The Elven

by Bernhard Hennen

  When he reached the cave mouth, Nuramon could scarcely believe what he saw: a thick wall of ice sealed off the exit of the tunnel and obscured any view beyond it. On the far side, though, a light slowly brightened and dimmed.

  “What is that?” the elf asked.

  “I have no idea,” said the jarl. “I tried to smash a hole through it with the spear, but I can’t even scratch it.” The human raised his spear and rammed it at the ice with all the strength he could muster, but the point just slipped off with a shrieking noise. “Nothing.” He looked hopefully at Nuramon. “Maybe you could use your hands and . . .”

  “I’m a healer, Mandred. No more, no less.”

  “I know what I saw. You yanked Farodin back from certain death. Try it.”

  Nuramon nodded without enthusiasm. “But not yet. I need to rest.” The elf could clearly feel the magic at work in the wall of ice. Was this the Devanthar’s revenge? “Let’s go back.”

  Mandred trudged reluctantly back into the cave. Nuramon followed. In his mind, he replayed the battle against the Devanthar. They had fought well. Each had done their respective races proud, humans and Albenkin alike. Something troubled him. It was strange that they had prevailed so easily. Or had their wrath so transformed them that their strength had been equal to that of the Alben?

  When they were back at the scene of the battle, Nuramon examined the dead Devanthar. His scrutiny was not lost on Mandred. “We defeated that thing, and we’ll break through that wall as well.”

  The human was wrong, but how could he think any differently? The Devanthar was an enemy of the Alben. If they wanted to properly gauge their victory, then they had to weigh what they had done against the deeds of the Alben and ask themselves how the Alben would adjudge their situation. And that was precisely what was bothering Nuramon. The Alben could only assume one thing . . .

  “We’ll freeze to death,” said Mandred, dragging Nuramon out of his musing. The human was sitting beside Farodin with his boar spear. “You won’t find any rest here, Nuramon. We have to try to break through the wall while you’ve still got any strength at all.”

  “Calm down, Mandred. I’ll recover awhile here, just like Farodin. And we won’t freeze.”

  The human still looked worried.

  “That goes for humans as well,” said the elf and sat down beside Mandred. He took Noroelle’s little bag from his belt and opened it. “Here, take one.” He held out the mulberries to Mandred.

  The jarl hesitated. “That was a gift from the woman you love. Are you sure you want to share it with me?”

  Nuramon nodded. There was magic in the berries. If they sustained an elf and left him feeling warm and good, then they would no doubt work true wonders on a human. “We fought side by side. Think of this berry as the first of Noroelle’s gifts. When you come back with us, she will shower you with riches. She’s very generous.”

  Each of them took a mulberry. Mandred looked over gloomily at the bodies of Vanna and the wolf. “Is there any reason to call this a glorious victory?”

  Nuramon lowered his eyes. “We survived a battle against a Devanthar. Who else can make that claim?”

  The human’s face grew serious. “Me. I already fought it once. And I escaped once. Not because I was such a great fighter, but because the Devanthar wanted me to. And when I look at the cadaver lying there, I can hardly believe that we have done what only the Alben ever did.”

  Nuramon looked at the body of the Devanthar. “I know what you mean.”

  “The Alben. For you, they are the fathers and mothers of your people, but for us, they’re like gods. Not our gods, but just as powerful. We speak about them in one breath. Gods and Alben.”

  “I understand that.”

  “Then tell me how it was possible for us to beat that monster.”

  Nuramon looked at the ground. “Maybe we didn’t. Maybe it did with us what it had already done with you.”

  “But it’s lying there. We killed it.”

  “And it might still be that it has achieved the ends it wanted to achieve. What if my powers are not enough to break through that wall? Then we die here.”

  “But it could have killed us earlier.”

  “You’re right, Mandred. This has nothing to do with you . . . The beast could have killed you easily. It’s about Vanna, Farodin, or me. One of us is meant to be held prisoner here.”

