The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy) (22 page)

Tolk shuffled over to a large chest at the side of the great hall. It was a non-descript sort of container, one of a few that were scattered along the edges of the large room. He bent down to open the chest and began to rummage through its contents.

“What is it that you are doing now, old man?” asked Clivesis with a slightly concerned raise of his eyebrow.

“Just a moment, now. I’ll find it,” muttered Tolk.

The Poets around the table glanced at each other with mild confusion, seemingly intrigued at Tolk’s actions and yet rather accustomed to eccentric behavior from the old man.

“Aha!” he proudly proclaimed. “Here it is, after all this time!” Musing aloud over days long forgotten, he made his way back to the table with a deep, satisfied grin on his face.

The whispered questions and quizzical murmurs of the brothers and sisters from around the table hushed into a smoky still, for they had seen this object before, though it seemed a lifetime ago.

“Is that the old torch?” Elder John asked. “You don’t mean …
this
is the boy?”

“Elder John, I do believe that he is indeed the very same boy.” Tolk’s eyes were wet with wonder as he spoke the words. “Ah, you would think I would understand the way He works by now, but the truth of the matter is that I never cease to be amazed, my friend.”

Cal took in their dialogue with confused concentration, but could make no sense of what they were carrying on about.

“He likes to make a display of His masterful workings from time to time, isn’t that right, Calarmindon … Bright Fame?” spoke Tolk.

“But how did you know?” Cal wondered. “How could you know what my name means? Did the Oweles tell you what they have told me?”

The room grew quiet once again, and the brothers and sisters listened in shared wonder to what Tolk said.

“No, my boy, the Oweles did not tell me of this, for I knew of it long ago. Only it seems that I have just now remembered! You see, I was there the day that magic covered the old walls of that aging chapel in Westriver. I was there the day the words were spoken over a little boy who so irreverently and yet innocently held a sacred flame in his little hands.”

A heavy sense of knowing came over Cal as he listened to Tolk’s words. He realized that the old Poet was speaking of
him
.

“I knew it then, but perhaps I had forgotten. I had witnessed the beginnings of a story that just might lead us all to see the mysterious ways and great lengths that His magic will go to bring about His will and make good on His promises.” Tolk finished his words and leaned back into his chair, his eyes wet and shining as they focused on the old, forgotten relic in his hands.

“You see,
this
… this was meant to be but a reminder. A token of remembrance, so that I would not forget to hold onto hope.”

Cal stared at the old man, not fully comprehending his meaning. Finally he said, “Remember to hope? How could you, a Poet, forget that?”

“Oh Cal, even the most tenacious hope can be buffeted with overwhelming doubt, or at the very least dulled by the relentless passing of days. But it is in those times that we must hold fast to things which remind us why we hope in the first place.” He gripped the torch tighter and shook his head with a bit of disappointment. “I should never have put this away.”

“Now then!” Elder John spoke up. “Who needs an old torch to remind you of such things when we are all here to remind each other? You may have lost your hope a day or two … but there were many days when you gave mine back to me.” Elder John reached over and firmly clasped Tolk on the arm. “We hope together, my friend. Together.”

Tolk smiled. “And now … look who has come to find us!”

The lot of them spent the rest of the evening in a cloud of pipe smoke and a mood of wonder. They mused upon the workings of the THREE who is SEVEN, pondering the ways He had been singing over the life of Calarmindon, this young Bright Fame.

As Cal watched the Poets come alive with this new understanding, his heart began to turn towards an even greater magic—the magic of hope.

Chapter Twenty-Six

I
t
had been days since Cal last saw Moa, and the both of them had grown rather restless for a reunion.

Meledae had graciously and expertly been tending to the road-weary and river-wounded horse. Her words of healing were like the sparkling chimes that made their music in the blowing of the wind. She had a gift, just as Cal did, and could sing the songs that spoke life and light to the hearts of all those that walked upon four legs.

Moa had taken quite a beating from the icy waters and jagged rocks of the Abonris, but Meledae could sense that Moa’s troubled worrying was more about the wounded Cal and this unknown place than it was about her own pain.

For days now, Meledae had sewn Moa’s open cuts and wrapped her broken bones in poultices made of herbs from one of Kalein’s gardens. But more than that, she had been singing her healing tunes to the troubled mind of the injured horse.

Elder John led Cal to a humbly kept chamber, one that must have once served as a storeroom of sorts for those that had long ago called Petros home. The Poets, not trusting the darkening mountain lands, had converted this long abandoned storeroom into a stable.

It was not much to look at. Unadorned stone walls, a handful of shelves, and a table that now housed their leather goods and husbandry tools were just about all that could be noticed in the stable, save for the spring-fed pool that gurgled alongside its shortest wall. Not only would the storeroom assure the animals of their safety better than any pens or corrals could have out here in this forgotten wilderness, but the brothers and sisters wouldn’t have to worry about taxing their aging backs by hauling water very far, thanks to the spring.

