Soul Seeker (The World of Lasniniar Book 1)

by Smith, Jacquelyn

Where had these men come from? What were they doing in the Adar Daran?

  Iarion blinked the sweat from his eyes and pushed his questions aside to focus on the men in front of him. It seemed hopeless, but he hadn’t spent thousands of years wandering Lasniniar to be killed by some Darkling Men before he found his answers. He fought with renewed purpose, pushing the surprised men back. He heard a startled yell.

  “Tremblash!”

  It meant ‘trickster’ in the Black Tongue, which was what the Marred Races called the Learnéd. Iarion’s eyes darted, searching as he fought until he spotted a familiar figure.

  A tall man approached through the grass. The hood of his dark cloak was thrown back to reveal his salt and pepper hair and closely cropped beard. His expression was calm and his arms were raised. His crimson robes stirred in an unnatural breeze. A few moments later, the group of men closest to Iarion and Barlo burst into flame. Startled birds took to the air in panic.

  Both elf and dwarf were quick to use the diversion to move away from the Darkling Men, who rolled in the grass in an effort to quench the flames. No matter what they did, the fire would not go out. It also did not transfer to the grass.

  Screams of terror and agony filled the air as the men were roasted alive. The stench of charred hair and flesh assaulted Iarion’s nostrils. Barlo watched, transfixed. Iarion used the distraction to finish off the few men who had escaped the wrath of the flames.

  Barlo thought the screams would never end. An eternity seemed to pass before the last of the men died and there was complete silence. He stood openmouthed, staring at the smoking remains. He had never seen such a display of raw power.

  “Well met, old friend.” Iarion held out his good arm, which the bearded man clasped in greeting. “Barlo, come over here.”

  Barlo shook his head in disbelief and waded through the grass toward them.

  “Barlo,” Iarion said, “this is Lysandir.”

  Barlo’s eyes narrowed in recognition. So this was the Learnéd fire sorcerer who had somehow managed to escape Saviadro’s clutches. He considered for a long moment before holding out his arm.

  “Iarion speaks highly of you,” he said as the tall man reached down to greet him.

  “He has told me much of you also.” Lysandir’s silver eyes held Barlo’s. “He is an excellent judge of character, is he not?”

  “I suppose he is at that, at least for an elf.” Barlo forced out the words and tore his gaze away to hide his discomfort. Despite his doubts about the sorcerer’s loyalties, it was wise to be courteous to someone who could incinerate people with a mere gesture.

  “So what are you doing in this part of the world?” Lysandir asked Iarion. “I don’t believe I have ever seen you wander this far south.”

  “My search continues.”

  Lysandir nodded at Iarion’s words. He seemed familiar with Iarion’s story.

  “I have decided to ask the Linadar for assistance,” Iarion said. “Do you think they will help me?”

  “They might,” Lysandir said. “If they believe it is part of their destiny to do so. I had wondered when you would finally seek them out.”

  “We also wanted to bring them some news,” Iarion said. “I was attacked last night in the Narrow Pass by goblins. It was an organized ambush.” He indicated his wounded shoulder, which had started to bleed again, torn open by the battle. “And now we’ve been attacked by Darkling Men in the Adar Daran. Something dark is afoot.”

  “You are correct.” Lysandir’s gaze turned distant. “This has not been my first encounter with the Marred Races in the Free Lands either. Saviadro is planning something. There have been sightings in the north of the Forsworn.”

  Iarion went pale at Lysandir’s words. Barlo looked at the faces of both man and elf, frowning.

  “I’ve heard tales of the Forsworn,” he said. “I thought them only stories to scare children. What are these creatures?”

  “All I will tell you now is they are very real,” Lysandir said. “I, too, travel to Melaquenya to bring this news to the Linadar and seek their counsel.”

  “Then it only makes sense we travel together.” Iarion gave a wry smile. “I don’t know about our sturdy dwarf here, but I’m not ready to take on another attack. It will be safer. Any dark creatures will hesitate to attack with a mighty Tremblash at our side.”

  Lysandir winced at Iarion’s casual use of the Black Tongue. “It seems they will never forgive me for my escape.” He sighed. “Still, I can find no fault with your logic. I must say, I wouldn’t mind some company. That is, if our noble dwarf has no objections.”

