The Song Guardian

Sil Artenor: 5

Amaelden left one of the candles, placing it on a candle spike on the wall, then proceeded with the last candle with slow, purposeful strides. He exited through a small doorway within a niche from one end of the chamber, on the other was a similar niche but without a door. Within the niche rested a small altar with two golden lamps. The altar was similarly modest, made of a slab of the same black slate as the floor across two dressed granite uprights. Upon the uprights were indecipherable inscriptions.

'Where are we?' Halder said.

'The King who built this place long ago faced a dilemma,' Amaelden began, as his way of answering the question he had wanted to hear. 'He didn't want to go against the teachings of the Guardians who demanded he tear the place down, but he also shared a wonder for these paintings. So the wise old man decided he would build the castle on top of the roots of the old.'

'Who was the old man?'

Amaeldan riased a finger in rumination, ignoring the interruption, '... like a new tree built on the roots of some great old oak, now decayed, the boughs long fallen and the trunk hollowed out by the elements.' He studied his charge, knowing the moment was right. There was nothing more to do. He had waited too long all ready. 'Which brings me to why we are here. The good old King started a secret little tradition you see, one he inherited from the people who were here before him. He called this place Sil Artenór, a long time ago. And before you ask, this means 'the high place of the sun'. Reaching into his robe one more time he brought out a small package carefully wrapped in soft cloth, and handed it to the boy.

Halder's face lit up. He took the little bundle in his hands.

'Go on open it.'

He turned it around, feeling the softness of the material.

'It is something very dear to me. I am getting old now I can think of no one more deserving than you, you are my only family now.'

Halder slowly and carefully opened the sides. An object was within, metal, dark, small but surprisingly heavy. He took it out. A medallion of sorts, but a square one with a square hole in it. It looked very old, older perhaps than his Guardian. Amaeldan watched him turn it over. On the back, or was it the front? Anyway engraved on one side were the words: HERAPH IR ARCANÓR. Amaelden gave it to Halder, who took it.

'It's heavy!'

'It is made of a rare metal, chállo. It cannot be broken.'

Halder turned it over in his hand. 'It's a kind of Lëoneian writing, isn't it?'

Amaelden nodded. 'I think it must have been the owners name, but the letters are nearly all worn. The piece itself is... just look after it, it's very old.' He studied the boy for a moment, seeing in him the youthful innocence of the believer. The time had come to extract all innocence and cast it away. But he was too young and these things took time. But time was not a luxury shared by himself or any of his kind anymore.

He sighed, and nodded to the stone bench built into the heavy stone walls. 'I am weary. Let us sit.'

Halder followed him to the bench where he sat with folded hands, one resting lightly inside the other. He saw how the boy held the seal carefully. He gave himself the moment, of searching, looking for anything that would prevent him from the course he had set. He saw nothing, only the look of innocence, curiosity, at the face of a child so smooth and free.

Stupid old fool am I.

'I once read,' Amaeldan started. He waited for that perfect face of the child to grace him. 'That when we are born we are as two empty vessels. These are slowly filled by pain and joy. Some get more of one than the other.'