In answer, she brought the sword to her hand. Mithorden moved to stop her, but she backed away.
“Careful! It will slice flesh as easy as water,” the sorcerer said, holding up a hand in warning.
He was right. She’d only touched her hand with it when blood appeared. But the sharpness made it easier. The cuts were painless. Carefully, she drew the shape of her father’s name rune—a —into her flesh.
She saw their looks. Realized they thought her mad and might try to stop her. “Stay back!” she shouted to them.
Lifting the Stone in her bloody hand, she sang aloud Luthiel! Light erupted from its heart, filling the room, making all seem to stretch and waver. In the World of Dreams her companions seemed to change. Othalas’ eyes danced like great yellow flames. At his heart she could see the shape of an elf, curled in slumber. The Vyrl’s mouths gaped with hunger as their bodies filled with golden blood. Yet from their hearts and eyes came light. Mithorden grew tall and rays like a pale sunrise seemed to crown his head. Last, her eyes fell on Vaelros, whose brow shone with a golden star. But something dark and hard to see lurked behind him.
She tore her eyes away from her companions and gazed deep into the radiant heart of Methar Anduel. The blood flowing over her Stone burned away in golden wisps. It seemed to feed the light and the Stone’s brilliance slowly increased.
“For my father! For the owl!” she sang out, nearly shouting. It was defiance to Mithorden. But she didn’t care. She wanted to be heard. The louder the better. “I swear to harm only the heartless and hollow! Let no innocent die for me again!”
Her Stone grew brighter still, blazing through the glass of Ottomnos, turning it into a palace of light, burning through the thinning mists, so that far away, many saw the glow against the sky and thought Soelee had risen early. Even the Fae army, gathering near the Vale for war, wondered at a sky turning to the blue of day. A passing cloud cast its shadow up toward the gray moon Somnos. Yet as brightness sprang up, a darkness in the sky seemed to gather—pressing in from all around.
Mithorden noticed. But Luthiel did not, for she was startled by something unexpected. Bathed in her Stone’s light, the shards of Cutter’s Shear chimed with a sound like breaking glass. The sound slowly changed. Growing clearer, it became like music. Then, some of the shards flew off the mantel. They shot toward her like knives. As a reflex, she lifted the broken blade in defense. The shards collided with it.
Light flared again—this time, blinding her. She tried to stop singing and found she couldn’t. Slowly, the light dimmed down and she could see the sword glowing softly in her hand. More than a foot of blade had somehow reformed. The cracks between each shard were still visible—joining together in the shape of a rune.
Over her song, she could hear a far-off roar. Puzzled, she turned from the sword and looked about, straining her ears at the sound. It growled and grew, becoming a rushing wind. She could hear trees groaning as it spilled into the Vale. It ran out over Miruvior toward her, troubling its surface with whitecaps. It cleared the Vale pushing its mists up against the west Rim Wall so the stars of early morning gleamed down like a million diamonds. Then the wind was roaring through the window, blowing around her. With it came a feeling of warmth and a smell like rain in summertime.
As I sacrifice, so shall others, whispered a voice in the wind. Until all my blade is remade whole for your hand.
The wind rushed out again. The light in her Stone grew dim and the World of Dreams fell away. She blinked her eyes, the sheets had fallen to her feet and she stood beside her bed—sword in one hand, Stone in the other.
The air was familiar—reminding her of The Cave of Painted Shadows. Of the tomb. But there was no comfort for her. Only terrible sadness.
“Father?” she whispered into the darkness. Nothing. She looked at her hand running a finger over the cut. What remained was a silver scar.
“Why?”
The sword vibrated in her hand, singing out a soft reply. Captivated, she listened as it hummed to her. A vision came to her of worlds like drops of dew on a field of endless night. Of stars like campfires scattered away throughout the blackness. Of the ever-bending horizon—Oesha’s boundary between earth and sky. Of the great emptiness and its blessed silence. Of life itself—endlessly growing and changing.
