Of course, if this were a proper chronicle, scratched out in the fitful light of a single tallow by a cheerless munck in his comfortless cell, it would start as all chronicles should, at the beginning of what is known, with the lives of saints, genealogies, lists of kings and miracles, and so forth. But here we are come straight in at the deaths. And arriving thus, what use is it now to intone “’twas such and such year since our Blesséd Redeemer died for our sins, when the Seven Kingdoms were sore beset and then began the time of trial and lamentation.” Things are already unravelling. That much must already be quite clear. Even those who count themselves safe in the Hidden Kingdom will suffer. For most people it’s going to get bad. Really bad. But before we turn to those great days, we yet must witness more death.
***
A lord and lady ahorse pick their way through the forest path on a bright brittle morning of a fateful spring. It does not occur to them that they are trespassing. They are accustomed to go where they please. The notion that these glades are denied them would merely bemuse them. It is the same cruel spring that has lately witnessed the deaths of the Archvilicor and the Paramount King, but as yet no rumour of this has penetrated so deeply the shires of Albion. The flight of Death is swifter. It is swiftest. Even now Death stalks this wood.
The man is a baron, of ancient lineage, yet undistinguished in wealth, honour or achievement. The woman was born to a house not quite so old, yet both prouder and poorer than the house of the baron. She is, however, a queen, or so she insists. This is quite remarkable, for she is not a queen of any of the five ruled-realms, be it consort or dowager. This is problematic for the baron. Yet, if as she insists, her husband was Elf-anointed, then by the ancient law and custom of Albion, he is every bit as much a king as the Five. That, too, is problematic. She has fled this king she says, and, though she says she does not wish to talk of it, he somehow gathers there was much rage, drunkenness and cruelty. He is glad to be spared the details.
What his retainers, following at a respectful distance, make of it all, History neither knows nor cares.
The baron does not profess to be a great man, or even necessarily an especially good one, but he feels sure he is not a bad one. His marriage turned out to be a love match, and the castle they built together is a monument to that love. She died over a year since to his great sorrow. He does not suppose he will love again, but this queen is attentive and compelling. She has let him into her bed and he finds himself drawn to her. She is very keen to be presented at the courts of barons and kings, and, indeed, there are a number of introductions he could make, though he worries how this self-proclaimed queen will be received. It will reflect upon him, and that is problematic.
They pull up beside a break in the trees. They glimpse distantly above the mists of the meads a great green hill, the ring of great trees upon its brow and the graceful tower that rises in their midst upon the summit.
She turns to him, her pale-blue eyes wide and yearning, those thin red lips set darkly in her ironic smile, her alabaster complexion and her pale-golden hair caught in the low sun between the boughs, “Pray, my lord, whose lands and tower is this?”
It is a moment before he can summon an answer. He is bewitched.
***
Proud as only one newly come into his full estate may be, the Star of the Morning smiles and gives knee to his dappled grey courser. He brings the beast to a canter. They sail through the sea of long grass, breaking through the straggling mists, the towered hill far behind them, the skirts of the circling woods before them. The eastern sun lights the blue dome of the heavens above. The tall lord laughs in the joy of his youth. His merriment trills like an icy spring tumbling between the mossy rocks of an upland dale. This, he thinks, is as near to perfection as this seen world can offer. And he is glad in this dawn.
It could not last, of course; like summer, joy was fleeting. Presently, galloping hooves mark the arrival of his panting seneschal, a man, yet loyal to a fault. Also comes the lord’s kinsman, the Knight of the Lily.
“Liege”, cries the man, “pray have a care, the outer fences of your land have not proved the better of poachers of late. You should not ride out so far alone”.
Pulling up his horse, the bright lord turns to answer, “Edelstan, faithful one, we are never alone among the living things of this middle earth, besides, this is my land and I may ride as I like and where I please”.
“Suri herah”, says the other, “Elfwynn Edelstan is right in this I deem. These days are …. uncertain. We must have a care. Your father ….”.
“Has retreated to the blessed isle and leaves the care of these lands to me. He may judge what he will from the courts of the evening at Luthany, but for Elvendon it is a new and glorious dawn”. Then, not wanting to seem self-important or censorious, he beatifies them with a smile and adds softly “Dear friends, your love and your care I indeed cherish, for what are we but the sum of our companions and the joy they have in us? Yet”, he adds, an infectious smile tugging at his lips, his bright blue eyes sparkling like the heart of a diamond, “it is the nature of this star to shine boldly in the dawn and this is a morning in a thousand. It should be greeted gaily ere it fades!” and with that he laughs and spurs his grey swiftly toward the forest.
