by Liara Woo
"Halthren…"
He stopped walking and turned to her. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't complain; it's a miracle I'm even alive. But…"
His voice trailed off as if he was searching for the right words.
Katie smiled gently at him. "You don't want to be an outcast. You want to have friends and be able to help everyone. You want to know what it's like to not be an outcast."
Halthren smiled ruefully. "How did you know?"
Katie grinned. "I'm just saying how I'd feel if it was me in your place," she answered, quoting him.
Halthren blinked. His cheeks turned red and he felt something stirring beneath his sternum. Wow, he thought, looking at her, using a word he'd heard her use to express feelings of amazement and awe. Wow.
* * *
They found Loriina basking at the top of the mansion, stretched out in the sunlight. "Hello, Katie," she sighed, turning her head. "I'm sorry; I wasn't very helpful last night."
"Don't worry," Halthren said reassuringly. "You did fine. Thanks for your help."
Katie frowned. She'd suspected (or maybe hoped) that Halthren might have had a crush on her, but apparently not. He's just plain nice to everyone he meets. "Loriina, we need you again, actually. Joran needs the unicorns to wake him up, and we think they live on the other side of the world; can you take us across the Ocean of Storms?"
"Sure," Loriina answered. "So I'm taking Joran and you…anyone else?"
Katie looked at Halthren. "Will you come?"
He looked uncertain. "Me? But…Aspeniel said…"
"I'd rather have you along than Relenthus," Katie said honestly. "I think I know you better. Will you come?"
Halthren smiled weakly. "Of—of course," he stammered. Deep down he cringed, fearing that he'd let Katie down completely, that he wouldn't be able to do anything to save Joran. Coming along is a mistake, he warned himself. Then the still-bleeding gash across his back throbbed and he stumbled, gasping in pain.
"Oh!" Katie exclaimed. "I forgot you were wounded!"
Loriina got to her feet. "I know something that will help," she informed him. "Lay down on your stomach and remove your tunic."
Halthren felt uncomfortable. He glanced at Katie. "Is that really necessary?" he asked hesitantly.
"Well, I suppose not, if you want me to try and get my tears through that leather and fabric—which would dilute the magic and probably won't accomplish much. I could also try with my claws to try and pull the tear in your clothes wider, but I could inadvertently scratch you, and the only other option would be to have Katie or I to widen the gap—which, judging from your expression, I don't think you'd like much."
Swallowing self-consciously, Halthren removed his leather armor and pulled his tunic over his head. Then, deliberately avoiding looking at Katie, with his cheeks a very interesting shade of red, he lay down on his stomach. An instant later he felt a burning liquid drop down into the wound across his lower back. He grimaced but said nothing; soon he felt that the bleeding had stopped and a thin layer of new skin, albeit tender, had grown across the gash. "Thanks," he said, standing up and moving towards his tunic again. But Loriina had other ideas; she gently pushed him down, flat on his back this time, and shed tears over the worst of the injuries on his chest and stomach. Only then did she allow him to stand.
"Ugh," she growled. "That always leaves my eyes so dry…Don't make any sudden movements or else you'll break that new skin. Dragon tears are powerful, but they just barely close wounds. Not like that purple stuff."
"Thanks anyway," Halthren shrugged, quickly pulling his tunic back on.
Loriina yawned widely. "Alright. Now when can we go?"
"Soon," Katie assured her. "We're just waiting for Aspeniel; she said she'd be bringing us some supplies. And she'll probably have someone carry Joran up, too. So now we wait."
Loriina's silver tail lashed back and forth with impatience. "I hate waiting," she grumbled.
After a few minutes, Aspeniel came through the trapdoor with two satchels slung over her shoulders. Both of them looked heavy; her features went slack with relief when she set them on the ground. Straightening, she got to her feet and surveyed the scene before her.
"I see that Loriina is ready to go…but you haven't chosen an elf yet." She looked directly at Halthren. "I see none here."
