Chapter 7: The Place of Men

White towers and spires of glass—countless and reaching to a one for the sky, the majestic edifices of Viura Râ cast sweeping shadows in the early morning sun, proclaiming this city above all others the home of wonder and invention for all of Erâth. Light glinted everywhere, so that the city seemed to sparkle and shimmer, and Brandyé’s heart lifted at such a sight of beauty. It seemed to him there could be no place in the world that spoke of such calm, of such wisdom, and such infinite grandeur.

And yet the city was not the only wonder to behold, for it sat on what seemed to be the very edge of the world: not two miles distant to the east, the ocean seemed to falter and end, tumbling eternally into a white abyss from which rose a obscuring mist and permitted no further view in that direction. Yet through this mist shone the sun nonetheless in all its glory, and its warmth combined with the cool sea breeze served to invigorate and refresh, and Brandyé thought that there was nothing that could possibly go wrong in a place such as this.

So he arrived at the city on the edge the world, the Eternal City, and his excitement could hardly be contained. He and the other ship’s laborers were the last to disembark, of course, and he spent their time waiting and shutting down the furnaces in endless conversation with any who would listen, talking of how he would find this Ermèn, and how he would find his place in the world, and all would be well. He felt that this was something he had been long awaiting, despite his lack of memory prior to the forests of Golgor, and when he finally stepped onto the solid earth of the city’s outskirts and away from the gently swaying decks of the ship, he was certain his heart would burst for sheer joy.

His euphoria was not long-lived, however, for once he left the ship he found himself very much alone in the busy and bustling crowd of the port, and knew not where to begin. His excitement gradually faded, and first confusion and then concern took its place. For a while he allowed the tide of the crowd to take him where it willed, past many enormous vessels equal—and even greater—in size than that which had borne him hither, and chaos reigned all around.

After some time Brandyé spotted the unmistakable sign of an inn, this one bearing the title of The Bottomless Flagon, and he pushed his way through the crowd to arrive at its front door, held wide by the many folk passing in and out of it. It was near lunchtime, as far as his nose could tell, and he rested his hand momentarily upon the small purse of coins Yateley had given him, now greatly depleted. He hoped it would be enough at least to buy himself one last meal, and entered the inn.

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Chapter 6: Viura Râ

 

When Brandyé next knew the world, he was in a forest; of little else he was certain. Fleeting glimpses of snow and of cold passed through his thoughts, but he found he could not connect them to any concrete memory. He had no idea how he had come to be where he was now, nor of where he had been before. Come to think of it, he had no idea where ‘here’ was, and as he looked about him, he began to wonder how he might find a way from ‘here’, and to anywhere else.

The trees were utterly prodigious in size; they towered hundreds of feet over his head, vague rays of sunlight filtering through the high pines and needles. Brandyé was uncertain, but it felt late in the day, as though evening were coming on. The ground was a patchwork quilt of sun on faded needles, and Brandyé felt there was an importance in this, a significance about the natural daylight, but he could not place it. He was standing in shade, and moved into a patch of sunlight, and for a moment delighted in the warmth on his skin.

After a while it came to his attention that he was thirsty, and so he began to walk, hoping to find a stream nearby. As he passed through the trees a light breeze brought to him the scent of pine and mold, and they were comforting. In a place deep in the back of his mind something told him he should be concerned, that the woods were not a safe place to be, but he could see no threat, and felt quite at ease.

The ground sloped gently, and he followed it down, instinct telling him there would be running water at the bottom of the hill. He was not wrong, for after less than half an hour he came to a clear brook cascading over stones, and immediately he bent to the water and drank his fill. The water was cold and refreshing, and it brought to him a sense of clarity, and he knew that he must seek shelter for the night.

His thirst quenched (but hunger now beginning to steal upon him) he began to follow the brook downstream, passing in and out of sunlight and away from the stream where it fell over small outcroppings of rock, always downhill and, it felt, deeper into the forest. He realized he had no sense of how vast these woods might be, but once again instinct told him that following the course of the stream would eventually lead him to better things.

It did not do so that night, however, and indeed the woods began soon to darken, and eventually Brandyé decided against pursuing his course any further that day. With a sigh he set about gathering things to make fire. It took him little time for there were many fallen branches to be found, and the dry needles were excellent kindling. He soon had a great stack of firewood gathered and cleared a space on the forest floor beside a great tree, and gathered together a small pile of needles. With a pair of stones gathered from the stream he struck to them a spark, and before long night was upon him and he was warm and well-lit nonetheless.

As dark descended he settled himself back against the enormous trunk and pulled his cloak tight around him. As he did so he felt an object press against his breast, and reached into one of the cloak’s many pockets to pull it out. In the dim firelight it was difficult to inspect, but he thought it looked like a weapon of some kind, a sort of crossbow. The sight of it was familiar, but he could not explain to himself how it had come to be with him in his pocket. Then, for the first time that day, unease settled over him: he realized he could not recall where he had even obtained this cloak of many pockets. It seemed he must have had it for some time, for it appeared old and very tattered, but he had no memory of its provenance.

As the nighttime sounds of the forest wound around him, Brandyé tried to cast his mind back to anything he could think of, and though vague images passed through his head—a house on the moors, an old man, a woman in black and one in white—he found he could not focus his attention on any of it, and came to the sudden realization that he had no concrete memory of anything before this day. With this realization came, oddly enough, relief: though he knew he ought to be worried, there was a kind of satisfaction in knowing that, whatever had led him to this point, he had nothing left to worry about. He could not recall anything that had reason to give him concern, and as he closed his eyes he smiled, for the world seemed good, and somehow he thought he had not felt this way in far, far too long.

Come the morning the fire had guttered and gone out, and a light dew covered everything. A spider had spun its web amongst the unused firewood, and Brandyé watched it for some time, as motionless as the tiny creature itself. As he looked upon its pattered brown body and long, spindly legs he had the impression of having done exactly this same thing, many, many years ago. He wondered idly where that had been.

Eventually he stood and wandered back to the stream, its cold water his only breakfast. Despite his lack of recollection, he knew perfectly well that he had not passed his entire life among these trees, and that it would not do to remain among them for the remainder of his days. Following the stream once more, he began to think about food, and wondered if his crossbow could serve to catch him a rabbit. He felt he would know how to prepare and cook such an animal if he could catch one, though he did not think too long on where this knowledge might have come from.

As the sun rose and the dew melted away, hunger rose in him, and after a time he decided to try his luck at hunting. Departing from the stream he walked some distance into the forest, and settled himself behind a large root to wait and watch for wildlife. There was plenty around: he could hear the calls of many birds from the treetops, the scratching of insects under the root, the rustling of game that remained always just out of sight.

He withdrew the crossbow from his cloak and inspected it again. Now, in full daylight, he could see its every detail: the polished wood of the stock, the tautness of the bowstring, the well-worn grooves where the bolt itself would fit. The crossbow had all the appearance of having been well-used, and often, but again no memory surfaced of its origins. Nonetheless, he withdrew a bolt from the same pocket within his cloak, and instinct guided him to fit it to the bow.

Time passed, and shadows moved across the forest floor as the sun made its way across the tree-obscured sky. It seemed an eternity that he waited, but something told him that patience would reward him. And indeed, late in the afternoon, almost on the cusp of dozing off, Brandyé saw movement in the corner of his eye, and ever so slowly lifted himself to look. There, not a dozen yards away and going obliviously about its business, was a large hare. It looked meaty, and Brandyé’s stomach growled even as it turned over with images of blood and dead eyes staring at him.

Ever so slowly, intent on not disturbing the animal, Brandyé brought the crossbow to aim upon the creature. He lowered his eye to the stock, peering down the length of the bow, lining it up perfectly with the hare’s chest. He knew he must pierce the creature’s heart in one shot, for he would not have it suffer unnecessarily.

And then, as his finger began to tighten against the release, a sudden cry came from behind him and he jumped, greatly startled.

“Stop! What are you doing?”

The rabbit needed no further warning, and bolted. Instinctively, Brandyé released the trigger, but the arrow passed swiftly through empty space and embedded itself in the forest floor. There was a gentle cracking sound, and Brandyé turned toward the sound of the voice that had spoken.

Standing there in the oddest clothes was a man, perhaps middle-aged, with a look of absolute incredulity on his grizzled face. He bore no cloak, and while Brandyé recognized the leather vest the man wore, his trousers were of a pale blue material he did not recognize. Tucked into these was a white tunic of fine cloth, and around his neck was hung a small medallion carved from wood. Again, he address Brandyé. “Are you mad? Why would you shoot at an animal with so beastly a weapon?”

Brandyé looked down at the crossbow, and admitted to himself that, despite its usefulness, it was perhaps rather beastly. He looked back to the strange man. “It’s … it’s all I have,” he said weakly. At the man’s stare he felt a slight defensiveness rise in him, and he said, “What would you have used?”

The man raised his hand, in which Brandyé saw he clutched what appeared to be a small black stone. He nodded in the direction the rabbit had been, and when Brandyé looked over his shoulder, he saw the animal lying still upon the ground, clearly dead. “I may shun the trappings of the so-called civilized world,” the man said, “but I wouldn’t cause an animal suffering when I didn’t need to.”

Brandyé’s protest that he had been aiming for the creature’s heart died in his throat, for he realized that he had no clue what the man was actually holding, nor how it could have killed the rabbit seemingly without touching it. “What is that?” he asked.

But the man ignored him, and Brandyé thought he saw a look of bewilderment cross his face, as though he could not quite believe that Brandyé did not recognize the instrument of death he held in his hand. Instead, he moved past Brandyé to retrieve the fallen hare, asking, “What are you doing here in these woods?”

“I don’t know,” Brandyé said truthfully.

The man picked up the rabbit and looked back to him. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

Brandyé shrugged. “I … don’t know. I was here yesterday, and I’m here today; I don’t know where I was before that.”

The man’s lip twisted. “What’s your name?”

And suddenly, Brandyé’s face fell for he realized this was yet another thing he was not certain of. Did it start with a B? “I … I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Well, sir,” the man said gruffly, “I’m Yateley, and ‘I don’t know’ is a rather poor choice of name, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

Brandyé felt momentarily lost. “Truthfully,” he said, “I can’t remember my name. I feel like it starts with a B, though.”

“Well then I’ll call you ‘B’,” Yateley replied, “until you can remember the rest of it.”

“Your speech is strange to me,” Brandyé said. “I don’t recognize your accent.”

Yateley frowned. “What accent? It’s yours that’s odd. I suppose you can’t remember where you’re from, either?”

And Brandyé shook his head, for indeed he could not. “I suspect,” he said slowly, “that it isn’t near here.”

For the first time, Yateley smiled. “Come on, B. Let me take you home. I daresay you’ll feel a little more comfortable once we get you out of that hideous cloak.”

And so, with Yateley and the dead rabbit leading the way, Brandyé followed this strange man through the woods. In fact, despite his lack of memory Brandyé felt somehow attached to his cloak, but declined to say anything about it to Yateley. The man seemed oddly sure of himself, and he did not want to offend.

