“But that’s the way it should be!” Del snapped, and again the two exchanged cold glares.
It couldn’t hold though, not between these two. As if they had screamed out all of their rage, had cleared their differences from the air in one quick fit of passion, they soon found their familiar smiles.
“What’s wrong with us?” Del offered calmly. “What is it within our character that makes men, and now elves, fight one stupid war after another?”
“I don’t know,” Billy replied with a shrug. “I don’t want this war any more than you do, but it’s about to begin and we’ve got to fight it. What else can we do?”
“We can run,” Del replied without the slightest hesitation. “I’m amazed that Arien didn’t do that in the first place. There must be millions of places to hide in these mountains. This battle, this tragedy, doesn’t have to be fought tomorrow.”
Billy paused for a moment, studying Del. “Up on the shelf a couple of weeks ago, Reinheiser said that maybe we were brought here not to prevent this fight but to make sure that the right side won. Think about it; it makes a lot of sense. You’re right, and this whole mess can be delayed. But not avoided. Ungden knows for sure that the elves are here now, and he won’t rest until he’s got them. Arien realizes that. Why else do you think he’d stick around?”
Del bit down on his lip again and crossed his arms in front of him, his expression a mixture of disdain and disappointment, but Billy refused to yield.
“You’ve got to face reality,” he pressed. “Forget about the elves and the Calvans and just think about this: We don’t have the luxury of time to run away. If Mitchell and Reinheiser aren’t stopped here and now, they’re going to introduce all the wonderful weapons from our world to Aielle. Don’t doubt that for a minute. Where will your fantasy world be then?”
Del slumped back, stunned. So overwhelmed by the present danger, he hadn’t given much thought to what future damage Mitchell and Reinheiser could wreak.
Billy walked to the door, but looked back over his shoulder one final time. “You think about it, Del. We leave in half an hour.”
Del sank deeper into the security of his soft bed covers as the door slammed shut. He felt the ghosts of pain and misery, images from the wars and poverty of his own world, crowding around him, mocking his hopeless dreams of true peace and brotherhood. He had no arguments to dispute Billy’s warning about Mitchell and Reinheiser; he was trapped in this conflict, locked as surely as his ancestors into the unyielding cycle of battle.
It flooded him with revulsion, paralyzed him for many minutes on his bed in subconscious hopes that the last party for Mountaingate would leave without him, absolving him of his unwanted responsibilities.
Then a vivid memory jolted him. He saw Captain Mitchell standing on a beach with an automatic rifle, holding hundreds of cowed talons at bay and proclaiming himself to be a god.
Del had run out of arguments.
Had that last party already left? he wondered. He leaped from the bed and charged out the door.
He had a plan of his own.
Chapter 22
Under a Starry Sky
DEL CAUGHT UP to the last party just as they entered the tunnel on the far side of Illuma Vale. Billy had mixed emotions at the arrival of his friend. He was grimly satisfied that Del had apparently recognized and accepted his responsibility, yet he felt somehow a sense of loss for Del’s innocent, if unrealistic, way of embracing this new world. Billy had hoped that Del could prove him wrong, could convince him and all of the others that utopia was within their grasp if they only reached for it.
Del walked up to Billy and clasped his hand firmly. The two men stared hard and long at each other, exchanging silent but unmistakable feelings of mutual respect and true friendship, sealing an unbreakable bond that would live on even if they were both slain on the battlefield.
“You will join us, then, in our time of desperation?” Arien asked hopefully, his expression showing profound relief. All along, Del’s reluctance to accept the coming battle as the proper course of action had shaken Arien’s confidence in the decision, had made him worry that this man with wisdom bitterly gained in another age might be seeing the situation from a better perspective than he.
“I’m with you,” Del assured him. “But first I have something to do. Will you let me go back to Avalon?”
“What trickery is this?” Ryell interjected. “He will not fight beside us. He will run and hide and not return until the vultures pick at our slaughtered bones.”
