Keeping the impassable mountain slope to their left, they continue northeastward, and a wide plain opens out before them, dotted with trees and speckled with shrubs, with rocks littered about as if tossed aside from the mountain peaks above by the hand of some giant in ages past. At this point, as the way opens before them, the company turns full northward, aiming for the Stïeka Mara, which according to what they know stands ahead, though they are uncertain of how far. Many leagues to the northeast, up in the Teldren range, lies the Galas basin and the village of Falstead. But between them are many days of travel, as well as the village of Criseä, and the slope of the land leading up from Moradoch Steppe to the wooded vales and rough shelves of the highlands. Yet their destination does not lie that far nor in that direction. Rather, they look for an opening to the west or the northwest, so that they might find access to the ancient and fabled forest of the Velasi, cradled in the knees of the southernmost of the Teldren Mountains but cut off from the world both by the great chasm and, if the rumors are true, by a mysterious power that repels all who would seek to enter or at least to navigate the forest to a successful end.
The air is bitter cold, and autumn leans toward winter in the regions where the winds sweep off the heights of the mountains to the stretches of land far below. This region is one such place, and though no snow falls, heavy gray clouds scuttle in a hurry to the east, as if fleeing toward the sea, carrying a damp chill from the peaks and allowing only dimmed rays of the sun's light and warmth through to the land below. After so many weeks in the wilderness walking for the vast majority of the day, the travelers are worn and weathered, tired beyond exhaustion and yet spurred ahead by an energy and desire deeper than exhaustion. And yet each of them in their own way looks forward to some respite, to a time of repose when weary legs can rest and the dull ache in the lower back can ease itself once again and calloused feet, with raw toes and heels, can heal. But even if they find their destination, they do not expect to linger long, as the pressing need of their people drives them ever onward, and the wretched voices of the creatures of darkness call out within each of them as if demanding a response.
It is the larger part of two days before they draw near to the edge of what they seek, and edge it truly is. A great rift in the earth yawns before them, with steep cliffs plummeting straight down into interminable depths below, as if some massive blade wielded by a god cut the earth from mountain to mountain and split it open so that no man could cross. The other side of the gorge is visible but only dimly, being over a quarter mile away. A few hardy trees or bushes grow up to the edge of the rift, but otherwise the land is bare, only grass and stone and hard earth.
"So the Stïeka Mara is no mere myth," Rorlain comments.
"I did not expect that it was," says Cirien. "Many have come this far. It is not, in fact, exceedingly out of the way. A matter of days hence, and we would find a village, though this you probably know. It is what lies beyond the rift, on the other side, that is unknown except in ancient lore long forgotten or only remembered in fragments."
"Surely some have found a way around the rift," Rorlain offers, "if, that is, they have had reason or curiosity enough to attempt it."
"It has been attempted, but I suspect not in centuries. And if the attempt had been successful, and if something worthwhile lay beyond, I suspect that roads would have been built. No, whatever they found, they did not think it worth sharing, or they did not return from the finding."
"That isn't exactly a consoling thought, though I suppose we have had little consolation of such a sort since setting out from our homes." Rorlain scans the distance with his eyes, as if trying to discern the contours of the opposite ridge, if not to spy a way across at least to get a glimpse of the nature of their destination.
Seeing this, Eldarien explains, "It is said that on the far side of this rift lies a great forest, expansive and deep, within which is hidden the ancient civilization of the Velasi, a people remembered now only in weathered pages or archaic song. But I myself believe that they are very much alive, even if their ways are different from our own and that they have their reasons to uphold their withdrawal from the world. But this does not prevent me from wishing to meet them, even were our desperate quest and the need of our people not driving us to precisely such a place and such a meeting."
"What then do you propose we do?" Tilliana asks. "The light works many marvels, but I don't suppose that it shall carry us across furlongs of empty air."
"I suspect that this rift is as much a work of the light as the other marvels that we have seen," Elmariyë says. "If we are worthy to gain passage, then I trust we shall."
"Worthy?" asks Eldarien, turning to look at her.
"Well, it is not the best word," she replies. "One can never be worthy of the works of light. I suppose what I mean is that we be found fitting recipients, cooperators, and that our plight and our task be truly sustained by those from whom we have received it."
