THE CHOOSING

by PhyllisAnn Welsh

  A great vaulted ceiling reached higher, in places, than the light from the torches could touch. A haze of smoke floated lazily above, looking like a layer of angry clouds. She estimated that the roof had to be well over fifty meters. In some places, large stalactites hung in graceful shapes. In other places, the ceiling was low and smooth but had odd, glowing fungus all over it.

  On the far side of the cavern were massive columns of rock that had formed by water seeping through the ground to drip in endless monotony for eons. Feenix had seen similar formations in the Wilderness Caves, outside of Port Marcus, but nothing like these gigantic growths. These were so huge, she could see that the Night Elves had actually hollowed out some of them and used them for rooms.

  To her right was a large open area where fire pits and cooking spits blazed away. The tantalizing smell of cooked meat and other foods didn’t quite reach her, but her imagination provided ample food for her mouth to water. How long had it been since she had a good meal? She couldn’t remember.

  She watched numerous slaves scurry and toil as they performed various duties. Some were cooking; some were preparing food; some, she was relieved to see, cleaned and scrubbed large pots and utensils. If she was put to work there, she vowed to steal a mouthful or two, merely to strengthen herself, of course.

  Lala led Feenix to the left of the entrance. The ground was uneven and worn smooth from uncounted numbers of feet. However, it was evident that much work had also been done to clear stalagmites and other rock outcrops to allow a path or road of sorts leading to the various other areas of the cavern.

  Without hesitation, Lala continued to lead Feenix to what turned out to be a laundry area. Huge vats of water were set atop large fire pits. Steam billowed up and mixed with the mist that was rising from beneath the floor. As they grew closer, Feenix was able to see that the floor of the cavern gave away and dropped to an opening displaying the most spectacular waterfalls she had ever seen.

  The falls took up the entire south and eastern side of the hole, allowing millions of tons of water to cascade and drop to an unknown destination, deep within the bowels of Tylana. The edge of the drop had been fenced off to prevent a fall, but to Feenix’s mind, it still didn’t look all that safe. She certainly wasn’t going to test its strength if she could help it.

  “This is the laundry area, Teela.” Lala had to shout to be heard above the roar of the falls. “You will be assigned to help with the Royal Family’s garments. Kelma is the head laundress, and she will instruct you in your duties.”

  A female elf, younger than Lala, came forward and took stock of Feenix. By the look on her thin face, she was not impressed with what she saw.

  Neither was Feenix.

  The laundress was thin, but muscles on her arms looked like they could break a person in two without half trying. Her hair was short cropped, as was all the slaves’, and her eyes were red-rimmed and tired. This slave also wore the ugly, plain gown that seemed to be the standard Night Elf slave uniform.

  Feenix noted that most of the slaves working in the area were without chains, although all wore the ever-present slave collar.

  “What is this?” Kelma’s voice was nasal and high pitched. She held herself straight, but her shoulders were bowed with years of bending over wash pots, Feenix was sure.

  “This is a new slave that Prince L’Garn has commanded be given the duties of the royal House. You will teach her how to clean and preserve the royal garments.”

  Kelma was taller than Lala, and Feenix thought she recognized the look of the Sea Elves, but she couldn’t be sure in the half light of the cavern. Perhaps this one had the blood of Rendolin and Thelorin in her veins.

  “You will do as I say, or you will be beaten,” was all the comment that Kelma made to Lala’s explanation. “Come. You will begin with the fire pits.”

  I hope you are paying attention, Rendolin, Feenix said in her mind. I haven’t done anyone’s laundry since I could hold a sword in my hand. You will owe me many favors for this, elf.

  She followed the laundress to an unoccupied and cold fire pit.

  “You will build the fire. The wood and fuel are over there,” Kelma pointed to the back wall of the laundry area. “Take only as much as you need, and do not waste it, or you will be whipped. Fuel is hard to come by.”

