Analindë (The Chronicles of Lóresse) (25 page)

Andulmaion sealed the door shut behind them; Analindë led the way. Down the circling stairs they went. “I don’t sense anyone yet; the other rooms are empty. How many are there?” she asked as they reached yet another landing on the way down, she turned to watch him. She was having trouble reaching all the rooms while she was moving. Some rooms were shielded against sight. Those she didn’t pry into.

“I don’t know, I never stopped to count.” Andulmaion ran his hand along the wall and slowed to trace a curious glyph etched into a door. “I suppose there are–” Andulmaion yanked his hand back and shook it. “It shocked me. I . . .” he hastily backed away from the door and hurried down the stairs to catch up with Analindë.

“What was that? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Must’ve been a ward,” he rubbed his hand along his leg. “Remind me not to touch any doors or strange glyphs in this tower. I should never have touched it in the first place. My mistake. Now where was I?”

“All these rooms.”

“Oh, they’re for family, their associates, and apprentices. Right now Master Therin is the only one of his family who lives here. But if they come, there’s room.”

“That makes sense,” she said.

Intercepting her at the bottom of the tower, Andulmaion reached out to keep her from opening the door. “How many elves in the hall outside?”

Analindë quickly found that when looking through magesight, she was pretty much blinded on all sides. Still new into her powers, her peripheral vision was nonexistent and she couldn’t see very far. She became worried when she could only sense what was on the other side of the door. Andulmaion reassured her that magesight was shortened when on the move. A sentry awaited on the other side of the door, just as Erulissé had said. She thanked him for the guidance, reported on the sentry, and so they went, playing seek and find as they continued to the Healer’s Wing.

Four flights of stairs, several twisting corridors, a short trip outside, and one inner courtyard later they approached the Healer’s Wing. Small cobalt blue stones crunched under their feet as they passed beside the central fountain. A chill wind blew from the north, freezing the exposed skin on Analindë’s face. Bushes moved violently as particularly strong gusts of wind rushed past. Analindë clutched her cloak tight in a vain attempt to keep the cold out and warmth in.

The courtyard was a place of beauty no matter the year. Marble benches ringed pools of water; despite the cold, they had not been drained. Hedges bright with red winter foliage provided secluded seating areas where the injured could come and sit during their convalescence. No one else dared the elements today. A sculpture of a majestic stag stood eternally alert while a doe next to him drank from the pool. Forever locked in place, their lifelikeness was a testament to elven craftsmanship.

The healer’s wing consisted of a four story building that connected to Mirëdell on one side and was open to the garden on all others. Tall arched windows graced the building, and delicate stonework framed solid wooden doors darkened with age.

As they approached the building, comfort and healing stole over them. Residues of healing Energy used time and again had sunk deep into the walls until the stones themselves radiated wellness. A gust of wind accompanied them as they stepped over the threshold.

Near the far end of the cavernous room a young elve yelped and jumped up, scurrying after pages that had blown off his desk while Andulmaion wrestled the doors shut behind them. An enormous hearth was set into the far wall. They walked past chairs and couches toward the young man and the hearth. He wore the flowing green robes of a healer; the needlework around his collar indicated the rank of apprentice. They reached him just as he dropped a rather large paperweight on top of the stack of papers he’d gathered up.

“Does Laerwen yet work today?” Andulmaion asked.

“Yes, I’ll send someone to find her. Whom should I tell her has come to visit?” He looked up at them expectantly.

“Mage apprentices Analindë and Andulmaion. She is not expecting us, and the matter is not urgent.” The healer’s apprentice nodded once, then disappeared down a hall sandwiched between his desk and the hearth.

They drifted toward the fire and sank into chairs just close enough to feel the fire’s radiant warmth, content to wait for Laerwen to find them.

“Do you ever wonder why we still light fires when the stones beneath our feet have already been warmed by weaves and spells?” he asked.

“Comfort?”

“Yes, perhaps.” He turned to study the blaze before them.

“Andulmaion, we see so little of Master Therin these days. Do you know how the High Mages fare?” Analindë asked. Erulissé still hadn’t visited again. Although the occasional note had begun arriving with her meals, they’d all been read and vetted for content as evidenced by broken seals. The notes brimmed with the latest news and gossip, telling her everything. Except anything that had to do with Humans or the Mageborn Books.

“The council continues to watch the three humans who came to your village. As of now, the humans are trapped by winter snow in the high reaches of the mountains, about one week’s journey—at a human’s pace—from the Mountain City. With the snows hemming them in, they will not make it to the city before spring.”

“I hope that will give us enough time.” She realized she was twisting a ring around and around her finger, and her hands immediately stilled as she forced them to lie pleasingly in her lap. Her mother’s voice rang in her mind.
You betray your feelings, Analindë; sit still and no one will know.
“And the Mageborn Books? Have they learned anything about them?”

Doors at the side of the hall crashed opened; Analindë flinched as the cavernous room filled with sound. She jerked her head around and saw two emergency healers burst into the room carrying a moaning young elve through the door. “What an idiot!” One of the healers spat out.

The young elve clutched splintered pieces of wood to his chest with an arm; the other arm hung awkwardly off the stretcher at a wrong angle as he sputtered, “I almost had it.” He was silent only for a moment. “It would have been a great day for flying,” he moaned. His eyes rolled back and his head lulled to the side.

“Idiot,” the other healer muttered.

Analindë recognized her friend Pedar as they charged past; she sprang to her feet and called out, “What happened?”

They had crossed the room and were halfway through a doorway opposite them; one of the healers called over his shoulder. “He heard that human wizards flew on broomsticks and he decided to try it himself.”

