The Fall of Neverdark

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  “They are safe here,” Ellöria assured, noting his lingering gaze.

  Isabella nodded at the rogue from across the clearing and he relaxed a little, happy to accompany them. Tauren’s wife saw Vighon and offered him his fur cloak back, having been offered replacements by the elves. He took back the cloak, hoping, as Alijah did, that they would find some reprieve from their loss. Thinking of those he had lost himself, Vighon knew it would take more than the comfort of elves…

  Seeing the others follow Ellöria through the arch, Vighon held the hilt of his sheathed blade and jogged to catch up. He couldn’t help but slow down, however, when the entrance gave way to Ilythyra. In fact, he stopped, lost control of his jaw, and craned his neck to look at everything.

  Beyond the arch, a mossy plateau descended into a set of wide curving stairs. At their base, Ilythyra was spread out before them as an oasis, a place where the line between magic and nature blurred.

  The trees were just as tall and thick, but now their branches wrapped around giant orbs of light. Some of the orbs were on the ground, tied within the mighty roots. Vighon noticed one to the side of the stairs and he reached out, curious as to its feel. The orb was warm and its surface as soft as a baby’s skin.

  The sky between the canopy was blue, though Vighon couldn’t recall seeing any blue since they were in The Arid Lands. Looking back down, the world had taken on a softer look, as if the orbs had removed the harshness of reality.

  Stone plateaus and spiralling staircases decorated the picture of Ilythyra. The dwellings in which the elves resided were hollowed out of the trees themselves, reaching high into the canopy above.

  Vighon hurried again to catch up with the others on the stairs, careful to keep one eye on the steps as he continued to marvel at Ilythyra.

  Galanör leaned in. “Wonderful, isn’t it?”

  Vighon nodded, his eyes still fixed on the environment. “I can’t believe this is in The Moonlit Plains.”

  “It sort of isn’t,” Galanör replied cryptically. “Ilythyra works much in the same way Hadavad’s satchel does.”

  Vighon looked at the old tattered bag hanging off the mage’s shoulder. He had seen the old man pull a horse’s saddle out of it once.

  “It’s a pocket dimension,” Galanör elaborated.

  Vighon understood what the elf meant, but that didn’t mean he could wrap his head around it either. He was happy, however, to simply follow Lady Ellöria through the elven village. It was like walking through a dream.

  It was something of a climb before the companions found themselves on a higher plateau, standing in front of a knot of vines and branches. Ellöria waved her hand over the knot and the branches recoiled and the vines snaked apart, revealing an entire chamber carved out of the tree. The interior walls were decorated with murals, interspersed with smaller orbs of light and flowering vines.

  The chamber itself was that of a small amphitheatre, with neat rows of seats curving around the room until it flattened out at the bottom. In the centre sat what looked to be a throne to Vighon’s eyes. Its high back rose almost to the top of the room, where it was styled in the shape of a pair of antlers. Ellöria chose the chair beside the throne, one of simple design and carved from wood, like everything else, with elvish glyphs highlighted in golden paint.

  “Only the queen sits in the throne,” Galanör whispered in Vighon’s ear.

  “You are right, Galanör,” Ellöria announced. “Only my sister is permitted to sit there. In thirty years I believe she has had that pleasure only once.” The elf let her eyes fall over Alijah. “When Queen Adilandra visits Illian, she chooses to stay with her daughter…” Under her gaze, Alijah could do nothing but look away. “I do not believe you came here to discuss chair arrangements,” she continued. “The elves of Ilythyra would never turn a soul away, but I would know what has happened in The Arid Lands to bring so many and in such strife?”

  Hadavad took a seat on one of the rows, looking to Galanör to answer the Lady’s question. Vighon shuffled a little closer to Alijah, entirely unsure how to behave around the female elf. Everything about her commanded respect and attention, but he had no idea where she fitted into the hierarchy of this new world.

