Many who fought in the battle were sombre, but the mood was lifted when people began to emerge from the bunkers. Some cheered that the siege was over, while others got straight to work helping the guards, tending to wounds and bringing food, or clearing the dead. The children were told to stay in the bunkers, but many refused, and there was too much work to be done, and too little sleep that was had, to stop them. Some of the children joined the scrubbing of the stones. In time there were few who had no blood upon their hands.
* * *
An Al-Ferian girl of no more than eight years approached Délin as he sat near the resting place of Théos. She stood there for a while in silence, clutching a toy tree made of wool. She scratched her head slowly and looked up at the knight with curious eyes.
“How can he sleep with all this noise?” she asked.
Délin sighed in his helmet. He had removed it from Théos’ head when the battle was over, and though he did not need it himself to ward off blows, he needed it to hide the tears. He could not find any satisfactory answer that he could give to the child.
The girl was undeterred by his silence. “I always need Branches or I cannot sleep.”
“What is Branches?” Délin asked.
She held up the woollen tree. It was crudely made, knitted together in different colours, with a large smiling mouth and two beady eyes. The knight could not help but smile a little when he saw it. Part of him wished that he could see a real tree like that. Even the beautiful and majestic trees of Alimror were not quite as heart-warming as the stuffed toy of a child.
“He is getting old now,” she said, holding up a loose thread.
“He still looks happy,” Délin said.
“He’s always happy. He lives with me in the woods. Trees are always happy in the woods.”
“So they are.”
She scratched her head again and looked at the toy wistfully. “He has a brother. Bark is his name. Maybe I can get him and the pale boy can have him to help him sleep.”
Délin bit his lip to stop it from trembling. “Yes,” he said. “I am sure he would like that.”
The girl had already scampered off before he finished the sentence. It was not long before she returned from one of the bunkers with another woollen tree. This one had different colours and a different shape, but it was just as happy as its brother.
“Do you think he’ll like it?” she asked as she held it before him.
Délin nodded. “Yes. He would like it.”
She stood on the tips of her toes and stretched across the stone plinth. Even then she could barely reach the boy. She placed the toy near Théos’ left hand, and as she did her fingers grazed his, and she backed away.
“His hands are cold,” she said.
“It is a cold night,” Délin replied.
“It will be warmer in the morning.”
“Yes,” the knight said.
“Is that why you wear your hat?”
Délin smiled. “No. This is to protect my head in battle.”
The girl seemed confused. “But the battle is over.”
“Yes,” Délin said. “You are right.” He removed the helmet slowly and placed it on the ground. “The battle is over.”
* * *
Affon marched about the cloister, proudly helping the Al-Ferian guards. She was strong for her age, and she made every effort to show that strength, hauling bodies and lifting broken bricks. Ifferon stood with Geldirana by the eastern windows, but their eyes were on Affon.
“Why did you not tell me?” Ifferon asked.
“I spoke aloud,” Geldirana replied, “but you were not there.”
“You knew where I was.”
“No, Ifferon. For a time I did not know where you were. When you disappeared I searched for you. No one knew where you had gone. After a while I feared that you were dead, that Agon’s forces had finally hunted you down. I wanted to accept your death, but I could not, and perhaps it was because of love, or perhaps it was because I was carrying your child. When I gave birth to her I tried to honour you in her name. Years later I learned what really happened to you, that you had become a hermit, hiding away in a monastery on the coast. I almost did not believe it. I knew you were no friar. You did not believe solely in Olagh, as the so-called King would have us all believe, and I could not fathom how this man I once loved, who was strong and full of adventure, had tamed so much, and given up his armour for a frock.”
Ifferon felt ashamed, and his humiliation grew with each charge made against him. The creatures and monsters he had faced in his younger days seemed like nothing compared to facing up to what he had become, and who had left behind.
“Why did you leave?” Geldirana asked.
“I do not know.”
“You have had ten years to find out.”
“It was fear,” he said. “But I guess it was more than just Agon. Things were becoming a little too real for me. Adventure was always this half-dreamed thing. Then it began to get more serious, and I saw that people were dying, that I could die—that you could die. And our adventure was becoming more serious too, and I wonder if that scared me even more. I have lost so many people in my life, Geldirana. I think I felt that if I were to get even closer to you, that I would lose you too.”
“So you ran away? You did not want to lose me, so you cast me aside?”
“We all do stupid things for love,” Ifferon said, and he thought of Thalla and Yavün. It was better than thinking of himself. “Will we ever regain what we lost?” he added when the silence seemed to suggest otherwise.
“You are different now,” Geldirana said. “I am too.”
Ifferon looked away. He saw Affon, carrying wood from the bunkers to start a fire, refusing the help of other children. “Will she ever know? Will I ever have a part in her life?”
“The first is for you to tell. The second is for her to decide,” Geldirana stated. “Ifferon, she is your daughter. I will not deny that. But she does not need you. She will become a strong and powerful woman, a warrior of the people, and in time she will lead a garig of her own, and in time again perhaps the Garigút as a whole. With or without you.”
