Fallen Embers (The Alterra Histories)

by C S Marks

  Ri-Elathan knew he could die in any conflict, as he would represent a great prize to his enemies, but he was also well protected. Shandor was no longer able to defend the realm, but Magra and the other remaining Èolar would never allow their King to fall. Why, then, was he so fearful?

  Did he have the courage to find out?

  He had not thought of the Stone of Léir in many years. It was locked securely away, safe from thieves and vandals. This was no mere seeing-stone.

  It had been made long ago by Dardis, greatest of all Èolarin craftsmen, as a way to re-live happy memories with lost loved ones. Dardis would never have imagined the fate that would befall the Stone, or he probably would have destroyed it himself. Now, however, that was unlikely. It was the original intent of the Stone—the ability to assuage grief—that had altered it forever.

  Ri-Elathan was one of the very few who would be admitted to the Chamber of Léir. Only a handful of the residents of Mountain-home even knew of its whereabouts, a precaution meant to protect the intruders as well as the Stone itself. Some had gone mad upon viewing it. Rain had not been so vulnerable; he had sought enlightenment from the Stone before, to the benefit of his armies, but this time would be different. He wanted to know of his own fate, a question few would have the courage to ask. He wanted to know if he could dare to hold hope in his heart.

  He made his way deep into the mountain, through a maze of hallways and stairs, to stand before the door at last. Reaching beneath the front of his silk shirt and leather doublet, he drew forth a small leather pouch embossed with his royal sigil, extracting a plain iron key. At first, the lock was stubborn, for it had not been opened in some time, but at last he heard the soft “click” as the bolt released.

  He stepped through into a chamber which should have been musty, but wasn’t. There was a sort of charged energy about the place—it raised the hair on his arms and the back of his neck—and he wondered if it was merely the result of his own fear, or whether the Stone warned him to keep away.

  It stood on a broad stone pedestal, covered with a dark green cloth to keep its surface free of dust, casting a benign glow that was the only source of light in the room. How innocent it looks, he thought, approaching with careful steps.

  He called to the spirit of Shandor, who dwelled within: “It is I, the son of Aldamar, brother of your beloved. I have come seeking enlightenment.”

  At first, the Stone merely continued to glow from beneath the green drape. Rain knew that Shandor did not like to be disturbed, but he also knew Shandor would not deny him, though he was no respecter of titles. Rain wasn’t just the High King, he was kin. He called to the Stone again.

  “Farahin, nephew of Liathwyn, has come seeking enlightenment!”

  At this, the glow increased dramatically. Shandor could not ignore the mention of his beloved’s name. Why have you summoned me? And why invoke the name of Liathwyn?

  “I seek enlightenment that only you can give,” said Rain. “I do not disturb you without great cause. I don’t know if you can show me the fate that awaits me, or the outcome of the battle I must now fight, but I must know if there is any possibility of happiness.”

  But why now? What has happened? You have changed somehow.

  “I…I cannot tell you now, as I haven’t the time. My resolve wavers with every passing moment, and I fear the vision you will reveal, yet I must seek it. Will you show me the future? I must know of it, lest my courage falter.”

  Shandor was silent for a moment. I dare not reveal it…you are kin to Liathwyn, and she would have me guard your spirit from harm. What I have seen will not please you. You must reconsider.

  Rain’s heart sank, but he pressed on. “I cannot reconsider. I must know the truth.”

  WHY must you? You will learn nothing more until you have revealed what drives you to this need. The Stone dimmed, as if emphasizing the point.

  In answer, Rain took hold of the green silk and flung it aside, exposing the beautiful, impossibly complex crystal beneath. He did not look deep within…not yet. “I must know because…because after all these centuries, despite any expectation to the contrary, I am betrothed. I have perceived my life-mate, and I have sent her home to the Greatwood. I want to know whether I dare hope for happiness, for children, for any life at all! Now, does that satisfy you?”