Just then a cloud, hitherto unnoticed, moves across the sun. Suddenly deprived of its warmth, the lord’s companions feel for the first time the chill of the early morning air. The man shivers. The trees ahead now lie in shadow and look less friendly than they had but a moment before. Sooner than they had expected, their lord has disappeared beneath the darkling boughs.
“There is a change in the wind”, says Gallanthyss, the Knight of the Lily.
“Hmm, some chill in the east I deem,” answers Edelstan the Seneschal.
“Come, our Lord has passed from my sight, we must away to him will all speed.”
“Bugger” is all the response the seneschal offers, and they both spur their mounts toward the waiting forest.
***
The clouded sun leaves the clearing in twilight, yet the two men have light enough for their work. Huffing and groaning they manage to sling the stag’s carcass over the broad back of a patient and disdainful mule. They are ordinary folk, of no status, no importance. They are not even freemen, yet the older, gruffer one is chief to his tithe, though he is more of a bully than a father to his tithe-men. Now the man starts at a sudden sound as into the clearing rides the Star of the Morning, his steed stepping proudly and his bearing noble, his array bright and rich even in the sombre light. The gruff man considers the newcomer warily, calculating. Hagen is his name, indifferent is his reputation and unkempt his person. His reddish-brown tunic has old dirt crusted round its lower edges where they reach below his knees. The side slits are frayed. The elbows worn, but not patched. His half-boots are old and cracked, and muddied. He pulls down his old grey hood and looks directly at the Elf.
“What is this?”, cries the Elf lord, “you tread without leave in the sacred groves of Elves, and you deal here in death and low thievery”.
The Elf is chilling in his anger and disdain. His face exudes a cold light of fury, which bathes them in a chill of dread. The younger man is visibly trembling. He in fact wets himself. The older man, Hagen, thinks. He has committed trespass and poaching. Either one means death. He finds no explanation likely to excuse him both.
Casually, almost without apparent thought, he draws a mattock from the baggage of the mule and walks over to the Elf. There is so little aggression in his movements that it barely registers as a threat. “Fucking Elf”, says Hagen. With a great upward swing of the arm, Hagen strikes, burying the blade of the mattock in the Elf’s neck. Blood spurts either side of it and the Star of the Morning’s once beautiful face is contorted with horror. He slips off his mount and crashes to the ground. The light of the Far Shore fades from the eyes of the greatest of the Elder Folk in Albion. The Star of the Morning is dead.
“The Powers save us, what have you done?” cries his young companion.
“Ridded Albion of one more bloody Elf”, Hagen shoots the boy a threatening look and snaps, “don’t shit your braies on account of him”. Hagen then pauses in thought, “a fine horse, but too rare for us to sell and death to be seen with. Let’s see what else he had; search the body and be quick about it!” Hagen leads the nervous grey to the edge of the clearing and sends it into the deep wood with a smart blow to the haunches.
“He has this”, offers the young man to Hagen, holding up a large gemstone, gold mounted and on a gold chain. Hagen snatches it. It is brown and glints but dully in his hand. Hagen snorts in contempt at this unprepossessing bauble. Thinking the gold will give him wealth and freedom even if the rock is a worthless pebble, still, he cannot quite accept that something without value would be so extravagantly set. So, he holds it up to the light and the cloud passes, bathing the scene in warm light. The stone appears to come alive. It is no longer a mudstone, but translucent, with an inner, answering, light illuminating many colours within, browns, greys, even yellows and reds. Warm colours, as of sunbathed stones and rich dark earth. And they swirl and constantly change within the bright heart of the stone. They move, as if the thing were alive. “What?” comes Hagen’s gruff cry.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“What indeed!” cries a cultivated voice.
Examination of his prize may have meant fatal delay for Hagen, as a lord and lady, followed by armed retainers, trot into the clearing behind him, the scene of his crimes bathed in soft sunlight before them. Hagen pockets the gem, he does not think the newcomers have seen it. The lord who has addressed him is now looking alternatively at the slaughtered stag and the slaughtered Elf.
“What in the Hells proceeds here?”, says the lord, “Why, I know you, you are a bondsman of mine and capital pledge of your tithe. Speak swiftly or your life is forfeit!”
Then, miracle of miracles, in Hagen’s view, before he can answer, the lady intervenes.
“Surely my lord it is clear. As chief tithing-man, no doubt this villein upholds the honour of your lordship by honouring his pledge. He doubtless followed this youth, his tithe-man, who even now trembles in craven shame and guilt, in time to witness, but sadly not prevent, his poaching of the deer and his slaying of the Elf who first discovered it”.
