Luthiel's Song: Dreams of the Ringed Vale Read online

  Her terror became panic.

  What if I can’t leave this place? she wondered. Finally, in desperation, she scrunched her eyes and held her breath, struggling to stop singing.

  For what seemed like a long time, nothing happened. She struggled and struggled. All the while the day about her seemed to be growing colder as the light faded into grays and browns.

  Then, she drew a great breath of air and the silver light suddenly faded, melting back into the Stone from which it had sprung. When the light was gone, so too was the shadow. Everything looked normal once more. But a terrible cold had fallen over her and she trembled.

  Quickly, she stuffed the Stone back into her pouch.

  “Leowin! What have you given me!” she cried as she fumbled with the strings. If only Leowin hadn’t given her the Stone! If only the Blade Dancer hadn’t come! And, not for the last time, Luthiel wished it was all some nightmare that she’d wake up from on a beautiful, normal, First Summer’s Eve morning.

  She peered at the western sky afraid that the cold and the dark would return. She cowered on the ground for a few moments longer, and then forced herself to stand. What if Vane and Marl were hunting her? She needed to keep moving. So she turned left and ran west beside the river Rendalas.

  It was then that she realized it was no longer morning. Soelee hung in the western sky, about four hours away from setting. Of course! She’d reached the river. It was at least twenty miles from Flir Light. And she’d run almost the entire way.

  But she didn’t feel tired. There was no ache in her muscles nor thirst in her throat to signal that she’d exerted herself all morning and part of the afternoon. Even though she wasn’t hungry, she forced herself to sit down and have a bite to eat.

  Race to the Vale

  Luthiel settled beside a massive old tree. Unshouldering her pack, she pulled out one of the water gourds and emptied it. She bit into an almorah cake and held it in her mouth while rummaging through her pack. Other than looking at maps, she knew nothing of the lands surrounding the Vale.

  Pulling out the map, she unrolled it, orienting it north to south as Glendoras had taught her. She studied it, occasionally looking up to peer at the surrounding countryside. Finally, she thought she was able to find where she was.

  “There,” she said, placing her finger on the spot. Her best guess was that one hundred miles lay between her and the Vale. She traced her finger over a blue line on the map—the river Rendalas. It wound like a watery highway straight into the Vale.

  “Just like Vanye said. But what’s along the way?” She peered intently at the map hoping that at least the journey to the Vale would be simple.

  The river flowed through mostly flat, uninhabited, woodlands before it fell into rapids as it crested the rocky hills called the Mounds of Losing. There it finally plunged over Withy Wraith falls. The falls spilled into the Miruvoir—a large lake at the heart of the Vale of Mists.

  But her finger stopped at a bend in the river. There, plainly marked on the map a dwelling labeled—Sorcerer’s House—overlooked the Rendalas on a high bank some twenty-five miles from the Vale.

  “What’s this?” she asked herself, straining to remember anything.

  “He’s an old sorcerer,” her sister had said. “Older even than Elag, if the rumors are true. And it is also rumored that he likes to be left alone and that his house is tended by goblins, almost as old and wicked as he.”

  “Doesn’t he have a name?” Luthiel had asked.

  “Not one he’s giving out freely. Sure there are rumors—a retired teacher from Tirnagûl, one who was kicked out on bad behavior long ago. That’s what people say. I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”

  For a moment, she thought about crossing the river to avoid the sorcerer’s house. But the nearest ford was more than twenty miles upriver.

  She didn’t have much time—the werewolf Othalas was coming for Leowin. A normal wolf could cover the distance from the Vale to Flir Light within a single night. Othalas was no normal wolf. If the tales were to be believed, he stood as tall as a horse. He was probably able to run the same distance in half the time. Sometimes Othalas arrived mere days after the Chosen was named and once he made it to the Chosen before the Blade Dancer messenger was able to come with the news. But for some reason—perhaps a grim sense of courtesy—it normally took about a week. She hoped she had that much time.

