There was a legend, said the story-teller, of a crown, a dispossessed prince, and a bloody war that lasted one hundred years. The land was reduced to a burning ruin, the hopes of the people to bloodied rags. And all for the sake of possession. Power.

But, said the story-teller, that was thousands of years ago.

Loril frowned into the branches of the old oak. Its canopy seemed large enough to encompass half the wood, its leaves green and gold like a young maid's dress, its bark as brown and gnarled as an old sailor's limbs. A prickling along his spine told him that though he'd come to the oak alone, he was no longer so.

Seven roses redder than blood, seven silken shirts as well, seven names I give to you, but I want your ring in return.

'You haven't come here to hunt,' said Darach. He'd come silently through the forest, his footfalls softer than a breath of air.

'I need your help,' said Loril. He turned, hesitant, his anxiety written on his face. 'If you will.'

The gardener shrugged. 'If I can.'

'So, walk a little further with me and I will show you something.'

The legend, the story-teller had said, had been embellished and embroidered, and it was impossible to tell what was truth and what was fantasy, but that, he said with a smile and a sad shake of his head, was the nature of legends.

But Loril, when he parted the fronds of fern that concealed the cave behind the waterfall, knew truth from lies.

Seven steeds white as snow, seven swans on the silent lake...

Behind him, Darach coughed nervously. 'I warn you, I will be missed,' he said with a little laugh.

'By the Queen? Don't worry, I have no intention of killing you. Or allowing you to be killed by others, if I can prevent it. And I wouldn't underestimate my ability to do that.'

'Oh. Good.'

Inside the cave the light faded rapidly, despite the dappled, sparkling sunlight that filtered through the waterfall. Though the cave mouth was wide, the light penetrated only a few feet into the damp, rocky interior, and Loril was forced to resort to magic. Breathing on his palm, he held it up in front of him and muttered a few words.

'Ah, you're from the old tribes,' said Darach, his eyes widening at the sight of the pale orb of faintly yellow light that floated a few inches above Loril's palm. Its light was weak, but enough. Loril said nothing, but beckoned him further into the cave.

Edwin sank his feet into a bowl of hot salted water and ground his teeth to keep from screaming like a girl. Blisters, sores - his feet were little more than bloodied strips of flesh and bone, and his boots had been consigned to the fire. What was left of them.

Opposite him, Henwyn cradled a tankard of dark ale, his own boots scarcely even dusty. Edwin decided, after half a day of being unsure, that he hated the elf.

'How far do you think you'd have to walk to get to Thomas, in Elfland?' asked Henwyn. 'How does forty days through red blood, to your knee, sound? And here you are, with your feet in tatters, and your head in your hands, after a mere twenty miles or so.'

'Twenty miles? Hah.'

'Indeed.' Henwyn leaned over the arm of his chair to pour more ale, and handed a cup to Edwin. 'You seem to think I'm your enemy.'

'Aren't you?'

'No-one is. Unless it be yourself.'

'You're driving me insane,' said Edwin. 'That seems evidence enough for me.' He knocked back the ale in one draught, and reached for the jug to pour more. Henwyn moved it out of the way. 'Oh, come on! I'm not going anywhere for several days, you might as well let me get drunk!'

'I saw two red and white hounds,' said Henwyn, half to himself, 'and behind them a hunter, dark of hair and eye, under an old oak, its roots soaked in blood. You will not get drunk. Thomas needs you.'

Edwin's skin crawled. 'What?'

'He's in danger.'

'I know he is! The Queen's found him, and...'

'It's not the Queen,' said Henwyn. He unfolded himself from his chair and moved silently to the window. He pulled the shutters closed, though the daylight was not yet faded. The landlord, about to protest he did not have candles to light whilst it was still light, shut his mouth again at Henwyn's scowl.

Edwin beckoned for more hot water and salt. 'Then who, Henwyn? By God, I wish you would just out with it, instead of making me play guessing games! Say what's on your mind. Tell me the truth.'

'Ah, but when did you meet an elf who told the truth?' Henwyn laughed. 'No, no. I don't tell you more because I do not know more. Listen.' He sat down again and leaned towards Edwin, his voice hushed. 'I am of the old tribes. I have...certain gifts that others do not.'

'Like Lord Hart's people?'

'Just so. I am a Dreamer. I can...see things. Not visions. Or portents. But shadows, echoes of what is hatching. It's how I manage to be where I'm needed - as I was in the inn when you and Thomas arrived, as I was outside Hart's castle. But there are places I can no longer go, for the old tribes are outlaws and outcasts, those that are left. If I am seen in Elfland, I will die.'

'Suits me! From the day you turned up, there has been nothing but trouble,' snapped Edwin. 'But go on. You're going to tell me what hunts Tom and how I get him back.'

'No,' said Henwyn. 'I can't. I don't know. But you have to get into Elfland, and I have to find a way to get you in. How am I going to do it? Beats me!'

Edwin sighed. For a brief moment he'd seen what he thought was the real Henwyn, a serious man who wished to help him, or help Thomas at least. But now the Henwyn he knew was back, flippant, blase, and altogether the most annoying person he'd ever met.

He hissed in through his teeth as the landlord tipped more hot salted water into his foot bowl, and wondered if he'd ever see Thomas again.