Authors: Dennis L. McKiernan
As Aiko resumed her seat on the floor, Egil shook his
head as if to cast away ill memories, and he took a deep breath and seemed to come to himself. Then he turned to Arin and smiled. “I would hear more of this tale of yours for I am curious as to what brought you to Mørkfjord. But first I would see”—he canted his head toward the bathing room and privy—“if I can make it in there and back on my own. And then let’s eat; I’m famished.”
* * *
The noon meal done, Egil leaned back against propped pillows and said, “Now tell us more of your story, Lady Engel, for—”
Aiko growled and started to stand, but Arin held out a staying hand toward the warrior woman, and the Ryodoan settled back, a dour look on her face.
Egil laughed, then sobered. “I’m sorry. I gave my word. And I have broken it twice in this day alone. It’s just that…just that”—he took a deep breath and then plunged on—“you
are
my
engel
, Lady Arin.”
Of a sudden Arin felt her heart racing, and she turned her face from him and stared into the hearth as if seeking a portent, though no fire burned this warm day.
Egil, seeing that he had disturbed her, started to hold out a hand in supplication, but instead dropped it to the coverlet. He cleared his throat and said, “Well now, the meal is finished. Pour me an ale, Alos, and pour one for yourself. And then, Lady Arin, if it pleases you, I would hear more of your tale. Why did you come to Mørkfjord? Too, where are your Elven companions? —Nothing ill has befallen them, has it?”
Arin turned away from the hearth and glanced at Aiko.
Egil’s gaze followed her glance, but Aiko’s face revealed nought. He looked back to Arin and added, “Tell us, too, of your visit with Wizards and of their sorcerous ways.”
With a
clang!
Alos dropped the pewter pitcher a few inches to the table, but it landed upright on its bottom, and although ale sloshed, none spilled out. Shakily the old man handed Egil a full mug and took up his own and gulped full half of it down.
A
s Arin looked into the deep shadow veiling the massive gates, a thought came upon her unbidden:
Tonight is the full dark of the moon. Is it an ill omen touching our arrival this day?
“The ironwork—it looks to be Drimmen made,” declared Perin, staring at the massive portals recessed deeply in solid black rock.
“Aye,” agreed Biren, “as does the stonework. Is this a Mageholt or no?”
For some reason all eyes turned to Arin. She shrugged. “There’s nothing for it but to knock on the door and ask.”
Arin dismounted and led her pony among the horses and across the wide foregate court embraced by the broad recess, the sheltered smooth stretch of stone covered with but a dusting of snow. The other Elves dismounted as well and, flanking left and right, also moved forward, spreading out as they went. Stepping through shadow, they came to the great gates, the iron rimed with hoarfrost.
“Hoy, over here,” called Ruar. “Runes. They seem to be written in the Drimmen manner, with another style below. I can read neither.”
Vanidar Silverleaf moved to Ruar’s side, then laughed. “Leave it to a Drimm to brag so.”
“What does it say?” asked Perin.
Silverleaf turned, smiling. “Although I cannot read the runes of the Drimma, the ones below them are written in a Vadarian script, one of the Mage tongues, and say, ‘I, Velkki Gatemaster, made this.’”
“Then it
is
the work of the Drimm,” declared Biren.
Silverleaf nodded, smiling. “Given this translation I would deem it so.”
Rissa cleared her throat. “Drimmenholt or no, I say we knock for entrance and leave the cold behind.”
Just as Arin raised the butt of her quarterstaff to rap on the great iron gate, a side postern in what had seemed to be solid stone opened and an armored figure stepped out and beckoned to them.
It was a Dwarf.
* * *
Irunan laughed and glanced at the armored Dwarf standing next to his chair, then gestured about the lantern-lit chamber, the stone black but hung with bright tapestries. “Yes, my friends, I suppose you could call this place entire a Dwarvenholt, though it was made for us.”
Through the archway and into the chamber came a Mage wheeling a tea-service cart. As he rolled the refreshments to the table where the Wizard and the Elves sat, the bearded, broad-shouldered Dwarf turned to Irunan. “Wizard, if you have no further need for me, I shall return to my post.”
