by Carol Browne
“Forgive me, my lord,” Merrill said. “It is time we should go.”
“A few minutes more,” said Bellic.
“The fetchen will be out soon,” said Merrill. “My lord, the curfew has passed.”
“Curfew, Uncle?” asked Elgiva.
Bellic nodded. “We must keep to our homes after sunset. Those who do not may fall prey to the fetchen. At night, they terrorise the forest, but they must return to their lairs before dawn, until their master finds a way to free them forever by wielding the stone.” Bellic’s hands fretted in their chains. “I am unable to defend myself. These chains block my powers, and I must fear the fetchen no less than the lowliest of the nar-wardain.”
“If I can’t remove your chains,” said Elgiva, “perhaps Queen Gilda can.”
“She is a powerful wardain, my dear, but do not worry on my account.”
“It’s difficult not to,” said Elgiva. “We need your powers, Uncle.”
Bellic was disconcerted. Clearly he had hoped for more personal a concern.
“We need all the help we can get. I know what evil the fetchen possess. I dare say their touch could freeze the soul. They attacked us at the circle of stones.”
“How did you purchase your escape?”
His question called up thoughts of Godwin and twinges of self-reproach. It had caused her pain to leave him behind. “I told you of my friend who bears a magic sword? I used that sword to channel my power. I unleashed great force without harming myself.”
“You did not bring it with you?”
Elgiva glared at him. “It belongs to Godwin. It was a gift, his birth-right, Uncle Bellic, and I couldn’t take it from him. Even though he offered me the use of it, I refused.”
“Refused?” He lifted his eyebrows.
“He wished to stay with our injured pony,” Elgiva said. “How could I take his sole means of protection?”
“I admire your concern for your friend, Elgiva, but the future of Elvendom is more pressing. You should have compelled him to come with you.”
“Compelled,” she said. “I’m not Vieldrin!”
Bellic nodded and then smiled. “Indeed you are not.”
“Please, my lord,” Merrill said.
With a weary sigh, Bellic hauled himself erect. “I must go,” he said. “I fear you must put out the fire, lest its light draws prying eyes.”
Trystin jumped to his feet. “Why can’t we steal the stone?”
“It is always at Vieldrin’s side, and he is surrounded by guards,” said Bellic. “Could you steal it without his knowledge?”
“Turn me into a mouse,” said Trystin. “I’ll get into his hall—”
“And how will you carry the Lorestone, Trystin?” Bellic smiled.
“Then I’ll make him use it on me!”
“He would not,” said Bellic. “You would throw your life away needlessly.”
“But we must do something!”
“For now, we must be patient, Trystin. Impetuous acts will only undo us. When Gilda arrives, we will think of a way to foil Vieldrin’s plans.”
Trystin pouted and sat down.
“Good night, my dear,” said Bellic, kissing Elgiva on the brow. “Good night, Trystin. Try to rest. Stay in this cave, and you will be safe. I sent the royal herd to look for you because they come and go as they please, so their movements do not arouse suspicion. Nobody knows you are here.” He turned towards the captain. “Merrill, I am ready.”
Elgiva threw dirt on the fire, and the cave was plunged into darkness. She and Trystin sat in silence, wrestling with their thoughts.
“Why don’t you try to rest awhile?” suggested Elgiva.
“Lord Bellic is wrong,” said Trystin. “We should do something now. I could do something.”
“What could you do?”
“Vieldrin will be in the great hall,” he said. “I’ll go there. He’ll have the stone with him.”
“You don’t know where the hall is, and anyway, you’d just get yourself killed,” she protested. He slumped further into himself, and she sighed. “I’m sorry, Trystin, but it’s no use.”
He didn’t respond, and she left him to sulk, too tired for further discussion on the matter. She rested the back of her head on the stone behind her. Soon, she began to drowse.
“I don’t care what you say . . . I’m going!” cried Trystin, springing to his feet.
He bolted out of the cave. His sudden departure took Elgiva by complete surprise, and he had gone before she could stop him.
