More trees splintered—three ancient aspens this time, each thicker in girth than a man could reach around—as the Elf-Eater continued in its direct path toward the palace. The high, shining wall leaned away from it, soaring upward in a perfect triangle to the sharp point in the bright Synnorian sky.
“Stop!” shouted Brigit as the first tentacle reached forward to touch the gleaming surface.
“No! Let it go forward!”
The words rang through the air like a peal of thunder, spoken from behind the companions. Shocked, Alicia and her companions wheeled, weapons ready for attack or defense. Even Brigit and Colleen halted their headlong advance to stare in astonishment.
“Deirdre!” gasped Alicia, the first to recover her voice.
“Don’t stop it!” The black-haired princess ignored her sister, instead repeating her direction to Brigit as she stalked toward them. She passed through the breach in the wall and marched into the courtyard of the Argen-Tellirynd like some commanding warlord. Wind gusted against Deirdre’s black dress, outlining her strong legs and streaming her long hair behind her.
Advancing past her mother and sister silently, the princess finally stopped to confront Brigit with her hands firmly on her hips.
“Who are you?” demanded the white-faced captain of the sister knights.
“My daughter,” Robyn replied, her tone icy as she joined the pair. “This is an emergency!” she snapped to Deirdre. “Explain yourself—quickly!”
“The two triangles—the courtyard and the building—give us our only chance to defeat this creature!” the younger woman explained, her voice level, as if the chaos around them was some sort of remote picture. “If we can lure the beast there, I can send it away—at least, I think I can,” she said, no trace of doubt in her voice.
Alicia looked for Keane’s reaction to her sister’s astounding claim. Surprisingly the mage’s brows were knitted in concentration. He appeared to be giving serious weight to Deirdre’s claim.
“You don’t believe her, do you?” demanded the older princess.
“I don’t know what else to hope for,” Keane informed her, and Alicia had no good reply to that.
“Do you know what you countenance?” spat Brigit, still pale with fury. “This is the Argen-Tellirynd! It has stood for millennia, and now you ask that we allow this horror within its sacred walls?”
“Only if you want to get rid of it.”
Brigit’s eyes flashed in anger, but abruptly she turned and confronted Robyn. “What kind of madness is this?” she demanded.
“I … don’t know,” replied the High Queen of the Ffolk, studying her daughter—so much the image of herself—with narrowed eyes.
A crash of crystal, mingled with the incongruously musical ringing of broken silver piping, signaled further destruction as the Ityak-Ortheel bashed through the palace wall, probing with its tendrils, smashing a wider opening for its domed body. Quickly it forced itself through the gap, disappearing within the palace to the sounds of continued destruction.
“Come on,” commanded Deirdre. She stepped along the rubble-strewn path of the monster, ignoring the shattered work of age-old sculptors and crushed remains of enchanted gardens. Reaching the gaping hole in the palace wall, she entered the Argen-Tellirynd.
Brigit looked after the young woman with fury etched upon her elven face, but finally she forced herself to clutch at the straw—the desperate, costly hope—extended by Deirdre. If the Elf-Eater could be vanquished, that was the only thing that mattered! She and her sisters, as well as their human companions, fell in behind Deirdre.
“In the center of the building,” announced the dark-haired sorceress, watching carefully as the Elf-Eater rumbled ahead. “It must go all the way in.”
She picked up the pace of her advance, keeping within a few dozen paces of the monster. They passed toppled pillars of marble, quartz, and silver, saw a hall of tall mirrors, every one of them smashed. High, arching holes marked each wall the Elf-Eater had crashed through, and even when it disappeared from sight around a corner for a moment or two, they had no difficulty remaining close behind.
Finally the beast smashed an opening in a wall of white stone, kicking the rubble out of the way to advance into the great atrium, the triangular heart of the palace. Three walls soared upward, meeting in a narrow peak a hundred feet overhead. Long, narrow windows showered the room with incongruously bright sunlight. A black floor gleamed like a mirror, except where chunks of stone lay scattered from the force of the Elf-Eater’s entrance.
Deirdre sprinted ahead, following the beast into the room for several steps before she suddenly stopped. The monster reached the center of the triangle, and Deirdre raised her hands.
