The Siren & the Sacred Lie, Chapter 3

THE SIREN & THE SACRED LIE

CHAPTER 3:  Corvan's Longest Day

Part 1 of 2

         Bang! Bang! Corvan woke to the pounding of a fist against the wooden door of his cabin. He then winced for the pounding of his aching head.

         Bang! Bang! Bang! “Wake up, Corvan! Come outside at once!”

         Tychon's hell, what is he doing here so early? Surely, I told that child I would play with him later in the afternoon.

         Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

         “Amos! You keep banging like that, you'll knock the shantal right out of the tree!” Still drowsy, he reached for his chestnut breeches, carrot-dyed tunic and leather half-boots. He moved sluggishly until his mother's voice startled him.

         “Corvan, get dressed and come down here quickly!” 

         So with a bit of haste, he buttoned his tunic and unbarred the door. He rarely bothered to lock himself in, but something had compelled him the last eve. It reminded him of the night's bleak and ill-boding breeze.

         Bang! Bang!

         “For Gwynneth's sake, I'm here, Amos.” When Corvan shoved open the door, he almost whacked Amos on the nose. He patted his little brother on the head and messed his hair before they descended the tiny balcony. He doesn't seem very happy, Corvan noticed. His mother awaited them in the garden below.

         “So... to what do I owe the pleasure of being roused so pleasantly from my bed?”

         Annalyne imitated calm, but it was unconvincing. “Your father left for his usual morning walk of the weald, but... well, he hasn't returned. It's strange, Corvan. By now he should have come home, eaten his breakfast and left to his carpentry quarters.” 

         “Well, perhaps he found something that required tending to, mother.” 

         “Corvan, I've walked along the gates and all the outer fences. Your brother and I searched the whole village, the lawn, and even the northern borders of the weald. And I should say, we earned more than a few curious looks. Now take this apple and muffin. Go fetch your blade,” she said awkwardly “and quietly sneak out the eastern gates to look for him. It's not like your father to wander off with a warm breakfast waiting at home.” 

         “Well, how about I make use of that warm breakfast instead of this cold muffin?”

         Annalyne was not amused. “Go, Corvan! I have good reason to be anxious and so might you. For that matter, your brother is already upset. Now go find him before folk start wondering where he's run off to. He's got carpentry work come due today.” 

         With a sigh, Corvan climbed back to his shantal for his dagger and leather bracers. Despite his mother's urgency, he hadn't found it in himself. My father's never needed help from anyone. Likely, he's taken a long scout of the weald and before I know it, I'll be back in bed to sleep off this head ache. Corvan reached into his trunk for the dagger he used to cut down yesterday's troll. Underneath, he saw his weighty leather scabbard, the one molded for his finer, more beloved weapon. Perhaps mother will be appeased if I bring Searshine, he reasoned. He'd never had a better excuse before. There it hung proudly on the cabin wall above his bed, the gladius his father gave him on his 17th name day. In lustrous silver and bronze, the pommel and crossguard touted emblems of the Majestics, the elite knight battalion once commanded by his father. The shining, silver-steel blade was emblazoned with a glossy, sable-colored stripe, the trademark of Alvous Barnell, finest blacksmith in all the realm. It was a dazzling piece. But this was no decorative, nor ceremonial blade. It was a razor sharp weapon of war. Corvan fastened its equally elegant scabbard to his belt and studded leather bracers to his wrists. He hitched on his everyday troll-slaying dagger for good measure.

         Again, he descended to find his mother waiting, her feet tapping and arms crossed. She'd been reflecting on her words from the evening before: I've no longing to push my firstborn son out the village gates just yet, she recalled. The irony was already beginning to haunt her. Annalyne noticed Corvan's special gladius, the one he named Searshine, affixed to his side. She found it encouraging, yet it made her more nervous all the same. She still remembered the day Eldric gave him the sword. Corvan looked so delighted, but she always worried that he would hurt himself with it, somehow. “Please come home as soon as you find him, son.” She managed a quick affection before urging him on.

         Corvan nodded comfortingly and sent a smile to his young brother. “I'll be right back,” he said. He tightened his belt and took a big bite of his apple. Willfully, he marched away from the garden.

