Moss Gate

by Alex Linwood

  The elf in the chair did not have long flowing robes of the scholar, as the professors did in Coverack. Nor did he have any riches upon him like Sir Alboka had. He was dressed in plain brown homespun. He stared at Portia and then finally spoke in a weak voice. “I see the Jack has come.”

  Portia swallowed and nodded. She didn’t know what to say.

  “I am Fife, as they have probably told you.” He said nothing else as the maid served them all tea and then exited the kitchen. Portia longed to pick up her cup but didn’t dare until King Magnus or Lord Fife drank theirs first. Her throat was dry and scratchy.

  “I am happy to have you here for many reasons,” he said, ignoring the cup on the table next to him.

  “Me?” Portia said, horrified that her voice came out in a squeak.

  “You. We needed a successor.”

  Portia’s eyes widened. She waited for more, but Fife closed his eyes. He snored gently. She looked at Lady Harper and King Magnus, confused.

  The king sighed and said to Portia, his eyes serious, “We have not told you all. Part of the reason we have agreed to teach you is that healing the splinter between worlds is not something all elves can do.” He held up a hand to hold off Portia’s questions. “Yes, most elves can do most magic, but for some reason the mending spell to heal the splinters is different. Some elves can do it incompletely, but most cannot do it at all. The closest we have had in several generations is Lord Fife. And he is growing very old.”

  Portia swallowed and looked at the elf snoring in the chair. If the elves could not even do this magic, then what chance did she have as a human girl? No wonder they had not shared this information with the human kingdom. It was too much of a weakness. But why were they sharing it with her?

  Lady Harper stared at Portia. “Knowing this was how I knew the king would at least hear the request from Haulstatt.” She looked abashed for a moment. “It is also why I was so skeptical of your ability to do it.” Lady Harper’s look turned serious. “But be warned, even the lords do not know how dire this situation is. If they did, they would impose on Lord Fife to teach nonstop until he found his successor. He has been trying for seventy-five years, but they would push him even harder—into his grave.”

  “Which I will not allow,” King Magnus said. Portia suddenly understood why he was the one making the introduction. “You are not to share this information with anyone.”

  Her desire to know more overcame her sense. “But why are you telling me?”

  The king sighed. “My new ways are not always welcome in the kingdom. They say I am too forthcoming to the common ones. This is one of those ways unwelcome to the lords: I believe that individuals do their best when they are trusted—and they know the stakes. The kingdoms of our world hinge on the healing of future splinters to prevent disaster.” He stared at Portia intently.

  Portia lowered her head, hiding her nervousness. “I will do my best.”

  “Of course you will,” Lady Harper said sharply. Portia pushed back the irritation she felt at that rebuke. When had she not worked hard for Lady Harper?

  King Magnus turned to Lord Fife. “Fife, what time should Portia be here tomorrow?”

  Fife did not respond except to snore even louder.

  The king sighed and stood. “At least introductions have been made. We’ll leave word with Marit on our way out.”

  They filed out of the kitchen. Portia was the last to leave. She turned to take one last look at her new teacher and gasped when he winked at her. As she turned to say something to the king, she heard an even louder snore from behind her. Turning to Lord Fife again, he looked firmly asleep. Had she imagined his wink?

  Chapter 15

  Portia’s head ached. The drum sounded in her skull, and the vibrations passed over her skin, enveloping her. But still, she couldn’t tease out the rhythm that was behind it. And she needed to understand the rhythm, for it was critical to the healing spell for the splinter.

  Fife was drumming on a hand drum that he had propped on the chair in front of him. His stick strokes on the stretched leather head were surprisingly strong for such an old elf. He sat in front of the fire in his kitchen, the only location they had ever met at.

  She stared at the torn parchment in front of her in frustration. It was today’s surrogate for the splinter—the tear between worlds that allowed others to pass through. But the parchment remained stubbornly torn. Further down the kitchen table, a charred spot marked where she had set another piece of parchment on fire by starting to heal it and then faltered halfway through. The spell was dangerous if not completed. The sudden flames that had enveloped the parchment in seconds made that clear. The fire had scared her, and she had stopped singing completely when the flames broke out. She shuddered to think what would happen if she failed while healing something much larger, such as a real splinter. Would those standing nearby burst into flames if she failed? Or worse yet, what if they were trying to pass through while she did so? A shiver ran down her back. But it probably would be no worse than what would happen to them if she succeeded in healing it while they were passing through. An image of a human split in half came unbidden to her mind. Her breakfast curdled in her stomach.

  In previous days, they had practiced on fruit and cloth. Nearly anything that could be damaged was a good surrogate, for the splinter spell most of all was a mending spell. She had to get the spell down on simple objects before she could do a repair of space, a much more ephemeral thing than an object she could hold in her hands. She knew she had some healing skills, for she had been able to heal her own bruises, but she was not nearly as good as the healer had been in the Academy. That healer had been able to heal Portia’s wound without a single scar. She wondered why that human wasn’t chosen for this task. But that was a different sort of healing—one not dependent on music and rhythm—and Fife had been adamant that the splinters could only be healed with a spell rooted in music. The elves had thousands of years more experience in magic than humans, so Portia thought it was reasonable to take their word. His word.

