It was late when the Moon rose to shed its glancing light upon them, and it was time for bed. And for the very first time for either, they undressed before one of the opposite sex. Gwylly’s breath was taken away by the exquisite splendor of her body. Faeril’s heart was pounding, and she found that she could neither look at him nor look away. As of one mind, they stepped toward one another, argent moonlight streaming all about them. He took her in his arms and she pressed herself against him, and they kissed long and tenderly. And then they lay down together. Neither knew exactly what to do, yet between them they managed to discover the pleasure of giving themselves to each other, while the stars in the vault above wheeled silently through the night.
* * *
They followed the Crossland Road through the slot between Northtor and Beacontor, and passed beyond the Signal Mountains and out upon the open wold lying to the east. Off to the south in the distance they could see the forest lining the vale of the Wilder River. Northward and cast the mountain chain faded away in the distance. Westerly, the Crossland Road was the only feature breaking the landscape, wending across the rolling plains. And into this unsheltered land they went.
Three days they rode thus, the weather favoring them with clear skies and warm summer days and cool summer nights. And they spoke of their dreams and of one another and of the days to come. And in the nights they spoke in a language altogether different from that which they used in the day, though the meaning was the same.
Too, Faeril continued to teach Gwylly his letters. And the buccan was an apt learner, setting his mind to the task.
It was late on the fifth day of travel that they came into the Wilderness Hills, the road meandering among them and down the gently falling land.
The seventh day it rained a slow drizzle, and they crossed over the Stone-arches Bridge above the River Caire to come into the Land of Rhone, known by some as the Plow because of its share-shaped boundaries, the Realm lying between the Caire on the west and the River Tumble to east and south.
Before them, the Crossland Road disappeared within the dark clutches of Drearwood, and into this haunted forest rode the pair.
“In the eld days,” said Gwylly, “this was a place of dire repute. But the Wilderland Men and the Elves of Arden Vale purged it of its deadly denizens, or so my dad tells me. Even so, deadly foe here or gone, safe or not, still it causes creepy crawlies to run up my spine.”
Faeril looked about and shivered, for even now an ominous atmosphere pervaded the woodland, its dark trees and shadowy environs made all the more drear by the leaden skies above. “Not at all like the Weiunwood. Not even the ‘closed’ places felt like this.”
Gwylly looked at his dammia. “How many of them did you ride through? The ‘closed’ places, I mean.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Gwylly. Several, I suppose.
“You see, when I came looking for you, I knew nothing of the Weiunwood. Only that someone named Gwylly Fenn had been born there.
“I lived in the Northwood in Northdell in the Boskydells. And so when I came looking, I rode out across the Spindle River at Spindle Ford. Then it was through the Battle Downs and into the Weiunwood, searching for the Glades where Warrows dwell.
“I found several, but when I asked where the Fenn family lived, where Gwylly Fenn lived, none knew. And so alone, I rode through the Weiunwood, going from Glade to Glade, searching for you.
“Someone—Mr. Bink, I think—said that I ought to go to Stonehill, for there were Warrows living there, and sooner or later everyone in the region comes to trade.
“To make a long story short, Mr. Hopsley Brewster, the proprietor at the White Unicorn, remembered that a Warrow named Gwylly lived with a Man and Woman some fifty miles east along the Crossland Road, then twenty miles north, in a steading ’tween the ’Wood and the Signal Mountains. He drew me this map of how to get there, and when I asked him, he added the route to Arden Vale beyond; that very night I was on my way.
“And that’s how I found you, my buccaran, hiding out among Humankind.”
Gwylly barked a laugh, and Faeril smiled, yet she glanced into the darkness of Drearwood and shivered, and her smile faded.
“But as to how many of the ‘closed’ places I rode through. I cannot say. No one thought to warn me of them; they just assumed I knew. But several, Gwylly. Several.”
