by JA Andrews
He reached out and took Ayda’s hand, which was ice cold. Her fingers were snowy white.
“Oh, Ayda,” he says quietly, “you didn’t.”
She smiled weakly at him. “You were willing to sacrifice yourself. Is it so strange that I should do the same? You know, sometimes people break away from wallowing in their pasts long enough to commit to something.”
“But… you’re the last elf.”
“What better reason is there?”
“You sacrificed all your people, too?”
“My people agreed to die eight years ago. Their lives have not been their own since. I have needed them for many things. I needed them to hold back the darkness. I needed them to take that darkness and destroy Mallon. And now I needed them to heal Evangeline.”
“But…”
“I told you I wanted to sleep,” she said quietly.
A sob tore out of Douglon, and Ayda looked up at him. She reached up and lifted his chin a bit so that she could see his face. There were tears streaming down his cheeks. His eyes bored into the elf, and now it was Alaric who felt suddenly intrusive. But he didn’t want to move and break the moment.
“You stupid elf,” Douglon said.
“You can stop looking at me like that, Douglon. It’s just a charm,” Ayda said. “Just a charm to burn off some of this power.”
She looked around the room again, her brow puckered slightly with guilt. “I had too much power. It kept leaking out.” A short giggle escaped her, sounding bitter. “I kept dropping little flames without knowing it. I was afraid I was going to burn down the world.”
She looked back at Douglon and continued, an edge of self-loathing in her voice, “So I created a charm that worked constantly. A small, steady stream of power that would trickle out in the hopes that the destructive things would stop. Now animals like me, trees talk to me constantly, and even dwarves can set aside their disgust for us a bit.
“So you can stop looking like that Douglon. What you’re feeling is just the charm. When I’m gone, the feelings will be, too.”
Douglon had looked at her steadily the whole time she had been speaking, not moving. Alaric searched his face for some sign of his thoughts, but the dwarf just stared at Ayda with that burning intensity that made Alaric feel intrusive again.
“It’s not a charm,” Douglon said finally. His words were so quiet that Alaric found himself leaning forward. “I know about the charm. Everyone knows about the charm.”
Ayda turned her head quickly around the room. Brandson nodded slightly. Milly shrugged and looked apologetic. When Ayda turned toward Alaric, he smiled slightly.
“Well,” she said petulantly, “just knowing about it doesn’t keep it from working.”
“It’s not working now.” Douglon had not looked away from her face.
Ayda’s eyes snapped back to him.
“It hasn’t worked since you destroyed Mallon.”
Alaric shifted slightly. That could be true. Ayda had been much less sparkly since then.
“The charm wanted me to think your eyes were darker and your hair glittered more than it does.” He ran one dark hand across the golden curl that spilled over her shoulder. “And that you were taller than you really are.”
She let out a small laugh. “I’m short, you know. For an elf.”
Douglon let a small smile curl up the corner of his mouth. “Dwarves aren’t particularly attracted to height,” he pointed out. “It only works when you are around. I never think of you as tall when you are too far away.”
“See?” she said, reaching her hand up tentatively to touch his beard.
Douglon stared at her a long moment. “The charm would make me want you to stay because I would think the room a gloomier place once you leave. But what do you think it is that makes me know now that the room really will be gloomy with you gone?”
Douglon reached up and pressed her hand against his cheek. Ayda’s eyes widened slightly.
“What do you think it is that helps me to know that I love the real color of your hair, not that awful glittery nonsense you try to make me think you have?”
Alaric barely dared to breath for fear of interrupting. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Milly reach over and hold Brandson’s hand.
“What makes me wonder whether I’ll ever return home again? Whether it wouldn’t be better just to travel with you?”
Ayda was looking up at him, her eyes wide, her hand still pressed against his cheek. Alaric could almost see her slip into Douglon’s mind. The dwarf sat perfectly still.
After a long moment, Ayda drew in a long breath. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know.”
