Fallen Embers (The Alterra Histories) (6 page)

He stopped and turned toward the river, his face raised to the heavens, the moonlight glinting in his grey eyes. Gaelen left Angael and approached him—it seemed she had never seen anyone so beautiful. He turned his eyes down to meet hers, and they shared a moment of silent communion. Then he took her in his arms, falling to his knees upon the ground, and held her tightly. She responded in kind, for they both knew they would have precious little time together; the gates of Mountain-home were near.

She remained locked in his embrace for several minutes, reveling in his warmth, memorizing his scent, feeling safer than she ever had in her life.

“Gaelen
,
Taldin Mulafiann, my banner is now dearer to me than ever. It has brought happiness that I have missed all my life, if only for a while,” he said.

In response she strengthened her hold on him, pulling him to her fiercely, both hands clutching the back of his head, long fingers weaving amid the tangled silk of his hair. “Farahin, O Welcome Rain! How great is my joy to bring you such happiness, for you return it thrice over. If only this night would never end and we could remain here forever, just as we are, I would be content.”

At these words, the longing within Ri-Elathan became nearly unbearable, but he fought it back. “I would also be content, but such is not my fate. We must return to the Sanctuary, for the weight of my duty rests there. I cannot escape it, but I have forgotten it for a time, and I will forever thank you for that.”

Gaelen hushed him. “Do not speak of duty and responsibility tonight, Son of Kings. For now, you are young and free, and in my embrace. You have kindled the fire within me, and it will not let you go…not yet.”

By the time she did let him go, the joining of heart, body, and spirit was complete.

Farahin and Gaelen, whose hearts were now given, made their way back at last. The sentinels’ clear horn-calls echoed into the Halls of Mountain-home, but not until the first light of dawn crept over the tall peaks, bringing the years back down upon the Elven-king with each step taken toward the house of Ordath.

Alduinar’s prediction of the departure of Osgar would prove true in less than a fortnight, when he took his leave, promising assistance in the upcoming conflict. With him went Gaelen Taldin Mulafiann, bearing two tokens of the King, both of which were known to her alone. One was his promise to come for her when the conflict ended. The other was the silken banner she wore tucked away in a dark blue pouch of leather, close to her heart.

Once Gaelen had gone, Ri-Elathan could once again turn his attention back to the war-council. He missed her company already. She had taken to calling him “Rain,” which he found endearing, meeting secretly with her many times since pledging his heart on the banks of the Nachtan. Each time, he tried to escape the weight of duty that now threatened to crush him. He had lived most of his life with that weight, but it had grown almost unbearable now that he had something else to live for.

He had never thought to sire children, or to have the pleasure of their upbringing, nor had he ever imagined he would have another soul bound to his so completely. He would never be alone again...she was always with him and always would be. Had this wonderful gift only been given at a better time, his happiness would have been complete.

He had seen many battles, and he knew the difficulty of the task he now faced, but this war would be different. He could feel it. The Black Flame had not been strong enough to challenge the powers of Light since Shandor himself had cast Wrothgar’s dark soul back into the depths. An uneasy peace had reigned since then, but it would not withstand another uprising—not if Wrothgar could gather full strength.

Why should any talk of the war fill him with such foreboding? He had already embraced the idea of his own death...he had done so long before, after his impressive sire, Ri-Aldamar, had fallen in the Second Uprising. That terrible conflict had resulted in the loss of almost all of the great Warrior-scholars known as the Èolar—Ri-Elathan’s people. Now Wrothgar threatened to rise again, but this time the Elves had anticipated and prepared for it.

Ri-Elathan knew he could die in any conflict, as he would represent a great prize to his enemies, but he was also well protected. Shandor was no longer able to defend the realm, but Magra and the other remaining Èolar would never allow their King to fall. Why, then, was he so fearful?

Did he have the courage to find out?

He had not thought of the Stone of L
é
ir in many years. It was locked securely away, safe from thieves and vandals. This was no mere seeing-stone.