They rode on a bit, cold rain drizzling down through the dark shadows of the Drearwood. Finally Gwylly broke the silence that had fallen between them. “They say that in the north part of the Weiunwood lies a great oak maze, confusing to the mind, and it is told that a person can wander for days and weeks and months in bewilderment, lost, perhaps never to find a way out. They even tell that pone of Modru’s Hordes was defeated there during the Winter War, at least Orith so says. I do not know whether this is one of the closed places. Faeril, but regardless, I am glad you did not venture therein.”
Faeril mustered a wan smile, as chill rain mizzled and the dark clutch of the Drearwood enveloped them, sucking at their souls.
The next day was brighter, the Sun at last breaking through the cast, and soon fleecy clouds rode above.
On the tenth day, they passed from the Drearwood and crossed Arden Ford along the River Tumble, to come into the wolds of Rell, a Land known as Lianion unto the Lian Elves. Eastward and northward fared the two for a league or more, finally to camp in the night.
On the afternoon of the eleventh day of travel, they came to the slot of Arden Vale.
Out from between close-set high canyon walls roared the River Tumble, the mist boiling upward, obscuring the view into the valley beyond. The falls themselves stretched the width of the narrow slot, and neither Gwylly nor Faeril could see how to enter.
“Let’s ride up as close as we can,” suggested Faeril, and Gwylly nodded, for that had been his thought as well.
And so they urged their ponies forward, riding through a pine wood and crags and toward the roaring water. As they approached, a figure upon a dark grey horse rode out from the shelter of the trees to bar the way. Gwylly reached for his sling, and Faeril’s hand went to one of the knives at her breast. But then the rider called out to them and stepped his mount forward from the shadows and into the sunlight.
It was an Elf.
* * *
Andor led them by hidden road under thundering Arden Falls, the mist from the cataract swirling about them as they passed along the wet stone way and up through a carven tunnel and out into the gorge beyond. Behind them the River Tumble raced through the narrow cleft and over the linn, mist whirling up and obscuring the land whence they had just come, acting as a white curtain shielding the view into and out of the cloven vale.
Ahead, the Warrows could see an enormous tree, towering upward hundreds of feet, as if to touch the sky itself. Its leaves were dusky, as if made of the stuff of twilight.
“Ooo,” breathed Faeril. “It must be the granther of all trees.”
Andor smiled. “Nay, small one. ’Tis instead the Lone Eld Tree, brought here as a seedling from Darda Galion by Talarin when first we came to settle in this hidden vale.”
“Seedling!” exclaimed Gwylly. “But that tree must be thousands of years old!”
Andor nodded. “Yes.”
Gwylly was dumbfounded, just now beginning to realize that Elves were ageless.
Beneath the sheltering branches of the behemoth tree lay an Elven campsite where stayed the Arden-ward. Into this camp rode the trio, other green-clad Lian Elves hailing Andor and coming forth to see the wee Waerlinga, so like unto Elvenkind themselves.
Dismounting, the two Waerlinga were each offered a bowl of stew, which they eagerly accepted, for they had been long on the journey and without a substantial hot meal for all that time. As they settled down with bowl and spoon and bread and stew, Andor spoke to Galron, the Elven watch commander, repeating what the Waerlinga had told him of their mission. Both Gwylly and Faeril nodded in confirmation but said nought ’round full mouths, shovelling venison stew inw
ard as if it were pure ambrosia.
Sitting cross-legged opposite the two, Galron waited, noting that their jewel-like eyes scanned hither and yon, taking in all, missing nothing, even as they ate. He smiled as he saw Faeril gaze at the banner flying on the staff—green tree upon grey field—and then the damman looking up at the immense tree above them, a look of comprehension dawning in her golden eyes even as she spooned up another bite of stew. “Aye, Faeril, thou hast the right of it. This tree is the symbol of Arden Vale, and has been since Talarin and his party found this place.”
Now Gwylly looked at the sigil on the flag, his own eyes glancing up at the tree, as Galron added, “’Tis said that when the tree is no more, then we, too, will no longer dwell in Arden Vale.”
Faeril’s eyes filled with dismay upon hearing these words, and her appetite fled. Gwylly, too, set aside his bowl. Galron’s hand reached out as if to comfort them, but then fell back to his side.
