The Longsword Chronicles: Book 06 - Elayeen

by GJ Kelly

  It also meant that Gawain’s frequent admonishments to Allazar concerning the lighting of fires were now equally applicable to the elves; smoke from a cooking fire would be seen for miles with no breezes to disperse it, and all the fuel around them green and drenched from the rains. And that, therefore, meant frak…

  They were just two days south of the Hallencloister line, the air still eerily calm, when Elayeen eyed the stars beginning to prick through the grey of falling twilight and declared that they would rest on the southern bank of a broad stream that lay shimmering and gurgling before them, and it was there that she finally relented and allowed Valin to shoot a rabbit. She had tolerated frak well enough on her journey with Gawain and the wizard, but now she could almost feel the waves of revulsion emanating from her friends at mealtimes. Besides, she decided, they were surely far enough now from civilisation for the smell of cooking cony not to draw attention.

  Valin dug the fire pit deep, and when it was filled with gnarled gorse and tinder, sparked it into life with the aid of a few drops of Ellamas oil carefully hoarded from the march to Far-gor the previous year. Meeya filled the cauldron from the stream, and Elayeen unearthed the last of the herbs and dried vegetables packed in Tarn to add to it. They still had a few corked and waxed jars from the people of Fourfields, but the labels had not survived the crossing of the Shasstin, and none of them wanted to raise their hopes cracking a seal for cured beef preserved in tallow only to find instead mustard or bilberry jam.

  When the stew was finally resting over the subterranean fire, they settled, camp now a well-rehearsed routine.

  “Arrun has even fewer people than Mornland,” Meeya sighed, arranging her cloak about her knees.

  “Their farms are scattered far and wide,” Elayeen agreed. “And it is not the season for them to be taking their wool to Nordshear or Sudshear and the weavers. From what I learned in Tarn, most of their larger communities are settled around the capitals, and along the coast, though that coast has a much rockier and less welcoming aspect for mariners. So the books said. There are very few safe harbours in Arrun.”

  “Except near where we are going, near Sudshear and the mouth of the River Sudenstem.”

  “We’re not going that near to Sudshear, Meemee. As I understand it, the last riders of Raheen have settled near a fork in that river, halfway between Lake Arrunmere and the coast.”

  “But we shall see the river? Lord Rak said that in places it is more than four hundred yards wide. Can you imagine? A river you can’t shoot an arrow across!”

  Elayeen smiled. “And wider still near its estuary. More than a mile across the mouth, lord Rak said.”

  Meeya suddenly drew her knees up, hugged them, and gazed at the pot with great passion, but though her voice was firm with intent, it carried a lilt of sadness, too. “I should like to see it all, Leeny. Every inch of every land that lies beyond Elvendere. For so long we have been kept in the gloom of the forest, knowing nothing of the world save the lies taught to us by the Toorseneth, and tales told in books older than anyone living.

  “I want to see it all. The mighty Sudenstem, and Lake Arrunmere, and the mountains of the Eastbinding! I want to see Port Yarris in Callodon and listen there in the moonlight to the sighing caves, and yes, I want to climb the Downland Pass and see the great Sea of Hope sparkling like diamonds in the light of a summer’s sunbeams. I want to follow the road you took to Jarn, and then turn west, and see the southern tip of Elvendere, and gaze across the waters of the Ostern to Pellarn.”

  She gave a great sigh, and blinked, and then sniffed. “But I don’t suppose I shall.”

  “MiMeeya!” Elayeen gasped, “Why would you say such a thing?”

  “Life has a habit of drowning our dreams, Leeny,” she smiled sadly, her brown eyes baleful, and damp. “No amount of whispering our hopes and dreams to the waters of the Mirith Fountain ever brought us what we wished for.”

  “Except for one thing,” Elayeen sighed, feeling a wave of melancholy wash over her at the mention of the fountain in Elvenheth.

  “What thing?”

  She smiled, and drew her knees up too. “We are still together.”

  “Yes,” Meeya suddenly beamed. “Yes, we are.”

  “Now stir the pot. I want to imagine it will begin simmering this side of summer.”

