The steps were steep and tiring, but they were large enough that all three could climb side by side. Thalla clung to the wall, for the drop was big, but Herr’Don strolled near the edge, kicking bits of rock into the vastness below. Often he muttered as they struggled upwards, and Ifferon wondered what arguments were playing out in his troubled mind.
“He can’t have come this way, ” Herr’Don said at last.
“Why not?” Thalla asked. “Why would he not come this way?”
“It’s too bright for him. He favours shadow things,” the prince said, almost spitting the words. “Why do you care for him anyway? What is he to you? What is he to any of us?”
“He is one of us,” Thalla said. “That is what he is to me. That is what he is to all of us—except you. Are you one of us, Herr’Don? Please tell me that you are.”
“You know that I am,” he replied, but he glared at her as though he wondered if she was really part of the company either.
“Let us just check here,” Ifferon said, hoping to ease the tension before it rose to a tumult. “There cannot be any more evil here than we have already seen.”
Herr’Don sighed deeply and nodded slowly. “We should be careful, however. Let us recall that this place is cursed. These steps could crumble at any time.”
This warning did not stop Herr’Don from lingering on the ledge. Ifferon tried not to look, afraid that at any moment Herr’Don might slip or jump. Ifferon kept his eyes upon the steps below, which became swiftly carpeted in moss and leaves. The tower ruins mixed with nature’s debris until finally its white was smothered in green. This made each footfall more unsteady than the one before, until Ifferon began to curse the nearby trees for the shedding of their autumn coats.
“Wait,” Herr’Don said suddenly, his voice but a whisper, as if he feared to wake something. “There is some evil here.” He paused for a time and turned to the others. “Do you feel it?”
“Yes, it hounds me,” Thalla said. “But I cannot tell if it is Tol-Timíl, the Kalakrán below, or the memory of Ardún-Fé.”
“I feel it too,” Ifferon said. “I can almost hear the clangs and screams of battle fought long ago here, with many victims, many deaths.”
“Let us hope this Tower has not claimed another,” Herr’Don said sharply. “I knew that stableboy was up to no good, venturing off like an eager child. And who made me his carer?”
They climbed further, each step bringing them closer to the heavens and whatever it was they suddenly feared. Their footsteps were hollow, and the land about them sat in a dreadful silence, a kind of quiet that made Ifferon beg for noise, even the mumblings and ramblings of their princely escort. But there was no clash or clamour, nor drip of dew, nor the distant songs of birds. Even the Scroll in his pocket was hushed, though the subtle sounds of unease still whispered in Ifferon’s heart.
“Aha!” Herr’Don shouted suddenly as they turned a sharp corner on the stairway.
There, sitting with his back against the wall of the Tower, was Yavün, his face drawn and his robes gathered about as if a chill grasped him. His hair was unkempt and tangled, full of moss and stray twigs from the Rotwood, and his eyes were more sombre than Thalla could ever muster, deep pits where strange and recent events were buried.
“Yavün!” Thalla cried, running to him and collapsing before him in relief and joy.
Ifferon sighed deeply, for the prince’s exclamation had stopped his breath. “It is good to see you!” he managed, forcing a faint smile.
“The little rascal was here after all,” Herr’Don bellowed, like a god atop a mountain throne. He shook his head violently, as if in disbelief, and his hand still clutched the handle of his sword.
Thalla grabbed Yavün and hugged him deeply, and he tried to return the hug, though seemed shocked and shaken.
Ifferon noticed this. “What happened?” he asked.
“Oh,” Yavün stammered. “I ... I really don’t know.”
“I know,” Herr’Don hissed. “He got taken over by those Spectres again and decided to lead us to this sorrowful remnant of the older days of Arlin. To the Kalakrán, perhaps.”
“No,” Yavün said, though he stopped there for a moment, as if struggling to remember what happened. “No, that wasn’t it.”
“Well? What was?” Herr’Don barked.
“Something odd happened here,” Ifferon said.
