by GJ Kelly
“Perhaps now that our lady is more herself, we might learn more of the nature of governance within her homeland,” Allazar offered, hopefully.
“It might go some way to explaining recent events if she can share with us such details,” Rak agreed. “I thought I noted at least five distinct factions at work during our last days in Shiyanath.”
“Five?”
“Yes. But the one which carried the day was the one representing the will of those I now know to be of the ToorsenViell, and most if not all others seemed extremely cautious not to offend them. It was to the wizards of the ToorsenViell that most of the Thallanhall glanced before or after speaking.”
“I had thought that ‘Thallanhall’ was simply the name given to the hall of the king,” Allazar sighed.
“So did we all,” Rak admitted, “Until it became obvious otherwise. Theirs is a complex system of governance, with family lineage and politics playing their part in the provinces as well as in the future of their crown. But the Toorseneth, and the other elfwizards of the Viell it would seem, pull hidden strings throughout that land.”
“And have done for a very long time, if that ‘spitsucking whitebeard A’knox was to be believed.”
Allazar nodded, his expression solemn and thoughtful. “If indeed they have been working for hundreds of generations to breed out the Sight of Eldenelves from all elfkind, then yes, it would seem the treachery our lady spoke of extends back into the mists of elder days, perhaps to the very days of Morloch’s binding.”
“That sight would’ve been invaluable to the kindred in the first war, just as it was in our battle,” Gawain agreed.
“Then,” Allazar stood, and stretched his legs, “All the lands, including Elvendere, should now be grateful to those eldenbeards, my friends, for resurrecting that ancient and powerful trait. Though I dread to think of the consequences for those possessing it within the forest itself, since the Toorseneth’s proclamation. There can be no doubt in anybody’s mind that the foul and ancient creature who arrived from the Toorseneth fully intended to destroy our lady.”
“Perhaps there’s still hope for elves, then. Elayeen said the Dymendin sceptre once wielded by that crumbling whitebeard bastard was used to enforce the authority of the ToorsenViell. And that particular stick, though nowhere near as imposing as the one you’re currently leaning on, is now in your possession. You’re now the Keeper of the Two Sticks of Raheen.”
“Yes,” Allazar nodded, and a flicker of a sad smile danced at the corners of his mouth, “I suppose you might say, that’s the long and the short of it.”
“You might, but only if you want to wake up with a crowd around you.”
“Ah.”
“Though she did claim the short one quickly, and seemed most anxious to commit it to your care, Allazar,” Gawain mused, “And didn’t seem to become entirely herself until after you’d accepted it.”
“Yes,” Allazar agreed, frowning. “ Yes, I noticed that, too.”
“Then perhaps,” Rak offered quietly, “Lady Elayeen recognised the necessity of keeping that sceptre well away from any possibility of its returning to Elvendere and the Toorseneth, and perhaps the ancient voice which spoke through her was aware that only the wielder of the white staff of Raheen could be trusted to keep it safe.”
“Ah!” Allazar exclaimed, smiling broadly, and Gawain groaned.
“What have I said?” Rak asked, confused.
“You’ve given the bloody whitebeard a title he’ll never let me forget,” Gawain sighed.
“Not I,” Rak protested, “It’s what the veterans of the Battle of Far-gor are calling him.”
Allazar smiled. “And it’s a much nicer title than ‘Keeper of the Stick’, don’t you think?”
oOo
3. Revelations
The table for dinner at Rak’s house was quiet; lady Merrin and Rak of course, with the happy little Travak still inseparable from his wooden toy Gwyn, the toy almost two years old now and missing half a hind leg. And Gawain and Elayeen, staying once more in the guest room they had occupied the previous year, and Allazar, the wizard grateful to be spared the throng at the inn. There were many visitors still in Tarn, survivors from the battle, some wounded, others volunteers yet to make their way home, and a place in the dining room at the inn was hard to find even for those who had rooms there as Allazar did.
“I haven’t seen Meeya or Valin today, aren’t they joining us for dinner?” Gawain addressed his question to no-one in particular.
