The Elven (8 page)

“The elfhunt almost never ventures into the human world. Can you remember if an elf has ever died there and been reborn here?”

“It is said that one of my incarnations perished outside our world, yet here I am.”

Noroelle laughed, stroked his cheek, and then looked at him as if spellbound. “Your face is unique.”

“And yours is—”

She put a finger to his lips. “No, you have spoken such words to me for years. Now these words are for you. Be silent, fairest Albenchild.”
She took her finger from his lips, and he was silent.

Gently, she stroked his hair. “You always thought the women here would only ever make fun of you. And they do. It’s true. They taunt you for your name, for your fate . . . they do it because you have always been taunted. But your looks have not been lost on them. You would not believe the things they say in low voices behind their hands, the whispers I’ve heard.”

Nuramon went to say something, but Noroelle again laid her finger to his lips. “No. You have to hold your tongue now, like the two trees down there.” She took her hand away. “You are far more than what these women secretly see in you. The oracle was right. ‘Everything you are is within you.’ And everything that is within you . . . is what I love, Nuramon,” she said, and kissed him.

When she moved her lips away from his again and looked at him, he cautiously began to speak. “Everything has changed. I can barely believe that I’m here with you. What’s happened?” He looked around, as if he might find the answer there on the terrace or in the depths of the night.

“Nothing that you or I or Farodin could have contrived. This was something only the queen could make possible. The world is at your feet now.”

“It’s not the
world
I want.”

She nodded. “When you both return, I will decide. You have done everything you could. Now it’s up to me . . . I must admit, I’d hoped you both could spend many more years courting me, but that was probably a dream. I have to choose one or the other. What a loss, whichever of you I have to turn away. But what good fortune for another woman.”

They looked at each other, not saying a word. Nuramon knew how much her rejection would hurt him. For him, there was no other, not one for whom he could feel such love. He kissed her hands once again, stroked her cheek, and said, “Let’s try, for now, not to think about it. It is something to face when Farodin and I return.”

She nodded.

“Will you be there tomorrow, or do we say good-bye now?”

“I will be there,” she said quietly.

“Then I look forward to tomorrow. What color dress will you wear?”

“Green. Obilee made it,” Noroelle said and absently swept a strand of hair from her face. Nuramon liked the unconscious gesture. She grasped the strand between her ring finger and little finger when she swept it back.

“Then it has to be beautiful,” he said.

“I’m very curious about what the queen is having brought to you. Whatever it is, it will be more precious than anything that anyone else could have given you.”

“Given? I will accept it for the elfhunt, but when we come back, I will return it.”

Noroelle laughed. “No, Nuramon. The queen is generous. She won’t take it back.”

He kissed her on the forehead. “I have to go now, Noroelle.”

“Maybe one of your relatives will still find it in their heart to visit you in your chamber.”

“I will believe it if it happens.” He took her hands in his and said, “But who knows?” He looked up at the stars. “Everything seems possible tonight.” Then he let go her hands. “Good night, Noroelle.”

She kissed him farewell.

When Nuramon was at the door to the banquet hall, he looked back at her one more time. She was simply perfect, her flawlessness clearer to him now more than ever before.

When he reached the corridor where those named to the elfhunt had their chambers, he realized that all of the doors were now closed. All the expected visitors were already there. No one seemed to be waiting for new arrivals. From the confusion of voices, it was clear that many had come.

In front of his own door, Nuramon stopped and listened. There was no sound from inside. He hoped so dearly that one of his own relatives had found the courage to visit him and was inside the room, waiting.

Nuramon opened the door and looked in. A figure stood inside, motionless, beside his bed, his back to Nuramon. Nuramon’s joy lasted no more than a heartbeat, though. In his absence, someone had brought in an armor stand, and in the dim light cast by the barinstones, Nuramon—hoping beyond hope—had mistaken it for an elf.

Crestfallen and again alone, he closed the door behind him. He crossed to the armor stand and looked at the queen’s gifts: a cloak, a suit of armor, and a short sword.

Nuramon lifted the wine-red cloak from the stand and weighed it in his hand. It was heavy, made of wool and linen, a work of superb craftsmanship and woven with magical threads that would keep any gust of wind or drop of water at bay. It would protect him from both heat and cold.

