The Elven (32 page)

The First Lesson

N
uramon removed his hands from the faun oak’s wound. He hadn’t been able to do much. The wood beneath the bark was certainly a little stronger, but the oak’s true suffering lay in her sadness at the loss of Noroelle. Nuramon got the impression that his beloved had been like a daughter to the oak.

The faun leaned close to the tree and placed one cheek against the bark. “Hear me, faun oak,” he whispered, but what he said after that was too quiet for Nuramon to catch. Moments later, Ejedin moved back from the tree and stood behind Nuramon and Farodin, watching.

“Did she hear you?” asked Farodin.

But Ejedin said nothing. He only stood and stared at the oak. He nodded, and it was clear that the faun oak was speaking to him. After some time, he said, “She is ready to hear what you have to say.”

Nuramon exchanged a look with Farodin, who silently prompted him to speak. He said, “Hear me, faun oak.”

The tree said nothing.

“We beg you. Teach us. Do not wait until spring. Every day is vital. And though your lessons might take many months, it may matter in the end that we start now.”

“Those are fine words,” the oak replied. Her voice spoke directly to Nuramon’s spirit. “Are you a sage, to say such a thing?”

“Far from it,” Nuramon answered. “It was Alaen Aikhwitan who told us to come to you. And he said we should not tarry, as if it is a matter of urgency.”

“Alaen Aikhwitan’s counsel mattered long before my time. I felt his presence through your hands, Nuramon . . . When you were here yesterday, I was sleepy. It was a bad time. Now Ejedin and your healing hands have woken me, but I cannot say when I will tire again. So hear what I can do for you,” the voice of the oak said, gaining strength. “I can teach you the magic that will allow you to use the paths the way the Alben once did. In you, Nuramon, I see the student of Alaen Aikhwitan and the favorite of Ceren. My magic will not seem strange to you. But you, Farodin, must put down new roots and grow beyond what you now are, for your magic does not come from any tree. You must want to be more than you once were, and more than you are now. Something unfamiliar is required of each of us. We must sow our seeds in frozen ground to be able to harvest in spring.”

“Are we able to learn what you want to teach us by spring?” asked Farodin doubtfully.

The faun oak was silent for some time before answering. “What you have not learned by then will never be of any use to you. Pay attention and keep a clear head.”

The faun stepped forward. “Will you drive out the borers?”

“They are warm in me. They are resting and suspect nothing. To
send them out in this cold would be cruel. I will decide about them in spring.”

Nuramon knew what the tree meant. The oak would decide in spring if Farodin’s and his own skills were sufficient to save Noroelle—and therefore to save the oak herself.

“Well, my two elven apprentices. I see that you have many questions. What I will now tell you I once told Noroelle.” The oak took her time before speaking again. It seemed almost as if she were trying to put Nuramon’s and Farodin’s patience to the test. “We know of five worlds. Their roots are what we call Albenpaths. They pass through each of the worlds and connect them to each other. The power that flows in them is what makes sorcery and the natural magic of our realms possible.” The oak was speaking faster now, and her voice sounded like the voice of a young woman fresh from resting. “The Alben, a long time ago, traveled along these paths from one place to another and from one world to another. The Albenstars are junctions where the paths cross, join, and separate again. The magic is most powerful in these places. The more paths, the more powerful the magic.” The oak then added, “I once told this to Noroelle.”

Nuramon stared at the trunk of the faun oak. He imagined his beloved as a young elf, sitting by the trunk in springtime and listening to those words, words that took many things only known from old stories and turned them into certainties.

The faun oak started to speak again. “I can teach you the magic you need to open a gate to the Other World, but listen well. The magic does more than create a way from one world to another. If you go searching for Noroelle in the Other World, then remember well the paths and stars you follow. Maybe one day, you will be able to travel the paths between the Albenstars of one world, as the Alben did. I will explain to you the dangers and give you a feeling for the magic. You will never master it as completely as Noroelle did. She is so powerful that she does not have to step through a gate. She can simply stand and watch the world change around her. That way is not open to you. You will be able to open a small gate, and you will be able to close it again, but beware sealed gates and magical barriers. If you force your way through one like that, you may become a victim of time. If you pass through minor Albenstars or fail miserably with the spell, you will only be a victim of space. Are you ready to follow Noroelle’s trail and walk the paths of the Alben to find her again?”

