Previously, Aster went to visit the Elves alone after Danen shirked his responsibilities. Emory had spent the morning making the difficult decision to open herself to the possibility of change. She greeted Aster with more warmth than he’d expected, and they’d made breakfast together. When Pearelle joined them, the awkward undercurrents of the morning shifted, and so began a new thing.

Pearelle set her mug down on the square eating table that sat in a sunny corner of the kitchen. The egg custard was sitting between them all, steaming white clouds up into the sunbeams. It would take several minutes to set, and, despite Emory’s disparaging, the Human brew wasn’t as bad as she’d expected.

How to tell them?

Her mother had counseled against telling anyone, of course. There was too much at risk, politically. She advised her daughter to keep watch on her husband and act decisively against him when an opportunity showed. Pearelle had been horrified that Lady Amadeah would write him off as so easily expendable.

In the course of explaining to Pearelle just what was wrong with Danen, Lady Amadeus had let slip how she’d come to know the intimate workings of the Human’s mind. Pearelle had always struggled to understand the calculated way her mother went about doing things, but this latest act had appalled her. Her affection for her own mother had frozen over with cold fury. If the Danen of Pearelle’s nightmares ever surfaced, she dreaded imagining the vengeance he would wreak on her and her family after what her mother did to his mind. He’d be completely justified.

Pearelle shuddered.

“What is it, my—“ Emory coughed. “Pearelle, you seem distressed.”

“I’m sorry Danen didn’t come,” Aster told her. Ever since they’d sat down together at the simple, scrubbed-white kitchen table, he’d relaxed considerably. Emory seemed to have warmed to him somewhat, as well. At least, she’d dropped her suspicions for the moment. Pearelle was grateful. She’d need both of them supporting her if she were to succeed with the plan she had in mind.

“It’s good he didn’t actually,” she told the Human. The gravity of her thoughts seeped into her words. “I have something to tell you, and it must be kept between the three of us.”

The Human shifted in his seat, looking at them in turn. “You trust me that much?”

“Is this the thing you refused to tell me about yesterday?” Emory huffed. “You’re going to tell him? You barely know him!”

“I’ve been friends with both of you for the same amount of time.” Pearelle declared, raising a brow at Emory. “Exactly one hour.”

Emory scowled. “When did you become his friend? I don’t remember seeing any Humans fall, crying, on your shoulder.”

Pearelle laughed. “You make it sound like repulsive behavior, when you’re the one —“ she stopped herself, before Emory could grow too belligerent. “The truth is, I need both of you. There’s no one I know who cares more deeply about upholding the Concordance Treaty than you, Emory. And Aster, there’s no one I know who cares about Danen more than his closest friend.”

“His only friend,” Aster grumped.

“That won’t be true after today,” Pearelle told him, placing her hand over his. She wanted him to know she meant her words. “I swear it.”

Aster studied her face carefully. He probably knew what Lady Amadeah had done as well. It would be difficult for him to believe in her good intentions. Whether or not he could come to trust her in time, she would need his help.

Perealle continued, “You might not know this about Elves, Aster — we do not dream. At least, only our seers do. Last month, I had my very first foretelling dream.”

At first, he sat blinking slowly. Then, understanding drained the color from his face. Pearelle bent her head, closing her eyes. She opened herself to the painful memory of what she’d witnessed. She spared them nothing. Every detail of her dream was as vivid in her imagination as when she’d first dreamed it, and she ruthlessly put into words the horror of what she’d witnessed. Emory shrunk into herself, her back bowing under the weight of all this implied.

Pearelle knew her friend was pitying her. From her perspective, Pearelle was married to a monster. Aster looked sick. He leaned heavily against the table and stared at the floor with as much dreadful sincerity as though someone’s blood had been spilled on it.

“All may yet be well,” Pearelle assured him. “It is not a foretelling in the sense of prophecy. It is a warning. We can help Danen find another path.”

The Human rested his elbow on the table, dropping his forehead against his palm. With his eyes squeezed tight, he inhaled painfully. When he spoke, his voice cracked. “What if he’s already on the bad path?”

“How do you mean?” Emory demanded to know. She apparently hadn’t moved past the first flush of feeling Perealle’s news had stirred in her. There was the flash of anger in her eyes.

Pearelle found herself putting a question aside for later. Now was not the time to wonder why Emory’s response was primarily an angry one. She turned to the young man.

“Tell us what you have seen,” she begged of him. “Perhaps it is not too late.”

“I don’t know.” He let a puff of held breath escape his lips. “It’s more a feeling than anything. I’ve witnessed such a change in him. Though, it would be difficult to pinpoint exactly what’s changed. Maybe he used to be lighter, somehow? More lively? It’s hard to tell, because I know a lot of it is his grief. I met him before — well, you know — before his Amma died.”

Pearelle and Emory exchanged glances. Why has no one thought to mention such a thing?

“When did this occur?” Pearelle prodded him.

He frowned. “You didn’t know? It’s why we left abruptly last summer.”

Aster told them about Danen’s transference to Scransunn; of how he’d set fire to half a dozen acres of prime orchard in a fit of rage; how afterward he’d remained in a half-dead state for the two weeks it took Lewison and Aster, riding hard over land, to reach him; how he’d stood dumbly at the funeral ceremonies, staring blankly before him as the blind and deaf do. Aster’s words ebbed.

The custard had stopped steaming. Emory cut it into triangles, but no one wanted to eat anymore.

“What roused him?” Pearelle asked, at last. “He seemed wearied, despondent even, at the wedding. But he spoke to me.”

“It’s been months. He found his tongue slowly, with time. I suppose things have a way of continuing on.” Aster rested his chin on his hand, staring sadly at the custard. “The thing that worries me isn’t what he says, it’s how he feels. He’s like some kind of mad creature tearing at itself with its claws, trying to stop the pain that way.”

Aster closed his eyes. Then shook his head. “No, it’s more than that. I sensed it before all this happened, when we were at your seaside cottage. After your . . .“ his eyes flit from Elf to Elf, his words skipping over the traumatic occurrence none of them wanted to put into words. “Danen has this shadow self, this lurking darkness, that only shows up when he’s really, really upset. But I know it’s always there, below the surface. Maybe it’s his magic power. He’s never respected the danger of magic. Or maybe it’s just his depression, waiting to devour him if he’ll let it.”

“It’s neither,” Pearelle assured the young man. “I dreamed of what he could become, and it wasn’t despair I saw in that Danen’s face. It was hatred. Pure, unabashed hatred.”

Aster tilted his head to consider it, then nodded. “The unfortunate thing is — I can think of quite a few people Danen has reason to hate. He blames his father for Lady Maudline’s death. He holds no love for the Elves he’s met recently. Last month, while we were in Castlease, he and his cousin had some sort of run in so that Prince Ruvellius can no longer abide being the same room with him. What are we supposed to do about something like that? It’s not like we can bring his Amma back from the dead.”

Emory shivered, rubbing her arms. She reached across the table and took up the serving spoon.“It’ll be cold soon. We should eat.”

“Eat? Now?” Pearelle gasped, feeling sick to her stomach.

But Emory was lit up. She had a spark in her eyes as she reached over to take Pearelle by her perpetually cold hand. “You’re not going to tell us there isn’t hope for the man, are you? If that’s the case, then what is there to be heartsick over? You were given this dream for a reason. We have work to do.”

Pearelle blinked back her tears. She shook her head, dashing them away quickly. The three of them clung for a moment to the hope Emory offered. It seemed too good to be true.

Finally, Pearelle let out a heavy sigh, and lifted her face. “Then, yes, we eat. What is that saying, Em? We partake of our faith in tomorrow.”

Aster beamed back at her, his wide grin showing teeth. “Whatever that means — yes!”

The Elves giggled at him.

Emory served him a slice, then herself. Pearelle smiled, amused that Emory was refusing to serve ‘the lady’ before her and Aster, two commoners, both. Taking up her spoon, she took her first bite. The delicious morsel melted on her tongue while Pearelle regarded the two companions she’d chosen for this quest.

“I don’t think anyone else will support us,” she admitted, as they ate. “The Elven Council will want me to step in and . . . well, let’s just say, that I will refuse to do as long as I am able to glimpse hope. The High Mage — I don’t know Lord Coblaine well — but I imagine he doesn’t have much time for a recalcitrant’s reformation, does he?”

Aster shook his head slowly, mouth full.

“Only King Mervin himself knows what use he’ll find for a taboo-breaking mage,” Pearelle continued. “But in my dream, Danen was working his spell in the throne room, robed in the regalia of the High Mage.” She softened her voice, though she knew it would not soften the blow. She looked into Aster’s eyes and gave him the news as simply as she could. “Danen did not look much older than he is now.”

Aster dropped his spoon to the table with a clatter. “You don’t think— !”

Pearelle nodded, her mouth drawn in a firm line. “There is only ever one High Mage.”

Aster ran his hands over his cropped hair. He breathed slowly through his nose as he finished eating. Then he gulped down the rest of his coffee and pushed himself to his feet. His anxiety shattered the bit of calm they’d enjoyed during the meal. Emory, too, stood and began clearing up. Aster paced the small space between the kitchen table and the sink.

“What do we do? If what you saw could really happen, there’s not much time.” He shook his head violently. “Still, the spell you witnessed him casting in your dream — it sounds complex. Powerful. Arcane, even. Definitely forbidden. How would Danen learn to do such a thing? Is he even skilled enough to cast it? I would swear he’s not capable of such a thing now.”

Pearelle went to him and held out her hand. Reaching toward Emory, she summoned her friends to her side. “This is why I need both of you. My plan is simple. If Danen requires great power to cast this taboo torture spell, we shall work to contain his power. There is a soul-spell, a subtle one, which we can place upon him without his knowledge. It will limit his ability to expend power in spell-casting, and will lessen the amount he can accumulate during rest.”

Aster snorted. “Rest? He never rests.”

“Then we will have even less to worry about, once the spell is placed. The difficulty will be in finding a way to keep Danen unaware of its presence.”

“You’re not going to curse him, are you?” Aster lifted his hand, ever-so-slightly out of Pearelle’s. “He’s . . . he’s not the same after what Lady Amadeah did to him, and I wouldn’t feel right helping you hurt him.”

Pearelle gripped his hand tighter. “No. The spell is not harmful. Quite the contrary! It reinforces the inner walls of a mage’s magic well and is often used to heal those who overextended themselves and lived through the experience. It is not a solution to the darkness inside of Danen. But it will give us time to help him find his way back.”

“Wait, you mean to say we’ll be holding him in check using this spell continuously?” He rolled his eyes up at the ceiling. “Not another sustained spell!”

Pearelle smiled, warmed by his humble honesty. “I appreciate your willingness to help, Aster Andersen. The spell requires at least three because we will need to take it in shifts. Emory and I will teach you.”

He sighed, concern in his wide, grey eyes. “Can you do better than the High Mage? Because he’s been working with me on sustained spells for half a year now and my casting remains rather unstable.”

“Of course!” Emory batted at him, somewhat mockingly. “We’re Elves. Nurturing Human talent is what we do best.”

Pearelle squeezed their hands, looking at each in turn. Emory nodded. Aster’s jaw was firmly set. They stood in a quiet kitchen that smelled of bread and coffee, feeling the warmth of the sun on their backs as dust motes fell all around them. It was homey and plain. The perfect place to share a quiet laugh at the dark.

Dear Reader,

I wanted this chapter to be a nice, cozy ‘Tea with Mr. and Mrs. Beaver’ type of scene (if you’re familiar with The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe). But recently someone asked me what my favorite part of this book was, so far, and I had to put this scene second in favor of another. That scene is further down the pipeline, but if I were to describe it by comparing it to something else, I would say it’s my ‘Samwise Gamgee Dances with Rosie’ bit.

And no — it doesn’t involve Danen, Pearelle, Aster, or Em. If you’re curious you’ll just have to wait and see, I guess. One more reason why writing fiction is just the absolute best!

Cheers,

~LL

Previously, the High Mage instructed Danen and Aster to visit the Elves at the mountain lodge. For Danen, it is necessary that he spend time with his Elven wife in order to fulfill his responsibility of preserving the Concordance Treaty. Aster is sent along as backup, especially because a previous interaction with Elves left Danen traumatized. In the meantime, Pearelle demanded that Emory confront the truth of what keeps her at Pearelle’s side — duty or friendship?

Dismissed for their two-day excursion to visit the Elves, Aster and Danen walked together to their private sleeping cells on the tower’s third floor to pack. The High Mage’s quarters only had the one large bedroom, with a valet’s sleeping closet attached. Traditionally, the High Mage’s acolytes were housed in the sleeping cells used by the tower’s staff. Aster changed into a jacket, trousers, and boots more suitable for riding, grabbed an extra shirt and stuffed it into a satchel with some books and odds and ends. He returned to find Danen waiting in the corridor, hands empty.

“I’m not very good at riding. I’ll just walk,” he told Aster, grinning sheepishly.

Aster glanced down at Danen’s Elsyncria. It was glowing a muted pink. “Are you nervous about seeing her again?”

Danen laughed. “Wouldn’t you be?”

“I think —” Aster couldn’t help picturing himself in Danen’s shoes. Except, in his imagination, there was a different person waiting for him down at the lake house than Lady Pearelle. “I think I’d be excited, as well as nervous. I imagine you’ll have a lot to talk about.”

Danen didn’t say anything else until they’d reached the ground floor and pressed their way through hallways full of students, mages, and serving men all intent on pursing their business as efficiently as possible, with a great deal of self-importance marking their gait. The acolytes finally emerged into a clear, chilly morning outside.

“There’s the horses,” Aster pointed out, brightening now that there was real sunshine on his face.

“Tell the stablemaster to give you a slow horse, alright? I don’t want to work up a sweat trying to keep up with you!”

“You’re not really coming, though, are you?” Aster put a hand on Danen’s shoulder. “Your uncle’s tired. He might fall for it when you tell him what he wants to hear. But I know you better than that. When it comes to a fight you know you can’t win, you’re not above using underhanded tricks. So, were you going to slip away in the woods or just use your forbidden transference spell to vanish when I wasn’t looking?”

Danen’s face paled. Then he cloaked his shame behind a sneer. “You’re well on your way to being Lewison’s lapdog. Been taking lessons from Corundus?”

“Corundus is back?” Aster’s stomach flopped over.

“Oh, I’m sure he’s never far away.” Danen picked at the dirt under his fingernails. “Anyway, I have things to do. Please send my regards to my lady and . . . and to the other Elf, I forget her name.”

“Emory,” Aster reminded him, through gritted teeth.

“You would remember.” Danen smirked, his eyes flashing with amusement. “It’s been so long, I’d forgotten. But she made quite the impression on you, didn’t she, Anderson.”

Aster turned away. “Just get going. You can’t fool me anymore by acting all prickly. I know how you really feel. Go mope, if that’s what you want. If you really wanted to feel better, though, you’d be coming with me!”

He only looked back once, after he’d mounted the horse he wanted and had turned its head toward the mountain road. Then he gazed over his shoulder at the people working outside the tower. Danen had already disappeared. Aster kicked his horse into a steady trot, feeling the nettle sting of his own words. Had he gone too far?

He hated conflict.

It’s better Danen stays behind, he reminded himself. If he won’t open up to Lady Pearelle, I’ll have to petition her for help on his behalf. It’ll be easier to get her to agree if he’s not there acting the fool.

*****

Emory tucked her quilted mattress behind the closet door and slid it closed. She sat for a moment longer, her folded hands resting on the smooth fabric covering her knees. She was marble. Not a wrinkle on her clothing, every line of her body a strong, erect testimony to her firm resolve. Except, that resolve had been steadily crumbling under the relentless drip of Pearelle’s affection. Was it true that upholding the Treaty could be accomplished by aligning herself with Pearelle’s headlong race toward disaster?

Why are you here? Pearelle’s question echoed in Emory’s mind. When had it become difficult to answer a simple question like that one?

She was here because, when she was eleven years old — a babe by Elven reckoning — her mother had begun taking her to spend the day at the Perronett mansion, playing with their youngest daughter. When she was twenty, she’d officially entered the Perronett family service as a lady’s maid. For the next three decades, she’d risen before dawn to dress and comb her own hair, so that when Pearelle awoke, she was ready to serve.

One morning, she’d tiptoed in and found Pearelle already braiding her thin, pale plaits. She’d done it very badly. But from that day onward, Pearelle began to take back, little by little, her independence. In exchange for the theft of Emory’s purpose, Pearelle had offered friendship. They’d argued over it, striving to outmaneuver one another in a tug-of-war for control. But the fact of the matter remained, Pearelle was high born. Her affinity demanded a place of honor among all Elves. She didn’t need Emory anymore, if she ever had.

A better question — who am I, if not her servant?

Emory turned her head to one side and gazed at her reflection in a mirror across the room. She saw a perfect miniature of herself. A green smudge on the tan carpet, with perfect cream skin and perfectly coiled blonde hair. She sat regal, perfect, and still enough she might’ve been a statue.

“I’m just Emory,” she told the tiny self in the mirror. “My family line are gardeners, shield bearers, support casters. Servants without need for more than a first name.”

The sound of horses’ hooves rang on small stones outside her open window. Someone was coming.

The Human. Emory clenched her jaw. Decide! Choose what you will be, before you’ve run out of time.

She knew her lady’s banishment was no idle threat. They’d said all there was to say on the topic. They’d arrived at the crossroads. Going forward, she was either going on with Pearelle, or alone.

Just like that, Emory realized the decision had been made for her. When Pearelle had refrained from dismissing her years ago when she no longer needed her service, what Pearelle had chosen to keep was Emory’s companionship. Every time Emory stubbornly refused to reciprocate, Pearelle had overlooked the snide insults that were an attempt to mask Emory’s insecurity. What motivated Pearelle to be as long-suffering as Emory was stubborn? Was it merely loyalty? At every point, Pearelle had chosen Emory, despite how uncomfortable Emory had made that choice for her.

The wounds of a friend, Emory recalled the Elven proverb, are more faithful than the kisses of a foe.

Perhaps, for all these years, Emory had not gone looking elsewhere for purpose because she’d already found enough of one here. Picturing herself anywhere else left her feeling empty. Picturing Pearelle navigating what lay before her without Emory at her side made her feel uneasy. Was this all there was to being someone’s friend? It seemed too simplistic.

Rising, poised as ever, Emory walked through the empty, unfamiliar corridors of the sprawling house. Outside Pearelle’s bedroom she hesitated. A servant would announce the arrival of their guest. Moving onward, Emory determined she’d rather see who it was before they could get to her lady. If it was Pearelle’s husband — she had several choice words she’d love to drill into that Human’s ears. Better if Pearelle weren’t there to stop her.

*****

“You came alone?”

This wasn’t exactly the reunion Aster had envisioned, but he would’ve been lying to himself if he didn’t admit he’d been looking forward to seeing her again. Emory stood just inside the door, looking as though she hadn’t decided whether she was going to let him inside.

“It’s good to see you,” he told her truthfully. He didn’t know what else to say.

Emory surprised him by smiling. She was the sort of person who never smiled. And it was the sort of smile that made his own widen stupidly. She looked relieved.

“While I would love to hear how you both are settling in, I came to discuss something with Lady Pearelle,” he added.

She nodded, in that molasses way she had. He followed her inside. In the center of the room she stopped, as though hesitating. Then she turned back toward him, wringing her hands. It was a gesture as foreign to her personality as smiling.

“We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other — my Lady, Danen Vinier, all of us. We should begin the way we intend to go forward.”

Aster didn’t really understand her change of demeanor, nor her apparent anxiety. But waiting quietly seemed the correct response.

After a moment, she stopped fidgeting and stilled herself. With a sharp nod, she led the way deeper inside the house. Aster assumed he was meant to follow, though her cryptic comment did not give a hint of what he should expect.

They arrived in the kitchen. There was a woman there, pulling a steaming, golden loaf of bread out of an oven. Beside the hearth stood a table full of fresh food stuffs, knives, bowls, and little jars of spices. Emory took an apron from a hook on the wall and smoothed it over her green dress.

“Thank you, ma’am. I would like to see to the morning meal myself today. Would you take a half holiday and return to the house to prepare supper?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The woman dipped into a curtsy without batting an eye. She tossed her own apron across the back of a rocking chair, scooped up a fat, sleeping cat, and made her way outside, cooing to the creature.

Emory placed her hands on her apron front, looking as composed in a kitchen as she did elsewhere. She addressed Aster, “Will you assist me? I think those ingredients are meant for an egg custard.”

Aster surveyed the basket of eggs, handful of greens, and freshly-picked mushrooms. “I will.”

He didn’t know his way around a proper kitchen, but there was a fire to tend, water to bring, plenty of dishes to wash after Emory had used them. She pat a mound of flour, salt, and butter into a flaky dough. He cracked the dozen eggs into a pewter crock while she minced the fresh things very fine.

“Shouldn’t we heat water?” he asked hopefully. Breakfast wasn’t quite the same without coffee, in his opinion.

“Ah, yes. The tea,” she replied.

He glanced left to right, looking at all the unlabeled jars, lidded crockery, and stuffed sacks lining shelves everywhere along the kitchen’s walls. “You don’t suppose they keep any coffee beans in this house, do you?”

“Coffee?” Emory snorted. “Humankind’s obsession with overstrung nerves is disgusting.”

“Have you ever had any?” He thought she was exaggerating for humor, until she looked him up and down in disgust. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply anything weird.”

He decided he’d have to wait for coffee until he’d returned to the towers. He planned to keep out of sight until tomorrow. Danen could keep his little secret from the High Mage, if he wished. Aster assumed a little trust between he and Danen would go a long way in helping his friend overcome more important obstacles. Still, he hated deceiving Lewison. And he dreaded a long morning without his coffee.

“It’s strange how little we know about each other. Don’t you think?” he mused aloud.

Emory raised her eyebrow at him, stirring the bowl of eggs into the vegetables with more vigor than was necessary. Aster realized how his words could be misconstrued and felt a little queasy.

“Not us, as in you and me! I meant Humans and Elves. Our peoples don’t know anything about each other. For example, you Elves can’t imagine why we would enjoy a steaming, delicious-smelling brew of—“

“ —of diluted tar.”

Aster nodded. “And we Humans can’t understand why Elves don’t have doors with knobs, why you take naps sitting up every afternoon,” Aster found himself calling to mind the brief time he’d spent in an Elven home. It wasn’t the rumored things that had struck him as intriguing. “Or why your houses feel like a song calling you home, your mother singing a lullaby as you fall asleep . . .”

He became aware of her stillness and glanced over to find her staring. He found it a bit disconcerting how at ease she appeared to feel about leveling that penetrating a gaze at him. It wasn’t until a log full of sap sent up a burst of sparks that he realized he’d locked eyes with her. He cleared his throat and went back to searching under lids for some tea leaves.

“It’s better this way,” Emory told him. “There are some things you Humans can’t understand. Others that we Elves can’t abide to know about our neighbors. Such discord can’t be helped.”

She pressed the soft dough into a pie dish and then poured the egg mixture into it. “There, place that on the grate in the back corner.”

Aster took it in both hands, stepping with extra care over the rough stone floor. He’d had decadent egg custard at Citadel during their stay for the wedding ceremonies. It was hardly a dish out of place in so elevated a dining hall as the royal palace. Yet Emory had made cooking something so fancy look easy. Aster couldn’t believe his luck.

“Good morning,” Lady Pearelle said, standing in the doorway. Her tone made it a question.

Aster straightened, preparing to return the greeting. But Emory moved more quickly. So swiftly, in fact, it took him by surprise. He watched, open-mouthed, as the Elf threw her arms around Pearelle’s shoulders and burst into tears. He met Pearelle’s eyes over Emory’s shuddering shoulders. She looked as dumbfounded as he. His stomach clenched. Was it something he’d said? About how Elves and Humans were different? Perhaps he’d committed some unredeemable misstep in his ignorance.

Lady Pearelle wrapped her friend close, hugging her. Aster buried his arms up to his elbows in dishwater and tried to make enough noise that he couldn’t be accused of listening in, while also not loud enough to disturb Emory further.

After a long time, Emory stepped backward and stood taller. “Pearelle, good morning.”

Aster snuck a peak at them. He saw the Elven lady’s eyes widen in surprise and gratitude. “Good morning, my friend!”

Speaking of not understanding Elven stuff, Aster thought. What is going on?

He tried to avoid staring while the Elves shared some sort of moment. Drying his arms, he noticed a little ceramic pot nestled among the jars of cutlery above the sink. He could hear the Elves whispering behind him, heads bent together as though they were the only ones in the room. Aster stood on tiptoe to peer under the pot lid. A wide grin split his face.

He turned to present the pot to the Elves. “While I haven’t found any tea yet, ladies, if you ask me, I just found something better!”

Emory groaned. “Of course it would be coffee.”

Dear Reader,

I recently tried to function without coffee, as a medical experiment. Thankfully, I thoroughly ruled out caffeine as the source of my symptoms and have now returned to the realm of the living (not the half-alive).

Apparently, without caffeine I am liable to dump eggshells in the recycling bin, place my waterbottle inside the wardrobe where I will never find it, identify a box of cornbread mix as definitely mac-and-cheese, and perform any number of other comical, haphazard blunders on any given day.

Needless to say, I am deeply grateful to have absolutely no issue with caffeine. It appears to be one of the main pillars of my sanity.

Cheers,

~LL

In a previous chapter, the High Mage deposited the Elves at a mountain lodge near, but not adjacent to, the mage towers where he and his acolytes live. Pearelle elicits his pledge that Danen will at least visit each week, in accord with the Treaty’s stipulations. But she and Emory now stand on fragile ground, designated a remote and out-of-the way dwelling in an unknown landscape.

