The Elven (23 page)

“That’s what worries me. Perhaps we have found what we’ve been looking for.”

Nuramon said nothing. He was terrified of what would have to be done if that was really Noroelle’s son speaking.

“Ollowain,” said Farodin. “Take Yilvina and Gelvuun. Go around to the left. Mandred and Alfadas, take the middle. Nuramon and I will circle right. For now, all we do is observe him. In this crowd, we can do nothing else.”

The companions separated. Nuramon went ahead of Farodin. They pushed their way carefully through the throng of people who stood there mesmerized. The voice of the priest overpowered the murmurings of the crowd.

“Accept the power of Tjured,” he said in all gentleness. “It is a gift I bring to you from him.”

A moment later, someone cried, “Look, look! He is healed! The wound has closed!” The crowd shouted in jubilation.

An old woman threw her arms around Nuramon’s neck and kissed him on the cheek. “A miracle,” she exulted. “Another miracle he’s done. He is the blessing of our town.” Nuramon looked at the old woman with incomprehension. It must truly have been a miracle for her to kiss a stranger.

Now the preacher raised himself above the crowd. He helped a visibly relieved man to his feet. “That is the power of Tjured, our god.”

At the sight of the healer, Nuramon stopped in his tracks. He sensed that Farodin, beside him, also came to a halt.

The priest climbed onto a well beside the oak and spoke to the gathering, but Nuramon barely heard a word he said. He was entranced by the man’s bearing and gestures. Guillaume had black hair that fell to his shoulders. Like all the priests of Tjured, he wore a cowl of deep indigo. His face was oval, his nose thin, his chin smooth, and his mouth curved. If Noroelle had a twin brother, he would look like this priest.

This man was her son.

Nuramon saw Guillaume turn to a man with stringy gray hair whose hand seemed to be stiff. He took the man’s hand and spoke a prayer.

Nuramon fell back in fright. It felt as if something had reached deep inside him, as if a powerful hand had grabbed at his soul. It was an eerie feeling that lasted only the blink of an eye. Dazed, the elf staggered back and ran into a young woman.

“Are you ill?” she asked in concern. “You’re pale.”

Nuramon shook his head and pushed forward to the edge of the crowd, now pressed into a tight knot around the well.

The man who had come to Guillaume raised his hand. He balled his fingers into a fist, then stretched them again. “He’s healed me!” he cried, his voice breaking. “I’m healed!” The gray-haired man threw himself on the ground at the priest’s feet and kissed the hem of his cowl.

Guillaume seemed embarrassed. He took the old man by the shoulders and raised him up.

He can work magic like his mother
, thought Nuramon. The queen had been mistaken. Noroelle’s son was no demon child. He was the opposite. He was a healer.

Suddenly, someone in the crowd shouted, “Guillaume! Guillaume! Someone here has fainted!”

“He’s dead!” screamed a woman in a shrill voice.

“Bring him to me,” the healer commanded, his voice calm but firm.

Two burly men in leather aprons carried a gaunt figure to the well, a man in a gray cloak. Guillaume threw back the man’s hood. Before the healer lay Gelvuun.

Nuramon looked to Farodin, confusion in his eyes. Farodin made a sign to him to wait. Then he whispered, “I hope Mandred doesn’t do anything stupid.”

A murmur went through the people at the front of the crowd. Guillaume had swept Gelvuun’s hair back, revealing the points of his ears. Gelvuun, normally so dour, looked as peaceful as a sleeping child.

Guillaume bent over him. The priest looked shaken. Whether it was because of the sight of an elf or something else, Nuramon was not able to say. Then Guillaume looked around, and Nuramon felt the eyes of Noroelle’s son sweep over him. An ice-cold chill ran down his spine. The healer’s eyes were a radiant blue.

The priest rose and said, “This man does not stand under Tjured’s protection. He is one of the Albenfolk and not a human. And he is beyond help. He came here too late, and I cannot see what the nature of his illness was. It seems his heart simply stopped beating, but it is said that the Albenfolk are destined to live a life after life. Pray for his soul. I will inter his body with honor, though he never prayed to Tjured. The mercy of our god is boundless. He will take pity on this elf as well.”

Again, Guillaume’s gaze brushed Nuramon. There was something paralyzing in those magnificent blue eyes.

“Come, Nuramon,” whispered Farodin. “We have to go.”

His companion took hold of his arm and pulled him through the crush of spectators. Nuramon could not shake that face and those eyes from his memory. It was Noroelle’s face, Noroelle’s eyes, now part of the man at the front of the crowd.

