by Lee Dunning
“That’s true,” Raven admitted. Her stomach twisted in disgust as she realized she’d actually felt disappointed to miss out on the combat. As sweet as Linden had been, he had possessed a warrior’s heart. Now that fire belonged to her, and it threatened to overwhelm her. In her new role as co-leader of First Home’s Shadow Elves, Raven knew she’d have need of Linden’s strength and energy, but she couldn’t allow it to dominate every aspect of her personality. She and Linden would have to learn to accommodate one another. This twin-souled business was proving to be a bloody nuisance.
“All right, does that settle things?” W’rath wanted to know.
Raven nodded, but Lady Swiftbrook shook her head, unsatisfied. “Can either of you speak Terish? Or even the common trade language?”
“Of course not,” W’rath said. He looked to Raven, but she shook her head.
“Before going to Second Home I’d never even seen a human,” Raven said. “I’ve yet to speak to one.”
“So, you two plan to march up to King Oblund and do what, exactly?” Lady Swiftbrook grinned wolfishly.
“Rude gestures come to mind,” Raven said. She demonstrated, directing an especially elaborate and crude hand sign at an imaginary king. She cocked her head and grinned. “Of course, if that fails, holding a sword to his throat should encourage him to cooperate.”
Lady Swiftbrook chuckled. “I doubt a human, who knows little about elves, would understand our gestures. The sword may help subdue him, but it won’t allow you to communicate with him.”
“Very well, madam, you have made a valid point,” W’rath said. “Since the council decided to allow the wretch to live, we will require a means by which to communicate with him. Perhaps you have some sort of magic rings we might utilize for such a purpose? Or perhaps you wish to volunteer yourself as translator?”
Lady Swiftbrook made a face. “Ancestors forbid! I don’t speak a word of any human language. Depending on the language, it’s either like trying to speak with a mouth full of pebbles, or rocks. The only thing worse is Orcish.” She fluttered a hand in front of her face as if dispersing W’rath’s suggestion as she would an annoying fly. “No, what I had in mind, is for you to take Foxfire along with you. He’s fluent in dozens of languages and since he’s a Wood Elf, he’s nearly as stealthy as a Shadow Elf.”
“Not to mention he’ll make sure the king doesn’t accidentally fall on your sword three or four times,” Raven added.
W’rath glared at the young warrior, insulted. “I’m more efficient than that. He need only impale himself once.”
“So you had planned on murdering him!” Lady Swiftbrook said.
“Not at all, madam. I agreed not to kill him, and I shall abide by that decision. I found the concerns expressed at the meeting valid, and given my lack of current knowledge of human culture, I bow to the collective wisdom of the rest of you. I merely wish to make clear, in the event he did die by my hand, I would finish the task in a clean and efficient manner. Well … perhaps not so clean. Slicing people open usually results in spraying blood and tumbling entrails.”
Lady Swiftbrook rolled her eyes. “Thank you so much for that image.”
Raven empathized with Lady Swiftbrook’s plight. Trying to have a serious conversation with W’rath was like finding oneself trapped in a labyrinth. Every time it seemed obvious what he would do, W’rath set off in a completely different direction, and his victim fell into yet another pit trap.
“Don’t look so exasperated, madam. I won’t fight you on using Lord Foxfire as an interpreter. If he agrees to it, he’s welcome to come along with us on our little adventure.”
“Fine,” Lady Swiftbrook replied, though her tone suggested she still suspected W’rath of plotting some unsavory end for the king. “I’ll also see about getting the two of you a couple of translation rings. That way you can at least understand the conversation even if they cannot understand you.”
“Splendid,” W’rath said, blowing out a thin stream of smoke, and daintily tapping a bit of ash off of his cigarette. He smiled innocently until the Sky Elf turned on her heel and stormed off. “She needs to learn to be more trusting.”
“What are you up to?” Raven asked, as perplexed as Lady Swiftbrook.
