"Och, son," Silvan said finally, "it was killing me, not knowing what had become of you. 'Tis glad I am you've returned. We'll find a way. I promise."
Later, Silvan pondered that promise ruefully. He paced, he grumbled, he cursed.
Only after Dageus had retired abovestairs and the wee hours of the morn had filled his weary bones with disenchantment—by Amergin, he was three score and five, too old for such doings—did he admit that by now, he should have something to show for his work. He'd not been entirely forthright with Dageus.
He'd been devouring the old texts since the night Dageus had confessed and fled. Oddly, though he'd damn near torn the castle apart, he couldn't find any documents predating the first century. And he knew they'd once had many. They were referenced in many of his texts in the tower library.
Yet he couldn't find the bletherin' things, and granted the castle was enormous, but one would think one could keep track of one's own library!
According to the legends, they even had the original Compact that had been sealed betwixt the race of man and fairy. Somewhere. God only knew where. How could they not know?
Because, he answered himself wryly, when so much time passes that a tale becomes far removed from its origination, it loses much of its reality.
Though he'd dutifully told his sons the Keltar legends, he'd privately thought that the tales from millennia past were surely embellished a bit, possibly a fabricated creation-myth of sorts, to explain away the Keltar's unusual abilities. Though he'd obeyed his oaths, a part of his mind had never fully believed. His daily purposes had been purpose enough: the Druid rituals marking the seasons, the care of the villagers in Balanoch, the education of his sons and his own studies. He hadn't needed to believe all the rest of it.
The sad truth was, not even he'd really believed there was some ancient evil in the in-between.
How much we've forgotten and lost, he brooded. He'd scarce given thought to the legendary race that had allegedly set the Keltar on their course. Not until his son had gone and broken his oath, thus violating an alleged Compact whose existence had become far more myth than reality.
Well, he brooded darkly, now at least we know the old legends are true.
Little comfort, that.
Nay, his search had failed to unearth even an iota of useful information. Indeed, he'd begun to fear that the Keltar had been unforgivably careless in their guardianship of the old lore, that Dageus's broken oath was merely one more failing in a long list of failings.
He suspected they'd quit believing centuries ago, pushing away the mantle of a power that exacted too high a price. For generations, the Keltar men had been growing increasingly morose, weary of protecting the secret of the stones, weary of hiding away in the hills and being regarded with fear. Weary of being so damned different.
As the dark ages gave way to lighter ones, so, too, did the Keltar seem to wish to lay down the burden of their past.
His son thought he had failed, but Silvan knew better. They'd all failed.
On the morrow they would sit down with the ancient writings and search anew. Silvan hadn't the heart to tell his son that he'd nearly finished searching, and if there was some answer to be found in them, he was too dense to discern it.
His eyes narrowed and his thoughts turned to the wee lass his son had brought with him. When the storm had wakened him—a storm the likes of which he'd heard but a few times before—he'd rushed outside, praying'twas Dageus returning.
It had taken some time for the fog to clear, and though he'd called out, Dageus had not replied.
When the fog had lifted, Silvan had understood why.
In Silvan's estimation,'twas the lass that might yet prove to be their finest hope. For so long as his son loved her—and he did, though he knew it not himself—well, evil didn't love. Evil tried to seduce and possess and conquer, but it didn't feel for the object of its desire. So long as love was alive in Dageus, they had a toehold, however small.
Och, he and the lass were going to become dose, Silvan decided. She was going to learn about the young Dageus who'd once strolled these heathery hills, nurturing the earth and healing the wee beasties, the gentle Dageus with the wild heart. He and Nellie would see to it. Dageus's gifts had always leaned toward the healing arts, and now he was in need of healing himself.
If the lass didn't already love his son—he'd not had sufficient chance to probe her—he would do all in his power to win her for him.
Doona poke at them, Dageus had warned him bitterly, meaning the ancient evil within him.
But Silvan had poked. Silvan always poked. And despite the barriers his son had erected, buffering it a bit, it had poked back and Silvan was, quite simply, horrified by what was growing inside Dageus.