“Kesa, vixi— Ye came not here to speak of the eld days, nor of the days yet to come. Instead ye would see Dara Riatha, and she is”—Galron glanced at Blacktail and Dapper—“two days north by pony.”
* * *
Slowly the two Waerlinga travelled through the pine-laden vale, following alongside the rushing waters of the River Tumble. With them rode Jandrel, the Lian assigned by Galron to escort them north unto Dara Riatha. High stone canyon walls rose in the distance to left and right, the sides of the gorge at times near, at other times two or three miles distant. Crags and crevices could be seen here and there, though for the most part the lofty walls were sheer granite. In the places where the canyon narrowed dramatically, they would fare upon hewn rock pathways carven partway up the side of the stone palisade that formed the west wall of the valley. Jandrel remarked that in these straits when the river o’erflowed its banks, the vale below became a raging torrent, and so these courses along the wall were made for safety’s sake. On up the canyon rode the three, easing along high pathways above or passing through the soft green galleries of the shadowy pine forest below.
That night in camp, Jandrel glanced up from his cup of tea and said, “Ye are the first Waerlinga I have set eyes upon since the days of the Winter War. Then it was that I saw the one named Tuckerby Underbank, the Bearer of the Red Quarrel.”
Faeril’s eyes flew wide. “You saw Tuck?”
Gwylly, too, looked up in surprise, for even this orphaned Warrow knew the tale of Tuckerby Underbank Hero of the Winter War.
“Aye,” responded Jandrel. “Sir Tuckerby and Alor Gildor and Galen King rode through Arden Vale on their way to Pellar to gather the Host, yet those plans went awry, forcing them to do otherwise.
“In those days I was the Captain of the Arden-ward, and the Dimmendark was upon the land.”
“What was he like, this Tuck?” asked Gwylly.
Jandrel sipped the last of his tea, then set his cup down. “Small, as are thee, Gwylly. His hair was black, though, and not aflame as is thine. Black, as is Faeril’s. And his eyes were sapphires, or as blue as. All in all, not much different from thee, or any of thy Kind.”
For some unknown reason a flush came upon Gwylly’s face.
Faeril drew up her legs and clutched her knees. “And so you saw three of the four Deevewalkers.” Her statement was not a question.
“Nay, Faeril, not three but four instead.”
Faeril looked surprised. “But I thought Brega was south—”
“He was, wee one. Yet after the battle in Kregyn, and when the War was ended, once again they came unto Arden, the Deevewalkers and others, returning from Modru’s Iron Tower. Then it was that I saw Brega. Then, too, I saw Patrel in his golden armor, and Merrilee as well. Five more Wee Folks were there, among the survivors, heroes every one.
“And so in all, eight Waerlinga did I see a thousand summers past, each nought but a chit next to Elf, Dwarf, or Man, yet without whom we would not have survived.
“Hai! Ealle hál va Waerlinga!”
Later that night, Gwylly lay awake, his arm wrapped ’round sleeping Faeril, his thoughts returning ever and again unto the words of Jandrel, wondering at their validity. “…All in all, not much different from thee, or any of thy Kind.” Gwylly watched as the stars wheeled above—”All in all not much different from thee“—the words echoing in his mind—”not much different from thee…from thee…”
When the crescent Moon set, Gwylly was fast asleep.
* * *
After breaking camp the next day, northward they rode, Jandrel leading the Waerlinga through the fragrant pine.
At a break, Gwylly asked, “I do not mean to pry, but yestereve you said that you had been Captain of the Arden-ward, yet now you are not. How so, Jandrel? How so?”
Jandrel laughed. “Among the Lian none remains long at calling—several hundred summers or so at most. Even the Warder in Arden, even the Coron over all of Elvenkind, even they ultimately tire of that which they do and move on to other duties, to other tasks, to other activities, interests, crafts.
“Aye, I was the Captain of the Arden-ward a time apast, and may be again someday. After the Winter War, I turned my hand to gardening, and thence to caring for distressed animals.
