The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy) (28 page)

“We must … seek the light, then,” Cal said slowly, like one waking from an all-too-real dream, the words of the Owele still ringing in his ears. “For that is what the Oweles have told me that I must do.”

“The Watchers have spoken to you?” Deryn blurted his question out, breaking the formality of the moment.

“The Watchers?” Cal asked.

“Yes, the Watchers, the Oweles,” Deryn clarified.

“Yes they have, many times in fact,” Cal told his newfound Sprite friend. “They have been haunting my dreams for months on end, and I even witnessed a whole eyrie of them defeat the green-eyed demon bear that slew my friend, Yasen.”

Cal’s excitement left no room for decorum as he told his tale. The Queen and her court exchanged worried and serious whispers. She waited for Cal to finish before addressing him with a pressing question.

“This demon bear you spoke of … was it the only beast you have come across that had the green burning in his eyes?”

“No, your Majesty,” Cal answered. “There were shadow cats at the woodcutter’s camp in the North, and we saw an unnatural fog, like a black mass, and out of its hidden dark rained hundreds of raven-fletched arrows.” Cal regarded the fear on the faces of the gathered host as he described the events of the onslaught. “The men who were fighting said that the hidden archers had what looked like glowing green eyes, but by the time they arrived to their position … well, there was no one to be found.”

Iolanthe could not keep the lines of concern from tracing their imperfections across her usually flawless features. “It is just as I have feared … Nogcwren is on the move.”

The gathered host of Sprites began to worry and whisper amongst themselves after the Queen confirmed their suspicions. She spoke again. “Tell me Calarmindon Bright Fame, what exactly did the Watchers reveal to you?”

Cal recounted his dreams to the Sprite Queen. He spoke of the encircling Oweles that feasted on serpents, and of the brown Owele with feathers crowned white as the winter snow, and of his message to him to ‘seek the light’ because ‘beauty was calling’ him.”

Unlooked for by Queen or company, an impossible wind began to blow through the grove of the mighty trees. At this, the heralds’ trumpets rang with notes dark and loud, sounding an ominous announcement.

The wind lifted the fallen blooms of the purple tree, swirling them in helpless grace with its unseen strength. All of the company of Sprites, save Iolanthe alone, knelt before the cloud of dancing violet flowers. She stared hard and straight in to the quiet storm, and when it passed, a new resolve lit the eyes of the Queen.

“What was that?” Cal whispered to Deryn, whose head was still bowed.

“That was the voice of our great Father,” the Sprite said. “He speaks in the wordless wind to the Queen of the violet trees only.”

The throng of Sprites rose to their feet, awaiting the words of their great Father. Just then, the Queen turned and faced the assembly, offering with her resolved expression and confident poise a breath of calm and hope to her people. She summoned two small Sprites, both of which stood barely a hand tall. They hovered with fresh-faced vigor, and their luminescent green wings flittered with the vibrant strength of youth.

The Queen addressed the two Spritelings. “Llinos and Linnaea, I must charge you both with a great task, for our time is fading, perhaps more swiftly than we know.” She turned and faced the short-haired one. “Llinos, the age of our imprisonment is over, and we may now leave the confines of our mountain home. You must fly with great haste, my son, to the eyrie of the Watchers in the ruins of the lost city of Terriah. Bring word of our freedom and give confidence of our readiness.”

Iolanthe then turned and addressed the long-haired Linnaea, whose face reflected a soft yet unbending bravery. “Our great Father gave you a special gift, and it is with intense urgency that I ask you to put it to practice. Petition the Jacarandas, sing words of peril and songs of hope to their timber hearts … and if the great Father wills it, perhaps the tress will birth for us more warrior brothers and sisters to aid our cause.”

After being given their assignments, the two siblings Llinos and Linnaea took to flight, and with a trail of green light in their wake, they flew with determined ardor to carry out the instructions of their Queen.

