The Call of Agon: Book One of The Children of Telm Page 18

  “His pain will only end when he dies,” Ifferon stated, and he felt many eyes settle their gaze upon him.

  “Yes. That will not be an easy task now that he has claimed the powers of the Céalari. There are few Powers left to oppose him.” The eyes seemed to tighten on him; he could see them staring in his mind.

  “I am no Power,” he said. “Give me the Blood and Sword and Scroll of Telm and I am still no Power to oppose the Beast.”

  “You have the Blood,” the voice said. “You have the Scroll.”

  “Weakness and words, that is all they are.”

  “The Blood of Telm is never weak. Such as you would have died long before had not this blood ran through your veins. Words are little powers of their own, and the Last Words of Telm have made that which hunts and plagues the land flee before its hidden light. Not all powers need bear armour and wave flags to announce their arrival. Courage in a candle flame,” it added, and the eyes seemed to look right through him, piercing the barriers of his mind and striking the depths of his heart and his soul.

  Ifferon shuddered. “The slightest wind can blow the candle out.”

  “Or waft it into the greatest fire,” the voice said. “A candle is hope in darkness. It is a light on the road, and it can pass its fervent flame to others, to awaken the courage that hides within them like other waiting candles.”

  “I am not a leader,” Ifferon said. He was not. He knew it like he knew the Meadow Downs near Larksong or the many texts he had hoarded there in the monastery. Thinking back on the ruins of his previous home made him shiver. He dared not think of what new ruins would be made in the wake of his travels.

  “Will you not follow then? Will you not follow the counsel and the courage of those who have flocked to you like sheep? Do you think all shepherds need force to lead the sheep from the jaws of the wolf? Will you sit and hide and cower under a rock until the world is old and grey? He will never forget you, Ifferon. He will come and lift up each and every stone, and he will come to yours and he will find you there. What then will you do?”

  “I will run.”

  “But he will chase you, and he will catch you.”

  Ifferon felt tears well up suddenly in his eyes. His throat grew tight and his stomach clamped as though a great fist had seized it. He did not want to run. He did not want to hide. He did not want to be hunted all his life.

  “You must face him, Ifferon,” the voice said. “He is not a god, and stealing the powers of the Céalari does not make him so. You are not a god, but the child of one. You are not as weak as you believe.”

  The tears begged to differ. They streamed down his face like a waterfall, catching in the basins of his cheeks, running off the cliff of his chin. He collapsed suddenly, as if he were held up by some will that was not his own, some puppet-master that had let loose the strings. His limbs felt wooden and clumsy as he fell. The sneaking hands of grief seized him and held him and shook him. Tears flowed. Fear became his only follower.

  “It was not your fault,” the voice said at last, now tender and feminine. He thought it was his mother’s. “You did not kill them, Ifferon.”

  He shook his head from side to side. His lips trembled, and he cradled his arms to stop the rest of his body from following suit. The ground seemed to be growing colder. The thunder was distant now.

  “It was not your fault,” the voice repeated, harder and firmer. He thought it was his father’s. “You did not kill them, Ifferon.”

  “I did,” he said, shaking. “I did, I did.”

  “Their deaths were at the hands of other men. You were a child, Ifferon. You did not know what death was. Their death was not your fault.”

  “But it was, it was,” he murmured. “I told the other children I was a Child of Telm, that my father was too. I told them I would tell Telm on them if they did anything wrong on me. Their parents would not let them out again. Some moved away to other parts of Boror. Some watched scornfully from their windows or whispered dark words about my family. I brought doom upon us. They came because I made a stir. We frightened people. No one wanted to know about Telm. There was none but Olagh in their eyes.”

  “They were murdered for other reasons, Ifferon. You will know them before the end, and you will know that a scared boy of six years knew no other way but to blame himself for that which happened to his family from those driven by a dark will of their own. You must shed this guilt.”

  “I have shed many tears,” he said. “Many tears shown and hidden. But I cannot shed this guilt.”

  A shadow crept out from behind the Stone, and Ifferon froze, for the memory of the Molokrán came rushing back to him. But it was not one of them. There, standing beside the Stone was the silhouette of a man, tall and imposing. There were no features, no vague details, no intimations of a face or a body—just shadow.

  “This is the man that killed your parents,” the thunderous voice told him.

  Ifferon shook his head. “I cannot see. It is just shadow.”

  “You want to see yourself,” the voice explained. “You cannot remember who it was, so you think it is easier to blame yourself. This man will forever loom on the edge of your memory. He will plague your dreams and haunt your footsteps as though he were your own shadow, and you will turn to face him and he will be gone, yet ever will his presence linger on.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” he asked. “Why do you torture me with riddles?”

  “Truth is often torture, yet you are your own noose and hangman. That rope can help you climb out of the pit of despair and self-pity, or it can be your undoing, like a mere knot in the thread of existence. If you let fear and failure rule you, then do not be surprised to find yourself on your knees, for you have made it so. Do not wait for us to say Arise! Call that word to yourself right now, and you will know that sometimes a helping hand can be your own.”

