The Call of Agon: Book One of The Children of Telm Read online

  “Is this the end?” Teron asked. There was a brief grin and then his cold, stone face again; yet that sardonic smile continued in his eyes. “Can night not dispel day? Can not the clouds block the sun?”

  “Can not day dispel the night, no? Can not the sun pierce those clouds?” Melgalés replied. “Night can hide the day and clouds can hide the sun, yes, they can, but they cannot vanquish it. And who are you to say that there shall not be a cloudless day?”

  “Teron is right,” Oelinor said. The Magus turned to him, the beads in his hair clattering together. “And so is Melgalés,” he added. “For we cannot readily defeat the Molokrán, Aelor save us, yet ultimately the Wardens of Light shall prevail against the darkness.”

  “Is this what we are reduced to then?” Teron asked. “Ultimates and eventualities? When are we going to deal with the here and now?”

  “That is the purpose of this meeting,” Oelinor said, “to address the problems of the here and now, and at this moment that involves the Election of the Ardúnari.”

  “Then elect and let us be done with talking trifles,” Teron snapped.

  “It is not my business to elect,” Oelinor said. “That is the business of the Urod-Pelar.” Even as he spoke the name of the Stone, a thunder roared in the sky and a tremor howled in the earth. The light welled up like a beacon, and all who looked upon it were enthralled by its gleam.

  “It is begun,” Geldirana whispered. She sat between Melgalés and Celsingrid of Arlin, her long golden hair resting on the back of her seat. Some would call her regal, but there was a certain rustic look about her, as though she were the statue of an old queen from bygone days.

  “My Watch is the Harvest Moon,” Oelinor said. “The next Watch to be chosen is the Wolf Moon.”

  A beam of light shot forth from a ring of concentric circles engraved within the Stone. It seemed that there were symbols in the light, some the Runes of the Aelora, and others from a script more ancient still. The light rotated, or perhaps it was the Stone itself, for the beam shone upon the breast of each member of the Council in turn, probing deep with ethereal fingers, exploring the hearts of the candidates. The beam intensified and dulled on some people, and it passed quickly through many and slowed down for others. Thrice it circled, slowing gradually with each pass, until finally it stopped on Melgalés. There was another roll of thunder and then a second beam of light burst vertically up from the top of the Stone, setting the sky alight with its ardent glow.

  “The second Ardúnar is duly elected,” Oelinor proclaimed. “Fas im Ardü Melgalësos Majemarë!”

  The Council members applauded. For most, this was not unexpected, for the Magus was widely tipped to be elected within the first three rounds. All clapped, but some not so loudly, for they were busy with dark whispers to one another, and some with exchanging coin owed for ill-made wagers.

  “May you live long,” Teron said. “And may the Wolf Moon, first of the Aelora New Year, prove fortuitous to you.”

  “Thank you kindly, Teron,” Melgalés replied. “I am certain it will.”

  “And next comes the Dead Moon,” Oelinor said. “For Felokdas, or November in the Common Tongue.” There was a murmur of mournful voices, for many were familiar with this most dreaded of times, knowing well that it did not receive its name lightly.

  “The Blue Moon,” Celsingrid said. “I pray to be an Ardúnar, but not so recklessly that I take the Blue. May it pass unto another!”

  “It may yet,” Oelinor said, and with his words the beam burst forth again and rotated thrice before slowing near Celsingrid. He gave a gasp and flinched in his seat, but it slowly pushed on until it settled upon the next to be chosen: Geldirana.

  “The third Ardúnar is duly elected,” Oelinor said. “Fas im Ardü Geldiranaos il-Garigütë!”

  “Well deserved,” Melgalés said, stepping up to shake her hand and pat her shoulder.

  “I do not envy,” Celsingrid said. “It is fitting, I feel, that Boror should get the Dead Moon.”

  “And more fitting that Arlin should get none at all if it were but you set forth in candidacy,” Geldirana said. “But perhaps Garadin or Beléin, the Knights of Issarí, will do their country the honour that the Lord of Calnibur cannot.”

  “I will,” Beléin said, “should I be chosen.”