As their interview drew to a close, Emory followed the High Mage to the front door of their strange, new lodgings and held it open for him. But just before he managed to escape her, Pearelle stirred herself from her troubled thoughts, rose with a look of steel in her eyes, and called after him. She followed the High Mage out into the yard.

“Lord Coblaine?”

He paused with his hand on the saddle of his restless charger, then offered her a short bow. “Yes, my Lady Perronett?”

The rebuke of her raised eyebrow was lost on him. “I am Lady Vinier, now, sir.”

“Indeed,” the High Mage coughed. “Strange as such a naming may be. Ahem! You had a request?”

“Yes,” Pearelle took a breath, fortifying herself. She lowered her voice so that even Emory, waiting in the doorway behind her, would not overhear. “Tell me, has anything occurred to make Danen . . . well, he seemed very morose at the wedding feast.”

The High Mage started. He stroked his beard nervously. “I know things were . . . let us say, the manner of his parting with your family was unfortunate. But you need not worry yourself. Given time, he will adjust. So much has changed, after all.”

“I do not believe I understand.” Pearelle knit her brows. Why was he evading her question? “Has he been, in some way, permanently harmed by my mother’s transgression upon his dignity?”

The High Mage’s sudden stillness was as disturbing as a shadow passing under deep water. His grey eyes bore into Pearelle’s own. She strove to remain steadfast under them, to win his trust, or otherwise to prove herself a formidable assailant. But when he turned away from her, to mount his horse, his voice did not allow her to claim either success. His tone remained calculated and neutral.

“Perhaps, when my nephew returns to The Fingers and has time to visit you here, you might ask him.”

Pearelle received his reply with tightly-drawn lips. She didn’t want to make matters worse by insulting the man. But his negligence in seeing to Danen’s well-being, and by extension her own, was frankly unsettling. She watched him beat a hasty retreat, spurring his house up the mountain road.

Emory shut the door when Pearelle returned inside.

Pearelle went to the chair and sat hugging herself, mulling over the mystery of Danen’s illness. Whether it was merely emotional strain, or some deeper disease of the mind, she could not tell. The uncertainty nagged at her as golden light spilled in from the other end of the room. It’s floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooked the sparkling lake.

Pearelle stirred herself, for her friend’s sake, and looked round at the beautiful room.

“Well, Emory . . . we’re home.”

“No, my lady. This is not your home.” Emory went to Pearelle’s side and took the delicate, cold hand of her mistress. “A mere stopping place. A long night spent in a strange land. You will be returning to our true home one day, I promise you.”

Rubbing the back of her mistress’ hand, Emory soothed the headache that Pearelle said had been plaguing her since they’d reached a higher elevation. The two of them remained like that for long minutes, enjoying a restorative stillness after the carriage’s incessant jolting.

But Pearelle’s thoughts went darker with the passing moments. Their journey had brought them to a disappointing end. Emory was right to call what was coming for them ‘a dark night’. Pearelle’s sun was setting, and things were only going to get darker. Pearelle watched the sunset’s golden sheets retreat across the lake. The light was sliced in half by the jagged blue shadow of Gubarashi’s tallest peak.

Presently, Pearelle pulled her hand out of Emory’s.

“There is something I haven’t told you.” She looked askance at the other Elf. “The sort of thing only shared with one’s closest friend.”

It was the old argument. The one they’d both been avoiding since leaving home. Emory seated herself at Pearelle’s feet. Her back was straight as ever, but she sounded miffed. “You know I cannot be ‘friend’ and still fulfill my duty to you, my lady.”

Pearelle bit her lip. “Then it’s fitting that I keep my own counsel.” She drew breath, and strength with it. “You may return to Castlease. I’m married now. I have no need of a servant.” It hurt her to say those cruel words. But Emory didn’t know that.

Pearelle could feel Emory’s shock. To her, this sudden rejection must feel like a betrayal.

The two Elves watched the shadow of the peak slide up from the water, creep over the steps of the lodge’s wide porch, and slip into the room with them. There, it pierced the floorboards between the their feet. Emory’s brow furrowed in an uncharacteristic manner as she struggled to grasp Pearelle’s meaning.

The shadow reached for Emory’s toes. “Why choose this moment to rid yourself of my service? It’s not as though that Human is going to make a proper companion for you.”

Pulling her feet away from the creeping darkness, Emory’s stoic resolve wavered. Her brows drew together, her narrow glare pierced the floorboards. She knew Pearelle hadn’t spoken idly, that she’d meant every word of her dismissal. Yet it jarred against everything Emory believed in and she couldn’t accept it.

“My Lady Pearelle, your wish to uphold the Treaty and seek a truly warm relationship with that man is naive. The discord ill befits an Elf of your status and learning! You would be foolish to seclude yourself with him and risk endangering the Treaty. Without my assistance, you will fall prey to the Innerend’s designs!”

It was rare for Emory to speak so directly against Pearelle, and in the heat of her anxiety, she choked on a torrent of warnings. Finally regaining control of her voice, Emory flung the question which couched her deepest offense at the feet of her lady like a challenger’s glove. “How can you believe you love him?”

Even in the face of Emory’s accusation that she was no longer capable of remaining loyal to the Treaty, Pearelle refused to crumble.

Her prolonged silence seemed to melt all Emory’s adamance. It pained Pearelle to test her oldest friend in this way, no matter how Emory refused to attach such a designation to their relationship. Parting ways with each other was as terrifying a possibility to Pearelle as it was to Emory! After all these years, Pearelle needed her dear friend more than ever. But she knew how stubborn Em could be.

Emory sat as straight and unmoving as usual, but her gaze remained fixed on the floor, her features crumpling in sorrow. Her coldness was seeping away, replaced by injured pride. Pearelle watched her friend’s posture — Emory wilted, her back curving as she leaned over her lap, hands cradling air like she was trying to bear herself up under the pain of Pearelle’s words.

It took all Pearelle’s endurance to remain motionless and watched her. Her arms yearned to encircle Emory in their protection, to crush every doubt of her affection in her friend’s mind.

The mountain drew a curtain of darkness over the Elven lady while Emory struggled to reconcile the forces pulling her apart. She clung to what she’d always known was true. Her voice shook as she recited it for Pearelle.

“I was chosen to serve you from birth. . . you, who are tasked with the greatest honor any of our generation can bear . . . how can you separate my role of helping, of serving, from your most vital role of keeping the Treaty intact? Aren’t we meant to support the Treaty above all else?”

Emory leaned further over her bent knees, her fists slipping from her lap to hammer against the wooden floorboards. “You’re so stubborn, Lady Pearelle! Why can’t you let things be as they are, instead of demanding something more? You’re doing it with that man, too. I know you’re hoping he’s going to love you and treat you tenderly. Can’t you see that kind of hope blinds you to the very reason you’ve been placed at his side?! You can’t forget he’s dangerous. Foolish, foolish, Pearelle! You’ll destroy the Treaty we —”

The choking sound that broke Emory’s words was almost immediately overtaken by Pearelle’s voice. It sounded like a bitten off gasp, something like a laugh, but too broken-winged to take flight.

“Stop it!” Emory cried, beating the floor again. “How dare you mock my principles? You’ve always disregarded them!”

Pearelle covered her mouth and turned away. When she’d found composure again, she kept her tone even. “I’m sorry. It was wrong of me. I only laughed because your words unsettled me. I couldn’t believe you dared confront me! Because that’s exactly what a friend would say. A servant would never dare criticize her mistress.”

Emory glared up at her.

Pearelle met her eyes with a patient plea. “You can’t remain by my side as a mere servant any longer. There’s a path I must take after today which demands more than unquestioning loyalty. It is the very path required to uphold the Treaty you believe I’ve forgotten. But it’s the one I would choose, not you. If you’re to stay, Emory, I require you to fulfill the duties of a trusted ally, not a servant. I know how fervently you uphold the Concordance. That’s why I covet your trust . . . and your friendship.”

A silence freighted with ominous portent fell over them. The shadow cast by the mountain was swallowed by night. The room darkened to pitch, yet neither of them stirred to light a candle. Outside the house, the whirring of insects hinted at spring’s chase happening all around them. Even in the dark, creature sought out like creature in the quest for balance, harmony, completeness. Their night song tempered the heavy, bleakness of sorrow that had crept in between the two Elves.

This was merely one point in time. One argument like many which had come before. Somehow, it intensified and brought to the present all they’d ever said to each other on the subject. They’d known each other a very, very long time.

“Why are you here, Emory?” Pearelle demanded at last.

Emory’s laugh was a rare bird. Like the jungle species that draws a snake from its nest, it only flashed out with color for an instant, and always to hide her true feelings. She let the laugh be her answer, until the night noises were broken by Pearelle’s repeated demand.

“Why are you here?” Pearelle drew strands of her hair over her shoulder, idly drawing her fingers through the creamy paleness. “Why aren’t you walking about the house, setting things to rights? Unpacking. Seeing to it that the cook brings us dinner. Sending a message to inform Lady Amadeah we have arrived safely. Any of the dozen other tasks a servant would pursue while her mistress saw the High Mage to the door?”

Pearelle waited.

Emory refused to answer. The darkness hid her fallen tears from sight. Pearelle rose slowly to her feet and smoothed the long skirts that their journey had crumpled.

“I’ve been dressing and putting myself to bed for years now. Half the time, I comb my own hair. Mother knows my comings and goings without you having to tell her. It isn’t as though I never share with her my private thoughts or secret doubts. Where exactly is this ‘helpful role’ you speak of, Emory dear? You’re no good to me like this. Proprietary, stiff, unwilling to risk anything, your words bitten back. I think you know all this already, you’re just not brave enough to admit you’re afraid of change.”

Her wounded sniff was a little theatrical, even for Pearelle’s own taste. But it served to make her point. She went from the room like a scudding cloud, casting a momentary shadow over the pale figure who sat weeping. Outside the opposite window, a lonely moon sank toward its own reflection.

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Dear Reader,

I have been blessed with many friends, over the years, but I am still envious of those who have known a handful of trusted people for the majority of their lives. It seems like time weaves a web of connection far stronger, and more intricate, than even the closest of swiftly-sparked friendships.

In recent years, I’ve been thankful for family ties because of how steadfast they remain throughout the years, unlike most friendships. I know not all families are like this. I am blessed to have sisters by blood, by marriage, and by time-knitting alike.

Here’s to bonds that go deep. Cheers!

~LL

In previous chapters, Gowell finished off the rations Golda had sent with him for the journey, scavenged some food from the autumn forest, and finally came to know what deep hunger feels like. In a bid to survive, he followed the example of a ghost-like memories of an Osakk father teaching his daughter to fish. Once he learned how to support himself with fish, El-Una gleefully declared he would be able to survive on his own. But now a new challenge faces Gowell.

One day, when Gowell and El-Una had left behind the pool, now empty of trout, when even the trees had grown sparse around their rocky upward trail, they came across a place where a broad road cut into the mountainside. It turned a sharp corner around a stand of boulders and then shot up along a sheer cliff-face, climbing toward the sky. Somewhere far out of sight, the mountain ridges bunched together over the road and Gowell guessed that it entered a tunnel or narrow pass far above the tree line. He wondered where it led.

Where he stood, the mountain ridges rippled into the northern distance like the tough scales of some great, grey dragon. In between each, the land dipped down into evergreen copses. There were many places, too, where the sheer cliff-faces were darkened by the cold spray of waterfalls, plummeting down from sun-bathed snow caps high above their heads. Though beautiful, it was a sparse, empty landscape. Gowell missed the soft earth and birdsong of the Duskwood they’d left behind when they began their climb into the mountains.

“Should we travel along this road?” Gowell asked his companion, hopefully. It looked like a very smooth, easy trail, after the rocky, rutted goat-track he’d been following.

No, not unless thee wishes to give up on finding the Osakk. El-Una wagged his tail, then trotted on ahead along their gravelly path. That way are Humankind. Humans are not ready to meet thee, nor is it a meet time for thee to come among them. Not yet.

That night brought a complete darkness Yusep had called ‘new moon’. Gowell and El-Una prepared for another hunt. This time, Gowell would be ready. He had watched Thin Girl and her father trap a mountain goat and spear the creature with javelins. But, as El-Una pointed out, there was only one of Gowell. The same strategy would not work for him.

“I thought you were here to help me,” Gowell grumped. His stomach rumbled loudly.

I am not a real wolf.

“How could the goat know that? You look like a real wolf to me.” Gowell assumed that El-Una, like him, was not keen on chasing down something living in order to steal its life. Even with hot, roasted mutton to look forward to, he still found it difficult to believe he could do it.

Gowell gripped the shaft of a long, slender pine branch against his side and used a shard of basalt to hone the tip. With each scrape of the implement in his hand, the pine branch grew sharper. Finally, its point was fine enough to prick Gowell’s finger on. He winced.

Can I kill something? He asked, more of himself than his companion.

He’d watched the white, wooly mountain goats climbing the mountainside in the far distance. It was incomprehensible, what he intended to do. Could he really plunge this sharp point into one of those majestic, thundering bodies?

Thee killed the fish, El-Una reminded him patiently. They’d already had this conversation on several occasions as Gowell scrounged for edible plants in the ever-barer countryside. No matter how much or little he found to eat, he was always hungry.

“That’s different,” Gowell said. He grimaced all the same, recalling the dull sound of the fish-head smacked against rock.

Thee has climbed this mountain in the strength of that fish fat, El-Una prodded gently. Thee will need more strength to continue. It is still many days’ journey to the valley where thee will find the Osakk settlement.

“I do not like it,” Gowell said. He shuddered. But he also felt hollowed out inside. There was little strength left to keep him going, not to mention keep him warm at this altitude when the night plunged the bare rock into freezing temperatures.

Come, El-Una told him. The wolf spirit trotted off into the peach and pink light where it danced across the boulders. The silver creature almost disappeared in that mingling brightness. Gowell followed.

When they had wound their way around the base of the ridge to where the goats were grazing in the last of the day’s light, El-Una signaled to Gowell that they had arrived. Using their mental connection, the spirit wolf pointed out a promontory of rock the goats would have to leap across if Gowell chased them in that direction. Nodding in understanding, he bent and filled his satchel with handfuls of small, sharp stones.

Then Gowell walked back the way he’d come, eyeing the goats high above him. They were not intimidated by so large and lumbering a creature as he, but continued grazing from clinging shrubs, moving slowly across the rock face. They seemed to know it would be quite impossible for Gowell to climb and balance and dart about using tiny footholds as they did. He gripped his javelin in a tight fist, compelled to keep it out of view behind his body.

Gowell knew his chance of succeeding in this hunt had much stacked against him, but a great deal rode on his fortunes this day. He would either go to bed hungry once again and wake weaker than before, or he would feast and have meat again for tomorrow.

Grimly, he took position at the base of the cliff and squinted up at the four-legged bobs of downy fluff which were his quarry. “Why do they have to be so beautiful?” he grumbled at the immaterial El-Una.

What they look like has nothing to do with nourishment, the spirit replied bluntly. Would thee kill them more easily if they were ugly?

“Probably, I would.”

What if they threatened thee? Beautiful sometimes can be deadly.

Gowell crouched, reached into his sack of stones, and mulled the question over. He tried to picture something both beautiful and dangerous. At once, the leaping lion of the Duskwood came to mind. She had possessed a grace and power that were awe-inspiring and terrifying at the same time. He hadn’t had to face that fear because the lioness hadn’t considered Gowell easy prey.

“Are you saying I must protect myself, first? At the cost of other life?”

El-Una did not answer.

Gowell fought the urge to call out to the creatures above his head, to startle them into flight. It felt wrong to fling the stone in his hand without allowing them a chance to escape. But he steeled himself, clenching hard the rock until it nearly cut into his palm. With a mighty arc, he sent the stone racing toward one of the smaller goats. He had noticed, in watching his quarry, that the younger ones stumbled and caught themselves on the ledges more often than their elders.

Stone struck stone and splintered into a hundred pieces. The young goat leapt to a higher perch, bleating in alarm. The elder goats — three of them — began a slow, methodical movement away from the threat below them. Their young followed, calling to one another in tremulous tones that worked on Gowell’s pity like a charm. He half-heartedly threw a couple more stones, harmlessly striking far below them, driving the herd toward the precipice which was his last hope for a hot supper.

Consider, El-Una urged him, when Gowell sat hesitating below the final leap, watching the goats graze. Consider what thy kind will do to Yusep and Golda. Would thee be as their young one and cry to them when the hunter comes?

Gowell grit his teeth. “I do not like to be the hunter!”

Then you will be the hunted, El-Una warned him.

Gowell filled his fists with stones. He threw them in rapid succession. The herd of goats had had enough of his pestering. One after another, the elders made the leap across the promontory, disappearing father up inside the shelter of a large tumble of craggy rocks where no projectile could hope to reach them. When one of the goat kids trotted up to the lip, Gowell lifted the javelin to his shoulder. With a roar of frustration, he let it fly.

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Dear Reader,

This week I have been reflecting on the fact that, in life, hardships find a way to interrupt whatever we are seeking to do at any given moment, and though we are not quick to claim that suffering is a ‘good’, neither are we free to assert that it never serves a positive purpose and that we would be categorically better off without it. In fact, the opposite is true — a life of ease and absolutely no friction, whether emotional or physical, moral or relational friction — is likely to make a person villainous, or at least quite miserable.

Whether or not it is ‘good’, I think it’s fair to say suffering is a necessary thing. Just something I’ve been thinking about. What do you think?

Cheers,

~LL

While Gowell is managing to feed himself and survive on his own, with El-Una’s help, the kingdom as a whole is teetering toward unbalance. Danen provides Lewison with plenty to worry about; what Danen himself thinks about his abrupt change in circumstances, only he knows.

Lewison’s eyes opened on lavender afternoon light. The smell of burning pine logs stung his nostrils. He could feel the nibs of feathers poking through his pillow, pricking his scalp. Sitting up, scratching at his head, he glared through a blur of sleepiness, searching the carpet beside his bed for his slippers. He used to have a valet for these sorts of things. But when old Sal went back down the mountain, retiring at the respectable age of ninety-two, Lewison hadn’t had the time to replace him.

I’m not that old yet, as that nephew of mine once said. It was an amusing memory, that day when Danen had laughed at Lewison for dousing the pot-bellied stove the Elves had given him. But it was one of the few pleasant memories he had left with his nephew. Where did I go wrong with Danen?

He slipped an arm through his thick, quilted robe that kept him from freezing to death in this stone tower top they called the Aerie — the phoenix’s nest. Outside his window, the spring warmth hadn’t reached the towers yet. Even in summer, the snow on Gubarashi’s highest reaches never melted. Belting the sash around his waist, Lewison gave his beard a quick, finger-combing before throwing open the door to his bedroom and emerging in what he liked to call his living-library-room.

The central chamber of his tower was a glorified hallway, in reality. Too long to divide into smaller rooms, it boasted two levels of bookshelves, a cast-iron stairway leading to the upper galleries, and little else. The rest of the space was bare of furniture, apart from several reading podiums and the High Mage’s desk resting within reach of the suite doors. The only attempt at giving the place a homey touch had been done by his wife, Lady Novena, when she’d first come to live with him here. Facing the east, a row of floor-to-ceiling windows had been installed. There, the Elven lady had carved out a small haven of refinement — a couch, a low table and tea things, smaller seat cushions in the Elven style, various indoor plants, now withered.

When was the last time I took tea there? Lewison asked himself, pausing in the middle of the empty expanse to gaze at the armchair Novena had carved for him. A priceless piece of her own handiwork.

He shook his head, then went to sit inside his fireplace to rid himself of the chill. There was nothing he could do about the past. It was his present difficulties that deserved his attention.

When his bones had soaked up as much heat as they could, he settled behind his desk. Lovingly, he tidied his workspace, prepared the quill pens, checked with approval the growing stack of things Aster had managed to complete since he’d last sat there. He’d long since left off thinking of his acolyte as the farm boy and now depended on him as a trained assistant. The young man was almost ready for his ascension trial — a test which, if he passed, would initiate him into the responsibilities and status of an official mage.

Lewison had to stand to reach the top of his pile of tasks still uncompleted. As he worked, sunlight reflected on the hard rock face of the Gubarashi and glinted along the gold lettering of countless spines in the upper gallery. By the time Danen and Aster arrived for their afternoon lesson, he’d worked himself into a stress headache.

Putting the clues together from half a score of letters and reports, one fact had become plain. The nobles had taken advantage of his long absence to readjust the power hierarchy, with some making subtle advertisements of their readiness for a direct conflict, should the need arise.

Lewison sighed, shuffling the relevant stack of papers together and setting them aside in their own pile. He’d dealt with this before, and it had always proven a difficult situation to diffuse. Why do men with an overabundance of military might seem bent on finding a reason to wield it?

The door opened, admitting Aster and his nephew, and Lewison felt a strange multi-layered film of remembrance fall into place. How many times had they performed this tableau? His acolytes arrived, he stepped away from his demanding workload to offer guidance and training, and Danen found a way to wear his patience to a thinness, effectively ruining the lesson and wasting Lewison’s precious time. Time that ought to be spent on averting the looming disaster only he could see coming.

Danen sauntered over to the desk, plucking up a paperweight and unsettling the stack of papers underneath it. He fidgeted with the glass box. “What will we be studying today, Uncle — I mean — my lord?”

Danen grinned at Lewison, more peppy than usual. His dark eyes took in the stacks of paperwork, the stress-lines on his uncle’s drawn face. Lewison was certain these past few weeks had done little to convince Danen he’d enjoy filling the role of High Mage someday.

Well, Lewison was done playing Danen’s games. It was no longer worth his time.

“Actually, there will be no lesson. I have too much to do at the moment,” Lewison rose and began gathering up what he would need to show the Head Scholar in preparation for making his own diplomatic moves to preserve Celandra’s status quo. He sent a communication to the stable master, Prepare two horses for my acolytes.

Aster joined them at the desk, a wrinkle appearing between his brows. “Are you leaving, my lord?”

“No, I’m sending you two somewhere. There are horses waiting outside. Just follow the mountain road until you reach the first branching-off, turn onto it and ride until you come to a lake. You’ll find my mountain lodge there. I’ll need you back here by tomorrow afternoon. Hopefully, by then we can resume your lessons.”

“Wait, you mean the lake house where the Elves are staying?” Danen huffed. “I thought I told you, Uncle, I don’t want to waste time placating them! Can’t they wait until I’m officially the High Mage?”

“The Concordance Treaty doesn’t take a hiatus whenever a High Mage doesn’t feel up to doing his job,” Lewison countered.

He rubbed at his temple. This conversation was threatening to turn into another argument. It bothered him that he constantly felt on edge with Danen. His words were tinged with ill-disguised annoyance, even when he was trying to be patient. It didn’t help that he had his own reservations about tossing Danen among Elves again without supervision. But it was only one of many unfortunate, delicate situations Lewison could do little about.

He raised a hand to forestall Danen’s reply. His nephew bristled, shoulders drawn tight as Lewison continued. “I know you’re not High Mage yet, but the moment you were wed to Lady Pearelle, you both became the living fulfillment of our Treaty with the Elves. Ignoring your responsibilities will not remove their burden. Take my poor example as a cautionary tale, if you like.” Lewison gestured toward the empty sitting area. “Once, I tried to relegate my Elven wife to domestic tasks like decorating this unwieldy space and look what good that did me. I have a tea table I never use, while my wife removed herself from my sight two decades ago. A brief period of vexation for Lady Novena, years of purgatorial regret for me.”

Danen sniffed. “The solution seems simple enough — never allow the Elven representative to interfere in the first place. Can’t the Treaty be fulfilled well enough at this distance?”

Lewison raised a brow at him. “No,” he said, trying to keep condescension from creeping into his tone. “That’s not how a marriage works. Nor how the Treaty is meant to be upheld.”

“Fine.” Danen shrugged. “I suppose I can afford one day away.”

Lewison felt his shoulders relax. His nephew was being reasonable for once. He nodded to Aster. “Go with him. Keep your ears and eyes sharp, the both of you. While I have no reason to suspect Lady Pearelle means you any harm, we cannot afford to be dealt more complications.”

Lewison knew he didn’t have to remind either of them what had happened the last time they’d been entertained by Elves. Ever since he’d learned of the terrible transgression upon Danen’s dignity, his promise to Maudline had pricked at his conscience savagely. But what had happened could not be undone, and even his sister would’ve had to admit, when the whole kingdom is in need of saving a High Mage’s priorities must be clear.

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Dear Reader,

I often do not know what to write in these weekly little notes at the end of a chapter. But consider this your invitation to write me a message back and ask what you like. I’m always interested in getting to know readers!

Cheers,

~LL

Last chapter, Aster mediated between Danen and his uncle as Lewison struggled to direct Danen away from foolhardy experimentation with a special rock. Aster’s own lessons in spell casting were overlooked, but the acolyte dutifully remained attentive to the many odd jobs he could do to help the High Mage perform his burdensome responsibilities.

When Aster had returned to the Aerie after taking a lunch in the kitchens on the first floor of the tower, he found the room deserted. Going to the desk, he wondered if Lewison had left more tasks for him.

Better get this down to research, Aster thought, picking up the box that held that troublesome rock.

These humble tasks — fetching, tidying, annotating — didn’t bother him. The way he saw it, the High Mage had enough to do without occupying himself with secretarial work. Whatever Aster could take off his hands would allow Lewison’s more vital tasks to go more smoothly. As it was, he wished he could help the old man provide the mentoring Danen desperately needed.

Outside the suite, Aster took a narrow, winding stairwell downwards. Even with magic, the mages of Celandra hadn’t come up with anything better than good old muscle power for getting around inside their multi-storied towers. It made Aster feel like a slow, plodding donkey as he wound his way down the dozen flights, passing robed mages and other acolytes. After all those stairs, the air of the subterranean tunnel network was refreshing. Cold as ice.

