by Kim Wedlock
Rathen heard steel slide slowly over a sheath's locket as Petra drew her sword, and Garon behind them as he hurried down from the dead helm. Anthis, too, suddenly clutched a distasteful dagger, and Eyila had loosened her hands. But Rathen stood paralysed, rooted under his first clear look at them by helplessness and a terrifying thought, an instinctive understanding that burned in his gut and one he fought desperately against accepting. Every pair of onyx-black eyes pierced him alone, while gaunt faces, sharp and angular, curled into slight but monstrous snarls, freezing his already chilled blood. And all he found the mind to do was wish with all his might that the boat would just keep sailing.
But the unseen force that escorted the boat began to slow its lead, drawing them in perfect line with the stone arm. Their anxiety mounted as they tightened together, and as more joined the watchful crowd, moving among them with an oppressive authority, Rathen finally loosened his fingers.
But not all of these new arrivals were like the others, and incomprehension slackened their tensed muscles, tight sword grips and twitching fingers.
Where the beasts wore simple sarongs of neutral shades - and a few, they noticed among them, meagre chestguards concealing curiously feminine features - these three wore robes of silver adorned in details of the purest white and darkest black, covering quite human bodies. Their skin appeared just as white at first, but shone silver in the light just as Eyila's did bronze, and their black hair was tinged with a deep but definite shade of blue, pronouncing all the more the pale hues of their eyes.
But those eyes bore the same watchful acuity as the beasts around them, and their unmistakable hostility restored the five's frail courage.
Except for Anthis, who gawked anew.
"Stop it, you fool," Petra hissed as quietly as her anxiety would let her. "Don't antag--"
"No one mention a thing about the Zi'veyn." The historian shot them only the briefest look, but his eyes flared gravely despite their conflicting glitter of awe, and his demeanour was suddenly just as sharp and severe. "Nothing about the magic, Enhala, anywhere we've been - nothing."
"What is it?" Garon asked quietly from beside him, but any answer, even one delivered as quickly as his warning, was silenced by a sharp and brutal voice that rose from the land as the boat finally creaked to a dreadful stop.
They looked back to the three silver figures and hesitated as they picked over the words. It took a long moment for anyone but Anthis to realise they weren't of any living tongue.
"Das koruuz," he called back quickly, forcing his voice not to shake. "An feyk, val...uh..." He ignored the others' short, panicked glances. "Val...anakhi!"
Their eyes shifted expectantly back onto the gathering, among whom were shared equally uncertain looks. "Anakhaz fas voruul?"
"What are they saying?"
"They want to know who we are." He raised his voice again and answered, within which they each managed to at least decipher their names. But the woman at the head of the trio, sour with distinctly unwelcoming eyes, gave him only a brief response in a tone they were certain was tart. Anthis grunted uneasily and pushed himself away from the woodwork.
"Tell them we're sorry," Petra whispered, "that we didn't mean to come here and that we'll leave right away..."
But Anthis shook his head, and a rope landed over the side, tossed by one of the beasts. "We have to go with them. Don't argue, just do it."
"Who are they?" Rathen asked sharply, but again the eyes Anthis turned back upon them were both grave and excited.
"Elves."
He didn't delay in pushing out the gangplank and was the first to descend it, albeit tightly, while the others lingered behind, stalled in shock. Garon was the quickest to collect himself, his professionalism faithfully reasserted, and his stoic departure encouraged the others to follow if just for fear of being left behind.
Satisfied by their obedience, the woman turned without a word of explanation and began to lead them away. The two remaining took up the rear, notably blocking their return to the boat and fencing them immediately into a solid, single-file line, leaving them no choice but to tread the stone path as it climbed quickly into the thick forest. They were taken deep into the ominously tangled land with alarming speed, but none of them could spare that detail much fret.
