“It shines like a jewel,” she said, admiringly.

  The road wound downward to the water, passing through thickets of tangled cedars and oaks. Then it turned west, following the shoreline a short distance to a long wooden pier. Several small craft were moored here, rocking gently in the waves. A row of small cottages faced the pier, and three figures sat talking on the porch of the nearest one.

  As they neared, one of the figures called out to them: an extremely tall human with chiseled features and a stiff mustache. “Evening, travelers. If you’re looking for the inn, it’s back the way you came, about half a league. Of course, if you’re looking for the innkeeper, he’s right here beside me, enjoying the sunset.”

  The squat figure next to him nodded amiably.

  “Thank you, kind sir,” Chentelle said, “but we are hoping to find a way across the bay. Is it possible that one of you gentlemen is the captain of one of those vessels?”

  The man laughed. “Captain, eh—why yes, I am Captain Johan, master of the finest sailing skiff to ever brave the treacherous waters of Norivika Bay.” He laughed again, and this time his friends joined in.

  “Wonderful,” Chentelle said. “Then, will you give us passage?”

  “Of course,” he answered. “Burney and I are going to the city tomorrow, midmorning. You are welcome to join us, though you will have to share space with several barrels of fine ale.”

  “Tomorrow? But we must reach the city tonight.”

  “Tonight! No, I do not think that is possible. Burney and I have spent the long day ferrying goods back and forth, and this is our first chance to relax. Still, perhaps you should explain your need. Burney, fetch a light and some chairs for our guests.”

  The third man stood up and went into the cottage, returning in a moment with two small chairs and a lamp. “We only got these two extra chairs, Johan.”

  Chentelle moved forward, into the circle of illumination. “That’s all right. Really, sir, we can’t stay. We have to get to the High Bishop tonight.”

  “Why, you’re an elf,” Johan said. “I wondered why a little girl was speaking for two grown men. Well, gentle elf, tell me what this need of yours is that it should take precedence over a well-deserved rest for my brother and me.”

  Chentelle examined the man. She could sense the fatigue in his muscles, the soreness in his back and shoulders. He was not being lazy. He truly did feel the need for rest. But she had to convince him. She knew that he could feel her own urgency, the power of her need. He just wanted to know what caused the feeling, so he could evaluate the need for himself.

  She opened herself up to his scrutiny, pulling down any barriers to her thoughts and emotions. She let him feel the terror, the horror, the desperation that she had experienced over the last five days. “The Dark One is alive,” she said. “Ill-creatures are abroad in the Realm.”

  Johan cried out. “Such evil! How is it possible? The Dark One alive, Ill-creatures moving freely in the kingdoms. You were right, gentle elf, your mission must not be delayed.”

  The huge man stood up, revealing a frame at least four and a half cubits tall. “Daniel, return to your inn. You must spread this news among the villages. Burney, take these chairs back inside and make sure all of the fires are damped. I’ll go ahead and start rigging the sails.”

  Johan picked up the lantern and started for the pier, his long strides leaving Chentelle and the others behind.

  As she rushed to catch up, Chentelle heard a resigned whisper come from A’stoc.

  “Yet another step on the road to despair.”

  7

  Enlightenments

  Johan guided the sailboat smoothly over the obsidian waters. Waves lapped gently against the bow, driven by the same steady breeze that filled their sails. The moon had not yet risen, but the boatman seemed completely confident in his knowledge of the bay. The Cathedral of Light was a beacon, both a mark of their destination and a sign that urged them forward. As they drew nearer, other lights could be seen. The small flickerings that dotted the far shore were obviously the city lights of Norivika. But there was also a haunting glow radiating from a small island to their south.

  Chentelle turned to their pilot. “Captain, what is that glow?”

  He laughed gently. “Please, call me Johan. The light you see is from the Atablicryon, the most sacred temple in the Holy Land. The most dedicated members of the Holy Order are often drawn to the island as a center of prayer and meditation, but the rest of us avoid it. It would be disrespectful to go there without strong reason.”