The lord looks quizzically at the lady. He does not address her but turns to Hagen. “Is this true, villein?”
Hagen is later sure that he owes his life to being the first to find his voice, “Aye, lord, the lady has the right of it. The lad had been sneaking of late to these very woods. I feared poaching, though none of the meat was seen by his village. Sold no doubt. Mindful that we, his tithe-men, are responsible for his conduct, and I am chief to them, I followed to see what he was about. My worst fears proved true, but, alas, I came upon him too late!”
The young man, whose name History neglects to record, is to reflect, briefly, that his failure to speak first has probably caused his death. He is presently proved correct.
Asked by the lord if it is true, his vehement denials and increasing panic fail to carry conviction in the face of the chief tithe-man’s lucid evidence. He is not believed.
He experiences brief, faint, hope, when the lord declares that he supposes the man must be arraigned to the King’s Court for trial. Blood was drawn and the crimes are both grievous.
Then the lady says, “My lord, you have caught him red-handed. Your charter, I believe, has right of outfangenthef, so even though he is caught off the manor, you have the power”.
The baron is staring at her in open-mouthed astonishment now. She fears she may have over-stepped. She lowers her eyes meekly and blushes, “My husband the king, he trained in the law as well as in arms. If not so wise as you my lord, I will always concede he is learned. Some of what he said must have rubbed off on me and led me to speak of matters reserved to your lordship. Forgive me for the presumption”.
The baron is surprised, not cross, and her explanation seems to him meet, “Oh no my dear, you merely remind me of a power I have as yet held in abeyance”.
“Then, pray, spare this poor fellow the prolongation of his agony, waiting for his inevitable end for months in a foetid cage”.
“Very well”, says the baron, and motions to his retainers. They dismount, drag the boy behind a tree (he is crying and wailing, begging all the while, it is piteous) and cut off his head.
“Let us leave this dismal place”, says the baron. He should not allow the lady further distress he thinks. He also thinks that if more elves arrive, there will be awkwardness and unpleasant debate. Justice swiftly served is justice well served, and they should not linger.
She, however, dismounts, “First, I would have speech with your bondsman my lord”.
He again is astonished, but the will to defy her is not there, and no words of objection come to him in time.
“Your name, villein?”
“Hagen, my lady.”
“Pray, Hagen, let me see that pretty bauble.”
It is Hagen’s turn to be astonished, but he knows he has no choice with this one and so draws out the stone.
Suddenly the lady seems animated. Her eyes glow wide with a new light, though, thinks Hagen, it is not a kind one. She is smiling coldly when she speaks, “This was from the Elf?”. Hagen nods.
“Good. It is not for the likes of you”. She is speaking low, her actions out of sight of the lord, Hagen notes. She gives him an appraising look. “You cannot return to your tithing now. They must know your character, and will realise you betrayed the Youth”. Hagen shoots her a look of pure hate but says nothing. He knows she is right.
That smile again, “You will be your lord’s gift to me and have a place at my table. I would have the service of a man such as you. Good”. She gets up, slipping the gem into the folds of her rich grey riding habit, “you will soon come to see this day as the turning of your life. Of all our lives, come to that”.
When the cloud passes there is more light in the wood. It is only a little time after the baron and his party set course homeward that the seneschal and the Knight of the Lily see the signs of their Lord’s passing through the wood. They follow and swiftly find the clearing where he lies in blood and the ugliness of violent death. For them the horror of what has happened is unimaginable. The man’s grief breaks forth first. The Elf seems still overcome, stilled by the shock of it. Then he springs his first tear and turns to Edelstan the Seneschal, “Whatever happened here it is the foulest deed and the greatest loss in all the days of Elves in Albion. Mark, as you grieve, this death signifies the beginning of the end of all things as you have known them”.
***
That might be thought a portentous enough beginning. Events have been set in motion that will, by turns, run to ends unseen, ends that might yet see all of us undone. I, the author of this chronicle, can merely record what has lately passed. I have not the gift of prophesy, but then, what is prophecy beyond a man saying a thing must happen and he or some other setting out to see that it becomes so? A thing is either done or it is not done. It is not pre-ordained to be so. Nothing is inevitable until it happens. By this you may know me as heretic.
So, the Knight of the Lily and the seneschal grieve and rage and by and by rouse the guard. Far-sighted and skilled as trackers, the elves follow the lord and lady. Spying the retinue, they overhaul them beyond the borders of their land.
This is what the lord has feared. An awkward encounter. Armed warriors on both sides. Elves in anger. Men in fear. He thinks to take the initiative, so rounds on his pursuers, calling out to them.
