The Demon Awakens (14 page)

Father Abbot Markwart, closest to the craft, looked at the man, then turned back to the suddenly quiet gathering. He motioned to Siherton, and the hawkish master led the four chosen brothers to the edge of the dock. “Go with God’s graces,” he said to each as he stepped into the rolling craft. Avelyn nearly fell over the side, and banged his leg hard against the edge of the dock. He caught the look that crossed between Quintall and Siherton. Quintall seemed disgusted, but Siherton was unbending, silently imparting to the aggravated Quintall that his duties were paramount to his personal feelings.

Avelyn watched that stare, and the return look Quintall offered to the master, and he understood that, while Quintall hated him and was jealous of him, the man would indeed protect him at all costs on the journey to and from the island.

Or at least,
to
the island.

Songs followed them out across the harbor, and Quintall led them up the netting to the deck of the
Windrunner,
where Captain Adjonas, face as stern as ever, waited.

“With your permission, sir,” Quintall said evenly, as he had been instructed. Adjonas gave a curt nod, and Quintall paced by him, the other three monks in tow.

Avelyn remained at the taffrail—an ornate railing about waist high that encircled the stern deck—for some time, watching the walls of St.-Mere-Abelle diminish, as the drifting voices raised in joyous song faded. Soon the rugged hills of the coast were but a gray blur and the
Windrunner
, whose mainmast had appeared so tall and impressive in the sheltered harbor, seemed a tiny thing indeed, dwarfed by the overwhelming power of the vast Mirianic.

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CHAPTER 13

>
Running Fast Down a Long,
Long Road

Elbryan froze as he heard the crusty snow crunch under his feet. His breath came slow and steady, and he let that sensation spread throughout his tense body, easing muscles, finding a solid harmony, a more perfect balance. He could see the deer’s shoulder over the next rise. Its head had not come up; it had not heard the slight noise.

That slight noise had sounded so clearly to Elbryan!

The young man paused then to consider the extent of his progress. Only the previous autumn, his fourth in Andur’Blough Inninness, he had not been able to get within fifty feet of such a wary creature. Only the previous autumn, he would not even have noticed his last slight misstep. The elves had worked him hard, very hard. He continued his daily gathering of the milk-stones, though now he ate a hot meal every time, easily avoiding even the most cunning of the elvish traps. No longer was the rest of the day his own, though, for the elves had filled his afternoons and early evenings with lessons on the ways of beast and plant. He had learned to identify the various plants and their properties, often medicinal. Elbryan had learned to walk nearly silently—though he still thought himself clumsy when measured against the graceful elves! He had learned truly to understand and recognize the perspective of those animals watching him, that he might better blend into the forest background. He had learned to observe the world through the senses of each animal, understood now each creature’s fears and needs. To a squirrel and a rabbit, he could become perfectly unthreatening, coaxing the beast to feed right from his hand. And to a deer, perhaps the most skittish creature of all . . .

He was barely a half dozen steps away, unnoticed, on open ground.

His focus went back to the task at hand, to the six most difficult steps of all. He considered the air around him, the slight breeze in his face. Winter was still present in this part of Andur’Blough Inninness, but its grip was fast loosening. The deer was having little trouble finding grass through the spotty layer of snow, and its treasurelike find had it, perhaps, a little less alert than usual.

Elbryan couldn’t suppress his widening smile. Eagerness welled within him, the very real hope that this time he would touch that animal. He took another step, then another.

Too quickly, with too little time to find his center of balance.

The deer’s head came up, ears twitching, scanning; Elbryan’s smile vanished. He went forward with all speed, scrambling over the low ridge. He dove and reached, desperate to slap the creature, though he knew perfectly well that this kind of closing rush was not what Juraviel and Tuntun wanted from him.

Would his victory prove tainted?

The point was moot, anyway, for Elbryan never got close to touching the elusive deer. A single great leap sent the beast flying away, disappearing so quickly into the twigs and branches of the forest lining the small meadow that it was lost to Elbryan’s sight before he ever recovered from his lunging roll.

The young man shifted to a sitting position and sagged on the wet ground. Juraviel came to him at once, the elf grinning and nodding.
“Elu touise!”
Juraviel exclaimed and patted the young man on the back. “So very close!”

“I lost control,” Elbryan said despondently. “At the last, and most crucial moment, my eagerness overcame my movement.”

“Ah, but you miss the point,” the elf replied. “You
kept
control for all this time, closing perfectly.”

“I did not touch the deer!”

