The Faerion (18 page)

"Don't let me catch you away from here, Blackthorne. I will relish your slow death." His hands clenched and unclenched spasmodically.

"You are all bluster, old man. You caught me once, which is true. I was young and inexperienced but many generations have passed; you will not catch me now."

Berimar stared long at Blackthorne. He looked at the others as if just remembering they were present. With a glance at Wynne, he stepped toward the Tuors.

"Tell me of your other guests. I do not recognize their race. I can see that they are not gnomes, despite the similar behavior." He glared at Culver.

"We are Tuors," said Tomen. "We live in the valleys among the mountains north of High Cedars. We call our land Paglo." Again, Blackthorne was distressed at the willful discarding of information, especially information that Berimar seemingly did not know, a rare feat indeed. Spies from Mordyn seemed to find their way into every kingdom in the land, even Arda's capital Evenlight. How an orange skinned Man passed for a Daerlan even Blackthorne could not say although he longed to ask Berimar. Without a doubt he would not reveal his secrets.

"Ah, Tuors. All my life I have wished to see one. Now, I have. Hmm. All that is left is to dissect a Tuor and discover if there is a difference in their anatomy. I suspect it is similar to Daerlan."

"Dissect?" screamed Elise. "Have you dissected Daerlan?"

"A few. They are very hard to get. Any trapper smart enough to catch one also knows it's true worth. No bargain buying Daerlan. Cost nearly a fortune. Lady Galamog was not pleased. The live ones are even more expensive." He smiled at Elise.

"Murderer!" Tomen held her back.

Berimar ignored the shout. "Now, Blackthorne, what will you charge for this Tuor? I hope your prices haven't gone up."

"You beast!" Culver ran toward him, held back by Blackthorne.

"You are doing what he wishes. He feeds off your anger. Ignore his stupid talk. He is master of untruths."

"Me? Ask yourselves Tuors, and Lady Wynne. Is Blackthorne helping because of his generous heart or is there something for him to gain? Are you free to leave at any time, or are you prisoners? Once you have paid him, will he let you go? Think before you answer. Is there any reason to let you go? Where do you think I buy my Daerlan? There are none in Mordyn. Who has the skill to trap Daerlan besides Blackthorne?" He grinned at his host.

Blackthorne said nothing, staring at Berimar.

"Why do you think Daerlan and Tuors are related?" asked Blackthorne. "Both races deny this."

"You have lived long, Blackthorne, but I grew up in this world long before Lady Galamog's ship made land fall. There is a secret in the lore of the Daerlan regarding Tuors. I read it once. It was a black moment in their history and I will not speak of it without their permission so hideous was the story. I do not have kind words for Daerlan but I will not darken the world with that story."

Blackthorne shook his head. "There are sides to you I can't fathom."

"Try existing for a thousand years under the yoke of Galamog." His voice was wavering. "Time enough to develop many facets to a personality. Time enough indeed." He seemed to be recalling a memory.

"Why do you reject her overtures?" asked Berimar. "She offers much to you."

"Despite her beauty and power, I loathe her," said Blackthorne. "Her beauty is only sorcery. For whatever reason I see her as she really is through her spells. I have to train myself not to see beyond her spells to her actual shape. But her power is green and her grip tight. I can sense her moods even here."

"So do I, so do I. Now, I understand your position, somewhat. Understand mine. I am instructed to capture you wherever it is possible and bring you back to her. That is not why I am here, but I thought it sporting to warn you."

"I am filled with gratitude."

"As I assumed you would be," said Berimar. He took a long pipe from his cloak and lit it. A spicy aroma filled the air. "Nothing like a pipe after a long journey. Care to try it?"

He handed the pipe to Culver who reached for it, but Blackthorne stayed his arm.

"The leaf is too strong for you, Culver. Now is not the time to try it. Perhaps when this is over." Culver nodded. Berimar shrugged.

Blackthorne escorted Berimar to a room set aside for him. Berimar touched the wall with his hand, nodding his head.

