THE CHOOSING

by PhyllisAnn Welsh

  “You’re going to die, elf, and I’m going to be the one who sends you on your way to your precious Tuawtha!”

  “Whore,” the dying elf managed to growl between his blood-speckled lips. Feenix barely had time to register the stench of rotting meat in her nostrils before a devastating blow to her chest knocked her up and over Zimpher’s head. She landed behind the throne on her back, the wind crushed from her lungs like a punctured bellows.

  “Pretty Feenix.”

  A thunderous crash of energized power blasted the chamber. Black pebbles and sand sprinkled down from the cavern’s ceiling as her awareness registered Eagnad’s presence.

  Then a heavy darkness crashed down and swallowed her up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  L’Garn could not breathe. By the dirt on his tongue and the grit in his teeth, he knew his mouth was open. Though his eyes were shut tight and he could see only blackness, he thought he must look like a gasping fish. However, try as he might, no air was getting into his lungs, and it hurt.

  Someone called his name from a great distance. He did not want to listen. He had to concentrate on his breathing. He must take a deep breath or he would die.

  A heavy pressure filled his chest. It did not feel like a great weight was on him, it just felt like a giant’s fist was squeezing his lungs and deflating them of any life-giving air.

  The blackness behind his eyelids began to sparkle like tiny lightning in a dark night’s sky. The voice in his mind grew fainter. Someone close by was making strange gasping and wheezing sounds. He still could not pull any air into his battered lungs.

  “Prince L’Garn...”

  The voice was persistent. Perhaps he should answer? As soon as he got his breathing back to normal he would find out who wanted him.

  Strange how heavy his chest felt and yet the rest of him seemed so light. Especially his head. Maybe he should open his eyes now and see if he could identify who was calling to him.

  Breath back? Yes. There was no giant; he merely had his breath knocked from him. He remembered now.

  “Relax, your highness.”

  The voice was back and stronger. L’Garn tried to focus on the voice and struggled, willing his eyes to open. A tiny breath of air penetrated his starved lungs, and the sparks in the darkness began to fade. The gasping sounds grew louder.

  He remembered.

  Zimpher had thrown a massive bolt of energy at him. There had been no time to duck; no defense had been possible at such a close range.

  He should be dead.

  L’Garn’s sight cleared even more, and the pressure on his chest lessened as air finally filled his lungs and his breathing resumed.

  He was not dead. The pains and bruises quickly making themselves felt by their intensity proved that he was still alive. How? He had no magic to protect him from the power his grandfather had unleashed at him.

  Feenix!

  He remembered Feenix had been behind him on the stairs when Zimpher released the powerful bolt. Had she been injured in the force as well? He must find her.

  The sounds of battle had been replaced by the rumble of the cavern and the cries of frightened elves. It finally registered in L’Garn’s dazed mind that the ceiling was raining crystal shards and grit upon him, making it difficult to stand and gain his balance.

  Where was Feenix?

  Most of the priest lights were broken, but a few still shed light around the huge cavern. Bodies of both demons and elves were scattered about like broken toys on the floor. The two arch-demons lay where he remembered they had fallen, their lances broken beside them.

  L’Garn felt a strong rush of panic. He could not see Feenix.

  All around him, elves disregarded the ominous signs of the cavern’s collapse and worked to find and help the survivors. A number of the king’s advisors cast speculative looks his way, but none approached him. He was glad, for he felt driven to find the human woman before he could deal with anything else.

  He sucked on his bottom lip, where a cut leaked blood into his mouth. Stepping over a bloody body, L’Garn ignored his own aches and pains as he began to climb the stairs to the empty throne.

  Where was Zimpher?

  A crack, the width of a hand’s span, formed a jagged and crooked path from the bottom of the stairs all the way to the top dais. The power of the king’s energy bolt had broken the steps to Meedrion’s Throne. One part of the prince’s brain marveled at the phenomenon as he made his way to the top.

