Echoes of the Fourth Magic (22 page)

“They surrendered their swords willingly,” Sylvia retorted. Her face flushed with anger and the looks the two exchanged made it obvious to all present that their dislike of each other ran deep.

“You do not, then, remember the laws, my lady Sylvia?” he replied sarcastically.

“Enough, Ryell,” the seated Illuman casually requested, all too accustomed to the bickering of these two.

“The laws?” Ryell jabbed, heedless of the other.

“And do you not remember the tales?” the elf on the throne scolded in response, clenching suddenly, taut and ready as a bent bow. He hadn’t shouted the words, but his clear voice resonated with power, and the sheer strength of its insistence broke the lock of anger between Sylvia and Ryell and turned them both toward the speaker. Immediately he relaxed back in his throne. “These men are special, I believe,” he said to console his angry companion.

“They are men,” Ryell spat, venom dripping from his words. “That alone makes them enemies to Illuman. You look too much to old tales, Arien, for the answers to the problems we face.”

He swung back at Sylvia. “You searched them, of course,” he stated matter-of-factly, his dry tone thick with sarcasm.

“They surrendered willingly,” Sylvia stuttered.

“Search them!” Ryell roared, and apparently he held some importance, for several elves moved to the men.

Panic hit Del when he remembered the scroll in his cloak. He locked into Arien’s gaze, begging for a stay of the search.

The perceptive elf-lord caught the desperate plea in Del’s eyes.

“No!” Arien commanded, immediately halting the search. “They have trusted us, and we will not return their trust with suspicion.”

“Do not be a fool!” Ryell screamed. “They are men! By the law penned in your own hand, they should be imprisoned for that fact alone!”

Staring down from his throne, Arien Silverleaf remained unblinking and resolute.

“You will bring us all to ruin with your trust of humans,” Ryell cried, and the expression on his face eased as if a revelation had come over him. “But then,” he continued too calmly, “your parents were the children of humans, were they not? Back in Caer Tuatha when the land was young.”

“I should choose my words more carefully were I you, Ryell,” Arien advised evenly, a sudden and calculating coldness in his control promising that his warning was more than just an idle threat.

Unnerved, recognizing that he had pushed too far, Ryell shrank back from the Eldar and simply threw up his hands in frustration and marched for the exit. “Come, Erinel,” he said as he stormed by.

“But Uncle—” Erinel protested.

“Come!” Ryell commanded, listening to no argument, and Erinel had no choice but to follow.

“Oh Father, why do you keep him at your side?” Sylvia asked when the pair had gone. “He is so disagreeable, and so stubborn!”

“Ryell holds old grudges, but he is not evil,” Arien replied, the tension removed from his face, and his lips turned up in a disarming grin. “And it is good for an adviser to be disagreeable; Ryell shows me a different point of view for many important problems. His eyes see what mine do not. Ardaz has been too busy to sit by me since midwinter. I am grateful for Ryell.”

Del perked up his ears at the mention of the wizard.

“Ryell forces Ardaz away,” Sylvia said. “He is always calling him an ‘old buffoon’ and other such—”

Arien raised his hand to stay her. “We shall discuss this another time, dear child. I have guests with a tale to tell—one that I am very anxious to hear.”

He motioned for the men to approach and sit before him. Mitchell walked out in front, introduced his companions,
and, with a low bow, introduced himself as their leader. Then, at Arien’s bidding, he told their tale from the rescue by the dolphins to their encounter with Sylvia and Erinel at the silver archway on Mountaingate. He carefully omitted the episodes that showed him in a bad light, nor did he tell of the rangers, for he wasn’t certain of the relationship between the Illumans and the warriors of Avalon.

He continued for over an hour, and though he wasn’t much of a storyteller, the strangeness and importance of his tale had Arien leaning forward on his throne, absorbing every word. After the captain finished, Arien sat with his chin resting in his palm, studying the travelers for several long moments, playing their story over and over in his head to test it against his own perceptions.

