“There will be a time when Pavlin’s hungerbound break through your borders and the contagion spreads. Without us, you will be overrun. My queen proposes this: that you allow the Bloodsworn of the Covenant into your lands to let your people know of our offer. She has no desire to interfere with your sovereign rule. The few of you who choose to become Chosen will serve your king, not our queen. Vampires in control of themselves will not only help you save any fallen loved ones, but will also prove a sure defense against Count Pavlin’s designs. Only together can we overcome him. He knows, as does our queen, that your realm is the key. If he overruns you, we will not be able to resist his onslaught on both fronts. This is what my queen and I hope to prevent.”
“To be clear,” Seredith responded, “you want us to open our borders and allow some of our people to be made into vampires of your Covenant.”
“Only those who choose to do so,” the count responded.
“And why would they choose that?”
“For the protection and safety of your realm!” he answered. “The source of this contagion is Malahkma! Would you have her consume both our lands?”
There was silence in response. Finally, Seredith’s voice crackled. “I remain unconvinced.”
There was another silent pause.
“I assume,” Rajamin said, his voice barely above a whisper, “that when you brandish the name of Malahkma, you do not refer to the Artalonian crime guild, which Pavlin served for a time after Artalon’s fall.”
Markus shook his head. “No. Malahkma, the Goddess of Desire, has freed herself from the Abyss. She turned one woman. One elven girl. Look how her taint has infected the realms. Malahkma’s desire spread, for it cannot be satisfied, nor can it be killed. Its source is divine. But it can be resisted, and this is what we in the Covenant have done to thwart her will.”
Rajamin stroked his whiskers. “She is the enemy of the Gods of Light. Is your queen open to the Church of Light in her borders?” The ratling’s eyes glanced at the duke, but Montevin seemed content to let this line of conversation play itself out.
“You will find us wary of gods,” the count admitted. “Look where Karanos has gotten us, and now Malahkma. But we who struggle daily to keep our humanity and preserve ourselves against Malahkma’s desires value free will above all else. As long as the queen’s law is preserved, and the Covenant is not challenged, the people of Astia are free to join whichever church or temple satisfies their need for faith and pays the queen’s tax.”
Attaris realized the runes on his hammers were glowing. He felt Modhrin move within him.
“Bullshit!” he interjected. “Malahkma is the Enemy! You’re proposing to let her magic in our lands! This is insidious subversion, pure and simple. She is everything that is against the Gods of Light, all of them! Civilization could not rise with her loose, which is why Athra bound her in the first place! I’m sorry for her victims, but they are cursed. We cannot allow them into our lands!”
The four vampires eyed him with their glowing eyes.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Master Dwarf,” Count Markus said, “but I don’t believe that’s your call to make.”
Attaris rose to his feet, the heat of anger spreading over his bearded cheeks. It was Rajamin who put his hand on the dwarf’s arms and calmed him. Attaris looked down at the ratling and saw wisdom in his eyes. He shook his head slightly as if to say, not here, not now. The ratling’s runic necklace also glowed with divine life. Attaris returned to his seat.
“I urge you to bring word to your king,” the count said. “Our future depends on this.”
Duke Montevin held his furred, clawed hand out in a flat gesture, signaling all the others to keep their tongues. Seredith sat, unmoving.
The duke leaned his massive frame over the table, wolf eyes staring intently at the count. His lips curled into a snarl, and his hands dug claw marks into the wood.
“I have heard all I need to hear,” he growled. “Tell your queen that Hammerfold will never be a haven to vampires. You came under the banner of diplomacy, and we will honor that as you depart. Now get out, before I change my mind.”
Count Markus opened his mouth to speak, but then shut it. He gave a curt nod and rose to leave. At the doorway, he turned his head over his shoulder. “When the hungerbound come for you, remember you were warned,” he hissed. “And our offer still stands.”
He and his followers departed without incident.
After the enemy left, the companions relaxed and tension dissolved from the air. Only Seredith’s composure did not seem to change, though she replaced the long cowl over her head. Duke Montevin relaxed back into his human form, and his coat and clothing reappeared.
