by Ellyn, Court
He searched mentally through the untidy notes he’d left at Windhaven. Elarion for ‘elves.’ Wytha for ‘meadow.’ He gasped. “Ilswythe!”
Aerdria nodded. “The same.”
“The ten white stones in our curtain wall?”
“Our celestial markers.”
“Mother above.” Kieryn sank deeper into his chair. “But how?”
“After the turmoil between Elari and human had spread across the continent, it was Amanthia’s misfortune to form an attachment to one of the local human chieftains. He was Edur. A great love grew between them, despite the spreading bigotry. When the stars and moons did not occupy her, she played for her lover upon a silver harp and sang with a voice sweeter than any birdsong.”
Had Kieryn ever felt so deep a shame? “It hangs over the doors in the Great Hall.”
“ ‘Twas hers.” The old sorrow was plain in Aerdria’s lavender eyes.
“How … how was it lost to her?” Kieryn asked, afraid to hear the truth.
“By the time the War reached Avidanyth, Edur had grown old, and Amanthia had given him a son whom they called Anyr. To aid relations with his father’s people, Anyr was made to take a wife from among the human clans, but even this failed to ease tensions. The woman given to Anyr feared his avedra abilities and distrusted his mother’s kind. When the woman, in turn, had a son, she named him Mahel and raised him to fear and distrust we Elarion. Battle broke over the Drakhans and swept into the Wood by the time Mahel was of age to take up arms against us. He and his followers overran Ilswythe. Anyr was slain, as was old Edur. Our circle was destroyed, and Mahel used the stones to build the foundation of his fortress. Amanthia fled back to Linndun, her heart broken, and she abandoned her harp. She neither played nor sang after that.”
“Why didn’t Anyr stop this?” Kieryn cried. “He was avedra, he had the ability!”
“You haven’t yet sons of your own,” Aerdria replied. “If anyone was torn between sides during the War, it was the avedrin. And they weren’t rare in those days. Many joined with their Elaran kin, many with their human. Fire and slaughter threatened to consume both sides. Anyr suffered this dilemma. He could not lift a hand against his mother’s people or his father’s, and certainly not against his own son. Even if he had acted, I think he would’ve only staved off the inevitable.”
“So Mahel destroyed everything but the harp?”
“We later learned that though Mahel loathed the Elaran blood in his veins, he remembered with fondness his grandmother’s music, so he kept the harp in a place of honor where none could harm it.”
With a tiny measure of hope, Kieryn asked, “It’s more than a trophy of conquest, then?”
“To Mahel, yes. To later generations, I don’t think so.”
Kieryn thought of his father and couldn’t meet Aerdria’s eye.
“I stayed alert—meaning I asked the fairies to be watchful—for signs of another avedra in Amanthia’s line. For centuries I was disappointed. So I was surprised when Saffron left me one night, only to return to say that you’d been born. Your azeth, Kieryn, burns as brightly as that of any first-generation avedra. It seems that all those belated powers have converged in you.”
“If Kelyn and I are twins,” he asked, unable to quell the troubled pitch in his voice, “why is he not avedra as well?”
Aerdria shrugged a delicate shoulder. “The most substantial answer I can give is that the Mother-Father desired only one avedra. We are all children of purpose, Kieryn. Your brother has his purpose. You have yours.”
The explanation failed to console. “It comes from my father, after all.” When Aerdria said nothing, Kieryn made himself laugh at the irony. “How do I tell him?”
“Why should you?”
Kieryn glanced into his mead for an answer. “If he knows, he can’t very well go on hating you—or me—can he?”
“Hatred that runs so deep is hard to relinquish. You may resent him, but can you blame him? His bias is older than human memory, Kieryn. The changing of it will not come easily. I have seen that only the strongest men will invite so drastic a change within themselves.”
“But why hate your kind—my kind—in the first place?”
“Hmm, shall I tell you of the Crossing now?” Aerdria asked. “For that is the beginning of our relations with the duinóvion.”
