The Elven (10 page)

Mandred took his place at the head of the elfhunt, with Noroelle and Obilee in the middle. The assembled Albenkin wished them luck as they made their way back down the aisle. Noroelle turned for a moment to look at the queen and saw her standing in front of her throne, a look of apprehension on her face as she watched the small company depart. Was she afraid that something might befall them? If that were so, then until that moment, Emerelle had kept her fears well hidden.

Obilee pulled Noroelle out of her thoughts. “I wish I were part of the elfhunt,” she said.

“Right now, it looks like you are.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Of course. But didn’t you hear what the queen said? And haven’t I myself told you often enough that you look like Danee? One day, you too will be as revered as she is, as both a great sorceress and master of the sword.”

The company strode through the hall and out into the open courtyard beyond, which was crowded with Albenkin. Even the kobolds and gnomes had come to watch the departure of the elfhunt. An elfhunt led by a human was something special. This was a day that would be talked about for years to come.

The companions’ horses stood ready, their equipment already stowed. Only the centaur, Aigilaos, still took a number of bags and bound them to his back, cursing in a low voice about his stiff neck. The previous night had obviously not been particularly comfortable for him.

While Master Alvias arranged two more horses, Noroelle watched Farodin and Nuramon. They suddenly looked so uncertain. Very soon, both of them would be separated from her. What words would they find for her in this situation? What words could console their beloved?

“Is the elfhunt ready?” called Mandred, as court ceremony required. His companions nodded, and the human called, “Then ride.”

And the elfhunt set off. At its head rode the human, behind him, Noroelle. To her left rode Nuramon, to her right, Farodin. Behind her came Obilee, and around her trotted Brandan, Vanna, and Aigilaos. Lijema brought up the rear. Loud cries of farewell accompanied them to the gate, and the kobolds cried loudest of all.

Once through the gate, Noroelle could scarcely believe what she saw before her. Across the broad meadow were gathered more Albenkin than had ever assembled before. All of them were there to see the elfhunt ride out. High above the meadow, the wings of the riverbank sprites glittered in the sunlight. The faeries were well-known for their curiosity. Close to the road they traveled along stood elves from both the heartland and from the farthest corners of the kingdom. Some of them had not managed to reach the royal court the day before, but they did not want to miss the departure of the elfhunt this morning. From here and there, shouts of greeting rang out. On the hills that edged the forest, too, elves stood in front of the houses of the emissaries, waving as the small band rode past.

All of a sudden, Noroelle saw a little faery flying close to Mandred’s head. The human swatted at it like he would a bothersome insect, but missed. The faery shrieked and flew to Noroelle. Mandred looked around. He had heard the shriek but evidently was unable to see what made it.

Gradually, Mandred increased their speed. He seemed to have acquired a liking for riding an elven horse. She hoped he would not fall. It was said that he was far from skillful when he rode on Aigilaos’s back.

When they had left the Albenkin and their well-wishing behind, and with the wide meadowlands ahead of them, Lijema galloped past on the right and, a moment later, was riding beside Mandred. Mandred looked at her in surprise. But Lijema took her wooden flute from her belt and blew into it. She blew hard, that was clear, but no sound could be heard from the flute.

Moments later, Obilee cried, “There! Look there!” She pointed off to the right. Something white broke from the forest’s shadows and approached rapidly.

“There they are,” Aigilaos called.

“There are seven!” said Nuramon.

“Seven?” Farodin spoke now. “Incredible.”

Mandred turned in his saddle. “Seven what?”

Noroelle knew, as any of the Albenkin would. The white wolves of the elfhunt. Until the moment they joined the hunt, no one could say how many there would be. The more wolves that appeared, the more important the occasion . . . at least, that’s what people said.

“Those are our wolves,” Lijema shouted to Mandred.

“Wolves? Those are
big
wolves.”

Noroelle smiled. The wolves were the size of ponies, their pelts heavy and white.

“Are they dangerous?” she heard Mandred ask. But over the sound of hoofbeats, Lijema did not hear what he said. “Are they dangerous?” he repeated, more loudly.

Lijema smiled. “Of course.”

When the wolves caught up with the riders, four of them took positions at the head of the band. One ran at the left and one at the right, while the seventh wolf loped at Lijema’s side.

