by Chloe Hodge
Seeing Ashalea’s expression, the elf laughed. “Guyellon. A special drink brewed from the crystal waters here. It replenishes body and soul, renewing vitality.”
“It’s delicious, thank you.”
The elf smiled. “Good. We need you looking your best for the feast tonight. The King and Queen will be most eager to see you there.”
Ashalea shook her head. “I have nothing to wear and I haven’t bathed.”
“Don’t you worry my dear, we come well prepared.” She clapped her hands and another two servants lugged in a tub which they proceeded to fill with hot water and oils.
Then Ashalea was stripped of her clothes and ushered into the water, sighing with content as it rejuvenated her sore muscles. It lasted momentarily until the elves started scrubbing her skin and nails and lathered her hair until its silver shimmer was restored. It was bizarre to her, that one would be cleaned by another. She thought of what Shara said about the soaps before and grinned, hoping she was receiving the same treatment.
But up she was again, pulled this way and that as she was dried and rubbed with scented oil. Next came the hair, perfected into soft waves and crowned with a silver circlet. Her cheeks and lips were puffed with delicate pink powder from wildflowers.
The finishing touch was the dress. Silky and soft, the silver fabric shimmered in the nightlight and was detailed with tiny silver stars, hand carved from pearly shells. It cinched perfectly at the waist, showing off her curves.
Satisfied with their work, the elves pulled out a large mirror from their endless supplies. Ashalea glanced nervously to the one destroyed in the corner, but someone had already cleaned it up. The ladies giggled and held theirs up for her to see. A shaky breath escaped her lips, and she stared at the stranger in the glass. This person was elegant, poised, dare she say… beautiful.
Ashalea blinked and a strange feeling washed over her again. Who is this? Who am I? She thought about her parents again, and this time, the pain did come. Her eyes filled, and she quieted her mind until the moment passed. I wonder if my parents would be proud. I wonder what other life I may have led. She felt the cool night air raise the hairs on her arms and snapped back to the present.
The ladies were commenting on their creation but the attentive one gazed at her, concern etched into her face.
Ashalea smiled, and she meant it. “Your gifts know no bounds, ladies. Tenyir.” Thankyou.
They bowed happily and collected their things, leaving in a flurry as they spoke of the night’s festivities. As the last exited, Ondori popped his head round the open door and his eyes warmed.
“My lady, you look magnificent.”
Ashalea bowed gracefully, just as another woman floated in, catching her attention. Black hair fell in soft waves to her shoulders and brown skin shimmered. A midnight blue dress hugged her body, showing off her assets in good favour, and she grinned, bearing white teeth.
“Not bad eh?” Shara said with a small twirl.
“That doesn’t begin to describe it!” Ashalea replied, gazing at her friend in a dress.
My friend? It was a bizarre realisation. Yes, I think so. My friend, Shara Silvaren.
She positively beamed. It didn’t matter that this person could have killed her not so long ago. Or what she did for a day job. Or how snarky and smug, and self-conceited she could be. She had a friend her own age, who didn’t have a beard and complained of aches and pains every day.
There’s a first for everything.
Like her friend, the assassin, in a dress. She burst out laughing. The usual scowl crossed Shara’s face, and she folded her arms.
“Are you ready then?” She huffed and turned down the corridor, but she looked over her face and smiled devilishly. “You look beautiful,” she uttered the last with a mock bow. Compliments weren’t her strong suit, but that’s okay. Ashalea could work with that.
Ondori wasn’t sure what to make of the exchange so he hurried in front and led the pair to the festivities, which were underway in a large hall. Rows of tables lined the room, filled to the brim with exotic fruits, vegetables, cheeses, breads and wine. Lots of wine.
Elves danced further yonder, a kaleidoscope of rainbow hair and soft gowns fluttering like a butterfly upon a bloom. Music pulsed like a beating heart, and the room was ablaze with smiles and laughter that bounced off the walls. Ondori led them to the King and Queen, who stood arm in arm by the balcony. King Tiderion dismissed him and he left to enjoy the party with Kinna, both awarded a night off guard duties for their bravery.
