by Alon Shalev
“Because I’m ticklish,” she admitted. “And if you ever tell anyone, I’ll…” She couldn’t think of a suitable punishment.
“That’s good information to have,” Seanchai grinned mischievously. “I remember you from Uncle’s camp. You only ever glared at me. But now I know how to tame the tough girl.”
“Elves need to be tough in this world, Seanchai, even more so when you are an elfe. And you were certainly deserving of my glares.”
She laughed but stopped when she saw Seanchai’s face fall.
“What is it?” she frowned.
“Ilana is an elfe in prison,” he whispered, “and I fear, too, for Rhoddan and our friend.”
Sellia wanted to ask more, but the pain on his face told her everything she needed to know. Instead she said, “Take care of my wound, please, Seanchai. I want to be ready to ride and help you save Ilana.”
He closed his eyes and summoned the energy. When he moved his hands either side of her ankles, she sighed deeply. “That feels good,” she said, and her eyes closed.
When he finished, Sellia looked to be asleep. Carefully, he covered her with his blanket, thinking that in the future, he would have his patients open their bedrolls before he worked on them.
Now that he was alone with his thoughts, he could only think of Ilana, and what Sellia had said–You need to be tough in this world, Seanchai, especially when you are an elf, and even more so when you are an elfe–and tears welled up in his eyes as he gathered his weapons. The practice might numb his emotions. He removed his shirt, unsheathed his two swords and walked away from the fireplace.
Sellia watched from her bedroll as Seanchai maneuvered his swords in increasingly complex forms, his blades falling faster than his tears. She could feel his pain. Though she was older than Ilana, they had lived close by for a short while and met at gatherings of the resistance. Being the only two young elfes in the camps, they had quickly become friends. She regretted saying what she had said. But she also feared for Ilana, an elfe in a violent world of humans. She was acquainted with the violence of soldiers, especially towards elves and elfes.
And the tears fell from both Sellia and Seanchai, though each hoped the other would not notice.
Fifty-Four
Mhari wiped her brow on her sleeve. She had been riding south for two days and didn’t even know if she was going in the right direction. She reached the junction at the southern tip of the Vale of Galbrieth and, though the road headed east, she took a path that continued south.
This brought her to the edge of the Batak desert. Already it was dry and the only signs of vegetation were spindly bushes and shriveled, flat-topped trees. But she knew that when the rainy season hit, temporary rivers would flow down from the mountains through or alongside the plant life and especially the trees. A tree couldn’t grow if it wasn’t rooted along one of these water channels.
She turned her attention back to the matter at hand. From his scrying, Seanchai had revealed that three Tutans had been with Shayth and Ilana when they entered Galbrieth, but only two had been captured.
She needed to find the one who had escaped on his way back to his tribe. It was the quickest way to the desert people, though she was worried at her chances of actually finding a member of an elusive race of people who were experts at blending in with their surroundings.
If she didn’t find him, she would continue south and scry. But once at the camp, she would still have to persuade Targs, if he was leading this hunting party, to let his people accompany her to Galbrieth. This could prove even more difficult than finding them in the first place after the way their last encounter had ended in many deaths and the dislocation of his entire people. Even if she succeeded in persuading the Tutans, they would still need time to prepare. And time was not something she had much of.
Mhari was frustrated that she could not ride her horse. The terrain here was rough and stony, and it might turn an ankle. She walked impatiently pulling her horse’s rein.
A click.
She stopped, cocked her head, and listened. Nothing. She began to walk again, scrying to determine if she was being followed. Yes, there was one man. Another click made Mhari turn and respond in kind to the man standing on the ridge, beaming.
Mhari had exhausted her knowledge of the Tutans’ language, so she spread out her arms, palms facing the man in the universal gesture of peace. The man reciprocated and advanced towards Mhari. As she did, the Tutan threw back his hood to reveal gray hair and a withered face.
