The Elven (36 page)

“Thank you, djinn.”

“Oh, gratitude means a lot to us. I spent many years in the human world. How many wishes did I fulfill there, and how seldom did anyone say thank you?”

“Can I do anything to help you?”

“You can sit with me on this stone and tell me your story. Trust me, in this oasis, your secrets are safe. No one here is going to trot off to Albenmark and tell the queen.”

Nuramon nodded and sat down beside the djinn on the stone. Then he began to talk. Each time he told it, the story grew longer, for he was pouring out his heart.

The djinn listened patiently, wearing an expression that did not fit with his merry temperament. When Nuramon finished, the djinn began to weep. “That is probably the saddest story I have ever heard, elf.” The djinn sprang up from the rock, wiped his eyes, and grinned broadly, his teeth flashing. “But it isn’t over yet. You can cry, or you can laugh.” The djinn’s face changed so that one half was happy and the other half miserable. “You’ve got to choose. You have to ask yourself, is there any hope, or isn’t there?” He slapped the happy cheek, and the grin and the smile lines spread all the way across his face. “A bit of optimism, elf. Go to Iskendria. You will find a way, I’m sure. And if there really is no hope, then you’ll still have plenty of time left for despair.”

Nuramon nodded. The djinn was right, of course, even if his cheerfulness was not in Nuramon’s character. He didn’t know if he should be angry with the spirit for tossing his sad story aside so lightly, but the smile on the face of this odd being was enough, and he could not resist smiling himself.

When Nuramon stood up, the djinn was again floating beside the statue. “Go to Iskendria with an optimistic heart. Yulivee went there many times, and she was very wise. It was she who created the gate through which the elves of old Valemas left Albenmark. She created the stone ring out there, and the elves here owe her their thanks for the light spell, for the barrier, and for the mirage of the desert on the other side. Yulivee always said that travel was the best teacher. And she was a good student. May what she learned out there in the human world and in the Shattered World be yours to learn, too.” So saying, the djinn dissolved and disappeared. On the breeze rang the words “Farewell, Nuramon.”

Nuramon stepped up to the statue of Yulivee and looked into her shimmering eyes. He did not know whether he could take what the djinn had told him seriously or if there really was a town called Iskendria back in the human world. One look at Yulivee’s face was enough. He would tell his companions about the town, and he would convince them that Iskendria was where they had to go.

Tales of the Tearagi:

The Co
mpanions of Valeshar

T
he great desert wanderer Valeshar knew our forefathers. We have encountered him on only a few occasions, and we do not know how he is able to survive in the depths of the desert, but it is said that he and the desert are one. One day, we happened to meet Valeshar’s companions. The night before, we had heard the ghouls howling in the dunes, and so we were fearful of the day. At midday, as we crossed the endless plain of Felech, we saw a rider in the distance. We thought the ghouls had sent a demon to fetch us. But then we saw Valeshar’s robes, red as fire.

We immediately pitched our camp, to be able to offer a fitting reception to the great lord of the desert. But behold! From Valeshar’s shadow appeared three more riders on horseback. Two of them were Girat and very pale, and they were armed as for battle. But the third was a Girat of the fire. He had long, flaming hair that burned in the wind, and his skin was as red as the heart of a blaze. His weapon was a great axe with a blade that shone in the sunlight. The three Girat were mounted on splendid, untiring horses.

We received Valeshar according to our custom, and he was a good guest, as always. He drank and ate with us in peace and seemed pleased with our offerings. Valeshar introduced his companions to us. The two pale Girat were Farashid and Neremesh, but the Girat of the fire was called Mendere.

Farashid had hair as light as the sun and eyes of jade. Neremesh’s hair was the color of the windy mountains, and his eyes were the brown of the desert in the south. Mendere was a giant with a wild, flaming beard. His blue eyes were like oases in the desert. The Girat of the fire did not have his master’s manners. He ate without cease and drank water as if it had no end, to our great astonishment. Neremesh explained to us that Mendere had to extinguish the flames that danced in his belly. Then we understood that Mendere’s actions were of benefit to us all, for he did not want our tents to catch fire.

