THE CHOOSING

by PhyllisAnn Welsh

  “On the other hand, thou hast many kind and loving inclinations,” the god said as if she had not spoken. “Thy creation of the orphanage in Port Marcus proves thou hast a tender heart, if thee would but let it rule thy head. Thou hast been the savior of many children through the years. Their innocent prayers of thanksgiving and blessings upon thee have cried out to me. Thy actions of mercy have not gone unheeded.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about! An orphanage indeed! I have no patience for such things; I am a warrior with no time for children and such foolishness!”

  “Think thou can hide thy doings from a god?”

  Feenix blushed and felt like a fool.

  “No one knows about the orphanage, and I want it to stay that way.”

  “The true mark of loving persons is that they perform their good works quietly and without fanfare. Thy service will remain a secret as long as thou wish it.”

  Feenix did not know where this conversation was going. Why couldn’t the god just do as she asked without all this embarrassing gibberish?

  “What is this choice you’re talking about? I asked you to save me. Apparently I asked nicely this time,” she made a grimace. “So, are you going to help me out of this tight spot, or are you just going to lecture me all day?”

  Actually, talking directly with a god was more intimidating than she had thought, but old habits were hard to break. And if she were totally truthful with herself, she had to admit that it just wasn’t in her make-up to humbly submit to anyone’s will—including a god’s—the way Rendolin did when speaking with the deity.

  “Thou art not expected to change thy personality, daughter.”

  Why did it surprise her that he could read her mind? He was a god, by the Seven Cella Worlds! He could do anything he wanted.

  “Not everything. For some things, I need the cooperation of a chosen few. Thou art one of the chosen, Feenix.”

  Oh, damn. Why couldn’t the god just save her and let her get on with her life?

  With a sinking feeling in her stomach, and a sure knowledge that she didn’t really want to know, she asked, “Chosen for what?”

  “The silvan races are being destroyed.”

  “I know all that. Rendolin had to Bind to Kory in order to save the Sea Elves from extinction. That’s old news, Mac Lir. You were there, supposedly. What does that have to do with me? I’m not one of your silvan children.”

  “Still thy tongue and hear my words.”

  The voice was like thunder coming from the ground, and for the first time since the interview began, Feenix knew the god was losing patience with her. She clamped her lips shut and tried not to tremble.

  “Thou hast been chosen to be a mediator between my children, the Sea Elves and the Night Elves. Thou wilt be an instrument in my hands, and thou shalt help negotiate a treaty for lasting peace between them.”

  “Hold on,” she managed to say after the initial shock wore off. “I thought your High Priest, Rendolin, was going to do that. That’s what he told me when he Healed L’Garn.” This couldn’t be happening. The world had gone insane. She was a warrior, not a peacemaker.

  “My High Priest will negotiate a lasting peace, but thee will be the mediator between the two sides. It will be thy job to convince the prince of the importance of this treaty. It is vital that my children come together to overthrow the true threat to their existence—Tuawtha.”

  “This is insane! They’ve been trying to kill each other for hundreds of years! What makes you think that they’ll just stop?”

  “Because if they do not, they will perish from the face of this world, just as the silvan have from Earth. Thou will convince L’Garn that he must speak with Rendolin. Only thee can do this.”

  “You said I had a choice. What if I decide not to choose to be this mediator? What then?”

  Deafening silence greeted her words, but after a moment, the ground began to rumble and a moan grew from the depths of the earth itself. Feenix started to think a hole would open and swallow her, along with the dragon, before the earth subsided and Mac Lir decided to answer her.

  “Then thou hast chosen death, for thyself as well as for the entire silvan races. Thou art free to choose the course thou would, but remember what thou wilt be giving up. The orphanage will no longer have a patron. Where will the children go?”

  Instantly, an image of the large building that housed the children came to mind. Without her support and funds, they would be turned out into the street with nothing. Those who had begun to train for careers in the army or in trade might fare well, but what of the little ones, too young to learn a trade or too small to survive on their own? Where would they go?

