Faeid
Part Three: Eventide
Draft III, Mar 09 2006
The great hall of Myraven was alight with a thousand candles, and while shifting shadows danced across the faces of all who gathered, slinking from skin to stone with the ease and movement of many tiny snakes, Elandir remained in the entrance surveying the crowd. Many had gathered tonight, most at the great table which stretched its length along the left side of the hall, ending just before half way. After that there were smaller, round tables where the children and fasted sat. Warmth emanated steadily from four large fires, two set across from the great table, the others at the end of the hall.
When a familiar rolling laughter made him pause and turn, he spotted Dagoreth laughing, balancing Sariel on his knee. They were at the far end of the high table in a group of four with his sister Emer, and a face he did not recognize. He was a young man about Thaniel’s age with wavy ginger hair, matching stubble, and eyes the color of sea foam; a lute was braced against the wall behind him. When Elandir strolled over, Emer spotted him first, and with the decorum of her station, gracefully got to her feet and embraced him.
“’lan you’ve returned!”
When she released him, he settled into an empty seat next to Dagoreth, who was squabbling with Sariel; she had swiped half a roll from his plate.
He smiled at the stranger, “Good morrow, have we met?”
The man laughed in a deep lyrical baritone, “Na, m’lord, but they call me Aaralyn Taddiel.”
He took the offered hand. “Please call me Elandir; while we are in the company of friends pleasantries are lost.”
Sariel, eyes tinted with mischief, violently tugged on Elandir’s sleeve.
“Elin, he’s a bard.”
Elandir turned back, and fixed Aaralyn with another smile, “Really? Will you play for us?”
Sariel was ecstatic. Emer looked positively gleeful as she spoke. “Yes, please do.”
“Well,” Aaralyn announced with a grin, “If you insist.”
“We do,” Emer stated smugly, leaning over to whisper in Elandir’s ear. “He’s very good, if you must know.”
After retrieving his lute Aaralyn moved his seat from the table, and began to tune it. His slender fingers trickled across the strings, and Elandir settled himself into the calming music. The whole hall fell silent as he began a traditional Ilen ballade.
Soon the bright shores in sunlight will I see
The heather in the hills and the rising morn
The rolling mist to the edge of the shore
And run the wilds from where I was born
Away to thee, the green hills are a-calling
The edges a-foam with the lick of the sea
Like a tangle at noontime, snow bramble at midnight
I yearn to be with ye
Far from my home
Far have I gone, but in my dreams
I still hear the laughter of the waves
The breath of your smile in the seams
Soon shall I see the bright stars in a darkened sky
The heather in the hills and the rising morn
The rolling mist to the edge of the shore
And run the wilds from where I was born
At his ending, Sariel spoke in a hushed whisper, “Isn’ he wonderful elin?”
Nodding, Elandir couldn’t help but agree.
“M’lord, it is good to see you at last.”
Elandir twisted towards the voice. A thin man, wearing the dark brown robes of the Keep priests approached; his hood was back revealing a sallow face, and hook nose, his brown hair cut short in accordance to his station.
“Agrilon, it is good to see you away from your books.”
The man pursed his lips before taking a seat near, “Perhaps.”
“Lamlis was all the rage I hear,” Agrilon spoke, a hint of jealously colouring his voice, as he reached for a roll.
“While the tourney and the feasting were more than satisfactory,” Elandir explained, “and the city full of people from all the five cities, as well as Outlanders, Agrilon, I’d much rather be here in Myraven.”
The apprentice seemed unfazed by Elandir’s remark as he casually tore apart his roll.
As soon as Elandir had seen Agrilon enter he wondered at his presence. Agrilon Rivk had been one of the fosterlings at Myraven when Elandir had reached his majority. It seemed the youth, who found more comfort in books than people, had despised Elandir on principle. He had tried to make friends with the sour Agrilon, but had been brushed aside with caustic references to his station. When Elandir had come back from Sunhoen, (one of the Sundi trade cities), he had found Agrilon had gone into the priest-hood. Though they were not friends, Elandir reasoned that it would do no good to alienate him. Still, it was rare to see him here in the great hall, and talking to him.
