“A Ferian,” Herr’Don observed, as surprised as any of them that one of that race would cross the Hamis into Telarym.
“Oh, do not be so gruff with the name of my race,” Elithéa barked. “Many die at the hands of the Éalgarth for a lesser crime.”
Herr’Don looked ready to give in to the challenge and fight her then and there. “You are outnumbered by far, though I would warrant that my blade alone would do the job.”
“Do the job? It seems you think quite highly of yourself, little Man,” Elithéa said, spitting the words at him. “I do not think your attempt will be necessary, however, as I am not here for battle.”
“What brings you so far from Westhaven, dear Elithéa of the Ferian?” Délin asked, and he stepped forward with his hands extended, palm outwards, in token of parley.
“Ah, some courtesy, I see. Let us hope it lasts. My reason is the reason that also brings you, though in truth it breeds more danger for you than I,” she replied. The figure behind her stepped forward, and she held out her arm, halting him. It was a hooded man, and when he looked up, Ifferon could see his dark face, which bore long, unkempt hair, blacker than the dark rings about his eyes. Elithéa glanced at him sharply, and he returned the look. “This is the one known to me as Aralus of Thistlecover, a Man from Boror who consorts with the Al-Ferian, as if to double his crimes against the world.”
“And now that we’ve all got off to a friendly start,” Aralus said, “let’s have a feast! I caught two wolves earlier this day, and they make for some fine feasting with a sprinkling of hickory and thyme. Delicious!” He licked his lips with a long, slimy tongue.
“If you were to trust his cooking you would deserve whatever foul poisons he would likely use,” Elithéa said. “Nature would not suffer a scoundrel like him to pluck the true herbs from her good earth.”
“Why do you keep company if you bear such scorn for one another?” Thalla asked.
“I will not let the rogue out of my keen sight, unless he proves to me his worth, and that I doubt. A little Man is a little Man, but those little Men who converse with the Al-Ferian and harbour darkness beneath their coat are smaller still.”
“I’m as tall as you!” Aralus protested, straightening his back. “Oh, you mean, little in valour. Ah, I see. I was initially led astray by the fair assumption that you, simple as the rest of your race, were not capable of such subtlety. An easy mistake, my fair lady.”
“Keep silent or I will be forced to silence you!” Elithéa shouted. “And that, Aralus, you can take as I speak it.”
“If you come with quarrels,” Délin said, “then you can go as quickly as you have come, for I am in no mood for them. Now, tell me, Elithéa, where is it that you were heading, with or without your hooded friend?”
“Friend? Perhaps you have been confused by our quarrels,” Elithéa said. “We are no friends.”
“Don’t be like that, dear Elly,” Aralus said. “I’ll be your friend if you’ll be mine.” He extended a thin, withered hand plastered in muck to her. Ifferon could see little of his face from the depths of his hood, but caught a gleam of a smirk.
Elithéa ignored him. “I was sent by the head of the Matriarchate of Westhaven—”
“To make some friends,” Aralus interjected, smiling broadly and pointing to himself.
“—to see how the Garigút are doing at Nahragor, for we heard news that they were attempting to lay siege to the Black Bastion. It is my duty, as an Éalgarth of the Ferian, to bring news, good or ill, of how the Garigút fair, and to bring it swiftly back to Westhaven.”
“In other words,” Aralus explained, “she’s a spy!”
“Not in the least!” Elithéa snapped. “If Nahragor should fall, then the Matriarchate would have reason to declare war on the Dolmors down south.”
“Would they not have reason to come to the aid of the Garigút and help them succeed at Nahragor?” Herr’Don asked.
“The Dolmors are a more pressing threat.”
“Then why do your leaders not declare war on them now?”
“If it goes ill at Nahragor, then the next to face the wrath of Agon after the fall of your race would be the Ferian and Al-Ferian, and we could not fight Dolmor and Taarí and the Dark Men of Nahlin all at once.”
“Then why not help Man at Nahragor so that Man can help you with the Dolmors?”
“You either lie or jest, for Man is not a helping race. Man is a selfish breed, never looking beyond its borders.”
