by Ted Neill
“Get ready to run,” he said.
“Haille, no, wait,” Yana cried out. “The stairs.”
Haille chanced a look to the stairs where two figures had emerged. Gail and Veolin, in unison, drew back on bows nocked with arrows that after a word from Veolin lit up with bright, conjured flames. The elk did not see them but the vaurg did, turning in time to see them loose the fire arrows, one aimed at him, the other for the elk. He pulled on the elk’s mane but it was too late. The elk bounded after Haille. Haille threw himself to the ground and he heard the elk let out a surprised bellow of pain as Gail’s arrow lodged in his hide. There was a flash of heat as the oil on the vaurg and his mount took light.
The platform glowed brilliant as if in the light of the harbor flame itself. Nathan rallied and with a groan sent one more barrel rolling into the two figures wreathed in flames. The barrel bloomed into a fireball that lifted up off the top of the tower and rose into the sky, a roiling cloud of heat, light, and smoke. The elk twisted, bucked, and reared, dropping the vaurg who staggered and flailed, trying to extinguish the fire that was incinerating his body. But each movement on his part only fanned the flames. Madness took over and with a few steps the vaurg ran to the western edge of the tower and flung himself into the rocks of the shore below. The elk stumbled and out of loyalty, madness, or perhaps drawn by the sight of water, flung itself down after.
Veolin and Gail lowered their bows across their thighs. Yana helped Master Gilbert settle back down into a seated position on the platform base. Nathan leaned against the iron works.
Could it be over? Haille wondered. By all appearances the answer was yes. Veolin and Gail stepped closer to the severed body of Ivan, unquestionably dead, the blood pooling about him. The wind had already cleared most of the smoke from the fires that had overtaken the vaurg and Rakne. Haille inched towards the western edge to peer down and noted their broken forms lodged in the rocks, steam, smoke, and sea spray mingling about them. Veolin and Gail were speaking with Yana. He realized these people from his life had never met one another, which seemed strange to him since they all had played such outsized roles in events of late.
Weak, tried, and relieved, he sat down with an abrupt thump himself. The sun had cleared below the clouds on the horizon and bathed the sea and sky in long warm rays that touched the tops of waves and the peaks of houses below. Terns wheeled on the breeze, a pelican dropped to the surface of the water to scoop up a fish. The scent of salt, seaweed, and sand touched his nose and the cries of gulls reached his ears.
They were all the signs—sights, smells, sounds—of a world coming back together.
Chapter 24
Anthor
The realm of Anthor healed, the cities of Antas, Karrith, and Carasans drawn together like they had never been before. The slave trade diminished, much to the efforts of Gail Redmont who was appointed High Sheriff of Antas, Darid her counterpart in Karrith. With the belief in magic no longer forbidden, Inquisitors became Freedom Riders under Gail’s leadership. They freed slaves and imprisoned traders, Tallia acting as Gail’s right hand.
Katlyn’s family, scattered during the invasion, survived and returned. Her home became the site of many shared dinners where Haille experienced a closeness and familial atmosphere he had never as a boy. The High Council of Carasans returned and reinstated the Council of Elders in Antas with Yana on it. Mykvell Mayrs was elected king and served with a wise and steady hand. It helped that Yana Yansalyl had his ear. Haille heard talk in the taverns of hopes that she would be elected queen herself someday. He knew she would never want it, but it filled him with pride nonetheless.
There was always talk of him someday being appointed to the throne, which after being an outcast so long he had trouble getting used to. Now on the rare occasion he had a seizure in the city, he would wake in the house of whichever citizen had reached him first. Families eagerly took him in and while he recovered, they would fetch his most loyal friends and guards: the reinstated Order of Oban. So although he woke in unfamiliar surroundings, his friends would be at his bedside, Val or Chloe and even Cody—the left to Chloe’s right.
