She smiled. It felt right to recognize them. It was like giving gifts. And giving gifts was something she particularly enjoyed. She pulled out a reed-quill, dipped it in some berry ink, and began writing a brief note to Leowin on a piece of leaf-paper. Halfway through the first line, she paused, wondering—how does a ruler officially appoint titled lords?
One by one, the lords and ladies of the Council made their way to Yewstaff. These were the minor nobles. Ones who either by election or accumulated power had secured a place on the Council. They were mostly a widely varied mish-mash of elves—Tyndomiel, Valemar, and Ithildar. A few Gruagach and Goblin also came. But regardless of what they were they all had to officially refuse loyalty to Thrar Taurmori and Zalos. In an ominous, but not unexpected sign, very few Lords came from either Ashiroth or Rimwold. Only fifteen out of the one hundred who entered were from these lands. The rest either refused to denounce their Lords or never came to Yewstaff at all.
One irate Gruagach lord, angered when told he would have to denounce Zalos to attend, caused a row at Yewstaff’s roots.
“You call this just!?” he shouted. “How can it be a real vote if not everyone’s allowed? There are many who have views—legitimate views—that Tuorlin was bewitched into naming Luthiel. Zalos has as much right as she—if not more!”
The clerk, a harried Gabouter—a kind of tree gnome that inhabited Yewstaff—snatched his papers and scampered away from the angry lord. His fists were clenched and he looked like he was ready to hit him.
“She’s a witch!” the Lord shouted. “A witch!”
Looking around to make certain a Blade Dancer was nearby, the clerk spoke up.
“This witch, as you call her, is the direct descendant of Vlad Valkire. He was our first and greatest King. Or have you forgotten? Tuorlin was wise to recognize her. You would be wise to do the same if you wish to sit on her Council.”
“What proof does she have? How do you know she’s not a fake? She has no written record of lineage. No legitimate claim!”
The clerk straightened his uniform and adjusted his glasses. Normally, he didn’t get involved in arguments. But he was tired of hearing such narrow remarks. This Lord was the final straw. He liked Luthiel. Liked better the kinds of changes she was making. Why, just the other day, she’d ordered shipments of food to his mountain kin who’d experienced crop failures this summer. They blamed the dimming light and unusual heat. She’d also ordered the bee keepers to bring every hive they could find back to Yewstaff. More bees meant a wider variety produced by Yewstaff. For sweet fruits weren’t his only crop. Some of his flowers were edible and when baked became a fine bread. More bees meant higher yields. The extra honey was an added benefit. Vlad Valkire once said Yewstaff alone could feed all the Faelands and more—if put to good use. Now his daughter was doing it!
“Records?” the clerk said angrily. His aunt happened to still live in those mountains. “What better record than history? She has her father’s old sword and his Stone too! Both only Vlad Valkire himself could use! Who but his daughter could hold and keep them?”
“Tricks! Counterfeit!”
“So it’s counterfeit she healed Vyrl? Counterfeit she broke the Widdershae’s curse? I’ve heard quite enough.”
The Blade Dancer had also heard enough. With a nod, three guards moved to escort the lord away. A few of the lord’s own guards moved to block them. This lord had twenty or so armed elves with him.
“Down! Down! The Witch!” they chanted. The chanting kept on for about an hour before they moved off and then it was only under the watchful eyes of Ithilden’s archers.
Luthiel heard it all from her perch high up in Yewstaff. It wasn’t the first conflict she’d seen over her coronation.
“Won’t be the last,” she muttered.
Nearly all one hundred lords had arrived and though many of them signed the papers claiming they respected Tuorlin’s decrees, it was clear that at least some had lied. Rictinno had given her an ensorcelled ear horn so she could listen in on the Council’s preliminary sessions. A particularly vocal Ithildar named Cambian was just now making a case for a delayed coronation and a period of transition. At least that’s what he called it. From what she could translate, it basically amounted to putting her under holme arrest for an indefinite period while those in the Council against her figured out how to otherwise undermine her.
