Chapter 5
“Near?” muttered Tatia later as the long march continued. “I’d hate to see what he considers far!” Their legs burned, their hot feet throbbed from the relentless pounding on stone and hard-packed dirt. Conversation flagged, and each focused on plodding forward. Only Tlarg seemed as fresh as when they started.
“Hey, is that real light up ahead?” panted Joson, swiping away a mustache of sweat. The others peered forward hopefully.
“Aye, that it be. Good eyes young Joson,” Tlarg replied, emerging from some deep thought. “Dumarg is home it seems.” He hurried ahead, shouting. “Hail Dumarg! Hail!” The echoes bounced off the tunnel walls.
A bristly-bearded shadow poked out from the light. “Who calls?” it bellowed in a voice higher than Tlarg’s burly rumble.
“Thee are going deaf if thee cannot tell by thine old mine-mate’s voice!”
“Nay, I knew it was thee all the time!”
“Hah! Then why ask?” Tlarg dropped his load, and the two dwarves hugged each other with much backslapping and smiles.
“And who be thy companions? By the Mother, Fey folk! Long has it been since I have seen the likes of ye!” Dumarg exclaimed, bending forward slightly to stare at the disheveled sprytes. “But where are thy wings?”
“Lout,” Tlarg snorted. “Has it been so long that thee has forgotten that nowadays they must earn those wings? These be sprytes on journey to Meall Clarsair.” He shifted to a more formal tone. “We ask the favor of thy hearth and hospitality this eventide, in the Mother’s name. May we enter?”
“Welcome, thrice welcome! Enter and refresh thyselves.” Dumarg bowed and stepped aside.
Wearily, the sprytes entered, forgetting courtesy in their exhaustion.
Dumarg twitched an eyebrow in askance at his comrade for such a breach, but Tlarg just smiled and shook his head. The four hesitated at the threshold, unsure where to sit, and looked up at Dumarg.
“First, a wash,” their host cried, taking the situation in hand. “Back in that corner, near my grinding stone, shall ye find fresh water. Drying cloths I shall bring ye. Ye look like vagabond crows after a dust bath! Tlarg here has overworked ye this day. And thee, dear friend, share with me the meanwhile how thee came to be entangled with sprytes.”
As they washed, the sprytes heard a pleasant sizzling sound, and the rich smells of cooking permeated the cave. Danai made her way stiffly over to where the two dwarves stood chatting by the hearth, then stood awkwardly, hesitant to interrupt.
“Aye, maiden?” Dumarg turned from stirring the skillet. Shorter and more slender than Tlarg, his hair and beard, which was tucked into his belt, were chestunut. Hazel eyes sparkled at her in the firelight. She noticed a finely-wrought torque of gold lay among the sand-colored folds of his tunic, and a topaz ring flashed gem-fire on his left hand.
“Good Dumarg, would thee forgive our lack of courtesy? We can only plead that we are unused to such lengthy travel, being not as sturdy as Tlarg, and forgot the rules of hospitality.” The others crowded behind her, echoing the apology.
“Pish, tish. Ye are younglings, and besides, now ye have made up for thy oversight. And what am I cooking?” he smiled seeing them looking up at the steaming skillet, inhaling the rich fruity smells it gave off. “I have taken dried oats, and ground black acorns harvested while yet on the tree, and dried blackberries, and added dashes of other flavors. And then lightly fried them first in oil from the flowers of the sun, then added blackberry juice and a smidge of water. A hearty porridge, fit for travelers! There be no meat—I honor thy folk’s ways. Seat ye over there on the hearth’s edge, and I will serve ye.”
Danai could not remember food ever tasting so good, and smiled at Aaron as he asked for a third helping. Even Tlarg served himself yet a fourth time, leaving little.
“And perchance a bit of a sweet, now that ye have taken the edge off thy hunger?” Dumarg returned from the sideboard bearing a long honey-glazed fruit roll and a sharp blade. He sliced it, then quartered two pieces into a manageable size for the sprytes.
Joson eagerly bit into a piece. “Mmmm, where did you, I mean thee find such ripe blackberries so early in the season?”
