“There is a rumour of something coming,” the Gatekeeper said. “And perhaps it is Agon, or perhaps it is something, or someone, else.”
“If the rumour came without a name, it is useless to me,” Melgalés said. “Yes, useless.”
“It does not need to have a name to come forth, to crawl from the depths.”
“But Agon has a name,” Melgalés said.
“He does?” the Gatekeeper asked, and he almost smiled. “You call him Agon. No one knows what he calls himself. No one wants to know, not even the Elad Éni, for who knows what his true language is, what the words mean in that language, and what powers are behind those words? Even his creator, Molok, never knew his name, for he never gave him one. To him Agon was just a weapon designed to bring down the gods, and he turned out to be a very successful weapon, bringing down even Molok himself, who lives on only in Agon—as just another painful moment in the eternal torment of the Beast.”
Melgalés shuddered at the thought. Part of him was glad that Molok was consumed by Agon, for the Magus felt that Molok got what he deserved. Another part, which seemed more wise, recognised that this simply made Agon more powerful, that everything that Molok was, and much of him was evil, became part of the Beast. Thus Agon grew so much in strength that he could not be killed, only subdued in his fiery prison deep in Halés, where Melgalés felt it was not deep enough.
* * *
Yavün was brought out of the cavern to where the underground river led, straight into the body of the Great Lake, which was so big that it seemed to his eyes that it must actually be a sea. He was given some time alone to come to terms with all he had been told, and part of him wanted to be alone, and another part yearned desperately for the company of others, and the company of one in particular, whom he felt he barely knew, and yet knew better than any other.
He sat upon a boulder near the lake and stared into its depths. He could see the shimmers of Taarí swimming deep beneath, and he shuddered from the memory of the mauling hands at the Chasm of Issarí. He sighed, and his breath made little ripples on the water’s surface, like the gods might make waves upon the oceans. Then he recited aloud a poem he had been formulating in his mind:
When I was young, the world seemed younger too.
With widened eyes I basked in all I saw:
The grass was greener, sky was brightest blue,
Like paintings with no blemish or no flaw.
A fledging world for one entrapped in youth,
A world that time would show far from the truth.
The stables were with horses full to brim,
Yet still I knew them each by their own names.
I cleaned and combed, and fed in light and dim,
And played in fields with them the equine games.
I never grumbled at my chores, which were
To me not labour hard, nor work unfair.
When night drew in, upon the stars I glanced
And dreamed of distant lands, far-off places
To which I yearned to travel, now entranced
By where the horses go to in their races,
Or from where they in their wild youth first came—
Adventure was a beast I’d yet to tame.
The seasons seemed to teach me life and death.
The flowers sprung, the horses birthed new;
Then winter spoke through autumn its own threat,
And came upon the old, and took and slew.
The change seemed harsh, but I adapted well
To cycles known—the seasons rose and fell.
The summers had more hours than I could count;
I spent my wage of time with foal and friend,
Till time itself seemed thin—no large amount
Could thaw the soul and make the winters end.
The days passed by and through my fingers slipped—
I found myself for this change ill equipped.
The sky began to dull and clouds appeared;
The grass seemed faded, eaten by the mares
That I at once cared for, and once revered,
But now left to their doom, for doom was theirs—
By the will of gods, in their care instead:
The colts and fillies with the adults dead.
Still young in flesh, but older now in mind,
I’ve found the world lost much of its allure,
As if the gods have from this world resigned
And left us with a curse without a cure.
Were my youthful eyes once with roses veiled,
Or do the thorns now blur, my sight curtailed?
Adventure was a promise to a child
That wonders were over every hill,
That beauteous sights and sounds lived in the wild—
My heart a jug, a pail that naught could fill.
The pledge was broken, trick instead of treat,
The gift of disappointment and defeat.
In place of all then promised I found pain;
Instead of lands of awe, a barren waste.
My thirst for knowledge quenched, my hunger slain,
And of this world I did not like the taste.
I yearn that I may be a boy again,
That I’d not have to know this world of men.
Yavün sighed once more. Another ripple struck the water, followed by a tear. He was not aware that Elilod was watching and listening, that the Taarí had better sight and hearing than all the other races in Iraldas. Elilod approached him, and Yavün regained his composure, wiping the tears from his eyes.
“Why do you weep, little fish?” Elilod asked.
“What is there not to weep for?”
“The good that remains.”
“This is not what I expected,” Yavün explained. “I wanted to explore the world and learn of its secrets and mysteries, but I didn’t think I would find the darkness and evil that I discovered. The flowers are trampled and the beaches are overrun. I did not get to look at a map by a fireside to see where my friends and I would embark, but was forced along a grim, dark road with people I did not even know. Now I understand why Ifferon did not want this, did not want the burden of being a Child of Telm. Yet I have learned the lesson too late, for now I’m supposed to carry this burden also. It’s just … none of this is what I hoped for.”
