Sennar's Mission (17 page)

“Not much bigger than a child. Blond. And completely terrified.”

The old man told how the thieves had found a letter on Laio, identifying him as the son of Pewar, and decided to kidnap him for ransom. “They carried him off, gagged and chained, after throwing you and the other down a gorge.”

“The other, our companion … is he …” Nihal murmured.

“Dead,” the old man said simply. “I buried him near the gorge where I found you. The thieves assumed you were dead, too. It wasn’t hard to imagine. You were bone-white and hardly breathing.”

Nihal had stopped listening. Laio’s life was hanging by a thread. There was little hope the thieves would free him, even if the ransom were paid.

“Can you tell me where they went?”

The old man smiled. “Of course. These woods are my domain. For five miles there’s not a single nook I don’t know.”

“Then you have to bring me to them.” Nihal sprang to her feet and grabbed her sword, but her legs froze up.

The old man caught hold of her before she could fall and lay her back down on the bed of straw. “Just where do you think you’re going? Your vision’s still off; you’re still weak. You can’t face those men in your condition.”

Nihal rose to her feet again, this time more carefully. “But I can’t just leave Laio with those swine.”

“You have nothing to fear. As far as they’re concerned, you’re friend’s a pot of gold. At least until his father pays the ransom. In the meantime, you can rest easy.”

Nihal sat back down, her spirit crushed. The old man was right. In her condition, she’d only get herself killed.

“Come now, don’t be discouraged. You’re young and strong and you’ll be back on your feet in no time. And then I’ll lead you wherever it is you want to go personally.”

Nihal nodded. She could feel her head exploding and her heart beating out of her chest. She lay back on the straw mattress and stared at the damp patches on the vault of the cave.

Nihal examined herself carefully: a shallow gash on her arm, scrapes on her legs from the forest undergrowth, a fair-sized bruise on her shoulder. When she felt the top of her head for the source of her excruciating pain, she found a large, gaping lesion.
Exactly what I needed, another scar. Looks like I’ll have to wait for the hair to grow back in.

She remained in the cave for several days, lying upon the straw, her mind running through possible strategies for freeing Laio. The wait gnawed away at her insides. Little by little her vision returned to her and her headache subsided completely.

The strange old man didn’t make for much company. He disappeared during the day and didn’t return until late at night. He’d set off just before dawn, after preparing a lavish breakfast for his guest. When dark fell, he’d return and ask Nihal of her day.

Whenever Nihal tried asking him where he’d been, he responded only vaguely, or changed the subject outright.

Nihal could see him better now. His face was a spider web of wrinkles, but he wasn’t necessarily as old as he seemed. His eyes were vivid and his grip still strong and sure. On his right palm was a notable callous, typical of those who’d long borne a weapon. In his youth, he must have fought.

“Have you been in many battles?”

“Too many. I’ve killed many people, fought on many fronts. And yet, it’s always the same war, dragging on since time immemorial.”

“Were you a strong warrior?”

“One among many, neither the best nor the worst of them.”

He always responded that way, with half explanations, always evasive. His face was stamped with a permanent smile, even when he suffered. His wrists and ankles bore ulcers from the chains, and they bled often. Nihal could tell he’d lived an intense life, filled with its share of tragedies. He seemed like some shipwreck on the ocean floor—at peace, finally, after years of battling storms.

On her last evening there, Nihal asked him for a full description of the thieves’ hideout. The old man was filled with precious information. He not only knew where to find them, but he seemed even to know their daily habits.

She began to polish her sword and the old man sat and watched. It was something he did often. He seemed particularly interested in Nihal.

“I see you’ve made acquaintance with the wood sprites,” the old man said matter-of-factly.

“What makes you think that?” asked Nihal, trying to mask her astonishment.

The old man pointed to the sword’s handle. “The stone set in your sword there. I’ve never met a human with one before, let alone a half-elf.”

“It was given to me as a gift by one of their people, many years ago,” Nihal responded. Then she felt her old curiosity rear its head again.

