by Jack Conner
“How can this be?” he demanded.
Rondthril did not answer.
He picked himself up. Dusted himself off. Glared at the disobedient blade.
“Why? You certainly didn’t aid your last master. And it’s not because you’re good. You’re evil.” He stared at it. That was when it hit him. “That’s why, isn’t it?” The black truth nearly made him laugh. “You’re an unthinking, evil thing, but you know I’m aiding your ... your side ... so you resist. Because ... I’m ul Ravast. Of course.”
He rose and strode over to it, ripping the sword from its fissure.
Veins standing out on his forehead, jaw clenched, sweat beading on his skin, he stalked up to the edge of the precipice and stared down into the red-glowing depths.
“If you won’t oblige me,” he told Rondthril, “I’ll just have to oblige myself.”
But, he decided, he would only jump when he had the satisfaction of seeing that the sword had gone ahead of him. He cocked his arm and prepared to throw it in.
“Don’t!” said a voice behind him.
He spun about. Rolenya stood twenty paces away with tears in her blue eyes, and the wind whipped her black hair in streamers behind her head. A filmy garment clung to her, nearly transparent in the moonlight.
“How ... ?” he began.
She moved forward and placed her hand on his arm. She applied gentle pressure, and he allowed her to move him. She guided his arm to replace Rondthril in its scabbard. As she did so, her eyes looked deeply into his.
“It saved your life once, as I watched,” she whispered. “I want it with you always.”
“You ... saw?”
She nodded. “I cried out to stop you, but the wind tore my words away.” She shook her head desperately. “Promise me you’ll never do that again, Bal.” She stared at him, imploring. Her hands brushed his cheek. “Promise.”
Reluctantly, he nodded. Rondthril sang out to him, and he shuddered.
Without another word, she turned and walked away, her bare feet taking her on a path perilously close to the abyss. Her white nightgown fluttered like a ghost. For a long time, he watched her go. The wind howled ominously.
He would be glad to be rid of this place.
Chapter 2
A patrol of swan riders winging south from the Wall of Towers found them a few days later. The serathin circled the convoy a few times, likely trying to make heads or tails of the situation, and eventually Elethris and King Felias rode out to greet them. The swan rider captain set down and conferred with them, then returned to the air. Several days later a host of mounted elves arrived from the White Tower bringing with them a tide of horseflesh to make the homecoming swifter. After that, all those that could ride did so, the wounded being dragged in litters behind. The following days were wearying, but at least the survivors had hope now.
When Baleron finally saw Celievsti, that glittering spike of a tower, like a lance of sunlight sprouting from the earth, he felt a strange sort of peace wash across him. Somehow just the sight of it made him feel better. The tense places in him began to unknit, unwind.
He rode a horse and Rolenya rode behind him, her arms about his waist, her head against his back.
“Celievsti,” she whispered in tones of awe, and he was reminded that she had never seen it before. He could feel the rise and fall of her breasts against his back.
The tower dispatched serathin to bear the members of the royal houses up, and they did, flying past the thousand terraces jutting like petals from its graceful stalk. Kings Felias and Grothgar alit on the royal receiving terrace, while Baleron rode with Rolenya to one of the lesser terraces, though of course they were both royalty; he was in no mood for pomp. He stepped onto the polished white surface of the balcony and nearly sank to the floor in gratitude.
He felt dirty and unclean from his experiences, and the terrible sword Rondthril seemed to taint him, and this place, like a cancer. Yet he felt enormously glad. Wind whispered over the terrace, and it was cool and dry, and scented with flowers. Hanging vines cascaded over the wall before him, and red and white blooms burst from the greenery.
Rolenya sighed and squeezed his shoulder. “It has been too long since I smelled flowers.” She went to the wall and put her nose to one of the blooms, then breathed in. Delighted, she smiled beatifically. Baleron smiled back, watching her. For a moment, it all seemed worth it. But then he saw Oksil exploding before him, and he heard the Wolf’s voice thunder in his head.
