The day of departure comes much too quickly, or so it feels. It is almost as if the smoke from the burial fires has hardly settled before the dawn breaks on the morning that they must leave Ristfand for the unknown destiny that awaits them in the west. Eldarien takes comfort in the fact that he travels now not alone but with four companions, chosen not by him but rather, as it were, provided for him by the very destiny that enfolds him and carries him even as it unfolds before him, a destiny that has the motherly hands of the goddess Hiliana, who has made herself known to him and in doing so has changed every moment of his life henceforth. In this he finds consolation, even though the comfort of his companions’ presence also awakens fear within him, for he feels responsible for each one and does not want a quest which is his own—for this journey would not be happening at all were it not for him—to endanger even a single one of them.
He recalls now the private service of dedication that they had offered on the evening of the festival, after the painful rites of departure for those who had died at the hands of the druadach and the Imperial forces. Since such a service was forbidden by the commander Erineas, Cirien refused to stir up unnecessary strife by holding it openly. After all, not all the services of the temple were forbidden, but only this one—a gesture, they supposed, by which Erineas wished to exert his authority over the city. But they would not forgo the re-dedication of Ristfand to the goddess Niraniel, something done every year but which this year above all was needed more deeply and more desperately.
In the sanctuary in the declining evening light, the members of the temple gathered together, bringing each one a token from the families, laborers, soldiers, and ordinary people of the city—a bouquet of flowers, a loaf of home-baked bread, a ring or other piece of jewelry, a picture scratched in chalk by a small child, and various other things—and placed them in a large woven basket at the foot of the altar. Then Cirien, as the grandmaster of the order, recited words from a large and ancient book, bound with faded leather with pages aged and yellowed by time, their binding all but coming apart. His words, solemn in tone and meaning, bore a mysterious joy deeper than all the empty words with which men tend to console one another. His voice was the same as it always is, humble and unassuming, simple and spontaneous, with no show of flattery or pretense, as he recited: “To thee do we come again at the turning of the year, harbinger of dawn, everlight, stillspeaker, echo of the eternal, first of the first-fruits, mother of thy children who cry to thee now. Receive at mine hands this offering from thy people, who trust in thee, and lay over us once again for the coming year, and henceforth, the mantle of thy protection and thy love. In all afflictions, be our deliverance, and in all joys, our gratitude. Deliver us from whatever ills assail us and protect us as much as is in thy power, that we may be spared from harm and walk the path marked out for us in this life, with the eyes of the heart set upon the halls of Midalest, where awaits us in mystery that destiny which is promised, but which the heart knows not, for never has it been revealed.”
When his voice fell silent, the members of the temple raised a song in words that found their origin in ages long past and spoke of hopes that, although kindled long ago, unto the present still burn:
The flower blooms in early dawn,
henna sera narië.
At eveningtide it fades away,
bánda mon toralë,
And in the dark of night and loss,
Niranyë vena noaë,
lamenting all that in day was bright,
illo obscur nirande,
one remembers a lesson learned anew,
Septes menes endrale,
with the round of each day, once again,
illo mande illustre,
that after the darkest night comes dawn,
henna sera narië.
The remembrance fades now, and Eldarien returns to the present, sitting up in his bed and turning to the window. He looks out and sees that there is no more than a slight hint of light on the horizon in the east, barely making the outlines of the buildings of Ristfand visible as darker shapes against the dim sky, the last stars winking their goodbye for the night. He rises and dresses in his full attire, including his mail shirt and his heavy leather boots, though his fur cloak he does not wear but folds over his pack. This pack he slings over both of his shoulders and lets it rest comfortably on his back—containing dried rations, a change of clothes, a length of rope, some flint, and a few other things—with a bedroll and waterskin tied to it. But it is in fact anything but comfortable, for the scars from his torture at the hands of the creature called Maggot are still sensitive, and any significant pressure causes them to ache and burn. Gritting his teeth, he shifts the straps of the pack, trying to redistribute the weight, and, unsatisfied with the results but aware that little more is possible, he then pulls his bow and quiver of arrows over his shoulder and, finally, the baldric holding the lightbringer. Were it not for the mail hauberk which distributes the weight of these many straps, Eldarien wonders if he would be able to travel with the pain that they would cause.
