The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy) (47 page)

Epilogue

I
n
the days since Calarmindon Bright Fame had said farewell to Iolanthe in the secret grove deep beneath the Hilgari Mountains, the residents of Islwyn had grown quite restless with the knowledge of the coming darkness. The Sprite Queen had spent many hours since their parting deep in thought and prayer for the fates of both this young light seeker and the whole of Aiénor.

Her reverie turned sorrowful as she recounted the woes and heartbreaks she had witnessed in her many days. None were so anguishing as the betrayal of her people by her own kin, Niniané, and the resulting rape of the violet trees of beauty. Even so, her heart seemed nearly as heavy now as it had been during the great days of lament. The Sprite Queen, here in these darkening hours, watched her world sit on the brink of devastation. The failure of the tree of power brought a new sorrow to her already heavy heart, for this tree was, in truth, the very last living beacon of her great Father’s strength and might.

The Sprite people served their Queen faithfully, carrying out her orders with passionate and swift action. While Llinos was still about his business of petitioning the Oweles, calling upon their strength in these most desperate times, Linnaea tirelessly and fervently sang her requests to the last remaining trees of beauty. The high-chambered mountain walls of the secret grove echoed Linnaea’s rhapsody as she poured out her heart in movements of melody, imploring both the mercy of the great Father and the generous fertility of the Jacarandas.

Since Calarmindon Bright Fame had freed the long-imprisoned race of Sprites, they often traveled to the ruined halls of Petros and conversed with the exiled Poets who made their home in the ancient halls of forgotten kings. Long had the Poets believed that beauty, fierce and dangerous, still lived and thrived in the greying world of the dying tree. Long had they hoped that their old and aging eyes would one day glimpse some sort of magic akin to the violet trees of legend and their winged guardians. But never would they have dared to suppose that such beauty and such magic waited in such proximity to their home.

The Poets had feasted for days in honor of Iolanthe, Queen of the Sprites, at the overwhelming joy that came from their first encounter with the lost and forgotten race. Songs were composed, and toasts were made. Marigeld even put down her shears and her spade and took up her horsehair brushes, painting a beautifully intricate fresco of the Queen and her hidden kingdom upon the walls of Petros’ great hall.

This day, however, Iolanthe had arisen from her restless sleep, somehow knowing that Llinos would soon return to her from his long and perilous journey across the wide Hilgari to the eyrie of the Oweles. She had sent Ardghal, herald of her house, to summon the wise and friendly Poets to her white-barked palace underneath the greatest of all the remaining violet trees.

“My Queen, may I present for your pleasure and your council, these Sprite friends, lovers of beauty, and stewards of the mountain palace,” Ardghal announced with a flourish. He motioned to the incredulous Poets who stood nearby, overwhelmed and awestruck by their first summons to the inner sanctum of Islwyn.

“Welcome, my friends. Welcome, Tolk and Elder John, Clivesis and the Miller. Welcome, Marigeld and Klieo, and of course Meledae. I am in great need of your council, and I do so wish that our three kinds might once again seek true wisdom together,” the Queen said.

“Pardon, great Queen, but did you say
three
kinds?” Tolk humbly asked her. “I am indeed well along in my years, but it would seem to me that my aged and tired eyes have seen but only our two kinds gathered here in your most magnificent palace.”

“I did, dear Tolk, say three kinds,” the Queen said with a gentle, respectful smile. “For our missing third is now arriving, even as we speak.”

The mountain walls exploded with the trumpets of Ardghal and his host, their bright and joyous tones reverberated in unison with the hearts of all who were gathered. “It can’t be …” the Miller whispered to his friends, looking up into the vast expanse of the great cavern underneath the Hilgari.

“Oh, but it is, my brother,” Tolk said in stunned amazement. “It is indeed!”

The sounds of music faded as the high, shrill screeches of the great Oweles filled the grove in echoed harmony, announcing to all who would hear of their unexpected arrival.

