by C S Marks
The remainder of the winter passed pleasantly enough for the Company, and the early spring rains would be upon them before long. Galador had taken up with a scholar, a man named Chamberlin, whose special interest lay in the history and lore of the Eádram. A rare find for such a scholar, Galador provided many details that had not been known.
He made sure to spend part of each day with the feral She-elf, for under his coaxing she had been able to eat with some regularity and at least take marginal care of herself. He typically went to see her just after sunrise. Though Nelwyn often went with him, she would wait outside the chamber door, for they had learned early on that the She-elf would not eat if Nelwyn was there…she would respond only to Galador.
Hearndin’s people had been most appreciative of Galador’s efforts. “At least she will have a chance now,” they said. “We didn’t want to watch her starve...we have been quite helpless in dealing with her,” Galador bowed, acknowledging their gratitude, but he knew full well what it would mean: the Company would have to take the She-elf with them. She would surely die without him. He had spoken to Rogond about it.
“I suspect you would rather not be burdened with her…I don’t even know if she can travel. I do know one thing, though. If I leave her behind, she’ll die.”
Rogond pursed his lips and drew a deep breath. “I believe you. I saw the change in her when she first heard your name. I have no doubt that she will burden us, but her caretakers say that she has improved already under your ministrations. Maybe she will improve enough to travel without being too burdensome.”
“I don’t minister to her,” said Galador. “I sit with her while she eats.”
“You calm her and bring her back into the daylight,” said Rogond. “I’m afraid this task has fallen to you. Sometimes we are afflicted with such things—they seem to be like stones in our path—because they have been ordained. Things happen as the Fates intend. If they have sent you to save this lost soul, who am I to object?”
“I really don’t see how we can leave her. Not unless she comes around to the point of trusting other people…and I really don’t see that happening. She still has not told me her name…if indeed she even knows it herself.” Galador shook his head ruefully.
Rogond clapped a friendly hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We’ll do what we have to do, and face what we must face when the time comes,” he said. “In the meantime, what do you plan for today?”
“I thought I’d spend a little more time in the Library. I promised Chamberlin I would look over some of his drawings.”
“I have been promised a trip across the bridge. They say they will show me the house where I was born,” said Rogond. “My father and mother lived there, though it is long abandoned. I have been warned that it is in disrepair.”
“Well, take care, and do not expect too much,” said Galador. “I will be here later, if you want to talk about it.”
It was a good thing Rogond had been warned about the state of his father’s house. He stood in the doorway, wondering how anyone could have lived there, taking notice of the holes in the roof, the smell of mildew, the crumbling plaster—this part of Dûn Bennas had made but small recovery in the past fifty years. Rogond saw many, many empty dwellings there. He stooped to examine an object long-forgotten in a dusty corner of the former bed-chamber. It was a comb of tortoiseshell, probably his mother’s. He picked it up, tenderly dusted it off, and tucked it away. “I’ve seen enough,” he said to his guides. “Will you show me where the dead are buried?”
They took him to the mound that covered the burned bodies of the dead. It was a large mound, now snow-covered, with a simple monument of marble inscribed in an ancient northern tongue:
“In this place lie those taken cruelly by the Plague, fathers and sons, wives and daughters, fair and enlightened children of Tuathas. We are lessened by their passing, but vow that our City shall live on, ever-mindful of their memory.”
Rogond bowed his head, bending down upon one knee. His father’s ashes lay beneath this mound. “I will find my brother, and restore him if I can,” he said in a quiet voice, eyes closed against the sorrow that threatened to come forth. “His honor, and that of our line, shall be recovered. I wish I could have met you and known you…I hope to make you proud.” He turned from the mound and left that place without realizing that his deeds, and his character, would already have made Diomar very proud.
