Her daring made his blood thunder in his ears. Unable to withstand the sight any longer, he visualized Mornius instead, Holram’s staff. He pictured the relic from Earth mounted at Mornius’s crown, the beautiful Skystone, a blue gem laced with violet and flecks of green.
The Star Crystal he grasped, the Skystone’s paler twin, flared in response against his palm. Then more tendrils of Sephrym’s energy lanced between his fingers, tumbling to the water at his feet. He waited, squinting, until a fire glimmered faintly within his pool, a shimmer of interest from Mornius’s distant stone.
A soft sapphire light answered his will, drawing into focus another image, that of a gaunt-faced human male, his brown eyes glaring beneath his auburn hair. Ponu recognized the youth. For many cycles, he had observed Gaelin Lavahl through his icy mirror. Free of his stepfather’s abuse, the staff-wielder strode confidently as he journeyed among the warriors. In his hand he held the staff, Mornius, its radiant stone pulsing with its trapped warder’s potency.
As Ponu looked up, he gestured to the vision in his pool. “See the fire within the Earth gem?” he called to Sephrym. “Gaelin’s adventures are rousing your son Holram, forced to dwell inside the stone! Holram’s time for rest is ending. Let him try, great Warder. He has Gaelin now to help him. Give us this final chance!”
He spotted Sephrym’s light, like a star above the wispy clouds, reluctantly fading from his view.
“Yes.” Ponu climbed to his feet. “There is still hope. Gaelin Lavahl travels to Tierdon, as does Avalar the giant.”
He sighed. A young human and a young giant, he thought, both searching, and both led. Perhaps they can save the world. We must let them try.
“While I stay here doing nothing,” Ponu added wryly, rubbing his burning eyes. “No, wait. There is one thing I can do.”
He retrieved a gildstone lion from the inner pocket of his vest. Bending stiffly, he set the little statue at his feet. It warmed when he stroked it, stretching beneath his palm. “Yelsa Min.” Breathing its name, he welcomed it as it grew. “I wish for the forest kings to hearken to me, for Sephrym himself commands them. You will follow the giant unseen while the hunters track her through your eyes. If she falters, the prowlers must guard her well.”
The beast roared, tossing its shaggy mane. Ponu stumbled back as, with a powerful kick, the lion sprang forward.
It slipped on the packed snow near the mouth of his cave, its massive paws scrambling. In silence, he observed the magical cat plowing tirelessly through the drifts, its tail flicking as it vanished into the sun’s white glare.
Ponu scowled at his Staff of Time in its crevice next to the cave. The tool from his homeworld flashed in the sunshine, showing him hints of possible futures within its depths, but nothing to ease his heart.
✽ ✽ ✽
THE DARK WATER lapped at the rocky shelf by Felrina Vlyn’s feet. She knelt, leaning over the edge of the underground pool to scrub at the crimson traces on her skin.
Still the screaming resounded in her memory from the previous night. The cropper’s death had been a painful one, which was often the case with growers who failed in their duties.
“He made his choice,” she whispered to the sunken chamber. “Arawn’s life force cannot quicken without blood. The blood is life. That farmer . . .” She wiped her fingers on the front of her black robe to dry them, rubbing as if it might erase what the ritual had done.
Slowly she stood, clutching her Blazenstone staff while she searched the troubled water.
It’s hard, yes, she consoled herself, but Erebos can’t create New Earth until he’s stronger. He needs blood and pain, the elements of birth, to bring him to full strength. You’re helping him, Felrina! You’re helping your people.
“Yes, I am,” she said with a nod. “That’s all I want. I just wish Terrek were here. He used to believe in me. I just wish he understood!”
One day he will, she thought. He’ll know the truth and you’ll be the one to show him!
“Indeed,” she breathed to the tarn’s oily surface. “I will save him and make him love me again. I just wish I—”
She tensed when Arawn’s spirit stirred in the murky depths to answer Erebos’s will. Now the pool reflected more than the stalactite above her. She beheld the one thing her god, the Destroyer, feared the most: the staff known as Mornius.
“Talking to yourself, Felrina?” Allastor Mens padded toward her along the damp stone shelf that enclosed the water, his black garments rustling softly.
