Though Morganne appeared to be somewhat shaken, Elowyn wanted her to read on further. She found comfort in this time they were sharing together. Certainly had they remained at home, their mother would not have allowed such a reading to take place, and Elowyn’s interest in the old stories had been renewed by the events unfolding around her. They were no longer simply ancient tales, meant to be quietly kept in leather-bound volumes on dusty shelves. They were lessons in history that had begun to merge with the present in ways she could not have imagined in her days of sitting through lessons at the Temple.
“Is there more?” Elowyn asked timidly.
“Yes,” Morganne replied with an expression of wonder on her face. “There is much more. We have barely begun this little book of Gareth’s. I could study books and scrolls every day for the remainder of my life, and still there would be more. If a simple primer can make my heart quicken so, what other wonders must there be? If only I could go back, and read again the many books Gareth lent me through the years,” she said with wistful regret. “I had no idea at the time what treasures he had placed in my hands. My mind embraced them, but my heart did not believe. Until today, my faith in the Ancients was as lifeless as the pages themselves, though I did not realize it. Today the words of this book have been written on my heart, where they shall live, and grow, and cause me to grow.”
Elowyn could see that this was a moment of transformation for Morganne. She had recognized the look once before, when Morganne had defied their mother, taken a bad beating for it, and laughed with her last conscious breath. Only this transformation had not been borne of perseverance through cruelty, but of a love more pure than the human heart could ever grasp. Elowyn did not fully understand what was happening, and yet she knew that her life was also being touched. She liked this new feeling that made her skin tingle, her face glow with warmth, and her tired body feel weightless. She knew that she wanted more.
“Please go on with the book,” Elowyn pleaded fervently. “I want to know what happened to Varol.”
“Very well,” Morganne said as she continued. “Varol also rebuilt the monastery, helping the remaining Prophets to enlist new followers until their home was once again full of life. His lesson well learned, the Prophets bestowed upon Varol a signet ring with a brilliant blue stone at the center. He was made the Lord High Protector of Truth, a title of honor that was to be passed down through his descendants for as long as his line lasted. In all matters of authority, Varol and his line were to stand as an equal to the Abbott. His honor, valor, honesty, and sense of justice were to balance the Abbott’s compassion, humility, spiritual discipline, and sacrifice.
“Humanity’s battle with the dark forces was not at an end, for evil had not been banished from the world, only temporarily diminished. The Shadow and Tieced still roamed freely, using the dark shrine to rebuild their armies. Many more battles were waged, but their effects were not nearly as devastating without Alazoth’s destructive powers. Varol’s forces were always victorious with the remnants of the Tome of Truth in his hand. However, his victories came at a price, for its lessons aged him before his years. When he died, the Prophets of Emeth’s order did not know what to do with it. Since Varol had been the only one ever to read it without succumbing to madness, they feared it was not meant for any mortal but Varol. They agreed that it would be entombed with him. The only relic of it they kept was the silver clasp, which had been ripped off the book when it had been torn in two. It was ceremonially purified at the Shrine, then shaped into a talisman by a master metal smith. The talisman was then fitted onto a long staff, and this was carried into battle by Varol’s descendants for hundreds of years. It served as a reminder of the days when the Ancients walked the earth, and a reminder of Varol, the great hero who sealed the rift to the underworld. The talisman remained an object of great power, though it did not by any means contain the full power of the Tome of Truth. The Prophetic Orders scribed in their histories that it leveled entire armies when wielded by one of Varol’s line. Those creatures that had been given false life by the Shadow Shrine were extinguished by it forever, unable to be resurrected.
“In that way the Shadow’s armies were gradually diminished, until the final war, the Great War, which came to be known as the final battle between humanity and the Shadow. The cost was high, for during this time the shrine of Aviad was utterly destroyed. The staff met its demise along with its bearer, and though the pieces were carefully brought home with the fallen warrior, the talisman mysteriously disappeared and was never seen again. This also marked the end of the Prophets, who were nearly hunted to extinction—but only nearly. They carefully took their Tomes of Wisdom and hid them in secret places throughout the world, where they would be kept safe from evil’s hand.
