Night Born

by K L Reinhart

  And did something odd.

  The creature very, very lightly sniffed the air above the elf. Terak could see the thing’s cracked nostrils fluttering before it pulled back.

  “You’re not going to eat me?” Terak said in astonishment.

  When Terak made a noise, the thing’s tentacles withdrew a fraction, as if disturbed. The creature paused and took another hesitant sniff in Terak’s direction.

  Then its forked tongue flashed forward, stretching over-long in an impossible way, and Terak felt its chill. Lightly, it touched his side where Torin’s blade had scraped his ribs.

  Maybe it’s going to eat me after all! Terror paralyzed the elf, but amazingly, the creature withdrew once more—

  “FLY, FIEND!” The hollow filled with a dazzling light and the sound of shouting voices. Riders charged into the hollow on thin, small ponies. Terak gaped in shock. There was a radiance upon the host—or coming from the host. Tall, fine-boned figures encircled him, with long spears that glittered.

  The monster recoiled and leaped back from the brilliant company that poured into the hollow. Terak heard the thing squeal. It fled into the dark of the wood. A mighty thunder sounded the host followed it.

  Terak covered his head with his arms as hooves that appeared shod with silver flew over him. He was surrounded by a storm of lightning and light.

  And every rider was an elf.

  12

  The Old Ways

  “Hold! This one is an elf,” Terak heard a voice say. It belonged to the tall form of an elf with long ruddy-gold hair held back in two plaits and shining with strands like spun gold.

  Elves. My people, Terak thought in wonder. He tried to recall anything that he had learned about them, but so far, all the Enclave had managed to furnish him with was “an ancient and dying race, spread far apart.” Once again, Terak cursed the suspicious ways of the Enclave.

  The elf had pale skin like his own, but not the gaunt cream-white of Terak’s, the youth saw. Instead it appeared like alabaster, with a sheen that reminded him of starlight. He wore a sleeveless jerkin of soft golden-brown, embroidered with green and silver, and simple trews of the same. In the elf’s hand was a thin saber, which he casually slipped home into its scabbard. He knelt beside Terak.

  “What family do you come from?” the golden-haired elf asked. His silver-gray eyes glittered coldly. “The Fifth? Seventh?”

  “I—I don’t know . . .” Terak whispered.

  Around the pair came the champ and stamp of the elvish ponies returning from the woods, but they had lost that full-moon radiance that Terak had seen on them. They were still strange, however, with their unfamiliar garments perfectly fitted to their bodies and edged in silver and green.

  And they weren’t alone.

  “Unhand me!” It was Reticula, struggling as she was thrown from the back of one of the ponies.

  “Reticula!” Terak gasped, already pushing himself up, only to be halted by the surprisingly strong prod of the ruddy-haired elf’s hand.

  “Calm yourself,” the elf muttered, keeping his eyes on Terak. He called, “Lord Alathaer?”

  “The beast has gone,” a deep, baritone voice replied as one of the ponies clipped its way to the center of the clearing. This elf was clearly the leader, with long, free-flowing black hair and a simple circlet on his brow, decorated with onyx stones. He wore the same complement as the rest of the elvish men and women. In his hands, he held a short spear shining white wood and topped with a blade almost as long as a sword.

  “Hmm.” Terak felt as well as saw the elf’s gray eyes settle on him. The spear lowered, pointing at Terak’s chest.

  “The Loranthian Scroll,” the elf lord said, and his tone was uncompromising.

  Terak had forgotten that he still clutched the long bronze tube in his hand, and for a moment was about to give it up, before his knuckles tightened around it closer.

  “What?” Terak asked. “What was that thing?” That living statue that could have killed me, and yet didn’t . . .

  “They haven’t told you?” The elf lord met Terak’s eyes for a moment, and then made a small gesture, cocking his head to one side as if intrigued. “It is called the Mordhuk. A spirit from Ungol, bound here and imprisoned in the Loranthian Shrine for over three hundred years. You—” He cast a dismissive glance at the wide-eyed Reticula, similarly surrounded by elvish short spears. “—and your friend are indeed very fortunate to be alive.”