         Beyond the tree-canopied path from the Merrith estate, the rest of Maplewood was bright and busy. The birds chirped restlessly, darting in and out of the late morning light. Men carried logs and barrels and heavy pails of water. They chopped wood, sharpened tools, sawed, carved, spouted tree trunks and planted saplings where tall maples had stood. The women washed clothing, tended gardens, picked crops, boiled sap, painted, sewed, and nurtured their young. And the older children observed their mothers and fathers, learning the trades that would one day be theirs. It was a familiar Maplewood morning. With his usual confidence, Corvan nodded and waved and slipped past them all. He soon reached the clearing near the front gates, where the caravanners had raised their tents and marquees. For the better, he had not run into Joel or Galad. They would never have let him by without explaining the sword at his hip. I'll bet they're still sleeping off the night... like I should be.

         More than the usual number had gathered on the Maplewood lawn. There were merchants, musicians and bards, jugglers and other entertainers-- many of the same caravan folk Corvan had seen the night before. For a moment, the lively scene removed him from the task that waited. The pretty one singing that beautiful song; she wasn't at the meadery last night. I would have remembered her. When I come back from the weald, I think I'll introduce myself. With any luck, I'll convince her to meet at the tavern tonight. Once more, he peered around for onlookers before raising the heavy wooden plank that barred the eastern gate. He then realized he hadn't left Maplewood grounds on consecutive days since... well, he couldn't even remember. Unlike yesterday's rabbit hunt, on this day, he would hunt for his father.

         Corvan started by tracing Eldric's usual morning route along the outskirts of the village. Together, they had scouted this path at least a hundred times. Of course, they never found anything interesting. Never an ill track or any vestige of danger. A year had passed since he'd risen early enough to accompany his father. In fact, Amos had been scouting more recently than Corvan had. But like most days, the warden departed this morning before his sons rose from bed.

         “Father!” he called. But the son saw no one. 

         

********************

         Morning's dew had been consumed by the earth, and the animals, retreated to the shade. Scouring, hollering, and kicking the occasional rock, Corvan had wandered a league from the usual route. An hour had passed since he left Maplewood. “Father!” he cried, his pitch still contained. Doubt had finally crept into his mind and with every moment, it spread like a disease. Eldric Merrith had never run off without warning. He would never run away from us. Louder, his cries for “Father!” echoed into the woods.

         In front of him he found a broad, three-sided hill anchoring a pair of crooked maple trees. Corvan recognized this place. A feathery haze cut the air, but when he climbed to the hill's crest, he took pleasure in the wide view of the rolling, West Halcyon fields. Gorgeous... Just as I remember. He then spotted something moving far in the distance. It was difficult to make out, but there were two men clothed in long, violet-tinted cloaks. Ahead of them strode many more figures-- perhaps ten, he counted, and one not wearing the same unusual garments. If not for Corvan's hawk-ish eyesight, they may not have been visible at all. Squinting, he focused sharply on the uncloaked figure whom he could barely make out from the grassy countryside. They are guiding that one. A surge of panic then struck the boy cruelly. It couldn't be.

         Corvan burst to a sprint, his sights fixed upon the two men who'd lagged behind the others. He ran as fast as he could, hurdling small hedges and banks and fallen tree trunks. When he reached the end of the woodlands, he shouted for their attention. Then suddenly, behind the last tree in sight, another man in hooded cloak sprang from his hiding place. At full pace, Corvan leaped into his outstretched arm. The collision staggered them both. 

         “Who are you!? Why did you stop me!?” cried Corvan in angst. 

         Dismissing the common etiquette, the man did not pull back his hood. Instead, he waited silently as Corvan caught his breath. Cryptically, he finally answered. “I am but a humble servant of the first god of the Island Kingdoms, a priest who demands no tithe, a leader of men, a harbinger of change... What is your name, young man? And what are you doing all alone beyond your village walls?” 

         Corvan was incredulous, but in his haste, he answered openly. “I am Corvan Merrith of Maplewood, son of Eldric-- knight of the Emperor's Legion and warden of Maplewood Village to the west. I am looking for him. My father... Have you seen him?” The man remained quiet until Corvan nervously repeated himself. "Have you seen him?"

        “That's quite a burdensome title your father bears, isn't it?"

        Eldric's son frowned.

        "So Corvan you said, aye?.. Listen to me, boy. Your father has been summoned to perform a great service to the realm. 'Tis quite an honor, really. You see, I've spent a very long time looking for someone. Someone very important. And your father happens to know where he is."

        Corvan's frown became a confounded stare.

