The Gathering Storm - Elsewhere, Book 1
Chapter 5

A low rumble of conversation ran through the crowd and concerned glances were exchanged. Emerden looked gravely at Vineder.

“The end of the world? That is a very bleak and dramatic announcement to make, friend. What terrible thing can have happened to make you think so?”

Vineder wondered whether the man was mocking him or merely doubtful that he could be right. He knew he had to convince them all, or he would find no help from them.

“It started almost two full Turns ago. Such small things at first, we hardly noticed. The summer wasn’t quite as warm as before, then the wet season was much wetter and some of the crops died before the harvest could be brought in. The winter was longer and colder than usual and because there wasn’t as much food stored and we were on short rations, more of the old people died than usual.”

He paused, seeing alarm and a distinct lack of understanding on the faces surrounding him.

“Have I lost you?” he asked. “Do I need to explain something?”

“Winter, rations, old people usually dying because of cold and less food,” Demet counted off the things that were strange to him on his fingers.

“You don’t have winter?” asked Vineder wonderingly.

“You tell me what it is and I’ll tell you whether I use another word for it,” replied Demet.

“Winter is the cold season,” explained Vineder. “When it snows?” he furthered, seeing no enlightened smile on Demet’s face. “There are blizzards and you wear extra furs and put more blankets on your bed and have a fire going all day. The children and old people stay indoors most of the time and even the men only go out to hunt and chop wood, the women to fetch water and tend the animals in the barn.”

“Okay, slow down,” said Jonor, joining in the conversation. “We also have blankets, fire, animals in barns and the forest people hunt game. However, you lost me at blizzards. I’ve seen snow, but only in the mortal realm and it just lies on the ground being all white and pretty yet stubbornly inconvenient for road travel. What’s the problem?”

“I’m not sure what the ‘mortal realm’ is or ‘road travel’, but snow is more than just inconvenient. It falls sometimes till it lies deeper than a man is tall. It covers the houses, the paths, everything, and makes it hard to get to the river for water, which will have frozen so you need to use a pick to make a hole before you can fill your pail. It keeps you warm for a while though, shovelling a path from the house to the river,” he conceded.

Nula raised her hand. “I’ve never been through the gate, Jonor. I still don’t understand ‘snow’.”

Vineder struggled to explain the concept. “It’s when the air is very cold and the rain freezes into little, soft, white flakes. It falls on the ground and every surface, like a white blanket. It’s difficult to trudge through and it makes your clothes cold and wet, and it can last all season, some days a lot falls, some days little or none, but until the thaw you’re stuck with it.”

“It sounds so beautiful,” smiled Nula, “a white blanket over the whole world? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I suppose it is beautiful at that. When the sun rises and the whole landscape glows orange, or it sets and the mountains are purple and the ground sparkles around you. But it is also deadly.”

“How so friend?” asked Emerden. He was starting to believe this stranger and was curious about the reality of living in a place which must be so far removed from his own experience.

“Well the air is very cold all the time but more so at night when the sun is gone, so if the fire is not kept burning the air in the house will cool down too much. People can die from being too cold for too long, especially babies, old people and the sick. It’s not so bad it you have plenty of firewood stored in the barn and the harvest has been good. But if food is short and has to be rationed out carefully; portioned out for each person and each meal so it lasts, it’s harder to stay warm. Most winters we lose two or three to the cold. That season we lost seven adults and two children, including my own grandmother and baby sister.” He stopped abruptly and passed a hand over his face, as if to rub the grief from his eyes. Nula laid a hand gently on his arm.

“I’m sorry life has been so hard to you; that loss must have been very painful,” she sympathised.

“No harder on me than on anyone else I know,” he answered gruffly, blinking furiously as if to defy the tears forming in his eyes. He jumped as the two tree sprites hugged him simultaneously, then Caeya placed her small hands on each of his cheeks and looked at him seriously.

“What’s a blizzard?” she asked in a small voice. Vineder regarded her just as seriously.

“It’s like a rain storm, but with snow and lots of wind. I take it you do have rain storms and wind?” Emerden nodded in reply and Vineder continued. “Sometimes you can’t see your hand in front of your face, so it’s very easy to get lost. We don’t go outside till it’s over.”

Caeya rewarded his description with an awed stare, but she let go of his face and the two sprites sat at his feet, eager to hear more. Demet stepped forward from the crowd and spoke.

“What I don’t understand is, you said those happenings were so small you hardly noticed. Can your land truly be so harsh that such things are unremarkable? Why do you stay?”

Vineder took a moment to consider his reply.

“You see it as harsh because your life is so easy by comparison. To me it is simply life. Some winters are harder than most, some harvests are poor. Sometimes the wet season is wetter than we’d like and sometimes there’s a drought because not enough rain falls. As for why we stay... where would we go? The Jentsie children tell of the life they left in the Chasm and it does not tempt us. It did not sound like this.” He swept his hand in a broad gesture that took in the whole clearing. “You must understand; we did not know if there was anything or anyone to find here. The Jentsie children had heard of other peoples, but we thought they might have been bedtime stories. I came... hoping, only. It was a last chance, a desperate wish.”

He held up his open hands as if to signify the emptiness of their hopes. Nula encouraged him to continue.

“What happened then, to make you feel so desperate?”

“We waited for the spring, for the blizzards to end and the snow to melt, so that we could plough the fields and plant crops. And we kept waiting. Though the storms began to come less often, it never got warm enough for a thaw. Without that the ground was too hard to dig. Hunting parties went out but the animals had not come out of hibernation – that’s when they hide underground from the cold. We had to catch fish through holes in the ice to add to our winter stores, which were fast running out. When the animals were driven by hunger to leave their winter dens, those that eat grass found none and started to die of hunger, so those that eat meat also found themselves on short rations. They became fiercer as they starved, and began attacking the village. We lost two more people in those attacks, and the meat from those animals didn’t last long.

By New Turn’s day the weather had eased a bit so we got to work planting the hardiest and fastest growing crops. We even dug up half the barn floor and planted there where the seedlings had some shelter. Everyone was filled with worry; it consumed our thoughts day and night, the thought of another long winter and no food. No one could remember it ever being so bad. The elders consulted the auguries and threw rune stones to divine our best course. All they could perceive was something about a door and needing to find the ones who could wield the magic. The Jentsies among us said that there were those who knew the secrets of the magic arts on this side of the Chasm, but they weren’t sure who or where.