The words of her teleportation spell flamed in her mind. The triangles were centered, the three-legged beast vulnerable to her magic. The timing was perfect—now!
“Bluth-tar—!” Rigidly concentrating, Deirdre began to chant the spell.
The Elf-Eater whirled with astounding speed, springing toward Princess Deirdre. She screamed and stumbled backward.
“My spell!” she shrieked as the wasted power hissed in the air around her. She reached out, as if to retrieve the useless casting, but her concentration had been broken, leaving her helpless before the full brunt of the leaping Ityak-Ortheel.
But another had carefully watched her—and in a flash, Keane understood what the princess attempted. And she was not the only one who knew the words to a teleportation spell.
“Bluth-tarith-Erallanor!”
The chant was completed by the magic-user, his voice as free of tremor and as taut as a fully drawn bowstring. The Elf-Eater, leaping from the center of the triangular atrium, suddenly froze in the air, as if suspended by some kind of restraining rope. It hung there for a moment as a bellow of consumate rage shook the very foundations of Synnoria.
Then it began to grow faint, its image shimmering, the Ityak-Ortheel soon fading into nothing more than foggy illusion.
In a few seconds, it was gone.
* * * * *
Brigit found Erashanoor wandering among the ruined walls of the Argen-Tellirynd. The ancient sage’s feet crunched across twisted facets of crystal, tearing his boots and finally cutting into his feet.
“Come, grandfather,” she said, helping the old elf to a less littered stretch of the corridor. He blinked at her vaguely, but then his pale eyes focused, reflecting great wells of grief and pain.
“It came through the gate, did it not?” he asked numbly. “Through the Fey-Alamtine?”
“Yes, it did.” She could give him nothing less than the truth. “The Synnorian Gate is destroyed—ruined by the creature when it came through.”
Erashanoor groaned, his voice tremulous. “This—the palace, these walls and gardens—they can all be rebuilt. But the Fey-Alamtine!”
The elderly elf’s thin hands grasped Brigit’s shoulders with surprising strength. “The eternal route to Evermeet is closed!”
Brigit’s mind refused to consider the long-term problem to which her mentor referred. Instead, she tried to grapple with more immediate concerns—the loss of her friends, the destruction of her city, and the astounding and timely arrival of humans within Synnoria.
“Can you come to the atrium?” she asked. “The Serene Matriarch will be meeting the humans there. She—we—would like your presence.”
Erashanoor blinked again, looking around as if he couldn’t bear to leave the wreckage without cleaning up. “Humans? Yes—yes, of course!”
His voice grew firm, and he looked at Brigit sternly. “We cannot bear every outrage of this grievous day!”
She felt a measure of relief as he fished out his great pipe and tamped down a bowl of his herb. Finally he turned his back on the chaos and followed Brigit toward the atrium, the only part of the Palace of the Ages where the floor was clear enough for a gathering.
* * * * *
Alicia and her companions stood as spectators to a confrontation between two fa
ctions of the Llewyrr.
On the one side, albeit reluctantly, stood Brigit Cu’Lyrran and the surviving Sisters of Synnoria. They formed a pathetically small group, though Alicia was heartened to see that the brave Colleen had survived the fight. These Llewyrr had fought the Ityak-Ortheel and knew that without the intervention of the humans, the battle would have ended in unmitigated disaster.
On the other side stood the venerable Erashanoor and the Elders of the Llewyrr, each of whom had lived a minimum of six centuries, representing nearly three thousand years of tradition coupled with implacable prejudice. Yet these elves, like the fighters, still reeled emotionally from the shock of the Elf-Eater’s rampage.
The Serene Matriarch of Synnoria, Ate’Niah, sat in an ornately carved wooden chair in the center of the sunlight-filled chamber. Her face was unlined, but still reflected the wisdom of many centuries of life. Silver hair coiled around her head, rising into a peak that bore a small tiara of diamond-studded platinum. Despite the perfection of her coiffure, however, the haste of the meeting was reflected in her muddy boots and the traces of soot that stained her pearl-colored gown.
