Chronicles of Gilderam: Book One: Sunset (30 page)

Levwit Balkenthron bent over the foredeck rail, leaning into the blasting wind. His florid coat whipped and lashed in the
baethes voth
, a considerable force given
Gilderam’s
current speed, and he squinted in the face of it. Clumps of his long, sandy hair, freed by the wind, streaked from his head in fluttering strands.

The sun, at its highest point in the sky, poured its brightest light onto Divar’s endless, rolling florascape. Levwit couldn’t tell if the hills and buttes made of treetops below were the result of the shape of the earth under them, or simply the difference between the trees themselves. The canopy was so dense that Levwit had not seen a patch of ground since he had emerged from the ship this morning. They sailed over an immense ocean of green – a billowing sea of shimmering leaves.

Levwit drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

This
, he thought,
was what I came for
.

This was the beauty of the elvish land that very few Gresadians had ever seen. Had his voyage ended here, and were he permitted to experience nothing further regarding the mysterious home of the elves, Levwit would be gloating for the rest of his days.

“Enjoying the view?”

“Hm– wh–? Oh, hello there, friend!” They had to shout over the wind. “Zargog, was it?”

“Jerahd.”

“Right! Right.” He gestured at the forest. “Quite a sight, isn’t it?”

“Beautiful. Like nothing I’ve seen before.”

“Just trees, Dj… Sh… Jerahg. This is the home of the Called Upon. We could sail for days and see nothing but trees.” They reflected on this for a moment. “Must be quite a change from what you’re used to, eh?”

“Certainly. Every moment brings something new to me, here. But how do we know where we’re going? Are there markers?”

“No. No markers. I suspect they use some form of celestial navigation.”

“To find the Inner City?”

“Precisely.”

“How will we know when we’ve found it?”

Levwit opened his mouth to speak and then realized he wasn’t sure of the answer.

“Well… actually,” he said, looking around at the trees below. “I suppose….” And then his gaze became transfixed upon the horizon. “…I suppose it’ll look something like that.”

He pointed to a green blob popping up in the south, many hundreds of
itthum
away. Even at this distance, it was apparent that the object was a single tree of unimaginable proportions.

“
Threithumé
…” said Jerahd, so awestruck by the sight he didn’t realize he used the Gresadian.

“Indeed, my good friend… indeed.”

The Inner City was a metropolis, home to several hundred thousand elves. The base of the tree could not be seen from the air – in fact the depth of the forest floor could only be guessed at. But the city rose high above the surrounding trees, a gnarly mountain of runneled bark. Untold millennia of growth had compounded drooping layers over drooping layers. The end result formed not a straight trunk, but an enormous, melting mass of ancient wood.

From it sprang innumerable branches in every direction, exploding randomly from the center. They weren’t straight, but instead they bent and curved organically, winding and intertwining, so that the whole effect was a great tangle of stunning complexity. Smaller branches broke off from the larger ones, continuing along the random pattern, and further confusing the knot.

At the outmost reaches of the tree, a shell of leaves formed a dome that shadowed the space within. The area it covered was so vast that
Gilderam
had no trouble at all sailing right through it. Gaping holes, hundreds of
entilum
wide, provided access to the Inner City from the air, though the elves themselves had no use for airships. Supposedly they used magic to travel through the forest on the ground.

Inside, bridges and walkways crisscrossed between and among branches so fluidly and so seamlessly that outsiders could scarcely tell which had formed naturally and which were built by hand. Buildings and living spaces appeared to grow from and within the tree itself. Countless windows dotted the bark, hinting at structures inside. Rather than bending the great tree to their will, as humans would have done, the elves had evidently found a way to live
with
the tree, in symbiotic harmony.

Gilderam’s
three weather decks quickly filled with onlookers as the visitors from the north emerged to see the famous city for themselves. With like interest, hundreds of Divarans stopped in their tracks to stare curiously back.

The round vessel passed slowly through the city, headed for the center. It came to a stop with its bow pressed to a flat outcropping on the side of one of the biggest boles. A small crowd of elves was gathered there. They helped the crew to tether the ship in place.

Shazahd led the procession from the ship. Behind her was Captain Vrei, Owein, Jerahd, and Levwit. Galif, Fulo, Gorahem, Cavada and the rest of the crew waited on the main deck, watching. Mentrat hadn’t answered his door.

The elves were a majestic race. And a tall one. Many of them were well over a whole head’s length taller than their guests, and none were much shorter. They were also lithe, like Shazahd, yet not a bit frail or gaunt. They stood their full height naturally, not proudly, and strode with a kind of easy power. There was a sereneness about their eyes that was striking to foreigners, as if they collectively shared an unshakable sense of calm.

Owein noticed that none of them had dark hair – only blonde, white or grey. Had he not known that Shazahd was half-human, he never would’ve guessed it. She looked exactly like one of them.

They were dressed in earthy garments that may as likely have been grown as manufactured. There were green jerkins that could have been made from a soft animal skin or some kind of large, fuzzy leaf, cream tunics of either woven fibers or tiny florets, flowing shirts of cloth or gossamer, and boots constructed of what must’ve been rigid leather or flexible wood. None of the outsiders could tell for sure.

A very old-looking elf led a delegation to meet them. His grey hair was long, running the length of his back, and braided. He wore a deep brown haori over several robes, embroidered with an intricate swirling design that shone bright gold in the shifting light. Levwit was particularly intrigued by the vestment since it could not be discerned, even upon close inspection, whether the item had been made by hand or shorn from something living.

The elves stopped, and uniformly raised their right hands to their chests, bowing gently as they did so.

