The Noc’olari was not swayed. He dropped Sanas’ sleeve forcefully, then extended his clean hand out to her. “Come,” he spoke in softer command.
Alvena took a hesitant step and the humans closed instantly in front of her, their barricade of backs nearly blocking the Noc’olari from view.
“Wait a minute there, elf. She is ours.” Sanas grunted as Alvena punched his broad back furiously with her bound hands. He remained otherwise unfazed, but Mobart gave her a solid slap. “We found her scouting for her party of butchers in the canyon—and we never found the men whose canoe she stole. She deserves her fate. You worship Sel’ari, do you not?—this is Sel’ari’s justice on their despicable crimes!”
The Noc’olari’s chin tilted back as he laughed in disbelief. He wiped his hand on the white linen and Alvena could see a red stain left behind in the threads. “Scouting for a group of Saebellus’ soldiers… in a nightdress?”
The humans exchanged an uneasy glance and once more turned to their flushed leader for a reaction. She saw his jowls quivering, his fist tightening, and she thought for sure he was about to strike the elf… But then he stilled, seeming to rethink his actions. Alvena wondered if he too had heard the tales of the Noc’olari’s strange magics and ghoulish dances beneath the unseen moon. “Do not mock me, Noc’olari,” he ventured through clenched teeth.
The Noc’olari’s strong jaw hardened and he drew his body up before the herd. They shuffled back as he snapped a long, calloused finger toward the sky. Their eyes shifted upward, and Alvena was quite certain that some calamity was about to rain down from Emal’drathar. “I worship Ilra, human. If you want justice, you’ll have to look somewhere else. Surrender the girl to me or you can find your own way off Sevrigel. Does my threat ring clear?”
It undoubtedly did. Sanas flung the rope from his hands as though it burned. “Her ugly face would have been lucky to be fed to a dog,” he finished, jerking his head at the men about him. “Let’s go.”
Alvena looked down at her muddy feet and stained dress, but was too relieved to be offended by his remark. ‘I’m safe!’ she breathed. Then her head snapped up and she pointed hurriedly at Sanas. ‘My letter!’
The Noc’olarian male followed her finger and his gaze set. “I assume you have something of hers. I will not ask twice.”
Sanas’ eyes narrowed and he sent his sack crashing to the ground at his feet. He reached down, undoing the leather tie and producing her now-crumpled and dirt-covered parchment. “Here—”
Before he could finish, Alvena darted forward and snatched Sellemar’s letter with her still-bound hands. The men returned a single, dirty scowl before they stalked stiffly away.
Alvena hardly noticed. She had done it. She had reached the first city!—albeit a little unconventionally. The journey had certainly been more challenging than Sellemar had suggested, but perhaps the just and noble True Bloods were indeed on her horizon!
The Noc’olari crouched down and Alvena remembered the present. The male had drawn a silver blade from the side of his boot and ran it swiftly through the cord. “I am Itirel. You are?” He took her wrists, rubbing them gently with one hand as he gathered the broken cord in his other. She saw his eyes flicker across the parchment, a hint of curiosity barely concealed beneath.
Alvena opened her mouth and closed it, her grip on the letter tightening. ‘Don’t trust him, Alvena,’ she warned herself.
The Noc’olari smiled suddenly, as though in full understanding. “Ah, I see. If you can, try to forgive the humans. Death and fear can drive a man to do terrible things. I’m afraid the new decrees have been more than unfavorable toward them.” He seemed to sense her confusion and continued, “Any humans found on Sevrigel are to be executed. My people are helping them leave… though between the famine, raids, and uprisings Saebellus has caused upon Ryekarayn, their homeland is hardly a safer place. The age is dark for many right now. You are not safe to travel alone.”
Despite his infectious compassion, Alvena felt quite certain that such cruel barbarians did not deserve aid. He released her wrists and she was startlingly aware that the chaffing had vanished entirely. “You look terribly weary and I can see the hunger in your eyes.” He straightened, gesturing to one of the nearby Noc’olarian females. “Yulasra,” he called. “Will you see to this woman?”
Then he observed her once more and quietly spoke, “You are safe here. If you are in need of anything when she is through, write it down and I will endeavor to see that you have it.” He briefly laid a hand upon her dirty shoulder, and then he was gone.
