And in the crafters’ halls of Arden, workers of precious metals and gems and ivories and other worthy stuffs began fashioning gifts for the child, even though they knew not whether it would be male or female.
Among these workers was a wee damman, learning the art of fine chain crafting, for Faeril would prepare a birthing gift with her own hands. And she fashioned a crystal pendant on a platinum chain, the stone remarkable for the figure within—that of a bird, a falcon, wings unfurled as if ready to spring into flight. Why she chose platinum over gold or silver or even starsilver, Faeril did not know, yet when she had touched the metal, she knew that this was meant to be. And all during the crafting, an elusive thought slid ’round the corners of her mind, always just beyond seeing, always glimpsed but not recognized. Yet on the day she finished the crafting, chain glittering, crystal sparkling in the bright sunlight, suddenly she remembered the words of Dodona, there in the Kandrawood ring:
The eld Man seemed to look elsewhere, as if seeing something beyond the circle of trees. “Yes, child, your comrades are most worthy. You travel with a Friend; this I know, for that stone at your neck is his and not yours. Too, you travel with a BearLord, and I know whence he came. You travel with one who is to bear the hope of the world, and she is worthy. You travel with one who will aid in ridding the world of a foulness, though not the one you seek. And you travel with one who loves you, one whom you love in return. All of these companions are indeed honorable.”
Faeril caught her breath. “You travel with one who is to bear the hope of the world, and she is worthy.”
Whelmed by the thought, Faeril sat down, staring at the crystal in her hand. Could this be what Dodona had meant? That Riatha is to bear a child who will be the hope of the world?
Suddenly Aravan’s words sounded in her mind: “Auguries are oft subtle…and dangerous—thou mayest deem they mean one thing when they mean something else altogether.”
* * *
Faeril kept her thoughts to herself, wanting to ponder Dodona’s words longer ere sharing her insight. And oft she gazed at the clear crystal, the one with the bird inside.
And as if a floodgate had been loosed, visions and phrases inundated her mind as she recalled her first dangerous journey down into the depths of that transparent stone:
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 she shouted out words in Twyll:
“Ritana fi Za’o
De Kiler fi ca omos,
Sekena, ircuma, va lin du
En Vailena fi ca Lomos.”
Words that meant:
“Rider of Impossibility,
And Child of the same,
Seeker, searcher, he will be
A Traveller of the Planes.”
For days upon days, Faeril’s mind returned again and again to those visions, to those words:
Rider of Impossibility, Child of the same.
Child of the same…
Of the same…
Rider of Impossibility…
Child of Impossibility?…
Riatha’s child: the impossible child.
Faeril’s heart hammered in her breast. That’s it! Riatha’s child is the impossible child! Seeker, searcher, he will be the traveller of the Planes!
Her mind awhirl, Faeril prepared a pot of tea, and then sat without drinking as it grew cold, lost in her thoughts, lost in possibilities.
Falcon on his shoulder, something glittering in his hands…the Dawn Sword? Faeril held up the pendant, the crystal she had borne across much of Mithgar, seeing the falcon inside. Does this have aught to do with the falcon on his shoulder?
And again Aravan’s words echoed in her mind: “Auguries are oft subtle…and dangerous—thou mayest deem they mean one thing when they mean something else altogether.”
* * *
On the first day of October, among the visitors who came to be in the vale at the birthing were two slender Elves, one bearing a black spear, the other an Elven bow. ’Twas Tuon and Silverleaf, both of Darda Erynian—Tuon with the spear called Black Galgor, Silverleaf with the bow of white horn.
And with them came a dark, wiry Man, a Gjeenian, a Realmsman—it was Halíd.
Halíd sought out Faeril, and he spoke softly of Gwylly, expressing his sorrow, “…for I loved him, too.”
And when Faeril asked of his mission, Halíd said, “Let me tell you of the wyrm in the Well of Uâjii, and aina’àm! of Silverleaf’s wonderful plan that nearly got us all killed….”
Faeril and Halíd walked off through the pine forest, Halíd speaking animatedly, his hands flinging back and forth in wild gestures, Tuon and Silverleaf strolling behind, laughing along with Faeril at the Gjeenian’s outrageous words.
* * *
On the ninth of October, 5E993, at the mid of day, Riatha was delivered of a boychild. Faeril was at her side during the birthing, Midwife Yselle and two chosen Elfesses aiding in the delivery.
But after they had cut and tied the cord and had washed the child, it was Faeril given the honor of bearing the yowling newborn out to Urus, the Man pacing as if caged. And when she handed him up, Urus took the tiny child in his great arms, gentle as a waft of air. Urus lifted back the soft blanket covering the babe, and looked long at his son, the tiny face wrapped ’round howls. Turning to Inarion, he said, “Looks somewhat Elvish, somewhat Mannish, but squalls like a newborn cub.”
Together they stepped to the porch of the great hall, out where all had gathered, and Urus raised his child overhead, toward the new Moon clasped in the arms of the old. And he called out to the waiting assembly, “On this day is a miracle, for on this day Riatha has delivered a child. Our son is born.”
And a mighty shout flew up to the sky.
* * *
The celebration went long into the night, wine flowing, shouts of joy, trills of laughter, wild dancing, feasting and drinking, bards singing and telling tales….
