“In time, Merrin and Valkire fell in love. They became companions both in their fight to save the elves and in their passion. Zalos grew distant. But, for a while, he seemed to accept their love. I suspect, now, he was only biding his time. His opportunity came just three weeks before Merrin and Valkire’s wedding day. Merrin had returned to her city of Eddendell on the watery moon to prepare for the ceremony. Zalos followed her. Finally finding her alone, he confronted her. He kissed her, telling her to cast aside her love for Valkire, to take him instead.
“But Merrin did not return his kiss and pushed him away, ordering him to leave. Zalos’ demands frightened her and, for the first time, she saw the darkness of evil in him.
“So spurned, Zalos left, returning to his home of Ashiroth where he was welcomed as a hero and eventually made its lord. Merrin and Valkire married. Time passed. Three hundred years they ruled the Faelands in peace until Valkire’s father—the Lord of the Dark Forest—came and destroyed his son.
“Again Zalos went to Merrin, this time commanding her to marry him. Now he could see no reason for Merrin to refuse. But Merrin fled and, returning to Eddendell, fell into a centuries long sleep of grief. In her womb, she bore Valkire’s only child.
Luthiel shifted uncomfortably against the tree.
“During her long sleep,” the sorcerer continued, “Zalos grew ever more bitter. He took on wives. But though he knew passion, he never showed love, and they seemed to him little more than playthings. He still desired Merrin. Each year, he sent an emissary to her moon. Each year, the emissary was turned back.”
Mithorden set his needle aside and looked at Luthiel, eyes gleaming in the starlight.
“It was during this time that the new religion began to appear. It started in Ashiroth and then quickly spread to Rimwold. In these places, it took root, stretching branches wide like some great, dark tree. It also surfaced in Himlolth, Minonowe and Ithilden but never in such force as in the realms of Zalos and Thrar Taurmori.” As he spoke, he resumed his sewing—the swish, swish of the needle punctuating his words.
“Their teachings were simple. There was only one god and his name was Ëvanyar. Ëvanya was his consort but never more than a side note and often seen as an inconstant temptress. They stopped teaching women sorcerery. Then they outlawed it for them altogether. A new name was made for any girl or lady who practiced the art. And they were ever-after called witches. The punishments were harsh. Soon, women with magical power had disappeared from those lands.
“Zalos had embraced the new religion and he hosted a school in his capital of Arganoth. With the new religion came new laws. Women weren’t allowed to own land and had lesser rights than men. In courts, the testimony of one man was equal to that of two women. Men were allowed to have many wives and these later became little more than property.
“In Ashiroth and Rimwold, many began to see the ways of the old religion in the other Faelands as heretical. They planned and fought wars. They sent emissaries out to gain converts.”
“Like Elag,” Luthiel whispered, nodding her head.
“When Merrin returned,” Mithorden continued, “Zalos immediately arrested her, holding her on charges of witchcraft and keeping her first as a prisoner and then as a wife. He said it was for her protection. But he could never convince her to love him and has not yet become so terrible as to force himself on her. So, she became his wife in letter only—but she never took him into her heart or bed. Many have wondered how Zalos could keep Merrin bound in Arganoth—for she is powerful and no walls of stone could hold her for long. Some have suggested that Zalos tricked her with a spell and this seems most likely. But I know Merrin and wonder if she stays there willingly—to watch and learn about her enemy.”
Mithorden put his needle down, inspecting his mended cloak. “That, to my best knowledge, is the history of the new myth. I don’t know the extent of Zalos’ involvement, though I guess it must be great. I am afraid it grew up out of Zalos’ rage at being spurned by your mother and from a pride so great an injury to it would not heal. Not a happy tale at all, but I hope it helps answer your questions.”
Luthiel felt a deep sadness welling up in her and she wondered what might have been if not for Zalos. “It does,” she said, blinking her eyes. Luthiel set her hands on her knees and squeezed them in frustration. “Can’t elves see it’s a trick? Can’t they know what they’re losing?”