“What do you know about this stone? Are you familiar with it? Do you know what powers it has?”

He smiled. “It’d be rather strange if someone like me, who’s lived all these years in the forest, weren’t familiar with Tears. They’re stones made from the dehydrated resin of the Father of the Forest, and they stand as the symbol of the wood sprites.”

“I know that much, yes,” Nihal let out impatiently. “What I’d really like to know, though …” She bit her lower lip, undecided. She still wasn’t sure she could trust this man.

In the end she told him of her adventure with Laio in the Land of the Sea, of how the Tear had saved them from the Fammin’s attack.

The old man listened—intent, but by no means surprised. When he spoke, his voice was as tranquil as ever. “Tears are capable of absorbing nature’s vital force and amplifying it. Wood sprites, though, do not concern themselves with this power, and use them solely as ornaments and objects of reverence, the fruit of their beloved guardian trees. Perhaps you’re not aware of it, but you’ve received an important gift. Of course, in the hands of a human, Tears are completely inert.”

Nihal was hanging on his words. “What do you mean?”

“Not a single race in all the Overworld is capable of unlocking the power of the Tear.”

“But then for me, why did it … reawaken?”

The old man smiled. “We often consider only the most recent history of this tormented world, but the races that now inhabit the Overworld aren’t the only ones to have ever lived here. Others came before us.”

“The elves,” Nihal muttered under her breath.

“Precisely. The elves understood magic far differently than we do. They were more similar to nymphs than to men, so at one with nature as to comprehend its every nuance. In the eyes of other creatures, their ability to direct the course of nature seemed magical. Indeed, the elves were fully capable of harnessing the power of the Tear. For them, it served as a medium through which they accessed the deepest secrets of the world, enhancing their bond with nature’s spirits.” The old man paused and shook his head. “But then, their people weakened. The elves migrated to far-off lands, abandoning the Overworld. The only trace of their departure is the race to which you belong, Nihal. But the half-elves, born from the union of elves and humans, lacked such a strong connection with the primordial spirits. Though they could still make use of its more basic properties, your ancestors could no longer tap into the Tear’s most hidden powers. Instead, the half-elves used the stone in order to increase the power of their magic. For your people, Nihal, the resin of Tomren became a sort of catalyst.”

A catalyst. Exactly what Phos had called it.

Nihal thought for a moment in silence. “But I didn’t recite any spell. The stone acted on its own, as if by its own will.”

“This shouldn’t come as a surprise to you, Nihal. Elvish blood runs in your veins, capable of reawakening the Tear in all its power. Which is precisely what happened that night in the forest. Your desire to live activated the stone and it protected you. It reacted against creatures born from a violation of nature: the Fammin.”

Nihal looked down in amazement at her sword. “How do I activate it?”

“It’s not so simple a question. Perhaps one day you’ll learn, but that’s a discovery you’ll have to make on your own. You’re the half-elf, not me.”

Nihal frowned with disappointment. Such immense power, and she couldn’t even harness it. Who knew why Phos had given it to her. “Is that everything?” she asked, with a tinge of hope.

“Perhaps,” the old man replied. “Have you ever experienced a strange sensation, as if your soul were suffering another’s emotions?”

Her brain lit up at his words. “Yes, definitely. It’s happened more than once.”

“Only the members of your race possess such a faculty. Half-elves are born with a superior sense of perception compared to the other creatures of this world, and they feel the spirit of nature and of all living beings with greater force. In you, this faculty has been reduced to only a vague sensation. In the past, though, your people once practiced and enhanced this capacity through study. Such a faculty could be witnessed in half-elves even at a very young age. Which is why they were practically invincible in war. They could read the minds of their adversaries and anticipate their movements.”

Nihal stared back at him, dumbstruck. “You mean, I could, if I wanted …”

He shook his head. “No trace of your people’s former training regimen remains, leaving no way for their descendants to cultivate this faculty. Of course, with time you may learn to make good use of it, but never will you be able to read the minds of others. You could, however, increase your familiarity with the natural spirits, gain access to certain incantations—”

Suddenly the old man cut himself off, and it seemed to Nihal that he was ready to change subjects.

