In these eldest of days, of those who dwelt amid that newly won peace along the shore of the great western sea, none grew so esteemed in craftsmanship as Galerain, the son of Sylren and his queen Kavrala. For Galerain was a treasure in the eyes of his parents, and his mood was a joyful one in his early days, devoid of any cloud of darkness. For at the moment of his birth, those beside his divine mother cried out in glory and acclaimed the sight of him. For he was magnificent to behold, splendorous and radiant and his arrival brought further to the happiness of the city, as the first of the Illani born in Aelutea.
In the years of his youth, when he had grown tall and fair indeed, and his hands were in the prime of their delicacy, he was given that which was deemed the most splendid of gifts. For he had only just discovered the pride of creation when wrought a house of honor among the moonlit eaves of Tirmagall. There, he took to wife Mirinal, a daughter of Menmor of the guard. Second only among them to Bellinor Belisar, with whom Galerain’s training in the arts of war was trusted.
To all, Mirinal was comely and dubbed a suitable match, for she was gentle by nature, and steadfast as a stone set in the bowels of the earth. By their union, five sons were born in those early days, and counted as a blessing for the Huldra. Fiery-haired Eaforn first and eldest, and quick after him, Eandris and Eraniel, in lockstep. Coming later was Erefraim and last of all Eregrin, who was but newly come into the world, when began a great many things, yet he remained swaddled close and sleeping with a soft breath, a little bird, kept away from the quaking of the changing world.
Yet often did the household look upon Galerain as though he were a bright lantern set behind glass; beautiful, near at hand, and yet not truly touchable. For even when he sat among them, his mind was ever half elsewhere, and his gaze would stray as though he listened for a voice none other could hear. Galerain loved his craftmaking with a devotion that was near unto worship, and he dealt more intimately with his works than with any living soul. If his sons came near, it was most often to be instructed, to aid him in his making, or to be praised for steady hands, rather than gathered in his arms in any semblance of warmth.
Thus it was that Eaforn, though scarcely grown in his own right, learned early the nature of his father’s affection, and he stood between his brothers and that absence as a stout pillar. He spoke for them when they did not know what words were due; he guided their steps when they would have run too gladly to a father whose eyes were ever inward. To his younger brothers, to Erefraim and Eregrin he became some faint hue of fatherhood. One who they came to devote utter obedience to, and by whose instruction, they came to see clear the image of their father. A figure lofty and aloof, more bound to machinations than to any form of beloved paternity.
Yet the sons of Galerain found their grandfather to be one whose love was given always. For Sylren the king would bend in unkingly grace to hear their child prattle and would set his firm hand to wipe away their tears and comfort them in their perceived abandonment. His laughter was not withheld from them as though it were a treasure to be coveted, for to him they were as fine a treasure as any in the world. So too was his wife Kavrala, their grandmother often dotting, though befitting the grace of she, whose dignity is the dignity of the Aleuai. She consoled them and to them offered many gifts and pleasantries which made her love for them clear. To the care of his wife and sons, Sylren would often command his son, whose temperament was unsuited to it. Thus father and son would oftentimes clash over the perceived indifference of Galerain toward his wife and children.
So, as Galerain’s house was full, there grew in him a yearning for solitude that none could soothe. For the longing that gnawed at him was not for any hearth or any lasting name, but for that which lay beyond shuttered beyond remembrance. Some feeling and image pressed on his mind always and he was made a fading image of paternity by it. For often his feet wandered toward the high places of the city where in highest reverence was kept the Brellakirathen, Ciaran’s chest, and his thought would circle about that holiest of treasures. A sharp longing he felt, for a land to which memory was often elusive, for within, the Iarsma of a world away called, the last substance of the home afar, and the only root that seemed to answer the questions of rootlessness which he felt within.
Even when he returned to his wife and sons, the thought of that presence clung to him like a blanket of fog, and his hands would tighten as though already they grasped at something only he could see. Therefore his heart became affixed on a single desire, and the price of his coming wonder was first paid in the slow withdrawing of his mind from those who dwelt nearest to him. In that growing emptiness he turned at last toward his familiar father, to ask leave for a work that would outshine all his making previously.
