The Tide of Unmaking, page 24
part #3 of Berinfell Prophesies Series
Taeva opened the door to her quarters. “Well…hello,” she said, the words welcoming but wary. “What brings…uh, everyone here at this time of night?”
Tommy stepped forward and said, “We’re sorry about the hour, but there is a matter we should discuss before we depart for Appleheart Village in the morning. Will you come?”
“I feel like I am back at the academy,” Taeva replied, “and I’ve been sent to the headmaster’s office. Am I in some kind of trouble?”
“Far from it,” Tommy said.
“You WHAT?” Taeva asked, stepping backward and resting an arm on the throne. “Is this some kind of jest?”
“Elves do have a rather warped sense of humor,” Tommy said, “but, Princess Taeva, we couldn’t be more serious. So much has happened in the past few months. Our minds are all spinning. But as we looked at the most recent events, we began to see threads coming together.”
“Yu showin’ oop here was a big one,” Jimmy said.
“The way we worked together in battle was another,” Johnny said.
“The fact that you have a gift that ordinary Allyrans don’t have,” Tommy said.
“My power is no different than yours,” Taeva said.
“That’s just it,” Tommy said. “We believe that Ellos has given you this gift to become a new Lord of Berinfell.”
“The new prophecy means we need to be Seven again,” Johnny said.
Taeva’s expression softened from shock to confusion. “And you think I’m your new Seventh Lord? But I am Taladrim.”
“With all due respect,” Tommy said gently, “Taladair is—”
Kat broke in. “What Lord Felheart means to say is that we respect your kingdom and your position within it. If we can turn back the Tide, and you should want to rebuild your city, of course, you would be free to do so and with all the might of the Elves behind you.”
Taeva blinked and her eyes met Tommy’s for a moment. Then, she looked away and walked slowly behind the ornate seat that might be hers. Taeva had known royalty her entire life. She had grown up with the expectation that, one day, she would rule the Taladrim nation and wield the power of that position. But now, the hallowed Lords of Berinfell had come to offer her a place high above the throne of Taladair. This was an offer of nearly matchless power, prestige and dominion. She recalled a similar offer from another but shook the memory away. This was different.
In all her plotting, in all her designs, Taeva never once dreamed that she could be put in such an advantageous position. But was that all it was…an advantage? Tommy, Jimmy, Johnny and Kat—especially Kat—had welcomed Taeva as a friend, something she had never genuinely had before.
“There is one…issue,” Tommy said. “You must be at least part Elven by birth.”
Taeva attempted a thoughtful expression but inwardly she felt a spreading, icy cold. How much could she tell them? She had to answer them now. A delay would be seen as dishonesty.
“I am half Elven,” Taeva said. “My mother was full Elven from the tribes of the far east.”
“I knew it,” Jimmy said.
“Cool,” Johnny added.
“Grimwarden was right,” Tommy said. “Will you join us then, Taeva? Fight by our side, defend Berinfell and all of Allyra?”
Tell them everything, Taeva’s conscience demanded. Tell them right now, or don’t accept this invitation. But there was another voice, a voice of fear that warned her of what her newfound friends might think…and no longer count themselves her friends. Should they know the truth.
Taeva raised her eyes, then replied, “I would be honored.”
After sprinting throughout Berinfell, Tommy finally found Grimwarden in the Sun Chamber near the Aviary where the raptors were kept and cared for. The Guardmaster sat on a low mantle of stone near one of the Aviary’s many fountains. He was with a flet soldier Tommy hadn’t seen before.
“Guardmaster!” Tommy called. “I have grand tidings. Princess Taeva is indeed part Elven and she has agreed to become the Seventh Lord of Berinfell. The Seven will be Seven again! We must alert the herald and sound a clarion call for all Berinfell to know. And…” Tommy’s words trailed off to nothing as he drew near enough to Grimwarden to see his pained expression.
“The heralds will have to wait, I’m afraid,” Grimwarden said. “Tommy, this is Irethor.”
Irethor stood and bowed low. Tommy returned the gesture with a nod.
