Leofric looked surprised that Lord Aldaeld had deigned to speak to him, but nodded and said, “It is, Lord Aldaeld. The enemy warriors have been driven off.”
“Very well,” said Aldaeld, turning and nodding to the Hound of Winter.
Cairbre brought the Blades of Midnight up and faced Valas Laithu.
“I will make it swift,” he promised.
“I am glad it is you, Hound of Winter,” said Valas.
Cairbre nodded and Kyarno winced as the Hound of Winter rammed the long blade of his spear into Valas Laithu’s body. The powerful strike tore through his lungs and up into his heart, killing the lord of the Laithu kinband instantly. Valas sighed as his last breath left him and sagged against Cairbre, who gently lowered the elf lord to the floor.
Surprisingly, Kyarno felt nothing but immense sadness at Valas Laithu’s death, his honourable end contrary to everything he had known of him. Only then did he see the lifeless body of Tarean Stormcrow. Giving a cry of loss, he dropped his sword and ran to Lord Aldaeld’s fallen herald.
Blood pooled in a vast lake around Tarean’s body and as he placed his palm against his chest, Kyarno knew that the Stormcrow had passed from Athel Loren. He felt a splinter of ice lodge in his heart at this great loss to Coeth-Mara, tears blinding him as he wept openly for Tarean Stormcrow, a friend he had never taken the time to know.
He heard footsteps behind him and looked up to see Lord Aldaeld’s cold, unforgiving eyes staring down at him.
“Much blood has been shed this day and it is upon your hands, boy.”
“You think I don’t know that?” wept Kyarno.
“I hope that you do,” said Aldaeld. “For the knowledge of what you have brought upon my halls shall be your only companion henceforth.”
“Father—” began Morvhen, but Aldaeld cut her off with a look of cold fury.
“No. I will hear no more of this, my decision is made. A line of the Asrai is gone from the world and it is Kyarno’s folly that has given rise to this dark day. It is time for him to face the consequences of his actions.”
Kyarno stood, facing the lord of the Eadaoin kinband, ready to face Aldaeld’s judgement upon him.
“Leave,” said Aldaeld simply. “You are a ghost in Coeth-Mara.”
BOOK THREE
Spring’s Red Harvest
“A little madness in the spring,
is wholesome even for the King.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Battle for Coeth-Mara had been won, but the first rays of morning revealed how terrible had been the cost. Twenty-one elves of the Eadaoin kinband were carried from the hall of battle and forty-nine of the Laithu kinband were dead.
Those followers of Valas Laithu that had not sworn vengeance oaths were allowed to leave Coeth-Mara with Lord Aldaeld’s blessing, mournfully bearing the body of their lord and his son back to the Vaults of Winter.
As dusk fell the following day, Leofric joined the end of a torch-bearing procession of green-cloaked elves who marched solemnly through Coeth-Mara following the bodies of their dead. Each body was borne upon the shoulders of their kin and loved ones, wrapped in shrouds of leaves as they prepared to take their last journey.
Leofric had cleaned his armour of blood, but he was no smith and the holes punctured by enemy arrows remained. Now that the battle was won, a brooding, melancholy settled upon him. Though it had begun a prison, a hateful place that had taken Helene from him, he had come to regard Athel Loren and Coeth-Mara with a fondness he had not expected. Its golden light of autumn and crystalline splendour of winter were visions of unspoiled beauty, but now even they were tainted with blood.
Truly there was nowhere left in the world that the grim darkness of war and death could not reach. But looking around him as the funeral procession made its way along the snow-lined avenue of trees, Leofric knew that there were some things worth fighting for. Surrounded by such beauty, Leofric could understand tin insular nature of the elves and their fierce desire to protect their forest kingdom.
With such a wondrous land of raptures to dwell within, who would not defend it as vigorously?
The procession passed through a dripping archway, the melting snow and ice falling on those who passed beneath it, as though the forest itself wept to see such bloodshed unleashed beneath its boughs. Leofric tilted his head back as he walked through the arch, the cold meltwater chilling him to the bone as it covered his face.
