Chapter 24: A Parting of Ways

 

Brandyé and Elven soon discovered the Hochträe, or Naiya, were a generous people, with food, time and stories. They learned that the majority of their population lived in the highest valleys that existed between the peaks of the Reinkrag, which they called the Dragoshi, which meant Dragon’s Teeth. These valleys were often filled with snow except in the warmest summer months, and he came to understand that they lived in harmony with the weather.

In the peaks, though, lived a much smaller number of their people, and this was where they had been taken when they were rescued. Here, amid impossible structures and high towers, lived those who had chosen to renounce the daily struggles of life, and here they spent their days thinking, meditating and, as far as Brandyé could tell, enjoying life.

There was a certain reverence that seemed to be held for these folk, for every so often people from the valleys would ascend to the high places, and when they did they were treated with the utmost respect and courtesy. The high folk, or Hirani, of course returned this respect and invited them into their lives, to partake in their daily routines of meditation, exercise and rest.

So relaxing was the lifestyle here that Brandyé soon found himself quite at home, despite struggling to understand much of their language. Their speech was so different to either his own or even that of the Cosari that he was just as lost in their conversations as he had been when he had first met Khana, but he found that their manner of speaking was rather poetic, and filled with imagery, when they spoke with him in his own tongue. They continued to refer to him as the ‘gray one’, which he found odd, though not in the least offensive, for indeed his gray hair and eyes were certain justification, although he would have preferred to be known simply as Brandyé.

Elven, on the other hand, seemed less than satisfied among the Hochträe, and grew ever more restless as the days and weeks progressed. He sent Sonora with a letter to Talya, and could be found pacing the stairways and platforms of the Hirani’s abode, wringing his hands and muttering to himself for the days it took for Sonora to return with a reply. Once he had read it he seemed to calm somewhat, though Brandyé could nonetheless tell that he was unsettled here.

It was not long, therefore, before a tension began to grow between Brandyé and Elven – one of whom would have been content to spend the rest of his days here, and the other who had no desire but to return. It became such that the two friends spoke less and less to each other, much as they had done amongst the Illuèn. Brandyé was saddened for this, and knew that sooner or later the subject of their future must be broached, but in the meantime he was enjoying his time with Nisha and the others too much to be overly concerned.

Nisha in particular seemed to be seen as a kind of elder master, and was greatly respected even by the other Hirani. Brandyé felt privileged to have been taken into his home and cared for by him, though the others insisted it could have been no other way – Nisha was recognized as the most accomplished healer they had ever known, and Brandyé could not deny that in the few days he had spent with him, the pain in his chest had all but gone, and his coughs were now few and far between. He wondered sometimes what Elven thought of that, but again felt too good in himself to worry overly about it.

Nisha was full of stories, also, and it was from him that Brandyé learned the history of the Hochträe, and why they, among all the peoples of Erâth, seemed uninfluenced by Darkness.

“The Duithèn come to us,” Nisha said, “but we turn from them. No strength they have, we say.” He smiled. “Angry, they are – one other people only, they cannot turn.”

“When was this?” Brandyé asked. He was perplexed that the Hochträe seemed to have no concept of the past – their speech centered always on the present, and occasionally, on the future.

Nisha shook his head gently, his long beard swaying. “I know not. Many thousands of years.”

“Before the War of Darkness,” Brandyé said to himself.

“War, yes,” Nisha said. “There is war, and death…we do not make war.”

Brandyé was intrigued. “Yet you train yourselves in the arts of battle – I see how strong and powerful your people are.”

“Ah – do not mistake strength for war. Many people believe, if they can fight, then they must. We know that, if you can not fight, then you die.”

And so Brandyé learned that the Hochträe were masters of martial arts, yet chose not to use their skills in battle. This fascinated him, and over time, he came to learn some of their skills, though he was never even close to as adept as the masters of their arts, and Nisha was considered a master among masters.

For a while Brandyé pondered Nisha’s words, and something he had said stayed with him. Once evening, as the sun was setting and the stars to the east were beginning to show, he asked him, “You said the Duithèn tried to turn you – and others, as well. One other, you said, they could not turn. What do you mean?”

“You know the strength of the Duithèn,” Nisha said. Brandyé nodded, for he knew it only too well. “You see the low peoples – Erârün, Kiriün – always in cloud. Never happy, always scared; this is the Duithèn. They make the land dark, and so the people are dark. It is their wish to make Erâth dark, from east to west, and north to south. They are almost finished.”

“They are trying to kill the people of Erârün,” Brandyé said.

“They try to kill the light. If men resist the Duithèn, they must die.”

“Then why do they leave you alone?”

“There are things the Duithèn can not do. They can not turn minds that have no Darkness. We try, every day, to live with no Darkness. Some days, better than others.” Nisha chuckled. “Even I am not perfect.”

“But surely they could kill you?”

“Ah – you see, the Duithèn do not wish to kill. They wish to be masters of Erâth, above all other peoples. When they kill, they hope to frighten. And we are not frightened by them.”

“So your people don’t fear death?”

Nisha shrugged. “Death is part of life, like birth. It happens, and man is fool to think he can stop it.”

“You know Death?” Brandyé asked.

“I know the Namirèn,” Nisha replied. “They visit us, sometimes.”

“Death have visited me, also. And Light. Do your people dream?”

“Ah – a powerful word! Inasa-Hinari, we call it – inner light. We dream, sometimes.”

“I saw Death, in a dream. I have seen many things in a dream.”

“You see the answer to your question, I think,” Nisha suggested.

For a moment, Brandyé was confused, having forgotten his original question. Then he recalled, and said, “I have seen the other people the Duithèn could not influence?”

“You know them well, for you ride on the back of the beast.”

For a moment, Brandyé felt the familiar tingle he would get whenever Ermèn said something about him that he had never revealed. He had himself nearly forgotten the images he had had as a child, of soaring high above plains of battle and death, of speeding downward toward his foe, unleashing great jets of flame and heat…

“The dragons,” he breathed.

Nisha nodded. “Drago, indeed, and the Dragomi – Dragon Lords.”

“I thought they were myth.”

“Brandyé,” Nisha chided, “you should know better. Myth is but fact that becomes story. And stories of the Dragomi, we have many. Even your grandfather tells these stories.”

