The Elven

by Bernhard Hennen

  Mandred felt a shudder run down his spine. The elfhunt. How many stories had he heard about this secretive fellowship? No prey ever escaped these sinister hunters, it was said. Whatever they hunted was as good as dead. Their hounds were wolves as big as ponies, and liquid fire flowed in the veins of their mounts. They rode across the night sky and concealed themselves in the faerylight before swooping on their quarry like eagles. Only the most noble and brave could ride with the elfhunt. All who set out were both warrior and wizard, so powerful that dragons feared them and trolls hid away in their castles. This is the fate to befall the manboar, thought Mandred, rejoicing inwardly. They would slaughter the beast in bloody revenge for his dead friends.

  The queen named others, but those she named seemed to be absent from the throne room. Finally, she pointed to one figure, clad in brown, who seemed startled at the mention of his name. “Nuramon of the Weldaron clan, your day has come.”

  A murmur ran through the gathered elves.

  A woman stepped forward from a group. She seemed particularly distressed. “Queen, you do not seriously want to put him in such danger. You know his destiny.”

  “That is the reason I have called on him,” she answered evenly.

  Mandred stole a glance at the brown-haired elf. He seemed anxious and looked like anything but an experienced hunter.

  “The elfhunt will ride out early on the morrow to kill the monster that we have heard about. And you, Mandred the Mortal, will lead it. You know the beast, and you know the land it is ravaging,” the queen said, leveling her gaze on Mandred.

  The murmuring in the room fell silent in a heartbeat. Again, Mandred felt all eyes on him. At first, he could not believe what Emerelle had just said. He—in the eyes of those present, the lowest of them all—he had been chosen to lead the elfhunt. He wished at that moment that Freya were at his side.

  An Evening at Court

  Nuramon stood in the center of his chamber. The room’s walls and ceiling were richly adorned with frescoes. Seven. The queen had named seven to the elfhunt, and there were seven chambers. The rooms had been built for the companions of the elfhunt to equip themselves and rest. Here their relatives could come to honor them. And here Nuramon stood, utterly alone.

  Honey-colored barinstones were set into the ceiling and walls, emitting a warm light. A long recess was cut deep into the wall all along one side. Inside lay various weapons and items of kit, jewelry and treasures each possessing a magic Nuramon could sense. All of it, at one time or another, had been worn by his predecessors. It was tradition for those returning from the elfhunt to leave something for the next to ride out.

  As one of the chosen, Nuramon had the right to claim these items for himself. At least, that’s how Farodin had explained it. But Nuramon had no desire to own any of them—he did not want to take away their shine. For equipment, then, he was left with what he himself possessed, and that was not much. Custom required that his relatives visit him here to lend their support and provide him with whatever he might need. But Nuramon knew that would not happen. No relative sat on the stone bench opposite the recess, and no gift lay there.

  Hadn’t the queen bestowed upon him a great honor, naming him to the elfhunt? Had he not earned the right to have his clan come to him, as was customary, to show their joy at his being chosen? Instead, everyone had reacted with surprise. They mocked him openly and did not even afford him the courtesy of keeping their voices down while they did. He was an outcast, and he knew that not even the queen could change that.

  What was there in the world apart from Noroelle? What else kept him here? His parents had gone into the moonlight long ago. He had no brothers or sisters, and just as many friends. There was only Noroelle. She was the only one who seemed unconcerned by his birthright. And if she had heard of the queen’s choice, she would have shared her happiness with him. She would have come to visit him in this chamber.

  Nuramon had heard stories of the last elfhunt. The companions had kept a troll prince away from the Kelpenwall. Their families had furnished weapons and precious objects of every kind from which the hunters could choose. And any elf whose offering was accepted by the hunters was filled with pride.

  At that very moment, no doubt, in the other chambers, his companions were being presented with the equipment they would need. Even the human, he knew, would have someone attending to him. Nuramon wondered if any elf had ever before envied a human.