“The Oweles have gathered too?” Elder John said, mystified at the very thought of being in the combined presence of Oweles and Sprites and the forgotten trees of beauty.

“Aye, brother, what a day of wonders indeed!” Clivesis mused aloud.

The storm of white and brown feathers descended upon the secret grove of violet trees. Though the ancient watchers were mighty and holy messengers, they did not presume to perch upon the hallowed trees of beauty without first being given the blessing of the Queen to do so.

“Welcome Ruarc, Storm Words, and welcome Haizea, Wind of God. Welcome Zigor, Basajuan, and Edur; welcome Azrael and Remiel. My people and I bid you enter our hidden kingdom, and we pray you to impart your foresighted wisdom upon us all,” said the Queen.

The brown-feathered Owele with the snow-dipped wings screeched loudly in echoed response, and all who were gathered there, Poet and Sprite alike, heard his ancient voice deep in the heart of their own thoughts.

Greetings in the name of the THREE who is SEVEN, Father of beauty and bright, shining power. We come at the request made by Llinos, who is of the house of the Violet Flower.

Ruarc bowed his head and raised his great wings skyward.

“My deepest gratitude is owed to your kind. For long ago, at the bidding of our great Father, you bore away the seeds of these last Jacarandas to this most secret and holy of places,” Iolanthe said to the Oweles. “The very existence of my people is due to the bravery and sacrifice of your kind, even in the face of the perils that once befell Aiénor.”

The birds of prey all bowed together in acknowledgement of her gratitude.

“You come now, once again, at the midnight of the tree of power. We, my people and the race of men, are once again in need of your intervention, my dear watchers,” Iolanthe continued.

Do not fear, Sprite people, nor should you, you sons of Ádhamh. For long has the will of the THREE who is SEVEN been at work, even in the shadows of man’s hopelessness. The one who has been foretold has been called, and he has been given great and dangerous gifts from both of your kinds to aid him in his seeking
. Ruarc spoke silently to the gathered council of Poets and Sprites.

“I do not doubt that our great Father has long been at work carrying to completion the designs of His will,” said Iolanthe. “Though my heart tells me that even now, a great and ancient wound has festered amongst the forces of darkness into a vengeful fury of toxic hatred for the whole of His creation.”

“As does ours,” Tolk said to the council. “Long have we mourned the abandonment of hope and wonder in the hearts of men. For when hope has been reduced from the sacred to the scorned, nothing will be left safe from the consuming ferocity of fear.”

“Aye, we have seen our people consume the light of the THREE who is SEVEN without so much as a passing thought as to why it truly was created to begin with,” Clivesis blurted out.

“And it is not so much the irreverence that causes our colony of Poets concern; it is the insatiable consumption. For once they have depleted and devoured the light of the great tree, and have exhausted the light of every piece of timber that the whole of the world Aiénor has to offer … where then will their corrupted appetites turn? We fear even now that they are primed for darker desires, my Queen,” Tolk said with sadness in his aged eyes.

“As do I, my friend,” she said kindly to him. “For word has reached our hidden grove of evil shadows and ravenous death, of ancient sorceries and fire-breathing serpents.” The Queen turned her gaze from the eyes of the Poets to the violet, burning orbs of the Oweles. “Has this word come to my palace falsely, Ruarc Storm Words?”

It is indeed true Violet Flower
, Iolanthe heard.
For the progeny of Šárka’s evil has awakened to exact her vengeance upon the people of Aiénor, whether it be through her unrelenting malice or through greater, more sinister treacheries; absolute tyranny is her only desire.

“Progeny of Šárka
?”
Elder John asked, a chill of unexplained agitation coming over him as he spoke the words. “Who is this that you speak such grave tidings of, Master Owele?”

In an instant, the Oweles sprang to life; their strong and holy wings pounded the air of the grove in a slowed ferocity. The birds of prey hovered ominously there in the center of Iolanthe’s great palace. The Poets began to grow nervous in this never before seen display of the righteous power of the Oweles, and the mood of the grove grew dark and stormy even in the hidden confines of the mountain.