“How do you know so much about me?” Brandyé asked. “Do you know someone called Ermèn?”

But Nisha shook his head. “I am afraid I do not. You reveal much of yourself, Brandyé; it is easy for an old man to see.”

For a moment Brandyé felt as he had done with Ermèn: transparent, as though every detail of his life was exposed to Nisha without his being aware. It was unsettling, and he wondered what an enemy would make of such obviousness. Then his thoughts turned once more to the Dragon Lords, and he opened his mouth to ask Nisha about them, but almost as if to prove his prior thought, Nisha spoke first.

“You wish to know more of the Dragomi,” he said, and Brandyé could but nod. “Our myth, our monari, says that the Dragomi live far to the north, after the Dragoshi and the dead lands beyond. But they may live no more, for we do not see them for many ages.”

“Have you ever seen a dragon?” Brandyé asked, uncertain how long ‘many ages’ might be, nor quite how old Nisha was himself.

Nisha laughed. “Oh, no – not in my life. Many thousands of years, it is. I am old, but not so old! A dream indeed, to see a drago.”

“What became of the Dragon Lords? What do your stories – your monari – tell?”

“Of their ending, it is not known to us. When the Duithèn fall, the Dragomi return to their home, and there they stay. There they live, there they die – who knows?”

“And now that the Duithèn are returning?”

Nisha shrugged – a common gesture, it seemed. “Perhaps they return, perhaps not. The Dragomi have little interest in Erâth.”

“Yet…they fought. They fought against the forces of Darkness in the great war. They must have some interest.”

“Do you know where the Drago come from?” Nisha asked him. Brandyé shook his head. “Other creatures turn into Drago, formed in Darkness. An old Darkness this is, and not under the power of the Duithèn. Older than the Naiya; older than our monari.”

Brandyé felt a small shiver in him. “They are powerful, the dragons.”

Nisha bobbed his head. “Do you know the tale of Goroth? How it is a Drago that brings him down?”

Brandyé thought back to the record of Daevàr he had read in Vira Weitor. “A dragon and its lord brought Goroth to his knees, so that Daevàr could slay him.”

“Some monari tell of how the Dragomi takes the sword of Goroth, and not Daevàr. Think of such power as is Goroth, and think of what power defeats it!”

“Namrâth,” Brandyé said aloud. “You think the Dragon Lords took it?”

“Where is it?” Nisha pointed out. “Does no one know?”

“They say it fell into the sea.”

Nisha shrugged again. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Who knows? Perhaps it is hidden in a cave of the Dragomi, waiting.”

Brandyé felt another chill. “Waiting? Waiting for what?”

“What every sword waits for: to be wielded.”

For a moment, Brandyé thought long and hard. He tried to recall what he knew of the final battle between Dark and Light; how the dragons had come, how Goroth was brought to his knees and slain with his own dark blade. He recalled Daevàr’s words, that he had awoken in a tent, with no knowledge of the terrible sword’s fate. What if the Dragon Lords had in fact taken the blade with them, hidden it in a place no one would dare to venture? But the Dragon Lords might well be no more, according to Nisha; and then a dreadful thought occurred to him.

“Nisha – what would happen if the Duithèn found Namrâth?”

At this question, Nisha’s expression seemed to sober. “I do not believe the Duithèn can find it,” he said. “It holds their power, yes – but it is a creation of man. Man only can wield the weapon; man only can find it.”

Unbidden, the thought of the black dagger in the marketplace of Daevàr’s Hut came to Brandyé’s mind. He had found that blade instinctively, as though it had called to him to grasp its hilt. The same blade that now stood, alone and abandoned, in the floorboards of Reuel’s old home. He had lost it as easily as he had found it; what if it had not been meant for him? He recalled the knifemonger’s words: That’s a bad blade, son – you’ll not want that. And if it had not been meant for him, who should have found it? Who in Consolation would have been so invested in Darkness that the Duithèn would have wanted them to find the blade?

Slowly, he turned his gaze to Nisha again, his eyes cold and serious. “What would happen if the armies of Darkness should find Namrâth?”

Nisha, however, seemed calm as he said, “It finds its way into the hands of a man, and like Goroth, that man becomes an akushi: a demon.”

“And what if someone else should find it?”

“It is a powerful weapon, against the Duithèn or for them,” Nisha said. “Maybe they can be defeated, even.”

For some days after this conversation, Brandyé considered Nisha’s words. He felt dreadfully unsettled, and wondered at his feeling that he looking for something, though he knew not what. Some small voice in the back of his mind told him that that thing was Namrâth, that somehow he needed to find Goroth’s black blade. He was unsure even what he would do with it if he did find it, and he had not a clue where to begin. But for the first time in many months, Brandyé felt as though he had discovered a genuine purpose, something that he – and he alone – was meant to do. Somehow, he told himself, possessing the great blade of death would help him in his resistance against the Duithèn.

Eventually, he came to discuss his thoughts with Elven, who listened carefully as Brandyé explained the fate of the Dragon Lords, the possibilities of finding Namrâth, and the pull he felt to set out on a new journey, one with a true purpose this time.

And when he was finished, Elven said to him, “Brandyé, you are my friend. You always have been, and you always will be. But you are being a complete fool, to think that you can find some mythical sword that may not even exist.”

Brandyé had not been certain what Elven’s reaction would be, but he was nonetheless hurt to hear such words. “It isn’t a myth, Elven! Namrâth exists, I am certain of it. It wasn’t destroyed during the War of Darkness.”

Elven gazed upon his friend with a look that was almost pitying. “What war, Brandyé? Something that may or may not have occurred some thousands of years ago? What do you know of these things? What you read on a piece of paper?”

Brandyé felt himself beginning to turn red in the face. “It was an account from Daevàr himself, Elven. Daevàr – the same person Daevàr’s Hut is named after. You can’t deny that there is a connection there.”

“It’s myth and legend, Brandyé; these things are not real anymore.”

“How can you say that?” Brandyé protested. “The wolves and beasts we fought in the Rein are not real?”

“But they are!” insisted Elven. “They are real, not some notion of Darkness long past.”

“You told me only too recently that you believed there were powers that influence the world – that there’s an unnatural Darkness settling on Erâth! Were you only placating me?”

