* * *
The Weiunwood was clad in yellow and gold and scarlet, and along its flank they rode, the shaggy forest on the right, a low range of hills on their left. Southerly and then southwesterly they fared, camping in the hills that night.
Just ere dawn, a cold drizzle began, and they plodded in a miserable chill, coming to the Crossland Road, the track slowly turning into a mire.
West along the route they rode, now and then dismounting and walking, giving Aravan’s roan and Faeril’s pony a breather.
In late afternoon they came in through the east gate of Stonehill, passing down the cobbled streets to come to the White Unicorn, Stonehill’s finest inn. Dismounting at the stables, they turned their steeds over to a wiry lad, and they entered the warm, cheery common room of the hostel. Maltby Brewster, their host, and Murium, his wife, welcomed Faeril back, for five years past she had come through Stonehill, seeking a Gwylly Fenn…and both were saddened to hear that the buccan had been slain. They were surprised as well to discover that the damman was travelling with an Elf Lord, yet they arranged suitable quarters for each.
News of these visitors travelled swiftly through Stonehill, and folks came to the Unicorn to have an ale and a meal and to get a look at this Elf Lord, to see him for themselves. Aravan did not disappoint them, taking up a six-stringed lute and regaling all with songs of the sea, some soft and lorn, others bright and gay, still others wild and bawdy, full of hearty laughter.
That night they stayed and all the next day and the next night as well, waiting for the weather to clear.
Yet the following morn was fair, and as Aravan and Faeril readied to leave Stonehill, neither Maltby nor Murium would accept any coin, saying that Aravan’s barding had paid for all.
And so, out from Stonehill they rode, a chill morning fog curling among the trees. Northward they turned onto the Post Road, which ran from Challerain Keep in the land north to Caer Pendwyr far to the south, the very same route taken by High King Garon and Queen Thayla on their journeys between.
The road curved westerly ere swinging northward again, arcing ’round the flanks of the Battle Downs, a place of War long past. And along this way plodded horse and pony, placidly bearing Elf and Warrow, first westerly, then northwesterly, then north, faring by day and camping by night. At last they came to Two-Fords Road, down which they turned.
Now straight toward the Boskydells they rode, their course carrying them west, and on the third day after leaving Stonehill, they sighted the formidable Thornwall, the barrier be-ringing the Land ahead. Left and right it stretched as far as the eye could see. And up into the air it reared, some fifty feet or so. A massive barrier of Spindlethorn, in places it was as wide as a mile but in no place less than a quarter mile across. So thick that even birds found it difficult to penetrate, this wall had fended friend and foe alike, for in but a few places could travellers and others pass through.
Spindle Ford was one of these places, and here it was that Faeril and Aravan fared. Yet when they came to the tunnel through the thorns, Aravan halted his horse, saying that he would not enter. Instead he dismounted and stepped to her pony, his eyes level with Faeril’s and this is what he said:
“Faeril, thy Land is for the Wee Folk, and only in great need would I come within.
“Thou art now safely delivered unto thy Realm, and I have a vow to keep. And after I have fulfilled that pledge of retribution, then must I continue my quest. Somewhere in the world is a yellow-eyed Man—a sword stealer, a friend slayer. Mayhap it is Ydral, mayhap not; regardless, my quest is not done.
“And so I now will leave thee, yet heed: shouldst thou ever need my aid, send word and I will come, for I do love thee, my valiant friend, and I will remember thee forever.”
Faeril’s eyes filled with tears, and she embraced and kissed the Elf Lord. [“And thee, Alor Aravan,”] she said in Sylva, [“I will remember thee for as long as I shall live as well.”]
Aravan remounted his horse, and with a cry of “Yah! Yah!” spurred away, galloping back the way they had come, up the road and over the rise, and then he was gone beyond sight.
Faeril turned her face toward the Thornwall tunnel and urged Blacktail ahead. And into the gloom of the barrier they went, Dapper plodding behind.
That night she spent in Thornwalker quarters, there at the Spindle Ford station, the one Thornwalker assigned to the crossing glad for her company.
