by Candy Rae
* * * * *
Alone, the king brooded as he gazed out at the water. Ergott Lord Arovan! Where had he hidden the most powerful circular jewel trio, the round sapphire, the round ruby and the round emerald, that were central to the magic ritual? He needed that trio of circular jewels.
Lord Arovan had, unfortunately, survived the massacre at Tanquelameir. He must get his hands on this troublesome elf. Lord Arovan’s wife and two stepdaughters were in his custody. The wife might be hiding information, or have knowledge about the jewels, even though she may not realise its significance. The hooded king knew much about the jewels, what they represented, and what they could do.
And this female warrior, who was she? Could she possibly be Lord Arovan’s warrior daughter who had also, against all the odds, escaped Tanquelameir? Was she the female warrior the Morityaro leader had told him about, the warrior who had laid her hands on Lord Arovan’s messages? Was it she who had met up with the Morityaro agents at the bridge? Where was she now? What was she doing? What did she know? Had she found Lord Arovan’s book?
The dark-eyed king knew all about the book. He was desperate to get his hands on it. Lord Arovan had been right in his suspicions; there had been a spy at Tanquelameir. The evil elf that was the hooded king had known about the book for a long time, knew what it contained. His agents had been following Lord Arovan for years. They had followed him to the otherworld, had watched where he had gone and whom he had visited. They had told him that they believed that the book was hidden there.
That was why they had kidnapped Marian Douglas and tried to find her daughter, suspecting that if the woman did not have it then her daughter might. Under interrogation in his hidden tower however, the woman had maintained that she knew nothing about a book although she had admitted, under duress, that she had once loved and lost the elf lord.
The other female, the one with the female warrior, the one the Morityaro leader had told him about, what did she have to do with all this? Was she perhaps the elusive daughter of Marian Douglas? Surely not, that wasn’t possible – was it?
He had many questions and they all required answers.
He must order his inquisitor to step up his interrogations, to use every means possible to find out more.
He knew that the successful outcome of his plans rested on his ability to get his royal fingers on the round-jewelled trio. Only when they were in his possession could he begin to take further action in order to become Overlord not only of this world, but the world on the other side of the T’Quel. This was what Wielder Crucius had promised him.
The round-jewelled trio meant power. The thirst for and the achievement of absolute power was now the life ethos of the hooded king. He would use any means to get his hands on the jewels and the book.
First, he would order the Morityaro leader to search through the Five Kingdoms for Lord Arovan and his troublesome daughter. Second, he would order the Morityaro leader to send more agents to the otherworld to visit every place Lord Arovan had been and conduct a thorough search for any documents he might have left behind. He was positive Lord Arovan would not have placed all the information he had gleaned about the Vagjyrein and the tarna jewels into one book, in one place. There must be more, perhaps even another copy of the book. If Lord Arovan had hidden either book or more papers somewhere in the otherworld, then the Morityaro would find them. Third, and perhaps the most important of the tasks, was the location and collection of the emerald diamond-shaped jewel, the third of his trio. When it was in his possession, he would be unstoppable.
He had amassed an enormous amount of information about the Tathar, the tarna jewels and the T’Quel magic during the years since he had ascended the throne, albeit latterly with the help and guidance of Wielder Crucius. Wielder Crucius was, the king believed, one of his more loyal and devoted subjects. However, it could still all come to naught if he did not have a complete trio of jewels. That was not going to happen.
The hooded figure sat down and began to write down his orders, his nib scratching the parchment with ominous intent, much like the words being written. Outside the waves were pounding against the rocks beneath the castle battlements.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 20
‘Come, let’s away to prison.’
(King Lear)
(William Shakespeare (1564-1616))
PRISONERS OF THE TOWER
The rooms in the tower were small, bare of wall tapestries, dank and unpleasant.
The individuals inhabiting the rooms were hungry and thirsty. Their clothes were, like their prison rooms, dank and unpleasant to the nose.
In the top room sat a stern-looking elf lady and two little elf girls, who had enough of the look of their mother about them to proclaim them her daughters. Lady Afnan Cuthalion felt herself growing white with anger as the noise of their gaoler’s and inquisitors’ feet disappeared down the stairs. How dared they say that she had violated her marriage vows with her previous husband? How dared they accuse her of this? Her daughters were not the pre-nuptial, illegitimate offspring of her present husband Lord Arovan of Tanquelameir.
She had declared her innocence but they had not believed her.
In vain had she stated, again and again, that she had met Lord Arovan only a few times before the wedding, and that the meetings had never been in private. In vain she had insisted that Khirstvain and Chlaricvia were the legally begotten children of her first husband, now deceased.
They continued to insist that the children had to be Lord Arovan’s children.
Lady Afnan suspected it was something to do with their names. They had kept going on about them, asking numerous questions about how she and Lord Arovan had chosen their names, and why.
“They are called Khirstvain and Chlaricvia because those were the names of two of the great-grand-elf-mothers of my deceased, first husband,” she had again repeated.
They had insisted that she was lying and as they left had informed her that, in the morning, both Khirstvain and Chlaricvia would be taken from her and lodged in another tower.