Elven looked shocked. “I would never lie to you. I do believe in these forces, these…creatures, the Duithèn. But to hold faith in stories from the past, that some mysterious sword can somehow defeat them…it’s folly, Brandyé! The armies of Darkness don’t care what sword you wield – they’ll kill you all the same. It’s there, in the Rein, in the face of the enemy – that’s where Darkness will be defeated. And all you’re doing is running from it!”

“I can’t go back,” Brandyé said bitterly. “There’s nothing for me there.”

“And I can’t stay here,” Elven replied, shaking his head. “I’ve come this far with you Brandyé, to protect you, to help you; but my calling is behind me, with the people of Erârün. They’re dying, Brandyé – and that is something I can do something about.”

“Your calling is with Talya,” Brandyé spat, knowing even as he said it that it was an unfair thing to say.

“You have no right to speak about her,” Elven said, a sudden danger in his voice. “For months I’ve put up with you and Elỳn—”

“Elỳn is a higher creature than either of us,” Brandyé interrupted. “You owe her your respect. She fought the enemy before you were born – she made it possible for all of this to be at all!” He gestured wildly around him.

“And what if she did?” Elven retorted. “What is she doing now? She courts the politicians and counsellors of the king, while real people are dying! Where was she when your own soldiers were ambushed? Where was she when Talya nearly lost her life?”

“I don’t want to hear about Talya!” Brandyé knew he was succumbing to a fierce jealousy, and found he did not care. “Go, and be with her, if she’s so important!”

“She is important to me,” Elven said, his voice suddenly soft. “But no more important than you, Brandyé. I fear for you. I’m afraid of what will become of you if you insist on chasing old tales of the past.”

Brandyé could feel a wealth of emotion flooding through him: anger, jealously, sadness, regret and guilt. “What else do I have?” he cried. “Everywhere I have gone, I’ve brought death and Darkness. I can’t continue to hurt everyone around me! I won’t bring destruction on an entire kingdom!”

“You give yourself too much credit, I think,” Elven said with a hint of derision. “The armies of Darkness would be prowling the Rein without you.”

“Then why only when I arrive do they mount their first organized assault? Why when I arrive do more people die than in the past hundred years?”

“Listen to me,” said Elven fiercely. “There is no knowing what could have, or would have been. There is only what is. This is something your friends here, the Hochträe, understand instinctively. Have you not noticed? They do not speak of the past!”

“Then what am I to do, when the past consumes me? Why can’t you understand what I need to find?”

“I can’t! I can’t understand why you need to find some stupid sword!”

“It isn’t a sword, Elven – it’s my salvation. If I can find a way to rid this world of Darkness, then maybe…maybe I can find a way to live with what I have done. Maybe I can find redemption!”

“What in Erâth do you need redemption from?”

“Don’t you know?”

“You can’t mean…after all these years? After my forgiveness, and my family’s?”

“Her death haunts me every waking moment of every day!”

“Sonora’s death was not of your doing! We’ve spoken of this!”

“It was my bow! My arrow!” Tears were in Brandyé’s eyes, and they hid the tears in the eyes of his friend. “There are only two ways I can see to right that wrong! Either I must rid the world of Darkness – I, myself – or…”

“Or what?” Elven asked, after Brandyé failed to speak for a moment.

“Or her death must be redeemed by my own.”

“So that’s what this is really about! Your insistence on pushing yourself beyond your own limits, rushing into places that are beyond dangerous…you’re trying to kill yourself!”

Brandyé felt his lip quiver. “What else can I do?”

“You can live! You can come with me, return to Erârün, and fight Darkness in a very real way, in a way that matters!”

But Brandyé shook his head. “I can’t.”

A look of great sadness came over Elven’s face then, and he said, “And I can’t continue with you. I won’t watch as you destroy yourself.”

And then there were no more words to be said, and with a profound sense of loss that mirrored what he felt for his grandfather, Brandyé walked away and spent the rest of the day in solitude. He knew, he was certain, what he could and could not do, and did not know how to convince Elven of this fact. Likewise, Elven seemed just as certain of his own destiny, and it tore at his heart that they did not seem to share the same one. It was only then, at the closing of the day as the sun’s crimson light flooded over him, that he recalled Khana’s words, from what seemed now so long ago: Still… again we may meet, my heart speaks. By no chance it is, that we should have met. By no chance was it that he and Elven should have met again in the forests of the Trestaé, and thus it was by no chance that they now seemed to be parting. He could only hope that it would not be for the last time.

As it happened, they did not part for some time after their argument, for the season was growing cold, and the Hochträe insisted that Elven would not survive a journey alone through the Reinkrag in the snows. For once Elven’s stubbornness was defeated, and for the following months as the days grew short and dark, Elven remained among them, and nonetheless kept Brandyé company. They did not speak of their imminent parting, and took the opportunity rather to speak tenderly as friends, as they had so rarely had the opportunity to do.

Brandyé also spent much time with Nisha, seated near his warm stove on cold nights, sometimes with stars gleaming in the windows and sometimes snow falling fast and furious against the glass, incensed tea and spiced curries filling the air. He was enthralled by Nisha’s stories of things that were, or rather that are, for as Nisha said, “All things are, now and then. Who are we to say what is and what is not?”

It was on one of these evenings that Brandyé had a dream, unlike any that he had had before. Nisha often smoked a heavily-scented pipe in the evenings, and Brandyé had come to share this with him on occasion. The smoke lightened his mind and made him feel quite giddy, and often he would find humor in things that during the day would have passed him by as quite serious, and he and Nisha would laugh together long into the night.

On one particular evening, Brandyé had perhaps partaken more of the weed than usual, and the thought of Elven’s leaving once more entered his thoughts. The worst of the winter had passed, and it was likely that come the end of the current snowfall, Elven would begin his preparations to return to Erârün. They had spoken only briefly about it, but it was the consensus of the Hochträe that Elven ought to take a path due south, that would quickly lead him to lower mountains and eventually into the vicinity of Vira Weitor itself. The journey would be one of several months, but it was suspected that no creatures of Darkness roamed those lands, and that his passage would be quite safe.

His own journey, however, he thought would not be so unchallenged. Brandyé was still uncertain what he was do to from here, his only certainty being that he must find the remains of Namrâth, wherever it might lie. It continued to frustrate him that Elven could not see the importance of this, and he spoke of it to Nisha.

