The Eye of the Hunter

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Dawnlight to see yesterday;

  Firelight to see afar;

  Candlelight to see loved ones;

  Forgelight to see allies;

  Torch-light to see foe;

  Spectral light to see Destiny;

  Darkness to see death;

  Sunlight to see all.

  “Rael also told me of many things which at times can be seen by viewing light through various jewels, yet these I do not remember in any great detail.

  “But heed, one must be wary of such visions, for some are but imaginings—wishful and fearful both—while only a few are otherwise. Only at times unpredictable do true visions or redes or sooths or prophecies come through the crystals, and even these must be viewed with caution—for not always is revealed what immutably must be; instead thou mayest be shown that which merely might be.”

  Ere Faeril could ask aught else, workers began streaming back to the fields. And so she wrapped the crystal in the black silk square and placed all in the iron box and closed it tight, the clasp clicking into place. She slipped the container into her own pouch, then she and Riatha took up their hoes and returned to the fields as well.

  * * *

  Summer came in full with the celebration of the solstice, and Aravan began teaching Faeril and Gwylly and Riatha the calls of birds—birds of the night as well as those of the day—for he had long studied the avians and had mastered this craft And slowly they gained skill in the many whistles and chirps and trills and coos and chirks, learning how to use them as signals to one another. They also gained some facility at imitating bat shrills, for such calls were within the range of hearing of Warrows as well as Elves. Too, Riatha taught each of them the patterns of silent hand signalling. And before the days of autumn came, they were able to carry on long conversations without speaking a word.

  Too, in a large eddy pool of the River Tumble, Faeril learned to swim, aided by Aravan. And although Gwylly had some skill in the side stroke and in treading water and in diving—having been taught by his Human father, Orith, in the farm pond—the buccan also heeded Aravan’s lessons, gaining skill in several strokes, including swimming underwater.

  In this time of training and learning, Gwylly began to read from his copy of Petal’s journal, for his progress in Twyll had moved apace. Slowly at first, groping for meaning, did he read the words, often failing, needing guidance. Then swifter and swifter did he read, needing less and less aid.

  In the evenings as he studied, so too did Faeril. But her studies were far different, on untrod ways, for she sought to master the crystal. With care she had “cleansed” it, seeking to “attune” it: a day she left it buried in fertile soil, choosing a rich loam; another day it was washed in the clear water of the nearby running rill; she dried it in the soft northerly breeze that blew down the vale, taking another day to do so; carefully and swiftly she passed it through the flame of a white candle, bathing the full length of each and every side in the fire, and bathing the facets at the tips as well, but not letting the crystal dwell long in the flame for fear of cracking the precious stone; and last, at midnight, and at dawn and noon and twilight as well, she aligned the crystal to the cardinal points of the aethyr— north, east, south, west, up, and down—breathing a new prayer to Adon as she held it steady along each direction. And she wrapped it in the black silk square and stored it in the iron box in between the stages of cleansing, and afterward as well.

  As Gwylly slowly read through the journal, Faeril held the crystal in the moonlight and tried to clear her mind of all distraction, looking deep into the stone, attempting to let her consciousness fall within, seeking to see the future and the events it held…

  …to no avail.

  * * *

  Summer waned and autumn approached, and when they were not sharing in the labor of the Elvenholt, still the foursome continued preparing for the unknown challenges and perils of their venture.

  There came a day that Gwylly asked Aravan about the Elf’s crystal spear. It was after a strenuous drill at long-knife wielding, and the two sat at leisure in a glade among the pines. The spear lay on the ground at Aravan’s side for it was never far from his reach. The smoky blade caught a noontide sunbeams shining down through the boughs fragmenting it into shards of tight.

  Gwylly’s eye was caught by the glitter, and he looked at the blade and the length of the black haft and wondered at its making. Tentatively he reached out to the shaft. It was cool to the touch.

  “I say, Aravan, just where did you come by this?”

  Aravan looked at the Waerling and said nought for a long while. As the silence between them grew, Gwylly decided that the Elf would not answer. Yet at last Aravan spoke:

  “It was made for me by the Hidden Ones long past” The Elf fingered the blue stone on the thong ’round his neck.