        “I'm sure you, nor even your pretty mother have the faintest idea what I'm talking about. But you will learn soon enough... Do not despair, young man. Your father has come willingly and will not be harmed, so long as he fulfills his pledge to me.” 

         Corvan erupted with questions. “My mother?... What pledge? What riddles are these? Where are you taking hi-”

         “Enough! I have explained what I will. I should now leave that I may return to my brethren. And to your father. Go home, child.” 

         The mysterious figure turned his shoulder to stride away. Corvan was terribly confused, but it was the man's arrogance that enraged him. Impulsively, he unsheathed his gladius. The grazing of steel against the hardened leather of his scabbard recaptured the man's attention. The man whirled quick as a snake. He then raised his hide-covered palm, revealing the opaque rune stone in his grasp. In a harsh foreign tongue, he quietly hissed, “Auleek Neegaste.” Instantly, a flame surged from the stone.

         Corvan was mesmerized. He buried Searshine back into his scabbard, cowering at the man's piercing glare. He watched as the blaze flickered of bronze and gold, and brighter, as the color of the sun. Corvan was at a loss. No words came to him, nor any sensible action. He simply stared. The hooded figure then raised his fiery hand to his lips. With the most delicate breath, he doubled the blaze. The crackling grew louder until the fire suddenly died, and smoke rose from his ash-covered glove. Staying his glare, the man backpedaled a few steps before slowly pivoting away.

         “Who are you!?” shouted Corvan, hysterically. To his surprise, the hooded figure turned to him a last time.

         “My name is Hidelwine Gaul, son of Hauvester of the Emperor's City. Best you remember that name, boy... and remember the mercy I've just shown you.”

         And so, the man resumed his departure. Corvan's mind was invaded with disbelief. How was it possible? What trick of the eye? He was trembling when he felt the sudden weakness in his knees. But worse, he had discovered the weakness in his heart. His father was gone, and so spineless and timid, he had failed to help him. The trembling was made worse by his weighty scabbard, he noticed. He looked down at the beautiful pommel and crossguard at his side. He thought about the hero who gifted it to him, and the greatest blacksmith in all the realm who had crafted it for him. Corvan felt foolish then-- ashamed he pulled Searshine down from his wall. Ashamed he ever received such an undeserved gift. The man must have been twice my age. But he was not frightened by me in the least. Corvan's leather bracers, his special gladius, and his courage had all been a costume. But they had been no disguise.

         Back at home, Annalyne's intuition gnawed at her. She had been right to worry that Corvan would hurt himself with that special sword of his. Searshine had just cut and bled out her son's pride.

        Corvan gathered enough wits to watch the hooded men traipse farther into the distance, to see which road they might take past the fork. The north road led to Castleton, he knew, and the southern path to Halcyon Harbor. My father would not have left with them willingly... Would he?

        It wasn't long before they vanished beyond his long range of sight. Well, they have taken the north road. “What should I do now?” Corvan asked himself aloud, as to speak over the clamoring in his head. Louder, he tried again. “What must I do?!” It was this question that overwhelmed him, the helplessly deserted son of a hero. What would my father do?          

        The weald gave no answer, so he ran. In all the hysteria, his head ache had escaped him. The shock had been good for something. But where it left, questions flooded in. How can a man make fire of the air? Can a blaze that tall be a trick of the eye? What was he after? Has my father been hiding something? As he scampered back toward Maplewood, a stream of horrible possibilities occurred to him. But he carried one burden that disheartened him as much as any. How in the world am I going to explain this to Mah and Amos? He could think of no gentle enough words. And what will they say when I tell them I encountered a wizard who spawned fire from his hand? Magic and witchcraft were seldom, if ever, witnessed by the people of Maplewood. After all, meddling in the arcane was a violation of law. But long ago, there was one who had quietly pursued an interest in magic. Corvan then knew what to do. He should seek the council of Langrian Hassai, High Elder of Maplewood, and once, student in the forbidden art of pyromancy.

         Having sprinted so far, Corvan stopped to catch his breath and wipe the sweat from his brow. He then found himself wiping tears from his eyes. Somehow, it felt more shameful than having them whisked away in stride by the wind. “Sweat is the radiance of productivity,” his father once said. He wondered, How can tears be so different? Corvan needed no more incentive to hasten his steps.