Nuramon did not have to think long, though it was Farodin who answered first. “We are.”

“Teach us. In Noroelle’s name,” said Nuramon.

The faun oak laughed, and it sounded almost like the bright laughter of the riverbank sprites. “Then be my students.”

So this was the start of their search for Noroelle. Nuramon hoped only that the queen would not grow suspicious. They would visit the faun oak often between then and springtime, and Emerelle could see what was happening in her realm. But was it really any surprise that they should go to the faun oak, as mournful for Noroelle as the tree was? However much Nuramon wanted the teachings of the oak, he feared the gaze of the queen just as much. And the oak was right: they were on the trail of Noroelle.

In spring, they would find out how far down it they had gone.

Oak Dram

S
pring had settled over the land, and the faun oak was dressed in fresh, crisp green. “I have taught you everything you are able to learn from me,” said the oak, its words settling in Farodin’s thoughts. Despite all the hours of practice, he had never gotten used to the feeling of something alien inside him.

The significance of the oak’s words was not lost on him. As much as he had perfected his seeking spell over the centuries, his achievements in other kinds of magic were meager. It was true that he had learned how to open a gate at an Albenstar and also how to move along the hidden paths, but Nuramon far outstripped him in skill.

Now the time had come to depart. Nuramon and Ejedin stood at his side; the faun had accompanied them to the oak whenever he could.

“Be careful, and remember what I have told you,” warned the tree. “Never open a gate needlessly, and break through sealed gates and barriers only when you are certain that something lies beyond. If you make an error with the magic, you will be thrown out of the fabric of time the moment you step through a gate. The fewer the paths that connect at a star, the more difficult it is to cast the spell. And where the mortal is concerned, consider well whether you want to expose him to the danger. Not even I can say how the magic of the Albenstars will affect him. For you, this is about Noroelle, but is he really prepared to take the same risk? Sometimes, it is better to leave a friend behind for his own well-being.”

“Anything but that,” groaned Ejedin. “If he spends another day at court, I’m going back to Dailos.”

“What’s he done?” asked Farodin in surprise. Mandred had stayed away through the winter because the faun oak could not tolerate his presence. The jarl had traveled around Albenmark a lot in that time, and neither Farodin nor Nuramon had found much time to look after him.

“Why don’t you ask what he hasn’t done? Since he got to know the two centaurs, he’s been driving me crazy. Just the day before yesterday, his friends came into the stables in the middle of the night, blind drunk, and tried to do unspeakable things with the mares. And Mandred just stood there and egged them on.”

The two elves looked at each other with concern. “What happened next?”

“A huge brawl with the palace guard. Mandred spent a night in the dungeons, and the two centaurs were banned from the heartland. And yesterday, I had to stand there and watch him harness his mare to a wagon loaded with amphorae of Alvemerian wine. A mare from the queen’s stables is no draft horse. Can you imagine that?”

“Do you know where he was heading?”

“I think he wanted to get out of the heartland,” said the faun and sniffed contemptuously. “He’ll be back when the wine runs out.”

The faun oak spoke again. “The humans are a peculiar race. But back to the two of you—before you go, I would like to see the stones that Noroelle left for you. I have sensed their presence since the day I took you as my students.”

Farodin plucked the emerald from the leather purse tied to his belt. He saw Nuramon take a chain from around his neck; an almandine pendant hung from it. They held the stones out toward the tree.

“Guard these treasures well. They may be of use to you in the future. I can’t teach you what might help you to unravel their magic, but remember that the power of Noroelle dwells in them. That power might serve you well one day . . . now go, my pupils. Spring is here, and I want to make my decision. The borers must leave my bark. This very night, when the fauns and sileni dance around me and perhaps even the riverbank sprites are singing, I will send them away. But the two of you should not seek my guidance any longer.” And with those words, the faun oak wrapped itself in silence.

