The Elven

by Bernhard Hennen

  “Like the Albenstars,” Mandred said, surprising the elves once again.

  “How do you know that?” asked Farodin.

  “Vanna told me about them when we were on our way to the Cave of Luth,” Mandred replied. “I’ve never forgotten it. But what’s so special about the paths?”

  “It is said that the Alben traveled along these paths,” said Farodin. “At the gates that we also call major Albenstars, seven such paths intersect.”

  “And now think about what Mandred said in his brilliant simplicity,” said Nuramon.

  Mandred wasn’t sure whether to take the elf’s words as praise or insult.

  Farodin looked at him. “If the major Albenstars are the doors, then what are the walls? That is the question.”

  Mandred didn’t know where the elves were going with this. He had the feeling that Farodin expected an answer from him. Nuramon, too, was looking at him. “The Albenpaths that lead to the gates?”

  “Not exactly,” said Farodin.

  Nuramon gave him the answer. “The minor Albenstars. The ones that do not produce a stable gate. It is possible to use magic to open a gate at such a star and cross over to the Other World.”

  Farodin seemed troubled. “You asked me what my parents told me about the Albenpaths. Let me tell you what they also told me about the Albenstars. They said that anyone attempting a passage by force or by ignorance could end up a victim of time and space and be lost forever. Noroelle is a great sorceress. She knew what she was doing. Compared with her, we are children. You may be an extraordinary healer, but that kind of magic is as foreign to you as it is to me.”

  “So you want to give up?” said Nuramon.

  “No. I couldn’t do that. This search is my life, more than you suspect.” Farodin took out a small silver bottle and a cloth. He spread the cloth on the table, then carefully opened the bottle and emptied the contents onto the cloth. “You can see here how great our chances are.”

  A tiny mound of sand lay on the silken cloth.

  “That isn’t . . . ,” Nuramon began, then stopped.

  Farodin nodded. “After we found out Noroelle’s fate, I crept secretly into the queen’s dressing chamber and found there three grains of sand. It is said that if all the grains of sand are recovered, then the spell of the hourglass can be broken. As we were searching for Guillaume, I was able to find another fifty-three.”

  “That’s why you went off alone so often,” said Nuramon accusingly.

  “Yes. All told, I now have fifty-six grains. There are probably no more in Albenmark. The rest are certainly in the Other World. They were carried away in all directions by the wind. I think it was part of the spell that the grains of sand were strewn as far and wide as possible.”

  Mandred could hardly believe what he was hearing. He had been collecting grains of sand? How could fifty-six grains of sand help them? Just collecting grains of sand at all, it was insane. How could he even tell the difference between those few grains and ordinary bits of grit?

  Nuramon gazed at the tiny pile on the cloth. “A small hope indeed. But perhaps there are other ways.”

  “This is the only one I see.”

  “Then let’s start with it,” said Mandred.

  Both the elves agreed.

  The problem of the closed gates remained. Farodin thought there had to be a safer route than attempting to bypass the gates and risking the passage through one of the minor Albenstars with their limited skills.

  Nuramon, however, insisted that they could do it. “We don’t have to try to cross where two Albenpaths meet. That would be foolishness, of course. But shouldn’t it be possible where three or four paths meet?”

  “But where do we learn how—” Farodin broke off, startled.

  Nuramon peered around the room as if he had caught sight of someone.

  Mandred, though, could see no one. He looked around warily. What had shocked the elves like that? As if he had spoken aloud, a low voice answered in Fjordlandish. “Hear me.”

  Whoever was speaking was there in the room with them. That much was certain, even though Mandred could not see the speaker. “Listen to what the old oak knows,” the voice continued. A gentle breeze swept across the room.

  Farodin immediately threw himself across the table in alarm and covered the grains of sand with the silken cloth.

  “Alaen Aikhwitan,” Nuramon called.

  Mandred recalled his dream from hours earlier.