"Yes, but I also get the sense that the light prefers to work in hiddenness, concealing itself in the ordinary and there implanting itself like a seed, rather than performing marvels before the eyes or visibly changing the course of events with mighty hand," Eldarien says.
"If that is true," says Rorlain, "then our plight must be grave indeed, for many marvels have we seen with waking eyes."
"So what then shall we do?" asks Tilliana, turning and looking to the north, along the edge of the rift. "Do we continue in this direction until we come to the feet of the other mountains, in the hopes of there finding the edge of the rift and thus a way across? Or do we return southward and look for passage hence, though we know that it is hemmed about by steep ridges of stone almost impossible of access?"
What she says is true, for only a couple hundred yards southward, from whence they have come, the arms of the mountain reach out like mighty hands, ridged and knuckled, and open in the center as if to welcome the great rift into their midst. To come to the ending of the rift would require scaling the steep and rough walls of stone and finding the place where the rift closes once again, rather than the mountain opening wide to a gaping abyss falling straight from its very height.
"It is a hard choice," Cirien says. "The passage on this southern end is forbidding in the extreme, but I fear that we shall find much the same on the other end. After all, the Stïeka Mara appears supremely fitted to its purpose. We are here only because of our deep need, and not because we bear any particular hope of finding passage where others before us have failed."
"Perhaps that is precisely the nature of the path that we seek," suggests Rorlain, "that some succeed where all others have failed. No...that is not what I mean to say. Rather, we seek for the path to open before us which has henceforth been closed, opened beyond hope and expectation and yet in response to our desperate need and utter poverty. In this mercy is our only and every hope. Thus, to be bound always by thoughts that others have failed or fallen astray only discourages the heart and burdens its path. Our only way is forward."
"That is true," Elmariyë replies. "The goodness and salvation that we seek, for ourselves and for others, can never come through the success of any man or woman, however great that may be. If you forgive the analogy, the rift is just too deep and too wide."
A smile curls on Rorlain's lips and he chuckles. "You couldn't restrain yourself from that one, could you?"
"I assure you," Elmariyë says, "that it was entirely unintentional. It just seemed the most fitting word to use...though I suppose the gaping rift directly before us could have suggested itself to my mind."
"So then?" Cirien begins, smiling at the humor of his companions and yet with eyes betraying deep thought occurring just beneath the surface, a mind caught up in reflection and consideration. "I suppose that is enough analogies drawn about our human condition based on the landscape before us. We seek to make access with our forgotten past, and yet between it and ourselves yawns a gaping abyss that we know not how to cross. Left and right, north and south, they cannot get us where we want to go, for we wish to go back in time...in other words, west."
The joke is so subtle that at first none of those in the company grasp it, and then a smile spreads on the face Eldarien, followed soon by the others. "If west is to the past, we could always just travel east into the future, where things may not look quite so bleak," he says softly, looking out over the rift with the cold breeze blowing in his hair. "But in all seriousness, we have come from the south, and there was no passage, and I expect it shall be the same northward. Yet I see no other choice. I suggest we travel north along the edge of the rift, to the slope of the other mountains. We may yet find some hint of a way across, or at least the northern mountains may prove easier of access than the southern ones."
And this they do, following along near the edge of the rift for many miles, as the high peaks of the central bulk of the Teldren range draw ever nearer before them. Falstead lies deep in those mountains and the barrow of Sera Galaptes, both locations where so much has happened both in beauty and in pain. But Eldarien turns his thoughts toward their current course rather than allowing himself to linger on the past, except insofar as it proffers itself to him in order to illumine the future. Though the winds from the mountains fluctuate in intensity over the coming days, the rift itself remains surprisingly silent, almost as if the air blowing down from the mountainous heights is forbidden passage into the great crevice in the earth; nor does any arise from within it. Rather, it seems to rest in ceaseless repose beyond the fluctuations of time and weather, in a state of perpetual timelessness. It simply is, and feels in a way almost as if it has always been, standing like a mysterious guardian of a location and a way of life that, if exposed to the outside world, would not survive, either destroyed or forced to become what it is not. Perhaps the crevice is simply the boundary of a sanctuary, like the walls of a temple or the hedge of a garden or the cage of ribs around the lungs and the heart, where respiration and circulation ceaselessly do their gentle and secret work, unseen by all and yet more important than those many things that, because more visible, more evident, people often mistake for being more important.