  “The gods have already let you away with enough,” Celsingrid said. “Was it not enough that you sleep your way to knighthood when the sword is reserved for men? Will you crawl into Corrias’ bed to ensure the Urod-Pelar chooses you also?”

  “Keep silent!” Melgalés shouted. “Lest you defile the names of more Céalari with your twisted words. The All-father is all ears, I am certain, and would do wise to look you over when the Urod-Pelar makes its choice.”

  “My apologies on behalf of my Lord,” Bringrid, Celsingrid’s High Guard, said. He was seated between Beléin and Celsingrid, though gave no consideration to his chance of election. “He has had a tiring journey and does not mean all that he says.”

  “I do,” Celsingrid said. “And I mean more besides.” And then he turned aside to his aide and said: “If e’er you speak on my behalf again, Bringrid, you will be a Low Guard ere I’m through with you.”

  “I wonder,” Beléin said, “if Calnibur the Cold Town gets its name from the frozen heart of the bitter man that leads it.”

  “I wonder if Beléin the Harlot gets her name from all the bitter men she leads astray with the enticements of the body,” Celsingrid replied, scorn thick in his voice like venom.

  “I wonder,” Melgalés said, “if the peoples of Iraldas can gather together with civility and stick to the matter at hand. You are well out of line, Celsingrid De’Arandé.”

  “I would have to be to sit in the company of a sorcerer,” Celsingrid spat. “Oh, perhaps I should not have said that, for fear of being turned into a toad.”

  “A toad would be too good a fate for you,” Melgalorn said, and the difference in his voice to his brother’s was clear, for there was a shrillness that made him sound younger than he was. “And higher in rank than you currently stand,” he added with a glare.

  “And yet taller in rank than you and your twin,” Celsingrid said. “At least I do not need a simulacrum to make my wit.”

  “Trueblade did well to refuse to knight your son,” Beléin said. “If he were anything like you, then the Knights would be given a bad name, crueller than the name of your town.”

  “Trueblade did well to avoid you,” Celsingrid said. “At least he, fool that he is, kept to his oath and kept his blade where it belongs. Can you say the same of all the other knights, Beléin? My son did well to get refused, for who would want knighthood if it comes with the taint of your company and the oath-breaking of your companions?”

  “The next moon,” Oelinor called, “is—”

  “The Harlot Moon,” Celsingrid interrupted, “or the Sorcerer’s Moon, put there in the sky by the magics of Melgalés himself. Why do you even use the tongue of Arlin in your name, sorcerer, when you come from Boror?”

  “We were all Arlin once,” Melgalés said. “Arlinaic is still my tongue.”

  “Mehlalesh should be your name,” Teron said. “Indeed, it is your true name, is it not? You translated it into Arlinaic when you were already old.”

  “The Snow Moon,” Oelinor said, raising his voice and ignoring their quarrel. “It is also known as the White Moon. Let the Urod-Pelar make its choice ere we choose more ill words.”

  And so the beam burst forth once more and made its selection, landing on Lëolin the Pelari Guard. “The fourth Ardúnar is duly elected,” Oelinor said. “Fas im Ardü Lëolinos Pelargerad!”

  Some clapped, but others did not. “Two Aelora,” Celsingrid observed. “Are you sure you do not live too close to the Pelar, Lëolin, Pelari Guard?”

  “’Tis no more than two Bororians being chosen,” Malinel, head of the Ferian Matriarchate in Westhaven, said. “It seems the East is strangely fortunate in this affair. What of us in the We
st? Do we not get a Warden of Light of our own, never mind two?”

  “There are seven yet to be chosen,” Oelinor explained. “Let the Stone choose at its own pace. And perhaps if we squabble less the results shall come the sooner.

  “The next moon is the Stone Moon, the first of Man’s New Year. Let the Urod-Pelar make its choice.”

  It chose Enesvahād, a Drumlord of the Tibin, the stout six-armed people who dwelt in the north-west of Iraldas, keeping to their own affairs; indeed, the small party that attended the Council were only there for the temptation of eternal life—they had no interest in combating the Molokrán or involving themselves in the affairs of the other races, for whom they blamed the present troubles of the world.

  “The fifth Ardúnar is duly elected,” Oelinor said.

