by C S Marks
"Good heavens! We have much to do to make ready, and the hour is late. My name is Nasülle, and I am an apprentice healer. I have been sent to prepare you for tonight."
"Yes, I’ve seen you before. You have some skill in the healing arts. You are the one who gave me the sleeping-draught, I believe. Quite unprincipled of you to take advantage of my weakness…restorative draught, indeed! But I see you have other skills as well." Gaelen was looking rather pointedly at Nasülle’s perfect hair.
Nasülle drew a comb from her basket and approached Gaelen. "Let’s see what we can do with this. When I am finished, you will not know yourself. You sit at Lord Magra’s right hand tonight—you should look the part."
Gaelen sighed, resigned to Nasülle’s attentions. It took a while to tame Gaelen’s hair into a satisfactory form, and Nasülle changed her tactics several times before she was finally satisfied. When she had finished, even Nelwyn might have needed to look twice to recognize her cousin. "Come on, then, and let us get you dressed and ready," said Nasülle, admiring her handiwork. She brought in the attire that Magra had sent, and Gaelen snorted most inappropriately.
"I cannot wear this! I shall look absurd. This was made for some high-and-mighty personage that I’m certain bore little resemblance to myself. Besides, it’s too long for me, and I shall no doubt stumble over it."
"You can wear it, and you shall," Nasülle insisted. "It’s my job to make certain that it is a perfect fit. You needn’t worry about stumbling over it. What, would you appear at this gathering in your traveling clothes? Do you understand the honor done you by Lord Magra? You shall be admired by all tonight and envied by a few. I have labored long already to make you presentable, and you shall be presentable!" There commenced a brief verbal struggle over whether Gaelen would suffer herself to be thus attired, but she gave in and endured Nasülle’s attentions once again. When she had finished, Gaelen looked magnificent. As predicted, she did not know herself. Who was this strange, elegant creature staring wide-eyed from the glass? "Hurry along, for the feast may have started by now," said Nasülle.
"They are most likely waiting for you. Hurry along!"
Gaelen made her way to the wide veranda where the feast would be held, hoping her late arrival would not be noticed.
The veranda was positively grand. Tables had been set with glittering crystal and silver, and laden with delicacies of all sorts. Everyone looked resplendent, especially Magra, who was arrayed all in sky blue and silver. Strong and silent, his blue eyes were serene as he surveyed the scene before him. Beside him was an empty place at the table, undoubtedly intended for Gaelen. To the right of this sat Rogond, darkly handsome in tailored, elegant slate blue trimmed with black. Lady Ordath sat at Magra’s left on a slightly raised dais, as befitted her station, and was attired in white and gold, her long dark tresses woven and set with wildflowers. Beside her sat Galador, then Nelwyn, and finally Elethorn. Galador wore light grey trimmed in a deep purple, which was pleasing next to the silky lavender gown worn by Nelwyn. Her golden hair was also adorned with spring flowers, and she looked both strong and radiant.
Gaelen’s hope of an inconspicuous entrance was dashed as Magra beheld her and rose to his feet. Rogond looked over at her, and his jaw dropped. He had never seen Gaelen attired as anything other than a hunter-scout in breeches, boots, tunic, and cloak. She lifted her chin as all eyes turned to her for a moment, responding to Magra’s rising to greet her. She flushed as he indicated the seat at his right, but as she approached she smiled at Rogond, who had by now also risen to his feet, cocking one eyebrow at the purple evening sky. Her expression in return was clear—what did he think he was staring at? He lowered his eyes in respect.
Gaelen’s gown was of pale ivory, trimmed with silver and pearl, and her soft, shining hair was perfectly arranged, garlanded with pale blue and white flowers and held in place by an intricately woven circlet of silver. Her large, bright eyes shone with an inner light, and the ivory gown contrasted with her tawny complexion. She was positively lustrous. Nelwyn and Galador both nodded in greeting as Magra took Gaelen’s arm, directing her to sit beside him and smiling in approval. When he sat back down, all turned their attention to Lady Ordath.
