The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy)

by R. G. Triplett

  “AHH!!” Cal shouted into the blackness. He fell head over heels, bumping and crashing against the cold stone stairs that he could not have seen in the barely visible dim of the corridor. He fell several steps before he was able to catch himself on a piece of the rough-cut stone.

  “Ugh! Take it easy, Cal,” he moaned aloud as he rubbed his tender, throbbing arm, which was still mending from the beating it took upon the river Abonris.

  He pulled himself back to his feet and clung to the wall, exploring each step as it presented itself in front of him. Not counting the handful he painfully expedited earlier, Cal reasoned that he must have made his way down another thirty or so steps before he found himself on a landing. He held his arm to his chest and began to probe around for his next move with his good hand. As he reached out into the darkness, he heard something that made him stop in his tracks.

  “Calarmindon,” a lilting voice whispered out of the darkness.

  The hair on the back of his neck rose to full attention, and he quickly turned to look back up the flight of stairs he had just descended, desperate to see someone, anyone who could have called his name. He shivered at the thought of the alternative. Perhaps Clivesis had been right about the ghosts after all.

  “Calarmindon, I am waiting for you,” the voice called out again.

  Cal’s mouth went dry, and the palms of his hands began to sweat uncontrollably. He thought for a moment about running back up the stairs, but he knew his way was blocked.

  He whispered another desperate prayer. “Protect me, please.”

  “Follow, Bright Fame,” the voice beckoned. “Follow the light.”

  “What light? I … I don’t see a light down here. And wh-who … who are …”

  Cal was interrupted mid-sentence as wall-mounted torches, one after the next, burst to life in violet flames and illuminated yet another flight of stairs that descended deeper into the Hilgari. The light was a welcomed sight, if only for the fact that he could now see the path that he was traveling. It was this, and the pain in his twice-wounded arm, that distracted his mind in the midst of the encounter with the ghostly voice.

  One thing, however, bothered him deeply. The last time he heard a mysterious woman’s voice call his true name, he almost became entrapped by the bitter ruse of an angry witch.

  “Please, uh, could you please tell me who you are?” Cal asked.

  “Follow the light, Calarmindon. It will guide you to me.” Each time the whispering voice spoke, the flames on the mounted torches danced in rhythm to the unseen wind of her words.

  “That is what I am afraid of,” Cal mumbled to himself. “Are you a ghost? What do you plan to do with me?” He waited and listened, but no other words were offered. Surveying his surroundings by the light of the magic flames, he gathered what fleeting courage he had left in him and followed the ghostly violet light down the flight of stairs. Although he was unsure of his path and not completely trusting of this voice, he did find some subconscious comfort in the fact that the flames guiding him were violet in color, as opposed to the evil, green-hued flames he had encountered in the cutter camp, or the sickening yellow of the bridge witch’s eyes.

  All along the walls of the stone corridor were carvings that he could not have seen when first he stumbled along the path in the dark. Now, in the violet light, he could make out stone reliefs of magnificent trees adorned with the most beautiful words, words that looked as though they were somehow actual music written upon the branches of the carved trees.

  Cal had never seen work like this, nor had he ever heard of a language that looked this beautiful. He paused for a moment, studying the intricacy of the written forms, enchanted by their artistry and the magic they seemed to radiate. Their beauty moved his soul, and something inside of him came alive at the thought of being a part of such things, things deeper and older than his small story. It was here, in the purple glow of the burning torches, that Cal forgot his fear for the moment.

  He moved further down the corridor and stopped again. “Another one! That makes three of these haunting birds!” He had come to another landing and yet another flight of stairs, and, in the light of the torches, a third bronzed Owele engraving was revealed.

  The whispering woman’s voice called out for him again. “Follow the light, young Bright Fame, follow the light.”

  Whatever relief he had found in the beauty of the engraved walls had disappeared in the silence that followed the beckoning voice. Cal turned to face the third flight of stairs that descended further into the depths of the mountain, and it dawned on him that he was going in the wrong direction if he was hoping to find another way back to his Poet friends.