  The throne appeared untouched. The black crystal still shone and glistened in the priest lights, and the silvan silver lacing the beautiful stone seat glistened as delicate and rare as always. Other than a smeared puddle of blood, there was no trace of Zimpher, or any other living thing. The throne was empty.

  And silent.

  L’Garn realized the deep thrumming of the cavern had stopped. The only sounds were those of his people as they bound wounds and removed bodies from the cavern. Even the rumblings and spattering of fallen crystals had ceased. The smell of blood and incense hung heavy in the air.

  “Prince L’Garn.”

  The voice from his head was back, only this time it came from below the throne, off the side of the dais. L’Garn peered over the side, and immediately saw Feenix crumpled on the floor of the cavern, lying on her back. Eagnad had her head pillowed on his lap, and he looked like he was trying to wipe the dirt from her face.

  “Feenix!” The prince’s heart felt as if it was going to burst from his mouth.

  L’Garn jumped from the throne’s platform and rushed to her. By the Jewels, he thought, she better not be dead, now that I have found her!

  “Pretty Feenix hurt,” the little troll said, looking at the prince with sorrowful orange eyes. “Prince fix.”

  L’Garn knelt beside the warrior woman, and tried to ignore the stench of burnt flesh that came from her body. The leather jerkin had been burned from her chest, as had the silk shirt, exposing her once-creamy skin. Little tendrils of smoke wafted gently upward from her still body.

  Large, red welts, some spotted with brown and black burned flesh, covered her entire chest and neck. He was afraid to see how far the energy damage had traveled. It was probable that her shoulders and arms were also covered with burns.

  A wave of dismay and despair washed over him, and L’Garn felt tears well up in his eyes. How could anyone survive something like this?

  “Is she dead?” He willed Eagnad to tell him he was only dreaming and that Feenix was well and unhurt.

  “No. Prince fix.”

  The troll seemed to think L’Garn could do something about Healing Feenix. He did not have enough magic within him to do something so difficult, and what little magic he did have did not include Healing abilities. His talent, if one could call it that, lay in tracking and search expertise. His skill came in handy for killing, not Healing. If Feenix had to rely on his silvan abilities, she would surely die.

  The panic that threatened him before he found her returned ten-fold.

  His grandfather was right. He was nothing but a useless failure. No matter what his mother said, L’Garn knew that the human blood that coursed through his veins would forever hinder him from performing even the most simple of silvan tasks. Even his hearing and sight were impaired!

  If something as trivial as his sight was affected by his tainted blood, how could he ever even contemplate the thought of trying to Heal Feenix? The troll was insane. L’Garn was not equal to the task.

  “Prince fix,” Eagnad said again, grabbing the prince’s hand and placing it gingerly over Feenix’s burned flesh.

  “I can not Heal her.” L’Garn pulled his hand away and dropped his head into his hands. “I have no magic! I have never had any magic.”

  All the fear and worry that L’Garn had for Feenix, as well as years of empty wishes and frustration at being so inept and flawed, weighed his soul down with despair. He had never felt as helpless and worthless as he did at that moment. He had to get her to a Healer quickl
y, if there was any hope at all of saving her life.

  L’Garn straightened his shoulders and picked up his head before looking at the little troll with renewed determination.

  “Help me get her to the Healers Hall.”

  The little troll looked the prince squarely in the eyes. L’Garn had never seen such eyes before. They were orange and had a milky, opaque film over them. Despite their appearance, a spark of keen intelligence blazed from their depths, and L’Garn was surprised at the intensity of emotion he found there.

  “Do you love her?”

  “Yes,” L’Garn answered without hesitation, amazed that he answered the impertinent question from the little slave. It was as if he was answering to a higher authority than even the king.

  “Then Heal her.”

  Again the troll placed L’Garn’s hand over the horrible wound. This time, however, Eagnad’s gnarled and callused hand remained on his, so that the prince’s hand was sandwiched between Feenix’s wound and the troll’s palm. The troll refused to let the prince free.