  The Stone flared, and then went dim again as Shandor considered. You have found a life-mate. How regrettable, he said. I tell you again, Farahin, do not seek to learn these truths. Love is far too painful an emotion—it will destroy your spirit.

  “That may be true for some,” said Rain, knowing the statement would not go unnoticed. Shandor had been all but destroyed by his love of Liathwyn; his overwhelming grief had driven him into the Stone, from which he could no longer escape. Shandor gave the stone its power now—the power to reveal destiny, or to drive one mad. Shandor had loved Liathwyn so deeply that he had no other happiness, and she had chosen to leave him forever. Where she had gone, he could not follow. The bitterness and finality of that loss had darkened the mighty Light of Shandor’s soul.

  You have reminded me of my pain, Shandor said at last. You have been life-mated, and you hope now for happiness that I will be forever denied? At least you may have such hope. He paused again for a moment, the Light of the Stone thrumming as if in rhythm with a beating heart. Well, then, since you hope for that which I will never have, I shall oblige you. Prepare yourself, for you will not like what you see.

  Farahin Ri-Elathan looked into the surface of the crystal, which had begun to glow golden, as though a fire had kindled there. An infinite number of flat, silvery planes shifted and roiled within, until at last one seemed to coalesce, swimming into clarity. Rain heard the sound of distant battle, but had seen no images as yet. He braced himself for what would come next.

  Behold your destiny.

  Rain fell into the Stone, his body flailing and twisting, light and sound and image swirling and buffeting and battering him until, at last, he came to rest. The sounds of battle, once faint, were now terribly clear. He stood upon an immense battle-plain; the surrounding mountains told him he was in the North, near the ruin of Tal-elathas, his birthplace and his father’s former kingdom. Then he saw the Shadowmancer, Lord Wrothgar of the Black Flame, standing before him. So, this was it, then—the last battle. Only one of them would leave it.

  They were surrounded by Bödvari, the black demons, supposedly the children of Wrothgar himself. They held back any who would aid him—he could see Magra, as well as several of his other battle-captains, but they had been held at bay and could not reach him. The Bödvari cast fire from their gnarled, dark fingers, and that fire was not easily extinguished. The worst of their weapons, however, was the suffocating cloud of fear that enveloped them. The only one who had ever overcome it was Aincor, the legendary Fire-heart, first High King of the Èolar. Rain would receive no help from his battle-captains.

  Wrothgar had put forth his most fearsome form, an immense, dark-armored warrior, nearly a head taller than Rain’s already impressive height. The two warriors regarded one another for a brief moment, and Rain heard Wrothgar’s horrid, oily voice inside his mind.

  Thou art vanquished, Elf-king! Lay down thy weapons, and receive mercy. Otherwise I shall feast upon thee.

  Rain would not dignify Wrothgar with a reply, but stood in silence, his great sword at the ready. He did not have long to wait.

  Wrothgar flew at him as if on stinking black wings, their bodies slamming together, and Rain knew his sword was useless. He needed both hands to wrestle this great, armored creature from him. It would have to be Light against Darkness alone.

  Rain had summoned his Light before, but never in such dire need. He flared up like a star, so that even the Bödvari were burned by it. Wrothgar shrieked in his grasp, his terrible, soulless eyes going milky white before he could turn them aside. But he would
not be blinded for long. The horrid stinking darkness and despair pervading him began to overcome Rain’s Light, and the Elf-king knew he would need to summon every scrap of strength he possessed.

  They strove for almost a full minute—an eternity—until at last Rain faltered. Wrothgar’s great jaws opened and he sank his three-inch-long teeth into Rain’s shoulder, causing him to throw his head back in a silent scream. The terrible, black flames for which Wrothgar was named blossomed forth from the wound, spreading first down Rain’s sword arm and then across his chest and back, enveloping him in searing, blinding pain. His armor glowed red, and then melted, the leather smoldering before flaring up briefly and turning to ash. His flesh did likewise. He screamed over and over, still struggling, still clinging with grim tenacity to his enemy. His throat filled with fire, and that silenced him.