Felrina glowered at the pasty-faced leader of her order, despising him for what he was, the wild-eyed fanatic he was becoming. Though his power was no stronger than hers, she sensed a quality about it, a warped heat devouring him. “Sometimes I have to,” she said. “After that horrible death last night . . .”
“ ‘Horrible’?” Mens asked. “I honored that cropper. I gave him some of my finest work. You felt it yourself, Felrina, how his death empowered Erebos. We all did—everyone in that room.”
She shifted her gaze to the pond’s fetid water. “You didn’t have to enjoy it so much, did you? I found the gray-robes’ vomit on the floor behind the chairs.”
“They’ll get used to it,” Mens said with a laugh. “And yes, I enjoy thinking about New Earth. We’ll have it soon. Erebos will see to that, with no more elves and their confounded rules. I do enjoy my work, and so should you, Felrina. Erebos knows it when you don’t.”
Mens leaned over the tarn and sneered. “Oh look, Gaelin Lavahl,” he said, jerking his head at the image the water revealed. His mocking tone echoed in the sunken chamber.
“Get out of here, Mens!” Felrina said. Then she knelt to stare at the pool’s flat calm, scrutinizing the vision before her.
His smile malicious, Mens flipped his staff over. On the edge of her sight, she saw him plunge the bloodstone straight down into the tarn’s black heart where dead Arawn’s magic endured.
Mens motioned to the water. “Arawn’s strength belongs to me, and here you are, wasting it.”
“I am not.” She caressed her staff’s polished wood, studying the ruddy gem mounted in its crown. The Earth rock flickered in its twisted cage of steel. It was alien, she knew, a fragment from the planet her people had lost. Though the carnelian itself was devoid of magic, with it she could tighten Erebos’s focus, allowing the trapped warder’s power to affect the world. “Gaelin Lavahl could be a threat. There’s a maker in his staff, remember? A creator of suns.”
“Holram?” Mens snorted. “Erebos destroyed his priest, Jaegar Othelion, in the first war. What danger is he now?”
Lifting his staff, Mens bent to sniff with relish at the blood-tinged water rippling along its length. “Come on, Felrina! Lavahl is just a boy!”
She ignored him. His power of reason was gone, consumed by the old magic in the pool that had long ago been corrupted by Arawn’s touch. Chanting, she drove her awareness deep into the tarn to find the soul of the great wizard. “Gaelin Lavahl,” she whispered, “carrying Mornius, his staff . . . Why show me this, Arawn? Where does he go?”
The picture drew back. Felrina glimpsed a ring of white mountains with rolling fields tucked between them, and a town, its architecture both human and elvish, nestled behind the early morning mist. She reeled at the sight. Without the black-robe gripping her elbow, she would have toppled into the water.
“Heartwood?” She turned, clutching at Mens’s bony shoulder. “We must stop him before he gets there! The Seeker elves . . . What if they show him the truth?”
“The elves won’t interfere,” Mens gritted. She shuddered when he leaned against her, his fingers smoothing her brown hair. “And so what if they do? My forces obliterated Kideren, didn’t they? You think I should worry about an illiterate brat?”
Felrina winced at his reference to her former home, the beloved community she had helped bring to ruin. She covered her ears with her hands, muting his nasal voice as best she could.
Once more she bent to the pool, resting her
weight on her forearms while she studied the water’s reflection, the moving images Arawn’s dark skill had conjured.
Chapter 5
GAELIN LAVAHL HIKED on the rutted path leading to the town of Heartwood, a trail that rose and fell, curving between the white highland hills. A silvery mist hung over the forest flanking the valley to his left. He watched as the fog dispersed, the branches of the distant trees becoming more distinct as he crested the ridge to peer downward at the little town.
A round cluster of buildings and homes jutted below him, their angled rooftops glimmering in the light of the new dawn. Squinting hard, he surveyed the village. Though it was smaller than Kideren, he saw that Heartwood endured, its five unpaved streets joined together as spokes to the hub that was the bustling central market.
The Snarltooth’s jagged peaks loomed to his left and right, towering high above the hills and forest at his back. To the south, the valley descended to where the village nestled. Beyond Heartwood, he spotted more icy fields, acres of land left barren after the harvest.
