Cald felt that same terror as a black shape approached the portal from the Shadow World. It seemed to have a discernible form, yet he sensed it was no being that he could name. When it passed a shambling ghoul, the undead creature disappeared, and the army from the Shadow World seemed as fearful of that striding darkness as the elves and halflings.
The monster was not to reach the portal. The strange wind that signaled the closing of the gate between the two planes whipped across the clearing. Limbs and branches of the trees from the Shadow World whipped in the gale. The dark leaves of the Muirien Grove remained undisturbed.
Individual fights broke off in midthrust as the invaders from the other plane were sucked toward the portal. The elves retreated to the eastern side of the clearing, untouched by the gale, yet they feared the possibility of being drawn into that other world.
The halflings threw themselves to the ground, grasping the roots of the trees in the Muirien Grove to keep from being blown back to the plane they had fled. Most held tightly enough. A few did not.
Half the wood disappeared, the sky lightened, and the portal faded into nothingness. The only sign of battle was the trampled grass. No bodies remained.
Cald realized Flamarier’s body had disappeared with those of Klasmonde’s warriors.
Eyrmin sheathed his sword, and the glow emanating from blade and armor died. He looked around at the elves, his face registering relief and sadness as he seemed to tick off each face against a list in his mind.
“Flamarier?” He called when he missed the elven warrior from the eastern wood. “Kilrinis? Ursrien? Glisinda? Hialmair?”
Glisinda and Hialmair answered. Cald knew Flamarier would not. Neither did Kilrinis, the merry joker who, in times of peace, kept Reilmirid laughing. No answer came from Ursrien. Cald remembered the tale of the brave Ursrien refusing to come to the prince’s aid and kill a child because his weapons were too large for the foe. Ursrien’s weapons had at last met a foe for which they were undersized.
Cald wearily climbed out of the branches of the fallen limb and noticed his companion, the nobly dressed elf, had no need to step over the debris. He passed through as if it were not there. Cald felt the hair rising on the back of his neck.
“Well met, warrior,” he said. The elf continued to pass through the debris as if he had not heard Cald, but the human had expected no answer.
The lie he had told eight years before had become truth. He could see the spirit warriors.
Sixteen
Lerien had been born to tales of the Crystal Palace, but his duties had kept him in Eisermerien, the elven village that guarded the southern eaves of the forest, near the swamps of Elinie. Like every elf in Sielwode, he had promised himself a journey to Siellaghriod, but elven lives, if not cut short by disease or a fatal blow in battle, lasted forever, and there always seemed to be plenty of time.
Months before, he had been one of the three warriors guarding the eaves of the wood near the swamps of Elinie when the black breath had surrounded him. As the darkness had enveloped his mind, he believed his death followed, and his deepest regret had been that he had never taken the time to visit Siellaghriod and the Crystal Palace of King Tieslin Krienelsira.
He had regained consciousness to find himself caught in the gaze of the awnshegh Czrak, and for a full day, he had foolishly struggled against the will of his master. Now he deeply regretted putting the great Czrak to the trouble, and he was willing, even eager, to give his life for the great one who would one day rule Cerilia and possibly all of Aebrynis.
But the merciful Czrak had not asked his life, only that he be a messenger. First he would travel with Iswiel and Farmain, who had also been won to the master’s cause, and then he would bring to the awnshegh all that they learned after they joined Prince Eyrmin in the western reaches of Sielwode.
Czrak had been intrigued by the tale of the spirit warriors in the grove, and enraged that his two servants had not been able to enter the clearing and retrieve the sword.
The awnshegh had received messages from his elf minions. Iswiel and Farmain had been accepted without suspicion into the forces in the western arm of the forest, but then had been sent to watch the borders. Twice they had feigned injuries so they could return to Reilmirid, but even then they had been kept out of the grove.
The elven prince’s dedication to the protection of the spirits made him an unwitting enemy of the awnshegh, so the prince had to be destroyed. And how better to accomplish the deed than to feed the distrust of the king of Sielwode? If his people insisted on being the enemy of the master, then they must pay the penalty.
Lerien had the honor of serving his new master by feeding that distrust, and to that purpose he was in the Crystal Palace, on the way to an audience with King Tieslin.
A small voice kept telling Lerien Hierhielin that he should be awed by what he saw. As he walked down the halls of the Crystal Palace in Siellaghriod, the faceted carvings reflected the light of the setting sun. Here and there a spark of green, blue, or yellow gleamed out, but red was the predominant color. Red glowed and sparkled, dancing from facet to reflecting facet as the spectrum of light from the dying day changed with the setting of the sun. Before he reached the end of the passage, the sun had dropped below the horizon, and the red spectrum died away.
As the light of day departed, the color of the walls changed. Far below the surface of the earth, the base of crystal from which the castle had been built held a single glowing candle. Its tiny light, magnified thousands of times by the facets of the cavern in which it was set, traveled through the glass, picking up power as the light danced from wall to wall.
No elf remained who had worked on the carving of the castle, and the secrets of their skills had died with them, but they had left a legacy of beauty and color behind them.
A little part of Lerien’s mind was awed by the beauty around him, but the larger part roiled with anger, malice, and the will of the awnshegh, Czrak. He looked on the castle and wanted it for his master. Czrak could not live in it, and as a result, Lerien hated it.
But it would not long stand, he decided with a smile of complacency. When his master ruled Cerilia, he would order the destruction of all beauty he could not use.
Lerien turned a corner of the passage and found Brechian waiting for him. The sharp-faced elf’s eyes danced with a malign excitement.
“You will tell the prince all you have learned,” he said for the tenth time since Lerien had approached him with the tale Czrak had decided he should bring to court. Lerien had been in Siellaghriod only three days, but he had learned that Brechian and Prince Eyrmin were rivals for the love of the beautiful Vritienel. The king’s advisor was avid to have his rival shown to be a traitor.
“It is my duty to my king to speak of what I have learned,” Lerien replied. “Honor requires me to give my loyalty to the throne.”
Brechian led the way into the audience chamber, where King Tieslin sat on his crystal throne, his hands gripping the glass arms. Lerien’s first thought was one of disappointment. He had expected the king to be robed in finery or dressed in glittering armor, but Tieslin wore simple brown and dull green forest clothing. A spot of mud on the outside of his left boot indicated he had recently returned from the wood. Lerien paused as he read the forbidding expression, but the king motioned him forward.
“You are Lerien, in the service of Prince Eyrmin?” Tieslin asked.
“No, Sire,” Lerien stopped before the throne and dropped to one knee as he bowed his head. “I am a deserter from the service of Prince Eyrmin.” A sudden rush of murmurs circled the room, and Lerien waited until they ceased before he continued.