  “Enough,” he said and stopped beating the drum. “You’re exhausted. We’ll accomplish nothing more today but to frustrate you.”

  Portia felt gratitude that Fife showed no impatience. It would have been hard enough without adding the disapproval of her only teacher in the elf kingdom. For King Magnus and Lady Harper had decided it was safest if Portia was isolated from all other students. Luckily, Fife did not teach many others, so it was easy to see him every day.

  Portia had been allowed to go back and visit the chamber of the hourglass. She wanted to see how much time she had left before the splinter occurred. Every time she went, she was nervous there would be no sand at the top. But every time she entered the cavern, there had been at least a little. Some days it even seemed there was more at the top than there had been the previous day. On those days she breathed more easily. But it would have been less stressful had her lessons been going better. She felt she was getting worse, not better. That charred wood on the table was a testament to one of her many recent failures.

  “I’m sorry, I’ll do better,” Portia said, tears pricking her eyes.

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure you will.” Fife put the drum on the table and rolled his chair over to the bell pull for Marit. “But you need rest. And practice without the pressure of my staring at you. I think you have the rhythm inside of you now. You have heard it enough times. But the stress of trying in front of me, I think, has made it too difficult to work the spell. Go somewhere else and practice. Play with it.”

  He stopped speaking to concentrate on breathing. It came in and out of his mouth with a wheeze. This difficulty was a sharp contrast to the strength he showed when drumming. Portia wondered if he drew some strength from magic while the spell was being created.

  He caught his breath then continued. “There is a practice area on the separate patch of Academy grounds where no one will question you. It is expected of all students to do work without their teachers. An
d despite the recent ban, there have been human students in the past. There are perhaps one or two still here.” He paused again. Portia ached seeing him struggling to breathe, but she didn’t dare interrupt him. “No one in the school now will question your being there to practice.”

  Portia nodded. She gathered up the torn paper and other bits they had been using and shoved them in her bag. The morning was only half over, and she had some time before lunch. She did not want to return to the castle having failed yet again. Hopefully, she would have success before the lunch bell sounded. She didn’t want to ask another question but didn’t want to risk being where she shouldn’t be.

  “Can you tell me exactly which yard it is?”

  Fife was still having trouble breathing. Explaining where the practice yard was located would take effort. So instead, she quickly created a map of the city in fire in front of him. She had been exploring the city and the elf school grounds every morning for a half hour before meeting him for lessons. It had not taken long to memorize every building and garden on the campus. It helped that the boundaries of campus were clear, since all the buildings belonging to it were constructed of the blue stone.

  Fife looked up at the map and nodded in approval. He pointed to a small garden in the separate grounds. The separate grounds were halfway between the castle and the Academy. The second morning of her studies she had glanced out the carriage window just as they passed the low wall of blue brick marking the property. It was odd to have it in the middle of the city and not close to the other school buildings. After her lesson that day, she had walked back to the castle and explored the area on her way. She had looked over the fence into the grounds. A single elf student threw fireballs into the air and created images of animals in the fire at the apex of the toss. The song of his spell was as mesmerizing as its effects on the fire.

  Portia marked the location in her mind and then wiped the map from the air just as Marit entered. The maid was Fife’s constant companion. She looked nearly as old as he did. Portia wondered once again how long they had been living together in that little cottage.

  Portia ate some dried fruit and nuts as she walked down the street of the elf city. She liked to keep extra food with her, but that was especially useful here where she didn’t feel welcome in any of the shops within the inner city. Her current snack had come from the breakfast table that morning. There were always bowls of toppings for the gruel they served everyone. Fruits, nuts, honey, and yogurts were laid out in dishes on the main tables. That morning Portia had ignored the dirty looks sent her way when she dumped half the bowl of fruit and nuts on her table into a bag to take for later. Everyone there knew she was under the king’s protection, so despite any anger they might have towards her, no one dared say anything to stop her.

  But even with the king’s favor, the lords’ harassment had continued. In the dining hall, they stood in her way in order to force her to walk around them, a trick repeated in the castle halls and grounds if they happened to see her there. But the lords’ satisfaction was reduced when she had simply found her way around them without so much as a comment, not even pausing to return their foul looks. The harassment tapered off with her lack of concern, even if some persistent lords would not give up the effort. Now she didn’t even notice their glares as she took extra food. It was a small price to pay for having enough to eat. She had made it a point to whistle in contentment as she walked by them that morning.

  But her contentment had did not lasted long that day. Portia scowled as her fingers brushed the torn parchment stuffed in her bag while grabbing another handful of food. Why was she having such trouble with the healing spell? She could normally figure out how to cast a spell, even if her version was not as powerful as those cast by others. But this one was different. Somehow it came out sideways when she tried it. It often destroyed rather than healed.

  The garden Fife pointed to in the second grounds was empty when she reached it. She breathed a sigh of relief. Despite the immunity granted by the king, it was still draining to have to deal with other elves. It was better to be alone to work on her magic. She wanted to give it her full concentration.