As Cal approached the stable room he heard the lilting tune that Meledae softly sang as it echoed against the stone hallway. He waited a moment until she finished her music, knowing from his own experience that the beautiful and tender moments between horse and healer were best left undisturbed.

As her song ended, Cal leaned around the corner of the entrance to the chamber. Moa stood, relaxed and placid, and Cal knew in his heart that she had indeed been well cared for. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” Cal said as he gently approached his four-legged companion, wrapping his good arm around the large, black Percheron.

“You look to be mending even faster than I am!” He turned and spoke to Meledae. “Perhaps I should come seek treatment from you instead of from this old man.” Cal pointed his thumb at Elder John and let out a playful laugh. “You obviously have magic that he does not.”

“Oh, he has magic alright, just a different kind is all,” she said with a wink and a smile to them both.

“How long do you suspect it will be until she is able to be ridden again?” Cal asked Meledae as he lovingly combed out Moa’s mane.

“Well, that would depend on where it is you are wanting to go,” the Poet sister said.

Cal thought about her question for a moment. “I don’t really have an answer to that. To be honest, I didn’t even know I was headed here ‘til I arrived.” He took the large horse’s face in his hands and looked into her motherly eyes. “I just would like to know we
could
go, you know, whenever it is that we are meant to.”

“Well, truth be told, we do not seem to quite grasp the full purpose of your being here with us, young Calarmindon,” Elder John interjected. “Perhaps we should worry more about why the THREE who is SEVEN has brought you to Kalein, as opposed to worrying about when and how you will depart it.”

“Fair enough, old man, fair enough,” Cal surrendered.

“Besides, Moa here needs time to get strong on those feet of hers again,” Meledae said kindly. “She really is a beautiful horse, Cal.” Meledae mused over the large, black Percheron. “Absolutely beautiful. And don’t you worry now; her wounds are nothing a couple good weeks of grazing and resting can’t mend. Right, girl?”

Moa snorted a conflicted snort and Cal could sense her worry, but something in him trusted that they were among friends who had their best interests at heart. Even more than that, he knew that they were not just here on accident. He attributed her inner conflict to her mothering instinct, kissed her on her nose, and hugged her good and long before he left.

In the last few days that Cal and Moa had spent resting and recovering here in the ancient mountain palace amidst the company of the Poets, Cal had seen very little of this once-grand homestead. This was due to the fact that much of the forgotten place had become quite inaccessible over its darkened years, long before the arrival of the Poets. Tolk had suggested that perhaps it had been a great quake that had caused part of the mountain to collapse in on itself; however, the Miller was under the impression that it was something more sinister that had brought this once stunning jewel of the mountain down to its ruin.

Either way, most of what was accessible and still of use to the Poets resided in the southern wing, towards the rear of the palace. Elder John had told Cal that the highway that they had come by was believed to be a back door of sorts. In all of their time here, not one of Petros’ current residents had been able to find his way up to behold the original grand entrance.

Most of the life of Kalein was played out there in the great hall where they took their meals and made their drink. However, there were also rooms for sleeping and chambers for bathing, places to house their livestock and storerooms for their goods. There were a couple of rooms with hearths in them (most likely some kind of former bedchambers) that the Poets had turned into smithies of sorts to outfit all their fanciful inventions with a proper kind of iron-working.

One room in particular held the attention of Cal more than any of the other known parts of Petros. Just off the wing of the great hall was a library filled to overflowing with ancient, dust-covered scrolls and tomes. The room was in utter disarray; shelves and scrolls littered the floor, and headless statues lay on their sides, while cobwebs and centuries of mountain dust clung rebelliously to everything in this ancient place of learning.

At one point, in the earlier days of their residence, the brothers and sisters had made some remarkable progress in reordering and organizing all the ancient writings and works of art. The wealth of knowledge and lore contained in the chamber was of great interest to these Poets. But to their dismay, in the middle of a night’s rest, the whole community was startled awake to the sounds of falling stone and splintering wood. One of the columns that supported the vaulted ceiling had collapsed, causing part of the library to be buried and thereby entombing unknown volumes of history and wisdom.

The efforts of the Poets were undone. Truth be told, they were a little leery that it just might happen again; only this time their old feet may not be swift enough to aid their escape. For the better part of the last decade or so, the library sat largely undisturbed. A few of the braver and more nimble old Poets had rescued a few dozen handfuls of the more easily accessible writings, so the colony seemed content to leave the rest of the documents hidden in their misfortunate stone crypt.

