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“Does a mother need a reason to give her daughter a gift?” she asked, though in reality, she figured the crystal might unleash her inner strength, thereby getting her to change her mind. She took the necklace off of Sheera’s hands, removed the meager fragment, and put it around her neck, regarding it with pride.
At first, Sheera sensed more strength in her, and then felt her magical might literally course through her entire body.
“It’s powerful,” she acknowledged.
The High Priestess smiled. “I knew you’d like it. It’s a taste of what would await you…” she said.
Those words made Sheera furrow her brow. “I should have guessed… This gift won’t make me change my decision!” she exclaimed.
Yvalee seemed resigned. “Do as you please, Sheera, but know that we are much more alike than you might think…” she said firmly, adding fuel to the fire she could tell was flaring in Sheera’s heart.
“I thank you for your largesse, High Priestess.” Then, without waiting for her mother to reply, she made her way out of the private quarters of the Priestesses, determined to exit the Temple as soon as possible. She hoped she didn’t need to return anytime soon.
In her room, Yvalee stood still while her handmaids prepared her for the great evening ritual: they began to douse her with warm water redolent of flowers, and sprinkled oils of intoxicating aromas upon her. She gave herself up to the massages, closing her eyes in a mixture of rage and exhilaration. Everything around her disappeared, as she dwelled on Sheera. She envied the strength and fire that drove her daughter, she hated her sneering attitude, she couldn’t stand how uncontrollable she was, she was disgusted with the fact that her powers were null and void with her, she felt the will of the Goddess within, she craved Sheera’s power, and she feared that if the young woman would not agree to be consecrated, many problems would arise.
*
In the city of Eyjanborg, atop one of the towers of the Royal Palace, King Athal was eagerly awaiting news from his children. Since they invaded Draelia two and a half years prior, his armies had killed, conquered, and laid waste. Immediately after crossing the portal, his military’s sheer might had devastated the cities and villages, and all the soldiers of King Osman IV could do in the fields of battle was get annihilated.
Triumphantly, Athal had entered Eyjanborg, the capital, at the end of the first year, and thanks to his children, the human territories of Draelia were completely subjugated by that time as well. The High Priestess had opened secondary portals, and the King’s soldiers had crossed those magical thresholds, taking the Southern Principalities by surprise, bringing havoc and death to the essenir elves of Rekonia and to the humans of Vetlag. However, the secondary portals drew power exclusively from extremely pure virk crystals, and repeated delays in the delivery of the crates carrying the precious gems led to the depletion of their power. As such, the invasion of the other lands had suffered a setback. The King then pushed his legions southward and westward, clashing with the armies of the three Principalities, a battle that ended in a terrible defeat, second only to the defeat they suffered at the Iron Plateau at the hands of the dwarves of the Icemount. From that point, the campaign of conquest had reached a dead end—which was part of why the frictions between the Houses had resurfaced over the last few months.
The King of the Tulvars was getting on in years, and his appearance reflected his age. Once tall and with a sculpted physique, he was now skinny and wrinkled, his back slightly hunched. Nevertheless, his arms (though slender and bony) and his long-fingered hands still had strength, and still yearned for combat. His hairs were grey, and his stern-faced visage was pallid and wrinkled, yet he inspired terror in all, save for his wife Yvalee. His shiny red eyes were also weathered with age, and his mouth (whose lips were nigh imperceptible) was always curved. The regal raiment he wore was sewn using the fine fabrics they’d become acquainted with in Elantion. He had on a soft tunic in black and green elven velvet that brushed against the floor, embellished with threads of gold and fragments of virk crystals. The royal tiara upon his head had been forged using the gold in the crown of King Osman IV of Draelia, who died two years earlier, run through by Athal’s blade.
“Two years have passed, and I still don’t know how to best them, but soon there will be elven meat for you, my rapacious friend,” said the King pitilessly, stroking his vulture’s soft feathers. The bird stirred slightly, and Athal handed it a piece of meat it wasted no time devouring. It flew away and perched itself on the back of the chair. Suddenly, the heavy door of the hall opened, revealing a member of the Royal Guard.
“What do you want?” asked Athal.
“A missive, Sire,” he replied, handing his Sovereign a scroll.
Athal unfurled it, and his mouth curled into an evil smile. He dismissed the guard and headed for the desk. The quill danced across the parchment, its ink tracing strange and twisted glyphs. After signing his name, he slowly poured the sealing wax and imprinted his coat of arms on it. Then he summoned the vulture and gave it the letter.
“Take this to Zund,” he whispered.
