The Demon Awakens (10 page)

Avelyn swallowed hard; he had never imagined such ferocity coming from the gentle man, the most Godly man in all the world.

“I’ll not allow the ruby to be used anywhere near St.-Mere-Abelle.” Father Abbot Markwart went on. “I’ll not take such a chance for the sake of your student’s pride.” He turned back to Avelyn and smiled again, but there was little gentle or comforting in that hungry grin. “If Brother Avelyn cannot utilize the simple stones I have given to him, then he has no right even to hold this one.” He ended by bringing forth his other hand, turning it over, and opening it to reveal the most beautiful, perfect jewel that Avelyn had ever seen.

“Corundum,” the Father Abbot explained. “A ruby. Before I give this to you, understand that what I ask of you is dangerous indeed.”

Avelyn nodded and reached out for the jewel, too stunned to fully appreciate the gravity in the old man’s voice. Markwart handed it over.

“The puzzle is before you,” the Father Abbot explained. “There are no ships in. Sort it out.” With that, he walked to the far edge of the tower and motioned for the two masters to join him.

Avelyn studied them intently. Father Abbot Markwart appeared wickedly intense, the gleam in his eyes seeming almost maniacal, and certainly frightening. Master Siherton wouldn’t even look his way, and Avelyn could sense that the man desired his failure. Master Jojonah was the most intense, but in a kinder way. Avelyn could smell the man’s fear—fear for Avelyn’s safety—and only then did the young monk appreciate the weight of this performance and the danger.

“Sort it out,” the Father Abbot Said again urgently.

Avelyn bowed his head and considered the stones. The ruby was thrumming in his hand, its magic intense and straining for release. Avelyn knew what he could do with that jewel, and when he stopped to consider the implications for the other monks if he used the ruby first, the puzzle seemed not so difficult. Father Abbot Markwart had pointedly mentioned that there were no ships in; Avelyn knew where he was supposed to go. Malachite, amber, serpentine, ruby, in that order.

Avelyn paused and considered the sequence and the implications. He would have to have not one but two other stones already in use when he called forth the powers of the ruby. He had once used two stones together—a hematite and a chrysoberyl, that he might walk out of body with no urge to take possession of any form he passed. But three?

Avelyn took a deep breath, consciously keeping his eyes from the eager gazes of the onlookers.

Malachite first,
he told himself, and he walked to the outer edge of the tower, overlooking the sea, black and thunderous a hundred yards below. Avelyn clutched the malachite firmly, felt its magic tingling and coursing through his hand, then his arm, and into all his body. And then he felt lighter, strangely so, almost as light as he did when spirit-walking with hematite. He went over the tower’s edge with hardly a hesitation, his body beginning a gentle, controlled fall.

Avelyn tried not to think of the reality of his position as the tower walls slipped past his descending form. The cliff wall below the tower was less smooth and far from sheer, and the young monk had to constantly push himself away, angling down and out from the abbey.

As he neared the pounding surf, Avelyn shifted the amber into the hand holding the malachite and brought forth its powers as well.

He touched down easily atop the surf, berating himself for not simply walking his body horizontally across the cliff to land atop the wharf instead. No sense in worrying about that now, he decided; so he kept the malachite functioning until he caught his balance, then, with a deep breath, let it go.

Only the amber was functioning now, and it kept him above the water. With another deep and steadying breath, his confidence in the stone growing, Avelyn walked out across the dark waters, his feet barely making the slightest depression on the rolling surface.

He looked back over his shoulder several times as he moved out from the abbey. He had to get far enough away so that using the ruby would not pose any risk to the structure, and even farther than that, considering the angle of the tall tower, if he wanted the two masters and the Father Abbot truly to witness the demonstration.

Now Avelyn called upon the serpentine, a stone he had never before put to any real test. He knew its reputed properties, of course, but he had never attempted to use them. Master Jojonah had done so once in Avelyn’s presence, when he had retrieved a jewel from a hot hearth, and the young monk had to focus on that now to take faith that the serpentine would protect him.

