“Shall we be off?” he asked, pointing to the first of their daily markers with his stick.

Deglan bit through his apple. “Charge.”

Thankfully, their way was flat and even for most of the day, a wandering valley trail shaded darkly by the close trees. Blink stayed ahead as their little forward scout and Deglan was able to walk next to Curdle on the easy path.

“My pardons,” Deglan ventured, breaking several hours of silence, “if my words offended last night.”

“No need,” Curdle replied. “You are welcome to your opinion. I have heard worse, believe me. We hobgoblins are caught between two worlds, and must accept the turmoil of our choice. It is you I feel pity for, Master Loamtoes. Your world has been entirely shattered, and for that, you have my sympathy.”

Deglan shook the comment off. “I turned my back on Toad Holm centuries ago. I should have listened to wiser words and never returned.”

“Perhaps,” Curdle said. “But your anger with your own people did not include the betrayal you now feel. That the gnomes would welcome us goblins back is one matter. That they would aid the Red Caps in freeing the Flame Binder is another entirely. And it is in that matter where I share your feelings.”

“Why was he ever allowed to live?”

“Many were put to death,” Curdle’s tone was resigned. “But with each fall of the headsman’s axe, the others grew stronger, the Fire leaving the fallen to live in the survivors. We goblins are not like the other elementals, Deglan. We stole Fire. It was not ours by right. And though we are kin to gnomes, the blessings of Earth were denied us when Ghob supplanted the dragons. Magic flows through our veins as it does with all Fae, but we remain mongrels, disinherited from Earth and Stone and illegitimate impostors to Fire.

“Even you, a simple herbalist, can call upon the Earth to aid you. While you do not possess the power of an Earth Shaper, the element will not deny your birthright. As a goblin, I can no more call upon Earth than I can Fire, both are denied to me. For my kind, the direct use of Magic must be attained through other means and disciplines. Only a very few of us can manipulate the flames and call them to our will, and the path to such craft is a perilous one. The Flame Binders were a dangerous power in the world, and their greatest act of madness was giving the spark of life to the constructs of the goblin foundries, making them living iron. That they then granted control of the Forge Born to the Goblin Kings only further proves their deranged devotion to their mortal rulers.