The riders soon reached the edge of the forest and reined in their horses to look back one last time at the queen’s palace.

Farodin and Nuramon were captivated by the sight, and even Mandred seemed affected. Nuramon’s face, in particular, betrayed his secret fears. And although Farodin tried to keep his feelings hidden, Noroelle saw through his mask of composure.

The wolves were impatient and surrounded Mandred’s horse. The human seemed unsure how to deal with the creatures and kept a wary eye on them at every moment.
He must have had bad experiences with wolves
, thought Noroelle. Maybe wolves in his world were a danger to life and limb, like the wolves in Galvelun were for the Albenkin. When Mandred saw Noroelle watching him, he leaned down in the saddle and stroked the largest of the wolves on the fur of its neck, as if to prove his courage. It pleased the beast.

“Shall we ride?” the human asked. The wolf growled and looked up at him.

Lijema laughed. “It does not speak the language of the Fjordlands, but it likes you.” Speaking in Elvish, Lijema explained to the wolves why Mandred could not understand them, then she translated the human’s question. The wolf tilted its head and grew suddenly restless. The restlessness spread to the other wolves, and they began to trot around, one or two running ahead then returning to Mandred. They wanted to be on the move.

“Do they understand what you say?”

“Every word,” said Lijema. “Believe me when I say they are smarter than some of the elves.”

“And them? How do they speak?” Mandred asked.

Lijema stroked the fur of the largest of the wolves. “They have their own language. I speak it, too.”

Noroelle smiled. This human wore his heart on his sleeve. The way he watched the large wolf, the way he raised his eyebrows and chewed at his lip, there was only one thing he could be thinking: a wolf like that would be the perfect creature to take in search of game.

“They must make great hunting companions,” said Mandred, and Noroelle had to make an effort to stop herself from laughing aloud.

“No doubt,” Lijema replied.

“Are they as loyal as dogs?”

Lijema laughed cheerfully. “No, you can’t compare them to dogs. They are much smarter. Say again what you just said.”

“In Fjordlandish?”

“Yes.”

“Shall we ride?”

Once again, the animals suddenly grew restive, wanting to be on the move.

“Well, then . . . let’s ride,” Mandred cried, and the elfhunt set off again.

The silence between Noroelle and her two suitors persisted. The seven wolves stirred Noroelle’s concern for the men she loved. The animals had a sense of the gravity of the danger awaiting the hunters. They themselves decided how big the pack would be that joined the elfhunt. When Gaomee had ridden against the dragon Duanoc, eight wolves accompanied her. What kind of beast could it be, lurking there beyond the stone circle? She trusted in the skills of Nuramon and Farodin, but even great heroes died in battle. What if the worst came to pass? What if Nuramon was wrong? What if an elven soul that died in the human world could not be reborn in Albenmark?

They passed the faun oak and Noroelle’s lake. Only yesterday, she had sat here listening to Farodin and Nuramon. Noroelle wondered whether such a day would ever come again.

When they reached the fortified tower at the Shalyn Falah, they halted briefly while Aigilaos departed. With his horseshoes, he could not cross the white bridge. The centaur cursed the ancient structure, then muttered that he would see them at the gate and cantered off.

Noroelle watched the centaur leave and thought of the stories that were told about him. No doubt he envied the elven steeds with their unshod hooves and elven dexterity, able to cross the bridge without a second thought.

“Why did he have his feet shod at all if it prevents him from crossing the bridge?” Mandred asked.

“They say the kobolds at court told him he would be able to gallop faster with horseshoes,” Lijema answered. “He believes he’s faster now but has to accept the detour whenever he comes this way.”

Mandred laughed. “Sounds just like Aigilaos.”

They moved on. At the tower of Shalyn Falah, Ollowain was waiting for them. Mandred greeted him coolly, which drew an amused smile from Ollowain. They passed the tower quickly. Noroelle wondered what had occurred between Ollowain and Mandred.

They reached the far side of the Shalyn Falah and followed the wide path on the other side, riding past the remains of the stone circle at Welruun. The trolls had destroyed it a long time ago. Noroelle had not been there to witness it, but the trees and the forest spirits remembered it well. In earlier times, the gate of Welruun led to one of the princedoms of the trolls. Noroelle could clearly feel the power of the seven Albenpaths that crossed there to form a major Albenstar. The trolls had found a way to seal the gate, and no elf knew what magic they had used to do so.

