A Dead God's Tear (The Netherwalker Trilogy)

by Eisenhardt, Leighmon

  But Erinaeus also knew that there was a delicate balance to maintain when dealing with underlings. Too much freedom and they’d start to plot behind your back, too little and it fell to you make every little decision.

  He unfurled the scroll and began to read. “Huge explosion in Lowtown. . . mages. . . rogue assassin.” Murmuring lightly to himself as his eyes scanned the paper, his excitement grew.

  The report confirmed a few things and it opened up the possibilities of so much more. It was like the edges of a puzzle coming together to form a painting that grew clearer with every word.

  “Sire?” the messenger inquired, jolting Erinaeus to the present.

  “Good job,” he said quickly, reaching into a pocket within his robe and pulling out a small bag that tinkled as he tossed it to the man. “You were wise to bring this to my attention. If you see anything else, come to me immediately.”

  “Yes, sire!”

  Erinaeus grabbed his traveling cloak and strode out the door, pausing a moment. “But, if you bother me with anything of less importance, I’ll roast you where you stand. Never forget that.”

  He didn’t wait for a response, striding down the passageways of his hideout with a destination in mind. He had so much to do and every passing minute the opportunity would slip farther from his hands. There was an assassin he had to find, among some other things that had to be set into action.

  There was a loose end to tie up.

  ❧　❧　❧

  “Wake up. It’s already late in the morning and still you lie here.”

  Marcius rubbed his eyes, the stern figure of Lorisen coming into focus. The elf wore a strangely neutral expression, his arms crossed as he loomed over Marcius.

  “Good morning to you too,” Marcius mumbled, swinging out of bed. At some point he must have dozed off, but it wasn’t anything close to a restful sleep. He ached all over.

  “We have much to do this morning. Get dressed and meet me outside the training grounds within the hour.”

  And so it was a half-hour later when a hastily scrubbed Marcius was waiting outside with the general sense of uneasiness that one acquires when they’re not really sure if they’re in trouble or not.

  “Good to see that, out of everything, you’re at least punctual,” the elf said as he arrived, tossing something to Marcius’s feet. A wooden training sword.

  “You can’t honestly expect me to fight you?” Marcius said, bending down to pick up the wooden sword. He found, though he wasn’t an expert, it felt well balanced and it fit comfortably in his hand.

  “I expect you to try,” Lorisen said grimly, no trace of his former friendliness on his face.

  Marcius was still trying to work around why the elf had such a drastic change from his previous jovial demeanor when Lorisen struck, coming in so fast that Marcius barely had time to even flinch. The sword stung his wrist sharply, causing Marcius to drop his own weapon in pain and surprise, before coming in to slap hard against his ribs. Marcius gritted his teeth; the last blow would no doubt leave a nasty bruise.

  “At least give me a warning before attacking,” Marcius said, his hand clutched to his side as he glared at the elf.

  “Your enemy won’t stop and wait for you to get ready. Pick up your sword.”

  Marcius wasn’t nearly as surprised when the elf attacked this time¸ but his flimsy attempt at defense was quickly overwhelmed and once again he was nursing another hard hit to the side.

  “Again.”

  Each time Marcius picked up his sword, Lorisen attacked, always repeating the same warning every time Marcius lost. Eventually the agitated apprentice threw his training sword to the ground. “Alright, that’s enough. What’s the purpose of this? I’m no match for you and you know it.”

  Lorisen said nothing, calmly waiting with his training sword held in front of him. Marcius winced, but picked up his sword again. It was becoming obvious to him that this was retribution for last night. Marcius decided he’d keep fighting if that was the case. He did nothing wrong that deserved to be punished like this. How was he supposed to know that his question would affect the elf like it did?

  But his resolve didn’t matter. The disparity between the two was too much. It was obvious he didn’t stand a chance, but he refused to stop, despite the pain, regardless of the humiliation. He wasn’t going to give the elf the satisfaction of seeing him quit. Marcius wasn’t sure where he got the willpower, but he found himself returning his weapon to the ready position after every strike. Time became a blur for him, nothing but an endless series of attacks and gradually numbing body parts.

