by Sean Hinn
Nishali lowered her gaze, leaving it at that.
“Three things were learned from that meeting. First, the Kingdom of Mor is vulnerable from within, and Halsen’s hold on the throne is perhaps quite tenuous. Second, that while he sits the throne, he does not wish to use these latest portents as an excuse to make war upon us, despite his hatred of the elven people.”
“The Society sensed as much, on both counts, my lady,” said Pheonaris. “It is a great relief to have the second belief confirmed.” All nodded, with the exception of Nishali.
“Indeed, it is a great relief, Pheonaris. Though the third revelation is most troubling. It would appear that the disturbances we are experiencing are also well known to the king, as well as his wizards and sages.”
This sobered the room, as all were mindful of what that truth foretold.
“Does this confirm anything with certainty, my queen?” asked Margris. “We still cannot know that these signs all point to any particular doom, can we?” Margris was the most psychologically delicate of all assembled, her gentle, methodical nature rejecting the very idea that her world could be overturned by forces unseen.
“Nothing is ever known, dear Margris,” this gently from Neral. “But much has been observed, and we cannot afford to be optimistic when so much is at risk. Nishali, would you share with us what you have witnessed this past cycle?” asked the queen. Evanti did not expect new details from the ranger, but sensed that she felt an overwhelming need to speak.
“My queen, it is as I have stated. The very land itself is gasping, and the creatures of the wood flee in anxiety, yet they do not know where to run. The Pinestroke bed is as deep as one’s shins with needles, the Trine yellows, and we Rangers are stretched to our limits in addressing the fires that seem to come from everywhere.”
“Can you explain ‘everywhere’, Nishali? Do you mean from the ground itself?” this from Malkren, the treasurer.
“Not only the ground, Malkren. Some fires seem to start in the soil, yes, but others…” Nishali paused, her eyes falling to the table.
“Go on, Nishali,” prodded the queen.
“Lady, some of the fires...they seem to be igniting from within the trees themselves, from their very roots, and in some cases, their trunks! It hurts them, my queen, I sense it…it is so difficult to witness, and we can do little to help, for by the time we are aware that one is burning, its life is nearly spent! It is a horror, akin to the saws and hatchets of the damned humans–”
“Peace, Nishali,” soothed the queen. “Our brethren have not yet learned how to balance their industrial needs with those of the land, and they do not hear as we hear. They cannot be hated for their ignorance–”
“It is not a matter of hate, my queen! It is a matter of witnessing this suffering and being instructed to remain idle!” The heated elf stood then, tears welling in her green eyes. “Lady, I would ask for a moment.”
“Of course, Nishali. Please return as soon as you are able.”
“Thank you, Lady,” she replied icily, long strides removing her from the council.
The elves sat silently for a moment, no one wishing to be the first to speak. Pheonaris broke the stillness.
“To be a Ranger of the Wood is a burden none of us should envy,” the strikingly beautiful Mistress began. “Nishali must patrol the boundaries of our kingdom, witnessing the abuses of man, dwarf, and gnome, with a soul more keenly attuned to their impact on the life of the land than any of us.”
Pheonaris settled her eyes upon Queen Evanti. “I see judgment in your eyes, my queen. Or perhaps wounded sensibilities at Nishali’s outburst. You must not allow those feelings to take root, Lady, for they are of the self, and they disregard the sacrifice of Nishali and her Rangers.” She glanced at Kender, who saw his word as Justice was required.
“The Mistress of the Society speaks justly, my queen.”
Only Pheonaris could speak to the queen so, or rather, only Pheonaris would. As Mistress of the Grove, her chief responsibility was to serve as a reminder to the conscience of the elven people, for her very life was dedicated to existence as a conduit to the will and wisdom of the First Father. While true that in council, no words spoken could be punished, it was not the accepted place of any but Pheonaris to chastise the elven queen. The confirmation from Kender made it clear that it was not only the empathic priestess who sensed the queen’s feelings.
Queen Evanti bowed her head for a moment, and appeared to be in prayer. After a turn or so passed, she spoke again.
“You guide me, Mistress Pheonaris, and for that I thank you.”
