The dimness retreated. In its place, a brighter, more vivid vision filled his eyes. The sun had broken free of the horizon and poured soft, golden light over the clearing. The vivid green of the grass contrasted with flowers that grew along the bank of the stream—purple and yellow. But no portal.
He dragged himself up once again and straightened his vest, dusting off twigs and yellow powdery stuff. “Hmm. Pollen, maybe.” Back to his options. He could remain in the general area and wait for the portal to reappear. How long was it going to take? He was hungry and there didn’t appear to be any food nearby.
On the other hand, there was no guarantee that there would be food in any direction. He could see no sign of civilization, and Jarek certainly had no intention of trying to kill an animal for food. Maybe there were some roots or wild mushrooms or something. But how in the name of the perpetual moonbeams would he cook them? He had no fire or spices to make them palatable. No, he had to find his way home. He may well lose his job, but at least he had plenty of food in the cupboard.
The Azyrean surveyed 360 degrees around him and decided to move in the direction of the sunrise. The stream led that way so, if nothing else, he would have water. Putting one foot in front of the other, he trudged toward the rising orb in the sky.
His feet hurt. The leather boots he wore, quite stylish and comfortable for workwear, began to rub his oversized feet. He could feel blisters forming. “Those kids. I swear when I find them….” He sat, removed the footwear, and massaged the sore areas. His pale skin had turned deep pink where the boots rubbed.
After a few moments, he was up and walking again, although slower this time, each step more painful than the last. He hiked, if that’s truly what one would call it, for about an hour when a different set of sounds overrode the gurgling of the meandering stream—metal clanking on metal. Civilization!
He hurried toward the noise. Salvation at last. He hopped over the stream and angled off to the right in pursuit of the sounds, which grew louder with every step. Soon he heard voices—shouts, screams, and then grunts. He slowed. Civilization was not sounding very civilized.
Jarek came up against a stand of dense brush and could hear the clatter of noise on the other side. After due consideration, he parted one of the bushes, stepped in, moved around another, and finally broke free into a clearing.
What he saw made him immediately regret his decision to follow the sound.
Chapter 15: Jarek
Jarek stared in disbelief. In the clearing, two groups of beings, much too large to be Azyreans, fought with swords and large poles. It looked almost like a game, except that several of the beings lay on the ground, blood covering their clothing. The clanking and shouting almost overpowered the subtler groans of the wounded ones.
He stepped back almost but not quite into the brush to watch. There seemed to be two groups. One group wore uniforms. Their deep blue trousers and shirts contrasted with maroon tabards bearing a golden design. Jarek couldn’t make out the details but it looked like a representation of some kind of animal. Their black boots shone as they danced in battle. Each wore a metal helm with an ornate spear head on the top.
The other group looked more ragged. They wore pants and tunics of faded beige and green. Their boots were the color of chocolate and looked to be of a supple leather. They wore nothing on their heads.
The battle raged for a few more moments and then, suddenly, the rag-tag band melted into the brush without warning. The uniformed group started into the brush after them when one of the soldiers turned and caught sight of Jarek. “You there. Stop where you are, in the name of the king.”
The Azyrean stared, not sure what to do. In the end, his indecision was a sort of decision in itself. The party of combatants spread out and approached him. One of them, the leader by his appearance, strode out in front, pointing. “Yes, you. Stay where you are. Do not move.” Unlike his companions, this one wore a shirt of maroon and a tabard of deep purple.
Jarek’s eyes were drawn to one of the swords, dripping blood as the beings strode toward him. His inner voice screamed at him—Run! He took a backward step before turning and bolting. Crashing through the brush, he could hear the pursuit gaining ground. They were, after all, larger, with longer legs. He ran harder.
Back in the clearing with the stream, he leapt across and kept running. He broke into the open and knew he would be easily seen. Glancing behind him, Jarek saw the soldiers emerge from the brush at a full run. Either he could stop and give up or, go in a different direction, where he might be able to disappear.
He ran, alternately searching the landscape ahead and looking over his shoulder. The group gained on him. He had just about exhausted his breath when the ground dropped out from under him. He had not seen the hill coming. He tumbled, head over heels, down the slope. As he rolled, he could hear the shouts from above, sounding more distant. Apparently, he was falling faster than they were running.
Jarek hit the bottom and sprang to his feet, dashing straight ahead into a thick stand of trees. The sounds from behind were again growing closer. Then he saw it ahead—a hollowed-out log. Not a great idea, but probably his only hope. As he approached it, he went down on all fours and wiggled into the log, crawling as far forward as he could.
As he positioned himself toward the far end of his hiding place, it occurred to him that they would spot him immediately, or at least take notice of the log. I’m dead.
The Azyrean heard them approach, and, to his utter amazement, the sound of their shouting and footfalls came and went, receding ahead of him. He gazed out at their backs as they continued on. He eased farther back in the log, just in case one of them turned around. But they didn’t.
Jarek closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath. He laid as perfectly still as possible. But a doubt crept in. Once they realized they’d lost him, they’d likely double back, and the log would catch their attention. Maybe he should get out of it and head back the other way. Toward what? Where was he going? Anywhere but here.