Meanwhile, Zund, heir to the throne and General of the army, was riding toward the western edge of the Whitetrunk Forest, where a patrol had reported seeing a human move among the trees before disappearing amidst the path leading to the Slumbering Peaks. Zund was a tall tulvar with a statuesque physique, and he was courted by all the daughters of the noble families. Zund never reciprocated their interest in him, as all he was attracted to was power. He sported long, exceedingly thin black hair, which was often tied behind his nape with a leather strip. Hi face was angular and square, his almond-shaped eyes an intensely dark red. His slightly pronounced nose had a bulge due to a fracture. His fair skin was covered with dozens of scars, the most striking of which was certainly the one that trailed from his forehead straight down to his right cheek, sustained by a sword blow inflicted on him at a wee age. The armor he wore was made of hedgot leather, imparting it with the marvelous attribute of fire-resistance. His breastplate was adorned with the emblem of the House Khelun—a black flame on a red background—and embellished with silver plaques. The edges of his thick black velvet cape were embroidered, and warm bear fur covered his shoulders.
“Where is it?” asked Zund, having arrived.
“It disappeared on the path to the pass, General,” said the soldier, pointing at the road.
Zund gritted his teeth in anger. “Is it a slave? A refugee?”
“Definitely a refugee,” he replied.
“Send some orcs to search for him.” The General briefly looked at the Peaks again, intensely enough that he might have set them on fire. Then he headed toward his steed, a horse as black and heavy as the shroud of night, mounted its saddle, and trotted away. Eyeing the horizon, he saw a thin silhouette, which was becoming clearer as it approached—it was his father’s vulture. He pulled on the reins, and the bird perched on his arm, its talons clutching his leather armband. There was a message with the King’s wax seal tied to its neck. He took the scroll, bade the bird talk flight by lifting his arm, broke the seal, unrolled the scroll, and discovered that his father had an important task for him. He took some soldiers with him and headed south.
*
Several hours later, in the elven territory of Elelreel, Kaj’s wagon trundled down the road descending from Falcon’s Pass. The tulvaren patrols he’d spotted in the distance while he was at the Whitetrunk had convinced him to head back immediately, so as not to risk being seen. He reached the bottom of the valley. At the crossroads, he decided to take the high road that separated the swamp from the Malivon River. The area’s enveloping mist moistened Kaj’s woolen clothes, much to his annoyance. They were no longer in any condition to protect him from the elements. He wore a linen shirt, a wool tunic, thick wool trousers, socks, and fur-lined leather boots, but the cold was as biting as ever. Kaj held tight to his thick, frayed-edged woolen cloak and ran a hand through his invariably disheveled dark brown hair to fix up the hairs that had fallen to his brow, all while panting and rolling his clear eyes. Kaj was a fairly tall man, well-built and muscular thanks to his many years working iron at his foster father’s forge. His stern features belied his cheerful and friendly personality.
The surrounding atmosphere seemed to muffle most sound, but as soon as he crossed the intersection following the bridge over the Malivon, he heard the whistle of an arrow whishing by his right ear. He froze. Instinctively, he flicked the reins and scanned the area, but instead of sprinting, the mule stopped in its tracks, encircled by five imposing orcs.
Kaj didn’t know what to do. Suddenly, one of their number collapsed to the ground with a grunt. Behind the fallen ogre stood a cloaked figure with a large hood, weapons in hand. The orcs attacked the figure, and Kaj jumped off the wagon brandishing his sword and dealing a few cutting blows. Then, he found himself with two daggers at the sides of his neck.
The elf withdrew her weapons. Kaj had time enough to observe her, and realized she was a nalnir. She was shorter than Kaj (albeit not by much), with an athletic physique; she wasn’t frail at all, for an elf. Her wavy reddish hair was styled in a half-up ponytail that highlighted her pointed ears, as well as a few small tresses ornamented with metal beads. She also had the classic nalnir tattoos on her forehead. Her face was delicate, her large, shiny yellow eyes (typical of forest elves) expressive and alert. Her groomed eyebrows formed part of a well-proportioned visage, though her slightly crooked nose was highlighted by a scar. Her lips were fairly full, though reddened and marred by the cold, and therefore standing in contrast against her pale complexion. Her clothes were of classic elven workmanship—her brown suede tunic was fastened by knotted leather laces, and her sleeves reached the middle of her forearms, from which part of her wool tunic poked out, covered by engraved leather armbands. Her hands were protected by wool gloves, apart from her bare distal phalanges, which were slim and slender. The bottom of the large dark grey woolen cloak (that reached around the midway point of her calves) was worn, and made warmer by a thick wolf-fur collar. Aside from the daggers, the nalnir also had a beautifully etched bow and a quiver full of arrows, in addition to a small satchel and a bag that she carried over her shoulder with various useful items inside.