Then the wet season came again and with it a group of refugees from a village to the east. They said that the thaw had swelled the rivers coming down into their valley from the mountains and in the shelter of the hills their summer had been mild and planting good. But in the wet season those same rivers had burst their banks and flooded the valley, wiping out their whole village. Many had drowned or died of exposure during the journey west, but more than forty arrived in our midst. It shames me to say we sent them away. We were so afraid for our own lives and it did not look to be a good harvest again. The heavy rains ended in early frosts that heralded another long cold winter. The animals were hungry too so the cows and goats stopped giving milk and the hens stopped laying. We started to eat the animals, reasoning that there wasn’t much point in keeping them if none of us was left the next summer to breed them. The elders decided to send someone south, to try and find the ‘door’ and the ‘wielders of magic’. We had no way of crossing the Chasm, so they fitted a pair of sled runners (those are like long planks you use to get a cart across the snow) to the bottom of a small fishing boat. They gave me a horse and as much food as they could spare and started praying I would return. It took three weeks to reach the coast and on my journey I saw more villages decimated by floods and starvation. I avoided other survivors, scared they would try to steal my supplies. When I reached the cliffs I had to kill the horse for meat as I had run out of food, then I lowered the boat down to the water on a long rope, then climbed down it myself. I had been two days on the water before I started to feel warm again. I told you the end of the story earlier.”

Vineder leaned back, exhausted by the telling of his story. The Carnival folk exchanged uneasy glances and muttered amongst themselves, unsure what to make of the story or what this hopeful stranger expected them to do about it. Nula tugged on Emerden’s sleeve and drew him to one side.

“Em, I just remembered something that happened yesterday – so strange to think it was only yesterday; so much has happened since – it was at the birth I was attending.”

“At the birth? I thought you couldn’t divulge anything about that?”

“It’s not to do with the birth exactly,” qualified Nula. “It was the Norns who were attending for the birth ceremony.” Nula quickly related to Emerden what had happened and how frightened Meluna had been. “Do you think it might have anything to do with this?” she asked.

Emerden had always respected the Norns and their visions, which were uncannily accurate. “I need to speak to King Tilarion,” he decided. “He’ll want to call a meeting of the Council. Between the Sprite nest, Vineder and this vision business, we have a lot to discuss and if it all proves to be connected we need to figure out what to do next.”

“Do you think it is?” asked Nula, fear showing in her eyes. “Connected I mean. What does that mean for our realm? How can we unravel a mystery that stretches further than any of us has ever travelled?”

“We’ll see what the Norns have to say,” replied Emerden. “I’ll ask Thalaenna first; she’s skilled and she’s heard the story already.” He nodded over to where Thalaenna, who lived and worked with the Carnival, selling spells on a stall there and telling fortunes, was talking to a small group of worried people. He drew Nula toward him for a quick reassuring hug, kissing her forehead affectionately.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure it will all come out right,” he smiled, then turned and walked over to Thalaenna. Nula stood looking at Vineder as he sagged against the log, bleary eyed with exhaustion yet looking more hopeful now than he probably had in weeks, and she wondered how in all the realm they were going to help him.

Back in the village, Aysh and Mikkol approached her house with nervous knots in both of their stomachs. Aysh drew aside the door skin and they entered, to find her parents talking with Mikkol’s by the fire, laughing and cementing the bonds of incipient family. She exchanged a glance with Mikkol, a mixture of relief that they wouldn’t have to endure the following conversation twice and trepidation that they had to face both sets of reactions at once.

“Well, look at love’s young dream,” exclaimed her mother warmly, gesturing for them to join the conversation.

Aysh smiled nervously and sat down next to her mother. Mikkol joined her and took her hand for moral support. He drew in a deep breath and faced both of their fathers.

“We have something we want to ask you,” he began, but before he could continue his father interrupted.

“I know just what you’re going to say, and don’t worry – it’s all been taken care of.”

“It has?” asked Mikkol in confusion.

“Yes, I spoke to the elders today and they have agreed to give you the piece of land next to Jessen and Lora Flax on which to build your home. Moreover as a gift to you in celebration of your joining, Aysh’s mother has announced that she is working on a set of tools for you. They will go well with the bale of trees I’ll be felling for your house. Well, what do you think of that?” He beamed at Mikkol in full expectation of overwhelming gratitude.

Mikkol’s head swam as he tried to assimilate this new guilt trip. Aysh squeezed his hand, whether to chivvy him on or to tell him she understood how he felt he wasn’t sure. He smiled at his father, not very convincingly, and tried to sound suitably grateful.

“Thank you, Father. Thank you all so much, it’s more than we could have possibly dreamed of. But actually, that’s not what we wanted to ask.”

“It’s not?” asked Garron Moor gruffly, annoyed at the underwhelming response to his announcement. “What then?”

Mikkol swallowed hard. “Actually we were wondering if you would have any objections to shortening our engagement,” he mumbled nervously.

“Oh, how short exactly?” asked Garron, with an edge to his voice that probably only his wife noticed.

“Um, three or four weeks, we thought,” suggested Mikkol. Aysh squeezed his hand again and nodded enthusiastically. Aysh’s father turned a decidedly suspicious face towards his incipient son-in-law.

“Three or four weeks. Are you sure it’s only the engagement you want shortening?” He gave a pointed glance towards Mikkol’s braid. Garron Moor turned angrily towards Harrin Mayorr, Aysh’s father.

“What are you implying? If there’s been any sort of impropriety, I have no doubt your wild daughter was the instigator!”

“Wild?! Aysh is spirited, nothing more. She has an abundance of natural energy to run off, mere youthful exuberance. But if your son has taken advantage of her naiveté...!”

“Naive! I can guess how she likes to burn off excess energy.”

The two men were now standing, their wives and children alternately horror struck and growing angrier at the accusations being bandied about.

“Father!” shouted Aysh. “Stop, please. You have it all wrong. I’m not with child. I couldn’t possibly be.”

Harrin stopped on the verge of launching into another tirade and looked askance at his daughter.

“Couldn’t possibly? You mean you’ve never... I mean do you even know how...?” he coughed uncomfortably as Aysh blushed red.

“Father!” she begged him not to finish the sentence. “Of course, Mother explained all that. But I would never shame you. Or myself. And nor would Mikkol. We just don’t want to wait months, is all. For our joining ceremony I mean.” She added, noting the sly glance between her mother and Mikkol’s.”

Both their fathers looked very uncomfortable. Garron Moor coughed and studied his hands while Harrin Mayorr suddenly found something very interesting to examine in the roof structure. Keera Mayorr nudged her husband’s leg pointedly.

“Harrin, don’t you have something to say?” she asked, although she left no doubt in her tone as to whether it was really a question.

“Oh, yes. Sorry Mikkol, didn’t mean to impeach your character there. I’m sure you’re a bastion of honour and integrity.”

‘Bastion?’ mouthed Aysh at her mother, trying not to giggle in relief. Her mother waved away the comment, frowning to cover her own desire to laugh.

