After Rórlain and Eldárien have finished speaking, the responses of the council of the rulers of Onylándun remain mixed, confused, and conflicted. At first there are a few courteous remarks exchanged between diverse members of the council, but then a tense thread emerges between them and soon one of the men to the hæras’ side rises to his feet and steps forward, as if to insure that his voice alone shall receive the attention of all in the chamber.
“I find it unsettling, to say the least,” he begins, with a raised voice and an oratorical flourish, “that these strangers appear at such an hour, at almost the same moment that we have received such grave news. A coincidence, you may suppose? I think not. I say it plainly and I say it true: he is a supplanter. That is the nature of the man who has come into our midst this day, though he wears a cloak of humility. He speaks outright of his goals, if only we are clear-sighted enough to recognize it. He seeks the throne.”
“Tímus, do not jump to conclusions,” Brýma says, rising also to his feet. “If he comes only in his own name, how then does he call forth the power of celestial light?”
“You know nothing of the true nature of such light,” retorts Tímus. “For all we know, it could be caused by the very creatures of darkness that we fear, and which these travelers claim to have come to vanquish. Yet they could well be in league with them rather than standing against them. The show of light could be but a trick. Are we to fall for it so naively?”
“And the very grandmaster of the order of Nirániel, too?” says Rûmdil, with anger in his voice. “You accuse Cirien Lorjiës, a man known by many and attested both by his wisdom and by his deeds, to be in league with spirits of darkness and evil?”
“He is not the one subject to our scrutiny here,” Tímus replies. “It is his companions. Perhaps they have bedazzled his eyes to their true intentions.”
“You speak folly, good sir,” Cirien says, his voice gentle and yet firm. “I was present when Eldárien first learned of the nature of his bloodline and his origins. He has sought nothing but the protection of the people of Telmérion for as long as I have known him. And he comes here not to ‘supplant,’ as you say, but to obey the command given unto him, and to follow the path marked out before him, by those to whom the obeisance of us all is owed. You would prevent him from following this path, which he walks not for his sake but for yours, simply because you fear a struggle of power?”
“No, I would prevent him because it is a struggle of power. If he comes in the line of the ancient king and claims to be the fulfillment of prophecy, then he cannot but seek to become king. We know it verily and for a surety, and we have long lived under the shadow of such prophecy: that one in the likeness of the Scarred King would come, and that he would assume the throne once again, thus uniting the peoples of Telmérion under a single banner. Thus your claim that he acts only for the people of Telmérion surely holds no weight. For that is exactly what he does: he acts for the people of Telmérion, that they may be subject to his rule.”
“Be seated, Tímus,” Brýma says, all patience now gone from his voice. “You are speaking with folly—folly born of both fear and pride. The interpretation that you give to these events is the direct opposite of my own.”
“Then you are lost—” Tímus begins, but Brýma interrupts him.
“Be seated, I said!”
And so Tímus sits, visibly fuming with anger and yet acquiescing for the moment. Brýma turns back to the travelers and, drawing in a deep breath, he says, “He spoke of grave news that we have received. This is truth, though I expect it shall be as much a surprise to you as it has been to us.”
“We know of little news at all except what we have come here to tell from our experience in the east, and what we have witnessed since our arrival in your city,” says Eldárien. “We have learned much already of the state of your city, threatened by a dragon and concealing a cult of darkness within it—a cult that has summoned that fell creature here by rites of blood and death.”
“Then about the state of my city you know almost as much as I, or in respects even more, for even that seems to escape me. We shall speak of such things later, if it proves to be appropriate and if we are given the time. But for now I ask you: do you know of the state of the other clan leaders of Telmérion? How fare the other members of the onárion, the council of the seven?”
“We know that Gléndas Medóra, hæras of Ristfánd, was overtaken by one of the leaders of the Draíon, a beast that called himself Maggot. But about the others we know nothing.”
