The Elven (53 page)

“So none from Albenmark have been here?”

“No one. Occasionally, I met with Xern. The queen does not talk about us, nor does she tolerate so much as the mention of a word about us in her presence.”

The corner of Farodin’s mouth twitched. “Either she’s beside herself with anger and is just waiting for us to return so that she can cast her judgment on us. Or there’s something more,” he finally said.

“The gates are open again and unguarded. They have been ever since the end of the troll war. It seems that whatever threat Emerelle feared has been averted.”

“She said that Guillaume’s death could lead to the rise of something and that she could still sense the power of the Devanthar. How could something like that simply fade away?”

“The Devanthar has not been sighted again. No one mentions it anymore. At least, that’s what Xern says. Many times, I’ve wondered what the Devanthar is planning and whom it’s after. And if it’s really done with us.”

“Don’t lose any sleep over it. We avoid Albenmark as much as possible, and for the moment, we forget the Devanthar. With this picture, you may have shown me a way. At least, I feel inside as if you have.”

“There’s something else. With the dwarves, I—”

The door flew open, and Mandred came in, singing loudly. “‘Out stepped Torgrid’s sturdy son, the boar’s liver in his hand!’ Ah, there you are. And? Have you seen her?”

“Seen whom?” Farodin asked.

“Her! That wonderful woman. Neltor’s sister.”

“The women here all look the same to me,” Farodin said.

Nuramon smiled. “He means Tharhild.”

“Exactly! What a name. Tharhild.” The human grinned suggestively.

“Who would have thought,” said Farodin. “Mandred Torgridson’s in love.”

The jarl seemed not to have heard Farodin’s words. “How closely am I related to her?” he asked Nuramon.

“Let me think. You’re the father of Alfadas, and he’s the father of . . .” He fell silent and thought it over. But then it occurred to Nuramon to wonder why his friend wanted to know. With Ragna, he seemed not to have such misgivings at all. Or did he perhaps fear that Tharhild might be his own daughter? “There are eleven generations between you and Tharhild. You don’t need to worry at all. Unless . . .”

“Unless what?” Mandred asked.

“Remember the name
Ragna
?”

Pure terror spread across Mandred’s face. “Is Tharhild the . . .”

Nuramon let his friend stew a moment longer.

“Come on, tell me. What does Ragna have to do with Tharhild?”

“Well, she is Tharhild’s . . . aunt.”

Mandred sighed with relief. “What became of her? Did she grieve for me?”

“Mandred Torgridson, the great womanizer. Skirt chaser of Firnstayn. Just has to share his bed with a woman once, and she spends the rest of her life crying for him and waiting for him to come home. No, Mandred. She found a good man, had children with him, and had a happy life before she passed away. But then again . . .”

“Then again what . . . come on, out with it!”

“I’ve been eavesdropping on the women at court. They tell stories about you, Mandred. Not about the warrior, but about Mandred the lover, coming back after years away just to seduce the women.”

Mandred grinned.

“What do you think of your house?” Farodin asked the jarl. He obviously wanted to change the subject.

Mandred looked around. “By Norgrimm. This . . . this is the hall of a warrior.” He stood in front of the great battle-axe. “I like that . . .” Then something seemed to come to him. “Mandred the lover,” he muttered to himself. “I have to go. Nuramon, my friend, let’s sit down together later. I want to hear how things were for you.” Then Mandred was gone again as quickly as he had come. In his hurry, he had not even noticed the portrait of his son.

Farodin stared at the door that the human had just disappeared through. “He really means it.”

Nuramon sighed. “Yes. But it will be a rude awakening for him tomorrow. He’ll see Freya’s oak, and the sight of it will open up all the old wounds. You know what he’s like.”

“Humans are not as loyal as we are, Nuramon. Perhaps he’s over Freya.”

“The oak is a great symbol, too great. As long as it stands, he’ll remember her.”

“You’ve come to know the humans very well.”

“Yes. Forty-seven years. I’ve done a lot in that time. This world makes you use time differently than you normally would as an elf. I’ve seen young men grow old and girls become mothers and grandmothers. As much as I’ve loved these years here, I want to be on my way again, searching for Noroelle.”