After we had eaten, Valeshar bade us lead his companions to the sea. We were afraid of the Girat of the fire, but out of respect for Valeshar, we agreed to take the three with us. The Girat did not speak our language, and we knew none that they commanded. So it was that we had few words to share. We admired Mendere’s self-sacrifice in drinking so much water for our sakes, and he did not shy from the wine when it came to quenching the flames in his belly. When he asked for raki, we were afraid that Mendere would only cause the fire inside him to burn all the brighter. But who opposes the word of a friend of Valeshar? So the Girat drank raki. At first, nothing happened. But in the night, we heard such groaning and moaning that we fled the camp, believing the ghouls were upon us. When we dared to return, we discovered Mendere tossing and turning on the ground, battling the flames the raki had fueled inside him.

The closer we came to the sea, the redder grew Mendere’s skin. It was only the hands of Neremesh that could drive the fire from Mendere’s arms and face. Since that day, we have held to a rule: never offer a Girat of the fire raki.

After long travels, we came to the sea, and the three Girat departed with the few words of our language that they had learned. They rode in the direction of Iskendria and left us behind. But we were curious. What could they want in Iskendria? No doubt they were traveling on their master’s business. The people of the desert had long known that the inhabitants of Iskendria were so foolish as to deny Valeshar his tribute. Now, though, doom was riding toward them in the form of his companions.

F
ROM
T
ALES OF THE
D
ESERT
P
EOPLE
,
C
OLLECTED BY
G
OLISCH
R
EESA

V
OLUME
T
HREE:
T
HE
T
EARAGI, PAGE 143 FF

In Iskendria

T
he journey through the desert had been a torment for Farodin. Sometimes it felt as if the dunes were mocking him. Uncountable were the grains of sand, and they threw in his face the impossibility of the task he had set himself. He could only hope that, in time, his magic would grow more powerful. Farodin wanted to stay true to the path he had embarked upon. His doggedness had led him to Noroelle after almost seven hundred years, and he would find her this time, too. He was determined to recover enough of the sand from the destroyed hourglass to reverse Emerelle’s enchantment, even if it took centuries.

Farodin looked to the high city walls on the horizon. Iskendria. Was it wise to come here? They would have to pass through another Albenstar, and the magic was dangerous. What if they leaped in time now? They probably wouldn’t even notice. But for Noroelle, it would mean many more years of loneliness. If they found some clue in the library, if they discovered how to break Emerelle’s banishment spell and to find the Albenstar through which Noroelle had passed into the Shattered World, then their search would end quickly. But Farodin had his doubts. Was it conceivable that Emerelle did not know about the library? Hardly. So she must assume that whatever knowledge it contained would not help them. Was it possible that she was mistaken? He had been pondering this throughout their journey. It was a waste of time to think about it any longer. The only answer they would find was in the library itself.

A faint smell of decay hung in the air. Farodin looked up. They had almost reached the city.

The last mile of the road into Iskendria was lined with graves. One of those tasteless things that only humans could come up with, thought the elf. Who wanted to be greeted by memorials to the dead when they visited a city? Crypts and pretentious mausoleums stood side by side, crowding the road. Farther back, the grave sites became plainer, until they were marked by no more than a simple stone that showed where someone had buried a corpse in the sand.

In the pompous marble and alabaster burial houses, the local undertakers had quite obviously not covered the bodies with earth. Farodin wished they had put as much effort into fashioning sarcophagi that actually sealed as they had into decorating the mausoleums with statues of the dead. Most of the statues were of men and women who looked very young. It was no surprise to Farodin that people didn’t get old in a city that greeted visitors with the stench of the dead. If one were to believe the statues, there were only two kinds of people who made up the rich of the city: those who gazed sagaciously and looked as if they took themselves very seriously indeed, and those who treated life as a party. The sculptures of the latter sort showed them stretched out casually atop their sarcophagi, toasting passing travelers with raised goblets of wine.

The newer graves and statues were painted in garish colors. Farodin found it hard to comprehend how humans could delude themselves into thinking they looked good with kohl-rimmed eyes while wearing an orange dress and a purple wrap over the top. In contrast, the desert sand had long since eroded the color from the older statues and monuments, and they were much easier on the eyes of an observer.

The morbid impression that Iskendria made on travelers was somewhat redeemed by the women who stood beside the road. They received visitors to the city with warm smiles and friendly gestures. Unlike the desert dwellers, they did not protect themselves from the sun with bulky robes and veils. On the contrary, they showed as much skin as possible, if one overlooked the layers of powder and makeup they wore. Some had even given up on clothes completely and had painted their bodies with mystifying patterns of spirals and curves.