  Galanör stepped in front of the throne. “Our tale is long, my Lady. And somewhat hard to believe…”

  “I still recall sailing away from Illian’s shores at the end of The Dragon War, nearly a millennia ago. Now, here I am, hundreds of miles inland again, living in the heart of The Moonlit Plains, and sitting in a room with a five hundred-year-old man and an elf with a human father.” Ellöria leaned over. “Hard to believe is my speciality, Galanör of house Reveeri…”

  Vighon shared a glance with Alijah; it was obvious that Lady Ellöria was well informed, despite their remote location.

  Galanör bowed his head apologetically. “A great many events have transpired to see us stood before you, my Lady. We are here and the people of Tregaran have been run from their homes for a single reason.”

  “And that is?”

  Galanör straightened his back and answered with but a word. “Orcs…”

  Galanör’s tale got as far as their arrival in The Arid Lands before Vighon’s legs couldn’t take it any longer. He had taken a seat on the row behind Hadavad and done his best to stay awake for the elf’s retelling. Lady Ellöria had been very clear about hearing every detail and she had done so without moving a muscle.

  “No city could prepare for an attack such as that,” Galanör said, drawing near to the end of his tale. “Tregaran was almost destroyed before they even emerged from the ground. There was nothing we could do but try and get as many people to safety as we could…”

  Ellöria looked away for the first time since the elf had begun to speak, and Vighon would have happily believed it was her first breath as well.

  “The orcs have returned…” she whispered, as if saying it herself would make it more real.

  “My Lady,” Hadavad said, standing up for the first time. “Has there been any word from the other cities in The Arid Lands? Calmardra? Ameeraska?”

  “I’m afraid Ilythyra rarely receives missives from any of the six kingdoms. I don’t believe the people of Illian have warmed to our presence here yet.”

  “In my experience,” Hadavad replied, “humans always require time.”

  Ellöria didn’t appear convinced. “If the orcs have returned, I fear time is something none of us have.” The Lady of the wood adjusted her posture. “You are all welcome to stay in Ilythyra for as long as you wish. The people of Tregaran are extended the same invitation. I will have messages sent to all the kingdoms warning them of the orcs.” The elf considered her next words. “I will send scouts to Calmardra and Ameeraska to confirm their fate.”

  “We thank you for your hospitality, Lady Ellöria.” Galanör bowed his head and the companions made to leave.

  “Alijah,” Ellöria called softly. “It is good to see you…”

  The rogue had nothing to say but to nod his head in agreement. They left the Lady of Ilythyra and descended the winding staircase in silence, feeling between them that they were in a sacred place.

  Back on the ground, the elves had welcomed the refugees who had accompanied them north. Small campsites were already being established in the clearing with healers seeking out the injured. Vighon stopped and stared when a pair of elves stepped away from the cluster and began to sing. Their arms waved about and their hands twirled in hypnotic patterns. He was a second away from inquiring when new roots wormed out of the ground as if they were alive.

  “Look at that!” he exclaimed to an uninterested Alijah.

  The roots twisted and wove in and out of each other until they formed a dome with a small hole in the side. More and more began to sprout from the ground, wherever the elves directed their voices. More elves arrived, this time carrying baskets full of the fleshy orbs, each glowing softly in their piles. The elves fitted the orbs into the makeshift nests, illuminating the interior for
the refugees.

  Galanör was one of very few who could still offer a smile. “How do you think the trees became so big?”

  “It’s incredible…” Vighon said with wide eyes.

  The soft approach of bare feet preceded the appearance of a female elf. She greeted the companions with a genuine smile and bowed her head. “I am Aenwyn,” she said in the common tongue.

  Vighon was captured by her beauty and that of her ethereal dress, its fabric that of the breeze itself. Vighon wondered if mankind was destined to be spellbound by the exquisite beauty of all elves. Seeing Aenwyn and her long dark hair, the northerner couldn’t help but think of Inara. Then again, a lot of things made him think of Inara…

  “Rooms have been prepared for you all inside the Evertree,” Aenwyn continued, gesturing to the giant tree behind her.

  Alijah glanced back at the Tregaran refugees, his eyes briefly resting on Isabella and Salim. “Thank you, but we’ll stay down here.”

