A Threat of Shadows

by JA Andrews

  He let his hands fall off the crystal.

  He was looking in the wrong place. Kordan had kept all of his knowledge in his own Wellstone. This one was useless.

  He sank back into the chair, dropping his face into his hands. His dismay was so great that he could hardly breath. He had just used the wrong Wellstone. There was no antidote here.

  Alaric had just shared all his memories with the Keepers for nothing.

  I will store all of my memories in the Wellstone, and bury my treasure here beneath a young oak, Kordan had written.

  Alaric thought of Kordan’s sparse home. The Keeper had had no treasure besides the Wellstone. One even as small and irregular as his would be worth a fortune.

  Somewhere in Kordan’s Blight, under what must now be a hundred-year-old oak, the antidote Alaric needed was buried.

  He stood up, refusing to look at the useless Wellstone, refusing to think about the memories he’d just shared. The Shield would come see them soon enough and realize that Alaric wasn’t really a Keeper any longer. Kordan was right. There were choices that changed a person too much.

  Alaric strode back down the ramp into the dark tower. When he reached the council chamber, he stopped to check a map, slipping in and closing the door behind him before lighting a lantern.

  The council table was spread with woefully incomplete maps of the Lumen Greenwood, the forest of the elves.

  For eight years, the Keepers had been trying to find out what had happened the day Mallon, a ruthless Shade Seeker with seemingly limitless power, had disappeared. He had bent the country to his will, leading an army of nomadic warriors right to the walls of the capital. Neither Queen Saren nor the Keepers had had any real hope of stopping Mallon. But then he had turned his attention toward the elves and disappeared into their woods.

  That day, half of the Greenwood had burned and Mallon had disappeared along with every trace of his power. The thousands under his control had been released, and his nomadic army had drained back through the Scale Mountains.

  But the elves had disappeared as well. It was challenging to find the elves in the best of times, but since Mallon, it had been impossible.

  Alaric pulled maps off a shelf, tossing aside assorted maps of Queensland, the Dwarves’ capital of Duncave, and other miscellaneous maps until he found one showing Kordan’s Blight. It was far north, the last village before the Wolfsbane Mountains began.

  He took a moment to memorize the map, then blew out the lantern and went quickly downstairs.

  When he reached the ground floor, he could hear the thwump-thwumping of Keeper Gerone kneading the morning bread. It must be close to dawn. Alaric walked over to the kitchen door and saw the Keeper’s bent back as he steadily worked the dough. Alaric breathed in the smell of home and belonging.

  He opened his mouth to greet Gerone, eyeing a kitchen chair he could drop into and spill his troubles out to the old man. In the quiet, while it was still dark, had always been a good time to talk to the brilliant man, looking for new perspectives or connections or answers.

  But Alaric couldn’t bring himself to tell Gerone what he had done. He’d see the memories in the Wellstone soon enough.

  Gerone began to turn around and Alaric ducked quickly past the door.

  He paused for just a moment at the Keepers’ robes on the way out. He let his fingers run across the fabric again. He could leave the worn-out one he was wearing and put on a proper robe. The robes were made to look common, giving Keepers a measure of anonymity when they traveled. But they weren’t common. They were perfect. The perfect weight, the perfect warmth, the perfect black. The first time he had worn one was the first time he had really believed he was a Keeper.

  Alaric let his hand drop. Leaving the robes on their hooks, he left.

  The woods allowed Alaric to leave without being visited by ghosts or wolves, and by the time the sun had fully risen, he was on the King’s Highway heading north. When dusk came, he stopped for the night at a small tavern in a small town. It had been before lunchtime when he had passed the last thing that could be called a city. From here north, it was just scattered homesteads and the occasional village.

  In the tavern, even though he was exhausted from not sleeping the night before, he settled into the commotion and camaraderie of the dining room. He was reluctant to call himself a Keeper tonight, so he introduced himself as a royal historian tasked with recording local histories. Several men joined him at a table and talked over each other to tell a legend of a crazy miller woman who haunted Dead Man’s Hollow.

