“But you knew about the slavery,” said Autumn.
“And you knew that our histories were incomplete,” said Kiri Lee.
“Yes,” said Goldarrow. “We knew about the Elven enslavement of the Gwar. But we did not seek to deceive you.”
“That’s what it feels like,” said Johnny.
“You were to be taught as much of the original history as we know,” said Grimwarden, “as a part of your lore studies here at Whitehall.”
“With all due respect, sir,” said Tommy, “that’s easy to say . . . now.”
“Tommy!” Goldarrow said sharply. “Have you not already learned enough about the Guardmaster to grant him the benefit of the doubt? Have we, prior to this misunderstanding, given you any reason—any reason at all—for such suspicions?”
Tommy stared at his feet. In fact, of the Seven, only Jett and Kiri Lee still looked on.
“Having read the histories in this rare and ancient volume,” Goldarrow went on, “you now know more of our history than we do. But, THINK, if we had shared even our limited knowledge with you, would you have come back to your homeland with us?”
“I can answer that,” said Jett, undeterred. “No, I wouldn’t have come. And I’m not going to stay, either. I don’t want to be a part of any civilization that takes slaves.”
“You are not thinking clearly,” muttered Grimwarden fiercely. “For that, I forgive your rash words.” A blink and he stood directly in front of Jett, towering over the young lord. “But allow me to provide you with clarity. What began in 6866 is a bloody gouge in all of Elven history. But that ended thousands of years ago. Hear that, Jett. All slavery ended. It is over, in—the—past. And we are not the villains. Our ancestors confessed their atrocities and were forgiven . . . by many of the Gwar nation. But not so, the Spider King. He chose and continues to walk the path of bitterness.”
“Maybe he should still be mad,” said Jett. His voice was taut, but his posture less certain.
“Tell me, Jett,” said the Guardmaster, still directly in front of Jett. “How much blood will it take, then?”
“How much . . . what do you mean?”
“If, as you suggest, the Spider King—the Gwar nation even—is justified in their retribution, . . . their revenge war, how much Elven blood must be spilled to pay the debt in full? One Elven life for each Gwar life taken? What of the slaves who survived? Must one Elf die to make up for the life stolen away from a Gwar as a slave?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” said Jett.
“And just how do we take these Elven lives?” asked Goldarrow. “Do we let the Spider King raid Elven villages until the debt’s paid? Or would the Sentinels choose who lives and dies? Jett, don’t you see the lunacy of this? The Spider King may have once been a respectable Gwar. The enslavement of his family, maybe his own parents, surely wrought havoc in his life. But he chose this. And he has departed from reason if he believes he will ever quench his thirst for vengeance with more blood.”
There was a long pause. “I never thought about it like that,” said Jett.
“You are young,” said Grimwarden. “Your emotions run hot, especially yours.”
“And beyond the usual trials of your teenage years,” Goldarrow went on, “you’ve had your entire world turned upside down. You’ve seen death. You’ve fought and bled in war. You’ve left your Earth homes behind and so much more.”
“Yes, you’ve suffered more than anyone should have to at your age,” said Grimwarden. He stepped away from Jett, and one by one his gaze fell upon each of the Seven. “But that is no excuse to call evil that which you have known to be only good. If we have wronged you, it is out of benevolence, not deceit. Do you all understand that?”
“Yes, sir,” they together replied.
And that was the end of it. Muttering as he left the room, Grimwarden said, “To think I should live to see the day when I reprimand all Seven Lords of Berinfell.”
A few shell-shocked minutes after the Guardmaster departed, Tommy looked sheepishly to Goldarrow. “We really screwed up, didn’t we?”
“Well . . . yes,” she replied. “It is this very error that divides so many good children from their good parents.”
“What do you mean?” asked Kat, her stomach churning.
Goldarrow said, “All too often, especially in your world, teenagers flooded with passions begin to second-guess their parents, even to the point of distrusting those who love them most.” Kat began to cry. Goldarrow embraced the young lord and said, “That struck very close to the bone.”
