Days Of Light And Shadow

by Greg Curtis

  Not that the elves were bad people. They weren’t. But they didn’t regard other races as worthy. Certainly the high born didn’t. And being seated amongst so many of them, their high lord looking down on him, that added to his discomfort.

  Of course it could be worse. He could be a dwarf. If there was one race that the elves regarded with pure loathing, it was the dwarves. The feeling was reciprocated naturally enough, and the two peoples had a long and bloody history of wars and feuds between them. Even trolls found better acceptance among the elves than dwarves, and they were truly wild. They were also the only ones who dared to call the high lord on his edicts, and he admired them for that. They had no fear and no respect for anyone who couldn’t ride a horse, and swing a sword. Or better yet an axe. On the other hand their trade deals suffered for that boldness. But ever since Finell had ascended to the Heartwood Throne, everyone suffered. This afternoon was simply another exercise in suffering.

  The current victim was a wife and mother who had come to beseech the high lord for her husband to be freed from the prison. Apparently he had said something in the market and been overheard. But Finell was never going to listen to her pleas. As he listened to the high lord berating her for daring to question his judgement, Iros knew that. He had always known it. The woman was part elf and part gnome. A mixed blood. She had no rights in Finell’s eyes.

  Though he felt sorry for the woman, Iros knew that there was nothing he could do for her. As envoy for King Herrick he had permission only to speak for him. Though he was still hoping to squeeze in the comment he had promised Elder Yossirion. So instead he busied himself by studying the court.

  The Royal Chamber was full as always for the meeting of the court. Every seat was taken. They had to be.

  Every high born family had to be represented even if nothing was to be said. They had to be seen, sitting proudly in their seats at the front of the chamber. And so the seven Firsts were there, and with them their most trusted advisors. Every envoy from the six realms was there as well, even if they too had nothing to say. It was simple respect, and of course there was the ever-present worry that if they weren’t there something important would be said that affected their people. The dwarves of course were always especially worried about that. Given their long and bloody history with the elves it was understandable, and so Gurtmond and his aids made sure to be there long before the court was called, and remained there long after it had officially ended. Just in case.

  The seats behind the throne were reserved for the high lord’s officials and advisors, and attendance for them was compulsory. If they didn’t attend the chances were that they wouldn’t keep their positions, and a man’s position was one of the things that added to a house’s reputation. They could not afford to lose them, even if privately they disagreed with their master. Every one of them maintained a carefully neutral expression as they listened to their high lord telling off the poor woman. But he couldn’t imagine that anyone with even the slightest hint of decency could agree with him.

  And then of course the sessions were open to the masses, so as usual at least a couple of hundred others had turned up and were filling the pews. Some of them were even eating their lunch, and Iros’ stomach growled a little at the sight. He’d missed his as first Yossirion and then an endless stream of merchants upset at various new laws, had beset him, demanding action. For them Finell’s rule these past couple of years had been as if Aris herself had cursed them. Misfortune at every step.

  That had never made sense to him. Finell was of House Vora, and House Vora was a trading concern. It had trading posts and warehouses and homes spread across all the realms. The house had a reputation for making a sharp deal, but also being able to provide almost anything a customer wanted. Trade should have been in Finell’s blood. But it seemed to him that Finell’s blood had thinned over the short years of his life. Not that Iros would dare say such a thing out loud.

  Not when at the front of the Royal Chamber High Lord Finell sat, perched on his throne, looking down upon them all, like a hooded vulture searching for his next meal. And that meal would likely be anyone who spoke against him. Iros did not have any liking for the high lord, and in that he was far from alone. No one liked him.

  Even Finell’s family, seated in the chairs set up to one side of the Royal Chamber, seemed unhappy with him. Blue hair, blue eyes, and pointed ears sticking out flat to the ground, they were surely of his family. But they seemed no more pleased with him than anyone else. In fact his cousin Sophelia sometimes spoke out against some of his more harsh rulings, and her father Tenir usually wore a face of thunder when his nephew spoke. This day was no exception save that he looked even angrier than normal.

  Tenir couldn’t speak against him, as First of House Vora his word would have carried weight over Finell, and Finell was high lord. That could not be allowed. So he was forced to sit there in silence each day. But his expression spoke volumes, and his daughter was a capable speaker. Iros wondered briefly if she was going to speak against him shortly. She looked to his eyes, as quietly angry as her father. But if she did he knew, it would cost her in some way. Finell didn’t forgive slights against him. Even imagined ones.

  The only one though, who could really control his mean streak, was his sister Elwene, and her seat was empty as she continued her pilgrimage. It had been a long month without her. And if one day, as the bards claimed she would, she took the robes of the priesthood, she would be banned from the Royal Chamber and the Court. That would be a dark day for Elaris.

  Further around the chamber Iros let his sight rest upon the dwarves, a people he actually quite liked for their normal bluntness. But in the Royal Chamber even they had to contain themselves. Gurtmond and his party looked distinctly uncomfortable. The chairs had never been designed for dwarves. Thick cushions in their back stopped them falling backwards in their seats, but their legs hung over the edge, unable to reach the floor. Finell they all knew, would never allow them to be given seating more suited to their stature. He never missed a chance to be petty.