  Eventually he stumbled from a blow and his legs just couldn’t deliver, buckling under him. Breathing heavily, he struggled to his feet, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. Lorisen shook his head. “Be still, Marcius. You have proven your heart.”

  Marcius wasn’t one to argue, sitting down gratefully as what little energy that was left in his body seemed to drift away. He was even more surprised when the elf offered him a drink from the water skin he carried. He accepted greedily, gulping down as much as he could. The elf said nothing and for a few minutes they passed time in silent company with the gentle rustling of leaves and sway of pollen dancing in front of them.

  His eyelids felt heavy and his vision started to fade when Lorisen broke the tranquility. “I am sorry.”

  “For?”

  “Taking out my anger on you.”

  Marcius sat up so he could look at the elf. “I’m guessing you heard what happened last night?”

  “Aye, and it has been a long time since I have spent time with a human. Unlike the Mistress, I have ventured out in my youthful days and interacted with the other races. But I often forget that manners differ between us.”

  “Do you know why she got so mad at me?”

  The elf grinned darkly, “Indeed, but it is not my place to tell the secrets of another. But I will ask that you not judge her harshly for her actions. She has her reasons and it is not our way to ask such direct questions. Battle-Mistress Selene is young and has not dealt much with your kind. Give her time, she’ll come around, and if she wants you to know, she will tell you.”

  “You really care about her, don’t you?”

  The look in Lorisen’s eye was bright. “Aye. Everyone within these walls, all of Caste Liarne, reveres her.”

  “Why?” Marcius discovered he was hungry to know anything more about the mysterious elven woman.

  “She has done much to bring this house to prominence, gaining recognition and honor for us amongst the warrior caste. She is a good leader, a peerless warrior, but unwise to the ways of the world and even moreso the intricacies of people.”

  “Well, I think you could have showed your displeasure in a less painful way.”

  “I ask for forgiveness. Unlike her, I should have known better and held in my anger. You are a guest, and this wasn’t the way I should have treated you. I let anger take control.”

  Marcius couldn’t remain mad at the elf. Instead, he surprised both himself and the elf by clapping Lorisen on the back, mimicking the elf’s previous sentiments. “All is forgiven. Don’t worry about it. I just want to go the Academy and get this all behind me.”

  “We haven’t been the best hosts, have we?”

  Marcius leaned back, watching the clouds pass by overhead. “Well, I went from being a prisoner, to getting punched in the face, and then beaten up with a wooden sword. Overall it wasn’t too bad for my first Selenthian experience.”

  There was an empty silence from the elf and Marcius looked over, fearful that maybe he once again crossed the line. Lorisen wore a weird look on his face, and then suddenly burst into laughter. “Yes, that is what I miss most,” the elf said, smiling. “Humans are so true in everything they do. There is a beauty in simplicity.”

  “Lorisen. Why did you bring him out here?” Both Marcius and Lorisen looked up in surprise. Selene stood over them, not looking happy in the slightest.

  The elf was quick to j
ump to his feet, turning his fist over and slapping it to his chest in the gesture of respect. “My apologies, Battle Mistress. You told me to watch him as you ran your errands. I thought it best to let him get a breath of fresh air and exercise.”

  The expression on Selene’s face gave an impression of acute doubt, but she didn’t press. “Marcius, come with me. We are going to the market so that we may get you a change of clothing and whatever else you may need.”

  He did his best to not let the pain show on his face as he stood up, but couldn’t help wobbling anyway. Selene still said nothing beyond a single raised eyebrow, which was somehow worse.

  As they started to leave, Lorisen reached out with a hand, briefly touching Marcius’s arm to draw his attention. There was a moment of silent understanding between the two of them as their gazes met.

  “Thank you,” it said.

  ❧　❧　❧

  The sun made shimmering dapples through the leafy canopy and a delicate crisp rang in the air. It would have been a beautiful day, had it not been for an oppressive veil of awkwardness that hung between them as they walked.

