The Eye of the Hunter (14 page)

“And e’en as he ages, thou wilt not change. Thou wilt remain as thou art today, just as I remained as I was.

“I could look into Evian’s eyes, and behind the love that shone therein, still there was envy, perhaps e’en hatred, for I did not walk with him down the descending path he trod
through time. Instead my path was level, not heeding time’s call.

“I watched as he became an ancient, enfeebled Man, though but moments had passed in my count of the years.

“And when he died, so did my heart. Winter came into my days, no matter the seasons, and life was not worth living.

“Years passed uncounted, and still I mourned for Evian, for what once was, for what could never be.

“In those days I would have been consoled only by children born of Evian and me. But with him gone, I had no desire for children. Or rather, the only children that I wished for were children of impossibility.

“Yet even when Evian was alive, I knew, as dost thou, that no issue may come of matings between Elfkind and Mankind, hence no children would come from our love—not only because I was Elf and he was a Man, but that we were upon Mithgar, and upon Mithgar no Elfchild may be conceived at all. Only here upon Adonar do such blessings befall Elvenkind. Yet even were Man and Elf to find themselves together upon Adonar, still I think that nought would come of it—children of such are impossibilities.

“And so I was inconsolable, and I did not think that I would ever love again.

“And I nearly did not. Yet thy father and I came to an understanding. At first I was merely fond of him. Yet slowly, slowly, I came to love him, too.

“But even as I took thy sire as my mate, I swore that should I someday be blessed with get of mine own, I would shelter them from such heartgrief as I had suffered.

“Seasons passed without count, and your sire and I hewed to the Elven way, bearing no sons or daughters, for Elvenkind was then in balance. There came a day, though, when our numbers had dwindled such that Daor and I and other couples could beget young. And in our family, first thou wert born, and then thy brother, Talar.

“It was with thy birth that joy at last came back into my life. The rest thou dost know.

“But never will I forget Evian, and I weep for him still.

“And this is what I would warn thee of, Riatha: never love a mortal Man, for time will come to claim him, slowly yet inexorably, and it will shatter thy heart, perhaps beyond all mending.”

Reín fell silent, her admonition said, tears yet sliding down her cheeks. In the Eldtree vaults above, Silverlarks sang their evensongs as twilight stole upon the land, the sky shading from lavender to violet to deep purple to velvet black, revealing wheeling stars glinting gold and copper and silver, while the argent light from a quarter Moon streamed down through the interlaced leaves, casting drifting filigree shadows upon the forest floor. At last, grey-eyed Riatha looked into Reín’s eyes of grey. “I heed thee, Mother, and shall ward my heart against such.”

* * *

Dawn came, an in-between time, neither night nor day, but something of each. Morning mist curled across the glade and among the trees, the mist an in-between state, neither water nor air, but something of each. And the marge bordering wood and glen was an in-between place, neither forest nor field, but something of each.

Dressed in grey leathers, Dúnamis affixed in shoulder harness, Riatha embraced her sire and dam and gave them a last kiss. Then she leapt astride the grey stud, the horse skittering and sidle stepping, eager to be underway.

Daor and Reín stepped back, the sire placing a comforting arm about the dam’s shoulders.

And with a final good-bye, Riatha began chanting her journey unto Mithgar, her voice rising and falling, canting, neither singing nor speaking, but something in between, her mind lost in the ritual, neither wholly conscious nor unconscious, but something in between.

Off moved the horse, pacing in an arcane pattern, hooves flashing in a series of intricate steps, neither a dance nor a gait, but something in between.

Into the swirling mist they moved, there on the margin ’tween wood and field in the pale dawn light. Grey fog slowly becloaked them as they stepped the intricate steps and canted the arcane chant, rider and horse gradually fading into the mist, Riatha’s voice becoming soft, then faint, then no more.

And in the silence left behind, Daor embraced Reín.

Their daughter was gone.

* * *

Out from the mist and into the dawn rode Riatha, still chanting, the grey stud yet pacing the arcane pattern. And
when the Elfess could see the land about her, her voice fell silent, and the stud stopped his intricate stepping.

“Well done, Shadow,” she murmured. “Thou hast borne me unto Mithgar.”

The horse nickered, bobbing his head up and down as if he understood.