Suddenly, he was being shaken.

“Snap out of it,” said Farodin, his voice harsh.

Nuramon looked around in surprise. They had left the square and were again in one of the narrow alleys. He had not noticed at all how far they had gone. “That was Noroelle’s face,” he said.

“I know,” said Farodin. “Come on.”

They found Nomja and the horses. Mandred and Alfadas entered the tavern courtyard a few moments later. They were supporting Yilvina between them. The young elf was pale and seemed barely able to stand upright on her own.

Mandred was beside himself. “Did you see that? Damn! What happened?”

Farodin looked around. “Where is Ollowain?”

Alfadas gestured toward the entrance to the yard. “There.”

The master swordsman’s face was etched with fear. “Come. We are no longer safe here.” He looked back to the street. “Let us put some distance between us and the demon child. Ride. Mount up, and let’s get out of this place.”

“What happened to Gelvuun?” asked Nomja.

Nuramon said nothing. He was thinking of the strange power he had felt, that clawing deep inside him. He thought of the blue eyes, of how much Guillaume, with every gesture and movement, reminded him of Noroelle. Now Gelvuun was dead, and Yilvina looked as wretched as if she had only just sidestepped oblivion.

“What happened?” Ollowain asked, and turned to the pale elf.

Yilvina was struggling for breath. “He had pushed forward . . . he was almost at the front of the crowd. As soon as the priest took the old man’s hand . . .” She looked up to heaven. Tears rimmed her eyes. “I don’t know how I can describe it. It was like a talon reaching into my chest to tear my heart to pieces.” She began to sob. “It was . . . I could sense Death . . . eternal death, with no hope of rebirth or the way into the moonlight. If I had not stopped a few steps behind . . .” She could not go on.

“He saw you? And he attacked immediately?” asked Nomja.

Ollowain hesitated. “I’m not sure . . . I don’t think it was an attack. It happened at the same moment that he healed the old man. I could sense his power . . . Yilvina is right. I felt Death’s presence myself.”

Mandred turned to Nuramon. “How did he do that?”

The mortal overestimated Nuramon’s abilities. Because, that one time, Nuramon had transcended himself and healed Farodin, Mandred had developed the habit of asking him for his opinion on anything that carried the slightest whiff of magic. “I have no idea, Mandred.”

“I can tell you,” said Ollowain. “It’s the demon child’s magic. It is evil to the core. It can kill us where we stand. A simple spell that heals a human can destroy us. Now I see the danger that the queen sees in Noroelle’s son. We have to kill him.”

“We will not,” said Nuramon, and there was resolve in his voice. “We will take him to the queen.”

“The false healer at that well can kill us all with a spell,” said Ollowain. “Can’t you see that?”

“I see it.”

“Then how do you expect to make him leave this town?”

“I won’t make him do anything. He will come with us voluntarily. He did not know what his healing hands did to our companion. He is not the demon child the queen expected him to be.”

“Do you plan to take a stand against the queen? She sent us out to kill him.”

“No, Ollowain. The queen sent
me
out to kill him. I alone have to justify my actions to the queen.”

“I don’t know if I can let you do that,” said Ollowain slowly. “Why, Nuramon? Why have you changed your mind?”

“Because I have a sense that killing Guillaume would be a fatal mistake. No good can come of it. We have to bring him before the queen. Then she can see him face-to-face and make her own judgment. Let me go and speak to him. If I am not back by noon tomorrow, you can kill him.”

Ollowain shook his head. “You really want to deliver a demon child to Emerelle’s court? A man whose magic kills elves? Go. Talk to him. We won’t see you alive again. You’ve got until tomorrow, at dusk. Then I’ll go after him my way. Until then, we camp outside the town.”

Nuramon looked for support on the faces of the others, but none spoke against Ollowain, not even Mandred. On a sign from Ollowain, they mounted up. Alfadas took the reins of Gelvuun’s and Nuramon’s horses.

Farodin was the last of their small band to leave the tavern yard. He leaned down from the saddle to Nuramon. “Are you sure you want to take the risk? What if what happened to Gelvuun happens to you?”

Nuramon smiled. “Then I’ll see you in the next life.”

With Guillaume

T
hroughout the afternoon, Nuramon observed Guillaume. He listened to his sermon and watched as he buried Gelvuun’s body. Finally, he followed Noroelle’s son through the city, but as he did so, he had the uneasy feeling that he himself was being followed. He looked back often but saw no one acting out of the ordinary, just the inhabitants of Aniscans going about their daily business. He tried to shake off the feeling and turned his attention back to Guillaume, following him until he reached the hill leading up to the temple and disappeared into a narrow building. Built of coarse, quarried stone, it was like most of the other buildings in town. If this was Guillaume’s home, then it was clear humility was important to him.

