“Mayhap thou art right and all deserve to die, and surely they will if they are but mortal. Yet neither thee nor anyone else I have met can pierce the veils of time, and thou hast only suspicions of vile deeds to come; none have yet been committed. I ask thee, Lord Hanor, wouldst thou slay everyone thou dost suspect might commit perfidious acts sometime in the future? And this I ask thee as well: if thou couldst slay every one of them on thy suspicions alone, who would be the monster then?
“Mayhap thou wouldst be right to seek the deaths of those who can cause the slaughter of innocents, yet I think that in the main, other ways are available to thwart their vile schemes.”
Hanor snorted. “You are one to talk, Elf, for you seek the death of another. And what is the motive?…Revenge!”
“That I do not deny, Lord Hanor. Yet in many ways, vengeance is the purest motive of all, exacting just retribution for an unjust deed done, and at the very base it is the sum and substance of thine own man-made laws.”
Lord Leith held up his hands, palms out as if stepping between the Elf and Man. “Let it lie, m’Lords. I will say this, though: Lord Aravan, your point is well taken; we must indeed exact retribution for foul deeds done…but as to those we merely surmise might be done in the future, who knows precisely the foul deeds yet to occur? Had we this knowledge, then we could prevent such acts, but alas, we do not.”
Lord Hanor ground his teeth. “I know in my heart that the Sultan of—”
“Hanor, I said let it lie,” snapped Leith.
Hanor fell silent, clearly choking on his own words.
A long, uncomfortable moment passed, then the Steward stood and stepped to Faeril, taking the tiny damman’s hands in his. “Mistress, I am most saddened to hear of your loss. Yet know this: your Sir Gwylly was a hero, and the world is a poorer place without him.”
Faeril’s eyes brimmed with tears as Lord Leith kissed her hands. She had no words to return to him.
* * *
Three days later, Faeril, Aravan, Riatha, and Urus rode away from Pendwyr, heading northward, returning home. Six horses were in their train: four riding and two pack animals.
Up through the Glave Hills they rode and beyond, coming into the Greatwood, Urus leading the way, Faeril’s horse on a long tether after. Behind followed Riatha and then Aravan, a pack animal trailing each.
Spring was on the land, life quickening, buds opening, pale green leaves sprouting, yellow grasses turning verdant, flowers bursting up and out from the soil. Faeril found that she had nearly forgotten how very green were the High King’s Realms, for the ocean voyages crossed deep, dark waters, and the Karoo had been a deadly dun brown. Even the green of the Talâk Range seemed thin and lacking by comparison to the verdure now in the surround.
And as they wended through the awakening forest, birds returned from their long journeys and sang the four awake at every dawning. Animals scurried among the trees, and occasionally she saw a deer bounding away, and in the evenings they were serenaded by piping frogs.
The spring rains came, and they rode for days through a forest awash or adrip, their storm cloaks fending the water from them. At night they made camp wherever they could, at times beneath hastily constructed lean-tos, at other times below hollow bluffs, and at rare times in a woodsman’s shack or crofter’s barn.
When it was not raining, they camped in the open, and many were the discussions ’round the fire.
Faeril remembered one in particular, the night she sat on the briar:
“Ow!” The damman stood, the others looking her way. “Hmph! Look here, mister thornbranch, I mean to sit on that log.”
Faeril rummaged through her saddlebags, finding and donning her climbing gloves. Then she took hold of the long stem, haling upward to pull it free of the earth. It did not budge.
Again she tried, to no effect.
Urus, waterskins over his shoulder, stepped to her side. “Come, wee one, let us pull together.”
Faeril again haled with all her strength, and Urus added a bit of his own, and out came the briar, root and all, and the root was nearly as long as the branch itself.
Faeril looked up at Urus and grinned, and the Baeran grinned back, then he and Riatha headed for the stream. The damman’s gaze followed them a moment and then she glanced at the crescent Moon and smiled. She turned and cast the thornbranch on the fire and sat and watched it burn, lost in her thoughts.
After a while she looked up to see Aravan regarding her. “Would that all our problems were so easy,” said Faeril, gesturing at the briar.