“That sad tale we learned not long after the fact,” Brýma says. “It was impossible that such sorrowful and unusual news—and all the other events that transpired in the siege of Ristfánd—would not reach us with all haste. We also heard tell of a warrior wielding a blade of light that felled this ‘Maggot.’ Am I right to assume that was you?”
“It was in fact my sister,” Eldárien replies, gesturing to Elmáriyë.
“You have said nothing as of yet, young woman. What have you to say for yourself in this regard?”
“I did not yet know that I could wield such power,” Elmáriyë replies. “Eldárien had been captured and held in custody by this creature of which we speak. Rórlain and I came to save him and it was only as if by chance that I wielded Eldárien’s sword and thrust it through the beast. I did not expect it to have the effect that it did.”
“If all of you seem capable of wielding such power,” Brýma begins, “then what is to prevent you from giving it to all the soldiers under my command?”
“Sadly, that is not possible,” answers Eldárien. “It flows in Elmáriyë and myself because of the blood that is within us and the dual task entrusted to us. And for his part Rórlain has been granted a share in this because, under the benevolent gaze of Hiliána, he too has been chosen to—”
“I am the squire of the knight,” Rórlain says, interrupting Eldárien and finishing the thought for him. “I serve him who serves her. And I would have no other place.”
Brýma shakes his head, not in disapproval or in disbelief, but in something nearer to wonder-filled amazement. “Never before have I had a conversation such as this one in all my life,” he says. “I know not what to make of you. And the topics we must discuss flow forth upon me like a flood such that I can hardly keep them straight in my mind and heart. Forgive my digression, but I felt the need to ask.” He pauses for a moment and glances at the rest of the council members, who for the moment remain silent, listening to the dialogue without speaking. “Let us then return to the earlier trajectory of our converse.”
The travelers nod in agreement.
“I spoke of the news that we have recently received,” Brýma continues. “Since you truly do not know the fate of the hærási of the seven clans, you shall be saddened to learn that they have all been slain…all but myself.”
“What? They were all slain? But how is this possible?” Eldárien asks. “Do they not live in disparate locations?”
“Indeed they did, but they were called together for a meeting with the Emperor’s legate in Brûg’hil,” Brýma explains. “They expected talks of peace, perhaps an end to the war, or at least a truce. Maybe some even simply hoped for a way to learn more of the Empire’s motives in calling forth these beasts of darkness from the earth. I too received the invitation to such concourse, but I refused. Long have I known that my fellow hærási are untrustworthy, and even more deeply have I despised the methods of the Empire. Those who sit upon the seats of the rulers of the clans sit in unjust judgment, because they sit in compromise with the Empire or even in cooperation with her. The first compromise was made two-hundred years ago, when our ancestors yielded to the Imperial mandate for surrender. They did this not because the war was lost, but because it was more profitable to surrender than to fight. The onárion was not created out of the desire to safeguard the autonomy of Telmérion or its authentic traditions, but as a way to yield true authority to the rulers of the Empire while allowing ‘puppet leaders’ to continue in office in the lands of the seven clans. Yes, the onárion was created to keep us in check, to bind our necks to the yoke of the Empire, and yet we agreed to it freely because of the gain we sought to ensure for ourselves. You see, do you not? The history has been carefully hidden, but the truth is there: those who sat upon our seats in the past, during those decisive years, sold out their own people for the gain that the Empire promised them! And even to this day it has not been possible to throw off the yoke that they then freely accepted.” Brýma lapses into silence, and no one is able to find any words to respond to him. It is clear that he speaks not merely from guesswork or from paranoia, for the clarity and the pain that mingle together in his voice impress all of them so deeply that, in the very speaking of his words, they feel them echo within their hearts.
Tímus makes a move to speak, but Brýma immediately silences him with the words, “If you are a part of this council, Tímus, it is because you have agreed to walk in dialogue and communal discernment, and not because you feel it necessary to bully others who wish to continue in rational discourse. You know that the rest of us on this council are already but a hair’s breadth away from dismissing you from among us. Do not let that day be today. For there have been times in the past when your perspective and your judgment have been of value to us. For disagreement too can deepen one’s thought and clarify or solidify one’s convictions. But what you have expressed in this conversation is neither dialogue nor debate, but vitriol and the refusal both to speak in reason and to listen in openness.”