The next few days saw grim business, as the dead were named and counted and a list was drawn up as to family and friends to be notified. It was a slow process and would require some time.
No one save Baleron knew whether the mission had been a success or a failure. After all, they said, Gulrothrog had been destroyed and Lord Ungier put to flight. But a staggering price had been paid indeed. For the benefit of the dead, it was declared a qualified victory, and the slain were declared heroes. Baleron took to drinking and locked himself in his rooms. At last Shelir came to him crying, but their lovemaking was angry and desperate, and the affection in her eyes was mingled with revulsion. She left unhappily. For her part, she seemed grateful that she had a function, a place to be. No matter what, she was a serathi, and that duty came first. He had little to do but brood.
He visited Lunir, and it was good to see the old glarum again. Sometimes he would take the bird for a ride through the skies, but when he returned both elves and men looked at him strangely, and they kept their distance. He saw himself through their eyes, a dark, cursed prince with an unholy sword riding a fell steed, and he knew he would never be accepted as one of them again. He had not been the only one to blame himself for Oksil, apparently. Elethris had told no one of Baleron’s role in procuring Throgmar’s aid. He seemed to have forgotten it in the wake of the eruption, and Baleron did not press him on it. His role was irrelevant now, anyway.
In addition to imbibing spirits, he took to smoking tobacco and spent many hours on his terrace drinking and smoking and staring out at the horizon. He pondered black thoughts and tried to banish them with alcohol. Not even Rolenya could cheer him up, and she was so despondent under the weight of her own suffering that she was not much company, and he saw her little. She seemed to be spending much of her time with Lord Felias, though he could not fathom why.
After a week, King Grothgar finished the duties he was required for and knocked on Baleron’s chamber doors.
“Come in,” the prince bade him.
The king entered to find Baleron drunk and disheveled, unwashed and unshaven, wallowing on the terrace chair with a hand-rolled cigarette in one hand, a glass of elfwine in the other, eyes locked on the green and undulating horizon, sniffing the warm jasmine breeze. The wind ruffled his dirty hair and his bare and hairy chest gleamed with sweat.
Surprisingly, Albrech did not snort or spit out any poisonous remarks.
Instead, he just sighed stiffly and let his own eyes roam the view. At last, awkwardly, unused to such gestures, he squeezed his son’s shoulder and said, “It was not ... entirely ... your fault, my son.”
Baleron looked up at him.
The king continued, “We are all responsible, to some degree, for our foolishness, our predictability.” He snorted harshly. “He played us, the bastard. Played us well.” Shaking his head, he declared, “But I am not an instrument to be played, my son. Gilgaroth shall not defeat me, and he shall rue the day his impudence led him to believe he could.”
“He destroyed our army, Father.”
A long pause passed before the king said, “There are many troops that did not go with the host, and more yet to be called into service. We can always raise more from villagers and laymen. Another army can and will be brought to bear, at least for defense—though, true, it will be years before we will mount another foreign campaign.” He patted Baleron’s shoulder, drawing the young man’s attention. The king looked grimly composed. He was formally dressed, jaw set and eyes hard. “It is time to leave, my
son,” he said, not unkindly. “I know you have made ... friends ... among the elves, but this is not your place. This will never be your place. You belong among your own kind. You belong at my side. I promise you, son, that when we return, things will not be as they were. I will give you a position that commands respect, a position of responsibility. Havensrike will need your leadership in the days ahead.”
Baleron blew a plume of pale smoke into the air and watched the wind tear it apart—such a fragile, beautiful little wraith, so helpless. But the wind dismembered it and devoured it utterly, leaving not a trace. Would that I were a puff of smoke.
“So what is your decision?” the king said.
It was at this time that Elethris summoned the Archmage of Glorifel, Logran Belefard, to his Audience Chamber. Logran met the summons with curiosity and dread.
“I had a vision last night,” Elethris said.
Logran looked up at the Lord of the Tower and arched his eyebrows. “A vision? What of?” He could tell by Elethris’s expression that it would not be good.