“What kind of incantations?”

“Nothing. Nothing that would be of any help,” he answered, with a swift wave of his hand. “But getting back to the Tear, it wasn’t by chance that I came to your aid that evening.” He closed his eyes, as if searching for something deep in his mind. “It’s not clear to me, but it feels as if you’re linked to that stone in some way, that it’s involved with your destiny. Like a shadow cast by a far greater figure. A door that awaits you in your future.” Then he ceased speaking and opened his eyes.

“What are you trying to say?” Nihal asked.

“What do I know?” The old man shrugged. “My eyes see, but my mind doesn’t always understand. That part’s up to you.” He smiled. “Anyway, what happened to all that burning impatience of yours. Don’t you have a friend to rescue?”

Nihal leaped to her feet. “Bring me to them,” she said firmly.

The old man made his way to the cave’s exit. As she slipped her sword back in its sheath and made to follow him, Nihal took one last look at the stone’s pearly brilliance. It seemed to be calling out to her.

By the time she reached his cell, Ondine was breathless.

Sennar pressed against the bars. “What’s going on?”

“They’ve made the decision to execute you!” The girl’s eyes filled with tears. “The people here are afraid of you, and the guards want you off their hands.”

“It’s not possible,” Sennar muttered. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

Ondine was crying now. “Your execution date will be announced tomorrow.”

Sennar reached his hand through the bars and touched her shoulder. “Don’t cry. Listen to me. Is there any way to stop the execution?”

The girl dried her cheeks and nodded.

The capitol square was overflowing. Count Varen’s reception day was a holiday and people from all over the county were pouring in.

The count, a man somewhere in his fifties, cut an imposing figure. A great and menacing aura seemed to emanate from him, aided perhaps by his broad chest, his thick, sizeable hands, and his bullish neck. The top of his head was bald and shiny, and the few hairs he had left were tied into a thin ponytail with a silk ribbon, in the manner of his countrymen. The grave lines in his face made him resemble a rough-hewn statue, as if he’d been carved from a large stone block with only a few, vigorous hammer strokes. Seated on an elevated bench, he exuded boredom. His distant gaze wandered among the crowd at his feet. Another tedious assembly. Another afternoon of complaints and quarrels.

There had been a time, many years before, while he was still young and hopeful, when he’d truly believed in his office, when he had been certain his actions would bring about change. He’d dreamed of lifting up his subjects, of forging conscious individuals prepared to make decisions and, perhaps, even govern themselves again as they had in the past. In his annual hearings, he saw an opportunity for growth, but his optimism was rebuffed by the indifference of his people. They wondered what was taking so long, why he couldn’t just dispense grace and punishment the way his predecessors had. The people weren’t after freedom. They wanted to take orders. They wanted someone to kneel before. Someone to save them from the trouble of having to think for themselves. In the end, he’d conceded. He’d become precisely what his subjects desired him to be: a despot.

That afternoon, he’d already settled a pair of border disputes and a family squabble over a petty inheritance and listened to a string of hysterical wives pleading on behalf of their husbands.

The count signaled to his spokesman, who stepped forward and announced: “Today’s hearing is adjourned! Exit the square! The hearing is adjourned!”

“Wait! Wait, I’m begging you! Let me speak!” came a shrill, female voice, persisting until the words reached the ears of the count.

Someone was pushing her way through the crowd, squeezing through the sea of chests and backs.

Gradually, the crowd parted and a delicate girl appeared before the count.

“Come forward!” he called out.

It was the first time anyone so young had requested a hearing. She could have been his daughter. As the young girl stepped up to the marble podium holding his bench, the entire capitol square fell into a dead silence.

“My name is Ondine, Count,” she said, gasping for air. “I’m from Eressea, the village just outside of the whirlpool, and I’ve come to ask that you spare a man’s life.”

The count noticed her trembling. “Is this someone from your family?”

“No, sir. He’s a prisoner.”