The Darkest of Dreams

by Emigh Cannaday

  Talvi frowned once more before rolling onto his back to stare up at the ceiling high above him. Was he really being fed somnomium dust, the powerful metal that rendered magical creatures weak and easier to manage? Had his country acted without honor by refusing to release its prisoners of war? Had it really killed the wounded and forced the rest into slave labor after fighting a battle against an empire who it claimed did the same exact thing with humans? Had the Estellian government actually sent their terms of surrender to the Ellunians inside the helm of a Näkki prince? That sounded absurd, yet this wild bit of information was like a noxious weed taking root in his head.

  All Talvi could think about was how this couldn’t be a true account of what actually happened at the Battle for Veselle. It was nothing more than a small, poor country that managed to squeak by with importing vacationers and exporting fruit and honey and olive oil. The only strategic reason for the Ellunians to invade it was to secure a foothold and expand into Estellian territory until they’d taken over the city of Prasad. That included taking control of the embassy which led to Paris, which would allow them unfettered access to the modern world.

  Given that the Näkki’s unconventional methods of obtaining power included breeding with demons and enslaving humans, letting them step foot on Earth had to be avoided at all costs. When the vampires had joined the Kallo elves in fighting them for the last time, they earned themselves a significantly more tolerated position within Estellian society. According to the newspapers at the time and the history books that followed, the Ellunian kingdoms responsible for the attack had taken such heavy casualties that they readily admitted defeat; not only in the battle, but in their ongoing war against the vampires. The dark elves hadn’t been heard from after the economic sanctions and the travel ban was placed on them. Not a single word had been formally exchanged, just the occasional report of black market transactions here and there along the coastlines. Yet even then, the Näkki never ventured north to step foot on Estellian soil. They only put humans on the merchant ships. Maybe that was because the threat of a life sentence toiling in the somnomium mines was real.

  Talvi sighed and scratched his head out of habit and frustration. He didn’t want to believe it was true. That post-war iron curtain—or somnomium curtain—had given way to a golden age of espionage, and it was the reason why he had a job for the past seventy years. He enjoyed his line of work…most of the time. He loved his country…most of the time. No system of government was perfect, and war was messy. Why should he let his opinion be influenced by a stranger, and the enemy at that? But the longer he thought about Nillin’s words, the more uncertain he felt about everything. For all he knew, this man was simply entertaining him with a story he’d heard from another inmate, who’d likely heard a version of the story from yet another inmate. There weren’t many forms of entertainment in a place like this, after all.

  He debated whether to climb up to his lice-infested mattress and continue to stare at the ceiling, or if he dared ask his new neighbor to elaborate on his tale. It wasn’t as if he had anywhere else to be or anything else to do. He glanced up at the dried-blood drawing of Annika, who was still giving him an encouraging smile with that coy red mouth of hers.

  You’re absolutely right, my little dove, he thought as he gazed up at her. This is the first time that I haven’t thought about the reason why I’m here. He rolled onto his side and saw that Nillin was still there. He, too, was staring up at the ceiling.

  “My name is Talvi,” he said. “I’m awaiting trial for killing my brother over a modern girl.”

  The darkest pair of eyes turned over to peer through the slot at the bottom of the door. They glittered in the shadows while the face they belonged to gave a sympathetic and slightly mischievous grin.

  “Well now…there’s something you don’t hear every day. Was she merely a bit of fun, or was she something more?”

  “She’s my wife,” Talvi said, glancing up at the drawing on the wall.

  “And you love her?”

  “Yes. More than is good for me.”

  The dark elf snickered softly from across the aisle.

  “That’s rich. We’re both in here because of women.”

  Talvi turned to his neighbor with a curious black brow.

  “I thought you said you were brought here after losing the Battle for Veselle.”

  “I was,” Nillin agreed. “But the main reason I chose to fight in that campaign was to avoid getting married to a woman that I didn’t love.”

  “That sounds like quite the story.”