The forest grew denser and denser. Noroelle remembered how, when she was younger, she had come here often. She loved these woods.

The troop followed the path downhill, trotting between the birch trees until they reached the large clearing, within which stood the rise with the stone circle. At the foot of the rise, they stopped and waited for Aigilaos. Mandred dismounted and, saying nothing, moved away from the others. He wanted to pay a visit to Atta Aikhjarto.

Noroelle had heard that the oak had saved Mandred’s life. She wondered what Atta Aikhjarto had seen in Mandred. The faun oak had once confided in her that old Atta Aikhjarto could see into the future. What did the old oak know that would make it curtail its own powers to save the life of a human?

Noroelle allowed Farodin to assist her from her horse. Nuramon came a moment too late and instead helped Obilee dismount. The young elf was so taken by Nuramon’s gesture that her cheeks turned red. He led her to Noroelle.

They sat together in the grass, but it was still too early for words. The others also soon fell silent, and even the wolves were unusually hushed.

Only when Aigilaos appeared did the companions start speaking again. “Was I gone too long?” he asked, out of breath. His flanks were bathed in sweat.

“No, Aigilaos. No need for concern,” said Noroelle.

The centaur was exhausted and had to rest. Again, silence settled over the band.

Now the only one missing was Mandred, and then the elfhunt could finally depart. More than an hour passed before the human returned. Noroelle would have given a great deal to know what Mandred had found out from Atta Aikhjarto, but the human simply asked, “All set?”

The companions nodded. Noroelle felt rather guilty, for she knew she was responsible for the silence that had infected the others. Now she wanted to make up for that. “Come, I will go as far as the stone circle with you.”

On the way up the rise, Noroelle felt the power of the Albenstar like a breeze against her skin. This place had lost none of its magic. Leaning against a stone and gazing into the circle, in the center of which a wall of mist swelled and surged, was Xern. Without turning around to them, he asked, “Who goes there?” But he asked in Fjordlandish, fully aware that it was Mandred approaching.

The human stepped forward and said, “The elfhunt.”

Xern turned to face them. “Then this gate is open to you. Mandred, you entered this world with little more than a spark of life left in you. And you leave it with the power of Atta Aikhjarto. May that protect you and your companions.” He gestured with his open hand toward the wall of mist.

Farodin and Nuramon looked expectantly at Noroelle. Finally, she broke her long silence. “Keep in mind that you are doing this for me. And keep in mind that I love you
both
. Watch over each other. That is my wish.”

“I would lay down my life for Farodin,” Nuramon declared.

And Farodin said, “Nuramon’s suffering will be mine. What befalls him will befall me.”

“By the Alben, I don’t want either of you to sacrifice himself to save the other. Take care not only of each other, but of yourselves as well. I don’t want fate to take my decision away from me, with pain. Come back, both of you.”

“I will do everything in my power to make sure we
both
return,” said Farodin.

“And I
promise
you, we will return,” said Nuramon.

Farodin seemed surprised. His companion was making a vow that he could not guarantee. Who knew what would happen out there? But his promise was precisely what Noroelle wanted to hear.

Noroelle gave Obilee a sign and turned back to her two lovers. “I want to give you something to remember me by during the hunt.”

Obilee produced two small bags.

Noroelle took them from her and gave one to Farodin, the other to Nuramon. “Open them,” she said.

The two elves did as bidden and looked at what lay inside the bags. While Nuramon just smiled, Farodin exclaimed in surprise, “Mulberries.”

“There is magic in them,” she explained. “They will give you strength and fill your stomach more than you might suspect. Think of me when you eat them.”

Farodin and Nuramon exchanged a glance, then Nuramon said, “We will. And not only when we eat them.”

Noroelle embraced Farodin first and kissed him good-bye. He wanted to say something, but she laid two fingers on his lips. “No. No sweet parting words, no declarations of love. I know what you feel. I see it in your face. Don’t try to put that on your tongue, for a word will make me cry. And I am still smiling.” So Farodin remained silent, and stroked her hair.