  The sound of steps before the door shook him out of his melancholy thoughts. He turned, hoping suddenly to see a cousin, an uncle, or one of his aunts, someone from his clan. But before the door opened, Nuramon heard a female voice speak his name. Then the door swung wide, and a woman wearing the gray robe of a enchantress stepped into the room.

  “Emerelle,” he exclaimed in surprise. His queen looked utterly changed. Less like a queen, more like a wandering sorceress of great power. Her pale-brown eyes sparkled in the glow of the barinstones, and she was smiling. “You have come to visit me?” he asked.

  She closed the door. “And it would appear I’m the only one.” She stepped toward him with such elegance and power that Nuramon could have believed he was gazing at an elf from the old days, from the tales of the heroes. The queen, of course, had lived through those times. She was not the child of elves, but born directly from the Alben race, and had seen them before they abandoned the world. Somewhere in this palace, Emerelle kept hidden the Albenstone, her legacy from the Alben, a treasure she would one day use to go after them. But why had she come here dressed like an enchantress?

  As if reading his thoughts, she answered. “It is tradition that the queen pay a visit to each member of the elfhunt. And as I heard voices at every room except yours, I thought I would start here.” She stopped in front of him and looked at him expectantly.

  He breathed in the fragrance of fresh spring flowers, the scent of the queen, and it calmed him. “Forgive me,” he said quietly. “I am not familiar with all the traditions.” He lowered his eyes.

  “Haven’t you ever dreamed of being part of the elfhunt?” she asked. “Every child dreams of it and knows the customs. They know every step of the way in this night.”

  Nuramon sighed and looked into her eyes. “A child who finds no acceptance dreams of smaller things.”

  He thought of the time after his mother and father had entered the moonlight. He was still little more than a child, but nobody came to take him in. His relatives spurned him, so he returned to the tree house of his parents. He had been lonely there. The only Albenkin willing to tolerate his presence were those who cared nothing for the curse that seemed to hang over him. And they had been few.

  “I know how hard it is,” said the queen, drawing Nuramon out of his recollections with her words. “But my decision will serve as a sign to the others. They are still surprised, but soon they will look at you through different eyes.”

  “I wish I could believe that,” he said, avoiding Emerelle’s gaze.

  “Look at me, Nuramon,” she commanded. “You may not forget that I am your queen, too. I cannot make the others love you, but I will treat you as I treat them. You feel lonely, and you are asking yourself if you still belong among the elves at all, but the others will see your true nature soon enough.” She lowered her eyes. “You have grown above the suffering of your youth. It seems Noroelle has awakened powers in you that none suspected. Now the moment has come. I am giving you the recognition you deserve, equal to what is in you.”

  “And I will use the opportunity, Emerelle.”

  The queen turned and looked at the door behind her. “No one is coming, but as the hunters of the elfhunt have always been provided for, I would like to take it on myself to outfit you. I will have what I can offer brought to your chamber later.”

  “But—”

  “No, not a word. It is not your place. Look up there,” she said and pointed to the image of an elf fighting a dragon
. “That is Gaomee. She defeated the dragon Duanoc, which had found its way into our realm through the Halgaris Gate.”

  Gaomee. Duanoc. Halgaris. Names from the sagas, names that stood for great deeds, reminiscent of heroic times.

  At one time, many dragons came to Albenmark, but only a few found their place in this world and forged an alliance with the elves. Duanoc was far from accepting such a pact, or so the old tales said, at least. Young Gaomee slew Duanoc. A shudder ran down Nuramon’s spine.

  The queen continued. “Gaomee had no family left. I chose her, which also caused no few eyebrows to rise. I saw in her something that I once saw in myself.” Emerelle closed her eyes, drawing Nuramon completely under her spell.

  He had never before seen the queen’s closed eyelids. She would look like this when she slept, dreaming of things that only an elf of extraordinary power could comprehend.

