The Eternal Flame (18 page)

The blacksmith spat on the ground.

“Stop, I say!” cried Brionna. “You two are no better than gobsken.”

“She’s right,” Lleu declared, stepping in between them. “Enough of this, right now.” For emphasis, Catha screeched and clacked her beak.

“Go back to where you came from, priest,” growled another man. “You, too, elf.”

Edan, the wood elf, nocked another arrow.

The blacksmith raised his fist, about to strike him, when—

A lute strummed softly. Whether from the sheer unexpectedness of it, or from some strange quality of the music, all the arguing suddenly ceased.

Apparently unaware of the quarrel that had been just about to explode, the old bard walked right into the middle of the group, swaying jauntily as he strummed. His silly grin seemed wider than ever. The pointed tips of his sideways-growing beard glowed silver in the starlight, making him look like one of the furry-faced monkeys from the jungles of Africqua.

As he passed by, he stopped strumming to raise his hand to the brim of his lopsided hat. With a wink at Brionna, he lifted the hat, revealing the blue, teardrop-shaped museo who sat upon his bald head. Instantly, the museo started to hum—a richly layered sound that reached both high and low at once, thrumming like the deepest river and whistling like the loftiest wind. The hum rolled outward, swelling like a wave that washed over everyone nearby.

How long the bard and museo remained, Brionna couldn’t quite remember afterward. She wasn’t even sure that she hadn’t imagined the whole thing. All she knew for certain was that, like the others around her, she found herself slightly dazed. If there had been an argument, she couldn’t remember what it was about. And if the bard and museo had really been there a moment ago, they were now nowhere to be seen.

She turned to Lleu, who looked equally bewildered. Even as she opened her mouth to ask him what he thought had happened, a voice rang out.

“Parley! The gobsken army wants a parley.”

Brionna swung around to face the opposing force across the muddy plain. Sure enough, someone was waving a white flag, tied to the end of a spear. She shook her head, surprised that they would want to talk before the battle. That was a thoroughly ungobskenlike sign of reason—or perhaps even fear.

Then she looked closer, and her puzzlement deepened. For the person holding the white flag was none other than Harlech.

21
•
Honor

The wind of Malóch gusted, bearing the scent of dung fires, iron weapons, and approaching battle. Meanwhile, the free peoples’ army launched into a heated debate—several of them, in fact—over whether and how to respond to the gobsken army’s request for a parley. Many suspected a trap, but others felt strongly that the request shouldn’t be denied. The tumultuous debates soon led to angry quarrels and scuffles, and would have turned into complete chaos if three natural leaders hadn’t emerged.

Kerwin, an eagleman whose feathers shone with the same brown color as the surrounding plains, was the first to bring the unruly allies to order. He succeeded only by swooping just overhead, wings spread wide, screeching his eagle’s cry of warning. When, at last, the crowd fell silent, Kerwin vowed that he would use his talons to tear apart anyone who wouldn’t speak civilly and in turn. This threat, combined with his reputation as a warrior of very great power (and very little patience), did the trick. Kerwin, hovering above the group, began to call on people to speak, one at a time. And so humans, elves, eaglefolk, giants, maryths, and even faeries spoke their minds—every kind of people except the flamelons, who remained apart from the rest. For to the flamelons, the notion of a parley was a sign of great weakness, too repulsive even to consider.

In time, a second leader emerged: Lleu, the Drumadian priest widely known as the trusted confidant of High Priestess Coerria. Speaking calmly and clearly, with the silver-winged Catha on his shoulder, Lleu argued that it would be a mistake not to send representatives to the parley. Even if this were some sort of trap, canny representatives needn’t fall into it. There was even a chance that they could learn something valuable. And finally, Lleu reminded everyone, there was still a possibility—no matter how small—that this parley could lead to peace. That, in some way no one could predict, this meeting might actually avoid needless bloodshed.

“Then let us attack them right after the parley,” declared Brionna, who was the next person to speak. She shook her longbow in the air. “And let us stun them with our sheer ferocity as warriors.”

She waited, as the many cheers and shouts subsided. “As much as I, too, would much prefer peace, I have abandoned any hope for it. This army we face today has only one goal: to defeat us utterly, so that Avalon can be ruled by the servants of Rhita Gawr—and by Rhita Gawr himself.”