Hearing these words, Tímus rises to his feet in silence and, with a rude gesture, storms from the chamber. A dense moment of unspoken heaviness follows upon his departure, broken only when one of the members of the council says, “And good riddance. You kept him among us for far too long, Brýma.”
“I understand why you think so, Jatíldë. He had begun to grow more and more irrational as the situation worsened. And yet I wished to give him every chance to speak and find a hearing before taking such a drastic measure.”
“If I may say so, hæras, he has been combative from the first day that I sat upon the council,” Jatíldë responds. “For many years he has troubled our deliberations and frustrated our efforts. I think in this your tolerance came almost to the point of folly. For while dialogue is true and important, and disagreement can be a crucible of learning and of deeper conviction, the great good of harmony in a single vision, where hearts are united in looking upon the same truth, is an even greater boon.”
“But now you yourself correct me in front of our esteemed guests,” Brýma says with sorrow in his voice. “Nonetheless I accept your correction and, I must admit, I am inclined to agree with it. But…”
“You do have my apology, hæras Brýma,” says Jatíldë. “It was an imprudent moment.”
“Worry not,” Eldárien interjects. “If any of the things that have passed between us in words or in gestures have formed our view of you, they have only inclined it toward the good.”
“You are kind,” Brýma replies, “but I must admit that this time we have shared has been quite unnatural, and, I feel, unprofessional. We are still reeling from the news concerning the collapse of the onárion, and we have unwillingly—or perhaps better unknowingly—admitted you right into the heart of our counsels.”
“We are humbled to be the recipients of such trust, implicit though it be,” says Elmáriyë softly.
“Well then, now that we can speak even more freely, let me say it plainly,” Brýma continues in a firm voice. “I myself have no doubts that Eldárien is the prophesied king, nor do I wish to impede your journey in any way.” He pauses and turns to the rest of the council. “Is there anyone here who wishes to disagree with my assessment?”
They all shake their heads, and one of the men says, “Perhaps it would be good to explain to them why we lend such apparently rash credulity, and at such short acquaintance.”
“Good, Víndal. That is what I intended to do.” Brýma says. “But why do you not do the honor yourself?”
“Very well,” replies Víndal, and turning to the visitors he says, “You see, the seat of government in Onylándun is closer to both the Velási Forest and the home of the Galapteäni than is any other clan. We alone have kept fully alive both the memory and the expectation of the return of the universal kingship that lies in the blood of the Galapteäni alone. Are you surprised? Is it so incredible that after a thousand years the clan of Onylándis still awaits the reunion of the clans and has not arrogated to itself and its own bloodline the right and the duty to achieve such unity?”
“It does seem rather incredible,” Eldárien admits.
“Do you know the history of the one of the early rulers of our clan?” Víndal asks.
“I know very little, I am afraid,” answers Eldárien.
But Cirien, knowing more, says, “Was not Thrýmir Onylándis a close friend and companion of Séra Galáptes?”
“Yes, that is exactly correct, or at least so our ancient records, preserved unto this day, recount,” Víndal says. “Therefore, when the fracture began in the third generation after the great king, the grandson of Thrýmir recalled the friendship of his ancestors, and he pledged his fidelity anew to the line of kingship blessed by the divines. And on the main—with the understandable exceptions—all who have sat upon the throne of Onylándis have remained faithful to this pledge.”
“I am astonished,” Eldárien says simply. “The father of the Velási, the man by the name of Sílion, encouraged me to hope in what awaited me, but this…this I did not expect.”
At this Brýma laughs, as do a few others of the counselors. “Sílion?” he says. “That is a name that echoes in our tales and our songs, though little we know of these earliest origins. It has been all but lost…and yet his name remains. I suppose it only natural that they continue to name their children after the great father of their people, and that a descendant of the legendary Silion stands in the same role as his ancient ancestor for whom he was named.”
