by Ulff Lehmann
“So, what did you do when traveling with Nerran?” He hoped to get an answer. The warrior appeared to have let his guard down.
“Why, in Lesganagh’s name, do you want to know?” the rider growled. “Pretty nosey for one so young, aren’t you?”
“I just…”
“You just want to know, eh? Tell you what, mate. We all know who and what you are. Nerran told us. Duasonh trusts Nerran, Nerran trusts us. You should trust the Baron’s judgment, after all he made you.” Briog spat and thrust the reins back into Jesgar’s hand. “Once you’ve proven your mettle, ask again, and any of us will answer, until then, shut your trap and learn. Understood?”
Dumbfounded, all he could do was nod and watch the warrior walk away. Getting information from a drunk in a tavern was easier than getting anything out of Briog, and he feared that the others might not be as gentle as this one in their dismissal. He only wanted to know what the bond was between the Riders; it wasn’t that he didn’t trust Nerran. He liked the old warrior. He just wanted to get to know him, learn from him.
Yeah, he was on his way to become the Baron’s spy, and it startled him that Nerran had told his companions, but Cumaill Duasonh had not ordered him to spy on Nerran. He was just curious. The hurt and disappointment made him forget the pain his joints still felt, and when he walked to tether his mare with the other horses, he was certain the others were observing and talking about him.
“Don’t fret, lad.” Nerran’s voice brought him out of his brooding, and Jesgar looked up at the old warrior. “We won’t eat you, it’s just that…” He paused and looked at him. “The lads and I have been together for a long time, we need to trust you.” Jesgar was about to reply, but Nerran’s raised hand cut him short. “No, lad, we do know you are on the Baron’s side, so no worries there. We just need to know, for sure, if you’re also on ours.”
What the Scales was the man talking about?
“Aren’t we all on the same side?” Jesgar hissed.
“In the fight to keep our homes the way they are, yes.”
“But…” he protested.
“We mean you no harm, lad,” Nerran interrupted. “Leave it at that, all right?” The older man pointed at the campfire, surrounded by his riders. “Fynbar did the cooking, and you better get some food before they’ve gobbled it all up.”
Defeated, Jesgar could only nod and acknowledge his rumbling stomach. If they wanted to let him in on their secret, he was certain he’d be the first to know. He sat down, his legs and back again screaming in protest, and accepted a bowl handed to him by Briog.
“Thanks,” he muttered and began to eat.
As Nerran had promised, the food was excellent.
CHAPTER 29
Fourteenth of Chill, 1475 K.C.
Julathaen had called the Council of Mages to assemble. It had been a while since the last meeting, and if past events were an indicator for what would soon happen, Lloreanthoran dreaded sitting in the House of Sorcery. Many wizards had perused the tomes in the huge marble library, but he avoided the place. Yes, it was bigger and more thorough than his own meager collection, a fact that Kyrreandros stated every other week, but he avoided the company of his fellow mages whenever he could.
Unlike most houses belonging to wizards, the House of Sorcery was plain, no fancy sigils or gems disturbed the pillars and walls, and since the elves also controlled the weather there was no roof.
Lloreanthoran knew it was customary to teleport to the meeting-chamber. His peers frowned upon walking, and to break with tradition once again, he opted to walk. The curious glances children and adults threw his way certainly would keep the rumor-mill running, but he didn’t care. If all went as planned he would soon be out of this prison.
Despite his annoyance with this artificial world, the sight of the House’s central pillar took his breath away when he turned a corner and walked up the path leading to the building. He had helped create the massive column. Even from this distance the magical construct made him feel insignificant. Without the pillar Graigh D’nar could not be; the world would simply collapse without it, much like a keystone in any arch.
As he came closer, Lloreanthoran’s entire horizon seemed to be occupied by the column, even the House appeared to huddle at its base. From one moment to the next, the light pulsing out from the top of the realm’s foundation dimmed. Then it was gone. Night, as prescribed, replaced day. By now the rest of the Council was surely assembled, and the gossip and backstabbing would be in full swing. It was time for him to join his… colleagues.