Mhari relaxed and smiled. She didn’t know more than a few of the Tutans, but she knew this man. “Kung, it’s good to see you, my friend,” she said, and the two embraced.
Kung clicked rapidly, but Mhari just shook her head. “I don’t understand you, but I think you might be the one who escaped from Galbrieth.”
The desert man stopped and stared. Mhari repeated: “Galbrieth, Galbrieth.” Kung nodded understanding, and Mhari felt her heart leap. “I need to find Targs,” she said. “Targs,” and she pointed at Kung with one hand, at herself with the other, and then moved the two hands together. “Targs,” she repeated.
Kung nodded and then spoke. “Targs. We go.” Then he beckoned her and they began to walk briskly together. The desert man was looking particularly disheveled, and his clothes were stained and torn. He had clearly been walking for a long time. They continued for several hours before taking a path into the mountains.
A short while later, and through a crevice between steep rock walls, they arrived at the camp. The Tutans were busy skinning animals and drying meat near the fire. As Kung led Mhari through, people stopped what they were doing and followed. A few clicks were exchanged with Kung but he did not stop.
By the time they reached the central fire pit, there were seventy or eighty people gathered. Mhari hoped that there might be others out hunting. Kung clicked to a young man to take Mhari’s horse before serving her water and a bowl of stew.
“Thank you,” said Mhari and bent her head.
Kung sat opposite her and was also served food and water. The others hovered silently, probably waiting for Targs, but finally a woman clicked to Kung and he began talking at length. Mhari hoped it was about those who had gone with Kung to the garrison.
In the middle of his monologue, Mhari’s bowl was suddenly kicked from near her mouth. Targs had arrived. Kung sprang up, angry, but Mhari didn’t move. A furious cacophony of clicks ensued between the two elders.
Finally, Kung walked back to the pot of stew and filled another bowl. Glaring at Targs, he handed it to Mhari. Mhari looked up at the leader. She knew Targs hated her and blamed her for the massacre of his people. But the Tutans had a code of honor. Kung had brought Mhari in as his guest and would defend her with his life if necessary.
Targs sighed and shook his head, then sat down facing Kung and Mhari. He had made a serious error in front of many of his people, and judging by the look on his face, he was ashamed. Mhari began to eat again and Kung continued to address the crowd, making sure Targs was listening.
When Kung had finished, Targs turned to Mhari. “I wrong to kick. Not our way.”
“Thank you. It is forgotten,” said Mhari. “Did Kung tell you about Galbrieth?”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you that our friends will all be executed in three days time?”
“Yes.”
“I need your help if they are to be rescued.” Mhari continued, her voice slow but strong.
“Last time we help, many dead.” Targs raised his voice and then translated to the crowd.
There was a murmur of clicks and nodding of heads.
“Will you tell them what I want them to hear?” Mhari asked. “Will you tell them exactly what I say?”
Targs glared at her but she held his stare. Both knew he was honor-bound to obey. He sighed and nodded.
“Tell them that your people are alive, along with Shayth, Ilana, and the elf they went to save. Tell them all five will be executed publicly on the Emperor’s birthday in t
hree days time.”
She paused for Targs to translate before continuing.
“Something has happened; something that just might tip the scales and bring about the fall of the Emperor and his evil regime.”
Again she paused while Targs translated. A hum of anticipation rippled through the crowd at this.
“But it could all go wrong at Galbrieth. You are the only people I have to turn to for help.”
This time a conversation ensued before Targs turned back to her.
“Last time,” he said, “you not save us.”
“I saved many of you, but no, I could not save you all,” Mhari said, her voice low. “I cannot promise that I’ll be able to this time, either. But you should know,” she looked around at the watching faces and said her next few words very slowly, “the commander of the garrison is General Tarlach, the man who led the massacre of your people.” Then to make her point, she repeated, “General Tarlach.”