“He is one of the scouts we sent out,” Grimwarden explained, “to map the portals and search for any sign or evidence that the Tide of Unmaking has begun. You’ll need to gather the Lords and the Fletmarshalls here. Irethor has grave news.”
In the grand Berinfell Sun Chamber near the Aviary, the Lords and their military leaders sat for several moments in stunned silence. Irethor, the lone Elven scout, stood in the center of the chamber. Green, yellow and golden sunlight in all manner of leaf shapes dappled the cobblestone at his feet. But in a chamber designed with happier times in mind, even the dancing sunlight couldn’t lift the Elves’ spirits.
Goldarrow was the first to conquer the fear-induced paralysis the scout’s news had brought. “You are certain of this?” she asked. “It could not have been some natural phenomenon? Especially powerful stormfronts have been known to cast sheet lightning. It can be devasta—”
“I am afraid not, Guardmaster,” Irethor replied. “I watched Khali fly into it. In an instant…she was gone, incinerated…annihilated, ah! I don’t know how to describe it.”
“She was unmade.” Goldarrow stared at the floor.
“Yes,” Irethor said. “That is what it did to her. There is more to tell. After Khali perished, I flew down to the surface as close to the…unmaking as I dared. I was not fifteen paces from where it struck the ground. It consumed everything it touched. And it was moving. Not swiftly, thank Ellos. Just creeping along, an inch at a time. But my Lords, please believe me when I say that I am not exaggerating. I looked left and right. It stretched from one horizon to the next. It is consuming our world.”
Silence gagged those in the chamber once more.
Princess Taeva began to whisper, and many heads turned toward her. “…many tragedies should come in my lifetime. Can this be real?” She blinked, ignored the attention from others, and asked, “What is the nearest village to…to this Tide of Unmaking?”
“Windy Gap,” Irethor replied.
“You warned them?” she asked.
“Of course,” Irethor said. “With an admonition to flee east, to warn all civilization in its path.”
“That is admirable,” Grimwarden said. “But it will not be enough. The Tide moves slowly, you say, but it cannot be so slow that we could reach everyone in Allyra from horizon to horizon. Still…we must do what we can. We will need to push our aviaries past their limit and start a chain reaction across this world.”
“Where will we tell them to go?” Goldarrow asked. “Berinfell could hold many, but…”
Grimwarden’s gaze was as weary as Tommy had ever seen. The old Guardmaster looked especially old when he said, “But…if the Tide of Unmaking is not itself unmade, then even Berinfell and its newly reinforced walls will offer no protection to any who flee here.”
“Forgive us the austere nature of this ceremony,” Goldarrow said. “You should have gained this medallion in a spectacular event on the Feithrill Way, the great thoroughfare of this city in front of fifty-thousand cheering Elves.”
“Boot instead, yu get stook with oos,” Jimmy said. “In a mostly empty throne room, that is.”
“Thank you, Guardmaster,” Taeva said. “If it were under different circumstances, I would be glad of the small ceremony. I do not much care for grand spectacles. And given the recent news, something small and swift is warranted.”
Gathered in Berinfell’s Throne Hall were the Lords, several Fletmarshalls, Goldarrow and Grimwarden. A cool breeze drifted through the floor-to-ceiling arched windows, lifting the silken drapes into slow waves. White and blue petals from the rosewoods and feint apples drifted down like snow.
“Endurance and Victory!” Goldarrow shouted.
All the attendees answered in like manner.
“Today,” Goldarrow said, “we welcome a gift from Ellos Almighty, in the time of our need. We welcome a new Lord to the rolls of Berinfell.”
The Lords sat upon their thrones. Taeva stood a few paces away from her chair, and Goldarrow stood before her. “The crystal face of this medallion is blank now,” she said, holding up the necklace. “But with your oath, you will begin a new Tribe. The Tribe of…forgive me. I do not know your surname. What is your family name, Taeva, on the Elven side…your mother’s side?”
Taeva hesitated. She wanted desperately to make up a name, but she found she couldn’t. She would not betray the memory of her mother in that way. She chose to trust that the Elves of Berinfell had long forgotten the name she was about to utter.