Naieth led the procession, Lord Aldaeld and the Hound of Winter following behind her carrying the body of Tarean Stormcrow. Morvhen walked beside her father with her head held high, Tiphaine bearing the long train of her dress. The Eternal Guard followed their master with their dead warriors borne upon their shoulders. The grey-feathered owl that was Naieth’s companion flew overhead, even its hoots managing to convey boundless grief.
Kyarno was not part of the funeral procession, already gone from Coeth-Mara as if he had never existed. After his banishment by Lord Aldaeld, he had sheathed his sword before slowly marching from the hall and no one had seen him since. Morvhen had made to follow him, but Cairbre had held her back, knowing that her protestations would do no good. The lord of Coeth-Mara had spoken and no one but he could change his will.
The sad procession marched into the woods, passing through silent glades and along cold pathways, the trees sighing with soft songs of grief. The frozen bracken and thorny bushes parted for the elves, the forest mourning along with the elves who dwelt within it.
At length, the procession reached a wide glade of simple beauty, tall trees ringing its circumference like watchful sentinels and thin shoots of green pushing through the snow. Leofric saw that the glade was open to the heavens, the dusky sky shot through with vivid purples and reds. He did not know Tarean Stormcrow well, but had instinctively warmed to him upon their meeting and felt sure that he would have chosen something like this for his final resting place.
The procession circled the glade, now giving voice to a song of aching sadness that touched Leofric’s heart, and he found himself unable to hold back tears at its sorrowful lament. He wanted to join in, but knew that his poor human voice would only do the dead a disservice.
As the column became a circle, Naieth walked into the centre of the glade and Leofric found himself standing next to Tiphaine and Morvhen. Cairbre and Aldaeld stood near and Leofric saw that the lord of the Eadaoin kinband looked tired and worn, still holding a hand to his heart. The normally stoic Cairbre looked ancient, even amongst a race for whom time passed much more slowly Morvhen’s features were regal and strong, though even she bore the hallmarks of great sorrow.
Naieth, slender and noble in a long gown of silver feathers, raised her staff of woven branches as her owl fluttered down to perch on her shoulder. Gemstones glittered on her belt of woven leaves and her golden tresses were woven with briar leaves. Her features were more careworn than he had ever seen them before.
Death ages people, realised Leofric, even the Asrai.
Having borne his share of sorrow, he wondered how his own features appeared.
The elves who bore the dead on their shoulders lifted them down and took a step forward in perfect unison, laying their kin gently onto the snow. At a signal from Naieth, they retreated, leaving the ring of the dead in the centre of the glade.
Naieth began to speak, her words hauntingly beautiful even though Leofric could not understand them, sounding more like song than speech. He felt a presence near him and turned to face Tiphaine, her smooth, oval face expressionless, yet also infinitely sad.
“The prophetess asks the forest to welcome the dead she whispered,” answering Leofric’s unasked question. He nodded as Naieth’s song wove new heights of loss and the elves of Coeth-Mara joined her, adding their own words of loss to the song. The grief-song continued until the purple sky darkened to the black of night, the orange glow of flickering torches giving the glade a comforting warmth as night fell.
Her song concluded, Naieth walked from the centre of the glade
, the circle of elves parting to allow her to leave. Lord Aldaeld and Cairbre followed her and the rest of his people slowly peeled from the circle and disappeared into the forest.
Leofric watched them go, wondering who would come to bury the dead, when Tiphaine said, “Come, the duty to the dead is done and we must allow them their time beneath the stars.”
“They are to be left like this?”
“Of course,” said Tiphaine. “What else would we do?”
“Bury them?” suggested Leofric. “Erect grave markers to their memory? Something to ensure that they will not be forgotten.”
Tiphaine shook her head. “No, Athel Loren claims back its own. They will become part of our woodland realm and live forever as they give life to the forest. The continued beauty of the forest is their legacy, and what better remembrance to a life is there than in the immortal soul of the forest?”