A harsh male voice interrupted his internal debate. “You can come out now.” The words were accompanied by pounding on the log, which echoed around inside, assaulting his ears. “Or perhaps you would prefer that we set fire to the log.”
The Azyrean stared forward at the opening in the log. A pair of chocolate brown boots stood blocking his exit.
“Have it your way, friend. Bring up a torch.”
Jarek screamed. “No, no. I’m coming out. Don’t burn it.”
Chapter 16: Marzi
With hands on hips, Marzi planted herself in front of Ryshara and glared at the elf. “Why am I confined? Why did they call me a prisoner? I haven’t done anything wrong.” Belligerence seemed futile, what with the size difference and the elves’ home advantage. Even standing straight up and on her tiptoes, she came only to Ryshara’s waist.
The young elf gazed back, head tilted slightly and eyes shining in the half light. “It is a formality only. As you see, you are in my home with me and my father. You are not chained or locked behind bars.”
“But why am I being treated like some kind of monster? I’m just a kid.” Marzi briefly reflected that less than a day ago, she prided herself on being nearly an adult. Now she felt like a helpless child.
Ryshara nodded. “Yes, I know. But you must remember, Marzi Gloam of Pangrove, you are an outsider here, the first that I have ever seen. We know nothing of you or your people. Perhaps you are peaceful or maybe you are warlike. You may well have come upon us by accident, as you related. Or a group of your people could be following close behind, awaiting your signal to attack us. How are we to know?” She arched a single well-defined brow.
Marzi grew increasingly frustrated. “What are you talking about?” Her long, pointed ears stiffened, and she clenched her jaw.
The elf seemed unfazed by the confrontation. “Maybe you are a child or perhaps you are really an adult. You might be peaceful and harmless or have come here to do us harm. We have no way of knowing.
”
Marzi stamped her foot. “I haven’t done anything to make you not trust me. I don’t understand why you have to treat me like this.” She felt tears start to gather and poured every bit of effort she had into stifling them.
Ryshara bent down so that she gazed directly into Marzi’s eyes. “I understand, little one. And I promise that my father and I will extend every courtesy to you tonight. We have food and drink, and you will sleep in a comfortable bed.” She paused and tilted her head again. “Tomorrow morning, we will meet with Empress Ariessa and the High Council. All will be made right. But for now, shouting at me will not help.”
Ryshara’s father, Lothran, strode into the room and interrupted the conversation. “I am sure it has been a long day for you. Before we retire for the night, though, if I may ask you a few questions?” He stood a full hand higher than his daughter. His white hair draped over his shoulders. His face carried the lines of age but his eyes appeared youthful and shone a brilliant blue.
Marzi shifted her gaze up to the towering elf, not as sure of herself as she was with his daughter. “Well, okay.” She gazed down at the woven rug that covered the smooth wooden floor beneath her feet.
He gestured toward a set of chairs arranged around a small table. “Please, be seated.” The corners of his mouth turned upward, offering a very slight smile. He closed his eyes briefly and nodded.
Marzi glanced up at him and then at the chairs. She climbed up onto a chair and sat, but her head barely came even with the table. She felt like a stupid kid.
“Here, perhaps this will help.” Lothran held a wooden box in his hands.
Marzi slid off the seat and watched while he set the box on her chair. Then, to her surprise, he lifted her up. Once situated, she found herself looking at both Ryshara and Lothran nearly eye-to-eye. “Thank you.”
He nodded, the smile once again finding its way out. “So first, tell me about your home and your people. This Pangrove you speak of; where is this land?”
She searched the elf’s eyes for some meaning, some clue as to what he sought. “I don’t know. It’s where it always is, I guess.”
Lothran chuckled. “I see.” He shook his head and shifted his gaze toward the window. “Perhaps you can tell me what it’s like there.”
Marzi shrugged. “Not like here. Pangrove is our home. We all live there. There are some trees and plants, but they are different. Ours don’t light up. We can see the sky from anywhere, though. Some farmers live outside of our town, but I don’t know any of them. And my mom told me that there are other towns like Pangrove, but I’ve never been to any.” What else could she say? Pangrove was, after all, Pangrove. ”I noticed that you have one moon here, but Pangrove has seven moons. At least three are in the sky at any one time. We have lots of gardens and farms. I guess they do well because we have so much daylight. Oh, and all the people there look like me, or at least are my size. Um, the adults are actually taller than me, but much shorter than you.” She smiled, thinking of and missing her pretty mom. “Is that what you meant?”
The older elf gazed at her, his piercing eyes seemingly searching for something more. “And what do you do there in Pangrove?”
She thought about it for a few seconds. “Mostly I go to my classes and do chores.”
He nodded as he continued. “What do you study in these classes?”
Marzi felt as she did when her mother suspected her of mischief. Back home, she occasionally confronted her parents, as much as a kid can get away with. But here, she sensed this was much more serious. She closed her eyes and scratched her ear, trying to recall her classes. “Mostly I learn my numbers and letters. Sometimes they teach us music or drawing. Last year we had history and astronomy lessons.” She paused and smirked to herself. “And sometimes the mayor comes to talk to us about the town and how things work.”