Aravan nodded and then said, “Some problems have entangled roots that go very deep.”
“I’ve been wondering, Aravan—I mean, after the argument between you and Lord Hanor back at the caer—will Mankind ever get to the roots of his problems? That is, like the Elves seem to have done?”
Aravan smiled and shook his head. “Ah, wee one, Elvenkind has not solved all problems besetting them.”
“But you…I mean, Elvenkind does not despoil the land. And from discussions past, you no longer seek to conquer all, to dominate.”
“True, Faeril, we have solved many of the more thorny issues, but there are many that remain. Yet I know what thou art asking.
“Will Mankind ever get to the root of his problems?…I think Man might not live long enough to do so.
“There are those among Elvenkind who have lived through all. They are the ones who brought about change by seeking out and dealing with the roots of our problems. Even so, we found down deep that the roots were all entangled with one another, just as are Mankind’s. He will find that when he pulls up one by the roots, he will merely expose another, and another, and others thereafter.
“Yet Mankind is short-lived. He is too occupied in sating his reckless appetites, too busy breeding—one day I fear that there will be too many Humans plundering the world. Who among them will set aside his lusts and ponder the effect of Man upon the earth? Who among them will endure long enough to accumulate the knowledge needed to reach enlightenment?”
Faeril stirred the embers of the thornbranch. “Aravan, you once said that the children of Mankind provided links from the past to the future. Couldn’t Man work in concert to gain that knowledge, and then pass what is learned from one generation to the next, the new generation building upon the knowledge of the old, generation after generation, until wisdom is gained?”
“He could, Faeril, but heed: to learn, thou must listen…and Man is too busy shouting to hear.”
Faeril slowly shook her head. “Well, just as Urus and I worked together to uproot the briar, it seems to me that only by working together will Man ever resolve his problems. By getting at the root causes and pulling them into the light of day and examining them, then perhaps he can turn thornbranches into flowers, briar patches into gardens. Otherwise he simply prunes back a problem a bit, and more thorns will spring from the very same roots. Look, Lord Hanor wanted to kill the Sultan of Hyree, and perhaps he should be slain, yet isn’t that merely pruning? Won’t other despots spring from the same roots?”
Aravan smiled at Faeril. “Ah, my wee one, thou art now beginning to struggle with the same problems that our Elven philosophers dealt with long ago.”
“Then, why doesn’t Elvenkind just give Mankind the answers, Aravan?”
“He does not listen, Faeril. Mankind must recognize the consequences of his acts ere he will understand that he needs to change, and even then he might not have the fortitude to do so. Remember the lemmings—they know not of their collective rush to destruction. And shouldst thou try to stop them, they will merely run over thee on their way to oblivion. Let us hope that Mankind realizes his own course ere it is too late, and then has the strength of will to do what must be done.”
* * *
The Greatwood was a mighty timberland, some seven hundred miles long and two hundred and fifty wide. Yet Urus seemed to know every inch of it, and he rode unerringly toward where they were bound. Finally in the midst of the forest, they
came to a vast glade known simply as The Clearing, so broad that the woods beyond could not be seen, some thirty miles afar.
Suddenly Faeril recalled, “Here it was that you came, Riatha, with Tomlin and Petal a thousand years ago, to sing of Urus’s deeds.”
Urus looked at the Elfess, a question in his eyes. “Yes, love,” she said. “Thou wert made into a legend that day—Tomlin telling of thy deeds, I singing of them.”
Urus growled and shook his head, but Faeril could see that he was pleased.
Out into this open space fared the four, riding for the distant edge, and in the late May evening they came unto a woodland village hidden among foliage green just beyond the far rim.
* * *
They stayed in that Baeron hamlet for a full month, waiting for Year’s Long Day, waiting for the Gathering. For then would all the Baeron come together in the Greatwood, in The Clearing, to engage in contests, to sing songs, and to tell of great deeds done. And this was why Urus had been pleased to hear of Tomlin’s and Riatha’s feat, for it was among the greatest of honors to have your tale told and a song sung of your deeds done at the Baeron Gathering.