  Unfortunately, she knew from personal experience where they would go. Back to the gutters.

  “What of thy love for the prince? Wilt thou sacrifice it and stand by to watch kin slay kin without trying to stop it? What wilt thou do when L’Garn is killed by a cousin? Would thou not prevent such a thing if thou couldst?”

  She had just found that she could love. Was she really going to pretend that she hadn’t lost her heart to the half-elf? Could she walk away from him, now that she knew how much she loved him?

  But he didn’t love her! How could he? They had spent their entire time together trying to kill each other. Feenix was sure he despised her, or else why leave her chained to a tree after she had helped to Heal him? No, better to walk away with her pride, than have him crush her heart beneath his heel when he learned of her love.

  “Thou wouldst doom a whole race and hundreds of children because of thy pride? Where is thy humility, woman? Where is thy compassion?”

  Minutes seemed to fly by as she wrestled with her pride. What was her pride compared to the lives of so many? What worth was her heart, if children had to grow up in the gutters, dying every day from starvation and disease? She couldn’t condemn them to that life again.

  Could she condemn herself to a life without L’Garn’s love?

  And what of the elves? Was it true that their only hope was to form an alliance and defeat Tuawtha? What of it? Surely, they didn’t need her to reach a truce.

  As much as she pretended otherwise, she loved the silvan people. Something about their beauty and grace called to her soul. It had been that way ever since she was a little girl and had seen her first elf.

  The magical being had looked at her with soft, kind eyes, and had given her a juicy, sweet fruit, along with a warm loaf of bread to eat. When she asked him why, the handsome elf smiled kindly and answered, “Because children are rare and precious gifts.”

  Strange, she hadn’t thought about that incident in years.

  If Mac Lir’s words were true, could she condemn a whole race of beings to death?

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Accept me as thy god, and free thyself.”

  By the god’s toe, more mumbo jumbo! Couldn’t Mac Lir ever just answer a question?

  “What do you mean? Do I have to burn incense and pray to you every day, because I’ll tell you straight out, Mac Lir! I don’t have time for that nonsense!”

  “Thou shalt carry a prayer in thy heart, and shalt acknowledge me as thy deity.”

  Well, that didn’t sound too bad. She supposed.

  “How do I free myself? I’m pinned beneath this dragon’s foot, and it’s about ready to step on me and crush me into pink slime.”

  “Between one heart beat and the next, an entire eternity exists. Free thyself and find my servant Eagnad.”

  “Eagnad?” she yelled in surprise. “What does that troll have to do with anything?”

  But the voice remained silent, and Feenix felt as if the presence of Mac Lir had withdrawn.

  She looked up at the dragon’s head, and it appeared as if the saliva was a little closer than the last time she had looked. Frantically, she tried to squirm from beneath the monster’s foot, and found that she could move a tiny bit. Using her feet to push herself, and holding her breath to squeeze her stomach as ti
ght as possible, she managed to wiggle from beneath the great foot, pushing rocks aside to obtain her freedom.

  She crawled away from the suspended foot, and looked at the beast poised overhead to kill her. Was that a movement of the monster’s eyes? She didn’t have time to ponder the situation.

  Jumping to her feet, she looked around for her escape.

  “Pretty Feenix come this way.”

  To her combined joy and fury, Eagnad stood by the small cave of the three boulders that she had noticed before. He motioned frantically to her, urging her to move quickly.

  A deafening roar shocked her into action. She ducked a raking claw, picked up her sword, and ran as fast as she could, throwing herself into the tiny cavern headfirst.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The interview with his grandfather, the king, had gone better than L’Garn could have hoped. Zimpher seemed to be more distracted than usual, speaking with his advisors in a secretive manner, and not really paying much attention to his grandson. As a result, the prince had not been required to go into detail about his absence.