  It was painful.

  Still it didn’t stop Marcius from glancing at Selene out of the corner of his eye. The elf wore the lightest of armors, a light brown leather breastplate that hugged her in a most distracting manner, and her sword swung lightly with every step.

  Several times he opened his mouth to say something, anything, but each time he fumbled. What really could he say? Maybe he should take Lorisen’s advice and just give the elven woman the space she so zealously defended.

  As they walked, the crowds intensified, and Marcius felt their questioning stares, but Selene ignored them and he tried to follow her example. He could still hear their whispering, and his cheeks got red as he thought of what they might be saying. Marcius hurried to keep up with Selene, the tips of his ears tingling with embarrassment.

  The mossy path turned into a well paved road, opening up to a large clearing that was littered with stalls filled with elves bartering excitedly with each other. There was a large stone arch, a tight leather tarp stretched over it, casting the majority of the surrounding area under shade.

  Selene led him to the largest stall manned by perhaps the most colorful and animated elf Marcius had seen since his involuntary visit to Selenthian borders.

  Marcius was flabbergasted at the casual use of magic in Selenthia and this elf personified it. He wore a billowy shirt, replete with ruffles that shimmered through the colors of the spectrum. Many gaudy gems adorned his fingers and ears, each one of them having a single pinprick of light that pulsed with every movement he made.

  The elf was quick to spot Selene and Marcius and pushed his way through the crowds to intercept them. The elf tucked a strand of jet-black hair behind his ear as he approached, his arms going wide with greeting.

  “Mistress Selene, it is ever an honor to see you at the merchant gather,” he said, taking off his cap as he bowed low.

  Marcius noticed that the elf had only the thinnest of accents and seemed perfectly comfortable speaking in Common. His words flowed from one to the other with none of the stilted lilt that he heard from both Lorisen and Selene. Obviously the elf had many dealings outside of Selenthia.

  “Master Raloran,” Selene responded, doing the traditional greeting, tilting her hand.

  “Now, young girl, there is no need for that. I have known you when you were just child. There is no need for formality!” The smiling elf theatrically looked at Marcius, as if seeing him for the first time. “And this would be the human that has Selenthia in an uproar? A human among us as we prepare for war? Never thought I’d see the day the Elders would allow such a thing. Let me get a good look at you!”

  Marcius found himself being held by the shoulder at arm's length by the elf, who regarded him with a now critical eye, like a shopper looking at a prospective buy. The elf’s grip was with a strength that didn’t match his size and it was hard for Marcius to not squirm. He looked briefly to Selene for help, but the elven woman seemed resigned and preoccupied with other things, refusing to meet his gaze.

  Raloran gave a grunt, though Marcius couldn’t tell if it was one of approval or disappointment, and then put an arm around him, guiding him to the massive stall nearby. It was overflowing with goods: massive racks of clothing hanging from the sides; boxes of various sizes full of unknown materials. “I am to assume you two are not here just to visit me because you were lonely, yes?”

  “Aye, Master Raloran. We are here to get this one whatever basics he needs. He needs to be fitted with decent clothing.”

  The elf gave a dramatic sigh, throwing up his hands in defeat “Again with the formalities, child!”

  “I am no child, Master Raloran.”

  A serious look passed over his face, “Aye, I keep forgetting.” It disappeared, replaced by the ever present smile of a mask Marcius was beginning to associate with the trader. “Anyway, let’s get you measured, okay?”

  The elf indicated for him to enter a closed off booth, and Marcius complied while Selene stayed outside. Raloran followed him in, closing the curtain behind him. “Alright, Marcius was it?” he asked softly, turning around, his smile gone.

  Marcius didn’t recall ever telling the elf his name, but nodded anyway. If a human in the elven city was enough to cause a commotion, most likely the trader heard through other channels. The elf took out a raw hide cord, the sides marked with various sizings and measurements and Marcius lifted his arms as the elf began measuring.

