Elven Winter

by Bernhard Hennen

  Ollowain thought briefly about how he could explain to the pigheaded centaur that a direct order was far from the same as ambiguous insinuations. The latter allowed them the freedom to follow their own instinct. “Hold your tongue. That is an order.”

  “Don’t push too far, elfling!”

  Ollowain ignored the threat and turned back to Gondoran. “What else did the queen ask of you? Did she have any specific requests for the construction?”

  “She wanted the sedan made in such a way that one could plug the holes and make it float again. We have wooden disks we can fit into the holes that the carrying poles go through. It is not difficult to make the boat watertight again.”

  Ollowain looked back desperately. A wall of fire separated them from the harbor. Their breathless flight had left him with no time to think. “So she wanted us to escape to sea. And therefore the boat . . . I should have known it sooner!”

  “If you think I’m going to carry this blasted sedan back through that fire—” Orimedes began.

  Gondoran cleared his throat loudly.

  “If I want something from you, I’ll let you know,” the centaur snarled at the holde.

  Gondoran recoiled a little from the manhorse. “With all due respect, noble sirs, you’re mistaken. This boat is not built to carry someone on the open sea. A flat-bottomed skiff like this is useful in the mangrove swamps. The water there doesn’t move, and there are few spots where it would even rise above your chest, Prince. In many places, it is hardly deeper than a puddle. On the open sea, this boat would fill up with water faster than you could bail it out.”

  Ollowain gazed off into the darkness, eyes narrowed. About a mile west of the royal palace lay the mussel-fishers’ harbor. Was that what Emerelle had wanted? Would they be able to escape from there? All around the palace now, houses were blazing. Ollowain thought he could make out contorted shadows moving among the flames. In the firelight, they seemed unnaturally large. There was fighting going on down there, too. The fires were spreading against the direction of the wind; the rooftops were not falling victim to flying sparks.

  Try as he might, Ollowain could not recognize the enemy raging below in the smoke and darkness. The route to the mussel-fishers’ harbor was sealed off. Feverishly, Ollowain thought through the choices open to them. A single fighter could no doubt slip through the enemy’s ranks easily enough, but getting through with the queen’s sedan would be impossible. Unless they went around in a very wide arc. Far to the east, on a tongue of land protruding like a narrow sickle between the sea and the mangrove swamps, was the district of the tanners, a region with such a ghastly reek that no elf would show his face there. With a little luck, they could make it there before their faceless enemy could—and from there find a way out onto the Woodmer.

  Ollowain turned to the leader of the holdes. “Which route would you choose to get down to the mangroves?”

  Gondoran stared into the darkness and pulled at his pointed chin. “I would go through the cisterns. We would be completely hidden from view down there. And anyone who does not know their way around down there will soon find themselves hopelessly lost.”

  “And you know how to get through?” Orimedes clearly had no desire to go stumbling around in underground reservoirs.

  “My cousin was the master of waters!” Gondoran declared proudly. “When I was still a young lad, he often took me down into the cisterns to help clear the spillway pipes of silt and weed. I know the hidden halls down there as well as I know the mangroves and the Woodmer.”

  “And we could make it from here to the edge of the city?” asked the centaur prince doubtfully. “That’s more than a mile. The cisterns are never that big.”

  “Do you always talk with such certainty about things you know nothing about, horsefly bait? There certainly are reservoirs almost a mile in length, and many more smaller cisterns, all connected by canals and lock chambers. This city takes a lot of water, and because it is pinned between the sea and the mangroves, drinking water is a valuable commodity. In Vahan Calyd, they’ve always had to collect the rainwater, which is piped down though filter basins and into the large reservoirs. There’s a hidden sea beneath our feet. Even if no rain fell in Vahan Calyd for a year, no one here would go thirsty or have to go without a bath.”

  “And we could get down there with the skiff?” Ollowain asked doubtfully.

  “Oh, yes! There are many boats down there. How else are the master of waters and all his servants supposed to do their jobs? But we have to climb down through one of the lock chambers—there are doors there that are wide enough to get a boat in. Once we get down there, we’ll have no more problems.” He looked over at the centaur contemptuously. “Unless his four-legged highness here can’t swim.”

