Fallen Embers (The Alterra Histories) Read online

  Turoc turned, seeming to know that he could take his time, as Aruin’s horse struggled to its feet. Picked for beauty rather than steadfastness, it turned and trotted off after its two surviving fellows. The Prince lay dazed with his broken bow beside him, helpless, the tiny red eyes of the great boar fixed upon him. Later, Aruin would swear that the ugly, panting jaws twisted into a wicked grin just before it charged.

  “It’s not bad enough that you leave your post, but you force me to leave mine. Just wait until I find you,” Tarfion muttered, cursing his irresponsible brother yet again. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were the son of a…of something other than our mother!”

  He had followed Tarmagil straight toward the hunting party, but pulled up short as he arrived just in time to witness the fall of Prince Aruin in the distance. To his horror, a hulking mass of enraged muscle, pawing and snorting, faced the fallen Prince—Turoc, the demon-boar, was obviously preparing to charge! He could also see Tarmagil running toward the scene, his broadsword flashing, but knew he would never make it in time.

  I’ve got one chance…thought Tarfion, frantically pulling an arrow from his quiver and nocking it. The shot was long—impossibly long—and across the wind. He had no time to wish his younger brother, Turanen, widely acclaimed as the better archer, could take the shot for him. He had no time to think at all—he simply drew back, took aim, held his breath, and released. He was already preparing his second shot when the first one struck Turoc in the left eye. The beast kept charging straight for the Prince, who had regained enough of his faculties to realize his predicament but not enough to move out of the way. The second shot buried itself immediately behind the boar’s left elbow, piercing the black heart. Turoc appeared to have had his legs cut from under him, falling like a stone, and Aruin had to scramble as best he could to avoid being crushed. As it was, his left leg twisted severely, leaving him in great pain.

  Tarmagil and Tarfion managed to bear the Prince out into the open, where they soon met with the rest of the boar-hunters, who had been drawn to the call of Aruin’s horn.

  When everyone realized the incredible feat Tarfion had performed, his name and future status were assured. King Osgar presented him with many gifts, including a great brooch wrought of silver in the shape of a charging boar with tiny ruby-red eyes. Thereafter, Tarfion was nearly always chosen to accompany the King whenever he set forth, and was proclaimed as the best archer in all the realm.

  Now, twenty years later, Aruin was still alive and healthy, and Tarfion sat waiting for his daughter, about to take her on her first really grand adventure. This had not been the easiest thing in the world to arrange. He recalled when, only two days ago, he had begged an audience with King Osgar to ask that Gaelen be allowed to travel with him so that she might become familiar with the route to Mountain-home.

  “Gaelen? The little one with the short hair?” Osgar shook his head. “She’s quite feral, you know. As her father, you should be teaching her better manners.” He frowned, his dark eyebrows drawing together beneath his crown of woven silver.

  “Begging your pardon, Lord, but I believe she has shown great potential as a hunter-scout. If she would one day follow in the footsteps of her kin, she will need the experience. She is nine-and-forty, and yet has rarely ever ventured beyond the boundaries of our lands.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Osgar. “And the one time she did was in disobedience of her father’s orders, as I recall.”

  Tarfion bit his lower lip briefly, but continued to defend his daughter. “She’s high-spirited and independent. I was once rather the same.”

  “Tarfion, I have known you since you and your brother came into the world. You always knew your place. It’s my opinion that your daughter takes after Tarmagil, and if that is so, then heaven help you.”

  “But Tarmagil is going to the council, and both he and I will swear to keep Gaelen in her place.”

  “Tarmagil has proven himself in countless skirmishes,” said Osgar. “He is now part of my personal guard, even as you are. He has matured beyond foolhardiness—I’m not convinced about Gaelen.”

  “She has a good strong heart and a ready mind. She knows how to use it,” said Tarfion.

  “She had better,” growled Osgar. “I still haven’t forgotten the pit-trap incident.”

