by E. Hibbs
“God bless you and your magnificent people, Your Majesty,” he whispered, a tear running down his cheek. Merrin reached over and wiped it away.
“Although you will have long passed on before the next Rise; you brave, kind, Atégo men; I shall be forever indebted to your deeds of the past seven nights. I bid you all the good fortune of Zandor upon your journey. And I shall miss you. Sorely and truly, I shall.”
Silas nodded and bowed low. “As shall I, Queen of the Lake. I am grateful to you for as long as I live.”
Merrin turned to him with a smile, and touched his cheek gently before cupping Raphael’s in her hand. She managed to hold back her own tears for long enough to speak.
“Over two centuries ago, your family almost brought about my end. And now, it has given me a new beginning. The least I may do in return is the same for you. Now, go.”
Raphael nodded hastily, and threw her one final gaze of satisfaction and distant love. He grasped hands with his companions – Silas leading the way in the middle – and began to head surely towards the east. Merrin watched them go, until the trees swallowed them, and not one looked back. They disappeared, silently, into the depths of Delamere.
The Asræ broke out in applause, and the sounds of clapping and waving fins filled the air. Merrin turned to face them once again, tears now running freely down her face.
Penro raised an arm into the air. “Long live the Queen!”
“Hail, Queen Merrin! Long live the Queen!” the crowd cried as one.
Shivers ran through Merrin. Disregarding all formality, she raised her hands to wipe at her cheeks. She sighed, contented, and returned to Coronation Mount, where she sat down upon the amarants. As she left the Surface, the Asræ resumed their celebrations. The crown on her head glowed brightly as Dylana, Dramil and Penro all knelt at her side – Penro slightly closer than the others.
“I might have known, you would have thought of it,” she said, “to teach that song, that he sung.”
Penro glanced over and smirked. “Despite being a beautiful melody, I thought the words more than appropriate,” he said. “And, Merrin, this is not someone who has harmed you. You may speak his name.”
Merrin closed her eyes. “It is a cleaner sting, but the wound is there regardless,” she said in an undertone. “It is not of love, but of respect, and a caring I never believed I could possess.”
Penro reached over and gently laid his hand over hers. His face quelled to an encouraging and comforting smile, and his eyes glimmered in the night.
Dylana appeared beside Merrin. She didn’t speak, but all she wished to say was contained in her expression. As Merrin looked at her, every wrinkle on her aged face seemed shallower, and her blanched flesh more alight than ever. It was almost as though she radiated her own inner glow: one that not even a Necromancer such as her could summon at will.
*
The three humans walked through the forest in silence. Silas and Raphael were aware that every step was a separate transcendence: taking them further and further away from the Elitland. Although the forbidden west was somewhere they had never truly known, it seemed terrible to be leaving it forever after seeing so little of its vast beauty. And as the distance closed between them and the Peregrin camp, Silas knew that it also closed on the home that he and his family had always known.
Eventually – but not long enough – they reached the Wall. Raphael shimmied up it first, keeping his eyes firmly ahead to avoid looking back. Then he reached down to help Irima, who Silas boosted up by locking his fingers together, for her to use his hands as a step. When the two of them were safely across, Silas grasped the ivy and hauled himself to the top. He swung his leg over, and sat straddled for a moment, gazing out across the weighted treetops of Delamere before dropping down the other side.
When the meadow opened in front of them, they crossed back into the woodland that had sheltered Silas and Irima the day before, and made their way through the uneven ferny ground, until they encroached on Fanchlow. The buildings were dark blurs against the fields and pastures, and their eyes settled on the village lantern as they carefully crossed the river.
They kept to the shadows, and Silas gazed at the ashen heap that had once been their home. Some of the cruck timbers still held the basic shape and continued to smoulder red in the night, but the wattle and daub walls were completely gone. It wrenched at his chest to see once again. Beside him, Raphael uttered a sharp gasp and held a hand to his mouth, muttering a prayer under his breath. Irima laid a comforting hand on their shoulders, and Silas gave her a small smile.