“Pretty dumb, traveling alone these days,” she began. “And with a slow mule and a dilapidated cart, at that.”
“I didn’t actually encounter many obstacles…”
She arched her eyebrows haughtily as she checked whether the orcs were all fully dead. “Are you fighting with the human resistance?”
Kaj was silent a moment. “Who, me? No, no, I’ve got my hands full with the wounded arriving in Fenan…”
“That’s odd… you fight well,” she said with suspicion. “You’d make a fine recruit, in these times,” she continued, though without all that much conviction in her voice. “What have you got in that wagon?”
“Healing roots,” said Kaj.
The elf looked at him, then headed for the wagon and opened one of the bags. “Anruith!?” she exclaimed in Elvish.
“Yep, healing roots.”
The elf rolled her eyes. “These roots are also found in the environs of Herle. Leaving Elelreel and going past the Peaks for them is madness!”
Kaj looked chagrined. “I knew what I was going towards…”
“Then you’re twice as dumb,” she said tersely. “In any case, the name’s Clarice.”
“Kaj.” He extended a hand. “Wait, are you Clarice, the Vagabond?”
“Yes,” she replied dryly.
Suddenly, he heard a noise of unknown origin. “Did you hear that?”
Clarice was freeing the mule from the yaw. “Yes. Goblins. They must’ve heard us fight against the orcs. There’s nothing they’d want here; they won’t attack…” she said pensively. “Those orcs were definitely sent by tulvars.”
“I’d hoped they wouldn’t see me. Boy am I glad I got away quickly!” he cried, peering around. “We’d better clear out of here…”
He made for the wagon, but Clarice smacked the mule, who promptly ran away.
“But why?” he asked, surprised.
“I’ve got no intention of letting all of Draelia know where we’re headed!” she shouted, throwing him an empty sack. “Take your roots.”
Kaj shook his head and started filling it. “You headed towards Fenan?”
“No, but Fenan happens to be on the way. I’ll accompany you there, and then proceed from there.”
They walked down the road that cut through the plains so as to take cover in the forest. They had been walking at a brisk pace for two hours, but the forest was still a ways away. The sunset came quickly, and by the time they started weaving through the trees, it was almost dark. Soon, they stumbled upon a clearing sufficiently shielded by bushes and rocks.
“We’ll set up camp here. Light the fire; I’ll be right back,” said Clarice.
“Where are you going?” Kaj felt his pockets in search of the fire striker. “Dammit, where’d I put the stupid thing!?”
When he looked up, she had already melted into the darkness.
He stretched out his arms in resignation. “I don’t have my fire striker on me…!” he shouted, hoping she’d overhear.
The moonlight helped Kaj gather some wood and dry moss. He made a hole in the ground and carefully laid them in layers as he waited for Clarice. Suddenly, he heard a noise, and he saw her emerge from the undergrowth with her game in hand.
“A hare?”
“If I’m not mistaken, you had a fire to light,” she said, panting. She didn’t answer his question.
“You didn’t give me the time to…” he started, but the elf threw the hare at him before he could finish.
Clarice bent down, pulled a piece of flint from her pocket, and struck it against her dagger with a decisive motion. The dry moss began to crackle, turning into a nice fire. Kaj roasted the hare on the fire; the scent that emanated was mouth-watering. She was sitting on a small rock nearby, engrossed in cleaning her swords.
“I couldn’t help noticing the green streaks that appeared on your skin,” he said.
“I’m a nalnir,” she said tersely.
“Right, but you don’t see that often in Fenan elves… it’s weird.”
“Living in a village far from the forest, that’s normal. It’s even more evident within the Shadetrail,” she replied, a little annoyed. “Where are you from?”
“I told you, I’m from Fenan…” he said, as he turned the spit.
“I mean, before the Invasion,” she clarified.
“Lochbis.”
“Is your family at the village?”
“No,” he said bluntly, lowering his head. “My family couldn’t make it out of Lochbis, unfortunately. I was out of town when a pack of abominables led by a sorcerer attacked. I returned home, to find nothing left. There was a great big blast, and some people ran outside the walls. The remaining guards let me out; when we reached the mountains, we saw only smoke and flames rising from the city… I came back a few days later to look for my things.”
“I’m sorry that happened to your loved ones, though you story is similar to many others I’ve heard… I know the fangwyns or ‘abominables’ well. People transformed into monsters, and commanded by necromancers. Do you know how the transformation takes place?”
