Prologue

I, Emindor VII, son of Emindor VI from the line of Arathar Emindoran, climbed the slopes of Varradraen to find the answers I sought. The way was long and steep, encumbered by sharp, slick stones with only a few gnarled trees and bushes to stay the bitter wind and help my ascent. I began to climb in the early morning, but did not reach the dwelling of Thaelon until after nightfall. High up on the mountain this ancient man resides, far from the memory of common folk – buried in the snows of time. His aerie he has named Nolonquiess, Ever-blue, for it is so high above the world that clouds never veil his perpetual winter sky.

Little did I realize, as I stepped out onto the snow-clad plateau which is the doorstep to his dwelling, that the questions I had would merit such a long answer. There, one could say, I dwelt with naught but Thaelon, the eagles and the sky, for perhaps a week altogether. I remained to hear in full the tale he told as an answer to my inquiries.

It was the light of his cooking-fire that served as my beacon. Walking with slow and uncertain step into the ring of flickering yellow light, I saw an old, bent man with an iron-gray beard and midnight-dark eyes, keener than the stars above. He said nothing, and I said nothing, for a very long time. The silence was not unwelcoming, but somehow peaceful and, I think, had he greeted me, I would have felt the great gap between us, whereas his silent assent to my presence made me instead feel at home. Sitting beside the fire, I watched as he turned a haunch of sizzling meat on the spit.

“Venison,” he finally said, “Caught yestermorn by Oranlin. His eyes are yet keen.”

“The smell is very good,” I replied, somewhat surprised at the name Oranlin. From what I had heard, Thaelon lived alone, “And will Oranlin be joining us?”

“Nay,” he said with a faint smile, “He has eaten all he wished. The appetite of a Varthelan may easily double that of any man.”

And I understood. The Vartheniell were the great eagles that dwelt in and around Varradraen – the mountain named for them. Oranlin, as I later learned, is one of their greatest and oldest chieftains, a special friend of Thaelon.

Another chorus of silence stretched through the peaceful, wind-tuned night. When the venison had been roasted to a perfect deep-golden-brown, Thaelon cut slices for himself and I, adding to our platters piles of thick, dampened greens, and some kind of hard, nutty fruit. The like of that food, grown and harvested at the top of the world, I have never tasted, nor expect to again. And the mead, which he poured from a silver-gilt horn, was sparkling as the stars, sweet as honey, and keener than the bite of the Northern wind. It refreshed my mind and lulled my senses so that I perceived in the fire-light the forms of mountains flickering upwards as they spouted from their tops cinders like eagles in flight.

After we had eaten and sat sipping the mountain mead, Thaelon spoke:

“What brings you to the heights of Varradraen?”

I leaned forward, “A question that all else have failed to answer, and for which you are my last hope.”

He laughed softly, “Thaelon knows little but of mountain flowers, eagles, and such winds as cause the seasons to turn,” he nodded, “But I will try.”

“For seven generations my family has been the living memory of one whom people say you once held dear. Does the name Emindor still mean aught to you?”

He glanced up, his keen eyes piercing my heart with the gaze of some far-seeing predatory bird.

“Emindor,” he murmured, his accent different than mine in that he held the ‘E’ longer than the ‘i’, “He does mean aught to me, as he meant to all who knew him.”

“I wish to know who this man was,” I said, leaning forward even further in my excitement, “Why has my family borne his name? What does it mean?” I looked down, saying more softly, “Who am I when known by such a name?”

“Such a name?” he questioned.

I straightened, “I am Emindor VII, son of Emindor VI, from the line of Arathar Emindoran, the first son of your friend, Emindor Eagle-Borne.”

“The first son,” Thaelon murmured, “A strange tradition.”

And he was silent for a long time.

“Please,” I finally whispered, “Who was this great, forgotten man?”

“He was,” Thaelon began, “A hero,” and in this word I thought I heard a faint, almost bitter smile, “A hero, a friend, a great warrior. The greatest of his time, and of all time, the first among the Mirkem of Stol’rethas.”

“Mirkem? Stol’rethas? I know not these names,” I said.

Again a long pause as he considered and thought.

“I will tell you the tale of Emindor,” he said at last, “Though not gladly, for its memory is a painful thing to me.”

“Did he not end well?”

“If you were Emindor, you would think he ended best. If you were of the the saner remainder of the world, you would not think so.”

“So he was a madman?”

“Yes, and a dreamer, with a love of valor, honor and mercy. A noble heart . . .” Thaelon sighed, and through the crackling flames, I heard him begin to speak, soft and low. After a little listening, I realized that he was telling the story in verse. I have written down what he said, as well as I can remember it.