The Cloak of Many Things

“There weren’t always dragons in the valley.” Iyren whispered. She sat with her hands around her knees staring down at the dying coals of the cook fire. The embers cast a dim light across the evergreens, but more importantly their meager heat helped stave off impending frostbite. Around her displaced families spoke softly and sang their sorrows amongst themselves.

Her father’s last words rang through her ears as she sat in the clearing. A week had passed since the great dragon Velkarus laid waste to her home. She reached into her cloak and gently added another stick to the coals, weighing the blessing of heat against the price of being seen. Her mind drifted to the coming months. It was early fall and winter’s bite already filled the air. She knew the winter itself would be merciless. She feared for the tribe with no shelter; the odds were not in their favor.

“Iyren.” The soft voice of her brother accompanied a tug at her sleeve. “Tell me a story?”

“Well what kind of story do you want to hear?” She kept her voice low as she placed him on her lap.

“The one dad always told me,” he demanded.

Iyren knew the story, her father told it to her a lot when she was young. She loved it truly, but now she finally understood why she had to beg him to tell her every time. She couldn’t bring herself to tell Rython the full story, at least not yet, he was too young. “You mean Sadrie and the Seven Winds?” hoping he would take the bait.

“No.”

“Well was it Elthea and the Cradle?”

“No that’s not it either.”

“Cullain and the Wolf?”

“Closer.” He grinned.

“I know a lot of stories, Rython, you’ll have to remind me,” she teased, praying he wouldn’t ask for his favorite.

“Emrys the Master of Magic.”

A small sigh escaped Iyren’s lips. Resigned to her fate she rustled his hair. “Alright, but I’m only telling it once tonight so listen close.”

Rython moved himself off her lap and closer to the fire.

Iyren empowered her words as she passed a hand over the coals: “Ag aistriu lasair.”

Rython giggled with excitement as the flames began to shift and change colors.

Iyren began her story letting her voice carry softly through the trees. “Once upon a time, well before our grandfather’s father, a young Elf named Emrys lived in these very woods.” With little effort Iyren willed the fire to depict a silhouette striding boldly through trees. “Emrys was young and full of courage. He tread paths through the valley where few others dared venture. He knew the dragons loomed overhead, watching and waiting for their next meal to show itself.”

Rython let out a small squeal as the fire mimicked a dragon’s jaw snapping shut.

Iyren continued her story with a smile. “Despite ever-present danger Emrys wandered the woods without hesitation for some time in the years before a reclusive hermit on the eastern edge of the valley paid back a simple kindness many times over.” For a moment Iyren held the story back to splice in another portion of the legend of Emrys. “Emrys was wandering as he always had when he stopped to drink from a stream. He paused at the edge of the banks to enjoy the view of the water tumbling softly over a small cliff. On the edge of the cliff he noticed a small hut, its door ajar and a faint light pulsed inside. He wandered to the door and asked who lived alone this far into the woods. The faint whisper of a voice called to him… “food.” Without thinking Emrys stepped inside to find an elderly elven man laying helplessly in bed. Emrys reached into his pack and shared the berries he had picked and the game he had smoked the night before.”

Iyren paused as she pulled a waterskin from her cloak and took a long drink. “Emrys spent the day nursing the man back to health, fetching water and foraging for food. By sundown the gaunt face of the elder became livelier. As the moon rose to the sky all hints of age left yet Emrys stayed until the morn listening to the stories the man told him and tending to his needs. When Emrys fetched water in the morning the hermit revealed himself to be a Fey. The Fey offered him gold and riches. Emrys declined saying he had no need for that which he could not carry on his back. The Fey persisted. Unwilling to be indebted to anyone he offered Emrys a home safe from the dangers of the world. Again, Emrys declined, for having a home would stop him from seeing the beauty that nature holds. Seeing no other option, the Fey offered him a third gift not to be refused. The Fey fashioned him a magic cloak out of a spider’s web laden with morning dew. He told Emrys that the cloak held all he would ever need, he simply must reach into the pockets.”

“The cloak of many things.” Rython whispered.

Iyren nodded. “That’s right. The reason Emrys wandered without fear was that he had the cloak of many things. When Emrys hungered he would reach into the cloak and find an apple. When he was thirsty a waterskin. When he was tired, he would find a hammock.” Iyren willed the fire to change shapes with her words once again. “When he was in danger, he would find a sword or bow. When he needed to hide, the cloak hid him. It was marvelous, magical and earned him the envy of all the elves he met.” She fiddled with her own cloak absentmindedly, reaching into its folds to procure another stick for the fire. “For all the things the cloak could do for Emrys, it had but one flaw… It could not hide his scent.”

