by J D Abbas
“Celdorn asked me to speak with you.” He paused, waiting for her to look up. When she did, he smiled. “You do not need to fear me. I mean you no harm. I want to help, if I can.”
In spite of an inner resistance, Elena found herself drawn into his eyes. Something beckoned to her. She didn’t understand it, but she didn’t feel afraid either. “Help with what?”
“The men said you collapsed at the entrance to the chapel the other day. Can you tell me what happened?”
She shook her head. “I don’t remember much.” She looked at the deep gashes on her arms that were just beginning to heal. “I...went away.”
“Where did you go?”
Elena broke free from his gaze, her eyes moving from place to place, unable to focus.
“Look at me, Elena.” Haldor’s voice was quiet but firm. Her eyes stopped and settled on him. “Perhaps we should avoid that question for now. May I tell you something instead?”
She nodded, eager to change the subject.
“Celdorn and Elbrion thought I might be the best one to speak with you because I was a priest before I became a Guardian.”
Elena’s brow wrinkled. “Why would a priest want to become a warrior?”
Haldor smiled. “A Guardian. And a good question.” His gaze drifted, and his smile dimmed. “It was because of some terrible events that happened in the village where I lived and served as Yadar a quarter of a century ago.” He paused as a shadow passed over him. “While I was away in Queyon, the entire valley, including my doqajh, was attacked and destroyed in a most dreadful way.” He turned his attention back to her, his shifting eyes filled with thunderheads of pain. Elena nodded to let him know she was listening, but her throat constricted.
“It broke me; the aftermath of those horrid few days broke me.” His voice was a harsh whisper as translucent tears slid down his cheeks. “I will not speak of the details now for my story overlaps with others who must tell their own. But suffice to say, it was the darkest time in my life, and I could make no sense of it for myself, let alone help others through the darkness. I stayed long enough to bury the dead then I retreated to Queyon where I lived in seclusion for a time. It was there, almost two years later, I met a lovely angel who helped to save my life.” He paused, lost in memories that brought a serene smile to his face.
“I married Darah, and we returned to the valley—not to the village where I had served but closer to Marach. I could not bring myself to work as a priest, so I chose instead to train as a Guardian, hoping that if such an attack ever happened again, I would have the skills to defend my family and community.”
Haldor glanced around the garden, taking a few slow, steady breaths. “I have since made peace with my memories. After some vivid and...unusual experiences, I also found peace with my faith and with Qho’el.”
His eyes returned to hers. “All that to say: I have known great faith and the total absence of it; I have done well, and I have been an utter failure; I have dwelt in the brightest of light and in the deepest of shadows; and I have no self-righteousness or condemnation left in me.” He gazed at her intently. “You may tell me anything, Elena, and I will never judge you. I will honor your trust and keep it safe.”
This man was so disarming. A warmth and genuineness flowed from him that invited trust, that made Elena feel safe—or as safe as it was possible for her to feel. And yet she whispered, “There’s nothing to tell.”
His gaze turned inward as if considering something. “For what were you apologizing when you collapsed in the chapel?”
She shrugged. “That’s just it. I don’t know.” Elena stretched her fingers back, one at a time, until it felt like they might snap. “I have done something bad, something really really bad, I think. Something worse than being a whore; something worse than...killing.”
She felt Haldor’s eyes boring into her. “Something against Qho’el?”
Her eyes snapped up. Had he seen something? But his look contained question not revelation. She blew out a slow breath. “Perhaps. Something ugly and dark and of the shadows. But what could be worse than killing someone?” She held out her hands, palms up, and stared at them, trying to imagine what they could have done.
“I don’t know the answer to that, Elena, but this I do know”—he moved closer and covered her hands with his as he fixed his enigmatic eyes upon her—“you were a child and were not in control of your hands or your will. You were manipulated and misused by those with great power over you. The choice was not yours, nor is the guilt.”
