Cal, not knowing what to do or how one should properly address royalty, let alone a person of magical royalty, bent to one knee. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I am not sure why you have called me here, and I know that there are those who are looking for me … but however I may serve you … I, well, I am yours to command.”
His clumsy words moved Iolanthe to smile with an intoxicating tenderness, and her compelling beauty pulled the strings of Cal’s heart towards her.
“I am not looking to command you,” she said kindly. “For how could I presume to indenture the very savior of my people?”
“Savior?” Cal didn’t understand.
At that the herald Ardghal flew high on his silver wings, with trumpet in hand. He played a long, bright note in joyful celebration, the horns of his fellow Sprites joining in harmony and filling the grove with song.
“Here stands Calarmindon Bright Fame, breaker of brick and liberator of our people!” he shouted for all to hear. “For he has unlocked the cell of our imprisonment, and has so loosed a violet hope for all the world!”
The throng of Sprites let out a roar of celebration, sending cheers and trumpets resounding off of the mountain walls. Even the trees joined in the fanfare as they sent a purple shower of their hallowed flowers raining down from their great heights.
“But you must be mistaken,” Cal said quietly to Queen Iolanthe. “I am no savior … I merely fell through a bookshelf, and nearly broke my arm for the second time stumbling down the dark stairs. If it were not for your voice I would still be lost somewhere in the labyrinths of the mountain.”
“And what makes those deeds any less heroic to we who were once imprisoned and who are now set free?” the Queen kindly replied.
“But you don’t understand, I was … I was merely lost, it was you who found me!” Cal argued, blushing at her breathtaking gaze that had not broken with his. “I do not deserve all of this … especially not from you, Your Majesty.”
“But it was you who struck brick with stone, it was you who did not choose to save himself by following other paths, and it was you who followed the light,” she said, recounting the facts. “Perhaps you misunderstand our joy? For we were not praying for a mighty warrior, nor for the strongest of men; and I have no concern for the context of circumstance. No, Calarmindon Bright Fame, we were praying for one who would seek the light, and seek it relentlessly.”
Iolanthe flew up to meet his eyes with her own as her bronzed hair gleamed and played in the wake of her beating wings. She took his face in her small hands to emphasize her next words.
“It is not of consequence to me how fierce or how feeble your resolve has been. For you sought, and you have found, and the result is freedom.”
A humble smile lit her face, and Cal was undone by it. “It is I, no … it is all of us that are at your service, Calarmindon Bright Fame.” She kissed him on his forehead, and the crowd of Sprites erupted in joyful celebration.
“I don’t understand,” Cal managed as he shook his head in amazed disbelief.
“You will, soon enough,” the Queen said. “Now come, we have much to discuss.” She led him by the hand into her inner chambers beneath the canopy of the tallest of the purple trees.
“What is this place, and what are these trees?” Cal asked, taking in the beauty and serenity of such an unexpected oasis.
“This, Calarmindon Bright Fame,” she said as she gestured with her hands, “is Islwyn … the grove below. Here lives the remnant of the Sprites who are left in this world, under my stewardship and my protection. We have been forgotten, sealed away for many generations, since the days of Šárka’s great evil. For this is a garden of refuge, a secret grove … and these are the last of the mighty Jacaranda trees, to whom we Sprites owe our very lives.”
Cal’s eyes traveled up the mighty white trunks of these mythical trees, feeling their enormity in the depths of his soul. “I do not understand? How is it that you owe the trees your lives?” His curiosity was beginning to overtake his sense of prudence. “And what great evil do you speak of?”
“Sprites are but the ripened fruits of the Jacaranda,” she told him. “The offspring of His great beauty here on this earth. For once all the world shone with traces of His violet playfulness. Many generations ago it was my people that tended to and cared deeply for the trees, the very origin of our existence, so as to color the whole of the world in His lavish beauty.”
“You come from the trees?” Cal asked, still not quite understanding.