  Terak had no idea what any of those names meant, and so whatever impact this elf lord was looking for, it wasn’t the one that was on Terak’s face.

  “And you are the one who retrieved the scroll?” Lord Alathaer said carefully. His pony stepped forward a few paces, bringing the spear closer to Terak’s chest.

  “I did,” Terak stated.

  There was a murmur of surprise from the other members of the host around them, and Lord Alathaer’s eyes widened, before squinting once more.

  “You are still very young,” he stated.

  Terak nodded, unsure if this was a question or not. Whichever the case, this angry elf lord had apparently come to a decision.

  “The Second Family have kept watch on this shrine since it was created. The scroll should never be allowed to leave.” Lord Alathaer said severely.

  With a sudden rustle, more figures stepped from the undergrowth, robed in black.

  “We think it’s about time it did,” said the one in the middle.

  There stood Father Jacques.

  “Get up, Terak, Reticula. Lord Alathaer’s Brilliant Host have no right to hold you,” Father Jacques said, his voice laced with steel as he tossed open his black cloak to reveal a suit of studded ring mail, with two short hatchets at his belt. In that same moment, the other fathers—both men and women—stepped forward, similarly moving their black gauntlets to the sides of their belts.

  But there’s only what, seven fathers against ten mounted elves? Terak was thinking.

  “Reticula.” Terak reached out to the other acolyte as his golden-haired guard hissed like a cat. The guard turned, his saber whispering into his slim hands, and faced the fathers of the Enclave. The entire “Brilliant Host” ignored them and closed ranks around Lord Alathaer. Terak and Reticula stumbled back toward the Loranthian Shrine, the scroll still held firmly in Terak’s hands.

  “This place is under my protection!” Lord Alathaer said menacingly. “How dare you intrude!”

  “And our protection too, my lord. Never forget that!” Father Jacques returned.

  There is no way the fathers can win . . . Terak thought. What had he done? What had they gotten themselves mixed up in?

  “You fools. Look what the meddling of the Enclave has resulted in: the Mordhuk is loose!” Lord Alathaer spat.

  “One Mordhuk? Is that really all that the once-great Second Family is worried about?” Father Jacques laughed. “Or is it that the Second Family are so caught up in keeping their Old Ways that they cannot feel the world turning around them?”

  He seemed supremely confident, Terak thought.

  And apparently, the human had a right to be. The Chief External continued. “You know the old agreement between our peoples, Lord Alathaer. You were there when they signed that agreement in blood over the silver waters of the moon! Only one person could ever free that scroll. Only one.”

  Terak felt Reticula’s eyes on him, and he shook his head. But in his heart, he already knew why. It’s because I’m a null. That pain enchantment broke Torin’s mind, but I could withstand it.

  Wasn’t that why the chiefs had sent him here in the first place?

  “Only one,” Lord Alathaer said heavily, turning in his saddle to cast a sharp glance back at the two acolytes standing behind the host. Terak noticed Lord Alathaer looking at him intently with something akin to disgust. “He is still too young. There is no way he can protect the scroll’s secrets. In ten years maybe, twenty . . .”

  Father Jacques straightened up from his defensive crouch. “And do you
think we have another ten years?”

  Lord Alathaer made that same angry hissing noise once again and seemed about to continue his argument, but Jacques was insistent.

  “The agreement is clear, Lord Alathaer. The winner takes the scroll. Has to take the scroll.”

  I do? Terak thought with a twinge of suspicion.

  “You are fools,” the elf lord insisted. “And you will damn us all!” The lord held his spear high over his head, and with a shout urged his pony to wheel, with the others of his Brilliant Host turning around him like a flock of birds. Terak once again gasped at the majesty and thunder of their passing as, with the gleam of cold silver and bright eyes, they swept back into the forest.

  Terak and Reticula looking to Father Jacques, unsure of what had just happened.

  “I think it’s about time you came home, Terak,” Father Jacques said in a soft tone.