The King smiled, and this time mirth reflected in his eyes. “We are pleased to see you here tonight,” he gestured at the room. “We prefer to celebrate death, rather than mourn it. That is to say, we celebrate the souls who have passed and bid them a safe journey to the Goddess’s keeping.”
Queen Rivarnar left her husband’s side and offered her arms to Ashalea and Shara, which they took graciously. “Come, let me show you how we party in Windarion,” she winked in glee.
The Queen took them around the hall for a time, introducing both women to dignitaries and scholars and finally to some common folk she held a special place in her heart for. She then bid they be seated at the royal table, and they ate, drank and exchanged tales like any common person would.
Ashalea was deep in conversation several hours later when she spied a tall, handsome elf gazing at her from across the room. His blue eyes penetrated hers so intensely, the hairs on her arms raised, and she made a point of avoiding his gaze. It became so intolerable her mouth began twitching with annoyance, so she grabbed Shara’s arm and pulled her onto the dance floor.
The pair had consumed several glasses of wine by now and tried their best to twirl, clap and stamp to the rhythm, and in between, Ashalea snuck a few peeks at the strange young man. He looked to be a few years older than her, although with elves it was often so hard to tell.
He remained steadfast in the corner, quietly watching, sipping his wine. His lips curved over the glass and his short, dark brown hair shifted slightly in the breeze. Something about him called to her. Luring her in. As she twirled around, she found herself searching for him, studying every curve of his face and the build of his body, and found herself blushing.
And, arrghh stop looking at me!
As if responding to her thoughts, he lifted his glass and gave a small salute, his lips curving into a smirk. Before she could frown back, he was overcome by a gaggle of young elf-maidens, giggling and swooning as they pulled at him this way and that.
Ashalea snorted with amusement. She left the dance, filled her cup with an unknown orange liquid and sought the night sky on the balcony, where Queen Rivarnar soon joined her in quiet contemplation. They both sipped their drink and Queen Rivanar raised a brow as Ashalea downed her cup. The contents were sweet and tasted like pineapples and guavas but had a sharp bite as it slid down the throat. A dangerous combination.
“What is this, anyway?” Ashalea hiccupped.
Queen Rivarnar laughed. “It’s an elvish concoction. The warm summers here allow us to grow the pineapples and guava. The juices go through a fermentation process before rum is added. The drink is called Parunu. But that’s not what you really want to ask, is it. You want to know who the male elf is in the corner.”
It wasn’t a question. Exasperated, Ashalea raised an eyebrow, and the Queen smiled.
“His name is Denavar Andaro. An elf mage, and a talented one too. He reports to the King, in between his studies at the nearby village of Renlock. He is well respected, very intelligent, and well-liked by the ladies.”
“I noticed.”
Rivarnar caught Ashalea’s unimpressed tone and laughed. “Though it seems tonight he tries to keep to himself, with eyes only for you.”
The breeze shifted and Ashalea looked to the stars, deciding to ignore this elf mage for the time being. She was too many drinks in to worry about his staring and was frankly too irritated by his mysteriousness to care right now.
She’d neve
r indulged in this much wine. Perhaps it made him seem more magical than he was. At any rate, she couldn’t tell if it were sickness in her stomach or a naïve attraction to the man. She sucked in the air and let her mind drifted to earlier conversations.
“Queen Rivarnar, how did you know I was the one who woke the dragon?”
The Queen sighed and rested her arms on the balcony edge. “I met the water dragon many moons ago, before Everosia knew evil or darkness. It was a time of great peace and many dragons of different breeds resided in these lands. But somehow, the darkness found its way here and brought with it treacherous and foul beings that desecrated our havens and murdered our people.
