Lady of Poison

CHAPTER 13

The next day, all the visitors to Yeshelmaar were summoned to the Spring Court. The court was held in a wide sublevel, delved from living rock below the surface of the tor. Thin shafts tunneled upward to the surface, back down which beams of morning light fell, illuminating the chamber with golden light. A pool of crystal water filled the center of the chamber. In the center of the pool rose a great throne of pale stone. Subtle designs of leafs, vines, and other growing things seemed to slowly swirl and grow throughout the rock, despite being relief carvings.

The Nentyarch sat his throne with calm dignity. He wore a long linen robe of Lethyr green, his symbol of a golden leaf shining on his chest. The sleeves and neck of his robe were trimmed with snow white cotton, which was also the color of the belt girding his waist. On his head was the fabled Circle of Life: a living wooden crown bearing green leaves and slender twigs that held jewels. The jewels glowed with light that waxed and waned over a period of just a few seconds, like breath. The Nentyarch’s eyes were silver, and his dark hair was likewise touched by silver at the temples. He was an elf who had tarried long in the world.

Around the far outskirts of the clear pool was assembled the high druids, the Circle of Leth. Elves, humans, and a single dwarf made up that group, each seated on a stone bench, eyes wary and watchful as Marrec, Ash, Gunggari, and Ususi approached.

Standing out before the pool were several of the elves who had greeted the travelers when they’d arrived at Yeshelmaar. Elowen was also there, but so too was sour-faced Fallon.

It was the Spring Court, too. Marrec had learned that since the Nentyarch’s coming, Yeshelmaar had become the informal capital of the Great Dale, or at least the eastern half. The folk of the lonely clanholds of the region held a deep reverence for the Nentyarch. Many were in attendance today, seeking the Nentyarch’s advice. Perhaps a dozen druids of various ranks and twice that number of rangers, hunters, and foresters were assembled in the back of room, along with a handful of Dalesfolk who had come to seek the Nentyarch’s advice or assistance.

Marrecleading Ash by the handGunggari, and Ususi were ushered past all those who were there before them, up into the very presence of the Nentyarch, just short of the still pool. The hunters at the head of the hall drew aside to let them pass, and Elowen left their number to join the travelers.

The Circle member to the right and behind the Nentyarch rose, saying, “The Nentyarch is occupied with a fierce contest for the souls of two great forests against Talona’s Rotting Man. We have heard how all of you have become entangled in the Rotting Man’s designs. Please, tell us more.”

The Nentyarch’s face remained solemn, kingly even, as he nodded.

As Marrec prepared to speak, Ususi seized the initiative, saying “Great druid, I bring you the token of Briartan. It is the Keystone, long held in safety by the Mucklestones Druid. We could not prevent his fall, but we were able to salvage this relic of a bygone race.” She held the Keystone up for all to see.

The Nentyarch spoke, the timbre of his voice a pleasant tenor. “Briartan’s fall is known to me. It is with great sadness that I accept the Keystone back into my keeping. The Mucklestones Druid will be greatly missed Few can hope to tread the path upon which he journeyed, to our loss.”

Fallon approached, holding a very small a gold-lined chest with an open lid. With poorly concealed regret, Ususi placed the Keystone into the chest.

The Nentyarch said to the mage, “Your integrity is beyond recall. You, more than any other, have a claim to the stone, yet you return it to me despite that. When we have finished with our business here, I will show my gratitude.”

Ususi’s frown hesitated before smoothing away. Marrec wondered what the Nentyarch meant by his comment about the mage’s claim to the Keystone, but then it was the cleric’s turn to speak.

Marrec addressed the Nentyarch, internally reminding himself that the elf was due his respect, “Honored one, I am the servant of Lurue, the Unicorn Queen. I have been on a road long not only in length but also in years. I hope that you may have the answers I seek.”

“Your quest is not unknown to me,” said the Nentyarch. “My hunter, Elowen, whom we missed in her long absence, has explained your plight and your quest.”

Fallon, still standing nearby with the chest holding the Keystone, shot Elowen a frown. She favored him with a small shrug in return, the ghost of a smile on her lips.

Marrec responded, “Then can you tell me for what reason my path has led to this girl, Ash, and now to you? Do you know what her significance is, and… can you tell me what ails Lurue?”