The first of the spring rains had begun to fall when Rogond came into the library, bringing the news that Thorndil had taken seriously ill. He had been out on the eastern battlement with a few companions when the the color had gone out of his face and he had nearly passed out, slumping against the wall. He vomited, and at first they all thought he had eaten something bad and would now feel better. But after retching painfully for a few minutes, he suddenly doubled over in pain, falling to the stone floor, shaking and sweating. Understandably wary of any sign of illness they had backed away from him, calling down to Nelwyn and Galador, who happened to be within sight in the courtyard below. They knew that Elves would not suffer illness and could safely approach Thorndil.
Though she knew little of the frailties of men, Nelwyn could see that Thorndil was in a bad way—heart racing, pale, and shuddering with pain. She tried to calm him, but he did not seem to know her. Galador lifted him and bore him to the Hall of Healing as Nelwyn went in search of Rogond.
At first, even the healers were reluctant to approach. Then the chief among them came forth from his chamber, and drew nigh to Thorndil, examining him. “This is not the Plague,” he said with relief, turning a withering glance upon the apprentice healers. He was the only one among them who had witnessed the devastation; he had been a young apprentice himself then, but he knew it well and would never forget it. His face grew grim as he made a more thorough study of his patient. “What is his age?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Galador. “Nelwyn has gone to find Rogond. He will know more of Thorndil than anyone.”
When Nelwyn found Rogond, he had gone first to the library to fetch Gaelen. He still remembered her aid when he lay near death of fever. It was his opinion that she had saved his life—whether true or not, it would always be his belief. Fima joined Rogond, Gaelen, and Nelwyn at Thorndil’s side.
Rogond knelt beside his friend, who had by now regained his wits, though his face showed the pain he bore. Rogond then asked that he be allowed to question Thorndil alone, a favor granted by all save the Chief Healer, who insisted upon remaining with them.
At last the doors opened, and the Elves were allowed to join Rogond inside the chamber. Thorndil had been given something for his pain and was now resting, his grey eyes relatively calm. Rogond drew Galador aside. “His ailment is not one that will run its course. This is serious, and they will need to cut him open.”
Galador nodded grimly, though he found the prospect horrific. He had spent enough time among men to know that such efforts rarely succeeded, though they were never attempted unless the patient was certain to die otherwise. He had seen this done but once, in the wild, when one of Rogond’s other companions had taken deathly ill. The unfortunate man had died in agony several days later. Galador shuddered. At least Thorndil would have a better chance here in the City, but the outlook was not a hopeful one. “When?” he asked.
Rogond’s face was grim. “As soon as can be arranged. I have been asked to assist. Lady Ordath taught me a few things, and the healers apparently believe that I will be of use. I might not be able to do any more than hold him down, but at least I can do that.” He looked away for a moment. “They will work on him as soon as they can make ready. I wanted to ask you to take Gaelen with you and distract her…she is not taking this well.”
Galador nodded. “I will if I can,” he said.
Rogond and Galador returned to Thorndil’s chamber, where the healers were making ready to begin the difficult task of saving his life. “Come on, Gaelen,” said Galador, nodding also to Nelwyn, who was holding Thorndil
’s hand. “The healers have said that only Rogond may remain.”
Gaelen looked up at Rogond. “Does he know what they are going to do to him?” she asked.
Rogond nodded. Thorndil had been told, and though his eyes had filled with dread, he knew there was no other way. His pain would end this night, one way or another.
“Then I will speak plainly,” she continued, looking back at Thorndil, taking his other hand. “They will cut him open, and he will know it. He will need aid…aid that I can give him. I need to stay with him.”
Rogond dropped his gaze, considering her words. It was true that Thorndil would be able to feel the pain as they worked on him. Though there were herbs and extracts that would render a man insensible, as though in deep sleep, their use was tricky; one might find that breathing suddenly stopped, with death coming soon after. No…they could dull the pain, but they could not take it away. A small moan from Thorndil caused Rogond to look down at his friend. The healers were binding his arms and legs to the table with heavy cords, and Rogond saw the terror behind his eyes.