The sound swelled, growing loud and majestic. It broke into two songs, then four, then a thousand. The music remained in harmony even as the songs continued their endless multiplying. Gradually, the noise faded returning to its first hum and then just a vibration. She could no longer hear it. But she trembled. It was as if she stood at the heart of a vast bell still quaking with the aftershock of that first great shout that called all the world to be.
Comfort deep as an ocean swept over her. Then came unexpected joy. The sword’s song rang through her now and she felt certain her call had been answered. Standing, she held the sword up, eyes tracing its length. It was elegant—different from the Cutter’s Shear she’d seen in paintings. Clear as crystal and filled with a warm light. A flowing shape graceful as a wave with an edge so sharp it cut the white out of light and left behind a fan of color.
“Did you ever sing before?” she whispered. The sword hummed in reply. If not for her sadness for the owl, she would have laughed in delight. Instead, she managed a smile. “Then I shall call you Weiryendel—a bright song. For you have answered my call with music and are now made as real as my promise. A promise against the darkness that is death.” Weiryendel sang and grew bright in answer. She held it up for a few moments, then slowly let it fall. The song became a whisper and her sense of comfort faded. Luthiel fell back to bed, sword cradled in her hands. When she looked up, she wore a brittle smile.
“Why must good things always come at such cost?”
The Magic of Sacrifice
The sword was short, and many pieces both large and small still lay in her pouch. She looked from the pieces to her sword and then turned to the sorcerer.
“‘As I sacrifice so shall others? Until all my blade is remade whole for your hand?’” she wondered aloud. “What does it mean?”
Mithorden took her hand, eyes searching her and the sword. He paused and his face fell into a curious frown. “It seems the sword can be remade only when others sacrifice for you,” he said at last.
Luthiel felt fear tightening in her throat. “Like the owl?”
“Like you feel about the owl,” Mithorden said with a solemn nod. “To sacrifice,” he continued, “To give of or risk your self, even your life, for the right reasons can awaken the strongest kind of magic.” He looked back at her sword, eyes examining every crevice. “You should know.”
Luthiel thought of her sister, of her own willingness to feed the Vyrl in her place.
“I don’t want others to risk for me as I did for Leowin.” She watched her friends but felt her stomach lurch when she saw their faces.
“I would,” whispered Vaelros.
“And I,” said Melkion.
“I as well,” growled Othalas.
As one, the Vyrl nodded.
“All here would,” said Mithorden evenly, “and many more who just don’t know yet.” He stared in solemn admiration at both her and the sword. “You set the example. It’s a powerful thing you’ve put in motion.”
Even though Luthiel stood on solid obsidian, she felt as though she’d tumbled down a bottomless well. “Death? Sacrifice? For me?”
“All magic, all power, comes at a cost,” Mithorden said.
“It’s not worth it. What if the next one is you? Or Othalas? Or Melkion?” She wanted to throw the sword away. It was supposed to be her promise against death, sacrifice. Instead, sacrifice had become a part of it. But it was a link to her blood father. Even now, its song hummed just beyond understanding. Was it his voice that made the music? she wondered.
“The risk was there already,” the sorcerer replied, lifting a hand to gesture out the window and toward the Rim Wall.
“It needs death to come
back together. There’s something wrong with it.” Weiryendel vibrated in her hand and she couldn’t help but feel comforted. She looked at it and shook her head. “I just don’t understand.”
“I would spend years teaching you a thousand things and more. But we must make ready. Our enemies do not rest and wasted time plays to their favor. The Widdershae are ever at work thickening their webs. With each passing moment the army of elves draws nearer to the Vale,” Mithorden’s voice strained with urgency. “Yet I will say this—though Death has taken too much from this world and others, there is still such a thing as a good death. The ending of a life lived long and fulfilled that gives peace. The ending of a terror that gives hope. The merciful end to suffering. And the sacrifice of one’s life to save another—that is the ultimate gift of love.”
“But if Gorthar is Lord of Death, isn’t he Lord of these things too?” Luthiel asked after pausing a moment to take in the sorcerer’s words.
“No more. He gave up his fair gifts long ago when he became a tyrant.”