He pressed his cloak to his throat, glancing at the folds of fuzzy blue yarn covering his chest with interwoven charcoal-colored nubs. Gaelin scowled when he recalled his nights in the freezing barn on Mount Desheya and how desperately he had wished then for such a garment. Clutching his staff, he started at a sliding trot down the frozen slope.
Laughter rang from the town, drowning out for a moment the grinding sound of his footsteps. He stopped halfway to scan the many houses, their snowy shingles now level with his sight, their green-gold pennants fluttering above their shuttered windows. Somehow, the town remained undamaged by Erebos’s cult, while the larger city of Kideren had fallen prey to the dark warder’s army.
He frowned. He still could taste the blood in his mouth where he had bitten his tongue during the slaughter he had witnessed in Kideren. Even now, days later, he continued to find bits of ash clinging to his scalp. The gray flecks had floated leagues upon the air to the cliff where Terrek and his men had stood powerless to defend the city from the invading dachs.
The path leveled out as it neared Heartwood, the mud mixing with the dung of horses and cattle. Gaelin jerked to a halt, staring at a row of thorny sticks no higher than his waist that barred his way. He hesitated, fingering the rough twine holding the dead branches together before untying the fence’s rickety gate.
The town reeked of humanity, the stale raw sewage of a nearby drop-shed and the exposed refuse ditch dug out by dogs. Sneezing, he rubbed his burning eyelids to clear away his tears, the brewery’s yeasty odor making him gag.
As the roadway widened to enter Heartwood, people began swarming past him, an excited mob in homespun and furs hurrying him along. These townsfolk don’t know yet, he thought as he approached the market. Kideren was their capital city. Surely some of these people had family there!
He broke away, pushing himself from the crowd. Heartwood’s stench he could not avoid, but its ignorance, he would.
His destination stood tall and majestic beyond the town’s perimeter. The elven temple brooded above Heartwood’s lesser buildings, its long, alabaster face a disapproving pattern of light and shadow.
As he walked, Gaelin admired the curve of the temple’s domed summit, the passing reflection of clouds on the adjacent hall’s crystalline roof.
Reaching the town’s outer buildings, he ducked between them and skulked toward the temple, skirting rusted plows and broken kegs and pottery. He vaulted over the remains of a collapsed wagon, falling backward when his cloak snagged on a nail. Pausing to catch his breath, he worked the cloth free and flipped it behind his shoulder.
At the base of the temple, he stopped, clenching his fists. Finally, lifting his staff, he forced himself up the steps. Crossing the threshold, he ventured in quietly.
The arched corridor was empty beyond its colored-glass doors and from a distance, he heard a tinkling of wooden chimes in the wind. Inhaling, he smiled at the perfumed air. The incense reminded him of chimara flowers or, from a very old memory, his mother’s baked cinnamon apples.
His muscles relaxing, he took a step, and then with a sigh, settled on the floor to remove his boots. All around him, voices chanted in reverent tones as gradually the scented air changed. Rain on leaves, he thought, identifying the smell.
He lurched to his feet and proceeded down the hallway, padding stealthily as he savored the air caressing his skin, feeling how it beckoned him on. With each slow breath he steadied more, the tightness easing in his chest.
A hand clasped his wrist, pivoting him toward an open doorway. He recoiled, throwing his weight sideways in an effort to escape the Seeker Elf he had failed to hear, but who now stood close by.
The elf, frowning, reached past his flailing limbs. Gaelin froze when light fingertips brushed his cheek. He searched the elf’s moss-colored eyes and found their depths filled with gentle concern. Sighing, he bowed his head.
“Good,” said the stranger. “Come.”
✽ ✽ ✽
ASSISTED BY HIS guide, Gaelin stepped through the narrow doorway into a circular room. The candle-lit chamber was small, the mosaic on its floor depicting three wide tree trunks under a blue canopy of leaves. Sixteen silver-haired elves, clad in robes of ivory or blue, sat in a circle, each behind a glowing white candle. Alone and gripping his staff, he entered their midst.