It was not long before they came upon a home, a log cabin built in a small clearing, and Brandyé could see at once that Yateley must live alone, for it was not large enough to hold more than a single person, certainly. Indeed, as Yateley pushed open the door and allowed Brandyé to step in, Brandyé could see that it was almost entirely a single, large room: there was a bed against one wall, a couch against another, a table in one corner, and what he took to be a stove in the other. There was a door near the back of the house, and Yateley nodded toward it. “Go run yourself a bath; you look like you need one. I’ll get you some fresh clothes. Give me your cloak.”

Yateley held out his hand, and Brandyé shrugged off the cloak and passed it to him. “Don’t … don’t get rid of it,” he said anxiously.

Yateley curled his lip. “I might wash it—if it’ll survive.” Then he looked to Brandyé, and stopped short. “What is that?” he breathed.

Brandyé looked down at his waist, where Yateley was staring, and saw, truly for the first time, the scabbard that hung there. Gently, he reached out and withdrew the curved sword that resided within it. “Fahnat-om,” Brandyé murmured, and had no idea where the name came from.

“Where in Erâth did you get a sword like that?” Yateley exclaimed. “Wait,” he said before Brandyé could answer. “Let me guess—you don’t remember.”

“A friend,” was all Brandyé could say, for while indeed he could not remember, he also knew this was true. He thrust it back into the scabbard. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish I could give you more answers.” He unbuckled his belt, and passed the sword in its sheath to Yateley. He knew that the man could easily strike him dead with it, but it seems he could have done so with his odd stone back in the woods, and Brandyé was beginning to trust him. “Where can I get water for the bath?” he asked.

Once more, Yateley looked at him with bewilderment. “You turn the tap,” he said in a tone that suggested such was obvious.

Confused but unwilling to argue, Brandyé crossed the log house and pushed open the door in the back wall. It opened into a small room that contained what was clearly a washbasin, and a large tub. Brandyé closed the door and contemplated what was before him. There was no water to be seen here, but there was indeed above both the basin and the tub a large, rusting metal tap. He reached out and grasped the one over the basin, and as Yateley had suggested, turned it.

Almost at once, steaming water began to pour forth, draining from the tap into the basin and emptying itself down a hole at its base. Alarmed at this apparent waste of water Brandyé looked for a stopper to block the outflow, and failing to find one, ended by turning the tap the opposite direction. The flow of water ceased, and the last drops gurgled down the drain.

Turning his attention to the bath, he saw here at least an obvious plug for the tub’s own drain sitting on the edge of the tub, and turning the tap began to fill it with hot water. Completely perplexed at where all this water was coming from, or how it came instantly hot, Brandyé realized he did not care: a hot bath was a hot bath, and so he stripped and got in, and in the warmth and the steam almost immediately fell asleep.

That night Yateley prepared a rabbit stew on a stove whose flames were as instant as the hot water, and Brandyé marveled at the lanterns that burned bright around the cabin: they seemed to need no oil, and yet shone with a warmth that gave the whole room a cozy and comfortable glow. Yateley could lower their brightness with the twist of a small dial at their base, and so it was that they ate at a well-lit table while the rest of the home remained in dimness. They needed no oil, Yateley told him, yet there was nonetheless a cost to burning, and so he kept the lanterns dim when he could.

To Brandyé this was all magic, yet he had no recollection of how things should be different, and so came to accept them for what they were. Over the following days and into weeks, he stayed with Yateley and became comfortable with his ways. Yateley, it seemed, lived deliberately alone, away from any great population of people, and lived ‘off the land’, as he put it. To Brandyé this meant hunting and gathering for sustenance, and indeed every few days or so Yateley would disappear into the woods and reappear with a pair of rabbits, or a small deer. Sometimes Brandyé would go with him, and was astonished at Yateley’s killing stone: it seemed he need only to point it at the creature whose flesh he desired, and it would instantly and painlessly drop dead. Yateley seemed reluctant to allow Brandyé to touch the stone, however, and Brandyé supposed he was not wrong in his concerns: he was not sure even which way to hold the stone, and might just as easily kill himself as Yateley or any other animal.

As for Yateley, he seemed willing enough to accept the mystery of Brandyé’s appearance and his unknown history, and confided to Brandyé that despite his general dislike for the society of men, he did occasionally long for conversation. “I don’t mind that you don’t bring news of the outside world,” he said, “for I have no desire to know of such things. I’m glad merely to have a companion to talk to.”

These occasional references to the ‘outside world’, however, roused in Brandyé a curiosity, and after perhaps two months he began to come to the realization that, as friendly as Yateley’s company was, he could not remain here for much longer. Like so many things that remained hidden from him, he could not remember what he had been doing before appearing in Yateley’s woods, but he had the vague notion that it had been something dreadfully important, and the need to move on began to nag at him. One day he broached this subject with Yateley, who sighed and said, “I supposed you might say such a thing sooner or later. Do you have an idea of where you might be headed?”

Brandyé shook his head. “I have the strangest notion that I need to travel north,” he said, “though I couldn’t say why. What is north of here?”

“Immediately?” Yateley asked. “Nothing but more forest. Three days west of here is the village of Verdièth, but to the north you could travel for months before seeing another living soul.” He paused for a moment. “Of course, if you’re talking about great distances, you would eventually come to the sea in the north; across the Oceans of Narün, you would eventually come to the great island of Oríthiae, and the city of Viura Râ.”

Inexplicably, the sound of these names began to excite Brandyé, and he knew somehow they felt familiar. “What is in Viura Râ?” he asked.

Yateley grunted. “You ask as if I’ve been there. I grew up here—” he indicated the forest all around them “—in the lands of Golgor. My birth town is called Taraeth.”

“I feel like I recognize these names,” Brandyé said. “Viura Râ is a great city, is it not?”

Yateley shrugged. “So they say—the greatest in all of Erâth. Of course, the world is a big place.”

“How can I get there?”

Yateley raised his eyebrows. “You think to travel to Viura Râ?”

“Why not?” asked Brandyé. “Perhaps there I might find answers.”

“Answers to questions you don’t even have,” pointed out Yateley.

“Questions, then,” replied Brandyé. “All I know is—no offense to you—I can’t stay here forever.”

“Nor would I have you. You are a mystery, B, and you do deserve answers.” He sighed again. “You would need passage by sea, and without coinage you will need to work your passage.”

“I can work,” said Brandyé.

Yateley nodded. “I have no doubt you can. We will leave for Verdièth tomorrow: I have enough on me to pay for your travel from there on to the seaside town of Lambeth; from there, you will be on your own.”

“I appreciate your help,” said Brandyé.

And so they set out the following morning, Brandyé insisting on wearing the tattered black cloak even though Yateley said he would look out of place among the people of Verdièth. There was a familiarity in traveling under it, and it served well to hide his crossbow and sword, which he had also brought with him.

“Such weapons will not be looked upon kindly,” Yateley told him as they walked along a thin dirt trail in the heart of the forest. “I daresay your possession of them might even be against the law, such as it is.”

“What do you mean?” Brandyé asked, for he sensed the contempt in the man’s words.

“The laws of men are not what they once were,” Yateley said. “This is partly why I have chosen such a solitary life. Things that were once considered fair and just are now outlawed. When last I lived among men, even retaliation against crime was considered punishable. If someone stole from you, you could not seek to gain it back; if someone harmed you, you could not harm them back. You would have to go through the courts just to plead your case.”

Brandyé frowned. “That doesn’t sound so unfair to me,” he said. “If everyone was free to retaliate however they saw fit—”

“It might not be,” interrupted Yateley, “if the courts were fair. But if you live in the small, outlying towns … the justice of a place such as Verdièth is harsh. They aren’t bothered to travel to a larger town for the sake of petty crimes, and so the justice-keepers do as they see fit.”

“And what is that?”

“If you’re lucky, imprisonment.”

“If you’re not?”

“Keep your weapons hidden,” Yateley said, “and you’ll not find out.”

They passed the rest of the day in comfortable silence, and set up a camp on the edge of a clearing that night. Yateley’s killing stone, which he called a pétrath[ heat stone], seemed equally capable of setting twigs alight, and they had a roaring fire that night with very little effort at all. Brandyé found himself once more curious about this odd little stone, but Yateley could explain little of it to Brandyé.

“Not everyone can know everything,” he said, and then corrected himself. “I suppose the Sarâthen might; if you ever find yourself lucky enough to meet one, you can ask them.”

For once, Brandyé found himself without mystery, and it was a moment before he realized the importance of this: he knew exactly what Yateley meant by the Sarâthen. Images of a wise old man passed before his eyes, a black streak in a beard of white. “Do you think there will be Sarâthen in Viura Râ?” he asked.

Yateley nodded. “Undoubtedly. Such a place is a melting pot for the world: you will find Wisdom there, and Life; you will also find Darkness and Death. All the races of Erâth walk beside each other in the great cities of Erâth.”

“Have you ever met any of the other races of Erâth?” Brandyé asked.

Yateley shook his head. “They have little reason to visit the poor villages of the wild. I have never seen an Illuèn, or known the presence of the Duithèn.” He looked curiously at Brandyé. “How do you know of these things—of all the things to remember, why this?”

But once again Brandyé was lost, for he could not explain, even to himself, this inexplicable knowledge.

The next day they set out again, and Brandyé began to be glad for his cloak for around midday the clouds settled in, and the weather became chilly. By evening he could see his breath on the air, and he wondered how Yateley was keeping warm, with no cloak of his own.

“I’ve lived out here long enough,” he said. “The cold doesn’t bother me.”

Brandyé was glad, because he otherwise would have felt compelled to offer Yateley his cloak, which was something he was unwilling to part with in the chill air. Yateley’s great fire warmed them, however, and they passed a second night in peace.

The third morning, however, dawned to mist which soon gave way to rain, and then even Brandyé’s cloak could not keep him dry. He found himself wishing for a hat like that which Yateley wore, with a wide round brim that kept the water from his shoulders. Soon Brandyé was soaked and felt quite miserable, and his spirits were kept afloat only by the knowledge that this was the last day of their trek (according to Yateley, in any case), and that perhaps the village of Verdièth would have an inn with a warm fire. A brief flash of flames and ales and laughter floated through his thoughts, and he wondered what other inns he had been to in his past life.

It was not long after these thoughts that they came upon a stream, beside which ran what appeared very much to be a road, though it was rough and pebbled. “Excellent,” said Yateley. “I was beginning to think I’d forgotten the way!”

This exclamation was less than encouraging to Brandyé, but he followed Yateley onto the road, which wound down a steep hill, following for the most part the stream as it coursed downward. Before long, Yateley brought them to a halt at a curve in the road, and pointed over the tops of trees to what lay beyond, and for the first time, Brandyé laid his eyes on the village of Verdièth.

