by Sean Rodden
War is upon us, old friend, she said silently, sadly. Shadow marches on Eryn Ruil. The Fiannar will need you, will need the courage and strength of your kindred. We will need the warokka to fight for us once more. Her soul sighed, an inner sough of sorrow. Many, likely most, and perhaps all of you will die. But I would not ask this of you, Lord Teraras, were the need not most dire.
The great war wolf cocked his head to the other side, and a more menacing growl rumbled in his throat. A feral fire flamed in his eyes.
Sarrane’s smile widened slightly, though her sorrow deepened.
Thank you, old friend, spoke her soul. The Fiannar are ever grateful for the love and loyalty of the mighty warokka.
The Seer stood. A single tear sprang from her damp eyes. The warok reared on his hind limbs, placing his powerful fore-paws on Sarrane’s shoulders, and with a lap of his long pink tongue he licked the salty sorrow from the Fiann’s fair face.
The Seer patted the fur of the warok’s flank as he fell back again to all fours.
“Go, Teraras, brave Lord of Galledine,” she spoke aloud. “Go gather your kind. And should the Teller speak your end so soon into your tale, look for me, and we will meet again in the Light.”
And Teraras, Alpha of the warokka, wolf-king of Galledine, padded off into the green glory of the Gardens. And as he went, a great howl burst from his bulking breast, echoed instantly in the descending dusk by dozens, scores, hundreds of other warokkan throats.
The great maned wolves of the north had been called to war.
Sarrane lingered briefly, listening to the war-song of the warokka until it fell again into silence, replaced at little length with the lilting lullaby of bird and buzzing thing.
Then the Seer of the Fiannar took up her spear and moved toward Druintir to bear the bodings of her vision to those who must know.
Alvarion stared out upon the dying day, the pale marble of the last city of the Fiannar shimmering faintly in the falling dusk and rising river-mist. Warriors of the Deathward were about in some number, the metal of their weaponry and the gold of their rillagha glinting dimly. And here and there moved the ghosts of the Grey Watch, unsleeping sentries of stealth and steel, shadows warding against Shadow.
Alvarion sighed. The Fiannar were so few – six thousands all told. And they were a dwindling people. Fewer and fewer children were being born, and of those most were male. His own son was four months old, and no Fiann had borne a child since the day of Aranion’s birth. The Fiannar were failing – two centuries, perhaps three, and they would be no more. And war promised to quicken that certainty. It seemed to Alvarion that the Deathward were only too aptly named.
A small gurgling sound lured the Lord from his lament. He sensed a presence, no, two presences – one greater, one lesser, both familiar, both beloved – behind him. And then came the sweet velvet voice of she to whom he was forever sworn in body and mind and soul.
“Your son is restless, husband,” said Cerriste quietly. “He senses that you are troubled.”
Alvarion turned. The hardness of his eyes softened as he gazed upon his wife and child. They were beautiful – she lustrous of lock and long of limb, he a bundle of fair flesh and dark curls. And the grey of their wide round eyes was as polished steel.
The Lord of the Fiannar smiled.
“The days have been long, and the nights longer, my love,” he said softly, almost apologetically. “Much has been accomplished. But I am eased in neither mind nor heart.” His smile faded, fell. “I fear that I will bear witness to the failing of the Fiannar. Sarrane has seen our doom.”
The Lady’s brow darkened.
“Sarrane has seen no such thing, husband,” she remonstrated. “Her vision was of blood and destruction, as must be all visions of war. A Seer’s visions of the future are largely symbolic, metaphorical, and must be carefully interpreted lest we be overcome with unwarranted despair – or, perhaps more dangerously, false hope. That she heard the cry of the Fend aflame certainly cannot mean that Faendomin will burn.” She then smiled coyly, saying, “Or is it another thing that bothers you so? Perhaps that Sarrane heard Tulnarron’s voice rather than your own rallying the defenders of the Pass…?”
Alvarion grinned grimly.
“That was of some small, almost inconsequential concern to me, yes.” His voice held the same dark humour for which his grandfather had been notorious.
Cerriste laughed lightly, waving one hand in dismissal.
