“What is happening?” Celrod shouted as he dodged the falling rocks that began to rain down upon them from the mountain face above.
The crashing sounds of the collapsing Western tower punctuated the intensity of the moment as the quake grew more and more violent all about them. Michael squatted down, his back to the wall. “Everyone, against the wall, and get close!”
As they huddled together, their fragile joy tossed all about by a hurricane of winds and tremors, a beam of light ripped through the west and shot high and violent into the heavens above.
“What in the damnable dark is that?” Timorets asked.
The pillar of light, a soft amber and silver beam, extended into the sky beyond the scope of their sight, shining a luminous glory that was not diminished even here in the east.
“Is it … is that fire?” Celrod asked.
“Some kind of devilry?” Timorets shouted against the crash and rumble of the quaking world about them.
They all looked on in amazed wonder as the height of the beam seemed to finger and fan out, spreading from its origin in a sea of brilliance.
“He did it,” Michael whispered to himself, not sure he wanted to risk believing his own words.
“Michael, look!” Margarid exclaimed. “Look! It’s happening! The shadows… the darkness…”
“They are fading!” Georgina finished her incredulous thought.
Timorets dared to rise up above the battlement and saw that the Sprites had turned their attention from the fight, pausing to kneel in what looked like reverence to the growing brightness.
“What in the damnable dark?” he exclaimed again.
The light grew and began to recolor the grey, shadowed world. Its amber and silver reach extended from the center of the pillar, returning colors vibrant and nearly forgotten, as they began to unfurl their splendor like great, masted sails of the mightiest of ships.
“Michael! You’ve got to see this!” the brewer shouted to his friends.
Michael rose shakily to his feet. The sight of what he beheld confirmed the hope in his heart. “He found it!” he said with tears in his eyes.
Without warning the quaking ceased, and at that moment a deep and nearly subsonic BOOM reverberated out from the center of the pillar, sending out a shockwave of wind to the four corners of Aiénor.
The Nocturnals wordlessly screamed as their sickly, green eyes beheld the new light of the THREE who is SEVEN. Those unbroken by the blade or the bow desperately covered their ashen faces, trying to shield their eyes from the assault of brilliance. The winds raced in a tidal wave of pronouncement, and as they reached the battle of the Halvard, the bodies of the slain Raven soldiers were reduced to dust and ash, carried away by the spirit of the light to the halls of Elior.
When the storm of wind had passed, and the new light of the THREE who is SEVEN had risen high and covered the whole of Aiénor in its golden illumination, the remnant beheld something truly unimaginable.
Thousands of Nocturnals, who had moments before screamed and shuttered against the onslaught of light, now blinked, peering about this newly illuminated world with the eyes they once had seen through, before the bewitching of the Sorceress.
Ardghal raised his silver trumpet to his silver lips and blew a note of victory that seemed to pierce the hearts of all who heard it, rendering the unanswered questions vying for attention of no great importance in this moment of redemption.
The herald rose upon his silver wings and sang the proclamation with joyous tears in his bright eyes.
“Feic, go bhfuil ár n-Athair Mór ag maireachtáil do chréachta an domhain seo. Ar mhaithe leis an olc agus a scáth, tá sé mar thoradh ar a ghrá.”
(Behold, our Great Father is mending the wounds of this world. For evil and its shadow have been conquered by the light of His love.)
The Raven soldiers began to kneel as the words of the Sprite, though foreign to the ears of men, woke their slumbering hearts again.
Off in the distance, a sound could be heard: horns of some sort, though not nearly as magical as the Sprite herald’s trumpet.
“Come on, everyone,” Michael said, his own eyes wet with wonder. “Let us be done with this wall … I think it is safe for us to go down now.”
“Are you sure?” Margarid said as she held his hand.
“What about those other sounds, the horns? It could be the enemy,” Celrod tried to argue.