Noroelle also possessed such a cloak. She had brought it with her from Alvemer. The queen, no doubt, had not given him this one thoughtlessly. A gift from Alvemer was a piece of Noroelle’s hometown. If he had to ride through winter in the human world, then he would ride warm.

He folded the cloak and laid it on the stone bench. He looked the armor over with curiosity. It was dragon mail, the armor of a dragon slayer. Armor like this was renowned for being tough yet supple, and it required extreme skill to make such an outfit. The armor had been assembled from many pieces of dragon skin, and it protected the upper body and arms. Whoever had put this piece together was clearly a master of his trade. He had sliced each fragment of dragon skin into a multitude of thin layers, then worked them and reassembled them as he had seen fit. Drop-shaped pieces had been stitched between the individual layers. Probably trimmed dragon scales, Nuramon thought, but what they really were remained the armorer’s secret. The leather gave off an agreeable odor. The stink of dragon had been eliminated during the tanning of the skin and replaced by the milder scent of the forest.

The only place that dragon mail was still made was in Olvedes, the only place where the fire-spitting monsters were still a danger. The armorers of Olvedes were renowned throughout Albenmark and were known to leave their mark on the pieces they made. Nuramon released the baldric and lifted the armor from the stand. He searched the inside for the sign of the armorer who had made this masterpiece. He found it hidden on the breastplate: an image of the sun and a name underneath in small letters. Xeldaric.

Nuramon was moved. Xeldaric was one of the greatest armorers who had ever lived. He had gone into the moonlight in the Royal Hall after handing over his life’s work to the queen: a complete suit of Alben armor. Nuramon was still a child when he heard about it.

To wear a suit of armor made by the hands of Xeldaric was a great honor. And even if one did not go to the trouble of searching for the sign of the armorer, it was easy to see that the armor was a truly breathtaking gift. At first glance, it might have lacked the uniformity of plate armor, but every piece of it was where it was supposed to be and told the history of the dragonhunt. The green skin of the dragons of Olvedes had been worked in alongside the brown leather of the forest dragons of Galvelun and the red sun dragons of Ischemon. Together, the fragments formed a mosaic in the colors of the forest, each flowing into the other.

Nuramon returned the armor to the stand. He took up the sword belt that he had laid on the bed. On it was a sword in a plain leather sheath. The cradle-shaped pommel and cross guard were gold and elaborately worked, and the grip was finished in strips of mother-of-pearl and copper. Nuramon slid the weapon from its sheath, and his breath caught. The blade was made of starshine, a metal only found on the highest summits. The sword was as much a masterwork as was the armor. Intertwined runes were engraved in the center of the broad cross guard. It was only on second glance that Nuramon realized what was written there: Gaomee. He was holding Gaomee’s sword in his hands. The weapon with which Gaomee had defeated Duanoc. And now it was his to wield.

The Call of the Queen

F
arodin had farewelled his visitors early. He wanted to be alone to gather his thoughts, but this was proving difficult. From next door rang the sounds of drinking and merrymaking. The human was mad. No one in their right mind got drunk the night before the elfhunt. And that braying laugh could only mean that Aigilaos had joined him in his folly.

He lay on the hard bed, familiar to him from other nights like this one. A quiet pleasure stole over him as he recalled the events of the evening. He had finally dared to open himself to Noroelle. Finally dared—in his
own
clumsy words—to speak directly of his love for her. And those few sentences, spoken from his heart, gave him what a thousand songs could not. He was certain that he had won Noroelle for himself this evening.

A gentle knock on the door roused him from his thoughts. A kobold carrying a large signal lamp entered. “Please pardon my interruption of your rest the night before the hunt, my lord. The queen wishes to see you. Please follow me.”

Surprised, the elf threw his robe around his shoulders. What could have happened?

The kobold peered left and right along the corridor cautiously. His nostrils flared like a hound picking up a scent. “All clear, my lord,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. He hurried down the corridor in long bounds and opened a door hidden behind a tapestry that depicted a stag hunt, then led Farodin up a narrow stairway normally used only by kobolds and gnomes. Beneath a landing, he opened a second hidden door that concealed a tiled passageway. Now and then, the kobold turned back and smiled at Farodin. He was obviously enjoying the role Emerelle had assigned him.