The Lady rose to her feet, proclaiming the purpose of the celebration. All lifted their goblets in honor of the visitors, whose courage and sacrifice had restored Elethorn to them, and bowed their heads in remembrance of those lost. When Ordath finished, she called for the feast to begin. Everyone ate and drank and talked for hours. Gaelen wondered at the empty plate and goblet that had been set beside Magra, and then she realized that it was in honor of Gelmyr. Magra took his own goblet, filled it, and poured half of the wine into that set for Gelmyr. Then he lifted his glass and drained it, speaking too softly for any but Gaelen to hear. When he set his own goblet back down, he sat for a moment with his eyes closed and his head bowed. Gaelen did not disturb him, for she knew the pain of his loss.
At last he turned to her, as music filled the skies, and some began dancing. Galador and Nelwyn were already among them, stately and graceful, moving as though of one body. Gaelen watched them wistfully, her heart aching for the kind of devotion that Nelwyn had found in Galador. She had once known such devotion, but it had been taken from her.
Magra mistook this wistfulness as a sign that Gaelen simply wanted to join the dance. Rogond, who by now knew her fairly well and was attuned to her feelings, started to ask her, but was too late. Lord Magra took Gaelen’s hand and led her to the floor.
Rogond watched the Elves as they performed their elegant, refined dances, male and female moving together as one. He looked with misty eyes upon Nelwyn and Galador, who had eyes only for one another, and upon Gaelen and Magra, tonight impossibly beautiful, powerful, and… Elven. More than ever, Rogond wished that he had been numbered among those of immortal race and could share in their fate, forsaking death and what lay beyond it for the endless days they enjoyed. He desired Gaelen deep in his heart, wishing that he could trade places with Magra and thus be free to court her openly.
The combination of the wine, the music, the sight of Gaelen so attired, and the keen glance of Magra kindled a boldness in Rogond that he had seldom allowed in the presence of the Elves. He was dismayed and sought to quell his impulses before he gave in to them, for he knew they would not be well received. Magra was in total possession of Gaelen tonight, or at least, so it appeared. Rogond noted with some uneasiness that his hands were clenched in his lap. This was most unworthy—to be jealous of the attention of an Elf-lord to one such as Gaelen. Why would Magra not turn his attention to her? She was the most radiant, most perfect, most spirited of all the Elàni in Rogond’s eyes. Perhaps another glass of wine would relax him and turn his thoughts aside.
This strategy did not work, however, as the wine only seemed to further embolden Rogond, and he realized that he should drink no more of it. Pushing his crystal goblet away, he surveyed the scene, looking for anything that would divert him. Then his gaze fell on Fima, who was still at the table, eating and drinking with another dwarf and one of the Elvish healers. This appeared to be a merry gathering, exactly what Rogond needed to take his mind from the tall Elf-lord who was presently occupying the attentions of his only love. He rose and moved to join Fima and the healer, who made him welcome.
Fima suspected that sitting alone watching Magra with Gaelen would not be to Rogond’s liking. "You are very subdued tonight, my young Aridan," he said, watching Rogond look sidelong at Magra, who was at that moment being disgustingly charming.
Rogond drew a deep breath. "I have never been one for this sort of formal revelry. Perhaps I should excuse myself and return to my chamber, for tomorrow will be a very long day, and I have much to think about."
Fima smiled and shook his head, then leaned over and spoke quietly to Rogond. "First think about this—running away won’t solve your dilemma, my friend. If you want that Elf, go and take her. If you ask, and she accepts, you shall have your answer. Magra cannot int
erfere with her choices, lord though he is. You are as worthy as are any of these folk, but they have trained you well, so that you do not see it. Go on and take her! If you don’t, you’ll regret it. I suspect that Magra only toys with her anyway, as she is but a Sylvan rustic, and he is a powerful Elf-lord. You must trust her. Think of all you have seen and been through with her; she will honor it. Besides," he added with a sly wink, "I would very much like to see the two of you dance together. It would gladden my heart."
Rogond’s eyes flashed at the thought of Magra’s toying with Gaelen. He wondered how the great Elf-lord would have fared against Gorgon—would he have discovered the creature’s hidden weakness, as had the Sylvan rustic? He resolved to take Fima’s advice. "Then you shall see it," he declared, getting to his feet.