“As much as I hate to say it,” Tarrin the seelie ranger said, “he spoke the truth. At least, he didn’t lie.”
“You’re certain?” the duke asked.
The seelie nodded. “I cannot read souls as well as Aradma, but I know truth when I hear it. He was sincere. We should alert the rangers and towns on the Roentian border.”
“The question,” Seredith stated, “is what he left unsaid.”
18 - Reunion
“That’s odd,” Yinkle squeaked. She rode on Ghost’s back, sitting in front of Fernwalker. Already the eight-year-old elf was taller than the ratling woman. Yinkle had taken to helping Suleima keep the household and watch over the child when Aradma was away because Suleima also had duties at the Church, and Yinkle had few obligations.
“What’s odd?” Fernwalker asked. She looked left and right, her two ponytails waving in the air. They both wore thick wool coats. It hadn’t snowed recently, but the air was well below freezing, even in the afternoon.
Fernwalker often wondered whether Yinkle felt nervous riding on Ghost’s back. The tiger was generous with them. Her mother had told her once that Ghost was a special tiger. He had been made smarter by another seelie, Tiberan. Her mom had loved Tiberan very much and had never completely recovered from his death. Ghost found a home with them. Aradma loved the tiger, too, and Ghost was fiercely protective of Fernwalker.
“That owl,” Yinkle said. “I would swear it’s been following us.”
“Oh!” Fernwalker saw it now. A great horned owl watched them, flying from tree to tree when they got ahead of him. “That is strange.” Then she laughed. “Maybe he mistakes you for a mouse.”
Yinkle whipped her tail up and tickled Fernwalker’s nose. “Hey!” the elven girl protested. “Stop that!”
“Stop calling me a mouse,” Yinkle replied. “You deserve tickles for that.”
“Fine!” Fernwalker yelled, and Yinkle’s tail fell away.
“Let’s get home,” Yinkle said. “This is too cold, and I have fur. Let’s get a fire going when we get there, and a beef stew in the pot.”
“Ghost, let’s hurry home,” Fernwalker asked the tiger. The tiger couldn’t speak, but he seemed to understand her well enough. Fernwalker clasped Yinkle’s waist with one arm and held onto the small rope harness Ghost wore when they rode him. The great cat didn’t run, but he accelerated to a brisk pace.
Sure enough, the owl still trailed them. Ghost followed them inside and lay down in front of the hearth while Fernwalker prepared the fire.
A thought occurred to her. She hadn’t really considered it before. “Yinkle, why doesn’t Uncle Raj come to the house more often? Didn’t he used to visit more?”
Yinkle looked at Fernwalker thoughtfully for a moment. “Your mother isn’t comfortable with where the Church is going,” she finally answered.
“Why not?” Fernwalker asked. “Isn’t the Church good?”
“Your mother isn’t comfortable with how the Church sees her,” Yinkle said.
Fernwalker considered this. “Because she wants a normal life,” she speculated.
“Being your mom is the most important thing to her,” Yinkle said. “After that, a safe home for her people. She doesn’t want people to treat her as something she’s not.”
Fernwalker n
odded. “Because the Green Dragon was a goddess.”
“Yes.”
“That’s not all, is it?” Fernwalker asked. There was something more lately she had seen when Aradma and Rajamin met in the city. “The druids,” Fernwalker finally said. She herself had started learning druidry, and Aradma had taught both seelie and humans who came to her wanting to learn the ways of Life. “He doesn’t like that the druids don’t need gods.”
Yinkle nodded. “The Church has changed him,” she said sadly. “He used to be practical.”
“Why don’t you go to church?” Fernwalker asked.
“It really isn’t the ratling way,” Yinkle said. “Uncle Rajamin always was different. But he is a good man.”
Ghost perked his head up and looked at the front door. Fernwalker went to the window and saw the owl sitting on the fence.
“This is most unusual,” Yinkle said.
