Moonshadow (36 page)

“Quite right,” Darien replied with a smile.

Diana had to admit that there was something mystical about Glastonbury. Knowing that the Temple of the Fallen was relatively close by only made the feeling more potent. Darien had said the Flinders University campus was a similar magical environment, and that it was for that reason the Veil had called to her after so many years. If so, what horrors would be waiting for Diana in the realm of dreams when she fell asleep in Qir’Aflonas? She shivered at the thought.

Diana’s troubled musings were successfully held at bay once she and Darien reached the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey, where her mind was fully occupied taking in the remains of Gothic chapels and cloisters. According to the tour signs, the abbey had been established in the 7
th
century by monks, and by the 14
th
century, it had become one of the richest monasteries in England. The success of the abbey didn’t last, however. When King Henry VIII dissolved the monastic system, he seized the vast wealth of the church and the once magnificent building complex fell into ruins. In the place of grand buttresses, high altars, and sacred shrines of saints, visitors now walked among the skeletal remains of a past glory and the lawns of green grass surrounding them.

While walking in the midst of a lawn surrounding the ruins of a small chapel, Diana found an intriguing sight. A small metal sign stood next to a large wooden rectangle that had been laid out like a grave plot. She read the sign out loud.

“Site of King Arthur’s tomb. In the year 1191 the bodies of King Arthur and his queen were said to have been found on the south side of the Lady Chapel. On the 19
th
of April 1278 their remains were removed in the presence of King Edward I and Queen Eleanor to a black marble tomb on this site. This tomb survived until the dissolution of the abbey in 1539.”

Diana looked to Darien. “Were Arthur and Guinevere really buried here?”

“To my knowledge, yes,” he replied, fairly certain of the account’s accuracy. “Arthur was buried here about a century before the first monastery was built—probably as a grave shrine. I’m not certain where the bodies of the Serpent and his queen are now, though.”

Staring at the plot of earth that had once held the legendary king and queen, Diana could almost feel the tragedy of it all. If Charlotte’s accounts were true—and Darien had confirmed that they were—Guinevere had led a rebellion against her husband alongside her lover, Lancelot. Yet, in spite of it all, she and Arthur had been buried together in the end.

“So the bodies were lost, found, and then lost again?” Diana asked, finding the notion a bit peculiar. “Do you know what happened?”

“I have an idea, though it’s from nothing substantial,” Darien replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “Only what I’ve pieced together from a few Crusader accounts and tomb murals. Have you ever heard of the Knights Templar?”

Diana crossed her arms over her chest and just stared at him, surprised he’d even had to ask. “Of course I know who the Knights Templar are; anyone with cable TV does. Hell—the Templars are blamed for every conspiracy from the Holy Grail to alien cover-ups.”

Darien arched a brow in confusion. “Regardless,” he continued. “The Templars occupied the Jerusalem Temple Mount during the First Crusade and spent a great deal of their time excavating the caverns below.”

“What’d they find?” Diana asked, quickly growing excited. “The Ark of the Covenant?”

Darien chuckled and shook his head. “Something much more important—books.”

“What kind of books?” Though considerably less enthused, Diana still found the Templar discoveries fascinating.

“I wish I knew exactly,” Darien replied with disappointment. “I’ve been trying to track one down for decades but haven’t had much luck. Whatever was in them, I know it led the Templars to Glastonbury Abbey in 1191 to search for the Holy Grail, however, they only found Arthur’s body. The Templars and their successors had a vested interest in the abbey following their discovery, which led to the monastery’s subsequent wealth and power. During the Reformation, they most likely secreted the bodies away to save them from Henry’s plundering.”

“Sounds plausible,” Diana said, considering Darien’s findings. “I wonder why they thought the Grail was here in Glastonbury; Charlotte’s poem made it seem like Guinevere wanted to keep the Chalice far away from the war.”

Darien had the stern expression of a displeased professor. “Bear in mind, it was never confirmed that the White Wraith even had Chalice of the Moon in her possession, and only a brief reference to the Serpent’s quest for it is mentioned in the Annals of the War. Like I’ve said in the past, your aunt made fair use of her artistic license.”

With fists on her hips in defiance, Diana narrowed her eyes and furrowed her brow. “Is, or is not, Charlotte’s poem the most recent mention of the Chalice to have been written by either Naphalei or Human?”

“It is,” Darien confirmed, begrudgingly.

