Luthiel's Song: Dreams of the Ringed Vale

by Robert Marston Fannéy

  Othalas and Melkion stayed in her chamber watching over her through the long night.

  Luthiel awoke to a soft tapping at her shoulder. It was one of the grendilo. Startled, she jumped.

  “Lady, no need to be afraid,” he said with a bow. “I am Rendillo, the groundskeeper of Ottomnos. The Vyrl sent me to change your bandages and see that you had something good to eat,” he said.

  Though standing on only one leg and gesturing with one arm, he possessed a grace that Luthiel had never before seen in a creature. He moved with such deft confidence that Luthiel found herself staring.

  “That’s alright then,” she replied.

  He placed a wash basin on the table beside her bed and then began to remove her bandages. His six-fingered hand worked fast but gently and soon all her wounds were cleaned and had fresh bandages on them. Turning on his single leg, he lifted the tray he had placed on the chair and laid it before her.

  “We caught some fish for you last night,” he said, lifting a cover from the top of a plate. “Here are some eggs too and fruit from the Symbellin trees of the Vale,” he gestured toward a lumpy purple ball at the corner of her tray. “Don’t let looks fool you, the fruits of the Symbellin are delicious and no two ever taste the same.” Also on the tray was a tall glass of pinkish juice and a pitcher of water.

  “Now I want you to eat everything,” the grendilo said in his thin voice. “You need to recover your strength.”

  With that he nodded politely and left the room.

  Othalas was still asleep but Melkion flew from his perch in the slit window to sit beside her.

  The smell of food was overpowering and she tore into it with vigor. When she was finished there was not a scrap left.

  Melkion blinked at her. “Well at least you’ve kept your appetite.”

  “I’m still hungry,” she said. “Do you think Rendillo will bring more?”

  “Not till lunch time,” Melkion said with a laugh.

  “I suppose, now, you would like to take a bath? There are hot springs beneath the fortress. I could take you there if you like.”

  The Pools of Ottomnos

  Luthiel had an unpleasant vision of the dungeons of Ottomnos, but the offer of a bath was something she found difficult to pass up.

  “Well, if you and Othalas come with me, I think I’d like to take a bath.”

  Melkion laughed again.

  “Alright, get your things and then follow me,” he landed on the werewolf’s head. “Wake up Othalas, we’re taking Luthiel to the springs,” he said.

  Othalas growled irritably but was soon standing on his massive paws. The room was large, but he easily filled half of it and when they entered the halls, she was forced to walk in front of him.

  Slowly, they wound lower and lower, passing wights and grendilo until Luthiel began to hear the quiet dripping of water. As they descended, the air grew damper and the mists thicker. Here and there, clusters of green lights wavered in the clouds.

  Soon, the hallways ended and she found herself in a series of natural caves. Ahead of her, the caves wound off into darkness. A fire lamp sat in a recess of one wall. Melkion lit it with a thin breath of flame and Luthiel picked it up before entering the caves. As she followed the tiny dragon, the mists grew so thick she could barely see the dragon’s tail swishing back and forth in front of her. The rocks beneath her feet descended, becoming pocked with recesses filled with tiny pools. Finally, a large pool spread before her. Tiny green lights played in the mist that rose off it.

  Melkion disappeared for a moment and then returned with a leather pouch.

  “There’s soap in here and a towel. We’ll wait here until you’re finished.”

  Luthiel shed her clothes and was in the water a few moments later. It was hot and the rocks felt warm to the touch. In the center of the pool bubbles rose where the water boiled from underwater vents. She immersed herself, letting the water rinse off the road. Only four days ago, she’d taken a bath at Lenidras. To her, it may as well have been a year. The water stung her battered and cut body that was slowly healing. Her head still pounded when she stood but she didn’t feel as dizzy as she had last night.

  Letting the soap rest on her stomach, she floated on her back in the pool staring into the darkness filled with mist and green lights. She wondered about Leowin.