“No,” Merrin announced, “Major Sarek has found them lodgings on the eastern side of the town. They seemed quite content when they left here yesterday.”
“Yesterday? I really must pay more attention.”
“In all the hubbub of the last week I’m not surprised you didn’t notice,” Merrin smiled gently.
“They are pleased to be together,” Elayeen declared, “And looking forward to time alone now that the fighting is over. It did not go well for them at home… in Elvendere, before they left with us at Ostinath. And they also wish to allow Gawain and I some time alone without their presence calling forth memories of the Thallanhall’s betrayal.”
“We all have a great many questions concerning your homeland, miheth. Perhaps later you might be able to answer some of them for us?”
“Perhaps, G’wain. But there will be many I cannot. Since our last day at the battle-camp, my memory of certain events and insights seems to be fading.”
“Again I’m not surprised,” Merrin soothed, “It was hard enough observing events from afar at the Point, and my mind still recoils from the horrors I saw, distant even though they were.”
Gawain nodded. “Have you got any further with the Ms, Allazar, or have you been too busy looking out for me?”
“Alas, since the battle began I’ve given no time to the work. It’s something I hope to be able to complete when the room at the inn becomes a little quieter.”
“There’s no need to remain at the inn, Allazar,” Rak announced, “Not now that Meeya and Valin have found alternative lodgings. The second guest room is now vacant; you’d be welcome to it.”
“I don’t wish to put lady Merrin or yourself to any trouble…”
“Nonsense,” Merrin insisted, “It’ll be ready for you tomorrow. You can use Rak’s study for your book, too. Travak knows not to go in there so you won’t have him pestering you.”
“Thank you. I am rather hoping that peace and quiet will allow my work to continue apace. On the Canal of Thal-Marrahan, I had an intuition that the world was changing. Little did I know then by how much, nor how quickly.”
“And that’s just one of the questions I’m sure we’re hoping you’ll answer, E; you told that decrepit whitebeard a new age was beginning, just before you rid the world of him. What did you mean?”
Elayeen paused, staring at the meal on her plate. Then she flicked a glance towards the toddler Travak, Merrin wiping the boy’s chin. “I don’t think this is the time for such a discussion, G’wain. Perhaps later.”
Gawain took the hint. “You’re right, Elayeen. I’m sorry, lady Merrin, I didn’t mean to burden your table with such talk.”
“There’s no need for apologies,” Rak asserted, “Travak doesn’t understand much that is said, but he is quite sensitive to moods.”
“No, Elayeen is correct, this isn’t the time or the place. In truth, we three have been so far from civilisation and gentle manners these past months, it’ll take some time to become re-accustomed to polite company and gentler pursuits. Perhaps after dinner, and by the fire, when Travak is tucked up in bed, we can all talk. I’d like to see to Gwyn first, though. In all the celebrations I’ve neglected her care.”
“Gwyn!” Travak cried happily, his tiny face beaming with joy as he banged the wooden toy on the table.
“Now you know how the leg came to be broken,” Rak smiled.
And so the meal progressed, with conversation limited to tales of the infant’s growth since Gawain and El
ayeen had last enjoyed a meal at lord Rak’s table.
After dinner, Gawain took his leave to make good on his promise to attend to Gwyn in the stables, though truth to tell it was more a visit of reassurance for both horse and rider. Gawain had been obliged to spend a good deal of time out and about at all the public ceremonies and festivities, and with Elayeen still distant, the young man felt the need for the kind of constant companionship that only the Raheen charger seemed to provide. Horse and rider had been together for a long time, and both had endured much.
“You’ve done a fine job, Lyas,” Gawain smiled at the apprentice stable-master, the young lad beaming happily at the compliment and at what he considered the miracle of the King of Raheen remembering his name. “Thank you.”
The boy nodded a hurried bow and scurried away to the stalls near the tack room at the far end of the stables, and Gawain set about checking hooves and coat, eyes, ears, tongue and teeth, and Gwyn ignoring him haughtily all the while.