She tore after the elfling, fearing to shout in case the fetchen or the guards heard her. She hurled a thin ribbon of harmless fire in his general direction, hoping to bring him to his senses. She could easily have killed him to prevent whatever reckless act he intended to perform, but she loved the elfling far too much. She resolved to make no further attempts to hinder his progress by magic. She feared what her anger might unleash, and she couldn’t afford to alert whatever patrolled the benighted forest.
She was forced to rely on her native speed, but Trystin was younger and faster and fuelled by determination. He flitted through the underwood, the distance between them increasing all the time. She would never catch him. Soon, he was swallowed up by the trees and the all-embracing darkness.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Godwin explained the situation as briefly as he could to Captain Tercel. The dour-faced young captain was every inch a warrior as he sat on his handsome horse, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He gave Godwin a cursory nod, said something to his horse, and the animal wheeled about and trotted back to the litter.
Sword in hand, Godwin waited while the captain spoke to whoever was concealed behind the sumptuous golden drapes. At length, the captain hailed him.
“The queen requests you to descend,” he said. “She would have speech with you, wilthkin.” His tone made it clear that this was an order, not an invitation.
Godwin clambered down the bank, Grimalkin and the elf-horse following close behind. He made for the golden litter, escorted by the lance-bearing guards. When he had approached within a few yards, the captain cried, “Hold!” and Godwin stopped in his tracks. The golden drapes were swished aside.
An apparition of loveliness moved from the litter and set her golden sandals upon the torch-lit sward.
Queen Gilda appeared to be middle-aged, old enough to be his mother, but it didn’t matter; Godwin was stunned by the vision before him. The black hair falling to her waist had the merest suggestion of silver in it, while her body, though slightly plump, moved with the elegance of a swan. Her face had a comfortable aspect, the fine lines at the corners of her mouth showing a predisposition to laughter, while her dark eyes glittered like gems. A circlet of gold stars crowned her head, and each star had a pearl at its centre. In the long white robe that skimmed the grass, she possessed all the trappings of royalty. And she radiated power.
She scrutinised Godwin, and her eyes seemed to see right through him. She smiled with such warmth that he felt his heart melt.
“Invaginate your sword, young man,” Queen Gilda commanded, her eyebrows arched with mischievous humour.
He lifted the sword and gaped at it. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. At the sight of the blade, the elf-queen’s face lit up with pleasure.
“Come closer,” she said.
Godwin stepped towards her. The nearer he was, the greater became Queen Gilda’s emanations. She shimmered with benevolent power. Magic had touched him so many times that he could now easily sense its presence, and before him stood a being whose powers were fully matured; they took his breath away. But with this knowledge came a sudden, unwelcome realisation: Elgiva totally lacked this aura.
“Your sword, if you please,” said Queen Gilda.
Godwin extended the weapon, and she took it from him with a smile. To his surprise, it began to hum, as though overjoyed by her touch.
“Many moons have travelled the sky since last I held you, Taranuil,” said the
elf-queen. She flashed her glittering eyes at Godwin, and he almost dissolved into the grass. “Do I enchant you, Aidan?”
Godwin stood, mesmerised, a yearning for the elf-queen throbbing in his veins. “You . . . you’re so beautiful.”
She grinned, revealing her perfect white teeth. “It would seem that I do. Please forgive me.”
The queen touched him on the cheek. For a moment, his brain reeled with desire, and then the night congealed about him and drew into focus.
“Aidan, dear, I am glad to see that you have treasured my gift,” she said. “Has it shown you your courage?”
Godwin was taken aback. “Your gift?”
“Use the proper form of address,” muttered the captain beside the litter.
“Quell your indignation, Tercel,” chided Queen Gilda. “He is unfamiliar with our ways. We will dispense with formalities.”
The captain bowed stiffly. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“How fares your father, Aidan?” asked the queen.
Godwin fought for self-control. “My father is dead, my lady.”
“Ah, me!” Her expression darkened with sorrow. “He was a good wilthkin. And what of your mother?”
