by A. L. Knorr
Tink.
There was a single sound from inside the jar. Eohne froze with her fingers halfway to her temples, where a headache was just starting to surface.
Tink-tink. Tink, tink, tink.
She scrambled from the ledge and approached the glass jar. Inside it, messenger bugs crawled, glowing palely in the half light. These aren’t dead. No, they are very much alive and still filled with juice!
Eohne sucked in a breath, grabbed the jar, and rushed into her lab. The blue-white lights illuminated the space, responding to her presence. She placed the jar on her worktable. The yellow butterflies filled the tall glass cylinder in the far corner with fluttering bright bodies, now as awake as Eohne was.
Carefully, Eohne unscrewed the lid, reached inside, and extracted one of the bugs. She loosed a syringe from her utility belt and inserted the needle into the underside of the bug’s belly. Glowing, clear fluid filled the beaker. The message had been delivered, otherwise the juice would still be green—but the fact that the fluid was alight told Eohne that the bugs had brought information back with them, just as she'd been hoping for.
"Data," she whispered, her eyes bright. Data was her favorite thing in the world, aside from maybe a freshly toasted elven gurfle soaking with warm butter. She placed the bug back in the jar. She took a small glass disk, lifted her syringe, and squeezed the plunger, sending the juice onto the disk.
She extended her finger, and then hesitated. What will I discover about Jordan’s life? I hope she forgives the violation… Taking a breath, Eohne pressed her fingertip to the wet, glowing patch.
Her eyes rolled back as a vision exploded in her mind.
A human male with a narrow, friendly, bespectacled face and red hair knelt in front of an old oak tree. He stretched out his hand, dropped it again, stretched out, dropped it—trying, but failing, to place the messenger bugs in mid-air.
"Hello, Dad," Eohne muttered. "Allan Kacy. You touched the bugs; you weren't supposed to keep them, you silly man." Her mind raced as she watched, making adjustments to the science behind the messenger bugs; calculating how, in the future, she might keep them out of reach of whoever was receiving their message.
A portal formed in front of the man, and he gaped at it. He rose from the ground and—
"Ohhhhh," Eohne breathed. "No. You foolish—"
–stepped through the blue, shimmery expanse. There was a white flash and the vision transformed. Allan on his knees in yellow sand–clearly not anywhere close to Charra-Rae. This was a desert. Eohne's mind continued racing along its rails and filing through the different deserts in Oriceran that she was aware of. Her mind and her mind's eye strained for any distinguishing features. Sand the color of corn. Allan's glasses were dusty and he'd wound his shirt around his head to beat off the scorching sun. He looked around, bewildered, lost. He called out for Jordan.
Allan stumbled through the sand, kicking up gold powder in his wake. He halted, a frown forming on his lined face.
"What is it?" Eohne whispered—neither in her lab nor in the desert with him, but somewhere in between. "What happened?"
The sand in front of Jordan's father erupted and four shapes emerged from underneath, their skin tanned to nut brown and leathery, their hair in dreadlocks and beetle eyes glinting behind bronze, thick-rimmed glasses.
"Gypsies," Eohne breathed. "He's fallen through to the Saour Desert."
Allan put out his palms and spoke with a pleading, barely-controlled expression on his face. The gypsies talked, exchanged gap-toothed grins. Smaller shadows, just out of sight but moving like rodents, brushed against the sides of her vision. These had to be Willens—crafty talking rats, and possibly slave-traders.
The vision faded, the data used up.
"No!" Eohne's eyelids flew open. She sucked in ragged gasps of air and braced herself on the workbench. She put a hand to her throat. Panic surged again. Jordan's father is in grave danger, and she has no idea. In fact, no one knows Allan is in danger except for me. I am now his only hope. If I don’t act…
But how?
The Elves of Charra-Rae were forbidden to leave their forest home without permission. She'd already asked Sohne for permission once and been denied. But she had new information now, important information. Eohne didn't fully understand why Sohne had made Jordan promise she would return to Charra-Rae, but Sohne never did anything without a reason, and her ability to catch glimpses of the future gave her foresight that she didn't often share with her people; not until she needed to. Sohne wants something from Jordan, otherwise why would it be so important to see her again? Perhaps there is a way I can use this information to secure permission to leave.
