by Kim Wedlock
The hatred in her eyes seemed to have stalled even time, and they were so dagger-sharp that he felt he'd been speared to the wall behind him. His heart hammered in his throat and his mouth had dried up again, and he only discovered that he was holding his breath when she finally turned away.
"Follow."
He didn't dare to hesitate. He stayed close, eager to at least escape the other eyes that fixed him, and was barely a half-step behind her when she turned into one of the side rooms. Three more elves were waiting within, but as each looked back expectantly, a definite foreboding darkened the air. His pace slowed, his heart began to race again as the door closed heavily behind him, and though no words were spoken, elven or otherwise, two of the three turned purposefully away. He looked reluctantly to the elf-woman for an explanation, but the words caught in his throat. She gestured towards stone seats, laid out just as in any cathedral's alcoves, and indicated for him to sit. He didn't want to. But he also knew he had no choice.
Uneasily, he selected the stool nearest to the door and tried to ignore his unsilencable mind as it skipped with ideas of what these people - people he suspected were unfathomably more powerful than he - would be capable of doing to him. Whether he was on his own or not.
One of the elves was suddenly beside him - one whose hair was arranged in a way that finally allowed him his first confirming glimpse of knife-sharp ears - and lifted Rathen's sleeve to reveal the silver band, two inches wide, that encased his left bicep. He didn't display his alarm at the elf's abruptness, and neither did the elf make any outward reaction to his probably blasphemous elven bindings, though his face seemed naturally harsh already. His own restraint slipped, however, as he felt magic swarm around the metal, and reminded himself brusquely that of course an elf wouldn't need to form signs to cast spells. Not even Kienza needed them.
Which meant that he would have no clue as to the nature of their spells, and no warning that they were coming beyond the fleeting disturbance in their aura a split-second before they cast them. And he could never defend himself with so little.
The woman turned back to him, prompting the man to move aside, and the two that had stepped away positioned themselves far enough to be out from underfoot but close enough to contribute - or to intervene. Their bodies were tensed in readiness.
He felt his panic claw up into his throat, but his body kept perfectly still while his mind ran rampant despite him, conjuring all kinds of ideas of what he'd let himself in for. But though his blood chilled with foreboding, skin prickled and beaded with anxious sweat, he knew casting a precautionary defence was not an option. He couldn't risk attacking them if their intent truly was harmless - all they'd been so far was sharp-tongued. In fact, he'd only witnessed a single spell.
The woman stood tall and stoic before him, maintaining a small but concerning distance, and gripped him with her cold and methodical eyes. Eyes he couldn't read.
The flood gates opened. Panic thundered through him like a tidal wave, the voice of reason shattering his mind with its cascading doubts and questions, stumbling over itself in the torrent, repeating its confusion over and over and over again.
But despite how many times it challenged what he was doing, forced its warnings and demands to run, run and keep running, he could only give it one answer: he was taking an obscene and desperate risk.
His body turned as rigid as the dead, but he forced himself to breathe. His presence alone had already insulted them; it would be all too easy to burn this bridge with rash actions, especially while the foundations had barely even been laid. Whether he liked it or not, if there was even the slightest possibility that they could provide him with the help they promised, he needed to take it. Which meant that he needed to trust them.
And trust that they were telling him the truth.
He gritted his teeth and clamped down on the fear that tried to move his lips, to squeeze from his throat desperate and futile questions. He knew he wouldn't understand the answers - and in some cases, he decided he would rather not know them one way or the other.
But one thing remained firm in the centre of his mind: if anyone could teach him to restrain the beast that lurked within him, a beast that could be born of nothing but magic, a beast that had slaughtered sixteen innocent people, and was a constant threat to his beloved Aria, it was an elf...
The woman pressed her slender palms together. He stifled his dread. She parted her lips and he held his breath. Her brief, tangled words cut through the air like a knife.
Pain tore through him like a fire over an alchemist's workbench. His mind flashed white with heat. The scream that ripped itself from his throat and scoured his flesh like the chemicals that fed the flame reached his ears as though from another world.
Chapter 56
Narrow shafts of sunlight trickled down through the canopy's young leaves, gracing the carpet of soft, emerald grass. Hundreds of tiny, reflective peach blossoms beaded the tips of delicate branches, amplifying the light, illuminating the small, verdant grove as though with starlight. The air was clean, fragranced by blossoms, hidden lavender and the subtle scent of wood only noticed on dewy mornings, and carried only the sound of a whispering breath tousling the highest leaves, and the gurgling of a small spring concealed somewhere among the roots. There was no trace of the vapid ocean, and the natural purity of the scene was interrupted only by a small shrine at the head of the clearing, carved directly into a stone thrust up by the earth, and a single standing wall chiselled from another. It was beautiful. Peaceful. It would have been the pinnacle of comfort and tranquillity had they been there by choice.
But rather than stumbling merrily upon it and pausing to take a serene lunch, the four had been led blindly, told nothing except that they weren't to wander, and then starkly abandoned with no real idea of where they were nor how long they could expect to be there.