  Probably worried sick about the coming of Othalas, she thought. She sighed, wishing there was some way she could tell her sister not to fear. Fingering the Stone that hung around her neck she hummed her namesong thinking wistfully of Leowin. She missed talking with her and now she had so much to tell her, so many things that she was afraid to share with Othalas or Melkion or the Vyrl. And what of the Vyrl? She couldn’t bring herself to believe half of what they said last night.

  “Luthiel Valkire,” she whispered. “Did they say that last night or was I only dreaming?”

  Since First Summer’s Eve, it seemed her life had taken on the quality of a bizarre dream. Now she didn’t know what to think was real.

  She floated for a long time in the sultry pool, trying to calm her restless mind. Finally, she swam back to the shallow water and scrubbed herself clean. She returned to her pack, found a comb and began the long work of getting out all the tangles. The simple tasks set her mind at ease. She was the slow motion of her arms, the stroke of her hand—up, back, up, back.

  When she was finished brushing she pleated her hair into a braid tying it behind her head with a bit of leather cord. She put on cleaner clothes and breathed out a long sigh.

  “Now that was nice,” she said.

  Melkion returned alone.

  “Did you enjoy your bath?”

  “Very much,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Now, if you will follow me, the Vyrl want to continue last night’s conversation.”

  Ashiroth’s Army

  As she followed the tiny dragon up into the fortress, she noticed for the first time that Othalas wasn’t there.

  “What happened to the werewolf?” she said.

  “Othalas was called by the Vyrl.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Melkion said. “Could be anything.”

  Luthiel felt her gut tighten. She hoped they weren’t sending him for Leowin. She tried to quiet her fears.

  They said it was up to me whether they sent for Leowin.

  She couldn’t help but wonder if the Vyrl had a change of heart. Perhaps they’d fallen into madness again and last night was only a brief respite.

  They continued through the halls of Ottomnos. On the way to the great hall, they passed through the courtyard where she was attacked only two nights before. The bodies that were hung from the walls were gone but the smell of blood still lingered in the air.

  Probably will last for years.

  As they walked to the opposite end of the yard, she noticed wights cranking the gates shut.

  “Someone came or went,” Luthiel said.

  “They sent the werewolf somewhere,” Melkion replied.

  “My sister,” Luthiel thought aloud.

  “No, I don’t think so. The Vyrl wanted to speak with you about your—condition before they made any decision about what to do with your sister. This is something else.” Melkion hopped off her shoulders and flew until he was above the walls.

  “I can see him!” he called down to her. “He’s heading toward the Withywraith falls!” He flew around in a circle looking in all directions, then launched himself into the air.

  She watched on as his tiny silver form shrank and then disappeared into the clouds that always hung low over the Vale. She waited for long minutes, wondering whether he would come back or whether she would be left to find her way to the Vyrl alone. The wights in the courtyard went about their business, but a few here and there stood still as stones, peering at her. It was as though some desire had overcome them but a greater will held them fast. She knew what they wanted, and shuddered when she saw their hooked fingers clutching, releasing, cl
utching, releasing.

  Finally, Melkion became visible in the sky again. Slowly, the silvery fleck grew until she could again see the tiny rainbows in his gossamer wings.

  “What did you see?” she cried to him when she thought he was within earshot.

  “It’s not good. There’s an army gathering in the north—wolfriders and Urkahrim from Ashiroth. I could see a great cloud of dust. They will reach the borders of the Vale within a day.”

  “But the spiders, how will they get through the spiders?”

  “Seven riders move ahead of the vanguard. The spiders are letting them pass! Othalas is going to meet them at Withywraith.”

  Luthiel blinked as she took in this news. She stood still remembering the words of Mithorden.

  Seven, who are still called fair by some, hold Wyrd Stones that were taken and corrupted by black art.

  “Come!”

  Luthiel walked briskly into the charred glass halls of Ottomnos.

  “Hurry!” Melkion urged.