  “Oh yes.” Nillin nodded ever so slightly. “It’s a very long one, though.”

  “Good,” said Talvi. He repositioned himself on the floor before nestling his head in the crook of his arm. “I’m not going anywhere. You may as well start at the beginning.”

  9

  Trial by Fire

  A crude voice barked at Talvi before opening the larger slot halfway up the door.

  “Time for the groomer’s, cupcake. You know the drill.”

  Talvi held out his arms and waited patiently as the cold metal cuffs were locked in place around them, holding them together. His four-man escort brought him to the grooming station, where the most dangerous inmates were kept in chains as they had their nails trimmed and their hair shampooed. The grooming technicians rinsed him off with a magic elixir that rid his body of external parasites and gave him instant relief from the constant scratching. Then it was into a clean grey jumpsuit before having the front of his teeth brushed through the metal wires. He could taste blood in his mouth when they were done, and the back of his teeth were still grainy against his tongue, although he didn’t care. It was the most attention to oral hygiene he’d had in months. After that, he was brought to the warden, who explained that his trial would begin in a few days, which gave him just enough time to board the ship that would take him to the Isle of Tanarus.

  Talvi had been warned that he’d never see the sun again. The few times he was allowed to leave the belly of the transport ship, the sun refused to shine as if to keep that awful promise the guards had made to him upon his arrival at that desolate island. Once they docked, he was brought directly to the Lennadon embassy, the same one where he’d operated out of throughout his career. While he’d always gone effortlessly between Earth and Eritähti, now he moved through the building from the other side of its judicial system, rattling his somnomium-coated chains with each step he took. He was brought to a secure room that contained a table, a handful of chairs, and Cyril Sinclair.

  “Your family should be here in the next half-hour. How are you holding up in the meantime?” he inquired politely, as though Talvi were dealing with something innocuous like a bathroom remodel or a new baby that didn’t like napping.

  “I’ve been better,” Talvi said through his teeth.

  “Yes, no doubt of that,” Cyril agreed. “Hopefully your torture preparedness training has made it easier for you to adjust.”

  “It doesn’t prepare you for not being able to walk more than two paces in any given direction,” he scowled. “Or for eating the same liquified shit day after day. I’d gladly take a few bamboo shoots underneath my fingernails if it meant I could open my mouth and enjoy a halfway decent meal again.”

  “There’s no point in removing the wires prematurely,” Cyril advised. “You need plenty of time to let your teeth settle back into place. Now then, are you being treated well? Or at least, as best as we can hope for given your circumstances?”

  “I’m living in a cell that’s one-third the size of this room,” Talvi sneered. “I’m not allowed to leave or correspond with anyone. I’m supposed to be allowed to bathe twice a week, although they only bother with it once a fortnight. I can’t bloody tell you what they’re feeding me. I expected that the food would be awful, but I thought I’d be able to tell what it’s supposed to be!”

  Cyril nodded sympathetically.

  “I know it’s not what you’re used to, and it may not
taste like what you prefer, but I can assure you that we strive to meet basic nutritional standards.”

  “Standards for what? Swine?”

  “I’ll have someone look into it.”

  “What about the bedbugs? And the lice? What’s the standard for that?”

  “I’ll have someone look into that as well.”

  “I’ll be certain not to hold my breath whilst waiting for a remedy.”

  A weary sigh escaped from Cyril’s chest.

  “Do try and be thankful that you’re in friendly territory, and not imprisoned behind enemy lines. Otherwise, you might actually have bamboo shoots stuck underneath your fingernails.”

  His comment about being imprisoned behind enemy lines made Talvi’s ears perk up as he thought of his new friend back in Bleakmoor.

  “I’ve heard a lot of rumors since my arrival,” he began. “Is it true that the somnomium ore deposits are being mined by prisoners of war?”

  Affronted with the bold accusation, the Director of National Security’s mouth pressed into a flat line.

