Fallen Embers (The Alterra Histories) (3 page)

She called to the bird—a series of short, piercing whistles followed by a long, rasping “
Keeyahhhh!
”—so that he would know the message had been received and he could fly back to Tarfion for his reward. Then she sprinted effortlessly after him, tracking his relatively slow, easy glide back to where her father would be waiting.

Gaelen entered a pretty, green glade near the river to find Tarfion standing with Giron, who was perched contentedly on his gloved left wrist, still tearing at a strip of dried squirrel-meat. “He’s getting so lazy, he might forget how to hunt for himself!” she said. “I hardly even needed to run to keep up.”

“Ah, but he’s so much more useful as a messenger than as a hunter,” said Tarfion, stroking the top of Giron’s head with one finger, an act which seemed to annoy him. “How long would it have taken me to find you without him, I wonder? You know, if you are going to prove your worth in the service of the King, you had best make yourself easier to find.”

Gaelen briefly cast her gaze heavenward, hiding her expression by shoving the unruly mop of ginger-brown hair back from her bright, olive green eyes. “Once the King decides to employ my services, he’ll make his expectations clear, I’m sure,” she said. “Until that day comes, you know how to find me already.”

“Sit down, Gaelen. You and I must talk,” said Tarfion, tossing another scrap of squirrel-meat onto the ground a few yards away. Giron pounced on it at once, leaving Tarfion free to sit beside Gaelen on a large, flat table of stone.

He regarded his daughter for a moment. She certainly didn’t fit the mold of any Wood-elf destined for greatness. She was small—he doubted she would grow any taller than the height of his shoulder—and she seemed to pride herself on being ill-groomed. The short-cropped hair, always wild and unkempt, disturbed him; Elves did not cut their hair until it grew long enough to inconvenience them, and still they were reluctant. The long, silken tresses were almost regarded as a hallmark of their race, much like the ubiquitous beards of dwarves. To crop one’s hair in such a fashion had not been seen before in the Greatwood.

He knew better than to mention it, as she would hear no argument and he knew it. Besides, he had to admire her willingness to choose conviction over convention. He wondered where she had gotten her impulsive, independent nature. Certainly not from Gloranel, his life-mate. His twin brother, Tarmagil, often teased him about it:
I must give you due credit, my brother. You’ve managed to find the one Elf in the Greatwood who is more responsible and humorless then you are!

But even Gloranel, who often disapproved of Gaelen, could not deny her daughter’s many talents. Even now, Tarfion perceived Gaelen’s alertness. Her eyes and ears constantly attuned to the sights and sounds around her, she was a lithe, limber little warrior. She could survive on her own indefinitely, she was an excellent rider, and, though not much of an archer, she showed great promise with blades. She sang beautifully, she could talk to ravens, and could track anything while remaining virtually untrackable. She would make an excellent hunter-scout one day.

“The King has been summoned to the great council at Mountain-home, and, as usual, he has requested my presence as part of his personal guard. This will be a mighty gathering, held in secret. I’ve asked that you be allowed to come along to aid me, so that you might learn the hidden way. It is difficult to find unless you know it.”

“I suppose that’s why they call it the hidden way,” said Gaelen, her eyes brighter than usual at the prospect of going to Mountain-home. Tarfion lowered his eyebrows at her and she grew serious, having realized that he didn’t approve of any sarcasm when he was being so generous.

“Before I offer you this chance, we must come to an understanding,” he continued. “The King was not happy with my request, and he granted it only reluctantly. He hasn’t forgotten certain past incidents, and he is well aware of your tendency to go against orders and do as you please. I convinced him to trust my judgment—that you are ready to take your place as one of his loyal, faithful hunter-scouts. That means no disobedience and no mischief!
I know how capable you can be, and I know you will make me proud one day. May I count on you to safeguard my reputation by behaving yourself?”

Gaelen sat silent for a few moments, obviously considering, and Tarfion wondered again who she took after. Faced with the same question, he would have sworn to throw himself on his sword without pausing to consider other options. At last she replied, “Within reason.”

“Within reason? What does that mean?”

“Well, if the King asks me to do something foolish, such as throw myself off a cliff for no good cause, will you expect me to do it?”

Tarfion just sat speechless for a moment. “Are you jesting again? Because if you’re not, then you’re being absurd!”

