by Brian Fuller
Al’Handra abruptly stopped at the entrance to one of the massive stone trees. “You will stay here tonight. When it is light, we will proportion you among the vacant trees more comfortably. Come, Mirelle. Devlis waits.”
Mirelle followed, Cadaen shadowing her, as Al’Handra proceeded up a small incline. The trees occluded the view of the orchard and the opening of the shard beyond, and despite the magic and awe she felt from the trees, the farther they passed into the cave, the more the city resembled the grave suggested by its name. They passed out of the main cluster of trees and into a flat open space. One immense tree, larger and more grand than the rest, hulked fifty yards ahead.
“I will retire now,” Al’Handra informed them. “Proceed to the tree there and enter. You are expected. I will probably see you again tomorrow. Farewell.”
“Thank you,” Mirelle said with sincere gratitude, though Al’Handra didn’t acknowledge it.
“A queer place,” Cadaen whispered as Mirelle proceeded on tentatively. “Wondrous, but. . .”
“Stale,” she finished for him. “Grave of Light, she called it. That is what it feels like, especially here in the dark. Just think, Cadaen. These elves and dwarves have lived here for centuries with nothing but this and the harsh desert above. Hopefully Devlis is a little more forthcoming than Al’Handra. I wonder how Maewen’s father ever loved such a cold creature.”
“She was not always so,” a voice from behind them said, startling them out of their wits. Cadaen went for his sword but could not pull it out. They faced an older elf, dressed in plain black robe tied with a knotted rope. The only color about him was a green feather pin above his left breast. A white, thin beard fell from his chin like a waterfall to his chest. His snowy hair he wore long, and above his upswept ears, absorbing green eyes stood out youthfully on a face carved rough by age.
“Relax, Master Cadaen,” he said. “I mean no harm. I am Devlis, whom you seek.”
“What have you done to my. . .” The sword suddenly came loose of the scabbard.
“There,” Devlis apologized. “I simply did not want to find myself split in two by accident.”
“You elves seem to have a talent for sneaking up on people,” Cadaen complained, resheathing his sword.
“We are silent by nature and do not startle easily, so we have not developed those little habits of politely announcing ourselves by coughing or sniffing as you do. Come. I live in the tree just ahead there.”
“The craftsmanship of the trees is marvelous,” Mirelle expressed as the older elf passed by her and started toward the solitary tree at the back of the cave.
“Yes, it is a fine work,” Devlis said, “but I still wonder at times if they are too real. Sometimes I find myself believing I walk in a real grove of great oaks, only to place my hand on the rocky trunk to disappoint myself over and over. Here we are.”
They passed through the archway into a circular room with a polished floor of dark brown rock. He spoke a word in Elvish, and a diamond the size of one of the peaches they had just eaten glowed with a comforting white light. It rested on a small black metal sconce over an intricate throne hewn from the walls. Green jade ran in an arch around back of the throne. A stairway rose off to their right, leading to rooms higher up in the trunk. The dwarves had carved seats into the wall circling away from the throne, and a circular section of the middle of the floor was raised to form a table of sorts, or perhaps a platform from which to perform or speak.
“That is a treasure, indeed,” Mirelle commented about the diamond.
Devlis smiled and sat in on the throne. “Here it is worth precisely nothing, save as a focus for light. I would not keep you long, for I know of your travails, and you need not feel as if you have to explain anything. Gen’s mind provided more information than we have, in our own limited way, been able to gather over the centuries. I am gratified to know the race of men still thrives. I worked with your ancestors much during the Mikkikian Wars. You are an impatient, unwise race, but the Millim Eri gifted you magic, and Eldaloth gifted you with many children. I suppose it natural that. . .”
“Devlis,” Mirelle interrupted. “I mean no disrespect, but I am concerned for Gen. Where is he, and is he well?”
