by Licia Troisi
Knowing his history, Nihal felt more sympathetic toward Mathon, but he persisted in his silence, and she herself made no effort to rouse him.
Laio, too, proved rather untalkative. He seemed to be focused on his mission, more pensive than usual. Studying his face, Nihal thought she noticed a certain poise, an extra character line or two, a decisiveness she’d never seen in him before. For Laio, the battle was already on—she knew he’d need to stand up to himself before standing up to Pewar.
After only a few days’ travel, Nihal began to feel oppressed with boredom. The days crawled by. Only when night came did she let out a sigh of relief—at least the hours spent sleeping would go by quickly.
Ten days passed before they reached the Land of Water. The mission, if it could be called that, was far from urgent, and Laio was less than eager to reach his destination. As soon as they crossed the border, his mood darkened. If she’d come along to provide her friend with moral support, Nihal decided, now was the time to do it.
“There’s no reason to be afraid now,” she said to him one evening. Mathon was asleep, the fired crackling peacefully.
“It’s just that I can already feel my father breathing down my neck.”
“You’ve already made it this far, which is no small feat. You chickened out from much farther away last time, didn’t you?”
Laio smiled shyly.
“You believe in what you’re doing, Laio. That’s what’s important. Everything’s going to be all right.”
That very night, however—a moonless, starless night—Nihal discovered she’d been mistaken. In the past ten days she’d noted nothing out of the ordinary, not a single sign of danger. She’d been certain of their safety, and it was certainty that led her into the trap.
There were ten of them. They crept more rapidly than the average soldier, their footsteps quick and hushed. Carefully, they approached the camp where the three travelers slept, weapons in hand, silent but ready to pounce. Men accustomed to living and moving in shadow, lithe as cats. A band of thieves.
Even Nihal, her senses so well honed, noticed nothing at first. It was the snapping of a tree branch that roused her from her sleep, followed by a soft rustling, as if someone’s clothing had snagged a bush. Nihal’s eyes shot open and she saw them. A group of men were gathered around their camp. They were armed and approaching quietly, checking their surroundings, assigning tasks with rapid hand gestures. Two of them made for the saddlebags, an easy prize, while a third crept toward Laio, who was asleep with a dagger clenched in his fist.
Just then, Nihal jumped to her feet, howling, her sword in hand and ready for battle. Laio and the soldier woke with a start and grabbed their weapons while Nihal leaped at the nearest intruder and felled him with one stroke of her blade.
Laio tried pushing himself forward, but one of the thieves pounced, striking him on the wrist with a bow and disarming him easily. In one swift motion, he kicked Laio in the chest and straddled him.
“Good. You behave, and nothing will happen to you,” he said, holding a sharp knife to Laio’s throat. “For now, at least.”
Nihal, meanwhile, was after yet another of the thieves. She tried taking him by surprise with a fierce, lightning-quick attack, but he managed to react in time. He was a bear of a man, his gargantuan muscles clearly visible under his tunic. He parried Nihal’s strike with ease, and countered with such brute force that she had no choice but to retreat deep into the brush.
In the fury of her escape, she scraped against every branch imaginable. The forest resounded with a barrage of rustling and snapping, as if filled with infinite enemies. Then she heard shouting.
She was overcome with anger. “No! Laio! Mathon!” she cried. In a fit of rage, she hacked her enemy’s arm clean off and left him there to bleed to death on the forest floor.
She tried to return to camp, but couldn’t find her way. She spied two shadows approaching through the trees, heard the shuffling of footsteps at her back. Her sword stretched out in front of her, her right leg flexed behind, she raised her arm and braced for the attack.
Suddenly, a heavy blow to her head.
A shock of heat, coursing down her spine.
A dense and hopeless blackness.
Nihal half-opened her eyes. She had a pounding headache. The slightest sound rebounded from side to side in her skull until the racket was unbearable. Her vision was blurry and she could hardly make out where she was. It appeared to be a cave, but that was all she could tell. In the background, she heard the crackling of a fire. She stretched her arms and felt around to get her bearings. She was lying on a straw sack, draped in a light sheet.
She heard an excruciating metallic sound, and a hazy figure entered her field of vision.
“Well then,” a man’s voice exclaimed. “Welcome back.”
Nihal brought a hand to her head. “Please, speak more softly.”
“My apologies,” the man said in a hushed tone. “With the blow you suffered …”
Nihal ran her fingers over a large bandage. She tried to remember what had happened and it all came rushing back. A blow to the head. She’d been played like an amateur. She felt a surge of anger. Damn. Sennar was right. You risk your life every other day, and then the days in between. “I can’t see,” she lamented.
“That’s normal,” the man said, as he busied himself about the fire. “Don’t worry, it passes. Tomorrow you’ll be just like new.”
“Who are you?”
“An old man.”
Somewhat of a vague response, she thought. “Don’t you have a name?”
“I had one, a long time ago, but I left it behind. There’s no need for one anymore. I’m an old man, that’s all.”
Old Man. It made her think of Livon, her father. It was precisely what she used to call him, Old Man. She’d never be able to call anyone else by that name.
“And if I need to get your attention?”
