Soul Seeker (The World of Lasniniar Book 1) (39 page)

“You cannot dismiss what is happening,” Lysandir persisted. “The fate of Lasniniar is at stake!”

“We are not the rulers of the rest of Lasniniar,” Salimarawyn said. “I am also sorry, Lysandir, but we will hear no more.”

Linwyn felt a tide of frustrated rage rise within her. Lysandir seemed at a loss. Although the self-involved nature of these elves infuriated her, they would be needed if Iarion was going to have a chance of success. She stepped forward, her fists clenched at her sides.

“No.”

The elves all looked at one another in surprise, murmuring in their own tongue.

“This audience is not over. I would like to speak.” Linwyn looked to the lord and lady, who nodded their assent with puzzled expressions.

“You.” Linwyn jerked her chin at Silvaranwyn. “Translate. I want everyone here to understand what I have to say.” Silvaranwyn nodded her agreement.

Linwyn removed her helm and began to pace, using her anger to fuel her speech. Lysandir stepped back to give her the floor, his face unreadable.

“You say this is an outside matter that does not concern you. That is not true. If Iarion fails and Saviadro gains possession of the Quenya, do you really believe he will leave you in peace? No. He will rally his Forsworn and come here for you. Perhaps not right away, but it is only a matter of time before he remembers your existence and his gaze turns to your wood.” Linwyn waited for Silvaranwyn to finish translating before she continued.

“Let’s say you do manage to be forgotten. The Quenya is now in enemy hands. Do any of you know what it is like to live without your connection to it? I have heard Iarion is the only elf to ever experience this, and at times I think it may drive him mad. He is an extraordinary elf and bears it well, but he cannot stop his search for meaning. It has made him live far longer than any of his kind, and forced him to wander all of Lasniniar searching for answers. How will all of you fare? There will be no inner compass, no hope for ascension to Light Elf status.

“There won’t even be any Light Elves left. Saviadro is going to kill them all. Lady Iadrawyn and Lord Valanandir, the two elves who discovered the Quenya and brought your kind to this continent, will be gone. As for Melaquenya, only the charred stumps of its glorious trees will remain.” Linwyn watched as her words reached the elves. Their eyes widened and they began to whisper among themselves. She stopped her pacing and looked out at them, challenging them to meet her gaze.

“Perhaps you are still asking yourselves what this has to do with you. Melaquenya is far away. Few of you have ever seen it or the elves who live there, protecting the Quenya. Perhaps you think it a better price to pay compared to facing the Fallen One. I will tell you this: If you turn your back on us now, you are turning your back on one of your own.

“For many years, Iarion lived among you. He has been a brother, a son, a lover, or a father to many of you. He has fought to protect your wood. Now he needs your help. The hope of Lasniniar hinges on his success, and things are not looking good. He needs a distraction. He is not here to ask you himself to do this. I am asking you for him.” Linwyn held her voice steady. She realized there were tears streaming down her face.

“There is no other elf like Iarion, and I know that you love him. How could you not? So what you need to ask yourselves is whether you are willing to sit back and do nothing, knowing your inaction will destroy Melaquenya, the Light Elves, countless others, and your beloved Iarion. If you will not do this for yourselves, then at least do it for his sake. I am begging you.”

Linwyn had run out of words. She realized Golaron was staring at her, his eyes wide. Linwyn wiped the tears from her cheeks and tried to compose herself. She felt completely wrung out.

To her surprise, Lysandir placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You did well,” he murmured.

Silvaranwyn was just finishing her translation. When she was done speaking, a heavy silence fell over the glade. Linwyn looked out at the sea of elven faces. Many of them looked away, unable to meet her eyes. Some of them merely looked thoughtful. The faces of the lord and lady were unreadable. The air had become completely still.

After what seemed like an eternity, Salimarawyn finally spoke.

“You are right. This is our concern. We were only trying to fool ourselves by saying otherwise. Still, we do not like the idea of sending our people into battle. But they must have a say in this matter. Are they willing to fight for Iarion?” She addressed the elves in their own tongue. Another tense silence followed.