  “The Atablicryon,” Chentelle said. “A’stoc, have you ever been there?”

  The mage looked sad, suddenly, as if he were remembering something painful. “No, but my master did. It was from the gardens of the Atablicryon that he plucked the Tree of Life and shaped it with his magic into a weapon of destruction.”

  The bitterness in his voice saddened Chentelle. It was so unnecessary in this place of perfect harmony. “But the Staff isn’t just a weapon, is it? Surely its power can be used for other things.”

  “I have no way of knowing,” he said. “For me, it is useful only as a walking stick.”

  Again, Chentelle felt the pain in his voice. She searched for some words to ease that pain, but she found none. The silence stretched between them.

  A’stoc dropped his eyes. “I apologize. I should not take my anger out on you, even muted as it is in this region. You are right; the Staff can be used for other things. My master used it to prove that the Fundamental Law of Wizardry was incorrect.”

  “The Fundamental Law?”

  “You are familiar with the elven Lore of wood shaping?”

  “Of course,” she answered. “Rillandef and rillanmor, they are used to shape dead wood or live trees into useful items.”

  A’stoc nodded encouragingly. “And what happens when the shaper of an item dies?”

  “Then another has to renew the enchantment, or else the wood will return to its original form.”

  “Exactly,” A’stoc said. “That is the Fundamental Law, the belief that all magic dies with its maker. Whether the common Lore of elves and dwarves or the finest spells of the old masters, all powers were subject to this law. Or so everyone thought. During the Wizards’ War, my master and A’kalendane discovered the spells of Earthpower. With Earthpower, a wizard can tap into the energy of Creation itself. He can cast spells that survive his own destruction. A’kalendane used this power to create powerful weapons for the Legion; my master used it to shape the Thunderwood Staff.”

  The mage’s eyes became unfocused, as if he were staring at something far away. “I remember the first days after A’pon learned to control the Staff. He dreamed that its power could be used to affect the Creation itself, to heal the Flaw that destroyed the Time of Perfection.”

  Suddenly, the bitterness was back in his voice. “Instead, he used it to create yet another scar for this world to endure. Thus runs the road called hope.”

  Chentelle sat helplessly as A’stoc’s pain washed over her. The mage was tortured by demons that not even the Holy Land could wash away completely. She wanted to reach out to him, to ease his burden, but she did not know how. Finally, she turned away and watched the lights of the Holy City flicker above the bow.

  Johan steered the skiff expertly into an empty docking space. He dropped the sails, and Burney jumped onto the pier to tie them off. “Well, here we are. Good luck in your journey, gentle elf. Put your trust in the High Bishop. He is close to the Creator; he will know what to do.”

  “Thank you,” Chentelle said. “And thank you for the passage; we appreciate your sacrifice.”

  “I did only what was-necessary,” Johan said, dismissing her compliment with a shrug. “Burney, get back on board, brother. There’s a soft bed calling for me, and I don’t aim to keep it waiting.”

  A’stoc started down the dock before the boat had even pulled away. “We will not find a carriage this late. We must walk.”

  Chentelle followed him down the deserted pier and into the city streets. It was so different than she had imagined. In Lone Valley, they told stories of human cities, stories of dirty streets and cramped alleys filled with people. But Norivika was beautiful. Wide avenues ran between rows of well-kept townhouses. Gardens were common, and nearly every intersection was decorated with a park or a fountain. Crystal orb-lights illuminated every corner, and the soft music of wind chimes floated in the night air.

  They turned onto a wide boulevard that headed straight for the radiant spire of the Cathedral of Light. The road climbed a long, gentle hill. Gradually, the townhouses thinned and then disappeared altogether, replaced by a vast park which surrounded the foot of the Cathedral.

  As they reached the park, more details became clear. The main body of the Cathedral consisted of four large halls with curved facades. The halls formed a great circle surrounding a tall central spire, which rose above the park like a bejeweled mountain. Huge orb-lights were located at the junctures of the halls and underneath the base of the spire, spreading their illumination through the entire crystal structure.

