The Exile of Elindel (The Elwardian Chronicles Book 1)

by Carol Browne

  The ground vibrated beneath his feet, and a whip cracked. Godwin winced, but there was no complaint from the horse receiving the blow. All he could hear were explosive snorts and the thunder of hooves as the riders raced by in a frenzy of speed. And then they were gone.

  The thunder receded. What felt like an age of terror had lasted less than a minute.

  They stood awhile, cloaked in silence, and then Elgiva loosened her grip on his hand.

  “Relax.”

  The small voice above him wasn’t Elgiva’s. It was weary and hollow, drained of every emotion. But it was also the voice of someone who had survived an ordeal and gained from the experience. It had passed through fire to purity, and there was a strange duality in it: enervated, yet charged with power.

  He opened his eyes to see the after-gleam of magic that still writhed in hers. It glittered for several moments more, and then it shrank back into an angry darkness.

  Grimalkin snorted. “Will you take your hot little hand off my back!”

  Grimalkin’s remonstrance startled him. He withdrew his hand, sighed, and scrubbed the sweat from his eyes. Somehow, their wills had strengthened the magic, impossible though that seemed. He looked across at Trystin, who was ashen-faced, but managed a smile before sitting down heavily on the grass.

  But Godwin had no time for him. Elgiva was all that mattered. Her face was blanker than a linen sheet, her eyes surrounded by circles of sickness. He offered her his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, she returned to herself and allowed him to help her dismount.

  They looked into each other’s eyes, and there was no need for words. He had shared her magic in Misterell; he understood how it felt.

  Her legs gave way, and she fell into his arms. He carried her to the nearest oak tree and lowered her to the grass. Taking off his cloak, he covered her with it to keep off the morning chill. Then he made to rise from his knees, but she grabbed him by the sleeve.

  “There’s something I must tell you, Godwin. When the slaves paid homage, I . . . I realised it then. Kendra was right, and Bellic, too. They tolerated my treatment when I was a servant. It fitted me for service to Elvendom. It taught me humility. What might I have been without it?” Her hand slipped from his arm, and her eyelids began to droop. “So much power and wealth to be had . . . there for the taking. So many temptations. Yet it held no appeal for me. Does suffering give one strength after all?” She smiled, but then her eyes flashed open. “But Godwin, my powers are stunted. I can’t develop them to the full. I don’t even know what that is. Perhaps I’ll never know.”

  Elgiva fell back with a sigh of exhaustion. Godwin didn’t know what to say. She needed a wardain’s guidance.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll go to your uncle. He’ll know what to do.”

  “But Vieldrin will get there first. He might—”

  “Rest now,” said Godwin. “We’ll worry about that later. The danger’s passed, and we have the Lorestone.”

  ***

  Elgiva didn’t sleep for long. Some nagging sense of urgency dragged her back to the world. In her mind, she pictured Vieldrin racing towards his destiny, and she was a part of whatever that involved. She was wasting time, had to be moving.

  And Siriol had been warm.

  Supporting herself against the tree, Elgiva struggled to her feet. Her head reeled and her legs were weak, as though her bones had melted. Her body felt scorched by magic. Her powers were growing stronger, but she lacked the strength and skill required to protect herself from their intensity. She felt like a shallow river, broken-banked and choked with stones, unable to cope with a fierce spring flood. She cursed her weakness and also the fever that had cost her so much energy, yet she smiled at the irony of it all. The more she exercised her powers, the stronger they became; the stronger they became, the more they weakened her. She was on a downward spiral that could only end in death, and perversely, there was pleasure in it, for it was true what Vieldrin had said: power was like a drug.

  But it was pointless bemoaning her weakness, and she had no time to convalesce. Only magic mattered; she was born to serve it and if it destroyed her, so be it.

  She turned her attention outwards once more. The threat of rain had darkened the sky, but that was the only menace, so she allowed herself to relax. Her friends were among the trees. Godwin clung to a swaying branch while his legs kicked out at the air, Grimalkin was neighing derisively, and a group of birds wheeled overhead, filling the air with their cries.

  There was movement some yards to her right. Trystin stirred and sat up.