“Why, absolutely nothing, lass. I’ve never met people so easy to toy with.”
“You’re an ass.”
“On occasion, people have described me as such.”
“So, aside from annoying one of our few friends, what did you just accomplish?”
“Ah, look at this,” W’rath said, waving his arms, emphasizing the empty space around them. “We seem completely on our own.”
“And?”
“And we may now pay a visit to Lady Stormchaser’s estate, and ascertain if she had any information pertinent to hunting down those who masterminded the attack on Second Home.”
As they started to walk, Raven tried to wrap her head around the W’rath’s thinking. “If you had mentioned it to Lady Swiftbrook she would have wanted us to wait until she could join us—is that it?”
W’rath nodded. “This way, if our tour of the estate upsets her after the fact, we need only apologize for our thoughtlessness. The other would have put us in the position to either go against her wishes or to deny ourselves the opportunity to explore.”
Raven shook her head in disbelief. “We’re going into battle tonight and all you can think about is pawing through Lady Stormchaser’s belongings? Shouldn’t we … I don’t know—work on our attack plan?”
“Planning with whom exactly? You and I make up the entire Shadow Elf strike force. Our plan consists of sneaking into the camp, finding the resting mage, subduing him, and paying the king a visit. Foxfire shall aid us in communication, and one of his kin will point us in the right direction. All we have to do is avoid discovery. If a human exists who can see us when we merge with the shadows, I’m an incredibly attractive gnome.”
“You make it sound quite simple.”
“It really is, lass. Provided the king doesn’t start running about, trying to assist in the battle, we should have no trouble capturing him. As long as we get to him before the First Born and Sky Elves launch their attack, that shouldn’t happen.”
Raven scowled. She could think of dozens of things that could go wrong. “What if the mage fights back? How do we conceal him once we do capture him? What if the king has a lot of people with him? What if …”
“Lass! Please!” W’rath protested. “First of all, the mage in question will be resting from his very exhausting ritual. He may have a few tricks up his sleeve, but his fatigue will keep him from doing much. On top of that, unless he’s set up an elaborate magic alarm, he isn’t going to know we’re around until we pop out of the shadows and knock him senseless. You will then sling him over one shoulder, and once you merge with the shadows again, he’ll be just as well hidden as you.”
“Hmmph. Maybe. What about the king’s guards? Based on the knowledge I’ve gained from Linden, the king will have at least four. There’s a good chance he’ll also have some advisors present.”
W’rath took the information in stride. “There will be three of us, and we will have the element of surprise. If hostilities erupt, drop the mage and lay about yourself. You have more than enough skill to deal with a handful of rabble. You possess at least a portion of a First Born’s strength, which means you’re much stronger than a human. Even if one of them manages to injure you, you’ll quickly regenerate—they won’t. If anything more threatening than a common soldier threatens us, I’ll finish them off quickly and move on the king. You and Foxfire can clean up the rest, and then join me for a short and sweet conversation with King Oblund. We’ll take him captive and escape through the portal provided by Lord Icewind’s subordinate.”
“Just as simple as that?”
“Just as simple as that.”
“When this blows up in our faces I’ll remind you of this conversation.”
“I would expect nothing less of y
ou, lass.”
Appearing much too smug, W’rath came to a halt and grew quiet. It took Raven a moment to realize they had arrived at their destination.
Before them, a pure white structure blossomed from amid the acres of pristine forest surrounding it. Myriad graceful curves, stretched into the sky, impossibly high. Perhaps a trick of the eye gave it the appearance it moved, as though alive, at once organic, and yet, completely beyond any worldly description.
“Supposedly, Lady Uverial Stormchaser herself, designed this place,” W’rath said. “I managed to corner Lady Swiftbrook’s cook this morning, on the pretext of learning his recipe for scones. I had little trouble learning interesting tidbits about this place.”
“I suddenly feel very insignificant,” Raven said. She couldn’t imagine the power and skill required to create such a structure. Then she remembered the sprawling Shadow Elf palace from the day before. While vastly different, she could still see the same power at work here.