  “Lady Ellöria has—”

  Alijah cut Aenwyn off. “We’ll stay down here if it’s all the same.” His tone was as definitive as his words.

  Aenwyn bowed her head again. “As you wish, Prince Alijah.” The elf walked away before the half-elf could protest.

  “Prince?” Vighon immediately repeated.

  Alijah held up his hand. “Don’t,” he warned,

  The two singing elves arrived, preventing the conversation from getting started. Distracted by their magic, Vighon missed Alijah disappear into the crowd of refugees. He was easily found, however, beside Tauren’s wife and son. The half-elf dropped to one knee and embraced Salim, though his words were lost from such a distance.

  Hadavad was the first to enter his private bower. The mage found a comfortable spot and retrieved the prophecy from within his satchel. With his eyes fixed on the ancient scroll, Hadavad waved his hand over the entrance and the branches and roots snaked and coiled until the hole was sealed.

  Galanör unclipped his sword belt and placed the scimitars inside his bower. “A great evil stirs in the realm again,” he began. “If I were you, Vighon Draqaro, I would take rest wherever I can find it.”

  After fighting the orcs and two days of trekking north, Vighon could feel his every muscle aching for sleep. “You saw the orcs,” he replied. “Do you really think we’re safe here?”

  “Safe enough to rest for the night,” Galanör countered. “Let us face the world tomorrow, when we can better understand it.” With that, the ranger ducked into his bower and waved the entrance shut.

  Vighon turned his attention to Alijah again, troubled by the idea of sleeping while his friend suffered through the loss of what felt like an uncle. He removed the round shield from his back and decided to sit against the wall of his bower. He watched Alijah for some time, talking to Tauren’s family and other refugees. The soft glow and heavenly surroundings did nothing to keep him awake, and the northerner soon found his eyelids refusing to open again.

  The sound of familiar voices woke Vighon from his slumber. Disorientated, he looked about and found the daytime sky had been replaced by the stars. Still, winter’s bite couldn’t find him, despite having fallen asleep outside his bower.

  The familiar voices came from the left and he turned to find the source. The campsites were quiet now, the refugees asleep, and the native elves with them. Ilythyra was entirely peaceful but for these two voices.

  Vighon left his shield and scrambled to his feet. His muscles stung and he regretted not stretching after his fight with the orcs.

  One of the voices belonged to a woman, though her words were elvish. Vighon followed the melodic sound, navigating a series of hedges and smaller trees.

  Ellöria and Alijah were beyond the patch of trees, occupying a small garden which was home to a miniature waterfall and a stream. Vighon clung to the nearest tree and remained hidden. He knew to eavesdrop was rude, but his years living in Namdhor had replaced his older instincts with newer and far more inappropriate ones.

  “Have you forgotten your mother’s tongue?” Ellöria asked.

  “I am a child of two worlds,” Alijah replied. “That gives me the privilege of choice.” The rogue shrugged. “I prefer the common tongue, it suits me better.”

  Except for when you’re chatting up the young wives of old lords, Vighon thought.

  “How does life without a family suit you?” Ellöria asked knowingly.

  Vighon could see Alijah trying to hide his surprise. “For a group of people who never leave their homes, you surely know a lot.”

  Ellöria smiled. “The free folk of Illian see what they wish to see. The elves of Ilythyra secretly walk the streets of every kingdom, though I know of a couple who like to frequent a tavern in Lirian…”

  Vighon slunk back behind the tree, racking his memory to think of anyone he might have seen in The Pick-Axe resembling an elf.

  “You’ve been spying on me?” Alijah’s accusation sounded more curious than offended.

  “You are second in line to the throne of Elandril,” Ellöria answered. “Of course you are being watched.”

  The rogue shook his head and slumped down onto a large rock. “What does that matter? My grandmother rules: an elf of what… fifteen hundred years? Being the third in line to an elven kingdom is just as far from the throne as a beggar is to a king.”

  “You are part of a royal family that has reigned over two continents and survived five wars over eight thousand years.” Ellöria walked over and came to stop in front of him. “Whether you like it or not, you are a Sevari.”