He entered and spotted Julathaen, who looked much older than the image he had seen in spiritform earlier. Even by his race’s standards, the wizards’ leader was ancient. Rumors were that he had been around when Honas Graigh was founded and that his magical power was the only reason he still lived. Despite his age, or maybe because of it, the old wizard had held the position of chairman for over a thousand years, and because of this experience Lloreanthoran doubted there were many things that could still surprise him. The Lightbringer’s appearance and the apparent threat that seemed to stem from the Tomes of Darkness, however, were among those things.
“Brother Lloreanthoran brought something to my attention that should have been noticed long before now,” Julathaen said, his voice booming to drown out the hushed talks all along the table.
Lloreanthoran waited, etiquette demanded that he sit next to his peers, but he was in no mood for the gossip and intrigue that surely was taking place. He ignored the looks other wizards cast his way, and focused on the chairman.
“I have broken through the Veil of Dreams,” Julathaen stated and spoke on before the protests grew too loud. “Into the past and present I looked, and what I saw was shocking.” He paused for a moment and stood. “We have made a mistake, my friends.” Lloreanthoran could hear a slight hesitation before the wizard said “friends” and caught a mischievous wink from the old elf that was certainly meant for him. “Who knows why the Aerant C’lain had been built so many centuries ago, and what its purpose was?” The younger wizard noticed how the other used the past tense in his question, and wondered if the others were keen enough to notice it as well.
Haqualonar, one of the older wizards, stood. “It was meant to store the Tomes of Darkness, and the Stone of Blood.”
Julathaen nodded, more to himself than to the wizard. “Indeed, that was one of its purposes.”
“One of its purposes?” echoed another mage. Lloreanthoran was too astonished by this revelation to bother looking for the elf in question.
“Indeed,” Julathaen said.
“What is the other purpose?” Haqualonar asked.
“To prevent the knowledge stored inside from ever being discovered and used again,” the Council leader said. “There is more: I found out that the Aerant C’lain is surrounded by a field of terrible power, a mindstorm, and no scrying can discern whether its contents are still there. The soulward surrounding it is failing, and soon the power contained within the Tomes and the Stone can be used once more.” He held up his hands to silence the muttering of the other mages. Lloreanthoran gasped, it was worse than he had suspected. Julathaen paused. It seemed as if the old wizard waited for the others to come to the conclusion themselves.
“What powers do the Tomes bear?” Rutharion, one of the younger wizards, asked.
“They teach anyone how to open a gateway to the realm of the First Ones beyond the Veil of Gloom,” Julathaen replied. “And they have already been used once.” Lloreanthoran added his voice to the communal gasp. “A human, one Danachamain, set out to plunder our old home. He and some of those who followed him were enticed by the power promised by the Tomes.”
“How can mere words of magic promise power?” Rutharion asked, a trace of doubt in his voice.
“The writings we found on the walls of an ancient building,” the chairman said, “told of immense power that would be gained by opening the door.” He paused to sip some water. “An error in translation, I fear. Th
e meaning of words the First Ones used changed over the millennia, and so we misinterpreted the inscriptions.
“What it really said was that power would be released again should the door be opened! The Lightbringer helped us bar the door once more. At great cost.”
“And why is this our problem?” Rutharion asked.
Did these fools understand so little, Lloreanthoran wondered. He stepped toward the table and said, “Because we did not take the precautions necessary to prevent the knowledge being used again! Because the creators of the Aerant C’lain never foresaw the possibility of us abandoning Gathran and Honas Graigh!”
“How was it possible that the Tomes of Darkness were left behind in the first place?” an elf asked.
The assembly’s response was silence.
Julathaen glared at his fellow wizards, challenging them. He dared them to raise their voices against him. “Well?”
“We all know that we forgot the Tomes and the Stone during the flight from our beloved city,” Haqualonar said.
