Ivory robes flared when the eldest stood once more. “I am Cojahra, Master Seeker,” he said, raising his hand. “I salute Holram, the child of Sephrym, our warder.”
The elven ring came to their feet and bowed. Then, as they each took a knee, Gaelin groaned. “No, I don’t deserve that.”
“Though he is not of our magic,” said Cojahra, “we revere Holram’s spirit as well. He helped Sephrym breathe new life into our sun.” With a nod, Cojahra lowered his arm. “As his priest, we will honor you also.”
“But I don’t . . .” Gaelin faltered when he met the mage’s quiet stare. “Please, I care nothing about warders. I just need to know”—again he lifted his staff—“can I use this to kill?”
Cojahra shook his head. “Mornius carries power within its stone, yes, the essence of Holram, who was banished long ago. His purpose is to gather light and the potential for life. He is a creator of suns, Gaelin Lavahl.”
“Suns?” Gaelin scowled at the elf.
“Indeed,” Cojahra continued, “yet he has fallen. He sleeps now in the staff, and while he does, your thoughts manipulate his power. You influence what it does.
“But know this, young human. Holram’s need for rest is ending. Once he wakes, he will direct his power, not you. When he does, your roles will be reversed and you will need to accept his authority. He will control you.”
Gaelin considered the candlelight flickering on the opposite wall, the wavering shadows of the kneeling elves. “So Mornius can kill. Terrek was right.”
Again, the young elf stood, followed once more by the others. “Until Holram reunites with his power, Mornius is yours to wield. You direct its song. But hear my father, for he asks that you remain with us. Holram rouses, and Erebos knows this. To stop Holram, the dark warder will seek to slay you. If he finds you before Holram can prepare, we will lose all hope.”
Gaelin straightened. “My mother died because of me. I need that to count for something; I can’t do it hiding here.”
He watched while the senior magus lifted up his hands. “Our way is one of peace, Gaelin Lavahl. We commit ourselves to healing, to preserving the Circle, which holds our magic. We cannot join you in this endeavor or aid you with our power.
“Hear me,” Cojahra went on, “these victims of Erebos whom you name bodachs after mythical creatures from your Earth are still as human as you are, wounded against their will. We desire health for them, not more harm. If you intend to commit murder, even in self-defense, you will not have our support. It is not the fault of humans the Destroyer came to our world. Yet he is trapped here, a threat to everything we cherish. Only Holram can stop him. That is his purpose: to prevent death.”
“I understand.” Gaelin bowed to the mage. “But he wouldn’t be killing the dachs. I would. And I know nothing about . . .”
“Then stay,” Cojahra said, “and let us instruct you.”
Gaelin straightened. “There is something in my staff. It knows what I’m feeling; sometimes it even talks to me. All my life it’s been there, but it’s never done anything to protect me. It never could . . .” He searched for the right words. “You called it a warder. If that’s true, it should have been able to save me, but it didn’t. No.” He glanced at Mornius. “I believe it is my father’s spirit I sense in the staff, the one I never knew. My mother called him a wizard. I think he watches me somehow, and he would help me if he could.”
“I see how the man you become grasps the truth,” Cojahra said, “while this child you remain denies it. Do as you will. In your way, you speak truly. Holram is a father to you, just as Sephrym is the father to us all. Your warder does empower you, though you realize it not, and as he rouses, his aid will grow stronger.”
The younger elf approached him. “Come,” he said. “Let me lead you.”
Despite the draft on his skin as he left the tiny room, Gaelin could hear nothing from outside the temple. The friendly chimes were silent now, undisturbed by the wintry wind.
Gaelin sniffed at the air. “I guess I failed,” he said.
“Failed? Was there a test?” The novice’s wispy brows lifted toward his silver-black hair, his eyes narrowing. “There is no failure in you.”
Gaelin gaped at him. “Why do you care how I feel? I don’t even know your name!”
“Would knowing my name make a difference?” The mage-in-training smiled. “We are brothers in spirit, you and I, Seekers in our way.”
