Chapter I
The axes gleamed in the twilight as they rose and fell. Several yards away, yet another tree was falling, as the orcs pulled on the rough ropes. Everything was silent, except for the rhythmic chop-chop and the occasional crash of trees. In the forest, hundreds more orcs wandered, noiseless. The scouts, up in the trees all over the forest, kept their eyes open for any fairy who might happen upon the scene.
Omiel leaned back against a tree and stared up at the sky. The moon was shining brightly through the leaves-but then, it did every evening. The river was sparkling and bubbling briskly, but it sparkled and bubbled morning and evening, every day. It was all terribly dull.
Still, the river was less dull than anything else. At least it moved. It was going somewhere, something Omiel felt that she had never done even once in her entire life.
Omiel counted the stars for no particular reason except that she did it every evening. There was a small star just above her, its light filtered through the leaves. It was milky white and shone luminously, as all lights do.
"Oh!" said Omiel, sitting up suddenly. It wasn't a star-the light was coming from high up in the tree itself. There were multiple pinpricks of light, coming from between the thick leaves, all close together. There was something up there, something bigger than a star. She gave a quick glance about her, then caught the branch above her head and proceeded to climb up the tree.
It was a great, tall tree, pointing far up into the dark blue sky, but Omiel was used to climbing and didn't have nearly the amount of trouble most girls wearing long, flowing dresses would have had. She scrambled from branch to branch, never looking down to see if she was ten feet, twenty feet, or fifty feet from the grassy ground below. As she went up, the light above grew ever brighter and brighter until at last she found herself staring up at a magpie's nest, from which the glow was emanating.
She gave one last lurch onto the branch above, then gratefully sat still, panting. She thrust her hand into the bird's nest and drew out a smooth round stone. It was clear, and shone with a white brilliance. She stared at it in delight; it was so beautiful.
At last she slipped it into a deep pocket and began the descent.
It was nearly midnight when at last she slipped through the gates of Pacil Herdun. She hurried through the cobblestone streets, weaving her way in between the houses, by highways and back alleys, until she gained the highest point, and found herself at the great House itself.
Her father was at the door, speaking with one of the servants. The servant left as she approached, and Omenfir turned to her with a smile, joining her as she entered the house.
"Father," she said, hesitantly, as they sauntered down a long passage. The passage from the front door to the Great Room, and most of the other passages, for that matter, had been built to be very long, so that one could entertain a long conversation while walking without having to stop and stand outside a door. The fairies had always understood how much more conducive it is to communication to take part in it when walking, rather than while sitting or standing.
"Father,"she said, "I have something I want to show you." She drew forth the stone she had found and held it out to him.
His eyes were full of wonder as he gazed into its depths. "Where did you find this?" he asked her.
"In a tree by the river,"she replied. "What is it?"
"One cannot know for certain," said Omenfir, "but to me it looks to be that Silmaril which fell from the brow of Eärendil, the elvish mariner, long years ago.' He held out his hand for it, then quickly drew it back. "You have found this thing," he said, "you must keep it."
'Keep it? But I have no right to keep it."
"You have every right," said Omenfir, hurriedly turning away, "You found it, it is yours."
"But if it was Eärendil's, it belongs to the elves, does it not?"
"Undoubtedly, if it is the Silmaril."
Omiel pondered this statement for a moment or two, but was unable to make sense of it. There had to be something wrong with that kind of logic.
"Then it should be returned to them," she said at last, "shouldn't it?"
"Of course, that would be desirable, but who would take it to them? Would you?"
"If none else will. It must be done by someone."
Omenfir smiled sadly. "You are brave," he said, "but rash. And more than that, you have no knowledge of past times. Have you never been told that long ago, not long after the Silmaril itself fell, the outer lands were hidden from our sight, and we from theirs? And now none can enter our dominion from beyond, and neither can any one of us can pass their borders. This thing cannot yet be returned."
"You said 'yet'," said Omiel, slightly irritated. She had a feeling he was hiding something from her-a lot of somethings. "Shall the elves ever receive their own?" she concluded.
"They shall. When the time comes."
"What time?" asked Omiel, stopping to wait for his answer.
Omenfir continued along the hall without her. "The time when the prophecy shall be fulfilled. I said you have no knowledge; have you not heard the ancient prophecy, 'Eärendil, Menon o Elvejihren, i Ceth-Ʋfan opir'? In it's proper time, the Silmaril shall return."
"And you believe that time is not yet come?" she asked, once more resuming her course along the floor, a few steps behind her father.
"I do."
"Then," she said, running and catching him up, "it is my duty to endeavor to make a way, is it not?"
"Omiel,"said Omenfir, stopping suddenly (they had just reached the door of the Great Room, in spite of the precautions instituted in building) and turning to her, 'are you sure you want to attempt this?"
"How could I do any less?" she asked with a shrug.
He sighed and turned away. "Then you must journey to King Tamil at Pacil Ʋfan. He alone can help you on such an errand. If you wish, I will ready a fleet."
"Oh," said Omiel quickly, "you needn't do that. Really, I'd much rather go alone."