  Iarion looked to Barlo, who glanced back and forth at the two of them. He didn’t like this idea one bit, but he could hardly say so.

  “Fine,” he said with a grumble. “I suppose any friend of Iarion’s is a friend of mine.”

  “Good.” Lysandir smiled. “Well then, now that we’ve had a bit of a rest, we’d best press on. It will do us no good to linger here.”

  Iarion nodded his agreement and fell in behind the Learnéd One as he began to walk south. Barlo took up the rear, his eyes boring into Lysandir’s back.

  – Chapter Three –

  A Fragile Hope

  That night, Iarion and his friends were forced to make camp in the Adar Daran. The distance between Dwarvenhome and Melaquenya was a two-day journey on foot, even for a small and hardy group. Lysandir made them a fire that would not go out or turn wild on them. The light from the flames would make it difficult for any dark creatures to catch them unawares.

  Iarion bathed his shoulder wound and bound it once more after coating it with fresh herbs. Lysandir was studying some scrolls while Barlo worked at smoothing the nicks out of the blade of his ax with a whetstone. Barlo had the first watch. Iarion closed his eyes, trusting his friend to wake him when it was time.

  The night passed without incident. They rose early the next morning and continued making their way south. Although all three companions remained alert after the attack the day before, they encountered no one. It was late afternoon when the trees of Melaquenya appeared on the horizon.

  As they drew near, Iarion paused to drink in their beauty. His own Goladar tribe was made up of Wood Elves. The trees of Melaquenya were unlike any others he had seen in all his journeys across Lasniniar. Although they were huge and ancient, they shimmered with vitality. Their trunks were smooth, their bark flecked with silver and gold. The air about them seemed to hum with power. Green, golden, and silver leaves whispered in the breeze. Iarion’s eyes misted over. This was where elvendom had begun on Lasniniar. Even Barlo gawked to see it.

  Lysandir gave them a moment before leading them onward. Since he was no elf, it was easy to forget he had been born here. As they approached, a figure stepped out from the trees, his golden hair and skin revealed by the sun. He was Linadain—a Light Elf.

  His clothing was dyed a mottled green and gold to blend with his surroundings. He approached with his bow already drawn and aimed at their group.

  “Curusin.” The elf’s suspicious expression relaxed as he identified Lysandir, hailing him by his Elvish title. He lowered his bow.

  Lysandir greeted him in the same tongue. As the elf spoke, he made gestures to Iarion and Barlo. Barlo stared back with a puzzled expression.

  “He wants to know why we have come,” Iarion said to his friend. “Lysandir is telling him of our battle with the Darkling Men and how I was attacked in the Narrow Pass.”

  Iarion paused as the speakers continued. “Now he is asking why Lysandir was traveling here in the first place. Lysandir is telling him about the Forsworn.”

  All color drained from the Linadain’s face. He lowered his head. After a moment, he looked up and gestured for them to follow.

  “Where is he taking us?” Barlo asked.

  “To meet his lord and lady,” Lysandir said.

  Melaquenya was even more breathtaking from within. A sense of tranquility permeated the forest. They passed several other elves as they traveled
toward the heart of the wood. Some were garbed like their guide, but most wore light robes of varying hues with intricate embroidery in gold or silver thread. All of them had the same golden skin.

  Their homes blended in with the trees, appearing to grow from them as natural extensions. Some were built at their base, while others were up in the treetops. Iarion felt his heart twist at the sight of such peace and beauty. Melaquenya was the haven that awaited each Goladain once they fulfilled their ultimate destiny and reached their final incarnation. Unless the Linadar could help him, it was a fate he would never experience.

  After nearly an hour of walking in silence, they arrived at a river.

  “This is the northern branch of the Rillin,” Lysandir said. “We must cross it to reach Eraquenya, the isle where Lord Valanandir and Lady Iadrawyn rule.”

  Their guide gave a whistle and another Light Elf rowed a ferry to shore. It was a graceful craft, made of silver wood that seemed almost alive under Iarion’s hand. Barlo eyed it with a dubious expression. He held his short arms wide for balance as he climbed aboard.