“I will be at the battle by your side,” Del promised, “I have to be at the battle.” He looked to Billy, his stern visage dispelling any doubts Billy or any of the others might have had about his true resolve to carry out his newly perceived duties. “I know that now.”
“He’s telling the truth,” Billy told Arien without hesitation.
“But first I must go to Avalon,” Del said with a wide grin. “I have a plan.”
Arien did not return the smile, though he had trusted Del even before Billy had spoken for him. “Our problem does not concern Avalon,” the elf-lord said with even certainty, guessing easily enough what Del had in mind. Arien knew that the powers of Brielle could not help them in their struggle with Calva, but he realized that his words had not the conviction to truly dissuade Del. It was Del’s right to discover the true character of the witch for himself, Arien knew, but he, as Eldar, would bear the cost of Del’s lesson. Already, Arien felt the anger in Ryell’s gaze boring into him. You give me more credit than I deserve, Ryell, he thought bitterly, yet it was from Ryell’s expectations of his courage that he drew the strength to stand by his principles. He nearly laughed aloud at the irony of it all as he told Del with unyielding finality, “You may go.”
“Eldar!” Ryell protested, but Arien cut him off before he could even begin.
“DelGiudice has given us no reason to doubt his word.”
“There are many who would disagree with you,” Ryell argued.
“Then they are misguided,” Arien replied in a deliberately calm and controlled tone that reaffirmed his confidence in his authority. “I will hear no more of this, Ryell. We have not the time for a gathering of council, and in the absence of such, my word as Eldar stands.”
Ryell visibly trembled with rage. “Your hold over the people of Illuma may not be as strong as you believe, Arien Silverleaf,” he said, barely able to spit the words through his clenched jaw. “There are many who question your decisions regarding the ancient ones. They question your intentions as well.”
Arien ignored Ryell’s ranting—the elves could ill afford a showdown between their Eldar and his closest adviser at this critical time—and addressed his daughter.
“Go with DelGiudice,” he instructed. “See that he is allowed passage to Clas Braiyelle.”
Del was surprised that the trees did not hinder his entrance into Avalon. Though his stubborn grudge refused to let him consciously admit it, he was comforted that Brielle had not shut him out. He whistled as he trotted along the path, his senses bathed in the countless stimulations of the fully blossomed forest, and he was able to forget for a while the gathering clouds of misery at Mountaingate and his grim purpose in seeking out the fair witch.
Soon, though, as the sun disappeared over the western horizon and the colors of the wood dulled into the grayed blur of twilight, Del realized that he was running short on time.
“Brielle!” he called, but his only reply was the mournful cry of a loon heralding the onset of the secret world that was the forest night.
Stubbornly, Del scrambled on, calling out again for the witch.
Again the loon answered, and this time its wail beckoned to Del like a lost spirit, akin to his misery. Faithful to its cry, Del turned from the path, stumbling blindly through the dark brush and thickets to follow the last lingering notes. And when they died away, he called out again and was answered.
He soon came upon a grove of thick pines, a veritable wall of interlockin
g, unyielding branches. Undaunted, he fell flat to his belly and crawled beneath their lowest boughs, and when he had finally gotten through, he lifted his head and his breath was stolen away.
Below him, down a short slide of thick grass, was a small glade thick and soft in swaying petals of white clover. And beyond the lea a secluded pond, its smooth surface broken only by occasional reeds or cattails, lay quiet and still, as if in meditation under dark reflections of the prestarlit sky. But Del hardly noticed his mystical surroundings, for atop a knoll rising above the green sea of the glade reclined the gentle Brielle, shadowed in the mysteries of the deepening gloom.
It pained Del to look upon her beauty, though it was she he had sought. He wanted now only to flee this place and this wood and be away from all thoughts of the Emerald Witch. He knew that to be impossible; Avalon had already announced his arrival to its queen.
The never-seen loon gave one final cry.
