Master Guri, the Karshak Alon stonesinger who was also invited to the Council, chuckled through his great beard at her struggles from behind her as they made their way toward Matten’s Helm and the spire of Lesgaethael before dawn.
“It’s a matter of presentation,” the broad-shouldered Karshak answered, amusedly. “If you just show up and just toss a few baubles at them from your purse, it wouldn’t feel like a gift. It would feel more like alms. But if you take the same gift out of a box, for some reason, it feels more important. If it is any consolation, lass, most of the weight is the chest, not in the gifts,” he explained with a chuckle.
Dara knew she was complaining about the weight of the chest to keep herself from complaining about everything else: the disgustingly early hour, the damp and cold spring morning, the darkness, and her sleepiness all conspired against her.
But she also knew that most craft apprentices had a much harder life than hers. Bakers’ apprentices were already long awake, firing their ovens, weavers’ apprentices were preparing breakfast for their masters, and novate nuns were awake, preparing for early morning services. As apprenticeships went, Dara had it relatively easy, and she knew it.
She also knew (based on conversations with Tyndal and Rondal) that a lack of complaint from an apprentice often convinced a master he was being too easy on them. They followed the advice with plenty of examples, both from Master Min and Rondal’s old master.
The box was making her arms ache, though. That wasn’t an embellishment. And it was becoming less and less so with every step up the path.
“Just be glad that you don’t have to carry it all the way to the Kulines,” Master Minalan said, his great cloak whirling in front of her. “Our hosts are sparing us a journey of many months. And the indignities of river travel, coaches, packhorses, endless miles of foot travel, bad inns and roadside encampments, inaccurate maps, unmarked roads, bandits, tolls, tariffs, and rain at the most inconvenient of times. And that’s just to get there.”
“I prefer this method,” Master Guri admitted. “The Alka Alon are elitist snobs, but they do know how to travel.” Despite his harsh words, he greeted Lady Ithalia with a kind smile when they met her at the base of the hill.
Lady Ithalia, garbed in her human-sized body and a rustically-elegant gown that looked as if it were made of wildflowers and leaves, was awaiting them at the snowstone pillar that marked the beginning of the trail up the hill. She greeted them warmly and politely, as Dara gratefully set the heavy chest on the ground for a moment’s rest before the climb ahead. Unfortunately, just as she felt some of the feeling come back into her arms, Master Min bid her to lift it again.
“Where are we going, again?” Dara asked, tiredly.
“The Halls of Carneduin,” Ithalia answered, as she led us up the path. “The retreat of sages and songmasters. Many councils of old were held there. Even some of your folk were involved.”
That caught Dara’s attention. She’d always thought the Alka Alon kept themselves apart from the affairs of humanity. She figured there was some meaningful story, or frightful bit of history involved, there. She almost asked, but a glance from Master Min quieted her. She was here to look and listen, not ask stupid questions.
“I feel all the more honored to have been invited,” her master replied, politely. Master Guri looked around skeptically. “Who rules Carneduin, and who else have they invited?”
“The master of Carneduin is Raer Haruthel,” Lady Ithalia explained. “A songmaster of great renown and a mighty lord among my people. He often facilitates councils for matters affecting this realm. He is wise and impartial to a fault when it comes to his dealings with the other great lords.”
“I thought they weren’t really lords?” Dara blurted out, recalling her earlier conversation with the emissary.
“Let us use the term for convenience,” decided Lady Ithalia. “In humani terms, Haruthel would be considered such rank as a Duke, or a grandmaster of his craft. More importantly, he runs the sanctuary of Carneduin. He built Carneduin, as it is, and is responsible for its safety and security. A fair Alkan,” she decided.
“Good,” Dara said, glancing at Master Minalan. The wizard locked eyes with her, conveying a number of meanings.
“Not necessarily,” said Ithalia.
“Who else is likely to show up?” Master Minalan asked, fishing for information.
