by Licia Troisi
“How could I possibly stand guard over something when I didn’t even know what it was, I asked, but he merely answered that in due time all would be revealed to me. And so I became the guardian and the leader of the sprites that call this land home. For a long while, I lived unaware. Not even when I met you was the truth revealed to me. But then when you set off on your journey to collect the stones, something awoke within me and I could hear the voices of the other guardians calling me to my duty. It was then that I came to know Mawas. I returned to the land I’d left behind only to find it destroyed. But still I pressed on and reached the sanctuary, where I’ve been awaiting your arrival ever since.”
“But where are the other wood sprites from this land, all of your friends?” Nihal asked.
Phos’s ears drooped and his eyes filled with sorrow. “They’re all dead.”
Nihal recalled the tiny, flitting creatures she’d led out of the Land of the Wind almost three years before. That they no longer existed seemed an impossible thought.
“For a short while we took refuge in the Land of the Sun,” the sprite continued. “That was around the time that you and I saw each other. But then, as I told you at the time, the soldiers slaughtered us one by one, or captured us to use as spies. I informed the Council of our plight, but no one would listen. I was ridiculed and sent away. I returned to my village, to my people, but the massacre continued, and there was nothing we could do to stop it. One after another the other sprites fell before my eyes. The woods where we lived were destroyed. They hunted us down, chased us out. In the end, I alone remained, in the solitude of the forest where we’d taken refuge. I alone.” He looked off into the distance, a desolate expression on his face. “I didn’t know what to do after everything had been destroyed. I could have joined forces with other groups of sprites, but I feared that they would suffer the same fate. It was then that the voices began calling out to me and I discovered who I was. That’s when I made the journey here.”
“I’m so sorry. …”
Phos smiled again, a resigned smile. “It is the destiny of our world: destruction.”
Nihal cast him a pleading look. “No, that’s not how it is. That’s exactly why I’m on this journey, to set things right again. Isn’t that the point of my mission, to rescue this world?”
“That which has been destroyed can never return,” Phos replied.
It was true, Nihal thought. She’d always known it. “But then why am I doing all of this?” she asked.
“The mission you’re on is not for the purpose of saving something. You didn’t understand that?” Phos’s voice remained calm. “Our world is unraveling. The half-elves will never rise up from their tombs, my people will never come back, the Forest was destroyed and not even a thousand Forest Fathers could bring it back to its former glory. Things must die to be reborn.”
Unable to comprehend, Nihal went on staring at Phos.
“It is from the death of a seed that a tree is born,” the sprite explained, “and dead leaves give rise to new plants. In nature, something is always dying so that something else may be born. This world must die so that a new world may rise from its ashes. I belong to the old world, and so does this forest. We cannot live here anymore. All that we knew, all that was ours, is gone.”
“But I, too, am part of the old world,” said Nihal. “I am the last of the half-elves. So many of those that I loved are gone forever.”
Phos shook his head. “No, Nihal, you are a bridge between this decaying world and the world that awaits. The key to our rebirth is in your hands. Whether or not you possess the strength to open the doors to our future, no one knows. But you alone can open them. The phoenix will rise up out of the ruins you saw during your journey, and the people of this world will be given a second chance. Whether they choose an age of war or an age of peace will be up to them. You are the bearer of this opportunity. You are about to give these people a new beginning. That is your mission. The task is by no means easy. You have suffered greatly and you will continue to suffer.”
Nihal had no desire to reflect on his words and banished them quickly from her thoughts so as not to take in their full meaning. “Where is the sanctuary?” she asked.
“Right before your eyes,” said Phos, and rose up from the branch in flight.
Nihal was left standing face-to-face with the Forest Father, and in that moment, she understood. The sanctuary was the tree itself. She’d sensed its immense power the very moment she’d stepped into its presence.
Phos flew up to the great trunk. At the wave of a hand, the ancient wood began to part, revealing the brilliant white stone concealed within.
