The Evening Tide

by Jeremy Forsyth

  I started backing away, too much in a hurry to haggle any further. I was unable to read the look of she whose fear, it seemed, was different to mine. Whilst I feared I was soon to die, it seemed the elvess was fearful of something else. I couldn’t place it.

  “I will come for you as soon as this is all over!” I promised. “Now go!”

  The elvess very timidly entered the door and closed it behind her. That was when I turned and ran. I needed to reach the Father before Asharal and his brother did. I needed to stand by him. Only then could we prevail.

  When I arrived at the outer door that led to the Father’s chamber, there were two individuals guarding it. They were speaking to Verid, who stood rigid as a fool, trembling before them.

  “Ah,” said one of the guards. “The Son of the Father has come.”

  I assumed this elf was the one named Nimdel. I didn’t care. I only had eyes for the other guard, the one named Alyran.

  “You betrayed us,” I said, quickly taking notice of the door behind her, the one that led into the Father’s quarters. Leaking from the cracks, light illuminated the hallway. Something was happening behind that door. The fact that these two appeared to be guarding it made me quite certain what that something was.

  “I did indeed,” said the elvess, who for years now had been in command of the Tower Guard. Alyran stepped forward, and in her expression, I perceived a deep sorrow. “It pains me to admit it, my Son. But I will not lie to you and say I regret it. I would see Asharal sit on the Sunchair. I would see him live forever.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Where is my father?” I demanded, not knowing what else to say.

  “Inside,” replied the other elf. He cocked his head towards the door. “We stand guard. To make sure none disturb. Asharal desires to face the Father of the Sun without assistance.”

  “No assistance?” I almost laughed. “And yet I would wager Sharal is inside there with him.”

  “Indeed. Sharal protects Asharal from the Father’s magic. But he still faces the Father alone. Just like he will face you alone, straight afterwards.”

  That was when Verid turned and ran. I hated him more than Alyran in that moment. But my hate returned to her when she stepped to the door of the Father’s chamber and placed the flat of her hand against the surface.

  “See for yourself,” she said and pushed the door open.

  The light inside emanated from two people: the first was Sharal. He had his back towards us, standing close to the threshold of the room. His arms were stretched towards the deeper parts of the dark room, and when I stepped closer towards the open door, I saw the Father of the Sun beyond Sharal. Light beamed from him too. He was on his knees, his hands gripping a shadowed figure who bore down on him.

  That was when I recognised Asharal. Asharal had a hand covering my father’s mouth. The other hand gripped tightly the blade I had heard so much about. That blade, I saw to my absolute horror, was thrust into my father’s heart.

  I felt sick. The world began to spin. I backed away, not seeing Alyran or that Nimdel elf. Suddenly it became clear. It was all over. Asharal was going to destroy us all. I had no choice but to run as Verid had.

  Chapter 7

  The Crier would arrive in Wind Glade just after dawn, Papa had told us. As usual, it was Papa and I who would venture out to hear what news the Crier had been sent to proclaim to the people, for Mother had chores to do around our home and wouldn’t ever leave without first seeing to those self-imposed responsibilities.

  “Your mother has always been pedantic about cleanliness and order, sweet Pebble,” Papa said to me as the two of us entered the woods. “You should know this about her by now.”

  I sighed. “I do,” I said, adding, “but having her journey with us this morning would have been lovely.”

  Papa tucked me in under his wing and comforted me with a warm rub of the shoulder, attempting to keep the chill of the dark morning at bay and I was once more relieved that my confinement was at an end.

  “Your mother also doesn’t like Wind Glade very much.” Papa’s voice was mystified. Then, almost to himself, he whispered, “There are few things she likes beyond the forest.”

  Suddenly I was reminded of Asharal. “Do… do you think he will be there at the glades, Papa?”

  “Who, sweet Pebble?” But then he suddenly understood. “I don’t know. People haven’t seen him or his brother for a long while now.”

