by David Rice
“Make a bigger fire?” Olaf suggested.
Grumm’s expression softened. “And I’ll keep some food warm.” Then he took a deep breath and bellowed into the forest. “Ye saved our lives, missy. We’re not goin’ anywhere till we can repay that.”
“She’ll come back,” Olaf reassured his friends.
“I never did,” Plax whispered bitterly. He wandered into the trees and began to gather some more wood. “No one wanted me back.”
Olaf and Grumm built a larger bonfire that made the surrounding snow sizzle. Shyly at first, they shared quiet snippets of their youth while staring into the orange and yellow dance of the flames. Grumm mentioned the girl, Besra, who he hoped to wed one day if he could prove himself to her father and Jarl Volsun. Olaf griped about his debts and the need to redeem his reputation. Plax listened but said little. No one would understand the harshness of his people, or his father.
The fire casually dwindled while the moons began to roam between the silhouettes of the treetops. They were soothed by the crackling music of wood returning to sky and settling to earth until, one by one, the companions curled into their bedrolls and drifted asleep.
***
Kirsten needed to be alone. The snow crunched beneath her feet and fell in hazy wisps from the branches as she passed. Soon she was out of sight of the camp, beyond the smell of their cooking fire, even beyond the sound of Grumm’s occasional shout. The sun was shifting the shadows as she continued to walk, each step forming a cadence with a fresh and troublesome thought. But how many of those intrusive thoughts were her own?
Kirsten’s eyes roamed from tree to tree yet her sight was consumed by the past, and her head rang with lost voices that merged to form a numbing choir. Her father’s anger throbbed low and steady. Helba’s frustration sounded the higher notes. And Raisha, voiceless until after her death, sang a slow lament like a brook running between two savage banks.
Kirsten sank to her knees and closed her eyes. The light wind of the forest fanned the limbs of the evergreens, adding its own notes to the orchestra. Kirsten’s memory sparked with voices from her earliest memories. The brothers and sisters chanting together, their songs echoing from the grounds of the Blackthorn monastery as if the weave itself were playing all of the notes.
All of those voices. All ghosts now.
Except her Papa. Somehow, Kirsten’s heart knew he was still alive. A prisoner of the King. A heretical Starwatcher. And in the eyes of her own mother’s kin, a banished criminal. How could she be anything more, anything different, anything better? Even when her father had been determined to do good, disaster had followed. Helba. Mac. Raisha. Balinor. And now the possible consequences that would follow each of her choices were too terrible to face.
Kirsten fell back into the snow and fine crystals puffed up around her, sparkling briefly in thin shafts of light, and filling her nostrils with cold. Her eyes fixed upon the top of the tallest fir tree as it gestured towards the sky. Fragments of ice upon its distant crown glittered in the sun, blazed against the shadowy blue of approaching dusk as if days and nights were inconsequential. As if the sun and moons came here to pay homage to life itself, life born of the unforgiving northern rock in the midst of a vast unknown. Doomed.
Why had the drakes awakened? What could anyone do? Why did the One not act as had been done ages ago? Kirsten screamed at the sky. Her voice was quick to vanish. She closed her eyes and let the cold embrace her, numbing and quieting the lingering dirge of her lost family.
Calm grey nothingness wrapped around a shrinking world.
Kirsten jolted awake. The sun had moved beyond sight, and a darker pall was filling the forest. An owl cried out, and its haunting call thrummed through her body. Instantly, her stomach panged, and she quaked with shivering. Pushing the fatigue from her bones, she staggered until standing, and stomped her boots against the tingling fire that now burned in her feet.
Kirsten gasped when she realized the voices were gone. Foolish! Foolish, she cursed. What had she done? Enraptured by self-pity, she had abandoned her friends, her sword, even the pendant crafted by her mother. Anger flared, but not at the world this time, at herself. She was better than this. She was not going to be her father. She was going to save him. And, although she had no idea of how to go about it, she’d try to save many, many more. Who else could even try? Prophecy said she had a chance and that had to count for a bit more than her father’s negativity. No one else could wield Fahde.
Kirsten’s mind focused upon a stormcharm, and her lips formed the sounds as carefully as kisses. The weave cascaded through her and pushed all cold away. Sticking out her chin, she regained her orientation. The camp was half a league away, south-west and down slope. One step at a time, Kirsten told herself firmly, to find and forge a better path.
Her stomach panged once more. Grumm’s stew would set things right.
***
Olaf’s shout of alarm woke the others. “It’s gone!”
Grumm had his helm on and his axe in his hands before his feet were firmly planted. His eyes darted to and fro, blinking against the light of dawn. “What’s gone? What is it?”
Plax pointed to a depression in the snow. His heart fell as the words spilled out. “The sword. We didn’t set a watch. The sword is gone.”
Grumm growled and charged towards the spot looking for tracks.
Olaf whistled quietly. “What’re we going to tell Kirsten?”
All three spun when they heard the familiar voice. “That stew wasn’t half bad, Grumm. Had to kick the coals a bit to warm it up.”
“Yer back!” Grumm exclaimed then fought to rein in his energy. Kirsten was once again wearing the sword. Her colour was renewed but there was a sharpness in her eyes that had not been there before.