Cal was fascinated with this forgotten room, for even in its wreckage it hinted of beauty unlooked for. Most mornings he would wake long before the Poets to explore the library on his own, working bit by bit to bring order to its chaos. At the evening meal, he had taken a space at the large table next to one of the older Poet sisters named Klieo. She, more than anyone else in all of Kalein, was in love with the history of this place and its former people, and had offered to help Cal with his explorations.

Cal had begun to wrestle free some of the more buried tomes from the library wreckage, and he and Klieo would pour over their ancient words. They learned of the lineage of the royal family, of deeds of ancient heroism, and of the old laws of commerce. They read aloud for their Poet friends the compelling poem of Ádhamh, the first father, who shaped and sired the people of Terriah
.
It read of his great love for the THREE who is SEVEN, and of his infidelity that led to the curse upon his people.

Some of the scrolls held drawings and renderings of statues and great storehouses, along with plans for the construction of weapons of war, royal highways, and brilliant coats of armor. But of all the parchments he and Klieo read, the ones that captivated his mind and kept his imagination running wild were the ones that spoke of legend and folklore, of the great heroes of Terriah
.

Page after page was dedicated to King Faramund, who journeyed with his company of travelers in search of new lands and new riches. They told of raids upon the savage horde, the discovery of the people of the west, and of the strange and beautiful lands beyond the Dark Sea. Stories were written of the mingling between those in his company who stayed in the new territories and the native Wreathers who inhabited the uncharted lands. There were even some implications that a few of the Wreathers returned with his company and joined into the life and Kingdom of Terriah.

Some of the tales were minor. There were only a few lines dedicated to Reynard the Wise, a confidant of Queen Herrah, who tricked the evil sorceress Šárka with his bravery and insight
.
He trapped her in a web of her confounded words, binding her to the stone kingdom and thereby liberating Terriah from her intoxicating spell.

There were accounts of great chivalry and victories won during the games of summer, when the world was warm and the horses swift. There were tales of heartbreaking lament, of the death of Branwen and the woeful disappearance of her lover, Caedmon the dragon slayer.

Death and famine, harvest and lineage were all there, recorded and forgotten in the crumbling library of Petros, the once-proud mountain palace. And it was there, under the Hilgari, read through the eyes of Calarmindon, that the histories and mysteries were once again remembered and resurrected to new life among the Poets of Kalein.

The process of reordering and recounting the writings was more than just a task or even an education for Cal; it was a reassurance that this world did in fact hold the capacity for brighter things. He discovered things more beautiful and more deadly than he was ever told were possible, and yet somehow he had always held to the belief that they were indeed true. He remembered the wonder-filled words that his parents had once spoken to him, and he knew, deep down, that stories such as these must have unfolded somewhere beyond the small, gloomy existence hemmed in by the fearful walls of Haven.

While Moa grazed and healed, Cal drank deep of the knowledge of Terriah and explored all the secrets that the mountain palace would yield to him with a greedy thirst. Most of the Poets were delighted with such an expedition, for they had been most curious as to what inaccessible treasures lay just beyond the reach of their aging backs and weakening stamina.

They lived this adventure vicariously through their new friend and student, and the violet light that lit their Poet colony shone brighter in the months that Cal and Moa resided there. For the source of this light came from beauty and hope that is inherent to the hearts of those who seek it, and Cal had begun to awaken their will and reason to seek it all the more fervently once again.

As Cal continued his quest for knowledge, delving deeper into the ruined histories and ancient scrolls, a nagging thought began to play at his mind. He tried to reason it away, tried to quell the doubt within, but finally he could contain it no longer.

Why does no one in all of Haven speak of these tales? How can they not be aware that a mere two days’ journey from their greying walls awaits this wealth of beauty and store of wisdom that has been sitting untouched for generations?

Cal’s frustration began to turn to anger as he let his questions bubble and boil in his mind.

And why is it that these Poets—the very ones who
do
know the heart of the prophecies—keep themselves hidden in these ruined walls instead of seeking the light themselves?

Cal was overcome with the flood of confusion these questions brought with them. He left the library, frustrated and agitated by the storm of contradictions that had been haunting him. As he barged out the door he nearly knocked over Klieo, who was on her way into the library with a loaf of bread and bowl of soup to share with him.

“Cal!” she exclaimed as she tried to balance the soup before it sloshed out of the bowl and onto the floor.

“I’m sorry, excuse me,” he said brusquely, beginning to push past her.

“Now just where are you off to in such a rush? Come join me for a bit of soup and tell me what it is that’s troubling you so.” She set the food on the nearby table and gestured for him to sit.

He approached her slowly, yet remained standing. “I need to speak with Tolk,” he said. “It’s urgent.”

“Tolk is gone fishing for the day with Elder John,” she informed him.

“Fishing,” Cal sneered with annoyance. “Of course he is.”

Klieo raised an eyebrow at him. “You have a problem with fishing now?”