“It is a good tale,” he said finally. “You shall not be imprisoned, nor shall you be harmed in any way, but I insist that you be my guests for a short while.”

“May I ask what that means?” Mitchell asked.

“You are free to roam the valley, as if you were of my own people,” Arien answered. “But you may not leave the city. You would not find your way out of the mountains anyway.”

“Your judgment is more than fair,” Mitchell said, and again he bowed low.

For the third time since they had first met the Illumans, Billy and Del looked at each other in disbelief.

“What’s with him?” Billy whispered.

“Beats the hell out of me,” Del answered. “But I still don’t trust him.”

“Less than ever,” Billy agreed.

“Would it be possible for me to acquire a writing kit?” Reinheiser asked. “I wish to log our adventure now that I have the chance.”

“Sylvia will see to all of your needs,” Arien replied. “At this time I have other matters to attend.”

They understood his meaning and bowed and turned for the door.

“DelGiudice is to stay,” Arien commanded. “I have yet words to speak with him.”

Del stopped in mid-turn, surprised by the request and more than a bit apprehensive. Mitchell stopped for a moment, too, a scream of jealous rage sticking in his throat. With no other choice, though, he left quietly, as did the rest.

Only Del remained in the somber hall to face the Eldar of Lochsilinilume.

“P
ERHAPS YOU WILL
show me now what it is you are hiding,” Arien said in a friendly tone. He sat relaxed and calm, obviously secure that Del posed no threat.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Del stammered quickly.

“I have lived for many years,” Arien said. “I have seen the dawn of several centuries and witnessed their twilight. Two dozen and ten kings in Caer Tuatha—Pallendara—have come and gone, yet I remain.” He sat up tall and straight and his face grew stern. “Deceive me not with your words, my friend,” he warned, “for I read your eyes and they reveal the truth.”

Del dropped his head down, realizing that he was trapped. Arien knew beyond any doubt that he was hiding something, but Bellerian had trusted him to keep the scroll secret. A desperate idea popped into his head and he met the gaze of the elf-king.

“I didn’t want them to find this,” he explained, an unintentional look of relief crossing his face as he reached into his shirt pocket and produced the derringer.

“What is that?” an amazed Arien asked as he rose from his throne, surprised, but also intrigued by the small object.

“A pistol,” Del answered, convinced that his ploy had worked. “A weapon from my world.”

Arien recoiled, his wide eyes showing that he remembered all too well the tales of the terrible weapons of the ancient age of technology.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Del comforted, surprised by Arien’s unease. “It’s not loaded.” He broke open the breech, displaying the empty chamber. “See? It has no … no …” He paused in search of a word that the elf-king would understand. “No arrows.”

“Why then do you keep it?” Arien asked.

“I don’t know,” Del answered honestly. “It sort of keeps me, I guess. You can have it, if you want.” He presented the pistol before him.

Arien thrust his arms up and recoiled in horror. “No,” he snapped, and Del jumped back nervously. Arien gave a little smile and fought hard to put a measure of calm into his voice. “No, my friend, it is for you to keep,” he explained with as much compassion as he could muster. “It is a burden that has fallen upon you. Keep it safe and well hidden, for the horrors of your age have no place in Ynis Aielle.”

Del still didn’t understand the depth of Arien’s horror, but he packed the pistol back into his shirt, noting how the Eldar relaxed as soon as it was safely away.

“I commend your judgement,” Arien said. “You did well to keep that hidden.”

“I didn’t think it would be wise to let everyone see it,” Del said.

“Tell me, then,” Arien asked, “is it as important a secret as the other you hide?”

Del balked and said quickly—too quickly, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do indeed know what I mean,” Arien insisted softly. “My friend, play no more games with me. I am sure that you have sound reasons for secrecy, and for myself, I would trust you and let the matter drop.

“But understand my position,” he declared, and he stood up straight. “I am Eldar of my people, and for them I am
responsible. I shall make no gambles on their safety. Show me now what else you hide.”