Farodin and Nuramon said good-bye to Ejedin and set off to find Mandred. From what Ejedin had told them, they had some idea of where he would be.

They crossed the Shalyn Falah, and by early evening, they had reached the stone circle not far from where Atta Aikhjarto stood. They had already seen the wagon from some distance away and found Mandred’s mare grazing contentedly close to the destroyed watchtower. A group of young soldiers was also camped there, and Nuramon and Farodin observed them carefully.

They dismounted and walked in the direction of Atta Aikhjarto. A smell of wine and damp clay hung over the meadow. Farodin continually looked back. He imagined he could feel the eyes of the soldiers on them.

“Do you see that?” asked Nuramon. The roots of the oak coiled through the grass like snakes of wood. A dark-red puddle had formed in a hollow in the clay soil.

Farodin kneeled, dipped a finger in the liquid, and sniffed at it. “Wine. The tree would have to be completely drunk to do something like that.”

A broad grin spread across Nuramon’s face. “Only a human could think of watering a tree with wine. I wonder what Atta Aikhjarto has to say about it?”

Farodin did not expect to hear a word from the mighty souled oak. The only noise disturbing the peaceful spring evening was a ragged snoring. After all these years with the mortal at their side, it was a sound Farodin knew only too well.

The elves picked their way among the shards of amphora and puddles of wine covering the slippery earth. The branches of the oak were hanging unusually low and formed an arbor around the trunk. Farodin went to push the branches aside but stopped halfway through the gesture. The veins on the delicate pale-green leaves stood out darkly.

Nuramon, who had noticed Farodin’s surprise, pulled one of the branches close and held a leaf against the light of the setting sun. “The wine looks as if it’s gone all the way to the leaves.”

Had Mandred finally achieved his goal? Many times he had spoken of wanting to drink with Atta Aikhjarto to properly commemorate how the old oak had saved his life. Was it possible to get an oak tree drunk? Farodin looked up at the leaves in despair.

“Do you feel that?” Nuramon looked around in astonishment.

Farodin heard a whispering in the leaves as if a light breeze were blowing. But nothing else.

“The tree. Atta Aikhjarto is singing. I feel it inside me.” Nuramon stood where he was and lifted one hand to his heart. “It is . . . extraordinary! I’ve never heard anything like it.”

Farodin pushed the branches aside. He could hear nothing of the sort. The only sound in his ears was Mandred, snoring. The human was lying with his back propped against the trunk. His beard was soiled with vomit. Around him lay even more clay shards. It seemed he’d smashed every amphora after he’d emptied them. Wanton destruction.

Nuramon kneeled beside Mandred and shook him gently by the shoulder. Their companion gurgled in his sleep, babbled something unintelligible, but did not wake up.

“Maybe it’s better if we leave him behind,” said Farodin. “For him and for us.”

“You’re not serious,” replied Nuramon sharply. “Are you blind? He is doing these things out of desperation. He doesn’t know how to cope in this world. We
have
to take him with us. Albenmark is no place for him.”

“Yeeerrrss, I’m coming . . . ,” Mandred slurred. The human stirred and tried to sit upright but immediately collapsed again. “I’m coming.” He belched. “Bring me a horse.”

“All of you are coming.” It was a woman’s voice. The branches parted, and a female warrior in a long mail tunic stepped into the arbor. She had two short swords buckled at her hips. Yilvina.

“Don’t try to flee,” the young elf said firmly, and her right hand moved to the grip of one of her swords. “You’re surrounded. I command the guard at this gate. I have been ordered to escort you to the queen. She is hunting in the Old Wood and wishes you to accompany her.”

Farodin tensed. “And you would draw your sword against us, with whom you rode for three years?”

Yilvina returned his gaze steadily. “Don’t make me. The queen’s command is clear. And I was warned that you would attempt to escape through the gate.”

Farodin reached for his sword belt. “So I am supposed to lay down my sword.”

“No, you mule. I’m not here to drag you off to the dungeon. I’m here to escort you to the queen. Do you think I’m enjoying this?”

Nuramon laid a hand gently on Farodin’s arm. “Enough. We’ll comply.”

