The Elven Page 3

  No other elf had been reborn as often as Nuramon. He had been through the cycles of life, death, and rebirth for millennia. And with his soul, he had also inherited his name. The queen had recognized in Nuramon the soul of his own grandfather and had given him his grandfather’s name. The seemingly never-ending search for his destiny was the subject of high-handed derision even within Nuramon’s own extended family. At least for now, no family member need worry about their newborn. But if Nuramon were to die, his soul would cast a shadow over his clan. No one knew in whom the next Nuramon would be born.

  No, on balance, Nuramon could not look back at his ancestry and expect to be admired for it. On the contrary, everyone said that Nuramon would go the same way he always had. He would search for his destiny, die during the search, and be reborn again. But this view was abhorrent to Noroelle. She saw instead a virtuous man sitting before her, and as Nuramon sang another song to her beauty, Noroelle sensed that every word he spoke had its source in his deep love for her. What the cradle had denied him, he had earned for himself. There was only one thing he did not dare to do: to come too close to her. He had never once touched her. He had never found the courage to take her hand as Farodin did, let alone to kiss it. Whenever she tried to send him some harmless token of her affection, he would gently refuse it with sweet, intoxicating words.

  Whichever way she looked, this way or that, at her two suitors, at that moment, she could not make up her mind. If Farodin opened up his innermost self to her, she would choose him. If Nuramon reached out to her and took her hand, then she would favor him. The decision was not entirely hers to make.

  It had been just twenty years since their courtship began. It might be another twenty before they could expect her to decide. And if she herself was unable to choose, then the one who had shown the greatest loyalty would win her favor. And if, in that, they were also equal, then their courting might go on forever—a thought that brought a smile to Noroelle’s lips.

  Farodin began a new piece and played in such a heartfelt way that Noroelle closed her eyes. She knew the song. She had heard it one day at court. But with every note Farodin played, he surpassed what she had heard back then.

  Set against Farodin’s melody, Nuramon’s voice paled slightly, until Farodin again began a new song.

  “O Albenchild, see there a face,” Nuramon sang now.

  Noroelle opened her eyes, surprised at the sudden change that had come over his voice.

  “Upon the waters shining bright,” Nuramon sang as he looked at the water.

  Noroelle’s eyes could not follow his gaze, however, so spellbound was she by his voice.

  “Fair Noroelle, go out, make haste, from the shade into the light,” he sang.

  Noroelle stood and did what he said. She moved a few steps away from the spring and kneeled at the shore of the lake to look into the water, but there was nothing there.

  Nuramon went on. “A crystal tarn, your eyes so blue.”

  And Noroelle now saw blue eyes. They were her own, and Nuramon was comparing them to a mountain lake.

  “Night hair adrift the zephyr’s grace.”

  She saw her hair lightly brushing her neck and had to smile.

  “Your mouth a faery smile true. O Albenchild, see there a face.”

  She observed herself closely and listened as Nuramon sang of her beauty in the various languages of the Albenkin. In the language of the faeries, everything sounded beautiful, but he could manage to flatter her even in the kobold tongue.

  As she listened to him, she no longer saw herself, but another woman, more beautiful than she had ever felt herself to be, as noble as the queen and with a grace like that of the Alben themselves. And even though she did not see herself in this light, she knew that Nuramon’s words were sung from his heart.

  When her suitors fell silent, she turned away uncertainly from the water and looked to Nuramon, then to Farodin. “Why have you stopped?” she asked.

  Farodin looked up to the canopy of leaves. “The birds are restless. They seem unwilling to sing anymore.”

  Noroelle turned to Nuramon. “Was that really my face I saw in the water? Or was it your magic?”

  Nuramon smiled. “I cast no magic. All I did was sing. But it flatters me that you could not tell the difference.”

  Farodin suddenly stood, and Nuramon also rose to his feet. They gazed into the distance, out across the lake and the fields. The deep tone of a signal horn sounded over the land.

