The Subtle Beauty (15 page)

Glory woke to soft orange firelight and groaned. Her head throbbed as though it had been pummeled by an entire castle’s worth of ashlar. She reached up to hold it while her other hand fell from under the covers to the side of the bed.

“A little to the left,” came a soft sigh.

Glory sat up quickly to see the gryphon lying peacefully on the floor beside her. Glory bit her lip hard. Screaming would only make everything worse. She buried her head in her hands and began to cry.
I wish I were dead.

The fire crackled in the background. Glory wept for her aching head and for home. After some time, she heard a soft, steady thump on the floor. She spread her fingers to see the gryphon upright. His head was turned to one side, and the firelight danced in his eyes. “Why do you weep, Princess?”

Glory wiped away her tears. “I am so unhappy. Why do I not die in this awful place?”

The gryphon blinked. “Well, you’re certainly trying hard enough, aren’t you!”

Glory sniffled and wiggled her head up and down in agreement.

“You’ve been asleep three days. Xander was impressed that you drink like a man.”

Glory began to cry again.

“What is wrong now?”

“I do not understand why you continually torture me.”

“Torture?”

“You call me ugly and stupid, and now I am a man!”

The gryphon turned his head to one side, then the other. “Man looks on the outward appearance, but I see man’s true heart. Yours is too proud, too vain, too ugly. Eoghan will not accept such a bride.” The gryphon lifted a claw to Glory’s bed, but withdrew it when she recoiled. He regarded her momentarily, then bowed, costively exiting.

Glory buried her face in the pillow and wept.
Oh, gods, where is Colin?

***

Colin forced himself to stay in Council’s Realm a fortnight. If he was going through Morgorth, he would need all the strength he could muster. His wounds needed time to heal. Since Council's Realm was the last free city of the Twelve Kingdoms, he was able to do odd jobs around the city without worry of the king's decree. Townsfolk quickly learned his name and recommended him to others. He even managed to secure a couple of hunts with the Lords of the Magistrate. They did not pay as well as Balthazaar had, but well enough. It kept Colin afloat.

At last there dawned a morning where Colin awoke feeling strong. The cuts on his face and head had healed, and there was only a shadow of a bruise around his once-swollen eye. He washed himself and headed downstairs to the tavern to take in a bit of gruel and a mug of ale. He thanked the innkeeper and his wife for their kindness and paid his portion to them for last night’s room and this morning’s meal. With what little money he had remaining, he purchased a green hunting cape of heavy wool and a new hunting knife. He had been lucky the brigands hadn’t killed him with the one they stole.

With the morning wearing on, Colin made haste south. He did not look forward to deviating from the main road to Morgorth, but he felt it was his best bet to infiltrate Blackthorn without being detected. He had met the bard again on occasion and received instruction on how to reach Morgorth. Not many dare to go into such a land, so few maps were in existence. If one were to view a map of the Twelve Kingdoms, Morgorth would be just as ominous looking on the paper as it was in life-- a dark, vague area with wild borders.

After walking for most of the morning and part of the afternoon, Colin stood there now staring at the forest of alders and willows. The sun shined cheerily behind him. A long stretch of shadows framed the entrance to Morgorth. It was uncanny, as though the sun actually refused to shine upon the place. Colin took a step toward it. Toads croaked from a small reedy pond before the wall of alders. Blades of green grass, as tall as Colin’s waist, wafted in a silent breeze. Colin shivered. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that his Happily Ever After was through this place of never-where.

Colin gripped the hilt of his new hunting knife in the densely-growing trees. It reminded him of the forest before Council’s Realm, and the hurt of that ordeal was still fresh upon his mind. He walked further in. The forest floor turned soft and loamy. The dense woods turned mossy and sparse with muddy banks that he slipped and slided in. Water squelched up from under the mud, releasing its rank, standing odor. Mosquitos sidled up to Colin unabashedly. Moonflies dimmed and brightened like floating stars. If not for them, Colin was sure he would not be able to see where he was going at all.

