by Terry Brooks
“Sometimes these families sent their dead back into the earth without any sort of marker at all,” Culph had observed. “Sometimes they chose to be buried apart from the family. No way of knowing. We have to keep looking until we’re certain.”
So look they did, all the remainder of the afternoon, combing the burial ground from one end to the other, searching out every grave site, gaining entry to every sepulcher and tomb, and digging up anything that might have been a Cruer marker covered over by time and nature. It was hard, exhausting work, and by the time it had grown too late to see clearly anymore, all three of them were covered in dirt and debris, hot and sweaty and sore from their efforts.
“We’ll have to leave it for today,” Culph announced, grimacing as he straightened his aching back. “We’ve covered as much as we can this day. We can try again day after tomorrow. Best I can do. We’ll meet at midday. Maybe we’ll have better luck, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”
At this point, neither would Kirisin. They hadn’t searched everywhere yet; there were still large sections of the Ashenell they had failed to explore. What worried Kirisin most at this point was that Pancea Rolt Cruer, Queen of the Elves and the mother of Kings, might have decided to let the earth reclaim her and leave no mark of her passing, as Culph had suggested. If that was the case, they would never find either her or the missing blue Elfstones.
He brushed dust from his thighs and the front of his shirt and wondered how bad he looked to anyone passing by. Pretty bad, he thought. Like he had rolled in dirt and leaves. Like he had been lost in the forest.
Well, he was lost, all right. He was so lost that he was having difficulty believing he would ever be found again. The Ellcrys should have picked someone else to depend upon. All he could manage was to thrash around in the playground of the dead, wasting the one opportunity he had been given to make a difference. He kicked at the dirt pathway, furious and frustrated and scared all at the same time. Time was slipping away, he told himself. Time he didn’t have to waste.
Still muttering under his breath and cursing himself for being so stupid and worthless, aware as he did so that this wasn’t helping anything and wasn’t, in fact, even true, he passed out of the trees that fronted his home and stopped.
Someone was sitting on the steps of the veranda, leaning back against the roof support, arms resting loosely on drawn-up knees, a glass of ale in one hand. Not his father or mother. They were away for a few nights at his grandparents’ home in a small community to the south. This was someone else, someone who looked like…
He blinked in disbelief. Simralin! It was Simralin!
She saw him and waved. “Hey, Little K!” she called out, using the nickname she had given him.
“Sim!” he shouted in delight and rushed forward to greet her, bounding up the steps, throwing his arms around her, and hugging her tight. “You’re back!”
“Take it easy on me, will you? You’re crushing me!”
She laughed as she said it and hugged him back. She was strong and athletic, so it would take a lot before he could do any real damage to her. Kirisin idolized his sister in the way little brothers have idolized older sisters forever: there wasn’t anyone like her and never would be. She was six years and a lifetime of experience older than he was. More to the point, he thought her everything he wasn’t—tall and smart and beautiful. She was a Tracker of exceptional skills, well liked and respected by everyone, and was to many the kind of friend you always hoped you would find and keep.
“I missed you,” he said.
“Good. I’d hate it if you didn’t.”
She glanced down at his clothes. “Where in the world have you been? Rolling in dirt? You look like a groundhog! You don’t smell very good, either.” She pushed him away and sat him down on the steps. “Here,” she said, handing him her glass of ale. “Drink this and tell me what you’ve been doing.”
He never considered not telling her. She was Simralin, and he always told her everything—even the things he would never tell his parents. He started with the Ellcrys speaking to him and asking for his help, and then related the details of his efforts to secure help from the King, his discovery that he had been lied to, his confrontation with Erisha and her change of heart. He ended with today’s futile efforts to find the grave site of the Elven Queen Pancea Rolt Cruer. He explained how he and Erisha had thought to find some mention of the Elfstones in the Elven histories and how old Culph had discovered them, threatened to expose them, and then became their ally. He even threw in his concerns about the King’s behavior and how strange it seemed that he would sacrifice the Ellcrys to save his daughter.
When he had finished, Simralin stared at him for a moment, as if making up her mind about something, and then said, “That’s a pretty strange story, Little K. Are you sure about all this? You’re not dressing it up for me, are you?”
“Of course not! I wouldn’t do that!” He was indignant and irritated at her. “Why would you ask me that?”
“Calm down,” she soothed, reaching out to grip his shoulder. “I said it because things are a whole lot stranger than you think. Listen to what just happened to me.”
She told him then about her encounter with the Knight of the Word, Angel Perez, and the tatterdemalion, Ailie. She explained carefully how it had happened, the strange way she had heard Ailie calling to her, how they had found the two waiting for them, and how they had revealed what had brought them to the Cintra and the Elves.
Then she told him what Angel had said about the Loden and the Elfstones and the end of the world.
“I knew it!” he exclaimed, his voice fierce. “This wasn’t just me and Erisha! The Ellcrys really did know that she was in danger and that the Elves were threatened in some way and that she needed us to do something! It wasn’t just my imagination!”