But some things remained familiar and Haille was glad to return to some routines as before. He and Katlyn attended classes at the academy, albeit their standing in the eyes of the other students and teachers had changed. Katlyn spent hours with Master Gilbert reading books in the now-open occult section. She was determined to learn more about the bracelet on her arm. Nathan joined them, learning all the things of the world he had not when he was taught only the dark arts and sequestered alone at Drahlstrom. In the evening Nathan became teacher and taught Gunther and Haille some of what he had learned.
These were peculiar sessions for Haille, for often times, after hearing the words of enchantment it was as if he had heard the words before and the spell came easily to him as if he had known it all along. His strange dreams persisted in which he beheld visions of magnificent cities, blue forests, and towers floating in the clouds. He saw faces he knew he had never met and heard voices, music, and songs that were novel and yet familiar. He would have thought himself mad if it had not been tied so closely to the spell from Adamantus. Although he still did not understand it completely, he knew it was some sort of gift, and he learned to live with the voices, the dreams, the whispers, and the strange sensations of knowing—without knowing how—considering them companions, not unlike the ever present jays.
But it came with a price. Dark memories sometimes invaded his dreams and the melancholy he knew in those first weeks in Karrith or in the dungeons of Drahlstrom would return and keep him from sleep for days on end. It left him as weak as if he had experienced a seizure, the sense of loss overwhelming, for he mourned for so many he had known and also those he had not.
Haille missed Adamantus keenly during these episodes, especially now in this new world where magic was believed in once more, where imagination and lore had their proper place and Anthorians spoke with pride of their days fighting alongside the elves. Especially on the anniversary of the battle of Carasans when Oean and Amberlynn, Mykvell and the High Council all met in Antas for a feast commemorating the battle. A toast was raised to the elves even though none were present. Haille felt their absence. Even though messenger birds had been sent, the elves had been silent since returning to Sidon.
So when he looked down the table through the dancing crowd and thought he saw a familiar angular face—Kalief moving about, his hood drawn up—Haille was sure it was just wishful thinking. A server moved to clear his plate and Haille noticed his tattooed hands.
“Prince Haille,” a familiar sonorous voice said next to his ear.
“Lasolorn?”
“My brother awaits you to follow him.”
Haille picked out Kalief waiting by the door, a still figure among his friends lost in revelry. Chloe and Gunther danced close together as did Cody with a gaggle of young women from noble houses. Even Val was up, having been dragged into the center of things by Yana. Nathan, Tallia, and Katlyn held hands and spun in a wild circle about Gail, who crossed her arms, but did proceed to tap her foot. Darid had even joined them from Karrith with his wife Celene, a woman of luminous beauty. Haille felt his heart full with love for them all and yet, he knew something, someone, was missing.
“I will seek your brother then.”
Haille passed the tables, wine stained and scattered with crumbs and chicken bones, and followed Kalief out through the courtyard and over the drawbridge. They continued through the city where taverns and dancehalls were noisy with more celebrations. Haille felt apart from it all, even if he had been at the center of the events that were celebrated.
Strange how being at the center is so isolating.
Kalief led him down a side street to the edge of the outer boroughs and stopped just at the edge of a field. Haille could smell animal pens and see the shapes of sheep grazing in the dark. A brook gurgled close by. He could still hear songs from the dance halls, a woman’s shout, a dog barking,
empty pots clanging as they were tossed into the scullery for later cleaning.
“She’s waiting,” Kalief said.
Haille knew who she was. He walked into the meadow, by all signs alone, except for the jays who had found him and leap-frogged one another in fluttering bursts as he proceeded. Then he heard her voice.
“Haille.”
He looked up, startled, half believing it was his own mind playing tricks on him, but there she was, substantial and as real as the black pony beneath her, tearing at the grass and chomping it in its teeth. She did not dismount.
“Veolin.”
Her smile flashed white in the darkness at the sound of his voice. He was glad for that. “Your people have been quiet.”
“There are many changes afoot. But you and your people are thought of as friends.”
“So do the elves still wait in isolation? Have they returned to their forests forever, or shall I see them again?”