  “But you told me that the souls of the Albenkin return. If you die here, you’ll be born again.”

  Nuramon gazed up at the roof overhead. “Look at these lights. This is a place of power, and it was not by accident that the Devanthar chose it for this battle. It may be that our souls never find a way out of here. It may be that they are trapped in here for eternity.”

  “But didn’t Vanna talk about a gate?”

  “Yes. She thought this place was rather like the stone circle close to your village, except that the gate here is sealed. She also said that we are not able to open it. Perhaps the manboar sealed it once and for all to make sure we stay inside.”

  Mandred nodded. “Then I’m to blame for bringing you here. If I hadn’t come to your world—”

  “No, Mandred. We cannot escape our fate.”

  “Oh, Luth, why did it have to happen here, in your cave? Why do you weave your threads into our shrouds?”

  “Don’t say that. Not even to gods I don’t know.” Nuramon looked at Farodin. “We have both done the impossible today. And it was not the first time for either of us. Who knows, maybe we’ll still manage to get through that wall.”

  Mandred held out his hand. “Friends?”

  Nuramon was taken aback. Never before had anyone openly offered him their friendship. He took Mandred’s hand and also one hand of the sleeping Farodin. Both their hands felt cold in his, but he could give them warmth. He told Mandred, “Take his other hand.”

  The human looked at him in surprise. “An enchantment?”

  “Yes.”

  They sat there, and Nuramon exchanged his warmth for their cold. And because new warmth was constantly radiating from inside him and less and less cold came from his two companions, the chill in Mandred’s and Farodin’s bodies was soon banished.

  It was Mandred who broke the silence. “What do you think, Nuramon? Which of you did the Devanthar want?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the Devanthar could see things that might one day have come to pass. Perhaps Vanna would have become one of the great sorceresses. And Farodin is a hero. Epic poems have already been written about him. Who knows what he might become?”

  “Did he really kill seven trolls?”

  Nuramon shrugged. “Some say more.”

  “More than seven?” Mandred looked at the sleeping elf with awe.

  “He is not one to boast about his deeds. That same reserve means that he is often sent as an envoy representing the queen,” Nuramon said. He had always envied Farodin for that, although he had never told him so. He had never understood why it seemed to make so little difference to Noroelle.

  “What reason might the beast have had to kill you?” Mandred pressed.

  “Who knows what drove it? But let us be silent now and breathe calmly. In the end, we’ll still freeze to death.”

  “Fine. But first you have to promise me one thing.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Don’t ever say a word to anyone that I sat here and held your hand.”

  Nuramon nearly laughed out loud. Humans were the strangest creatures. “You have my word.”

  “And I promise that you will always be able to count on Mandred,” said the human solemnly.

  Something in Mandred’s manner touched a chord in Nuramon. “Thank you, Mandred,” he said. Other elves would not have placed much stock in the friendship of a human, but it meant a great deal to Nuramon. He thought for some time, then finally said, “F
rom this day, you are an elf-friend, Mandred Aikhjarto.”

  The Child

  Noroelle closed her eyes. A year had passed since the night of the dream, the night she had spent with Nuramon in her sleep. And it had been more than a dream. A child had been growing inside her through four seasons. Today was the day she would give birth. She felt it as plainly as she felt the water she floated in or the touch of the water nymphs attending her.

  She opened her eyes. It was night, the sky clear. In moonlight, the elves were born, and into the moonlight, they would one day return. She felt cool water wash her limbs. The magic of the spring flowed through her, reaching even the child she carried. It stirred inside her.

  One of the three nymphs supported her head. Noroelle felt her chest rising and falling as she breathed. The second nymph sang a song from her distant home, the sea. The third remained by Noroelle’s side in silence, prepared to read from Noroelle’s eyes her slightest wish or need. All of them had come from Alvemer to help her at the birth. They were the familiars of the sorceress from the sea, whose name no elf knew. Their naked skin glittered as if covered with tiny diamonds. Noroelle’s gaze swept across the water and to the meadows beyond, where the wings of countless riverbank sprites shimmered in the light of the moon.