* * *
The next day she set out, the Thornwall on her right flank. All day she travelled, passing Hob’s Cairn in the morning and turning her ponies westerly along the Upland Way. By evening she had reached the fringes of the Northwood, where she camped for the darktide.
* * *
The next morning she awoke to frost, the land about covered with the white rime, a small taste of winter to come. Breaking camp, into the ’Wood she rode, now faring for her home, yet some fifty miles hence. All day she rode, and part of the next, coming in the late afternoon to the place where she had been raised.
She rode into the tiny yard of the tiny cote and found her sire chopping wood. He dropped his axe when he saw who she was: his dammsel, some five years gone. And he hugged her and kissed her and ushered her into the house, shouting for all to come and see what he had found. Lorra dropped what she had been doing, hugging her fiercely and kissing her as well, saying, “Welcome home, oh my Faeril. Welcome home at last.”
And as her brothers rushed into the room, Faeril hugging and kissing all three, the wee damman looked about, tears in her eyes, knowing in her heart of hearts that although she was back with those she loved…this was not home at all.
CHAPTER 43
Retribution
Early Spring, 5E991
[Five Months Later]
Closing the well-guarded door behind and bearing but a single candle, the Emir of Nizari entered his darkened bedchamber. Widely he yawned, for he was sleepy, sated from the dalliance with his latest smooth-cheeked boy. The candle cast a glowing halo as he moved across the room, a feeble yellow light flickering, pressing back the blackness from a small circle ’round.
The first that the Emir knew he was not alone was when that dim light was reflected from a pair of icy eyes like sapphires, tilted, peering at him from a cloaked, turbaned figure, face covered by a dark cloth.
[“Who…?”] the Emir asked in Hyrinian, holding up the candle, backing away.
Slowly the figure raised a hand and plucked away the cloth.
“You!” hissed the Emir.
Perhaps he screamed and screamed as he died, but none will ever know—or say, for all the rooms in the Scarlet Citadel are sealed against sound.
All that is known is the next morning when the major-domo Abid went to waken his master, the Emir was dead—run through by some burning weapon, or so it was surmised, for the wound was cauterized, as if a red-hot spear had been thrust through the master’s body.
Who had done such a deed, none knew—though it was speculated that only a Djinn could have gotten past the guards unseen.
CHAPTER 44
Auguries
Two Years Later…
…And Beyond
The snow had melted at last, water runnelling everywhere, spring stirring throughout the Boskydells. In a small cote in the Northwood, Faeril and her sire and dam and her younger brother sat before the fire, taking their afternoon tea and speaking of things gone by and of things that were and of things yet to be.
Faeril’s sire rocked in his chair. “You are set on doing this thing, child?” he asked.
“Yes, Dad. I feel I must.”
“Oi, Faeril,” said Dibby, sitting cross-legged on the floor, “leaving the Bosky for good, going to Arden Vale…well, I just don’t know.”
“You won’t be with your Kind at all,” added Lorra, turning the embroidery hoop in her hands…turning it about…turning, not sewing…instead fighting back the tears.
“But, Mother, I was so happy there.”
Her father slowly shook his head.
“You can’t go back through time, my dammsel.”
Lorra set the hoop aside and took up her teacup. “She knows, Arlo. She knows.”
The day outside was drab and wet. Water dripped from the eaves, some to run down the window panes, streaking the wan light seeping inward, wavering shadows joining those already mustered within the room. The fire pressed back the dark and damp, its ruddy glow shining from Faeril’s silver lock, chasing it with copper.
Faeril stared long into the fire. At last she said, “I believe we were camped at the ford on the River Hanü when Aravan said that which I did not understand until just now. He said, ‘Auguries are oft subtle…and dangerous—thou mayest deem they mean one thing when they mean something else altogether.’
“Not one of us down through the years truly understood the meaning of Rael’s prophecy concerning the Eye of the Hunter. Yet I do now…I do now.”
Lorra’s voice took on the cant of a chanter.
“When Spring comes upon the land,
Yet Winter grips with icy hand,
And the Eye of the Hunter stalks night skies,
Bane and blessing alike will rise.