They stepped from the dappled shade of the glade’s silver oaks, and slipped reverently up the expanse of steps leading to the gracefully carved doors. More enchantment was at work here, protecting the polished stone, silver wood and subtle washes of color from filth and exposure.
At the doors W’rath hesitated, and Raven suspected he felt the same air of anticipation about the place she sensed. She wondered where the feeling came from, and then it struck her that the surrounding forest had grown silent. No birds chirped. No cicadas buzzed. Even the gentle breeze that had accompanied them here had died away.
“The place seems deserted,” she said. She knew she stated the obvious, but felt the need to insert herself into the stillness, disrupt it.
“It’s possible she lived here alone,” W’rath said, though he didn’t sound convinced. While casters of her caliber often had retreats where they could study their craft in peace, this place was much too vast. Even from the outside, the many balconies, windows and floating bridges, made it obvious it housed many smaller rooms suitable as bedrooms or private studies.
“Hundreds of people could have lived here and only occasionally met another soul in passing,” Raven said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Where did they all go? Surely, Lady Stormchaser didn’t take them all to Second Home with her to be killed?”
“That’s a disconcerting thought,” W’rath murmured. “I think it more likely they merely relocated in deference to this place’s new owners.”
“What do you mean? What new owners?”
“Why us, of course,” W’rath replied, giving Raven a mischievous wink. “You’ve obviously felt the strange atmosphere surrounding this place. It’s been waiting for us.”
Without another word, W’rath placed his hands on the silver doors and the air round them burst into sound. Rather than the peal of an alarm, which Raven had feared, a sweet chime of welcoming washed over them, spreading out in a wave, awakening the birds, the insects, and even the recently stifled breeze. Raven turned, seeing the trees shiver, their leaves quaking at the sound’s passing. Magic carried that sound and continued on, spreading across the island.
She turned back to W’rath. “All of First Home will know of our inheritance,” he said.
“But we already have a home built for us.”
“While beautiful, we don’t belong there,” W’rath said. “It’s isolated. K’hul, and those like him, will assume we’re down there cooking up some evil scheme. Up here, we remain seen and included. We stop being them and become us.”
Raven thought about all the many tragedies that had gone on, sight unseen, for so many years, and had to agree. The damage T’sane and Reaper had done to the Shadow Elf population might well prove beyond repair. That only the Wood Elf councilors had tried to do anything for the youngsters, sickened Raven. Probably murdered, the two lay dead somewhere, as forgotten as the young Shadow Elves. How could such a thing happen?
She voiced her puzzlement to W’rath, but he didn’t reply. Hands pressed against the silver doors, he appeared in the midst of communing with them. Satisfied with whatever the door conferred to him, he pushed it open and strode inside. “Oh!” Raven gasped as she followed him into the huge front gallery.
The structure’s creator had used light to great advantage. Not only did windows dominate every wall, but mirrors, gems and exotic crystals gleamed from strategically placed ledges and niches, capturing rays, bending them and sending them on, transformed into a rainbow of colors. Outside, the walls shown white, but the interior glowed with a dazzling assortment of reflected light.
As incredible as Raven found the light show, the sculptures flanking the grand staircase left her breathless. The statues towered above them, easily twice as tall as any First Born. On the left a slim, elegant Sky Elf stood, so perfect she gave the impression she could break from her pedestal and stride into battle. Her hair fell in a straight sheet down her back, down to her ankles. Clad in chain armor, she carried a slim sword in one hand. In the other hand she held a tome. Uverial Stormchaser had been a fierce warrior, but she had also brought the written word to the elves, and supposedly had recorded all of the history from those early days. W’rath and Raven moved into the gallery and stared up at her. “The First lead us into battle,” W’rath said, “but if not for this lady, we would have remained savages. All the beautiful things the elves love today would have never come to pass without her.”
