“I am Elilod, Earl of Lylinel,” the man revealed. “My name.”
“Yavün Arri,” the stableboy replied, and he instinctively extended his hand.
Elilod backed away, but the woman appeared to smile. She took it with both hands, but did not shake it. “A pleasure, Yavün. I am Narylal.”
“Have I been captured?” the youth asked.
“Caught in our net,” Elilod said. “Like all the fishes who end up in the Great Lake.”
Yavün’s shoulders sunk. “So I suppose I will go to some dungeon then.”
Elilod seemed confused. “One does not take a fish from the sea and put it in a dungeon.”
“But you are Taarí,” Yavün said. “Agon rules you.”
Elilod grew angry then, banging his fist on a nearby stone table. Water splashed away from the impact. “We are the Taarí Rebels,” he said. “We do not serve the Beast. We defy him every day.”
Yavün was relieved, but he was still unsettled by these creatures, which he had only heard about in tales. In Larksong he often mused that he would love to meet them, to see them up close, but the reality was less exciting—the reality was frightening.
Elilod looked at him oddly with his bulbous eyes; his eyes were much larger than those of Narylal, though hers were also bigger than the eyes of the other races he had seen. Yavün supposed it was an adaptation to the dark of the caverns of the ocean depths, but he thought also that there might be some other reason more bizarre, like an ancient magic or the strange concoctions of the gods.
“We have been in contact with resistance forces among the Nahamoni,” Elilod said. “Not all serve Agon willingly, and some do not serve him at all, at great risk to their own lives. Yet the fish who feed the shark will one day be eaten—so starve the shark, I said, and I say it again.”
“I guess Agon is the shark,” Yavün mused.
“You will not guess it if and when you encounter him,” Elilod replied. “We will all be little fishes then, no matter how big we think we are at sea today.”
“How then do all the little fishes kill the shark?” Yavün asked.
“By swarming the shark and suffocating it under the mass of many. Together, if all the races of Iraldas unite, we can destroy that solitary force that we call Agon.”
“And if the people do not unite?”
Elilod paused. “If we do not unite, then we will all drown.”
* * *
“The youth,” Melgalés said, shaking his head in frustration. “Of all who could take my Soul Pendant, it is a youth.”
“The one furthest in years from this final resting place,” the Gatekeeper said. “Though his journey here could be swifter.”
“I would not wish that,” Melgalés said.
“Are you certain?” the Gatekeeper probed. “The swifter he comes here, the swifter you are freed from your purgatory.”
Melgalés was not amused with the choice. It felt like the kind of predicament an illuding spirit might present, a puzzle or riddle through which the dead might gain some satisfaction in their lifelessness.
“Can my soul not be freed if he breaks the Beldarian?”
“Yes, but his soul is now tied to it too. If he breaks it, he will die. You will only enter the Halls when he enters them also. The question is: will you use your ability to commune with him to aid him in life, to help him avoid the many pitfalls of youth, or will you seek to trick him into destroying the very thing that now houses his soul, trick him into bringing about his own death, that you might no longer be imprisoned.”
Melgalés opened his mouth to answer, but he found that the choice was not so easy to make, that he might decide to help Yavün now, but that decades as one of the Waiting might turn his heart against the youth, who carried the key to the Magus’ prison about his neck. Perhaps then his compassion would not be so forthcoming, and perhaps he would do all he could to get the Beldarian destroyed, to end Yavün’s life and free his own.
* * *
Yavün sat with Narylal alone, for Elilod said he had something of importance to attend to. He submerged himself in a small pool of water at the back of the cavern, and Yavün spent a moment watching the light from his body shimmering beneath the surface, until finally he could not see it any longer.
“Who do you miss?” Narylal asked.
Yavün did not respond.
“The waters in your eyes betray you,” the Taarí said. “At times they are tranquil, and at other times they are turbulent, like a storm at sea.”