“I saved your life. Why don’t you just call me ‘My Savior’?” The old man laughed, a wise and ancient laugh. He approached her holding a bowl. “Enough with the questions. It’s time you regained your strength.”
Nihal hesitated for a moment. Then she took the bowl and dug in.
The time for questions came later on, toward evening, after Nihal had rested. Upon waking, she found her vision had improved, even if her eyes still seemed clouded over. Her head was still pounding, but she was able to sit up without any problem. Beneath her, her pillow was stained with blood.
She sat cross-legged on the straw mattress and observed the man who’d saved her. Still, she struggled to distinguish his facial features with any kind of clarity, but even so, he seemed to be very old. He wore a long, ratty tunic that covered him to his ankles. On his head were only a few hairs, but his thick, flowing beard reached the floor. He was barefoot. Looking him up and down, Nihal finally understood where that metallic sound had come from. Heavy chains bound the man’s hands and feet, spiraling up his arms like a reptile’s coils.
“Why are you in chains?” she asked impulsively.
The old man turned toward her with a sort of smile. “To atone for my manifold sins.”
“Are you a fugitive?”
The old man laughed, “No, Nihal, no. I put myself in these chains. This filthy burden reminds me of my soul’s own heaviness.”
“But, how did you know my name?” she marveled.
“Age and solitude have given me much. Patience, above all, and a certain degree of prescience. Which is the very reason I found you.”
Nihal sat up straight. “I want to know everything that happened.”
The old man sat cross-legged at Nihal’s bedside. “Last night, I heard a loud racket outside my home. I came out, hid myself, and saw you and your company surrounded by thieves. You were on the ground, not far from a young man covered in blood. Another, they’d taken as a prisoner.”
Nihal’s heart skipped a beat. “What did the prisoner look like?”
“Not much bigger than
a child. Blond. And completely terrified.”
The old man told how the thieves had found a letter on Laio, identifying him as the son of Pewar, and decided to kidnap him for ransom. “They carried him off, gagged and chained, after throwing you and the other down a gorge.”
“The other, our companion … is he …” Nihal murmured.
“Dead,” the old man said simply. “I buried him near the gorge where I found you. The thieves assumed you were dead, too. It wasn’t hard to imagine. You were bone-white and hardly breathing.”
Nihal had stopped listening. Laio’s life was hanging by a thread. There was little hope the thieves would free him, even if the ransom were paid.
“Can you tell me where they went?”
The old man smiled. “Of course. These woods are my domain. For five miles there’s not a single nook I don’t know.”
“Then you have to bring me to them.” Nihal sprang to her feet and grabbed her sword, but her legs froze up.
The old man caught hold of her before she could fall and lay her back down on the bed of straw. “Just where do you think you’re going? Your vision’s still off; you’re still weak. You can’t face those men in your condition.”
Nihal rose to her feet again, this time more carefully. “But I can’t just leave Laio with those swine.”
“You have nothing to fear. As far as they’re concerned, you’re friend’s a pot of gold. At least until his father pays the ransom. In the meantime, you can rest easy.”
Nihal sat back down, her spirit crushed. The old man was right. In her condition, she’d only get herself killed.
“Come now, don’t be discouraged. You’re young and strong and you’ll be back on your feet in no time. And then I’ll lead you wherever it is you want to go personally.”
Nihal nodded. She could feel her head exploding and her heart beating out of her chest. She lay back on the straw mattress and stared at the damp patches on the vault of the cave.
Nihal examined herself carefully: a shallow gash on her arm, scrapes on her legs from the forest undergrowth, a fair-sized bruise on her shoulder. When she felt the top of her head for the source of her excruciating pain, she found a large, gaping lesion. Exactly what I needed, another scar. Looks like I’ll have to wait for the hair to grow back in.
She remained in the cave for several days, lying upon the straw, her mind running through possible strategies for freeing Laio. The wait gnawed away at her insides. Little by little her vision returned to her and her headache subsided completely.
The strange old man didn’t make for much company. He disappeared during the day and didn’t return until late at night. He’d set off just before dawn, after preparing a lavish breakfast for his guest. When dark fell, he’d return and ask Nihal of her day.
Whenever Nihal tried asking him where he’d been, he responded only vaguely, or changed the subject outright.
Nihal could see him better now. His face was a spider web of wrinkles, but he wasn’t necessarily as old as he seemed. His eyes were vivid and his grip still strong and sure. On his right palm was a notable callous, typical of those who’d long borne a weapon. In his youth, he must have fought.
“Have you been in many battles?”
“Too many. I’ve killed many people, fought on many fronts. And yet, it’s always the same war, dragging on since time immemorial.”
“Were you a strong warrior?”
“One among many, neither the best nor the worst of them.”
He always responded that way, with half explanations, always evasive. His face was stamped with a permanent smile, even when he suffered. His wrists and ankles bore ulcers from the chains, and they bled often. Nihal could tell he’d lived an intense life, filled with its share of tragedies. He seemed like some shipwreck on the ocean floor—at peace, finally, after years of battling storms.
On her last evening there, Nihal asked him for a full description of the thieves’ hideout. The old man was filled with precious information. He not only knew where to find them, but he seemed even to know their daily habits.
