The Elven Apostate

by Sara C. Roethle

  Phaerille came down on her knees beside her, seeming healthy and content, perfectly fine from eating the meat. “Perhaps cooling down at the oasis would ease your pain.”

  Saida shook her head. The Makali would surely all be at the oasis, observing how it had grown and flourished overnight. She pressed her hands over her stomach, terrified to face them. Would they view her as savior, or witch? Neither option was comforting, or true.

  Phaerille frowned. “I wish there was something I could do for you.”

  She winced against another sharp pain. “Do you wish that as one friend to another, or because you believe I am what Malon portrays me to be?” She didn’t mean the words to sound harsh, but she was sweating and annoyed. She wanted out of this cursed tent, but there was nowhere else to go.

  Phaerille silenced, looking down at her hands in her lap.

  “I apologize,” Saida groaned. “I did not mean to snap at you. I’ve never experienced pain like this in my life.”

  Phaerille lifted her worried gaze. “Perhaps it is not the meat. Something more serious might be wrong. I have no training as a healer, but you seem quite ill.”

  The pain cut through her, intensifying. She slumped over on the rug and curled herself in a little ball.

  Phaerille hurried to her side, then knelt, placing her palm upon Saida’s brow. “You’re burning up, it’s more than just the desert heat. I’ll see if the Makali have a healer.”

  She gripped Phaerille’s wrist before she could rise. “No! Do not tell the Makali I am ill. Find Malon. Please.” Her eyes snapped shut, anything else she might have said drowned out by the pain.

  The light seeping through her closed eyelids shifted as Phaerille left the tent, then went dark as she closed the flap behind her.

  She groaned, left alone in the dark, unable to defend herself if Urali came to kill her. Or maybe she’d done her work more subtly through poison, and this pain was her body slowly dying, for it surely felt that way.

  She wasn’t sure how much time passed before she sensed a new presence at her side.

  “Saida?” Malon’s voice. “How long have you been like this?”

  The pain had spread from her stomach to her head. She opened her eyes to mere slits. “It started this morning, but has only grown worse.” She inhaled sharply, reeling against sudden nausea.

  His cool hand rested on her brow, then pulled away. “I do not believe this to be from the food.”

  She heard him shuffling through a bag, then cool metal slid across her brow. Whispers exploded through her mind, frantic, like when she’d first met Urali.

  “Take it off!” she rasped. “They’re too loud!”

  He removed the circlet, but the whispers continued. Her trembling hand shot to one ear, the other buried against her pillow.

  “This is definitely not from the food,” he muttered, rolling her onto her back though her body protested the movement.

  Sweat seeped from her pores, coating her clammy skin and eliciting chills despite the oppressive heat.

  “What’s happening to her?” Phaerille’s voice cut through the whispers.

  Saida hadn’t realized she was in the tent.

  “I think it’s a curse,” he explained. “There is a dark residue on her spirit.”

  What in the gods was he talking about? Her thoughts were unable to compete with the whispers. She could not make out what they were saying, only that they were frantic and frightened.

  “Saida,” Malon said evenly. “I’m going to place the circlet in your hand. You must grip onto it no matter how loud it gets. I’ll need your help to cure you.”

  “You know how to cure her?” Phaerille asked, her voice seeming to call out from the other side of a great abyss.

  “No,” Malon said, his voice closer, but somehow just as distant. “I know little of curses. I think she’s going to have to force it out herself.”

  The pain had dulled, or else it was just her mind shutting it away. She couldn’t move, think, nor breathe. The cool weight of the circlet landed in her outstretched palm and moonlight shot through her. Her fingers flexed, gripping the metal, the only remaining thing that felt real.

  She hadn’t heard Malon move to her other side, but he now gripped her free hand. She knew it was him the moment moonlight was met with sun. A fist closed around her heart, dark pain shutting out the light.

  Her body shot upright as she struggled for breath, but her eyes wouldn’t open. She was sure her heart no longer beat.

