Descent Into Fury

by Sean Hinn

  “Out with it. What are the rangers up to?”

  “We have been fletching arrows all day,” Dell said, the implication clear.

  “Father help us. When will you break camp?”

  “Before dawn, surely,” said Dell. “Just after middlenight, if I were to guess.”

  “So soon? She must wait until tomorrow, at least! If you leave now, you will arrive in daylight—”

  “We are not moving on Dohr. Not yet.”

  “What? Then where?”

  Another pause.

  “North.”

  A look of momentary confusion crossed Janna’s features, the expression replaced quickly by one of shock.

  “Is she out of her mind? You haven’t the numbers!”

  “Keep your voice down! That is her position exactly, and I do not disagree. If we do not deal a blow to Hatchet’s forces first, he could come up behind us at any time, and as few as we are, we could not stand. To be sure, if he returns and finds us engaged with Dohr’s forces, he will not stop to ask why.”

  “Dohr has no forces. They’re all north with Hatchet!”

  “He had forces enough to kill three Tenths of rangers. You did not see, Janna. It was…” Dell’s voice trailed off. “At least we will have surprise on our side.”

  “Oh, Dell. You will all die. This is foolhardy.”

  “Call it what you will, but we cannot bear to do nothing. We have lost dear friends, elves we have lived and trained with for decades. If we delay, we stand to lose more. There are no good options. This is the wisest course.”

  “The wisest course is to await our queen’s direction, and act as one.”

  “Please, Janna. I would not argue with you. Not tonight.”

  The two held one another for a time. A sneeze from a nearby tent brought their farewell to an end.

  “I must go.”

  “Dell… I must tell Marchion.”

  “You cannot! Dammit, Janna, I told you this in confidence!”

  “I know. And I am sorry. But this brooch came with vows.”

  “And what of our vows?”

  Janna leaned in, offering a long, soft kiss. “They shall last forever. Go. I can give you an hour, perhaps two. My conscience will allow no more.”

  Dell’s gaze fell, only for a moment. “Such is your duty. All will be as it must be.”

  “As it must be,” Janna agreed. “I love you, Dell Brightwater.”

  “And I love you. Return to me.”

  ~

  “Dammit Nikalus!” whispered Nova. “Could ye not be quiet for a turn!”

  “I’m sorry!” said Nikalus, wiping his nose. “I didn’t mean to sneeze, ya know!”

  “Doesn’t matter. I heard enough.” Nova went to her knees, reaching under the cot for her boots. Nikalus sat up, anxious.

  “What’re ya gonna do?” The boy’s voice trembled.

  Nova laced up her boots and looked at Nikalus. “What would ye have me do?” she asked, her question not wholly rhetorical.

  Nikalus frowned. “I… I dunno, miss Nova. I’m scared.”

  Nova leaned over and hugged the boy. He hugged her back fiercely.

  “Me, too, kid. Me, too.”

  Ain’t nothin’ simple.

  XXIII: DÓMUR ARUNDIR

  A.Y. Evanti, 863, The Tenth Cycle

  IT IS NOT MY place, Mikallis,” said Ronun, closing the book.

  “Whose place is it, then?” Mikallis pleaded. His heart was in full panic, but his wits were intact enough to know the answers he needed lay in the verses Ronun withheld. “Are you not the elder of these people? Please, Ronun! I do not understand.”

  The elderly elf offered a sympathetic nod. “I can see that you do not. But that is not my doing, and I am not beholden to answer you.”

  “To whom, then? Whom do you serve, that would prevent you from aiding me?”

  “Prevent me? None prevent me. I serve my people only, and above all, the truth.”

  “It is only the truth that I ask of you, no more! And I do not ask for myself!”

  Ronun eyed Mikallis, his expression darkening. “It is such lies that have brought us to this moment in time. Of course you ask for yourself. Perhaps not only yourself, but a half truth is a full lie. Do you not understand this?”