It was not at all what he had been expecting, though he knew little enough of what to expect as it was. In his mind, the village ought to have been dirt paths and oddly places homes, dark in the rain and the gloom, with smoke rising from the chimneys and chickens in the mud. Instead, his eyes took in what seemed to be endless straight rows of houses, roofs red and pointed and not a chimney on one of them. Equally straight and smooth roads ran between them, crossing each other here and there, and Brandyé saw that they were not dirt, nor even cobblestone, but a flat stone material that he did not recognize. He saw that there must be hundreds of these homes, and asked Yateley: “How many people live here?”

Starting to walk again, Yateley shrugged and said, “Perhaps a thousand, two thousand? I don’t truthfully know.”

Brandyé realized that what Yateley was calling a village was, to him, a great town, and he wondered what all the people in Verdièth did, for he could not see a farm or even yard with more than just grass among all the homes there. Picking up his pace he started again after Yateley, and the town was momentarily lost to view. Down the road the went, and soon enough the pebbled path gave way to the same smooth material he had seen between the homes of Verdièth, and he found that they could move quite rapidly along it, and that it was also quite painful on his feet after some time.

Eventually the road led them to a stone bridge, and here stood a sign that proclaimed the name of the town in gold letters. The bridge crossed the stream that they had so far been following down the hill, and then they were in the village proper, and Brandyé marveled at what he saw around him.

The homes were built in great rows, large windows facing onto the road and doors spaced every dozen yards or so along them. Every so often a dark passageway would appear between the walls of the homes, leading presumably to the houses’ rear gardens, if gardens were even to be found here. The houses were built of a sandy stone, and rose two stories above the road so that Brandyé felt almost in a small valley between two sandstone cliffs.

Almost every home was brilliantly lit, bright light shining forth from the curtained windows, and Brandyé recognized the unwavering glow of the lanterns that had lit Yateley’s wood cabin. Not only was there light from the homes, though, but also from great lampposts that stood twenty feet high at intervals along the road, so that even in the dusk gloom there was ample light to see by.

Yateley led Brandyé along this street, passing through the glow of the lampposts, his shadow swirling around him as he walked. Behind him he followed, first down this street and then down another, and though each road seemed identical to the last to Brandyé, Yateley seemed to know where he was heading, and did not slow in his pace.

After some time, they came upon a kind of open space, and Brandyé realized this must be the town’s central square, for here were clearly shops and not homes: names and professions were emblazoned on signs that hung over and beside almost every building. Some he recognized, whilst others remained an utter mystery to him. He was grateful, though, when Yateley led him to a broad building near one end of the square and he read the sign that hung over the door: The Tavern Green.

“We’ll get some food in here,” Yateley said, “and we can pass the night. In the morrow, you can take the carriage from here to Lambeth. It’s a two-day ride.”

And so Yateley pushed upon the Tavern Green’s door, and light and voices spilled out into the wet evening. Into the tavern they went, and Brandyé felt a thrill of recognition to see a bar, and a fire roaring in a real hearth, and many men and women drinking and eating about the place. This was something he recognized, he knew, and he felt comfortable.

Yateley directed them to a pair of empty chairs before the great fire, and bid Brandyé sit while he sought them food. When finally he returned, it was with two mugs of ale, and Brandyé sipped at his his swiftly and appreciatively. Not long after food was brought to them, and it was sausages and potatoes and leeks, and Brandyé found that in the midst of so much strangeness he was glad for such familiar food, though he could not remember why it ought to be familiar in the first place.

He was soon finished with his meal, and sated, sat back in his chair and enjoyed the feel of the fire and the warmth of the ale, which was surprisingly strong. “Is this place typical of the rest of the world?” he found himself asking Yateley. “I have no recollection of what it’s like elsewhere.”

Yateley took a draught of his own ale. “I daresay most of the villages around here are like this one. The great cities, however … I hear they are quite a bit different.”

“Different how?”

But Yateley shook his head. “You’ll have to find out for yourself. Perhaps one day you’ll return and tell me. Remember, I’ve never been outside of these parts of Golgor.”

As Brandyé sat back and considered this, a flash of memory came suddenly to him, and he asked, “Yateley—have you ever heard of a place known as Consolation?”

“No—never. It’s a odd name for a town, though.”

Brandyé frowned. “I don’t think it’s a town … more of a country, I think.” He shook his head. “I imagine it must be far from here, if it exists.”

“Is this something from your past?” Yateley asked quietly.

“I think so. I just wish … I wish I could remember.”

“I think you will,” said Yateley. “When you need it to, it will return to you.”

Brandyé smiled at him. “I hope so. I feel quite lost, sometimes.”

“So does everyone, at one time or another,” said Yateley sagely, and Brandyé thought this was quite a wise thing to say, though after three ales he admitted his judgement of such things might be slightly impaired.

“Perhaps in Viura Râ I might be found.”

“I beg your pardon, but did I hear you say ‘Viura Râ’?” came a voice from beside them. Brandyé looked over to see an elderly man with pale white hair standing there, a great mug of ale in his hand and a rim of foam over his lip. “I know something of the place, if that’s where you’re headed.”

Brandyé nodded, and Yateley bid the man sit with them. The old man pulled a stool close to them, sat, and introduced himself. “Name’s Harrington,” he said. “I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but Viura Râ’s not a place one travels to lightly.”

“What do you mean?” asked Brandyé.

“It’s the greatest city in all of Erâth,” said Harrington.

“So I understand,” said Brandyé.

“There’s no crime there,” Harrington went on.

“Is that so?”

“It’s a place of light, and of life, and greatness.”

“Then why would you caution me against it?”

Harrington leaned in toward Brandyé, and he could smell the ale on the old man’s breath. He wondered if the old man could smell the same on his own. “Because,” he said, “to travel there requires purpose.”

Brandyé frowned at this, for it somehow felt familiar. “What do you mean by purpose?”

“You need a reason to go there; otherwise they won’t let you in.”

Brandyé pursed his lips. “I don’t know if I have a purpose.”

“Then you can’t go!” exclaimed Harrington.

Oddly, it was these words of denial that confirmed to Brandyé in his thoughts that Viura Râ was, above all, the one place he must get to. In that instant he knew that it would have the answers to the questions, and indeed the questions themselves, that he sought. “I must go,” he said quietly.

“I don’t know, B,” said Yateley. “Are you certain you’d not be better off here? We can find you a job, if you wish—”

“No—I must go.” He turned to Harrington. “What do men do in Viura Râ, that gives them such purpose? What would grant someone access to this city?”

Harrington smiled a toothy grin. “Only things that concern the fate of all the world,” he said. “It is in Viura Râ that the greatest discoveries are made; it is there that men live the longest. It is there that our own fates are decided.” He leaned even closer. “It is there that they speak of war.”

“War?” Brandyé echoed.

For a moment Harrington did not speak, and Yateley sighed. “If there is another reason I do not live amongst men, B, it is this. Ever since I was a child, there have been rumors of war between the great countries of Erâth—Golgor, Aélûr, Cathaï … the rulers of these lands disagree on so many things, and always they are threatening war.”

Harrington nodded. “And it is in Viura Râ that the outcome of these arguments are decided. To this day the Sarâthen have managed to persuade men not to fight, but … I think soon even the race of Wisdom will lose to the ugly hatred that festers in the heart of men.”

“Surely not everyone is like that—”

“More folk than you might think,” said Harrington. “The hate of the high folk filters down to us low folk. Ask anyone you like here in Golgor, and they’ll tell you of the dreadful deeds of those in Cathaï, or Aélûr … and if you were to ask them, they’d tell you the same of Golgor.” He shook his head. “I am old, and I care little anymore; but the young, they are headstrong and eager to follow.” He gestured toward Brandyé with his mug, and ale sloshed over the sides. “I’m surprised at you, in fact, young man; where does your allegiance lie?”

“I don’t know,” answered Brandyé. “I can’t remember where I come from. I feel it was a place of peace, though; have you ever heard of somewhere called ‘Consolation’?”

Harrington shook his head again. “No, but there’re few places of peace left in Erâth these days. Your friend Yateley here—he has the right idea. Live in the woods, by yourself, and the war of men’ll pass you by.”

“I can’t,” said Brandyé. “Something is calling me to travel to Viura Râ.”

“More fool you,” Harrington said. “Still—if you must go, then when you get there, ask to see Ermèn. He might be able to help you.”

“Who is Ermèn?”

“He’s one of the Sarâthen. I knew him once, as a youth, and I daresay he’d remember me. They remember everything, the Sarâthen. Tell him Harrington sent you; he’ll help you, if he can.”

“And you think that will be enough to get me into Viura Râ?”

“To know a Sarâthen by name carries a weight of importance,” Harrington said. “They might just let you see him before they boot you out.”

“You don’t make it sound promising.”

“Never said it’d be easy.”

Brandyé sighed and sat back once more, staring into the flames of the fireplace. Despite Yateley’s and Harrington’s advice, he knew that what he was seeking was not here, in the land they called Golgor. And was it not suspicious that, by pure happenstance, he should come across someone who could offer him the means to access that great city? Something lurking deep in his mind told him that he would be a fool to pass up this chance.

So it was the following morning that he stood outside the tavern with Yateley, and waited for the coach that would take him hence to Lambeth. The rain had given up in the night and the sun was out once more, and Brandyé was overcome with the sensation that he had missed the sun for a long time. The weather in general here in Golgor seemed genial, with rains that lasted not too long and sun that bore not too much heat; he would have thought it was late spring, had he any reckoning of the seasons here.

It was not long before the coach arrived, and it was yet another surprise to Brandyé, for it was driven by no means that he could see: no horses pulled it, nor did any beast push it, so that it seemed uncannily to come to a stop before them almost of its own accord, great black wheels rumbling to a halt. It was vast—at least thirty feet in length, Brandyé felt it must house several dozen folk at once, and indeed as he mounted the steps into the coach’s belly, he saw that there were already many people sitting quietly on benches along the length of the carriage.

“Here,” said Yateley, and passed to Brandyé a small purse. “This’ll get you to Lambeth, and perhaps a little further, if you’re lucky.”

Brandyé took the purse with thanks, and with a swift farewell, took a seat among the many other travelers. Momentarily the coach set off, leaving Yateley and the town of Verdièth far behind them. After a few minutes of rough, bumping travel, a uniformed man approached Brandyé, clearly having difficulty keeping his balance. “Fare?” he fairly barked at him.

Somewhat nervous, Brandyé opened Yateley’s purse, and realized he had no reckoning of the currency therein. “How … how much?” he asked the conductor.

“Five,” the man said somewhat cryptically, and Brandyé poked in the purse, entirely mystified as to how many coins represented ‘five’. After a moment the conductor grunted and said, “Here.” He reached out for Brandyé’s purse, and not knowing what else to do, Brandyé allowed him to reach into it and grasp what seemed to be a rather large handful of coins. In return, the conductor gave to Brandyé a small scrap of paper with markings on it, and said, “Don’t lose this, or you’ll not get back on.” Brandyé took the paper and carefully folded it into one of his cloak’s many pockets. As the conductor left him, he thought he heard him mutter something about, “Country fools.”

