Chapter 20: The message
Ely woke with a jolt.
Frigid air swept through the open window, swirling around
him, hard with the first hints of coming autumn.
After so much time in a warmer climate, this felt already
like winter.
He felt the flecks of rain against his skin, even though the
battlement kept the worst of it from him, the hard, bitter rain his people had
come to expect from this time of year, having already concluded their harvest
and wrapped themselves up to survive the onslaught of real cold that would soon
arrive.
He rolled himself off the cot, sword – still at his side –
rattling against the wood of the bed and the stone of the floor, as he dragged
himself to the opening out for a deeper breath of air, the scent of sea strong in
the chilly climes, he thought, dragging him back more thoroughly than his sail here
or even his meeting with the king.
The gray sky greeted him, pregnant with rain, leaving a mist
across the tops of the more distant mountain and floating over the tips of pine
trees as if a sea in itself. Sight of the sea itself and the harbor escape him
in the mists, but not the bulk of the battlements below, and the relentless
guards who prowled its tops, the silver tips of their spears glinting even in
the dullest of light.
His dreams still shook him, images of things that had
happened or would happen, he could not tell, although he felt the urgency, the
need to return, these dreams like other dreams he’d had during the long sea voyage
north, ending this time before the most persistent of the dreams emerged, a man’s
voice calling to him, a familiar yet not recognizable voice -- floating into his mind, stirring up panic
in him, its message always the same message, always saying, “keep your promise.”
Sometimes, he would see a dark figure against a lighted
door, calling this to him, and though the figure wore no crown or other insignia,
Ely knew who it was from the large painting in that tall black tower in the
south: the image of Laithia’s dead father calling to him from the grave.
Then, as if still dreaming, it spoke again in his head.
“The war goes badly,” the voice said.
Ely shivered, glancing briefly back through the door to the
hall beyond and the shadow of the guards still at watch there.
“There is nothing I can do for the moment,” Ely replied in a
cautious whisper.
The spirit’s voice did not replay.
Ely removed his sword, and gear, and laid back down, not to
sleep – he feared too much the dreams – but to rest and to think, and to contemplate
on how to do what he need he had to.
He did not wish to spill blood.
*************
High up in the elf tower, Blyord held the tiny scroll the
messenger bird had brought in.
Luckily, a guard loyal to him had intercepted it and brought
it to Blyord instead of the king.
His hands shook holding it, as outside, winter thunder shook
the air as if foreshadowing the even deadlier storm the message conveyed.
Agents of Htam had pursued the rider to the very door step
of Amlor. There would be no holding back the hordes now.
Blyord rose from the table, rubbing the bridge of his nose
with his fingers, his gaze staring out the window at the misty world below,
rain shifting freezing rain.
He half expected to witness the arrival of some armada laying
siege to the port, but he could not even see the edge of water, just the same
sea of mists slowing devouring the landscape.
He wanted to keep the message secret, to get more time, but
there was no more time.
A panic began to work its way up from Blyord’s stomach, a feeling
of pending doom, as if the time for decision had come and had been made and was
now in the stages of being planned or perhaps implemented.
This was the nudge the wizard feared would set the whole
thing in motion. And there was no way to keep the news from Ely, If Blyord
knew, soon Ely would as well.
Only the desperate need for calm kept him from plunging out his
door and down the winding stairs to summons guards to seek out Ely who he was
convinced was already in flight.
But to where?
Only one place would do if Ely intended to keep his promise,
and for that, the wizard figured, Ely would need things to help him get there:
a horse, at least, or a carriage, or some other mode of transportation that would
help him traverse the long times between the king’s castle and that dark tower high
up above Land Gate.
“There’s still time to dissuade him,” Blyord thought. “He
won’t run off this minute.”
Blyord returned to the small table, sat on the short stool,
and focused on what he needed to do to stop Ely or, at least, redirect him away
from what could be the deadliest act of his young life.
What does fate say?
To keep it or to let it go. Should it remain here, waiting
for the moment when the mighty armies of Htam lay siege to this land, to its
burn villages and sink its ships, until at last, when all else is gone, bring
down the tower in which the precious thing is held?
Reminding Ely of the curse would not suffice. Love conquers
all, he thought, including common sense.
Yet, Blyord thought sending the sword south in the hands of such
a love sick prince might not be wise after all.
If Htam comes, Amlor will fight to the last, not to protect
the sword, but to resist evil.
The sword, Blyord concluded finally, must remain where it
is, until the last, when at the end, when all other resistance fails, to be
used – evil or not – to preserve what is good.
And yet, if the prince and future king of Amlor has made up
his mind to take the sword for his own, even risking death, even knowing that
to do so will bring the curse down on his head, who is there that can stop him?
Blyord well knew only one other man could. But can Blyord
convince Ajax to do so?
Maybe it wouldn’t have to go that far. Maybe he could finally
get through to Ely and convince him to go south and leave the sword here.
Blyord rose and made for the door, and the winding stairs
beyond, the slap of his footsteps echoing ahead of him like a ghost’s.
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