She sat up and sniffled, wiping her face. “Silly me.” She crawled back to the water’s edge, focusing hard on the laundry instead of the water’s reflections.
The wind quickened and the trees bent farther over. She planted a hand atop her veil to keep it from flying away. The darkening depths of the forest attracted her eyes now. How far was she from the spot where she’d talked to the elf? Tintilly lay a few miles south and east from the convent. Their parting place must’ve been immediately east of Tintilly, considering the side of town they had exited. What had he been doing in town, especially if he knew he shouldn’t be seen? Had he actually been looking for what that filthy book said elves sought in the human lands? To couple with a…? Surely not. He had mentioned he was hungry, a probable reason. Nonetheless, being hungry could be a truth standing beside another truth, that he was a “young saehgahn seeking adulthood in the human lands” and looking to “discover the secret of love in a townswoman’s embrace.”
A sharp tickle shot through her belly at the thought of that particular elf being the one in the story. How much religious contemplation would it take to wipe such a fantasy out of her thoughts?
She sighed and dunked her arms into the water again to retrieve the last few items. “I’m going to owe the Creator a lot of penance prayers.”
Chapter 4
A Shield for His Fears
In the years since Dorhen’s disappearance, Daghahen had walked across the continent and back as the spirits bade him. He never had achieved an audience with Hael, but he’d talked again to Thaxyl, offering beating animal hearts from which it drew a fraction of energy as a measly attempt to refill its store. A few offerings like that did much to gain favor from the desperate wisp which used to be a pixie. Thaxyl burned to be a powerful pixie again. In those moments when Daghahen allowed the wisp to draw energy from his own body, he felt it. The yearning sensation rising in his core made him bellow in discontent. There was no easy or quick remedy to such a longing. Is that what his brother, Lambelhen, experienced all the time in his desperation to achieve the final orgasm to end his never-ending hunger for sex?
Contacting Naerezek was out of the question. The dog-like beast of a spirit loved his brother; it would betray Daghahen to him, quickly ending Daghahen’s mischief. But the three remaining pixies, Wik, Ingnet, and Hael, could possibly be bought. If he could gain certain abilities, or at least secrets, from them, he could defeat Lambelhen.
A long, rocky few years had slogged by, though he’d gained much. He walked tall along his way back from the Darklands after finding his secret weapon, a hollow glass ball containing the pixie Wik himself. He’d followed clues the stars gave him all the way to Hathrohskog, in the Darklands, where his path ended at its hiding place. He had degraded himself to a dark new extent to snatch it, but it was done. Now he needed to find out when and how to use it and why the stars thought it was so important.
He had spent the next few years traveling all the way back to the south side of the Lightlands, to the rock-strewn mountain terrain where the Sharzian kingdom mined its supply of gold. Lately, the sorcerers bustled there like a mating frenzy of rats. There he lingered, looking for the next clue, sometimes even asking the stars.
Picking his way along a winding mountain road, he stumbled upon a violent raid on a caravan and dropped to a huddle behind a wiry dead hedge. Daghahen’s heart raced at the screams echoing off the canyon-like walls. There weren’t many places to hide on this road, which snaked between two steep mountainsides. He had been planning to catch the caravan to ask them for food when it happened. The red-cloaked bandits set an ambush. The slaughter went on and would continue to completion. If the One Creator existed, no one would see Daghahen.
His mouth moved, forming some syllables before the words for Gariott’s Blend came out. The spell worked with his tan-colored robes to make him blend into his surroundings. A haze crept over his vision to signal his casting success. He could still see his own body, but the bandits wouldn’t be able to. Knowing the spell had reached full effect always took faith at first, and casting it as a veteran took trust, trust that he’d dissolved completely from their vision and didn’t have a hand or wisp of hair showing.
Listening to the mess, he shuddered and reached for his shabby scarf, once a woman’s turquoise-colored shawl but now his greying rag. He wrapped it around his head, to feel safe if nothing else. The red-cloaked bandits’ laughter filled the mountain crevice as the screams quieted. Madmen like these murdered any time of the day that suited them, even at high noon like today.