         

********************

        At last, he approached the familiar scenery which surrounded the outskirts of Maplewood. He dashed swiftly between the outer fences, past the guardian maples to reach the eastern gate. But there Corvan stalled. He needed a moment to reconcile the dreadful task awaiting him inside. I must be strong... for my mother and for Amos. After a few deep breaths, the young man triggered the lock and pressed his shoulder against the gate. Crestfallen, he pushed the doors open. They never felt this heavy before.

         To the far edge of the village he paced quickly, weathering more than a few troubled looks from neighbors and passersby. It was a test to feign confidence this time. Mustering all his courage, he strode down the path to the Merrith family courtyard, where he spotted his mother rocking nervously in her favorite porch chair. The rehearsal was over. It was time to tell his tale. With one last sigh, he stepped forward where she could see him.

      He tried his best to hide it, but Annalyne could tell that Corvan's search had gone terribly wrong. All mothers can detect sorrow when it has come to their children. Annalyne's heart sank into her belly, fearful of the words that might follow. But instinctively, she found herself gathering strength for her son, to ease his despair. Mother and son met eyes and without need for words, they embraced. Finally, she begged him, “Tell me... What's happened, Corvan?”

         “He hasn't been hurt, Mah. But he has been taken. A dozen men wearing cloaks dyed the color of wine-- they departed the north road with father in their custody.” 

         The unusual garments struck Annalyne less than her son's choice of word. “Taken? No man gets taken,” she said. “He was apprehended unlawfully, else he left of his own will.”

         “Then I can't be certain which, mother.”

         Annalyne studied her son, curious. “I... I'm relieved to hear you say he has not come to harm. Still, I have known your father for 22 years. Not once has he left depriving me a kiss and an expectation of his return. If he has been taken captive, these men will pay a cruel punishment for their offense.”

         “Well, if we are speaking of offenses, I should tell you what else I saw.” And with that, Corvan explained everything. He recited Hidelwine's every word and spared no stroke in painting the fire spawn of his magic. Annalyne was as bewildered by the account as Corvan was to tell it, and she understood then why her son chose the word “taken.” She could offer no hints or clues, no cipher for the archmage's mysterious confession. But she agreed with her son. Langrian and the Elders of Maplewood might be the only ones who could help them.

         The cabin door then moaned as though it wished to hold Amos inside. The boy saw his weary brother first. Corvan twitched and shuffled as if woken from a trance. His mother's arms were crossed, feet tapping, fingers gripping at her chin-- her rare, if recognizable posture when something was amiss. When she saw her little boy, Annalyne's heart sank deeper into her gut. It could have been rotten meat the way she gulped, and Corvan's gloom was no less discouraging. Even a child could see that his father was not coming home. “Where is he?” Amos uttered, pitifully.

         Annalyne told the story for Corvan this time. It was a courtesy knowing he would have to tell it again later... and, likely, many times before this is over, she worried. Though she skimmed past the details, Amos grasped what little there was to understand. “In fact, it may be a long while before your father comes home,” she admitted. Annalyne consoled him, and though the tears fell, they fell quietly-- absent of fit, sob or tantrum. She held her son close, soothing him like only a mother is capable. As her firstborn looked on, again his eyes swelled with tears. Something stirred in Corvan then, and he refused his teary eyes to spill over.

         While his mother and Amos fetched boots and proper clothing, Corvan paced alone in the courtyard. He clenched his jaw, squeezing his fingers with a burgeoning impatience. He felt itchy. Restless. Something must be done, and it must be done soon. He'd made half a dozen laps of the courtyard when he heard whistling from the out-leading path. “Oh, not now,” he griped. It was his neighbor-- his father's good friend, Jessel Bremmin.

         Mr. Bremmin was a husky and burly kind of man with thinning, rust-tinted hair. He strode into the garden just as merry as a flutter fly, a red-cordoned basket tucked under his arm. It was strange to see the scruffy, callus-handed logger clutching a cordoned anything. In fact, it didn't agree with him at all. His bulky arms had already squeezed and crumpled the wicker straws. The sight would have been amusing had Corvan been in any mood for it. Instead, it reminded him of something odd he read when he was a boy. That now and again, the monstrous ogres of Crescent Wood mistakenly smothered their newborns-- overzealous affections turned to unwitting tragedy. Seems even the warmest intentions cannot lend grace to the utterly graceless. Corvan wondered if whatever had been crammed into that basket had likewise been smothered.