All too soon, the moment was upon him. He was far out from shore, standing firm on the rolling waves, the serpentine shield strong about him. Avelyn put the ruby in his hand.

“He might have slipped under the waters,” Siherton said dryly. “A great and difficult task we will have in retrieving the stones.”

Father Abbot Markwart chuckled, but Master Jojonah didn’t appreciate the levity. “Brother Avelyn is worth more to us than all the stones in St.-Mere-Abelle combined,” he asserted, drawing incredulous looks from both his companions.

“I think, perhaps, that you have become too close to this novice,” the Father Abbot warned.

Before the old man could go on, though, his breath was stolen away as a tremendous fireball erupted out at sea, rings of searing flames spreading out wide from a central point that the three knew to be Avelyn.

“Pray that the serpentine shield was in full!” Markwart gasped, thoroughly stunned by the intensity and size of the blast. The ruby was strong, but this was ridiculous!

“I told you!” Master Jojonah said over and over. “I told you!” Even Siherton had little in the way of rebuttal. He watched, as impressed as his companions, as the fireball widened and churned, as the ocean hissed in protest so loudly that the three could hear it clearly, as the top waters turned to steam and rose in a thick fog. Brother Avelyn was strong indeed!

And probably dead, Siherton realized, though he was too shaken to make the point at that moment, if Avelyn had concentrated so much of his energy into the ruby; then likely he had let the serpentine shield slip. Then likely he was now a charred thing, drifting to the bottom of the harbor.

The three waited a long time, Jojonah growing ever more concerned, but Markwart resignedly saying, “A pity,” many times, and Siherton seeming on the verge of a chuckle.

Then came a sound not so far below them, a deep breath as one might take after great exertion. They rushed to the edge and peered over, Siherton holding the diamond low, focusing its light downward to reveal a haggard-looking but very much alive Brother Avelyn, the malachite clenched tightly in one hand, his other hand working at the wall, pulling his nearly weightless body upward. Avelyn’s brown robes were tattered and dripping; he had the stench of burned hair about him.

He got near the tower’s lip and Jojonah pulled him over.

“Some of the flames got through,” a shivering Avelyn explained, bowing his head in shame, holding his arms wide to display the damage to his robe. “I had to let go of the amber’s power briefly and dunk myself.”

Only then did Jojonah realize how blue Avelyn’s lips appeared. He looked sharply at Siherton, and when the master didn’t respond, Jojonah snatched the diamond from him. The light went out for just a moment, then returned, brighter than ever. And warmer. Jojonah held the diamond close to Avelyn, and the young monk felt its warmth flowing into his aching, frozen form.

“I am sorry,” Avelyn said to Father Abbot Markwart through chattering teeth. “I have failed.” He held his hand out limply, returning the four stones.

Father Abbot Markwart burst out into the most heartfelt laughter Avelyn had ever heard. The cackling old man pocketed the four stones, then clenched his empty fist, and from a ring on his finger, set with a tiny diamond, he brought forth a light of his own. He motioned for Siherton to follow and started for the stairs.

Master Jojonah waited until the pair had gone, then lifted Avelyn’s head so the young brother could look directly into his soft brown eyes. “You will be one of the chosen pair who go onto the island of Pimaninicuit,” he said with all confidence.

He led Avelyn down from the tower then, to the warmth of the lower levels. Avelyn undressed and wrapped a blanket about himself, then sat alone with his thoughts in front of a blazing fire. Though the trial of the four stones, the high wall, and the cold sea had exhausted him, he did not sleep that night.

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CHAPTER 9

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Touel’alfar

It was warm; Elbryan felt that first, felt a soft, moist sensation gently touching all his skin. Gradually his consciousness came floating back to him, as if from a far distant place. He spent a long while lying very still, bathing in the comforting sensation, the warmth, holding that clear consciousness away. For the boy who had just witnessed such carnage and loss, the semiconscious state was preferable.