The Albenstar

T
he water sprayed high, raining over their heads as they dashed at full gallop through the stream. Felbion charged up the embankment on the other side. Nuramon ducked under a low branch and turned to look back. Mandred had to do all he could just to stay in the saddle. The human was clinging to his mare’s mane and looked unnaturally pale. His riding technique had certainly improved in the years they had ridden in search of Guillaume, but he was no match at all for his elven friends.

Nuramon slowed his steed to a leisurely trot. Yilvina had kept up with him effortlessly. She laid her hunting spear across the saddle in front of her. Farodin rode close behind her and nodded to Nuramon. The moment had come. For five days, they had ridden with the queen’s hunting party, and they had been watched without respite the whole time. Some hours earlier, they had flushed out a large stag and pursued it wildly through the dense forest, leaving the rest of the hunters behind. The others were after more noble game; early that morning, the centaur Phillimachos, the queen’s tracker, had seen the tracks of a large gelgerok. Only a few of the riders had gone after the stag, and as it became more and more difficult to follow their quarry through the heavy undergrowth, those who had ridden with Nuramon, Farodin, and the human had been left behind. All except Yilvina, who made no effort to conceal the fact that she was there to guard them. How were they supposed to shake her off? They would have been far more likely to lose Mandred if they tried to leave Yilvina behind on another wild ride.

They reached a clearing where blackberry bushes and birch saplings grew. On the north side rose a moss-covered cliff with a spring at its foot. The stag was nowhere to be seen.

Yilvina looked defiantly at Nuramon. “A good spot to rest, I think.” She jammed her spear into the sandy ground and swung out of the saddle. “Don’t let the mortal do it,” she said, then headed toward the spring without waiting for an answer.

“What am I not supposed to do?” asked Mandred in surprise. Then a lewd grin spread across his face. “What’s anyone supposed to do with such a scrawny woman?”

“She knew. She knew the whole time,” said Nuramon as the elf woman walked away from them. She had given no indication at all—not a single word, not a single hidden sign—that she was on their side. But regardless of what she thought was right, Yilvina had pledged loyalty to the queen.

“I’ll do it,” said Farodin as he dismounted. He pulled the spear from the ground and followed Yilvina to the spring.

Mandred’s jaw dropped. “By the gods, what are you doing? You can’t—”

Nuramon grabbed hold of the reins of Mandred’s horse before he could say it. “Let him go. Farodin knows what he’s doing. So does Yilvina.”

“She saved our lives in Aniscans. He can’t just . . .”

Farodin crouched beside Yilvina. They seemed to exchange a few words.

Then Farodin stood up and raised the spear. Yilvina kneeled beside the spring, her head lifted proudly. Nuramon flinched as the spear came down. Farodin swung it like a club and delivered a hard blow to the side of Yilvina’s head. She collapsed forward and did not stir.

Mandred shook his head. “You elves are crazy. How can you just bash our companion like that?”

It mystified Nuramon that the human found this all so hard to understand. “In her own way, she made it clear to us that she accepted our escape,” he explained. “She left her spear impaled in the ground to show that she would not raise it against us. But her honor and her vow of loyalty to the queen made it impossible for her to simply let us run away.”

“Couldn’t she just have said that she lost us?” asked Mandred.

Nuramon sighed. “She was assigned to guard us.
Losing
us would be a disgrace for her.”

“The other riders who were with us when we started chasing the stag all got left behind,” said the jarl.

“Guarding us was not
their
responsibility. For them, the chase was simply too much,” said Nuramon.

Farodin had returned while they were speaking and mounted up. “Let’s ride.” He looked toward the edge of the clearing. “And hope we have no unseen guards shadowing us.”

Nuramon looked into the forest in apprehension. It took little skill to hide in the shadows of the trees. He followed Farodin, but he had an uneasy feeling. Mandred rode close by his side.

“So why shouldn’t
I
have whacked her?” Mandred asked. “Wouldn’t that have been better? In fifty years, probably less, I’ll be worm food anyway. What Farodin did will probably follow him for centuries.”

“I think she was scared you’d be a little too enthusiastic and smash her skull in.”