“I’m going out to it,” Fernwalker declared.
“No, wait!” Yinkle told her. “Wait for Suleima. This doesn’t feel right.”
There was something in the owl’s eyes as he stared straight at Fernwalker. She opened the front door, ignoring Yinkle’s protests. Ghost followed them outside, seemingly relaxed. He regarded the owl curiously.
Fernwalker stopped a few paces from the stone wall. The owl looked down at her, and she looked up at him.
“What do you want?” she finally asked.
The owl spread his wings and alighted on the ground. He shifted form, changing into a strange male creature. He had wild red hair and wore a leather shirt and leggings. His body was covered in short, downy green fur, and his eyes were large and almond-shaped on his face. Big black pupils filled most of his eyes, and his irises formed narrow gold rings around them. His nose was short and almost feline, and two great, curved cheek tusks swept down and forward from his face.
“Oh!” Fernwalker exclaimed.
Ghost went back inside.
Yinkle stared with open mouth, too stunned to speak. She stuttered. “What are you doing here?”
“I am looking for someone,” he said. “I followed you because I know that tiger. The last time I saw him was in the Vemnai jungle accompanied by two light elves. Can you tell me where to find the woman called Aradma?”
“She’s my mom,” Fernwalker answered. “Who are you?”
“Your mother?” he asked.
Yinkle interjected, “Ratlings all look the same to you trolls, don’t we? Don’t you recognize me?”
The troll didn’t seem to hear. He knelt down and stared into Fernwalker’s eyes. Something about the way he looked at her felt right. Fernwalker couldn’t explain it. She felt entranced by his deep black pupils. She had never seen a man like this before. He was beast-like. Wild. But something about him felt very familiar. He didn’t seem strange, and she thought he should seem strange.
“My name is Odoune,” he said. “I am a friend of your mother’s. I have traveled a long way to see her.”
“Odoune!” Fernwalker blurted. Her knees wobbled. She knew the name well. He was a troll! A male troll! Aradma had told her his name, but she had never seen a male troll before. Suleima looked so different, almost human by comparison. Her mom had told her that troll men and women appeared very different from each other, but she didn’t understand what that meant until now.
At that moment, the white falcon landed in the garden, and then Aradma stood there. “Odoune!” the druid exclaimed.
Fernwalker threw her arms around the man’s neck, embracing him. She didn’t know if she should tell him or not. She knew he didn’t know about her. He seemed startled, and she released him. He stood and turned to Aradma.
“Odoune,” Aradma said again, grinning widely. She stepped forward and embraced him warmly. “This is Fernwalker. Our daughter.”
* * *
The four of them sat inside the house while the stew cooked. Fernwalker sat beside her father, across from Aradma. She kept petting the fur on his arms. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of her, and patiently endured her prodding and poking, even when she touched his tusks. Ghost lay beside the table and stared up at the troll. Every time Odoune looked at Aradma, Ghost gave a soft growl until Fernwalker batted him on the nose.
“I never knew you were pregnant,” Odoune said. His eyebrows furled, and Aradma knew he felt hurt.
“I know,” Aradma answered. She was so tired. She had flown from Erindil, narrowly escaping Sidhna. Now here she was explaining to Odoune why he never knew he had a daughter. She was happy to see him; she just hadn’t envisioned this meeting happening this way. “You had other concerns. I didn’t want to burden you.”
“To tell me I had a child?” he asked. “That would not have been a burden. You should have told me. I would have come with you.”
Aradma winced inside. That was exactly why she hadn’t told him. How did she explain that she hadn’t loved him the same way she loved Tiberan. “I know,” she answered and looked down at the table. “Your people needed you. I didn’t want to take you away from that.”
Yinkle brought them all tea. Aradma gratefully took the warm mug.
“She’s beautiful,” Odoune said. Then repeated, “You should have told me.” Fernwalker moved over to sit on his lap and rested her head on his chest. After a pause, he asked, “Has Tiberan been a good father?”
