The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy) (27 page)

“I am saddened to say that Islwyn contains the last of the mighty Jacarandas; for we, my people and I, are the last of our kind. In His infinite wisdom He planted us as a refuge here, safe underneath the great Hilgari. Whether it was by some great evil or by His divine hand, we were made prisoners here in our home.”

She offered him a place to rest, and with a graceful nod she welcomed dozens of servants who brought a luminescent drink and loaves of warm bread to eat. Cal drank deep of the cool elixir that was strong and vaguely sweet, tasting of faint plums and some kind of mint. He couldn’t help but wonder where the man-sized chalice came from that held the thirst-quenching brew, but too many questions pressed down upon him to bother about that now.

“There are those in this world who still remember the trees, but they have paid them little care, for they have their own tree to tend to. Their father, Willow, was my friend, and most beautiful were the days where the amber and silver lights of the great tree mingled with our violet hope,” she told him with a sweet fondness to her memories.

Cal and the Queen talked long into the day; she spoke of her days above the ground and of the countless generations of her reign and responsibility. She told of the great evil that had befallen them, of the death and defilement of so many of their kind, and of a time still yet to come, a time of new light and new life.

Cal ate and drank his fill of the strange and delicious fare that Iolanthe’s servants continued to deliver into their place of conference. The Sprites were a noble and proud race, a magical and ancient people whose beauty reflected the very heart of their purpose, and whose hospitality was as effervescent as the foaming pools at the base of the falls.

Most of the Sprites lived in elaborately carved homes built into the high branches of their mother trees, but there were still places wrought by their magical hands for those of greater stature to make their rest here in the grove.

Iolanthe led him up a white, wooden staircase still in bloom, and welcomed Cal into a small yet tranquil sanctuary where he might bathe and sleep. And so he did, finding sleep to come deep and easy here in the secret grove of the Jacarandas. Unbeknownst to Cal, Iolanthe ordered one of her servants to stand watch over their liberator as he rested, and to see to it that he had all that he might need while a guest in Islwyn.

And so it was that the companionship of Deryn, sentinel of the house of Iolanthe
,
and Calarmindon Bright Fame began, as one kept watch over the other. That night Cal dreamt of Oweles again, only in this dream, there was not a trace of fear to be found.

Ruarc ‘Storm Words’, the very Owele who perched upon Cal’s frozen axe and bid him to follow, appeared to him in the dream. His blazing purple eyes shone like violet fire, and Cal heard the haunting words once again.

Seek the light, Calarmindon. Beauty is calling.

Chapter Thirty-One

C
al
woke the next morning feeling more refreshed than he had in quite a long time. He opened his eyes, drinking in the songlike scrollwork of the white wood that formed the sanctuary he had been privileged to use as a sleeping chamber.

“Are you rested, Calarmindon Bright Fame?” an unfamiliar voice asked from outside the chamber door.

“I am, quite rested in fact,” he replied good-naturedly. “And just who might you be … if I may ask?”

“A thousand apologies, Calarmindon Bright Fame,” said the voice from outside. “I did not mean to forget a proper introduction! I am Deryn, sentinel of the house of Iolanthe, messenger of the Queen, and your aide whilst you are here in the grove.”

“Well Deryn, why don’t you come inside? Huh?” Cal invited. “And about this Calarmindon Bright Fame business … could you just call me Cal? Please.”

The Sprite sentinel entered in through the silk partition that hung in the doorway. He, like the company of warriors and the rest of the Sprite people whom Cal had encountered the day before, stood only about two hands high. His hair and wings were a translucent blue that shone with a faint azure glow, and he wore an armored crystal chest piece, unlike Ardghal in his full armored regalia.

“As you wish, Calarmindon …” Deryn paused mid-sentence, catching himself before he finished.

Cal let out a good-hearted laugh, reveling briefly in the amusement of the moment. It had been a long time since he laughed so freely, not since he and Michael dreamed and played in the grazing meadows of the equerry in the city.

Laughter can often be a contagious act, and although Deryn looked a bit embarrassed at first, the genuine delight of Cal’s merriment caught hold of the blue-haired Sprite, and soon he joined his new ward in filling the chamber with the sounds of a forming friendship.

“Are you hungry,
Cal
?” Deryn asked, emphasizing his new friend’s preferred moniker. “I have made arrangements for you to break your fast here in the sanctuary, if that pleases you?”

“Yes!” Cal answered, still chuckling. “That sounds perfect. But if I may trouble you with another question … do you know when I will be able to make my way back to my Poet friends?”

Deryn clapped his hands three times and seven Sprite servants fluttered into the sanctuary that Cal had made his rest in. They brought a shimmering tunic, pale blue in color, made of a fabric that seemed to radiate the light of its luxury. Others flew in with steaming rolls of Sprite bread dripping with a jasmine-scented honey, urns of piping hot tea made from the leaves of the jacaranda, and a plate of grilled river trout.