  Orimedes replied with a disdainful snort.

  “Lead us to the next lock chamber!” Ollowain ordered.

  Gondoran looked around for a moment, then pointed westward. “Two hundred paces that way is the Chamber of Roses. That’s the nearest way down.”

  “And we will have to swim?”

  The holde nodded. “The boat can’t carry all of us. You’ll have to hold on to the sides.”

  The swordmaster stripped off his tunic and ordered Yilvina and the surviving guards to leave behind all unnecessary weight. Nothing was to remain in the cisterns that could give a potential pursuer a clue to their escape route. Ollowain pushed the expendable equipment out of sight beneath an oleander bush. The other elven warriors did the same, following his orders without question—he would be able to rely on them and Yilvina. As for Orimedes and his four centaurs, Ollowain was not so sure.

  The manhorses stood a little apart, and their prince was talking insistently to them, gesturing wildly. It was clear what they thought of choosing an escape route that would take them deep underground.

  Gondoran and his two remaining companions were examining the hull of the small boat. Ollowain thought about the bad fall they had suffered—if one of the planks was too badly damaged, then all their plans would be for nothing. He went over to the boatmaster.

  The holde pointed inside the boat. “One of the guards has kicked the bucket. He’s just excess ballast now; best we can do is leave him under the oleander with all that other stuff.”

  Ollowain tensed. “Watch your tone. Just because I’m dependent on you does not mean you can get away with anything, Boatmaster.”

  “Oh, no?” The holde sneered. “Let’s call a spade a spade. Your comrade here is meat, no more. He was the one who chose to be a fighter, and now he’s expired in battle. Among his sort, that’s what they call a fulfilled life. My men are fishermen who wanted to go to a party this evening. You can be happy they haven’t all taken off.”

  “You and your men are servants of the queen, as am I, Boatmaster. She knew that she would make her escape in that ridiculous tub. It is your task to get her to safety. The three of you will no more shirk your duty than would my soldiers flee from a battle. If necessary, I will nail your and your companions’ feet to the planks of that boat until Emerelle is safe. I do not expect a holde to behave with chivalry, but you will do your duty like everyone else here. Now tell me if the boat has taken any damage.”

  Gondoran glared furiously but swallowed whatever rebuke he might have been considering. “One plank is cracked. We’ll take on a little water, but the boat will float.”

  The swordmaster leaned over Emerelle. The queen’s skin still felt icy. Although Lyndwyn was unconscious, her magic continued to work. The sorceress’s dress was pocked with burn marks, her hair singed and her face smeared with blood. And yet there was still something at once uncanny and fearsome about her. Her right hand rested on Emerelle’s chest. She really seemed to be trying hard to protect the queen. Had he done her an injustice? No. Anyone could see how she gave the signal to attack. She was a traitor!

  Ollowain stroked his dead companion’s face and closed his eyes. It was clear that Lyndwyn had done nothing to try to help the two injured guards. Their w
ounds had not been bandaged, nor was there any sign that she had cast a spell to ease the men’s pain. He would have preferred to leave the sorceress behind.

  They carried their comrade into the bushes on his shield. There was barely time to say a few words of farewell—honoring the dead meant endangering the living. Without warning, Ollowain had the feeling that they were being watched. He looked around, but in the landscaped gardens surrounding them, there were a hundred hiding places. He could see no one.

  When they returned to the boat, Gondoran was standing inside it. The centaurs had hoisted the unusual sedan onto their shoulders again. The holde directed the group down through a garden on the back of the hill until they reached a fountain, behind which a broad stairway led down into the earth. Even there, someone had set a small oil lamp on every step to mark the Festival of Light. It occurred to Ollowain that no one could ever again mark that day without thinking of the terrible fire and all the dead.

  The iron-clad hooves of the centaurs clattered on the marble steps. Cautiously, they descended into the depths until they reached a large door; they lowered the skiff gently to the ground. The door had neither handle nor hinges.

  Orimedes ran one hand reverently over the door. “That’s gold, isn’t it?” he breathed. “Pure gold. Enough to pay for a palace. A fortune.”