Gaelin pondered this in silence while his escort brought him to the outer doors. “Can’t I know?”
“I will give you my name if you answer a question for me.” The elf stepped to block his way. In the background Gaelin heard the chimes renewing their song, quietly at first, a sweet, random music.
A smile tugged at his lips, his heart calming while he bent to pull on his boots. The thought of enduring Heartwood’s crowded streets terrified him, but the music stilled his fear, the air soothing him with smells of sweet berries and clover.
Frowning, the young elf studied him. “Why Terrek Florne?” he asked. “Are you not tired of violence? I see scars in you now, and also in the child you used to be. Your mind has walls. This fortress keeps you safe, but it does not permit you to grow. Who is this human you swear your fealty to? How is it you can trust him?”
“You don’t understand,” Gaelin said. “I wanted to die for what I did. I went to Kideren hoping to be punished, but no one would see me. Not until Terrek. He stopped in the rain and listened. I’ve known bad people, Elf. Terrek is not one of them.”
“Peace, Gaelin Lavahl. Your eyes convey what your words cannot.” The novice chuckled. “As to my name, I am Everove, the youngest of my order. Cojahra is my father.”
Gaelin sighed. “I was afraid to come here. I’m not good around people.”
Smiling, Everove opened the doors. He squinted up at the pale sun. “Light—it nourishes life and fills our hearts with hope. Be at peace, Gaelin Lavahl, for your true name awaits you. It is my wish you may find it along the way.”
Gaelin ventured past him, then turned for a final glimpse of his face. But the young elf was gone, lost behind a bright ray of sunshine and the temple’s glass doors.
Chapter 6
WITH CAUTIOUS STEPS, Avalar walked above the steep riverbank, slowing warily when the trees thinned in front of her. She could see how the stream slanted east, winding out across the valley toward the outline of mountains through the mist. For a moment she paused at the smell of smoke, feeling magic in the air tingle against her skin. “A fire,” she whispered, glancing at the sky. “Someone is close.”
She arched her back, shifting her pack higher on her shoulders. Veering to the left, she abandoned the openness of the river for the trees. A crunching noise drew her attention to her feet, to the brown petals of clove-leaf she crushed as she skirted the meadow.
She heard a cry of distress, a sound like a wounded racka in a snare. “Sails! Is something hurt?” Gripping her sword, she froze when the voice wailed again. It came from the bend in the river behind her, as if the turbulent water grieved at being left alone.
Instinct called her, awakening racial memories. Despite her fear, they compelled her to action, turning her from the trees and the west-risen sun. I am sorry, Ponu, she thought, but I must defend the weak. This is what giants do!
Once more, she approached the river, tentatively descending the slope. Within her, a memory lived. She heard through her father’s ears the long-ago shriek of human-warped magic—felt the pain tearing at his heart. Sweat gathered on her brow. The skin of her back flinched, anticipating punishment, a cruel whip’s painful lash.
She bared her teeth, focusing with effort on her immediate surroundings. As she reached the high bank, she cast her pack onto a clump of grass, freeing her limbs for battle.
A moan rose up from below. Kneeling, Avalar peered over the edge.
Panic flattened her to the ground before she could think.
Lying there, her cheek pressed against the frozen dirt, sh
e winced while the past and the present collided in her mind. Her basic instincts clashed inside, her urge to flee or fight, and her desire to protect. The voices of murdered slaves yowled within the vault of her skull, warning her with one united cry: “Human!”
Avalar groaned, scrabbling at the hard soil under her. The high-pitched wail rose for the third time, a terrified keening. Still quaking, she sat, hugging her ankles as she confronted the river.
“Please,” a soft voice groaned. “Help me!”
Pressing her chin to her knees, Avalar rocked.
Fear sharpened the voice. “Who’s there?”
Her breath caught in her chest. She was a giant, a guardian of her world. No memory of slavery could deprive her of that. It was the identity and purpose of her people, and it dwelled, burning deep, in her heart. Come, Giant. It is just one human. She crawled again to the bank and looked down.
