by Sean Hinn
Pride and shame. Honor and regret. These are the things a Knight of the Wood thinks on, he considered. Even a wrinkled one.
As for regrets, Neral carried but one. His inability to protect his son Banor on the Praër of Thornwood those many years ago haunted him still, and would continue to do so until his last day. Well-meaning friends and family had promised him that in time the wound would heal. Scar over, at least. It had not. Every mention through the centuries of his heroics on the Praër had been punctuated with a knowing nod, a sidelong glance, or an expression of pity. The looks…the hesitations…all conveyed with respect, Neral knew. Yet they cut, oh how they cut. The wise goodfather Neral knew that death was but a part of life; no edict of creation promised that a son would outlive his father. In his heart Neral was no goodfather, no wizened elder to be revered; he was still the young Captain Neral Evanti. Brother to the King. Leader of the Elven Cavalry. Knight of Thornwood. Warrior. Soldier.
Father.
Neral shook himself free of the memory before the usual moment where he would recall the face of his son. He shut his mind tightly against the recollection, forcing himself to think on the matters of the present as he crawled beneath his blankets.
“They have made the Grove,” he said aloud to himself. “All but one.” The winds had brought news of Captain Elmshadow’s struggles on the road. Mistress Pheonaris must have considered his failure significant enough to spend the magic required to send Neral word; casting the Speech over such distances, even with the assistance of the winds, came with a cost. The important thing was that Princess Aria was safe, Neral decided, though he was saddened to hear that Mikallis had failed his niece. He loves the girl, and this shame may break him.
Neral leaned and stretched to dim the lamp that sat upon his bedside table, the traditional gift given to him by his late wife on their Joining day. In Thornwood, the Gifts of Light were the final ceremonial endowments a newly wedded couple bestowed upon each other before their first night together as wife and husband. Each night in the thirty-two-day cycle leading up to their Joining, promised elves of Thornwood would pray and meditate, releasing bits of magic - indeed, fragments of their deepest selves–into their lamps. Their love for one another would fuel the lanterns; the intensity and endurance of the glow would prove the strength of passion and commitment they held for their betrothed. At the conclusion of a Joining celebration, those in attendance would walk behind the couple to their home, waiting in silent vigil for the radiance from within to signify that the Gifts had been given. Only when the lights began to shine would a couple be considered truly wedded; only when the lamps were finally dimmed for the night would the witnesses return to their homes.
On such a night, nearly four hundred years past, Elisia and Neral had given their Gifts, and the light from their windows that night made clear that theirs was a love that would endure. It had, beyond death, for even now the lamp at Neral’s bedside could glow as brightly as it had that first night. Its twin, given by Neral to his wife, sat lit on the opposite bedtable; it had illuminated this room since Elisia had fallen to the Strife nearly three centuries prior, as brightly as on the day it was given. Neral knew it would continue to do so long after his days upon Tahr were past.
As he dimmed the lamps with a thought, another glow became visible in the darkened room, this one emanating from beneath the thick blankets covering Neral. Va Gran e Da, The Reward of the Father, was believed by many elves to be no more than a myth. The faintly glowing Mark, bestowed upon one who had made an ultimate sacrifice for another, or for one’s people, could not be seen by others who did not themselves carry it. Even among those it was visible only in the deepest dark, in the most quiet of moments. The Mark was a gift, it was said–a reward from the First Father signifying that its owner would one day be given final Audience and granted a choice of destinations in the next life. The presence of the Mark did not come without pain, however; the glowing half-circle on one’s breast served as a reminder to its carrier of the sacrifice made. It was believed that the Reward of the Father - the knowing that one had earned his or her place in the afterlife–must necessarily come with such a reminder; without it, the grief that often accompanied such a sacrifice could drive even the most selfless elf to forget the goodness of their act, and perhaps lead them to lose their way.