Nuramon stopped where he was for a while and observed the house from the alley opposite. He waited for Guillaume to open the shutters and let in the day’s last gleam. But the shutters remained closed, and as night came down over Aniscans, Nuramon saw warm candlelight between the slats.

Nuramon gathered his courage and stepped up to the healer’s door. Now all that was left to do was knock, but he could not bring himself to do it. He was afraid, though not that he might suffer the same fate as Gelvuun. He was afraid of making a serious mistake. Nuramon did not know Guillaume, nor did he know how he would take being told the truth. Then he thought of Noroelle. This was his only hope of saving Guillaume from death and rescuing Noroelle. And that would only happen if the queen realized that killing Guillaume would be a mistake.

He knocked.

All remained still inside the house, and Nuramon wondered whether he should knock a second time. Just as he was raising his hand again, he heard steps. His heart beat faster. In a moment, the door would open and Noroelle’s face would be looking back at him. He threw back the hood of his cape; he wanted Guillaume to know immediately with whom he was dealing.

A bolt clacked, and the door opened. Nuramon had not been wrong. It was Guillaume, though the young priest seemed not in the least surprised to find a stranger at his doorstep. Unable to utter even a single word, Nuramon stared into the face of Noroelle’s son. He wondered how Guillaume’s expression would change when he discovered the truth about his origin.

“Come in, Albenchild,” said the priest amicably. He smiled. Then he led the way into the house. He had clearly been expecting this visit.

Guillaume’s house was plainly furnished. The room that Nuramon entered took up the entire first floor. Almost everything the priest needed was here, from the stone stove to a prayer shrine. Only a bed was missing. A stairway opposite the front door led upward. Most likely the bedroom was on the second floor, Nuramon thought.

“You have come because of your companion,” said Guillaume, and he sat down at the small table in the center of the room. An oil lamp on the table cast a low light. Next to it was a wooden plate with scraps of meat on it. Guillaume gestured to a second chair at the end of the table, inviting Nuramon to sit.

Nuramon accepted the invitation in silence.

The priest pushed the plate aside. “I’m afraid your companion has already been laid to rest in the cemetery. I hope that will not interfere with his rebirth.”

“Among my people, it is said that the soul separates from the body at the moment of death,” Nuramon explained. “If a soul path exists between your world and Albenmark, then Gelvuun has already followed it and now waits to be born again.”

“Then his soul was already gone when I buried his body.”

“Yes, but that is not why I have come. I am here because of you.”

His words did not seem to surprise Guillaume. “Because I killed him.”

Nuramon started. “How do you know that?”

Guillaume lowered his eyes. “I knew it as soon as I examined him. He had marks on his neck like he’d been strangled . . . marks that seemed like only my fingers would fit them.” He paused and looked at Nuramon. “It is not easy to read the faces of elves. I see no anger in yours. Still, you must be here to demand retribution.”

“I have not come for that either.”

Guillaume gazed at him curiously.

“I only want to know what you see in your own future.”

“I am a seeker, a servant of Tjured. I believe this world to be full of hidden gifts, but that few are able to find them. I know the power of the gods is gathered in certain places, and I can sense those places. I can follow the invisible rivers that join them.” He was talking about the Albenpaths, Nuramon knew, and he thought of them as the paths of his gods. “I use this knowledge to heal people and to preach peace. I want the hate in this world to disappear. But after today, it seems the price may be too high. What kind of gift is it that heals humans and kills the Albenfolk?”

“I can give you an answer to that question, but think hard about whether you want to hear it.”

“You know something of the power from which I create my miracles?”

“I know its origin.”

“Then you are cleverer than every wise man and every priest I have ever met. Please tell me.”

“Should I really do that? If you listen to me, then you will also find out why I and my companions have come to this town, why I am here, and why I risk being so close to you.”

“Do you know my parents? My true parents?”

“Yes. I know them both.”

“Then speak.”

“You are the son of an elf named Noroelle, who once accepted the most terrible of all punishments to save your life,” Nuramon said, so beginning the story of Guillaume’s past. He spoke of Noroelle, of his and Farodin’s love for her, of the manboar and the elfhunt, of Guillaume’s rescue and Noroelle’s exile. As he spoke, he observed Guillaume’s expression and saw that the young man’s open face grew more and more earnest. Crease by crease, the similarity to Noroelle vanished. He finished by saying, “Now you know who your parents are and why you possess a power that heals humans, but kills elves.”