“Thank you, sir, that’s quite alright. I completely understand your reaction. All a misunderstanding.” He held out his hand which Harrin shook and everyone sat down again. Leena Moor regarded her husband with one raised eyebrow that spoke volumes. Garron turned to Harrin and apologised uneasily.

“Sorry, no insult intended. Your daughter is a lovely girl. Perfect match and all that.”

Harrin smiled tersely and nodded in silent agreement to drop the whole matter. The two mothers smiled at each other, relieved that a potentially disastrous fight had been averted. Keera looked at her daughter.

“So, just a few weeks, eh? What about a gown, bridesmaids, a feast? Rather a lot to arrange in so little time. And of course your house won’t be started yet. But I suppose, if it’s what you want...”

“Oh, thank you mother!” cried Aysh. “I don’t need anything fancy, only Mikkol!” She laughed, hearing how soppy this sounded out loud, and hugged her mother till she could hardly breathe.

The rest of the evening passed quickly as they discussed building methods and dress designs and the paths through the village were quiet as Garron and Lena walked home arm in arm, Mikkol having walked ahead of them. Garron ventured to suggest that the accelerated plans were still a little unseemly.

“People will talk,” he grumbled.

“Well, when your first grandchild doesn’t appear until at least ten months after the joining, they’ll all be silenced,” replied his wife, patting his arm.

King Tilarion banged his gavel on the large oak table in the council chamber. He looked around the ancient room as various discussions quieted and some semblance of order was established. The feeling that centuries of history had seeped into the very walls reassured him, but at the same time weighed on his shoulders as he strove to live up to the legacy of his ancestors. He looked at the members of the Council of the Great Summer Forest and assessed them mentally. This meeting was better attended than most assemblies of the council, gossip and rumour having run rampant over the events of the New Turning. His son-in-law Illion sat at his side, young yet serious and capable. By his other hand was Ronvin, the Keeper of Justice, whose task it was to settle disputes, mediate quarrels and dispense justice in the exceedingly rare incidence of a criminal case. He was mild mannered, wise and fair; an Elf of indisputable integrity. He was also the oldest member of the Council, having seen out one thousand four hundred Turns of the Sun and served Tilarion’s father and Grandfather before him. Next round the table were the three Norns who had been present at the Royal birth, all highly skilled and dedicated in their vocations.

The Pixie populace had three delegates; Chelm, a potter, Rosa, who was Nula’s aunt (her cousin Saera’s mother) and Anaver the glassmaker. These three women, all with the requisite pointed ears and sparkling eyes of their race, sat together at the table and had been talking over events. Their crops of short hair in various shades of brown converged as they tried to make sense of the rumours in muted tones.

There were seven Equiseen emissaries; an elder from each village and Garron Moor as commander of the Bridge Guard, all of whom had served well in their time offering sage advice. The five Manguin villages on the far shore of Lake Merriem were represented by their Mayors, a rather glorified title considering the diminutive size of the townships. Each man held the position in addition to his everyday profession, which in two cases was barber-surgeon, the third and fourth being the saloon keepers of Harbor and Jalbor, while the last two were a teacher and the blacksmith of Nula’s hometown, Maybor.

Even the Dallagaen had sent a representative and they hardly ever attended council meetings. Hardly ever came above ground, actually; the sunlight hurt their eyes and even the humid air of the forest was no comparison for the cool dampness of their burrows and tunnels, far underground. This Dallagaen’s pallid complexion and almost black eyes were partially hidden from sight behind a thin veil which Tilarion supposed offered protection from the sun. He couldn’t even tell whether the delegate was male or female; they all wore the same dun coloured tunics and trousers and wide brimmed, veiled hats. They were a squat, muscular race who lived under the foothills below the Misted Rocks of Even’s Doom, in an endless maze of tunnels and caverns which they mined for metal ores and coal. This they gave to the Equiseen in exchange for mining tools, protective clothing made of leather and other goods which the Equiseen obtained for them from the forest market. It was a relationship which had existed for so long no one even knew how or when it had begun anymore. As a race they were reclusive almost to the point of xenophobia; not as much so as the violently isolationist Haraquin of course, but they kept more or less to themselves, only dealing briefly with the Equiseen who came to exchange goods with them and staying away from the other forest races. They must have considered this news very serious to attend the council.

Besides Emerden the Carnival had sent Thalaenna and Demet to represent its interests. Tilarion knew Emerden well and respected him, but he had only a tentative acquaintance with the other two, the Carnival being more fluid in its delegation of emissaries. Vineder, the stranger from the north, was also present so that he could retell his story. Tilarion watched him as he shifted nervously in his chair, staring intently at the grain of the table. Was he the man from Meluna’s vision as Emerden suggested, or was there something more underhand going on? Neither answer was appealing. Twenty-five people made the crowded chamber hot and stuffy, despite all the windows being open. The table was surrounded and the Equiseen stood behind, finding the chair design incompatible with their anatomical requirements.

Emerden leaned over and tried to reassure Vineder. “It will be alright, my friend, I’m sure we’ll be able to figure it out.”

Vineder smiled back weakly, trying to draw hope from what he feared were empty platitudes. The Carnival folk had all seemed to believe him when he had finished his story the other evening. He had been taken to the cook house and given a large bowl of delicious stew, rich with herbs and dumplings. It was better food than he had eaten in a long time, and had been washed down with Demet’s very good ale. Demet’s wife had heated water for him to bathe in the large copper tub out in the barn. She had made him a bed of hay bales covered with a canvas sheet to stop the spikes of hay poking through, then topped that with soft blankets. It had been the best night’s sleep he could remember. He supposed the Carnival folk were accepting of the differences between them because they were so varied among themselves. He wondered if the more traditional forest races would be so tolerant. Elves, Pixies, Equiseen, Sprites, Dallagaen. He had heard some of the Jentsies mention these names, from stories handed down through the generations of their people, yet now he was surrounded by them.

The Manguin were obviously the most like him. Emerden had told him that they were named for the Elvish word ‘guin’ which meant ‘and more’, hence Man-guin due to the mixed nature of their heritage. Their ancestors had come through the Fall’s gate back when the Bridge of Aught Else was no more than a few fallen trees which happened to span the gorge between the forest and the clearing where the Carnival now stood. According to tradition, they had been fishermen in the mortal world who had gone to swim in a waterfall pool to cool off on a hot day. Swimming under the falls, they found themselves in the Faerie realm and set off to explore.

They could not communicate with the Faerie races, having no common tongue, and proved aggressive when confronted with peoples so strange to them. They were encouraged to leave the forest and found their way to Lake Merriem, where they decided to settle since they couldn’t get back to the gate and home. This continued to happen intermittently for centuries, over which time the populace grew to include men and women from all over their land; speakers of many dialects and tongues, who struggled at first to understand each other yet over time learned to live in harmony. Once a whole village came through, all their belongings on their backs, as the man who accidentally stumbled through the Falls had immediately turned round and gone to tell everyone he knew about the lush, green land which lay so close to their own drought-ridden fields. The Elves they first encountered had tried to turn them back, but the expressions of desperation on their faces had spoken to their compassionate natures and they too had been shown the way to the lake.