“After that, history records that they simply vanished. But the year the Prophets left was the same year that a strange new creature was reported to have been seen. These creatures were like balls of white fire floating through the air, and they spoke in a strange, musical tongue that no one could decipher. Some thought they were the Prophets themselves, but no one knew for sure. They seemed to be most concentrated in the oldest places of power … the mountain where Aviad had with his hand begun life, the places where the original Shrines of the Ancients had been constructed, and the places where the Prophets had first formed their orders. It was rare to see one close to bustling cities or in dark, murky places of evil. It was said that to come across one and hear it speak was a sign of blessing or good fortune.”
Morganne slowly closed the book, and she and Elowyn stared at one another in stunned silence.
“I think I have perhaps read enough for tonight,” Morganne said, her voice quivering with emotion. Elowyn nodded in agreement, unable to speak. They both made pretense of going to bed, but neither could sleep very well. For much of the night, they stared at the fire, consumed by thought in quiet communion with Aviad.
Endings and Beginnings
When the morning came, it felt different. Not because the event of the sun’s rising was anything more or less than it had always been, but because something inside of them had changed. They dressed in the crisp autumn air with renewed purpose, and with a sense of closeness to Aviad they had not known before. They felt as if a tangible presence was enveloping them—embracing, shielding, guiding, listening, comforting, and gently correcting. Elowyn took the meadowsweet from her bag and went alone to the cliff top. Resting on the edge of the shrine’s basin was Morganne’s drinking cup. A strong surge of reverent awe welled up inside of Elowyn. This was not the shrine that Varol had built with his hands, but she could imagine that it was. She held the cup, and it did not feel like the commonplace, well-worn drinking vessel that it was. To Elowyn, it might as well have been placed there by Immar himself. She, too, heard the words from the previous night’s tale in her mind. You must drink from my cup, for it is filled with living water. Once you drink it, you will never again thirst for any water but mine …
“If only this basin was filled with the living water you gave to Varol, I would gladly drink,” Elowyn whispered. She ran her fingers along the bottom of the dry basin, trying to imagine that instead of hard granules of sand and dust, cool, clean water met her fingertips. She tried to see the entire cliff top as it had once been, full of life, with the prayers of the monks carrying softly on the sea winds. Though this place had not been entirely forgotten as had the shrine outside of Tyroc, it had still been abandoned to the abuse of nature. There was nothing she could do to restore it to its former glory, but she did at least gather up her skirts to wipe the dust from the basin. With her fingers, she tenderly cleaned the sand out of the dry opening from where water once freely flowed. After she had done this, she took the sprig of meadowsweet and placed it solemnly in the basin. There seemed nothing more to be done.
As she stared out to sea, Elowyn sensed again the seasonal cycle of the earth in motion, building up to the moment when the world would be cast over the edge into winter’s grasp. A s
udden sense of urgency pressed upon her to either prepare for the last stage of their journey, and move on quickly, or resolve to wait out the winter in the village. In her heart, she knew that Morganne would not want to wait, and so she returned with hastened steps to the cottage.
“I have left the meadowsweet. If we are going to press on, we must replenish our supplies and go. Winter will not wait for us.”
Morganne agreed, and so they spent the rest of that day making preparations. Late in the afternoon the old farmer came to the cottage. “I don’t suppose anyone could convince you to delay your departure until spring.”
“How did you know we were leaving?” Morganne asked.
“I may be old dear one, but I’m not blind or daft. You’ve found whatever it is you sought in the ruins, and now you’re preparing to continue on.”
“Yes, I’m afraid it is true. We have very much appreciated your hospitality, but to stay longer would only make us a burden, and we must press onward before the weather turns.”