“Idiot!” The other one repeated.

Then they were gone. Feet clattered down the corridor, as hard shoe soles scraped against stone.

“Analindë?” a soft, deep voice said at her side. She glanced down at the strong masculine hand that had been stretched out in an offer of support, but he did not touch her. She was trembling.

“Stars,” said Analindë, sinking back down into the chair behind her.

“Who was that?” Andulmaion carefully sat back down as well.

“What? Oh, Pedar.” She felt sick inside; he must have fallen pretty far this time.

Andulmaion waited for her to explain. Her brain finally registered the expectant silence, “Sorry. Right. Pedar. He has a fascination with flying and Humans. It seems his two loves finally meshed.”

Each time she heard that another one of Pedar’s attempts at flying had failed, a little part of her dimmed. She would have liked to fly and secretly hoped he’d succeed someday. But she knew deep down he wouldn’t; many had tried before and failed.

“He looked pretty banged up.”

“Um, yes, I’ve seen him worse off. He didn’t have any bones sticking out this time.” She shuddered and pulled her cloak more tightly around herself.

“Doesn’t he know elves can’t fly?”

“Seems he doesn’t want to hear it. He’s tried to bespell just about everything. He usually makes it off the ground, but it drains him quickly.”

“And the humans?”

“His family has turned them into a hobby of sorts. They’ve studied Humans for generations. They’re experts in the Realm, I’m surprised the Council hasn’t summoned one of them.”

“They are probably far speaking them into council sessions,” said Andulmaion.

“Do you think he’ll be okay?” she asked. “There are only so many times you can get hurt that badly before your luck runs out.”

“I think he’ll probably be okay. The healers were moving quickly but weren’t running.”

Analindë nodded her head. A moment later and she’d refocused her thoughts on their earlier words. “So, I’m not going to let you off the hook. The Mageborn Books, what have you learned? You must know something.”

Andulmaion stretched, leaning back in his chair, getting comfortable. “What do you want to know?”

“What news do you have from the Council?” she said.

“The historians have dusted off some of our oldest records; they date back several generations, even before the Elven Wars. The old tomes make mention of many interesting things.”

“And what do they tell us of the Mageborn Books?” she prompted.

“A little here and there, not as much as we need, but more than we had before,” he said. She bristled.

“And the little they say?” It was like unwedging a stuck door to get him to tell her anything. He wasn’t making this easy.

He looked up at her; the stars in his eyes flowed deeply, rising and swirling together with a ferocity she hadn’t seen before. The fingers pulling at the cuff on his robes stilled as he looked away. Oh, dear. Her levity was entirely out of place. Her heart sank; he wasn’t going to tell her. Her eyes shifted toward the fireplace.

“They tell us very little,” her eyes shot back to his face. He was frowning. “But what they say gives us cause for fear. The time before the Elven Wars was a period of peace and prosperity; a time of great enlightenment.” He drummed his fingers along the arm of his chair, then stopped just as quickly as he’d begun, tucking his hand under a fold of his cloak.

“During that era, great strides in learning and discovery occurred. Energies and specialties were mastered. There was one elven mage-turned-historian who was greater than them all. Over the course of his lifetime he compiled all of this knowledge together. He had not one library, but many.”

“I can’t imagine how many books that might have been,” said Analindë.

“Almost too many to count. Near the end of his life he compiled all that he knew into three books: one for healing, one for mage knowledge, and the last for all remaining specialties.”

“How could you fit all that knowledge into three books?” she said.

“Therein lies his mastery. The old mage wove the different books into one another, compacting the knowledge from all his books into three small volumes. To use the books, one just has to ask the right question or have intent in his mind as he opens the appropriate book. What he seeks will appear. The knowledge itself is embedded within the molecules of the paper, glue and leather.

“It is said that copies were made, gifted only to trusted friends.” He stared at the hearthstones for a moment and then shifted in his chair. “With such knowledge comes danger.”

“There is something more you are not telling me. What is it?” she said.

Andulmaion looked up from the hearth; his eyes pinned her to her chair. “The books. They contain all knowledge at that time, plus whatever each successive owner chose to weave in.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“
All
knowledge at the time Analindë.” He sat forward in his chair, agitated. Her mind ran the statement over and over again through her mind as he waited for her to understand the ramifications. “Many evil and dangerous spells were discovered during those years. It is partly what led to the Elven Wars, brother pitted against brother.” Analindë felt cold at his words. “So commenced the time when elves began to hide; this school was founded as a haven far away from harm in the tops of the mountains.”

Analindë shivered, “Why do the Humans want such books? Can they work our weaves and spells?”

“Yes, some of them, but we still haven’t been able to find Gildhorn. And over the past several weeks since you sent the warning about traitors, other elves have disappeared. There is much discussion about the Second Sons, and I fear–”

Just then Laerwen appeared from a side hall. “Andulmaion, Analindë, come. I am sorry to keep you waiting. There was a matter that required my attention.”

Analindë felt startled; how unfortunate that Laerwen had arrived at just that moment. She pulled her thoughts together and glanced at Andulmaion as she rose. His serious expression had vanished, his eyes were hooded, and a congenial smile lit his face, welcoming an old friend. Mother would have been so proud of his court mask, the elegant face he showed others; how he guarded his strength and resolve from any and all. In the millennia since the Elven Wars not much had changed. Elves danced a courtly dance around each other, maintaining the delicate peace that had been reached to save them all.

And now there were those who tired of the dance and had shown their hands. After the concessions that had been made and sacrifices given, it was offensive to now restart the feuds. She thought of Gildhorn. Did he want to destroy them all?