“My people.” The Queen addressed the whole of the host, the fires of courage and purpose blazing bright in her azure eyes. “Our great Father has spoken. Even now his light is alive and growing, and hope is still breathing in parts of this world yet unknown. But a great evil has grown brash in the shadowy dark, and its hunger is ravenous.”

She addressed the most decorated of the warrior Sprites, whose fish-boned mail was adorned with an ornate sash dyed the color of the mighty Jacarandas.

“Faolán, captain of the host, it is come time for us to begin to marshal and make ready the whole of our strength. Rally the smithies and the spear-makers at once to sing into being their brightest blades and their strongest armor. We must make ready our people … for war.”

The grove was tense with impending dread, but the resolve of the Sprites did not bend or bow under the threat of evil. The Queen nodded to Ardghal the herald, and the notes of action rang true in the mountain hall. “Let it begin!” the herald shouted, “and let us pray for favor and time enough to prepare our hearts and blades for whatever may stand in opposition to His light.”

“A thousand graces to you all,” the Queen said in a blessing over their work.

In unison the host replied, “And to you, our Queen, and for our great Father!”

With another blast of the trumpets, the air was alive with the beating of wings, the forceful cadence of a people carrying out a holy assignment.

Cal stood still, taking in the whole scene in utter astonishment. “So small, and yet so terrible … I pity the evil that has to meet their winged fury.”

“Do not give sympathy to evil, Calarmindon Bright Fame,” Iolanthe said as she landed gracefully beside him. “For it will certainly not return the affection. Perhaps we would not be on the brink of war if sympathy had been withheld ages ago?”

Cal nodded. “What would you ask of me? How can I aid your people in their efforts?”

“You must go seek the light. You must follow the calling of the Watchers, for they know best the intentions of the great Father and the hearts of men,” she told him with kind urgency.

“But what about the evil? What about this … um … Nogcwren?” he asked again.

“Do not concern yourself with the rumors of her evil, for they have ways of consuming one’s good intentions, “she said sternly. “Rather, yours will be the task of awakening the hearts of men to seek the light. The strength of the dark evil is diminished in the presence of His illuminated glory, and we may perhaps win an even greater victory by these means alone.”

“But how can I do that?” he begged. “I am just a groomsman, a groomsman who hasn’t even finished his restitution yet. I have no authority, no sword to protect myself with, and not even a platform to tell of all that I have learned.”

She smiled warmly and looked him straight in his dark eyes, her captivating gaze grabbing him again and speaking to his soul. “Do not mistrust your abilities or your circumstances, for those are not of so great a significance to your purpose. Rather, trust in the One who has seen fit to call you forth in the first place. For if He has asked you to seek the light, then you must seek the light … and in this seeking, Calarmindon Bright Fame, you must place your hope in the One who had done the calling.”

Cal felt his mind giving way to the truth his heart had known all along, and his questions and excuses faded to the back of his consciousness.

“Do those two tasks, and our Great Father, the THREE who is SEVEN, will supply both platform and passage. Your authority will derive from Him alone, so when you seek and when you hope … you must do so in
His
strength.”

She took him by the arm and begged him to follow. She led him to the edge of the falls and pointed to the cold, clear pools that held the emptied contents of the Sarangrael.

“As for a blade, our great Father has already made provision for you,” said the Queen. “For the monsters born from the evil of Nogcwren’s heart will need more than ordinary steel to dispatch them from this world; no, their bowels are too dark a match for mortal blade.”

She pointed, with a mischievous smile to her eyes, to the frothing water of the pool below them. “We will need a
beautiful dawn
to break the night of terror and rid the world of its vile rule.”

Cal searched her features and her meaning took root there in the soil of his mind; hope flowered in the garden of his newfound understanding. Suddenly moved by something more than self-determination or even a willed resolve, Cal dove head-first into the icy pools of the Abonris by the falls of Sarangrael, giving no thought to the perilous height or the danger below.

