggressive flowers.”

“I don’t schedule trysts on days when I have classes,” Chalora said. “Over here, Shalikon. These friends of the enclave need you.”

Did Sylin’s ears perk at being called a friend instead of an enemy to the elves? Rylana might have said something, but a blue glow on the ground pulled her gaze toward the horn.

“That’s it,” she blurted. “The thorns must have accounted for its glow. Maybe the alchemist had some in a box somewhere. Oh, but it was the morning after the fight on the terrace that the horn glowed when I dropped it in the pot by the tree.”

“It’s possible there was some residue from the engagement the night before,” Chalora said. “Those thorns, as you call them, have been used for centuries by elves as defenses for our encampments, but they are actually how the trees propagate themselves. The tips are embedded with their pollen. During windstorms or other times of agitation—our people have used our magic to teach the trees that attacks should qualify—they shoot their thorns out into the world to share their genetic material with receptive mates.”

Rylana lifted the horn, its mugs glowing brightly, and the gray storm clouds had also appeared. “So, it’s the pollen that’s getting this excited?”

“The pollen that’s quite poisonous to our kind,” Chalora said. “It might also be poisonous to dwarves.”

“Oh, that’s a fine tasting horn,” her comrade said as he, having avoided assassination by flying thorns, joined them.

With a stout build, a broad jaw, a squat nose, and only about five feet in height, he almost looked dwarven, but subtly pointed ears rose from his short, gray-streaked red hair. They weren’t as long or as defined as most elven ears, and Rylana caught herself staring.

“Are you… part dwarven?” she asked. “And part elven?”

“Astute, aren’t you?” he said, then bumped his shoulder against Chalora. “I suppose you did say you were teaching classes and educating those… in need of it.”

“Shalikon is half-dwarven and half-elven, yes,” Chalora said, ignoring his comment, though she did lean against him. “It’s an uncommon mix.”

“I’m an uncommon fellow.”

“Apparently, his parents employed some magic in the creation of him,” Chalora said.

“I do enjoy it when you speak of my creation.”

“Since neither dwarves nor elves are terribly fecund, even when mating with our own kind, you rarely see natural offspring arise from their pairings,” Chalora said. “When it does happen, those born to such parents can have the traits and magical aptitudes of both races.”

“I do have a lot of aptitude.” Shalikon winked at her.