“Every man has a road,” Nisha said in reply, “and you know this. Elven’s road is not yours. Your destination is hidden from him. He sees only his own.”

“And what is that?” Brandyé asked. The room was gently spinning around him, but he relaxed into the stuffed sack that was his chair, for the sensation was not unpleasant.

“Only he knows. And perhaps not even then. Is your destination known to you?”

“I know I must find Namrâth,” Brandyé insisted.

“Ah – Owar-Shi. You are bound to it.”

“It seems to be.”

Nisha made a gesture with his hands, palms open and outward toward Brandyé. Brandyé, in his fluid state of mind, hardly noticed. “But you already have a sword – Fahnat-om. What do you do with another?”

“It isn’t for me,” Brandyé said lazily. “It is for the ending of the Duithèn.”

“But it is not their end you find. End of Eternity, in your tongue; Eternity’s Death, in ours. What does that mean?”

“It had another name, once,” Brandyé said.

Nisha nodded. “Peace, its other name is – Hai. But which will you find?”

This thought struck Brandyé as suddenly profound, and for a moment he lost himself in it – what was the difference, he wondered, between peace and death? And as he began to drift into sleep, it occurred to him that they might in fact be the same thing.

Before long Brandyé was turning gently this way and that, his eyes moving behind closed lids, and deep in his mind he was suddenly in another place, far from the Hochträe and their mountains, far from Elven and his destiny, and in a place that was unlike any other he had known, whether dream or reality.

Around him as far as the eye could see was rock, towering high into great peaks and mountains. Yet they were not the granite of the Reinkrag or the smooth stone of the Trestaé; these rocks were black, and sharp, and even the gravel Brandyé stood upon was as tiny shards of glass. The air was thick and hot, and scented with sulphur, and Brandyé found it difficult to draw breath. The sky was red, thick with black clouds, and here and there ash drifted through the air.

Yet as oppressive as the atmosphere was, as dark as it was, Brandyé did not feel the presence of Darkness itself, of the Duithèn. A different power was here, once he could feel in the air, and it was dark, but not evil.

As he stood and looked about him, he began to feel a draw upon him to move, to climb these sharp rocks and search for something, and he wondered if it might be Namrâth. Unlike the dreams of his youth, Brandyé began almost to feel a sense of excitement, for he had come to recognize his dreams for what they seemed to be: premonitions of things to come. And he wondered what was to come in this dream.

But for a long while, it seemed, nothing at all was coming. For an age he walked among the rocks, climbing up and down then here and there, cutting his hands and fingers on their edges so that they bled openly and hurt terribly, but there seemed to be nothing to find – no sign that he was meant to go in any one direction or another. Unlike the great, abandoned city by the sea, there was no sorrowful statue to tell him which way to go; unlike the dread plains of Darkness, there was no Schaera to guide him.

And so he went on, for hour after hour, until finally, exhausted, he came to rest by the mouth of what seemed to be a shallow cave. The light was poor and the depths of the cave in utter black, but the curve of its walls suggested it did not go deep into the mountain. Brandyé sat with his back to the rock, and gathered his breath, and was perplexed.

Never in one of his dreams had he gone so long with no sign of what he was there for. He was just beginning to think that perhaps this was nothing more than a delusion from Nisha’s pipe-smoke, and that he would return to the Hochträe empty-handed, when out of the silence came a greeting, of sorts.

It was a voice – so much he was certain of. But it was unlike any voice he had ever heard. Out of the silence it came, yet the silence somehow remained unbroken nonetheless. The tones were guttural and savage, and yet Brandyé heard them and knew their meaning as though they were spoken in his own tongue.

What are you, small-one?

Brandyé sat bolt upright and looked about him, but there was nothing to be seen.

I see you move, small-one. Answer to me.

Brandyé began to feel a shiver of fear, for he still could see no speaker, and the voice was not peaceful. “I…I am Brandyé.”

There was silence for a long moment. That is not all.

“Do you mean my name?” Brandyé asked timidly.

That is not all, the voice repeated.

“Brandyé Dui-Erâth is my full name,” Brandyé said, “grandson of Reuel Tolkaï.”

Ah, said the voice. A name of the ancient speech. “THEETAE-TÛ ERÂTHEET?”

The voice roared so loud and so sudden that Brandyé jumped, and let out a small cry of surprise. “I’m sorry?”

Perhaps not. Whence come you, Brandyé Dui-Erâth?

“I…I am from the land of Consolation,” Brandyé replied, uncertain if this was exactly what the disembodied voice meant.

What is Consolation?

“Comfort after sorrow,” Brandyé said, suddenly remembering words from long ago.

Ah! A good answer, said the voice. There has been much sorrow.

This was something Brandyé thought he could agree upon. “Too much,” he said. “I am looking for a means to end it.”

Once again, there was a great silence. You are curious, small-one. This is a world of sorrow. You seek to end the world?

“No,” Brandyé protested. “I seek to put an end to those who insist on its being so.”

Hm. What if I am one of those?

This was a thought that made Brandyé suddenly very nervous, for this voice, as-yet unseen, sounded dreadfully powerful. “Are you?”

I have dwelt in sorrow for longer than you can imagine, small-one. End what you will, this will continue to be a world of sorrow for some.

“Perhaps I misspoke,” Brandyé said hastily. “Do you know of the Duithèn? I am looking to end Darkness in the world.”

Perhaps you do misspeak, the voice said, and there was a dangerous threat in it now. Darkness may not be ended. It is as eternal as Light, Life, Death, Power, and Wisdom.

“You speak of the original powers of Erâth,” Brandyé whispered. “But then you must know that many of those powers are now ended; Darkness, the Duithèn – they triumph over all!”

Then they triumph. It is of little concern to me.

“Why is that?” Brandyé asked, half-afraid of the answer.

Because I am the original Darkness! the voice roared. The Duithèn have no power over me.

Brandyé flinched to hear the fury in the voice’s words, and began to take a step back from the cave.

Why do you flee? the voice said, suddenly soft. There is no escape.

“You are very powerful,” Brandyé said truthfully, “and I’m frightened.”

Brandyé thought he heard a faint laugh. You have some wisdom in you, small-one. Frightened indeed.

“Will you show yourself?” Brandyé asked tentatively.