Luthiel shook her head and looked at her sword. “I am of two minds. I can’t understand how death is a good thing. But when I look at Weiryendel and am comforted by its music, I know this sword is a good thing.”
“Accept the sacrifices of those you care for and mourn their passing,” Mithorden said solemnly.
“But to make the sword whole others must die for me. I want the sword to become whole. I don’t want them to die.”
“A sword is death,” Othalas growled. “A sword is defense against death. The thing it stops it causes. If you don’t want others to die, then hope for peace. I am not optimistic. If I die in battle to defend you then at least my death will amount to something!”
Luthiel looked at the wolf, dumbfounded.
The sorcerer laughed and shook his head. “You should listen to Othalas. But for now, if we are ever to help the elves, we must make ready to leave. We are losing time.” With those words, he, Vaelros, and the Vyrl started out of the room.
“But I still don’t know what to do about it.” Luthiel held out Weiryendel.
“Would you throw away your father’s sword?”
Luthiel clamped her mouth shut, then shook her head.
“Good. We’ll meet in the courtyard as soon as you’re ready,” The sorcerer said as he passed into the hall. “Be swift.”
“Don’t want to be caught below the Rim when night falls,” Othalas growled after them. “Here, gather your things. Rendillo is coming to help.”
She set her Wyrd Stone on the mantel and walked over to Othalas. Resting a hand upon his broad neck, she threaded fingers through his jet fur. The sword hung in her left hand humming quietly as she peered out her slit window and over the Vale. Below, Miruvoir had calmed and cast back a perfect reflection of the clear, predawn sky. Little lights filled the woods beyond. On the lake’s far side, where it backed up against the Rim Wall, she thought she glimpsed the sickeningly crooked shape of a shadow web. She stared at it for a moment and a shiver passed over her before she lifted her eyes up over the Rim Wall. There was an army of elves out beyond that cliff. They’d gathered for one purpose—to rid the Faelands of the Vyrl. Her eyes scanned the cliff’s top. Unlike the spiders, there was no sign of the elfish army. Still she knew they were there—sure as moons followed suns, sure as wolf-scent.
To the east, the green and golden Tiolas was rising. A slim crescent pointing the way toward her home—Flir Light Hollow. There, just weeks before, she’d struggled to find her way to the Vale of Mists and save her sister. Now, she was trapped inside by hundreds of giant spiders and a thick fence of their terrible shadow webs. Yet she’d promised the Vyrl to journey out through those webs to ask the elves for forgiveness.
She touched her Crown of Light—the thin weave of moonsteel and gems that gleamed with the brightness of stars if she were to hold a finger to it and blink her eyes. She turned her left hand, glancing down at the ring they’d given her and thinking of the wealth and power it symbolized—a quarter of all the Vale’s riches and an equal rulership to the Vyrl themselves. They’d given her these things and others too, all for the gift of her blood. The blood that saved them from the terrible hunger that made them monsters. But it didn’t make her ready to fight wars or to confront armies. It didn’t give her the wisdom to be a Faelord or to know if to ask for the Vyrl’s forgiveness was even good or just.
On her journey to the Vale, her aim had seemed so much clearer. Saving her sister was just something she must do. But saving Vyrl? Even though she was bonded to them, she was still faced with an awful truth—they had devoured the blood of hundreds of elfish children. Had Luthiel not come in her place, Leowin would be among them.
They did it to survive, she thought against her sadness and anger. But it still doesn’t change how the fae will see it. Touching Ecthellien’s mind, she knew he still thought of elves as prey. And elves think of Vyrl as murderers.
Do I know enough about them to defend them? she wondered unhappily. And is it even right to?
She let her eyes rise again to the Rim Wall and the unnaturally dark forest beneath it. Looking a second time, she knew her eyes weren’t playing tricks, for in the growing light she could clearly see a patch of woods far darker than the rest. A place where shadows bent at impossible angles—turning and twisting so that not even the oncoming dawn could make sense of its madness. The Vale’s mists and lights kept well away, as did all creatures not so unfortunate to have blundered into it.
Fighting down a rush of fear, she looked away from the window and turned to the werewolf standing beside her.