They built villages and evolved a culture which had its roots in many traditions. Newcomers brought varied skills and gifts and as time passed in the mortal realm, the people finding their way through the Gate changed too. They were joined by Myrial travellers from the great city of Lytos Bor on the far side of the Daraeyi Sea, many of whom liked the simple, pastoral life. Jentsies too arrived from time to time, until the dark period began in their history when they were imprisoned on the Chasm floor. The men-kind gradually learned the Myrial tongue, which was used as a common tongue for trade and travel across the realm, although they kept many words and phrases of their several origins mixed in with it and a distinct dialect emerged.

The races intermarried; Men, Myrial, Jentsie and occasionally Pixie and over the centuries the new Manguin race developed a tradition and a culture of its own. Eventually the inevitable happened. A man came through the gate armed with the new weapon, the musket, having managed to protect it from the water of the Falls. On meeting an Equiseen patrol he fired, out of fear and confusion, killing one of the warriors. The other Equiseen attacked before he could reload and cut him down, but the damage had been done.

The elders demanded that the gate be closed and no more men allowed in. The Forest Council agreed and set about finding some way to close the portal, but one of the Manguin storytellers, who was responsible for learning and passing down the combined heritage of their races, had implored them to merely regulate the comings and goings through the Gate. The debate had raged back and forth until the idea of the Carnival took shape.

It had been that storyteller, an ancestor of Emerden’s, who suggested that a group of people who felt called to bring the magic of Elsewhere to give hope to the changing and darkening mortal world could live in the clearing, watching over the Gate and making sure all visitors went back to their own homes once they had experienced the tranquillity and peace that time in the Faerie realm imbued. Volunteers were sought with many trades and talents and gradually the Carnival evolved. The Bridge guard was established to further ensure that no new travellers ventured into the forest and that only Faerie folk and those belonging to the Carnival were allowed to cross into the clearing. Those from the Carnival who ventured through the Gate saw how vastly different the mortal world had become from the place the Manguin spoke of and they understood that those who lived in the realm, no matter how they might talk of returning to their ancestral home, could not be allowed to go back.

By this time the villages had become over populated and large groups decided to venture out across the plains where they established more villages on the southern shore of the Daraeyi Sea, some of which grew into cities. They grew apart from their lake dwelling cousins and formed a government, social classes and nobility, along the lines their oral history remembered from home. The religion they had embraced as a people, a humble and compassionate faith based on that remembered and retained by many who had come through the gate and the few bibles brought through by a small group of Methodist missionaries, became more hierarchical and power hungry.

The Meerans, as they called themselves after their capital city of Lytos Meer, always remembered the Falls Gate though, and were jealous of the way the Elves guarded it. There had been many periods of unrest when they had tried to wrest control back from them and several serious battles, the last during Vineder’s own lifetime.

It had been a lot for him to take in as Emerden explained it all to him over the last few days while he rested and recouped his strength, but Emerden had such a way of bringing it all to life in the mind’s eye that Vineder was sure he remembered it correctly. Still, it was rather making his head hurt. Or perhaps that was Demet’s ale. He rubbed his eyes and shrugged at the borrowed blue tunic he was wearing. Louenne had insisted on washing his clothes, lending him some of Demet’s in the mean time. His own had been rather pungent, he was forced to admit. He became aware that the tall man Emerden had pointed out as the Elven King was talking.

Tilarion had dispensed various greetings and pleasantries and was proceeding to the main point of the meeting.

“It has been drawn to our attention that there might well be something rather unpleasant brewing in our realm,” he began.

Emerden wondered inconsequentially whether he was speaking in the plural or employing the royal ‘we’. Tilarion was rather prone to a somewhat pompous formality of style which Emerden found a little irritating. He had only ruled the forest in peacetime, his father having died only twenty years previously when, in the final moments of the most recent battle with the Meerans, he had been pierced through the eye with an arrow. The forest had been deeply affected by the loss of their wise and benevolent King who had ruled for over three hundred years and had been beloved of his people. Elves died but rarely, being impervious to illnesses and the normal ageing process which affects the mortal races, so a change in leadership was a major upheaval.

Tilarion, of course, was affected most of all both because he had been a devoted son and because he felt that having seen only thirty turns of the sun he was unready for such responsibility. In addition his mother, Rosaliin, had gone into a sharp decline after his father’s death and, only a few months later, had taken her own life. It was not unknown for an Elf to decide after several thousands of turns that they had lived long enough and it was time for their essence to return to the eternal web of magical energy from which everything in the realm drew its power, but at only six hundred Tilarion’s mother had been very young to make such a choice. The depression which had engulfed her on her husband’s death had sapped from her all desire to go on, had drained the joy she had once felt in every morning and replaced it with unmitigated dread from which she could find no escape. She had finally decided that only in joining her husband could she find any peace.

Tilarion was left alone to rule a Kingdom of five races and several hundred subjects without having learned anything close to all his father had wanted to teach him. He took his role very seriously but Emerden felt that his public demeanour of staid reserve was unnecessarily aloof and completely at odds with the kind, indulgent family man he had occasionally been privileged to see in private. He reflected that a comparatively short apprenticeship, at least in the perception of the Eternals, probably meant that Tilarion had not been at ease with how he intended to ‘be’ as King before he found the position thrust upon him and has since found it difficult to change. Tilarion continued.

“Several things have happened in the last few days which have concerned us and which must be investigated. First, during the birth ceremony preceding the delivery of my twin grandchildren,” Tilarion paused to accept congratulations from the various delegates, “one of the Norns had a most disturbing vision. She was consumed by a feeling of fear and cold and saw a strange man amid an intensely white landscape.”

Vineder’s head snapped up at this revelation, taken aback that his coming might have been foreseen by the Elves.

“It seems likely that this young man here might be the very individual concerned. Does he look familiar to you, Meluna?” Tilarion indicated Vineder, who felt all eyes on him as the beautiful Elf turned her piercing blue gaze toward him and studied him intently.

“I believe he is one and the same, your Grace,” she replied. “He looks different without all the furs but he has the same eyes; troubled but very kind.”

Vineder smiled at her perceptiveness and hoped that this foretelling of his arrival would dispose them to provide the help he sought.

“Vineder, perhaps you would tell us your story so that we might better understand the nature of your people’s problem,” suggested the King.