But on the day when it finally came, it was Gwylly’s tale that was told and Gwylly’s song that was sung of Gwylly’s deeds done that enthralled the gathered Baeron and nearly broke their hearts. And not an eye was dry when Riatha finished her song, the last note ringing long from the harp and into the quiet forest air.
* * *
They travelled on northward, crossing the River Rissanin at Eryn Ford, entering Darda Erynian, also known as the Great Greenhall, and as Blackwood of Old.
Through this vast woodland they fared, escorted by Dylvana Elves, the kindred of the Lian though somewhat smaller in stature.
And the long summer days and soft summer nights passed seemingly without number, yet within two weeks they had reached the Landover Road and had forded the mighty River Argon.
There the Dylvana left them, and the four rode onward, now headed up toward the Crestan Pass there in the Grimwalls.
Two more days elapsed, as up into the high country they went, with its brawling streams and waterfalls and pine forests and tranquil meadows covered with the wildflowers of summer.
Across the pass and down they fared, another two days going by, reaching their goal at last, arriving in Arden Vale on the ninth day of July.
And they were greeted with open arms, and with tears when Arden Elves heard what had come to pass.
* * *
Faeril groomed Blacktail and Dapper, the ponies having been returned to Arden from the port town of Ander on the Boreal Sea in Rian nearly three years agone.
Riatha came to the stables smiling. She held in her hand a folded parchment. “Faeril, see here.”
“What is it, Riatha?”
“’Tis a letter from the Adonite priests of the monastery above the glacier. It is dated two years past, is addressed to Aravan, and just this day arrived. With it was the letter written by Aravan to Alor Inarion a year further back, when Aravan was in the monastery with Urus recovering.
“When Inarion received it, Aravan laughed, saying that ’twas good that urgent plans hinged not upon its arrival.
“As to his own letter from Doran, Aravan thought that all of us would like to see the words of the Abbot, and he gave it to me to read and to bear it to thee and thence to Urus.”
Riatha handed the letter to Faeril.
My dear Lord Aravan:
As you advised, when came the summer, Gavan and I made our way down to the grasslands where the ren herds graze, and there we found the Aleutani. They were grieved to hear of the deaths of B’arr, Tchuka, and Ruluk at the hands of the Foul Folk, and they sent an expedition into the Grimwalls, to no avail.
As autumn arrived, they escorted us back unto the village of Innuk on the shores of the Boreal Sea.
Gavan and I waited long for a ship of the Fjordsmen to come, and one has arrived at last. Yet some two years have passed since we came to this village. But now we can send your letter on to Arden Vale as you desired.
I have also written to the Patriarch of my own Adonite order, telling him of what has passed here as well as in the abbey. As you suggested, I advised him that should he desire to once again occupy the monastery, then let it be with warrior priests, for such is needed in that perilous place.
As for Gavan and me, we have found a calling in ministering to the Aleutani, here in Innuk as well as in other villages. Yet they are an exceedingly stubborn lot, insisting that all good things flow from Tak’lat of the Snow rather than from Adon, or from Shuwah of the Sea, or from Jinnik of the Air, or from…well, it seems they have a thousand deities, more or less—crow gods, fish gods, seal gods, whale gods, tree gods, snow gods, ice gods, fire gods, water gods, rain gods, and more. Whatever there is on the face of the earth or under, and in the sky or above, and on the sea or below, real or imagined, material or immaterial, known or unknown, or living or dead, the Aleutani have a god for it.
I do hope that Gavan lives a long life, for the work will not be finished in my own time.
I trust that this letter will find you well, and that your quest has come to a satisfactory end.
Yours in Adon,
Doran, Abbot
Riatha and Urus were married in an Elven ceremony on the night of the autumnal equinox, Inarion voicing their pledges to one another, there in the bright Elven hall. Riatha was radiant in a pale green long-sleeved silken gown trimmed with satin ribbons of gold, and pale green ribbons twined in her golden hair, and a single band set with golden beryls fixed about her brow. Urus was resplendent in dark velvet brown, tan insets in the puffed shoulders of his long sleeves, tan ruffles at his wrists, a tan lace ruff down his chest.