“No. It couldn’t be,” Michael said with complete confidence. “Not anymore, not since my cousin found the new light.”
“But how do you know?” Celrod questioned.
Michael placed both hands upon the large shoulders of the schoolmaster. “I just know. Besides, I doubt there will be much to fear anymore; we can see, brighter and more clearly than ever before!”
They made their way across the battlements, the bodies of the fallen Nocturnals no longer littered on the barbican as they had been turned to dust and carried away by the winds. When they reached the entrance to the Western tower, they saw the wreckage of what was once the armory and the great hall, cascading out from the wall in a hill of rubble.
“Mind your step, now,” Michael ordered them. “It looks manageable enough, and we have all traversed much worse than this already. But don’t be foolish about it, either,” he said with a playful wink to Margarid.
And so it was that the remnant began to make their way down, slowly but surely, until they reached the courtyard in front of the portcullis, where just moments before, the battle for their lives had raged on. Michael reached for his blade as he came closer to the mass of bewildered men whose eyes had not beheld anything but darkness and un-light for what must have seemed like an eternity.
“Careful, groomsman,” Fryon said warily, his hand firmly gripping the hilt of his own blade. “Their eyes may have lost their rotten enchantment … but we don’t yet know if these men were spoiled all the way through.”
Michael stared in wonder. The army of death and ravenous destruction looked less like the monsters they seemed to have been fighting, and more like his own bedraggled remnant of friends who were just opposing them.
“What is your name?” Georgina asked. She had broken away from the group and walked up to a bearded man. “Mine is Georgina,” she said with kindness in her eyes.
“I never…” the older man tried to speak, but his voice was not used to the practice, and it cracked as he stumbled over long-lost words. “I never meant harm … I did not know what I was doing.”
The child reached out and took his filthy hand in her own without a hint of fear. “I know. And it’s all over now. Can’t you see it? It’s beautiful!”
Tears began to roll down his war-stained cheeks. “Yes, girl … it is beautiful.”
“You may call me Georgina, sir,” she said with a smile that would melt even the coldest of hearts.
“I am Diggory,” he said with a sheepish smile. “Have you seen my son and my wife? I followed her in order to save them … do you know where they are?”
“No, I am sorry,” she said, her eyes saddened at her own report. “There is no one else out here but us … and, well … the Sprites.”
“Hail, friends of Aiénor,” came the melodic voice of the great herald as he flitted down from on high and greeted the remnant. “I am Ardghal, herald of the High Queen, and these are my brother and sister Sprites.”
Michael reached out and took Margarid’s hand in his own as he and the rest of his friends beheld the violet host that descended and landed about them. “Can you believe this?” He shook his head and squeezed her hand in wonderment. “If only Cal could see me now.”
“Pardon me, son of Ádhamh,” the captain of the host, Faolan, said as he landed last in a display of his command. “What did you say?”
“I am sorry, Lord Sprite. I meant … I mean…” Michael stammered over his words, partly in awe, and partly out of fear of offending these regal rescuers. “I only said, I wish that my cousin, Cal, could have been here to see all of
this, and all of you.”
A murmur could be heard, rumbling through the winged host, and it was the captain who turned back to address the remnant again. “Are you saying that you are kin to Cal—"
“Calarmindon Bright Fame,” finished the unlooked-for voice of a woman, high born and of great nobility.
“My Queen,” Faolan said with a bow as Iolanthe, High Queen of Islwyn, descended from the bright sky in all of her violet splendor to meet the object of her rescue.
Michael instinctively went to one knee and bowed his head as the violet eyes of the silver-haired queen met his own. “Your Majesty,” he said.
His friends all followed suit, their eyes wide and their mouths agape in stunned disbelief.
Her laughter was like music, and her voice like calm water as she spoke. “Yes … I can see the resemblance in your manner, Michael.”
“How do you know my name?” he asked nervously.