  Then Valin startled them.

  “I would see you both, there at the Fountain of Mirith. Reesen and I would watch you, from a distance, through the milling throng of the market and those going about their business nearby. Sometimes, he and I would stand for hours, in the space between two columns atop the steps of the museum, watching you both. I only ever whispered one wish to the waters, though Reesen thought me a fool and childish for doing so. But the wish was granted me, and many times since then Reesen has told me he regretted turning his back upon the old lore and superstitions.”

  “You never told me this before, mihoth,” Meeya looked surprised, though happy, at the sudden and uncharacteristic public revelation from her normally taciturn husband. “What was your wish?”

  Valin’s eyes snapped, and he cast a gaze around them before turning his attention back to the fire in the pit. “I wished for you,” he whispered, and shrugged, rather sheepishly.

  Meeya blinked her astonishment at Elayeen, and blushed, and stirred the stew while Valin twisted uncomfortably on his blanket and then sawed at another piece of gnarly wood to poke into the pit beneath the pot. Finally, after what seemed an age of silence in the eerie stillness of the gathering gloom, the stew began to simmer, and its mouth-watering odour supplanted the rather more acrid whiff of burning gorse.

  “What day is this?” Meeya suddenly asked, “The fourth or fiftth? I have lost track.”

  “It is the fourth,” Elayeen announced, with great certainty, and then took out a length of knotted string, a trick she had learned from Gawain and his banishment, and double-checked. “Yes, the fourth.”

  Meeya sighed again. “Where do you think he will be now, Leeny?”

  “I do not know the route he planned to take. I hope that by now, though, he will have recovered the Orb, and all of them now camped safe upon the cliffs of the coast of Callodon, having cast it forever into the deep, far from all knowledge, and far from all possible hope of use.”

  “And then he will come and find you, and all will be well. He can have all our dwarf-cakes and we and the wizard Allazar can feast on rabbit. Or perhaps even wild mutton. Or roast rack of lamb. Or perhaps the riders of Raheen will by now have raised beef as well as horses in their new home.”

  “Yes,” Elayeen agreed, “That special kind of beef and horses found only here in Arrun, which can be raised in but the four months they had from the time they left Far-gor until now.”

  Meeya stifled a laugh, but managed to poke out her tongue.

  Again, Valin’s eyes snapped, and he stood to turn full circle, casting a long gaze up as well as all around before taking his seat on his blanket again.

  “Have you seen something?” Elayeen asked, becoming slightly concerned.

  “No, miThalin.”

  “Are you sure? We were caught out by Tilly of Fourfields. Is there something at the edge of your range?”

  “No. I am merely uneasy. The stillness in the air has about it an unnatural feel. If we are indeed in the calm that lies in the eye of a storm, then the storm must be immense.”

  “It is unsettling, I agree,” Elayeen nodded, glancing up at the ocean of stars above them. The clearness of the night meant it would be cold, again, and perhaps even a frost in the morning.

  “Even the horses are less than comfortable,” Valin persisted. “But I have seen nothing. Perhaps this weather is common here in these lands. I admit I have no idea whether this oppressive quiet is natural for the time of year.”

  “Your turn to stir the stew,” Meeya demanded, handing the wooden spoon to her fretful husband, and breaking the slight tension that had begun to rise in the camp.

  The stew, when it w
as finally cooked, was every mouthful as satisfying as it was delicious, and not simply because, as Valin put it, an acorn boiled in ditchwater would taste better than frak. Even after they’d eaten their fill, there was still enough left in the small cauldron that could be warmed up for a hearty breakfast, and so the lid was fitted firmly to the pot and the embers of the fire allowed to die in the pit.

  It was some three hours later, all of them lying wrapped in their blankets and taking turns to snooze, when a curious and rather unpleasant odour began to infiltrate the camp. The stillness Valin had complained about was lifting, occasional breezes wafting this way and that, swirling, short-lived, barely strong enough to disturb a wisp of hair. At first it was simple to ignore, fading as it did rapidly when the momentary zephyr passed. But then it would return on the next breeze wafting up from the southeast of their camp. Nor was it entirely unfamiliar.