  Now Noroelle, too, stood up. “The queen? What has happened?” she asked.

  In a few paces, Farodin was beside Noroelle. He laid one hand upon her shoulder. “No need for concern, Noroelle.”

  Nuramon was there, too, and he whispered in her ear, “No doubt it’s nothing that a host of elves can’t take care of.”

  Noroelle sighed. “It was probably too nice to last the whole day,” she said. A moment later, the birds rose into the air and flew off toward the queen’s palace, which lay on a hill beyond the fields and the woods. “Last time, the queen commissioned you for the elfhunt,” Noroelle said after the birds had disappeared from view. “I worry about you, Farodin.”

  “Haven’t I always come back? And didn’t Nuramon sweeten your days while I was gone?” he responded.

  Noroelle released herself from Farodin’s hand and turned to the two of them. “And if you both have to go this time?”

  “No one will entrust me with such a duty,” Nuramon argued. “That’s how it has always been, and will always be.”

  Farodin was silent, but Noroelle said, “The appreciation that others refuse you, Nuramon . . . I will give to you. But go now. Fetch your horses and ride ahead. I’ll follow and see you this evening at court.”

  Farodin kissed Noroelle’s hand and said good-bye. Nuramon’s own farewell consisted of a loving smile. Then he went to Felbion, his white horse. Farodin already sat astride his bay. Noroelle waved once more to both of them.

  The elf watched as her two lovers rode across the field, away from the faery blossoms, galloping toward the forest and the castle beyond. She drank a little water from the spring, then set off after them. She walked barefoot across the field. She wanted to visit the faun oak. Beneath its branches, she could think more clearly than anywhere else. The oak, for its part, communed with her and, in earlier years, had taught her a great deal of magic.

  As she walked, she thought of Farodin and Nuramon.

  Awakening

  Warmer than I expected, thought Mandred when he awoke. He could hear the twittering of birds somewhere close by, and it became clear to him that he had not entered into the Hall of Heroes. There were no birds there . . . and the air should be filled with the scent of honey from heavy mead and the smell of sappy spruce wood burning in the fireplace.

  He had only to open his eyes to know where he was. But Mandred put it off. He was lying on something soft. Nothing hurt. His hands and feet felt somewhat tingly, but it was not uncomfortable. He did not want to know where he was. He wanted no more than to lie there and enjoy the moment, enjoy how wonderfully well he felt. So this is what it feels like to be dead, he thought.

  “I know you’re awake,” said a voice, sounding as if it had difficulty forming the words.

  Mandred opened his eyes. He was lying on the ground beneath a tree, its branches curving over him like a vault. Beside him, a stranger kneeled and prodded at his body with strong hands. The branches hung down to just above the stranger’s head, but his face remained obscured in the play of light and shadow.

  Mandred narrowed his eyes to be able to see more clearly. Something wasn’t right there. The shadows seemed to swirl around the stranger’s face, as if deliberately concealing it.

  “Where am I?”

  “In safety,” the stranger replied curtly.

  Mandred tried to sit up but quickly realized that his hands and legs were tied to the gro
und. All he could raise was his head.

  “What are you doing with me? Why am I bound?”

  From inside the swirling shadows, for a moment, two eyes blazed brightly. They were the color of pale amber, the kind of amber one occasionally found farther west, on the shores of the fjord after heavy storms.

  “Once Atta Aikhjarto has healed you, you may go. I personally do not place so much stock in your company that I would tie you down to keep you here. He was the one who insisted on treating your wounds,” the stranger said, then let out an odd clucking sound. “Your language ties my tongue in knots. It is devoid of any . . . beauty.”

  Mandred looked around. Apart from the stranger, so weirdly surrounded by gloom, there was nobody. From the low-hanging branches of the mighty tree, leaves fell as on a windless autumn day and drifted unevenly to the ground.

  Mandred looked up at the canopy overhead. He was lying beneath an oak tree. Its leaves emanated a strong, spring green. It smelled of good, black earth, but also of rot, of decomposing flesh.

