The cool sapphire phoenix sometimes moved against her breast as she rode, or the silver chain slid on her neck. Here was her god, her Blue Phoenix, and what other god would she have than he who rises, falls, and rises again each new year from the ashes of the old? Once, a long time ago when she had been a girl, Elansa had longed to dedicate her life to the god, to become his cleric and live in his temple, but her father had other plans for her.
"The gods are gone, Elansa," he'd said. "We honor their memory, but let us not delude ourselves that it is anything more."
Against all custom, Paras Sungold had made for his only child a marriage to a prince of the royal house, to Kethrenan who was the youngest brother of Solostaran, the Speaker of the Sun.
"Marry the prince," he said, and they both knew he commanded. "Hurry to make yourself the mother of a child of his. Solostaran has sons, and they look to be fit enough, but it never hurts to be in place."
Indeed, thought Elansa then, and now. In place for what? A plague to take Solostaran’s house? A rash of tragedy to sweep away her nephews, the elf king's children? She had not said so to her father, but she felt his greedy glance measuring her belly each time they met. As for Kethrenan, her prince, he had the patience to wait, and he didn't ever complain about the trying. Nor did she; he was an attentive lover.
Kethrenan, ah, handsome Keth. He had the wit and the skill to rule Qualinesti. Elansa, though she never hoped to love him, liked her husband well enough to know and understand him. She realized, as perhaps even he didn't, that given the chance Kethrenan wouldn't find it hard to summon the will to rule. Yet, with the Speaker's children so full of health, it wasn't likely that he would ever have the chance, and so all that wit and will Keth channeled into other streams. He was fiercely loyal to Solostaran, and in the Speaker's cause he spent his wild recklessness, determined to keep safe for his brother and his brother's heirs what he could not have for himself. In these days when the borders of the Qualinesti Forest were seldom crossed by elves, even less often by human or dwarf outlanders, Kethrenan was their dogged keeper. From Lauranost in the west by the Straits of Algoni to the abandoned fastness of Pax Tharkas in the mountains of the south and east, Kethrenan’s warriors were a well-known presence, loved by elves, feared by all others.
Bronze leaves, fallen from autumn, whispered on the path as Demlin, Keth’s serving man, walked beside Elansa, leading his own mount. The rusty gelding had come up lame an hour before, stumbling as they’d crossed a stream. A stone had lodged in the tender quick of the hoof.
"Not but a small bruise," Elansa had said, passing her hands over the injured hoof. "Let him walk unburdened for as much of today as you can, and he'll be right tomorrow."
She'd spat into her hand, added a small amount of dried root of wolfsbane from one of the packets in her leather pouch, and made a paste, which she applied to the hoof.
Demlin was content to walk until the horse could carry him again. "And it’s not like anyone will be leaving me behind, Princess."
He looked up the trail, the stony way rising. Glimpses through the thinning foliage showed the first gleams of the snowy shoulders of the Kharolis Mountains. Dim in the sky, the two moons, Solinari and red Lunitari, early risers, hung like ghosts above the mountaintops. Between those mountains and into the woody border of Qualinesti lay foothills strewn with piles of boulders. So wide and tall were those piles that some individual boulders had been given names, long ago in the days when the borders of Qualinesti and dwarven Thorbardin marched side by side like two friends. Stone Castle, Granite Tower, Hammer Rock, Reorx's Anvil. In those years after the Cataclysm, the dwarves had pulled their borders closer to Thorbardin, but the names of the stones yet remained, known to all who traveled the steep rising trails at the edge of the Qualinesti Forest.
There! Elansa lifted her head. There, she heard the slithering sound again, like a snake winding through the leaves.
One eye ahead, another on the ground to avoid the mess the horses left behind, Demlin didn't seem to have heard what Elansa did. His face, plain and long, was a study in composure. To see him now, a stranger would not imagine he had another thing on his mind besides taking care to keep his handsome leather boots clean. Elansa, however, was no stranger to this man. She didn't think Demlin was deaf to what she'd heard.
Elansa lifted her hands and slipped her hood back, the sage-colored wool falling to her shoulders. High up in an oak, a jackdaw chattered, sounding like a kender laughing. Another joined in, and then a third. One of the horses ahead snorted, tossing its head so that the bridle rang. Behind, one of her escorts murmured. A deep male voice chuckled, the sound low and comfortable. In the next instant, his laughter fell dead, killed by sudden silence.