  On the shore stood Obilee, the queen, and several women from her court. Young Obilee beamed with happiness, but Emerelle’s face was expressionless. The two faces were like a mirror of the year behind Noroelle.

  Obilee had told her the old stories of men who had visited their lovers after death to father a child, but the queen had openly voiced her doubt and had been cool and detached.

  Noroelle felt the child in her belly move. The queen’s hostility was less important to her than the question of whether she could be a good mother to her child. She had already heard the stories that Obilee told her through the long nights. And she knew the part that her confidante always left out: that the child was born with the soul of the woman’s lover. The thought troubled Noroelle, because it meant that Nuramon had fathered himself. He would be his own father, and she would be the mother of her own lover.

  She had wondered if she could be a mother to Nuramon, and the idea frightened her. But now, lying here, she knew the answer. Yes, she could do it. She would remember the father as he was. And this child . . .

  It was time. Her mother, once, had told her so much about giving birth. But nothing could prepare her for what she now felt. The child moved as if a powerful spell had been cast. Her body changed in that moment. Noroelle sensed it clearly, her body growing where the child wanted to go, constricting behind it. It was a change that kept on happening, and Noroelle felt her body take in the magic of the spring’s waters as a kind of reciprocation, like the ebb and flood of the tide, to complete the transformation and prepare the path for the child to follow. She felt the child’s urgency. It had been inside her long enough and now wanted to be born into the world.

  Time itself seemed to stretch. The moonlight on the water, the nymph’s song, the child, even the most trifling details—she would remember all of it as long as she lived. She breathed steadily, closed her eyes, and let things happen as they should.

  Suddenly, she felt something leave her body, followed by a wave of new sensations. Her whole body shuddered, transforming a final time. Then she heard the newborn’s cry. Spellbound, she opened her eyes.

  The singing nymph was holding the child so that only its head was above the surface of the water. It was so small, so fragile. And screaming for all it was worth.

  The nymph touched the umbilical cord and was taken by surprise when it simply fell away. Noroelle knew that for other Albenkin, a sharp knife was needed to cut the cord that connected mother and child.

  “A boy,” said the nymph quietly. “It is . . . a beautiful boy.”

  The other two nymphs pulled Noroelle back to the riverbank and gently lifted her out of the water. She sat there on the flat stone and looked at the little creature that the singer still held in the water.

  Someone laid a hand on Noroelle’s shoulder. She looked up and saw Obilee beside her. She grasped her friend’s hand. Then she stood and looked down at herself. Unmarked. But she had heard so much about the births of other elves. That they took hours or even days of strain, and that the wonderful occasion was overshadowed by terrible pain. For Noroelle, there was no sign at all that she had just given birth. Only on the inside did she feel weak and empty. The child was missing from her body.

  The women from court came to her and rubbed her dry with cloths as soft as petals. They helped her put on a white robe. Obilee handed her the cloth with which she would swaddle the child.

  She looked out expectantly at the nymph holding her newborn son. Finally, the nymph swam to shore and lifted the child to Noroelle. His skin was completely smooth, and the water pearled and rolled off it.

  Noroelle took the boy in her arms and wrapped him carefully in the cloth. She looked at the child curiously. He had her blue eyes, and now that he was with his mother, he stopped crying. The little hair he had on his head was as brown as Nuramon’s, and she dried it gently with the cloth. But her mother had told her that her own hair had been brown at birth and had only darkened as she got older. The child obviously took after her. Only his ears were clearly different. A little long, certainly, but not pointed at all. That too might also change in time.

  The queen came to Noroelle’s side. “Show me the child. Let me see if it carries the soul of a known elf.”

  Noroelle held the boy up to the queen. “Here is my son.”