“Then is it safe to assume that Charlotte and Flinders may have been privy to information you have yet to obtain, O Great Seeker?”

“It is,” he repeated.

“Then let’s be on our way,” Diana commanded with a victorious smile. “Because I’m pretty sure the White Wraith hid the Chalice of the Moon in the last place Arthur would have looked—the ruins of Avalon.”

At Diana’s suggestion, Darien’s defensive expression softened and his eyes lit up as he considered the truth her words most likely held. “Under the noses of both our peoples—it makes perfect sense.”

“Of course it does,” Diana confirmed, her smug smile remaining. “Now, let’s go to Qir’Aflonas and find the Chalice—after the ball of course.”

“Of course,” Darien agreed with an amused grin as he took Diana’s hand to continue on.

After walking the entirety of the abbey ruins, they left the area and proceeded up the road a ways to the Chalice Well Gardens—another site Charlotte and Flinders had visited with supposed links to the Holy Grail legend. The gardens were situated on a hillside in the midst of thick trees and bushes, and in any other season, a wide array of beautiful flowers would have lined the paths and surrounded visitors. Currently, however, the winter had left the trees bare and the gardens quite empty of blooms. Through the middle of the area, a small stream flowed into a row of descending pools. As they neared the waters, Diana found everything below stained a blood red color.

“It’s the large amount of iron,” Darien said when he noticed Diana’s surprise. “The Christians thought the well turned red from the blood of Christ when Joseph filled the Grail with its waters. Since then, many pilgrims have come to partake of the waters’ healing properties.”

With a shrug Diana cupped her hands together and put them under the lion’s head fountain, letting them
fill with water. She brought the liquid to her mouth, noting the slight smell of rotten eggs, and took a sip. It tasted foul—like most well water, but much more potent.

“Ugh—this is supposed to have healing properties?”

“It does, actually,” Darien said, laughing at her revulsion. “You can’t taste the magic, though, only the highly concentrated minerals.”

“What makes it magical?” Diana asked, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.

“That particular spring will sometimes get a splash of runoff from Qir’Aflonas’ refreshment pools.”

Diana’s revulsion renewed and she fought the urge to throw up.

“You mean I just drank elven toilet water?” she asked in disgust.

“Yes, I suppose you did,” Darien replied with a sheepish grin. “But at least you’ve been cleansed of impurities.”

Diana punched him in the arm—mostly playfully—before they continued on up the hill. At the very top, they found a small area designated for quiet meditation. A few people sat on stone benches around the chalice well proper, enjoying the tranquil silence. The well itself was a small hole in the ground, about two feet in diameter, with a peculiar opened covering—a wooden circle decorated with a strange symbol wrought in black metal. Surrounded by floral vines, two circles horizontally interlocking in a
vesica piscis
were bisected by what looked to be a spear or a sword. Diana stared at the symbol, mystified by it, until Darien silently nudged her so they could move along.

With not much to see or investigate in the gardens, they left the area and returned to the roadside. Walking a short distance alongside the street, they came to an inclined pathway through the woods leading to the Tor, and soon after, Diana found herself standing in a vast open clearing with a large, grass-covered, hill standing tall in the distance. With naturally stepped terraces surrounding the sides, and the ruins of a lone stone bell-tower standing on the summit, the mound had a mesmerizing, other-worldly, quality about it.

Darien stopped a moment and squeezed Diana’s hand as they took in the sight. “That, my dear, is what the locals call the Tor. The ruins of Qir’Aflonas are directly beneath it.”

“And you’re intending to hike all the way to the top of that thing?” Diana asked, astounded.

“Of course,” Darien replied before pulling her alongside him.

She sighed heavily. “I’m so sick of walking.”

They began their long—and thoroughly exhausting—trek up to the top of the Tor. The hike ended up looking a lot shorter than it actually was, as well. Due to the nature of the hillside, the path was quite winding and not straight up towards the tower.

About half way up, Darien stopped in the vicinity of a small group of sheep and goats munching happily on the grass and Diana sat on a large stone to catch her breath.

“This entire area was a fenland in ancient times, you know,” Darien said as he gazed out on the grassy fields below. “The original hillside of Qir’Aflonas was surrounded by water and looked like a large island rising out of a lake. Since it was covered with magnificent stone buildings of other-worldly design, the ancient humans called it the Isle of the Blessed—Avalon.”

“I still can’t believe King Arthur destroyed Avalon,” Diana said, shaking her head at such an immense deviation from the standard legends.