It wasn’t until a memory of Dundalis, of his dead parents, slipped through his defenses, shocking away the quiet and the calm, that he opened his olive green eyes.

He was on a mossy bank, a gentle slope that put his head comfortably above his feet. A warm fog hung thick about him, caressing his body and dulling his senses. Visibility was but a few feet and Elbryan, shuffling up to his elbows, soon realized that sound traveled little farther than that, caught up and deadened in the tangible mist. He was in a forest, he understood—he was ankle deep in fallen leaves. Elbryan’s instincts—something about the air, perhaps, the aroma—told him this was not the slope leading out of Dundalis up to the ridgeline, the slope where he had met the . . .

The what? Elbryan wondered, having no explanation of who or what those delicate winged creatures might be.

Despite the bruises from his fights with the goblins, the minor wounds, and the discomfort of the night spent in the corner of his ruined house, the young man felt no pain, no soreness in his limbs. He sat up straight, then rolled to put his legs under him. Gradually he came up in a crouch, studying the area intently, trying to get some bearings on where he might be.

The forest was an old one, judging from the gnarled and twisted trunks of those nearby trees he could discern through the mist. The sun seemed a gray blur above him, a lighter spot in the sky. “West,” Elbryan decided after studying it for a moment, his instincts, his internal directional sense, sorting things out. The boy believed the sun to be in the west, halfway from noon to sunset

He didn’t have much time before the night settled around him. He stood up, but stayed low, feeling vulnerable despite the thick mist. His reasoning told him to get out of that fog so that he might survey the area, but his physical senses did not want him to leave the soothing mist.

He overruled the physical and started up the slope, thinking to get above the gray blanket. He moved quickly, stumbling often and cursing himself silently for every stick-snapping sound. He climbed within the fog for only a few minutes and came out of it so suddenly he nearly stumbled again from the shock. At the same moment that the air grew clear about him, strong winds buffeted him—not gusts but a continual blow. Elbryan looked down the slope curiously, just the few feet to the unmoving mist. It appeared to him as if the mist were somehow blocking, or at least escaping, the winds, but how could that be?

Elbryan’s eyes widened with yet another unexplainable mystery as he continued to survey the ascent before him, going up, up, up from his position, dwarfing him, making him feel totally insignificant and tiny. He knew that he was nowhere near Dundalis; this mountain was nothing like the gentle, tree-covered hills of his homeland. He was on the western face of but one mountain in a great, towering range, looking down at a mist-shrouded vale, oval-shaped and nestled between the many overlooking peaks. Not so far above him, Elbryan could see the snow on this mountain and on all the others, a whitecapping that the young man suspected might be perpetual.

He shook his head helplessly. Where in Corona was he? And how had he come to this place?

The young man’s eyes opened even wider then, and he glanced all around frantically. “Am I dead?” he asked the wind.

No answer, no hint, just the murmur, an endless string of mysterious whispers.

“Father?” Elbryan cried, and he scrambled three steps to the right, as though that might make some difference. “Pony?”

No answer.

His heart was racing, blood pumping furiously. Soon he was gasping for breath in utter panic. He started to run, first left, then up, then, when that course proved too difficult, back to the right, all the while calling out for his father or mother or for anyone.

“You are not dead,” came a sweet, melodic voice from behind. Elbryan paused for a long while, catching his breath, composing himself. Somehow he knew the speaker was not human, that no human voice could chime so sweetly, so perfectly.

Slowly, concentrating on his breathing more than anything else, Elbryan turned.

There stood one of the creatures he had seen in the glade, a bit shorter than he and probably no more than three-quarters his weight. Its limbs were incredibly slender, but they weren’t bumpy and bony like Jilseponie’s had been when she was much younger. This creature’s limbs didn’t look skinny, any more than did the supple branches of a bending willow. Nor did this creature, so tiny, seem weak. Far from it; there was a sureness, a fluid solidity to the creature that warned Elbryan this tiny foe would be more difficult than any of the goblins he had battled, perhaps more difficult even than the giant.

