The Elven

by Bernhard Hennen

  “And we can finally get to a tavern and drink something decent. My stomach’s starting to think that someone’s cut my head off,” quipped Mandred. “Reckon we can find mead down there?”

  One could almost believe that Mandred had forgotten his grief over Freya, but Nuramon saw through the outward appearance to a man who was trying to dull his pain with drink.

  Slowly, they rode down the slope on the other side of the hill. At the bottom, they found a road that led straight on to the town. A bridge crossed the river in seven low arches. The river was swollen with snowmelt that had brought with it a great quantity of wood from the mountains. Men with long poles stood on the bridge, prodding at drifting tree trunks and branches to prevent them from catching sideways against the pilings.

  Most of the buildings in Aniscans were built of quarried stone and were light brown in color. They were high, massive constructions built close together. The only decorative touch was the shingles on their rooftops, which were a radiant red. All around, on the outskirts of the town, were vineyards. Mandred would definitely find somewhere to slake his thirst, thought Nuramon bitterly.

  “A land of fools,” the human suddenly exclaimed. “Look. A rich town like that, and they don’t even bother to build a wall. Firnstayn has better defenses than this place by far.”

  “They didn’t count on you coming to visit, Father,” said Alfadas with a laugh, and the rest of the troop joined in. Even Gelvuun grinned.

  Mandred turned red. “Flippancy is the mother of many a misfortune,” he said, his voice humorless.

  Ollowain laughed merrily. “It looks as if the spring sun has melted the crust of ice over the barbarian king. And wonder of wonders, there’s a philosopher underneath.”

  “I don’t know what kind of insult flossofer is supposed to be, but this barbarian king is about to stuff his axe down your throat.”

  Ollowain crossed his arms over his chest and pretended to shake. “But suddenly the winter returns to freeze the prettiest flowers of spring.”

  “Now you’re calling me a flower?” Mandred growled.

  “Just an allegory, my friend.”

  The human creased his brow. Then he nodded. “I accept your apology, Ollowain.”

  Nuramon had to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud. He was glad when Alfadas, a moment later, began to sing, a welcome interruption to the unhappy little clash. The lad had an exceptional voice . . . for a human.

  They followed the road by the river, passing stables and small farmsteads. Cows grazed in the meadows beside the road. The landscape here seemed strangely disordered. In all his time in the human realm, Nuramon had never managed to get used to the otherness of the world, but he had learned to see the beauty in its strangeness.

  The buildings of the town were huddled around the base and up the sides of a hill, on top of which rose a temple. Its walls were surrounded by scaffolding, and the hammering of stonemasons could be heard far beyond the river. The construction was not decorative in the least and had walls as thick as those of a fortress tower, but Nuramon found a certain charm in its coarse plainness. To anyone approaching from far away, it seemed to cry out that there was nothing here to distract the faithful, for no work of art can compare with the beauty of true belief.

  Nuramon thought of the old mendicant they’d encountered a few days earlier in the mountains. His eyes fervid, the man had told them about Aniscans and the priest whose name was apparently a household one all along the river valley: Guillaume, who spoke of the god Tjured with such zeal that the power of his words passed over to those who came to listen to him. It was said that the lame could walk again if they came and heard him and he touched their limbs with his hands. His magic seemed able to drive out any suffering, vanquish any poison.

  How many times had they followed such rumors in the past three years? But every time, they had found nothing. They were looking for a man around thirty years old who could work miracles. This short description matched Guillaume just as it had matched a dozen other men, not one of whom had possessed any sort of actual magical power. People were far too simpleminded. They were only too ready to be taken in by any charlatan who showed them some trick or sleight of hand.

  The mendicant had claimed that in his childhood, where the town of Aniscans now stood, there had been no more than a small stone circle where the people came for the summer and winter solstices to make sacrifices to the gods.

  Nuramon looked up. The stone circle had most likely stood on the small hill where the stonemasons were working on the temple.