“I know that,” Julathaen snapped. “But at that time, we didn’t bother with the question of why they were left behind. Now the situation has changed. We need to recover both the Tomes and Stone!”
“And why should we all take the blame for this mishap?” Rutharion asked.
“Because we all are responsible!” the Council leader replied. “Because none of us remembered the Aerant C’lain, and now we have to deal with our unwanted legacy to the world. The tomb of knowledge is our responsibility! Also, the soulward is being corrupted and once it fails, the Tomes will be usable on a grander scale.”
Clearing his throat, Rutharion said, “Why should I care? I didn’t forget the tomb. Let the one responsible go to Honas Graigh and deal with the problem!”
“If that is so,” Julathaen replied, anger seeping into his voice, “we will lead an inquiry until the culprit is found. I want to know who was responsible!”
The noise started to rise as the elves began to bicker. Lloreanthoran eyed the assembly, silently cursing the petty fights that always accompanied Council-Meetings. Of course, someone was responsible for the disaster and it was important to find this one person. In his experience the process of trying this wizard might well take over two years, a lot of time to waste. Time they might not have.
He walked over to Julathaen and talked in hushed tones, while the other elves bickered and continued their feuds in the hallowed halls of sorcery. The chairman made a small gesture and a shimmering globe of silence appeared around them, effectively cutting out the chatter of the other mages and allowing the two elder wizards to talk in private.
“You want to go on with this?” Julathaen asked.
Lloreanthoran looked down the table. The fighting ceased as the assembled elves looked at the two, wondering what they were talking about. “What other choice do we have? If you go, the fools will tear out their throats.” Julathaen nodded. “If you send anyone else, the gods only know what he might do. Also,” he continued, “the Lightbringer has spoken to me; she wants me to help.”
“Are you ready to take the blame for this?” the older wizard frowned. “This could mean exile.”
“You said we needed a hook, you have given us more than that,” said Lloreanthoran, pointing at the assembly. “They have swallowed the bait. They don’t care who is responsible, they all just want to see someone hang, preferably not themselves.” He glanced at the wizardly mob as it started talking again.
“But it’s time for us to take some responsibility for our actions,” Lloreanthoran said. “We need to get our people out of this place.”
“The poor children,” Julathaen muttered absentmindedly.
“What?”
“The guardians of the Aerant C’lain.”
“I don’t understand,” Lloreanthoran said.
“And I pray you never will.”
He nodded, “I understand.”
“No, you don’t. Be glad of that.”
He nodded again, gazing at the other wizards. They were probably throwing insults at each other, losing their tempers in a way that only elves could. Even though humans viewed elves as the most patient of all, save dragons and gods of course, once amongst themselves they were quite capable of behaving like spoiled children. When they bickered, they did so patiently.
Shaking his head, he looked at Julathaen who also watched the unfolding spectacle. Patience was an elven virtue, but this was weighed out by their jealousy. Only once in a while two beings of equal status actually resolved a problem together, leaving cooperative magic a thing of dreams. The only time they had actually worked in unison was during the Heir War and when they created their new realm. Ever since, they stuck to their ways of living, not bothering to contemplate the outside world.
He and Julathaen belonged to those who had tried to work against their race’s weakness but were too few to succeed, for the elves had grown so accustomed to their ways that the voices that were raised from time to time were ignored. They were raised again and again in the hope that someday people would pay attention.
“Listen,” Lloreanthoran said, “you must work to undo this magic here beyond the Veil! I will find out what is happening with the Aerant C’lain; you will prepare our people’s return.”
Finally, the globe was lowered and Julathaen’s voice thundered through the room. “Silence!”
He didn’t have to say it twice; all elves looked at the two in anticipation. “The one responsible for the grave mistake of leaving the Tomes of Darkness behind has been identified. It is Lloreanthoran.”
There was a gasp as all heads turned his way. “He has admitted that he was so busy maintaining the bridge into this realm that he forgot to retrieve the artifacts. Thus, I have decreed that he is to fetch the Tomes now. Further, he is to discover where the Stone of Blood is and destroy it.”