It was reassuring that at least half the Council seemed to disagree with Cambian and those like him. These were the ones, Rictinno said, who’d been bullied by Zalos and who sympathized with Tuorlin. They amounted to an old guard who still viewed Vlad Valkire as a hero and who were doing their best to stop the religious reformers.
Luthiel had heard her fill about reformers from Mithorden and she understood better why the sorcerer had wanted her to wear a disguise when she first came from the Vale. Seeing how hard they’d worked to change the myths and to assert their beliefs filled her with outrage and apprehension. They’d written a book of their new myths claiming it was ‘divine truth.’ It contained all the changed beliefs and provided a way for those spreading the myths to instruct and enforce obedience. In order to quiet dissent, they claimed the text was literally handed down to elfin scribes from Ëvanyar. As in their past stories, the new book erased all significant mention of Ëvanya. It referred to her instead as creation itself—or worse, a temptress—but failed to mention her as a force in the world. Not a word was left for the song of songs—the Ebel Kaleth—that showed love as the source of creation. The book entirely focused on the force of Lumen—light, but never that of Lumiel—music.
“It is a religion wholly out of balance,” Mithorden had said. “One meant to dominate rather than to give hope and inform. If it is a spirituality it is a very dark and dim brand of it. Standing between elves and enlightenment rather than leading them on the path to it.”
Luthiel did her best to keep out of religious matters. But if there was any part of religion she felt a connection to, it was the song of songs—the Ebel Kaleth. The love it symbolized was a beautiful thing. To her heart it seemed only right that creation should come from that love. And to know there were those who sought to stamp it out made her sad and angry.
“It has to do with women,” Othalas growled one afternoon as she confided in him. She’d taken to visiting him in Yewstaff’s lower chambers at least once a day. The great wolf was too large and not enough of a climber to make it onto his higher branches. Luthiel missed him. So she made a point to come down and spend time alone with her wolf. “They want power over women. To gain it means erasing what came before. Mithorden says it’s dark. I think it’s the religion of war. There are even words in that wretched book saying war can be good. Holy. There is no such thing as a holy war.”
“But you’re a werewolf, Othalas,” she said, looking sidelong at him. “A hunter. A great fighter.”
“A Hunter? Yes. But I have no love for war,” he rumbled. “The hunter serves nature’s order. We kill the weak to survive and life benefits. Have you ever seen a forest without wolves? Trees become stunted as deer and boar grow too numerous—tearing them apart with antlers or gnawing at the roots. Unlike hunting, war serves no natural purpose. The killing of hundreds or thousands with no aim other than the taking of power. Sometimes wars must be fought. But they should never be celebrated or considered holy.”
“Zalos says you must fight to survive.”
“He’s right to a point. Sometimes you must fight to survive. But it’s better if you don’t end up having to. You said it yourself. Life supports life. Life cooperates to survive. Like the wolf pack.”
“You served abominations—Vyrl. Why?”
“The Vyrl were hunters driven mad by hunger. I understood them. They may have fallen to the level of a beast—killing to survive and feed an endless hunger. But after Valkire they never fell to the level of an abomination—wrecking life’s order by wanton slaughter.” Othalas paused for a moment before continuing. “You changed the Vyrl, and they weren’t
the only ones you changed.”
Othalas and Luthiel shared a quiet moment. She sensed Othalas had brought her into his confidence and it was better she keep silent for a while.
“Mithorden said it well,” she said finally. “It’s worshipping death. They say they follow light. But, in the end, they’re really following desolation, division, the end of things. You should hear their prophecies—war, destruction, only special chosen people are spared.” She felt sad and angry. Worse, she wondered to what ends people who believed these things would go to assert their views.
Othalas sniffed the air around her, sensing her fear. “Don’t worry, my little queen. If they come for you, they will have to first deal with the Hunter.” He flashed his teeth and she leaned into him, hugging his great neck.