  The hooves of their horses clattered over the cobblestones of the bridge. Some of the workers turned to watch them pass. They wore plain aprons and broad-brimmed hats of woven straw. Humbly, they bowed their heads. Warriors were held in high regard in this kingdom, it seemed.

  Nuramon looked across to the houses and public buildings. Their walls were made of rough-hewn stone and appeared heavy and solid. Measured against what the humans normally managed to build, they were not badly constructed at all. Most of the walls were straight, and few of the rooftops sagged under the burden of their shingles.

  Before leaving the bridge, Mandred and Alfadas positioned themselves at the head of the band. Anyone seeing the two of them would assume that princes from the wild north had come visiting, bringing a mysterious retinue in tow. The inhabitants of the town turned and watched them ride by with astonishment, but soon went back to their daily routine.

  Strangers were clearly nothing new in this town.

  There existed, though, an unrest that had nothing to do with them. The closer Nuramon and the others came to the temple, the more palpable it became. There was something going on in Aniscans. The entire town seemed to be on its feet, the townsfolk pushing through the narrow alleys and up the hill. Soon, he and his companions were unable to go any farther on horseback. They were forced to dismount and take their steeds into the courtyard of a tavern where Nomja, the archer, stayed with them. Then they rejoined the throng streaming toward the temple. Around them, the atmosphere reminded Nuramon of a kobold wedding, everyone mingling and mixing and in high spirits.

  Nuramon picked up scraps of conversation from those around them. The people were talking about the miracle healer and his spectacular powers, about how he had brought a drowned child back to life the day before and about how more and more strangers were coming to town to see Guillaume. An older man spoke with pride of how the king had invited Guillaume to his court to take up residence there, but the priest had apparently turned down the offer to leave the town.

  Finally, the small troop reached the public square in front of the temple. In all the jostling of the crowd, it was hard to estimate how many had gathered, but there must have been hundreds. Wedged in among the sweating, milling humans, Nuramon felt increasingly unwell. All around him was the reek of sweat, unwashed clothes, rancid fat, and onions. From the corner of his eye, he saw Farodin holding a perfumed handkerchief over his nose. Nuramon wished that he could find some sort of relief like that. Humans and cleanliness were two things that simply did not go together. It was something he’d learned indirectly from Mandred a long time ago. In the past three years, Nuramon had grown somewhat less sensitive to the multitude of smells that assaulted his nose in the human world, especially in the towns. But here in the crowd, the stench was truly overwhelming.

  Suddenly, somewhere ahead, a voice rose above the sounds of the crowd. Nuramon craned his neck to see but could not make out the speaker among the tumult. He seemed to be standing close to the tall oak tree spreading its branches across the center of the square.

  The voice was melodious, sonorous, and the speaker well versed in the art of rhetoric. No syllable passed his lips heedlessly. Every word was carefully accented, spoken like the philosophers of Lyn, who practiced debating for centuries to take their vocal abilities to the limits. In doing so, the true art lay not in being able to rely on the
strength of one’s arguments, but in performing the words in such a way that the spirit surrendered unconditionally to the voice. What the man up ahead was doing was something like casting a spell.

  The people pressing around them took no further notice of Nuramon and his striking companions. They were too captivated by the voice.

  Farodin pushed his way to Nuramon’s side. “Hear that voice?”

  “Magnificent, isn’t it?” Nuramon replied.

  “That’s what worries me. Perhaps we have found what we’ve been looking for.”

  Nuramon said nothing. He was terrified of what would have to be done if that was really Noroelle’s son speaking.

  “Ollowain,” said Farodin. “Take Yilvina and Gelvuun. Go around to the left. Mandred and Alfadas, take the middle. Nuramon and I will circle right. For now, all we do is observe him. In this crowd, we can do nothing else.”

  The companions separated. Nuramon went ahead of Farodin. They pushed their way carefully through the throng of people who stood there mesmerized. The voice of the priest overpowered the murmurings of the crowd.

  “Accept the power of Tjured,” he said in all gentleness. “It is a gift I bring to you from him.”

