Twilight of the Elves

by Zack Loran Clark

  Brock shook his head. Steal from the elves—from their beautiful, utterly terrifying queen? The Lady kept asking for more; he had to put his foot down while he still could. “It’s too dangerous,” he said. “And it’s not what we agreed to. I’m honoring our agreement, but you can’t keep changing it.”

  She narrowed her eyes, regarding him in silence for a moment. “Fair enough,” she said at last. “Our smuggler friend seems to have thought twice about their actions, anyway, and you’ve learned what you could. So . . .” She paused once more, either to consider her words or else to keep Brock hanging on them. “Do this thing for me, and Zed’s secret shall never cross my lips. Any evidence I have, I shall destroy. On that, I’ll swear.”

  Brock’s heart leaped in his chest, but his distrust fought with his excitement. While his feelings roiled, he mastered his expression, showing only skepticism.

  “Just like that?” he said. “One elven treasure, and you’d let me off the hook?”

  “I hear the doubt in your voice, Brock, but above all else I am a woman of my word.” She shrugged. “You know this.”

  “Yeah, funny thing about blackmailers,” he said. “So trustworthy.”

  “My threats only work if they’re credible. Promises work much the same. If I didn’t honor them, I’d have far, far fewer eyes and ears across this town.”

  Brock bit his lip. Could he dare to hope? Could he actually have a way out of this awful situation? Could it be that easy?

  And then he remembered what she’d asked of him. It was a far cry from “easy.”

  “I’ll think about it,” he said, as if he could still say no. But she knew she had him.

  She knew exactly what kind of hand he had. Four of dragons, eight of griffins, and a useless unicorn.

  Twice a week, Zed and Jayna met in the master archivist’s office for lessons.

  Feydays were supposed to be reserved for magical theory and Noxdays for actual spell-casting, but in practice Hexam just taught whatever felt interesting in the moment. The seminars were a hash of aimless lectures, arcane exercises, and digressions into Hexam’s other great passion: the Dangers.

  During less stressful times, Zed found it all fascinating. Hexam’s unpredictable teaching style kept him on his toes. Today, for instance, a decanter full of black, oily scum waited on the wizard’s desk as Zed arrived.

  But Zed was in no mood for silliness. Just moments after Brock left, Frond had stormed into the guildhall like a winter squall. Her gray eyes were cold and furious as the sky outside.

  Zed had tried to talk to her—pleading with Frond to help the elves—but the guildmistress just kept moving, stomping up the stairs to her personal quarters. The whole hall shook when she slammed the door closed.

  Zed himself now stomped across Hexam’s office, throwing himself into his usual chair. Jayna quirked an eyebrow from the seat next to his.

  Near the back of the room, Hexam was stooped over and trying very carefully to liberate a book from the bottom of a lopsided stack of manuals, presumably without toppling the entire structure.

  Zed cleared his throat, fussing in his chair.

  Hexam ignored him. The wizard pulled at the load-bearing book, and the structure wobbled alarmingly. He winced, then slowly, gently began sliding the tome free from the pile. The book shifted by minuscule degrees—one inch, two, three—until only a corner was left confined.

  “What’s this black stuff?” Zed blurted.

  The tower fell, and books toppled all around Hexam like a castle under siege. When the dust had finally settled, the archivist stood up straight with a groan, surrounded by literary wreckage. He carried the single book back to his desk.

  “That,” he said tightly as he sat, “is the excretion of a stalking shadow. It’s a blessedly rare Danger that hunts by attaching itself to the true shadows of its prey. So far, the only means we’ve discovered to safely disentangle one is for a blood relative to speak the victim’s name aloud three times.”

  Hexam shook his head. “Don’t ask me why that works, though. I’m still puzzling it out.” He opened up a cavernous drawer in the desk and smuggled the bottle inside.

  “Maybe the elves know,” said Zed. “We could send for some elven mages to be let out of the market. Do an exchange of information.” He perked up, crawling up straight in his chair for the first time. “Actually, that would be amazing! There have got to be more sorcerers like my dad among the elves, right? Ones who could finally teach me how to use my magic!”