“Emissaries from all the major strongholds and refuges will be there,” she said, as they reached the first clearing. Pentandra’s Veil, the magical barrier which protected Lesgaethael from casual visitors, loomed ahead, but Ithalia parted it with a wave of her hand. “But it is likely that Raer Aeratas of Anthatiel will be in attendance. He is rarely away from that beautiful but hidden land. He stays at the magnificent Tower of Vision, in the Lake of Rainbows, except in very special circumstances. But his stronghold lies closest to the domain of the Abomination, so he will wish his opinions known, and the other lords will look closely to his counsel.”
Lesgathel was almost as beautiful close-up as it was from a Frightful-eye view, Dara noted, when she’d reached the top of the hill and the base of the slender tower. Master Guri’s people, the Karshak Alon, had built the entire elaborate stone structure in just a season, and it was by far the most fascinating feature of Sevendor, now. The empty hill where once she’d flown Frightful to claim Master Min’s pipe and her witchstone, his first year as Magelord of Sevendor, now had not just a spire but an entire little compound around it.
The central tower was an exotic design that was pretty enough in the distance, but breathtaking from the air: seven layers of irregular concentric circles, each elongated edge forming a tip, alternating in an equilateral pattern. It modeled an iconic Alka Alon tree, Ithalia had once explained, meant to represent her people. Even Master Guri had to admit that the stonework, made entirely of local snowstone, was impressive, even if he took issue with the design.
But the spire was not the only building on Matten’s Helm anymore. Clustered at its base were new halls, some in the Alka style, but more built for human-sized people. The work to complete the complex was going on even at this early hour. A few Alka Alon, in their smaller forms, were tending to the finishing work on the embassy and tending the garden of exotic natavia plants and trees that encircled the snowstone court.
With a word of warning, Ithalia propelled them through the Ways, twisting Dara’s stomach the same way it had the first time she’d experienced the magical means of travel. She swallowed bile, as her feet found themselves on strange ground, and the light in the sky shifted noticeably.
Dara stumbled under the weight of the chest, gratefully setting it down at her feet while her stomach lurched. She heaved for breath and struggled to keep control. She was relieved to see that Master Minalan, too, looked uncomfortable from the magical journey, although they both quickly forgot their nausea as their eyes drank in the rich, cool morning in a country far away from her home.
They were at a much higher elevation, here, Dara knew, than they ever could have been back in Sevendor. They were standing at least a thousand feet higher in elevation than Rundevel’s peak, she figured. Easily.
They’d arrived on a bit of a wide ledge overlooking a slender, deep-cloven valley bisected by a swiftly-flowing stream. It was a lush view below her, despite the early season. Strange plants and flowers contended with those she knew well in the great gardens of the valley floor. The cliffs on the other side of the vale were terraced, and intriguing little buildings were built into them or upon the ledges, open to the sun and sky. None of them were as large as the wide plateau they were standing upon.
The ledge was much wider further on, she could see, and covered with a compound of stately-looking halls and domes that contained more glass than Dara had seen in her life.
The pillars and supports for the rooftops were contrived to look like trees, a mixture of natavia and importasta trees carved in stone, entwined in a wild canopy that opened as irregularly-shaped windows in une
xpected places. Delicate mists floated at different levels in the valley, from the riverbed below to the treetops to the tallest of the spires. The vapor was not exactly fog, she decided. It did not conceal as much as obscure.
Everywhere she looked Dara could see the diminutive figures of the Alka Alon walking gracefully on their morning business. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them.
For once, she was one of the tallest people around.
The little people reminded her of the Tal Alon, back home in Hollyburrow, except that while the Tal were rustic, jovial, and funny, the Alka Alon were sophisticated, elegant, and regal in their manner and movements. Dara watched an Alkan maiden picking flower blooms from a nearby tree, a domestic task as common for human maids or Tal . . . but the Alkan girl moved with the grace and purpose of a priestess conducting a holy ceremony or a dancer performing for a crowd.
The strange mountain air itself seemed heavy with exotic smells as the spring blossoms filled the breeze with heady aromas that made Dara a little dizzy. She wasn’t the only one. Both Lady Pentandra and Master Minalan shook their heads at the wonder, as if to clear them, only to be distracted by some new fascination of the landscape.