“Hypocrisy is a dark deed,” Délin said. “You speak ill of Man for our supposed selfishness, yet you proclaim that you only watch the Garigút’s last stand so you can decide whether or not to go to war with the nearest threat to your borders. Surely you see the contradiction of that claim?”
“And how dare you speak ill of Man when the Garigút go well beyond their borders to fight on behalf of all races here!” Herr’Don said. “An insult to Herr’Don the Great is a darker deed, but an insult to the honour of his race is the darkest yet!”
“Oh, do not be so thespian,” Elithéa said, scorn thick in her throat. “You have no legion to unite and inspire with high speeches and lofty claims. I am not here to rally to your cause, whatever misguided notion that may be. If it were not the forces of Nahragor hunting you down, you would be picking each other off like rats and feasting on the remains. Such is the way of your race.”
“I have tried,” Aralus said, nodding his head. “I have tried to make her less judgemental, but then I suppose we should expect it from a Ferian. Ha, and she wonders why I live in Al-Ferian lands. Do you think, dearest Elly, that your race, with such a love of outsiders, would kindly welcome me?”
“We would welcome the Dark Men ere we welcome you,” she replied.
“See?” Aralus told the others. “It’s just insult after insult. One minute she’s fighting Agon, and the next she’s welcoming him to Westhaven. Treason and abuse are the best that she offers.”
“And what, pray tell, is your purpose in these lands, Aralus of Thistlecover?” Délin asked.
Aralus combed his fingers through his hair, but did not pull down his hood, and he wiped the grease upon his leather vestments. “I am here not to be goaded on by such beasts as Elithéa, nor to spend my time quarrelling, but to hunt the less wild beasts of these hills.”
“The Dead Hills?” Délin questioned, his brow furrowing and his stare tightening.
“There are wild beasts on every turn of the land of Arlin, Boror, and Alimror,” Elithéa said. “You speak more falsities than a thief caught stealing jewels from a noble.”
“At least my words have removed the venom that they might speak,” Aralus replied. “Can we say the same of yours?”
“This must stop!” Délin cried. “We have no need of conflict here, not when we are in danger of ravenous wolves, and not even in the open fields of a summer’s day when the Adversary is destroyed and we are busy in our rejoicing! Keep your judgements to yourselves and air them freely when the tension has been driven from us like a blade through the heart of the Beast!”
“Aye, Délin speaks truly,” Herr’Don added. “We have seen enough quarrels to last us a lifetime, so let us keep the blade of our tongues for the first true enemy we encounter, and then let us unleash it with violence and vengeance!” He looked to Délin, as if for approval, but none came.
* * *
Despite the company’s fervent pleas, the day passed without silence or peace, for the Ferian would not falter her advance on Aralus, and nor would he back down from his stance against her. Aralus hid beneath his hood for most of the day, and it was only when dusk approached that he let it down and shook his head violently. Délin watched him with disgust, and indeed Ifferon could see his view, for the knight was cleanly shaven, even now in these bleak surroundings away from civilisation, but this consort of the Al-Ferian wore a rugged beard and messy, slimy hair that reached past his shoulders, more twisted and tangled than the roots of the trees in the Dark Forest of Idor-Hol. Eve
n with his hood down his face was masked in shadow, as if he bore some long scars that he could not reveal. The only clear thing that Ifferon could tell was that he was gaunt in feature, for his dark eyes peered out from deep depressions in his face, and he looked as though he might collapse of frailty there and then, or, worse yet, might carry some disease that might strike frailty and death into them all.
The moon shone that night, and Elithéa and Ifferon stood side-by-side staring at it when things had calmed down. “The Light of Úlithé,” she said, her voice soft. For the first time since their meeting, Ifferon heard no anger or loathing in her speech.
“We call her Uldarus in our tongue,” Ifferon explained. “She does not shine as brightly as her twin, Ilios the sun, but for me it seems that her light is stronger, for it shines in darkness.”
“If it shines at all,” Elithéa said.
“If it shines,” Ifferon acknowledged, nodding slowly. “I have seen this sight on many nights, and every time I look upon it, I am still awestruck by its beauty.”