  Mikallis buried his head in his hands, concealing tears of frustration that began to form in his eyes. “I suppose I do not. Not as you do.” Mikallis looked up. “But I mean you no harm. I wish to help my people. If you know things that will help me—”

  “I know much that might help you. But I cannot tell it all to you in an evening, and whether I tell you anything at all will depend entirely on you.” Ronun stood. “Your sight has been veiled by lies, young elf, and if the tale you tell is true, even death did not free you from them. But you will have time to learn. Decades, at least, should you survive here in Dómur.”

  Mikallis stood as well. The name Ronun spoke felt familiar, but his location was now the least of his worries.

  “Decades? I will not stay here! I cannot!”

  “You will, Mikallis Elmshadow. You must, and I am no more pleased about it than you. But you cannot leave. The threads of time are fragile.”

  Strong hands grasped Mikallis from behind. He pulled and twisted but could not free himself from the two sentries.

  I will not stay here.

  Mikallis centered himself and inhaled.

  “NO!” Ronun’s voice was a storm. Mikallis bent to its power.

  “Hear me well! There is but one law you may not offend here, and but one penalty for its offense! You shall use no magic in Dómur Arundir!”

  Mikallis blinked. In the space between two heartbeats he came to understand not only where in the wide world he was, but to whom he spoke.

  This is the king of the Stone Elves.

  ~

  Footsteps echoed, startling Mikallis awake. A film of dried salt caked his face, gumming his eyes closed. He rubbed them open, not because he wished to wake, not because he cared to whom the footsteps belonged, but because his sorrow and desperation demanded attention. He had wept for hours in the cold cell before exhaustion won out over anguish, but a few hours’ fitful sleep shifted the balance back in favor of his grief.

  Why do I grieve? he asked himself again, continuing the argument that plagued his heart and mind the night before. The one I love has not yet even been born. How can I grieve? I have not yet been born!

  The door to his stone cell opened. The smell of fresh bread wafted in as murky, dusty light flooded the room. Mikallis blinked, the silhouette of an elf gradually coming into focus.

  “You will eat, Mikallis of Thornwood, and then we will speak. I will answer questions you have, or I will not, and we shall not speak again until you discover the truth.”

  “The truth?” choked Mikallis, his throat raw from the night’s weeping. “What truth—”

  “Eat first,” said Ronun. “Consider your questions carefully. Time will reveal that which truly matters, but I will offer what mundane answers I may. Or not.”

  The silhouette withdrew, replaced by two more. Mikallis stood.

  “Follow,” said a shadow.

  Mikallis followed.

  Two female sentries, thinner than those he had met the day before, each bearing half staves of oak, garbed also in brown robes but which fell only to the knee, led him through the castle to a vast dining hall. Four long wooden community tables lay parallel beside one another, each set for a hundred at least, with benches on either side. Sunlight filtered in through high glass windows, these clear and clean, illuminating rays of dust and reflecting dully off grey stone walls. A dozen elves shuffled to and fro with plates and pitchers, bowls and cups, platters decked with huge gourds and fresh breads, others with cheeses and boiled eggs, but aside from those serving, the hall stood empty.

  The sentries stopped before the end of the nearest table. One motioned for Mikallis to sit. He did, and a plate was set before him. A cup was filled with steaming water; leaves
floated to the top. Mikallis sat still with his hands in his lap, waiting for his captor’s permission to eat. After a turn, a long turn whose purpose Mikallis understood to be a test, they eyed one another and nodded to Mikallis.

  “Please eat quickly,” said one. “The bell awaits you.”

  Mikallis did not understand the part about the bell, but he did not need to be told to eat quickly. He was famished. He stuffed himself with eggs, cheese, and bread, sipping just enough tea to lubricate his mouth for the next bite. He cleaned his plate quickly and moved on to a bowl of chopped fruit. The breakfast as a whole was humble but good, the tea bitter but strong, the bread fresh, the fruit fresh enough, and he reminded himself to be grateful despite his frustration. You are a stranger here. They have housed and fed you. That is enough.

