by Lee Dunning
Raven’s searched the room as if the answer would magically present itself, or one of the ancient elves would pop out from behind the statues. “You know, when I spoke to Linden about my research, I thought his lack of knowledge stemmed from a lack of interest, but now …”
“But now you suspect something else?”
“I do. You’re right, at least a few ancient elves should live on First Home, but even in the short time since we arrived, we’ve seen no sign of anyone that old. Aside from you, I get the impression Lady Swiftbrook is the eldest member on the High Council. She told us K’hul is the eldest male of the First’s descendents, and he’s only a little over five hundred. And not a one of them seems aware of the strangeness of it all.”
W’rath nodded. “You recall Lady Swiftbrook’s concern yesterday over her inability to recall when they stopped the Shadow Elf coming of age festival?”
“I thought you did it when you healed her insanity,” Raven said.
W’rath pursed his lips. “I admit to acting with all haste, but I am very good at what I do. I in no way damaged her mind. Yesterday, when she mentioned her gaps in memory, I suggested she suffered some side effects from the healing as a means of easing her fears. I had no answers then, and I still don’t.”
“Sorry, my mistake,” she said, and gave him an insincere smile.
“Excellent. Now that we’ve cleared that up—what I’m suggesting … well, I’m not entirely sure what I’m suggesting.”
“Do you think something is making people forget? Some kind of spell?”
W’rath didn’t answer immediately. Instead he started up the grand staircase, his face thoughtful. Raven followed him up and they found themselves in a confusion of hallways and stairs. W’rath chose a hall at random and glided down it.
“It’s no simple spell,” he said at last, as they walked down the hall. “Something this powerful, long lasting, and subtle would require a ritual casting. It would have taken days, if not weeks, to perform, and involved dozens of casters. I expect the ritual the magi King Oblund has employed is a cantrip compared to what we’re dealing with here.”
“But why?” Raven said. The hallway, while wide, seemed to crowd in upon them as painting after painting, depicting important personages of the Stormchaser line, hovered over them. Their faces, severe or placid, stoic or mischievous, held no answers.
“I can’t imagine,” W’rath admitted. “We’ve seen the result—written histories mixed with fact and fantasy, conflicting and completely unreliable, and yet used to indoctrinate our young. We have more prejudice and suspicion than ever. Whoever did this had an agenda, but he wasn’t alone. He had help, and quite a lot of it.”
W’rath slipped down the hallway, paying little attention to the portraits, allowing instinct to pull him along. Or perhaps the will of the structure guided his feet. Regardless, their travels brought them to a lone door set at the end of the hallway. Raven pressed up against him, and he knew if he turned now he would catch her peering over her shoulder, as if she suspected the paintings had somehow herded them to this place. Perhaps they had.
“Something must have happened,” he said, “something significant, but due to the elves’ isolation here on First Home, the rest of the world moved on, completely unaware of the event. There was a … disagreement.” W’rath took the last few steps needed to bring him to the door and stopped, turning before Raven could crowd up to him again. He gave her a penetrating look.
“You mean a civil war?” she said.
“Yes.”
“And the winners wanted to change history, but couldn’t, so they did the next best thing—made everyone forget the truth. That’s a frightening suggestion.”
W’rath nodded and let her think further on what his theory meant. From their talks on the ship, he knew she had fantasized about the beautiful Elven culture denied her as a child of the Exiles. Her dream had come true, but now she faced the possibility that something ugly and insidious had its grasp on the place and its people, as surely as hate and depravity had consumed her former home.
Raven swallowed and at last found her voice. “Gods, it will happen to us too. How long do you think we have before we don’t remember and don’t care?”
Oh, bravo, lass. “That will not happen,” W’rath said, and turned back to grasp the handle of the hallway door. For the second time that day, the magical peal sounded. The two staggered as the force of it washed over them. With its passage W’rath’s vow turned into something far greater than the words of a determined soul. The magic bound those words to them, and ripped the claws of the ancient curse from their minds, leaving them gasping, not just from the force of the spell, but the realization that the creeping forgetfulness had already started to worm its way into them.
Raven and W’rath’s eyes met. “What in the Hells was that?” Raven said, voice gone to little more than a whisper.
“It would seem Lady Stormchaser planned this all very carefully. As a seer, she arranged for this very thing. She’s freed us, perhaps even this whole property, from the curse.”
“Maybe all of First Home?” Raven dared hope.
“As powerful a spell as we just experienced, I doubt it was strong enough to free all of the islands of the curse. If I’m correct, it’s held dominance here for thousands of years. The best we can expect, is a bubble free from the curse. We now stand in an oasis—a place where the truth can survive.”
“House of Memories,” Raven said.
“Very appropriate, lass. We have a name for our new home. Now let us see why Lady Stormchaser lead us here.” He opened the door.
Their initial view revealed a study bright with light and white marble walls. Upon their entering, it started to transform around them. Magic shimmered, and the walls shifted to a deep, rich mahogany. Stone transformed to carved wood. The clear glass of the two-story windows became awash with deep colors of purple and emerald, the pattern of an upright, wingless reptile emerged, its clawed legs posed as if in the midst of springing upon a victim. It reminded W’rath a great deal of the hunting lizards he had seen as a child. The reptiles were small, but hunted in packs, using intelligence and cooperation to bring down larger prey. He had admired them and often likened them to his small band of psions. The dear lady had known even this about him.