The streets were now empty; all of the angry villagers having retired to their own homes, obviously convinced that the evil had been driven from them. Silas knew the danger still hanging over the place like an oppressive raincloud, but he met Raphael’s eyes, and the same thought passed between them. They couldn’t leave Fanchlow without saying one final farewell.
Moving as noiselessly as foxes, they crept towards the village, with Irima following in confused but loyal silence. They made towards the lantern’s light as a guide – in ghostly echo of how they had often found their way home after dark through the years – but steered clear of its glow.
Eventually, they arrived at their destination: the graveyard outside the rickety church. By the light of the moon, they found the freshest grave, marked by its simple crucifix. Carved crudely into the vertical post was the name Julian Duncan Atégo; and across the horizontal one: 1177-1219.
Silas sighed as they stood there. Irima had moved slightly back from them and lowered her head, hands crossed respectfully in front of her. Raphael reached inside his tunic and pulled out the holed stone, which he passed to Silas. He himself kept hold of the white rose blossom. The two of them stepped forward, on opposite sides of the grave, and laid the treasures on the earth.
“Smell this, and be reminded of home,” Raphael whispered.
“And look through this,” Silas said, “and see us always.”
They grasped each other’s shoulders, bowed softly to their fallen father, and spoke the words, “may he rest in peace”, before turning away and vanishing once again into the night.
The journey up to the corrie was shorter than Raphael thought it would be, but upon sight of the tents – dimly lit from the inside – the pace of Irima and Silas seemed to quicken. Before long, they arrived, and ran into the campsite. Raphael looked around quickly, to take in the new surroundings. Although it was late, the place was a buzzing with activity. There were a large number of the Travellers outside – fewer than Raphael remembered, so he presumed some were asleep inside the tents.
“Uncle!” Irima called out. “Uncle, where are yer?”
Heads turned in their direction, and there was a frenzied murmuring before a tall, dark-haired man broke free of the throng and made towards them.
“Irima!” he cried, holding her close. “What in Lady’s name... I knew where yer had gone, indeed, but... oh, you foolish girl! Yer gave me such fright n’ fear! Don’t yer ever run off like that without tellin’ me, do yer hear me, eh?”
“I’m sorry!” she replied, voice muffled as her mouth pressed into his chest. “Really, I am! But I had to go! There were danger down below!”
The man exhaled harshly; then he seemed to notice her two companions for the first time. His green eyes immediately latched onto Silas.
“Oh, yer be alrigh’,” he said. “Good! I did wonder what might have happened to yer, when yer didn’t arrive with yer family.”
“Aye, where are they?” Silas asked urgently. “Are they safe?”
The man pointed towards the crowd, still clutching Irima. Raphael followed the direction of his arm, and noticed that through gaps in the wall of people, there were a few seated figures, all hunched close together with tankards in their hands. Without another word, he and Silas ran forward. All Raphael heard was his own frenzied heartbeat and ragged gasps for air.
The crowd heard them coming, and parted, to reveal Araena. Beside h
er was Mekina, with Selena sitting at her feet, and Uriel between mother and sister.
“Ma!” Raphael cried, unable to contain himself any longer.
Araena’s eyes widened and her head shot up. She whimpered joyfully, got to her feet, and they all dashed towards one another. Great smiles split the faces of the younger siblings. Araena spread her arms wide as she reached Raphael. He laughed in relief, gently rocking her back and forth, in the way that both he and Julian had always done.
Beside him, Raphael watched as Mekina slammed into Silas and they grasped each other; Silas’ chin only just reaching her shoulder. A wind blew over them and their red hair wavered in its grasp. Uriel and Selena arrived, and the whole family drew together for one large embrace. They didn’t move or speak for what seemed like an age, all too overwhelmed with delight.
A sudden awed gasp cut through the Travellers, spreading to everyone. There was the rustle of clothing as they turned.
