The Eye of the Hunter (13 page)

Throughout Eras
[Past and Present]

L
ong ago in Adonar, an Elfess and her sire and dam walked on the banks of a crystal rill dancing through a bright green glade, while high above in the branches of the ancient Eld Trees, Silverlarks sang their songs of joy. And the Elfess and her progenitors spoke of many things, past and present and future, for she was soon to set forth for Mithgar, riding upon the dawn. It was near the end of the Second Era, though few, if any, knew it at the time—for to see into the future is a rare and precious gift, given to only a few. It was mayhap one or two hundred years before the Era ended, or more, none can precisely say—for dates have little meaning to Elves, who perhaps note only the passage of the seasons. But even if Elves do not keep close track of days and dates, still they always seem to know where stand the Sun and Moon and stars—and this, too, is a precious gift. Regardless, on this last day in Adonar, Riatha walked in a glade with her mother and father, and they spoke of many things.

Riatha, then as now, was a young Elfess, just beginning her life. But so too was her sire, as well as her dam. What their actual ages were, of Riatha and Daor and Reín, is not told, for no matter the age of an Elf, he or she is always at the beginning of a never ending life. What matter if they had lived twenty or two hundred or two thousand years or more? For when compared to all of eternity, no matter the count of years, an Elf is but a step or two along an endless path.

Oh, not that Elves cannot die, for they can be slain by weapon or poison, by accident or malice, or by another living creature fighting to survive. Too, Elves can starve, die of thirst, drown, burn, and perish any other number of ways as well, a handful of rare but fatal diseases among these. Yet without these interventions, Age passes them by and Death gives them not a second’s glance.

Hence, with all eternity waiting to be trod by these splendid souls, is it any wonder that to Elvenkind the death of one of their own is cause for great grief? It matters not the number of seasons that have passed since the fallen one’s birth, for whatever the count of years, the Elf had but stepped across the threshold of life, had just begun, and Death has quenched an endless existence.

But that bright day, as Riatha and Daor and Reín strolled among the Eld Trees, thoughts of death and dying were not upon their minds. Instead they spoke of Riatha’s impending journey to Mithgar, the mortal world, alluding to what she might find, referring to her responsibilities thereupon.

They stopped in the glade and sat upon the bank above the sparkling bourn, diamond lights scattering from its dancing surface. Daor looked at his golden-haired daughter and broached a familiar theme:

“What does it mean to live forever?”

Elven scholars had often posed this very same question to their students, there in the bowers of learning, Riatha among these. This time it was her sire who asked the rhetorical question, and she waited for him to continue.

And so they sat, there at brookside in the greenglade, while Daor spoke on.

“What does it mean? How does it affect ambitions, quests for power, for glory, the search for knowledge, the search for truth?

“How does an endless life make us differ from mortalis. In strivings, in relationships, in day-to-day living?

“Consider the mayfly: its sudden birth, its frantic life, its instant death. How does the fleeting existence of the mayfly differ from that of any other mortal creature or being?” Of Man? Of Waerling? Of Drimm? Of the many other dwellers upon Mithgar, the mortal, middle world?

“When seen through the eyes of an immortal being when viewed from that perspective, are there significant differences? These answers and more I continue to ponder,
daughter, just as must thee. Ponder, too, how the answers would differ if seen from the view of the mayfly.

“Heed! The mayfly is driven by the strongest urge of all: to mate, to reproduce. Survival of the species. No questions asked. No heed given to other needs.

But as we look away from the mayfly and toward other creatures, still that urge to reproduce holds sway; yet among the various creatures, as the span of life increases, other drives, other needs, other desires begin to surface: survival of self, shelter, comfort, well-being, pleasure, curiosity, and more, much more.

“And the longer the life, the more important become these other, later needs, wants, desires, even at times displacing the more primitive drives.

“Heed! The needs, wants, and desires of the immortals are as different from those of most mortals as are their own needs, wants, and desires different from those of the mayfly.

“Even so, still we must ask these questions which will give us a view into the lives of mortals, questions which will allow us to see through their eyes. For the deeds of mortals can profoundly affect the lives of Elves, just as the deeds of Elves profoundly affect the lives of mortals.