“Are you all right?” Thalla asked, holding Yavün’s hand. Ifferon watched Herr’Don’s cold and steady glare grow colder.
“Of course he’s all right!” the prince spat. “Look at him! Alive and well. Ha! Having us worrying and wandering like a bunch of fools, as if we haven’t anything better to do.”
“What happened, Yavün?” Thalla questioned, her voice soft and tender, speaking to and holding him as a mother would.
“I had strange dreams,” he replied. “Something was calling me in my sleep.”
“Those Spectres!” Herr’Don said. “I told you, friends.”
“Be quiet,” Ifferon said. “Let him finish.”
“It had a distant voice,” Yavün continued. “It crackled ... like fire, like a candle, maybe. It called my name three times. Then I woke up, or ... well, I got up while still in the dream, and it felt like I was watching myself. I watched myself walk through the Rotwood.”
“And you came here?” Thalla asked.
“Yes. But, well ... yes. I did.”
“But why?” Ifferon quizzed.
“I had to collect something. Something important.”
Yavün rummaged in his pockets and took out the answer to their questions. He held it up to Ifferon. It was the letter Ifferon had given to Melgalés, the one which Teron felt was so vital for him to deliver.
“The letter!” he cried. “How did you get this?”
“I ... collected it,” Yavün said.
“How? Where?”
Thalla’s grip on Yavün’s hand began to loosen, and she did not lean towards him now.
“Melgalés had it.”
“I know he had it,” Ifferon said. “I gave it to ... oh.”
“You ... you took this from him?” Thalla asked, letting go of his hand altogether.
“I had to,” Yavün said. “It wasn’t really me. I was watching me do it. It wasn’t me!”
“I knew it!” Herr’Don snapped. “A thief if ever there was one—and I’ve met many thieves. I’ve dealt with many thieves!”
“No, I didn’t steal it, I swear! The voice brought me here, and I took it because it was important.”
“You took it because you’re a thief!”
“Was ... is he ...?” Thalla tried, but the words would not come.
“Yes,” Yavün said. “I saw his body against the tree.”
Thalla broke into tears as soon as she heard the word body, and she turned away from them, cradling her face and catching the tears in the basin of her hands. Herr’Don tried to comfort her, but she shook off his embrace, and so he looked back to Yavün with a glower.
“He seemed to be guiding me,” Yavün said at last. “Guiding me back to him to get ...” He paused, as if he were hesitant to reveal something. “The letter,” he said at last, but there was something forced about his voice.
“What does it say, Ifferon?” Herr’Don asked, turning to him.
Ifferon opened it and took a deep breath.
“Dear Mehlalesh,
“It grieves me to bring ill news to you, especially since it has been so long since we last spoke, and we did not part as amiably as I might have liked. However, the urgency of this matter means I must put our quarrels aside and report a grave turn of events.
“Larksong was attacked, and I fear this is but the beginning of similar battles. I was forced to flee the monastery there which was my home for many years, and now I am on my way to Madenahan with Belnavar, and thence to Nahragor with forces to support the raid on the Black Bastion.
“During my flight from Larksong I learned of a terrible thing. The Adv
ersary’s attack on the beach had a darker aim than merely the conquering of our land. There were rumours that a great sorcerer had allied with the Nahliners and had found a way to summon Agon! I need not speak of how grave such a tiding is, for you are well aware of this. Should the Adversary ever set foot on this good earth, we would all be destroyed. None but Corrias would be able to match his might and vanquish him.
“This dark servant is working secretly in Nahragor, in the very fortress which the Garigút now move to lay siege to. I need not speak of how ill that battle will go, as the Garigút are no match for the forces of Nahragor, nor the Molokrán and their dark minions. These are looking for Ifferon. They are looking for him because they know that if he takes that Scroll to Nahragor, where the Summoner is making his move, the cleric can end the Call of Agon, can stop his summons from being fulfilled. I know not the means he must use to stop the Summoner, but undoubtedly there is a power of Telm still at hand.