  The archivist frowned. “Zed, believe me when I tell you that none of us are happy with the king’s decision. It wasn’t so long ago that he imprisoned us with false accusations. But Frond is the only reason the rangers haven’t been confined with the rest of their people. I don’t know how much further she can push it.”

  “So what do you know?” Zed mumbled.

  The archivist sighed, his dark eyes falling to his hands. “I know I’m sorry,” Hexam said. “Sorry that this is happening and sorry that I’m not a better teacher for you. But in this guild, we’re forced to make do with what we have.”

  A long stretch of awkward silence passed, as Hexam began searching his desk for some clue or inspiration for the day’s lesson. Jayna squirmed uncomfortably in the quiet, her pale skin and ginger hair shining blue beneath the room’s multicolored orbs.

  “Magus Hexam,” she began, “last week you mentioned we might finally discuss broadening my portfolio of battle magic. I only really know the—”

  “Once again, Jayna,” Hexam interrupted tersely, “I’m not a magus anymore. That title was stripped from me when I left the Mages Guild.” Then he glanced up. “Remind me, what was the last spell I asked you to learn?”

  Jayna’s face brightened at this opportunity. Though they were both wizards, Hexam was surprisingly stingy when it came to teaching the girl actual spells for the field.

  Zed didn’t learn his magic the same way Jayna did. While both were considered mages, Jayna was a wizard and Zed a sorcerer.

  The way Hexam described it, sorcerous magic was less intellectual and more intuitive; a sorcerer’s abilities appeared as the young mage grew, and then had to be practiced for control. Zed’s few experiments in replicating wizard magic over the last several weeks had all ended explosively. After he accidentally shattered several first-floor windows while trying to cast a standard Wizard’s Shield, Frond finally forbade him from any more attempts.

  Jayna, however, was brilliant at the stuff.

  “My last assignment was Eldritch Darts,” she said brightly. “I believe I have it properly memorized, Ma—uh, Master Hexam.”

  Zed’s eyes widened. “Didn’t you say that was a second-level spell?”

  Jayna turned and beamed at him. “My first one, yes.”

  The archivist nodded slowly, running a hand over the beard that framed his thin, dusky face. “Then I’d like to see you perform it, please.”

  Jayna and Zed stood from their chairs and began turning toward the door. Usually, the more dangerous exercises required that they head out into the training yard, away from any fragile equipment.

  Usually. When they realized that Hexam hadn’t risen to follow them, the two apprentices looked back uncertainly.

  Hexam cleared his throat. “I would like you to perform the spell in here, apprentice,” he clarified. He extended his hand to a small sphere that had been set on a pedestal near the far wall of the room, molded from silvery metal.

  Zed recognized the sphere. It had been among the equipment they brought back from the wayshelter. It was decorated with looping shapes and elven sigils arranged in a series of overlapping circles.

  The confidence fell from Jayna’s face like Zed fell from a chin-up attempt—quickly and without composure.

  “Um, Master Hexam,” she began. “This room is very small, and the darts—”

  “The darts,” Hexam said with a small smile, “will follow whatever target they are cast at when the spell is performed correctly.” The elde
r wizard’s smile tightened, and his eyebrow quirked. “Of course, if you only believe that you have it properly memorized, perhaps we should wait until you’re sure.”

  Jayna narrowed her eyes. In the last month and a half, Zed had discovered that there were two surefire ways of riling up the apprentice wizard, and Hexam was very fond of both. The first was talking about dark magic.

  The second, far more dangerous way was to suggest that she had come unprepared.

  Jayna made a sort of dignified squeak and strode to the opposite side of the room from the sphere. She held her hands up, fingers wriggling in the air. Zed stood back, pressing against the office door and hugging his scepter to his chest. He was ready to elf-step out of the room if need be.

  Though Zed wasn’t himself a wizard, he knew that wizard spells required three basic components: formulas, signs, and mana. After memorizing a complicated magical formula, a wizard could express it by weaving arcane signs—words, gestures, symbols, or magically conductible ingredients—into a spell. The more familiar a wizard was with the formula, the less complicated the sign necessary to cast it. Most master wizards like Hexam could conjure powerful spells with a simple flick of the wrist.