  Finally, after a long silence save for their own breathing, Elayeen heaved a sigh, and sat up, running her fingers through her cropped and recently re-stained hair.

  “I cannot be the only one here to notice that smell.”

  “No,” Meeya sighed, “But it’s cold and whatever it is that’s dead won’t mind our ignoring it until daylight, surely?”

  “But for the stillness of the air we would have noticed it when still it was daylight,” Valin announced. “The calm and then the fire and the smells of cooking robbed us of our ability to detect it.”

  “I do not think I can sleep with a carcass nearby. Wondering what it once was will keep me awake all night. You two may stay here if you wish, I shall go hunting.”

  “Alone? For a dead thing?” Meeya protested.

  “With the stars out as they are tonight it shouldn’t take long. With the moon in its third quarter we could almost read by the light around us, if it would oblige us by rising a few hours earlier than it will.”

  Meeya groaned, and then forcefully threw open her blankets, dragging herself upright and reaching for her cloak. When she’d fastened it, she retrieved her bow from under the pile of blankets and gave Valin a poke with it. He took the hint, and in a few minutes, the three of them were walking slowly in line abreast, bows held easy; what they were hunting was already dead, and eldeneyes confirmed nothing larger than night-birds and small nocturnal animals were out and about within their range.

  All about them were blisters of gorse, and blackthorn with its early flowering buds of snow-white blossoms. The elves had to weave their way around the shrubs, sniffing the air and stepping cautiously as they went, heading generally southeast. After three hundred yards, the rank odour of decay grew stronger, and then, in a large expanse of grasses between bubbles of the spiky shrubs, they found the cause of their discomfort.

  “It’s large,” Meeya muttered.

  “It is a horse,” Elayeen whispered, “Dead some time. Predators and the weather have taken their toll.”

  “It was a pony,” Valin declared as they moved closer. “And its remains still bear saddle and tack.”

  “Then where is the rider?” Meeya whispered.

  “A good question,” Elayeen agreed, though not relishing the answer.

  Valin and Meeya stepped around the carcass, the pony’s remains lying on its left side, head facing northwest. Meeya knelt, and with a grimace, heaved on the leather strap of the saddle-bags. After a struggle, they finally came away from the remains, and Meeya examined their contents.

  “Mould, most likely the remains of food. A shirt, quite small, and dirty. Perhaps an undershirt, I cannot say for certain. The remains of a book, but the pages are all stuck together and mouldering. Mostly I would say the rider carried food, and was likely in a hurry.”

  “Impossible to say what killed the beast,” Valin sighed, waiting for Meeya to wipe her hands before giving back her bow. “Carrion eaters have disturbed the remains too much.”

  “It may be coincidence that the poor thing is pointing in death to the northwest,” Elayeen sighed. “The Hallencloister is that way, and nothing else besides. But come, the pony once had a rider, we cannot return to our beds without at least looking for him.”

  “Indeed,” Valin agreed, “Though I do not think finding him after all this time will be of much comfort either to us, or to him.”

  The ‘him’, when they found the remains some fifty yards further on towards the southeast, had been a her, and her last moments had doubtless not been easy. The three elves stood looking down on her remains, with sorrow and due respect, but also with professional efficiency.

  “Something bit her right heel and ankle forcefully,” Elayeen pointed, “Ripping away some of the leather of her boot. You can still see the pattern left by teeth there.”

  “Before death, I would say,” Valin agreed. “The boots were once of sheepskin, and white wool trim. It is stained dark, doubtless with blood.”

  “She was a child,” Meeya stood quietly, her head slightly bowed. “Certainly no older than Tilly of Fourfields.”

  Valin crouched, and gently lifted the remains for a closer look at something that had caught his attention. “Her left boot is similarly torn, and her left calf. She was pursued, perhaps by a hound, or a wolf, which tore at her legs to bring her down for the kill.”

  “Some time ago now,” Elayeen sighed. “And with the passing of that time and with so much weather of late, there will be little or nothing to see upon the ground come daylight.”