At moments like these, Neral could not help but resent his Mark, to a degree at least. He needed no such reminder; the void in his heart could never be filled, and its emptiness could not be ignored. Yet he knew his resentment to be foolish, and he consoled himself with the idea that, perhaps, when he would finally meet the Father, he would be given to know which of his available paths would lead him to his Banor, and to his Elisia. When the time came for his Audience, that question would be the only one that mattered; his assured opportunity to ask was a gift greater than any he could want.
Neral felt the first waves of sleep overtaking him, his thoughts no longer congruent but rather wispy and disconnected. He smiled wanly, pleased to reach the conclusion of another day. Consciousness faded to mist as colorful yet undefined dreams splashed against the shores of his mind.
Neral’s eyes flew open when the rending of the Citadel began. He sat upright in his bed as he sensed the first shudders of the quake and tried to clear his mind, needing only a moment to send his elven awareness beyond the small room and throughout the Citadel. As his bed bounced violently, its wooden frame fracturing and snapping, he sensed chiefly the fear emanating from hundreds, thousands of his fellow elves. The shaking intensified and he attempted to steady himself, reaching vainly for his staff in the dim light. The legs of his bed finally shattered; he bounced and was thrown to the floor, smashing his face against the hard wood just as an overhead support cracked and separated from its iron braces. He rolled to his back in time to see the enormous beam plummeting from the ceiling; he knew he could not evade its crushing descent. The large framed painting of Eyreloch that hung above his bed rocked from its mount and cruelly smashed Elisia’s lamp, foul and remorseless chance extinguishing its light forever. He did not have time to lament its loss, however, for a fraction of a moment later, the falling beam smashed his last breath from his lungs.
His final thought was not of his lamp, nor of Elisia, nor even his Banor. Captain Neral Evanti, Goodfather of Thornwood, felt only shame–he would be found by his people, helplessly dead on the floor, in his nightclothes.
~
Chips of stone and wood rained down upon Queen Terrias Evanti as she knelt, concentrated on maintaining the spell she hoped would preserve the Citadel. It would not. There was no known incantation for stopping a tahrquake, and though she pulled deeply and desperately from the reservoir of life within her, she could not manage even a slight lessening of the shaking. Abandoning the effort, she made for her balcony, crawling on all fours; trying for the stairs, she knew, would spell her doom. Her knees bruised against the floor and her back and head were struck repeatedly by falling debris as she clawed her way past the threshold of her chamber and into the night air. Blood streaked her long platinum hair. She steadied herself against the balustrade and looked down through the rails; nearly a hundred feet below she could see elves pouring out of the Citadel entrance as the quake continued, the waves of violent shuddering refusing to cease. A great cracking-tearing-ripping sound behind her and a brief sense of vertigo told her that the Citadel was crumbling; the ancient elven castle would not withstand this assault. The mayhem continued and the queen tried frantically to gain her feet, but could not. Only the flickering blue lamps along the flagstone path leading from the Citadel allowed her any sense of her surroundings, though even they were beginning to wink out - but not before Terrias Evanti saw that her position relative to the ground was changing.
The Citadel had been cleaved in two, and the halves had begun a race to the ground.
The balcony she knelt on began its descent. Screams filled the night air, horrible shrieks of pain and terror accompanying the sound of snapping ston
e, rending beams and crashing rubble. Queen Evanti knew she could not save those within the Citadel; her power was not sufficient. A thousand elves or more would die, but she could do nothing; she must now save herself.
Inhale.
Centering herself, drawing on the life within her, the queen coiled and sprang from the balcony into the chill blackness, tendrils of her consciousness grasping at the very air, seeking communion with the wind itself. She had not used the Float spell since her childhood; the energies required were great and the cost was significant. A moment such as this, however, was why the spell had been created; her survival now depended on her ability to recall the technique. She struggled for an instant but soon felt the familiar alignment between her spirit and the world around her snap into place. She was rewarded with a sluggish arresting of her momentum as time slowed, but was not out of danger; behind her, a falling castle took aim.
Exhale.
