by Katy Winter
"My landings are rough," sent Bene. "Such is the curse of old age and unsteady legs. I'll bespeak you, Dramas."
"As always, I await your call, Archmage," responded Dramas, bending his head so his nostrils were very close to the swandrah. "Bene," he sent softly. "Bene."
The bird rose in the air, its wing-beat strong. The dragon watched until it faded into the distance as a blur, before he rose, banked steeply and disappeared in the opposite direction.
Bene was well into the forest before he alighted. As was the case these days, his talons didn't grip as firmly as he hoped and he missed the first branch. Annoyed, he concentrated on the next one and made a secure landing, resting only a short while before he flew again, his flying effortless for mile after mile.
He travelled for ten days, before he well-nigh crash-landed in a partly wooded meadow that showed signs of early spring. Irritably, Bene translated. He rubbed his left knee with aggrieved mutterings. He spent time walking stiffly around, until he spied a copse on the far side of the meadow where he could cut himself a stick. There he sank to the ground to whittle himself a serviceable staff. Once it was finished he gave a sigh, rose even more stiffly, and, grumbling imprecations to himself, began to walk haltingly forward.
He'd not gone any distance before he found himself confronted by a rank of Shadowlanders, arrows drawn menacingly back despite his obviously venerable age. He stopped, leaned heavily on the staff and his eyes interestedly surveyed those who stood before him.
"Arthwein," he said politely. "Ker inkth mayl. Ker Burelkin, Benhloriel."
The men and women looked astonished, one of the men stepping closer to the old man, his eyes incredulous.
"Ancient One? Can it be? It's so long since you've been home. Are you indeed Benhloriel? Arthwein ker stith leyr, Burelkin."
The man went to his knees as did those behind him, their heads bowed, as one, in deepest reverence. Bene's eyes twinkled appreciatively, but his voice was very quiet and gentle.
"Erth kwyl llthu?" First one head came up, then the others, as they all looked up in response.
"Welcome, Burelkin," they chorused as they stood again.
"It's so long since we've seen you so close to your home, brother of our ancestral patriarch. We so welcome you, Archmage. Where've you been these long cycles?" asked another.
"I'm so very happy to be here at last," sighed Bene, taking a faltering step. Immediately, hands went forward to support him. "Ker imlis lker," he murmured, pleasure and contentment in his voice. "Take me home to Floronderiel."
~~~
Bene looked at Floronderiel with its crystal structure and delicacy of architecture, and a wave of profound relief and delight swept over him. As he approached the city of his youth, the limp that troubled and plagued him eased and he discarded the staff he'd used for support. There was almost a spring in his step when he walked up to the main gate, his hands carefully caressing the intricately carved entrance way. He paused and breathed deeply. Then he entered his spiritual home. Those with him smiled and melted away.
~~~
Bene was in no hurry to leave Floronderiel. His stay was joyous. He was tended with love and care, gray eyes smiling at him wherever he walked, but though he rested he was troubled by premonitions that woke him, sweating, in the middle of the night – he'd go over the dreams by day, but got no answers.
His days were spent pleasantly. He passed them reading the ancient texts that lined the walls of the library and Scholarum, sitting for hours with scrolls and manuscripts spread out before him, his white hair as unruly as ever and a long, thin hand stroking meditatively at his silvery beard. His eyes were keen and content. But it became obvious his reading wasn't random. It was methodical. The Archmage sought something he clearly found elusive.
Sometimes he acceded to the gentle pressure for him to talk or teach, his most constant audience the direct descendants of Chloronderiel, who clustered about him, cross-legged, their gray eyes serious as they regarded him and listened. Others came and went, but always those gathered about the Archmage sat in awed silence, his words hanging briefly in the air and then followed quietly by more. When he asked questions, as he invariably did, they were answered shyly with clarity of thought and perception.
