The responses of the council of the rulers of Onylandun remain mixed, confused, and conflicted, after Rorlain and Eldarien have finished speaking. At first there are but a few courteous remarks exchanged between diverse members of the council, but then a tense thread emerges between them, and soon one of the men to the hæras' side rises to his feet and steps forward, as if to insure that his voice alone shall receive the attention of all in the chamber.
"I find it unsettling, to say the least," he begins, with a raised voice and an oratorical flourish, "that these strangers appear at such an hour, at almost the same moment that we have received such grave news. A coincidence, you may suppose? I think not. I say it plainly, and I say it true: he is a supplanter. That is the nature of the man who has come into our midst this day, though he wears a cloak of humility. He speaks outright of his goals, if only we are clear-sighted enough to recognize it. He seeks the throne."
"Timus, do not jump to conclusions," Bryma says, rising also to his feet. "If he comes only in his own name, how then does he call forth the power of the light?"
"You know nothing of the nature of such light," retorts Timus. "For all we know, it could be caused by the very creatures of darkness that we so fear, and which these travelers claim to have come to vanquish. Yet they could well be in league with them rather than setting themselves against them. The show of light could be but a trick. Are we to fall for it so naively?"
"And the very grandmaster of the order of Niraniel, too?" says Rûmdil, with anger in his voice. "You accuse Cirien Lorjies, a man known by many and attested both by his wisdom and by his deeds, to be in league with demons?"
"He is not the one subject to our scrutiny here," Timus replies. "It is his companions. Perhaps they have bedazzled his eyes to their true intentions."
"You speak folly, good sir," Cirien says, his voice gentle and yet firm. "I was present when Eldarien first learned of the nature of his bloodline and his origins. He has sought nothing but the protection of the people of Telmerion for as long as I have known him. And he comes here not to 'supplant,' as you say, but to obey the command given unto him, and to follow the path marked out before him, by those to whom the obeisance of all of us is owed. You would prevent him from following this path, which he walks not for his sake but for yours, simply because you fear a struggle of power?"
"No, I would prevent him because it is a struggle of power. If he comes in the line of the ancient king and claims to be the fulfillment of prophecy, then he shall be king. We know it, and have long lived under the shadow of such prophecy: that one in the likeness of the Scarred King would come, and he would assume the throne once again, thus uniting the peoples of Telmerion under one banner. So your claim that he acts only for the people of Telmerion holds no weight. For that is exactly what he does: he acts for the people of Telmerion, that they may be subject to his rule."
"Be seated, Timus," Bryma says, all patience now gone from his voice. "You are speaking with folly—folly born of both fear and pride. The interpretation that you give to these events is the direct opposite of my own."
"Then you are lost—," Timus begins, but Bryma interrupts him.
"Be seated, I said!"
And so Timus sits, visibly fuming with anger and yet acquiescing for the moment. Bryma turns back to the travelers and, drawing in a deep breath, he says, "He spoke of grave news that we have received. This is truth, though I expect it shall be as much a surprise to you as it has been to us."
"We know of no current news at all," says Eldarien, "except what we have learned of the state of your city, threatened by a dragon and concealing a cult of darkness within it, which has summoned that fell creature here."
"Then about the state of my city you know almost as much as I, for even that seems to escape me. We shall speak more of that later, if it proves to be appropriate, and we are given the time. But for now I ask you: do you know of the state of the other clan leaders of Telmerion? How fare the other members of the onarion, the council of the seven?"
"We know that Glendas Medora, jarl of Ristfand, was overtaken and impersonated by one of the leaders of the Draion, a beast that called himself Maggot. But about the others we know nothing."
"That we learned not long after the fact," Bryma says. "It was impossible that such sorrowful and unusual news—and all the other events that transpired in the siege of Ristfand—would not reach us with all haste. We also heard tell of a warrior wielding a blade of light that felled this 'Maggot.' That was you?"
"It was in fact my sister," Eldarien replies, gesturing to Elmariyë.
"You have said nothing as of yet, young woman. What have you to say for yourself in this regard?"
"I did not know that I could wield such power," Elmariyë replies. "Eldarien had been captured and held in custody by this creature of which we speak. Rorlain and I came to save him and it was only as if by chance that I wielded Eldarien's sword and thrust it through the beast. I did not expect it to have the effect that it did."
"If all of you seem to be able to wield such power," Bryma begins, "then what is to prevent you from giving it to all the soldiers under my command?"