Then you will be frightened indeed.

“I’ve seen some of the most dreadful creatures this world has to offer,” Brandyé said with false bravery, for he wanted to see this voice despite all. “How bad could you be?”

Then there truly was laughter, an echoing, dismal sound that rang in Brandyé’s mind and caused him to shut his eyes in pain.

You close your eyes at my voice, small-one – how will you see my form?

“I think I know you,” Brandyé said. “I would have my doubts proven.”

Your fate is mine, small-one. I hope you have wisdom enough to see it.

Despite the knowledge that this must only be a dream, a vision, Brandyé nonetheless felt a genuine fear in him at this. He wondered what would happen to him if he were to die in a dream. “If you will not show yourself, will you answer a question?”

Why should I answer any question of yours?

Boldly, Brandyé put forth, “You have not killed me yet – you must have some curiosity. Answer a question of mine, and I will answer any of yours.”

Hm. Wisdom and perception. Perhaps I will only maim you. Speak your question, and we will see.

Taking a deep breath, Brandyé asked, “Do you know where I can find Namrâth?”

For such a long time was there silence that Brandyé thought perhaps the voice had left, unwilling to answer such a question. But finally Brandyé felt a stirring from the cave, and then came: That answer is not for you to know. To find Namrâth is to find your death.

Frustrated, Brandyé insisted, “But do you know?”

Enough! commanded the voice. I will not answer that question. Ask me another.

“That’s the only question I have,” Brandyé said.

Then I will ask one of you. You say you seek to destroy the Duithèn. How do I know you would not restore the black blade to them?

“Ah-ha!” Brandyé cried. “You do care about the fate of Darkness in this world.”

He felt another stirring in the cave. Do not presume to trick me, small-one. I said I do not care, and care I do not. The black blade is lost, and lost it must remain. Any who find it are bound to fall to its power, and so must die. Only a fool or a servant of the Duithèn would seek it. And, despite everything, you do not strike me as a fool.

“Then why does it matter if I find it or not?” Brandyé pressed.

I am not beholden to you to explain, said the voice. But the blade is hidden, and so it shall ever remain.

Brandyé breathed a sigh of frustration. “Then I have nothing left to ask of you. I will leave.”

You will not leave, the voice insisted. Your answer was not satisfactory.

“Nor was yours!”

Silence! I am lord here, and you will never leave this place!

But Brandyé turned, and began to walk away from the cave. Suddenly an enormous roar followed him, and a wave of heat singed his back. YOU WILL NOT TURN YOUR BACK ON ME!

Brandyé turned again, suddenly furious. “Then show yourself!”

Very well. And then, from deep within the cave, there came a rustling, and movement, and then before Brandyé could even move, a fierce, flaming wall of fire was expelled from its depths, and as the giant hove into view, he was consumed.

Chapter 23: The People of the Mountains

Though the mountaintop they had climbed to soared above the clouds, it was yet low compared to the giants of the Reinkrag. Brandyé knew that if they continued to climb much further they would end up making their way through snow as much as rock, and they had only a little food left with them. However, his desire to keep within view of the sun kept them aloft, and for some days they made their way through snow and stone, and for Brandyé the glorious light from above more than made up for the dreadful illness he was now suffering. At this high altitude daily he weakened, pausing for rest now so often that they made less than a mile or two each day.

To Elven this was all folly, and he did not even understand what was pushing Brandyé to continue forward at all – what was he expecting to find? But there was no arguing with him, and he eventually resolved to simply drag Brandyé down the mountain once he finally collapsed from exhaustion.

Unfortunately, this was something that would be increasingly difficult to do. When they had descended the eastern ridge of the summit atop which they had seen the sun, it was to find themselves on a series of long, high protuberances that went on for many miles, near vertical drops on either side. From here it was a precarious journey to pick their way across the broken rock, every loose stone threatening to tumble them into the void and to their deaths. Matters were not aided by the clouds that blew past and around them, propelled by the high winds rising from the south. Sometimes there were flurries of snow, and Elven soon became used to his fingers being almost constantly numb. There were no fires up here, and he could not even walk with his hands in his pockets, for he needed them to cling to the sides of cliffs.

Finally came the morning when they ate their last piece of dried meat, and discovered there were only a few drops of water left in the water bottles. “We must descend now,” Elven insisted.

Brandyé felt his heart torn, but he knew that Elven spoke the truth. He also knew that, all the motivation in Erâth aside, he could not continue pushing himself day after day. If he did not take the time to recover from his cold, he might well develop a worse illness – perhaps a fatal one. He had been trying to hide it from Elven for some time now, but he was often taken by fits of coughing, and the phlegm he coughed up was thick and disgusting.

“All right,” he said. “But we will make for the higher lands, the places that are ever above the clouds.”

Elven agreed, and so they set off, trying to find as easy a way down the mountain as possible. In the end, they had to traverse for some distance across the base of a high cliff, for they had discovered that after a hundred feet or so of steep scree, there was a vertical drop of nearly a hundred more feet that they could not hope to climb down. The crossing was terrifying, and every step sent small streams of stones trickling down the slope, threatening to give way entirely under their feet and send them down the mountain with them. Brandyé’s fever was high that morning, and as they were nearing a place where the mountain opened onto a large, wide col, his vision began to swim, and the landscape around him became blurred. He coughed, and felt a pain in his chest.

“Are you all right?” called Elven from behind him.

For a moment Brandyé couldn’t answer for a sudden shortness of breath, and merely coughed again. He stopped moving forward, his hands clinging numbly to the rock near his head. Before long Elven had caught up with him, and for the first time Brandyé could not hide his coughing, which was now deep and hacking.

“Oh, Brandyé…” Elven said, “You have an illness in your lungs; you should have spoken of this sooner!”

But Brandyé shook his head. “No, I’m…I’m fine, really. I just need to rest…”

But it had finally become too much for Elven and he cursed, saying, “You’re not fine! Brandyé, listen to me well: if we do not get you down from the mountain and somewhere warm, you are going to die!”

Brandyé responded with only more coughing, and Elven said, “Come – keep going. I can see ahead of us a way down that is less steep.”