Every one of them reeled. Their guard remained rigid and their eyes darted all around them, between every twisted tree and into every creeping shadow, and the world had suddenly become decidedly surreal. The oppressive terror that stifled their breath like a hot, damp cloth began to lift the further from the quay and the creatures they moved, but they were smothered instead by a rapid incredulity. Whether they believed the enthusiastic young man's conclusion or not - for blue hair and silver skin, there were no flashes of pointed ears - the stories they'd each been told as children began crawling unbidden from their memories; from tales warning of the brutality that came from the elves' misuse of magic and intelligence, to fables of elven spirits carrying naughty children away at night, dragging out their souls and eating them whole. They thought they'd outgrown the adolescent fears, but the twisting of their guts and beading perspiration begged to differ.
Their desperately flitting eyes caught unwilling glimpses of white bodies where the foliage thinned, and buildings hewn from whole stone stood timelessly in their depths, growing larger and grander than the last with every passing minute. But rather than beauty, rather than marvel, all that struck them was the haunting thought that they walked among ruins that hadn't yet fallen to disrepair, and extinct people who had yet to gasp their final breath. The question presented itself, though none dared to ponder it: had they passed though a barrier? Or had they passed through time?
Perhaps neither. More likely - and more appealing - it was a curious dream. Or a nightmare. They were being led like prisoners, and neither did the unnatural menace of the sentinels that watched their every movement dissuade that impression. Nor Rathen's unyielding dread.
Only Anthis, it seemed, was capable of looking beyond it. While they watched the woman at the lead with the severest mistrust, the almost outrageous zeal in his eyes as they darted all around shone through brighter and brighter with his every step, even despite the tightness that still bound his shoulders, as it did everyone else's. He gasped, he muttered, he chuckled giddily, and with every foolish, stifled sound he made, their muscles knotted only tighter.
After ten mentally exhausting minutes they found the edge of the forest, abrupt but natural as the dense fig trees gave way to a courtyard carved from the same white stone, and Anthis gasped aloud at the temple that rose in perfect elegance at its head. Intricately carved in images that could apparently only be appreciated by elf or historian, its grandeur would have astounded them, too, had its nature not been so imposing.
The robed woman stopped and turned sharply as she took the first step atop the stone, bringing them to a stumbling halt beneath her. The others moved up to join her, and together they cast their incisive and fractious glares from the slight but definite platform. She spoke again in the harsh language, the lines around her pouting lips revealing her seniority. All eyes shifted onto Anthis as he replied, his companions' consistently clueless but expectant, the others' dark with scrutiny.
And then those terrible, scrutinous eyes crashed upon Rathen, and he fought with all his strength not to take a step backwards. He parted his dry and sticky lips to speak as more harsh and alien words were spoken in his direction, but to his relief, Anthis replied in his stead.
But the woman's eyes, pastel-green, darkened even further upon the mage. "No human should have been able to do that."
The five stared back at the imperious figures, increasingly dumbstruck and far from sure what to make of them, but a flicker of hope kindled for the fact that, whatever or whoever they were, they clearly didn't want them on their land. But though they would have loved nothing more than to show themselves out, double time, something had caused them to lead the group into their inhospitable territory, and th
at stifled the flicker before it could offer any heat.
The woman turned to her companions and spoke quietly, but Anthis didn't catch enough of it to translate. As one of the three left with a bow of her head, she turned back to Rathen. "Your magic is unstable," she informed him clinically and without introduction, her speech clear and fluent. But Rathen only frowned.
"What?"
"Surely you are aware," she replied, an insincere smile curving her thin, unkind lips. "You cannot control your transformations - though of course that is no surprise for a fuhrahz."
He blinked uncertainly, and Anthis rubbed his nose. "Half-breed," he offered him very quietly.
Rathen's eyes flashed. "What do--"
"Please," she continued calmly, raising her slender white hand to punctuate her interruption, though a fire burned dangerously in her eyes. "Do not get distracted. A fuhrahz--"
"I have a name."
This time, she blinked, clearly taken aback by his own abruptness. "...My sincere apologies. Please..."
"Rathen Koraaz."
Immediately the expressions of both robed figures twitched with definite disdain, but the woman recovered with a polite smile. "Rathen Koraaz," she drawled needlessly, "your human side is out of sync with your...with the rest of you."