For some time then, Brandyé sat back and watched the countryside pass them by, for the coach was endowed with many large windows and afforded a wonderful view of the land around them. It seemed to Brandyé that they were traveling at quite a great velocity, for the trees nearest the road seemed to very much rush by, and he thought perhaps he had never traveled so fast in his life.

Despite the straight nature of Verdièth’s roads, it seemed the paths of Golgor had no qualms in following many bends and curves once they were free in the countryside, and Brandyé found himself often at risk of being thrown from his seat as the coach barreled around sudden corners or over great hills. It seemed they were traveling through a considerable forest, and Brandyé started to wonder just how far these trees extended from Yateley’s cabin and beyond.

After some hours, however, he began to feel that they were gradually descending, and indeed there came a place where the enormous trees gave way to flat plains, and as the sun began to descend over the western horizon the fields of grass were painted with blood, and Brandyé thought it all looked quite beautiful.

Through the plains and into the night they continued, and Brandyé discovered that the coach was equipped with those same flameless lanterns that were so common elsewhere in this land, for against the growing darkness outside the coach’s interior remained lit with a warm, albeit dim, light. Eventually Brandyé began to doze, and found his rest easier here for the twist and turns of the hills and forests were no more. The rumbling of the coach became almost soothing, in fact, and he soon slipped into a deep sleep and did not wake until the morning.

When he did, it was to a most astonishing sight. At first Brandyé was disorientated, having forgotten where he was through the night, and it took him some moments to recognize the moving view through the window as a vast ocean, far below them and stretching out into infinity. The coach, it seemed, was winding its way along a clifftop road, and as the sun began to rise in the east and glint off the waves below, Brandyé could but stare in awe. Once more indistinct images floated across his vision, thoughts of a sea he had once been to in the past, but in his mind that sea was black and ailing. This sea, however, was a brilliant, deep azure, reflecting of the cloudless sky above, and it gave to Brandyé a wonderful sense of peace and of calm.

So the coach went on, and so the sun rose, and it was perhaps midday by the time Brandyé noticed they were once more descending, this time in great winding loops that took them precariously down the face of the seaside cliff, and knowing that Lambeth was a sea town, suspected they were beginning to approach their destination.

Indeed, far below them soon appeared many buildings and houses, and Brandyé saw that their appearance was quite different to those of Verdièth; whitewashed walls reflected the noontime sun brilliantly, contrasting starkly with the black pitch roofs, and the roads between them were anything but straight and even. A smile came to Brandyé, for this was a town that rang of a greater familiarity to him, despite lacking a memory of any other town to which he could compare it. A scent of sea air came over him, and excitement began to build in his breast: here, he was certain, he could find passage to the great city of Viura Râ, for there was promise here.

Eventually the great coach ground to a halt along what seemed to be a main street of the town, and Brandyé descended from it onto cobblestone, his legs wavering from sitting for so long. Lambeth, it seemed, was the destination for most of the folk aboard the coach, for they all seemed to descend with him into the street, leaving the coach empty as it started off again. Once more Brandyé was struck by the fact that the coach seemed able to nearly drive itself, though he recognized that the conductor had remained aboard, and wondered if somehow the man was responsible for steering it as well.

Looking around him, Brandyé saw that there were many folk passing here and there, in and out of shops and pubs, and as he was hungry, directed his feet to the nearest place he recognized as a tavern. The Ancient Mariner, the sign over the door read, and as he entered, he thought the place looked as ancient as the sign proclaimed. Sunlight filtered blue through much smoke, and Brandyé saw several old men sitting at a bar, long pipes grasped firmly between their teeth. At his appearance their conversation stopped momentarily, and though their eyes moved warily over his countenance, he felt no threat from them.

Approaching the bar, he addressed the old men with a nod, and they continued to stare upon him. “Is this a good place for a meal?” he asked them.

For a moment the old men remained silent, and then one of them muttered something to the others, who chuckled in turn. “Tû vèrae vreed, jünger[ You are strange, young one],” the man then said. Brandyé was taken aback, for he had hardly been expecting the man to speak in words he could not understand.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

One of the other old men laughed and said, “He says you are very odd, young one.” He cast a gaze over Brandyé’s tattered cloak. “I agree.”

Brandyé raised his eyebrows. “I suppose I would as well,” he acknowledged. “I’m curious—what language was that? It sounded somehow familiar.”

“Ès vèrae erâtheet,” said the first man. “The high speech. It ought to be familiar; did you not learn it in school?”

Brandyé shook his head. “I suppose I might have. I have no recollection of my past.”

“Ha!” exclaimed the old man. “A boy without a memory! How odd indeed. What’s your name?”

“They call me B,” Brandyé said. “I can’t remember my true name.”

“Odd indeed,” repeated the old man. “Well, I am Favereth, and these are my companions, Wilhelm and Karth. Welcome to Lambeth—I sense you’re not from here.”

Brandyé shook his head. “Not from here. Not from anywhere, really—I’ve just come from Verdièth, but before that … as I say, I have no recollection.”

“Barman!” called out Favereth. “Food for the boy with no name!” He turned back to Brandyé. “This is indeed a good place for a meal. Would you like a whiff of pipe?”

Graciously Brandyé accepted the man’s pipe, and pulled at it gently. The smoke was strong and thick, and he could not help coughing. Favereth laughed. “That’s a boy! It’ll do you good.” And he retrieved the pipe from Brandyé. “So, what brings you to Lambeth, then?”

The barman had brought to Brandyé what appeared to be a cold beef sandwich, and he took a ravenous bite before answering. “I’m looking for passage, on a ship if there is one to be found.”

Favereth raised his bushy white eyebrows. “Passage, eh? To where?”

Brandyé took a deep breath, wondering if the old men might laugh at him. “Viura Râ.”

And laugh indeed they did. “Viura Râ?” exclaimed Wilhelm. “What in Erâth do you want to go there for?”

“I’m seeking the Sarâthen,” Brandyé said. “I’m hoping they might have answers for me.”

“You know they don’t let just anyone in,” said Favereth.

Brandyé nodded. “So I’ve been told. I have a name, though—a person, I believe must live there.”

“Well, I suppose that’s a good start. And how were you going to pay your passage? You don’t look all that rich to me.”

“I was told I might work my passage there,” Brandyé said, “though I admit I’m not certain what work there would be to do.”

Favereth grunted. “Hm. Not above a bit of work. I like you, boy. I tell you what: let me introduce you to the dock master this afternoon—as it happens, he’s a good friend of mine. If anyone can find you a berth aboard a ship, it’ll be him.”

And so Brandyé thanked Favereth and finished his sandwich. A pint of ale and two pipes later, he and Favereth set out from the Ancient Mariner toward the docks to meet with the dock master. As they walked along the boardwalk set out over the sea, Brandyé marveled at the ships, for they seemed to be made not of wood but of iron or steel, and he wondered how it was possible that they floated at all upon the water.

“You seem a strong lad,” said the dock master when finally they found him, directing the loading of many goods and wares onto a large vessel moored at the dock. “Fancy coal loading?”

“What is that?” asked Brandyé.

“Ha!” uttered the dock master. “You’ll find out soon enough!” He nodded. “You’ll get to Viura Râ, all right; whether you get in, well … that ain’t up to me.”

And so Brandyé was found a berth on a cargo vessel bound for Viura Râ, and coal loading, it turned out, was the most vile, dreadful task Brandyé could have imagined. Fire burned in the belly of these great vessels, and men were needed to stoke the flames day in and day out. After an hour Brandyé was hot, sweating and thick with black dust, coughing and spluttering as he shoveled an endless supply of coal into the furnaces, accompanied by a dozen or so other strong men who seemed unwilling to complain, and so nor could he. There was no daylight in the dismal steerage, and Brandyé soon lost all track of time. When finally a taskmaster came to tell him it was time for his rest, he followed the other men, stumbling along narrow passageways to their berth, which was a tiny cramped room with many bunks and no windows.

Brandyé’s own bed was pressed up against the hull of the ship, the lower of two bunks, and he collapsed gratefully into it, wondering how he would survive the two weeks it was said to take to arrive in Viura Râ. He dimmed the lantern nearest him, and passed into a fitful sleep.

When Brandyé awoke, it was to the sound of many voices speaking casually, and he suspected he had overslept, for around him was a great deal of bustle, with men sitting on their bunks, or dressing, or eating bread. He asked the man nearest him where he might find some food, for he was suddenly ravenous.

“If you want food, don’t sleep so long,” the man said gruffly, but offered Brandyé a morsel of his bread nonetheless. “It’s back to the furnaces in a minute.”

Brandyé devoured the mouthful of food, and thanked the man. He pushed back his cloak, which he had been using as a blanket, and momentarily revealed the sword and crossbow that he had managed to sneak onboard under the watchful eye of the taskmasters. The man beside him glanced over, and his eyes widened. “What’s that?”

There was no great tone of threat in the man’s voice, and so Brandyé pulled forth the sword in its scabbard and held it out for the man to see. “It’s a sword,” he said. “I had it with me when I was found in the woods. I don’t remember where it comes from, but I feel it’s precious, somehow.”

The man looked long upon the blade, but made no move toward it. Finally he said, “Keep it secret. I don’t think they’d look kindly upon your possession of it.”

So Brandyé stowed the sword once more under his cloak, and set off with the others for yet another shift of painful and dejecting labor. So the cycle continued for many days, heavy work amongst the furnaces followed by deep rest in the dim berths. Every so often they were allowed free reign to the upper decks, and it was then that Brandyé was reminded of his desire to see the great city of Viura Râ, and felt that he was indeed on the right path: the sight of the sun sparkling on the endless waves, or the evening light passing red through the ship’s smoke, or the faint outline of islands in the distance, spoke to him of a world on the brink of greatness, and he knew somehow that he was in a world far removed from the one he had come from, wherever it had been. And amongst it all, he could not deny an overwhelming sense of longing, of sadness and of despair: a feeling that came crushing upon him out of nowhere and caused his vision to swim before him. He could not explain where these thoughts came from, but a deep part of his mind—the same part that knew instinctively of the Sarâthen and the name of his sword, Fahnat-om—told him that the beauty of all that he saw around him was not to last, that the world he was traveling through was somehow on borrowed time. He wondered if he had anything to do with it, and if his time in Viura Râ—should he find a way into the great city—might be able to prevent whatever downfall he sensed would not be long in coming.

Thus his journey continued, these thoughts occupying him when he was not busy with manual labor or sleeping, exhausted, in his dark bunk, and two weeks passed swifter than he might have thought. So it was that, one morning there was a greater commotion than usual in the berth, and the man who slept beside Brandyé said to him, “They’re allowing us on deck this morning—we’ve arrived!”

Excitement building in him, Brandyé followed the crowd of men through the labyrinth of passageways and up steep stairs to emerge upon the ship’s lower deck, looking out to the north to see what he could see. And there, on the horizon and sitting on the edge of the world itself, rose the majestic towers of Viura Râ, and tears of wonder came to Brandyé’s eyes.

