The Elven (75 page)

The Queen’s Dagger

T
he sounds of the army camp reached as far as the tower. The hammers of the weapon smiths rang loudly. Horses whinnied restlessly. At some of the fires, songs were sung. Each fought his fear in his own way. Tomorrow would decide the future of Albenmark.

Farodin was leaning against the parapet and thinking of the day from which all of this had sprung. If Guillaume had died silently in his house close to the temple tower in Aniscans, perhaps smothered by a pillow, would all of this still have happened? Could he, Farodin, have done it? Had it been his weakness that had led to their enemies threatening the very heartland of Albenmark? Or had it all already begun with Gelvuun’s death?

He took a deep breath. The cool night air was not pure. It carried a whiff of an all too familiar smell. The stink of brimstone. Or was he just imagining it? Was he slowly going insane? Or had he not, in fact, won the most crucial fight of his life? Was the Devanthar lurking somewhere, pulling his strings as he had once before, after they had believed him dead in the ice cave?

He made an effort to push such hopeless thoughts out of his mind and simply take in the view over the camp. As far as the eye could see, tents had been pitched, and fires flickered as far away as the hills in the distance. Never before had all the races of Albenmark stood as one against a common foe. This, too, had come from the death of Guillaume. Old feuds were forgotten. Farodin thought of Orgrim. The trolls, who had brought so much misery to the elven race, would take their positions at Welruun, close to the Shalyn Falah, and fight side by side with the elves. Welruun . . . the place where, centuries before, the two races had fought a bitter battle. The place where Aileen had died. Everything in this world was turned on its head. Everything seemed possible. If he lived through tomorrow, then they would reach Noroelle. Farodin’s hand stroked the small leather pouch in which he kept Aileen’s ring and Noroelle’s emerald. He felt the tightness in his throat as he did so. The end of their search was so close. But how might centuries of loneliness have changed Noroelle? What was left of the elf he had once loved so dearly? And what was left of the Farodin that she had once known?

A sound caused him to turn around. The door to the queen’s rooms opened, and Emerelle stepped out to join him on the balcony. She was dressed entirely in white. Farodin had never seen her in this dress before. It was plain and undecorated. A high collar was buttoned tightly around her throat. The dress tapered to her waist and had wide sleeves that covered the backs of her hands.

“I’m happy I could meet you here one more time,” she said with warmth in her voice. “We have spoken about death up here so many times.” The queen moved over to the stone balustrade. She stood beside him and looked down to the plain.

“A long time has passed for you since the last time we stood up here. Back then, I did not doubt that every order you gave was for the best for Albenmark,” said Farodin, musing.

From the camp below came the casual laughter of the centaurs. “And what do you think today?” Emerelle asked.

“I am happy that I did not kill Guillaume. He was a good man. If he had lived longer . . . perhaps all this would not have happened.” He stepped back a short way from the parapet and looked at the queen. She looked so youthful, so beautiful and innocent. “Of all the Albenkin, what was it in me that made you choose me to be your executioner?”

“If one stroke of a dagger can prevent a hundred deaths, is it wrong to deliver it?”

“No,” Farodin immediately replied.

“And because you think that way, I made you my dagger. There were times when a single dagger could have stopped the dwarves or the elves of Valemas from leaving Albenmark. I was afraid that our peoples could end up strewn to the winds. Or worse, that we would fight long and bloody feuds with each other. Albenmark was in danger of perishing. The murders we carried out saved it. And if we are the victors tomorrow, then Albenmark will be stronger than ever before and a new age will begin. What does it matter to sacrifice a body if you know that the soul will be born again? Only the flesh dies. The soul is assured of a new beginning, and perhaps even one that does not lead down dark paths.”

“Did you never doubt that you were doing what was right?”

Emerelle turned around and leaned against the balustrade. “How does one measure right and wrong, Farodin? I ordered you and Nuramon to kill Guillaume. Instead, you both tried to save him. But he was still murdered. Fate had decided the day of his death long before. And even though you did not kill him, his murder was blamed on the elves. Noroelle made the right decision as a mother not to hand her child over to me. And you were right when you decided not to kill her son. But here we stand, fighting for the survival of Albenmark. I have always tried to do my best for all the Albenkin. Perhaps it will help you to know that whenever I decided someone’s death, I never did so with a light heart.”

Farodin was not satisfied with her answer. In the past, it had been easier for him to accept her words without questioning what might lie behind them.

For a long time, they stood side by side in silence and listened to the sounds drifting up from the camp.

“Can you smell the brimstone?” he asked.

She nodded. “It takes very refined senses to pick up the smell here. It comes from beyond the Shalyn Falah.”

Farodin sighed. At the council of war, he and his companions had reported on their fight against the Devanthar. At the time, Emerelle had said nothing. Was it because she did not want to reveal the truth in front of all the heads of the armies? “So he deceived us again,” said Farodin sadly. “Like he did in the ice cave, when we thought we had beaten him. Is he the one commanding the armies of the Tjured knights? Is he the one who created the rupture between the worlds?”

