Chapter Twelve Elvine #2
“Veylorn was a famed warrior from the days when the Uhltvar still walked the earth,” Elvine said aloud.
“He it was who conquered the lands known today as the Upper Gelds.
But, as is often the way with heroes of Ascarlian legend, Veylorn was a soul tormented by all the lives he had taken in building his domain.
Constantly he would ask his most trusted warriors, ‘Have I done right?’ And constantly they would tell him, ‘Yes. For your foes were oath breakers, child stealers, cravens and thieves.’ Finding no comfort in their words, Veylorn went to his wife and asked of her the same question, ‘Have I done right?’ And she spoke thus: ‘Yes, husband. For in conquering these lands you have brought peace and saved many souls from battles that will now never be fought. Our children will live long and flourish. Rest and ease your mind.’ Still unsatisfied, Veylorn went in search of all the wisest souls he could find and all gave him the same answer: ‘You are Veylorn Mihrkrayl, the True Heart. There is none more just and none more honest in all these lands.’
“But the twin torments of doubt and uncertainty still ruled his soul and so, in desperation did he implore the Altvar for answers.
Sadly, all his offerings and his cants in their name drew the notice of but one god, Ihryka of the Lower Hall, the deceiver and trickster who delights in meddling in the affairs of mortals.
Visiting Veylorn in the guise of her brother Torkyl, the Master of Doors, she related the tale of the Veyinmihr, the Cavern of Truth, which lies in the frozen wastes far to the north.
Here, in this one place in all the world, could a mortal open a door to the Upper Realms and ask any question of the all-knowing spirits that dwell there, and they were bound to answer honestly.
This, Ihryka told Veylorn, was a place where only the stoutest hearts could tread. For to know truth, is to know pain.
“Undaunted, Veylorn embarked upon an epic voyage of suffering and danger.
Many of his warriors perished from cold and hunger.
Those that ventured ashore to hunt were taken by white bears and great wolves.
But still he kept his prow pointed north as his menda withered around him until he sailed alone.
And there, amid the ice floes many miles beyond the reach of any who had sailed before, did he find the Veyinmihr.
Starved and near madness, he stumbled inside and threw open the door, demanding ‘Have I done right?’ The answer… was no.
“‘You have shackled your soul in underserved guilt and regret, mighty Veylorn,’ sang the spirits of the Upper Realms. ‘You have shunned the love of your wife, the loyalty of your warriors, the wisdom of your elders. Yours is a soul forever tainted. Ask not for entry to the Halls of Aevnir, for they shall ever be denied you now.’ And so did Veylorn depart the Veyinmihr and wander the ice, denied even the comfort of death. It’s said, if you sail far enough into the north, you can still hear his wailing upon the wind, a song sung in eternal regret of the crime of discontent. ”
Seeing Eylka’s wary expression, Elvine deduced the prisoner knew this story had not been related for her benefit, but for the spear. Conjuring her warm smile once again, Elvine said, “Tell me more of this hidden archive beneath Lore’s tower.”
Upon completing the climb to what had been the chambers occupied by Sister Iron, but was now called the Queen’s Tower, Elvine was greeted by the unfamiliar sound of tense voices echoing from the central chamber.
She entered as surreptitiously as she could, finding Lynnea standing near the door as Thera held council with the principal captains of her fleet.
They stood around the large map table, men and women who had survived the worst battles of this war, yet Elvine saw many faces tensed with suppressed concern, even fear.
“Forgive me, my queen,” Ossgrym Styrntorc said, voice clipped with forced patience, “but such a thing cannot be done.”
“Why?” Thera enquired, her tone one of mild curiosity. “Because it never has? If that were reason enough to abandon a sound course it strikes me no living soul would ever have accomplished anything.”
“A voyage into certain death cannot be called a sound course, my queen.” This came from Torlund Speldorr, Veilwald of the Turon Geld. The most finely dressed figure at the council, he spoke with his head lowered to a suitably respectful angle, though his tone betrayed unvarnished doubt.
“The very fact of our current plight gainsays your judgement, Veilwald,” Thera replied.
“The Nihlvarians have safely navigated the Fire Islands with fleets large enough to bring this realm to the brink of ruin. And we know how it was done.” Turning, Thera beckoned Achier forth.