“It’s always been a struggle to keep true to the old ways,” Mithorden said sadly. “Clever folk know the impracticality of a sacred union. Hard decisions are necessary to survive—they say. Hard hearts are needed to make these decisions—they think. A person can truly trust no one, truly partner with no one, truly love no one. So if love in the world is impractical, why should it be a part of their myths?”
“Impractical? Love brings life to the world—makes those who live by it strong and fair.”
Mithorden looked at Luthiel and gave her a proud smile. “You are more wise than you often act. Can you tell me then what this new religion follows, if not love? What happens to creation if women are taken from it?”
Luthiel frowned, trying to puzzle out Mithorden’s riddle. “There is no creation,” she said finally.
Mithorden nodded again. “The new religion is the religion of death.”
“Death?” Luthiel said with dread. “They worship Gorthar?”
“Yes, but often without knowing what they do. They fill their minds with threats, fears of what may come, dark prophecy. Over time, they come to live by fear of death and so to worship it. Yet they also hate and subdue women—if only for the memory of love lost or the subtle power of creation within them.”
“To think that all this came from jealousy?” Luthiel shook her head, still unable to believe.
“It is often from those denied love that violence comes,” Mithorden replied.
“So my mother is responsible?”
“No. Zalos thought your mother could give him something that was taken from him long ago.”
“Who were Zalos’ parents?” she asked. “Were they cruel?”
“I do not know, Luthiel. Zalos kept his family secret. But I guess by the way Zalos acted and by his hardened heart that he first came to me out of adversity. He does not understand love, only power, which he desires as much as he desired your mother.”
Luthiel sat looking into the sorcerer’s eyes for a few moments longer. She could feel her heart beating in her chest. “So I must hide from him. From those who believe the dark myth?”
“You are a powerful woman. Someone they would hate and fear.”
Luthiel’s mind was in turmoil with everything Mithorden said. But there was one thought that came out more clearly than the rest. “They live in fear. Why should I do the same?”
A surprised smile spread over Mithorden’s face. “You do not fear as they do. That is why we must protect you.”
With the sorcerer’s words, something shifted in Luthiel’s mind. It was like the falling of a great beam in a bonfire which will set off hundreds of sparks into even the blackest night and briefly illuminate it. “How would they see me? How would they view what I did?”
“How would they see a sorceress? Someone who turned the Vyrl? The daughter of Vlad Valkire—unafraid of terrible laws and willing to do right despite fear of death? To those we will face, you are the most dangerous kind of person. You are someone they would claim was evil.”
“I broke the law. The law says that only Chosen go. I chose despite threat of death...”
“So you understand.”
Luthiel stood up and walked over to a gap in the trees, looking out into the night. “They won’t even see the good thing I did.”
“They would overlook it in the face of what they consider to be hard truths. Do you know, now, why you must hide at least at first?”
“If I was truly unafraid, I’d never use a disguise.”
“You are a threat to the King of Death and all who live by fear of him. All his servants in all
the nine worlds will know you and call you enemy. Who you are puts you in danger. So we must hide you. Keep you safe. Reveal you only when it will help us most. Until then, among the elves, you must be seen as a man. Yet keep safe your woman’s heart as though it were the most precious thing in all of Oesha. For it is.”
Luthiel took a deep breath and let it out. The way the sorcerer spoke and the thought of elves so near made her tremble. “Though it is not an easy thing for me, I will do as you ask.”
“I know, Luthiel,” the sorcerer said softly. “It wouldn’t be you if it was.”
“When should I begin?”
“Before we travel any further. If you like, you can wait until Othalas is finished at the spring.”
The Unwelcome Messenger
The wood about them was quiet, as if expecting a storm. Though she couldn’t see them, she could sense the forms about her as they barely whispered through the forest. They’d passed the night under the suspicious watch of the giant wolves and elves of Ashiroth—Urkharim and Gruagach. Despite her exhaustion, she’d slept only fitfully—face buried in Othalas’ coat. Mithorden had left as she slept. She awoke with a start before first light, fearing the Gruagach would do some dark business. Their eyes flashed at her. Hands never strayed far from weapons. She’d been an object of ridicule and scorn before. Never hate. It wasn’t something she was sure she’d ever get used to.