The fall was long and the surface bit with cold teeth as the young groomsman of Haven entered the churning water in search of Gwarwyn
,
blade of the dragon-slayer, whose name in the tongues of old meant “beautiful dawn”.

Chapter Thirty-Two

C
al’s
lungs burned like an oxygen-starved fire as he kicked and pulled his cold yet determined body deeper into the pooled waters of Abonris. The world under the water was clear, even though the churning movement from the pounding Sarangrael vigorously frothed the surface.

The rocks and crags were made visible by the glowing purple from the grove of the sacred Jacaranda, and Cal could make out untold sums of discarded treasures resting here in the pool of the mighty river. But it was not gold or silver that caught the eye of the swimmer, nor was it the wonders of sunken legend and lore. Cal’s mind was fixed on one prize and one prize alone: steel.

After what seemed like an eternity of searching and groping in the icy cold water, Cal spotted a rounded pommel peaking out from underneath the pebble-lined floor of the pool. Without much thought for depth or breath, Cal dove under the water with his legs pounding and hands clawing through the cold blue. By the time he reached the pool’s floor, white spots had begun flashing in and out of his vision, and fear began to crowd his mind.

Time was something that Cal knew he did not have much of here under the water. The glinting steel of the half-buried pommel was almost within reach, and Cal began to fear that he might not have enough breath left to grab the blade and make it back to the safety of the surface. There was little time for indecision, and so with a last desperate use of oxygen, Cal defiantly kicked his legs and reached out his numb fingers to grasp the hilt of the drowned sword.

At the top of the falls, the Queen stood with Deryn at the precipice of the rock, looking out over the unfolding drama below the surface of the water. Cal’s new Sprite friend couldn’t contain his agitation at the thought of his charge being lost in the pools of the Sarangrael, and his wings beat a fierce and frenzied rhythm in the still air. “He has surely been under longer than seems possible … let alone prudent,” Deryn worried aloud.

“You must trust our great Father, dear one,” the Queen replied, as much for her own heart as for his, but the worry on her face undermined the confidence intended by her words.

“But what is taking so long?” pressed the sentinel. “Why doesn’t he just come up for air?”

Iolanthe turned her gaze to the blue-winged Sprite, and the intensity he saw there overshadowed his own uninformed distress.

“No mere man could survive a dive to the bottom of this pool if his intention was to release the blade of Caedmon,” the Queen said, speaking slowly. “For its weight is too great a burden and its possession too important a task to be assigned to one not worthy.”

Deryn straightened in defense of his friend. “But Cal—”

“Is no mere man,” Iolanthe interrupted. “For he has been called by our Father and led by the Oweles on a long and dangerous path all the way to Islwyn; I suspect that when he emerges from this pool, he will be even more of the warrior that he has been becoming, and that we have been hoping for.”

“But what if he can’t find his way back to the surface? What will we do then?” Deryn asked of his Queen.

Just then an explosion of desperate and violent motion broke the face of the cold pool as the wild-eyed young groomsman coughed and gasped against the water in search of new breath.

The worry that had been holding the beauty of Iolanthe hostage released its choking hold on her. She breathed a sigh of relief, whispering a grateful prayer, and gestured to Deryn to attend to the nearly drowned Calarmindon.

“Go to him. He will need your aid, to be sure … but do not bid him to part from his blade while he is yet in the pool. For he alone must rescue Gwarwyn from its watery slumber and bring it once again to the shores of this world,” Iolanthe instructed him.

“Yes, my Queen,” Deryn responded, and then in a blur of blue he shot from the heights of the falls, navigating his way carefully through the spray of the Sarangrael.

“Cal! Cal, are you alright?” Deryn shouted against the roar of the pounding water.

Cal coughed violently, choking against the water in search of words. “Help … Help me … take it! Please!”

“I can’t! I won’t!” Deryn shouted in reply. “You alone must remove that blade. Just give me your other hand!”