His evenings were with whoever was around at the time, but there were always the descendants who wished to be near and to share his company. Bene sat comfortably, a tankard of mead in his hands, while he listened to pipes that stirred very deep memories, some of a lost father, and to the voices that recounted tales from long ago or sang ancient melodies. Once, those about him saw him twist a ring on his finger and look long at it. If they were outside, he watched the shadows of the dancers as they flicked in and out of lights that wavered in the breeze and recalled similar evenings when he was young and danced as they did today. Remembrance caused no pain, nor a wish to go back; instead, it gave Bene renewed pleasure and he felt profoundly at peace. The Shadowlanders watched, saw his calm content and sensed his well-being. They never spoke but nodded among themselves.
~~~
The weeks passed. Bene made no effort to leave. His dreams continued to trouble him, but he still had no answers as he stooped low over tables and fossicked through ancient scripts, still obviously searching for something elusive. One morning he woke early, in a cold sweat, from a nightmare that clearly haunted him. He was white-lipped. The serenity of his expression was ruffled by a jarring frown that wouldn't lift.
Scowling to himself, Bene made his way to the Scholarum. It was still very early, few people about. He walked inside and strode restlessly up and down, trying to marshal thoughts chaotic and disturbing in a way highly unusual for an Archmage of Yarilo. Every so often Bene stared at the walls lined with books, manuscripts, scrolls and archives from antiquity, and when he did, he felt an ache that wouldn't leave him. He decided, abruptly, he didn't know why, that all this ancient knowledge couldn't remain where it was. This fore-knowledge shook the Archmage. It made him shiver, first with apprehension, and then with deep welling sadness that made him sit at a table, his white head bent in his arms as he wept. Any who saw him moved silently away, their faces concerned, because, when the Archmage lifted his head, the expression was one no one who saw it could forget.
Later that day, Bene went back to the Scholarum and sat where he usually worked, but this time he seemed to know what he sought and his rifling through scripts was purposeful and deliberate. Again he looked at the ring, looked back to a script and sudden recognition was reflected in his shocked, stunned response. He sat motionless for a very long time, his head again on his arms, before he rose and quietly put the script back on a shelf and left the Scholarum slowly and thoughtfully.
The following morning Bene was back, again carefully scanning scrolls, but in a manner that suggested he knew what he sought. When at last he found what he'd been looking for he smiled thoughtfully, read it before writing on it, then very carefully wrapped the scroll in soft skin, tied it and quietly placed it back where he'd found it.
He rose and quickly crossed to speak to the Guardian of the Scrolls who neatly annotated a manuscript, his writing a beautiful work of art in itself. Endorion looked up, his lined face welcoming. He placed his pen to one side and slewed in his seat, his gray eyes enquiring.
"Burelkin," he said, in the soft tones all Shadowlanders reserved for one such as Bene. It spoke of reverence and deepest respect bordering on awe.
"Endorion," began Bene, in a voice that shook and not just with urgency. "Times such as Ambros hasn't known are coming." The Archmage rubbed his hand across his eyes, aware of moisture in them. "I can give you no good reason why I say this, Endorion, but I gravely fear for the treasure that's Floronderiel."
Endorion looked up into a face he knew he'd never understand if he lived to be a thousand cycles and there he saw an emotion that made his voice as unsteady as Bene's.
"What are you telling me, Burelkin?" he asked hoarsely.
"All this," Bene gestured at the Sc
holarum and beyond to the huge library that was such a vast repository of knowledge, "must be moved." The Guardian looked shocked, his face as grave as Bene's.
"All of this?" he uttered, looking about him helplessly.
"There's Shadoliokel, in the eastern Shadowlands, where all will be safe," said the Archmage, stroking his beard. He read the Guardian's agitation and smiled in gentle sympathy and understanding. "I understand your consternation, Endorion, nor do I underestimate what's involved, but it must be." He gave a convulsive shiver that the Guardian didn't miss. "And it must be done in haste. We've little time. I pray to the gods I'm not too late." Bene turned and strode to the door and then paused, looking back. "Shadoliokel is where it must go, Endorion." This was accepted by the Guardian without a blink. "And you," Bene added, very gently. "You must go, Endorion, as the Ambrosian Keeper of Knowledge, because you're unique. You were trained as a child and you must be there to teach your successor. You can't stay here much longer either."