“Look!”
“Dear Lady!”
“‘Tis a miracle!”
The family drew apart. All of the Travellers’ faces were turned to the sky, and lit up with a strange silvery glow, that reflected in their eyes and the crucifixes around their necks. There was a frenzy of pointing, and Raphael looked around. His mouth fell open in wonder.
“Oh, my...” Mekina breathed beside him.
The night was on fire with a rain of light; jets of silver arrows shooting down from the Heavens. The breeze rushed through the branches and raised the voices of the leaves in an eerie whispering chorus. The darting stars streaked by the moon and filled the sky, and a hazy vein of the Milky Way waved across the inky blackness, like a pathway through the celestial maze.
Silas couldn’t tear his eyes away. The stars lit up the entire Elitland as they came down, and bathed the entire land. The river transformed into a flowing channel of molten silver; and every hill, terrace and flat was highlighted by its own shadow. For a single tiny instant, the whole Valley became as Zandor was.
As that thought crossed his mind, another light suddenly welled up from within the trees on the other side of the Wall. His eyes flew to it as it enlarged, as though one of the stars had come down onto the Lake.
It was such a pure glow: amazingly bright, but not stark or overpowering. Silas could look directly at it and not be dazzled. It pulsed slightly, like the heart of some living thing, and cast the forest in a silvery iridescence, highlighting every individual leaf in formless ice.
Silas imagined the Asræ dancing on the Lake of light. And then, as soon as it had sprung up, it disappeared, the shower slowly dimming down to nothing.
*
“O moon, on the Surface, we wait for thee!
Here on the Surface, this night we be!
We age once more this century!
O people of Zandor, the Asræ!”
The song filled Merrin’s ears as she watched from Coronation Mount. The full celebrations of the Rise were underway. She had allowed the sacred chant to begin, and now the Surface had become a frolicking mass, enjoying the event and making merry in the silvery light overhead.
She had even joined in on some occasions. Not just out of courtesy from her new position, but also because she had always thought greatly of her fellow Asræ – and because it was in her very nature. It was something that her father had taught her from a young age: although theirs was the Royal Family, it was important to remember that it didn’t make them any greater than the true lifeblood of the Kingdom, which flowed through every individual. All were equally important, and deserved respect. The most fundamental role of the Monarch was to forever acknowledge that fact.
But now, midnight had arrived. The sky overhead was as dark as the Lake depths, and the amarant soft beneath Merrin’s feet. The final words were sung: the main focus of the night. The time had come. The Asræ all fell silent, and waited – and then the stars fell.
Merrin closed her eyes, feeling the moonlight penetrating deep into her skin. The shimmer passed over her, and she let out a sigh of comfort. It mixed with the hundreds of others, and the sound rose like the lapping of a wave against the Lakeshore. She let the magic within her well up, leading the way for the others to follow. Everyone shone like the stars above.
Merrin felt herself ageing. The past century caught up with her, pushing her ahead to face the next ten decades. Her hair lengthened slightly; her fin spines protruded further; her head rose another two inches from the ground. A new sparkle bloomed in the amethyst depths of her eyes. She silently counted off all of the years as they became one with her: one thousand, and seven hundred. Seventeen centuries into her age-old life, and for the first time, she felt truly alive.
She opened her eyes, dismissed her people, and watched as they returned home. The celebrations were over; the Rise done for another hundred years. Men, women and children – from the old to the young – sunk back through the Surface. Their eyes grew large and dark. In a shimmer of hair and gossamer, they were gone.
Only Dramil, Penro, Dylana, and the elite of the Guard remained above with Merrin, as an escort. She stood and walked down from the Mount. The Surface appeared under her feet, and she smiled.
Dylana’s face appeared briefly over her shoulder as she passed. “I told you, you would be wonderful.”