“It is this effect upon one another—of Elf upon mortal, and of mortal upon Elf—which I wish thee to consider, Riatha, for thou art about to step unto Mithgar, unto the mortal world. There, thou wilt meet mortal kind for the first time. And thou will find them both strange and surpassing.

“Here, then, is another thing to ponder. What does it mean to have a mortal acquaintance, a mortal friend? What does it mean to love a mortal? Man, Waerling, Drimm, others: if thou shouldst accept one as a friend, soon he will be gone, and if thou didst love him, thou wilt grieve. Think upon this, too: just as is the mayfly, while thy friend lives, he, too, will be driven by his nature. A nature different from ours. Yet is this cause to shun friendship with mortals?

“Seldom do most mortal creatures rise above themselves to take the long view, or to even delve into the most fundamental questions: Why are we here? What is our purpose? What is the nature of the Creator? What is real? What is not? How do I know?

“Even the Allfather, Adon Himself, searches for answers, though His questions are far different from ours. He smiles
when we name Him God, saying only that there are those as far above Him as we are above the mayfly.

“And now I ask thee: How can this be?

“And perhaps, daughter,
that
is the most important question of all, a question to be asked of everything—How can this be?…How can this be?

“Yet, being what we are, perhaps we have been given enough time not only to ponder these mysteries, but to ultimately find an answer or two.

“Even should we not succeed in discovering these basic truths, still, the striving seems worthwhile.

“Think, too, upon this: we believe Elwydd created Elvenkind first, though She will not say.

“But this we do know: Long did we live in Adon’s worlds without the presence of other Folk. And in that time, that long, long time, mighty were our conquests. We warred, we pursued endless pleasure, we sought dominance, power, glory—and all was achieved,
all
…and all was vain, all turned to ashes in our very mouths even as we tasted success. In our greed we sought and found ultimate power within our sphere, over the land, over the seas, over the air, over all living things, over others of our own Kind Aye, we strove for ultimate power, only to discover that it was and is a hollow ambition, full of emptiness when realized.

“Then we sought peace, solitude, small pleasures, truth and beauty. These are the things we long had ignored in our quests to be mighty, yet in the end we found that these things were all that had any lasting meaning. And so, these are the things we yet pursue—along with nurturing and protecting Adon’s creations.

“Can it be that Elwydd gave us those long, long years alone upon the worlds so that we could discover these things for ourselves? Time to grow, to mature, to find for ourselves a better path through life?

“Perhaps it is so, for only after our feet were irreversibly set along this latter course, only then did she bring forth her other creations: Utruni, Drimma, Waerlinga, Man, and the Hidden Ones. In doing so, in creating these others only after we had found our way, she protected them from our cruel excesses in a time when we knew no better.

“Given all that we now know, all we have deduced, this we deem to be true: it is our lot to subtly guide others away
from vanity and greed and dominance, away from those empty and deadly and barren places where we have already trod to our sorrow, and instead attempt at key moments to point them toward those places we have found to be full and fruitful and life-affirming.

“And, Riatha, my child, that is the mantle thou dost take unto thyself upon Mithgar: to ward the world, to be a Guardian, and to gently guide others toward the ways of life.”

Daor fell silent, and none said aught for a while. These were not new thoughts posed by the Elf, but were instead deep enigmas pondered by Elvenkind throughout much of their existence, once they had survived their disastrous beginnings thousands and thousands of years agone, once they had set aside petty ambitions, turning instead toward truth and enlightenment, toward insight and wisdom. At last Daor stood, raising up Reín and Riatha, and onward they strode alongside the dancing brook, sire, dam, and daughter, graceful in their presence there in the bright green glade, while overhead among the twilight branches of the Eld Trees high above, the Silverlarks sweetly sang.

* * *

That same evening, in the clearing before her dwelling, Riatha sat on the verge of the swale and watched the distant sky transmute from azure to cerulean to lavender, the high clouds above glowing peach and rose and shell pink. And as day fell toward night, Reín came down across the soft sward to speak with her daughter, the dam bearing a gift as well as advice.

Reín handed over that which she had brought, long and narrow and wrapped in silk. “As a Lian Guardian, thou wilt need such upon Mithgar, for it is at times a dangerous place to be.”