When they finally reached the summit of the Tor, Diana needed another respite. Stepping inside the ruined bell-tower, she was pleased to find a stone bench and swiftly sat down with a great deal satisfaction. As she rested, Diana read about the ruins on a placard mounted to the wall and learned that the lone bell tower was all that remained of an old church called St. Michael’s that was destroyed in an earthquake in 1275.

Once adequately rested, Diana walked outside and was almost blown over by a strong gust of wind, the cold air cutting through her to the bone. When she walked to the end of the summit, Diana took in the beautiful sight of the Glastonbury countryside. With rolling green hills set against the clear blue sky, the winter environments of England seemed very different than those in the American Mid-West—they were so much more
alive
. The ruins of the tower only added to the mystique of the surrounding area.

Only then did Diana notice that Darien hadn’t been with her for some time. When she realized his absence, Diana went looking for him only to find him impatiently watching a group of people leave the tower to make their way back down the hill.

“Good,” he said once Diana was at his side. “I was afraid we might have to wait a while longer for them to leave. We must hurry before more arrive.”

Darien took Diana by the hand and quickly led her back into the tower before taking one last look around, making absolutely sure no one else was in the vicinity. Satisfied, Darien used his stone magic to move a large slab in one of the corners of the tower, revealing a spiral stone staircase that led down into the center of the Tor. With one hand, Darien held the large stone in place while he lit a small flame in the palm of the other to act as a torch.

“After you, my lady,” he said to Diana, ushering her over to his side.

Diana followed his direction and descended the steps into the darkness, holding onto the sides of the stone walls to not lose her balance.

Using his powers, Darien put the stone slab back into place and the two of them descended into the ruins of the ancient elven city hidden in the bowels of the earth.

Chapter 17

Do you not know that corset and fine lace

Can offer defense to rival chainmail?

Though I do not carry my mighty spear,

I am no less armed for battle this night.

By my charms and guile will I triumph.

Diana continued to lean on the railing of the stone terrace, staring at the curious world before her, wondering how a city could be filled with living people, yet feel as dead as a tomb. Like an ancient sepulcher, the once white pillared buildings and expertly crafted statues of marble were now marred by the dirt and decay of age—void of the life that once animated the soul within. Diana had been spending most of her afternoon staring at the elven city of the dead.

She had immediately grown fascinated with the architecture of Qir’Aflonas, which shared the otherworldly spirit of Lay’Volas. However, where the port city had felt like a composite of Greco-Roman and Islamic styles, the sacred white city felt much more ancient than even those centuries-old civilizations. With forests of thick and rounded alabaster pillars topped with floral capitals, towering pylons, and pointed obelisks reaching high, Qir’Aflonas invoked the simple, yet grandiose, architecture of ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia.

From what Diana knew of Naphalei history, Qir’Aflonas had been very much alive at one time, but not like other elven cities. “The Dominion of the Blessed” had been a sacred city, built in the age that followed the Great Flood by its first queen—Sindaria, daughter of Udana and Endymion. After surviving the deluge as one of the Blessed Twelve, Sindaria built a great temple on the very place where the Fallen had been cast down from their thrones, and laid the foundations of her city in its shadow. The Silvermoon Queen and her descendants ruled their kingdom in peace and prosperity for many thousands of years, until the sacred jewel of Naphalei civilization was brought to ruin by Arthur’s war. Since that day, the hallowed remains of Sindaria’s kingdom had stood as a testament to what can be wrought by the pride of humanity.

As she looked out among the ruins from the high terraced balcony of her apartments, Diana could almost imagine the city in its lost golden age—elegant Naphalei, dressed in their finery, walking among the white marble edifices and tall obelisks that glowed when bathed in the shining sun, children playing innocent games in the green grass or splashing in the sparkling fountains that littered the squares at the base of the hillside, with the magnificent Silvermoon Palace overhead—it would have been a glorious sight to behold.

What lay before Diana now was an empty shell—a dead husk of the city that had shined in its glory for countless millennia. Now buried beneath the earth’s crust, the sun did not shine on Qir’Aflonas, the once magnificent structures were worn and cracked with age and decay, and the broken fountains were dry and dormant. The only light among the dark and gloomy ruins came from a magical orb, high above the buildings and close to the firmament of earth overhead, which shined its light upon the city like an impotent moon. The only people that walked the streets were mourning pilgrims, dressed in white sackcloth robes, come to honor the Fallen with their annual rituals. To Diana they seemed like the ghostly apparitions of past ages, mourning the loss of their sacred city. As she gazed upon a group beginning to make the ascent to the Temple of the Fallen, which loomed tall and ominous on high at the summit of the hill, Diana felt the beginnings of another bout of uncontrollable shivers.

