The Elven (21 page)

Three Grains of Sand

F
arodin leaned his forehead against the wall. A sliver of light fell through into the secret passage that led onto the balcony in front of the queen’s chamber. He was not supposed to be here.

He was wearing an inconspicuous gray doublet, close-fitting gray trousers, and a gray hooded cloak. On his hands he wore thin leather gloves, around his waist a broad belt, and on his arms bracers with sheaths for daggers. He hoped he would not have to use the weapons. Far below, deep in the labyrinth of hidden stairways and passages, he heard the laughter of the kobolds, an entire generation of which had grown up since the day that Noroelle had been judged guilty.

Farodin balled his hands into fists in his helpless rage. The pain was still too fresh. He had served the queen so many times as her covert executioner, and never had he doubted her higher understanding of what was right and just. He had never even considered the possibility that her secret death sentences might be nothing more than caprice. Now her judgment had destroyed his own life, though he still stood and breathed.

No one knew Noroelle the way he knew her. No one knew that she had once been Aileen, his Aileen, who had lost her life in a battle against the trolls. He had searched for her for centuries, and now that he had found her, she had been torn away from him again. But this time, he could not hope for Aileen’s rebirth. Were Noroelle to die in exile, there would be no way back. Her soul would be trapped in that place forever.

Tears of fury streamed down Farodin’s cheeks. Noroelle had been deceived by a Devanthar, a creature known to be a master of deception. And the demon had fed on her love.

Why had the beast taken Nuramon’s form? Farodin tried in vain to hold down his growing suspicion. Had the Devanthar perhaps known something? Would Noroelle have chosen Nuramon when the elfhunt returned? Had her words to Obilee been no more than a way to console him, spoken lightly in the certainty that she would never see either of them again?

And she must have succumbed very quickly to the charms of the false Nuramon. They had courted her for so many years, and in all that time, she had been unable to reach a decision. And then suddenly—in a single night—she did? That, too, must have been part of the enchantment cast by the Devanthar . . . at least, that’s what Farodin tried to tell himself.

Noroelle was innocent. She was pure of heart . . . she
remained
pure of heart. She lived. That was why he would find her, Farodin swore. It made no difference how long the search might take. The queen had had no right to inflict on Noroelle the most severe of all punishments. He would never accept her verdict. Farodin looked at the shard of light at the top of the stairs. He really was not supposed to be here . . . but what difference did it make? Emerelle had exploited him to dispense her form of justice whenever the usual laws had fallen short. Now he would dispense his own justice.

Determined, Farodin squeezed through the narrow gap. He crept to the railing of the balcony and looked over it cautiously into the depths. A dome of ice below hid the Royal Hall from him, but he knew that Emerelle was holding court down there.

He stepped across to the wide double door of the queen’s chamber and found it unlocked. A sign of her hubris? Was she relying on a taboo being more secure than any lock?

Farodin swept away the shallow footprints he had left in the fresh snow and cautiously pushed the door open. In all the centuries that he had served as Emerelle’s assassin, he had never once set foot inside her chambers. The modesty of the furnishings surprised him. The few pieces in the room were of a plain elegance. The embers of the fire in the fireplace bathed the bedroom in a red twilight. It was a warm and cozy place.

Farodin looked around in confusion. He knew there had to be a dressing chamber where she kept her splendid garments. Noroelle had once spoken of it. There was where he should start his search. He had to find the dress that Emerelle had worn when she led Noroelle into exile. But where could the entrance to the royal dressing chamber be hidden? Besides the double door to the balcony and another door that must have led to the stairway, he saw no other. He ran his hands over the walls, looked behind tapestries, and finally found himself standing before a large mirror. It was framed in ebony with inlaid mother-of-pearl. Farodin’s fingers glided over the stylized leaves and flowers. One rose was surrounded by a visible gap. Carefully, the elf pressed the pearly bloom. A soft click sounded, and the mirror slid aside. Farodin, startled, took a step back. Behind the mirror was a room filled with glowing figures. Headless figures. The elf exhaled and laughed at himself. No more than dresses worn by wicker dummies so that they held their form. Beneath the wicker forms stood scented candles that made the dummies glow like oversized paper lanterns.

