Happy New Year, gentle readers! I was hoping to post this chapter on the solstice, but it wasn't finished in time.

In the Dark

And who has been thinking of Margig all this time? After all, it is his daughter who is missing, perhaps dead, in foreign lands. Sâlian has told him what the dragon said, and she drops in from time to time, usually with a little gift from the Seraphine. Margig shares the chocolates with his neighbours, stashes the silk away for Jarin. He goes about his business day by day, to market twice a week to sell his pots; he takes long walks in the fields that hem the town and he sits by the fire in the evenings, imagining all the adventures and calamities that may have befallen his darling girl. There are friends, neighbours, he is not alone, but he is alone in his head and that can be a lonely place to be.

He is an unassuming man, but he is neither deaf nor simple, so he knows of the whispers. That Jarin, they say, who knows if the dragon’s story is true? Maybe she has turned a spy, maybe she always was a spy; she’s a Krâ when all is said and done, isn’t she. They are Krâ.

To be fair, such voices are few and far between, the Kûzeen on the whole being still way too comfortable and secure to engage in the ancient sport of scapegoating, but Margig hears them and he worries, though nowhere near as much as he worries about Jarin.

Work, worry, nights of uneasy sleep. And now the darkest day of the year had come. Margig rose in the dark and lit the fire. He could just about see his breath. Levare rarely got wintry weather before the end of January, but a few days ago a sprinkling of snowflakes had met an untimely end on the glowstone streets. He pulled a thick jerkin over his tunic and put on fingerless gloves. Though there seemed little point in preparing for the Festival of Renewal just for himself, he took the pestle and mortar to grind down the spices for the festive cakes: clove, cinnamon and mace. Making the cakes had been Jarin’s favourite part of the festival when she was little; she preferred it even to the rekindling of the lights. Unlike her older sister, who was placid and biddable, Jarin had been such an inquisitive child, always wanting to know the whys and hows, and often he and his wife had been stumped for answers. While he pounded the spices, he pictured her the way she was then, with her pigtails and her chubby hands. His little girl.

Grown-up Jarin, meanwhile, was soaring over the northern shore of the inland sea as the docks and squat houses of Longhaven were falling behind. With the bulk of the dragon’s neck and head in front of her and the steady presence of Diri behind, she surveyed the land below. They were heading south-east, intending to hug the great curve of the coastline rather than fly straight across the Sea of Calma, since there was no way of camping for the night on the waters.

The previous day, after a lively reunion, she and Wan had exchanged their news: relayed through Mûn via Pallando and Sâlian, Jarin had been pleased to hear that her friends and her father were biding well, but felt very troubled about Hamûjil, about the danger he had only just escaped, and the dangers that might still surround him.

“And did you tell them about the Krâ raising a big host?

“Yes, yes, they know. We are unsure about its purpose, though, and so far, it has not left Krandi. From what you say, and some other observations we have had, it seems to me that the Krâ are not in one minds about all this.”

“But the fleet they’re building! Surely that is meant to attack Kûz?”

“Or Longhaven,” said Diri.

“Perhaps both,” said Wan.” Only time will tell, I’m afraid. However, I have another, very different question on my mind. Why, in all this upheaval, are you so happy, Jarin?”

“Am I?” She felt sick with worry, about the Krâ, about Hamûjil, the future of Kûz, everything.

“The flute doesn’t lie, Jarin. I heard it in your song. Something happened on that mountain that has filled you with deep joy.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know what that could be.” Yes, you do.

Wan didn’t pursue the issue further and they flew on in silence through most of the short afternoon. The sun was still well above the horizon when Jarin suggested to land and camp for the night. The dragon could have gone on for another couple of hours or so, but she was conscious that Diri, unused as he was to air travel, was starting to flag. Their departure that morning had been delayed by heavy fog, but even if they had been able to leave at first light, the distances were such that they could not have reached the Sacred Cave in one day, so they had packed blankets for a night in the wilderness.

“Are you sure you want to go down here?” said Wan. “That’s elf country.”

“Why do you say that as if it’s a bad thing? The elves are not hostile to us.”

“Hostile, no. But odd, very odd.”