It was said that the barrier between the Veil and the physical realm was thin in Qir’Aflonas—in the shadow of the Temple—and Diana had felt the truth of that notion ever since stepping out of the Monk’s Stairwell. Even though the atmosphere within in the cavernous dominion was strangely warm, she constantly felt cold. When they arrived at their apartments—located within the only habitable quarter of the city, with richly adorned rooms for visiting dignitaries and more humble pilgrim hostels—Darien had suggested she take a nap since the ball wasn’t being held until midnight. However, just the thought of falling asleep in this place kept Diana frightfully alert. Perhaps later she’d be too exhausted to care.

A knock at the door brought Diana out of her musings.

“It’s Endymion,” said the muffled voice from behind.

“Sorry, just a second,” she said in quick reply.

After leaving her perch on the terrace, closing the silken purple drapes behind her, Diana took one last glance at herself in the tall mirror and smiled with satisfaction—she hardly recognized the glamorous young lady’s reflection.

Darien had called for a stylist to help Diana get ready for the evening’s event, and when it was all over, her face had been powdered, her eyes lightly lined, and she had a dash of purple eye-shadow. She’d always been a little too conservative when it came to makeup, fearing she’d overdo it and end up looking like a clown, but the natural quality of Naphalei cosmetics made that outcome virtually impossible. Her long, thick, hair had been put in an elegant braided up-do as well, held together by a circlet tiara decorated with a crescent moon—“a suggestion of Lord Stoneheart,” the stylist had said.

Diana twisted one last time to inspect her exposed back, feeling very much like Eliza Doolittle in
My Fair Lady
, and her smile widened.
If only Lani could see me now
.
Feeling quite satisfied, Diana opened the door and prepared to swoon.

As expected, Endymion Stoneheart stood in the doorway in his formal wear, looking like a dashing prince in a fairy tale. His black jacket with silver trimmings had a slightly more militaristic look than his typical coats and rested above the waist, giving way to tails. Under it he wore an emerald vest that matched the color of Diana’s dress and his ivory breeches were tucked into his polished, black riding boots. On his shoulders he wore the ornaments of the aristocracy, and under the left, a black half-cape draped down just above his knee. Satelvir lay ceremonially equipped at Darien’s side to complete the ensemble.

His smile lit up the dark hallway when he saw Diana.

“You’re a vision,” he said with a sideways grin forming on his mouth. “But you’re missing something.”

“What do you mean?” Diana asked in reply. “Did I forget to put lip gloss on? I always forget lip gloss.”

Darien laughed. “No, nothing like that. Come,” he said as he gestured for her to follow him over to the mirror.

From his inner jacket pocket he produced a small wooden jewelry box and opened it, revealing a long silver necklace with emerald leaves that matched her dress. “A Zen’Naphalia gift.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Diana said as he held it out to her.

“It belonged to my mother.”

“I can’t accept that,” she said, shaking her head at the gravity of the gift. “It’s much too precious.”

“I want you to have it—it’s what my mother would have wanted.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Diana asked, perplexed.

“Mother had a romantic heart,” Darien said as he recalled the warm memories. “She knew how hard it was to wait for your soul’s other half to finally find you. In her mind, the woman who carried the other half of mine was already her heart-daughter—even if I had to wait two centuries before her mobile phone exploded in my hand.”

Overtaken by the profound joy welling up her heart, Diana couldn’t find the words to say, so she simply turned around to let Darien place the necklace around her neck.

Unexpectedly, he sat the necklace so that it rested against her collar bone and draped across her bare back.

“This is how Naphalei women wear jewelry at formal occasions,” he said. “I know it isn’t what you are used to, but it does your grace justice, Diana.”

“It does feel a little odd,” she replied, checking herself out in the mirror. “But I do understand the appeal—it complements the contours of the back perfectly. I love it.”

“There is one last matter, but it’s entirely your decision,” Darien began. “It’s true that humans are permitted to serve as companions at these occasions, but they aren’t always treated with respect.” He had a pained look in his eyes for a moment but then smiled wide with pride. “You are nobler than the lot of them, Diana—and we’ll prove it.”

“How are we supposed to do that?” The notion intrigued her but it seemed impossible.