Julathaen’s voice shook as he added, “All his possessions will be taken from him, save the bare necessities, until he finishes this task.”
The muttering started anew, everyone asked questions, either directed at he who answered them with silence, or at each other, about how foolish they could have been to allow one such as him to walk amongst them. They all knew this was a ruse, that he had never had the obligation to retrieve the books and that he was doing this to prevent any further harm, but jealousy overwhelmed reasoning.
Lloreanthoran stood and all fell silent. His face a grim mask, he addressed the assembly. “I’ll retrieve all I need and leave for Honas Graigh at once.”
“So it shall be done,” replied Julathaen, nodding gravely. The old elf rose. “This session is over.”
Few preparations were necessary. He gathered several items he thought useful. He sent for Kyrreandros, instructed him to take care of the house, and reassured the young elf that he would return.
He had just finished packing, when Julathaen’s spiritform appeared. “Nice barriers you’ve got here,” the old wizard remarked. “Took some time to pass them.”
Smiling at the senior elf, Lloreanthoran shrugged his shoulders. “I never doubted you could circumvent them, especially since I left a backdoor for you, so to speak.”
“Two who trust each other, quite rare.” He hesitated. “You didn’t have to take the blame, you know?”
“I do, and I bet those overeager magelings are already wetting their pants to get into my house. Apart from fighting over spoils not yet won that is.” He sighed, “I didn’t do this to prevent the infighting. You know it can't be stopped.” The other elf nodded. “I wanted to prevent several years of discussion.”
“Not to mention the chance to escape this prison of ours,” the old wizard added with a chuckle. “I appreciate the sacrifice.”
“If I die it will be under a real sky, in the real world, closer to our real home,” Lloreanthoran shook his head. “Prison indeed.”
“Back then we thought it best to leave, and you know I regret this decision also.”
“We can’t change the past, b
ut we can try to correct errors. Maybe those fools will understand this someday.”
“Maybe, my friend. Give my regards to that squirrel of yours and good luck to both of you.”
With a nod and a gesture, Julathaen had gone.
“They failed?” he already knew the answer, but he asked anyway. The tedious rules of protocol had to be obeyed.
“Yes. We have received no word, and assume they’re dead, Priest High.” The robed warrior bowed.
In silence the old man regarded his opposite. Thoughtfully he scratched his beard and gazed out the window, taking in the scenery. So many things were on his mind, so many things he wanted to say to his cohorts. He knew he could not. They wouldn’t understand, would demand the threat be eliminated. “But they initiated the ritual.”
“Yes, sir. We all felt the circle’s power.”
The Priest High withdrew the old drawing from its resting place and hesitated. He knew it was too late, that the younger man had already seen what he was doing. “It’s a link,” he explained, more to himself than to the frowning warrior. He concentrated for a moment and felt the bond’s pull to the north and west. “He’s in Dunthiochagh. The ritual must be completed or all will be lost.”
Some choices were easy, some harder. And some choices, he knew too well, one would regret for the rest of one’s life. If all other options were exhausted, those one didn’t dare consider were the only options left. “Send for Dalgor.” The man swallowed.
“But, sir, is that wise?”
He knew full well that sending Dalgor was not the wisest choice of action. The boy was too full of himself, proud to a degree he hadn’t seen in a long time. Pride, however, was not the only flaw of Dalgor’s; his fanaticism frightened many. “I refuse to send out more men to die,” he said. “I want this business finished!”
“Yes.” The subordinate bowed and left.
The Priest High looked down on the drawing. Was this regret? He wasn’t sure. Given the chance he might change his past mistakes, but life never gave one the option to alter history. He still remembered the young boy who had drawn this picture, the lad who had sat in a corner of this very room, eyes pinched in concentration, his tongue poking out of his mouth. The child had been so fascinated with tales of the gods. He remembered telling him stories, how he had felt drawn to the lad, and his revulsion.