There was another wave of murmurs as many recognized the name. Then a full-blooded argument broke out, a mass of clicks rose in a crescendo, filling the desert air. Mhari remained seated and sipped her water. There was nothing more she could do. The Tutans needed to decide for themselves.
Fifty-Five
Sellia woke disoriented, unfamiliar with her surroundings. The looming rocks were dark brown, ignited at their peaks by a fresh rising sun. She turned on her side and winced as she felt her ankle. It all came rushing back–the wolfheids, Seanchai the Wycaan, and her horse, Amanith. She sighed.
Once up, she looked around and saw Seanchai standing with his eyes closed, breathing deeply from his stomach. She noted his well-built form and decided that now was a good time to take care of herself. She rose as silently as she could and limped over to the small waterfall and washed her hands, teeth and face.
She turned, blinking away water droplets, and found that Seanchai had finished whatever he was doing and was now blowing on the fire’s embers. He looked up at her.
“How did you sleep, Sellia?”
“Well enough,” she lied.
“I heard you wince in the night. Did your ankle hurt when you changed position? I can work on your ankle while we wait for the water to boil, if you’d like.”
Sellia smiled. “Thank you. How can I refuse?”
She lay back on her bedroll and wiggled until she felt comfortable. Seanchai cupped her ankle with his hands, closed his eyes, and began his breathing. Having just concluded his exercises, the energy did not need to be summoned, and Sellia immediately felt wave after wave of warm energy pulsate into her leg. It was far more intense and focused than the day before, and she found herself breathing deeply with him. The warmth swept up through her leg and into the rest of her body, and she felt the weariness that had accompanied her through the night disappear.
Seanchai also felt the intensity. He too had not slept well. He was eager to pack up Mhari’s belongings and journey leave for Galbrieth. He knew there were only a few days left. He wondered if he could travel by night as well as day, using the cover of darkness to move faster than a normal person’s speed. He had not done this before, but he was certain he could. He knew he could, like he seemed to know so much these days.
But for now, he needed Sellia’s ankle to heal. He wanted her with him when he went to Galbrieth. He didn’t want to go alone. He closed his eyes, thinking of Ilana as he sent out energy with each exhalation.
“Seanchai. Seanchai!” He snapped his eyes open. “It’s too much!” Sellia cried, and he swiftly grounded the energy. Her ankle was red, and Seanchai could feel the heat on his thighs where her leg was resting. He took a deep breath and looked up to find her staring at him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess I got–I need–” He stopped, unable to articulate his thoughts.
“What is it, Seanchai?”
“I need you to heal.” Frustration poured out of his mouth. “I must leave tonight or early tomorrow for the garrison. I need to have a plan in place, probably more than one. And I’ve never been to Galbrieth. I’ve never been to any human city.”
Sellia stared at him. His muscular physique and piercing blue eyes were impressive. But underneath he was still the scared, young elf she had originally met.
“And you’re worried that I’ll slow you down.” She stated this as fact. “Seanchai, if you want to leave me here, I’ll understand. But I can assure you that if I go with you, I will do what needs to be done.”
He nodded. “Perhaps. Let me make breakfast. Then I need to pack this place away for Mhari.”
“Mhari?”
“She is my teacher, also a Wycaan–a human woman. I must reach Galbrieth before her and be prepared to fight without her. I promised I would wait here for two days and hide what I don’t take with me. We lost a day just now, and I’m anxious to scout the city.”
He turned away from her collecting supplies.
She smiled. “Seanchai. I am coming with you. I know the city and can help you navigate it.”
She could see his sigh of relief even though his back was to her. “Thank you,” he said, and meant it.
As he prepared their food, Sellia rested but peppered him with questions about everything he knew about where Rhoddan and Ilana were incarcerated. After he passed her a bowl of hot oat gruel, he disappeared under the rock where the fire was and reappeared with a small leather satchel. From the bag, he took out a book and opened it. The pages were brittle with age.
Seanchai handled it reverently and his eyes became large. “This,” he said, his voice shook, “is amazing.”