Endorion looked hard at the Archmage, then with a faint nod showed his acquiescence.
~~~
When the Archmage finally watched Endorion leave Floronderiel, some time later, he walked over to the Guardian and stood next to the horse Endorion rode. The Guardian looked down, but not very far, because the Archmage was so tall.
"Endorion, a young man will come to you at Shadoliokel. You'll find he's a seeker of knowledge and truth. Ask him of his origins and you'll know, though I can't tell you how, that he's the one of whom I speak. Teach and guide him. You'll find his talent unusual."
"Can you tell me no more?" asked the Guardian, his fine eyes troubled. "Not even, Burelkin, what he looks like?" Bene shook his head.
"You may even think you've met him before because his looks will be so familiar. He has perception beyond what you'd expect of an Ambrosian. He already has much wisdom, but doesn't know that yet either." The Guardian looked down at the old man with a half-smile.
"And do I offer him all that's known?"
"Everything, Endorion. He'll know everything in time."
"Is this all you have to say to me, Ancient One?" The gray eyes still looked worried. Bene shook his head again and the Guardian saw the large and unusual violet eyes light up briefly.
"No," murmured Bene. "Later, other young men will come and they'll also seek knowledge and enlightenment. Guide them as well. One of them will be a musician if he survives. You'll think you know him too – maybe you do. A youth will come because you'll know to call him, but he won't be what you expect, Endorion. But when you ask him his origins, you'll have no doubts that he's come, not just to learn like the first young one who comes, but to be taught, only by you. He'll have unusual gifts and be of north and south Ambros. It's his destiny, if he too survives." Bene sighed. "If any of them do, Endorion." His voice sounded very tired. "He'll follow you, Endorion, so teach him wisely and well. I even think, like the others, you may feel you know him too. In a way, that may be so."
"Burelkin," whispered Endorion. "I wouldn't fail you." Bene took the hand held down to him and there was warmth in the look he gave the Guardian.
"Blessings on you, Endorion. You're an excellent Keeper and have been for many hundreds of cycles."
"Until you come to your home again, Burelkin."
"If it could but be," murmured Bene. He released the hand and gestured the leading animals forward as he spoke so Endorion didn't hear him clearly.
~~~
It was obvious Bene was reluctant to leave Floronderiel and was afraid of something that profoundly troubled him. The descendants studied him in concern after they watched the departure of the Keeper, and were unsurprised, but sorrowful, when a week later Bene said he had to go. Their veneration of him showed in their eyes and gestures of affection, their touch more homage than anything else. Here, he was revered.
But now they sensed his unspoken distress. The evensong they chanted and sang that final evening was evocative and haunting, because it was a sad acceptance of his going. To their surprise and pleasure, Bene joined in their music, his voice a deep bass that seemed out of place in such a frail frame. It was a long time since he'd sung and he felt spiritually uplifted, and, again, oddly at peace. The Shadowlanders saw the peace they'd come to expect on his face as he slept - one of them, as they'd done every night, kept silent vigil beside his bed. This night it was the Aelkin himself who sat wide awake, his eyes never leaving Bene's face.
The next morning, Bene rose early, and, accompanied by the eldest descendant, walked from Floronderiel and beyond the gates, where he paused and stood staring backwards for a long time. His walk was strong and fast and the Aelkin was amused that he had to stride to keep up.
A mile beyond the city, Bene came to a halt and the two men looked far into the distance, the forest around them silent. Bene glanced across at the Aelkin whose look was abstracted.
"You're farseeing, Indariol," he said quietly. "Chloronderiel's children, and their children, have learned well. You've ensured their knowledge is preserved for each succeeding generation." Indariol looked at Bene, his gray eyes soft but subdued.
"It's our loss that you leave us, Burelkin. Something grieves you. It touches us. We feel it. Must you go?"
"Yes, it's time," mused Bene, his violet eyes searching the gray ones. "Remember what we've discussed, you and I, and carry through what must be."