He passed through torchlight every thirty paces. The rest of the way the smooth, level floor was invisible in the dark. Following the light, he came to another stairwell marked with a runic two. Aster climbed one last flight and introduced himself to the resource coordinator.

“The High Mage’s acolyte, with an item to record.”

The spectacled spider of a man looked down at Aster, still taking notes with one hand, while he reached across his desk with the other to open the box of the lid. Leaning until he cast a shadow over Aster, he peered inside. His scribbling stopped.

“There’s nothing there,” he stated.

Aster turned the box and took a look for himself. He snapped the lid shut. “Er, right. I must have dropped it along the way . . .”

He was sure if he’d done any such thing, there’d have been a rather heavy clunk accompanying it.

Hurrying back the way he’d come, Aster recounted the day’s events to himself. When had he last seen the stone in its box?

When Danen had snatched it and threatened to use the unknown powers it possessed, of course. That was hours ago.

“I wish Danen would listen to his uncle, at least about his own safety.”

Aster shook his head as he passed a torch and delved into the darkness beyond. His soft shod feet were growing numb from brushing against the freezing cold floor. He lengthened his stride.

Danen left the Aerie at lunch, promising to eat with his classmates before the History & Politics lecture. I finally got to enjoy some quiet reading of my own, in the middle of putting away more books. Lewison went into the bedroom and still hasn’t emerged.

“Napping, or just lost in his thoughts? I bet he’s worried.” Aster shivered.

The truth was, Aster was worried too. Ever since Lady Maudline Vinier’s funeral, Danen had been different. Danen had grown more and more careless of his own wellbeing, and he didn’t seem to have any respect for either Lewison’s guidance or warnings.

A group of mages passed by Aster’s left side and he brushed shoulders with one of them. The Fingers was full of uninitiated students, as well as the scholar mages. The group almost went by without Aster recognizing Danen among them. He walked half-slouched with his cowl pulled up over his bushy hair. It grew in tufts around his ears now, and his beard was coming in scruffy.

On an impulse, Aster stopped him, finger and thumb gripping the thick wool of the other acolyte’s robe. “Do you have a minute?”

Danen almost started.

Aster remembered then how he’d said yesterday that he wouldn’t talk to Danen until he was ready to apologize to Lewison for the angry words he’d flung in his Uncle’s face.

Aster grimaced at his own forgetfulness, then plunged on. “I wouldn’t be saying this if it wasn’t official business for the High Mage. He is my employer.”

Danen put space between them, crossing his arms. “What is it?” He eyed his friends, who were walking ahead, unaware he’d stayed behind.

Aster studied them too. “You’re keeping company with Maltbie now?”

Danen sneered. “I thought you had official business to ask about.”

Aster bit his tongue. Instead of speaking, he opened the Elven box in front of Danen’s face.

“It was there this morning. How’d you lose it?” Danen said, the lie poorly cloaked in mockery.

“It was there this morning. And yesterday Lewison said he thought none of the mages could understand its purpose yet.” Aster cocked his head, looking at Danen with a squint. “You like to prove your talents. Have you figured it out yet?”

Danen grinned. It was the old grin — pleased with himself. Digging deep in a pocket, he tossed the rock at Aster.

Catching it, Aster felt the rough edge of the stone bite into his palm. He was losing his callouses after all these months spent among books.

“It stores magic power, I think. That’s why I tried to get Uncle to let me use it this morning,” Danen said. “Hey, should I take the box with me? I’m going to pass the resource coordinator on my way up to the Solarium. I could have it recorded for you. Uncle’s got a lot of stuff piled up on his desk for you still.”

Aster put the stone in the box, wondering why Danen was willing to help all of a sudden. His toes were going to cramp soon if he didn’t get them warm. He wanted to take Danen’s offer, hurry away from this awkward interaction, and hide behind the pile of work.

But something was off with Danen. Had been ever since he came to The Fingers. Ever since he’d stopped joking around and getting into mischief, since he’d become a ruthlessly determined mage who didn’t listen to his teachers or his friends. Aster wasn’t about to entrust Danen with anything Lewison hadn’t.

Aster clutched the box under his arm and turned back the way he’d come. “Walk with me? My feet could use some of that warmth magic you’ve been practicing.”

“You know I’m no good at sustained spells!” Danen laughed, though not in the old, carefree way. It was more in the vein of false modesty. A little too much like Maltbie Rawls and his set of noble prigs.

“I can practice too,” he told Danen. “With a supportive channel, like Lewison was showing me yesterday.”

“You’ve got that down already?” Again, the condescension.

“I’m actually a decently talented mage, myself.”

Aster knew Danen wouldn’t have noticed. Danen’s expanding power was the light, flash, and boom of a fireshow — the gunpowder and dye concoctions King Mervin shot off at royal celebrations. Aster’s was more like the spark that became a bonfire, then a burning tree, and ended as a forest aflame. His was growing, but slowly. It didn’t worry him, moving at his own pace.

Danen lit the corridor with an orb of warmth and light which surrounded them as they walked toward the Second Tower. The yellow spell-light ate the golden wash of two torches before Danen picked up their conversation. Aster wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been quiet all the way back to the resource desk.

Danen’s voice was muffled by his cowl. “I’m sorry . . .”

It was the last thing Aster expected.

He was struck dumb till they’d almost reached the third torch, then he stopped walking. Danen reluctantly turned, crossing his arms again. He almost looked sheepish. Aster wondered if this was all for show.

He decided to make sure.

You’re going to have to be more specific, he communicated, though by doing so he had to cast a second spell alongside his supportive channel. His grasp of the casting couldn’t sustain both, and he dropped everything abruptly. Without Aster’s support, Danen’s spell flickered, too, then plunged them into darkness. The torch light behind Danen made his cowl appear empty.

I’m sorry, Danen repeated, within Aster’s mind.

There was not only deep sincerity, but more specificity than Danen could’ve put into words. He was a whirlwind of sorrow, and out of that sorrow, he kept lashing into Aster and Lewison in ways that only spread the pain. He couldn’t stop doing it. But he regretted every misspoken word.

Quit keeping us at a distance, then.

Danen’s reply reverberated in both their minds. I can’t!

You can’t fix this. Nobody can.

Aster wasn’t cruel enough to put it plainly, but the knowledge was already there, strung taut between them, like a rope that secured the drowned anchor and kept the tossed ship safe from the wild sea.

Danen’s mother was dead. Gone away where no one could bring her back.

She’d left more emptiness than the space she’d filled inside her son. As if her going had pulled and ripped at bits of him. It was going to be a long time before Danen could put himself back together. Aster knew he’d need help. You’ve got me. Your uncle. I know it’s not the same. But you’re not alone, so don’t make yourself alone.

Danen kept walking.

Feet stiff with cold again, Aster followed him. Then, he thought of something. Running to catch up, he threw an arm across Danen’s shoulders.

“You’re married now, too! You know what that means?” He gave his friend a good-natured shove. “You could be surrounded with nosy, well-meaning friends all the time, if you wanted to be. At least, it seemed like Lady Pearelle was happy to see you.”

Danen scoffed. “You thought so?”

“I, uh —“ Aster laughed a little. “I guess I don’t know too much about women, but I think it’s considered a good thing when a lady can’t stop staring.”

Danen shoved him back. Like the setting of a bone, things fell into place again. And, to Aster, it felt good.

****************

HARVEST MOON — WANING CRESCENT

It was too late in the year for insect hum. Gowell lay with his back against a boulder the sun had warmed and soaked up the last bit of heat before night’s chill would envelop him. He couldn’t sleep. The moon rose overhead, arcing and finally dipping down toward the western horizon, before he gave up. He pushed himself up off the chill ground and hugged his knees. He began to shiver.

Thee could light a fire, El-Una said, not unkindly. Its voice was tempered with compassion, though Gowell knew the creature had no knowledge of cold, hunger, or discomfort — only a sense of Gowell’s struggle with these unfamiliar companions. They’d been shadowing him for a day and a night, robbing even the colorful landscape of any pleasure.

The dry leaves underfoot were inedible and their crunch made him think of Golda’s hot, baked potato chips, greasy with pig’s fat. There was less and less forage, the higher the hills crept. Despite the awe-inspiring wonder of light playing across the craggy cliff faces that loomed overhead, closer now than ever before, Gowell was unimpressed and wished fervently that he’d never left the comfort of the farm to wander along in Gubarashi’s shadow.

Too much work, Gowell muttered inwardly. He had brought a flint and steel, but even gathering a few sticks to burn felt like it would sap all his strength. He’d grown very weak since his provisions had run out.

There are probably trout in that pool, El-Una suggested. They would be safe to eat raw, in this cold.

Gowell looked down from the embankment of boulders where he’d made himself a little nest of pine needles and dead leaves, at the bubbling fall of water that filled a basin between the many rocks before escaping further down the slope. He’d been following this stream for such a long while, listening to its voice fill the background, that he’d forgotten about fish.

“I don’t feel like getting wet.” Gowell shivered.

El-Una materialized, or so Gowell thought at first. For a silver light moved in among the boulders. But then, when the figure stepped out in front of Gowell, he saw that it was not in the form of a shaggy wolf, and somehow, it did not feel as present and alive as El-Una. It had a watery, wavering sort of translucence, like a half-formed shadow or a drifting mist.

Gowell saw that the figure was like him — a tall, powerfully-built Osakk with long, pointed ears and nearly waist-length, thick chords of hair. He wore a skin around his waist and no shoes, but carried a stout branch in one hand. As he stepped over the rocks — with a focused purposefulness, and not hurrying — he was followed by a thin girl-child who carried in her hands a javelin and a hide-wrapped shield. On her back she carried a skin sack stuffed full and strapped snug to her body with leather.

The two did not speak to one another. Gowell followed them, stumbling over the boulders they traversed with predacious grace, until they stopped before the deep pool of the stream. He watched the Osakk man direct the child with several motions of his hand. She was shown where to stand, so that her shadow did not fall over the water, and then how to hold her javelin steady. They waited, frozen as the boulders surrounding the pool. And at the opportune moment, the wooden weapon was dexterously thrown at just the angle to slice down into the water with hardly a splash. It floated to the surface bearing a bleeding, wriggling trout nearly as long as the girl-child’s forearm.

She fished it out of the pool with a branch, pulled her weapon from the squirming body, and whacked the fish head hard against the rock she stood on. Gowell watched her strike thrice more, bringing up two more fish. Then the Osakk man left the pool and motioned for her to follow. He did not offer to carry her catch, but left the girl-child to figure out how to manage it herself. After a moment or two of struggling, she speared all three fish onto her javelin and carried them that way, running to catch up with her teacher, who had not waited for her before melting into the silver moonlight of the woods.

These two were father and daughter. They dwelt on this mountainside so long ago that even their bones have melded with the earth as minerals, and those minerals have already brought life to many saplings, and those saplings have already grown into many large trees, dropped their fruit, and made many more. El-Una materialized beside Gowell, sitting on the rock with its canine nose pointed high, toward the starry sky overhead, as though he scented the trail left behind by the two Osakk.

Gowell looked at the trees surrounding them. My kind taught their young how to survive. But I am alone.

El-Una the wolf lifted a ululating howl, echoing Gowell’s sorrow. Then it crept closer and nuzzled its nose into his elbow. They teach thee, too. Follow in the footsteps of the girl-child and learn from her father as well. I will show thee all thy kind needs to know.

Gowell growled an assent, something between frustration and grim determination. He pulled himself to his feet and crept slowly along the boulder tops until he lay on the rim of the pool. He winced, but buried his arm up to his shoulder in the half-frozen water. Waiting. The moonlight was sparse, but his eyes had no trouble seeing in the dark. He set his jaw and stared at the plump, sleeping grandfather trout lying at the dark bottom. The creature blinked up at the ripples Gowell’s breath made on the surface of the water, stirring itself curiously.

Yes, El-Una encouraged him. Thee shall eat and thee shall live.

Read Next Chapter

Dear Reader,

If I haven’t mentioned it before — all of my writing is done by the arduous toil of my own mind and comes straight from my heart. My process never does and never will include the use of AI.

Without compromise, I labor over my stories for you, dear reader. And while a finished book isn’t completed as easily, or as quickly as I would like, the investment of my time and effort is given in hopes that these stories will resonate with the humanness we both share.

Resist the machine.

Cheers~

LL

While Gowell journeys through the mountains, seeking his own people, Danen, Aster, and the High Mage have returned to the mage towers. Taking up the mantle of his responsibilities once more, in addition to training his acolytes, is taking a toll on Lewison. Meanwhile, Aster and Danen struggle to find their feet.

Aster hesitated outside Lewison’s suite. The landing was quiet, as few dared to intruded upon the High Mage’s personal chambers; if he had need of others, there were other rooms set aside for meeting. Aster knew that once he went inside, Lewison would become aware of Danen’s absence. And the longer Danen was absent, the stronger grew the strain between him and Danen. The High Mage’s expectations for them seemed to have solidified — it had been some time since Lewison expected Danen to take his responsibilities seriously; he never had to question Aster’s commitment to their studies.

Aster took a deeper breath, trying to release this tension. He rubbed at his collarbone, and the paper he wore suspended on a bit of twine crumpled under his robe. It was Danen’s sketch, the one depicting a ‘page stool’, and Aster’s reminder not behave like an overbearing yardstick for Danen to be measured against.

“Easy enough, if you’d try to stand on your own feet,” Aster said to his absent companion.

He waited several minutes longer, but the sound he wished to hear, the sound of Danen’s footfalls echoing up the stairwell, didn’t arrive. Aster gave up and slipped between the double doors. The room he entered was know as the Aerie, the High Mage’s roost. It was one, elongated, personal library with a great hearth on one side near the door, and floor-to-ceiling windows at the opposite end. A thick carpet ran from the door to the windows, softening the chill of cold stone, but otherwise the room was unadorned and the pale, wintry light the windows let in did little to warm or cheer it.

The High Mage was seated, stirring up a cloud of feather dust and papers as he worked feverishly through the mountainous pile of missives his desk had collected during his absence. The ink stains on Lewison’s fingers were more obvious than the ones on his face, as those smudged into the bristles of his grey-and-white streaked beard and blended with it almost imperceptibly.

“You’re late.” The High Mage greeted Aster solemnly without looking up. “Without Danen, this time?”

Aster clenched his jaw, then stepped up to the desk. “He doesn’t appreciate my interference.”

Lewison quirked an eyebrow at him. “Think mine is better received?”

Aster didn’t answer. It wasn’t like Lewison would understand his reasons. Danen was the sort of person who didn’t respect you unless you tussled with him, like many of Aster’s high-spirited brothers and cousins. Only, Danen wasn’t an arm wrestler; his and Aster’s contests were tests of willpower and endurance. And of late, Aster was finding himself outmatched.

“If you want to wait for him to arrive, I’m happy to pass the time assisting you, my lord.”

Lewison nodded, then shoved a stack of books across the desk toward Aster. “There’s a slip of paper in the cover of the top volume. It’s a guide for re-shelving them.” Lewison lifted his shaggy head and squinted at the bookshelf on the second level gallery nearer to the windows. “I think most came from up in that corner.”

“Yes, sir,” Aster said. He took up the armful of books and fished out the paper. Lewison’s spidery scrawls were barely decipherable, but he could make out most of it.

Aster climbed the iron, spiral stairwell, his thoughts far away from the mage towers. It had been a long time since he’d left home. He’d sent a letter or two, but hadn’t expected any answers. His mother had no learning, and his father had no time. When Aster thought about the others — his two sisters, ten and thirteen years younger than him, and his five brothers, all older — his feelings were jumbled. Did he want them to miss him?

“I doubt they’d be impressed by any of the ways I’ve changed.”

He consulted the list he had pinned between his thumb and a green leather-bound tome. A shelf bearing two grooves indicated Cautionaries belonged there; if three grooves, it held Theoretical Texts; a single, unbroken one meant Practical Manuals; while grooves of various broken patterns might lead him to shelve texts labeled Defensive, Offensive, Cumulative, or Communicative. The labels were handwritten on nameplates inside the book covers.

Aster ran his hand along the wood as he scanned the row of books for telltale gaps. He wanted to compare tidying the library to planting, in that both were endless toil — but the idea was laughable, and he didn’t feel like being amused this morning.

The work at least gave him something to focus on besides the daily shifting of tensions between Danen and anyone he had to speak to at any given time. It had been a strained few months since they’d returned from Scransunn. The wedding had only made things worse.

Aster sensed Danen was slowly unraveling, but he didn’t know what that would mean for any of them, and he didn’t know how to help.

“His ‘wounded warrior’ attitude is starting to wear on us,” Aster grumbled, without realizing he’d lumped himself in with the High Mage as one of the people responsible for Danen.

I wish he’d just vent. Even if it was embarrassing, or politically disastrous. Then we could just get on with things instead of catering to his shifting moods.

Aster glanced over his shoulder at the sound of the suite door opening. It was a heavy door, and it was only pushed far enough for Danen to slip inside. Doesn’t have to open very wide to allow for that. He’s lost a lot of weight since the wedding.

Aster nodded at his friend, but didn’t wait to see Danen ignore the greeting. They weren’t speaking at the moment. Not after Danen had insulted the High Mage so baldly yesterday. Aster couldn’t stomach Danen’s gall.

Aster found the shelf he’d been looking for and the conspicuous empty spot. Sliding the last heavy tome into place, he stepped back, hands on his hips, and stretched his lower back, admiring his handiwork. Smacking his hands together produced a cloud of dust. Aster wrinkled his nose, trying not to sneeze. Not much different than the fields after all.

“Aster, come here,” Lewison called.

Sliding down the banister, Aster made a point of meeting Danen’s eye. He wasn’t talking to him, but that didn’t mean he had to pretend Danen wasn’t there. Lewison walked round the desk to stand in the center of the empty space before it. It was time for their lessons.

Aster crossed the long room, his soft leather shoes scuffed against square stone tiles, then padded along the thick red-and-gold rug, then more stone, until he finally strode onto a green rug as big as a room that sat under the High Mage’s official desk.

While the High Mage drilled Danen on some of the usual warm-up spells which Danen had not fully mastered yet, Aster waited patiently for his instructions. This was how it was, always. Danen was the High Mage’s priority, as his successor. Aster was just glad to be included.

He still wondered sometimes why Lewison had scooped him up from his obscure farm life and dragged him all the way to the top of The Fingers. Was it just to help keep an eye on Danen? To be a ‘good example’?

Aster tipped his chin up to stare at the tapestry hanging over the marble mantle — the royal maroon field with rampant white eagles in the four corners was the same as the banners hanging in Citadel’s throne room — but the High Mage’s personal insignia had been woven into the center of the royal family’s standard.

I wonder why they chose a phoenix? Because there’s always going to be a High Mage?

Aster didn’t want to consider what might happen if there ever wasn’t a High Mage. The work had piled up during while they’d been away.

“No, that’s not right. Cast it with a steady flow, not an explosion of power!” Lewison was saying to Danen.

Aster looked askance at the stack of official papers that were trapped inside a bamboo tray as deep as he was tall. They’d been back four months, and it still felt like Lewison was digging himself out from under an avalanche with a spoon, with Aster’s help, of course.

When Aster had been a farmer, if he’d ever paused among the furrows to stare up at white Palantir Peak, he might’ve imagined the High Mage standing on some balcony way up there, watching over the kingdom, wielding some mystical power that let him do whatever he could think of in an instant. He wouldn’t have pictured him frowning over petitions — some sealed with a nobleman’s waxen insignia, others bearing only a peasant’s given name followed by whatever village they hailed from.

“Not like-”

“This is the way I like to do it!” Danen cried, the frustration in his voice tinged with disrespect.

Aster winced. But he kept his mouth shut and kept waiting.

“Aster, you try it!” Lewison interrupted his train of thought.

Aster blinked at the red-faced old man and his nephew. Danen’s glare was black as coal. Succeeding where Danen had failed was the last thing Aster wanted to do at that moment.

“Uh, that’s alright. It’s probably too hard for me, still. I haven’t advanced as much as he has,” Aster tried to tell Lewison. “I don’t even know what the spell was. Sorry.”

Danen strode to the desk and snatched a box Lewison had said was a gift from the Elves. It held a stone fragment the Elven Council had gifted the High Mage. Lewison had assured them it was a valuable item, but a great waste of their time at present.

“Let me use this, then!” Danen declared, holding up the black rock flecked with silver flakes that glittered in the light.

Aster could sense the High Mage’s extreme effort to control himself. Instead of wresting the object from Danen’s hands, Lewison reached slowly toward his nephew, palm upwards.

“Give it to me, Danen. I do not doubt that it is a very powerful object. And we do not know how it works.”

Danen bristled, holding the rock in a tight fist.

Lewison’s voice grew tighter, more panicked. “Listen to me, Danen! That object could be quite dangerous, especially in the hands of-”

Don’t say it! Aster suddenly knew deep in his bones that this showdown was not going to go the way Lewison wanted.

“Let me try it, then,” Aster blustered. “If it’s dangerous, then it will be less disastrous if I get hurt. I’m not going to be your successor.”

Lewison blinked at Aster in confusion. He wasn’t usually this foolhardy. But, as Aster had hoped, his bluff had the intended affect on Danen. Now that the opposition wasn’t coming from Lewison alone, he could back down without admitting defeat.

“Yeah, let Aster try it. He’s always trying to please you, Uncle Lew. Maybe he can figure out what the Elves’ rock is for.”

Danen tossed it to Aster, and strode off. He climbed the spiral stair and disappeared among the shelves above them, where he often liked to retreat to escape Lewison’s nagging.

Aster looked down at the heavy, glimmering rock. It looked like something that might fall out of a star-specked night sky, dyed with the colors of stars and space.

Lewison exhaled wearily and went back to sit behind his desk. He offered the box for Aster to place it in, and the young man readily complied. In a low voice, he asked the High Mage, “If it’s dangerous, why don’t the Elves tell you what it does? I assume mage scholars will have to experiment with it to find out?”

Lewison’s wry smile tugged up a corner of his beard. “Elves take a pragmatic approach to learning. They know we’ll appreciate the knowledge more if we figure it out ourselves. Unfortunately, that usually takes a few decades and we’re lucky if it doesn’t cost some collateral damage. I’ll let the research mages have a look at it — I’m too busy at the moment.”

“I can take it down there later,” Aster offered.

Lewison nodded. Then he fixed a watery grey eye on Aster. “Thank you for that. Danen’s bullheadedness is a family trait, it would seem. Sometimes we are not a happy combination.”

Aster didn’t get his lesson in spell crafting that morning. The High Mage seemed to have forgotten all about it, and there was so much else for him to do, that Aster didn’t want to ask.

Read Next Chapter

Dear Reader,

February was a wonderfully productive and exciting month, writing-wise. And I’m thankful for it!

However, this month I am dealing with some health issues that make normal life difficult. For example, I can’t have caffeine. Apparently, my usual productivity levels have been fueled in large part by caffeine, because now I feel extremely challenged to manage normal tasks! It’s a humbling experience to find out you’re not as on-top-of-it-all as you’ve credited yourself for being.

Still, there’s much to enjoy in life besides delicious, addicting coffee. Cheers to that. And Cheers to pressing on ~

LL

In previous chapters, Gowell set out on a journey under the harvest moon to reconnect with the Osakk. He embarked with El-Una at his side, a pack of food on his back, and high hopes that he’d discover an Osakk hiding place soon. His expectations are gently being pressed by his companion, as El-Una is a wise friend and knows Gowell needs more than to just reunite with his own people.

HARVEST MOON — LAST QUARTER

Three days Gowell was sustained on the forest’s autumn leavings. Three days he spent searching for mushrooms growing on tree bark, turning up soft soil under yellow potato plants looking for half-shriveled tubers, nibbling on tart berries and crab apples and handfuls of hazelnuts scrounged from among the fallen leaves.

The stream yielded him no fat fish. It tumbled over rocky places and slid over muddy shallows. But never did the rising ground allow it to pool. It held no dark, murky corners for big fish to lurk within waiting to lung at the insects that might fall into the water. Instead, there were only tiny, half-translucent minnows which darted out of sight when Gowell’s shadow fell over them.

Thee grows weaker, El-Una told him on the morning of the fourth day. Gowell sat on the ground, breathing hard after climbing a ridge. The forest fell away below them, revealing a sunny grove of birch and ash trees wading through blonde meadow grass. In the branches of the trees, a flock of garish black birds screeched a strange chorus, sounding so like the well-winch when it needed oil, only compounded into several hundred throats whinging all at once, that Gowell wanted to know what they were called.

“What are they? Why do they sound like metal?”

El-Una’s answer came with mirthful delight. They are meant to be the forest’s Laughing, that is why. Humankind call them grackles. I do not think they lived in these woods when Osakk roamed here. What name would thee give them?

Gowell thought about it. They were so loud, and his eyes were drawn to their feather-ruffling and darting flight from branch to branch, that he at first did not notice the family of deer entering the glade at the foot of the ridge. The breeze brought him their scent, and he was at first merely curious to see the graceful necks bend low and nuzzle at the earth like a suckling babe. Then El-Una reminded him of its earlier promise.

Do not let them scent thee, the wolf-spirit said, and snapped out of material being to hover near in Gowell’s mind. What path will thee take to creep closer? Which of them should be thy mark?

Confusion swirled in Gowell’s mind. Catch and eat? These were swift and beautiful beasts. It was strange to think of them as food. Hesitantly, he watched them moving in slow unison across the meadow. First one, and then another, would raise its head to search the trees with large, heavy-lashed eyes. With a flick of their wide ears, they listened.