She paused and looked at Ifferon curiously, her narrow eyes becoming even smaller as she inspected him. “You seem an awfully strange Man to take to such things. What breed are you?”
“Breed?” Ifferon quizzed. “I am no special breed. Just a Bororian cleric seeking peace. Just Ifferon, son of Benegon.” He did not tell her he was also a Child of Telm, but the thought crossed his mind, as if the echoes of the Last Words were resounding in the distance.
“It is strange to see a Bororian wander Taarí lands. Are you one of the Garigút?”
“No, though I spent some time with them in the past. Now I march alone.”
“And e’er do you march closer to death,” Elithéa said. “For Halés and Feloklin are near. And what life of peace will you live when all the world is at war?”
Ifferon nodded solemnly. “Even my hideaway at Larksong was attacked. I thought I was safe there. I never really felt safe, of course, but there were a few years there when I was not troubled overmuch. But I was found. The ships of the Adversary came. Now the monastery lies in ruins, or perhaps it has been rebuilt as some fortress of Agon in my homeland.”
“That is a horrid fate for one’s home,” Elithéa said, shaking her head. “If e’er Féthal, my home, was to be sundered so, I would be wounded deeply, for, Éalgarth that I am, all Ferian invest much of their lives into the land that they come from, as should all races, though many people in Iraldas think little of that which supports them and gives them life.” She stopped and looked at him again, and Ifferon could tell that she was watching his reaction, judging whether or not he was worthy of her words. It appeared he was, for she continued: “On the passing of a new summer, each Ferian youthling plants new flowers and bushes and trees, and so the flora grow as we age, and so the fauna come to know and love us deeply over time. For that to be destroyed would be a grievous blow, but for it to be twisted into some dark mockery would be fatal.”
“May I ask why you wear that thing upon your back?” Ifferon questioned, gesturing to the wooden apparel tied around her.
“This is a thalgarth, a woodguard.”
“Is it not uncomfortable?”
“Is your robe not uncomfortable?” she replied, running her hand down the sleeve of his arm and shuddering as if the feel of the fabric unsettled her. “Perhaps a cleric feels good in a cleric’s attire and a Ferian feels good in Ferian attire. Each foot to its own shoe. Is that not so?”
“Yes, that is true. But still, it looks a little cumbersome,” Ifferon said. He wondered if it would fall off while running or if it would slow her down, but he held his tongue. “Can you not take it off?”
“I am not Al-Ferian,” she said with scorn. “I do not so easily abandon the customs of my people. Yes, it looks cumbersome, but it is not in actuality. It is made from a light wood, the lowal tree, and the cross-staves serve to keep the balance right, as they move according to how I move, making sure the thalgarth does not lean too much on either side. It is an extension of my body, and I imagine you know that a Ferian is quick on her toes.”
“Provided she’s not leaving waylays,” Ifferon said.
Elithéa smiled, the first Ifferon had seen from her. “If she were leaving waylays, she would not be a very good scout, and would not be given a thalgarth, but then such is only offered to those long come of High Age. You see, these seals I wear are not merely for show. They are drawn from very ancient magic, the magic that the Aelora left to leak into the earth, and they act as beacons to friendly animals around. Upon the thalgarth itself a number of birds may perch, as well as upon the cross-staves. In times of danger, when threatened by certain wild beasts who do not answer to the Ferian, for some animals have been turned and twisted to some evil master, such as the Al-Ferian or, even worse, the hordes of Agon, the cross-staves may be unleashed to ward off these creatures, or, in better cases, to break the spell of their enthralment and convert them back to the truth of the Ferian Way. They may also be used as wardens when resting, for few animals of dark desire dare pass beyond a cross-staff of a Ferian Éalgarth.”
“Do the Al-Ferian uses these thalgarths too?”
“They use everything they can get their filthy hands on. They have thalgarths which do not make use of the Emblem of Éala, but a corrupted design of leaf embedded with the Acorn of Acrath the Turncoat. She earned the title of Tree-traitor for her vile deeds, and yet the Al-Ferian profess to be lovers of leaves and treasurers of trees. For that is indeed the meaning of their name in our tongue. Al-Ferian, the Tree People. Even their stolen land is misnamed, for they call it Arith Alimror, the Forest Valley of Day, and such it might have been were it not for what the wood harbours. And so I say it is a Forest-vale of Night, of darkness, more akin to Idor-Hol on the foothold of Nahragor!”