"You mean my magic?"
"No, your other half. Your..." Her expression twitched hatefully again. "Your elven heritage."
"My--"
"Please," her eyes seared once more despite her lingering, increasingly false smile. "Do not interrupt. You wear a band around your arm, do you not? And your mother gave it to you at a young age? As I suspected. To aid your human constitution. Usually they are only given to elven children for their first few years to help them learn control over their magic, but in your case...well, without it you would never have survived its awakening."
The confusion that contorted his face only deepened. "B-but no other mage--"
"No other 'mage' is half elven. One twenty-sixth, at best."
He stepped forwards, increasingly exasperated by her own interruptions, while the others watched in dismay as their minds ticked slowly over their gathering and increasingly preposterous thoughts. "What are you saying? What do you mean?"
She muttered something coarse that prompted Anthis to glare, and closed her eyes for a moment. "Your mother was an elf." Her eyes flicked then to Anthis, who opened his mouth to speak while Rathen fell still and silent. "How can I be sure it's his mother? Because when an elf takes a human female as a mate, the gifts rarely survive in totality in the womb. But when a human male is taken, the matter is quite different - which is why such a union has been forbidden since the dawn of your kind. But," her gaze flicked back onto Rathen, now so still he seemed not to be breathing, "we will help you to control it."
"Why?" He said quickly, startling himself with his own voice.
"For the single fact that you bear Zikhoruikanax's gift, and by the rights of our faith, we absolutely cannot allow something so sacred to become corrupt and run wild. Unfortunately we cannot stop your transformations nor remove your ability to do so, such a thing is not possible. We can only teach you to control them. But first, the cuff's spell will have to be repaired - assuming you do not wish for your magic to consume you in the coming months."
His eyes were still lost and distant, but afflicted now with the grievous memory of the mage who lay seared in the desert. "I don't..."
"Then you will follow me."
"Wait--"
She spun towards Anthis, her unquenchable fire finally bursting into an inferno. "Enough of your questions! This is a place of praise and worship to our saviour, not a museum. We help your friend only because it concerns Him. There is no other reason." She straightened, the curl of her lip subdued, and turned to speak briefly with the remaining elf in perfect composure. "Thuvik will show the rest of you where you can eat and repose. You must be weary after being on the water for days. Rathen Koraaz will come with me."
Protests formed on their tongues as she curtly turned her back and started towards the temple, but their voices had been chased away. Even Garon paled.
Rathen swallowed hard and tightened his fists while Petra shuffled up beside him.
"You can't go with her," she insisted very quietly. "You have--"
"I have no choice."
The shortness of his tone silenced her, and she stared instead at the resolve that hardened his eyes. She felt something stir within herself as she watched him track the elf across the courtyard. Confidence. Summoned by the determination that had fallen over him from nowhere she could fathom. It wasn't clear what he thought of what the elf-woman had said - she wasn't sure what she thought of it, if she even believed it or this whole situation at all - but something had taken him over, something of his own making, something driven by necessity that he was compelled to answer.
She flexed her left hand, a habit she had yet to notice. He still had no clue of Garon's injuries, but he was no fool. He didn't want to put anyone at risk, especially if that risk came from himself, and he had just been presented with a possible solution - likely the first such hope he'd had in his life. It didn't seem to matter who had presented it, nor where, nor why, nor even if it seemed remarkably and suspiciously convenient. He intended to grasp it. And she suspected that Aria was at the root of that resolve.
Petra said nothing as he started after her, leaving them behind without a word. Garon, too, stood taller as he watched in silence, and shortly turned his attention onto the waiting Thuvik and ordered the others to follow.
"What if something happens?" Anthis asked quietly as the only slightly less imposing elf led them away from the temple and around the edge of the courtyard. "He's our only real defence against--"
But Garon silenced him with a grunt, shifting his hand closer to his sword hilt. "We will just have to manage."