He was small, with spindly limbs. Because of his tears, he had not seen her yet, at least not clearly. She could still abandon him and leave him to starve, or worse. The memories he conjured were strong, urging her to flee with all of her strength, yet his helplessness stopped her.
His face was contorted as he lay sprawled on his back, his chest heaving. His left arm had flopped over the stones and his other clutched at a jumble of wood, a gnarled stump thrown out by the wild current. The skid marks on the bank behind him revealed how he had slipped from above to become ensnared. Now he lay trapped beneath the twisted roots, his left leg pinned.
Raising her gaze, she scanned the narrow clearing. He was far from any habitation and utterly alone. No one would find him here.
“Mother!” The human sobbed. Avalar, watching him, caught the timbre of his voice, the childish quaver. Why, he is just a baby, she thought.
She drew erect and unbuckled her sword. “I hear you,” she called in his language. She saw his face slant toward her. Any lingering doubt vanished at his stark expression of fear.
Avalar dropped her weapon and knelt. “Rest easy,” she said. “I am here to succor you if I can. There is no one else.”
He whimpered when she rolled onto her stomach atop the ledge and lowered her hips. Blindly she explored with her boot. The boulders beside his left hip were stable beneath her, held in place by layers of mud. She centered her weight and turned.
His lips quivered, his brown eyes bulging at the sight of her. Groaning, he strained to break free.
Avalar crouched to touch his elbow. “Peace, little one. I will help you. Where are you injured?”
For a moment more he struggled before he sagged against the rocks, his eyes closed while he gasped for air. “My leg!”
“Nothing more?” Suddenly curious, she stroked his velvety cheek. He cringed as she patted back his grimy hair. “I shall see you to your home,” she told him. “But first you must tell me where you hurt.”
The boy shivered as he stared at her. “My leg,” he said again. “My . . . my ankle!”
Avalar twitched off her Sundor Khan cloak. It was heavy even for her. Yet it will warm him, she thought. She tucked it around the child and then settled on her haunches next to him, bracing her heels against the tangled wood.
“How come you’re so big?” he asked.
She smiled, flicking him a glance. “How are you so small?” she countered as, still grinning, she drew back her feet.
The stump recoiled as she kicked it, exploding from the mud to splash down into the rushing water.
She removed what remained of the roots, disposing of them as well. At last, turning to the child, she lifted his leg and cradled it. He cried out while she did so, clutching at her fingers as she settled back, setting his wounded ankle on the pillow of her thigh. Her attention on his face, she unlaced his boot and opened the worn leather flaps.
“It hurts!” the child moaned.
“Shh, I know,” she said, uncovering the foot. The flesh was a yellowish purple, the skin abraded along one side. Softly she probed the child’s bones from the calf on down.
“You have bruised your ankle and toes,” she said. “Fear not, tiny human. You will mend. How long were you trapped here?”
His eyes glistened. “Mother sent me out for wood after I finished my supper, and a prowler chased me. They’ve been hunting around Firanth. They take our chickens.”
“A prowler?” Avalar blinked at the boy. She knew of the ancient catlike people but had no idea the race still existed on Thalus. “And you escaped?”
The boy nodded. “I played dead,” he answered, a note of pride in his piping voice. “Prowlers only eat what they kill, you know.”
“Yes,” she said. “It was fortunate you recognized the danger. For no human can see a magical creature unless it wishes it. Indeed, he was hunting you.”
The child raised his head, watching as she stood. She lifted him up to the level of her chin, stretched him out atop the bank, and scrambled up to join him. She set to work, splinting his leg and foot using fragments of bark from the stump, then binding it with leather scavenged from her stores.
“We must get you home,” she said, climbing to her feet. Once more, she strapped on her sword and wriggled her pack onto her armored shoulders. He looked up expectantly, and she bent to scoop him into her arms. “How far is this Firanth?”
He gestured to the west. “Half . . . half a league! I thought I was going to die! The prowler said he wanted to . . . play, but I—”
“Ah!” she interrupted as she hurried toward the meadow. “I know what he meant by ‘play.’ His kind are cousins to creatures I am familiar with—the Sherkon Raiders. Prowlers are not as fearsome or as big.”