Enough confidence had returned in the absence of any elven or eerie observers to bristle at the abruptness, but not enough to speak out against it, and certainly not to move more than a few paces from the precise spot they'd been dumped. It took almost half an hour before Garon dared more than four steps away to survey the area, and only when he returned did Petra begin a wary patrol as far as their unmarked boundaries allowed.
But though they were both deeply disturbed, they'd collected themselves for the good of all. The trees were dense, limiting visibility to only a few feet, and though the few beasts they'd seen along the coast were apparently passive, if repressive, their active preying on their minds coaxed them to watch the shadows all the closer. They'd seen only three since, and though each had been absorbed in some kind of meditation and kept as still as the stone they'd presumed hewn from, they two had experienced first hand the violent speed and strength that came from such a form. They were not prepared to take chances. If black eyes were staring back at them and their bearers decided to attack, they were more than capable of striking harder and faster than an arrow shot from the boughs.
Which left Anthis and Eyila with little choice but to trust in the swordsmens' expertise and try to occupy their minds. Eyila sat with her back to the chiselled wall and meditated, fully clothed despite the humidity trapped beneath the trees and the breeze it equally locked out. But her heart wasn't in it. She jumped at the slightest sound, be it their footsteps as they routinely passed her by, or one of Anthis's sudden exclamations. But she persisted in trying.
Anthis, meanwhile, had completely lost himself. He raced around the sparse grove like a puppy with his first bone, his initial wariness defeated by fascination as he ran back and forth between the stone forms, studying, comparing and studying again. His less than quiet enthusiasm even drew the attention of the occasional elf, but when they appeared through the trees to ensure he wasn't doing something obscene, he eagerly seized the opportunity to quiz them about, it seemed, everything he'd ever wished to.
Garon and Petra observed with concern from the corner of their eyes, their hands already glued to their hilts, but
Anthis's own quizzical assault seemed to frighten each of them away before insult or trouble could arise. They ran off in moments without gracing him with any kind of response.
But there were, in time, a few it didn't seem to discourage. If not checking up on them, most came without a word or even a glance to kneel for a moment by the shrine - an effigy of Zikhon, they presumed, though it was too stylised for any but Anthis's eyes to interpret - before leaving without giving him a chance to begin. But a small handful, the youngest they had seen, approached the wall and made a show of looking closely at particular carvings while sending the four subtle but curious glances. Anthis blustered over to these scant few with similar lack of tact, but unlike the rest, they met his introduction quite eagerly, abandoning their obvious pretext. But, unfortunately - and to Garon and Petra's great relief - the two who dared to converse with him spoke only in elven and Anthis seemed unable to keep up, while the remainder either presumed as much from the start, or restrained themselves under orders or a recently-invoked cultural taboo.
But he, too, persisted, spurred on by those willing few, and while the elders who weren't as quick on their feet ignored him as he hounded them to the treeline, one particularly grouchy individual went so far as to send him to sleep on the spot to silence him. An action his companions found themselves in agreement with for the full hour he was out.
Though they had absolutely no warm feelings towards their unwilling hosts, they were surprised by the lack of respect and deference the historian showed them. Perhaps he was just as shocked as they were by the discovery and simply had no clue how to handle it. Reading of a people from the pages of dusty old tomes surely painted them in surreal colours.
But while the situation remained in the realms of a tantalising fantasy for Anthis, it was settling heavier and heavier upon the others. They were surrounded, undoubtedly, impossibly, by elves - black-blue hair, silver skin, pointed ears and haughty, though none they had yet noticed wore gloves - they were trapped on an island enveloped in spells, concealed from any who might rescue them or provide them an opportunity to rescue themselves, and they had lost Rathen, their single reasonable defence against the elves' vast and mysterious magic, with little idea of where he was, what he was doing, nor when he'd be back.
It was a numbingly helpless matter.
"It's been hours," Petra grumbled as her path crossed Garon's alternating route. She looked up towards the sky, then tutted vexedly to herself. After eleven glances, she should have learned by now that the sky was entirely concealed by the trees. There was no clue of the time. She knew only that they'd arrived at midday, but with the manner her stomach growled - uncannily like a manticore - it must have been getting late. She grunted miserably. "So much for that mention of eating..."
Garon breathed a dry agreement, but a sudden chuckle snatched their eyes quickly back towards Anthis, who had finally found himself a capable conversation partner.
Petra's grip on her sheathed sword tightened. "Do you think it's wise to let him--"
"Probably not, no..."
She murmured uneasily as neither made any move to interfere. Then her disapproval shifted staunchly onto him. "Why didn't you ask Kienza to heal your arm?"
His expression flattened in boredom. "There was no time. She was already leaving."
"I doubt it would have taken long."
"It's not my place to make those kinds of demands of strangers."
She blinked as he started away from her, attempting to escape back to his rounds. "It--she wouldn't--"
"Will you just stop worrying about me?"