“Those are dark words to speak of your kin.”
“They are not my kin. The Ferian are my kin. The Al-Ferian are thieves, and they stole the name of Ferian to add to the many lives of trees that they have stolen.”
“What have they stolen from them?”
Elithéa sighed. “That is a long, sad tale. My heart is reluctant to tell it, and my ears reluctant to hear it, even from my own lips. We Ferian have ever been graced with a kinship with the earth, with the nature that has nurtured us from Low Age to High Age. For this we have been rewarded in many ways, and one of these ways is in a form of long life—the life of the trees.”
She paused for a moment and glanced at Ifferon, and again it seemed that she was studying him, seeing if he could be trusted with her tale. After a time, where it appeared that she was debating with herself on the merits of the cleric, she continued.
“We are born with an acorn in our hands, and this acorn is the most precious of possessions of a Ferian, for it is the embodiment of a Ferian’s life. The Wisdomweavers of Westhaven say that the acorn contains within it the true name of the Ferian child, for the acorn contains an Echo of Éala from the Beginning, when he spoke the First Words that brought the All forth from the Nothingness. And some Wisdomweavers say they can hear the true name in the Echo and impart it to the parents of the child, so that they may name their child according to the Will of Éala, so that, in turn, they might grow to High Age to fulfil their true purpose here on Iraldas. We carry these in a small pouch upon our belts, and those who lose them grieve greatly, and those who steal them are hunted down with a swiftness rarely seen in this world. When death finally takes a Ferian, the Wisdomweavers have a choice of performing a long and elaborate ceremony, which some say is forgotten, to resurrect the Ferian, or they may plant the acorn and let the spirit of the Ferian live on in the life of a new and splendid tree, which shall live many more lives than a Ferian could ever do in her mortal existence.”
“I have heard of these acorns and these trees,” Ifferon said. “Some of my books spoke of the Ferhassan, the Life Houses of the Ferian, and it was mentioned that these came in the form of seeds that appeared as though they were little stars dropped from t
he heavens. Indeed, it has been my opinion for some time that the Beldarians of the Magi of Boror were based on the Ferhassan, and that the first Magus, Danarím the Dawn-hearted, bartered with Acrath for the first beldar jewel, which was, perhaps, one of those acorns.”
“Then the Magi of Boror are thieves also, and may the Wrath of Éala be upon them swiftly, for Acrath was a wicked woman,” Elithéa bellowed, and it seemed as though she might lash out at anyone around. “She was the first to break the Treaty of Trees that had existed since before memory. She had a secret pact with a number of comrades, who thought her a prophet, that on her death bed her acorn be used to restore her life. So it was that the art of resurrection, which should have remained in its place of memory and legend, was brought back into action. Her life was restored, but she died swiftly at the hands of the Matriarchate, who sent the Éalgarth to restore the balance. Thus do the Éalgarth serve not only as scouts, but as bounty hunters for those Ferian who have chosen to break the Treaty, and for those Al-Ferian and Al-Ferian sympathisers that we find along the way.”
“I am in awe of these things that you share with me,” Ifferon said. “I have long been a lover of legend and the mythology of other races, and so it comes to me like a great story to a child at bedtime. And your language, which I know not, intrigues me greatly, for I have studied many languages, Bororian, Arlinaic, and Aelora, to name but a few, and I would greatly like to know more of the Ferian tongue. Pray, tell me, for curiosity has seized me, what is the meaning of Ferian in your tongue, for it seems to me that it is related to your word for life, that is fer, in the word for the Life Houses that you have.”
“You are very astute,” Elithéa observed. “Ever you surprise me the more you speak, for first you share a love of the Night-glow, and then you show your love of myth and language, long upheld as two of the seven tenets of a true Ferian. And now even you see the meaning of our tongue ere I speak it. The others are right to think of you as sacred, whether or not Thasú, or Telm as you call him, left some mortal offspring.”
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 16