“But you have approached the goal,” Juraviel cried. “You have just begun, my young friend. Think not of the failure but of the triumph. Never have you gotten this close; but you shall again, and when you do, you will know better and will temper your eagerness.”

Elbryan looked at the elf long and hard, glad for the words. Put in that manner, this was indeed a day of celebration. He hadn’t touched the deer, that was true, but his progress beyond his last few fumbling attempts was marked.

Just as the young man’s smile began to widen, Tuntun came out of the brush, walking back from the spot where the deer had disappeared. She moved right in front of Elbryan and put her tiny hand up to his face.

He smelled the scent of deer on her fingers.

“Blood of Mather.” Tuntun snorted sarcastically as she moved away, the all too familiar phrase that Elbryan had grown tired of years before. He looked back at Juraviel for support and found that the elf was working hard to hide his grin.

Elbryan sighed deeply. He tried to keep a perspective on his gains. Could any of the men of Dundalis, could his own father, have ever gotten that close to a deer? Still, Elbryan wasn’t among those folk anymore, and in measuring his progress in all areas but physical strength against the elves of Andur’Blough Inninness, he felt a novice indeed. It was hard for the young man to appreciate all he had learned when he considered all he had left to learn.

Juraviel offered him a hand, and Elbryan took it, though in truth the elf could do little to help the large man rise. There was very little boyishness left in Elbryan’s frame. He stood three inches over six feet, tall and muscular, and his two hundred and twenty lean, strong pounds put him at more than three times the weight of the average elf. Not that Juraviel and the others weren’t strong; it constantly amazed Elbryan how much power an elf packed into its tiny frame, power he felt all too often in the sting of a practice sword’s strike during his sparring sessions!

Together, with Tuntun nearby but comfortably—for herself
and
for Elbryan—out of sight, the pair enjoyed the fine day as they made their way to the southern end of the enchanted valley, the area of Andur’Blough Inninness where winter had never found a hold. They chatted easily, Juraviel doing most of the talking, explaining this plant and that, talking of ways to bind a wound, then shifting the subject back to where Elbryan had performed well and where he had failed in his quest to slap the deer. Such were Juraviel’s methods, his enchanting and engrossing conversation techniques, that Elbryan hardly realized this to be perhaps the most important part of his training, these daily chats, anecdotal and enjoyable.

They walked down confusing trails, often branching, seeming to go in circles, seeming as if they merely ended until that apparent end was reached. Elbryan still could not navigate this area, but he was gaining some understanding. Juraviel let him lead often and corrected him whenever he went wrong—which was not often any longer—and soon the pair came into the low dell called Caer’alfar: Elvenhome. It was a place of thick grass and lines of trees, with houses built in the boughs above the ground. It was a place of flowers and song, where the forest was not so thick and the sky could be seen from many vantage points. This was the very center of the mist that blanketed Andur’Blough Inninness during the light of day, and yet Caer’alfar was rarely covered, a small hole remaining in the gray canopy, unnoticeable from anywhere but this low meadow, that the elves might enjoy the sun as well as the stars.

Dozens of elves were about this day, some sparring with practice weapons, others dancing. Some rested back against the trees or lay comfortably in the soft grass, drinking their sweet
Questel ni’ touel
wine. Here and there debates sprang up concerning the value of the spirits and what they should bring in trade, for the spring caravan would soon depart, a group of elves going to their secret contacts in the frontier villages.

All in all, the peaceful scene struck a chord in Elbryan about how out of place he was, and yet, he somehow felt as if he belonged. He had been coming into Caer’alfar regularly since the turn of the year, and now the elves hardly gave him a thought as he walked in. No longer was he an outcast—he even joined in their nightly party of song and dance—and yet, he was so obviously different. For Elbryan, his entire existence seemed as it had been on those occasions many years back in Dundalis when his father and mother invited friends to the house. Sometimes Elbryan would be allowed to stay up late, sometimes he would even be allowed to join in their dice games for a bit before retiring. How grown up he had felt! And yet, he was not really a part of that game, of that group. His parents and their adult friends had accepted him with smiles that he now realized were somewhat condescending.

So it was with the elves. He could never truly be one of them.

He and Juraviel continued their conversation until Tuntun walked by, eyeing Elbryan derisively and tapping her smooth cheek and chin. Elbryan understood—so did Juraviel—and the elf motioned for the young man to go to his place. Above all else, the elves were meticulous about grooming. Elbryan was expected to bathe daily, to keep his clothing clean, and since his beard was splotchy and uneven, not yet that of a man, to keep his face clean shaven. That was the one task which always seemed to elude the young man—until Tuntun inevitably pointed it out—although, with the impossibly fine-edged elven knife, shaving was neither painful nor troublesome.