  Beside them the sprites looked much more at ease, but he wasn’t fooled. The silver elves followed the Mother first, and hated the very idea of the Heartwood Throne. It was why Solaria and Elaris had separated. They had their own throne, but it was in a temple and their queen was an elder. And with every time that they attended the court and saw Finell harming his people, they surely grew more certain that they had made the right decision. He could see that certainty in their green eyes as they tried to maintain their calm.

  Iros’ gaze moved on to the audience. It was easier than staring at a tearful woman being brutalised some more. For some reason the Royal Chamber seemed more crowded than usual. Maybe it was the black clad watchman standing proudly at the walls. They seemed to be growing in number even here, something that did not fill Iros with ease. But at least the chamber could accommodate the numbers.

  It was a huge wooden hall, but unlike all the other structures in the city, it had been grown as much as constructed. The giant spruce that was the very heart of the city, stood hundreds of feet tall as it spread its enormous branches wide, and from those branches a spider web of ropes hung down, supporting the roof over their heads. It of course wasn’t attached to the rest of the chamber, and so as the tree grew, and even at five thousand years of age according to the scholars it was still growing, the roof lifted a little higher. In high winds it tended to swing a little, alarming him as he sat underneath, but in the summer the design also allowed a gentle breeze to flow freely through the chamber.

  As for the chamber itself, other than the roof it was fairly typical in design. Tall straight walls, big ones standing easily fifteen feet high, stood proud, framing the hall, making it appear almost solid. On a calm day you could almost forget that the roof wasn’t attached to them, that it floated at least three feet above them.

  The artisans had been busy with the walls over the centuries, and all along their length they had carved enormous arched windows that
let in astonishing amounts of sunlight. But then considering that the entire structure stood directly under a massive tree that tended to steal the light, they needed to. The glass smiths had also added their own touches, and every arched window showed an image from the elves’ history, lovingly depicted from tiny coloured pieces of glass. They weren’t just windows, they were works of art. Paintings in glass. Some days the Royal Chamber reminded him more of a cathedral than a meeting hall or throne room.

  And then there was the throne. The Heartwood Throne on which High Lord Finell sat looking down upon them all. It wasn’t a chair. It wasn’t carved or crafted. It was an actual tree, somehow growing inside the chamber. A small heartwood tree, its trunk divided into three, and draped over the middle a few furs and cushions to make the sitting comfortable.

  Of course as the tree grew over the centuries so too did the throne and so beside it was a small wooden staircase that Finell had to climb each day to reach his perch. And each time he saw him climb those steps, a part of Iros secretly hoped he’d trip and fall flat on his face. He suspected he wasn’t alone in that wish.

  Even with all of that beauty though, it was the floor that impressed Iros most though. It was a simple wooden floor, the boards carefully laid and sprung so that they didn’t clatter, but its perfection constantly amazed him. There were no high spots and low spots in it. There were no knots and whorls in the timber. And the glaze that they had placed over it was so thick and hard that it became a mirror. A huge wooden mirror spanning a hundred paces in length and fifty in width. That took some craftsmanship. And it surely took some cleaning as well, to keep it looking so brilliant. Every night he was sure, the artisans would be out on their hands and knees with their polishing clothes, making sure that no scuff marks from people’s feet remained behind.

  Unfortunately as magnificent as the Royal Chamber was, the high lord simply wasn’t. He wanted to be, he wore the robes and sat on the throne, and he made the noises, but in the end he was a stripling pretending to be a ruler. At least in Iros’ opinion. He was petty and arrogant, terrible failings in someone who held the lives of his people in his hands. But worse than that, he was filled with disdain, considering anyone not of pure elven blood as lesser creatures.

  It was a view that was widespread among those of the seven great houses, the high born as they were known, and the elves that controlled much of the realm. But Finell was the worst example of them all. And he had the throne. An unfortunate happenstance. Before his unfortunate death, Finell’s father Gerwyn had been an excellent high lord, at least according to his predecessors. Fair minded and filled with a sense of duty. But Finell was not his father.

  Sometimes though Iros wondered if he might be his grandfather. Dead many years, before he had passed on Gallis had become completely crazed. Breathing deeply of the mist of the moon maiden as they said. He had spent the final decades of his life speaking with those who weren’t there, sometimes even openly arguing with them. And every so often Iros noticed Finell’s attention wandering, as he looked away, perhaps also seeing people that weren’t there. Would that be a bad thing? Would the mist make his rule any worse? Iros couldn’t be sure.

  What he did know was that thus far his rule had been a poor one. He had exercised his loathing for those not of the purest blood and the best families at every turn. The envoys were treated with disrespect, something they simply had to endure. Justice was denied to his own people as he picked and chose whom he liked. Right and wrong was decided purely on the basis of a person’s blood and family. And his laws were a travesty as he consistently punished the low born and outsiders with taxes and tariffs and rewarded the high born with opportunities they could never have dreamed of under his father’s rule. Some days he seemed to be the very servant of misfortune. Aris’ pet. Other days Iros wondered if it was Sandara the Mistress of the Night that he served. Whoever it was, he was convinced it wasn’t the Mother. She would never countenance such darkness. Maybe that was why her servants weren’t allowed in the court.