Fifty-Six
Shayth kicked himself for not trying to escape when he had been summoned to General Tarlach’s office. Not that he thought he had any chance of succeeding, but the waiting and thinking were depressing, especially the thinking. Perhaps they might have beaten him unconscious. It would have been merciful.
He looked over at Ilana and her cellmate. He still didn’t trust Maugwen and wasn’t sure he would try to rescue her. But he certainly wouldn’t leave Ilana or Rhoddan. What had happened to him? He was a loner. He tolerated no one and helped no one. But now he felt inexplicably bound to these two elves. He turned to speak with Rhoddan, but found him asleep after exercising for most of the night.
Shayth peered out into the alcove. He could not see any guards. It was possibly their lunchtime, which meant they would stay in their guardhouse for a few hours, eating and drinking. He needed to talk.
“Ilana,” he whispered. “You awake?”
She rose and appeared at the bars of her cell, gray and gaunt. She hadn’t been beautiful, at least not in the way he measured beauty, but she had possessed a vibrancy that was now absent. Under the insults and blows, Ilana had grown up and it saddened Shayth to see what she had lost.
“What?” she said, looking furtively towards the passageway where the guards might enter at any moment.
“We need to break out of here, and I need you to be ready.” Shayth said. “Do you think you can get us back to the tunnel?”
She shrugged. “Does it matter? Even if I could, the cap will be sealed. The guide said he would give us two days and then return to screw it on himself.”
Shayth nodded. “That’s true. Rowan probably closed it as soon as he left us. I’m sure he set us up. Tarlach was waiting. If so, the tunnel is certain to be already sealed, permanently. If I ever find that weasel, I’ll kill him.”
“I don’t know any other way out.” Ilana sighed and hung her head.
“Maybe escaping isn’t what’s important,” Shayth considered. “Perhaps getting ourselves killed is enough to prevent Seanchai from trying to rescue us.”
But as he looked at Ilana and Rhoddan, he realized how much he didn’t want them to die. An idea sprouted.
“I’ll speak to Tarlach,” he said.
“Why?” Rhoddan had woken up. “Do you think he might give us a free pass? ‘Run along now, my royal prince, and take your young elf friends. Please be good rebels from n
ow on.’ Your Tarlach is such a sweetheart.”
They made a half-hearted effort to laugh, but had no energy or sense of humor left. After a few moments, Shayth continued his thoughts.
“The Emperor wants me–not you. He knows that neither of you is the one he’s looking for. Perhaps I can bargain for your release.”
“Then we’ll try and rescue you,” Rhoddan promised.
“Tarlach wouldn’t release you until after my execution for that very reason–and he can’t do that without the Emperor’s permission. I have to find something to leverage with, but what?”
They all shook their heads and lapsed into silence.
A short time later, Shayth rapped on the cell bars with a shoe, calling out to the guards until one came stomping down the stairs.
“What’s the ruckus, scum?”
“Tell Tarlach I want to speak with him,” Shayth said his voice strong.
The guard slammed his baton against the bars as a warning, still careful not to touch Shayth. “It’s General Tarlach to you.” Then he turned to leave and muttered over his shoulder, “I’ll pass on the message, your highness.”
Ilana woke immediately when she heard the guards approaching late that night. Rhoddan scrambled from his workout to his cot just as the guards entered the alcove with their lighted torches and clinking chain mail. They made as much noise as possible unlocking the door to the cell and for good measure a guard smashed his baton on Ilana’s and Maugwen’s cell bars.
“Come on, you,” one said to Shayth with a wry smile. “General Tarlach wants a chat.”
Shayth exited his cell silently and was immediately surrounded by six guards. They climbed the stairs and were gone.
Ilana stood up, rubbing her eyes. “What’s he doing?” she asked Rhoddan.
“I don’t know. If he can, he should bargain his way out.”
“That won’t help us, though,” Maugwen was awake now.