Though they labored tirelessly to restore his strength, there was no diminishing of their own brightness in the mending. The Sprites began to dream of the new songs that would be wrought to tell of this healing, the healing that did not fail. Those yet unsung melodies drove the hearts and craft of these winged healers as they worked to redeem themselves of an ancient failure. Their lives were compelled, or perhaps enslaved, to the possibility of this redemption. But redemption is the kindest of all masters, and they knew that their subjection to it would, in the end, truly set them free.
Hours later, Cal awoke back inside the sanctuary that he had earlier used to make his rest. He lay in a white wooden bed that looked as if it had somehow grown into its shape instead of being fashioned by a carpenter.
The fire in the hearth was burning warm, and the room smelled of the fragrant scents of healing herbs. “Well there, I am glad to see that you are awake,” an unfamiliar voice said. “I was beginning to fear that the cold had robbed too much of your breath away from your spirit.”
“Who … who are you?” Cal asked groggily in a scratching voice.
“My name is Eógan,” said the voice. “My Queen asked me to tend to you, to light a fire and beckon your strength to return. I am pleased to see that my efforts have proven effective this time. You see, not all hearts are capable of warming. Sometimes …” Eógan paused, lost in a sad memory. “Well … let us not speak of sleeping sorrow today, for you, Bright Fame, are awake, and that is worth our gladness.”
“My sword. Eógan have you seen my sword?” Cal asked as he searched the room with his weary eyes.
“I have indeed, Calarmindon … twice in fact; though it belonged to a different owner the first time I saw it,” Eógan reminisced.
“Did you put it somewhere? I must go show it to Queen Iolanthe,” Cal asked with obvious distress.
“Rest, my son. Gwarwyn is in capable hands and shall be returned to you once you have strength enough to carry it.” Eógan kindly reassured him. “A sword like that one requires a strong heart to wield its weight, and it is my job to make sure that you are able to wield it well, Bright Fame.”
Cal slept there in the sanctuary formed by the mighty Jacarandas, under the careful watch of Eógan, who was called “the shepherd of the weary”. A new breath, one stronger than the one he surrendered under the water, began to fill his exasperated lungs with its life-giving wind.
There, in the burning coals and flames of the sanctuary’s hearth, rested the once-drowned blade of Caedmon. Eógan had spent the better part of Cal’s rest attempting to restore the famous sword to its former glory, but to his dismay, the generations of pounding water and abandoned disregard had left Gwarwyn tarnished and dulled. Eógan employed all of his healing talents on the immortal sword, but to no avail. Not fire or wet stone, not etching oils or pounding mallets could restore the fabled blade of the dragon-slayer. For there was ancient magic woven into the fabric of its steel, magic beyond the skill and comprehension of Sprite or man or beast.
Crestfallen, Eógan labored to retrieve the blade from the fire. He needed neither tongs nor gloves to handle the sword, for even after all these years under the water, it was still impervious to the flames.
Deryn stayed by Cal’s side, aiding Eógan with both assignments, mending man and blade.
“Who knows the plans of our great Father?” Eógan said to Deryn, his will to hope still overcoming the temptation of disappointment. “Perhaps this rusted old edge might be the very key to unlocking His light.”
“It doesn’t make sense to me, Eógan. Why would our great Father have him risk his life to retrieve something so forgotten and seemingly useless?” Deryn asked the old shepherd.
Eógan thought about his question, for he had been rolling the very same words around in his thoughts since the Queen’s servants brought the young groomsman and his inglorious relic to the sanctuary door.
“Perhaps …” he paused, still searching for a way to articulate the hope he chose to hold to, “perhaps one day, in the right pair of hands, it will prove its worth once again. It could be that our hands cannot merit the unleashing of its magic and power, nor our minds such clarifying explanations.”
The old healer held up the corroded blade of the greatest warrior the world had ever known. For all the would-be legend and lore that surrounded the name of the sword Gwarwyn, the blade itself was wholly unassuming. It was not gaudy in its creation, nor was it adorned with jewels or gilded with precious metals. Its long, double-edged blade was elegant in its leaf-like simplicity, and its hilt was wrought to resemble a broad, leafless branch from some hallowed tree.