  “Fight it, Saida. Draw on my magic.”

  She focused on his words, and on the feeling of sunlight stemming from his hand joined with hers, but the light ebbed. The world went pitch black. She was no longer in the tent with Phaerille and Malon, no longer in the tent at all. She was on her feet, walking through a land of unending darkness, with no way in or out.

  * * *

  She seemed to walk through the darkness for hours, frightened and entirely alone, but also grateful the pain was gone. She’d been cut off from Malon’s magic, and with it, the only chance of her survival.

  The darkness wasn’t all bad though. At least here, nothing hurt. She no longer felt her physical pain, nor the deep aching brought on by her mother’s death. She hadn’t realized just how much it hurt until it was gone.

  Perhaps she’d be able to join her mother soon, maybe at the end of this dark place . . . if it ever ended.

  “Saida,” a voice slithered through her mind, dark and sticky like sap. “Rest now, Saida.”

  Her feet grew heavy, her bones weary. Rest. Yes, rest sounded just right. She sat on the ground, though it wasn’t earth nor anything else corporeal, just pure darkness.

  Now that she wasn’t moving, she actually began to think. Where was she, and where was Malon? Her mother may wait at the end of this, but what of her father?

  “Rest, Saida. It is time for sleep.”

  A haze set in around her. The air grew thick with smoky vapor. She had no choice but to inhale it, and she was so very tired. Distantly, she recognized that something was in her hand—the circlet!—but when she tried to focus on it, it seemed like it wasn’t really there. Nothing was really here in this place of darkness.

  She blinked rapidly, pulling out of her daze at the thought of the circlet, and beyond that, her father. He was still alive, and in danger. If she did not face Egrin before the full moon, he would die.

  Her breath caught, then stuck. Thick sludge blocked her airway. She lifted a hand and clawed at the agony in her throat. Something massive grew out of her, like a slimy tree root sprouting from her insides. She tried to cough, gagged, then a viscous snake of darkness climbed upward, filling her mouth.

  She fell forward onto all fours, heaving with what little air she could draw through her nose. Her father. Elmerah. Alluin. They would all be left unprotected. They could not defeat Egrin on their own, but with the circlets, with the power she and Malon possessed, they stood a chance.

  She gagged as the thick sludge surged out of her mouth in a violent current, splattering onto the darkness beneath her palms. It speckled her skin with moist globules. Every part of her body wanted to give in and die, but she continued to choke and heave. Her father. Elmerah. Alluin. The rest of the Faerune and Valeroot elves. Merwyn. Even Rissine.

  She gave one last mighty heave with the remainder of her strength, and the rest of the sludge left her, solid enough to form a shape like a giant slug. It landed with a heavy, moist thunk onto the ground, just as the darkness faded away.

  She was no longer trapped in that dark space, she was in the tent on all fours, the circlet gripped in her fingers, and Malon’s hand upon her back. Beneath her, the carpet was covered with a black viscous puddle.

  She trembled, taking shallow breaths, not yet able to move. She could feel the liquid around her mouth and on her face. “What was that?” she rasped.

  She spotted Phaerille out of the corner of her eye, her back pressed against the tent wall.

  Malon gripped her shoulders
, helping her to sit away from the puddle. “You were cursed, Saida.”

  “By whom?” she panted.

  “I cannot be sure, but I intend to find out.”

  She could find no more words. All she could do was sit and relearn how to breathe. The circlet was still in her hand, silent now, though faintly pulsing with power.

  She wasn’t sure if she’d fought off the curse alone, or if the gods had aided her, but she would not let this gift go to waste. Her family and friends were in danger. If she could beat a curse, she could beat a demon. Any other ends were simply not an option.

  Isara

  Isara and Celen hadn’t made it far in Elmerah’s direction before spotting several Dreilore searching the woods. Luckily Celen had seen them first, and their retreat was drowned out by a rushing stream. They now hid under a small crag, their bootprints obscured with Celen’s magic.