“We are born as a result of His beauty manifested in the form of the Jacaranda,” she kindly corrected him, bemused at his genuine curiosity. “For thousands of years the whole of the world was free to rest in the shade of our protection … for beauty is a fierce warrior, Calarmindon Bright Fame. The trees were a gift of the THREE who is SEVEN, and His wide-reaching illumination held the world safe.”
“But I have never seen or even heard of such a tree existing in the world … are there more of these trees elsewhere?” Cal asked.
“I am saddened to say that Islwyn contains the last of the mighty Jacarandas; for we, my people and I, are the last of our kind. In His infinite wisdom He planted us as a refuge here, safe underneath the great Hilgari. Whether it was by some great evil or by His divine hand, we were made prisoners here in our home.”
She offered him a place to rest, and with a graceful nod she welcomed dozens of servants who brought a luminescent drink and loaves of warm bread to eat. Cal drank deep of the cool elixir that was strong and vaguely sweet, tasting of faint plums and some kind of mint. He couldn’t help but wonder where the man-sized chalice came from that held the thirst-quenching brew, but too many questions pressed down upon him to bother about that now.
“There are those in this world who still remember the trees, but they have paid them little care, for they have their own tree to tend to. Their father, Willow, was my friend, and most beautiful were the days where the amber and silver lights of the great tree mingled with our violet hope,” she told him with a sweet fondness to her memories.
Cal and the Queen talked long into the day; she spoke of her days above the ground and of the countless generations of her reign and responsibility. She told of the great evil that had befallen them, of the death and defilement of so many of their kind, and of a time still yet to come, a time of new light and new life.
Cal ate and drank his fill of the strange and delicious fare that Iolanthe’s servants continued to deliver into their place of conference. The Sprites were a noble and proud race, a magical and ancient people whose beauty reflected the very heart of their purpose, and whose hospitality was as effervescent as the foaming pools at the base of the falls.
Most of the Sprites lived in elaborately carved homes built into the high branches of their mother trees, but there were still places wrought by their magical hands for those of greater stature to make their rest here in the grove.
Iolanthe led him up a white, wooden staircase still in bloom, and welcomed Cal into a small yet tranquil sanctuary where he might bathe and sleep. And so he did, finding sleep to come deep and easy here in the secret grove of the Jacarandas. Unbeknownst to Cal, Iolanthe ordered one of her servants to stand watch over their liberator as he rested, and to see to it that he had all that he might need while a guest in Islwyn.
And so it was that the companionship of Deryn, sentinel of the house of Iolanthe, and Calarmindon Bright Fame began, as one kept watch over the other. That night Cal dreamt of Oweles again, only in this dream, there was not a trace of fear to be found.
Ruarc ‘Storm Words’, the very Owele who perched upon Cal’s frozen axe and bid him to follow, appeared to him in the dream. His blazing purple eyes shone like violet fire, and Cal heard the haunting words once again.
Seek the light, Calarmindon. Beauty is calling.
Chapter Thirty-One
Cal woke the next morning feeling more refreshed than he had in quite a long time. He opened his eyes, drinking in the songlike scroll
work of the white wood that formed the sanctuary he had been privileged to use as a sleeping chamber.
“Are you rested, Calarmindon Bright Fame?” an unfamiliar voice asked from outside the chamber door.
“I am, quite rested in fact,” he replied good-naturedly. “And just who might you be … if I may ask?”
“A thousand apologies, Calarmindon Bright Fame,” said the voice from outside. “I did not mean to forget a proper introduction! I am Deryn, sentinel of the house of Iolanthe, messenger of the Queen, and your aide whilst you are here in the grove.”
“Well Deryn, why don’t you come inside? Huh?” Cal invited. “And about this Calarmindon Bright Fame business … could you just call me Cal? Please.”
The Sprite sentinel entered in through the silk partition that hung in the doorway. He, like the company of warriors and the rest of the Sprite people whom Cal had encountered the day before, stood only about two hands high. His hair and wings were a translucent blue that shone with a faint azure glow, and he wore an armored crystal chest piece, unlike Ardghal in his full armored regalia.