“Oh, this man is not a descendant of Sílion, but the original Sílion himself,” Rórlain says, unable to restrain a smile.
The expressions on the faces of all the council members are supremely humorous, and the five companions cannot help but laugh at witnessing their awe and incredulity. For a moment it seems that their belief is at last being tested beyond its endurance, but then one of the women, who has until now remained silent, says, “It only makes sense, after all. We call them ‘the deathless.’”
Brýma nods and then to the travelers he says, “It is amazing to even consider. But tell me, what was it like meeting a man—a race, in fact—who is more than a millennia old?”
At first no one replies, until Tilliána, who until now has been silent, says, “It is like stepping into a great stream that has been flowing from the highest of mountains and with the purest of water, growing both deeper and wider with the passing of centuries. And as you feel it enfolding you, you cannot but surrender to its current and allow it to carry you. And, oh, how sweet is the taste of that water and how purifying is its touch!”
Brýma smiles gently at Tilliána, a glint of light in his eyes, and then he replies, “Perhaps in the days to come others shall be granted the privilege of tasting and feeling such waters.”
“Verily, my lord,” Tilliána says.
“Address me not as ‘lord,’” Brýma says, raising his hands in protestation, though the smile remains upon his face. “I am but your servant, and eager to do what I may to aid you in your quest.”
“We know not what lies before us in the immediate future,” Eldárien begins, “and neither do we know what lies at a further distance. So I ask you not to renounce the authority of rule that has been given to you, either as individuals or as a council. I fear even greater chaos for the people of the clans following upon the slaying of their leaders. They shall need your help. I shall need your help. Even if you alone remain as the remnant of the clan heads that for so long have sustained the memory and the rule of the Telméric people, I wish for you to do so.” He pauses and sighs before adding, “And I…I struggle to think of myself yet as a king.”
“And even were I to wish to crown you this very day,” Brýma says, “it is not I—”
“It is the people themselves who must embrace their king,” Elmáriyë finishes for him. “And we know not how long and arduous a journey it shall be until such a day comes.”
“Indeed,” Brýma agrees simply. “But yes—I shall do as you request. For I would not wish any more than you to abandon our people in their time of need.” With this Brýma’s expression changes, as if he has only now become aware of the passage of time and of the far-reaching implications of their conversation. “Let us conclude our converse for the present,” he says, “though I invite all of you to join me for the midday meal upon the morrow. That shall give each of us time to take counsel within our inmost thoughts before continuing the counsels among ourselves. It shall also be good to speak in a setting other than this one. After all, we must still discuss this cult of which you have spoken, and what is to be done in its regard.”
“We gladly accept your invitation,” Eldárien says.
“But may I ask,” Jatíldë interjects, “where are you currently staying?”
“We have rented a room at the Whistling Willow,” replies Cirien.
“I suppose that is serviceable,” she answers, “but—with the permission of the counsel—I would extend an offer of friendship, with a view to the reasons and the extent of your stay, inviting these travelers to accept accommodations in the citadel.”
To the nods and affirmative responses of the rest of the council, Brýma says, “That is a good idea. Consider the offer extended. I shall give command for rooms to be prepared for you. Return this evening and speak with the guard at the main entrance. I shall have him show you to where you shall be staying.”
“Thank you. We shall do precisely that,” replies Eldárien on behalf of his companions. “We have very little resources, so your hospitality has spared us yet another unsolved problem.”
“Then may your minds be free to focus on more important matters, and may your hearts be free to rest,” Jatíldë concludes.
† † †
When they emerge again from the citadel and step into the streets of Onylándun, the companions are greeted by a heavy falling snow, so dense that it is difficult to make out even the contours of the buildings across the courtyard. But despite the snow the air is still and silent, with hardly a breath of wind, and the snow comes down not at angles nor in a swirling mass of movement, but rather as an almost solid sheet of impenetrable white. They make their way, without further speech, to the temple of Nirániel, and there they part ways with Rûmdil. Sénfyr, who had not been present for their discourse with the council, had bid them farewell on their departure from the citadel. And then they walk, with cloaks pulled tight about their faces, to the inn at which they had stayed the previous night. Here they order a hot and hearty meal and sit together near the hearth in their room.