  When the sun set, Alaric continued recording stories by candlelight. The room was alive with laughter and folktales. For the first time in a long time, his enjoyment of the world around him drowned out his own worry and guilt.

  The tavern brightened slightly as the front door opened. A hush fell over the room. Alaric glanced up to see where the extra light was coming from.

  It took a moment to understand what he was seeing.

  Standing in the doorway was a group of travelers. A young man, an old man, a stocky dwarf, and glittering like her own candle flame, was an elf.

  Chapter 6

  The people around Alaric sat perfectly still, staring unabashedly at what was surely the only elf they had ever seen. Alaric stared along with them. He had forgotten how luminous they were.

  “Good evening,” she said, gracing them with a smile that spread through the room like a wave of warm water. Alaric smiled back at her. She was so very elfish—like a sparkle of sunlight. Her simple white dress reached down to her knees and was belted by a ring of purple flowers. The waves of her hair, and maybe even her skin, shimmered with specks of gold.

  The sounds of the rest of the room faded—she lit up like a beacon of light in a dull world. Like a beacon of pure, stunning, mesmerizing brilliance.

  Alaric realized he was gazing oafishly at her and blinked. He shook off the unfocused feeling creeping across his mind and studied her. She was pretty, but not nearly as lovely as he had thought. Or maybe she was. She was mesmerizing.

  Alaric tore his gaze away from her. Scowling, he braced his mind against her, willfully choosing to focus on his own hands, the bread on the table, the smell of onions and roasting meat. He took control of his own thoughts, leaving no room for any outside influence. His mind cleared, and the room settled back into perspective.

  That was disconcerting.

  Elves could sense more about living creatures than humans could. They could see emotions and the general state of well-being that a person had just by looking at them. But this elf was doing more than that. Alaric glanced around the enthralled tavern. It sure looked like this elf wasn’t just reading emotions. She was controlling them.

  “Are you done?” the dwarf asked the elf as he jostled past her. “I’m hungry.”

  She let out a tinkle of laughter, and everyone blinked and moved again, leaning toward their neighbors and whispering.

  The man next to Alaric tore his gaze away from the elf and continued his story. Alaric gave enough attention to him to write it down, but like everyone else, he mostly watched this new group. Now that his mind was clearer, he realized the full impact of what he was seeing.

  The elf by herself would be astonishing enough, but she had settled into a chair right next to the dwarf. Alaric had never heard of an elf and a dwarf interacting. As far as he knew, there had never even been a meeting between the two peoples. If a dwarf happened to be in the capital during the short time an elf had visited, the two avoided each other.

  But these two seemed perfectly at ease with each other.

  When the barmaid took drinks to the table, the dwarf lifted his glass. “To the richest family in Kordan’s Blight.”

  Alaric’s quill stuttered. Kordan’s Blight?

  He wrapped up the story with the man, crossed the room to where the group was sitting, and introduced himself.

  “A royal historian?” the dwarf asked, glancing down at Alaric’s worn cloak. “So you’re a ch
eaper version of those Keepers you humans like so much?”

  Alaric forced a smile at the dwarf. “Precisely.”

  “You’ll have to excuse Douglon,” the young man said, shooting the dwarf a disapproving look. He had an open face topped by a tousle of indistinct brown hair. “He’s hungry. Please, have a seat. I’m Brandson.”

  Alaric took the seat. “I must say, you are the most interesting group that I have ever come across in my travels.”

  “You have no idea,” the elf said, smiling at him. Then she peered at him as though working out a puzzle. “Is this place calming your soul?” she asked curiously.

  “It is,” Alaric admitted.

  “Wonderful,” she said, bathing him with a radiant smile. “A soul with burdens such as yours needs some calming.”

  Her smile sank into him, sending tendrils of comfort deep into his chest.

  Alaric liked elves. They kept you on your toes. He firmed up the focus of his mind so that she couldn’t influence his thoughts. It was stimulating to be around a people who had such casual intuition. She wouldn’t care enough about a human to wonder what his burdens were, but she’d see that he carried them as easily as she’d see his brown hair.