  “The entire island is one massive somnomium deposit. That’s the reason why nothing grows on it. The prisoners who exhibit good behavior are allowed to mine it. I know you’d prefer the exercise as opposed to sitting in a cell, but if I request to have you placed on mining duty, the dust will make you weak over time. Not to mention that the other men might be inclined to swing a pickaxe in your direction once they learn your name.”

  “I heard a name in there…Prince Dillon of Sinaryos.” Talvi leaned forward in his chair, and even though he’d been cleaned up for court and had his hair washed, his scraggly sideburns and untamed beard left him looking feral at best. “He was killed at the Battle for Veselle, back before I came to work here. I heard our soldiers used hammers on his army to save money on arrows. Is that how he died?”

  “Prince Dillon led the last foreign invasion on our soil,” Cyril replied. “He was young and foolish, and it cost him his life.”

  “The history books all tell the same story,” Talvi said, “That we sent the Ellunian Empire our terms of surrender inside of a gold box as a gesture of goodwill. But I heard a different version of that story.” Cyril remained unimpressed with Talvi’s dramatic delivery. He’d been witness to it so often over the years that it didn’t affect him anymore.

  “Prisoners like to pass the time telling tall tales. Which one did you hear?”

  “I heard that the Empire sent its terms of surrender to Prince Dillon’s father…not in a gold box, but inside of his dead son’s helm, which had been hammered shut to keep the fragments of his skull from falling out. The king was so disturbed by the gesture that he ordered his armies to stand down.”

  Cyril nodded in amusement, then retrieved a cigarette from the gold case inside his jacket. He brought it to Talvi’s lips and lit the end before sitting back down across from him.

  “That old chestnut’s still floating around? I haven’t heard it in a long time.”

  He watched as Talvi took a long satisfying drag through his metal-encased teeth and exhaled it from his nose.

  “Is it true?”

  “Everyone knows that a Näkki prince died in that battle. Technically, we didn’t send his father terms of surrender. It was a formal ceasefire agreement. We essentially agreed to disagree and never speak again. That detail is often overlooked, although every historian or book on the subject will confirm this to be true.”

  “What about the helmet?” Talvi pressed, although the nicotine had calmed him significantly. With his hands bound to the chain around his waist, the Tuzlian tobacco cigarette was left to wobble in his mouth as he spoke. “Is that part true?”

  “I suppose that depends on which side you sympathize with the most, agent Marinossian. Regardless if our cease fire was sent in a gold box or a daenomium helmet shaped into a chimera brandishing gold horns, you’re missing the point—we made them lay down their arms. The story about a poor king being overcome with grief by having his eldest son brutally killed is merely Näkki propaganda.” Cyril crossed his legs and sat back, smiling softly as if he were a teacher imparting wisdom unto his favorite misfit of a student. “Talvi, every parent knows that when their son goes to war, he won’t always return. Not even princes are guaranteed to come home. King Balerin agreed to a cease fire not because we’re barbaric monsters, but because his army lost legions upon legions of healthy, virile young men in that battle. His son simply happened to be one of them.”

  “It’s usually males who die in war, so why would this be such a relevant factor in the cease fire?”

  “It’s relevant because unlike us Kallo elves—the true elves, mind you—the Näkki are an inferior offshoot who don’t often produce children of their own. Without an heir, King Balerin’s house will fall. So will all the others. A fire without fuel cannot burn forever. It’s just a matter of time before the Näkki are wiped out for good.”

  Talvi reflected quietly on what Cyril had said to him. More specifically, he reflected on what Cyril had not said. He hadn’t admitted one way or the other about the prisoners of war being forced into mining somnomium, a powerful metal that diminished the powers of magical creatures. If Nillin was a prisoner of war, he should’ve been let go, plain and simple. Then Talvi’s mind took a darker turn. If neither empire had officially surrendered, and they’d agreed upon a cease fire instead, that meant the war between the Näkki and Kallo elves wasn’t officially over. It could explain the loophole that put Nillin and the other soldiers into forced labor. The more that Talvi thought about the ugly, dark secret, the more disheartened he felt about his future. Hopefully, his trial would go better now that Cyril was there. It couldn’t go poorly with his father’s influence since he was bound to know at least one of the presiding judges.