“I wish that were true,” she whispered. “The guilt is mine every moment of every day. For those things I do remember and for the hundreds of things I don’t, things that linger at the edge of my mind, shadows, snippets of events, taunting me, defiling me, condemning me, burying me in a living death.” Elena’s gaze wandered, and her voice trailed off to a murmur. “I no longer know what it is to be alive.”
Elena felt herself go hollow, drifting away as shadows wrapped around and through her and took up residence in the empty shell she’d become. She watched from a distance as Haldor moved to his knees and placed his large hand on the back of her head. A soothing, ethereal chant rose from his lips as he closed his eyes.
Heat pulsated from his palm, and visions exploded in Elena’s head. Rapturous images of beauty, of things she’d never seen before. A beauty so magnificent, so inviting, it felt as if her heart might rend in two. It reminded her of the creatures and music of Alsimion. Tears spilled over her cheeks as the splendor invaded her, crawling into her dark places, replacing the shadows, cleansing, freeing. Elena dropped to her knees and curled into Haldor’s arms. She clutched at his tunic with her tiny, desperate hands, begging, sobbing.
Haldor embraced her and slowly brought the chant to an end. He whispered words that Elena didn’t understand, and the pain of the longing subsided.
“What was that?” she whispered into his chest, not quite ready to leave the safety of his embrace, afraid to lose the peace of that moment.
“A place you are welcomed and known as you truly are—not as you believe you are, but who you are in truth. A place that is just beyond the fabric of this world.”
“It was so beautiful; why am I crying?” She suddenly felt so small, so fragile.
Haldor pulled back and gazed into her eyes with a serene smile. “They are tears of joy, dear girl, like the matching ones on my face.” He gestured toward his own tear-stained cheeks. “It is an amazing and overwhelming experience to be embraced by such magnificence when we are feeling so ugly, so unworthy. It is a gift.”
Somehow, she knew he understood. He’d felt empty, ugly, lifeless before just like her. Maybe he hadn’t done the awful things she had, but on some level, he understood.
“Elena, some day we will revisit the chapel together.” He held up his hand when she started to protest. “When you are ready. I have an idea, a vague impression of what it is that troubles you, and I would see you overcome it.” He moved his hands to cradle her face gently. “I would see you free one day.”
“Maybe someday...” she whispered as her tears renewed.
A shudder ran through Elena, as if someone inside were shaking sense into her. Her tears immediately evaporated, and she steeled her heart.
Haldor had awakened hope, and hope was deadly.
Chapter 51
“I want to learn to fight like a warrior.”
Elena made this announcement one afternoon as she and her escorts returned to Celdorn’s chamber after walking in the gardens. Life in Kelach had gradually taken on a rhythm for her. Although she hadn’t spoken with Haldor again, the fear from the attack and the chapel incident faded, and she had begun smiling and laughing. Most mornings, she and her escorts made trips to the library for her to learn more about the languages. The men were surprised to find she’d already read many of the history books and those filled with lore. When she discussed them with her guardians, she felt like a different person, more confident, more animated, more...al
ive. The men encouraged her curiosity and shared in her budding enthusiasm—but apparently not when it came to learning to fight.
At her declaration, Silvandir, Mikaelin and Shatur burst into laughter. They immediately stopped when they noticed her scowl. She wouldn’t have been surprised if fire flashed in her eyes because she certainly felt it. “This is a weaponry training facility, is it not?” Her eyes narrowed. “Or do you think women incapable of fighting? Or maybe just me?”
“We meant no offense, Elena,” Silvandir was quick to say. “We train Rogaran men here. The weapons are large and prohibitive due to your stature.” He opened the terrace door to Celdorn’s chambers, gesturing for her to enter.
“Don’t you forge weapons here? Couldn’t one be made to fit my size?” A fire continued to blaze in her as she walked through the door. Sasha ran toward Elena, tail wagging, eager to greet her, but when she got closer, the dog yelped and skidded to a stop. Keeping her eyes fixed on Elena, she inched backward then turned and slunk to her bed, tail tucked.
