Telyn quickly found her way to the tower stairs and the library, knocking softly upon the door. She was eager to begin something constructive to dull the sting of Marithiel’s dismissal. At Gwidion’s immediate call, she entered the room and caught sight of the Lord of Cerisild at his desk, hidden behind an unfurled scroll which he held upraised and was scanning closely.
He peered around the side of the parchment, his face lighting with pleasure, and beckoned her to come closer.
“Belrion a ta, Telyn!” he greeted her warmly as she closed the door behind her.
“Belrion ta,” Telyn responded. “Y’deiri ailis?”
Gwidion made a sound of satisfaction as she joined him at the desk. “We’ll make quick work of this, if you can read the old language as easily as you speak it,” he praised. “I’ve just been locating the Tauron records where I believe I saw the ‘seed-speaker’ reference. There are still some on the shelf, if you would be so kind as to retrieve them. They are corded in green.”
Telyn crossed to the wooden shelves, quickly locating the rolled parchments and gathering the aged documents carefully into her arms.
“Mithrais, I presume, is still in the solar,” Gwidion remarked, his voice dropping a bit as Telyn brought the scrolls to the desk, setting them down carefully on its surface.
“Yes, he is,” she affirmed with a sigh. Gwidion looked at her sharply, his eyebrows arched. He lowered the scroll he was reading to the desk, turning his chair toward her to give her his full attention.
“Your voice tells me that her reception wasn’t positive.”
“No, her initial reception was relatively polite,” Telyn admitted. “I think she knew that I was being selective on the details of how I came to be here. However, when Mithrais told her that we were lifemates, she ordered me out. I really didn’t expect her to welcome me with open arms, but Mithrais was very angry.”
The older man studied her gravely, his hands tightening on the arms of his rolling chair. “I’m sorry, Telyn. The rift between them has been a lifetime’s work, mostly of Marithiel’s making. You’re merely an excuse to enlarge the chasm.” Gwidion reached out and took Telyn’s hand between his own. “It’s a great relief to me that my son is no longer alone.
“Shall we begin to familiarize you with the dilemma we face in the Wood?” Gwidion patted her hand and released it, motioning for Telyn to pull up one of the chairs. “How much do you know about the Gwaith’orn and the Tauron Order?”
“Not a great deal,” Telyn said as she seated herself. “Mithrais did tell me that there have been Gwaith’orn in the Wood for longer than the Tauron’s recorded history.”
“The Order was formed more than three centuries past, but it didn’t keep records until perhaps two hundred years ago. Much of the history before that time is only known through oral tradition. It is a hobby of mine to record the stories here.” He tapped a thick, leather-bound volume that lay on his desk. “There is no way to determine how long the Gwaith’orn existed before the Tauron covenant. They are the last true members of the mystical races that once dwelled here in the Wood, and I believe that they are the same beings once revered as gods of the grove. In the times before recorded history, they were stronger, and their voices were easily heard.”
Gwidion settled into the tale, and Telyn listened in fascination. “The Wood has always been a source of magic, and the old ones knew how to bend and shape it to their will. Although they were wise and lived far beyond the lifespan of mortal men, those who were like us in body began to realize that they were a dying race. They began to intermarry with the people who had settled the eastern coastline of this isle.
“Those that remained here felt that they could not abandon their earthbound kin, the Gwaith’orn. They, too, intermarried with those who came from across the sea, but settled in the Wood.
“At first all of the children born to the Silde retained the ability to use magic, but as the ancient bloodlines continued to be diluted, the ability to tap into that power was lost. The gifts became less predictably inherited. The Tauron arose from a covenant between the Gwaith’orn and those who could still access the old magic: The Gwaith’orn would provide a safeguard for the knowledge necessary to the use of magic before it was lost, in return for protection. A last, great spell was cast, sealing this covenant.
“The newly arrived inhabitants of this isle did not understand that many of the trees were living beings, and they were cut down to provide shelter or firewood, to the horror of those who had been Wood-born. The Tauron’s first role was almost that of a holy order, caretakers and servants, who patrolled to be sure the Gwaith’orn were safe from harm and to let them know that they had not been forgotten. The Tauron became soldiers when disputes between the Three Realms reached the Wood.”