So Vineder had to go through the whole telling again, explaining once more all the concepts they did not understand and found it difficult to believe in. He found it very tiring; in fact after the rigors of his journey he found almost everything tiring. He yearned for the soft hay bed in Demet’s barn and the chance to rest again. The notion that he had recently been one of the most vigorous young men in his village, known for his strength and stamina, was almost ridiculous to him at the moment.

Chelm, the most senior of the three Pixies present and the least persuadable of any new idea, spoke up as Vineder finished. At four-hundred and twenty-seven she was old, even for a Pixie and was starting to show it in the salt-and-pepper appearance of her hair and the lines around her eyes and mouth. It would be unfair to call them laughter lines as she so rarely laughed, so she stood out among the Pixies who were by nature a playful and merry race.

Her face was dominated by a large, hooked nose, blemished on one side by a mole which had in the last century or so decided to sprout several wiry black hairs. It was too large a feature for her small face, which also had a pointed chin and high cheekbones. Her eyes were lavender and it should have been possible to believe that once they had sparkled mischievously, but she scowled too often for most people to deem that plausible. Were it not for her nose she might have been quite attractive, or so she thought, and so she had always begrudged it. This anatomical self-loathing, however seemingly justified, had eroded her confidence and consequently her natural beguiling abilities, the latter being at least partially dependent on the former.

So Chelm had scowled and quarrelled her way through over four lonely centuries, jealousy over the romantic liaisons of her peers souring her personality until those who had known her as a child no longer recognised her. She was a competent if unimaginative potter, making useful articles for the market. She was also a dedicatedly negative member of the Pixie community and of the forest at large, never too busy to scold the youngsters for their frivolous ways or denounce anything she saw as a failing in her neighbours.

Her longevity unfortunately gave her de facto seniority and so she had for many years attended all the Council meetings. The Pixies always made sure she was accompanied by someone who could offer truer representation of their race however, and hopefully rein in her quarrelsome nature. As she spoke now she stood and raised an accusing finger, the better to make her point.

“How do we know this man is truly from beyond the Chasm?” she sneered. “He might be from Lytos Meer, trying to trick us into sending out a large rescue party so that the forest will be undefended and vulnerable to attack. Admit it!” She thrust her finger at the startled Vineder. “This is all a clever Meeran plan so you can attack the forest again and gain control of the Falls Gate! I’ve been around since Lytos Meer was barely bigger than Maybor village and the first Meeran King hardly more than a glorified Mayor. I’ve seen many battles, many Meeran tricks. None so clever as this mind you, but even this is not clever enough! I see through you like that window young man! Even your phony foreign accent doesn’t fool me. That Norn vision was a warning against Meeran trickery, your Grace, nothing more.”

With that Chelm sat in her chair and stared down everyone else in the room as if daring them to contradict her. Emerden raised his eyebrows at the King, who nodded imperceptibly in response. Emerden stood and addressed the room.

“Chelm has made a valid point,” he began, much to her satisfaction and Vineder’s consternation. Emerden laid a reassuring hand on his new friend’s shoulder. “However, I am confident that I can lay these fears to rest. We have sent someone back along the route Vineder took to confirm the presence of his boat on the riverbank. It was there and was not constructed in the manner of Meeran fishing boats or pleasure yachts, nor of any other type of boat seen by Lyneera on her travels. Also, I myself have heard Vineder tell his story twice now. The details have not changed in the smallest measure. The raw grief in his face and voice when he speaks of those he has lost and his obvious concern for those he left behind is utterly convincing. I assure you his accent is not phoney. Lyneera has listened to him speak at length in his own tongue and declares it sounds nothing like Myrial, Roon, Haraquin or any of the dialects of the Lomoohr mining communities, and it is unlike any man-tongue I have heard on my travels.” Emereden paused to reach below the table and brought up a sack which he upended to scatter a selection of Vineder’s belongings onto the table. Fur boots, gloves and hat, his bone-knife, stone-tipped spear and water skins lay in mute corroboration of his story. Emerden continued.

“Look at these items. The fur is not from any animal you will have seen in the forest or on the plains. Vineder tells me it is Wolf hide; a creature almost as long as I am tall with vicious teeth and a bushy tail. They hunt in packs and will attack villages if their natural prey is scarce. He also has a cape lined with white fur he tells me is from a bear, which seems to be an animal of monstrous proportions. If they can hunt one down it feeds the whole village for days. I tell you I am convinced by this man’s tale and I am convinced we must do something to help.”

“Fine, fine! Ignore me,” ranted Chelm. “Send a few people, take the biggest fishing boats in the villages, go bring back his starving villagers, if you can fight your way through the blizzards and wolves and bears to rescue them! None of you will ever return!” she proclaimed histrionically. Anaver and Rosa tried to shush her and calm her down but she refused to be quieted. She continued her rant.

“What I don’t understand is why you think it has anything to do with us. Why should we go? Why is it our problem to solve?” She finally fell silent as she noticed that the whole room was regarding her with a mixture of revulsion and disbelief. Tilarion gathered up all his diplomatic skill and managed to speak calmly.

“We have always been blessed here in the Great Summer Forest with a temperate climate. The sun bathes us in her warmth, the rains are gentle and infrequent and the breeze a balm on hot days. Our crops are steady, the hunting on the plains and the grasslands is good and fish abound in our lakes and rivers. It should always elicit our sympathies then, to hear of folk whose life is harder than our own.

I often think that the Haraquin, in the cold of the mountains, choose a life that is strange to me. Yet choose it they do; they could move down to the relative shelter of the foothills if they wished. Here we have a man whose people have no choice. Without our help they cannot hope to leave their land, yet to stay is certainly a death sentence. How can we not take pity? For shame, how can we not?”

This last was directed straight at Chelm, who had the grace to look at her feet, a deep flush of embarrassment colouring her cheeks and neck. A low rumble of agreement went round the room. Vineder finally began to truly hope that he had found the answer to his quest. Master Ronvin spoke up, voicing a question which still hung in the minds of many in the room.

“I beg your Grace’s pardon, but we were given to believe when this meeting was called that there was some direct threat to ourselves. Yet I have heard nothing of it so far.” He smiled encouragingly at Emerden. “Do you happen to have the answer to this question as well, young man?” he asked, stroking his white beard absentmindedly. Ronvin had allowed his skin to wrinkle and his hair to grow snowy as the centuries had passed, believing that this style gave him gravitas and an air of wisdom.

It was a curious truth among Eternals that the males allowed themselves a far greater appearance of aging than their female counterparts. Though their bodies did not, in fact, age and decay in the way that a mortal body would, they seemed to be able to age outwardly till whenever they saw fit. Thus many would develop grey or even white hair and a smattering of lines and wrinkles which awarded them a certain venerability in the minds of others. Female Eternals seemed to be as prone to vanity as those of any species however and halted their own aging while still possessed of their girlish charms, since no woman would voluntarily open herself to the denomination ‘elderly’.