Del turned away to wrestle with his indecision. He wanted to honor his promise to Bellerian, yet realized that his entire relationship with the Eldar of Illuma might well hinge on this moment. Arien had seen right through the deception, and from the tone of the Eldar’s voice, Del knew that the elf-lord meant to get the scroll one way or another. Quickly, so he wouldn’t change his mind, Del pulled out the scroll case and tossed it to Arien.

“Ah,” Arien sighed, examining the case without opening it. “I suspected that your Captain Mitchell had left some details out of the story. Bellerian gave you this,” he stated rhetorically. “So you have met the Rangers of Avalon.”

“How could you know?” Del asked, surprised.

“Few could find their way out of Blackemara,” Arien replied. “I knew as soon as your Captain Mitchell told me of your adventure there, then stammered over his explanation of how you got out, that you had likely met up with the Rangers of Avalon. Besides, you came through their land, and none can do that without their knowledge.”

Del gave a great sigh, disappointed in himself for breaking his word to the Ranger Lord.

“Again I commend your judgement,” Arien said. “You were wise in trusting me and honoring my request.” He handed back the unopened case. “I shall not interfere in your business with the lord of the Rangers of Avalon. I have had the honor to meet the venerable Bellerian on several occasions in the past three decades, and I know him as a man worthy of respect. It is to my sorrow that Ungden’s eyes have since turned northward and prevented our friendship from growing, for now no Illuman would be safe wandering from the mountains. Someday perhaps.” A solemn look came to the Eldar’s eyes, as if he was lost in a silent prayer. He revealed to Del in that moment a deep and profound sadness. But he quickly smiled it away. “Might I ask who the scroll is for?”

“The Silver Mage,” Del replied easily, no longer afraid of the intentions of the noble Eldar.

“Of course.” Arien laughed. “For his condition.”

“Could you tell me where to find him?” Del asked.

Arien walked over to a window on the northern wall and pointed to a crack high up on the cliff face.

“Beyond that break in the mountain wall lies Brisen-ballas, the tower of the Silver Mage,” he said. “You will find him there, I expect.”

“How do I get way up there?” Del asked, scanning the unscalable mountainside.

“There is a stair,” Arien replied with a chuckle. “But you must search it out carefully, for it is invisible to the eyes of all but Ardaz.”

Del’s expression reflected his obvious doubts.

“I do not jest with you,” Arien insisted. “The stair is truly there. And fear it not, for it runs solid straight and without a break, without a devilish trap built in. You must hurry, though, for the shadows grow long and you mustn’t miss Luminas ey-n’ abraieken.”

“What’s that?”

“You shall see tonight,” Arien answered, smiling. “Go now, and quickly.”

Del glanced all around, then bowed awkwardly. “See you,” he said, finding no appropriate words, and feeling stupid the moment he spoke. He bowed again and rushed for the door, but stopped when he reached it and turned back to regard Arien, who was still at the window. “One more thing,” he announced.

Arien turned to acknowledge, and Del was rendered speechless for a moment. Half of the elf-king’s face shone in the last rays of the day, streaming through the window, while the other half lay darkened in shadow. A fitting image of the paradox of the elves, Del thought. The same unresolvable conflict he saw within the eyes of Erinel, a mixture of the light sparkle of joyous innocence and the dark shadows of profound sadness.

“Why did Erinel get so upset when I called him elf?” Del asked. From within the depths of the twilight shadows, Arien’s eyes glowered and Del quickly qualified the term. “It’s not an insult.”

Arien seemed satisfied that Del meant no harm. “Elf,” he said with a great sigh, his voice mellow, almost subdued. “It is an old word; a name branded upon the firstborn of my race by the Calvans of Pallendara who sought our destruction.”

Del noted how the Eldar’s jaw clenched with the undeniable pain of the legacy of his people, and Del, too, felt the sincere sorrow of his new friend. He mumbled an apology quietly and opened the door to leave.