“In Srath Orach, the vale of the sun.”
“Where is that?”
“It is a special garden of our folk, one started long ago from the seeds we saved after the Tuil Mor. We believe it to be blessed by the Mother, for even in winter, it often is sheltered and warm. Many are the fruits and plants that we grow the seasons round for our use. It is free to all Troich, yet we must work to keep it alive and growing.”
“Thee are very lucky,” commented Aaron, licking his fingers for a last taste of the sweet glaze, and pretending not to see Joson reach for yet another slice.
Dumarg shook his head, a twinkle sparking his eyes. “Youngling, when thee has lived as long as one such as I, thee will learn that luck, such as it is, almost always takes hard work.”
Morrowmorn, Dumarg sent them along with good wishes—and an extra fruit roll to Joson’s great delight. Stiff legs soon limbered as the tunnels began to twist upwards with a sharper slope. Danai’s nose told her they were headed northwest, and she asked Tlarg how much further.
“Three more days, maiden, and we will reach the valley of the Well, four if we stop to see sights along the way. And tonight we will stay with Shamarig. A bard he is, and a tale teller, and there may even be tidings from the outside. And on the way, I will show ye a wonder of our folk.”
Some time after mid-meal, Joson pointed. “Tlarg, is that sunlight I see far ahead?” He was peering so hard, he tripped over a glowstone.
“Unusually good eyes thee have, Joson!” Tlarg chuckled as he leaned over to help the spryte up. “But thy feet need some aid. What thee sees comes from the Clahaich, or the Delving in the common tongue.” His stride lengthened, forcing the sprytes into a trot. “Many are the tunevich we Troich have dug in search of gems and such. But none are as this. Only here has every gem been unearthed. Down have we dug and down, until it be many levels deep, filled with hollows and halls. Many of our folk dwell here, for after Tuil Mor, the remainders of our clans came together to survive. Some have since left to found other outlying tunevich, but it is here where we hold our gatherings, be they for celebration or for council.”
“But the bright sunlight?” Danai asked, puzzled.
“Happen we thought that such beauty should be open to Lugh and the Mother, so we have worked the stone to softly let in light without the wet. It but seems bright to ye after a long march in the tunnel dimness. Ye shall soon see!”
They approached a tall portal flanked by two pillars of elaborately carved glowstone through which the sunlight shone softly. Beyond it they could see a similar portal leading off to another tunnel; the portals appeared to be a cross path of sorts. Tlarg signaled them to wait and stepped through. After a quick glance to his right, he beckoned them to continue.
Entering, they saw matching portals on their left and right. After a few strides they were beyond the pillars, turning right where Tlarg pointed into the Clahaich—and they jerked to a halt in wide-eyed amazement.
A large cavern arched high above them. At its apex a perfect circle perhaps sixteen feylengths wide had been carved, through which a waterfall of sunlight shimmered as it passed through a translucent covering. The walls and roof were filigreed with a swirling design of leaves, flowers, fruits and vines—created from gemstones of every imaginable hue. The air seemed a veritable tapestry of color coaxed forth by the sunlight, weaving to form different shades as the sun advanced across the opening. Ruby and topaz burst into marigold, sapphire and tourmaline filtered to emerald. A soft ping-tzing could be heard as the sunbeams warmed the gems, expanding them slowly in their niches. The air seemed almost flavored with color.
Directly beneath the center of the apex, throned on a simple tear-shaped pedestal of burnished red gold, was a huge emerald, faceted to trap the dancing sunbeams within its heart. It glowed with rippling fire, seeming to pulse with light, at times throbbing to brightness that cast a veil of golden-green light through the cavern, at times a green ember. But never, ever still.
Tlarg tapped his heart three times with his fist, then knelt before the stone, motioning the sprytes to do likewise. “Behold the heart of Lughadon, the Anam of our folk,” he whispered reverently. “It is said that when the Troich-eldrich completed their tasks, the Mother bestowed upon them the Anam in thanks. It was somehow rescued in the Tuil Mor, and carried to Srath Orach. There are times when the sun sits directly overhead, and the eye of Lugh rests above the western horizon that one can see...memories of the first Lughadon. Not often. But sometimes. Perhaps that is why we Troich so enjoy our work—because in these lovely stones, be they uncut or crafted, we see a little of our beloved Lughadon as it was in the ancient days.”