One day Galerain came before his father and mother, and he humbled himself before them and spoke,
"There is a weariness in me that thine eyes have seen. For I am as a fruit fallen from a great tree, separated wholly from that which I can see thee loved true. For where then am I to stand if there be no root with which to stand? I ask this, if I am to ask anything of thee in all my days, grant me the Iarsma within the Brellakirathen which father, thine own people did bring into this, the world of my mother. Grant me this, and I will make truly, wonders which will be counted as the greatest of any for all time."
For his gaze had long remained upon that treasure, which held the rock and water of Illan, and he became enamored of them. And Sylren sat in silence for a long while. He bid his son depart for a time so that he might ponder this request. Seven days did Sylren ponder the words of his only son, and at the dimming of the sun on the seventh day, he brought his son before him and spoke.
"That which thee have ask of me has remained upon my mind for these days since. For the skill of thy hands is indeed renowned oh son. I would not yet give thee the stone of thy land, or the waters of thy people, or the gifts of Nahar which we do not speak. You ask a great thing son."
And kneeling before the king his father, Galerain’s gaze shot at once to the floor as he felt for but a moment, the sting of rejection and shame in this venture. But his father continued much to his relief
“So then we shall grant thee thy request. The tongues of Men say that great deeds make great men, therefore I shall indulge thy passion. Just so, shall thee not have an audience in my hall during this endeavor. For great indeed are the words said of the mountain of your smith-work, so there you shall abide before this work is made complete. So depart oh son, depart atop thy mountain of wonder. Take these words as indeed a banishment, though not in any anger that we hold for thee, but in awaiting still the coming of thy wonders.”
And so, Galerain, the prince, was indeed banished by the word of his king, to devote himself fully, to this task he had committed himself. To the sharp cliffs of the mountain far to the north of Tirmagall and just east of the Falatharnen, the girdle of hills which lay beside the great sea. There Galerain trod, for there before he had built a great secluded workshop for himself, and there he made his abode in his exile. For many years, he would toil, for in that place came the roar of thunder by hammer beat, which hereafter in the tongue of the men of that land led to its calling of Toreach.
And as the prince labored, a fire washed around the summit of that place, and it lept out and danced in the crispness of thin wintery air. There in that place oft gathered shepherd men, whose long herding trail brought them at its end to that place. And those Mannish shepherds begun to gather and come in pilgrimage there, to see the great erupting of light upon the clamors of Galerain’s forge. There the fire of the earth reached out to the light of the sky, there in mystery were miracles made. Many wonders indeed were made known to those at Toreach’s base, but of the true mysteries of Galerain’s finest craft, nothing of substance is known.
For to none ever, did Galerain the smith divulge the secrets of his craft and none since have ever come to know the secrets of the creations of Galerain, neither Fae, nor Eutun, nor Man, nor Aleuai above. Yet so by the counting of Men, in the eighty-sixth year of the reign of Sylren of the Crescent Moon as king in Tirmagall, Galerain the prince descended from his mountain.
Part II:
The Heavenly Lights
For Galerain had ascended Toreach quick in step, with a light and delicate touch, ever was he named the son of his mother Kavrala, whose pride in the grace of her son shone out for all to see. Yet upon his return to the city of his father, Galerain appeared in a visage wholly new. Upon his return, his princely hands were raw and red, blackened at a few fingertips as if cauterized. His eyes were sunken, his lungs and fingers seemed plagued by some new ailment that would never again leave him. Thus, though his divinity was once made plain to those around, Galerain the prince was never again one whose visage thereafter struck one of his divine nature.
With him, driven by a chariot of four pearl white horses, was the Brellakirathen, processed through the streets of Tirmagall. Intact it seemed, light itself was to be burst forth. For Galerain arrived in the night, and during this walk to the royal hill, the light issuing forth from the chest of Ciaran was as a new star born under the earth. And at the coming of Galerain, he returned to the city of his birth, and many joyful songs were sung in the carved streets of Lonrach’s city. The Huldra decreed that a great and splendorous festival was to begin, and all would witness the great gift of Galerain to Sylren, his father, and Kavrala, his mother. In every square, the voices of the Huldra rang out with a clamor, for few knew the truth that had seen Galerain given over to the forge atop Toreach, but his return had been cause enough for rejoicing. Greenery and light fell upon every street, and the blue and white banners of the king were laid upon the outer walls.