Before he vanished amongst the tents, Alvena wanted to reach out and cling to him for comfort. He was the first glimmer of hope that life outside the palace wasn’t all suffering. He was soft-spoken. Bold. Kind… even to those who did not deserve it.
And he had saved her.
“Come, my dear. Let us get you cleaned,” Yulasra prompted from her side. “Food, water, healed wounds, a warm bath… and something lovely to wear, shall we?”
*
Relief filled Alvena’s chest as she stepped outside of the white tent, her hair braided over her shoulder, her skin clean and smooth. The injuries on her face had faded beneath the healing skills of the Noc’olarian female, and her stomach was heavy with satisfaction. Now this was the nature of the elves she knew! She sucked in the winter air and nestled beneath her thick, wool cloak. Even the weather could not remain bitter for long!
“Ah, you look much happier,” chuckled a familiar accent.
Alvena started, looking over her shoulder.
Itirel, too, had changed. He now wore the purple robes of a Noc’olarian healer, the hue as dark and muted as his violet hair. With the blood on his hand cleaned and his disposition serene, it seemed laughable to imagine him as a wild elf of lore, chanting in the glow of some great fire in the obscurity of the new moon.
He followed her gaze and lifted his hand. “Unfortunately, he died,” he lamented. “A merchant from a city Saebellus’ army sacked. He prevailed in a journey here… but there was nothing that could be done for him.” He stopped beside her, placing a hand beneath her chin and turning her face up to his. “You too seem to have had your trials. Here,” he spoke gently, pressing two fingers to her lip.
For a moment, it flickered in pain and then abruptly, the throbbing was gone. As he drew his hand away, Alvena slid her tongue in search of the wound. Her eyes widened.
“Yes, it looks as new as on the day you were birthed. It is, let me clarify, wholly healed. A beautiful lady should not have to bear such an unnecessary scar.” He took a step past her with his ever-present smile. “Have a pleasant—”
Alvena blinked. Whether he meant it or not, he had called her beautiful. No one had called her beautiful but Hairem! She took a swift step after him, causing him to halt.
He raised a violet-black brow. “…Do you want to come with me? I’m afraid I’m not at all doing anything pleasant.”
‘Has to be better than sitting around watching the moss grow,’ Alvena countered. She gave a vigorous nod and slid closer. ‘Please let the True Bloods be like him and Sellemar…’ She would even accept a liberal dose of Sellemar’s arrogance.
Itirel shrugged his rugged shoulders. “I must make my last rounds before I retire for the evening. You are welcome to accompany me, but as I said, it is nothing pleasant.”
‘Carry on already!’ She could not resist the urge to tap one of her new, shiny shoes in impatience. ‘I clearly want to come!’
“…Well, this way, then,” Itirel beckoned, the corners of his lips twitching. His footsteps were silent as he glided over the mossy earth to the row of tents behind her own. She could hear an assortment of moans and wailing, and cries of anger and pain. Were they all humans? Why, surely such a refugee camp was treasonous against Ilsevel’s intent! Her spine stiffened and she glanced at the drifting male. If he was surrounded by danger and chaos, he did not appear concerned. That accent… Was he from Ryekarayn?—Perhaps he did not fully grasp what had occurre
d in the capital.
No, he had to know.
She could feel the parchment scrape against her skin beneath her dress. How she wanted to share it with him! To hear him breathe words of comfort with such unshakeable courage…!
“That letter seems quite valuable to you,” Itirel ventured as they made a slight turn on the narrowing path.
Alvena leapt. What? How…? She had just been thinking that!
“Judging by the unconventional attire in which you arrived, it seems safe to assume that you are a refugee as well. By what need have you to flee Elvorium?”
Rigidly Alvena marched onward, yet she felt as though he could hear her heart pounding her story beneath her breast.
“…You needn’t tell me,” he spoke after a moment. “My people will assist you regardless.” He halted before the first tent, passing her a reassuring smile before leaning inside to the warm, amber glow.