Daghahen turned to look, peering over the dead hedge. These weren’t normal bandits; they were sorcerers from his old faction, always inclined to attack innocent folk for their food and money. The victim-caravan flew royal Sharzian banners and kept several guards at each side. Its many wagons loaded with stacked crates and covered by tarps must be hauling preserved food rations for the towns. Other people in the group were regular traders, banding together for security. Though this assembly boasted a good company of swordsmen, they’d been no match for the Ilbith sorcerers.
Old Dag’s luck. The Lightlands used to be a lovely place, a kingdom of valiance and honor, both when he had spent his youth here and later when he returned as an adult. But something had changed. The sorcerers ran amok now, in disguise when not flaunting their red cloaks or red bandannas or red leggings. They shouldn’t have been able to cross Hanhelin’s Gate, but they’d found a way. Even Daghahen could cross back and forth with his perfected system of spells.
All the caravan people fell motionless and the sorcerers roved over their goods, some dispersing to scout the area.
“I thought I spotted movement earlier!” one man called, and trotted toward the rocky nook off the road where Daghahen hid.
He sucked in air and tightened up like a scared child.
The sorcerer searched around to his side of the hedge. “That was odd. Must’ve been a hare or lizard.”
Daghahen held his breath and squeezed his arms around his knees.
The man ventured close, checking behind each available boulder. “I swear I saw somebody before we engaged,” he mumbled, gripping his sword tight.
Daghahen winced when he stepped terribly close, a straw’s width away from grazing his invisible form. He drew in long gulps of air through his mouth; his nose might’ve whistled.
Some poor trader’s blood dripped off the man’s sword. He shifted to one foot, surveying the road from this elevated vantage point, and the blade hovered right over Daghahen’s shoulder. If he tried to scoot away, he’d disturb the dried flora, and there wasn’t enough wind to take the blame for any plant movement. Any twig on the ground or dry hedge limb could also snap if he moved wrong.
A faint voice yelled from the road. “Hey! What are you doing? Get down here before someone comes along!”
“Right!” the man yelled back and whipped to the side, his blade narrowly slicing the air by Daghahen’s cheek. He leaned over to avoid injury, risking any sudden plant movement or noise.
The man ran back down the bank between fallen boulders to the little road in the mountain crevice. Daghahen let out a sigh and turned again to watch the sorcerers ride away with their new wagons packed full of the people’s food relief.
When Daghahen stood again, his spell wore off, and he loosened the rag from his face, letting it drape around his shoulders. His ratty hair flew free again as he made his way to the road to see the remains of the caravan for himself. The older wagons remained, although the sorcerers had taken all the animals, their hooves still audible down the canyon road. The rocky dirt crunched under his worn sandals; sharp pebbles stabbed his toes, which hung off the edges of the soles. He squatted by the first dead body, a hired guard, and pulled off his boots. The sorcerers hadn’t taken everything of value after all.
After tugging the boots snugly over his nearly-too-large feet, he picked through the broken crates and dead peoples’ pockets for any scrap of food. Nothing remained left behind, not even a crumb. Th
e sorcerers would’ve taken anything edible, especially with the long overdue famine about to hit the Lightlands. He’d seen it in the stars last year when the constellation of the Choir of Weeping Children rotated around to face the Dead Tree. Today’s event made certain that the sorcerers would aggravate the famine, if they weren’t the sole cause of it.
A frown dragged his mouth down as he surveyed the scene once more. The gurgling of someone’s bloody throat drew him to the far side of the wreckage. He left his scarf off his head. It wouldn’t matter if a dying man saw his elven ears.
A fat man with a red beard leaned against a broken wagon. Its wheel had fallen off in the struggle and rolled off the road a ways. His hands clamped shut a vicious slice across his belly, the effort buying him a few extra minutes.
As Daghahen ventured closer, the man’s chin worked up and down. His words were mostly air. “Helph…helph…” He wore a curious hood made out of pale, supple leather with the scratchy word “MERCY” inscribed across the front in whitewash.