"Listen," said the warrior to his companion. Then, after a beat, "Did you hear something?"
Demlin lifted a hand to take the bridle strap of Elansa’s mare, the glittering of his long green eyes a warning. He mouthed the word, Hush!
A hawk's screech tore through the forest. Thus, the silence, Elansa thought, the wood was falling quiet, striving to become invisible in the face of the raptor. She relaxed a little. Demlin did not. In the pressing silence, Elansa heard again the sound of following, only now the slithering came not from behind. It came whispering from the right, from the left.
Elansa got a good grip on the reins but kept the pressure of her knees light so as not to frighten the mare. A sword hissed from its sheath. The smell of lanolin and lamb’s wool from the scabbard’s lining tickled Elansa’s nose. Pulse beating high and swift in her throat, she freed her legs of the length of her cloak. Through tight woolen trousers, even through the high leather boots, cold nipped. Demlin’s hand tightened on the mare's bridle-strap, then loosened. He turned to look at Elansa, breath drawn, a word on his lips. In the space between one beat of her heart and the next, Elansa saw his eyes widen, and color drained from his face.
Demlin dropped his own mount’s reins and leaped, grabbing Elansa by the arm. Yanking hard, he dragged her from the mare's back. Cursing filled the air. Something buzzed overhead as Elansa tumbled from the saddle. A warrior shouted, and another cried, "Protect the princess!" Around them, a maelstrom of shouting and cursing erupted like the high, savage hooting of predators hunting.
Elansa hit the stony ground and the breath blasted from her lungs. Her left ankle wrenched, caught in the stirrup. In the moment she realized this, the mare hurtled forward. Stone slammed into Elansa’s shoulder. Panicked, she tried to curl and protect her head. Another stone tore at her face, but she saw only the ground and the bright flash of iron-shod hooves, then two legs clad in blue wool and brown boots. The mare staggered, flinging and trying to turn.
Demlin sliced the stirrup from the mare’s saddle. Elansa fell, at last, gasping to get her breath back. The thick scent of blood filled the air—hers and the mare’s. She struggled to stand. Demlin took her hard by the elbows, yanking her to her feet. All around her horses swirled, bright hooves thundering on the ground and flashing sparks from stone. Her knees sagged, and pain lanced through her shoulder, through her ankle, throbbing in her head. Demlin caught her and held her up as cries of "Protect the princess!" filled the forest. Shouts and laughter followed. Out of the forest, like a dark tide, armed goblins overtook the trail. Orange-skinned, teeth filed to needle sharpness, they came howling like beasts, their weapons gleaming as they swarmed out of the shadows. One, and then another of Elansa’s guard fell, some arrow-shot, others bleeding from sword cuts.
An elf screamed, and another. Elansa’s stomach turned weakly. If she counted them by their death-cries, not but three of Keth’s warriors remained. She cried out in grief and terror as another elf fell, an arrow through the neck.
"We mourn later, my lady," Demlin said, his voice low and shaking as he dragged her off the path and into the shadows of the wood. "Now we flee."
They ran through the trees, and each step Elansa took made her head rock with pain. She dared not slow; she dared not stop. The cries of gob
lins followed, a guttural speech that sounded like cursing. Goblins in the Qualinesti Forest—unthinkable!
Forest shadow closed out the sunlight, and Elansa tripped over a writhing root, stumbling to her knees on the stony, rising path. Before Demlin could drag her up, she staggered to her feet, feeling but never looking at the shredded and bruised skin on the heels of her hands. Her shoulder throbbed with pain, the skin raw, the sleeve of her blouse tom and bloodied. Lights danced before her eyes, bitter sparks from the fiery pain in her head.
The way grew narrow. On either side gray lichened boulders made walls that, as they ran, grew higher. With bandits behind and stone to either side, they could go only forward. The sounds of fighting grew faint, then vanished altogether. Death cries, battle cries, they were all silent. One rough peal of laughter rang out, then a sudden shout of anger and a swiftly killed cry of pain. Again Elansa stumbled, her wrenched ankle betraying her. Demlin steadied her, putting her back to a boulder.