  He took one last drag of the cigarette before motioning for Cyril to take it away. He put it out and gave Talvi a curious look.

  "Is there anything else you wish to discuss before your family arrives?"

  “Who came to visit me? Surely my father, but what about my mother? Does she even want to see my face?" Cyril gave a hopeful smile.

  “Yes. Both of your parents are here, as well as your brother-in-law and a couple of friends."

  Before Talvi had a chance to ask which friends he still had left, there was a knock at the door and then his parents walked into the room. His father wore a solemn expression on his face, and his beard wasn't trimmed as short as it usually was. Both of his parents appeared exhausted, although when Althea stepped forward, the part of her that would always be his mother chose to overlook the reason why she was there in the first place. A fleeting glimpse of silver shone from between his dry lips, although it hardly constituted a smile. The months of not being able to eat properly had left his face gaunt and his eyes dull, with dark circles underneath them.

  “Oh, Talvi! What’s wrong with your mouth?” his mother gasped when she saw the metal wires binding his jaw shut. She reached out and touched his face, letting her fingers run along his jawline before her arm returned to her side. “I thought your teeth would’ve been set by now.”

  “Finn broke it in four different places,” he hissed. “I’m lucky I still have any teeth to bother with.”

  “We brought you some clothes to change into, in case the judges allow it,” piped up a wispy voice from behind her. Then Runa appeared through the doorway, followed by Asbjorn, Nikola, a man he didn’t recognize, and his father. Unsure of what his first words to his son ought to be since Finn’s death and his arrest, Ambrose quickly made the introduction.

  “Talvi, this is Greyson Bronek, the best counsel for the defense that I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with.” Greyson gave both elven men a courteous nod.

  “The goal is to have you convicted of acting entirely in self-defense and have you freed, but this is a very grey area of the law. The best I think I can get you is the minimum sentence of a hundred years due to the fact that you were trying to protect yourself,” Greyson expl
ained matter-of-factly. “From everything I’ve heard so far, that’s not going to happen. The prosecution’s going to have a field day with Asbjorn, and their star character witness is a papermaker who lost a hand at your expense.” Talvi felt his shoulders sink down low as he recalled how many reams of red paper he owned back at home. “When the judges hear about your history with Elden, you’ll most likely get closer to two-hundred years. I think you had better be prepared for three.”

  “Three hundred years?” Talvi whispered. Nobody in the room batted an eye. They already knew the odds. Of course they did. They’d probably been speaking with Greyson for quite some time while planning the case.

  “Yes. Three hundred years. One of the judges is a strong supporter of the Ironwood movement. I have no doubt at how displeased she is that your argument with your brother was over a modern girl—let alone the fact that this topic has been in the papers ever since. You never should’ve married that Brisby girl. The judges will know where your loyalty lies as soon as they see the ring on your finger. For the sake of the gods, Talvi…why haven’t you taken it off?”

  Talvi winced as he stared at his handcuffed wrists, which were now resting in his lap.

  “I can’t.”

  His defense attorney cast him a skeptical glance, and yet again, no one said a word about the mysterious and magical ring that was as much a part of Talvi as his own flesh. Whether or not the court knew the truth about the ring, they would see it as a symbol of Talvi’s defiance. Greyson stared deep into his client’s eyes, trying to read his thoughts and understand the reason for self-sabotage. If Talvi had been anyone else, he wouldn’t have stood a chance against a clever and calculating mind like this one. He had a sharpness about him that harkened to his years of experience. His brown hair was greying at the temples, and combed back neatly, although his eyebrows were wild like he was part wolf. He let out a huff before delivering his prediction of how things would turn out.