“I suppose, but not without Celdorn’s leave,” Silvandir said.
Celdorn looked up at his name. “What requires my leave?”
“We were telling Elena, we’d need your permission in order to fashion weapons to fit her, as well as to authorize her training in their use.”
“I would like to learn to fight like a warrior—a Guardian,” Elena corrected herself, “and these men seem to think it’s an improbable, if not impossible, idea.”
Celdorn’s face turned an odd shade of gray. “You...you wish to learn to fight?” He eyed her intently. “For what purpose?”
“Why do men learn to fight?” she snapped. “To defend myself and others, of course.” She glanced around. “I find it amazing that you’d think this such a strange idea—you, who spend your time making weapons, training with them and carrying them with you, ready to dispense justice wherever you go. Why would you think I’d be so different?”
The others in the room looked up, intrigued. Several smiled at her as if she were just a child to be doted on or humored.
Celdorn, however, wasn’t finding this amusing; in fact, he looked upset. “You have no need. We’re here to defend you.”
Elena’s anger ignited. She glared at those who were grinning and glancing back and forth. “You’re mocking me.” The room tilted as she lifted her chin and pulled herself to her full height. “And who was there to defend me when I was raped in this very keep?” Her voice came out a vicious growl, rising from some hidden well of anger.
Braiden curled in on himself and collapsed onto a chair as if he’d been stabbed. The rest looked down and fell silent, their smiles quickly fading.
Elena’s conscience smote her, and the fire passed. More softly, she added, “You can’t always be there to protect me. And I don’t want to depend upon you. I need to be able to take care of myself.” Her eyes swept the room. Only Celdorn and Elbrion would meet her gaze. “I have more strength than you grant me. You’ve little idea what I’ve endured.” When Mikaelin raised his eyes to hers, she had to look away.
She focused on Celdorn, who seemed to age right before her: the lines on his face deepened and his eyes sagged with the weight of the years. Elena tried not to notice.
“You, no doubt, have great internal strength, little one.” He cupped her cheek affectionately. “But you need to realize that when wielding weapons to inflict pain and death, you must be prepared to bear the responsibility and memory of that in your soul.” He gazed at her with kindness. “I don’t wish that on you.”
Something hardened inside Elena, cold and immovable. “You wish to protect me from that which I already carry. You deem me far too innocent, Celdorn.” Seeing the surprise and sorrow on his face, she softened. “I desire only to defend myself. I’m not seeking vengeance.”
Celdorn held her gaze as if weighing her heart. Without looking away, he said, “Silvandir, order a sword made to fit Elena.” She smiled. “For now, let her use one of the blades made for the young boys. It might still be heavy for her arms, but it will build her strength.”
“Yes, Celdorn,” Silvandir forced out, but his jaw was tight in clear disapproval.
“See if you can find a dagger that will fit her grip as well. I like the idea of her having a small weapon close at hand, especially during the nights.”
Elena threw her arms around Celdorn’s waist, squeezing tightly. “Thank you!”
“You’re welcome, little one.” He chuckled and patted her back. “You’ll begin your training here,” he said, motioning to the open area. “I don’t think the other men of the keep are quite prepared to see you in the arena just yet.”
~
Silvandir muttered to himself as he walked down the hall to do Celdorn’s bidding. He feared putting a weapon in Elena’s hands might give her a false sense of her own safety, placing her more at risk. He knew many Rogaran women skilled in weaponry, but he couldn’t imagine a woman as small as Elena being able to successfully manage a sword. He didn’t want to see her hurt or embarrassed further; she’d already suffered too much. His head wagged in frustration. He just wanted to protect her, but instead he had angered her.
Celdorn, however, was the Lord Protector of the realm and Lord of this keep, not he, and he would do as ordered.
Chapter 52
The clatter of Shatur’s sword hitting the flagstone echoed in the sudden silence of the room. The Guardian stood stunned. The edge of Celdorn’s mouth quirked as he wondered how the young man would handle it.