“Well and good, Boluk,” replied the Mage. “And on your way, if you would, send someone to the stables to see that the horses and ponies of this Elven band have been watered and fed and groomed. The journey has been long and hard on the animals, and they deserve a lengthy, well-cared-for rest.”
Boluk bowed and then spun on his heel and left.
“Huah,” grunted Ruar, his gaze following Boluk as the Drimm passed through the archway. “The journey has been long and hard on us as well.”
Irunan smiled, his grey eyes atwinkle. “Yes. We know. Struggling through all that snow. We’ve been expecting you for some days now.”
“The ptarmigans?” asked Biren.
“So you saw,” replied Irunan, somewhat surprised.
“Yes,” replied Perin. “For the past three days.”
“Hmm,” mused Irunan, then smiled. “Very observant.” He turned to the Mage at the cart. “We shall have to take steps, Gelon, to exercise more stealth in the future.”
The other Mage nodded and began setting out porcelainware along with two pitchers of clotted cream and plates piled high with scones. As Gelon did so, Irunan
canted his head, his pale yellow hair falling across his shoulder. “Very rarely do we have visitors come through the hard mountain winter to our holt.”
Rissa reached for a scone. “Given thy winters, I can see why. —Have any others come this winter?”
“Oh no,” said Gelon, setting out cups. “People must be driven by great need to brave such brutal cold. Our last winter visitor came two years back. A woman from the east. A warrior woman who now serves in our guard. From Ryodo, I believe. Said her tiger brought her here.”
Perin’s eyes widened. “Tiger? She rode a tiger?”
“Brother of mine, perhaps she merely followed it,” said Biren.
“Oh…mayhap thou art right,” said Perin, “though even to follow a tiger is no mere thing.”
Both Perin and Biren turned to Irunan.
Ride or follow?
they both asked simultaneously.
Irunan laughed. “Neither. She came ahorse. And no tiger at all was in evidence.”
“Hmm, a mystery,” said Perin.
“Indeed,” agreed Biren.
Now Gelon began serving tea, and Irunan asked in a polite tone, “And what, pray tell, brings you through such harsh weather unto the Mageholt of Blackstone? Not the whisperings of another tiger, is it?” He smiled.
Arin accepted a full cup from Gelon, then said, “I have had a vision.”
“Oh?”
“Aye. A vision of war and famine and pestilence and disease, and slaughter, bloody slaughter, and Dragons roaring down and spewing flame—”
“Dragons?” Gelon blurted, slopping tea.
Arin nodded. “Aye, Dragons. Whelming down among masses of people and rending and tearing and burning—just one of the many images revolving about a pale green stone.”
“What!” exclaimed Irunan in disbelief, and Gelon dropped the porcelain teapot to smash on the stone floor.
His eyes wide in startlement, Irunan leaned forward and fixed Arin with his gaze. “Did you say a pale green stone?”
Arin looked from Gelon to Irunan and nodded.
Irunan held his hands somewhat apart, fingers curved and nearly touching, as if holding something oblong. “Jadelike? Egg shaped?”
Again Arin nodded.
Irunan leaped to his feet in agitation and turned to Gelon. “But surely this cannot be!”
* * *
Arin and her comrades were completely lost by the time they reached the High Council Chamber; they could no longer tell where they had begun, where the stables were, nor the location of the main gates. Discomposed and muttering to himself, Irunan had hurriedly led them through a labyrinth of black stone corridors to reach the forum hall as the echoes of a gong rang throughout the Wizardholt.
“I think they’ve deliberately designed this place to tangle the unwary mind,” hissed Melor as he strode alongside Ruar through the archway and into the council room. “A dark, confusing maze.”
Ruar nodded in agreement.
The chamber they had entered was circular and held a great, polished black-granite table, horseshoe shaped and filling half of the room. Chairs padded with red velvet ranged ’round its outer perimeter. Red-velvet-padded chairs stood against the curved black walls all the way ’round the room, except where stood the two arched doorways left and right. At the apex of the table—presumably its head—a dark wooden gavel and gavel block lay on the lustrous surface. In the open space and precisely centered between the two ends of the table arc stood a lectern, which Irunan set aside, and he moved one of the chairs from the wall to take its place.
