by Carol Browne
“Take me farther from the fire,” she pleaded. “I’m too close. I’ll burn.” She struggled in his arms, but he held her fast.
“Master Godwin, can’t we do something?” Trystin rose to his knees. “Is this the end of everything?”
“Trystin, we must have faith.”
“Faith,” moaned Elgiva. “You and your faith. Faith in me, and look where it’s brought us. You and your faith.”
“Be still,” said Godwin. “Rest. We’re leaving soon. We’re going to Elindel.”
“Through the flames? The red ones, the yellow ones, the blue ones like flowers? I commit my body to the flowers.” She closed her eyes and fell silent, but her breathing was rasping and shallow, as though her lungs were scorched.
Trystin was sobbing, and Godwin didn’t dare meet the reproach in those tear-filled eyes. He clasped the hilt of Taranuil, seeking some kind of solace, and tried to clear the shambles that filled his aching head. His mind was all chaos and darkness, save for one tiny spark . . .
“They who persecute evil shall prosper
“And come to their inheritance . . . ”
Frowning at the unnamed hope that flickered in his brain, he drew his sword and gazed at it, as though it held the answer. And he saw the Hill-Shrine in his mind. It was a place of power, and its secrets had been forgotten.
But that didn’t mean they were lost.
He well remembered the blissful sleep that had overtaken him there. The peace. The circle of nodding flowers. But was he right to believe, to have faith in . . .
His hand was clumsy with excitement, and he struggled to sheath his sword. Optimism flooded his limbs, thrusting him to his feet. He lifted Elgiva into his arms; she was as light as his heart. “Trystin!”
“Master Godwin?” The elfling sat up straight with alarm.
“Get up, lad. I’ve got an idea. We’re going to the Hill-Shrine. Now! If we want help, we must ask for it. Remember what Vieldrin said?”
Trystin shook his head.
“Never mind. He was wrong anyway. There is magic stronger than his. Faine’s magic. It’s our only hope. Don’t sit there with your mouth open. We’ve no time to lose. Come on!”
***
Dusk was falling upon the forest. Godwin knelt on the Hill-Shrine, Elgiva cradled in his arms, and many yards below stood Trystin, Grimalkin beside him, munching the grass. It had taken them some time to reach the shrine. They had avoided the paths and glades and hidden when they heard noises that might have been the sounds of pursuit. The going had been tediously slow. At intervals, Trystin found edible plants, which he shared with his wilthkin friend, but they were barely enough to still the nagging hunger. Elgiva grew heavier in Godwin’s arms, though she was a burden he willingly carried, and his strength was almost gone.
Now he lifted tired, dry eyes to the stars that winked in the sky. It felt as though he had been here forever, waiting for something to happen. He had believed some healing power would manifest unbidden. Now, he feared he would be disappointed.
Elgiva stirred and her eyelids fluttered open, but she didn’t seem to know who he was.
“Darkness, it calls,” she murmured.
Godwin hugged her feverish body to his breast; he wouldn’t let death snatch her away. “Don’t talk like that,” he said. “I won’t let you go.”
“Tomorrow, a broken promise. Night calls me to the grave.”
He tightened his grip on her slender form and shook her slightly in his frustration. “Faine will hear us, Elgiva.” He looked up at the sombre sky, not knowing what he sought. “Faine, release her from this spell!”
“Fetters,” she sighed. “Death, the key. Unlock them.”
“Faine, First-Father,” Godwin prayed.
“Why cling?” she said. “Let go.”
“Faine, I believe in you,” said Godwin through gritted teeth.
“Water,” said Elgiva, struggling in his grasp. He lifted a water-skin to her lips; she drank a little and then pushed it away. “Poison, poison!”
“I have faith. I have faith in good magic.” But Godwin’s heart felt as though it were breaking.
Night deepened all around them. Elgiva writhed in Godwin’s arms, and her body burned with fever. She was like kindling, apt for immolation. Tears ran freely down his face, but he had made a vow, and he would uphold it to the last.
“Elgiva,” he cried, and he shook her again. “Elgiva, believe in Faine!”