They came to a spiral staircase hidden inside a massive column. Farodin could hear soft strains of music seeping through the walls. He thought uneasily of the last time Emerelle had given him a secret assignment. Then, too, he had killed for his queen. Seven hundred years earlier, during the troll wars, something inside Farodin had been destroyed. Only the queen knew about it, and she had taken advantage of that knowledge. He kept this dark part of his soul hidden away. At court, one only ever saw the gracious and rather superficial minnesinger, but when he met Noroelle for the first time, a seed of hope sprang to life inside him, that he might again be the elf he had once been. She alone had wrought that miracle.

The kobold stopped short at the end of the spiral stairway, in front of a gray wooden door. “I may escort you no farther, my lord.” He handed the lantern to Farodin. “You know the way. I will wait here.”

Farodin felt a slight draft on his face as he stepped through the door. The melody of an old, familiar song drifted on the air. It was a song his mother had often sung to him when he was still a child, a song about the exodus of the Alben.

The passage opened at the back of a statue of a dryad. With an effort, Farodin edged through a narrow gap between the statue and the stonework of the wall, coming out on a small balcony high above the hall of the falling water. He glanced up to see the roof of a tower, twisted like the shell of a sea snail.

“I am happy you answered my call so quickly, Farodin.” It was a voice he knew well. The elven warrior turned. Behind him, Emerelle had emerged onto the balcony. She wore a plain white nightgown and had wrapped a thin shawl around her shoulders.

“I am deeply concerned, Farodin,” Emerelle went on. “An aura of disaster surrounds the mortal. There is something about him that evades my magic, and I am frightened at how he managed to reach Albenmark at all. He is the first human ever, the first we did not summon. No other has ever made it through the gate to Albenmark alone.”

“Perhaps it was just a coincidence,” Farodin said. “A caprice of the magic.”

Emerelle nodded slowly. “That is possible. But there may be more behind it. There is something else beyond the stone circle . . . something hiding itself from me. And Mandred is connected to it. Be on your guard, Farodin, when you ride into the Other World. Mandred’s story cannot be true. I have spent many hours conferring with the elders. None of them has ever heard of a manboar.”

Emerelle paused, and when she continued, the concern was gone from her words. She sounded cool and accustomed to giving orders. “If the human is a liar, Farodin, kill him. As you killed the princes of Arkadien and all the other enemies of Albenmark for me.”

Night in the Palace

M
andred was leaning against the centaur’s flank. The red stuff the centaur had brought with him—wine, he came to learn—was strong. Mandred had heard of it before, but all they drank in Firnstayn was mead and beer.

He raised the heavy gold cup unsteadily. “To our friendship, Aigil . . . Ailalaos? Your name is unpronounceable.”

“You think mine’s bad. You should hear the names of the one-eyed trolls up on the Klippenburg,” the centaur slurred. “The trolls of Dailos are crazy . . . They tear out one of their own eyes to honor their greatest hero.”

Mandred was impressed. That was loyalty. No chance of anything like that among the elves. They were all so . . . the warrior couldn’t think of a suitable word. Cold, decorous, arrogant? They certainly had no idea how to celebrate. Then again, they had brought the goblets with them and offered him this little banquet hall to spend the night in. Just as he was getting into the swing of things with Aigilaos, the elves, one after the other, had said good night and left.
Soft. Every last one of them.

“A man who can’t drink is not a man,” declared Mandred.

“That’s the truth,” the centaur agreed, his voice raw.

Mandred tottered back a step and clinked goblets with Aigilaos again. These gold cups weren’t really suitable for a proper toast. The elves certainly made pretty things, but they were not exactly robust. His goblet already had a sizable dent in the side. With mead horns, that was unthinkable. For a moment, Mandred was worried he might be in trouble for the damage. Then he remembered that the elves had been generous with their gifts. If they took him to task about the chalice, he would simply return one of the gifts as compensation.

The warrior looked at the things they had given him, set out in a row on a stone bench beside the door. A chain mail tunic beyond anything even the princes of the Fjordlands possessed. A gold-clad helmet with flexible cheek plates and an attached chain-mesh braid that hung far down the back of his neck. A richly embroidered leather quiver filled with light javelins. A boar spear, its long blade giving off a bluish shimmer. A magnificent saddle with silver fittings, and the queen had promised him a horse from her own stable in the morning, one that was willing to carry a human, was how she had put it. Mandred snorted in annoyance. As if a horse would cause him any trouble. If the beast acted up, he’d simply wallop it on the head; that had always worked. No one liked a smack on the head, not even a bloody-minded horse.