  Isara pressed her back against the rough stone. Celen, in the same position at her side, didn’t seem worried, but she was beginning to realize Celen never seemed worried. He strolled through life like nothing could touch him, even when Dreilore swarmed the forest around him.

  She stifled a scream as someone darted out from behind a tree, realizing just in time that it was Alluin. Clutching his bow in one hand, he leaned his back against the crag, scanning what they could see of the forest ahead while Isara balked at him.

  “What are you doing here?” Celen whispered over Isara’s head. She would have almost enjoyed the shock in his voice if they weren’t in immediate peril.

  Alluin’s gaze remained outward. “Elmerah was worried about you, rightly so, it seems. We cannot lead these Dreilore back to her.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Celen whispered. “We were hoping to wait them out.”

  Alluin shook his head, tossing rich brown strands over his shoulder. “Not likely, I saw Daemon Saredoth waiting near the village. This is no simple hunt for the Dreilore. They will not return without their quarry.”

  Isara made herself small as Celen leaned closer to speak to Alluin, not seeming to notice he was squishing her, overwhelming her senses with smells of sweat and forest. “Speaking of hunting, how did you find us? I covered our tracks.”

  “Yes,” Alluin said somewhat caustically. “Too well. One need only look for twigs broken from passing, and grass trampled, but with no tracks in the earth to match.”

  Isara turned to see Celen wince. “Fair point. I’m not used to being tracked on land.”

  Hushed voices thick with the accent of the Akenyth Province grew near, then faded. It seemed the Dreilore weren’t quite as perceptive as Alluin. Even so, she did not doubt their ability to eventually find them. Then Alluin and Celen would be killed.

  She couldn’t let that happen. “I should surrender. If they locate me, they’ll end the search, and you can safely return to Elmerah.”

  “Absolutely not,” Celen and Alluin whispered in unison.

  Voices grew near again, then faded.

  “They’re circling us.” Alluin’s words were barely audible. “Starting wide then working their way in. A few more passes and they’ll be upon us.”

  Her mind raced. She was running out of time. If Daemon was at the village, the Dreilore most likely had been ordered to take her prisoner. If she was going to be taken prisoner either way, she’d rather be the only one involved in the conflict.

  Celen and Alluin were both looking out at the woods. Just a few more passes, Alluin had said. She couldn’t let time run out. Not wanting to give away her intentions, she didn’t so much as inhale. She wrapped her magic around Celen so he could not raise the earth at her feet, kicked Alluin in the shin, then ran.

  Twigs snagged at her curls and scratched her face, but she pressed forward almost blindly, focusing her will on disabling Celen. If Daemon was waiting at the village, the Dreilore would bring her right to him. He might be the closest ally of a demon, but he would never harm her.

  She heard Dreilore voices and veered toward them, hoping they wouldn’t react on instinct and cut her down. She hated to do this to Celen and Alluin, knowing they’d feel guilty, but Elmerah would understand the practicality of her choice and her intention therein. Once Elmerah faced Egrin, she’d have an ally waiting to assist her in taking him down.

  * * *

  Alluin

  Alluin tugged against Celen’s grasp on his arm, wanting to go after Isara, but the man was built like a boulder and had a grip like a blacksmith’s vice. “We have to go after her!” he hissed.

  Celen gave Alluin’s arm a yank, slamming his shoulder against the crag. “She disabled my magic as she ran. She does not want us to follow.”

  In that moment, Alluin didn’t have a care for what Isara wanted. “They’ll take her to Egrin,” he growled.

  “And there she will wait to assist us when the time comes. We won’t let him keep her.”

  Alluin stopped struggling. Celen was right, and Isara was already gone. He could no longer hear her footsteps, and the Dreilore would not have been hard for her to find.

  “We will not squander her bravery,” Celen lowered his voice. “We will wait here while the Dreilore leave the woods, then we’ll go back to Elmerah. We will continue on as planned. Isara will be fine.”

