by Vaiya Books
Not caring to find out, he glanced around the room and quickly located a large circular bathtub in the center of the room filled with clear water.
Scanning around the room for bars of soap, shampoo, or anything else to clean himself with, he spotted eight different colored jars on top of a red marble countertop near the bath. Picking up an azure blue one, he examined it, but the elven writing was indecipherable; it reminded him of Egyptian hieroglyphics only less sensible.
Short on time, he popped open the lid and breathed in its aromatic scent. It reminded him of a sunny meadow flourishing with clusters of wild berries and fragrant flowers, the sort of aroma that his younger sister Melinda would love, as she always kept fresh flowers in her room, even in wintertime. Though he didn’t share her tastes and was actually horrified that this scent should be one of the options for a guy, he wasn’t going to waste his time trying to find another more fitting scent; the elven king had probably already lost his patience, and it was never good to keep a king waiting.
It’ll have to do, he thought, blushing, as he found a soft circular blue towel on the counter above three other colored towels, snatched it up, and placed it near the bathtub. Removing his clothes swiftly, nearly tripping, he slipped into the tub where his body was at once immersed in the warm perfumed water, which felt surprisingly softer and smoother than water on earth. If it weren’t for the strong lilac scent which permeated the water and the time constraint he was under, he would’ve thoroughly enjoyed it, as the bath was extremely refreshing and strangely even made him feel like royalty, like he were a prince.
But as it was, he had no time to spare, and so going at a rapid pace, he washed his body and then poured the meadow shampoo onto his head. Sticking his head underwater, he rubbed his hair until all of the soapsuds were gone. Then, he began drying himself off with the blue towel.
Once completely dried off, he picked up the clothes beside the tub, noting how strange they looked. Although he’d noticed that the elves had worn a similar type of garment, it suddenly seemed weirder having to wear one himself. It reminded him of a medieval garment depicted in his book for Ancient History class.
Slipping on the green tunic--silky, beautiful, and long-sleeved--which came down to his ankles, he shuddered, as he immediately smelled the light floral aroma it gave off and noticed that the tunic resembled a dress. He hated it. Was this what male elves wore? Blushing, he peered at himself in a large square mirror, knowing how much everyone would laugh at him if they saw him, especially Hazel; she’d tease him forever. He could already imagine her insults.
Then the thought hit him like a bullet train; he’d likely never see her again. From what he knew, there was no portal he could go through to teleport back. Who was to say that he’d ever return to earth?
Muttering to himself, he felt a sudden annoyance for Hazel; if she hadn’t told him the attic was haunted, if she hadn’t told him to check it out, he’d probably have never even gone in there and would’ve been at the party right now. What an awful contrast.
Dismayed at this misfortune, his irritation for Hazel quickly fading away as he realized that there was no way she could’ve known that this would happen to him, he picked up his silvery belt, its gold buckle molded into the shape of a river, and fastened it around his waist, before throwing an emerald-colored cloak onto his back and clasping it to the upper front corner of his tunic with a black brooch. Sliding his feet into a pair of ankle-high black leather boots that had probably been seized from a pirate, he inspected himself in the mirror--at least it appeared that he’d put on everything right.
Encouraged by that thought, he straightened out his short brown hair and dug out his cell phone and peppermint gum from his blue jeans, dropping them into a small pocket in his emerald cloak, before unbolting the door, sliding it open, and then hurrying towards the exit. It took him some time to discover the means of getting this main door open, but he eventually found it--who would expect a small silver needle would be responsible for this duty? As he left the place, meeting up with the messenger again, noticing a distorted smile on his face, the owner, still snickering, shut the door behind them with almost mad zeal.
Once things got quiet, the messenger turned to him, noting the flowery scent that clung around him. “Lady’s room,” he mused, while holding his folded hands in front of him. “At least he gave you male garments.”
Before Ian could take in this humiliating event, the messenger added, “There is nothing we can do for you now. The king awaits.” As if this were some sort of cue, the elf started dashing through the streets with cat-like agility, leaving Ian no choice but to use up even more of his energy reserves to catch up to him, as it was obvious the elf wanted him to follow.