The fountains of the fair city threw out geysers of water, and was awash in dewdrops, made ever more glamorous behind the darkness of night’s backdrop. There, at once, crystal lanterns were hung all about the streets, and Tirmagall was awash in a twinkling dew of light. All around Eluevenir, the great pathway atop which lay the great hall of Hálmor, played the minstrels and troubadours of the Huldra. There amid the dancing of the crystal stars, dozens of songs rang out for all to hear. Great, bursting ballads of joy they played and sang on and on as a euphoria unlike any seized the hearts of the people. All journeyed in procession atop the hill, to finally see that which was the cause of so much joy, the gifts of Galerain, their returned prince.
And before the unveiling of that treasure within the Brellakirathen, there came about many of the youths of Tirmagall, those who had been born during the long exile of Galerain firstborn. And there they began that which is the Farathenmí, the Dance of the Wind. So did the procession of the youths, clad in green and red robes and veiled in silk, their limbs were adorned in fluttered linen of exquisite craft. There began the music of the dance, and as those before them fell into a reverent quiet, they began. Circling and turning about, there was the dance which is the most sacred of all, performed by the Illani of any line. For the dance recalled the word of Ciaran, who long dwells in Síorocinda beneath the light of Cuinhen. Silent were all, for the only noise to come was the whirling of their veils and their fluttered linen, which sounded in the hall as the gusts of the wind. Those who beheld it felt themselves grow great, and as quickly as it began, it ended with a final whirl, and the Farathenmí ended as all present were amazed at it.
Then there came to be a stillness in the hall, as all eyes lay upon the expression of Galerain the prince, who sat beside his father. The prince’s eyes showed no flicker of realization until, at a moment, Galerain arose and walked gracelessly forth to the Brellakirathen, which lay in holiness amid the centrality of Lonrach’s hall. There were those amid the audience who vied to see for themselves the state of Galerain, their prince, who reached a stricken hand, opening the chest which now poured forth a bright light. Many were astounded at this and rushed with curiosity at that which Galerain beheld to them. And when his hand was raised aloft, that light shone out brilliantly, and where before they rushed forth, now they fell back into a dumfounded wonder at the treasure of the prince’s making.
Galerain’s face was gaunt, and the flickering flame of his eyes was cast by that which he held. In his hand was something beheld in a thin cloth, where once had shone radiant and blinding, now shone with a pure dazzling light that captured the eye and never again let them depart. As large as simple pond stones, as dense as a ship’s anchor, yet when one lifted them, they glided as light as a feather. Color and light did not simply shine out, but all light and all color and sound seemed heightened and drawn to that now between the fingers of the Prince of Toreach. The Laeomena he had deemed them, the “wondrous lights” which sparkled and crackled, the light abound them dancing and ebbing in the air in the tune of some song which the cosmos must have sung long ago. Stunning beyond measure, nothing so graceful has ever dwelt within the wideness of the world before or since.
They held some odd sway upon the Men who saw them, for upon their seeing, the Men of Tirecelion withdrew themselves at the sight of it, and the Men of Grudem dubbed it an ill omen and offering that they would spirit the gems away and throw them into the sea. For this, they were sent away, back to their lands. For these gems were deemed a thing of wonder among the Huldra, and any insult to them one to their race. Five great gems were made, for the five great lords of the Fae long passed, for Rígel the warrior, for Prímh his mother, for Bel the hunter, for Dornan the daring, and for Sylren Lonrach, who sailed the Illani beyond the gate of night and into this their new and much-loved abode.
Thus, Sylren was enamored of them, now deemed the greatest treasures of his house. And he took one in his hand, and there it shone and burst forth in light again, dancing along the high ceiling of vast Hálmor. Yet the eyes of Kavrala, his queen, lay upon her son, and the visage of him was enough to bring the bursting joy of her heart to a quiet murmur. For she felt a mother’s pity for the smothering of Galerain’s bright spirit.
