“...in dead of night he creeps within

to reunite with kinless kin...”

Sohli Nlyndwnvi Rovikya XVIII

1:2:2:3/5, III:IX

Stirring at Tiena’s insistent nudge, Tirrok awakened in darkness. On the far side of the waterfall, he’d found a vast cavern, warmed by the light of a smiling sun painted onto the rock above. Despite the afternoon’s thorough exploration of the Great Hall, they encountered no signs of life. Cold, drenched, and exhausted, the desert rider abandoned his search and set up camp in the vacant chamber to rest.

Now the painted sun was gone, replaced by the serene face of first moon. Just past its apex, the waning orb bathed the hall in silver light, which glittered off the otherwise dark waters of the cascade. Tirrok emerged from his bedroll, and those dark waters began to brighten, refracting a light that approached along the tunnel. Soon a vague silhouette loomed, obscured by the falling water until Mother’s Gate parted for the figure.

A cloaked man crossed into the Great Hall, a bright glow bobbing above his head. Like the painted face upon the ceiling, the glow mirrored the moon outside, right down to its mottled pattern of silvery blue. Unsure how to announce his presence, Tirrok waited in silence as the falls closed back over. The newcomer drew nearer and barked out in the language of the Sutek, “What makes a Dua Dara traverse the D’jed in the dead of winter?”

Alarmed by the bristly question, Tirrok jerked to his feet, pounding his right fist over his heart in a respectful salute. “We are Tirrok Jokkelel of Jahari, and Tiena, my bonded,” he declared, using the traditional introduction for rider and mount, “but though bonded we are, I must admit we are not Dua Dara. Please forgive our intrusion, O Sage of this Great Hall.”

The following silence grew unbearable, and Tirrok tried not to fidget while the sage closed the gap between them. Had alienation leaked into his confession? Did he now stand judged by the sacred mage of this temple? Would the sage, like the Dua Dara, reject him out of hand?

Finally, the man spoke. “I am no sage,” he grated. “I am merely a tired warrior, awaiting the call to battle.” Futility lurked beneath the humble words, and Tirrok recognized the haunted sting of countless nights spent wishing fate had been kinder. Before he could voice his empathy, however, the sage turned his back on the desert rider and receded into the cavern.

Scrambling to catch up with him, Tirrok abandoned his makeshift camp to the darkness. “Forgive me any rudeness if I have offended,” he entreated. “I am in a strange land, and have never before spoken to a man without a face.” Within the desert, leaving one’s face hidden during conversation ranked among the gravest of insults, and Tirrok hoped he’d done nothing to earn such spite.

To his relief, the sage stopped, a coarse chuckle rumbling in his chest. “Fair enough,” he granted, shaking back the hood of his cloak. Perhaps a decade or so beyond Tirrok’s years, the dark-haired elf regarded him with approving eyes. “You tread a fine line between deference and nerve, young Tirrok. A new miracle indeed.”

“Pardon? Err – thank you, O Sage,” recovered the youth, bewildered nonetheless. “But, of what new miracle do you speak?”

A spartan laugh answered him, and the elf resumed his walking. “Your name? It’s in the ancient tongue of your people. A fair unusual name, even in the old days.” The sage conjectured into Tirrok’s stunned silence, “Surely whoever named you would have known, boy. I’d wonder why he never told you.”

Mind jumping to his grandfather’s book and the secrets bound within, Tirrok mumbled, “As would I, O Sage.”

“Would you stop calling me that?” rebuked the elf. “I’m no more a sage than you are.”

Startled by his ire, Tirrok balked, not quite willing to redress the respect he’d offered the mage. “What then is your name, O guardian of this Great Hall?” Desert men bore their names with pride and kept them only from their enemies, but perhaps, as with his shrouded face, the elf meant no disrespect.

Another silence burgeoned between them, languishing so long Tirrok composed an apology for his inquiry. At long last, the elf cleared his throat and begrudged, “There are those who call me Kingard.”

“You?” Tirrok spluttered at the news. “You are the mighty Kingard, savior of old?” His legends were of centuries past! The strongest Dua Dara mages could extend their lives a few decades at best. “This is your Great Hall?”