“Emrys’ travels took him throughout the valley. The cloak saved him from certain doom at the hands of the dragons time and time again by disguising him from their sight or fouling the air in a great many ways. That was until one day on the western side of the valley Emrys slipped and fell tumbling into a cave where the Great Wyrm Velkarus slumbered.”

The fire blossomed into the form of a massive four-winged dragon that opened its maw to roar at the stars above. “Velkarus is no ordinary dragon. He is older and wiser than the rest of his kind. It is said that his body no longer feels the toll of time. Emrys reached into his coat to pull a light from its fold. The gentle glow of moonstone lit up the cave and roused Velkarus from his slumber.” Iyren willed the figure of the dragon in the fire pit to circle slowly around a small shadow.

“The dragon hungered and gazed upon Emrys with a ferocity that could make mountains quake and winds die. Emrys thought of running, but he knew the dragon had his scent and knew he would never be able to outpace it. Yet Emrys was not afraid, for he held his cloak of many things. As had become his instinct upon encountering a problem he could not solve with his wit alone, Emrys reached into one of the cloak’s many pockets. This time something was wrong, though. His hand met no object within its folds, for there was nothing the cloak could give. No mere item could save him from the Great Wyrm Velkarus -- no sword could pierce his hide, no shield could repel his flames. So, the cloak gave him all that it had left to give.”

Iyren paused, letting the flames linger on an image of a man reaching into his cloak. She watched as Rython bit his fingernails in suspense despite knowing exactly how the story would end. “The cloak gave him its magic. In an instant Emrys knew words to summon fire and lightning. He could call the wind to action as easily as taking a breath. Emrys had become the master of magic itself.”

“When the dragon roared, Emrys called for silence; when it swiped its mighty claws at him, he pushed them back with a wave of his hand. Enraged by Emrys’ defiance, Velkarus opened his maw and loosed flame upon the cave.”

Iyren willed the fire to swirl in a small inferno surrounding the silhouette of their hero. “Yet Emrys stood firm, for the magic of the cloak of many things was now his to command. He called the fire to his palm and held it at bay waiting to turn the flames back upon their owner.”

“This is my favorite part.” Rython whispered.

Iyren rolled her eyes. “Do you want me to start over?”

“No!”

“Then let me finish because I know part of the story that dad never told you.”

“Really?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do; and if you listen well, I’ll share it with you.” Iyren pulled another stick from within her cloak and willed the flames to pull it gently from her hand.

When she was sure Rython would say no more, she continued the story. “The Great Wyrm himself, Velkarus the, saw the threat within the young Elf. He spoke to him.” Iyren changed her voice to be a low growl. “Who are you to call the forces of the world to your will?” Pitching her voice to that of a valiant hero’s, she continued. “I am Emrys Vel, and I wander these lands as is my right.” Iyren paused and watched her brother’s jaw fall open. She smiled for the first time in a week as she continued to narrate the story. “The dragon Velkarus was taken aback by his answer and bargained with Emrys. At the threat of his own flame, Velkarus offered his hoard of treasure to our hero. Yet Emrys needed no material things, so he asked the dragon what else he had to trade for his life. Velkarus feared a mortal strong enough to contain the fire from his belly. The great dragon gave up his most precious possession: his hunting grounds. He promised to leave the valley until the children of Emrys’s children had passed from this world. Emrys could claim the dragon’s hoard of treasure and take the land of the valley for himself. Emrys knew that, though he hid it well, the cloak’s magic was new and foreign to him and that a fight with the Great Wyrm himself could end poorly. So, Emrys agreed and let the dragon leave.

“In the coming years, Emrys used the powers of fire and lightning to slay the dragons that dared encroach on his newly won territory. He built a village among the trees and created a safe haven for all elves who could find him. His legend is well known amongst the winter elves hidden in the evergreens. For his bravery and cunning Emrys Vel is hailed as a hero to this day, though none but you and I know his last name.” She finished the tale, skipping over the accounts of his battles and how he eventually lost his life.

Rython shook his head. “His name isn’t really Emrys Vel. You’re lying to me.”

“Why would I do that?” Iyren asked, suppressing her smile. “Is it so hard to believe that we are his descendants? Dad knew magic. I know magic. We want for little. You feel the call to adventure and the wanderlust of the woods already, don’t you?” She had the same reaction some fifty years ago when her father told her the full story.