Douglon shrugged, but his eyes burned into her. “That’s because you are never paying attention.”
Ayda reached up behind him, reaching for his axe blade. “It was selfish of Patlon’s elf to choose purple. She thought only of herself. You, Douglon, should have red,” she said to him, reaching her hand out to touch the handle of his axe. From the tip of her finger, tendrils of red fire spread along the axe handle, freezing to look like real flames.
“There you are,” she said sweetly, sinking a little lower against him. “Now it’s an unbreakable axe.”
Douglon looked back at his axe handle, then cupped Ayda’s face gently in his hand. She met his gaze and something passed between them.
She looked around the room, finding Brandson, Milly, and even Evangeline’s eyes.
Finally, Ayda turned to Alaric and he felt her mind. He drew back slightly when he felt how weak it was. It was just an elven mind, a plain, weakened, elven mind.
Alaric sat very still, his mind probing hers slightly. Her mind was so very small, its power almost depleted. He found himself casting around for something to do, some way to give her more power, some strength.
Stop it, her voice snapped through his mind. I have made my choice. My people are finally gone. It took them all, in the end, to replace all of the death that was in Evangeline. They were so much weaker than they had once been. Stop feeling sorry for them. There was never going to be a different ending.
Alaric shook his head, but she continued.
Thank you. All I wanted, all we wanted, was to destroy Mallon. And I would have failed without you. Healing Evangeline is my thank you.
Alaric felt her mind waver, then it slipped back out of his mind, leaving him feeling empty.
Ayda smiled weakly at him, then sank back into Douglon’s arms. Her head drooped forward, and a curtain of golden hair fell across it.
Douglon let out a shuddering sob and pulled her close, but she did not move again.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
The sun sat low over the mountains, the sky stretched out overhead in a clear blue that felt serene, but empty. Alaric stood with his arm around Evangeline on the balcony of the room he had always intended to share with her, near the top of the tower. He listened to her speak, but her words were interrupted by the thrumming of her heart and the sound of her breathing. He cast out wave after wave just to sense the blazing core of energy inside of her. Beneath his arm, she leaned against him, warm and secure, not quite strong enough to stand on her own. But she was alive. Her face was bright and animated and so very alive.
“You’re doing it again,” she said, her smile teasing.
Alaric blinked and laughed. “Sorry. I have no idea what you just said.” He pulled her around and kissed her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him back. “It’s just that your alive-ness is so distracting.”
“Alive-ness? Is that a technical Keeper term?”
“Yes. Don’t be intimidated by my sophistication.”
She looked at him curiously. “Are you still a Keeper?”
Alaric dropped his forehead down to hers. It had taken some getting used to, learning that she hadn’t really been asleep all that time. He had been terrified that she’d be angry, but when they’d had their first moments alone, she had just stretched her hands out, flexing her fingers and
then touching his face. “I’m too happy to be mad,” she’d said. “I know what you did and why. Besides, it wouldn’t be entirely fair if I’d just gotten to sleep while you were spending all that time tortured.” But she had smiled when she said it, and just like that, the issue was dismissed, dropped back into the realm of things in the past that are over now.
She knew all the things he had spoken to her during her long sickness. All the confessions of failure, all the fury at the Keepers for not helping him, all the anger, all the desperation. All the times he had sworn he was done being a Keeper.
“I’m not sure I’m the same Keeper I used to be, but… yes, I still am one. I have some ideas about how things need to change at the Stronghold, but I think there’s a chance it can all work out reasonably well. How do you feel about spending some time at court?”
Her eyebrows rose. “Well, I’m fancy enough for it.” She gave a little curtsey in her old traveling dress and bare feet, holding onto his arm to steady herself.
He smiled. “It’s busy there and there are some horrific people, but I think you’ll like Saren. And Ewan is there.