“That a woman hears the voice of her husband in her dreams should be of no surprise to you, for to whom is a woman more connected than her spouse and children? That Sarrane did not hear your voice does not foretell your death, good husband. Rather, it speaks well of Sarrane’s love for Tulnarron, think you not?”
The light of reluctant concession came to the Lord’s eyes.
“Ah, woman,” he sighed softly. “You gladden me so. But we dare not disregard the sight of our Seer.”
“No, we daren’t,” agreed Cerriste. “We must understand what she has seen. But mayhap that understanding will only come with time.”
“I only hope that such understanding is not overly tardy in its coming.”
“Better late than not at all, husband.” A strange smile touched her lips. “Much like a certain old friend.”
Alvarion regarded his wife momentarily, then nodded.
“Ah. You speak of the Diceman.”
“He rides with the Southmen, serving as their healer, and has done since the formation of the North March Mounted Reserve. That he has come here with them at this time of all times is not simple coincidence, husband. There is purpose to everything the Diceman does.”
“He has yet to speak to us. We know nothing of his intentions.”
“We know he is our friend.”
“Yes,” mused Alvarion. “That we do. But he has never fought beside us before.”
Cerriste’s lips twitched. “Not that we know of, husband. But the Diceman’s ways have ever been…subtle. And we cannot pretend to know everything.”
Alvarion’s eyes narrowed. “Speak for yourself, woman.”
Cerriste smiled lovingly and extended the infant Lordling toward her husband.
“Your son is become heavy, beloved, and your wife is old and weak and weary.”
The babe Aranion made a laughlike sound as Alvarion took him tenderly into his strong arms.
“You neglect to mention that my wife is also horribly haggard and hard on the eyes,” chided the Lord.
The Lady laughed brightly. “And depreciating in value with the passing of every day.”
Cerriste watched with adoration as Alvarion brushed his lips upon their son’s soft brow. She allowed them a moment of perfect peace, the kind that is found only in the bond of father and infant.
Then, “Let us go, husband. We will find Taresse, and deliver unto her your precious burden. Then we must attend our duties. Night falls, and many of our guests prepare to depart Druintir. We must bid them farewell.”
Lanternlight glossed the stone walls of the Marshal’s quarters with fluttering banners of tarnished gold. Despite the warm amber shadows, a chill crisped the sparely furnished chamber, an invisible breathless breeze. The run of the Ruil was a soundless song rumbling in the rock, deep and sonorous, like a threnody arising from terranean throats, a dirge to the departed. To the departing.
“You have decided?”
The timbre of Taresse’s voice made the question a statement.
Eldurion nodded, but said nothing. He felt different, older. Other than he had once been. Less than he had once been.
“Varonin will perform the Marshal’s duties well,” affirmed Taresse. She stepped forward, fastidiously adjusting the clasp of her husband’s cloak. “As ever, you have chosen wisely.”
Eldurion looked over his wife’s shoulder to the nondescript leather bundle on the table, shapeless and impotent, untouched somehow by the golding gloss cast by the lantern beside it.
Grimroth. The Blade of Defurien.<
br />
His now. His to wield. But asleep. Idle.
Impotent.
“You will speak with our daughter, husband?” Again, a statement.
And again, a nod.
Taresse placed her hand upon the clasp at Eldurion’s breast. She peered upward into her husband’s bright but strangely distant eyes. Within her, something shuddered, threatened to break.
“One might say farewell without saying goodbye, Eldie.”
At last, the second son of the first Alvarion spoke, but his iron voice was become strangely soft, almost molten.
“Our customs can seem unnecessarily…harsh, at times.”
Taresse shrugged. The movement was one of a younger soul, more of the daughter Caelle than of the mother Taresse.
“The life of the Fiannar is harsh,” she replied, too casually. Something like mourning underlay her calm. Or perhaps mournfulness was her calm. “Our world is harsh.” She lowered her hand but not her eyes.
Eldurion met Taresse’s gaze, held it – or was held by it, bound by the sapphire sparks that spoke so eloquently, so very profoundly in the silvery silence of her irises.
