Luthiel's Song: The War of Mists

by Robert Marston Fannéy

This brought a grin from Melkion and a cough from Othalas. She turned, slipping through the branches and on up to the spring as the others sat down to wait. With a few quick flicks, she loosened her pack straps and let it slip off her aching shoulders. It stung and as she went to open it she noticed blisters on her fingers. Inside, she found a fresh set of clothes that didn’t smell too smoky. She laid these out on a stone, found some soap, and then went to work on what she was wearing.

  This part wasn’t easy, as there were places where the garments had burned and stuck to her skin. Some would have to be cut away. She drew Weiryendel.

  When the blade cleared its scabbard, it made an odd chiming. The sound was at once sad and insistent. As if in answer, a tiny light flickered through the pouch that hung at her neck. Her Wyrd Stone was awakening! With trembling hands, she opened the pouch. Immediately, the light swirled about her and she was plunged into the World of Dreams. It was the sword’s music that did it this time, for not a sound slipped through her parted lips. The music grew, as did the light. A wind began to blow, bending the trees and rippling the lake’s surface. Her belt and pouches, which also lay on a rock, began to rustle. Then as if touched by unseen fingers, the pouch that contained Aeowinar’s shards began to unravel. A few fragments flew out and began to swirl around the sword. There was a burning in her hand and, flinching, she held it up before her. The rune Ecthellien had cut there felt hot and shimmered with the golden color of Vyrl’s blood—her blood.

  The light grew and the fragments swirled faster. Tears fell. It was all too plain. Ecthellien was the second sacrifice.

  No sooner did the recognition fly swiftly through her than the sword began its change. The shards seemed to merge with it and the blade grew yet again—this time a full six inches. As it grew, the shape changed, seeming to become elongated and graceful. A keyhole appeared at the blade’s base and through the guard. It widened until it was large enough to hold Methar Anduel. Then she was lifting her Wyrd Stone, bringing it up to meet with the blade. When the two touched there was a flash of light as bright as when the Wyrd Stone first awakened, and for a moment it seemed a small sun shone in the night. It was so bright, she had to turn her eyes away—but the song rang in her ears even as the dreaming world swirled about her.

  The wind suddenly gusted into a gale. On it, her father’s voice returned to her.

  To live is to lose, it said. For all things fail in the end. I am sorry for your lost ones, my daughter. But even they had more chance to know you than I. A blessing on you Luthiel, so you may begin to undo the terrible work of my father.

  Then the light dimmed and she let Weiryendel fall to her side. The music faded into silence as she slipped from the World of Dreams. For long minutes, all she could do was sob quietly.

  “He’s dead. Oh, he’s dead. I threatened to kill him and I did.”

  A sense of heaviness settled over her and she felt again the desolation of the night she left Flir Light. Gazing at the remaining pieces of Aeowinar, she held back an urge to fling them far into the forest. As pieces of the sword fell back into place, bits of her life were being ripped away—never to return. Each time loss. Each time changing. Each time a hint of her father’s presence on the wind. There was still this sense of him about her. Something she could feel. Like the clean in the air after a storm. She stared at the blade again.

  “Somehow, he’s bound his will into it,” she said with sadness. “I should honor it.”

  With numb fingers, she gathered the remaining shards.

  “Oh Ecthellien,” she whispered. “I would not have had you make amends like this. If you can hear me now, I forgive you.”

  For a moment, the wind seemed to rise again and all the branches in the trees about her swayed. It blew on for only a few moments. Then the night was still once more.

  Having gathered all the remaining bits, she sat for a few minutes in silence to honor the dead. Then, she returned to the painful business of removing her clothes. She lifted the blade and noticed her Wyrd Stone still rested in the keyhole. She poked at it to see if it was stuck. At first contact there was a small shock in her fingers and the Stone came free. Curious, she placed the Stone back in the hole and felt the shock again as it reattached. To test it, she swung the blade. No matter how swiftly or forcefully she swung the sword, the Stone stayed firmly attached. When she went to lift the Stone out for the second time there was another strange shock as it slid into her hand. Satisfied, she returned it to her pouch and used the sword to cut the tattered rags off her. It was starting to look like a proper sword blade now and she guessed fully half its length had reformed. She looked at the changed shape and wondered if it would still fit the scabbard.