Many wondered that Riatha would take vows with a mortal, even though he looked youthful in spite of being more than a thousand years old.
And Faeril wept as if she would never stop, for her heart sang with joy; and she wept as if she would never stop, for her heart flooded with grief—just five years past on the very same night in the very same place with the very same vows she and Gwylly had wed.
* * *
As October arrived, Faeril said her good-byes to Riatha and Urus, the wee damman journeying back to the Boskydells, the Elfess and Baeran sad to see her go. Too, she said farewell to Alor Inarion as well as others, fast friends of hers in the Elven vale. And ere she left, Inarion said to her, “Should there ever come a need, thou art welcome to dwell here for as long as thou dost desire.” Faeril hugged him and kissed him and said that if indeed there ever was a need, she would come to the vale gladly. Then she and Aravan set forth down the gorge, she riding upon Blacktail, with Dapper as a pack pony tethered behind, Aravan mounted upon a rust-red roan.
Within two days they came out of Arden, riding beneath the thundering falls, coming to the Crossland Road and turning westerly. Autumn was in the air, the days cool and growing short, the nights crisp and growing long. And Faeril found a memory in every hill, a remembrance in every stream, an image in every tree of happy days long past when another rode at her side.
And often she had tears in her eyes.
The days passed swiftly, the nights slowly, as they journeyed west. Across Arden Ford they fared, wading the River Tumble, entering into the Drearwood in the Land of Rhone.
Days later they crossed the Stone-arches Bridge above the River Caire to come into the Wilderland there between Harth and Rian. Among the Wilderness Hills they travelled and across the plains beyond, coming at last within sight of Beacontor, there where the Black Foxes had overthrown the Spawn.
Beyond Beacontor, Faeril and Aravan turned north, heading for Orith and Nelda’s, Gwylly’s Human parents, there on the edge of the shaggy Weiunwood.
Evening was falling when at last the farm came into sight, and as Faeril and Aravan rode into the yard and dismounted, Black came dashing from the house, barking and racing ’round.
And Nelda stepped onto the porch, peering through the tw
ilight, Orith right after. Their eyes widened in wonder at the sight of an Elf Lord, and then Faeril walked ’round from behind.
“Oh, child, you’ve come home,” cried Nelda, running down the steps and embracing her, weeping for joy.
She held the damman at arm’s length. “Let me look at you. My, my, what a pretty sight.”
Her gaze then swept beyond Faeril, searching through the twilight. “And just where is that wayward son of ours?”
And Faeril burst into tears.
* * *
Seven days they stayed at Orith and Nelda’s, telling of all that had befallen, speaking of Gwylly—Orith or Nelda with tearful eyes telling of his finding, of his childhood, Faeril speaking of their lives together, and Aravan describing the quest, their voices soft, reminiscing.
And all the while they talked, Black lay by the door, his sad eyes fixed on Faeril, raising his head at every little sound from outside, as if expecting Gwylly to step in at any moment.
Early on the fourth night after her arrival, as Faeril washed her face readying for bed, she saw Orith sitting on the porch in the chill twilight, autumn now gripping the land. Wrapping a blanket about herself, she stepped out to see if aught was amiss, to find him staring at a thin crescent Moon riding low in the west, clouds racing across the silver arc, driven by a cold wind.
“Once,” said Faeril, “when we were deep in the desert, Gwylly looked up at the rising yellow Moon and he sang of a cow and a cat and a dog, and he sang of a fiddle and a dish and a spoon…. I laughed. Oh, how I laughed. And I asked him where he had learned such wonderful nonsense. And you know what he said?”
Orith looked at the damman, his eyes streaming tears. “I taught him that song. It was his favorite.”
Faeril threw her arms about Orith and kissed him on the cheek. “Yes. Exactly. That is what he said.”
* * *
Seven days after they arrived, Aravan and Faeril set out from Orith and Nelda’s, riding again for the Boskydells. Black followed a short way, then stopped at Orith’s whistle. Ere she passed beyond the bend, Faeril looked back and waved good-bye, and the last she saw of the two, Orith had his arm about Nelda as they turned and walked toward their solitary house.
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