At last, after another half a week, they come to a cliff face of smooth, impassable stone into which the Stïeka Mara plunges: a vertical wall of rock cut in its midst with a chasm of equal steepness. "Perhaps the southern slopes would have been better," Cirien says simply, with a sigh.
"Perhaps so," Rorlain replies, "and yet the rift cannot continue forever. It must come to an end somewhere in these mountains. I only wish it were not necessary to expend more time looking for that end."
Eldarien walks up to the steep cliff face and leans against it, closing his eyes as if this allows him better to think. "Cirien, are there tales of the Velasi ever departing from the forest? And if so, did they cross over the rift, or go around it, or have some other means of access?"
"I wish that I had something more to tell you," Cirien answers, "but we know almost nothing about them any longer. Whether any of their kind have ever stepped forth into the wider Telmerion since the creation of the rift, we simply do not know. It is said, however, that our knowledge of the divines, and of many other things besides, originates from this place, like tributaries from some great river or water from some deep wellspring. Whether that is because they shared with us such knowledge or because we ourselves take our origin from this place, we do not know."
"Such forgetfulness of the past," Tilliana says, "it surprises me. How can we have forgotten so many things?"
"Perhaps much of the strife and conflict that we face in our time comes precisely from our forgetfulness of earlier times," Rorlain says. Then, rubbing his forehead with a pained expression on his face, he adds, "And yet much that afflicts our people is far beyond us, and beyond anything our force or foresight could prevent."
"Such as the Imperial invasion, and now the invasion of these powers of darkness," Tilliana suggests.
"Precisely."
Suddenly Eldarien opens his eyes and turns back to look at the vertical cliff face, studying it carefully. "Does this wall look to be a natural structure to you?" he asks, though his question is directed to no one in particular. The others look with him, though at first no one speaks in response.
"I do think that it is," Cirien says at last and yet adds, "though not entirely. It looks almost to have been smoothed, for lack of a better word. Smoothed by the art of man."
"I think so as well," Rorlain agrees.
"If that is true, I wonder what purpose it served," ponders Tilliana out loud.
"Could it not simply be to prevent access to the mountains and to make passing around the Stïeka Mara impossible?" Elmariyë asks.
"That could be," Eldarien says, "and yet the rift appears to be wholly the work of forces beyond man. He could never create such a thing by his own power. But this wall, this cliff face, it looks to be both. In other words, it was already found like this, steep and nigh inaccessible. But it looks as though someone carved upon it after the fact, to make the face even more smooth."
With this, he runs his fingers along the shapeless stone, feeling for hints toward the answer to their query. "It is too smooth to be the mere work of nature. Man tends to like straight lines and smooth edges, whereas the work of those forces greater than ourselves delight in the organic, seemingly random, and yet mysteriously harmonious beauty that we see all around us in the works of nature."
"If what you say is true," Rorlain says, "then it is almost like these sculptors in stone found fault with the ruggedness of the cliff face and sought to improve it."
"And if they sought to improve it, then it must have been important to them," Cirien concludes.
"Or perhaps their intent was something else entirely," Tilliana says, "though I do agree that there is before us something important. Whether it is important to ourselves, I do not know. But I suspect it was important to our ancestors."
"Regardless, we have not long to dwell on it this day," says Eldarien, "as the sun has passed the rim of the mountains in the west, and light is quickly fading. What say you to setting up camp here, in the shadow of the wall? In the morning perhaps more shall be revealed to us."
All are agreeable to this suggestion, and so they go about building a campfire and setting up a makeshift tent. Then they prepare a portion of the remaining meat that they have from hunting, heavily salted for preservation. Elmariyë is also able to find some herbs nearby, myrdalanæ, which grow in every season of the year, both warm and cold, and offer hearty nourishment, often used not only as an ingredient in stews or a garnish of meats but also as a medicine. She gathers as much of it as she can without harming the plants.
"Oh, myrdas!" Rorlain exclaims, using the common name, when he sees her return with the cloth of her robe bunched together, the herb she has gathered overflowing from within it. "That is very fortunate. All that remains for us is a day or two of meat rations and a large box of salt half empty. This shall help to flavor the meat well, while also enhancing the sustenance. Indeed, I have heard that one can eat myrdas by itself with surprising effect, though I have never done so myself."