After running at a quick pace for nearly five minutes, they came to a broad silver street, where many elves stared inquiringly at Ian and whispered curiously among themselves. Frustrated, he ignored them as he squinted at the dazzling golden gate up ahead, which rose fifty feet into the air, its twelve golden columns shining brilliantly in the setting sun, making it blinding to look at for long. As beautiful as the bronze and silver gates were, compared to this one they were as trifles, yet in spite of this, Ian felt no true joy. It just made him fear his meeting with the king all the more.
Still following the messenger at a brisk pace, Ian reached the golden gate and waited for another heated dialogue to begin with the messenger and the guards. This time, however, there was no delay, and he was swiftly let in by the myriads of guards standing atop the golden wall.
Unsettled and distracted, dreading his meeting with the king, Ian barely noticed the flowing aqua-blue rivers--nearly as transparent as bath water--on either side of the wide marble road they traversed, the large silver fountains which sprayed water one-hundred feet up into the air, the magnificent silver arches they went under, or the sapphire statues of elven kings and queens on either side of the royal road.
When he saw the palace, however, his thoughts temporarily lightened as if he’d stepped from a dungeon into a sunbathed meadow: the beautiful place looked to be built from shimmering sapphires and towered two hundred feet above him. Its majestic light pearl turrets protruded even higher into the evening sky, reaching to heights of two hundred and fifty feet.
Briefly, he felt enchanted as if he were gazing upon a fairy tale palace, but this emotion only lasted for mere seconds, as the feeling of meeting the majestic king immersed his heart with terror. Each step he took up the long flight of wide ruby-colored stairs reminded him of a crime scene from a movie, and each shaky breath he took reminded him of his mortality and how easily he could be killed.
These thoughts and others like them were the only ones he had as he reached the top of the stairs, hurried over a twenty-foot long ornate scarlet rug, and reached the golden palace door where the messenger awaited him.
After a half minute wait, Ian’s nerves on the edge, the door swung open and five blue-clothed guards with swords strapped onto their thighs stepped outside, putting their hands over their hearts, and tapping their feet against the ground.
Following shortly after them, a rather youthful-looking male elf with an unsettled look on his face sped right past Ian, startling him, and nearly knocking him over.
Watching the young elf scamper quickly down the ruby-colored steps, Ian felt his heart drop within him. The last thing he wanted to do right now was to meet the king, but sadly, he had no choice in the matter but to follow the guards.
Succumbing to their authority, he silently followed them into the palace, where to his left, he immediately noticed three golden-barked trees, awe-inspiring and lofty, and a medium sized table with a small ornate box, behind two golden thrones. The high thrones, both side to side, stood twenty feet away from him up a flight of seven white marble stairs embellished with ornate silver designs. Sitting elegantly on one of them sat the king, his head emblazoned with a shining golden crown encrusted with eight different kinds of gemstones and engraved with elaborate blue-green
spruce markings.
Splendidly dressed, he wore a silken purple robe--with gold and silver streaks running horizontally through it and a blue-green river symbol etched into it near his heart--that came down to his golden shoes. His shoes, pointed at the end and adorned with two silver straps, both had one silver wing jutting out of each side--like something worn by the Greek god Hermes. His right hand held a silver scepter, carved in such a way that the upper part of it resembled a leafy tree flourishing with blossoms.
Long russet-brown hair swept over his face, covering up most of his forehead, while his probing green eyes glowed with deep wisdom and mild hostility.
Fear drenching his heart, Ian turned his eyes to the king’s two uncommonly handsome sons, who stood on either side of the king. The two princes were both clad in brilliant flowing yellow robes that shone with gold dust and descended to their silver winged shoes, which fastened onto their feet with three diamond-colored straps. Each of their robes had five vertical aqua blue stripes embroidered on them as well as a diamond river symbol etched into the front.
