“Why?”
“I don’t know,” Melkion said.
Luthiel wondered if he was lying.
“What are they?” she whispered.
“You don’t know? Don’t you see they have no eyes?”
“I’ve only heard faerie tales and myths,” she said.
“Three thousand years ago, Vyrl used to possess the ability to devour dreams. This was achieved by some faculty in their eyes. They would hold a creature fast, stare into its eyes. The dreams would be drawn out one by one and consumed by the Vyrl. When the Vyrl was finished, the poor victim’s eyes burned into charred husks. Afterward, they roamed the earth as soulless creatures without mind or personality subject only to its hunger and to the Vyrl’s will.
“Wights hunger for eyes. It is the only food they will consume. If they don’t eat, they fade, slowly turning into shadows. Now the Vyrl can no longer feed on dreams, for Valkire cast a mighty spell that robbed them of this ability. The wights you see here are all well over three thousand years old.”
“How terrible,” Luthiel said with a shudder. She wondered what happened to the wights after they faded but decided against asking the question.
Melkion bobbed his head but didn’t say anything.
“I’m glad they can’t do it anymore,” she said.
Melkion nodded again.
They spent the rest of their time passing through the halls in silence, with Melkion talking only to give directions. Occasionally, they would pass a wight moving along on some errand or just ambling aimlessly, propelled by some impulse it long ago forgot.
As they continued, Luthiel became more and more withdrawn. She thought that, most likely, she was walking toward her execution. But she didn’t understand why the Vyrl had cared for her wounds, let her rest, and allowed Melkion to bring her food.
Perhaps they’re trying to make me last longer so they can get more blood out of me.
She kept reliving the events that led up to the Vyrl biting her. She saw again the terrible eyes of the third Vyrl as he held her by the neck, felt the harsh blow of his sword upon her head, the terrible sensation of the Vyrl drawing blood from her body, the pain, and the racing of her heart. Then she recalled how they stopped as if stunned.
Her body started to tremble with fear. She didn’t want to go through it again. Would it be better if she’d died? Then her suffering would end. But she didn’t want to end, felt determined that whatever it took she would make it through and return to Leowin. She had another vision of the Vyrl biting her, ravenous with hunger, and shuddered. How could she possibly survive?
She wondered if all Chosen shared this experience and if it was worse for them than her. Then, she had a vision of coming here borne on the back of a cold Othalas, marred by mists, blinded by wights only to finally be consumed by Vyrl over the course of days or weeks. Yes, it could certainly get worse.
Outside, the suns were setting. From time to time, they would pass a slit window streaming brilliant red light. The mists diffused the light into a dull red glow that carried far down the halls and passageways deep into the fortress. She wondered if she’d rested all day or if she’d slept through the night and this was the end of her second day in Ottomnos.
Finally, the halls widened and she came to a great gaping pair of double doors. Outside the doors stood two Grendilo dressed in strange armor that made them look like deadly sword-wielding plants. At the sight of her and Melkion, though, they parted and let her enter the great hall.
The charred glass arched up in great buttresses. Upon great flowing columns sat strange carvings—gargoyles, unicorns, werewolves and dragons. Above, on the ceiling, a celestial battle raged—armies of angels and demons clashed, suns bloomed, great ships sailed among the stars or burst into fire. Places in the walls thinned into windows of stained glass depicting noble figures—some terrible, some tranquil and loving. A window in the back of the hall depicted a hunt with Vyrl on great steeds chasing all manner of creatures, including elves, into a burning land.
At the center of the great hall was a long table. In the table were wells of all shapes and sizes. The wells were darkened with bloodstains long made permanent by use and reuse. At the end of the hall were three tall chairs. They sat on the floor level with the table but still managed to dominate the room. The chairs were worked in artistic forms and the charred glass from which they were cut was polished so that it gleamed like black ice. In each of these sat a Vyrl.
