- Chapter 6






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Chapter Six
He stood in what had once been a great hall, overlooking the ruins of what was once a great castle, wondering who he was and what he was doing in this particular place. Jagged, fallen walls reached for the sky with tortured fingers. Death lingered in the air, along with the acrid stench of a recently fought levin bolt battle.
He made his way through the ruins, wondering how he was connected to the carnage that had taken place here. The dead bodies he found offered no clues to his identity, except that the victims had long pointed ears like his own. The victims wore various grades of silver and gold armor, portions of which were mangled beyond usefulness, or blown completely away from the wearer. They were mostly young males, with a few older elves fallen as well, still clutching weapons: clubs, bows, blades. This battle must have been a last stand, a final showdown before the conquerors prevailed and the owners of the castle died, or fled to places unknown.
Still, he remained ambivalent. Did I live here, or was I somehow related to those who died? he wondered, but these questions were unimportant now; his main purpose was to wander and explore, get in touch with his soul, and then, if within reach, his past. His ears, he knew, were a clue.
Would my ears, and eyes, seem strange to me in another life? he thought, and the more he pondered this, the more he felt certain this was so. Why they were odd, he didn't know.
I have no name, he realized. I don't know who I am.
His lost memory did not alarm him as it might have in another life. He would learn his name when he was ready, but now was not that time. He walked past the bodies, down a short flight of stairs that remained intact, though significant chunks had been blown away by some fearsome weapon.
Levin bolts did this, he knew, and shuddered at the strength these bolts must have been to bring down the castle. He had a dim recollection of mages, and their ability to wield these weapons, but the images were shrouded in murk. The present is what is important. Examining my past must come later.
He examined the impact the levin bolts left. The pocked craters penetrated a hand's breadth into the stone and mortar. A residue of the magic remained, trickling from the crater like blood from a wound: a dark, evil power, alien to his touch. He recoiled from the damage, as from a hot flame.
I know this was a palace, but how do I know that? He looked up at the mound of boulders and mortar, dotted with an occasional standing wall, and imagined what this palace looked like before the battle. Magnificent, it must have been, covered with brilliant white limestone, though little of the facing remained now. He felt sorrow, not because of any personal loss, but only because such a beautiful structure had been destroyed.
He wanted to know who destroyed the palace, and where they were now. The ruins stood on a high peak, which jutted from a plateau of gently rolling hills covered with emerald grass the texture of velvet.
In the distance stood a ridge of mountains. This natural barrier, he knew, formed a political boundary as well, and the conquerors, whoever they were, came from the other side. He did not understand why they would defeat these people and then move on. Perhaps nothing worth claiming remained after the battle, or maybe they wanted to kill for the sake of killing. Hate still lingered in this place, as thick and tangible as the fog that burned off in the morning heat.
As he proceeded down the side of the hill, the fallen rock and debris from the palace became less frequent. The moat encircling the palace was completely dry and growing with grass and wildflowers. The sight puzzled him at first, until he guessed that the owners of the palace must not have expected an invasion, in fact hadn't worried about the possibility of one for some time. The bridge crossing the moat, at least what was left of it, was overgrown with thick vines, securing it more or less in place.
Dreaming. This is called . . . dreaming, a voice spoke from deep within him. The voice belonged to another entity linked to his past, but still a part of him, a fragmented portion he sensed wanted to become whole with him again. The message came through as a thought, but odd, runelike symbols represented the phrase: Dreaming. In this alien language, dreaming was not isolated to one word. There were different kinds of Dreaming, and this was only one of them, but when he tried to remember what the other forms of Dreaming were like the memory eluded him.
Above an eagle circled. It dove a short distance, pulled up, and circled some more. He watched it for some time as it meandered through the sky, turning in wide, lazy circles, growing larger as it descended. It was no ordinary eagle, or any eagle he was familiar with in any of his lives, as it was jet-black with no other markings. Also, not only was it larger than he was, it was larger than four of him laid end to end.
