by Carol Browne
“In which case,” she said, “I have to find the Nine Wise Men.”
“In this, I can be of service. These Nine Wise Men are menhirs, my child. They stand upon a broad glade, a circle of stones surrounded by oaks. The tallest is the kingstone, and the others are his eight sons. A wilthkin legend would have it that Arawn, King of the Otherworld, punished them for their arrogance by turning them into stone, for they were wise as wizards are wise and thought themselves greater than they were. On the night of the summer solstice, they sing their remorse to the sky, or so it is believed.”
Elgiva decided to intervene before this turned into a lesson on wilthkin myths and legends. “Yes, but where are they?”
“Once you have left these hills behind, you must head southwest. The grove in which you will find the menhirs lies in a hollow in the land. It is like an enormous bowl, ringed by mounds of earth. It should take you two days on foot.”
“Two days!”
“Have patience, Elgiva. Vieldrin does not have the stone, and were he to find the sarsen ring, the name is as useless without the stone, as the stone is without its name. Now, while you are here, what other matters assail you?”
She thought for a moment, trying to be calm, but she felt ridiculous sitting there when she should have been racing back to her friends to tell them what she had discovered. “Tell me, then, about Siriol.”
His hood moved slowly up and down. “It had but one spell and one spell only. Magic for use when there was need, but only for good, of course. The power it held would endure for as long as you wished it to, and no longer. Thereafter as an amulet, it was effectively useless. Whatever appeared to happen subsequent to that was entirely down to you. You could say I lied to you, my child, but I had hoped, by providing a focus, it would help to awaken your powers, give you confidence, and perhaps show you your courage. The most important requirement for using magic is belief. You had to believe in Siriol and believe that something would happen. And hopefully, it did.”
“I suppose you were right,” she said. But sometimes it made me too confident and gave me more courage than wisdom allowed.
“Perhaps I took a grave risk,” he said, “but what else could I do at the time? Then Vieldrin arrived in Elindel, and I was unable to leave. I suspect he made himself known to Thallinore some time before you were banished. To Tarkinell also, perhaps. Indeed, he may have suggested your exile to isolate you and test your powers. You may wonder now why I did not come to you in spirit sooner, but I only have strength enough for short trips, and I feared Vieldrin would sense what I was up to. I knew where you were. Animal friends told me about the Saxon settlement, and I was counting on Kendra being able to tell you whatever you needed to know. I did not intend to leave you at the mercy of someone as dangerous as Vieldrin, yet I do not believe he planned to kill you, or you would not be alive still.”
“He wants me as an ally.” She hesitated. “And as his queen.”
The elf-lord didn’t seem surprised. “Yes, he must have heirs, no doubt. I am sure he regards you as the one most suited to his requirements. Alone. Untrained. Having power without knowledge. The ideal prey. Easy to corrupt.”
Elgiva lowered her eyes, recalling the elf-king’s seductive embrace, his charm and lavish promises. True, she had resisted him, and resisted, too, the addiction of magic that yearned for satisfaction. But it hadn’t been easy.
Elgiva’s self-doubt didn’t escape the attention of her great-uncle. “Do not chide yourself, Elgiva, for being a little in love with him. No matter how good we think we are, some darkness lives inside us all.”
She glared at him in outrage, but it was futile to protest. It was too near to the truth. And if Vieldrin weren’t the evil monster she knew he was . . .
“And if it did not,” Bellic said, “we would go against the balance that resides in all of Nature’s works. We would not exist.”
“Vieldrin must know we have the stone, but perhaps he thinks I’m dead by now, or that my friends have been captured and forced to reveal where the Lorestone is, so I dare say this gives us some space to breathe—”
“I fear he must know,” Lord Bellic said with a sigh. “We must not underestimate him, and he is sure to have spies.”
“At least he has no more power yet than any other wardain.”
“My dear, that may not be the case. He has been trying to summon up the dark things that dwell beneath the earth. These things are called fetchen, and they are ancient shades of evil. Indeed, in Elindel—”
“But how?” she asked.