  “You should have had patience,” Enesvahād said, laughing loudly and patting his belly with his many hands. “That’s the trouble with you Ferian—light-footed and light of mind and will. It takes the endless melodies of the Baha-Ūma to realise that all good things come in good time. And look, now we have an Ardúnar for the West, but none for the Ferian!”

  “Fas im Ardü Enesvahädos il-Tibinë!” Oelinor said. “Though let us not gloat, for it makes ill what is good.”

  “Let the Tibin gloat if he wills,” Celsingrid said. “At least he does so openly and not behind the veil of a sorcerer. I respect such honesty.”

  “And I disrespect such lies as those you spout against me,” Melgalés said.

  “You disrespect Iraldas with your defiling of the natural order of things with foul magics.”

  “You insult Aelor with those words,” Oelinor scolded. “And let me remind you that you are in Aelora land, and the Urod-Pelar is the Aelora Stone.”

  “That is clear to me, yes,” Celsingrid said. “All the magic-minded get the first votes—how could it not be Elélin?” And then he scoffed. “Your land is called White Land because of the snow, Oelinor, not because of the purity of your hearts.”

  “Yet you are called the Cold Lord of the Cold Town for precisely that which lies in your heart,” Melgalés said. “And if it were not for the frost, it would be empty and you would die. Is it then, I wonder, the thawing of your heart that leads you to yearn for the Eternal Life of the Ardúnari?”

  “You speak of death more than life, Melgalés,” Teron said. “Those who become obsessed with it see it all the more swiftly.”

  “Do not threaten me with wisdom, Teron, no,” the Magus replied. “You have not a store of it to teach me something new. But come, Teron, who is obsessed more with death, you or I, knowing your feelings on the frailty of your life?”

  And suddenly an anger which had been festering in Teron sprouted in his face. “You know not my feelings! You know not my mind! I am young inside. I am young in mind!”

  “Perhaps he does know your mind,” Celsingrid said. “A Magus has many probing fingers.”

  But before the Magus, or anyone else of the twenty-six seated and their attendees and guards, could respond, the Stone lit up again and began its next revolution. The light this time was brighter, and it shone fiercely in the eyes and hearts of those it set upon, silencing them externally and internally.

  Finally it stopped, and it chose Elilod of the Taarí, Earl of the hidden city of Lylinel. He stood and bowed, and he thanked the Stone and all present in both the Common Tongue and the language of his people. Some present applauded, while others grumbled, for suspicion of the Taarí was rife among them.

  And so also were the responses to the remaining Elect, for the Stone would not endure their quarrels any longer. More quickly it rotated, and soon it had selected all the remaining Ardúnari: Malinel of the Ferian (who rejoiced overly, praising Éala for her good fortune); Rúathar of the Al-Ferian (who said nothing, but bore a calm and contented smile); the knight Beléin (who prayed to Issarí); Melgalorn, chosen for Al-Ferian lands where he dwelt (receiving some applause, but much consternation and insult); Hādladam of the Tibin (who gloated in much the same way as Enesvahād); Lalalyr of the Taarí (who gave a rousing speech of her intent, with the aid of Elilod’s Taarí Rebels, to rid Telarym of the evil of the Dark Taarí); and finally Celsingrid De’Arandé (who stood up and laughed to the skies, overcome in the mirth of his selection). With this last choice there were many grumbles and complaints, some for the choice of Celsingrid, but most for the lack of the choice of themselves. Thralathar of the Ferian was particularly vocal, while Teron merely said: “So the rich and the arrogant get the votes. Thus may they live longer to amass more riches and grow more proud and conceited.” He stood up then and left the Council, followed quickly by Menon, his aide.

  * * *

  It was then that Oelinor asked for pardon from those not selected, for he was tasked with leading the Elect to the Pelar Pool where they would remove their gowns of mortality, taking the robes of an immortal and the mantle of an Ardúnar. The Pelari Guard led them to the Pool, which shone with the reflection of a full moon. There each of the Elect were disrobed in turn, entering the Pool and receiving three blessings in the Aelora tongue, followed by a sudden strike of lightening to the lake. Then they left the Pool and were robed anew in the cleanest cloth of white, and they were given a symbolic elixir to represent the Elixir of Life, which was, in truth, contained within the Pool, for therein was poured the oil of one of the broken Lamps of the Céalari. Thus did they die as mortals, shedding their old lives like the skin of a snake, and thus were they reborn in the light, with new blood in their veins, the blood of the Ardúnari.