  While musing, she cut herself in a careless instant. The blade had no more than rested upon the skin of her forearm when it slid into her flesh as easily as a reed through water. She shivered as she felt the cool crystal passing through her. But when it exited there was no blood, only the tiniest white line. A soothing numbness entered her arm and she felt her drowsiness deepen. Shaking her head to clear it of stupor, she continued with care wondering if more than the blade’s shape had changed.

  After a few minutes of cautious cutting, she was finally rid of her clothes. She looked over her skin. It was a patchwork of tiny red burns with small blisters mainly at her fingers. The Vyrl wounds were still visible but seemed to have been scorched shut by the heat of Cauthraus and the dragon. She grabbed the soap and made her way to the spring.

  Thankfully, the water was cool, but not unpleasantly so. As she entered, her skin came alive with pain. She could feel each burn and bite. Even the place where the Dimlock had tried to strangle her when she and Othalas had sheltered in the Cave of Painted Shadows seemed to ache as she immersed herself. She knew Dimlock hurts were slow to heal. Winter wounds, they were called. For their only cure was time and long days basking under the suns of summer. She counted herself lucky they hadn’t done more damage. The Vyrl’s bites puzzled her, though. At least the other injuries have healed. Mithorden’s Yewstaff fruit was good enough for those.

  Once her skin grew used to the water, she began to work with the soap. As she washed, she found comfort in the sights and sounds of night. Nearby, she could hear the call of a bird answering a mournful song in the distance. A family of voles came to drink by the water in which she bathed. They paused to watch her for a time before scurrying off to the protective brush. At last she was finished. Feeling clean and somewhat refreshed, she rose from the water, dried herself and put on her new clothes. She also put on the cloak and veil Mithorden had given her. Inspecting them, she found that they were in excellent condition. With a few quick brushes they seemed in even better shape than the clothes from her pack—which stank of smoke.

  “Newspell,” she whispered. She’d seen her foster brother Lorethain use it to keep clothes fresh and undamaged. She assumed Mithorden had cast it to protect the other enchantments.

  Still hesitant to lift the veil over her face, she let it hang as she made her way back to the others. As she walked, she noticed a few soft notes rising up from the wood. Following the music, she found her companions beneath an old pine. Othalas sat on his haunches, great yellow eyes scanning the night. Melkion had coiled round one of the pine’s lower branches. His eyes drooped as he blew a half-hearted smoke ring. Mithorden leaned against the tree, a flute in his hands, playing a soft tune. She stopped and stood listening. The tune was both full and sorrowful; exultant and touched with grief. Melkion and Othalas were silent and solemn. About halfway through, she realized it was Ecthellien Mithorden played for. The thought came to her with a pang and she bowed her head. Finally, the flute song ended. Mithorden stopped and returned the flute to a polished case.

  Luthiel drew Weiryendel, letting them look at the remade blade.

  Melkion let his long neck drop and he hung his head. “Ecthellien is dead,” he said mournfully.

  “The air is restless with the spirits of the lost,” Mithorden said softly. “Peac
e then.”

  “The spring’s yours,” she said to Mithorden after a long silence. With a nod, the sorcerer slipped through the brush and made his way toward the pond. She watched him go, then sat down with her back to the tree.

  “Might not want to get too comfortable,” the great wolf rumbled. He lifted his chin and sniffed the air. “Elves are near.”

  “I couldn’t get comfortable if I lay on the finest bed in all of Oesha,” she replied. “I’m just too beat up.”

  Melkion stared down at her, concern plain in his violet eyes. “It’s a mad quest. Far too much for one of fifteen years—Valkire’s blood or no.”

  “She’s done well enough,” Othalas growled. “We’d all be worse off, but for Ecthellien.“

  “You’re both right,” Luthiel said with a sad sigh at the mention of Ecthellien. “I’d much rather be playing tap-and-turn with Leowin than fighting Widdershae and dragons. Now I’ve got to convince my friends the Vyrl had a change of heart.”