“I can try. Let the girl come to me.”

Marrec guided Ash a little closer to the pool, then released her hand.

The Nentyarch studied Ash for a good minute. Quiet reigned in the hall, save for a few small coughs in the back. Finally the Nentyarch said, “I can see there is something more to this girl than meets the eye. If what I suspect is true, then I don’t doubt that all the Rotting Man’s thoughts and many of his agents are bent on finding this girl you name Ash.”

Marrec held his breath, waiting for the revelation.

“But I must be sure.” So saying the Nentyarch stood and walked through the crystal pool surrounding his throne. The pool was only a few inches deep. Marrec noticed that the Nentyarch waded through the pool without getting the least bit wet. He stepped out of the shallow pool to stand next to Ash.

“Let us have a better look at you,” the Nentyarch murmured. He placed one hand on the girl’s shoulder and raised the other above his own head. In his raised hand he held a sprig of greenery. The girl was unfazed but spoke: “Ash.”

The Nentyarch smiled, saying, “I doubt that is your true name. Let us find out, shall we?”

Then he began to utter a series of sharp, ringing syllables, one after the other, which continued to ring through air as if individual voices. As the Nentyarch uttered each new syllable, the ones before it continued to sound, until after just a brief time, a mighty melody of rich sound reverberated through the hidden hall. Still the Nentyarch added to the voice, layering on yet more notes. The slow crescendo slowly built to a sound so intense that many stopped up their ears.

Finally, the Nentyarch brought down his raised hand, throwing the plant cutting he held into the pool. The sound cut off instantly, but light blossomed in the pool, growing from the point where the plant cutting had splashed. The light formed the image of a night sky. The sky seemed idealized, shorn of obscuring clouds, but sprinkled with thousands of tiny points of starlight.

A ray of light shot up from the pool, becoming a wide shaft of light. To Marrec’s eyes, the shaft seemed to burn with hope. He reached for it, but just as suddenly, the light winked out, as if extinguished before its time. Marrec felt that the light had been stolen away, but as despair threatened to claim him, a tiny of flicker, a spark, rose up from the pool. It was but a twinkle compared to the beam of before, yet it was a glimmer of hope.

The spark rose from the pool, moving toward the Nentyarch. The tiny firefly light came to rest, hanging just above the brow of the little girl, Ash, like a flashing jewel bound in a queenly circlet.

As the light blazed stronger on her brow, Ash said, “Araluen.”

The light flickered out and the scene in the pool died away. Marrec held his breath, looking to the Nentyarch for explanation.

The Nentyarch laughed. He said in a wondering voice, “This is the aspect of good long promised. The Child of Light!”

Wondering whispers broke out in the court. “I don’t understand,” said Marrec. “This is the Child of Light, sent to the world by Lurue. Lurue long promised a champion of the green, which would aid us in our long fight against the growing power of the Rotting Man, who is a servant of the evil goddess, Talona, the Lady of Poison. The name of this champion, this Aspect, the true name of the Child of Light, is Araluen. Lurue sent the Child of Light to contest Talona’s champion, the Rotting Man, but something has gone very wrong.”

Marrec gazed at Ash, if he could still call her that, with open wonder. Was Ash, herself, sent down from Lurue? He asked the Nentyarch, “What’s wrong with her? She is no champion; she is a frail child. True, she does have some healing ability, and she defended herself once…”

The Nentyarch said, “This is not the aspect promised, but only a fragment. She is separated from herself, and the Rotting Man holds the answer. I perceive it is his foul necromancy. He has somehow diverted the divine charge of Araluen. It is possible that Lurue’s waning power is also connected, though I sense there may be other forces at work, too. Somehow, Lurue is still connected to her lost aspect. As long as the Rotting Man possesses that stolen power, the goddess you know as Lurue may continue to weaken.”

“How can that be?”

The Nentyarch thought, then said, “The aspect gains its power directly from Lurue. The theft of the aspect is like a slow leak in a basin of clear water. Until the hole is plugged, the water will diminish. The aspect must be found, restored to herself, and returned to Lurue.”

Marrec pulled his spear from his back, an involuntary reaction, and said “Then I must defeat the Rotting Man, to complete my quest, and release Lurue’s power back into the wild.”