  “I heard birds,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “They were calling for help.”

  Relinquishing the tree’s support, Elgiva walked towards him. She knelt at his side and tried to smile. “I think our friends are robbing nests.”

  “Stealing eggs?” cried Trystin.

  She drew a deep breath that hurt her lungs. “Needs must, I dare say.”

  Trystin appeared to accept her words, but she suspected he lacked the strength to argue.

  “Trystin, you look sad,” she said, reaching out to stroke his cheek. A trite remark to make, perhaps. In truth, her friend looked dreadful. He seemed thinner, and his bare, bruised limbs were like sticks. His hair was a wild and dirty tangle around his pale, gaunt face. It wrenched her heart to look at him.

  “I’m tired, and I think of former friends,” he said.

  He hadn’t intended any reproach, but she felt it nonetheless. If only she hadn’t intervened, Haldrin and Everil and countless others wouldn’t have lost their lives.

  They sat in a thoughtful silence, and Trystin chewed his nails.

  “Well,” said Elgiva, at length. “I think you need cheering up.”

  She smiled, hoping he would do the same, but his sadness ran too deep. Placing her arm around his shoulders, she gave him a gentle hug. She longed to lift his spirits; he was too young to be so sad. But how to go about it?

  Of course, there was only one way. But would she be doing it more to punish herself than to gratify him?

  “I need some serious practice. What magic shall I perform, Trystin?”

  His eyes grew large with reviving interest. “Oh, Lady Elgiva, I don’t know!” Then he saw the birds circling the trees, and he turned to her with a grin. “I’ve always wondered what it’s like to fly.”

  Elgiva arched her eyebrows. “Fly?”

  “Yes. I’ve always wanted to know what it feels like to be really free.”

  She thought for a moment and then swayed to her feet. “Stand up. I’ll see what I can do.” She straightened herself and held out her arms, while Trystin grinned with excitement.

  “Rise, little Trystin, take to the skies.

  “Size is no object when Trystin flies.

  “Light as a winter moth in the night,

  “Wingless, arise, ascend, take flight!”

  They waited for something to happen, and Trystin chewed his nails. All of a sudden, he was lifted a few inches off the ground, and he hovered above it for several moments.

  “That’s not good enough,” said Elgiva.

  Without some strong emotion to fuel it, the magic was sluggish and weak, but it would be no use to her if it waxed and waned like the moon. It had to be controlled.

  “Be spry and fly; be light, take flight!

  “Soar in the ether, though lacking feather.

  “A blur, a streak, though lacking beak.

  “In air, be fleeter than any worm-eater!”

  Her mind sharpened with clarity, and a rush of force surged in her limbs, a gleeful burgeoning of power. It was savage, alive, and wonderful. Confining it within the bounds of her will, she directed it slowly outwards. The magic was a sparkling river, and she the valley through which it flowed, no longer blocked by the dregs of disuse.

  Now you will do my bidding.

  But still she was holding something back. The magic frightened her.

  Trystin began to rise from the ground. He squealed with delight
. The magic lifted him higher and higher, and he began to dance in the air, spinning around like a wind-tossed leaf. His laughter made Elgiva laugh, too.

  “Oh, lady, this is fun!” he shrieked.

  For a while, she giggled at his antics, at the grimy tunic that flapped round his legs, like the feathers of a windswept crow, but then the power ebbed.

  “I’m sorry. You must come down now, Trystin.”

  Once the elfling’s feet were on the earth, he ran to Elgiva and hugged her. “Oh, Lady Elgiva, you’re so clever!”

  Elgiva wanted to return the embrace, but a wave of giddiness made her gasp. Her vision swam with scarlet motes, and the blood throbbed in her skull. Tears sprang to her eyes at the knowledge that power was killing her, yet she was compelled to use it. It was almost as though she enjoyed the pain.

  She looked at Trystin’s beaming face, and it seemed a small price to pay.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The sun was hidden behind the clouds that toiled towards the valley, and the river seemed grey and sluggish, as though it were clogged with detritus. Between the river and the hills lay the British village, a sprawl of shabby dwellings, like the refuse of a bygone age.

