“It’s all right,” Cyrus said. “I speak a little elvish.”
“Somehow we will make it through this,” Amiol said with a chortle that turned into spasming cough that lasted for nearly a minute. Cyrus started toward the door, but felt the elf’s still-strong hand grip his arm, holding him back. “I am fine. You have my thanks, for Vara. For keeping her safe.”
He felt the ghostly aftertouch of her lips on his. “It was my duty as her guildmate.”
“It was that and more,” Amiol said with a glimmer in his eyes. “It was long ago I was a man your age, but don’t think that I am so enfeebled that I cannot remember it.”
“I would never doubt it.”
“I think back on my youth,” he said with a sigh. “I am like you; I know no magic. But I was fair with a sword, and fought in my share of battles in the days when we were at the throats of the dark elves, like your people are now.” His eyes drifted away, and Cyrus had the sense that he was reliving things from long ago. “I was in the army when it was a shining pinnacle, the spear of Elvendom—before we were united into the Kingdom. I traveled to your human lands, to Reikonos, when it was the Citadel and little else.”
“When was that?” The vision of Vara filled Cyrus’s head. The remembrance of her touch caused his blood to rush, and he had to work to listen to the elder elf.
“Three thousand? Four thousand years ago?” Amiol shook his head. “It feels like...how do you say? The day before today?”
“Yesterday.” Yesterday I hadn’t kissed your daughter yet. It already felt so long ago.
“Yesterday...” The words came out of the elf’s mouth in a slow hiss, thickly accented. “So many of those times seem like yesterday, even though they were millenia ago.”
Cyrus pondered that; living thousands of years, watching entire cities grow up. Reikonos has been the largest city in the world for my entire life, he thought. Yet when this man was halfway through his life, it barely existed.
“You wonder what it would be like to live so long?” Amiol stared at him. Cyrus had not realized he had drifted off, captivated by the question. “It is not so different from your life, I expect, but more of everything—more experiences, more things you have learned, more wounds, more pain, more pleasure, more love.” He made a sound of dry amusement. “I have heard humans call elves wise but I suspect we would look foolish compared to someone who has lived so much longer than us. How old are you?”
It took Cyrus a moment to realize the question was pointed at him. “Nearly thirty.”
“A child among our people, and yet a man grown among your own.” He nodded and stared off into the distance. “Fit to have lands, be married and have children of your own.” Refocusing on Cyrus, he asked, “But you have no children of your own? No wives?”
Cyrus cleared his throat. “Humans aren’t allowed to have more than one at a time...and no, I don’t have a wife. Nor children.” But perhaps...
Amiol paused. “I was old when I met Chirenya; or I should say she was young. Now I am older still, and she remains as youthful and lovely as the day I met her.” He smiled in memory. “And still as stubborn, willful and damnably frustrating.”
“I heard that,” came a voice from the broken window, wafting up from the floor below.
“Then you heard the ‘lovely’ part as well, and I’ll thank you to take that to heart and stop eavesdropping,” he muttered in elvish, still smiling. Amiol folded his withered hands across his chest. “My days come to a close, which is a time of great sorrow among my people, since it comes so rarely. My brothers and sisters, of which there were eighteen, have all preceded me into the beyond.” A flicker of sadness lay upon the old man’s features. “Because I married so late, and had children even later, I was unable to finish all I needed.”
“How do you mean, sir?”
“My eldest daughter is a woman grown,” he said. “Tough like her mother, but lighter of disposition. Capable of making her own decisions now, of—” he lowered his voice—“throwing off the yolk of her mother’s opinions on how to run her life.”
“I heard that too!” Chirenya’s voice once more came from below, shattering the calm.
“The illusion on the house doesn’t redirect your voice,” Cyrus said. He waited for a response, but there was none.
“My youngest daughter is still a child among my people,” Amiol said. “She will not be considered an adult until her hundredth year—though she is capable.” He smiled. “I still remember the day she was...” He struggled again. “...the day she came from her mother...we would say, ‘shelas’.”