Lady Afnan had begged them to change their minds and had shed many bitter tears, all her anger petering out in that instant. It was to no avail. She knew that by the morrow she would be alone in her imprisonment.
As she settled her daughters into the slip of a bed and pulled the meagre covers over them in an attempt to keep the chill that permeated the rooms out of their bones, she wept.
Lady Afnan found it difficult to rest that night. She sat by Khirstvain and Chlaricvia’s bed and wondered why they thought the girls were of her present husband’s begat and why they were showing so much interest in them. She was thinking too about her husband. The gaoler had told her that he had died during the attack on the castle but she knew about the secret passage and felt sure he would still be alive.
She would have been even more worried if she had heard the gaoler’s words to the inquisitors as they had descended the circular stairs.
“We will begin testing them as soon as they are removed from their mother,” the latter had said.
“They’ll be confused and upset, more likely to react if they know anything”, replied the gaoler.
* * * * *
In the tower room below, in which Lady Afnan and her daughters were confined, sat another, this time solitary prisoner.
She was also sitting awake, wondering where she was and more importantly, where her daughter was.
The prisoner’s name was Marian Douglas.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 21
‘The dragon is a serpent destitute of venom, its head placed beneath the threshold of a door, the gods being duly propitiated by prayers, will ensure good fortune to the house, it is said.’
(Pliny the Elder (23-79))
NDORENISGIATHATCH – LAND OF THE DRAGONS
Kirsty and Aranel’s first journey a-dragon-back was almost certainly the most exciting experience of their lives so far. Sliding to the ground, Kirsty thought it was over t
oo soon and said so to Aranel as she helped her sister down and looked around.
At first Kirsty didn’t think they had actually arrived at their destination. It was only as she followed the dragon’s gaze that she saw a cave entrance to her left.
“Take yourr-r companion into therr-re,” their dragon rescuer instructed her. “Therr-re is comforr-rt furr-rtherr-r in and medicines so you can tend to herr-r hurr-rts.”
His expression looked to be encouraging and Kirsty took comfort in that even though her recent experiences of caves and tunnels had made her label anything subterranean as, by its very nature, cold. In her opinion Alfheimr was a country of far too many caves and not enough warm wayside inns.
“Thank you for saving us,” she said.
He nodded his great head.
“I am glad we did so. We drr-ragons are not frr-riends with these Morr-rityarr-ro. They have caused much distrr-ress overr-r the ages for elves and drr-ragons.”
It was Kirsty’s turn to nod.
“And may I know your name?” she asked, greatly emboldened by his words.
“I am Arr-rdissurr-rn,” he said. “I know yourr-r name already.”
“How,” asked Kirsty, suddenly and unaccountably suspicious.
“Frr-rom yourr-r unicorn frr-riends,” he said, ushering her in the direction of the cave entrance with his foreleg.
Kirsty began to help Aranel towards the entrance. She still felt somewhat tired but her energy levels were increasing, she could feel it seeping into her bones and muscles. Soon she would feel much as usual.
The dark cave entrance was, Kirsty immediately realised when they entered, somewhat dilapidated, and appeared to be the beginning of a downward-sloping passage. Aranel, only half-conscious, was being led, unseeing, into the dark. It was covered with loose clay and stones but they were able to walk without bending their heads. A dragon would not be able to enter this passage but there was plenty of room for four people to walk abreast. The dimensions of the passage were unevenly oblong. Kirsty shivered. It was cold and smelt damp, but there was no help for it, the only way was forward.
After a short distance they reached a circular chamber that was empty. Walking on, she could feel water slopping around her feet. They both had footwear, but Kirsty’s were trainers with laces and the icy-cold water was seeping in through the lace holes. There was a sloshing sound as she walked. She could also hear water dripping from the stalactites hanging from the roof. Their footsteps were echoing off the damp walls and Kirsty gagged at the smell of some horrible, stagnant water. It was so pervasive she could almost taste it. A tiny squeak alerted her to the presence of some kind of animal and she shivered again. Kirsty did not like the mice of her world and she wondered if the squeak had come from something similar to this or even, horror upon horrors, rats. The cave chill and the prospect of hundreds of rat-like creatures sent more shivers down her spine.
The passage was so dark in places that she could hardly see her hand in front of her face. The floor became more uneven and it was difficult to move forward without slipping or falling. Aranel stumbled along beside her. Kirsty felt as if she was walking down the throat of some huge dinosaur-like animal. Then, as she was beginning to feel that this wet walk in the dark was going to go on forever, she spied a light and increased her speed as much as she could. She had to get to the light before fear overtook her. She held her sister tighter and fairly beetled along the last stretch. She didn’t care what might be at the other end of the passage. She just wanted, needed, to get there. Half-carrying Aranel, she reached the end at last and walked cautiously into the light. It was another cave. She felt disorientated for a moment or two as her eyes adjusted to the light. Her footsteps echoed, a sign she realised, that the cave must be a fairly large one. Her foot caught on a rock. She stumbled and Aranel almost fell from her grasp.
“Careful,” said a voice. Kirsty whirled.