  “There is a leather bag, or small satchel of some kind, hanging by a strap over her shoulder. She is laying on it, as if protecting it from her attacker, or keeping it safe.”

  “If true, then she was devoted to her duty, as well as brave,” Meeya said softly, “Poor thing. Can you retrieve the bag without disturbing her too much?”

  “Yes, if I cut the strap?” Valin looked up at Elayeen for permission, and she nodded.

  It was deftly done, the huntsman’s blade flashing briefly in the light from the bowl of stars above them, and then the bag was in Elayeen’s hands.

  It was small, of the type that might be used for carrying a young girl’s fancies, or letters. It had a small wooden toggle holding the flap closed, and when she opened it, Elayeen expected to find nothing which had not succumbed to the elements. She was surprised, therefore, to see a small, waxed leather packet within the purse, and with it, a small figurine carved from wood. The leather packet bore a plain wax seal, and both objects had survived wholly intact.

  “Do either of you have a ‘stone to shine a light upon this?” Elayeen asked softly.

  “I do,” Valin drew a small tube from a pocket within his tunic, twisted the ends to open a crude shutter, and a dim but effective glowstone light beamed out.

  The figurine was gaily painted, perhaps a little larger than a man’s thumb, carved from hardwood, and it showed signs of wear in spite of being well cared for. It wasn’t difficult to imagine a young girl carrying the small doll or effigy from childhood, taking it out and lovingly holding it, perhaps talking to it, and sharing all her hopes and dreams with whatever imaginary person the figure represented. Elayeen handed it to Meeya, who saw it instantly for what it was, and sniffed back a sudden choking of emotion.

  The waxed leather packet, with its bright red blob of sealing-wax holding all its folds together against the elements and unwelcome eyes, was distinctly new. And on the front, painstakingly burned into the leather with some rustic tool and misspelt, was the name and address of the intended recipient: The Sardor of Dith Halencloyster.

  “The sender must not have known that the Hallencloister is sealed,” Valin sighed. “Else they would not have sent a child on such an errand.”

  “Or they knew, but desperation drove them to the act,” Elayeen muttered, and again examined the bag, this time by Valin’s light, in case she had overlooked something within it.

  The bag was empty, but in the pale light of the glowstone and as a lone shooting star sped to its fiery demise in the west, they could see the brightness of the flowers woven into the cloth
stitched to the leather, and inside the flap, crudely burned again with some home-made iron, the identity of its former owner. Kistin Fallowmead Age 10

  This time Elayeen and Meeya allowed their watering eyes to overflow, and Elayeen handed the bag to Valin while she plucked a handkerchief from her sleeve.

  Valin eyed the bag with wonder, and then stood upright, and gave a polite bow of his head, a mark of respect to the remains at his feet.

  “The pony was small,” he said softly. “Perhaps young, too young for an adult to ride, and perhaps even the only horse they owned. What manner of catastrophe could have sent a child to the walls of a sealed citadel?”

  “A citadel whose loyalties shall remain forever in doubt,” Meeya sniffed, wiping her eyes on the back of her sleeve.

  Elayeen eyed the packet, and then thrust it into her tunic. “We shall open the packet later. For now, we shall honour Kistin Fallowmead, age ten, and lay her to rest properly with that which she held dear.”

  Meeya nodded, and popped the figurine into the flowered purse Valin held open.

  “I shall fetch the shovel, miThalin, and a blanket in which to lay this brave child of Arrun warm against the cold.”

  Elayeen could only nod, sniffing again and blowing her nose, and together, she and Meeya waited in the dark, close to each other and to the child’s remains, for Valin’s return.

  oOo

  19. Revelations

  After a sad but necessarily simple funeral which saw Kistin Fallowmead laid to rest in a shallow grave, wrapped in a blanket with her bag and her doll and the remains of the book Meeya fetched from the saddle-bags, the elves returned to their camp, and huddled around Elayeen. Valin held the pocket glowstone lamp above her left shoulder, while he and Meeya watched her take the waxed packet from her tunic.