“The dragons, though they owed allegiance to no one, joined the elvish ranks, and a great battle took place. Many dragons were lost and after the battle was won, a pact was formed, thankfully in part to Wezlan Shadowbreaker. He helped them forge a new path in an unclaimed world, full of beauty, and freedom from the likes of men. Most dragons left, but a few remained, loyal to the creatures, the elves, and the natural beauties of this land.”
“So, the water dragon stayed to protect the lake?”
“Yes. He grew to love the elves in his own way and cares deeply for those that live within his waters. The dragon is old and has slept for some time. These days he prefers his own company, for the most part. Long ago, he told me a new day would come, when the song of battle would be sung. He said:
‘Darkness is dimmed when the light shines its brightest. Should flames falter, it will rise and rise again.’
“He also said he would wake with the coming of a new elf.”
‘A new moon to meet the madness, a mirror to match vengeance.’
“I didn’t know what he meant back then but I finally understand.”
Ashalea looked at the Queen and determination boiled in her belly. “What must I do?”
“Fight darkness with light, Ashalea. You are the heroine, born from vengeance. Find the darkness’ weaknesses, rewrite your story, or there’ll be no more stories to tell.”
A Meeting of Mages
Avari Ventiri glided across the chamber floor, his robes sweeping around him, his pockmarked face and balding head bobbing up and down as he addressed the court of mages. He was babbling away about matters of mage hierarchy, and from the looks of others in the room, not for the first time.
Wezlan disliked him already. The weasel liked to hear himself speak, and it was obvious he relished attention. He was four items into the agenda, with a long list of mages waiting to speak about various matters of Magicka state. Wezlan heard little; he was already sizing up the audience and categorising them into leaders and followers.
It seemed Ventiri was higher on the food chain than most others here. He was around forty years old, which, in terms of a mage’s life, was still young. Wezlan watched with open distaste as the weasel addressed the council like some glorified king. It was clear that he had appointed himself leader, and his agenda seemed more about making his life better than focusing on anything else. No one opposed his orders, and Wezlan was dumbstruck. How could the Academy have stooped to this level? How could someone like this be running Renlock? He surveyed the faces in the room. The other mages seated in the circular chamber were of similar age, bar a few old men who’d let the Academy slip into even slipperier fingers.
With the Divine Six, minus one very alive, and very irritated one, having passed away centuries ago, Wezlan was the last true wizard, and his attentions had been focused elsewhere, leaving the Academy of Renlock to fend for itself. The result of his transgression, however needed, was grim.
The Academy operated on a simple structure based on the individual talents of a Magicka user. Becoming a wizard was the highest honour one could receive at Renlock, and over the years less than a hundred men and women had achieved this success. As such, only wizards sat on the governing council of Renlock, and all missives and orders passed down through them.
Only a select few would govern the council, as it required extreme talent and years of practice to hone the skills and accumulate the wisdom needed to oversee the Academy.
Next in line came the mages. Still powerful but not so gifted as a wizard. The only way to surpass this rank was to prove one’s worthiness in an exam designed to test all five areas of Magicka; mastery of the elements, psychic ability, healing, portal travel, and the ability to mould darkness and light.
The council conducted the final Magicka test to investigate the balance of good and evil within one’s soul. Should there be too much darkness, the individual would forfeit, and be exempt from trying again.
Scores of mages had failed the combined tests, but only one had attempted whose heart bled pure ash. Such promise, such potential; it blinded the Divine until their creation blossomed into something too powerful, too… inhuman.
Wezlan remembered in perfect detail the rage that emanated from the student when he was told, “you failed”. His pores had oozed hatred. And thus, the darkness was born. The wizards’ reckless abandon for power, and the chance at a leader above all others had been their undoing, and their rejection had unleashed something inexplicable.
Wezlan sighed, and a snarky voice sliced through his thoughts. “Are we interrupting something?” Ventiri was standing over him, his thin lips smirking from underneath a hooked nose.