  Magra was not far away. He had felt an undeniable sense of foreboding concerning his friend and King, and, with the instincts of a long-time comrade-in-arms, had followed him. He heard Ri-Elathan’s screams in his mind before his ears perceived them, whereupon he ran into the chamber of the Stone to behold the King, both hands clutching the pedestal, writhing in horrific agony. Without hesitating, he grasped his friend’s shoulders and drew him back, though it was difficult.

  Still, the King struggled, his face a mask of horror, his blank eyes clouded with pain.

  “Come back! Come back to me,” cried Magra, praying that Ri-Elathan was not in the grip of madness—he had seen that happen before to those of lesser fortitude. “This is a vision only. Whatever you are seeing is not happening now. Come back!” He gritted his teeth and turned on Shandor. “Let him go, you self-important, impotent shadow!”

  Shandor found this amusing, somehow, and the vision was broken.

  Rain lay in Magra’s arms, his teeth clenched, his vision clearing. When he looked up at his friend, his eyes filled with tears. This revelation was not as bad as he had expected—it was far worse, and he had not yet seen the end of it. “Why did you interrupt me?” he asked his astonished friend. “I had not yet learned all!”

  “I…I thought you were dying,” said Magra.

  “I may have been, but you should not have stopped it,” said Rain, getting to his feet with Magra’s help. He staggered forward, for his strength had left him. His heart pounded, sweat had soaked his clothing and his hair, and his entire body trembled. “Leave me!”

  “But…my lord…”

  “Leave me, now!”

  Magra turned and left the chamber, his heart filled with sorrow and dread, as Rain called upon the last of his strength to stand once again before the Stone.

  “This is…this is what will be?” he asked, as the tears threatened to come again.

  And I have not said all. There is more that you must learn.

  “Is there no other way?”

  I warned you, but you would not listen. Now you must face the consequences. You sought to learn, and learn you will. Hold no hope in your heart, Farahin, nephew of Liathwyn. Your fate is sealed, unless you would abandon it.

  “If I abandon it? Do I have that choice?”

  We always have choices. But if you turn from this end, the Battle is lost. It is your death that will inspire them. Without it, they will falter, and Wrothgar will prevail. The choice is yours.

  Rain ground his teeth. “Show me,” he said. “Show me what will happen if I choose otherwise.

  Shandor did not answer. Rain gripped the Stone with both hands. “Why are you silent? I asked you to show me what will happen if I choose otherwise. Are you incapable, or have you nothing to say?”

  And what other choice would you make, Farahin? Would you refuse to go to war? Would you run from Wrothgar when he confronts you at last? Let’s be clear on precisely which choice you are referring to. Would you abandon your position as High King to run into the Greatwood?

  Rain started back just a little. “How do you know about that?”

  You are gripping the Stone. I see it in your heart. Could you really live with such a choice?

  “Show me.”

  And if I choose otherwise?

  “If someone had shown you what happened to Liathwyn, that you would be separated from her beyond the hope of ever seeing her again, that you would live your life in eternal loneliness and longing…would you have chosen otherwise?”

  Shandor did not reply, but the light of the Stone diminished.

  “Now, show me,” said Rain. “Show me…please.”

  Shandor did.

  Ri-elathan, who knew now that he would be the last of his line, turned from the Stone and left the chamber. He had just enough strength to make his way to the place where Shandor’s cold, dead form lay in its crystal coffin, ice-blue eyes staring lifelessly up into the empty air. Rain slumped onto the floor beside the pedestal, his head lolling back on one shoulder, looking into the face of his tormentor. Though he knew he had no right to ask the question, he asked it anyway.

  “Shandor…you were once my friend. We were friends. How could you have taken the last of my hope?”

  He slumped forward, completely exhausted, too weary even to weep. But then he thought of Gaelen, and the tears came just the same.