"Sadly, that is not possible," answers Eldarien. "It flows in Elmariyë and myself because of the blood that is within us, and due to the dual task entrusted to us. And Rorlain has been granted a share in this because, under the benevolent gaze of Hiliana, he too has been chosen to—"
"I am the squire of the knight," Rorlain says, interrupting Eldarien and finishing the thought for him. "I serve him who serves her. And I would have no other place."
Bryma shakes his head, not in disapproval or even in disbelief, but in a kind of wonder-filled amazement. "Never before have I had a conversation such as this one in all my life," he says. "I know not what to make of you. And the topics we must discuss flow forth upon me like a flood such that I can hardly keep them straight. Forgive my digression, but I felt the need to ask." He pauses for a moment and glances at the rest of the council members, who for the moment remain silent, following the converse without speaking. "Let us then return to the earlier train of our conversation."
The travelers nod in agreement.
"I was speaking of the news that we have recently received," Bryma continues. "Since you truly do not know the fate of the hærasi of the seven clans, you shall be saddened to learn that they have all been slain...all but myself."
"What? They were all slain? But how is this possible?" Eldarien asks. "Do they not live in disparate locations?"
"Yes, but they were called together for a meeting with the Emperor's legate in Brug'hil," Bryma explains. "They expected talks of peace, perhaps an end to the war, or at least a truce. Maybe some even simply hoped for some way to learn more of the Empire's motives in calling forth these beasts of darkness from the earth. I too received the invitation to such concourse, but I refused. Long have I known that my fellow hærasi are untrustworthy, and even more deeply have I despised the methods of the Empire. Those who sit upon the seats of the rulers of the clans sit in unjust judgment, because they sit in compromise with the Empire, even in cooperation with her. The first compromise was made two-hundred years ago, when our ancestors yielded to the Imperial mandate for surrender. They did this not because the war was lost, but because it was more profitable to surrender than to fight. The onarion was not created out of the desire to safeguard the autonomy of Telmerion or its authentic traditions, but as a way of yielding true authority to the rulers of the Empire while allowing 'puppet leaders' to continue in office in the lands of the seven clans. Yes, the onarion was created to keep us in check, to bind our necks to the yoke of the Empire, and yet we agreed to it freely because of the gain we sought to ensure for ourselves. You see, do you not? The history has been carefully hidden, but the truth is there: those who sat upon our seats in the past, during those decisive years, sold out their own people for the gain that the Empire promised them! And even to this day it has not been possible to throw off the yoke that they freely accepted then." Bryma lapses into silence, and no one is able to find any words to respond to him. It is clear that he speaks not merely from guesswork or from paranoia, for the clarity and the pain that mingle together in his voice impress all of them so deeply that, in the very speaking of his words, they feel them reverberate within their hearts.
Timus makes a move to speak, but Bryma immediately silences him with the words, "If you are a part of this council, Timus, it is because you have agreed to walk in dialogue and communal discernment, not because you feel it necessary to bully others who wish to continue in rational discourse. You know that the rest of us on this council are already but a hair's breadth away from dismissing you from among us. Do not let that day be today. For there have been times in the past when your perspective and your judgment have been of value to us. For disagreement too can deepen one's thought and solidify one's convictions. But what you have expressed in this conversation is not dialogue, not debate, but vitriol and the refusal both to speak in reason and to listen in openness."
Hearing these words, Timus rises to his feet in silence and, with a rude gesture, storms from the chamber. A dense moment of unspoken heaviness follows upon his departure, broken only by one of the members of the council saying, "Good riddance. You kept him among us for far too long, Bryma."
"I understand why you think so, Jatildë. He had begun to grow more and more irrational as the situation worsened."
"He has been combative from the first day that I sat upon the council, if I may say so, jarl," Jatildë responds. "For many years he has troubled our deliberations and frustrated our efforts. I think in this your tolerance came almost to the point of folly. For while dialogue is true and important, and disagreement can be a crucible of learning and of deeper conviction, the great good of harmony in a single vision, where hearts are united looking upon the same truth, is an even greater boon."
"But now you yourself correct me in front of our esteemed guests," Bryma says with sorrow in his voice. "I accept your correction and, I must admit, I am inclined to agree with it. But…"
"You do have my apology, jarl," says Jatildë. "It was an imprudent moment."
"Worry not," Eldarien interjects. "If any of the things that have passed between us in words or in gestures during this conversation have formed our view of you, they have only inclined it toward the good."
"You are kind," Bryma replies, "but I must admit that this time we have shared has been quite unnatural, and, I feel, unprofessional. We are still reeling from the news about the collapse of the onarion, and have unwillingly—or perhaps better unknowingly—admitted you right into the heart of our counsels."