“Perhaps you are right,” Deryn resigned. “Tell me Eógan … do you still have its scabbard?”
“Indeed I do,” Eógan smiled. “When I could not heal the broken spirit of Caedmon, I kept this as a reminder of my crumbled pride and as a token of hope that maybe one day I could amend for my past failures.”
The old shepherd opened a large, white, wooden chest and pulled a long, white-leathered scabbard from its hold. “Who can comprehend the plans that our great Father has made?”
When Cal was fully rested, he woke to the sound of familiar voices singing a most enlivening tune. Eógan’s face was lit with a smile, and the very air around him seemed to crackle with healing magic as he sung a Spritely song of strength and life. Cal, feeling his strength even now growing to the swell of the healer’s melody, rose from the bed and felt the coursing of fresh life running through his body.
“Thank you, Eógan. You have been kind to me, and I am quite sure I am feeling much stronger than when we first met,” he said with a grin.
“Well, I am most glad to be of help to you, Bright Fame,” said the healer. “But it wasn’t all my doing … I had some help with the mending tune.” Eógan nodded in the direction of the blue-winged sentinel.
“The Queen has sent word that as soon as you are able, she would like to speak with you,” Deryn told his newly-refreshed friend.
The two Sprites helped ready Cal to meet with the Queen. They brought him mint tea and a broth of sweet onions and rootlings so that he might break his fast and sustain his newly recovered strength. Soon he was led down the carved, stone pathways towards the royal house of Iolanthe.
When he arrived at the white chamber, Faolán, captain of the host, was deep in conference with the Queen. Their words were hushed but urgent, and they spoke with an air of formal disagreement until Cal interrupted them with his presence.
“Welcome, Calarmindon Bright Fame. We are all glad to see that you are well,” Iolanthe said with genuine warmth. Faolán bowed and then saluted the young man, but his warmth burned more like a worried candle in the spring wind than like the Queen’s violet hospitality.
“Thank you, my Queen. It would seem that I have found my breath again, largely due to the work of Eógan the healer,” Cal said with an overwhelming sense of gratitude.
Iolanthe looked to Faolán and then back again to Cal. She spoke with a weight often reserved for war councils and deathbeds. “You have done a great deed that is sure to be worthy of scores of Sprite songs, but this deed alone is just a small gust of wind before the impending storm.”
Faolán looked to Cal with what little warmth he could spare and said, “Our Queen has been given word by our great Father of an imminent war on the horizon—one waged by an unsleeping evil over the hearts of men and for the very city you have called home.”
“Our great Father has also revealed to me,” the Queen interrupted Faolán’s account, “that His light will come, and its strength will not fail. For out of the west a new hope will be born. From across the Dark Sea, a new light will pierce this darkness with a true and final victory.”
“But my Queen, what hope do we have against the winged serpents of Nogcwren if the sword of the dragon-slayer is halfway across the known world?” Faolán adamantly demanded answers to his fears.
“My Captain … my friend,” the Queen’s gaze had softened in re
sponse to Faolán’s transparent desperation. “We have no hope at all if we do not seek and find our great Father’s light. No sword, ordinary or otherwise, can ultimately rid the world of the vile evil that betrayal has wrought. We, of all people, have seen this first hand.”
As she turned and looked at Cal, the juxtaposing colors of weariness and of hope were all that were left in her beautiful gaze. “We must send him west, Faolán, for we cannot keep him for our smaller cause and ever hope to truly win.”
“Your word is law,” Faolán submitted. “I am merely afraid of the great pain that will come to our people if he and that blade are not at hand when the evil strikes. But I trust your heart above my fear, and I will do as you command.”
“Thank you, my Captain,” the Queen smiled to Faolán, knowing full well the price this submission had cost him. “Let us trust our great Father as we prepare to do our most heroic deeds yet.”
The captain bowed and saluted his Queen, then flew out of her chambers in a flurry of obedience to carry out her commands. She watched him fly away, staring intently into the empty air for moments after he had disappeared. Finally, she steeled her resolve to do what she knew she must as she turned to address the young man standing behind her.
