Ancient Voices: Into the Depths

by Allison D. Reid

  “I mean no disrespect, but you press hard to know things that are not meant for you. My silence protects you from horrors you cannot begin to imagine.”

  “Perhaps I do not want to be protected. I am no fool, Glak, and neither am I a coward. If there is a darkness out there against which you must stand, I will gladly stand beside you. We will fight it together, as we have always done.”

  “The secrets I keep would not bring us closer as you imagine, nor would you be able to stand beside me. I must face this darkness alone. You are still clinging to that young boy who aspired to the simple life of a blacksmith. That boy is forever changed, and that future will never be his. I have accepted that. So must you. I am sorry, but I cannot tell you what you want to know. And I cannot be what you want me to be.” Glak’s voice grew so quiet that Elowyn could barely hear him. “You are more like a father than a brother to me—my debts to you can never be repaid. It pains me more than you know to leave this bad blood between us. I can only hope that, one day, I will be free to give you the answers you seek, and on that day you will understand, and be able to forgive both my actions and my silence.”

  Elowyn heard the sound of a chair scraping the floor as Glak rose to his feet. “For now I must go, and do my part against the evil hanging just beyond our borders. There is much to be prepared before I will be ready to lead my men back into the mountains.”

  Elowyn heard his heavy footfalls walking across the floor, followed by the tavern door opening and shutting as Glak left his brother sitting motionless at the table. It seemed to Elowyn like a long while before Grindan also rose and departed, his footsteps slow and deliberate, leaving her alone in the tavern.

  Casting Away Burdens

  Elowyn finished her work as quickly as she could, threw on her heavy wool cloak, and raced out of the tavern. The streets were full of people enjoying the first full day of the Winter Festival, and the shops were open and busy with customers. To her dismay, she found that Morganne’s shop was no different than all the others. With the assurance of wealth forthcoming, many of the villagers who did not have suitable winter clothing were happily placing their orders. Members of the Kinship were also trying to replace or mend worn out clothing, or get heavier clothing, no doubt in anticipation of their upcoming journey into the mountains.

  As frantic as Morganne was, Elowyn had never seen her happier. Morganne had been working hard to breathe life back into the little shop, and for her, this opportunity was the fulfillment of a dream. No longer did she have to remain hidden in the cottage, spending all her days doing her mother’s bidding. Morganne loved being at the center of everything, dealing face-to-face with customers. She no longer felt burdened or trapped by the gift of her needle. Elowyn knew that even if she could manage to break Morganne away from her work, she would not be able to tell her anything meaningful with so many other people about.

  Elowyn left the shop with a sense of frustration and urgency building in her heart. There was no point in going back to the empty tavern, which would not be open for many more hours. Instead, she turned down the little alleyway that led behind the shop, intending to cross the open field behind it to the rocky coastline, where she sometimes went when she wanted to get away from the commotion of the tavern. But instead of finding the solitude and time to reflect that she desperately needed, she found that the scrubby, rock-strewn field behind Morganne’s shop was edged with growing crowds of people. It had been roped off and transformed into an archery range, with marked hay bales stretched across the far edge along the coast. Preparations were being made for a tournament. Elowyn desperately scanned the horizon, but there was no way across.

  As she gazed wistfully toward the sea, an annoyed voice called out from behind her, “Are you going to stand there through the whole tourney?”

  Elowyn turned to see a young man, about Morganne’s age, leaning comfortably against the back of the building. He was tall and slim, with soft, wavy brown hair and a fair complexion. Having grown up among seamstresses, she could not help but notice that his sleeves and pant legs were just a bit too short, as if he had grown up suddenly in the night while he slept.

  “Sorry, I didn’t see you there. I wanted to get across the field to the shore—I didn’t expect to find all of this.”