Kieryn breathed deeply to cool the anger that had risen in his heart and said, “If it please you, Lady.”
Aerdria turned to Zellel, whose head drooped over an empty goblet. “You have heard this tale often enough, old friend. Do you wish to retire before I bore you with it again?”
Zellel scooted farther down in his chair and clasped the goblet tighter in both hands. “Your voice is music in my ears, Lady. And the mystery of the tale never ceases to intrigue me.”
“I suppose that is the word for it—‘mystery’.”
“But Laniel said you took part in the Crossing,” Kieryn recalled. “He said you would know the most about it.”
“He is right. But I was merely a babe at the time, and even though I was later Dorelia’s companion, she told me very little.”
“She allowed the truth to be forgotten?”
“Perhaps. Let me begin this way: over four thousand years ago, a great migration occurred. You know the maps. Lethryn is divided mostly between Dwinóvia and the Great Fire Sea. But in the far south there is that other land. Most maps don’t bother with a name. We Elarion call that place Ashdyria, the Land of Exiles. We journeyed from Ashdyria in dragon-prowed ships, and the Lady Dorelia led us in the Dal Le’an, Star of the Seas.”
“But why?” Kieryn asked, a thrill of excitement in his belly. After the many nights of pondering the legends and lore by secret candlelight, he was finally able to ask the question aloud. “Why did your kind come here?”
The question, however, was destined to go unanswered. “No one knows. I was born aboard the Dal Le’an on the Sea of Kantavlea, and as the only one left of that age, even I cannot know. Elaran scholars, avedra scholars, even a few human scholars have delved into the histories we do have, looking for answers, forming theories. Scholars who didn’t know Dorelia suggest she was a tyrant, thrown out by those of our kind who may still dwell in Ashdyria. But I knew her well, and though she was a powerful leader, commanding thousands, she did so with generosity and honor. So many do not follow a tyrant willingly for so long.
“Other scholars have speculated that Dorelia, and those who left with her, held revolutionary ideas concerning Ana-Forah or of the heavens or of Elaran society, and were obliged to leave or be labeled heretics of some sort. Still others believe that factions and wars among our kind drove a peace-seeking Dorelia over the waters. And others who study maps old and new, say that cataclysmic changes in the land or climate made Ashdyria an unpleasant place to live. Did only small numbers of us come, or all who were left?
“In any case, we settled across the sea. Dan Ora’as in your tongue means ‘Home of New Beginnings.’ We can deduce from that name alone that we did not come for reasons of simple exploration. Something drove us here.”
“Did Dorelia never record any of this?” The idea bordered on criminal neglect. Kieryn was horrified.
“If she did, none of the works survived the War.”
“Damned war.”
His resentment earned him another smile. Could Aerdria find anything that didn’t merit a smile of some sort? Perhaps, after surviving so much pain, so much change, she had learned that affection and longsuffering would help her survive anything. A youth’s angry outburst was little, really.
“I am sorry I can give you no more than speculation.” She set aside her goblet, little more than a sip of mead tasted. “In addition to writing nothing down, some of us believe that Dorelia may have used a spell to eradicate the memory of those who sailed with her. Neither of my parents were able to tell me more than Dorelia did. Everyone spoke of Ashdyria as a memory lost forever in the spindrift.”
“And here you encounte
red humans,” Kieryn prompted.
“We had dealt with humans long before it seems. We do have written records of that. Between Ashdyria and Dorél lies a chain of islands, you know it? The Kantava Archipelago. We had used these islands to trade with the duinóvion, though contact was minimal—meaning there were not yet intermarriages. In this way, we knew how expansive and fertile and relatively empty their land was. When we crossed the sea, though, we had no ambitions of conquest. Had we, our technologies, magics, and military tactics would’ve allowed us to annihilate humankind. But it is our nature to live in harmony with the world and its inhabitants. We chose to settle in remote regions where humans had set little mark. For their sake, Dan Ora’as was built in a remote mountain valley.”
“But trouble came.”