Cal reached out for the hand of his tiny friend, still choking in the cold wet as he tried to recover his breath. The struggle to pull Cal to safety was more formidable than Deryn anticipated; for though all Sprites are much stronger than they might seem at first glance, Cal now bore a weight much greater than he had ever carried with him before.

After much exertion through several tense and fear-laced moments, Deryn, sentinel of the house of the Queen, finally dragged his charge to the shores of safety.

With sword still in hand, Cal managed to cough out a word of gratitude. “Thank you … I am in your service.”

“No, my friend,” Deryn playfully argued, trying to disperse the tension of the moment. “It is I that must serve you still.”

Cal slumped back down, exhaustion and relief overtaking his cold, wet body; he closed his eyes and surrendered his senses to the debilitating fatigue. A host of servants descended upon the shoreline in a whirlwind of activity. Soon they lifted Cal up from the stony shore, Gwarwyn clenched firmly in his hands, and carried him with haste and strength to see to his care.

Deryn looked up to the peak of the falls, and there, still watching the unfolding drama, stood his Queen. He heard her unspoken words in the center of his chest.
Thank you, my son, you have acted bravely, and you have done well.

“Thank you, my Queen,” Deryn humbly replied, bowing towards the beautiful Iolanthe from his place by the pool.

Now go, and see to your friend.
Her silent words lit a smile on the face of the sentinel Sprite as he took off after his charge.

The Sprite servants, who had carried Cal and his once drowned blade from the cold banks of the pooled Abonris, worked feverishly with magic both seen and unseen. As they tended to the wet and weary body of Calarmindon Bright Fame, their efforts were prodded by the greater hope that was swiftly returning to these once forgotten people.

Though they labored tirelessly to restore his strength, there was no diminishing of their own brightness in the mending. The Sprites began to dream of the new songs that would be wrought to tell of
this
healing, the healing that did not fail. Those yet unsung melodies drove the hearts and craft of these winged healers as they worked to redeem themselves of an ancient failure. Their lives were compelled, or perhaps enslaved, to the possibility of this redemption. But redemption is the kindest of all masters, and they knew that their subjection to it would, in the end, truly set them free.

Hours later, Cal awoke back inside the sanctuary that he had earlier used to make his rest. He lay in a white wooden bed that looked as if it had somehow grown into its shape instead of being fashioned by a carpenter.

The fire in the hearth was burning warm, and the room smelled of the fragrant scents of healing herbs. “Well there, I am glad to see that you are awake,” an unfamiliar voice said. “I was beginning to fear that the cold had robbed too much of your breath away from your spirit.”

“Who … who are you?” Cal asked groggily in a scratching voice.

“My name is Eógan,” said the voice. “My Queen asked me to tend to you, to light a fire and beckon your strength to return. I am pleased to see that my efforts have proven effective this time. You see, not all hearts are capable of warming. Sometimes …” Eógan paused, lost in a sad memory. “Well … let us not speak of sleeping sorrow today, for
you,
Bright Fame, are awake, and that is worth our gladness.”

“My sword. Eógan have you seen my sword?” Cal asked as he searched the room with his weary eyes.

“I have indeed, Calarmindon … twice in fact; though it belonged to a different owner the first time I saw it,” Eógan reminisced.

“Did you put it somewhere? I must go show it to Queen Iolanthe,” Cal asked with obvious distress.

“Rest, my son. Gwarwyn is in capable hands and shall be returned to you once you have strength enough to carry it.” Eógan kindly reassured him. “A sword like that one requires a strong heart to wield its weight, and it is my job to make sure that you are able to wield it well, Bright Fame.”

Cal slept there in the sanctuary formed by the mighty Jacarandas, under the careful watch of Eógan, who was called “the shepherd of the weary”. A new breath, one stronger than the one he surrendered under the water, began to fill his exasperated lungs with its life-giving wind.

