Illengond Read online

  He turned his gaze back on the one who had just healed him. “Tienna,” he began looking her in the eyes. He didn’t know what to say next. In reply, she only returned his gaze, unblinking. Her dark green eyes sparkled like one of the gems scattered about the wall of the cavern. Embarrassed, Thimeon let go of her hand and looked down at his feet.

  When he looked up, his cousin Theo stood in front of him, and Tienna was walking away. He watched her go. She was clothed in the sleeveless shift and short hunting skirt of her people, much as when he had last seen her. He hoped she had a cloak for the winter mountain weather, but if she did she had taken it off in the warm air inside the caverns. How had she come there? How had Elynna or any of her company found their way under the mountain? In all of the vast wilderness, how had their two companies met?

  The questions passed through his mind, but only briefly. His thoughts and eyes still rested on the Plains huntress. As if for the first time, he noticed how smooth and strong her legs were, and saw the curve of her hips and shoulders in a new light. He forced himself to turn away and look at Theo who stared back at him with a broad grin.

  “She is beautiful, isn’t she?” Theo said as he embraced Thimeon warmly. “But right now you are an even more welcome sight, if you can believe it.”

  Thimeon ignored the latter of Theo’s words. “She is skilled, and courageous,” he admitted as he released him from the embrace.”

  Theo still grinned. “Was it her skill you were admiring just now? Or her courage?”

  Embarrassed, Thimeon changed the subject quickly. “We have much to talk about. I don’t know how we found each other. By accident or good fortune or both. I suppose we’ll find out before long. Whatever the cause, our meeting might have been disastrous. It very nearly was.”

  “She worried about you while you were gone,” Theo went on. “And she looked forward to your return. She thinks highly of you.”

  Thimeon looked down at his feet again. His attempt to change the subject had failed. His heart began to race again.

  “It’s good to have you back.” Theo continued. “We missed your guidance. If you had been with us, maybe things would have gone better.”

  At this Thimeon looked up. The lighthearted jesting was gone. His cousin’s voice held a deep sadness now. “What do you mean?” Thimeon asked.

  Theo met Thimeon’s gaze, then he turned and nodded toward the several members of his company spread around the small area. Thimeon followed Theo’s gaze. He looked again at members of both parties scattered about the floor of the cave, beneath the flickering reflections of the torches. He looked at Elynna, sitting alone with her brother, several yards away from the others, deep sadness in their eyes as their lips took turns moving. He saw the many unfamiliar figures in sheepskin attire. He recognized them as Undeani. There was a story to be told. He saw the tall warrior, too. He was hard to miss, standing alone and still. Thimeon looked again at the three Ceadani from Gale Ceathu, still talking with Cathwain and Gaelim. He remembered all of their gifts. He saw Nahoon and Beth, also, near a younger boy he didn’t recognize. Not one of his former companions looked unscathed. Fresh wounds scarred their limbs and necks, and their faces were drawn with fatigue, hunger, and loss.

  Then he looked again at Cathros, and he finally realized what he was missing. Cathros was there, but not Cane. And Hrevia, without Hruach. Thimeon’s heart fell. He took a mental roll call, and slowly the names of the others who were missing came back to him: Alrew, Kayle, Marti, and Pietr, along with Hruach and Cane. His heart sank even further. Had they abandoned the company? Or were they now named among the fallen? He looked back to Theo and repeated the names aloud, hoping for some answer other than the one he feared.

  “Gone,” Theo replied sadly. “We were ambushed in an Undeani village. Three Daegmons attacked at once, and with them was another creature in human form but wielding power even greater than the Daegmons. The Undeani called him the Gaergaen. Elynna said he was of the same kind as the one who calls himself Koranth. We could not stand against them all. They defeated us in the village, and then—with the aid of Golach and the Undeani war band who betrayed us—they pursued us all the way here.”

  “Poor Hrevia,” Thimeon said, shaking his head. “And Cathros.” He was silent for a time. “Who is the boy?”

  “His name is Keet. It’s an accident he’s with us, though without him maybe we would all have perished on the shores of Uustgond.”

  Thimeon’s thoughts flashed back to his encounter with Borodruin in the caverns beneath Citadel, and words the old scholar and counsellor had shared. “There are no accidents,” he said.

  Theo only shrugged, the sad or hopeless expression still clinging to his face. “He’s Marti’s brother, but Marti now lies with the fallen. So he bears the same grief as Hrevia and Cathros.”

  “And the tall warrior? I’ve never seen anybody like him.”

  “His name is Namha. He is one of the Amanti. The last of the Amanti, or so we believe. He has saved us many times. None of us would have survived had it not been for him, and for the help of the Undeani who came to our aid after we were ambushed.”

  The knot of sorrow in Thimeon’s gut grew tighter. The last? What did that mean? He heard much about the Amanti from Tienna, and even from his own father years early. If they were truly gone—if Namha was the last—that was a loss to all of Gondisle. Yet another story, Thimeon thought. He wondered if he would have the time to hear them all. He wondered if he would have the heart and energy even to listen.