  “And that Othalas is a kitten,” Melkion quipped.

  “It gets worse,” Othalas joined in.

  Melkion looked at Othalas. “The enchantment?”

  “What else?” the werewolf grumbled. “I was wondering when the sorcerer would tell her. Seems he doesn’t think it’s important.”

  “What are you talking about?” Luthiel asked, uncertain if she really wanted to know. “There’s even more bad news?”

  “It’s not exactly bad,” Melkion answered. “Just a little odd.”

  Othalas growled his disagreement.

  “You may as well just say something,” she said.

  “It’s about your disguise,” Melkion said. “It’s meant to make you look different. Nothing too noticeable. No facial hair or anything so distasteful.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was Mithorden’s idea,” Othalas grumbled. “Although, with the way elves act these days, I’d say it’s a good one.”

  Luthiel would have thrown her hands up in exasperation if it didn’t hurt so much. “Are you going to tell me what this is about or are you going to keep talking around me for the rest of the night?”

  The dragon and wolf eyed each other. Melkion looked sheepish enough for both of them.

  “It’s bound up in the veil’s magic,” the dragon said, pointing his tail at her disguise. “When you put it on there’s some kind of spell that changes your features.”

  “Changes?”

  “Yes,” Melkion said. “It won’t even be plain that you’re a woman.”

  “Well, that’s not so bad,” Luthiel said.

  “No, it wouldn’t be,” Othalas said with a gravelly chuckle.

  “Except that Mithorden plans to introduce you as a man,” Melkion said.

  Luthiel stood up, restraining a surprised outburst. She took a few steps forward and then put a hand on Othalas’ flank. Some dried bits of blood crumbled away at her touch but the flesh beneath seemed to have mended. “Clever sorcerer,” she said finally.

  “This way you could give news about yourself with less danger,” Melkion said. “You wouldn’t have to return as someone who broke an unbreakable law. A woman many among the Fae would fear.”

  “If you’re a man,” the wolf continued, “few would question that you were the Vyrl’s messenger.”

  “They would fear me?” Luthiel said, staring into the night.

  Both the wolf and the dragon were silent.

  “But how will I convince them if I cannot speak of the Vyrl’s change? How if I’m not speaking from experience?”

  “You must convince them,” Othalas replied as he swung his great head toward her. “There is a lady of the Vale of Mists. She saved the Vyrl from madness. Her name is Luthiel. That is what you must tell them.”

  “And when will they find out who I am?”

  “When they need most to know it is you.” Mithorden spoke from not far off in the wood. As they talked, the sorcerer had returned and come upon them unawares. Now he stood at the edge of the wood watching them. His skin shone from what must have been a very quick bath and his garments seemed new and unmarred. “If they saw you as you are now, it would be too much. It’s likely you’d bear the brunt of their hatred for Vyrl. You may still—but only as an anonymous messenger.”

  “It’s a lie,” she said.

  “You’re just hiding from their anger,” Melkion said.

  “They’ll find out eventually. We’ll have to tell them.”

  “We must be careful to choose the right moment,” Mithorden said.

  Luthiel paused and looked at each of them. She didn’t know why, but this seemed an important moment to her. She was about to hide her identity by playing the part of a man. It seemed strange and unnatural to her. Though she’d never really known where she’d come from or who her parents were, she’d always had a strong sense of who she was. It made disguising herself as a man seem even more awkward. “So I must hide that I’m a woman?” It still didn’t seem right.

  “They know you as Luthiel and as a woman,” the sorcerer replied.

  Luthiel nodded and frowned. She sensed Mithorden wasn’t telling her everything. It didn’t quite seem complete.

  “I don’t like it,” she said. “Not at all.”

  “It is for your safety. Otherwise, I’d never ask.”

  Luthiel put her head in her hands. She’d looked forward to returning home. Why come home if no one knew it was her?

  “There’s more to it,” Othalas growled. “It has to do with being a woman. Some elves are threatened by women with power. Ashiroth and Rimwold are the worst. There, sorcery is banned to women and those who practice it are outlaws—named ‘witches’ or fouler things.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with witches.” Luthiel said with a frown.