“The Tauron’s knowledge of the Wood, and their expertise in fighting in the deep forest allowed our people to hold fast. The Gwaith’orn’s existence became a closely guarded secret, for they would warn the Tauron whenever invaders seeking battle would enter the trees, and it was feared that the old ones would be destroyed if the enemy discovered them.
“Now we face a new threat to the Gwaith’orn; one we can’t understand completely, but that we are bound by the covenant to try and avert. These beings are the last vestige of our magical heritage, and hold the arcane knowledge in trust until the time comes that the old gifts can arise once more. If the Gwaith’orn cease to exist, I fear that all connection to the old magic will be lost forever, and with it, the Silde’s identity as a race.”
The sound of the door opening caused them both to turn. Mithrais entered the room, his face drawn tight with the remnants of an unpleasant confrontation. He could manage only the barest of smiles for Telyn and his father as he crossed the room stiffly, one white-knuckled hand gripping his staff as if he would impress the wood with his fingers, crumpled pieces of parchment in his other hand.
“Mithrais?” Gwidion inquired, concern on his face as he withdrew his hand from Telyn’s. “What has she said to you this time?”
Mithrais sat in the other chair with a bleak laugh. “Threats, insults, avowals of her disappointment in me—nothing that I haven’t heard before, but I fear that anger overwhelmed my better self. I’ve said things this time that she will not forget.”
“Telyn told me that Marithiel wasn’t as pleased as I to meet her,” Gwidion advised, glancing at the bard.
“She was unforgivably rude to Telyn, but that wasn’t all.” Mithrais tossed the documents on Gwidion’s desk, continuing as his father picked them up, “She’s used her power as your regent to make a change to the treasury expenses.”
Telyn watched, alarmed, as Gwidion’s face grew dark with anger. “She dares much,” he said, reading the document. “She can’t simply order the Tauron to disband, according to the covenant. Even as an amendment to the treasury it is meaningless unless she has obtained Gilmarion’s signature as well.”
“She has it,” Mithrais stated flatly. “The original is ready to be delivered to the Elders, unless...” his voice fell, and he glanced at Telyn, who felt a stab of foreboding.
“Unless what?” Telyn asked quietly. Mithrais took her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing it apologetically.
“She thought to force me to agree to a marriage contract in order to prevent the dissolution,” he said in a low voice. “Gilmarion’s intended has had a change of heart about leaving her twin, and apparently, if I wed her sister, all will proceed as planned.”
“Ludicrous!” Gwidion snapped. “I’ve told them that it is a desirable match for Gilmarion, but we will survive without owning Belenus’ wheat fields as long as we can continue to import what we need.”
Gwidion looked ashamed, and saddened.
“I’ve brought this upon myself,” he said, shaking his head. “Had I been seeing to my own responsibilities instead of hiding in this library with my wounded pride...” He looked up at his son, his eyes cold. “I’ll write an order disavowing this ill-conceived act, one that can be delivered on the heels of their document as a recantation of the dissolution if it gets so far.”
“Father, I spoke to Gilmarion afterwards.” Mithrais brow was creased in concern. “Has something happened between the two of you?”
Gwidion wilted a little in his chair, and shook his head. “Not on my part. Gilmarion no longer sees me in private. At first I thought it was because his responsibilities had increased since the winter solstice, but I have come to realize that he is avoiding me. I don’t know why.” He looked searchingly at Mithrais. “Did he give you any indication of the reason?”
“No.” Mithrais frowned. “It makes no sense, Father. He told me to do what I must in regard to the Tauron, but he was more resigned than angry. He didn’t deny that he had kept this information from you at Marithiel’s urging when I pressed him.”
“There is little question of that.” Gwidion shook his head, his face grim, and began to fish for an empty parchment and an inkwell atop his desk.