“I must repeat, Matriarch,” announced Erashanoor determinedly, “I protest most strongly the presence of humans here, in the heart of our most sacred chambers!” The elderly Llewyrr, keeper of the Elven Gate for all these long centuries, avoided looking at the visitors, as if their very sight was an affront to his sensibilities. Instead, his gaze came to rest on Brigit, and he glowered with unconcealed anger.
“It has been agreed that their presence will be tolerated,” replied the Serene Matriarch Ate’Niah.
“Tolerated!” Alicia, who had been struggling to contain her anger and resentment at the elven arrogance, could no longer bear it. “If we hadn’t arrived when we did, there’d be no chambers here at all, sacred or otherwise! A brave halfling died in that cause!” She glared at the withered form of the gatemaster, daring him to meet her gaze, but he did not.
A touch on Alicia’s arm brought her attention around to Robyn. The queen stood beside her daughter, though the princess didn’t know how long she had been there. Yet, with the touch on her arm, Alicia felt her tension and anger fade from burning flame to dull coal, like a well-banked fire that nestled a great deal of heat while showing little brightness.
“Serene Matriarch of Synnoria, I thank you for the opportunity to speak in these exalted chambers,” Robyn began, bowing politely without seeming abject.
“I know who you are, High Queen Kendrick of Callidyrr,” said the thin-faced elven matriarch known as Ate’Niah. Her voice was cool, carefully formal. “The mistress captain has informed me of your acquaintance in the recent past, and your contributions today are known to even the blindest of the Llewyrr.”
Recent past! The words brought rueful smiles to Robyn’s and Alicia’s lips. Her adventures with Brigit had occurred twenty years ago, half of the queen’s lifetime, yet the elf could refer to it as the ‘recent past’!
“I am pleased that my friend Brigit recalls our alliance in a positive light. The courage of her and her comrades was instrumental in the triumph of King Kendrick and myself.” Robyn’s tone remained formal, but she smiled at the captain of the sister knights.
“Ah, yes … High King Kendrick. The extent of his rule was known to us, even isolated in Synnoria. His reign did not pass without merit.”
Again Alicia flushed. Tristan had merely united the four kingdoms of the Ffolk, the first ruler to do so since Cymrych Hugh! “Not without merit” indeed! But she held her tongue, realizing that anger could only jeopardize their hopes.
“I extend our regret regarding his death,” continued the matriarch. “The passing of even a short-lived human must be a thing of sorrow.”
Robyn stiffened, and for a moment, Alicia wondered if the sublime arrogance of the Llewyrr would overcome even her mother’s discipline. It did not.
“He … King Tristan … may be alive,” replied the queen, her words ringing with hope in the vast chamber.
For a time, none of the elves made any reply. At first, Alicia wondered if they’d heard. Then she noticed a raised eyebrow on Erashanoor’s creased forehead, a twist of the Matriarch’s lips. Brigit alone gasped, and she did that silently.
“How do you know this? Is he a madman, to disappear from the world? Or is he a prisoner?” inquired Matriarch Ate’Niah.
“A prisoner,” replied Robyn. “That is why we have come to you—to ask for help in his rescue.”
“No!” declared Erashanoor, forcing himself to look at the companions for a moment before turning to the matriarch to plead his case. “It’s a snare to trap us in human intrigues!”
“I was about to explain that we have no intention of ‘ensnaring’ you or even of asking Llewyrr to place themselves in danger,” Robyn said, her tone low but icy-hard. The rebuke against the venerable Erashanoor was plain to all the Llewyrr. The matriarch’s lips tightened in an expression that might have been grim amusement.
“Who holds King Kendrick, and where?” asked Brigit.
“The scrags—the sea trolls—have imprisoned him in the Coral Kingdom. Their ransom demands are impossible, leaving us no recourse but to abandon him or attempt his rescue.”
“It would seem, then, that they have him beyond your reach,” observed the sister knight grimly. “How did you hope that we could help?”
“There are tales … perhaps little more than legends, though our bards and mages believe them to be grounded in the truth … tales of elven ships that, at one time, could sail beneath the sea. If this is true and such magic can be employed to modify our vessels, we intend to mount an expedition to rescue him.”