“I do apologize, Mirelle. It has been so long since I have had someone new to speak with. I have always supposed your impatience born of short lives. I doubt I could tolerate waiting for anything, either, if I knew death lingered a few years off. Your man is well. He is resting in a chamber above. I will send him to you tomorrow, though I do wish to speak with him more.”
“I thought you had all you needed from his mind, already.”
“I don’t wish to glean anything more from him. It is some wisdom I wish to impart. He is a unique creature with powerful gifts, who is, nonetheless, angry with himself and not seeing clearly. If I can set him upon a more useful path, then I think I would be helping my masters, the Millim Eri—and you, I should think.”
“Yes, thank you. And what of the elves and dwarves here? How came you here?”
Devlis leaned back, eyes unfocusing and retreating into the past. “When the dwarves of Khore-Thaka-Tnahk and the men from Echo Hold did not come to the alliance at Emerald Lake, some of us returned to learn their fate. Deep in the holds of the Far Reach Mountains, we sought them out and found a few alive with their young ones. Ghama Dhron, the abomination of snakes Gen used on the Shroud Lake shard, had slaughtered nearly the entire race of dwarves.
“Ki’Hal shattered soon after, and we found ourselves here in this dwarf cave. The dwarves carved and ensorcelled these trees in gratitude for us seeking them out. Only fourteen of that race remain, and they are old and near death. Many elves have passed on, throwing themselves into the swirling nothingness where the shards sail. We have only managed one child in our time here—Falael, my son. We have grown forlorn and cold in this place, so you must forgive our severity.”
“Unification will come soon,” Mirelle said, “and you can walk forests of wood again.”
“Yes, yes, it is true. But we shall leave much sooner so we don’t have to tunnel our way out.”
“Through a Portal?” she asked.
“No. The same way you will in four weeks”
“What way is that?”
“By jumping.”
Chapter 67 – Blossom
A full week had passed after Chertanne’s revivification before Padra Athan arrived at the Chalaine’s door and announced that the time had at last arrived for the wife to see her husband. The Chalaine had spent the week pacing, wondering at the delay. Athan’s appearance added to the clues she had already gathered. The Padra’s face bespoke neither relief nor victory, but exhaustion and anxiety. Even during their slog through the Shroud Lake shard he had carried confidence and drive, but uncertainty smoldered where once passion burned.
“Is something amiss, your Grace?” the Chalaine asked tentatively as he entered her room. Athan signaled for her Eldephaere guards to shut the door and then fidgeted until the Chalaine asked him to sit.
“I . . . I don’t know where to begin, so I will just say it. As you know, when the soul departs the body, there are two paths. One’s character determines in which state the soul will find itself, either to wander the sunny fields of Erelinda or to suffer in the dark torture of the Abyss. Chertanne, I am afraid, dwelt in the latter during his separation from his body.”
The Chalaine never had doubted that Chertanne would end up in the Abyss, but for the Padra, it appeared to have come as an unwelcome revelation.
“I expected as much,” she stated honestly.
“He is a changed man, Chalaine, and I cannot decide if it is for the better.”
“What is he like, now, your Grace?” A long time had passed since she had cared to know anything about Chertanne at all, but Athan’s haunted gravity sparked her curiosity.
The Padra swallowed before answering. “He is terrified.”
“Cowardice has always dogged him, Padra.”
; “I don’t think you understand, Chalaine. He hides from everyone. He shrieks in terror at the slightest noise and jumps at shadows. He sees apparitions of horrors that are not there. He whimpers in corners, refuses to eat, and acts at all times as if something horrible is waiting just outside the door to torment and devour him. We have had to sedate him with potions or use magic just to get food down his mouth. I had hoped to show him publicly to assuage the doubters, but his rational capacity is gone. Half the time, he still believes he is in the Abyss, and all of this is just some trick.”
The Chalaine’s eyebrows rose in astonishment. “What am I to do?”
Athan stood and resumed pacing. “I don’t know that you can do anything, but you must see him, for good or ill.”