  “I suppose you were holed up in some whore’s room,” was the only comment the king made, after acknowledging L’Garn’s presence with his usual insults and barbs. “In the future, let someone know when you have an itch in your breeches. All this unnecessary fuss over nothing, sending runners out to look for you. Foolishness!”

  L’Garn made no answer to the comment. All he was really interested in was seeking out his mother’s healer and finding out her status. Perhaps the king would know something.

  “Grandfather, the servants report that mother is ill and has taken to her bed.”

  The old king turned from the quiet conversation with his advisors. His face was grim.

  “Your mother is always taking to her bed. Have you not learned that in all your years? The woman is habitually ill; she makes a career of her health!”

  L’Garn swallowed his annoyance with his mother’s father. He had learned over the years that Zimpher had no use, nor any affection, for his daughter Sembali.

  “The healers say that she is on her deathbed, grandfather.”

  Zimpher’s face grew red as his anger mounted. He pushed one of the advisors away, and advanced on L’Garn.

  “I care not about your mother! If she is on her deathbed, so much the better. She was ever a puling, useless female; more bother than her worth.”

  L’Garn fought down the urge to punch the king in the face.

  “After the disgraceful and traitorous act of birthing you, she was no good to me at all! I could not pay any decent man to take her off my hands, much less sell her to the highest bidder! Even the common riff-raff would have none of her! If she dies, it will be less of a drain on my purse!”

  “How can you speak so about your own daughter?” It was impossible for L’Garn to remain silent while the king ranted about Sembali. “I can understand you hating me, but have you no family feelings at all? None for your own child?”

  Zimpher stepped within a hand’s breadth of L’Garn. His eyes were red-rimmed and glowed with a fanatical light that sent a shiver of worry through the prince’s body.

  The king was nearly insane; there could be no doubt of it.

  “I have many feelings for family! For my daughter, I feel only annoyance that she did not die birthing you. I have contempt for her mother, the queen, that she gave me but one child before she died, and that one a female! And for you, my noble prince,” the king’s voice dripped sarcasm. “I have nothing but loathing and disgust that one such as you should be destined to sit upon Meedrion’s throne when I am dead!”

  L’Garn held the king’s glare, fighting the urge to draw his blade and run it through the old elf. It was hard to accept his grandfather’s hatred of himself, but near impossible to listen to Zimpher’s venom towards his mother, Sembali.

  “My mother is a kind and loving woman, your majesty, and I will not listen to your poisoned words against her.”

  “You will do as I command, Outbreed. I am your king and you will obey me in all things.” An evil look stole into the old eyes. “Or I shall be forced to punish you.”

  L’Garn drew himself to his full height.

  “I have stood your punishments before. I daresay I shall withstand anything with which your majesty cares to test me.”

  “Ah. But can your dear mother?” Zimpher asked with a sly grin. At L’Garn’s stupefied expression, he continued, “Do not get above yourself, or you shall be forced to watch your mother be punished for your misdeeds. Do I make myself understood?”

  “Completely, your majesty,” L’Garn answered through clenched teeth.

  The king smiled cruelly and looked at his advisors in a pleased way. They returned the king’s smirk, then gave L’Garn a look of amused scorn.

  “Do I have permission to take my leave of your majesty?” L’Garn asked in clipped tones, bowing deeply to hide his fury.

  “You do.” Zimpher held out his hand for L’Garn’s salute.

  The half-elf stood and stared at the hand for a moment, appalled that his grandfather would expect him to kiss those fingers in respect. With great reluctance, he slowly took the fingers in his hand, and bent to kiss the wrinkled knuckles. He dropped the hand as quickly as possible, turned smartly on his heel and marched from the vaulted chamber.

  The echo of the king’s laughter, mixed with that of his advisors, followed L’Garn through the corridor. His ramrod straight posture proclaimed to any interested parties that the royal prince was in a rare rage, and none ventured a smile or comment.

  Within moments, L’Garn reached his mother’s suite. After speaking briefly with the majordomo, he slipped quietly into her bedchamber.