He shakes his head softly and whispers, “A little way to be close to those who have lost so much more than I and whose bodies are crippled for the rest of their days…” And then, reaching for the handle of the door, he adds, “Hiliana, grant me strength.” The corridor is dimly lit and quiet when he steps out of his room, and as he does so, the feeling unique to departure washes over him: that awareness that causes the eyes to take in all of one’s surroundings one last time before bidding them the heart’s farewell.
Rorlain approaches from a shadowy end of the corridor and nods at Eldarien, saying, “We leave at last. I did not know what to expect when we made such haste to come to this city, but it was certainly not what happened.”
“And we walk into even greater uncertainty now than we did then,” replies Eldarien. “Thank you, my friend, for continuing to accompany me. Were you to have decided to remain in Ristfand, I would have supported you, but now that we travel again together, I cherish your presence and companionship.”
“And I yours,” says Rorlain. “But now we travel in a group. That, too, is something I did not expect.”
“Does it bother you?”
“Not at all. I just hope that no ill befalls us on the road, and that our destination—granted there be such a place—holds the answers we seek.”
“It seems a fool’s quest, I know,” Eldarien whispers.
“Sometimes the only remaining wisdom looks like folly,” says Rorlain, shifting his pack on his shoulders. “Worry not, Eldarien. We are all with you. And I would be surprised if any of us carry resentment for the nature of our journey. I certainly do not. My decision has been made freely, and so I walk free.”
“Do you hope to return?” asks Eldarien. “To Ristfand, I mean?”
“If that is best,” replies Rorlain. “No city is my home, and this one did not become so during our stay. I merely feel the burden of leaving under such dire circumstances, though I realize there is little I can do either by staying or by going.”
“Hopefully our destination shall turn that ‘little’ into ‘much’,” says Eldarien.
At this moment Elmariyë appears, wearing a brown tunic and laden for travel similarly to the two men; her hair is braided back away from her face, and her eyes are keen. “Surely there shall be time for speaking on the road,” she says with a smile. “We are in a race with the sun, for darkness alone gives hope of cloaking our departure.”
“And so the cleric instructs the weathered travelers,” Rorlain replies good-naturedly, and the three of them set off. Tilliana and Cirien stand by the entrance to the temple, the great doors at their back. They, too, are in quiet conversation as they wait. When they approach, Cirien nods to them and says, “Let us go. We have not much time.” And so they pass through the streets of the city like shadows in the night ere the break of dawn and come to the western gate. Here the greatest difficulty to their concealment lies, as the gate is watched, not so much to keep people in but to keep people out. But it is still best that their departure goes unnoticed, so as not to raise questions concerning their motivations for travel and to stir up the possibility of pursuit.
Rorlain, who now knows the perimeter of the city well, directs them to a stone staircase leading up to the top of the battlements, a good twenty yards from the gate. This section of the wall is dark and deserted, and they pass with ease across it and descend the other side with the help of a rope. And thus they are free, trying to remain as quiet as whispers on the grass, walking to the northwest, before the first rays of dawn’s light break over the horizon at their back. It is an odd thing to “escape” from a city that only a matter of months earlier one came to save and entered without thought of whether one was welcome or not. But a city under occupation is not what it once was; it is more akin to returning to one’s family home only to find it inhabited by robbers and one’s own family held in custody, unable to welcome you or to warn you. But now, of course, they do not return but flee, and this is perhaps an even more painful experience: for it cannot but feel like abandoning those under the yoke of servitude to their grim fate.
Eldarien is the first to give voice to this feeling, which in some way is common to them all. He says, “I would wish to see Ristfand different than it is now and to help in its deliverance, rather than disappearing in the night when it is in such desperate need.” After these words, he falls silent, and the company continues to walk for a few minutes in this silence. Then he speaks again, now under his breath such that only those nearest to him, Elmariyë and Cirien, can hear, “I would wish to bear the pain of all of them, were it possible, and if only such a thing would ease the burdens that they bear.”
“Their pain, and the pain of many, you will bear,” Cirien replies softly, “but there is little that our presence in the city can do to aid the people. What feels like flight may prove to be the most important action of all…coming to the very center and source of our only hope of victory over the forces that assail our people.”
“And do not thirst too much to carry the pain of others,” adds Elmariyë in a whisper. “The one who gave you this gift knows your capacity and what you are meant to bear. It is true that the compassion of the heart is boundless and must be so, but no man or woman can carry the weight of the entire world. Ours is only a small part in a much greater work.”