Gaelen soothed Thorndil’s brow, promising to sing for him, and his fear grew less. In spite of the healer’s decree, she would remain.
Several hours later, Gaelen and Rogond would emerge to be greeted by their anxious friends. Fima was first to speak. “Were you successful? Does Thorndil still live? I cannot tell it in your faces!” The dwarf was nearly bursting.
“He lives, at least for now. We shall know in a few days,” said Rogond. His weariness was graven into his face, and he appeared to have lost years in a few hours. Gaelen was unmarked, save for the haunted look in her eyes, and she would speak no word of what she had witnessed—not then, not ever. As soon as she saw Rogond at rest, she would return to Thorndil, who would no doubt have need of her.
Thorndil spent several days in doubt of recovery. He had seen one hundred thirty-six years in Alterra, and for a while it seemed he would see no more. Yet he rallied at last, his pain and fever lessened, and some of his strength returned.
Gaelen hardly left his side in that time. She and Nelwyn sat ever beside him, aiding the healers as they could. Gaelen sang to him and soothed his fevered brow as Nelwyn held his gnarled hand, giving him what strength she could. Thorndil would recover from his ordeal, and he would always carry love for Gaelen and Nelwyn in his heart.
It was a good thing the healers had been willing to take such drastic measures, for Thorndil would surely have died had they not. He felt much improved after a few weeks of rest and care, yet it would be a long time before his recovery was complete. He would not be at full strength for some time, and this was difficult for him to hear. It meant that he could not go with the Company.
Rogond told him so on a grey, rainy afternoon as he listened with a heavy heart. “If you remain here until your healing is complete you will be as strong as ever, but the journey will tax you such that you may not survive if you attempt it now. I have sworn to leave at the coming of the early spring rains.” He looked Thorndil in the eye, though he spoke softly. “I intend to do so.”
Thorndil returned Rogond’s steady gaze, for he knew that his young friend would not be dissuaded. He also knew that Rogond was right, and he nodded slowly. “Then be on your way with all speed. I know you are anxious to find Hallagond. I pray that you will find him, and that you will not be too dismayed by what you find. I will remain here in the service of the King.” He sighed and turned his head to the window, where the rain was sheeting down the leaded glass. “I regret your setting forth without me, as I would not abandon you. I especially regret leaving Gaelen and Nelwyn…I shall miss them. If fate permits, perhaps one day I will find you again.”
Rogond stood and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, then turned to leave. “May it be so, my friend; we will miss your stout heart and your keen blade, not to mention your knack for striking a spark to a pipe in the pouring rain! We shall say our farewells in a few days. Keep well.”
The Company left in three days, having gathered provisions and made their farewells. They stood at the last before King Hearndin, who sorrowed at their going. “We shall miss your singing and dancing, and your fine tales, as well as your keen presence on the watch-towers. May your journey be fruitful, and end well. May you keep safe, for you are the friends of the King, and you are ever welcome in Dûn Bennas. I would hope that you return here when your task is done. Thank you, also, for your help in dealing with…what did you name her? Was it Dona?”
“We had to have something to call her, my lord,” said Gaelen. “The name Dona means ‘one who is miserable.’ It seemed fitting.”
“Perhaps one day she will not be so miserable,” said Hearndin. “If so, she will have your Company to thank for it.”
They bowed before him, and turned to leave. They had already received many fine gifts from the King and the people of Dûn Bennas, but Hearndin called out to them at the last, for he had forgotten something. “Gaelen Taldin, singer of renown! I have one last token for you. I nearly forgot, and I should not wish to have you leave without it.”
Gaelen stood before him and bowed, as the King handed her a small, worn leather volume with a faded gold inscription: “Doom of the Wind-Lord.”
Her eyes opened wide with delight as she opened it, finding page after page of a beautiful poem copied by the scribes of Dûn Bennas and still in fine condition. Most of the wear had come from Gaelen herself over the winter, for it was one of her favorites. There was a small parchment enclosed, with a written inscription: I give this volume to Gaelen Taldin, that she might remember the Lore-master of Dûn Bennas, whom she calls Death-eagle. Treat this well, and it will ever bring you joy.