The room was as magnificent as the queen’s bedroom was plain. Farodin was dazzled by the multitude of scents. Peach, musk, and mint were the main aromas. Emerelle dressed herself not only in her royal robes, but also in royal fragrances.

The room followed the curve of the outer wall of the tower. From the door, one could not see the entire room. Farodin stepped over the threshold, and the mirror door closed behind him with a light scrape. The elf was still dazed by the sights and smells of the room. Along the walls, velvet cushions were set on narrow ledges, resplendent with the queen’s jewels. Pearls and precious stones in all the colors of the rainbow sparkled in the warm light. It must have been a delight for Noroelle to wander among all the magnificent dresses and jewels.

The room had no windows, which seemed strange to Farodin.

“Noroelle,” Farodin whispered. She had loved the queen’s dressing chamber. All the dresses, hunting outfits of velvet and suede, evening dresses elaborately embroidered, transparent silken garments as delicate as a breath that Emerelle would certainly never wear in the presence of her court. Sumptuous brocade formed around whalebone and wire, corsets stiff with ceremony, and court formalities unchanged in centuries. Endless shelves were filled with shoes on racks. Tight-fitting dancing shoes, shoes of cloth, boots with heavy leather tops. One wide ledge was piled high with gloves.

Farodin kneeled and retrieved a ring from his leather bag. Three small dark-red garnets were set in it. It was Aileen’s ring. It had been of immeasurable help to him in his search for her, a kind of anchor set firmly in the chasm of the past, and it helped Farodin to concentrate on the woman he loved. The emerald, Noroelle’s parting gift to him, would be a second anchor. He whispered the familiar words of power and wove the seeking spell. It was the only spell he had mastered, and it had proved its worth in the centuries he had spent searching for Aileen.

Among all these garments, there had to be the one that Emerelle had worn when she banished Noroelle. Finding it would be the first step to finding Noroelle. Farodin had a plan of his own, but one so desperate, he would not speak to a soul about it.

The power of the magic flowed through the elf. He felt the precious emerald in his hand. Then he slowly stood up. Eyes closed, Farodin felt his way through the room, led by nothing more than a vague feeling. Longing and memory began to compress. For the space of a heartbeat, it was as if he could see through Noroelle’s eyes. He was looking into the queen’s visage. In the lines of her face, he saw resolve, and restrained sadness. The image blurred. Farodin opened his eyes. He was standing in front of one of the dummies; it wore a robe of blue silk. Worked into the robe were threads of silver and gold that formed interwoven patterns of runes. The light from the candle made the wickerwork frame look like bones beneath the dress.

A shudder ran down Farodin’s spine. So this was what Emerelle had worn when she sent his beloved into exile. His fingers glided across the delicate material. Tears came to his eyes. For a long time, he simply stood there and struggled to control his emotions.

The runes on the robe were permeated with magical power. He sensed a prickling sensation on his skin when his fingers touched them. And there was more . . . he relived Noroelle’s feelings at the moment of her banishment. Something of what she had gone through had been trapped by the runes, but there was no fear. She had resigned herself to her fate. She was at peace with herself and with the queen when she went.

Farodin closed his eyes. His entire body began to tremble. The power of the runes had pervaded him as well. He saw an hourglass smashed on a stone and felt how the magical equilibrium convulsed. The way to Noroelle was sealed. She had been carried away. Untraceable . . . 

The elf’s knees failed him. In his desperation, in sheer defiance, he cast the seeking spell a second time. He already knew what had taken place. Knowing it was one thing, but experiencing it through the magic of the runes was something entirely different.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Come to me.” He held out his hand and thought of the hourglass. A wind whipped at him, trying to tear him away. He stood surrounded by swirling sands, as if caught in the vortex of the hourglass.

Shaken, Farodin opened his eyes. It was only a vision, an illusion born out of his own yearning. And yet . . . it seemed darker, suddenly, inside the chamber. As if something were in the air that did not belong there, something that was slowly smothering the light of the candles.

Three tiny, glowing points rose from the surface of the cold blue silk and hovered over Farodin’s hand. Three grains of sand from the hourglass that Emerelle had smashed, caught in the folds of her robe.