  A golden ray of light stabbed down through the tangle of leaves and touched his left hand. Now he saw what was holding him: it was the roots of the oak itself. Around his wrist wound finger-thick knotted roots, and his fingers were covered with a fine, white mesh of rootlets from which the odor of decay was coming.

  Mandred reared up, straining against his bonds, but all resistance was useless. Bands of iron could not have held him more securely than those roots.

  “What is happening to me?”

  “Atta Aikhjarto offered to heal you. You were on the brink of death when you stepped through the gate. He ordered me to bring you here.” The stranger swept his hand to indicate the spreading branches. “He is paying dearly to draw the poison of the frost out of your body and give your flesh back its rose-petal hue.”

  “By Luth, what is this place?”

  The stranger let out a bleating sound that vaguely reminded Mandred of a laugh. “You are where your gods have no jurisdiction. You must have angered them, because they normally protect you humans from passing through the gates.”

  “The gates?”

  “The stone circle. We heard you praying to your gods.” The stranger again let out his bleating laugh. “You are in Albenmark, Mandred, among the Albenkin. That is a rather long way from your gods.”

  This news startled Mandred. One who stepped through the gates to the world beyond was cursed. He had heard enough stories of men and women taken to the world of the Albenkin, and none of them came to a good end. But still . . . if one were stout of heart, it was occasionally possible to get them to render one a service. Did they know about the manboar?

  “Why is Atta Aik . . . Atta Ajek . . . Why is the oak helping me?”

  The stranger remained silent for a while. Mandred found himself wishing he could see the man’s face and decided it must have been some sorcery that kept it so doggedly hidden from view.

  “Atta Aikhjarto must think you are of some importance, warrior. They say the roots of certain old trees run so deep they reach even your world. Whatever it is that Atta Aikhjarto knows about you, it must mean so much that he is willing to sacrifice a large part of his power for you. He is drawing out your poison and giving you his own lifeblood in return.” The stranger pointed to the fallen leaves. “He is suffering for you, human. And from now on, you will have the strength of an oak in your blood. You will never again be like the others of your kind, and you will—”

  “Enough.” A sharp voice cut off the stranger’s words. The branches of the tree parted, and a figure, half human, half horse, approached the spot where Mandred lay.

  Mandred stared in open disbelief at the new arrival. He had never heard of such a creature before: the muscular torso of a man growing from the body of a horse. The manhorse’s face was framed by a black beard, twisted into ringlets. The hair on his head was cut short, and a circlet of gold crowned his head. Slung around his shoulders was a quiver full of arrows, and in his left hand, he carried a small hunting bow. He would have been the living image of a majestic warrior, were it not for the red-brown body of the horse.

  The manhorse gave a short bow in Mandred’s direction. “They call me Aigilaos. The queen of Albenmark wishes to see you, and I have been given the honor of escorting you to the royal court.” He spoke with a deep, melodious voice, but accentuated the words strangely.

  Mandred sensed the iron grip of the roots slackening before finally freeing him completely. The jarl could not take his eyes from the manhorse. The strange creature reminded him of the manboar. It, too, had been half human, half animal. He wondered what the queen of this manhorse would be like.

  Mandred touched his upper leg. The deep wound had closed without leaving a scar. He stretched his legs uncertainly. No unpleasant prickle or itch. No pain at all. They seemed completely healed, as if the frostbite had never settled in them.

  He stood up cautiously, still not trusting the strength of his legs. Through the soles of his boots, he felt the soft floor of the forest. That was magic. Powerful magic. Far beyond the powers of the witches in the Fjordlands. His legs and feet had been dead, but now the feeling had come back to them.

  Mandred stepped up to the massive trunk of the oak. Five men with arms outstretched could not have reached around it. It must have been centuries old. Mandred kneeled in reverence at the trunk of the oak and touched his forehead to the fissured bark. “I thank you, tree. For my life, I am in your debt,” he said and then cleared his throat, hesitant. Was this how one should thank a tree? A tree with magic powers? A tree that the faceless stranger held in such esteem, as if it were a king?