  But . . .what . . . Terak looked from the scroll to the father and back to the scroll.

  “You did very well, Terak,” Jacques murmured. “Very well indeed. Now come, before night claims this place!” The Chief External cast a scathing eye about the woods. He could have been talking about beastials or the Mordhuk or even the elves, for all Terak knew.

  13

  Rewards

  I killed a man today, Terak was thinking as they hurried through the boulder-and-tree gorge that led to the Black Keep’s hidden weir gate. Night had fallen around them, but the stars were faint and few in a cloudy sky.

  Torin is dead, and it’s because of me. I killed him.

  “Terak, eyes up.” It was Father Jacques, at his side suddenly and putting a reassuring, gauntleted hand to steady the youth’s shoulder. “It gets easier,” the Chief External muttered under his breath.

  What does, killing? Terak’s feelings seemed oddly disjointed. Fighting the beastials, battling the serpent, seeing the Mordhuk come alive and then not kill him—as well as the elves of the Brilliant Host . . . And those were my people! Much more so than the humans of the Enclave.

  Still— Lord Alathaer looked at him with disgust in a way that Father Jacques had never done.

  And then there was his fight with Torin.

  Beside him stumbled Reticula, looking similarly owlish in the gloom, both of them surrounded by the grim-faced fathers of the Enclave whom Terak had never seen before.

  The weir gate was not so hidden when they arrived. Terak could see that there were other torches held by black-robed figures on the banks of the rushing river.

  “You got it,” one of the figures said with obvious relief, pushing back her hood to reveal none other than Magister Inedi herself. Terak’s eyes moved warily to the other figures, but none of them appeared to be the other chiefs who had so casually discussed taking his life.

  “He did.” Father Jacques nodded in Terak’s direction. “But there was a complication. The Mordhuk is free, and Lord Alathaer was . . .just as accommodating as he usually is.”

  “Idiot,” Terak heard the Magister Inedi mutter. “Of all people, he should know the importance of what we do.”

  “Oh, I think he does, Magister,” Jacques said. “I just think he wants to do it in his own way. He is unprepared for the changes that are to come. The Old Ways, of course . . .”

  Magister Inedi shook her head, about to say something, but then cleared her throat and focused her attention on the two acolytes before her.

  “Acolyte Reticula.” The magister nodded grimly. “Someone tend to her injuries and return her to her room.”

  Terak heard the young woman gasp as one of the fathers ushered her roughly inside the weir gate.

  “Wait,” Terak said. Nothing was right about what had happened today. Someone died. This scroll is important.

  “Have no concern for your friend, Acolyte Terak,” Magister Inedi said. “She did well in surviving, but she can have no more involvement in the work of the Enclave-External. Now, please.” Inedi offered Terak her hand. “Hand over the scroll.”

  Terak hesitated. Not because he felt as though it belonged to him, but there was clearly so much more going on here than just a “testing.”

  The elves of Everdell—were they my family? Is that where I came from? What did Lord Alathaer think I was too young for?

  “The scroll, Acolyte,” the magister reminded him sternly, and, with no other reason to hold it back, Terak released the inscribed tube to the magister’s grasp. She seized it to her chest in an instant with a deep, reassuring sigh. “Now go,” she said to Jacques, who nodded briskly, seized Terak’s unresisting wrist, and dragged him through the weir gate.

  “Terak?” Jacques waited until they were well inside the Black Keep before he spoke to his younger charge. They had already left the Weir far behind, and the father had led the youth on another complicated route, along twisting passages, up staircases and down narrow corridors, before he finally turned and set both hands on Terak’s shoulders.

  In the darkness of the corridor, the only radiance came from the distant glow of a guttering lantern.

  “I don’t know this place,” Terak said. He felt disconnected.

  Jacques shook him.

  Ow. “Hey!” Terak blinked. It hadn’t been particularly rough or painful—it was nothing compared to the normal cuffs and strikes that Father Gourdain would deliver to his students.

