“We can stay on, Father,” said Aylis, glancing at Aravan, who nodded his agreement and added, “I am a fair hand with bow and spear.”
Alamar snorted. “What? You think we can’t do it without you two? I told you we have it well in hand.” Then his gaze softened and he looked at Aylis. “You two go on. The Eroean is waiting, and I would not have this fortress come between you and that.”
“Art thou certain?” asked Aravan, swinging his gaze to Arandor.
“Aye, Aravan,” said the captain. “Thou hast done more than thy share in defending the Planes. ’Tis time thou and thy lady were off to sail the Mithgarian seas.”
Aylis and Aravan spent the next two days at the fortress, but the mark of noon on the third day found them at the western crossing, and as dim light shone down through a yellow-brown overcast, they were gone in-between.
12
Vows
JOURNEY TO THE EROEAN
LATE WINTER, 6E1
Aravan and Aylis emerged upon Adonar in a copse in a small hollow of a matching vale in the Durynian Range. Unlike the valley on Neddra, here the air was crystal clear and the soil fertile, with winter-dormant grass underfoot and slender, new-budded saplings on the slopes rather than the dead brown weeds in the meager thicket of barren trees of that devastated underworld.
With their bows drawn, Elven warders stood among trees, guarding the in-between. Aravan raised a hand and, above the distant sound of hammers and saws and other echoes of construction, called out a greeting to the Lian: “Hál, valagalana! Vio Aravan! Vi estare Dara Aylis, vo chier.” The warriors shifted the aim of their bows to point their arrows down and away as each relaxed his draw, then smiled and sketched salutes to the pair.
“Your love, eh?” asked Aylis, a smile crinkling the light sprinkle of freckles across her cheeks.
Aravan grinned and reached out and took her hand and drew her up the slant of the hollow. “I would have it no other way.”
Aylis laughed and shook her head. “You called me ‘Dara,’ though I am not of Elvenkind.”
“Thou art and ever will be my Dara, Aylis.”
“As will you be my Alor, Aravan.”
Hand in hand, up the slope and out from the copse they went, to emerge upon the floor of a greening vale trapped between forested mountains to the right and moss-laden crags to the left. In the distance before them, they could see Elves at work constructing a large, palisaded fortress, heavy timbers making up the pales of the long, surrounding barrier. Towers stood at the midpoints of the walls as well as at each corner, with arrow slits positioned to cover the grounds without as well as those within. Contained by the palisades they could see a building rising, where Elven woodwrights turned augers to bore holes through the cladding and into the crossbeams beneath, while others hammered tight-fitting wooden pegs into the just-made holes. A heavily built main gate stood open along the wall facing Aravan and Aylis, revealing low barracks and other buildings across a quadrangle.
And just as was the tower on Vadaria, the fortress sat well away from the in-between to not interfere with the match of the crossing point.
As Aravan and Aylis passed through the gate and onto the fortress grounds, a slender, golden-haired Dara stepped out from one of the buildings and came toward them across the quadrangle.
“Faeon!” called Aravan.
At the sound of her name, a brilliant smile filled the Dara’s features, and she called back, “Aravan!” and hurried her gait.
As Faeon neared, Aylis could see by her very movement she seemed to radiate grace.
Aravan warmly embraced Faeon, and she kissed him on the cheek. “ ’Tis good to see thee,” said Aravan, now holding her at arm’s length.
Faeon smiled up at Aravan, and then turned her clear blue-eyed gaze toward Aylis. “And thou must be the one who holds Aravan’s heart.”
“Um,” replied Aylis. Adon, I said “um”? Even though she knew it was not so, still she felt ungainly and cloddish next to this elegant creature. Amending her “um,” Aylis smiled and added, “So he tells me.”
Aravan released Faeon, and she stepped to Aylis and embraced her, whispering, “I am so glad he found thee again.”
“As am I,” murmured Aylis in return, and at that moment the awkwardness fell away from her.
Aravan said, “Dara Faeon, I present Dara Aylis. Aylis, Faeon is Gildor’s jaian—his sister.”
“He is your jarin?” asked Aylis. “A splendid brother to have.”
Faeon smiled. “Though I agree, Aylis, say it not overmuch in Gildor’s presence, for I would not have him take on an unseemly strut.”
All three laughed, and then Faeon said, “When we saw you coming through the gate, Inarion asked me to fetch you.”
Aylis frowned. “Inarion?”
“My trothmate,” said Faeon. “He is overseeing the construction of the fort.”
“Ah,” said Aravan, “just the one I would speak to.”
Faeon led them back to the building from which she had first come, and inside at a table, mulling over scattered drawings, stood a black-haired Elf. He looked up at the sound of the door closing, his piercing grey eyes lighting with warmth at the sight of Aravan, though Aylis sensed that behind that affection a deep sadness lay. Aylis then looked at Faeon, and saw the same hint of grief behind her eyes as well.
