THE CHOOSING

by PhyllisAnn Welsh

  One of her hands lay still upon the coverlet, the blue veins easy to see through the almost transparent pale skin. Gently he picked up her delicate hand, and cupped her fingers between his two strong hands. As always, he unconsciously noted the differences between his mother and himself; his hands were larger, squarer and of course, spiked with tiny human hair. It stood out in dark contrast to the pale tone of his skin, which was of a slightly darker hue than that of full Night Elves.

  Not as tan as Feenix’s hands, he observed. His skin coloring was somewhere between his mother’s overly fair complexion, and the human’s creamy tan tone. Thoughts of Feenix sent a deep yearning through his body, surprising him in its force.

  “Not now,” he commanded himself. Right now he must concentrate on his mother.

  “My son.”

  Sembali’s voice was soft and weak. L’Garn was not sure if he had imagined it, but her lashes fluttered against her cheeks as if the weight of her eyelids was insurmountable.

  “Mother, I am here.” He leaned closer to her and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Can you hear me, mother? Awaken.”

  Slowly, Sembali raised her eyelids and peered at him with glazed and unfocused eyes. He watched in silence as they cleared of confusion and sleep.

  “L’Garn? Are you really here?” Her voice was airy and full of doubt.

  “Yes, mother. I am here. I am well.”

  “Where is my herbalist? He said you had been killed by a human. I need my posset.”

  Relief that she was lucid and awake warred with his annoyance at her demand for more drugs.

  “I was not killed, mother. See? I am here beside you, whole and safe.”

  She rolled her head away from him and tried to pull her hand from his clasp.

  “No. You are dead. This is another one of Mac Lir’s tests, but I shall not fail.”

  Her voice sounded like the whine of a child forced to do something it did not wish to do.

  “Mac Lir?” He felt a strange sense of destiny settle into the room. How odd. He was not usually given to such imaginings. “Mother. Look at me. It is L’Garn, your son. I am alive and well.”

  Sembali turned her face back towards her son’s voice. Her gray eyes appeared to be clear, and as he watched, recognition slowly crept into their depths.

  “L’Garn? Is it truly you?” She gripped his hand tightly.

  “Yes, mother,” he answered, smoothing her hair from her face. “I am here, and I am well.”

  A delighted smile slipped over her lips, and she pulled him in to her arms in a weak hug.

  “Oh, my son! They told me you were dead, but Mac Lir said it was not so. I should have believed!”

  L’Garn felt his mother’s tears on his neck as she clung to him. He held her gently and kissed her cheek. Her perfume mingled with the scent of illness, and he struggled to hold back his own tears.

  “Hush, mother. You have been ill, and must rest.”

  “No! L’Garn, I must speak with you,” she said, pushing him away so she could look into his face. “My son, I must tell you about Mac Lir.”

  The strength she had conjured up to hug him seemed to be slipping from her as she spoke. Her voice was agitated and she appeared to be working herself into some sort of frenzy. He feared she would tax herself too much.

  “Mother, rest. You can tell me when you have regained your strength.”

  He helped her to lie back against the pillows, but she continued to insist that she must speak to him.

  “I must speak with you now, while the Dream is still with me. L’Garn, please get me some water, and make sure the door is locked. What I must say is for your ears alone.”

  “Mother, you must rest—”

  She cut him off with an impatient movement of her hand. “Stop arguing with me. Just let me tell you the Dream and then I will rest.”

  With a resigned sigh, he poured her a small glass of water and held it to her lips. She drank a couple of swallows, then watched him place it on the stand beside her bed.

  “Are the doors locked?”

  To humor her, he got up and checked both doors of the chamber. While he did not really lock them, he made sure no one was standing outside, trying to listen.

  “All is secure,” he said, taking his seat once more at her side.

  “L’Garn,” she began, taking his hand in hers and holding it firmly. “I never told you about your father. It is time.”