The silence of the temple was sheer, absolute. There was no rustle of movement as robed figures settled into positions of worship, there was no murmur of prayer from those already prostrated over the carven floor - there was not even a whisper of breath from those kneeling upon buckwheat cushions in a deep and distant trance of contemplation.
The only thing that seemed capable of shattering it at all were Rathen's very conscious footsteps.
He cringed as he trailed behind the woman, shrinking smaller as his every step echoed back five painful times louder and drew the irritated attention of every soul within, their pale eyes flashing upon him first in curiosity, then in disgust. He gave his very best efforts to stepping lighter, but such effort broke his regular gait and resulted in clumsy scuffs. He felt his cheeks grow hotter. He'd never felt so exposed in his life.
Magic could have muffled them, and the idea occurred to him anew every few seconds, but the following thought of displaying his powers in the presence of...and under such outraged eyes... No. Magic was not an option. And perhaps it wasn't his footsteps alone that disturbed them. He could sense the intense aura of magic from every individual with great clarity, so his own must have stuck out like a sore thumb. Especially if it was unstable enough to cause this belligerent woman concern...
He averted his sight to stare at the ground, his shoulders hunching under the unreasonable shame that had become so intense that he sickened even himself. But though he no longer even grazed another soul with his eyes, he was acutely aware of two bodies kneeling at the centre of the hall. Because they were not like the others. But despite their towering, jagged and horrifying appearance, they were more still and reverent in their bearing than any of the others, and the aura that radiated from the both of them was of perfect tranquillity. Not violence. Not hatred. Not terror. And they were the only two who didn't seem to notice him.
He dared a glance towards them, curiosity knitting his brow, but his shame didn't allow his eyes to linger.
Finally, they stepped through a door at the far end and the temple was shut away behind it, not a moment too soon. But the short corridor and adjoining alcov
es that now lay ahead weren't empty, either, and he wasn't able to encourage himself to even level his shoulders. But at least here there was noise. Rustles, murmurs, breaths - even whispers.
He tried to ignore this newest wave of hateful glares and hurried up alongside his escort, matching her long stride and daring a thoughtful look. "How do you know about my transformations?" He asked as quietly as he possibly could. "Has word from Carenna--"
"Please." Impossibly, her tone became even sharper and crueller, and he stumbled as if the ice she'd spoken with had taken form on the ground. But at least she didn't turn her matching eyes upon him. "We are not interested in your people's petty business. I know about them because I felt the extent of your heritage, and I know they're out of control because the horror upon your friends' faces at seeing the kozahn was born of recognition, not of magic."
"Recognition?" He frowned, but as the woman sighed laboriously, that innate understanding that rocked him to his core, the undeniable truth he refused to face, returned with even greater force. And this time he couldn't ignore it. His expression dropped and haunted eyes widened. "That's..."
"What you become. An avatar of Zikhoruikanax. I'm not surprised you're unaware - in your uncontrolled state I doubt you would have comprehended your own reflection, if you'd stopped thrashing around long enough to catch it."
"But why?" He snapped incredulously, forgetting himself and drawing returning gazes. "What purpose could such an ability possibly--"
Like a hurricane, she whirled on him, stunning him in fear as a milk-green fire blazed again in her eyes, igniting within him the sudden comprehension that what he'd seen of their intolerance and thinly veiled hostility so far was not even a shadow of the malevolence they could truly exhibit. Her lip twitched acridly and she spoke through her teeth. "To maintain peace. But yours is imperfect, tainted by human blood, and it causes death rather than discouraging violence. That you should be able to do it at all is the greatest affront to us!" She took a step towards him, and he immediately stepped back. "You creatures view Zikhoruikanax with fear. Rather than accepting the inevitable and being humbled by mortal fragility, you view Him as a representation of something to try to flee and hide from! As the end of all things, as something dark and evil! You misunderstand and yet cast steel judgements, closing your mind to correction or consideration!" A sickening smile suddenly replaced her glower, and a humourless chuckle added further poison to her voice. "Perhaps your violent avatar is a fitting representation, if of your own Zikhon. For the one you've conjured bears no resemblance at all to Him."