  He felt himself standing up, as if indeed he was pulled to his feet by his own hand, and yet realised that he had always been standing. He was taller now, yet the Stone rose up before him still. The dark figure stood silent but intent, dark eyes watching him from the pit of blackness that remained. He could not see them, yet he remembered those eyes, remembered their harsh and cold glare, and it was a memory that rose from a vault deep inside him—and a memory that shook the very core of his foundations.

  And suddenly there was a flash of lightning from the Stone, and it smote the shadow, which broke in two. From the smoke rose two smaller silhouettes, twin shadows against the grey of the Stone. They watched with those same dark eyes, flooding his memory.

  “When one becomes two, what will you do?” the voice asked. “You cannot flee any longer, Ifferon. We control all the pieces on the board.”

  He felt his legs go cold, and then all feeling left them, as if it were a passing breeze. He tried, but he could not walk. He could not run.

  “One will come,” the voice said. “It will find you and hark Vengeance! For it is blind. Look! It is blind.” Suddenly Ifferon realised that the two figures were looking for him, yet could not see him. “They will find, yet will not see. To them awaits great misery, for such is the way we have decried. The cold hand of death awaits those ruled by greed. Their vengeance is done—yours is yet to come!”

  The two shadows came towards him, reaching out with black fingers. He tried to back away, but could not move. The dark hands grabbed him.

  And he awoke.

  * * *

  Oelinor stood beside him, watching him intently. “Interesting,” he said after a time. “I did not take you for one who speaks in his sleep.”

  “Neither did I,” Ifferon said, leaning forward and wiping the sleep from his eyes. The mist was less intense now.

  “I would consider it an unwise thing to do,” Oelinor said. “Indeed, what if it were not me who stood here over you, waiting for you to awake? What if someone else heard your nightly whispers?”

  “What did I say?” Ifferon asked, fearful he had betrayed some secret that even he w
as not aware of.

  “I shall not say, but let my warning to be careful suffice. I see a threat that looms on your life, and it is not the already present threat of Agon, Aelor save us, and his host, but something closer. Be careful of your companions. They are mostly young and naïve, unaware of the perils of the world, but that is, indeed, where danger often lies.”

  Then he turned and rejoined the others, who had just now awoken. “Come, friends,” he said. “We will bring you south, as far south as we will go, and that is to the brink of Telarym, which we call Oesarlün in our tongue. My people will not travel beyond that point, for death roams and marches there, and other evils that come from ages long since spent. I have two carriages lined up, which will get us there all the swifter. Four can fit in each, so Ifferon, Herr’Don, and Délin will accompany me in the first, while Thalla and Yavün may join Lëolin and Mëna in the second. We need not worry about drivers, of course, for these carriages are the Lëlërra of the Aelora—our horses know the way.”

  * * *

  And so there was a sudden din, for the carriages roared out from the nearby forest, where no doubt they had stayed the night. Great white horses, slightly larger than those seen in Arlin and Boror, pulled them, and these were adorned with quilts of finely-woven fabric, bearing many spells of speed in the alphabet of the Aerbateros. Thus too were the carriages decorated, with letters of red, yellow and blue, and it seemed to Ifferon that they were wrought of a jewel akin to the beldar gem that Melgalés had worn. Perhaps truly that is how they worked, trapping some secret power within just as the Beldarian housed the soul of the Magus.

  “These are our Ambassador Wains,” Oelinor said as he entered the first. “Built to fit the larger people of the world. For were you to sit in our normal carriages, you would come out even smaller in height than I!”

  Yavün and Thalla joined Lëolin the Pelari Guard and Mëna the Maiden in the second carriage, while Ifferon, Herr’Don, and Délin joined Oelinor in the first. Despite it being larger than what the Aelora would have used among their own folk, they sat squashed together inside. They expected a long and uncomfortable journey.

  “I would pull down my hood,” Oelinor said when he had settled into his seat, “but I would blind you, and I fear your sight will be essential for the rest of your journey. Suffice it to say, you can imagine plenty of light.”

  Ifferon knew that well, for he had seen the Aelora when they were unrobed, though at a reasonably safe distance. The light they emitted depended on their age, mood, and general well-being, but even the oldest and most sickly of them could stun the eyes of any unprepared individual. Ifferon thought it was quite peculiar to see that Oelinor looked a little younger than when he last saw him. He imagined that Oelinor was musing about how old Ifferon had become.

  “Nineteen,” Oelinor said at last, smiling at him. “Nineteen years by your calendar, though we would count it twenty times that.”

  Herr’Don’s eyes widened, but Ifferon nudged him before he could say anything insulting.

  “I thought the Aelora live a maximum of ten years?” Délin asked. “At least, that is what the Annals of Time in Arlin record.”

  “Yes,” Oelinor said. “Roughly that. I am an exception, however, for I am an Ardúnar, so eternal life is now in my domain.”

  “You will not die?” Herr’Don asked.

  “Not by natural means, no, but death can still claim me in battle.”

  “Ah so, Halés may beckon still,” Herr’Don said. “For those of us from Boror, we need no longer lease of life, for we live on through our name and our titles, which tell the world of our many brave and marvellous deeds.”