  “A gift?”

  “Aye, thou couldst call it that, or mayhap a remembrance.”

  Gwylly glanced at the spear and then back to Aravan. “A gift by, the Hidden Ones? Who are they? And why—?” Gwylly’s words jerked to a halt as he saw a look of anguish spring up in Aravan’s eyes.

  Again a long silence fell between them.

  “I was once a master of the sea,” said Aravan at last. “Rather, not of the sea, but of a ship of the sea.

  “In those days there was an island called Rwn, a place of Mages far from here. There, too, dwelled some Hidden Ones—these were wee folk, smaller even than the Waerlinga.” Aravan held his hand a foot or so above the ground, indicating their height.

  Gwylly’s eyes flew wide. “Surely you jest, Aravan.”

  “Nay, Gwylly, I do not.”

  “B-but, wee tiny Folk are merely myths…or so I thought.”

  A sad smile fell upon Aravan’s features. “Thou has heard of them, then. Fox Riders. Tree and hummock and hole dwellers. Fen swimmers and forest runners. Others.”

  “In hearthtales, I have,” responded the buccan. “But I always believed that they were only legends.”

  “Not legends, Gwylly. Not legends.” The Elf gazed long at the Waerling, then finally spoke. “There are Hidden Ones in thy Weiunwood, and not just the tiny folk.”

  “But I’ve spent nearly every one of my days in that forest,” protested Gwylly, “and I’ve never seen a Hidden One.”

  Again Aravan smiled. “That, Gwylly, is why they are named Hidden Ones.”

  Now Gwylly smiled. “Even so, Aravan, surely someone would have come across them.”

  “Mayhap some have stumbled upon a Hidden One or several, Gwylly. Yet who would believe them? And mayhap none have come across the tiny ones, or others, for they have ways of protecting themselves, as well as ways of discouraging trespassers in their domains.”

  Suddenly to Gwylly’s mind sprang the image of Black in full pursuit of a hare, and the dog tumbling tail over ears to keep from running into one of the “closed places” in the Weiunwood, a place open only to the wild creatures “Perhaps I know where some Hidden Ones dwell, Aravan, there where legends speak of figures half seen, some gigantic, others small and quick—figures of light, figures of dark things of the earth, things of the trees and greenery, things named Fox Riders and Living Mounds and Angry Trees and Groaning Stones, and other creatures of lore and myth.

  “Why, Faeril rode through such places, places that seemed to just barely tolerate her, places her pony did not want to go. She told that they were full of twilight and shadow and watching eyes, and a rustling. She said that from the corners of her eyes, things seemed to flit and dart among the trees, but when she looked, no one was there.”

  Aravan nodded. “’Tis likely that Faeril did ride through domains of the Hidden Ones.”

  Once more silence fell between the two. At last Aravan took up his spear and stood, looking down upon the buccan.

  “I rescued a band of Hidden Ones from the destruction of Rwn. They fashioned this spear as a token of their gratitude.” Aravan said nought for a moment, his face a stoic mask. He looked again at the weapon. “
Yet the cost of that rescue was nearly more than I could bear.”

  Aravan turned and walked away, and Gwylly watched him go, knowing that the Elf wished to be alone.

  That evening, when Gwylly told Faeril of his conversation with Aravan, Faeril said little, yet a sadness filled her own eyes, for she knew somehow that a great sorrow lurked in the core of Aravan’s heart.

  Later, Faeril said, “In the Boskydell we, too, have legends of people like Aravan’s Hidden Ones. They are said to dwell within the Thornwall. Of course, no one knows the truth of such, for even birds find it difficult to penetrate the fangs of the Spindlethorn.”

  * * *

  Came the autumnal equinox, and the Elven ceremony in the glade seemed especially auspicious, the dancing and feasting and singing and the sharing of the labor particularly joyous, for Faeril and Gwylly celebrated the first anniversary of their vows. Too, they celebrated the anniversary of their arrival in Arden Vale. And the occasion was publicly feed by Inarion and hailed by all.

  Autumn aged and winter drew nigh, and still did Gwylly and Faeril and Riatha and Aravan prepare.