“Decided you like the care of others better than mine, Ugly?” Gawain whispered. “I don’t blame you. It’s been a long and hard two years, my friend, for both of us. But we can rest now. Here you’ll be warm, and well fed, and well tended. And who knows, when it’s warmer out and all the plains are lush, we might even visit our friends in Arrun. You’d like that.”
Gwyn’s head bobbed, feeling the sudden rush of sadness Gawain felt on recalling the men of Raheen, and the loss of Arras and Chandarran. To have found them, and then to have lost them, and worse, to have lost them both to Morloch’s filthy whitebeards...
Thinking of them recalled Bek to mind, and Hern, both men killed on horseback, leading thundering charges across the no-man’s land at the farak gorin. Gawain remembered the lump in his throat and how his eyes had welled with pride and more than a little envy at the sight of Bek leaning forward over his grey mare’s neck, sabre thrust forward. That was how it should have been for Arras and Chandarran, sweeping across the field of battle at full gallop towards and through the enemy. Not blasted from the air by some filthy Graken-riding demGoth. Not blasted in the chest by some filthy traitor from the D’ith Hallencloister.
Gawain sighed again, and simply stood there next to Gwyn, his arms folded, and remembering. So many names. So many faces. So many Fallen…
It was an hour or more later when he returned to Rak’s house, and found them all gathered around the fireplace in the small and comfortable living-room, logs crackling in the grate and a pitcher of fresh mulled wine on a table. A chair had been left vacant for him, and after pouring himself a goblet of the rich spiced wine, still hot and blood-red, he sat. Elayeen was sitting on the floor opposite him, her knees drawn up under her chin and her arms wrapped around her legs as she gazed at the dancing shapes in the hearth.
Gawain knew, instinctively, that she’d placed herself as far as she could from him in the confines of the small room, the better to avoid his touch. He remembered the last time he’d sat in this chair, his mind clouded as if by a fog, Elayeen braiding the new black strands of hair that had marked his throth binding to her.
“Is Travak asleep?” Gawain asked, quietly.
“Yes, I put him down just before you returned from the stables,” Merrin smiled. “He was exhausted; it’s been a busy and exciting time for him as well as for all of us. So many new faces coming and going, and so many familiar ones too.”
Allazar nodded thoughtfully. “At least now the young fellow has a much brighter future to look forward to than any of us thought we had last year. I’m sure his life will soon settle back to normal.”
“Yes, that is our hope, too,” Rak agreed. “His vocabulary is still limited to about thirty words, and ‘Gwyn’ is one of them. It is our sincere hope that ‘war’ will not be uttered by our son until he is much, much older. It, and the word ‘battle’, is one that has been heard in Tarn so often since summer it’s a wonder both were not among his first.”
Elayeen sighed, and blinked, and Gawain again glimpsed a distance in her eyes, eyes now her own once more and sparkling in the flickering firelight. “There should never have been a battle at the farak gorin,” she said, so softly it was almost a whisper.
“It wasn’t our idea, miheth, it was forced upon us.”
“You don’t understand, G’wain. It wasn’t supposed to happen at all. I saw the drawing Martan of Tellek made, when Allazar studied it, before it was sent here to Arramin.”
“The engraving on the Morgmetal spike?”
“Yes.”
Rak frowned. “The wizard Arramin said that one of the marks was that of Thal-Marrahan?”
“Yes. But there were others, and amongst them, three circles, surrounding the triskele of Minyorn,” Elayeen sighed again, and when she tore her eyes from the fire to look at them all in turn, there was profound sorrow in her gaze. Her eyes, beautiful once more, hazel-green and filled with sadness, lingered on Gawain’s before she turned her face to the fire again. “The tool was without doubt placed in the tunnel with intent, long years after the course of the river had been charted, long after construction of Thal-Marrahan’s canal had been completed.”
“How do you know this?” Gawain asked, his heart quickening.