One at a time, the birds began to screech in wounded protest as their violet eyes burned angry and offended at the evil they referred to by their chanted verse.

The maker of un-light
, Basajuan’s voice screeched.

The offspring of hate,
Remiel said.

The one who wakes dragons
, whispered Haizea.

The raven unmade
, Edur said next.

As fast as the storm of words and Oweles awoke there in the palace of the Sprite Queen, so did it pass, and soon the watchers returned to their perches.

“Forgive our ignorance, please, but who has she corrupted? You spoke of her progeny?” Tolk asked, his head bowed in humble deference. “We know that the great evil one is bound and chained to her stone kingdom … yet you say there is one who perpetuates this dark magic? We must know her by name if we are to warn the people of Haven while there is yet still time to do so!”

“Her name,” Iolanthe spoke sadly, “was once heralded far and wide as the beauty of Aiénor and wife of Caedmon, the dragon slayer. She was a friend to all Sprites, a daughter of the ancient kings of Terriah.” A silver tear ran down the queen’s comely face as she forced herself to speak of the heart-breaking story. “But then venom of the deepest evil robbed her of her glory, breaking both our once valorous hero and her once beautiful heart,” she continued on in her lament.

“Branwen?” Klieo offered. “I have read in the tomes of lineages of the wife of Caedmon, the dragon slayer. I have read of her renowned raven hair, and her unparalleled beauty,” Klieo said a bit timidly. “But I have read nothing of her evil, nor her … dragons.”

Once, and long ago, she was known by such a friendly name as Branwen,
Ruarc responded inside the minds of those gathered.

“But in her fall, she was renamed Nogcwren, mistress of the un-light, and conjurer of dragons,” Iolanthe said sadly. “Her unbridled lust has cannibalized her beauty, refusing to satiate her hunger until all the world of Aiénor is served to feed her self-consuming greed.”

The violet light there in the shining palace of the Queen began to diminish at the telling of such a tragedy, and the silver tears of the ancient Sprite began to flow in streams of noble sadness. “She was once a friend and guest of my kingdom,” Iolanthe whispered, “but that was long ago. For evil drove her to the shadows, beyond the reach of the illumination of the great tree of power. In her dark thoughts and her poisoned mind, the traces of her once bright humanity have been all but obliterated, remaking her into the monster she has now become.”

“What can we do to stop her?” Elder John blurted out. “We must do something … right?”

“Our task is but to serve the will of the THREE who is SEVEN, and so it is never a matter of what we
can
do, rather only of what
we are asked
to do.” Iolanthe spoke with her gaze fixed upon the Oweles, her statement becoming an imploring question as she sought hard the answer to her prayers and petitions.

Take heart, children of Ádhamh, and you, offspring of beauty, for no evil can withstand the violet justice of His light. And swiftly His light comes, though few choose to seek it.
Azrael the Owele spoke with the confidence of foresight.

“Does that mean that you wish us to wait idly by and watch this … this sorceress woman, this conjurer of dragons, enslave the hearts and minds of the people of Haven?” Clivesis said, a bit offended at the thought of nothing being done to stop her.

“No, my dear Poet friend,” Iolanthe said calmly as a gentle knowing rested in her thoughts. “For we must resist this green-eyed death, though our victory might never be fully realized through sharpened blades and battles fought alone. We will prepare, and we will fight, and we will sacrifice … but that alone can never be enough. We must resist and overcome the toxic power of Nogcwren with the violet hope that
a new light will come
for the remaking of all the peoples of Aiénor.”

Fierce hope burned in the silver wings and violet eyes of the Sprite Queen, for though she had seen much pain and endured great treacheries in her long days, she was still an offspring of beauty, and hope was woven into her very nature. “Even now, on the brink of plunder and bloodshed, there is one who seeks this new light of our great Father, and I trust that his seeking is not in vain.” Iolanthe finished her pronouncement with a look of peaceful understanding that spread like a contagion to all who were gathered.