  She sat cross-legged on the grass in the middle of the garden. Pulling out the torn piece of parchment, she set it on the ground in front of her. Since she didn’t have the drum with her, she closed her eyes and remembered the beat that Fife had been beating out that morning. Much to her surprise, it came back to her. She still couldn’t quite predict the rhythm on her own but somehow her mind remembered what she had heard. She relaxed.

  Perhaps she was trying too hard. Maybe it was like the translation spell from the library—if she focused on the rhythm, she would never understand it. She had to focus on something else and let her hearing resolve it without her conscious control, just as the translation of the book had resolved in her mind as soon as she stopped forcing her eyes to focus on the words.

  Portia closed her eyes and remembered that morning’s lesson, but this time she concentrated on remembering the feeling she had from the music and didn’t focus on the beats of the music itself. Then she added focus on her breathing while also remembering the feeling. A flash of magic burst along her neck and back. She opened her eyes and saw that the tear in the parchment was halfway healed. As soon as she had opened her eyes to look, the healing stopped. But it had been successful. Releasing the spell, she picked up the parchment to examine it. The heal showed as a dark yellow line where the two pieces of parchment had rejoined. The spell had left a dark scar on the object. To fully succeed, she had to be able to not only heal it but heal it cleanly without a single mark left of where it had once been rendered into two pieces.

  But she had partially succeeded. Despite how far she had to go, elation lifted her heart.

  She lifted the parchment up to the sun to see if it revealed any further flaws in her efforts. While raising the paper, she spied motion in the corner of the garden. Her heart pounded. Someone was coming towards her quickly. The back of her neck prickled—there was something odd going on.

  She scrambled to her feet. A young elf dressed in a bright green that matched the shrubbery surrounding the garden ran towards her. If she had not been looking in just the right direction, she would not have seen him until he had been upon her. As it was, she had only a second’s warning. She was too tired and flustered from casting the elf magic spell to cast another one so quickly, even one she was so comfortable with as Mark’s light magic. Instead, she pulled out her long knife and got into a defensive stance just in time, for the charging elf had a knife out in front of him. It too was bright green. Only his dark eyes did not blend into the background.

  Portia swore as he made contact, the momentum of his rush knocking her aside. Blessedly, her training kept her on her feet. She pivoted to face him as he charged her again.

  He pulled a second longer knife from a sheath strapped to his back. Its reach exceeded that of Portia’s long knife. It was comically large on him. He jabbed at her with it. And he was fast. Portia had to dance back to avoid his reach.

  She maintained her side to side defensive swings to block the elf’s awkward jabs. Looking around, she didn’t see any other attackers. But there were also no other students. She was on her own.

  There was a large tree nearby, its trunk several times the width of her body. She eased towards it while blocking the elf, wanting a safe spot for her back. He was so fast that she was constantly turning and pivoting to keep him in front of her. It didn’t help that she had spent the morning working magic. She was slower than she would have been normally, for the magic drained her strength.

  She reached the tree and got her back to it. The elf realized what she was doing too late and had been unable to stop her. Rather than give up, he redoubled his efforts. He jabbed at her with the long blade and then swung in for a counterattack with his other hand, hoping she was too slow to get back into a defensive stance after blocking his initial attack. She was quick enough, at least for the first dozen or so a
ttacks. But her breath soon came in ragged gasps. Her arm was burning with the effort it took to keep swinging. The attacker just kept coming. He was untiring.

  Finally, she was too slow recovering after one attack, and he managed to knock her long knife from her right arm and then nick her shoulder with his shorter blade. He cut through the fabric of her tunic and left a thin red line across the top of her shoulder. It oozed blood but was not deep. Regardless of the superficiality of the wound, a look of triumph crossed his face.

  His look enraged her. Drawing on renewed strength, she lifted her right leg and kicked him in the chest. He was surprisingly light, and her kick threw him back ten feet. He landed on his rear and then his back. Portia rushed towards him and grabbed his arm holding the longer knife by the wrist. She bashed his arm on the ground, aiming for a rock she saw. His arm made a sickening sound as it hit the rock, and he released the blade. Portia grabbed the long knife.

  But while she was getting his knife the elf managed to wiggle free from underneath her. He scrambled back then got to his feet. He held the little knife he still had in his hand as a defense. Portia, still enraged, rushed at him with his own weapon. She cut through his defensive block like it was nothing and slashed him on the hip. He howled in rage and then turned and ran.

  Portia breathed heavily. She wanted to chase him, but her side was burning, and her breath ragged. Watching his back recede from her, she summoned an ice spell. She could at least freeze him to the ground until help came.

  But little magic came. What should have been a stream of ice racing towards the elf was only a trickle of water that soon tapered off to nothing. There was no ice. Even worse, as soon as Portia used her magic she felt her energy draining away in a torrent. Darkness rushed up towards her. She hit the ground with a thud. The last thing her eyes saw before they shut was the elf scrambling through the bushes and over the blue wall.