“The men of Callodon are at your disposal, my lord.” Tyrane affirmed.
“Thank you.”
Healer Turlock stood. “You may see your lady if you wish, my lord. But if she is sleeping, I pray you, do not disturb her. I will be nearby at all times should anything occur which you feel needs my urgent attention.”
“May I stay near her? I would sleep on the floor, or a chair?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.”
Elayeen lay in a large bed, a light linen sheet covering her against the cool of the early autumn evening, the night slowly drawing in. A lamp had been lit and glowed on a table at the far side of the bed. She lay on her back, staring straight up at the ceiling, and did not move when Gawain entered.
“It’s me, miheth,” Gawain announced softly, kneeling at the bedside and taking her right hand in his. He brushed away a wisp of hair from her sightless eyes and gently caressed the bruise on her brow. In the lamplight and gathering gloom, it was barely visible. Besides, Gawain knew exactly what it was that had robbed Elayeen of her vision, and of their throth, and a slight blow to the head had nothing to do with it.
“We are come down,” he said, needlessly, but desperate for something to say, desperate to hear her speak, if only his name. “Soon, we will leave here, and ride for Elvendere, and Shiyanath, and if by then your sight has not returned of itself, then the see-eelan will restore it.”
Elayeen’s head rolled towards him on the pillow, those wondrous eyes staring over his shoulder. “Eem faranthroth, G’wain, they will not attend me.”
“You are the queen of Raheen…”
“I am faranthroth.”
“Elayeen…”
“I cannot feel you, G’wain.” She said, drawing her hand from his and laying it on her breast. “Here. I cannot feel you any more.”
“The light…” Gawain whispered, “It’s just the light from the circle, your blindness… it will return, all will be well. I love you, Elayeen, you are miheth and mithroth and my heart yet beats in your breast.”
“No.” Elayeen said, drawing in a shuddering breath. “We are no longer throth. I cannot feel you, and I can hear the lie in your voice. Once we were apart, and alone, and then we were together, and then together we ascended and became one in throth. Now we are descended, and apart once more.”
“E…” Gawain pleaded, weeping quietly, “We will never be apart. Never. I love you. You are my queen.”
10. Forgetting and Forgiving
The next morning, just after Elayeen was awoken from a dreamless sleep by the creaking of the bedroom door, Gawain was unceremoniously shuffled out of the room by the whitesleeves healer wearing an expression that brooked no dissent. Feeling bereaved and utterly helpless, Gawain found himself back at the table by the bar, plates of hot food on the table once again before him. Eggs, salt pork, bread, some rather rancid-looking butter, and fried potatoes. None of it seemed particularly appealing, but hunger had its way and Gawain ate.
He was tired. During the night, Allazar’s cries from the smaller room on the far side of the inn could still be heard, and though muffled by the doors and distance between them, they jarred on the young man’s ears and jerked him from sleep as though he were in the same room. Elayeen stirred not once, and more than once, awakened by the wizard’s shouts, Gawain had known the sudden terror he’d felt in the Great Hall, and anxiously watched and waited for signs of her breathing in the orange glow of the lamplight.
Gawain himself had drifted in and out of sleep, hovering on the brink of dark dreams where strange words became great cries and soft light became a dazzling agony. Now, as he finished the last of his breakfast, he felt drained. When it was apparent that Turlock was in no hurry to finish his examination of Elayeen, Gawain went in search of Gwyn. Dawn had come and gone, his Remembrance forgotten, and in truth, Gawain felt no guilt for his lapse; his was a heavier burden, and he felt sure The Fallen would understand.
Gwyn had been well enough attended, at least as well as could be expected from lowland guardsmen. She seemed to sense Gawain’s mood as usual, her bright blue eyes wide and sad-looking as he dragged the brush through her mane. “Hai Gwyn,” he managed, “I’m sorry you’ve had to put up with so much. Thank you, for carrying us to safety once more.”
Gwyn’s head bobbed, though whether in acknowledgement or to revisit the bucket of oats and apple on the stable floor Gawain did not know. There was so much he did not know, now.
What have I unleashed, he thought as he went about his duties to Gwyn, what have I set in motion? What have I done?
Broken your beloved wife’s heart as well as her eyes, and broken Allazar’s mind, a cruel inner voice responded. But Gwyn snorted suddenly and shifted her weight, the brush caught in a tangle, reminding Gawain to pay attention to the task in hand, and not lose himself in self-pity.
There will be no breach at The Teeth! Gawain had declared to the ghosts in the Keep. And he knew that was true. Just as he had seen across the Teeth in the great aquamire lens under the mountains so long ago, and knew the visions swimming in that dark lens to be true, he knew the great wave had slammed into the mountains, destroying the thousands labouring thereon, binding Morloch once again. That was the great power locked in the ancient magic of Raheen’s Circle of Justice. A great power set aside against the day which the magi of old surely knew must eventually come, the day when Morloch broke free of the mystical bonds they imposed upon him in an age long since faded into legend and myth. That day had come. But so long was it in the coming, all memory of that ancient power had been lost.
Now, brushing Gwyn and picking stones and gravel from her hooves Gawain understood the reason for the ancient tradition of sending the Crown’s sons into the lowlands, banishing them for a year and a day, to wander, nameless, unknown, throughout the lowlands, to return with news which might trigger the need for the Circle to be unlocked, the ancient power unleashed. Or not.
Gawain paused a moment, he thought he heard Allazar cry out, but he was too far from the inn for that to be true. A gull squawked overhead, and Gawain sighed. He tried to remember the old tales of Morloch, the darkest of wizards who in ancient times turned from the teachings of Zaine, and instead of serving the kindred races of Man, plotted and schemed for dominion over them. Before Gawain’s own banishment two years ago, and his encounter with the Ramoth, he would laugh at the tales told to frighten naughty children into better behaviour.
If you’re bad, Morloch will wait until you sleep, and take you away to the darklands!
How many mischievous children had lain awake for hours at night, peeping over the top of their drawn up bedclothes and jumping at every shadow since memory of the truth of Morloch had been forgotten? The facts were scant enough, and shrouded in a history all too-well guarded by the D’ith deep in the library catacombs under the halls of learning at the citadel that was the Hallencloister. Gawain had glimpsed it, long ago, just before he plunged the Sword of Justice into the black lens in the cavern below the Dragon’s Teeth, and sent black fire racing through the Morloch-made tunnel to leap across the great divide and strike at the dark wizard, ‘liberating’ the vast lake of aquamire fermenting on the northern plain beyond the mountains.