  He looked around more once at the members of this new large company. Some had sat down against the walls, or were now laying on their cloaks or skins, eyes closed, sleep setting in. Even among the many who still spoke, he could see the deep fatigue in their eyes.

  Then Thimeon stiffened suddenly. Amidst all the surprise of this unexpected meeting, compounded by his own injury and healing, and then all the reunions, he had momentary forgotten the very thing that had brought him to the slopes of Illengond in the first place. His sadness turned at once to fear and he clutched the sword that still hung at his side. “Cane?” he asked aloud. He struggled to resist the panic rising within him. Cane was gone. There was nobody to wield this sword. His journey had been for naught.

  Theo merely stood there, shaking his head. “We needed your leadership,” he finally said. “I fear that Cane had grown too proud: too sure of his power. He led us into that ambush, and he was the first to fall.”

  Thimeon buried his head in his hands. He stifled one sob that came up and caught him unaware. All that distance to bring him the sword. And what good would it do now?

  Then another thought struck him, an even more terrifying thought. He remembered also Borodruin’s warning about the Henetos—the stone of power he had once carried himself and then passed on to Cane. It must not be worn by one of the Karsmose, Borodruin had said, sharing words from some ancient tome. It is for those who do not have the powers. For into it comes a power even mightier than all of the gifts: a power from the depths of Mount Illengond itself and from the hand of the All-Maker.

  Days earlier Thimeon had tried to warn Elynna through Cathwain, but Cathwain feared Elynna had not heard. He reached out and held Theo by the shoulder. “When I left you, Cane bore a stone—the stone of power I gave to him. Where is it? We need that. Who carries it now?”

  “That, too, is gone,” Theo replied. “Destroyed. Or so we think. None of us are sure.”

  “It can’t be,” Thimeon moaned. Dismayed, he put his hands to his face. He should not have given the stone to Cane. He knew that. He knew it at the time he did it, or he should have known. How many mistakes had he made already? His head started to spin, and a pounding returned that was worse than before Tienna had healed him.

  “I’m sorry,” Theo said, seeing Thimeon’s distress. “The blame is with us. We failed.”

  “No,” Thimeon replied. “I have failed. Wha
t hope have we now?”

  Taking his leave of Theo, Thimeon stumbled toward the wall where the prince now sat talking with Armas and Jhaban, ready to tell them the devastating news. Just before he reached them, however, he turned away. Why bother inflicting this news on them now? The journey had been in vain. There was no one to wield the sword now. All his choices had gone astray. Even the Henetos was gone. What difference would it make if they knew this now or not? What difference would it make what choices they now made?

  Thimeon found an empty place against the wall, several steps away from any of his companions. He dropped his pack against the wall and slumped to the ground. He put his head down, and almost at once he fell into a deep sleep.

  How much time passed, Thimeon did not know. Just as when he had been in the dungeons of Citadel weeks earlier, no rhythm marked the passing of time—not even a sun by which to judge night and day. He might have slept one hour. He might have slept fifteen. He needed sleep, but hadn’t had it for a long time. It was more than just sleep for a weary body. As he slept, he felt the solemn stillness of the place penetrating his thoughts and his body. He slept too deeply for dreams of concern.

  Thirst woke him. He reached for his water bottle and took a sip. The potency of the drink shocked him. He’d forgotten about the spring where they’d earlier had the drinks and refilled their skins. Though coming out of his skin it didn’t strike him with quite the same sense of weight and sharpness as when he drank right from the rock, it still felt like that one little sip had the same impact as a whole draught of other water might have had. He swallowed one more sip.

  Then he glanced around. Two torches still burned. With all the reflected light, the glow illuminated the whole side of the cavern. Most of his companions slept around him. Some looked as though they would sleep for a long time more. He put his head back down on his cloak. Sleep did not return, however. The water had revived and awakened him. For a long time, then, Thimeon just sat in thought while the torches burned slowly overhead. One at a time, all of the worries, concerns, and failures of the past few days touched his mind. Yet they did not take root. Something else was tugging at him instead.

  Obeying a sudden inexplicable urging, he pulled from his cloak the ancient book Borodruin had given him. He glanced at it, resting in his two hands. He opened to the front page. In the reflected torchlight, he began to read it once again.

  Outside the stream of time,

  before the stars did sing,

  and ’ere the sun took wing

  into the skies to climb.

  Before the moon was pale or blue

  and shone upon the seas.

  Before the grass and trees

  were given shape or hue.

  He came upon the storm,

  breathed substance from his thought.

  Sky and land he wrought

  and gave the earth its form.

  He turned the page and read more.

  In love is breath, All-Maker’s gift,

  and by love’s breath was life begun.

  Patient love. Love that’s swift.

  In love are law and freedom one.

  The opening lines of this poem had come often to his mind since he had first read them somewhere in the Ana notch on his journey from Kreana to Gale Enebe. The words were strangely comforting. Yet he had little idea what the poem was about. In love is breath. What did that mean? How could law and freedom be one?

  He flipped a few pages until his eyes were drawn to a beautiful illustration of Illengond’s triune peak atop the left page. The bowl at the summit was full of cloud, and the drawing gave the illusion of the clouds swirling and moving. Another drawing, of a sapling growing out of what appeared to be a bowl-shaped rock, adorned the middle of the right page. The young tree had only three branches with a single leaf on each. Though the opening letters on several of the poems were elaborately adorned, the mountain and the sapling were among only a few drawings in the book.