The Nentyarch considered, then said, “That would be a mighty act and one we would support, but the Rotting Man is a great power, possessing the favor of his evil deity, Talona. You see, the Rotting Man, who I also name the Talontyr, is my enemy, too. He has ousted me from my years-long seat in Dun-Tharos. I shudder to think what evil he has stirred up in that ancient grave I sought to keep under my guard.”

Marrec replied, “The Rotting Man must feel vulnerable, somehow. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be pursuing little Ash so hard and for so long.”

“True enough. Perhaps Ash is the seed required to re-ignite the power of the Child of Light in the world. Lurue’s Aspect would be more than a match for the Talontyr, I doubt not.”

“I will fight him, and I will win,” promised Marrec.

The Nentyarch motioned for Fallon to attend him. He told the elf, “Give Lurue’s cleric some history of our enemy.”

Fallon nodded, cleared his throat, and began to speak as if reciting a passage from a well-rehearsed tome, “Deep in the heart of the Rawlinswood lies a festering wound, the wreckage of Dun-Tharos, the ancient Nar capital. There the malevolent creature we call the Rotting Man has raised his own dark citadel, marshalling forces of corruption and evil against the surrounding lands. The Rotting Man’s handpicked lieutenants and emissaries are the Blightlords. The Blightlords are powerful in their right, and hold the power to warp the creatures of the forest to their sick purposes.

“The Nentyarchs of ages past raised a living fortress of magical trees over the ruins of Dun-Tharos and chased off explorers for centuries. You see, the treasures of Narfell’s sinister lords lie in buried storehouses and conjuring chambers beneath the old ruins. Without the Nentyarchs to watch over the old capitol, the Talontyr and his blightspawned servants are free to ransack those treasures for secrets of evil from which the world has long been spared. The longer the Rotting Man is allowed to remain in the Rawlinswood’s heart, the more certain it becomes that he’ll unleash a fell power worse even than his own Blightlords.” Fallon coughed, his face slightly red, as if in embarrassment, though Marrec didn’t see what could be bothering the elf. He had recited the history clearly and without stumbling.

Quiet followed Fallon’s speech. The elfs words moved Marrec despite his dislike for Fallon. His heart seemed to be in the right place, despite his sour disposition, but it seemed more clear than ever what he had to do.

Marrec said, “As many of you know, I’ve only come this far through Lurue’s guidance and grace. I believe that Lurue would have me take this girl Ash, this lessened aspect, and reunite her with her greater self, which the Rotting Man must have hidden away. I don’t doubt this will be a dangerous journey, outstripping anything I have previously attempted.”

“I and my circle will provide support and aid in this venture,” said the Nentyarch. “With you will go Elowen, my chief hunter in this matter. Also, Fallon, Anom, and Cirid, all of whom have accomplished deeds of renown without peer.”

The three so named, Fallon, Anom, and Cirid, stepped forward. Fallon’s habitual frown disappeared in the wake of the Nentyarch’s praise. Anom was an elf man dressed all in brown cloth, carrying a staff of dark wood. Cirid, a female human, wore a gown of dark green. Oddly enough, it seemed to Marrec, a great sword in a white sheath was girt at her waist.

“I cannot spare more hunters; the Rotting Man’s forces are on the move. Even now, the heart of the Forest of Lethyr is in peril. The Talontyr’s reach has grown long indeed. I’ll not allow two forests fall to his influence. The Lethyr must not be corrupted.”

Marrec nodded.

“But I can spare advice and a route whereby you might sneak into the center of Dun-Tharos itself unseen. In my time there, I learned something of the hidden dungeons beneath the forest. They are dangerous, but better than going openly abroad through territory completely in the Talontyr’s hands.”

Again the Nentyarch motioned to another of the assembled hunters. That one brought forth a white scroll, newly scribed, and handed it to Elowen.

The Nentyarch explained, “I’ve marked an entrance to the upperdark passages that extend for miles beneath the Rawlinswood, unknown to most. These forgotten passageways below the forest eventually connect to buried Dun-Tharos itself. From there, you can gain entry to the Rotting Man’s center of power by coming up from below. Follow the path marked on the scroll, and you may have a chance.”