Mesmerized by the Anam’s throbbing heart, Danai had the sensation that the stone was swelling to engulf the cave. She beheld a convulsing light—or was it flame? Behind the light—or was it within?—she sensed a hint of something, as one does when slipping into the world of dreams and the door begins to open. The light pulsated, then coalesced, and before her stood a monstrous Feyree, swathed in twisting scarlet flames, skin seared a scorching cracked black, wearing a face half-remembered, fingers grasping, shouting silently at her.
She screamed, staggering back against Tlarg’s leg.
Tlarg gargled with surprised fear, and from elsewhere came other startled shouts and cries. The image collapsed upon itself. The Anam subsided into dullness.
“May the Mother and Lugh preserve us!”
“What horror was that?”
Cries burst out from the few Troich that had been seated near the Anam and witnessed the blazing apparition. They milled about the Clahaich, pale under their dusky skins. Some stared sideways at the Anam, making gestures to ward off unknown evil. The rank smell of sweaty fear permeated the air.
Their shouts had attracted other dwarves, who now spilled in through the portal until the cavern filled, while others clumped at the entry peering over shoulders. One black-bearded dwarf, blue-clad with a triangular bundle slung across his back, hurried over to Tlarg. “Brother of mine! Thee are as white as new-dropped snow. Sit thee down, and let us calm ourselves. Do ye all likewise!” This last he directed at the seething throng that seemed to be growing by the moment. The sprytes huddled close to Tlarg’s knees, balancing on his boot tops to avoid being crushed. The blue dwarf’s tone seemed to settle the crowd, and most slowly sat down on the smooth floor, some casting nervous glances at the Anam.
“Shamarig, Shamarig,” gasped out Tlarg, who remained standing, his eyes still fastened on the Anam. “A burning creature, yet it did not burn, although its skin was black-charred, its mouth and eyes naught more than flame slashes. A terrible thing, a nightmare thing!”
“Mayhap a message,” replied Shamarig calmly. Tlarg nodded, as did others.
“From what?” cried one dwarf shouldering his way through the portal.
Shamarig turned towards the speaker, his lean figure nearly a head higher than most of the surrounding dwarves. “The Anam is the gift of the Mother. Can we not assume it be from her?”
“Aye, but what says she?” exclaimed another from behind the Anam.
“I would not pretend to know,” Shamarig said slowly. “That is for wiser heads than mine.”
“Perchance it was but a trick of light?”
“It was no trick,” Danai blurted out, still trembling. “It was a sending, as he says!” Astonished, the dwarves searched for the disembodied voice; many started as they took heed of the huddled sprytes’ presence.
“Aye, without question,” Shamarig agreed. “But an incomplete one. A warning of some sort, of that I am most sure, but beyond such, I know not.”
“We must call a Comhairle!” exclaimed several voices. “Aye, aye, a Comhairle,” bellowed others, their shouts colliding into a loud rumble that set the gems vibrating with a discordant twang.
“Send the message out to the Eldrich from all the clans,” ordered Shamarig, pointing at several dwarves. “Seythnak, Moishnag, Amnarolg, choose the messengers as ye will. We gather here at mid-day four days hence. Inform them it is by order of the Mother, and it is the Ard-Clarsair Shamarig who summons them to Comhairle.”
Satisfied at the actions taken, the crowd dispelled, some singly, most in groups, discussing and debating the sending. In a few moments, the Clahaich was empty.
“Tlarg, we don’t have to stay for the Comhairle, do we?” Joson gently tugged on the still visibly upset dwarf’s tunic hem.
He glanced down, seeming surprised to see them. “Nay, nay, I will fill my troth and get ye to the valley. I saw the horror; I can speak well enough for us all.” He shuddered.
“Come, bide with me this eve,” urged Shamarig, gently taking Tlarg’s arm and leading the way out of the chamber. The sprytes hurried after, nearly falling over themselves in their eagerness to escape. None risked a glance back at the Anam.
