The Elven (72 page)

The jarl glanced at Farodin. He hoped they would not jump through time again. These damned gates. Everything was off kilter. An army attacking Albenmark. Terrible. How far had they been able to penetrate? Who would win this fight?

A red-gold arch of light rose from the snow.

“Quickly,” Farodin called, and he pushed Nuramon ahead of him into the gate.

From the city wall sounded a signal horn. Mandred grabbed the dead king by his belt and pulled him through the snow.
Liodred should have had his final resting place in the burial mound, under the oak
, the jarl thought bitterly. The dead of the royal line had been buried there for centuries. At least there Liodred would have returned to lie beside his wife and son.

Mandred stepped into the light. He only needed to take a single step this time, then the smell of fresh green leaves welcomed the jarl to Albenmark. They stepped out of the gate and into a clearing damp with dew. Shadows rose along the edge of the woods. The air was filled with the scent of flowers and the twittering of birds.

From beneath the pines stepped a young elf. He, too, wore one of the oddly slim swords at his hip, like the ones Mandred had noticed on the riders out on the fjord. The jarl looked back. The gate behind them had closed. Just a moment earlier it had been night, and now it was a bright morning. Mandred cursed silently. It had happened again. They’d jumped in time.

“Who enters the heartland of Albenmark?” the elf called to them.

“Farodin, Nuramon, and Mandred Aikhjarto. Our names are known well at the queen’s court, and that is also where we want to go,” Farodin confidently replied.

The Great Gathering

T
hey made their way through the grass, slowly approaching the army camp that sprawled below the hill on which the queen’s palace stood. Hundreds of tents were pitched there, and beside every one fluttered a silken banner in the morning breeze. Mounted knights and infantry were gathered close by, and Albenkin of every sort moved among the tents, going about their business.

Everything that Nuramon saw confused him as much as the things he had encountered on the way there. His companions had been very patient with him. But their words came from so far away.

Something had happened to him as he wove the spell in the Devanthar’s halls, something that also could be seen from the outside. He had seen his reflection in a pond. A strand of hair had turned white, and he looked older, but that was a small price to pay for their freedom.

Soon they came to the fringe of the camp. Nuramon felt out of place there, as if he were no fighter, as if he had never been in a battle. But what about the sea battle, the many fights he had fought at the Firnstayners’ side, and other clashes from much further back? Or had they all happened in a dream?

Nuramon looked around in the hope of recognizing one among the soldiers he could see. Most were strangers to him. And although he had the feeling that he had seen some of the faces before, they reminded him more of figures from a dream than living Albenkin.

They came across a number of centaurs, and Nuramon had a vague sense of something, as if he had once saved a centaur’s life. Or had he tried and failed? He could not be sure. The centaurs acknowledged Mandred and bowed their heads before him.

The farther they moved into the army camp, the more intense the stares of the soldiers became. They watched them pass as if he and his companions were Alben themselves, in the flesh. He heard their names being whispered, then called out. And along with their names spread the disbelief on the faces of the soldiers.

Nuramon felt he did not belong there at all. He still had not seen a single face he could say for certain he knew. Or did he simply not remember? Perhaps the spell he cast in the Devanthar’s halls had robbed him of part of his memory. Or had they been away so long that the elves he knew had gone into the moonlight long before?

The soldiers gathered around them, speaking to them, but Nuramon did not listen. He did not know whether everything around him was a dream or reality. Only slowly, like lifting fog, did his mind begin to clear, and he suddenly remembered the search for Noroelle. The recollection of his beloved helped him put his memory at least a little in order again.

When Nuramon saw the antlers of a stag appear over the heads of the soldiers, he began to pay more attention to his surroundings. The wearer of those antlers might be someone he knew. And when the wearer pushed through the throng of soldiers and stood in front of them, Nuramon knew that he had not been mistaken.

“Xern,” Mandred shouted.

“Xern indeed, Mandred Aikhjarto. Before you now stands Master Xern, who always believed you would return one day.”

Nuramon remembered. Master Xern. So Xern had succeeded Alvias as chamberlain. His antlers looked like a crown and lent him the dignity of an adviser to the queen.

Farodin was as happy as Mandred to see Xern again. “So you’re Emerelle’s counselor now.”

“I am,” he replied. “And it will come as no surprise to you that she is expecting you. Your return is the reason she has called a council of war. Follow me.”

Xern’s words confused Nuramon. Then he recalled the queen’s water mirror. No doubt she had seen the three of them coming in it.

