AWAKENING

Enver traveled often between his father’s home and Gweflin’s, deepening his knowledge of healing from both. His father was an excellent master, but because he possessed an innate etherical ability, there were techniques he could not pass on to his son. Gweflin filled in the gaps and he learned much.

She also continued her healing of him though the urgency of accendu’melos had long subsided. Sometimes they’d be working in the garden and the desire would overcome one or the other, and they’d make love where they were, the scent of crushed herbs wafting in the air around them. Or, she would find him in a forest glade where he liked to listen to the voice of the world. The soft moss was sensuous against his bare skin as they coupled.

He did not love Gweflin, though he appreciated her as his healer and teacher, and considered her a friend. Her healing helped quell his obsession, but he never forgot the Asai’riel. Gweflin asked him about her, about his feelings for her, and he sensed she considered this part of his healing, as well.

She did not love him either, he knew, but she clearly found their time together pleasant. She never sent him away, nor did she ever express annoyance at his needs. She, as often as he, initiated their intimacy. Though to the eyes of a mortal she looked young, Enver knew she was one of the ancient ones, and her patience was great.

A constant in the background was the calling. It vibrated through every living thing in Eletia. One late summer day, Enver and Gweflin were sitting by the garden, taking tea and enjoying the fall of sunlight on leaf and stem when the calling changed, grew more urgent.

Gweflin stood.

“What is it?” Enver asked.

“I must attend the Grove,” she replied.

“Which one?”

“The great Grove.”

The great Grove was the sanctuary of the eldest of Eletians, including those of Argenthyne.

“I am coming with you,” he said.

She did not protest, and they departed immediately, their tea left to grow cold on the table by the garden.

Others called out to them as they walked, asking what the change indicated. Gweflin said she was not sure, but she felt she needed to go to the Grove. Many followed, and they encountered others along the way who were also drawn. By the time they reached the Grove, hundreds of Eletians had already arrived, and the call thrummed in Enver’s chest, pulsed through the whole of his being.

The Grove arose in the valley beneath the Alluvium, with the lake between. Ordinarily it was a place of serenity, a peaceful glade where the massive boles of the Eletian conifers grew, reaching above all others. Higher than a castle’s turret they grew, and as wide around. Paths into the Grove wended around, over, and under immense roots that could have been large trees themselves.

Gweflin did not pause to see what was to happen, but hurried inward into the heart of the Grove. There, they found a dozen attendants in white robes, standing beside one of the largest trees. They nodded to her, and she glanced at the tree. Then she turned to Enver.

“We will need some water.”

“What do—”

But she hastened by him to a stream. He followed. A silver bowl sat upon the mossy bank. The stream was called Ilyonbourne, and it was known to have healing properties. While the trees of the Grove might receive enough of a watering from nature, the attendants were known to periodically water the roots of the great trees from the Ilyonbourne. It promoted healing, not only for the trees themselves but for those who slept within.

Enver stepped down the steep bank into the icy water that sang and jingled and laughed down its course. Its current was strong and crisp, the clarity of the water that of glass. He dipped the bowl into the water, filled it, and handed it up to Gweflin. He climbed up the bank, feeling lighter, more buoyant, even though he had only stood in the stream.

Back in the Grove, Gweflin bore the bowl to the attendants, and they indicated she should wait with them.

More Eletians came and stood around and throughout the Grove. The calling became palpable. No one moved; no one spoke. They waited.

Time was largely irrelevant to Eletians, but Enver was only half Eletian and he grew impatient. Hours might have passed as they stood in silence. Many of the people appeared to be in deep meditative states as they absorbed the energy humming through the Grove.

Before evening fell, Prince Jametari arrived. He approached the attendants and gazed at the great tree they stood by. His presence changed the tenor of the event to a frisson of excitement. Those who meditated opened their eyes to the present. There was some murmuring from others.

When Enver returned his attention to the tree, he realized he had almost missed the event itself, the emergence of a Sleeper. He had not been there one moment, but was the next.

The attendants washed the golden fluid that was the tree’s life blood from the Sleeper with the water from Gweflin’s bowl. Then they clothed him in white robes.

He had a deformed hand. It was clawlike and blackened, and when he submerged it in Gweflin’s bowl, steam rose up. Finally, it dawned on Enver who he was.

“Behold!” Prince Jametari called out. His voice resonated through the Grove. “Our great king stands with us once more. Born beneath the stars of Avrath was King Santanara; here, among the leaves and limbs of Eletia, he stands.” The prince then went to his knee before his father. Everyone in the Grove did likewise.

“. . . will remove it,” the king was telling Gweflin quietly. Enver only heard it because of his close proximity. “It does me no good. I can hold nothing with it, and it brings only great suffering.”

His voice carried the strains of the ancient times, before the mountains, before Eletia, before the world, and yet he looked a man in his prime, broad-shouldered, his long flaxen hair shining in the dusk.

“I see my son,” he said, “and I have been glad of his visits to the Grove. I heard his voice even as I slept. But where is my daughter?”

Those who heard his question were openly stricken and cried out. Some wept.

“Graelalea is passed,” one of the attendants told him.

“I know of my Grae, my Graelalea,” he replied. “To Avrath on the wings of the winter owl she has returned, no longer present in this life. I grieve for her, and I will avenge her death. But I speak of my other daughter, the Cearing Asai’riel.”

It thrilled Enver to hear her spoken of by the king.

“She fights in a war among her other folk, my father,” Prince Jametari said.

“Ah,” the king said, indicating neither approval nor disapproval.

He gazed out upon his people and stepped forward. He became a commanding presence.

“Rise, my people,” he said. “It is time to rise for there is much to do. I have come back among you because of the unease I felt in the roots of the earth. Our great enemy, he who visited such atrocities upon fair Argenthyne and our people, stirs once more. Our allies cannot face him alone and hope to win. It was our—my—responsibility to destroy him, but, in that, I failed. He was defeated for a time, and the Sacor Clans coped the best they could to prevent his return with a wall, but he is too great a force.

“He rises again, and this time I will not fail. We will destroy him utterly.”

Inspired by the great king’s words, Enver strode across the glade and knelt before him. “I will gladly follow you, my lord, even if it means entering the black heart of the dark wood itself. I pledge to you my sword.”

Santanara gazed down at him. “I see in you more a healer than a soldier, young one.”

“I have fought and will fight,” Enver replied, “and I will do so for my king and all Eletians.”

There was a sparkling in Santanara’s eyes as he considered Enver, like the glint of a long-past silver moon. Enver felt as though years passed as he knelt beneath the king’s gaze.

“A warrior and a healer then,” Santanara said at length. “So be it.”

He flexed his clawed hand. Flesh had rotted on it, leaving the fingers skeletal, the result of his handling the Black Star, a powerful magical device crafted by Mornhavon. Santanara had stabbed it into its creator at the end of the Long War. It had brought about victory for the allies who fought against the Arcosians for over a hundred years.

Enver stood, bowed his head, and stepped aside so others might approach the king and declare their intent.

Gweflin came to him and gazed quizzically at him. “Why have you done this?” she asked.

“Our king has returned to us to defeat an old enemy,” he replied. “Is it so strange that I vow to join in that struggle?”

“Perhaps not, but I am thinking you are not as healed as I had thought.”

She walked away before he could ask her what she had meant by that. But in truth, he knew. He had done it for the Asai’riel. He would earn favor with her father, the king, and perhaps, in war he would win her approval.