Elfhunter (28 page)

Gaelen nodded, and then confirmed his suspicions.
"Gelmyr died under that moon. You felt it. As to the nature of the
enemy, I do not know."

He pressed her, perceiving that she held back. "You
have sensed something. I know it! Please, tell me what you
think."

"I thank you for your gift, Lord Magra. I cannot tell
you my beliefs, as they have little foundation, but it is clear to
me that this enemy is formidable to the point that the next time we
encounter him, it had best be with as much strength as our people
can muster." "Certainly you shall have the resources of
Mountain-home to aid you. You intend to continue pursuit?"

"Eventually. I must now wait until my friends are
strong and the trail grows warm again. But we may at least warn the
people of Tal-sithian and of the Verdant Mountains. If we are wary,
we can ensure that we are not taken so easily. Perhaps then we can
force the creature out into the open, though I don’t know...he is
very clever." Magra smiled inwardly at Gaelen’s expressing the need
to wait until her
friends
were strong. He also agreed that
warning the Elves would be most prudent. He rose and turned to
leave her, but spoke to her once more: "My thanks for your
enlightenment, though it was not all that I desired. I notice that
your friend Nelwyn has a companion in Galador. Will you allow me to
be your companion tonight?" Gaelen considered for a moment. This
was an appealing notion, as she liked Magra, though she was a bit
in awe of him. "But what of Rogond? Surely I must escort him, as he
has been a worthy traveling companion, and a doughty warrior. He
must not feel as though he has been cast aside."

Magra took her point. "Then at least you shall sit at
my right hand. Your friend Rogond can sit then at yours. Will that
be satisfactory?" Gaelen nodded. Magra then added a parting
comment: "I will send raiment for you…it would please me if you
would favor me by wearing it."

Gaelen’s beautiful ears turned red as she stared at
his retreating back.

Rogond returned to his chamber to find a complete
ensemble of very elegant attire all laid out for him. He had spent
a very pleasant afternoon renewing his acquaintance with Fima, the
dwarf, who had been delighted to see him and hear of his
adventures. Fima was particularly impressed with Rogond’s tale of
the encounter with Dwim and Noli, and either nodded sagely or
chuckled heartily in all the right places. He was surprised to
learn the hidden secret of Rogond’s ring; he had known it as an
outstanding example of dwarvish smith work, but had not known to
place it under an Èolarin lamp to reveal the message within.

He frowned as Rogond told him of the encounter with
Gorgon and what had happened when Gaelen had flashed the reflected
sunlight into the creature’s eyes. "This sounds like a formidable
enemy indeed," said Fima. "I wonder if any light makes him react
thus, or whether only sunlight will do? If so, you had best never
pursue him below ground. He sounds vaguely Ulca-like, and Ulcas can
tolerate bright light other than sunlight, though they do not love
it. Still, I wonder."

"He was no Ulca, Lore-master," said Rogond. "He was
larger and stronger, and much more clever and adept than any
Ulca."

"You might be surprised," said Fima. "When first the
Ulcas were spawned, there were those among them that were mighty.
Their kind has diminished with the passage of time and distance
from their forebears. But you are right to believe that this
creature, if he were of such mighty lineage, would be indeed
ancient, and therefore that is unlikely. Most of the great Ulcas
perished in the First Uprising of Wrothgar, and their like has not
been seen in Alterra since. But come and see for yourself—some
knowledge of them has been recorded.

Fima drew an ancient manuscript from a battered
leather case containing many such old parchments. He thumbed
through it until he found a description of large, powerful dark
warriors that wreaked havoc in ancient times, complete with
illustrations.

Rogond studied them intently. He concluded that while
there were certainly similarities between Gorgon and the depiction
in the manuscript, there were several very significant differences.
Gorgon’s legs were straight and powerful, not bowed and crooked as
in the drawing. Gorgon stood tall and proud—in no way was he
ungainly. In addition, no Ulca has either eyebrows or eyelashes,
and Rogond had seen both upon Gorgon.

The manuscript described these ancient Ulcan warriors
as "reasonably adept with weaponry, clever and crafty, but not
swift." Gorgon was clever and crafty, but he also was fabulously
skilled with a blade, and, for his size, swifter than anything
Rogond had seen that moved on two feet. He concluded that Gorgon
was not an Ulca, even a mighty one, but something else. He
discussed this with Fima, who then agreed that Gorgon seemed unlike
any other creature.