Before them stood a very old, white-haired figure, dressed in some sort of grey robe that might once have been white, with a floor-length fur robe on top. This was the last thing she had expected to see. Looking at his face, his hair and his ears, Kirsty gasped. His ears were not pointed.
She stood stock-still and stared at him, open-mouthed. This person was a man. There was a man, here, in Alfheimr!
“Welcome,” the old man said. “I am the Tathar. “Welcome to my humble home.”
“You-you are the Tathar?” stuttered Kirsty.
“I am he and you are one Kirsty, daughter of the Lord Arovan, with your sister, the warrior daughter of the House of Cuthalion.” He looked at Aranel and his eyes widened.
Kirsty remained silent.
The old man nodded. “You have a great many questions but do not know where to start. I understand.”
“My sister is hurt,” said Kirsty, finding her voice. “She needs medical help, medicines.”
“I will see to her care. I have lived a long time, a very long time and know much about how to mend the sick and the hurt.”
He pointed to a curtained recess to his left.
“Guest quarters,” he explained. “I use them for my infrequent, very infrequent, visitors. It is kept aired. Take Lady Aranel in there. I will gather together some necessities and join you.”
“Th-thank you,” said Kirsty and led the stumbling Aranel towards the curtained ‘guest quarters’.
* * * * *
“Her injuries are not as bad as they look,” the Tathar told Kirsty as, with gentle hands, he helped her to wash the caked, dried blood from Aranel’s face and hair. “No bones broken. The elf who did this knew what he was about.”
“I thought he was trying to kill her,” said Kirsty.
“Kill her? No. He wanted her alive, not dead. A dead elf cannot tell what he or she knows.”
“Are there no internal injuries either?” Kirsty’s trembling voice asked. Internal damage was her worst fear, here in these lands of no hospitals and not a sign of modern medical science. She supposed there must be doctors and nurses around somewhere or their equivalent but Aranel hadn’t mentioned any.
“The bruising is bad, especially on her face and her ribs but there has been no damage to her insides and elves heal fast. Believe me, I would know if she was in danger. I have had much experience in hurt and wound-tending. A master of the healing craft taught me. It was a long time ago but I have not forgotten.”
“A Master?” Kirsty queried. “A Master of what? Of herblore?”
“A Master of Life,” he answered which left Kirsty little the wiser. Always a curious one, she asked another question.
“Did he have a name, this Master?”
“Yes. He had a name. Do you wish me to tell you what it was?”
“Yes please.”
The Tathar thought for a moment, as if he was considering the advisability of informing her. He shrugged, muttering to himself, “why not? It can do little harm now.”
“His name was Ambisagrus,” he told her. “Now young lady, look. Lady Aranel is washed clean. I will go and make up some ointment that I shall give you to anoint her bruises.”
“Thank you.”
The Tathar continued to rest his tired, old eyes on Kirsty as he pushed his body up from his sitting position. Kirsty thought his face looked troubled and especially so when he looked at her sister.
“I see you have another question trembling on your lips,” he observed.
Kirsty blushed. This old man could read her like a book!
“I will answer the question you were going to ask. Ambisagrus was my teacher and my friend. He was also the Tathar before me. He was a good man, a fine man and a man without ambition. If you were as old as I am, you would realise that is a very rare thing. I fear that I have been a disappointment to him.”
“Is he still alive?” asked a startled Kirsty.
“Alive? That depends on what you mean by alive. What is death but a different kind of existence?”
With that enigmatic and truly mysterious remark he left to prepa
re the ointment.
When he returned a short while later he found Kirsty dozing in the chair beside Aranel’s bed. Aranel was now wearing one of the linen nightshirts that had been hanging on a peg hammered into the rock. He shook Kirsty gently awake then demonstrated how she should apply the ointment.
While Kirsty was rubbing the sweet smelling, creamy paste on to her sister’s injuries he melted away.
Kirsty considered following him after she was done but decided against it. She was tired and the pallet beside the bed where Aranel slept looked most comfortable and inviting.
When the Tathar looked in a short time later both his guests were sleeping the deep sleep of the truly exhausted. He decided to seek his own bed. He rather thought he would be busy on the morrow, probably answering more of Kirsty’s questions.
She is a child after my own heart, he told the talisman that sat on the shelf as he settled down on his bed and pulled the covers right up to his chin. The cave was apt to be on the chilly side at night. Questions, questions, questions, much as I was once.
The talisman flickered.
* * * * *
The next day Aranel read over the beginning of Lord Arovan’s second message again. She was sitting up in bed and feeling much better.
‘To complete the circle, follow the path to there and here and there and now and back. Warrior ring shall know the path and warrior blue shall lead the way. Ten stones shall seal and divide. Ten are different and nine are same in twos then one. Three daughters of the line of the leader. Seek the one of the family of the other-born to complete the circle with the pure. Warrior brave, Wielder true, Whisperer loud. The Sacrifice …’
“We now know for definite that you Kirsty are the Wielder and I am the Warrior. Now,” she continued, “we understand this is very old, it is a translation from ancient elfish and we know that some words can be incorrectly translated. What if this was done on purpose? What if he distrusted whoever was paying him to translate it from the original?”