Nishali returned to the room at that moment, and the queen rose, as did all at her cue, including Neral. Nishali returned to her place at the table, guarded, conscious that all eyes were on her, readying herself to defend her statements, if need be.
The queen bowed deeply at the waist to Nishali. “Your sacrifice is great, Ranger. Nü glahr ni.”
The council repeated the homage. “Nü glahr ni,” they spoke as one.
Nishali did not soften at this, for her pain was not lessened, but she returned the bow with sincere humility, knowing that the rare grace she had just received was equally sincere. The council returned to their seats, and Queen Evanti directed her attention to General Tobias and Captain Mikallis.
“We have not heard from the brave elves of the Citadel, nor the Sword of Thornwood.”
Mikallis shifted nervously in his seat, and glanced at the general, who returned the young elf’s gaze.
“My lady,” replied Mikallis, “it is not for me to opine on such matters. The Citadel shall do as instructed, as always.”
The general nodded his agreement, and approval. “As will the Sword, my queen. The mysteries of such omens are beyond the experience of elves of the soldiery.”
At this the queen nodded to Neral, for the time for his voice had arrived.
“My brothers and sisters, there is much you do not know,” began Neral soberly, “and I regret that it falls upon me to enlighten you. There are things you must discover now, and I caution you to steady yourselves, for the truth is grave indeed.”
XI: G’NAATH
Notwithstanding Thinsel’s declaration of family bravery, the tears fell continuously in the Greykin household throughout the rest of the day. For the first time in many, many seasons, Shyla did not look to escape to her crevasse that night, but rather fell into a restless slumber, interrupted by nightmares and an overwhelming sense of melancholy. She awoke the next morning, unrestored, in plenty of time to make the kitchens.
Yet there would be no work for her today, would there? The day before, her matron of the kitchens, Merne, came calling to generously inform Shyla that she would be free to do as she pleased during her remaining two days in G’naath. Merne never had the chance to apologize to Shyla, however, which she sincerely intended to do, for Thinsel begin flinging kitchen implements at her well before she could get the words out. Only when the irate mother ran out of spoons and pots, and reached for her carving knife, did Merne finally leave, more than one angry welt rising from her head.
Shyla sat on the side of her cot with her tiny head in her tiny hands, feeling the pangs of the first sobs begin to well within her, when her mother slid open her curtain.
“I knew yeh wouldn’t be sleepin’, child. Come along’n have breakfast with yer Mama and Papa.”
“Yes Mama, just let me get dressed.”
“Don’t dally dear, I made yeh sommin’ special.” Her mother left her candle in Shyla’s hollow to help her prepare for the day.
Shyla looked around and saw that she had no clothes about besides a pair of leggings and a tunic, laid neatly at the foot of her bed. Her Mama had clearly come and collected the rest in the middle of the night, no doubt washing them. Oh Mama, how will I survive without yeh?
She dressed quickly and made her way to her parent’s nook, drawn by the scents of fresh bread, tea and…something else? Her father smiled at her as she sat down at the table, an
d passed her a towel-covered basket.
“What is it Papa?”
“Open ‘er up, girl,” he nodded to the basket, still smiling.
She pulled the towel open to see a whole steaming applecake, her very most favorite thing in the entire world to eat.
“But Papa, how did yeh–”, she tried to ask, with an open-mouthed grin, for fruit of any kind was the rarest of things in G’naath.
“Quit with the questions girl, and fill that gapin’ maw o’ yours with some cake afore I eat it meself.”
“Here Papa, have some, you too Mama–”
“Listen to your Papa, girl, don’cha worry, we done already had a share.”
Shyla knew this was a lie to beat all lies, but she also knew better than to say so. She greedily dug into the cake with abandon, for despite her desire to be generous, it was applecake for Tahr’s sake!
They enjoyed their breakfast together more than what was reasonable, given the circumstances, Papa again recounting the tale of her mother’s hurled kitchen missiles from the day before, the three laughing hysterically and mocking the two-faced Merne, who had filed many of the original reports against Shyla.
