The Eye of the Hunter (81 page)

Aravan nodded and then said, “Some problems have entangled roots that go very deep.”

“I’ve been wondering, Aravan—I mean, after the argument between you and Lord Hanor back at the caer—will Mankind ever get to the roots of his problems? That is, like the Elves seem to have done?”

Aravan smiled and shook his head. “Ah, wee one, Elvenkind has not solved all problems besetting them.”

“But you…I mean, Elvenkind does not despoil the land. And from discussions past, you no longer seek to conquer all, to dominate.”

“True, Faeril, we have solved many of the more thorny issues, but there are many that remain. Yet I know what thou art asking.

“Will Mankind ever get to the root of his problems?…I think Man might not live long enough to do so.

“There are those among Elvenkind who have lived through all. They are the ones who brought about change by seeking out and dealing with the roots of our problems. Even so, we found down deep that the roots were all entangled with one another, just as are Mankind’s. He will find that when he pulls up one by the roots, he will merely expose another, and another, and others thereafter.

“Yet Mankind is short-lived. He is too occupied in sating his reckless appetites, too busy breeding—one day I fear that there will be too many Humans plundering the world. Who among them will set aside his lusts and ponder the effect of Man upon the earth? Who among them will endure long enough to accumulate the knowledge needed to reach enlightenment?”

Faeril stirred the embers of the thornbranch. “Aravan, you once said that the children of Mankind provided links
from the past to the future. Couldn’t Man work in concert to gain that knowledge, and then pass what is learned from one generation to the next, the new generation building upon the knowledge of the old, generation after generation, until wisdom is gained?”

“He could, Faeril, but heed: to learn, thou must listen…and Man is too busy shouting to hear.”

Faeril slowly shook her head. “Well, just as Urus and I worked together to uproot the briar, it seems to me that only by working together will Man ever resolve his problems. By getting at the root causes and pulling them into the light of day and examining them, then perhaps he can turn thornbranches into flowers, briar patches into gardens. Otherwise he simply prunes back a problem a bit, and more thorns will spring from the very same roots. Look, Lord Hanor wanted to kill the Sultan of Hyree, and perhaps he should be slain, yet isn’t that merely pruning? Won’t other despots spring from the same roots?”

Aravan smiled at Faeril. “Ah, my wee one, thou art now beginning to struggle with the same problems that our Elven philosophers dealt with long ago.”

“Then, why doesn’t Elvenkind just give Mankind the answers, Aravan?”

“He does not listen, Faeril. Mankind must recognize the consequences of his acts ere he will understand that he needs to change, and even then he might not have the fortitude to do so. Remember the lemmings—they know not of their collective rush to destruction. And shouldst thou try to stop them, they will merely run over thee on their way to oblivion. Let us hope that Mankind realizes his own course ere it is too late, and then has the strength of will to do what must be done.”

* * *

The Greatwood was a mighty timberland, some seven hundred miles long and two hundred and fifty wide. Yet Urus seemed to know every inch of it, and he rode unerringly toward where they were bound. Finally in the midst of the forest, they came to a vast glade known simply as The Clearing, so broad that the woods beyond could not be seen, some thirty miles afar.

Suddenly Faeril recalled, “Here it was that you came, Riatha, with Tomlin and Petal a thousand years ago, to sing of Urus’s deeds.”

Urus looked at the Elfess, a question in his eyes. “Yes, love,” she said. “Thou wert made into a legend that day—Tomlin telling of thy deeds, I singing of them.”

Urus growled and shook his head, but Faeril could see that he was pleased.

Out into this open space fared the four, riding for the distant edge, and in the late May evening they came unto a woodland village hidden among foliage green just beyond the far rim.

* * *

They stayed in that Baeron hamlet for a full month, waiting for Year’s Long Day, waiting for the Gathering. For then would all the Baeron come together in the Greatwood, in The Clearing, to engage in contests, to sing songs, and to tell of great deeds done. And this was why Urus had been pleased to hear of Tomlin’s and Riatha’s feat, for it was among the greatest of honors to have your tale told and a song sung of your deeds done at the Baeron Gathering.

But on the day when it finally came, it was Gwylly’s tale that was told and Gwylly’s song that was sung of Gwylly’s deeds done that enthralled the gathered Baeron and nearly broke their hearts. And not an eye was dry when Riatha finished her song, the last note ringing long from the harp and into the quiet forest air.

* * *

They travelled on northward, crossing the River Rissanin at Eryn Ford, entering Darda Erynian, also known as the Great Greenhall, and as Blackwood of Old.

Through this vast woodland they fared, escorted by Dylvana Elves, the kindred of the Lian though somewhat smaller in stature.

And the long summer days and soft summer nights passed seemingly without number, yet within two weeks they had reached the Landover Road and had forded the mighty River Argon.

There the Dylvana left them, and the four rode onward, now headed up toward the Crestan Pass there in the Grimwalls.

Two more days elapsed, as up into the high country they went, with its brawling streams and waterfalls and pine forests and tranquil meadows covered with the wildflowers of summer.

Across the pass and down they fared, another two days
going by, reaching their goal at last, arriving in Arden Vale on the ninth day of July.

And they were greeted with open arms, and with tears when Arden Elves heard what had come to pass.

* * *

Faeril groomed Blacktail and Dapper, the ponies having been returned to Arden from the port town of Ander on the Boreal Sea in Rian nearly three years agone.