  “Yes, that is me.” The tree no longer whispered, but spoke in a deep male voice, deeper than any human voice. “You are Nuramon. I’ve known your soul for quite some time. And you, Mandred . . . you carry my brother’s mark. Of you, Farodin, I have only heard. You would be surprised what the trees say about you.”

  Mandred was silent and apprehensive. The voice of the oak filled him entirely. Farodin did not dare to say anything, although perhaps for another reason. Only Nuramon was able to break the spell of the voice. “Are you revealing yourself to us to help us? Will you teach us the magic we need?”

  Alaen Aikhwitan rumbled as if he were about to chastise Nuramon. “Albenkin have sought me and my counsel for a very long time. And I will guide you, too. But teach you I will not. You, Nuramon . . . you I have already taught all I can, through your mother. And I owe nothing to you, Mandred, or Farodin.” The voice grew softer again. “What you are seeking can only be taught by one tree. Go. Go where the elven sorceress was trained. Go. You will be taught there, too. Don’t linger! Go . . .” The voice faded and disappeared.

  “The faun oak!” cried Nuramon.

  At the Faun Oak

  It had started to snow by the time they rode past the lake where they had sat with Noroelle so many times. Farodin pulled his cloak closer around his shoulders, but there were no clothes that could warm the chill in his heart. He had no great hope of ever attaining the power he would need to open a gate to the Other World. Maybe Mandred was right. Maybe they should risk attacking the elves who guarded one of the gates and force their way back into the human world.

  In the distance, beyond the forest, rose Emerelle’s palace. Did she know that they were here? It was said that she knew everything that happened in Albenmark. But wasn’t it possible that she had spread that rumor herself? She certainly had not known about the Devanthar entering their world. Or had she? Had she let it happen to deflect some other—far worse—fate for her people? Farodin sighed deeply. His breath formed a white cloud in front of his mouth. Not even a trace of a breeze ruffled the wide meadow. The snow was falling more heavily now, and the palace blurred in the distance.

  Who knew what Emerelle was thinking? Farodin had murdered in her name. He could not say how often, but not for a moment had he doubted that whatever he did for her he did to prevent something worse from happening to his people. Had he made a mistake, thinking like that? The queen suffered from the curse of being able to foretell the future, but what lay ahead could change, and certainty was never possible.

  Only once had Emerelle talked about this with him. She had compared the future to a tree. It started with the trunk, she said, which then divided into two and sprouted branches, which went on dividing. Afterward, Farodin had gone into the garden and sat down beneath a tree. He tried, from below, to follow the path of a single branch with all of its offshoots. It was impossible. One would have to cut the tree down to be able to say anything accurate about it. That’s what it was like with the future.

  “Shitty weather,” grumbled Mandred, riding beside him. “Humans say it’s always spring in your world. Some spring this is.”

  “That is what happens when know-it-alls talk about places they’ve never been,” Nuramon joked. He tugged on Felbion’s reins and pointed some distance ahead. “There she is.”

  Gloomy and bare of leaves, a massive tree loomed before them. It was not as big as Alaen Aikhwitan, but still huge. The riders dis
mounted and covered the last stretch on foot.

  Farodin could clearly see a large split in the oak’s trunk. The bark had peeled back, and the wood beneath was rotten. Around the base of the tree lay dry branches, the faun oak’s sacrifice to the storms of autumn. The oak looked decrepit, almost as if she were dying.

  Farodin was horrified. Never before had he seen a living tree rot in Albenmark. It just didn’t happen.

  Nuramon, too, seemed disturbed at the sight.

  They stood uncertainly before the mighty trunk and looked up to the crown above. There was no voice to be heard. Farodin observed his companions from the corner of his eye but saw no sign that the faun oak might be speaking to one of them.

  “My feet are nearly frozen off.” Again, it was Mandred who broke the silence.

  “We’re supposed to talk to her,” said Nuramon hesitantly. “But how?”

  “Alaen Aikhwitan spoke to you for the first time—what—the day before yesterday, right?” Mandred said and stamped his feet, trying to kick out the cold.

  “Yes,” said Nuramon. “What about it?”