“You look down, my friend,” Aigilaos said and threw one arm around Mandred’s shoulders. “We’ll run the beast to ground soon enough. You’ll see. Tomorrow night we’ll stick its head on a pike in the middle of the village.”

“Better kill the dragon before you carve up its hide,” came a familiar voice.

Mandred turned. In the door stood Ollowain, dressed in flawless white. With a long stride, he stepped over a pile of dung marring the colorful mosaic of the floor. “I see you’ve succeeded in giving the hunters’ chambers the ambience of a stable,” he said, a thin smile on his lips. “In all the centuries of the elfhunt, no one else has ever managed that.”

Mandred planted himself in the elf’s path. “Unless I’m mistaken, the hunt has never been led by a human before either.”

Ollowain nodded deliberately. “Even the mighty make mistakes.” He reached down and loosened the sword belt around his hips. He wrapped the silver-studded belt carefully around the sheath, then handed the weapon to Mandred. “I should not have hit you.”

Mandred looked at the slim sword in astonishment, but did not take it. “Why not?” In the same circumstances, he would not have acted any differently than Ollowain. What was dishonorable about beating up someone dumb enough to pick a fight with a better fighter?

“It was inappropriate. You are a guest of the queen,” the elf said. He pointed to the slice in his cape. “You missed me by a hair’s breadth. You—a human. That made me angry . . . but be that as it may, I should not have hit you. You are skillful . . . for a human.”

Mandred reached for the sword. It was the weapon he had fought Ollowain with, a sword fit for a king. “Actually, I’m not very good with a sword,” Mandred replied, grinning. “You should have given me an axe.”

Ollowain’s eyebrows twitched momentarily, but his face otherwise remained an expressionless mask. He reached under his cape and came up with a red finger-thick braid. “This belongs to you, mortal.” His eyes were sparkling.

It took Mandred a moment to realize what Ollowain was holding out to him. Shocked, he lifted his hand to his hair and found the stumpy remains of one of his braids just above his temple. Anger flared inside him.

“You . . . you’ve mutilated me, you treacherous bastard! You . . . monster! Elf spawn!” Mandred tried to draw the sword, but the belt was wound around the cross guard and sheath, and he was not able to unsheathe it even an inch. In a temper, he flung the weapon aside and raised his fists. “I’ll pound that pretty nose of yours to porridge!”

The elf dodged Mandred’s fist with a quick bob.

“We’ll give him a thrashing to remember,” Aigilaos growled and reared onto his hind legs.

Ollowain dived under Aigilaos’s whirling hooves and came to his feet again in a single fluid movement, then punched the centaur on his flank.

Aigilaos let out a furious cry. His hooves lost their grip on the mosaic floor, and he started to slip and skidded through a puddle of spilled wine.

Mandred tried to jump out of the way of the tumbling centaur, but his friend, in a desperate bid to hold on to him, threw his arms out wide, and both of them hit the floor. The fall knocked the wind out of Mandred. For a moment, he lay there, gasping for breath. Half crushed under the centaur, he was having trouble even moving.

Ollowain grabbed hold of Mandred’s arm and pulled him out from under Aigilaos when the centaur tried—in vain—to get back on his feet.

“Take small breaths,” the elf ordered.

Mandred panted like a dog. He felt dizzy, but slowly, slowly the air returned to his lungs.

“How can anyone be so egotistical as to drink himself blind the night before a dangerous hunt?” Ollowain shook his head. “Every time I see you, you manage to make me lose my self-control, Mortal Mandred. If your own well-being means nothing to you, think about the well-being of the men and women who will ride with you. Tomorrow, you’re the leader. You are responsible for them. I’ll send some kobolds to muck out this stable, take the wine, and leave a few buckets of water behind. And I hope you’re halfway back to your senses by morning.”

“Milksop,” Aigilaos slurred. “Someone like you could never understand a real man.”

The elf smiled. “Indeed, I have never tried to imagine what a horse might be thinking.”

Mandred held his tongue. He would have liked nothing more than to knock Ollowain down, but he knew he would never be able to beat the elf. Worse still, deep down, he knew Ollowain was right. It was stupid of him to get drunk. The wine, so sweet, so easy to swallow, had seduced him. It had numbed his fear, the fear that Freya no longer lived, the fear of having to face the manboar again.