“Best we do not dwell upon it, for there is much in this world and beyond that even the Eldrakin do not know. Our magic is of the Earth, and the wardain use it for good, but again, there must be a balance, so evil exists there, too. And these Nine Wise Men are sources of power. They stand in a place where the magic is focused, as do all circles of stone. In such a place, many spells may be woven and powerful magic released.”
“Such things are beyond me.” Elgiva shuddered. “I don’t feel equal to any of it. I can’t use my magic properly, and powerful magic frightens me, and I feel . . . I feel like I’m dying. The power is destroying me. Vieldrin overmastered you, yet you are a powerful wardain. You have years of practice behind you. You can be in two places at once! What hope do I have of succeeding, when my own power turns against me?”
“Elgiva, your magic is very strong, but you yourself are weak,” he said. “Your aura is faint, and you have not been strengthened in preparation. In childhood, all wardain must struggle this way, but for them, of course, it is easier. They have instruction and practice. But remember, this power is inherent in the Earth, and it is right and natural. It is your ally, not your foe.”
It doesn’t feel like an ally. She shook her head. She felt like a scrap of parchment that someone had screwed up and cast aside. She had counted on her great-uncle being able to unfold her and smooth out the creases.
“We are directly in touch with this natural power. It is ours for as long as we are the medium through which it expresses itself,” he said. “At the final test, it will not fail you.”
“No! I still don’t know how to summon this power to my aid.”
“You do not need to know,” he said. “You merely need to feel. And inasmuch as you use the power, the power is using you, for the energy must find some release.”
“But I can’t sustain it!”
“Because you are weak. Prolonging the magic will come with practice.”
“But there’s no time for that!” She groaned.
“You fear, and that is why you fail.”
She got to her knees, angry and hurt. “It’s true, I’m afraid, and by Faine, I have cause to be! All this has been thrust upon me, and it’s a burden I can’t bear!”
“Nevertheless, it is your inheritance.”
“Uncle, I’ve always feared magic because I believed I had none . . . and now it’s too late to learn otherwise.” She glared at him.
Bellic seemed unperturbed. “Niece, you do right to rail against me, but it is too late for recriminations. All I can do is give you advice, though you would not be blamed for resenting it.”
He paused. She sank back onto the floor and folded her hands in her lap.
“Magic is passion,” he continued. “Does not your power stir most when you are beset by anger or fear?”
She nodded.
“Such feelings concentrate the mind, if not the very being, too. Use them to focus yourself on the magic, to become as one with the energy. Your entire being, Elgiva, body, mind, and spirit. They must be one with the power. This power is good and will not destroy you, though it leaves you not entirely scatheless. I perceive you are dissatisfied with this, but I tell you, you must master this power. Do not let it master you. And if you fear it may surpass you, then channel your magic through some other medium, something strong and of the Earth. Direct its force away from you. But one day, you will have the strength and will wonder why you were so afraid.” He paused t
o let his words sink in. “You see, we are like the standing stones. We must let the power flow through us, as they do, pure and unhindered by fear and self-doubt.”
She shook her head and sighed. You’re asking me to let go, to give myself to this terrible force. As always, you ask too much.
“Hesitancy will undo you. Vieldrin is devious, clever, and quick. He will strike an opponent without any warning.” The elf-lord paused, and then his voice grew stern. “Elgiva, you must listen well, for I need your help also.”
“My help?”
“Yes,” he said. “Though you will refuse to accept it, you are stronger than I. You must release me from my fetters.”
“No,” she said. “It’s impossible!”
“You have revered me, this I know, but I am a wardain, not a god, and I am no longer in my prime.”
Elgiva covered her face with her hands.
“Do not falter. Vieldrin must be stopped. The war must be ended, peace restored, and the balance re-established. And Elgiva, your cousin is dying.”
“Dying?”
His hood bobbed briefly in affirmation. “Your throne awaits, Elgiva. Prove yourself worthy to claim it. Nothing that is valuable in life is ever attained without effort.”