“I’m sick of crying,” Kat growled.
Goldarrow rubbed Kat’s back and said, “As a very wise person once told me, ‘not all tears are evil.’ Let it go, Kat.”
Kat’s body seemed to convulse. Her words came out in an anguished moan. “I wish I could see my mom. I wish . . . I wish I could tell her I’m sorry.”
The other six lords looked on and wrestled with thoughts of their own.
Warm yellow light from a trio of oil lanterns fought with shadowy corners and tall, dusty bookshelves for control of the North Study’s atmosphere. The light won, casting ruddy light on the cheeks of two elite Elven warriors. Grimwarden and Goldarrow sat so close together they were almost one being. So riveted were they to the book Tommy and Kat had found that they’d completely ignored Mumthers’s call for lunch . . . and dinner.
Having finished the complete Histories section, they went on to read the rest of the book: The Prophecies. Page after page, they’d come across passages that filled them with wonder, hope, horror, or confusion. The section they read now flooded them with all of these, and more.
Having read the dense text four times already, Grimwarden read it aloud.
“ ‘It shall come to pass in the years of plenty that the Sunchildren will forsake the old ways. Great glory will they ascribe to themselves, glory stolen from Ellos, Maker of All. And in those times, their eyes will be darkened. Just as the eclipse blots out the sun, they will see no more than their closed hearts reveal. In their wickedness, the Sunchildren, yea the very same offspring of Ellos, will forget the gifts of mercy and freedom given them of old and will dare to fetter another race.
“ ‘Speak now the cries of Genesset! Wash in floods of water and blood! The long winter will end, but barren, bitter gray will remain in their hearts. Mountains will vomit despair. Rivers will course with frigid tears. And the rain that falls will not quench or cleanse. Marred will be the Sunchildren and the captive Stonechildren both. Deep will that splinter drive. Even so—’”
Goldarrow’s touch interrupted. “Stonechildren?” she repeated. “The Gwar?”
Grimwarden nodded. “There can be little doubt.” He was quiet a moment. “You understand the repercussions . . . what this means.” It was not a question.
Even the tired expression on her face told the tale. She understood fully. “Even in the Golden Age of Elves . . . we were wrong about the Gwar. They, too . . .”
“Are children of Ellos,” Grimwarden finished.
“What about the Saer? The Nemic? The Taladrim?”
“Enemies and allies alike,” said Grimwarden. “All created by Ellos. And all his children.” He breathed out a heavy sigh and his shoulders relaxed. “May Ellos forgive us for our arrogance. We must get word to the elders.”
“Wait, Olin,” Goldarrow said, her brow beetled in concentration. “The Nemic and the Taladrim have other gods. And what of the Saer who name no god?”
“Between the two of us, Elle, I am not the most wise. Give me a spear and an army, and I’ll know what to do. But all this thinking makes my head hurt.”
“But surely the other gods they name, they are not the same as Ellos?”
“Nay,” said Grimwarden. “Nyas nai necro arwis elloas aberne my. Llyas ca vex vespris mara logis. Wy vala e’ Genesset ca cerrath a’ llyam.”
“Now here you have wisdom well beyond mine,” said Goldarrow. “I have not kept up in my studies of First Voice. You said, ‘Never be
God,’ and something about ‘the doors of Heaven.’ ”
“Hmmm, that is surprising,” said Grimwarden. “You understood more than you think. It is translated: ‘You must not have any other god before me. They are ignorant and powerless. The doors of Heaven are closed to them.’ ”
“But see,” said Goldarrow, “they cannot enter Heaven, so—”
“Many have interpreted it that way,” said Grimwarden. “But the text does not say that these races cannot enter Heaven. The only reality implied is that while they are following other gods, they may not enter Heaven. If they follow Ellos—”
“Like the Gnomes,” muttered Goldarrow.
Grimwarden felt a strange exhilaration at this new realization, like ancient bonds had been broken and at last he could inhale a full breath. He smiled as he said, “It seems Ellos has no prejudice toward race or culture. It is only the condition of our hearts that matters.”