  The bottom seemed to drop out of L’Garn’s world. Of all the things his mother could choose to speak about, never would he have imagined it would be about his father. An excited bubble began to build deep within, but he tried to clamp it down.

  “My father? What does he have to do with anything? Why do you want to tell me about my father now? You would never speak of him before.”

  She patted his hand, as she had done when he was a child.

  “I know it was difficult for you, L’Garn, growing up without a father. I tried to shield you as much as possible, but I knew you suffered for the lack.”

  “I felt no lack, mother. You gave me all I needed.”

  “It is kind of you to say, my son, but you do not have to lie for my sake. I know how you were teased and ridiculed because of my disgrace.” She put her head down and sighed heavily. “I would have spared you the pain of such ridicule if I could.”

  “It is well, mother. I survived.” He felt the need to comfort her, but he did not know how to accomplish it.

  She looked up, and held his gaze with her eyes.

  “Your father was a brave and noble man, L’Garn. Under normal circumstances, I would never have met him. But the ways of Mac Lir are deep and mysterious and your father and I were put upon the same path in life for a little while. We fell in love, and you are the result of that love.”

  He could not help himself. Too long had his questions been unanswered. Too long had he tortured himself with unvoiced fears and anxieties.

  “If he loved you, mother, why did he leave you to raise a son alone? Why did he not care for you and protect you?”

  “I know you have many questions, and you carry a great hurt and anger within you. I cannot answer all of your questions, for the answers are not all mine to give. But I can help to ease your hurt.”

  She took another sip of the water before continuing.

  “Your father’s name was Steffen; you already know that he was human.” She gave him a wan smile. “He was a great warrior among his people. When I was young, I was very strong-willed and disobedient. Often I would take my horse and explore the land about Cragimore. One such night, my horse stumbled into a hole and broke his leg. I was alone and stranded, with the sunrise soon to come, and my poor lovely Moonstar screaming in agony.”

  “Let me guess,” L’Garn interrupted. “This Steffen found you and helped you. As a reward for his kindness, you slept with him.”

  “No,” she answered, ignoring his sarcasm. “A band of brigands found me. They took me prisoner and planned to sell me at a Tarnanian market. As you know, Tarna is beyond the Backbone of the World mountain range. It was a cruel journey. I will not go into detail.” Her voice was sad and full of remorse. “Steffen bought me.”

  L’Garn’s spine stiffened in outrage. His mother, a slave? It could not be!

  “He said that he had been instructed by his god to return me to my people.”

  “And you believed him?” He could not understand how the female mind worked! How could she trust a human?

  “L’Garn, you will please keep your snide comments to yourself until I finish my tale.”

  He swallowed his angry words and nodded his head.

  “The journey to Cragimore was long. During that time, we fell in love. We talked about making a life together, rather than returning to Cragimore. We were very happy for many months, and I decided that a life with Steffen was better than a life living with my father’s constant disappointment in me.”

  L’Garn could well understand that decision.

  “Th
en one night, the god, Mac Lir, came to me in a Dream. He told me I would give birth to a son who would bring peace to all the silvan nations. When I woke, I wanted to believe it was nothing more than an odd dream, but Steffen had the exact Dream. He was more used to dealing with Mac Lir, and he convinced me that the Dream was true.”

  “What do you mean; he had more experience dealing with the god? How? Was he a priest?”

  Sembali looked away and seemed to drift off into another time.

  “No, as I said, he was a great warrior. But he was a strongly faithful man, and believed in Mac Lir’s goodness. His spirit was one with the god. As a result, Mac Lir often blessed him with visions and dreams.”

  L’Garn waited while Sembali quietly remembered her time with his father. By the sweet smile on her face, it was easy to believe she had loved the human. However, that still did not answer the question most burning in his mind.

  “What happened that this godly, faithful man abandoned his love and their child?”

  At the pained look in her eyes, L’Garn felt remorse for hurting his mother. But still the question burned in his soul.

