DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (37 page)

The dactyl was awake!

"How many lights do you see?" The words were spoken in the elvish tongue, one that Juraviel was using more and more with Elbryan. The young man knew all the word's, all the common phrases, now, after five years in Andur'Blough Inninness, and only his inflections still needed perfecting.

Juraviel held a candle, as did Elbryan; and a couple of stars had appeared in the sky, the sun just gone behind the mountainous western horizon.

The young man spent a long moment studying Juraviel. Elbryan's lessons had turned more toward philosophy during the fall and winter of God's Year 821 to 822, and he had learned that even the simplest questions carried, many layers of subtle meanings. Finally, convinced that this was but a prelude to his lesson, and nothing dramatic, the young man looked up and did a quick count of the stars, noting four.

"Six," he announced cautiously, adding the two candles.

"They are separate, then," Juraviel stated. "Your light and mine, and those of the stars."

Elbryan's brow furrowed. Slowly, hesitantly, as if he expected to be rebuked, he nodded his head.

"So if you pinched the light from your candle, you would stand in darkness," Juraviel reasoned.

"More than now," Elbryan was quick to reply. "But still I would have some of your light."

"Then my light is not contained within the flame," Juraviel went on, "but rather, it spreads far and wide. And what of the light of the stars?"

"If the light in the stars was contained within the stars, then we would not see the stars!" Elbryan growled in mounting frustration. There were times, such as this, when he hated simple elven logic. "And if the light in your candle was contained within the candle, them I would not see it."

"Exactly," replied the elf. "You may go now."

Elbryan stamped his foot as Juraviel turned away. The elf was always doing this to him, leaving him with questions that he could not answer. "What are you talking about?" the young man demanded.

Juraviel looked at him calmly, but made no move to respond.

Elbryan took the cue — it was his lesson, after all. "You are saying that the light, since it is not contained, is a shared thing?"

Juraviel didn't blink.

Elbryan paused for a long while, backtracking the conversation; considering the options. "One light," he said finally.

Juraviel smiled.

"That was the answer," said Elbryan, gaining confidence. "One light."

"I count a dozen stars, at least, now," replied the elf. Elbryan looked up. It was true enough; the night was fast deepening, the stars coming out in force.

"A dozen sources of the same light," Elbryan reasoned, "or of different lights that all join together. Because I see them, they blend. The lights become one."

"One and the same," agreed Juraviel.

"But must I see them for this to be true?" Elbryan asked eagerly, but his anticipation dissipated as he saw the frown immediately come over the elf.

Elbryan paused and closed his eyes, remembering his earliest lessons, the axioms the elves had put to him so that he might view the world in a completely different manner. In elven philosophy, the first truth, the basis of reality was that the entire material, physical world was no more than the collection of perceptions by the observer. Nothing existed except in the consciousness of the individual. It was a difficult concept for Elbryan, because he had been brought up with the idea of community, and within that concept, such elevation of self was considered the worst of sins: pride. The elves didn't see things that way; Juraviel had once asserted to Elbryan that everything in the. world was no more than a play put on for Juraviel's benefit. "My consciousness creates the world around me," the elf had proclaimed.

"Then I could never defeat you in battle unless you willed it so," Elbryan had then reasoned.

"Except that your consciousness creates the world around you," the elf had replied, and then, typically, he had walked away.

That seeming contradiction had left Elbryan in a quandary. What he came to understand from that viewpoint was a sense of self he had never before felt free to explore.

"The stars and my candle are one because I can see both," the young man said conclusively. "I make the world around me."

Juraviel nodded. "You interpret the world around you," he corrected. "And as you heighten your senses to become aware of the slightest details, your interpretations will grow, your awareness will grow."

Juraviel then left him, sitting in a field, holding his candle and watching the birth of so many stars, heavenly fires to join with his own. That simple shift in perception, that all the lights were truly one, gave Elbryan a sense of oneness with the universe that he had never truly experienced before.

Suddenly the heavens seemed closer to him, seemed within reach. Suddenly he felt a part of that vast velvet canopy.

All through the rest of that year, and through the months of God's Year 822, Elbryan learned to view the world as an elf, to find a paradox of individuality and community, an elevation of the self, yet a oneness with all about him. The tiny shifts in perception brought on so many new experiences, allowed him to see flowers where he never before would have looked, allowed him to feel the presence of an animal — even identify its approximate size — by subtle scents and vibrations in the living world about him. He felt like a great empty sponge being dunked into the waters of knowledge, and he absorbed so much, taking incredible pleasure in each lesson, in each word. His entire concepts of space and time altered. Sequence became segment, memory became time travel.

Even Elbryan's sleeping habits changed, shifting to a more controlled, meditative process than a lumped time of uncontrollable unconsciousness.

"Fanciful musing," the elves called it, or "reverie." In this semidream state, Elbryan could tune out his sense of sight, yet keep his ears and nose keen for external stimuli. And he replaced much of his dreaming with time travel, moved his mind back. to another place in his life that he could replay the events about him and view them from a different perspective, and thus, learn from them.

Olwan was alive to him on those nights, as was Jilseponie, dear Pony, and all the others of Dundalis. Somehow the perfect recollections gave Elbryan a sense of immortality, as if all those people really were alive, just locked away in a different place to which his memory was the key.