         Jessel had come to the Merrith estate to trade the bursting gift basket for his new rocking chair. It wasn't the chair Annalyne had almost tipped, rocking herself mad waiting for Corvan to return. It was a bare, splintery chair he'd left for the Merriths to refinish, a gift for his wife's coming name day. Eldric had carved a pattern of vines and Halcyon orchids along the back support, arm rests and rockers. Corvan had done the trimming work, then applied a coat of white, green and plum embellishments. That morning, his father had hoped to spend time with Amos finishing the chair with a final coat of oil. Alas, Eldric's morning had gone terribly wrong. Unaware of his friend's disappearance, Jessel cheerfully presented his sticky basket of appreciation-- a gift of acorns, wine and cheese... and a few mushy peaches.

         “Good midday to you, Corvan.”

         The young Merrith returned a listless smile.

         “So, where's that old man o' yours hiding?”

         “Yes, well... He.... Well, he's gone. And in fact, I don't presume he'll be back to finish your chair today.” 

         Corvan's neighbor looked puzzled. Eldric Merrith had never been late for anything. But Jessel could tell it was more serious than that. “Gone, you say?”

         Annalyne then emerged from the cabin, Amos' hand in her own. Corvan was grasping for untangled words. Her neighbor, Jessel, appeared out of sorts. Annalyne knew what had happened here. “I regret your rocking chair isn't finished for you today, Mr. Bremmin. Please accept our apology. We hope you understand that, for the moment, we have this matter with Eldric to address,” she explained clumsily. “But we are the better for your visit.”

         “Yes, my lady. Of course. Is there any other word? Or anything I can---”

         “You are kind to offer, Jessel. Thank you.” Annalyne forced a smile.

         Their neighbor bowed kindly, leaving his basket to depart with a chill, no chair, from the Merrith house. As he plodded away, Annalyne called to him once more. “When is Mrs. Bremmin's name day, Jessel?”

         “Oh... day after the morrow, my lady.”

         “Return midday tomorrow then. I'll finish that chair for you,” she promised.

       

        When the Merrith's left their estate, they found that whispers were floating around the village-- hints that Eldric had gone missing. As they paced toward the House of the Elders, speechless neighbors set aside their errands to offer gestures of sympathy. But Annalyne could see it was really fear in their eyes. After all, this was their warden, the most skilled and battle-proven sword in all of Halcyon, a great hero of the Emperor's city. If he could befall some ill fate, what chance might the rest of them have? Corvan focused on the path ahead, trying hard to avoid eye contact with anyone they passed. When they finally ascended the flight of shaded steps, it was maven Banarthorne who greeted them. “Come... We have been expecting you.” The old man was short of breath, balancing the weighty door at his back.

         The receiving hall inside the House of the Elders was remarkably dull. Torch-clutching sconces blackened its stone corners. A round, candle-lit table slept at its center. Narrow wall slits permitted but fleeting breezes and pale light. The House stood as a monument to Maplewood's humble nature, to its modesty and simplicity. Once in a while, the hall was a place for holding banquets or petty hearings. Though mostly it served the Elders who spent their days sipping ale, thumbing through old books, and playing their leaf card games. As Corvan assessed the dark, airless room, he could imagine the old white-beards dealing cards, filling their bellies with ale. Maplewood was a village of few laws and fewer offenders. A place known for wood crafting and sugar syrup, not villainy or scandal. He supposed they needed some way to pass the time. How boring a life this must be, he concluded. Well, the news I bring today is no bore. Despite their devotion to fine brews, these were noble and highly regarded men, wise sages of the Academy in Dravon Hill. No ale-laden tankards or leaf cards had been dealt around the table on this afternoon. The whispers had drifted in.

         “Come, sit with us,” Langrian started. The last of Maplewood's Elders, Garsille, was seated to his left. “Lady Annalyne, please take comfort, for we wish to help in any way we can. Is it true that Eldric did not return from his customary morning walk? For I presume that is why the three of you have come.”

         Annalyne asked Amos to go and sit quietly on the far side of the hall. Before her attention returned, her older son spoke in her place.

         “Maven Langrian, my father left the weald this morning in the custody of a peculiar company of men. They journeyed from the east seeking only for him, and I believe they apprehended him against his will. The man said they were looking for someone. Someone very important”, he quoted, mimicking Hidelwine. “And he said my father was the only one who could help them.”