  In Leafshade a low born could be fined and thrown in his new prison for daring to say something unkind about one of the high born. Property could be seized and people put in irons for disagreeing with one of Finell’s edicts. And a high born could be excused any crime including murder as if it was nothing. Not yet even a man and Finell was well on his way to becoming a tyrant. And the worst of it in Iros’ eyes, was that the people seemed to accept it. All save a few outspoken priests. The rest wandered around the city in their carefully laundered robes and exchanged pleasantries as if the world was perfect.

  Iros didn’t understand that. He truly didn’t understand it.

  He didn’t fully understand how a man’s house could mean so much. Yet to the elves it was everything. A house wasn’t just family and lineage, it was far more than that. It was the very reason for their existence. And belonging to the right house was everything.

  “High Lord!” A man came rushing in to the Royal Chamber crying out for the high lord even before the real business of the day had begun, and everyone turned to see who had interrupted them. Even Finell looked. And when they looked they found that they could not look away.

  The man was an elf, actually a priest. He should have known better than to interrupt. He should not have even been there. Priests were barred from the Royal Chamber and the Court by ancient law. Ever since the age of kings had passed. But no one said anything. Not when the man was obviously distraught, dressed in torn robes and covered in dried blood. So were the others who chased him in. Something terrible had happened.

  “We were attacked high lord.” The man fell to his knees in front of Finell, the blood on his clothes obvious for all to see. And Iros knew that the same question was running through all their minds, who? Who would attack the elves in one of their sacred groves? Who would dare? But someone obviously had. Looking around at the rest of the party, and seeing them all bloodied and broken, Iros knew that someone had done just that. And worse, from the shapes under the blankets on the wagons he could see outside through the huge doors he knew that someone had even killed their people. It was an outrage.

  “Who? Who was attacked?” For once Finell actually asked a sensible question instead of simply sitting on his living throne, making everyone miserable.

  “The grove High Lord. The Wildwood Rose Grove.” The high lord gasped. They all did. A sacred grove attacked. That was terrible enough. But Iros, like surely everyone else there, knew that that was one of the stops on the high lord’s sister’s pilgrimage.

  “Elwene!” The high lord barely gasped out her name in shock. And then he grew angry. “Who attacked you priest?”

  “Humans high lord. Brigands in armour and on horses. They carried cold steel with them, and they descended on us like a pack of wolves. We were not armed.”

  Iros’ blood ran cold. It had chilled from the very first word out of the man’s mouth. Humans. His people. The elves already regarded them as savages. Violent primitives with dangerous weapons. It would not take a lot to turn that disdain into loathing and accusation. And from there worse could follow if they were not very careful.

  “High Lord.” Iros instantly rose before going down on one knee before Finell, hoping to stop this nightmare from becoming worse. Hoping it would be enough. It wouldn’t be but he had to try.

  “This attack is an outrage. Innocent people attacked. It is unforgivable. And I know that King Herrick would agree that such a crime cannot be allowed to go unanswered. Whoever has done this, he will hunt them down if they are in our lands, and bring them to you for your people’s justice.” He would send a pigeon this very afternoon to confirm that, though in truth he didn’t really need to. Herrick was a good man and a wise king. He would know what needed doing. But as he looked up he realised that Finell wasn’t paying him any attention. Instead he was looking out through the far doors at the wagons loaded down with the fallen, horror in his eyes.

  “Elwene?” It was just a whisper, but everyone heard it. Iros
heard it, and his stomach jumped into his mouth as he realised the terrible truth. There were so many bodies under those blankets.

  “I’m sorry High Lord.” The man could not even look at his king as he forced out the words. But he had told him all that he needed to.

  “No.” Finell looked shaken, possibly for the first time since Iros had known him. “It cannot be.”

  But even as he said it his eyes returned to the wagon, and then he jumped down and his feet started marching him there. The rest of the court followed in complete silence. Iros followed too, when he’d found his feet again, fearing what they’d find. Fearing it more than anything he had ever known. The high lord’s sister. Murdered by brigands. Human brigands. In one of her people’s sacred groves. There were no words for how terrible that crime was. And yet as he followed at a respectful distance he had the terrible foreboding that it was only going to get worse.

  “Remove the sheets.” It was probably the very worst thing Finell could have wanted to see, but the guards still obeyed their high lord’s command. They had no choice.

  “By the Divines!” Iros was shocked by what he could see, and he was nowhere near the wagon. But even from the distance he could see the blood and the dismembered bodies. It was like the meat market. Someone had chopped up the fallen, butchered them. Who would do that? Who could be so evil? And the high lord’s sister among them. Someone had placed her dismembered body upon the top of the others, and he instantly spotted her blue hair.