The Elven

by Bernhard Hennen

  Nuramon smiled. “Then I’ll see you in the next life.”

  With Guillaume

  Throughout the afternoon, Nuramon observed Guillaume. He listened to his sermon and watched as he buried Gelvuun’s body. Finally, he followed Noroelle’s son through the city, but as he did so, he had the uneasy feeling that he himself was being followed. He looked back often but saw no one acting out of the ordinary, just the inhabitants of Aniscans going about their daily business. He tried to shake off the feeling and turned his attention back to Guillaume, following him until he reached the hill leading up to the temple and disappeared into a narrow building. Built of coarse, quarried stone, it was like most of the other buildings in town. If this was Guillaume’s home, then it was clear humility was important to him.

  Nuramon stopped where he was for a while and observed the house from the alley opposite. He waited for Guillaume to open the shutters and let in the day’s last gleam. But the shutters remained closed, and as night came down over Aniscans, Nuramon saw warm candlelight between the slats.

  Nuramon gathered his courage and stepped up to the healer’s door. Now all that was left to do was knock, but he could not bring himself to do it. He was afraid, though not that he might suffer the same fate as Gelvuun. He was afraid of making a serious mistake. Nuramon did not know Guillaume, nor did he know how he would take being told the truth. Then he thought of Noroelle. This was his only hope of saving Guillaume from death and rescuing Noroelle. And that would only happen if the queen realized that killing Guillaume would be a mistake.

  He knocked.

  All remained still inside the house, and Nuramon wondered whether he should knock a second time. Just as he was raising his hand again, he heard steps. His heart beat faster. In a moment, the door would open and Noroelle’s face would be looking back at him. He threw back the hood of his cape; he wanted Guillaume to know immediately with whom he was dealing.

  A bolt clacked, and the door opened. Nuramon had not been wrong. It was Guillaume, though the young priest seemed not in the least surprised to find a stranger at his doorstep. Unable to utter even a single word, Nuramon stared into the face of Noroelle’s son. He wondered how Guillaume’s expression would change when he discovered the truth about his origin.

  “Come in, Albenchild,” said the priest amicably. He smiled. Then he led the way into the house. He had clearly been expecting this visit.

  Guillaume’s house was plainly furnished. The room that Nuramon entered took up the entire first floor. Almost everything the priest needed was here, from the stone stove to a prayer shrine. Only a bed was missing. A stairway opposite the front door led upward. Most likely the bedroom was on the second floor, Nuramon thought.

  “You have come because of your companion,” said Guillaume, and he sat down at the small table in the center of the room. An oil lamp on the table cast a low light. Next to it was a wooden plate with scraps of meat on it. Guillaume gestured to a second chair at the end of the table, inviting Nuramon to sit.

  Nuramon accepted the invitation in silence.

  The priest pushed the plate aside. “I’m afraid your companion has already been laid to rest in the cemetery. I hope that will not interfere with his rebirth.”

  “Among my people, it is said that the soul separates from the body at the moment of death,” Nuramon explained. “If a soul path exists between your world and Albenmark, then Gelvuun has already followed it and now waits to be born again.”

  “Then his soul was already gone when I buried his body.”

  “Yes, but that is not why I have come. I am here because of you.”

  His words did not seem to surprise Guillaume. “Because I killed him.”

  Nuramon started. “How do you know that?”

  Guillaume lowered his eyes. “I knew it as soon as I examined him. He had marks on his neck like he’d been strangled . . . marks that seemed like only my fingers would fit them.” He paused and looked at Nuramon. “It is not easy to read the faces of elves. I see no anger in yours. Still, you must be here to demand retribution.”

  “I have not come for that either.”

  Guillaume gazed at him curiously.

  “I only want to know what you see in your own future.”