Yavün looked away in embarrassment; he did not want any to know his feelings through his eyes, to know his sorrow before he could dare to speak it. Narylal gave him time, but eventually he mustered the courage to speak: “I did not know I could or ever would love, and I knew less that I could or would lose the person I love.”
“Did she drown?” Narylal asked.
Yavün shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. Hopefully not. She fell with me. They all fell with me.”
“You were the only one we reeled in recently.”
“Then maybe I am the only one who survived.”
He felt suddenly more despondent than he ever had, even more than the night when all his horses disappeared from his stables, when Teron told him that the Gormoloks had come down from Arlin and eaten them all, despite Yavün’s suspicions that this was not the case, and his overpowering sorrow that maybe they had faced an even more horrid fate.
Elilod returned, and he seemed more restless than before, as if he had been given news he did not want to hear. He looked at Narylal with his widened eyes, and she seemed to know what he had heard, as if they had discussed it long before, and Elilod had just now received confirmation.
“He is dead then,” Narylal said.
Yavün turned to them. “Who is dead?” he asked, but they did not respond to him. He wondered if he was too eager with his question, if he had not shown the proper respect, but he did not like being told he could not know something that others around him knew readily.
“He may live again,” Elilod said. “They are bringing him to the Mountain Fortress. Now, we must act. We have much to do.”
He grabbed Yavün by the hand, and the youth did not like the touch, for it was perpetually moist. The grip was strong, however, like the strength of the sea, or a waterfall—or a gorge like that in Issarí’s Chasm. He pulled Yavün to his feet and began to drag him towards the entrance of the cavern. There was anger in his grip and desperation in his strides.
“Where are you bringing me?” Yavün asked. “Do I not have time to rest?”
“Rest?” Elilod asked as they walked. “You have slept long enough. Now you must work.”
Yavün began to suspect that maybe Elilod’s assurance that he was not a prisoner was all a ruse, that really these were the evil Taarí he had heard about, and that he would be put to work in the Slavelands, where bodies became the new soil of a ground that was fertilised by death.
“Time is always against us,” Narylal said.
“You can blame Chránán for that,” Elilod replied. “I did not know quite his power until I was locked down here with the others. Even now so far from the Void, he extends a potent reach.”
“Who is he?” Yavün inquired. He devoured all the tales he could, half-reading and half-imagining he was a character in all he read. Yet he had not heard of Chránán, the Lord of the Shadow of Time, or Henishanad, the Hundred-handed, or Essadiraldi, the Devourer of Worlds, or his monstrous pet, the Gormathrong. Narylal whispered snippets about all of these to him, away from the ears of Elilod. At first Yavün perked his ears to each new name, but after a time he began to feel a great malaise come about him, as if the very thought of the Elad Éni might free them from the Void, might unleash horrors worse than Agon upon the world.
“What work must I do?” he asked as they led him to the end of the cavern, where sunlight streamed into the chamber, causing a shimmer in the waters of the Taarí bodies. He wondered if they would ask him to look after the stables,
or recite a poem, or perhaps even learn to fight properly and live out the adventures he always dreamed of, or just till the land until his body bled like all the other slaves of Agon.
“Yavün Arri, Avatar of Ariavar,” Elilod said. “Hold out your hand.”
Yavün reluctantly complied, and he knew suddenly the reason for his reluctance as Elilod sliced a blade across it, cutting a gash across the palm. Yavün yelped and backed away, clasping his hand against his chest. He looked at the others with expectant eyes. Then he looked to the ground where the blood had fallen into a pool of water. The blood turned from red to blue.
“The fates have sent you to us then,” Elilod said, “and not before we need you.”
“What is this? What are you talking about?” Yavün asked. He felt like he was being ushered into a role he did not expect or want, that the great burden of responsibility was about to be forced upon his shoulders, and that his dreams of adventure would be buried beneath it.