* * *
Thalla sat on a wooden barrel near the cage of Elithéa, running the feathers of an arrow over the faint scars on her hand, as if they were the features of a map that she might derive some direction from. It was her last arrow, one that she had reclaimed time and time again in the battle, but now that the battle was over she no longer bothered to reclaim the others.
“This battle has opened my eyes,” Elithéa said.
“It has opened all of our eyes,” Thalla replied.
There was silence for a time as Elithéa studied Thalla through the bars. Thalla would barely have noticed were it not for the Ferian’s intent stare. Her eyes were like candles in the night.
“Perhaps I deserve to rot behind iron bars for the rest of my life,” Elithéa said. “Then Iraldas can be safe from me.”
“I don’t think you’re really a danger,” Thalla said, but she thought of Aralus in Idor-Hol, screaming until he screamed no more. “You helped us once. You can help us again.”
“Yes,” Elithéa said. “I can offer advice from my prison.”
“Hardly the way of the Éalgarth,” Thalla said.
“No, but perhaps that path is for men,” Elithéa said, and she looked keenly into Thalla’s eyes. “Perhaps this is the place for us women.”
Thalla immediately shook her head. “That is what the Magi said, but Melgalés defied them. I defied them. We are more than this. We can do more than this.”
“I can only do what an animal can do ... locked in this cage.”
Thalla felt suddenly compelled to free the Ferian from her prison. Her thoughts struggled against one another, for part of her felt as trapped as Elithéa, unable to use the magic for which she trained. A Beldarian was her key, and yet it would be a monumental effort to acquire, and one that was forbidden to all but men. Yet for Elithéa, her freedom was found in a simpl
e latch on the cage door, just out of reach of the Ferian’s hands. Thalla still toiled with her thoughts, until it almost seemed like a door opened in her mind. If her own freedom seemed so far away, at least she could more easily free another.
She reached for the latch.
The clink of the latch seemed louder than it should, like a thunderous clap from the weapons of the gods. In that fraction of a second Thalla realised that her compassion was in error, for immediately she saw Elithéa’s wild eyes settle on the body of Théos, her hands like the talons of a hawk. Yet the realisation came too late, for as Thalla reached again for the latch, her hand not as fast as any bird, Elithéa sprang from the cage, and the metal door struck Thalla and knocked her back.
There were gasps and shrieks, and all eyes turned to the Ferian as she leapt from her prison. Guards charged towards her, staves at the ready, and Délin stepped forward, his heavy metal boots making a thunder of their own. Ifferon turned in horror as the scene unfolded, like a memory of the battle on the Amreni Elé, and Thalla tried to clamber up in time to catch Elithéa, but already she was out of reach—already she was like a predator upon the podium where Théos lied.
A knife was loosed. A sword was unleashed. Staves swung and bows twanged. It seemed for a moment that the very resting place of the Al-Ferian boy was now under a siege of its own, with weapons clashing all around him, sending sparks flying like birds, and making a deafening discord that might, it seemed to some, wake the dead.
* * *
The chaotic moment ended almost as soon as it had begun, and all witnessed the outcome of the hurried clash: Elithéa stood at the head of Théos, her dagger held against the acorn, and Délin stood mere feet away, his sword held to her throat. He breathed heavy, and it seemed to Ifferon that it took a great self-restraint to stop the blade where he did. Around them stood many Al-Ferian, their staves held high.
“Back away,” Délin said, and he seemed more stern and serious than ever, as if he might say those very words to the Gatekeeper himself.
“Let me finish this,” Elithéa said, “and free you of this evil that you seek to do.”
“An evil act does not free anyone,” Délin said. “Back away.”
Suddenly Ifferon grew even more concerned, for it seemed that Délin was battling with his anger, that the knight might suddenly abandon his oaths, as he forsook Corrias in the White Mountains, and abandon the restraint that stayed his sword. For your sake, Elithéa, and us all, Ifferon thought, back away.
* * *
“Éala is dead,” Elithéa said, and she thought of the empty heavens, bereft of the gods. “Théos is dead. Plant his tree. Do not murder his memory.”
“What will you do?” Thalla asked, stepping up behind her with her bow drawn.
“More than you ever will in your lifetime,” Elithéa replied.
Thalla ignored the insult. “How will you end this?”
Elithéa looked down at the acorn in her hands, and the glistening blade pressed against its surface. She felt the larger, sharper blade of Délin’s sword pressed tightly against her neck.
“Will you defile his acorn, like Aralus defiled yours?” Thalla asked.
Elithéa was already holding her own acorn, hiding it in the palm of her hand beneath the hilt of the dagger. She revealed it now. It had blackened, as if the markings on it had caused it to decompose. It was clear to all that no tree could grow from this, that she no longer had the chance of a second life in the woods. The blackness contrasted starkly with the bright brownish-orange of the child’s acorn, and, were it possible, some imagined that she might switch the two, to pick the fairer fate. All that was possible, however, was to ruin the fate of another, to poison this acorn with the blackness of her own.
“Did you let Aralus die so that you could take his place?” Thalla asked.
A tear dropped from Elithéa’s eyes, landing upon her acorn, as if it sought to water and nurture it, in hopes of bringing it back to life. Another tear fell, this time upon the fairer acorn, and it glistened as it landed, as if to remind her of just how much life there was still remaining in it.