He took comfort in that. He found that much of elven philosophy gave him solace, except that he could not really change what had happened, could not alter the past.

The pain remained, the horrible screams, the desperate fights, the mounds of bodies. On Juraviel's instruction, Elbryan did not avoid the anguish, but went to that terrible place often, using the harsh reality of the death of Dundalis to strengthen his nerve, to harden him emotionally.

"Trials past prepare us for trials future," the elf often said.

Elbryan didn't argue, but he wondered, and almost feared, what future trials could possibly match the pain of that awful day.

He stood atop the treeless hillock and he waited, his eyes glued to the eastern horizon, to the tiny sliver of light heralding the approach of dawn.

He was naked, every hair, every nerve feeling the tickle of the chill breeze. He was naked and he was free, and as the horizon brightened a bit more, he lifted his sword, a large but well-balanced weapon, into the air before him, both hands clasping its long hilt, the muscles of his arms bulging.

Elbryan brought the sword across in a gentle sweep, his weight lifting gradually with the movement of the outstretched blade to keep his balance perfect. Up went the blade over his left shoulder. He stepped right foot forward, then brought the sword back, again slowly, perfectly balanced. His left foot came forward, then went out to the side, blade and right foot following, turning the young man as if he were now facing a second opponent. Strike, parry, strike, all in harmonic and slow motion, and then he dropped his right foot back, coming around in a fluid movement to stalk back to the left. Strike, parry, strike — the same routine.

Then he dropped his right foot back again and half pivoted, so that he was facing exactly opposite from where he had started. He came ahead in three strong strides — strike, strike, strike with the blade as he moved, then repeated the same motions he had used, left and right, from this new position.

"Bi'nelle dasada," it was called, the sword-dance. The young man continued for nearly an hour, his arms and weapon weaving ever more intricate patterns in the empty air. This was the bulk of his physical training now, not sparring but gaining a memory of the movements within his muscles. Every attack and parry angle became ingrained in him; what had been conscious battle strategy melded into a reactive response or an anticipatory strike.

From the trees at the base of the hillock, Juraviel and some others watched the sword-dance in sincere admiration. Truly the muscled young human was a thing of beauty and grace, a combination of pure strength and uncanny agility.

His sword swished with ease, as did his long and wavy, wheat-colored hair. Never losing the slightest edge of balance, Elbryan's muscles worked in perfect harmony, perfect fluidity, none battling, flexing and complementing each move.

And his eyes! Even from this distance, the elves could see the olive-green orbs sparkling with intensity, truly seeing the imagined foes.

The young Elbryan's movements improved with every day, and so Juraviel gave him more of the sword-dance, the most intricate battle movements known to the elves, who collectively were the finest swordsmen in all the world. Elbryan mastered the intricate movements, every one, soaked them into the sponge he had become and held them fast in his heart, mind, and muscles. No longer did any, even Tuntun, question his prowess or his bloodline. Never again in Andur'Blough Inninness were the words "blood of Mather" spoken derisively where young Elbryan was concerned. For he had passed through the "wall of nonperception," as Juraviel called it, had shrugged off the human societal inhibitions of consciousness, had become one with the greater powers, the natural powers, about him.

On those occasions when he did spar, he not only understood how to defeat any attack, deflect, dodge, or block, but also knew which tactic would offer appropriate counterattacks or would keep his defensive posture strong against subsequent attacks from that foe, or even from others. Elbryan now won far more often than he lost, even held his own when battling two against one.

His routines became more varied, more deadly, resembling in many instances the motions of an animal predator. He could put a dagger in his hand and curl his arm in such a way that he might strike as the viper. Or he didn't even need the dagger but could stiffen his fingers that he might drive them right through any obstacle.

And every morning, before the mist veil blanketed Andur'Blough Inninness, Elbryan came to this spot and watched the dawn, weaving his sword-dance, building the memory.

The blood of Mather.

The gifts — a heavy blanket, a small chair shaped of bent sticks, and a wood —
framed mirror — surprised and confused Elbryan. The mirror alone was very expensive, he knew, and the craftsmanship and incredibly light wood of the chair allowed it to be folded and easily carried, but the only one of the three presents that made any sense to him was the blanket, a most practical item.

Tuntun and Juraviel let the young man look the gifts over for a long while, let him test the chair and even study his own image in the silvery mirror.

"My deepest gratitude," Elbryan said sincerely, though his measure of confusion was clear in his voice.

"You do not even understand the significance," Tuntun replied distastefully. "You believe that you have been given three gifts, yet it is the fourth that is most precious by far!"

Elbryan looked at the elf maiden, studied her blue eyes for some hint.

"The mirror, the chair, and the blanket," Juraviel said solemnly. "The Oracle."

Elbryan had never heard the word before; again his confusion showed clearly on his face.

"Do you think that the dead are gone?" Tuntun asked cryptically, apparently enjoying this spectacle. "Do you think that all there is is all you see?"

"There are other levels of consciousness," Juraviel tried to clarify, casting a stern glance at his teasing partner.

"Dreaming," Elbryan offered hopefully.

"And the memories of fanciful musing," Juraviel added. "In Oracle, the musing combines with the consciousness to bring the memory to the present."

Elbryan's brow furrowed as he considered the words, as their implications began to unfold before him. "To speak with the dead?" he asked breathlessly.

"What is dead?" Tuntun laughed.