  The dwarf rolled his eyes. “Good evening,” he grunted. “I don’t care about your soul.”

  Alaric laughed. “And I don’t care about yours, master dwarf.” Douglon was exactly what Alaric expected from a dwarf, with the darkened leather armor and his long copper beard, beaded and tucked into his belt alongside his scarred battle-axe.

  Douglon flicked his hand toward the elf. “The annoyingly cheerful elf is Ayda.”

  “And I,” the old man proclaimed in a nasal voice, “am Wizendorenfurderfur the Wondrous.” He wiggled his fingers through the air. “Holder of Secrets, Caster of Spells, and Spinner of Dreams!” He wore a long, dark blue robe, embroidered with stars, moons, and swirls of lighter blue thread. Matched, of course, by his pointy hat.

  Brandson bit his lip to keep from smiling, and Douglon snorted in annoyance.

  It was rare to run across someone with a talent for magic. Not as rare as elves, but if the man was telling the truth, this group just kept getting more interesting. “Wizendorenfurderfur,” Alaric repeated.

  “Close enough,” the old man replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I don’t expect common folk to be able to pronounce my name. I allow these people to call me Gustav.”

  “Naturally,” answered Alaric, keeping his face serious while he gave the wizard a slight bow.

  Alaric looked back at Douglon and Ayda. “I’ve never heard of an elf and a dwarf traveling together.”

  “You still haven’t,” Douglon said, grumbling but not moving away from her. “I travel with Brandson. Ayda just shows up sometimes, and Brandson is too kind to send her away. No one would choose to travel with an elf.”

  Ayda smiled sweetly at the dwarf.

  Alaric glanced around the table as the tavern keeper brought them all some dinner. Taken together, they were an odd collection, but when he looked at them individually, they each embodied their own people perfectly. The elf was flighty, the dwarf was gruff, the young man was friendly, and the wizard wore a pointy hat. Alaric smiled at them all. He couldn’t have put together a more entertaining group if he had tried.

  “I heard you mention Kordan’s Blight,” Alaric said. “That is one of the towns I’m planning on visiting.”

  Brandson nodded. “That’s where we live. We’re headed home from the market at Queenstown.”

  “Brandson is the town blacksmith,” Douglon said.

  “A town with the name Kordan’s Blight promises some interesting local legends,” Alaric said.

  “I can tell you how the town was named!” said Gustav. He took a dramatic pause, then shot an impatient look at Alaric. “Aren’t you going to write this down, historian?”

  “Um, of course,” Alaric said. He pulled out his book and quill, receiving an approving nod from the old man.

  Gustav narrowed his eyes and began in a hushed voice. “Long ago, the evil wizard Kordan dwelt in the town. He tyrannized the people, stealing their crops and murdering their cattle. Then one day, he took an innocent boy and turned him into a demon! The people were terrified until my great-great-grandfather, Meisterfoltergast, cast the wizard out and killed the demon. Meisterfoltergast spent days cleansing the town of Kordan’s evil. He restored their crops and blessed their cattle but renamed the town Kordan’s Blight as a warning to the people to remember what evil is.”

  Gustav fixed Alaric with a glare and whispered, “People always forget that there is evil nearby. Always.”

  The old man picked up a piece of chicken and tore off a bite.

  Silence reigned for a moment while everyone stared at the wizard.

  “I’d bet my beard there’s not a lick of truth to that,” Douglon said to Ayda.

  Gustav huffed and glared at the dwarf.

  Brandson shrugged. “I’ve lived there most of my life, and that’s essentially the tale I’ve always heard. Although until I met Gustav, I hadn’t known the part about Meisterfoltergast.” He gave Gustav a small smile.

  Alaric looked back at his paper and kept writing. The tale of Kordan these people knew was warped, but he was definitely the same Keeper that Alaric was interested in.

  “Is there anything left of Kordan? A monument? Signs of destruction? His home?” Alaric kept his eyes on his work. “Any of his valuables the town kept?”

  When no one answered, Alaric glanced up. Brandson, Douglon, and Gustav were focusing intently on their food. Ayda was smirking at them.