“You’ve changed, my friend.”

The observation stirred Nuramon. True, he had changed. But Farodin was also not the same as he had been. To hear the word
friend
from him was a gift that Nuramon had never expected, especially after their unpleasant quarrel in Iskendria. “I’m glad that you are here with Mandred . . . friend.”

The Power of the Sand

T
he young king of Firnstayn proved himself a generous ruler. It took some time, but he had Nuramon’s ship, the
Albenstar
, properly outfitted, because from the start, it was clear to the three companions that Farodin’s boat was too small and fragile for the journey that lay ahead of them. King Neltor also realized this. He insisted that his bodyguard, the Mandridians, accompany them. And he gave them a heavy chest of silver to take along so that they could stock up their provisions in faraway harbors.

Farodin was far from certain of the success of their journey. Nuramon set great hope in the picture he had painted and did not want to even discuss how long they might have to search to find the island. How could you travel to a place if you did not know where it lay? But they kept their doubts hidden from the crew. What would the humans say if they knew? Even Mandred, whom they had known for many years now, was restless. He saw to the needs of his Mandridians, but he was afraid they might be old men before their search was at an end.

Farodin had memorized Nuramon’s picture down to the finest detail. Every day, he tried to use his seeking spell to find out where this place might be. But it was different with the picture than it had been with the grains of sand, and far less definite. With the sand, either he knew exactly where to find the grains or he did not. When he looked at the landscape Nuramon had painted, all he felt was the vague sense that they had to set a course eastward. But was a feeling enough, especially one as indistinct as this?

They avoided the waters of the trolls, following the deeply fissured coastline of Skoltan for several weeks instead.

It was a summer morning, and they were camped on a beach beneath white-gray chalk cliffs. Farodin had moved away from the others. As always, he cast the first seeking spell to try to find a pointer to the landscape in the picture. He was looking for more than an indeterminate feeling. He wanted to
know
which way they had to sail and not merely
suspect
it.

Then he cast the spell a second time. This time, he held the silver flask of sand tightly in his hands and went in search of the grains of sand from the smashed hourglass. He sensed one grain, some distance inland. He focused himself and allowed the power of the sand to flow. As a magnet attracts a sliver of iron, the sand in the bottle could summon a single grain.

Farodin reached out his hand, and soon he felt a very faint touch. Satisfied, the elf added the grain to the sand in the bottle. It was one tiny step, but every one of these steps took him a little bit closer to Noroelle.

With care, he sealed the silver bottle again. Then Farodin cast the seeking spell a third time. He closed his eyes and thought of the sea. He could also sense grains of sand that lay in deep water, but it was difficult for him to summon them. The constant motion of the water tended to hold them back. A single moment of inattention was enough for him to lose his connection to the grain. It was best to get as close as possible to them, to go out in a boat and catch them as soon as they came to the surface.

The sea worried him. How many grains of sand might it have swallowed? Grains that he would perhaps never be able to find. And how many of those originally in the hourglass could he do without when the time came to try to break through the queen’s sorcery?

Farodin suppressed the thought again and focused fully on the spell. He sensed individual grains in the silty seabed and . . . a tremor ran through him. Something strange was happening. The silver bottle in his hand had moved. Something was pulling at it. Farodin was so surprised that he lost his concentration and had to abandon the spell. What had happened?

For a long time, he sat on the beach and looked out over the sea. What could have caused such a strange phenomenon? Was there perhaps a place where many grains of sand lay together, more than he had gathered in all these years? Or was there someone else, like him, collecting the sand? A collector far more successful than he had been? Was there any way to rule out that possibility? Perhaps he should try to include Nuramon’s picture in his seeking spell for the grains of sand. He closed his eyes again and tried to concentrate. And again, he felt the pull toward the northeast, even clearer than before. An image took shape in his mind. He saw the stone, the very one on which Emerelle had smashed the hourglass. But what did that prove? Couldn’t there still be another collector? And perhaps that collector was there, to the northeast, waiting for them. Farodin dismissed the idea. Their ceaseless search must be affecting his mind. There was also a much simpler explanation. Where else would more sand likely be than near the stone where Emerelle smashed the hourglass? He must have sensed the crossing point to Noroelle’s prison in the Shattered World. He decided not to reveal all this to his companions. Why should he inflict his probably baseless fears on them? He returned to camp and told them they had to set a northeast course, out into the open ocean.