  “He learned that I was of the royal House of Meedrion, and insisted that I return to Cragimore to speak with my father, to gain his blessing on our union. I tried to dissuade him from this course, but he insisted that Zimpher should know of your impending birth.” She paused for a moment, as if gathering her strength for the remainder of the tale.

  “King Zimpher had him killed.”

  L’Garn sat in stunned silence, his mother’s words washing over him in great fiery waves. Why should he be surprised at the depths of his grandfather’s cruelty? He should be immune to it by now.

  He looked at his mother, and the glistening tears that coursed down her cheeks stoked a burning rage against his grandfather that had been banked for years. His hands shook with fury as he tried to comfort his mother.

  “I am so sorry, mother.”

  She smiled through her tears and again patted his hand.

  “Do not be sorry for me, my son. Steffen and I were happy, and I was given the wonderful gift of you. However, the story is not yet done. There is more I need to tell you.”

  He forced himself to sit quietly by her side, when his whole body and mind cried out to confront his grandfather and run a sword through him. He drew a great breath of air into his lungs, and tried to calm his racing heart.

  “Mac Lir has sent me another Dream, L’Garn. Your time has come. You will lead our people to a time of peace with our kin, the Sea Elves, and the Wood Elves.”

  “Are you mad?” he demanded, before remembering to whom he was speaking. “I am sorry, mother, but our people will never consent to a truce! We have been at war for countless years, and many have died. Our kin’s blood must be avenged! Honor demands restitution! Peace is out of the question.”

  “Nevertheless, it will be so. Mac Lir has shown it to me.”

  L’Garn stood and paced about the room, one hand on his hip and the other running through his short dark hair in agitation.

  “How? What you say is impossible.” He returned and knelt by her side. “This is merely a dream you had, mother. Gods do not concern themselves in the lives of the likes of us. You must have imagined it.”

  Sembali pulled her hand from his.

  “Do not speak condescendingly to me, L’Garn! It was a true Dream and I can prove it to you!”

  “Mother, calm yourself. I am sure you thought Mac Lir spoke to you in this dream, but—”

  “The human slave sliced a sword through your shoulder. You almost died, but she Healed you, with the help of Mac Lir’s High Priest.”

  He looked at her as if she had suddenly become someone he did not know.

  “How did you know that?”

  “Mac Lir told me. He told me other things, as well.”

  “What other things?” L’Garn could not quite believe what he was hearing. How could his mother know?

  “Her name is Feenix, and she is a warrior in the employ of Rendolin Hiloris, High Priest of Mac Lir. I know that she loves you and that you return her love, although you are not completely aware of that fact as of yet.”

  What was she talking about, he wondered? True, he was attracted to Feenix, but he did not love her.

  Did he?

  “Do not try to deny it, my son. Your heart will prove you a liar.” She smiled at him again. “I know that Feenix has been chosen by Mac Lir to be the mediator between our people and the Sea Elves. She will help you bring peace to our race.”

  “What are you talking about? I do not love her.”

  Sembali ignored his words and continued, “The threat to our people is very real. All the silvan are in danger of dying, L’Garn, and Mac Lir wants you to help put a stop to it.”

  “How? What can I do? Zimpher is the king. Our people follow him. They would never listen to me. Have you forgotten? I am an Outbreed.”

  “I have not forgotten,” she said kindly. “You will soon become king, and then you must lead our people to peace. If you do not, all will be lost.”

  Her words shook him to the core.

  “I will become king? What of my grandfather?”

  She looked at him with great sadness before answering.

  “He will be killed, my son. It must be, if the Night Elves are to survive. The demon god has held Zimpher in thrall for countless years. The key is in the throne.”

  He shook his head as if to dislodge the haze of confusion clouding his brain.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Sembali sagged weakly against the pillows, her eyes losing their clarity.

  “I am very tired now, L’Garn. Leave me. Go and find your Feenix. She will help you in all you must accomplish.”