Part III:
The Songbird
At the presenting of the gifts of Galerain the smith, word soon spread beyond the edge of Tirmagall’s gate of the majesty of the prince’s return, and the wonders he had brought and presented to the throne of his father. Such was this tale spread, that far beyond, to the gates of the east, rumor ran rampant of the majesties of the Innrá of the west. First to the mountains of terror, those called the Fist of Krónaðr, which there at its central valley lay the throne of the iron lord, Nidgram King of Balengar begun to hear the murmurs of the light in the west. By the lips and passing gossip of those who had heard tale of the exile and return of Lonrach’s son, the prince of the forge. And at first Nidgram laughed, and his laughter was as loud and booming as a battered drum; for the iron king deemed all talk of the west to be half-truth and half-fantasy, and all wonders of the Illani to be only crafts of veil and effeminate dance. He asked how many lights there were, and what hues, and in what vessel they were borne; and when he was answered, he was not eased, but only made empty, as a man who tastes salt and is made thirstier. And he lay upon this thought in Balengar, and sleep would not take him wholly; for even in the dark, he beheld brightness in the mind, and he rose before dawn with his hands clenched as if he had been robbed
In truth, that day had begun the unraveling of his mind, as behind the eyes of the ironcrowned king, his mind was oft drawn to the image of the fallen and forged stars which now sat beautiful in the halls of the hated invaders, and so Nidgram became wrapped in an envious cloak of his own making. When words returned to his vast and cavernous hall, that again and again spoke of the alluring light far off in the western lands, the pull of his would thought remain there. Often his thought meandered and rested upon that of a smith in the west which had drawn forth such a radiant light, and such a light enchained itself to the thought of the king, such that those retainers and thegns of the mountain beheld their king lost in a spiral of desire to which none could rouse him from. And though proud Nidgram named this not desire, the tale grew and grew upon his mind and was with him always. For when the halls of the mountain throne were emptied, and the braziers beside roared with fire, he saw within their coals that pale reflection of shifting and dancing light which mocked him, and he spit and cursed ever louder.
In the silence, he was left with the burning vision in his mind of westward treasure, and his wroth was painted clear in his mind. For in his heart it seemed that the Illani had set a crown upon their own brows and called themselves masters of their enclosure; and though these treasures lay far beyond spear-reach, they sat within his thought nearer than anything at his side. It was as if the west had cast a hook into him and drawn forth that which he most wished hidden. For in his heart, his desire disgusted him, and it seemed that the pull he felt mocked him, and all knew that none dared mock the Eutun king of the world.
There, Nidgram king set his thought to act upon that desire, and he began to draw forth a vile scheme. Often, he would have sent his great and terrible thegns to ride west in strength and return with spoil, for such was the manner of giants in the elder days. Yet the thought did not sit well upon him; for he perceived, whether by wisdom or by the burning desire which engulfed him, that such a thing could not be taken by open hand and not without waking the whole of the west to wrath.
So it was that in the lands of the Eutunaz, something wicked was brewing. For dispatched not were the great shield bearers of the black fort, but Ranorn the troubadour of Balengar upon a silent steed in the midst of night. Far to the west, she was bidden to go, oathbound to return with the object of her king's desire, or never to return at all. So it was that in the waning of that festival night, long after the Farathenmí had begun the celebrations which engulfed the lands of the Huldra in that time, the hush of wonder still lay upon the streets like a blanket.
There came to Tirmagall a guest unseen in her true form, with a shimmer of disguise seen by all as fair and unnoticed. For the gates of the west were not shut in that hour, and the wardens upon the outer walls were still made gentle by the bursting song and crystal light as the air was thick with a pleasant fog. A thousand lamps were hung in the branches and along the carved ways of the city, and the fine silver fountains cast their mist up into the night. Thus, the city of the Huldra seemed to breathe light and pleasance, and to any who approached, it was as though one sailing into a still sea, beneath an orchestra of stars which flung their light with pride.