“Eldárien?” Tilliána asks, when they have only just begun to eat.
“Yes, Tilliána,” he replies, “I know the one thing of which we did not speak. It surprises me that the hæras did not think to bring it to our attention or to speak of it with us.”
“How did you know that I was going to…?” she begins to ask, but she does not think it necessary to finish the question.
“I know the sorrow in your heart at witnessing the death of more innocent persons, and know also that you cannot for all that is within you simply allow another night to pass without doing all that is possible to prevent more suffering and loss of life.”
“You both speak of the dragon?” Rórlain asks.
“We do,” answers Tilliána.
“I think that Brýma does not know what to make of the attacks, and perhaps he did not understand that the light we bear can banish the dragon just as it can banish the vrû’ádach,” offers Rórlain.
“Either way, it matters little,” Eldárien concludes. “We shall have fine rooms in the citadel tonight, but I myself shall not be staying there, not at least until I have confronted the dragon and done what I can to stop its rampage.”
“Without question, I shall be accompanying you,” says Rórlain. “You shall have my bow and my axe, and whatever light may be granted me to bear.”
Elmáriyë opens her mouth to speak, obviously intending to offer to join the two men in their nocturnal vigil, but Cirien raises his hand and looks at her meaningfully.
“I…yes, you are right,” she says quietly. “It is not good to risk the lives of all of us, particularly those of us who have not been trained for combat. I only wish that… Well, I shall certainly not be able to sleep knowing that the two of you face mortal peril while I remain secure in my room.”
“I concur with that,” adds Tilliána.
“There may in fact be something for all of us to do,” Eldárien suggests.
“What is that?”
“We do not know where the dragon will strike, nor how long his attack shall last. Thus, if we await him on the wrong side of the city, we may not be able to oppose him simply through the fact of not being where he is.”
“In addition to this,” Cirien picks up, “we know that his location was chosen by those who performed the cultic sacrifice that summoned him here. Perhaps tonight shall be similar. If we disperse and scout the city, then we may be able to find some clue as to where to expect him. Is that what you are suggesting, Eldárien?”
“Exactly so.”
“But if we are all out scouting the city, how shall the others know if someone has found a clue?” Elmáriyë asks.
“We will plan to meet together at a predetermined time and place,” explains Eldárien. “Sadly any clues we wish to find may not even be visible until darkness has already fallen, for I do not expect those summoning the dragon to act during the daylight. I suggest that you try to get what rest you can at present, until we return to the citadel this evening to accept our rooms…and to depart from them. For a long night lies ahead of us.”
“What shall you be doing?” Tilliána asks. “Your words seem to indicate that you do not intend to rest.”
“I do not. There is a great deal for me to think about, and so I shall walk about the city throughout the afternoon, or at least until I feel it necessary to seek refuge in warmth and repose.”
“I know that a man’s thought blossoms best in the shining sun of solitude,” Tilliána says, “and that silence is the atmosphere of contemplation. But at times he also benefits from the presence of a friend who may share these thoughts with him. Know that I am here for that, if you wish to speak about anything.”
Eldárien looks at her with genuine gratitude in his eyes and, with a bow of his head, says, “Thank you.”
And so the others seek rest as they may while Eldárien, after a last lingering moment by the fire, departs from the building and steps again into the cold outdoors, still cloaked in earth and sky with snow both fallen and falling still. He walks slowly along the narrow streets of the city, desiring solitude far more than he needs warmth and space far more than he needs shelter, until he comes to a place where the middle section of the city meets the lower. Here large stone steps intersect a low wall built into the gradual slope of the city street, and these steps also provide access to the battlements. These Eldárien ascends until he stands atop the wall that encloses the entire lower section of the city and separates it from the plains that sprawl far to the south. He walks swiftly but collectedly (the swiftness due not to haste but to the effort to stay warm), his gaze lifted up as he looks out over the wide expanse of land that rolls down from the mountains until eventually, many miles away beyond the limit of sight, it meets the sea.