  “I’m sorry, but it had to be done,” the Chief External said. The man’s large brown eyes appeared soulful and honest. “I intercepted Acolyte Mendes on the way through the forest,” he said, and Terak froze. He knows. The chief knows what I did.

  “Terak, you did what had to be done. You cannot give into self-doubt or melancholy,” the father said slowly and carefully.

  “Eighth Maxim,” Terak repeated a little sullenly. Doubt is the enemy of action.

  “Quite right, but it is more than that, Acolyte,” Father Jacques said seriously. “The Book of Corrections isn’t just a set of rules. It’s a training manual.”

  “I understand, Chief,” Terak muttered. Hadn’t he heard the same thing every day of his life for the past eighteen years? It didn’t stop Torin from dying though, did it?

  “No. You don’t,” the older man grumbled, before fumbling at his belt pouches to produce something wrapped in wax paper. When the man unfolded it, the scent of honey and cinnamon filled the air. It was a block of mashed fruit, seeds, and oats compressed together. It smelled heavenly.

  “Eat. It’ll help you focus.” The father pushed the entire block into Terak’s hand, and the elf realized how famished he was. When was the last time he ate? This morning—and the night had just fallen outside. Terak wasted no time in stuffing the block into his mouth.

  “Good. Now listen,” the Chief External said. “The maxims of the Book of Corrections are there to guide you, if you let them. If you truly understand them, they will turn you into a better version of yourself. Someone who can walk into the Loranthian Shrine and deal with whatever darkness it had to offer.”

  “Someone who can kill?” Terak paused in his eating as he said.

  The Chief External’s eyes shadowed for a moment. “Yes. If need be.”

  “But—” Terak paused before he continued, unsure if he was allowed to argue with this strange new chief.

  “Go on, speak freely,” Father Jacques encouraged him.

  “But Acolyte Torin did not deserve to die.” Terak spoke the awful truth. I should have been smarter! I should have found another way to defeat him!

  “No, he probably didn’t,” the Chief External surprised the elf by saying heavily.

  What? Terak wondered if that was meant to be reassuring, because it really wasn’t.

  “But that doesn’t mean that it was your fault, or that you didn’t do what you had to do,” the chief said. “These are the sorts of decisions that we make in the Enclave-External, and the sorts of lessons that I teach, Acolyte Terak. Can you live with them?”

  Can I? Terak frowned. Perhaps.

  “I can, Chief External.” The elf drew
himself up a little straighter. He thought about everything that he had done this day. Things he had never imagined he could. “But if I can, I would like to know what is so important about the Loranthian Scroll that a fellow acolyte had to die for it.”

  Father Jacques gave a little intake of breath. He let go of Terak’s shoulders and stepped back in the corridor. “No acolyte speaks like that to the fathers and chiefs of the Enclave.” A glimmer of the distant torchlight caught the man’s eyes.

  He’s going to hate me, just like all the others, Terak thought, clenching his jaw. But he stood firm all the same. If the Enclave are going to use me like a tool, then I want to know why.

  Surprisingly, the Chief External’s next words echoed Terak’s thoughts. “But I suppose that you do have a right to know. And it is lucky that you are no longer an acolyte.”

  Huh?

  Father Jacques drew from one of the deep pouches at his belt a long, simple belt of twisted gray cord, ending in simple black binding. “A gray belt from the Chief External, Novitiate.” He pressed it into Terak’s hands.

  Terak looked at it in astonishment. Somehow, in all the action of the last twenty-four hours, he had forgotten that this had been promised to him. He had started to believe that he would never get one, and that the Enclave would never accept him.

  Terak wondered if here, with the Enclave-External, he had found his place at last. And he wondered what it was that they were up to.

  14

  New Homes and Old Enemies

  “Here, drink.” Father Jacques threw a skin of wine for the elf to catch as he was brought into his new home—the halls of the Enclave-External.

  The main room was oddly shaped—a long L with one side of the roof displaying ancient wooden beams. Narrow and high windows sat under the beams, edged with cobwebs.