  In spite of himself, Tarfion smiled, though he covered it quickly. Gaelen, with the help of two of her friends, had dug a rather impressive trap in the hope of ensnaring large game. Regrettably, they had mistakenly ensnared Osgar in it, along with a rather irate weasel who had thought nothing of discharging scent all over the outraged King. Osgar had locked the young offenders up for nearly a week to teach them the folly of carelessness, almost as long as it took to get the stench out of his hair.

  “Will you agree, my lord? I promise she will do exactly as she is told, will not get in the way, and will throw herself into whatever task she is given. I would be most grateful.”

  Osgar drew a deep sigh. “I suppose she really can’t get into too much trouble, not with your supervision. And I owe you a debt that can never be repaid. If it means so much to you, then I will grant your request.”

  Tarfion understood Osgar’s concerns. The High King, Ri-Elathan, had called an important council to decide how best to deal with Lord Wrothgar, known as the Black Flame, who had been gathering his followers in anticipation of war. Ri-Elathan, it seemed, would now lay plans to march northward to engage the enemy before Lord Wrothgar could fully prepare. It was also known that Kotos, the dark Asarla and right hand of Wrothgar, was readying an assault on the northern realm of Tuathas. Therefore, the council would include many of the mightiest and most respected leaders of Elves and Men.

  Osgar, of course, had been included in that number. He wanted to meet with the High King to pledge the aid of the Elves of the Greatwood, and he would tolerate no mistakes. He faced Tarfion with an expression indicating he had not forgotten the humiliation of presiding over the Greatwood while reeking of weasel. Tarfion placed his right hand over his heart, bowed respectfully, and took his leave. He intended to have a very long talk with Gaelen, assuming he could find her.

  Few Elves were more difficult to find than Gaelen of the Greatwood, and it took time for Tarfion’s message to reach her. Giron, her father’s falcon, had been specially trained to seek out certain individuals, including any and all family members. An excellent scout himself, Giron had also learned to recognize enemies. He could relay their nature, numbers, and approximate location through elaborate head bobs and wing movements, provided Tarfion had enough dried meat to reward him with. When Gaelen saw the triangular, white form circling above her, she knew she had been summoned.

  She called to the bird—a series of short, piercing whistles followed by a long, rasping “Keeyahhhh!”—so that he would know the message had been received and he could fly back to Tarfion for his reward. Then she sprinted effortlessly after him, tracking his relatively slow, easy glide back to where her father would be waiting.

  Gaelen entered a pretty, green glade near the river to find Tarfion standing with Giron, who was perched contentedly on his gloved left wrist, still tearing at a strip of dried squirrel-meat. “He’s getting so lazy, he might forget how to hunt for himself!” she said. “I hardly even needed to run to keep up.”

  “Ah, but he’s so much more useful as a messenger than as a hunter,” said Tarfion, stroking the top of Giron’s head with one finger, an act which seemed to annoy him. “How long would it have taken me to find you without him, I wonder? You know, if you are going to prove your worth in the service of the King, you had best make yourself easier to find.”

  Gaelen briefly cast her gaze heavenward, hiding her expression by shoving the unruly mop of ginger-brown hair back from her bright, olive green eyes. “Once the King decides to employ my services, he’ll make his expectations clear, I’m sure,” she said. “Until t
hat day comes, you know how to find me already.”

  “Sit down, Gaelen. You and I must talk,” said Tarfion, tossing another scrap of squirrel-meat onto the ground a few yards away. Giron pounced on it at once, leaving Tarfion free to sit beside Gaelen on a large, flat table of stone.

  He regarded his daughter for a moment. She certainly didn’t fit the mold of any Wood-elf destined for greatness. She was small—he doubted she would grow any taller than the height of his shoulder—and she seemed to pride herself on being ill-groomed. The short-cropped hair, always wild and unkempt, disturbed him; Elves did not cut their hair until it grew long enough to inconvenience them, and still they were reluctant. The long, silken tresses were almost regarded as a hallmark of their race, much like the ubiquitous beards of dwarves. To crop one’s hair in such a fashion had not been seen before in the Greatwood.