“I will fight for Iarion.” Beliriel stepped forward, giving a nod to her parents.

Linwyn felt a surge of surprise immediately followed by jealousy. This woman had borne Iarion’s child! She reminded herself it didn’t matter now. What mattered was getting these elves to take a stand.

Beliriel’s sister, Luniwyn, hung back. “I want to fight for Iarion, but someone must care for the children if the worst should happen. I am sorry.” She met Linwyn’s gaze to let her know she meant it.

Falan stepped forward to stand beside Beliriel. “I will fight for Iarion.”

Everything started happening at once. The elves began to talk and argue among themselves as more stepped forward to join Falan and Beliriel. Soon, roughly three-quarters of the Wild Elves had volunteered.

“It seems we have reached a decision,” Lord Numadil said with a wry smile. “The
Beliadar
will go to war.”

“The rest of the army awaits us on the border of your wood,” Lysandir said.

“Wait.” Falan frowned. “You do not expect us to march off to war with
dwarves,
do you?”

Linwyn lurched forward, her hands clenched. Someone put a hand on her shoulder. She looked back to see Golaron shaking his head.

“One battle at a time.”

–
Chapter Forty –

A Cold Welcome

Iarion paced. Every moment that passed during the voyage back to the mainland grated on him. He knew it was only because of his and Barlo’s necessary confinement. The dwarf lounged in a hammock, seeming at ease with the rocking motions of the ship. Rasniwyn’s potion for seasickness seemed to be working. It was a good thing too. It would be difficult to remain inconspicuous with Barlo’s head hanging over the side the entire way. Sinstari lay stretched out on the floor, unconcerned.

The passage brought back more memories for Iarion. He had traveled in a ship much like this one to search for Ralvaniar, the lost continent. He had accompanied a group of
Rasadar
on the expedition. The other elven tribes had moved on since the exodus to Lasniniar, but the
Rasadar
still pined for the old days. They even lived on an island between the old world and the new. Iarion had gone with them to try to find something of the missing continent where the Quenya had originated, but the
Rasadar
had been searching for something else.

When the Sea Elves had lived in the old world, they had made their home on the isle of Arindaria. It was in the surrounding waters they had first discovered the Sea Folk. They were creatures with the upper body of an elf and the tail of a fish, rather than legs. They had their own language, and dwelled deep beneath the sea.

The
Rasadar
had befriended them and learned to speak their language. They had continued to keep in contact with them even after all the elves had united to become
Linadar
and moved their home to the ancient forest of Melavalion to live in hiding from the dark creatures that had begun to run rampant.

But there had been no time to warn the Sea Folk of the final battle that would result in the cataclysm that destroyed the continent. The
Rasadar
had not seen them since, despite their efforts to make contact. Iarion suspected they had been swept deep into the bottom of the ocean by the strange, circular waterfall that lay where Ralvaniar had once been. Perhaps they lived, even still.

Iarion forced himself to stop pacing and looked over at Barlo. “I’m sorry this was a wasted trip.”

“We don’t know that yet,” the dwarf said. “Those girls seem pretty persuasive. You should have more faith in them. If nothing else, we got a chance to rest, resupply, and recover.”

“Thank you for coming with me, Barlo. You are a good friend.” Iarion gave him a smile.

“You should know by now you can’t get rid of me!” Barlo grinned back before turning serious. “What will we do now?”

“We will see what news we can gain from the elves on the mainland and go from there.”

“I wonder what the others are up to.” Barlo gnawed on his bearded lower lip. “Are they still alive?”

“There is no way to find out, unless they somehow were given refuge by the mainland
Rasadar
, which is highly unlikely.” Iarion sighed. “We can only hope they are safe. We must press on without them. It’s for their own good.”

There was a slight lurch as the anchor was thrown overboard. The ship glided to a stop.

“We’re here,” Iarion said.

Someone knocked on the door to their cabin. Iarion called for the visitor to enter in Elvish. It was Alfiabalas.