When the silliness died down, it was Shyla who spoke first. “Ah, but we can’t fault her Papa, t’was me own foolishness that made ‘er report me. T’was her duty is all. I ain’t mad at ‘er.”
“Fault or no, child, it sure felt good to see her wet ‘erself when I grabbed fer that carver!” The three laughed uproariously again, for indeed, when Thinsel had reached for the carving knife, the gnome had in fact wet her skirts, and Thinsel had made Oort swear, on pain of no supper, that he would make sure the whole cavern knew about it before the day was out.
The horns sounded down the tunnels then, a single blast passed from one end of the G’naath to the other signaling the start of a new day. The horns Shyla had so often slept through these past seasons. Her smile nearly collapsed then, until her mother rapped her in the behind with her spoon.
“Hey! What was that for, Mama!”
“Fer good measure, girl. I won’t be gettin’ ta whack ya for eight more seasons, and yer usually in need o’ at least a few per cycle!”
Shyla smiled at this, knowing her Mama was just trying to keep her from feeling sorry for herself. She decided then to do her best to stay upbeat, but a heavy question was weighing on her mind, and it was time to ask it aloud.
“Papa?”
“Yes, Nugget?”
“Do ya think I’ll make it?”
Silence.
“The eight seasons, I mean?”
No one spoke for a few moments, then Oort stood. “It’s time to go see Cindra, child.”
“Oort.” Thinsel eyed her husband. He nodded and took Shyla by the shoulders, looking into her round, pink eyes.
“Shyla, me dear sweet Nugget, ye’ll make it. Of that I be sure as stone.”
“Truly, Papa?”
“Truly, Nugget. On me life, I know it to be true.”
“But how can yeh know, Papa?”
“As I told yeh, child, ‘tis time to go see Cindra.”
---
Oort stopped in the center of a tunnel just as the second horn blast sounded, two blows in rapid succession, signaling the beginning of the first work shift of the day. Shyla stopped beside him.
“Do yeh need t’work today Papa? Will they not let yeh stay with me for me final two days?”
“No, child, I ain’t gonna be workin’ t’day nor t’marra.”
“Oh. Well, why’re we stoppin’ then?”
Oort looked around, unsure.
“The lady asked that yeh come alone, girl. I’ll be headin’ back to yer Ma now. Yeh come right back when yer finished, yeh hear?”
“Uh, yes Papa, but how do I git to the lady from ‘ere?”
“You’re already here, child,” Cindra Sandshingle announced from behind them, startling them both considerably. “Come, girl, come sit with an old lady fer a bit.” She reached out for Shyla’s hand, the girl pulling away, looking at her father.
“’Tis alright, Nugget. Don’t yeh be fearin’ the lady.”
Shyla allowed Cindra to grasp her hand then, her father already making his way back down the tunnels.
“Quickly now dear, we won’t be wantin’ a line at old Cindra’s door.” She gently pulled the young gnome into the waiting door, closing it behind them and shuffling to her seat at the table.
“Tis a grand day, is it not?” asked Cindra, her smile warm and inviting, yet Shyla’s jaw was firmly set. She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to appear menacing, but only eliciting a warmer smile from the elderly gnome.
“Ah, yer afraid I’m gonna spell yeh, is that it child?”
“I ain’t afraid,” said Shyla defiantly.
“Did I not already tell yeh child? Do not dissemble now, for I’ll know when yeh do. Though, the truth be plain on yer face. Ye’re scared as a stuck tunneler, yeh are.”
Shyla could not lie to the lady, but nor did she plan to be submissive. “Yeh made a fool o’ me yesterday, me lady, and I ain’t meanin’ to be nasty, but I ain’t pleased none about it, neither.”
Cindra sat back, crossing her own arms now. “I made a fool o’ yeh, did I? Tell me child, how’d I manage that?”
“You cast a spell on me to make me spill me guts, Lady, and yeh know yeh did!”
“Yer guts, yeh say. Ye’re meanin’ that I made yeh speak the truth?”
“Yup.”
“Hmm,” replied Cindra, “and ye’re angry at me fer it?”
“Yup.”
“And yeh think I made a fool o’ yeh then?”