  “I am a seeker, a servant of Tjured. I believe this world to be full of hidden gifts, but that few are able to find them. I know the power of the gods is gathered in certain places, and I can sense those places. I can follow the invisible rivers that join them.” He was talking about the Albenpaths, Nuramon knew, and he thought of them as the paths of his gods. “I use this knowledge to heal people and to preach peace. I want the hate in this world to disappear. But after today, it seems the price may be too high. What kind of gift is it that heals humans and kills the Albenfolk?”

  “I can give you an answer to that question, but think hard about whether you want to hear it.”

  “You know something of the power from which I create my miracles?”

  “I know its origin.”

  “Then you are cleverer than every wise man and every priest I have ever met. Please tell me.”

  “Should I really do that? If you listen to me, then you will also find out why I and my companions have come to this town, why I am here, and why I risk being so close to you.”

  “Do you know my parents? My true parents?”

  “Yes. I know them both.”

  “Then speak.”

  “You are the son of an elf named Noroelle, who once accepted the most terrible of all punishments to save your life,” Nuramon said, so beginning the story of Guillaume’s past. He spoke of Noroelle, of his and Farodin’s love for her, of the manboar and the elfhunt, of Guillaume’s rescue and Noroelle’s exile. As he spoke, he observed Guillaume’s expression and saw that the young man’s open face grew more and more earnest. Crease by crease, the similarity to Noroelle vanished. He finished by saying, “Now you know who your parents are and why you possess a power that heals humans, but kills elves.”

  Guillaume stared at the table. Then, without warning, he began to weep. The sight of Guillaume’s tears hurt Nuramon, too, not only because Guillaume once again looked so like Noroelle, but also because he had brought him to this. It took all his self-control not to break out in tears himself.

  After a long silence, Guillaume finally spoke. “And like a fool, I thought my power was a gift from Tjured.”

  “Where your ability came from makes no difference. You have done good for humans, as your mother always did for the Albenkin. Until the night she . . .” He didn’t want to say it again.

  “Tell me more about my mother,” Guillaume asked in a low voice.

  Nuramon took his time. Until late in the night, he told Guillaume about the twenty years he had spent never far from Noroelle. His words brought back to him all the memories of what he had been through with the woman he loved. When he reached the end of his retelling, his mood shifted. Now that all was said, it was clear to him that all was lost and that Noroelle would probably never return. Guillaume, too, seemed deeply upset to have learned of his mother’s sacrifice.

  “You have cleared up the mystery of my parentage,” said Guillaume. “And you have explained to me where my powers come from. But you have not told me why you are here.”

  Nuramon sighed heavily. It was time. “I asked my queen what I could do to rescue Noroelle. And she told me to ride out, find you, and kill you.”

  Guillaume accepted this news calmly. “You could have done that long ago. Why have you let me go on living?”

  “For the same reason your mother brought you to this world back then. Because I sense nothing of the Devanthar in your soul.”

  “But my healing powers killed your companion. That can only be the birthright of my father. And who knows what else is sleeping inside me?”

  “Would you have accepted the death of Gelvuun to heal that man’s ha
nd?”

  “Never.”

  “Then at least your spirit is free of the Devanthar’s terrible power, even if the essence of the beast is in your magic.”

  “But isn’t that the tragedy? In my innocence, I am guilty. My mother was banished because of me. Your companion died because of me. I could do nothing to prevent either one. It is as if my guilt lies in the simple fact that I exist.”

  “And that is also why killing you would be wrong. I want to complete my mission a different way. Not as the queen envisioned, though I will probably make her my enemy.”

  “You would let me escape?”

  “I would, but my companions would find you again quickly enough.” Nuramon thought of Ollowain. “You must understand why I am here. If I were not, then you would already be dead. I have come to make you an offer, one that might save your life and free Noroelle. It is a faint hope, though, and no more.”

  “Speak.”

  “I want to take you to the queen and keep you safe on the way to Albenmark. When you speak to Emerelle at court, you may be able to convince her of your true nature, as you did with Noroelle and also with me. That is all I can offer you.”

