by Candy Rae
Although Kirsty was full of great intentions to re-read the book, she didn’t. Exhausted, she fell asleep at the first page.
* * * * *
“There are eighteen of these coloured jewels?”
“Six groups of three, each with a sapphire, a ruby and an emerald?”
The Tathar nodded.
“Six jewels were always kept here, by the Tathar, the round trio and one trio of the others.”
“Is six the number that is needed to restore the magic?”
“Not six,” said the Tathar. “Nine are needed. “At first your father believed six would be sufficient. He was wrong; he realised that. He managed to work it out on his own. It was, I believe, another mistranslation. I did not correct him at the time. When your father came to see me, before you were born Aranel, I already knew that there was an enemy in Alfheimr, trying to get information about the jewels. I thought that person might have been your father. A misjudgement. I wish now I had trusted him.”
“So we’re not looking for another four but another seven. Crikey!” Kirsty’s language descended into schoolgirl slang with the shock of the latest disclosure. “We’ve only got two!”
“It is more than that,” said the Tathar in a sombre voice. “Nine, yes, nine will restore the magic, but to seal the T’Quel forever, all eighteen will be needed.”
“Let’s take one step at a time,” said Kirsty. The thought of hunting for another sixteen rings was, to her, an impossible task. “We need another seven to make the T’Quel stable again. Right?”
The Tathar nodded.
“So let us do that first. If we manage that, then we can think about looking for the others.”
“Seems a sensible idea to me,” agreed Aranel, while the Tathar agreed with an acquiescent sigh. He realised that the end of his lifespan was approaching fast. He wasn’t sure he was ready to go yet. There were many things he hadn’t done yet, despite his longevity.
“So,” said Kirsty, “we start with finding the green emerald, the one that is a part of our trio. The Tathar says that the other trio, the three that traditionally has remained in Alfheimr, we cannot look for. I think we all understand why. Our enemy has at least two of that trio.”
“So we need to find the location of the others,” said Aranel, and turning to the Tathar, asked, “have you any idea where we might find them?”
“They are with the Vagjyrein, the Guardians,” he answered, “but they are lost. I have not heard of them or from them, since the time of the Elf Wars. These are the elves that Lord Arovan was tracing.”
“Who are these Guardians?” asked Kirsty. Her brain felt like it was just about to erupt into overload but this sounded important. She brushed away the warning of an incipient headache. It was still only a dull ache. She could cope.
“The Guardians, the Vagjyrein, in the ancient elfish language, look after what must and must not be. Their correct title is T’Quel-Vagjyrein. They are linked in threes.”
Groups of three again, Kirsty thought. I should probably read Father’s book with that in mind.
“They have existed since the beginning of the T’Quel and are bound to it for all their lives, once they take the oath.”
“But what do they do?” asked Aranel.
“They travel, in and out of the magical mists and make sure all is right.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“They are there to make sure that the past does not mix with the present and that the two worlds do not interact in a harmful way.”
“Well, they don’t seem to be doing their job very well,” commented Aranel. “What’s been coming through the mists in recent years has certainly been harmful to us more than once, to them and to us.”
The Tathar nodded. “That is so.”
“So where are they, who are they?” asked Kirsty.
“And how do we find them?” added Aranel. “Are the quotes in Father’s book all we have to go on?”
“I do not know the answers to your questions,” said the Tathar, who despite his thoughts about impending mortality had honest regret in his voice. “Since the Elf Wars, there has been little contact. When I gave the six jewels to the children of King Dinendal, the Vagjyrein viewed it as a breach of trust and vowed to remain separate and do their work. I have sensed their presence, infrequently of late, as they traversed the mists in pursuance of their duties but I have met none for a long time. The T’Quel is the ultimate guardian of Alfheimr and your world Kirsty, and of time itself.”
“But we need them,” protested Aranel. “We need them so that the T’Quel magic can be restored, to keep these incursions from happening. Why, one day any number of out-world armies could come through!” The thought of thousands of Vikingr coming through filled her with dread.
“We need, at first, to find six of them plus the round emerald one,” repeated Kirsty, “So, these Guardians, are they elves?”
The Tathar nodded. “They were when I knew them, but now, I cannot tell you for certain. They may be half-elf by now, a quarter-elf, even more human than elf. But I know that they still exist. I would know if any of the jewels, the tarna, had been destroyed.”
“The trios are linked to each other still?”
“Yes.”
“So find one of the three and we find the others?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s clear enough,” Kirsty said, turning to Aranel. “Father knew. He knew a lot about it, and he wrote most of it down in the book. I bet you a hundred pounds …”
Aranel looked mystified at this reference to pounds, which she thought of as an out-world weight (Kirsty had explained out-world measurements during their journey to the bridge) but Kirsty ignored her look. “All we have to do is decipher it!”
“You keep saying that,” complained Aranel, “but all you seem to do is read little bits and tell me about them.”
“It’s time for some concentrated studying,” Kirsty said, “in detail. I need to go through each quote, at least those I understand, one by one and analyse them.”
