Varlarsaga Volume 2 - Recovery

Chapter 44 - Darkelfari

Great, rolled forms of drifting clouds shadowed the snowy peaks where reared the grey ironness of the Hermitage, Corin's abode for thirty and seven days, in which time he had learned much from his fellow inmates. Indeed, his capacity, his curiosity and ability of retention seemed to surprise his tutors, who in return, listened attentively to the tales of his adventures with keen interest; particularly when he spoke of elves and their kin. But then, new-found knowledge, to these strange withdrawn folk seemed as nectar to bees; their desire for it was insatiable.

It was after noon, the midday meal had been taken and, as was the custom, all were within hermitaries resting, meditating, or contemplating their own special arts and crafts.

Corin was restless. Sleep had been a fleeting visitor, coming only to caress and depart. Then he would find himself awake, alert and with a conscious feeling that dream or vision had just then evaded him. It seemed almost that someone called and he had arrived a moment too late. Had these folk, he wondered, been a part of The Voices throughout his life?

He was curious. True, they had told and shown him many things in a short space of time, and he remembered well. Yet their tellings were of the world outside, of words and images, birds and animals, plants and trees: sky, water, earth... Never of themselves, or of that within the walls of the hermitage.

He was suspicious. Somehow, still, he was. All the questions had not been fully answered. ‘Evaded silkenly, yet with promise,’ he thought to himself. ‘That, Catoowig has glibly done, perhaps too glibly.’

The hall beyond his cell was silent and empty, save for shadows which, though vacant, seemed suddenly filled with malice and threat.

‘Do not be foolish,’ he whispered to himself as he rose and stepped into the vast chamber. For some moments he waited, stock still; then, drawing his black garb about him, made off into the half light. Down a narrow stair to the right, two levels below, he knew, lay the stables and mangers of the hermit's stallions. That is, when Diarmath was not training and exercising them in the central courtyard set between the nine towers that ringed the hermitage. Corin determined to visit the horses alone for several reasons; the first of which was that he had never been given the freedom to do so. Even after such lengthy period, he found himself always in the company of one or more of his order, as if he were still a novice and not to be trusted with the freedom of the hermitary. Indeed the only times he was left to himself were those when all were sleeping or engrossed with solitary pursuits. And too, he had been kept from befriending the nine great stallions in any manner of subtle ways, and that in itself seemed a mystery. Yet, he reasoned, if he were to become in need of a means of departure from the hermitage, they were his only alternative. To leave on foot was almost unthinkable, and to await the coming of Sgnarli and the elves, if indeed they ever came, was somewhere in the unforeseeable future. Secondly, he had observed a tenth stall, empty but prepared, as if a newcomer was expected. Was this the friend Catoowig had mentioned? He could but guess. These thoughts sifted through his troubled mind. Lastly, there was another matter, an intriguing secret of the third level; Morbi-Han's abode. This was a chamber Corin had not been given permission to enter, one of the last in the hermitage kept locked away from his intrusion. Though, as Catoowig had explained, eventually that prohibition was to be lifted and the fruits of Morbi-Han's labours revealed to all.

‘Revealed to all,’ Corin mused, stealing down the damp steps to the second level where the storage areas of grain and fodder for all the livestock, beasts of burden and fowl on the floor above, were kept. ‘Then why is it that I alone feel the outsider?’

In the bleak light of glowing embers, burning low amongst the furnaces, he passed many kists and kilns and great coal reserves hewn and dredged up from seams below the heights whereupon the hermitage depended, and came to a further stair. Down this he ventured to the bottom; to where lay the stalls, ranged along one side of a narrow, apsed area. At distances, torches illuminated the floor before him, and a reassuring snort from the mangers brought Corin to the first of the bays. Peering in, he named them as he went by: ‘Wendaway, Shiner, Pale-hoof.’ The last belonged to Astragali, the star-watcher. ‘Darkie, Stamper, Wendafoot.’ He peered into the next stalls. ‘Black-brow, Hereburgi's mount, and you are Gleamer.’