Riatha came to the stables smiling. She held in her hand a folded parchment. “Faeril, see here.”

“What is it, Riatha?”

“’Tis a letter from the Adonite priests of the monastery above the glacier. It is dated two years past, is addressed to Aravan, and just this day arrived. With it was the letter written by Aravan to Alor Inarion a year further back, when Aravan was in the monastery with Urus recovering.

“When Inarion received it, Aravan laughed, saying that ’twas good that urgent plans hinged not upon its arrival.

“As to his own letter from Doran, Aravan thought that all of us would like to see the words of the Abbot, and he gave it to me to read and to bear it to thee and thence to Urus.”

Riatha handed the letter to Faeril.

Riatha and Urus were married in an Elven ceremony on the night of the autumnal equinox, Inarion voicing their pledges to one another, there in the bright Elven hall. Riatha was radiant in a pale green long-sleeved silken gown trimmed with satin ribbons of gold, and pale green ribbons twined in her golden hair, and a single band set with golden beryls fixed about her brow. Urus was resplendent in dark velvet brown, tan insets in the puffed shoulders of his long sleeves, tan ruffles at his wrists, a tan lace ruff down his chest.

Many wondered that Riatha would take vows with a mortal, even though he looked youthful in spite of being more than a thousand years old.

And Faeril wept as if she would never stop, for her heart sang with joy; and she wept as if she would never stop, for her heart flooded with grief—just five years past on the very same night in the very same place with the very same vows she and Gwylly had wed.

* * *

As October arrived, Faeril said her good-byes to Riatha and Urus, the wee damman journeying back to the Boskydells,
the Elfess and Baeran sad to see her go. Too, she said farewell to Alor Inarion as well as others, fast friends of hers in the Elven vale. And ere she left, Inarion said to her, “Should there ever come a need, thou art welcome to dwell here for as long as thou dost desire.” Faeril hugged him and kissed him and said that if indeed there ever was a need, she would come to the vale gladly. Then she and Aravan set forth down the gorge, she riding upon Blacktail, with Dapper as a pack pony tethered behind, Aravan mounted upon a rust-red roan.

Within two days they came out of Arden, riding beneath the thundering falls, coming to the Crossland Road and turning westerly. Autumn was in the air, the days cool and growing short, the nights crisp and growing long. And Faeril found a memory in every hill, a remembrance in every stream, an image in every tree of happy days long past when another rode at her side.

And often she had tears in her eyes.

The days passed swiftly, the nights slowly, as they journeyed west. Across Arden Ford they fared, wading the River Tumble, entering into the Drearwood in the Land of Rhone.

Days later they crossed the Stone-arches Bridge above the River Caire to come into the Wilderland there between Harth and Rian. Among the Wilderness Hills they travelled and across the plains beyond, coming at last within sight of Beacontor, there where the Black Foxes had overthrown the Spawn.

Beyond Beacontor, Faeril and Aravan turned north, heading for Orith and Nelda’s, Gwylly’s Human parents, there on the edge of the shaggy Weiunwood.

Evening was falling when at last the farm came into sight, and as Faeril and Aravan rode into the yard and dismounted, Black came dashing from the house, barking and racing ’round.

And Nelda stepped onto the porch, peering through the twilight, Orith right after. Their eyes widened in wonder at the sight of an Elf Lord, and then Faeril walked ’round from behind.

“Oh, child, you’ve come home,” cried Nelda, running down the steps and embracing her, weeping for joy.

She held the damman at arm’s length. “Let me look at you. My, my, what a pretty sight.”

Her gaze then swept beyond Faeril, searching through the twilight. “And just where is that wayward son of ours?”

And Faeril burst into tears.

* * *

Seven days they stayed at Orith and Nelda’s, telling of all that had befallen, speaking of Gwylly—Orith or Nelda with tearful eyes telling of his finding, of his childhood, Faeril speaking of their lives together, and Aravan describing the quest, their voices soft, reminiscing.

And all the while they talked, Black lay by the door, his sad eyes fixed on Faeril, raising his head at every little sound from outside, as if expecting Gwylly to step in at any moment.

Early on the fourth night after her arrival, as Faeril washed her face readying for bed, she saw Orith sitting on the porch in the chill twilight, autumn now gripping the land. Wrapping a blanket about herself, she stepped out to see if aught was amiss, to find him staring at a thin crescent Moon riding low in the west, clouds racing across the silver arc, driven by a cold wind.

“Once,” said Faeril, “when we were deep in the desert, Gwylly looked up at the rising yellow Moon and he sang of a cow and a cat and a dog, and he sang of a fiddle and a dish and a spoon…. I laughed. Oh, how I laughed. And I asked him where he had learned such wonderful nonsense. And you know what he said?”

Orith looked at the damman, his eyes streaming tears. “I taught him that song. It was his favorite.”

Faeril threw her arms about Orith and kissed him on the cheek. “Yes. Exactly. That is what he said.”

* * *

Seven days after they arrived, Aravan and Faeril set out from Orith and Nelda’s, riding again for the Boskydells. Black followed a short way, then stopped at Orith’s whistle. Ere she passed beyond the bend, Faeril looked back and waved good-bye, and the last she saw of the two, Orith had his arm about Nelda as they turned and walked toward their solitary house.

* * *

The Weiunwood was clad in yellow and gold and scarlet, and along its flank they rode, the shaggy forest on the right, a low range of hills on their left. Southerly and then southwesterly they fared, camping in the hills that night.