As the afternoon waned, Rogond begged leave to go and
prepare for the celebration. "You will be there, of course?" he
asked Fima.

"I never miss a good feast in Mountain-home. I’m sure
you remember that the food here is absolutely superb—we are in for
a real treat. But by all means, go and make ready. After all, we of
the mortal kindreds of Alterra must make an impressive showing,
mustn’t we?" Rogond chuckled. "If that’s true, my undersized
friend, we’re in trouble. It will take the rest of the afternoon
for me to repair some of the holes in my garments."

"You will not have to repair your garments. I am
certain of it. Lady Ordath provides well for her honored guests. I
shall be present tonight, and if you grow weary of Elven tongues,
come to my table and we shall see what you remember of Rûmhul."
Then, in a sly voice, he added "They hate it when I do that."

Once Rogond had gone, Fima pondered for a few
moments, his wise, weathered face looking troubled. He rose, moved
to a stack of tall cases, and climbed the ladder attached to one of
them. It took him a few minutes of searching to find the old
manuscript, and then he fetched it down, settled into a comfortable
chair, and began to read. "I wonder," he muttered, contemplating
Rogond’s words. "I wonder…"

Gaelen sank thankfully into a tub of very hot water.
She relished the feel of it as it relaxed every muscle in her body,
particularly her stiff, sore shoulders, which were still healing.
The water had been scented with fragrant oils, some of which were
medicinal. The vapors felt wonderful as she breathed them in,
filling her lungs and soothing her spirits.

When the water began to grow chill, she emerged with
some reluctance and wrapped herself in the silken robe that had
been left for her, shaking her wet hair from her eyes. She ran her
fingers through it to tame it, to little avail. Frustrated, she
glowered at her reflection in the glass, and then was startled as a
tall, brown-haired Elf-maiden approached her from behind, a basket
under her arm. The maiden was momentarily flustered when she beheld
Gaelen’s lack of readiness.

"Good heavens! We have much to do to make ready, and
the hour is late. My name is Nasülle, and I am an apprentice
healer. I have been sent to prepare you for tonight."

"Yes, I’ve seen you before. You have some skill in
the healing arts. You are the one who gave me the sleeping-draught,
I believe. Quite unprincipled of you to take advantage of my
weakness…restorative draught, indeed! But I see you have other
skills as well." Gaelen was looking rather pointedly at Nasülle’s
perfect hair.

Nasülle drew a comb from her basket and approached
Gaelen. "Let’s see what we can do with this. When I am finished,
you will not know yourself. You sit at Lord Magra’s right hand
tonight—you should look the part."

Gaelen sighed, resigned to Nasülle’s attentions. It
took a while to tame Gaelen’s hair into a satisfactory form, and
Nasülle changed her tactics several times before she was finally
satisfied. When she had finished, even Nelwyn might have needed to
look twice to recognize her cousin. "Come on, then, and let us get
you dressed and ready," said Nasülle, admiring her handiwork. She
brought in the attire that Magra had sent, and Gaelen snorted most
inappropriately.

"I cannot wear this! I shall look absurd. This was
made for some high-and-mighty personage that I’m certain bore
little resemblance to myself. Besides, it’s too long for me, and I
shall no doubt stumble over it."

"You can wear it, and you
shall
," Nasülle
insisted. "It’s my job to make certain that it is a perfect fit.
You needn’t worry about stumbling over it. What, would you appear
at this gathering in your traveling clothes? Do you understand the
honor done you by Lord Magra? You shall be admired by all tonight
and envied by a few. I have labored long already to make you
presentable, and you shall be presentable!" There commenced a brief
verbal struggle over whether Gaelen would suffer herself to be thus
attired, but she gave in and endured Nasülle’s attentions once
again. When she had finished, Gaelen looked magnificent. As
predicted, she did not know herself. Who was this strange, elegant
creature staring wide-eyed from the glass? "Hurry along, for the
feast may have started by now," said Nasülle.

"They are most likely waiting for you. Hurry
along!"

Gaelen made her way to the wide veranda where the
feast would be held, hoping her late arrival would not be
noticed.