Cyrus frowned, befuddled. “Hope?”
Amiol looked at him, confused. “No, the day her mother...she came forth from her mother, the day she was...ah...uh...”
Cyrus felt a chill, once more unrelated to the wintery air seeping in through the broken windows. “Born?” His voice was high, his mouth suddenly dry.
“Yes!” Amiol exulted. “I remember the day she was born, so small, but she had a full head of hair, if you can believe...”
The old elf went on, but Cyrus’s thoughts buzzed in his head, overwhelming everything that Amiol was saying. Words spun, whirling in his skull, the same two, over and over, and he felt the fool. He thought of the Chancel, of the streets, combing his memory, confirming what he’d seen in his mind’s eye, something so odd, and yet undefined; inexplicable at the time.
Shelas’akur, he thought.
Last born.
Chapter 28
He shut the door behind him a few minutes later, leaving the elder elf behind. Chirenya passed him on the stairs, shooting him an accusatory gaze and closing the door behind her. The rest of his conversation with Amiol had passed with leaden speed, as though Cyrus were having it whilst his head was underwater. It dragged, painful in places, as Amiol tried to engage him with questions that he could not find any answers for within the depths of his preoccupation.
Last born, he thought again. Last born.
His boots on the stairs made a sound similar to someone knocking on a door. He came off the landing to the second floor and saw her waiting for him at the door to her room, leaning against the frame with her hands behind her, a sly smile resting on her lips that—had this been only minutes before—would have excited him beyond belief at the possibilities.
Now he only wanted to ask questions.
He walked toward her, all thought of her posture gone, the memory of the kisses they’d shared far out of his mind. He brushed past her, eliciting a look of confusion as he strode into the room and stood at the window. “What?” she asked.
He did not look back. “Were you listening?”
“I am not so rude as my mother,” she said, creeping up behind him and placing a hand upon his back. “It takes concentration to eavesdrop; I chose not to.”
“I see,” he said, quiet. “Your father reminisced about the day you were born. Except he didn’t say born, because he couldn’t remember it; he used the elvish word, trying to bring its human counterpart to mind.” Even through his armor, he felt the pressure from her hand increase subtly. “Shelas’akur,” he said with a mirthless laugh. “I had it all wrong.”
She pulled away. “Not entirely.”
“You had to be laughing when I said it the first time,” he said, shaking his head. “I was so sure it was ‘last hope’.”
“It is,” she said, “and I did not laugh at you because of it. Not only because we were in no position to be laughing at the time, with Niamh dead just moments before, but because you were close—too close—to the truth of it.”
Cyrus felt his hand reach up and grasped at a piece of the window frame, plucking a splinter from it. “How was I close?”
She walked the length of the room, back to the chair she had been in the day before when they had talked. “It’s a funny trick of language,” she said, hands curled up in her lap. “Thirty or so years ago, the meaning of ‘shelas’ was ‘born’. And then, suddenly, on the day of my birth, it was ‘
hope’ and has been ever after.” She let go the trace of a smile. “It’s a funny thing.”
He turned to her. “There are no more elven children, are there?”
“I am the last,” she said in a ghostly voice, hollow. “The last of the pure-blood elves; the shelas’akur. The last born.”
“It’s what keeps bothering me about this city; there are almost no kids playing in the streets! That’s why there are so few children in Termina,” Cyrus said. “It’s why all the ones I’ve seen have been half-elves.”
“Yes,” she said in the same voice. “Humans have become the most popular mating choice for elven women, since elven men can no longer produce children.”
“How...” His mouth was filled with the dry dust of the revelation. “How is that?”
She placed her hands on the arm of the chair and used her grip to pull herself to her feet. “No one is sure, but I can say for certain that the Elven Kingdom has not produced a viable generation in over a thousand years. There were fewer and fewer births over the last millennium, until, after my sister’s generation—about 1500 children spread out over the course of 300 years—they stopped entirely.” She held her chin high. “There was a 250 year gap with no births, not a single one—and then, mysteriously, thirty years ago...”