“You are not in the Elf-lands, but ride under arms in my demesne. Pray, state your business, but ready yourselves to retire peaceably.”
“We ride hot upon the trail of infamy,” replies the Elf-knight, “a most grievous murder has been done, our lord is slain. Even by your own laws we have the right to pursue his killer.”
“You’ll not find him here. He was caught, adjudged, and despatched by our authority.”
“It remains to be seen whether you dispensed justice thereby, but as to your authority, enacting the laws of Men in the land of Elves is an uncertain thing. You must return with us and be examined before the Council. All of you.”
“We will not!” The lord is struggling to retain his composure, he is purpling, in fact, “Get ye gone from my fief!”
“We have the just cause, and the advantage in both numbers and puissance, my lord, pray do as we ask and do not make yourselves reluctant guests in Elvendon.”. The Knight of the Lily remains calm, yet there is no mistaking his tone of decision.
The lord is no fool. He should avoid this fight, he full well knows, but he cannot afford to submit. He cannot be seen to do so, and he does not trust the Elves. He is fearful of being in their power. He likes to think he is a man who weighs his words, who knows where they will lead before he speaks them, though who, truly, knows that? Now he does not know where his word will lead, but he says it anyway, because, it is the only word he can say.
“No”.
Elven blades sing forth from elven scabbards. They glitter like stars. The lord’s men look fearfully, one to another, yet draw their swords in turn. The flowers of the meadow are trampled by the restive horses. The morning sun beams uncomprehendingly upon them.
The lady draws forth the brown stone she lately took from Hagen. She holds it in the palm of one hand, circling her other hand over it. She closes her eyes and incants. The opposing warriors eye each other. No one is looking at her.
She knows what the stone is, of course, though most would not. She has art enough and will to awaken it, she is sure, but it will take many weeks, months probably, to gain any degree of proficiency, she thinks. Yet she must see what she can do with it now. Truth be told, she is pleased at the chance. She clears her mind in order to focus upon the stone.
The Knight of the Lily walks his horse forward. His warriors fan out behind him. The lord’s men form a tight circle around him. There is a pause, it will only be a short pause, before the Elf-knight calls the attack and his warriors will spur forward to close the gap.
But then the ground begins to tremble. The surface of the meadow deforms. Tufts of meadow grass and flowers are torn up as if by invisible hands and tossed aside. They are followed by gouts of earth and small stones. The clumps of earth become larger. They are torn up, rise higher, and are flung aside with accelerating speed. They are flung towards the Elves and their mounts. The line of erupting earth advances towards them. The lady observes the effect impassively as her hand weaves ever more deft and complex patterns over the stone at frantic speed. The men and their horses are spooked and edging backward. They are not in danger, but they do not understand what is happening. The Elf mounts are shying away as great clods of earth are hurled at them. Soil and stones clatter off raised shields. One Elf is struck a heavy blow on the helm by a rock. They are involuntarily yielding ground as the violence of the advancing earth-storm increases. A widening, deepening chasm in the earth now blocks the forward path of the Elves, and they cannot now withstand the fury of the onslaught. The Elf-knight sees what is happening and perceives the cause. He locks eyes with the lady, yelling above the tumult, “What have you done?”
She only smiles in reply, and there is no let-up in her storm of soil and stone. The Knight of the Lily looks upon her in horror admixed with disgust, and wheels his horse away, calling his men to follow.
The earth and rock cease to rise, they fall swiftly and heavily, drumming onto the ruined ground. Only beneath the lord’s party is the grass still growing. He is looking at her now with an expression of absolute horror, “What devilry of the Seven Hells was that? Witch you are, get gone from my house and lands and darken not my door henceforward!”
“Pray, be not so foolish Gérald,” replies the lady, smiling in the revelation of her power, “I am now mistress of an Elfstone, and you should rejoice that you still have chance to aid me. It is time, I deem, that you present me at the court of your liege lord, Earl Gredig.”
The lord is gazing at the stone. Seeing this, the lady slips it away. He raises his eyes to hers. They are large and beautiful, and he feels momentarily lost. He tries to recall what he was about to say but cannot. He was, he feels, about to rebuke her, but he is not sure why and feels his sense of opposition weakening. She is smiling at him. Her lips are thin, but full red. Her smile is hard, but it is given to him, and he feels elated. He was about to say something, but whatever it was, it does not matter now, so, instead, he says “why?”
Still smiling, perhaps a little sardonically now, she answers, “Because, my lord, he is said to be the richest man in Albion, and I shall need an army.”
***