  “I see Gaomee so clearly in my memory . . . she stood here in front of me, the tears rolling down her cheeks,” said Emerelle. “She had nothing of what she would need to ride with the others against Duanoc, so I outfitted her. I will not allow one among the hunters to be poorly equipped, especially when the hunt will take them into the human realm.”

  “Then I will accept your offer,” said Nuramon, transfixed by the fresco of Gaomee overhead. The queen had opened up a path for him, a path he never would have believed was his to follow. He had long ago resigned himself to a life lived apart from his fellow elves.

  “I know this is new for you,” said the queen gently. “But this is a turning point for your soul. Never before has one with the name Nuramon been part of the elfhunt. You are the first. The elfhunt brings with it distinction among the elves, without exception. So when you return, there are many here who will have to think again about how they ought to treat you.”

  A smile crept over Nuramon’s face.

  “Why do you smile? Let me share your thoughts,” Emerelle commanded.

  “I am reminded of the fear on the faces of my relatives when you named me to the elfhunt. Now I am more than just a disgrace. I am a danger. They fear that if I die, a child will be born who carries my soul. They would have done better to come here and equip me as best they could, in the hope that I survive. Their aversion to me seems greater than their fear of my death . . .”

  Emerelle looked at him benevolently. “Don’t judge them too harshly. They have to come to terms with how things are now, and this is new for them. Few of us who live through the centuries can quickly adapt to the new. No one could suspect that I would call on you. Not even you expected it.”

  “That is true.”

  “And are you clear on how things will proceed from here?”

  Nuramon was confused for a moment. Was she talking about his life or about this conversation?

  Before he could say anything, Emerelle went on. “No elfhunt is without its dangers for those who ride out. For this reason, the queen gives each of the companions her counsel to take with them on their journey.”

  Nuramon was ashamed of his ignorance. “I will accept it, whatever it may be.”

  “It pleases me that you have such trust in me,” she said and laid one hand on his shoulder. “You are different from the others, Nuramon. When you look out on the world, you see something different from what most elves see. You see the beauty in what others shrink from. You see what is worthy where others pass by in disgust. And you speak of harmony in places others cannot bear to be. Because you are how you are, I give to you the counsel I once heard spoken by the Oracle of Telmareen. ‘Choose your kinfolk for yourself. Pay no heed to your reputation. Everything you are is within you.’”

  It was as if a spell had been cast on Nuramon. That he should hear the words of the Oracle of Telmareen from the queen herself. For a long moment, he savored the feeling that she conjured up in him. Then, unbidden, a question occurred to him. He hesitated, but finally he gathered the courage to put the question to her. “You said that you heard this counsel. To whom did the oracle speak? Whom did it so counsel?”

  Emerelle smiled. “Follow your queen’s counsel,” she said, and kissed him on the forehead. “The oracle was speaking to me.” With those words, she turned away and went to the door.

  Nuramon, speechless, watched as she left.

  Before closing the door behind her, and without turning back, she said, “I saw Noroelle in the orchard.”

  When Emerelle was gone, Nuramon sank onto the stone bench and pondered. The oracle had once given the same advice to the queen? Had she called on him for the elfhunt because she saw herself reflected in him? Nuramon was suddenly aware of just how much he had deluded himself about the queen. He had always seen her as aloof, as a woman whose splendor one could only admire as one might admire a distant star. But never, never would he have ever considered that he and she might have something in common.

  Emerelle was both a role model and an ideal to the elves and the other Albenkin who stood under her protection. How could he have excepted himself from their number? Not only had she opened up a path for him that she herself had once traveled, but she had also spoken about Gaomee. On the elfhunt, he would look to Gaomee as his guide, but higher still hovered the counsel of the queen.

  He called her words to mind once more and thought of Noroelle. He left the chamber and saw Mandred at the end of the corridor amid a group of elves. The human was thanking them in a loud voice. Nuramon smiled. He would not want to trade places now with Mandred or any of the companions, not for anything this palace had to offer.