About them, morning mist yet swirled. They were on a marge between forest and field, as was to be expected, for the anchoring points for crossings are fair matched unto one another, else no journey could be made. And the better the match, the easier the steps between. Yet with but rare exception, always would the chant be needed and the ritual steps be necessary, for perfect matches between stately Adonar and young, wild, untamed Mithgar are uncommon and scattered and for the most part unknown. And so, Riatha’s journey followed the traditional rite, the arcane chant and precise movements driving her set of mind to that deep state necessary to make the transition, to go between.

And she had come unto Mithgar.

Even though it was still dawn—the in-between time—had Riatha desired to immediately return to Adonar, she could not have. For journeys to Mithgar must be made upon the dawn, whereas travel to Adonar could only he made at dusk. Dawn Ride, Twilight Ride: there was an ancient benediction among Elves upon Mithgar:
Go upon the twilight, return upon the dawn
.

But Riatha was not thinking upon this eld saying as she emerged from the mist and into the Mithgarian dawn. Instead, she looked about at the wild tangle of greenery and listened to the unfettered singing of Mithgarian birds, her eye spotting unfamiliar shapes and colors winging through the dawnlight, while here and there an animal slipped furtively among the undergrowth or ran along branches above.
Wild and untamed indeed are thee, Mithgar
.

She sat and drank in the air and light and sounds and sights of the forest and field and of the sky above, finding all new yet familiar. At last she turned her horse north and spoke softly to him, urging Shadow into a canter. And as the Sun rose, her heart laughed, for she was on Mithgar, and she was riding toward her brother, Talar, and his wife, Trinith, who lived among the Elves of Darda Immer, the Brightwood of Atala.

* * *

A century passed, or perhaps more than one, for Time and Elves are somewhat strangers unto one another, and season followed season without close count, and years fled into the past. In the passing decades Riatha and Talar and Trinith stayed in the Brightwood, learning the lessons of first aid and herblore and healing.

There came a day when Talar and Trinith moved to Duellin, some ten leagues hence on the eastern shore of Atala. Talar was to take up the art of sword making, apprenticed to the legendary Dwynfor himself, while Trinith was to take up a harp. But Riatha took on another duty, standing watch upon the slopes of Karak, while the firemountain slept, seeking signs of when it might awaken again, if ever.

Seasons changed and changed, and now and again Riatha would journey to see her fair-haired brother and his ebon-haired wife, or Talar and Trinith would visit her. And in the evenings they would gather ’round the hearths of Darda Immer, or those of Duellin, where Trinith would join with other harpers to sing the Elven songs that reached back to the beginnings of time itself.

There came a season when word was borne across the sea that
Spaunen
in great number seemed to be mustering in the Grimwall, there in Mithgar to the east. Something was afoot, and warriors were wanted.

Then it was that Riatha came to the seaport of Duellin a last time and bade farewell to Talar and Trinith and set sail for Caer Pendwyr, an Arbalina ship swiftly bearing her and her steed eastward across the Weston Ocean and through the Avagon Sea to the Land of Pellar. And in shoulder sling rode Dúnamis.

Then came the Great War, the War of the Ban.

Riatha rode with the Elves of Darda Galion, that mighty Elvenholt there alongside the Grimwall.

Fierce were the battles, and long the struggle lasted. And there was great loss and grief during the strife. Many were the Death Redes—those final messages somehow sent from a dying Elf unto another of his Kind in the moment of death, defying time and distance to reach the one for whom it is intended, benumbing the Elven recipient with the Knowledge that a beloved companion has died, one who had just begun life.

But as devastating as is a single Elven death, the demise of hundreds is overwhelming, as was the case on the Day
of Anguish, when Atala plunged beneath the sea in cataclysmic ruin—by Gyphon’s hand, it was claimed.

Thousands were lost and thousands more in that monstrous catastrophe, as Humans and Drimma and Waerlinga and Elves perished. And everywhere on Mithgar, Elves were whelmed unto their knees, all Elves upon Mithgar without exception, stunned by the disembodied deathery of hundreds and hundreds of their kindred in the moment of their dying, their passing like a ghastly wind blowing chill through the very souls of all Elvenkind.

The effects of the destruction of Atala did not end with the sinking of the land beneath the sea, oh no, for other realms of Mithgar suffered mightily with its passing, as great tidal waves rolled over the Weston Ocean, rising up into vast walls as they approached land, smashing into distant seashores, inundating all, sweeping away villages and cities and dwellings and lives alike. Too, a thunderous sound rang ’round the world, as if from a mighty explosion, and the sky grew dark, filled with a pall, while ash fell onto lands beyond the sea.