“Has he mentioned me at all?”
“No, but he rarely talks coherently. He mutters under his breath a great deal.”
“Can’t you block his memories, like the Millim Eri did with Gen?”
“We thought of that and tried, but in doing so we learned an awful truth about the way the Abyss works. The memories that it brands upon the mind cannot be forgotten or undone. They are not dulled by time. They cannot be replaced or reinterpreted. It is a powerful magic that we cannot overcome. There is a dagger in Chertanne’s mind, and the Abyss will never stop twisting it.”
The Chalaine shuddered, feeling suddenly reluctant. “Are you sure it is such a good idea that I see him? He did not like me.”
“I do not know if it is a good idea, Chalaine,” he answered frankly. “You’ll be fortunate if he even recognizes you. But I need you to see him so you can at least bear witness that he lives. If he cannot be seen and heard, then you need to be.”
The Chalaine nodded her acceptance and followed Athan out the door. The dark wood and trophy-laden hallways still seemed as foreign as the day she arrived. Ironkeep creaked with every step, unlike the solid foundations of her castle in Mikmir. Servant girls stared at her as they passed through wide hallways. A thickening of the guard indicated that they neared their destination, but the location was wrong.
“We had to move him from his quarters to something a little more plain,” Athan explained, noting her perplexity. “There were too many places for him to hide and too many objects to stoke his imagination in his extensive suite.”
While perhaps a trick of her own thoughts, the Eldephaere in the hallway and the two Padras at the door appeared profoundly uncomfortable. Athan nodded to the Eldephaere at the door who undid a large lock before swinging the door inward.
“Go away!” Chertanne screamed, and the Chalaine strained to see inside.
“It is only I, Highness,” Athan soothed as they entered. “I have brought the Chalaine.”
“Shut the door, you fools! Shut it!” Athan nodded and it was done.
The room was little bigger than a servant’s quarters and was sparsely furnished. A single wooden chair lay on its side near a lantern. A muttering, whining Chertanne had crawled under a mattress that stank of urine and sweat.
“It may take a moment,” Athan whispered to the Chalaine. “He always has to make sure that nothing gets in when the door is opened.”
“Wouldn’t a room with a window and sunlight be better for him?” the Chalaine asked. “This room is as dark as the Abyss.”
“No! It is not!” Chertanne yelled, sticking his head out from under the mattress. “It is not! Oh, mercy! You’re some devil, aren’t you? Take it away, Athan! You’re all devils and demons come to tear my insides out and chew my bones!”
“We tried taking him outside,” Athan said, “hoping that would convince him he was no longer in the Abyss, but he could not bear the light. He howled and howled until we brought him back inside.” The Padra turned back to the mattress. “Chertanne! Come out. Let’s talk. You must greet your wife. She is anxious for your wellbeing!”
“No! It’s a trick. I am dead. I have no wife.” Chertanne burst into tears, crawling completely beneath the mattress and into a corner. The Chalaine felt dizzy. Chertanne was completely mad.
“Believe it or not, he is better than he was,” Athan offered with enough resignation to strangle any hope the statement was meant to convey. “We can go, if you wish.”
The Chalaine teetered on the brink of indecision. She wanted to go more than anything, but her husband’s pathetic indisposition inspired the healer within her and she stepped closer, grabbing the mattress.
“Chalaine, I wouldn’t. . .”
The Chalaine yanked the mattress away, and Chertanne howled in horror, turning toward the wall and curling into a ball. They had tried to dress him in kingly fashion, but his scraping and hiding had shredded and sullied his fine clothing. What fat had remained after the draining march to and from Elde Luri Mora had melted completely away, leaving a gaunt, bony face and frame.
Crouching down, she touched his arm and he shrank back. “Chertanne, look at me.”
“No!”