  She pored over the map, worried. Since she didn’t know when Othalas would start out, she decided to give herself no more than five days, including today, to reach Withy Wraith falls. That gave her one more day to search for the Vyrl. One day. She hoped it was enough. The Vale was large—about twenty miles end to end and ten or so top to bottom and it was always in a constant fog.

  “How am I going to find anything in there?” she asked herself. “I’ll be lucky if I can just make it in and out alive.”

  Luthiel stared at the map a moment longer and then shook her head.

  “I’ve got to stop thinking like this.” With a sweep of her hand she rolled it up and stuffed it back in her pack. “Worry about it in six days.”

  It left her with little time to be overcautious about sorcerers.

  Luthiel sighed. “So it’s going to be a race then, a race between me and the werewolf Othalas.” The only thing she had going for her was Othalas didn’t know he was in a race yet.

  Looking up at bright yellow Soelee riding the mid afternoon sky and Orin’s Eye, white with blue lashes, behind, she suddenly felt tiny and insignificant. In that moment, a desolation settled over her heart and she was afraid.

  “Why must people be sent to the Vale of Mists?” she lamented. “I surely don’t want to go and be food for a Vyrl.”

  She wanted to talk to someone, to at least feel the comfort of a hand on her shoulder, or better, melt into a reassuring embrace. She felt like a soldier who volunteers to fight in an impossible war if only to protect someone she loves.

  Leowin.

  “Remember why you’re here, Luthiel,” she said to herself.

  She forced herself to stop worrying about the Vyrl and the Vale of Mists. Instead, she packed up her things, took another drink from the water gourd, and started jogging.

  Determined to beat the wolf, Luthiel pushed herself. Muscles straining, her fear for herself became distant. She thought only of Leowin imagining that, even now, the great wolf was bearing down on Flir Light Hollow. With these thoughts, a strange sense of doom settled upon her. A part of her—a grim, hard, part that, before now, she hadn’t thought existed—stared straight into the teeth of what lay before her and accepted it.

  I cannot change what will happen, she thought. I can only change how I act in the face of it. So she ran onward, for the moment, untouched.

  The river flowed along beside her as she ran. She had the odd sensation that its current pulled her.

  As the day wound on, the river entered a wetland and she had to pick her way carefully through a marshy place. The river had tossed rocks and boulders up on its banks and she was able to make her way easily through the shallows or across slick beds of pebbles. She was careful to keep a watchful eye out for the packs of wild Urkharim that roamed the wilderness of the Minonowe. Though less frequently than in their home forest of Ashiroth, the giant wolves sometimes ranged this far south as they hunted. During the spring, they could be found on the far bank searching the shallows for fish spawning in the river. Once, she saw a lone Urkharim watching her from the far bank. But the river was wide and too swift for even the great wolves to cross. After she passed the wolf, she was glad she hadn’t given in to her fear of sorcerers.

  Possessed of a frantic energy, Luthiel continued long into evening and three moons had risen by the time she finally stopped to rest. She found a great old tree and clambered up among his boughs. There she made her camp. Two other trees grew beside him and his branches spread wide and low—providing her with many paths for escape, should she need them. After a quick meal, she collapsed into her bedr
oll and was soon fast asleep.

  She woke up once during the night, troubled by a dream of the shadow in the sky and a sound like the cold cry of wolves in wintertime. When she broke from sleep, she sat upright and trembled with chills. Even though the night was warm, she drew her blankets close about her. For a time, she stared into the western sky, fearing that the dark would come again. After a while, though, the sensation passed and she fell, once more, into deep sleep.

  She awoke before first light and continued at a fast pace. Morning dawned gray and dreary. Soon a steady rain was falling. She hung a wind charm from her hat to keep the rain off, but it blew sideways into her or splashed up from puddles on her path. Soon she was damp and cold. Her sense of doom deepened.