  Not only was she to be a scumming laundry hag, she had to haul the bloody fuel, too? By Mac Lir’s beard, this was asking too much of her!

  “Softly, Feenix,” Rendolin soothed. “It is but for a short while. You have built countless fires in your life. It is not a difficult chore for you.”

  That’s easy for you to say, elf, she spoke into her mind. You do not have to do this chore with a metal collar around your neck and your arms chained to it!

  “When the fire is burning well, you will put the laundry kettle on the pit. Fill it with water, so.”

  Kelma showed her how to attach a sluice into the wall, which apparently tapped into the water flowing over the falls. The force of the falls pushed the water down the sluice and into the kettle. Once the kettle had enough water, the sluice was closed and the kettle detached.

  “As the water heats, you will put in the soap and stir with this paddle.” Feenix noted the large wooden paddle that looked like a giant’s spoon, resting against the wall of the cavern.

  “When the water is boiling, you will add this pile of clothing to it.”

  The slave continued to instruct Feenix in the proper use of the laundry and how to tend the royal clothing. Feenix bit her lip continually, trying to keep her anger and frustration from flaring. If she was to find out the secrets of Cragimore, she would need to be silent and patient. It was a bit like reconnoitering, she thought. In fact, the more she thought of it in those terms, the easier it was to accept instruction, and even correction, from Kelma.

  Almost.

  “You are doing well, Feenix,” Rendolin spoke to her. “I will break the spell now. However, I will be back again when you have more information.”

  Feenix almost screamed in frustration as she felt the elf’s presence leave her mind. Alone in the enemy camp, forced to wear chains and do menial labor, this was not what she had anticipated when she emerged from the water after the Change.

  Mac Lir, you son of a sea whore. You will pay for this. Oh, yes, Feenix of Port Marcus will make you pay.

  She bent her back to the labor before her. Perhaps it wasn’t as physically challenging as a day-long battle, but the muscles of her back and arms had been weakened from the flogging and her illness. She gritted her teeth and called upon her reservoir of endurance to get the job done. All she had to do was survive this, and she would be out of here soon enough.

  Unbidden, the thought and taste of L’Garn floated through her mind. He was another who would pay for her humiliation and disgrace. Prince L’Garn of the House of Meedrion would soon be begging Feenix of Port Marcus for mercy and his miserable life.

  She smiled grimly at the picture in her mind, and picked up the paddle to stir the clothes.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Of all the plagues and curses that abound in the entire Seven Cella Worlds, you are the most misbegotten of the lot! What have I ever done to merit a bastard outbreed for my only blood kin?”

  The king of the Night Elves, Zimpher the Golden, sat upon his high tiered throne of black-marbled crystal. A long, golden cloak had been thrown from his shoulders and spilled down the sides of the noble chair.

  His bald head held the Crown of Meedrion at an awkward angle, for his agitation with his grandson had knocked it askew. The black crystal crown was laced with pure silvan silver, and studded with five flawless diamonds around the front.

  Beneath the heavy emblem of power, Zimpher’s pasty face looked pinched and pulled into hundreds of tiny lines, giving him the appearance of an elf more than twice his age. L’Garn knew his grandfather had recently celebrated his six hundred ninety-eighth birthnight, but the king looked much older.

  Rage compressed his m
outh, causing his lips to all but disappear. An intense light of displeasure glowed from his pale eyes as he pinned his wayward grandson with a look of contempt. L’Garn wondered, not for the first time, if Zimpher would have him tossed into the deepest hole of Cragimore and forget about him. It would solve many problems, he knew.

  As always, the large cavern seemed to vibrate with a deep, penetrating background hum that almost, but not quite, registered in his ears. Instead, every bone and muscle in his body thrummed with the dark resonance, setting his teeth on edge and his head to pounding. The air crackled with pent energy, red and throbbing, impatient for release.