The spell and the storm of emotions had drained Farodin. But the three points of light, slowly fading, planted a seed of new hope in his heart. He would find Noroelle again, even if it meant another seven hundred years of searching. He pushed the emerald deep into his pocket, but he wanted to hold the particles of sand in his hand. They were the key. If he could recover every grain of sand from the smashed hourglass, then he could break the queen’s enchantment. It was the one and only path that led to the woman he loved.

Night Departure

I
t was deep in the night, and the palace had long fallen silent. From outside came the low whisper of the wind. Nuramon stood at the unshuttered window and looked out into the bright night. It had stopped snowing. The light of the moon reflected from the snow, enveloping everything in a silvery sheen. Morning would come soon, and the silver would turn to gold. Nuramon could not imagine a better time for him to go.

Everything he would need was packed. All his preparations were made. He wanted to leave that same night. The armor and cloak that he had returned to their stand caught his eye. They had served him well in the human world, but now, Nuramon wore the clothes Noroelle had last seen him in—plain garments of soft leather. They gave him no protection in battle, but he doubted he would need that. He was not going into the Other World to face a beast, but to kill a man who was most likely unarmed. There was no honor in such a task, and he would hate himself forever for seeing it through.

He looked at his sword. The queen had given him Gaomee’s sword as a gift. She obviously wanted him to carry out his task with that blade. Ever since he had first held the sword in his hand, a curse seemed to cling to it. But he would not give it up because of that. Who would want to hold this weapon once his ill-fated fingers had touched it?

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” said Nuramon, hoping it was someone sent by the queen, a companion whom he could swear to silence. A vain hope . . .

Mandred and Farodin entered. Their faces showed their despondency.

“I’m glad to see you’re still awake,” said Farodin. He seemed agitated.

Nuramon tried not to let anything show. He wanted to keep the queen’s ignoble commission hidden from his two comrades. “I can’t sleep,” he said. It was the truth. He had not closed his eyes at all that night.

Farodin gestured toward Mandred. “Mandred told me that you spoke privately with the queen. So she granted you an audience after all.”

“She did.”

“I also tried to see her, but ever since you were in with her, she has refused to meet anyone. Strange rumors are circulating,” said Farodin.

“What kind of rumors?” Nuramon asked, making an effort to keep his own disquiet in check.

“Some say the queen placated you and that you accepted her verdict. Others claim she gave you permission to search for Noroelle.”

“Emerelle gave me no such permission, but I have accepted her verdict.”

A look of skepticism crossed Farodin’s face. “Something I would not have expected of you.”

Finally, a sign of emotion from Farodin. Maybe it was for the best to stoke his contempt. Then Farodin could face Noroelle with a clear conscience.

Mandred was looking warily from one to the other. The human seemed to realize that Farodin had misunderstood Nuramon’s words.

“How can you doubt Noroelle like that?” Farodin continued in a deeply disappointed tone. “Did you ever love her?”

Though his companion’s words were unjustified, they still hurt. “I love her more than ever, which is why it hurts so much to know that there is nothing more that we can do. We cannot force the queen to release Noroelle,” Nuramon said, all the while finding it hard to hold back the truth.

Now it seemed that Farodin’s suspicions had been kindled as well. He looked at Nuramon as if he could read his innermost thoughts.

“The lad’s lying,” said Mandred, his voice dry.

“And he’s a bad liar,” Farodin added.

Mandred looked at the bags lying on the stone bench. “One might almost suspect he wanted to go off and find the woman he loves without us.”

“What did the queen say?” Farodin pressed. “Did you plead for banishment for yourself? Can you go to Noroelle?”

Nuramon slumped onto the bench beside his bags. “No. I tried everything, but the queen would accept nothing. She would not banish me. Even if we tracked down and destroyed the Devanthar once and for all, it would not change anything.”

“So you’ve decided to go off alone to look for her.”

Nuramon looked up at Farodin for a long time. It was impossible to keep his true plan a secret from him. “I wish it were that simple. I wish I could just take my things and set off and try to find a way to help Noroelle.” He paused. “If I asked you to let me go and not ask any questions, would you?”

“I owe you a debt. You brought me back from the brink of death . . . but I wager that fate has bound us to each other. And don’t forget that Noroelle has not yet made her choice. Our destiny is to search for her together.”

“A few hours ago, those words could have come from me,” Nuramon said. But the meeting with Emerelle had changed everything.