  “Then I will accept it,” Guillaume replied without hesitation. “For my mother’s sake.”

  Without showing it, Nuramon admired Guillaume. He wondered whether he himself would have consented so readily, for there was no certainty at all that the queen would be merciful, and Emerelle might well stand firm in her decision to kill him. Despite all that had happened, Nuramon still had so much trust in the queen that he doubted she would close herself to his plea.

  “When do we leave?”

  “We should be out of town by midday. We don’t need to rush.”

  “Then tell me something about Albenmark.”

  Nuramon told Guillaume about the heartland of Albenmark, but also something of Alvemer, Noroelle’s homeland. As the cock began to crow, Nuramon came to an end and suggested they leave with the dawn after all, to get away unnoticed.

  Guillaume agreed and quickly packed what he would need. Then he thanked Nuramon for telling him the truth. “I will never forget what you have done for me.”

  Nuramon was satisfied. He had achieved what he wanted, even though it meant he had rebelled against the queen in doing so. Ollowain would complain, certainly, but they would take Noroelle’s son to Emerelle. It was a compromise Ollowain would have to swallow. Nuramon would stay vigilant, though, and keep one eye on Ollowain.

  Guillaume prepared himself a porridge of millet, hazelnuts, and raisins. He asked Nuramon if he would also like something to eat, but Nuramon thanked him and declined. Guillaume was just starting to eat when some kind of commotion started in the town outside. Nuramon listened. He thought he heard screams. At the sound of hoofbeats, he jumped to his feet and his hand went to his sword.

  “What’s going on?” asked Guillaume.

  “Get your things,” Nuramon said. In the alleys, battle sounds mixed with cries of agony. The town was under attack.

  Guillaume quickly stood and grabbed his bundle.

  The noise of battle drew nearer. Suddenly, someone pounded against the door, and Nuramon, horrified, saw it swing open. A figure stormed in, and Nuramon drew his sword against the intruder. He was stunned to see who came barging in.

  The Disaster

  Farodin slammed the door and slid home the wooden bolt. “Put your sword away, or you’ll kill the only ally you have in this town.” He looked around quickly. “Is there another exit?”

  Guillaume stared at Farodin as if he were a ghost. “What’s going on out there?” Guillaume asked.

  “Armed men. They occupied every road leading out of town, then stormed the temple. They don’t seem to like priests like you very much.” Farodin stepped over to the window that opened onto the temple square and cracked open the shutter. “Look.”

  The soldiers outside were well equipped. Nearly all were wearing chain mail and helmets with black horsetail plumes. Half were armed with axes or swords, and their round red shields flaunted a white bull’s head. The rest carried crossbows. And though they dragged the priests out of the half-finished temple with no regard for their well-being, it was clear that they were more than simple bandits. They were disciplined, and their archers secured the square while the axe men hounded the priests across to the oak tree.

  A blond giant barked an order, and one of the priests, a corpulent, older man, was separated from the others. A rope was tied around his ankles and the other end thrown over a strong fork in the tree. The priest was jerked off his feet. He tried desperately to push his robes up to cover his privates.

  “Father Ribauld,” Guillaume whispered in shock. “What are they doing?”

  “I heard them saying your name, Guillaume.” Farodin looked the young priest up and down. He was certainly no fighter. “You have mortal enemies in two worlds . . . what have you done to make these men come looking for you?”

  Pensive, the priest swept his hair from his eyes. It was a small gesture, yet it filled Farodin with pain. Aileen and Noroelle had swept their hair aside in just the same way when they were deep in thought. Guillaume was surprisingly thin and delicate. In his face, Farodin saw Noroelle as if in a distant mirror. She lived on in him.

  Farodin had followed Nuramon because he feared his friend might help Guillaume try to escape. In the three years they had been on the road, Farodin had come to terms with himself and accepted the queen’s order. The day before, in the temple square, he had been prepared to kill Guillaume. But now . . . he had to turn away. The man’s resemblance to Noroelle was too much for him. If he turned his sword against Guillaume, it would be like turning it against Noroelle.