Don’t forget – you can claim your free copy of The Redemption of Erâth: Consolation just by emailing satiswrites@icloud.com and telling me which digital format you’d prefer (ePub, Kindle, PDF, etc.)!

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Chapter 5: Appointment to the High Court

 

Elven could sense the shocked and disheartened mood of the rest of their convoy by their utter silence as they began to make their way along the road and through the desolate fields. Like him, they had been expecting to see great fields of green, luscious growth and fruitful trees abounding everywhere. The tales of old, the legends and myths, held that Kiriün was bountiful land of plenty, a place of year-round harvests and free-flowing drink.

Yet none of that was to be seen anywhere. It occurred to Elven that Kiriün, like Erârün, might well have different regions of varying prosperity, but there were other signs that the dying lands spread far wider than their present province: the gently haunted look in the eyes of their soldiers, the thin, almost emaciated frames of their horses—all spoke of a country whose folk had often too little to eat. Elven felt a deep pity grow in his breast for the people of Kiriün, and he began to hope fervently that their negotiations went well—the people of this land needed aid perhaps more even than those of Erârün.

They left the great wall of Kiriün behind, and despite its height it had soon disappeared into the distance. The road led often straight onward, and across the low plains came rushing winds that no doubt would have stirred up great clouds of dust, had it not been for the recent rains. As it was, the road was muddy and the fields even more so, and when they eventually stopped for the night under the shadow of a low hill, it was a struggle finding somewhere to lie that did not threaten to swallow them whole in the muck.

“What is this place?” Elven whispered to Elỳn that night as they sat huddled around a miserable, low fire. “I’ve never seen anywhere so desolate in my life.” He was afraid to raise his voice lest the folk of Kiriün hear him—he did not want to offend.

“It is something I was afraid of,” she replied, her face grim. “We have spoken long of the coming of the Duithèn, and the influence of Darkness on the world. Now, here—you can truly see the consequences of their power. How could a land of life and green thrive when there is no sun?”

Elven was appalled. “This … this is a power we can’t fight! Evil men, dark beasts—they can be defeated. But how can we prevail against the very darkening of the world? How can we return the sun to the sky?”

But Elỳn said, “It is the men and beasts of Darkness we must concern ourselves with now. They are the most immediate and real threat to the kingdoms of Thaeìn. If we should fail to resist their coming forces, the truly nothing will be able to stop the Duithèn in their conquest of Erâth.”

“Why can’t your people do anything?” Elven asked in exasperation. “You’re a people of Light—surely you can resist the powers of Darkness.”

Elỳn shook her head. “We are fading, Elven—you know this. Our influence on this world has already diminished beyond hope, and we cannot stop that which has been set in motion. It is with men now that the fate of Erâth resides.”

“It’s Brandyé, isn’t it,” Elven said with sudden realization. “He’s the one who is meant to stop the Duithèn.”

“So believe the Illuèn,” said Elỳn.

“Why? What power does he have that could possibly stop—” he gestured around them “—all of this?”

“None,” she said, “and all. I believe that he alone among men has the strength of will to resist the Duithèn’s influence; he has been resisting them all his life.”

Elven thought he felt somewhat slighted by her comment. “What makes him stronger than any other?”

“I do not know. Perhaps the tragedy that has been wrought upon him—”

“That tragedy was wrought upon many,” Elven protested.

“I will not argue for whom the pain was deepest, but remember—you are not the only one to have lost.”

Elven then remembered Athalya, and felt color in his cheeks and was grateful for the darkness. “I’m sorry.”

“The Duithèn have tried to destroy him, many times,” she said. “His body, and his will. Never have they succeeded. There is something in him that frightens them greatly. All the more so, I feel, since he set out to find Namrâth. If he succeeds, they will stop at nothing to end his life.”

“I’ve been a fool,” muttered Elven. “I should have gone with him.”

Elỳn reached out to touch his arm, briefly. “His path is not yours, and there is no shame in that. You helped him safely to the Hochträe—your purpose is fulfilled. Look now to your own life.”

“My life should be with Talya,” he grumbled, “but look at where I am now—in a desolate kingdom with no hope in sight!”

“If your path is to lead you to Talya, so it will,” said Elỳn. “Do not despair.”

But unlike Brandyé, Elven was not given to despair, and begrudgingly he saw the wisdom in Elỳn’s words. He pondered them over the following days as they made their way steadily through the barren wastelands, for he was often alone: during the day Elỳn would spend her time in the company of the king, and Tharom and the other knights would pay him no heed. Several times Elven tried to engage the folk of Kiriün in conversation, but they also would not speak to him, and so he was left in silence with nothing but his own thoughts.

Slowly he became accustomed to the brown earth and dried trees, and as he did he began to notice the subtle variations in the soil and land. Some places the earth was dry and rocky, and not a plant was to be seen; other places there were odd, brown-leafed plants scattered throughout the fields, and he realized these were some of the only living things anywhere to be found. Curious, he moved away from the convoy one day at noon when they stopped for rest, and walked some way into the field near the road. He soon came to a clump of these plants, and knelt down beside them. They grew no more than a few inches above the rocky soil, brown leaves jagged and sharp, curled downward toward the ground. They boasted no flowers, and were thoroughly as rotten a plant as ever Elven had seen. For a long while he inspected the plant, looking for signs of thorn or sting, but he could see nothing that gave away any sign of danger. Eventually, he reached out and, with a moment’s hesitation, plucked a leaf from the stalk.

The leaf was soft and velvety between his fingers, and he was surprised, for he had expected it to crumble in his grasp. He raised it to his nose and sniffed, but it gave off no odor. Growing ever more curious, he gently tore the leaf in half, and smelled once more the thin line of sap that was revealed. Finally, he placed the leaf between his teeth, and took a small bite.

A dreadful bitterness exploded in his mouth, and he gasped and spat it out. He felt a tingling on his tongue, and his face contorted into an involuntary grimace. It was by far the most foul thing he had ever tasted in his life, rank and rotting: no plant should taste thus, he thought.

So distracted was he by the unexpected vileness in his mouth that he did not hear the soldier of Kiriün approach him, and jumped at his voice: “Giftôr, we call it. It is all that grows here.”

Elven stood and turned to face the man, mildly astonished: this was the first time one of their company had spoken with him since they had left the great wall. “Where did it come from?” he asked. “It tastes dreadful.”

The man raised his eyebrows. “It is not for eating. It is not for anything.” He lowered his gaze to the clump of plants. “It came many years ago, as a weed. I remember pulling them from our garden as a child.” He then gestured to the empty fields around them. “But it spread, and grew: it poisoned the land. Now where it grows, nothing else will.”

Elven was aghast. “How do you survive?”

“Come,” the man said, and motioned for Elven to follow him. “It is considered bad luck to linger in these fields.” He began to walk back toward the encampment. “We have managed to keep the giftôr from a small part of our kingdom, closer to Courerà[ Heart], our largest city. Perhaps a quarter of our fields are now left with crop and cattle; the rest, as here, languish.”

Elven heard then such a sadness in the man’s voice that he could not help himself: he hurried after the man and reached out to touch his shoulder. The man stopped and turned back to him. “What happened to the garden of your childhood?” Elven asked him.

The man looked upon Elven for a long moment, as though wondering whether to trust him. Finally, he said, “Like my parents, it is gone.”

Elven felt his heart go out to this man, who for all his armor and bravery looked scarcely older than himself. “What is your name, soldier of Kiriün?”

“I am Atleas,” he said, “son of Hurin and Theleas.”

“Elven,” said Elven in kind, and held out his hand. After a moment Atleas grasped it, and suddenly Elven felt better than he had in many weeks, for here, he thought, he had made a friend. Together they returned to the convoy, and though they did not speak again that day, Elven felt a kinship with Atleas, and thought perhaps Kiriün was not so desolate in spirit as it seemed.

It was fortunate that Elven had introduced himself to Atleas, he thought, for the knights would not speak to him, and Elỳn was often cryptic—if not for the man of Kiriün, Elven would have learned little of where they were, or where they were going. That evening Atleas introduced Elven to his own comrades, who begrudgingly welcomed him into their company. Over a sparse meal, Atleas took the opportunity to explain something of Kiriün to Elven.

“The heart of Kiriün, the greatest town, is Courerà,” he said. “It is where the king and his councillors reside. The fields around Courerà are yet green and fruitful, and the nobility do not want. Those lands are called the Lichae[ Body], and it is a luxury and a privilege to live there.”

Elven, who knew something about farming, was curious. “If the nobles live in  the Lichae, where do their farmers and laborers live?”

“Many live with their lords, or in workhouses,” Atleas replied. “It is the dream of many in Kiriün to be employed in the Lichae, but I have seen the workhouses—they are no luxury.”

What of those that don’t live in the Lichae?” Elven asked. “What do they do?”

“Now you speak of the Hösland[ Homeland],” said Atleas. “Around Courerà is the Lichae, and around the Lichae is the Hösland. It is where most of our people live. The folk of the Hösland struggle daily against the presence giftôr, and to keep their livestock healthy. There is cultivation there, but it is poor; nonetheless, it is where most of our produce comes from.”

“And where are we now?” Elven asked.

“These are the Outlands,” said Atleas. “Few live here, and those that do have forsaken the aid of our country.”

“You let them starve?” Elven said, astonished.

But Atleas shook his head. “We would help them if we could, but it is too far to send them food or medicine, and they have nothing to trade in return.”

“How do they live?”

“I do not know,” Atleas said. “Few do, I suspect.” He pointed into the dark, down the road. “We will pass through one of the Outland villages tomorrow; you will see for yourself.”

“I hope you don’t take offense,” Elven said, “but your country appears on the brink of destruction.”

In the dim firelight, Elven saw Atleas nod grimly. “So it is. This is why our king, Kharim, has agreed to meet with your own. We are desperate for aid.”

As understanding of Kiriün’s plight started to dawn on Elven, he began to fear for the upcoming audience of the two kings. “You know we’ve come for the same reason,” he said. “We had hoped your country would have food to provide us.”

“We have not enough for our own folk, never mind yours,” said Atleas. “I hope you do not take offense,” he added hastily.

Elven shook his head. “They are not my folk. I am not from Erârün.”

At this, Atleas’s curiosity seemed piqued. “Then why do you travel with them?”

“I am a … ‘guest’ … of the king,” Elven said, and in Atleas’s gentle nod saw the man understood his meaning. “I can go nowhere else.”

Atleas sighed, and leaned back against the trunk of a dead tree. “The business of kings,” he said. “It seems both of our countries are hoping on a lie—that the other has aid that does not exist.”

Elven secretly felt this was true, and began to wonder what would happen when the two kings realized they had nothing to offer each other. Would Kharim allow them to return to Erârün, or would he imprison them in his wrath? Would he even kill them, thinking they had betrayed his trust?

The next day dawned in gloom, as had every day unto that point, and it was not long before they came upon the village Atleas had spoken of. The rain had held off for some time now, and the earth had dried; dust blew across the road as they entered the town, and to Elven it appeared to be one of the most forsaken places he had ever seen in all of Erâth.