From beyond the outer gardens, where the stone path of Eluevenir begins its ascent toward the vast hall of Hálmor, there came a maiden with a harp at her side, and her cloak was dark green. Her hair was long and coal-black, bound in the Mainar manner with a narrow fabric band tied in a fine knot, concealed beneath her raven-hair. Lightly and fair in stride, her step made no sound, as the stones beneath were wet with the fountain-mist, which made all sound in the city dulled. Yet her eyes, if one had looked closely, were too large, and the whites of them were tinged as with the red of an old wound; but in the jovialities of that night, none thought to look at the oddities, nor feel the pull to tend to those they did not know. For all were turned inward, to their own merrymaking, as the Fae remained beguiled in an unceasing ring of joy and wonder at the treasures of the fair city and the return of the fair prince.
At the outer gate, the songbird bowed low and spoke in a lavish tongue as any wandering singer might. Her voice was sweet and clear, elegant and refined, leaving behind all embers of harshness.
“Hail, oh fair city, I have come with song, to see the treasures which have burst my heart into passion, and to make greater still, the celebrations of thy prince’s making. I have heard tell of the light of Tirmagall, and I would lay my music beneath the roof of Lonrach, that I may praise what is worthy and go hence blessed back to the lands of his brother-king. I ask if guest-right be given, for one who comes from the lands of the south, where the grove throne sends one to make known the well-wishing there.”
She spoke with the charm of a merchant, with lavish praise and humble visage, hiding a snake’s glare at those who thought themselves and their own safe from all evil deed. So the guardsmen of the wall, who had been set there to keep the night in a modicum of order, looked upon her and were convinced of her words easily; for she asked nothing not easily given and in the manner of a servant, though one among them likely felt a prickle of doubt, as when a wind shifts and brings the scent of rot into a garden. Yet dared deny guest-right upon the night of festival, when offered song was held as holy as any scripture in the lands of Aelutea.
“Enter,” they said in passing, “be welcome; for beneath the roof of Hálmor no guest is harmed, nor turned away hungry. Yet keep thy hands clean, and thy heart clean, for thou goest into the king’s hall now, not the grassy palace of thy rebel folk.”
So, she passed through the gate, and the guards made no note of her, none marking the mist of the night as it drew after her with a wicked hand, as she quickly glided to her destination. None marked that the lantern-light wavered faintly, and a fox walked amid a hen’s house.
Upward she went along the path, where are carved in stone, leaf and wave, and the names of old now lost behind in Illan and upon the vast sea. On either side, the drooping elm trees of the garden way leaned and sounded out with a groan, laden with strung lamps, fruit garnishes, and the boughs which bore shining crystal globes casting their pale light upon the hair of the songbird as she rose quick to soon greet the watchers who stood in vigil beside the entrance to Hálmor. Those who wandered the streets below, amid the afterglow of wonder, saw on high as she made her lonely passage to the center of the city. Those who saw her shouted out with glee, drunken and stumbling as they were. For many singers had come that night, many who had brought greater joy and rhythm to the joys of the Fae in that time. Many minstrel’s voices sought to capture the glory of those gifts set aside by Galerain in the center of that hall, perched atop a pedestal of his making. Thus, a further intensity to the joys and celebrations which lay as a cloud below, had been at their highest in the hall of the king.
Ranorn came quiet, sliding past the doorway of the hall and far from the high steps of the throne of Lonrach. There the hall of Hálmor stood in its fairest, the carven pillars ornate with banners, flags, tapestries, and draperies of many colors both vibrant and dull. The doors swung hard closed and were carved with the image of the Great Immram, the landing upon the western shore which felt as a distant and pained memory to those joyous partygoers who had long forgotten their woes and worries. Within the central concourse, clamor of the revels had softened into quiet and tender. The cups were lazily drank, and the voices within had fallen from clamor into murmured awe and comfort; for the Laeomena lay there still, and though they had been shown, and honored, and named, none could look upon them any longer without feeling the world grow strange as spirits and liquors did their work, dulling the minds and simplifying all desire.