“At some point, I need to go see if I can figure out what happened to Will. When he left the palace, he was headed to the Roven Sweep to look into something with the nomads. But he should have been back a long time ago.”
“As long as we don’t volunteer for any fire lizard hunts on the way,” she said, “I’m willing.”
Alaric rested his chin on her head. There were too many emotions swirling inside him to pick just one. Evangeline was right here, standing, talking, breathing. But in a room below them, Ayda lay still and cold.
He let his mind stop spinning. He breathed in the scent of Evangeline’s skin. He felt the cool breeze and the cooler stones of the balcony. He listened to the quiet rustling of the world.
In the midst of all the emotions, he felt a small green shoot of peace begin to grow. It was a peace tinged with sorrow and loss, but it was rooted in a profound rightness.
Ayda was laid out peacefully on Evangeline’s table.
Alaric and Douglon had moved it to the balcony, and placed one tree on each side of her, their blooms just waiting to burst open.
Douglon stood stationed at her feet.
Alaric stepped up to Ayda’s side, his arm still around Evangeline.
Milly straightened Ayda’s dress and touched the ring of purple flowers that encircled her waist.
“These flowers are still alive!” she said, looking closely at one tiny daisy-like bloom. “How long has she worn this?”
Brandson stepped forward, his eyes red. His brow drew a bit and he said, “I think always.”
“She was wearing it the day we met her,” Douglon said.
“They’re beginning to fade a bit at the edges,” Milly said.
The very edge of each petal was curling. Alaric looked at Douglon, and the dwarf nodded.
Alaric traced some runes in the air above Ayda’s body, letting the slow energy pour out of his hands. A shimmer appeared. It stretched until it encompassed all of her, then hardened, perfectly clear.
Alaric set his hand lightly on the crystal. Beneath it, Ayda’s body lay perfectly still.
“Will it keep her like this forever?” Milly asked quietly.
“Not forever,” Alaric said. “But for a long time. It should take years for even the flowers to wilt.” He studied the flowers for a moment. “I don’t even know what sort of flowers those are. I wonder if they have any healing properties?” The question came out more out of habit than curiosity.
Evangeline peered down at the little purple flowers. “Those are Lumen Daisies. They grow everywhere in the Greenwood.”
Alaric raised his eyebrow. “You’ve never been in the Greenwood.”
Evangeline’s brow creased and she looked up at Alaric. “I know. But I also know that these flowers have no medicinal value and are a favorite gift among the elves. They symbolize… home.”
Alaric stared at her, an idea taking hold of him. “Why was the Elder Grove so powerful?” He tried to keep his eagerness under control.
“Because it was the burial ground for the first elven king and queen. They sacrificed themselves to the woods to create a place of power.”
Alaric took both of her hands. “How much do you know? How much did Ayda tell you?”
Evangeline shook her head. “I don’t know. I didn’t know I knew any of that until you asked.”
Alaric grinned at her. “That’s okay. I have a lot of questions.”
THE END
Pursuit of Shadows
The Keeper Chronicles Book 2
The Flames
The air in the normally drab village square shivered with magic.
Will felt as though he’d stepped into a different world. More people than he’d ever seen were gathered together, the high-spirited crowd causing the weathered buildings around them to fade into the background. The nutty smell of roasted sorren seeds wafted out from the wayfarer’s wagon, and Will’s mother had bought him not one, but two sweet rolls.
Vahe of the Flames stood far back on the stage, surrounded by dark walls and an arched roof, his voice low as he told of three children trapped deep in the lair of a mountain troll. His fingers toyed slowly with a handful of fire, flickering just above his palm, seemingly burning nothing but air. Will couldn’t pull his eyes away.
The wayfarer’s black hair and pointed beard mixed with the shadows on the stage. His voice rolled out with dark menace as the trolls crept closer to the children. Will’s fist clamped into the sticky dough of his sweet roll, and he leaned closer to his mother. When his arm brushed hers, a jab of disapproval flashed into his chest, off-center and too muted to be his own. His mother watched Vahe with the same sternness she turned on Will whenever he played too roughly with baby Ilsa.