“Didn’t want to disturb your beauty sleeps,” she added.
Grumm chuckled and Olaf smirked.
Plax approached tentatively and held out the pendant. “Here.”
Kirsten blushed. “I didn’t mean anything by—”
“Nevermind,” Plax whispered. He thrust the pendant towards Kirsten.
She accepted it gently and jammed it into her belt pouch. “Thanks. I managed some sleep for once. Got my appetite back.”
Plax scowled. “Why’d you come back?”
Kirsten’s expression stiffened. “Sorted things out a bit.” “So, we’re going to Longwood?” Grumm asked.
Kirsten nodded firmly. “Can’t change what I am. Can change who I am, though. Might help my Papa after all.”
“Good stuff,” Grumm stated.
“Yeah,” Kirsten answered. “The way I figure it, we’re better off sticking together. And as long as that’s the case, I’m less of a danger if I’m properly trained.”
Grumm smiled. “Let’s pack up and get moving then.”
“There will be patrols along the Halnn Road,” Olaf offered. “Plax and I can take turns scouting ahead.”
Grumm acknowledged the gnome’s comment then faced Kirsten with a sideways grin. “You’re growing up, missy.”
Kirsten scoffed. “Call me missy one more time.”
Grumm’s smirk widened. It was truly welcome to hear Kirsten assert that those days had passed.
V
Longwood was free of all but a dusting of snow, and an air of anxiety followed Eko’s every step. There were drakes in the skies of the world, and invaders upon the north shore of the Raelyn. Yet the elves of his home seemed to feel no stress. Eko could not understand why so many of his people remained disturbingly implacable, even obtuse, in the face of such danger while going through their daily ministrations.
The young sage stopped himself. Of course, there was his Mentor, the ancient scholar Alvilas. Perhaps his desperate warnings about Longwood’s imminent doom were enough to balance the rest. The last thing Eko wanted, he reminded himself, was to become as mad as his Mentor. That would never do.
Once more, Eko opened the bark covered door of the grandest oak of the Heartwood with a
delicately whispered guardcharm. A thin staircase woven from roots spiralled downward to the greatest treasures of the Eldest. At the behest of the Council, Eko and Alvilas had been given access to every scroll of their grand archive. Somewhere in that vast library they hoped to discover clues about the nature of their earliest days, when the drakes flew, when they were reawakened, and how they were forced to slumber. Given the unbridled power of the drakes, Alvilas thought their efforts vain. However, Eko had far more faith in the power of ingenuity and choice. Especially his own.
The stairwell was faintly lit by luminescent lichen upon the curved handrail. Wherever his palm pressed, the lichen blossomed with handprints of moss green or amber light. As he reached the first level of root-woven shelves, he touched small pots of moss and they filled the area with an earthy glow that made Eko smile. The weave was strong here. He was certain that the first sages had been driven by hope to share their fundamental vision, not the doom-tainted and self-fulfilling blindness of Alvilas.
As always, once Eko began to concentrate on the ancient texts, any sense of time’s passage drifted away. Scroll after scroll was carefully uncased, unwound, and read several times. Eko took notes on each, and then applied his own notation to the scroll and the case before returning it to the stack. Prior sages had not been careful to catalogue their knowledge for ease of reference. Eko suppressed a dark chuckle when he thought that a seemingly trivial mistake ages ago might dangerously delay their salvation.
After hundreds of scrolls, Eko yawned and stretched his back. The scrolls seemed to be stored in a simple chronological manner with no concern for indicating the subject matter. In this single grotto of shelves there had been a hundred different subjects from the passage of the seasons to herbal remedies, from joinings and callings to final words of remembrance. Eko grimaced. This would not do. He knew Alvilas would be horrified but he pushed forward without a second thought. He began to create his own notation for subjects. The entire archive would have to be reorganized. He groaned. Such an improvement of the library would take a hundred cycles and, for the first time in the experience of the elves, Eko knew Longwood did not enjoy the luxury of endless time.
Eko sat back wide-eyed. Of course. The scrolls had been stored chronologically. Therefore, accounts of the earliest days must be squirrelled away in the deepest segments of the tree’s old roots. Eko pushed the scrolls away and jammed them roughshod back upon their shelves. Then with a pell-mell dash and a childish “Whoop!” he thundered down the spiral towards the darkest secrets of the Eldest.
VI
It had been a rough journey but Balinor preferred the last of winter’s dry roads to the expectations of spring mud. He had visited three Dukes and four Barons. Two had threatened him with arrest but his courier`s cloak had saved him. Three seemed very pleased although they did well to hide their hope from spying eyes. Another Duke and Baron, both from the Boglands southwest of Lake Halnn, were already worn down by a relentless onslaught of impossible demands. They shared what little supplies they had to offer and were quick to send him on his way.
Now Balinor had arrived where ghosts swirled in his imagination. He stumbled slowly through the stones at the foot of Starwatcher’s tower where he managed to uncover the miraculously undamaged well pump. He was thankful he could give his horse a short rest and clean water. Vargas gratefully lapped from the trough and then chased down a rabbit.