         Langrian grimaced. “Tell us everything, Corvan.”

         So once again, he recounted the day's events, the day's mystery, the day's magic... the day's heartbreak.

         

         “Son of Maplewood... Regretfully, I've no knowledge of this Hidelwine, nor the family name Gaul, and I can offer nothing useful to tell of his magic.” Mavens Langrian, Garsille and Banarthorne, they all appeared baffled by the account. They looked to one another wishfully, but gainful discourse eluded them. They began to stammer and stutter, spouting feckless ideas back and forth and teetering in wrong directions only to forget how they got there. No word of cloaked men traveling west had come to their ears, even on the heels of yesterday's caravan. They could think of no such company or guild, no idea who these men were or what they were after. The lore mavens of Maplewood were no help at all.

         No explanation, no news, no knowledge, no ideas, Corvan festered. All the "no's" were rousing his temper. He had counted on these great scholars for answers. At least some bit of insight. Some direction. Upon these noble men, the people of Maplewood relied for wisdom and guidance. It was they who preserved their land and traditions. They who represented their interests to the very kings and queens of the realm. But in Corvan's mind, today was the only bloody day he'd ever needed them. And certainly, the only day his father ever needed them. If they could keep their noses dry of ale for one gods forsaken day. Suddenly, a stray breeze slipped in from the window and blew out the candle before him. Corvan then recognized his frustration. He breathed deeply, hoping the fire in his belly would burn out like the candle's.

         Annalyne had watched the angst swell on her son's face. When he's so painfully unimpressed, must he grow so impatient? An unfortunate inheritance, she regretted. She had been curbing the impatience, herself. Still, Annalyne was more experienced at speaking between her teeth than Corvan was, so she wouldn't leave him to make offense of his frustration. As the ramblings from across the table lulled, she leaned forward to suggest a recess. But Langrian beat her to it.

         “Lady Annalyne. Corvan. Please excuse us. I wish to speak with mavens Banarthorne and Garsille now. Privately.” So the Elders rose from their seats and trudged toward the back of the hall. In the shadows that parted the hall's corners and center table, there rose a narrow wooden door bolted to parchment-thin, black iron hinges. The lines were so precise, it appeared the door had been sliced from the wall with a knife. Corvan hadn't even noticed it. When Langrian freed the latch, the Elders disappeared behind the curious doorway. The next chamber led to another chamber housing another door, another and another, until they finally reached the Maplewood cellars. Only the Elders possessed keys to this place.

         “It was good that you held your tongue, Corvan. I could see your frustration swaying you.”

        The breath of cool air was just what he needed. “Yes... Wayward ire, father would call it. 'Tis not their fault this has happened. I'd only hoped... well, perhaps we put too much faith in our lore mavens.”

         “They are men groomed from childhood to serve the interests of Maplewood. Their interests are provincial. The kingdom abroad is vast, Corvan. None can be expected to know every house, every guild... every mischief of rats.” Suddenly, Annalyne felt defeated, overwhelmed by the day and its unanswered questions. Has Eldric been hiding a secret from his past? What is the motive of these men? Will they return to Maplewood? Do they mean to do harm? And what of their magic? “Son, I fear our answers lie at the end of a long and winding path.”

         “It appears so. But who is going to wander that path, mother?” Corvan's eyes then veered away from her. He began to stare at the door where the Elders had left them. His gaze then passed beyond the door and through the walls to somewhere lonely, far away. A brazen resolve was growing inside him. The doorway, the candle light, the barren walls surrounding him, they all blurred as the task before him became so clear. I must. He knew it as sure as the setting sun. I must wander that path. “Mother, I intend to leave Maplewood and venture east in search of answers. I must be the one to help him.” The words spilled over the table carelessly, but they splashed without a drop of remorse. He had pledged himself to this end.

         The stark acknowledgment put a ghostly chill in his mother. Deep inside though, she knew this was coming. Annalyne had been fighting it all along. Her eyes still wanted to see the little boy of years come and gone, but the rest of the world saw Corvan for what he was-- a bright, talented, capable young man. And men of the Merrith lineage were to rise when challenges beckoned. If his own son would not save Eldric from this untold fate, who would? In her heart and mind, Annalyne understood all this. But fear still betrayed her understanding. “No,” she moaned woefully as a tear left her eye. Her heart had finally reached the deepest pit of her stomach.