“Your blood is more than Man,” Elilod said. “You have the blood of a Céalar in you. You call him Olagh, but we have always called him Telm.”
“A Child of Telm,” Narylal said.
Yavün’s mind began to swim. The names and thoughts mixed and mingled like little fishes of their own, and he felt dizzy from the announcement, despite the feeling deep down inside him that he was different from other people. Different, he thought. Yet the same as Ifferon.
XI – HOME SWEET HOME
Herr’Don dozed uneasily. Days passed in the reverie of recovery, where the waves of the body washed in, and there was pain. Then the waves of the mind washed in, and there was the dull sense of knowing that pain existed somewhere, in some other place or time, and there it was agony. The barbed teeth of the saw still seemed to bite, first his flesh, and then his mind, and then as days began to blur together, the teeth were but a memory—but the memory still stung, as if it too were barbed.
Not once while Herr’Don lay in his stupor did Herr’Gal come to him. Not one did the King call for him. Not once did his father stand by his side, to hold his hand or kiss his brow, or whisper of love, or simply just stand there to show by his presence alone that he cared.
Yet Herr’Don remembered a figure standing there, hand in hand, whispering encouragement. On one side Edgaron stood guard, watching his life, holding his hand as if it were a disappearing thread. On the other side stood Belnavar, another warden, but he could not hold his hand. Indeed, there was no hand to hold. Yet the shimmering figure, the phantom friend, still stood there, as if to remind him of that dark place where the thread of life will lead.
Edgaron held him, as he often did when they were children and Herr’Don raced from his father’s room in tears, a shimmer of his own to the cooks and the cleaners who wandered the corridors like moving statues. Edgaron was there for him as ever, that one pillar of support in a castle of many falling pillars.
Fever was his other companion, holding him as closely as Edgaron did, rocking him in the evil hours of the night. Sweat lined his body, building on his brow where Edgaron had kissed him. The night yawned on, and the darkness lingered, and the stifle sauntered in his body like a grudge, that one gift his father had given him.
Sleep finally came when dawn broke in with its comforting rays, and Herr’Don dreamed he was a child again, sitting on the battlements with Edgaron, their feet dangling over the edge, high above the heads of the people of Madenahan. They talked and they laughed, and sometimes they just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, their heads tilted together in repose. This was their hideaway from the halls of Ilokmaden, their sanctuary from the smothering stone. They were as gargoyles on the roof, scaring away their solitude.
Edgaron rarely left his side as he slept, and somehow Herr’Don knew this in his soul, and he felt he needed to know it, needed to know that it was not just him and Belnavar. Edgaron should have been on duty, and to fail to show up before the chief guard Mendran for inspection every morning would have earned him time in the stocks. Luckily Edgaron’s mother Alrah was Mendran’s fascination, and though Edgaron and he despised each other, the chief guard’s obnoxious attention was often held by another.
Herr’Don answered Edgaron’s whispers many times, but they were not the same conversations. Edgaron could barely make out the Prince’s muffled words, but always he whispered back some token of comfort. He reminded him of their time together when they were young, and he told him of the rumours in the Keep, and of any humorous incidents he encountered as a guard. The endless hours were worth it when Herr’Don smiled from the halfway house of sleep.
* * *
By the third day, Herr’Don was showing signs of recovery. The rest and the presence of Edgaron were a source of sustenance, but soon the doctor insisted that he must eat, that he could not live off his plump frame forever. Edgaron almost took slight at the suggestion, but he made no comment, knowing well the wrath of Doctor Olbar and his strange experiments.
“I recommend soft food for now,” Olbar said, one eye on the Prince and the other on Edgaron, as if he knew that Herr’Don would pay no heed, while Edgaron paid enough for the both of them. “You used to like mashed bananas when you were a boy, if I remember. That would be a good start.”
“I’ll ask my mother to prepare something,” Edgaron said.