* * *
Shamarig’s cave gave the sprytes the feeling of a place long-used to company, yet also where one could relax hearthside in comfortable silence. Carefully placing his bundle in a well-worn nook, he turned to provide for the comfort of his guests. “Mead for all,” he advised, pulling down a pale green clay jug and assorted-sized drinking mugs from a shelf.
“We are on journey sir,” protested Joson. “And without the Mentors’ presence, I’m not sure it is permitted.”
Tlarg and Shamarig snorted in tandem. “Nay, lad,” insisted their guide. “If it be an Elder thee needs, I would wager I am many times the age of most of thy Mentors. And after that burning horror, can thee really say that a sup of mead would truly be amiss?” Joson shook his head, and reached for the proffered mug.
Danai swigged deeply of the sweet-scented drink, eager to dull the yet-vivid vision. The tangy liquid burned her throat, and she coughed and spluttered, tears clouding her sight. Between coughs, she heard the guffaws of her podmates and the dwarves. “Thee have not much experience with such drink, I warrant,” chuckled Shamarig, to Danai’s further embarrassment. “I beg thee to not insult my good mead by gulping it as if it were water.”
“I’m convinced,” Danai choked, wiping her eyes clear as a reassuring warmth radiated from her belly outwards. She settled on the soft rug before the hearth, her back to the fire, afraid of what might reappear in the dancing flames. Her podmates chatted with Shamarig. Tlarg watched her, but said nothing.
Bustling about the shelf and sideboard, Shamarig assembled an assortment of foodstuffs to tempt his guests’ palates. Shortly a repast of seeds, golden honey and coarse brown bread, fresh fruits and new-harvested greens lay on trenchers before them. None of the sprytes had ever seen bread before, but Joson fearlessly took a piece slathered with honey and pronounced it excellent. For a time, the group applied themselves to the business of eating, and the cave was comfortably quiet except for the munching of food and an occasional hiss and pop of an ember on the hearth.
“And now,” said Shamarig, after the trenchers had been cleared, another round of mead poured, and the fire replenished, “let us hear of thy journey.”
Joson, sensing Danai’s reluctance, stood up to speak, and Danai was thankful for her podmate’s kindness. She had no desire to do more than sip at the mead and only half-listened to the tale, her mind cautiously probing around the edges of the vision like a tongue poking a sore tooth. What in the name of the Blessed One could it herald? Her thoughts were tugged back by Aaron’s question.
“Please Shamarig, what is a—that word thee used when thee called the Comhairle?”
“An Ard-Clarsair,” the dwarf replied, rising and retrieving his bundle, which he carried gently back to the hearth. Almost reverently it seemed, he unhasped the acorn-brown hide case, worn to a smooth sheen, and withdrew a delicate harp. “In thy tongue, thee would name me a Bard or perhaps a Skald, or more likely an Orpheii, for I tell tales as well as sing songs and chants. And because I have won the Eisteddfod festival, I am called the Ard-Clarsair—the High Harpist of our folk.”
“Eisteddfod?” Aaron prompted.
“A great gathering of the Troich with much jesting, gossip, and, I think, a prideful showing of crafted wares. More to the point, it is likewise where we compete with music, poetry and stories. A select bench of elders judges each performance and determines the winners. It is not often one wins in more than one style.”
“And he has done so, winning them all not once, but thirty times,” Tlarg added, beaming with pride and delight. “No mean feat as the Eisteddfod happens but once every ten winters. What my too shy younger brother fails to add, humble Troich that he be, is that there are several rungs within each trial. Music be not simply the playing of one song, but five—dancing, mourning, celebration, talksong, and feasting—and the judges watch to see how well the performer can play not only their instrument, but those who listen. For my brother to have earned the title of Ard-Clarsair, he had to win all. It is no mean skill that Shamarig has.”
“How long is he allowed to be Ard-Clarsair?” Tatia asked.
“Until a new one arises who can best him in the Eisteddfod.”
“But what if he doesn’t win the next one?”
“No matter,” shrugged Tlarg. “None can unseat him lest they win. It be our way of ensuring that there is always an Ard-Clarsair, for he is the speaker of our folk.”