  A moment later, someone cried, “Look, look! He is healed! The wound has closed!” The crowd shouted in jubilation.

  An old woman threw her arms around Nuramon’s neck and kissed him on the cheek. “A miracle,” she exulted. “Another miracle he’s done. He is the blessing of our town.” Nuramon looked at the old woman with incomprehension. It must truly have been a miracle for her to kiss a stranger.

  Now the preacher raised himself above the crowd. He helped a visibly relieved man to his feet. “That is the power of Tjured, our god.”

  At the sight of the healer, Nuramon stopped in his tracks. He sensed that Farodin, beside him, also came to a halt.

  The priest climbed onto a well beside the oak and spoke to the gathering, but Nuramon barely heard a word he said. He was entranced by the man’s bearing and gestures. Guillaume had black hair that fell to his shoulders. Like all the priests of Tjured, he wore a cowl of deep indigo. His face was oval, his nose thin, his chin smooth, and his mouth curved. If Noroelle had a twin brother, he would look like this priest.

  This man was her son.

  Nuramon saw Guillaume turn to a man with stringy gray hair whose hand seemed to be stiff. He took the man’s hand and spoke a prayer.

  Nuramon fell back in fright. It felt as if something had reached deep inside him, as if a powerful hand had grabbed at his soul. It was an eerie feeling that lasted only the blink of an eye. Dazed, the elf staggered back and ran into a young woman.

  “Are you ill?” she asked in concern. “You’re pale.”

  Nuramon shook his head and pushed forward to the edge of the crowd, now pressed into a tight knot around the well.

  The man who had come to Guillaume raised his hand. He balled his fingers into a fist, then stretched them again. “He’s healed me!” he cried, his voice breaking. “I’m healed!” The gray-haired man threw himself on the ground at the priest’s feet and kissed the hem of his cowl.

  Guillaume seemed embarrassed. He took the old man by the shoulders and raised him up.

  He can work magic like his mother, thought Nuramon. The queen had been mistaken. Noroelle’s son was no demon child. He was the opposite. He was a healer.

  Suddenly, someone in the crowd shouted, “Guillaume! Guillaume! Someone here has fainted!”

  “He’s dead!” screamed a woman in a shrill voice.

  “Bring him to me,” the healer commanded, his voice calm but firm.

  Two burly men in leather aprons carried a gaunt figure to the well, a man in a gray cloak. Guillaume threw back the man’s hood. Before the healer lay Gelvuun.

  Nuramon looked to Farodin, confusion in his eyes. Farodin made a sign to him to wait. Then he whispered, “I hope Mandred doesn’t do anything stupid.”

  A murmur went through the people at the front of the crowd. Guillaume had swept Gelvuun’s hair back, revealing the points of his ears. Gelvuun, normally so dour, looked as peaceful as a sleeping child.

  Guillaume bent over him. The priest looked shaken. Whether it was because of the sight of an elf or something else, Nuramon was not able to say. Then Guillaume looked around, and Nuramon felt the eyes of Noroelle’s son sweep over him. An ice-cold chill ran down his spine. The healer’s eyes were a radiant blue.

  The priest rose and said, “This man does not stand under Tjured’s protection. He is one of the Albenfolk and not a human. And he is beyond help. He came here too late, and I cannot see what the nature of his illness was. It seems his heart simply stopped beating, but it is said that the Albenfolk are destined to live a life after life. Pray for his soul. I will inter his body with honor, though he never prayed to Tjured. The mercy of our god is boundless. He will take pity on this elf as well.”

  Again, Guillaume’s gaze brushed Nuramon. There was something paralyzing in those magnificent blue eyes.

  “Come, Nuramon,” whispered Farodin. “We have to go.”

  His companion took hold of his arm and pulled him through the crush of spectators. Nuramon could not shake that face and those eyes from his memory. It was Noroelle’s face, Noroelle’s eyes, now part of the man at the front of the crowd.

  Suddenly, he was being shaken.

  “Snap out of it,” said Farodin, his voice harsh.