The veranda was positively grand. Tables had been set
with glittering crystal and silver, and laden with delicacies of
all sorts. Everyone looked resplendent, especially Magra, who was
arrayed all in sky blue and silver. Strong and silent, his blue
eyes were serene as he surveyed the scene before him. Beside him
was an empty place at the table, undoubtedly intended for Gaelen.
To the right of this sat Rogond, darkly handsome in tailored,
elegant slate blue trimmed with black. Lady Ordath sat at Magra’s
left on a slightly raised dais, as befitted her station, and was
attired in white and gold, her long dark tresses woven and set with
wildflowers. Beside her sat Galador, then Nelwyn, and finally
Elethorn. Galador wore light grey trimmed in a deep purple, which
was pleasing next to the silky lavender gown worn by Nelwyn. Her
golden hair was also adorned with spring flowers, and she looked
both strong and radiant.

Gaelen’s hope of an inconspicuous entrance was dashed
as Magra beheld her and rose to his feet. Rogond looked over at
her, and his jaw dropped. He had never seen Gaelen attired as
anything other than a hunter-scout in breeches, boots, tunic, and
cloak. She lifted her chin as all eyes turned to her for a moment,
responding to Magra’s rising to greet her. She flushed as he
indicated the seat at his right, but as she approached she smiled
at Rogond, who had by now also risen to his feet, cocking one
eyebrow at the purple evening sky. Her expression in return was
clear—what did he think he was staring at? He lowered his eyes in
respect.

Gaelen’s gown was of pale ivory, trimmed with silver
and pearl, and her soft, shining hair was perfectly arranged,
garlanded with pale blue and white flowers and held in place by an
intricately woven circlet of silver. Her large, bright eyes shone
with an inner light, and the ivory gown contrasted with her tawny
complexion. She was positively lustrous. Nelwyn and Galador both
nodded in greeting as Magra took Gaelen’s arm, directing her to sit
beside him and smiling in approval. When he sat back down, all
turned their attention to Lady Ordath.

The Lady rose to her feet, proclaiming the purpose of
the celebration. All lifted their goblets in honor of the visitors,
whose courage and sacrifice had restored Elethorn to them, and
bowed their heads in remembrance of those lost. When Ordath
finished, she called for the feast to begin. Everyone ate and drank
and talked for hours. Gaelen wondered at the empty plate and goblet
that had been set beside Magra, and then she realized that it was
in honor of Gelmyr. Magra took his own goblet, filled it, and
poured half of the wine into that set for Gelmyr. Then he lifted
his glass and drained it, speaking too softly for any but Gaelen to
hear. When he set his own goblet back down, he sat for a moment
with his eyes closed and his head bowed. Gaelen did not disturb
him, for she knew the pain of his loss.

At last he turned to her, as music filled the skies,
and some began dancing. Galador and Nelwyn were already among them,
stately and graceful, moving as though of one body. Gaelen watched
them wistfully, her heart aching for the kind of devotion that
Nelwyn had found in Galador. She had once known such devotion, but
it had been taken from her.

Magra mistook this wistfulness as a sign that Gaelen
simply wanted to join the dance. Rogond, who by now knew her fairly
well and was attuned to her feelings, started to ask her, but was
too late. Lord Magra took Gaelen’s hand and led her to the
floor.

Rogond watched the Elves as they performed their
elegant, refined dances, male and female moving together as one. He
looked with misty eyes upon Nelwyn and Galador, who had eyes only
for one another, and upon Gaelen and Magra, tonight impossibly
beautiful, powerful, and… Elven. More than ever, Rogond wished that
he had been numbered among those of immortal race and could share
in their fate, forsaking death and what lay beyond it for the
endless days they enjoyed. He desired Gaelen deep in his heart,
wishing that he could trade places with Magra and thus be free to
court her openly.

The combination of the wine, the music, the sight of
Gaelen so attired, and the keen glance of Magra kindled a boldness
in Rogond that he had seldom allowed in the presence of the Elves.
He was dismayed and sought to quell his impulses before he gave in
to them, for he knew they would not be well received. Magra was in
total possession of Gaelen tonight, or at least, so it appeared.
Rogond noted with some uneasiness that his hands were clenched in
his lap. This was most unworthy—to be jealous of the attention of
an Elf-lord to one such as Gaelen. Why would Magra not turn his
attention to her? She was the most radiant, most perfect, most
spirited of all the Elàni in Rogond’s eyes. Perhaps another glass
of wine would relax him and turn his thoughts aside.