The child’s eyes went wide. “They are pirates,” she replied to his silent question. “The Sherkon Raiders inhabit Tholuna, the southern continent where my people lived. Their appearance is much like the creature you saw, with size and strength enough to tackle a giant, which is one reason we live on Hothra now.”
She sighed as she envisioned the heavily maned, leonine warriors who patrolled the Misty Sea. “It is well they avoid this colder climate,” she said. “They would slay humans. They would slay a giant if they could. ‘Play’ is everything to them. My people would block their ships. We would drive their vessels into temperate waters, far away from vulnerable targets. Now, with so few of us left, that duty falls to the elves.”
Avalar bared her teeth in a voiceless snarl, yearning for the day the Raiders would cease to exist, driven into extinction as they had slaughtered so many.
The boy groaned in her arms, and she regarded him with concern. “Not long now,” she reassured him. Reaching the trees, she turned sideways to squeeze her pack between their frozen branches. “What are you called?”
“Kray.” His gaze found hers. “You’re a giant?”
“Yes, indeed,” she answered, moving farther into the forest. “I am Avalar Mistavere. Do I frighten you?”
“No,” he said. “Giants are always bad in my mother’s stories, though. They stomp on people and . . .”
“Real giants do not stomp,” she said, laughing. “We are taller than you humans, but most of the time we are not that large. We would rather lend our strength and stamina to the world. As important as our magic is, little Kray, it is not wholly what we are.”
“How come you’re here?” he asked.
“It has to do with a sword called Redeemer,” she told him. “A magical blade our leader discovered long ago. It was a tool of salvation created for giants, wrought by no living hand. Legend has it that our magic formed the sword from caches of bloodstones within the ground. No one knows the sword’s origin, or how our savior, Thresher Govorian, managed to find it and have the skill to wield it. He was a farmer’s son. He had never held such a weapon in his life.”
“Redeemer.” Kray smiled, staring up as though he imagined the bloodstone sword nestled among the boughs.
The sunlight faded in the deepening forest. “The Bloodsword,” she said. “For as long as I have lived, it has been on disp
lay in the treasure hall on Hothra. When I was a child, it sang to me. It made me see I needed to come here, to learn to fight, but also . . .”
She swatted away an icicle falling from the tree limb above her.
“Also?” Kray prompted.
Smiling, Avalar clomped over the frozen bones of a thorny bush and the silver-leafed fern beyond. “Giants should live as they were meant to,” she said. “I will show my people that they can.”
The boy sighed. She wondered at his stamina, and yet his brow and cheeks seemed deathly pale, his lips tinged blue. She quickened her pace. What if he dies? she thought.
Voices shattered the stillness before her, and Avalar jerked to a halt. She squatted down, listening hard while the approaching strangers called back and forth. She heard a rhythmic thwacking, multiple blades hewing through the frozen brush.
Avalar loosened her pack and let it drop. Then she stood, gripping her sword’s hilt.
Kray’s lids fluttered open. “Mother?”
Avalar gasped. Once again, she was plagued by visions and memories not her own. Almost she could feel the brutal weight pressing the back of her neck, the low, rocky ceiling of the mines. Grakan roared and whined through the darkness. Giants screamed as their magic was harvested, ripped by force from their bodies by the slavers.
A figure, reeking of smoke, crashed through the trees in front of her and froze. Even on the hillock where he stood, the top of his parka’s green hood barely cleared her hip. The boy strained forward in her grasp, yet Avalar ignored him. She snatched out her sword, standing poised on the balls of her feet.
“Uncle Sherin!” the boy cried.
Avalar waited. Kray’s voice was distant to her ears, lost behind the memory of her father’s pain and fear. She stood ready as the adult human approached, her weapon whistling as she slashed at the air.
She widened her stance when more humans ventured into view. She counted four, one woman accompanied by three older men, all hollow-eyed and starving. Circling her, the newcomers brandished their sticks and machetes—puny threats she deflected with her sword.
Song Of Mornius Page 5