“Do not become him,” Thalla said. “You are stronger than that.”
“Stronger than you,” Elithéa said with scorn.
“If this is strength,” Thalla replied, “but I do not think it is.”
Délin looked deeply into Elithéa’s eyes, past her tears and the tears of his own. “If he were your child,” he said, and his words were as earnest and pleading as they had ever been, “would you not do everything, everything, to bring him back?”
Elithéa glanced away, unable to sustain Délin’s stare. “His tree—”
“If you damage his acorn, he will never be a tree,” Délin interrupted. “Aralus might have ruined your second life, but you are seeking to ruin your first. If you etch a single thing on that acorn, you will die by my sword. Corrias only knows what will happen to your soul.”
She looked up, her face flooded in tears.
“Make this life matter,” the knight said. “Help us bring him back.”
“I can no longer be an Éalgarth,” she said, and she raised her acorn. “Because of this.”
“You cannot be an Éalgarth without Éala,” Délin said. “Help us bring him back.”
The blade of the dagger hung precariously close to the acorn, like the beak of the hawk dangled above the boy’s face back in the White Mountains. Few watching dared to breath, lest their breath push the Ferian over the edge, or cause the blade to slip.
“Look at him,” Délin said, but she would not comply. “Look at him!”
She glanced down and saw where her tears had fallen. Some had landed upon the boy’s face, and they almost looked like tears of his own. Her heart panged, and her eyes watered further, for she thought that throughout all of this, through her struggle and the struggle of the world, the child might somehow have known it all, might have seen and heard it from wherever his soul now dwelt.
“If he could speak,” Délin said, and he paused, choking on the words, joining Théos in a moment of silence. “If he could speak, what would he say to you?”
Elithéa shook her head. She did not know. She did not want to know.
“He would say what he said to me,” the knight told her. “He would say Sóthé ima.”
“Save me,” Elithéa translated instinctively.
“He would ask you to save him,” Délin said. “That is what he asked me. That is what I am trying to do. Forget about the gods. This is about a child. He asked me to save him, and this second chance at life, this only chance, is the only way I know how. I have to save him, Elithéa. Please help me. Help all of us. Help Théos.”
She looked once more to the boy, and she almost heard the echo of his final words to Délin, of his final breath in this world. She thought for a moment of Telm and the Last Words, which had been captured by the Aelora and turned into the only thing left of that god bar his dwindling bloodline, turned into a powerful heirloom that evil still feared. Telm had shouted a warning to the darkness, but Théos, and perhaps Corrias inside him, had whispered something different, a simple plea, the kind of appeal that she never thought a god would make. Perhaps it was just the child then, but that did not make it easier to her mind. If he were your child, she thought, hearing Délin’s words in her mind, what would you do?
The blade was dangerously close to the acorn. Just as it seemed like the tip of the blade would pierce it, and Délin would kill Elithéa, she pulled the dagger away, and, hands shaking, she placed the acorn into Délin’s gauntleted glove. He rolled it out onto the table above Théos’ head, and he nudged it gently back into the depression where it had been during the ceremony of the Wisdomweavers. All present sighed deeply, and few paid attention as Elithéa was surrounded by many guards. They chained her, but did not return her to her cell. This time she offered no resistance to their restraints.
* * *
Délin lowered his sword, resting his weight upon it as he breat
hed the greatest sigh. But he was not yet fully relieved, for the chance of a second life had been saved, but it was still only a chance. It took a moment for him to realise that the priests had not returned to their chanting, that they were looking to each other with awkward glances.
“Can you go on?” he asked them.
“No,” they said together, and Délin’s heart sank.
“It is already finished,” one of them said. “Putting the acorn back was the final piece.”
Everyone looked around, waiting for something to happen. But nothing did.
It is already finished, Délin thought. We have failed. Though he did not think it possible, his heart sank even further. Before this day was over, he thought it might fall down into the very chambers of Agon himself.
Then it rose a little, for there was a strange feeling in the air, and an even stranger feeling in the very core of him. There was a blinding flash of light, followed by an eerie silence. When all regained their sight, they looked upon the feet of a giant figure. Corrias had arisen. The father god had been restored to life, a gift given to him by his own worshippers, for whom life could be so easily taken away.
There was a moment where all were filled with awe. Some could not move their eyes from the gigantic feet of the god, and others were entranced by the hypnotic stare of the god’s eyes. His hair fell like a waterfall. His face was young, and yet he seemed ancient beyond measure. His clothes were the sky itself, and he shimmered, as if he were made of starlight.
“Éala has returned!” Thúalim shouted with joy.
The crowd erupted in celebration. People clapped and cheered. Horns were blown and drums were banged. Streamers and coins were thrown into the air. Flowers were held aloft and cups of wine and mead were toasted high. Women held their children in the air, and the children held their stuffed toys to the sky.
Music began to play, and some who had hoped against all odds for this day began to sing long-prepared songs. Even Thúalim, who never joined in the campfire songs of others, added his voice to the chorus.
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 55