"We are humbled to be the recipients of such trust, implicit though it be," says Elmariyë softly.
"Well then, now that we can speak even more freely, let me say it plainly," Bryma continues, with a nod. "I myself have no doubts that Eldarien is the prophesied king, nor do I wish to impede your journey in any way." He pauses and turns to the rest of the council. "Is there anyone here who wishes to disagree with my assessment?"
They all shake their heads, and one of the men says, "Perhaps it would be good to explain to them why we give such credulity, and at such short acquaintance."
"Good, Vindal. That is what I was about to do." Bryma says. He now turns back to his visitors and continues, "You see, the seat of the government in Onylandun is closer to both the Velasi Forest and the home of the Galapteä than is any other clan. We alone have kept fully alive both the memory and the expectation of the return of the universal kingship that lies in the blood of the Galapteä alone. Are you surprised? Is it so incredible that after a thousand years the clan of Onylandis still awaits the reunion of the clans, and has not arrogated to itself and its own bloodline the right and the duty to achieve such unity?"
"It does seem rather incredible," Eldarien admits.
"Do you know the history of the founder of our clan?" Bryma asks.
"Little, I am afraid," answers Eldarien.
But Cirien says, "Was not Thrymir Onylandis the closest friend and companion of Sera Galaptes?"
"Yes, that is exactly correct, or at least so our ancient records, preserved unto this day, recount," Bryma says. "Therefore, when the fracture began in the third generation after the great king, the grandson of Thrymir recalled the friendship of his ancestors, and he pledged his fidelity anew to the line of kingship blessed by the divines. And, on the main—with the understandable exceptions—all who have sat upon the throne of Onylandis have remained faithful to this pledge."
"I am astonished," Eldarien says simply. "The father of the Velasi, the man by the name of Silion, encouraged me to hope in what awaited me, but this...this I did not expect."
Bryma laughs, "Silion? That is a name that echoes in our tales and our songs, though little we know of these earliest origins. It has been all but lost...and yet his name remains. I suppose it only natural that they continue to name their children after the great father of their people."
"Oh, this man is not a descendant of Silion, but the original Silion himself," Rorlain says, unable to restrain a smile.
The expressions on the faces of all the council members are almost hilarious. For a second it seems that their credulity is at last being tested, until one of the women says, "It only makes sense, after all. We call them the 'deathless.'"
Bryma nods, and then, to the travelers, he says, "It is amazing to even consider. But tell me, what was it like, meeting a man—a race, in fact—who is millennia old?"
At first no one replies, until Tilliana, who until now has been silent, says, "It is like stepping into a great stream that has been flowing from the highest of mountains, and with the purest of water, growing both deeper and wider with the passing of centuries. And as you feel it enfolding you, you cannot but surrender to its current and allow it to carry you. And, oh, how sweet is the taste of the water and how purifying is its touch!"
Bryma smiles gently at Tilliana, a glint of light in his eyes, and then he replies, "Perhaps in the days to come, others shall be granted the privilege of tasting and feeling such waters."
"Verily, my lord," Tilliana says, "by will of the gods."
"Address me not as 'lord,'" Bryma says, raising his hands in protestation, though the smile remains upon his face. "I am but your servant, and eager to do what I may to aid you in your quest."
"We know not what lies before us in the immediate future," Eldarien begins, "and neither do we know what lies at a further distance. So I ask you not to renounce the authority of rule that has been given to you, either as individuals or as a council. I fear even greater chaos for the people of the clans following upon the slaying of their leaders. They shall need your help. I shall need your help. Even if you alone remain as the remnant of the clans which for so long have sustained the memory and the rule of the Telmeric people, I wish for you to do so." He pauses and sighs before adding, "And I...I struggle to think of myself yet as a king."
"And even were I to wish to crown you this very day," Bryma says, "it is not I—."
"It is the people themselves who must embrace their king," Elmariyë finishes for him. "And we know not how long and arduous a journey it shall be until such a day comes."
"Indeed," Bryma agrees simply. "But yes—I shall do as you request. For I would not wish any more than you to abandon our people in their time of need." With this Bryma's expression changes, as if he has only now become aware of the passage of time and of the far-reaching implications of their conversation. "Let us conclude our converse for the present," he says, "though I invite all of you to join me for the midday meal upon the morrow. That shall give each of us time to take counsel within our inmost thoughts before continuing the counsels among ourselves. It shall also be good to speak in a setting other than this. After all, we must still discuss this cult of which you have spoken, and what is to be done in its regard."