“What is your language?” a sharp voice demanded. It came from a wizened individual seated on a golden pillow at the center of the ring. “You speak Thalusian, yes, but what of the elven common tongue? For nine hundred cycles, your race has existed on this world, yet in all that time, have any of you mastered even the simple phrases our infants know?”
With a rustling of ivory robes, the ancient elf stood. Raising his arms, he held out his hands, his palms toward Gaelin. “No? Well, tell me this, young human. We recognize the staff you hold. Mornius is dear to us. How did it come to you?”
Gaelin met the mage’s piercing regard. “My father gave it to my mother before my birth.”
“You stand here among us with an ancient Earth relic,” said the elder. “Are you not afraid we will reclaim it? We understand the threat of its power, whereas you do not. Such might, in your ignorant hands, is a peril to us.”
A pressure alighted on Gaelin’s shattered cheekbone, invisible fingers probing his hurt. “A friend told me to come here,” he said. “He assured me I could trust you and thought maybe you’d help us.”
His skin prickled under his tunic when the feathery touches on his face, still unseen, lowered to his tightly bandaged ribs. Peering into the seer’s glistening green eyes, Gaelin felt a pulse of warmth soothe his skin and gradually remove his pain.
“How brazen of your friend,” said the elf, “to presume to know what we might do. Now, in your heart, I perceive your name, Gaelin Othelion, though at this moment you shun your rightful title. Indeed, Holram marks you as his, yet you deny him to follow a human?”
Gaelin glared in response. “Terrek saved my life. I’d follow him anywhere.”
The mage’s silvery brows furrowed. His gaze dropped to the tree design at his feet. “Anywhere?”
Gaelin nodded
“We hear you, Staff-Wielder,” said the darker-haired novice Gaelin recognized as his guide. Clad in blue robes, the younger elf sat straight next to the elder, his legs folded alongside him on the marble floor. “The pain of your body is naught compared to the wreckage of your soul. We may ease your bruises and broken bones, but we cannot succor your spirit, not without preparation.”
“Stay with us,” the senior elf advised. “Allow us to defend you as we do our magic, the Circle of fire, water, air, soil, stone, and the flesh of giants. We shall remedy your hurts as we strive to mend all things. Let us comfort you, Gaelin, known as Lavahl.”
Gaelin stared at the elves before him, their lithe bodies behind their candles. Despite his efforts to hide his inner turmoil, still he could see how they sensed it.
“That’s not
what we need, though,” he said, his voice thick in his throat. “Erebos’s hordes destroyed Kideren. They waited until we were leagues away; then all we could do was stand helpless while the winged dachs came like a shadow across the sky.
“They took Chalse first,” said Gaelin, “Kideren’s sister city. Terrek’s father sent a rider from Vale Horse with the news. We are here to turn the cult’s army from Heartwood if we can.”
“They have visited us already,” the elf said. “I assure you, our shield held.”
Gaelin hesitated. “If you mean your little fence, how can that stand up to . . . ?” He stopped at the seer’s knowing look.
“Appearances,” the eldest mage said, “often defy reality. If not for your vocabulary, I would take you for a foundling raised by animals, as many human children were after your people first arrived. Yet you are not what you pretend to be, and neither is our fence.”
Gaelin cleared his throat, feeling his cheeks go hot. “We have to save Tierdon, where Terrek’s brother lives. If you could help us guard that city or give us a weapon we could use . . .” Slowly he lifted his staff. “Or am I holding one here? Can Mornius kill?”
A hush filled the chamber while the ancient elder reseated himself. Through the lengthening silence, Gaelin shifted from foot to foot and watched while sixteen pairs of glittering eyes tracked his every move.
“Holram does not take life,” the old leader said, finally. “From this warder comes heat, health, and light, only.”
Gaelin scanned the seer’s upturned face. “Could I make it kill?”
“Terrek Florne is important to you,” observed the novice.
“Yes,” said the elder. “These are your leader’s desires we hear from your mouth. His words, not yours. What is it you wish, Staff-Wielder?”
Gaelin peered at the mysterial elves. He glimpsed flashes of fire in their troubled gazes, a blue-needled forest burning alive. “You want to know what I . . .” He pounded his fist against his hip. “I want to fight at Terrek’s side. Mornius heals, but that’s not enough.”
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