Of course, for a long time he can see little more than falling snow in any direction. But gradually, as he walks, the dense sheet of snow lessens just enough that he can see the white-clad plains below and, when he turns his gaze back, the city behind him, clad in white as well, though the brown and gray of many houses still show through and the falling snow meets with innumerable trails of smoke curling up from chimneys, dark and almost solid in appearance in the chill of the air. When he comes to the center of the battlements as they arch over the main gate of the city, with a guardhouse built directly in the wall, he pauses and turns his face full to the south, reaching more with his heart, however, than he looks with his eyes. He realizes then that he has begun to reach out in a way that he has never done before, or at least with a new and unexpected depth and intensity, toward that vision that lies beyond the line of material sight, that vision open to the eyes of the spirit and yet no more than glimpsed in the contours of time and of space. And he feels it now as he has felt it in the last few weeks: the tension between the visible and the invisible, the tangible and the intangible, the material and the spiritual. He knows that they are not essentially opposed to one another, and in no way incompatible—this much his heart tells him, and what he knows of the Song that birthed all things—for the single Origin of both could not create two inconsistent opposites ever in tension and conflict. No rather, just as the snow comes down and cloaks the earth, enfolding its every contour and embracing it with the most intimate of embraces, and then gradually penetrates and permeates its very core to bring moisture, life, and fruit, so too the invisible reality hovers over, embraces, and enters in all that is seen. But how the image fails! For in the visible something of the invisible itself is seen, and Eldárien feels it now very keenly: in the gaze of his eyes upon the pallor and purity of the falling snow and upon the landscape garmented in white, his heart beholds something even deeper still, the very substance of beauty which he can acknowledge and name, though it is not merely one thing among many in the world but the very light that shines through them all and makes them to be what they are.
And this contact with beauty both consoles and causes pain. For despite the purity of this beauty, reflected in all that bears still in itself traces of the primal pallor, the world itself is fractured and broken, like a vessel dropped and cracked and in the long process of being mended. But again how the image fails! For it is not, in this moment, so much the brokenness of the world that causes Eldárien pain—though surely this is present too, and has been present for all the days of his life—but something else, something even deeper. For all that he sees and touches, every moment of his life, comes to him as a gift, a gift of love, and yet he can no longer see or know the Giver as he is in himself. And this sensation, this longing and reaching out of the heart, is new: for he feels kindled within him a thirst to know the great Giver of all things, to trace the lines of all being back to the Being who birthed them, to receive the love spoken in all loveliness and to find in them and beyond them the Lover who loved all things into existence and made them lovable, and who therefore must be infinitely more lovable, the fullness of Beauty itself.
All this he could have discovered, in some manner, by tracing the lines back to their origin, if only his heart were not so impure and his inner vision were not so clouded. And looking back now, he realizes that he had indeed walked a long way down that road in the earlier years of his life. But what he knows now, this is immeasurably deeper! What he knows now, from his time in the forest of the Velási, is something new, something altogether more profound, discovered not by the questioning mind and the searching heart, but given as a gift by the very Author of all things, who in singing the world has also sung himself into the tapestry of the world and continues to do so, that he may be known, and that his love may be embraced and lived. The closest feeling that Eldárien can name that comes anywhere close to this sensation of longing is that of homesickness: the nostalgia for the intimate love and peaceful security of family and home, where the humblest and yet most central realities of the universe unfold, and where the glimpse of primal Love is first given. Perhaps indeed, he thinks, all the longings and desires of life are really one long nostalgia to return to the beginning of one’s existence and of all things, the beginning not merely in a temporal sense but in the very fabric of being, which is therefore not only beginning but also end: the Origin who is also Consummation, for he is himself home and love and intimacy all together as one.