“I can bash someone very gently, too,” said Mandred.

“Well, I’m afraid you have something of a reputation.” Nuramon was tiring of the topic, but there was clearly no hope of getting the mortal to drop the subject.

“So what will happen if the queen sends someone to my world to find us?” Mandred asked. “That Phillimachos seems to be a top-notch tracker.”

“To avoid anyone following us, we’ll use an Albenstar where only three paths cross. Anyone opening a gate in the same place after us will come out somewhere else in your world.”

Mandred frowned. “Sorry . . . the faun oak couldn’t stand me, so I don’t have much of a grasp of your magic.”

Nuramon explained what he could about the minor Albenstars. Their connection between the worlds was so unstable that if you used them to cross from one world to another, it was not possible to come out in the same place twice. Because, by nature, such stars were rather fleeting, there were no fixed gates as there were with the major Albenstars. Finally, he told Mandred about the hazards of using the Albenstars.

The mortal listened attentively, then seemed to sink deep into his own thoughts. Nuramon would not think less of him if he chose to stay behind. Not wanting to influence his decision, Nuramon drove his horse forward until he caught up with Farodin. “I have a question, Farodin.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“How did you find the grains of sand?”

“I used a kind of magic, a spell I last cast more than fifty years ago. The spell lets me find anything at all, as long as I know what I’m searching for.”

“Couldn’t you use it to find Noroelle?”

“No. She is in the Shattered World, but I may be able to find the gate we need to reach her.” He hesitated. After a moment, he added, “But to do that, I have to know what it is I’m looking for. I’ve been able to sense the grains of sand every time, provided I get close enough to them.”

Nuramon struggled with the idea of chasing down grains of sand. “There has to be another way to free Noroelle.”

“Maybe. But until we have found another way, this is all we have. We should find out first if we are able to open a gate between the worlds at all. I still have my doubts.”

“We can do it. I’m certain.”

“Unless the queen has sent someone to follow our tracks,” said Farodin.

Nuramon looked back, but saw no one.

“Just now, back at the clearing, there was someone hiding in the bushes,” Farodin continued.

“Why didn’t you say something?” asked Nuramon indignantly.

“It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

Nuramon did not at all like the way Farodin kept what he knew to himself and made arbitrary decisions that affected all of them. “Whom do you think it was?”

The elf shrugged. “Someone who prefers to avoid open confrontation. I’m hoping we can surprise whoever it is when we open the gate . . . if we manage it. And it would be smarter not to look back all the time. We should make whoever it is feel safe.”

They rode on until they finally reached the edge of the forest and open grassland lay before them, then they let the horses have their head. They galloped toward the hill country between them and Yaldemee. The horses enjoyed the chance to charge across open land. Farodin’s chestnut led the way while Felbion and Mandred’s mare, which he still had not named, rode neck and neck.

Mandred sat low in the saddle, leaning far forward over the mane of his steed. He drove her on with wild whoops. He seemed to be enjoying the race, and Nuramon fell back a little to give the mortal the small victory of not coming up last.

They reached the hills without seeing any trace of a pursuer. Perhaps they had been successful in shaking off whoever it was. To be safe, they decided to take a detour and rode for some time along a shallow river to wash away their tracks. Farodin openly doubted that they would be able to fool Phillimachos with tricks like that.

Late in the afternoon, they reached the small valley that the faun oak had told them about, hidden among the hills.

They dismounted. The moment Nuramon’s feet touched the ground, he sensed the power of an Albenpath.

Slowly, they led the horses forward. There was no more than an ash tree and a few bushes in the valley. The grass-covered hills rose steeply on both sides. With every step, Nuramon felt the surging of the Albenpath. It was like crossing a frozen river on ice so thin that he could feel the water sliding underneath.

At the end of the valley, Nuramon stopped. Close to the ground, he sensed a vortex. The power of the Albenpaths streamed in from three sides, merged, and flowed apart again along three paths. They had reached their goal.

Nuramon scanned the land around him. There was nothing to show that an Albenstar existed here. No stone marking the location, no clearing.