“Oh, Odoune,” Aradma said. “Tiberan died before she was born. I never lied to her about her father.”
“She knew I am a troll?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know what a troll man looked like,” Fernwalker said.
“Why did you come?” Aradma asked. “I’m happy to see you, don’t misunderstand.”
“It’s been nine years,” Odoune said. “Things are stable in Vemnai for now. You never came back, and I heard news about the realms in the north, news of contagion. That seemed reason enough.”
Aradma nodded. She supposed it was. “A lot has happened,” she said.
“I can see that,” he answered. Then he added, “I’m sorry Tiberan died. He was important to you.”
“He still is,” she said.
The door opened, and Suleima entered the house. “Odoune!” she exclaimed. She seemed unsure of herself.
He stood, setting Fernwalker down beside him. “Suleima,” he greeted her, “I’m glad to see you are well.”
She didn’t answer him. Her body tensed. Her hand went to one of the runes on her necklace.
“I’m not here for you,” he said.
She seemed to relax. “I’m not going back,” she stated.
He shook his head. “A lot has changed on Vemnai.”
“The Matriarch will never forgive me,” she answered. Yinkle handed her tea, and they all sat again at the table.
“The Matriarch you knew is gone,” Odoune said. “The cloister revolted against her after her defeat at Kallanista. Couraime is the new Matriarch.”
“Tiberan’s wife,” Aradma stated.
Odoune arched an eyebrow. “In a manner of speaking. Yes, she ascended to the Obsidian Throne. The old Matriarch fled, and we don’t know what became of her. Change has been slow, but the current Matriarch is not at war with the druids. And love between a woman and her husbands is no longer taboo. Most women were ready to embrace that change.”
“Well, that’s something,” Aradma said.
“People seem happier,” Odoune agreed. “And relations with Kallanista have opened up again.”
“Why haven’t we heard anything from them?” Yinkle asked. “There have been no airships.”
“The contagion. Kallanista won’t fly over the infected lands,” Odoune responded. “That’s why I had to come here on my own. Everything is calm there. They don’t need me anymore. I had to find you. I’ve never forgotten what we shared.”
Later, Aradma and Odoune walked in the cold night air. They each wore thick fur coats and fur-lined boots and gloves. She had given him an outfit, for the leathers he had brought from Vemnai weren’t warm e
nough. Furthermore, it was just too cold for her to clothe herself in grown foliage. A waxing moon shone overhead, almost full.
“Run in the woods with me,” Odoune said. He shapeshifted into a bear, the druidic magic absorbing the fur coat into his body, and ran off into the trees.
Aradma jumped forward, landing on all fours as the leopard. She followed him, and the two of them ran through the foothills and up mountain ridges where they could see a view of the entire valley surrounding Windbowl. The castle rose majestically in the distance.
He stopped on a smooth expanse of rock. The cold mist of his breath formed around his bear snout. He turned and waited for her. She stopped beside him, and he playfully nosed her. She batted his nose with her padded paw, and the two beasts rolled and tumbled together up against the trunk of a lone pine.
He shapeshifted back into his body, and she followed, becoming the elven woman again. She lay in his arms, his fur-lined overcoat wrapped around both their bodies.
He kissed her. She relaxed her body and surrendered to the kiss, heart racing. She thought of his body underneath the leathers and the coat. She remembered the pleasures of intimacies she hadn’t felt in nine years—since Tiberan died. She gently bit his lower lip and his passion increased. She thought about them naked together, warming each other between the fur jackets. She wanted to…
She pulled her head back away from his and pushed on his chest. He stopped and looked into her eyes.
“I’ve dreamt of you all these years,” he said. “I want you.”
“I know,” she said. “Oh, Odoune, I know. I want you too, but I know where this leads for you, and my heart cannot follow you there. If I gave you my body again, it would be a lie.”
He relaxed his embrace. He did not look angry, but his eyes shown with disappointment. “You still grieve for him.”
“I do,” she said. “I can’t let go. A part of me refuses to believe he’s dead.”
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