“You said no disobedience, and I can’t promise that unconditionally. As much as I long to go to Mountain-home, I don’t want to make a promise I can’t keep. I
will
behave myself while remaining true to my own common sense, and I shall be ever-mindful of your reputation. Will Uncle Tarmagil and Uncle Turanen be going with us?”

Tarfion scowled at her, as it was her common tactic to change the subject. “I haven’t truly decided whether I’m happy with our understanding yet,” he said. “But to answer your question, Tarmagil is coming. Turanen has requested leave to stay behind to aid Prince Aruin in the King’s absence.”

“What about Nelwyn?” asked Gaelen, who had already brightened visibly at the mention of Tarmagil, whom she adored. Nelwyn, daughter of Turanen, was therefore Gaelen’s cousin; they had become fast friends and were rarely apart. They spent much of their time riding over the wide lands, hunting and foraging, and generally following in the footsteps of their fathers.

Tarfion shook his head. “Nelwyn is too young. Besides, her mother would never allow it. She is thoroughly convinced that you’re a bad influence. In fact, Turanen has spoken with me about it. Elwyn has come very close to forbidding Nelwyn to associate with you, kin or not.”

For a moment, a shadow clouded Gaelen’s bright eyes, but it passed quickly. “Nelwyn knows her own mind, and she will go her own way. Her mother would see her forever in the weaving-shed, but Nelwyn takes after her father. She wants to be the finest archer in the Greatwood. I’m not concerned.”

“No, indeed not,” said Tarfion, knowing that he had come to all the “understanding” he was likely to get. He was her father, and she both loved and respected him, but he did not rule her. He never would.

“All right, then, we leave in three days,” he said, standing up and whistling for Giron. “Make sure your weapons and your pony are ready and well-tended.”

“She’s not a
pony
,” Gaelen muttered. “She’s a small horse. I’m small…does that mean I’m not an Elf?” She leapt down from the stone, turned, and disappeared into the forest before he could reply.

II

Gaelen rode with Tarfion and Tarmagil as advance guard, and Gaelen soon understood why Tarfion had called this the “hidden way.” He dutifully pointed out every landmark, though Gaelen knew that she would find the way again, even without such clues. Her memory for place and path would always stand her in good stead and, combined with her tracking abilities, would ensure that she was rarely lost. Still, even Tarfion became confused once or twice, for the higher they climbed into the mountains, the more difficult things became. Every path looked like every other path, and often there was no path at all. The horses picked their way carefully.

Gaelen’s little mare, named Angael
,
had less trouble than most. Due to her size, she was as agile as a goat. She was also highly intelligent. Many had admired the rich, walnut-brown coat, set off by a light flaxen mane and tail, two white stockings in back, and two white socks in front. A bright blaze, often hidden by a long, thick forelock, adorned Angael’s fine, feminine face. Her toughness and ability to thrive on very little fodder betrayed her northern heritage.

At last, Tarfion released Giron, instructing him to go forth and find the Elves of Mountain-home. “Sechen an Elàni,
à
lin Giron!”

Gaelen hoped the bird would return quickly, for that would mean they were nearing the end of their six-hundred-mile journey. She was anxious to finally set eyes on this storied realm, especially the Sanctuary, an immense edifice of white granite housing the greatest known center for learning and study remaining in Alterra.

Mountain-home had been founded long ago by Shandor, the powerful Asarla, one of the original seven remaining in the West. The Asari, sent by the Lord of Light, had been charged with the task of bringing enlightenment to all people. Shandor, known as the White Eagle, had built the Sanctuary in hope of all free folk coming there to study and learn. No one who sought enlightenment would be turned away…at least, that had been so in the beginning.

When the great Elven-realm of Tal-elathas was destroyed in a terrible war, Shandor had sunk so deep into despair and disillusionment that he had closed the gates of Mountain-home, making it nearly impossible to find in all ways but one. Admission to the Sanctuary now had to be earned, along with the trust of the High-elven King, Ri-Elathan, who had made it his seat of power.

Gaelen knew the stories, having been taught of the First and Second Uprisings of Wrothgar. As with most of her people, she had never seen an Asarla. Now she would come face-to-face with the High King, and maybe even Shandor’s daughter, Lady Ordath, who ruled Mountain-home at present. Of Shandor himself, she knew only that his stewardship of the Sanctuary had ended in tragedy.