Gowell noticed that the breeze moved toward him from the direction of the mountain. Easing himself forward into a crouch, he picked out a rocky path down the slope with his eyes. It would be slow and cumbersome, but if the wind did not change, he would find himself in a grassy hollow which the herd might pass by in several minutes’ time.

It was grueling work to descend the slope step by slow step. He kept his eyes on his path while in motion, then paused to make sure the deer lookouts had not seen him before moving onward. At one point, his foot loosened a stone and a scattering of small pebbles set all the deer on alert.

Thankfully, his grey skin and dark hair helped him meld with the afternoon shadows between the dark trunks. The squaking grackles overhead covered some of the noise of rocks settling under his weight as he crept down the long, long way to the meadow.

At length, he reached the grass and paused to rest his tight muscles. A light perspiration threatened to make his presence known to the deer’s sharp sense of smell. Still, the breeze was mercifully constant in carrying all sign of him the wrong direction to warn off his prey.

Of a sudden, the chorus of grackle music fell away. Cut off mid-whinge, the birds quivered in the treetops and the heads of all the deer snapped up, alert. With a clapping of wings, the entire flock took to the sky and murmured away. Gowell felt his heart hammer in his chest. What had he done to startle the birds? He’d been absolutely still while he caught his breath.

Be unseen, El-Una warned.

A guttural snarl and eruption of motion overhead made Gowell jump. The deer leapt too — one, a half-second too late. Too frightened to leave his hiding place, Gowell knelt in the long grass and watched a lithe yellow-furred predator hold its strangling prey to the ground until the deer stopped moving. Muscled forelegs clenched and relaxed in the warm sun, giving the beast leverage as it ripped open the deer’s hide. Sharp fangs sunk into bared flesh and the lion’s head jerked, blood spattering her whiskered face as she bent to her meal. The long, whip-like tail snapped in delight as she feasted.

Go slowly, El-Una cautioned. But the lioness will not chase thee. She has food in plenty.

Gowell went gladly. Though his belly growled, he did not envy the hunter her bloody meal.

Read Next Chapter

Dear Reader,

Even though life is full and I often don’t know where the next words will come from, or whether I’ll posses the time and mental focus to write them — there is something of a widow’s oil law undergirding my writing practice. When I need them, the words come. When I’m going to need inspiration, I find it offered by my natural surroundings.

Gowell’s travel chapters contain the sensory details of walking out of doors in autumn, and the inspiration and sensory data both were provided by a short weekend trip I took up to Illinois for my sister’s brithday party. Her party was lovely, and indoors, and has nothing at all to do with this chapter. It was the Sunday morning walk I took, before flying back home, that gave me the golden leaves, the dead bramble canes, the grackle song.

In all things, what is needed will be provided.

Cheers,

~LL

In previous chapters, Gowell set out on a journey under the harvest moon to reconnect with the Osakk. Pearelle and Danen reaffirmed Celandra’s Concordance Treaty by marriage, though their first meeting was less than auspicious. Pearelle resolved to be patient with her new husband until she might learn what lies at the root of his troubled demeanor.

HARVEST MOON - WANING GIBBEOUS

Waking stiff with cold wasn’t so bad when he knew he would have miles of walking to warm him. Gowell was still brimming with energy those first few days of travel through the Duskwood. He wound his way around the thicker, less passable portions of the forest, conversing with El-Una in his native tongue. The wolf spirit had, after holding out for the duration of their acquaintance, agreed to retell some of the history of the Osakk for Gowell, in preparation for his reunion with his own kind.

Then, on the third day, Gowell finished off the food Golda had packed for him. He sat on the trunk of a massive, fallen oak tree and shook the upended satchel. A scattering of crumbs fell out and disappeared in the brown leaves of the forest loam.

Thee are ready to learn something about gathering, now that thee possesses the acute motivation of hunger! El-Una declared mirthfully. The true test will come when the time for a hunt arrives.

“Hunting? What does that mean?” Gowell grumbled, pulling the empty satchel strap over his head and standing to stretch. It was late afternoon and he had just woken from a long sleep. To the west, the trees thinned as the forest slid down a gentle hillside bordering another farmstead. In the distance, Gowell could hear a herd of sheep calling to their shepherd as they were being led toward home before the sun finished its early wintertime descent below the horizon.

The flesh of an animal or fish will sustain thee better than the morsels thee might find in the ground to nibble at while thee is walking. A body such as thine grows weak without meat.

“Eat an animal?” Gowell scratched his chin, now overgrown with dark whiskers. “How will I cook it, even if catch anything?”

I shall show thee. The wolf-spirit whined, wagging its tail. How long it has been since I joined an Osakk in the hunt! We shall fly, and thee shall be new-born.

Gowell was used to not understanding what El-Una said, on many occasions, and so it did not trouble him that he could not picture what the spirit told him. He took it for granted that El-Una had no reason to mislead him, and trusted in their friendship, which had been a constancy in his life almost as persistent as Golda and Yusep’s kindness.

“I will follow this stream,” Gowell told his companion. “It flows down from the mountain and perhaps we can discover where it meets the foothills.”

Patience, El-Una said, barking a dog’s laugh. It did not tell Gowell where the stream led. Nor did it correct the young Osakk’s assumption that they were nearing the Gubarashi’s feet.

**************

After the wedding feast, Pearelle slept the bone-weary sleep of the bereaved. When she woke to a cold spring day, she buried her dream of reuniting with the Danen she knew. A tiny ember of hope yet lived. But it was small enough to extinguish between one’s fingers. Pearelle locked it deep inside, not daring to attempt making it a reality.

Lord Coblaine escorted her and Emory from the palace, while Danen remained behind. Pearelle assumed he had court connections to form before he cloistered himself away at The Fingers. She wasn’t given any other explanation.

The journey to their new home occupied them for almost a week. The High Mage rode the spirited stallion the Elven Council had gifted him last autumn, keeping watch over the Elves’ carriage like a hawk circling the falconer’s glove. He would ride ahead, then behind, making jovial remarks when he passed. Pearelle leaned with her head against the thick glass of the window — it was cold enough to numb her cheek — and wondered what danger he was trying to anticipate. But she was glad of his caution, whatever his reason.

“It’s the first time we’ve been separated from the herd,” she told Emory on the sixth day.

“If you’re about to liken the Elven families to cows, my lady, I’ll be forced to think you half-gone out of your mind already. I fault these wretched roads. And this horrid rattle-box. Not to mention your dreadful husband.” Emory had been like this ever since they’d departed the Citadel of the King.

“What I mean is, we’re vulnerable, Em!” Pearelle had no humor for her maid’s moodiness. After Danen’s poor reception of her, Pearelle didn’t enjoy being reminded how truly alone she was.

“If something attacked us on this road, my affinity is no better than a Human’s lack of one!” Pearelle reminded Emory. “And your affinity isn’t very powerful this far away from the sea, is it?”

“Calm down, my lady. Our escort is the most powerful Human mage in existence.”

Pearelle arched an eyebrow at her companion. They both knew the irony of that statement. But she breathed a sigh of relief when their guide informed them they’d begun to climb the last steep mountainside that stood between them and their destination. Their back-and-forth journey along the roads climbing toward The Fingers had eaten up the past day and half. Pearelle watched the view creep past her window, thinking it looked no different than when they’d begun their ascent.

Just as the sun was setting, they turned off the graded road, entering a plateau filled with black and white birch trees. Their carriage rattled over a rutted, rarely-used road, kicking up stones that popped with an alarming volume against the floor of their carriage box. The top-heavy vehicle swayed wildly, and Pearelle felt her heart beating faster. She clutched the frame of the window and wondered where they were being taken.

When a flash of blue broke through the trees, flirtatiously appearing only to disappear again an instant later, she threw the carriage window open and leaned her head out. The tree line finally broke, and Pearelle caught her breath at the unveiled vista. The blue was a sea in miniature! She wouldn’t do it the injustice of calling it a mere lake. Tucked away this high in the mountains, its glassy surface mirrored the cold blue of the sky without blemish. The sight filled the emptiness in Pearelle with a flutter of life.

“Do you like it, Lady Pearelle?” The High Mage’s laughter boomed, an invitation to levity. “Knowing how much you loved your seaside cottage, I thought you’d enjoy being at this mountain lodge which I had built long ago for my own wife. The temperate climate here is easier on Elves than the frozen peaks where The Fingers stand. I think you’ll find it quite homey here!”

A large house crouched at the edge of the water on the farther side of the lake. As their carriage trundled around the winding shoreline road, the squat structure grew in size. The construction was Elven-inspired. It was a single-story, thatched lodge surrounded by wide porches on all sides. The foundation was stone, and stone pilings reached out into the lake, dividing the water into honeycomb patterns planted with river reeds and lilies. A water gardener’s paradise.

“Too bad you’re still going to be useless to me, sea mage.” Pearelle teased Emory.

“I see you’ve found your sense of humor again, my lady.” Emory sniffed. “Allow me to point out a problem, now that you’re in the mood to listen. The High Mage hasn’t said anything about your husband joining us here. Separating you two is hardly upholding the Concordance Treaty.”

Pearelle frowned. “You’re quite right. That will be the first thing I ask him, when we arrive.”

She had never been in a Human place that felt as calming as the mountain lodge proved to be. It was provided with the soft floor mats and silent, sliding, paper doors her people used. But it also had a sort of natural austerity. The cedar shelves held polished river stones, artfully arranged or stacked in little towers; as well as dried sprigs of holly, the berries a dull red that was the only splash of color in a room of golden creams ranging to warm browns. In every room, candles were hidden inside paper frames, softening their glow. For some reason, the house smelled like nutmeg.

“This will be your home, for as long as it takes to acclimate you to the harsh northern climate.” The High Mage raised both hands to forestall Pearelle’s protests. “I know it’s different than what you were expecting, but the High Mage doesn’t usually marry his Elven partner until after he’s been initiated into the full aspects of his role. In my nephew’s case, he’ll have months of training ahead of him, if not years, before I can begin to hand off any real responsibility. Meanwhile, you ladies get yourselves settled in.”

Pearelle crossed her arms. “What you are saying is that this marriage was arranged to mollify the Elven Council while you get your underprepared successor caught up?”

The High Mage blinked at her, his whiskery brows fluttering.

They were standing in the foyer of the lodge, minutes after completing a brief tour of the main rooms. He’d introduced their cook and gardener as succinctly as he’d pointed out which door led to the lavatories. Pearelle was certain he’d been about to stride out the front door with no further explanation of their situation than what he’d just given.

She wasn’t about to let him.

The High Mage stroked his long beard. His fingers tugged at a knotted bit while he studied Pearelle’s obstinate stance. Then he nodded. “I see, young lady. You’re not going to be satisfied until I lay everything out plainly.”

Taking a seat on a long, narrow couch, he steepled his fingers in front of him, elbows resting on his knees. Pearelle allowed herself to sink onto a stool in her most dignified pose.

“Very well, I owe you that much.” Lewison scratched his chin, as though wondering where to begin.

“I spoke the truth when I said that it will be a long while before things are settled with the succession. You’ve met my nephew — his problem isn’t a lack of talent, but self-regulation. Meanwhile, time drives us forward. The kingdom has needs which only a High Mage in the full apprehension of his powers will be able to meet. Until then, I must tend to Celandra and Danen both.”

He would have gone on, talking about his problems in that tiring way Humans had of stacking up their troubles, counting them. Pearelle leaned forward and forestalled him.

“My lord, were you not a young man of many passions once? The elders of my people hold you in too great a respect to speak freely of those early days, but it is my understanding that you successfully managed the kingdom and a two-front war, simultaneously.”

“I am hardly an example to emulate,” he grumbled.

“Yet, it would be equally unreasonable to expect Danen to assume his role only once he’s reached the wisdom of old age.”

Her words had the unpleasant effect of drawing the High Mage’s attention to himself. Through her eyes, he was able to perceive the unsought-after undercurrents of fear and regret which dogged his decision to keep Danen on a tight leash. Before the old man could recover from his shock, Pearelle pressed onward.

“There is sense in your suggestion that Emory and I live here for a time to acclimate ourselves and adjust to our new life. However, I will not be separated indefinitely from my husband. Moreover, it would be unwise for either of us to perjure ourselves by neglecting to fulfill the stipulations of the Treaty by which he and I are bound.” She leaned forward and placed a hand on the old man’s knee. “Please arrange for Danen to stay with me at this mountain lodge. At least two days out of seven.”

“One,” he rejoined, with a bargainer’s enthusiasm. His relief showed too plainly how he’d feared she was about to trap him into agreeing to bring her to The Fingers.

Pearelle shook her head solemnly. “How do you expect a couple to keep their marriage contract if they never spend a night together?”

The High Mage’s eyebrows lifted. Then he scowled and ran his hands swiftly down his beard, one after the other in quick succession. “I doubt you’ll find my nephew that agreeable to this arrangement, my lady. But —“ He slapped his hands on his knees, rising with a bitten-back groan of pain. “— you have my word he shall be here.”

Read Next Chapter

Dear Reader,

It feels like spring outside, but for my poor characters a bit of winter chill remains. Don’t worry, things will thaw soon. Though, whether they’ll be warmed by a fiery class of wills or a more gentle awakening, remains to be seen.

Cheers,

~LL

In previous chapters, Gowell set out on a journey with El-Una to reconnect with the Osakk. Meanwhile, in Citadel-of-the-King, the Concordance Treaty was reaffirmed between Humans and Elves with the marriage ceremony of Pearelle Perronett and Danen Vinier.

HARVEST MOON - FULL

Gowell had never been further than a single hilltop from the farm. That first night, his steps were buoyed by the excitement of setting out. The underbrush in the Duskwood was thick, but he waded through it without too much trouble, snapping the dead stalks of wildflowers, berry canes, and wind-shed branches under his sturdy feet. The musty smell of earth, rotting leaves, and growing fungi were familiar as the hayloft’s welcome sweetness after his many explorations of Yusep’s property. He stopped to drink from every stream they crossed. Ice cold water tasting of minerals and moss was a new experience for Gowell after drinking from the farm’s deep well.

He walked all night under a full harvest moon. The pale light was broken sometimes by drifting clouds. Yet even then Gowell’s keen sight in the dark allowed him to move as swiftly and confidently as though it were midday. El-Una, more often than not, was merely a presence in his mind, subtly guiding him around larger obstacles like scatterings of boulders or soggy ground.

By morning, the thrill of traveling through rough terrain had faded to purposeful endurance. As morning light peeked over the far-off southeastern hills, which Gowell could not even see through the tree cover, his progress slowed to a crawl.

Shall we rest here? El-Una suggested gently, when Gowell had trudged into a glade where the fir trees grew thick and their acidic needles littering the ground held back the fulsome undergrowth.

“I suppose,” Gowell said. He lumbered to his knees and then sat back against the side of a sturdy, fallen log. “How long do you think it will take to reach the mountains?”

El-Una’s humor was less like a ringing laugh, and more like the soft bubbling of stirred-up water. It will be many days before thee reaches their foothills.

Gowell peered over the tops of the firs, studying the pale blue of dawn limning the indistinct grey mountainside to the east. “They look close.”

They are vast. Thee is quite small in comparison. That is why.

Gowell fell asleep easily that first night. Belly full, his energy expended, he did not even dream.

**********************

Nothing was fine.

Nothing was good either.

In fact, it was all worse than Pearelle could’ve possibly imagined.

Her feet ached. She pulled them out of her shoes and discreetly rubbed one over the other. They were tucked under the dining table anyway. No danger of anyone seeing her toes. Pearelle reminded herself to sit straight, though she felt like wilting into the cushioned dining chair, ignored and forgotten.

She glanced at Emory, sitting to her left. Her friend gave her a tight smile, then went back to pretending to eat. Pearelle stared down at her own plate. How was it possible to massacre a dish of duck? Why were Humans always intent on searing the life out of their meat? She resisted the urge to sigh languidly. She was starving, but couldn’t settle her nerves enough to stomach something already rather distasteful. It would’ve helped if it had been delicious.

Noticing Danen wasn’t eating either was no comfort.

Unlike Pearelle, he was slouching in his chair. The high back cast a shadow over him. Within that shadow all she could see was his wild hair falling over his face and the sharp ridge of his nose. He seemed fixated on the mesmerizing dance of the wine he languidly swirled in a crystal goblet. When he drained it and raised the glass, a serving page arrived in an instant to pour him more. Pearelle’s nerve-butterflies died a fiery death by rising irritation.

She decided they’d been married just long enough to have their first fight.

“You didn’t come to the parlor after the ceremony,” she said, through gritted teeth. “Perhaps you were too scared to face Igneous again after what happened last time?”

The Danen she knew would’ve been irate at being called a coward. But the stranger sitting across from Pearelle barely stirred. She considered the possibility he was too drunk to care.

“Waste of time,” he finally answered. But he set the goblet down and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes as though even sitting there exhausted him.

Pearelle pressed onward. “How do you mean? You have something better to do than talk to your wife?”

Saying the words sent a shiver down her spine. Whether it was from excitement or dread at the thought of being someone important to him, she didn’t know.

“It’s an arranged marriage.” Danen shrugged. “I have too much to do already, without needing to play house with you.”

Pearelle couldn’t believe he was capable of making her more angry. She shoved her toes back into the tight shoes and kicked at him under the table. If he wanted to treat her like a child, she could be childish.

Danen flinched. “Ow.”

“Sit up. Behave yourself,” she hissed. “This wedding isn’t about you or I, as you recall. It’s about the Treaty. Show some respect while everyone’s watching.”

It was true that they were the center of attention.

The murmur of conversation ebbed and flowed around them like the murmur of waves. String instruments played haunting, romantic melodies that drifted through the high ceilinged, paneled dining hall like ribbons of perfume. She and Danen sat in the middle of a long table, with the highest class of Human and Elven leaders surrounding them. Though there were many of royal blood seated at that table, no one was stealing glances at them. Ladies tittered behind their napkins at the handsome young rebel who was ignoring his new bride. Pearelle could practically hear their condescending thoughts.

Poor thing. It’s because she’s Elven. Who knows how old she is! And how do we know that pristine beauty isn’t an illusion created by magic? If I had as much magic at my disposal as Elves do, not a wrinkle or blemish I’d suffer to appear on my face! One can only wonder what she really looks like under all that glamor. Poor boy. The dear thing’s drinking himself senseless. And no wonder…

“Danen, please,” Pearelle pleaded in a whisper. “At least talk to me. What happened since I last saw you? Didn’t you get my letter?”

When he didn’t say anything after some moments, Pearelle continued. She was determined to bridge the gap between them, no matter how her discomfort made retreating into silence the more attractive option. “I’m not angry about what happened. It was half my fault, as well as yours. I should’ve stopped you. Should’ve told you it wasn’t safe.”

She waited. It was getting harder to keep her disappointment from showing. “I guess I got a little carried away. Because I wanted to visit Sukeena’s realm so much! And it felt like you understood exactly what I’d always longed to do. We were kind of perfect together, you know . . . able to be ourselves. At least I felt that way.”

He must have heard the unspoken things she wanted in her voice. There were plenty of them — a sign that he wasn’t the terrifying monster of her foretelling dream, some reigniting of that spark of friendship they’d shared before, perhaps even reassurance that he didn’t blame her for what Lady Amadeah did to him.

For the first time that evening, he leaned forward across the table so that the light illuminated his face. From the deep hollows of his eye sockets, his dead gaze met her avid one. It took Pearelle’s breath away, the pain she saw lurking in every sharp line of his face. She looked and looked, but couldn’t find the Danen she thought she knew. It’s only been a few months! What happened to you, Danen Vinier?

He wet his lips, and it looked like he was going to answer her. Then a curtain fell over his expression and he sipped at the goblet briefly, before speaking. “My lady, I pray you, do not expect much of me.”

Pearelle watched him down another glass.

Something wasn’t right. A change had come over him that nothing she knew accounted for — it couldn’t have been caused by their accident. Neither of them had suffered long-term damage from almost drowning. Was this the result of her mother’s flaying? Pearelle knew Humans were not able to use mind-touch spells and the experience had probably been rather invasive for him. At least, Emory had said he seemed disturbed by it. But was that really all that had happened to leave him looking this haunted and forlorn?

What else could have effected so drastic a change in him?

Pearelle decided to overlook her injured pride. There was something here she would need to uncover if she was going to build any understanding between them. He was like a caged animal guarding its wounds, snarling to keep her back, even while she offered comfort.

“You have my word,” she promised, adding from her heart, I believe you’re still there, Danen.

It was easy to do, when she could not yet imagine what such a promise might cost her.

Read Next Chapter

Dear Reader,

From this point on, for quite a while, scenes will alternate between Gowell’s journey and the doings of the other characters, especially those close to Danen. This is a structure I’m experimenting with, and I hope it proves to frame the passage of time appropriately. As always, I’d love to hear your impressions of the story, should you feel inclined to message me about your reading experience!

Cheers,

~LL

In the previous chapters, Gowell determined to leave his home and discover the secret of his past, all while haunted by nightmares of Osakk warriors pillaging defenseless hamlets. Back in Citadel of the King, other significant changes are underway. Pearelle and the Elven delegation arrive at last to reconfirm the Concordance Treaty which binds together Elven and Human kind through a political marriage arranged between a High Mage and an Elf.

Emory squeezed Pearelle’s hand, giving her lady a tight smile. Rare as that look was, it didn’t make the butterflies in Pearelle’s stomach settle. She focused on breathing, looking around to ground herself in the moment.

In a few minutes, she’d be pledging to uphold the Concordance Treaty through her arranged marriage with the High Mage’s successor. And while she’d met the man once, it had been many months since, and they’d parted under not very auspicious circumstances. Pearelle’s stomach still turned over with nausea every time she thought about the indecency of her mother’s touch on Danen’s mind. Would he try to punish Pearelle for it?

Before the accident, before everything else that happened, he seemed more than amenable. She sighed and wrung her hands. Pearelle had no idea whether she was about to embark on a prolonged season of awkward, stilted, politics cloaked as a marriage relationship . . . or whether she had reason to hope for more.

She had good reason to feel out at sea. But she was not waiting to enter the throne room alone.

There were more Elves than usual standing in the atrium. Pearelle’s tall father held onto Lady Amadeah’s elbow, bending to whisper in her ear. Her mother’s expression was grim. Her own serving women hovered near, holding the trailing silks of their famed mistress. She still did not approve of the marriage, but the will of the Council, and Pearelle’s own assent, outweighed her own dire warnings.

Beyond her parents, Igneous stood among four of the most prominent, and least elderly, of the Elven Council. These five spoke in quiet undertones with the High Mage’s acolyte — the one who’d been Danen’s companion during their autumn visit — though Pearelle could not remember his name. She wondered for a moment what the Human could have to say to the Council members, but her mind could not focus on anything.

This wasn’t like her, these nerves.

She slipped a hand up her sleeve to tap the surface of the seashell amulet. Even Emory didn’t know she still wore it. Ever since her nightmare, it had become Pearelle’s talisman to ward off her fears. Whenever Danen’s angry face — vivid and as full of detail as when she’d first dreamed — flashed across her mind, she would trace the bumpy seashell and recall to mind the real Danen.

The Danen the Elsyncria ring had called her soul twin. The Danen who existed, not the one she feared. She reminded herself of what he’d said and done when he’d been in her home. That Danen had been real. No foretelling dream could change the warmth of friendship they’d shared, or the blossoming of their affection.

Autumn felt like forever ago. After the High Mage and his acolytes departed, Pearelle had wrung her hands in indecision, then finally arranged her thoughts about the accident into a letter. She wanted Danen to know she bore as much responsibility for the near-tragedy as he did, and she didn’t hold the incident against him. Emory had related her impressions of her clandestine visit to the acolytes in the days following, when Pearelle had been sequestered in her bedroom.

Emory’s description of Danen’s gloom had struck Pearelle as unnecessarily harsh, but she might have expected as much from someone whose dislike of the two Human visitors had been obvious from the moment of their arrival. It was only in the last week, when she’d had her first foretelling dream, that Pearelle had been shown how wrong she’d been to accept Emory’s version of the story. Danen hadn’t been moping after being reprimanded for endangering Pearelle, he’d been traumatized by Lady Amadeah’s punishment.

Worrying her lip, Pearelle reoriented herself to the unsettling miasma of political posturing that saturated this situation. Her mother claimed Danen had attempted to harm her on purpose and that he would do so again. She wanted such danger removed permanently. Emory believed that, even if Danen was innocent on that one occasion, he wasn’t to be trusted. The Council and Igneous had often warned Pearelle in the weeks following the engagement, that she would need to be on her guard, for the Innerend was dangerous. On the face of things, their relationship was supposed to symbolize the continued commitment of the Elves and Humans to upholding the Concordance Treaty.

Her letter to Danen was Pearelle’s last grasp at some indisputable fragment of evidence that the Danen she remembered was real. She’d hoped they could correspond ahead of the official ceremony and lay to rest any misunderstandings that stood between them. But her effort had all been for nothing.

The winter months had passed slowly while she waited for Danen’s reply. She’d tried to be patient, assuring herself a response was only delayed by the weather. Then the iced-over roads had thawed. Spring, the time of new beginnings and old growth coming back to life, returned as it always had. A week ago she’d arrived at court, knowing the High Mage and his party were already there, living in apartments only two floors below the suites where the Elven delegates were housed. Her hopes had suffered a sluggish suffocation.

Shaking herself a little, Pearelle set aside her personal anxieties. This wedding wasn’t about her. It was meant to reforge a centuries-old bond between Human and Elven peoples, for the sake of everyone’s well-being. And with things as tense as they’d been lately . . .