"Very impressive. You have learned much. I will not be able to communicate with Lady Galamog from this room. Yes, you are formidable, in a limited area, but try to cover a battlefield with your power and I think you will feel very small indeed. Very small. I warn you, do not agree to lead anyone's army. You do not have the power. It is difficult to imagine the steps to gain such power if you haven't experienced it. Please listen to me Blackthorne, I say this in friendship, and such as we had once. Keep your battles small and strategic. Open warfare will witness your destruction. Keep to the shadows, using cunning and surprise. I mean that."

"I thank you," said Blackthorne, taken aback. "I did not know you could speak so sincerely. Apparently, Galamog has not subverted all of your original character."

"Apparently not," agreed Berimar, but he would say no more.

Tomen urged Elise and Culver to keep to their rooms, warded against the sorcerer. "You heard Blackthorne, this Berimar is far more dangerous than Blackthorne and we can't even escape from him. Keep out of sight. Berimar might do something just for spite. He might have poisoned blades or potions that Blackthorne can't ward against. Take no chances, we must leave soon."

"How?" asked Culver. "We have no magic. The place is warded; Blackthorne and Berimar both said it was warded."

"That is enough to give me cause to wonder. I do not trust either of them. They may dislike each other, but if the profit is high enough they will work together. Mark my words. You two stay in your room after dark. Keep safe and together. Do not separate. I will explore to night. I will check Blackthorne's defenses. We do not need much of an opportunity to slip through."

"What will Blackthorne do to us if we are caught?" asked Elise.

"I do not know. But hope Blackthorne catches us and not Berimar. I think he would have skinned us if Blackthorne had not been there. You two stay together. I will talk to you in the morning." Tomen closed the heavy door.

Elise held Culver tight.

"What are we to do?"

"I am sorry I brought you into this," said Culver. "I did not wish to endanger your life."

"I chose to come. I remember you tried to keep me in Paglo. Do not try to burden yourself with guilt for my presence."

"If I had not come, then.."

"Culver! Close your mouth. I will not hear such words tonight." She pulled him close, dousing the candle.

Wynne glided down to her perch. Her wings were not yet as strong as they needed to be and she flew at every opportunity to gain strength. As a hawk she felt something of her mother, but nothing she could express verbally. It distressed her to know her father was alive. Blackthorne knew who it was but would say nothing, nothing, leaving it to her father to come forward. But would he? What would she say to him?

Suddenly, she realized she wasn't alone.

"You are quite a beautiful hawk. Your feathers would be quite a prize."

Wynne did not answer. She was still filled with the euphoria of flying. It reminded her of nothing she had ever experienced. It made her blood race and she wanted nothing else. Just to soar over the trees was all she aspired to do. Even the Faerion slipped away from her mind, as did Treteste. All she wanted was flying. Berimar watched her closely.

"You actually become a hawk, don't you? I can see it in your eyes. You didn't speak then because the transformation was not complete and your voice wasn't ready. Do you comprehend what is spoken to you when a hawk?"

"Not is the way you mean." Her voice was soft. "But I sense the substance. I haven't been a hawk often enough, yet."

"Interesting. There once was an entire race of Wierluns who had your ability. Most of them died generations ago, purged by the Daerlan. Nasty creatures really, those Daerlan."

"My friend, Navir, is not."

"Perhaps, perhaps. But it was Navir's father, when still a prince, who led the Daerlan armies against the Wierluns. I cannot remember the reasons, but so it was; Daerlan slaughtered your ancestors."

"Daerlans, Daerlan. Why are Daerlan the enemy of Wierluns? Why should they bother with me? Blackthorne told me it was Navir's brother who slew my mother, upon his father's orders."

Berimar nodded his head. "Makes sense. I see a dilemma for you. Will you take the Faerion to the creature that is bound to eliminate your kind?" He let his words hang in the air. Wynne frowned, watching the red eyes of the sorcerer. Behind him she saw Blackthorne watching her intently. Why were they so interested in her? Was the Faerion more than they had revealed. Navir hinted it was so? Could she trust Navir? He was estranged from his father; would it be enough reason to trust him?

"There seems to be much that you and Blackthorne know that I don't, even about myself. How am I to make an intelligent decision if facts are withheld?"

"An astute observation," said Berimar. "Perhaps an intelligent decision is not what Blackthorne wants."