“Faine . . . good . . . peace . . . death . . . ”
By Frigg, I’m not going to lose you, girl!
He shook her yet again, and his anger tightened his grip. “Focus, damn you! Concentrate! One last effort of will! Think of Faine. Believe in Faine!”
“I do believe. I do,” she gasped, “but you, you’re hurting . . . ”
“Ask Lord Faine to help you!”
“It’s hot. It’s far too hot!”
“Forget the fever. It’ll pass. Lord Faine will release you.”
“Yes, release my spirit.”
“No, Elgiva, release you from Vieldrin’s spell!”
Elgiva went limp, and her eyelids closed. Godwin slackened his grip. His hands were shaking, as though he had lost control of his muscles. He brushed the sweat-slick hair from her face, allowing her some moments of peace. He hated himself for his ferocity. It would be kinder to let her drift, let her succumb to the spell and die. He well knew the heartache of forcing sick children to take potions that tasted foul, but made them better. He had the strength for such things, and he had an inner conviction that what he was doing was right. To be deserving of help, one must first ask for it.
“Elgiva!” he said.
She didn’t respond. He turned her head towards him and said her name again. The merest breath soughed through her lips. Gritting his teeth, he drew back his hand and slapped her lightly on the cheek. This time, her eyes flew open and she looked at him with such fear and surprise that he almost abandoned his purpose. Gently, he cupped her face in his hands.
“Elgiva, please, you must ask Faine to release you from the spell. Say it!”
“Faine, release me from this spell.”
“Faine, heal me.”
“Faine, heal me,” echoed Elgiva.
“Good magic is stronger than bad. Believe it.” It has to be. It has to.
Her eyes closed again and she drifted away, and this time, he left her in peace. Nothing more could be done. He lowered her to the grass; her limbs were heavy and still, her skin so pale that it seemed translucent.
Overcome by his own exhaustion, he let his gaze wander. At the foot of the shrine, Trystin lay sleeping. Grimalkin, her head bowed, stood beside him, the Lorestone safely in her pack.
If only Elgiva could use it.
Of course, she would never use the Lorestone merely to save herself. A breeze stirred the branches of the trees and at first, he inhaled the cool air gratefully, but as the darkness thickened around him, its chill breath made him shiver. The thought of summer crossed his mind, but it seemed so far away, and what would summer be without Elgiva? And what would become of this beautiful land, if Vieldrin weren’t destroyed?
Two images vied for his attention. One was of his daughters dancing in a meadow full of cornflowers; the other was Elgiva, cold and lifeless in the grave. He couldn’t reconcile the two.
He thought then of the prophecies that had brought her to this sorry end. The prophecies, orphan and slave. But he had found the Lorestone. A slave indeed, but an orphan, too? Sadly, he dwelt on the parents he couldn’t remember, now dead, unattainable. Doubly lost.
Had Bellic misinterpreted the prophecies? But Godwin couldn’t use the Lorestone. He had no magic, save for his sword. He drew the weapon from its sheath and peered at it in the darkness.
Taranuil had been the key that opened the door of the secret cavern where the Lorestone lay concealed. The sword had been the trigger. The sword and the cavern were worlds apart, but they had one thing in common: magic. The magic of the Earth .
. . of elves . . . of Faine. The sword had no ability to act itself unless it was awakened, and then perhaps as a spark for other forces . . .
There were energies in the Earth and here, at this sacred spot, perhaps they came together. This was the heartland, the hub, of Faine’s power.
It was worth a try.
He whispered to the night, “I believe. Faine’s spirit will answer me.” He lifted the weapon in both hands and cried out, “Taranuil!”
The sword gleamed in response, and he plunged it into the earth. Then he lay down with a prayer on his lips and stared at the star-flecked sky.
He was overwhelmed by drowsiness, yet he fought off sleep, anxious for proof that magic was at work. But all that stirred were the leaves on the trees; they rustled like slivers of darkness.
Oh, for a flash of lightning, an otherworldly voice, the sight of something supernatural!