“I suppose,” said Leofric. “What will become of them?”
“Let us not speak of it,” said Tiphaine, turning and gliding from the starlit glade. “It is not seemly to discuss matters of the dead in their presence.”
Leofric followed her and said, “It just feels wrong leaving them out in the open.”
“You would have us entomb the dead within a prison of stone as the dwarfs are wont to?” asked Tiphaine. “No, to confine a soul thus is to deny it its final journey.”
“Journey?”
“To the immortality of memory. Those that loved them will remember them in song and tale, and they will pass these to their kin that come after them. In this way they will never die. Will you not remember your wife, Leofric? Will you not tell your son of her beauty and grace?”
“If I see him again, I will,” nodded Leofric sadly.
Tiphaine reached up and stroked Leofric’s cheek with a smile of faint amusement creasing the corner of her mouth, the touch of her fingers light and smooth.
“You think you will not?”
“I don’t know, I hope so. I don’t even know if such a thing is possible.”
“This is Athel Loren,” Tiphaine reminded him. “All things are possible.”
The cold days following the funeral procession blurred into weeks; winter’s grey despair reaching its peak then falling away as the world turned its face to the sun once more. Leofric passed much of his time resting to recover from his wounds or in prayer, strangely missing the company of Kyarno now that he had been banished from Coeth-Mara. The young elf — though Leofric knew that such a term was absurd in relation to a human had become, if not a friend, then someone he could at least talk to.
Denied such distractions for the mind, the dark days passed slowly, and Leofric was now forced to endure the loneliness of a stranger in a strange land. The impish figures of his ever-present spites followed his every movement, and though he was glad of their presence they were no substitute for real companionship. The halls of Lord Aldaeld were beautiful and majestic, but Leofric missed the warmth of human company, the energy of his race that, for all their beauty and grace, the elves could not match.
Most of all he missed Helene and Beren. Without the diversion of people around him he brooded more on her loss and his continued absence from his son. He dreamed of them more and more often, waking with a smile on his lips until he remembered that they were lost to him.
He wondered what Beren would know of his disappearance. Would those men-at-arms who fled the edge of the forest return to Castle Carrard or would the shame of their desertion cause them to flee to other lands?
Might his family and retainers not even be aware of the fate of their lord and lady?
Days passed, then weeks, and Leofric dared to spend more time in the forest around Coeth-Mara on the elven steed he had ridden into battle against the Laithu kinband. After the battle, he had attempted to return the horse to the riders of the Glade Guard, but their leader had shaken his head, saying, “He is called Aeneor and he has chosen you, human. You are blooded together and bound to one another now.”
Pleased to have been so chosen, he and his new mount spent the last weeks of winter becoming used to one another. The beast was fast and bore his armoured weight without complaint, and though it had not the stamina or mass of a Bretonnian warhorse, its speed and agility were beyond compare.
The passing days also gave him time to think on the fate of the young boy-children taken by the elves and his decision not to seek out the one who may very well have been one of his ancestors. What would he say to him? What could he say to him?
As much as he wanted to see him with his own eyes, he feared to reopen old wounds and knew that there was nothing he could offer the boy. He could not take him from Athel Loren for fear he suffer a similar fate to the vanished Duke Melmon and, in truth, he did not believe the boy would want to leave.
Aidan had seemed content enough in Coeth-Mara but was that true contentment or was it the result of the enchantments of Athel Loren? He had spoken briefly to Naieth of the children, but she had said simply, “Would he have been happier back in your lands? Here they are happy. Here they will live forever.”
He had had no answer for her, knowing that the life of such fey children was the life of a pariah, shunned and feared for being different. Even so, he also knew that there was a terrible cruelty in denying a child whatever life they might have forged for themselves, to keep them forever young with no hope of ever attaining anything beyond service to the elves.
Of the rest of the inhabitants of Coeth-Mara, he saw little — Morvhen now directed her energies in ministering to her father, who, despite the prophetess’ healing magic, was still much in need of care.