It had been made long ago by Dardis, greatest of all Èolarin craftsmen, as a way to re-live happy memories with lost loved ones. Dardis would never have imagined the fate that would befall the Stone, or he probably would have destroyed it himself. Now, however, that was unlikely. It was the original intent of the Stone—the ability to assuage grief—that had altered it forever.

Ri-Elathan was one of the very few who would be admitted to the Chamber of Léir. Only a handful of the residents of Mountain-home even knew of its whereabouts, a precaution meant to protect the intruders as well as the Stone itself. Some had gone mad upon viewing it. Rain had not been so vulnerable; he had sought enlightenment from the Stone before, to the benefit of his armies, but this time would be different. He wanted to know of his own fate, a question few would have the courage to ask. He wanted to know if he could dare to hold hope in his heart.

He made his way deep into the mountain, through a maze of hallways and stairs, to stand before the door at last. Reaching beneath the front of his silk shirt and leather doublet, he drew forth a small leather pouch embossed with his royal sigil, extracting a plain iron key. At first, the lock was stubborn, for it had not been opened in some time, but at last he heard the soft “click” as the bolt released
.

He stepped through into a chamber which should have been musty, but wasn’t. There was a sort of charged energy about the place—it raised the hair on his arms and the back of his neck—and he wondered if it was merely the result of his own fear, or whether the Stone warned him to keep away.

It stood on a broad stone pedestal, covered with a dark green cloth to keep its surface free of dust, casting a benign glow that was the only source of light in the room.
How innocent it looks,
he thought, approaching with careful steps.

He called to the spirit of Shandor, who dwelled within: “It is I, the son of Aldamar, brother of your beloved. I have come seeking enlightenment.”

At first, the Stone merely continued to glow from beneath the green drape. Rain knew that Shandor did not like to be disturbed, but he also knew Shandor would not deny him, though he was no respecter of titles. Rain wasn’t just the High King, he was
kin.
He called to the Stone again.

“Farahin, nephew of Liathwyn, has come seeking enlightenment!”

At this, the glow increased dramatically. Shandor could not ignore the mention of his beloved’s name.
Why have you summoned me? And why invoke the name of Liathwyn?

“I seek enlightenment that only you can give,” said Rain. “I do not disturb you without great cause. I don’t know if you can show me the fate that awaits me, or the outcome of the battle I must now fight, but I must know if there is any possibility of happiness.”

But why now? What has happened? You have changed somehow
.

“I…I cannot tell you now, as I haven’t the time. My resolve wavers with every passing moment, and I fear the vision you will reveal, yet I must seek it. Will you show me the future? I must know of it, lest my courage falter.”

Shandor was silent for a moment.
I dare not reveal it…you are kin to Liathwyn, and she would have me guard your spirit from harm. What I have seen will not please you. You must reconsider
.

Rain’s heart sank, but he pressed on. “I cannot reconsider. I must know the truth.”

WHY must you? You will learn nothing more until you have revealed what drives you to this need
. The Stone dimmed, as if emphasizing the point.

In answer, Rain took hold of the green silk and flung it aside, exposing the beautiful, impossibly complex crystal beneath. He did not look deep within…not yet. “I must know because…because after all these centuries, despite any expectation to the contrary, I am betrothed. I have perceived my life-mate, and I have sent her home to the Greatwood. I want to know whether I dare hope for happiness, for children, for any life at all! Now, does that satisfy you?”

The Stone flared, and then went dim again as Shandor considered.
You have found a life-mate. How regrettable
, he said.
I tell you again, Farahin, do not seek to learn these truths. Love is far too painful an emotion—it will destroy your spirit
.

“That may be true for some,” said Rain, knowing the statement would not go unnoticed. Shandor had been all but destroyed by his love of Liathwyn; his overwhelming grief had driven him into the Stone, from which he could no longer escape. Shandor gave the stone its power now—the power to reveal destiny, or to drive one mad. Shandor had loved Liathwyn so deeply that he had no other happiness, and she had chosen to leave him forever. Where she had gone, he could not follow. The bitterness and finality of that loss had darkened the mighty Light of Shandor’s soul.