  Godwin and his companions looked down at the village from the east bank of the river. They were weakened by hunger and exhausted by travel, and the village’s gloomy aspect did nothing to lift their spirits.

  “It looks like it’s been abandoned,” he said. “A place without hope.”

  “No, Master Godwin, there are people here,” Trystin said.

  “More of Vieldrin’s work,” said Elgiva. “There is some enchantment here.”

  “Shall we go and say hello?” asked Trystin.

  “You and I had better stay here . . . at least for the moment. They might mistake us for friends of Vieldrin.” She paused. “Godwin?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I’ll go.”

  He made his way down the slope towards the rickety bridge that spanned the river. Unbidden, Grimalkin trotted behind him.

  “Wait for me,” she snorted. “Don’t want to miss anything.”

  A number of villagers looked up in alarm when they heard the sound of neighing, but the sight of the two intruders seemed to reassure them, and by the time Godwin had crossed the wooden bridge, a gathering of people had turned out to meet him.

  He stood before the silent, sullen crowd and tried to recall the only words he knew of his people’s language. Then he checked himself. Of course it wasn’t necessary, because of Elgiva’s gift.

  “My name is Godwin,” he said, his mouth suddenly dry. He moistened his lips. “I’m of your race, but as a child, I was taken by the Saxons and taught their customs. I mean you no ill.”

  They looked him up and down, curious yet wary. An old woman in a grubby brown robe stepped out from their midst. She stopped a few yards in front of him and thrust her staff in the earth, as though to indicate the point beyond which he mustn’t go. Her wispy white hair spoke of age and frailty, but her sharp eyes were keen as a blade.

  “Brought up by Saxons, you say? Yet you speak our language as well as we do,” she said, a frown deepening on her brow. She shared a look with the villagers, and their silence invited her to continue. “Ceara is my name, and I speak on behalf of the tribe. What is your business, stranger?”

  The villagers stared at him, their faces blank. Godwin shuffled his feet. He didn’t know what to say, where to begin.

  “Courage, son,” hissed Grimalkin.

  “I’ve come to help you,” he said.

  “Cabbage hearts! It’s food we’re after!”

  “Have you, in sooth?” Ceara said. “My friends, it appears that we are saved!”

  Humourless laughter greeted her words.

  “I’m not alone,” said Godwin, crossing his arms. “The powers of good are with me.”

  “You are an angel?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” said Godwin, annoyed by the old woman’s rudeness. “I heard you were in trouble, and I’ve brought good magic to aid you.”

  “A half-wit,” Ceara said.

  “I know about the enchantment. Vieldrin of Misterell is the source.”

  The villagers fell silent and glanced at each other through narrowed eyes.

  “But there are good elves, too and one such travels with me. She’s determined to kill Vieldrin.”

  A young man stepped forward and sneered. “And who is this saviour? Is she too afraid to meet us?”

  “She is an elf,” said Ceara, “and they are all agents of Satan.”

  “I don’t know what you mean. My elven friend is the Queen of Elindel,” Godwin told her angrily.

  “We know of no such place.”

  “Never mind,” said Godwin. “We’ve stopped on our way to Elindel to offer you some assurance that your plight can’t last forever.”

  “In sooth, it cannot,” she said, “for we cannot live forever.”

  “Why don’t you ask about food?” nagged Grimalkin.

  Godwin ignored this remark. “We heard that your chief is dying—”

  “He died a week ago,” Ceara said.

  “I . . . I’m sorry for that. I had thought to bring him hope.”

  “Hope? He is past hope. He is well out of it.” She hobbled towards him and raised her staff.

  Godwin stepped back.

  “From whence do you come with this hope?”

  “From Misterell. We escaped from Misterell,” said Godwin.

  The villagers muttered in consternation.

  The young man turned to address the crowd. “They have sent him to spy on us!”

  “No, Aled!”

  A young woman with dark red plaits moved through the throng. “You are too quick to judge, brother,” she said. She stopped at the young man’s side. “What has become of our hospitality?”