Fima nodded in approval and clapped Rogond on the arm, sending him forth. "Go on and take her, my friend," he repeated, then rose and worked his way over to the musicians. He spoke urgently to one of them, pressing a few coins into his hand.
Magra and Gaelen were standing together, speaking in low voices, waiting for the music to resume. Magra had been entirely focused on his companion, ignoring all attempts at distraction by the Elves of Mountain-home, several of whom also desired his company.
Nelwyn and Galador, flushed with the excitement of the evening, approached Gaelen, who asked if they had seen Rogond. Then she heard a voice from behind her right shoulder.
"He is here," said Rogond as she turned to face him, "and he would dance with you. Will you have him?"
Things grew quiet around them for a moment, as Gaelen considered. Several of the Elves of Mountain-home had ceased their conversation and turned their attention to Lord Magra and his companion, who had just been asked to dance by Rogond of the Tuathar. Rogond and Magra knew one another, and there was no enmity between them, at least not until now. But the Elves were understandably curious as to Gaelen’s choice and the reaction of either Magra or Rogond to it.
Gaelen, who in her naïveté had no idea of the significance of her next act, took Rogond’s hand and followed him without so much as a backward glance at the tall Elf-lord. Magra was somewhat taken aback, though he did not reveal it.
Galador quickly stepped in. "They are good friends, Lord Magra, but friends only. It was generous of you to allow this intrusion."
"It is of no consequence," replied Magra with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I must speak with Lady Ordath at any rate, and this time alone is appreciated. But your friend Rogond, I fear, takes an ill-fated path, for I know Gaelen of old, and I know her heart’s desire. She longs for that which she cannot have. All hope of winning her is vain." He looked hard at Galador, and his next remark was chilly. "It would be best if your friend became aware of this, as I sense his interests in her are far less casual than are mine." So saying, he returned to the table, there to occupy himself in conversation with Ordath.
As soon as Lord Magra had gone, Galador turned to Nelwyn. "What did he mean by all that?" he asked, puzzled.
Nelwyn shook her head. "You will have to learn it from Gaelen herself, if you want to know, but even Magra does not hold all the knowledge of her that he believes he does. Though it is possibly true that Gaelen will never fully give herself to another of Elven-kind, Rogond’s hopes are not in vain." She embraced Galador, who was more confused than ever. "Do not try to make sense of this now, as I will speak no more of it," she implored him. "Let’s return to the dance."
At last the musicians resumed playing, but rather than the slow, cadenced, deliberate tempo that had dominated much of the evening, this was faster, lighter, and more abandoned. Such music was favored by the Wood-elves of the Greatwood and of the Verdant Mountains, though it seemed a bit out of place in the court of Mountain-home. Rogond and Gaelen knew it at once. Gaelen tossed her head, knocking her garland askew, and was soon dancing in the manner of her people—a lively, springy dance with much elaborate footwork. Rogond also knew this dance (as Fima had been perfectly aware), and they moved expertly together.
The Elves of Mountain-home delighted in watching their energetic performance, and some even joined them. The others clapped their hands and sang snatches of the tune as they could. The level of merriment reached its peak, and the song ended.
Rogond and Gaelen were now flushed and breathing hard from their efforts, but both felt much better for it. Gaelen’s perfect hair had come undone and now displayed its usual windblown untidiness; she looked very much the Sylvan rustic.
Rogond bowed before her, turned toward his good friend Fima with a nod and, with a last acknowledgment of Nelwyn and Galador, he took his leave. He paused to bid good evening to Lady Ordath and to thank her. Ordath nodded, but her gaze, though gentle, was stern. Magra also nodded toward him. "Aridan," he said, with a courtesy in his voice that did not extend to his eyes.
Many thoughts grew in many hearts that night in Mountain- home. Rogond returned alone to his chamber, his courage waning with the influence of the wine. He began to doubt the wisdom of his bold possession of Gaelen at the feast. She would almost certainly ask him about it. What in the world had Fima been thinking? "Go and take her," indeed! Now he would have to explain himself to her satisfaction and at least partly reveal his desires to her. What, then, would she do? What if she rejected him utterly? He supposed she would insist that he leave her to face Gorgon without him. On the other hand, he did not believe that she would scorn him. She had gone willingly to the dance, the light of her eyes was not tainted by disdain, and her voice held no derision of him as she said goodnight. On the other hand, she was no mortal.