  “You might not think so,” Othalas said. “But there are many who do.”

  There was something in what the werewolf said that deeply disturbed her. It was something she’d overlooked or happily ignored.

  “I’m not really very powerful. What have I done that’s so fearsome?” Even as she asked the question she realized how silly it sounded. She’d broken the most perilous and long-kept law in the Faelands, freed and become a friend to the monstrous Vyrl. She’d come to possess objects and weapons of might, Wyrd, and legend. She was a sorceress and the only daughter of Vlad Valkire. It made her sad to think the werewolf was right. To do all those things would make her seem both terrible and powerful to some of the Fae. But to be a woman? What was the wrong in that?

  As the thought passed, she realized Othalas was right. For most who lived in Ashiroth and Rimwold and even for some who lived in Ithilden, Minonowe, and Himlolth the old myths were changing. It was something Leowin had tried to talk about many times. How many fae were taking Ëvanya out of the Ebel Kaleth. How they were beginning to believe that the world was created by a lonely act of will from Ëvanyar and not at the moment he discovered his love of Ëvanya. How when the myths changed, their treatment of women changed. It was something so dreadful Luthiel had done her best to ignore it. Could this be what Mithorden and the others were afraid of? Not just that she’d saved Vyrl. That some would see her as a witch and hate her for it?

  Othalas watched her, taking in her changed expressions. “You know it’s not true. You are powerful.”

  “It all has to do with the changing myths, doesn’t it?”

  Mithorden gave her a considering look and nodded. “Yes. That’s the root of the trouble.”

  “I still can’t believe what they’ve done. Our world began with Ëvanya and Ëvanyar falling in love. Who would want to change a myth so beautiful as the Ebel Kaleth?” For so long, she always thought it a silly tale. But she realized that, now, for reasons she was just beginning to understand, it was important to her.

  Mithorden’s look was sad. “The Ebel Kaleth is fading from the world. Many just don’t believe any more.”

  “Why?” Luthiel asked.

  Mithorden blinked his eyes and sl
owly sat down. Even the sorcerer seemed battered by their hard journey. “I don’t rightly know the whole story,” he said. “What I do has been pieced together over years of patient watching.” With one hand, he unclasped his cloak. With the other, he pulled a little pouch out of his belt. Gathering the cloak in his lap, he opened the pouch and pulled out a long needle and a spool of fine thread.

  “To my best guess, it started long ago,” Mithorden said as he threaded the needle, “during the time when your father was coming up. He had just become my pupil, in fact. But he wasn’t my first. My earliest and most promising was a young and powerful elf by the name of Zalos.”

  As Mithorden spoke, he began repairing his cloak. Looking closer, Luthiel noticed there were many stitches. They were so fine she hadn’t seen them before and she wondered why he went to the trouble when he could mend it with a spell. The needle flashed and Mithorden continued his tale.

  “He was bright, cunning, and ambitious. His ambition was so strong, it concerned me at first. But I saw good in him as well. So I continued his training. Under my direction, he bloomed into a powerful sorcerer and Blade Dancer. Though Zalos was my first pupil, your father and Merrin soon followed. Each, in their own way, were talented, powerful, and nearly a match to the other. Soon, they became close friends and energetic rivals.”

  Mithorden paused in his sewing and looked away. His expression seemed pained and he licked his lips. “I should have noticed it, but I didn’t. Looking back, I think Zalos pursued your mother even then.”

  Luthiel felt her breath catch but she kept silent, drinking in everything she could about her father and mother.

  “Things were not so certain then, for I think your mother also felt for Zalos at the time. For a long while, Vlad and Zalos competed for your mother’s attention. It wasn’t until the War of Dreams that her relationship with your father bloomed.

  “I think it is both this competition over Merrin and Zalos’ feeling of inferiority to your father that eventually pushed him to begin studying the darker arts. I suppose he intended to prove he was superior to Vlad Valkire both to himself and your mother. Though he seemed fair, Zalos’ pursuit of power was both cruel and impatient. Clear-minded Merrin noticed what was happening to Zalos and found it ugly.