“My dear Shazahd,” said the old one with a smile. “My beautiful granddaughter. You have returned to us at last.”

“Chancellor Eridanean,” she said, bowing similarly. “Grandfather. It is again –”

“
Aelyia!
”

The serene welcome was interrupted by a hoarse, old voice crying out from a distance.

“Aelyia! You must prepare yourselves!” It was Mentrat, calling from
Gilderam’s
main deck. “They’re coming, Aelyia! They’re coming to destroy you!” He ran along the deck to the boarding plank.

“Mentrat,” said the elf. “How good of you to come.”

Lord Ranaloc was panting by the time he made it down. He pushed his way past the crew and grabbed the chancellor by the shoulders.

“Your people are in terrible danger!” he spat. “At this very moment, the largest fleet of airships in history is on its way here!
Quickly!
You’ve got to sound the alarm! You’ve got to evacuate! You’ve got to –!”

“Please, Mentrat, please,” the elf said soothingly, taking one of his hands. “Tranquility, my friend. We know all about the armada. And there is no danger here.”

“You do…?” said Vrei.

“Of course. We are very well aware, in fact. You need not worry. We are entirely prepared for their arrival. Trust me, my friends, you are perfectly safe here.”

“But, Aelyia –!”

“Be at peace, Mentrat.” He smiled calmly at the frantic old man before him. Ranaloc panicked to think of something to say, but he found his mind stalling in the face of such overriding gentleness.

“Father….” Shazahd took a step forward and put a hand on his shoulder. When he turned around, his eyes softened. They glistened. He scanned her face as though he had forgotten what she looked like.

“Father! It’s me. Your daughter.”

“Shazahd…” he breathed.

“Yes, Father! Are you…?”

Without another word Mentrat brushed passed her, headed back for the ship. Vrei tried to stop him.

“Lord Ranaloc,” she said. “Good to meet you at last. My name is Vreilovethra….” But he didn’t stop. Mentrat walked right by and crossed over the plank, continuing on until he disappeared into one of
Gilderam’s
hatches
.

“Is he all right?” Chancellor Eridanean asked.

“Shazahd!” someone blurted from behind the elvish entourage. A young elven man stepped forward, eager and breathless. Around his neck hung a glowing necklace just like Shazahd’s.

“Audim!” she called back. He rushed to her and swept her up in his arms. Jerahd was sure he saw their necklaces fly together like magnets when they met. Pressed together, they muttered to each other in Elvish.

“Well,” said the chancellor to everyone else. “Welcome to the Inner City of Divar! We don’t often receive guests, so tonight we shall hold a great feast in your honor.” Then he said to Vrei, as if he already knew she was captain, “Please, inform your crew they are all welcome here. We would be honored to lodge you during your stay.”

“That’s very generous,” said Vrei. “But we have quarters aboard the ship.”

“I insist.”

She nodded.

“Oh, and Aelyia,” said Shazahd, peeling herself from Audim. “Our ship has taken a bit of a beating recently. You don’t think you could spare any workmen to help with repairs, do you?”

“It is done.” He signaled a few of his entourage, and Galif led them over the gangplank towards
Gilderam
. “Now, if you’ll follow me, I shall give you the grand tour of our humble town.”

“Tour?” said Owein. All eyes fell on him. “Shouldn’t we sort a few things out first? The armada will be here tomorrow.”

“Nonsense,” said an elf in a bark-hewn doublet. “They’ll reach the forest’s edge tomorrow. And that’s as far as they’ll go.”

“How can you be so sure?” asked Vrei. “The Imperial Navy has amassed the largest fleet the world has ever seen. Three battleships, and the flagship Vacthor, not to mention countless –”

“We are sure,” was the measured response.

Owein chuckled. “Look,” he said, “I don’t know if you guys exactly understand what’s going on here, but –”

“On the contrary it is
you
who lacks understanding,” said the elf in the doublet. He and Owein traded glares.

“For now, let us talk no more of this,” said the chancellor. “There will be time to answer all your questions. There are other concerns which also require our attention.” He looked to Shazahd and Audim. Their heartroot fragments were pulsing in unison. “Tonight Aelmuligo reaches its perigee in the sky. The gods will be closer to us than they’ve been in over two decades. This should have been your nuptial date. But the eve of battle is no time for such a ceremony. Instead, you will be wed as soon as the battle is ended. It would be my honor to perform the marriage myself in two days’ time.”

“Two
days
…
?
” Owein let slip.

“The union you’ll forge will mark the beginning of a new age. One that, I hope, will at last be free from the tyranny of Mankind. Come,” said the chancellor resolutely. “First thing’s first. I would be remiss if I didn’t properly introduce you to our beautiful city.”

“Ooh! Excuse me, sir!” Levwit piped up. “Are we going to see the Sanctum of Shadow, perchance?”

“Of course. We’ll head right there.”

“Oh, thank you sir!” He was overjoyed. “And might I just introduce myself,” Owein rolled his eyes as Levwit pushed his way to the front of the group. “My name is Levwit Balkenthron, Marquis of Pwij,” he paused to bow a little immoderately. “And can I tell you just what an incredible honor it is to meet you, My Lord!”

“The sentiment is reciprocal. You have an interest in the Called Upon, do you?”

“You could call it a fascination, actually.”

Aelyia led them forward while he very patiently endured Levwit’s incessant babbling. Owein turned to Jerahd.

“Can you believe this guy?” he said, nodding at Levwit.

Jerahd looked at him, blinking.

“Who does he think he is?” Owein motioned toward Levwit again for more emphasis.

“I think he thinks he’s the Marquis of Pwij,” Jerahd answered matter-of-factly.