Hunted (Book 3) (31 page)

The sheltered riverbed protected Gen’s footprints and allowed Cadaen to find them easily, even in the fading light. He warned the rest of the party to stay clear of them as they proceeded worriedly, calling out the lost Protector’s name. They had not gone far when they encountered the low cave and the pool of water, and only Cadaen and Mirelle waited to satiate their thirst as they cast around for more clues of Gen’s whereabouts.

“The trail leads to the water and no further,” Cadaen reported as he and Mirelle took their turn to drink amid the grateful tones of their companions. “Look at the shape of this pool,” Cadaen continued. “It is regular, more like a carved cistern. Perhaps fed by an underground spring. The water is very clean.”

Mirelle pulled everyone together, face thoughtful and lined with worry. “We cannot continue to search tonight, but we must be careful at this place. The pool here is not natural, and, since this is the only water we have found, it is likely that whoever lives here knows about it. My guess is that Gen encountered the owners of this well. Whether he speaks with them now or was killed or taken captive, I cannot guess. We have but two swords now, and we keep watch. There is enough water here for days, but we must find food or perish.”

“There is no need for worry.” A strangely accented but beautiful voice from the outcropping above them startled them all. The robed figure they had seen the night before stood above them. The gray cloak enclosed her completely, only a hint of her face visible in the late evening. Long pieces of diaphanous cloth sown into the sleeves and sides of the cloak fluttered about in the breeze. She held a small sack in one hand. Everyone’s eyes shot wide as she stepped off the outcropping with easy grace and dropped fifteen feet to the riverbed, landing softly.

Everyone regarded their guest with wonder as she lowered her hood, her elven face and glorious dark hair stunning them with their majesty. Her cool blue eyes were tinged with sadness and reflected an innate pride as she crossed to Mirelle.

“Eat,” she commanded, placing a ripe peach in Mirelle’s hand and then continuing on to the rest. “I have only one for each of you, but there are certainly more to be had. Eat first, questions later. I am Al’Handra.”

“I am. . .”

“Mirelle,” Al’Handra interjected. “I know your names. Your reckless companion provided me with those.”

“Then Gen found you?”

“Rather, the reverse.” Al’Handra smirked, an odd expression for a face such as hers. “He is safe and in good condition. Many of my people would have left you out here to perish, despite his information, but I have always had a weakness for the race of men, and he provided me the best news that I have had in centuries. You find me magnanimous, and thus, you will not die here in the waste.”

“What did he tell you?” Mirelle asked, licking the juice off of her lips.

“That my daughter yet lives. You know her by her human name, Maewen.” Mirelle’s eyes widened and her lips parted to say something, but Al’Handra continued. “There are some other pieces of information about himself, the Chalaine, and the Ha’Ulrich that my master, Devlis, would speak with you about in private. We journey tonight. We shall commence when you are ready.”

They ate with delight, juice dripping through their fingers and down their chins, the peaches unusually sweet, almost decadent. The unexpected delicacy filled them, weary limbs forgetting their exhaustion. Al’Handra watched them stoically, their delighted reactions bringing her no pleasure or surprise, even their rather inelegant attempts to suck the juice off their sticky fingers. Shortly, Mirelle thanked her and signaled their readiness to travel.

Al’Handra nodded and walked forward at a steady pace, not looking back to monitor their progress or engage them in conversation. While her cold manner troubled them, if she could provide more food and somewhere better to rest, no one would feel compelled to complain about her manners. She led them down the dry riverbed, the night again clear and cold. After a two hour march, the shard edge approached. Al’Handra did not deviate, striding up to the precipice and stopping at the brink of the empty vastness.

“The stair is narrow and unprotected. If your legs are weak, wait until they recover strength before attempting them. I will go before you into Ras’Ael and announce your coming.”

With no further explanation she stepped off the edge and turned, descending down the stairs they could not see until they stood where she had, and when they did, their heads spun. Some two hundred steps had been carved into the shard edge, and—while appearing sturdy—they stretched no more than three feet wide with no rail between the stair and a plummet into blackness. Al’Handra walked down them confidently and evenly.