The queen swept a strand of hair from her face. She was lost in thought and did not answer for some time, but then she turned and met his gaze. “The Devanthar is gone for good. You killed it the way the Alben did. Our ancestors bound the Devanthar in their magical weapons, and then they destroyed the weapons. It will not return . . . but in a certain sense, it is immortal. Its seed in the Other World has yielded a heavy harvest. The rupture was created during the second siege of Firnstayn by priests who had its blood in their veins. It happened by accident. They were trying to use a ritual to seal the Albenstar on the Hartungscliff and the one on the beach at the same time. But instead of separating our two worlds, they tore down the frontier entirely. Over the centuries, the blood of the Devanthar has been diluted. There are no more priests alive today who can kill the Albenkin with their magic. What happened in the sea battle, when I was nearly killed, has not happened since. But our enemies no longer need magic like that. And it makes no difference how great their losses against us are, they can replace every fallen soldier, while the races of Albenmark slowly bleed to death. We have to win tomorrow. We have to save our world from them for just a single day.”

For a moment, it occurred to Farodin that she might have lied to him to stop him from losing his fighting spirit. She looked so innocent. So pure.

But what difference would lying to him now make? The battle for Albenmark had to be fought, and he believed one thing, at least, that she had said: she would do anything to save the races of Albenmark.

Farodin bowed crisply. “I will ride to the Shalyn Falah tonight.”

The queen stood before him and kissed him softly on the cheek. “Take care, my friend. There is an Emerelle that only you and I know. You have kept her secret as your own through the centuries. I thank you for that.”

Farodin was taken aback. “I thought Ollowain would have taken my place.”

The queen looked at him intently. “No. He may be the best swordsman in Albenmark, but he lacks the talent to be the queen’s dagger. He failed in Aniscans, and again, you alone were the one who carried out my will. You were my ambassador to the trolls. You would have made them pay with blood if they had betrayed us in the sea battle. And in the end, it was your blade that killed the Devanthar, the mightiest enemy Albenmark has ever known.”

Tracing a Night Long Past

N
uramon strolled through the queen’s orchard. As he had in Gaomee’s chamber, he thought of the night before the elfhunt’s departure. That night, the trees had whispered to him, but now they were silent. Nuramon touched the branches of the faery pine, but the warmth the tree had always given off was gone. He withdrew his hand in disappointment.

What had happened here? Had the souls of the trees gone into the moonlight? The magic of the place still seemed to be present, for all of the trees carried fruit at the same time. But some things had changed with the passing years, too.

Nuramon walked by the linden tree where he had first seen Noroelle that night and passed by the two mulberry trees that had given him their fruit. Regardless of the outcome of the battle tomorrow, Noroelle would never see any of this again. Her lake, the faun oak, her home . . . all of them would only ever exist in her memory.

Nuramon came to the linden and the olive tree at the edge of the garden. This was where he had spoken to Noroelle as the spirit of the tree, and she had played along. He never would have believed that night that fate would lead them all down such a hard and merciless path. He looked up and saw two faces looking down at him.

“Aha! Eavesdropping on us?” asked Yulivee with a laugh.

Obilee placed one hand on the sorceress’s shoulder. “Let him listen.”

“Come up to us,” said Yulivee.

Nuramon did not answer, but climbed the narrow stairway up to the terrace. The two elven women were an enchanting sight. Yulivee was dressed in wispy gray robes. She had braided white ribbons into her dark-brown hair. Obilee had donned a flowing blue dress and wore her hair tied up. No man would have believed he was looking at a warrior.

“Yulivee and Obilee,” Nuramon exclaimed when he stepped onto the terrace. “Are you best friends now?”

“Ever since the night you went away,” Yulivee confirmed.

He stopped in front of them.

Yulivee looked into his eyes. “It’s strange, you know, not to have to look up to you anymore.” She was just as tall as Nuramon. “Back then, you were a giant to me. And no doubt I was just a silly little girl.”

“No. You were a little sorceress with great power . . . and a lovable little pest.”

Obilee smiled. “That’s what she stayed for quite a while after you left.”

“And I’m sorry about that,” said Yulivee.

Nuramon shook his head. “You don’t need to apologize . . . Sister.”

“I didn’t forget . . . Brother. And I did what you asked me to do. I looked after Felbion, and I live in your house. You will still recognize it, even without Alaen Aikhwitan.”

“He’s not there anymore?” asked Nuramon, and his thoughts turned to the faery pine.

“There isn’t a single souled tree left in the entire heartland,” said Obilee.

From a small pouch, Yulivee took out an acorn. “This is from Alaen Aikhwitan. If we win tomorrow, then the souls of the trees will be reborn. I just don’t know yet where I’m supposed to plant it.”

“What happened to Atta Aikhjarto?” Nuramon asked.

“Xern will plant him again.” The sorceress pointed down to the orchard. “Most of the trees’ souls have gone into the moonlight. Only a few of the very great trees have stored their souls here. Alaen Aikhwitan, Atta Aikhjarto, the faery pine, the faun oak, and a few others. They will become the forefathers and foremothers of new souled trees. Emerelle said that she wanted to plant the faery pine down where the riverbank sprites live.”

