by Carol Browne
A smooth, round opal, as large as an apple, lay nestled on a bed of white silk, and beneath its milky surface were suggestions of blue, green, yellow, and red. A ray of sunlight pierced the globe, lit up the casket, and bounced off again, spangling the walls with muted reflections. The light flashed and winked on Godwin’s sword, as though they shared some arcane communion.
Stunned by the opal’s beauty, Godwin felt like a trespasser, a defiler of ancient relics, while Trystin nervously chewed his fingers and stared at the opal’s perfection, as though it were an elixir that could heal his anguished past.
Eventually, Godwin found his voice. “By Grim,” he whispered. “The Lorestone.”
Trystin clutched at Godwin’s arm, his face alight with joy. “I knew it, Master Godwin! I knew it wasn’t a myth!”
Godwin glanced at Trystin, and his own sense of accomplishment was mirrored in the elfling’s expression. A thrill of excitement raced up his spine, and he fumbled as he sheathed his sword. Steadying himself with a deep breath, he reached out to touch the globe. Its cold, smooth surface glimmered under his admiring gaze.
“By Frigg, it’s beautiful!” he gasped.
“How shall we carry it, Master Godwin?”
“Carry it?” Godwin scowled at him. Move it from its quiet abode? Seize it with rough, mortal hands? The idea was appalling, but of course, it was why they had come. “Carry it, yes. Well, I don’t know. We must keep it somewhere safe.”
He lifted the opal with care, surprised at its weight. Beneath it was a piece of parchment. Balancing the stone in one hand, he picked up the parchment. The words it contained meant nothing to him. He had been raised by a race unfamiliar with writing, but even if he had been able to read his own language, this must be Elvish. Despite Elgiva’s gift of languages, this was beyond him. He handed the parchment to Trystin and set the opal back on its bed of silk.
“Can you read?” he asked. “Does this make sense to you?”
Trystin studied the parchment for a moment, nodded, and then began to read aloud.
“The stone’s discoverer,
“Orphan and slave,
“Shall unlock the door
“With a magic glaive.
“Let him be honest,
“Sure and leal,
“And take it for
“The elven weal.
“Whoever should wish
“To light its flame,
“Must seek and find
“The Lorestone’s name.
“The sacred grove,
“The sarsen ring,
“Where Nine Wise Men
“Are heard to sing.
“There stands the tallest,
“Like a tower;
“Beneath his feet
“A word of power.
“This word invoke
“To weave the spell.
“But have a care
“And use it well.”
They gawked at each other for a moment. A sudden need for haste made Godwin snatch up the opal and turn to leave the cavern. Trystin padded behind him, the parchment thrust into his tunic. As they left the second chamber, the doorway vanished and became once more a wall of solid stone.
Grimalkin was still devouring the plants as Godwin and Trystin edged round the tumble of the waterfall, her copious tail lashing at the flies that swarmed about her rump. She lifted her ungainly head as Trystin capered up to her and hugged her scrawny neck.
“Grimalkin, we’ve found the Lorestone!” he cried, and he danced about with joy.
“Well, that may be,” she snickered. She glared first at Trystin and then the ground beneath his feet. “But that’s no reason to tread on my dinner.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Sleep was a fathomless pit of oblivion, and Elgiva was sorry to leave it. Her senses were sluggish, her mind was fogged, and discomfort registered slowly. She stretched herself and scanned her surroundings.
Her nose was assailed by the stench of the water that had seeped into her clothes. Her hair and skin were stiff with dried mud, her kirtle torn and soiled, and her cloak was wrapped about her body like a filthy cerement. Broken fern stems pricked her limbs, and she itched all over.
Pushing against the bank of the dell, she heaved herself to her feet, wincing at the effort. She searched round for Godwin. She needed her level-headed friend, and his absence alarmed and puzzled her. She was alone. She swallowed down a sudden surge of panic.
She peered up through the branches. The sun was high in the sky. She had slept too long.