Each horse turned an eye to him, watchful, as he crept by their quivering rumps to the last, Sooty-face, the steed of Davaras. He was the hermit named by Catoowig as ‘Grower,’ responsible for raising crops of vegetables, grain and herbs, that were the diet of the inmates, and for producing malt-ale, cider-wine and such, with the aid of cattle-powered millstones. Corin halted, pondering, at the tenth stall. It yet remained empty, though fresh feed awaited, as if some phantom steed might appear out of the darkness at any moment. He was about to speak softly to the silent horses, that they might come to know him somewhat better, when the sound of voices echoing down the steps above caused him to shrink into the shadows of a dark passage beyond. Instinctively, and without knowing exactly why, he drew his cloak and hood around him as two figures emerged, bathed in the light of an uplifted lantern. The first, he saw, was Helminth, a hermit wise in ancient lore. The second, the lantern bearer, was Catoowig. They paused for a time, regarding the horses, both deeply involved in a hushed conversation.

‘You say that Morbi-Han is certain of these things?’ questioned Catoowig, whilst taking a large key from the folds of his robe.

‘I say as he told me,’ answered Helminth, ‘he claims to have broken the secrets of Dewin's parchments; the truths of The Serpent Stone, that yet still remains in the keeping of Orsokon of Kutha-Kesh.’

The pair began to move toward an arch beneath which, revealed by the bobbing lamplight, lay a closed door. The door, as Corin well knew, to Morbi-Han's private chamber. It was iron cast and iron bound; a great round hoop hung from a studded bracket and under that was a keyhole into which Catoowig fitted the key in his hand.

‘I must look upon his studies to see for myself,’ he said, turning it with some difficulty. ‘The White Stone is a map of some kind, he thinks?’ Catoowig grunted, heaving the heavy door open so that light beamed from within.

‘Yes, and more than that,’ answered Helminth, ‘it seems to tell a tale of ages past; there is mention of the Black-elves, the Daræ, and their part in those long-ago events...’ The door swung behind them as they entered, and all was darkness again. Only the faint glow from beyond the horse stalls pervaded that gloom.

Corin was perplexed. Was he to go, or stay? His absence might be discovered at any moment and yet he could not leave the mystery unsolved. The Daræ had been mentioned; they who had opened the way for the Great Powers dwelling deep within the earth to emerge, thus almost leading to World's overthrow. They who, perhaps, had taken an active part in his mother and father, Loriandir and Themion's, imprisonment and fate thereafter, as spoken of by the witches of Aplotha.

What did it mean? Why the hermits' secrecy? Corin wondered. And so he waited on, curiosity stinging him, in the blackness of the cold vaults. Eventually, a streak of light, broadening swiftly, heralded the door's opening and from within, Corin heard Catoowig's voice, ‘Your reading of the Albolith seems reasonable and long you have toiled to uncover its hidden meanings. Yet what good shall come of such?’

‘That I cannot foretell,’ came a sharp reply that was neither Helminth or Catoowig. Morbi-Han appeared on the threshold, followed by the other two, ‘though it seems plain enough to me that he is the only one in all the world who might achieve the task, if that be necessary at all.’

‘You mean to tell us that simply because Master Corin is the offspring of a Fane Princess, lost within Earth's fastness, he bears some power to open the hidden doors of World-Heart?’ Catoowig seemed to scoff at such notion as he uttered the words, though he took Morbi-Han by the arm, arresting him.

‘I mean this much,’ replied the other, ‘he seeks for answers to questions. He does not have them as yet, but if those were given him, I deem that he would try; the desire for his Mother's freedom, or for sated powers beyond his dreams might be too much.’

‘And we know that the Four Witches have laid the task upon him,’ added Helminth. ‘They contrived his rebirth for this purpose, but to what ends? We know not if They work for the Good, or for the Evil of the world.’

Catoowig considered this, staring into the shadows where only paces away Corin huddled, listening. ‘Should he be made aware of The White Stone, I wonder? Or is it better to leave things as they are, to destroy your work. After all, none other than we, not even those in Kutha-Kesh, can guess the meanings engraved upon the Albolith. And mayhap a time will come where that itself will be destroyed and lost forever.’

