R. Salvatore - Echoes of the Fourth Magic

“What trickery is this?” Ryell interjected. “He will not fight beside us. He will run and hide and not return until the vultures pick at our slaughtered bones.”

“I will be at the battle by your side,” Del promised, “I have to be at the battle.” He looked to Billy, his stern visage dispelling any doubts Billy or any of the others might have had about his true resolve to carry out his newly perceived duties. “I know that now.”

“He’s telling the truth,” Billy told Arien without hesitation.

“But first I must go to Avalon,” Del said with a wide grin. “I have a plan.”

Arien did not return the smile, though he had trusted Del even before Billy had spoken for him. “Our problem does not concern Avalon,” the elf-lord said with even certainty, guessing easily enough what Del had in mind. Arien knew that the powers of Brielle could not help them in their struggle with Calva, but he realized that his words had not the conviction to truly dissuade Del. It was Del’s right to discover the true character of the witch for himself, Arien knew, but he, as Eldar, would bear the cost of Del’s lesson. Already, Arien felt the anger in Ryell’s gaze boring into him. You give me more credit than I deserve, Ryell, he thought bitterly, yet it was from Ryell’s expectations of his courage that he drew the strength to stand by his principles. He nearly laughed aloud at the irony of it all as he told Del with unyielding finality, “You may go.”

“Eldar!” Ryell protested, but Arien cut him off before he could even begin.

“DelGiudice has given us no reason to doubt his word.”

“There are many who would disagree with you,” Ryell argued.

“Then they are misguided,” Arien replied in a deliberately calm and controlled tone that reaffirmed his confidence in his authority. “I will hear no more of this, Ryell. We have not the time for a gathering of council, and in the absence of such, my word as Eldar stands.”

Ryell visibly trembled with rage. “Your hold over the people of Illuma may not be as strong as you believe, Arien Silverleaf,” he said, barely able to spit the words through his clenched jaw. “There are many who question your decisions regarding the ancient ones. They question your intentions as well.”

Arien ignored Ryell’s ranting-the elves could ill afford a showdown between their Eldar and his closest adviser at this critical time-and addressed his daughter.

“Go with DelGiudice,” he instructed. “See that he is allowed passage to Clas Braiyelle.”

Del was surprised that the trees did not hinder his entrance into Avalon. Though his stubborn grudge refused to let him consciously admit it, he was comforted that Brielle had not shut him out. He whistled as he trotted along the path, his senses bathed in the countless stimulations of the fully blossomed forest, and he was able to forget for a while the gathering clouds of misery at Mountaingate and his grim purpose in seeking out the fair witch.

Soon, though, as the sun disappeared over the western horizon and the colors of the wood dulled into the grayed blur of twilight, Del realized that he was running short on time.

“Brielle!” he called, but his only reply was the mournful cry of a loon heralding the onset of the secret world that was the forest night.

Stubbornly, Del scrambled on, calling out again for the witch.

Again the loon answered, and this time its wail beckoned to Del like a lost spirit, akin to his misery. Faithful to its cry, Del turned from the path, stumbling blindly through the dark brush and thickets to follow the last lingering notes. And when they died away, he called out again and was answered.

He soon came upon a grove of thick pines, a veritable wall of interlocking, unyielding branches. Undaunted, he fell flat to his belly and crawled beneath their lowest boughs, and when he had finally gotten through, he lifted his head and his breath was stolen away.

Below him, down a short slide of thick grass, was a small glade thick and soft in swaying petals of white clover. And beyond the lea a secluded pond, its smooth surface broken only by occasional reeds or cattails, lay quiet and still, as if in meditation under dark reflections of the prestarlit sky. But Del hardly noticed his mystical surroundings, for atop a knoll rising above the green sea of the glade reclined the gentle Brielle, shadowed in the mysteries of the deepening gloom.

It pained Del to look upon her beauty, though it was she he had sought. He wanted now only to flee this place and this wood and be away from all thoughts of the Emerald Witch. He knew that to be impossible; Avalon had already announced his arrival to its queen.

The never-seen loon gave one final cry.

Immediately, Del rose to his feet and started down the slide. Brielle knew of his presence, no doubt, and he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of catching him hiding from her in the grass. He conjured memories of the carnage left on the road in the wake of Brielle’s wrath and reminded himself over and over of his sole purpose in coming to Avalon, determinedly entrenching his emotions within a fortress of rage to protect himself from the hinted passions that threatened to sweep him away. His stride stiffened in tense anger as he approached.

But then he was upon her and the ice melted away.

“Hello,” he said softly.

Her reply was a smile.

Consciously, Del rebuilt the frosty facade. “I didn’t come here to bother you,” he said with rough sarcasm.

A dark cloud passed across Brielle’s countenance, for she realized already what Del was leading up to, and knew that she must disappoint him once again.

“I need your help,” Del continued, holding tight to his gruff tone. “A battle is about to begin.”

Brielle looked away. “It is known to me,” she said sadly. “And me heart truly weeps at the misery o’ the morrow’s morn.” She paused, struggling, as was Del, with a personal conflict of emotions and principles. The rules of her station were clear and unbending; she had lived by them and for them for hundreds of years. When she turned back to Del, her face was resigned and impassive, and she announced with cool finality, “ ’Tis none o’ me affair.”

“How can you say that?” Del scolded. “Hundreds of innocent people are going to die on that field. You don’t think that concerns you?”

“It wounds me, even as it wounds yerself,” Brielle replied, almost apologetically. “But I huv no power for a war o’ man.”

His frustration bordering on rage, Del wanted to scream and cry all at once. “Bullshit!” he yelled. “I saw you, Brielle. I saw what you did to those talons!”

Brielle understood more clearly now that the source of Del’s anger went far deeper than her rejection of him. “That I wish ye’d no’ seen,” she said softly, lowering her eyes to hide the welling tears from Del. “ ’Tis a side o’ me life and duty I do’no’ enjoy.” She took a deep breath and reminded herself that she had done only what she had to do.

“But Avalon is me domain and me duty, and I am the eyes that protect her,” she asserted. “I do not create the storms, I only show them the harm that is upon the land. Purely evil are the talons, living only to destroy. They grant no mercy and deserve none. Would ye huv me, then, let them bring ruin to me wood?”

Del had no rebuttal against her logic.

“But the morrow’s battle,” Brielle continued, softly again, “is a concern o’ men and elves, and I huv no duties, and being so, no powers for such a war.”

Del slumped down meekly to the clover and sighed. With her innocent confession of necessities, Brielle had taught him a lesson in humility. A lot of things fell into perspective for Del at that moment. He remembered the lecture Billy had given him earlier in the day.