The Tathar agreed. “And soon Kirsty, daughter of Arovan. My strength is waning. I do not think I have a year left and I will grow weaker. How it depressed him to have to admit this. As my strength fails I may not be able to maintain the integrity of the T’Quel.”
* * * * *
CHAPTER 23
‘A nation can survive its fools, even the ambitious. But it cannot survive treason from within … for the traitor appears not to be a traitor … he rots the soul of a nation.’
(Cicero (BC 106-43))
TRAITOR
Lord Arovan had sent the two karl-elves back home to watch and wait for his summons.
The taller of the two, Quisil, had protested vehemently against Lord Arovan’s orders but their liege lord had been adamant and, seeing no help for it, had acquiesced. The smaller elf, Fideln, had appeared keen, almost eager to go and had seemed surprised at the other’s reluctance.
Lord Arovan himself put their disparate reactions down to the facts that the smaller elf had a wife and young family at home and was naturally desirous of making sure they were safe. He had always considered Quisil to be one of his most loyal and trustworthy retainers and presumed that he wanted to stay to protect him against his enemies and was therefore upset at being sent away.
Rohir wasn’t so sure, but whatever suspicions he had, he kept to himself. He was little given to mouthing off opinions unless he was certain he was right.
* * * * *
The respective routes of the two karl-elves to their homes ran parallel for most of the way.
They set off warily although the unicorns had told them that the gryphwens were gone from the sky and both of their homes lay to the east. This was also further east than the forests where the unicorns’ home ranges were and therefore the more unlikely that their four-hooved friends had ventured any great distance in that direction.
“We must keep under the trees,” said the smaller elf, Fideln.
&nb
sp; His tall companion assented and followed his fellow karl silently through the forest undergrowth, being careful to keep under the branch canopies as far as they were able. Like two lithe shadows they flitted through and by their first night had reached a small river village some cians away. Actually, they had been heading for a larger village further along, but had underestimated how much the ground underfoot would impede their progress. It was the ‘season of the brimble’ as farmers were wont to call this time of year. Brimbles were nasty, prickly bushes that grew faster than weeds and which, unless checked, could take over cian upon cian of ground. The fruit berries were tasty but the bushes themselves were a menace to travellers.
Quisil had cut his foot early on in their journey and was limping, which had further delayed them.
As they approached the first log cabin, Fideln stopped and stretched out his arm to halt his companion.
“Wait,” he hissed. “I don’t like the feel of this.”
Quisil turned in his direction and rubbing at his leg, grinned a grin that had no humour in it.
“Too quiet. Listen,” whispered Fideln, cupping his hand round his pointed ear and failing to notice the look on Quisil’s face.
The two listened and, the taller elf realised, the warning was apt. The village was quiet, as silent as death itself. There should be noise, especially at close of day when the villagers should be bringing in their livestock for the night and preparing their evening meals.
“No smoke,” agreed Quisil. “Do we go round?”
Fideln shook his head. “No,” he whispered back. “This is still Lord Arovan’s demesne. It is our duty to find out what has happened and to do what we can.”
Quisil was dubious; it showed on his face. What can two elves do, his face was saying? At last, he nodded. “I’ll go in first,” he said.
Now it was the Fideln who was showing concern.
“No,” he replied. “We’ll go in together.”
“I think it had better be me,” the other insisted. “I’ve got more experience tracking and scouting. I’ll go in. You wait here.”
Fideln shook his head decisively. “Together we can watch each other’s back.”
The two began to crawl towards the end of the nearest cabin, being careful not to make a single sound that might give them away. At least one of them was being careful and was so intent on getting to the cabin unseen, that he didn’t notice the other, who was crawling slightly to his rear, suddenly begin to stand up, not until it was too late.
He didn’t see him pull his dagger out of his belt and plunge it into his back. Fideln let out a surprised groan as he felt it slide into his body, between his ribs. As he collapsed he managed to turn his head.
“You?” he gasped.
“I told you I should go in first,” said his killer. “You wouldn’t listen.”
“Rohir told me Arovan suspected there was a traitor.”
The tall elf sat down beside his dying companion.
“Yes, I have been a traitor, as you call it, for a long time. Lord Arovan never suspected it was me, one of his oldest friends. I have been passing intelligence and information since I changed allegiance.”
“For a price,” Fideln managed to gasp.
“For a price,” Quisil agreed in a conversational voice.
“But why?”
“Lord Arovan got it wrong. He thought the Tarna should be sought and used to seal the T’Quel. That was his mistake. The Tarna should be used, don’t you see?
“For what?”
“Power and riches. What else is there of importance?”
“You must be mad.”
The tall elf shook his head.
“Not mad. Sensible. There is a new world order on the horizon my dear, dying friend. I intend to be a part of it and not one of its victims.”
“When Lord Arovan finds out he will kill you.”
“I do not think so. He will not live long enough for that.”
The smaller elf realised his vision was dimming. His breath was catching, as he wasn’t getting enough air into his lungs. Unconsciousness wasn’t far off.
“You will die now,” said the mocking voice of the taller elf. “I am leaving.”