Raven had never heard such a tone of reverence come from W’rath’s lips. She peered at him, startled to see his eyes glittered with moisture. “I thought you didn’t believe in gods,” she said.
“Ah, lass,” he said, turning to her with eyes that had suddenly gone deep, fathomless, “not viewing them as gods takes nothing away from them. If anything, it makes them more heroic. Flawed, they knew fear, and pain, and loss. By calling them gods, we belittle their accomplishments and excuse ourselves from not achieving more.”
“Admire them, but don’t worship them?”
“Perhaps a bit of an oversimplification,” W’rath said, turning toward the second statue, and blinking owlishly at it. Puzzlement flitted across his face. “They’re important figures in our history, but more than that, our culture is built upon the foundations they lay. Selectively ignoring their good and bad aspects paints an inaccurate picture of our history. We make saints and villains out of people who most likely a embodied a mixture of many traits—heroism and altruism, certainly, but also ambition and cruelty. Without taking into account all of these things, important moments in our past lose all sense.”
“Like that painting of the First and the giant king?”
“That’s an excellent example of how history gets altered because the individuals involved have grown into something mythic instead of historic. It’s not enough for history to present the First as the most powerful of us, he must also have possessed flawless honor, intellect and compassion. I won’t deny his status as a great War Leader, however his greatness didn’t stem from perfection, but from having the foresight to surround himself with people who excelled in areas where he fell short.”
“One of those being his son Umbral,” Raven said. In wonder, she strode up to the second statue, and let her fingers trace the words etched into the plaque on its base.
W’rath joined Raven at the base of the second statue. His eyes widened in surprise. His gaze traveled back and forth from the plaque to the statue proper. A brief thrill of terror ran up his spine until he truly focused on the features of the sculpted face. The subject of the piece had the gangly build of a youth, probably intended to represent him just before his imprisonment in Traitor’s Heart. That would have put him at about fourteen. He had never seen his reflection until after spending quite some time in the Abyss. Either the sculpture was highly inaccurate, or he had changed quite a bit over the years. He looked again at the sculpture of Lady Stormchaser. She appeared exactly as he remembered her. So, as a boy, he probably had resembled this pensive little creature with the silly stub of a ponytail poking out th
e back of head.
“I’m not imagining this, right? You see it too?” Raven asked.
“I admit to some surprise,” W’rath agreed.
“Surprise? More like bloody amazing! Don’t you see?” Raven continued to trace the etched words on the base plate as if certain the moment she pulled her hand back, Umbral’s name would blink out like a mirage.
“Apparently not, lass.”
“One of the most controversial topics in the history books involves the truth about Umbral’s appearance. You heard Kiat and K’hul earlier. There are people who believe any child born of a Shadow Elf and another sort of elf will come into this world as a monster. This single statue completely invalidates that argument.”
“Assuming it isn’t simply a romanticized depiction of the boy. He and Lady Stormchaser were friends, after all.”
“Do you believe that’s the case?” Raven challenged.
“No, I do not,” W’rath said, studying the much younger version of himself. “It does beg the question though: if this statue has stood here all this time, why does any question remain concerning the boy’s appearance?”
“Yes!” Raven cried triumphantly. “Finally, someone else sees the discrepancies that have bothered me since I started my research.” She grabbed W’rath by the arm and dragged him back over to the statue of Lady Stormchaser, pointing at the tome held by the great lady. “She wrote down our history, right? Where did it go? Why have dozens of Elven scholars written and rewritten what they think happened back then? We should simply be able to turn to the source.”
“Obviously it’s gone missing and any copies of it as well.” He studied both statues, his brow pinched in confusion. “And not just the books, but their authors as well. We know Umbral’s fate, but what of the others? What of Lady Stormchaser herself? For that matter, what of the First? Can you tell me what happened to them? Of anyone from that time? We don’t age. We’re immune to disease. We regenerate from wounds. Even given the violence of the time, and the expanse of years, at least a few people from then should call these islands home.”