  “You lived in your oak tree for many years. I’m just thinking we might have to wait here a very long time before the faun oak speaks to us. Do you think we could light a fire while we wait?”

  “Fire?” The voice rang out inside Farodin so suddenly that he stepped back in surprise. “It would take a human to introduce himself to a tree by lighting a fire beside it.”

  “I have to apologize for our friend,” Nuramon said quickly. “He can be a little impulsive.”

  “Do not let him light a fire. I can still feel him thinking about it. And he wanted to take my dead branches for it. Doesn’t he have any manners at all?” The tree spoke in a shrill woman’s voice.

  Mandred moved off a short distance. He said nothing, but wrapped his arms around his chest as if to show that he was still freezing.

  Farodin began to doubt if bringing the human along had been a good idea.

  “We are here because of Noroelle,” Nuramon said softly.

  “Noroelle.” The faun oak’s voice softened until it sounded almost wistful. “Ah, Noroelle . . . she would never even have considered lighting a fire here. It seems long ago that I last saw her.”

  “We want to find her.”

  “A good idea,” the oak agreed. It sounded sleepy, and its branches creaked a little.

  “We need your help to do that,” said Farodin, joining the conversation.

  “How am I supposed to do that?” The voice of the tree sounded thin and drawn now. “It’s not like I can leave here and join you on . . .”

  “Your oak is falling asleep,” Mandred scoffed. “If I hadn’t mentioned fire, it would never have woken up.”

  “Fire?” The old tree sighed. “Get this insolent human away from me, or I’ll have him sprout roots where he stands. Let him find out for himself what trees have against fire.”

  Mandred didn’t need a second warning. He retreated to where the horses were standing.

  “Now he’s thinking about an axe,” grumbled the tree. “I really ought to . . .”

  “Spare him,” said Farodin. “Even if he doesn’t know how to behave, he would give his life to rescue Noroelle.”

  “I know . . .” Again, the voice sounded thin. “I sense that Atta Aikhjarto holds him in high regard. Atta Aikhjarto never makes mistakes . . . I think . . .”

  “Please don’t fall asleep,” said Farodin. “You are our only hope.”

  “Children, it is winter. My juices aren’t flowing anymore. It is time to rest. Come back in spring. Elves have time . . . like trees . . .”

  “Faun oak?” asked Nuramon. “Can you teach us one of the spells you taught Noroelle? Teach us how to open a gate at one of the minor Albenstars.”

  He received no answer.

  “It’s asleep,” said Farodin in resignation. “I’m afraid we will have to wait until spring. If it will help us at all . . .”

  They stood there awhile longer, but the oak did not respond to any of their questions. Finally, they returned to the horses. Farodin was about to mount up when he caught a fleeting movement in the undergrowth behind the oak. The elf pulled himself into the saddle. “Don’t let anything on,” he said quietly. “Someone’s been eavesdropping.”

  “One of the queen’s spies?” asked Nuramon.

  “I don’t know. I’ll ride into the woods and drive out whoever it is.”

  “What if he’s on our side?”

  “Then why hide?” asked Mandred.

  “My sentiment exactly.” Farodin jerked the reins around and dashed toward the bushes, leaning low over the mane of his horse. Without hesitation, Mandred followed.

  Before they could even reach the edge of the woods, a goat-footed figure stepped out. It raised its hands as if to show it was unarmed.

  “Ejedin?” Farodin recognized the queen’s stable hand.

  “What are you doing here?” Mandred growled. He was having trouble controlling his mare and finally gave her a thump on the head.

  “What am I doing here?” White teeth flashed in the faun’s black thicket of a beard. “My great-grandfather planted an acorn here, an acorn that he brought with him from his home in Dailos. Ever since then, the fauns and sileni that serve at court have tended the faun oak. She passes on messages for us to our far homeland and has been of great service to us in other ways. So the question is not of what I am doing here, but rather of what you are doing here.”

  “Don’t get fresh, you little—” hissed Mandred.