The inventor pushed off the bench, her belt clanking in the silence that was no longer peaceful, but oppressive. She darted out of the tree and along the shimmering path toward Sohne's house.
Eohne walked up the long, sloping path that led to the top floor of Sohne's home, her heart rocketing around in her chest. The lights were on, which meant Sohne was also struggling with sleep this night. Perhaps the gnashwits haunted her at night, too, or perhaps she was receiving the foresight.
Eohne took a minute to calm herself using a few breathing exercises, then tapped on the arched doorway.
"Come," returned Sohne's gentle voice almost in the same moment. It was as though Sohne knew she was going to visit. She probably did; Eohne never knew what Sohne had foresight about, and Sohne rarely let on.
Eohne pushed through the door and into Sohne's abode. The smell of lilies filled the elegant cone-shaped home. A spiral window at the cone's top displayed the broken canopy of trees high above and the sprinkling of stars in between. Sohne's space was little more than a space for relaxation, sleeping, and private conversations, since Charra-Rae Elves lived most of their lives out of doors.
"What is it?" Sohne asked with her back to Eohne, a brush in-hand and halfway down the long expanse of red hair. She was sitting on the edge of her round bed in an evening gown the color of spring leaves–a light, floaty affair that draped over Sohne's long frame like a cloud. Eohne couldn't fathom the expense of it, let alone the annoyance of trying to sleep in it.
"The messenger bugs came back," Eohne said, forcing herself to speak slowly. If there was one thing Sohne didn't respond well to, it was panic. "Alive. With data."
"And?" Sohne cocked an ear toward her; the hand holding the brush went still.
"Jordan's father has been captured. He followed the bugs into Oriceran and has been captured by gypsies in Saour." She took a breath and hid her trembling hands behind her back. If Sohne denies me a second time... can I trust that the Elf princess is making the right call? Does she know something? Maybe she knows that Allan is already dead. Or maybe she doesn’t know anything and will keep me in Charra-Rae for her own selfish reasons.
"Saour," echoed Sohne, lowering the brush. "Foolish man."
That was exactly what Eohne had said, but aloud she excused him. "He's an Earthling; he doesn't know any better. And he's lost his only family. Can you blame him for taking the opportunity to cross over when it presented itself?"
"No," agreed Sohne. "He can't be blamed." The eye that Eohne could see drifted shut.
Eohne pushed forward in the silence of Sohne's meditation. "I don't know why you made Jordan promise to return, but she has to be important to you for some reason. And if she's important to you, then her father should be important to you, too."
Sohne didn't respond.
"Do the right thing here. Please, Sohne," Eohne's voice softened in her pleading. "He needs help. I can help him."
Sohne opened her eyes and looked at Eohne for the first time. "And what will you do? How will you help him? You don't even know where he is and you have no more data."
A rush of pleasure went through Eohne that she for once was a step ahead of the princess. "If Allan has been captured by the Gypsies and Willens of the Saour Desert, then one of two things will happen." Eohne stepped further into the space, capturing Sohne's eyes
with her own. "They'll either eat him, or they'll sell him. Have you foreseen any of this?"
Sohne shook her head and stood, crossing her arms; the fabric of her gown floated across her body. "I have not seen anything about Jordan's father. It’s strange, he is a void to me."
Eohne was disappointed, but would not let despair claim her yet. When Sohne had foresight about someone, she usually had foresight about that person's whole family, as though the premonitions came via genetics. Perhaps the fact that Jordan is Arpak and Allan is human makes him inaccessible to Sohne.
"He might be dead already," added Sohne, delivering the words gently.
"He might, but I refuse to accept that until I see a body. If he's been sold, then there is only one place within a hundred miles of that desert where the Gypsies can do that."
"Vischer," said Sohne, and Eohne nodded. Hope sprang up, lively and rich in Eohne's breast. If Sohne were going to say no, she would have done so by now.