The Morvek was plainly uncomfortable in such company but bore the scrutiny of the assembled captains with creditable fortitude.
“Many of you know this man as brave and honest,” the queen said.
“Once a captive slave of our enemy, he knows their ways well.” She fell silent, nodding consent for the Morvek to speak.
“My people call the Fire Islands the Telcha Echra,” Achier said.
“The Place of Cursed Fire. In the time of the elders, it was believed that the world beyond the chain of flaming mountains was empty of life, that to even attempt its poisoned waters meant death. But then came the Rulchakin, and with them our destruction. Our enemy has long possessed the means of sailing through the Telcha Echra in safety. The course is known only to a guild of seafarers known as wayfinders. They are few in number, carried aboard perhaps one in every dozen ships that sails under the Vortigurn’s banner.
But, if you capture one, you too will possess this secret and the way to my homeland will lie open. ”
“And do we have any of these wayfinders in our custody?” Veilwald Torlund enquired.
“At present, no,” Thera replied. “At least none that have been found. Our captives have been few, as you know. But we do have some, and there are bound to be others held in the Outer Isles. Also, while the Nihlvarian fleet has been destroyed, many of their ships still sail our waters. My instruction to you, my faithful and most trusted captains, is to go forth and find me one or more of these wayfinders.”
“Forgive me, my queen.” Torlund dipped his head an inch lower.
“But I am bound to ask, is this necessary? Thanks to your courage and leadership, this realm stands freed of invaders. They are broken, while we stand strong. Should this not be a time of rebuilding? A time to heal, make good our losses.”
“While our enemy lies unvanquished on the far side of the Fire Isles?” Thera replied.
“I think not, Veilwald. The Nihlvarian king, this Vortigurn they worship, has proven his tenacity and his patience. Should we leave him be we only invite another invasion, perhaps more terrible than the first. And will any soul here claim that the Ascarls have yet earned their full measure of justice?”
She fell silent, directing a hard, demanding glare around the table. No voices were raised in dissent.
“I am resolved to end this conflict for good,” Thera stated. “That is my will as queen. When you placed this crown upon my head you swore fealty. I now hold you to those oaths.”
“Know that I hold my oath to you more precious than my own life,” Veilwald Ossgrym stated in a low growl.
“As do I,” Torlund added swiftly. “Please know, my queen, my comments are born of a desire to ensure your will be carried out.”
“I don’t doubt it, Veilwald,” Thera assured him, though her tone was flat. “Now, to other business. Vellihr Ragnalt, please report on the state of your crew and recent efforts at recruitment. All ships must be fully served for the trials ahead.”
As the council continued, Elvine felt a tug on her sleeve.
Turning, she found Lynnea pointing to her hair, a half-smile on her lips.
Reaching up, Elvine’s fingers encountered a skein of dusty cobwebs.
Lore’s hidden archive had been well concealed behind a false wall, but didn’t appear to have ever been cleaned.
In better times, Elvine would have considered what she found there a treasure trove of lost knowledge, stacks of the most obscure or rare volumes, some believed to have vanished forever.
Yet, she had spared them little more than a cursory glance as she rummaged for The Map of Veils.
She knew Lore must have taken the original volume but entertained the faint hope she might have completed a full or partial copy.
Hours of shifting aged and heavy books, however, had yielded nothing save one small scrap of cyphered parchment.
With Lynnea’s assistance, Elvine managed to remove the cobwebs from her hair by the time the council ended.
The captains all afforded her a respectful nod as they trooped out, save for Veilwald Torlund who lingered to offer a florid bow.
Twirling a hand, he placed one foot a precise interval from the other and lowered his back while keeping his eyes upon Elvine’s face.
“Forgive me my Albermaine-ish affectation, Spear Maiden,” he said upon straightening.
“I am afraid it has become a habit whenever I encounter beauty.” His smile dimmed a little when Lynnea let out a snort of derisive amusement, but he rallied quickly.
“Among the nobility of Albermaine,” Torlund said, “it is custom for a knight to beg a favour of a lady before he goes to battle. May I be so bold as to beg such from you?”
“I regret I have no silken scarves nor other tokens to offer, Veilwald,” Elvine replied, keen for him to leave.
“A pity. But I feel I should be content if you would permit me to touch the fabled spear you carry. I should consider it the greatest honour.”