“I’m not sure I want to know…”
“After they’re killed, a ritual snatches their souls, and their bodies twist into husks filled only with hatred and brutality.”
“By Dag! I shudder to think those things were once people.”
Clarice put down her daggers and neared the fire. “Let’s eat the hare now; otherwise you’ll char it.”
Having enjoyed their meal, they retired for the night.
Just before the break of dawn, Kaj felt something brush against his shoulder, and woke with a start, only to realize it was her.
“Get up! We’ve got to leave!”
“Dammit, do you mean to scare me to death?”
“If I wanted to kill you, you wouldn’t have noticed.”
The nalnir’s answer sent a chill down his spine. She didn’t even spare him a glance, as she was intent on putting out the fire and hiding the traces so that any other orcs that might be in the area couldn’t identify them. The cloak he habitually wore around his neck concealed most of his body, but he noticed she’d removed her gloves, and regarded her thin cold-beaten hands.
The fog was quite thick that day, but the deeper they ventured into the forest, the thinner the mists became, hanging high amidst the trees. The atmosphere was magnificent, if surreal. The Shadetrail Forest was still this green and lush (in complete contrast with the rest of the world) thanks to elven magic. By comparison, the Whitetrunk Forest was an expanse of bare and battered trees.
They moved forward at a brisk pace, and the forest seemed a samey blur to Kaj.
“Tell me, how do you elves recognize every tree in the forest? How do you always know where you are?”
Her response was not the one he wished to hear. “You humans don’t observe, and you don’t know how to listen to the forest. You’ll never be able to get a grasp. You’re too distracted,” she pontificated.
“Oh c’mon! Would it kill you to answer without the usual elven arrogance!?”
“If you don’t like my answers, then don’t ask questions.”
“Three centuries since the Reconciliation, and nothing’s changed,” he prodded her, annoyed. “I was just hoping to make the trip there more pleasant.”
“We have to walk, not talk. Fenan’s not far now. You can talk to whomever you like once we’re there.”
“You bet I will!”
They walked for a day and a half, most of the time in silence. During the afternoon of the second day, they arrived at the bridge to Fenan, a small and quiet elven village. It stood between two fierce streams, the White and Silver Creeks. Scads of refugees from beyond the Slumbering Peaks had found a home here. The streets (some cobblestone, others clay) were narrow, and the sticky mud of that time of year sullied boots, clothing and cloaks. The houses built by the refugees were mostly small, wooden, one-floor affairs with thatched rooves, while the older homes around the plaza were two stories tall and built using wood and stone. The tavern stood out from among them, along with the smithy’s furnace and forge and their attached residences. At the center of the square was situated a large well, near which stood a vegetable-laden table; a number of human women and female elves were cleaning the vegetables while chatting and having a laugh or two.
On one side of the square was located the building that housed the wounded and sick. It was a sanctuary dedicated to Luhreil, the god of water, and it was a circular structure built of wood and stone. The jutting roof was supported by slender columns, from whose sturdy iron rings sizeable lanterns were hanging. The sanctuary’s large door was made of solid wood, so old and run-down that it had lost its erstwhile shiny patina. Inside, the single nave housed beds and cots, and the handful of windows let in little light. The clouded panes of glass evoked a sense of isolation. Additionally, there were three small rooms and a nice stone fireplace that warmed the whole interior.
“Now go take care of your wounds,” said the elf hastily. “I have something to do.”
“The tavern’s on the other side of the square, if you need a room.”
But Kaj received no reply. He turned to face her, only to find she was gone.
When Kaj opened the sanctuary door, he found it fuller than ever before. There were many inside—too many. There had to have been some battle, with the wounded militiamen taking refuge here. He feared there might not be enough roots for everyone. He had to get to work. He went to the room that had been designated the kitchen and started making his healing brew.
Moments later, he heard the door slam. “So it’s true! You are back!”
He spun on his heels, to see Cilna run toward him and throw her arms around his neck. She was a young elf of Fenan; her family had lived there for many generations, a fact of which she was proud. She was frail, and not very tall, with long always-braided blonde hair and big brown eyes. Her open, friendly, and curious nature had often gotten her in trouble for some ill-spoken words, not to mention all the times she’d been too curious. Like everyone else in Fenan, she wore simple clothes, a linen tunic yellowed by time plus a blue woolen robe which the young woman protected by wearing a coverall.
“Cilna, be careful! These roots are precious!” The bowl had almost dropped from his grip.
“You found so many!” she exclaimed excitedly.
“Yes, and it wasn’t easy. Now let me continue, if you would. You can help me when the medicine’s ready to be distributed.”
Cilna nodded. “I’ll be there when you need me.”