‘Do not be too sure of that,’ Morbi-Han answered. ‘There are those who came with him, the elves; if they were ever to journey to Kurigaldur...’ he left the sentence unfinished.

‘Of course!’ Catoowig replied. ‘And yet even with such insight the elves alone could never use it, if as you believe, Corin has been chosen for the task. Though I must admit I am baffled, why he, and he only?’

‘That, as yet, we know not. Perhaps he does. Or, if he is unaware, maybe there is a solution to be found in his past,’ offered Helminth.

‘Perhaps and maybe,’ Catoowig mused. ‘If Master Corin does not leave such information out on purpose. I need study my notes and question him further, without arousing his suspicions.’ He sighed, pondering, it seemed. ‘I begin to regret having chanced upon that renegade of men, Dewin of Indlebloom. Even though I happed upon him, dead in the wilderness, he left us a legacy that might better have been lost; his writings and the copy of the Albolith, as he named it. The White Stone itself, he would have stolen, had he not been discovered. And at the last, when his end was nigh, he finally admitted to all his crimes, scratching them down before death claimed him.’

‘Is the Stone of value?’ Helminth wondered. ‘Dewin believed as much, from what he wrote; a confession of greed and avarice and too, murder. After all it was he who poisoned the parents of the three brothers, now the Lords of Indlebloom.’

‘So you told us at the time,’ muttered Morbi-Han, impatiently. ‘But should we not concern ourselves with the present?’

Catoowig held up a hand. ‘We will come to that, though first let me recall those events, therein may lie some answers. Dewin had plotted the downfall of Lord Elmeth and his Lady Fandil, that he would come to rule whilst the children were still not of age. It was in his mind to do away with the brothers at a later time, and thus conclude the House of Mendoth in bloodshed. Then, the journey to Kutha-Kesh brought about a change of plan, for he saw The Stone and guessed it to be more than Orsokon and his wisest. They considered it merely a singular curiosity. So desiring it, Dewin attempted the theft, perhaps wishing to study its every subtlety, and was caught and sent away in disgrace, though not revealing a carefully detailed drawing he had previously made. After that, his sway in Indlebloom diminished and the people of that country trusted him no longer. And at length, he foresaw that Cennalath, faithful friend of Elmeth's, would be chosen as Protector of the young Lords, and that he would be cast out. So, before that, he skulked from the city, bent upon revenge. In the pursuit of that aim, he died a just death. To his last breath, he believed that The White Stone held some hidden secret that would lead him to power, and the right to rule the nations he so hated. It may well be that he sought those of our order, so that The Stone might yield up its riddles. Yea, even unto we who once, as now, set foot across the wilder lands.’

‘Yet not of power to rule a few minor nations tells The Stone, but of power to alter the course of the entire world, above and beneath’ said Morbi-Han. ‘The power over all realms of all the world, known and unknown. I believe The Stone of Remorse is a map of time and space. It speaks a history. It predicts a doom. It holds a destination.’

‘And coupled with that, are the visions of Astragali,’ added Helminth. ‘Surely, we must now take those into consideration, for he has proven correct many times in the past.’

‘Many times, though not always,’ Catoowig answered. ‘And these premonitions are of moment enough to shake the very foundations of the earth. But can we be certain of their validity? One single mistake, one oversight, and the fate of all will be altered.’

‘Yet we know of certain that the forces of Evil are already on the march,’ Helminth continued. ‘Cold-worms and Fire-dragons are rising again, along with the goblins. And, there is the Nardred...’

Catoowig lifted his hand at that utterance. ‘Hush! Do not speak of that creature. Far beyond our limitations is The World Serpent, wherever in ocean's depths It prowls.’

‘Far beyond us, agreed,’ said Morbi-Han, ‘though if the Daræ were again released from below, where Astragali believes they have the mastery, might they subdue even the greatest terrors?’

