‘I thought they were going to kill me.’
‘As you were meant to,’ said Auum. ‘Because only in the direst need does the TaiGethen body seek its full potential through the subconscious mind. Only then can a TaiGethen emerge and join the shetharyn.’
Ollem shook with relief and tears began to flow down his cheeks. Auum took his head in his hands and kissed his eyes and forehead.
‘I’d begun to question everything,’ said Ollem. ‘I had no idea seven days spent alone could seem so long.’
‘And now you need never fear isolation. You are joined with the energies of the earth and can never truly be alone.’ Auum smiled and stepped back. ‘Now, come and speak with Serrin. I always let him tell the emerged why they must never reveal the secret to any yet to enter the cycle.’
‘Why Serrin?’
‘He is the most persuasive,’ said Auum. Ollem shuddered. ‘Remember that fear and respect it. You might be faster than a rogue but you are not faster than him. Never him.’
Ollem followed Auum along the path to his new life.
Nerille was ancient. She was surely the most long-lived Gyalan in the bloody history of the elves. Had she been Tuali, she’d be old. . and even as one of the Beethan she’d be getting on in years. She’d outlived all of her children, and the only mercy in that was her six grandchildren, all of whom were still alive though well into middle age themselves.
She was sitting on a bench in front of the flagpole as she had so often during the long centuries of her life in Katura. Today she was here for the last time. Around her she could still picture the bustle of the market, the scents of spice and herb and meat, the chatter and bustle of offer and deal, laughter echoing from the walls of the buildings surrounding the central circle.
All gone now, of course, consigned to memory just like the rowing tournaments, the excited babble of children during the lake race, the climbing tournaments and the feasts; all the things that spoke of a city blossoming in the wake of war. Nerille smiled to herself and pressed her shaking hands to her mouth.
She should have known it wouldn’t last for ever. With the rout of the humans and the freeing of the enslaved cities seven hundred years ago, their reasons to come here, to live in the Palm of Yniss, were gone. And one by one the Katurans had felt the call to return home. She couldn’t blame any of them for desiring a return to their old lives.
Thousands had left after the war, choosing to help rebuild Tolt Anoor, Deneth Barine and the capital, Ysundeneth. And over the years the trickle had continued until it became clear that Katura was unsustainable. So the city had been dismantled, timber and stone, and the materials taken to help rebuild elsewhere, cities whose repair was yet to be completed. It never would be. The scars of man would always remain.
All that remained of Katura now was the Wall of the Fallen, which held the names of every elf from every thread who had given his or her life to the cause: for the salvation of the elven race. The wall had been built from the temple stones and was a spiral structure that led to a central shrine to Yniss and all of the elven gods. The flagpole stood proud above the shrine.
There was not a day that Nerille had failed to walk the spiral, her trembling hands trailing over the thousands of names, the memories of struggle still fresh despite the passing of the centuries. They mingled with more recent acts, equally brave though not undertaken in warfare. The images that played in her mind gave her a reason to draw her next breath.
Nerille never ceased to be amazed at how quickly Beeth’s root and branch had returned to the deserted city, grabbing greedily at the land vacated by the elves and erasing the wounds of civilisation. The wall and flagpole would soon be covered, hidden beneath vine and leaf, and that was as it should be.
The mists that dominated the Palm of Yniss had already returned, sweeping from the cliffs and sitting on the lake, swirling around her ankles and giving the ground in all directions a ghostly, ethereal aspect. As the vegetation gained ground, so the mist would deepen.
‘Nerille?’ She started and looked up. The silhouette of a tall elf was before her. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’
The figure approached and knelt before her, revealing the face of an old Tuali warrior, Arch of the Al-Arynaar until his advancing years had forced him into a very active retirement. His eyes were hooded and his hair all gone but still he pulsed with a zest she envied.
‘Hello, Tulan. I hadn’t thought to see you here again.’
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, taking her hands in his and raising them to dry lips.
Nerille thought for a moment and shook her head.
‘I don’t really feel anything,’ she said. ‘Is that bad?’
Of all the things she had expected — sorrow, relief, even a weary acceptance — it certainly wasn’t this.
‘Nothing you have ever done or felt could be described as bad,’ said Tulan. He levered himself back to his feet and sat beside her. ‘All that Katura and its people have become since the war is because of your work and your sacrifice.’
Nerille could feel herself blushing, and her smile was warm with the recognition of her efforts.
‘You came all the way from Aryndeneth to embarrass me?’
Tulan laughed. ‘In front of who, the macaques?’
‘So why are you here? Bit old for a bodyguard, aren’t you?’
‘That depends how slow the attacking animal is. I’m still more than a match for any sloth.’
‘Well, that’s a relief.’
Nerille looked at Tulan, saw the smile cracking his face and laughed hard, her shoulders shaking and tears filling her eyes at the idea of a ferocious battle against a sloth.
‘And I’m still highly skilled at crushing ants.’
‘Stop!’ said Nerille, smacking his arm with a bony hand. ‘I’ve missed you, Tulan. You were always too long away from here.’
Tulan’s smile faded. ‘I know. I could hide behind my duties, but the fact is that when you started dismantling the city it became too hard to come back here and see what was happening. I still think it’s a mistake.’
‘You and me both, but we are very much in the minority.’
‘I still feel the pain of Pelyn’s death and that was seven hundred years ago. She died protecting Katura, and we’ve abandoned it.’
‘No, Tulan,’ said Nerille. ‘I wanted Katura to survive because it was my home. But the fight was never for the city, it was for the elven race. That’s what Pelyn died defending, not the buildings.’
‘But this place should have become the focus of our renewal. The energy and harmony should have been the beacon for all to follow.’
‘Yes, but it was the same in all the cities. After all, in the end humans managed to do more for elven harmony than Takaar ever managed. And, romantic though our notions were, Katura is just too distant and difficult to reach.’
Tulan shrugged. ‘I know you’re right but it still doesn’t feel. . fitting. Not elven.’
‘The memories will always be here for those who wish to find them,’ said Nerille. ‘So tell me, what are you doing here?’
Tulan smiled again. ‘Sloth attacks notwithstanding, I’m not here as your bodyguard. Honour guard would be a more accurate description.’
Nerille felt heat in her cheeks. ‘There you go again, making me blush. It’s lovely of you, Tulan, though you didn’t have to. There are seventy or so of us making this final trip after all.’
‘Respectfully I must disagree,’ said Tulan. ‘This is one journey I would not miss for all the years of an Ynissul. And I’m not the only one.’
Tulan pointed behind them at the wall, where two elves stood studying the names and whispering prayers when they touched that of a loved one. Nerille gasped to see them and her hand went to her mouth. She felt giddy as a youngster excited at the sight of a hero, and she was most certainly in the presence of heroes.
Nerille pushed herself to her feet, feeling a moment’s unsteadiness. She reached out a hand, which Tulan took, and the pair walked to the wall together.