"Or Berimar," said Blackthorne, standing in the doorway.

"Or myself," agreed Berimar. He looked at Blackthorne. "Come, join us for tea. Perhaps we can enlighten the sorceress about her heritage and the origins of the Faerion."

"Perhaps," agreed Blackthorne. "She may hear more than she wants."

"Knowledge carries its own risks," said Berimar. "To gain knowledge without assuming its responsibilities creates chaos."

"Or Galamog."

"Ha! Good one, Blackthorne. I shall remember that one. However, I shall keep it to myself."

"My mother's name was Aeli, I know that much. Tell me about this race of hers."

"Wierluns were plentiful when I was a lad," said Berimar. "They changed their shapes at will becoming the creatures they loved. They were really shepherds of the forests, shielding the animals from men and their arrows. I met one when I was seven. I will always remember it. She was tall and thin, brown hair slowing graying, and whipped by the wind. I was lost. She watched me struggled against the storm to reach her. Roughly she took my hand and led me to her house. I knew she was a Wierlun and thought she was going to cook me, but I couldn't get free from her hand. She fed me and cared for me. I had to work for my room and board, which wasn't as bad as I expected. She taught me much about the land and its magic, but she would not teach me how to reach that power and use it as my own. She said no Wierlun would ever share that power."

"Perhaps that was the problem with the Daerlan," said Blackthorne.

"As I think, too," continued Berimar. "She made it clear that the stewardship of the land was the first and only duty of a Wierlun. A Wierlun answered to no one and heeded no laws or conventions of any culture. I think the Daerlan believe they are the guardians of the land, requiring all races to bow to their desires. That was the reason for their wars with Trolls and Men. They drove gnomes south to Mordyn where they are making their last stand."

"That is correct. They are no more in the north."

"Pity," said Berimar. "They are uncouth and very, very, rude, but they do not deserve genocide."

"What about Wierluns?" asked Wynne.

"Nor do Wierluns, half breed or not."

"You both seem to know my history. Who is my father? If I am a half breed, what is my other half?"

"I will beg off this one," said Berimar. "I have said all that I will say. Blackthorne, the stage is yours."

Wynne looked at her host, her eyes blazing.

"I had promised never to reveal his identity but you deserve to know. I will sunder that promise. I will tell you, but not in Berimar's company."

"Some host," snorted Berimar.

"Come." He held his hand out to Wynne. "I prefer Berimar to find information without receiving it as a gift."

They walked to the south side of the house. A canopy of vines covered trellis over a bench. They sat.

"What is the Faerion worth to you?" asked Blackthorne.

"To me? I should be asking that question of you."

"Will you give to me if I told all I know of your father and mother?"

Wynne shook her head as if listening to a tune. "That is difficult. If the book belonged to me the choice would be easier, but it does not and I cannot decide for its owners."

"I expected such an answer. If you could merely leave the book open for straying eyes to read a few pages, I would accept that."

"Agreed. If..."

"Go on."

"If you tell me of the nature and origin of that book."

"That would be a story to last the winter. It is a living thing. Its power is immense and will make the unwary its slave. I have seen it happen. Like a poison slowing growing, changing you into another creature. That is the fate the Faerion holds for its owner. It is a perilous book and only a fool would claim it."

"Where did it come from?"

"I do not know. It is said to contain every spell ever used, but what is the source? I can't believe the book wrote itself."

"It is not Elvish?"

"Oh, no. The Daerlan learned much from it, but they were not its creators. Its origins trace back into the dawn of time. No one knows it's true history. But I know even Lady Galamog fears it."

The house was silent. Tomen crept from his room watching for movement. He moved slowly; tense, muscles knotted. His boots made faint scuffing noises on the stone floor and he stopped after a few strides to listen. The house took little notice of him. He stood on the edges of the courtyard. Some places had no fence; the hedge grew close, armed by thorns, long and jagged. He knew the gate would be warded because Berimar had to ask permission to enter. After a quarter hour he confirmed what he already knew. They could not leave without Blackthorne's leave. He hoped the defenses were triggered by Wynne's magic, but it was not. Nothing living could get in or out without permission. Tomen felt helpless, and he loathed it.