“For three thousand years we lived in peace, though looking back, I can see how quickly tensions rose between our races. We brought with us our knowledge of the heavens, metallurgy, architecture, and we called upon one Deity, while humans insisted on many.
“When our arrival became known, humans sought us, hoping to learn all we could teach them. They mimicked our weapons and cities, art and manners, and mixed elements of our language with theirs. But, in the end, what humans cannot master or comprehend, they will either condemn or deify. The latter occurred first. Men and women from every station, every tribe, looked on Dorelia as a goddess come to earth. Because of her extensive knowledge of the workings of the universe, Dorelia seemed able to predict droughts, floods and plagues, eclipses of sun and moons, all sorts of ‘mysterious’ phenomena. But she assured them she was an earthly being with limited knowledge like themselves. She could not foresee the future or control the rain, and she would not live forever.
“After we had spread across Dwinóvia, the truth of what we were—just an older, more advanced people—began to sink in. Disillusionment and resentment quickly followed. When we were no longer viewed as deities, our longevity, our magics, were seen as unfair advantages. Humans began to fear us, and finally they condemned.”
Aerdria paused for a long moment, lavender eyes crossing the ages, reflecting the sadness in her soul.
“This is all so vague though,” Kieryn remarked. “What actually started the war? Or did it just … evolve?”
The depth of centuries receded from Aerdria’s eyes as she returned to the parlor. “I shall tell you the tale of Tirnan’s Arrow, if you like. That one arrow was the fulcrum upon which our entire history turned.”
Kieryn poured himself another goblet and filled Zellel’s to the brim.
“Want to see me drunk, boy?” the Hereti groused.
“Only if you’re a laughing drunk.”
Aerdria suppressed a laugh with long, white fingers. Zellel sipped and took no notice.
Settling back in the deep leather armchair, Kieryn closed his eyes and allowed Aerdria’s musical voice to flood over him. The spell of her words painted images so clear that she seemed to be giving Kieryn pieces of her memory.
“Tirnan was a kinsman of Dorelia, a hunter and warrior of renown. He honored Dorelia’s desires that we act as guide and friend to humanity, despite the sparks of loathing that, by this time, heated the veins of both the intolerant humans and we disheartened Elarion. Tirnan was tireless in his attempts to promote peace. Now I can only mourn that one of his immaculate character should be remembered for initiating the bloodshed.
“Human clans warred constantly, which confounded us. Their ability to kill one another was only increased by the introduction of our steel. North of Dan Ora’as, on the edge of the desert, one clan descended upon a rival village and slaughtered everyone but a single girl and her brother. These two alone escaped into the mountains. Tirnan and his hunting party discovered them freezing and hungry, and, worse, the brother had been wounded. Tirnan brought them back to Dan Ora’as, where the boy eventually died, despite our care. The girl remained with us for a time, mourning the loss of her family. For comfort she turned to her savior. But no human was allowed to live among us for long, and though it pained him greatly, Tirnan agreed to give the girl back to her own kind. They returned to our city a few days later, bringing dire news.
“Men had discovered their camp and recognized the girl as a daughter of their enemy. They tried to drag her away to do Goddess knows what. Tirnan warned them off, but they didn’t listen. And why should they? No Elari had ever harmed a human before. We had fought other foes, but never men. Tirnan nocked an arrow and let it fly. It struck one of the men in the throat. The others dropped the girl and fled.
“Had the men owned the least measure of honor, they would’ve told their clansmen the truth, and nothing more might’ve come of it. But we soon learned that the humans believed an entire company of Elarion had amassed against them, that we had abducted the girl and held her captive.
“Dorelia confessed to me that, for a long time, she had expected a disaster like this. If it hadn’t been Tirnan, it would’ve been someone else. She dealt gently with him, allowed him to keep the girl for his wife, especially when her belly began to swell, and gave them the means to build a home in the mountains. But the arrow had flown, and no one could snatch it back.
“Humans rallied together, clan joining clan. They attacked our cities with relentless fervor. We repulsed them time and again. How I mourned when Dorelia ordered a wall built around Dan Ora’as. But in time the wall was breached, and we were forced to flee.”