Halthren's eyes widened with horror and pain. No one had been this direct with him before. "I…I…"
Katie glared at Aspeniel. "I chose Halthren," she said defiantly.
The healer walked up to her and stood on tiptoes as if to share a secret, but she spoke without lowering her voice. "Without any magic, he hardly qualifies as an elf. Choose someone else."
"Goodness defines an elf," Katie defended. "And I can't name an elf with more goodness than Halthren. Besides, he's Joran's best friend."
Aspeniel sighed. "Perhaps. But let me warn you that without any magic of his own, Halthren will hardly be able to defend either of you."
Halthren sighed. This was exactly what he'd feared. "Katie, don't bring me along out of pity if it lessens our chances of saving Joran. Despite all that I wish I could do, I must face the truth: I can't do them. So please, don't sacrifice Joran's chances on my behalf."
He turned and walked down the trapdoor, forcing himself to keep his head held high. Katie's heart went out to him. "Why are you being so rude?" she asked Aspeniel.
Aspeniel met her gaze coolly. "Among my kind, our powers are what define us. No magic means they cannot do anything help everyone else. Such uselessness means exile to the harsh cold of the far northern end of Kylaras. That is our law; a forest must be kept strong to survive. If it were up to me, Halthren would have been sent off as soon as he was strong enough."
Katie exhaled resignedly; there was a note in Aspeniel's voice that didn't encourage argument. "That's your opinion, then, and I'm not going to argue about it. Will you please get Relenthus for me?"
"No need," Aspeniel smiled, happy to have driven her point home. "He's on his way already with Joran. I knew you'd change your mind."
Relenthus walked up the stairs, carrying Joran in his arms. He looked as if he was in a daze, staring straight ahead, expressionless. "I'm ready to go," he said in a voice tainted by deep and bitter sorrow.
"Thanks for coming," Katie said halfheartedly, feeling depressed. Apparently Halthren wasn't welcome anywhere; Joran wouldn't wake up; Krenej was dead; Bloodthorne, Firdin, and Reiltin were wounded; and Relenthus was miserable. It seems like we all need unicorn magic.
At once an idea sprang to her mind. She couldn't do anything for Firdin, Reiltin, or Krenej, but if Halthren just happened to be outside of the mansion when Loriina flew overhead…
"Good luck," Aspeniel smiled as Katie and Relenthus climbed onto Loriina's back.
"Thanks," Katie called down to her. Loriina jumped off of the roof and took flight. As the mansion shrunk beneath them, Katie shouted over the wind, "Loriina! See if you can find Halthren! I have a feeling that we need him to come!"
"There he is," Loriina said, looking down. She tucked in her wings and dropped down, making Katie's spirit soar with exhilaration. Loriina grabbed Halthren in her right forepaw, since she held Joran in her left one, and spread her wings at the last possible second, swooping upwards.
"What're you doing?" Halthren exclaimed, startled, his heart threatening to jump out of his throat. "I'll only slow you down!"
"That's what Aspeniel thinks," Katie said firmly. "I don't agree."
"But I have no powers. I have nothing good to add to this group," Halthren protested, trying hard not to look down.
"I disagree," Katie told him. "You have worth, and Joran knows it. So do I. You need to realize it for yourself, Halthren, so you're coming with us."
The Village of Soor
The Village of Soor
Thunder shook the air, a low rumble in the distance. Rain drizzled down, gently kissing the elf's upturned face. Joran stirred, blinking the sleep from his eyes, and sat up.
&n
bsp; He frowned. This wasn't right. Where am I? Nothing here was familiar. The trees and bushes were short and fat; their green leaves appeared unnaturally vibrant due to the contrast of the colorless overcast sky. Grass the color of buttermilk lined the sides of the roseate, muddy road he was lying on. This isn't right. What's going on?
