“Whenever any meddle with death, there is always danger,” Ifferon said. “But what other choice do we have? We invite danger now or wait for the greater dangers to arise unbidden.”
“Yes, yes,” Délin said. “So we make our choice to act, not wait.” His march seemed to have strengthened rather than weakened him. Ifferon knew that the Knights of Issarí had trained in a kind of meditative march, but it was so subtle that it only stood out in such harsh environments as the unforgiving heights of the Amreni Elé. His armour clinked methodically, as if it were marching on its own.
“To try and fail is better than to fail to try,” Rúathar said, digging deep into the snow with the trunks of his legs. “A flower always tries to bloom, even in the bleakest of winters. Often the flowers fail, but sometimes they succeed.”
“In Arlin we have a song for marching,” Délin said. “A song for the long journey of expectation, that trek across the plains towards the edge of war.” He took a deep breath and began to sing; the words were encouraging, but the tone was sombre.
On oceans blue, through gardens green,
O’er mountains white, through forests black,
On roads well mapped and paths unseen,
No hue of land can hold us back.
Down dip of vale, up climb of hill,
Through water wade, o’er sand or snow,
No weather woe depletes our will
To get to where we pledge to go.
Through blizzards tough and brambles thick,
In dark of mine or sludge of mire,
To paths forsworn we always stick,
Till journey’s end, we never tire.
“An inspiring piece,” Ifferon said, and he thought of Yavün, lost in the Chasm of Issarí, where no poetry could be heard. He did not look to Thalla, but knew well that she was thinking of the young poet too.
“Inspiring, true,” Rúathar said. “But you will all need a different kind of perseverance soon enough, for the true danger is not in the journey, but the destination. When we arrive at the Mountain Fortress, where we will begin the ceremony to restore Corrias to this world, we will be like a beacon to many evil forces. You have come from the siege on the Black Bastion, but now you will be the ones besieged, and we will have to hold off a great many assailants ere we are successful.”
Ifferon was not encouraged by this. He missed Herr’Don’s arrogance here, for undoubtedly he would have laughed at the notion of an enemy that could defy him, and his laugh would have been like an avalanche knocking the attackers from the mountain. Instead, the company was silent, trying to still their minds as many horrors threatened to creep in.
“Do we have an army?” Ifferon asked at last.
Rúathar shook his head; several small leaves fell from his autumnal scalp. “We Al-Ferian never were a large race, for there simply is no space here in the woods. We can expect little help from the Ferian, our closest neighbours, and any others who could help us, were they willing, are far away and must travel through enemy lands to get to us, unless they were to travel an even longer way around. We had powerful allies before in the form of the Magi, but most of them were called away several days ago for an urgent task in Boror. Now we have only one.”
For a moment Ifferon thought that Rúathar was alluding to Thalla, recognising her unseen potential, but he nodded towards Thúalim, who paid no heed to them. As much as Rúathar trudged through the land with large and heavy steps, Thúalim glided through, never wavering or faltering. Even the Beldarian about his neck barely stirred as he went.
“Why have the Magi left?” Thalla asked. “What task is greater than our own?”
“When we set out, our task was to find Théos and see why he never arrived at Nahragor to bolster the Garigút attack,” Rúathar said. “The Magi were called back by the King of Boror to deal with the threat of Larksong, where Agon was settling a stranglehold that threatened the country. Many are allied with us, but the Magi sect swore an oath to the Bororian line of kings long ago, and so that oath they keep. I do not know much about their task, but last I heard the intent was to seal off Larksong from the rest of Boror.”
“Seal it off?” Ifferon inquired. “Abandon it instead of saving it?”
“So it seems,” Rúathar responded.
“That sounds like something the King would do,” Ifferon said. “Rather than fight for it and free it from the armies that ravage the poor people there.”
“If indeed there are any people left to free,” Rúathar said. “But yes, such an approach is perhaps not the most noble.”
“There is no nobility in it at all,” Délin said. His grim eyes were like lanterns in his helm.
* * *
The Melting Meadows were a series of small hills that dotted the western ridge of the White Mountains. There the blanket of snow had been thrown off in the heat, revealing a sheet of frosty grass that crunched beneath their feet. A trickle of snow fell constantly, while a warm wind blew frequently from the forest in the west, leaving the land in a perpetual twilight between winter and spring.
The Al-Ferian tugged the sled across the grass for a long time, until the terrain began to become more rocky, and trees started to appear with their tangling roots. Then they emptied the sled and attached wooden wheels to the spokes on either side, capping them with wooden spikes to hold them in place. Both Ifferon and Thalla felt recovered enough to walk now, but Théos was placed back inside the sled-turned-cart, under the ever-watchful gaze of Délin.
The forest rose around them, and with it came a heat that the company had almost forgotten. The shivering memories of the White Mountains gave way as the wood grew thick, and the warmth was a comfort to their bodies, even if their minds would not be comforted. After a time the trees began to change. Ash and oak gave way to birch and rowan, and soon Rúathar was pointing to trees here and there, naming their species and even naming some individual trees which he knew well and had grown fond of.