“Yup.” Shyla was prepared to ‘yup’ at the old lady until the guards of G’naath dragged her out into the daylight.
“Seems to me, Shyla, that the truth made a fool o’ yeh, not me spell.”
Shyla frowned at this.
“Yup,” continued Cindra, nodding mockingly, but not unkindly.
The two gnomes stared at each other then for a long while. Finally Cindra spoke again. “Yeh can stand there lookin’ at me f’rever, Shyla, or yeh can sit with me and we can git to figurin’ out how to save yer skin. Now which way will yeh have it? Me eyes get dry when I be starin’ so hard.”
Shyla did not want to relent her gaze, but she knew that this Lady before her was not her enemy, no matter the pronouncement of justice she asserted the day before. She let her arms fall to her side, and took a seat before the table, feeling both as if she had lost some battle that she desperately needed to win, and believing herself a fool for battling with the old gnome to begin with.
“I’m sorry, me lady, I’m just angry is all, I don’t wanna leave, and yer the one who said I’ll be needin’ t’go–”
“I asked yeh not to lie to me, girl. I’ll not ask again.”
Shyla looked up, confused.
“Don’t look at me, girl, yer the one that wants t’be leavin’.”
“Wait, wha–”
“Not a third time, child, or we’ll be done here, sure as stone.”
Shyla stopped, heeding the lady’s warning, and closed her eyes, taking inventory of her heart, knowing in the space of a beat that the lady was not only right, but that there was an unacknowledged part of herself that was in fact overjoyed at the prospect of leaving G’naath.
Cindra leaned in a bit, her voice taking on a new timbre. “What am I thinking, Shyla? Right now, what am I thinking?”
“That I’m a fool and no doubt, me lady.”
“Don’t guess, Shyla. Tell me. Tell me what I am thinking.”
Shyla cocked her head at Cindra, noticing for the first time the ruby-red irises of her eyes, not very unlike the pink color of her own. She felt something inside her…a tickle? Something…odd, yet not unpleasant, and the lady spoke again, as Shyla noticed her accent had changed somehow, becoming more…well, less gnomish.
“Tell me, Shyla. Tell me what I am thinking, at this very moment,” more softly this time.
“M
y lady, yeh be talkin’ strange.”
“Ah, yup. Would yeh prefer I be talkin’ like this here, for yer ears t’be made happy?” Cindra beamed now.
That tickle again…and Shyla knew. She knew precisely what Cindra Sandshingle was thinking at that very moment, and the realization shocked her.
“Yeh’re thinking that yeh love me, Lady, and that yeh’re proud of me.”
Cindra smiled then, a smile not unlike her Mama’s smile.
“Why, Lady? Why do yeh love me? Yeh don’t know me from–”
“Peace, child, I know you are confused, and with good cause. I will explain all to you. But first, a question. Do you believe that I enchanted you, allowing you to read my mind just now? Think now, do not answer without consideration.”
Shyla withdrew into herself and replayed the past few moments, allowing her memory to come to rest on the instant that she recognized Lady Cindra’s feelings…
“No, Lady. I do not think yeh spelled me.”
“No? Are you certain?”
A slight hesitation, then, “Certain.”
“Hmm,” the lady leaned back to an upright position. “Then how, my dear, was it accomplished?”
Cautiously, but with confidence, Shyla replied. “I did it, Lady.”
“You did what, child?”
“I read your mind.” Mawbottom, but I did, did I not?
“And how, my dear, did you do that? Think now, Shyla.”
Shyla thought. And knew. Her eyes widened and her pupils dilated as the truth dawned within her.
“I…I think I’ve always known how to be doin’ it, me lady! I just…oh Lady, how could I notta known I could do that?”
Cindra laughed musically, gleefully. She stood and clapped her hands together, and began to dance around her chair, moving quite well for a gnome over a century old. Shyla smiled and laughed as well, a part of her terrified at what she had just discovered about herself, but the biggest part elated, filled with wonder and awe. How…how amazing! How truly, incredibly marvelous! She looked at Cindra then, a question forming on the tip of her consciousness…and then an answer, one that brought her immense joy, and profound sadness, in equal measure.