"Take a breath, my lady, but we can't linger long. They know we're gone and—"
A twig snapped ahead of them. Elansa cast a swift glance up the trail, expecting to see a horde of bandits. She saw only one person, and this one was human. More, she was a woman. In the first glance, Elansa took in the cut of her—tall in hunting gear, her boots of tanned leather, the fringed shirt untied at the neck to show a V of golden skin. Hope rose, foolish and faithful. Surely here was no bandit but a traveler soon to be caught by the same ill luck that had snared Elansa and her party.
"Lady," she said, in a ragged shaking voice naming the stranger courteously. "There are goblins behind…"
The woman's lips pulled into a lean feral grin, like a wolf's, her long curling dark hair thick as a pelt, her gray eyes hard and without any light of mercy as she lifted her bow. "And there are bandits ahead, elf girl."
Demlin stepped in front of Elansa. She could smell sweat and the stink of his fear. The dark-haired woman laughed. "You're a loyal servant, but you make a puny shield. I think one bolt will pin you both. Want me to try and see?"
The woman's knuckles whitened, those of the hand that gripped the bow, and those of the one that held the arrow steady at nock.
"In the name of all gods," Elansa whispered, her voice threadbare as a beggar's hope. She put her hands on Demlin’s shoulders. "Let my servant go."
The woman said nothing. Elansa moved Demlin away from her, gently insisting when Demlin refused.
"Let him go, please. He has nothing you need."
"He doesn't?" The woman looked at her long, her eyes glittering. "He has you, doesn't he?"
Again her grip on the bow and the nocked arrow tightened.
"Please…" Elansa said. "Let him—"
"Dell!" A man's voice, deep and rough, snapped the name like a command. "Hold!"
Without thinking, Elansa looked up, but she saw only the shape of a man, tall and thick in the shoulders, standing on the rock above her. Like the woman, he was human. The sun was behind him, so she saw no features, only his dark shape and a spill of sunlight along the edge of a sword's long blade.
"Dell," he said, a harder edge to his voice. "I said hold."
Dell hesitated another moment, then tossed her head in obvious disgust. "Brand, he's no use to us, just let me—"
"No. Go get Char and the others." He looked at her sternly. "And keep away from the goblins. That’s for later."
Elansa let go a breath she'd not known she was holding. Turning and looking up into his shadow-hidden face, she said, "Thank you."
The man, the one the woman had named Brand, lifted his sword, stood a moment watching the sun slide on the blade, then sprang down from the boulder. The scent of him, woodsmoke and sour sweat and leather, made Elansa want to turn her head. She dared not risk the insult, so she stood straight and as tall as she could, though her head did not reach as high as his chin.
The man's eyes narrowed. He snatched her little knife and the leather pouch from her belt. For only a moment, his hands lingered at her waist. So close, she saw his eyes. In them she read hatred. Elansa’s stomach clenched with fear, and her blood ran chill in her veins. He looked higher, hooked two fingers under the silver chain round her neck, felt the weight of the sapphire phoenix, and lifted it out from her blouse. With one swift motion he took from her neck the chain and the sapphire phoenix. The weight of it was gone from her breast, the pulse of its magic vanished as though it had never been. It would not have beat in the hand of an elf who was not a woodshaper, and it did not beat in the human’s hand. He held it as though it were only cold crystal as he stuffed it into the pouch at his belt, then shoved her own little pouch in on top of that.
Shaking and cold, Elansa moved to wrap her arms around herself to hide her trembling, then stopped. That gesture would have served only to call attention to what she wanted hidden, her fear.
"Sir," she said, surprised to find her voice holding steady as she accorded to an outlaw the respectful address she'd have given a lord among the Qualinesti. "I thank you for my servant's life. Please, will you let him go?"
"Let him go?" His voice sounded like winter's wind, cold and hateful. With the tip of his sword, he gestured to Demlin, who glared in outraged silence, a silence kept because Elansa’s swift glance commanded. "Isn't his life enough? You want his freedom too?"
Dry-mouthed with fear and trembling with anger, Elansa lifted her chin. "I ask for what I ask," she said.