Elbryan moved grudgingly to his lodging, a low, wide house on the bottom boughs of a thick-limbed elm. He collected his bowl, towel, and knife, but before he began, remembered that he had not yet asked Juraviel when they would again stalk a deer, something the eager young man greatly wanted to know.

He slipped down from the tree house and moved about Caer’alfar, spotting Juraviel talking with another elf across the way. Elbryan smiled sneakily and went into a crouch. Perhaps the only creature more difficult to surprise than the wary deer was the forest elf! Using all his skills, the young man picked his way through the trees, scampering across the opening, finding cover wherever he could. The other elves took little notice, hardly caring for his games, and Juraviel and his companion remained apparently oblivious.

Elbryan put his back to a tree barely a dozen feet from the pair and considered his next move.

“Within six strides,” Juraviel was saying in the elven tongue. “Perhaps five. And the deer did not notice.”

“Well done!” the other congratulated.

Elbryan nearly fainted away. He recognized the voice, melodic and higher pitched than Juraviel’s, as that of Lady Dasslerond, the High Lady of Caer’alfar and of all Andur’Blough Inninness.

And she was speaking of him! Elbryan held steady his breath, paying close attention, for though he could understand the melodic language, many individual words might elude him if he was not careful. With Lady Dasslerond speaking of him, the young man didn’t want to miss a thing.

“In the fighting, too,” she went on, “he is losing much of the clumsiness that comes with his human heritage, and what a combination of power and grace he shall be when one of his stature learns to wield the sword as an elf!”

Elbryan peeked around the tree to see Juraviel nodding his agreement. He forgot all about his game of surprising the pair then; and used his stealth ability to extract himself from the area, return to his tree house—which was closer to the ground than the sky—to shave and to prepare himself for his next sparring session, one he suddenly intended to win.

Early that evening, Elbryan walked onto the low meadow, ringed by tall, thick pines and capped by the starry canopy. He carried only a long smooth pole, his weapon. The elf was already there, and Elbryan breathed a sigh of relief when he noted that it was not Tuntun waiting for him.

He could never catch Tuntun off her guard; she relished the sparring matches, acting as if they were her personal forum for punishing the young man. After his first few encounters with the surly elf, Elbryan had wondered what it was that so prompted her desire to punish. Soon enough the young man had realized that it was for no particular act but merely because he was not elvish.

His opponent this night was Tallareyish Issinshine, an older and calmer member of the elvish band. He was a quiet sort and rarely talked with Elbryan, though, according to Juraviel, Tallareyish had the finest singing voice in all of Andur’Blough Inninness. Elbryan had sparred with him only once, very early in his training, and had been put down rather easily.

“Not this time,” the young man muttered under his breath as he walked determinedly to the center of the meadow. He moved to a spot five feet from the sprite and bowed low, as did Tallareyish, in respect.

Elbryan presented his long pole horizontally in front of him; the elf responded by crossing his two smaller poles, replicas of slender elvish swords, in the air before him.

“Fight well,” Tallareyish said, the proper beginning.

“And you,” Elbryan answered, and on he came, full of fury and determination. His skills had improved, so he had heard Juraviel say, and now he meant to show how much.

He started with a cunning feint, boring in, mock spear leading, as if he meant to overrun the diminutive elf, and then pulling to an abrupt stop and swishing his weapon hard to the side. He had to guess, of course, which way agile Tallareyish would spin, and even though he guessed correctly that the elf would go to his right, his swipe was batted aside, not once but three times, before it ever got close to hitting the mark.

Tallareyish came right back in, wooden swords dancing and weaving, cutting figure eights and then darting straight ahead suddenly, viciously. Elbryan could not watch them and try to react. He had to anticipate, and so he did, flipping his spear over one hand counterclockwise and then back again, then again clockwise, then back the other way. He hardly saw the elf’s attacks, but he took comfort in the clicking sounds as the twirling pole picked off each one.

“Well done!” Tallareyish commented, pressing the attack with every word.

Elbryan’s green eyes sparkled with pride. He kept his focus, though, and knew that he had to get off the defensive posture. He had spent many hours with Juraviel playing the game the elves called
pellell
, resembling something close to a three-tiered chess match, and he had learned well the value of taking the initiative. At this point, Tallareyish was playing white, pressing the attack, but Elbryan meant to reverse that.