Emerden motioned to the Elf standing to attention at the door of the council chamber, who opened it and beckoned to someone outside. Much to the surprise of the council members, Neryn and Caeya walked into the room, carrying a large basket between them. Solemnly they walked around the large table to Emerden who gently relieved them of their burden and placed it reverently on the table before him. He turned back to the Sprites and, bending forwards so that his eyes were at their level, tenderly placed a hand on each of their shoulders.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “You can stay if you’d like.”

It was not that Sprites were not allowed on the council, more that they did not possess the temperament for politics and entrusted their welfare absolutely to the Elves. On this occasion however they nodded and Emerden lifted them both onto the nearest windowsill so that they could see what was going on. Chelm began to grumble about the ‘theatrics’ and ‘was Emerden suggesting a picnic?’

A glare from Tilarion silenced her so that Emerden could speak.

“Some of you are probably aware that one of the Sprite trees has been nesting these past few Turns,” he paused for the inevitable brief rumble of comment from those who had not been aware of this, then continued. “Yesterday, these two Sprites, who have been watching over the nest, it being located in their home tree, discovered a tragedy.”

Emerden took the cover off the basket and lifted one of the linen wrapped babies, cradling it gently in one hand as he uncovered its tiny face. There was a gasp as his audience realised he was holding a corpse. “All but one of the babies was dead,” said Emerden heavily, a lump returning to his throat. Between the upset with Nula, Vineder’s appearance and the tragic loss of the nest, this New Turn was already weighing very heavily on his shoulders. Since the storyteller usually acted as master of ceremonies he had an unofficial leadership role within the Carnival. The storyteller’s hereditary place on the council confirmed this responsibility and he felt it inevitable that he would have a key part in unravelling the mystery at hand. It wasn’t that he either relished or resented this fact; he simply accepted that to be the way things were. Nevertheless he felt the strain of it pressing on him. He swallowed hard.

“The sixth baby was in a serious condition when we found him but he is being well cared for by Nula and we are hopeful that he will recover well.”

There was a general nod of agreement that Nula was the best person to be entrusted with such a task. She was well known throughout the forest and respected. Emerden felt a brief surge of vicarious pride, which pleased him and lightened his mood a little.

Timorran, the blacksmith-mayor of Maybor, raised his hand tentatively. For such a large, muscular man he was quite timid, but his kindness and wisdom had caused him to be unanimously elected to the mayorship. He had such a way with people that when he spoke quarrelling in a room would cease just so that they could hear what he had to say. The one exception to this rule was among the Equiseen, among whom Timorran felt acutely uncomfortable. This was in part because he knew they regarded his work as a smith as women’s toil, and also because another of his roles was to serve as farrier to the local farmers. He had once heard one of the Equiseen delegates remark quietly to another that if he ever brought his tools near an Equiseen village he would suddenly find them inserted in some uncomfortable places. He waited for Tilarion to nod in his direction before speaking.

“If it please your Grace, sirs, do you know why the little mites all died? Was it some sort of sickness?”

“Something had damaged the tree and those around it, withering the leaves and killing the nest,” replied Emerden. “Only in the upper canopy though; none of the lower branches were affected. We haven’t investigated further yet, so I don’t know whether it’s localised or widespread and we have no idea as to the cause.”

“What kills trees usually comes from the soil,” asserted the mayor of Lobor, who was a keen gardener. “But it could also be a blight in the leaves or an infestation. Did you notice any strange insects?”

“No, but we would be glad of your assistance in our investigation,” answered Emerden, who could wax diplomatic with the best of them. “In fact, if you would like to form an investigative committee with Neryn and Caeya, we would be very grateful for your expertise. I believe Thalaenna is also interested in looking into possible non-botanical causes of the problem. Perhaps you could convene with her after this meeting.”

The mayor of Lobor nodded enthusiastically, trying to look grave and concerned and to hide his pride and delight at being asked to lead a special committee and to work closely with one of the Norns.

“Thank you, Emerden,” said Tilarion. “It is very important to discover how widespread this.... tree-sickness....is and what the cause, but we also need to know if it is in any way connected to what is happening with the weather beyond the Chasm. If the causes are magical, they may be linked, and we must find out who is responsible and what their motive is so that they can be stopped. I want our Norns here in the citadel to concentrate on that.”

“And what about my people, sire,” asked Vineder. “Will you mount an expedition to help us?”

Tilarion looked at the young man contemplatively. He drew in a deep breath then sighed, rubbing his clean shaven chin. All Elven men seemed to have to choose between a smooth, hairless face and a very long, flowing beard. There was no middle ground visible anywhere in the citadel.

“I feel a deep sympathy for your people,” he began, and Vineder’s heart sank into his stomach as he predicted a ‘but’ to follow. He was surprised that it didn’t come. “And I truly do want to help you. I’m simply not sure what would be the best way to go about it. The logistics of such a venture are mind-boggling. The obvious thing to ask first is: do we go by land or by sea? Any comments?”

Danin, the mayor of Ebor which was the village furthest along the lake shore from Theyos Raal, raised his hand. He was a small man with shrewd eyes and ascetic features who preferred not to lay out his town’s resources for other people when he could see no reciprocal benefit.

“Begging your Grace’s pardon, but I don’t see how either could work. All the villages have fishing boats, certainly, but nothing that could handle the open sea or carry large numbers of people. Over land the Chasm is in the way and there’s no way to bridge it. Besides you’re talking about walking the entire length of the realm! It would take months! And then there’s the Raquin. My mother used to frighten us with those stories when we were children.” He shuddered at the memory.

“And are you still a frightened child now, hiding under the bedclothes?” sneered one of the Equiseen elders. “I don’t think we’d be recruiting you for any fighting. We have far more qualified men of our own.” He laughed derisively and some of the other Equiseen joined in. Prince Illion stood and raised his hand for quiet.

“Gentlemen, there is no need for that sort of talk. Let us try and work together. If we were to attempt a sea rescue, might it be possible to obtain ships at Lytos Meer?”

“Ask the Meerans for help? Are you mad?!” exclaimed Garron Moor, his outrage and disbelief overwhelming his respect for the Prince consort and his sense of decorum. He restrained himself with visible effort.

“Beg pardon your highness, but the Meerans hold us in contempt. They would cut down any one of us who approached their city. As for hiring ships there, we’d need to hire a crew as well and there’s no Meeran crew who’d sail with forest folk, I’d wager.” He looked about him, sure of universal agreement and approbation. In the face of the Prince consort, however, he found irritation and mild rebuke, which caused his face to redden in discomfort. Illion spoke reprovingly.

