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The Mythology of Beardsgaard ~ VII ~ The Saga of Frostwood ~ .viii


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≈ VII ≈

viii. The Saga of Frostwood

Rhewil told Mithrilon all she knew of the stones of power, and when she had, he snorted.

“Hog cockles. If that’s true, how can I hold this?” he asked, retrieving the Fire Stone from his other pocket. Rhewil pulled back from his with a sharp intake of breath.

“I think I would know if I were half fire elemental.” he said, giving the Fire Stone a rub. A small flame sparked between them, waltzing with the wind in the moonlight. “My father may have his head in the clouds on occasion, but one would imagine he might have noticed that in my making.” The flame paused, spun on its axis and wisped out with a shower of sparks.

“That’s impossible.” she said.

“Obviously not.” he said, and stood. “Watch.” With a few long strides he stood before the pedestal, reached out, and picked up the blue stone. Nothing happened. Rhewil watched him with elfin stillness.

“Look, nothing to be afraid of!” he exclaimed. “If this one is anything like the two I have, it doesn’t do anything until you rub it.” Which he did.

And in that moment, great vines began to curl out of the ground, interweaving themselves into a gazebo of wisteria over and around the pedestal. “Well would you look at that.” he said, craning his head to look at the finely woven ceiling of trailing flowers, gold light beginning to filter through them.

Morning was breaking. He replaced the stone on its pedestal and turned back to Rhewil.

She remained very still, but she no longer focused on Mithrilon and the stone. Instead her eyes darted, as if tracing the lines of her thoughts from one end to the other. “Dear lady, is something amiss?” he asked.

She leveled her eyes at him, still paddling if no longer swimming with drink, but she focused herself nonetheless. “This is something.” she said.

“Most things are something.” he replied.

The thought of hitting him ran briefly across her face, before being summarily dismissed by the presence of the Luck Stone in his hand. No, this is important, all of this…” she flailed in the direction of his hand, pocket and the pedestal.

“Listen. Each Míresgal holds the powers of each land’s bloodlines, and each land’s power is its own. We Light Elves possess the Míresgal of Creation. The Dark Elves of Destruction. The Vanir, Eternity, the Gods, Ether, or time, as you mortals know it, and the elementals are apparent.”

“But you mortals of Beardenheim, we other beings are not sure, you have long lost your ties to magic.” A look of frustration crossed her face, lightly brushed with disgust.

“I suppose this answers that then.” he said, flipping his Luck Stone in the air. “Although it does raise a few questions too.” He retrieved the Fire stone from his pocket and flipped it for good measure.

The gold fringes of morning light on the leaves stirred as a cool breeze wound its way through the glade. Their eyes met.

“Like what would happen if you tried another one?” she asked, picking up the Míresgal. “If you were up for an adventure, that is.” She placed the stone in her pocket.

Mithrilon stopped, eyes darting between her pocket and the edges of the glade. “Can you just...take that?”

“Of course, I am of the blood. You are too, you could also take it if you wished.”

Mithrilon fingered the upper edge of his ear. No, no points.

She continued, “This stone is of the blood of the light elves, but it does not belong to any of us. The magic of the Míresgal will do as it wills, for good or ill. Fear not, if it does not wish to be carried by you, or I for that matter, some horrible fate will befall us and it will end up back here with or without our assistance.”

“That’s...comforting.”

“It is, in a way. You aren’t dead yet, after all” Rhewil said. “The legends of the Míresgal trace back to the beginning of time, but so far as I have ever heard, no being has ever been able to channel the power of more than one. Much less a human.”

“So, just out of curiosity…” he said.

“Yes, I know where to find another one.” she said.

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