“Nihal, you’re not going to like what I’m about to ask of you, but if you’ll keep in mind what I’ve just told you, you’ll understand that there’s no other way.”
Nihal fixed him with a troubled gaze.
“Before you, within the Forest Father, rests Mawas, the last stone. It is the source of all the Tears, including the one I gave you so many years ago. It is the heart of the Forest Father, its life source. You must take it.”
“But if this stone is its heart and I take it away, what will happen to the Forest Father?”
“To remove the stone for a short time will not kill it, but in order to preserve your own life, you must smash the talisman once you’ve recited the spell against the Tyrant. In that moment, all the stones will be destroyed, including Mawas. In that moment, the Forest Father will die.”
“What about the Forest?” Nihal asked. “Won’t the Forest die with the Forest Father, and never rise up again?”
“The Forest is already dead, have you not seen?”
Nihal shook her head. “I won’t do it. I refuse,” she said. “All my life, all I’ve ever done is leave a trail of corpses in my wake, only to come out the sole survivor. And I’ve been told that’s how it has to be, so that in the end I could free this land. But at what cost? Without the Forest Father, there’d be no Tear. And without the Tear, I’d have never made it this far. Without this tree, this Forest that I love could never exist. I won’t kill it.”
Phos flew toward her, hovering just before her face. “Haven’t you learned? Nothing in this world is gained without suffering. Without sacrifice, there’s no salvation.”
“But why should others have to sacrifice themselves, too?” Nihal shouted. She fell to her knees. “Laio died so that I could reach the stone in the Land of Night. Sennar risked his life for me in the Land of the Sea and even now he’s in danger! I don’t want any more sacrifices! I’m tired of all the blood and death and swords.”
Phos’s expression lit up with mercy, and he stretched out his tiny hand to stroke Nihal’s cheek. “But you, too, have suffered. The others aren’t the only ones to have sacrificed themselves,” he said. “For years you lived without peace, and when at last you found it, you were told yet again that you’d have to wait. Against your will, you took up your sword and set off on this journey, traveling all this way. You have suffered more than others, Nihal. Pain is not an end in itself. Remember that. Now rise up and wound this Forest Father to the death. Take the stone.”
Nihal raised her gaze to look at the tree, which was pulsing with life. Slowly, she stretched out her hand. As she reached toward the stone, she saw Phos close his eyes and realized that in spite of all he’d just told her, or perhaps because of it, he was bound to suffer as she took the stone. Together with the Forest Father, his entire world was on the verge of disappearing.
Nihal wrapped her fingers around the stone and could feel its vital pulse, resisting the pull of her hand as she tried to remove it from the tree. Straining against her will, she tugged on the stone until at last she was able to yank it from its place. In an instant, the wood dried up, the leaves fell to the earth, the bright glow faded from around its trunk, and the grass crowning its roots withered and died. Darkness fell on the clearing, and the oak shriveled
into a wilted sapling.
Phos lowered his eyes and sat down on one of its roots. Nihal held the stone in the palm of her hand. It seemed more opaque up close—white, like the amulet’s central stone, but streaked with gray. Nihal uttered the spell and the talisman was complete. A shimmering light invested the amulet and she could feel the charge of its immense power, its uncontainable force. She’d reached the end of her journey.
“What will you do now?” she asked Phos.
The sprite shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll stay here and wait for the end. The story of the stones and of the sanctuaries of the Overworld will end when you recite the spell, for better or for worse. I’ll wait for that day, whether it brings glory or sorrow. All that ties me to this earth is right here.”
“You can come with me, if you’d like. We’re both sad and alone. Together we could share our suffering.”
Phos shook his head. “As I told you, my place is here. This is where I want to be. There’s nothing left for me to do. You, on the other hand, have much to accomplish. Your dream and your ideal await you. Our destinies are not the same.”