Lining the road along both sides were squat, wooden buildings, some homes and some clearly businesses, yet Elven would have thought the place utterly abandoned were it not for the gaunt, pale faces staring bleakly at them from the porches and windows. He had never seen inhabited buildings in such a state of disrepair, and wondered how some of them were still standing at all. Here and there he saw a chicken, or a sow, and wondered what the animals ate.

All was utter silence as they passed through without stopping, and Elven’s heart cried out as he passed by a pair of children, brother and sister, sitting quietly by the side of the road. The brother was younger, and his head rested on his sister’s shoulder, for it was clear neither had the strength to play: their frames were scant, their arms mere bones, and their hair thin. Impulsively, he drew his horse to a stop beside them and dismounted. He took his riding pack from the horse and approached the two lone children, kneeling before them.

“When did you last eat?” he asked them, but they gave no reply: pale, empty eyes stared back at him. “What are your names?” he tried agin, but still received no response. Only when he reached out to touch the girl’s face did she react, and only then to pull away from his touch as though afraid.

He withdrew, and considered them with haunting melancholy. He had never seen children in such dire need of food, and knew there was little he could do. “Here,” he said, and offered them the riding pack. Both children looked at it, but neither made move. He placed it on the ground and pushed it toward them. “This has food, and water,” he said, and when they continued to look blankly at him, he continued, “I’m sorry—it’s all I have. I … I wish there was more I could do.”

And with that he drew himself up again, and remounted his steed. As he pulled away he looked back at them, and saw them staring after him, now joined by their mother. None of them had moved to take the pack. His heart torn, Elven continued to watch them until the town had disappeared into the distance, and he could see them no longer.

Later, Atleas came to him. “You should not have done that,” he said.

“Why not?” asked Elven, appalled. “You wouldn’t help them? They were dying!”

“So they are,” Atleas nodded, “and you have prolonged their suffering. How long will your food last them? A day? A week? And then what? You have given them hope when there is none to be had.”

“I couldn’t just pass them by!” Elven cried.

“There are more villages to come,” Atleas said. “What will you give them?”

And with a dawning horror Elven saw the truth in Atleas’s words, and he began to feel despair gnawing at his heart: what, indeed, could he offer these people? Never had he so desperately felt the need to help, and never had he felt so powerless to do so.

For several days they continued onward through the wastelands thus, and as Atleas had spoken they passed through more villages, some of which appeared utterly abandoned. They did not stop, not even Elven—as much as it tore at his heart, he knew there was nothing he could do to help them. As they traveled, a curious feeling began to overcome him, and for the first time in months he found his thoughts were not entirely filled with images of Talya. Vague recollections of conversations about the purpose of things in the world came to him, and he started to wonder if it might be here, among the desperate and dying people of Kiriün, that he might finally find his own.

After some time their road began to climb steadily, and soon they found themselves passing through a series of tall hills, though after the Trestaé and the Reinkrag Elven could hardly think of them as mountains. These hills were called the Rurinar, Atleas told him, and formed the border between the Hösland and the Outlands. Indeed, as they passed over the hills Elven saw that the giftôr became less omnipresent, and here and there be saw the first true grasses growing in sick clumps in the earth. There even began to be leaves on the trees, and it was with relief that Elven felt the dread of the Outlands begin to leave him.

They passed their first night in a village that evening—a place called Ostberg, a town of some hundred folk or so nestled in a narrow valley of the Rurinar. It was almost as though they had been afraid to stay with the folk of the Outlands, Elven thought, until Atleas pointed out to him that the villages there would have had nothing to offer them—and they had nothing to offer in return. “Our coins mean nothing to them, for they have nothing on which to spend them,” he told Elven. “Here, at least, we can pay for food and ale, and leave this place slightly better than it was.”

They spent much of the evening in Ostberg’s only inn, the men of Erârün begrudgingly at the hospitality of the Kiriün soldiers, for of course they own coinage was unacceptable in this country. The men of Kiriün seemed not to mind, and it was this evening that Elven felt the barriers between the two countries begin to break down, and was glad. The knights of Erârün began to speak with the soldiers of Kiriün, and as the night wore on the drink loosened their tongues all the more, so that by the time they were booted out into the cold night, there was no small amount of laughter between them all. Even king Farathé partook, sitting in a corner with Elỳn and telling tales of his own youth as a prince in Vira Weitor. Elven was surprised to see the soldiers of Kiriün enraptured by his words; he would have thought tales of nobility and wealth would have made them jealous, but it seemed the grandeur of Vira Weitor had transcended the generations of separation between the two kingdoms, for they were eager to hear of the great city, and many professed a desire to see it for themselves.

As for Elven, this evening of warmth and rest served only to endear him further to the people of Kiriün. Despite their hardships and the gruffness of their soldiers, they seemed a gentle folk, even more so than those of Consolation: he recalled with a rueful smile the many evenings in the Burrow Wayde that had ended with Mrs. Heath breaking up brawls between the farmers and smiths, and the many others that returned each night, only to raise fists once more. Then he thought of the times that he and Brandyé had been involved in brawls of their own, and a sudden homesickness stole over him. The carefree, sunlit days of his childhood in Consolation were long behind him now, smothered by Darkness and the cruel reign of the Fortunaé, and unless a way was found to stop the Duithèn’s relentless encroaching upon their lands, there might be no carefree days left for any.

They left Ostberg early the next morning, most of their party quiet after the drink of the night before, but despite the silence Elven noticed that there was no longer a split between the two countries; the knights of Erârün had spread their horses amongst those of Kiriün, and side by side they rode together, the most senior of the Kiriün men abreast of king Farathé.

Before long, Elven began to notice a change in the countryside, and by mid-morning realized that the fields they were passing by held no longer just giftôr and meager grasses but livestock as well. Though thin and scrawny, there were now to be found many sheep and some cattle, too. They had soon left the Rurinar behind and were once more among endless, flat plains, broken by occasional lines of trees and stone walls. The trees did not appear natural to Elven, and he asked Atleas about them.

“They are planted,” Atleas told him. “In the flats of the Hösland, the wind can be great; the trees help to break it.”

“Are there no natural forests?” Elven asked.

“There are many. They abound mostly near water—you will see when we cross the Mira-Thuèn. It is a great river that passes through our land.”

For a day their path carried on in a unwavering straight line, through fields of increasing green and past the occasional farm, near which Elven was glad to see men and women laboring in the fields. Here there was not the sense of dread and desolation of the Outlands, though he could still spot giftôr growing plentifully here and there, especially under the shade of trees or walls. Elven was curious that there were no meanderings in the road, and once more raised the question with Atleas.

“Our country is like a great beast,” Atleas said. “We often think of it as a living creature. Courerà is the heart; all roads lead to and from it.” He shrugged. “In the flats, there is no need for a road to bend. We are passing nearly due west; in five days, we will have arrived.”

Elven was becoming increasingly excited to see the city, and after the endless journeying of the past months, the next five days could not pass soon enough. The land continued to improve in health, and by the time they reached the Mira-Thuèn there was more green than not, though Elven had to admit the soil still looked rocky and thin.

The great river announced itself far in advance with the uprising of a great forest of maple and elm and chestnut, and as the canopy closed in over their head the world became green. But for the lack of sun, Elven thought it was quite pleasant—a far cry from the dark forests of the Trestaé or the Reinkrag. He wondered if the trees changed colors in the autumn, and thought it must be quite a glorious sight if they did.

Elven wondered if he would hear the river before they met it, but it was a quiet affair: unlike the Ütherschae or even the Tuiraeth in Consolation, the Mira-Thuèn flowed slow and silent, their path crossing it as it led in a southwesterly direction. Though Elven had some reckoning of water and rivers, the sheer size of the Mira-Thuèn astonished him: he could scarcely see the opposite bank, and estimated its width at over a mile. “Your country clearly does not lack for water,” he remarked to Atleas.

“You will see many canals from here on to Courerà,” Atleas agreed. “The Mira-Thuèn is the life of Kiriün. If it were to dry, our country would be gone.”

A strange shiver passed through Elven. “How could so great a river dry?” he asked.

“Do not forget the season,” Atleas reminded him. “Early summer, and we had a wet winter. We are fortunate this year. In years past, it has not been so well, and I fear for the future.”

“The Duithèn,” Elven muttered. “Is there nothing they can’t destroy?”

There was a bridge here, spanning the Mira-Thuèn, and to Elven it was equally as astonishing as the river itself. A solid hundred feet in width, it rose gently to a point some fifty feet over the center of the river, before descending to the other shore. It was made of wood, but Elven could see its construction was strong, for there were countless poles, a thick as a man, that descended into the deep water and would have held the bridge steady in the strongest of floods.

They stopped here at the foot of the bridge for a moment, and it was as Elven was resting in the dark shade of a great oak that he heard an ever-so-familiar, long forgotten cry and looked in surprise to the sky. So consumed had he been with the desolation of Kiriün that he had entirely forgotten Sonora, now returned from her trip to the Hochträe, and his heart lightened tremendously to see her form circling high above them.

He was not the only one to have spotted her, and he saw with amusement the soldiers of Kiriün pointing at her and talking among themselves. After a moment (perhaps considering whether the soldiers were friendly or not), Sonora deigned to descend upon Elven, who held out his arm for her to perch upon. He winced as her talons dug into his skin, for he had not his leather gauntlet with him, but even the pain was familiar, and despite himself he smiled broadly.

“I’m so glad to see you!” he said to the falcon. “I was worried that you’d fallen afoul of some beast in the Reinkrag.” He reached out to pet her head, and she nuzzled against his palm. “I see you delivered my note—is this a new one in return?” With delicate fingers he unwound the parchment tied to her leg, and was glad because it was not the one he had sent with her. It was good to know she was still able to deliver messages; and then, of course, he thought of the one she had not delivered, and his thoughts went out again to Talya, wherever she might be. He unwound the parchment and read:

Dear Elven,

It makes me glad to know you are well. It is unfortunate that you must bear the death of my kin with you, but know they are well grieved. They are good people, and remain so in death.

You must be concerned for your friend, Brandyé. He departs from us in the night, alone. He does not accept our help—I do not think you are surprised by this. Into the Eternal Snows he goes, and we do not know of his fate. It is not his time to find Death, though, and so I continue to believe he is well.

Our greatest thanks for sending us word of our kin’s passing; you do well against the coming of the Duithèn.

With warm thoughts,

Nisha

Many thoughts raced through Elven’s mind as he read Nisha’s note. He was glad to hear from the old man of the Hochträe, glad to know he was well; when he had left him, he was still recovering from wounds inflicted by a fierund. The note also brought back to him the haunting memories of the deaths of his traveling companions in the Üthervaye mountains, and he closed his eyes for a moment in remembrance.