  “Didn’t expect to find it?” The young man exclaimed loudly with complete disbelief, “During the Winter Festival? These tournaments are the biggest events of the whole year! Everyone comes to watch or compete against the Kinship’s best fighters. I’m going compete myself one day,” he said with determination. “Maybe I’ll be so good that they’ll even ask me to join the Kinship.”

  “Are you an archer?” Elowyn asked with hopeful interest.

  “No. I have a sword and I’ve been practicing with it, but I need a sparring partner to really learn.”

  “I would gladly learn to shoot with a bow if someone would teach me,” Elowyn said, her thoughts lingering for a moment on her memories of Einar. She wondered what had become of him and his little band of ragged men that had once been the proud, invincible Circle of the Sovereign.

  “I once knew a man who was the best archer in all the world,” Elowyn said softly. “He could move through the forest as a fleeting shadow and his arrows never missed. He and the bow were one.” Elowyn’s hand slid unnoticed into the belt pouch under her cloak, where she grasped the coin she still carried with her everywhere. It was smooth and cold, and she clung to it as though the touch of her hand against it somehow kept Einar’s memory from fading.

  “Well, I am certain he would meet his match here at the tournament,” the young man insisted, apparently unimpressed by her claims.

  Elowyn resisted the urge to laugh, knowing the types of contests that Einar had been entered into before he had come of age and joined the Circle. What audacity to compare this small tournament, tucked away in the back corner of the world, to the grand tournaments held by the Sovereign of Tyroc, where noblemen from all over the realm, and even across the seas, came to compete, earning special favors from the court, large sums of money, or even land and titles. But Elowyn said nothing. Morganne had wisely decided that they should not reveal their past to anyone. This had turned out to be easier than expected, as the people of Minhaven were strangely silent with their own stories and disinterested in those of others. They were happy not to ask too many questions so long as none were asked of them. Yet in spite of that, the community was as tightly woven as a fine cloth. Isolation in the mountains, shared hardship, and an avid distaste of any political interference from Tyroc, were all points on which Minhaven’s residents had bonded closely with one another.

  “The view is actually better on the northern edge of the field ... if you are lucky enough to stand at the front of the crowd. But I like to watch from here, where the building offers some shelter from the wind, and no one is trying to push in front of me. You may as well stay and watch the tournament, you know. You cannot go to the shore today unless you want to risk getting run through with a stray arrow.”

  Though Elowyn had gone there with the intent of being alone, she found unexpected comfort in the company of this young man she did not know, and the excitement of the tournament offered a welcome distraction. She settled herself against the wall next to him and watched with great interest as the archers primed their bows, checked their arrows, and submitted themselves to the inspection of the marshals. The contest was done in rounds, where no more than a handful of archers competed against one another at a time. They shot at different targets of varied distances across the length of the field. The best of each group went on to compete against the best of the other groups, while those who were not as skilled were gradually eliminated from the competition and joined the crowds to cheer on the rest.

  Elowyn had never witnessed such a contest before and she found herself completely enthralled, especially as the movements of the more experienced contestants became bolder, more effortless and amazingly precise. She could almost feel her own hands grasping
the smooth, supple wood of a bow, the taut string wearing a groove into the flesh of her fingertips as she drew it firmly back. In her mind, she stood with the other archers through every competition, nocking arrows against her imaginary bow, and feeling the satisfaction of watching them fly across the field with all of her strength behind them. However good the best archers of the competition proved themselves to be, Elowyn remained loyal to her memory of Einar. She did not say so aloud, but secretly thought that if only he were here, he could have easily bested any of the other archers, winning honor for Tyroc and the true Circle of the Sovereign.

  Even as such thoughts came to her, filling her heart until it nearly broke, she was shocked by the truth of her own feelings. While Elowyn had lived in Tyroc, she had despised it, avoided it, and was quite content to fly from it as soon as she’d had the right opportunity. Now that she was away from there, she found somewhere deep within her a sense of pride in the city where she had grown up. Tyroc might not have been perfect, but it was a unique place in the world...one that was in danger of being swallowed up by Braeden and whatever dark forces he commanded. Removed from the sorrows that had sent her away, Elowyn was able to see with greater clarity the good that had existed there, and for the first time she felt true regret that such things might soon be lost.