Her pulse quickened with hope when the leaves on the edge of the dell rustled. She squinted through the foliage. A dark shape sat on the top of the bank.
“Godwin?” she whispered. “Is that you?”
There was no response. Scrambling through the trees and ferns with the sun drawing water from her eyes, she wondered at the sudden dread that writhed in the pit of her stomach.
When she reached the top of the dell, Elgiva reeled at the sight of her foe. The forest seemed to spin like madness, and terror churned her stomach. Vieldrin sat on the grass in a long black robe. He was disturbingly handsome and wearing a grin of cold, malicious triumph.
“I could have assumed his appearance, dear heart,” Vieldrin said with a smirk. “An amusing subterfuge, I think, but rather underhanded.” The arch of his eyebrows sharpened, clearly enjoying the fear in her eyes. “In any case, such shape-shifting tends to be demeaning. Those wilthkin are so ugly. And how could I be so cruel? I know how much he means to you. I see it in your heart. Why, I could almost be jealous.”
“What . . . how did you find me? What are you doing here?”
“Faine-worship has reared its ugly head. The guards who reported back to me had news of an insurrection. Who else would be behind it but you?” He smiled widely, exposing his perfect white teeth. “As for seeking you out, dear heart, I merely followed my nose. But I would have found you, filthy or not. Magic has an odour all its own, but I would not expect you to know that.”
“What do you want? I believe our contest is not yet over.” She tried to maintain an icy calm.
Vieldrin smiled and smoothed back his hair with a strong, elegant hand. “How quickly you reach such serious matters,” he said. “I had hoped for some lighter conversation on so fine a day.”
Elgiva frowned at his smugness. She looked away and searched for the easiest route of escape, but Vieldrin snaked out one arm and closed his fingers round her wrist.
“I shall speak of our contest soon enough. There are other vexations I wish to discuss, the most recent being that little rebellion. Your attempt to incite my subjects was, fortunately, a failure, and soon, they will all be rounded up. I have assured them of my leniency, providing they abandon their foolishness and return to their duties. However, it would appear four of my warriors managed to get themselves killed. I do not feel inclined to show mercy to murderers.”
Releasing her wrist, he leaned back on his elbow and glared down his nose at her. His contempt and the bitter sting of failure stirred Elgiva’s anger. With a primitive hatred, she raised her clenched fist to attack him, but he grasped her arm, twisted it, and then pulled her towards him.
“I dislike your hostility, dear heart,” he said in a calm, soft tone. “That is no way to treat a friend.”
For a moment, his eyes were aflame with power, and then magical force lanced up Elgiva’s arm and pierced her heart like a dagger. The pain, though brief, left her gasping with shock and far too stunned to retaliate.
“If you . . . if you harm my friends, I promise you, I’ll kill you!”
He laughed and released her. “Well, dear heart, what are four warriors? I can be generous, Elgiva. I can forget such trifles. I will think about it.” He looked at her with unsettling softness in the depths of his large, dark eyes. “If only they had your mettle, my dear. I have five hundred warriors in Misterell, and not one of them has courage like yours.”
“Five hundred?”
“S
omeone has told you differently?” He feigned a look of astonishment. “Well, no one can be trusted.”
“You least of all,” she said.
He grinned. “Your presence is so refreshing. You never agree with me, while everyone else—”
“Everyone else has neither the courage nor the power. You’re nothing but a tyrant with a kingdom of terrified slaves.”
“I know,” he said. “It has been a labour of love, my dear, to get the old place how I want it.”
“And Elindel?”
“Is coming along. My plan to take Queen Gilda’s lands is also well in hand. Tandrin’s, too, eventually. Peranduil will be next, I think. But enough of all that. It is tiresome. Let us return to the list of your crimes, and let us start with the Forest of Ethephon—the Forest of Shades, as some have called it. I wish you had spared it, Elgiva. That was my favourite haunt. For ages untold, the wardain of Misterell have ruled the land about the Forest of Ethephon. Its destruction hurt me deeply, you know. Very deeply, in fact.” His gaze sharpened like a whetted blade.