  Though the ancient tome and its mythical language had at times left Thimeon feeling distant, the realization that he now sat deep beneath those very peaks gave him a deeper sense of connection to the words. He looked again at the mountain and then read the poem below it.

  In the midst of waters wild and vast,

  The All-Maker founded Illengond.

  Not raised up from the ocean depths,

  But from the sky He set it down.

  Its roots He firmly planted,

  And hallowed by His hand.

  Then round his Holy Mountain

  All-Maker raised the land.

  On this earth He raised up life

  From out of teeming seas –

  life and goodness and delight.

  Then said He, “I am pleased.”

  His children, there he formed

  To join in his delight,

  To drink of water, tend to soil,

  To share All-Maker’s might.

  Dwelling on His holy hill,

  He gave them share in joy and life.

  But life they turned to death

  And joy they turned to grief

  Thimeon remembered reading this poem earlier, with the description of Illengond being dropped down from the heavens into the seasons. Yet though it started in beauty and hope, the poem turned quickly and unexpectedly in those last two lines. He had not liked the poem and had not gone back to it.

  Nonetheless, he read it again now, slowly, letting his lips move with the words. Yet though he sat in the very roots of the mountain described in the poem, the words brought no new wisdom, and no answer to their present situation. He shifted his gaze to the right hand page.

  Death, the great divide, shall make All-Maker bleed,

  But planted like Illengond, His given life shall be the seed

  Whose fruit shall be new unity overcoming history’s strife —

  Whose fruit shall turn death itself once more back to life.

  The drawing of the sapling—or young tree—followed this poem. For the first time, Thimeon noticed some of the similarities between the two drawings. Both had the motif of threes: three peaks in the mountain’s crown, and three branches and leafs on the three. Both also had a sort of bowl.

  Noticing this, however, didn’t tell Thimeon what to make of it. He continued on to the other poem on the bottom of the page.

  The water is the mountain’s blood

  To bleed into the stone and wood.

  Where rebellion makes too great a rift

  That blood spilled shall be His gift,

  Filling up the mountain’s bowl,

  Spilled to make the broken whole.

  The water is the mountain’s blood

  To bleed into the stone and wood.

  In Illengond’s hidden roots

  From the rock grows the shoot,

  By the gifts merged and forged

  to join the gifts in one accord.

  Thimeon couldn’t remember reading this before, perhaps because it made so little sense. Many of the other poems were songs of praise or lament, or they told stories. This was more like a riddle, or even a veiled prophecy. His only hint about its meaning were the references to Illengond and to the gifts. Surely Illengond referred to the holy mountain, the very place where he now found himself, and the gifts referred to the gifts of power. But what did the rest of the song mean?

  He read it again. Then he reread the last two lines. More than ever, in the direness of their present circumstance, Thimeon felt the need for unity, especially among the gifted. Did the “mountain’s bowl” refer to the center of the crown in Illengond’s triune peak? Then what was the mountain’s blood? Did Illengond refer to the river that flowed out of the mountain like blood?

  He had no idea. He sighed. His eyes had grown tired reading by torchlight. He looked around. A few others
had woken. He glanced at their faces, saw his past companions, Bandor and Theo, his new companions Dhan and Armas. He looked at Siyen who fit both categories, or maybe neither. Why was she still with him? A few of the Undeani also stirred. None of them returned his gaze. Most sat alone and stared up at the rock ceiling, or down at their feet, or off into the distance. They were oblivious to him and to what he had read.

  Thimeon looked down one last time at the tome in his hands. A light stirring of air, perhaps moving down a distant tunnel, turned the pages in his hand. He read the words before him.

  No more shall we ache and die.

  All-Maker, upon his throne,

  in love, once more claims his own.

  Daughters, sons, of his will

  shall once more walk on his hill.

  Words of hope, he thought. He had clung to that hope earlier. We wanted to cling to it again.

  A soft voice in Thimeon’s ear made him jump. “They are waiting for you,” the voice said. He had longed for many days to hear that voice again. He turned to see Tienna standing by his shoulder. She sat down beside him and he stared at her. His expression must have revealed his confusion because she repeated herself. “Our companions. They are waiting for you.”

  Thimeon looked around. Nobody seemed to be waiting for him. “Waiting for me? Why?”

  “They need your hope,” Tienna replied. She laid her hand gently on his forearm. “I need your hope.”

  “Hope,” Thimeon whispered. “Yes. But how can I give it? I have so little myself, and what little I have I almost lost when I heard that Cane was dead and the stone destroyed.”

  “That may be, but they are waiting nonetheless. We are waiting. We trust you. Prince Dhan and his men, too. I talked with him while you slept and read. He is a good man. And wise one. He believes in you.” She let her hand slip down his wrist into his hand. He took it in his own and squeezed gently. She smiled and looked down shyly—an uncharacteristic expression for the bold Plains huntress. “Not a day passed after you left that I did not think of you,” she said. “We all did.”