         Corvan's will was unyielding. His words would not be undone. Yet this moment called not for strength, but for tenderness. “Mother, only twice in my life have I seen you cry..." He paused, waiting for Annalyne to respond. She did not. "The last was on my seventeenth name day, during my rite of passage ceremony...” Still, she had barely twitched. “The other was when Amos was born. When you held him the first time.” Corvan was thirteen then, old enough to know the joy new children bring.

        "Never confuse tears for weakness, son." Annalyne turned to watch her little boy sitting under the torchlight, whittling away at the rock sling he'd made with his father. It seemed he was alone, somewhere far away-- as Corvan had looked just moments ago.

        “You'd wish to come with me, Mah. But you know very well that he needs you. That you need to stay here and look after him.”

         Annalyne's puffy red cheeks permitted a feeble grin. “You're right... Corvan, when I look at you sometimes, I still see that young boy sitting in the torchlight, playing in his own little world. Seems such a short time ago. But today I've watched you age.”

         “Then you know why I must do this. And why you must stay here in Maplewood. With Amos.”

         “The only thing I know is that I want my husband back home. His place is with me. With us, as it has always been. But how can I wager my son against his return?”

         “The risk is not yours, Mah. This is my choice.”

        Annalyne stared blankly, unmoved.

        “We mustn't despair. They brought no harm upon him.”

         “No harm you could see. But how do you know? Did you meet eyes with his to see them unharmed? Hurt comes to the heart as it does the flesh, Corvan. And the heart takes longer to heal.”

         “Mother, haven't you given enough voice to your fear? I'm not marching off to battle... merely searching for answers. This Hidelwine,” he asserted awkwardly, “could have turned his blaze from the air and cast it in my face. But he chose not to. Perhaps there is still a breadth of humanity left in these villains.” Truth be told, Corvan wasn't absolutely certain they were villains at all. But the toil they had brought to his mother made them villains enough.

         Her son's tenuous reasoning had been little consolation. Annalyne looked back to the corner where Amos fiddled away at his sling shot. Aside from the tinkering of knife and boar bone, the room fell silent. It was a lonely silence for such a meager hall, though it ended abruptly. When the lore mavens returned from the cellars, Corvan sat up straight in his chair.

         Langrian strode ahead of the other two, weighing the mood of the room. The young Merrith appeared eager, determined; and Annalyne's sulking did little to sway his intuition. “Corvan, may I suppose you've told your mother that you intend to venture east. To Castleton?”

         The candor surprised him. “...Yy-yes... How did you know?”

         “You judge yourself too harshly, Corvan. While you told us your story, the shame was scrawled over you plainly. You are as eager to redeem yourself as you are to rescue your father.”

         Corvan chewed wistfully on that retort.

         “You mustn't let him travel alone, Elder Hassai. He's never ventured so far on his own.”

         “My lady. Who shall I send? Who for their daring reputation? Their courage, their skill with a blade? And pray, who would you send to chase a dozen insidious men, one of which draws fire from the palm of his hand?”

         Annalyne had no fitting answers. That had certainly been the way of her afternoon. Stubbornly, she chose to fight back with questions of her own. “Then will you not help us at all? Will the Elders do nothing to see to the return of their warden?”

         True to character, Langrian delivered a long-winded reply. “Lady Annalyne, I know our village hasn't always been kind to those wishing to make a new home of it. We are welcoming enough of our guests, but... as time passes, and the harsh ways of the east ever encroach upon us, our people grow uneasy. They will be frightened by Eldric's disappearance, you know. He is their strength. And the years have been peaceful under his watchful eye. My lady, I assure you. We wish to preserve that peace. The Elders have prepared much for Corvan to return your husband to you, and I speak for us all when I say we are proud of your son's courage.”

         Garsille then raised a coin purse bearing the emblem of Maplewood. The orange threading of a wide maple tree adorned the cloth of forest green. "3 gold Chandems, 17 silvers and 30 coppers," he said. "You will require travel provisions and shelter. You may propose favor, bribe, or gift. There could be other needs beyond our foretelling. But they would all come at a price. We grant you this freely, unrecompensed from the Maplewood treasury. Please accept it as a token of our investment in your father... and in you. We shall hear no refusal.”