“With this,” Darien replied as he took his beguile ring from his pocket and held it in his open palm. He planned on using magic to disguise her humanity for the night.

“Will that work on me? I thought only magical beings could use them.”

“Yes and no,” he said. “It will work on you, but not by your own power. I’ll be able to use the ring to alter your human features, but you must stay close to me at all times or the effect will disappear.”

“I think I can manage that,” Diana said with a smile and held out her hand to Darien.

He slipped the ring onto her index finger and then held it for a moment while he poured in a small amount of energy. The engraved runes quickly began to glow shades of purple as Diana felt the air around her moving like the waves on the ocean shore. The effect brought on a feeling a vertigo but Darien helped Diana catch her balance before she fell.

Looking in the mirror, Diana stood wide-eyed and captivated by her illusionary elven features. Her face appeared mostly the same, but with more prominent cheek bones, and the long, blade-shaped ears of the Naphalei sat to the sides of her head.

“I don’t look half bad like this,” she said after a long moment.

“Only about half as lovely as normal, I’d say,” Darien said in reply, opening the door. Diana smiled her endearing appreciation.

“You’re not so bad on the eyes yourself, you know,” Diana said as they began walking down the hallway to the staircase. Only then did she finally notice the engraved image on Darien’s shoulder ornaments—a demonic winged creature. It reminded Diana of the Melkafir, though less terrifying, with a strong sense of nobility. “That’s the first I’ve seen you wear the Stoneheart sigil. What is it?”

“It’s called a
Kardevon
,” Darien replied with pride. “It means ‘stone-born.’ You might call it a gargoyle or a golem. My ancestor discovered the magic of their creation during the height of the ancient Melkafir Wars. The Kardevon battalions turned the tide and Laevanas was lifted up as Archon, founding clan Stoneheart.”

“Are they still around?”

“No; the art of their creation was lost around the time of the Third Schism. Although, my father used to tell me stories of a legendary warrior named Velcenil who was believed to have forged one last battalion, hiding them away as a precaution should the Queens of the Night raise their forces anew and march across the face of the Mother.”

“Do you have any idea where they could be?” Diana asked, troubled by the notion of an entire army of Melkafir.

“Not a one,” he said with a shrug. “Even if I knew, I don’t have the power to wake them.”

“That’s a shame,” she replied with a smirk. “An army of gargoyles would be terribly useful.”

As they continued walking up the crumbling streets of Qir’Aflonas to the ruins of the Royal Quarter on the hillside above, Diana’s gaze often fell on the other attendees making their way to the ball, who all looked a stark contrast to the humbly dressed pilgrim mourners marching beside them on their way to the Temple. The men wore black formal coats similar in fashion to Darien’s, but with an array of colored vests, finery, and other embellishments to match their escorts. Like Diana, the women were adorned in exquisite, floor-length, backless, gowns that defied everything she knew about formal ladies fashions—of any era. She saw gowns that hearkened to Victorian and Regency styles of England, French and Spanish Colonial, and even Czarist Russia.
The Naphalei may not respect humans as people, but they certainly appropriated a few of our design trends.

Knowing that she looked just as elegant as they did filled Diana’s stomach with flutters. In fact, Diana thought she looked a great deal better than many of the Naphalei ladies. Quite a few had styled their hair in exaggerated ways using all sorts of circlets, small hats, and headpieces. While some looked stylish, the majority looked ridiculous. One woman in particular wore a hat that gave the impression that she had a tropical sharifon perched atop her head, ready to enjoy the festivities.  Diana was more than content with her crescent moon circlet.

As they continued their uphill hike to the palace ruins, Diana was eternally grateful that Naphalei women wore comfortable flats to formal occasions. If she were wearing heels, she would have likely keeled over at the first incline.

The final ascent was up a magnificent staircase of white stone, much better preserved than the streets of the city below, which veered to the left of the hillside and away from the road leading to the temple above. Once at the top, Diana marveled as she stood before the palace built by the Silvermoon Queen. High, strong, walls of white alabaster stone, rows of massive pillars topped with floral capitals to invoke the grandeur of nature—even though the large building complex was mostly collapsed, it was still magnificent to behold. To either side of the grand entrance, two golden sharifon statues stood atop large square bases, as if to guard the home of their fallen rulers from intruders. Lining the paved walkway towards the noble guardians, rows of trees stood tall and very alive with green leaves and ripe, luscious, red apples that could only have been grown by way of magic.