As the last of the items altered, the silver desk by the windows turned to a deep, hand polished brown. Raven gazed about, ruby eyes sparkling in amusement. “Obviously, this is your study,” she said. “I’d prefer something a bit less imposing.”
“My refuge in a tower of blinding light. Surely you can allow me this one tiny sanctuary?” He gave her a bow, beseeching her to grant him this boon.
“I suppose,” Raven said with a grin.
The room finished settling into its new appearance, and W’rath, hands on hips, nodded his approval. Above him, regarding the pair, hung a pair of portraits, two of the few things that remained unaltered by the magical transformation.
“Lady Uverial Stormchaser and Lord Umbral K’hul,” Raven said, pointing at the paintings. “Somehow she kept all of this protected from whatever horror befell First Home. I’m starting to think, despite its size and the number of rooms, only one person at a time ever lived here.”
W’rath considered her words, nodding slowly. “That makes a certain amount of sense. The current resident would choose an heir, presumably someone in the line gifted in divination and the interpretation of visions. Only someone supremely talented in those areas would have the ability to free themselves of the lies, and accept the guardianship of this place, knowing one day it would come to us.”
“And all the rooms housed here,” Raven said, dawning wonder touching her voice, “are meant to house a new generation of Shadow Elves!”
W’rath dropped into the chair rising throne-like behind the desk. As many amazing things as he’d seen in his life, he had difficulty trying to fathom the Stormchaser’s ability to foresee so many events thousands of years before they happe
ned. He found it easier to accept that only pieces of the puzzle had presented themselves to each successor. Why else would they have made no attempt to stop the terrible things which had come to pass? He had never been one to simply sit back and accept something as fated. If they were slaves to a predefined destiny, why bother acting upon anything, for any reason? He couldn’t accept that.
Like most things, reality probably fell somewhere in the middle. Perhaps the only thing clear to each successor was the need to protect and prepare the structure for the future. Raven’s spoken musings had the ring of truth to them, though. Certainly the child had intuition. Backed by the fire of youth, those instincts encouraged her to act rather than idly let the world move around her.
He contemplated the painting of his childhood self and saw the same fire there. Ah, but that child had had much less self control than Lady Raven. His had been a passion that turned to murderous rage. Had something similar caused a large number of elves to throw a shroud over the hearts and minds of the people of First Home? Surely, he didn’t have to shoulder the responsibility of that as well? Bad enough his actions had resulted in the schism that made possible the dark and depraved society of the Exiles. He didn’t think he could stand to find a second civil war had erupted in his name.
He blinked, realizing he had been staring for some time at the desk before him without really seeing anything. His eyes struggled to focus on what lay before him—a sealed envelope with his name on it—written in letters large enough, even someone as blind as he could read it. His real name.
Raven heard his gasp and came over from the bookshelf she perused. “What did you find?”
Before she could notice, he slid the letter beneath a pile of papers and quickly checked the rest of the items on the desk, hoping to find something to explain his shocked exclamation. What he saw nearly made him betray himself a second time. Instead, he recovered and grasped the sheathed sword lying upon an ebony stand on the desk. “This,” he said in unfeigned wonder.
He held it up for Raven to see, and then grasped it just behind the guard and pulled. With a soft click, it released, and W’rath drew the blade free a few inches, enough for Raven to see the shimmering wave pattern playing down the blade’s edge.
“Is that Umbral’s sword?” Raven gaped at the weapon, body practically vibrating in awe.
W’rath gave her a sharp look. “What did the books you studied say about his weapon?”
“There’s a certain amount of controversy about that, as you’ve probably guessed. The most popular hypothesis states it was more a toy than anything because his twisted legs and spine made it impossible for him to fight properly. Of course, after what we’ve seen today, it’s safe to say Umbral wouldn’t have had any trouble wielding a true sword. Of the stories stating Umbral had a proper weapon, and not a toy, the most common belief is the finest smith at the time, Amryth Earthfire, designed it especially for Umbral. He’s said to have taken into account the individual for every weapon he made. He wasn’t one to mass produce weapons. He would have custom made the sword to suit Umbral’s size, strength, fighting style, and even his use of psionics.
“Most First Born and Sky Elf blades have a slight curve. They take advantage of the fact those elves need a blade that disperses impact shock. The curved blade works well with their graceful, but powerful, sweeping strokes. Being small, and young, and in need of a quick kill, a straight blade, which he could quickly pull from its sheath, would have suited Umbral more.”
W’rath nodded, impressed, not so much with the scattered histories, as with Raven’s reasoning behind the type of sword the young Umbral would have used. He supposed he had to give at least some credit to Linden. As a First Born, he would have studied weapons. Despite his general ignorance of history, his life as a soldier would have required he know something about the tools of his profession.
He finished drawing the blade from the sheath, and as Raven had predicted, it gleamed between them, nearly straight, and definitely meant more for stabbing and quick slashes as compared to the blades of the larger elves.
