The Faerion (19 page)

The sun's rays floated in through the narrow gap in the heavy curtains warming the stone floor. Elise stood, her bare feet in the sunlight, stretching as she greeted the morning. She was the first one up; Culver always slept late. The house waited silently and the night's sleep refreshed her. She hummed to herself as she walked to the kitchen, thinking how Culver would like flapjacks. She stopped, her hand covering her mouth.

"Good morrow, Tuor," said Berimar. The sorcerer sat in a corner, shadows draped around him; a botch in the sunlight that could not penetrate his gloom.

"I did not expect to see you this morning. I thought I was the only one up."

"I never sleep." He stared at Elise. "You are called Elise, if my memory has not soured."

"I am."

"Well Elise, I expect you believed a sorcerer such as I could not endure the sunlight." She nodded. "I can't. But my skill is such that I cover myself with shadows and walk in the noon sun. I wanted you to know the extent of my power."

"Why?"

"I must have the Faerion. You must help Wynne see that her only recourse is to give it to me."

"Why?"

He sighed. "With that knowledge I can free myself from bondage to Galamog. I have served her, unwillingly, for eighteen hundred years. Can you comprehend that? I must be freed. I am losing my sanity."

"Perhaps. However, with that book you can do far more evil than ever before. Is that not true?"

"Aye, you have a point. I have been so consumed by my freedom that I didn't look at all angles. Perhaps Wynne can find the spell I need, and thus be freed without the risk of using the Faerion for other purposes?"

"I don't know. That is not my expertise. Others will have to make that decision and I would guess our host will have a large say in the result."

"But I wish the answer from you."

"I don't believe I am hungry anymore." Elise hurried away, sensing the darkness of Berimar reaching out to her.

Meanwhile, Culver had arisen, looking for Elise. Darkness clutched at his heart and he feared for her. Leaping out of bed, he flung open the door, running into the hall. Culver sensed the presence of another, but did not realize his danger until the blade flashed out at him. He threw up his arms. Another figure jumped in and he heard a cry of pain. He saw Elise holding her bloody side. Tuor footsteps pattered down the stone walk with the cry of the Border Guard. Tomen sliced Paulenis' hand off, cursing at the orange man, clutching the sword so tight his fingers were white. Wynne came running through the strangely silent house. It seemed to swallow all sound.

Wynne examined the orange hand, the curved knife still in its grip. Tomen stood over the man, his blade at Paulenis' throat.

"There is a spell woven about it. I am not familiar with it. Perhaps Blackthorne has the knowledge."

"The Faerion?" asked Culver. He pressed Elise's wound, trying to stop the bleeding; his eye flooded with his tears.

"I don't dare bring it out into the open with Berimar here. I don't know what he can do, but his power is greater than Blackthorne's. There may be some way he can tap into it without touching it. For all I know, he may once have possessed it. Berimar is a creature extremely long-lived. It cannot be risked. Find Blackthorne. I will aid Elise."

Before Culver could leave to seek Blackthorne, Berimar and their host arrived. Blackthorne quickly bent over Elise, and then stared at Paulenis.

"You have insulted me and my guests by using such base sorcery in my home. These people are under my protection. You, sir, are no longer welcome here." Paulenis looked to Berimar who remained impassive. Blackthorne spoke under his breath and suddenly Paulenis was a ball of green flame streaking upward. The Tuors flinched at the casual death. Berimar smiled.

"Very impressive." He waved his arms to disperse the sulfur smell.

"You didn't have to injure my guests!" cried Blackthorne.

"But I do, I do. I must test their value to you, and to me."

Blackthorne bent over Elise. His covered her wound with his hands, speaking quickly. A warm glow radiated from the wound. "That will stop the bleeding, but I can do nothing for the pain. Perhaps Berimar can, but I do not counsel such a choice for he may bewitch her in some other way."

"Really, Blackthorne, you are quite mistrusting," said Berimar.

"I have cause."

"Tsk, tsk." Berimar glided back to his room.

"You said we were safe here," said Tomen.

"Yes, I said that. I was concerned with Berimar's magic, not a common dagger."