“I must be off now to find our wayward sister,” Emer cut through the tension, and rose.
Aaralyn, Agrilon, and Elandir followed suit, though Dagoreth remained sitting still occupied with Sariel.
“Good luck.” Elandir embraced his elder sister, placing a kiss on each cheek.
“I fear I’ll need it.”
Sariel had switched her attention from the story Dagoreth was telling, to her sister. “Must you leave?”
“I am afraid so Sari. Some of us actually have things to do.”
“Aye, we have things to do as well.” Dagoreth asserted.
“I suppose,” Emer awarded him with superior look, “But are they productive?”
“Aye Lady, you have me there.” Dagoreth chuckled lightly.
Emer turned, and brushed her hand against the bards, “I hope to be hearing you again, Aaralyn Taddiel. Your music is truly a gift.”
Elandir thought he caught sight of a slight blush from the man, before he brushed the hair out of his eyes, speaking softly, “Anything for your sweet words, M’lady.”
§
Brioris could faintly see the edge of Kavillon through the great trees. The high, thick, emerald canopy barred much of the light from getting in, and such the entire place was bathed in a green gloom. The trees themselves were larger than anywhere else in Aea; you could easily string a band of men around the base of one and not have them touch. Entwined in the leafy canopy were climbing vines, and secured to bark was river-moss; the odd assortment of variegated forest flowers sprouted from nooks.
Kavillon, the Sidhe’s principal metropolis, was, contrary to belief not a huge tree, but a series of buildings set into the forest. Half way up from the ground it started with simple landing platforms, some of them dead trunks. As it grew Kavillon branched out from its base in to series of walkways and bowers, and in the centre a huge open air meeting place. At its pinnacle was the great hall and surrounding that the Elders quarters, and quarters for the Emyrn and his son. As he glided through gloom, the fae lights danced in the distance beckoning him home.
Landing with the ease of many years of practice, Brioris felt the padded platform under his booted feet. One of the guards on watch stepped forward recognizing him.
“Daeffyn, what brings you to Kavillon?”
“A message for Emyrn Ariad.”
The tall guard bestowed Brioris with a distrusting look, “From whom – surely not a simpleton such as you?”
Brioris barred the hasty comment from his lips; he had a message to deliver, da’Emyris had trusted him to bring it, and he would not be deterred by a guard, head full on rank.
“da’Emyris if you must know, now, if you please.” He started to pass, but the guard’s thin rapier blade tipped dangerously against his collarbone.
“da’Emyris sent you, you say?” When all he got was a malign look, the guard continued. “Well then - password.” The guard dropped his defensive stance, though he still did not appear convinced.
“Ion pareth yurin.” Brioris tried to keep the impatience out of his voice.
The guard raised a dark eyebrow, but let him pass.
§
Gracefully Brioris navigated the corridors made of branches. He did not want to run into any more of the guard, or god forbid any gifted – he had enough of their heads and wishes for a lifetime. Drifting down darkened passages and scaling vine ladders Brioris wasted no time getting to his destination, the great room of Kavillon.
“Brioris Daeffyn!”
Brioris stopped in his tracks. When he twisted towards the voice he was met with a familiar grin.
“Braith,” he embraced his fellow Sidhe and let out the breath he was holding.
“Cor Brioris, what are you doing here? I thought you avoided us like the plague.”
Brioris motioned for his friend to follow. Braith was wearing traditional garb of his stature, deep green surcoat, and loose white pants. His auburn hair was a touch ashen on the edges, as was common among the gifted.
“Usually, I do,” he said with wry smile, “But I am here with a message for the Emyrn.”
Braith’s hazel eyes flickered with curiosity, “Oh?”
“Yes, The Lady Marot has prophesied.”
Braith arched an eyebrow expertly. “Really? I don’t envy you then. Stop by will you, I have a bottle of Serien Spirits and I’m not sure I trust myself on my own.”
Brioris nodded, “Yae, I will,” his anger, at the guard’s earlier treatment, diffusing with the promise.