“Come, Calarmindon Bright Fame, for I must return to you what is rightfully yours,” the Queen said. Ardghal, herald of the Sprites, flew into the Queen’s chambers with seven of his company carrying a familiar sword in an unfamiliar scabbard.
“It was you that rescued Gwarwyn from the watery grave, it was you who answered the calling of the beautiful dawn, and so it is you who must wield this deadly blade against the ravenous evil,” said the Queen with a solemn earnestness in her voice.
“But I am afraid, my Queen,” Cal replied. “I am afraid that I won’t know where to look, or what to do, or how to live up to the fame of Caedmon.”
She thought long and hard for a moment, calculating the very intentions of the young man’s heart, playing over again in her mind the words of the THREE who is SEVEN.
“Do not dismay, Calarmindon Bright Fame, for before there was fear, beauty lived … and a most deadly of beauty it was. Trust in our great Father, seek His light, and the beautiful dawn will break in over the shadow of fear.”
It was there, under the cover of the tallest Jacaranda, that Iolanthe, Queen of the Sprites, gave to Calarmindon Bright Fame the sword of Caedmon the dragon-slayer. She commissioned him with a kiss, and whispered magic words of warning and wisdom, words so beautiful and filled with deep and dangerous meaning that Cal could never have repeated them even if he tried.
Cal reached out to receive the blade that rested upon a table formed from the ancient stone of the Hilgari. As he grasped the hilt and pulled to release it from the confines of the scabbard that Eógan had cared for these many generations, his eyes fell upon the ruined steel. Doubts, disappointments, and waves of despair crashed in over the newly formed outcroppings of Cal’s resolve. This weapon was meant to fend off the darkness, but its lack-luster reveal threatened the flame of hope that was Cal’s very foundation.
“This is the blade of legend? This is what I rescued from the watery grave? This is what slew the ancient serpents and brought down the dragon hive?” Cal’s questions brought him to the verge of tears. “Why would the THREE who is SEVEN call me to carry a blunted relic when what I will need is biting steel?”
Cal picked up the tarnished and age-worn weapon of the mighty dragon-slayer, and instantaneously something happened in his hands. The feather-like feel of the magical blade turned to heavy stone, and Cal had to strain against its unbalanced weight. “What happened? What did I do?” Cal asked nervously, eyeing the sword with a bit of newfound reverence.
“The burden is great for those who must carry, in their mortal hands, the responsibility and calling of an immortal tool such as Gwarwyn.” Iolanthe spoke with nostalgia as she recalled the bright and dangerous days of an age gone by. “Perhaps there is still deeper magic at work here, despite your disappointment. For it was you alone who was called by the beauty of the sword; she brought you here with a promise of hope and an intention of victory. Take heart, for her voice does not lie. It is not in her nature to do so.”
“What … what should I do then?” Cal asked, quite perplexed at this turn of events.
“Carry the blade with you. Listen to her voice, and give her the care that she has been robbed of during these last generations of neglect,” the Queen told him. “Perhaps her glory will return, and perhaps we will see the depth of hidden magic surface when the time comes for you to need her strength. But do not abandon the beautiful dawn, for something in me can sense that your fates are tied together.”
Cal lifted the tarnished steel up with both hands, marveling at the mysteries he could not possibly understand. He ran his thumb along the dulled edge of the blade, starting at the base and working his way to its tip. It wasn’t until he touched the point of the sword that he felt her bite, and a line of crimson ran from his finger.
“Ouch!” Cal cried out.
“Perhaps even now we have misjudged her tarnished slumber,” the Queen said with a wry laugh.
Cal kissed away the blood and belted the scabbard around his waist, placing the not-so-harmless sword in its sheath. “Thank you, my Queen. Thank you for everything. I will do my best to become the champion that you and your people deserve, and I pray your words and your beauty will be ever fresh in my thoughts and my heart,” he said as a blush of color flooded his cheeks.
She smiled a warm smile that dripped with beauty from a well of grace. Her gaze held his as she flew close, leaning forward to brush his cheek with a gentle, parting kiss.