"We may have opportunity to try it soon enough," replies Elmariyë.
Darkness falls while they all sit around the fire, eating what has been prepared. There is little conversation, as they are all tired, worn from their prolonged journey and anxious, concerned about the obstacles that lie ahead, the most evident being the impassable rift that conceals their destination on the other side. Shortly after dark, the moon shows her pale face over the low horizon in the east, casting gentle light across the darkened landscape and revealing the many shapes and figures that the descent of the sun had hidden from sight. As the moon ascends higher in the sky, the light of her face falls full upon the wall behind them, and something both unexpected and wondrous occurs.
Sinuous lines of bluish light, like fibrous threads of the moon's own luminosity, appear on the cliff face, revealing an intricate design: a bridge crossing a chasm, with two cities, one on either side, symbolically depicted. The city on the right is massive in stone and wood, imposing but mostly geometric in design, with mountains behind it; the city on the left, cradled in the midst of trees that almost seem to dance with their glowing lines, shows an elegance and fluidity of architecture the likes of which no one in the company has ever seen. Along the bottom edge of this great design, which stands thirty or forty yards tall, almost the entire height of the wall itself, are ancient runes inscribed in the same glowing script.
Each member of the company, amazed at what they see, rises to their feet and turns to study the wall and its intricate design. "Cirien," Eldarien says, "would you like to try your hand at reading the inscription?"
"Your telmothrana is better than mine," replies Cirien. "But yes, I would like to try."
Eldarien nods and smiles, and they both look up at the wall, stepping back a bit so that they can take in all the runic characters in their vision without difficulty. Cirien begins, "A gate between two civilizations, sundered by the...lusts...of men, and yet…" He turns to Eldarien, "What is that word?"
"Conjoined."
"And yet conjoined by the light and the seal. That is 'seal,' correct?"
"Yes."
"Let one who bears the light of the veiled ones or the royal seal step forth, and the way shall be opened," Cirien concludes, reading all of the letters. "Is that the correct reading?"
"I believe so, yes," replies Eldarien. "I would have read it the same." And then he repeats the inscription in its entirety, as if turning over every word in his heart and his mind:
"A gate between two civilizations, sundered by the lusts of men,
and yet conjoined by the light and the seal.
Let one who bears the light of the veiled ones
or the royal seal, step forth."
After this Eldarien inspects the image again, trying to piece together its meaning as if sorting the fragments of a puzzle or seeking to discover the solution to a riddle. "It seems to me that the inscription is meant to be quite obvious. It is only mysterious to us because we have forgotten so much," he says. "I would say that the 'light of the veiled ones' refers to the Velasi, for Velasi means precisely 'veiled one'."
"I agree with that," says Cirien. "But what about 'the royal seal'? Do you have any idea to what that refers?"
"When Rorlain and I were in the barrow of Sera Galaptes, the amulet of the ancient king was able to open a sealed door. It was placed in an indentation in the stone and, by whatever power, opened it. I wonder if the same kind of mechanism is present here. Indeed, I wonder if it is precisely the same amulet to which this inscription is referring." Then he sighs. "If that is the case, then it is doubly unfortunate that it was taken from me."
Elmariyë, who stands near to the two men, takes a step forward and says to them, "Why don't we get closer? Perhaps there will be something upon the wall itself that could give us an indication."
They nod to her, and the three of them walk to the cliff face until they stand directly beside it. Eldarien runs his hand along the wall, feeling for indentations like the one he had seen on the door to the barrow. Witnessing this, Elmariyë and Cirien do likewise.
"Do you see that?" calls Rorlain suddenly, from further behind them.
"What do you mean?" Eldarien asks, turning back to the camp.
"The wall...it is changing."
"How so?"
"It would be easiest for you to see for yourself. Come look."
And so the three of them return to the camp, turning to gaze upon the glowing designs upon the wall, and they see that a shining cord, as of luminescent self-weaving rope, threads across the distance between the two cities, directly over the bridge that joins them, as if binding the two civilizations together. And suddenly there is a low rumble that shakes the earth, and directly ahead of them, beneath the design of the bridge—and almost touching the word 'conjoined' that is inscribed above it—the silhouette of a door appears, emblazoned in the same light.