Pearelle gazed at the faces of the Elves who had accompanied her on this journey. There were some here who’d helped to craft the Concordance Treaty at the kingdom’s birth. Before the ink had dried, the first Elven representative wed the first Human King. Ever since, a marriage ceremony had renewed the covenant between their two peoples. It was a promise much like a marriage — that the Elves would seek the well-being of Human kind, and that the Humans would accept the benevolent guidance of the Elves.

That first generation of Elves were now aging gracefully, while King after King rose to power then faded away. In each successive generation, an Elven Lady had taken the mantle of responsibility upon her shoulders. For the duration of her Human husband’s life, the two of them represented the binding ties that kept the Treaty intact. Today, it was Pearelle’s turn to bind her people, along with herself, to the Human kind. She hoped her offering would be enough.

“I shouldn’t be this nervous,” she whispered to Emory. “Why am I nervous?”

Emory only looked her answer.

Pearelle’s heart sunk. It was plain on everyone’s faces that they pitied her. She acknowledged, once again, the shriveling demise of her hope that this could be anything but a political union. Is that why Danen hasn’t written, Pearelle wondered. Could it be that he didn’t need to reconcile what had blossomed between them on the beach with the accident and horrifying attack that had followed? Perhaps Emory had been right, and whatever Amadeah had done to him had only caused a passing discomfort, magnified by his immaturity and self-absorption?

Igneous stepped out of the circle of Council members. He slipped her small hand between both of his, holding it like someone warming a kitten.

“All will be well, sister,” he assured her in an undertone.

“I’m not going to be executed, Igneous!” All this pity was making her furious. What gave them the nerve to write off her happiness? Didn’t she have any say in the matter?

Igneous chuckled. “I doubt the young Human has any idea what he’s in for. It’ll at least be interesting to watch you bring him to heel.”

Pearelle took her hand out from between his and slapped his cheek. Not very hard.

“I’m going to be happy,” she told him firmly.

Then the doors opened and the Elven Council proceeded into the crowded room beyond. Igneous offered his arm, serving as her escort.

“Don’t forget your duty is to us, sister. That man is nothing.” Her brother’s voice tightened on those last words. Pearelle knew he was still furious about her near-drowning.

She raised her gloved hand and let it rest lightly on his arm as they stepped through the double doors together. There were more Human nobility crammed into the stone chamber than Pearelle would’ve thought lived in all of Citadel. The polished marble tiles silenced the whisper of gown and slipper alike. Towering basalt pillars, decorated with silver filigree, separated the procession aisle from the galleries.

At the far end of the room, on a raised stone dais, stood four white thrones bearing gold etchings. These thrones were the only items in the room crafted with magic and their sturdy frames resonated in accord with the subdued power of the approaching Elves, as though welcoming them. The thrones had been the gift of the Elves to the first Human royals, in early days. Pearelle wondered if King Mervin remembered that.

The King sat reclining over one of the arms watching the Elven delegation approach him at knee-level. He sneered down on the most respected elders of Pearelle’s people with ostentatious amusement. At his right sat the straight-backed High Mage, Lewison Coblaine.

What sort of kingdom they would be, she wondered, had the brothers’ roles been reversed? Imagining Lewison as King felt fitting for a man of such wisdom. And yet, the thought of Mervin with magic power to augment his arrogance, made Pearelle shudder. Unbidden, she saw again Danen’s face twisted in hatred, the glow of the torture spell painting his features an eerie green-blue.

Pearelle gritted her teeth. She focused on the scene before her, taking in every detail to chase away her fear.

To King Mervin’s left, Queen Felicity’s throne remained empty. It had been for seven years. At first temporarily, while her Majesty lay sick, and then permanently, following her death.

Pearelle found the prince, sitting on the last throne, a little behind and further to his father’s left. Ruvellius’ back was as straight as Lewison’s, but he looked as nervous as Pearelle felt. He was older than Danen and more used to life at court. Pearelle wondered how a day like this could have him looking so green. It wasn’t like he had to do anything as uncomfortable as marry a near stranger.

The thought made Pearelle’s knees wobble. How did she dare hope for anything good to come of this wedding? Strangers was exactly what she and Danen were to each other.

But it was her turn to approach the throne. She would not allow herself to falter.

Igneous led her forward as the Elven Council seated themselves in carved wooden chairs to the right of the dais. Across from them sat the seven Human nobles of highest influence and power in the realm. The air between the two groups was squirming with tension. The entire royal court sparked and snapped with energy, hundreds of eyes fixated on the dais and those before it.

Pearelle sunk into a curtsy that sent her full skirt billowing about her like a falling cloud. Whispers slithered through the room. Elven Princess was what the Human courtiers were calling her.

Raising her head to murmur the appropriate greeting, a familiar puff of brown hair caught Pearelle’s eye. She stole a peek, while Igneous made the formal, introductory statements.

It was him.

Danen Vinier stood just behind his uncle’s throne, mostly concealed by its majestic bulk. But she could see that wiry hair of his that never would stay put. With a smile, she traced the seashell under her sleeve again. Amazing how that small a familiarity made her doubts dissipate. This was no stranger. She knew Danen, even if only a little.

She took a breath. Everything was going to be fine.

Read Next Chapter

Dear Reader,

I must confess, arranged marriages have always fascinated me. They represent something about as far as you can get from the American ideal of love (or, more accurately, romantic feelings) existing primarily for autonomous self-service. Yet even in a selflessly-motivated, covenental marriage between two consenting adults, there will arise aspects of a marriage which present paradoxes — such as the fact that, since every person changes gradually over time, each are committing themselves in marriage to a ‘stranger’.

Anyway, I’m looking forward to the relational/romance arc Pearelle and Danen will be developing as this story progresses from here onwards. This is, after all, a wedding!

Cheers,

~LL

In the previous chapter, Gowell decided he needed to leave Yusep and Golda’s farm, and his comfortable life in the South Greens. His nightmares served as a warning of what might come, and he had questions about his abandonment which demanded answering. However, leaving is easier said than done.

Under the full harvest moon, he saw the early snow melting under the touch of torch flame. It melted swiftly, runnels of water tumbling over the ground and glimmering in the firelight. Reflecting red fire, or running red as blood, it was all the same. Then, Gowell woke and realized it was only another of his ceaseless nightmares. He lay catching his breath, and told himself today was the day. He wouldn’t delay until the South Greens burned while he was awake.

But it was proving harder than he’d expected to take leave of the only two people he’d ever known, to forsake the only home he’d ever had, and embark into an unknown wilderness. What if he couldn’t find his way back to the Osakk? What if he found them, but they wouldn’t let him stay? Or he didn’t want to?

Gowell rolled over to rest his chin on the frame of the hayloft window. Out beyond the farm, the woods flamed with reds and golds, and their shivering leaves betrayed the presence of a cold breeze Gowell didn’t feel, tucked as he was inside mounds of sweet-smelling hay. He watched the fog billow up from the creek at the edge of the bottom field, rolling along over green-black firs and half-turned maples. An owl lighted atop the thatched roof of the cottage and ran its beak along its taloned foot, preening.

In a few minutes, Gowell knew that Yusep was going to hobble out of the cottage door, bucket it hand, to milk the cow. The day’s work would begin. Golda would give them another litany of reasons why the woodpile wasn’t high enough, or the chicken’s coop wasn’t winter ready. Yusep’s dry wit and wry smile would be her answer, until he’d had enough of her nagging and promised to do all she asked on top of what he’d already planned for the day’s labor. Gowell would eat and tag along.

I wish it never need change, Gowell told himself. He said it in the secret tongue — the language of his people — and it sharpened the icepick of longing lodged in his chest. How could he so badly wish for two opposing things?

When Yusep appeared at the cottage door, a newly-knitted yellow scarf wrapped around his face, Gowell could see the clouds of breath coming off the man and knew it was colder than it had been yesterday morning. Winter, they called this cold. Gowell climbed down from the loft and met Yusep next to the milking stall.

“Mornin’, son,” Yusep called cheerily. He looped the lead rope around the cow’s jaw and patted her side. She lowed petulantly, and lumbered across the barn at the old man’s side.

“Yusep,” Gowell began. He swallowed hard and forced himself to talk over Yusep’s loving murmurs of encouragement to the cow. “Yusep, I have strange dreams. About the farmlands being attacked, houses burned.”

He didn’t want to say it was other Osakk doing the burning. Yusep took his hesitation as embarrassment.

“Everybody has nightmares from time to time, ye know. Don’t worry yerself about it. Why don’t ye go up to the woodblock and get a few piles split a’fore breakfast.” He turned to share a lopsided grin with Gowell. “Ye know Goldie will be hankerin’ for more wood.”

It was easier to wordlessly obey than it was to stay and deflate the man’s good mood. He walked around the cottage to the woodpile and hefted the axe onto his shoulder. Splitting wood was easy for Gowell. He did it one-handed, his other already reaching for the next log. Each time the axe sliced cleanly through the hickory log on the chopping block, he knocked the pieces aside and set a new one. While he worked, he thought about how he could tell them over breakfast about having to leave.

He was standing at the back corner of the cottage, gingerly stacking the split pieces along the stone wall, when he heard strangers approaching the farm. It sent a prickle of agitation down his spine. Yusep and Golda didn’t have family living nearby. Folk didn’t go out of their way to visit one another in the midst of their own preparations for winter. Gowell dumped the rest of his armful of wood unceremoniously atop the neat woodpile and slipped into the trees behind the house. Yusep had warned him never to be seen, and his sharp hearing always allowed him to sense when someone was nearby before they came within sight of the house.

From behind some tall blackberry canes, Gowell peered up the hill at the barn doors. Yusep had emerged with the milk pail to find two young men come to call. While he was too far away to decipher what was said, Gowell could sense that Yusep was familiar with them and not threatened by their arrival. Though, the way he kept glancing over at the woodpile wasn’t quite as relaxed as Gowell thought the old man should be, especially if he wanted to keep Gowell’s existence a secret.

After some talk, the taller of the two men grasped Yusep’s free hand in a friendly gesture of goodwill. Then the visitors departed, trudging over the woodland path toward the road that led to the village. Gowell waited until they had almost reached the border of Yusep’s property and didn’t seem to be second-guessing their departure, before he emerged from the woods. Golda and Yusep seemed a little stiff when he ducked inside the open door and seated himself on the floor next to the dining table.

“That was a couple o’ the neighbors,” Golda explained. She set a serving-sized bowl of porridge in front of Gowell. The still-warm cow’s milk made a little moat around the hearty gruel. He sniffed appreciatively, noticing how she’d put some of the hazelnuts he’d brought her the day before on top.

“Ralf asked me about the mended fence line,” Yusep added. “And the new-thatched roof. The mended coop. That mountain o’ wood stacked beside the house.”

Golda and Yusep exchanged a look. Never one for reading the subtext of a situation, Gowell munched his nutty porridge, wondering to himself how he would breach the topic of his leaving to them.

Yusep twiddled his thumbs atop the table. “Gowell, he was asking me how I managed to do so much labor all by meself. You see, the two lads took pity on us old folk and supposed we’d be in bad shape for winter, if nobody offered.”

Golda put her hands on her hips and fixed a sharp eye on Gowell. “What the old fool is tryin’ to say, lad, is that the village is going to get suspicious. They might come back, looking for trouble.”

Gowell’s head came up, his long ears twitching like a deer’s. “Trouble? What would they do?”

Golda sat next to Yusep and patted his hand. He placed a rough, wind-chafed one over hers and stroked it. He shook his head sadly.

“There’ve been rumors about. Brigands plundering some of the northern villages or some such. Nothin’ official has been said by the Patrol, but folk grow suspicious easily in these parts. They may think we’re sheltering an outsider.”

“No matter what they think, it’s what they might find we have to worry about! You’ll have to be more careful from now on.”

Gowell frowned. “It’s not that simple.” Then he shook his great head, his expression growing sorrowful. “I know what those rumors are about. Every time I have another dream I know what I need to do. But I haven’t been able to do it.”

Yusep sat straighter. Gowell knew the old man wasn’t unaware of the dreadful weight each nightmare piled higher on Gowell’s shoulders, growing heavier night after night. But Yusep had a habit of sidestepping any talk that might lead to some sort of change. Now, he bit down on his bottom lip, his chin dimpling like a small child’s, his face crumbling. Golda’s gaze flitted from Gowell to her husband, concerned lines drawn across her features.

Gowell smiled sadly at them both. “Yusep. Golda. It’s time for me to leave.”

“No! Not that, lad. Not yet,” Yusep cried. “We can hide ye better! The trouble is far away. It won’t come so far down here, not if it has to creep past the nose o’ King Mervin hisself to get here! Ye will be safe, with us!”

Golda gripped her husband’s hand and looked into his eyes with a fierce determination. “Now, now, Yusep. Hear ‘im out. He’s grown a lot since he showed up on our doorstep. Ye know he can fend for himself if he needs to.”

“If I stay here, it could cause trouble for you,” Gowell told them. “I think that if I stay here, the South Greens are going to burn. The dreams mean I need to go and find out where I come from. What I am.”

Yusep’s chin tucked down against his chest. He swayed side to side, shaking all over in protest of what Gowell was saying. “Ye know what ye be. Yer ours, Gowell. No matter what comes.”

Goldie patted her husband’s hand, then pulled his head against her shoulder, hugging him. She tisked at his weeping. Gowell sat watching miserably.

It was Golda who rallied them both. She shushed Yusep and brought out some coffee. They all sat drinking it and not speaking, while the daylight wasted. Finally, Gowell decided to do something he’d been afraid of doing for a long time.

“I will come back and you will be here still,” he promised them. “El-Una has shown me this will happen. I think, Yusep, you will feel better if you know I’m not going alone. And I won’t be gone for good.”

The old farmer blinked up at Gowell through his confusion. The young Osakk’s head reached the house rafters as he stood between the dining table and the hearth. When a silvery light appeared in the middle of the cozy kitchen, Golda half-rose from her seat, clutching a washcloth to her chest. Gowell invited El-Una to show itself before the Humans, and in the space of a breath, the silver-white light formed itself into the figure of a large timber wolf, tongue-lolling out of its toothy maw, tail wagging gently as it greeted both farm folk with inquisitive eyes.

“El-Una is a spirit who has taught me things about my kind. They are called Osakk. I do not know much, but El-Una will lead me to rejoin my people in the far north,” Gowell explained.

My greetings be with thee, Kind Ones. This is the form in which I have shown myself to the son of thy heart. But perhaps thee will recognize me better thusly . . .”

Golda gasped, and Yusep stood abruptly, quivering from head to toe as the wolfish form shrunk and coalesced into the figure of a small, white-robed child wearing a crown of holly and ivy on her head. In her small, chubby hands she held a single, lit candle.

“Bless me! It’s the Hallowed Lass!” Golda exclaimed.

As a messenger of Una, I am given many forms.

“El-Una will lead me, Yusep.” Gowell went and laid a hand on the farmer’s thin shoulder. “I won’t be by myself.”

Yusep sniffed, nodding. He wiped his sleeve across his eyes and blinked fervently at the strange child of light standing next to the hearth. “I see that. I do.” Yusep shrugged twice, still too overcome for more words.

Gowell wrapped the smaller man in a gentle, smothering hug. Golda’s lips made a firm line, and she patted Gowell’s arm approvingly. Then she wiped her own eyes furtively with the corner of her apron and said, “I’ll send ye off with a proper pack, then.”

She spent the rest of that morning preparing hard biscuit that would keep, and slow-roasted meat that would sustain him for the next few days. A packet of nuts and dried berries, and the roots which were Gowell’s favorites whether cooked or raw, were each carefully wrapped in cheesecloth and tied with twine. Golda tucked everything inside a small satchel and then modified the shoulder strap, using some worn harness leather, so that it was large enough to fit around Gowell’s broad torso.

Yusep puttered around doing small mendings, putting little finishing touches on all the repairs he and Gowell had accomplished over the summer months. Gowell followed him, until it was at last, milking time again. Then he stood in the barn and said goodbye to the brown cow, stroking the soft whorl of hair between her ears while Yusep milked. Each strain of milk sung in the half-full bucket while the sweet smell filled the barn and reminded Gowell how much he was going to miss this simple, comfortable life.

Yusep was without words, in a most unusual way. But Gowell knew what the old farmer was thinking, and what he would say if he thought it wouldn’t make the parting harder. As evening fell, Gowell stood before the cottage door, shouldered the pack Golda had made heavy with her unspoken affection, and said good-bye to them both.

The snow had melted during the warm day, but when he trudged into the woods, some of the trees still wore skirts of white and more snow crunched under his footsteps. A silvery form appeared at his side, padding ahead.

Thee will return, El-Una reminded him.

I know, Gowell agreed. But there was still a lump lodged in his throat.

He led the wolf south to stand before the boulder hollow. While darkness fell and the creek sang its muted song between muddy banks and under chunks of dark ice, Gowell stared long into the black den that had been his cradle. Gritting his sharp teeth, he growled low to El-Una his vow. “When I come among my own kind, this is the first answer I will seek. Why was I left alone here? Why did I wake by myself?”

They turned together and walked north under cover of the dense Duskwood, under the rising shadow of the Gubarashi mountains.

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Dear Reader,

South Carolina is getting some snow! Sitting at my desk in the corner of the house, my view out the window shows me a constant fall of flurries falling through palm fronds. If any of it should stick, the kids will be out sledding down the neighbor’s hill, I’m sure.

I hope you’re having a cozy Saturday too, especially if you have a good book to tuck into a quilt with you.

Cheers,

~LL

The last chapter told of the sacking of Gem-in-Vale, Evelynn’s home. Now our story returns to Gowell in the South Greens. Meanwhile, last we heard, Pearelle dreamed of the disturbing person Danen might one day become, while Danen himself unexpectedly turned the table on his cousin, Prince Ruvellius, showing how dastardly devious he can be when he puts his mind to such things.

The nightmare of the battlefield had been revisiting Gowell’s sleep with a regularity that was beginning to make him dread evening. His dream was never the same. Sometimes he was one of the Osakk who matched strength against his neighbor. Sometimes, he saw the blade falling, or felt it pierce his lung, and woke drenched in sweat.

Tonight, he’d dreamed of hunting small Humans in a wood. The chase was invigorating.

He woke feeling a mixture of things. But mostly, Gowell felt alone.

He blinked, his eyes having no trouble at all deciphering between the grey-scale shadows in the dark hayloft. He crept over to the open hay hood. Beyond the barn, the farm was dusted with snow. There was less work to be done, now that the fields were frozen over. The old cow had grown used to Gowell and no longer minded him sleeping in the loft above her stall. There was no room in the cottage for him to sprawl out properly.

Gowell rubbed his eyes.

When he opened them again, a silvery light glowed beside him, limning the outline of the wolf-spirit. The mischievous, playful being had been a frequent companion of Gowell’s lately. They spoke together in the tongue of Gowell’s kind, and in that tongue the spirit named itself El-Una, or from Una.

What troubles thee? El-Una asked, speaking in Gowell’s mind, as usual.

“I dream about my kind,” Gowell said. He sighed heavily.

The Osakk are waking, El-Una agreed. They are restless after their long Sleep.

“They are cruel.” Gowell shook his head. “How can I be one of them?”

Thee enjoys the hunt, like a wolf. Thee might come to enjoy the kill.

Gowell cocked his head, staring off into the woods beyond Yusep and Golda’s cottage. He could see an owl resettling itself in an oak tree’s branches, the wriggling mouse in its talons struggling to escape.

“Am I — are we Osakk — beasts? Predators? You are a wolf. Tell me, am I like you?”

El-Una’s laugh was what starlight might sound like. The shimmering image next to Gowell shook its ruff.

Thee thinks too like the Humans, my friend. With only thine eyes and hands. I am not wolf in that way. And thee could never be like me! It is difficult to even express what it means to be ‘from Una’, as I am. But whether the Osakk are beasts or not is a better question. What makes one a beast? What makes a Human what he is? Or should I say, what makes them not-a-beast?

Gowell snorted. “A Human is like Yusep and Golda. They are small, fragile, living together in small caves they make. They tend plants and eat from their labors. A Human is that sort of creature.”

All of them?

Gowell considered. “Well, I guess there are the guardsmen.”

He’d seen them on patrol. Once, they’d ridden past the base of Yusep’s property, stopping to water their horses at the creek. Yusep had warned Gowell to keep out of sight. The old man might’ve had a heart attack, had he known Gowell was curious enough to ‘stay out of sight’ in the woods, a few yards away from where the soldiers were resting.

He’d seen them shrug off their chainmail to rinse their sweaty shirts in the creek. Their muscled, battle-scarred flesh was different than the knotty, ropy body of old Yusep. Those Humans looked more like fighters than farmers — more like Gowell. Did being a fighter mean one was a beast?

Thee wanted to ask me about the dreams, El-Una reminded him. There was a hint of amusement in the wolf-spirit’s voice. Though Gowell’s wandering thoughts were more than half El-Una’s fault.

“Why do I keep dreaming about my people? It makes me sad. I didn’t want to see the battle. That was bad enough. Now I dream of the horrible things they’re doing to Humans like Yusep and Golda. They’re preying on helpless folk! How am I supposed to ever sleep again, knowing that’s happening somewhere?”

Why not do something about it, then?

“What could I do?” Gowell harrumphed. “I don’t even know how to fight.”

Thee can’t fight an army of Osakk, anyway. The wolf-spirit wheezed a dog’s laugh. Even if thee could find thy way back to them.

“I don’t want to go home. The Osakk aren’t my kind. Not if they treat Humans that way!”

Thee has said, ‘home’.

Gowell hadn’t noticed. But El-Una was right.

When had this farm ceased to feel like home to him? Perhaps it never had. Golda and Yusep weren’t his parents, though he was fond of them. He would hate it if anything terrible befell them.

Gowell scratched his head. His thick black hair was growing out and tickled whenever it brushed against his ears. His mouth was aching too, now that he thought about it. New teeth were pushing their way through the back of his jaw. He’d lost a few sharp, baby ones in the past week. Things were changing in Gowell.

Home, El-Una continued, is not a place chosen. It’s a place found. Where thee belongs.

Gowell considered it, absently picking at tangles in his hair. He scratched at his stubble, ran calloused fingers over his silky, pointed ears. He flicked his ears like a horse flicks away flies. Golda had always been fascinated by his ears. But he didn’t like anyone to touch them.

If he’d ever been a babe, had his mother stroked them? Had there ever been a mother?

He was reminded of the hollow feeling that came over him whenever he visited the boulders in the wood. That place was a persistent reminder of his abandonment, and Gowell had never stopped asking himself, Why? Why didn’t he know whether or not he had parents, or what had become of them? Whatever had been holding him together ever since he’d woken, alone in that wood, now fell away. Gowell dropped his head against his bent knees and wept.

Home.

When morning light came, Gowell would tell Yusep and Golda. He was going home.

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Dear Reader,

Posting stories online chapter by chapter is not for the faint of heart. I hope you have been able to follow along, but in case you’ve missed any chapters or don’t recall where we last left off with someone, please do make use of the index. I am hoping that as this platform matures it will given some easier-to-use tools for sequential storytelling by the developers. But in the meantime, I hope the index is easy enough to use to find what you might have missed in previous weeks. Please let me know if there are things I can do better with communicating!

Cheers,

~LL

In the previous chapter, Ruvellius and Danen rode out with the King’s patrol and encountered an abandoned, burned-out village. With the villagers nowhere to be found, the patrol searched for clues of an attack without finding anything. Then, they fled back through the Plains at the sound of eerie, otherworldly howls coming from the Duskwood.

Ruvellius stood in the vestibule outside the Moot Court with Danen and Captain Efver. He paced the length of the salmon-colored tiles, turned in the corner, and then paced along the wall of windows that overlooked the garden courtyard. All the while, Captain Efver answered Danen’s questions with a respectfully subdued demeanor, now that he was aware of the young man’s true identity. Ruvellius crossed his arms and glared at his cousin.

When had that happened?

The events of the morning were something of a blur, after the adrenaline of their feverish ride through the plains had evaporated, leaving Ruvellius deeply exhausted. His cousin, on the other hand, seemed refreshed by some inner wellspring of vitality.

“How long have you been chasing bands of brigands out of the Meridian?” Danen was saying.

“Recently we receive many reports of trouble, without finding evidence of what went amiss. It’s something of a mystery. But last month there was one band we routed from the northern Duskwood.” Efver paused, his lips parted as though he’d like to counter Danen’s questions with some of his own. But then the Captain merely added, “In hindsight, it seems lucky we had a mage of your capabilities along, sir. I’m sure if any trouble had befallen us, you would have had some helpful spell to cast for our aid.”

The prince suspected the Captain was also running dead on his feet, despite his cavalier dismissal of his own weariness when Ruvellius had suggested he leave the report in the Prince’s own hands.

“I appreciate your concern, your Highness, but I wish to see this through. No doubt you would feel the same, if I were to insist your presence wasn’t needed.”

It had served as a subtle rebuke, and the thought irked Ruvellius, contributing in no small part to the restlessness he felt as they were made to wait. He paused under the windows and studied the sun’s height over the Grey Tower. It was nearly ten o’ clock in the morning. The King sometimes made himself available to petitioners throughout the morning hours, and a man like Captain Efver was doubtless used to being made to wait. The prince was not.

He’ll know I disobeyed his order, he reminded himself, not for the first time. But with Danen here, I’ll be able to make some excuse for it. In the end, it was a good thing I was there! This is a matter of great urgency. Besides, what can he do apart from threaten me with this and that? It’s not like he can have me whipped.

Ruvellius caught sight of a serving woman cross through the vestibule with a pitcher of water, most likely in order to tend to the plants that lined the great hall outside. He motioned to her.

“Please, bring a ewer and cloth so that we may wash after our long ride,” he commanded.