Quisil stood up and after a last look down, strode off towards the silent village. He wasn’t limping. That had been a subterfuge, to delay their progress and to ensure that it would be this village they would arrive at when dusk fell. He would return once Fideln was dead and bury the body.
Inside the larger of the village cabins, two elves were waiting. They were Morityaro agents.
“What kept you?” asked one of the dark-cloaked Morityaro. “We expected you days ago.”
“And where is Lord Arovan?” asked the other.
“He is on his way to King Huor,” answered the tall elf, “alone but for one hunts-elf.”
“You were ordered to bring him here.”
“I couldn’t, an undesired companion appeared at my side at Tanquelameir just as I was about to get hold of Lord Arovan. I had no choice but to go with him and Lord Arovan.”
“Out of the castle?”
“Yes, there is a secret way, a tunnel, which even I knew about only by suspicion.”
“You should have killed this other elf and brought Lord Arovan to us immediately. Those were your orders.”
“There were another two in the forest when we got to the end of the tunnel. Lady Aranel, Lord Arovan’s daughter had gone hunting that morning with one of the hunts-elves. My companion is dead now but at the time, I had no way of getting rid of the other two. Lord Arovan sent me away once he had recovered from his injuries.”
“I take it that it is this hunts-elf who is with Lord Arovan. Where is Lady Aranel?”
“She left for the hunting lodge I told your people about earlier, on a quest to find some messages Lord Arovan had hidden. I don’t know much more. Lord Arovan and Lady Aranel were careful to speak of it only when alone.”
“We have already visited the hunting lodge,” said the first of the two Morityaro, “and found the message.”
“What of Lord Arovan’s book?” asked the other. “Did he have it with him?”
The traitor shook his head. “He has hidden it. I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of it for some years.”
The two Morityaro looked at each other.
“What do we do with him? He is not much use to us now?”
“Kill him.”
“No, no,” pleaded Quisil. “I can still be of use to you. Lord Arovan doesn’t know my allegiance is no longer with him.”
“That’s true,” the first Morityaro seemed to be pondering the matter.
“Send him to our leader,” suggested the second Morityaro. “He may be able to find a use for him.”
The first Morityaro laughed. It was not a pleasant one. The sound was chilling to the tall elf’s ears.
* * * * *
Remember, not even a hint of what I am planning must pass from your lips to his ears.
“Sire,” the Morityaro leader bowed low.
The hooded figure acknowledged the bow. He came straight to the point.
“Have you captured Lord Arovan?”
“Not yet, but it will not be long now. He is on his way to Tanquelameir or perhaps to Nossepresidium and I have many agents in both areas. He will not get through.”
“You should have taken him when he left the palace.”
“That would not have been a sensible option,” countered the Morityaro leader. “There were too many about who would have seen. I have, however, brought an elf with me whose story will interest you. He has long been in my employ.”
“Who is he?”
The Morityaro leader spoke a name and the hooded figure’s demeanour changed to something akin to pleasure.
“Shall I bring him in?”
“In a moment. First I have a question you may be able to answer. It is more in the nature of a confirmation as to what I believe is the truth. I take it that you have questioned this tra
itorous elf?”
“I have.”
“Was Lord Arovan wearing a ring when he escaped Tanquelameir?”
“He was sire. He wore it on the little finger of his right hand. I didn’t need to push the question. My spy told me without prompting that Lord Arovan gave it to his daughter, the Lady Aranel, who was out hunting in the forest when the castle was attacked. She left with it, riding a unicorn, to perform two tasks for her father. One task was to go to the hunting lodge where we found the message; I gave you a copy of this. Our spy did not know what the second task was although he did manage to pick up the word ‘Nosta’ from a snatched conversation he overheard. I was wondering if Lady Arovan and the elf my agents saw at Nosta were one and the same, also if it was she who killed my agents at the bridge.”
“She couldn’t have killed them on her own. She must have had help.”
“Dragon help?” offered Ruac. “That would fit in with the reports.”
The puzzle was well on its way to being solved, thought the king. Find Lady Aranel and he would find the round Tarna trio. He said as much to Toish Ruac and the Morityaro leader bowed, confirming that he would send every agent he could muster to search her out.
“Good. Now I have another task for you to perform.”
“I stand at your command,” Ruac said formally.
“Take the prisoners to the island. It is more secure.”
“All of them?” asked Ruac in surprise. Why, this decision of the king was playing directly into the hands of Wielder Crucius. Ruac knew that the Wielder had been trying to work out how to persuade the king to transfer the prisoners into his custody.
“Each and every one, and I think, your spy. When Lord Arovan is captured, he may be of use.”
“It will be as you say. The elf?”
“Bring him in now.”
The Morityaro turned to one of his elves standing guard just inside the door and clicked his fingers imperatively.
The black-clothed elf nodded and opened the door. He beckoned to someone outside and into the room walked Quisil.
The elf bowed and at the hooded king’s inclination of his head, began his approach. Three paces away from him he bowed, a long low bow.
The hooded king noticed that the elf was trembling.