  Nuramon looked around in surprise. They had left the square and were again in one of the narrow alleys. He had not noticed at all how far they had gone. “That was Noroelle’s face,” he said.

  “I know,” said Farodin. “Come on.”

  They found Nomja and the horses. Mandred and Alfadas entered the tavern courtyard a few moments later. They were supporting Yilvina between them. The young elf was pale and seemed barely able to stand upright on her own.

  Mandred was beside himself. “Did you see that? Damn! What happened?”

  Farodin looked around. “Where is Ollowain?”

  Alfadas gestured toward the entrance to the yard. “There.”

  The master swordsman’s face was etched with fear. “Come. We are no longer safe here.” He looked back to the street. “Let us put some distance between us and the demon child. Ride. Mount up, and let’s get out of this place.”

  “What happened to Gelvuun?” asked Nomja.

  Nuramon said nothing. He was thinking of the strange power he had felt, that clawing deep inside him. He thought of the blue eyes, of how much Guillaume, with every gesture and movement, reminded him of Noroelle. Now Gelvuun was dead, and Yilvina looked as wretched as if she had only just sidestepped oblivion.

  “What happened?” Ollowain asked, and turned to the pale elf.

  Yilvina was struggling for breath. “He had pushed forward . . . he was almost at the front of the crowd. As soon as the priest took the old man’s hand . . .” She looked up to heaven. Tears rimmed her eyes. “I don’t know how I can describe it. It was like a talon reaching into my chest to tear my heart to pieces.” She began to sob. “It was . . . I could sense Death . . . eternal death, with no hope of rebirth or the way into the moonlight. If I had not stopped a few steps behind . . .” She could not go on.

  “He saw you? And he attacked immediately?” asked Nomja.

  Ollowain hesitated. “I’m not sure . . . I don’t think it was an attack. It happened at the same moment that he healed the old man. I could sense his power . . . Yilvina is right. I felt Death’s presence myself.”

  Mandred turned to Nuramon. “How did he do that?”

  The mortal overestimated Nuramon’s abilities. Because, that one time, Nuramon had transcended himself and healed Farodin, Mandred had developed the habit of asking him for his opinion on anything that carried the slightest whiff of magic. “I have no idea, Mandred.”

  “I can tel
l you,” said Ollowain. “It’s the demon child’s magic. It is evil to the core. It can kill us where we stand. A simple spell that heals a human can destroy us. Now I see the danger that the queen sees in Noroelle’s son. We have to kill him.”

  “We will not,” said Nuramon, and there was resolve in his voice. “We will take him to the queen.”

  “The false healer at that well can kill us all with a spell,” said Ollowain. “Can’t you see that?”

  “I see it.”

  “Then how do you expect to make him leave this town?”

  “I won’t make him do anything. He will come with us voluntarily. He did not know what his healing hands did to our companion. He is not the demon child the queen expected him to be.”

  “Do you plan to take a stand against the queen? She sent us out to kill him.”

  “No, Ollowain. The queen sent me out to kill him. I alone have to justify my actions to the queen.”

  “I don’t know if I can let you do that,” said Ollowain slowly. “Why, Nuramon? Why have you changed your mind?”

  “Because I have a sense that killing Guillaume would be a fatal mistake. No good can come of it. We have to bring him before the queen. Then she can see him face-to-face and make her own judgment. Let me go and speak to him. If I am not back by noon tomorrow, you can kill him.”

  Ollowain shook his head. “You really want to deliver a demon child to Emerelle’s court? A man whose magic kills elves? Go. Talk to him. We won’t see you alive again. You’ve got until tomorrow, at dusk. Then I’ll go after him my way. Until then, we camp outside the town.”

  Nuramon looked for support on the faces of the others, but none spoke against Ollowain, not even Mandred. On a sign from Ollowain, they mounted up. Alfadas took the reins of Gelvuun’s and Nuramon’s horses.

  Farodin was the last of their small band to leave the tavern yard. He leaned down from the saddle to Nuramon. “Are you sure you want to take the risk? What if what happened to Gelvuun happens to you?”