Open pockets of brackish water gurgled and foamed. When the largest bubbles burst with an audible splat, they reeked of acidity. Colin coughed and gagged at the smell. Vines twisted at his boots as if trying to pull him into the bog and snuff out his life force. Colin saw something slither through the water. He pulled his hunting knife from its sheath just to be safe. The mud sucked his boots deep into the earth. Each step was a battle. Lichen veils swung from the branches overhead like gowns of the dead.

Colin arrived at a clearing of packed ground. He squinted in the darkness. It had grown over, but it looked like it had once been a camp. A fire pit was in the center. Several strides away from it was a decrepit shack beside a crumbling table. Vines wrapped around loose boards like snakes trying to crush the remaining life from them. The shack slanted on weakened supports and creaked faintly when a slight breeze picked up.

Colin cleared away the fire pit and stoked up a fire, then took a small log as a torch. He moved toward the shack to see if it was salvageable. He would rather stay at an inn, but he could not pass up a shelter that would cost him nothing instead. It was closer to Blackthorn than Council’s Realm at least, and nobody would come looking for him here should any problems arise while rescuing Glory. He did not believe brigands would even make camp this deep in Morgorth. As he reached out to touch the rotting wood of the shack, he heard his name.

“
Colin….
”

Colin looked over his shoulder. The willow swayed.

“
Colin
….”

Colin looked out into the darkness. “Who’s there?”

“
I’ve missed you, Colin.
…”

The hackles on Colin’s neck stood on end. “Is that you, Glory?”

“
Come to me, Colin.
…”

Colin moved in the direction of the voice. A knot formed in his gut. “Glory?”

He raised the torch over his head as he moved past the fire.

“
I’m here, Colin….
”

Colin swallowed. He rushed toward the voice. “I’m coming, Glory!”

The ground caved under him. Colin landed hard and grabbed his leg with a cry. The torch rolled forward over a stone floor. Strong roots thrust themselves through the wall to his right. The flames caused shadows to dance upon stone walls before it. A form lay on the ground. Colin massaged his leg. He reached for a root and pulled himself upright. He bit his lip when he tried to put weight on his injured leg. White pins of light swirled around his head. He blinked to clear them and breathed deeply. He could still move his toes and knew his leg was not broken. He opened his eyes and got his bearings. Colin bent to retrieve his torch and get a better look at the form in the corner. He held the torch close to it to see a man’s skeleton. The head was not human. In fact the only human heads in the place were scattered around the creature. Colin stared at the giant fangs, and square, bulky skull atop of the beast. His eyes began to widen. Jammed into the left eye socket was something he had not seen in a very long time.

“Illyndiil.” Colin reeled back, scuttling across the floor away from it. Memories came flooding in. Colin’s breath was ragged.
“Stay where you are.” Ilyndiil gleamed in the light. “I’m warning you.” The donestre charged, snarling savagely. Glory screamed. The donestre lumbered toward them. Colin gripped Glory’s arm and swung her away as he slashed the donestre across the back. The donestre reeled and pivoted, gnashing his teeth.

Colin reached for Glory’s hand. “We have to get out of here.”

“How?” Glory cried.

The donestre charged. Colin sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth, grabbed the donestre’s mane and plunged Ilyndiil into its left eye. The donestre howled, wobbling backwards.

Colin’s breath caught. It wasn’t possible. He had killed the donestre in Winterholme, not Morgorth. How was it here? He trembled in the shadows.
“We sort of fell into a hole, and there was a creature… in a jail cell.”

Colin’s father’s nostrils flared, and his eyes narrowed. “Do not lie to me, boy.”
Colin stared at Illyndiil. His father’s voice came booming at him.
“Where is Ilyndiil?”

Colin’s hand went to his scabbard, but his hand grasped thin air. He looked to his hip with horror.