  * * *

  “I feel the Light well up within me,” Melgalés said. “Yes, as though I were a fountain of flesh with light as my blood.”

  “It is difficult to describe,” Beléin said softly. “I do not have a way with words like others here do.”

  “Do not be so modest,” Enesvahād bellowed, his voice like the drums he played in the mountains of his people. “You are an Ardúnar now.”

  “Let us not be deceived by our good fortune,” Oelinor told them. “For while we have been graced with Fas im Ardü, we are neither truly undying nor absent of darkness. And while we have been given the title of Urodë, a title neither given nor received lightly, we are not now more wise than we were before the Had il-Fas, that great Elixir of Life, was offered to us. The Pelar has chosen us not so that we might gloat about life eternal and wisdom everlasting, but that we might use the longness of our lives and the deftness of our minds to overcome the great evils of this world. It is not by fortune alone that such greatness of all races have gathered today, for fortune has not been our friend for some time. It is the struggle of the races of Iraldas that has lit us up like a beacon to the Céalari. It is the determination of our peoples in the face of great adversity that has given us this one great chance to turn the tides of darkness back unto whence they came. And to this task, which is no easy one, I can only say: Berasos Ceraë im liberasö Ardüë! Bring forth the Darkness and I shall bring forth the Light!”

  There was a rally of cheers, where many of the newly elected Ardúnari raised their arms into the air in merriment. Mirth was their venture and joy was their vesture. Amidst the tumult of rejoicing people could be heard the drowned words of Melgalés, who, in answer to Oelinor’s speech said: “Cae ömados Berasirë il-Ardüë. Cae ömados Ardüë il-Caealiraë.”

  * * *

  Their celebrations continued long into the night, and the other attendees joined them, though not without moments of begrudgery. Dancing was done and drinking was had, and music was as frequent as the breathing of air. But soon there was dark talk amongst the people, for when all their energy had been spent in rejoicing this boon, they grew suddenly aware of the bane that came with it. Talk then shifted to Agon and the Molokrán, and many became fearful and penitent of their choice.

  “May I live long enough not to rue this election,” Malinel said, holding tightly the acorn pouch tied to her waist.

  Many went their own way then, for there was no mood left
for mirth. The Tibin were particularly intent on returning to their home, for they said that the day of Songhigh was approaching, and that was much loftier a celebration to them than the Election of the Ardúnari.

  * * *

  Teron and Menon returned to their carriage, speaking openly with one another about what had just transpired.

  “This is sorcery,” Teron growled. “Oelinor has that Stone working like a puppet, I know it. Perhaps he feeds it with some strange magics.”

  “I did think it strange that you were not elected,” Menon commented, yet he spoke as if from a script, his voice monotonous. “I thought it very strange that Oelinor was elected before the Council. Well, so he says. How are we to believe he was?”

  “Exactly my thoughts,” Teron said, though secretly he had not thought of that; the shock of not being chosen was still too near. “He is Head of the Council. He gets to say whatever he wants, and if he says I am an Ardúnar, who will question him?”

  “I will,” Menon said.

  “I did not hear you question him at the Council.”

  “I thought it would be rude to say anything then.”

  “It does not matter,” Teron said. “Everything is decided. My word and your word mean nothing to this gathering of fools. The election had already been decided long before now. They all know each other. They have all crossed hands before with well-wishes and bags of silver. That Melgalés and Melgalorn, especially. They have been up here before, to the Stone, up to Oelinadal too, on many occasions. Oelinor’s great friends, they are. No wonder they were chosen. The same with that Garigút wench, Geldirana. Golden Woman, ha! The Garigút deal with splintered sticks and half-chipped stones. Gold is not a thing those barbarians know of. And Lëolin! A Pelari Guard is elected at the Urod-Pelar? How fitting!”