“What did the queen say to you?” asked Farodin again. “Whatever task you have accepted from her, I will not think less of you. Tell me.”

“Very well,” said Nuramon, standing up. “She said that there is one possible way to rescue Noroelle. And I promised to do whatever she demanded.”

“That was a mistake.” Farodin smiled sympathetically. “Won’t you ever learn that?”

“You know me, Farodin. And you know how easy it is to make me act rashly. Emerelle knows it, too.”

Mandred spoke up again. “So what is she asking you to do?”

Nuramon avoided meeting the human’s eye. Of the three of them, he had paid the highest price.

“What does she want of you?” Farodin persisted.

Again, Nuramon hesitated, reluctant to answer. As soon as his companions knew the truth, all happiness would vanish from his life.

“Say it, Nuramon.”

“Are you sure you want to hear it, Farodin? Sometimes not knowing the truth is better. If I tell you now, nothing for you will be the same as it was before. If I say nothing, you could be happy . . . I beg of you. Let me go, ask no more, and don’t follow me. Please.”

“No, Nuramon. Whatever the burden, we have to carry it together.”

Nuramon sighed. “As you want . . .” A thousand thoughts raced through his mind. What if he lacked the strength to carry out the deed? Had he secretly wanted to share the blame with Farodin? Was that why he was giving in? Or was it arrogant to want to make this decision alone? Did Farodin have a right to find out what the queen was demanding of him? “I am going in search of Noroelle’s son. To kill him,” said Nuramon quietly.

Farodin and Mandred stood looking at him as if they were still waiting for him to speak.

“Let me go alone. Farodin, listen to me. Wait here until Noroelle returns.” Nuramon knew what would happen next. There was no turning back.

Farodin shook his head. He spoke as if numb. “No. No, I can’t do that. You expect me to sit here and wait for Noroelle? What am I then to say to her when she returns? That I let you depart knowing full well you went to kill her son? Now that I know it, I have two choices, and only two. Either I stop you, or I go with you . . . and if I stop you, it won’t help Noroelle. So I have to share your fate. To save her.”

Mandred shook his head, stunned and bewildered. “Oh, Luth, what kind of net have you woven for these elves?” he murmured.

“It looks as if your gods are not kind to us,” Nuramon said. “But we ourselves are to blame in the end. The queen reminded me of our failure in the cave.” He explained Emerelle’s reproach to his companions.

“So we’re at fault for not being Alben now?” said Mandred, suddenly furious.

“If that is so, then it’s a fault we were born with, and our entire being is marked by it,” replied Farodin. He paused for a long moment. “It looks like the only paths ahead of us are murky,” he finally said. “Let us ride.”

Nuramon turned to the human. “Our paths separate here, Mandred. You have found your son. Take time for him and be the father that fate has so far stolen from him. You are not damned as we are. Follow your path, and let us go our own dim way.”

The human pulled a sullen face. “More of your daft elven drivel. If the queen said
we
had to beat the beast, then I’m as much a failure as you. From now on, our paths are inseparable.”

“But your son,” said Farodin.

“He will come with us. I have to see for myself if he’s good for anything. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I can’t make myself believe that it’s good for a young man to grow up around elven royalty. The perfumes here clog a man’s lungs. The soft beds, the fine food . . . I’ll bet he’s never even learned to gut a deer or that you have to hang meat for a few days to make it tender. Don’t even try to keep me from taking him along. From this moment on, where you go, Mandred goes.”

Nuramon exchanged a look with Farodin. They knew from experience how pigheaded Mandred could be and that it would be all but impossible to make him change his mind. Farodin gave the faintest of nods.

“Mandred Aikhjarto,” said Nuramon loudly. “You’re as steadfast as old Atta himself. If that is your wish . . . then we are honored to have you at our side.”

“When do we leave?” Mandred asked, hungry for action.

Before Nuramon could answer, Farodin said, “Now. Before anyone notices something they should not.”

Mandred laughed heartily. “Then let’s get to it. I’ll pack my stuff,” he said and left Nuramon’s room.

“The human is so loud we’ll be lucky to get away unnoticed,” said Farodin.

“How old is Mandred? How long does a human live?” asked Nuramon.

“I don’t know exactly. A hundred years?”