Gaelen dropped her eyes. This was a heart-felt gift, and Astor would relinquish it not lightly. She had occasionally referred to him as death-eagle, though she had thought him unaware of it. It may have been that he was even more silent and stealthy than she! Her ears reddened at the thought.
“Astor reminds you to take care of his gift,” said Hearndin, smiling at her. “He would have given it himself, but he has other business this day. He bids you farewell.” Gaelen bowed again and turned to leave, but the King called after her:
“Don’t be dismayed—I have also noted the resemblance of Astor to a vulture. You are not the first to draw that comparison. Sometimes I think he actually works at it—he seems to find it amusing. Farewell!”
Dona rode beside Galador, for she would speak only to him, and that rarely, on a gentle black horse named Malvorn. Nelwyn rode upon Galador’s other hand, as Gaelen and Fima rode at the fore with Rogond.
Gaelen missed Thorndil already. How did we come to be saddled with her? We might as well have waited until Thorndil was healed, for she will slow us down so much that the same end will be achieved. At least Thorndil could ride, and think, and fight…and I liked him.
Thorndil had not been present in the Halls of the King when the Company said their farewells, nor did he attend their departure, for he was not yet strong enough. He resolved that one day he would try to find his friends again, for he worried that they would have need of him. The healers had taken him to a small balcony near his chamber, from which he could sit and observe their going, and he raised his right arm in farewell. It seemed to him that both Rogond and Gaelen turned back for a moment, though they were nearly too small to be seen clearly. Then he saw Rogond’s right arm raise high in the air, followed by Gaelen’s, and he felt a pang of longing, despairing at the thought of never hearing her song again.
Chapter 4: ON THE RAVANI ROAD
The Company drew southward through the scrublands south of the Ambros, making their way slowly toward the Ravani Road that would lead them into the northern desert. The north of the Ravi-shan was still considered part of Hearndin’s realm. Rogond hoped that Hallagond had remained there, for if he had gone into the deep southern desert, finding him would be difficult at best. None in the Company knew much of that distant, reputedly savage land. They would not be able to spea
k the tongues of the desert peoples, nor would they know any of their customs. Elves did not venture there, and were largely unknown except through stories brought down from the north. What would the desert people think of them?
Rogond knew his hope that Hallagond had remained in the lands nearer to Dûn Bennas was probably in vain. He tried to put himself in his brother’s place, imagining that, if he would run to lands so distant that his very existence would be forgotten, he would almost certainly travel beyond the lands of the King. In order to find his brother, Rogond suspected that he would need to lead the Company into the strange and dangerous lands of the Ravi-shan. The name, in the sutherling speech, meant “sun-country,” but the Elves called it Tal-fásath, which meant “wasteland, realm of great loneliness.” Rogond shook his head, considering the prospect. Perhaps he should take on this task alone, and keep his friends from harm.
He looked over at Gaelen and Nelwyn, who were busily currying the horses, swirling clouds of long winter hair flying before their practiced hands. He shook his head again. His friends would never allow such a course to be taken; they would all insist on going with him. He caught a whiff of fragrant smoke as Fima approached him from behind, his long clay pipe in his hand.
“I see you shaking your head, Rogond. I trust you’re not thinking any foolish thoughts, such as leaving your friends behind and going into the southlands without them, are you?”
Rogond smiled. “I wonder whether you actually know my mind sometimes. You are absolutely correct about my foolish thoughts. Yet I know them for what they are…foolish.”
Fima nodded in agreement. “Gaelen has given her heart to you, Thaylon. Remember that it was not given lightly. She will die rather than allow you to walk alone into peril. I believe the same may be said of Galador.” Fima chuckled. “He thinks you need him to protect you from Gaelen, if nothing else.”