"We gladly accept your invitation," Eldarien says.
"But may I ask," Jatildë interjects, "where are you currently staying?"
"We have rented a room at the Whistling Willow," replies Eldarien.
"I suppose that is serviceable," she answers, "but—with the permission of the counsel—I would extend an offer of friendship, with a view to the reasons and the extent of your stay, inviting these travelers to accept accommodations in the citadel."
To the nods and affirmative responses of the rest of the council, Bryma says, "That is a good idea. Consider the offer extended. I shall give command for rooms to be prepared for you. Return this evening and speak with the guard at the main entrance. I shall have him show you to where you shall be staying."
"Thank you. We shall do precisely that," replies Eldarien, on behalf of his companions. "We have very little resources, so your hospitality has spared us yet another unsolved problem."
"Then may your minds be free to focus on more important matters, and your hearts be free to rest," Jatildë concludes.
† † †
When they emerge again from the citadel and step into the streets of Onylandun, the companions are greeted by a heavy falling snow, so dense that it is difficult to make out even the contours of the buildings across the courtyard. But despite the snow the air is still and silent, with hardly a breath of wind, and so the snow comes down not at angles nor in a swirling mass of movement, but rather as an almost solid sheet of impenetrable white. They make their way, without further speech, to the temple of Niraniel, and there they part ways with Rûmdil (Senfyr, who had not been present for their discourse with the council, had bid them farewell on their departure from the citadel), and then they walk, with cloaks pulled tight around their faces, to the inn at which they had stayed the previous night. Here they order a hot and hearty meal and sit together near the hearth in their room.
"Eldarien?" Tilliana asks, when they have only just begun to eat.
"Yes, Tilliana," he replies, "I know the one thing of which we did not speak. It surprises me that the hæras did not think to bring it to our attention or to speak of it with us."
"How did you know that I was going to…?" she begins to ask, but she does not think it necessary to finish the question.
"I know the sorrow in your heart at witnessing the death of more innocent persons, and that you cannot for all that is within you simply allow another night to pass without doing all that is possible to prevent more suffering and loss of life."
"You both speak of the dragon?" Rorlain asks.
"Yes," answers Tilliana.
"I think that Bryma does not know what to make of the attacks, and perhaps he did not understand that the light that we bear can banish the dragon just as it can banish the druadach," offers Rorlain.
"Either way, it does not matter," Eldarien concludes. "We shall have fine rooms in the citadel tonight, but at least I myself shall not be staying there, not until I have confronted the dragon and done what I can to stop its rampage."
"Without question, I shall be accompanying you," says Rorlain. "You shall have my bow and my axe, and whatever light may be granted me to bear."
Elmariyë opens her mouth to speak, obviously to offer to join the two men in their nocturnal vigil, but Cirien raises his hand and looks at her meaningfully.
"I...yes, you are right," she says quietly. "It is not good to risk the lives of all of us, particularly those of us who have not been trained for combat. I only wish that… Well, I shall certainly not be able to sleep knowing that the two of you face mortal peril while I remain secure in my room."
"I concur with that," adds Tilliana.
"There may in fact be something for all of us to do," Eldarien suggests.
"What is that?"
"We do not know where the dragon will strike, nor how long his attack shall last. Thus, if we await him on the wrong side of the city, we may not be able to oppose him simply through the fact of not being where he is."
"In addition to this," Cirien picks up, "we know that his location was chosen by those who performed the cultic sacrifice that summoned him here. Perhaps tonight shall be similar. If we disperse and scout the city, then maybe we will find some clue as to where to expect him. Is that what you are suggesting, Eldarien?"
"Precisely."
"But if we are all out scouting the city, how shall the others know if someone has found a clue?" Elmariyë asks.
"We will plan to meet together at a predetermined time and place," explains Eldarien. "Sadly any clues we wish to find may not even be visible until darkness has already fallen, for I do not expect those summoning the dragon to act during the daylight. I suggest that you try to get what rest you can at present, until we return to the citadel this evening to accept our rooms...and to depart from them. For a long night lies ahead of us."
"What shall you be doing?" Tilliana asks. "Your words seem to indicate that you do not intend to rest."
"I do not," replies Eldarien. "There is a great deal for me to think about, and so I shall walk about the city throughout the afternoon, or at least until I feel it necessary to seek refuge in warmth and repose."
"I know that a man's thought blossoms best in the shining sun of solitude," Tilliana says, "and that silence is the atmosphere of contemplation. But at times he also benefits from the presence of a friend who may share these thoughts with him. Know that I am here for that, if you wish to speak about anything."