Guillaume stared at the table. Then, without warning, he began to weep. The sight of Guillaume’s tears hurt Nuramon, too, not only because Guillaume once again looked so like Noroelle, but also because he had brought him to this. It took all his self-control not to break out in tears himself.

After a long silence, Guillaume finally spoke. “And like a fool, I thought my power was a gift from Tjured.”

“Where your ability came from makes no difference. You have done good for humans, as your mother always did for the Albenkin. Until the night she . . .” He didn’t want to say it again.

“Tell me more about my mother,” Guillaume asked in a low voice.

Nuramon took his time. Until late in the night, he told Guillaume about the twenty years he had spent never far from Noroelle. His words brought back to him all the memories of what he had been through with the woman he loved. When he reached the end of his retelling, his mood shifted. Now that all was said, it was clear to him that all was lost and that Noroelle would probably never return. Guillaume, too, seemed deeply upset to have learned of his mother’s sacrifice.

“You have cleared up the mystery of my parentage,” said Guillaume. “And you have explained to me where my powers come from. But you have not told me why you are here.”

Nuramon sighed heavily. It was time. “I asked my queen what I could do to rescue Noroelle. And she told me to ride out, find you, and kill you.”

Guillaume accepted this news calmly. “You could have done that long ago. Why have you let me go on living?”

“For the same reason your mother brought you to this world back then. Because I sense nothing of the Devanthar in your soul.”

“But my healing powers killed your companion. That can only be the birthright of my father. And who knows what else is sleeping inside me?”

“Would you have accepted the death of Gelvuun to heal that man’s hand?”

“Never.”

“Then at least your spirit is free of the Devanthar’s terrible power, even if the essence of the beast is in your magic.”

“But isn’t that the tragedy? In my innocence, I am guilty. My mother was banished because of me. Your companion died because of me. I could do nothing to prevent either one. It is as if my guilt lies in the simple fact that I exist.”

“And that is also why killing you would be wrong. I want to complete my mission a different way. Not as the queen envisioned, though I will probably make her my enemy.”

“You would let me escape?”

“I would, but my companions would find you again quickly enough.” Nuramon thought of Ollowain. “You must understand why I am here. If I were not, then you would already be dead. I have come to make you an offer, one that might save your life and free Noroelle. It is a faint hope, though, and no more.”

“Speak.”

“I want to take you to the queen and keep you safe on the way to Albenmark. When you speak to Emerelle at court, you may be able to convince her of your true nature, as you did with Noroelle and also with me. That is all I can offer you.”

“Then I will accept it,” Guillaume replied without hesitation. “For my mother’s sake.”

Without showing it, Nuramon admired Guillaume. He wondered whether he himself would have consented so readily, for there was no certainty at all that the queen would be merciful, and Emerelle might well stand firm in her decision to kill him. Despite all that had happened, Nuramon still had so much trust in the queen that he doubted she would close herself to his plea.

“When do we leave?”

“We should be out of town by midday. We don’t need to rush.”

“Then tell me something about Albenmark.”

Nuramon told Guillaume about the heartland of Albenmark, but also something of Alvemer, Noroelle’s homeland. As the cock began to crow, Nuramon came to an end and suggested they leave with the dawn after all, to get away unnoticed.

Guillaume agreed and quickly packed what he would need. Then he thanked Nuramon for telling him the truth. “I will never forget what you have done for me.”

Nuramon was satisfied. He had achieved what he wanted, even though it meant he had rebelled against the queen in doing so. Ollowain would complain, certainly, but they would take Noroelle’s son to Emerelle. It was a compromise Ollowain would have to swallow. Nuramon would stay vigilant, though, and keep one eye on Ollowain.

Guillaume prepared himself a porridge of millet, hazelnuts, and raisins. He asked Nuramon if he would also like something to eat, but Nuramon thanked him and declined. Guillaume was just starting to eat when some kind of commotion started in the town outside. Nuramon listened. He thought he heard screams. At the sound of hoofbeats, he jumped to his feet and his hand went to his sword.

“What’s going on?” asked Guillaume.

“Get your things,” Nuramon said. In the alleys, battle sounds mixed with cries of agony. The town was under attack.

Guillaume quickly stood and grabbed his bundle.

The noise of battle drew nearer. Suddenly, someone pounded against the door, and Nuramon, horrified, saw it swing open. A figure stormed in, and Nuramon drew his sword against the intruder. He was stunned to see who came barging in.