Merrin went to retort, but Dylana only threw her an unreadable look before going to stand beside Penro. They all watched her expectantly. Merrin swallowed her nerves, and gently pointed her foot downwards towards the water. It slipped through.
Her hand flew to her mouth, but she couldn’t hold back a cry of happiness. Her eyes darted around, taking in the expressions of relief surrounding her. She wiped away fresh tears; then pushed through the Surface again, just to experience the feeling of it. Then she glanced between Penro and Dylana, her face alight with a smile.
“Let us depart.”
Penro grinned. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he replied. “At last, let you come home.”
Merrin nodded, and reached out to touch his cheek gently with the side of her finger. He blinked in surprise, but then his eyes lit up, and they beamed at each other. Nearby, Merrin heard Dylana give a sly chuckle.
She slipped both feet below the Surface; and with that, the final Asræ all dived down. The depths swallowed them without a ripple, and the glassy waters of the great Lake lapped tenderly on the banks – its watery touch just stroking the keel of the nearest wooden boat. All that was left was the humble crown, floating in the shade of the willow tree.
EPILOGUE
Roses and Amarant
A Rose, in youth and beauty’s pride, Grew by a modest Amaranth’s side.
So fair a form, and tints so bright, All stopt to gaze at with delight,
And stood enchanted to enhale, The fragrance of the passing gale.
“Neighbour,” she blushing said, “you see, None go without observing me;
While I perceive that very few Seem any note to take of you.”
“Sweet Rose,” the Amaranth replies, “No flower with thee in beauty vies.
Far be such vanity from me, Whose only boast is constancy.
Not obvious to the vulgar eye My humble merits deeper lie;
Less exquisite, they longer last; Unchang’d, alas, when thine are past.”
Love is the rose-bud of an hour; Friendship the everlasting flower.
- Brook Boothby, ‘Fables and Satires’, from Aesop.
L ater that night, when the rest of the camp had finally retired to their tents, Silas stood alone at the lip of the corrie, and stared down into the Valley. Behind him was a patch of slightly charred ground: the only remainder of the merry-making that had gone on the night before. The ashes had been gathered and scattered into the wind. Before long, there would be no trace that the Peregrin had ever been there at all.
All of the preparations for leaving had been completed in the day he had been away. The tents were alarmingly empty, with just the beds remaining; the carts loaded high with belongings and all manner o
f things traded from the Fayre. In the morning, the camp would be struck; the tarpaulin rolled up and the willow staves bound, and they would be ready to move on.
Behind him, Silas felt the wind as it channelled through the narrow gap at the end of the Valley. It was the tiny portal, where the road became treacherous and steep, and which hardly any had dared to brave. It carried an edgy chill of distant snow from the mountains, and a sharp tang of the fresh air that rested above them.
In the blur that had become the remainder of the night, as the Atégos were led to the sick tent, Silas had managed to catch Shadow Mask’s attention. He and Irima had spoken with the troupe leader of their predicament. As his niece had assured, Shadow Mask was happy for the family to accompany the Peregrin out of the Elitland – on the condition that they walked behind everyone else, due to the majority of them being unclean.
Silas had been so taken aback by a show of such kindness that he had even taken it upon himself to question Shadow Mask. Remembering how Irima had mentioned that the troupe always had to be careful with outsiders, he asked why they had awarded such compassion.
Shadow Mask had just flashed his green eyes, and said, “Yer family’s been shown too much hostility, lad. An’ no true unfortunates bring wrack n’ ruin in their wake, not even those who’re cursed.”
Silas sighed, and glanced at his palm. The shining mark hadn’t died down at all, but the fact that warmth had returned, and it no longer stung with calluses, was relief enough. He knew he would carry it for the rest of his life, but it was a small price to pay for all that had been done.
It may always be a reminder of your final week in this magnificent place, he decided silently. Here, in your home, the Elitland; your lifeblood flows, and the lifeblood of your forefathers has flowed for centuries. It matters not about the dark stain upon the past. It is gone. But your home will always go with you.