There, in the burning coals and flames of the sanctuary’s hearth, rested the once-drowned blade of Caedmon. Eógan had spent the better part of Cal’s rest attempting to restore the famous sword to its former glory, but to his dismay, the generations of pounding water and abandoned disregard had left Gwarwyn tarnished and dulled. Eógan employed all of his healing talents on the immortal sword, but to no avail. Not fire or wet stone, not etching oils or pounding mallets could restore the fabled blade of the dragon-slayer. For there was ancient magic woven into the fabric of its steel, magic beyond the skill and comprehension of Sprite or man or beast.

Crestfallen, Eógan labored to retrieve the blade from the fire. He needed neither tongs nor gloves to handle the sword, for even after all these years under the water, it was still impervious to the flames.

Deryn stayed by Cal’s side, aiding Eógan with both assignments, mending man and blade.

“Who knows the plans of our great Father?” Eógan said to Deryn, his will to hope still overcoming the temptation of disappointment. “Perhaps this rusted old edge might be the very key to unlocking His light.”

“It doesn’t make sense to me, Eógan. Why would our great Father have him risk his life to retrieve something so forgotten and seemingly useless?” Deryn asked the old shepherd.

Eógan thought about his question, for he had been rolling the very same words around in his thoughts since the Queen’s servants brought the young groomsman and his inglorious relic to the sanctuary door.

“Perhaps …” he paused, still searching for a way to articulate the hope he chose to hold to, “perhaps one day, in the right pair of hands, it will prove its worth once again. It could be that our hands cannot merit the unleashing of its magic and power, nor our minds such clarifying explanations.”

The old healer held up the corroded blade of the greatest warrior the world had ever known. For all the would-be legend and lore that surrounded the name of the sword Gwarwyn, the blade itself was wholly unassuming. It was not gaudy in its creation, nor was it adorned with jewels or gilded with precious metals. Its long, double-edged blade was elegant in its leaf-like simplicity, and its hilt was wrought to resemble a broad, leafless branch from some hallowed tree.

“Perhaps you are right,” Deryn resigned. “Tell me Eógan … do you still have its scabbard?”

“Indeed I do,” Eógan smiled. “When I could not heal the broken spirit of Caedmon, I kept this as a reminder of my crumbled pride and as a token of hope that maybe one day I could amend for my past failures.”

The old shepherd opened a large, white, wooden chest and pulled a long, white-leathered scabbard from its hold. “Who can comprehend the plans that our great Father has made?”

When Cal was fully rested, he woke to the sound of familiar voices singing a most enlivening tune. Eógan’s face was lit with a smile, and the very air around him seemed to crackle with healing magic as he sung a Spritely song of strength and life. Cal, feeling his strength even now growing to the swell of the healer’s melody, rose from the bed and felt the coursing of fresh life running through his body.

“Thank you, Eógan. You have been kind to me, and I am quite sure I am feeling much stronger than when we first met,” he said with a grin.

“Well, I am most glad to be of help to you, Bright Fame,” said the healer. “But it wasn’t all my doing … I had some help with the mending tune.” Eógan nodded in the direction of the blue-winged sentinel.

“The Queen has sent word that as soon as you are able, she would like to speak with you,” Deryn told his newly-refreshed friend.

The two Sprites helped ready Cal to meet with the Queen. They brought him mint tea and a broth of sweet onions and rootlings so that he might break his fast and sustain his newly recovered strength. Soon he was led down the carved, stone pathways towards the royal house of Iolanthe.

When he arrived at the white chamber, Faolán, captain of the host, was deep in conference with the Queen. Their words were hushed but urgent, and they spoke with an air of formal disagreement until Cal interrupted them with his presence.

“Welcome, Calarmindon Bright Fame. We are all glad to see that you are well,” Iolanthe said with genuine warmth. Faolán bowed and then saluted the young man, but his warmth burned more like a worried candle in the spring wind than like the Queen’s violet hospitality.

“Thank you, my Queen. It would seem that I have found my breath again, largely due to the work of Eógan the healer,” Cal said with an overwhelming sense of gratitude.