Mandred, clearly familiar with this form of welcome, waved to the women. He was in an excellent mood. Grinning broadly, he turned his head this way and that, not wanting to miss a single glimpse of these women.

The road was paved with huge stone slabs and led straight as an arrow toward the walls of Iskendria. A short way ahead of them, a caravan made its way along. It consisted of those ugly animals the humans called camels, and a small group of traders who were chattering excitedly. Suddenly, one of the traders broke away from the group and spoke to a woman with unnaturally red hair. She sat with her legs spread wide upon the pedestal of a marble carouser. After some brief haggling, he pressed something into her hand, and they disappeared together behind a half-collapsed mausoleum.

“I wonder what a ride round here costs?” Mandred murmured, watching the two vanish.

“Why do you want to ride? Haven’t the last—” Nuramon stopped. “You don’t mean . . . are those . . . what did you call them? Whores? I thought you found them in large buildings, like in Aniscans.”

Mandred laughed heartily. “Oh, there were plenty of whores in the streets of Aniscans, too. You just don’t have the eye for them. Or maybe it comes down to love. Noroelle is certainly something different from these whores.” He grinned. “Though some of them really are very pretty. But when love already keeps you warm, then there’s no need to look for pleasure anywhere else.”

It angered Farodin to hear their human companion mention Noroelle and these painted females in the same breath. It was . . . no, he could not find a fitting image for the absurdity of comparing Noroelle and these women. He thought of dozens of metaphors for Noroelle’s beauty, metaphors from a song he used to sing to her, and not one of them would be appropriate for the prettiest of these humans. Now
he
was doing it. He was thinking of his beloved and these women at the same time. He looked at Mandred testily. Riding with this barbarian so long had left its mark.

Mandred had obviously misunderstood his look. He stroked the moneybag at his belt. “Those camel drivers could have been a bit more generous,” he said. “Twenty silver pieces. How long is that supposed to last? When I think what they gave Valiskar . . . they’re on to a good thing, those brothers of yours at the oasis.”

“Those are no brothers,” said Nuramon. “They’re—”

Mandred waved it off. “I know, I know. They really made an impression on me. They’re very simpathekish spirits.”

“Do you mean
sympathetic
?” asked Farodin.

“Elven blah-dee-blah. You know what I mean,” Mandred replied. “They’ve really got something going. Those ragheads with their camels, all they have to do is see the elves of Valemas and they’re hell-bent on giving them gifts. It’s fantastic . . . sympachetic. No banging heads, no threats, no curses. They just come out and accept the gifts. And the camel drivers are happy about it. They must be some tough guys, the Free of Valemas.”

Farodin’s thoughts turned to Giliath. He would have liked to have spoken to her again, to find out whether she really would have killed him. She had come close. After the fight, she had withdrawn, and though they had stayed five more days in the oasis, he had not seen her again.

“Hey, lass.” Mandred slapped a dark-haired girl on the thigh. “You understand me even if you don’t speak my language.”

She flashed a voluptuous smile in reply.

“I’ll come back and find you as soon as we’ve found a billet in the city.”

She pointed at the money pouch on his belt and glanced enigmatically toward a broken crypt.

“She likes me,” proclaimed Mandred proudly.

“At least, she likes what’s hanging on your belt.”

Mandred laughed. “Then she’ll like what’s hanging underneath it, too. By the gods. I’ve missed the curves of a girl in my arms.”

Mandred’s words stung Farodin. The human was so refreshingly simple. It must have had something to do with the short lives they led.

A large double gate rose ahead of them at the end of the street. It was flanked by two massive, semicircular towers. The walls themselves must have been at least fifteen paces high, and the towers nearly double that. Farodin had never before seen a human city surrounded by such massive fortifications. Iskendria, it was said, was many hundreds of years old. Two major trading routes and an important river converged inside the walls of the port city.

At the gate stood guards with breastplates of reinforced linen. They wore bronze helmets decorated with black horsetails. Travelers leaving the city exited through the gate on the left. No one bothered them, but anyone trying to enter the city had to pay a toll to the guards.

“Did you see that?” said Mandred indignantly. “These sharks charge a piece of silver for the honor of visiting their city.”

“I’ll pay for you,” said Farodin evenly. “But keep your head. I don’t want any trouble here.” He kept a wary eye on Mandred.

As the guard at the gate stepped up to them, Farodin pressed three pieces of silver into his hand. The man had scars from the pox and bad breath. He asked something that Farodin did not understand, and the elf shrugged helplessly.