“None of us hope for darkness and evil,” Elilod said. “But we face it all the same. If injustice appears, then we fight it with justice. If evil emerges, then we battle it with good.”
“But what is the point of it all? If the world is such a bad place, why try to save it?”
“Is it a bad place?” Elilod asked. He pointed to the Great Lake, which spanned for miles around. “Would an evil world allow such a beautiful body of water to exist?” Then he pointed to the mountains in the distance, which seemed from here like little hills. “Would an evil world let the mountains tower, or would its dark designers put dungeons there instead?”
Yavün nodded slowly. “I suppose.”
“There is no supposing, little fish. This world was not made by Agon, nor by Molok, nor even by the Céalari. We sculpted the mountains and filled the lakes, true enough, but this world was here for us to sculpt. It was made by a force and power beyond all things, which goes without name or attribute, for it is indefinable. Neither male nor female, and yet both. Neither living nor dead, and yet all things simultaneously. There are some who pray to me, but it is to that power, that force beyond and behind everything, that I pray to. I honour it by honouring the world it created, for without this world, and I mean Iraldas, Halés and Althar combined, none of us would exist.”
“I guess,” Yavün said.
“You guess, little fish, but I know—and you will know it too soon enough.”
Yavün pondered for a moment the power behind and beyond all things, but his mind could not conceive of it, so he settled his attention on what that power had created: the towering mountains and the endless lake. He stared into the water, and he saw his own
reflection, and yet it also seemed to him that it was not his eyes staring back, but those of the lake itself. He thought then of the lake Délin had brought the company to, and the lonely Lady who lived there.
“Why don’t you reveal yourself to Issarí?” he asked. “Why do you let her think that you are dead? It seems so cruel.”
“Is it cruel to want the person you love to not risk their life for you?” Elilod asked. “Is it cruel to want them to not get involved in the battles you must face? It is better she think I am dead than she be dead herself.”
“But maybe she can help.”
“She is helping. The Knights of Issarí are empowered by her. She gives counsel to those in need. But it takes its toll. You have no idea, little fish, what it is like for the Céalari who are trapped here. This is not our home, and we can never return there. We are left to die as refugees in this world. Yet it pains us more, for it is as if you, a Man, were forced to live your life in Halés, the Underworld, instead of living in Iraldas, the World. So it is to us, that Iraldas, as beautiful as it might be, is the Underworld to the immense beauty of Althar.”
“What will happen to you?” Yavün asked.
“There are some who no longer believe in us, and others who do not want to believe. In ages past we could wander to and fro, and the people of Iraldas knew their gods, and we knew them, and it was a matter of knowledge, not belief. But now those bridges are broken, those links cut. The roots no longer reach down and the flames no longer burn. Those trapped in Althar can do naught but watch. The few of us trapped down here will die off in time, and then what? For now the Céalari can still be felt within the world, but this will not last forever, and when we fade out, what proof will there be that we ever existed? This world will then truly have been inherited by mortal races, just as the Céalari inherited it from those who went before. Even Corrias is now bound up in its fate, for he can never return to Althar. And what happens when the blood of great men grows further diluted? Lesser men will awake, and they will find themselves without honour or strength, and the world will be a pale shadow of what it was.”
“For one attempting to console me, you have your share of gloom.”
Elilod looked up; his eyes were like vast oceans, and in them was the memory of the creation of the waters with Issarí. “I pine for what was, but I act for what is, little fish. There is still much beauty in the world, and we must preserve it. If I die that many others might live, than I will die happy, even if that happiness is nothing like it was in Althar. If my waters are dried up so that the world might still be watered, then the long and arduous battle of this world is worth fighting.”
* * *
The days and nights passed for Melgalés, and he hardly knew it, for he could not see the stars or the moon, nor the blue sky or the sun. All he could see was the rocky walls of his prison, and those few lonely souls that stood by the steps of the Gate, seemingly oblivious to him. He wondered why he could see them if they could not see him, and he grumbled intensely when some of them were admitted to the Halls, while he remained on the doorstep.
At times he sat upon the steps, and he grew tired of watching his surroundings, so he closed his eyes and saw an immense and terrible fire. Through the fire he saw Yavün sitting upon the Tower of Tol-Timíl, clutching the Beldarian like a toy.
I am the spark in my consummation, he thought, and he heard the words louder in his mind, as if it were the echo of a memory, as if he had spoken them aloud. He saw Yavün turn to him through the fire, until finally he could see him through the blaze. Then he knew that Yavün, sitting in a tower high above the world, that was itself high above the great depths of Halés, had heard his words.
* * *
Yavün found it difficult to sleep, for when he lied down and closed his eyes, his mind raced and his thoughts rambled. When eventually he faded into slumber, his dreams were either too dark, at the depths of the ocean, or too bright, at the depths of a fiery place.