  The wonder of eternal life fell upon them, and silence followed, for their awe led them down the many passageways of the mind, where reflection and fascination reigned.

  “I do worry about Thalla,” Herr’Don whispered to Ifferon after a time. “All alone in that other carriage with the other Aelora.”

  “She is not alone,” Ifferon said. “She is with—”

  “Yes,” Herr’Don grumbled. “She is.”

  * * *

  “You have an Aelora name,” Lëolin told Yavün. They had boarded with more comfort, for neither Yavün nor Thalla were as big of build as the knight and prince in the other carriage, and Lëolin and Mëna took up little space.

  “I have?” the stableboy asked.

  “Yes. Mëna and I have mused about it long since we heard it. It is very unusual. Your parents must have been acquainted with our people.”

  “I really don’t know,” Yavün replied. “I don’t remember them.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” Lëolin said, the light within him growing fainter.

  “What does my name mean?”

  “Flame,” Mëna said, her voice like a child’s.

  “And lion,” Lëolin added. “Iavün means flame in our tongue, for iav is fire and ün is small. Thus, small-fire—a flame. Your family’s name, Arri, means lion in our tongue. Thus did Oelinor call you arri laum—young lion.”

  “A lion in sheep’s clothing,” Thalla said, smiling.

  Yavün returned the smile, but something troubled him. He suddenly remembered the fire that he had seen and experienced at Tol-Timíl, and he recalled that the Beldarian of Melgalés hung around his neck, pressing into his skin—and he became very ill at ease.

  * * *

  The carriages set off swiftly, shaking as they crossed unlevel ground. Herr’Don and Délin were asleep, resting awkwardly against the walls of the carriage. The steady gallop of the horses and the rolling of the iron wheels almost sent Ifferon to join them, but he was suddenly alerted to the steady stare of Oelinor, who looked at him with careful, probing eyes.

  At last the Aelora spoke: “I have much to tell you, for it has been some time since we have talked in depth. Those years have aged me greatly, I do not deny, but they have aged you more, it seems, yet but ten have passed for you, where many long decades have passed for me in the hurried counting of my kin. Great wisdom has come with those years for me, more than many Aelora will ever know, for they have never tasted the waters of the Spring of Youth, the Elixir of Life. But what wisdom have you gained, dear Ifferon? I do hope you have spent these years wisely, locked away with your manuscripts, for there is much that needs to be done, many decisions to be made.

  “But before you can fully understand your role in that future, you must understand the past. Thus shall I share this tale with you, a story which may be the making or breaking of the world. What follows are the events of the last Council of the Ardúnari.”

  XII – THE CALLING OF THE COUNCIL

  Oelinor stepped forward and raised his hands. The Council members and the special guests all turned to see him. Oelinor was small in height, but he knew that all were looking up to him from their seats, all eyes watching, all minds in still anticipation.

  “As the Warden of Oelinadal, and therefore Head of this gathering of some of the greatest minds of Iraldas, I hereby declare, in the Blessed Name of the Most High, Oelin Majalirë, the Thirteenth Council of the Ardúnari duly open.”

  There was a sound like trumpets, and all turned to see a great number of Aelora horn-blowers surrounding them. If they had counted, which Oelinor suspected they would not, they would have counted one hundred and sixty-nine of them; regardless, they heard one hundred and sixty-nine trumpets resounding into the morning air, waking those few animals that had not duly risen to watch the proceedings.

  “As some of you will know, this is also the Thirteenth Council since the time of Oelinor Urodë, Oelinor the Wise. I am of his line, and I bear his name in honour of him and those before him. This is the ninth year of my life by the calendars of Man and Ferian, and this is a time that some of the less resilient of my kind fear as the decline into death. Yet I do not feel this is to be the end, for something stirs in me, and I call it: Fas ... Life!”

  There was an applause that would have caused great avalanches or set the mountains marching, and it would
have woken those hibernating creatures not yet stirred by the Horns of Caelün. Oelinor waited for their ovation to complete.

  Life. Everyone there knew what it meant. He had already been elected as an Ardúnar by the Stone. Life flowed in him like never before, for the Elixir was his, his blood akin to that of the gods. He felt it even now, a strange tingling in his limbs, as if a previously blocked circulation of his blood had been set aright.

  The clapping and cheering ceased, and Oelinor resumed: “I can only say there are blessings to come for those of you who are elected as I have been. However, for those who are not chosen, I would hope they do not lose heart, for with every boon comes a bane, and the bane of the Ardúnari is known to all. It is not by chance, I feel, that we all gather here today to elect this Thirteenth Council, for this number has been an omen for us since the Great Dawn, when Light first let flood to our dark world. Thirteen Lights, twelve yet remaining, and thirteen great foes of darkness for us to defeat.”

  “They cannot be defeated,” Teron said, moving uneasily on his stone seat. “Opposed, challenged, chased or ran from, yes, but they cannot be defeated, and I would have thought that the wise would have known that.”

  “Light always defeats darkness in the end, Teron,” Melgalés said. “Yes, always.” The Magus sat tall beside his twin brother, and even now, after so many years, Oelinor had trouble telling them apart. “And I would have thought that Teron, wise as he is, would have known that.”