Mountain-home lay, surrounded by tall peaks on every side, between two cold, turbulent streams that flowed forth from beneath the mountains. These would turn very wild indeed when the snow melted, crashing down along the southern and northern borders of the realm until they flowed together to form the River Artan. It was nearly impossible to gain entrance without crossing one of those two watercourses, either by bridges, which were always under watch, or on foot, which could only be attempted once the spring rains and snow-melt had subsided.

Now, in late summer, Gaelen actually looked forward to the crossing. “It seems we’re awfully high in the mountains, and yet I have neither seen nor heard the Amar Tuath,” she said, referring to the northern stream. “When will we get there?”

“We’re not going to cross either of the Amari streams, Gaelen,” said Tarmagil. “The way we are taking is not only hidden, it’s the long way around. We’ll be approaching from the east.

“Why?” asked Gaelen, obviously disappointed.

“Because no one must know of our errand,” said Tarfion, who had overheard.

“But…why else would a group of Wood-elves, including the King and his retinue, be wandering around in the mountains east of Mountain-home?” asked Gaelen. “Won’t it still be obvious to our enemies that we’re going there?”

“Do you want to thump her nose, or shall I?” said Tarmagil with a broad grin, having taken note of the annoyance on Tarfion’s face.

“Enemies do not watch this road, Gaelen, as they do not know it,” said Tarfion. “Do you honestly believe you would have been the first to think of the possibility?”

Gaelen, chastened, said nothing more until Giron finally appeared, winging out of the western sky, calling in triumph. “Would you like me to ride back and inform the King?” she asked.

“No,” said Tarmagil. “I’ll do that. I want you to be one of the first to see this great sight. I’ve seen it before.” He smiled at her. “I almost envy you the discovery.”

Gaelen was the first to sight the scouts of Mountain-home, followed by the heralds of Lady Ordath. “
Farath-talam
,” they said. “Welcome to Mountain-home. We have been sent to greet you and lead you over the rim of the mountains. With your permission, we would prefer to wait until your entire party is assembled, and then we should make our way to the King’s Halls, for both he and the Lady Ordath are expecting you.”

Once Osgar arrived, he was escorted to the forefront of the group, and Tarmagil’s wish that Gaelen be among the first to view the splendor of Mountain-home would be in vain. She didn’t mind, for, though she was eager to see the legendary Elven-realm, a shadow had come into her mind. Something would happen here…something
important.
Whether it would be a good thing or bad, she didn’t know, but she hesitated.
Well, you’re going into a realm where a great, secret war-council is taking place. The High King is there! Of course something important is about to happen.
She shook off the feeling of impending…something…and hesitated no longer.

The first sight of the hidden realm of Mountain-home took Gaelen’s breath away. Its beauty and tranquility inspired her with a sense of awe and respect for those who had secured and sanctified it. She had heard of the divine influence of the Asari—that they could shape rock and tree, order the seasons to suit their liking, and even direct the sun and moon. Though she didn’t believe such grandiose statements, she now wondered whether some of them might be just a
little
true. This realm was perfect. The mountains, shrouded in mist, would suffer gales and blinding blizzards, but one look at the lush, green expanse of Mountain-home told Gaelen that such things would never trouble anyone within its boundaries. There was a power here—she could feel it. She only wished that Nelwyn could share the sight with her.

As with most Elven-realms, this one had been designed to blend harmoniously with its natural surroundings. At first it didn’t seem to have many dwelling-places or other structures, but as Gaelen looked more closely she could see the thriving, healthy community emerge from the background of trees, vines, stones, and water.
It’s the same in the Greatwood…this is just a little more grand,
she thought, trying not to be intimidated.

One look at the Sanctuary, however, convinced her otherwise. She had never seen anything like the stark white granite edifice that emerged from the northern mountain-face. It seemed to sparkle, even in the waning sunlight, and she had heard that it glowed all night long with some magical light, like a beacon proclaiming the power of knowledge. She could hardly wait to find out. The columns and archways were perfect, though plain, for she had been told that the Sanctuary had not been built to impress visitors with its outer appearance. The real treasures lay inside—the most extensive library of learning and lore known to remain in Alterra. The only obvious ornament, a great eagle cast in pure silver, perched above the main doorway with wings spread as though about to take flight. Gaelen smiled to herself. Shandor obviously couldn’t resist one small display of vanity.