I’m off to beg pardon for monsters, she thought, but only if the other monsters don’t get me first.
“Can we do this?” she asked.
The great wolf snorted. “Not likely. The shadow webs about the Vale are thick as deep winter’s night. Impossible passage. But convincing elves to make peace with Vyrl is worse.”
“Small comfort,” she said.
“Is truth ever any comfort?” the werewolf replied.
Luthiel frowned and shook her head. “Not recently.”
Girding
The door to her room opened and she blinked her eyes as Rendillo, leader of the grendilo, entered. Rendillo lifted his six-fingered hand to her in greeting. To Luthiel, he appeared to be half missing, for his body only had one arm and one leg. Odder still was his hand—large as a paddle, it boasted six fingers, and moved with an agility to put any two-handed creature to shame. Despite his awkward body, the grendilo’s grace was without equal. Each movement seemed connected. Walking one-legged on his two-segmented foot made him look like a thin wave rising and falling toward her across the darkened chamber.
With Rendillo came a number of other grendilo she didn’t recognize. Three fanned out across the room, tapping charred glass globes set in the wall with thin rods of the same material. With each touch, there was a chime and from within the globes bloomed bright blue light. The light advanced and soon the room was free of any shadow. Another two grendilo stood behind Rendillo. In their arms were her weapons and armor. They held them with care—like sacred things. Walking to her mantel, she picked up her Wyrd Stone and put it back in the pouch around her neck as she turned to greet them. When her eyes fell on them, the grendilo bent like moonflowers at sunrise, bowing silently before her.
“We’ve come to make you ready,” said the grendilo to Rendillo’s left.
Luthiel smiled thinly at the grendilo. “I hope you can,” she said.
“Lady Luthiel, ” Rendillo said, bending with his fellows, “let us gird you.”
“We’ve brought arms and mail worthy of our Lady,” Rendillo added. “It is a matter of pride we send you off with Ottomnos’ finest.” He waved his hand at her gear. “Much here is yours already. We’ve added a few things to help you. In the girding, resolve is given too—and strength unseen.”
“Then gird me, Rendillo. For I could use both.”
With a second series of bows, the g
rendilo approached her. Their movements were slow—as ones who perform a ritual. Each item was attended to with reverence but nothing more than Luthiel herself. They bathed her in scented oils, wrapping her wounds in fresh bandages. One brought scissors and made a motion at her hair.
Luthiel gave Rendillo a sharp look.
“So it won’t get in your way,” the grendilo responded. She lifted a protective hand, then lowered it, frowning as they cut and snipped. When they were finished, her hair was trimmed back to shoulder length. They handed her a mirror and she inspected her reflection. The grendilo were very skilled and the fresh cut was flawless. But she missed her long tresses.
A grendilo washed the remnant hair from her body as others came forward with clothes. The undergarb they gave her was of silk emblazoned with the Vale’s sign—a silver swirl of mists surrounding tiny green gems in the design of a star. Overtop of this fine cloth was laid one of her Vyrl’s gifts—the coat of armor made of the moonsteel Lumiel. To it were added a pair of ornate Silen shoulder guards. The grendilo slipped them over her coat and gently, but firmly, tightened the straps. The guards were done in an ancient mode she wasn’t familiar with—each displaying a design of twelve stars running down the back of a dragon. The dragons curled around a larger star bearing the rune: . She moved her shoulders, testing the weight.
“We had to change the fitting, ” Rendillo said. “But you wear them well enough.”
“Does it come from father?” she asked with a shiver as she glanced at the tiny scar on her hand.
“We recovered some of his armor. This was made from what remained.”
Her breath caught as Rendillo tightened a strap.
“There, how does it feel?”
Luthiel walked around the room in her father’s armor. The armor that protected him against Vyrl and a thousand other troubles. Armor the Dark Forest’s lord shattered when he broke her father’s body. Girding me for strength? she thought numbly. So they dress me up in the mail my father was destroyed in? She lifted her arms, testing the weight and range of motion. It was light and the straps didn’t confine.
Luthiel's Song: The War of Mists Page 3