Tol Dolen: Part II

There was still that little squeak to the door. Ian smiled to himself as he stepped into the long room that served as the Library of House Silver Rose. It had been many years since his last visit and the last time he'd spoken with the Chronicler.

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"You there! Who are you, and why aren't you with your mother in the womens' quarters? " He came out from the table he'd hidden behind and gulped at the tall, white-haired elf. He'd never seen anyone this old before. Then he did his best to look presentable and bowed as his mother had told him he must to his elders "Ianno, sir, and I..I.. came in to rest from the game." "Game, eh?" The elf murmured something to himself. "It must have been rough and tumble. Your nose is bleeding and your face is going to have a few bruises from the looks of it. Run along to the healers." The boy didn't move, an apprehensive expression emerging for a second as he looked at the library door. Once he stepped foot outside into the corridor, he would once more be fair game for his half-brother and his friends. He squared his shoulders and walked towards the door. "Wait!" The Chronicler motioned him back. "I need some help putting books back where they belong. You're not hurt that badly, and your friends can wait. Sit there until your nose stops. Put your head back, yes, that's it." "And don't drip on the books."

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He'd spent the rest of the afternoon there, and enjoyed it so much he decided he'd ask if he could help in the library everyday. He never had the chance; since it was that very night his mother told him he was to be sent to live with his human father. Looking back on it later, Ian suspected the Chronicler already had heard of the King's decision and was being kind to him. So one of his last childhood memories of the Green Silences was of a quiet afternoon spent in a well lit room filled with the smell of leather covered books, a much better than recalling a morning spent in trying to avoid being beaten up. "Are you going to stand there all day with the door open? If you are, please tell me so I can go fetch a cloak to keep warm. This isn't a barn, you know!" The Chronicler was sitting behind a tall desk situated by a window. Light poured the glass to light up the pages set before him, one of which was half-full with the fine handwriting Ian recognized from his own copy of the Book of Green Silences. He tried to look over the elderly elf's shoulder, but sensing this, the other closed the book firmly. "It's not ready for reading yet. You'll see it when it is. You came back, I see, and bleeding again." "You remember me?" Ian couldn't help the note of astonishment that crept into his voice." After just one visit, and all these years?" "You aren't exactly a secret, Iannonvethallion, and it's my job to chronicle the history of your House and our people.” He chuckled a bit. "Besides, you look a little like your uncles." Ian nodded. "So my wife tells me. Then you know why I'm here, then, I take it?" "I'm a Chronicler of history, youngling, not a fortune teller. I write of events after they occur, not before. For example, I know you had an encounter with the Dark Beasts on your way here." "Is that what you just wrote. You see events as they happen?" "Perhaps. Or perhaps I can see you've used most of the arrows in your quiver there, and that the sleeve of your tunic looks like something clawed at you and cut your arm. And don't-" "I know.” Ian laughed. "Don't bleed on the books." "Good. You remember, too." The Chronicler walked over to sit in a nearby chair. "Now. What is it you came her to the Library to find?" Ian pulled a strip of cloth off the bottom of his cloak and bound his arm "What do you know of a being called Mornaur?" "Mornaur. Mornaur. `The Black Flame'. First mentioned in the Book just after the arrival of the Children of the Flame and the beginning of the Wars of Fire. But there is an entry in the Song of Kilseren concerning a confrontation with a price of that House, and another in the First Histories, and…” he stood. "Wait, I'll get them for you. Better yet, come with me. I'm not as young as I used to be and these books are getting heavier." He waved a hand, and then led Ian on a serpentine trip through the shelves.

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Several hours later, Ian closed the last book and placed it atop the stack beside him, then pushed his chair back in frustration. "You didn't find what you are looking for?" "Thank you, sir, but no. The tales are fascinating, but nothing there gives me a hint as to where he came from, or why he is so powerful." The Chronicler shook his head. "Think, youngling. As long as there have been Sithryn, there has been some record of an encounter with Mornaur. What should that tell you? Think!" He tapped his temple. "That Mornaur is as old, if not older, than the Sithryn?" "Ah hah! And who could possibly be that old, eh?" The Chronicler smiled as realization dawned on Ian. "There! You see it now, don't you?" He stood. "Now help me put these all back, will you?" Their task took them back by the window. Daylight was fading, but area the window faced looked out towards the Forests of Green Silences. A dark haze hung over the great trees, and the older elf shivered. "Hard to believe one of our own House could have caused this. The Pool is tainted. The Woods will die if something is not done soon." "Do you know how to stop it?" Ian looked away from the window; it was too painful to see the Forest like that. "The Pool must be purified. A mother's tears created it. A mother's tears will clear it once more." The Chronicler started down an aisle of shelves. "I thought you weren't a prophet?" "No, but the Morteus de Cale says…" The rest faded as he turned a corner. Ian stopped. Cale again? First Tyralor, now this? He hurried after the older elf.