  Elowyn even felt a small amount of guilt at having abandoned Tyroc, though she understood that she would not have had the strength to save it had she stayed. For one very fleeting moment, she wondered what had happened to her mother after she and Morganne left. Elowyn quickly swept the disturbing thought away and refocused her attention on the tournament. She vigorously rubbed her hands and limbs, which were beginning to go numb with cold. Her southern blood had not yet thickened against the chill of the northern winds.

  “You haven’t been in Minhaven long, have you,” the young man stated flatly.

  “How did you know?”

  He grinned. “When you’ve lived here your whole life, it’s not hard to spot a new face.” He glanced at her shivering form and shook his head. “Wherever you came from, it must have been a warmer place. Your lips are turning blue and it hasn’t even gotten very cold yet.”

  Elowyn noticed that in true Minhaven fashion, he didn’t ask any direct questions about where she was from. He did, however, hand her a leather flask from under his cloak. “This should help, but don’t take more than a couple of sips. It’s strong.”

  Elowyn took a cautious sip. It was a horrible tasting, dark and bitter drink that made her feel as if she was swallowing fire. She coughed and made a face, but she did feel a bit warmer, and the warmth seemed to spread from her insides all the way out to her fingers and toes. Relief though it was, she declined another sip. The young man only smiled and shrugged, saying, “You’ll get used to it. Around here, we call it Miner’s Milk. All the miners carry it with them into the mountains once the weather starts to turn. Doesn’t take long to freeze to death if you get caught up in a winter storm.”

  “Do you spend much time in the mountains?” Elowyn asked with great curiosity. Having never seen mountains before she came to Minhaven, Elowyn had been haunted by their imposing beauty. They seemed to be a living presence, staring down upon her as she went about her daily activities. They dwarfed the tallest of the trees, and even reached above the clouds, which at times rolled down their slopes, blanketing the world in a shifting, swirling whiteness that no light could penetrate. Her heart ached to explore that new world, and yet she was wary. While the locals depended on the mountains’ bounty, they also greatly distrusted them, holding a fearful respect for the destructive forces they could unleash without warning. Elowyn had not yet experienced any such destruction first hand, but she understood that all the superstitions and the apprehension expressed by those around her were based in truth. She was wood-wise enough to regard their warnings, and to wait through the winter, keeping a watchful eye in the direction of those lofty peaks that mesmerized her to the point of distraction.

  “Nearly every day, until the winter snows come,” he answered. “My father mines and I help, at least for now. He calls the work ‘honest,’ and maybe it is. But what is the good of doing honest work that serves the dishonest?” The young man asked her in such an unexpectedly earnest voice, she was at a loss as to how to respond.

  “You’re new here,” he said in a forgiving tone, “but you’ll see soon enough. The thieves will ride through the remote areas where the watch is sparse and take what they please. So much toil, giving strength and wealth to those who will use it against us, over and over again. The injustice of it is unbearable. I know that the Kinship has defeated the thieves from the western pass, but the greed in men’s hearts will never be conquered. More like them are sure to follow. That is why I want to learn to use a sword, to protect men like my father whose lives are bound to the mountains.”

  Elowyn’s heart was filled with compassion. The young man had no way of knowing how well she understood the inconsolable pain of injustice. His words brought to Elowyn’s mind the full pain of Einar’s story: Avery’s traumatic fall, the corruption of Darik, Braeden’s rise to power, the ousting of the Circle, and the horrific deaths of Elias, Nevon, and the monks who carried the relic. The struggle to set things right had ended, not with right prevailing, but with the scattering of what had once been the most noble and skilled fighting force in the world. The dishonest Braeden had preyed upon the honest, taking what was theirs and using it to strike against them.