“I think we can cope with oddness,” said Diri. “And besides, we are not likely to meet them, are we? I hear there are not many of them along the coast, at least not outside Vindalondë.”

“Jarin?”

“I agree with Diri. We will probably not meet them, and even if we do and they are, as you say, very odd, well, that’s their problem and not ours, isn’t it?”

Wan gave a toss of his mane that in a human might have been a shrug. “Very well,” he said and made for a piece of grassy ground alongside a small inlet that curved northwards from the shore. He landed with his usual grace, and Diri just about fell to the ground. Jarin looked around. The views were hemmed on all sides by scattered trees, mainly alder and willow that stood in small clumps on the flat, flat land. High above circled some birds of prey.

“Well, this looks as pleasant as can be expected at this time of year,” she said. “And no signs of elves, as far as I can see.”

“Not for now anyway,” said Wan. “Listen, Jarin, do what you can to avoid them. I would stay with you, but I am too big to hide, and there are other ways in which I would attract their attention.”

“I still don’t understand you, Wan. What’s there to fear? I have seen elves before.”

“You’ve seen elves in Levare. But only the youngest ones still go out and about, and they’re on their best behaviour. Here, you could meet the very old ones.”

“And what’s wrong with them?”

“It’s hard to explain. They won’t do you any harm, I think, at least not on purpose, but you may find them quite disturbing. Just hide yourselves, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

And with that, he faded. Jarin turned her attention to Diri, who sat on the ground with both hands clawing into the turf. He looked pale.

“Are you unwell?”

“I am not ill, if that’s what you mean,” he replied. “But I have quite possibly had the most uncomfortable day of my life.”

“Don’t let it worry you. Many people have a bad experience on their first dragon ride.”

“Ha! I wish I could reply that it’ll be my last, but if we want to get to Levare from here, our choice is between a dragon and an elven ship – or walking. I suppose you don’t fancy a three week hike home?”

“No.”

“Dragon it is then.”

They ate a light meal from their supplies and then began to look for somewhere to sleep. The ground was damp in most places, or else brick-hard and exposed, but after some search they found a patch under a willow tree where the leaf litter lay deep and spongy around the trunk and where the branches, that brushed the ground, still held some faded foliage. Here they settled down and made their beds, side by side, as best they could with their cloaks and blankets. Jarin thought briefly of her previous outdoor night, back on the outskirts of Krandi. That was two months ago, but seemed much longer to her.

They lit no fire, and it was cold, so they lay awake for a long time, each in silence with their eyes closed, feeling keenly the closeness of the other and the lurking presence of the strange land. The sound of the moving air blended with the susurrus of rustling leaves and quivering branches. Jarin listened at first, then tried to ignore it, and eventually the rhythmic lapping of the waters against the shore sent her to sleep.

She awoke from the sound of voices invading her dreams.

“What’s this, what’s this? Two children alone in the woods!”

“A dwarf and a human, how curious! Which one is the abducted, you think?” There was laughter. Jarin opened her eyes and looked at a forest of legs dimly visible in the dark beyond the boughs of the tree. She tried to sit up, but found Diri’s arm draped over her shoulder, holding her down.

“That one’s awake! Get them both up, they shall carouse with us tonight.”

Figures pushed the branches aside and dragged them up. “Arise, arise, the stars are shining! It’s time for merry-making.”

“Oh, we’ll make them merry soon enough!” cried another voice, followed by more laughter.

“Who are you?” said Jarin, grateful for having Diri beside her.

“Who are we?” exclaimed a woman in a silvery robe. “Since when do people have to identify themselves to those who have invaded their homes? Who are you?”

“We are not invaders, as well you know,” replied Diri. “I am Diri, son of Naluk, and this is Jarin...from Kûz. We are travelling from Kamenogi to Levare and are resting here for the night.”

“On foot?” sneered one.

“Resting here by whose leave?” said the woman, but a man now pushed his way to the front and hushed her with a gesture.

“Peace, Undumenis! Let them be.” To Jarin and Diri he said, “My name is Lossë. We are, as you will easily perceive, Hwenti people native to these parts. These are Thinthilo, Undumenis and Saranil. We are on our way to a party, and you shall come with us.”

“We would rather sleep,” said Diri.