Rogond had not meant to show discourtesy to Lord Magra, either. Despite Fima’s insinuations, there was no evidence that Magra’s affection for Gaelen was anything but genuine. Tomorrow Rogond would find him and apologize. His face burned as he thought of it.
Ordath knew the truth of Rogond’s feelings, and she had always been kind to him, even somewhat motherly. Perhaps it would be prudent to seek her advice in this matter, though he thought he knew what she would say, and he dreaded hearing it. Once given, such advice would be difficult to disregard. Rogond wished for a moment that he had just a bit more of Gaelen’s self-willed nature; she didn’t balk at disregarding advice from anyone, but followed the desires of her heart. She judged all advice on its merit and always against the standard of her opinion, whether it came from Elf-lord, Sylvan rustic, or mortal man.
Rogond truly loved the civility of Mountain-home, but he found himself wishing for the wilderness and for the company of his own people. They judged him always by his actions and not by his heritage. They were now so few, and there was much work to be done.
Shaking these thoughts from his mind, Rogond tried to take rest before the dawn came, but found that it eluded him. His main comfort came from thoughts of finding Fima in the morning and having a few words with him concerning his manipulation of the actions of a certain wine-besotted Aridan, playing on his feelings for one fair, immortal, headstrong Sylvan rustic.
Gaelen had settled in a warm, moss-covered niche overlooking the water. She drew her battered cloak around her, relishing the feel of her familiar clothing, and settled back to rest, though she found that she could not. She had taken leave of Magra, Galador, and Nelwyn not long after Rogond’s departure. She stayed long enough to dance with Magra again, promising to teach him some of the Sylvan way, as he in turn offered to aid her in mastering the longbow. With a last, gentle farewell, she had left him, pausing and bowing before Lady Ordath. The Lady’s expression was enigmatic. Gaelen could not tell whether she was displeased, concerned, or attempting to be dispassionate, but she read something there. Certainly Gaelen did not wish to offend the Lady, but she could not imagine how she might have done so.
She wondered about her friend Rogond, who knew so much of the ways of her people. She liked him immensely, even loved him in her way. She had grown so fond of him in the past few months that she was beginning to be unable to imagine traveling without him, as though he ha
d always been at her side. He was faithful, courageous, considerate, and not in the least arrogant or willful. She admired his skill in battle, but even more the complex workings of his mind and the seeming simplicity of his heart. Alas that he was of mortal race, for he would remain in her world only for a brief while. And where he went after, she could not follow.
Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes as she thought of that parting, which would come no matter what their fates held. She thought it very likely that one or both of them would perish in the upcoming struggle with the Dark Horror that brooded now beneath the mountain. She wiped the tears away quickly, though none would witness them. Did she cry for Rogond, at the thought of saying goodbye, or for herself ? The answer to that question lay in her past, in a land far to the north of the Greatwood, and in the Vault of Eternity.
Nelwyn and Galador lay together in a fair glade beside gently flowing waters, breathing in the heady scent of the new spring blooms and embracing beneath the stars. Galador had given himself over completely to this deeply passionate, beautiful maiden who now declared her love for him. She had reached into his very soul, extracted the poisoned dart of his suffering, and cleansed his heart, opening it anew. Though he would always carry his love for Gwynnyth, he had learned that there was room in his heart also for Nelwyn, whose light would fill the emptiness of his life both now and through eternity. His joy could not be quenched, and he threw his head back and laughed aloud, as Nelwyn smiled back at him. "Why do you laugh, my love?"
"Because I am filled with joy at this fate, which though it had seemed so desolate, I would not now trade with any in this world. It has been long since I laughed in joy, as I do now." This said, he held her in a passionate embrace, and they kissed for the first of many times that night. As Galador beheld his perfect, loving companion who now held absolute dominion over the desire of his heart, he knew that he was ready to dedicate himself to her utterly, to die for her if need be.