Unlike most of the elves Ian had seen, the elder-looking prince had sapphire-blue eyes--a distinct contrast to the shamrock green eyes of his father--medium-length auburn hair that came partway down onto his light-skinned forehead, and a serious, mystifying expression that seemed to have come directly out of a labyrinth; the prince appeared to be critiquing his every movement.
In contrast to him, his younger brother had bright emerald eyes like his father’s, a thick head of fair golden hair that seemed to glow softly as the hundreds of dazzling lights from above shone upon it, and a curious, lighthearted countenance that emanated with kindness and joy.
As Ian continued examining them, the elven king strode elegantly towards him escorted by seven well-dressed guards draped in royal blue, sharp-pointed swords in hand. Azadar stood to the side, ashamed.
Seeing the king approach him, Ian knelt respectfully, eyes focused on the jeweled pavement, heart pounding. As he did so, the king startled him with a stern command.
“Stand up, human,” the king inquired grimly, as he gestured for Ian to rise to his feet, while dismissing his two sons from the room with a slow hand motion. Ian quickly obeyed, his legs trembling, as the king’s eyes froze like glaciers as he cut straight to the point. “Ian, the Elayans have been extinct for three centuries.” His unwavering shamrock eyes stared into Ian’s dark brown ones, frightening him. “Therefore, it is impossible that any member of their royal line could still be alive.”
Ian’s eyes flickered with anxiety. He tried hard not to argue, but found it nearly impossible. “I understand, Your Majesty. Though do you suppose that someone may have dressed up as an Elayan to try to deceive me?”
“No,” he replied with a slight flare of anger, as if hating to continue this conversation, as he softly brushed back his brown hair from his forehead. “Only death awaits those who impersonate Elayans. Not even a fool would masquerade as one.” Striking his silver scepter once against the ground in a procedural way, he stared coldly at Ian as if he had him in checkmate.
Ian’s heart trembled, as he watched Azadar grow haughtier. There was no point in disputing the king anymore, as he clearly wouldn’t yield to reason. Worse, any further arguments with him would only make him angrier, perhaps even angry enough to sentence him to death, and the thought of dying over such a small matter seemed like pure foolishness to him.
He’d rather admit he were wrong and be called a fool for the rest of his life than obstinately dying for insisting that some ancient sorcerer existed. And even if the men he’d met were truly Elayans, he had no proof with him to convince the king, so arguing was pointless.
Besides all of this, he had to admit that even he was beginning to have his doubts now--they might just be evil wizards with a rebellious fashion sense for all he knew.
With those thoughts in mind, he confessed his error to the king, feigning sheepishness: “I see, Your Majesty. I was wrong.”
His compliance seemed to appease the king. A glint of warmth now in his eyes replacing the restrained rage that had been there mere moments before, he proceeded onward with a new topic, as if the previous one had never happened. “Ian, do you know anything about the ambassador from Sarith?”
A wave of confusion swept over him. “No, Your Majesty,” he said, stammering a bit, hating to offer such a pathetic answer to this powerful king. “Why do you ask?”
“Because he was supposed to have come here two weeks ago,” he said solemnly, his eyes darkening, as Ian wondered if the king’s tangent were connected with the Elayans, or if it served some other purpose. Before Ian had thought over that possibility for too long, the king then added, staring at Ian as if he were somehow related to this long delay, his face stern and full of disdain, “I am beginning to have my doubts that King Ralin Taverak wants to establish an alliance with us. As the throne endures, I believe that he has instead allied himself with Odak Valduum.”
Eyes widening slightly with fear, feeling as if he were somehow responsible for this, Ian knew the wisest thing to do would be to not to say anything and to let the king’s wrath pacify. As he waited in agitation for the king to cool down though, Ian watched his frigid eyes shift from the wall to him.
“So, where do you hail from, human?” he asked, scrutinizing Ian’s tannish complexion, his short cropped dark brown hair, his dark brown eyes, and his tall, slim form. “The Kingdom of Sarith? the Northern Isles? the Southern Isles?” He drilled into Ian with his green eyes, making him feel as if all of his mistakes were being displayed on a big screen in a movie theater.
