“Run!” Herr’Don shouted, trudging through the trees, while Ifferon and Thalla ran ahead, fear and shock their driving lash. Ifferon held the Ilokrán in front of him, as if it would also protect him from the battering of the branches and the lashing of the wind.
The shadow had long passed behind them, but its memory lingered on, mauling their minds. Its chill sat like dewdrops upon their skin, seeping into every pore. Ifferon’s thoughts were rampant, running faster than his own limbs could, firing image upon image upon him, like a volley of arrows from a black corsair.
They ran for what seemed like a lifetime, until their limbs ached and their faces were scratched by clawing branches. Eventually they slowed and halted when weariness slew their fear. They sat and heaved and panted, while their eyes darted to the location of every sound and stir.
Ifferon clutched the Ilokrán until his fingers hurt and the markings were imprinted upon his palms. It gave him solace in the night, but a whispering part of him knew that its power was small against what lived in the gloom.
Thalla sat in sorrowful silence, her face drawn like a veil over a widow. She was deathly pale. Her eyes were wide and harrowing, and when Ifferon looked into them he saw a great dam holding back an endless flow of misery. He could not bring himself to say anything, for fear that the levee might break.
“His death is not in vain,” Herr’Don told her. He hung his head, as if the words he wanted to say had not come and all he could offer were false comforts. Yavün was awake now, but he remained silent.
The night grew long and the moon grieved behind the veil of cloud. Ifferon struggled to stay awake, for his mind was still haunted by shadow and he feared the dreams he would have. Even long after the others had fallen asleep he fought against his laden eyelids, until finally fatigue took him like a lover and kissed him goodnight.
* * *
Ifferon woke suddenly, his hands firmly clinging to the ground, as if he had fallen from his bed. But he was not at Larksong upon his old, hard mattress. The chill of the rock came suddenly, racing up his spine. He looked around quickly, making sure everything was safe, that there were no dark eyes staring from the trees. He felt the Ilokrán in his pocket with the Scroll, his only reassurances against the shade.
But something was not right. Herr’Don was there, resting against a tree, a blanket firmly wrapped around him, his guard let down from exhaustion. Thalla was there, further away, curled up like a wounded animal. But he did not see Yavün, not now and not when he turned around twice, searching feverishly for him as though he were his own son.
He stood up quickly and ran to large fallen trees, and he peered behind them into the shadows, hoping to find a scared stableboy there, awaiting the call of Ifferon’s voice, but there was only shadow and further on a forest, and beyond that some mountains, and further still the endless ocean of the night. Turning again he found no trace that Yavün had indeed been there, no echoes of poetry upon the wind. With a sudden shock, he felt the loneliness crowd around him, and an empty hollow in his heart. Yavün Arri, victim of the phantom host, was gone.
VIII – THE TOWER OF TOL-TIMÍL
The night dragged on, like a corpse trying to find its way to Halés. The last stars flickered and died out, lost candles in the vastness of the cosmos.
Something stirred in the belly of the earth, something small. A figure ventured from beneath the mask of shadow, stumbling on the border of slumber and the waking world. It drew closer, arms outstretched, groping at the air before it. A wandering man—out late at night.
The raven stirred, glaring with yellow eyes at the approaching figure, flapping its wings in warning.
Yavün staggered forward, suddenly coming to the realisation of where he was. He blinked—even the shadow of nightfall was bright in contrast to his dreams. Then he stopped, as if his feet had felt the edge of a ravine.
He looked before him, drawing in the landscape like a long, slow breath. There were tall stalks, black and thin, with frail limbs reaching out for life, and stones as old as the earth itself, sleeping only because it was better than staying awake. And there was crisp soil, blackened like the ash on a funeral pyre. It was the Rotwood, rank and reeking.
And there, like a monolith on an open plain, was the body of Melgalés, huddled against a lonely stone. His skin was as pale as the moon should be, were it brave enough to risk the sky. His clothes were torn and bloodied, his beads were scattered on the ground, and his face was worn, as if he had seen things no one should ever see. Just like the sky above, there were no stars in his eyes.