“She has your eyes,” the Eldest of the Fiannar said with a gentleness that none but his wife and daughter had ever heard pass his thin grim lips. He raised his hand as though to touch Taresse’s cheek, hesitated, lowered it again. He saw his wife’s eyes moisten, glisten. He stepped back, away.
And his wife whispered, “Eldie…beloved…”
But the former Marshal of the Grey Watch turned from her, from the appeal in her voice, in her eyes. He moved to the table, lifted the anomalous grey bundle and bound it to his back. He took his own sword in hand. And the steel hardened within him once more.
“Look to your own death, woman.”
Taresse lowered her eyes, stared at her folded hands, saw them tremble. But they soon stilled, settled, and she stifled the plethora of passions assailing her soul.
And she said only: “You must promise me one thing, my husband.”
Eldurion waited.
Taresse raised her gaze once more. Strength and defiance were etched upon her comely countenance as surely as runes riven in rock.
“Promise me that you will die well, Eldurion son of Alvarion the First of the House of Defurien.”
Eldurion spared himself a small smile, and a light as keen and as clear as madness flickered in his eyes.
“And you also, beloved wife.”
Taresse actually laughed. “Of that, you may certain, dear husband.”
And then she glanced toward the door.
Eldurion followed her gaze.
“Yes,” said he. “They are coming for you, my love.” His grey eyes were now impossibly bright, like silver slivers in sun-washed stone. “They bring the child.”
Taresse sighed. “So they are. So they do.”
“Ward him well. And our daughter also, while you are able.”
“I will.”
Eldurion moved back to his wife, embraced her, bent low, brought his lips to her own one last long, lingering, loving time.
“Until the Light, my wife.”
“Until the Light, husband,” she whispered breathlessly.
And he was gone.
Night had gathered the Gardens of Galledine in a shroud of mist, a fine fog silvered by the mingled lights of starshine and moonsheen. Reared from the rush of the Ruil, the luminous mists seeped southward through the trees, gently swirling and seething about the broad trunks of maple and elm.
Somewhere near to the bank of the river, in a glade ringed by great and ancient oaks, were assembled the bright company of the Undying, those who had come to Druintir in the time of the Fiannar’s need. They were fine and fair, the folk of Gavrayel from Gith Glennin – the Sun Lord Evangael, Prince of the Athair; his one-score Knights; and the white-locked Chancellor Ingallin. All were mounted upon glorious golden-maned elliamir, elegant equine entities of the First Earth, their star-white coats shimmering in the shadows. The Sun Knights wore the colours of their Prince Evangael, sky blue cloak and mantle over ivory-white armour, their long lustrous hair gleaming in the argentine gloom of night. Their spears were tall and terrible, a grove of shining steel leafed with colourful ribbon. About them was the silent sound of bells, the song of starlight, the whispered sigh of snow dancing in glow of moon. And above them fluttered fine silken pennons, swaying in the nightwind like soft angelic wings.
Before the Athair, astride their regal mirarra, were the Lord and the Lady of the Fiannar. Their countenances were clear and calm, carven of a sombreness not far removed from sorrow.
“We are grateful for your kindnesses, good folk of the Neverborn,” spoke Alvarion, “though we are, as ever, saddened by your leaving.”
“When we are able, and time and circumstance allow,” appended Cerriste, “we will return your generosity, if not in kind, then certainly in intent.”
“We have done little more than nothing, Lady,” replied Prince Evangael, his voice a song, music in the night, “and far less than we are able. Reserve your gratitude for when my one thousand ride to Eryn Ruil, rather than for when my one score ride to Allaura.”
Alvarion nodded austerely.
“I do pray the day will come when I may thank you for the ride of your one thousand to Eryn Ruil in my people’s hour of need.” The Lord’s grey eyes gleamed. “Will you ride to us, Prince Evangael?”
The Sun Lord said only, “That is my intention and my desire, Lord of the Fiannar.”
Alvarion sighed. “I wish for your desire to be fulfilled, good Prince, but doubt gnaws my heart, if only for the vision of my Seer. She saw the battle’s ending hour – and the Athair had not come.”