Talons extended, the eagle plunged toward him.
He didn't react at first; fear froze him in place. One of those talons was longer than his hand, he saw with sickening clarity as the bird attacked. Then the voice urged him to action, and he ran for the bridge, diving under it moments before the eagle struck. Talons pierced the bridge, sending splinters and boards flying everywhere. The entire structure shifted as the bird struggled to unhook itself.
Finally the eagle dislodged itself and flailed away, its shriek of rage a deep, terrifying scream that vibrated his very bones. He looked up through the holes left by the talons, knew then that the bridge would not protect him a second time.
As the bird gained altitude, he bolted out from beneath the bridge and ran up the stairway's remains. Somewhere, up here, there is the entrance to an underground hallway. The memory fragment offered itself reluctantly, the voice doling it out cautiously, grudgingly. He saw the passageway clearly in his mind, or rather how it had appeared before the invaders destroyed the palace.
The eagle passed over him as he reached the ruins, urging his legs to move faster. In the remains of the great hall he found a gaping hole in the floor, the only protection he saw. The eagle might trap him down there, but it would not be able to follow him.
He plunged into the darkness, and moments later the great bird struck at the entrance, sending a torrent of pebbles and dust after him, but no more. The eagle shrieked after him. The darkness became absolute, but he didn't care; he'd escaped death. He proceeded further into the passage's depths, feeling the walls for guidance.
He found a room at the bottom of the stairs. A thin veil of fog shrouded the floor, and beneath it glowed lights—candles or lanterns. He tried to count them, but his mind drifted, and he lost count.
He closed his eyes, because that is what the voice told him to do.
This is Dreaming. And the Dream is about to end. . . .
His stomach lurched as his universe shifted around him, and for a moment he was in free-fall; in vacuum, in darkness. His feet found solid ground, and he was standing upright again.
When he opened his eyes he was standing in his living room, with Lady Samantha on one side, Ethlinn on the other, and Marbann off to one side, kneeling, head down.
Adam wore a comfortable, knee-length velvet robe, embroidered with a complex pattern of silver thread. The garment hung loosely on him, the long tubular sleeves fringed with silver lace, with a thick ermine collar which extended down the front. Beneath the robe he wore a silk tunic and hose, and on his feet were leather boots with long, pointed toes.
Around his neck hung a heavy silver pendant, inscribed with the same runes the voice used: symbols of a foreign language, alien, but now familiar. He removed the crown that sat coldly on his head, saw that it, too, was made of silver, with rubies adorning thirteen silver points.
"Your scepter, my lord," Ethlinn said, handing him a long silver staff crowned with an enormous ruby the size of his fist.
He put the crown back on his head and took the scepter, a heavy, gaudy object. The moment he touched it, a surge of power passed through his hand, up his arm, and into his body; he sucked his breath in sharply as the power coursed through him. The ruby pulsed with a dull red glow, which sharpened to an intense, hot light.
The voice spoke again, and this time he knew where it came from, who it belonged to. The voice was his own; his elven voice, speaking to his human side.
You've been a human for a long, long time. . . . the voice said. Are you still elven, or have you forgotten what it's like to be immortal?
Adam recalled that last horrible day in Underhill, the scene branded into his memory.
I remember all of it, he thought, cringing at the recollection. It's like it just happened, and this is a mere moment later.
"Marbann," he said, turning to the large blond elf kneeling on the floor, "please stand up." Marbann stood to his full height, his head down. "What happened after Samantha and I Gated to this world?" he said calmly, still trying to grasp what had happened to him, then and now.
"Forgive me," Marbann said softly. "I have failed you. I have failed all of Avalon, to be sure, but you and your family in particular."
"That's nonsense," Samantha said. "You did everything you could, and then went further and accomplished the impossible. You held Zeldan's forces at bay. You gave the rest of us enough time to get away."
King Aedham looked with repulsion at his royal scepter, the robe, the reflection of his new crown on the Sony entertainment center screen, knowing now what this meant.
Father's dead.