  Emerelle reached out with her hand to touch the child on the forehead. But she quickly drew back and stepped away. A look of dismay crossed her face. “This is not Nuramon’s child. You were wrong, Noroelle. It is not even an elf-child.”

  The newborn started to cry again.

  Noroelle recoiled fearfully from the queen and pressed her son to her breast. She tried to calm him.

  “Look at its ears,” said Emerelle.

  The ears were certainly more rounded than for a normal elf, but they might take on the usual form, given time. What worried Noroelle more was that the queen could not see Nuramon in the child. “Are you certain that Nuramon’s soul is not in my son?”

  “The child takes after you, indeed. But it is not the child of an elven father.”

  Noroelle shook her head determinedly. The queen was wrong. “No. That is not true. It’s not possible. It was Nuramon who came to me that night.”

  “It is as I say. Listen well.” Emerelle pointed her finger at Noroelle. No one had ever gestured so threateningly at Noroelle before. “In three days, you will bring your child before my throne. I will decide its fate, and yours, then.” With that, the queen turned away and left the shore, with her entourage following behind.

  Noroelle wanted to turn to the nymphs, but they had vanished. She looked over the meadow beside the lake. The little riverbank sprites, too, were gone. Only Obilee was still with her.

  Her friend wrapped a cloak around her shoulders. “Take no notice of what the others say about you. You have a son.”

  Noroelle thought about what the queen had said. “You should stay away from me . . .” She felt nauseous and dizzy.

  Obilee held on to her. “Come. Let me lead you.”

  Together, they left.

  It should have been the most wonderful day of her life. Now everything was destroyed. The queen scared her. What did she mean, she would decide the fate of the boy and Noroelle? It sounded like a verdict. Could Emerelle judge them without knowing what had happened that night, a year before? Who could have fathered this child if not Nuramon? Had some other among the Albenkin visited her, rendered her powerless, assaulted her as she slept? Noroelle looked into her child’s eyes and did not want to think about that possibility. Even with his misshapen ears, he was a beautiful boy. The queen had to be mistaken.

 
For the first time in her life, Noroelle did not trust her queen. Emerelle was keeping something from her. She had seen it in Emerelle’s eyes. For a second or even less, Noroelle had perceived fear there.

  “Will Emerelle take your child away from you?” Obilee asked.

  Noroelle, shocked, stopped short. “What?”

  “She scared me. Do you think she’s telling the truth?”

  Noroelle stroked her son’s cheek. “Look at him. Can you see anything bad in his eyes?”

  Obilee smiled. “No. He’s beautiful. He looks just like you.”

  “I will do whatever the queen bids. But I will not allow harm to come to this child.”

  Obilee nodded. “What is his name?”

  “There is only one name I can give him.” She kissed the boy softly. “Nuramon,” she whispered.

  The Abandoned Valley

  Holding the child in her arms, Noroelle made her way through the forest. It was the first night of the boy’s life, and a soft wind was blowing. Her son had his hand wrapped around her little finger. He made no sound, as if he sensed the presence of the elven soldiers close by, searching for them.

  There. A young red-haired soldier was coming right toward them. He wore a long coat of mail. The wind tugged at his gray hooded cloak. The fighter stopped and looked in their direction. He had beautiful green eyes. Puzzled, he rumpled his brow. He might have sensed something, but Noroelle was certain he could not see through her blinding spell. Finally, he moved past them, only to turn around sharply after a few steps. He was now so close that he could almost have touched them if he had reached out. He did not see them, though, and instead shook his head, mumbled something, then marched away.

  It was a simple matter for Noroelle to evade the soldiers. She passed straight through their ranks without being seen. They may have been good fighters and even good trackers, but they were not sorcerers. Deceiving them was easy.

  When Noroelle came to the leader of the troop, she paused and looked at him. Like the others, he wore a gray hooded cloak that hid his face but allowed a glimpse of the shining armor he wore underneath.