“I’m sure you would, but I wasn’t asking.”

Hands, soft but powerful, grasped their wrists and they were dragged along on a narrow path among the trees. There was a little moonlight, just enough to ward against stumbling over roots and stones. The Hwenti were talking in their own language and laughing a lot. Jarin wondered if Diri understood their words, but he was separated from her by two Hwenti and she had no chance to speak with him at all until they arrived at a clearing where several fires were burning. At least a hundred Hwenti were gathered here, some walking about and chatting, others reclining by the fires, and most of them drinking. Some noticed the newcomers and drew near them, and soon Diri and Jarin were surrounded by a crowd of elves pointing and laughing, and twittering in the Hwenti language.

“Do you know what they are saying?” whispered Jarin.

“A little,” Diri replied. “They mainly think we’re going to be a source of entertainment. Let’s hope it’ll be entertaining for us, too.”

Some elves had now moved in closely and were tugging at Jarin’s clothes, at Diri’s hair. But Lossë stepped in and shooed them away. They retreated, giggling. Lossë led their little group across the clearing to sit under a silk canopy that was stretched between the trees.

“Wait here,” he said, “and I shall bring you something to eat.” He gestured to a nearby fire, where a deer carcass was roasting on a spit. Jarin quickly looked away.

“I am not allowed to eat that,” she said.

“Oh, yes, the New Way, I forgot,” said Lossë. “Let me see what else I can get you.”

He returned soon with a few small bowls containing nuts, little cakes and deep yellow, fibrous chunks that smelled faintly sweet. Jarin picked one up and sniffed it.

“It’s dried pineapple,” said Lossë before she could ask.

“And what is that?”

“A fruit from the Southlands. They say the whole fruit is large and prickly, but we only ever get it in this form.”

“How does it get here?”

“You have your secrets, we have ours.”

“It’s no secret,” said Diri. “The Hwenti have some trade with the people of the Riverlands who in turn trade with the Southlands.”

“Spoilsport,” said Lossë, but he laughed.

“How far away are the Southlands?” Jarin asked.

“Further than you can imagine. Even a dragon would take weeks.”

“And yet this fruit does not spoil on the journey?”

“There are ways of preserving it. It’s a special skill.”

Jarin inspected the well-travelled treat, then chewed it up thoughtfully. It tasted tangy and pleasant and she reached for another piece. Soon the bowl was empty. Diri, however, had accepted a portion of roasted venison.

“Now let’s have some wine!” exclaimed Undumenis and proffered two goblets. “I hope you are allowed that, child of the New Way!”

“I am,” said Jarin and took the cup, “though I drink but modestly.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” said Undumenis, grabbed a cup herself and drained it in one go. Then she leaned back on the ground, propped up on an elbow, and began to talk to Thinthilo.

Diri touched Jarin’s arm and pointed. Some small distance away among the trees they saw a twinkling of lights, as if the glow of the fires was reflected randomly. The elves were now engrossed in their drinking and paid no attention to them. Jarin nodded at Diri and they moved slowly towards the twinkling lights. As the noise of the revellers began to fade behind them, a new sound emerged ahead, as of glasses being chinked together. Soon they came upon the source of the sound. Strung from branch to branch were swags of glass ornaments, some tear-shaped, some pebble-shaped, swaying gently and playing their eerie song. And suspended between the glass garlands, and propped up on the ground and even nailed to the trunks of the trees were hundreds, nay, thousands of mirrors.

Perhaps a dozen elves were moving about in this garden of reflections. They seemed each absorbed in their own world, neither speaking nor otherwise acknowledging one another. A couple of times Jarin saw two colliding with each other, and going on as if nothing had happened without any startled cry or hasty apology. Their movements appeared erratic; they would set off in one direction, then suddenly double back, then go off at a sharp angle, almost like the fitful scrambling of some insects. After a while, Jarin realised that they were scuttling from mirror to mirror, gazing at their image as it flitted by. Their hair was unkempt, their clothing frayed. Suddenly she wondered for how long they had been here.

“Let’s go back,” she whispered to Diri.

They turned and walked towards the glow of the fires.

“So now we know what Wan meant when he called them odd,” said Diri.

“Those were Kûzar mirrors!”