  That was what I was afraid of. It was the main reason for my excitement about joining Papa at the market square of Wind Glade; it was my hope that Asharal would be there and that I could at the least glimpse him. Deep down, however, I knew better than to expect to see his beautiful face amidst the ragged and uncouth bunch that made Wind Glade what it was. And even if there was the slightest possibility that I would, I also hoped I wouldn’t see him, for I knew I would feel hurt if Asharal should be in Wind Glade without having tried to see me, or leave a note.

  “What do you think the Crier will report this morning, Papa?”

  “News regarding these rumours we’ve been hearing, I hope. I can’t believe anyone would think to steal from the Winds.”

  “Some don’t think the Winds intend to offer the immortality to us. Some believe they plan to keep the Eternal Pool to themselves.”

  Papa gave me a scrutinising look. “And by someone, you mean Asharal?”

  I grimaced. His tone spoke volumes of his displeasure at having Asharal brought into a discussion that would imply defiance and disrespect to the Winds family. Time had returned Papa’s resentment towards Asharal to its original state. After the incident on the road, the one in which Asharal had saved me from violation, I had begun believing that my father’s aversion towards him had waned. I was mistaken.

  “If he is wrong, why haven’t the Winds allowed us to drink then?” My voice was as timid as a mouse’s. I didn’t usually challenge Papa, and was surprised now that I had. Part of me fretted over his response, whilst the other drew courage and pride, and I found myself wishing Asharal had been here to witness it.

  I saw Papa’s mouth form a tight line and I realised he too had wondered the same thing. But he never issued a reprimand for my challenge. Instead, he kept his gaze steadfastly before him and, after a moment, he replied.

  “We must continue to trust that the Father of the Sun knows what he is doing,” he said, half-heartedly. I could hear that what trust Papa had for the Winds was dangling by a thread, and it broke my heart to see him so disappointed.

  “If you were the Father, Papa, would you open the Pool to us?” I asked.

  “Of course. Yet I am under no illusion that I would make a good Father, sweet Pebble. The Winds understand the magic that has brought to life the possibility of immortality. I on the other hand do not, and so remain thankful, as should you, that I am not the Father.”

  I considered that and found myself disagreeing. If my father was the Father, the Sun might not rise under his leadership as is foretold; yet I believed, deep down, that the Sun might just be better off. Papa would do all that he could to better the Sun’s living conditions. He would be fair with taxation. He would be compassionate with the beggars and he would be lenient with the heavy and burdensome laws.

  It was still dark when Papa and I reached Wind Glade. We picked our way slowly through the serpentine causeways that made up the Glade’s streets, dodging the sloshes of mud that had been caused by last night’s rain fall, passing modest homes and pens, and then finally a tavern.

  We were some of the first to arrive at a still and quiet square that made up the Glade’s centre. Papa approached one who had come here as early as the two of us and enquired what time the Crier was expected to arrive. The elf, who I thought was quite ugly looking, having a grizzly and hollow look to him, shrugged, responding with a nasty grunt of annoyance when he looked at me and then at how locked my hands were to Papa’s.

  Ahead, a dirty looking child piddled near the base of the square’s small podiu
m. When he began to complain of the cold, his father scowled at him and rebuked the child’s impatience. But I saw the scene wasn’t yet over. The little child made a face when his father turned his back, but his mother noticed and by the look on her face, the child’s father could discern what was going on. He swirled violently and before the child could run away, his father had him by the hair with one hand while beating him with the other.

  “Another day in Wind Glade,” mused Papa who, like me, had nothing better to do than to watch the incident run its course.

  Perhaps due to the howling of the unfortunate child, residents of the Glade began waking up. The glow of light flickered within the deeply darkened windows of the homes that surrounded the square. It wasn’t long until people began to come outside, one by one; swathed in what clothing they had, shivering, their breaths emitted as mist. Some it was clear were headed out to the river whilst others simply came out to join the rest of us who awaited the arrival of the Crier. And as the colour of the sky lightened and turned grey, more and more people poured out in a continuous number, materialising from the shadows of their homes; that it was another bleak and miserable day was vividly clear within each hard stare.