“But I feel as though something within me is summoning me to so much more…like my very heart is dilating to receive and carry what it has never carried before,” says Eldarien.
“And it shall be so,” replies Cirien. “But Elmariyë speaks with truth, a lesson hard-learned that you would do well to heed.”
“Very well,” answers Eldarien. “I shall take these words to heart.”
† † †
By the time the sun is high in the sky, they are leagues from the city, immersed in the dense forest that spreads to the foot of the Yjind Mountains. Because they steer their course to the northwest, they come to the dry river bed that Eldarien and Rorlain had crossed previously on their way to the city. Here Cirien gestures for them to halt, and he turns to speak to the company. “This river used to flow strong and free, and I wonder now the reason that its water has run dry.”
“Perhaps someone built a dam higher up, in the mountains whence it flows,” Elmariyë suggests. “It must lie not far to the north of Telonis, though I have never been far enough to see it.”
“You are right, to a degree, regarding its location,” answers Cirien, “though it is further north than you imagine. For it cuts its way to the southeast from high in the Yjind peaks, a lake at the knees of the great Hurias, until it meets the ocean. In fact, I wanted to speak with all of you here about the course of our journey. And this puzzles me and stirs my curiosity and my desire to walk this path still more.”
“What do you mean when you speak of ‘this path’?” asks Eldarien.
“I believe there is a shortcut through the mountains which I suspect shall be both safer and swifter than traveling through the Moradoch Steppe. The path is more arduous, certainly, but also, barring any unexpected delay, shall save us a couple weeks of travel and bring us near to our destination at the very time we leave the mountains again.”
“Why would we object to such a course of action?” Tilliana asks. “Is there something that would indicate the other, longer road preferable?”
“Nothing at all, if we are up for the climb,” answers Cirien, “and if anyone might struggle with the effort, it would be me alone.”
“And the dry riverbed…you do not think it is a harbinger of any misfortune?” Elmariyë asks.
“It is probably no more than a young settlement which has imprudently harnessed the river for their own purposes,” replies Cirien. “If we come across them, which if we follow the riverbed it is likely we shall, then perhaps I can have a word or two with them about communal responsibility.” With these words a smile comes to Cirien’s lips, and he shakes his head softly. “But then again, maybe the authorities in Ristfand have long known about this and have even cooperated in it. That would explain much, though it puzzles me.”
“I assume we shall see soon enough,” says Rorlain, as if indicating that the conversation has reached its conclusion. And so it has. The company turns their faces to the northwest and begins to follow along the ridge of the riverbed, which is still too steep to descend with ease.
A few more hours pass before they stop for lunch, sitting on the grass or upon fallen logs and pulling some food from their packs: bread and cheese and a bit of salted meat. Most sit silently, lost in thought, slowly eating, though Elmariyë and Tilliana sit a bit apart and speak quietly to one another. Eldarien absentmindedly watches them, feeling grateful for their presence on the journey even though due to it he experiences quite a bit of trepidation. Having women in his care and under his custodianship is a new experience, as until this time, in all the dramatic circumstances of his life, he has led only men. Women are not accepted into the ranks of the Imperial army, as their bodies are not built for war and bloodshed. And Eldarien can only hope that these women never again find themselves caught in the midst of such things but rather find their path sheltered on either side from the threat of death or from the need to kill. He also realizes what a “painful fortune” it was that, during the siege of Ristfand, he himself did not need to confront the question of whether to kill and in what circumstances. His hands and heart recoil from spilling human blood, whether in battle or not, but he also knows that war is upon the land of Telmerion, and so he tries to steel himself for what may come. The slaying of the beasts of darkness concerns him less than the slaying of living men. And though the former pose a much greater threat, taking countless forms like shadows made tangible to sow terror and death among the living, Eldarien is keenly aware that he fears being forced to slay his fellow men immeasurably more than he fears dying at the hands of the creatures of darkness or, for that matter, at the hands of men.