  The scent of flowers and fresh water teased L’Garn’s nose. Warmth spread through his hand and up his arm. He had never felt anything like it before. A feeling of calmness and peace flooded his mind, and strength that came from some unknown source flowed through his fingers into the tortured body of the woman he loved.

  Magic, unlike anything he had ever experienced or witnessed, filled the area where Feenix lay. As L’Garn watched, a golden glow began to grow from around their hands, and radiate out to encompass Feenix’s entire body.

  The noisy activity of the cavern slipped from his awareness until there was only Eagnad, Feenix and himself. No sounds except for their breathing reached his ears. No sight except for the golden glow surrounding them existed in his eyes. The rich smell of new and growing things filled his nostrils, and he knew that only life, clean and vibrant, could exist within their little universe.

  “What is happening?”

  L’Garn was confused. Where was the source of the magic coming from? It could not be from within him, he knew. An Outbreed had no magic.

  “Prince fix Pretty Feenix.”

  Eagnad closed his eyes and began to hum a tender melody, softly, just above L’Garn’s hearing.

  Suddenly, L’Garn had the urge to chant the words to a song he had heard a long time ago. He was not even sure where he had originally heard it—perhaps when he was a very small child hanging about the Healers Hall—but the urge to sing was undeniable. His clear tenor voice lifted in harmony with Eagnad’s deep bass melody.

  As smoothly as Tylana’s moons rising in the east, L’Garn’s fear and worry lifted from his heart, and he felt a smile slip across his lips. He could not understand it. How could he feel like smiling when Feenix—his flower—lay as if dead under his hand? But the smile could not be denied, and his heart filled with hope, and love, and peace.

  “Ask.”

  The one word escaped Eagnad’s lips as if it were an integral part of the melody. Before the prince could question the troll as to what he meant, L’Garn knew. Such a simple thing. Why had he not thought of it himself?

  Without breaking the rhythm or melody of the song, L’Garn chanted the words.

  “In the name of our god, Mac Lir, I ask that this woman be Healed of all wounds and hurts.”

  From within the depths of his mind, sparkling chimes added their accompaniment to the song he and the troll were singing. With each tiny chime, Feenix’s flesh changed. The blackened and burned flesh flaked away, to be replaced by healthy, pink skin. The blistered and raw sores smoothed and healed beneath L’Garn’s fingers. The stench of burned meat was replaced by the stronger, clean scent of growing things and fresh air. The prince watched the miracle with amazement.

  He was part of this magic, one with the power to Heal a living being. For the first time in his life, he was actually making a difference—an important difference—in someone’s life. It was wondrous! His voice rose and swelled with the song, and tears rolled from his eyes.

  How could this power have been inside him without his knowledge? What brought it forth after all this time?

  The answer settled into his heart as gently as an early winter’s snow.

  Feenix.

  All too soon, Eagnad’s hum floated away with the last tinkling chime, and L’Garn’s voice faded with it. The music softly died, and the cavern and everything surrounding them came back to L’Garn’s awareness.

  Feenix’s eyes fluttered open. L’Garn and the troll removed their hands, and the prince was not surprised to see all traces of the terrible wound gone. The flesh was once again creamy and smooth, the way healthy young skin should be.

  “What’s going on, L’Garn?”

  Her voice sounded as if she had not used it in years, but it grew stronger with each syllable. “I thought I heard music.” She looked around her in a dazed way as she struggled to sit up. “By the god’s beard, what are you and Eagnad doing hovering over me when there is a war to stop? Where’s that demon scum, Zimpher? Did I kill him?”

  L’Garn laughed with joy that his Feenix was well and seemed back to normal.

  “Feenix, do you think of nothing besides war and killing?”

  He watched her tilt her head to the side as if considering his words.

  “Not before I met you,” she answered with a smile.

  L’Garn loved the way her sapphire blue eyes lit her tanned face when she smiled. He could not help himself. He pulled her into his arms. The chance to hold her, to assure himself she was well and whole, was too strong to deny.