“The time has come for you to return to your Poet friends and prepare for the next part of your journey. But take heart, dear Calarmindon Bright Fame, for I will not send you off into the night alone. I will command one of my bravest warriors to accompany you in this perilous assignment. You have but to take your pick and they will journey with you to the ends of the world.”
“My Queen?” a voice from outside the chamber interrupted. “My Queen, I beg of you an audience, please?”
Cal turned around to see his blue-winged friend, Deryn, flying into her chamber room. “If it pleases you, my Queen, let me go with Cal, let me be the one to watch over his journey.”
She thought briefly. “It would seem fitting to the will of our great Father that it would be you, Deryn, sentinel of my house, to journey with our Bright Fame and aid in his quest.” Her serious demeanor softened at her next thought. “For even now a friendship is blooming in your hearts, and it may be that this new friendship could be your greatest ally in this most unfriendly task.”
Cal smiled to the small sentinel. “Are you sure you want to do this? It could get a bit tricky having a Sprite back in the world of men?” he asked only half-seriously.
“Well, somebody has to make sure you don’t get lost in the dark again!” Deryn jabbed back. Their laughter was caught up in an unnoticed wind as the echoes of their joy danced among the flowers of the violet trees.
And so it was that at the beginning of this quest, this great seeking, it was joy that watered the seed of their resolve as hope began to take root in the deepest parts of their hearts.
Chapter Thirty-Three
By the time Lieutenant Armas of the Capital guard had come upon the northern borough of Piney Creek, Hollis and a small company of his men had been spotted by the gatekeeper at the Northern Gate.
Armas, a bit relieved that he didn’t have to make the long and dangerous journey into the northern territory alone, was all the more eager to greet his old friend. Seeing the caravan of the hardened north men brought a wave of comfort to Armas’ road-weary mind.
Perhaps Hollis has decided to follow the orders from the Priest King after all, he thought as he rode towards the Northern Gate. Dulled mind or not, I would not wish upon my friend the dungeons of the Citadel.
The lieutenant called out to the gatekeeper, a
nd soon the portcullis was raised, so Armas rode out to meet the great chieftain.
The small band of woodcutters was not more than two leagues from the Northern Gate. The ride through this part of the road was still lit by the faint amber light of the burning tree, keeping most of the lurking dangers confined to the thicker parts of the shadowy dark. Armas’ grey gelding was swift of foot, and his green and silver cape fluttered in the wake of the horse’s speed as he rode with great haste along the northern road. The horns of the woodcutters greeted the lieutenant with their long tones as Armas pulled alongside the caravan of bearded northmen.
“Greetings, and welcome home! I come with an urgent word from the Citadel for Hollis, your Chief,” Armas said with genuine gladness in his voice.
The men had sallow complexions, like those who have gone without sleep for far too long. The company was comprised of about twenty men on horseback and one large, covered mule-cart that was bringing up the rear of the party.
“I am Hollis!” a large voice boomed out from the back of the company. “And just who might you be, lad?”
“Has the damnable darkness weakened your eyes that much, old man?” Armas shouted out in jest. “It is I, your old friend Armas!”
“Don’t speak to me of darkness, friend, for I have felt its ravaging toll against myself and my men; my eyes have taken in sights that I only pray I might one day un-see,” Hollis replied with a weariness that conflicted with Armas’ memory of his friend. “What word does our great Priest King have for me this day?” Hollis asked in mock reverence.
“Perhaps we should wait to speak of such words ‘til you and your men have a warm bowl and a tall flagon. Huh?” said the lieutenant, rather taken aback by the demeanor of the great chief. “I will ride ahead and warn the tavern keeper to make preparations for all of you. Then, my old friend, we will exchange words.”
Hollis’ weariness lifted for a moment, and the eyes of the large, red-bearded woodcutter sparked with life again. “Thank you. I am sure my men could use something warm in their bellies and a place to rest their tired backsides. See to it that you fetch a healer while you are at it,” Hollis shouted out to Armas. “For I have a few wounded men that could use a bit of tending to.”
The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy) Page 27