Only Master Guri seemed unaffected by the serenity of Carneduin, Dara noted to herself. If anything, he seemed to become more agitated. She didn’t realize why until he uttered a particularly loud word in his own language in a way that was unmistakably a curse.
“What is it?” Dara asked, trying to be alert for trouble.
“They mixed the Late Halvanara style with the Early Maranaleen!” he muttered, scandalized, as he surveyed the halls and domes around them. “And some of those structures . . . well, they stink of humani,” he sneered. “No offense,” he added, when he remembered who he was talking to.
“Magic?” she asked, confused at the stonesinger’s reaction.
“Architecture,” the Karshak corrected, critically. “If you can even call it that! There’s no thought or reason to it! It’s as if someone ate a treacle pudding, a pound of peppers and a quart of clotted cream, all in the same mouthful,” he said, with disgust. “Bloody Alka Alon! No sense of tradition!”
***
The senior wizards were led immediately to the council chambers, while Master Guri and Dara waited patiently in an anteroom. Dara learned far, far more about Karshak ideals of design and architecture than she’d ever imagined while they waited. Then Guri was summoned to council with the chest bearing the Spellmonger’s gifts, and she was left alone in the empty chamber.
After almost an hour had passed, the tall doorway – gigantic to an Alkan – finally opened, and a stream of people came out, large and small.
“So, what was that all about?” Dara asked Lady Pentandra, in a spare moment after the council recessed.
“So far, Master Minalan successfully petitioned the Council to keep his Witchsphere,” Pentandra reported, after looking around to see if they were being overheard. “That was the first order of business before the Council, this morning.”
Dara was nearly speechless. “They wanted to take it away from him?” she asked, horrified.
“There are some on the Council who question the wisdom of such great power in the hands of such an ephemeral and notoriously impetuous race,” she said with a quiet giggle. “Minalan managed to convince them that he wouldn’t blow up the world or anything, if they trusted him. And implied that he wasn’t likely to surrender his Witchstone willingly,” she added. “The Council is strong, but they are wary of anything that might get themselves labelled as ‘impetuous.’ They conceded Minalan’s point. The gifts helped,” Pentandra admitted. “Now they want an hour to refresh themselves before we proceed to weightier matters. I figured I should take a few moments to speak.”
“What did Master Min give them?” Dara asked, glad she had caught Lady Pentandra in such a chatty mood.
“Magical crystals Minalan discovered in the mountain of snowstone,” Pentandra revealed. “They are tremendously useful to the Alkan Council. You know how we travelled here by the Alkan Ways, from Lesgaethael to Carneduin? These stones act as a kind of Waypoint that you can take with you,” she explained. “That is a power that even the Alka Alon did not possess, before Minalan came along.”
“You mean, they can use the Ways . . . anywhere, now?” she asked, confused. As far as she knew, you needed a special place to use the Alkan Ways to travel. Like the one atop Matten’s Helm.
Pentandra nodded. “Think of it like a magical river. Instead of having to travel to a riverport to await a barge for your transport, now they can summon the river – and the barge – at whim. The novelty of the gift alone drew several members of the Council into a more favorable mood. The Alka Alon are great givers of gifts,” Pentandra explained. “They don’t even trade, as such, but dress up their commerce as ‘gifts’ to each other. And, more rarely, to humankind,” she explained.
“It sounds suspiciously like bribery to me,” Dara said, quietly.
“That is a very astute observation, Apprentice,” Pentandra agreed, approvingly. “But Minalan’s magnificent gifts allowed him to negotiate a closer alliance with the Alka Alon . . . which we desperately need, after the dragon attacks,” she explained. “Had we not their craft, we would not have been able to slay it, I think.”
“Well, it certainly helped!” Dara agreed. She, herself, had used the legendary Thoughtful Knife, a flying blade of incredible power, to help slay that dragon. She couldn’t imagine trying to kill the mighty beast with mere swords and spears.