“If they are turned toward him,” Elle sat back.
Grimwarden paused a thoughtful beat. “If only our people had known long ago.”
Goldarrow covered half her face with her slender hand. “No, Olin,” she said. “We knew. We’ve always known. But we chose our own way.”
Grimwarden’s joy vanished like the sun behind a very dark cloud. “There it is,” he said. “Spoken plainly in the open.”
“All is not lost,” said Goldarrow, leaning forward and pointing to the page. “See what it says here:
“ ‘Even so, a seed of light is sewn. A remnant will forsake the dark path. Chains will be broken. Light will again sparkle on the towers of the City of the Sun. Berinfell will rejoice in new freedoms, and once more Elves will look for Ellos the Mighty. And they will find him. Ellos will go before the Sunchildren against their enemies, and they will win victories such as will be made into song, and be sung through the ages. There will be such a peace as Allyra has never known.’ ”
“When?” Grimwarden asked hungrily . . . desperately. “When will that be?”
Goldarrow stared at the text. “Alas,” she said, recognition dawning on her face. “That peace has already come and gone.”
“Why do you say that?” Grimwarden asked.
“Read the very next line,” she said.
Grimwarden read:
“Then will come the Plague of Spiders. ”
“I’m telling you,” said Kat, in her customary seat on the secret balcony. “It’s all about us.”
“What?” Jett blurted out from his customary place by the pile of muffins.
“Come on,” said Jimmy, pacing near a window. “What yu’re sayin’ is that a three-thousand-year-old prophet knew what we’d be doin’ now? Funny, that.”
“I don’t think it’s that funny,” said Tommy. “But I think Kat’s right. Read it for yourself.”
“You have the book?” Jett nearly spat muffin crumbs out of the window.
“No,” said Kat. “Grimwarden and Goldarrow have it. But I wrote down some of the prophecies. Look.”
Jett took a look at the parchment roll. “You wrote ALL that?” he asked.
She nodded proudly.
“I can’t read your handwriting,” said Jett.
“Oooh,” Kat growled. “Then listen.” She read an excerpt from the page where she had scrawled her notes.
“‘Seven Elven Lords in their halls of light.
Lords of Berinfell, beware the Spider’s bite.
Seven will be old and Seven will be young,
When the Spider King’s onslaught has begun.
The walls will shiver. The walls will shake.
Under his staff the walls will break.
Children of Stone and Children of Night,
Empty the throne of the Children of Light.
Not to slay but something worse.
For even his minions fear the Curse.
Allyra weeps for its fallen Elves.
Where once lived light, now darkness dwells.
For an Age and an Age, the black stain will spread.
As a new world falls into the Spider’s web.
From tunnels long and caverns deep,
The Children of Light will rise and seek
Their own who were lost but never slain,
They return to end the Spider’s reign.
But malice broods in mountain’s heart.
And menace is born by forgotten art.
As storm clouds fill the eastern sky,
All hope will flee and courage die.
Lest the Rainsong be heard o’er both mountain and field,
The Spider will reign and the line of Lords shall yield
Bound by jaws of rock, discovered by no Lord alone,
The Rainsong lay dormant upon the Keystone.
One will be found, and one will be lost.
For travelling this path requires a cost.
Power unmatched and victory assured.
Secrets revealed and tempest endured.
Seven Elven Lords in their halls of light.
Lords of Berinfell, beware the Spider’s bite.’”
“Okay,” said Jett. “So maybe that is us.”
“So we can’t win?” asked Autumn.
No one answered at first, but then Johnny spoke up. “You were always the smart one,” he said. “And I’m not much for books and all. But I don’t think it says we can’t win. Sounds more like we won’t win without this Rainsong thingy, whatever that is.”
“Brilliant,” Jimmy said, patting him on the back. “That’s right brilliant.”
“Okay,” said Tommy. “I can see that. Kat?”