  “Thank Mac Lir you are well.” The scent of her hair filled his heart with joy and longing. “I love you, Feenix of Port Marcus.”

  At his whispered words, she stilled in his arms. He felt her pull away to look him full in the face. Had he erred? Should he not have declared himself to her? His heart felt as if it weighed as much as the Throne of Meedrion as he waited for her next words.

  “Do not toy with me, half-elf. I don’t give my affections lightly, and I make a mean enemy.”

  The confusion and doubt he saw in the depths of her eyes lightened his heart a bit. Perhaps he had not made a mistake. There was only one way for him to be sure.

  “I would never toy with your affection, Feenix. You are too fierce an opponent for that. Instead, I would rather be your partner for life. Would you consider becoming my mate?”

  He watched her eyes light up with a sparkle that rivaled all the Jewels of Meedrion.

  “Do you mean it, L’Garn?”

  “Aye, my flower. I pledge it on Mac Lir’s name; I mean it with all my being.”

  “By the god’s blue eye, I don’t know why you would want me, but Eagnad here is my witness. I accept your offer of partnership, and if you try to back out of the deal, I’ll gut you like a fish!”

  “Ah, my flower,” he said tenderly, pushing a stray strand of her glorious hair behind her ear. “Always the romantic, I see.”

  “Your majesty,” an elf addressed L’Garn tentatively, interrupting what the prince was sure would have been the best kiss he had ever yet shared with Feenix.

  “What did you call me, F’Rondle?” L’Garn thought he must be going insane with happiness, and a symptom of that illness must surely be loss of coherent hearing.

  “Pardon, your majesty, but we have found the body of King Zimpher.”

  “What do you mean?”

  L’Garn’s head began to buzz and he felt light-headed and dizzy, as if he had been hit on the back of his head with a large stone.

  “I am sorry to be the bearer of ill news,” the elf said, “but while we were looking for survivors, we found the body of the king. He is dead.”

  “I knew I killed that scum.”

  A part of L’Garn registered in his mind that Feenix was standing by his side, happy to have defeated her opponent. Another part of his mind realized that as Zimpher’s only heir, he was now the king of the Night Elves.

  “Do not worry,” Eagna
d’s quiet voice intruded into his awareness. “Mac Lir has chosen well. L’Garn will be a wise leader.”

  The former prince turned to question the troll’s wisdom, but the little slave was no longer anywhere around. He had simply vanished.

  “What would you have us do with the body, Your Majesty?”

  F’Rondle’s words brought L’Garn’s wandering attention back to the worried advisor.

  “With Zimpher dead, our job should be easy, L’Garn.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked Feenix, his head still feeling dazed and confused. And where, by the Jewels, had that troll disappeared to?

  “With you leading them, the Night Elves will accept Mac Lir’s plan of peace between the silvan races. We won’t have to use the force we’ve gathered Atop to fight Zimpher’s followers. We can meet with Rendolin and his people and plan how best to stop Tuawtha and his demons.”

  “Rendolin and his people!”

  L’Garn had forgotten for a moment that Zimpher had sent a company of Night Elves to attack the Sea Elves. They must be stopped. L’Garn’s mind became clear and calm as he knew what must be done.

  “F’Rondle, gather the people in the Great Hall. I will speak to them in one hour’s time. Make sure the slaves are present.”

  “The slaves, your majesty?” Clearly, F’Rondle was confused and unsure of L’Garn’s command.

  “All of the slaves, F’Rondle. See to it personally. Also, have my mother’s steward sent to me. I will be in my quarters. Feenix,” he turned to the woman he had just asked to share the rest of his life, “we need to make some plans.”

  “Very well, my prince,” she said with a twinkle, “but I don’t know if an hour is going to be long enough. Perhaps you should meet with your people in the Great Hall in two hours.”

  He answered her grin with a smile of his own, before draping his arm around her shoulders and leading her out of the dark cavern.

  “Unfortunately, two hours will not be possible, my flower, if we are to fulfill the god’s plan and keep my people from attacking Rendolin’s people.”