  “The sun in my eyes rises now towards what news will be heard today,” Papa commented. He looked at me, and in his eyes, I saw a swelling of hope. He offered me his most endearing smile and bent down close. “I have a feeling it will be good news.” He looked forward towards the small stone podium in the centre of the square as two sleepy warriors who patrolled the streets of the Glade took position on either side of it, their bronze blades in their grasp, their rough-spun robes falling to their ankles.

  Father straightened up and manoeuvred his head from left to right to keep his gaze on the podium where the Crier would appear. A barrel was being rolled upon the damp ground and I had to jump out the way quickly, pulling Papa with me. I watched the ill-mannered elf continue to roll his barrel through the crowed and was caught unawares by my feeling of disdain towards him.

  Never had I allowed such rudeness to bother me. Never had I considered such actions rude. I had always just accepted what was here in Wind Glade. I had never had anything to compare it to, as I had not once been anywhere else on the island. And yet, seeing as how my time with Asharal had become extended, I realised at that moment that I had begun to emulate his sense of propriety, had perhaps even developed an opinion of my own about the standard which we, the Sun Elves, should strive to reach.

  I found myself searching through the throng of people, who by now had crammed themselves into the Glade’s square, to the point where Papa and I were pressed tightly against each other. Whilst I searched, hoping and longing to see Asharal amidst the miserable and dirty-looking faces of the people, there was a commotion abroad; a subtle disturbance, not of violence or disorder, but rather of anticipation. I looked forward but struggled to see what the people were stirring over, due to my small stature. But when I wrung my father’s arm, he leaned down slightly and offered me enlightenment.

  “The Crier has come, sweet Pebble.”

  For my sake, Papa and I moved back behind the throng of the crowds that had compacted us together so tightly, for at the back I had spotted a disregarded bucket. I turned it over and stood on it, now able to see the focal point of today’s gathering. The Crier leapt onto his stage. Behind him, warriors from Wind Tower were an intimidating sight, yet it was the grey-haired elf among them who caught my attention. He looked fine. He looked important. He looked as if he were searching for someone.

  “A good morning unto you, people of Wind Glade,” the Crier began. “A good morning unto you. Rejoice, for it is your morning. Rejoice I say again, for today belongs to you.” He paused and cleared his throat. “By the mouth of the Father of the Sun, by his tongue, have I been sent here to treat with such fair people, to announce glad tidings, which would indeed lift the spirit of even the most disavowed people. And yet…” the Crier paused so dramatically that it was clear something far more intriguing would be spoken of before the apparently glad tidings would be heard. “Down from the glorious roads that lead to the mighty and anointed Wind Tower, terrible rumours have found themselves homes amidst glades and forts alike; rumours teeming with truth, yet rumours none the less. These rumours will be addressed now, so I would ask of you to prepare yourself and trust in the Father.”

  The Crier paused for effect, then continued in a loud voice. “Yes, I say! Yes. Trouble. Trouble! Trouble at Wind Tower, but trouble tenfold on he who would, and has, caused that trouble. And so, by order of the Father of the Sun, all powerful and all knowing, let it be known and let it be repeated throughout the land, that as of now, the Sun Elf known as Asharal Evening shall be condemned a traitor to the Sunchair for crimes of conspiracy and an attempted theft and murder. He will be found, and arrested, and sentenced to stand in chains before the judgement of the Father of the Sun, who will forever sit on the Sunchair!”

  I gasped in shock, unable to help myself. Yet when a space formed around the person at whom the Crier had pointed so aggressively, I was suddenly taken by a great wave of fear, becoming slightly disorientated; for there, where the people had parted, stood Asharal. Standing inches behind him was his brother Sharal, the similarities between them staggering, as were the differences.

  Asharal was tall, lean, and carried himself with dignity, his fair and long hair like the sun itself, framing his refined face, highlighting the intensity of his small and narrowed eyes. As for his brother, Sharal was shorter, stockier, broad of shoulders and he almost slouched; his eyes were like Asharal’s, but more downcast with misgiving.

