Epilogue.
'The Sky!... There is fire in the sky!'
The Old Storyteller lifted his silver tankard, and took another deep draught of the meld of Algethimeade and Glow-fire. The reading of Volume the Third of The Tarsius of Amriath was running to its ending. At the first; the Tell had been laid betwixt the evening of the weaving of Oimelc Corn Maidens, and the evening of the lighting of The Beltane Fires; so none might forget that, which had gone before. Now; with the three Volumes laid to Tell; the night of the Lighting of the Beltane Fires was distantly past, and Litha; the longest day of summer, was 'nigh.
No matter; there was small sum in remain of these volumes to be told. Volume... The Fourth was even now, being fashioned in manner of its kin; being bound in leather, and tooled about with leaf of gold. Here, would be scribed all that was yet to come in the continuance of the Third Age of Light. The Tell would as like, then span from Oimelc to Lammas when this volume came to his hand.
He gazed about the Great Gathering Hall. The Company were of good cheer; many were deep in their cups. And why should they not be so? The Darkness was smitten down... and mayhap, no more for the returning. No more, would there be the creeping fear in the dark of the night.
The minstrels had done with the songs of the Heroes; and now, from the corner of the Hall came Orilche; Harper of Calverstock. As he crossed the Hall to his familiar seat by the Great hearth, the carousers fell into silence. All that was to be heard was the soft whimper of the west wind in the eaves. Here now, came the gentle time; a time for lovers... a time to dream of better days.
The Harper Orilche would spin his ballads and songs of love in this gentle time, and all held eager attend of his choose. He settled himself across from the Old Storyteller, and unslung his harp-bag. From therein, he brought forth his Lothluthil Oaken Harp. He only ever brought forth this harp to the Gathering when he held a singularly fine melody to lay upon them. The company attended him in silence of completeness. This would be a differentness, this night.
He settled the harp in the crook of his arm and struck a ripple of notes with his thumb. The skein of notes spun, sweet and gentle, across the Hall, gifting a shiver to the hearts of those, therein. He began to sing; and in the Great Hall, there fell not a sound, other than that of his song. He sang The Lament of Shadaiia en'Carnelyr... The Shining One; which was recently set to harp from the poesy of the Numenessean Craftmaster of weapons, Elrohir Linwelin... her lost love. This was the same poesy that the Shadaiian Wraith-Hunter, Jhastor; Shadow-Watcher of Raventhorn Scar, had shown to Eldamar at the settlement of Bradda.
As he sang, it could be perceived that those in bonded pair drew closer together. Wetness could be seen upon the cheeks of many of the maids, as he sang of the heartbreak of things that might have been. Orilche held them all in the palm of his hand as his lament caressed them with the words of a stubborn hope that somehow, a love might yet blossom within the grasp of overwhelming hopelessness. He drew a last, soft, rising ripple of notes from his harp, and the lament was done.
In the Hall there was complete silence, as each, and all were held in the imagine of such a love as might have been. In the silence was suddenly heard a whistling from without, and the roof lathes creaked... as if tugged by a strong wind. Orilche laughed, saying,
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'Hear you, all those birds flying overhead? It must be my lament that has laid an affright upon them!'
Then, suddenly... the door crashed open, and the moment was lost. In the doorway, framed by a dreadful, bluish-white glare, stood one of the serving maidens. Her face was white as snow, and her eyes were wide in terror. The glare was swelling in brightness and beset with a billowing roar, as she gasped...
'The Sky!... There is fire in the sky!'
As one, the company rushed the doorway to see what had manifested. Suddenly; in the north... the sky was split in twain, and high above the forest greening the whole northern part of the sky appeared drenched with fire, brighter than the sun, as a blindingly bright blue, swirling bolt of light split the heavens. Some of the older matrons of Calverstock burst into tears, crying out that the end of the world was upon them.
The sky... the sky had split in two! A broad streak of unimaginably brilliant blue cleaved it from the north to the south. A great ball of flaming, in trail of a fiery, bluish-white, spreading brume of billowing, smoking reek came hurtling from out of the heavens. The very ground gave tremor and shake as a monstrous, crashing blare split the very skies above them.
Eldamar stared, voice-struck, at the hideous sky. The last words of Baelar, that Beshlie had lay tell to him on the Mullock Flats, sprang to his remembrance...
'Too late; too late... I have bidden the Black Star to fall. Soon enough, shall you all be wiped from off the face of this land, and all shall return to Chaos, as it was in the beginning.'
Was this the dread manifestation of the "Black Star?" Such remembrance and ponder was thrust from his mind, as the trees of The Delvlings began crashing to the ground, amidst thunderous crashings from the skies that deafened all there. He felt a mighty press of heat upon him that lifted him fully from off his feet and tumbled him backwards. He glimpsed a mountains-high tongue of flame reaching up, and soaring into the boiling skies. Then darkness overwhelmed him.
The Old Storyteller Rhynam, ran back into the Gathering Hall, through the curtaining dust of countless summers spilling from the roofing beams and lathes; seeing the great hourglass and the flask of Algethimeade and Glow-fire that Laurie had placed there upon the table, tumble to shattering upon the flags as they heaved beneath his feet. He felt a great heat... as if he were clutched in the very breath of a Dragon.
Snatching at quill and ink, he scrawled upon the end leaf of the third Volume all that had passed here this night. For why; he did not know, only that all need be scribed down. He swiftly laid the Leathern-bound volumes into the great stone coffer hard by the hearth... here they would prevail.
He turned again, and beheld the Harper Orilche sitting there, bearing the ruin of his Lothluthil Oaken Harp in his hands. In the scramble, it had been dashed from his grasp, and trampled underfoot. Orilche bestowed a mournful grin upon Rhynam; thence, gazing at the broken harp in his hands, he sighed; and sadly said...
'Alas and alack; her days are fully run. She shall sing no more, and she was, indeed, a comely companion.'
Then; glancing without, at the flaring light; with his ears buffeted by the swelling blare and clamour, he shrugged sadly, saying...
'No matter; there shall be no more songs for us to sing.'
Rhynam beheld his old friend sitting disconsolate before him. Lathes and timbers began to rain down from the heaving roof above their heads. He threw himself under one of the great, Oaken tables; dragging Orilche with him. He gazed upon his old friend with a sad, and hopeless smile, and thought...
'Nay, Orilche, you are amiss in your certitude. There will indeed be other songs to be sung around other hearths and watchfires in the distant days to come… but, it shall not be us who shall sing them.'