While the men worked on reversing the potential damage of Marithiel’s treasury amendment, Telyn retrieved one of the Tauron histories and unfurled the aged and brittle document carefully. The gravity of her task was beginning to become apparent, and her time was short.
* * * *
Toward midday, Telyn came across the first tantalizing reference to the mysterious title Gwidion had recalled. Laboring over the time-worn and faded words, Telyn read the passage to herself several times before interrupting the men, who were putting the final touches on the document that would rescind the Tauron dissolution.
“I’ve found something here that may point us in the right direction,” the bard said excitedly. “It refers to the life celebration of a warden, who in his youth was hailed as cel-mathon—‘seed-speaker’.”
“In which record does that appear?” Gwidion asked interestedly as he stamped the document with his seal, the wax hissing beneath the embossed metal.
“It says the tenth year of Niallin, Lord of Cerisild.”
“Niallin was the fifth Lord. Does it say how old the warden was?” Gwidion handed the document to Mithrais, who rolled and sealed it carefully inside a thin membrane tube. Telyn frowned, reading on, and shook her head.
“No. He must have been quite advanced in age, because his grandson was also a Tauron warden.”
“So, eighty-some years old, perhaps,” Gwidion thought aloud. “If we go back seventy years, it should suffice. That would encompass the third and fourth lords. We will be looking for scrolls that are listed under Ceivar or...hmmm. Wait a moment.” His eyes sparkled with excitement as he remembered something. “Look for scrolls from the years of Turian, the fourth lord of Cerisild. He had a very long tenure, and there will be five or six.”
“Is that where you remember seeing it?” Mithrais asked his father as Telyn began sifting through the piled scrolls.
“No, I can’t say for certain that it is, but there’s something about the Tauron during his rule that was unusual.” Gwidion looked at his son expectantly. “Think, Mithrais.”
Mithrais’ brow creased. “That would have been just before the wars began. The Tauron were still largely caretakers, but they began to train as warriors toward the end of his rule.”
“What else? Something that had never happened before, nor has it happened since.” He continued to watch his son’s face until Mithrais’ features lit up in comprehension.
“Genefar,” he said, and Gwidion responded with an emphatic, “Yes.”
“What?” Telyn asked, lost. Mithrais turned to her with a grin as he placed the membrane tube inside a locking box atop Gwidion’s desk.
“Genefar was wife to Turian. She was the first and only woman ever to head the Tauron Elders.”
Telyn found one of the scrolls and set it aside. “Do you know why she was so honored?” she asked Gwidion.
“I haven’t been through the entirety of records under Turian’s rule,” Gwidion admitted abashedly. “The scribe has a devilishly difficult hand, I fear.”
Telyn groaned as she unrolled the parchment and saw the minute writing. “Are they all this way?”
“I’m afraid so.” Gwidion located another parchment, shaking his head in annoyance. “I know that at least one of them is damaged, as well. It will be slow reading, but I have a feeling that what we need resides in those scrolls.”
When they had separated the scrolls, there were five. Telyn removed the unnecessary clutter of the others to the shelves as Gwidion placed the pertinent documents in order according to the time period indicated by the cramped, nearly illegible script.
“Here we begin,” Gwidion said, handing the first scroll to Telyn and taking the second himself. “Mithrais, do you think that your knowledge of the old language is up to the task?”
“I am afraid that’s doubtful.” Mithrais looked at one of the scrolls, chagrined, and Gwidion shook his head in mock disapproval.
“Telyn, I expect you to influence him appropriately,” he said sternly, and Telyn could not help but grin. “In that case, I fear the task of teacher falls to you, Mithrais. Telyn must begin to learn the control of her heartspeaking gifts tonight. That will be your responsibility. I expect you to be a taskmaster, for she must be able to communicate clearly with the Gwaith’orn in a very short time.”
Telyn gave a shaky sigh, for the thought of opening her mind to the Gwaith’orn still filled her with a sense of dread. As Mithrais left the library to attend his solemn meeting with the Elders, Telyn began to laboriously make her way through the first section of the record in search of the details of her charge.