  “Mother, are you sure this is a true dream?” He could not quite digest everything she had said. She was sick. The tale was probably nothing more than fevered imaginings.

  But how had she known about Feenix, and his wound?

  “Go. Leave me.” She closed her eyes and snuggled into the deep pillows.

  There was nothing he could do but obey her. He feared she might become even more ill if he taxed her further.

  “Rest well, mother,” he said as he smoothed the coverlet over her. He bent and placed a kiss on her cheek before walking to the door.

  “L’Garn,” she whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear. “The key is in Meedrion’s throne.”

  Then sleep claimed her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Where, in the Seven Cella Worlds, are you leading me, Eagnad?”

  Feenix hit her head for approximately the fourth time on the low ceiling as she tried her best to follow the small troll. She thought she had dived into a tiny cave to escape the dragon, but it had proven to be larger than she imagined. In fact, it looked like an entrance into Cragimore’s depths, unused by anyone except Eagnad.

  “Pretty Feenix, hush. Guards must not find.”

  “I need to get back into Cragimore to find Prince L’Garn. Are we going the right way?”

  “Eagnad find prince. Pretty Feenix must not talk.”

  “I can’t see a thing,” she whispered at him. “Can’t we light a torch or something?”

  It felt like they had been dodging stalagmites and stepping around bottomless holes for hours. She was tired, and hungry, and just plain ready to sit and take a break. She wanted to take time to think about her conversation with Mac Lir, but traveling in a cavern, in the dark, without knowing exactly where she was going, prevented her from concentrating on anything except surviving and not losing the troll.

  Suddenly, she walked into something not quite as hard as rock. It took her a moment to recognize Eagnad’s body; the pungent aroma of troll finally registered in her brain. It took her a moment more for her mind to register that he was standing stock still in the middle of the tunnel, his hands cupped together while concentrating on something he was holding.

  “What are you doing?”

&nbs
p; “Shhh,” was her only answer. She folded her arms across her chest and waited impatiently for the troll to enlighten her.

  And then it dawned on her. She could see what Eagnad was doing! She dropped her hands to her sides and peered nervously at the troll’s hands.

  “Magic!” By the god’s toenails, she hated magic. It always got her into trouble! “Put that away, Eagnad!”

  A yellowish-blue glow rested in his dirty fingers, giving off enough light to illuminate his hands and arms. Light spilled over to reveal the broken floor of the tunnel, and splashed over to Feenix herself.

  The tunnel was not very wide; Feenix could touch both sides with her fingertips if she stretched out her arms. The floor was a broken jumble of rocks, holes and small columns of rock. The ceiling disappeared into the blackness, giving no clue as to how high it was.

  “Pretty Feenix hold,” the troll’s soft voice interrupted her observations. He was holding the glow to her.

  “No. I don’t want it.” She backed up a step and bumped into the wall. By Mac Lir’s eyes, she was acting like a fool.

  “Won’t hurt. Pretty Feenix take.”

  He reached out, took one of her hands and dropped the glowing light into her open palm. She felt nothing—no heat, no weight—yet the light continued to give off its faint illumination.

  “I don’t like magic, Eagnad,” she tried to explain. “I’m fine. I don’t need the light after all. I’ll just hold on to your tunic and we’ll be fine.”

  The troll ignored her comments and turned to proceed down the tunnel. There was nothing for her to do but follow. By the god’s ears, she didn’t have a good feeling about this.

  Feenix followed Eagnad as he squeezed through a narrow opening and disappeared into the darkness beyond. With the small light, the traveling was easier, but she still didn’t know where they were going.

  The glow from her hand glinted off black crystals, and tiny veins of silver threaded the walls throughout. When the glow spilled onto a crystal, the glare that bounced back into her eyes was nearly blinding. She quickly learned not to look directly at the sides of the tunnel. Instead, she kept her head down and concentrated on where to put her feet.