There sat Lonrach upon his throne, and beside him Kavrala his queen, whose form was lit by the hues of the moon, cast down into the hall by an opening upon the central ceiling. There the forms of the king and queen were obscured, given to the wondering of the mind. The queen’s gaze was clear and deep as a still pool. Galerain, the Prince of Toreach, stood not far beneath, the pains and empty feeling within him cast off for a moment and made a future burden. Though his face was gaunt, he still beamed with pride and though his eyes still did not shine as they once did, they were alight again. Yet upon him rested that solemn quiet which comes upon those who committed themselves to a great deed and expended all that they are in it.
When the maiden singer was brought before the throne, she prostrated herself low, and her wine-dark hair fell like a curtain, her fingers touched the stone in reverence as she spoke with a quick and measured voice.
“O Lonrach,” she said, “O Lady of the Moon, grant me leave to lay a small song beneath thy roof. For I have heard whispers of tamed stars, and light drawn forth after long exile. I would not depart from thy fair city without setting my voice to honor the work of thy prince.”
Then Sylren looked upon the troubadour with a king’s courtesy, and he nodded; for like all, he was still in the warmth of that night, and the city was bursting full of blessing, and the decorum of honors and elaborate courtesies were long since behind him, not since his days with the man Ceior had the king felt such an ease and comfort.
“Sing,” he said with a grin ear to ear. “Let no worthy praise be withheld upon this night.”
But the eyes of his queen did not soften. She watched the singer as one watches the sea when it retreats from the shore, and a faint line of doom lies upon the horizon. She did not speak; yet her gaze was piercing upon Ranorn’s mind and upon her hands, and upon the band about her brow.
Ranorn with an uneasy hand, gathered to herself, her harp, and the hall came to a sudden stillness as they watched and listened. She began softly, not with the heavy notes of triumph, nor with the bright leaps of dance, but with a tone that was almost prayer, like a soft wind moving through reeds along a riverbank. As she sang, her words were fair, and in them there was no hint of poison. Indeed, if any could have read her heart in that hour, they would have found that her praise was not wholly feigned. For the gems before her were of such majestic, of such beauty that not a thing could one do but behold and remain reverent before them. Even the thief felt in that time, a gnawing urge to immerse herself in the worship of the gems whose possession lay at her center, and it gnawed at her craft like a gentle fire: to praise truly what one intends to profane.
“Five lights,” she sang, “and each a dawn unbound, Not kindled by the sky, but drawn from the deep; Fire that is cold in hand, warm in mind, The sun's forgotten height, resteth in the lap of the West.
Son of moon and sundered sea, hast taken exile and made a crown; Taken grief and made a jewel, Thy people look and are made greater, For eyes have found a thing too fair to be seen.”
As she sang, many in the hall felt warm tears fall. The swaying and dimming lamps overhead made the still air within far stiller, thickened with a warmth that let eyes droop. Those who had been dancing and rejoicing all day felt the aching and weariness of their bodies, and the ease of it made them willing to yield. For cast upon them was a strange thing: a people who have held wonder too long, their hearts grow sore with it, and rest becomes a desire stronger than duty.
As the songbird’s elegy drifted on and on, with a harp’s ease and beauty, music drifted like a warm blanket. Her song upon them felt as one lays a blanket upon a child who has wept himself tired. And the refrain she wove was of dreamless peace.
“To you,” she sang, “I would offer a sleep so deep, A dreamless rest, forevermore. For to awaken brings only horror.”
At that last line, her voice softened into a cadence that matched the slow beating of the hall. The crackle of braziers, the far-off hush of fountains, and the lingering sighs of those who had beheld the gems became a quiet mass. And one by one, heads bowed. Fingers loosened their grip upon cups. A steward leaned against a pillar and did not move again. Bellinor Belisar, who had stood all night with his hand upon his sword, felt his arm fall slack and found it no serious a dereliction of duty.
Part IV:
The Thief in the Night
Yet the queen did not sleep.
Kavrala, whom all within paid homage to as one of the High Ones, whose word brought forth law and whose visage could become wrathful and terrible to behold. Yet the lady of the moon did not bring forth any terror, but a tender word, quiet as one who speaks to keep a house from waking.