As brave as the Mandridians were, after three weeks out of sight of land, they started getting worried. Even Mandred, whose courage was beyond question, told them one morning that he was afraid they might reach the edge of the world and plunge into nothingness if they didn’t change course soon.

It fell to silver-tongued Nuramon to allay their fears. They trusted him. He was so skillful with his words that he soon had them laughing along with him whenever he spoke to them. But all his honeyed words couldn’t erase the staleness of the water in their barrels, and drinking the stuff took courage. Their remaining provisions were also running low, but they would soon reach their destination. Farodin had to hold tightly to the silver bottle to stop it from being physically pulled from his hand whenever he cast his seeking spell.

On the thirty-seventh day of their journey, they reached land. They ran the boat ashore and lost two days because nothing in the world would keep the Mandridians on board the
Albenstar
a moment longer. They searched for water and hunted, and even Farodin enjoyed the taste of fresh spring water again. But it was hard for him to keep a cool head, for he knew how close they were to their goal.

Once they had replenished their supplies and the Mandridians had recuperated somewhat, Farodin set their course northward along the coast. The oppressive days they had spent on the high seas were forgotten, replaced by the almost euphoric mood with which the Mandridians had begun their journey at the side of their illustrious forebear. Even the humans seemed to sense how near they were to their destination.

On the thirty-ninth day of the voyage, the coastline curved sharply to the east, and they turned into a wide bay. Fresh wind filled the sail, and they were making good headway when Nuramon suddenly let out a sharp cry. “The mountains! Look at the mountains!”

Farodin, too, recognized one of the mountains from Nuramon’s picture. Everything seemed to match. The trees growing along the shore, the colors of the distant mountains. Although they were sailing at a good rate, the Mandridians leaped to the oars and hauled hard, driving the boat forward even faster.

Farodin and Mandred stood feverishly in the bow. The stiff breeze tousled Farodin’s long hair. Tears stood in his eyes, and he was not ashamed of them.

“Do you feel that?” Nuramon asked. He pointed beyond a peninsula extending far into the bay. “There are many Albenpaths here. They all gravitate toward one point . . . it has to lie over there, on the other side of that forest.”

When they finally rounded the peninsula, Nuramon let out another cry of joy. He danced on the deck of the ship like a man possessed. The Mandridians laughed and exchanged a few crude jokes at Nuramon’s expense. They could not appreciate what this moment meant for the two elves, thought Farodin. He was not able to give free rein to his feelings like his friend. His own joy was silent, but he was no less stirred inside. In front of them lay a small island with a rocky shore and a grove of trees. It was the island in Nuramon’s picture.

The Mandridians went back to rowing as mightily as they could. The ship with its large, blue sail shot across the water like a loon. They had to change course, though, as gray reefs churned the water ahead of them. They were no more than a hundred paces from the shore, but there was nowhere to land here. They would have to round the northern tip of the little island and look for safer waters on the lee side.

Farodin looked at Nuramon. His companion understood what he was thinking without him having to say a word and grinned mischievously. Then both of them leaped overboard into the sea. The water only came to their chests. Half swimming, half wading, they made their way to shore as the boat sailed on northward.

Now Farodin, too, could feel the lines of power that marked the Albenpaths converging toward a star. The elves moved southward onto the tidal flats, now hidden under the high tide. Soon, they were standing at the junction of the paths. At high tide, it was hidden beneath the waters, but they did not have to see it to feel its power. Everything around them matched with Nuramon’s picture. There could be no doubt at all that they were in the right location. They had found the place from which Emerelle had sent the woman they loved into exile in the Shattered World.

Stirred by an incomparable sense of joy, Farodin embraced his companion. Their search was finally at an end. Now everything would be good again.