  “Every lock down here, every tooth of every gear, every fitting is made of gold. No other metal resists water over the centuries as well as gold can,” Gondoran explained condescendingly. “When these cisterns were built, only the very best materials were used.”

  Gondoran jumped down from the boat and went to the golden portal. He pressed his cheek against the cold metal, stroked the door with circular movements, and whispered something.

  “What did you say?” asked Orimedes.

  “That’s a secret of the guardians of the water. If this was not about the queen, I would never let you in. We don’t want to let every stinking barbarian into the cisterns to cool his feet in drinking water.” Gondoran dodged a kick from the prince and waved them into a broad hall. Moonstones shimmering silvery blue were set into the arches of the vaulted ceiling, bathing the hall in mysterious light. From somewhere in the distance came a low rumbling, like thunder. Ollowain thought he could feel the floor underfoot tremble slightly.

  The entire hall was built of marble. At chest height, a wide frieze of onyx and mother-of-pearl ran around the sides, displaying a pattern of stylized waves. In the cold light of the hall, it seemed as if the waves moved, like the gentle swell of the sea on a full-moon night.

  “Bring the boat inside!” the holde ordered. “From now on, we won’t be needing the poles. Pull them out and we can seal the boat.”

  Ollowain was surprised at the natural authority that the little boatman suddenly radiated. He seemed completely changed. Down here was his realm, and no one doubted that. Without a grumbled word, the centaurs did as they were told.

  The swordmaster looked around. The cool splendor of the hall had something about it that made one feel utterly insignificant. It had been created for ages and was worthy of any king’s palace. And yet hardly any of the city’s inhabitants ever came here. All of this beauty lay hidden. Ollowain looked up the long steps they had come down, washed in the glow from the oil lamps. The fires in the harbor made the night sky appear purple. Momentarily lost in thought, he recalled the curtain closing on a theater stage. Down here, in the cool magnificence of the cisterns, he felt himself strangely far removed from everything that had happened this night. One act had come to an end. A new chapter in the history of Albenmark was beginning.

  The soft hum of metal jolted him out of his thoughts. Yilvina had drawn both of her short swords. She pointed up the steps with one of the blades. “There’s someone up there! An archer. I saw his shadow clearly against the night sky.”

  Ollowain could see no one, but he did not doubt Yilvina’s word for a moment. Since starting their ascent of Lotus Rise, he had sensed that they were being followed. Yilvina’s words confirmed it—they were not yet out of danger! “How do we get to the water?” he asked Gondoran.

  The holde pointed to the decorative frieze on the wall. “The seventh wave. If you push it, a hidden entry opens.”

  “And how do you close the golden portal?”

  “That closes automatically,” Gondoran replied matter-of-factly. “This is the entrance to the hidden lake and not the gatehouse of a fortress. We have no influence on when the entrance to the Chamber of Roses closes. But the door that leads down to the cisterns can be closed from the inside. Anyone who doesn’t know how to find it will have a hard time following us.”

  Ollowain counted the waves in the frieze and pressed on the concealed release. He heard a faint click, then a grating noise. A section of the wall swung open. The distant thundering was now more distinct, and a blast of cold, damp air rose from the depths—Ollowain shivered. Beyond the secret door, a stairway led downward into a dark abyss.

  Gondoran passed through first. “There is a supply of torches here.”

  The centaurs looked uncertainly into the darkness. “Maybe we should stay behind and catch that archer,” one of them murmured.

  “That’s not what matters.” Orimedes reached for the stern of the boat. “We have to get the queen out of the city.” He pointed his chin toward the dark entrance. “And that is the only way still open to us. Grab hold! We have no time to lose!”

  A torch flared to life with a muffled hiss. Gondoran was standing in front of a chest with gold fittings. The holde took out two more torches and pushed them into his belt. The centaurs tentatively started down the steps, with Yilvina and Ollowain bringing up the rear. As the heavy secret door closed, they could see the golden portal also sliding slowly out of the wall. For a moment, Ollowain thought he heard hasty footsteps descending to the blue-lit hall, but the impression quickly faded.