"The light looks not unlike that which has been entrusted unto you, Eldarien," remarks Rorlain. "Why do you not attempt to send a ray of light upon the door?"
Nodding, Eldarien does so, with outstretched palm, and even as he extends his hand he feels the door itself draw forth the light from within him, summoning it from deep within. And a moment later the stone door swings inward, opening into blackness.
"Well," says Rorlain with a chuckle. "I suppose that we shall not sleep here tonight or even find rest for our weary eyes for a while yet."
"That is true," Cirien agrees. "We know not how long this 'gate' shall remain open. We had best take our chance while it is still ours."
After quickly gathering together their belongings, the five travelers—not without a moment's hesitation at stepping again into the darkness of the unknown—pass through the doorway into the caverns that lie beyond.
† † †
They light torches before entering through the mysterious gate, but immediately upon entering, they realize that they need not have done so. For as they step into the cavern, finding themselves in a vaulting antechamber of stone, they behold something that they did not expect. Shining in the same way as the designs upon the cliff face had shone in the radiance of the moon, intricate works of art are scrawled along the walls from floor to ceiling—etchings scored into the ancient stone and yet filled with some unknown substance or form that glistens blue-white with a mysterioous radiance from within. And they are grateful for the luminosity of the moon that has not only revealed the door that they seek, but has also made the lights of this cavern visible, since it allows them to see and examine in detail the work of man that has taken the beauty of nature and elevated it.
Clearly born first of all from forces far beyond the artifice of man, majestic both in size and in shape, with ceiling and walls carved of running water over ages, the cavern has also been touched by man, imbued with a beauty that seems not merely artistic but cultic, the highest source and aim of artistic inspiration and pursuit. The high undulating ceiling presents a kind of natural architecture, full of splendor precisely in its organic contours, as if formed of the interplay of living stone and sounding space, of the passive earth and the womb-like shelteredness that it creates. Far different than the sense of suffocating terror found in the castle of the Lord of Mæres or in the eöten's lair, Eldarien senses a profound peace and security, serenity and repose, a mysterious presence that is wholly welcome and consoling. It is even stronger and more all-encompassing than that which hinted itself to his mind and heart in the barrow of Sera Galaptes, almost as if the latter has taken its origin from the former. And even beyond the glowing designs upon the walls, the cavern is not submerged in complete darkness, for shafts or openings in the stone break through from far above, winding through narrow crevices of rock that trace their way to the high shelves at the crest of the mountain slope. The nocturnal radiance of the moon and stars shine through these shafts in the stone, far brighter than one would expect it to be, as though the very cavern magnifies the light that is poured into it and increases its luminosity. In certain places the moon and stars can even be glimpsed winking through the narrow crevices, watching over the travelers' journey.
Yet for the moment they are in no rush either to make progress or to seek rest in sleep. Rather, they walk slowly forward, drinking in the intricate designs that greet them, the cavern unfolding chamber after chamber before them, all laced with beauty of nature and of art. Whatever ancient civilization gave birth to the carvings and designs found in the cavern was one filled with longing. That is the word that comes to Eldarien's mind, and he can find no word so adequate or so precise. As if emerging from the very rock are the figures of heaven and earth expertly carved, awaiting for many centuries only the contemplating eye and receptive heart, and the light whereby man in darkness seeks to see, in order to show forth their face. But perhaps in ages past this place was not so hidden, so forgotten, and many were gifted with the sight of this art and this beauty.
The etchings of lifelike trees springing from the earth, almost as if captured in the very act of bursting from seed to shoot and shoot to sapling and sapling to full growth, line the walls, weaving in and out of the designs of mountains masterfully worked into the natural contours of the cavern walls themselves, ridged and rugged from the creative hand that brought this underground sanctuary into existence. Men and women, too, stand aloft under the shade of the trees and the mountains, and among them are other beings, the likes of which none of the travelers nor any persons living in this age have seen in the flesh. And yet the portrayal of such beings, greater in both height and splendor than the mortalkind among whom they walk, and needing no clothing since dressed in glory and light, is clearly only a gesture, a feeble attempt, to express in image and symbol a reality that far surpasses it.
Other etchings there are as well—a great shining tree in the midst of a forest, a war of men against men, a rift split in the earth, and dragons and other creatures of darkness arising from the earth—as the company continues from the entrance corridor into a wide and expansive cavern whose ceiling rises a hundred yards above them. "They are telling a story," Elmariyë remarks, looking around at the etchings with wonder.