The first Vyrl, sleek and predatory, sat in the chair furthest right, the second Vyrl, dark and melancholy, sat in the chair furthest left and the third Vyrl, who had struck her, sat in the center. Before them was a fourth chair. It looked oddly out of place for it was made of a highly polished white wood. A silver metal that could only be Silen was worked into its arms and raised back. Othalas sat beside it, a jagged patch of midnight, yellow eyes gleaming as he watched her.
When the Vyrl noticed that she had entered, they rose from their seats. The third Vyrl raised his hand indicating the smaller chair.
“Welcome! Please, come in. We have much to discuss, much indeed.”
Luthiel, taken aback by being treated with such formality where she was treated only as meat before, felt her gut tighten.
They’re acting like I’m someone important. Why?
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Melkion hissed in her ear.
Spurred by the dragon, she walked down the hall toward where the Vyrl waited. She shuddered as she passed the long table wondering if she’d spend her last remaining moments strapped into one of those reservoirs.
Finally, she came before the Vyrl. She was forced to raise her eyes to look at them. They were an awesome sight. Standing taller than the oldest elves, the Vyrl loomed over her.
The third Vyrl motioned again toward the chair she now stood beside.
“Please, have a seat so we can begin.”
Again, Luthiel got a sinking feeling in her stomach.
Why are they being so polite?
She sat down; strangely reassured that Othalas was beside her. Would he help her again or did he consider the debt paid?
After she was seated, the Vyrl sat in their chairs. Even though there was no dais, they towered over her. Melkion flew from his perch on her shoulder and alighted upon the chair’s back.
For a moment, there was silence as the Vyrl inspected her. The swirling lights in their black eyes made her feel dizzy, but she forced herself to meet their stares. After they had appraised her, the third Vyrl began to speak.
“Welcome, to Ottomnos and the Vale of Mists—the last place on Oesha where Vyrl still reign. I am Ahmberen, which means memory in the elder tongue, to my right is Elshael, or sorrow, and to my left is Ecthellien, or chance. We are the last surviving Vyrl allied with Vlad Valkire. Together we make up three of the four remaining Vyrl in all of Oesha.” He paused before continuing.
Luthiel wondered why they were welcoming her after they had attacked her. She felt very strange and uncomfortable about the way they were acting. Perhaps they’d fallen into madness.
“Now you know us properly,” the third Vyrl continued. “But we are at a loss as to who you are. Othalas has told us one tale and then another. It seems, though, that no one is really sure. But, whoever you are, Chosen or not. One thing is certain; you are the daughter of no elf—Glendoras or Winowe or any other.”
Luthiel’s head was swirling around with the lights in the Vyrl’s eyes. What were they talking about?
“So before we continue,” he said, “we’d like to know who you really are.” The Vyrl were silent as they waited for her reply. Luthiel suspected some trick.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Well, you could start with your real name. We know it isn’t Leowin, daughter of Winowe. And then, you could tell us where you really come from. For, I assure you, there is no elf with blood like yours from Drakken Spur to Lothyn Aer or beyond.”
“I—“ She didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t
think of a tale any of these Vyrl would possibly believe. What would happen to her sister if they found out? The uncomfortable silence stretched out. Luthiel lowered her eyes. She could no longer bear to look at them or stare into their eyes. Finally, Othalas spoke.
“I told you, she is afraid for her sister. She won’t tell you unless she knows you won’t send me for her,” he said.
Luthiel’s heart quailed. They knew! Othalas told them!
The second Vyrl nodded, then spoke with her beautiful, dark, voice.
“If what Othalas says is true—that you came in your sister’s place—then whether or not she is brought here rests entirely in your hands. We know that you are not Leowin, so tell us who you really are.”
“How did you know?” she asked, then turned to Othalas. “You told them, didn’t you?”
The first Vyrl answered in his predator’s voice.
“I have tasted the blood of thousands of creatures and each is different. The moment we tasted your blood we knew that you were no daughter of any elf from Flir Light Hollow. Othalas told us the rest.”