“But the King doesn’t think so,” Simralin pressed.
Kirisin shook his head. “I don’t know what he thinks. Neither does Erisha. He knows something we don’t, though. He wouldn’t be acting this way otherwise. He won’t even consider letting Erisha do what the Ellcrys wants her to do, and he’s been avoiding me for days. He’s been lying to me, come to that!”
“Maybe. Or maybe it just seems that way. You can’t be sure what his reasons are for not wanting to act on what you told him.” Simralin shook her head. “Our family hasn’t been close to Arissen Belloruus for some time, not since his falling-out with our parents. But I know him well enough to question that he would ever do anything that would endanger our people. He is devoted to the Elves. I’ve seen him demonstrate it time and time again. I think there must be something more.”
“Maybe so,” Kirisin allowed. “But I don’t know what it is or even how to find out. Maybe Erisha can manage it, but she hasn’t had much success so far. She says her father seems different. Even old Culph thinks something’s changed in him.”
Simralin was sitting again, her knees drawn up to her chest, her face somber. They were both draped in shadows, the night descending rapidly now, what remained of the daylight a pale wash against the horizon west above the wall of the forest.
“Let’s have some more of that ale,” she suggested.
She went inside and returned with fresh glasses. They sat together in the growing darkness and sipped the smooth, dark amber liquid, not saying anything right away.
“I remember Erisha when she was little,” Simralin said finally. She pursed her lips at Kirisin. “She used to follow you around like a newborn puppy. She thought you were so clever.” She smiled. “I always thought something might come of that. Especially after both of you became Chosen.”
Kirisin grimaced. “Well, at least she’s speaking to me again. For a while, she wasn’t even doing that much.”
“It seems like she’s doing a whole lot more than that now. She’s going up against her father. Risky, for a King’s young daughter.”
Kirisin thought about it. It was risky. But he wasn’t sure he understood exactly what the nature of the ris
k was. It was more than a threat of punishment for disobedience, he sensed.
“I like her better for taking that risk,” he said.
“I expect you do.”
He gave her an impish grin. “But I like her best because she looks and smells like me.”
“Speaking of which, maybe you ought to go clean up.” She loosened her headband and shook out her long blond hair. “I might want to think about that myself. Our guests have been summoned before the High Council to make their presentation, and I have been told to be present. I could do without that, but I was not given a choice.”
“Do you think you are in trouble for bringing a human into Arborlon? Even if you did it in the best way and for the right reasons?”
She shrugged. “Probably. Praxia was certainly angry enough about it, and she let it be known to everyone within listening distance. There will be others who are equally unhappy. But it was the right choice.”
“The King might not see it that way.”
“Probably not. But the matter is decided.”
Kirisin grinned. That was Simralin’s way of saying it was over and done with, so what was the point of talking about it now? He liked how she could be so matter-of-fact about the way things were. She wasn’t much for revisiting the past.
“So here we are,” he said.
“So here we are.”
They were silent again for a moment, then Kirisin said, “I was thinking. Doesn’t it seem odd that the Word’s messengers summoned you and the Ellcrys summoned me to do essentially the same thing? To carry a message to the Elves about the danger they are in and how maybe they can avoid it? You and me, a brother and sister, out of all the possible choices? That seems like a rather large coincidence.”
“Not large, Little K.” Simralin finished off her glass of ale and stretched like a big cat. “Huge.”
Kirisin frowned. “You think it was planned, don’t you? That the tatterdemalion was told to bring the Knight of the Word to you specifically, maybe because we are brother and sister?”
“Like you said, it could have been anyone in the entire Elven nation that Ailie called to her. But it wasn’t just anyone; it was me. It feels deliberate.”
They stared at each other in silence. Kirisin said, “Can I come with you tonight? It might help if I’m there to advise the High Council that what the Knight and the tatterdemalion are telling them is what the Ellcrys already told Erisha and me.”
Simralin shook her head doubtfully. “They are going to want to know why you didn’t come forward with this sooner. If you tell them that you did, that you told the King, you are going to be a very unpopular member of the Belloruus royal family.”
“I’ll be in good company,” he said, giving her a pointed look.
She laughed softly. “It’s good to be home again, Little K. I’ve missed having you around. Go take your bath and change your clothes. Then we’ll see if we can find out where all this is going.”
AN HOUR LATER, they were walking toward the buildings adjacent to the Belloruus home that housed the meeting chambers of the Elven High Council. It was night by now, the daylight faded completely, the sky a mix of scattered clouds and pinpricks of starlight. They walked the back trails skirting the city, avoiding the more heavily traveled roadways. They were already late, and they needed to get to where they were going without being stopped. Neither spoke as they walked, keeping their thoughts to themselves. But each knew what the other was thinking.