He has tasted the proximity of his own death too many times to recall, and though he has not yet come to welcome it—as, he suspects, both Cirien and Elmariyë would because of their faith in Niraniel—he fears many things more than he fears the end of his own life. Nonetheless, in the heart of every man and woman is fear of death, the primal act of recoiling from the severance of the body and the spirit, and the great hesitancy before the mysterious unknown that lies beyond the boundary of death. It is like trying to take a deep breath before a plunge into the ocean’s abyss from a lofty height, only to find that there is not enough air to draw in. For a moment the heart stops in fright, in uncertainty. And what then? Having heard Hiliana’s voice and felt her consolation, for the first time Eldarien can begin to glimpse an answer, though it feels like it is concealed behind a veil just beyond his reach. But the answer is there: the light that met him in the darkest place, and that alone, can be a bridge to carry him even where all other paths fail. Such a thought gives him a glimmer of comfort, though his heart still remains uncertain, restless, and as he looks upon the faces of his companions, he feels viscerally how weak his faith is and how frail his heart. How can he be a rock for them to lean on when his own heart is so unstable and so afraid?
At this moment, Eldarien is stirred from his thoughts by Cirien’s gentle voice, “It is probably time we begin moving again, don’t you think?” The old man’s hand is then placed upon his shoulder, and he looks up to see those gray eyes looking down upon him as if concealing profound depths just under their glassy surface.
“Aye, you are right,” replies Eldarien, and he rises to his feet.
† † †
Two more days pass before the land beneath their feet begins to slope steadily upward, beginning to ascend the feet of the mountains, which are buried just under the earth and cause it to wrinkle and rise like draped cloth. The trees lessen now as well, though those that remain are both taller and older, towering pine or spruce as well as aspen with bare white trunks reaching up fifty feet into the air before blooming out in branch and leaf. The path has already grown rough, but they expect it to become even rougher. The dry riverbed has become a series of rocky ravines cut deep into the earth, at places falling ten or twenty feet in what—when there had been water—must have been splendid cascades. But now there is nothing but stillness, where before there was the song of water. The song of the wind in the trees, however, continues, and as they ascend even higher, the force of the winds increases, blowing at times from the mountains before them down upon the plains that are visible stretched out for miles behind them and at times sweeping up from the plains back to the peaks. And in all the variations of the wind, the trees whisper their mysterious language, the rustle of leaf or needle upon the branch, and when many trees join together, the song becomes a chorus loud enough that it sets the whole slope singing with the sighing of the wind in the trees and the song of the trees echoing in response.
The journey continues like this for another week, and they still do not reach the fountainhead of the riverbed and thus the cause of its dryness. But now they walk into the very heart of the Yjind Mountains, with rugged peaks, snow-capped, to their left and their right. The air is cold now throughout the day, and at night the temperature drops to freezing, as witnessed by the crystalline frost that covers the grass and trees all about them and shimmers in the rising morning sun. At the end of this week of travel, heavy rains sweep up from the plains far below them in the southeast and fall intermittently for another three days, alternating back and forth between torrential downpours and a drizzle that is so light it is hardly more than a fog. During the downpours, the riverbed runs again with water—no more than a couple inches—but a drastic change to its earlier dryness. Even the rocky slopes flow again with small waterfalls, and, seeing this, Cirien remarks, “It is good to witness some small semblance of its former glory.”
But at night, the cold rain turns to sheets of blowing ice or a dense wall of sleet, and the companions find it all but impossible to remain warm and dry against the weather’s onslaught. Because of the distance of their journey, it has not been feasible to carry a tent with them, though Rorlain thought to bring a length of stretched leather wide enough to function as such in case of need. And now his foresight proves invaluable, as the five of them huddle together each night under a makeshift tent tied between the branches of trees and fastened with rocks or fallen logs. Due to the rain, there is no dry wood to start a fire, and so they can neither prepare hot food nor provide warmth to their bodies aching in the cold. Instead, once darkness begins to fall and the temperature plummets, they hurriedly set up camp and gather close together, wrapped tightly in furs. In this position, they eat their simple supper of dry rations, and then, after perhaps a bit of soft conversation or a few shared songs, both to stir their hope and to enkindle their spirits, they drift off, one by one, to sleep.
† † †
This time it is Tilliana who dreams, and the dream is not her own, or at least not hers alone. Fashioned out of her own fears and desires, her own imaginings, and indeed the concrete circumstances of her life, she nonetheless has the tangible sensation—even in the haze of unconsciousness—that a presence is with her in her sleep. And this presence is an unwelcome one.
In her dream, waking is almost indistinguishable from sleeping, as she dreams herself to wake from sleep in the very place she sleeps in truth, and throws off her furs, and rises to her feet. The blowing sheet of ice has pulled back momentarily like a receding wall of fog, gray-white in the cold night illumined by a large moon, waning but still past half-full. She takes a few steps away from her slumbering companions, and she feels no cold. She looks up toward the mountain peaks ahead of her and reaching out like arms to enfold her on either side. They tower above her and make her feel so small, so infinitesimally insignificant, that despite the beauty of nature and its special word of welcoming, these mountains instead feel to her in this moment both threatening and dangerous, like they reach out not to welcome but to grasp, to entrap, and to suffocate.