  “Or what, Mister Master Horseman? You’ll whack me like your horse?” He raised his fists. “Come down here and show me what you’ve got.”

  Mandred was already climbing out of his saddle when Farodin steered his stallion between them and held Mandred back.

  “You think the queen will reward you handsomely?” the elf asked casually.

  The faun licked his long tongue over his lips. “I don’t think there’s anything I can tell her that she doesn’t know already. But maybe we can do a little business?”

  Farodin eyed Ejedin suspiciously. The fauns had a reputation for being devious but were also famous for the relationship they nurtured with the souled trees. “What kind of business are we talking about?” Farodin asked.

  Nuramon had joined them in the meantime and listened in silence.

  “I think I might be able to get the faun oak to talk to you for maybe an hour or two each day,” said the faun.

  “And what’s your price?”

  “Bring Noroelle back.”

  Farodin could not believe what he’d heard. This had to be some faunish trickery. “Why should you even care about that, Ejedin? And don’t try to tell me our unhappy story has touched your delicate heart.”

  The stable hand broke out in a ringing laugh. “Do I look like one of those soppy riverbank sprites? This is about the faun oak. Since Noroelle left, it’s been in a terrible state, sleeping through spring and even summer.” He pointed to the deep gash in the trunk. “Look how sick she is. Borers got in and nested under her bark early last year.”

  “How can that be?” Nuramon asked. “Borers only feed on dead wood.”

  “And on trees that have given up on life,” replied the faun.

  “Maybe I can strengthen the decaying wood again,” said Nuramon cautiously. “I’ve never tried to heal a tree, but perhaps it is possible.”

  “Don’t get my hopes up,” the faun replied harshly. “Come tomorrow at the same time, and I’ll wake the oak for you. And don’t bring that human again. He upsets her, and that doesn’t do her any good at all.”

  The First Lesson

  Nuramon removed his hands from the faun oak’s wound. He hadn’t been able to do much. The wood beneath the bark was certainly a little stronger, but the oak’s true suffering lay in her sadn
ess at the loss of Noroelle. Nuramon got the impression that his beloved had been like a daughter to the oak.

  The faun leaned close to the tree and placed one cheek against the bark. “Hear me, faun oak,” he whispered, but what he said after that was too quiet for Nuramon to catch. Moments later, Ejedin moved back from the tree and stood behind Nuramon and Farodin, watching.

  “Did she hear you?” asked Farodin.

  But Ejedin said nothing. He only stood and stared at the oak. He nodded, and it was clear that the faun oak was speaking to him. After some time, he said, “She is ready to hear what you have to say.”

  Nuramon exchanged a look with Farodin, who silently prompted him to speak. He said, “Hear me, faun oak.”

  The tree said nothing.

  “We beg you. Teach us. Do not wait until spring. Every day is vital. And though your lessons might take many months, it may matter in the end that we start now.”

  “Those are fine words,” the oak replied. Her voice spoke directly to Nuramon’s spirit. “Are you a sage, to say such a thing?”

  “Far from it,” Nuramon answered. “It was Alaen Aikhwitan who told us to come to you. And he said we should not tarry, as if it is a matter of urgency.”

  “Alaen Aikhwitan’s counsel mattered long before my time. I felt his presence through your hands, Nuramon . . . When you were here yesterday, I was sleepy. It was a bad time. Now Ejedin and your healing hands have woken me, but I cannot say when I will tire again. So hear what I can do for you,” the voice of the oak said, gaining strength. “I can teach you the magic that will allow you to use the paths the way the Alben once did. In you, Nuramon, I see the student of Alaen Aikhwitan and the favorite of Ceren. My magic will not seem strange to you. But you, Farodin, must put down new roots and grow beyond what you now are, for your magic does not come from any tree. You must want to be more than you once were, and more than you are now. Something unfamiliar is required of each of us. We must sow our seeds in frozen ground to be able to harvest in spring.”

  “Are we able to learn what you want to teach us by spring?” asked Farodin doubtfully.