“Because I was taught by my mother, who is of the Seraneth bloodline of Minyorn, a fact to which that putrid ToorsenViell alluded when he dared to spew bile over my family’s honour. The triskele is the favoured mark of the Shitheen Issilene of Minyorn, the Sisterhood of Issilene. The three circles you already know. The farak gorin should have collapsed when the breach in the Teeth was sealed. The immense chasm should have opened then. It would have spared these lands war.
“Morloch’s armies would have returned to the far west, and in facing Elvendere’s western borders, united all the provinces of my homeland against the common enemy. The Sight which you call Eldengaze would have been welcomed by my people as a force for preserving all elvendom against that dark threat.”
Gawain was stunned, and sat as if paralysed, gazing at Elayeen. After a long silence, she dragged her eyes from the fire, and the ineffable sadness he saw in her expression seemed suddenly to galvanise him.
“E, you speak with such conviction, but surely you can’t know for certain! Martan told me that the tunnels were dug more than thirteen centuries ago!”
She turned her attention back to the fire, and sighed again before answering, her soft, sad and lilting voice tickling ears and tugging heartstrings. “The Shitheen are seers, G’wain, and were renowned for the gift of foresight long before the ToorsenViell declared them undesirable and drove them far from the public eye. The Sisterhood doubtless saw that the wave unleashed against the Teeth would fail to bring down the farak gorin, and took steps to weaken it in such a way that when the time came, it would collapse. They failed.”
“Or perhaps,” Allazar soothed, “This Sisterhood you speak of foresaw Gawain’s undermining of the far-gor, and placed the spike in order to bring about the destruction of Morloch’s army. Unless you possess knowledge of facts which you’ve yet to share with us?”
Elayeen shook her head, silver-blonde hair reflecting the red and orange of the flickering firelight, and she still gazing at the dancing shapes deep in the heart of the hearth. “Only myths and legends, and tales of prophecy my mother taught me. But I know, in my heart of hearts, there should never have been a Battle of Far-gor, and the farak gorin should have fallen in July, when we were in Raheen. That is why the three circles girdled the triskele, I am sure.”
“You can no more blame yourself for the battle, lady Elayeen, than can your husband and king,” Rak insisted. “It is one thing to see connections between recent events and tales told in times of yore, quite another for there actually to be such connections.”
“Indeed,” Allazar agreed, earnestly, but Elayeen’s expression showed that she remained unconvinced.
“Though the memories are fading quickly, I know that the wizards of ancient times did not intend to leave a door to the south wide open for M
orloch simply to stroll through, should he ever gain strength enough for a return. It’s why they didn’t build a castle and fortifications there, as King Brock wished they had. It’s why the Shitheen Issilene tried to weaken the tunnel floor.”
“You’ve mentioned this Issilene before, E. Before you killed that whitebeard. What or who is it?”
Again Elayeen sighed, and a single tear slid from the corner of her eye, sparkling only briefly on her cheek before she hastily wiped it away. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“Perhaps at the beginning?” Allazar smiled sadly, speaking gently, “With the myths you spoke of?”
Elayeen nodded, and slid her legs beneath her, resting her hands in her lap and eyeing her nervous fingers before gazing into the fire and into memory.
“The story of Issilene is a myth of elder times, a tale of creation, once told to children. There are few who tell it now, and fewer who believe it should be told, though the Shitheen adhere to the old ways and work in secret to keep them alive. The tale occurs near the dawn of time, when Nature wrought the world anew from the carcass of an older one, and had recently finished bringing forth all life...
“Nature cares for nothing save itself, and the intricate checks and balances upon which all things, including Nature itself, depend. The Shitheen teach that Nature is like an infinite web, delicate strands interwoven to form the pattern of all life and all wonder. Break a single thread, and the pattern changes as other threads respond to the sudden new tension or release. Thuswise, they said, all things have their place, and when the balance is maintained, all is harmony.
“The time came, so the Shitheen say, when Nature had done its work, the vast web was recreated, all things in their rightful places. But through all the long ages of building and re-building, something happened which had never happened before. Nature began to care about its creation, and recognising that this was impossible, and understanding that it had no business understanding anything at all, Nature took elfin form, the better to determine what manner of unnatural catastrophe had brought about this new awareness.