Catoowig gestured, irritably, ‘Our Star-Gazer may be the victim of some ruse employed by Enemies unknown to us. Are the Māādim and Their terrible legions no longer potent, so that the bindings of Valandir be undone? Can the Doors of Adamant be thrown open to allow only the Good to pass out? If it were mine alone to say, I would say no! If indeed the Daræ have triumphed in Earth-Heart, let them remain there as Over-Lords forever, even though Corin had such vast power to unlock the Hidden Halls. But mine is only a single voice, the others must be told,’ and here he raised a finger, ‘with the exception of Master Corin.’ Catoowig turned to Morbi-Han. ‘As leader of our order, I deem that this matter be settled here. Go to the six and bring them hence, that together we take vote and judge the worth of this new-found knowledge; whether it be revealed to Master Corin, or consigned to flame and forgotten.’ Then, turning toward the door at his back, he added, ‘I shall wait here inside. I should like to ponder these discoveries further.’

Soon, the passage lay empty, the closed door locked from within.

Corin stood in the faint light cast from the stalls, intending to make off undetected, yet the desire to gain entry and see for himself those mysterious revelations, caused him to linger.

Time passed, then without warning, the iron door was thrown open and Catoowig emerged, muttering, ‘How long does it take to summon a few folk!’ The hermit passed Corin by and stamped off into the murk without lifting his eyes.

Now the door, where yellow beamed at its edges, stood ajar. Swiftly, Corin was through it and inside a candle-lit room, stacked from floor to ceiling with tablets and tiles, broken pottery, faded parchments and curled vellums. There were other things too: urns and statues, scenes drawn and etched on plasters, and various items of tin, copper, gold and silver. But what attracted his attention, illuminated by white tapers, were the parchments upon a long, stone table in the middle of the chamber. The first was a faded replica of that stone from far-off Kurigaldur.

At once, he recognised the shape and nature of it: the sun and moon, the stars, the various figures and creatures, the curious patterns, and the swan surrounded by the coils of a vast serpent. But further, Corin's gaze fell upon sheets he recognised as scribed by the hand of the hermit Morbi-Han. He began to read, stumbling at times, aware that at any moment he might be discovered, retaining every detail as best he could.

In leaf-falling in winter’(s) (Tartë) thrall, from the shore(s) that breast the sea-path to the West, (Araboth)

I, Ny’æ, daughter of Tal’æcion, (literally; Moon-elder-stone)

Princess Black, Maiden of the Dark Elves, (Daræ) take leave of the World. (Tevel: literally; West-Sun-Up-World)

Behind me, the evening-land. (Erev)

To any who cast eye upon the work of my design, this White-stone and the history of remorse thereon, I bequeath.

For came we, the Dark Elves, into the World, and in ambition fell to folly.

With craft and curiosity did the Dark Elves set to discover all that could be found.

All secrets were unlocked, even to the hidden way of World-mouth: (Tevel-colm ) hidden and banned by the Elder-Elf-Sires; The Lords. (Drotnar)

And, in impiety, were the bans broken by the Dark Elves, my people.

At first the spell of Fire-glowing-metal (Orichalc) lured them on.

Then the desire of more; of knowledge so great, so vast, that life might be created, or the destruction of the World (Tevel) wrought.

Or light and dark be made and unmade, Stars (Loriidæ) struck and hurled into the Heavens, (Or'mæ) seas rolled back, mountains raised.

Alas, ambition and folly brought their downfall.

Southward, (Yarmë) under the thrice seven, stands the Lonely Forest, (Lirra Menaltë) 'midst which yet lies the Plain (Aileen) and World-mouth; once more hidden by the Elder-Elf-Sires command, shut till the day of reckoning, and the doom of the World.

From the midmost point upon the mirror of Heaven, wherein dwell winter's ten eyes, may West-Sun (Araboth Alknar) and East-Moon (Erev-Tal-Aluinn) be seen, and South-Stars (Yarmë Loriidæ) and North-Swan (Necho Othair) beheld.

Beneath the Swan (Othair) in Ice-Home, (Leden-Lar) land of Giants, (Jutunn) is Wolf-Deme, (Shanilar) which lies within the finger(s) of the encircling pair.