  He knew better than to mention it, as she would hear no argument and he knew it. Besides, he had to admire her willingness to choose conviction over convention. He wondered where she had gotten her impulsive, independent nature. Certainly not from Gloranel, his life-mate. His twin brother, Tarmagil, often teased him about it: I must give you due credit, my brother. You’ve managed to find the one Elf in the Greatwood who is more responsible and humorless then you are!

  But even Gloranel, who often disapproved of Gaelen, could not deny her daughter’s many talents. Even now, Tarfion perceived Gaelen’s alertness. Her eyes and ears constantly attuned to the sights and sounds around her, she was a lithe, limber little warrior. She could survive on her own indefinitely, she was an excellent rider, and, though not much of an archer, she showed great promise with blades. She sang beautifully, she could talk to ravens, and could track anything while remaining virtually untrackable. She would make an excellent hunter-scout one day.

  “The King has been summoned to the great council at Mountain-home, and, as usual, he has requested my presence as part of his personal guard. This will be a mighty gathering, held in secret. I’ve asked that you be allowed to come along to aid me, so that you might learn the hidden way. It is difficult to find unless you know it.”

  “I suppose that’s why they call it the hidden way,” said Gaelen, her eyes brighter than usual at the prospect of going to Mountain-home. Tarfion lowered his eyebrows at her and she grew serious, having realized that he didn’t approve of any sarcasm when he was being so generous.

  “Before I offer you this chance, we must come to an understanding,” he continued. “The King was not happy with my request, and he granted it only reluctantly. He hasn’t forgotten certain past incidents, and he is well aware of your tendency to go against orders and do as you please. I convinced him to trust my judgment—that you are ready to take your place as one of his loyal, faithful hunter-scouts. That means no disobedience and no mischief! I know how capable you can be, and I know you will make me proud one day. May I count on you to safeguard my reputation by behaving yourself?”

  Gaelen sat silent for a few moments, obviously considering, and Tarfion wondered again who she took after. Faced with the same question, he would have sworn to throw himself on his sword without pausing to consider other options. At last she replied, “Within reason.”

  “Within reason? What does that mean?”

  “Well, if the King asks me to do something foolish, such as throw myself off a cliff for no good cause, will you expect me to do it?”

  Tarfion just sat speechless for a moment. “Are you jesting again? Because if you’re not, then you’re being absurd!”

  “You said no disobedience, and I can’t promise that unconditionally. As much as I long to go to Mountain-home, I don’t want to make a promise I can’t keep. I will behave myself while remaining true to my own common sense, and I shall be ever-mindful of your reputation. Will Uncle Tarmagil and Uncle Turanen be going with us?”

  Tarfion scowled at her, as it was her common tactic to change the subject. “I haven’t truly decided whether I’m happy with our understanding yet,” he said. “But to answer your question, Tarmagil is coming. Turanen has requested leave to stay behind to aid Prince Aruin in the King’s absence.”

  “What about Nelwyn?” asked Gaelen, who had already brightened visibly at the mention of Tarmagil, whom she adored. Nelwyn, daughter of Turanen, was therefore Gaelen’s cousin; they had become fast friends and were rarely apart. They spent much of their time riding over the wide lands, hunting and foraging, and generally following in the footsteps of their fathers.

  Tarfion shook his head. “Nelwyn is too young. Besides, her mother would never allow it. She is thoroughly convinced that you’re a bad influence. In fact, Turanen has spoken with me about it. Elwyn has come very close to forbidding Nelwyn to associate with you, kin or not.”

  For a moment, a shadow clouded Gaelen’s bright eyes, but it passed quickly. “Nelwyn knows her own mind, and she will go her own way. Her mother would see her forever in the weaving-shed, but Nelwyn takes after her father. She wants to be the finest archer in the Greatwood. I’m not concerned.”

  “No, indeed not,” said Tarfion, knowing that he had come to all the “understanding” he was likely to get. He was her father, and she both loved and respected him, but he did not rule her. He never would.