“What else do you do, when you are not attending to your lessons or chores?”
Marzi broke into a smile. “I beam hop.”
Lothran arched an eyebrow and tilted his head. “What is it to beam hop?”
“We get up on the top of the hill. And when a beam comes along, we jump on it and ride it down to the bottom. We portal back to the top and do it again.”
“What kind of beam are you talking about?”
“Why, moonbeams, of course.”
He stared at her in silence for a moment. “I’m afraid I don’t understand how one would ride a moonbeam.”
Marzi shrugged. “It’s not that hard. We just jump on.” Then she remembered her final misadventure. “That’s how I got here. I jumped on a beam, but it was a colored one. We’re only supposed to take white beams.”
“Why?”
“They never told me, but I guess that colored beams go someplace else.”
“What color beam did you jump on?”
“Green.”
Lothran narrowed his eyes. “Hmm. And why did you jump on a green moonbeam if you knew you weren’t supposed to?”
Marzi rolled her eyes but then shuddered as she recalled the sight of Tovi jumping on a beam. “My little brother jumped on a colored beam and disappeared. I was just trying to find him.”
“Did he jump on a green one, too?”
She thought about it for a moment, trying to conjure the image from that night. “No. He got on a blue one.”
Lothran crossed his arms and sat back thoughtfully in his chair as he considered her answer.
Marzi, uncomfortable with the silence, continued, “Maybe he’s around here somewhere.” The reality of her brother being alone in the woods for days slammed her. “We need to look for him. He could be hurt. He didn’t have any food or water with him, and he would be scared.” She felt the panic building.
“No, I think not.” He paused and gazed at her for a moment. “Had he come to our world, we would have known it. One of our scouts would have found him by now.”
Her voice rose an octave as she spoke. “Then, where is he?”
Lothran strode over to the table. “That is a very good question, but for now you should get some sleep, Marzi Gloam of Pangrove. Tomorrow you will meet with Empress Ariessa and the High Council. You will need all of your strength.”
Chapter 17: Marzi
Marzi sat atop a makeshift seat in the council hall. A wooden box and two large books boosted her so that she could see over the long wooden table. A series of plants sprouted from the floor and featured the same lighted bulbs she’d noticed on the plants outside. They provided a soft pale blue light that contrasted with the flickering orange and yellow of the large candles mounted on the walls. A smattering of sunlight fed in through the partially vine-covered windows. And a distinctly familiar, and not unpleasant, aroma permeated the room—a hint of incense with the earthy scents of cedar and moss.
Across from her, Lothran took his place among seven other elves. A slender female with platinum hair flowing over her shoulders dominated the group and sat at one end of the table. She wore a shimmering robe of sage green and silver. Marzi assumed that this graceful and beautiful elf was Empress Ariessa. She appeared close in age to Ryshara’s father, although Marzi had no idea what that age might be. Seeing all the elves together, the similarity in their appearance struck her—every one of them was tall. And most had long pale blonde or white hair, pointed ears, and fierce azure blue eyes. The females looked a little different from the males, but not so much.
Marzi noticed a male, different from the others, sitting off to one side and behind the empress. He, like Ran and a few others, had darker hair. He wore a tunic of dusty violet with an intricate design embroidered in gold thread, and pants of deep midnight blue. His eyes betrayed a faint sadness, appearing misty, but unmistakably blue, in the low light.
The empress stood. “I am Ariessa, Empress of the dark elves and leader of the Twilight Bough.” She nodded her head slightly without taking her gaze from Marzi. “Who are you and how came you to our Bough?”
Marzi repeated her story for yet the third time as
the council of dark elves watched her every move. Their faces betrayed no emotion and their eyes remained steady. Each sat perfectly still, mouths drawn into a tight line.
When the small Azyrean finished, the empress glanced around the table and nodded. “Tell me of your people.”
Marzi looked to Ryshara’s father, the only other elf she knew in the room. The man maintained a stoic gaze, revealing no clue as to how she should answer. She glanced at the others across the table perceiving the exact same countenance. “Well, I mean…” she stuttered, trying to figure out what it was the woman wanted to know. “We are all shorter than you.” She thought back to her friends and family, quickly adding, “But some are taller than others.” She paused, hoping for a more definite question. None came.
She thought harder, trying to come up with something to say to fill the silence. “Uh, most people are friendly.” She again gazed from face to face—nothing. Finally, she shook her head. “What do you want to know about them?” Might as well ask.
Rather than elaborate, Ariessa moved to a different subject. “Could you tell me some things about your history?”
“Like what?” She wasn’t trying to be snarky. “I mean, what do you want to know?”
The elven leader narrowed her eyes and considered Marzi for a moment. “For instance, are there accounts of wars among your people?”
The question confused the young Azyrean. “I don’t understand. I don’t know this word war.”
The older elf tilted her head as if in disbelief. “When groups of people, enemies, fight and kill each other.”
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