“Thy song is fair,” she said, “and yet I see that thy heart betrays any fairness.”
And the face of the songbird ran cold, but her fingers did not falter in plucking the strings of her harp. Yet within, her chest began to tighten, and her heart felt an unease. For the queen’s gaze did not move now, and felt as though a hand had grasped her throat. Still on, she kept her melody flowing, but no words poured forth. Still, she kept the melody flowing, as if it were her only shield.
“O Lady,” she whispered sheepishly, “is it a crime to sing of sleep, when thy people are made weary with so much joy?”
“No crime,” the queen said curtly, “Yet thy offered rest is too perfect. It falls too evenly and spares thee alone.”
At that Ranorn’s eyes flickered, and the glamour that lay upon her face trembled like a thin cloth in the wind. For a moment, no longer than a blink, the great wrongness in her was seen clear: the red tinge about the whites of her eyes, and the hunger behind the smile. Then she steadied it, and those who grasped sleep within the hall were made none the wiser.
Kavrala stepped nearer. The grace in her step startled none, yet the eyes of the songbird matched them, and with each movement seemed to threaten the plucked melody, keeping the hall in a stupor. The presented gems lay not far, set upon a low pillar, presented before the throne, each in their own crafted set piece, so that their hues might be beheld by all, and so that the names of the old lords might be spoken over them. Even wrapped in reverence, they cast a lulling pull, and the air about them seemed to hum quietly.
“I have no power to throw thee out,” said Kavrala, “until thy hands are proven foul. I will not strike thee beneath my roof without cause, for I will not stain my son’s triumph with unlawful wrath. But if thou art what I deem thee to be, then thou walks on a knife-edge.”
Ranorn held her gaze a heartbeat. Then she smiled, small, almost sorrowful.
“Lady,” she said, “thy words are a riddle to my ear, for I know nothing and see nothing of what is spoken.”
And she sang on.
The hall was now deep in stillness. Only the braziers moved, and the fountains far below, and the songbird’s voice. Kavrala stood as stone, watching, and her hand tightened upon the edge of her mantle, for she felt two duties at war within her: to guard the sacred, and to keep sacred the law. If she cried out and shattered that magic stillness, those asleep would awake in fear, and fear would do harm with so many blades to be grasped nearby. If she seized the singer, she would break the holiest of dues, in the night of her husband and his people’s great joy.
So, she waited, grim and stoic, until the instant when waiting would become guilt.
And that instant came.
For Ranorn’s song shifted. Not in volume, nor in tempo, but in intention as if a current turned beneath a calm surface. The last sound of a plucked string fell, and in the space between its fading and the hall’s breath, Ranorn stepped swiftly forward, too heavy for one whom she presented as, a minstrel of the south, of the Mainar. In a flash, her fingers reached toward the nearest of the Laeomena.
The lady Kavrala did not move.
The gems did not stir from their place. They lay as they had been laid, upon the low cloth-topped column before the throne, and too bright for the mind to bear. In that instant, the hues emanating from them seemed sharpened, as a blade seems sharper when it is pressed against a throat. For the lull which had softened the minds of all within the hall became at once a sounding within, like the ringing of a great bell at the approach of midnight. And Ranorn felt the weight of eyes waking from a terrible nightmare. One step she took, quick and long, and in that step, she crossed the threshold and came upon the summit of the pillar atop which lay the crafts of Galerain. By the crossing of that accord made by the magics of Kavrala, a sacred keeping dashed, for whosoever beloved who crossed that path, stepped unbidden upon the offerings of the prince of Toreach. Yet the queen did not cry out, nor did she arouse any from their waking dream.
Yet the lady of the moon’s eyes stiffened and narrowed upon the air between where the songbird now stood. There lay proof of guest-right, attached at the side of the Aleuai, for that law was laid upon the world by the kin of Kavrala when the world was young. Then it was decreed that beneath roofs, sanctuary was offered, and oaths bound any wrath. Therefore, she who had aided in the setting of the law was bound tightest of all by it, far more than any who lay asleep upon the floor. The thief’s fingers hovered a heartbeat above the gems, and then swiftly, they closed and enveloped them.