The old man nodded, “I understand. The one who hears His instruction and dares to say ‘no’ is worse than a fool. If you’re headed north, I may be able to help you along. I’ve a mind to take one last load of apples to Minhaven. I owe the tavern keeper several barrels yet, and I know what having apples through the winter means to the men. It’s the only fresh fruit they’ll see until summer. I wanted to go earlier, but my health wouldn’t have it. If you don’t mind sharing a cart with a load of barrels, I certainly wouldn’t mind the company.”
“That is a most welcome offer,” Morganne said with a smile. “Please allow us to take care of your provisions for the journey as payment.” When she saw that he was ready to protest, she continued, “We’ve already stayed in your cottage, used your firewood, and benefited from your wisdom. Now you will spare us from having to walk the rest of our journey, and carrying the little one has been hard on me. It is the least we can do.”
“Very well, then. Tomorrow a group of young men from the village are coming to load the barrels into my cart, as I am no longer strong enough to do it. We shall leave just before dawn the following day. That will ensure we need only spend one night on the road. The way the wind has turned, you had best buy some extra blankets.”
The next day was an exciting one for Morganne and Elowyn. Their journey was finally coming to a close. In another three days’ time they would be in Minhaven, beginning their new lives. They had managed to spend very little of their money along the way, and so they purchased extra blankets as the farmer had suggested, some nice looking cured meats from the butcher, cheese, a flask of wine to help keep them warm, and a new drinking cup for Morganne. They knew that they ought to spend their last day in Evensong resting, and yet they couldn’t. They found themselves walking about, browsing the various shops, and the small but busy market in the center of the village. While doing this, they heard a great commotion taking place. A man in a monk’s robe was calling out emphatically to anyone who would listen, “The shrine is alive! Glory be to Aviad, the shrine is alive!”
“What are you saying?” an old woman called out to him from one of the vendor stalls.
The monk tried very hard to calm himself, but his eyes shone with jubilant tears and his entire face beamed like the sun and could not be extinguished.
“I came to Evensong just yesterday, as a pilgrim to the shrine on the cliff top. I went there first for evening prayer, and it was dry and lifeless as it has been for hundreds of years. Except that I noticed someone had placed a cup there, and a sprig of meadowsweet, which I know to be the sacred herb of the Abbey that once stood beside it. I thought it curious, as I know the herb is not native to this region, but I left it untouched and went on my way. Today, when I returned, the dead spring had come to life. There was water flowing from the fountain, spilling into the basin, and even overflowing onto the ground. I took the cup and drank of the water. It was pure, and sweet. Surely this is a wondrous sign from the Ancients—a blessing, and an omen of good in uncertain times. The restoration of the shrine was foretold in prophecy, which is why my order has continued to honor it for so long. But never did I imagine that it would be fulfilled in my lifetime.” Everyone in the market stopped what they were doing, glancing at each other with skeptical expressions.
“I see that you do not believe me,” the monk said with exasperation. “Go look for yourselves, then—go, and you will see I am telling the truth. Rejoice, friends! Your shrine has been blessed by Aviad once again!”
The monk began to walk toward the road leading to the shrine with a curious group following him. Morganne and Elowyn turned to follow as well, but not before Morganne had whispered in Elowyn’s ear, “No matter what, say nothing about what we did there yesterday.”
When they got to the shrine, they found everything just as the monk had described it. The fountain was flowing with water, beautiful, clear and cold. Remembering the words she had said in prayer the previous day, Elowyn was the first to approach the basin, grasp the cup, and with trembling fingers, draw water. She stared at it for a brief moment, hardly daring to believe that what she saw was real. Could she and Morganne have done this? Such an event was perhaps something she could imagine reading about in Gareth’s books. But she could not conceive of such a thing taking place in the present day. She put the cup to her lips and drank long, sweet draughts. In reverent silence, she then handed the cup to Morganne, who also gladly drank. Morganne handed the cup back to the monk and whispered a grateful “thank you.” He gave her a perplexed look, but was too surrounded by people asking for the cup to question her.