Elowen unrolled the scroll and studied the map inked upon it. She asked, “Haven’t you always warned us away from these buried Nar ruins? Wouldn’t we fare better taking an overland route?”

The Nentyarch did something Marrec thought was out of character for such an esteemed and elder elf; he shrugged, saying, “Better to sneak past the slumbering evil of toppled empires than attempt to penetrate the watchful guard of a vigilant malevolence. I call the Rotting Man the Talontyr because his power has waxed with an influx of divine energy sent by his goddess, Talona. All who penetrate too deeply into the Rawlinswood are known to him. The heart of that forest is truly corrupted, and its trees owe their allegiance to him, and me no longer. As his power grows, mine wanes.”

Without further comment, Elowen stowed the map.

“We appreciate the help you can offer. With the map, and with the aid of your hunters, we will pierce the Rotting Man’s guard and reunite Ash with her greater self.”

“I have not finished with my gifts,” said the Lord of Yeshelmaar, who came perilously close to a grin. He clapped.

A few of those Marrec had taken for simple Dalesfolk petitioners in the rear of the hall came forward. Each carried a chest, a garment, or some other oddment.

The first walked to stand next to the Nentyarch, who said, “Marrec, your coming was hot unlooked for; our dream auguries and moon guides pointed to your arrival, or at least the arrival of someone like you in service to Lurue. That you would come with hope for finding and reviving the Child of Light is more even than we could perceive or hope for. In any event, we have prepared suitable gifts for the one we hoped would come. These gifts will help you in what lies ahead.”

The first of the Dalesfolk produced a pair of matched gauntlets. The gauntlets were quite thin and sewn of smooth grain deerskin and lined with white linen. Emerald threads picked out the design of an oak leaf in the palm of each hand.

The Nentyarch said, “Marrec, please accept these enchanted gloves. While you wear them, a strength like that of the oak tree will be yours.”

Marrec accepted the gauntlets and bowed low. Mere handling of the gloves was enough for him to feel their vitality. He carefully stowed them at his belt.

Next was produced a leather scabbard on which many elegant designs were inlaid. A hilt of darkly oiled and gleaming wood was visible. The Nentyarch grasped the hilt and pulled forth a long blade. It was a blade unlike any Marrec had before seen; the hilt, crosspiece, and even blade itself were carved from one continuous block of wood. The grain ran with the length of the blade, and like the hilt, the entire weapon shone as if recently polished with wood oil. The Nentyarch took a few hearty swings. The air whistled as it parted before the sharpened edge.

The Nentyarch said, “This is Dymondheart, the blade I carried when I was much younger. You’ll find its edge sharper than dead steel; it’s hard to dull the edge of a living weapon. I’d like you to carry-it for me, Elowen. If Dymondheart ends its career buried in the flesh of Rotting Man, I will not be disappointed.” He sheathed the wooden blade and presented it to Elowen.

The hunter stammered a thank you, overwhelmed with the magnificence of the gift. She said, “Then… count on me to arrange that ending, Nentyarch.”

Other gifts were brought forwardthree quivers of stiff black cloth inlaid with golden thread. Brighter than the thread were the f letched arrows contained in eachthe feathers were mirror-bright gold, flashing and twinkling in the torchlight. The Nentyarch drew out one of the arrows. The shaft was dark, like a line of darkness, even its tip, which narrowed down to an invisible point.

“These arrows are fletched with feathers collected from the phoenix’s nest on the highest spire of Yeshelmaar, collected only with her permission. The shafts are carved of lyrwood, harvested in the Shadow Wood of the mystic’s dreams. Nothing can evade their flights. Conserve them. Once they are gone, no more can easily be made.”

The Nentyarch presented a quiver each to Fallon, Anom, and Cirid. Each was accepted gracefully, though Marrec was sure he saw Fallon cast a quick, envious glance at the new sword gracing Elowen’s hip.

From his lips, Fallon was all poise and polish, saying, “We thank you, Nentyarch, for our gifts. They will be a great help against the Talontyr’s forces.”

“Now, let me think. I did not have anything prepared for the southern wayfarer, Gunggari; our presentiments were not so accurate.”

The Oslander shrugged. He said, “I need no gifts.”