"There was a spell on it," said Wynne. "Is that not magic?"

"Okay, so I failed you, I'll admit it."

"Will she live?" asked Culver.

"Yes, yes. But the poison will burn constantly and I cannot quench it. She will not die from the wound, but the pain will be miserable."

"I can make her sleep," said Wynne.

"Please do," said Blackthorne. "This is a problem I did not envision. Come Culver, we must discuss things." Culver looked back at Tomen and Wynne, and then he looked at the pale face of Elise.

"Will she live?" asked Culver again.

Blackthorne thought over his answer.

"Possibly. The difficulty is the spell. If it was Paulenis' spell we will be lucky. If Berimar set it, then we must watch over her night and day. Berimar's influence will be deadly and difficult to combat. Culver, I warn you; saving Elise may come to ending her life."

"No!"

"It's possible."

"No!"

"If Berimar controls her, we cannot save her."

"Kill Berimar!"

"A good choice, however imprudent. He is the most powerful creature on this world besides Galamog. I cannot kill him in a fair fight."

"Is Elise's condition fair?"

"Good point, Culver. I think that allows me much latitude. Yes, I will think on that. Meanwhile, watch over your beautiful Elise. She will have much need of you."

Blackthorne walked into the depths of the house humming to himself.

Blackthorne sat on a marble bench underneath the solitary willow on the western side of his house. His eyes watched the golden rays of the sun darken into red, demanding him to do what he must do. He looked up and saw Wynne standing two paces off. Her eyes pierced him.

"Sit with me."

She did not respond immediately. Blackthorne sat facing forward watching a butterfly.

"I want you to tell me the truth about my father."

"I will. It may be difficult to understand your father, but remember, he is not a Wierlun nor a Man, nor a sorceress. His ways are not yours; do not judge him by yours."

"What is he?" She felt her stomach tighten.

"He is a Daerlan."

"What? But you told me Daerlan destroyed all the Wierluns. My father was Daerlan and my mother Wierlun? I don't understand. Were they cast out from their people?"

"Listen to your father's story. This is the tale he told to me many years ago."

'The forests of Arda remain green throughout the year, but not because of any special magic of the Daerlan. These forests have their own magic, ancient and deeply hidden among the gnarled trunks of lichen-covered giants. Men seldom came to Arda after the Troll War leaving the Daerlan to wander freely in their own land. There had been a time when Men hunted Daerlan in fear and ignorance, creating a greater fear that fed upon itself. After the first murders of Daerlan, Men that entered the forests of Arda never returned to their homes.

Navir wandered the quiet paths sadly remembering the silent deaths that he caused, following the will of his father, King Oalaria.It had been over seventy years, but the long-lived Daerlan remembered the years like days, centuries like years. Navir had walked the land for over a thousand years, the third child and second son of the king of the Daerlan. He seldom went to the palace anymore, living alone in a cottage in the shadow of the mountains, studying herbs and healing. As the second son, he had no claim to the crown and his presence was not necessary. King Oalaria had time only for Aelan, his heir. Navir was denied the comfort of his father's approval.

Navir excelled at many skills of weaponry but loved learning best. He searched for tasks to keep him away from the palace at Evenlight. His father gave nothing of himself to his youngest child and the slight cut Navir terribly. His brother, Aelan, the heir, offered kindness but it tasted bitter to Navir. To him had fallen the task of guarding Arda against outsiders, Man and otherwise. He had many Daerlan to help him in this task but they knew their business, leaving him alone, as he desired. Each Daerlan had an area to himself, seldom seeing each other for weeks. Through a series of signals they could call upon one another for assistance if needed.

He wandered many paths some often but today he was journeying farther than usual, heading north to the mountains between Darkfell, the land of the trolls and Paglo, where the diminutive Tuors lived. He hadn't visited the Tuors for years and wished to see his old friend Avolan, the wise one. The voices of birds tinkled among the leaves gently serenading Navir as he walked, footfalls silent, even the blades of grass unbent under his shoes. Daerlan did not wear boots as Men did; their shoes akin to slippers were enough to protect them. The elements did not bother the Daerlan; or rather, Daerlan took no notice of cold, rain, snow, or the heat of summer. Navir wore dark blue breeches with a bright yellow shirt, sleeves billowing as he moved. His long light brown hair flowed to his shoulders, kept off his face by a thin gold band around his forehead. There was a song in his heart and he was glad, for often he could find no melody inside himself, although he was loath to tell of this. He knew what his father would say.