  “I’m barely a Galfrey,” Alijah replied with some venom. “And I won’t be either of them for long.”

  Vighon scrunched his face in confusion and moved around the trees to see them better. Ellöria crouched down in front of her great nephew and tilted her head until Alijah was forced to make eye contact with her. The Lady of Ilythyra took his hand in hers and examined it, stroking her thumb over his knuckles and along his palm.

  “Stand up,” she commanded. The elf turned away from Alijah and walked a little farther into the garden.

  Leaving Asher’s green cloak behind, along with his bow and short-sword, Alijah acquiesced and joined her in the clearing.

  “Since you arrived here,” Ellöria said, “I have sensed something in you. A recklessness…” The elf turned around to face her great nephew. “A trait born to mortals in my experience.”

  Vighon crouched down and crawled to a small boulder on the edge of the garden. He had no idea what they were talking about.

  Alijah held up his hands, eager from the looks of it to be done with this conversation. “I appreciate everything you—”

  Ellöria whipped out the hand concealed within her cloak and expelled a sharp breath. A cloud of blue powder washed over Alijah, cutting off his words.

  Then there were two of him!

  Vighon, mouth ajar, watched as an ethereal twin of his friend was blown out of the back of him, mirroring his very stance. It took the northerner another moment to realise that Alijah’s movements had slowed down to a crawl, yet his face remained tormented by the powder.

  “Oi!” Vighon yelled as he ran into the garden.

  Ellöria held up a single hand and the northerner ceased his charge. It wasn’t magic that stopped him, but the expression on the elf’s face. She wasn’t harming Alijah.

  As the half-elf slowly fell backwards, Ellöria casually walked around him until she was beside the blue, ethereal Alijah. The elf reached out and cupped the ghost’s head before running her other hand down his face, to his chest. She stopped over his heart, hesitating with a glance at the real Alijah. Then she dipped her fingers into the smoky image.

  Ellöria’s eyes lit up with revelation and she looked at her great nephew again. Vighon had seen enough sorrow to recognise it now.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  Ignoring him completely, the Lady of Ilythyra reached out and gripped both Alijahs by the shoulder. The elf simultaneously
corrected the rogue’s falling posture and forced the ethereal version back inside.

  With a gasp and a look of surprise, Alijah turned from Vighon to Ellöria with blue powder smeared across his face. “What happened?” he asked frantically. “What did you do?”

  Ellöria sighed. “Something your mother should have done long ago.”

  Alijah glanced at Vighon, but kept his attention on the elf as he wiped a finger full of powder from his cheek. “What is this?”

  “Something you cannot find in Illian,” Ellöria replied cryptically. “Centuries ago, it was thought that we could see into the very soul of our kin. We are a little more enlightened now. It allows one to see what they look like on the magical plane. It is this plane of existence that ties elves to their immortality: an abundant source of magic that resides inside of us, bridging the gap between the two realms.”

  Alijah made sense of her explanation before Vighon did. “I already know what you’re going to say.”

  Ellöria cupped his face. “I am sorry…”

  Vighon looked from one to the other, his confusion growing into frustration. “What in all the hells are you talking about?”

  Alijah moved away from Ellöria’s tender touch and wiped more powder from his face. Vighon didn’t miss the stray tear he also caught with his thumb.

  “I’m mortal, Vighon,” he stated flatly.

  “I don’t understand,” the northerner replied, looking from Ellöria to his friend. “You’re a…” he gestured to Alijah’s pointed ears. “You have…”

  “This should have been discovered when you were born,” Ellöria interrupted. “There hasn’t been a child of our two people since the earliest years after humans emerged from The Wild Moores. You and your sister are the first of your kind in nearly a thousand years.”

  “You’re not immortal?” Vighon just had to say it out loud to really take it in. “I always thought…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. The northerner had always assumed is friend would live forever, like his family…

  Vighon experienced a revelation of his own but was sure to clamp down on his mouth. He could see it all laid out now. He could see why Alijah had done everything possible to distance himself from his family, his immortal family.