  They passed through a large portal and into the antechamber of the temple. Chentelle noted that there were no gates guarding the way, no doors which could be barred against entrance. That was proper. The Cathedral was the meeting place for the races of man and their Creator. It had to remain open to all.

  A young human in white robes came forward to greet them. “May I help you, travelers?”

  Chentelle started to speak, but A’stoc answered first. “I am A’stoc, Bearer of the Thunderwood Staff. My companions are the Enchantress Chentelle—the Messenger—and her liegeman, Sulmar. We are here to answer the High Bishop’s call.”

  The young man bowed respectfully. “This is a great honor, Bearer. You and your fellowship are most welcome to our hospitality. We have been eagerly awaiting you, especially since the others arrived. I am Brother Ethnan, personal acolyte to the High Bishop. Chambers have been set aside for your use. If you are amenable, I will take you to them.”

  “Please do.”

  “The High Bishop will be informed of your presence,” the acolyte said. “I feel certain that he will want to meet with you in the morning.”

  Brother Ethnan led them into the body of the Cathedral and up to the second floor of one of the main halls. The translucent walls, floors, and ceiling were disorienting. Chentelle’s feet were secure in the solidity of the crystal, but her eyes kept telling her she was hanging in the air without support. Some of the chambers they passed were screened with tapestries and rugs, giving their occupants privacy. It was to a collection of these rooms that they were taken.

  “These are your chambers,” Brother Ethnan said. “Breakfast will be served upon the rising of the Golden Sun. Is there anything else you require?”

  A’stoc shook his head.

  “Then I bid you all a good night. Sleep well; the Creator is near.”

  The acolyte left, and they each entered one of the shielded sleeping rooms.

  Chentelle was exhausted, but she was not so tired that she failed to notice the beauty of her surroundings. The floor was covered completely by a thick rug, and rich tapestries concealed the walls of the chamber, decorated with flowing scenes showing the Sphere of Creation as it was during the Time of Perfection. A large wardrobe sat open and empty next to a bed that would easily sleep six of her. Beside the wardrobe was a chest of drawers with a pitcher of fresh water and a basin. On the wall across from the bed, an open window let in the cool sea breeze.

  Chentelle slipped her boots off and ran her toes luxuriously through the carpet. Quickly, she stowed her gear and poured water into the basin. She washed herself thoroughly, and then, after a moment’s thought, washed her robe as well. If they were going to meet the High Bishop tomorrow, she should look her best. After she finished, she hung the dress in the wardrobe to dry. Then she brushed her hair, working out the kinks and tangles of several days on the road. Finally, she collapsed gratefully onto the bed.

  She slid between the cool linen sheets, letting the soft mattress soothe her into sleep. Her muscles ached from the long hours of walking, but she felt a deep sense of satisfaction. She had followed her dream, and brought A’stoc to the Holy City. Still, she was haunted by a feeling that her part in this fight was not over. She tried to figure out the source of her premonition, but the call of sleep was too strong to be denied. Her eyes closed, and she did not dream.

  Chentelle awoke to the smell of blueberry muffins. She glanced around her in confusion. Was it morning already? Her sheets and blankets were still neatly tucked, and she felt as if she had only just closed her eyes. But even if the aroma of breakfast didn’t convince her, the golden light coming through the window was conclusive.

  She slid out of bed and splashed water on her face, trying to wash away her lethargy. She did not remember the last time she had slept so deeply and dreamlessly. She dressed herself quickly and headed for the assembly chamber where Brother Ethnan had indicated that breakfast would be served.

  The large table that dominated the room was crowded with food and people. Sulmar sat on his own at one end of the table, but Chentelle had no idea who the others were. Most of them were elves and wore Legion uniforms. But one of the Legionnaires was human, and several of the elves wore civilian clothing. All of them were heartily attacking the delicious-smelling breakfast.