“Actually, I was thinking of sending a few Manguin or Myrials to the harbour at Lytos Meer in the guise of ordinary travellers, to try and secure the services of a couple of Myrial sea captains from Lytos Bor, perhaps men with a broader than normal sense of fiscal pragmatism and fewer racial prejudices.” He regarded Garron Moor with one eyebrow raised.

“Oh. I see, your Highness; smugglers. That idea actually has some merit.”

“Really?” retorted Illion with unchecked sarcasm. “I do thank the captain of the Bridge Guard for acknowledging that the heir-consort to the Elven throne is not an utter imbecile.” Illion did not often speak so, but he felt that Garron had overstepped the mark due to his own youth and that a point should be made.

“A thousand apologies, your Highness,” offered Garron, wishing he wasn’t sometimes prone to sudden outbursts of temper.

King Tilarion, who had been about to jump in to diffuse the situation, now merely turned to Vineder to ask whether ships could easily approach the coast where he had taken to sea and make landfall. Vineder’s response was not encouraging.

“There are only cliffs for as far as the eye can see. When I reached the cliff edge, I had to use a very long rope tied round large rock to lower my boat to the beach, which was a ribbon of pebbles; little more than a ledge really, about a metre above the water level. Then I secured the rope around the rock and climbed down myself.”

“Not very practical then,” surmised the King. “What about east of your village? If we sailed around the realm to the south and up the east coast, what might we find there?”

“Sire, no one has ever travelled that way,” remarked Demet, who had until now remained silent, being unused to politics. One of the Equiseen answered him.

“There are beaches certainly, between the grasslands and the sea. But past the mountain range of Even’s Doom, who can say?”

“Lyneera could,” suggested Thalaenna. “She has travelled extensively throughout the realm seeking articles for her stall and satisfying her wanderlust. I imagine she could tell you what lies north of the mountains.”

“We all know what lies north of the mountains. More mountains!” protested another of the Equiseen elders. “What we need to know is whether the sea is navigable to the east and whether you can make landfall north of the Chasm to that side.”

Tilarion motioned to Vineder to respond if he could, while also summoning the door guard to send a messenger for Lyneera.

“East of my village there are hills then mountains,” he began. Then he shook his head. “Travelling is not one of our pastimes. We keep journeys to a minimum and only go in the summertime when the weather eases and the bears retreat north. There are villages in the hills and I believe some in the valleys east of them, but I don’t know what the shore is like and the mountain range extends far to the north and will be quite impassable.”

“What about the Chasm?” asked Illion, an idea beginning to form in his mind. “It is said to be very wide. Is there water or only land at its base?”

“Both, I believe,” he answered. “From what the Jentsies have told us, more land on your side where they farm the riverbank for the Raquin. The river is very wide and swift; it takes them an hour to swim across, fighting the currents. They are exhausted before they even begin the treacherous climb up the Chasm wall. I don’t know if a ship would fit through – I suppose it would depend how big the ship was, how long the oars.” He shrugged apologetically then added, “And of course, all the Raquin would be fighting you as you climbed.”

“If you would indulge me,” said Timorran, again raising his hand like a child in school, “could you explain about the Raquin and the Jentsies? I confess I was an indifferent scholar, and history was not my best subject. I know the Raquin used to be Haraquin, but there was a disagreement and some of them left. And I know they ran the Jentsies out of Centre’s Tree and made them work for them. But I don’t remember much else.”

Emerden grimaced at the Great Rift being referred to as a mere disagreement and five centuries of slavery dismissed as ‘work’. He put on his storyteller’s face and enlightened them.

“The Haraquin have always been an austere and xenophobic race,” he began. “They live in their caverns high in the misted rocks of Even’s Doom and no-one knows very much about their society. They fly on their great leathery wings to hunt and who knows, maybe even for pleasure. Their bald heads, fanged teeth and long, talon-like nails make them a sight to quail even the bravest heart, as anyone can attest who has ever been attacked from above.”

Garron Moor, having experienced this more than once, nodded his head in agreement, as did several of the other Equiseen. He still had long scars on his left shoulder from one such encounter.

“They wear clothes made from animal hides and lined with fur to ward off the chill mountain air and the howling winds that swirl the mists around the peaks of Even’s Doom. It is said, though I am unsure by whom (a traveller from Lytos Bor I suppose since they would have seen Raquin there with their Jentsie slaves) that hundreds of Turns ago a group of their youths decided to investigate what the Meerans had always suspected; that their mountains were sown with rich seems of mineral deposits. In short: there be jewels in them thar hills! The truth of it was beyond their wildest dreams and they amassed a great wealth, contrary to the tradition of their race which demands a spartan existence devoid of luxury or ornament.

The youths wished to dispense with this severe lifestyle and use their riches to buy comforts. With their leader, Quaylon, they confronted the elders and challenged their authority. It was an ugly day. Parents, enraged at such a brazen disregard for time-honoured traditions, fought their own children and drove them away. There were deaths on both sides and in the end five dozen were banished. They took the jewels they had collected and flew away, leaving a great hole in their society. They flew north over the Lomoohr mountains and the Far Plains until they saw the immense beauty of Centre’s Tree.

There is another beginning to this story. Once there was a race of carefree, joyful people who lived in the protection of the huge tree that stands on the edge of the Chasm which it is said has cleaved our realm in two since the beginning of time. If you have never seen it you cannot imagine its immensity, but it dwarfs even the Ever Tree which shades the south shore of Lake Merriem. The branches are like roads, the trunk as thick at the base as a village is wide. The whole Jentsie city was spread through that one great tree. They lived an idyllic life, farming the fertile ground near the river and harvesting the fish with submerged nets before the waters plunged over the side of the Chasm. They were an intelligent and adventurous people, travelling the realm and making maps and writing books about their journeys. Some chose to settle far from the tree, in the new villages growing by Lake Merriem, or in the sprawling and ancient metropolis of Lytos Bor, but most returned home.

Then one day their lives changes forever. Shadows dropped from the sky; shadows with wings and claws who brought terror and death. The Jentsies were a peaceful folk and totally unprepared to defend themselves. They surrendered in an attempt to protect their children: even though they outnumbered the Haraquin six to one or more they couldn’t countenance any losses as acceptable so they just... gave up.”

There were several disgusted noises from the Equiseen and even the Manguin delegates who could not imagine allowing themselves or their families to be so enslaved while a single breath remained in their bodies. Emerden waited for them to settle down before continuing.

“Not everyone among them agreed with this plan. Even as they were herded down the enormous roots of Centre’s Tree to the Chasm floor below some of their number began to plot and plan how they might regain their freedom. The Raquin, as the renegade Haraquin now styled themselves, decided to live in the huge caves in the Chasm wall, while making their new slaves bunk down in similar caverns on ground level. They were allowed to bring a few necessary items down with them from their homes in the tree; beds and other furniture, clothes and so forth, but after that the tree city was abandoned. Quaylon and his mate set up a sort of court with all their favourites as courtiers. They used their jewels to buy all the comforts they wanted in Lytos Bor, carried home on the backs of carefully guarded Jentsie slaves.”