“I came back to the Arden-ward for a short tour, ten years or so, as does each and every member of the Lian, male and female alike.
“Next, I expect to be in the mountains, studying their texture and substance, where I will remain for a hundred summers or thereabout.
“And so, Gwylly, read nought into my former and present station until thou dost come to know the ways of the Lian, until thou dost come to appreciate the span of our lives.”
“But your lives are—are endless!” blurted Gwylly.
“Just so,” responded Jandrel. “Just so.”
Onward they rode through the forest, travelling some twenty-five miles more before making camp.
That night Gwylly and Faeril whispered softly to one another, speculating upon how a person’s life might be changed if it were eternal, and what effect that might have on a society filled with such folk.
Some distance away, his back to a tree, the Lian Elf smiled unto himself.
* * *
It was nigh noon the next day when Jandrel led the two Waerlinga in among the thatched dwellings of the Elves of Arden Vale. Lian looked up from whatever tasks they labored at, or from wherever they sat or stood, their eyes delighting at the sight of the Wee Folk. And for their part, Faeril and Gwylly gazed about in wonder, for here was where Elven Folk dwelled. And everywhere they looked was grace and beauty and subtle color.
After an enquiry, the trio rode another mile north to come at last to a wide field of oats, where Lian labored. And plying a scythe there was a golden-haired Elfess.
“Kel, Riatha, Dara!” called Jandrel. “Vi didron and a enistori!”
Riatha turned from the grain and shaded her eyes and looked at the three at field’s edge. She handed her scythe to one of the gleaners and began walking toward the Waerlinga, for even though she did not know their names, she knew who they were and why they had come.
CHAPTER 9
Riatha
Throughout Eras
[Past and Present]
Long ago in Adonar, an Elfess and her sire and dam walked on the banks of a crystal rill dancing through a bright green glade, while high above in the branches of the ancient Eld Trees, Silverlarks sang their songs of joy. And the Elfess and her progenitors spoke of many things, past and present and future, for she was soon to set forth for Mithgar, riding upon the dawn. It was near the end of the Second Era, though few, if any, knew it at the time—for to see into the future is a rare and precious gift, given to only a few. It was mayhap one or two hundred years before the Era ended, or more, none can precisely say—for dates have little meaning to Elves, who perhaps note only the passage of the seasons. But even if Elves do not keep close track of days and dates, still they always seem to know where stand the Sun and Moon and stars—and this, too, is a precious gift. Regard
less, on this last day in Adonar, Riatha walked in a glade with her mother and father, and they spoke of many things.
Riatha, then as now, was a young Elfess, just beginning her life. But so too was her sire, as well as her dam. What their actual ages were, of Riatha and Daor and Reín, is not told, for no matter the age of an Elf, he or she is always at the beginning of a never ending life. What matter if they had lived twenty or two hundred or two thousand years or more? For when compared to all of eternity, no matter the count of years, an Elf is but a step or two along an endless path.
Oh, not that Elves cannot die, for they can be slain by weapon or poison, by accident or malice, or by another living creature fighting to survive. Too, Elves can starve, die of thirst, drown, burn, and perish any other number of ways as well, a handful of rare but fatal diseases among these. Yet without these interventions, Age passes them by and Death gives them not a second’s glance.
Hence, with all eternity waiting to be trod by these splendid souls, is it any wonder that to Elvenkind the death of one of their own is cause for great grief? It matters not the number of seasons that have passed since the fallen one’s birth, for whatever the count of years, the Elf had but stepped across the threshold of life, had just begun, and Death has quenched an endless existence.
But that bright day, as Riatha and Daor and Reín strolled among the Eld Trees, thoughts of death and dying were not upon their minds. Instead they spoke of Riatha’s impending journey to Mithgar, the mortal world, alluding to what she might find, referring to her responsibilities thereupon.
They stopped in the glade and sat upon the bank above the sparkling bourn, diamond lights scattering from its dancing surface. Daor looked at his golden-haired daughter and broached a familiar theme:
The Eye of the Hunter Page 9