Her tone terribly grave, she continued. “And so, good people, let us do one thing more. When this parley ends, give your all to saving our world. Yes, even your last breath! For if we are truly willing to die here today, we might yet prevail, and destroy the army of Rhita Gawr. But even if we do not prevail, we will die in defense of Avalon. And Avalon deserves no less.”

“Those are words of great honor,” boomed Kerwin, as he circled over Brionna’s head.

With that, the matter was settled. Moments later, three people had been chosen to represent the defenders of Avalon at the parley: Kerwin, Lleu, and Brionna. And so those three marched into the Plains of Isenwy, led by the eagleman—now in his human form, in keeping with the traditional rules of parley. None of them spoke. The only sound they heard, besides the buffeting wind, was the squelch of their feet in the mud.

As soon as they started walking toward the army of gobsken, the representatives of their foes did the same. There were three of them, as well. And in the lead swaggered Harlech himself, bearing the white flag affixed to a spear. But while he carried the emblem of a peaceful parley, his expression looked as hard as the metal of his broadsword. On his wide leather belt hung that sword, along with a hatchet, two daggers, and a spiked club. Something else dangled from the cord around his neck—something shaped like a claw, which glowed eerily.

Yet as Brionna approached him, she noticed none of those things. She was thinking only about another weapon, the iron-tipped whip of a slave master. Rage surged through her, making her temples pound, as she recalled how Harlech had used that whip on her defenseless grandfather, as well as herself, during their captivity. It took every bit of her self-control to resist breaking the first law of parley by shooting him on the spot. Even now, her fingers tapped fitfully against the wood of her longbow.

Close behind Harlech strode another man, someone both Brionna and Lleu had come to despise. Morrigon hobbled along briskly, a bow and quiver slung over his back. His scraggly white hair trembled in the wind that gusted over the mud flats. Yet even though he looked as brittle as a dead tree, the elf maiden and the priest knew that he was surprisingly spry. And that his will remained sturdy, like his loyalty to Belamir.

When Morrigon came close enough to recognize them, however, his step suddenly faltered. The old man’s jaw fell open. But his shock quickly turned to wrath. He glared at Brionna, his bloodshot eye darkened by malice.

Beside him marched a woman wearing the greenish brown robe of a Drumadian priestess. At the sight of Llynia, Catha snapped her beak and whistled angrily. But Llynia the Seer, as Belamir had dubbed her, paid no attention. She merely strode ahead, carrying herself with a distinct air of superiority. But the haughty look on her face didn’t seem to fit with the triangular mark on her chin, which gave the impression of a shoddy green beard.

They met halfway between the two armies, near a pair of mud-covered boulders. For a long moment, as they stood on the damp ground, no one spoke. The air fairly crackled with animosity as the two groups eyed each other.

Finally, Kerwin broke the silence. Bare-chested in the manner of all eaglemen in human form, he trained his gaze on Harlech and declared, “You need not die if you surrender now.”

“Surrender? Us?” The warrior burst into raucous laughter, jamming the base of his spear into the mud. “Yer the ones who’d best surrender, wingboy.”

Kerwin’s eyes, as deep brown as his skin, narrowed at the insult. Still, true to the rules of parley, he held his temper, though the effort made him tremble. Watching him, Brionna thought of another eagleman who possessed a strong sense of honor—as well as a dangerous temper.

Scree,
she thought,
where are you? We could use your help right now.

Morrigon, still glaring at her, sneered, “So ye escaped, elf-girl? I’m real glad. Now I’ll have the pleasure o’ killin’ ye meself.”

Before Brionna could respond, Llynia commanded, “Hush, Morrigon. No one will do any killing until we have exhausted all the possibilities of peace.”

“Just as you did with us back there at your temple?” asked Lleu sarcastically. His dark eyebrows lifted. “Or as your people did when they attacked the Society’s compound?”

The priestess stiffened, but her voice remained level. “I had nothing whatsoever to do with that attack. I was once the Chosen One, if you remember.”

“It’s
you
who should remember, Llynia! All your years at the Society of the Whole, and you have forgotten its most basic principles.”

With a dismissive wave of her hand, she declared, “I have forgotten nothing. Nothing!”

“Is that so?” Lleu leaned his tall frame toward her. “Then where is your loyal maryth?”

