Previously in The Tale of Jarthen, Jarthen and Rethnaki had a meeting with an Imperial double agent -- who turned out to be none other than Caspio McNab! Sadly, Nelhoepher and Lem have no idea that their suspicions have borne out.
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It took Jellihondor and Glothnafar four full days of hard travel to reach their destination: a clump of deserted elvish ruins left over from the First Displacement of the red elves. Tall, eerie spires rose about them, crafted out of stone that the Athenorkos had not worked with in over a millennia. The ruins seemed heavy with meaning, thick with the ghosts of lost elvish souls, in a way that chilled the old elf to his core. Jellihondor felt something deep inside of him stir, and felt the ache of the burden his people had been carrying for far too long. In that moment, Jellihondor could sympathize with Glothnafar’s blind, raging hatred of humans, as his mind was carried back to his firsthand experiences of the cruelty of men.
Jellihondor sat on his haunches and began to build a fire out of nearby kindling, feeling slightly out of sorts in this most mysterious setting. With ambivalence, he mulled over the reason he was here. Legend held that the Oracle walked among the ruins – a strange figure who had somehow become loosed from the bonds of time. Many claimed that her freedom meant she was both living and dead, present and absent, and that she could look into the stream of time at any point she wished. If the stories were true, and if they found her, she could give great insight into the troubling prophecy. But few had ever seen her, and fewer still of those stories were anything close to credible. Did I jus’ lead me soldiers on a wild goose chase? If we can’ find her, how do I justify takin’ ‘em on this terrible journey? he thought to himself as he struck the flint.
Glothnafar trotted up with a pile of firewood, dropping it near the kindling. “Are you alright? That’s not a look I see cross your face often,” asked the centaur with genuine concern. Jellihondor had been puffing on his pipe distractedly, brow furrowed, eyes darkened, which stood in stark contrast to the exuberant geniality that typically characterized the old elf’s expression.
Jellihondor sighed. “I jus’…I jus’ can’ help feelin’ like maybe we made a mistake, Glothie. Wha’ if she dunna exist? Wha’ if she does, but she won’ help us?”
Glothnafar placed a reassuring hand on Jellihondor’s back and looked his companion in the eye thoughtfully. “We’ve done the right thing. She’ll come if she’s meant to come,” he said softly.
Jellihondor shot the centaur a skeptical look, and his voice was tinged with incredulity when he replied. “Tha’s somet’in’ I’ve ne’er unnerstood ‘bout ye, Glothie, ne’er in all ta years we’ve run together. Ye really t’ink this is fate at work here? Tha’ ye an’ I are sittin’ here in these ruins because o’ destiny, an’ not chance?”
Glothnafar withdrew his hand and gave the old elf an impatient look, the kind that verges on being a particularly exasperated sort of glare. “Please don’t start with this again. You understand it perfectly well. And you know I’m right, too.”
“Alrigh’, alrigh’. I do hope yer righ,’” he replied conciliatorily. “If this be fated, we likely stand a better chance o’ getting’ an audience wit’ ta Oracle - ”
“Indeed you do, Jellihondor,” interrupted a sharp voice, which cut through the cold, tense night air like a knife. Jellihondor caught his breath and his eyes went wide as saucers as a slender, magnificently beautiful woman strode through the ruins towards them. She was clearly an elf – but what kind of elf? She had flowing snow-white hair like a tinker, the silvery eyes of a Norsan, and the pale milky skin of one Jellihondor’s kind. Her timeless beauty was rendered even more unearthly by a strange luminous quality that made her dark, shadowy surroundings seem even more unearthly. She was a like a marble statue which had come to life; every line of her face and contour of her body seemingly chiseled to perfection by some master sculptor. She smiled at the pair huddled near their small fire, before speaking once again in that voice reverberated and echoed all around them. “Would you like your audience now or would you prefer to rest for the night?”
the strange, spectral OracleThe muscular centaur grinned smugly at Jellihondor – who was looking a bit sheepish at this point – clearly pleased that his position had been so dramatically vindicated. “I think, if you’d be so very kind, we’ll take our audience with you now,” Glothnafar replied graciously.
“Very well,” she said in her strange voice, delicately settling herself on the cold hard ground between them. “My meeting with you will be brief,” the oracle said resolutely. She turned her glowing eyes – milky eyes that seemed sightless and yet somehow weren’t – to Glothnafar. The intensity of her gaze was such that he forgot to breathe under its unwavering solemnity. “You are not wrong, Glothnafar: it is the boy. But your disbelief is not totally unfounded. It will become clear to you soon, and you will understand why you did not recognize him for what he is before.”
She turned to Jellihondor, who felt as if the rest of the world dropped away when her eyes were fixed on his – he was aware of nothing but her eyes and her ghostly, echoing voice. “You must protect the boy at all costs, Jellihondor – fate has bound you to him.” Jellihondor nodded, and she began to turn away. But she paused, whipping her face back towards his sending her luminescent hair cascading behind her. “When the time comes, remember that it was not his fault. It was the other’s destiny. Do not blame him for living.”
“What do ye mean, ‘don’ blame him’? Don’ blame who fer wha’?” stammered Jellihondor, confused and shaken by the strange being’s brevity.
The Oracle looked at him, knowing that she had overstepped her bounds. She should not have warned him, but looking at him now, knowing the great pain and suffering in his future, she could not help herself. She sighed heavily, hoping that the seed she had planted would be enough in the end. “I cannot tell you anymore without destroying the prophecy you yourself seek clarity on,” she said, shaking her head sadly.