Kirisin glanced over at his sister, then down at himself. They were both washed and dressed in a clean set of clothes—the loose-fitting pants, slip-over shirt, and soft boots favored by most Elves. They were presentable, if unimpressive. But making any sort of impression on the members of the High Council and the King was probably out of the question anyway. It wasn’t as if everyone didn’t already know who they were. It wasn’t as if they were strangers.
Even so, Kirisin felt a little bit as if he were.
He adjusted his wide belt. The weapons loops hung slack and empty. Neither carried even so much as a long knife. If they needed weapons this night, they were already beyond help.
Even so, Kirisin found himself wishing that he had brought at least one blade.
He could not account for this sense of misgiving, a nagging uneasiness that lacked a recognizable source but was present nevertheless. He felt foolish for letting it trouble him and roughly pushed it away.
When they arrived at the building that housed the Council chambers, they found Home Guards stationed at the doorway, armed and watchful. The building was a large, circular structure constructed of interconnected logs stretched between huge old-growth spruce and sealed with a packing compound. The roof was high and domed, the foundation raised on plank flooring. Admittance was gained through a pair of wide double doors opening into a hallway that formed the outer rim of the wheel-shaped building and encircled the chambers themselves, which were housed at the hub. The exterior of the building didn’t look much different from the forest surrounding it, but the interior, where the chambers were situated, was smooth and sleek and polished, a haven of quiet and soft light.
The Home Guards recognized Simralin at once and waved her through the doors and into the hallway. Kirisin followed, riding her coattails. Inside, they came right up against Tragen. The big Elf’s brooding face was even darker this night as he frowned at Simralin in greeting. “We could have used you here a little earlier.”
Kirisin glanced past him to where two figures were seated on a bench against the inner wall, almost lost in the shadows of the dark space they occupied between a brace of smokeless torches.
One appeared to be a tiny girl, a creature so insubstantial she looked as if she might disappear on a strong gust of wind. She had long bluish hair, eyes as dark as midnight pools, and skin as pale as chalk. She wore clothing that seemed to drift loosely from her body in the manner of moss from tree limbs, somehow more a part of her than something worn. She glanced at him with an inquisitive look that quickly changed to recognition—which made no sense at all because he had never seen her before.
The second was a young woman, older and stronger, her skin brown, her hair dark, her eyes hard and challenging as she looked at him. She gripped a black staff in both hands, a polished length of wood that had been carved from end to end with symbols he did not recognize. He stared back at her, and she looked away. Her eyes were no longer so dark and angry; instead, they simply looked tired.
“What’s wrong?” Simralin was asking Tragen.
The other grunted in disgust. “Praxia hasn’t learned yet to leave well enough alone. She tried to take the staff from the Knight. I told her to let it be, but she insisted it was a weapon and shouldn’t be carried into the presence of the King. It wasn’t her business, but you know Praxia. The Knight knocked her all the way across the hall and into the far wall. She went down hard and didn’t get up.”
“Praxia,” said Simralin in dismay.
“Que’rue and Ruslan carried her out. I stayed because someone had to, but I haven’t gone close to those two. Even the Home Guards are keeping back until someone tells them what to do. Got any thoughts?”
Simralin nodded. “Your advice was right. Leave them alone. They’re guests, not prisoners. The Knights of the Word consider their black staffs symbols of their office. They never give them up to anyone for any reason. The staffs probably are weapons of some sort, but I don’t think the Knight and the tatterdemalion came here to kill anybody. If they wanted to do that, they wouldn’t have bothered summoning us. Praxia would have realized that if she had stopped to think it through.”
“Let me know the next time she stops to do that about anything,” Tragen muttered. He glanced at Kirisin for the first time. “Evening, Little K.”
Kirisin blushed. He hadn’t realized Simralin’s nickname for him was general knowledge. Hearing someone other than his sister use it made him feel like a little boy.
Simralin walked him over to where the Knight of the Word an
d the tatterdemalion waited and stood before them. “I apologize for what happened,” she said to Angel. “Praxia should have known better.”
Angel studied Kirisin’s sister a moment, and then nodded. “I reacted too strongly. I am the one who should apologize.”
Kirisin peeked around Simralin. “My brother, Kirisin,” she said. “He seems to know something about why you came looking for the Elves.” She moved him in front of her. “Maybe he should explain it.”
But before the boy could ask any of the questions that were crying out for answers, the doors to the inner chambers opened and Maurin Ortish, the captain of the Home Guard, emerged and walked toward them.
“Simralin,” he greeted. He was a tall, slender man in his middle years, his Elven features pronounced, his voice unexpectedly soft. “You are to come inside now. Please bring your guests with you.”
He limped badly from an accident he had suffered several years ago that had left one leg shorter than the other. But he was still a commanding presence, a calming influence wherever he went, and still so identified with his office that there had never been any real consideration given to replacing him, even after his injury had hampered his movement.
He glanced at Kirisin. “What brings you here, young Belloruus. Shouldn’t you be sleeping so that you can rise early to tend to your duties as a Chosen?”