  Making his way along the corridor, he noted that there were no women there with Mandred. It didn’t surprise him. Word of the impropriety with which he had stared at the women at court had apparently spread. He was glad that Noroelle had not been exposed to the human’s staring in the Royal Hall. How could anyone be so indiscreet?

  Just then, in a ringing voice, Mandred said, “Come, my friends. Cast some spell to make me fit inside this armor, and I will be happy to take it . . . Stop! Keep those swords and other toys away from me. I am Mandred. Don’t you have a decent axe?”

  Nuramon shook his head. Raw voice, raw temper. But of a kind that one could not so easily forget.

  On his way to the orchard, Nuramon wondered how Noroelle would take the news of his being named to the elfhunt. Would her fear for him outweigh her joy? The queen had mixed praise for Noroelle with her words. And it was true; his beloved had changed him. She had given him self-confidence, and he had thrived on her affection.

  It was not long before he reached the orchard, which was laid out atop a broad spur of rock only accessible from the palace. It was night, and he looked up to the moon. That was the goal of life, to one day enter the moonlight. Through all these years, the moon had been his confidant. His ancestors—those who had previously borne his soul and worn his name—may have felt the same companionship with the moon. The sheen of its light touched him like the hint of a cool breeze, and it lent the warm spring night a little freshness. Nuramon moved beneath the trees.

  He stopped beneath a birch and looked around. It was a long time since he had been in this garden. It was said that every tree here possessed a soul and a spirit, and anyone with an open ear could hear them whispering. Nuramon listened, but heard nothing. Were his senses still too inadequate?

  Now was the time to find Noroelle. This was an orchard, so he would most likely spy her beneath a fruit tree, he thought. He looked for the fruit that the trees here bore year round. He saw apples and pears, cherries and mirabelles, apricots, peaches, lemons, oranges, plums and . . . mulberries. Noroelle loved mulberries.

  At the very edge of the garden stood two mulberry trees, but Noroelle was not there. Nuramon leaned against the wall and looked out over the land. By night, the tent encampment in front of the palace looked like a display of colored lanterns. “Where are you, Noroelle?” said Nuramon softly.

  Immediately he hear
d a whispering in the treetops. “She is not here. She was not here.”

  Astonished, he turned around, but saw only the two mulberry trees.

  “It is us.” The words came from the branches of the larger of the trees.

  “Go to the faery pine. It is a wise tree,” added the smaller. “But before you go, take with you some of our fruit.”

  Surprised at the offer, Nuramon asked, “It is said, isn’t it, that mulberry trees with a soul are known for their concern for their fruit?”

  The larger tree’s leaves rustled. “That is true. We are not like our soulless cousins, but you are on your way to Noroelle.”

  The smaller tree rustled. “It would be an honor for us if she tasted our fruit.”

  Two mulberries fell directly into Nuramon’s hands. The berry from the smaller tree was a deep red. That from the larger was white.

  “My heartfelt thanks to both of you,” said Nuramon, touched at the gift, and he went on his way. He seemed to remember seeing a pine tree close to the birch.

  When he reached the faery pine, it came back to him: as a child, he had played there in winter with the faeries from the riverbanks. The tree was neither tall nor broad and, in fact, rather plain. But it was surrounded by an aura that would admit no cold, the result of a kind of magic that Nuramon also knew. The pine possessed healing powers. He could sense them clearly.

  Its branches moved in the breeze. “Who are you to disturb me?” the branches murmured.

  A rustling then came from all sides. A moment ago, everything had been silent; now came the sound of whispering.

  “Who is it?” the trees seemed to be asking.

  “An elfling,” came the answer.

  The faery pine then said, “Silence! Let him answer.”

  “I am just a simple elf,” said Nuramon. “And I am looking for my beloved.”

  “What is your name, elfling?”