“Gifts are not for those who need, but those who appreciate,” responded the Nentyarch. “Elowen has told me something of your abilities. I believe I have just the thing, a gift anyone might find useful.”

A Dalesman brought forward an open chest. The Nentyarch pulled out a plain leather haversack. Opening it, he revealed several small vials, each filled with an iridescent liquid: purple, sky blue, forest green, and shimmering yellow. Each vial was held in place with a cunning leather strap so that all were side by side and easily accessible when the haversack flap was open.

“Each of these vials is filled with an elixir of potent magic. When you have need, unstop a vial and drink. The contents of each vial are displayed by each little figure stitched into the leather of the haversack. When you have used up all the vials, return the haversack to me, and I shall refill them.”

Gunggari accepted the haversack of potions. He scanned the labels, reading aloud, “Heroic Surge, Bead of Flame, Strength of the Bull… truly you do me a great honor, Nentyarch. I will use these in thankfulness.”

“And last, Ash.”

All eyes turned to the girl. Ash stood, unconcerned and apparently uncaring of the heritage the Nentyarch claimed for her.

“What gifts will avail you, eh, little one?” asked the Nentyarch. “What about this, then?”

A final chest was brought forward. The Nentyarch produced a set of leather straps, chased with green thread, fitted with a bit and reins. It was a bridle, meant to be fitted to a horse’s head.

“This is not exactly for you, Ash, but for your mount, Henri. Wearing this, he shall always know his way, and even should he stray in dark places, he will always be able to bear you back here to me and to safety.”

Ash made no move, nor did anyone expect a reaction. Marrec accepted the bridle, thanking the Nentyarch for his thoughtfulness.

“Wait, I’m going, too,” yelled Ususi. “If the Rotting Man threatens Lethyr, then he threatens the Mucklestones. I can’t have that. I will help you end his threat, if I can.”

“I wondered,” smiled the Nentyarch. “I suppose we can’t let you go without a gift of your own to aid you in this fight. Let me think… ah yes, I have the perfect thing.”

He gestured to the hunter who still held the chest containing the Keystone. Ususi’s eyes widened. The Lord of Yeshelmaar opened the chest, retrieved the Keystone once more and bestowed it on Ususi. The glowing stone lit up her face like the light of the sun reflected off water.

The Nentyarch said, “The Keystone needs a keeper. I know of no one more knowledgeable about those mystic stones. 1 charge you with the protection of the stones and with the keeping of the Keystone. Use their power well, Ususi Keywarden.”

Ususi swallowed, then simply nodded her head. Marrec enjoyed seeing the mage at a loss for words. Ususi solemnly placed the Keystone back into the chest. She finally said, “I am grateful.” A thought struck Marrec then.

“Nentyarch,” said Marrec, “with the Keystone, perhaps we may shortcut the ruined passages below the Rawlinswood entirely?”

The elder elf looked to the mage. Ususi considered and said, “That may be. We can perhaps pick up the path through the Celestial Nadir where we left it yesterday. I left the exit open. I might be able to forge a detour into the center of Dun-Tharos instead of back to the Mucklestones themselves.”

The Nentyarch added, “If you choose such a route, be careful. My dreams hint that the Rotting Man influences all realms contingent and coexistent with his own. It could be that you’ll find defenses even in your ancient space.”

Ususi looked doubtful and said nothing. Marrec said, “We will take counsel and decide our path by this afternoon.”

“Then the Court is concluded,” intoned the Nentyarch.

The Lord of Yeshelmaar called a feast in honor of the heroes who were resolved to find and face the Talontyr. As usual during such affairs, Elowen ate sparingly.

Afterwards, Elowen, Gunggari, Marrec, Ususi, and the other three hunters whom the Nentyarch selected to aid in the endeavor agreed to meet. Plans had to be laid in such a mighty undertaking. They chose a garden high on the side of Yeshelmaar, called Skymeadow, which Fallon suggested for its ideal lighting.

Elowen reached the garden first. Of all the hanging gardens in Yeshelmaar, Skymeadow was by far her favorite, so she was surprised Fallon would suggest it. In her experience, the hunter always went out of his way to annoy her. She decided not to waste her early arrival in contemplation of Fallon’s bitter nature.