Farodin, wary, searched the area for any traces of other Albenkin, but there was no sign that anybody else had visited this place recently. The faun oak had advised them well. They could open a gate to the Other World here without being disturbed.

In the past few days, Nuramon had done his best to buoy his companions and, in particular, to allay Farodin’s fears. But now he felt the first pangs of doubt himself. He had learned a lot in the winter, and the faun oak had told him that he possessed great talent, but nothing could erase the fact that he had never before opened a gate.

“We are here. I can feel the Albenstar,” Nuramon told his friends, but he spoke more to Mandred than to Farodin.

“Do you think the horses will go through the gate, too?” asked Mandred, looking suspiciously at the grass as if there had to be some kind of sign that they were standing at an Albenstar. “I’ve gotten used to not wearing my feet down to the bone.”

“We’ll just have to see,” Farodin answered.

“Take a last look around. Breathe in the air,” said Nuramon. “This may be the last time we see Albenmark.” Anyone breaking the queen’s laws as often as they had could not count on ever setting foot there again.

“I’m sure it’s the last time,” Mandred declared.

Farodin said nothing, but Nuramon, deep down, felt that he would see Albenmark again one day, even if he had no right to.

Nuramon began to weave the spell. Still standing, eyes closed, he concentrated on the streams of the Albenpaths that came together in the star. Then he raised his head to feel the sun shining on his face. The magic was a spell of light and warmth, and he felt both of these now on his skin. Magic and heat had often been allies in his healing and were not strangers to him. He opened himself to the power of the sun and let it flow through him and on to the Albenstar. The magic tore a wound in the vortex, and for a moment, Nuramon felt as if he would be sucked into the Albenstar. He fought against it with all his strength, but the power was too strong. Suddenly, something gripped him by the shoulders, and he threw open his eyes. He could hardly see. It was as if the power of the sun that he had absorbed now radiated from his own eyes. He was aware of two shadows close to him. Farodin and Mandred, he thought.

Nuramon closed his eyes again and tried hard to hold on to the magic that was threatening to escape his control. He kneeled, laid his hands on the warm earth, and allowed the sun’s power to flow down through his arms, as if the Albenstar were someone injured whose wounds Nuramon had been called upon to heal. This was no healing spell, though, and the wound he had opened was not supposed to close, not yet. What he had thought of as a wound in the Albenstar had to be part of the magic. Maybe the wound itself would become the gate. He felt the power flowing out through his fingertips and expected the pain that had always come when he performed his magic. But it didn’t come, and because of that, Nuramon stayed on guard. If it came suddenly, he did not want to be caught unawares and be overwhelmed.

Something began to pulse, a force in one of the paths that set it apart from the others. It was like the difference between water from a stream and water from the sea. This had to be the path that would take them to the Other World. Then, without warning, the pain came. Searing heat poured down through Nuramon’s hands to his fingertips. He fought desperately to withstand it, but the pain grew and grew and soon became unbearable. Nuramon threw himself back from the Albenstar and opened his eyes. The light that had taken away his sight was gone, and he saw his companions standing at his side. Beside them rose a broad column of light that made Nuramon think of a gash in the world.

“You’ve done it,” cried Farodin.

Nuramon rose to his feet and cautiously stepped closer. He had caused an injury to the Albenstar, and released the power of the sun into it.

While Mandred stood gaping, as if nailed to the ground, Farodin circled the pillar of light. Nuramon could feel how the column was drawing power from the vortex. He was terrified; if he had made a mistake, they might all die. “Do you think this really is the gate we wanted to create?” he asked.

“I’m not connected to the fabric of your magic, but from outside, everything looks just as the faun oak described it,” said Farodin. “What choice do we have? I’m willing to risk it.”

Mandred tugged at the reins of his mare. “Let me go first.”

“Out of the question,” said Farodin. “It’s too dangerous. It’s for our sake that you are even here, so let me go ahead. If I burst into flames, then feel free to tell Nuramon what I think of him.” He forced a smile.

“We’re going to my world, and no one but Mandred Torgridson will be the first to set foot there.” And with that, he simply strode ahead and suddenly disappeared into the light.