The raven sat by its master’s side, guarding his body, as any loyal servant would. But the air was cold, and his hands would be cold, should they be held. But there was only Yavün—and that was not why he was there.
There was a slight flicker in the mud just a few feet before the body, like a stray star that had failed to find its way back into the heavens. But it was not a star. It was a Beldarian, the Soul Pendant of the Master Magus. And it was calling Yavün, whispering words only his heart could hear.
He stepped forward, crouching, as if he were a lion about to prance upon a deer. But he knew that he was but a scavenger, and the raven was studying him closely. He stalked through the darkness, slow and silent, one eye on the raven and the other on the Beldarian.
It lured him, casting out into the shadow and pulling him in from the sea of curiosity. As it dragged him in inch by inch, there was a warning signal in his mind, but it was faint and quickly smothered by the passion of his heart. And then it was just a blur of light and noise, punctuated by vague images as if from a dream: his hand reaching forth, grazing the soil and then coming to the cold stone of the Beldarian itself, then a wisp of purple smoke within the pendant’s gem, and then the dullness of a long, slow darkness.
* * *
He awoke several hours later in the cold clutches of bewilderment. Blades of light stabbed his eyes, and when at last he adjusted, he knew nothing of the land that surrounded him. He was sitting on a large slab of rock, which looked like a fallen pillar, resting his back against an ageing tree. The branches crept out and felt their way around a large mossy wall, and a great carpet of leaves and starving soil lined the ground. Looking down further, Yavün could see that the leaves gave way like a waterfall to a series of plummeting steps, which curved around the building. And to his right, through the canopy of leaves and branches, he could see the sun sparkling in the distance, casting the land around in a wonderful yellow glow.
And then he felt it—something at his chest. For a brief moment he sat in paralysed silence, his breathing heavy. When at last he looked down, he gave a great sigh of relief, though it did not bring the comfort it should. About his neck he wore the Beldarian, the strange enchanted pendant that Melgalés wore. He could not remember how he got it or how he got to where he was sitting now. The memory was not there, as if it had been taken and hidden by higher powers. He tried to find it, searching the alleyways of his mind, but all he found was a sadness that was not his own.
Words welled up deep inside and he began to feel a presence within him, yearning to speak. It spoke of Melgalés:
I knew this Magus not for long,
But in those moments I knew then
That he deserved a fitting song
For uncrowned kings and sons of Men.
For in this weak world he was strong,
Such strength in one that was in ten.
Perhaps he did not here belong
And in his land sets foot again.
For from a distant land he came,
And in his heart a fire burned—
I saw the waning of that flame,
From a distant land now returned.
And there it was, a glimpse of something else, something hidden: a great fire raged beneath the earth, burning all it touched, and there was someone falling into the flame, as if dropped from a plank into a fiery sea. But he was of fire, so he did not burn into ash, but arose like a phoenix, dripping embers. And it was one great
baptism of fire as the figure arose from the inferno, looking out and bellowing forth with a voice of earthquakes and thunder—a voice that was directed to Yavün.
* * *
“The trail ends here,” Herr’Don said, shaking his head. “But there are other marks, strange marks on the trees. I’ve seen them in the Rotwood, though here they are less pronounced. There are scorch marks all across the bark, as if fingers of flame were dragged across them.”
“Perhaps they will lead us to him?” Ifferon ventured.
“Perhaps,” the prince replied, looking around. “But I can’t be sure of that. Look! Over here, more marks upon the trunks, and the ground is charred, as if a forest fire raged here—but it did not, for the trees are still alive, if anything in the Rotwood can be called that.”
“Will we follow this trail?” Ifferon asked, wondering if Herr’Don was really trying to find the youth at all. “He could have been taken this way by ... by some creature of the wood.”