It was a question asked with the tact of a statesman, worthy of the countless meetings Haille had sat in of late, fighting sleep. But what was implicit in it was a much greater personal concern: whether or not he would see her again. Bending down closer to him, she spoke as if confiding a secret.
“You saved us from isolation but change takes time. The elves are slow to change as are your people, but change is coming. The forces have been set in motion. The dam is broken. No one can stop that flow. We are . . . about.”
“You have been among us, in disguise then?”
Now she looked down into her breast, as if bashful. A soft answer followed. “Yes, many of us have been.”
“Why did you not reveal yourselves?”
“We were meant to watch, assess, gauge the hearts and minds of the Anthorians, to see if they are ready for further contact. These were not personal journeys.”
“Is this?”
She leaned back again, as if to consider, worked the reins in her hands and shrugged her shoulders.
“I don’t know. Gandolin sent me with a message for you and insisted I deliver it in private. My brothers acted quite surprised by it.” She looked to the castle, her scarred cheek facing him. “Perhaps he was acknowledging that I wanted to see you.”
“I missed our conversations, too.”
Her expression grew softer but he could tell something held her back.
“Haille, I am to tell you that the elders of my people still believe in you. Their alliance is strong, but their final decision has yet to be made. You have faced those demons of the outside world, but to move on you must face those inside you.” There was sympathy in her voice and she reached out to him as she had in the room with Adamantus’ body, but this time drew her hand away before making contact. A breeze stirred the air and the tree tops of Worthorn Forest swayed in the distance.
“Is that all? What does it mean?”
“I don’t know completely. Gandolin recited it to me. He is an enigmatic elf. But he is wise.”
Haille nodded, taking in the words, turning them over in his mind, but to little avail. He crushed a tuft of grass beneath his boot. Cyan landed on the back of Veolin’s pony while Sapphire nestled on her neck.
“Veolin, where is Adamantus?”
“We took him. Carried him north, on roads only our people know, and returned him to his homeland. There are people who love him there and will honor his memory.”
“I miss him, Veolin. Sometimes I feel that the realm has healed and yet I have not. I am the morose heart of a jubilant kingdom.”
“I know,” she said, her expression sorrowful but her voice urgent. “I know. There is little more I can say, except that I believe in you, Haille. Let your heart be soothed by that, to whatever extent it can be. Now I’m afraid I have to go.”
“Please, don’t go now. Join us in the hall.”
“It is not the time, yet.”
“Will I ever see you again?”
“That will be up to you.”
She pulled on the reins and the pony lifted its head. But before she rode away she bent down beside him, her hand on his shoulder. She spoke as if reciting an enchantment over him:
“Albreath, Alfren ziehn. Trulet nefriel niene.” Then she leaned back in the saddle again smiling. “Haille, Elk Rider, Prince of Storms.”
A long pause passed between them until Haille added, “I would trade one of those titles to know what is required of me.”
“What is required of you?”
“Yes.”
“Movement.”
There was a shift in the air and she was gone.
Chapter 25
Thestos
For Haille, “movement” meant west. But it was not until the next spring that he knew it was time to leave. He set out under the low clouds and weak light of the early morning on foot. There was no need for a horse. In his mind, his errand was one that would move at its own pace, outside of the daily rhythms of ordinary time. He donned a worn traveling cloak and kept Elk Heart well hidden. He brought just a few luxuries: a sturdy pair of boots and a loaf of fresh honey-oat bread from the castle bakeries. He bought cheese from a market stall in a village along the trade road and knew he had meals for the next few days.
The roads were bordered on either side by the long, fresh grasses of early spring. Cows grazed, working back towards their summer heft, alongside sheep, their coats still short from their last shearing. Haille passed many a farm worker, bags of seed on their backs and plowshares balanced on their shoulders. At night he slept in the common rooms of inns or shelters between fields with farmhands, paying his way in the latter by helping with morning chores. He used the old moniker Katlyn had given him on their first adventure together, Derrick, that had served him well as alias throughout his travels.