They began to move on, and before long were atop the col, which descended in a great cliff to the south, but to the north spread outward in a large, steep slope, with only small ledges of rock here and there. From the top they could see far in the distance below a valley of moss and grass, and it seemed this slope led directly into it. Elven thought he could even see a tree or two in the distance, and was about to start his descent when, without warning, Brandyé collapsed beside him in a fit of coughing.

Elven rushed to his side and pulled him upright, so that Brandyé was at least sitting on the loose rock. “We must get down from here,” he said. “Can you stand?”

Brandyé coughed again, and he wondered if he was finally paying the price for his foolhardy adventurism, for it felt that his body was almost falling apart. “I…I think I might need some help,” he admitted weakly.

So after a moment’s rest, Elven hauled Brandyé to his feet and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, so that he was supporting some of Brandyé’s weight. Together, slowly, they began to pick their way down the slope, stopping every dozen yards or so for them both to catch their breaths. The clouds began coming in again, and their visibility shrank until they could no longer see the bottom of the slope, and Elven began to worry that there might be a hidden cliff below them that they had not seen from above. Several times one or the other of them slipped, and only through chance did they regain their balance and not fall down the slope entirely.

Soon with the worsening weather came the faint rumblings of thunder, and then the first few drops of cold rain. Brandyé was coughing almost all the time now, and Elven began to feel frantic that they would never make it off this slope and into the valley below. He started to hurry his pace, and it was then that with a sudden great crack of thunder he lost his footing and did not regain it.

Crying out, he began to slide on the loose rock down the hill, pulling Brandyé forward with him. Brandyé cried out himself in surprise, and then there was no time for words as they were engulfed in a sudden flow of rolling stones and rocks. Elven, with his feet facing downhill, was hard-pressed to keep himself afloat on a suddenly moving river of rock, but Brandyé, who had been pulled headlong down with Elven, was tumbling out of control, soon lost to Elven’s sight in the clouds of dust that rose from all around them. He tried to call out Brandyé’s name, and breathed in the stone dust and was set coughing himself, eyes streaming.

Down, they tumbled, and it seemed to Elven some hundreds of feet must have passed before he felt the flow of stones around him begin to lessen, and the steepness of the slope begin to level. By the time he stopped moving he was buried to the waist in rock, and it felt that his legs were crushed under their weight. Desperately he struggled to loosen the stones, but succeeded only in bringing more down upon him from above. His only consolation was that he felt no shooting, dreadful pain, and assumed that he had managed not to break anything.

“Brandyé!” he cried out, but received no response. Desperately he began to claw at the rocks holding him in, his nails soon cracked and bleeding as he flung stone after stone away from him. For every two stones he cleared another slipped down and buried him more, and it seemed hours before he was clear enough to move one of his legs, and a further eternity before he was finally free of the stone prison, and able to move shakily on his own two feet. All this time he kept calling out for Brandyé, and was rewarded with silence.

Still slipping on the now wet stones, Elven began to move across the bottom of the slope toward where he had last seen Brandyé. The rain had quickly cleared the dust, but now a steaming mist was rising from the rocks, and he was just as blind in it. Finally, after wandering aimlessly and calling out for an age, he very nearly stumbled upon a crumpled and hooded form, half-buried in stones and still as death.

Elven knelt beside Brandyé’s inert form in a panic, pushing a heavy stone from above his head and bending his ear down, listening for breathing. To his incalculable relief it was there, though it was shallow and rasping. He pushed Brandyé’s hood away from his face and saw that the side of his head was coated thick with blood. Pawing through Brandyé’s long matted hair, he soon found a deep cut in his scalp, but it seemed the bleeding had already slowed, and the worst fear was of a concussion.

Elven knew that until Brandyé was awake it was a risk to move him, for he could not tell what bones, if any, might be broken. Instead, he set about clearing Brandyé’s body of stones so that he lay free on the mountainside, and lay his own cloak over him so that Brandyé would remain warm, even if he froze to death.

Such actions helped to keep Elven in a sense of calm, but inside he was raging with panic: the air was growing colder by the moment, and the rain, light as it was, was likely to turn to snow at any moment. Above their heads the sky continued to thunder, and looking up Elven could see lightning striking the mountaintops where they had been only hours earlier. He would never have admitted it to Brandyé, but he was dreadfully frightened, and angry. Angry that he had listened to Brandyé, angry that he had not been more careful descending the slope…and buried deep in secret, angry at Brandyé for bringing his life to such a point in the first place.

So distracted by this was he that his surprise was unimaginable when from behind, completely without warning, came the voice of another person. He spun around, and his jaw dropped at what he saw. It was not the fact that there were people here when only moments before there had been no one; nor was it even their garb, which was flowing, bright and colorful, very unlike anything he had seen in Erârün; not even the strange tongue in which they had addressed him. It was that behind them towered a structure that defied his imagination.

It seemed that upon the stones of the mountainside stood a ship – a veritable sea vessel, keel and hull and all – at least fifty feet long and almost half as broad. Yet this vessel rested on stone, and instead of masts bearing sails (which Elven had, of course, never seen) there rose great, thick cords, and these cords held fast to the ship an absolutely enormous cloth balloon, a thing that towered a hundred feet in the air if it stood an inch, smooth and round and possessing a great hole in the bottom. Elven could not begin to understand what this construction was for, nor how it did not collapse on the boat, and most of all he could not understand how it came to be there, in a place where only minutes before there had been only empty space.

But the men that had come from this craft did not share Elven’s astonishment, and moved forward with purpose. He heard them speak to each other in their own tongue, and several of them moved toward Brandyé. At this, Elven’s astonishment dropped a little, and he stepped forward to bar their way. “Stop – what are you doing?”

But the men ignored him and bent to Brandyé’s side. One of them unfurled a great canvas and stretched it out on the ground, and then another two grasped Brandyé hard by the shoulders and legs, and and lifted him bodily onto it.

“No – don’t move him!” Elven cried out. “You could injure him worse than he already is!”

He moved to stop the men from their endeavor, but an impressively strong grasp held him back. Whirling, Elven saw that he was being restrained by another of their group that had not tended to Brandyé. He tried to wrest the man’s hand from his shoulder and was surprised to find he could not, and it felt as though an iron clamp rested there. Failing, he instead tried to strike the man outright, and in a heartbeat and a deft twist of the arm he found himself lying flat on his back, breathless and aching.