Sohne went silent, her eyes down and her face thoughtful.
"The fungus is not in great danger, is it?" pressed Eohne. "I can resume my experiments when I return." If Eohne was honest with herself, she didn't believe the fungus could be synthesized with magic—but she was afraid of what Sohne would say if she admitted that out loud. That’s a problem for another day.
Sohne nailed her with a look. "You need to fix those bugs, Eohne."
"I know," Eohne agreed, dropping her chin deferentially.
"Until you do, I don't think you should use them."
"Yes. Alright." At this point, Eohne would say whatever Sohne wanted to hear. The permission was so close she could taste it; her heart began to thump in eager anticipation. Once Sohne gave Eohne permission, the magic bonds that kept her tethered to the trees of Charra-Rae would fall away; Eohne would be free to act as she saw fit.
It was an intoxicating idea, that kind of freedom. Eohne had to admit that while saving Allan was her first priority, getting out of Charra-Rae for the first time since she was a young girl was an exhilarating bonus.
Maybe this is something I need in order to clear my own head. She'd been stuck in this forest, inventing and experimenting for years. Longing suddenly filled Eohne so swiftly and powerfully it was like a punch in the gut. Eohne's lips parted and she inhaled.
"You may go," said Sohne.
Eohne exhaled and her eyes shuttered closed. "Thank you, Sohne."
"You're welcome. But I have a condition."
"What's that?"
"You can't go alone. It's too dangerous."
Eohne's face expanded with surprise. Sohne is giving me permission for not one, but two elves to leave Charra-Rae?
"But who—"
"Not an Elf," said Sohne. "Pohle reported that a Nycht mercenary escorted Jordan here."
A name Jordan had mentioned in passing tugged at Eohne's memory. "Toth?"
"Is that his name? I'm told the two embraced before they parted. They are friends."
"But I don't know him. I don't even know what he looks like."
Sohne waved a hand. "Doesn't matter. You know where the Nychts of The Conca live."
"Yes, but—"
"I won't have one of my Elves venturing out of Charra-Rae on a dangerous rescue mission without help.” She faced Eohne, stern in this directive. “Pohle said the Nycht was frightening. You convince him to accompany you, and you can go."
Eohne opened her mouth to protest, but she knew the look on Sohne's face. Resolve. There would be no changing her mind, and though Eohne bristled at the idea of taking the time to stop in The Conca, having a capable companion who knew Jordan could only be of benefit to them both.
"What if he refuses to come with me?"
"I don't think he will," mused Sohne. "But if he does, you need to return home so we can think of something else."
This was an unacceptable outcome. They didn't have time for that. Eohne was done dithering. I have her permission, and once I am out of Charra-Rae, Sohne's powers can’t force me to return. If the Nycht refuses, I will continue on alone. Eohne was grateful Sohne couldn't read her thoughts as she just nodded her agreement and turned for the door.
"Eohne?" Sohne's voice made the inventor pause and turn her ear to the princess.
"If he is alive, there is a good chance he'll have been taken on to Trevilsom. He won't have lingered in the cells of Vischer for long. The place has no resources; they won't want to keep him."
Eohne paused, taking this in. She hadn't considered what Allan's final destination would be if he made it as far as Vischer. "Trevilsom," she echoed.
"The island prison."
Eohne knew the place; there were few on Oriceran who didn’t. It was the kind of place angry parents threatened their children with to get them to behave.
"That place has toxic magic," warned Sohne.
Eohne nodded. "I know." Once again, her fingertips had turned to ice. She clenched her jaw. "I'm not afraid."
"Fear is an exceptional motivator," responded the princess. "Maybe you should be."
Eohne faced Sohne, and gently bowed her head. "Good evening, Princess."
"Safe travels," Sohne replied.
Eohne left the princess's hut, bolting into a sprint as soon as the door closed behind her. A grin broke out on her face as she ran back to her lab. She charged through the door and began to gather things she would need for the journey: syringes, vials, her spinning cylinders and a number of other magical tools. Eohne strapped on her curved Elven blades, crisscrossing them over her upper back like two scythes. She stuffed a second set of clothes into her satchel, then grabbed enough food to get her beyond The Conca. She hurried out into the night and over the peaceful pathways of Charra-Rae, the sound of the waterfall growing louder.