“She, too.”
“I am sorry for that,” she said.
“My lady, this is all a bit too much for me to take in. Did you say you gave me this sword?”
“It was my birth gift to you,” she replied. “The magic it contains is mine.”
“Then I must thank you,” said Godwin.
“There is no need.” She smiled. Her warm, melodic voice took the edge off his confusion, and he started to feel at ease.
“You travel with little Elgiva. She has gone to see Bellic, I am told, and we also are planning to meet him. It is my intention to treat for peace in the hope this will buy us some time—though how we shall use the time so gained is a matter quite beyond me. I have heard of this Lorestone, of course, but lacking lore wisdom as I do, I know little about such things. I must hope Lord Bellic contrives some means of foiling Vieldrin’s plans. My army follows close behind. I intend to make camp here and wait for them.” She turned towards the captain. “Tercel, my dear, we will rest here.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The captain marched down the procession, barking orders at the elves.
Queen Gilda glanced at Taranuil. “Sleep now,” she said as she handed the sword back to its master.
Godwin slid the sword back into its scabbard.
“Will you eat with us, Aidan?” asked the queen. “You have a lean and hungry look. A little food would be welcome, I think.”
She offered Godwin her pale-skinned hand, and they strolled towards a heap of wood the servants had stacked upon the grass. With a glance, she set it alight.
“When I made you the gift of Taranuil, I also made a promise, my dear,” the queen said. “I offered you my protection, should you ever lose your family. Perhaps you are a little too old to be in need of adoption, yet I will have you as a son, in memory of your dear, kind father. He was so good to my own child. And now, I may deal kindly with his. Hold out your right hand, Aidan.”
When he complied, she grasped his hand and pressed their palms together. There was a brief sensation of heat, and when she withdrew, there was a mark upon his skin—a brand in the shape of a star, and within it, a rune that meant nothing to him, but it was identical to the marks on Taranuil.
“That is my mark,” explained Queen Gilda. “No matter where you travel, this brand guarantees safe passage through all the elven lands. Likewise, no elf who sees this mark will refuse you food or shelter. From now on, you are elfryth—elf-friend.”
Godwin was lost for words. All of his thoughts revolved around the magic of the elf-queen’s touch. A servant scurried forwards and offered him fruit on a golden tray. He helped himself without looking.
“Henceforth, you may call yourself my son, and if my counsellors disapprove, still they must accept it. They will throw up their hands in horror, of course, and fret about the unthinkable—a wilthkin inheriting Urith-Endil!”
Godwin almost choked on the fruit. Looking up, he saw Captain Tercel standing some yards away. His face was humourless and dark with disapproval and, Godwin suspected, a touch of envy.
The queen’s mellifluous laughter rang in Godwin’s ears. “Aidan, do not worry. I have two sons and a daughter. They and their issue will rule after me.”
The future was nothing if not uncertain, and there were no guarantees. Godwin forced a smile to conceal his disquiet.
“I am honoured to be your adopted son,” he said, bowing.
“And I am glad you accept the title.”
Godwin searched the grass at his feet, looking for some composure, and then he remembered his obligations. “Lady, I think I should leave now,” he said.
Queen Gilda’s eyebrows lifted in query.
“I intended to follow Elgiva as soon as our pony was able to travel.” He looked out over the landscape. The dawn was breaking in the east.
“Indeed. Your friend is dear to you, and you wish to be at her side. Forgive me for detaining you. I am loath to let you go, my dear, but perhaps if you rode on ahead of us, you could forewarn Lord Bellic of our arrival. That lovely elf-horse will get you there swiftly.”
Godwin eyed the great stallion warily. He had never ridden a horse and his experience of equines was limited to Lord Othere’s docile pack ponies.
“I can’t ride him,” Godwin said.
“The old pony, then?” Queen Gilda lowered her voice. “But she is ewe-necked, poor dear, and has too little heart-room. A perilous mount, to be sure. You do not intend to ride her, my son?”