“Her name…her name was Ravenpath.”
Goldarrow’s eyes narrowed. “Taeva Ravenpath,” she said. “It is a beautiful name…beautiful and sad somehow. Like a memory too sweet to forget but fading nonetheless as age takes its toll.”
Grimwarden raised an eyebrow. He was always moved when Goldarrow waxed poetic.
“You are Taeva of the tribe Ravenpath. You were born a stranger, but are welcomed in Berinfell as friend…as family. But you must also choose to fulfill those duties by a pure heart. Your position requires stout leadership, but also . . . relentless service. Will you, before Ellos and all these you see assembled here, assume your position as a Lord of Elves? Will you honor our creeds? And will you serve your people?”
“I will,” said Taeva.
Goldarrow lifted the medallion. “Then, by virtue of blood and word”—she lifted the cord over Taeva’s head—“I deem you a Lord of Berinfell. And I give you the amulet of the tribe Ravenpath. You must wear it at all times, covering your heart, signifying your everlasting Covenant to lead and protect your people, even at risk of your own life.
“Notice that the amulet itself is crafted from the most precious metals and stones, but the necklace is but a plain black cord. Remember, you—like the people you serve—are a blessed mixture of all that is precious and all that is common, and you must never stray from the right path. Now, sit, Lord of Elves. Sit upon the throne of your Tribe.”
Taeva sat to the applause of all. Goldarrow’s words, the oath itself had touched her at a level she hadn’t thought possible. She felt something she didn’t understand. Love, perhaps? But before she could begin to accept that as reality, two other words from the oath clambered back into focus. And no matter what Taeva tried to do to banish them, the words mixture and stranger would not relent their assault.
A series of sharp knocks on the door shattered the silence of the wee hours.
Grimwarden pried open one eyelid. “This had better be important!” he growled. “I’ve beheaded for less!”
Silence from the door.
“WELL?” Grimwarden thundered.
“There is a messenger in the Aviary,” came the timid voice. “He brings urgent news.”
Grimwarden grunted, sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Tell him to feed and water his raptor. I’ll be there shortly.”
“He has no raptor.”
“What?” Grimwarden asked. “I don’t have time for riddles.”
“He flew here himself. He is one of the Nemic.”
The Nemic? In the middle of the night? Grimwarden leaped out of bed. “Take him to an empty chamber in Aviary Tower,” he commanded. “I will meet him there immediately! And…and summon the Lords!”
“I remember you,” Tommy said. He stood in front of the other Lords and stared at their unexpected visitor. “You were at the Conclave.”
“Yes,” the Nemic replied still breathing heavily. “I am Dhrex, Priest of Mother Allyra, and attendant to Vault Minister Ghrell.” He leaned on a fist and rested his wing upon the table.
Tommy thought the Nemic looked sickly or distressed…or both. Beneath the filed-down thorny plates, the Nemic’s lean chest pulsed rapidly. The fliers heart beat twice as fast as any other race in Allyra and even faster still from the fierce exertion.
“Clearly you have driven yourself to the brink,” Grimwarden said. “What brings you with such haste?”
“War,” Dhrex said.
Chill wind whistled through the high Aviary Tower. Somewhere outside, a Scarlet Raptor cried.
“War,” Grimwarden uttered a whispery echo. He suddenly thought he knew. “So Asp and his forces came to Tere Solium. I am sorry. We should have—”
“No,” Dhrex said. “No Drefid has come to our desert. I speak of my nation waging war upon yours.”
“Against Berinfell?” Goldarrow said, her words clipped with panic. “Against the Elves. Why?”
“And why would yu tell us?” Jimmy asked.
“Vault Minister Ghrell has nursed a very personal grudge against the Elves for a long, long time,” Dhrex said. “5807, the memory of war between our nations, lives on vividly among us…some of us, that is. Many feel that you are at fault for all the war and strife, scouring our beloved Mother Allyra.”
“Preposterous!” Grimwarden grumbled. “We fight because we must. And in so doing, we have saved this world from far worse devastation.”