“I will need a moment before I try that,” Udan admitted, face pale. “Maybe more than a moment.”

“Shouldn’t we tie ourselves together or something?” Volney asked, voice queasy.

“No,” Gerand corrected. “That is for traveling through snow storms and fog. Here it would mean that if one person fell, he would drag everyone with him. We go one at a time with several feet between us. That way, when you stumble and fall, you won’t take me with you.”

Volney peeked over the edge and frowned, backing away. “I’ll say it again. I grew up on a plain.”

“I’m going,” Mirelle announced, and before anyone, including herself, could dissuade her, she stepped off the edge and onto the stair. Cadaen came after, and the rest trickled down at irregular intervals, Udan and Volney bringing up the distant rear. The stair emptied onto a platform in the middle of a broad opening stretching nearly a quarter of a mile across the shard face, the entrance into an immense cavity in the shard’s bowels. The smell of fruit and blossoms flirted with the air. Inside the cave an orchard was bathed in soft moonlight that flooded through the hole, the occasional winks of fireflies punctuating the darkness. Beyond the orchard, the light reflected off of something that gave the impression of a field full of sparkling, emerald stars.

Al’Handra awaited them on the platform, hands behind her back. After Volney gratefully joined the rest of the group on less treacherous ground, the austere elf spoke.

“Welcome to Ras’Ael, or in your tongue, the Grave of Light. Here you will find fifty-two elves and fourteen dwarves. There were more of us once, but thirty-two elves have journeyed to Erelinda after the manner of my people, and time has claimed thirty-eight of the dwarves that survived the Shattering. Among those here is our leader, Devlis, an elf mighty in the magic arts and steeped in lore. He will speak with Mirelle now and instructs me to see the rest of you quartered. Follow.”

She led them off the platform and down a grassy embankment onto a stone path that led around the orchard. Just as a complaint about the darkness formed on Mirelle’s lips, the fireflies of the orchard grouped around them, providing a weak but ample light to tread by. The path led to a railed stair carved in dark stone that led up to a shelf smoothed and shaped so that no crack or edge would catch a boot tip. The fireflies deserted them here, but as they walked on, the green stones they had seen sparkling in the distance flared to life and they stopped in wonderment.

Around them, massive trees rose from the rock at their feet and stretched into the air to where they supported the ceiling of the cave. While the intricate detail of the bark tricked the eye into seeing wood, a more careful examination by the light of the glowing green leaves carved in jade crystals revealed that the trees were indeed the work of art and not of nature.

Every detail, from root to stem, had been meticulously shaped from the dark rock, though Mirelle’s party found themselves hurrying by as Al’Handra strode forward unabated by their expressions of delight. As they passed, the green gem leaves winked out behind them and lit before, and in that light they caught glimpses of doorways and windows carved out of the stony tree trunks. Most yawned empty and black, but from time to time a curious dwarf or elf would stare out at them expressionlessly, faces bathed in the green light.

Al’Handra abruptly stopped at the entrance to one of the massive stone trees. “You will stay here tonight. When it is light, we will proportion you among the vacant trees more comfortably. Come, Mirelle. Devlis waits.”

Mirelle followed, Cadaen shadowing her, as Al’Handra proceeded up a small incline. The trees occluded the view of the orchard and the opening of the shard beyond, and despite the magic and awe she felt from the trees, the farther they passed into the cave, the more the city resembled the grave suggested by its name. They passed out of the main cluster of trees and into a flat open space. One immense tree, larger and more grand than the rest, hulked fifty yards ahead.

“I will retire now,” Al’Handra informed them. “Proceed to the tree there and enter. You are expected. I will probably see you again tomorrow. Farewell.”

“Thank you,” Mirelle said with sincere gratitude, though Al’Handra didn’t acknowledge it.

“A queer place,” Cadaen whispered as Mirelle proceeded on tentatively. “Wondrous, but. . .”