Cal salivated at the presence of their intoxicating scents. “Oh thank you, thank you all so very much. This looks like a meal fit for a king!” he said to the small company of hospitable Sprites.

While Cal hungrily ate his meal, Deryn addressed his question with one of his own. “Why such thoughts of leaving? Do you mean to depart from us already? To be honest, I am not sure what plans the Queen has for you yet. The assignment I was given was to make sure you have everything that you would need, and then to make you ready to meet her and her court by the great Sarangrael, once you have been refreshed.”

“What is the Sarangrael?” Cal asked with a mouth full of fish.

“The Falls of Sarangrael is the final resting place of Abonris, and the source of nourishment for our grove. It waters and strengthens all who live here in Islwyn with its sustenance,” he said with a starry-eyed reverence. “It is also the tomb of the greatest of all the ancient warriors of your kind.”

Cal waited with growing intrigue but Deryn did not offer more to the story. “Who is buried there?” Cal finally blurted out with brash curiosity. Much of his time with the Poets had been spent searching through history and legend, and he had become quite enamored with people of Terriah.

The horns of Ardghal the herald rang out loud off in the distance, summoning all to heed their call. “Come with me, Cal, and I will show you,” Deryn persisted.

Deryn and the Sprite servants busied themselves making Cal ready, and Cal busied himself devouring every morsel of the meal that he could get his famished hands on. When they saw that he was finally satiated and indeed presentable, Deryn led his new charge down the stairs and through the carved stone pathways to the water’s edge.

There, gathered on the shores of the Sarangrael, Deryn addressed the gathered host. “My Queen and my people,” he said in a proud and formal voice. “I present to you …” he looked back at the young man and gave a playful wink, “Cal.” Deryn bowed low, and Cal chuckled to himself.

The Queen raised an eyebrow of inquiry at such informality, looking almost as though she were going to scold him, if not for the twinkle of amusement in her dazzling blue eyes. “Welcome Calarmindon Bright Fame … I trust that the hospitality of my people has lived up to your pleasure,” she said, confident of Cal’s reply.

“Yes, indeed it has!” Cal answered in a wide-grinned smile. The Sprite people erupted with cheers and trumpet blasts.

Cal wondered to himself at this inscrutable beauty that had been hidden away from the whole of the world, realizing how bright his last days had become since he found the company of these peculiar little people.

Iolanthe bowed her regal bronzed head at him in thanks, as if she were able to hear the very thoughts in Cal’s mind. Seeing Iolanthe here, Cal could not help but be caught in the gravity of her presence. She embodied a beauty that men could not dare to believe existed, a beauty that was not merely limited to her appearance, but rather culminated in it.

“Not since the days of the dragon-slayer has one of your kind walked the paths of this sacred place, nor tasted the generosity of my people,” said the Queen. “Our hearts tell us that the purpose of our planting is nearly upon the world, for I have seen visions of death and darkness, and of a Bright Fame who will stand in opposition to it.”

“Dragon-slayer?” Cal asked, still eager to learn more of the rich history of this place and its people. “Who is this dragon-slayer you speak of?”

Iolanthe gave him a knowing smile, revealing a depth of grace and patience for the young traveler. “Many generations ago the mightiest of all warriors found his way to me. Grief had overtaken his heart, and he begged me to perform deeds that were beyond my doing; for evil had assaulted our world, dealing with its malice a weakening blow to our kind.”

The crowd was still, silent as their Queen spoke.

“He pleaded for my aid to right the wrongs done to him and to our great Father, but our strength was yet green and I could not grant his request. Some say that his brave heart broke here that day on the precipice of the Sarangrael. His despair overcame him, and in an act of angry defiance to my rejection he hurled his mighty blade, Gwarwyn, into the cold, deep waters of this pool.”

Cal looked to the falls, imagining what kind of depth its wild water must have carved into the mountain. “Gwarwyn?” he inquired, sure that the fabled blade must have a significant meaning attached to its name.

“It means ‘the beautiful dawn’,” Iolanthe answered, “although its beauty has sadly diminished at the demise of Caedmon. His great strength left him, and he who was once our greatest champion fell like a leaf in winter. We tended to him for days on end, singing words of magic and hope into the ear of his soul. We opened the vault of our strength, begging our great Father to heal this mighty man for the sake of the world … but alas … we could not mend the broken heart of Caedmon.”

A tear fell down Iolanthe’s cheek, and the collective sorrow of this bright race felt as thick and heavy as the winter rain.