They followed Xern through the ranks of soldiers. Nuramon tried to avoid the eyes turned curiously in his direction. All this attention unsettled him. What did they see in him and his companions? What stories were told about them? He could not stand so many eyes on him and almost wished he were back in the days when no one felt anything for him but contempt. Because all the attention was inextricably tied to great expectations. And he could not live up to those . . . at least, not in that moment.

They came to the saffron-colored tent of the queen, where two guards stood at the entrance. In front of the tent, white blocks of stone marked a broad circle in the grass. This must have been where the council of war convened. Beside each block of stone was a pole, and each pole bore one of the banners of Albenmark. The elven banner—a golden horse on a green ground—fluttered from a pole directly in front of the entrance to the queen’s tent. Next to it was the standard of Alvemer, a silver nymph on blue cloth.

Xern led them into the center of the stone circle. The other soldiers, the ones who had followed out of curiosity, did not dare set foot inside the circle. “I will fetch the queen,” said Xern, and he disappeared into the tent.

Nuramon looked at the crests and coats of arms. He recognized them all, though with many, he was not sure from where they came. He knew the light-blue banner of Valemas from the oasis, and the black flag of the trolls, crossed war hammers, he knew from the sea battle. Perhaps he had seen all the other banners there as well. He noticed that there was no banner beside the stone directly opposite the queen’s.

The first of the chiefs arrived. The king of the trolls was the most conspicuous among them, and he was accompanied by an old troll woman. He sat while the old woman had to stand behind him. He eyed the elves around him with an imperious glare. Even when he sat down, the standing elves barely reached his shoulder.

“That’s Orgrim,” Farodin whispered in a voice that betrayed all of his abhorrence. When the soul of the troll king Boldor had still not been reborn a hundred years later, Skanga had called on Orgrim to be the ruler of his people.

Mandred balled his hands into fists and kept his eyes on the troll. “I still have a score to settle with him,” he said quietly.

“I don’t think you will ever get the chance,” said Farodin, staring stone-faced at the troll king.

Nuramon looked over at the stone that had no banner. While the chiefs of Albenmark took their places around them, that one block of stone stayed unclaimed. He looked at all of those who had come and finally saw a face he knew among them. Directly to the left of the queen stood an elven woman, a fighter, beside the banner of Valemas. She wore pale cloth armor and a sweeping sand-colored cloak. Her left eye was hidden by a dark bandage. Still, Nuramon recognized her instantly. It was Giliath, the warrior woman who had challenged Farodin to a duel back in their time in the new Valemas and who his companion had only been able to beat with a trick.

She came toward them. “Farodin,” she said. “It’s been a long time.”

“Giliath. I thought all of the Free of Valemas were—”

“Dead? No. A handful of us survived and managed to make life hard for Tjured’s disciples.”

“And you came back here? Did the queen apologize for the injustice she had done to you?”

Giliath smiled but did not answer Farodin. Instead, she turned to Nuramon. “We owe a debt to a great sorceress for finding our way back to Albenmark. Now we live in our old city once again. And that debt comes back to you, Nuramon. You saw something special in Hildachi’s child and gave her the name of Yulivee. It was a Yulivee who led us out of Albenmark, and a Yulivee led us back.” She took Nuramon’s hand, and he could feel how her fingers were trembling. “She told us everything.”

“Is Yulivee here?” he asked.

Before Giliath could answer, Xern emerged from the tent again and called, “The queen of Albenmark!”

Giliath squeezed Nuramon’s hand one more time, then nodded in silent acknowledgment to Farodin and went back to the banner of Valemas.

The guards outside the queen’s tent threw back the tent flaps, and Emerelle stepped out. Nuramon would never forget her. Everything else perished, and only the queen remained. She was as beautiful as ever, as lovely as she had been back when he had wished that she might look at him as one she loved. When had he wished that? He could not say. He only knew that the feeling was no longer there. The wanderings of his own mind bewildered him.

When Obilee stepped out, Nuramon looked at her in amazement. The queen’s best fighter had not changed. She wore the same armor she had worn on the day of the sea battle. It looked almost as if she had jumped through the centuries with him and his companions. But unlike that day, he now saw joy in her face. She beamed at him, and only him, not Farodin or Mandred.

Finally, an elf woman in the gray robe of a sorceress came out of the tent. Was that Yulivee? The woman bore hardly any resemblance to the child who, in his sense of time, he had last seen only days earlier. Some of her dark-brown hair fell in waves to her shoulders, and two long, heavy braids hung down to her waist. She stepped forward at the side of the queen and followed her to the stone. Nuramon finally recognized her by her impish smile. As much as she herself had changed, her smile had not.