That night, too, at the child’s side someone left an exquisitely carven stone ring, set with a gem of jet, sized to fit a Man’s hand. Whoever had left it had gotten in and out without notice. How? None knew. Yet on that very same night the celebrants heard foxes barking in the woods.
* * *
Aravan came the next day, riding in from the south, bearing a suitable gift: a gold-encased, glass-covered tiny arrow that always pointed north. He bore with him as well the news that someone had slain the Emir of Nizari…and Urus smiled fiercely to hear the Assassin of Assassins was dead.
On this day, too, in the glade of celebration there was an Elven naming ceremony, presided over by Inarion, the Elf Lord speaking in Sylva. And to this sacrament were gathered all the vale’s occupants, for none had seen or heard the words of the rite in more than five thousand years.
And Inarion sprinkled the crystal water upon the newborn’s forehead, intoning, [“Water!”] and touched the child’s tiny hands and feet to clean earth held in a clay vessel [“Earth!”] and with a branch of laurel wafted the fragrant smoke of burning eldwood shavings over the babe [“Air!”] and illuminated the sleeping newborn’s face with the light of a burning branch of yew [“Fire!”] and touched a lodestone to his wee hands and feet and temples and heart [“Aethyr!”].
At last Inarion turned to Riatha. [“And what shall be his name?”]
Riatha looked up at Urus and then down at the child. [“He shall be called Bair.”]
[“Bair,”] whispered Inarion in the babe’s right ear and then in the left, and then he turned to the gathering. [“Ladies and Lords assembled,”] announced Inarion, [“from this day forward he shall be called Bair!”]
“Alor Bair!” rang out the response, thrice altogether.
The child yawned and nearly wakened, but did not. And on this day, the day of his naming, Bair was one day old; yet no matter his age, his life was just beginning.
* * *
A week after, Aravan came seeking Faeril. And she sat with him and told of her suspicions concerning the auguries, reminding him of his own words as to the dangers of such. Even so, he said, “I deem thou hast guessed the right of much. Mayhap Bair is indeed the Rider of the Planes, the Dawn Rider. Yet I cannot abandon my own quest for the finding of the Dawn Sword, nor for the yellow-eyed slayer of Galarun, for I am sworn.
“Hast thou said aught to Riatha, to Urus?”
Faeril shook her head, No.
“Then I bid thee to share what thou hast guessed, for keeping it unto thyself may have consequences dire.”
“Just as may the sharing,” responded Faeril. “What I say will surely color the way he is raised, for ill or good, who can foretell?…Not I, Aravan. Not I.”
“Nor I, Faeril. Yet heed: in knowledge lies strength; in ignorance, weakness. ’Tis always better to know even part than to know nothing at all.”
Faeril slowly nodded, heeding his words.
They sat in silence for a while. At last Aravan said, “I leave on the morrow.”
Faeril sighed. “Whence bound?”
“Easterly.” After a moment he continued. “When Stoke nearly answered my question as to the whereabouts of Ydral, he vaguely gestured east.”
“But, Aravan, there is a whole wide world to the east.”
Aravan shrugged. “I have time, Faeril. I have time.”
* * *
The next day Aravan was gone southward, and after they had waved him good-bye, Faeril turned to Riatha and Urus, the Baeran holding Bair in his arms. “Come,” said the damman. “Let us sit awhile. I have something to tell you…something to unfold.”
* * *
Throughout the following years, Faeril continued to live in Arden, in the cote that she and Gwylly had shared. Her life, though not as long as those of other Warrows, was gentle and filled with love.
And through the years as her long, dark hair slowly changed to blend with her silver lock, many friends came to visit with this golden-eyed damman, this last of the Lastborn Firstborns.
She was eighty-eight that final summer’s eve, the eve of the autumnal equinox. And after the ceremonies in the glade, after the festivities in the Elven hall, after saying good night to one and all, she came back through the dark green pines and across the meadow to sit before the cote in the soft night, listening to the crickets, the stars wheeling above, the full platinum Moon overhead.
And as the silvery Tumble gurged quietly in the gorge below, Faeril thought she heard a soft footstep and looked up to see—
“Oh my buccaran, I knew you would come for me.” And she reached up and took his hand.
“Will they remember us, Aravan?
Will Mankind remember us at all?”
“Mayhap, Gwylly, mayhap.
Mayhap in their legends and fables.
Mayhap in nought but their dreams.”
About the Author
Born April 4, 1932, I have spent a great deal of my life looking through twilights and dawns seeking—what? Ah yes, I remember—seeking signs of wonder, searching for pixies and fairies and other such, looking in tree hollows and under snow-laden bushes and behind waterfalls and across wooded, moonlit dells. I did not outgrow that curiosity, that search for the edge of Faery, when I outgrew childhood—not when I was in the U.S. Air Force during the Korean War, nor in college, nor in graduate school, nor in the thirty-one years I spent in Research and Development at Bell Telephone Laboratories as an engineer and manager on ballistic missile defense systems and then telephone systems and in think-tank activities. In fact I am still at it, still searching for glimmers and glimpses of wonder in the twilights and the dawns. I am abetted in this curious behavior by Martha Lee, my helpmate, lover, and, as of this writing, my wife of over forty years.
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