“Brother, brother,” Shamarig chided, shaking his head. “I think sometimes thee are more proud than I of this thing.”
“And why not? I am a mere crafter of bright things. Many are there of my like among us. But thee! I warrant thee could move stones to tears, and even the creatures of the wild halt to attend thy musical ramblings.” He winked at Danai. “Yet no Troich-maid has won his heart.” Shamarig blushed under his dusky cheeks, eliciting a loud guffaw and knee slap from Tlarg.
“See ye what comes of family,” Shamarig growled, drawing forth the harp. “They think it nothing to speak of such matters. On to other things! Here be Clarsach, my queen, my voice.” He stroked the dark red wood, high-sheened to brilliance by untold seasons of play. Strands of bright gold threaded between the harp’s neck and sound box, anchored by elaborately carved tuning pins of a contrasting pale wood. At the pillar’s crest was carved a delicate suggestion of a face, with half-closed slanted eyes that regarded Shamarig, a soft smile lightly curving the delicate lips. The two faces gazed upon each other, all else forgotten. Danai understood why Shamarig had found no dwarf-maid. His ladylove was Clarsach.
Long-callused fingers rippled across the harp strings, and a melody like running water trickled through the cave. The sprytes sat entranced. Tlarg settled himself more comfortably, his back against the wall, thankful his mug was yet fairly full of mead. A private playing by his brother was a rare event indeed, and one to be savored.
“And what shall I play for ye?” Shamarig’s voice took on a different timbre, resonant, harmonizing with Clarsach’s lighter notes. “Nay, ye know little if aught of our folk. Shall I tell ye a tale of the mountain to which ye journey, the Meall Clarsair, and how it came to bear its twisted peak?” He smiled at their eager nods.
“In the elder days, when the world had been shaped by the Troich-eldrich to her satisfaction, came the Mother once again to add new life to our wondrous land of Lughadon. From her sprang all creatures—the owl from her brow, the hart and hare from her feet, the nightingale from her breast, the squirrel from her hands. And when she was done giving life to them all, the day had waned. And she stood, awaiting the presence of great Lugh, he whom you call Lunasa.
“Mighty he arose, full swollen with majesty and light, his face lined with wisdom and seasons past counting. And the Mother began to dance in his radiance, her tiny feet springing and pirouetting, her emerald skirts aswirl in a shimmering rainbow mist, hands tracing patterns and shapes in the silvery light.
“And behold! The shapes gathered the light unto them and became solid. And forth first sprang the Ael, a maid and a lad, agile, lean, with sculpted ears and tip-tilted eyes, bodies as fluid as melting ice on a warm spring day. Lugh rose yet higher, and his light paled, yet still the Mother danced, and her laughter burst forth, swirling the radiant beams, taking shape as it flickered among the sparkling motes, until came forth the Sidhiche, thy folk. And the Ael and Sidhiche joined the Mother’s dance with all the energy of the newly born. All that night the Mother danced, until her folk were imagined to life in Lugh’s light.
“Yet let us now move forward to the time when the Troich-eldrich had passed. And there came an Ael-maid to the cascading waters that descended a high cliff at the mountains’ western edge. Aelvina she was called, and a great beauty among her folk. None other had such silver hair or skin, the fingerprints of Lugh, and her shimmering green eyes were like rain-washed grass in springtime. She was gentle of heart, and this sealed her doom.
“As Aelvina knelt to fill her vessel with the pure waters, she sensed eyes upon her. For the Ael are wise in woodcraft, and close to the creatures of the land, having been born but a short while after. Slowly she rose, slowly, slowly, no fear in her stance. Slowly she turned until she could gaze full wide upon the flower-gemmed vale in which she stood. And there, at the woods’ edge, staring at her in unabashed admiration, she beheld a sapphire-eyed Troich lad. Curbarig. He knelt in mute homage.