  “This does not make any sense!” he called out. “You are taking me the wrong way!” But the only response to be found there was in the small sounds of the flickering flames of the purple torches that illuminated the stairs.

  He steeled himself for whatever he might find as he clung to the words that Tolk had left him with. He chose to trust that the sign of the Owele was indeed good, even though his nerves told him to run. Down the third flight of stairs he went, down into a deeper unknown, down even further into the bowels of the Hilgari. When Cal reached the third landing at the bottom of the stairs, he encountered something drastically different than he had seen on any of the previous landings.

  This landing was more like a large, vaulted chamber. The floor was littered with fallen chunks of ceiling. Huge cracks veined out on the walls and ceiling, and gaping holes pocked its original craftsmanship. In this room there were three distinct archways that led into three different corridors. The passages on the right and on the left were shrouded in darkness, but their openings were unobstructed. The archway in the middle, however, appeared to be walled in, as if someone wanted to seal off whatever it was that resided on the other side.

  Cal was amazed at the labyrinth of passageways that ran deep under the mountain, here beneath the ancient fortress of Petros. Hope sprung up again in his heart that there might yet be a way back to his friends and to Moa. As he considered which path to take, he peered into the entrance on the left, listening hard for any sign of friend or danger, but he heard nothing except the steady trickle of water. He poked his head into the entrance of the right chamber and strained his ears once again. What he heard made his heart leap. It was faint, but it was there; the worried voice of Elder John spoke from somewhere off in the distance.

  That settled it for Cal, so he made up his mind to continue on through the corridor to the right.

  The whispering voice startled him once again. “Calarmindon, you must seek the light.”

  “But I hear my friends!” he yelled out in reply. “I have to go to them!” He started again through the entrance on the right.

  In an instant all the torches went cold and the chamber blinked into blackness. The corridor was completely dark, save a small pinprick of purple light through the wall of the center archway. It looked as if the light was escaping through a tiny crack in the crudely constructed brick facade. Cal thought long and hard for a moment. He could hear his friends through the tunnel on the right, and maybe, just maybe, it would lead him back to Kalein. Then again, it could be nothing more than their voices bouncing and echoing through the rocky caverns.

  He knew that there was light coming from the center, and he knew that the voice had told him to seek the light. “What do you want me to do?” he yelled into the dark. “This way is impassible, the archway is walled shut!”

  His frustration got the best of him, and he gave the wall a solid kick. It stood, immovable, against the small force he applied. Shrugging to the darkness, he rested his case. He paced a while, waiting for her eerie response, willing the right answer to come to the surface of his mind. When nothing happened, he pulled back his foot and let it fly once more with all the force he could muster, but before his foot met the wall he intended to strike, he tripped over something very hard.

  “Ouch!” he yelped out loud, catching himself before he
fell to his knees. “What in the damnable dark?” he cursed out of pain and frustration. Reaching down, his hands found a good-sized chunk of stone, so he picked it up and held its heavy form in his hands.

  “Follow the light,” he heard again. The repetitive voice would have been irritating were it not so compelling, and beautiful, and somehow trustworthy. Cal examined the solid piece of fallen stone that he held in his hands, and suddenly an idea occurred to him. He nodded to the darkness and approached the wall.

  The tiny shaft of purple light peeked out defiantly from behind the brick, beckoning Cal to set it free. With the large piece of rock in his hand, Cal raised the stone high above his head, ready to strike. With two hands, he put the full force of his might behind the rock, sending it crashing into the bricked wall. In an instant the shaft of light grew bigger, and the chamber glowed brighter as the purple light flooded in from the opening. Understanding now what he was going to have to do, Cal repeated the action again and again until he had cleared a place large enough for him to climb through.