“Death,” Elethris said simply. He sat straight-backed in his hard throne, and his eyes were unflinching. “Fire and chaos and devastation. I saw marching hosts of darkness trampling the gardens of Larenthi.”
Logran gasped. “No ...”
“Yes.” His voice was a knife.
Shocked, Logran swayed on his feet. “What shall we do?”
Elethris hurrumphed. He had the bearing of an aristocrat, and when he hurrumphed it did not sound crude. It carried weight. In this case it seemed to say that there was not much to do. “There is more,” he said.
“I fear to hear it.”
“As you should. For I also saw a great shadow befall Havensrike. A terrible, devouring shadow that consumed it utterly.”
Logran felt a chill. “Surely, Master, there is something that can be done.” Logran was an old man and called no one master lightly, but the Lord of the White Tower deserved it and more. Logran had been honored beyond words when Elethris had accepted him as an apprentice.
Elethris gave a pained expression. He rose and stepped down from his throne. Out of the folds of his blue robe he pulled a shining vial. Inside the tube of glass ...
Logran felt his mouth drop open and hastily closed it. Inside that tube was a slender flower, a thornless rose, entirely white, and luminous. It shone brightly. Its color reminded him somewhat of a white pearl, but lit by a candle from within.
“It is beautiful,” he breathed.
Sadness touched Elethris’s grim eyes. “It ... grew from my wife’s grave. I believe in some small measure it contains an echo of her power, her spirit. The Flower of Itherin.” He pressed it into Logran’s hands. “It is the only protection I can give you.”
Logran marveled at it. He could feel its awesome power, and he remembered Itherin, beautiful Itherin. He had grown to know her nearly as well as Elethris over the past few years, and her death saddened him greatly. None could surpass her grace, nor power. Her passing made this world lesser.
This flower was a mighty gift indeed. “No,” he said. “You have taught me much. That is protection enough. I cannot take it.”
“You must. Your apprenticeship is over. Go back to Glorifel with your king, but by all means take this with you. Trust me, my friend, you will need it. I do not know if it’s powerful enough to drive back the darkness, but it is all I can offer you.”
“What about Celievsti? How will you protect it?”
Uncharacteristically, Elethris averted his gaze. “I have done what I can. Yet in my vision, Celievsti stood no more. The armies of the Enemy marched over the ruin where it had been.”
The White Tower, fallen ... Logran shook his head. “We cannot let this come to pass! You’re talking about the End Times. If Larenthi falls ... and Havensrike ...”
“They will not.” The elf sounded more firm now. “They must not.”
“But ... that is what your vision showed.”
Tiny beads of sweat stood out on Elethris’s smooth forehead. “I saw Gilgaroth himself, Logran. I saw him sitting on the Throne of Illistriv, the Second Hell. And I saw that his Throne had become the bitter heart of the world.” Shakily, he added, “He had brought his hell to earth, Logran.”
“No ...”
“Yes. I saw flames, an inferno, and a great black tower.”
“Dear Omkar! There must be some way to avert this.”
“All we can do is trust in ourselves, to do the best that we can. I’ve already discussed it with Lord Felias. Our guard is up. Our eyes are watchful. What more can be done?”
They all stood on the royal receiving terrace, the serathin in their formal dress mounted on their swans, flanking the pair of winged steeds that would bear Baleron and his father down to the remnant of the Havensrike Army huddled at the base of the tower. The wind blew in healthy gusts and the sun rose high above the earth, shining through the pale blue sky. A small crowd had gathered to send the remnants of the Havensrike royal house off, including King Felias and his retainers.
When Baleron stepped out onto the terrace at the right side of his father, a warm breeze washed over him and he sniffed at the flower-scented air. He found the mix invigorating. It seemed to tell him that life could yet be bright. Yet he frowned, for there were only two steeds awaiting riders.
“Is Rolenya flying with one of us?” he whispered to the king, who was waving stiffly to the crowd. Elf girls threw flowers in his path and musicians played gaily, as if in denial.