"Alone? Nonsense. You must be accompanied."
"Oh, I don't mean alone alone. It's just that I'd rather have as few people as possible. It would be such a bore to have a whole ton of people everywhere, and not just for me. They'd all hate it, too. Really, one small boat would do-one other person even."
"Very well,' said Omenfir, shrugging, "I shall send Omir with you."
"Omir?" she exclaimed in dismay. "If you don't mind, I'd much rather have someone else."
"Either Omir or a fleet. Whichever you prefer." He opened the door, preparing to take his leave as if it really didn't matter which she preferred. "You should be able to leave the morning after tomorrow. Good-night."
The sky was the faintest bit grey when the doors to the Great Room opened once more. The clang awakened the sleeping King and he hurriedly sat up in the throne he occupied. He barely had time to arrange his royal robes a little more as befits a king before a young fairy entered the room. It took him some time to reach the throne from the doorway, but at last he dropped to his knee before Omenfir.
"You wished to speak with me, Dad?" he said rising.
"Yes, my son," said Omenfir, stifling a yawn. "I have an errand I wish you to do."
"Oh,"said Omir quickly, "I'm sorry I'm so late. I would have come sooner had I known."
"Do not trouble yourself," said the King, sitting up as straight as he could, that he might not be tempted to fall asleep again, "it cannot be done at once anyway. I want you to journey to Pacil Ʋfan. You will go by water-how soon can you be ready?"
"I am ever ready to do your will." This was not strictly true. If Omenfir had told him to stab himself or jump off a cliff he probably would have been most unready. All he meant by this high sounding speech was that he wished to know when his father wanted him to be ready. Of course, the King knew to take it this way.
"Then you can leave-" he paused, wondering if he should refer to it as tomorrow or the day after tomorrow. It was nearly dawn, wasn't it? "-on Cefan the 3rd by the traditional reckoning of fairies?"
"Tomorrow?" asked Omir, in surprise. (So that was what it was, thought Omenfir.) "Is the fleet already ready?"
"You won't be taking a fleet," said Omenfir, who by this time was keeping his eyes open by sheer force of will, "you will go alone."
"Alone?"
"Well, not quite alone. Omiel is going with you."
"Omiel?' he said, obviously not pleased with the idea, "But-she's not strong enough to row, and I shall need someone to alternate with."
Omenfir considered this for a moment. He should have thought of that before. "You shall have to take one other with you-Ruvir perhaps?"
"What about Dakir?"
"Dakir?" asked the King, visibly surprised. "Ruvir's son?"
"He's my friend, and I'm sure he'd be willing to go, which is more than most. What's more he's strong-a good oarsman."
"Very well," said Omenfir. He was too tired to think about it any more anyways. "If he is willing he shall accompany you."
"Couldn't we leave Omiel behind?"
"If it weren't for Omiel, none of you would be going. So, you can leave-(what had he said again? Ah, that was it.)-tomorrow?"
"I'll be ready any time. Do you mean tomorrow tomorrow or today tomorrow? It's already dawn."
People! They always had to complicate things. "I mean tomorrow tomorrow. I'll have to speak with Dakir and Ruvir before any definite plans are made, but be ready by then. Now you should really get some sleep."
"All right, Dad." He bowed and turned to the door.
Omenfir's head had fallen back against the throne before he reached it, and as the door clanged shut, the King emitted a loud snore.
The 3rd of Cefan by traditional fairy reckoning, which means the same date in June in modern times, dawned clear and bright.
Only a very small group was gathered by the docks. Very few had been told of the journey, not because it was considered a very important secret by any, but because none of those involved, especially Omiel and Omenfir, wished for a great crowd of curious observers. That would lead to too many awkward questions, which most could not answer and the two aforesaid did not wish to.
Ruvir and Dakir were loading the boat. Omiel had not been any more pleased to learn that Dakir was coming than she was about Omir. Especially as it meant, with Omir around to boss things, that she would probably not be allowed to row, or do much of anything, really. Omir himself, who had been seized with a sudden fear that he had forgotten something extremely important and had duly unpacked his entire knapsack to make sure, was now repacking it, having found all as it should be. Omenfir was standing nearby giving him last minute instructions on where to turn and where the rapids were worst. Omiel was sitting on an overturned canoe, waiting until she could get into the boat without Omir telling her she was it the way.
She fingered the gold chain around her neck, just to make sure the Silmaril was still there. She had hung it on a chain and dropped it beneath her dress. She didn't dare pull it out, as she was afraid someone, namely Omir or Dakir, would see it, and, for some unknown reason, she was very unwilling for that to happen.
Finally, the loading was finished. Ruvïr drew aside-he was rather glad it was his son that was taking the journey and not him-and Omïr leaped into the boat. Dakïr waited to help Omïel in.
Omïel stood up, briefly flung her arms about her father's neck, slung her knapsack over her back, and let Dakïr hand her into the boat. Then he climbed in himself and cast off.
Omïel watched first her father, then the docks, then the city itself disappear with a certain sense of satisfaction. She was going somewhere at last.