Riatha unwrapped the gift. It was a sword. A magnificent sword: it was housed in a green scabbard, with tooled harness for back sling or waist, and the grip was inlaid with pale jade, crosshatched for firm grasp, while the pommel and crossguard were of dark silveron, rare and precious. Yet when Riatha withdrew the blade from its sheath, she gasped, for it too was of dark silveron, and starlight seemed captured deep within.

“Mother, I…” Riatha struggled to find words fitting for such a priceless bequeathal. Tears in her eyes, she took her mother’s hands in her own and kissed them softly.

Reín’s eyes, too, glistered, and her voice came gentle. “Hush, now, child, it is only fitting. ’Tis the same sword I bore when I was a warder upon Mithgar. Here, upon Adonar, there is no need. But there, on the mortal world, thou wilt find it necessary.”

Riatha stood, blade in hand, cutting the air. “What marvelous balance, Mother. Has it a lineage?”

“It was crafted upon Mtthgar, in Duellin, and has a Truename—Dúnarni—a name which I have never called a name which thou should keep to thyself and not invoke lightly, for it draws strength and energy from allies nigh and yields it up to thee. And if thy need is dire enough, it will draw
life
as well. Grasp it by the hilt and Truename it—
Dúnamis
—and it will glow with a blue light and serve thee; Truename it again and it will return to plainness. Yet, ’ware in its calling, for it will extract a terrible price from friends about thee—they will be weakened and mayhap be unable to defend themselves. And mortals may lose years from their span should
life
itself be drawn.”

Now with eyes of apprehension, Riatha studied the weapon. After a moment she asked, “Has it a common name?”

“Dwynfor, who forged it, said that its public name should be Vulgsbane, though he did not say why.”

Riatha carefully resheathed the blade. “Dwynfor? Dwynfor of Duellin in Atala on Mithgar?”

Reín nodded.

“Mother, Dwynfor is reputed to be the greatest bladesmith of all.”

Again Reín nodded.

Riatha held the sword out to her dam. “Mother, this is too precious for one such as I—”

“Hush, child,” admonished Reín, gently pressing the gift back onto her daughter. “Did I not say that it is useless here in Adonar? Too, I cannot think of one more fitting to bear it than thee. Dispute me not, daughter, for I would have it no other way. Besides, I did not come to argue over who should possess the blade. Great as is Dúnamis, still I came on a matter of even greater import.”

Sitting once more, Riatha gently lay sword in scabbard across her lap, then looked at her mother.

“Riatha, thy sire said much in the glade today, yet he did
not touch upon all, nor could he have, for wisdom comes experience and not with words.”

Riatha nodded, noting a touch of sadness in her mother’s eyes. Even so, she did not comment upon it but waited instead.

Reín paused, as if searching for words. “Thy sire asked, What does it mean to love a mortal?’ Heed, I know not whether Daor ever loved a mortal, yet this I do know: I, Reín, thy mother, I
do
know what it means to love a mortal, and I weep in that knowledge.”

Riatha saw tears spring into her mother’s eyes, and she felt her own heart ciench.

Reín looked down at her hands folded in her lap. Her voice came softly in the twilight. “When I was a Lian Guardian, I loved a mortal Man.

“He was strong, gentle,” she said quietly, then looked up at Riatha with eyes glimmering with unshed tears. “He could make a harp sing as could no other.

“And we loved. Oh, how we loved.”

Of a sudden tears ran freely down Reín’s face, and she could not continue speaking.

Her own eyes flooding, Riatha set aside Dúnamis and took her mother’s hands in her own, gently unclenching the fists, smoothing out the fingers, stroking the backs of the hands, lending love and strength.

After long moments, Reín regained her composure, and though tears still stood in her eyes, again she spoke. “We survived the destruction of Rwn, did Evian and I, though but barely.

“But we did not survive the destruction of time.”

Once more Reín’s eyes flooded, and through her tears she looked imploringly at Riatha. “Oh, daughter, love not a mortal Man, for if thou dost, then thou wilt sec his youth slip out on the tides of time; thou wilt see his strength ebb away from him, his vigor wane. Thou wilt love him still, yet thou wilt watch his slow descent into age, and it will shatter thy heart.