More than anything, though, the note brought to him thoughts of Brandyé. He had left the Hochträe alone, and deep inside Elven acknowledged that he knew his friend would have done so. He does not accept our help, Nisha had written; Brandyé had never been one to accept help, from any, and his departure did not surprise him. It gave him great concern, however, to think that Brandyé had continued alone on his journey north, into what Nisha’s folk called the Eternal Snows: how Brandyé expected to survive there, he did not know.

For a moment he was lost in reverie, and then Atleas’s voice broke through: “This is your bird?”

Elven opened his eyes and looked to the soldier of Kiriün, who seemed utterly perplexed by the falcon on Elven’s arm. He saw that around him, the other soldiers were looking upon him as well. “It is,” he replied. “Her name is Sonora.”

Atleas’s gaze fell to Elven’s arm, where spots of blood had appeared through the cloth of his sleeve. “Does her grip not hurt?”

Elven smiled. “It does indeed, but it’s a pain I am used to. I have had Sonora since I was a child. I have trained her to bear messages far and wide. Just now I’ve received one from the mountain folk with whom I stayed many months ago.”

“I am astonished,” said Atleas. “She is a precious bird.”

Elven lowered his hand to Sonora’s head once more. “She is indeed.”

They soon set off from their resting place, passing onto the great bridge that spanned the Mira-Thuèn. Elven found himself in high spirits with Sonora’s return, and the despair of the Outlands fell from his thoughts. He felt somehow strengthened by her presence, as though the knowledge that she had survived her passage to the Hochträe and back foretold his own survival in whatever struggles were yet to come. For the following days until their arrival in Courerà he rode on contentedly, often humming to himself, and his mood was infectious—before long there was much conversation and laughter among the men of both Kiriün and Erârün.

The day before they were due to arrive in Courerà they came upon yet another great body of water, though nothing close to the size of the Mira-Thuèn. It was a canal, wide and deep, and there was once again a great bridge that crossed it. Here, though, there were guards, and for some time their party stopped as king Farathé, the senior soldiers and the guards conversed.

“This marks the passage from the Hösland into the Lichae,” Atleas explained to Elven. “This canal provides transport of goods around the Lichae and the Hösland, but also serves to separate the two: it runs for three hundred miles around the entire Lichae.”

To Elven’s mind this was yet another astonishing feat of  the engineering the Kiriün seemed to have mastered, though he doubted anything would equal the great wall of Kiriün for sheer size and ingenuity.

After some time it seemed the guards and soldiers reached a consensus, for after some general cries and shouts they moved forward once more, passing across the bridge and into the Lichae. Within only a few miles, Elven recognized the difference between the Hösland and this inner circle of land: the giftôr was almost nowhere to be found, fields of wheat and barley and orchards springing instead out of earth that seemed browner and healthier than any he had seen hitherto.

They passed through yet more villages, these more bustling and alive, and Elven noticed that the cloth of the folk seemed finer, and the construction of the homes more durable; here, then, lived the wealthy and well-to-do of Kiriün, as Atleas had spoken. They spent their last night of travel at one of these, a place by the name of Rentham Green, and it was here that the consideration of what was to happen once they reached Courerà came upon Elven.

He was sitting in a corner of one of the town’s several inns with Atleas and several of the Kiriün soldiers, and unusually Elỳn had decided to join them that evening. “The king needs no further counsel from me tonight,” she said as way of explanation. “I would rather spend my time with you.”

Elven was glad, for it turned out that Atleas was not terribly knowledgeable about the happenings of the royalty of his kingdom. “I was enlisted to make the journey to the great wall, and escort you back,” he said. “What is to happen to you when we reach the capital was not explained to me, and I did not ask.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “It is a job, no more—I am proud to do it.”

“And you’ve done it well,” Elven said, for he had come to think of Atleas as a friend. A thought occurred to him. “What are you to do when we arrive?”

“I imagine I will have some days of leave,” Atleas replied, “and then I will be reassigned. Patrol of the great wall—policing of the outer villages, perhaps—who knows?”

“Do you think we’ll have the chance to meet again?”

Atleas smiled. “My duties will always return me to Courerà, sooner or later; for as long as you remain here, I shall seek you out.”

As kind as this sentiment was, it concerned Elven slightly, for he had never considered the possibility that he would stay in Courerà long enough for Atleas to conduct a tour of duty and return again.

“How long do you think we will remain here?” he asked Elỳn instead.

“I cannot say,” she said. “A few days—a week. A month, perhaps? As long as it takes for our negotiations to conclude.”

Elven was relieved, for he had begun to think of their stay in terms of years. “So we’ll return to Vira Weitor soon?”

She nodded. “I expect so. It will depend on how well the conversation between Farathé and Gwenyth goes.”

“Gwenyth is their king?”

But Atleas laughed. “No, no—our king is Salâthar. Gwenyth is his wife.”

“I don’t understand,” Elven said.

“What your friend here is saying, could easily be considered treason,” said Atleas, “but it is true nonetheless. All know of it, but none speak of it: it is the queen who rules our kingdom, from behind the folds of the king’s cloak. So it has been for hundreds of generations.”

“Does Farathé know this?”

“Not yet,” said Elỳn, “though I imagine he will come to suspect it soon enough. Salâthar will speak of nothing but pleasantries unless his wife is by his side. I imagine our first dinner with them will be entirely fruitless.”

“Why is that?”

Atleas laughed. “Women and children are not permitted at the great dining hall table,” he said. “Even a soldier such as myself knows that.”

“What of you?” Elven asked Elỳn.

She smiled. “I believe for me they will make an exception. If not …” she shrugged. “I have nothing to gain by dining with Salâthar. I wait to speak with Gwenyth myself.”

Elven was silent a moment, contemplating this. It was as circuitous a way of governing as he had ever heard. “How do you know all this?” he finally asked of Elỳn.

“It is not only the people of Erârün we have been watching these past centuries,” she said. “We know well of the doings of Kiriün.”

Elven recalled once more how the Illuèn seemed to be watching the kingdoms of men dwindle, and were doing nothing about it. “Why didn’t you help Kiriün?” he asked. “When you saw they were suffering?”

“What help would you have us give?” she asked. “We have no great supplies of food to offer—”

“Medicine,” Elven said at once. “Your healing skills are beyond any of ours. My leg—” he shook his foot “—is evidence of this. You could have helped heal their sick and dying.”

But Elỳn shook her head. “We are too few, Elven. Once, perhaps … but no more. Our help is here, though, now—in my presence. Farathé would not be journeying to Kiriün were it not for us.”

Elven shook his head. “I suppose I have no choice but to trust you,” he said reluctantly, “but it seems a wayward, subtle kind of help.”

“Perhaps that kind is what is needed,” she answered.

“I wonder if Brandyé would agree.”

Elỳn made no response to this, and momentarily Atleas spoke of another subject entirely, and the moment of darkness passed. Nonetheless, Elven could not help but dwell once more on the Illuèn’s apparent lack of aid to the kingdoms of men, and slept poorly that night.

Come the morning, they set out from Rentham Green on the final stage of their journey to Courerà, and it was not long before Elven perceived a gentle rise in the ground.

“Courerà is built on a great hill,” Atleas told him. “The king’s hall is at its peak, looking down upon all the country surrounding it.”

They proceeded over the land in small rises and dips, gaining ground all the while, and it occurred to Elven to wonder how the great city got its water, if it was so much higher than the rest of the surrounding land. He did not have the opportunity to ask Atleas, however, for they were soon upon the outskirts of the city, and once more Elven was struck speechless at the sight. Unlike Vira Weitor there was no wall surrounding the town, and the homes were smaller, to a one: hardly a single building was raised more than two stories high. Yet they grew over the great hill in such enormous number that he estimated several thousand homes and buildings lay within his sight, just on this side of the great hill.

They passed onto cobblestone, and Elven saw that, like the road they had been following so far, the streets here radiated out from the center of the city, with crossroads every hundred yards or so that seemed to curve gently around the entire hill. Up they climbed, and Elven’s eye was drawn toward the center of the town, and their ultimate destination.

There, atop the hill and resplendent amongst the lower buildings around it, was the great hall of Courerà. Twice the height of any other building in the city, it was a single, grand building whose roof rose to a sharp peak, the trim painted in gold and glinting even in the dull gray daylight. Elven could but imagine what the place would have looked like at sunrise, before the clouds had come to cover the face of the sun. As they drew nearer the details resolved themselves and he saw the great carved horse heads that adorned the roof’s apexes, and marveled to see such carpentry.

But what truly astonished Elven, more than the height of the building or the gold of its decoration, was the single, enormous tree that appeared to be growing straight through the roof and towered some hundred feet above the already towering roof of the hall. Its trunk at its height was thicker than a man, and Elven wondered of its girth at its roots. It appeared to be a kind of enormous oak, though Elven had never heard of a tree reaching such prodigious proportions. Its leaves were bright and green, and it did not occur to Elven that anything might be missing until Atleas said, “It is always sad, to see the Life Tree so bereft of fruit.”

“The Life Tree?” Elven asked.

Atleas nodded. “Ever has it grown here—before even there was a Courerà. The city was built here because of that tree. But it has not flowered now in many years; there are few who can remember what its petals look like.”

“But it’s still green,” Elven pointed out. “It still has life.”

“But it is the lingering of old age, you see—there is no new life to be had. So it is with our land: we linger, and we die, but there is no new life.”

Elven wondered if he meant there were no children anymore, but before he could voice his thoughts they were at the foot of the great hall. Wide stone steps led to the doors, and it was here that the soldiers of Kiriün finally separated themselves from the folks of Erârün, for here, they said, their road ended. The king Farathé was to enter into the home of Salâthar alone, with one aide for counsel. Elven had little doubt who that would be, and indeed, before long he saw Farathé and Elỳn mounting the long steps toward the entrance, which was flung open before them. Into the hall they went, dark against the brightness of day, and Elven could not help thinking the sound of the doors closing behind them was somewhat ominous.

For an age it seemed they waited, and as they did Atleas bid goodbye to Elven, for it was his time to depart, along with most of his company. Only a few of their number remained behind as a guard for the knights of Erârün, and Elven secretly thought that, should the need to fight arise, their few soldiers would be no match against the knights in their dragonstone armor.

For the first time in many days, Elven brought his attention once more on Tharom, whom he had not taken much notice of since they had entered into Kiriün. He alone among his peers seemed to have remained wary of the folk of Kiriün, rarely partaking in conversation and remaining always close to the king, lest his service be needed. Elven wondered what Tharom thought of the king going ahead without him, and with the Illuèn, instead.

The sky was beginning to darken when the doors to the great hall opened once more, and a man emerged dressed in robes of a deep blue. “Men of Erârün!” he called to them. “You are bidden to enter into the hall of the great king Salâthar, where we have made provisions for your accommodation.”

There was some shuffling amongst the knights, and Tharom led them up the steps toward the usher. “Ye’ll show us where we’re staying, then?” he asked gruffly.

The man seemed somewhat taken aback by Tharom’s demeanor, but said, “There are guides inside who will take you to your rooms. There is to be one for each of you, for you are esteemed guests of the king. There you will be given instruction for tonight’s feast.”

