The group ate in relative silence, making small talk through mouthfuls of cold meat and bread. Asher couldn’t quite believe how much meat the elves could eat. He was sure they put more away than a clan of trolls.
“I overheard some disturbing news in the tavern today,” Nathaniel said between mouthfuls. “Word has been sent from Lord Marshal Horvarth. Apparently he survived, and Ned Fennick with him.”
Asher felt the echo of a hot poker burning his skin.
“They’re in Velia,” Nathaniel continued. “Lord Merkaris has offered a permanent refuge for all Graycoats in Darkwell.”
They didn’t trust the king of Orith. When Reyna and the others had arrived in Velia, it had been a complement of Merkaris’ men that attacked them alongside Ro Dosarn. There was no evidence that Merkaris was aware of his men’s deception, and certainly no link between him and Alidyr, but still, the king’s generous offer to the Graycoats was not to be trusted.
“Will you go with them?” Asher asked, already sure of the answer.
Nathaniel looked from him to Reyna, before concentrating on his food again. “I’ve made my choice...”
The ranger was happy to hear it, if only for Nathaniel’s sake. The Graycoats never accepted him simply because of who his father was. Tobin Galfrey had been one of the greatest Graycoats in history, but his public siring of Nathaniel tainted his reputation and humiliated the order. Nathaniel was nothing but a reminder of that to the other knights. Asher wanted his friend to be free of it.
The concept of friendship wasn’t completely new to the old assassin, but he was coming to enjoy the bond that grew between them. Elaith’s death however, was a reminder of how much it could hurt to let someone else into his life. For fourteen years Asher had roamed Illian as a free man, but he considered very few to be what others would call friends. It could not be denied however, that the ranger now thought of Nathaniel as a friend, as well as Reyna and even Faylen, though the older elf could still be hard to read.
Asher just nodded his head in response to Nathaniel. The ranger had never been one for words, and hoped that his friend knew from the silent reply how glad he was.
Later that night, after leaving the elves’ room, Asher didn’t stop at the door to his room but gestured for Nathaniel to follow him outside. Curious, the knight followed him, asking all the while where they were going. Asher walked through the near empty streets until they reached the edge of the town. The two paused in the shadows as a pair from the watch walked by on patrol. The ranger didn’t want them to be seen leaving the town at night, a suspicious sight in itself. The two continued through the trees of The Evermoore until the lights of Vangarth were a dim glow in the background.
“What are we doing here, Asher?” Nathaniel asked, frustrated.
“We’re burying her...” the ranger replied solemnly.
Nathaniel looked confused. “Elaith? We built a –”
“The necklace.” Asher gestured to Nathaniel’s right pocket with his chin. “I saw you take it.”
Nathaniel didn’t even try to hide it; he reached into the pocket and retrieved a simple chain with a square piece of carved wood attached to it. The script was hard to see in the moonlight, but Asher knew it was written in Kilanti, the language of The Arid Lands and Elaith’s birthplace.
“I didn’t even know she had it,” Nathaniel explained. “Graycoats don’t have much in the way of possessions, especially from wherever they came from. We’re told to leave it all behind and embrace the order.” Nathaniel laughed with little mirth. “I don’t even know what it says, but it was the only thing on her that was hers...”
“I don’t remember any of the traditions of the Outlanders,” Asher began, “but Nasta taught me some of the ways of his people.”
Nasta Nal-Aket, the former Father of Nightfall and mentor to Asher had treated the ranger like a son during his time as an assassin. That was until Alidyr killed him and dropped him into the pit, deep in the heart of Nightfall. In truth, Asher wasn’t sure if he would have stopped the elf, had he been there.
“He came from Hervona, in the north of The Arid Lands,” Asher continued. “It’s not Ameeraska but their cultures are similar.” Asher knelt down in front of Nathaniel and used his hand to dig a small hole in the soft muddy ground. “They bury their dead, but then they wait for the new moon until they bury their grief. They take something that belonged to the dead and they bury it, giving over their grief in the process. You need to leave it here.”