She selected a cleared circular space of reddish flagstones, surrounded by low benches. A clump of leafy fruit trees overhung the patio, providing shade from the sun’s direct glare. Papyrus stems and various flowering mints ran rampant outside the circumference of the patio, save for the occasional lone fruit tree. Beyond she could see a landscaped pool, complete with a cool grotto, like a cave, actually carved into the rock of Yeshelmaar. She could discern a bronze statue of Corellon Larethian deep in the shadows of the grotto.

Who was she kidding?

She pulled out the Nentyarch’s gift, unstrapping the scabbard of Dymondheart from her belt and laying the weapon reverently before her on the stone bench. Though the scabbard was beautiful, her eyes were drawn to the grain of the wood hilt. She ran her hands along the hilt, then grasped it. She expected it to be slippery, but instead the grip was solid, warm, almost welcoming. She pulled the length of the blade free of the scabbard.

Shafts of sunlight penetrated the tree cover to strike and scatter off the length of the blade, almost as if it were metal in truth. The vitality of the living blade in her hand was astounding; she could feel the life force contained within, almost as if she gripped not the hilt of a sword but a branch of a mighty redwood.

She heard the sound of someone on the stone stair and quickly sheathed Dymondheart, grinning.

Ususi appeared, followed by Gunggari. Gunggari carried the leather satchel given him by the Nentyarch, but Ususi did not have the Keystone with her. Still smiling, Elowen strapped Dymondheart’s scabbard to her belt.

“Have you seen Marrec?” asked Gunggari.

She shook her head.

Ususi responded, “When I saw him after the feast, he was talking to Fallon.”

Elowen heard quick steps on the stair. “Speak, and you are answered,” she said, as Marrec popped into view.

“Where’s Fallon?” he said, quickly scanning the garden. The frown indicated he wasn’t happy with what he found.

“Not here yet,” said Elowen. “Why?”

“He said that the Nentyarch wanted some time alone with Ash. I figured it would be all right… but I’ve got a sudden feeling that I shouldn’t have left her.”

“Marrec, I see him,” said Gunggari, “and Ash. Down there, along the road…”

Gunggari, beyond the shade offered by the flagged patio, shaded his eyes with one hand while pointing over the side of the garden.

“Oh no,” mouthed Marrec.

Elowen saw Fallon, made tiny by distance, holding a brilliantly glowing object over his head. Behind him he led Henri the pony, complete with its new bridle. Ash calmly rode Henri.

“He’s taking Ash,” yelled Marrec.

At the same time Ususi screamed, “He’s taking my Keystone, that bastard! ‘The Nentyarch wishes to gaze upon its luster one more time…’ I’ll show him luster he won’t soon forget!”

Marrec dashed back down the stairs, Gunggari on his tail. Elowen knew they were too late. Already Fallon had used the Keystone to enter the exit that Ususi had left open. The darkness of the Celestial Nadir spilled out of the square opening, its strange properties evident even from the distance.

“Come on!” yelled Ususi.

She charged the side of the garden. Elowen tried get out of her way but was taken off guard. The mage didn’t change her path; she merely opened her arms wide and dashed herself against Elowen. The force of the impact threw both women off the top of high Yeshelmaar.

A scream escaped Elowen as the air roared in her ears. The sculpted sides of Yeshelmar blurred past, while the ground below expanded with alarming rapidity. Ususi maintained her grip on the hunter, and she uttered an arcane syllable, which reverberated in Elowen’s mind. Before she quite knew what was happening, she and Ususi alit on the hard cobblestone road before Yeshelmaar as easy as birds after a flight.

Ususi released her hold on the elf and began running with all the speed she could muster toward the portal, which was already graying out. Fallon and Ash had gone through. Elowen took a deep breath. No time for hysterics. She could kill Ususi later.

Elowen sprinted toward the dissipating portal, quickly passing the slower moving mage. As she moved ahead, Ususi gasped out “Block it. If you stand in the opening, it can not close.”

Elowen willed herself to go faster. Almost… almost… but the portal was hardly even visible anymore, only a slight haze in the air. Without stopping, she willed a last desperate burst of speed and threw herself into the haze.

Darkness enveloped her.