“You do not need to convince me,” Dhrex said. “That is why I come now, betraying my people. I know that the Elves are not to blame. And I have avidly followed how lovingly you dwell among Allyra’s forests. But I am one. Ghrell has most stirred up for war. And the tragedy in our kingdom will set them in motion.”
“What tragedy?” Kat asked.
Dhrex told the story: the hatcheries falling into the magic abyss, thousands of innocent Nemic vanishing in seconds, and then the Elven scout spotted in Nemic skies.
“One of our scouts,” Grimwarden said. “That was an unfortunate coincidence.”
“A coincidence that pushed Ghrell over the edge. As for the destruction we suffered, do you know what it was?” Dhrex asked. “What it was that swallowed our spires, our people?”
“Portals,” Tommy said. “Asp and the Drefids have tampered too often in the Dark Arts, traveling from our world to another, making everything unstable. Those are tears or rips in the world. And there is worse. The Tide of Unmaking has begun. That is why our scouts have flown so far from Berinfell: we were trying to find it.”
“Tide?” Dhrex asked. “You mean the curtain of doom, far to the west? Our fliers have seen it also. Ghrell blames it on the Elves. He claims that to destroy Berinfell to the very last Elf is the only way to stop the curtain…the Tide, as you name it. Ghrell calls you woodland parasites and seeks your destruction.”
“This is madness,” Grimwarden said. “How long, Dhrex?”
“I am a Priest of Mother Allyra,” Dhrex replied, his eyes darting relentlessly. “I know little of military action.”
“Best estimate, then,” Goldarrow said. “Please.”
“The Vault Minister spoke some things,” Dhrex said. “Let me think. Let me think! Ah, wait, yes…he said something about the city, after the tragedy. Nine days, he said, to verify that the other spires are undamaged and stable.”
“Nine days and they march for Berinfell?” Tommy asked.
“We are Nemic,” Dhrex said. “We do not march.”
“What about war preparations?” Grimwarden asked. “That will take some time.”
Dhrex nodded. “Yes, yes, it will. But how long, I cannot say. I suspect that Ghrell has been preparing for this for some time.”
“How many?” Goldarrow asked. “What is the size of the force he could bring?”
“I do not know,” Dhrex said. “But during our last parade, I saw them. Enough to fill the sky. And Ghrell once said eighteen squadrons, but I do not know what that me—”
“Eighteen squadrons!” Grimwarden thundered. “That…that’s close to sixty-thousand! And here we are without the majority of our raptors. We will have to fight without the skies.”
Goldarrow said, “We will mount five-hundred ballistas, position our long bows in defense of the private sectors. The first volley of ten thousand shafts should bring that number down fast.”
“Yes, yes,” Grimwarden said. “Wait, I am sorry, Dhrex. Here we speak of killing your countrymen.”
Dhrex said, “No, I’ve already passed that line. I left my people to warn you. I do not wish any to perish, but there is no honor in our nation’s assault.”
“Assemble the Fletmarshalls!” Grimwarden commanded. “Goldarrow, see to it. We will need to give them explicit instructions before we depart for the Gnome village. They must—”
“Wait,” Tommy said. “I never thought I’d say this but…”
“But what?” Grimwarden asked. All eyes turned to Tommy.
“But, no.” Tommy thought sure the old Guardmaster would box his ears for that, but he didn’t.
“You don’t want us to come with you?” Goldarrow asked.
“I want you to,” Tommy said. “But you’ve got to be here. You’ve got to guard Berinfell.”
“The Fletmarshalls are capable,” Grimwarden asked. “You will need our help.”
“Not anymore,” Tommy said. “You have trained us well. You have trained us to rule. The fight on Earth is not about numbers. Berinfell needs you here.”
Grimwarden and Goldarrow were speechless. But they nodded.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” said Dhrex, “but I must return to Tere Solium. They will be expecting me, and I wish not to raise any suspicions.”
“Thank you, Dhrex,” said Tommy. “We are forever indebted to you and your sacrifice.”
Dhrex puffed. “You can repay me with a bed to sleep on should we all survive, for soon I will certainly be homeless.”