“We Troich are not known for our looks, but Curbarig was handsome, even by the high standards of the Ael. Unusually tall he was, as tall as Aelvina, blackhaired, with pale hands callused not by mining but music. For he was the Ard-Clarsair. Unbidden, his hands strayed to his harp, and he brought forth sweet melodies to celebrate the Ael-maid’s beauty. Such joy, such light, such harmony! The sun brightened, the flowers glowed, the very air was honey-sweet with music. And Aelvina, beauteous Aelvina, did what no Ael-maid had ever done. She fell in love with one not of her own.
“Lightly she danced, a dance of laughter, of love, twirling around Curbarig, casting a net of love about him. Not hard was Curbarig to woo, and his song shifted to express his wondering love. When he ceased, the very notes hung suspended in the sunbeams, singing to themselves with delight.
“Love knows naught but the moment. Aelvina and Curbarig met often in secret by the falls, and it was not long before she was with babe. Then great was the consternation of her folk, for she would not confess the father, and thus brought shame upon her family. Long were the days that Curbarig played sadly upon his harp by the falls, for Aelvina was hyell-bound, forbidden to leave the hollowed halls of her home.
“And when she gave birth, her father’s wrath knew no bounds. For to any eyes, the Ael-babe was not one of pure blood. No Ael had hair the darkness of a raven’s wing, nor rounded ears. He stormed from the birthing chambers, hands still wet with his daughter’s blood, and sought the Ael-lord, petitioning for help to right this insult to his hyell.
“There is magic among the Ael, no matter how little they choose to use it, for the Ael-lord called forth his draoidh, and demanded a vision of the newborn’s father. Thus bidden, the draoidh wove a globe of silver light, within which they beheld Curbarig, yet seated on a stone by the falls, ever-strumming his harp as he awaited his absent lady-love.
“If the father had been wrathful before, it was naught to now. A Troich! He recoiled, swearing terrible oaths. His servant cowered at such vows, and slipped in haste from the lord’s audience chamber to return to the hyell, for he rightly feared for Aelvina’s life and sought to warn her.
“Still aching with the agony of childbirth, Aelvina fled, carrying her son swathed in a coverlet of mossy green. Alainn, she had named him. She struggled along the familiar paths, ears straining for the beloved sounds of Curbarig’s harp. And finally, as if through a veil, she heard them, and stumbled onwards.
“Curbarig sprang to his feet, his cry of joy shattered as he beheld the swaddled newborn and the terror in Aelvina’s eyes. She panted out the tale, clinging to his shoulders, mindless of the tears coursing down both their cheeks. For Curbarig could see that Aelvina was dying. Her body, pushed too hard, too far, too soon, surrendered. Translucent became her skin and her emerald eyes dulled. Curbarig clasped her with all his strength, praying for his lady-love’s life, but his grasp was not enough. And in a little while, Aelvina closed her eyes, her kiss fell from his lips, and she passed into the next world.
“No words are there for Curbarig’s agony. He screamed his grief at the mountains, throat torn by pain and sorrow, cursing the father, the world, and all in it for taking away that which he valued beyond ought else. He even proffered his life in exchange, but the mute trees and mountains listened not, and at length he fell sobbing to his knees beside her still form. Under a cairn he buried her, gathering the purest white stones to place over her grave near the falls where they had known such joy. And against the stones he leaned his harp, for he knew the music within had died.
“Alainn was given into a foster mother’s care. Curbarig had no eyes for his son, for he in part blamed the babe for the mother’s death. Instead he sought out the draoidh-eldrich and told him all. He begged for and was granted spell of vengeance.
“In the high summer, Curbarig sent a challenge to Aelvina’s father who yet smoldered with rage. He cared not that she was dead. Only for the insult forced upon his family. Gladly he agreed to meet in battle the Troich who had sullied his daughter. Upon the grassy vale near the cairn they stood, each accompanied by eight of their own, for it is well known that nine are the number needed to make a duel honorable. Then father and lover stood forth and stated their plaints, so that all could bear witness that right would prevail.
“Hot rage makes poor strategy. It is cold rage that drives one beyond his abilities. Aelvina’s father burned with fury, lunging and slashing at Curbarig who danced easily away, dodging the blade, studying his opponent’s strengths—and weaknesses. He darted in, drawing first blood, and laughed. For he meant to kill.