Lastborn Firstborns of those who were there,
Stand at thy side in the light of the Bear.
Hunter and hunted, who can say
Which is which on a given day?”
“Aye, Mother”—Faeril’s voice came softly through the dimness—“that was the prophecy.”
“Where, my dammsel, where was it misinterpreted?” asked Lorra.
Faeril wiped the heel of her hand across her cheeks, drying them. “It isn’t that it was misinterpreted; instead, it was not fully understood. The total of its extent eluded us, but now it is clear:
“We had always believed that the term Lastborn Firstborns meant the latest in a long line of firstborn dammsels and firstborn buccoes. But it meant more than that: it meant the very last in the line of Firstborns, after which the line would be broken—
“Oh, Mother, I never loved anyone as I loved Gwylly, and I never shall…I never shall.”
Faeril began weeping, and Lorra moved beside her and comforted her.
Dibby looked on helplessly, not knowing what to do, and Arlo took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his own eyes. Though none of her family had ever met Gwylly, they knew that Faeril was heartbroken, and they hurt for her.
At last Dibby said softly, “Dad, I don’t understand.”
Arlo looked at his son. “This is the way of it, Dibs: Some of us love but once and never again. Your sister is one of these. She will never remarry, never have any children of her own. After her the line will be broken—there will be no more Firstborns. She and Gwylly were truly the Lastborn Firstborns—just as the prophecy foretold, though no one knew what it meant in the end, until now. She is the last, the very last.”
Dibby began to cry.
* * *
“When d’you think you’ll be leaving?” asked Arlo, his hands continuing to ply the knife shaping the carving.
Faeril glanced out at the rain falling again. “In late spring when the weather comes warm.”
“Well, dammsel, this time I’ll turn out to say farewell.”
Arlo augured the knife, twisting the point against the wood, making a hole. “I watched you go last time,” he said quietly.
Faeril looked up from her stitchery. “You did?”
“Aye. Your brothers, too. Secretly, through that window.” Arlo pointed.
“Why didn’t you come out?”
“Well, I knew that should I step out to kiss you good-bye, I would beg you not to go…but I knew as well that you followed your destiny, and I would not thwart that.”
Faeril sat in silence a long while, water pattering on the roof, her father’s knife going shkk, shkk, curls of wood peeling. At last she stood and stepped to her sire, kissing him on the cheek.
* * *
Lightning flared and thunder hammered and the rain came drenching down. And as the four sat at supper, above the brawl of the storm came the thud of galloping horses and the flare of a horn cry.
“What the…?” Dibby leapt to the fogged-over window, rubbing a hole in the wetness, peering out, Arlo at his side, but both Faeril and Lorra stepped to a bedroom.
Again came the horn cry, closer now.
Faeril hurried back into the room, her knife-filled bandoliers settled across her chest, the damman girting a long-knife about her waist.
Lorra, too, was accoutred in throwing knives.
Dibby turned. “Lor,” he breathed, seeing the weaponry. “D’you think there’s like to be danger?”
“Mayhap, Dibs,” answered Faeril, and her brother rushed to catch up two knobbed staffs, one for himself, the other for his sire.
Now a rider thudded up to the cote through the driving rain, trailing a remount behind, water and mud splattering.
“’Tis a Man,” muttered Arlo, peering through the rain-streaked pane, the vision dim, distorted by water.
But lightning flared as the rider dismounted and cast back his hood. “Nay,” said Faeril, “not a Man but an Elf instead!…’Tis Jandrel from Arden! Something is amiss!”
She rushed out into the downpour. “Jandrel! Jandrel! What is it? What is wrong?”
A great smile burst across Jandrel’s wet face and he caught up Faeril and whirled her about, water cascading down over both. “Wrong? Wrong? Why, my own sweet Faeril, what could possibly be wrong? I have come to fetch thee, back to Arden to witness the miracle. The first Elven birth in Mithgar ever!
“Dara Riatha is with child!”
* * *
“You mean, she’s had a baby?”