Nathaniel looked down at the small hole and considered the necklace. “I failed her...”
“She was a Graycoat,” Asher quickly replied. “Elaith died in battle, a warrior.”
“I would rather she had died of old age.”
“That’s not how people like us meet our end.” Asher stepped away from Nathaniel, giving him the space to consider the southern tradition. “Bury your grief...”
The ranger left Nathaniel under the dark canopy of The Evermoore. It was some time before he returned to their room at the Greenleaf inn, except Asher kept his eyes closed and pretended to remain asleep, happy that his friend had perhaps found some peace. Of course Asher had no intention of burying his grief or searching for peace. Instead, he was going to find Alidyr Yalathanil and give the elf his blade back.
Then the sun rose again, the four companions came back together to enjoy breakfast, and enjoy it they did. Nathaniel’s renewed spirit infected them all, lifting the dark cloud that had followed them from Elethiah. The knight wasn’t completely back to his normal self, but his smile was at least genuine. Asher allowed himself to relax, for what felt like the first time in many years, and imparted on the group a few of his funnier tales from life on the road. They shared a laugh and the ranger even achieved a smile from Faylen, who never relaxed.
“So what do we do now?” Reyna finally asked in the inevitable lull.
“What can we do?” Faylen replied with a hopeless tone. “Valanis has been free for forty years. We have to assume he’s been hiding at Kaliban. The legends say he built the fortress around the pools of Naius. Without the gem he must have been too weak after a thousand years in the Amber spell, otherwise he would have been seen before now. But with the gem, he could be anywhere now. Imagine what plans he already has in place with four decades of planning. You all heard Alidyr; he doesn’t have an army, so he pits man against elf to do the work for him.”
“He must have had the gem for a tenday now. If he’s as powerful as you say, why haven’t we already heard from him?” Nathaniel asked with a mouthful of apple. “Why hasn’t he destroyed Velia or Lirian or Grey Stone? Alidyr brought down Elethiah with the gem; shouldn’t Valanis be levelling all of Illian by now?”
“He doesn’t need to,” Reyna said. “He’s already steered the course of the elven army. Valanis has but to stand back and watch.”
“He doesn’t need to, or he can’t?” Asher emphasised the difference.
Faylen’s eyes lit up, as if understanding his way of thinking. “Yes... he only has a shard of the gem.” Faylen stood up from the table and began to pace. “It’s possible he’s still stuck in Kaliban or wherever he’s been hiding all these years.”
Nathaniel put his apple down with a look of disbelief. “So... are we going after Valanis?”
“No.” Faylen stopped pacing. “Even if the shard of Paldora’s gem doesn’t restore him to strength, Valanis is still a powerful foe, with powerful allies. Wherever he is, you can be certain he’s surrounded by those who would kill to keep him safe. We would need an army to march on Kaliban, if that’s where he is, and no one knows for sure where it is!”
“There are five armies in Illian, not counting Dragorn,” Asher said. “Should we ask to borrow one?” The ranger’s attempt to add some levity was unsuccessful.
Reyna said, “Or perhaps we should simply give another army a singular purpose...” The princess looked to Faylen with a glimmer of hope.
“No,” Faylen said without consideration. “There is not
hing that will stop your father from waging war with mankind. Knowing that Valanis is free will only increase his ferocity, and when he discovers that you have already been in danger he will invade all the sooner, I am sure. He won’t wait for the dragons in Mount Garganafan to grow, and that’s if Galanör even freed Malliath from Korkanath.”
“Then we need more information.” Reyna looked to the chest at the base of Faylen’s bed. Its infinite depths contained most of their supplies, though Asher was unsure as to what Reyna was hinting at.
Faylen sighed and her shoulders sagged, as if she had come to some miserable conclusion. The elf sat on the end of her bed and looked at the chest with unease.
“What are you talking about?” Nathaniel asked for the two of them.