  “All right, then, we leave in three days,” he said, standing up and whistling for Giron. “Make sure your weapons and your pony are ready and well-tended.”

  “She’s not a pony,” Gaelen muttered. “She’s a small horse. I’m small…does that mean I’m not an Elf?” She leapt down from the stone, turned, and disappeared into the forest before he could reply.

  II

  Gaelen rode with Tarfion and Tarmagil as advance guard, and Gaelen soon understood why Tarfion had called this the “hidden way.” He dutifully pointed out every landmark, though Gaelen knew that she would find the way again, even without such clues. Her memory for place and path would always stand her in good stead and, combined with her tracking abilities, would ensure that she was rarely lost. Still, even Tarfion became confused once or twice, for the higher they climbed into the mountains, the more difficult things became. Every path looked like every other path, and often there was no path at all. The horses picked their way carefully.

  Gaelen’s little mare, named Angael, had less trouble than most. Due to her size, she was as agile as a goat. She was also highly intelligent. Many had admired the rich, walnut-brown coat, set off by a light flaxen mane and tail, two white stockings in back, and two white socks in front. A bright blaze, often hidden by a long, thick forelock, adorned Angael’s fine, feminine face. Her toughness and ability to thrive on very little fodder betrayed her northern heritage.

  At last, Tarfion released Giron, instructing him to go forth and find the Elves of Mountain-home. “Sechen an Elàni, àlin Giron!”

  Gaelen hoped the bird would return quickly, for that would mean they were nearing the end of their six-hundred-mile journey. She was anxious to finally set eyes on this storied realm, especially the Sanctuary, an immense edifice of white granite housing the greatest known center for learning and study remaining in Alterra.

  Mountain-home had been founded long ago by Shandor, the powerful Asarla, one of the original seven remaining in the West. The Asari, sent by the Lord of Light, had been charged with the task of bringing enlightenment to all people. Shandor, known as the White Eagle, had built the Sanctuary in hope of all free folk coming there to study and learn. No one who sought enlightenment would be turned away…at least, that had been so in the beginning.

  When the great Elven-realm of Tal-elathas was destroyed in a terrible war, Shandor had sunk so deep into despair and disillusionment that he had closed the gates of Mountain-home, making it nearly impossible to find in all ways but one. Admission to the Sanctuary now had to be earned, along with the trust of the High-elven King, Ri-Elathan, who had made it his seat of power.

  Gaelen knew
the stories, having been taught of the First and Second Uprisings of Wrothgar. As with most of her people, she had never seen an Asarla. Now she would come face-to-face with the High King, and maybe even Shandor’s daughter, Lady Ordath, who ruled Mountain-home at present. Of Shandor himself, she knew only that his stewardship of the Sanctuary had ended in tragedy.

  Mountain-home lay, surrounded by tall peaks on every side, between two cold, turbulent streams that flowed forth from beneath the mountains. These would turn very wild indeed when the snow melted, crashing down along the southern and northern borders of the realm until they flowed together to form the River Artan. It was nearly impossible to gain entrance without crossing one of those two watercourses, either by bridges, which were always under watch, or on foot, which could only be attempted once the spring rains and snow-melt had subsided.

  Now, in late summer, Gaelen actually looked forward to the crossing. “It seems we’re awfully high in the mountains, and yet I have neither seen nor heard the Amar Tuath,” she said, referring to the northern stream. “When will we get there?”

  “We’re not going to cross either of the Amari streams, Gaelen,” said Tarmagil. “The way we are taking is not only hidden, it’s the long way around. We’ll be approaching from the east.

  “Why?” asked Gaelen, obviously disappointed.

  “Because no one must know of our errand,” said Tarfion, who had overheard.

  “But…why else would a group of Wood-elves, including the King and his retinue, be wandering around in the mountains east of Mountain-home?” asked Gaelen. “Won’t it still be obvious to our enemies that we’re going there?”

  “Do you want to thump her nose, or shall I?” said Tarmagil with a broad grin, having taken note of the annoyance on Tarfion’s face.