“You lost it?” the man roared. He lurched toward Colin and began boxing his ears. “You stupid, stupid boy!” Colin’s father grew red with pulsing, plump veins in his neck and forehead. He backfisted Colin in the jaw.
Colin’s breath raced. He took it all in. The donestre’s skeleton, Illyndiil plunged into its left eye socket, and what Colin was feeling left him hollow. He shut his eyes, but the sight was burned into his mind. He opened them again and looked up. He had to get out of this hole. He reached for a root and began to pull himself up. He heard a voice again.

“
Don’t leave me
….”

Colin looked back. Illyndiil seemed to beckon to him.
“Please, Father!” Colin cried. “I can find it again. Please! Give me a chance.”

Colin’s hands trembled. The torchlight danced on the walls of stone and earth. The crackling of flame and Colin’s strained breath was the only sound in the room. He felt the memory of Glory’s childhood hand in his.
“What we saw was real. You are a hero.”

Colin limped toward Illyndiil. He was the hero, he reminded himself. Glory had said so. A hero deserved a legendary blade to help him get to his Happily Ever After.

As Colin lay in the dusty cot in the leaning shack that night, he turned Illyndiil over and over between his fingers hypnotically.

***

The longer she spent in bed, the more Glory was able to clear her head and think. There had to be some way of finding Eoghan. Hopefully the prince was still alive. Hopefully she was only jumping to conclusions about the room. Thinking about it, even now, made her queasy. She recalled stumbling across an athenaeum during her initial search for the prince. Perhaps there would be records there that she could divine information about him from. Birth records, proof of his existence, would help her feel a little better. She finally mustered the strength to get up, dress herself, and find the athenaeum.

Once there, she scoured the shelves for any scrolls that might look like family records. She found a few clustered together and took them out, spreading them over a round table. Xander, descending from the line of Stephan the Black, had wed the princess, Aowyn. Aowyn’s family hailed from across the seas. At last, Glory found birth records for a boy born of Xander and Aowyn, shortly after the Great War. That’s where her search ended, for as she went seeking more scrolls, she stumbled across several battered books that seemed out of place. She pulled one out and blew off the dust. The book’s spine crinkled and creaked. Glory lovingly stroked her finger over a beautiful painting; one of a maiden and a prince embracing, locked together by an intricate woven border that met in the middle and intertwined itself around them. Blossoms and vines hung from the weave. The maiden wore a robe of flame-colored silk, with a collar of ruddy gold, in which were emeralds and rubies. More golden was her hair than the flower of the broom, and her skin was whiter than the foam of the sea. Glory sighed, wishing Colin was here to see it. She crossed over to a chair and sunk into it, book in lap. The words on the opposite page were in a language she did not recognize. She traced the strands of the border individually, slowly, wondering if it was written in sweet old Maeb’s tongue.

She was so lost in it that she jumped when the gryphon’s voice purred over her shoulder. “I love that one.”

Glory turned her head and practically bumped noses with the creature. Did he have no sense of propriety?

“You read?” she asked incredulously.

The gryphon skirted the chair and sat down before her, nodding his head.

Glory was skeptical. What beast knew how to read? She lowered the book and pointed to the strange writing. “What does this say?”

The gryphon chortled. “You don’t know how to read?”

Glory pulled the book back to her chest, frowning. “Of course I do.” She lowered the book after a moment, speaking with hesitation. “I just don’t understand this writing.”

The gryphon’s feathers fluffed and he rose, scooting closer to her. Glory leaned away, but held the book between them. The gryphon raised a talon. “This, here,” he pointed to the first few sentences, “speaks of the maiden Olwen, who was fairer than the blossoms of the wood anemone amidst the spray of the meadow fountain. Brighter were her glances than those of a falcon; her bosom was more snowy than the breast of the white swan, her cheek redder than the reddest roses. Whosoever beheld her was filled with her love.”