Robyn stated the plan bluntly, and then she waited. If the matriarch or Erashanoor had expected her to plead for help, they were surprised. The queen of Moonshae would make no further attempt to persuade.
It was the ancient gatekeeper who broke the silence, and his tone was the softest it had been during this council. Erashanoor almost looked sad; certainly his attitude was regretful. “Such knowledge was once the province of the elven seafarers, and perhaps two thousand years ago you would have found crafters among the Llewyrr who could help you. But such skills are long since lost to the elves of the Outer Lands.”
“Outer Lands? You mean places like Synnoria?” inquired Alicia, her impatience forcing her into the conversation.
“All the elvenlands beyond Evermeet are the Outer Lands,” explained the matriarch. “And I’m afraid that the gatemaster is correct. The only repository of such knowledge is in the vast libraries and troves of the eternal elvenhome.”
Evermeet! To Alicia—to all the humans—the knowledge might as well have resided on the moon. That mystical isle was hidden somewhere in the mists of the Trackless Sea, reputedly death to any sailors who dared approach. The greatest navigators of humanity disagreed vehemently on its location or even its very existence.
Keane spoke softly, but his voice and his presence—he was the tallest person, man or elf, in the room—commanded the attention of the Synnorian Elders. “It is said—also in legends, of course, though I have heard it from those who call it fact—that there are ways known to the elves, paths that lead to Evermeet from across the Realms. Is there such a way you could employ to aid us?”
There was no mistaking the pain that flashed across Erashanoor’s face, and Alicia felt a surge of suspicion. Had the wizard guessed at the secret of the Llewyrr? As quickly as that, her suspicions were replaced by hope. Did that mean that there was a route to Evermeet? Could her father be saved?
“That route is closed,” Brigit said, unable to conceal her grief. She turned and spoke to the Serene Matriarch, who gasped in shock at Brigit’s words. “The Ityak-Ortheel corrupted the Fey-Alamtine—smashed the passage beyond recognition. Evermeet can no longer be reached through the Synnorian Gate.”
“So much corruption, such evil … and our islands are so small,” observed Ate’Niah after a somber pause.
“A
nd shared by our peoples together,” observed the queen of the Ffolk. “It is not unreasonable to believe that the forces sending the Elf-Eater against Synnoria are the same dark ones who hold my husband hostage.”
“Quite possible, Noble Queen,” replied the matriarch of Synnoria. “But alas, it does not change the fact that, so long as our path to Evermeet is closed, we cannot aid you in the rescue of your husband.”
The hope that had blossomed in Alicia’s mind wilted with this revelation, and despair threatened to claim her. Her father was lost, in truth. There would be, could be, no rescue.
“Evermeet is an island, correct?” asked Brandon, speaking for the first time. His voice was gruff, as if the words came forth only with difficulty. He, too, had been forced to unusual lengths of self-control to maintain his silence.
Erashanoor and the matriarch both nodded somberly, watching the Prince of Gnarhelm carefully. If the Llewyrr regarded the Ffolk with cautious hostility, the northmen they had considered blood enemies for many centuries.
“An island not impossibly far from here, from the Moonshaes.” Brand turned to face his companions, his words warming to the topic. “Well, we could sail there! It can be no longer a journey than a dozen of my ancestors have made at some time or another!”
“Impossible!” snapped Erashanoor, appalled.
“It cannot be done. You would not survive to reach the island’s shores!” confirmed Matriarch Ate’Niah.
“Begging your pardon, Your Royal Matronship, but I can take a ship a good many places others have said a ship was never meant to go!” Brandon pursued.
“You don’t know what stands in your path,” exclaimed Brigit, her eyes wide and her tone serious. She looked at Brandon with sympathy, but shook her head. “There are magical cyclones that rise from the sea, crushing ships into kindling. There are the Warders, great sea beasts who spend their lives ensuring that no vessel can approach the elvenhome.”
“Sea beasts and cyclones!” Brandon laughed, although admittedly the sound was somewhat forced. “Nothing I haven’t faced a dozen times before!” Alicia had to admire his bravado. As he spoke, she found herself believing him, wanting to sail with him against these foes.
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