Herr’Don shook his head. “No. At least, I hope not. I would not have much faith for anyone taken in these lands. We have yet to leave Ardún-Fé, and this place is cursed almost beyond that of Telarym, which is saying something indeed!”
“But why would he have wandered off like that?” Thalla asked, the first words she had spoken since Melgalés’ passing. Concern for Yavün was like a comfort from the grief.
“That,” Herr’Don said, raising his hand, “I would like to know. Come! We’ll follow this trail north. If naught else, it will lead us out of Ardún-Fé and into the lands of our brothers in Arlin. My heart yearns greatly for a sky more blessed and a soil less forsaken.”
And so they ventured on, far from the graveyard of trees into a basin of dry and empty plains, following a trail that had long since burned out. But the flames of hope still flickered in them, if only to stay the darkness of doubt. Ifferon tried not to think, tried to resist the lure of dark thoughts in the evil laneways of the mind—but his efforts were almost as monumental as those of trudging across a barren land with a body barren of the energy to do so.
It took another hour to reach the borderlands, and from there they could see the giant wall far off to their left, the Wall of Atel-Aher, so named for the last King of Arlin, who succumbed to madness after the death of his only son.
“How terrible a sight this is,” Herr’Don said, “to see something so beautiful and formidable as this wall—and to feel so vulnerable and unprotected by it. It is indeed an evil fate that caused the building of this, separating our two nations and throwing us into hatred and suspicion of each other. What brother was born with a dagger at the throat of his twin?”
Ifferon looked at the Wall as they neared it, watching as the dull white rose into the air like a mountain of cloud. But this was no sentinel of the sky—it was a fortress wall, a great barrier built to keep the people within Arlin safe, and to keep something out. The Wall spanned for miles, lining the border between Arlin and Boror, but as soon as it reached the realm of Ardún-Fé it ceased, for as the builders laid the foundation an earthquake struck and tore it apart, and again until wise men came and proclaimed the land accursed. There, even today, lay the ruins of what might have been an even stronger part of the Wall, cracked and broken, and covered with twisted weeds. And so the Tower of Tol-Timíl was built nearby, and it was known as the Elé Anar, the White Watcher, for it was there that the Knights of Issarí kept their guard against the evil of Ardún-Fé. But that too fell into ruin as the weary Knights became distracted from their duty, and the White Watcher became dormant, so that its eyes were dulled into slumber. What great shadow took it then was the realm of tales few bards would tell.
“The Wall is battered,” Thalla said solemnly, and Ifferon did not think of Atel-Aher’s barricade, but of the walls of Thalla’s heart, which were undoubtedly under strain.
“Yes,” Herr’Don said. “Arlin has had its own troubles, no doubt, though I’m not sure if they post guards here any more. This place looks desolate.”
“I hope it is the same for the enemies of Arlin,” Ifferon said.
“Let us hope, my friend, let us hope. Things would be much fresher here if there was a recent fight, so take comfort in that.”
“I cannot take comfort, for always I wonder if the fight is yet to come.”
“Aye, and it shall come,” Herr’Don said solemnly, yet with a hint of glee at the thought, “but if we are to lose a battle, let us lose it then instead of now. Keep faith in the movement of your legs if it will not dwell in your heart.” The prince placed his hand on Ifferon’s shoulder and smiled. “Come, the trail continues still,” he said, turning away and glancing at more scorch marks on the ground. “But it appears that Yavün may have stopped here too.”
The tower rose before them, tall and daunting. It seemed to go endlessly upwards, but when Ifferon strained his eyes he could see that it was ruined at the top where it met the clouds. He recalled the tales that it was struck by lightning, or that it was a pawn that fell from a god’s chessboard, breaking as it hit the earth. Its walls sparkled like the Wall of Atel-Aher, undoubtedly made from the same mystical stone that the Alchemists of Arlin kept closely guarded.
“I wonder what Yavün is doing now,” Thalla said, her eyes set upon the looming Tower, her hands fidgeting with the collar of her robe. “I hope he’s safe. I hope he hasn’t ... I hope he’s safe.”