  Jayna’s fingers traced through the air, the movements slow and precise. This being a second-level spell, the gestures necessary were more complex than her usual Wizard’s Shield.

  She performed it perfectly. No sooner had Jayna spread her hands than three fizzing blue motes appeared in the air around her. The lights streaked forward like buzzing wasps, heading straight for the small sphere.

  Jayna grinned, looking spent but pleased . . . until the sphere came alive.

  A high pealing noise, like the ringing of a bell, filled the room as the darts neared the orb. Suddenly, three lashes of white light struck out, whipping into Jayna’s missiles with a loud crack, crack, crack! Every one of the darts shattered and dissipated before finding their target.

  Jayna looked like she herself had been lashed. “That . . .” she said, her eyes wide. “But I—”

  Hexam finally stood from his desk, moving to inspect the sphere. “Well done, Jayna!” he said. “I wanted to test the enchantment on an unsuspecting mage.” The archivist ran his fingers over the pristine surface of the orb. “Mythril is remarkable at holding enchantments,” he breathed. “This one is years old, but with just a bit of mana added to it, the countercurse worked perfectly.”

  Hexam turned back to the apprentices. “Thank you for humoring me,” he said. “This, and Zed’s new scepter, were the only two items of any magical value recovered from the wayshelter.”

  Zed’s ears twitched. He realized he was gripping the scepter maybe a bit tightly. “My scepter?” he asked. “I can keep it, then?”

  “As long you learn how to use it safely,” the archivist said. He walked back to his desk and sat down behind it, gesturing for Zed and Jayna to return to their chairs.

  “Arcane implements can be a great help for any spell-caster,” Hexam said, as they took their seats. “Jayna, I’ll have Lotte find you a wand from the armory, and we can begin the principles for how to use them in our next lesson.” He paused. “If you ever do find yourselves facing an undead enemy, then you’ll need every advantage you can muster. They are relentless foes. Unlike other Dangers, they don’t experience fear or pain.”

  “Why?” Zed asked. “What makes them special?” Beside him, Jayna leaned forward in her chair.

  Hexam sat up a bit straighter as well. The wizard’s mood had improved. “As you both know by now, the Dangers came to our world when Foster Pendleton opened the gates between the seven planes. Terryn, our home, was overrun by creatures from the other six. Fey, the fairy plane, and Fie, the infernal plane, are closest to ours—the inner planes. These are where most magic comes from. Jayna, can you name the four outer planes?”

  Jayna nodded, her red curls bouncing. “There’s Nox, the plane of chaos, luck, and shadows; Lux, the plane of order, logic, and light; Astra, the plane of the mind; and Mort—”

  “—the plane of the dead,” Hexam finished with a nod. “Very little is known of it, and no creature has ever emerged directly from the plane. Instead, the power that spills from Mort causes the dead in Terryn to rise. These Dangers are what we call undead. Once, necromancers were able to harness this power to raise undead armies—but at a terrible cost to themselves. Exposed to Mort’s energies, many of them festered, becoming moldering creatures known as liches.”

  Zed’s eyes shot up. “The Lich! That’s the minister who took over Llethanyl. He’s some kind of . . . death mage?”

  Hexam shook his head. “To be honest, he’s less like a mage and more like a focus. The outer planes don’t provide mana, but at one time they did offer otherworldly abilities for those who were able—and willing—to access them. Necromancy was thought to be a lost art, like so many others from before the Day of Dangers. Apparently, we were wrong. One of Llethanyl’s ministers, an elf named Galvino, rediscovered the art in secret. And due to the elves’ long-standing tradition of burying their dead, he had plenty of material with which to practice.”

  Zed grimaced at this. From what he could tell, death was a taboo subject for the elves—a topic of extremely guarded reverence. So much so that they referred to their dead as simply the lost. Many still seemed baffled that such a violation had occurred at all.

  A tentative knock sounded from the other side of the door.

  “Enter,” Hexam called.