Evangael smiled curiously.
“Mindsight is a strange and fickle thing, dear friend,” said the Athain Prince, his melodic voice as soothing as salve. “Believe in the rightness of your cause and the strength of your arm, and all will be made clear to you in time.”
Alvarion nodded once more, sighed again.
“In time,” he echoed softly.
Prince Evangael turned to his twenty Sun Knights, and to the Chancellor Ingallin mounted upon an ostentatiously bejeweled elliam off to one side and slightly apart the company.
“In my absence, command of the Sul Athaifain falls to First Knight Lalindel, who in turn shall hear the counsel of Prime Consul Ingallin. First Knight, listen carefully to that counsel.”
Lalindel met Evangael’s golden gaze, bowed his head.
“I will hear him, my Prince.”
The other Sun Knights did not stir, and no emotion played upon their fair faces. The bright eyes of the Athain warriors reflected the lights of moon and star as dispassionately as would clear still waters. They said nothing. And there was acceptance, if not approval, in the synchronicity of their silence.
And then the Sun Lord Evangael turned to the Prime Consul Ingallin. The former Ath’s mien was stern and stolid, the latter’s shrunken and sullen.
“Sulk not, Chancellor,” commanded the Prince. “Your duties are to make ready Allaura for our guests and to accommodate them with the hospitality which is due them. Perform these responsibilities with all care. I will advise His Majesty of your new concern, and of the cause of this appointment.”
Ingallin pushed a shock of winter-white hair from his brow.
“I cannot promise, my Prince,” said he, a soft serpentine hiss to his voice, “that His Majesty will be well pleased.”
Evangael smiled. And his smile was as cold and as bright as a midwinter morn, as passionate as a soul-sworn oath.
“Nor I, Chancellor. But I can promise any displeasure the King may display will not be for me.”
The implication in Evangael’s words was explicit, as was the warrior’s ire simmering in his golden eyes. Ingallin’s ungraciousness in Hollin Tharric, his deception and dissention at the Stone of Scullain, had not been forgotten – and word of these failings would not pass the King’s ear unspoken.
Ingall
in lowered his head.
“I will do as you bid, my Prince,” said he quietly. A smile, small and bereft of both joy and humour, played upon his pink lips. “The Laws of our folk must be upheld.”
The Sun Lord stared at the Chancellor for a moment, seeking hidden meaning to the sallow Ath’s words. But Ingallin did not deign to meet his gaze, and Evangael detected untruth in neither the Prime Consul’s deference nor his demeanor.
“Very well,” spoke Evangael at length. “Ride with speed, Chancellor.”
And then to his loyal Sun Knights –
“Ride, im Sul Athaifain!” Evangael raised an open hand in farewell. “Ya’Iu en inte vui! Dhir!”
And the Lord and the Lady of the Fiannar put their fists to their rillagha.
“Fare well! Fare free!” cried Cerriste.
“May your tale not go untold,” extoled Alvarion.
And the Sun Knights of Prince Evangael turned like fluid starshine and flowed into the trees of Galledine, a procession of power, the soundless music of Light playing in their passing.
Ingallin lingered for a moment, raised his gaze to Evangael’s, and smiled. But his smile was more an underscore of the coldness in his eyes, a curving not far from contempt. And he said only, “My Prince,” then turned with a jingle of jewelry and slid into the shadows of the night.
“A strange and disturbed soul, that one,” mused Alvarion after the darkness had closed about Ingallin. “All bitterness and venom.”
Lady Cerriste was more direct: “The King’s Chancellor has been touched by the Shadow.”
Prince Evangael of the Athair peered toward the blackness into which Ingallin had gone, and the light of the Sun Lord’s golden eyes dimmed.
“Ingallin is of the Forgiven,” he explained softly, “the folk of fallen Asrayal, those whom Gavrayel absolved, whose sins were shriven by him, but whose shedding of Athain blood goes not unremembered.”
“Ah,” understood Alvarion.
But Cerriste’s eyes narrowed. “Is he to be trusted, Prince Evangael?”
The Sun Lord remained staring into the darkness of Ingallin’s departure.