“But Uncle, to fight Vieldrin, I must break my oath to Faine First-Father. Thallinore . . . ”
“Yes, child, I know. I am sure Faine will understand.”
She gazed at her great-uncle, hollow-eyed. She hadn’t found the comfort she craved. Her mind had reached out to him in anguish, but he seemed unequal to her need.
“Tell me, Elgiva, how is Trystin?”
The change of subject left her floundering. “I dare say he’s fine.”
“Care for him. He is a good elf. And Godwin, your friend, is a Briton, you say? They are attuned to the power of the Earth. It is well you travel with one.”
“That’s exactly what your daughter said.” She wondered what his reaction would be, but Bellic merely nodded.
Bellic stood. “I must depart. Someone comes, and they may try to awaken my body. Do not tarry here. The firewood is all gone. There is a quicker way down the hill than that by which you ascended. Eswen will be your guide.”
“But Uncle, must I go? There’s more. There is so much—”
“Have courage, my dear, and trust in Faine. He has chosen you for a purpose, and his choices were always well made. Be of a good heart, Elgiva.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
A calm like sea-brume hugged the village, and beyond the fields, a shimmering heat-haze blurred the seam that joined earth and sky.
In a grove of trees beyond the stronghold sat Aidan and his sister Eluned. He was very young, she a little younger, and they giggled over their spoils, plunging their hands into the wicker basket to draw out the dark, sweet blackberries.
“Save some for Mother,” said Eluned.
Licking the juice from his fingers, Aidan peered up through the oak leaves and saw the swollen cloud-mass, a black grume that devoured the sun. The rain would force them to go home. He didn’t want that. Being indoors was dull. But now his sister was busy about some task, and it claimed his attention.
“What you doing?”
“A daisy chain. For you, ’cause you’ll be chief one day.”
“I won’t have a crown, Ellie.”
She ignored this and placed the daisy chain on his head. He struggled to draw his sword, which was far too large for his childish grasp, and then he marched up and down on his chubby legs.
“Mother will be angry when she knows you’ve got the sword,” said Eluned. Aidan pulled a face at her, and she burst out laughing. “Will you forget Ellie when you’re chief?”
“Never!”
“We’ll always be together, won’t we?”
A drizzle of rain began to fall. Aidan sheathed the sword and glanced at the curdled clouds. The raindrops tickled his face. A hint of lightning scoured the sky, and the grass was ruffled by a freshening breeze.
“Better go home now,” said Eluned.
A clamour in the village went unheeded at first as they gathered up their wooden toys, but then the noise grew louder. There were shouts and clanging, metallic sounds. Black smoke curled beyond the trees.
“Ellie, what is it?”
People were running towards them, pursued by strangers. There was fighting, yelling, and panic everywhere. Huddled together, terrified, Aidan and Eluned watched as their neighbours were slaughtered. The breeze carried smoke that stung their eyes. Their village was burning.
The children were spotted. “Take them!” came a cry. Tall and blond with a curling beard, a raider marched into the grove, in his hand a death-dealing broadsword, already stained with gore.
“Aidan, run!” screamed Ellie.
She turned to flee, but transfixed by terror, Aidan couldn’t move. The raider seized him, crushing him under his brawny arm. The basket of fruit was overturned, and the daisy chain fell to the grass.
Ellie ran back to help her brother and kicked at the raider’s shins.
“Leave him alone!”
The man roared at her in his rage, but she only kicked him harder. In the distance, a horn sounded urgently. The raider, anxious to obey the summons, shoved Ellie aside with his foot, but she leapt up again, tried to grab his sword arm.
Aidan watched in horror as the man lashed out at her.
He struggled in the Saxon’s grip, but there was nothing he could do. His sister lay dead on the grass. Around her lay the trampled blackberries, the abandoned wooden toys. In her soft, young neck, a deep red gash leaked her life’s blood into the earth.