“We have a diviner,” Reyna explained. “It allows us to communicate with other people who have diviners, but our one is part of a closed set. We can only talk to Galanör or my father.” The princess didn’t appear all that happy about the last part.
“I’ve seen these diviners before,” Asher commented with a hint of distrust. “Anyone can listen in if they have one.”
“Not these ones,” Faylen finally spoke. “The three orbs were enchanted by our elders for many moons to ensure their security. It was to be our way of coordinating the invasion and supplying King Elym with information.”
“Have you used it yet?” Nathaniel looked at the closed chest with interest.
“Not yet,” Reyna said. “Mörygan was the last to speak with either Galanör, though his diviner wouldn’t work on Korkanath.”
Asher thought about the elven ambassador, killed in his room in Velia. The ranger didn’t know much about the elf except that he was supposed to be an expert in magic, and yet his room was testament to the battle of spells that had taken place. It continued to trouble Asher that they still didn’t know who had killed the elf, but he could only imagine it to be one of the Hand, Valanis’ Generals.
“One way or another, you’re going to have to speak with him,” Asher said. “We need to know what kind of time we have before the invasion.”
“And we need to know if we should expect dragons,” Nathaniel added with wide eyes.
Faylen looked at them all before turning to the chest, her mind made up for her. It was a strange thought to Asher that Faylen was about to speak with the same Elym he had met a thousand years ago, in the library of Elethiah. Their previous, if tenuous, link was a potential complication yet to be seen by the ranger.
4
The Lord Of Elves
Despite the chilling breeze, the city of Elandril was encompassed in glorious sunshine. The entire valley sparkled amidst the dozen waterfalls that surrounded the elven city, pouring water from the river Nylla into the lakes that surrounded the land. The tall trees of The Amara dotted the valley, until the great forest engulfed the horizon for as far as the eye could see, even an elven eye. King Elym Sevari looked out over the tops of those trees as if he could see Illian’s shores, a thousand miles away. The world of man was an ocean away, yet with every day the elves grew closer to reaching its borders.
Illian would be theirs again.
Elym rested his hands against the balcony railing and took the city in. What a beauty their home was. Over the course of a thousand years the elves had erected spires and towers of unimaginable height, as well as homes both humble and grand. Their numbers had swelled over the centuries – no easy task when female elves could only bear children once every hundred years – and provided Elandril with an incredible population, every grown elf more than capable of wielding a sword or manipulating magic. No longer were they the peaceful folk of the wood, but a race to be reckoned with. It wouldn’t matter how big the human armies were, for every elf they would need twenty men to compete.
The king of elves looked down from his balcony, set into the tallest tower in the palace, and nestled against the high valley wall. His warriors lined up in rows in the great courtyard below, training under the High Guardian, Varö Grövale. Of all his advisers, Elym trusted Varö’s word without question. The elf had achieved the highest rank within their army and his sons and daughters were all warriors born. Varö had no interest in matching his children with the highborn families or even the royals themselves. He would fight for Elym and the elven race until his life was claimed or Illian was theirs.
That thought led the king to dwell on Galanör of House Reveeri. The elf was the best sword fighter in all of Elandril, and easily the best choice to lead the mission to Korkanath, but he had failed to make contact via his diviner for several weeks. He should have returned with Malliath the voiceless by now.
Elym had personally taken the time to instruct Galanör on how to speak with the dragon and control his emotions. Though the king wasn’t a Dragorn, Elym’s sister, Nalana, had been one of the chosen for many centuries. Before her death, she had taught him about the ways of the dragons in hopes that one day he too might become a Dragorn. Of course, had he been born with that gift, as his sister had, he would never have chosen to live among them on their mysterious islands. Elym Sevari was born to rule.
“My Lord...” the melodic voice of Naywyn called to him from the doorway.
Elym turned to look upon his servant. The young elf presented the king with a wooden chest, carried in both hands. He had requested it earlier that morning, from his private vaults; though now it was in front of him, Elym was hesitant to open it. The rectangular box was engraved with ancient glyphs and elven symbols, an intricate spell that would keep the chest shut to all but him. His fingers ran over the polished wood, working through the hieroglyphs with great care. It had been centuries since he had looked inside.