But the knoll lay quiet beneath the sky, and the now cold and clammy hand Godwin clasped in his own was limp and dying.
“I have faith,” he whispered.
And Taranuil, embedded in power, communed with the hallowed earth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Godwin had barely surfaced from sleep when something large blocked out the light. There was an inexplicable snuffling noise. He pried his eyes open in alarm to see Grimalkin’s yellow teeth grinning inches from his face.
“By Frigg!” he gasped.
“You getting up, your lordship?”
“Must you always creep up on people?”
“His lordship’s a little grumpy today,” nickered Grimalkin. “Anyway, thought you’d want to know, the boy and me heard noises.”
Godwin sat up and rubbed his eyes. “What are you talking about, you old jade?”
“Noises in the distance, Brit. Could be warriors. We’d better hoof it. No need to worry, though; I’ve had breakfast.” She turned away. “I expect they’re armed to the teeth, so you’d better make your peace with Frigg Or Woden. Or whatever.” She picked her way back down the slope.
Godwin had slept too well. For a moment, the concern that nudged at his mind went unnamed, but then he reached for Elgiva, hardly daring to look.
To his surprise, her skin was cool. The dark stains of illness still circled her eyes, and her skin seemed even paler, but she had an air of recuperation, and under the dried blood in her hair, her wound had almost closed. Her breathing was now deep and regular, and for a while, he smiled with relief and gazed at Taranuil.
Trystin came bounding up the slope, and in his eyes there was only one question.
“The crisis has passed,” said Godwin.
Relief and wonder lit up the elfling’s face.
Godwin got to his feet, straightened his tunic, and then drew his sword from the earth. For a moment, he gazed at the slumbering blade. “We’d better leave. We’ve stayed too long. And yet,” he added, “not long enough.”
“Yes, Master Godwin,” Trystin agreed. In his voice was a new, deeper respect.
Sliding the sword back into its scabbard, Godwin drew a cleansing breath, filling his lungs with the morning air. “How does one give thanks?”
Trystin clearly had no answer to give him. Godwin suspected they shared the same sense of awe. They had witnessed something neither could understand, something great and terrible.
Godwin pulled himself together and smiled at his young friend. “Go and tell Grimalkin that she must carry Elgiva until she can walk unaided. Take the water-skin with you, lad.”
Soon, they were wading through lush grass and spring flowers. Finding a bubbling rill of water, Godwin called a halt so they could replenish their water-skins. The thin stream tinkled away into the forest’s green embrace, followed by a retinue of slender reeds. Despite the beauties of Misterell, Godwin felt ill at ease and sensed his companions felt the same. They had no idea if they were being pursued and, if so, by how many. This feeling sharpened as they neared the forest’s edge. Ahead of them lay a vast tract of land that would leave them prey to hostile eyes.
Godwin remembered the village Trystin had spoken of and was overtaken by curiosity. In that village were people of his own race. He asked the young elf if they would pass near the village.
“It’s on our way, Master Godwin. It’s in a valley, before the hills, and the village lies on the west bank of a fast-flowing river.”
Godwin nodded. “I see.”
“You wish to go there?” asked Elgiva in a voice still drained of energy.
“If there’s time,” he said with a shrug.
Elgiva smiled. “I understand. You want to meet your own kind.”
“No time for social visits,” snorted Grimalkin.
“Time enough, I dare say,” Elgiva returned. “We hold the stone.”
“We need food, too,” Trystin said. “Perhaps they’ll let us have some.”
“That’s settled, then,” whinnied Grimalkin. “Food, it is. Let’s go.”
As the companions pushed on, the trees thinned out, and on either side of their path were tracts of grass that swarmed with nodding bluebells. Silence drifted through the mist like the spirit of the forest. Misterell was hard to leave.
At length, the trees were behind them, and they stood before the prospect of the open plain ahead. Godwin looked at Elgiva, but her thoughts were elsewhere, her gaze unfocused, her hand clenched around Siriol.
They had travelled less than half a league when Grimalkin drew up with a snort and swung her large head towards the forest. Elgiva and Trystin followed her gaze, and Godwin winced at the fear in their eyes.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Shut up!” hissed Grimalkin, her long ears swivelling back and forth.