“Stop,” he uttered again. “Please!”

But then the strange man did the unexpected, and held out his hand to Elven, proffering it to him in a gesture of aid. Uncertain, Elven nonetheless grasped the man’s hand, and was propelled upward with great force.

The man looked deep into his eyes for a moment and Elven felt extremely uncomfortable. Then the man spoke, and to Elven’s surprise he understood his words.

“Gray one hurt,” he said, and indicated where Brandyé was now being loaded onto the ship. Elven had never thought of Brandyé in such terms, but understood what was meant by the color of Brandyé’s hair and eyes. “You come?”

Elven looked to the ship, and back at the man incredulously. “You want me to come with you on that thing?”

“You come?” the man repeated, and Elven had the distinct impression that this represented most of the words outside his own tongue that this man knew.

“Yes,” he said instead, nodding his head, and the man seemed satisfied. He gestured for Elven to follow him, and led him to the side of the vessel. Here was a short ladder up which they climbed, and as Elven stood on the deck he wondered if this was what it was like to be at sea. What was to happen next, however, was so unlike being at sea that he was filled with absolute terror and could do nothing but collapse on the floor and hang on for all his life.

For in the center of the vessel was an enormous bowl, and in it must have been a vast quantity of burning coals for Elven could feel the heat through the air from a distance. This bowl was covered by a lid, but it was one that could be retracted by means of a mechanism that involved many handles and gears. Once everyone was on board, a pair of men began turning heftily on these handles and the lid rose open.

With a sudden lurch, Elven felt the deck of the vessel heave, and looking out about him he saw the mountainside ever so slowly begin to move, drawing ever more distant and further below them. He realized the entire ship was in fact rising steadily into the air, and it was then his face turned ashen and he looked desperately for something on to which he could cling. Soon they were floating inside the clouds themselves and Elven could see almost nothing at all. He thought surely they would be struck by lightning, and indeed he could see great flashes of light about them, and the vessel swung madly to and fro as the winds buffeted them with all their might.

But then, inevitably, as they continued to rise the storm became less, and the clouds thinned, and once more Elven felt the warming rays of the sun on him, and for the second time in only a few days he was treated to the view of the clouds from above, none of the darkness of the storm evident at all – only snowy white puffs, forming an endless sea of white, above which only the peaks of the mountains could protrude. This time, though, there was nothing beneath him but the thin hull of a ship, and the thought filled him with such dread that his sight began to blur, and he cried out in fear.

Around him, though, the men of this vessel moved around with ease and calm, opening the coal chamber or closing it to varying degrees, hauling on ropes, and working enormous propellers that spun near the rear of the craft and served to propel them forward. So it was that they rose, and so it was that they travelled, and for hours Elven could do nothing but cower in a corner of the ship and hope that he might die before they fell bodily from the sky.

Of course they did not, and had Elven looked out over the edge of the ship, he would have seen wondrous landscapes pass them by, mountains and ridges and entire valleys that glittered with rock and snow, and all of which were ever lit by the glory of the sun, reflecting its light and glowing with beauty. Eventually even Elven could not help but look up as evening began to come on, and he thought quietly that Brandyé would have given anything to be there at that moment, when the sky turned to blood and the sun sank below the horizon, and the clouds became golden pillows and the mountains pinnacles of crimson majesty. And later, when the stars started to appear, Elven began to weep for their beauty, and his heart ached for the days long ago before the eternal clouds covered all the skies.

It was still night, though hardly dark for the light of a nearly full moon, when they arrived at their destination. All around them were lights, fires and candles and lit windows that cast their glow out from the steep mountainsides into the abyss. Elven’s amazement began to overshadow his fright, and he stood and looked (though from the center of the ship’s deck), and was awestruck. An entire village, it seemed, had been built on the steep and sheer rock of the mountains, spanning an entire valley and to the peaks in the distance.

Soon they were approaching what Elven saw was a grand structure, great wooden towers sprouting high into the air, and at their base was a wide, long platform that stood out from the mountainside entirely and was held up by pillars that seemed to descend endlessly into the dark depths below. It was to this platform they now navigated, and with deft ease their pilots set the ship down with hardly a bump.

Almost as soon as they had touched down, men from the ship were carrying Brandyé away, and Elven hurried to keep up with them. However, as he made to step off the airship, he was interrupted by the man who had spoken to him before. “You grey one friend,” he said, and Elven nodded.

“I need to be with him – let me pass!”

But the man simply stared at him, and then said, “You follow me.”

“No,” said Elven, and made to push past the man. It was then that the man grasped him again with his hand, and Elven remembered how the man had effortlessly flung him to the ground earlier. As much as he wanted to fight this man right now, he had no desire to be flung into the abyss below them, and he relented.

“You follow me,” the man repeated, and with a sigh, Elven stood back and motioned for the man to lead the way. The man seemed to understand, for he turned and started walking away, leaving Elven to lag behind.

As he followed the man down a set of exposed, winding steps, Elven asked him, “Who are you?”

“Naiya,” the man said, and Elven was left to wonder if this was the man’s name, his people, or something else entirely.

 

When Brandyé awoke, it was to a sensation he had not felt in longer than he could remember: sun, streaming through a window, falling lightly on his face. For the longest time he lay there, eyes closed, and simply savored the feeling. For a moment he allowed himself to recall the feeling of waking up in Reuel’s home in Consolation as a boy, knowing even before he opened his eyes that it was going to be a good day, one filled with excitement and adventure with Elven. Perhaps they would travel to Soleheart and spend the day high amongst the great tree’s leaves, speaking of nothing and everything; perhaps they would visit Farmer Tar and help him in his fields. And at the end of the day, he would return home to Reuel and the comfort of a roaring fire and a warm meal.

For a while Brandyé drifted in and out of these thoughts, but in the end he knew he could not believe it, for the blankets were rough and coarse, and the pillow hard; the wind rushing outside the window did not carry with it the sounds of birds and marmots; and there were scents of smoke and incense about him that would never have found their way into his grandfather’s home.

And so he opened his eyes, and in the glad of the sunlight, stared about him. He was indeed in a bed of rough blankets, and all about him were draped cloths and banners of every color he could imagine. In the corner of the small room stood an iron stove, and it was steaming and smoking and filling the air with its warmth. The walls, the floor, the ceiling too – all was made of wood, and Brandyé could even catch the scent of the pine itself, mixed with spices that drifted in through the door that stood open.