The queen took her place on her stone seat, Obilee and Yulivee on the stones to her right and left. It did not surprise Nuramon that Yulivee sat as chieftain beneath the banner of Valemas.

Emerelle looked intently at Nuramon and his two companions for a long time, and the soldiers around the outside of their circle grew restive. Only when she raised her hand did silence return. “Welcome, my true warriors. Never has Albenmark been so happy to see you.” The queen showed them the face of a benevolent ruler. “I did not doubt that this day would come. And you have destroyed the Devanthar.”

Farodin nodded politely. “We killed him, and we captured his Albenstone.” With that, he produced the golden stone and held it on his hand. “If it can assist you in the fight against the enemy, then we entrust it to you, but you know to what end we would use an Albenstone.”

The queen momentarily looked away. “I have not forgotten that you want to set Noroelle free. You alone may decide what we do with the Albenstone. No one will take that choice away from you. Ever since the battle for Firnstayn, we have been at war with the Tjured priests. Their power has grown, and they now occupy the territory on the far side of the Shalyn Falah. They have even penetrated the heartland.”

“They have crossed the Shalyn Falah?” asked Mandred, outraged.

Emerelle did not answer him, but looked at the soldiers gathered around, searching for someone. Finally, Ollowain stepped forward from among them.

“No, Mandred.” The keeper of Shalyn Falah seemed far less belligerent than he had once been. He looked as if he had fought in battle not long before. He came to the queen’s side, and she indicated to him to continue. “No enemy has crossed the Shalyn Falah. They have broken through in another place.”

“The route Aigilaos took back then?” Mandred asked.

Ollowain turned his eyes down. “That was a very long time ago, but you are right.”

The queen spoke then. “As your arrival in Albenmark drew near, I gave the order to throw all our strength into driving the enemy out of the heartland.”

Nuramon remembered the landscape. The Shalyn Falah spanned a deep chasm. It took many hours to get around the bridge, which gave the defenders a lot of time to take up their positions.

Emerelle spoke again. “I did it so that we could win this war in our way. If the three of you decide to entrust your Albenstone to me, then we will accept our inheritance. We will do what the Alben once did. Albenmark will be separated from the Other World forever.”

Silence fell. Nuramon saw the looks of incomprehension on the faces of the soldiers. The queen was suggesting they do no less than what the Alben had done. She rose to her feet. “We have driven the enemy back into the land between the Shalyn Falah and Atta Aikhjarto’s gate, but they are already gathering reinforcements to strike back. We expect them to try to break through to the heartland again, this time with an even mightier army. Time is running short. We have to execute our plan as soon as possible.”

“What is the plan exactly?” asked Farodin. “How can we seal off Albenmark from the Other World?”

“With our soldiers defending the heartland, we win time,” the queen replied. “Safe from the Tjured priests, Albenmark’s most powerful will cast two spells with the Albenstones. The first will forever separate all the land beyond the Shalyn Falah from Albenmark. The second will cut off all the gates between Albenmark and the Other World. Then we will be free of Tjured and his minions.” She looked at Mandred. “And the Fjordlanders will find new courage and take up the sword again when their fabled ancestor returns as their king to fight side by side with them for an eternal place in Albenmark.”

Mandred seemed at once pleased and distraught at the queen’s words. He was well aware of the significance of the honor. Humans had never before found a permanent home in Albenmark, and the queen was now offering precisely that to an entire nation.

Emerelle turned to Farodin. “But all of that can only come to pass if you give us your Albenstone.”

“According to what you have said, we are supposed to give up Noroelle,” Farodin said.

“No. You should choose. You can take the stone and go to Noroelle and set her free. Or you can use it to save Albenmark. But I warn you, sometimes captivity is better than the certain knowledge that everything that once was is lost.”

Nuramon struggled to comprehend what the queen was saying. A choice between Noroelle and Albenmark. Was that really a choice? They were completely surrounded by soldiers. The queen could simply take the Albenstone any time she wanted. No, they had no choice at all. They could do nothing except give the stone to Emerelle. Nuramon looked to Farodin and saw despair in his companion’s eyes.

Nuramon nodded, and Farodin said, “We will hand over the stone to you, or Noroelle’s freedom would be crueler than her imprisonment. Is there no way to rescue Noroelle first?”

The queen spoke with regret. “No. My verdict from that time still stands.”

Farodin bowed his head. He seemed to have given up all hope.

Nuramon felt disillusioned. The gift they had brought to Emerelle and Albenmark could not have been greater, and still the queen could not reverse her decision. “We have just one request,” said Nuramon. He could hear how weak his own voice sounded. “Open a path for us into the Other World, before the worlds are separated. We will find another way to free Noroelle.”