He motioned the Elves to sit in the chairs against the wall at the foot of the council table and facing into the open arc, then he set about lighting additional lanterns to brighten the room. When he finished, he began pacing back and forth and eyeing the two doorways.
Arin, who had held her tongue till now, asked, “Irunan, what is it? Why art thou so disturbed? Yes, the full of my vision is terrible to contemplate, and I gave thee but a
sketch, yet thou dost seem to believe that what I have seen is not possible at all.”
Irunan stopped pacing and faced her. “Forgive me, Lady Arin, but what you say is true: it is not possible for you to have seen what your vision has shown you.”
“Not possible? But I
did
“That I do not doubt. Yet what you saw…you should not have been able to
Arin started to speak, but Irunan held out a staying hand. “Truly, Lady Arin, it is not my place to counsel you. However I will tell you this: you were wise to bring this matter to Black Mountain. Now let us wait for Sage Arilla and the others.”
The Mage resumed his caged pacing, and with a sigh, Arin fell silent, leaving her questions unspoken, and none of the other Elves said aught as they sat with their backs to the wall.
* * *
By threes and ones and twos, Mages entered the chamber, male and female alike, some to sit at the oval table, others to take places in the chairs along the curved wall. But each and every one fixed the Elven band with stares of speculation, and some seemed to especially eye Arin, as if trying to fathom an enigma beyond grasp.
The chamber slowly filled with a murmur of conversation as more and more Mages arrived. Like Irunan, they were dressed in robes, some blue, as was his, but of many other colors as well. Most of the entering Magefolk seemed to be of indeterminate ages, just as were the Elves, but unlike the Elven band, some of the Wizards were silver haired and bowed under the weight of years, having spent their vigor in the casting of spells. As with all of their kind, however, these “old ones” could recover their vitality by resting in a special way; many had done so before by sailing to Rwn, where they crossed
in-between
to Vadaria, for there in their home realm the
return to youth came much faster than anywhere else within the Planes.
Among the last to enter the council hall were Gelon and a female Mage. Gelon looked ’round the chamber to find Irunan and, seeing him, took an adjacent seat. The female on the other hand stepped to the apex of the table and sat.
She was tall and dressed in a yellow robe. Her hair was light brown and fell nearly to her hips, her eyes light brown as well. In this cycle of casting, she had spent some of her youth, though she was not yet at the point where she needed to
After taking in the Elves with her piercing gaze—peering long and hard at Arin—she glanced ’round the room, noting who was present and absent, and waited some moments more as a few latecomers hurried in. Soon all the chairs were filled, and Mages stood in the archways as well.
Finally she took up the gavel and rapped it on the block a time or two. A hush settled over the congress.
“Irunan, would you advise the Council as to why you called this meeting.”
Irunan moved to the empty chair at the foot of the arc, and stood behind it, grasping high on the sides of its red velvet back. “Sage, this Dylvana”—he turned and gestured toward Arin—“Dara Arin of Darda Erynian, Blackwood, the Great Greenhall, has had a vision of the Dragonstone, of the Green Stone of Xian.”
An uproar filled the chamber as Wizards turned to one another, or leaped to their feet or leaned forward and peered at Arin in shocked disbelief.
Impossible.
This cannot be.
The Green Stone?
How do you know?
The babble continued even though the Sage pounded her gavel for order.
Irunan stepped to Arin’s side. “My Lady.” He held out a hand and Arin took it, and the Mage led the diminutive, four-foot-eight Dylvana to the focal chair. When she was seated, finally the congress began to settle. And the hammering of the gavel at last caused a hush to fall.
“Lady Arin, I am Arilla, Sorceress”—she spread her hands wide, palms upturned—“and Sage of this Council.” As Arin canted her head in acknowledgment, Arilla continued: “I understand that you and your companions have traveled far to bring us word of your vision, and as you can see by our outburst, a vision of the Green Stone is cause for much concern.”
Again Arin canted her head in acknowledgment.
“And now if you would, Lady Arin, tell us of your Seeing.” Arilla took up her gavel and rapped it hard on the block, and her hawklike gaze swept about the room. “And I would have complete silence until her story is done.”
Arilla faced Arin once again and lay down the gavel. “If you would begin, my Lady, and please, leave nothing out.”