“Did the council go well, Father?” Sylvia dared to ask when Arien found them later that morning.
“Hatred,” Arien replied sadly. “It is my belief that the destruction of Ungden and Morgan Thalasi ended this war, and perhaps could mark a new and better age. Caer Tuatha will not attack us again.”
“Why would they want to?” Billy reasoned.
“Such was my argument,” Arien said. “But the death of kin and friend breeds vengeance.”
“Oh, damn,” Del groaned. He looked again at the miserable Calvan prisoners and the unchanging grimace of the elven guards. “And what of them?” he asked somberly, fearing the answer.
Arien hesitated and shrugged. “The Calvan dead shall be left on the field for the carrion birds, and the prisoners tried before the council for crimes against Illuma. Some may be set free to give the appearance of justice, but most I fear, are doomed.”
Del trembled on the edge of control. “And those that fled?”
“Hunted down and punished.”
“You have to stop this!”
“I am helpless!” Arien shouted back at him. The Eldar calmed at once and true sorrow showed in his eyes. “Never have I felt so alone among my people. None but Ardaz stood beside me at council.”
As if on cue, Ardaz walked by at that moment, though he seemed to pay no notice to his friends. “Terrible,” he muttered to himself, wandering off toward the cliff wall. “Just terrible.”
The wizard pulled the black cat off of his shoulder and blew gently into her face to awaken her. “Des,” he said, “I need you now, my sweet. Get to Avalon, bring us some help!” And at his bidding, Desdemona became a raven and flew off into the afternoon sky.
The searchers Arien had dispatched arrived on the field later that day with the group of elves that had fled to the mountains. All were overjoyed at the unexpected return to their homeland, yet there a grim task remained before them, and the victory celebration would have to wait.
Using responsibility and respect to their dead as a shield against grief, the elves worked tirelessly long after sunset to complete the huge pyre. And when the many-tiered wooden tower, beautifully crafted and worked to be a fitting monument to the heroic dead, was at last completed, all of Illuma looked on solemnly as nearly fourscore Children of the Moon, friends who should have lived for centuries to come, were gently laid upon its benches.
Then the midnight hour was upon them, and the orange flames roared into the night, consuming the mortal bodies of the fallen and lifting their spirits on hot winds to the heavens above.
And carried, too, on the winds were the wails and cries of the living. Death was not a common visitor to the land of the ageless elves, and grief of such magnitude had never before been known.
Throughout the ordeal of the funeral loomed Ryell, a specter of singular purpose. With boundless energy, he seemed to be everywhere at once, consoling mourners and sharing in their grief for the fallen. Yet, though his grief was genuine, his actions were calculated, subtly nurturing in his people the same seeds of vengeance that drove him. He spoke of the dead always in terms of glory and honor, and ended each encounter with a reminder that the Calvans had brought this upon them.
Fearing for their safety as angry eyes turned upon them with increasing frequency, the Calvan prisoners huddled close together.
“They’ll rally behind him,” Del remarked to Arien.
Arien understood the awful truth of the words. One elf even pulled a small stick from the pyre and threw it at the prisoners. It fell harmlessly short of its mark, but drew a cheer from several other of Arien’s people.
Relentlessly, Ryell stepped up his prodding, rushing to and fro about the fire, sweeping up excited and angry followers in his wake. Soon the whole group had gathered around him and he raised his arms for silence.
“This is not good at all, no, no,” Ardaz mumbled. “Arien, stop him now! Who will wash the blood from our hands?”
Arien shrugged helplessly and dropped his eyes.
“It seems that the trial has begun,” Del remarked.
Sylvia glared at him, not appreciating the bite his sarcasm put on her father.
“Friends! Kin!” Ryell called loudly. “This is a night of sorrow, to bid farewell to our brave brothers. But do not linger in grief for them, for they died with the knowledge that their sacrifice would help to free us from the bonds of our imprisonment. I only hope that my own death will be as glorious and purpose-filled!
“How many injustices have we suffered at the hands of the humans? Are there any among us who have not lost kin at this very battle? And have you not, as I, felt the belittlement when you looked out over the southern fields and knew that you could not travel them, even if you so desired, because you were not born of the proper heritage?
“That degradation is ended!” Ryell proclaimed. “The army of Caer Tuatha is smashed and all Calva is open to us!”
Arien flinched and sank even deeper at the chorus of wild shouts that arose in support of Ryell.
His daughter squared off in front of him, forcing him to look her in the eye. “When the army of Ungden threatened, you fought, though you had no hopes of winning,” Sylvia said sharply. “You drew your strength from the righteousness of your cause, and from the injustice of your enemy. Look at Ryell. Hate drives him. Is he any better than Ungden?”
“With our victory in the Battle of Mountaingate, we began the age of Illuma!” Ryell proclaimed above the hysterical cheers. “Let us tonight begin the lessons we shall teach to all of Calva.” He pointed his menacing sword at the helpless prisoners while elves all about him scooped up sticks or drew their own swords.
“They brought this pain upon us,” Ryell cried. “Let them feel the sting of their folly!” Grim-faced, he led the mob toward the prisoners.
Arien’s jaw clenched as a spasm of renewed anger burned through him, and he rushed to intercept.
“Move aside,” Ryell snarled, and his sword point came up threateningly.
Arien grasped Fahwayn’s hilt and held his ground. “This is wrong,” he declared flatly. “This is not the way of our people.”
“Your day is passed, Arien Silverleaf,” Ryell asserted, though he dropped the sword point and backed away a step. “The people will not listen to you.”
“They are maddened by the same demon that possesses you,” Arien retorted. “Hear me!” he cried, but the mob, beyond reason, shouted him down.
“Move aside, Arien,” Ryell said again. “You cannot win.”
Suddenly there came a great flash behind the Eldar, and from the ensuing smoke emerged, coughing, the wizard Ardaz, with the raven, Desdemona, returned to his shoulder. “Wait!” he cried. “A rider is coming! From the south, from the south.”
The crowd fell silent and as one peered southward.
“I see no rider!” Ryell snapped.
“Hush!” Ardaz scolded. “Have a care, Ryell. Your impatience tries my patience!”
Ryell glared at him, but having witnessed Ardaz’s power, did not challenge him further.
It would have been pointless anyway, for the sound of a galloping horse now could be heard. A moment later the tall silhouette of a ranger crossed through the light of the fire. He paused to observe the gathering for a moment, then walked his mount over to Arien.
“Lord Silverleaf,” he said respectfully as he dismounted, stooping right down into a low bow.
Arien nodded.
“I am Andovar, courier from Avalon,” the ranger said. “Bellerian, Lord of Rangers, sends his greetings.”
“And ours to him,” Arien responded. “Your names are welcome in Illuma. Our debt to your people is great.”
Andovar surveyed the mob and the huddled prisoners. “Vengeance?” he asked.
“Justice,” Ryell spat back at him.
“As ye wish,” the ranger conceded calmly. “It seems, then, that I’ve come to ye just in time, for Bellerian bids ye to take no action before the morn.”
“For what reason?” Ryell demanded.
“ ’Tis no’ for me to say. Accept that the dawnslight will bring new tidings.”