  As they began to glide forward, Barlo stumbled. His arms pinwheeled as he fell toward the water. Iarion reached out and grabbed him by the front of his jerkin, hauling him back onto the ferry.

  “Thanks,” Barlo mumbled, his face red. He sat to avoid further incident.

  Their guide and the ferryman conferred in hushed tones as they traveled across the river. Their conversation was punctuated by glances at Lysandir, Iarion, and Barlo. The ferryman nearly lost his pole when their guide mentioned ‘Koresina,’ the Elvish word for Forsworn.

  It was a short journey to the far bank. Barlo made a point of disembarking in a slow, exaggerated fashion. Iarion hid a smile behind his hand. It would do no good to injure his friend’s pride.

  If the part of Melaquenya that they had already traveled was serene, then Eraquenya was even more so. Beneath the tranquil silence, Iarion could feel the air tingle against his skin with raw power. Their guide said farewell to the ferryman and continued leading his three charges.

  The forest opened into a large clearing. Many golden-skinned elves sat or stood around its edges. Never had Iarion felt so self-conscious of his own swarthy appearance among a group of his own kind. He felt like a pale star among small, shining suns.

  Two elves sat at the far end of the clearing on what could only be called thrones. Their guide approached with a bow and conferred with them for a moment before stepping aside, allowing Iarion and the others a clear view.

  The two seats were made of the smooth, golden wood they had already seen in the forest. Rather than being hewn into their proper shapes, the thrones seemed to have grown into their forms, showing no sign of tool or blade. Iarion’s heart hammered at the sight of the two elves who sat upon them.

  The lady had long, golden hair that reached well past her waist. Her eyes were the green of emeralds and springtime. To her left sat the Lord of the Wood. His hair was so white, it almost glowed, yet his face was young and vibrant. His golden eyes seemed to pierce Iarion’s soul. Both wore intricately wrought crowns of starsilver braided in their hair. Iarion felt his knees go weak at the power radiating from them. The Lady Iadrawyn and her husband, Valanandir, were the stuff of legend among his kind.

  “Welcome to Melaquenya,” Valanandir said, his voice low and musical. He spoke in the Common Tongue for Barlo’s benefit.

  “It has been a long time since we have had outsiders visit our forest.” The lady smiled as she spoke in a lilting tone. “And it has been longer still since we last had a dwarf walk beneath our golden trees.” A murmur went through the audience at her words.

  Lysandir stepped forward and bowed. “Lord Valanandir, Lady Iadrawyn, permit me to make the introductions. The elf is Iarion. I have had the privilege of knowing him for many years.” Iarion bowed low. “The dwarf is Barlo, the Chief of Clans in Dwarvenhome and a close friend of Iarion’s.” Barlo also bowed, ignoring the whispers.

  “Well met,” Valanandir said. “If you are friends of Lysandir, then you are most welcome. Now what has brought you to us? Your guide says you bring dark tidings.”

  “As you know, I have spent centuries wandering the lands of Lasniniar,” Lysandir said, beginning his tale. “I was most recently in the Upper Daran Nunadan, when I began to hear rumors. Some Greater Men were whispering of sightings of Koresina—the Forsworn.”

  The muttering of the audience grew louder. Iarion could see the Linadar looking at one another in disbelief and fear.

  Valanandir held up a hand for silence. Once the audience had quieted, he gave Lysandir a nod. “Please, continue.”

  Lysandir gave an answering nod. “There have always been old wives who tell tales of the Forsworn coming to take away children who misbehave, so I knew I had to investigate such rumors.

  “I traveled to the Mountains of Wind and visited the dwarves of Dwarfwatch. They maintain their vigil over the dark lands. They confirmed the tale. Five of the seven Forsworn had been spotted leaving the dark lands only a few days before my arrival. That was more than two weeks ago.”

  Lysandir’s words were met with complete silence. The quiet of the glade was shattered a few heartbeats later as several of the Linadar leaped to their feet and all began to speak at once.