Eldarien looks at her with genuine gratitude in his eyes and, with a bow of his head, says, "Thank you."
And so the others seek to rest as they may while Eldarien, after a last lingering moment by the fire, departs from the building and steps again into the cold of the outside, still cloaked in earth and sky with snow both fallen and falling still. He walks slowly along the narrow streets of the city, desiring solitude far more than he needs warmth and space far more than he needs shelter, until he comes to a place where one section of the city meets another, the mid meets the lower. Here large stone steps intersect a low wall built into the gradual slope of the city street, and these steps also provide access to the battlements. These Eldarien ascends until he stands atop the wall that encloses the entire lower section of the city and separates it from the plains that sprawl far to the south. He walks swiftly but collectedly (the swiftness due not to haste but to the effort to stay warm), his gaze lifted up to look out over the wide expanse of land that rolls down from the mountains until eventually, many miles away, it meets the sea.
Of course, for a long time he can see little more than falling snow in any direction. But gradually, as he walks the dense sheet of snow lessens just enough that he can see the white-clad plains below and, when he turns his gaze back, the city behind him, clad in white as well, though the brown and gray of many houses still show through and the falling snow meets with innumerable trails of smoke curling up from chimneys, dark and almost solid in appearance in the chill of the air. When he comes to the center of the battlements as they arch over the main gate of the city, with a guardhouse built directly in the wall, he pauses and turns his face full to the south, reaching more with his heart, however, than he looks with his eyes. He has begun to reach out in a way that he has never done before, or at least with a new and unexpected depth and intensity, toward that vision that lies beyond the line of material sight, that vision open to the eyes of the spirit and yet no more than glimpsed in the contours of time and of space. And he feels it now as he has felt it in the last few weeks: the tension between the visible and the invisible, the tangible and the intangible, the material and the spiritual. He knows that they are not essentially opposed to one another, incompatible—this much his heart tells him, and what he knows of the Song that birthed all things—for a single Origin of both could not create two incompatible opposites ever in tension and conflict. No rather, just as the snow comes down and cloaks the earth, enfolding its every contour and embracing it with the most intimate of embraces, and then gradually penetrates and permeates its very core to bring moisture, life, and fruit, so too the invisible reality hovers over, embraces, and enters in all that is seen. But how the image fails! For in the visible something of the invisible itself is seen, and Eldarien feels it now very keenly: in the gaze of his eyes upon the pallor and purity of the falling snow and upon the landscape garmented in white, his heart is beholding something even deeper still, the very substance of beauty which he can acknowledge and name, though it is not merely one thing among many in the world, but the very light that shines through them all and makes them to be what they are.
And this contact with beauty both consoles and causes pain. For despite the purity of this beauty, reflected in all that bears still in itself traces of the primal pallor, the world itself is fractured and broken, like a vessel dropped and cracked and still in the process of being mended. But again how the image fails! For it is not, in this moment, so much the brokenness of the world that causes Eldarien pain—though surely this is present too, and has been present for all the days of his life—but something else, something even deeper. For all that he sees and touches, every moment of his life, comes to him as a gift, a gift of love, and yet he can no longer see or know the Giver as he is in himself. And this sensation, this longing and reaching out of the heart, is new: for he feels kindled within him a thirst to know the great Giver of all things, to trace the lines of their being back to the Being who birthed them, to receive the love spoken in all loveliness and to find in them and beyond them the Lover who loved all things into existence and made them lovable, and who therefore must be infinitely more lovable, the fullness of Beauty itself.
All this he could have discovered, in some manner, by tracing the lines back to their origin, if only his heart were not so impure and his inner vision so clouded. And looking back now, he realizes that he had indeed walked a long way down that road in the earlier years of his life. But what he knows now, that is entirely deeper! What he knows now, from his time in the forest of the Velasi, is something new, something altogether deeper, discovered not by the questioning mind and the searching heart, but given as a gift by the very Author of all things, who in singing the world has also sung himself into the tapestry of the world and continues to do so, that he may be known, and that his love may be embraced and lived. The closest feeling that Eldarien can name that comes anywhere close to this sensation of longing is that of homesickness: the nostalgia for the intimate love and peaceful security of family and home, where the humblest and yet most central realities of the universe unfold, and where the glimpse of primal Love is first given. Perhaps indeed, he thinks, all the longings and desires of life are really one long nostalgia to return to the beginning of one's existence and of all things, the beginning not merely in a temporal sense but in the very fabric of being: the Origin who is also Consummation, for he is himself home and love and intimacy all together as one.