  As Chentelle moved to take a seat near Sulmar, a silver-haired elf in unmarked leathers stood and faced her. “Greetings, lady, I am Thildemar, from the forest of Inarr. My companions are Legionnaires under the command of Lord Dacius Gemine.” He nodded his head toward the human, a heavily muscled warrior whose fierce red hair and beard were offset by gentle blue eyes and a kind smile. “Also with us—”

  “Captain Jack Rone,” interrupted a stocky and deeply tanned elf, “and I make my own introductions, thank you.” He bowed deeply over Chentelle’s hand. “At your service, my lady. I have been telling my mates that this Cathedral of Light was the most beautiful sight in the wide Realm. I see now that my judgment was hasty.”

  Chentelle blushed, both flattered and embarrassed by his words. “I am Chentelle, from Lone Valley. I see you have met my liegeman, Sulmar. We travel with Wizard A’stoc, who comes at the request of the High Bishop.”

  Captain Rone guided her to a seat at the table near his own. “We, too, travel on the High Bishop’s business. Though it has been two days since we arrived, and His Eminence has yet to tell us what that business might be.”

  “Captain Rone!” the human lord shouted, but his voice held more amusement than anger. “You know the High Bishop has only been waiting for the arrival of these brave souls. He wishes to brief all of us at once.”

  “Of course, Lord Gemine,” the captain said. “You must forgive me, lady. I lost a fine ship and crew to a vile creature from Firesta’s deepest pit. Why, the Ill-creature would have killed us all if not for my own bravery. And the strong arm of Lord Gemine, of course.”

  “You were attacked, too?” Chentelle asked. “What happened?”

  Lord Gemine laughed. “Perhaps I should tell the story, lady elf. The good captain chafes when he is forced to chain his imagination to the truth, and this story has enough pain.”

  The human’s tone turned serious as he related the Legionnaires’ battles on board the Otan Stin and at the border garrison. In the heightened atmosphere of the Holy Land, his tale carried them along as if they lived the events with him. Grief filled the room as he spoke of the deaths of Commander Thean and his good friend, Alka Shara.

  Tears ran freely down Chentelle’s face. It was so terrible. She stood and went to Lord Gemine. The human sat silently, still lost in the sadness of his tale. Chentelle wrapped her arms around the man, hugging him tightly. It was a small comfort, but it was all she could do. “Do not blame yourself, Lord Gemine. You did all that anyone could.”

  The human squeezed her tightly for a moment and then released her. “Thank you, lady. I feel your special healing power. But do not let my sorrow color your own heart. I mourn my friend’s death, but be assured, I know where to lay the blame for his demise. And please, my name is Dacius.”

  “And I am Chentelle.”

  “Lady,” Thildemar said. “You said that you and your companions were also attacked.”

  “Yes.” Chentelle told them about the journey from A’stoc’s cave and the battle on the hilltop. As she spoke, she could feel the iron resolve of these men. They understood the horror she was describing, and they were determined to defeat it. When she described how the vikhor had wrested the Staff from A’stoc’s hands, she heard a gasp of surprise.

  “The Thunderwood Staff,” said Thildemar. “I believed that it had been destroyed in the Desecration.”

  Chentelle heard a strange note of longing in his voice. “No. It survived, as did A’stoc himself.” She remembered the scenes of destruction she had experienced in the mage’s mind. “But nothing else.”

  “No,” Thildemar agreed, “nothing else.”

  “That was a terrible time,” Dacius said. “And so will this one become, unless we stop it. It seems clear that the High Bishop has called us together to stop the Ill-creatures.”

  There were murmurs of agreement from the other Legionnaires.

  As Chentelle returned to her seat, she again noticed Sulmar seated at the table’s far end. There was no feeling of isolation or rejection about him, only a sense of detached readiness. She nodded toward him and smiled. “How are you this morning?”

  He glanced down at his bare right arm and returned her smile. “I am well, mistress.”

  “He speaks!” Captain Rone exclaimed. “You are a miracle worker, young beauty of Lone Valley. I plied the man for an hour with the finest food and conversation this side of Essienkal and received only a greeting edgewise for my trouble.”

  Chentelle glanced at her liegeman, who remained silent. “Why do you not speak to them?”