  Ollowain had given him a warning when he left the camp to secretly follow Nuramon. His words still rang clearly in his ears: “Don’t forget that he is the child of a Devanthar, a master deceiver. He abuses Noroelle’s face as a mask, but evil is hiding behind it. A Devanthar is nothing less than hatred of the Alben incarnate, and of us, their children. Whatever good may have survived in him will have been poisoned by the legacy of his father long ago. You saw what happened to Gelvuun. We can’t take him prisoner. In reality, we would be his prisoners. Even if we were to lay him in irons, a single word of power could kill us all. And imagine the damage a creature like that could do in Albenmark. How are we supposed to fight him? We have to carry out Emerelle’s orders. Today at midday in the temple square, I saw the queen’s wisdom with my own eyes.”

  “They are here because of something I did not do,” said Guillaume in answer to Farodin’s question.

  “What?” Guillaume’s words dragged Farodin out of his thoughts.

  The soldiers in the square started beating Ribauld with long canes. The man swung back and forth helplessly. His screams rang out across the square and must have been heard even in the far corners of the town. No one came to the priest’s aid.

  “You see on their shields? The bull’s head?” Guillaume asked. “Those are King Cabezan’s men, his personal guard. Cabezan sent for me once already. They say his arms and legs are rotting on his living body and that he’s dying slowly and painfully. He ordered me to heal him, but I won’t do it. If I save his life, hundreds will die. Cabezan is the cruelest of tyrants. He had his own children murdered because he feared they were after his throne. He’s insane, he’s possessed somehow . . . anyone wishing an audience must appear before him naked. He’s afraid of weapons that might be hidden under their robes otherwise. Any man who wants to be part of his guard has to beat a newborn to death with his bare fists, in front of Cabezan. The only men he tolerates in his presence are those with no conscience. He rules over Fargon, and evil rules with him. I will not heal him. I must not. When he dies, a curse will finally be lifted from this land.”

  The cries of the priest still rang out across the square.

  “I must not . . .” Tear
s stood in his eyes. “Father Ribauld is like a true father to me. I grew up in a poor farming family. When my parents—my foster parents—died, he took me in. He is . . .”

  One of the younger priests, dragged from the temple with the others, was pointing an outstretched arm toward Guillaume’s house.

  “Is there another way out?” Farodin asked again. Two soldiers were already marching across the temple square toward them.

  Guillaume shook his head. He picked up a long bread knife from the table and slipped it into the sleeve of his cowl. “I’ll go. Then at least they will not kill you as well, but King Cabezan will never see me alive.”

  Nuramon stepped into his path. “Don’t do it. Come with us.”

  “You think it is smarter to follow you to a queen who sent you to kill me?” There was no challenge in Guillaume’s words, only a deep sadness. “I know you wish me no evil, but if I go out there now, maybe I can save your lives and the lives of my brethren. And if you are able to tell the queen of my death, then perhaps she will have mercy on my mother.” He pushed back the bolt and stepped out onto the temple square.

  Farodin could not believe that Nuramon did not try to stop Guillaume. He ran to the door, but he was too late. Guillaume was already in the hands of the soldiers.

  “Knights of the king,” he proclaimed. “Leave my brethren in peace. You have found me.”

  The blond captain signaled to his men to lower their crossbows. He stepped over to Ribauld and grabbed the old man by the hair, twisting his head far back.

  “So you’re the wonder healer,” the captain shouted. He pulled a knife from his belt and calmly stabbed Ribauld in the throat. “Then show us what you can do.”

  Farodin held his breath. Guillaume was still standing too close to the house. If he used his healing powers, he would kill both of the elves.

  The old priest hung from the tree like a slaughtered cow on a butcher’s hook. He swung back and forth on the rope, clutching at his throat.