There, is Earth-Eye, (Tevel-Air) where Valandir and Sköl did battle.

There still entwined, lie Lord (Drotnar) and Fire-Demon; (Māādim) captor(s) and captive(s) both.

Thus the World, I deem, is doomed.

Entrapped as it is, unbalanced by the meddling of my own race, shall it wither and die, and with it shall all else cease.

At the last will rise The World-Serpent (Nar-Dredd) as portent of the end to come.

Let this, The White Stone of Remorse, (Pulthar-Cion ar Mei'as) mark the Star-Path

(Kavenga) and my passing from the world.

To you, this doom who rede, I Ny'æ say hail and farewell.’

At the end of these pages, lay a single sheet; notes added to the translation, again in the hermit's hand. This read, ‘Symbols are those of a Daræ Princess, Ny’æ (That is Niello-Elder) by name. It would appear that she did not venture into Earth' s domain with her kindred, but dwelt above until after the Drotnar, Valandir, had vanquished the Māādim, and quelled Their uprising.

Whether she departed into western seas is unsure, yet she records the fate of Valandir, and marks both Earth-Mouth and Earth-Eye by star-pattern and season; leaf-falling is late autumn, and the thrice-seven to the south are stars of The Chase (Hunt) constellation. Beneath them, lies a place she names the Lonely Forest, and within that The Plain, Aileen, and the lost Mouth-of-the-World.

From some middle vantage point where sun and moon both may be seen together at dawn, and where new-come winter's ten stars look directly down, as they are marked, seems to be the area for observation. There the stars of the south and the Swan of the north fall altogether. Below the Swan, is a realm of Giants, Ice-home. Apparently within enclosing mountains, and there, deep beneath Earth-Eye, is the prison, or tomb, of both Valandir and Sköl. The last part of the inscription deals with Ny'æ's presentiment of destruction for Varlar, the elvish word for World, warning that the Nardred shall rise to devour all.

That such creature exists, we have long believeded, and now we know that the stirring's of the seas prove our gravest doubts. The world appears evermore troubled. Mayhap, only the Daræ who set such Powers in motion, have yet the strength to restore the order and balance of the World. If Astragali's visions of their triumph in the Nether regions be correct, it is they who hold the key to world salvation. One thing is certain; there is now no way for the Doors of Adamant to be opened, other than by the will of the Drotnar Valandir, if yet He survives.’

Here Morbi-Han's writings ceased and Corin, committing everything to memory, set the pages back in place and sped away, drawing the iron portal behind him.

Lights glimmered in the distance, casting grotesque shadows.

Swiftly he stepped into the darkness whilst the hermits filed by.

‘Be that is the way of it Astragali, after deliberation we will bring him hither,’ muttered Catoowig. ‘Though if decided otherwise, we nine must take oath never to speak of it again, and destroy all evidence.’

‘Yet World's fate may depend on our judge...’ The door closed with a dull clank and Corin was left, shut out, an outsider still.

A short time later found him again within his cell, puzzling over what he had heard and seen. Of one thing he was now sure, the mage-hermits were more than they seemed. They knew too much. And they were well aware of him, who he was and had been, even before he arrived; for the part of his tale regarding the witches Corin had not, thus far, disclosed to them. But did these queer folk, posing as simple seekers of learning, work for the Good, or for Evil? And were they also a part of The Voices that had beckoned him into the north?

If, as he considered, they knew of him prior to his arrival at the hermitage, that he was the child of parents entombed in the long-ago past and believed that in some way he held a key to the Nether-Realms, what would they do next? Had they called him to them with a purpose? With certainty there would be but few ways to hold him in their sway, imprisonment or murder. If they deemed such for world's good, might they be justified in that ruthless action, at least to themselves.

Corin shivered involuntarily. And yet, he had already overheard them arguing whether to speak of The Stone, or simply keep silent and destroy the evidence. Destroy the evidence. Why not then destroy the one in all Varlar who held this unknown power, rather than allow him freedom to venture out again and perhaps stumble upon the truth of the matter; maybe in company with the elves, on a visit to Kurigaldur.