  Alluin exhaled, then willfully pressed his back against the crag. “Elmerah awaits us with a young Nokken named Killian. He claims to know you.”

  Too tall for the space, Celen hunched his back where the crag jutted forward. The position didn’t seem comfortable, but was at least concealing. “You cannot be serious. Killian?”

  Alluin sucked his teeth, annoyed with all of it, and worried for Isara. “Is he a threat?”

  “Killian wouldn’t hurt a fly, unless it was with his own stupidity. Why did he follow?”

  “He seemed to think you were fleeing the war. He hoped you had a safe place in mind, and he could come with you.”

  Celen buried his face in his hands and shook his head. “That sounds about right, and you left him with Elmerah?” He lowered his hands to look at Alluin.

  He nodded.

  “Oh good gods, she’ll eat him alive.”

  Celen’s distress almost made him smile. Almost. Any mirth he might have found was lost in thoughts of Isara being marched out of the woods by Dreilore to a brother she trusted far more than she should. He hoped she’d be kept alive, but there was absolutely no guarantee.

  * * *

  Isara

  The first Dreilore Isara found were a male and female pair, and they were not happy to see her. Or at least that’s how it seemed. Maybe the Dreilore were never happy. They were too busy being terrifying.

  The pair had taken one look at her as she rushed toward them, then each drew glowing blades, one green, one blue. Isara couldn’t have guessed what the blades were enchanted to do, though she knew she could easily disable their magic if need be.

  . . . Which would do her little good now, as they marched her out of the forest with blades occasionally poking into her back.

  They’d come across six other Dreilore as they walked, all male, who upon seeing them, moved on ahead. It seemed only two of them were needed to nudge along a weakling like her. She was right to assume the Dreilore would have found her no matter what. They worked in methodical circles, it seemed, a well-planned maneuver which enabled them to comb the woods with a small party, and to check in with each other periodically.

  At least, that was the conclusion Isara had reached, and she’d had a long, nerve-wracking walk to reach it.

  The sight of intense sunlight at the edge of the forest was almost a relief. At least once they reached Daemon, she’d no longer have blades poking into her back.

  They exited the trees into the meadow she and Celen had run across earlier. Eleven more Dreilore were waiting on the southern end of the road with Daemon, his blond hair the only way she was able to distinguish him at the distance. That meant eight Dreilore had gone into the woods, while five waited near the village.

  S
he shook her head as she walked. Stupid, she thought. I’m so stupid. Observing the Dreilore’s tactics would do her no good now.

  Spotting her, the party moved their way, Daemon in the lead. He looked just as pompous as ever, perhaps more so than she remembered. The red velvet pantaloons were almost as garish as the brocade tunic.

  He tossed his pin-straight hair behind his back as he reached her. She was probably one of the only people left alive who knew that he straightened it with a hot iron every night. Naturally, it was as curly as hers. He’d flee like a damsel anytime the sky looked like it might rain and wet his perfect locks.

  He looked her up and down, taking in her simple, though finely made tunic and dirty blue cloak. “Sister, poverty does not become you.”

  She gave him a similar assessing look. “Some things are more important than jewels upon your fingers.”

  His eyes widened at her tone. “You’ve grown a sharp tongue, Isara. If I were you, I’d whittle it down before we reach our cousin.”

  She was surprised he was still referring to Egrin as their cousin. Didn’t he realize Egrin had been alive for centuries, not born to their father’s long-dead brother as they’d thought?

  Daemon lifted a hand over his shoulder and snapped his fingers. “Bind her hands, then fetch the horses.”

  She glanced past him to the waiting Dreilore, who seemed void of intention to obey Daemon’s order. She hadn’t seen any horses before, and they did not seem like they were going to fetch them regardless.

  Daemon glanced over his shoulder, then sighed. “Cursed Dreilore.” He grabbed her arm. “The horses are back with the rest of the contingent. We didn’t want to startle the villagers, only for you to escape in the chaos.”