But all of this was as nothing compared to the window. The window itself was unspectacular – a cross of wood inset with glass – but what it afforded a view of was beyond words. At first Brandyé could see only the bright glow of the sun, but as he got out of the bed and walked toward the window, his view took in the endless ranges of mountains that coursed onward into the distance like waves of an ocean. All was dark rock and white snow, except in the lowest valleys which were green with grass and trees. In the far distance were the clouds, but they were far below and away, and from this distance seemed utterly harmless.

And over all of it watched a sky of such magnificent blue that Brandyé’s breath was taken away, and all curiosity at his current situation left him momentarily as he surveyed the majesty that lay strewn before him like jewels before a king. For an age he stood there, until he heard from behind him a soft voice, lyrical and accented: “Ah – you are awake! So good, so good!”

Brandyé turned to find an elderly man standing in the doorway, resting on a cane and looking at him with the most placid of smiles. He seemed so genuine and disarming that Brandyé could not help but smile back, and said, “Where am I?”

“That is a long tale,” the man said enigmatically, “but you are safe.”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“What does your stomach say?” The old man chuckled, and almost at his words Brandyé felt his stomach growl.

“Days, it feels like.”

“Four,” the old man said. “Come, eat!”

And so Brandyé followed the man out of the room and into another room that housed many large stuffed balls and a stove on which a deep curved pan was sizzling. The smells from the pan were beyond enticing, and Brandyé could not wait to eat. The old man seemed to know what Brandyé was thinking, and immediately spooned a great mass of curried meat and onions into a wooden bowl and handed it to Brandyé. Brandyé dug in with gusto, and the old man laughed to see him eat so fast.

“Slowly!” he said. “Your stomach will turn!”

The flavors were spiced and exotic, but Brandyé thought he had never tasted anything so delicious. He consumed no less than four bowls of the old man’s curry, and only then drank ice cold water from the pitcher that stood beside him. It occurred to him that he was sitting on a cushion on the floor, which would have struck him as odd had he not been so ravenous.

All the while, the old man sat and watched him with what seemed to be an amused smile. Finally, Brandyé asked him, “What is your name?”

“I am Nisha,” the old man said. He bowed his head, and his chest-length white goatee bobbed. “You are Brandyé.”

Brandyé stared at him, suddenly nervous. If he had been asleep for four days, how could this old man know his name? For the second time in his life, it seemed, he was faced with an old man who knew too much about him. Now that he thought about it, was that a streak of black in the old man’s beard? “How do you know my name?” he asked finally.

Nisha shrugged. “Your friend says it to me. Elven is his name.”

The answer was simple and sensible, but still Brandyé was suspicious. “Where is he?”

“Your friend waits for you. He cares very much for you.”

“Can I see him?”

Nisha smiled and nodded again. “Yes.”

“Now?”

“So fast! You are full?”

Brandyé in fact thought he might be able to eat even more of the old man’s wonderful food, but his desire to see Elven overrode even his hunger. “Yes,” he said. “It was delicious.”

Nisha bowed again. “Thank you. Come with me!”

Nisha led Brandyé to the door of the room, but just before he opened it looked back, and Brandyé saw a definite twinkle in his eye. “Afraid of height?” he asked.

“Why?”

And Nisha pulled open the door, and Brandyé understood, for indeed he very nearly reeled. The door opened onto a desperately steep wooden staircase that seemed built directly into the mountain rock. It had no railing, yet a fathomless precipice yawned wide beneath it, and Brandyé thought he would rather die than take a single step onto it. But Nisha, unperturbed, stepped out and began down the staircase, and Brandyé had little choice but to follow.

Breathless, he took each step as carefully and gingerly as though he was walking on eggshells, both hands always on the rock face for support. His head was spinning, and to distract himself, he tried to talk to Nisha. “You…you speak my tongue well, but I feel it is…it is not your own. Is that so?”

“You hear well,” Nisha called back over his shoulder. “Most of us speak a little of the common tongue.”

“The common tongue?” Brandyé had never heard it spoken of so.

“The tongue of men after the fall of Erâth.”

They had by now reached a wide platform, and Brandyé was glad for the distance from the abyss. “What can you tell me of the fall of Erâth?” he asked with a little more wind than before.

“Another time, another time,” Nisha chided him. “Now is time for friends!”

And indeed, there before him stood Elven, apparently deep in conversation with several of Nisha’s kin. As Brandyé approached Elven looked up, and a look of pure delight took his features. He rushed toward Brandyé, embracing him so tight that Brandyé could scarcely breathe. “I’m so glad to see you up!” he said.

“And I’m glad to see you,” Brandyé replied, somewhat awkwardly. “What happened?”

“Do you remember our fall?” Elven asked, and Brandyé shook his head.

“We fell?”

And so Elven recounted to Brandyé the tale of how they had been buried in the rockslide, and how the folk that now surrounded them had rescued them. “They call themselves ‘Naiya’, and you would not believe their tales!”

As they had been talking, Nisha and the other Naiya had been standing around them quietly. At this point, Nisha spoke up: “Naiya is our name in the tongue of Naiya; in the common tongue, we are ‘Hochträe’. They mean the same: the high people.”

Brandyé looked out at the dazzling, snowy mountaintops, glinting in the sunlight. “You are certainly high!”

“Not all of us are so high,” said one of the two Elven had been talking to. He bowed to Brandyé. “I am Karishi, and this is Serina.” Beside him, Serina bowed her head as well.

“We live low, also,” Serina said, and Brandyé thought she seemed to blush at her own words.

Nisha smiled. “Forgive Serina – she is only just learning the common tongue.” He turned to Serina. “Anta koso naiyashi.” She blushed even further, but said nothing. “I say she may speak our tongue,” he said, turning back to Brandyé and Elven, “I believe Brandyé is a master of tongues.”

Again, Brandyé was filled with the uncomfortable sensation that this man knew more about him than he had revealed, but said nothing about it. Instead, he said, “It is true – I speak two tongues with ease, and I am fascinated by the sound of your own.”

“Then you will hear much of it,” Nisha said. “Wer ira ora saikanta tolu.” And he smiled. “We have tales to tell!”