Godwin listened, his muscles tensed, but his effort was unrewarded; he lacked the sensory range of his friends.
“Vieldrin!” gasped Elgiva.
“What do we do, lady?” Trystin asked.
“Sprout wings and fly seems a good idea,” said Grimalkin.
Godwin searched about him for some way of escape. Ahead of them stood a clump of oak trees, their branches lifting new leaves to the sun. “Elgiva?”
She nodded and urged Grimalkin into a canter. Snatching hold of Trystin’s hand, Godwin stumbled after them. As they approached the nearest oak tree, Grimalkin stopped at Elgiva’s command.
“It’s no use,” said Elgiva. “We can’t hide here. They’ll see us.”
The steady thud of approaching hoofbeats drew nearer until even Godwin could hear them.
“Elgiva, by Frigg,” Godwin said. “You must do something . . . quick!”
“I don’t think I have the strength,” she said. Anxiety sharpened her features. “Perhaps, perhaps if you help me. Yes, you must help me. All of you!”
Her sudden authority calmed their panic.
“Lady Elgiva, we’ll do anything,” said Trystin, his eyes bright with trust.
“Grimalkin?” asked Elgiva. “Are you able to concentrate on anything other than food?”
The pony snorted.
Elgiva drew a deep breath. “Very well. Godwin, stand on my right side. Trystin, on my left. We will make a circle of power. We must be in physical contact.” She held out her hands. “Put your free hands on Grimalkin. No matter what happens, don’t let go until I give the word. Do not break the circle.”
Godwin reached up and grasped Elgiva’s hand then he glanced at the forest. A score of horses dashed from the trees. The desire to unsheathe Taranuil almost overcame him, but he obeyed Elgiva. Trystin had seen the horses, too, and he trembled in his rags.
Elgiva’s voice rose over their fear, and it steadied them with a promise of power.
“Believe that we’re invisible. Close your eyes and concentrate. Think until it hurts, but you must believe it. I tell you, we are invisible. We are nothing but air. Not even a shadow on the grass. Our enemies will pass, but will not see us there. Believe it, my friends. Don’t fail me.”
Godwin wanted to feel secure, to trust in Elgiva’s
magic, but it was hard, so hard. It was as though closing his eyes had left him alone in the darkness, while peril thundered towards him, like a huge beast of prey.
How on Earth could he be invisible?
He thought as hard as he could, bullied himself into the notion that flesh and bone could be transmuted into something unseeable. It was hard to imagine what help he could give with a mere exertion of will, and once again, he had to trust in the reality of magic.
I am air. Not even a shadow. I am air.
He heard the rumble of hooves, the exhalations of galloping horses, and in his mind, they were slavering beasts with barbed tails and flaring nostrils. More like dragons than horses. His legs buckled, but the earth assured him of its permanence, its readiness to uphold him, and a strange throbbing in the air closed about him like a shield.
Air. Not even a shadow.
Elgiva’s magic tightened around them, and its desperation churned his guts. The hooves came nearer, pounding the earth, and his heart beat in time with them. How long could he uphold his concentration? His head ached. He was air. When would it stop?
He was air. Not even a shadow.
Shuddering, febrile bursts of magic buzzed about his ears, making the skin crawl over his flesh. This caul of force was stifling him, yet it held no malice. He wondered how Trystin was faring.
Elgiva strengthened her grip on his hand. She trembled, and her palm was slick. He shared her pain as she forced her power to the limit and beyond. He feared that the cords of her being would snap. She was untutored. How much longer could she maintain this spell? And surely Vieldrin could see them. Perhaps he could sense their presence. No. They were invisible. They weren’t even a shadow on the grass.
The ground vibrated beneath his feet, and a whip cracked. Godwin winced, but there was no complaint from the horse receiving the blow. All he could hear were explosive snorts and the thunder of hooves as the riders raced by in a frenzy of speed. And then they were gone.
The thunder receded. What felt like an age of terror had lasted less than a minute.