  Priest lights, those rare and impressive bits of luxury, were placed around the room, giving off a faint illumination and richly reflecting the glistening black crystal walls, ceiling, and floor which made up the royal throne room of Cragimore. The room, with its strange atmosphere and underlying drone of menace, had never ceased to intimidate L’Garn whenever he was called upon to enter it.

  “How are you, grandfather?” L’Garn made a flawlessly correct bow, acknowledging his usual greeting from his royal grandsire. “I trust you enjoyed your pilgrimage, and are well?”

  “How can I be well? I return from my monthly sojourn to the god’s altar, and I find that you—tilsark disgrace that you are—have made a pet out of a human! How dare you bring one of those unclean beasts into our presence?”

  L’Garn was not sure if his grandfather was angry because a hated human was within Cragimore’s walls, or if the fact that L’Garn had shown a partiality for the slave was what drove the king to such great rage. Probably both, he conjectured.

  “By all reports,” the king continued, “you can not even control the female. Why is a slave housed in the quarters of the royal prince? I am told she actually hit you! Why is she still alive?”

  “Grandfather...your majesty,” L’Garn corrected when he saw the gleam of red rage glitter in the old eyes at his mention of blood title. “I believe I may learn much from the human slave, if I can but study her for a time.”

  The king made a motion of disgust with his hand.

  “What can you learn from such as that? Interest in this human is merely proof of the taint in your own blood.”

  L’Garn ran his hand through his short hair in an attempt to relieve his frustration and calm his own growing anger.

  “This taint of my blood—I have been trying to overcome it all my life.”

  “With no noticeable success!”

  “Your pardon, sire, but how can one defeat an enemy one does not know? If I can but study the human and see what makes her different; what her traits are, then I believe I will be able to purge these flaws from myself.”

  The king stood, pulled his flowing cloak around him and hurried down the five steep steps that led to the imposing throne, like a great golden carrion bird.

  L’Garn fought the urge to step back as Zimpher descended to launch a closer attack.

  “I already know what your flaws are!” The old elf’s lips were covered with spittle that flew towards L’Garn and landed on his cheek like hot oil. “For years I have been telling you where you need to improve. You are soft! Your emotions are too easily engaged!”

  L’Garn dared not wipe the saliva from his face, knowing any action on his part would merely provoke his grandfather into more fury.

  The king poked the prince with a long bony finger. “By the Jewels! Just think on how you bungled the handling of the slave thus far! How did you punish her for the insolence of hitting you?”

  “I did not,” L’Garn answered, “other than to send her to the laundry to work all day with the dregs. She has not completely healed from the whipping.”

  The old elf turned away in disgust, his cloak snapping around his ankles as he motioned for an unseen slave to bring him a goblet of wine.

  “That is exactly what I am talking about. How do you expect to control your men and even the slaves if you continue to show this type of weakness? The slave should have been executed on the spot!”

  “I disagree, sire.”

  Grabbing the goblet, the king whirled around to face his grandson yet again. He squinted in malicious concentration, eyes narrowed and distrustful.

  “It shames me that you are the best the House of Meedrion can hope to leave on the throne of Cragimore. I should have taken you from your mother and raised you myself! I would have purged that human taint from you long ago!”

  L’Garn drew himself to his full height and forced his hands to remain at his side.

  “You tried often enough, grandfather. Or have you forgotten the beatings and floggings?”

  Zimpher took a deep gulp from the goblet, holding his relentless gaze on the prince without flickering. He lowered the cup and belched heartily before answering.

  “I remember trying to knock your foolishness from you, but you never did learn what was expected of a royal prince. I have given up any hope that you might improve with age.”

  L’Garn slowly and deliberately ground his right fist into the palm of his left hand, as if trying to grind into tiny bits all the frustration, rage and feelings of failure he had endured his entire life. He would not show guilt and remorse in front of his grandfather. Such traits were what he was trying to overcome. He had to remain in control of his emotions, or the king would be at him like a dragon with a bad tooth.