  Her own life’s struggles were no less painful to recall...her mother’s blatant dislike of her, the years of tension and abuse. Worst of all, at least in her mind, was the withholding of her father’s name and memory, and the harsh realization that, whatever her childhood fantasies might have been, he was never going to come for her. He couldn’t now even should he try—how would he find her? Should their paths cross by some random chance, what would she have to recognize him by? An old pair of worn out trousers that had once smelled of the sea?

  Circumstances were forcing her to accept the painful reality that she would never know so much as his name. To Elowyn’s mind, there was no one else to blame for that but her mother. Bruises and welts eventually healed, but the injury caused by her mother’s silence was being re-opened again and again, its pain intensifying rather than diminishing over time. Hard as she tried, that was one injury Elowyn could not bring herself to forgive.

  But in spite of everything, Elowyn still clung to hope that in the end, those in the world who were right, good, and honest, would achieve victory over the thieves, whether they were the kind who stole wealth, or heritage, or men’s souls. She had to believe it because the alternative was to give up, to relinquish herself to the troll on the cliff’s edge as he tried to snatch away that which did not belong to him. Elowyn gazed intently into the young man’s eyes, wanting to say something hopeful, something wise. She wanted to share her own story but could not. The only thing she could manage to whisper under her breath was, “Don’t give up. Believe and remember, the journey begins.”

  The young man, though perplexed by her words, knew by her face that she, too, had been touched by a pain and loss that ran far deeper than he would have expected in a girl of her youth. At that moment, in a way neither could explain, they understood each other without having to speak.

  The warmth of the drink he had given her was wearing off and Elowyn was quickly losing interest in the tournament. Her mind was now filled with urgent voices pulling at her from all directions. Memories from her past, the horrifying dream, and the disturbing news from Glak were all troubling her as she tried to figure out how they fit together. If she could only talk to Morganne it would lift some of the burden she had been carrying alone. She looked up at the building toward Morganne’s shop window. It was, of course, barred shut against the cold, but knowing that Morganne sat just on the other side of it was a small comfort.

  “It has been lovely watching the tournament with you, but I must go now.”

  “But why?�
� he asked in a bewildered, disappointed tone.

  “I have been here too long. I need to tell my sister about something that happened this morning. She runs the seamstress shop, just above us.”

  “I know who she is. I have seen you two around the village together. You’re staying at the tavern.”

  “Yes, we are. Does anything happen in Minhaven that you don’t know about?”

  “Not much,” he grinned. “As I said before, it isn’t hard to notice new faces in a place so small. Now that we know each other, maybe you will notice mine too. I’ll be around. The one thing I don’t know is your name. I’m called Cailean.”

  “I’m Elowyn,” she said, smiling in response as she turned toward the door leading up to her sister’s shop. She couldn’t help but notice that Cailean continued to watch her until she disappeared into the building. If she had not wanted to talk to Morganne so urgently, she would have enjoyed staying with him to watch the rest of the tournament.

  Elowyn climbed the stairs and opened the worn wooden door at the top. It was a relief to be out of the cold and the wind. She kneeled before the hearth, stoked the fire, which was starting to burn low, and held out her cold, reddened fingers toward the heat of the glowing embers. They tingled painfully for a few moments as they began to thaw. Elowyn was glad to see that there were no clients waiting for Morganne. Most of the villagers were out watching the final rounds of the tournament to see who would claim victory. But it was evident that the little shop had been inundated during the morning hours, as Morganne and the girls she employed were frantically working on multiple orders. Elowyn sat quietly by the fire, waiting for Morganne to notice her. It was not Elowyn’s habit to hang about the shop—she usually went out of her way to avoid being there. She realized that if she sat there long enough, Morganne would know that something was wrong. When Morganne had a moment to step away from her work, she came over to where Elowyn was sitting and gave her a questioning look.