You have reminded me of my pain
, Shandor said at last.
You have been life-mated, and you hope now for happiness that I will be forever denied? At least you may have such hope
. He paused again for a moment, the Light of the Stone thrumming as if in rhythm with a beating heart.
Well, then, since you hope for that which I will never have, I shall oblige you. Prepare yourself, for you will not like what you see
.

Farahin Ri-Elathan looked into the surface of the crystal, which had begun to glow golden, as though a fire had kindled there. An infinite number of flat, silvery planes shifted and roiled within, until at last one seemed to coalesce, swimming into clarity. Rain heard the sound of distant battle, but had seen no images as yet. He braced himself for what would come next.

Behold your destiny
.

Rain fell into the Stone, his body flailing and twisting, light and sound and image swirling and buffeting and battering him until, at last, he came to rest. The sounds of battle, once faint, were now terribly clear. He stood upon an immense battle-plain; the surrounding mountains told him he was in the North, near the ruin of Tal-elathas, his birthplace and his father’s former kingdom. Then he saw the Shadowmancer, Lord Wrothgar of the Black Flame, standing before him. So, this was it, then—the last battle. Only one of them would leave it.

They were surrounded by B
ö
dvari, the black demons, supposedly the children of Wrothgar himself. They held back any who would aid him—he could see Magra, as well as several of his other battle-captains, but they had been held at bay and could not reach him. The Bödvari cast fire from their gnarled, dark fingers, and that fire was not easily extinguished. The worst of their weapons, however, was the suffocating cloud of fear that enveloped them. The only one who had ever overcome it was Aincor, the legendary Fire-heart, first High King of the Èolar. Rain would receive no help from his battle-captains.

Wrothgar had put forth his most fearsome form, an immense, dark-armored warrior, nearly a head taller than Rain’s already impressive height. The two warriors regarded one another for a brief moment, and Rain heard Wrothgar’s horrid, oily voice inside his mind.

Thou art vanquished, Elf-king! Lay down thy weapons, and receive mercy. Otherwise I shall feast upon thee.

Rain would not dignify Wrothgar with a reply, but stood in silence, his great sword at the ready. He did not have long to wait.

Wrothgar flew at him as if on stinking black wings, their bodies slamming together, and Rain knew his sword was useless. He needed both hands to wrestle this great, armored creature from him. It would have to be Light against Darkness alone.

Rain had summoned his Light before, but never in such dire need. He flared up like a star, so that even the Bödvari were burned by it. Wrothgar shrieked in his grasp, his terrible, soulless eyes going milky white before he could turn them aside. But he would not be blinded for long. The horrid stinking darkness and despair pervading him began to overcome Rain’s Light, and the Elf-king knew he would need to summon every scrap of strength he possessed.

They strove for almost a full minute—an eternity—until at last Rain faltered. Wrothgar’s great jaws opened and he sank his three-inch-long teeth into Rain’s shoulder, causing him to throw his head back in a silent scream. The terrible, black flames for which Wrothgar was named blossomed forth from the wound, spreading first down Rain’s sword arm and then across his chest and back, enveloping him in searing, blinding pain. His armor glowed red, and then melted, the leather smoldering before flaring up briefly and turning to ash. His flesh did likewise. He screamed over and over, still struggling, still clinging with grim tenacity to his enemy. His throat filled with fire, and that silenced him.

Magra was not far away. He had felt an undeniable sense of foreboding concerning his friend and King, and, with the instincts of a long-time comrade-in-arms, had followed him. He heard Ri-Elathan’s screams in his mind before his ears perceived them, whereupon he ran into the chamber of the Stone to behold the King, both hands clutching the pedestal, writhing in horrific agony. Without hesitating, he grasped his friend’s shoulders and drew him back, though it was difficult.

Still, the King struggled, his face a mask of horror, his blank eyes clouded with pain.

“Come back! Come back to me,” cried Magra, praying that Ri-Elathan was not in the grip of madness—he had seen that happen before to those of lesser fortitude. “This is a vision only. Whatever you are seeing is not happening now. Come back!” He gritted his teeth and turned on Shandor. “Let him go, you self-important, impotent shadow!”