“Almost every type of tree upon Iraldas can be found here,” he told them, and the excited tremor in his voice showed that he never tired of them. “They live in groves, and some trees like to mix with others. Here we see a lone hazel tree, which lives amidst the birch and rowan, for she is called Ara Galareleth, Mother Golden, and she looks after this part of the wood. No Ferian or Al-Ferian will dare take one of the hazelnuts that fall from her tree, for they are all her children.”
“What will happen to this forest?” Ifferon asked. He felt he did not need to specify that he meant when the enemy came through to hunt them down. There was a part of him that hoped that if it was not said, then it would not happen.
“Hopefully the wood will weather wars like it always has,” Rúathar said, “though it has not faced a major battle in some time. I am sure the trees, old as they are, remember the wars of ancient times, ones that happened long before the memories of our races began.
“But at worst the forest will be levelled, and it will be like the area we call the Stumps south-west of here. They are the remnants of an even greater forest from ancient times, where trees dwarfed mountains and peered beyond the clouds. They were titans of trees, and we call them the Perasalon, the Tree Lords. Note that we use a different word for those trees: peras, for they are so very different to the trees of Iraldas now, which we call al. They were from an age that not even the oldest tree here remembers, for it was the time of the Elad Éni, and the stories, which few dare tell, say that the Perasalon were caught between the war of the Céalari and the Elad Éni, and so they perished. This is where we get the word ‘perish’ in the Common Tongue, from peras, the trees that perished.”
After many more leagues and many more discourses on the nature and beauty of trees from Rúathar, all of which received the fervent attention of Ifferon and the other Al-Ferian, and a matching disinterest from Thalla and Délin, the company came out of the forest into a clearing dappled here and there with firs.
Beyond, standing like one of the Perasalon, was the Mountain Fortress, a col
ossal structure carved into the highest peak of the Brown Mountains, so named for the thick soil that grew there, nurtured by many rains, and crumbling down to sustain the forest valley below. The Al-Ferian called the mountain Abi-Enuth, and the striking stronghold that stood upon it would have been seen for miles, were it not for the tall wall of trees that spanned much further. The Mountain Fortress was a domed keep, but the centre of the roof was open to the sky. Its rock matched that of the mountain so perfectly that it seemed as if it had grown naturally, forming from some eruption of the volcanoes of old. Around the mountain were twelve stone doors, lining the passage upwards in a spiral. Each of these had the name of one of the trees that formed the Ferian and Al-Ferian calendar of the years, with the thirteenth, the oak, assigned to the Mountain Fortress itself.
“I see now why it earns its name,” Ifferon said, holding his hand above his eyes as he peered at the top of the bastion before him. It seemed to him that nothing could assail this fortress, that it could stand against tide and time—and yet he knew painfully that this was not true, that if Nahragor could be so wounded by the Garigút, then Abi-Enuth could be maimed by the Beast.
They travelled tirelessly that day, for the sight of the Mountain Fortress looming tall before them gave them new strength. There were many among the Al-Ferian who yearned to be within the safety of its walls, and Ifferon could fully empathise. The great shadow the fortress cast upon the land around did not daunt them, but drove them forth to escape the greater shadows of the world at large.
By nightfall they reached the first gate that led up the side of the mountain. It was blocked by a large boulder, which had been carved with many shapes and figures: swirling spirals, glyphs of trees, and crude depictions of Al-Ferian in battle.
“Our history is carved into the mountain,” Rúathar explained. “In every Doorstone, or Illondaneth in Ferian, is contained the accounts of the Thirteen Ages of the Trees, and along the side of the passages that lead up are contained the imprint of many other matters that are close to Al-Ferian hearts. Inside the mountain, in the deeper passages that few have travelled, are the even more arcane aspects of our race, where we came from, and where we are going.”
Ifferon was entranced by the history of the Al-Ferian, and even in their present danger and their greater quest, a large part of him wanted to know more, to study the old tomes and dusty manuscripts, to sit at his desk like he had done for so many years at Larksong, with no troubles beyond his studies. He thought that Délin, as another lover of history, might want to know these tales also, but the knight seemed far away in solemn thought. Ifferon then noticed that Mathal was looking at Rúathar eagerly, and she seemed less interested in the history that lined the walls, yearning more for the safety within them.
Rúathar then took a handful of nuts and twigs from the large pouch around his waist, beside the smaller pouch that contained the acorn that housed his life. He counted through the nuts and put a few back, before tossing the rest over the boulder-blocked gate. Ifferon could hear them hit the ground, and then he heard muffled voices on the other side. In time, the boulder was rolled back, revealing a small group of Al-Ferian guards, wearing armour like nothing Ifferon had seen before. It looked as though it was carved from the thick bark of ancient trees, and yet it seemed as strong as steel. The guards bowed low as Rúathar passed. One handed him the nuts he had cast over, which identified who he was.