"They are telling the history of all of us," says Cirien, "though much of it we have forgotten."
"I cannot make out all of it, but it clearly shows an early war, as well as the same creatures that threaten our land now," Tilliana says. "Why, if these beasts came forth so long ago, have they been dormant all this time?"
"A good question, but one to which I do not know the answer," Cirien replies. "From appearances, they were pushed back."
"And these other beings, the shining ones?"
"The greatest of allies, I think," Elmariyë remarks. "Though perhaps it is more appropriate to speak of us being their allies than they being ours."
"I think it is both," says Eldarien. "Our great task is to side with them, to choose their side in the great battle that assails us all. But it is nonetheless our battle, waged in our land, and they came to us in the flesh to help us in this conflict, for they care for us."
"Are you speaking of the seven?" Rorlain asks.
"I am, although I am uncertain whether that is what these inscriptions mean or whether they intend something else," explains Eldarien. "In the heart of the lair of the Lord of Mæres, I saw inscriptions of a different source and of a far different kind. Those were born of hate and pride, whereas these seem to me born of wonder and awe—yes, a wonder that has passed through the flames of conflict and loss but in this has not died but only deepened and risen again reborn. The inscriptions of the Lord of Mæres were saturated with one thing only: the arrogance to rule over others and to exert his power over all life, whether that be the life of man and beast or the life of the abominations that he himself sought to fashion. His world was himself alone. I think that is why he seeks to rule even now over the minds of others, why he calls himself the Lord of Nightmares. If he can control our reality, then it becomes his—his domain, his sovereignty, and thus his glory."
"But here we encounter something far different," Elmariyë continues, picking up on Eldarien's train of thought. "It shows that the primal attitude of man is wonder...and longing for another. In every etching, every line, every image, the fashioners of this place were searching for the face of the Unseen, which cannot be captured in any images or words but which is nonetheless glimpsed in all of them."
"Precisely," Eldarien says.
"But what about this here?" Tilliana asks, directing the others' attention to an image that spans almost the entirety of a wall to their right. "It portrays something different. Or at least, an undercurrent in that of which you speak."
The etchings show two groups of people, men and women, whose backs are turned to one another, portrayed as though in movement, walking in opposite directions. The people on the left are turned toward a forest, and the people on the right toward a range of mountains. And between the two groups is the same rift that they have seen elsewhere—which indeed they have witnessed in person.
"Peace gives way to warfare, and warfare gives way to separation, and separation to apathy, and apathy to forgetfulness," Cirien remarks. "That is what I see etched into the lines before us. That is the ancient history of our people, of which little now is recalled."
"An undercurrent," Eldarien says. "It is as you said, Elmariyë. There is wonder and longing written here, but here too there is something woven throughout that primal wonder. I have no better word for it than sorrow...and loss."
Tilliana shakes her head softly at all of this and says, "I am amazed at all of you. I too see what you see, and yet I would never be able to put it into words as you do. To me all of this is nearly opaque, a puzzle to which I am missing the answer or a riddle that I cannot solve. But when you speak, it is as though, while not solving the whole, you give me hints that help me along toward the answer."
Eldarien opens his mouth to reply but is suddenly stopped by a cry from Rorlain, who takes a few long strides ahead and calls out, "Look! The chamber opens up ahead into one even wider. And daylight streams in from above."
"Daylight?" Tilliana asks. "But we have walked hardly an hour, haven't we? It cannot possibly be daylight yet."
"It indeed seems that way," Cirien remarks.
The five companions press forward and pass through a high doorway into another chamber, which reveals a wide cavern whose ceiling is in large part open to the sky, its light trailing in through crevices of ancient stone from the very slopes of the mountains far above. Here the glowing inscriptions cease, and instead the companions stand before a wide lake of dark blue water glistening in the light falling from above and reflecting both the golden radiance of the sun and the rocky face of the cavern ceiling. The angle of the sun's light and its color indicate that it is already a good two hours after sunrise. They stop here, standing unmoving, the interplay of light, water, and stone taking their breath away in its beauty. And it is true: the night has passed in what seems to be hardly more than the blink of an eye.
"It is not just my perception, correct?" Eldarien asks. "It felt to all of us that we hardly entered these caverns, at most, but an hour ago?"