  Snow began to fall, and now the Warrows spent some eventides before their fireplace, Gwylly reading from the copy of Petal’s journal, Faeril studying her crystal.

  “I say, Faeril,” remarked Gwylly, “listen to this.” The buccan began reading aloud, his voice hesitant but managing to speak the passage as written, his words in Twyll:

  [“Ve din á lak dalle…]

  “As I sat there waiting for Tommy to return with the horses, sat there holding Riatha, she bleeding from the great chunk of ice slammed down onto her head by Stoke, in the distance the iron bells of the abandoned monastery were ringing, as if tolling a death knell for Urus, or celebrating the demise of Stoke. Yet I knew that it was the great quake that set them to clanging so, the quake that had riven the ice and opened the deep crevasse, the crevasse that Urns had borne Stoke into. As the bells rang, even though I wept for dead Urus, there was another thought which ran over and again through my mind, and it was this: Stoke is a werebeast—Vulg and flying creature and Man—and he once claimed that nought but silver or the like could ever slay him. And now he lies far below in the ice, the crevasse no more, slammed shut by the very same quake that had opened it, Stoke and his killer trapped perhaps forever; yet I wonder, if nought but silver can slay him, then is the monster truly dead?”

  Gwylly looked up from the journal. “Brrr! Rather spooky, isn’t it? I mean, thinking of Stoke down there trapped alive all of these hundreds of years, frozen in the ice, unable to move.”

  Faeril set aside her crystal. “Perhaps Petal was more right than she knew. Or so the prophecy would seem to say.”

  Gwylly turned a page. “Come the spring a year and a half from now, we may find out, love.”

  The buccan returned to his reading, Faeril to her crystal, emptying out her mind, staring into its glittering depths.

  CHAPTER 14

  Dangerous Journeys

  Late 5E986 to Early 5E988

  [The Past One Year, Six Months]

  During that long winter, as snow once again deeply covered the land, Riatha, Aravan, Faéril, and Gwylly carefully laid their plans. Given the state of the Grimwalls—teeming with Foul Folk, the region near the Great North Glacier made unstable by a Dragon’s death long past— Aravan advised that in the coming autumn they should travel through Rian unto the coastal waters of the Boreal Sea and there take passage unto Aleut, where they would winter over. Then, come late winter, when spring drew nigh, they would travel overland by dogsled to the glacier, making their way through the Untended Lands and a short way up into the Grimwall to the place Riatha would take them. This, Aravan argued, would expose them the least to the Spaunen and to the quaking land.

  As an alternative plan, they considered wintering over in Jord, there among the scattered settlements, there where the Vanadurin once dwelled ere migrating unto Valon at the end of the War of the Usurper. When the time was right, they would travel from Jord east along the Grimwalls to the Great North Glacier.

  But current skirmishes between the Jordians and the alliance of the Naudrons and the Kathians made the crossing of the borders unsafe.

  Last they considered wintering in the village of Inge in Aralan, and journeying through the Grimwalls to reach the glacier. This was the way that Riatha traditionally fared— across the range past Dragonslair—the route she knew best. Yet by the same token it was the most dangerous of ways because of quakes and Rûpt.

  After examining the alternatives, they decided to follow Aravan’s advice and sail to Aleut in autumn, ere the stormy season; there they would winter over, and then use dogsleds to fare across the Untended Lands to the Great North Glacier on the arctic flank of the Grimwalls.

  * * *

  Spring came, heralded by the vernal equinox, and again the Elvenholt set aside three days to celebrate.

  Snow melted in the vale as well as high on the mountain slopes, and the River Tumble roared. Again the cattle were driven to the high meadows, and the sheep higher still, as life went on. Things crafted in the long winter nights were displayed: smithed silver and woven silk and jewellery set with gemstones dear; carven wood and chiseled stone and fire-glazed pottery; paintings and poems and tales of delight and wonder as well as heartbreaking odes; and music for flute and lute and harp and drum and timbrel, as well as for woodland pipes. There was weaponry rare of forged steel, chased with runes and filigree; these were not special weapons, for much of that art had been long lost, though some yet remained. Even so, these weapons were valued, for they were well balanced and true, and those with blades were keen and held an edge. Bows of carven wood with arrows to match were also crafted over the winter. All these and more were made by the Elves—items most precious and rare—while the cold pressed down on the land.