“I leave this for your wise counsel to decide upon.
“Your ever faithful Brother in the Light,
“Teron.”
Ifferon sighed deeply. The others looked at him with grim faces. Even Thalla’s tears now ceased.
“What evil tidings,” Herr’Don said, and he almost faltered on the stairs. “The Call of Agon,” he added, and there was a tremor in the earth, as if the Beast had heard his words.
VIII – JOURNEY THROUGH ALIMSTAL
“Did he look peaceful?” Thalla asked as they left the Tower of Tol-Timíl behind them and headed north-west towards the many towns of Arlin.
“Yes,” Yavün said, lying. He saw the battered remains of the Master Magus, the crippled body amidst the crippled trees, the fallen beads in the blanket of blood upon the ground around him, and his cold, staring eyes. Those eyes stayed with Yavün, haunting his memory—they were open and starless, reflecting naught but the deep black of the pit of nightfall. It still seemed as if they were staring at him, even now as he attempted to force them out of his mind. “Peaceful,” he added at last, noticing Thalla’s intent and pleading gaze, one that almost mirrored that of Melgalés.
“We must reach Alimstal by nightfall,” Herr’Don said. “We cannot rest another day here, nor under the stars on the plains. If Teron’s words are true then we must seek out the Garigút and find a way to end the Call of Agon.”
“I can eat on the way,” Yavün said. “If it will quicken our journey.”
“It will,” Herr’Don replied. “I have most of our things packed already. We have little food, but I’m sure Alimstal has something for us to eat.”
“Or something to eat us,” Ifferon suggested. “If I have read my tales enough. We should be careful to avoid ambushes from the Shoradoni.”
“Shoradoni?” Yavün asked.
“Bull-men,” Thalla replied.
“We’ll see,” Herr’Don said. “I think favour sides with us today though, for the trees there are fair and they do not house the same darkness that dwells in the Rotwood. Alimstal is hunting ground, ripe for the spear and the sword, as the Knights of Issarí well know, for they sometimes come here to keep the Bull-men tribes down in number.”
“Why do they not kill them all?” Yavün questioned.
“Because they are useful for training,” Ifferon said.
“Yes,” Herr’Don said. “The Knights-in-Training are brought here to test their skills, for a Shoradon is a mighty enemy, but they are not yet in service to the Adversary, so they are less of a threat to Arlin than ... other forces.”
“Are they a threat to us?” Yavün asked, but neither Herr’Don nor Ifferon would answer. “Are they?”
“We shall see,” Herr’Don said at last.
“Let us hope that we do not see,” Ifferon said. “Whether we are a match for them or not. But it is not merely the Bull-men that I fear in those woods, for Alimstal is the property of the Knights, and they do not take kindly to trespassers.”
“They shall take kindly to me,” Herr’Don said. “Come! Ere night comes hastening.”
But night came and fell upon them within an hour, blotting out the remnants of the sun. It was not as dark as it had been in Ardún-Fé, and the company were glad of this. They were not stalked by shadows or beasts, and the air was calm. Alimstal Forest loomed ahead in the distance, a dark silhouette on the horizon against the dimming sky. Yet, as they drew closer to it, they could see that it was not dark at all, but bore a roof of golden-green leaves, beneath which was a thicket of plump bushes, and grass that had no doubt seen many a morning rainfall. All was full of vitality and life, and covered in a thick and sparkling dew that looked like honey from the skies. And it was sweet to the taste too, for the company began to bottle it for their journey ahead.
As the night deepened, they stopped to rest in a fair clearing. They ate a slack supper with minimal talk, for they were all still engrossed in the comfort the forest seemed to radiate. Sleep beckoned swiftly and they tucked in beneath their cloaks and blankets.
* * *
“Ifferon!” came a voice like a knife in Ifferon's ear. He awoke suddenly and sat up, finding Thalla crouching beside him.
“Oh, is it my watch already?” he asked. “I was having such a lovely dream.”