The prince went to sit in a bench alongside one wall of the vestibule, noting that the Captain had remained unmoved from his place near the center of the room. Danen left Efver and came to sit with Ruvellius.

“How’s your rump?” The prince teased him, speaking in a low whisper.

Danen appeared confused for a moment, then shrugged. “I’d forgotten.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. It’s hard to even feel tired when I think about those poor village folk, shivering out in the cold somewhere. Or dead, more likely.”

There was a long moment of silence, until Ruvellius stopped bouncing his heel against the polished floor and looked over at his cousin. “What is it?”

Danen continued staring out of those dull eyes of his, unreadable.

Then the serving woman returned with the water for washing, and all three men took turns making themselves presentable. After they were finished, Danen’s hair still stood on end, glistening with water droplets. It reminded the prince of his mother again, and how she’d laughed at the two of them together as children. But then he put that happy memory away and steeled himself for what was to come. It was his father he had to deal with now.

“Let me do the talking,” he instructed the other two, when the palace herald opened the door and invited them to enter.

“With respect, your Highness, it is my responsibility —”

Ruvellius interrupted the Captain. “If you present the report, my presence is awkward and unnecessary. If I present it, you are there to corroborate and add your voice of expertise. Trust me, this is best.”

He strode into the Moot Court without waiting for the Captain’s response. There was no one else as used to navigating King Mervin’s prickly sense of justice as Ruvellius. This time, he wouldn’t expect his father to be reasonable. This time, the prince would force the King to act, purely out of political necessity. This time, things would be different.

************

Lesson one of diplomatic negotiation — know thy allies as though they are opponents, for such they may prove to be.

When Prince Ruvellius entered the Moot Court, brilliant green cloak billowing off his shoulders and soft golden hair bouncing with every confident, well-heeled step, he made the fatal error of assuming he would be facing off with his father alone. First, he matter-of-factly reported the details of what had been found; namely, a burned village without a single survivor or clue to their disappearance. Then he called on Captain Efver to recount the details leading up to their investigation of the site, as well as the relevant events preceding it, including the recent routing of the band of brigands.

All seemed to be going well, apart from the appearance of a heavy scowl upon the King’s brow, which faded into a dazed, day-dreaming expression of boredom as Ruvellius’ report went on. It did not escape the prince that a group of noblemen were in attendance, sitting around the two sides of the room alongside the King’s chair. He ignored their sneering expressions, their disrespectful whispering amongst themselves, even the outright snigger of mirth aroused by his description of the patrol’s flight at the sound of the eerie wolves howling.

But the longer his speech went on, the more Ruvellius began to doubt himself. What was it he expected the King to do? It was Captain Efver, in the end, who rescued Ruvellius from stammering on in circles until he’d run out of words. He stepped forward to add, at the last moment, a brief recognition of his gratitude.

“In this time of uncertainty, amid rumors of trouble, it was a great boon to the King’s Patrol to have among us the representatives of your Majesty’s goodwill and watchful care,” Captain Efver bowed very low, receiving the faintest tug of a smile from King in response. “We are humbly grateful, King Mervin. Furthermore, I would count it an honor to continue to serve under Prince Ruvellius in future, should the occasion arise.”

This last, Efver appeared to be addressing to the prince directly, and Ruvellius gave a respectful nod in response. A feeling of gratitude bloomed in his own chest, which flamed together with his weariness and nearly brought him to tears. But now was not the time for mere niceties. Turning back toward the King, the prince bowed low in tandem with the Captain and made his formal request.

“Lord King, if it pleases you to extend your arm of protection over the poor folk of the Plains, it is our request that a larger force be sent at once into the Duskwood to investigate the disappearances and to route out whatever evildoers continue to escape the just deserts of their crimes against the Crown. We believe this to be a matter of upmost urgency, sire.”

Ruvellius could feel the room brighten in response. The moment of his triumph had arrived. He straightened and saluted his King, fist across his chest, Captain Efver following suit. They looked the part of the valiant knight-lord and his faithful retainer, existing most gloriously to execute justice against evildoers and to ride to the aid of the common and frail. For an instant, it seemed that even the imaginations of the nobles were caught. By comparison, they and their sons sat idly in their grand chairs, allowing the honorable work of protecting the kingdom to be done by other hands. Given another small prodding, these men too might have risen to pledge themselves to as noble a cause as ridding the kingdom of its predators.

But the moment passed. The shining polish on the grey stones glistened, and then clouded over as the sun dipped behind a storm front sweeping in from the sea. The light dimmed. Every caught breath was released. In the interim, the King’s idle, wandering eye lighted on one who had not yet spoken.

“And you, sir? What do you say you saw?”

His Majesty’s choice of words plainly implied that those who ride out may come home and say whatever they please about it. All around the room, knowing sneers returned to the lips of the noblemen. Ah yes, they knew what hot-headed, boastful young men were like.

A sick feeling grew in the pit of Ruvellius’ stomach.

He angled his shoulders to include his cousin in their party, attempting to meet Danen’s eye and share a quiet, encouraging smile. Perhaps Danen would be nervous about speaking in front of so many important, powerful men. He was, after all, a mere merchant’s boy from a small town.

But the man did not meet Ruvellius’ eye at all.

His cousin stepped forward, past the prince and the Captain, and stood quite close to the foot of the King’s chair. He almost reached the left side of it, where the High Mage would often stand, but not quite. Ruvellius found himself glaring narrowly at his cousin’s back. How calculating.

This did not feel like the sort of person he’d taken Danen to be as they’d ridden together all that long night.

“Lord King,” Danen began. His voice was not resonant, nor did it ring with authority or passion, but in the silence of the noblemen’s curiosity, it carried. “Forgive me for my ignorance of such matters, but it is my understanding that a force of King’s Patrol was already sent out to investigate the burned out village . . . and yet, I found it strange that there was not a single hoof print, boot mark, or any other track left by anyone. All such signs had been erased before we arrived. Yet when we left, the village was full of evidence of our coming.”

Ruvellius stood dumbstruck.

Was Danen really going to cast doubt on the necessity of coming to the aid of the vanished villagers? What did he possibly stand to gain by such duplicity? The charred buildings, the eerie howling, had none of it impressed the man as a sign of trouble?

The Prince subtly took note of Captain Efver’s expression. The handsome young man stood stiff, his features betraying nothing, as he stared at the floor somewhere near Danen’s feet. He was a commoner himself, after all. This would be a contest between the word of two high born men — a prince and a mage acolyte.

Ruvellius clenched his fist at his side, cursing himself. He fixed a darkening glower at his cousin’s wavy, miscreant hair. What is he doing?

“That is strange, indeed.” The King stroked his beard, considering the mystery of the missing footprints. “What do you make of it, if anything? Have you any mystical art which might illuminate the matter further?”

The memory of Danen crouching over the mud, the glow of a spell emanating from his open palm as he studied the ground, returned to the prince. He felt a moment of unease. Had he and Efver been wrong about it all? Perhaps Danen had discovered something strange with his spell.

“Yes, your Majesty. I was able to detect the memory of the land itself.”

At this preposterous claim, the nobles around Ruvellius laughed. Some were bold enough to call the young mage a charlatan. One lord, chuckling, cried, “Ah yes, when I get back home my household mage will ask the castle who behaved and which of my servants were dipping into the good wine while I was gone!”

This joke was heartily enjoyed all around. Danen waited, a patient smile on his lips as he watched the King take in the various opinions of his gathered peers. All the while, dread was running like ice in the prince’s veins. Danen had some ace in his glove, some trump piece he was waiting for the right moment to play. It was all so familiar, like the winning movements of a game he’d watched performed in front of him all his life. Always, the prince found himself watching from the outside.

He was never the one making the winning play.

“It would be easy for your Majesty to confirm what I saw,” Danen continued, when the room had stilled. “Was there, perhaps, some connection between the patrol members who rode out to ‘investigate’ the missing village? For in my casting, I was shown the entire party making off with the villagers and their tax goods, then returning to erase all evidence of their departure. The folk had great wagons full of textiles and other goods, and they drove all their sheep away with them. The guardsmen torched the houses before they left. It was my understanding that the ruse was meant to enrich them all as they evaded paying the royal tribute.”

King Mervin sat straighter, and flicked his hand at a page who stood in the alcove waiting for his master’s will. The youth hurried forward and received a whispered instruction from the King. Meanwhile, all waited, set on edge by the easy confidence with which Danen appeared to dismiss their mockery of him.

When the page returned, he held in his hand a document on thick parchment. Ruvellius saw the Captain blanch at the sight of it. The King’s smile broadened as he read, then he held the paper out to the page with a limp, elegant hand.

“Show it to Captain Efver, there. See if he does not recognize the handwriting?” The King purred, then indulged in a long, low laugh. “What a clever ruse! I am never wrong, no.”

Captain Efver took the parchment from the page, a knot bulging in his jaw muscle as he read it to himself. Then he handed the paper to the Prince, whispering, “It is my signature on this selection of men assigned to ride out. They requested it themselves, because every one of them had kin who lived in the village that had disappeared.”

Ruvellius felt the blood rush to his face, and then drain out again. For one look at his father’s dire expression warned him of what would happen next. The prince fought to keep his anger at bay, but the parchment crumpled in his hands, his fist shook at his side, as he was forced to hear the words his father said in that lazy, lecturing tone.

“Do you see, Ruvellius? Your sense of justice, your honor, is so easily manipulated. While you pass judgment upon your King for what you perceive as a negligence of duty, I remain unimpressed by the rising and falling tide of your passions. For they carry you here and there, chasing after phantoms of evil, all while blinding you to the truly criminal leeches which prey upon this kingdom from the inside!”

The King’s voice rose to echo in the cold stone room, bouncing from the four corners back onto the ears of his hearers like a gong of doom. “These men robbed me! When I find them, you may be certain I will mete out the just desserts which await those who undermine my authority.”

While that double warning wavered in the air between them, Ruvellius waited. His father wasn’t finished with him yet.

“In the meantime, we may be thankful that some young men retain their good sense, and look forward to the time when our Crown will be supported by those who retain our best interests.”

Ruvellius looked up from glaring at the floor, confused by his father’s choice of words. Until he saw the way King Mervin grinned benevolently down at the young man who stood at his side. Danen turned, receiving the response of applause from the noblemen with the kind of quiet humility that made Ruvellius’ blood boil. It was all a ruse.

From the very start, his cousin had been playing him like a penny whistle. Once again, Ruvellius had lost more diplomatic capital than he could afford.

There was no way to salvage this. The prince glared at his cousin, who was thoughtfully ignoring him. But then he noticed Danen’s eyes — always so dull and lifeless — flit toward the near side of the room briefly. Something seemed to be communicated in that moment.

The Prince turned away, knowing he was dismissed. But before he walked through the door, he took note of the nobles who stood at that very spot where Danen had looked. He saw the familiar, purple-bruised face of Maltbie Rawls grinning at his retainer, Dallan. The two of them stood slightly behind the chair of Lord Rawls, with his hook nose and glittering black eyes.

The prince ducked out into the vestibule, followed closely by Captain Efver, and went to lean against a stone pillar. He squeezed his weary eyes shut tight. It wasn’t tears, it was exhaustion, that made them sting. He sucked in a deep breath and turned to hand the crumple paper back to the Captain.

“I’m sorry,” was all Ruvellius could say. He didn’t even know if the man were aware of the political maneuvering that had happened in that room, or even if Efver would understand why. He had thought Danen was someone he could trust. And besides that, the prince was too tired to explain that power was always more important to the King than the people.

The Captain surprised him by letting the paper fall to the floor. He took Ruvellius’ forearm in his, gripped it tight, and met the Prince’s eye. “Do not apologize for telling the truth.”

Ruvellius blinked at him. But of course. No one had seen any of this situation clearly, except the Captain. He’d been suspicious of Danen’s identity and presence from the start. This was all a game to his cousin. An opportunity to leverage Ruvellius’ naivety to his own purposes. He’d probably need to be a cunning politician as High Mage, and doubtless their uncle had been drilling him on how to take advantage of just such an opportunity to impress the King. Politics never cares about familial ties. After all, what are feelings of filial love but vulnerabilities?

Ruvellius shook his head. “I’ve been shown the fool, once again.”

“Better a fool than a liar, is all I can say,” Captain Efver dropped the Prince’s hand and bent to retrieve the document. “I’ll have to get this properly filed again. Ned Festoon was on that assignment. One of my best men. Don’t think I won’t be looking into it further. I’ll do what I can.”

Ruvellius leaned back against the pillar and ran his hands through his hair. Exhaling did nothing to release the tension than ran through his body. He couldn’t meet the good Captain’s eye, neither did he have the energy to apologize further.

“Your Highness, thank you for what you tried to do.”

The Captain bid him good day, and Ruvellius was left to listen to the murmur of laughter and talk that escaped under the door to the Moot Court. He was even further disgraced. The business of the Kingdom continued on, as usual. In the end, his political blunder had been a foregone conclusion.

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Dear Reader,

What could Danen be up to?

You might notice a difference between the scenes in Act Two, in that Danen rarely gets the POV. This is intentionally done to surround his motivations with mystery. If you’re wondering what’s gone wrong with him and what he is doing, you’ll have to wait and find out!

Cheers,

~LL

In the previous chapter, Evelynn woke from a nightmare to find her dreams of war were coming true — torches descended the mountainside and entered the village, bringing an unknown foe. Joff ran to summon the King’s Patrol, while his wife, Hala, and Evie shored up the house the best they could. The two women hid under the bed, hoping to be overlooked or rescued.

“Sometimes . . .” Hala ventured. Her words faltered, as though she felt clumsy offering comfort. “Sometimes invaders have a place they need to get to quickly without being seen. We should pray they slip through the village quietly. Attacking us here might actually alert the patrol to their presence. Perhaps they will travel further south before pillaging.”

It was not much, but even the slim hope Hala offered Evelynn was more than nothing. The young girl took hold of it with all her might. Squeezing her eyes shut, she let her heart echo with a resounding cry of Please! Let them pass through us!

It was not a cry which could be answered, for the figures Evelynn had seen were not Dwarves. They were the un-looked-for foe of nightmare. They dwarfed the stone dwellings of the Humans like a bull dwarfs a sheep’s cote. Their bare-chested, muscled figures steamed through the snow that melted at their touch. Descending the mountainside, pairs of them slipped through the village to scatter among the sleeping households.

Their torches were not used to burn. They wasted nothing they found. As a newly-awakened bear is ravenous in springtime, these creatures were ravenous for conquest.

Evelynn and Hala jumped at the first scream.

But soon there were enough to make the voices indistinguishable.

Evelynn found she was shivering under the warm blanket. She felt Hala grip the knife that pressed — a cold rod of iron — against Evelynn’s back. The two women tried not to listen. But as the minutes passed, they grew aware that they waited.

Then, the expected sound came.

A shuddering of the cottage door. Someone was trying to get it open. Evelynn ducked her head underneath the blanket. But nothing could hide her from what was coming.

It was too dark to see anything, but the sound of the front door splintering was like a cymbal crashing nearby. There was a rattling of corn kernels scattering across the tabletop when it was shoved aside. The house creaked, its roof-beams making an awful cracking sound as something squeezed its way through the front room.

That can’t be a Dwarf! Evelynn realized. It sounded like a giant was trying to force its way under the roof beams. Whatever had come stuck its head inside the bedroom. She could hear it snuffing. Like a big dog with its nose down a rabbit hole, it scented them. There was no doubt it would know exactly where to look for two women who reeked of fear.

Hala moved. She wiggled backwards, putting space between her daughter and herself. The blanket fell against Evelynn’s back where the cold knife had been. She heard the blade unsheathed.

Then the bed was lifted and dust silted down, stinging Evelynn’s eyes. She was blinded for several terrifying moments. A guttural roar bellowed overhead. The bed crashed against the opposite wall. Evelynn was shoved forward and then half-crushed under someone’s arm. Her braided hair was caught under a foot, tugging her scalp painfully. She yelped, covering her face with her arms, rubbing her sleeves over her eyes furiously. Trying to see. She was of no use to Hala blind!

There was a struggle happening behind her. Evelynn heard her mother grunt as though punched in the gut. Then a horrible scraping sound, of iron on stone. All at once, the stones themselves rumbled. Hundreds of years of wear shifted under a last heavy stroke. Mortar crumbled. The roof beams creaked. Evelynn’s house came crashing down. In the chaos, a foundation stone bounced off a pile of falling rubble and struck the back of Evelynn’s head.

Much later, Evelynn sat up. Her red, teary eyes still smarted and her whole head ached. But at least she could see. She stood unsteadily, gazing around her at the destruction. Her parent’s bed was broken in two, lying against the only piece of her cottage that still stood. To her left, where another wall should have been, she could see the ink-black lake at the bottom of the hill. All around her was rubble — crumbled stones, snapped beams, scattered thatch. Evelynn looked down at the bare earth floor. Her mother’s wax pot lay shattered by the toe of her boot.

She picked up the woolen blanket and turned around. Where was Hala?

There was only the wall, fallen forward over where they’d been lying. Evelynn stumbled forward to scrabble at the stones, desperate to find evidence that her mother was not under all that rubble. But the third stone she picked up was bloody.

She dropped it, as though it had burned her.

The bleating of the goats caught her attention. There was someone at the barn — a stranger spooking the animals. Evelynn crawled over the carcass of her fallen house, refusing to dwell on what had just happened. Before she had gotten clear of the ruin, she heard the stones shift under someone else’s feet behind her.

Evelynn’s braid struck her face, she whipped around so fast to look. Her mouth went dry. In the shadow of the only wall that still stood, an enemy warrior crouched, watching her like a hungry wolf. His lips parted to voice a pleased sound, as though he were glad she was alive enough to give him sport. Evelynn scrambled backward over the rubble, unable to tear her eyes away from his bared fangs.

He stood as tall as her cottage had been, his bare feet wide enough to smash the remnants of the dining table as he stepped on it. In one stride he was free of the rubble. He reached back to lift Evelynn out of it as well, but she abandoned her blanket in his hand and went sliding down the snowy slope toward the dark tree-line.

Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades as Evelynn ran in only her nightshift. Her boots were caked with snow. She was thankful she’d kept them on.

Before she reached the trees she heard him directly behind her. His barking laughter sounded like a fox’s. And like a nimble, silent woodland predator, he snatched Evelynn off her feet. Yards before she’d reached the trees. She was flung over his broad shoulder like a sack of meal over a horse’s rump and carried toward the village. His stringy, coarse hair snagged on her face. She tried to push off his back and wriggle free, kicking her legs till her boots threatened to fly off. Then she stopped. There wasn’t a point in struggling with this massive brute, and she’d rather not lose her shoes only to find herself standing in snow later on.

Reality hit her, when she was swinging upside down, catching glimpses of other cottages they passed. This was real. Those houses, collapsed inward like brittle eggshell, had been the homes of her neighbors and friends. Maybe some of them lay dead under the rubble.

Something in Evelynn yanked her mind away from that thought. Some protective instinct wouldn’t allow her to have seen the blood or heard the fatal crumble of mortar. It wasn’t a memory. She rejected knowing what had happened.

That’s how she could smile when she was set down in the pig pen alongside twenty-odd other village folk. She craned her neck, picking out the tall figure whose shiny black hair and cut jawline made her heart flop over in her chest. Toma had survived!

Evelynn turned her back to the huddling family groups and gazed up the street, beyond moving torchlight, toward the far, dark border of the village. What about Gran? Where’s Gran?

The little round house still stood. Smoke curled up from the chimney. Those grey wisps had the effect of easing the tension gathering in Evelynn’s body. She relaxed her grip on the rough wooden fence. At least her Gran was still fast asleep in bed. Safe.

“Evie.”

Toma’s voice filled her with warmth. She hastily tucked back the dragging strands of hair that had been pulled loose from her braid. But she needn’t have worried. Toma wasn’t looking at her when she turned around. He was standing too close, as though shielding her with his body, scanning their surroundings. His face was grave, his brow knit. He took her hand and pulled her across the pig pen to stand under the eave of the house. Hanging from the rafters was a long line of frozen garments. It was a common way to dry them out in winter — the smoke drifted out of the house and sapped the moisture away when it wasn’t sunny enough to dry them on a line.

Toma grabbed a tunic and trousers, a hat and two woolen socks. He crushed them in his hands, breaking up the ice. Then he shoved Evelynn into a dark corner under the overhanging roof.

“Put those on under your nightdress. Then toss it to me.”

“But, Toma these are your brother’s clothes!”

“Hurry up,” he barked, his back to her, again shielding her from sight.

Evelynn followed his advice, though her nose wrinkled at the boy stench.“Is this Ivan’s shirt? Ugh!”

Toma didn’t answer her. Evelynn shoved her feet into the ice-cold socks, then rammed her feet back into her warm boots. They clothes would do, but it was going to be cold for awhile while they thawed. She stepped closer to Toma and put the nightgown in the crook of his arm.

He kept his eyes glued to the fence line, shoving the nightdress out of sight under the thatch of the roof eave. Then he studied Evelynn’s appearance with his full attention for the first time. Evelynn smiled up at him, too happy at being reunited to match his somber attitude.

“Damn.” He bit his bottom lip. “You still look like a girl.”

The way he said it made her cheeks redden. Like he’d meant a pretty girl.

Toma took her hand again. They squeezed around Marnie, rocking her little boy back to sleep. Old Willa and her daughter Freda clung to one another and cradled Marnie’s twins. The three sisters, Jessa, Marie, and Fern, kept a close eye on their children who fought noisily and cried and played in the muddy snow. There weren’t many men, Evelynn realized.

“Those that fought were cut down,” Toma said. “Others fled. But I doubt they’ll get far. Mounted warriors gave chase.”

Evelynn shivered, recalling the gleeful laughter of the creature who’d captured her.

“This’ll have to do,” Toma told her.

She didn’t see what he meant. He made her sit on an overturned bucket. Then she was surprised to feel him touching her hair. She winced when he brushed across the bruise on the back of her head. Her consternation turned to outrage when she heard the first metallic snip of the shears.

Toma hissed in her ear. “Sit still! Don’t draw attention.”

Evelynn hunched, tears beginning to cloud her vision. Tufts of her jet black hair fell into her lap and onto the backs of her hands. She gripped her knees and watched them fall. But her mind had begun to awaken to Toma’s urgency. He feared the consequences of her being thought a woman.

A girl, he had said. It both angered Evelynn that he’d take charge of her protection without even consulting her, and it frightened her. What had he already seen?

“Toma, where are your brothers?” She didn’t dare ask about his mother. Something about the image of fierce Aislin lying dead somewhere made Evelynn’s tongue cling to the roof of her mouth.

“They ran. I don’t doubt they’ll be brought back here before morning,” he said.

“Did you . . . did you fight?”

“What would’ve been the point?”

He ran a rough hand over her shorn scalp, dusting the wispy remnants away. Then he took the woolen hat out of her hands. Kneeling in front of Evelynn, he tugged the hat down over her ears, not unlike she’d seen him do for his little brothers countless times. Her breath caught in her throat when he met her eyes.

“Are your parents dead, Evie?”

She shook her head, hard. “Papa went for the patrol.”

Toma looked away from her. She knew he believed her Papa would’ve been slain like the others who’d fled.

“You don’t understand, he left before the raiders arrived!” Evelynn whispered. “I couldn’t sleep. I was outside —“

Evelynn remembered what she’d been thinking about, standing on her hilltop and gazing at Toma’s candlelit window. She flushed again, hating how easily her feelings showed on her face. But Toma didn’t seem to intuit her thoughts. His frown eased a bit.

“He left before, you say? Then, there’s a chance the patrol might arrive by morning.” He passed a hand over his eyes, his shoulders dropping. “We might be saved.”

Evelynn squeezed his hands reassuringly, beaming through her tears.

But Toma was relentless. “And your mother?”

Evelynn stood. She wiped her eyes, busied herself brushing the hair from Ivan’s shirt. She wanted to ask where Aislin was. But she also wanted Toma to drop the subject altogether. He grew distracted scanning the surroundings again, gripping Evelynn by the shoulder as he did so.

“Well, at least you’re safe. For now,” he whispered, as though it was a great secret who she really was.

“Where are your pigs?” Evelynn asked. Mostly because she didn’t want him to stop talking.

“They’re roasting them. Over there a ways,” Toma nodded in the direction of the village well. “Listen to me, Evie. You have to keep quiet and do what you’re told. If you can survive until the patrol comes, you might . . . you might get to see your Pa again.”

Evelynn swallowed hard. Then she nodded.

She suddenly felt quite cold. The numbness of her toes wasn’t too bad. But her clothes had been full of ice. As it melted on her warm skin and then refroze, her body heat had been slowly sapping away. Toma noticed her shivering.

“Hold on till morning,” he told her.

Then he slipped past the people standing close by and she couldn’t tell, in all the press of neighbors, where he went. She was abruptly alone. No one else spoke to her. All were burdened with their own sorrows and fears. Looking around at the women and children, she knew each of them had not only been dragged from their homes. They’d lost fathers, or husbands, or sons. Even now, they were too frightened to mourn openly, but merely clung tightly to whomever they had left.

Toma had been smart by not fighting.

Evelynn doubted any of the other survivors would see it that way.

A cold wind blew over the huddled Human flock. The woods beyond were filled with yips of glee, the snarl of the prowler, snapping of fanged jaws. No blood was spilled, but the hunters had chase enough to satiate them. It wasn’t fine hunting. Not with such ungainly prey. But it was the best sport they’d had in centuries; the only sport they’d had since falling into the Sleep.

Read Next Chapter

Dear Reader,

As Evelynn is probably not going to realize — be careful what you wish for! She was longing for something to change in her cyclical, agricultural corner of the kingdom, or for someone to arrive and carry her away from a life of drudgery and labor. Unfortunately, she’s going to get her wish.