Nihal slid the dagger from her boot and gazed at its sheath, tempted to draw the blade. “Do you know where he is?” she asked.
Phos lowered his head. “Even for us guardians now, the future is clouded. I don’t know where he is, nor if he’s free. You must find strength in hope.”
Nihal placed the dagger back in her boot.
“Have faith,” Phos added, flashing her his old, gleeful smile, and bid her farewell.
35
The Tyrant
A drop. Something trickling not so far from where he lay. The steady, irksome sound wore at his nerves. He couldn’t see it in the pitch dark, but he could hear it, and the sound was maddening. Not that there weren’t other, more terrifying sounds to contend with—cries of pain, above all, inhuman cries; the clatter of swords; bustling footsteps. At first he’d been terrified of all those sounds, but now all of his powers of perception were fixated on that monotonous dripping. It was driving him mad.
Suddenly, a new sound invaded his senses, drawing nearer. Footsteps. He smiled. Yes, he recognized them well. That sound could have come from no one else. He’d known they would meet again, though he’d never expected him to come down here. Their first encounter had left him baffled. Could this really be the Tyrant? Right then, he knew that he’d never leave the Fortress, not now that the Tyrant had shown his face. He trembled at the thought that Nihal, too, would soon confront the Tyrant face-to-face.
The cell door swung open and the Tyrant’s unmistakable figure filled the doorway. He’d come alone. None of his men had ever seen his face, with the exception of his most faithful generals. Slowly, the Tyrant stepped forward.
“What an honor! Who’d have ever thought you’d come down here to pay me a visit. Forgive me if I don’t bow down to you or offer you a place to sit, but as you can see, my place here isn’t much.” Sennar laughed, but the laughter ground to a halt in his throat. He felt something drip from his mouth—blood, most likely. “I never thought a mighty sovereign like you would lower himself to visit such a dive. I assumed you preferred lounging on your throne in your magnificent palace, daydreaming of your boundless power.”
“But you must know by now that power and its various pleasures are of no interest to me.”
Sennar despised that voice, its frigid indifference. His adversary was emotionless, impenetrable.
The Tyrant drew near, conjured a faint flame, and held it up to the sorcerer’s face. Blinded, Sennar clenched his eyes shut. The flame went out and utter darkness filled the cell again. “I see they’ve been merciless with you.”
“That’s for sure,” Sennar replied. “They’re shredding me apart, piece by piece. I can’t help but wonder how much longer you’ll go on enjoying yourself before you kill me.”
“Not me,” the Tyrant calmly corrected, “but the person charged with torturing you.”
Again Sennar laughed, and again a wrenching pain stole the air from his lungs. “Of course,” he replied, once he’d caught his breath. “You have nothing to do with it. You’re not the one ordering them to torture me so that I will tell you what I know.”
“I ordered them to interrogate you, not to torture you. It wasn’t I who told them to scald your flesh with the branding irons.” The Tyrant’s voice echoed through the dark cell.
“But the executioner did this to me knowing you’d enjoy my suffering. Even without your orders, it’s for your pleasure that he tortures me.”
The Tyrant carried on responding in the icy, even tone that Sennar detested. Why didn’t he just strike the sorcerer across the face? Why didn’t he demand respect? Anything but this constant, enervating calm.
“I take no joy in your suffering, and the executioner is well aware of that. He acts out of his own pleasure and nothing else. Even if I were to tell him to stop, he’d go on torturing you. And here I thought you’d already come to terms with the perverse and cruel nature of all men, of all dwarves and nymphs and sprites.”
“What are you trying to prove? That the burden of wrong is not yours alone?”
“No,” the Tyrant answered, unperturbed. “I prove only the immense power of hate. Which you, far better than others, must know by now.”
Sennar’s blood froze in his veins.
“I admire you, you know that?” the Tyrant went on. “You’re a man I can measure myself up against, which is why I’ve shown you my face, so that we could confront one another as equals. There aren’t many others about whom I could say that.”