“We buried the mighty dragon-slayer here,” she said as she pointed to the peak of the falls, her voice breaking under the strain of remembered anguish. “It was from this place that, in his grief and overwhelming despair, he fell. My people and I mourned for days on end, for we had failed to defend the one who had committed his whole life to defend us all.”

One of Ardghal’s minstrels, a Sprite woman whose dark hair and bright eyes stood in stark contradiction to each other, stepped to the center of the gathered host and began to sing a haunting lament. Her voice was as cold as the river Abonris and as weathered as the stones who are subject to its watery power.

Deryn perched upon Cal’s shoulder and Cal asked his new Sprite friend, “What is she is singing of?”

“She laments both the fall of our friend, the dragon-slayer, and our great failure to save him. Listen and I will speak her words to you,” he whispered in his ear.

“áit a bhfuil do neart agat laoch mór an domhain

(Where is your strength oh great warrior of the earth?)

i gcás ina raibh do blade shining geal imíonn

(Where did your bright shining blade disappear?)

Chun tá tú imithe ar an mbealach a áilleacht

(For you have gone the way of His beauty)

agus retreated i do cloch

(And have retreated into stone.)

Bhrón tú fir agus draíochta agus beithigh

(Mourn you men and Sprites and beasts)

le haghaidh bhfuil an breacadh an lae naofa leagtha chun sosa

(For the beautiful dawn has been laid to rest)

maith dúinn laoch mighty, maith dhúinn athair mór

(Forgive us mighty warrior, forgive us great Father)

agus ar ais chuig an domhan tá sé ghlóir goidte

(And restore to the world its stolen glory.)”

The host was silent, tears lining the faces of warriors and Queen alike. Grief was held close by this ancient race, for they loved well and loved larger than their stature and formality might suggest. Cal was overwhelmed at the swell of emotion and empathy his own heart felt at the sound of the haunting melody and the sight of the woeful Sprites.

“My Queen,” Cal petitioned. “What can I do to mend such sorrow? What can I do to ease your pain?”

Kindness returned to her tear-filled eyes, and Iolanthe thought for a long moment before answering his request. “Calarmindon Bright Fame, there can never be a true mending of this so personal of sorrows that we feel. For there will never be another Caedmon. However, perhaps the time is coming to right the evil that has grown ever stronger since his long-ago departure.”

“Are you speaking of the darkening of the great tree?” Cal asked, not quite sure of what she referred to.

“No. The darkening of the tree is but a gift of the great Father, beginning the sleeping of one age to awaken the next.” Her warm smile turned a bit colder as she continued.

“The evil I speak of lives in the shadows of the fading light. It gathers and grows, corrupting and abducting the hearts of men, enslaving them to the very dark that they fear. Her seduction is but a mockery of the heart of the great Father. Her schemes promise power and wealth with immediacy, but alas … the true identity of this evil is an all-consuming un-light that brings with its envy an immortal death.”

The Queen turned and faced the falls, a single tear staining her perfect complexion. The tense, sad silence was almost suffocating for one who was unaware of the enormity of what hung in the balance.

“The dragon-slayer himself once believed that he had dealt the fatal blow to the heart of this great evil. So sure were we of his triumph, as was the rest of Aiénor, that we failed to recognize the depths of her treachery. All of us, man and Sprite and beast alike, celebrated a hard-fought peace, while the plot of her poison secretly corrupted.”

“I don’t understand. What did her poison corrupt?” Cal begged.

“Not what, my dear Calarmindon Bright Fame,” she turned and met his gaze with her saddened eyes, “but
who
. The sorceress had been bound to her stone kingdom for all eternity, her dragons slain by the very blade that sleeps in these waters … but her evil pricked the heart of Branwen
,
wife of Caedmon
,
and turned the beautiful raven-haired woman into a nocturnal monster.”

“What happened? Was there another war? Did Caedmon slay his own wife?” Cal’s questions shot out of his mouth faster than he could think them.

“No,” she replied with patient sorrow, “which is why the great dragon-slayer is buried here atop the falls of Sarangrael. Branwen fled, for she could not endure the light of the great tree and the power of our great Father. We have waited safely in our imprisonment, as has the rest of the world, protected by the power of the tree’s light. Though I fear now …” Iolanthe thought long about her next words, “that her evil power has grown beyond the strength of our protection.”

“Well then we must stop her, we must band together the forces of Haven and the company of the Sprites. Surely by our combined strength and the blessing of the THREE who is SEVEN we will overcome this evil!” Cal proclaimed enthusiastically.

“We will try, of course, but I must be clear on one thing,” said the Queen. “It is not our might, nor our cunning, nor our feats of arms that will bring her unsleeping evil to ruin. We might slow her corruption, and ransom many hearts by our efforts, but it is His light and His light alone that can be our true and final victory.”