  Priest lights hung from each corner, casting a warm glow around the room. A large canopied bed stood prominently in the center of the room; delicate pink silk hung from the tall posters and draped gently from the jeweled headboard.

  Plump pillows and sumptuous coverlets scattered about the bed gave the impression of luxury and decadent comfort. L’Garn could barely see his mother’s sleeping form, buried as she was amid the mounds of feminine fluff.

  The stone walls were hidden behind huge tapestries and more draped silk. It was obvious to the casual observer that the occupant of the room preferred not to be aware of the hard, cold mountain from which the room was hewn. Even the vaulted ceiling boasted silk decoration, and L’Garn could not help but smile when he thought of the unlikely event of his grandfather visiting his mother. He would most likely have a hemorrhage at the sight of such wasteful decoration.

  A thick fur, dyed pink to match the pillows, carpeted the floor beside the high bed. Nowhere else in Cragimore could that particular, frivolous color be found.

  His mother always did have a flair for the dramatic, L’Garn thought.

  The smell of Sembali’s perfume, thick and cloying, soaked the air, and after only a few moments in the room, he could taste it in the back of his throat. It was one of the rare items for which the Night Elves traded. She was proud of the fact that this particular scent could only be purchased from a specific merchant and no one, except she, wore it in Cragimore.

  The scented room evoked many memories, and L’Garn closed his eyes, allowing them to wash through his mind. A small child hiding in the comfort of her soft arms; breakfasts on the bed amid laughter and food; stolen kisses and hugs when no one was around; the usual things a son remembers of a mother’s love. If not for Sembali, his life would have been bleak indeed.

  “Pardon, your highness, but the princess will be pleased to see you.” Glofer, the princess’s butler, spoke softly at his side.

  The words brought L’Garn quickly out of his reverie.

  “How is she?”

  “Not well, highness. She was sure you had been killed when the report from Atop came in. She called for the herbalist and took to her bed.” The elf’s voice was heavy with concern.

  L’Garn stepped further into the room and peered at his mot
her’s sleeping form.

  “She is too pale, Glofer. What do the healers say?”

  The servant dropped his eyes and clasped his hands in front of him.

  “The king has forbidden a healer to attend her, highness.”

  “Why?” L’Garn’s shocked voice echoed around the chamber, threatening to wake the princess.

  “His majesty believes the princess is merely suffering a mild disappointment and is not ill at all. He has issued orders that no healer is to be sent to her, on pain of death.”

  L’Garn turned away in anger and disgust. He paced the chamber like an animal on a leash.

  “Are you telling me that no healer has even examined her?”

  “Aye, my prince. Only the herbalist and your mother’s personal servants have attended her. We are all very grateful you are back, your highness. We have been worried about her.”

  L’Garn placed a hand on the elf’s shoulder, gave him a wan smile and said, “Thank you for all that you and the staff have done, Glofer. Leave me now. I would sit with her. I want to be here when she wakes.”

  “You shall not be disturbed,” the servant said with a bow. “If you need anything, please ring. A servant will come immediately.”

  “Thank you,” L’Garn answered absent-mindedly over his shoulder. He had already put the staff from his mind as he slowly sank into a comfortable chair that had been conveniently placed beside his mother’s bed.

  Sembali, royal princess of the House of Meedrion, lay in the large bed, amid the pillows and coverlets. She looked like a small child, and her son felt helpless and alone as he sat and watched her sleep.

  Her abundant auburn hair had been pulled back from her face, and someone had obviously attempted to brush it and arrange it into some semblance of order. Tiny curls escaped from the severe style, and they rioted about her still face, like gypsies dancing around a campfire. He had an urge to smooth them back, but feared to wake her.

  Her face was as pale as milk, and although they were closed, L’Garn could see deep blue smudges beneath her eyes and covering her eyelids. It was almost as if someone had beaten her and left bruises on her lovely face.