He had walked quite far when he noticed a different sound to the birds' songs, telling of pain somewhere ahead of him. It was puzzling, the birds sang happily at this pain and that was unusual, for birds were most sympathetic. As he drew near, he heard the soaring cries of pain and recognized the voice of a hawk. Well, that made the puzzle of the birds clear.

As Navir entered the clearing two things struck him. First, a Man's trap held the hawk and was most distressing, that Men entered Arda again. Second, the hawk was stunning, easily the largest he had ever seen with deep red-brown feathers. If this bird was not the king of the hawks, then Navir was a gnome. The hawk spotted him at once of course, and ceased its cries, watching warily. Navir circled around the clearing. Traces of Men were old, days perhaps. It was possible they could return soon and he debated what he should do with the hawk. One wing injured, perhaps not seriously. He could not see another wound, but he wasn't close enough to examine it properly. He decided: he moved forward to free the hawk. The bird flapped its wings in terror but Navir spoke softly, soothingly and the bird began to slow its movement. Navir took some lotion out of his pouch and rubbed it on the bird's wing to start the process of healing before he freed it. The hawk took a half-hearted snap at him while he pried open the snare, dropping the bird to the ground.

The hawk hopped a few feet away, watching the Daerlan. Then it began to shimmer, to grow and change shape. Naked before Navir stood a stunning woman, not quite Men, but not Elven either.

"Thank you," she said, huskily. "You have saved my life."

"How are you called?" Staring boldly, Navir was oblivious to all else. The high cheekbones caught his eye, as did the angularity of the face framed by flowing tresses of auburn hair.

"I call myself Aeli, but some call me Wierlun." She stared with her yellow eyes, boring through his head. "How does the son of Oalaria come to my part of the forest? I believed you safe far south of here."

"I chose to wander. There are Men in these woods," he added needlessly.

"Yes, for several months they have come here. I find them quite useful." She smiled and he knew she was not Men. Her feral expression and hawk eyes showed her to be quite wild. Navir found that exciting.

"How is your injury?"

"Much better, thanks to you." Her hawk eyes pierced him and she knew his heart. "Would you like to join me for supper? I shall cook for you to reward you for your rescue."

"It would be a pleasure."

"Yes, it will."

As he walked with her, Navir became aware of the thoughts of the forest slipping into his consciousness. Not verbal, but moods - passive, raging, each life whether plant or animal had its own distinct pattern that Aeli recognized and responded it. Some of the images were too alien, even for a Daerlan to comfortably embrace them. Aeli noticed his discomfort and silently instructed her charges; the onslaught stopped. Navir stumbled, not fully aware of how much they had taken him over.

"What was that?"

"The forest was welcoming you. It didn't realize that you are different than me."

"I'm a Daerlan. Isn't that obvious?"

"Not to the forest. It knows me and I told it about you."

"What did you tell it?"

"That you were the one I had waited for."

"Waited for..?"

She reached for him, kissing him roughly. She pushed him away and ran from him. Before he realized what he was doing he chased her, but lost her. The forest was still. Suddenly, she dropped on him from a tree branch and they rolled in the leaves in an embrace, laughing in each other's breath.

Navir spent many months with Aeli, learning about her life, her powers, and the life of the forest she lived in. Together they trapped and killed the Men who had set the trap that so cruelly wounded Aeli. Word of them could not be kept from Arda. The Daerlan that guarded the forest with him also watched him. At least one found fault with his prince.

One day, his father, King Oalaria, rode out to Navir's house alone. Navir stood on the doorstep, not offering his hospitality. The king watched him in silence, and then dismounted.

"I desire speech with you, Navir," said Oalaria. "I have heard disturbing news."

"I am listening."

"Your tone is offensive, but I have no time for that. I have heard that you have taken a Wierlun as a lover."