He began to hear voices in his dreams, and some were the voices of people he once knew, and might never know again, and some were the voices of fire, from a tongue flickering like a flame, speaking of things he could barely understand, and rarely remember on waking.
At times he found himself waking in the night, as if the fires had scalded him awake, and he sat up under the night sky, where few stars were shining. Elilod and Narylal were not there, and he had no idea how or where they slept. Sometimes he felt dreadfully alone, and he clutched the Beldarian for comfort. At other times he felt he was not alone at all, and this filled him with an even greater dread.
* * *
Time passed differently for the dead, if it passed at all. Melgalés knew little of what was transpiring in the world above, except that which the Gatekeeper revealed, and he wondered if there was any truth to the words, or if the Gatekeeper was simply a spirit profiting from his reaction to all that he heard, like one who delights in the misery of others.
He heard that Corrias had incarnated in the world, and that he had died, and it seemed that the Gatekeeper took great pride in this fact, for he had no love of Corrias, and he made that clear time and time again. He called him Lastradin, the Betrayer, and he said that the Céalari had done well on Iraldas, masking their atrocities and making the people think that they alone were the forces of good.
He heard also of Ifferon’s plight, that he had survived, and with him still was Thalla, for whom he felt a great regret that he could no longer finish her training. He was concerned that without guidance she might ultimately destroy herself, and he hoped that others, at least, could keep her from the flame.
He heard then of Teron’s actions, and he was not overly surprised, for he never liked the man. Yet he did not think he would serve Agon, when he only sought to serve himself. Melgalés wondered what promise Agon had made to Teron, and if he had kept it, and if, indeed, it was a promise worth keeping. He was glad to hear that Teron had died, that he could no longer manipulate the people of Iraldas, but he was sad to hear of how much damage he had done.
“So I am here because of him,” Melgalés said.
“You are dead because of him,” the Gatekeeper corrected. “You are here on the doorstep because of Yavün, because of his theft of your Beldarian from your corpse.”
* * *
Yavün was brought to a part of Telarym just north of the Great Lake. He was bundled on a small raft, but Elilod and Narylal refused to board it, opting instead to swim alongside him. They entered the water like a crashing wave, and the force of it propelled the raft ahead. In time Yavün realised that their liquid hands extended from the water and held either side of the vessel, pulling him along as they swam.
When the three reached the other side of the Lake, a matter of many hours, they emerged into a small forested area that bore the remnants of the Perasalon trees of old. These were smaller than those in Alimror, but to Yavün’s eyes they seemed vast beyond measure, and he found himself staring up to the top of the stumps as if they were the peaks of mountains.
“This is the only part of the Stumps that extends into our land,” Elilod said. “Ancient trees from before my time. Most were destroyed, and those few that remained were cut down by ancestors of the Taarí, who did not know enough to value and preserve them. They are cut off from their sisters and brothers in Alimror, so they have lost much of their majesty and power, but there is still an echo of the past in them.”
“If this is an echo,” Yavün said, “then I doubt my ears could withstand the roar.”
“Few have heads high enough to hear,” Narylal said, “or to see where the treetops used to be.”
“Why did you bring me here?” Yavün asked.
“For this,” Elilod said. He pointed deep into the forest, where the greens grew darker and the browns turned to black. Yavün could not see what Elilod was pointing to, but he could feel something that lurked there, that made the other things that lurked there feel uneasy.
“Today you will earn the respect of spi
rits, like all spirits respected Ariavar,” Elilod said, and his voice boomed. “Today you will learn to control your ability as a Portal. Today the Shadowspirits will not control you. You will control them.”
* * *
In time Melgalés approached a great opening in the caverns, so colossal in size that it could only be the doorway of a huge and ancient god. He looked up and it seemed that the entrance was the height of a hundred men, and he looked from edge to edge and found that at least thirty men could lie down in a line and still not span the distance. Light flooded in from this gap in the rock, and Melgalés knew that it was light from Iraldas, that he stood before the way into and out of Halés. Part of him felt like running straight for the doorway, to chance his luck and see if he could return to the world of the living, but his studies as a Magus held back this impulse, for he knew well that it promised instead the second death.
Then Melgalés saw a flicker of fire in front of the doorway. He strained his eyes to see, for the light from Iraldas was blinding, and he realised that these specks of flame were the bodies of Felokar wolves, some of whom dozed, while others roamed and wandered. Melgalés was then astonished to find that some of these specks where in fact the fiery fur of an even greater wolf, sitting guard by the door. The Magus felt his eyes play tricks on him, for at times he blinked and the wolf was not there, and yet he felt its presence.
“So it is guarded,” Melgalés said to himself, unaware that others were also listening.
“Does that surprise you?” came the voice of the Gatekeeper.
“No, not really, no,” the Magus replied, though part of him hoped to be surprised by an unguarded gate, by a way out into the world where he could wander as a ghost and find Yavün, who might free him from this eternal waiting.
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 49