  The door creaked open and Fel’s face poked through. She began to speak, but her eyes lit up as the office shifted from red to turquoise. The young elf’s gaze traveled across the space, flitting from wonder to wonder.

  “Ast’la ven!” Fel said. “What beautiful lights. And are those skeletons? . . . From Dangers? I thought that humans weren’t supposed to keep large bones around.”

  Hexam coughed uneasily. “There are a few exceptions. Though I don’t see the need to mention these to anyone outside the guild. Is there something the rangers need, Fel?”

  The elf’s face became suddenly serious, wonder transforming into graveness in a blink. “Frond asked for you,” she said. “Something important is happening.”

  “Important?” Hexam said, rising from his chair. “Well, for Fie’s sake, spit it out then.”

  “Queen Me’Shala is here,” Fel answered, her eyes falling to the floor at the mere mention of the elven monarch. “She wants the adventurers to take back our city.”

  Hexam and Jayna walked up front, leading the way to the main hall, while Zed and Fel trailed behind. Zed glanced at the young elf beside him. “Do you think it’s really possible?” he whispered. “To save Llethanyl?”

  Fel’s smile was cautious. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But the queen doesn’t ask things lightly. And I’ve heard that she’s very hard to refuse.”

  For the first time in weeks, Zed allowed himself to truly imagine visiting the city of his father. Perhaps he’d find more answers there about the mysterious Zerend. Fel was too young to know anything about him, but Zed had tried asking the High Ranger—he’d asked every elf who would deign to speak to him, in fact.

  He’d learned that Zerend was a wood elf and a sorcerer, like Zed himself. Zed knew his father was “lost” on the trip back to Llethanyl twelve years ago, and Callum had called him “a good elf.”

  That was all.

  Zed had hoped that with time, Callum might open up and offer more. But each passing week had slowly snuffed out that hope. The elves were tight-lipped about their dead.

  “You must be anxious to get home,” Zed said. “Away from all the prejudice. I’m so sorry Freestoners are like this. It’s not fair to you or your people.”

  Fel’s smile faltered, and then quickly brightened again. “Yes . . . well,” she said. “Every place has its problems!” She glanced away. “Here we are.”

  In his six weeks as an apprentice, Zed had celebrated half a dozen parties with the Sea of Stars. A life of constant danger meant t
hat every day alive was a new victory—and victory, Zed had learned, meant revelry. Though food and drink were leaner than ever, the guild made the most of their meager larders, whipping elaborate feasts out of basic staples, plus whatever herbs still grew outside the city walls.

  The remains of just such a feast were now strewn around the main hall.

  Guildmembers stood in awkward clumps, for once keenly aware of the state of their greeting room. The floor was sticky underfoot, and there didn’t appear to be six inches of continuous wall space that wasn’t splattered with some kind of food or drink.

  Only a statue near the back of the room was distinctly unscathed. A stone boy reached out one arm, his eyes wide with shock. This, Zed had learned on his first day with the guild, was no carving. It was an unfortunate apprentice, only a couple years older than himself. The poor boy had been petrified by the gaze of a basilisk, the very monster from which flinty-eyed Frond had earned her nickname.

  Just as many elven rangers were also present in the room, and by the anxious expressions they were casting at Frond’s office, it was clear where their queen had retreated to.

  Hexam didn’t dally. Zed had just enough time to realize he’d never actually seen the interior of Frond’s office when he, Jayna, and Fel were all rushed up the stairs and through the forbidding door.

  Beyond it, a steep climb zigzagged up at least two ramshackle stories, the old wood complaining with each step. Zed sympathized. Finally they reached a second door, which Hexam threw open without a knock.

  The room was tidier than Zed would have expected. Unlike many adventurers, Frond kept no trophies of the Dangers she’d slain. Her bed—a neatly made four-poster—stood directly beside an enormous bay window with clean white curtains. The guildmistress’s room was the highest point in the entire rickety hall—and certainly the highest in the neighborhood. Zed realized with a thrill that her window was set over Freestone’s wall, offering a clear view of the forest line.

  Perhaps Frond had watched them from here, when he, Brock, Liza, and Jett lingered glumly outside during their initiation.