  “Silence!” Valanandir’s golden eyes flashed. The Linadar reclaimed their seats. “You bring us dire news, Lysandir. We can only assume Saviadro is no longer content with his kingdom in the north. The bit of magical power he stole from us so long ago must constantly crave to be reunited with the rest. He is getting ready to move south, taking over the free lands that stand between him and his goal. He will come here and try to wrest the remainder of our power for himself.”

  “This is not unexpected,” Iadrawyn said. “Saviadro intended to claim all the power of the Quenya for himself long before he descended into darkness and became the Fallen One. Now he has sent the Forsworn as scouts and generals. They will rally the Marred Races and lead them into battle. The remaining two Forsworn Ones must be at Mar Valion with their master.

  “But I sense there is more to this tale. Iarion, Barlo, what news has brought you to us?” Her green gaze settled on the other two supplicants.

  Iarion stepped forward. “A few days ago, I was attacked by goblins in the Narrow Pass. They fought as an organized group. Barlo and I were also attacked by Darkling Men on our way here in the Adar Daran. We wished to bring you the news that dark forces are already here in the midlands, on your very doorstep.”

  “It is good that you have come to bring us these tidings,” Iadrawyn said. “But is this the only reason you traveled all the way here to see us?” Her eyes, full of hidden knowledge and power, held Iarion’s.

  Iarion lowered his head. It was true he had originally sought the Linadar to ask them for help with his own problem, but next to the news of the Forsworn abroad in the Free Lands, it seemed petty and selfish. Barlo nudged him from behind.

  “Please, speak.” The lady’s voice was soft, but commanding.

  “I came to seek your counsel on another matter—a personal matter.” Iarion felt himself flush.

  “Go on.”

  Iarion sighed, trying to figure out where to begin. “For reasons I do not understand, I was born without a connection to the Quenya. I have no sense of my life’s purpose. I have wandered the lands of Lasniniar for millennia, trying to find any other elf who shares my affliction or someone who can tell me my cure. I have met with all the various Goladar tribes and none of them could help me. It seems I am unique.

  “I do not wish to wander these lands for eternity, unable to rejoin the Quenya and be reborn. So I have come here, hoping the legendary wisdom of the Linadar can help me.”

  “When were you born in this life?” Iadrawyn’s eyes narrowed.

  “During the Age of Shadow.”

  Valanandir’s expression betrayed a brief flash of surprise. Raising his hand once more, he cut the audience response short.

  “We hav
e heard your words and we will continue this council in private.”

  Iadrawyn’s gaze remained fixed on Iarion’s face.

  Once the clearing had emptied of observers, the lord and lady continued their conversation with their three visitors.

  “Both your tales are intriguing,” Iadrawyn said. “But we would be better served to move our conversation to the presence of the Quenya.”

  She and Valanandir rose and led Lysandir, Barlo, and Iarion away from the clearing. The glade that housed the Quenya was not far. The sense of power Iarion had felt since his arrival grew even stronger. The hair on the back of his neck prickled and he suppressed a shiver. Two sentries stood guard over the glade entrance. They stepped aside for the group to pass.

  Iarion’s eyes widened as he saw what lay within. The clearing was empty except for a single, enormous tree. Its glowing, golden trunk was so huge, it would have taken at least ten elves with their arms outstretched to encircle it. It reached high into the sky, towering above the other trees of the forest.

  Iarion felt himself drawn forward, his feet belonging to someone else. No one tried to stop him. He stepped up to the tree and put his hand against it. The smooth bark was warm to the touch. A large hollow gaped within the trunk. Iarion peered inside. A swirling mass of almost blinding light and shifting color lay within. For a moment, Iarion’s heart stopped. This was the origin of all elven life and magic.

  It was the Quenya.

  “Can you feel anything, Iarion?” The lady’s voice broke the spell.

  Iarion pulled his hand away from the bark with reluctance. “I feel the Quenya’s power.” He stared into the distance.

  “Yes, but do you sense anything about your purpose?”

  Iarion’s hopes were dashed as he digested her question. “No.”

  “You can sense nothing?” Valanandir’s fine, golden brows rose.

  “Nothing.” Iarion closed his eyes to hold back the threat of tears. He forced his voice to remain even. “I can feel the presence of the Quenya, but nothing has changed.”