Daghahen knelt beside him and tugged his hood down. A shiny bald spot capped the man’s head, despite his bushy red beard.
“Helph…”
“Relax,” Daghahen said. “Your troubles are over and the Creator’s ravians will take you soon. I do envy you.” A bland glaze washed over the fat man’s eyes. He gasped for air now. “When you get to His kingdom, tell the Creator about the Lightlands’ dire trouble.”
Overhead, vultures were already gathering on the tiers of rocks. Daghahen reached out and pulled at the man’s hood. It was attached to an elbow-length capelet. The garment’s color would work well with Gariott’s Blend, even as the sun continued to tan the new leather.
The fat man went limp, dead by the time Daghahen shook the hood free. He snapped it and studied it. No bloodstains. Unwinding his tattered old shawl, he put the hood and capelet on and placed the shawl over the fat man’s dead staring face.
His stomach ached and growled, but he continued his trek, running down the road in fine new boots with a great new hood to protect him from the stars.
After sweeping to the end of the ruined caravan remnants, Chandran lifted an odd stringy rag off one of the dead men’s faces, the only dead person with care paid to him. All the others sprawled around the ground, gawking as if shocked at their ill fate. This fat man had accepted his death.
“Master,” Rayna called, popping up from behind one of the bowing wagons. “Our faction did this. I found a tuft of dog hair in this man’s mouth.”
Chandran didn’t respond. He lifted the rag, filthy and grey with a few threads still displaying its original turquoise dye. He smelled it, pulling the scent deep into his nose. Pipe smoke. The pipe smoke scent told him nothing; everyone visited pubs and inns filled to the ceiling with pipe smoke. But another element accompanied it: sweat. Not like any sweat, though. Not like his or Rayna’s. It was elf sweat. He hadn’t found too many opportunities to study the scent of sweating elves, but this odor clung thick and potent, the way sweat collects in a man’s clothes over time, but with distinct differences. It was the best lead he’d found so far. He stuffed the rag into his pack.
Around the dead man were boot prints, pressed deep into the dry, crumbly dirt as if this person’s weight had lingered for an extended amount of time. A knee print had been stamped beside the corpse, confirming Chandran’s suspicion that someone had visited this man before he died. Chandran stood again and called for Rayna. From the dead man, the boot prints trod the road going west, toward Logardvy and Tintilly.
The sky blazed orange when Daghahen emerged from the mountain path and approached a small town with a sign reading “LOGARDVY” with an accompanying illustration of a man taking a pickaxe to a large rock.
He entered an inn after flashing his coin purse to the owner and scrunched himself onto a bench at one of the long tables between a large, laughing drunkard and a cackling woman with a low, sweeping neckline. Resting his elbows on the table, he pulled his new hood low. They carried on their merriment, downing pint after pint, often talking loudly to each other. Neither minded him sitting between them.
“Ain’t that right, mercyman?” the man yelled and laughed, elbowing him in the ribs.
“What?” he responded, but the man had already moved on to a new subject.
The barmaid leaned over the table from the other side between the other patrons. “You gonna pay for yer supper, mercyman?”
At first, Daghahen didn’t answer, but when he braved raising his eyes, she was staring right at him. He pointed to his chest.
“Yes, you. You intend to pay? We ain’t got no ‘mercy’ to share with a freeloader, mercyman. What’s your answer?”
“Yes, of course. I have money.” He drew his coin purse out once again and shook it.
“Now yer talkin’ my language,” she said with a sniff, and marched back toward the kitchen with an empty tray under her arm. A few moments later, she showed up with a bowl of stew and a tankard. He drew the bowl closer and pushed the tankard away.
“I can’t drink this.” If only he’d bitten his tongue instead of saying that.
The barmaid growled. “Bloody stink, I forgot about you religious types. What can you drink, your majesty?”
“Um. H-how ‘bout some tea? Or at least hot water, if ya don’t mind, darlin’?”