“As you wish, Calarmindon …” Deryn paused mid-sentence, catching himself before he finished.
Cal let out a good-hearted laugh, reveling briefly in the amusement of the moment. It had been a long time since he laughed so freely, not since he and Michael dreamed and played in the grazing meadows of the equerry in the city.
Laughter can often be a contagious act, and although Deryn looked a bit embarrassed at first, the genuine delight of Cal’s merriment caught hold of the blue-haired Sprite, and soon he joined his new ward in filling the chamber with the sounds of a forming friendship.
“Are you hungry, Cal?” Deryn asked, emphasizing his new friend’s preferred moniker. “I have made arrangements for you to break your fast here in the sanctuary, if that pleases you?”
“Yes!” Cal answered, still chuckling. “That sounds perfect. But if I may trouble you with another question … do you know when I will be able to make my way back to my Poet friends?”
Deryn clapped his hands three times and seven Sprite servants fluttered into the sanctuary that Cal had made his rest in. They brought a shimmering tunic, pale blue in color, made of a fabric that seemed to radiate the light of its luxury. Others flew in with steaming rolls of Sprite bread dripping with a jasmine-scented honey, urns of piping hot tea made from the leaves of the jacaranda, and a plate of grilled river trout.
Cal salivated at the presence of their intoxicating scents. “Oh thank you, thank you all so very much. This looks like a meal fit for a king!” he said to the small company of hospitable Sprites.
While Cal hungrily ate his meal, Deryn addressed his question with one of his own. “Why such thoughts of leaving? Do you mean to depart from us already? To be honest, I am not sure what plans the Queen has for you yet. The assignment I was given was to make sure you have everything that you would need, and then to make you ready to meet her and her court by the great Sarangrael, once you have been refreshed.”
“What is the Sarangrael?” Cal asked with a mouth full of fish.
“The Falls of Sarangrael is the final resting place of Abonris, and the source of nourishment for our grove. It waters and strengthens all who live here in Islwyn with its sustenance,” he said with a starry-eyed reverence. “It is also the tomb of the greatest of all the ancient warriors of your kind.”
Cal waited with growing intrigue but Deryn did not offer more to the story. “Who is buried there?” Cal finally blurted out with brash curiosity. Much of his time with the Poets had been spent searching through history and legend, and he had become quite enamored with people of Terriah.
The horns of Ardghal the herald rang out loud off in the distance, summoning all to heed their call. “Come with me, Cal, and I will show you,” Deryn persisted.
Deryn and the Sprite servants busied themselves making Cal ready, and Cal busied himself devouring every morsel of the meal that he could get his famished hands on. When they saw that he was finally satiated and indeed presentable, Deryn led his new charge down the stairs and through the carved stone pathways to the water’s edge.
There, gathered on the shores of the Sarangrael, Deryn addressed the gathered host. “My Queen and my people,” he said in a proud and formal voice. “I present to you …” he looked back at the young man and gave a playful wink, “Cal.” Deryn bowed low, and Cal chuckled to himself.
The Queen raised an eyebrow of inquiry at such informality, looking almost as though she were going to scold him, if not for the twinkle of amusement in her dazzling blue eyes. “Welcome Calarmindon Bright Fame … I trust that the hospitality of my people has lived up to your pleasure,” she said, confident of Cal’s reply.
“Yes, indeed it has!” Cal answered in a wide-grinned smile. The Sprite people erupted with cheers and trumpet blasts.
Cal wondered to himself at this inscrutable beauty that had been hidden away from the whole of the world, realizing how bright his last days had become since he found the company of these peculiar little people.
Iolanthe bowed her regal bronzed head at him in thanks, as if she were able to hear the very thoughts in Cal’s mind. Seeing Iolanthe here, Cal could not help but be caught in the gravity of her presence. She embodied a beauty that men could not dare to believe existed, a beauty that was not merely limited to her appearance, but rather culminated in it.
“Not since the days of the dragon-slayer has one of your kind walked the paths of this sacred place, nor tasted the generosity of my people,” said the Queen. “Our hearts tell us that the purpose of our planting is nearly upon the world, for I have seen visions of death and darkness, and of a Bright Fame who will stand in opposition to it.”