The guard seemed unsettled. He pointed to Mandred and repeated his question. Farodin offered another silver piece to the man. The guard took it, smiled, and waved them through.

“Sharks,” hissed Mandred again.

A busy street opened before them on the other side of the gate and ran straight as a string ahead of them into the city. The caravan they had followed along the coast road to Iskendria disappeared through an arched gateway into a walled courtyard. Farodin saw more than a hundred camels standing inside. Apparently, the courtyard was a meeting point for merchants from far away. It was no place for Farodin or his companions. They would just stand out among the traders, and that was to be avoided at all costs. They continued along the street.

Most of the buildings were built of brown mud bricks. Only occasionally did they exceed two floors. They were open to the street and, at ground level, housed handicraft stores, food stalls, and bars.

In front of one of the bars, children sat plucking robins. The birds were still alive. Without gutting them, they tossed the small birds into seething oil. It turned Farodin’s stomach to watch. It made no difference how big the cities they built might be, humans were savages.

The three companions were the slowest of those moving along the broad main street. Everyone here seemed to know where he or she was going, and everyone was in a hurry to get there. Sweating laborers pushing barrows piled high with bricks, water sellers lugging huge amphorae strapped to their backs, messenger boys with oversized leather satchels, women taking baskets of vegetables to market. Among all these people, Farodin felt out of place. His ears were hidden beneath a headband, so he did not stand out, but being incognito made no difference to how he felt. Rarely had he ever felt so foreign in the human world.

Farodin observed an old woman wearing a sea-green wrap dress following two servants who were carrying baskets of goods. The old woman was haggling with a boy holding a long pole hung with more than twenty birdcages. Finally, one of the servants paid the youngster a few copper coins. The boy then opened one of the cages and retrieved a white dove from inside. With care, he handed the bird to the old woman. With a laugh, she threw the dove into the air. The bird flew in a circle, seemingly confused at its newly gained freedom, then flew east in the direction of the salt lakes.

Farodin was at first impressed by this noble gesture, but then he wondered whether the boy had caught the birds just so that rich women could have the pleasure of releasing them again.

The farther they followed the street, the higher the buildings on either side became. Now most of the walls were plastered white over the mud bricks. Some of the walls were painted with murals depicting ships at sea or storks wading through clumps of reeds.

Farodin found the confusion of smells pressing in from all sides dizzying. The scents of herbs and spices mingled with the stink of the city. All around were the odors of unwashed humans, donkeys and camels, excrement. The noise was beyond description. Street traders shouted their wares at the tops of their voices, while the water sellers and the young girls selling fragrant flatbread and gold-brown pretzels from baskets chanted in an endless singsong drone.

Farodin was soon wishing he were back in the loneliness of the desert. His head was throbbing. The heat, the noise, and the stench were more than he could bear. And if all that were not enough, he felt the Albenpath that had led them parallel to the coast road and all the way here to the city growing weaker and weaker. Farodin was certain that they had not left the path. It felt to him as if the path were sinking deeper beneath the stones of the street with every step.

Nuramon, too, seemed uneasy. They exchanged a glance for a moment. “We have passed two minor Albenstars,” he whispered excitedly. “This city is like a spider’s web. So many paths cross here, but they lie underground. That is unusual. I don’t know if I will be able to get to their power and open a gate.”

“Maybe there are tunnels,” Farodin suggested. “There has to be some way to get to the stars. Every major Albenstar is protected by magic to stop it from sinking beneath snow or sand.”

“What if they decided to forgo that magic here?” Nuramon said. “Perhaps to better hide the gate from the humans? Just look at the crowd. What other possibilities are there here than to hide the gate deep beneath the earth?”

“Did your djinn actually say when he visited this library?” Farodin asked.

“No.”

“It may have been centuries ago. Maybe there’s no longer any gate that leads there from here.”

Nuramon did not reply. What could he have said? He had put all the hope he had left into the library. And now that they were here, they would search until they found a gate.

Mandred seemed to have picked up nothing of his companions’ low spirits. He seemed captivated by all the strange impressions and leered openly at every halfway attractive woman. Sometimes, Farodin almost envied his companion. His life was short, and he took that in stride surprisingly easily. Nothing seemed to darken his mood for very long. He was always able to find something to be interested in, even if no more than chasing the fleeting joys of a night of boozing or love. Perhaps he even lived a better life?