“Good,” the doctor replied. “Just what I thought.” Olbar was extremely clinical in his communication and his mannerisms, to the point of clipping his words and turning sharply as if he were upon a coal rail on the floor. Yet when they were young, Herr’Don and Edgaron had seen him in his room through the keyhole, languishing with half a dozen women, and there was nothing clinical about him then.
“His arm …” Edgaron began, but he could not continue. He was glad that Herr’Don was still dazed, that the fumes of the laracof leaf still settled in his lungs.
“It was a clean cut,” Olbar said, emphasising clean, as if to applaud his own work. Edgaron knew well that not all of Olbar’s work could be so rewarded.
“And there was no saving it?”
“We saved the patient,” Olbar stated. “That is good enough.”
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing, Edgaron. I have studied medicine in the four corners of Iraldas, and I have seen what they do further abroad. Herr’Don is lucky he is alive.”
“The King won’t like it,” Edgaron said.
“Then he will send Herr’Don away, as he always has.”
“But it’s different when he’s a cripple.”
“No need to play coy, Edgaron. You are not a boy any more. To the King Herr’Don was always a cripple.”
* * *
It was a week before Herr’Don was allowed to leave his bed. Edgaron was frequently called away, but he returned soon after, having made some excuse or traded promises and favours with his colleagues in the guard. The longest time he spent away was when he went to collect the Prince’s meals from the kitchen.
“You are too good to him,” Alrah said, splashing a frothy soup into a large wooden bowl. She was head cook, a role that needed no announcement, for she was of large frame from the endless tasting of meals. She was dwarfed only by the King himself, who received the majority of meals not completely tasted by Alrah.
“He has no one else,” Edgaron said, scalding his hands as he cradled the bowl.
Alrah shook her head, and her short, bushy brown hair shook like a nest in the breeze. Her plump features billowed as she walked, but what she lacked in elegance she made up for in warmth. Her smile was so well known that the handful of children in the Keep called her Granny Grin, but they also had other names for her when they had been shooed out of her kitchen.
“He will be the death of you,” she said. For once, there was no smile.
Edgaron looked up from the bowl, where he had been staring as if it could tell his fortune, and he knew that his eyes betrayed his feelings. Herr’Don had been his closest childhood friend, but his growing eccentricity separated them when the King could no
longer tolerate the embarrassment. Edgaron would have tolerated anything—even death.
Alrah ambled over to him and held her pudgy hands to his face. “Son, you are a gentle soul, and Herr’Don is in need of someone like you, but he has his own path, and sometimes there are places you just can’t follow.”
Edgaron lowered his eyes. He knew her words were true, but logic has no meaning when listened to by the heart. He had lost Herr’Don many years before, when they were both still in their teens, and he thought he had come to terms with that; the Prince’s sudden re-emergence was like the breaking of a brittle dam.
“You know I won’t stop you,” Alrah said. “I’ll offer a few crumbs of wisdom, if I have any left, but I won’t force you to eat them.”
Edgaron gave a flicker of a smile. It was a feature he might have inherited from his mother, but the world seldom saw it, for sorrow was the regent of his face. A tiny curve of his lips was sometimes all he could muster, and it was a pale shadow of the joyous smirks of youth.
Alrah tapped him on the nose with a wooden spoon, a habit he remembered for all his life. She did it with many people to show she liked them. A variety of broken spoons hiding in the cupboards were the only witnesses of what happened to those she did not like. Many had amassed from Mendran’s frequent visits to the kitchen.
“Run along now,” she said softly, and she smiled broadly. “That soup will be getting cold. Better bring him some bread too.” She snatched a large loaf of bread from the pantry and quickly sliced it in half, before handing it to Edgaron.
He gave another diminished smile before turning to leave. Before he reached the door, he stopped and turned back. “What about the King?” he asked. “He is going to make things hard for Herr’Don.”
The broken spoons almost rattled in the cupboard in anticipation. “Don’t you worry about the King,” she replied. “I’ll take care of him.”
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 44