And in one of those lands, Riatha, too, had fallen stunned, for so many of Elvenkind had died in the destruction of Atala that no Elf on this Plane had escaped the consequences. But though she had been bedazed, hammered to her knees by this vast last cry of desolation, still no Death Rede had come to her from Talar, and so he might have survived, given that he had not instead sent his Rede to Trinith, for if that were the case, then Riatha would not know of his passing.

And of those whose anguished cries she had felt, they were dead, all dead; and Riatha wept for them, the Elves whose lives had just begun, no matter their ages.

Slowly her grief subsided, for the Great War continued and she had battles to fight regardless of her distress, and War waits for no one. She fought on, a hollowness in her breast whenever she thought of Talar or Trinith.

Yet there came a day when Talar rode into the wooded site where the Lian Guardians were encamped, Riatha among them. She wept to see him, and he wept, too, for when Atala had sunk without warning, Trinith had been swallowed by the sea. Talar had been waiting for her aboard a ship in the harbor of Duellin, a ship that was set to sad the very next day, bound for Hovenkeep, there in the south.
the two of them planning to join the Lian in Darda Galion. She had gone ashore to bid farewell to Glinner, the Harpmaster, when Karak exploded and Atala sank. The ship that Talar himself had been on was destroyed in the blast, and he remembered nought until he had found himself floating amid wreckage the next day; how he had escaped the hideous suck as the great island had plunged under the sea, he knew not, yet survive he did.

Some days later—nine, he thought—he had been rescued by a passing ship. It bore him to a port in Gothon, and from there he had made his way to Darda Galion, and thence to Darda Erynian, following after the Lian company Riatha rode among.

And even though he had been whelmed by the shattering of the ship, still he had received Trinith’s Death Rede:
I love thee
, was her sending.
I love thee
, nothing more.

And so as Riatha and Talar were reunited, Joy and Grief stood side by side in the forest glade that day.

* * *

The War dragged on, Talar and Riatha battling shoulder to shoulder and back to back. Then word came that the High Plane itself had been invaded by Gyphon’s
Spaunen
from the Untargarda, from Neddra, from the Underworld on the Lower Plane.

With this dire news Riatha bethought to take Dúnamis back unto her dam, for surely now it was needed upon adonar. Yet even as she prepared for the Twilight Ride, foe fell upon her company, and she fought instead of passing between the Planes. A running battle, it lasted for ten days—and during that time more word came from the High World, from the Hōhgarda: Gyphon’s army now marched across Adonar, aiming, it seemed, for one of the places of crossing in between, preparing to invade Mithgar. To prevent such a disaster, Adon Himself declared that he would sunder the ways between the Planes, and although any could yet use the rituals to return unto the realms where their blood permitted, once there, they would not be able to venture forth unto other Planes again.

Hence, Elvenkind could return to Adonar, to the High Plane, to the realm of their blood, but then could not afterward step unto the Middle Plane and Mithgar, or to the Lower Plane and Neddra, for neither of these was of their Mood. Likewise,
Spaunen
and the Cursed Ones could step
to Neddra on the Lower Plane, but once there could never again venture to the High and Middle Planes. And any who were of the Middle Plane could return from High or Low but never pass to them again.

One day later, by Adon’s doing, the open ways between the Planes were sundered, and only the ritualistic blood-ways endured. To the Elves the Dawn Ride was no more though the Dusk Ride yet remained.

After agonizing over whether to return to Adonar and aid in the battles ’gainst Gyphon there, or to stay on Mithgar and oppose Gyphon’s lieutenant, Modru, and the vast Hordes hammering upon the Alliance, Riatha and Talar finally chose to remain upon the Middle Plane, for here the need was known and seemed greatest, here where the Grand Alliance of Men and Elves, of Drimma and Waerlinga, and eventually of Utruni, grappled with Rucha and Loka, Trolls, Ghûlka and Hèlsteeds, Vulgs, and other creatures dire. Too, Modru was aided by Men—the Lakh of Hyree and the Rovers of Kistan, as well as the Hordes of Jung. Here on Mithgar, too, Wizards fought against Wizards, and against Gargoni as well.