“Come back down where it is warmer,” the creature bade Elbryan; “into the mists where the wind does not blow.”

Elbryan looked back at the vale—and realized for the first time that no treetops were poking through the gray canopy, as if all the trees had stopped at exactly that level. Elbryan had the distinct feeling the mist and the treetops were somehow connected.

“Come,” said the creature. “You are not dead and are not in danger. The danger has passed.”

Elbryan winced at the reference to the tragedy of Dundalis. The way the words were spoken, however—plainly and without any apparent deception—allowed Elbryan to relax somewhat. Instead of sizing up the diminutive creature as a potential enemy now, he regarded it in a different light. He noticed for the first time how delicate and beautiful this one seemed, with angular features perfectly sculpted and hair so golden that even Pony’s thick, lustrous mane could sparkle no brighter. It was as if the being shone of its own accord, an inner light making the flowing hair glow and shimmer. The creature’s eyes were no less spectacular, two golden stars, they seemed, bright with childish innocence, yet deep with wisdom.

The creature started down the slope but stopped at the very edge of the fog, realizing the young man was making no move to follow.

“Who are you?” came the obvious question.

The creature smiled disarmingly. “I am Belli’mar Juraviel,” it answered honestly and motioned again toward the mist, even took another step down, so that its shins disappeared into the grayness.

“What are you?” Elbryan said with more confidence. He suspected the creature would confirm it was an elf, but he realized even such an honest and expected answer would give him little information, for he really didn’t know what an elf was.

The creature stopped again and turned back to regard him. “Do you know so little?”

Elbryan glared at Juraviel, in no mood for cryptic talk.

“The world is a lost place, I fear,” Juraviel went on. “To think we have been forgotten in a mere century.”

Elbryan’s scowl melted away in curiosity.

“You really do not know?”

“Know what?” Elbryan snapped back defiantly.

“Of anything beyond your own race,” Juraviel clarified.

“I know of goblins and of fomorian giants!” Elbryan insisted, his voice and his ire rising.

Juraviel had a response for that, a remark concerning the relative unpreparedness of Dundalis in the face of such knowledge. If this boy knew of the evil races, then why was his village so utterly ill equipped to deal with a simple raiding party? The elf politely kept the question to himself, though, understanding the wounds were too raw in this young one. “And do I fit into your knowledge of such creatures? Am I goblin or fomorian?” Juraviel asked calmly, that melodic voice alone destroying any possible comparisons to the croaking and growling monsters.

Elbryan chewed on his lip for a moment, trying to find an appropriate response. Finally, he shook his head.

“Come,” Juraviel bade him, the diminutive fellow turning again toward the mist.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

When Juraviel turned back this time, his expression was more stern. “There is no answer that can be conveyed with simple words,” he explained. “I could tell you a name, and you might have heard the name before, but that will give you little of the truth and more of the myth.”

Elbryan cocked his head, obviously lost.

“Your prejudices twined with the name will conflict with your perceptions,” Juraviel went on. “You asked me my own name, and that I willingly gave, for the words ‘Belli’mar Juraviel’ bring no preconceptions with them. You asked what I am, and that I cannot tell you. That is something Elbryan Wyndon of Dundalis must learn for himself.”

Before the startled young man could even ask how Belli’mar Juraviel might have come by his name, the creature turned and strode into the mist, disappearing from sight. Elbryan rocked back on his heels, fumbling with his thoughts. Then he realized that he was alone again, and utterly lost. His choices were simple, and there seemed none better than following this creature, whatever it might be.

Elbryan sprinted down the slope, back into the grayness, and found a smiling Juraviel waiting for him just a few feet beyond the mist’s edge. At first, Elbryan wondered why he hadn’t seen the figure from outside the mist, then he realized that he could not see the trees from out there, either, though they were tall and thick about him now, just five steps in.