Some weeks passed before the ball. During this time, Luthiel put the Rumor Rats to good use and at night did her best to visit as many dreamers as possible. It had a noticeable effect. But she was hobbled by the Black Moon, for she dared not enter dreams when its face was visible. There lurked hundreds of Dimlock and other nightmares under his black face; and the power that had nearly killed her seemed to radiate off it like cold from an anti-sun. So she had about two weeks, and then was forced to wait for a week when the second dark of summer came. After that there was another month, and then the Black Moon rose with the first day of fall.
Still she was able to reach many of the Council and there were a number who had a change of heart. The Rumor Rats kept track. A large, but slowly diminishing, minority remained—working hard to undermine her or to water down the coming coronation vote. They were led by one Tannias Rauth.
Little surprise. Luthiel had thought to herself. But despite the obvious and somewhat loud presence of his father, Tannias, Luthiel couldn’t find trace of Vane. For all she knew he left with Zalos or even Widdershae.
I saw him with Saurlolth. He even seemed to help me. How strange.
Despite all the attempts at political sabotage, the Rumor Rats found no plots against her. No letters of intrigue. No plans of overthrow. Nothing outside of Council and the regular political workings of the Faelands.
It made Margareth happy, but she seemed a little concerned too. “It’s going well. Somewhat better than I expected. Is it possible we’re missing something?” The last question was more to herself than anyone else. But it made Luthiel wonder too.
Toward the end of this time, preparations for the ball became frantic and complex. Vaelros and Galwin were both persistent in their attempts to invite her to appear with them. Many times she’d slip away from one or the other if she saw him coming around the corner. It always made her feel a bit embarrassed. It was really a silly circumstance; why didn’t she just command them to let off and have done with it? But she didn’t have enough heart to tell them. Deeper down, there was a strange feeling of being wanted that she did not wholly dislike. She chided herself for it. It wasn’t fair to them. Both Vaelros and Galwin felt for her. If she ever did give in to one, the other would be crestfallen. In a way, she thought it better to disappoint them both. In any case, she was uncertain if either was really right for her. Vaelros, whom she’d felt a strong first attraction to was, after all, many years older. And though age didn’t matter so much to elves, she felt some hesitation. There were also his episodes of darkness. Times when he fell into a depression she felt powerless to pierce.
Galwin was another extreme. Awkward but cheerful, he often fumbled then laughed at himself when around her. She appreciated his humor but she felt him a friend and little more.
“I just don’t think either is right for me,” she said to Leowin one day. So if she did something with the one, she made a point the other was there as well.
Most times, she brought Leowin along and they rode out over the lands surrounding Yewstaff. Riding was safe because Othalas was the perfect chaperone and both Galwin and Vaelros behaved better around him. They sparred too, swam in the many crystal lakes surrounding Yewstaff, played at games of archery, tap and turn, runestones, or three corners. Despite the romantic tension, it was a wonderful time for Luthiel. A rare span where she felt unburdened by the world and all her troubles.
But there were always reminders.
Most terrifying were the changes in the sky. All blue was swept away from the daytime and the sky took on a white-brown color. Soelee turned red then grew larger. Oerin’s Eye became pale as a ghost. At night, only moons were visible. The only stars that could be seen were shooting ones. But these fell in prodigious showers setting all the sky atwinkle with a rain of sparks.
Worst of all was the black mass of cloud that followed. At first it looked like a great shadow coming only with sunset. Then it stretched out, widening into a shape like a vast set of jaws with long teeth of black mists.
“A warg in the sky?” she asked Mithorden pointedly one day as they stood on a high branch at the top of Yewstaff. She’d been trying to corner the sorcerer. To get him to talk. She needed to know what was going on. Why it was both so dark and so hot at the same time. Why the light was failing and with it all the crops of her people.
Mithorden looked at her and nodded. “It has been called that. But not by me. You shouldn’t quote the prophesy of your enemies.”
Luthiel turned back. “It does look like the jaws of a great wolf—stretching out to devour heaven.”