I am curious what you think about these invaders — do they sound familiar? What do you suppose is their identity?

Cheers,

~LL

There are three ports of call at which a traveler may disembark, besides the lone closed port — belonging to the Elves at Castlease — which is hostile to unknown visitors. First, the port at Ivarsfree, a mercantile city on the northeastern shore facing the Great Sea, at which ships from the northern neighboring kingdoms, even Dwarven crafts, are wont to ply their trade. Second, the southernmost port at Scransunn Bay is the launching point for trade with the southern archipelago and lands beyond. Third, the massive trade hub hosted by the Citadel of the King, rests on the narrow inlet along Celandra’s western shore and is the landing place of Celandra’s forbears, Human and Elven alike, who sheltered in its hospitable embrace after fleeing the Great Cataclysm of yore.

Ivarsfree

Setting out from Ivarsfree, there are two path one might take, depending on one’s intended destination. A prudent traveler would be wise to hire a train of mules, regardless of the route, for Ivarsfree is remote from all other civilization and the journey toward fireside comforts will require many miles of swift and efficient expedition.

The south-leading road is the one I would recommend, because it will pass by many small Elven hamlets where supplies might be purchased. Though, it is true, the route leads through extremely bare lands lacking any vista of note. If we set out along the northern route (although, why you should want to I find bewildering), we shall take our leave of Ivarsfree from the Wheat Gate and pass through the golden fields of ripe grain.

If it be autumn, we shall hurry our mounts toward the high pass concealed by thick conifers as tall as ship masts, for we don’t want to be caught in an exposed place when winter storms arrive. It will take us a week to make the pass, and then another to descend its far side along dizzying switchbacks. When we reach the valley with its crystalline mountain lake, sparkling like a jewel among green hillocks, we will find the aptly-named village of Gem-In-Vale. There, though we will not find an inn to house us and though the folk are rough and common, we will be able to pause in the shelter of some well-chinked barn and catch a decent night’s slumber.

There are countless other small hamlets of shepherds and farmers tucked away in the nooks and crevices of this foreboding forestland. Loggers ply their trade along the banks of the Gold River; trappers move from outpost to outpost along the migration patterns of their prey; and, as a constant reminder of the rulership of Celandra’s King, noblemen sit warm and well-feasted inside their fast stone fortresses, to which these common folk bring an occasional, paltry tribute.

We shall be unwelcome at a lord’s hearth-fire unless we bring rich goods or intriguing entertainments. These northern folk are a hard and hardy people, and have little time for pleasantries.

There is a broad, well-kept road that runs through these woods, and when we stumble out of the grasp of the close-growing conifers, we will find our mounts travel more easily along this good road. However, at this juncture, there is a choice to be made. Shall you journey south, toward the more temperate farmlands and Citadel itself? Or will you turn north once more, and leave Celandra altogether, passing through the well-fortified gate which keeps our gentle lands from those blood-thirsting warmongers, the dwarfish folk known as Ezerites? Again, why you should risk such a thing is beyond my comprehension.

Thankfully, the road south leads us swiftly to the edge of this frigid northern region and along the banks of the Gold River we will discover the first of many of Celandra’s fine inns. The Miller’s Daughter will welcome us with real down mattresses, a stout barley ale, and hot food we need not prepare ourselves over a smokey campfire.

A half-dozen roads branch outwards over the sprawling Meridian Plains, crossing and criss-crossing each other and the Gold River’s many tributaries, like a giant network of mycelia.

The obvious choice, at this juncture, is to choose a path which leads south-southwest toward the coast. Our journey will take us — but, what is that you say? You’re not interested in visiting the seat of Celandra’s ruler? You’d rather take the scenic route?! Bless me.

Citadel of the King

Let us say, shall we, that you had originally chosen to make your landing at the Citadel. Your ship would be escorted to dock by one of the port master’s spry ferries and you, yourself would be given a visitor’s pip by which you might obtain reputable lodging for a discounted price on your first night. Such is the generosity of King Mervin to those who may, in time, bring profit and fame to his fair city.

You may be tempted to remain in Citadel for months on end, for there is much to do and see. The open-air pantomime, the Royal Market which draws renowned traders from all corners of the world to vie for the King’s patronage, the public statehouses with their stiff ceremonies, and the private celleries with their silver-tongued merchants hosting limited edition tastings — you may visit them all, for the King is keen on sparking your admiration in hopes you will spread the rumor of Citadel’s grandeur far and wide.

Alas, all good things must come to an end, as you say. The city is lousy with diversions, though to be quite honest, I still would not venture beyond your inn after dark. It is a city, after all!

Given time, these multitudinous entertainments lose their lustre, and the rest of the kingdom beckons beyond Citadel’s fair walls. We shall hire a carriage and horses and embark upon wide, well-kept roads once more.

The surrounding countryside is crowded with prosperous boroughs populated by land-owners and textile merchants. Their whitewashed slate houses fill rows of neat streets lined by poplar trees and wicket fences. Though the occasional shaggy sheepdog may bark at our passage, we see only the bright-scrubbed and beautiful faces of town folk who bought their place here through thrift and cunning business dealings.

But the Meridian is a vast green meadowland, and the hillocks to the south hold even richer farmland. Our good road wends west through a wildflower wilderness and we come to a crossing. Should you take the westernmost track — one grown over with grass and used mostly by the King’s Patrol on horseback — you’ll skirt the Duskwood and gain a closer view of the rippling peaks that form the backbone of the peninsula.

Perhaps you wish to delve into the ancient secrets of this kingdom’s history? Within the Duskwood lies a quiet lake which mirrors snow-capped peaks and golden fall colors in its cool, black water. At its center, a circular island protects a stone crypt and two score odd graves, the resting places of Kings and mages for generations. The shores of this mysterious, mystical place once offered shelter to the Elves. But sickness which brought many an early death drove them from the Duskwood. Their unmarked graves among the roots of ancient oak trees are all that remain to tell the story.

Will you linger in the Duskwood, where strange beasts once walked and ancient folk made their homes in caves on the mountainside? Or will you travel further south, where there are nearly as many roads to choose from as compass points?

To the south, you say? I heartily agree. We will be provided with all the comforts of civilization in this verdant lap of Celandra. From the Plain our road winds round hills that grow ever higher, blanketed by golden crops and rich dark earth, the true treasures of the southland.

Our road may wind past the three tall posts bearing the age-old name of Anderson, one post strung between the two to create a giant entryway to the family’s holdings. Have you heard the Anderson family’s most famous legend? How during the very infancy of the kingdom, when our king was little more than a clan chief, one young Anderson lad fell in love with one of the near-immortal Elf women and defied family and political stressors both to marry her? You should ask for its lay to be sung, next we rest at one of the South Green’s comfortable inns!

Scransunn

Suppose we make landfall first at Scransunn, sparkling gem of the southern isles, where water glittering like diamonds flows down mountain peaks to join the warm, clear water of an azure sea teeming with colorful coral and abundant fish. This port city is a merchant’s dream, and a vintner’s paradise. Arriving here at the start may cause the rest of Celandra to pale by comparison!

Southerner’s are famous for their hospitality. There’s a hostel in Scransunn boasting open doors year round, allowing those passing through this fair city to taste what it’s like to live as a local. In the courtyard, we find orange trees growing among honeysuckle to perfume the house, while no doorkeeper stands by to stop us and demand a fee — those in need come and go as they please. Some mornings we are greeted by the smell of baking bread, poached eggs, and a hearty porridge, prepared in the hostel kitchen by some generous neighbor who heard we were staying here. Scransunn’s reputation for open-hearted kindness is well-earned; you will find the like nowhere else in the kingdom!

There is much to divert our attention here, from the broad open-air Edisto Market boasting goods from faraway lands, to the tempting exploration of the fascinating islands dotting the bright bay, to the tasting of fresh vintage brought down from Scransunn’s prosperous vineyards. Local cuisine tempts our tastebuds, such as fresh tomatoes and goat cheese marinated in olive oil and herbs; alternatively, imported delicacies never heard of on these shores are brought by merchant ships!

If we linger through the seasons, we will find this southern town circled by mountains to be strangely sheltered from the vagaries of inclement weather. Apart from the occasional sea-born storm, we feel no freezing chill nor burning heat. All is pleasantness and plenty, in Scransunn Bay.

Alas, all things must pass. And so we travel onward.

North is the only direction to go, through the mountains, until we regain the rolling hills bordering the Meridian plain. But here we have a choice — we may skirt the mountains eastward, traveling along desert and swampland, until we reach Castlease of the Elves. Or we might journey into the Gubarashi mountains themselves, along winding, climbing paths, and visit the secluded home of Celandra’s mages — The Fingers — five towers which claw the sky like a mystic hand grasping after mysteries. Which path will you choose?

The Fingers

A unique feature of Celandra’s population, the five mage towers known as The Fingers rest atop the highest peaks of the Gubarashi Mountains, overlooking the entirety of Celandra from North to South, East to West. Some believe this is not merely symbolic, but allows the High Mage to see all, and know all!

We will find the climb more arduous than any of our previous travels. These roads are narrow and steep, carved into rock more often than not, and designed for foot traffic more than the easement of a carriage’s passing. The bumps and jolts are bone-jarring and leave us black and blue. We might wish we had walked, except for the fact that, once there, we will be grateful to have brought our own warm bedding and clothes.

The hospitality of Scransunn is unheard of among these mountain-dwellers. They are used to the cold; accustomed to living with the bare necessities of food and clothing, scuttling from tower to tower through subterannean tunnels which keep off the wind, but are still filled with icy chill. We could never have carried our wool coats and fur-lined slippers up the mountain on our backs, and so now we feel grateful for them, our bruises withstanding.

We shall not stay long, if the storms abate and our journey onward is assured. These mages are serious men, not used to visitors who present minute interruptions to the highly-stratified inner workings of this ascetic refuge from the rest of Celandra. We are underfoot, and will be made to feel that every man is grimacing under the privacy of his long, tangled beard, until we have bid them farewell and they may glare openly at our retreating backs.

Castlease of the Elves

At long last, our circuitous route has led us back to the northeastern shores of the kingdom, not far from Ivarsfree port where we landed. Let us imagine the Elves are feeling unusually gracious, and invite us behind their gem-canon encrusted walls.

Theirs is a city of architectural wonders — towers which are top-heavy and often joined to others with spider-web-like bridges of translucent glass; coral-shaped temples, houses, and gazebos which bring the strange beauty of their beloved sea onto land; glass-domed greenhouses full of vegetables and fruits year-round; countless variations of magic-crafted abodes, each more alien to our Human designs than the last. In Castlease, it is impossible to guess the function of a building by its appearance. Each is a mystery and a majestic testimony to Elven otherness.

If you are adept at manueavering subtle diplomatic cues and have a way with words, you may convince some of our hosts to show you their ways. No Human has ever been invited to share in their afternoon meditations, but a tolerant Elf might be persuaded to explain to you the function and methodology of these daily rituals.

If we are very lucky, we may be invited to an evening dinner party and enjoy the finest of delicate foods, music that transports us to other worlds, as well as displays of art and craftsmanship — all using magic, of course — which leave us believing we dreamed everything, so unreal and otherworldly their crafts will seem to us.

Castlease is a fitting place to end our travels.

For in Castlease we come to feel the strangness of the Concordance Treaty itself, and the unseen ties which bind our two peoples — Humans and Elves — are, for the moment, brought into sharp relief. We might come away wondering, What is it that holds this kingdom together? Is it really mere words crafted by our long-dead ancestors and the Elder Elves who yet remain? What a strange imabalance of power! How could a Treaty have lasted all this while? And what possible benefit could this strange people gain from remaining in concord with us?

Do not waste your time, dear traveling companion, in fruitless speculation. You will not soon uncover mysteries which generations of Human kind have laid to rest as unknowable, undesirable facts of life. This is Celandra, kingdom of Humans and Elves bound in symbiotic prosperity for three centuries. May she ever continue.

In the previous chapter, residents of a mountain valley tucked deep in the northern reaches of Celandra had gone about their day as usual, enduring an early snow and looking anxiously forward to a long, hard winter. One young woman, Evelynn, mused that nothing in their quiet corner of the kingdom ever changed, and she wished it would. She wanted to be something more than a villager’s wife, longed to see more than the hamlet she’d lived in all her life.

The sound of war is like the sound of crying, only louder. As if a man-sized babe could cry gravel-voiced sobs, its wails rising on the wings of fear. Evelynn had known the distant drums of war since her own babyhood. There was more than one time they’d fled Gem-in-Vale to hide in the mountain caves while a phalanx of Dwarves passed through. More often than not, they returned to find slaughtered livestock and burnt-out roofs. She still had nightmares about it.

Gulping cool night air, Evelynn slunk from the house holding her woolen blanket tight around her shoulders.

Tight as a hug.

She used to go to her mother with her nightmares, but Hala had seen more carnage than Evelynn and her heart was hardened to trepidation. Her factual restatement of their emergency plans did little to ease Evelynn’s tense body. But Hala had always been like that.

Evelynn watched her own boots moving sturdily over the slick, packed path her father had cut through the snow. Her feet were straight and strong, unlike her mother’s.

If ever danger arrived on their doorstep, Hala couldn’t run.

She could barely walk after being accidentally dropped off the side of the mountain mid-flight as a child. Her twisted ankle and shrunken foot were constant reminders of the Dwarven sea-raids that befell the coastal towns when Hala and Gran had lived in Ivarsfree. If the current unrest were ever to flame up into full war, Hala would hide and hope for the best. She had no other choice. The plan was for Evelynn and Joff to get help from the nearest patrol tower.

Evelynn shivered.

It was unimaginable, the thought of leaving her mother alone, cowering under the big bed frame, helpless. If anyone torched the house, Hala would suffocate. If she were discovered . . .

The tales of what happened to those left behind were not spoken aloud in Gem-in-Vale. But the shapeless horror was as vivid a threat in Evelynn’s imagination as death itself, all the more so for not knowing exactly what she feared.

The blanket wasn’t heavy enough to be a real hug. There was warmth, but it wasn’t Human.

Evelynn sought distraction instead. There was plenty to bedazzle the eye in the moonlit scene below her. The snow-cloaked hill descended toward the village like a white linen cloth over a cheese-wheel. Hummocks in the snow marked where the village folk had buried their corn to keep until spring.

The months since that first snow had been kind. The ground was frozen hard enough to support clean, packed trails through it. Without any mud to contend with, there wasn’t a need to constantly wash laundry in freezing water. Evelynn counted herself lucky to be spared that chore.

She picked out the tiny hump of a cottage half-buried in snow drifts that was Gran’s. A strong stream of smoke puffed up from the chimney. Evelynn smiled down at it, picturing Gran under her mountain of quilts. Then her gaze followed the street over to the Leeland house. It was a long, single-story home that lay half-buried in the side of a hill. Its coolness in summer was the envy of the village. Whenever she got too hot Hala teased Joff for not thinking to build the cottage under their hill instead of atop it. But Joff argued that the lake beyond their windows provided a better view than the Leeland’s pig pasture.

With that feeling of amusement, Evelynn’s fear lifted from her belly. Her grinning teeth chattered against one another. But she wasn’t quite ready to go inside.

There was light in the Leeland house. The bedroom she knew belonged to Toma had a glowing window. It was a curiosity. What activity merited burning good wax to perform past midnight? Was he carving some toy for the baby brother who’d only survived their father by a few months? Did something of Mrs. Leeland’s need mending?

Evelynn smirked, Does Toma have a secret hobby? Maybe he’s knitting a wool scarf for someone.

She decided to think about that while she tried to get some sleep before dawn and chore-time. It was a lovely picture to hold in her mind — the single, bright light piercing the dark night and making the snow beneath Toma’s window look yellow as cow butter.

Then a second light caught Evelynn’s eye.

And a third.

Her stomachache returned. Her nightmare was reaching through the muzzy un-realness of sleep to arrive, right there, in her valley. They were coming down the mountainside, though the trees. A dark smudge on the snow, moving between black trunks, alerted her to someone’s approach just as clearly as the bobbing lights that flickered between pine branches. They carried torches, not lanterns. It was likely that these were Dwarven forces, crossing into Celandra via secret mountain tunnels. The village was in danger!

Evelynn slipped and slid back to the cottage door. She didn’t bother to close it.

“Papa! Papa, the Dwarves are coming.”

Playing counterpoint to her pounding heart was the cry, it’s come, the worst has come! She would have to leave her helpless mother to the mercy of fate.

Evelynn helped her Papa put on boots, coat, knitted muffler, hat, and gloves. All the while, Hala stood in the doorway of the bedroom and watched, holding Evelynn’s coat. Evelynn shook her head. Her heart simply refused to do it. She didn’t know whether she’d be able to do anything if the danger came to their doorstep, but at least Evelynn would be here to try.

“I’m not going,” she told her Papa, pushing him toward the door. “I can’t leave mother alone!”

He glanced outside. The torch light had reached the white fields above the village. There was no time for arguments.

He drew the knife from his belt and pushed it into Hala’s hands. The rest of her he crushed in a bear hug. Hala couldn’t keep the tears from streaming down her face, but there was no time for him to wipe them away as he usually did. He gripped Evelynn’s face in his hands and planted a firm kiss on her forehead.

Without a word, Joff left them.

Evelynn bolted the cottage door. Hala hobbled over to the hearth and doused the flames with the porridge water. Perhaps if there was no smoke coming from their chimney, the intruders would think the house empty. Evelynn dragged the table against the door. She added the heavy sack of corn for good measure. But it was a pitiful defense.

“Come.” Hala nudged Evelynn’s shoulder, breaking into her numb consideration of their hopeless refuge.

Evelynn joined her mother in crawling across the dirt floor to curl up in the back corner of the house. They lay under a woolen blanket, nestled together. Hiding under the big carved bed frame made Evelynn feel like a mouse squeezed under a floorboard. She hoped no terriers would come sniffing.

“What will the village folk do?” Evelynn whimpered. “They’ll have no warning.”

“It’s already too late.” Hala told her.

Evelynn was used to her mother being matter-of-fact to the extent of callousness. But Gran was down there! Didn’t the thought make Hala’s stomach twist with dread as much as Evelynn’s?

Toma will have to fight. He’ll keep the foe busy while his mother slips away with the younger children. Evelynn realized the likelihood of her ever seeing Toma again was almost none. He’d be killed.

“Sometimes . . .” Hala ventured. Her words faltered, as though she felt clumsy offering comfort. “Sometimes invaders have a place they need to get to quickly without being seen. We should pray they slip through the village quietly. Attacking us here might actually alert the patrol to their presence. Perhaps they will travel further south before pillaging.”

It was not much, but even the slim hope Hala offered Evelynn was more than nothing. The young girl took hold of it with all her might. Squeezing her eyes shut, she let her heart echo with a resounding cry of Please! Let them pass through us!

It was not a cry which could be answered, for the figures Evelynn had seen were not Dwarves.

Read Next Chapter

Dear Reader,

There was — once upon a time — a version of this story in which Evelynn was the main character! This chapter’s predecessor was the opening scene. Fortunately for you, she was grandly upstaged by Danen in the most delightful ways, and when re-drafts happened I chose to make him the star of the show instead of dear Evie. She now exists in this tale as a sort of common man/woman for us to empathize with. I think she fits this role just fine.

Cheers!

~LL

In the last chapter, Prince Ruvellius encountered Danen sneaking away from responsibilities under Lewison’s watchful eye — preparations for his own wedding not the least of those. Ignoring Danen’s reluctance to comply, Ruvellius insists they ride out with the patrol to see the kingdom at sleep. A bit of fresh air and perspective never did the prince any harm, after all.

When Ruvellius turned back to the Captain, he had already mounted and appeared ready to ride out. Captain Efver was not heavily-built, like most of his retinue. More of a scout, Ruvellius surmised. But he carried himself with the unspoken authority that Ruvellius envied whenever he had need of such a presence. He was not very good at pretending to look down on people.

“Your highness.” Captain Efver greeted him with a short bow from the saddle. “How may I serve?”

Ruvellius took a step backward, wishing the man’s head were not so far above his own. He was forced to crane his neck to speak with him. “Good evening, sir. I believe you are riding out shortly?”

The smile that twitched at Efver’s stubbly jaw was not mockery, but it told Ruvellius plainly enough how the Captain perceived him. “That is correct, your highness. We are on the night watch.”

“We will ride with you,” Ruvellius said. “Myself and my cousin, there.”

“With respect, sir,” Captain Efver said, taking in Ruvellius from his fluffy blonde head to his heeled boots. “The roads can be desolate some nights, filled with danger on others. If I were to accommodate your Highness, I’d wish for a good deal more men to accompany us. As it is, we must be riding out immediately. My men are spread thin, clearing the city of ruffians ahead of the wedding.”

At mention of the approaching ceremony, Efver’s gaze lingered on Ruvellius’ cousin. He frowned, as though trying to place the young man. For some reason, the prince instinctually moved to prevent the Captain from discovering Danen’s full identity.

“Do not trouble yourself over our safety,” Ruvellius replied. He clipped the words, tilting his shoulders to signal he was about to part ways with the Captain under the assumption his request had been granted. “If you will be so good as to lend me a sword, I’ll look after my own safety.”

Captain Efver studied him a moment longer, sent another searching glance in Danen’s direction, then nodded. He ordered another sword be brought and tested the balance and feel of it in the night air before handing it over to the prince. His casual acceptance bolstered the prince’s spirits.

“Better take this, too,” the Captain said, reaching behind him to unfasten something from his saddle. He tossed a heavy cloak at Ruvellius. “For your cousin.”

The prince nodded curtly, then darted across the courtyard, dodging men and horses to rejoin Danen. Cobalt was prancing at the end of his reign, eager to go, while Danen eyed the stallion warily, holding the leather chord by its very end. Ruvellius abruptly threw the cloak around Danen’s shoulders, fastening it on with the maroon-gemmed fibula styled in the royal heraldry.

As the men around them called out their readiness, Ruvellius watched his cousin awkwardly mount the staid mare with some trepidation. His cousin had spoken truly when he implied he wasn’t much of a rider — the way he slouched in his seat like a sack of flour spoke volumes. But Ruvellius supposed even so slight a fellow would have enough instinct to cling to the saddle.

Ruvellius mounted Cobalt, and smacked his black steed’s proud neck affectionately. He allowed himself to enjoy the nervous excitement that was coursing through his limbs. Cobalt wasn’t a battle-horse, but whenever they went cross-country hunting he was as swift and spirited an animal as Ruvellius could wish.

“Move out, lads.” Efver didn’t have to raise his voice. It held enough command to carry.

Ruvellius followed behind the Captain, restraining Cobalt, who yearned to take the lead. The stallions dam followed close behind with Danen. The small party of cloaked riders wound their way through the palace grounds to the palace gate.

In the dark, the prince didn’t stand out among the other men on patrol. His forest green tunic was almost indecipherable from the patrol’s maroon tabards. Whether his father had given orders regarding his restriction to the palace or not made no difference. The gatekeeper did not require the patrol to halt and identify themselves. The prince rode on, entering Citadel at midnight in defiance of the King’s judgment.

With a self-satisfied smile, Ruvellius straightened in his saddle and gazed around. He twisted around to grin at Danen. The city felt different at night. The close-leaning buildings that provided pleasant shade during a hot summer market day loomed gaunt and gloomy on a moonlit midnight. In a way he’d never seen before, Citadel revealed itself to him as a place of walls and shadows. A place where the truth of night gave way to the bright show of fortune Citadel presented by day.

When the sun arrived, thieves and beggars and drunkards were tucked away out of sight like snow melting. The waifs he rode past tonight, scrabbling in an alley over food scraps, would be apprehended by the city patrol tomorrow and sent into the countryside. During the day, no law-abiding citizen walked in fear of what lay around a corner.

Citadel at night was different.

Ruvellius followed the patrol through the heavily-fortified main gate. He gritted his teeth, repulsed by the grosser aspects of his beloved city. But a prince ought to know such things about his kingdom, grim though they be. He wasn’t a child. Whether his father liked the idea or not, someday he’d be sitting on that throne.

Someday, Ruvellius promised himself, there will be a true King’s justice.

The thought of it infected him as much as the moonlight on the open road infected his horse. It would’ve been foolish to give the beast his rein and race ahead, forcing the patrol to keep up with him whether they wanted to or not. But Cobalt’s shrill whinny got the other horses breaking into a canter despite their rider’s best efforts at holding them. Captain Efver permitted them a short gallop.

When the torchlights of the watchers on Citadel’s walls had dimmed to the twinkle of starlight, the patrol reigned in at the foot of the first watchtower. Ruvellius pulled Cobalt back hard and reached out to grasp the mare’s reign, which Danen had lost in the race across the frozen plain. His cousin glared, white-faced, in response to the prince’s muffled laughter. Danen let go of the saddle, rubbing life back into his cold hands.

The watchtower stood alone in a vast emptiness, without wall or house alongside. Within the three-story pillar of stone were stored enough provisions and beds for those who kept the country surrounding it safe from threats, both human and animal. But only the empty road stood as testament to the presence of Human kind in the quiet stillness.

A soldier emerged from the tower door. He held the bridle of Efver’s horse and stamped his feet to keep them warm while he gave his report — no skirmishes, a farm to the south reported a bear attack to the patrol but further investigation found the man had exaggerated. Efver received the report with a curt nod and then their party was on the road again.

