R. Salvatore - Echoes of the Fourth Magic

And such was the valley around them, hemmed by three towering mountain mica walls, and the fourth side, directly across from the travelers, spilling into a wide gorge that ran deeper into the range, offering an endless view of mountain majesty. Some of the distant peaks lay cold in the long shadows of late afternoon, while others raised their heads above the gathering darkness to catch the last warming rays of the sun. Cloud collars and rising mists floated in mystical serenity, adding a preternatural, almost holy, touch, and kindling profound musings of the unanswerable secrets of the heavens. How removed from the noisy existence of men loomed the unconquerable and silent Crystals.

Singing wafted up from the valley, the same innocent melody the men had heard when they first came under the archway at Mountaingate. Here, too, it fit, the sweetest icing on a sugarcoated land. With this strange and wonderful view before him, Del felt the name Illuma inappropriate. He preferred the name Bellerian had used, Lochsilinilume, with its eldritch ring and rhythms conjuring images of faerie lands and legends.

Sylvia led them down into the city, past the curious gazes and giggling whispers of the surprised elves.

Seldom had visitors ever come to Illuma, and none at all since Ungden the Usurper had claimed the throne of Calva. And of course, Billy, with his dark skin, was a completely new experience for them.

They passed through the city and approached the lip of the gorge, where sat the grandest house of all, immense in size and incredible design, its roof slanted every which way, dotted with lazily puffing chimneys. Spires and towers darted up everywhere for no better reason than to catch the low-riding clouds. Windows dominated each wall, large and small, and swung wide to bring in the sun, the breathtaking view, and the scents of the million flowers that blossomed on the grounds. Balconies and terraces with ivy-colored railings crossed and crisscrossed again and again.

Ornate carvings ridged the huge front doors, and gold leaf edged them, their bulk alone promising tons of weight. But so perfect was their balance and workmanship that they swung in easily at Sylvia’s effortless push.

Easily and noiselessly, in silence befitting the hallowed halls within. Even Del, who had perceived this vale as a place of happiness, was a bit taken aback at entering the palace of the Eldar. A hush fell over them all as they stepped through the doorway, belittled by the grand and ornate arches. Yet once inside, they realized that this was a comfortable house, a place not unaccustomed to dancing and merriment. A house of art, not akin to a museum holding artworks, but a masterpiece in itself, each individual work a contributing element in the overall design.

Every room held its own large fireplace promising warmth against even the coldest winter nights on the mountain, each hearth as different as the elves that had created them, offering its own perspective with unique twists and turns in the iron grillwork and stone composition. Intricate mosaics covered the floors, and finely woven tapestries lined the walls, all depicting scenes of feasts and festivals by the light of the full moon. The maidens shown were dressed in beautiful gowns, the men in flowing robes, yet like this house, the regal dressings were offset by a comfortable informality, a pervading sense of individualism and acceptance.

The group crossed through several rooms and a long corridor that opened into a narrow hall, different from any of the other rooms they had seen. Formal and serious, this appeared as a place of grave debates, a council hall for important decisions.

Across from them, on a throne carved of silver telvensil, sat a very tall Illuman, as tall as a man, wearing a light green robe with silver trim. A crown of white leaves ringed his head, making his black hair seem even more vital than Sylvia’s. His face was firm yet fair, and he held his head high, despite his comfortable posture. He was flanked by a more ordinary-looking elf with whom he had apparently been arguing when the great door had swung open.

“Sildarren aht theol baisraquin!” the Illuman screamed, standing by the throne, obviously angered by the interruption. But the elf’s second volley of protest caught in his throat and his face went bloodless in horror as he recognized that the people accompanying Sylvia were not Illumans, but humans.

The elf on the throne started forward in surprise, but quickly regained his composure and glanced questioningly toward Sylvia.

“Father, I bring four distant travelers who seek audience with you,” Sylvia explained.

“To bring men to the Silver City in these times!” the standing Illuman cried. He pointed menacingly at Sylvia, his fingers trembling with outrage. “You have betrayed us!”

“They surrendered their swords willingly,” Sylvia retorted. Her face flushed with anger and the looks the two exchanged made it obvious to all present that their dislike of each other ran deep.

“You do not, then, remember the laws, my lady Sylvia?” he replied sarcastically.

“Enough, Ryell,” the seated Illuman casually requested, all too accustomed to the bickering of these two.

“The laws?” Ryell jabbed, heedless of the other.

“And do you not remember the tales?” the elf on the throne scolded in response, clenching suddenly, taut and ready as a bent bow. He hadn’t shouted the words, but his clear voice resonated with power, and the sheer strength of its insistence broke the lock of anger between Sylvia and Ryell and turned them both toward the speaker. Immediately he relaxed back in his throne. “These men are special, I believe,” he said to console his angry companion.

“They are men,” Ryell spat, venom dripping from his words. “That alone makes them enemies to Illuman. You look too much to old tales, Arien, for the answers to the problems we face.”

He swung back at Sylvia. “You searched them, of course,” he stated matter-of-factly, his dry tone thick with sarcasm.

“They surrendered willingly,” Sylvia stuttered.

“Search them!” Ryell roared, and apparently he held some importance, for several elves moved to the men.

Panic hit Del when he remembered the scroll in his cloak. He locked into Arien’s gaze, begging for a stay of the search.

The perceptive elf-lord caught the desperate plea in Del’s eyes.

“No!” Arien commanded, immediately halting the search. “They have trusted us, and we will not return their trust with suspicion.”

“Do not be a fool!” Ryell screamed. “They are men! By the law penned in your own hand, they should be imprisoned for that fact alone!”

Staring down from his throne, Arien Silverleaf remained unblinking and resolute.

“You will bring us all to ruin with your trust of humans,” Ryell cried, and the expression on his face eased as if a revelation had come over him. “But then,” he continued too calmly, “your parents were the children of humans, were they not? Back in Caer Tuatha when the land was young.”

“I should choose my words more carefully were I you, Ryell,” Arien advised evenly, a sudden and calculating coldness in his control promising that his warning was more than just an idle threat.

Unnerved, recognizing that he had pushed too far, Ryell shrank back from the Eldar and simply threw up his hands in frustration and marched for the exit. “Come, Erinel,” he said as he stormed by.

“But Uncle-” Erinel protested.

“Come!” Ryell commanded, listening to no argument, and Erinel had no choice but to follow.

“Oh Father, why do you keep him at your side?” Sylvia asked when the pair had gone. “He is so disagreeable, and so stubborn!”

“Ryell holds old grudges, but he is not evil,” Arien replied, the tension removed from his face, and his lips turned up in a disarming grin. “And it is good for an adviser to be disagreeable; Ryell shows me a different point of view for many important problems. His eyes see what mine do not. Ardaz has been too busy to sit by me since midwinter. I am grateful for Ryell.”