  Both brothers, I could see, were cloaked and hooded, and yet the Crier had been able to identify Asharal. This couldn’t come as a surprise to me, for such was Asharal’s light that no cloak or shadow could hide it.

  The Crier spat out an angry command. “Warriors of the Winds! Seize Asharal Evening!” He looked at crowd. “Kill all who stand in your way.”

  It all happened fast. The warriors who had stood behind the Crier quickly rushed to get their hands on Asharal, who in a moment had Sunrise gleaming naked in the open air, inspiring gasps amidst the crowds. Sharal took a step back and began weaving his hands together until a blur of blue light surrounded them. Then I heard Asharal call out to the Crier, “You have too few blades, Mardyn.” The first set of warriors who rushed at Asharal and his brother were sliced open by Sunrise.

  Then came the rest of the warriors. Asharal took on four at a time, and not once did he falter when the blades of his enemies found their mark.

  “His brother’s magic protects him,” I heard one of the people say.

  I looked more closely now. Asharal moved with deft skill and precision but still, his attackers were still able to find his blind spots, though failed to do damage. I saw then the protective shield that surrounded Asharal’s body.

  “The fools should go for Sharal first and then Asharal,” said another close by.

  I couldn’t keep my eyes off Asharal and the bodies that fell at his feet. He killed them all, every last one of the warriors who had been brought to the square as if they knew Asharal would be here.

  When the last warrior fell, Asharal straightened and spun his blade in an elaborate fashion that might have been mistaken as an act of swank. Yet I knew better. I knew that the wielding of a blade was Asharal’s art.

  Asharal sheathed his blade and glared up at the Crier. “Tell your Father a new tide is coming. The Sun will rise!”

  Asharal turned to leave, but another had taken a position next to the Crier. He called out to Asharal, and when Asharal turned and saw who it was, it was clear to me that Asharal recognised him.

  “Who is that, Papa?” I whispered urgently.

  “He is the fellow who the guards entered the square with. I think he might be a member of the Wind family. He looks important.”

  “I have a message for you, Asharal Evening,” the new voice declared. “And it concerns your brother!”
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br />   Everyone, including me, looked at Sharal, who still stood posed with his hands in an almost awkward pose; the blue blurs about them still emanating.

  “I saw a moon. A great moon. A moon that many elves trembled to behold. That moon I saw would one day be called Fierce. Fierce, I say. Fierce. It was that moon I saw fall upon your brother’s head!”

  I saw Asharal’s anger coalesce on his countenance. Everyone saw it. It was the most terrifying scene of the day. Never had I imagined Asharal to look as he did now, and I recoiled from it as if that anger would somehow reach me.

  Asharal unsheathed his blade and pointed it to this self-proclaimed prophet. “A new tide is coming, Verid. A new tide. And you are, as of now, condemned to die when it does!”

  Asharal returned Sunrise to its sheath and turned. He and his brother made to leave, and no one stopped them. Not one. Instead, the people gathered again in order to block the path of any who might have considered doing so.

  I, however, began to panic. I knew in that moment that I would not see Asharal for a very long time. Anticipating that now he would officially be in hiding since the Father’s call for his arrest, I did what I could to push through the crowd.

  “Asharal!” I cried out in distress. “Asharal!”

  Papa called out my name, but I only half heard him. I forced myself more vigorously through the people, desperate to reach Asharal, to tell him I loved him, but the people made it impossible. Papa caught me before I could even get to the area where Asharal and his brother had stood, but to my surprise, he picked me up and quickly headed in Asharal’s direction. Yet when we reached the perimeter of Wind Glade, he set me on the ground and held me firm.

  “Enough!”

  I was in tears, desperate tears. I didn’t want to lose Asharal. I wouldn’t be able to bear it. I wanted to go to him, to ask him to take me with him. But as I looked about frantically, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, I realised my chance to do so had slipped away.