“The sun reddened the sky to match the bloodied grass. Both fighters were sore-wounded, but cared not, as do those in hard battle. And then Aelvina’s father, perhaps sensing he would not win, drew forth a hidden dirq from his girdle, and flung it at Curbarig. Fast flew the silver blade stained with bloody light, gashing the Troich’s throat beyond hope. Cries of protest rent the air from all who witnessed such treachery.
“Curbarig dropped his blade, knowing he had received his death wound. Blood bubbled from his lips as he mouthed the spell. Spell? Nay, a curse. For as he spoke, Aelvina’s father stiffened, his body twisting to the harsh words. Curbarig gestured, and the contorted body soared into the air, to land high above on the cliff top. Before the disbelieving eyes of Troich and Ael, the father swelled, twisting into a tortured, towering pinnacle of stone, taller than all nearby peaks, wrenching with agony as he yet struggled against his fate. Mantled in the blood of his body and the scathing glare of the setting sun, he gave a final scream, then froze into stone.
“A final sigh of content slipped from Curbarig as his friends gently lifted him. They buried him beside Aelvina’s cairn as he had earlier requested. In his arms they laid his harp, and all stood in sorrow at his passing, grieving a loss brought on by blind misunderstanding. It was then that the Ael and Troich agreed to an alliance of friendship so that no such sorrow should again befall them. And as they clasped hands over the cairns, a wondrous event transpired.
“The cairns sank part way into the earth, and the stones reformed into a low rounded wall above both graves, now dappled with flowers of every hue, echoing with the sound of bubbling water threaded with music. In amazement, an Ael spoke out loud, asking ‘what was this wonder?’ And the new-made well answered in the mingled voices of Curbarig and Aelvina, a lilting rhyme telling of the gift of foresight it could bestow on those who asked. It is to this Truthing Well that ye journey, at the foot of Meall Clarsair—the Harpist’s Mountain.”
The lingering notes of Clarsach trembled in the dim firelight. Danai could still see the tear-wet faces of Troich and Ael, scent the soft fragrance of violets, hear the music of Curbarig and Aelvina’s interwoven voices. Slowly, with a deep breath, she re-awoke to the cave about her, aware of tears dampening her cheeks.
Aaron stood up and bowed deeply towards Shamarig. “Never have I understood the power of tale-woven music until now. I believe thee to have a power greater than any sword, any spell, in thy fingers. Well have thy folk named thee Ard-Clarsair.”
“Have thee given much thought to thy questions for the Well?” Shamarig asked as he returned Clarsach to her case and placed it back in the nook. The sprytes stared at each other in embarrassed surprise.
“Uh, no,” Joson replied, coloring slightly. “I’ve been so worried about getting there in one piece that I haven’t really thought about what I’m going to ask it.”
Tatia piped up. “I want to know who my Chosen One is.” She giggled.
Shamarig cocked a bushy eyebrow, then looked at Aaron. The spryte shrugged cheerfully. “I’m going to ask what my future holds.”
The dwarf frowned. Sometimes he could perceive the shimmering light that emanated from all living things, and surrounded them until they died. It was a trait much cultivated by the Slanaighear—Troich-healers that could often diagnose an illness based on the colors of that aura. Aaron’s aura had dimmed as he tossed off his reply, and Shamarig felt a shivery touch at the base of his skull. For a moment, he considered urging caution.
Danai, assuming he was waiting upon her response, said “My question is similar to Aaron’s. I want to know what I should choose as my Calling.”
“What a nice Feyree you are!” Tatia gave an irritated snort. “Makes us all look bad.”
“Oh dry up Tatia.” Aaron made a rude gesture. “At least she’s not worried about who her lover is going to be. Like you’re really going to stay with one fellow.”
Tlarg and Shamarig exchanged rueful glances over the bickering sprytes’ heads. Younglings! “Enough, enough,” Tlarg intervened, standing and stretching. “Thy questions are thine own. Remember only that one question is allotted to each living creature—and one only. It can be used wisely or not. Now to rest all. We have a hard journey ahead, and I would fain hasten our departure that sooner I can return for Comhairle.”
* * * * *