“My sword has never been ripped from my hand.”
“Is it because you humor me and don’t fight your best when training with me?” Elena said.
“No, if that were the case, I would have fought with my left arm.” He nodded toward the malformed claw where a hand ought to be. “I swear to you my pride would never allow you such advantage.” Shatur shook his head. “You bested me, my lady.” With a cheeky grin and a sweep of his damaged arm, he bowed formally.
The girl laughed as she returned the bow. “I am most humbled.”
Celdorn’s smile broadened. They’d managed that with good grace and humility.
Elena had spent the last two weeks training diligently on her weaponry skills. Silvandir, Mikaelin and Shatur worked with her daily on the use of both the dagger and the sword. She’d surprised them with how quickly she learned the basic skills and the strength she showed in matching and countering their moves. She was particularly adept with the dagger which, with her small frame, was easier for her to maneuver, but, as she just proved, her skills with the sword were rapidly rising to match. Celdorn was most fascinated by Elena’s ability to focus and anticipate an opponent’s strategy, no matter what the weapon, almost as if she could foresee their moves.
Elena suddenly turned to him. “Will you now permit me to go to the training arena?”
Celdorn had watched the entire bout with a certain proud satisfaction and increasing relief. The training process and the physical exertion it required empowered Elena, providing a great counterbalance to her continued torturous nights. Slowly, she was pulling out of the despondency that had plagued her since her assault in the keep.
Celdorn answered her direct request with a warm smile. “I don’t believe you’re ready to be in the arena just yet.” Seeing the disappointment on her face, he added, “You’re lacking something.” That didn’t make her any happier. “I’ve been waiting for the right moment to give you this; it seems it is time.”
At those last words, Elena startled and stiffened.
Celdorn opened a chest that was against the wall. Reaching inside, he pulled out something wrapped in dark blue cloth.
“If you are to go to the training arena then you must have the appropriate equipment.” Celdorn opened the cloth as he stood before her, uncovering a sword sheathed in an ornate scabbard. He placed it in her hands.
Elena’s breath caught. “Oh, Celdorn, it’s beautiful.” She caressed the jewel-encrusted sheath, crafted
with a diversity of colored gems. In the center, a circle of ten stones surrounded an etched picture of a warrior standing on a mountain peak in full armor, holding a shield which bore the emblem of a scroll. In an upraised hand, he held a sword from which light emanated. It matched the medallion that always hung around Celdorn’s neck.
“It’s my family crest.” He held out the medallion for Elena’s inspection. “This scabbard belonged to my mother who, like you, believed a woman ought to learn to defend herself. Her sword is buried with her, but I kept the scabbard. We’ve adjusted it to fit your sword. I pray it serves you well”—he cleared his tightening throat—“and carries you to a better end.”
Elena studied her gift. Finally, she spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Celdorn, I can’t accept this. It’s far too precious.” Tears escaped and slid down her cheeks as she held out the sword to him.
“As are you, little one.” He closed her hands around the scabbard. “I can think of no better tribute to my mother than to have you bear this at your side. The day you asked permission to learn to fight, my thoughts immediately turned to her. You have a similar strength. She was a great woman and would be pleased to have you wear this in her memory.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Elena couldn’t meet his gaze. “I’m deeply honored.”
“Well, look at your sword,” Celdorn prompted with a grin, impatient for her to see it.
Elena’s hand shook as she stroked the hilt. It was made from solid gold, the pommel meticulously crafted with an engraved “E”. A sun was carved into the metal of the crossguard. When Elena pulled the sword from its sheath, rays of light extended down the blade. Words were etched among the beams in a beautiful script.
“That’s Elnar,” she said in a hallowed whisper.
“Yes.” Celdorn moved next to her. “They’re words from an ancient prophecy.” He pointed to the characters. “Loosely translated they say—”
“This blade will serve only the lightbearer that has been chosen,” Elena interrupted. Startled, she looked up at Celdorn, who was equally taken aback.