Godwin blinked at Queen Gilda. He didn’t intend to ride either of them, but he understood the need for haste. How could he give in to cowardice when he was the son of an elven queen?
As if to mirror his thoughts, she said, “You must ride a beast that accords with your rank.”
Godwin had no choice. Bowing to the queen, he went to meet his fate.
“Hold, my son!” she commanded.
For a second, Godwin ignored her, already forgetting his newfound status. The ensuing silence reminded him, and he turned to face the queen.
“No son of mine, by birth or adoption, shall walk the land like a beggar,” she said. “Those filthy rags must be transformed.”
Filthy rags? He looked down at himself and saw, as if for the first time, the dried blood that stiffened the material of his leggings. It puzzled him for a moment until he remembered the sarsen ring and how he had slipped on the gore-caked grass. His clothes were stained and ragged. They were filthy, and so was he.
She made a brief gesture in the air, and he was engulfed by a golden light. It spiralled about him and then gradually receded. To his astonishment, Godwin was now attired in Queen Gilda’s colours. His clothes were new and impeccably white, and on his tunic, above his heart, a gold star was embroidered. Magic had combed out the knots in his hair and scraped away his itchy beard. He felt as fresh as the dawn.
He gaped at his new garments. “By Frigg!”
Queen Gilda laughed, and her beautiful hands were clasped at her breast with delight. “What a fine elf you would make, my son!”
Godwin smiled and bowed his thanks and then turned towards Tanarus. The muscled bulk of the mighty horse loomed over him. Godwin touched the animal’s mane and felt him flinch.
“Look,” said Godwin, “you don’t want me on your back any more than I want to be there, but we have no choice in the matter.”
He tried to mount the great horse, while behind him, the queen’s attendants muffled their laughter. A sharp word from their mistress prompted several of them to come to his assistance. They heaved the reluctant warrior onto the animal’s back. The ground reeled far below him, but between the hard earth and Godwin’s fear was the bulk of the haughty stallion, a creature of frightening power and speed.
“Tanarus,” asked Godwin, “can I hang onto your mane?”
�
�If you must,” said Tanarus, stamping his foot.
“Go with all haste,” Queen Gilda urged. “We will follow anon. Goodbye, my son.”
“Goodbye . . . er . . . mother,” said Godwin.
With a horrible jolt, Tanarus set off, and Godwin clung to his mane. Every muscle was tensed to stop him from sliding off the smooth back while the world flew past him. This was a new experience for Godwin and one he wouldn’t care to repeat. He risked a glance behind him. Grimalkin was tearing after them, and he feared she would overtax herself, but he was grateful for her presence.
***
Here was the chance for Trystin to prove himself by redeeming Faine’s gift from the clutches of evil. Now was the time to show his friends that he was an asset to them, not merely an item of baggage they had brought from Misterell, a silly elfling ruled by his fears. But he must be swift. He ran through the leafy bowers, avoiding the pathways and glades where dwellings lay still cloaked in sleep.
At last he found the great hall. Crouching low in the underwood, he took stock of his surroundings. A handful of guards stood outside the main doors, talking in lowered voices. Torches were set in the ground before them.
Life in Misterell had taught him stealth, and he knew how to move without making a sound. He noticed a door at the side of the hall and crept towards it, like a shadow. A lone guard patrolled the flank of the building, and Trystin sat and watched him, wondering how to divert the sentry’s attention so he could slip in through the door.
Then the guards at the main doors started to quarrel, and their voices rose in contention. Scowling, the sentry left his post and joined them. Trystin seized his chance and within moments, he was at the side door. The latch was unbolted, and his heart leapt with joy at his good fortune.
He slipped inside, into semi-darkness with only the light of a solitary torch that smoked above the hearth. Closing the door behind him, he tiptoed over the wooden floor.
Beside the hearth lay a massive hound. It lifted its head and snarled. The dying embers of the fire cast a reddish light on the animal’s back, and its large eyes glowed like rubies.
“Hush, friend dog,” whispered Trystin, a finger against his lips.