“You were born.” His hand was on his chin, and he was deep in thought. “But why the secret? Why hide this from everyone? Perhaps the humans or someone else could help?”
She laughed at him, but there was no joy in it. “They are the reason we did not tell anyone, the other races. Our lack of ability in breeding puts us at a dreadful disadvantage, wouldn’t you say? For every elf killed in a war, we cannot replace them. In a thousand years,” she said with doom, “we will have no army—and no Kingdom left because all who remain will be too old to defend it.”
“But I’ve seen children,” he said. “Hybrids. Can’t they help carry on for your people?”
“Don’t say that in front of my mother,” she said with a wistful smile. “It may come to that, but let us face it—children of two worlds, humans and elves, for example, do not live as long and they have just as much blood tying them to Reikonos as to Pharesia. That’s to say nothing of the complete and utter desperation it has produced in elven men. Even with human women they are infertile; thus it falls to the elven women to propagate what is left of the species—well.” She grimaced. “Almost.”
“Almost?” He shook his head, staggered at all he had learned in the last half-hour.
“I am the last hope.” Her bearing was straight and regal. “There has been a great deal of interest—and pressure—on me.”
Cyrus felt a tingle across his scalp as the full weight of what she said hit him. “They want you to...uh...”
She stared at him with grim amusement. “You’ve got the right of it. My mother would have me, the last born of the elven race, mate with a good pure blood elf as soon as I reach the age of elven maturity, if not sooner.” A sneer of disgust drove her beauty away for a flash. “And gods know, there have certainly been enough offers, for when the time comes; high born, low born, royals. ‘Just lay back and think of Pharesia,’ is my mother’s advice.” Clouds darkened her face. “I had other intentions for my life, which is why I left.”
“Do you still?” His words were quiet, but almost accusatory. “Have other plans?”
“Yes,” she replied, just above a whisper. He heard the soft ruffle of her dress as she moved closer to him. “A bit...worse for the wear of late, but I still have...hopes...dreams...things I would like to accomplish. I think...” Her hands found his breastplate and laid there. “...I may find some fight left in me, once I get past this trial.” She looked up at him, and though some of the despair had returned, there was hope in her eyes as well. She kissed him again, this time gentle and short. “I am somewhat vulnerable right now, as you pointed out. I hope you find it acceptable to...take things slowly.”
Ignoring that his body called out for her, cried for him to sweep her up in his arms and carry to her to the bed, he answered, “That’s fine. We can take things as slow as you want.”
“Thank you,” she said, taking his hands with her own. “I would not have what I hope to be pleasant thoughts and memories of our time together compromised by all the disasters currently upon us.”
Our time together. He froze, thinking of the fact that their time together, however long it lasted, would be limited by his lifespan, not hers. He put it aside. She has enough on her mind. Let’s not bring any more doubts and fears to add to the pile.
“I’m going to go speak with my father,” she said. “Will you wait for me?”
“Of course.” He bowed to her, exaggerated, and she laughed.
“Do you mock me, sir?”
He tried to contain his smile, but failed. “Must I stop? Because I doubt you’ll keep from making witticisms at my expense.”
She laughed again. “Do you like the sound of my voice?”
“I do; it’s like a pleasant ringing of bells or the tinkling of a windchime.”
“If you like the sound of it that much, I must continue to make fun of you, else I’d seldom speak.” She grinned wickedly.
“You were named for Vidara, weren’t you?” He stared down at her; even though she was tall, he was mountainous.
“Aye. Because of the ‘miracle’ of my birth, they gave thanks to the Goddess of Life.”
“Perhaps they should have named you after Terrgendan, God of Mischief.”
She slapped him on his shoulder. “The Trickster! He’s hideous. What are you trying to say?”