Then, with a vague sense of dread, he realized, I'm the King of Elfhame Avalon now.
"The Gate succeeded," Adam said. "Why didn't everyone escape?"
Marbann looked away. "We tried, Your Majesty. Once you were in the Gate, another levin bolt struck. I could not control the magic of this one. I lost the Gate." He hesitated before going on. "That last bolt killed the King. I tried to shield him, but I was already focusing my energies on the Gate, not our shield."
"He might have made it over, then," Adam said sadly.
"Perhaps," Marbann said. "I constructed a second Gate, though one not nearly as stable as the first, using energy from our last remaining node. Then we escaped."
The royal finery felt heavy on him, and he looked up at Samantha. "I don't want to wear Father's royal robes yet."
"Of course," Samantha said, and a bright ball of light formed in her outstretched palms. The robe, the clothes, the crown and the scepter began to glow a golden yellow, then turned to vapor, circling around him in a brief flurry before collecting in her hand. Adam looked on as the light concentrated in a single sharp point in her palm. Then the light blinked out, leaving behind a gold ring bearing the rune "T."
Adam found his human clothes, the jeans, the t-shirt, the sneakers, lying on the couch, and wordlessly began putting them on. His movements were slow and deliberate as he fought back the tears, and he contemplated finding a private place to grieve.
No, he thought. I've been away from my kind, in heart and soul, for too long. I must be with them now.
Samantha gave him the gold ring, she opened her arms, and he welcomed the offer. They sat on the couch, with Samantha holding him as a mother would, and Adam began to cry without shame.
 
Zeldan stood with his army at the crest of a hill, overlooking the remnants of the palace of Elfhame Avalon. The levin bolts had all but leveled the palace, but he sensed the Seleighe, at least some of them, still alive. They'd called off the levin bolt attacks and started sending troops in, mostly armored warriors with short swords, spears and shields. The mages would soon follow. It was nothing to Zeldan to sacrifice an entire battalion for the life of a single mage. Warriors were replaceable. Mages were not.
Zeldan Dhu closed his eyes, again feeling Avalon's magical energies at work, tangible through the very ground he stood on.
"They have Gated again," said Mage Japhet Dhu, Zeldan's son. Zeldan was pleased he had chosen to stand at his father's side in their moment of victory. Japhet wore a robe of black silk, with a long, pointed hood that reached to the ground, as did the sleeves. It was an awkward garment to wear under most conditions of battle, but this was no ordinary day, and no typical battle.
"So be it," Zeldan said, his disappointment evident. "If the family escapes, I will follow them. Wherever that happens to be."
His son nodded, apparently keeping his thoughts hidden. Zeldan would have preferred knowing what his minions were thinking, but had never pushed the subject with Japhet. His hood concealed whatever facial expression might have revealed his thinking. That mage abilities had skipped a generation was unfortunate, but Zeldan had confidence in his son's loyalty. He was, after all, the mage who had seized the first Avalon node, and with that first success had nurtured the complete takeover of the magical matrix.
With hardly any physical effort at all, Zeldan's army had crushed Elfhame Avalon, due in no small part to his son's efforts and the complete surprise the attack had been. The royal family had taken flight below ground, like the rodents they were.
At least some of the Seleighe had Gated to places unknown, like cowards. Now Zeldan sought to seize the last node of magical energy and trap whoever remained in the bowels of the palace ruins.
And my guess is the King did not survive long enough to escape.
Zeldan studied the palace, or what was left of it, and smiled a grim smile. A subtle shifting in power, governed by other mages on a nearby hill, announced their success.
"And now the final node is ours," said Japhet. "They can Gate no more."
Zeldan Dhu waved his comment away. The Unseleighe ruler towered a good seven hands above his son, and today had chosen black leather armor trimmed with silver and rubies. As easily as the war had gone, Zeldan doubted he would see any combat himself, so he wore his finest, without fear of its becoming damaged.
"Come," Zeldan said smugly to his son. "Let us see who is left alive."
 
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