As Llynia’s face went pale, the silver falcon on Lleu’s shoulder gave a harsh whistle.

“I’ll tell you where,” continued the priest. Keeping his gaze fixed on Llynia, he stretched out his long arm, pointing at the army of Avalon’s defenders.

Despite all her efforts to stay calm, the priestess gasped. For standing silently on the rise, a few steps apart from everyone else, was a tall tree spirit, a lilac elm. Starlight gleamed on the small purple buds that dotted her many arms.

“Fairlyn,” whispered the priestess, unable to turn away from those large eyes that had watched over her lovingly for so long. Or from those slender limbs that had given her such sensuous baths, filling the air with sweet aromas.

Llynia swallowed. “I didn’t know . . .”

“And there is something else you didn’t know.” Lleu’s expression turned graver still as he leaned closer. “Your master Belamir is really’ a
changeling.’“

“Wha—what?” Llynia sputtered, backing away.

“It’s a lie!” shouted Morrigon. “Ye know it is.”

“It’s true,” insisted Lleu.

“That’s right,” Brionna declared. “He’s fooled all of you! We saw him transform and tear apart one of his guards. This is all—”

“Utter nonsense,” Llynia retorted, having regained her composure. Indignantly, she demanded, “How dare you say such a scandalous thing about Olo Belamir? Why, he is the most peaceful person I know! He supported fully the idea that we should offer you a last chance for peace. Under the new order, of course.”

“Is that why you called this parley?” the elf demanded heatedly. “So you could offer us your version of peace—which is our version of annihilation?”

“No, no,” insisted Llynia. “We called this parley in the true hope that many lives could be spared! From your side as well as ours. And the new order that Olo Belamir and I envision is one where all creatures can live compatibly. Yes, under humanity’s wise dominion.”

“Wise dominion?” snapped Brionna. “Is that what you call this army of yours? More like a plague! An alliance of murdering gobsken, gnomes, and—” She fixed a frosty gaze on Harlech. “Slave masters.”

The big man studied her coldly. Another gust of wind blew past, rattling his weapons and spraying him with flecks of mud. But he didn’t move at all.

At last, he snarled, “Why, if it ain’t the she-elf from the dam.” He chortled savagely. “Ye’ll be fun to kill, dearie. Jest like yer old friend wid the white beard.”

“My grandfather!” Suddenly all her resolve shattered. As quick as a heartbeat, Brionna drew an arrow from her quiver, nocked it, and aimed straight at Harlech’s chest. Blinking the mist from her eyes, she declared, “You will pay for what you did to him.”

Harlech merely stood there, rigid. He let go of the spear, allowing it to splat down on the mud. “Ye wouldn’t kill me here an’ now, would ye? Wid no chance at all to defend meself?”

“That’s just how Granda was, before you killed him.”

“Wait, Brionna.” The strong hand of Kerwin wrapped around her bowstring. “Your rage is justified. And this man deserves no mercy for what he has done.” He worked his muscular shoulders, as if lifting powerful wings. “But you remain bound by the honor of parley. You cannot kill him now.”

Brionna hesitated, wrath surging through her veins.

“On the battlefield,” said Kerwin firmly. “That is the place to slay your foes.”

Slowly, reluctantly, she relaxed her bowstring. Kerwin nodded gravely, removing his hand. Just as she lifted the arrow to return it to the quiver, though, a bolt of red light shot out, landing squarely on the arrowhead. The stone exploded in red flames.

Brionna shrieked and jumped backward, dropping the arrow onto the damp ground. As she stared down at it, the flames died away—leaving just the burned shaft. The arrowhead itself had simply
disappeared.

Aghast, she traded glances with Kerwin and Lleu, both of whom mirrored her own confusion. Then her gaze fell on Harlech. He smirked at her, while twirling the object that he wore around his neck, a claw tied to a leather cord. As it turned, the claw gleamed a malevolent shade of red.

“Did I mention me new weapon?” he sneered. “A gift from yer old friend, master Kulwych.” With a shrug, he added, “Kulwych wanted me to save it fer later, after the battle starts. But seein’ as how you attacked me, I jest couldn’t resist.”

Brionna clenched her fist. “I should have killed you when I had the chance, Harlech.”

“Right, me dear, ye should’ve.” His expression hardened. “So now yer goin’ to die yourself.”