After a week’s time he reached his first destination: Carasans. He had visited the city the year before with the Antan Council of Elders, when crowds thronged into the streets, banners hung from windows, and citizens tossed flowers in the air. But it was with some relief that he passed down the causeway and into the city incognito, an ordinary citizen. In this guise he could appreciate the city’s return to the ordinary. The causeway itself was busy with market stalls and hawkers. The new gates were open and traffic passed through unhindered by obstacle or memory of the fighting that had taken place there. The plaza was a circus of merchants, traders, sailors, longshoremen, market women, and scampering children—not to mention the dogs, cats, chickens, donkeys, pigs, cows, horses, and other livestock that bumped together cheek by jowl. As Haille passed through city streets down to the docks, livestock was replaced by carts of fish. Steaming kettles of crab, mussels, prawn, and lobster boiled over fires in taverns, the smell making his stomach rumble. A few times his eyes wandered skyward to the fire tower that rose above the rooftops, but in the spring sunshine against the backdrop of a cerulean sky it appeared benign, the acts of violence acted out upon it distant memories.
He made his way to the docks. There was a time when the bustle and press of so many people in the narrow space of the docks would have intimidated him, but he had been to many docks and quays since. He reflected that passing through in freedom and not as chattel was immeasurably better; the absence of slaves being traded a boon to his heart and thanks, in no small part, to the efforts of Gail Redmont herself.
He fell into step with the dance of trade—haggling—loading, and unloading—that took place along the waters of the harbor, moving down to the far end of the quay, the intent in his mind clear. He found a skiff, the size he wanted, and inquired with a boy doing odd-jobs on the dock about the whereabouts of the captain. He pointed to a pair of older men playing dominoes beneath an awning. They could have been brothers, their features weathered in identical fashion by the same wind, sun, and elements of the open sea. But the one on the right wearing a wide brimmed, faded straw hat introduced himself as Jeddah, captain of the Mist.
Haille haggled with him briefly over the price for a trip to the reaches and after he paid the old man half u
pfront, Jeddah stepped away from his game, called the same boy to him that had given Haille directions, and they set to preparing the Mist for launch.
Haille did his best to stay out of the way, sitting with his knees together on a thwart as Jeddah and his assistant, the boy named Mark, moved about the craft, catching the wind with the sail and counterbalancing the heeling of the ship. Soon the city slipped beneath the horizon and even the fire tower grew small and disappeared altogether. Jeddah remained at the tiller while Mark threw a fishing line over the side. They coursed over the surface of the sea, cutting a foamy bow wave and leaving gentle eddies in their wake. Haille settled against the gunwale, lost in thought, and it was only at word from Jeddah that they had reached some of the deepest waters off the coast that Haille broke out of his torpor, stood up, one hand on the mast, the other reaching beneath his tunic for the pouch he had carried all the way from Antas. It was a simple leather drawstring pouch. He did not dare open it, for the contents were dangerous and had caused enough pain and strife already. He could see the five moonstones, however, clearly in his mind, giving thought to the previous holders—each a victim or victimizer, or both: Kiruna of the Maurvant, King Oean, the nameless warrior of Drahlstom, Lady Annabeth Chastain, and Master Gilbert the librarian. Haille hoped that no stones remained, for they had been tools in so much deceit, betrayal, and bloodshed.
They felt heavier than their true weight as he dangled the bag over the waters. With an onrush of darkness—in his mind or real, Haille could not tell—he felt the weight of a presence that he had not felt since that day in the hall in Soledor. That voice, that consciousness of the Magus, the splinter of his mind broken off and bound to the stones remained.
You drop these into oblivion. Power erased by nothingness. Are you not curious at what the infinite darkness holds below?
“That is not my path, now. I belong to life, light, this world above.”
You thought it yourself on the tower, before me . . . the windblown world cares not if you passed a young man or old. In the long arc of time it does not matter, you do not matter, nothing matters. Nothing is real, certain, or inevitable, except the nothing that awaits you. Surrender.