“Aravan,” the Alor said, stepping ’round the table to greet them.
“Coron Eiron,” said Aravan, giving a slight bow.
“Ah, my friend, Coron no more. My days in Darda Galion are long past.” He embraced Aravan, and they were of like height. Releasing Aravan, he turned toward Aylis. “And this is . . . ?”
Aravan introduced the two, adding, “She is my chier and trothmate to be.” Aylis’s gaze flew wide, and a blush suffused her cheeks. Trothmate to be?
Aylis, her heart pounding, gave a deep curtsey, but Eiron stepped to her and took her hands and raised her up. “No more, my dear. I left all that behind when I returned to Adonar after the Winter War.”
“As you wish, my lord,” said Aylis, finding her voice at last.
Eiron smiled and asked, “Did I hear correctly; thou art Aravan’s trothmate to be?”
“I had not known it until just now,” Aylis replied.
Faeon looked at Aravan and shook her head and then broke into laughter, managing to say amid her giggles, “And here I thought Aravan the most sensitive of souls, yet I find he is just like all males.”
A puzzled look fell upon Aravan’s face. He turned up his hands and asked, “What?”
“Didst thou ask her?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Then how dost thou know whether she will say yea or nay?”
“Well, I always—”
“Yes, Aravan, I will marry you,” interjected Aylis. Then she turned to Faeon and added, “There was never any question that I would.”
“Ah, I was but twigging him, Aylis, and ne’er before have I seen Aravan nonplused. He stood gaping as would a fish out of water.” Faeon’s silver laughter filled the air, and Eiron joined her as Aylis suppressed a grin. Aravan sighed and managed a discomfited smile.
Finally, Eiron said, “Faeon, my love, wouldst thou see these two to suitable quarters?” He gestured toward the scattered drawings. “I must get back to these plans.”
Aravan asked, “Wouldst thou rather this fortress be built of stone? In fact Drimmen-built?”
“Indeed,” replied Eiron. “None are better at stonework than the Drimma. I would welcome such.”
“Then heed, for Alamar, Arandor, Aylis, and I have a plan. . . .”
That eve, as Aylis lay in Aravan’s embrace, she said, “I sensed a deep sadness within Eiron, a reflection of sorrow echoed by Faeon as well.”
“They yet mourn their arran,” said Aravan.
“Their son?”
“Aye. ’Twas Galarun,” said Aravan. “He was like a jarin unto me, the brother I ne’er had. E’en so, my grief is but a shadow next to theirs, for Eiron i
s Galarun’s athir, as is Faeon Galarun’s ythir.”
“Galarun? The one Ydral killed to take the Silver Sword?”
Aravan sighed. “ ’Twas in the days of the Great War of the Ban.”
They lay without speaking for long moments, but at last Aylis asked, “If it does not yet pain you, can you tell me how it happened?”
“It will always pain me, Chier, but I will tell thee regardless.
“We were on our way back from Black Mountain in faraway Xian, where the Mages had given Galarun the Silver Sword to bear back to Darda Galion. Our small band had come a long way, and finally reached the Dalgor March, there on the wold east of the Grimwall and west of the Argon some sixty leagues north of the Larkenwald. There we were joined by a company of Lian patrolling that part of Riamon, Riatha and her jarin Talar among them. As we made our way across the fen where the outflow of the Dalgor River widens into a wetland of many streams to spill into the Great Argon, a strange fog enveloped us—spell-cast, I ween. It was then that . . .”
In the silver light of dawn, into the delta marshlands they rode, horses plashing through reeds and water, mire sucking at hooves, the way slow and shallow, arduous but fordable, unlike the raging upstream waters of the Dalgor, hurtling down from the high Grimwalls to the west. Deep into the watery lowland they fared, at times dismounting and wading, giving the horses respite.
It was near the noontide, that late fall day, when the blue stone on the thong about Aravan’s neck grew chill. He alerted Galarun that danger was nigh, and the warning went out to all. On they rode and a pale sun shone overhead, and one of the outriders called unto the main body. At a nod from Galarun, Aravan rode forth among the tall reeds to see what was amiss. He came unto the rider, Eryndar, and the Elf pointed eastward. From the direction of the Argon, rolling through the fen like a grey wall rushing came fog, flowing over them in a thick wave, obscuring all in its wake, for Aravan and Eryndar could but barely see each other less than an arm’s span away. And from behind there sounded the clash and clangor and shout of combat.
“To me! To me!” came Galarun’s call, muffled and distant in the mist there in the Dalgor Fen, confusing to mind and ear.