The raider ran to join the others. Aidan struggled under his arm, his eyes blinded by hot tears, and his screams became part of a roar of darkness that carried him away . . .
. . . And he floated with it willingly until he found himself stretched like a sacrifice, lying on top of a knoll. A ring of flowers encircled him, enclosed him in a peaceful void, as though he were a precious thing they wanted to protect.
And outside the circle of upright blooms, every pain he had ever felt was crouching in the darkness.
***
Godwin sat up with a start.
His chest was heaving with ragged gasps. It was dark, and he didn’t know where he was, nor even who he was. Thunder cracked above him, increasing his alarm.
He swung his legs off the low bed and sat, hunched forwards, hugging his chest. Sweat cooled on his skin and made him shiver.
Eluned.
Was that her name? And was she lost to him forever? He knew now that she wasn’t. ‘We’ll always be together,’ she had said. Nothing was ever lost, only changed.
This time, the nightmare had been clearer. Now he knew why his sister had died. She could have run away, but instead, she had tried to rescue him, while as usual, he had behaved like a coward. He refused to let himself make allowances for the young child he had been then, for Eluned had been even younger.
He made a pact with himself. From now on, his life would be worthy of his sister’s sacrifice.
He straightened and took a deep breath, and then he looked around the room; in its centre, the embers of the fire glowed red and gave off a meagre light. Trystin lay sleeping on his bed, his outline dimmed by darkness, and in the shadows beyond the fire, Grimalkin snuffled softly.
The door scraped open.
A figure swayed on the threshold, a silhouette of lightning. Godwin’s heart pounded with shock. He sprang to his feet and searched for his sword. A whinny escaped Grimalkin’s lips as she was startled from her sleep.
Then the door creaked shut and the figure walked in and knelt before the fire. Shivers racked her frame. “Sorry I took so long.”
Godwin sagged with relief. Elgiva pushed back the hood of her cloak, and muttering a few words under her breath, she raised her hands to the fire. It threw out tongues of yellow flame and hurled her shadow against the far wall.
“Bring more wood,” she said.
Godw
in didn’t hesitate. As he fed the fire, he looked at his friend, shocked by her condition. Her arms and legs were cut and bruised, her clothes were torn and soiled, and her eyes had a hollow, vacant look. He yearned to offer some comfort, but he felt himself unequal to it.
A distant growl of thunder proclaimed the passing of the storm.
Godwin placed his hand on her shoulder. “I was worried,” he confessed.
She lifted her head.
“What happened?”
Elgiva shrugged. “It rained.”
“The wise man?”
“Uncle Bellic,” she said. “In spirit only, of course.” With a wry smile, she shifted her gaze and stared into the fire. Steam began to coil from her gown, as though her will had turned to vapour.
For a while, they sat without speaking. The silence had an abstract quality that made Godwin feel he might still be dreaming.
“What’s wrong, Elgiva?”
She sighed. “I expected too much.”
“I know,” he said. I know. He slipped his arm around her, and she leaned her body against him. “Tell me about it, my dear.”
“He told me where to find the Nine Wise Men. They’re standing stones,” she explained. “He said Thallinore is dying. He said he’s been wrong about the Ninth Book. He said that I was weak. He said I must learn to master my powers, but I still don’t really know how.”
Godwin knew only too well the smart of shattered hopes. “We’ll prevail,” he said.
She shook her head. “Vieldrin seeks to control the dark forces that slumber in the earth.”
Godwin didn’t want to hear about that. “We’ve got some food here, Elgiva. You should eat.”
Grimalkin took several steps forwards, pricking up her ears.
“Hello, Grimalkin,” said Elgiva. “Have you guarded the Lorestone in my absence?”
Grimalkin looked at Godwin and flashed the whites of her eyes.
“Her behaviour can always be relied upon,” Godwin said with a wry smile.
The pony emitted a satisfied snort.
“The storm’s passing,” Elgiva observed. “We should leave.”
“Indeed,” said Grimalkin. “We’ve dallied too long with these clodhoppers.”