“The forest was evil,” she exclaimed, but even as she said it, she realised the truth. “It wasn’t the forest. It was you.”
“In my younger days, I practised there. Ah, the spells I wove, the enchantments I learned. How easily I could invoke the bitter wrath of the trees.”
Elgiva’s whole body was cold with revulsion. A gyring emptiness sucked at her mind, and she swallowed the gorge that rose in her throat. When she was finally able to speak, her words felt like gouts of abomination.
“You had no right—”
“No right?” he growled. “I had every right! The world belongs to those with power, to those with the strength to take what they want. The forest was mine by inheritance and mine by conquest, too. How can you talk of rights, Elgiva, when you destroyed the forest? You set flame to the living trees. What are you but a murderer?”
“The trees were in torment . . . ”
“Some misguided notion of mercy killing?”
“You have no respect for Nature . . . ” Her voice trailed away in sobs.
“Nonsense,” he said. “I respect its power, and I intend to use it.”
“Like Smirill used it?”
“Smirill was a fool.” His eyebrows arched. “Smirill made too many mistakes. I intend to make none.”
Elgiva strove for self-control, to find the focus she needed. “You have royal elf power. Nothing more. What can you do with that?”
“You pretend to hate me,” Vieldrin went on, his tone now soft and indulgent, “because you think you should. Even the elven vow to Faine cannot change your mind. I fail to understand, my dear, no matter how I try. Why do you refuse to acknowledge the fact that you find me so appealing? I do not mistake the look in your eyes. I am well-acquainted with desire, little elf.” He held up his hand to silence her protests. “But that aside, Elgiva, if desire and vows have no effect upon your stubborn heart, there is one thing that will.” He grinned at her for a moment and then lay back on the grass, his hands behind his head. “I have risen above mere royal elf power. Forgive me for ending the fun so quickly, but our contest is concluded. Elgiva, I have found the Lorestone.”
“I don’t believe you . . . I . . . ” She could barely find the strength to keep breathing.
His sensuous lips stretched into a smile. Then he sprang erect, seized Elgiva’s upper arms, and dragged her to her feet. For someone so slender and elegant, he was also frighteningly strong. He studied her face with the manner of a father vexed by a stubborn child.
“Yes, it exists,” he said, “and I have always known it. I have spent much time in the search for the stone, and now I am rewarded. I win, Elgiva, and you must surrender.”
“You can only use it once,” she gasped as she dangled in his grip.
“Once will more than suffice,” he returned, his tone hinting at future horrors. “Then Faine’s power will be unleashed, and it will enter me, increase my might a hundred-fold!”
He tightened his grasp, and Elgiva’s arms throbbed with the pressure of constricted blood. She was weak. She had failed. Fresh tears bled from her eyes, and runnels of sweat ran down her spine, but the need to escape from his evil grip burned in her brain like panic. She drew her being into focus.
“But meanwhile,” she said, “you have mere royal elf magic.”
Angry, scarlet fire blossomed along her arms. Vieldrin gasped with pain and was forced to release her. Scowling dangerously, he stepped back and prepared a bolt of his own. Power blazed from his fingertips with concentrated violence, and it sent Elgiva reeling backwards, rolling her like a wind-tossed leaf upon the forest floor. For several long moments, it clung to her skin and burned her with white-hot agony before the power was spent.
Vieldrin laughed, his fists on his hips. “Before you presume to do battle,” he jeered, “consider with whom you do it. I am your senior. In my prime. And I have had years of practice.” He stepped forwards, seized her arm, and hauled her to her feet. “Yours is the magic of an infant.”
Her vision was smeared with tears of pain and she tried to focus on his face, but all she saw was a blur of evil. “You think you’re clever with your tricks and threats. You might have the Lorestone, but you won’t be allowed to use it!”
He pushed her away, laughing with scorn. “And who is going to stop me? Queen Gilda? Tandrin? How would they do it? They must confront me face to face, but they could never enter my realm without alerting me. I would have the advantage and be the first to attack. And anyway, Elgiva, who will protect their people and lands if they come after me?”