  III

  After she had returned home, Gaelen went about her business in the Greatwood, telling no one of her betrothal, trying to sort out her own feelings and to appear as though nothing had changed. This was a challenge, as the events that had transpired in the lands to the south of Mountain-home had forever altered the course of her life. Nothing that had occurred in her relatively short span of years could compare with it, and little that her future held would rival it.

  Her father, Tarfion, suspected that an event of some significance had occurred, but she would not speak of it. He knew that Gloranel had also sensed the change in their only daughter.

  “She has not been the same since returning from Mountain-home. You were there—did you not watch over her? Do you not know what happened? It is as though she is keeping back a great secret. She has aged…actually, she has matured. Can you not enlighten me?”

  “If I knew anything, I would tell you,” said Tarfion. “She managed to avoid me almost the entire time we were in Mountain-home, which certainly made me wonder. But you’re right—she has matured. Our Gaelen would never been inclined to keep any ‘great secret,’ especially from you.”

  “Did you not watch over her? How is it that you left her alone and let her avoid you? A lot goes on in Mountain-home…who knows what sort of influences she was exposed to?”

  “I was watching over King Osgar, remember?” said Tarfion. “I had a job to do.”

  Gloranel’s smooth brow furrowed beneath the soft wisps of auburn hair that strayed before it. “She sings for no reason. Her mind is a thousand miles away. She pretends nothing is going on, but I believe everything is going on.”

  “Well, have you asked her yourself?”

  “You know I have. Naturally, she denies everything.”

  “You know her well enough that we’ll get nothing out of her, then.”

  “I heard you and Tarmagil discussing Gaelen and the High King. You told of the banner, and that she went off riding with him…alone.”

  “Yes, and I heard the rumors flying all over Mountain-home. But surely the King would not have let her go…”

  Gloranel’s eyes narrowed. “What rumors?”

  Tarfion’s face paled a little. There was nothing to do but tell her. “There were rumors of…of a Perception.”

  “A Perception? You cannot mean between Gaelen and the High King, surely!” Gloranel shook her head. “Although that would certainly explain the change in her.” She shook her head again. “Surely not…most unlikely. He is thousands of years old, and she has barely flowered. Gaelen and Ri-Elathan? Surely not. I don’t want to think of this anymore t
oday.”

  But, of course, Gloranel did think of it—in fact, she thought of little else. A union between a common Wood-elf and the High-elven King? A common Wood-elf barely into her maidenhood…whose entire life lay before her? Gloranel loved her daughter, and she had dreamed of the day that Gaelen would perceive a life-mate and gift her with grandchildren, but to have her entangled with such a warrior-king as Ri-Elathan? Though neither she nor Tarfion believed in even the remotest possibility of Perception between Gaelen and the King, Gloranel was apprehensive and filled with doubt as she considered the potential loss of her only daughter to one destined for such hardship and peril.

  Everyone in the Greatwood knew why the King had gone to Mountain-home, and Gloranel had resigned herself to the fact that Tarfion and his brothers would soon be going to war, but now she had another reason to worry. The line of the High Kings had not fared well in conflicts against Lord Wrothgar—not well at all. If the rumors of Gaelen and Ri-Elathan were true, it was not the only line that would end.

  Gaelen had learned many things in Monadh-talam that disquieted her. Alduinar of Tuathas was preparing for the onslaught of Kotos’ northern army. Ri-Elathan and his Elven host were to gather together near the Northern Mountains and then march to the ruined lands of Tal-elathas, for that was then the location of Wrothgar’s Dark Tower.

  As the time of war drew near, Nelwyn approached her cousin as she sat near the riverbank, her thoughts far away. Gaelen sensed her presence, though she did not immediately acknowledge it. “He is leaving Mountain-home—he moves east, toward the Greatwood, and then north to the Dark Fortress,” she said in a distant, misty voice.

  “Who is leaving Mountain-home? What are you speaking of?” Nelwyn was unaccustomed to such vague communication from her usually straightforward cousin.