On that instant, Corin realised that escape, when the chance availed itself, was his only alternative. If the hermits took their vow of silence and later so much as suspected that he had already seen the translations of Morbi-Han, they would never permit him to leave alive.

These thoughts, racing like flocks of birds to night's rest, numbed Corin, so that he stood defensively at the opening of his little cell. Then there was no time left to think, for out of the darkness lights played across the cold stone beyond, coming toward him. It was Hereburgi and Davaras, both bearing candles, so that their faces were illuminated as they drew near.

‘We have come,’ said Davaras, ‘to beg your presence in the levels below, on the request of Catoowig the Wise.’

For a fraction, Corin hesitated, though he saw that he was utterly at their mercy, that they could do with him as they wished. So thinking, he took his place between the pair, his breath rising in his throat, to pass chill from his body, as they tramped the long halls and descended. At every step he expected to be set upon, yet the faces of his companions betrayed nothing.

At last they came to the floor of the stables and there gathered were his other fellow hermits; foremost of all Catoowig, arms folded, hands enveloped in the bell openings of his cloak. Torches flamed about the walls, throwing back the darkness and lighting the stalls beyond, whence the eyes of the nine steeds followed, watchful.

Fleetingly, Corin wondered whether these animals might have already borne witness to his earlier visit. All too late, he considered as much, when Catoowig broke the stony silence.

‘Master Corin, there is something we wish you to see.’ The mage-hermit gestured to follow and led the way, but not toward the iron door beyond the stables. Instead they took their path along one of the ramps that rose upward to the inner courtyards; the training and exercise areas of the horses.

Once there, Davaras and Dirmyg drew aside a pair of tall, timbered gates, allowing the light of day to flood in. For some moments, Corin was blinded and helpless in that sudden brightness, though he could not deny a feeling of freedom, mingled with tense anticipation and apprehension. Then, his vision clearing, he saw that which awaited him. Standing alone, proud and aloof, was the most magnificent horse: dark polished, blue-black was its coat, tail and mane of jet, eyes of ebony and hooves of coal. It saw the hermits and tossed its haughty head in a defiant, wild-willed manner.

Corin marvelled at the creature, and finer he thought it than the roans of Indlebloom, or even the white elvish steeds of Elfame.

‘He is yours, as was promised you,’ said Catoowig grandly. ‘Before now we could not present him, for he was not here. Far off, was he, concerned with the business of change from foal to colt, growing to stallion. He is the last and the finest from the Father of the Equine. His nine half-brothers are those installed below, and his sire had hard travel through wild lands to find the Dam-of-Dams that would, this bold animal, throw. Why, ask Diarmath. He it was who, long ago, made bargain with the Father-of-Horses.’

‘That I did,’ nodded the hermit, with some satisfaction. ‘I caught Shar-Pædon, Father-of-Horses, caught him, held him fast with beguilement. And for his freedom, did I extract his promise of ten sons. When his first-love mare died after the ninth foal, Shar-Pædon ranged the world for Silili, the Dam-of-Dams. And from their union sprang this fire-heart.’

‘Thus far, he owns no name,’ said Shadarck, the hermit wise in sea-lore. ‘It is left for you to give him one.’

‘Also,’ chuckled Diarmath, ‘he is untamed and resentful of his lot, he takes unkindly the bargain I forced upon his sire. Never has he suffered our hands to touch him, obeying only his father's decree. But mark me well, when this wilful and stubborn fellow is broken, he will do your bidding.’

Corin, entranced by the animal, took several steps forward. ‘I do not want him broken,’ he murmured. ‘He will come to me of his own desire, or I shall set him free of his debt, here and now.’

At this utterance the hermits bent their cowled heads toward Corin as one, seeming suddenly unsure of his manner. But he, no longer fearing those at his back, approached the horse until they were only a few paces apart. A feeling of calm arose between the two, almost as if they were alone. It seemed somehow that Corin, The Corin of Ravenmoor, of Elfame and Aplath, had renewed and ascended. And in that ascension, had risen above all consequence, knowing that for the moment, he controlled events to follow. Before him, the animal, beautiful and delicate, savage and frightened, responded. In one swift moment the two met, touched, and exchanged their loyalties; though not as master and chattel, but more as if they owned each other. Corin turned to the hermits, his arm about the stallion's neck, both horse and he together, eyes shining.