He caught her hand as she raised it to smack him again. “That you’re mischievous, that’s all.”
She drew her hand away and turned to walk out the door, halting after opening it. “Wait for me. I’ll be back shortly.”
“I’ve been waiting for you for two years; I doubt another hour or two will make much difference.”
She smiled, wicked again. “Perhaps, once this is all over with, we can give you a chance to get all that obsessive staring at feminine nakedness out of your system.” She walked away, and beneath the folds of her dress, he watched her hips move with a sway that was much more difficult to notice in armor.
When he emerged from the room a few moments later, the sitting room was empty. I wonder when we’ll get these windows fixed, he thought, shivering from the cold. He heard a squeak and a door opened behind him; Isabelle’s door. The healer slid into the room, sly smile on her face. She looked at him and shook her head as if to say, See? “You were right,” he said.
“Of course,” she said, smug.
“I damn you both, your rightness and all else.” Chirenya stood at the staircase, fury cloaking her.
Cyrus held his place by the door to Vara’s room, unmoving, and unsure which was colder; the anger coming off the woman or the blustery wind coming through the broken windows behind him. “When you thought I was sexually gratifying your daughter you were insulting and demeaning, but not pissed off like this.”
“Because then you were but an ignorant ox, unaware of the import of her destiny, of the vital nature of her future.” It seemed to Cyrus that a winter storm had swept into the room during the conversation and was swirling around the woman, chilling the air to the coldest he’d felt since he arrived in Termina. “Now you know what’s at stake—you know, and you have chosen to act selfishly, all while she’s emotionally vulnerable.”
“As much as you elves hate to admit it,” Cyrus said, grinding out his words with a rough satisfaction, desirous of bursting her arrogance as though it were a full wineskin, “she is a grown woman, capable and mature—”
“By the standards of your child-race,” Chirenya snapped back. “You may breed like rabbits in six weeks, but not us. Not elvendom.”
“As I understand it, at this point you don’t breed at all,” Cyrus said. He saw Isabelle cringe at his slight; Chirenya, for her part, simply grew more furious. “Placing the survival of the elven r
ace on her shoulders is hardly fair,” he said, pre-empting Vara’s mother before she could respond to his jab.
“Too true,” Isabelle said. “It’s an unfair assumption to think she is immune to the infertility that plagues the rest of our race simply because she’s the only elf born in two hundred years.”
“It may be unfair, but she could at least try!” Chirenya’s words came out as more of screech than a coherent sentence. “You did!”
“With my husband, when I was married, yes. With how many men would you have her try?” Isabelle said, expression laced with irony. “Fifty? One hundred? One thousand?”
“As many as it takes!” Chirenya’s eyes were wide with rage, the fury of someone in absolute fear. “As many as it takes to save our race—our way of life—from extinction!”
“Should she bed them all at once, or would it be acceptable to wait a while between attempts?” Isabelle had a tired look, like someone who had had this discussion many times before.
“What do you think, Cyrus?” Vara looked down at them from the stairwell, eyes narrowed. “Being human, your culture has a somewhat different norm, but have you ever before heard of a mother attempt to convince her daughter to become a whore?”
“The situation is grave.” Chirenya was quiet now, her eyes lowered. “We stand no chance of survival; you are our—”
“Last hope? Sounds somewhat familiar, as though the words had been repeated so often as to lose all meaning.” She trod the stairs, her steps quick, dress whipping behind her. “But being the shelas’akur, perhaps I have a somewhat unique perspective; the men of our race can no longer have children. Not with elven women, not with any race. The women are still fertile, and have babies with humans, dark elves, even a dwarf or gnome, should they be so inclined. Therefore it follows that I am likely fertile, just as the other women of our race are.
“Everyone shouts the name shelas’akur without thinking of the true implications,” she went on. “Because if the men are the problem, the only way I’d be a genuine hope to you is if I were a man and fertile.”
The Sanctuary Series: Volume 03 - Champion Page 21