  “Thank you,” he said to the sentries.

  One leaned over Mikallis and poured him more tea. “You may bring this,” she said. “Come.”

  When Mikallis stood, he saw several elves had been standing off behind him, watching him eat. They turned away, and one signaled to another far across the hall. The second turned and pulled violently on a long thick rope which Mikallis had not noticed before. A bell sounded, its low, powerful ring setting Mikallis’ teeth on edge. A breath passed before the next ring, another before the next. Seven full rings sounded as Mikallis was led up a long, winding flight of stairs, the last a bit quieter than the first. By the time they reached the top, his legs ached, and he realized what the sentry had meant: the bell announced the morning meal, and it had been held in abeyance for him to complete his own breakfast. He could not decide if this was an honor or an affront.

  He was led through a doorway onto an open parapet walk and around to its right, to the shaded side of a wide keep, and then left to the center of a narrower battlement, where Ronun stood gazing to the south and west. Mikallis deliberately did not turn to see himself; much like when he first arrived in Nyr Avi, he pretended that to not see a thing could deny its truth. The sentries came to a halt as he walked to meet Ronun, who kept his own gaze on the horizon as he greeted Mikallis.

  “It is a fine day,” Ronun said, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath of autumn air. When he exhaled, he turned to Mikallis. “You will not think so, I fear, and for that you have my sympathy.”

  Mikallis had forgotten how soothing Ronun’s voice was. He took the elf’s sympathy to be genuine, and in respect of its sincerity, he turned and closed his own eyes, filling his lungs with the same sweet air, trying to not only steady his nerves but to see Ronun’s perspective.

  “It is a fine day, Sire,” Mikallis agreed. “Here at least.”

  “Sire? No, you need not call me ‘Sire’. Ronun will do. Though I see you have reasoned much out.”

  “Some,” Mikallis allowed.

  Ronun nodded. “A fine day,” he repeated, “but, I think you meant, ‘now, at least,’ did you not? Your heart is not in the now, and so the beauty of the day will not sing to you as it does within me. Would you hear my viewpoint, for a moment?”

  Mikallis nodded.

  “Ya Di comes. Let us assume that before your arrival yesterday, this was already known to me. Not merely the truth that it comes, but the year, the day, even the hour. How might I view this morning then, given such knowledge?”

  Mikallis considered his answer, sensing again that he was being tested.

  “I cannot say,” Mikallis said finally.

  “No? Why?”

  “Because I do not know you. You may see it as a gift, perhaps. Or it may fill you with remorse for that which may not always be. It may remind you of one lost, or one near. I simply cannot say.”

  Ronun nodded, looking back out over the battlement.

  “This is a measured answer, Mikallis. Wise, perhaps, in the way one of Thornwood might weigh wisdom, but dishonest.”

  “Ronun, I did not mean—”

  “Again, I will remind you that indignation will avail you nothing,” Ronun said mildly. “But I will not chide you further. What would you ask of me?”

  Mikallis took a swallow of his tea and finally allowed himself to look to the horizon. The day was not as clear as the one before, but he could still make out a hint of what must be Fang, many, many miles to the southwest. No great bellows of smoke emitted from its mouth; a fact which Mikallis found ironically disconcerting. He had been considering what his first question might be throughout breakfast, but the answers to every question he might ask were self-evident. Why may he not leave? Because he did not belong in his own world, not yet, and to arrive now could change the course of things to come, and perhaps not for the better. What would happen if he were to try? The Stone Elves would stop him, perhaps even kill him, to preserve the order of things. How do they expect to keep him here? They need not even make an effort. To leave might alter the events that led to his own birth. To Aria’s birth. He would do as he must to keep Aria safe.

  “There is one thing I would ask,” Mikallis said finally. “Why have you outlawed magic?”

  Ronun’s eyebrows raised. “Of all the things you might ask me, you ask this first?”

  Mikallis nodded.