“That’s because you’re a slithering fiend. All you see eye to eye with are the worms,” Sennar replied.
Not even this provoked the Tyrant’s anger. “Men are nothing but bloodthirsty brutes, all of them, just waiting for the chance to stab their own brothers in their backs.”
Sennar shivered, thinking back to the clearing, but he quickly shook the image from his mind. He couldn’t let the Tyrant get to him. He would have liked to take a good look at his face, but the dark was impenetrable. “What have you come here for?” he asked. With every moment he felt less at ease, fear mounting within.
“How long have you been here now?” the Tyrant asked.
Sennar hadn’t the slightest idea. For all he knew, it could have been a year just as easily as it could have been an hour.
“Why don’t I just tell you, then? It’s been almost a month. And in all this time, you’ve told us nothing. I can’t wait any longer.”
A menacing silence filled the cell.
“I don’t know what it is that’s keeping your lips so stubbornly sealed,” the Tyrant resumed, “but to be honest, I find your behavior incomprehensible.”
“That’s because you’ll never understand loyalty or sacrifice,” Sennar spat.
“Don’t underestimate me,” the Tyrant retorted. “I know you; I understand you perfectly well, you see. And you and I are not so different.” Sennar could hear the echo of the Tyrant’s footsteps as he paced about the cell. “But you don’t know me. You think that all I’m after is power, that I’m moved by the desire to control. Or by revenge, or by some injustice I’ve suffered. But you’re wrong. I too, before I became what I am, searched long and hard for the answers to the very questions that plague you now. Why do you think I joined the Council? I wanted to change the world. It was my sole desire. While, in reality, the answer was right there before me, as clear as day, just as it was to you, but I refused to accept it. There’s still so much good in this world, still so much worth saving. All you have to do is believe. Don’t give up. Or so I told myself, over and over.”
Sennar realized he’d begun trembling. He had the sharp sensation of something trying to bore its way into his head, and the feeling terrified him. Why was the Tyrant telling him these things?
“But in the end I had no choice but to give u
p, as I hope you will, too, for the truth cannot be suppressed. There is nothing to save. And even then, no one wants to be saved. The races that walk this earth are violent by their very nature. Hatred and killing are the sum of their desires. War has always plagued these lands and always will. For all races succumb to their own violent instincts, and once you’ve tasted blood, the thirst remains. That much you understand, don’t you?”
Sennar tried shaking his head, but a jolt of pain locked his neck. He could sense what was about to happen, what was already happening, and terror seized his body. Desperate, he dug through his memory, searching for a spell that could fend off such torture, but nothing came to mind.
“You love someone, I know it. I can feel it. Of all the things that exist on this earth, love is the most fleeting. It is not for us. Perhaps, for an instant, in the ecstasy of pleasure, this woman believed she loved you too, but it was an illusion. Love begins and ends in carnal pleasure. The rest is nothing. And I tell you this now because I, too, have loved, greatly, and in vain.”
“Leave me be!” Sennar shouted. He could sense the Tyrant’s presence beside him.
“All this suffering is futile. You know as well as I that I’m capable of penetrating your thoughts. And if you refuse to speak, I’ll have no choice. Not because I’d enjoy causing you pain, but because my mission is far too important, and no one’s going to stop me. But then you’ll have to suffer, and I don’t want that. I admire you, I’ve already told you. I respect you. Tell me why you crossed into my land. Tell me what you’re plotting. Your silence is futile. Don’t waste a single tear for this wretched world, nor a single drop of blood for the one you love.”
“They’ve already tried this with me, and I’ll never buy it,” said Sennar.
He forced himself to smile, but he was riddled with fear. He was a sorcerer, and for a while he’d be able to hold him off, but for how long? His power was nothing in comparison with the Tyrant’s. In the end, he knew, the Tyrant would overcome him, and one by one all would be revealed—his thoughts, his soul, his secrets.