Wezlan looked at him with open distaste. “The only thing you’re interrupting with your idiotic agendas is my precious time.”
The other councillors inhaled and a few of them blinked, unsure if they’d heard correctly.
Wezlan continued. “We are on the brink of war and you stand here discussing politics while scheming the niceties of advancing your position.” He snorted. “Mage hierarchy? You’re not equipped to wipe your own ass, what with the number of people you’ve got lining up to kiss it.” He shook his head, rose, and circled the room, looking hard at the men and women seated around it.
“Too long have the councillors of this chamber sat idle and unknowing to the outside world. We are the first and final ties to Magicka. Our duties are not to be squandered over but are to be treated with respect and care. Renlock stands over a wellspring of energy. It is a gift from the Gods and Goddesses themselves, so I want you to remember why we are here. Remember how blessed we are to train in these halls, and to protect this sacred site. Were there any wizards left; you would be reminded of this daily. As it is, there are none but me.”
Avari Ventiri looked like a scolded child or a wounded dog. He opened his mouth to retort, but at Wezlan’s expression, thought better of it.
Another councillor, with long, mousey hair and wide, doe eyes spoke up bravely. “But you were gone. You abandoned the Academy.”
The other councillors were nodding and agreeing in hushed tones.
“You left the Academy leaderless and in disarray after the disappearance of the wizards. There was no one left to run the factions or conduct the examinations,” one of the elderlies said.
A valid point and not exactly untrue.
At Renlock Academy, the building was split into five levels according to the five Magicka. Healers were appointed the first floor, psychic and dimensional users on the second floor and elemental users on the third floor. There was no level dedicated to darkness and light due to the limited number of users who succeeded in mastering those arts.
Each of these floors contained lecture rooms for classes, sparring rooms for combat and Magicka training, dorm rooms, and the occasional chamber for reading or leisurely activity.
The fourth floor held common rooms, a giant library lined from floor to ceiling with books and scrolls, and the kitchens and dining room. The fifth and final floor, bar the upper watchtowers, held the council chamber, examination rooms and the wizard’s dorms, of which all but one was empty.
After the Divine Six fell, Wezlan could not return to Renlock. The pain of losing the Divine cut too deep, and the importance of preparing the Guardians of the Grove was too high. He had shirked his duti
es at the Academy, and this was his price to pay. More mages voiced their opinions, and he sat quietly, taking every insult, accepting every argument.
“You are no longer fit to lead Renlock,” said one.
“Wizard or not, your first and foremost duties lie with the mages,” cried another.
Others rebutted, saying the burdens of a wizard extend well beyond their council of mages. The cacophony continued for some time, until finally all mages returned to their seats, and stared inquisitively at the old wizard, waiting for him to speak.
He raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. “My friends, you are right. After the Divine Six fell, I did abandon the Academy. I did shirk my duties as councillor and examiner, and for that you have my sincerest apologies. What you don’t know, is why I never came back, and believe me, it was a necessary measure.”
A few complaints began to surface around the room, but he lifted his hands again, placating them.
“You have all read the history of the Battle of Two Worlds?”
Heads nodded around the room.
“Good. Then you will know that an agreement was forged between all races of the realm, and the Guardians of the Grove were established. These great men, women, and beast, have been keeping a close vigil over the portal leading to other worlds, as have I. Over the centuries, death has taken several, and it now falls to me and a few others to re-establish a new order of Guardians. Though it saddened me to leave the Academy without guidance, this mission was of the upmost urgency.”
He sighed, running a hand through his white beard. His body ached frequently these days, and he was tired, so very tired. He straightened his back and continued the story.
“Three years ago, the darkness reappeared on the border of the Woodland Province, murdering a husband and wife, and almost successfully taking the life of a third. A young she-elf. I took her under my wing, teaching her, guiding her, until she was ready to begin her quest.”
“Which is?” Ventiri asked snidely, though quickly shrivelling in response to Wezlan’s icy glare.