Trying hard not to stutter, more than a little grateful that he wasn’t from Sarith, he forced out the words, “None of them, Your Majesty,” his knees shaking as a sick dread filled him; he didn’t belong here. He felt like a poor peasant being interrogated by a mighty emperor. More than likely, King Kadeth didn’t even believe him, yet after what the king had just said about Sarith, who in their right mind wouldn’t claim another homeland?
Fearing the worse, Ian held his breath, a deep unsettling feeling sweeping over him.
It wasn’t long before the king replied, his lips tightened, his face impossible to decipher, “If you do not come from those regions, then where is your homeland?”
Tension mounting, Ian watched Azadar’s shamed face take on the boldness of a mountain lion pursuing its prey. He had to think fast. “I’ve come from a faraway land, Your Majesty: Sparta, Illinois.”
“Sparta ... Illinois?” He fingered his hand up his scepter, a slightly perplexed look now beginning to overshadow his regal face. “Explain yourself.”
“Yes,” Ian murmured quickly, desperately wishing he’d taken one of the choices the king had suggested. “Sparta is the city and Illinois is the state, Your Majesty. My country is the United States of America.”
His words did no good though. Azadar eyed Ian with scornful skepticism before glancing back at the king, while King Kadeth’s eyes narrowed in suspicion: “I do not understand this at all, boy.”
Arms trembling, Ian calmed them by squeezing his hands together. Frustration ruled his mind. After reflecting over what to say this time, he spoke again, this time more slowly, hoping this further clarification would clear up the mystified gaze in the king’s eyes: “Sorry, for not explaining myself more clearly, Your Majesty, but my country is unusual for it is divided up into many states.”
The king paused, reflecting over his words. “So your country is created from states?” he asked rhetorically. “And what does each state consist of … a province, a duchy, a cluster of cities?”
Ian hesitated, latching onto the only term he understood. “Each state consists of a cluster of cities, Your Majesty.” It wasn’t the truth, but it was the closest to the truth the king was going to get.
Unfortunately, these last words enraged the rather reserved king, who’d managed to keep his temper in check until now. As Kadeth gripped his scepter tighter, doubt slashed into his face,
fury burning into his eyes like lava. “This lie has been kept up long enough!” he shouted, startling Ian and the guards around him, bringing a bloodthirsty longing for vengeance into Azadar’s face. “Why are you avoiding telling me about your true homeland?” Flecks of hot coals flashed through his eyes. “Speak up!”
Ian fidgeted nervously, heart shaken like an avalanche roaring down a mountain. Having no time to think up a good reply, he said whatever came into his mind. “I’m sorry if it sounded like I was lying to you, Your Majesty, but I’ve been telling you the truth.”
The king widened his eyes briefly in surprise, before staring at him coldly, his fury greatly suppressed, as if he were deeply regretting his emotional outburst. “How did you arrive in our kingdom then, if yours is so far away that we haven’t even heard of it?”
He couldn’t avoid the question--it would make him look like a fool or an even worse liar. Like it or not, he had to tell the truth.
Groaning inwardly, chills racing down his spine, he gazed up at the king and spoke with much reluctance, “Do you believe in teleportation, Your Majesty?”
Silence immediately fell across the room, dead silence, as unvoiced rage enveloped the guards and especially Azadar, who all gazed at the king resolutely as if expecting him to punish Ian and execute him right on the spot. Taking in their shadowy stares, however, King Kadeth merely thumped his scepter twice against the ground, saying, “Do you believe in the depths one will plunge into to deceive another?”
His heart dropped. He wanted to vanish. “Yes, I do, Your Majesty.” He paused respectably, before finishing, with an eloquence previously foreign to him, “But to the best of my knowledge, all my words about my arrival to your country were true.”
The room quieted again. A deadly stillness permeated the air. Ian could hear his own heart beating. The guards stared frigidly at him as if he were a condemned traitor. Just when he felt he couldn’t take the suspense any longer, a beautiful symphony of flutes, violins, trumpets, and stringed instruments flooded into his eardrums.