  Aled turned away, and the young woman smiled at Godwin. “My name is Angwen, stranger, and I am niece to Morvyth, sister of our late chief. Morvyth is our leader, but she is old and sick, so I will speak in her stead. I know she would aid a traveller before she questioned his purpose.” She glanced at her people reproachfully, and they shrank beneath her gaze. “Godwin, I bid you welcome, both you and your elvish friend, and I hope our hospitality will make amends for the slights you have suffered. My friends, he is a stranger, true, yet he is of our race. Is it his fault the Saxons took him? And have you forgotten that once, we lived with the faery folk in peace?”

  Godwin was touched by her gracious manner. “Thank you, lady. We’re hungry and tired, but we aren’t welcome in this place, so to spare you any conflict, I think we’d better move on.”

  “Call your friend,” said Angwen. “No harm will befall her.”

  Godwin looked at Grimalkin, and her eyes seemed to echo his decision; Elgiva could take care of herself in a rabble such as this. He walked over to the bridge and beckoned with his arm.

  “There are two elves,” he said to Angwen. “My friend is called Elgiva, and the boy with her is Trystin. He was born in Misterell and has lived life as a slave since Vieldrin murdered his parents.”

  Angwen frowned and watched as the figures crossed the bridge. “Welcome,” she said as they drew near. “Godwin has explained your purpose. Please eat with us and rest awhile. My name is Angwen, and it would please me to hear your story, if you would care to tell it.” She stepped towards Trystin and took his hand. “Poor child. So young to be an orphan and a slave.”

  She moved away, and the villagers drew apart before her. Unsettled by her final remark, Godwin shared a look with Elgiva, and then they followed in her wake.

  ***

  Night was falling like a cloud of dust, and a mist-ring hugged the moon, but inside Angwen’s dwelling, the fire threw warmth against the walls and tallow candles glimmered. Elgiva told Angwen a little about their adventures, and a meal of goat’s cheese, bread, and ale chased away their hunger. Now, they sat before the fire, at ease in Angwen’s presence.

  Angwen moved around t
he hut, lighting candles and refilling beakers, yet always attentive to the words of her guests. Unlike the other villagers, Angwen seemed hardly affected by the gloom in the valley, yet now and then, Godwin saw a trace of sadness in her blue eyes. For a while, she expressed wonder at the tales her guests brought to her door, but the sadness reasserted itself, and she sat beside them, staring at the flames that danced cheerily on the clay hearth.

  “It behoves me to explain the sorry state we are in,” she said. “As you know, Gwion, our chief, died seven days ago. He was much loved by all. So long had he been our leader and guide, I think we forgot he was mortal. His death was a terrible shock to us—more so to Aled and myself, for Gwion was our father.”

  Godwin made to convey his condolences, but she waved his compassion away with her hand. “Death comes to us all. It must be so. There is a saying: death is not the end of a short life, but the centre of a long one. And do not grieve for Gwion. He acquitted himself with honour while he lived, and he died a very old man. Now he dwells with God. It is we who suffer by losing him, for we are bereft of his wisdom and love. In his youth, he was famed for his courage and skill, as a leader of men and a warrior. Even the Saxons respected him, for Gwion knew no fear.” She turned her face towards Godwin, her hair gleaming like copper in the firelight. “Perhaps you have heard of him, Godwin?”

  Godwin shook his head.

  “Well, you are young,” she went on, as though she herself were older than she appeared. “Now, Morvyth is our chief. When Morvyth dies, I shall take her place, but I cannot rejoice at that. I would rather she lived forever. Not only do I love her dearly, but I fear the burden that is my inheritance.” She paused and a soft sigh escaped her lips. “Well, we have suffered much, but perhaps our sufferings are for a purpose. We may be a conquered race, but please God, we will rise again.”

  “And your village, lady,” said Elgiva, “it’s cursed by an enchantment. I’ve felt it, and I’m sorry to say, my magic can’t undo it.”

  Angwen didn’t seem surprised. “It is as you say.”

  “Yet you are undaunted.”

  “I pray to God for endurance.”

  “My great-uncle once told me that some of your people are blessed with a special gift. You know the Earth’s magic, and it protects you.”