  Her head was spinning, but she moved as fast as she was able. Still weak, she was forced to pause often to catch her breath.

  “Who are they?” she asked while leaning against one of the walls.

  “They’re from Ashiroth, Zalos sent them.”

  “Why have they come here?”

  Could they be the seven Mithorden spoke of? she thought.

  Melkion laughed grimly. “An army of wolfriders is behind them. Isn’t it obvious?”

  Luthiel, knowing little of the ways of violence in the world, shook her head.

  “No, I don’t understand,” she said, breaking into a run.

  “The Seven are coming to give the Vyrl terms. If the Vyrl don’t agree to those terms, then we will likely see an army of Wolfriders attempt to invade the Vale.”

  “But invading the Vale, that’s mad! The mists—“

  “Will change them,” Melkion said.

  They both rushed down the halls in silence. Wights and grendilo hurried past them through the strangely twisting corridors, their metal-shod feet clanging against the floor. They bore weapons and armor of strange design—swords with blades like waves or saws, armor crowned in spines. Shadows danced above and below them through the opaque structure. To Luthiel, it seemed the walls were filled with rushing smoke. In the depths, she could hear a drum beating.

  “The elves are fed up. The Vyrl took too many Chosen. Now they’ve finally gathered the courage to do something,” Luthiel said, bending over to gulp the air.

  “Zalos has always hated Vyrl,” the dragon said. “If the high lords had let him, he would have attacked them long ago. He couldn’t do this without support from the other Faelands. This is war.”

  Luthiel thought about her sister, about the way the Vyrl had attacked her, about the laws that legitimized the Vyrl’s atrocity.

  “Good,” she said. “They deserve it.” There was a sense of elation, of freedom.

  Melkion swung his head around and glared at her with his amethyst eyes.

  “They have shown you mercy! After all that happened last night, don’t you understand how they’ve suffered?”

  “I understand the suffering they’ve caused! Me, my sister! We could both still go to their larder should they slip back into madness or if I do not give in to their demands. What sort of mercy is this?”

  Melkion nodded stiffly.

  “To think I respected you for your kindness.”

  “There’s a difference between kindness and weakness,” she said.

  The dragon turned his head and snorted out a cloud of smoke.

  “Move faster,” he commanded.

  “I can’t fly,” she snapped.

  “Learn to,” he hissed.

  They hurried down the hall in silence for a while.

  Well what did you expect? That Melkion or the Vyrl would just let you go? she thought. They had run for a while longer before her anger started to cool.

  “Who are these Seven?” she said, after stopping once more to catch her breath.

  “You feel like talking now?” Melkion said.

  “I’m curious. Who are they?”

  Melkion swished his tail irritably.

  “They are the champions of Zalos—each a powerful lord and sorcerer in their own right.”

  Luthiel felt a strange fear come over her and she thought again of Mithorden’s words.

  “Powerful?”

  “Yes, powerful. They are Zalos’ warlords. His defenders and champions.”

  “Othalas is going to meet them alone?” Even as the words left her mouth she wondered why she felt concern for this werewolf who might yet take her sister.

  He helped me. He saved my eyes and perhaps even my life.

  Melkion chuckled.

  “Othalas can take care of himself,” he said. “And there are grendilo who go with him. They stay hidden in the mists. If these Seven wolfriders try to harm him, they will be met by a hundred grendilo. There are other creatures, giants of the mists, with skin of bark and hair of moss who also serve the Vyrl. Don’t worry about Othalas.”

  Luthiel nodded, but she felt a lingering concern. Her head was pounding terribly, but, at Melkion’s urging, she ran on down the endlessly winding halls.

  Luthiel’s Promise

  Finally, they reached the great hall. The Vyrl were sitting in their tall thrones. Gathered all around them were about twenty wights and grendilo. Some of these scampered into and out of the hall on this errand or that. Now that she could see through the hall’s great windows, Luthiel noticed that all of Ottomnos was swarming with activity.