The elf scoffed. “As you can see, it is not as great as the tales make it seem. Nor I so mighty.”

“But you are the Kingard of legend?” pressed Tirrok, baffled by the elf’s disdain. “Did you alone not drive all evil from the face of the land?” Surely such a feat ranked among the mightiest in history.

Again, silence answered Tirrok long before the elf spoke. “...I am only a man who saved everyone, but lost everything.”

Words left him. Could such anguish be the lesson awaiting him beyond Mother’s Gate? Clearing his throat, the desert rider shuffled along, struggling to find a suitable response for the sage.

“Tirrok,” broached Kingard, disrupting the solemn hush with forced cheerfulness. “Why does a Dua Dara warrior take on the D’jed in the dead of winter?”

Into the sudden reprieve, Tirrok blurted, “To make my own destiny.” He did not correct the elf a second time, but he pondered what Kingard meant by calling him Dua Dara despite his confession to the contrary.

The elf’s long silence unnerved the youth, though he’d anticipated an extended pause. With a slight curl of his lips, Kingard snorted. “Well, boy, the D’jed has you in her clutches now, so I’d hope your destiny can wait for spring.”

“...from servitude is freed at last

the portal still, the knowledge fast...”

Kodyeh Njarwn Gusya XIII:II

1:3:3:3/5, III:IX

Tiena agreed with Kingard – they couldn’t risk leaving the D’jed until the snows melted and they could stop to rest outdoors. For five weeks now, Tirrok had abided the mercurial company of the ancient sage, awaiting the coming spring with waning enthusiasm. Though the elf claimed to have no answers for the young desert rider, Tirrok felt he’d crossed Mother’s Gate for some purpose, and he dreaded the thought of leaving before he discovered it.

Gazing into the sacred fire Kingard kept burning when resident, Tirrok sat in contemplation after a sparse meal, turning his grandfather’s book in his hands. Flames raged softly up from the flagstone with no fuel beneath them, the sound eerie without its usual crackle. “What thread magic bound that shut?” invoked Kingard, breaking the silence in his typical unexpected fashion.

“Jokkel, my... my grandfather, did it.” Faltering, the youth added, “He renounced the Dua Dara to raise me.”

“And the spell?”

Unused to Kingard being so personable, he straightened. “I return within one month of its opening, or not at all.”

“You’re not welcome?”

He took a moment to consider. “My hope is that the book will explain.”

“So read it. The snows have started melting; you could return by new moon.”

“I know,” the youth snapped. That awareness drove him to pull the book out night after night. “But I don’t... feel ready yet,” he admitted after floundering for a prettier truth. “I don’t want to return home so soon.”

“You may not always have a home to return to,” warned the elf. “I’d embrace it while you can.”

Plucking at the knotted cord around the book, he countered, “It was never even home until I left–”

“–So it may not be home when you return?” Kingard extrapolated, noting the youth’s surprise with satisfaction.

“As I said,” petitioned Tirrok, “my hope is that the book will explain.”

“As I said: So read it.”

The constant fire guttered into their conversation and bloomed overhead with a sudden roar. “Kingard!” cried a voice from the blaze. “Takrojinl hienroz’isr’n.”

Stricken, the elf choked out, “Lorvelle?” He interrogated the fire in the same strange tongue and whirled about packing his minimal possessions into a satchel. The exchange died away, and Kingard cursed at the receding flames, face pale beneath his browned skin.

As the elf resumed stuffing essentials into his pack, Tirrok ventured, “What was that?”

“Tirrok!” yelped the flustered sage. “I... must go.”

“Where? Can I journey with you?”

“No!” he barked, far too sharply. “You’ll stay here. Spring is not too far off, now.”

“When will you return?” Only the rustling of the elf’s satchel answered him. “...Why not?”

Finishing his preparations, the sage regarded the fire for a long while before meeting Tirrok’s gaze. “One day, we all must face our fate. That day for me comes none too soon.” He approached, hesitated, then clapped the youth across the back. “It was good to know you, Tirrok. May you find your answers someday.” There came a crack of thunder, and wind swirled through the cavern, snuffing out the fire and leaving Tirrok alone in the moonlight.