Immediately, Del rose to his feet and started down the slide. Brielle knew of his presence, no doubt, and he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of catching him hiding from her in the grass. He conjured memories of the carnage left on the road in the wake of Brielle’s wrath and reminded himself over and over of his sole purpose in coming to Avalon, determinedly entrenching his emotions within a fortress of rage to protect himself from the hinted passions that threatened to sweep him away. His stride stiffened in tense anger as he approached.
But then he was upon her and the ice melted away.
“Hello,” he said softly.
Her reply was a smile.
Consciously, Del rebuilt the frosty facade. “I didn’t come here to bother you,” he said with rough sarcasm.
A dark cloud passed across Brielle’s countenance, for she realized already what Del was leading up to, and knew that she must disappoint him once again.
“I need your help,” Del continued, holding tight to his gruff tone. “A battle is about to begin.”
Brielle looked away. “It is known to me,” she said sadly. “And me heart truly weeps at the misery o’ the morrow’s morn.” She paused, struggling, as was Del, with a personal conflict of emotions and principles. The rules of her station were clear and unbending; she had lived by them and for them for hundreds of years. When she turned back to Del, her face was resigned and impassive, and she announced with cool finality, “ ’Tis none o’ me affair.”
“How can you say that?” Del scolded. “Hundreds of innocent people are going to die on that field. You don’t think that concerns you?”
“It wounds me, even as it wounds yerself,” Brielle replied, almost apologetically. “But I huv no power for a war o’ man.”
His frustration bordering on rage, Del wanted to scream and cry all at once. “Bullshit!” he yelled. “I saw you, Brielle. I saw what you did to those talons!”
Brielle understood more clearly now that the source of Del’s anger went far deeper than her rejection of him. “That I wish ye’d no’ seen,” she said softly, lowering her eyes to hide the welling tears from Del. “ ’Tis a side o’ me life and duty I do’no’ enjoy.” She took a deep breath and reminded herself that she had done only what she had to do.
“But Avalon is me domain and me duty, and I am the eyes that protect her,” she asserted. “I do not create the storms, I only show them the harm that is upon the land. Purely evil are the talons, living only to destroy. They grant no mercy and deserve none. Would ye huv me, then, let them bring ruin to me wood?”
Del had no rebuttal against her logic.
“But the morrow’s battle,” Brielle continued, softly again, “is a concern o’ men and elves, and I huv no duties, and being so, no powers for such a war.”
Del slumped down meekly to the clover and sighed. With her innocent confession of necessities, Brielle had taught him a lesson in humility. A lot of things fell into perspective for Del at that moment. He remembered the lecture Billy had given him earlier in the day.
Duty.
Utopia had to be earned.
When he recovered from his embarrassment, Del laughed aloud at his arrogant self-righteousness. Then he looked upon the witch and fell silent, fearing that she would think he mocked her.
Brielle sat quiet, hugging her knees and staring off across the melancholy pond.
Who am I to judge you? Del asked himself. He owed her an apology, an explanation. So many things he wanted to say to her, and the most pressing one kept repeating over and over in his mind. He crawled across the path of her absent gaze, catching and locking her eyes with his own, and took a chance he had never before in his life been able to take. “I love you.”
Brielle blushed, but did not turn her eyes away. “Me heart speaks the same to me.”
“But you have your woods and your duty, and I have my battle and mine. My Brielle,” Del groaned, and gently stroked her face, “are we never to have any time together?” As he started to turn away, Brielle clasped his shoulders and settled him back on the soft carpet.
She stood up before him, apprehensive, scared even, of this decision she had made. But her heart held little doubt of her love for Del. “The field o’ Mountaingate is but an hour’s walk, and yer battle will no’ begin ere the light o’dawn,” she heard herself saying. “We huv tonight.”
Del said nothing. He stared deeply at Brielle, stunned that something this perfect could be happening between them. Then he looked past her to the skies, where the first stars brightened as each passing moment deepened the blackness of the evening canopy.
“Beautiful, they are,” Brielle agreed with Del’s entranced look. “Behold the first stars o’summer, for this day marked the solstice. Another spring is ended. ’Tis a special night.”
