<u>17</u>
It was only an interlude. A time of healing and peace, when a goddess might linger a while with the prince who had freed her. Safely so, because wouldn’t everyone think she had vanished away? Would not any at all (who still cared) believe him long dead?
Anyhow, nobody went to the poisoned waste willingly. Only the exiled, the lost and forsaken came to that harsh, barren desert. It was a threat and a rampart together. But, inside their cave was a bubbling spring of fresh water, some hand-crafted pots and a tangle of blankets. He hunted a bit, and she conjured food, once her manna began to restore. (Not, actually, a very good cook but he didn’t say so, any more than the goddess remarked over nothing but conies and rock-wyrms, day after day.)
He could not speak, sign or write. The ban forbade it. What he could do was draw, and soon the walls of their shelter were covered in pictures of gratitude, humor, love, worry… a few stupid arguments… and their hope-fear-concern for the coming little one.
Also, his name; written over and over, though he could never sound it out in his head, and his tracing fingers could not put the sigils together. She kept trying, though, finding clever new ways to surprise the prince with the sound or sight of those burnt-away syllables. Called him “Raeden” (“Brave One”) for short. She''d drawn two mountains with the ocean between them and a figure rising like dawn from the water. Meaning (he guessed) his actual title or rank. Didn’t matter. Never stuck, and he couldn’t quite puzzle it out. But the goddess wouldn’t give up. See…
Many ages before, a powerful wizard, an eater of gods, had captured and bound her. Sherazedan the Mighty had already killed and absorbed most of his cross-planar selves. He had no compassion at all for an innocent goddess of springtime.
He’d trapped her with terrible magic and nearly unbreakable spells, binding her into the form of a carved ivory statue; a lovely young maiden tied by her own twining hair. Sherazedan had presented this glowing image to his “brother”, the emperor.
“Guard it well, Therenar,” he’d said to the wondering elf. “The idol’s presence in Karellon will guarantee peace and prosperity for all time to come… so long as it stays on its plinth, here in this tower. It is a secret and must ever remain so, Brother. Only your heir can be told. The people must never learn of it.”
Perhaps his majesty, Emperor Therenar, had sensed what the idol truly was… But if so, he ignored it, choosing the empire’s peace and security over the freedom of one nameless deity. So, from emperor to prince or princess ascendant, down through the ages, the idol remained on its marble pedestal, up in the high western tower.
Ages passed. Then Ildarion rose to the dragon throne. Married Danaria. Fathered two sons, Xxxxxxx and Korvin. Ildarion took his time about it, but eventually he revealed the empire’s three grandest treasures to Xxxxxxx, his heir. Vernax, of course, the Earth-stone, and then the Idol of Peace.
“Now that you are of age, Xxxxxxx,” his father had said, “You may be shown these treasures and told the great secret of each.”
And secrets they certainly were. From the fact that Vernax had to be fought to a standstill and dominated each hatching, to the shocking discovery that the Earth-stone was stolen goods… to the knowledge that Karandun’s guardian idol <u>lived</u> and pled for release.
He’d sensed her plight, as any heir of the blood would do. Had seen that her manna and power were being drained, bled off to keep their city and realm safe and prosperous. Too shocked to react at first, the young prince had just nodded, mumbling the oath of silence and obedience that his father required.
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But he didn’t, <u>could not</u>, forget. Some weeks passed in drunken distraction, or with Korvin, teaching Little Guy magic and arms. Always, though, that ivory figure rose up before him; drained, bound and helpless. Pleading for aid from generations of unheeding heirs.
At last, unable to help himself, he’d stolen back out to the old Western Tower. It was a tall and forbidding grey spire; once Sherazedan’s sanctum, now home to the Idol of Peace. Cleared of trees and surrounding buildings, it stood alone at the edge of the city, warded by magic, troops and justiciars. A throng of guards… placed there to apprehend thieves, not an imperial heir.
Unhindered, he’d made his way up to the topmost chamber, bowed to by sentries, priests and attendants. For, was he not Prince Ascendant? Had he not come there with offerings? It wasn’t the usual time for such doings, true… but no one would question His Highness.
Inside, as those great mithral doors swung noiselessly shut behind him, Xxxxxxx moved forward, drawn by the idol’s soft light. She was so very beautiful. Not carved of ivory but crammed down into its semblance by powerful magic and terrible greed; her manna and strength drawn off to fields, herds and orchards, distant borders and mines. Shunted to those newly wed or about to give birth.
She stood poised on tiptoe, an expression of frozen terror and shock on her delicate face, wrapped up by her own long hair. The stone chamber was windowless, with only one door and three flaring mage-lights, but the idol produced its own glow, along with a faint scent of blossoming apple trees. More, he could hear her crying. Sensed the pain of that constant, slow life-drain.
He came forward, making no sound at all on the bare granite floor. Climbed the dais and set down his offerings (gold coins, a frosted seedcake). Lit incense, even; still telling himself that he could worship then go, leaving the empire safe and blessed for another long reign.
That’s what he said to himself, kneeling before that trapped, weeping goddess. The greatest treasure of Karellon. Its guardian spirit and luck.
Then, he did what he did. Stood up, reached out to touch her gracefully pointed bare foot and said,
“I am Xxxxxxx, a Valinor prince of the blood. Heir to Ildarion, who is heir through time to Therenar, who was a son of great Oberyn.” And then, with a very deep, ragged breath, “Goddess, I free you.”
She disappeared in a burst of gold light. Her carved marble pedestal cracked in half with a thunderous <u>BOOM</u>. The chamber roof crumbled away and… he could feel it… all of those stolen blessings deserted the realm.
The guards rushed in moments later. His father, a very short time after that. And… and then things went terribly wrong.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Many years later, Alyanara Temple had found herself wed to a young elvish lord who was deeply, stubbornly and drunkenly in love with somebody else.
Knowing no better, Ally had tried to be a good wife by attending to the family shrine and its ancient stone altar, out in the holy grove (a place that made her feel comfortable). Had no tricks of allure or light conversation with which to capture Galadin’s attention. Also… she liked Lana, who was a mortal and mother to Galadin’s son.
So, trapped by mixed feelings, Ally kept her head high and bided her time, pretending that the whole awful mess was perfectly normal and all that she’d ever wanted. Then, a rapacious and fast-killing eater had stricken Lana. The mortal woman should have died of it. Would have done, had Ally not offered herself as host for Lana’s faltering spirit. Had Galadin, utterly desperate, not accepted the notion.
She’d “gone to sleep” for the span of a mortal lifetime, letting the human woman live on in her body. Red-haired Keldaran had been conceived as she slept thus, as Galadin’s love transferred (a little, at least) to the form of his elvish wife.
She’d awakened to death-bed mourning. To a husband, stepson and toddler gathered around with shorn hair and ash-streaked faces. Unsure what to say at her rival’s passing, Ally had pulled the child into a loving embrace. (It seemed that her heart still knew him, as it did Galadin.)
The baby adapted soonest, coming to accept “Mum Ally” in place of “Mama”. Even young Reston accepted her, grateful for all that she’d done to help Lana. But Galadin struggled, always seeming to search Ally’s face, her soul, for the woman he’d loved.
So matters stood for a time, as She-of-the-Flowers blessed the new realm of Ilirian for Alyanara’s sake. Finally, some six months after she’d awakened, Ally and Galadin <u>talked</u>. Up on a circling rock, with no one to hear but the wind-sprites and gods, they’d come to an understanding.
Love? Not exactly. Too much had happened, most of it bad. But affection? Respect? Another child (this one all hers)?
Yes. And that was something to conjure with.