“No, it’s not time yet, but ... I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Oh? What is it?” he grumbled as he shook the sleep from him.
“I am feeling a little troubled. Well, more than usual.”
“Is it about ... you know, him.”
“Oh, so you know?” Thalla said, and she seemed relieved not to have to spell it out.
“I was there when it happened! I saw Melgalés as he fell.”
“Oh,” she said, pausing. “No, it’s not about him.”
“There is someone else?”
“You could say that.”
“Who is it?”
“Yavün.”
“Yavün? What about him?”
“Have you not noticed? He seems to look at me a lot, in odd ways, and tries to talk to me, but then backs away as though embarrassed.”
“Ah,” Ifferon said. “Well, yes, I have noticed that. But, you know, he is young. It is half-expected, is it not?”
“No, Ifferon, no, it’s not. And I find it a little unsettling—if also somewhat endearing.”
“So you think he likes you?”
“Well ... yes.”
“Do you like him?”
She averted her eyes, as if ashamed. “I ... I do not know. But that does not matter, Ifferon. You know that I am with Herr’Don. That kind of thing is more than frowned upon. Sure he is but a boy!”
“Well, barely come of age, yes, but he does have some older spirit in him.”
“That is what I worry about sometimes.”
“His older spirit?”
“The spirits in him. Well, the ones who talk through him. Melgalés used to tell me tales about people like that—portals, he called them. They allow forces, both good and bad, to enter them in spirit and manipulate their body. It takes great skill to master it, and I do not think Yavün is anywhere near that stage. I am worried for him.”
“As am I,” Ifferon said, looking towards the poet who was curled up by a tree like a sleeping child.
“But the thing is,” Thalla continued. “I feel as though I should not be this worried about him. I barely know him, and yet I feel a connection to him that I cannot fully describe.”
“Do you think it is love?”
“No, I cannot say. It has been too little a time to tell, and I dare not rush to conclusions, least of all while still betrothed to Herr’Don. Oh, he would kill Yavün if he found out! He does not like him already, that is clear, but this would really drive him over the edge.”
“I can imagine,” Ifferon said. “I think it would definitely be wise to keep this to ourselves for now. However, what happens if this is love? Are you considering leaving Herr’Don?”
“Oh, no, I ... well, I have not really thought about it much.
It is just such a tricky situation. I have been with him for nearly two years and still love him deeply. But there is something strange about him now, ever since a few months back. You see, he was a mercenary for the last few years, since his father threw him out of his Court. All the Royal Guards refused to hire him, until Teron sent word about a possible attack on Larksong, that is, so he was forced to be a sword-for-hire to make ends meet.”
“And you think this has gotten to him?”
“Well, not inherently, but yes—something about it is eating away at him. It was around three months ago when he was last hired, and he acted so strangely afterwards, so ... so guilty. That was when he refused to work as a mercenary again and tried to get back into the Guard, which eventually succeeded just in time for that attack. To be honest, I think Melgalés intervened to get him back in the forces, because he called a meeting with the King not long beforehand, and I am sure he managed to convince him to bring Herr’Don back. He needs to fight, you see—it is his life and dream; if you take that away from him, he would go insane—he just would not have anything else.”
“He would have you.”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
“If you stayed with him.”
“Well, that is the puzzle that plagues my mind. I just don’t know any more, and I don’t know why I have lost this certainty, because I have never felt conflicted like this before.”
“In the Olaghris,” Ifferon began, reminded of his many days of feigned preaching at the monastery, “it says all kinds of things about how a man and woman should stay together always since the day they both join hands, and that none should intervene to tear those two apart. As a Cleric of Olagh, I am expected to say ‘shame on you,’ but do you really think I will, or should?”
“Should, perhaps.”
“No, it is not my place to make judgements like that. Love is the only thing that matters here, for it is the only thing that can unite the divided, and if the love between you and Herr’Don is fading, then who am I to try to fan that flame?”
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 10