She squinted her eyes, a fist grafted to her hips, and stormed off again. She thought some religion kept him from drinking? And here he thought he’d blown his cover and announced his true race. Elves couldn’t eat or drink fermented things, or they’d face death or at least terrible, horrible illness. He reached under his hood and wiped his forehead on his sleeve.
The hood. He had forgotten it displayed the word “mercy,” which must be why folk had been calling him “mercyman” ever since he arrived. Must be a religious order. Regardless of what it meant, he’d keep it. Tonight it had saved him from being exposed. If his elven identity were found out in any one of these Sharzian cities, he’d be in trouble. Worse than being found out by a lord’s guards, he’d also be caught by the sly sorcerers.
He let out the first sigh since entering town and dug into the lumpy bowl of stew. The salty gravy ran thick down his throat and into his empty stomach. It didn’t take long to empty the bowl. He might’ve raised his hand for an immediate refill, but his coin wouldn’t last long if he allowed himself such excesses. In fact, he’d be smart to pay for the stew and opt out of sleeping here. He had to save his money. Though a bed shared with a disgusting lout like the man next to him would be better than sleeping out there…under the stars.
When the barmaid returned, she placed a little clay cup before him. She’d brought tea after all.
“Thank you,” he said, but she rolled her eyes and walked away grumbling about a tip. She’d get it.
Daghahen reached out and wrapped his fingers around the cup. Should he have ordered plain cool water instead? With the central hearth blazing and human bodies gathered in so close, perspiration beaded around his neck and under his arms. Nonetheless, the tea steam soothed his nerves.
He and Lambelhen had grown up in a place like this. Almost all of these inns were shaped the same. His old home was all the way on the other side of the continent, but it might as well have been this one. The ceiling soared above the ground and second floors, accessible via two staircases on each side ascending to a catwalk and the individual bedrooms. Only the wealthy could afford private rooms up there. Down below, the ground floor offered long stretches of rooms with rows of beds the lesser citizens were made to share, unless they traveled with their wives.
As Daghahen sipped the mug of bitter tea, a ratty grey scarf caught his eye. His scarf, bunched in the hand of a wild-eyed stranger. The stranger sniffed the thing and then roamed his eyes about the room from the shade of the overhanging loft. Daghahen ducked his head below his shoulders and chanced another look through one eye.
The stranger’s eyes narrowed and darted this way and that. Under his heavy coat wit
h bulging pockets, he wore no red garments to signify an affiliation with Ilbith, but he emitted the too-familiar aroma of salts and herbs any sorcerer carried around. He turned his head and made eye contact with a fetching woman standing behind him, and as she walked away, smoothly dodging drinkers and whores, he sniffed the scarf again before raising his nose for a whiff of the whole room.
The stranger’s little friend disappeared into the kitchen. So many smells hung around in here, from the pipe smoke to roasted meat to alcohol and the body odor of the man next to him, the stranger would have to be using a spell to detect Daghahen’s scent.
The stranger’s woman returned from the kitchen, wearing an apron identical to the barmaid’s over her flattering corset and wool dress. She went straight to the first table loaded with men, ignoring the one which hosted a group of chatty women. She leaned in low, looking hard at each one’s face as she refilled their tankards.
Daghahen concentrated on his teacup again. “Damn.” He grabbed the cup and placed it on the floor under the table. He had to be the only male patron in here drinking tea.
The woman moved to the next table full of men and looked at each of their faces. Eventually, she’d study his. They must be looking for an elf. No doubt they were sorcerers sent by Ilbith. He still carried Lambelhen’s sword, after all. If she managed to get a look at his face, she’d notice the sharp, angular cheekbones and narrow jaw typical to his race.
The woman’s friend toured the room too, flaring his nostrils. He drew closer to Daghahen than the lady would for a while. Though the hood and capelet had recently belonged to someone else, Daghahen could smell his own robes too easily.
Hissing through his teeth, he braced himself and reached for the woman to his left, grasped her head, and pressed his lips to hers.
“Oh, you hideous scoundrel!” She flung the remains of her tankard at him, dousing his robes in the fragrant ale. Any scent he could add to his ensemble would help.
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