  A Night Elf did not allow such weakness to color his decisions and actions. His grandfather was right. He was too flawed to be an effective leader of his people. However, his was the only leadership the House of Meedrion could provide, and so he must overcome his tainted human blood.

  Or die trying.

  “I did not call you here merely to speak of the slave,” the king said in a completely different voice. It was as if another person now looked at him through his grandfather’s old eyes. “A company of Sea Elves is attempting to re-infest Shalridoor. The vermin seem to believe they can reclaim the ruins.”

  “So, the report is true,” L’Garn said quietly. He was unsure of this new mood of the king’s.

  “True as Tuawtha’s whip.” Zimpher tossed his empty goblet over his shoulder without a glance, and a silent slave deftly caught it and retreated back into the shadows of the cavern. “Korrander will lead a company of fighters on a raid tomorrow night. We will test the vermins’ mettle.”

  A sly, secret look had settled on the king’s face, and L’Garn could not read anything on it except for the hate that blazed in his eyes.

  “Korrander? Sire, he is too old to be leading a raid. Send me.”

  “Do not, in your youth and ignorance, think that we old men have lived past our usefulness!” Zimpher’s eyes blazed with a haze that seemed maniacal.

  When had his grandfather’s sour opinions turned to such powerful hate?

  “Korrander has some experience against the Sea Elves, if you recall. He was a captain during the glorious days of Meedrion, when we swept the enemy from Tylana’s shores, as a fire cleansing the earth!”

  L’Garn took a step towards his grandfather. “Yes, but that was over three hundred forty-seven years ago, grandfather. Korrander’s old wounds have caused him to go blind in one eye, and he limps so badly he will not be able to keep up with his men on the forced march to Shalridoor. Such a march will kill him, for he will not allow himself to lag behind his men.”

  “If he can not keep up with his men, then he is better to be dead! He would tell you that himself, were he here!”

  “Sire,” L’Garn began, but Zimpher cut him off.

  “Silence! The subject is not open for debate! Korrander will lead the attack—including a company of your own men.”

  His own men? He was to hand over his company to a sick old man, without a word? Knowing that they would probably all die because the leader of the raid was too old and broken to lead a command with any success? It was not to be bourn.

  “Then I will go with them.”

  “No. You will stay.”

  “But, sire!
My men and I have scouted that area and route for the past three years. I know every cliff and hillock, every possible ambush and every spot for defense. I will be able to advise Korrander so that the raid will be a success.”

  “Your men will advise Korrander. You will remain here.”

  L’Garn turned from the king and strode across the hall. He could feel the king’s eyes boring holes in his back, but his frustration and anger prevented him from caring about the king’s displeasure at his rudeness.

  His men taken from his command and he himself ordered to remain in Cragimore! As if he were a child unfit to see a job through completion!

  Unless...

  He stopped his pacing and turned to his grandfather as a new, more humiliating thought entered his head.

  “Did mother ask that you keep me out of danger?”

  “As if I would listen to a female,” the old elf snorted with disgust. “No. I have a job for you.”

  L’Garn should have known his mother’s wants and concerns would have no sway on his grandfather. He was amazed he had even thought of such a thing.

  Zimpher smiled a wicked grin before turning to ascend the stairs to the throne. He took his time settling himself comfortably, and L’Garn knew this was all a game to the old elf, to put the prince on edge. He wanted to demand what the job was, but knew the king would only tell him in his own good time. If L’Garn asked for information, Zimpher would consider his curiosity as further evidence of L’Garn’s tainted human blood.

  L’Garn folded his arms and tried to appear as if he waited patiently for his grandfather’s words. In truth, his hot human blood was screaming for an explanation.

  “As I said, Korrander will lead a raid on Shalridoor. I do not expect the attack to be overly successful, but I do expect to learn the extent of the Sea Elves’ repairs, strength and perhaps a few of their long term plans.”