Pain struck as lightning, no voice rose from her, but the clenching of her jaw was all that kept the silence of the hall alive. And in the fierceness of her restraint, her teeth met the flesh of her singer’s tongue and burst forth a fountain of blood which ran down her mouth and upon her throat. She did not scream, yet every sound was swallowed with a taste of warm iron, and the hall’s stillness was retained. Yet the skin of her fingers ran red and darkened, as if pressed into a roaring hearth, as if grasping between a burning star. And the craft of Nidgram her lord was quickly revealed, a cloth hidden beneath her cloak was drawn, shaped, and glimmering in the manner of her guise, shifting and strange, as if it drank from the gems their light and softened them. Quickly and tightly, she wrapped the gems within the binding and folds.
Then the lady Kavrala moved.
Her hand shot out and wrapped around Ranorn’s wrist, as cold as winter and as firm as the tightest iron shackles. And her voice became low and terrible, as it fell upon the sleeping hall.
“Now,” she said with a mother’s chagrin, “have thee broken that which was given.”
And at that word, the name of her crime was made known, and Ranorn’s visage shuddered under the power of one of the High Ones. In a blink, the wrongness with which she had previously stood was unveiled, and the foggy hunger behind her wide eyes was made clear. And as she strained and fought against the grip of the queen, she hissed beneath her breath, not in the tongue of the Illani, but in the harsh speech of the Eutunaz, a curse found only in the iron cage of the ashen lands of the east, words unfit for the hall of Hálmor. At once, the hand of the queen relented, tossing the thief down as her heart went cold; for the scent of Balengar had now been sniffed.
With desperate strength, each of the Laeomena were wrapped within the binds crafted by Nidgram king, and each touch seared the songbird anew. With a solemn hand, the queen marked the thief, by the blood upon her dripping chin, the whole world would know of this deed for what it was, the vilest of theft.
“Go then,” the queen whispered, in the grimness of a sorceress of marvelous power. “Carry thy theft, carry thy wretched deed forever, curse thee and thy master, for by valor will this sin be undone, and a time of strife, the price paid for the evils of the world.”
The songbird fled by the servant’s ways, bursting from the door of the grand hall and down the spiraling elm stair path, to the gateway of the city in a feverous scramble. At the gate, her black steed awaited and took her as she rode into the dark beyond Tirmagall’s shining lanterns. The wrapped gems clutched tight at her breast felt more and more as searing coals and tortured her as she fled in a maddened dash.
When dawn came, it came unlooked for. Those asleep woke with salt on their tongues and an aching in their minds, none could name why, but before they had learned, they had known that something vile had been committed that night. In the hall of Hálmor, Lonrach awoke as from a troubled dream, and for a heartbeat, he did not know what was missing. Then his gaze fell to the column and found it bare.
A murmur stirred, first of disbelief, then of anger, and some spoke the name of Thallan and assigned this treachery to him in their haste. For the thief had worn a band of the Mainar and had spoken of the king’s brother. But Kavrala’s voice cut through that rumor like sunlight through fog.
“No,” she said. “This one came not from the grove throne of the south. I heard the East’s cursing upon her tongue.”
The queen stepped to the empty place and laid her palm upon the bare stone. “The laws of the world have been broken,” she pronounced softly, and the softness was more dreadful than shouting. “And by this law it must be answered, lest all roofs become prey to evil thievery.”
When the king looked upon the bare pedestal where the Laeomena had lain, something within him closed. Whatever joy sprung by life and the festival of light fell away like a torn banner, and in its place, the hollowness of hate. Older than any song, more ruinous than any doom, Lonrach stood beside the site of that theft, and his heart was lit only by a ruinous rage. Galerain, the prince, stood beside his father and stared at the emptiness before him, and then deep into trembling hands which once touched the awoken fire that he had crafted, his mind turning on him, sealing his fate in an age to come.
Thus were the gems of Galerain taken, and the honor of the Huldra profaned, stolen beneath their sacred roof. And so by it, the road of war was swiftly paved, and covered the land of Tirmagall in its winding weave of doom.