  The light was bright on the other side of the wall, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but what he saw when things finally came into focus baffled him for a moment. The walled-in corridor dead-ended into solid rock, but at the center of that mountain impasse sat an unadorned, iron door that had been braced and latched shut.

  Through the cracks of the door and its surrounding enclosure, the brightest violet light Cal had ever witnessed glowed strong and bold there in the dark chamber under the mountains. He climbed through the ruined brick wall and hopped down onto the chamber floor. Slowly Cal made his way over to the heavy, iron door and raised the cross brace, unlatching its exterior fastening.

  The whispering woman’s voice came again. “Enter Calarmindon … and see the beauty that has been calling you.”

  His hand reached out to the door latch, and with some effort he was able to turn its handle to the right and break the seal of dust and time that had encrusted this forgotten gateway.

  Chapter Thirty

  It was with great effort that Cal was able to awaken the rusted, stiff hinges of the door. He pulled with his good arm, putting the full force of his weight against the resistant metal. Angry sounds of grating iron defiantly raged against the countless years of hibernation. The half-walled chamber exploded with a violet light as the door budged open just a crack. Cal had to quickly cover his eyes with his other hand to shield himself from the sheer immensity of its brilliance.

  He continued to pull against the rusted hinges, putting the full weight of his stunned strength behind his efforts until the door finally swung free. He fell backwards, tumbling to the floor of the light-filled room, sprawled and half-blinded on the ancient dirt and stone. The door slammed against the mountain wall, shaking both brick and bone with its jarring reverberation. Its echoes rang loud, announcing to all of its long-awaited unsealing. After creak and crash settled at last, only silence remained in the deep mountain chamber. No sound could be heard, save Cal’s heavy breathing and his pounding heart. He listened intently, waiting for the voice of his invisible companion to speak once again, still unable to see anything but a bright blur of color.

  Then, without warning or expectation, the deafening silence was interrupted by the blasting resonance of an army of trumpets. Their collective brass voices rang bright and true, heralding a joyful music with their grand and triumphant notes.

  Cal rubbed his eyes, willing them to adjust to the intensity of light here in this unimaginable place under the mountain. Slowly and gingerly he rose to his feet, brushing the dust off of his tunic and pants, his sight still blurred in the brilliance of the violet light. Flashes of silver and purple danced in his vision, and he couldn’t be sure if they were shadows or if his eyes were now playing tricks on him. The trumpets rang out again with another announcement, and the faint movement of a sweet, fragrant wind blew over his face and through his hair. He stepped through the opening of the door, still unable to make out much of anything.

  “Hello?” Cal nervously asked. “Is somebody there? Are you the woman who was calling for me by name?”

  “Hail, Calarmindon Bright Fame!” called a voice, though it was not the same voice that had beckoned him to follow the light. This voice sounded confidently masculine, and extremely near.

  Cal took a step back, his vision still a bit out of focus. “Who … who are you? What do you want with me, and why can’t I see you clearly?”

  “Peace, Bright Fame,” the voice told him tenderly. “Be not afraid. I am Ardghal, herald of the High Queen, and I have come to welcome you.”

  “High Queen?” Cal said, puzzled. “High Queen of what?”

  “Come, and I will show you,” Ardghal said, unwavered by the questions.

  “But how can I follow you any place when I cannot see?” Cal countered.

  “Oh, but you shall,” the herald replied. He began to sing in a whispered language more lovely than Cal could have imagined. “Ní bheidh aon níos mó tú faelter, le haghaidh bhfuil solas teacht a dhéanamh soiléir do radharc.”

  As Ardghal sung his words, Cal inexplicably understood their meaning inside his mind, much the way he heard the Oweles when they spoke in their screeches and stares.

  No longer shall you falter, for light has come to make clear your sight.

  As the last of his beautiful words were whispered, the fog that had clouded Cal’s vision lifted. With wide-eyed amazement, he took in the full scale of magic and beauty that waited for him in the bowels of the Hilgari.