The wardancers of Cu-Sith remained in the forest around Coeth-Mara, much to Lord Aldaeld’s annoyance, but there was little that could be done about their presence and so they were left to prowl the woodland in peace.
Often Leofric would think of both Naieth and the Lady’s warning that days of blood and death were coming, wondering from whence the danger would come.
But the sun lingered a little longer each day and patches of green and colour appeared throughout the woodland as the tremors of coming spring rippled through the forest, and such dangers seemed far away.
Leofric rode carefully through the depths of the forest, the air crisp and the day clear. The snow was now in retreat from spring’s advance, though the forest retained much of its white cloak. He felt a curious excitement, the same awareness of possibility that he sensed in the elves of Coeth-Mara as the thaw came. Perhaps the budding sense of anticipation that lingered on the air was being communicated to him with his every breath?
Whatever the reason, he was glad to be outside on this new day of sunlight, travelling the paths of the forest to find Kyarno.
Morvhen had come to his chambers the previous evening, entreating him to travel into the forest to find her lost lover. Since the attack of the Laithu kinband, the Hound of Winter had increased his watchfulness of her and there was no way she could go to him, but she had passed a leaf-wrapped scroll to Leofric.
“Talk to him,” urged Morvhen.
“I would not know where to find him,” said Leofric.
Morvhen smiled. “He will remain close to Coeth-Mara for a time. Seek him out at the Crystal Mere, for it is there that he knew peace.”
As a tolerated guest of Lord Aldaeld, Leofric knew he ought to refuse Morvhen’s request, but the guilt of having berated her in the forest before his vision of the Lady of the Lake still lingered in his memory.
“Very well, my lady,” said Leofric, taking the scroll.
“He loves me,” said Morvhen sadly.
“That is a good thing, surely?” said Leofric, seeing the sorrow on her face.
“Is it? Not for me.”
“Why not? Love is a gift that should be treasured.”
“Only if you can have it,” said Morvhen bitterly. “Only if you can have it. He can never come back to Coeth-Mara. Not now. Our foolishness has cost me the one thing I wanted most in the world.”
/> “Lord Aldaeld may change his mind,” said Leofric. “You told me Kyarno has been cast from his halls before.”
“By the Hound of Winter, yes, but never by my father, Isha’s tears, I almost wish Cairbre had never brought him back to Coeth-Mara after his family was killed. Then I would never have known this pain for I would have known nothing of Kyarno Daelanu.”
Leofric wanted to reach out to Morvhen, to place a comforting hand on her shoulder, but felt that such a gesture would be inappropriate and that she would resent the pity of a human.
“I do not believe you mean that, Morvhen,” he said. “It is always good to know love, even if it cannot be yours.”
“You really believe that?”
“I do,” replied Leofric, feeling the magic of Athel Loren flowing through him as he spoke. “I loved Helene with all my heart and when she was taken from me I thought I would die. The pain of her loss is great… almost too great, but even if I could change things so that I had never met her and was spared this hurt, I would not.”
“You would not?” asked Morvhen.
“No,” said Leofric, shaking his head. “I miss her so much, but I remember the golden time we shared and the son we conceived. If nothing else came of our union, then that is worth all the pain I suffer.”
“What will become of your son?”
“I don’t know,” said Leofric. “He will grow to be a fine man, of that I am sure. He will make me proud.”
“Will he become a knight like you?”
Leofric smiled. “I hope so. Maixent, my chamberlain, will tutor him in the ways of a knight of Bretonnia and he will make his way in the world with courage and nobility.”
“I think that he shall,” agreed Morvhen.
Leofric had ridden out at first light, trusting that Aeneor could locate the Crystal Mere without running into the Wild Riders or anything else that might wish him harm.
The journey to the blessed pool was one of joy to Leofric, the scent of sweet sap heavy in his nostrils and the cold sunlight refreshing his skin as it dappled through the fractured canopy above him. Though the path he rode was unknown to him, he had a sudden skewed sense of deja vu, as though he had come this way before… or would come this way again…