At Oerin’s dawn, the sorcerer returned with company. Luthiel felt her breath catch when she saw Vanye, and then again when she noticed the Gruagach’s hardness reflected in his eyes. He was as she remembered him and more. His face was angular without being harsh and his gray-blue eyes were filled with distant flashes—like a far-off but violent summer storm. His black hair seemed to roil on his brow, spill over his ears before stopping just above his broad shoulders. He stood tall without towering and was strong without bulk. What skin she could see was lightly kissed by the bright star, making that red splash of lips stand out all the brighter.
In all, she found his qualities, both physical and otherwise, to be held in a perfect, if tenuous balance—like a string that, drawn taught just to the point of breaking and plucked, will sing a note so pure the fair call it music. Today his was the music of war.
He wore the leaf scale armor of a Blade Dancer like a second skin. His Cat-o-Fae flexed wickedly on his shoulder. A ring of blades. Strong and sharp as moonsteel. Forged in dreamfire, it was both weapon and defense. Yet it also held a fragment of the Blade Dancer. It could sense the world, protect him from danger and on its own leap into the air—flying with far greater speed and violence than any bird. At his hip rested a Wyrdril—a dream sword. Also a part of the Blade Dancer. Also forged from his dreams. A mate to his Cat-o-Fae. It was said a Blade Dancer could feel as much through the point of his Wyrdril as through the tip of his own finger.
Luthiel remembered her first meeting with Vanye. Remembered the threat she felt from him. Now she felt it all the more. For he looked at her like an enemy. And when he did, she looked to his weapons and worried what they might do to her if she misstepped.
“So this is the Vyrl’s messenger?” He asked sharply.
Mithorden nodded grimly. “He is.”
The Blade Dancer stepped closer and looked her up and down. His face bore a look of stone. It was the same look he’d given her when he’d come with news about Leowin.
“Mithorden already told me. But I want to hear it from you. The girl, Luthiel, she’s alive?”
Luthiel did her best to remain calm. There were tears forming in her eyes. She felt a strange urge to reach out and embrace the Blade Dancer.
“She is.” She half choked the words.
“She’d better be. The Fae have not been so united since the Age of Dreams. It’s the last great effort against the Vyrl and, all hope, an end to their trouble.”
“I understand,” she said. “Who better to know the Vyrl’s terror than I? Now things have changed. I can hardly believe it myself.” She was dancing around with words. It felt wrong to lie and she’d resolved herself not to unless she must. “With what’s happened, I think it neither wise nor fair to meet violence with violence.”
Vanye stood still a moment and the only way she knew his surprise was by his momentary pause. “Well said. The Vyrl have never treated us with honeyed words before.”
“Things are different now,” she replied.
“The news is both strange and welcome. But there are few who will see it as I do.”
Luthiel was silent.
“Best we move on. There’s little time,” Mithorden said. He was looking at Luthiel with a strange gleam in his eye. She couldn’t tell if it was curiosity, surprise or a mixture of both.
“It may be too late,” the Blade Dancer said. “The army is ready. It is only hours before they move.”
Othalas stood, great muscles rippling under his sleek fur. The transformation over only a night was alarming. His wounds of the days before had completely healed, leaving no sign of past damage. Melkion flexed his wings and hopped onto Luthiel’s shoulder. The motion drew Vanye’s eye. He stepped closer to Luthiel and looked her over once more as if seeing something he hadn’t before. “Why do you wear a mask?”
“The magic of the Mists is strange,” Mithorden replied. “It is for his protection and for ours as well.”
“I see,” said Vanye with a look on his face that showed he did not.
Luthiel stood still, holding her breath. Did he notice me? she thought. The moment passed as fast as it came and the Blade Dancer turned away from them.