As always, the chest had him thinking of Nalana, his sister. Her words had sunk into the very bones of his wife, Adilandra. How many days of late had he been frozen in place, fearful for the love of his very long life. Adilandra was in lands unknown to the south of Ayda, seeking the last of the old dragons. A fool’s errand, he thought. Their future lay dormant inside Mount Garganafan, with the unborn dragons.
Their last conversation had been an argument, and a great one at that, regarding her departure to the south. Before he could dwell on such depressing thoughts, Naywyn shifted her body and the breeze carried her perfume to towards him. It reminded him of Reyna, his daughter. Another great love he had pushed away in pursuit of justice for his people. She too was in lands that carried great peril, though her mission was more important than most.
“My Lord?” Naywyn asked with concern.
How long had he been standing there, staring at the chest. He hated the box and its wretched contents; always taking over his emotions and dredging up memories. Before Elym could open the chest, his keen ears heard footsteps approaching the door to his chamber. Thankful for the disturbance, the king bade Naywyn to take the chest away as he adjusted his long robe and walked back into his room.
“Enter.”
“My Lord.” A member of his personal guard strode into the room, clad in white armour, helmet and blue cloak. Elym had always favoured the style since the Dark War and ensured the continuation of the tradition. “Forgive the intrusion, but the diviner has been activated.”
Elym nodded curtly, containing any emotion in front of one of his warriors. “Gather the council and have High Guardian Varö attend.” The guard turned on his heel and left immediately to see to his lord’s command. Elym left soon after, looking back only to see Naywyn leave with the chest.
The circular chamber that housed the diviner had been enchanted with every spell imaginable to keep the room’s secrets. No one could scry him from miles away or even listen in from the other side of the door. The black orb sat atop an ornate pedestal, emitting a high pitched hum. Elym composed himself before placing his hand over the diviner, unsure as to who he would be speaking with.
The circular chamber melted away, along with any semblance of reality. The king was surrounded by darkness and what felt like an encompassing tornado. Sat cross-legged in
front of him was a ghostly image of Faylen Haldör, his daughter’s mentor.
“Where is Mörygan?” Elym asked, all too aware that the diviner had been given to him and not to Faylen.
Faylen hesitated. “Mörygan is dead, My Lord.”
It just over a thousand years old, Elym was an expert at guarding his reactions to any situation. As the king, his reactions alone could guide events in ways he didn’t intend, and so he had learned long ago that keeping his composure was a fine way of keeping control.
“And Reyna?” Before they went any further, he had to know.
“She is alive, and here with me. We’re safe for now,” Faylen explained.
Elym clenched his jaw to conceal his sigh of relief. The thought of Reyna being harmed had opened a pit in his stomach that the king didn’t think could be opened.
“How was he killed?” Elym couldn’t believe that Mörygan Mörgö had died in any accident.
“We don’t know who killed him, My Lord. Whoever they were, they’re in league with the Arakesh, the guild of assassins, here in Illian.” Even across the shadowy realm, Faylen struggled to maintain eye contact with him.
“I know of the assassins - humans all.” Elym had been spying on the humans for years prior to enacting his plan, and knew a great many secrets. “How did one come to defeat Mörygan?”
“We now know that they are being controlled by none other than Alidyr Yalathanil, the head of the Hand.”
Now that he didn’t know...
Elym looked away from the ethereal form of Faylen, in an effort to hide the shock and fear slowly building in his gut. Alidyr’s body had never been identified among the dead after the battle of Elethiah. The elf deserved a truly horrible death for the terror and pain he had inflicted during those dark days. The fear that he or any of the Hand had survived had always lived inside Elym.
“You have proof of this?” he probed, still unwilling to believe.
Empire of Dirt: (Echoes of Fate: Book 2) Page 5