With a shy smile, Jellihondor nodded. “Alrigh’, fair enough, as ye were good enough ta come poppin’ out o’ ta ruins ta see us righ’ on cue an’ all. But can I ask ye one more question?” The Oracle laughed at the old elf’s impudence and said he could, but that she promised no answers. “Are ye truly an elf woman, as ye appear ta be, or are ye somet’in’ else again entirely? Legend holds yer one o’ me kind, but seein’ ye here, I canna believe tha’s true.”
She smiled at him, with a rare look of surprise flitting across her face. “Jellihondor, in my countless years and countless forms, you may be the cleverest of your kind I’ve ever met. I am not an elf – I am a deity. I am the Keeper of the River of Time: the very embodiment of the past, present, and future. I have no life and I have no death the way you do.”
Jellihondor grinned from ear to ear. “Why do ye appear as an elf, then? Ta be confusin’ old codgers like meself and mystical-minded centaurs like tha’ one o’er there?”
“This spot here, the place your ancestors built their ancient city on, is the spring from which the River of Time flows, and I cannot leave it. Your people are those I’ve had the most contact with, the ones I know best, and as a result, the ones I most resemble,” she replied. “Now, farewell to you both.” The Oracle stood, readjusted her gauzy wraps about her, and walked off into the dark. Within seconds, the shadows and fog had enveloped her and she was gone as suddenly as she had appeared.
"Ah Bert, my boy! Do come in! It's dreadfully cold out there today, can I get you a cup of tea?" Sir Atelon Scrudton said, as he hustled a slightly uneasy Bertronius into his private office at the spy headquarters in Susselfen. It was, Bertronius found, a surprisingly charming little study, its walls lined with old books, the large, antique mahogany desk covered in papers and maps, and a series of small lamps bathing the room's carpeted floors and comfortable chairs in a warm light. Without waiting for his guest to answer his offer, Scrudton called out the door to his waiting assistant. "Jeran! Fetch us a pot of tea, will you?"
Scrudton was beaming at Bertronius, and the lad was clever enough to have noticed that he had caught the eye of his superior some time ago, and had figured it was only a matter of time until he requested such a meeting. It makes perfect sense, he thought to himself. Sir Atelon had was rather enthusiastic about my vassalship – like so many others – and my contribution at that last meeting must have put me in his sights. Bertronius sighed quietly and squared his shoulders, and smiled with as much charm as he could muster.
When they had both settled into the leather arm chairs, Scrudton leaned across the desk and placed a hand on Bertronius' arm and gave him a warm, paternal smile. "Bert, I suppose you're wondering why I called you here, eh? Well, I just wanted to personally commend you for the work you presented at our most recent division meeting. It's absolutely wonderful to see an officer as young as yourself taking to the profession with such dedication and success!"
Bertronius felt a little uncomfortable at this high praise from his commander given that he had dedicated the majority of his time up to this point in the pursuit of a matter wholly unrelated to the aims of the Imperial Army. Fortunately, Jeran, a young, well-dressed soldier of about 20 years of age, came in with a pot of tea and some cups. Scrudton poured two cups, giving one to Bertronius and, closing his eyes with great pleasure, took a small sip from the other. "Honestly Bertronius," the old spy said, looking down his long, bony nose and his eyes creased by a smile, "I think that you have a very bright future in the spy corps. Have you considered how your career in the army might...develop? With your pedigree, there are certain doors that will be open to you that the vast majority of us cannot dare approach, you know."
"Well, I really appreciate it. I guess that I haven't really thought about my future with the army in the long term. I know that for now I'm very glad to be working under McNab, and yourself as well, of course -- I'm learning so much!" he said, doing his best to sound professional and suitably respectful.
"Ah yes, naturally, there isn't a better man for you to learn the trade from than Caspio McNab! A finer pupil I've never had, though I have a feeling you might just prove his equal," Scrudton replied jovially, as he offered Bertronius a biscuit to go with his tea. As the older man munched contemplatively on one of the pastries himself, his face took on an expression of some concern. "Though I must say, McNab has looked rather tired of late, wouldn't you agree? I daresay the fellow may work himself to death if he isn't careful."
Bertronius nodded. He too had noticed a sharp decline in McNab's physical appearance. His mentor was wan, his skin sallow, and his lined face looked hollow and sunken from lack of rest. "I agree sir. He's obviously quite overworked.” Bertronius paused, and furrowed his brow, unsure whether to continue. Ultimately, he lost the battle with himself and blurted out his thoughts even though he suspected it was not his place to share them. “I know I've only known him a relatively short time, but I really think that McNab is a man that knows his limits. I think he'll be alright, sir," Bertronius said, only half convinced of this reassurance.
"You're certainly right," Scrudton said, smiling again. "I've known the man for the whole of his career, and I don't think I've ever seen him in over his head once." After finishing up his tea, the elder gentleman glanced up at a large, intricately carved grandfather clock and gasped with some surpise. "Oh, my! Look at the time! I've had such a pleasant time chatting with you, Bert, that I'm going to be late for a meeting. I'm sorry to end our discourse so abruptly, but I must be going! It has been a pleasure, my boy, and do give some thought to your future in the army," the old spy said, as he hurried the lad out of his office, and into the hall of the headquarters.
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