“You’d best follow me. Keep close. Wolf riders and Gruagach archers are not known for discretion.” With that, he stepped into the wood, taking a winding path up a ridgeline. The ground steepened for a bit and then fell before them. All about, great trees loomed, casting long shadows in the twin light of Soelee and Oerin’s Eye. The foliage became dense and seemed to rise ahead like a wall. She had to hold a hand up to keep the branches from her face as they pressed on into the ever-thickening wood. Othalas labored and limbs snapped as he pushed through. Vanye sprang from limb to limb and she almost made the mistake of jumping up with him. The brush became impassible and at Othalas’ growled order, she climbed onto his back. He lunged, using his bulk to smash through. Mithorden followed in the path he made. Everywhere, Gruagach archers were slipping through the trees, arrows to strings, waiting for any hint of violence. The wolfriders formed into two files, one on their left, one to the right. Luthiel had little doubt that any misstep would mean her death.
Gruagach use poison arrows. For an odd moment she longed for her room in Ottomnos with its blue lights and slit windows that seemed to follow the suns as they rose and fell through a misty sky. Hope though she might, she was coming back to the world of the elves. Vanye had reappeared and she was going to meet with the faerie army’s leaders. Had the Faelords come? What would they look like?
Finally the trees gave way—opening to a valley. It was as though they’d suddenly entered a vast chamber. Trees formed a great wall behind them and on the valley’s far side. The wall stretched in either direction for what seemed like a mile. The valley itself looked to be about a quarter mile wide. A small stream trickled through it. Long ago, it must have been a much greater flow, for large boulders of granite and quartz were strewn all about. They were covered in green and blue moss.
On and around them, file upon file, rank upon rank, were thousands of Fae. There were green skinned Gruagach and great Urkharim, wicked red and blue Goblins and fair Ithildar, graceful Valemar and Tyndomiel in both elf and animal form, heavy-set moonhounds and lithe faenmare. They were all girded in armor—fine and terrible—and bristled with weapons according to their kind. Horned axes and curving greatswords for goblins; longbows, spears, and straight, double-edged swords for Ithildar and Valemar; recurved bows, lances, and cruel shortswords for the Gruagach. Some of the Tyndomiel had taken animal form, and giant beasts—bears, boars, wolves and eagles—were scattered through the h
ost. One of the noble faenmare, horses of distant relation to unicorns, let out a cheerful trumpet upon seeing Luthiel. It shook its mane and pawed at the ground as though restless to join her. For a moment, she saw its face. In it there was recognition. But the faenmare’s rider—an Ithildar knight—held firm to the reigns as he looked on them with anger and no little fear.
I was scared too, seeing Othalas for the first time, she thought.
A similar reaction spread through the fae and all turned angry and fearful eyes toward her. Some fingered weapons or notched arrows as she rode the great wolf down toward them with Melkion on her shoulder. So they were confronted with both Melkion, the bearer of Vyrl’s demands, and Othalas, the collector of children. The veiled rider they didn’t know. But that she rode Othalas and had Melkion perched on her shoulder was enough. Elves gave quiet and deadly stares, goblins jeered, and faerie frowned.
So Luthiel Valkire, who’d made herself a Chosen, became the first to ever return from the Vale of Mists alive and unchanged. Hidden from the sharp eyes of fae by veil and enchantment, they thought her only another Vyrl’s servant. They believed Luthiel a victim, still imprisoned in the Vale of Mists. Yet here she rode before them triumphant and they didn’t know it. They had come to put an end to the bloody sacrifices. To at last put down the ancient enemy. As she rode down the hill and came to a stop before them they pointed their weapons at her and swept around, cutting off all escape. Luthiel did her best not to waver. These were her people. This was her homecoming. She tried to hold her head high. But beneath the veil she could feel hot tears streaming down her cheeks.
A group of knights and wolfriders encircled them, lowered lances and advanced. Othalas tensed, Melkion spread wings wide. A lance head touched Othalas and he snapped it off with his teeth. Luthiel gripped Weiryendel tight.
Luthiel's Song: The War of Mists Page 12