“So?”

“We have them all over Levare, but they don’t do any such thing to us.”

“Well, elves have more reason to admire themselves in a mirror.”

Jarin grinned. “Are you saying the people of Kûz are ugly?”

“No, I’m not saying that, and anyway, I do not care. Their pretty faces don’t ever seem to do them any good, don’t you think?”

“I guess not.”

They reached the silk canopy again, where it looked like they had just started to be missed.

“There you are,” said Lossë. “I brought you more pineapple. And how about this very tempting dish of mushrooms?”

Jarin extended a hand, but Diri nudged her and shook his head. An elf woman came over and pressed two fresh wine glasses into their hands. She twirled around.

“How do you like my dress? It’s finest silk from Mil Nahara!” Then she dragged both of them to the ground. “Come sit with me. Tell me why you are here.”

Jarin gave a cautious summary of her adventures. The elf woman shook her head.

“Oh, you children, always wanting to save your lands.” She scoffed. “The lands will change again, so what are you trying to save? See these mountains? Lakes, waterfalls, hah! Here today, gone tomorrow. You see, I’ve been here from the beginning. I can’t remember much, but it’s all changed, over and over again. You know there used to be a river right here where we are sitting? And then it just decided to flow some other way.  The sea was so much bigger then, we sailed for ages into the sunset, never finding the other shore. We called it the Sea of Helcar back then. Now look at it, a little pond. Nothing lasts, so what’s the point of planning for the future? Here, have some more wine. Don’t worry about any Dark Lord conquering your land, for in a few thousand years he’ll be gone anyway.” She drained her cup and reached for the bottle, but Lossë took it.

“You’ve had enough for today, Omarië.” Softly, he said to Jarin, “I apologise for my grandmother. She has these moods sometimes. Twelve thousand years are hard to bear, not that you’d understand.”

“Dance with me!” cried Omarië and pulled Jarin up by her arm. “Thinthilo, play for us! We must dance! Who knows if the sun will rise tomorrow!”

Jarin, tugged this way and that by the elf, felt a mingling of pity and horror creeping over her. Twelve thousand years. Was the elf insane? Could mountains really just disappear? Seas dry up? And if that were indeed so, how could a mind witness it and remain whole? But Pallando is not like this, nor the Guardian, and they are far older. What makes them different?

Thinthilo’s tune went on and on, and he did not put his fiddle down until Omarië suddenly collapsed on the ground and began to snore. Jarin breathed with relief. On her way back to Diri and Lossë, she nearly stumbled over an elf who lay half hidden among some grasses.

“Oh, I am so sorry!” She crouched down to see if she had caused any pain, but the elf stared right past her and waved only a languid hand telling her to leave.

“He is strange,” she said.

“Never mind,” said Lossë, “that’s just Estamo.”

“What ails him?”

“Nothing. Ignore him. He wishes to depart.”

“What do you mean?”

“He is tired of the world. He has not taken food or drink for many weeks.”

Jarin frowned. “He is starving himself to death? And you are letting him?”

“What right have we to stop him? He won’t succeed anyway. He’s tried many times before, but sooner or later the urge to eat and drink overwhelms him. Drowning didn’t work either. He has asked us to slay him, but none of us want his blood on our hands.”

“Has he tried jumping off a cliff?” asked Diri.

“Diri!”

“Just trying to be helpful.”

“How very dwarfish,” said Lossë with a smirk. “But let us be serious for a moment. Jarin, you really went all the way to Kamenogi to warn the dwarves? That’s noble of you. We’re going to have our minstrels write a song about you. I can just imagine it:

                        From southern shores on wings of scales

                        Arose to rush with news of woe

                        A maiden fair, and stout of heart,

                        To save the dwarves from grief and ruin…”

“Mock, if it entertains you,” said Diri, “but the Krâ really did attack Longhaven. And you should be on your guard as well in case they come to attack you.”

“The Krâ attack the Hwenti?” Laughter pealed around the group. “What next, ducks attacking eagles?”