They stopped at two other towers, working their way through the countryside to the east and north. After three hours of riding, Ruvellius could make out the darker, rounded shapes of trees to the east. The scud of forest known as the Duskwood was not deep, but stretched to the north and south along the narrow border between the Meridian Plains and the mountains. The deciduous trees skirted the base of massive peaks and rugged mountain ridges harboring shadow-cloaked valleys. High above the Plains, Gubarashi’s white beard — the snow caps — glimmered in the moonlight. Five black towers rose in a line along the top of them, resembling a hand clawing the night sky.

Ruvellius pointed them out to Danen. “It’s rumored that from The Fingers, the High Mage can see every inch of farmland and forest, as well as every man, woman, and child of Celandra’s people. What do you think of that, eh, cousin?”

Danen sat motionless on his horse and squinted at the distant, almost indecipherable smudges of dark against the grey mountain peaks.

A superstitious notion, no doubt. Ruvellius couldn’t even see a flicker of torchlight from such a distance. But if it were true, I doubt there’d be so many beggars washing up in Citadel’s streets like the kingdom’s flotsam.

He glanced over at Danen, who slouching completely hid his face in the depths of his cloak hood. It was difficult to imagine this man shouldering their Uncle’s steep responsibility. However, if great enough power such as the High Mage was rumored to have were to exist, Ruvellius wasn’t sure he’d feel comfortable knowing someone like his cousin were wielding it. He has a sort of desperate feel to him.

Ruvellius shook the dread from his thoughts, reminding himself he barely knew his cousin. It was unfair to judge his capabilities as lacking when their uncle, who surely knew Danen much better, had already decided he was fit for the job.

They arrived at the third watchtower in the plain, the last before they would turn back toward Citadel, just after the moon set. At least, such was the plan before Captain Efver heard the gaurdsman’s account of recent events.

“Two of the King’s Guard went missing this morning, sir. I sent word to the Keep. We received an large search party this afternoon and sent them on with instructions to report back before nightfall with their findings. We’ve seen nor heard anything from either group.”

“Thoughts?” Captain Efver took a swig of his waterskin. “Is this a resurgence of the brigands we disbanded a month ago, or something else?”

The soldier shifted on his feet, eyeing Ruvellius and Danen. When the prince met his eye, he gave a half-smile and respectful nod. However, Ruvellius’ efforts at allaying suspicion failed to dispose the man to speak further. Captain Efver stashed his waterskin and moved several paces up the road, out of earshot. Ruvellius could not decipher the words that passed between them. But he read expressions not often seen on the rough features of a man-at-arms.

What does he fear? Ruvellius wondered, searching the surrounding countryside for a clue.

For the first time that night, he felt exposed. The dark smudge of trees loomed closer than he’d thought them before. A field of snow lay between the road and the woodlands. It wasn’t the place for an ambush, and yet, Ruvellius wondered what sorts of dangers might be sheltering in those trees. How would Ruvellius fare, if his life depended on fighting? Would the dawn light creep over his cold, dead face? Or would his lessons in swordsmanship, sparring against retired knights who feared his father’s reproof, be enough to ensure his survival?

The echo of his bold assurances to the Captain earlier that night rang hollow in his memory. I’ll look after my own safety. He’d said it. Now, he might have to make good on his word. Ruvellius studied his cousin discretely. Mage or not, he felt little confidence that his cousin would be much of a fighter, should circumstances arise to require it. My safety, and the safety of all who ride with me.

Read Next Chapter.

Dear Reader,

You’ve got to feel a bit for dear Vell. He’s such a bleeding heart, poor fellow, that he can’t resist an opportunity to help another person. Do you suppose he’ll make a good King someday?

Cheers,

~LL

In the previous chapter, Lewison revealed his intention — however briefly — to make Danen his successor to the role of High Mage.

Danen’s spell-induced nap didn’t last long. When he woke, he found himself leaning back in one of their cabin’s bolted-down dining chairs. Aster sat in another, painstakingly trimming a goose feather with a silver penknife. A box containing ink bottles and a blotter sat open in the middle of the table next to books and a sheaf of thick parchment. Lewison was elsewhere.

Danen stretched, yawning noisily. “When did I fall asleep? Did I miss anything?”

Aster looked at him with a raised eyebrow that plainly said Danen had made a fool of himself again. Clenching his hands on the tabletop, Danen recalled the number of times he’d already been reprimanded in the few short days he’d spent with his Uncle. Compared to Aster, he was a nuisance. Danen opened his hands and looked at his un-earned callouses. I’m a free spirit, while Aster’s a self-righteous lapdog.

Danen watched Aster open one of the books and begin copying some of the script on a blank page, his feather nib scratching noisily as he scraped ink across the thick paper. Each brush stroke was painfully slow and the nib kept catching on the rough texture of the paper, then breaking free with a wayward splatter of ink. Aster’s letters looked as ungainly as a small child’s, gradually lining up the top of the page.

Danen was surprised that Aster was actually bad at something, until he remembered that his friend had spent all his life on a farm. Most likely, he’d been outside in the fields every day and hadn’t spent much time with books or parchment.

“If you don’t push down so hard on the pen, it won’t catch like that,” Danen told him. He couldn’t help but feel a little sheepish giving unsolicited advice. It wasn’t like he was much of a scholar, either.

“I know, but when I do that I can’t get the ink to flow very well.” Aster’s voice was steady. “I’ll get it eventually.”

Danen scowled at him. Crossing his arms, he leaned back and threw one of his booted feet onto the table. “Why are you doing that, anyway?”

“I remember stuff better when I write it down.” Aster finished his first line, dipped the nib into the ink again, and carefully wiped the excess on the neck of the jar. “This is one of your uncle’s books about casting sustained spells. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to learn a bit more while we’re stuck inside. He said we’re not allowed out on the deck until we arrive.”

Aster didn’t put a fine point on it, but Danen knew the reason why they were banned from leaving the cabin, and he felt a familiar pressure rising in him.

“Don’t get angry,” Aster said. He placed the pen in the ink well and looked over at Danen. “I can feel that anger coming off you in waves, you know. But this isn’t a punishment. It’s just the wisest course of action.”

“Sure,” Danen huffed sarcastically. “And it’s not my fault either.”

Aster wordlessly returned to his copying. He had shaved that morning and it made Danen even more frustrated to notice he’d managed to do it without nicking himself, on board a rocking ship, at that! He rubbed his palm across his own smooth jawline. Vinier men didn’t have much facial hair.

When Danen had splashed water on his face that morning and looked into the tortoise-shell mirror, he’d confronted an image of himself he barely recognized. Then, he’d gone pale with shock. There was almost no difference between the face he saw in the mirror and the stern visage of Kalaran, except that when his father grew his hair out it curled instead of standing up straight like Danen’s.

The sight had brought back all of Danen’s ire. He’d been stewing on it all morning, until his unexpected nap. It wasn’t fair, how the man had treated his Amma! If his uncle was serious about making him the next High Mage, it would be the perfect opportunity to make Kalaran regret disowning him. All he had to do was prove to Lewison that he could do it.

Danen glared at his rough hands and the other young man’s more seasoned ones. If Aster keeps this act up, I might have to compete with him for the succession. There isn’t really any reason why Uncle would have to choose me over him — we’re both commoners, despite Amma being a princess once upon a time . . .

“You’re not doing yourself any good wallowing,” Aster interrupted Danen’s thoughts.

“I thought only eldest sons were supposed to be self-righteous goads,” Danen growled. “Aren’t you one of the younger ones in your family? Or is it because the Andersen name is renowned and respected that you have to act like you’re better than the average common farmer?”

Dropping the pen onto the paper, Aster gazed at Danen with knit brows. It was almost comically sad, how shocked he seemed by Danen’s biting tone. It almost made him regret the harsh words. But his stomach was full of gyrating stones, and he couldn’t stop clenching his jaw long enough to get a good, deep breath.

“Actually, I only have two younger brothers. And they never listened to me after— “Aster’s eyes darted away from Danen’s guiltily. “Well, after something my older brothers told them about me. I’m used to keeping to myself.” He frowned at his most recent ink blotch. “Maybe you’re right, though. I might have picked up a bad habit of looking down on other people because of that.”

The one-time farmer spread his broad hands over the page, then reached across the table and snapped his book shut. He rested his elbows over the tabletop and met Danen’s eye. “I used to soil the bed a lot. My brothers would steal my sheets and hang them up by the entrance of our holding so whoever passed by could smell it. After awhile, I took to hiding them. But that was even more an admission of guilt, and they were merciless in their teasing. I guess that made me learn pretty quickly that if I cared about what other people thought about me I’d be miserable all the time.”

Danen swallowed. The stones in his belly sunk down deep, making him heavy and hollow.

Aster continued. “I started getting up early to go out to the fields with my Da. He’s not a big talker. We would just work a couple furrows apart all morning. Then when we walked back to the house for breakfast my sleepy brothers were just getting started with their chores, and I could tell myself at least one person appreciated me being there. Da never even had to say he was proud of me. I knew I did good work.”

There was a moment of silence that felt, to Danen, about as long as he could hold his breath. When he couldn’t stand sitting there listening to Aster any longer, he jumped out of his chair and began to pace the room.

“Maybe Uncle Lew should just make you the next High Mage,” he huffed. “You were a decent farmer, you’re already a dependable acolyte, and who knows — maybe that knot-tying exercise was a test of our willingness to follow ridiculous instructions — which means you passed and I didn’t! All your hard work might make up for your being a farmer’s son. With a name like Anderson maybe it won’t matter you don’t have a drop of royal blood in you.”

“Stop trying to get into a fight with me,” Aster said, sighing. He opened his book again and picked up the feather pen. “It won’t work.”

“Stop being such a page-stool! You’re insufferable.”

Aster cocked his head quizzically. “Page . . . stool?”

Danen reddened. “It means someone like a — a person who — El’s!” He rushed to stand over Aster and grabbed the pen from his fingers. “Give me that!”

Scrawling across the bottom of the page Aster was using, Danen sketched a very stubby-legged horse that looked more like a cow wearing a saddle, and then outlined a person bent over in a crouch for a stick person wearing a crown to step on like a stepping stool. “That’s a page-stool,” Danen explained, tossing the feather pen on top of his drawing.

“So . . . “Aster picked the pen up and wiped ink off the feather tip. “Someone who is getting ahead by making himself indispensable to someone rich and powerful?”

Danen ran his hands through his hair. “Don’t make it sound like a good thing! Nobody likes a page-stool.”

Aster put the feather pen into the ink well and then went to wash his hands in the water ewer. He dried them, his eyes following Danen’s erratic pacing around the room.

“How generous of you to worry about my being well-liked. Though, it seems like you’re more worried about winning, even though there’s no competition between us. It’s not like I could be the High Mage, even if your uncle wanted me to be.”

“I don’t care about it, anyway. It’s not like he was serious. I’m a commoner too.” Danen threw himself into the window seat and glared out across the choppy water. “This is stupid, isn’t it?”

Aster went and leaned against the window frame. The tops of each wave were scudded with white foam. It was no wonder the ship was riding more jauntily than it had been. Both of them watched the colorful scene in silence for a bit while Danen’s belly continued churning.

“Even when I can feel the tension coming off you like a headwind, I don’t know what I’m doing to make you upset.”

Danen pursed his lips moodily. “I know you don’t mean to do it, but I’m just tired of looking like an idiot by comparison.”

“Who’s comparing us?” Aster shrugged. “We have far more in common than not. Neither of us know anything about magic, we’re both being thrown in over our heads. Your uncle isn’t exactly the most adept at teaching. He’s too busy to catch us up on everything we’re missing — for me that’s a lot of book-learning, for you . . . maybe just a bit of common sense?”

Danen tisked.

“My point is, both of those things are problems we can overcome. It just takes time.”

“Aster — the listen to me, I’m such a wise older brother tone comes very naturally to you!” Danen laughed. “You’re doing it again.”

When his friend’s face took on a pink shade, Danen’s laughter roared the louder. He punched one of the window seat cushions gleefully, then threw it at his friend. Aster ducked, caught it, and lobbed it right back.

“Watch it, Aster, you might break the window with your amazing strength!” Danen teased.

“Go read a book,” Aster said, chuckling.

“I better,” Danen agreed, sobering. “You might not think this is a competition, but I’m going to treat you like my rival. Someday you’re going to be the one coming to me for advice. I swear it!”

He offered Aster his arm, and they shook hands on it, Aster pulling Danen up out of the window seat. When Lewison brought them lunch a few hours later, he found Aster had finished taking notes on the short overview of sustained spells. Danen was snoring comfortably at the end of the table, a half-finished page leaving ink marks on his ruddy cheek.

“Taking up a little art on the side, eh?” Lewison chuckled, examining the drawing of a page-stool on the bottom of Aster’s work.

“No, that’s not art.” Aster took it from him and folded it up. Putting it in his pocket, he tapped the fabric twice. “That’s my reminder not to be an ass.”

Read Next Chapter.

Dear Reader,

Thank you for your continued support of this story!

Cheers,

~LL

In the previous chapter, Pearelle and Gowell shared a disturbing dream. For Gowell, the only thing strange about the experience was the presence of an Elf he’d never met. But as his sleep was constantly plagued by the sorts of terrifying and tragic violence they both witnessed, he remained less perturbed. For Pearelle, the dream became personally troubling when she recognized Danen in one of the scenes which played out before her.

Pearelle’s thin hair clung to the back of her neck. She pulled a strand of it out of her mouth, panting for breath. Her pulse beat so hard against the side of her throat, it hurt.

She sat up and hugged her knees. The nervous energy inside of her rioted for release. Rocking back and forth, whimpering like a tormented child, she bit into her bottom lip. Still, the horrifying detail of torture would not fade from her mind’s eye. It had been Danen’s hand extended toward the victim. Danen’s face had twisted in hatred as he inflicted pain on that helpless creature.

Could the devil she’d seen really have been the same man who’d captured her imagination on the beach? He’d grasped her deepest desire and tried to give it to her. Her hand in the crook of his arm had felt warm, her face had received the echoing brightness of a shared smile. The laughter that had come from him had seemed pure and full of light. Could the man she saw in her dream have been someone else? Or could Danen actually be a monster?

Ever since her near-drowning, her mother had assured her it was a good thing the Innerend was gone. And then, in an ironic twist of events which Pearelle would swear Lady Amadeah had never foreseen, the Elven Council had chosen to arrange the marriage between them. To Pearelle, it was not completely surprising. Soul twins had a way of finding each other, or so the tales were told.

What then of this dire dreaming?

Throwing the heavy quilt off of her, she rose to her feet. Drawing the long, linen nightdress away from her ankles, Pearelle padded softly over the mat floor, down the smooth wood floorboards of the hall, and into the chilly bedroom at the far end of their Castlease house.

As the wind mages had predicted, snow had come early this year. Her mother liked to sleep with the windows open, even in early winter. Pearelle’s toes cramped with the cold almost immediately. Without ceremony, Pearelle shoved her icy feet under the edge of her mother’s quilts. Lady Amadeah had not been asleep when she’d entered the room. Pearelle could tell by how fast her mother was breathing. Pearelle was sure what she had to say would come as no surprise.

“Mother,” she whispered, “tonight, I dreamed.”

Elves do not dream.

At least, none of those without the moon affinity do. And not all with the gift are shown dreams. Elves are never bothered with the left-over feelings of imaginary arguments, anxieties, or frustrated longings when they wake. The silly distractions and suggestions of made-up dreams are the convention of the Human mind. Elves are happy to be missing out.

But Lady Amadeah was a dreamer. A famous one.

She’d always told Perealle she should be prepared for the day her own gift awakened. It was not a question of if it would happen, but when. Until this night, Pearelle had anticipated her awakening with fascinated dread. Now, she knew such feelings had been completely justified.

“It was awful,” she told her mother. “I saw so many —”

Pearelle didn’t know the right word for what she saw. The carnage was disgusting. The deaths were tragic. The hatred and fear, saddening. But the torture of that poor, pitiful, old creature . . .

She squeezed her eyes shut, biting the inside of her cheek.

Lady Amadeah pulled herself closer to her daughter under the blankets. She took the extra quilt off her bed and draped it over Pearelle’s shoulders. Until then, the young Elf hadn’t noticed how her whole body was trembling.

“The first dream is never easy,” her mother cooed, hugging her.

Her arm around Pearelle felt very strong. She knew her mother’s first dream had been of the Cataclysm. There had been much violence and death in that dream, too. And then afterwards, Amadeah had lived to see with her very eyes many of the tragedies of which she’d dreamt. Pearelle wondered what she would’ve done if she’d had tonight’s dream sixty years ago, before she was even a Cent, the age her mother had been when she’d first dreamed. Pearelle shuddered, wondering how her mother had not gone mad with fear.

“Tell me, dear,” Lady Amadeah urged her daughter. “It helps.”

“It was a dream of war. But not just war. There was someone —“

Pearelle hesitated to go on, though she knew she’d need her mother’s help to interpret the dream. Even experienced dreamers sometimes needed to consult with other, more experienced Elves to unearth the truth within their foretelling dreams. But Pearelle hesitated because she knew her mother wouldn’t like what she had to share. Ever since the accident, Igneous and their mother had taken every opportunity to disparage the High Mage’s choice of successor and the Council’s apparent lack of principles in allowing him to have his way, not to mention entangling Pearelle in the matter.

“Whatever you saw, and whatever you did in your dream, it is not my place to pass judgment on you.” Her mother’s guess was wrong. It wasn’t personal guilt that made Pearelle bite back the truth. But the tenderness in her mother’s tone made Pearelle feel a little better.

“I didn’t see myself. I saw . . . “ Pearelle drew her knees up under her chin and rubbed her shins with her cold hands. “I saw Danen Vinier.”

Lady Amadeah went very still.

Pearelle couldn’t fathom what her mother might be thinking, but she knew the Elven lady had struggled, endlessly, against the Council’s decision. It was a weighty responsibility. Not one any Elf would be eager to accept for themselves, not to mention for a cherished daughter. And yet, it wasn’t entirely surprising to anyone that Pearelle had been chosen.

Both her parents had been frank with her since she was old enough to understand how different she was from other Elves. She’d always known she’d never be able to have a ‘normal’ life. Lady Amadeah had appeared before the Council to insist that the Innerend would be the death of her daughter, if not the end of the realm. That Pearelle had accepted the Council’s decision remained an unspoken tension between mother and daughter ever since.

“Is this why I’m supposed to marry him, perhaps? To stop whatever he’s going to do when he becomes High Mage?”

It hurt to put it into words. The truth smothered the tiny, fragile piece of Pearelle that wanted to believe she could have a marriage like everybody else’s. If not love, she’d hoped for at least companionship. Now, picturing herself sharing a meal with the man who’d tortured that fragile, elderly creature, was a stark impossibility. Pearelle would never be able to trust even her safety with the man she was arranged to marry.

Yet part of her couldn’t reconcile the person she’d seen in her dream with the Danen she’d met. She reached up her sleeve to touch the amulet wrapped around her forearm. The bumpy texture of the seashell was comforting.

“I cannot interpret what you saw for you,” Lady Amadeah said, recovering from her surprise. She began stroking Pearelle’s moon-colored hair to soothe her. “Start from the beginning. Don’t leave out any details. Did you hear anyone speak to you directly? Was there any message conveyed, at all?”

Pearelle frowned. Who would be speaking to her from her dreams? “I wasn’t alone there. Someone else was . . . well, we were both standing apart from what happened, witnessing it.”

Lady Amadeah’s hands stopped moving. Pearelle winced as one of her hairs snagged on her mother’s fingernails. When her mother spoke, her voice was solemn. “Who was there with you?”

“It wasn’t an enemy. He was very kind. He tried to help me not feel afraid. But I’ve never seen a creature like him. He was strange. But he had the gentlest manner. That’s why it was so surprising to see him on the battlefield. Another him, I mean. An angrier, more dangerous version of him.”

“You said he looked strange? Describe his features.” A note of steel had entered Lady Amadeah’s tone, and Pearelle sat straighter.

“What is it, mother? You sound . . .” Pearelle wanted to say afraid, but it was difficult to imagine Amadeah feeling such a thing. She’d lived through the Cataclysm, been plagued by terrifying dreams, and even more terrifying memories. “You sound worried,” Pearelle amended.

“Did the creatures you saw happen to have ears like ours? Tusks or horns? Was the color of their skin like a landscape painter’s palette — browns and greens and grey-blue?”

Pearelle frowned. Now that she thought of it, the creature she’d spoken with had had green-grey skin, like a swamp toad’s. She nodded.

“It can’t be!” Lady Amadeah’s gasp shuddered through her lips like a wheezing tea kettle. Her nails bit down into Pearelle’s shoulder without meaning to. She pulled her daughter around and stared intently at her face, eyes wide with apprehension. “Tell me . . . tell me all of it!”

When Pearelle had finished, her mother sat silent for a long while. She stirred herself, and sighed as deeply as though she’d been given tragic news she’d already feared and expected.

“You must tell no one of this.” Lady Amadeah took her daughter’s hand, stroking the back of it and running her thumb across her daughter’s cold fingers. “Pearelle, I know you like to be stubborn about these sorts of things. But you must realize what is at stake here!”

“I don’t understand.” Pearelle ran her fingers through her hair and pulled it over her shoulder. “I mean, I know it would be awful if this dream came to pass just as I saw it. The bloodshed was terrible! But those creatures — they weren’t Human, not Elven, certainly not Dwarven — what could they have to do with us? What if . . . what if the spell Danen used in my dream was meant to save Celandra somehow?”

Pearelle shivered, knowing in her bones that the spell had been evil, despite her fair words. She began to weave her hair into a four-stranded braid, distracting her mind from the frantic energy coursing through her while she listened to her mother speak on.

“Those creatures are called Osakk. They are one of the lost peoples. I thought the daemons had made an end of them during the Cataclysm,” Lady Amadeah said in a dry tone. She appeared to have recovered from her shock. “If they appear in Celandra, we will have need of diplomacy and cunning, more than arcane, forbidden spells such as the one you saw Danen Vinier using. His reason for doing such a thing would not be to save Celandra, but to establish his own power.”

Lady Amadeah shook her head, sadly. “Humans are predictable, my dear. Their greed grows, no matter how it is glutted. They are the children of Mannus, after all. It is their nature to seek to destroy themselves and everything else with them.”

“How can you say such a thing?!” Pearelle cried, dropping her hair to clutch her mother’s hand pleadingly. “Mother, you know it is our sacred duty to heal the—”

“An impossible and ignoble task! Unworthy of our sage and sovereign race!” Lady Amadeah spat.

Pearelle withdrew her hands, shrinking away from Lady Amadeah. She stared at the lines of fury etched into the beautiful Elven face, knowing that they were cracks through which Pearelle might glimpse the depths of Amadeah’s soul. Her mother harbored a deep hatred of Human kind. That much was now quite plain.

Pearelle slowly rose to her feet. I cannot trust her wisdom any longer, for it has grown clouded.

She turned to leave.

“Daughter, wait.” Lady Amadeah spat the words, as though she had been offered grave insult. “Promise me, before you go, that you will take my advice and tell no one of your dream. Furthermore, if you insist on proceeding with this marriage arrangement, you must steel yourself for the task which will await you. There will come a day when the Innerend falls into your hand, some moment of vulnerability or seclusion. On that day, you must not falter. You must end his life, for the sake of us all.”

A new fear clawed at Pearelle’s belly. What did her mother just say — she ought to kill him? She turned slightly, to stare over her shoulder, unwilling to hear what would surely break her heart, but determined all the same to draw from Amadeah one final truth.

“Mother, did you flay the mind of Danen Vinier?”

Lady Amadeah startled. Her eyes widened, even while her hands gripped each other. Pearelle knew she did not tremble from fear, but rage. The Elven lady looked aside, disgust scrawling itself across her features. She did not need to speak, for Pearelle read in her expression the answer. But her mother could not resist one last opportunity to revile the Human her daughter was to marry.

“It was not like I changed anything. On the contrary! He was so full of disgusting little inconsistencies it was easy to drive a wedge between him and his self-deluded morality. If he had any shred of decency he was clinging to, it was an illusion in his own mind. I merely flayed his capability of lying about what he is.”

Pearelle turned on her heel and left the cold room. She bit back her words, then.

But by the time she’d reached the end of the hall, she had to throw open a window and vomit. Her body shook with wave after wave of rising bile, until her bowels had emptied and she lay, trembling, over the window frame. Weakly, Pearelle pushed herself up and wiped her mouth.

Her shaking fingers slid like ice up her sleeve and dared to brush the rough texture of the gift he’d given her on a moonlit night long ago. She lifted her face to the pale light of another full moon, her tears shining like silver, and lifted her wailing grief.

I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I should have known . . . should have done something.

But when Lady Amadeah had banished her to her bedroom, Pearelle had only been fixated on her own frustrations. She hadn’t even considered disobeying the order. Neither had she fully understood the gravity of what Emory had returned to report. Now, everything made more sense. But it was far too late.

Danen, I’m sorry.

Read Next Chapter.

Dear Reader,

As I mentioned at the end of last week’s post, this chapter will be the last I publish this year! In the interim weeks I hope to work on a little bit of bonus material for your enjoyment. I’ve been drawing maps and working on a little bit of fun tidbits here and there — I’m quite excited to show them to you.

Christmas is on the horizon and we are waiting expectantly in a season that grows darker, both literally and metaphorically. While we wait, there are many small gifts we receive from each other and from the broader world (which is in itself a grand gift to be continually enjoyed). Just now, I am enjoying the gift of seasonal foods and drinks which are made more enjoyable by warm weather — pie, coffee, mulled cider. There is a lovely, warm-hearted book I enjoyed years ago which I am quite pleased to share with my girls — The Naming by Allison Croggon.

What are you taking pleasure in this season? What whets your appetite for longings which remain unsatisfied, but which may one day be, Christ willing?

Cheers for this New Year!

~LL