Balinor looked around sadly. A privileged family had once resided here though they never would have admitted it. Instead, the scorched rubble strewn monstrously about spoke of the dangers associated with being too well known. His stomach soured with the disquiet of distant memories. Pushing the past down once more, Balinor strained to examine the ruins carefully. His heart dropped when they drifted across shattered bones and bleached skulls poking from under the collapse. Was it Raisha? Kirsten? Had he been followed when he first visited the tower? Had the girls been murdered because he had left them alone? Upon unsteady legs, he stepped closer.
Vargas whined and sniffed at the blackened rocks. Balinor wiped his eyes and forced himself to concentrate. The bones were about the right size for Kirsten but there were also tinier slivers of ribs that had once been gripped close. A tiny skull, polished by time, poked out from the remains and cast its empty stare back upon him. Balinor stepped backwards with a jolt and reflexively made the sign of the Blackthorn. Those bones weren’t Kirsten or Raisha. They were Muren’s mother and stillborn sister. He was looking upon the tragedy that had sent Muren running from his home so many cycles ago. The choice that had brought Kirsten into this world.
There might still be a chance for the girls. He back pedalled tenderly from the broken sepulcher and focused upon the surroundings. The tower had burned, but the pattern of rubble didn’t indicate a collapse of the upper level. Those smaller stones had been flung in all directions by some unknown force. Had it been an explosion like when Muren had foolishly experimented with the spark, blew up his cabin, and nearly killed himself? No. The girls were too sensible for that, he hoped. At least Raisha would have never allowed it.
Balinor trudged through the scattered debris cirling the tower, examining it closely. Someone else might have been responsible, but who? Elves? Muren had mentioned they could attack Kirsten at any time. He shivered when he remembered the carnage surrounding Muren’s wagon team, and, later, the discovery of Muren’s father in Graniteside, both attacks conducted by a single elf.
It was possible. But the tower was utterly destroyed. IT was so wasteful in its expenditure of energy and not like elves at all. Elves were precise.
Balinor’s lip twisted as he considered the alternatives. During their frequent friendly arguments, Helba had occasionally been forced to admit that the healing chants of the Order could operate like sparkweaving. Oh, how she hated that comparison. But reality is what a person sees after the cause and effect is properly puzzled out. And Balinor was good at puzzles.
His survival as a child required it. He kept snooping through the scrub and lower branches looking for clues that might better speak the truth.
Vargas began pawing and tugging at a scrap of cloth amid the rubble. Balinor approached carefully and wrinkled his nose when Vargas pulled away a sleeve with a desiccated arm attached. Under the grime of decay, Balinor could still recognize the signature style of a monk’s habit. He let out a long sigh. If either of the girls had been killed by the blast, they’d be
in a similar state. But if he couldn’t find their bodies, then—
His heart leapt with excitement. With effort, he pushed it down with a grimace. A sparkle of gold caught Balinor’s attention. When he pulled aside the branches of juniper and brushed away the dirt, his hand closed around an unusual piece of jewellery. It had a thin chain, now broken, and its flowery shape was bent and blackened, yet it was undeniably a symbol that Muren’s family or the girls would never have brought here. Now Balinor was certain of the identity of the attackers and his heart kindled a dry and hateful flame.
Lornen’s soldiers may have come for Muren in the Highlands, he had watched them kill his good friend, Helba, and they had certainly carried out the most dreadful atrocities upon the Order of the Blackthorn, but they may have all been swayed by an older and more powerful force than a King’s decree. They may have been driven by a blind obedience darkened by misdirected faith. The Order of the Amaranth.
If the girls had survived, where would they have gone next? Balinor groaned as he remembered the stubborn curiosity Kirsten and Raisha shared about the elves. Would Kirsten be as foolish as her father to follow in his footsteps? He shook his head because his heart knew the answer as soon as his head formed the question. They would have gone North. Straight into the path of Lornen’s army, an Elven kingdom under siege, and an untamed wild no one braved casually.
Vargas tilted his head, whined softly, and gave him the look.
“Buddy, I have to know where they went. You up to tracking folks for me?”
Vargas yipped
and wagged his tail.
Balinor smiled briefly. Maybe it was duty, maybe guilt, maybe even love, but his heart was compelled to follow the girls. He had to know the truth of their fate. Then he felt the tug of Arundy’s orders reminding him to investigate the Crossroads Abbey. If the Amaranth was behind this attempt on Kirsten, they’d be after Muren as well. He squeezed the holy symbol as if to strangle it, then jammed it roughly into his belt pouch. The sooner he visited the remains of Crossroads Abbey, and then delivered his messages to Graniteside, the better.
VII
Eko had descended to the very bottom and began digging through the scrolls buried in the near dark. Each scroll case cracked loudly as he broke its seal. Each scroll dragged against its confines and puffed flakes of dust as he pulled it into the dim blue light of his sparkwoven globes.
As he read, he gasped repeatedly. The writing was as crisp as a razor and seemed to swim languorously in his sight. It was infused with the weave and each phrase impressed its sounds upon his mind as he read. The earliest experiences of his people danced within him. A people who lived with the purest certainty of purpose. They were the mentors for the races who followed.