“This war . . . It’s a diversion—”
“Allow me to finish, dear heart,” he snapped. “Your uncle—I hesitate to call him great—that old fool, Bellic. He will prevent me, will he? I have him in chains in Elindel, chains that cannot be broken save by magic stronger than his. He is defeated. There’s that wilthkin friend of yours with his puny little sword. I would not waste my power. And of course, there’s you. Who would win in a duel of magic? I think we know the answer, do we not? I have your measure now.” Folding his arms across his breast, he gazed at the forest, as though he were bored.
She combed her fingers through her hair, and her mind ran through a host of escapes, alternatives, and choices, but time and again, the spectre of death blocked her every move.
“Why don’t you use the stone?” she asked. His gaze swooped towards her, but he said nothing. “If you are to be the master of all, why do you delay? Why don’t you stop the war, Vieldrin? There’s no need for any more bloodshed.”
“What care I for bloodshed?”
He glanced away, but she thought she saw a flicker of something; doubt or vexation, she couldn’t tell, but she drew courage from it.
“The truth is, you can’t use the stone. You don’t know how to use it. Nobody does, do they?”
“Be silent!” he snapped. “These matters are beyond you. I do not have to explain myself to you or to anyone else. All that need concern you is I now have the Lorestone, and I have the power to kill your uncle and your friends. Know also that they will be spared if you become my queen.”
Elgiva needed time to think, but her mind was numb. She swallowed hard. It seemed there was only one way forward; it was purely a matter of survival. Pride, anger, revulsion . . . such things must be pushed aside. If she and her friends could stay alive, at least some hope would flicker on in all this darkness. Owning the Lorestone was one thing; using it was another. Until its mysteries were unlocked, she must play along with Vieldrin.
But it wasn’t going to be easy.
“Well?” he rasped. “Do you agree to become my queen, or will your uncle be flayed alive?”
Faine, Siriol, somebody, help me.
“I am waiting, little elf.”
Elgiva drew a deep breath. Cunning and compliance were now her surest weapons. “I have no choice, do I? I can’t argue with what you’ve said. I’m no match for you, and I admit it. I’d b
e a fool to oppose you now.” She averted her face and sniffed back her tears. “Do with me as you will.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“I can’t understand where she’s gone,” moaned Godwin.
He was sitting near the dell, Trystin, solemn-faced, beside him. A small fire spat and crackled before them, its ration of branches nearly consumed. They had waited several hours, perplexed and worried by Elgiva’s absence, but neither knew what to do about it. Concern tightened the skin of his brow into a frown as he turned to the elfling.
“Are you sure there are no messages? No marks? No elven signs?” he asked.
Trystin sighed and then stood and stretched his legs.
“Master Godwin,” he said, “forgive me, but you have asked me this question several times already. My answer must be the same. We both know. Something has happened to Lady Elgiva.”
“How much longer must we hang about here?” demanded Grimalkin. She tore up a bunch of greenery and lumbered towards her companions. “Cabbage hearts, I’ll get cracked heels, standing in all this mud. Why don’t you do something? Why don’t you search?”
“Because it’s far too dangerous,” said Godwin. “Vieldrin’s patrols are everywhere, and where would we search? It’s a bloody big forest. Or hadn’t you noticed, you stupid beast?”
“Call me stupid, would you?” she retorted. “Me, who can jump higher than a tree.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said.
“You ever seen a tree jump?”
The sound of someone running towards them brought their banter to an end. Godwin leapt up, sword in hand, ready to confront the intruder. An elf hurried along the path that ran parallel to the dell, and Godwin immediately recognised him: Aldric of the eldership.
“Aldric, stop!” called Godwin.
The old elf started, spun to face the sound, and his furtive look changed to one of anger. He strode towards the companions and wagged a reproachful finger at them. “It’s all your doing!” he hissed. “Betrayers!”