He'd never seen any of it before. Standing, he looked down at himself and realized that his clothes were different as well. What in the name of goodness…? He wore a skin-tight black tunic, black leggings, and black leather shoes with pointed toes. Clasped around his neck was a long, hooded cloak the color of the darkest night.
The last thing he remembered was lying on the ground in the burning Forest of Mist, being attacked by sickening waves of Darkness that had sapped his strength and apparently sent him to this…this…place. With a sickening jolt he realized what that meant. This was the spooky Dream Kingdom he remembered Halthren telling him about on All Hallow's Eve one year. I'm trapped here! But I have to get back to Kylaras!
He furrowed his brow, staring at a small muddy pebble on the ground at his feet. Halthren hadn't mentioned escaping. So how do I get out?
At that moment he noticed the rumbling pound hoof-beats in the distance. Turning towards the sound, it wasn't long before he saw a rider clothed entirely in flowing robes of the darkest black sitting astride a towering speckled gray horse with a snowy white mane and tail rounding a bend in the road, coming directly towards him. "Excuse me, sir, but would you tell me where I am?" Joran called out hesitantly.
The figure in the distance increased its speed, racing straight towards him. There was a ring of steel, and the rider drew a long sword shaped like a cross. Joran had never seen a weapon in that shape before—it wasn't made by any elf or dragon, he realized.
"I mean you no harm," Joran denied, raising his voice and holding his empty hands up. The horse snorted, and the rider clicked his tongue, jabbing his heals into its side. Joran's mouth went dry. He wants to kill me! Panicked, he broke into a run along the trail. If the speckled horse had been bred by elves, then he'd never outrun it, but if it was an ordinary animal, he'd have a chance. He sprinted as fast as he could, the mud sucking at his feet and trying in vain to slow him down. Joran didn't slacken his pace; if anything he went even faster, encouraged by the surprised exclamation from the rider behind him.
He continued to run, as the drumbeats of the horse's hooves slowly faded from his ears. A cramp seared his side but, taking deep breaths, he forced himself to race onwards. Even when his thighs burned in agony and the fiery pain in his lungs plagued each breath, he did not stop.
It was two hours later when he finally slowed to a walk, having left his pursuer at least a mile away. Drained of energy, with hardly enough strength to walk, he headed on. Night had fallen, and the rainstorm was steadily growing worse.
Joran pulled his hood over his long yellow hair, although since he was already soaked to the skin it hardly made any difference. It was with incredible relief that he came at last to a village enclosed by a wall built from the trunks of trees, their bark skinned away and their tips sharpened to a point. Perhaps someone will let me stay the night, Joran thought, thinking longingly of a warm bed and dry clothes. With weary, dragging feet he approached the man guarding the entrance to the village. "Excuse me, sir, but I have travelled a great deal and would like to find some shelter within these walls. May I go in?"
"Minors ain't allowed in at night without an adult," the man replied in a gruff voice. He had a short gray beard—an unusual sight for Joran. He'd only ever seen one beard before, and that was on a colorful drawing of a dwarf in a book that Halthren had once given him. Elves were naturally clean-shaven; they were physically unable to grow hair anywhere except for their scalps, eyebrows, and eyelashes.
The man squinted at him. "An' don't try denying that you're a minor, since you look about thirteen."
"Thirteen? I'm actually seventy-four. I guess…by your reckoning that would be about fifteen years old. So, yes, I'm a minor, but couldn't you let me in anyway? It's raining, and I'm cold."
The gatekeeper laughed. "You an' me both. Well… you look like you've had a hard time of it, so I suppose, just this once, I might make an exception. What's your purpose here in Soor?"
Sounds like 'sewer,' Joran thought with a grimace. "Nothing really; I'm lost," he answered with a shrug. "But I'm looking for a nice, cozy inn or something like that."
"There're four inns here in Soor; you should find one that suits you." The gatekeeper gave him a sympathetic look, unlocked the gate, and pulled it open.