  The stairway led past a tiled wall depicting images of a riverscape, the thickets along the shore concealing myriad species of birds. The air was saturated and smelled of wet stone. Their route led them to a stone quay where two boats were tied.

  Under Gondoran’s watchful eye, the centaurs lowered the boat holding the queen into the water, while his companions retrieved two paddles stowed out of sight beneath the thwarts and slipped them through the rowlocks. Then the boatmaster took over the tiller in the stern. He placed his torch in a holder on the mast, and they extinguished the other lights.

  Ollowain had never been afraid of the dark, but the depth of the blackness down there was a trial for him. The light cast by the smoky torch on the mast barely made it beyond the sides of the boat. He felt as if he had stumbled into the nothingness that lay beyond the Albenpaths, a place where no life had a place. A traveler who erred from a path between the worlds was lost forever, it was said. At which point had he strayed from the path this night? When had he taken the first false step? When he had met with Silwyna?

  The swordmaster slid from the small dock into the water and reached for the boat. He exhaled in shock: the water in the cistern was ice-cold!

  “We should not have climbed into this hole,” Orimedes growled. “Something just slithered over my leg. We’ll get lost and end up eaten by fish.”

  “That must be your own shaking tail between your legs, manhorse. There are no fish here!” said Gondoran sharply. “Nor bugs, nor rats. Nothing that could contaminate water lives down here. Just a few ghosts, but you don’t have to fear that a ghost will piss in your water supply. This is drinking water, and the master of waters does not suffer the presence of anything here that could pollute it. But these are special circumstances.”

  The others had also clambered from the dock into the water. Slowly, the little boat set off into the darkness. After a few moments, the stairway and dock had vanished in the blackness behind them. The torchlight did not reach the ceiling of the cistern. Ollowain tried to suppress the feeling nagging at him, the impression of being lost. Not having a visible goal was something unacc
ustomed. Where were they supposed to go when they reached the mangroves? Their best course would be to escape through an Albenstar, but to do that they needed Lyndwyn’s help. Ollowain knew neither the necessary magic to open a portal to the Albenpaths nor where one was even supposed to go looking for them. In Vahan Calyd were two large Albenstars, he knew. One lay beneath Emerelle’s burning tower, and the second was close to Shahondin’s palace, both routes closed to him. He had heard of more Albenstars farther out on the Woodmer, though . . .

  Ollowain looked at the sorceress. Although the gash on her head appeared superficial and he did not believe she was seriously injured, she was still unconscious. Lyndwyn could lead them in the wrong direction among the Albenpaths without him noticing anything. Only when they stepped out through a gate again would they see where the sorceress had taken them.

  “See that?” Yilvina pointed back the way they had come. Behind and above them, high up, a small, silvery rectangle seemed punched out of the darkness. A shadow stepped through the light, then the rectangle disappeared and the darkness, apart from the torch on the boat, was once again complete. “Who was that?”

  Gondoran had noticed the light, too. He said nothing, but he kept glancing behind them as he guided the skiff through the cistern.

  The thundering ahead of them grew louder and louder. The boatmaster helmed them through a golden lock door into a channel. It was so narrow there that the sidewalls were within arm’s reach. The water in the channel was not very deep, and they had solid ground underfoot as they felt their way forward. An archer there would be able to stand firmly and could shoot . . . They were safer in the deep water of the cistern.

  Ollowain dropped back a little. Was it Silwyna? Had he been mistaken about her? Ahead of them in the tunnel gleamed a light as bright as a summer day, and he sensed the power of old magic. Where had the holde brought them?

  Yilvina came back to him. She waved and said something, but her words were drowned out by the deafening thunder of water. The tunnel widened. They reached a large, circular vault, its ceiling studded with glowing barinstones. Gold pipes with artfully formed outflows jutted from the marble walls. Some looked like the stylized heads of birds with broad bills, others like dolphins or even wolves. There must have been hundreds of them. The water shot from the spouts in broad fans, and the bright light made it look like liquid crystal. The air was suffused with a fine mist; shimmering rainbows spanned the cascades.