“We have arrived,” he said. “You must put on your cloaks. Do not expect much from the elves here on the mainland. They will abide by the lord and lady’s decision.”

“Thank you for your help,” Iarion said, holding out his hand.

Alfiabalas gripped his forearm. “I am only sorry I cannot do more. Good luck to both of you on your quest.”

Iarion and Barlo donned the waterproof cloaks they had been given, drawing up the hoods to hide their faces. They were identical to the cloaks the rest of the ship’s crew wore.

They went above deck to find the crew waiting with their own hoods drawn. It was dusk. They joined the group as they left the ship for the pier. Sinstari weaved among them, staying close to the center. Barlo, whose lack of height made him conspicuous, was also kept within the heart of the group. If anyone was watching, it would be difficult to spot anything out of the ordinary.

They remained in formation until they were safely under the boughs of the Forest of the Sea. A scout appeared, and Alfiabalas spoke in hushed tones, explaining the situation. After several moments, the scout nodded.

Alfiabalas turned to face them. “This is farewell. My crew and I must rest if we are to make the morning tide and maintain your cover. Cargo for the island is being loaded to give reason for our visit.”

“Thank you again,” Iarion said.

“Be safe.” Alfiabalas nodded and left with his crew trailing behind him.

The scout stepped forward. “Will you be departing now?” he asked in Elvish.

“Is there someplace we might rest first?” Iarion asked. “We have some decisions to make before moving on.”

A frown flickered over the scout’s features as his eyes passed over Barlo and Sinstari. “I believe I know a place.” He continued to speak in Elvish.

“Do you not speak Common?” Iarion asked.

“I do not,” the scout said with a sniff in the dwarf’s direction. “There are few here who do.”

Iarion sighed. “Very well. Take us to this place.” He explained to Barlo what was happening as the scout led them through the forest.

There were no other elves about. The forest appeared deserted. Haunting, airy melodies lilted through the air from somewhere above them in the ancient trees. Barlo looked around in confusion. Iarion smiled and said nothing, not wanting to ruin the surprise.

Eventually, they reached a large oak deep in the heart of the forest. A spiral walkway wound up its trunk.

Barlo’s eyes widened. “Surely you don’t mean for us to go up that!”

“The
Rasadar
dwell in the treetops,” Iarion said. Flickers of light were visible among the branches high above them. “You go first. I’ll catch you if you misstep.”

“There’s a comforting thought,” Barlo grumbled. The scout looked back at him with disdain before beginning to ascend.

It was a long climb. Sinstari had no difficulty, but Barlo was panting before they reached the top, his short legs trembling. Once or twice Iarion thought the dwarf might fall, but he managed to keep his balance through sheer pride and will alone.

When they reached the treetops, the village of the
Rasadar
opened before them. Huts were built on platforms held up by branches with swaying walkways running between them. The scout led them off in one direction without even looking back to see whether they followed.

Iarion thought he heard Barlo groan, but the dwarf did not give their guide the satisfaction of complaining, even when they had to cross the airy walkways. Barlo gripped the ropes on both sides as he crossed the wooden planks. Finally, they reached a small hut at the edge of the village.

The scout gestured for them to enter. “Here is a guest hut. You may rest here for the night.”

The elf looked as though he were about to leave, but Iarion placed a hand on his shoulder. “Wait. We need news of what has happened recently in this area and beyond the borders of your forest. Can you help us?”

The scout shrugged off Iarion’s hand. “I will have someone sent.” He turned his back and left. Iarion shook his head, bewildered at the elf’s behavior.

“He was a pleasant fellow,” Barlo panted. “Can we go inside now? I really need to sit.”

Iarion stepped aside to allow his friend to enter first. The hut was sparsely furnished with a sitting area in the front and a sleeping area behind a curtain. The same haunting melody they had heard below filled the air.

“What
is
that racket?”

“Look out the window,” Iarion said.

He knew what Barlo would find. Each
Rasadar
hut had a set of delicate pipes made of shell and coral that were hung from the window so the wind could blow across them.