She turns back and looks toward the Plains of Melroc and the city of Ristfand, and the fog and darkness recede before her gaze, and she can see farther than human eyes can see, down the rugged path they have traveled, down from the mountain pass, across the tree-laden plains, to the city as it slumbers, and beyond that, to the numerous settlements of the clan of Rhovas dotting the landscape. And she sees even to the ocean beyond, its pale face reflecting the glistening light of the moon, an orb of light that twists and contorts on the always-moving face of the water, elongated, contracted, misshapen in the never-still cascading of the waves as they press forward toward the land.
As she looks out with eyes more far-seeing than human eyes can be, she feels the stirring of grief within her and the hopelessness born of grief. And she finds herself wanting to yield to it, to find rest and consolation in the arms of sadness, as if in the care of a welcome friend. To fight no longer for the spark of hope that flickers so weakly against the bitter winds of life. Or at least to hope for something more realistic. After all, why can she not simply go where all those whom she loves have already gone? And with this thought, in an instant, she finds herself standing atop a lofty mountainous ridge that looks straight down, at a height of several hundred yards, to the crashing sea. The moon’s twisted light now looks inviting, and if she cannot attain to it in the pure and undimmed light of the sky, dark and serene but infinitely distant, she can reach it simply by plunging into the ocean’s depths, which draw her now like a magnet.
And at this moment, the subtle presence that has accompanied her, almost intangible, almost unnoticed, grows in intensity, and she feels it at her side, as though looking over her shoulder. It is unwelcome, and yet it pulls her strongly, to the point that without a thought, she almost yields. She opens her mouth to address the presence, to demand that it reveal itself, but in this instant the faces of those she has loved—of Alsenor, Beïta, and Annar—form upon the face of the water, and the water grows perfectly still. The entire ocean ceases to move and becomes like a placid lake, reflecting as a consummate image the countless stars of the sky, with the moon at its center. She leans forward, and she is there—only a few feet from the water’s surface, looking into the eyes of her beloved, with the mournful faces and gentle smiles of her children on either side of him.
As if speaking into the back of her mind, insinuating itself into her own thoughts, not in their secret inner wellspring in the sanctuary of her heart, but in their external formulation as they come to the surface, the presence says to her: You need only throw yourself in, and you shall be with them forever. And yet the presence does not speak. It is silent, and yet its voice is raucous, so loud, so pressing, that it takes her own thoughts and makes them its own and then forces them upon her to the point that she nearly accepts them as if they originated from her. Are they not, after all, her true self? Her true intentions and desires and the right path—the only path that can remain true to herself, whereas everything else is but a show and a mockery of life. Maybe only in death can life be found, and this play at life is nothing but a sham, a lie that she says both to herself and to others. And if that is the case, what is the point in pretending anymore?
And now she voices her response to the presence, to welcome the unwelcome since it gives her the one thing she truly seeks: I will do it. But how? And yet at this moment, another voice intrudes upon her thoughts and breaks off her discourse with the other, mysterious presence. She is wrenched from sleep to find someone gently shaking her shoulders and calling her name. She opens her eyes and finds the face of Cirien, lined with concern and compassion, looking over her. The night is dark, but the light of the moon allows her to make out his features, and his voice too would identify him still more clearly if there were any doubt. “Tilliana, I am sorry to wake you, but you were moaning in your sleep.”
“I was…” she replies, but her words falter, as the vivid feelings of the dream slip away from her. “I was having a nightmare,” she concludes. “I am sorry if I startled you.”
“Oh no, my concern is only for you,” answers Cirien, and she can feel the piercing gaze of his eyes even in the darkness.
“I…I am alright. It’s just grief combined with fear of the unknown.”
“I understand, as much as I can. And know that I am here, if you ever wish to speak about it or about anything else.”
“Yes, of course, thank you,” says Tilliana, and she watches as Cirien leans back and returns to his place of rest. Then she pulls the furs closer around her body and buries her face against them, trying to fight off the bitter cold that now encroaches upon her and the anguishing sorrow that bites at her heart even more keenly.