“Look at me and remember.” Gradually he turned his head until one tortured eye regarded her. Ensuring that Athan stood directly behind her, she lifted her veil and showed Chertanne her face. Slowly, he turned until both of his black-rimmed eyes stared at her in wonderment and relief, a hint of recognition sparking within his dark mind. A trembling, pale hand stretched out and probed her face as if to prove it solid and not some illusion. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he removed his hand, the veil falling.
“Then I am not in the Abyss,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the Chalaine. Suddenly, he lurched from his corner and threw his arms around his wife like a drowning sailor clutching for a plank to float on in the stormy water.
“Please save me,” he wept. “There is a fire in my mind, and I cannot put it out!” His body shook as he cried, and the Chalaine rubbed his back as he trembled, assuring him he was safe. Somewhere amid the tangle of the black thorns of her hatred and disgust for Chertanne bloomed a tender flower of feeling, and its name was pity.
Gen approached Mirelle quietly, wanting to watch her unnoticed. She sat on a raised stone slab overlooking a blossoming orchard of apple and peach trees bathed in the warm light streaming through the massive opening into the shard cave. Her hair hung loose about her shoulders, and she sat with her arms around her legs, her head resting on her knees and her face toward the light. Cadaen was nowhere to be found, and Gen wondered how she had evaded him.
Gen had noticed the change in her from the moment he had embraced her as she emerged from the prison cell in Ironkeep. Unlike when he found her crippled by uncertainty and fear on the barge across Shroud Lake, the dampening of her spirit that he now sensed did not stem from ephemeral external circumstances, but from a profound change to her personality. In her glory in Mikmir, she had accepted nothing contrary to her will, using her substantial gifts to mold and bend every situation to her liking and advantage. While strength still exuded from her, her eyes bespoke resignation and sadness, and Gen took no pleasure in seeing it.
Since the time that she confessed her love for him so memorably on the trail to Elde Luri Mora, Gen had little time to sort out the confused feelings the First Mother conjured within him. While in the castle, her flirtations and affection had both terrified and delighted him, and to keep the delighted part from hammering good sense into oblivion, he had convinced himself that she merely sported with him for her own amusement.
Since the disaster at Elde Luri Mora, however, he tried to bury his love for the Chalaine and whatever he felt for Mirelle. The Chalaine’s stinging words at the waterfall had chased from his heart every other desire save to make restitution for his mistakes, and he had used the dense metal of purpose to shield himself from unwanted and inappropriate emotion.
But seeing Mirelle sitting in the sunlight, an icon of loneliness against a backdrop of vibrant, blooming life, beat against the walls of his own emotional seclusion. As he stopped and considered the woman, he wished he could will her to stand and face him, eyes playful, face radiant, and greet him with that particular note of
pleasure in her voice as she always had. Of course, a world of change had passed since those first carefree days in the Chambers of the Chalaine, and to expect them to return was folly.
Gen ended his observations and strode forward. She did not acknowledge his coming at first, and he sat beside her, watching a gentle breeze tease fallen blossoms about in the midst of rows of festive branches.
“I wondered when you would come,” she finally said. “How do you feel?”
“I am well enough. There is something I must do, however.”
“And what is that?”
“I have not yet apologized and asked for your forgiveness for not heeding the warnings you and the Chalaine gave that night in Elde Luri Mora.”
Mirelle turned her face toward him, expression incredulous and bemused, and started to laugh. “More apologies? Haven’t we gone over this before? Really, Gen, after all we’ve been through. . .”
“I must because of what I put you through, Mirelle. You have always been a loyal friend, and I betrayed you and your daughter with my reckless pride. When Ethris told you I was the Ilch, you should have ordered him to kill me. Everything would be better if you had.”
She shook her head. “I do not believe so.”
“How can you? I can see now that I have, however unintentionally, done Mikkik’s work for him. I created division by affronting Chertanne, caused pain to the last two people in the world I should ever hope to cause any distress, and now the people of Ki’Hal have to live with the horror of knowing that one they regarded as a hero was instead an incarnation of evil.”