  They continued past the blood-stained table. Beyond stood the whitewood chair.

  Grateful to have a chance to rest, Luthiel sat down.

  The Vyrl were occupied giving instructions to their underlings. As Luthiel watched, she realized there was an uncanny coordination in the way the Vyrl communicated. Each, though involved in a different task, seemed to be building off the efforts of the last. It was as though they shared some common will or thought that allowed them to synchronize. Luthiel fancied, for a moment, that she was watching a strange dance.

  Soon, all grendilo and wights were dispatched—each to its own task.

  The Vyrl turned their eyes to Luthiel.

  “You look better,” Ahmberen said in his chanting voice. “I apologize for the wounds you suffered at my hand. But those were not your only hurts. It is good to see that they are all healing.”

  “I—thank you,” Luthiel said awkwardly, thinking of her words with Melkion. Ahmberen’s own hurts had already mended; even the tip of his ear had grown back. Luthiel didn’t feel the need at all to apologize for them.

  He deserved it.

  The Vyrl watched her for a moment with their swirling eyes. She felt as though she were staring into six gaping pits.

  “Many things are happening,” said Ecthellien. “Zalos sends his Seven. Widdershae surround the Vale and we are cut off from all contact with the elflands except by creatures on the wing.”

  “Zalos, who has long harbored hatred for us, has brought an army to our very doorstep,” said Elshael with dark music. “Perhaps he has found support in Ithilden for the war he wishes to bring upon us. But of all troubles, Ashiroth may be the lesser. The shadowspiders of the mountains, who long ago closed the Gates of the East and devoured the elves of Elgaldas and Imrahil, may prove to be far worse foes than the jealous lord Zalos. We do not know why or how they came into this world. But it seems, to me, that they are kin to the great spiders of Gorthar—Ingolith they were called. If Ingolith have come to Oesha then the jealous lord is the least of our worries. I do not wish, again, to become a servant to the will of Gorthar.”

  “You are right to fear them,” said Melkion. “I know what they can do, even to dragons. They are terrible hunters and they revel in the suffering of all creatures.”

  To Luthiel, Melkion’s voice sounded sad. She glanced at her left shoulder where he perched. His claws were strong as any eagles’, but
they grasped her gently.

  “Why do you call Zalos the jealous lord?” Luthiel asked. “And what of Gorthar? I know little about him.”

  “Child, that you know little of Gorthar is a blessing,” Elshael said. “I will not trouble you with stories recounting his deeds. It is enough to know that he is terrible.”

  “Is he an elf?” she asked.

  “An elf? No, he is many ages older than any elf. He is Elohwë and his hand was in many works that went into creation. But his masterpiece was death and all the ways that a thing might end. When the time of elves was dawning, Gorthar suffered a grievous wound and fell like a star on the face of the moon that is now called Gorothoth. Ever since, he has lain there, dreaming strange dreams. It is said that the mind of Gorothoth is the dreaming will of Gorthar. Spiders and all things dark, cold, and hungry were his creatures. We fell to his will by trickery long ago. Now we suffer the curse of hunger that he set upon us.”

  The Vyrl stared at her with their black eyes, each swirling with a hundred lights. She wondered if their eyes were always dark or if some hungry thing inside them had consumed the color until there was nothing left but black and a few small glimmers.

  “As for Zalos, he was the greatest sorcerer of all elves,” she continued in her dark, musical tones. “He grew used to his stature. But, when Valkire came to the elflands Zalos met his better. Taking this as failure, he became resentful of Valkire. But Valkire sought and won Zalos’ friendship. In spite of Valkire’s high regard, Zalos often fell into fits of jealous melancholy. Worse, he loved Merrin despite Valkire’s friendship and even though that love was not returned. Yet Valkire embraced Zalos, entrusting him with more than any of his other companions except Merrin. Still, Zalos strove in secret to become greater than Valkire and to steal the heart of his beloved Merrin.”