  She wondered if the elves of Flir Light had sent anyone after her or if her family was, even now, following her trail. It was enough to make her quicken her pace. She even took a long leafy branch with her and used it, from time to time, to brush out her tracks.

  Am I doing this right? she would wonder as she swept the ground.

  But her determination of the day before faded and her efforts were half-hearted. She’d grown so lonely and homesick that not an hour passed that she didn’t think of turning back.

  “Oh, curse this weather!” she would say in a moment of annoyance and think longingly of mother Winowe’s tea kettle singing or of a hot bath in their Fae Holme’s rock basin. The rain, which she thought at first might help clean the dirt off, only seemed to soak the grime into her skin.

  By the time the day ended, Luthiel was wet, dirty, and exhausted. Only two days had passed and the worst of it was still ahead of her.

  The land steadily rose into shallow banks even as the river cut lower. These banks were mostly rock and pebble. Boulders were strewn on both sides. The hills were topped with trees and here and there she saw small clusters of Fae Holmes twinkling in the distance. For a while, she thought longingly of approaching one of these settlements and begging shelter for the night but she was afraid of what they might ask her or of what word they might send to those in Flir Light once she left. So she found another tree and with her wind-charms was able to make for herself a somewhat dry spot among its branches. Luthiel even attempted a small fire, but the twigs were too damp and wouldn’t hold a spark. She thought jealously of Lorethain and his talent. If only she could conjure a small flame, then she might eke some comfort out of this desolate place! But if she possessed any sorcerous gifts they remained unknown to her, and so she tried her best to sleep, soaked though she was.

  The next day dawned warm with Soelee and Oerin’s eye burning off the cloud cover and drizzle. Soon, Luthiel was dry and her mood rose a bit. Flowers hung over the river and a few dropped into the flood making a petaled pathway through its many swirls and eddies. Fish played and jumped and she managed to catch one in the shallows. She even took the time to make it into a nice lunch before continuing on.

  The warmth and food cheered her a little but Luthiel felt, in her heart, a growing dread for what lay before her. As she jogged she wondered about Vane, Marl and Elag. She never understood why they had taken such a dislike to her. What had she done to earn it? Sure, there was that time in Elag’s garden, but she didn’t understand the malice. What confounded her most was that they were so well respected. Or maybe she was mistaking respect for fear?

  Beneath it all was a growing curiosity for what she had seen in the light of the Stone. And horrible though he was, a part of her felt saddened for Marl. She wondered what it would be like to live with the constant stabs of pain; her own bones made out to hurt her. Where Marl made her sad, Vane puzzled her—the way he’d seemed to harden under the Stone’s light.

  What did it mean? And what was she seeing? She wished Leowin was here to answer her questions. Leowin would know.

  As she continued, the land became darker, wilder. The hills to either side of the river continued to gradually rise and the sparse settlements gave way to ruins of stone castles and towers that seemed to her dark and wicked. The sorcerer’s house was only a day’s journey away from her now. It was the last dwelling between her and the Vale. She became more alert, staying out of the open places near the river, careful to leave no trace for it was rumored that foul things had gathered here away from the lights and singing of the elves.

  Finally, in the late night, Luthiel stopped and made camp among the boughs of a grandfather tree. The stars shone bright through his branches and there was only a sliver of moon in the sky. Even though she was very tired, she had difficulty sleeping. A hundred eyes seemed to stare up at her from the darkness. Some were clearly animal but others seemed oddly elfin except for a faint green glowing and an almost insect-like roundness. When these passed, she would hear a soft clicking sound. An unexplained fear would fall upon her and she would draw her blankets close about her in spite of the early summer warmth. How could people sleep easy when there were such strange things in the world? She lay awake for a time staring out into the woodlands, watching the eyes as they passed beneath her. By the time she finally drifted off it was completely dark, even the sliver of moon had set.

  The next morning dawned much the same as the day before but there seemed to be a heavy charge in the air. Warm winds blew up from the south and she sniffed them wondering if a storm was brewing.