Albrech did not actually smile—no one expected him to; in fact he was dressed all in black and gray, as was Baleron—but he was acting well in his official capacity as a statesman. Now he grit his teeth and snapped out, “You mean she didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me? Tell me what?”
Air hissed angrily out from Albrech’s mouth, but he did not answer.
Baleron searched for his sister among the crowd and finally found her. She stood, surprisingly, at the side of King Felias, which looked strangely natural. Both had the same clear eyes—though one pair was blue and the other green—and the same straight black hair, unlike the wavy dark hair of Baleron and Albrech. Her face was very composed, even solemn, but it crumpled when she saw him, when she looked into his eyes.
“Rolenya!” he shouted.
She started to turn away, to shelter herself in King Felias’s arm, but from somewhere she drew strength and broke from her position to run across the platform and throw her lissome arms about her brother.
“Baleron!” she said, though the sound was muffled against his chest. She wore dark gray, and her dress was long and sleek so that she appeared as a supple shadow, light but strong.
He patted her back. “What’s going on?”
“I ... I’m staying.”
“What?”
She tilted her head up so that he could see her eyes, filled to the brim with tears. “I ... I need to. Ask your father.”
“My father? Our father hasn’t told me anything about ...” He shook his head as though it were filled with cobwebs and the act of shaking would tear them loose, forgetting for a moment that he was a spider.
“Oh, Bal. I love you so much! I ... you’ve been so good to me, always. Thanks for ... all you’ve done. You brought me up from the depths of hell and ...” She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them. In a more even voice, she said, “I will see you again, Bal. I promise. But there’s a whole world I never knew, and I was just told ... and I’m going to stay here with my ... with King Felias ... and find some answers and ... “ She shook her head, clearing her own cobwebs, or not. “Ask your father.”
She would say no more. She spun from him and hurried away, not to the Elf Lord but inside. She disappeared into the shadows of the tower. Baleron called after her, but she did not look back.
Dazed, he looked to Felias, who regarded him soberly, even kindly, but offered no answers, then to King Grothgar, who was now mounted on a large and beautiful, and very white, serath. Just slippin
g on his silver helmet, which gleamed dully under the sun, the king’s eyes were sad, infinitely so.
Elethris stood before Albrech, saying a few words. When the Lord of the White Tower was done, he looked over to the prince and smiled kindly.
Shelir on her swan looked just as confused as Baleron felt, but of course she had not been able to hear Rolenya’s words over the noise of music and crowd. She arched her eyebrows curiously, but he did not know how to respond. He would have to wait for answers, though he did hope they’d be forthcoming.
Putting his questions aside, he climbed into the saddle of his own mount, Lunir, the aged glarum, who let out a poisonous caw but did not snap at the prince as he would have another. Lunir looked out of place, even amid the rather somber splendor of the gathering, dark and grim and menacing, but somehow that drew Baleron to him. The prince ruffled his black-feathered neck and whispered, “Good boy.”
Lunir cawed. He seemed very satisfied with himself, almost preening. How many glarums got the chance to enjoy the hospitality of the elves, and the company of seraths, after all?
Elethris waved his arms and the crowd quieted. “Our time together has seen both good and ill,” he intoned to King Grothgar, the first sentence of a formal farewell speech. “Yet we have accomplished a great victory and destroyed a stronghold of evil that has plagued the Crescent for millennia. Remember that as you leave our borders. Your people, your sons, they did not die in vain. They fell as heroes against a terrible foe, who is now powerless and perhaps dead. We thank you.”
He stepped back, and King Felias stepped forwards. “Good King of Havensrike,” said the Lord of the Larenth, “you have been of great aid to us and we will remember your sacrifices always. You have driven a plague from our lands and freed us from constant war against Ungier and his minions. Our ancient alliance stands firm and I will sing many songs about our triumphs together. Think on this as you depart, that though our losses were grim, our friendship is fast and will endure for thousands of years, until the Dark Ones are defeated utterly and Brunril reforges the world in the light of the sun.”