They all nod or murmur in agreement.
"Then what has happened?"
"I do not think the night has shortened," says Elmariyë. "Rather, I think that there is something special about this place, and the time has passed without us being aware of it. Or rather, it has so gripped us that we have lost track of time. While looking at the inscriptions on the walls, I felt—how can I express it—I felt a kind of 'timelessness.' It was almost like I could have stood here for days, drinking in the beauty and the meaning and never exhausting it."
"I agree," adds Tilliana. "And I feel not tired by such contemplation but rather invigorated by it, more than if I had slept the entirety of the night rather than standing on hard stone with my head raised and my eyes roaming about me."
"Uncanny indeed," sighs Rorlain, scratching his forehead thoughtfully. "It makes me almost uncomfortable, since I know not what to think of it. And yet I feel no ill-intent, no malevolent presence."
"Quite the opposite?" Cirien proffers.
"...Yes, exactly."
After lingering for a while at the edge of the massive cavern, as the light of the sun tilts ever higher and shines with fuller face upon the water below, the travelers continue around the lake, staying close to the shore and navigating across the rough stone floor. There appears to be only one other passage connected to this cavern apart from the one through which they entered, and they exit through it now. After following a straight tunnel, long and narrow in comparison with the wider chambers through which they have previously passed, they come at last to another wide space which opens out before them. The walls of the passage fall away as if in an instant, and they step forward into a room with walls and ceiling of rippled stone, with an opening at the highest apex at the center of the chamber, allowing sunlight to stream forth in abundance from above, bathing all that is below. And in the very heart of this glow, radiant and glistening like pure white snow in the mountains, and yet made instead of crystalline stone, is the statue of a man.
Drawing near to the statue, they see that the figure depicted is a king, with crown upon his noble brow and sword in his hands, the wide blade planted, as if in triumph and yet also in peace and guardianship, into the stone at his feet. Upon his chest is a cuirass intricately designed, and under this, hanging almost to his knees, a shirt of mail with small and tight rings, the craftsmanship of which must have taken great care and time in equal measure. On his shoulders are pauldrons of elegant shape, and on his arms, too, the armament fitting for each part terminating in thick-knuckled gauntlets covered even to the tips of the fingers. But as their gaze is drawn to the face of the king, noble and serene, stern and yet gentle, something else immediately draws the attention of their eyes: three scars line his left cheek from chin to nose.
"It looks as in the illustration from the book," Tilliana remarks, turning to Eldarien. "Dreya first spoke of it—of this 'scarred king,' I mean. The statue and the illustration, they depict the same personage of the same legend."
"Or of the same historical figure," Rorlain adds. "It may well be that this man has lived in ages long past and has continued to live now in legend as much as in history."
"I agree with this," Eldarien says as he reaches into his pack and draws forth a sheet of paper folded in quarters. He unfolds it and inspects the image of the heavily-armored king drawn upon it, very much like the statue that now stands before them.
"She gave the illustration to you?" Cirien asks, surprised.
"Indeed. I tried to prevent her, but she insisted, saying that she hoped it would be for me an encouragement. For the remembrance of him, awakening in me gratitude, could also stir in me a spirit of freedom and service. Those were her words, at least."
"But why did you say that you agree with Rorlain?" Elmariyë asks. "What makes you believe that this man lived in ages past and is not a hope or legend for the future?"
"There are a number of indications," replies Eldarien. "Indeed, and I believe Cirien will attest to this, I think the existence of Sera Galaptes is not doubtful, and neither are his noble achievements. For example, there are a number of evident indications directly before us. The inscription on the outside of these caverns is one. I believe the location of this statue another. This king was one who joined together these two civilizations in peace and harmony, even if in after years, following upon his death, they were severed once again." He pauses for a moment, comparing the illustration in his hands with the light-bathed statue before him. "Another indication, one which cannot be seen in this small drawing but which is obvious upon the sculpture...Rorlain, can you see it?"
"Yes," his friend answers. "The design upon his cuirass is the same as was upon the amulet that opened the door to the barrow of Sera Galaptes."
"Indeed, and that very amulet was found upon the breast of the ancient ruler in his entombment," Eldarien concludes. "In other words, it is evident that Sera Galaptes was the scarred king."