"There's no question of that, Ancient One. All will be done as you ask, even to the building of a Floronderiel in the east. That's already begun, since we have your advice and the records of the ancients to show how it was done. But it'll take us time, Burelkin."
"It'll be your life-time, boy," said Bene gently. He stared out to the forest, then turned again to Indariol. "Remember the girl who comes to learn that which only elkinkind can teach her; elkin wisdom is based on ancient knowledge. Shield her and help her to learn, because she's young and vulnerable. She won't be alone. Later, she'll have great need of you. It's critical she's nurtured and cherished as she learns, though she'll have much wisdom from her years with Ortoriol."
"Ortoriol," breathed Indariol. "It's long since we've seen him, Burelkin. It'll be done."
"Others will also come, some who'll astonish you and make you wonder, but I ask you to welcome them as your kin, as am I. You'll find this no hardship and much will be learned by all as the result. Watch for the man who comes first to Endorion, then watch, too, for the boy who follows him. Then keep looking for the boy who will hear little and say less."
"Burelkin, as your kin, I honour you and your wishes will be followed. All our kin will be cherished and nourished here." Bene turned to face Indariol.
"Times to come are troublesome, Indariol. I can't be precise about what will happen, but you must know elkinkind won't be untouched. If it was within my power to protect you I wouldn't hesitate, but I have limits. I can see only profound grief and loss. I've stayed over-long as it is because this is, and always has been, my home. Remember, boy, to be alert to all nuances, in all things."
"I'll remember." Indariol bent his head, observing in a melancholy tone, "Burelkin, your words cause me much anxiety."
"I fear deeply for Ambros," said Bene quietly. "Such sadness comes, young one."
The sadness in the deep, melodious voice touched Indariol. The young man put a hand on the shoulder become progressively more stooped the further they came from the city, and, as he sensed profound weariness in the Archmage, he also saw transparent frailty in the aged figure for the first time. He feared most for Bene.
"We'll be watchful," he promised. Bene nodded and then sighed. He ran a hand through his already tousled hair.
"You must go east, too, Indariol. Gather together a small group and go east to the southern boundary between the Shadowlands and the steppes; from the mountains will come a woman with a child. Care for them and bring them safely to the west. You'll be told when they're secure and ready for you. The child, as you've been told, is of great significance and is awaited. The woman has her p
art to play. You'll know when there's to be the bonding within the oath. If Ambros is to survive, then this must be so. If it isn't, our world will cease to be."
"When shall I know to go, Ancient One?"
"You'll know, Indariol, as all elkin do."
"I haven't forgotten your warnings, Burelkin, and I respect your fear of who will cause chaos yet again on Ambros. I wasn't born then, but the ending of the Second Age is etched in our collective memory."
Bene was silent for a moment and then he touched the younger man's cheek. His smile was peculiarly engaging and had a sweetness about it that was also a part of his greatchild Bethel. It brought an instant response from the Shadowlander, though he wasn't aware of it. Bene spoke softly.
"Though you lack Chloronderiel's eye colouring, boy, you have a strong look of him and you have his mind and his manner." Indariol blushed and smiled more widely.
"He had the pale eyes of his father, Burelkin, didn't he?"
"Almost clear," nodded Bene. "Auburn hair like yours, but eyes as translucent as water. He was a striking-looking man, with height but no breadth."
"Like you, Burelkin," suggested Indariol. Bene gave a chuckle.
"Like his older brother, yes," he agreed.
Bene turned to face the forest again before he swung back to touch Indariol, the gentle smile touching his lips and reflected in his eyes. Then he translated and became a swandrah.
As Indariol contemplated the bird's flight, he felt despondency, such as he'd never experienced, grip and hold him. It was as if the Archmage farewelled him for the last time. He felt deep grief shake him as he stood riveted, his eyes fixed to the small white speck that grew fainter.
Ambrosian Chronicles.
Third Age.
11211.
At last we have news of the enslaved Samar twin, Luton. It's distressing. Indeed, as we feared, he's been dealt with in the cruellest way. The young man lacks emotions though we believe his essence hasn't yet been drained. It makes us hope the essential being is untampered with, but we can't say so with certainty.