“Our Great Father reveals much to me,” she said, her eyes aglow with kindness as she reached out for his bearded chin and raised his head to meet her own eyes. “Though I feared we would be too late for this moment,” she smiled, then turned to address all who remained, man and Sprite alike. “But it would seem that the Light Seeker has found the gift our Great Father had hidden away, the gift created for the mending of the world.” She turned back to address the remnant. “And in doing so has given flesh and blood to the hope we had all held in our hearts.”
The affection and wonder felt as thick as a fog on the morning pasture; it clung heavy and hopeful, binding all present as witnesses to something truly amazing. It was the silver voice of Ardghal that broke the silent reverie as a song poured out from his silver lips.
“Ritheadh an oíche, agus tá an solas nua tar éis an saol seo a ghlanadh i rith an lae inniu. D'aimsigh an t-iarrthóir, agus is féidir go mbeadh gach croí áthas anois. Ardaigh do chuid guthanna do na cinn go léir a chruthaigh tú agus lig do mholtaí do dhaoine a bhfuil meas orthu i bhfianaise nua na beatha!”
(Night has passed, and the new light has bathed this world in the coming dawn of creation, for the seeker has found, and all hearts might now rejoice. Lift high your voices all ye created ones and let the praise of your admiration usher in the new light of life!)
Tears began to well in the eyes all who heard the song, and Michael whispered in Margarid’s ear as they watched the herald fill this valley of war with the balm of sweet song. “What does it mean?” he said, emotion thick in his voice.
“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” she said as she smiled at him.
“No … I suppose it doesn’t,” he said as he squeezed her hand.
When the song had finished, the Queen addressed the remnant once more. “Rise, sons and daughters of Ádhamh. Aiénor will require all of us, irrespective of our deeds prior, to aid in its mending.”
“What about them?” Celrod said, still unsure how to treat those who, not moments before, would have run him though with a blade.
“Aiénor is wide and it is wounded. Many hands, all of our hands, will be necessary, dear one.”
He nodded his obedience. Though he was unsure how to reconcile it in his mind at the moment, he was also confident after looking into her eyes that he need not understand all the intricacies at this particular time.
“Turn your vision to the sky! Look up and see the light of our Great Father, shining for all to behold.” The Queen rose upon her wings to address the gathered people. “And then let your vision turn inward, towards your own hearts, and witness how the light of the Father chases away the shadows of fear and doubt. Then, my friends … may your vision focus out upon this world before us, as we build, together, HIS new kingdom.”
All stood silent for a moment and considered her words, letting the spoken wisdom do its good work in all their hearts. In the quiet, they could hear the sound of horses and wagons from the road west of the Halvard. The remnant looked to each other, wondering just who might be approaching now.
“Excuse me … Queen?” the small voice of a little girl spoke over the noises from the road.
“Yes, my child?” Iolanthe answered graciously.
“What about our friends? Can we say the words over them?” Georgina asked, thinking of Portus, Vŏlker, Harmier, and all the rest who had been slain.
“We will honor them, my child, together.” The smile of the beautiful Queen touched the wounded part of the child’s heart with a salve of compassion. “But first, let my Sprites see to your wounds and your hunger, for we have much work to be about, and you all will require your strength.”
The snort of horses sounded again as a wagon rounded the turn in the road.
“Woah … easy there, Ransom,” a voice called out. “Well, I never!” said the same old man. “I think we’ve found it!”
“I had no idea that it would happen like this!” came the voice of another. “Did you?”
“Of course I did,” said a third.
“Like this?” said the second voice.
“Well … maybe not just like this,” the third old man said.
Michael tried to see who it was that had arrived, bringing with them the commotion of such banter.
“Who is that?” the brewer asked.
“I don’t know … I can’t see over everyone’s head,” Celrod reasoned.
“What is that smell?” Timorets asked, the scent of something savory caught in his nose.
“I hope you are hungry!” called the voice of a wizened old woman from one of the carts.