‘Look,’ cried Shadarck in awe, ‘look at the glow about them! They are bathed in light!’

Catoowig laughed aloud at this outburst, saying, ‘Ho Shadarck, you should know better. That is Anthel-light, reflected from the snowy peaks, which at times casts haloes around objects. Do not cower. Master Corin is not about to spit dragon-fire.’ Though as he spoke, his voice lowered, his amusement abating and even he appeared confused and subdued.

If an outsider, gifted with the wings and eyes of a hawk, flying above, had chanced upon this single moment of the world, this one frozen scene, he too would have gaped.

For below, in a courtyard clearly outlined amongst the iron battlements and towers of the solitary hermitage, there stood the unmoving figures of ten black-gowned folk and a sleek black horse.

Nine were together, their cloaks trailing about their feet, faces hidden by hoods.

But of the tenth, slight beneath his dark garments, and small in comparison to the young, ebony stallion attending him, all light from sky and snowy peak seemed to pour down and inward, to bathe and dazzle and soak within; so that the nine appeared black as coal-pits, whilst Corin and the animal at his side shone with the brilliance and sparkle of sun-shot diamond jet.

If, for that moment, an outsider had seen. If.

Corin, breaking that instant, said, ‘This welcome friend, I give name, and may he wear it well. Henceforth he shall be called Darkelfari.’

Days and nights followed, filled in much the same way as before. There were periods of rest and meditation, hard work crushing grain, baking, washing, scrubbing; times of learning and of subtle questioning, the gathering of eggs, churning of butter and cheese, and the pailing of milk.

There were times of togetherness amongst the hermits, and also solitary intervals, work with the livestock, especially for Corin with Darkelfari, and an awareness that both he and the horse were closely overseen. And within Corin's heart, amidst the learning of simple things and deeper, near-lost arts, there was an ever growing unease. But during this period he kept such feelings hidden and guarded, controlling his fears and biding on until a chance might offer.

At new trades he worked. At forge and smithy and foundry: hammering, tempering, casting, mixing alloy for strength and durability. He learned cooking and the contriving of speedwells and poisons, brewed broths and medicines and saw to the tiny mould-cures, concocted pomanders and unguents for the healing of wounds. Watched and noted the stars, listened to the tales of rivers and oceans, of stone and wood, and the ancient lore of many lands. Grasped the diverse symbols and signs that were the makings of tongue. Heard much of weaponry and warlike peoples, of saltpetre and brimstone and fire.

All this, and much, much more; yet never a word, a sign, that the hermits might take him into their confidence. It was plain enough to Corin that these folk had taken their vow of silence, excluding him.

Nightfall, and the cry of the wind wailed about the walls. The hermitage slept.

The evening meal of stew and bread had been taken, meditation begun and ended, the last brew of horehound beer and chamomile tea quaffed. After laving, the group had dispersed, each to seek solitude in his private cell. Corin harked the faint sounds of the others, until they died away.

The time of one who waits alone, awake, slipped by. The hermitage slept.

Later, when he turned back, his eyes accustomed to the pale glow of the thin new moon and Darkelfari snorting softly beneath him, did Corin feel finally at ease. For there, behind, amongst a vista of white peaks, lay the black outline of his home for many a day.

Dark it loomed, oddly formidable in its stillness, as if it were a lurking, living thing, perched ready to leap from the shoulder of the mountain. He clutched at the sack of stolen food for horse and himself, and whilst the frost gathered about them both, rode silently away.

The snow glistened.

Ice chinked, chinked, as it slid from turret and lofty iron spire.

The hermitage slept...

Or was it that eighteen points of light, nine-paired, wide like owl-eyes, blinked and stared; watched, following, as the horse and rider dwindled into the frozen wastes, to become lost amidst the valleys.

Chapter 45 [next]