  But the sky stayed clear long into the day. With the wind in her face she made good time.

  The Sorceror’s House

  It was early evening when Luthiel came within sight of the old house. High swooping eves overlooked a wide bend in the river and round windows twinkled with the light of Soelee as it set. A long stairway led from a pair of big, red-painted, doors all the way down to a stone landing that met the river at its bend. On either side of the landing stood two trees and from their branches hung flir bug bulbs. At its center sat a brown-haired man.

  He wore robes of light blue and in his hand he held a fishing pole. His dark hair was long and flowing and a beard grew on his face. His head was nodded, his body hunched, the pole limp in his hand. His eyes were closed beneath thick brows that bristled like flame. From where she stood, she could hear the soft sound of his snoring.

  She stood there for a moment, uncertain what to do next. Could it be the sorcerer? He didn’t look threatening. He didn’t even look like an elf. Maybe it was a servant. But something in his features—both youthful and yet seeming to carry the weight of a great many years—made her doubt it. She could just slink by, quiet feet on the stone, and he’d never know.

  So she took a breath and started out, moving silently on the balls of her feet. She crossed the distance to him fast and was nearly past him when suddenly the line on his rod went taught. With a snort, he awoke and fumbled with his pole, almost dropping it.

  Startled, she crouched down, hoping he wouldn’t see her, cursing herself for not crossing further up the path where she wouldn’t be so close.

  “Thought you’d steal the bait with me napping, did you!” he cried then gave the pole a yank. “Oh-ho, no!” and with another tug a fish easily as long as her arm came sailing from the water. With a smack it landed on the quay flapping its broad tail back and forth. “Who’s the crafty one now?” the man chuckled as he chased the flopping fish. “Would you mind lending a hand here?” he said to her without even looking. She stared at him in surprise.

  Did he know I was here all along? she asked herself.

  “Well, don’t just squat there like a frog on a lily pad!” he cried as he struggled to hold the fish.

  Shocked, she stumbled forward and grabbed it.

  “Ahh, that’s much better,” he said after he’d removed the hook. “Now just look at her—beautiful.” He held the great fish before him reverently.

  Then, to Luthiel’s surprise, he walked to the edge of the quay, leaned over, and gently slid it back into the water. With a great swish of her tail, she was gone.

  “You let it go!” she said despite herself.

  “Of course I let her go! What else wo
uld you have me do?”

  “Well, you could eat it.”

  “Eat it! And waste the best fish in the entire river! Monstrous!”

  “But that fish could feed five!”

  “There are other things to feed than just your belly and there are other things to catch, than just a meal, Luthiel Valshae.”

  “How did you—?”

  “How did I know your name? How could I not? Just four days ago you sang it loud for all who have ears to hear such things. Not all are as friendly as I. But let us eat first, before we speak. All your talk of meals has made me hungry and I could eat as much as five men! Fishing makes you hungry. Come, follow me, what I have is better than fish!” He turned to walk up the stairs.

  Listening to him, she hadn’t a doubt that he was the sorcerer. She hesitated, suddenly unsure of this man and cast her gaze toward the river. She could run now and he would have little chance of stopping her. But just as she was about to spring away he spoke again.

  “If you wish to leave, go along. But be careful! For snares far more cunning than fisherman’s hooks are laid across your path. Those that tend them are far crueler than I. No, they don’t let anything go once they catch it.”

  She stopped in mid-stride. “What do you mean?”

  He looked her straight in the eye and there was such an intensity about him that she took a step back.

  “Just what I said,” he replied. Then he seemed to brighten and he smiled. “Do you like cheese? I have the finest cheese in all the Minonowe and bread and honey from its best bees! You’ve traveled hard. Rest for a while and then we’ll speak of such things, as we must. But for now I’m offering you some good cheer—take it if you like!” With that, he sprang up the stairs and she was left with the choice to leave or to follow.