“If Minalan can win over certain members of the Council, we may see much more assistance of that sort. But despite the sublime nature of this wonderful place, there are issues at hand that obstruct him. Politics.”
“Politics?” Dara asked, confused. Carneduin seemed an unlikely place for petty arguing to interfere with anything. “They don’t seem very political,” Dara suggested, cautiously.
“The Council is not monolithic,” Pentandra explained as they walked along the path. “Indeed, the Alka Alon are divided by nation and clan, just as humanity is. Where we see short, green-haired elfs, nearly indistinguishable from each other, the Alka Alon see great differences in their cultures. Carneduin is where those differences are supposed to be settled, but as with all politics, they persist.”
“Master Olmeg and Zagor told me of the Alka Alon and their kindreds.”
“Did he now?” Pentandra asked, surprised. “And what did they tell you?”
“That the Alka Alon have politics, they merely express it differently than humans do. Our three Emissaries are a good example,” Dara recited. “Each was chosen as a representative of one of the three great kindreds of Alka Alon. Lady Ithalia represents the Avalanti kindred,” she explained. “The rustics, and most numerous. The Avalanti are masterful horticulturists. They prefer to live in enchanted treehouses in the wilderness.
“Lady Varen’s people are the Farastamari,” Dara continued to report. “Scholars and scientists, a people who value learning and knowledge. They live in small enclaves for the purpose of studying. And then Lady Fallawen’s kindred is the Versaroti. They’re the creators. They’re technically more ‘civilized,’ preferring to live in ancient cities remote and far removed from human lands. And there are only a few of those left, after their ancient wars.” Looking around Carneduin, she couldn’t imagine the sublimely peaceful folk even raising their voices, much less fighting.
“Long ago,” Pentandra agreed. “Before humankind came to Callidore. Well done, Dara! All of that is important to know. But also important for us to keep in mind is that the Versaroti kindred was often responsible for those wars, from what we understand.
“Lady Fallawen doesn’t seem very warlike,” Dara pointed out.
“She’s not. But a wizard can use the same magic to become a practicing adept or a warmage,” she reminded her. “Creativity can be a dangerous thing. Nor does Lady Varen seem devious, but her kindred, the Farastamari, enjoy a reputation as officious meddlers.
The Versaroti are great thinkers, and ingenious in their pursuit of magic. But they are considered haughty and arrogant in their power by most of the Farastamari. The Versaroti are perhaps the most warlike, by our standards,” Pentandra reflected. “But all of the kindreds had a role in fighting, from what I understand. Even the Avalanti.”
“So . . . which kindred of Alka Alon are these?” Dara asked, gesturing to the number of small green-haired humanoids in Carneduin.
“Let’s see if we cannot determine that from observation, shall we?” Pentandra proposed. “Minalan would find it helpful, under the circumstances . . . and we have time before the Council is reconvened. Consider it an exercise. From what I understand, there is a mixture of kindreds, here at Carneduin. Look beyond the obvious and study the subtleties among them.” She led Dara to a large, high-backed stone bench of odd but beautiful construction that overlooked a particularly scenic spot of the deep cloven valley.
For the next half-hour, that’s just what they did. It took a lot of effort, and some quiet discussion between the two of them, as they tried to sort which Alkan belonged to which Kindred.
Pentandra was right: the differences were subtle and had escaped Dara’s notice when she’d first arrived. But the more she studied the Alka Alon, the more she realized that there were, indeed, some differences in manner and even style that revealed themselves.
Most of the Alka were engaged in horticulture of one sort or another, for instance, and Pentandra agreed that they were likely part of the Avalanti kindred who specialized in such things. They didn’t seem to be able to pass by a bush or tree without stopping and taking stock of it.
Then there were those Alka who virtually ignored the green magnificence around them, and seemed lost in their own thoughts as they went about their business. Those Dara figured were Versaroti kindred, those she’d mentally classed as ‘artisans’. Often, they carried some little staff of polished wood or other object as they walked, and were far more interested in what they were carrying than their surroundings.
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