  “It was a very long time ago,” Gustav pointed out.

  “Of course,” Alaric said, letting the question drop. “It would be strange to keep mementos of an evil wizard.”

  Alaric didn’t glance up at the group, but the tension in the men was palpable. Alaric blotted the page he had written and turned to Gustav.

  “You seem quite knowledgeable. I’d be honored if you shared some of you stories with me.”

  “I suppose I could do that.” Gustav sniffed. “I’ll have to select the best. We don’t have time tonight for all of them.”

  “You could come along with us tomorrow if you are going to Kordan’s Blight,” Brandson said, causing Douglon and Gustav to scowl.

  Alaric gave the blacksmith a warm smile. “I would love to.”

  Ayda cocked her head and looked at Alaric. “What are you looking for there?” She sparkled captivatingly.

  Alaric pulled his eyes away, focusing on the concrete things around him, the feel of his quill, the sounds of the tavern. “Just looking for old stories, wives tales, histories.”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “Any local knowledge I can find, really. Recipes for local dishes, remedies for sicknesses, anything people can tell me.” The remedies part was true, and it seemed best to throw in a little truth when talking to an elf.

  She nodded slowly. “And the queen cares about all of this?”

  “The queen cares about all of her subjects.” That, at least, was completely true. “I’d love to hear some stories from you as well. The world has been asking a lot of questions about the elves since Mallon disappeared.”

  Ayda’s smile froze, and her eyes flashed with an anger so deep that Alaric drew back. “The elves are fine.” She bit off each word.

  Her gaze pinned him to his seat. He forced himself not to shift in discomfort.

  Brandson, Douglon, and Gustav looked anywhere but at Ayda.

  “Good,” Alaric answered, forcing a smile. “The queen will be glad to hear it.”

  Ayda nodded curtly.

  “So, Alaric,” Brandson broke in, “have you come across many interesting stories?”

  Alaric turned toward the smith and grabbed for the change of subject. With more enthusiasm than was probably necessary, he launched into a legend from a southern town about their haunted chicken coop.

  The next time he glanced at Ayda, she had re
laxed back into her chair, smiling and laughing with the others. He braced his mind against her again, but he couldn’t quite shake the fuzziness that had been on him since she walked through the door. It was going to be a long trip with her if the elf made him feel like this the whole way.

  Alaric set aside the question of the elves. Maybe once he got to know her better she would give him at least some hints. Whatever had happened with the elves, they obviously weren’t fine.

  Chapter 7

  Alaric led Beast alongside the interesting group the next morning as they headed north along the King’s Highway. Brandson drove a slow horse cart loaded down with assorted blades, horseshoes, and wagon parts from his smithy. Gustav and Douglon walked while Ayda traveled through the edge of the woods along the road, placing her hand on trunks as she passed in the elfish way of listening to the trees.

  It had been a year since Alaric had traveled with anyone, a year since he’d wanted to. But there was such an easy camaraderie about this group that he found himself enjoying it.

  “Oh, look at that oak tree!” Ayda cried out.

  Alaric glanced at the oak. It was one of a dozen he could see around them. Hopefully, there weren’t this many oaks in Kordan’s Blight, or it was going to be hard to figure out which one Kordan had used as a marker for his buried treasure.

  “Which tree?” Douglon asked. “The boring one right there?”

  Alaric tried not to laugh. It wasn’t exactly boring, but there was nothing unusual about it.

  Ignoring the dwarf, Ayda stepped over to the oak, slipping in under the heavy branches.

  “I think it’s a nice tree,” Brandson said.

  “It’s a tree,” Douglon said. “Like that one and that one and that one.”

  Ayda came back weaving a chain of leaves together. Alaric watched her hands closely. It almost looked like she was creating new leaves as she walked, but that was impossible.

  “Here you are, noble dwarf,” Ayda said, holding out the chain. “A gift from Harwood.”

  “Harwood?” asked Alaric.

  “Probably the stupid tree’s name,” explained Douglon, backing away as Ayda tried to put the chain around his neck.