“Everyone wants to be a hero, you were just trying to keep me quiet.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Don’t ignore me.” Rython exclaimed indignantly.

“I’m not,” Iyren said flatly. “Are you hungry?” She asked again despite having heard his stomach growling throughout the story.

“A little,” Rython admitted.

“Then reach into my cloak. Pick any pocket.” She opened one side of the dusty gray cloak, grimacing as the cold night air brushed against her.

Rython hesitantly reached out a hand. “You’re not playing some kind of trick on me, are you?”

“No,” Iyren laughed. “I promise.”

“Pinky promise?” Rython extended his pinky to her. Only when Iyren curled her own pinky around his did he reach into the cloak with a cautious greed. When his hand came from the pocket it held a small red apple. His eyes went wide with surprise. “I’m a little thirsty too…”

“Go ahead,” she nodded.

Rython reached into the same pocket and felt around for a moment. When his hand came out, it held a waterskin wider than the pocket itself. “You have the cloak…” his voice trailed off. Words were lost in his mind.

Iyren nodded as she pulled yet another stick from the cloak to feed the fire.

“You have the cloak of many things.” Rython repeated.

“Now that you know the story is real, is it still your favorite?” She asked tentatively.

“It’s a true legend. How much of it is real?” He asked.

Iyren shrugged. “Enough? Its nearly a thousand years old but if the cloak is real and we are his great-great-grandchildren then it certainly works with the return of the dragons.”

Rython thought for a while. “Then it’s still my favorite.”

Iyren suppressed a sigh of relief. “Good, because one day it’ll be your job to pass it on to someone else.”

“When?” Rython asked.

Iyren thought for a long moment. “When it’s your turn to go adventuring,” she replied eventually.

“My turn?” Concern coated his voice. “Are you leaving?”

“I’ve been thinking about it.” She answered honestly. “It’s a family tradition, I suppose. When I was about your age dad left the cloak to me in case…” She paused trying to figure out a way to soften the reality of his choice. “In case he got too lost on his journey.”

“Where did he go?” He asked.

“South down past the Lake of Cel, past the Fields of Felur and into the depths of the mountains.”

“What did he find?” His questions had no end.

“He never told me, just that it was important, and he was glad he went.” She answered patiently.

“Where will you go?”

Iyren knew he wouldn’t accept her answer, so instead she removed the unassuming cloak. “Let’s find out, shall we? When I was your age dad told me that when it’s my turn to pass it on, I should draw three final objects from its pockets.” She reached deep into one at random. “He told me, “First, find something to wear.” She removed her hand to find a fine cloak of platinum white that matched her hair perfectly. “Second, something to guide you.” She pulled a map from another pocket. “Lastly, something to learn from.” A large tome wrapped in brown leather came from the cloak. “Between the three and your wits the road will rise to meet you.”

When she finished repeating the speech her father made years ago when he gave her the cloak, she handed it to Rython. “The cloak of many things is yours,” She drew the white one over her shoulders and gathered the book and map under her arm, “And these are mine.”

“What did dad get from the cloak?”

Iyren smiled. “Shoes that could walk on wind and water, a silver compass that tracked the north wind, and a box with no lid.” A soft silence broke out between them. It was a silence of understanding, broken as soon as it formed.

“Are you really going?” Rython asked quietly.

“Not until the morning.” She pulled him into a tight hug. “I’ll ask the Daylor family to look after you for a while. I’ll only be gone a couple of weeks.”

He pushed Iyren away to look into her eyes. “You promise?”

“Promise. Now let’s get you to bed.” She wrapped him in the cloak of many things and reached into her own cloak out of habit. To her delight she found a stick inside waiting at her fingertips begging to be fed to the fire.

Only when Rython was sound asleep did she dare open the tome. Inside the cover, written in fading ink and shaky handwriting read The Mastery of Magic Itself – Emrys Vel. At first glance the pages appeared empty, but she knew they had wisdom to offer. When she had thoroughly examined it, she placed the book gently into her travel sack and unrolled the map. The map pointed well to the northeast of the valley marking a simple hut in the farthest reaches. After the hut, the trail took a sharp turn to the west, snaking its way around rivers and cliffs to a canyon marked by the likeness of a four-winged dragon.

For the first time in her hundred years of life, Iyren regretted knowing so many stories. She thought of their ends and how the hero seldom lived to see the greatness they created. As she laid her head down to sleep, she worried about what kind of story she would leave behind and what story Rython would leave as well.