  “I . . . I will return, and I will hold a feast in your honor,” said Mandred. “A feast the way we do them in the Fjordlands. I . . .” He spread his arms wide. It was miserable to thank one’s savior with no more than a promise. There should be something more substantial.

  Mandred tore a strip of cloth from his breeches and knotted it around one of the lower branches. “If there is ever anything I can do for you, send a messenger to me with this strip of cloth. I swear by the blood that is soaked in its fibers that from this day forth, my axe will stand between you and all your enemies.”

  A rustling in the tree caused Mandred to look up. A red-brown acorn fell from the crown of the tree, glanced off his shoulder, and landed in the withering fallen leaves.

  “Take it,” said the stranger softly. “Atta Aikhjarto does not give gifts lightly or often. He has accepted your oath. Look after the acorn well. It may be a great treasure.”

  “A treasure with thousands of brethren growing on Atta Aikhjarto’s branches every year,” sneered the manhorse. “Treasures that stuff the bellies of swarms of mice and squirrels. You have been given a valuable gift indeed, human. Now come. You don’t want to keep our queen waiting, do you?”

  Mandred eyed the manhorse suspiciously, then bent and picked up the acorn. Aigilaos made him uneasy. “I’m afraid I may not be able to keep up with you.”

  Aigilaos grinned broadly. White teeth blazed behind the heavy beard. “You won’t have to, human. Swing onto my back and hold the leather band on my quiver. Hold tight. I am no less powerful than a warhorse in your world, and I bet my tail I would beat any steed you have ever come across in a race. My tread is so light that barely a blade of grass bends beneath my hooves. I am Aigilaos, the fastest of the centaurs, famed for—”

  “An even faster tongue,” jeered the stranger. “They say centaurs’ tongues are apt to get carried away. Sometimes they’re fast enough to outstrip reality.”

  “And when they talk about you, Xern, it’s to say you’re such a curmudgeon that only the trees can put up with you,” Aigilaos shot back with a laugh. “And only because they can’t run away.”

  The leaves of the great oak rustled, although Mandred felt no movement in the air. Wilted leaves fell thick as spring snow.

  The cent
aur glanced up at the mighty branches overhead. The smile had vanished from his face. “I have no grievance with you, Atta Aikhjarto.”

  A horn sounded in the distance. The manhorse seemed suddenly relieved. “The horns of Albenmark call. I must take you to the queen’s court, human.”

  Xern nodded to Mandred. For a moment, the magic obscuring his face vanished to reveal a narrow, handsome visage . . . if one overlooked the massive antlers growing out of his thick head of hair. The sight took Mandred’s breath away, and he recoiled, stunned at the sight. Was everyone here part animal?

  Suddenly, everything that had happened came together for Mandred in a single clear picture. The manboar had come from here. It had spared Mandred deliberately during the hunt. It was no coincidence that he was the only one not slaughtered by the beast’s lethal tusks. And the pursuit . . . was that perhaps part of some insidious plan? Was he meant to be driven into the stone circle? Maybe he was just the beast’s quarry and had done exactly what it wanted. He had stepped into the stone circle after all.

  The manhorse pawed restlessly at the ground. “Come, Mandred.”

  Mandred took hold of the quiver strap and pulled himself onto the manhorse’s back. He would face whatever fate awaited him. He was no coward. May their queen have a thousand horns blown, he would not kneel before her. No, he would appear before her on his feet, standing proud, and demand blood money to atone for the blight her manboar had brought to the Fjordlands.

  With his powerful arms, Aigilaos parted the protective curtain of branches and stepped out onto a stony field. Mandred looked around in astonishment. Here it was spring, and the sky looked to him to be much wider than it did at home in the Fjordlands. But if it were spring, how could a ripe acorn fall from a tree?