She began to polish her sword and the old man sat and watched. It was something he did often. He seemed particularly interested in Nihal.
“I see you’ve made acquaintance with the wood sprites,” the old man said matter-of-factly.
“What makes you think that?” asked Nihal, trying to mask her astonishment.
The old man pointed to the sword’s handle. “The stone set in your sword there. I’ve never met a human with one before, let alone a half-elf.”
“It was given to me as a gift by one of their people, many years ago,” Nihal responded. Then she felt her old curiosity rear its head again.
“What do you know about this stone? Are you familiar with it? Do you know what powers it has?”
He smiled. “It’d be rather strange if someone like me, who’s lived all these years in the forest, weren’t familiar with Tears. They’re stones made from the dehydrated resin of the Father of the Forest, and they stand as the symbol of the wood sprites.”
“I know that much, yes,” Nihal let out impatiently. “What I’d really like to know, though …” She bit her lower lip, undecided. She still wasn’t sure she could trust this man.
In the end she told him of her adventure with Laio in the Land of the Sea, of how the Tear had saved them from the Fammin’s attack.
The old man listened—intent, but by no means surprised. When he spoke, his voice was as tranquil as ever. “Tears are capable of absorbing nature’s vital force and amplifying it. Wood sprites, though, do not concern themselves with this power, and use them solely as ornaments and objects of reverence, the fruit of their beloved guardian trees. Perhaps you’re not aware of it, but you’ve received an important gift. Of course, in the hands of a human, Tears are completely inert.”
Nihal was hanging on his words. “What do you mean?”
“Not a single race in all the Overworld is capable of unlocking the power of the Tear.”
“But then for me, why did it … reawaken?”
The old man smiled. “We often consider only the most recent history of this tormented world, but the races that now inhabit the Overworld aren’t the only ones to have ever lived here. Others came before us.”
“The elves,” Nihal muttered under her breath.
“Precisely. The elves understood magic far differently than we do. They were more similar to nymphs than to men, so at one with nature as to comprehend its every nuance. In the eyes of other creatures, their ability to direct the course of nature seemed magical. Indeed, the elves were fully capable of harnessing the power of the Tear. For them, it served as a medium through which they accessed the deepest secrets of the world, enhancing their bond with nature’s spirits.” The old man paused and shook his head. “But then, their people weakened. The elves migrated to far-off lands, abandoning the Overworld. The only trace of their departure is the race to which you belong, Nihal. But the half-elves, born from the union of elves and humans, lacked such a strong connection with the primordial spirits. Though they could still make use of its more basic properties, your ancestors could no longer tap into the Tear’s most hidden powers. Instead, the half-elves used the stone in order to increase the power of their magic. For your people, Nihal, the resin of Tomren became a sort of catalyst.”
A catalyst. Exactly what Phos had called it.
Nihal thought for a moment in silence. “But I didn’t recite any spell. The stone acted on its own, as if by its own will.”
“This shouldn’t come as a surprise to you, Nihal. Elvish blood runs in your veins, capable of reawakening the Tear in all its power. Which is precisely what happened that night in the forest. Your desire to live activated the stone and it protected you. It reacted against creatures born from a violation of nature: the Fammin.”
Nihal looked down in amazement at her sword. “How do I activate it?”
“It’s not so simple a question. Perhaps one day you’ll learn, but that’s
a discovery you’ll have to make on your own. You’re the half-elf, not me.”
Nihal frowned with disappointment. Such immense power, and she couldn’t even harness it. Who knew why Phos had given it to her. “Is that everything?” she asked, with a tinge of hope.
“Perhaps,” the old man replied. “Have you ever experienced a strange sensation, as if your soul were suffering another’s emotions?”
Her brain lit up at his words. “Yes, definitely. It’s happened more than once.”
“Only the members of your race possess such a faculty. Half-elves are born with a superior sense of perception compared to the other creatures of this world, and they feel the spirit of nature and of all living beings with greater force. In you, this faculty has been reduced to only a vague sensation. In the past, though, your people once practiced and enhanced this capacity through study. Such a faculty could be witnessed in half-elves even at a very young age. Which is why they were practically invincible in war. They could read the minds of their adversaries and anticipate their movements.”
Nihal stared back at him, dumbstruck. “You mean, I could, if I wanted …”
He shook his head. “No trace of your people’s former training regimen remains, leaving no way for their descendants to cultivate this faculty. Of course, with time you may learn to make good use of it, but never will you be able to read the minds of others. You could, however, increase your familiarity with the natural spirits, gain access to certain incantations—”
Suddenly the old man cut himself off, and it seemed to Nihal that he was ready to change subjects.
“What kind of incantations?”
“Nothing. Nothing that would be of any help,” he answered, with a swift wave of his hand. “But getting back to the Tear, it wasn’t by chance that I came to your aid that evening.” He closed his eyes, as if searching for something deep in his mind. “It’s not clear to me, but it feels as if you’re linked to that stone in some way, that it’s involved with your destiny. Like a shadow cast by a far greater figure. A door that awaits you in your future.” Then he ceased speaking and opened his eyes.