Luthiel nodded. That a Vyrl could tell creatures apart by the taste of their blood was something she hadn’t considered. But what they said puzzled her. She knew that she was orphaned. But if she was no elf of Minonowe or Ithilden or Rimwold or Ashiroth or any land between the gates of East and West then what was she? Sith? But she looked like no Sith she’d ever seen. They tended to be dark eyed with black hair. She looked more like the elves of the Minonowe, except she was taller than most girls her age, and her skin was fairer, and her hair was silver.
She thought hard about what the Vyrl said before making her reply.
“If I were the one to decide, then my sister would never see this place. My name is Luthiel, Luthiel Valshae, if you must know. You are right that Winowe and Glendoras are not my real parents. I was orphaned at a very young age. They were good enough to take me into their family. Leowin is my foster sister. I don’t know where I came from or if it was beyond the Gates of East or West. I was abandoned by someone I can’t remember. They found me just outside Flir Light Hollow. A note left with me asked for someone to care for me and gave my name. That is all I know.”
“You don’t remember anything of the time before you came to Flir Light?” The Vyrl with a voice like sad music asked.
“I was very young, less than one year old. I cannot remember anything of that time. Mother Winowe wanted to keep it secret that I was orphaned. But I found out soon enough. The older children knew and they made fun of me for it.”
The Blood of Vlad Valkire
The Vyrl considered her for some time before replying. In the blue firelight, the shadows fell long across the hall. She watched as the lights in the Vyrl’s eyes swirled.
“Luthiel Valshae, there are strange things and wonders in this world that even I, who have lived ten thousand years, cannot understand. This is one of them. A day ago I starved and now the blood that is in me—the blood I took from you—is enough to sustain me a month. The hunger is abated and with it, the madness. I am ashamed of what I was, only yesterday. It is a creature I became again three thousand years ago, soon after the death of Vlad Valkire. It is a creature I became first when I dwelt upon the moon Eledweil—before we ruined it—and a black hunger settled upon me. Once, long ago, the blood of Valkire freed me. Now, your blood has freed me from the hunger that devours all.”
“As I,” said the Vyrl with her dark music.
“And I,” said the Vyrl with his predator’s voice.
Luthiel stared at the Vyrl amazed at what she was hearing.
“But how can this be?”
“We were hoping you could tell us,” the second Vyrl said. Her voice lifted through the hall and, for the first time, Luthiel could hear lightness among the melancholy tones.
Luthiel didn’t know how to reply or what to say.
“We have long hoped that someone with the blood of Valkire would return to us and save us from the madness,” the second Vyrl continued. “For a time, we had no hope. Then rumor came to us that Merrin, Valkire’s beloved wife and queen of the moon that bears her name, had awoken from her ages-long torpor and come to live with the lord Zalos, in the forestland of Ashiroth. We sent Othalas, for we heard that Merrin was with child and we hoped that it was the whelp of Valkire. But Zalos drove Othalas away—for he has grown to hate us over the years. We had once again become the monsters he fought so long ago. We sent Melkion with a message—”
Melkion snorted at the mention of his name and muttered.
“Did little good. Zalos burned the letter and then told his archers to shoot me where I stood. But I am fast when the need is upon me!” Melkion flapped his wings and then settled again onto the back of her chair.
Luthiel brushed her hair out of her face.
The Vyrl continued in his ancient, chanting, voice.
“After Melkion was turned away, we resorted to spies. We had a difficult time. Most were killed and the others fell sick from a strange ailment that twisted their bodies into the shape of giant spiders. Something strange and dark was at work on the eastern marches of Ashiroth and it was preying on our spies. But one got through and found that Merrin, indeed, had borne a child.”
“We were filled with hope,” said the first Vyrl in his predator’s voice. “A child of Valkire was born of Merrin. We had to reach the child. We sent word to Lord Tuorlin of Ithilden saying that we would take no more Chosen if, once the child was old enough, she was sent to the Vale once each year that we might again feed and stave off the madness for a time.”
“Tuorlin wouldn’t listen,” Melkion said. “Zalos denied that Merrin had borne any child of Valkire’s line and Tuorlin, who knew us only as monsters, believed him.”