Braith clapped him on the shoulder again before jaunting off.
Brioris continued down the hallway, lightened by his talk with Braith, the Sidhe always managed to put him in a good mood. Although Brioris was no lone wing – as the saying went – Braith Odhran was one of only a few he could truly call friend. There was his family; although they never turned their back on him, he was uncomfortable around them. When they did get together it was all of them – all eight brothers, father, mother, three aunts, four uncles, and many cousins. But all, even his little brother not ten wheels old, was gifted. It wasn’t necessarily the gift that made him uncomfortable but that he was the only one without; his kin were something of purists in Kavillon. Those without the gift were looked down upon, and considered lesser. Then there was Alys. She had been his childhood friend since it seemed they were born. His mother used to say they must have been born of the same leaf, they were so close. They had done everything together, up until Alys’ gift manifested. But even after they had remained close, until, until last spring – he feared he had lost her forever now. They had fought, and though he could not remember why, they had stayed parted for more than a turn of the moon. When he had gone back to apologize, she had not even opened her door. He had tried to find reason from Braith, and some others who knew her well, but came up short. He was at a loss. He had thought of breaking down her door once, but that would accomplish nothing; only more anger.
Coming to the chamber doors, he knocked twice before they swung open before him.
Brioris stiffened as he walked into the great room. He could sense the eyes of every Elder on him, as well as that of Emyrn Ariad. The small hairs on the back of his neck prickled under the scrutiny.
Raising his eyes, he looked to that of the Emyrn Ariad. The Sidhe was not elderly but bore a head of whitening hair, and a full beard, trimmed short. There were noticeable wrinkle lines at the corner of his dark eyes, and at the corners of his mouth, the lines vanishing under the beard. The man’s glittering, violet and obsidian wings were large, but on the left side the top corner was missing, leaving the edge tattered.
“What brings you, an’ilineis?” Ariad spoke, dark eyes fixed on Brioris, his voice like fine steel.
Brioris look to the floor beneath him, although he tried to brush it off the comment stung. “A message from da’Emyris.”
“Go ahead then, what is it?”
Brioris glanced back up, and then searched for the dagger he had been given. “I was told sire, you would hear nothing until I produced evidence for conviction.”
The edges of Ariad’s lips twitched. “Yae, that is true. Bring it.”
Brioris furnished the silver dagger, with da’Emyris’ signet in the pommel. While bowing before Ariad, he extended it.
Ariad took the gift, turning it over in his fingers as Brioris righted himself.
“The message…?”
“The message is this…”
Brioris, as best he could, retold of what happened in the plains, and of Marot’s prophesy. When he was finished he passed Ariad a sealed letter containing the prophecy written by da’Emyris himself.
The Emyrn had the most peculiar look on his face. It was as if he was torn between being cross and a-feared.
“The Lady Marot has made this prophesy?” When he spoke, his voice was gruff. The letter remained unopened.
“Yes, sire.”
Brioris flinched as suddenly Ariad pitched the dagger to the floor; the clanking sharp in the quiet hall.
“You can take that back to da'Emyris.”
Brioris looked up in confusion, and was about to ask what was wrong when he was faced with the vision of the Emyrn tearing to threads the prophecy.
“Sire-”
Ariad sent Brioris a murdering stare, “I believe you services are best elsewhere.”
“Sire I-”
Brioris shrunk backward unconsciously as Ariad rose from his stone chaise, declaring through clenched teeth, “Prophecies be damned; they are nothing but a pot of honeyed lies.”
Brioris in one last ditch effort spoke, “But Sire, your son, he would-”
Ariad’s face contorted, “I have no son.”
Brioris, confusion colouring his features, brows drawn together in thought, wished to press Ariad again. Had the prince been killed, had he died suddenly? But the fire in Ariad’s stayed him, and so did the following words.
“I do not believe in your prophecies, and I have no son.”
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Emyrn - a title for a king (of sorts)
an’ilineis – a derogatory name for those not gifted
Ion pareth yurin – password that Brioris gives to the guard on the landing platform, ‘flight over pain’ in the tongue of the ancients.
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