  Hovering just an arm’s reach in front of his face was a tiny, winged warrior that could not have been more than two hands in height. Beautiful and terrible, he was dressed in a full regalia of armor that appeared to be made up of something that resembled fish bones and bright crystals, seeming both fragile and unbreakable all at the same time. His silver hair hung long and luminescent against his nearly imperceptible silver wings, and his eyes shone with a proud, brave fire in them. Cal was so enraptured that he nearly overlooked the fact that Ardghal stood not alone, but at the vanguard of a host of these creatures, whose banners were unfurled and alive in the wind of their silver wings.

  “Come, Calarmindon, the Queen awaits,” Ardghal politely insisted.

  Overcome by the immensity of the moment, Cal followed the host of tiny, winged warriors. Without so much as a question or hint of resistance, he walked away from the old iron door and into the brightness beyond. What he saw there on the other side of the mountain’s wall stole the very breath from his lungs and squeezed the happiest of tears from his eyes. Cal walked into what looked like a masterfully tended forest of the most beautiful trees he had ever seen. They were, in fact, the very same trees that had been carved on the walls of the passageway that led him to this incredible place. Their wide, smooth trunks were shockingly white, and their branches fingered broad and high into elaborate purple plumage. A violet glow emanated from their leaves, and the sweetest of fragrances scented the wind that played in their majesty.

  Cal walked along the carved stone footpaths, following Ardghal and his host down an ornate, slow-spiraling staircase until he arrived on the ground floor of this magical place. Off in the distance, the roar of water falling and crashing upon stone filled the silence with a tranquil constancy, but it was the voice of the woman that cut through all the wonder with an almost effortless intoxication. Her song lifted high above the waterfall and danced among the purple-flowered trees. It tiptoed delicately along the silver pools of the cold river, and skipped playfully along the walk, finding its way to the heart of the company that escorted Cal.

  The winged warriors sung forth in echoing harmony to her haunting tune. They sang in formation as they led Cal along the pathways and up over a delicate white wooden bridge. Its scrolled railings took wild artistic turns, embellished with the still blooming purple flower.

  “Such green and such life, here of all places,” Cal mused as he followed the company of Ardghal. “We must be at least three h
undred paces under the mountain!”

  “You are mistaken, Calarmindon Bright Fame,” Ardghal corrected. “We are four hundred and ninety in the paces of men.”

  “Four hundred and ninety paces,” Cal mouthed in disbelief. “These trees … what are they? Granted, I have not seen many trees in my days, for there are not many that remain in the world, but I have never seen a tree like this before.”

  The herald smiled a knowing and approving smile as he led Cal down the pathway through the thick of the trees, his ranks of winged warriors turned choir still in tow.

  The company halted, kneeling before a clearing at what must have been the very heart of the forest. At the center of this clearing stood three of the largest trees, whose roots did not begin beneath the mountain ground, but rather pushed the base of the great white trunks high above the rock from which they grew. The massive trees rose up out of the mountain, their roots creating an enormous chamber within their spindling and spiraling fingers before plunging below the stone surface.

  The trunks of these great trees began to form nearly thirty hands above the ground, and their roots and bases mingled into one, yet three separate trees. Behind the clearing, the raging movement of falling water sparkled and glittered in the illumination of the trees, causing this magical light to dance upon the hallowed clearing.

  Beneath their magnificently elaborate hold, a silver throne was set, and upon it rested the singer of the song, the whispering voice in the dark.

  The warriors ceased their singing, still kneeling before the throne of their High Queen. She rose to her feet, dressed in a flowing raiment of what looked like molten silver. She stood nearly a whole hand taller than all of her warriors; her wings had an azure hue to them and her long hair shone like polished bronze.

  “Welcome, Calarmindon Bright Fame.” Her words sounded as thick and rich as satin and yet as sweet as honey. “I am Iolanthe, keeper of the secret grove and Queen of the Sprites.”