The bandit took a step back, not a long one, only a half-pace. He, who seemed to like the slip and slide of light on his sword’s blade, turned his wrist a little as though to see it again. Caught by the dazzle, Elansa looked where he did, to the silver shining, the light gliding.
"Very well," he said. "I grant what I grant."
The outlaw's sword rose, fell, and Elansa heard Demlin’s cry of pain before she saw his blood. Demlin fell to his knees. Horrified, she leaped for him, catching him before he pitched forward. Holding him, his blood seeping into the fabric of her torn blouse, warm on her own skin, she saw what harm had been done. Demlin’s left ear, severed, lay bloody on the stony ground.
"Beast!" she cried, turning, Demlin still in her arms. "Beast! You—"
The outlaw grabbed her arm and jerked her to her feet. He sheathed his blade and held her with one hand.
"Get out of here," he said to Demlin, his voice cold as steel. "Go back to your masters and tell them to find ransom for your lady."
Demlin, bleeding, managed to spit in disgust. "We will find ransom," he said, his voice ripped and ragged. "We'll pay it in steel blades—"
The outlaw laughed, a cold booming. "Now that's just what I'm wanting. Swords and knives, steel arrowheads and helms and chain mail." He kicked him, and Demlin fell onto his face. The gaping hole on the side of his head poured blood onto the stony path. "You see to it they pay in just that coin, elf, enough to fill two wagons. Tell them to bring it to the Notch, north of here and by Stagger Stream. Have it there by the rising of the full moons—two men, unattended!—and they'll find your mistress alive. Otherwise, they'll find her somewhere in the borderlands, dead when we've done with her."
Down from the rocks, spilling like shadows, came other outlaws, no more than ten, all human but for a dark—haired dwarf, one-eyed and hiding the lack behind a bright green eye patch. At Brand's word, the dwarf tied Elansa’s hands behind her back, and others dragged her away up the trail. Demlin cried out, calling after her.
"Princess! We'll find you! Have faith!"
He said more, shouting to assure her, but his voice had the hollow sound of a memory only dimly recalled.
Chapter 3
In the sky, ravens swirled like storm clouds gathering. Their cries echoed, sharp as knives, in Elansa’s ears. They quarreled at feast, vying for good places on corpses.
Names drifted through her mind. Wing-gloss, Oaktrue, Emberbright, Starglance…
These were the family names of Kethrenan’s trusted warriors. Grief tightened round her throat, a necklace of pa
in.
Glimmergrass, Slenderbirch, River-reed, and Forrestal… all the names of bright and shining men and woman, all devoted to her husband, all pledged to keep her safe. All dead, surprised by goblins and outlaws in the home forest and murdered.
In her mind, Elansa recited their names over. She must remember them. She must be able to speak them like a litany of praise so she could tell her husband how they'd tried to defend her, how none of them broke and ran, how each stood ground until a goblin's arrow or blade snuffed out his life.
Elansa’s stomach turned, sickened by the stench of the outlaws crowding her close, before and behind. They smelled of old beer and ale, of sweat and untanned leather. They smelled, she thought with bitter disgust, like humans. You'll never mistake the scent of them, an old elf wife had told her. "Humans," she'd said, "why the span of their lives is so short you can smell them dying."
Elansa’s head throbbed with pain. Each step she took, stumbling and weary, seemed to drive the pain deeper, like a hammer driving a nail. She tried to look up the trail, the stony defile that grew more and more narrow. Lifting her head, she stumbled and fell to her knees. Kicked from behind, amid curses and laughter, she staggered up again.
Had they crossed Qualinesti’s borders yet? The thought made her tremble. She'd never in all her young life been outside the forest. Since she was a child, thoughts of the world outside were images of howling wilderness, a place peopled by beings rough and strange. Godless folk—all but the dwarves of Thorbardin and the Silvanesti, those distant cousins of the Qualinesti. Wretched and fallen from sense, since the Cataclysm some of these were engaged in a wild and fruitless search for gods other than those who'd been forever known to the peoples of Ansalon. Seekers, these were called. You heard about them sometimes the way you hear about people's nightmares. Elansa shuddered. Others simply didn't care about gods, believing them to be fictions of the long-lived, superstitions and perhaps demonic agents of a magic they no longer understood. Into these hands she had fallen.
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