  “So,” Raloran said, tucking the measure into his mouth as he maneuvered Marcius around, “Care to tell me what you did to get her so riled?”

  Marcius’s surprise must have shown on his face, because the elf chuckled darkly, “It was pretty obvious. The two of you were completely awkward with each other, and she’s never been one with social graces.”

  The elf had a calming manner to him, a certain force of persona that instantly made Marcius relax. He felt he could trust this elf, and when he started talking, he found he couldn’t stop. He told Raloran of his late night run-in with Selene, how she reacted to his question, and Marcius found him even mentioning his burgeoning feelings for the woman.

  Raloran, for his part, said nothing, calmly shifting Marcius as he measured. But the apprentice knew the elf was listening intently. It was good to get it off his chest. When he had finished, Marcius felt mentally exhausted.

  “Well, now. That explains a lot.” Raloran said after a few moments of deliberation, “I thought it odd. Selene is a brilliant fighter. I’ve only heard good things about her when she joined the warrior caste. Then again, she had no choice but to exceed expectations. She’s led a hard life.”

  The elf picked up some fabric, holding it against Marcius’s frame. He tilted his head to side for a moment as he regarded it, and then threw the fabric to the side, not satisfied. He continued his search, and Marcius fidgeted, curiosity eating away at him until he finally broke. “I don’t understand why she hates me for an innocent question. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Raloran gave Marcius a hard look, but his gaze softened. “I guess you wouldn’t know anything about her past, eh? It’s a touchy subject for her.”

  “You too? Same thing Lorisen said!” Marcius growled.

  “If you’d let me finish.” Raloran admonished, finally selecting a dark blue piece of fabric that satisfied whatever unsaid requirements he was looking for. “I’m not sure I should be telling you this. If I can trust you enough to not do something stupid with it that’d wind up hurting her.”

  “I would never-“

  “Hurt her?” the elf finished for Marcius, “No, you’d probably never intend to. You have an honest sort of face. I’m not sure where to start, or even why I am telling you this, so I guess from the beginning is the most logical point. How much do you know about our traditions?”

  Marcius shook his head, “Very little. My Master was a dwarf, and he wasn’t exactly on friendly t
erms with elves. It wasn’t as if he kept a lot of texts on elves in his study.”

  “Most dwarves usually aren’t. It’s how we were made: two different sides to the same coin. The “origin” races. Both the dwarves and elves were created in the beginning of Faelon, by the Gods, only to be abandoned when humans came into being.”

  Marcius nodded, it was common knowledge, though maybe not said as pessimistic as Raloran delivered it. The elf continued as he began cutting the fabric. “Many humans can’t fathom our lives, for we are linked far more intimately to the nether than a human could ever be. Elves, and to a lesser extent, dwarves, are beings of magic, and as such, we are bound to rules that are far older than our ancient race.”

  The elf paused for the significance of it all to sink in. “Our roles in Selenthia are decided when we are born. I was to be a merchant, and so, hundreds of years later, here I am. I have a knack for it, this is true, but then again, it was decided for me. When we come of age, there is a great ceremony and we are presented to the heart of Selenthia, the very core of Agliarena. It is there that we receive our destinies.”

  Marcius hung on the elf’s every word, “How does one receive your destiny?”

  Raloran’s hand stilled mid-cut. “I remember being led into the chamber. The inside was warm, safe. It vibrated my very being. There I was, nothing more than a wisp of a child, barefoot and nervous. There were so many expectations on my fate reading. My father was an Elder and my mother a Merchant, you see.”

  “I guess your mother won?”

  Raloran smiled, “Aye, you could say that. It usually runs in the family. If not a Merchant, an Elder. That day was the most profound experience of my long life. To feel another consciousness envelop your own. That tree is alive, and she watches over us. She spoke, in that heart chamber. We all heard it. 'Tiark'ne di li argrilia'.”

  “Which means?”

  “'This child is to follow his mother. Ever since then, I've done the Fate assigned to me by the heart tree.”