“Why didn’t they rebel?” asked one of the frustrated Equiseen. “What happened to those plotters and planners?”

Vineder took over the story at this point, telling what he knew of the oral history that had been passed down through generations of Jentsies.

“There were attempts at rebellion, a couple of times. Once, those who had been set to work farming the muddy riverbank tried to overpower the guards with their work tools. But they had no training and of course, they couldn’t fly, which you must concede is an enormous disadvantage. The Raquin were brutal. They executed not the perpetrators of the uprising, but everyone who was too old to work, saying they were an unnecessary drain on resources. In response to another rebellion some time later, they randomly killed one tenth of the slaves. They ruled through terror. The Jentsies were forced to work long hours, fed just enough to keep them going and made to sleep in large dormitories with no privacy.”

The room was hushed, stunned into silence, until one voice asked, “How do you know all this?”

“They never completely gave up. In the evenings, when work was done and the Raquin were mostly lounging in their lavishly furnished caves, they were allowed to bathe in the sheltered pools along the river’s edge where the currents were not so strong.

They taught their children to swim and to climb, always out of sight of the guards, who mostly watched the tree roots to make sure no-one escaped up that easy path. It never occurred to the guards that they might try to scale the Chasm wall itself. Once a child was old enough and strong enough they were allowed to choose whether to try and escape. They would roll up their meagre belongings in a blanket and tie it on top of their head to try and keep it dry, then make the swim across the river in dead of night. If they managed not to be swept away by the currents and reach the other side, they faced a death-defying climb up the rock face, which is much higher on my side than on yours. If they reached the top safely, they would let their family know by making a certain bird call. Then they wrapped themselves in their blanket and trudged off to find a future in whichever of my people’s villages they encountered first. We took them in, adopted them into our families, learned their language and taught them ours, which is why I can talk to you.”

“Didn’t the Raquin notice their slaves disappearing?” asked Illion.

“The Raquin appear to be a bit lazy. They don’t spend too much time counting slaves. If no-one tries to walk up the roots at night and no-one is spotted trying to run away across the Far Plains when they go flying in the morning, they assume everyone is present and correct. And don’t forget, not many would choose to make the attempt. For anyone who was not a strong swimmer or climber it would have been suicide to try and some simply couldn’t bear to leave their families or feared what they would find on the other side of the Chasm.”

Illion still wasn’t satisfied. “What if someone fell while climbing? Wouldn’t the Raquin see the body and know what had happened?”

“There was a woman named Sula. The children all loved her because she taught them to swim. She was a very strong swimmer. If one of them fell, it was her sad duty to cross the river herself, wrap the body in their blanket and send it off down the river in the currents, then swim back across by daybreak.”

“Why didn’t they just refuse to.... well, I mean, to have children?” asked Illion. “No children means no new slaves. They would have died out. Who would want to bring a child into that world anyway?”

Vineder looked decidedly uncomfortable.

“I’m not exactly sure. You understand, these were children coming to us; frightened children who had just left everything they knew, terrible as their life had been, and everyone they loved. We weren’t going to ask them questions like that.”

Illion nodded, understanding. “But why cross the river? Why not cross the cavern on our side and try to find help?”

“As I said, the Raquin went out flying in the mornings. I think it was for exercise, mostly, since they otherwise had a rather sedentary lifestyle. But if they saw a runaway slave on the plains they would have dragged them back, or possibly killed them. My people were told stories about a few who had tried that, a long time ago. They were made examples of, to discourage further escape attempts. I suppose it worked because they started making the river crossing instead. From what I gather the Raquin don’t like the climate on our side of the Chasm and stay away. Obviously no-one who tried the climb on this side made it far enough to ask for help, anyway.”

“They did, actually,” said Emerden quietly. Vineder frowned in confusion.

“What do you mean ‘they did’?” he asked.

“I mean, one of them did make it far enough to ask for help. And help was refused.” Emerden spoke in a hollow sounding voice that would have been barely audible had not such a deathly hush enveloped the room.

Tilarion looked at him sharply. “What do you mean by this? Who refused, when?”

“About forty Turns in the past, a woman with white hair, pale skin and large eyes arrived in the forest bedraggled, dirty and terrified. She would speak to no-one and jumped at the slightest noise. An Elf woman found her and managed with gentle patience to coax her up into Theyos Raal. For days she stayed in the room they gave her, silent and frightened. They took her food and she ate everything in sight like someone half starved. Eventually she allowed the Elf who found her to help her bathe and to comb out her long hair.

When she eventually started to talk there was no stopping the flood. It all came out – her life, the oppression of her people, the history of their enslavement, everything she had endured. When she was finished the Elf could hardly speak for crying. She managed to relate what she had heard to King Doradin, who naturally called a meeting of the council.

He was fired up; he wanted to raise an army and march forth to crush the Raquin. He was ashamed, he said, that he had always accepted the situation as historical fact, without considering the ongoing plight of the Jentsies. He said he’d had no idea that it was so bad, always convincing himself that it was a rulers and subject situation like any other; a conquered nation such as he had heard tell of from beyond the Falls Gate. He had even drawn parallels with the Myrials and the Immortal Roon, who have a benevolent relationship in the northern Lyteean cities.

He was shouted down. The Meerans were continually restive at that time, always sending raiding parties and trying to sneak people through, all leading up to the battle two decades later. The Equiseen said they couldn’t possibly spare enough men without leaving the forest woefully undefended. The village mayors wouldn’t countenance asking for volunteers without properly trained backup. The other Elves on the council said what could so few do against so many, that nearly two hundred Raquin, as the woman Lana had said they numbered at that time, was not a prospect to be trifled with. In short, they refused to help.

One man on the council offered to take Lana in, give her a home, try to help her recover from the trauma of her past. They disguised her appearance with enchantments, changing her hair so it would grow in black and darkening her complexion. No-one would have known she was a Jentsie. They put the story about that she was from a village in the Lomoohr mountains. Everyone on the council was sworn to absolute secrecy. No record was made of the meeting. It was as if it had never happened.”

Emerden sat back as if exhausted by the telling of this awful tale. His hands trembled with emotion and his eyes were haunted. Tilarion was the first to break the heavy silence with a whispered question.

“Emerden, this is a truly shocking story. How do you know the truth of it?”

Emerden lifted his gaze from the fixed stare he had been boring into the table top as he told his tale and looked Tilarion squarely in the eye.

“Because she was my mother,” he said. Then he stood and strode from the room.

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