  When spring came, caravans laden with Elven goods set out from Arden to trade for needed things: salt and spices and condiments; herbs not found nigh the vale; fabrics and raw gems; worthy ingots; these and the like did the Elven traders seek, travelling to far away Lands to barter and bargain and exchange, gathering items and goods to bring in return.

  Among these caravans was one faring to Challerain Keep, the High King’s citadel in Rian. Of the Elven wayfarers, one bore a message from Aravan to a friend at the Keep, asking him to send a messenger north to the sheltered port town of Ander along the Boreal Sea, there to arrange for a ship to bear the foursome unto the village of Innuk in the Land of Alute.

  And the days marched on.

  Still Gwylly continued to read and write, gaining skill and confidence, acquiring words in Twyll, and in Sylva and Common as well. Faeril wondered how he could keep it all straight, yet his natural facility seemed to somehow sort all out, and he managed to juggle all three. Too, he spoke the languages more fluently than he could read and write though now and again he would mix the tongues, often with amusing results.

  Faeril, too, continued her studies in Sylva, and both Waerlinga gained skill and comfort in using the Elven tongue.

  Faeril also continued her attempts at scrying the future, so far with little success. Yet one warm spring evening she sat in the moonlight on the stoop of the cote, the crystal in her hand, emptying her mind of all distraction, peering into the depths of the cryst—

  —She fell through glittering space, silvery glowing crystal panes tumbling past, or was she tumbling and the panes still?…she did not know. Mirrored reflections from angled, crystal surfaces sparkled about her, and the whole of creation was filled with the ring of scintillant wind chimes, tinkling, pinging, chinging, the sound surrounding all. Down she spun, into a shimmering sea of argent light, of luminance and glimmer and flash, and there came the peal of crystal bells ringing near and far. And as she tumbled past crystal panes, over and again she saw reflected a glow of golden flame—at times multiple images, at other times but one—a steady and slender shaft of light; and suddenly she realized that it tumbled as did she, and knew
it to be her own reflection, showing perhaps her very soul.

  Still she fell endlessly, down and down within, glittering hexagonal panes turning about her as crystalline chimes chinged and linked in the nonexistent wind…in the blowing aethyr.

  And even though falling, she felt no fright, her spirit steady, her soul filled with chimes and light and wonder.

  In the glittering crystal surfaces where glowed her own reflection, beyond the golden light, beyond the multiple windows of sparkling crystal, she could discern images, some vague and unformed, as if unfocused, others sharp and strange. They flashed past rapidly as she fell down among the scintillant panes—shadowy armies marching, a field of roses red, a murky black pool rippling, a great bear, enormous pillars looming, stars glittering, water whirling, grey mist swirling, and more, much more, images vague and distant, others near and sharp, and all fleeting, all nought but glimmers and glances.

  Of a sudden she glimpsed an Elfess—Riatha?—she could not say, and standing behind was a huge Man. Next came a rider—Man or Elf?—on horse, a falcon on the rider’s shoulder, something glittering in his hands.

  And Faeril felt words echoing from her mouth as she called out something. What? She did not know, even though the words were in Twyll, for she could not hear them, and she knew not what she said—the words were not her own.

  “Ritana fi Za’o

  De Kiler fi ca omos,

  Sekena, ircuma, va lin du

  En Vailena fi ca Lomos.”

  And onward she fell, endlessly, down and down, the images of Elfess and Man and rider and falcon left far behind, Faeril twisting and turning among a myriad of golden reflections of her soul as crystal panes tumbled past, shapes and forms and figures glimpsed beyond.

  But then there came a voiceless cry, someone inaudibly weeping, and she listened, knowing that somehow it was important, and somehow familiar, this mute voice calling noiselessly, this unheard grieving, this silent—

  —Even as Faeril opened her eyes she could hear Gwylly weeping and whispering her name. And he was holding her hand and stroking her fingers. His visage swam into view and steadied. “Don’t cry, beloved,” she murmured.