“Yeah, that seems right. And if we find this Keystone, then we find the Rainsong . . . whatever either of those things are.”
Tentatively hopeful, they nodded one by one. “Well, I think we now know what we need to do,” said Tommy.
“Uh-huh,” said Jett. “We need to get that Rainsong and go kick some Spider King butt.”
18
Invasion of Nightwish
“IT’S BEEN nearly three months, Alwynn,” said the elder called Danhelm, slamming his fist down on the council table. “The Spider King could attack at any moment, and we sit here shaking in our burrows like field mice. But we have accrued a sizable army, outfitted with the very best of weaponry and supplies, and our people are strong. Yet you’re content to let the Seven remain in the care of Grimwarden, mastering outdated fighting styles and cooing to superstitious myths? How can you even consent to such folly? Is it because”—the council member paused, drawing all eyes for his final blow—“you are a dissenter?”
An audible gasp went up around the room, Sentinels speaking behind their hands, Dreadnaughts mumbling with heads bent low.
“Order!” Manaelkin bellowed, slamming his gavel down numerous times. “Order, I say!” When the room was brought back to yet another uncomfortable calm, Manaelkin eyed Danhelm. “My dear friend, the words you utter forth against our brother are quite . . . bold.”
Not that you haven’t fed them to him yourself, Alwynn replied behind an expressionless face.
Manaelkin continued. “Yet still, it would seem that certain attitudes, shared by more than one among us, would see our people— through apathy and inaction—fall once more . . . to the Spider King.”
“I contend!” Alwynn stood and pushed his chair back, and with him dozens more Elves raised their voices. The council chamber burst into a shouting match, Elves just inches from one another’s faces, veins bulging, fists clenched.
“ORDER!” Manaelkin demanded, striking his gavel so hard that the handle broke and the head skittered across the stone table. But it was just a show. Appear to mediate the discussion, appear to be appalled by the reactions, and most of all, appear not to take sides—that was Manaelkin’s way. While Manaelkin had held to the controversial vote taken half a year before—agreeing to let Grimwarden have the time he needed to train the young lords—he had done everything in his power to undermine it from the inside. A true politician. And seeing his work no
w manifest in the foul tempers of his compatriots, he contented himself to sit back down, letting the arguments unfold before his very eyes . . . his smiling eyes.
In all the commotion not a single one of them noticed the chamber door fling open and a pale-looking errand boy enter. He struggled to gain the nerve to speak, eventually waving an arm. Then he resorted to yelling, but still his dire plea went ignored, added to the throng of violent words spewing forth like poison. Desperate, the youth reached for one of the dremask stones, held it aloft, then shielded his eyes. He cast the luminous crystal onto the council table where it exploded, the dremask vein splattering across the room like bits of flaming lava. Instantly, the males of the council brushed the flaming puddles of silvery fluid from their clothes and leaped back, searching for the cause of the explosion.
“What in the name of—?”
“Reports from our scouts, both in the aquifers and through the tunnels, a large army approaches. The Spider King has come!”
Ages beneath the surface had given the Elves time to hone their defensive procedures to a point sharper than their razor-tipped arrowheads. Quietly and efficiently, the elderly, the infirm, nonmilitary males and women, and all children were evacuated into boats and shepherded through canals by flet soldiers to emergency shelters west of their underground refuge.
The Elven military, too, had made constructive use of time, conducting invasion and defense drills and preparing fortifications and weapons. Thousands of flet soldiers lay hidden. The invasion of Berinfell left a fiery red brand on the mind of every Elf. They would be ready . . . this time.
Now, Nightwish Caverns held its collective breath. Massive dremask torches burned in the highest towers, illuminating the stone city in waving hues of blue and gray and casting long shadows. The central aquifer shimmered like a vein of incandescent blood, running slowly between the towering structures—fortresses, keeps, and turrets— where no fire or light burned in any window. There were only darkened sockets, lidless, empty eyes staring at everything . . . and nothing. A city of ghosts.
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