“He’s prepared to sacrifice a good part of his short life to help us. Do you think he knows how long our search for Noroelle’s child could take?”

Farodin shrugged. “Hard to say. But I do know that he means what he says. Don’t forget the power of Atta Aikhjarto. When it saved him, the old oak changed him. He is not like other humans, not anymore.”

Nuramon nodded.

“Could this get any worse?” asked Farodin abruptly.

“If we do what the queen asks, we will free Noroelle. But she will hate us forever, and we will have to live with that. So no. How could it get worse?”

“I’ll get my things” was all Farodin said. Quietly, he left the room.

Nuramon stood at the window and looked up to the moon. Noroelle’s hatred, he thought sadly. It could, in fact, be worse. It could be that she falls into despair and loses whatever hope she has left, because the men she loves have killed her son. Fate—or Luth, as Mandred called it—was leading them along a painful path indeed. There must come a time when happiness would return.

It wasn’t long before Farodin came back. They waited in silence for the human and soon heard voices in the passage outside.

“It’s revenge. Blood for blood,” said Mandred.

“Revenge changes nothing. My mother is dead. What does Noroelle’s son have to do with that?”

“He’s also the son of the Devanthar. The guilt for the blood his father spilled has passed to him.”

“That is utter nonsense,” protested Alfadas.

“That’s what the elves have taught you. In my world, a son takes his father’s word. And you will do just that.”

“Or what?”

Nuramon and Farodin looked at each other. Suddenly, there was a deathly silence outside.

“What are they doing?” Nuramon asked quietly.

Farodin shrugged.

The door flew open. Mandred’s face was bright red. “I’ve brought my son along. He’s honored to be joining us.”

Farodin and Nuramon reached for their packs. “Then let’s go,” said Nuramon.

Alfadas was waiting outside the door. He avoided Nuramon’s eye, as if ashamed of his father.

Quietly, they made their way down to the stables.

A light still burned down there, in spite of the late hour. A bow-legged stable hand opened the door as if he had been waiting for them. He was not alone. Four elves in long gray cloaks were standing by the horses. They were equipped as if for war, all wearing light mail tunics, all well armed. Their leader turned around to face them, a thin smile on his lips. He looked at Mandred.

“Ollowain,” the mortal groaned.

“Welcome, Mandred,” the warrior replied before turning to Nuramon. “I see you have already chosen fellow hunters for yourself. That will boost our fighting strength.”

Alfadas was surprised. “Master.”

Mandred winced as if a horse had kicked him between the legs. Nuramon knew what Mandred thought of Ollowain. Another cruel twist of fate that this particular warrior had schooled his son.

Nuramon stepped forward. “Were you chosen by the queen?” he asked Ollowain.

“Yes,” Ollowain replied. “She said we should wait here and be ready to ride. She knew you would not lose any time.”

“And did she tell you what our assignment was?”

Ollowain’s smile vanished. “Yes. To kill the demon child. I cannot know what is going on inside you, but I can imagine how bitter this path must be. Noroelle was always good to me. We must see in the child not Noroelle’s son but the son of the Devanthar. It is the only way we can carry out our mission.”

“We will do our best,” said Farodin.

Ollowain introduced the elves waiting with him. “My sentinels, the best guardians of the Shalyn Falah. Yilvina, a whirlwind in battle with two short swords.” He gestured toward a diminutive elf on his left. Her hair was short and blond, and she returned Nuramon’s look with an impish smile.

Next he introduced Nomja, a tall warrior woman. She must have been very young, with something childlike still in the lines of her face. She leaned on her bow as an experienced fighter might, but the pose looked rehearsed.

“And this is Gelvuun,” he said, gesturing to the warrior who wore a long sword buckled in a sheath on his back. Gelvuun returned Nuramon’s gaze without expression, but this came as no surprise. Nuramon had heard of him before. He had a reputation as surly and morose, a hard case. It was said there were trolls more sociable than Gelvuun. But no one would dare tell him that to his face.

Ollowain went to his horse and took the long-handled axe hanging from the saddle horn. In a single, flowing movement, he turned and flung it toward Mandred.

Nuramon’s heart missed a beat. Then he saw with relief that Mandred caught the axe in midflight. The mortal ran his hand over the double-bladed weapon almost tenderly and admired the intertwined elven knot work decorating it.