“Nay, she is pregnant! She carries Urus’s child. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“But, Jandrel, that is impossible! Elves cannot get pregnant on Mithgar. And even if they could, Humans and Elves between them do not bear children.”
“Aye!” Jandrel grinned. “Did I not say it was a miracle?”
Jandrel set her down. “Riatha sent me. Canst thou leave on the morrow? She wishes thee at her side when the child comes.”
Cold rain hammered upon the two. “Is it that quick? When is she due?”
Jandrel laughed, his face lighted with joy, and he spread out his hands, palms up. “Ah, wee one, no one knows. We have no experience with miracles at all. The last any Elf saw an Elven birth was more than five thousand years agone, on Adonar, ere the Sundering.
“And with Urus being the father, who can say when the child will come?”
Dibby and Arlo came splatting out in the rain, carrying Faeril’s all-weather cloak with them and casting it about the damman’s shoulders. “Your horses are too big to fit in my pony stable,” called Arlo, “but they can take shelter in the byre yon.” The Warrow looked up at the Elf. “And like your horses, you yourself are too big to walk through my door, but if you don’t mind crawling in, we’ve got supper on the table, and there’s plenty for you as well.”
* * *
The very next morning—the tenth of April, 5E993—Faeril and Jandrel readied themselves to go.
’Mid the tearful good-byes, Arlo came to his daughter and kissed her and said, “I would beg you not to go…but I think that this is still your destiny. Take care of yourself, dammsel of mine.”
Dibby, too, stepped forward. “When they get back, I’ll tell Finch and Hawly your good-byes.”
Faeril hugged him, saying, “Go see Lacey and tell her as well, Dibs. She likes you, you know. And tell her…tell her I will write.”
Lorra embraced her. “I think your father is right—this is all part of what was meant to be. Even so, we will miss you dearly.”
“I will miss you too, Mother. Yet I will write often, can I find couriers coming this way; mayhap two or three years will not elapse between missives.”
Jandrel led the horses nigh, and with a final kiss for sire, dam, and brother, Faeril mounted up, the Elf lifting her to the saddle. And in the damp morning, running at a good clip the
y set out for Arden Vale, the Elf galloping in the lead, the damman mounted on the tethered horse coursing behind. And ere they raced beyond sight along the eastward trace, Jandrel lifted his horn to his lips, and the Northwood rang with his farewell call.
* * *
Four nights later, they spent the darktide in Stonehill, and the very next night at Orith and Nelda’s. And just five days after leaving those quarters, they came to the entrance of Arden Vale there at the waterfall. And on the following day amid calls of greeting they rode into the Elven settlement in the north part of the gorge. Fifty or more miles a day they had ridden, seventeen to eighteen leagues, Jandrel varying the pace so that the steeds would last, covering the nearly six hundred miles in but eleven days.
* * *
Riatha was radiant, and Urus beamed.
Faeril’s intent gaze studied the Elfess. “They said you were with child, but I don’t see…”
Riatha laughed. “As best as can be determined, the child is not due until autumn…October, mayhap.”
Faeril mentally counted. Five months, or six. “How can this be, Riatha? I thought that Elves bore no young on Mithgar. And that there was no issue between Humans and Elves ever.”
“’Tis remarkable, true. Yet Urus and I deem it is because of his nature. He is something beside Human.”
“A Cursed One,” rumbled Urus, “or so I always thought, till now.”
Faeril eyed the Baeran. “And now…?”
“Now I am a Blessed One,” replied Urus, grinning, embracing Riatha.
* * *
Faeril moved back into the cote where she and Gwylly had lived, there above the River Tumble, the place kept for her by Inarion, for it seems he knew that she would at last return.
And over the next weeks and months, marvelling Elves from throughout Mithgar came to be present at the birth.
Inarion and Urus sent representatives to the Great Greenhall to fetch a Baeran midwife, for the Elves had little or no experience in such—certainly not of late. And when she came, she was a strapping Woman, some six foot one or two. Yet her way was gentle, and her name was Yselle, and she and Riatha became fast friends.
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