A laborious sigh rounded her shoulders, but she subdued the desire to throw offensive gestures at his back. "Oh, I'm not worrying about you," she drawled instead, her airy sarcasm purposely exaggerated as she began to trail along behind him. "Why ever would I worry? Clearly you know what's best for yourself."
"It isn't a hindrance."
"No, I'm sure, I'm sure. And you know, Rathen isn't suspicious at all. He thinks you're a man of metal, too. Unbreakable. That's why he hasn't gone off by himself to follow a mysterious and bitter old elf-woman who served him the perfect promises like gingerbread. Oh, wait!" She slapped her forehead while her eyes exaggeratedly widened. "He did!"
Her boots slipped and dug into the grass, stopping herself as quickly as she could as Garon spun swiftly on his heel to face her. "Why does this bother you so much?" He demanded through his teeth, his grey eyes hardening in irritation while a spark responded rapidly in her own. "What does my well-being have to do with you? You're always watching me or looking over my shoulder - why is that? What are you expecting? Are you just waiting for me to slip up again?"
The spark ignited as she held his fearsome gaze, and he prepared himself for the venomous retort she was sure to loose and braced against the temptation to stoop to whatever level she would pitch herself at.
But it didn't happen. Her lips tightened, she straightened, then turned and set back to her own rounds, leaving him standing in maddened confusion.
"No," she replied with perfect composure. "I'm not going in circles with you."
"We're only going in circles because you never answer me!"
Her brittle restraint snapped. "Fine!" She whirled after only three paces, blood red hair billowing while the volatility in her eyes swelled like a gusted flame, only adding to his disorientation. "Because," she flared, "you're a strong man. You're determined, you're intelligent, you're skilled with your blade - but you're cursed with everything else that comes with it! You're too proud to admit when you're wrong, when you're hurt, when you're tired, and you carry the weight of everything on your shoulders because you're so stuck in the White Hammer's mentality, even out here in the middle of nowhere, miles from any Hall, that you won't let yourself even consider sharing it. But guess what! We're already burdened by it! In fact, it's worse for us, because you act as though we have nothing at all to do with it, that it's your job to lead us in the right direction and your fault when things like this happen! As if you think we're useless, that we can't pull our own weight or contribute when things get tough. You put all that pressure on yourself! And maybe, at first, it was your fault when we got into trouble, you did slip up, but I know you've always made the best decisions you could and we always got out of it. But this merry little chase of ours has long since slipped out of your control! You could never have known what would happen! To any of us! So you can't keep hoarding the blame and carrying all the weight by yourself - you're going to kill yourself with that kind of pressure! And: your injuries are not badges of honour, either. They don't make you look strong or brave or weathered, they make you look like a child!"
Her voice reverberated through the charged air, ringing in their ears as she stared at Garon in exasperation while he stood still as ice, meeting her gaze with dark, rancorous eyes. Anger hardened the line of his jaw. "Are you done?"
And yet his tone was so indifferent. Her drive deflated like a punctured buoy, collapsing her shoulders, and her eyes softened with the downward turn of her lips. But just what had she honestly expected?
"I am," she sighed, defeated. "For good, I think." She turned away, but a sudden desperation, one familiar but still beyond his comprehension, speared through Garon's reason and forced his hand to grasp her wrist. She snatched it back vehemently. "No no," she said with that same insincere lightness that seemed again to strike him physically, "you've got to make sure we stay safe. I'm going to sit down because I'm tired, but I'm sure I can trust you to--"
"Petra, stop."
Surprise stuttered her feet as his fingers closed tightly back around her wrist, and that momentary shock was all he needed to drag her easily out of earshot and around the other side of the wall. He pressed her firmly against the stone and fixed her with severity. "Listen to me," he said gravely, a tone at which she immediately rolled her eyes, "when we get out of this place, you should--"
"Leave?" She finished wearily. "Why? So you've got one less burden to feel responsib
le for?" She shoved his hand away from her shoulder and matched his ferocity, squaring herself in defiance. "No."
He barred his teeth, jumped an exasperated step back and groped at the air as if he could catch some kind of understanding. "Why?!" He burst, infuriated. "Why is it so important that you stay with us? Why can't you just leave and go somewhere you're not in danger all the time? Is it because you think the Hall has information about your father? Because I don't have anything to tell you about Durhan!"
Sheer outrage flashed through her eyes, but she swiftly regained control. "It's more than that now."
"Why?! What in Vastal's name is it that's keeping you chained to us? To me?!"
She caught his left hand as they both flailed in frantic enunciation. "Because I don't trust you to make the right decisions for yourself."
"Seriously? That's worth endangering yourself for?"
Her gaze erupted anew into a hazel inferno, and he found his efforts to understand suddenly interrupted with a shock. "It is." She released his hand as sharply as she spoke, and it dropped heavily to his side. But Garon didn't scoff or look away in irritation. He was gripped by the sudden depth of her brown-green eyes, their constant, thoughtful if erratic warmth drowned by elements usually locked tightly away, rarely seen for more than a flash but now fully unleashed. In that moment, they screamed volumes. And yet he could only discern one impossible thing from their desperate, beseeching turbulence.