CHAPTER TEN
They came to take Marceau away first. Allan and Marceau spent their waking hours talking through the bars of their doors, seated on the cold hard floor. When Wilmot came to retrieve Marceau, the cheese importer cursed the guard up and down in French. The two prisoners were not allowed a moment to say goodbye and Marceau yelled out as he was escorted away.
"Je vais demander á tous que je connaisse," Marceau wheezed out desperately at his prison-mate. "Retarder le navire! Ne les laissez pas vous emmener!"
"Shut up," barked Wilmot, shaking Marceau and half dragging him down the hall.
Allan knew Marceau was speaking in French so the guard could not understand. Allan's own French was rusty, but he picked up the general message; delay the ship that would come to take Allan away.
Marceau's voice became muffled as the door at the end of the hall slammed shut. "Retarder le navire, mon ami!"
How was Allan supposed to delay the ship? Marceau had said he would ask everyone he knew for help. Allan felt hope fluttering in his chest. Could he dare expect a rescue? He had no idea how powerful Marceau's connections were, or if the Frenchman had any money or resources to pay for the help.
Allan stayed sitting by the door for a long time, feeling cold and bereft. Marceau was his only friend in this entire world aside from Jordan. He had learned so much from Marceau during their short time together. Allan mentally masticated all the things Marceau had shared as he waited for his 'blasted transport'.
"Oriceran is bigger than Earth," Marceau had said, his expressive eyes peering through the cell bars.
Allan wondered if he'd even recognize the man if he came across him down the road, for he'd come to know the Frenchman as a shadowed face, a set of eyes with pronounced purple bags under them, and a voice with a strong French accent.
"Many years ago there was a Great War," Allan was told. "But before that, many people from Earth had come to live here. That is why there are so many cultural similarity, so many language rooted in ours. After the War, portal travel became illegal. It still happen all the time," Marceau explained, his eyes full of compassion. "You just happen to be one who got caught. I think they are more concern with the appearance of upholding the law than actually upholding it. I have
been using portals since I was a teenager. There is one not far from the grave of Karl Marx, in the Montmartre cemetery in Paris. Sometime I'm told they move, but mine has not moved, thank God. My father show it to me and pass me his business when he die." He crossed himself hurriedly and kissed his knuckle. "I still get afraid that my portal will not be there one day and I will become trapped on one side." He shuddered and became thoughtful. "Sometime I forget that most people on Earth still don't know about something that seem so normal to me."
"How do you travel back and forth so easily?"
"Oh, that is a very great secret," Marceau had replied with a hush in his voice. His eyes darted to the door at the end of the hall, fearful someone would overhear. "Even the walls can have ears, so be quiet and listen." His voice became a whisper. "If you need to travel, you only need two things."
Allan had leaned close to the bars, the cold metal pressing against the side of his face, his hand cupped behind his ear, straining to hear. "What's that?"
"Money or something of value to trade, and an Elf."
Allan stared at his prison-mate, his jaw slack. "An Elf, you say?" I don’t know why I’m so surprised—after all, I’ve seen talking rats already, and Marceau has talked of other magical species. Why not Elves?
Marceau nodded solemnly. "If you have a chance to befriend one, or help one in need, you do so. They have the most powerful magic on Oriceran." He flapped a hand, "They are arrogant, but so are we French," he laughed. "So we are well suited."
Allan gave a half-smile. "I happen to like the French," he replied. Allan had spent a summer in the south of France learning how to make wine. He had learned a little of the language and a lot of the food. He was still sometimes nostalgic for that time; there was something simple about the French life that Allan missed. He had meant to take Jordan there before she started college, but the time seemed to slip away from him—now it was something he regretted not doing.
"Then you are God's own chosen," laughed Marceau. His laugh turned into a harsh cough. Allan frowned; he didn't like the sound of his friend's lungs.