“Worse,” the lady picked up, “Zalos claimed that Merrin bore his child and he and she were to be wed. There was to be a great celebration. But, only a few days before the wedding, word came to us that the child had passed—the victim of some strange sickness plaguing the elves of Ashiroth. Then, we fell into despair as the hunger consumed us. For without the child of Valkire, we were bereft of hope of release—doomed to days of torturing hunger and of growing madness. With the passing ages we would diminish as the madness of hunger ran its course until we became little more than monsters stalking the land hunting all things that bleed.”
“Even after the child’s death, Zalos insisted on pressing his suit,” the first Vyrl continued. “He and Merrin were wed only a fortnight after the infant’s passing. It is said that, now, she is cold to Zalos showing him none of the affections of a wife. So too, it is said, that he keeps her a prisoner in his tower of Arganoth.”
The Vyrl fell into silence.
“How terrible that she should suffer so much after all these years,” Luthiel said. “First for lost love and now for the child and this terrible lord who has taken her against her will. I suppose Zalos had the little one killed.” Luthiel said. She was caught up in the Vyrl’s tale. It compelled her in a way she didn’t fully fathom.
“Suppose?” It was Othalas who spoke this time, his gravely voice grating through the chamber. “Let me tell you what I suppose. The child was poisoned and grew sicker and sicker. But Merrin, by art or accident, discovered this and suspected that the jealous Zalos wanted her child killed. So she, queen of depthless waters, discovered a means to cure her child and send her in secret to live with the elves … far from the lengthening arm of Lord Zalos.”
“To Flir Light Hollow?” Luthiel asked. Her heart was pounding in her ears like a drum-beat.
“What would be stranger, Luthiel? If some elf from Flir Light Hollow came here and did what you did? Or if the child of Merrin and Valkire, carefully hidden in that happy nowhere, by circumstance and the good of her heart, decided to come to the Vale in hopes of saving her sister? Could any elf you know in Flir Light accomplish all you did?”
Luthiel shook her head in disbelief.
“But I am only an orphan.”
&n
bsp; At this, the first Vyrl stood. “Indeed! The orphaned daughter of Merrin Valkire sent into exile for her safety. And, wonder of wonders, you came to us in our darkest hour and saved us from madness.”
“I don’t believe it,” she said. “It can’t be true!”
The Vyrl only stared at her. Melkion swished his tail irritably and Othalas growled and lowered his head onto his paws.
So many extraordinary things had happened recently that she couldn’t keep track of them all—first Leowin’s gift of the namesong and Methar Anduel, then her night with Mithorden, the Cave of Painted Shadows and now the Vyrl’s sudden recovery.
How could she be the daughter of a myth?
If it is true! If it is true! If it is true—oh how I want to meet that poor lady Merrin and ask her! She would know me. She would see HIM in me.
Her head fell into her hands and she grabbed fistfuls of hair.
She was woken from her reverie by a nudge from Othalas.
“There are other things we must talk about. But I think you’ve been given enough to think about for just one night,” he said.
“We will continue tomorrow,” the third Vyrl said in ancient, chanting tones. “There is a boon we must beg of you. But it can wait through the night. Sleep sound Luthiel Valkire. May the daughters of the dark lady—the Valkyrie that are your namesake—watch over you this night.”
Luthiel stood, and numbly nodded.
“Yes, I’d like to talk tomorrow. I’ll want to ask questions about—about everything,” she said.
Melkion slipped from his perch on her chair and flew to her shoulder.
“My lady, I’ll escort you to your chamber,” he said.
“As will I,” rumbled Othalas.
The Vyrl rose from their chairs as she walked out of the great hall.
Rendillo the Grendilo
She remembered very little of her walk through the long halls of Ottomnos back to her room. Melkion and Othalas were with her and the wights scampered away from them as they passed. When they finally returned to her room, she was surprised to find that she was exhausted. She’d only been awake for a few hours but the hurts of her long journey were taking their toll. She fell into the bed after taking off her boots and was soon fast asleep.
Luthiel's Song: Dreams of the Ringed Vale Page 16