They climbed the spiralling path around the mountain, which grew steeper as they passed each gate. Rúathar did not need to identify himself at each of these, for word of his coming had spread on the tongues of colourful birds that fluttered to and fro. Ifferon was half disappointed that he could not stop to inspect the numerous carvings at each of the remaining gates, but the other half of him was happy that he would soon be inside the formidable walls of the Mountain Fortress, where he could rest and recover. In some ways it felt like re-entering the cloistered walls of the monastery, where there was a feeling of sanctuary and safety. He hoped it would not end like Larksong did. By the swift pace of those around him, it seemed that most of the others were also eager for this part of their journey to be over. Délin did not betray his feelings, hiding beneath his metal mask, but his pace suggested he was the most eager—not for rest, but for the beginning of the ceremony through which Théos might, perhaps, be restored to life. He glanced at times at the body in the cart, as if to see if the life might already be returning.
As soon as they entered through the final stone archway, a gigantic boulder was rolled into place. The sound of the stone crushing every little crag until they melded tightly echoed across the forest. In answer came the sounds of other stones being set in place in the other eleven arches that lined the passage up the mountain. Then silence fell upon all in anticipation.
“So we have come to a turning point in the war of Iraldas,” Rúathar said. As he spoke, several Al-Ferian approached the cart and tried to take Théos out, but Délin stepped in and stopped them, pushing them aside and lifting the boy out himself. They did not fight him, but gestured towards a stone table that stood in the centre of the fortress. He placed Théos there gently, brushing his hair to one side and wiping a bit of dirt from beneath his left eye.
The Wisdomweavers emerged from a small storehouse, which seemed like the most unlikely of places to store them. They wore long robes, several coloured stoles with depictions of trees, and large and elaborate hats made of branches and twigs. Some carried books and scrolls, while others carried various ritual implements: chalices, patens, censors and aspergilla, and even stranger tools that Ifferon could not recognise from his time at the monastery. Upon their faces the Wisdomweavers wore intense and foreboding frowns, and in their eyes they carried a weight of worry, so that a mere glance from them seemed to distribute the weight to all they looked upon.
“The gods gave us life,” Rúathar continued as the Al-Ferian priests spread out around the stone plinth. “And now we will return the favour.”
VII – REMNANTS OF AN ANCIENT WORLD
The ritual began immediately, for the Wisdom-weavers needed time beyond count. The ritual was difficult and tiresome, even for a boy, and yet it was ten times as much for a god, and made all the more complicated by the fact that both were housed as one. Extra time needed to be spent separating the two, and time further still to lure one of the souls back to life. It was time that many felt they did not have.
“If fate would have Corrias dead, then we must fight against fate,” Rúathar said. “To the Céalari we are not powerful, but there are more ancient powers than they. If we are to overcome these obstacles, we must make use of the relics of the Elad Éni.”
“Surely there is great risk in this,” Ifferon said, not knowing what the relics were, but having heard enough about the Elad Éni to fear what they might be. “Are these not powers beyond imagination? Do we not risk unleashing even greater evil into this world?”
“You should fear this less than I, Child of Telm.”
“Or fear it more,” Ifferon said. “For Telm knew the Elad Éni. We do not.”
“That is why you must come with me, along with all the Children of Telm who refuge here. We will take the tunnels that lead through the mountain to the Stumps, where we must collect wood from the Perasalon to create a new Ferhassan, a new life-house, for the soul of Corrias.”
“What will happen to Théos?” Délin asked.
“His body will be buried in the woods,” Rúathar said.
“What will happen to his soul?”
Rúathar paused. A leaf dropped from his hair and rocked slowly back and forward in the wind as it fell to the ground. “I do not know,” he said. “Perhaps it will go to Halés.”
“So you know not where you condemn him,” the knight said sharply.
“I only know what we must do to avoid condemning ourselves,” the Al-Ferian replied.
“What of the boy’s parents?” Délin asked. “Where are they, and why did they not fight for him?”
“T
hey are dead,” Rúathar said. “Both of them were Children of Telm, and they knew well that they were on Agon’s list. They knew their child would be also. But they knew something more, for they knew the importance of sacrifice, of giving something up for a greater good. So they gave up their child, and they never named him, because they knew they would never know him.”
* * *
While Rúathar and the other Al-Ferian prepared for the trek through the tunnels to one of the most ancient places in Iraldas, Thalla sat with Elithéa, whom the Al-Ferian agreed to unmuzzle, and Ifferon sat with Délin, who needed no muzzle to keep him silent and solemn. For a time Ifferon did not say anything, but instead looked awkwardly about. Finally he felt he needed to console the knight, if only to console himself from the oppression of silence.
“It is the right thing to do,” Ifferon said. The words sounded hollow to him.
“Is it?” the knight asked.
“I feel it is, if my feelings are worth anything.”
“I don’t doubt that they are,” Délin said, “but I feel differently, and I wonder then if my feelings are in error because the rest of the world seems to want something different, or if the world itself errs and I must watch it fall.”
“We can watch, or we can act,” Ifferon replied. “We can try to save it.”
Délin removed his helmet and looked straight into Ifferon’s eyes. He looked more worn than he ever had. His face appeared more aged, his hair greyer and longer, and his beard bushier and more unkempt, for his small shaving blade lay ignored in a strap upon his shin. Dark circles surrounded his eyes, like the antithesis of a halo, and his eyes themselves were darker still. Ifferon dared not look too deep into them, for fear he might never escape the sorrow that lived within.
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 38