Alvena felt her anxieties fade and poked her head in below his. A smile as easy as his own promptly donned her face. A human baby lay, fat and content, in the arms of a mountainous man. ‘Ugly. And bald,’ she thought as she regarded the sleeping infant snug in its little blue shawl. How did anything so tiny grow up to be so barbaric? Her gaze shifted to the sleeping woman on the mat before them and she paled. The hollow face was tranquil and ashen, the body unnaturally still.
The Noc’olarian female inside gave a gentle shake of her silver hair as she gathered a pile of crimson rags. “I’m sorry, Itirel. I couldn’t—”
“How long has she been dead?” Itirel interrupted. The warm smile was gone and Alvena was at once aware of the stinging wind.
“The lady passed away on the hour,” the female began, tucking the last cloth beneath her arm with a reverent bow. “I preserved her as you directed.”
Itirel’s fluid gait became sharp and deliberate. He walked briskly into the tent and crouched down beside the woman, pressing his long, calloused fingers into her chest. Alvena watched in horror as the woman’s body thrashed and danced as though she had been jolted with lightning.
“She’s been dead too long!” the man behind him wept, his husky voice cracking. He dropped the baby into the crook of one arm as he reached out in a frenzy. “Just let her rest, gods damn you!”
The Noc’olarian female’s rags scattered and she seized the flailing arm. “Sh!” she ordered. “May Ilra have mercy on her!”
And no sooner had the female invoked the god than the woman on the mat arched once and then fell flat, her chest rising and falling steadily beneath Itirel’s hands.
In a terribly delay of reflexes, Alvena’s feet finally sent her backward. Her hand snapped to the tent flap, holding it ajar just enough for her to glimpse the wonder inside. The human had been dead…!
Itirel withdrew, rising gracefully to his feet. “She will be perfectly well with a little further attention. Cisera can oversee her care.”
Alvena let the tent flap drop, slowly tossing her head. What gift of healing did this male possess that the dead could return unchanged?! ‘Incredible…’
She could hear the human’s sobs of gratitude as Itirel stepped outside, his face as impassive as before he had entered. She cocked her head. Was he not happy about what he had done? Or was he truly unaffected? She could not read him!
“It’s a chilly evening, isn’t it?” he began as though nothing at all had happened.
Alvena stared. He had just saved a long-dead human and he was bent on talking about the weather? The weather had not surprised her. Bringing back the dead, however…!
Her hair prickled at the nape of her neck. Was he a necromancer?!
No… No. She imagined necromancy must comprise something far more sinister. Dark magic: skulls and candles and sacrifices. Undoubtedly a torrent of blood. This male had done no more than touch the human…
What an extraordinarily gifted healer!
Through several tents, she bumbled behind in utter awe. When they reached the row’s end, he paused, luminous eyes cast out over the encampment. She followed him, peering into the dark. Away along the forest line, she could detect a faint group of figures moving near the massive roots and she wondered if their smudges were any more distinct to him. He was an elf of the night… ‘So he must see better in the dark!’
“They’re going to the coast,” he informed her solemnly. “To Eraydon City.” He stopped and Alvena could hear a thoughtful tone creeping into his voice. “And where are you going?”
Alvena opened her mouth and closed it, clutching one hand to her abdomen where the paper was still tucked safely away. No, she couldn’t tell him. Yes, she had to get to Ryekarayn, but Sellemar had been very specific. He had said to show it to the ships bearing a blue phoenix. He had mentioned no one else. As much as she wanted to trust Itirel, this male was neither a ship nor a blue phoenix.
“There is a small wait to board, but you will arrive wherever it is you are going. Now, do not look so distressed—there is always hope. Our Lord, Kinraeus, has very close relations to the human king.” And he left the knowledge there, as uselessly vague as though he had said nothing at all.
Alvena drummed her fingers along her crossed arms. ‘Who is Kinraeus? How does he help save us?’
Itirel smiled faintly. He was catching on quickly. “Sevrigel is unlikely to rebel, so our aid will have to come from Ryekarayn. The True Bloods are expected to remain neutral as the Royal Schism dictates, but the human king Joramon north of their borders is in dire need of help for his own people—he will seek aid. His kingdom is suffering a terrible famine, and Saebellus has recently ended the trade that helped to alleviate the shortage of food. Now he faces the threat of marauders who have taken advantage of his people’s weakness. If our Lord Kinraeus can strike an alliance with King Joramon, he could offer economic stability in exchange for the king’s royal forces—which would no longer be occupied by internal threats.”
