R. Salvatore - Echoes of the Fourth Magic

Arien put a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Be ever cautious,” he said to Erinel. “Remember that the shadows of the night have always been a friend to your people. I expect and await your safe return.”

Erinel nodded his assurance and left the terrace with Sylvia.

“I wish to post a watch at the trees above Mountaingate,” Ryell said, and Arien agreed.

In his tower home of Brisen-ballas, high above Illuma Vale, Ardaz sat staring out the highest window of his tower.

“You watch over this place while I’m away,” he told Desdemona, the cat curled comfortably on his lap. “Not that I really want to go, you know. Who would, after all?” An involuntary shudder ran up his back as he thought of what awaited him; Talas-dun, the fortress wrought of Morgan Thalasi’s black heart. Castel Angfagdt it was called in the enchantish tongue, the castle of utter darkness.

A title Ardaz knew to be well earned.

The wizard rose and shook off his fit of trembling, setting himself with firm resolution to do what he must. “Still, we have to know for certain!” he explained to Des, lifting her seemingly boneless form from his lap, but keeping her in the same curled position as he placed her on the ground beside him. “I’ll be back as soon as I can be back!” He grimaced away a second shudder and, chanting in trancelike monotone and rhythmically dancing through a few twists and turns, robes floating all about him, he became an eagle and flew off.

He soared out of the tower, riding the updrafts of the sun-warmed air rising up the cliff facings, and was soon gliding high along the southern ridge of the Crystals. Ardaz truly enjoyed the effortless freedom of this wind riding, but time was pressing, he knew, so he tilted out away from the cliffs, beyond the reach of the lifting currents, and plummeted into a swoop down toward Blackemara, leveling off just above the swamp and riding the tremendous rush of gathered momentum far out into the desolate land of Brogg.

Unfaltering, the wizard sped on toward the distant shadows of the Kored-dul range and the waiting blackness of Talas-dun, where he hoped to find some answers.

The passing days were agony to the elves and Billy as they awaited Erinel’s return. The wait became even worse for Arien when he found that Ardaz, too, was gone.

THE TREES CLOSED behind Del when he emerged from Avalon as if Brielle slammed her door at his back. And though Del told himself that it didn’t bother him, that right now all he cared about was putting as much distance between himself and Avalon as possible, his heart sank even lower at the sound of the forest shutting him out. He tried in vain to blank the thoughts and images of the witch from his mind, for he had witnessed a terrible and unexpected side of Brielle that had wrenched away his fantasy and broken his heart. Head down, he walked with slow and sullen steps across Mountaingate.

He took no notice of his surroundings as he approached and passed under the silver telvensils at the end of the field. His thoughts remained inward in recollections of stately groves of swaying pines and starlit fields and the woman who gave them meaning, and with a resigned sigh he accepted that he would not be so easily rid of his memories of the Emerald Witch.

Even had he been wary, on his best guard, Del would not have seen the three elves, silent as death, slipping down from the concealing branches of the arched trees behind him.

He continued on a few yards up the mountain path, then realized that he could go no farther until an escort arrived. “Damn!” he spat. Even if Ardaz had seen him on the road in Avalon and went right to Arien with the news, it would be hours before any elves arrived to guide him back to Illuma. He punched at the air in frustration and turned back to the archway, seeking a shady place to sit and wait.

His relief at seeing the elves was short-lived, lasting only the second it took him to understand that the two bowmen holding their weapons taut and level had their arrows trained on his heart. And the third elf, standing grim-faced between them, held his slender sword ready in hand, although he obviously recognized Del.

“What’s going on?” Del asked with caution, though he still didn’t quite believe that the elves meant to harm him.

“Silence!” the swordsman commanded. “Throw your weapon to the ground in front of you.”

“Didn’t we already play out this scenario, just a couple of weeks ago?” Del offered with a strained smile, inviting the elves to end their game and admit the joke.

On a nod from the leader, one of the bowmen loosed his arrow. Del whitened in shock at the thrum of the bowstring, and jerked involuntarily, expecting to be struck, as the arrow drove itself deep into the ground between his feet.

“I ask you one last time to throw down your weapon,” the swordsman said in a calm, steady voice, and from the grim tone, Del had no doubt that the next arrow would indeed find his heart.

Anger welled in him, but against the dizzying swirl of his emotional turmoil, it could not gain a focus or a purpose. Confusion dictated to Del, and he had no heart for any argument, much less a fight. He drew his sword and dropped it to the ground, dropping his gaze as well, for he had no desire to view the elves in their deadly mood. Were these the Children of the Moon, the same joyful people whose very existence was based in dance and song, in community and friendship? Or had he, perhaps, in his longings for utopia, misperceived this land and its peoples? His whole image of Aielle suddenly seemed to be closing in around him, suffocating him in the same grim visages of reality he thought he had left far behind on the shores of a distant world.

He offered no resistance as an elf came up to bind his hands.

Erinel trotted across Mountaingate, hugging the eastern cliff face for the little cover it offered. He didn’t like moving openly in broad daylight, but the urgency of his news demanded the risk. He crouched low and slowed, though, when he neared the telvensils and heard the voices beyond.

“Blindfold him,” one of the bowmen said.

“It is not necessary,” the elf with Del replied. “It would only slow us, and Ryell is anxious to speak with this one. You remain here to keep the watch,” he instructed one of the bowmen. “We shall escort the prisoner back to the city.”

“By the Colonnae!” Erinel cried as he stepped through the archway. “Release him, and be quick about it.”

“Erinel!” the elves cried in unison, the swordsman rushing over to warmly clasp Erinel’s arm.

“It is good that you have returned, my friend,” the swordsman said sincerely. “The days of our watch for you have been long indeed in passing, and all of the city is stilled in anticipation of your findings.”

“Untie him!” Erinel demanded, and stormed up the path toward Del.

“But it is by the order of your uncle that he is bound,” the swordsman pleaded, obviously torn between his loyalties. Fearful of a confrontation, yet obedient to the commands of the Eldar, he rushed ahead to intercept Erinel.

“Then my uncle is a fool!” Erinel snapped, brushing the swordsman aside and continuing on to Del without missing a step.

The three elves looked at each other with uncertainty, and slowly began closing on Erinel and Del, weapons still at the ready.

“It’s all right, Erinel,” Del said, trying to soothe his friend’s ire and avoid any further confrontation with the other three. “I really don’t mind. Let’s just get back to the city. And do blindfold me, whatever they might think. Better for all that I remain ignorant of the way to Lochsilinilume.”

Erinel hesitated for a moment. He hated seeing his friend bound, despite Del’s assurances, but he, too, understood the futility of arguing. He pulled a hood from the swordsman’s belt and popped it over Del’s head, offering a last smile to assure the man that he would be there, every step. “Very well, then,” he told his fellow elves. “Let us be off at once. Arien must be told of the stirring in the south.”