“Dragon-slayer?” Cal asked, still eager to learn more of the rich history of this place and its people. “Who is this dragon-slayer you speak of?”
Iolanthe gave him a knowing smile, revealing a depth of grace and patience for the young traveler. “Many generations ago the mightiest of all warriors found his way to me. Grief had overtaken his heart, and he begged me to perform deeds that were beyond my doing; for evil had assaulted our world, dealing with its malice a weakening blow to our kind.”
The crowd was still, silent as their Queen spoke.
“He pleaded for my aid to right the wrongs done to him and to our great Father, but our strength was yet green and I could not grant his request. Some say that his brave heart broke here that day on the precipice of the Sarangrael. His despair overcame him, and in an act of angry defiance to my rejection he hurled his mighty blade, Gwarwyn, into the cold, deep waters of this pool.”
Cal looked to the falls, imagining what kind of depth its wild water must have carved into the mountain. “Gwarwyn?” he inquired, sure that the fabled blade must have a significant meaning attached to its name.
“It means ‘the beautiful dawn’,” Iolanthe answered, “although its beauty has sadly diminished at the demise of Caedmon. His great strength left him, and he who was once our greatest champion fell like a leaf in winter. We tended to him for days on end, singing words of magic and hope into the ear of his soul. We opened the vault of our strength, begging our great Father to heal this mighty man for the sake of the world … but alas … we could not mend the broken heart of Caedmon.”
A tear fell down Iolanthe’s cheek, and the collective sorrow of this bright race felt as thick and heavy as the winter rain.
“We buried the mighty dragon-slayer here,” she said as she pointed to the peak of the falls, her voice breaking under the strain of remembered anguish. “It was from this place that, in his grief and overwhelming despair, he fell. My people and I mourned for days on end, for we had failed to defend the one who had committed his whole life to defend us all.”
One of Ardghal’s minstrels, a Sprite woman whose dark hair and bright eyes stood in stark contradiction to each other, stepped to the center of the gathered host and began to sing a haunting lament. Her voice was as cold as the river
Abonris and as weathered as the stones who are subject to its watery power.
Deryn perched upon Cal’s shoulder and Cal asked his new Sprite friend, “What is she is singing of?”
“She laments both the fall of our friend, the dragon-slayer, and our great failure to save him. Listen and I will speak her words to you,” he whispered in his ear.
“áit a bhfuil do neart agat laoch mór an domhain
(Where is your strength oh great warrior of the earth?)
i gcás ina raibh do blade shining geal imíonn
(Where did your bright shining blade disappear?)
Chun tá tú imithe ar an mbealach a áilleacht
(For you have gone the way of His beauty)
agus retreated i do cloch
(And have retreated into stone.)
Bhrón tú fir agus draíochta agus beithigh
(Mourn you men and Sprites and beasts)
le haghaidh bhfuil an breacadh an lae naofa leagtha chun sosa
(For the beautiful dawn has been laid to rest)
maith dúinn laoch mighty, maith dhúinn athair mór
(Forgive us mighty warrior, forgive us great Father)
agus ar ais chuig an domhan tá sé ghlóir goidte
(And restore to the world its stolen glory.)”
The host was silent, tears lining the faces of warriors and Queen alike. Grief was held close by this ancient race, for they loved well and loved larger than their stature and formality might suggest. Cal was overwhelmed at the swell of emotion and empathy his own heart felt at the sound of the haunting melody and the sight of the woeful Sprites.
“My Queen,” Cal petitioned. “What can I do to mend such sorrow? What can I do to ease your pain?”
Kindness returned to her tear-filled eyes, and Iolanthe thought for a long moment before answering his request. “Calarmindon Bright Fame, there can never be a true mending of this so personal of sorrows that we feel. For there will never be another Caedmon. However, perhaps the time is coming to right the evil that has grown ever stronger since his long-ago departure.”
The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy) Page 25