Her angle of flight from the balcony had been poor; she floated in mid-air directly in the path of the collapsing structure. She could see that the shaking had not yet relented, and above her position, the great spire that extended from the dome atop the Citadel had broken free. She sensed more than saw the enormous shadowy spike, only slightly darker than the night sky, carving through the air towards her.
Inhale.
Queen Evanti dove deeper within herself, gathering power as she hovered. She spun to face the collapsing Citadel. She closed her eyes, focused her life’s energies, and extended her arms to her sides–then clapped her hands together with a deafening report. A thunderous wave of sound emanated from the point where her hands struck together, disintegrating the shards of stone that were falling around her, blasting against the plummeting castle and demolishing her balcony. A powerful reverberation returned to her, rebounding from the stone and propelling her floating body out into the night. The very tip of the falling iron spire sliced through the air between her and the Citadel, missing her flesh by a finger, slicing just past the hem of her silvery nightgown.
Exhale.
The queen cautiously and gradually staunched the flow of her life’s energies into the Float spell as she sensed, more than heard, the ancient Citadel smash itself to the ground, crushing the throngs of fleeing elves below. She could not then know whether the quake had stopped; the reverberation of the Thunder spell she had cast had rendered her deaf for the moment. Fighting her instinct to keep her eyes tightly closed, she tried vainly to see below her, but the lights along the path were no longer visible. The night was nearly black, and what little light her eyes might have sensed was now obscured by dust. Yet she knew that countless elves had just died; as Queen of Thornwood, her senses were attuned to the lives of her people. A tragedy such as this would assault her from within, no matter her proximity.
As the ancient Citadel smashed the life from her people, Queen Evanti felt as if her very soul had been pierced by a thousand swords.
A painful whistling sound in her ears signaled that her hearing was returning just as her feet reached the ground. Gasping for breath from her magical exertions, she steadied herself and squinted into the darkness, seeing for the first time the light of fires that had begun to spread within the rubble. Now she remembered: the great Hearth of the Citadel had been lit for the first time of the season that very morning, the temperature finally becoming cool enough to justify the burning of the year’s collected deadfall. Terrias Evanti had lit the fire at the morning’s ceremony herself, to the applause of many assembled elves. That fire now threatened to consume the rubble of the castle.
The queen wondered in terror if any of her people would also be consumed by that fire. As her hearing cruelly returned, the screams of agony gave answer to her dread.
VIII: THE GROVE
The scent of cooking meat wafted through the air to awaken Aria’s hunger as she and Barris made their way to greet their dwarven guests. She had not eaten for days, not since the night before the quake at the Morline. While the waters of the Spring had helped her recover from the ride, there was no substitute for food in this world, magical water notwithstanding. A gathering of several dozen elves and a handful of dwarves were settling in their seats at the long tables that circled the outdoor hearth when the initiate Petahr stood excitedly.
“Princess! You are well!”
Aria smiled nervously as the dwarves and elves stood to greet her. She glanced to Pheonaris; the Mistress’ expression buoyed her.
“I am, Petahr. Thank you.” She looked to the table where the dwarves sat, bowing demurely and preparing to address their guests. Pheonaris turned to face one of the dwarves, and spoke first.
“Prince J’arn Silverstone, I present to you Aria Evanti, Princess of Thornwood, Sister of the Grove and Heir to the Seat of the Wood.”
All eyes were on Aria as the young elven woman did her best to appear stately. She faced the bearded prince. “You are welcome, Firstson of Belgorne, you and your kin.”
“Aye, Princess, I thank ye.” J’arn bowed in return. “We’ve heard ye had a rough ride these past days. If ye need time to rest before we speak, ye take as much time as ye need.”
Aria was not sure if the prince was being sincere, or rather implying that he sensed weakness within her. Dwarves were known to be blunt, even rude some would say. Aria straightened.
“I could use a meal, Prince J’arn. That I will admit. And it would seem you have provided one. It smells wonderful; do I understand correctly that you cooked it yourself?”