Pulling his arm away from her, the feeling faded. He rubbed his skin as though he could erase the memory of it. It happened more and more often lately, these echoes of what other people were feeling when he touched them.
Vahe continued, his voice still low and foreboding but the spell had been broken. Will remembered that the stage was a wagon. Not a normal wagon—a wayfarer’s wagon. Like a house with wheels. Except houses didn’t come in dazzling colors, or have fronts that could lay open like a ramp, leading down to the village dirt. Vibrant ribbons fluttered from the edges of the roof, quivering brightly in the evening breeze, but inside, Vahe’s dark orange flame lent a brooding feel to the shadows. It caught on unknown things, flashing back glints of burnished copper.
The tale ended with a quick escape by the children and Will’s mother put her arm around his shoulder.
“Let’s get home.” Her disapproval rushed into him again, filling the left side of his chest and leaving a mildly sour taste in his mouth.
“But wayfarers never come here. And he might tell more stories.”
“I’ve heard enough.” Her tone made it clear the decision had been made. “Tussy needs milking. And that man takes entirely too much pleasure in frightening children.”
Milking a goat was a terrible reason to leave. If only Tussy would run away one of the times she broke out of her pen. With a sigh he felt down to his toes, Will followed her, weaving through the crowd of villagers in the dusty square, hoping Vahe would start a story his mother would be interested in hearing.
Instead Vahe began to do tricks with the strange orange flame in his hand, making it appear and disappear, tossing it through the air, even dropping it onto a pile of dry grass without setting it aflame. He tossed it toward the crowd. It disappeared for a moment when it reached the sunlight, then Will caught a glimmer of it hovering over someone’s head. It slid over another, and another, people’s hands reaching up and passing through it unharmed. It came close and Will held his breath. When it shifted above Will, the top of his head tingled for a heartbeat. A jolt like lightning shot through him. Every bit of his skin stung like the prickles of a hundred tiny thorns, and the air aroun
d him shimmered with yellow light. The flame winked out and the sparkles disappeared
“The fire likes you, boy!” Vahe cried.
Will rubbed his hands across his arms, trying to brush away the last of the prickly feeling. The crowd oohed appreciatively, and Vahe started another trick. But Will’s mother waited at the edge of the crowd, her mouth pressed into that thin line and her brow creased with worry.
The sun beat down on the dirt road leading out of the dingy village, and the whole way home through the low, winding hills, Will couldn’t shake the tingly feeling that crawled across his skin.
At the edge of their yard the creak of the goat pen caught his attention. Tussy was shoving her little horns under the bar, pushing open the gate—again. The brand new shoots in the garden almost within her reach.
Will ran forward, stretching his hand out as though he could reach across the entire yard. Too far away to reach her, he could do nothing but hurl fury at the stupid goat for interrupting the storytelling, and for endlessly escaping her pen.
Except the fury did hurl out of his hand with a ripping pain and the gate slammed shut.
Agony stabbed up his arms and he dropped to his knees, his own cry of pain drowning out Tussy’s insulted bleat. A new circle of winter-brown grass around him marred the summer yard, brittle and dry, like the old, worn out grass of fall.
Shiny blisters swelled on his palms and he curled forward, gasping and choking on the pain. Worry and pity washed over him like cool water even before his mother’s arms wrapped around him.
“A Keeper,” she whispered, looking from his hands to the withered grass. A fierce pride blazed up in Will and he sank against her, letting her emotions drown out his own fear and pain.
Hours later, he lay in the cool quiet of the cottage and the roiling turmoil in his chest was thankfully all his own. His parents and Ilsa slept in their curtained alcove, the barrage of emotions from them finally quiet. Since he’d closed the gate that had changed. He could feel everything they felt. No one had to touch him now, they only needed to be close.