Mithorden grabbed her hand—looking at her with eyes so ageless and full of depth it stole her breath. They were calm and controlled at the surface but underneath there were flashes and hints of a terrible knowledge. Worst of all, she realized, even the sorcerer was afraid.
“It has always been thought of as the wolf,” he said. “Some called it the ‘big bad wolf.’ Others the warg, Fenrir, Maugris. Ten ages, each with the span of about twenty thousand years, have passed since the time humankin beheld the first wolf. We were younger then. We didn’t understand what was happening. We thought the gods were angry with us. That we were punished for our sins. We have since learned differently. Ten ages. Each with its wolf. The world was made this way, Luthiel—with great death in it. As each age dies there too comes with it a great dying off. The warg is, indeed, one of Gorthar’s pack. Yet it is both a thing of destruction and of creation. For at the end of each age, after all the dying, there comes new life in forms as varied and wondrous as the stars themselves. Their dust from which we are all made. This is the laughter of Ëvanya and Ëvanyar. For though Gorthar has afflicted the world with this destruction. They have ever made mockery of it.”
When he said the last part, he smiled and some of the fear seemed to clear from his eyes.
“But that’s just what happens after a great hurt,” Luthiel said, thinking of her wounds and how some still ached. “Sometimes healing comes. But things are never as they were.”
“You can turn your face and run from the wolf,” Mithorden said. “But it is in the instant you give in to fear and think there’s no hope, that there won’t be.”
“Then we must face the wolf?”
“Yes,” Mithorden said. “And Gorthar too. But first Zalos. For though all seems quiet and you have everything well in hand. I doubt he has played his last card.”
“Margareth thinks so too,” Luthiel said.
“Does she? Well she’s always been a wise one, Margareth,” he said with a smile.
Luthiel gave a sigh of exasperation. “Don’t do that!”
“Do what?” Mithorden said.
“Smile like you know something I don’t!”
Mithorden laughed, then he sputtered. “Dear me! You are Valkire’s daughter through and through! I can’t even smile about something without you thinking I keep secrets.”
“What is it you smiled about?” Luthiel said in a lower voice. Her heart was pounding now, but she didn’t know quite why. There was something extraordinary about Margareth. Luthiel had really grown to like her and she didn’t want anything bad to happen to their budding friendship.
“You are a good heart Luthiel and so i
s Margareth. I smiled because your alliance is one of those things that gives comfort. You are right to treasure it,” Mithorden said, looking out over the branches.
Realizing she should be happy Mithorden had even talked about the sky, she returned to it. “Would you tell me what we can expect?” she said, looking at the growing shadow.
“A long time of hardship. Flood. Darkness. Freezing. Fire. Flood.”
“In that order?”
“Usually. But not always.”
“I’d expect you could tell me more about this sky wolf and how to manage the trouble it brings.”
“I’m already helping you as best I can, Luthiel. Count yourself lucky for knowing what you do. Before humankin, before elves, there was no legend or language to give it name or shape. But the wolf was there. It always returns at the end of an age. And no world is safe from it.”
Coronation
So the day finally came when the Council of the Faelands met to decide whether or not to support and grant patronage to Luthiel—Queen of the Faelands. The fae lords gathered. Some final points were made. Cambian and Tannias tried to delay the vote as long as possible. They were eventually hushed by a slim majority. Finally, the votes came. Of those assembled, forty-two decided not to grant support to Luthiel. They would remain lawful citizens of the Faelands and obey her law but they would not give patronage to the new Queen. The other fifty eight pledged her their full support and patronage. Fully thirty more fae lords never appeared. These did not recognize Luthiel or any claim she made to the Starlight Throne.
It was an important vote for two reasons. First, Luthiel became the first true Queen of the Faelands. Second, Luthiel was the first ruler of the Faelands ever to have so few endorsements by the Fae Council.
Confronted with such conflict, Luthiel became the fourth ruler of the Faelands since the Vyrl’s downfall. Never would a ruler, before or since, be faced with so much trouble in the first days of reign.
Luthiel's Song: The War of Mists Page 31