J’arn nodded, his face unreadable in the dim sparklight of the enchanted lamps surrounding the clearing. “Aye. When we dwarves travel, we all pull our weight. Tonight be my turn at the pot, though the recipe be Boot’s. I present to ye Kelgarr, Boot to some, head engineer on this expedition. This here be Garlan, my forgemaster; Sergeant Rocks, and brothers Narl and Fannor.” The dwarves each nodded as J’arn named them. “We’ve another with us, a young gnomish woman named Shyla, but I am not sure where she’s gone–”
“I have met her briefly, her and Wolf. Did you bring her with you on this journey, or…?”
“I’ll let her tell ye herself, me lady. Her tale be her own.”
Aria nodded. “I look forward to hearing it. And yours. May I join you at your table?”
“Aye, Lady, we saved ye seats.” This from Boot. “There be room for four, ye three and Miss Shyla when she comes back. Please sit and let’s get some stew in ye. And in me.” J’arn shot Boot a look; it should have been J’arn to reply. Boot shot it right back. “Dammit, J’arn, the two of ye will nod and smile for an hour if I didn’t say somethin’. I be hungry.” The dwarves all laughed, J’arn included. Barris pulled a chair out for Aria, and they sat to begin their meal.
~
Lucan sat upright for the first time in days and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The Vicaris had turned her back, placing another log on the fire, and he sensed that if he didn’t do so now she would prevent him. She turned from the hearth and scolded him immediately.
“Oh, no you don’t. You’re not ready to go running off just yet. Lie back down, mister.”
“I’m fine, ma’am. Really. Just give me a turn to clear my head and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“You’re not in my hair, you’re in my bed. Where you belong. Now lie back down.”
Lucan smiled mischievously. “Well, if you insist, but we should get to know each other first…”
“In your wildest dreams, little man. And don’t even bother trying to charm me, you’ll stay right where–”
A sudden, furious scratching at the door interrupted Trellia’s reprimand.
“What in Fury was that?” asked Lucan.
“How should I know?” the Vicaris replied. The scratching returned.
“It sounds like a dog.”
Trellia rolled her eyes. “Charming and clever. How do they resist you, I wonder?” She rose and walked to the door. She pulled it open and a small, dark animal rushed in between her legs. “What the–”
Wolf crossed the room and raced directly to Lucan. He began to bark at the young man.
“Uh, hello there,” Lucan said.
Wolf continued to bark and whine at Lucan.
“Well, he sure doesn’t like you, does he?” said Trellia.
“Nah, I’m sure he likes me! Dontcha, boy…” Lucan reached for the animal, but he ducked from his hand and nipped at his ankle, snatching at his pants leg. “Hey, what in Fury do you think you’re doing there?” Wolf tugged fiercely at the fabric as a voice interrupted his growling.
“Wolf! Stop that right now!” A tiny red-haired pigtailed girl shouted from the doorway of the cabin. “Oh Fury, I’m sorry, Lady Vicaris, I don’t know what’s gotten into him… Wolf! Come here!”
Lucan stood unsteadily and Wolf released his pants leg, dashing out the door between the Vicaris and Shyla.
Trellia shook her head. “Well, that was odd.”
“Who are you?” Lucan asked.
“Shyla. Who are you?”
“What’s wrong with your dog?”
“What’s a dog?”
“What?”
“What’s a dog?” Shyla asked again. She looked at Trellia. “Can he hear me?” She turned back to Lucan and raised her voice. “I SAID, WHAT’S A DOG–”
“Yes, I can hear you! Fury. That thing that just ran out the door–”
“You mean Wolf?”
“That’s not a wolf. That’s–”
“Whaddya mean it’s not a wolf? Ain’t yeh ever seen a wolf before?”
Lucan looked to Trellia, who offered no help. “Well of course I’ve seen a wolf–”
“Well, he got a long nose, ain’t he?”
“Well, yeah, but–”
“And he got big long teeth, ain’t he?”
“Yeah, but–”
“And he got a long fluffy tail, and big ears, ain’t he?”