         Banarthorne spoke next. “Corvan, I've prepared a letter for the courier in Castleton. I have a brother, much younger than I, who fancies himself a trader of information. Gossip and whispers, you see. He's earned good coin for sniffing out thieves and brigands, bandits and the like. His name is Ogarthorne, and rather unexpectedly, he visited Maplewood just three days past. He will have stopped in Castleton upon his return to the east. Likely, he's seen or heard utterances of these men cloaked in violet. Have the courier track him to deliver this letter.” Despite 17 years and 200 leagues between them, Banarthorne and his brother always remained close. But what he didn't know was that his young brother, Maplewood's very own son, had played a role in Eldric's abduction. Long years had passed since Ogarthorne left home. In that time, he had become a master of frost magic, a purveyor of secrets, and a leader among the Arcaven magi. Once Hidelwine set their grand scheme into motion, Ogarthorne knew the days ahead would be fraught with uncertainty. His brother was an aging man, so when his company had traveled so far west, he couldn't pass up the chance to visit with Banarthorne-- perhaps this, their last time. The Arcaven mage was smart enough to switch out his wine-tinted cloak before making his visit. He was the one who had surveyed Eldric's morning scout of the weald.

         The Kingdom of Halcyon, Third Era, 2988, the scroll read. Langrian unraveled the sprawling parchment map of the island. He then pointed to a marker for the West Halcyon encampment. “You must leave at dawn if you wish to make camp before dark. For nine coppers, wild-land sentinels will provide watchful shelter, hot soup and cool, clean water. Ale too, should your nerves desire it. Spend the evening by the campfire and tell everyone your tale. For all their mystery, these men are not inconspicuous of appearance. Someone must have witnessed their passing.” Langrian took a long, rasping breath. “Once again, you must leave at first light. Fleet of foot, you will arrive in Castleton two hours after nightfall. The fields there are wide and well patrolled by the King's guard. The dark should not hinder you.” He then placed a letter in Corvan's hand. “Here... I've quilled a message stamped with the seal of Maplewood. In the hands of Lord Deckard of Castle Halcyon, the seal will grant you an audience among the king's court. The letter explains your father's abduction, and with my recommendation, appeals for King Mordole's aid. I've requested sword-bearing guardsmen arrest these offenders in violet cloak. Their actions are to be presented before the judgement of the court.

         “Forgive my lack of faith, maven Langrian. We are most appreciative.”

         “Of course, my lady. There is nothing to forgive.”

         Suddenly, they noticed a thrumming of voices from the courtyard outside. The faint and muffled clamoring of worried village folk pleaded for their attention.

        “They'll want to know, Lady Annalyne.” Langrian's stare remain fixed, awaiting her approval.

        Reluctantly, she nodded.

        “I will give the testimony,” he said. “Stand proudly beside me and hold your heads high. For our strength will be their solace. Especially yours, Corvan.”

         Annalyne nodded again, as begrudgingly as the first time. What strength have I left to give? “Amos. Come here, son. I would tell you what we've decided... Your brother leaves tomorrow for Castleton. Now, don't you worry, dear boy. It may take some time, but Corvan is going to find your father. And as soon as he does, they will return home together.” If only someone could promise her the same. “'You hear that?.. Our friends and neighbors are waiting outside. They'll want to know our plans. Can you be a good lad and stand quietly beside your mother?”

         “Yes, I can be quiet,” Amos said, drawing up a little boy's courage. "...but may I stand next to Corvan?”

         His mother took no offense. Proudly, she gleamed for her boys. They were her strength. “You will stand between us both.”

         Corvan then swung open the heavy doors. The setting sun beamed light between the Autumngale leaves, where shadows divided the coral sky and swallowed the gathering crowd. Out of the shade, the Merriths first noticed their neighbor, Jessel, wrangling the herd which had gathered at his behest. With a single clap, he sparked a warm ovation. It was a tasteful measure-- the kind of attention Annalyne usually loathed, but then discovered she sorely needed. Behind their winsome smiles, though, was harbored a cautious anxiety. And for all their cheering, they expected a song.

         Langrian perched next to Corvan, who stood beside Amos, then Annalyne. Garsille and Banarthorne settled to their left, joining in the applause. The High Elder then raised a hand, addressing the worried faces with a measured smile. Over the years, he'd earned a reputation for jawing twice as many words as ever were needed, but for this the crowd hushed, grasping at every one.

Chapter 3 continued in Part 2:

http://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1998095-The-Siren--the-Sacred-Lie-...