So they mounted the steps and so they entered the hall, but Elven’s anticipated view of the great tree was obscured, for they found themselves instead in a long passageway, where indeed many servants appeared to be waiting for them. Elven was very unused to this sort of treatment, and allowed himself to be led to his accommodation with bemusement, insisting that the servant call him Elven, and not ‘great master of the east kingdom’.

“Clean robes have been provided for you,” the servant told him, “and you are to be given time to rest. In two hours I will return, to lead you to the feast.”

Elven could not deny the appeal of the very soft-looking bed in his chambers, and nodded with as much seriousness as he could muster. “Thank you,” he said. “I shall look forward to seeing you then.”

Then the servant looked at him awkwardly, and Elven sensed he had a question for him that made him nervous. “What is it?” he asked.

“I … I am sorry, but I have been bidden to ask: what is your purpose on this journey? We have seen that you do not bear the armor of the knights.”

Elven was unsure quite what to say, and realized that, so far, he had had little purpose. “I am a healer,” he said finally. “I travel for the health of the men.”

The servant nodded gratefully. “Thank you, sir. It will help with the seating arrangements.”

Elven thought this an odd comment, but dismissed it in favor of the wash basin and the bed. Two hours seemed to pass far too quickly, and he was still dreary when the servant knocked at the door and entered, now bearing a lantern, for it had become dark. “Are you ready, sir?” he asked.

“I suppose I am,” Elven said with a yawn, and made to follow the man into the corridor. The great hall seemed if anything larger on the inside than it appeared from the outside, and it was through quite a labyrinth of passageways that he was now led—he knew he would not find his way back to his chambers on his own, and resolved not to drink too much that night.

When finally they entered the center of the great hall, Elven was yet more astounded at the size of the great tree. It formed the centerpiece of the dining hall, fifty feet across if it was an inch, great branches as thick as a man sprouting from the trunk some fifty feet above the floor. Looking up, he saw that the branches themselves intertwined with the rafters of the ceiling, and it seemed the tree supported the roof itself some hundred feet in the air.

A great table was built around the base of the tree, encircling it in an enormous ring, and there were already many people sitting at it. Elven spied the king Farathé, sitting beside a man who could be none other than king Salâthar, for he bore a golden crown and magnificent, crimson robes. Elỳn was there also, sitting beside Farathé, and he saw she had been right about their exception to her sitting at the king’s table.

It was not to this table Elven was led, however, but to a smaller one in a corner of the great dining hall, close to a set of three hearths, over one of which a pig was being slowly roasted. Even this table could hold twenty or thirty people comfortably, and Elven sidled in beside a young woman and a boy, supposing that these were the wives and children of the sires at the great table. He wondered why he was being seated here, and glanced around: Tharom and the other knights were at the main table, and he guessed that a mere healer did not deserve the honor of the king’s table. He was hardly bothered by this: he had no interest in conversing with nobility, and would much rather eat and retire to his chambers as soon as possible.

Elven was near the middle of this secondary table, and opposite him was a middle-aged woman of not inconsiderably beauty. Beside her was a girl, perhaps eleven or twelve, and he was struck by her appearance: she was pale, and seemed unwell. He felt compelled to introduce himself, but stopped himself short of addressing the child directly, and gave his attention to the lady instead. “Good evening,” he said. “I am Elven. May I make your acquaintance?”

The woman favored him with a small smile. “I am Gwenyth.”

“The king’s wife!” Elven exclaimed.

“The queen,” she corrected him with no small amount of disdain.

“Apologies,” Elven said hastily. Remembering Farathé’s haughtiness, he added, “Your highness.”

Gwenyth dipped her head gently. “You are not from here. Our customs are perhaps strange to you?”

“Perhaps,” said Elven, “though your soldiers were friendly enough. There is one, Atleas—I would call him my friend. Do you know him?” Even as he said these words he flushed, for he knew it must sound ridiculous for the queen to know any one particular soldier.

Indeed, she shook her head, but was graceful in her reply: “I do not. I am glad to hear our men have treated you well, though.”

“They have indeed.” Elven glanced at the girl beside her again, and saw that she had scarcely moved since he had sat down. Her eyes appeared glazed, and he began to feel concern. “My I ask who your companion is?” he asked, nodding toward the girl.

Gwenyth’s face was impassive as she said, “This is my daughter, Gwendolyn.”

Elven wondered if it would be improper to address Gwendolyn directly. “May I speak to her?” he asked.

“You may,” said Gwenyth, “but do not be surprised if she does not answer.”

Elven nodded. “She seems unwell.”

A small sigh escaped Gwenyth’s lips. “She has been ill for some time. Our best healers have been unable to rouse her.”

“Hello, Gwendolyn,” Elven said to the girl. “My name is Elven. How are you feeling?”

To her credit, the girl turned her gaze upon Elven, but said nothing. Instinctively, Elven reached out across the table and laid the back of his hand against her cheek. She did not recoil, but Gwenyth said, “May I ask what you think you are doing?”

Elven quickly withdrew and said, “I apologize, your highness. I am a healer also; I acted before I thought.” He thought he might now feel her wrath for having touched a royal daughter, and was thus greatly surprised by her response:

“Healer—Elven—what do you think of her condition?”

“She is too cold,” Elven said. “I would move her beside the fire if I could.”

“She has been cold for a long time,” Gwenyth said. “Fire seems not to warm her.”

“How long has she been like this?”

“It is near a year, now.”

Elven shook his head. “Can you think of anything that has changed in the past year? Her environment, her company … her diet?”

“I can think of nothing,” the queen replied. “Have you seen anything like it before?”

But Elven had to admit he had not. “For an illness to last so long is very unusual.” He looked once more upon Gwendolyn, and pity stole across his heart. “I will think on it,” he promised the queen. “If I can help her, I will.”

Gwenyth smiled. “I appreciate your sentiment, stranger. I would ask nothing of you, though.”

And so they began to eat, Elven digging into a salad that had been brought to them as they spoke, and though it was delicious, his mind could think of little but the poor girl opposite him. He saw Gwenyth coax her daughter into eating a few leaves, and his mind flew back to his apprenticeship with Sörhend. Diseases, he knew, came and went; they either left the victim well again, or took them to death. But an illness that continued on, month after month … he recalled his travels with Brandyé through the forests of the Trestaé, and how he had fallen victim to the potency of the corinthiaë plant. Had the Illuèn not rescued him, he might well have succumbed to death then.

Lost in thought, Elven slowly stopped eating, staring instead down at the leaves on his plate. Most he recognized, though a few were unusual in look and taste. Flecked here and there throughout the food was a herb he did not know, though the taste was certainly pleasant.

Down the table, he saw a second course being served, and wondered if it would be considered rude that he had not finished his salad. Quite suddenly, he was no longer hungry. He looked across at Gwendolyn again, and saw she had closed her eyes, and was leaning back in her chair, breath short and ragged. Gwenyth was tending to her, and with a sudden thought, Elven surreptitiously reached out his fork to pierce a sample from the girl’s own plate.

To his mouth he brought the girl’s food, and chewed it slowly, allowing the taste to linger on his tongue. So similar to his own plate, he was uncertain, but he thought there was a subtle difference, a slight bitterness to the girl’s dish that had not been in his own … a taste he somehow recognized.

And as he watched Gwendolyn suddenly collapse upon the table, he remembered where he knew the taste from, and heedless of the stares he garnered, spat his food out hastily onto his own plate. The queen appeared not to notice, and swiftly Elven pushed back his chair and stood from the table. If he was right in his suspicions, there was little time to lose.

Quickly he moved to the nearby hearth and, ignoring the heat, scooped up a great handful of ash from the ground, biting his lip as he felt them sear his skin. Returning to the table he poured the ashes into his water cup, and passed the cup to Gwenyth, who was looking at him now as though he was insane. “She must drink this, now,” he said, and there was such a forcefulness in his voice that she wordlessly took the cup, and gently poured the mixture into her daughter’s mouth.

The scene had by now caught the attention of all in the hall, and Elven was painfully aware of the silence around them. If he was wrong, he thought, the king’s wrath would be great …

And indeed, there were suddenly guards surrounding him, and as they pulled him away, he heard Salâthar calling for him to be imprisoned, that he was poisoning his daughter, and his only thought was that he must tell the queen, and he shouted out, “Do not let her eat anything more this night!”

And with that he was led away, away from the table and the dining hall, and within a few minutes found himself not in his chambers, but in a barred cell, and when the guards left they took with them the lanterns, and it was dark indeed. Elven wondered if he had jeopardized the negotiations between these two great kingdoms, wondered if the rest of the party from Erârün were being imprisoned as well, and found he did not care: if the young girl survived, he thought, it would all be worth it.

It was daylight by the time Elven was approached again, and to his great surprise, it was Gwenyth who had come to see him, accompanied by several guards. She stood quietly outside his cell, and as he looked upon her, he saw that she had slept no more than he had, and saw the tears in her red eyes.

“How did you know?” she asked finally.

“It was her food,” Elven replied. “It did not have the same taste. There was something in it—something terrible.”

“Giftôr,” the queen said. “We have arrested the cook who prepared it.”

“How is she now?”

Gwenyth closed her eyes for a moment, and Elven thought he saw relief on her face. “She is better. Far better than she has been in months. She wishes to see you.”

Elven could not help smiling. “I would be glad to.”

The queen nodded, and motioned to one of the guards, who moved forward toward the bars. “My husband says you are to be released. He—and I—apologize for your treatment. He thought you were—”

“I’m certain,” Elven said. “I can’t imagine what it looked like.”

“You saved her.”

“Then my work as a healer is done.”

And then the queen smiled. “Perhaps not.”

Elven’s actions—and his fate—were the subject of much discussion over the following days, and he was brought before king Salâthar, in the presence of Farathé, Gwenyth and her daughter. “I understand you have no home to speak of,” the king of Kiriün addressed him, and Elven could but nod.

“My true home is far behind me, and I doubt I shall ever return.”

“I also understand you are, strictly speaking, a prisoner of Erârün.”

At this, Elven looked to Farathé, who said, “This man is indeed in my custody. However—we are not in Erârün, and I must bow to the discretion of this kingdom.”

Salâthar then looked momentarily to Gwenyth, and Elven saw her nod. “It would honor me, then, to offer you a new home: here, among the people of Kiriün. I would have you as healer to the high court of Kiriün, to look to the health and well-being of all our kingdom.”

And Elven was stunned, and for many moments could not speak. Many thoughts raced through his mind: the idea of not returning to Vira Weitor, of not knowing the fate of Talya, was horrifying. Yet the possibility of helping an entire kingdom was tantalizing, whispering of a purpose he had long been looking for. Speechless, he looked at those around him, but it was not until his gaze fell upon Elỳn that he felt his mind settle: her smile told him everything he needed to know.

“I would be … honored, your majesty,” he said. “Gladly, would I take this position.”

And so he did, and so it was that Elven came to live among the people of Kiriün, as a healer of the high court.