Alvena looked around eagerly in hopes of spotting this magnificent ambassador, but no one so splendid stood in sight. Still, her tension ebbed. If Itirel was right, perhaps she would no sooner arrive on Ryekarayn than find herself headed straight back for home!
A sudden shout hailed across the encampment. “Itirel!” Alvena heard footsteps racing toward them from their left, the sound muffled by the moss. “Itirel!”
Itirel stood tall and shot forth an indignant hand. “Sh!” he admonished. “There are many who are—”
The newcomer skidded to a halt, his glowing skin perspiring across his narrow brow, his lips parted as he heaved for breath. Despite his obvious exhaustion, his eyes were ablaze with excitement. He bounded forward and clutched Itirel’s still-reprimanding hand.
Alvena retreated slightly, body tense once more. What was going on?
But the male ignored her entirely, shaking Itirel’s hand in fierce exhilaration. Or perhaps in his eagerness he had not noticed her at all. “Yes!! It’s true! He’s come to Sevrigel! Rumors are spreading as fast as dragon fire, but we believe he just arrived in the south!”
She saw Itirel’s composed expression alter abruptly. His face grew solemn, and yet, a flicker of mutual excitement seemed barely contained behind his eyes. “Are Saebellus and Ilsevel aware of this?! Of him?” he spoke almost breathlessly.
The elf shook his head, frizzy blue hair flying about his narrow shoulders and whacking Alvena in the eye as she anxiously leaned in for the details. “No, they do not know—not to my knowledge. Not yet, at least.”
Itirel turned sharply to Alvena and she snapped back. Yet he barely seemed to see her as he spoke. “I had a wonderful evening with you, my lady. Be sure to inform the Noc’olari of anything you need. May Ilra bless you.” And with that, he took rapid steps behind the new elf. She could hear his voice as he faded into the distance saying, “I will pack my belongings and find him immediately.”
Alvena stared after them, now alone beneath the great white tree.
Her toes curled in the small leather shoes. What was so urgent?
W
ho had come to Sevrigel?
CHAPTER FIVE
Rain cascaded from Elvorium’s sky in an unrelenting stream, the droplets so fine that they formed a fog of dreary inhospitality. Hardly a ray of sunlight managed to illuminate the golden rooftops, and still less fell to the cobbled streets. The afternoon marked the seventh day of King Saebellus’ reign and the beginning of a bleak and miserable winter.
‘You could have spared me the weather,’ Sellemar begrudged his goddess as he hurried across the damp streets.
An upraised stone pocketed in the shadowed cobbles rebuked him sternly.
‘Damn it,’ he swore, and hobbled past the statues of Eraydon’s company in the council’s square. He spared them no glance of his usual affection; he had no doubt that half of their heroic faces would snigger at his plight.
He was late, and only so long as Ilsevel had not yet arrived in the Council Hall did he still possess some hope of surviving the day with all of his limbs attached.
Poverty was first to blame; if Sairel had the decency to spare the proper coin for his mission, he could afford a servant to at least make certain that he rose at a reasonable hour.
The sun had once been such an ally, but apparently Zephereus had more pressing concerns as of late.
Sellemar scowled once more toward Emal’drathar as he surmounted the stairs two at a time, then heaved the doors of the great hall wide. His dramatic entrance into the council chamber nearly three months before had been far more glorious than his current woebegone appearance availed; he was now disheveled, panting, and sufficiently soaked.
“Late, aren’t we?” a male voice greeted him instantly from the far side of the room, bouncing off the walls in unison with the door’s infernal creak.
It was difficult to decide which was more painful: Cahsari’s voice or the agonizingly drawn-out, high-pitched screech resonating from the hinge.
A blessed silence then settled over the room and Sellemar was aware of the intrusive stares that accompanied it. Still, he managed a stiff smile and a generous, “Good morning,” as he casually brushed the raindrops from his emerald, cotton clothes. In the presence of such despicable men, he could have been in a pauper’s potato sack and still strode with equal confidence across the hall.
Heroes or Thieves (Steps of Power 2) Page 5