“Amryth named the blade Shadow’s Edge. Some of the histories, the ones I’m starting to think of as more reliable, said that it’s so finely balanced, and so light, it allowed Umbral to wield it with such precision and speed that, when combined with his fighting style, made it possible for him to fell foes much larger and stronger than he. Supposedly, the edge is so keen, even magically imbued plate armor will part before it.”
She gasped, impressed as W’rath balanced the weapon on one finger. It seemed to float there light as a feather. “This last bit I hope isn’t true. The tale goes that Amryth considered Shadow’s Edge his single finest work. He killed himself after completing it, as he felt he had nothing left to aspire to.”
“That does sound like a bit of romanticized rubbish,” W’rath muttered. Much of what Raven had learned, while true, competed with so much fanciful fabrication, and out and out contradiction, it was no wonder no one could decide if Umbral had prowled the world as a talented assassin and spy, or skulked in his father’s shadow, a crippled, and angry demigod. Certainly, the tale about Amryth offing himself after creating Shadow’s Edge didn’t have any basis in fact. When W’rath still lived among his father’s people, Amryth had still breathed. As one of the few First Born to stand by him during those dark days, W’rath remembered him well. If something unpleasant had befallen the smith, W’rath suspected it had more to do with his father culling dissenters than some dramatic display on the part of a tortured artist.
W’rath rose and put the sword through a few quick slashes and smiled as Raven jumped at the keening sound it made. Amryth may have named it Shadow’s Edge, but the enemy in the field had often referred to it as Weeping Death. It still felt good in his hands. Despite the passage of time, the bond between he and the sword remained strong.
Raven touched the sword dragging from her hip and frowned. “Perhaps I should carry something more like Shadow’s Edge,” she said.
W’rath presented the straight sword to her, and with reverence she accepted it. Her eyes positively lit up at the chance to touch such a piece of history. She backed up and put herself through a set of practice moves. Frowning, she tried again. At last she handed the precious weapon back to W’rath, shaking her head. “It’s beautifully made, but it doesn’t feel at all right in my hands.”
W’rath slipped the blade back into its ebony sheath. “Amryth made it for someone much smaller than you, someone who fought much differently than a First Born. Linden was a First Born, so the part of you that is him knows no other way of fighting. Shadow’s Edge doesn’t suit you. In truth, Linden’s sword isn’t perfect for you either. We’ll need to see about having something custom made for you. For tonight, using the weapon your other half is most accustomed to will do.”
W’rath stuffed the sheathed Shadow’s Edge through his belt. “It’s like Amryth made it for you,” Raven said.
W’rath chuckled to hide his discomfort at her observation. “I would appreciate it if you would refrain from saying such things around the others. K’hul already hopes to find a good reason to have me dumped in the ocean.”
Raven laughed. “I doubt even he would claim to believe in reincarnation just to get rid of you.”
“If it suited his agenda he might choose to open his mind to such a possibility,” W’rath said, playing along. The turn in the conversation left him decidedly uncomfortable, though, so he was only too happy to find something by which to change the subject. “I say, what have we here?”
On the desk he reached for a small case and flipped it open. Something sparkled from within and he pulled it out, where it revealed itself as a delicate contraption made from shaped gold wire. Garnet red glass glittered in oval frames made from the wire. He eying it curiously, and showed the object to Raven, who clapped her hands in recognition. “Those are what I told you about on the ship—spectacles! Flip those little arms out. They go behind your ears and that little piece the
re sits on your nose.”
W’rath slid the glasses on per Raven’s instructions. The bridge felt best perched near the tip of his aquiline nose. He peered over the top of them at Raven. “Now what?”
“Here,” Raven said, excitedly. She dug into the bag she’d taken to carrying everywhere and fished out one of the books Lady Stormchaser had given her. “See if you can read this now.”
W’rath flipped it open and scanned the first page. Looking over the top of the spectacles the page still looked blank, but when he switched to peering through the deep red lenses, words suddenly jumped out at him. “Fascinating!” he said, truly impressed. He scanned down the page and flipped to another and another.
“So, can you read it?” Raven asked, impatiently. She practically hopped from foot to foot.
W’rath grinned at her youthful enthusiasm. “You have in your possession the original journal of Lady Uverial Stormchaser, my dear. True, unblemished history.
“Oh, my gods!” Raven practically squealed, in strange contrast to her muscular physique. She began pulling the other books from her satchel. “Look at these too.”
W’rath obliged her, cracking open the thicker of the two. Its red binding smelled of new leather, but he had no doubt that its origins stretched back thousands of years. “From Then to Now: The First 3,000 Years,” he read. “This would seem to be the original copy of Lady Stormchaser’s history of our people. I hold in my hands the very thing we discussed earlier—that which has been lost all this time allowing for the proliferation of false histories.”
“So not lost after all,” Raven said, “but hidden to keep it safe from those who would destroy it. It’s so thin, though.”
“W’rath laughed at Raven’s disappointment. “It contains more pages than are apparent. I expect you’ll find the same enchantment on the journal.”