  “Tell me why you think it is outlawed here.”

  Mikallis knew the histories well enough. “There are two reasons I have heard. One, that at the Splintering, your people decided the cost of using magic was too high, that to sacrifice years of life in exchange for conveniences was an offense to life.”

  “And the other?”

  “That you had suffered some great grief at the hands of death, and thus named it an enemy. To use magic would be to hasten death, and so you abandoned your gifts to spite death itself.”

  Ronin nodded. “I see. So you have been taught. But what do you think?”

  Mikallis met Ronun’s eyes, narrowing his own in thought. “Before last night, I thought it was the first, and perhaps a bit of the second, but only a bit.”

  “Why?”

  “The sort of elves who would value life so highly would not indulge such a thing as spite, at least not overly so.”

  “Interesting observation. But you feel differently now? We seem more spiteful, now that you have met a few of us?”

  Mikallis shook his head. “Not at all. I think neither are your reasons.”

  “Please, elaborate.”

  Mikallis shrugged. “I cannot. I only know that to punish one with death for using magic is inconsistent with both reasons.”

  Ronun offered an impressed nod. “That is true. And wise.”

  “Then why?” Mikallis pressed. “Why penalize an elf for the use of their gifts? I can see why you might disdain magic’s use, but to sentence one to die… a stranger even, one who may not share your views? I cannot fathom this.”

  “I see that you cannot.”

  Mikallis waited. Ronun said nothing.

  “Well?”

  “I will not answer you. Not today, at least.”

  “Why not? What difference could it make?”

  “Perhaps all the difference. Perhaps none. But in any case, you would not understand today, and so are not worthy of the answer. What else would you ask me?”

  Mikallis fumed but did his best to hide his anger.

  “Only this then, I suppose. What is to become of me here?”

  Ronun nodded kindly. “That, young elf, I will answer. You will be kept largely away from my people, so that you might not overly damage the threads of time that hold Dómur Arundir together. You will be given a generous plot of land, upon which you may farm and hunt, and you will observe three very important rules. First, you shall not use magic, not even to save your own life, not even to save another. The penalty for this will be your death. Do you understand this rule?”

  Mikallis’ jaw clenched. “I do.”

  “Second, you will not leave the boundaries of your land, for any reason, not even to save your own life, not even to save another. Do you understand?”

  The loneliness of the idea was crushing, but Mikallis understo
od. “I do.”

  “Third, you will be visited each cycle by a sentry. He or she will make a great sacrifice to ensure your well-being and provide you fair opportunity to trade. You will tell this elf nothing of the future which you believe comes. You will hint at no prophecy, and you will ask no question that might beleaguer this elf with undue curiosity. Do you understand?”

  Mikallis nodded. “I do.”

  “These things are horrors,” Ronun said candidly. “Your loneliness will be profound. But such imperatives are necessary. Do you understand why?”

  Mikallis nodded. “I do. I would not cause grief to your people, Ronun. I will keep to these rules.”

  Ronun smiled warmly. “If you do, I will visit you come next autumn, and you may ask your question again then.”

  “Will you answer?”

  Ronun shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. But I will give you a question to ponder in the seasons between now and then.”

  “What question?”

  “Only this: What is the truth?”

  Mikallis frowned. “A riddle.”

  “Of a sort,” said Ronun.

  “I have never been good with riddles.”

  The old elf lay an arm across Mikallis’ shoulders and led him back across the battlement to the rounded walls of the keep. The two sentries took charge of him. Ronun met Mikallis’ eyes one last time before turning away.

  “A riddle is but a veiled truth, Mikallis of Thornwood.”

  XXIV: MOR

  NIA SAT CROSS-LEGGED and naked within the circle, palms blistered and caked in blood. She had drawn the concentric rings, named the four points, and painted the positions of the Twins. She had used magic to cauterize her cuts, hastening the clotting process, the agony of this terrible but necessary. There was nothing more to do but wait; when the bleeding fully stopped, she could begin the spell.