Elowyn’s face suddenly lit up with excitement. She reached down into her pouch, pulled out the coin, and showed it to Morganne. “I could not bring myself to leave it in the stream. Do you think perhaps I should leave it here? If this is Nevon’s, and his spirit has not yet found rest, surely Aviad would bring him peace.”
Morganne seemed as though she were about to say yes, but her look of affirmation rapidly dissolved into one of alarm.
“No, put it away, quickly,” she said, pulling Elowyn well away from the other people there. “Did anyone see it?”
Elowyn was confused by Morganne’s reaction, but did as she was told. “No, no one saw it.”
“You must keep it a while longer. There will come a time when Aviad calls upon you to release it, but that time is not now.”
“How do you know this?” Elowyn asked with great curiosity.
“Honestly, I don’t know … I just have a strong feeling, the same way I did yesterday when I knew that I must leave my drinking cup behind. I followed that feeling, and today the dead shrine is alive. Dare I not follow it this time?”
Morganne grasped Elowyn’s hand. “Come, it is time for us to leave this place.” She led Elowyn back to the path, past the crowd of people, which was growing larger by the moment as word spread through the village. They both looked back only long enough to see the fountain full of shimmering water, surrounded by people whose faces were glowing with jubilation.
Elowyn asked quietly, “Why did you not want anyone to know that we left the cup and the meadowsweet? The people here will always wonder where they came from.”
“Yes, I suppose they will,” Morganne said, smiling. “And if we told them what we had done, some might think that we had brought the fountain to life ourselves, as though my old travel cup and your bit of dried plant from an ordinary cottage garden held some sort of magic in themselves. We did nothing to make the water flow again. We only brought the offerings Aviad told us to. It was He who made the water flow, and He is the only one whom they should praise and think of when they drink that water. I would not have anyone led away from the truth by our words or deeds.”
Elowyn understood the wisdom behind Morganne’s words and returned with her to the cottage in thoughtful silence. They dared not leave it again until in the chill air of early dawn the farmer arrived with his cart. Barely awake yet, they put out the remains of the fire, loaded their few
belongings, and huddled together under the blankets in sleepy silence as the cart jerked forward. The last stage of their journey to Minhaven had begun.
The girls peered upward through the branches of the trees, watching the early morning sky gradually change from gray to pale blue. And then as though a fire had been lit beneath the horizon, the world was illuminated in vivid pinks, oranges and yellows. A warm red glow spread over the whole wood just before the golden sun emerged, so bright they could not look in its direction for more than a fleeting second. But as bright as the sun was, Elowyn noticed that it held no warmth. She watched the forceful breaths of the horses curling outward like smoke as they steadily bore their heavy load. There was no question now that winter was closing in upon the northern reaches of the world.
With cold, stiff fingers, Morganne served everyone fresh bread, spread with butter and a currant jam that she had purchased in Evensong as a special treat for them to share. She was the first to break the silence of the morning, by asking the old farmer the question that had been pressing on their hearts from the moment they stepped beyond the confines of their mother’s cottage.
“What is Minhaven like? Is it anything like Evensong?”
“Bless me, no. Evensong is a quiet place, still living in the shadow of what it once was when the monastery was there. Even after all this time, I suppose it is impossible to purge what is mixed in with the blood. The people of Minhaven live under a shadow too, but it is that of the mountains. They may hold riches, to be sure, but the mountains show no mercy to man. The first people there were miners and metal smiths, drawn by the prospects of finding ore; iron, silver and gold. As more of them came, the town emerged out of necessity. I would feel more at ease had you stayed in Evensong until spring. As rough as our winters are, Minhaven’s are far more perilous, especially for those not accustomed to them. Once the first heavy snows fall, you’ll be cut off from the rest of the mainland except by boat over very treacherous waters.”
Journey to Aviad Page 28