“It is,” Del whispered
Nervously, Brielle undid the laces in the front of her gown. With a slight shrug of her shoulders the gossamer fell from her and she stood naked before Del. The starlight seemed to emanate from her, enhancing her supple curves, as though she was its source. As if on cue, a slight wave rippled across the pond, carried to the shore by a cool summer breeze.
Brielle trembled, but she knew her heart truly and did not hesitate. She bent to Del and kissed him, and passions she had long ago locked away stirred again within her.
And there, amidst a waving green sea of soft clover, beneath the approving sparkle of countless stars, they consummated their love.
Brielle cried that night. She cried for remembered emotions that had slept for centuries, and she cried at the knowledge that with the morrow’s sobering dawn those emotions must once again be put to sleep. Del held her tenderly, cradling her head against his chest. And though the witch could not see it, he, too, was crying.
Chapter 23
The Wizard Unveiled
SHORTLY BEFORE THE dawn, Del left Brielle sleeping in the soft clover to begin his long and disheartened trek back to Mountaingate. A gentle rain had come up during the night and it fell still, tapping rhythmically on the leafy canopy and hissing through the mist that rode in off of the pond. When Del had gained the top of the slope, before he crossed through the pine grove, he looked back to the knoll and the fair witch, and dismay found him, despite his joy in loving her. For though he would carry memories of Brielle into the battle with him this day and forever after, his heart told him that he would never look upon her again. Yet then he left her of his own accord, compelled by a responsibility he did not want but could not escape.
Soon after, Brielle awoke from a vivid nightmare. A cold sweat beaded on her forehead as she recalled with frightening clarity an image of Del dying on a charred and bloody field, the head of a cruel spear buried deep in his chest. “This cannot be!” she cried out desperately and helplessly to the heavens. As if in answer, a vision appeared unto her: a small black staff, iron-shod on both ends, twirling about in the air. The sheer wrongness of the thing assaulted Brielle’s every sense, a perversion against nature itself. It terrified her and pained her, but she composed herself in angry determination and knew s
he had found a link to the day’s events.
Dawn came as a dulled blur of pink behind the unbroken cover of dreary gray clouds. Fitting weather, Del noted, for such a day as this. The rain had stopped, but the air hung oppressively thick with moisture.
Del found the elven camp astir in the north, though no signs of the Calvan force were yet apparent in the south. Slowly, head down, he walked across the field, indulging himself as he went with one final fantasy of the way he wished things could be.
The clear note of the watchman’s horn announcing his arrival brought the weight of reality back upon his shoulders.
Two horsemen trotted out toward him from the chaos of the bustling camp. Billy Shank rode in the lead, outfitted in chain-link mail and a shining shield and sword, but the other rider, so marvelous, dominated Del’s vision. Arien Silverleaf, unmistakably the elf-lord of all Illuma, paced his steed easily. He wore a forest-green cloak pulled back from his shoulders and a light green tunic woven of some fine material. Under the sleeveless edges of the shirt, Del saw closely meshed links of shining mail, much finer than the heavy rings of Billy’s armor. Arien wore no helm, but a silver gem-studded crown with a golden inset of a quarter moon, the symbol of Lochsilinilume. Strapped to his left arm was a polished shield bearing the same emblem, and sheathed on his hip in a gem-encrusted scabbard hung a broadsword unequaled in workmanship by even the crafted weapon Calae had given to Del. Its hilt gleamed all of silver, and intricate carvings resembling the head of a dragon adorned the pommel, inlaid in gold all down the neck to the crosspiece of the weapon.
“I didn’t realize that your people kept such weapons,” Del remarked.
“Gifts from Ardaz, mostly,” Arien explained, tightening his heels to calm his spirited steed, a great muscled stallion, its coal-black coat glistening from the wetness of the morning mist and from the sweat of its own tense anticipation. “And some of our own making.” He smiled at Del’s unyielding sarcasm. “The mountains are wild and dangerous even now, friend DelGiudice. Would that we could hang these devices above a mantle and use them only to enhance fanciful tales!”