Though he could not see, Aravan spurred his horse to come to his comrades’ aid, riding to the sounds of steel on steel, though they too were muted and remote and seemed to echo where no echoes should have been. He charged into a deep slough, the horse foundering, Aravan nearly losing his seat. And up from out of the water rose an enormous dark shape, and a webbed hand struck at him, claws sweeping past Aravan’s face as the horse screamed and reared, the Elf ducking aside from the blow. “Krystallopŷr,” whispered Aravan, Truenaming the spear. He thrust the weapon into the half-seen thing looming above him, and a hideous yowl split the air as the blade burned and sizzled in cold flesh. With a huge splash, the creature was gone, back into the mire.
Still, somewhere in the murk a battle raged—clang and clatter and outcries. Again Aravan rode toward the sound, trusting the horse in treacherous footing. Shapes rose up from the reeds and attacked—they were Rucha and Loka alike—but the crystal spear pierced them and burned them, and they fled screaming, or fell dead.
Of a sudden the battle ended, the foe fading back into the cloaking fog, vanishing in the grey murk. And it seemed as if the strange echoing disappeared as well, the muffling gone. And the blue stone at Aravan’s neck grew warm.
“Galarun!” called Aravan. “Galarun! . . .” Other voices, too, took up the cry.
Slowly they came together, did the scattered survivors, riding to one another’s calls, and Galarun was not among them.
The wan sun gradually burned away the fog, and the company searched for their captain. They found him at last, pierced by crossbow quarrel and cruel barbed spear, lying in the water among the reeds, he and his horse slain . . . the Silver Sword gone.
Three days they searched for that token of power, there in the Dalgor Fen, as well as for sign of the ones who did this dreadful deed. Yet in the end they found nought but an abandoned Ruchen campsite, a campsite used less than a full day, and no trail leading outward. “Perhaps there is an in-between somewhere nigh, and they went back to Neddra,” suggested Eryndar.
At last, hearts filled with rage and grief, they took up slain Galarun and the five others who had fallen and rode for Darda Galion across the wide wold. Two days passed and part of another ere they forded the River Rothro on the edge of the Eldwood forest. Travelling among the massive boles of the great trees, they forded the Quadrill the following day and later the River Cellener to come at last unto the Coron-hall in Wood’s-heart, the Elvenholt central to the great forest of Darda Galion.
Aravan bore Galarun’s blanket-wrapped body into the hall, where were gathered Lian waiting, mourning. Through a corridor of Elvenkind strode Aravan, toward the High Coron, and nought but silence greeted him. Eiron stepped down from the throne at this homecoming of his son, moving forward and holding out his arms to receive the body. Desolation stood in Aravan’s eyes as he gave over the lifeless Elf. Eiron tenderly cradled Galarun unto himself and turned and slowly walked the last few steps unto the dais, where he laid his slain child down.
Aravan’s voice was choked with emotion. “I failed him, my Coron, for I was not at Galarun’s side when he most needed me. I have failed thee and Adon as well, for thy son is dead and the Silver Sword is lost.”
Bleakly, Coron Eiron looked up from the shrouded corpse, his own eyes brimming, his voice whispering. “Take no blame unto thyself, Aravan, for the death of Galarun was foretold—”
“Foretold!” exclaimed Aravan.
“—by the Mages of Black Mountain.”
“If thou didst know this, then why didst thou send thy son?”
“I did not know.”
“Then how—”
“Galarun’s death rede,” explained Eiron. “The Mages told him that he who first bore the weapon would die within the year.”
Aravan remembered the grim look on Galarun’s face when he had emerged from the Wizardholt of Black Mountain.
Kneeling, slowly the Coron undid the bindings on the blankets, folding back the edges, revealing Galarun’s visage, the features pale and bloodless. From behind, Aravan’s voice came softly. “He let none else touch the sword, and now I know why.”
Coron Eiron stood, motioning to attendants, and they came and took up Galarun’s body, bearing it out from the Coron-hall.
When they had gone, Aravan turned once again unto Eiron. “His death rede: was there . . . more?”
The Coron sat on the edge of the dais. “Aye: a vision of the one responsible. It was a pale white fiend who slew my Galarun; like Man he looked, but no mortal was he. Mayhap a Mage instead. Mayhap a Demon. More, I cannot say. Pallid he was, and tall, with black hair and hands lengthy and slender and wild, yellow eyes. His face was long and narrow, his nose straight and thin, his white cheeks unbearded.”
“And the sword. Did Galarun—”
Aravan’s words were cut off by a negative shake of Eiron’s head. “The blade was yet with my son when he died.”
Frustration and anger colored Aravan’s voice. “But now it is missing. Long we searched, finding nought.”
After a moment Eiron spoke: “If not lost in the fen, then it is stolen. And if any has the Dawn Sword, it is he: the pallid one with yellow eyes. Find him and thou mayest find the blade.”
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