“And thirsty … don’t forget that!” said a white-bearded man. “My ale is prize worthy, and just the thing for a day like this!”
“It’s good ale, we all give you that, Miller,” the beardless old man agreed. “Not that we will ever catch you drinking a drop of it.”
“Yes,” the woman said again. “Plenty to eat and plenty to drink.”
“It would seem that our friends have arrived!” Queen Iolanthe said with laughter in her royal eyes. “Come, all of you … fill yourselves until you are content.”
The remnant wasted no time, for the fighting had sapped them of their strength, and it was not until the savory aromas had wafted over the field that their bellies remembered they were indeed famished.
The Sprites looked on as the Poets greeted the remnant with great joy and hospitality in their eyes. Faolan and the host began to collect their injured, whilst Eógan tended to the wounds.
“Why do you not go and eat, children of Ádhamh?” the queen said to the former Nocturnals as they stood in the shadow of the Halvard, outside of the celebration.
“This was our cause, our doing,” said a tall, broad-shouldered man, whose silver beard was braided. “How could we dare presume to partake of your provisions when it was by our blades that your own blood was shed upon this ground? We do not deserve your hospitality, Sprite Queen.”
She observed him, and in her heart, she knew him. There was nobility in his tired, sad eyes, and though neither of them had ever encountered the other before, there was a chord woven between them.
“Our Great Father’s hospitality is not contingent upon the deeds of men, no matter how noble - or otherwise - they may be,” the queen told him. “A table has been set, a humble banquet to usher in the mending of all things. You and your newly-liberated brothers are to be included and invited to participate in that very same mending, right alongside the rest of us.”
“I don’t understand,” he said, raising his once-proud face to meet the eyes of the Queen of the children of the Jacarandas. His own eyes met her blazing, violet ones, and at the very sight of them, a tear of longing and sorrow rolled down his face.
“His will is not contingent upon our understanding, either, son of Ádhamh,” she said with a sincere smile. “Now come, our Poet friends have plenty of beer and bread for all of us to eat and drink together.”
Aius exhaled a tired laugh, and then looked around at the thousands of men who were once under his command. He undid the buckles
that held his armor to his body and, in moments, the muted mail that had been forged in the depths of Aerebus lay discarded as rubble upon the field of battle.
The rest of the men looked to their general and followed suit, glad to be rid of the mark of the Raven Queen.
“Looks like you have your work cut out for you,” Elder John said to Eógan, the Sprite healer.
“There are many of our kind wounded, but I am confident in both my skill and in the heart of our Great Father,” Eógan said with a smile.
“Oh, I don’t just mean our Sprite friends, Eógan,” Elder John said as he watched the throng of men make their way towards the wagons.
“Oh?” Eógan said in reply. “I am sure their cuts and bruises will heal well enough when I apply my arts to them.”
“Aye, their bodies will heal, master Sprite,” Elder John said as he handed out loaf after loaf of sweetened bread. “But their hearts have been half-dead for who knows how long, used to living in the dark. I would say that it will take some adjusting to learn how to live in the light again.”
“That might just be the greatest of all glories, my dear Poet friend,” Eógan said as he wrapped a bandage made of white linen and leaves from the trees of beauty. “To see their hearts fully alive again. Though I would say that it will require all of us for that kind of healing, I think.”
“I suppose you are right,” Elder John said as he handed out bread and nodded his permission to the men who bade him thanks. “I suppose you are right, indeed.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Cal and his companions walked out from the center of this new city, from where the light rose high above the clouds and reached deep into the heavens above. A stream of water, which began as a gurgling spring in the fount of the sanctuary, flowed into a river that flowed out beyond the reaches of the white-stoned wall of the city. As they walked, they passed mansion after mansion, and saw gardens with flowers and hedges in full bloom, the likes of which they had never witnessed before upon this once-dark world.
The Coming Dawn: Epic of Haven Trilogy Book 3 Page 36