-oOoOo-

Darkness had taken Kûz. Following their ancient custom for the Festival of Renewal, the people had extinguished every lamp, lantern and candle two hours after sunset and had spent the time between then and midnight in quiet contemplation – or in attempts to keep the children quiet, depending on their situation. Thick cloud cover hid the moon and stars, and the fields, woods and villages lay in unbroken blackness. Only in the cities was the night faintly lit by glowstone.

Earlier that afternoon, Margig had declined the invitation from his neighbours and had gone up to the Houses instead, because he felt that in this most momentous of nights, he wanted to be close to the Powers and to the place where Jarin dwelled. Many Kûzeen gathered here every year on the night of the festival, and the holy ones were leading chants in the Dome of Flowers. The people who joined them there had to sit still for hours, as it was too dark inside to move about, but Margig had chosen to stay outside in the grounds where the dim glimmer of the city allowed him to pace about on the grass. Others were milling about here, too, patches of deeper darkness in the gloom. As he turned to take a different path, he bumped into one.

“Oh, I am so sorry!”

“Margig?” It was Sâlian. “How handy that I’ve met you! I have good news.”

“What is it?”

“Mûn has told Pallando that Wan has been summoned.”

“By Jarin?”

“Who else?”

“Where is she?”

“We don’t know, it was only yesterday, and Pallando hasn’t spoken to Mûn since. But we can assume that Jarin is safe and on her way home.”

“The Powers be thanked!” Margig gave Sâlian a hug full of relief, and they continued their walk together, talking about how soon they might expect Jarin’s arrival

Over at the palace, Hamûjil and Majani had hosted a banquet before lights-out, treating all their staff to a sumptuous meal and feasting on an even more sumptuous one with the assorted dignitaries – Mistress Tilar and Master Leyo, Warden Olan, Warden Yun and Mayor Baja, the Seekers and various others, though, for the first time in living memory, none of the ezens from Krâ. Now they were all assembled, in the dark, in the throne room, listening to the big clock ticking away towards midnight.

It was the custom that on the stroke of midnight the Archseraph at the Palace and the chief Nauran at the Dome of Flowers would each kindle a flame and light a brand new candle and the flame would be passed from person to person, throughout the palace and the Houses and then out into the whole town and thus, at the darkest time of the year, the light would be renewed.  All over Kûz, in towns and villages, similar ceremonies took place.

The little ones had been put to bed, but Alamûjil was allowed up for the first time this year. He sat beside Miriel and chatted softly. Since he was a little afraid of the dark, though, and since he had taken a particular fancy to it after his adventure in the aviary, he was allowed to hold – carefully, use both hands! – the porcelain figure of the peacock Vani.

Mistress Tilar tried to entertain the child with stories of her travels, and then began enquiring after Alamûjil’s own life. Had he enjoyed the Festival of Lanterns? How were his studies coming on? Was he sure he could not remember who had chased him that night when he hid in the peacock house?

“Don’t,” said Miriel. “It upsets him to talk about it.”

“Personally, I think he was just making it up,” said Tilar.

“Don’t.”

“Can we play a game?” asked Alamûjil. “I will be an animal and you have to guess what it is.”

“Peacock,” said Tilar.

“Ow!” Alamûjil sighed. “Very well, now it’s your turn.”

And so, with little games and stories told and poems recited, the dark hours passed by. The clock chimed the quarter hour before midnight, and from then on, all sat in silence, preparing themselves for the new light. Alamûjil was all aflutter when the midnight strokes began to ring out; he was sitting with his mother now and Majani was counting along with him.

“Four…five…six…”

“Where’s the tinderbox gone?” hissed Hamûjil.

“What?”

“I had it here a moment ago and now I can’t find it.”

They scrabbled about in the darkness but the tinderbox was not found. The muttering of the guests became an agitated hubbub. Alamûjil got up, determined to help find the tinderbox, but in the general commotion he stumbled and fell and then screamed at the sound of the porcelain peacock smashing on the marble floor.

“Vani, I broke Vani!” he wailed.

“Hush, never mind that now,” said Majani. “Hamûjil, what are we going to do?”

“We sit still and wait for the light to come over from the Houses.”

But in the grounds of the Houses of the Powers, no light emerged either and the Seer’s voice was heard: “Darkness has come upon us! Darkness impenetrable! Darkness everlasting!” And the people of Levare cried out in fear.