* * *
A fire roared in Yavün’s mind, like a lion announcing its dominion there. A streak of red and yellow flashed across his eyes, and for a moment he thought he was blinded, for there was darkness. Then, whether before his very eyes or as some trick within his mind, he saw a single flame, as if it were dancing upon the tip of a candle. This candle was the tower of Tol-Timíl, and the flame was something that was more than fire.
I am the spark in my consummation, a voice bellowed, and with it Yavün felt an immense power well up, stronger than flame. This is the link in the chain of my life, the stone of the fool who knows not how to cleave it in two. While it is one, I will be one, and we will be one together. Cleave it asunder and I will be two for a moment, while the cleaving takes its toll. The toll will be as a bell to the daring and a thunder to the waiting. Then I will be undone, and you will know me by my true name in the Hall of the Wise beyond the Gate of Judgement where the Gatekeeper has his watch.
“Who are you?” Yavün asked, unsure if he had used his physical voice. “What play of forces is this?”
Celestial chess is not of my making, no. I am a fire that was given a body. Now I am but a fire again. By my will are the waters of your mind parted, as with fire. When you were born, the window of your will was firmly shut, and you were as one pulled by the strings of the gods. Now that certain forces have been set in motion, and the Vials of Wrath unleashed upon Iraldas from he that we call Agon, the Celestials believed not all windows should remain shut. This is the time of your consummation, Yavün Arri, Avatar of Ariavar, for you wear the skin of a stableboy just as a sheep wears its wool. Shake off your blindness and be reborn as a lion in the fire!
Then suddenly blackness swept in again, as if to quench this flame, and a chillness followed, like creeping icy claws. The wind swept up and the frosty fingers brushed against Yavün’s skin, icicle nails digging deep beneath the surface. The darkness seemed to shimmer in his vision, as if it were not of all one black, but different shades that competed for dominance. Shadows bobbed and danced, like cool waves on a dark and empty ocean. And then the blacks began to pale, as if some new wave had entered. Greys washed past his eyelids, dark at first, but soon they lightened until vague shapes appeared.
And then the fear came. Quick, like one great tsunami, panic swept against the shores of Yavün’s mind. The heavy silence that had preceded was pressed now by a sharp racing of his thoughts—and of thoughts he knew were not his own.
Heed them not, came the volcanic voice from earlier. They are Spectres and no more. They have no physical form in which to harm you, and have so v
ery little in them of spirit that they are almost non-existent but for the belief in them by Men, who believe in them because they fear them. A shadow can only be present with light. I am that light, Yavün, yes, and while you are in my presence (and so you shall be, for a time to come), they shall have no true power but that which you afford them. Yet pay heed, for the window is now open, so while it is open to me, it is also open to them. Make special care not to let them in!
There was a blinding flash and all was white for a time. Then the light softened until Yavün saw again that he was sitting on the Tower of Tol-Timíl, and the evil presence was washed away like shells upon a ravaged shore.
* * *
“There is something amiss here”, Herr’Don said, his hand pressed firmly against the handle of his sword. They neared the steps of the tower, dazzled by its luminosity.
“Look, there is a door in the wall over there,” Thalla said, pointing to a small wooden door reinforced with metal and chains. It looked as though it would weather a hundred storms and a thousand battering fists, but as they approached they realised that the hinges had become loose, that the seemingly impenetrable door was but a front, a remnant of the days when Tol-Timíl really was the great watchtower of the ancient world. Herr’Don placed his hand against the door; it creaked loudly and fell suddenly inwards. It collapsed with a monumental thud, sending a spray of dirt and dust upon the onlookers outside. Herr’Don coughed and spat, wiping the muck from his face and clothes.
“I can’t imagine anyone is home,” he said, rubbing his sleeve across his mouth. “Or that Yavün would have come in here. Although ... a dark hole makes a great resting place for a rat.”
The Call of Agon: Book One of The Children of Telm Page 10