“Stale,” she finished for him. “Grave of Light, she called it. That is what it feels like, especially here in the dark. Just think, Cadaen. These elves and dwarves have lived here for centuries with nothing but this and the harsh desert above. Hopefully Devlis is a little more forthcoming than Al’Handra. I wonder how Maewen’s father ever loved such a cold creature.”

“She was not always so,” a voice from behind them said, startling them out of their wits. Cadaen went for his sword but could not pull it out. They faced an older elf, dressed in plain black robe tied with a knotted rope. The only color about him was a green feather pin above his left breast. A white, thin beard fell from his chin like a waterfall to his chest. His snowy hair he wore long, and above his upswept ears, absorbing green eyes stood out youthfully on a face carved rough by age.

“Relax, Master Cadaen,” he said. “I mean no harm. I am Devlis, whom you seek.”

“What have you done to my. . .” The sword suddenly came loose of the scabbard.

“There,” Devlis apologized. “I simply did not want to find myself split in two by accident.”

“You elves seem to have a talent for sneaking up on people,” Cadaen complained, resheathing his sword.

“We are silent by nature and do not startle easily, so we have not developed those little habits of politely announcing ourselves by coughing or sniffing as you do. Come. I live in the tree just ahead there.”

“The craftsmanship of the trees is marvelous,” Mirelle expressed as the older elf passed by her and started toward the solitary tree at the back of the cave.

“Yes, it is a fine work,” Devlis said, “but I still wonder at times if they are too real. Sometimes I find myself believing I walk in a real grove of great oaks, only to place my hand on the rocky trunk to disappoint myself over and over. Here we are.”

They passed through the archway into a circular room with a polished floor of dark brown rock. He spoke a word in Elvish, and a diamond the size of one of the peaches they had just eaten glowed with a comforting white light. It rested on a small black metal sconce over an intricate throne hewn from the walls. Green jade ran in an arch around back of the throne. A stairway rose off to their right, leading to rooms higher up in the trunk. The dwarves had carved seats into the wall circling away from the throne, and a circular section of the middle of the floor was raised to form a table of sorts, or perhaps a platform from which to perform or speak.

“That is a treasure, indeed,” Mirelle commented about the diamond.

Devlis smiled and sat in on the throne. “Here it is worth precisely nothing, save as a focus for light. I would not keep you long, for I know of your travails, and you need not feel as if you have to explain anything. Gen’s mind provided more information than we have, in our own limited way, been able to gather over the centuries. I am gratified to know the race of men still thrives. I worked with your ancestors much during the Mikkikian Wars. You are an impatient, unwise race, but the Millim Eri gifted you magic, and Eldaloth gifted you with many children. I suppose it natural that. . .”

“Devlis,” Mirelle interrupted. “I mean no disrespect, but I am concerned for Gen. Where is he, and is he well?”

“I do apologize, Mirelle. It has been so long since I have had someone new to speak with. I have always supposed your impatience born of short lives. I doubt I could tolerate waiting for anything, either, if I knew death lingered a few years off. Your man is well. He is resting in a chamber above. I will send him to you tomorrow, though I do wish to speak with him more.”

“I thought you had all you needed from his mind, already.”

“I don’t wish to glean anything more from him. It is some wisdom I wish to impart. He is a unique creature with powerful gifts, who is, nonetheless, angry with himself and not seeing clearly. If I can set him upon a more useful path, then I think I would be helping my masters, the Millim Eri—and you, I should think.”

“Yes, thank you. And what of the elves and dwarves here? How came you here?”

Devlis leaned back, eyes unfocusing and retreating into the past. “When the dwarves of Khore-Thaka-Tnahk and the men from Echo Hold did not come to the alliance at Emerald Lake, some of us returned to learn their fate. Deep in the holds of the Far Reach Mountains, we sought them out and found a few alive with their young ones. Ghama Dhron, the abomination of snakes Gen used on the Shroud Lake shard, had slaughtered nearly the entire race of dwarves.