"Thank you," Joran said in relief, entering the village and drawing his cloak tighter around himself.
"No problem," the man responded. "Just so's you know, I always let young lads in at night. It's those horrid elves I keep out. Make sure you report one if you see one."
Joran felt a tremor go through him. "Right; I will, thanks," he lied, feeling a sharp ache in his chest because he hadn't told the truth. It was the first time he'd ever done anything so contrary to his beliefs, and the thought made his stomach turn. Grimacing, he walked through the wet cobblestone streets, his feet splashing through the puddles formed by rainwater between stones. Lanterns hung from the doors of the almost identical part-wood, part-stone houses with thatched roofs. A few people dressed in thick black cloaks wandered the streets, shooting Joran foul looks. The gatekeeper's words echoed in his ears; hastily he pulled his hood further over his head and pulled his hair down over his pointed ears, trying to keep them hidden.
He almost sang with relief when he came to the first inn. There was a sign labelled The Fairy Hole hanging over the door. Joran knocked loudly on the weathered wooden door, a ghostly shade of yellow ochre in the dim lantern light, and stepped back, impatient to be let in and shown to a room.
The door creaked open to reveal a small, squat man with a shiny auburn beard that reached his toes. Joran recognized it as a dwarf. "Do pardon me for intruding, good dwarf, but I need somewhere to stay for the night, and I was wondering if I could stay at your inn…"
The dwarf looked him up and down and sniffed. "Nah, you smell like an elf. I won't permit your stink in here." And he slammed the door in Joran's face.
The prince blinked, startled and somewhat offended. "That was rude," he murmured indignantly, continuing to the next inn, called Soor's House for All. He knocked again, and the large oaken door was opened by a stocky, spindly-legged man with a short, scraggly gray beard and a leathery, weather-beaten face. He wore a too-large blue overcoat over a dingy green tunic and black pants. "What can I do for you?" he asked politely.
"I'd like to stay at your inn, please," Joran answered, mentally begging the stars for luck. His waterlogged feet were starting to lose all feeling.
The man shook his head apologetically. "I'm sorry, but we're full tonight." He turned aside, allowing Joran to see the people crowding the grimy fire-lit room, at least five people sitting in mismatched wooden chairs around each circular table. None were elves.
"Think nothing of it," Joran sighed, turning to leave. The man caught a glimpse of his pointed ears.
"Good heavens above!" the man exclaimed. "You're an elf!" He took a heavy club resting beside the door and whacked Joran in the stomach with it. Winded, Joran fell backwards onto the muddy ground, and before he could recover the man hit him again on the shoulder. Grunting, he rolled over, half-rising to his feet, and the man smacked his rump and sent him sprawling again. His heart pounding, Joran stumbled to his feet and ran off, his skin stinging where the club had hit him and his heart smarting from a strange new feeling burning within him.
"And don't come back!" the man roared.
Startled and unhappy, Joran continued through the now-deserted streets, his brow furrowed in confusion and misery. First a lie and now rejection and a beating. This was turning out to be one of the worst nights he'd ever endured.
After a few more discouraging minutes of wandering, he found the third inn, labelled The Green Merm
aid. Joran knocked, hoping for a kind, elf-friendly innkeeper—and highly doubting that he'd be so lucky, despite his pleas to the stars. The door was opened by a large man with watermelon-sized muscles and a crafty, conniving look in his eyes; the only hair on his sweaty head was a curled moustache. He was dressed in black trousers and a thick gray sweater with the sleeves torn off. Joran gulped.
"Yes?" the man growled.
"I—I was w-wondering if perhaps I could stay here…for the night…" Joran said nervously.
"Come in, then," the man growled. Relieved, Joran entered the building. At once his relief vanished. The air was thick with sharp, offensive smells; everywhere men smoked pipes or drank beer. Raucous laughter sounded, along with strings of coarse language.