R. Salvatore - Echoes of the Fourth Magic

Arien smiled as he thought of the times long ago when he, Tivriasis, and Ryell had stolen out of Illuma and journeyed to the wood of Avalon or to the northern fringes of the Calvan plains. But those were safer times, the days of Ben-rin and his heirs. Now, with Ungden the Usurper on the southern throne, no Illuman dared leave the mountain refuge.

The smile left Arien’s face. Calvans, Ungden’s scouts, had camped right on their doorstep. Even beautiful Illuma, Lochsilinilume, sanctuary of the elves of Aielle, was threatened. Sanctuary, Arien pondered, or prison? He turned to Ardaz, who had sat down beside him.

“How long shall I live, my friend?” he asked softly. “Shall it be long enough to enjoy the day that I might visit Pallendara? Or swim, perhaps, in the sea?”

It brought a tear to the wizard’s eye, for Ardaz, above all others, understood Arien’s frustration. The question was rhetorical and unanswerable, for Arien was the eldest of the elves, the first of his kind that the wizards had blessed with the gift of longevity. At this moment, propped as he was against the mountain wall, Arien seemed very old indeed to Ardaz. Since Ungden had assumed power, Arien had been under a terrible strain, and like a caged animal, he was losing his spirit, slipping slowly into a state of lethargy that Ardaz knew would bring about his passing. Even Luminas ey-n’abraieken brought only temporary relief. Other elves showed these symptoms of mortality as well; Ryell, ever walking a line of rage and frustration, perhaps foremost among them. Oftentimes Ardaz would sit at the entrance to his tower home of Brisen-Ballas, looking down upon the secret vale, crying for the Children of the Moon. They deserved a better fate, this kindly race that offered nothing less than true friendship. They could bring so much to the men of Aielle, enrich their lives so. If only…

“If only they would give you a chance,” he mumbled to Arien. The Eldar, preparing to address the council, didn’t hear him.

Although it was Arien’s place to open the council, an angry Ryell spoke first. Impatient and hoping to preserve at least part of the celebration, the volatile Illuman wasn’t waiting for anyone.

“How do you know of the spies, old man?” he snapped at Ardaz. “Or is this another joke of yours?”

Arien did not scold his friend, for he understood that Ryell desperately needed to feel the freedom of Luminas ey-n’abraieken. As with Arien, dancing on the shelf in the moonlight was Ryell’s greatest joy, a release from the constant pressures of the enemy to the south, and he didn’t like having it taken away.

“No joke,” the wizard solemnly answered. “Though truly I wish it was, I wish it was. No, no.” He pointed at Del. “Just after you left, I began to summon a whirlwind to clean up the mess. Of course you know that Desdemona here, trusting me implicitly as always, flew right off.” He gave the raven a sarcastic snarl, and Del sat confused, for he had met Desdemona as a cat. “She zipped away and I called up the whirlwind. No problem.” He snapped his fingers indignantly at the raven; then under his voice so that only Desdemona could hear, he added, “The leaves will grow back.”

“Now where was I? Oh, yes. As I was putting my clothes back on, Des came flapping back in a frightful tizzy and told me that there were Calvans coming through the southeast pass into Mountaingate.”

“A bird!” Ryell cried. “Our celebration has been stopped by the cackle of a bird!” He jumped to his feet and looked south to the blackness of Mountaingate. “I see nothing down there, old man. Where is the fire of their camp? Do they enjoy the darkness?” But even as he spat his sarcasm, the light of a campfire sprang up on the dark field. Ryell nearly tumbled from the ledge when he saw it, and the others jumped up, gasping with astonishment. Only Arien, never doubting the word of the wizard, was not surprised.

“It seems you owe the bird an apology, Ryell,” the elf-lord said coolly.

“They have never come this far before,” Ryell said, his tone now subdued. “What does it mean?”

The Eldar, determined to maintain a calm demeanor, answered grimly, “It means that Ungden has a clue to our whereabouts, for he certainly believes that Illuma is more than a legend. Or it means nothing at all. We cannot be sure.”

“Oh, yes, we can be sure, Arien,” Ardaz said. “Des here listened to them. They search for us and they know we are nearby.”

Del studied the wizard carefully. Something about him had changed. He had seen the wizard’s serious side once before, when they spoke of Brielle earlier in the day, but this was something more profound. Before, Ardaz had been energetic, almost frantic, yet despite all of his jumping around, he seemed a fragile old man. Del had even worried that he would hurt himself. Now that fear was gone; the wizard emanated strength, an aura of supernatural power about him. Before, Ardaz had seemed foolish, but now there was no mistaking the knowledge in his eyes. Deep knowledge, understanding beyond what a mortal man could know. Suddenly, the truth about Ardaz, and the implications of Calae’s fanciful tale, dropped their full weight upon Del. This man before him was a wizard, one of the Four trained by the Colonnae in the first days of Ynis Aielle. This man had been alive more than twelve centuries, and had known that other world before the holocaust! In the shock of his revelation, Del nearly blurted it out loud.

“Then we are lost,” moaned one of the other elves above the grumbling.

“Nay,” retorted Arien sternly, and the group was silenced by the firmness of his tone. “We are not lost. Even should the Calvans discover the tunnel entrance, they will never find the passage through the underground maze.”

“But if they do find it,” Ryell said in a grim voice, “we have barely three hundred spears, while Caer Tuatha alone can raise thousands.”

At the far side of the gathering, Hollis Mitchell listened with mounting interest, intrigued by the thought of a war. Given time and the proper opportunities, he would rise to power over these primitive folk, he believed. His knowledge of weapons alone could determine the victor in this sword-wielding world.

“Must there be a war?” he asked, entering the debate with characteristic impatience.

“A war or a slaughter.” Ryell muttered.

“If Ungden finds us,” Arien said, “he will destroy us. His anger is rooted deep in his past. In his eyes, because we are different, we must die.”

“Sounds familiar,” Billy whispered, and Del offered him a resigned nod.

Mitchell rose and strutted to the center of the council circle. “You are not lost!” he proclaimed loudly, throwing up his hands as if he was some savior sent to deliver the Illumans. “In my world, we had ways and weapons with which a few could defeat many!” He paused, awaiting their enthusiastic cries for him to continue.

But he didn’t get what he expected. While most of the second-born sat stunned, Ardaz’s face went white with horror and Arien leaped up in a burst of rage.

“Silence!” the Eldar commanded. Mitchell stood a half foot taller than Arien, and was twice the slender Illuman’s weight, but in his anger the Eldar towered over the captain. “There is no place for your weapons or your ways in Aielle!”

“Let him speak!” Ryell demanded. Arien spun on him, his face twisted with disbelief and renewed fury.

“Perhaps there is some value in what he has to say,” Ryell said, not backing down.

Arien remained unblinking.

“We face extermination!” Ryell roared, as if that alone was justification for his position. “A tyrant is Ungden! We are more worthy to walk this land than he and his miserable humans! What of our birthright?”