Nuramon thought of Noroelle’s lake, which bordered the meadow of the sprites. Everything would change and become something new. No doubt Noroelle’s lake would keep its place in the fabric of the new Albenmark.

“Are you really going to go?” asked Yulivee, dragging Nuramon out of his thoughts.

“I have to,” he said.

Yulivee’s smile faded. “I would give a great deal to meet the woman whom you would sacrifice so much for. Obilee told me about her.”

“Are you disappointed?” replied Nuramon.

Yulivee shook her head. “No. You will always be my brother. I would never expect you to give up your love for Noroelle for my sake. You don’t know how happy I am that you defeated the Devanthar and that I am able to see you again. I was so afraid for you.” She fell into his arms. “But now I can be happy.”

“Will it hurt you so much if I leave Albenmark behind?” he asked her, very quietly.

The sorceress lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at him wide-eyed. He stroked her cheek, and already a smile began to spread across her face, a smile that reminded him of the child he had taken under his wing in Iskendria. “No,” she answered. “We have had our time together. Our journey from Iskendria to here was the best experience I have ever had.” She kissed him on his forehead. “Be strong tomorrow.” Gently, she freed herself from his embrace. “I have to go back to the Old Wood now,” she said. With that, she turned and left.

Nuramon watched her walk away. He had missed so much. Suddenly, the little girl at his side had turned into a powerful young sorceress. Their victory over the Devanthar had come at a high price.

Obilee came up beside him. “You don’t know how much she missed you.”

“It’s all hard for me to comprehend. It was the same with you back then. You were a girl when I rode out with the elfhunt. And then you were waiting for us here as a woman, and you spoke Noroelle’s words to us . . . And it was in this place that I touched Noroelle for the first time.”

“She told me about it that night.” Obilee’s face grew sad. “She couldn’t stop talking about you and Farodin.”

“You’re looking at me so gloomily. Didn’t the queen tell you that there is still hope, as long as we win the battle tomorrow?”

“Hope for whom, Nuramon?”

“For Noroelle, of course.”

Obilee nodded. “The queen told me everything. And I’ve known it for years. She told me how far she would go to keep the hope alive.”

“Then why are you so sad?”

“Don’t you know, Nuramon? Have you never noticed?”

For a moment, Nuramon did not understand. But the look of agony on her face, her shining eyes and quivering lips told him what Obilee was going through. She loved him. Suddenly awkward, he looked away. “I’m a fool,” he said softly. “Forgive me.”

“For what? You move through the centuries in giant bounds. For you, I’m still the girl Noroelle led before the queen.”

“No. During the sea battle, I realized that you had become a woman. But when . . . ?” He hesitated, reluctant to finish the question.

“My feelings for you grew from what I already felt, from when Noroelle told me so much about you and Farodin. You were my favorite. And the longer you were away, the stronger the feeling became. Do you remember when you left back then, when I waved to you from the hill?”

“Yes.”

“I was already in love with you then.” She bit her lip and seemed to be waiting for Nuramon to say something. Then she continued. “I knew from Emerelle that you and your companions would do great things. I was not allowed to distract you from your path. After all, I want you to rescue Noroelle, too. And I sleep easier knowing there is still hope for her, whatever happens tomorrow. But I also know that there is no such hope for me. Even your death and rebirth could not give me that, for Emerelle has told me that you now remember your past lives. What kind of fate is it that would first take Noroelle away from me, then make a love between us impossible? Do I always have to be the one to stand aside? Sometimes I feel like I’m a prisoner myself, but there is no one to come to rescue me.” She began to cry, and the sight of her tears hurt Nuramon. All at once, Obilee seemed so fragile, so unlike the strong warrior woman he knew her to be from the battle for Firnstayn.

Nuramon gently closed his arms around her. He stroked her hair and her back. He whispered in her ear, “Obilee, if we win tomorrow, then it will mean the start of a golden age for Albenmark. I know that you will find your happiness then. Your purpose. But I am not it. You are not to blame for that. It is my love for Noroelle. You are an enchanting woman, and if I knew nothing of Noroelle, then I would be overcome by your loveliness, your golden hair, your eyes as green as the sea in Alvemer, your beautiful lips. It would be easy to say that you are like a sister or a friend to me, and no more. But it would be a lie. I feel much more for you than that . . . but I feel even more for Noroelle.”

She stepped back from his embrace. “That’s all I wanted to hear, Nuramon. I know I cannot stand against Noroelle. I know there is no hope for my love. But to know that I am more to you than just a friend is a gift I did not dare to wish for. It is like a moment just for me.”

Nuramon grasped Obilee’s hands in his. “Yes, this moment is yours.” He stroked her cheek and embraced her again. Then he kissed her lips. He felt her go weak and let herself fall into his arms. He was sure she had never given herself to a man. When he took his lips from hers, Obilee’s face was so close that he could taste her soft breath. The slightest gesture from her, one seductive word, and he would not be able to resist the temptation.

She smiled, then softly bit her lip. “Thank you, Nuramon” was all she said. And finally, she drew away.