“And what happened to Tirnan?”
“His band of warriors, the Night Crows, they called themselves, were eventually found and slain, every one. His woman grew old and died in the years just before our exodus from Dan Ora’as. And the child, an avedra, of course, was forced to endure the same sort of struggle that your kinsman, Anyr, endured. He was torn between his father’s kind and his mother’s, which prompted him to become what many avedrin become: a mediator between both worlds, scorned by both, needed by both.”
“And that’s what’s in store for me?” Kieryn asked, looking from Aerdria to Zellel.
On the arm of Kieryn’s chair, near his right hand, a golden light accumulated, drawing sustenance from lamp and candle. Saffron regarded him sadly. “No one can determine that but the Mother-Father and you yourself, my Kieryn. Ana-Forah lays down the road for you, you walk it or turn aside. Seldom is it permitted for one to forge their own path, because the consequences are more far-reaching than we can understand.”
“I don’t like the idea that I don’t have a choice,” Kieryn said.
“Did you choose to be born avedra?”
“Certainly not.”
“No.” The fairy shook her head sagely; her bright hair swirled about her shoulders. “Yet you are learning how to cope with this path. Just as any traveler, you’ll encounter obstacles, and it is your choice how you will respond to them. How you get around them, deal with them, determines what and who you will become. Then, whether or not you are scorned becomes immaterial.”
Spelled out like this, life sounded daunting at best. “You will be there to help me?”
Saffron’s small face brightened with affection. “I can’t make decisions for you, my Kieryn. But I will not leave you until the day you die.”
“Cold comfort.”
“It will warm you well enough, when you need it.”
Kieryn gulped the mead. “What became of her … of Dorelia?”
“She came here, of course,” Saffron answered. “Then went to Ana.”
“After all that, she just died? I don’t believe it.”
“No, no,” Aerdria said. “ ‘Gone to Ana’ is the correct phrasing. It’s different than the azeth leaving the body. The body actually goes with it. The Mother-Father reserves that for we Elarion, whether it’s a privilege or not. We live long lives with no end in sight, and at times our suffering becomes too much to bear. Then we may call upon Ana to take us unto herself in the Realm of Divine. When death does not come to us by blade or bow, this is the way we eventually depart the Realm of Magic.
“Dorelia’s spirit was crushed by the sadness she endured during the War. We convinced her to leave Dan Ora’as with us. We told her that humanity may be more tolerant in the north. We journeyed from Dorél, through Harena, into Roresha and back across the Drakhan Mountains, but everywhere we went, we encountered the same hostility. We joined my sister here in Linndun, but the War followed. I saw Ilswythe destroyed and overtaken, I held my sister while she wept for the loss of her husband and son at the hands of her grandson, I watched Dorelia and Amanthia both shrivel to shadows of their former beauty, and I wept when they left me.”
“Yet you do not follow them?”
She smiled gently. “I still have hope. Not that the world will return to the way it was, or that we Elarion will have the fellowship among humanity that we once did. But I hope that my people can live in peace amid an ocean of hostility. And I hope that miracles like you will continue to bless us with a desire to understand. The fact that avedrin exist helps me remember that hate need not consume all, that differences are largely superficial, that Ana is a deity of mercy.”
“Indeed,” Zellel muttered, even while his beard sank further down his chest. He roused with a grunt and set his goblet upon the tray. “My Lady,” he said, “I ask that you forgive us, but the day has been long. I will retire before my body melds to this chair, and my pupil will do likewise, before he starts asking stupid questions.”
“Of course, my friend,” Aerdria said, rising like the silver moon in the darkness. “Good night and Goddess’ blessing upon you.”
Kieryn’s rooms lay to the left of the parlor. Despite sumptuous silken bedding that embraced him as coolly and weightlessly as a cloud, he lay awake deep into the night, thinking of silver harps, journeys over a far sea, and his father’s elvish blue eyes.
~~~~