Too many questions, the young man decided, and he didn’t even want to know the answers at that moment, his curiosity overwhelmed.

Juraviel walked down the slope at an easy pace, Elbryan right behind him. Not so far down, they moved beneath the misty canopy, and the forested valley came clear to Elbryan. Again he was amazed. He felt warm and serene, despite all that had happened, despite his very real fears. He didn’t feel lost anymore and if he was dead—and he was again beginning to believe that to be the case—then death was not so bad!

For the forest, this place, was more beautiful than anything young Elbryan had ever seen. The undergrowth was lush and thick but seemed to part before them as they made their way along smooth trails that always seemed as if they would end just a few feet in front of the pair but went on, apparently in any direction that Belli’mar Juraviel chose. The creature wasn’t following a trail, Elbryan believed, but was making one, walking as easily and openly through the underbrush as a man might wade through a shallow pond. As soon as he recovered from that spectacle, Elbryan was overwhelmed again, this time by the myriad vivid colors and delicate aromas, by the chirping of countless birds, the winsome song of an unseen brook, the bleating of some distant creature. The whole place was a song; Elbryan’s every sense was on its edge, and he felt more alive than he had ever felt before.

His mind fought against that perception He forced himself to remember Dundalis, to replay the horror, that he might find a fighting edge. He thought of escape, though he knew not where he might run, or even why he would wish to. He looked at the low branches of a nearby tree and visualized a weapon he could fashion from one of them, though a weapon, any weapon, would surely seem out of place here. His stubbornness held for many minutes, a testament to the young man’s strong willpower. But even the memories of the recent tragedy could not hold firmly to Elbryan as he walked for the first time through the forest that was home to the elves, to Belli’mar Juraviel’s folk. Dark thoughts could not be sustained in the place where Juraviel’s people danced and played.

“Can you at least tell me where I am?” a flustered Elbryan asked some minutes later, Juraviel going along as if in a trance, ignoring the young man completely.

After a dozen more skipping steps, the creature paused and turned. “On your maps, if it is on your maps, this place is named simply the Valley of Mists.”

Elbryan shrugged; the name meant nothing to him, though he was glad to learn that it might be on some map, at least. If that was true, then he probably was not dead.

“Truly, it is Andur’Blough Inninness, the Forest of Cloud, though few of your people would recognize that name, and those who did would not likely admit it.”

“Do you always talk in riddles?”

“Do you always ask foolish questions?”

“What is foolish about wanting to know where I am?” Elbryan asked angrily.

“And so I have told you,” a calm Juraviel replied. “Does that change anything? Do you feel comforted now, to know that you are in a place that you do not know?”

Elbryan growled softly and brought both his hands up to ruffle his light brown hair.

“But then,” the elf went on in condescending tones, “humans must name everything, must map it and place it in some tidy little package and category, that they believe they have found some measure of control over what cannot be controlled. A false sense of godliness, I suppose.”

“Godliness?”

“Arrogance,” Juraviel clarified. “My young human!” he said suddenly, excitedly, clapping his delicate hands together in mock glee. “You are in Andur’Blough Inninness!”

Elbryan screwed up his face and shrugged.

“Exactly my point,” Juraviel said dryly, and started on his way.

Elbryan sighed and followed.

Half an hour passed uneventfully, Elbryan walking and looking about, constantly awed by the beauty and the richness of Andur’Blough Inninness. Mostly, though, the boy’s gaze drifted back to the curious creature leading him.

“Do those work?” he asked on impulse, blurting out his thoughts before he even realized he was speaking.

Juraviel stopped short and turned to regard the obviously embarrassed Elbryan, standing perfectly still on the trail and pointing forward at Juraviel.

Juraviel’s smile calmed Elbryan considerably. “A logical question,” the creature remarked, understanding Elbryan’s curiosity, and then he added, with exaggerated relief, “at last.”