Rebel Fay

by J. C.

  Chap rushed into his way with a snarl of warning.

  "You found the arrow," Magiere said. "It came from up there? Did you see it hit?"

  Chap huffed once for "yes."

  "Wynn, dig out the talking hide," she called.

  "She can't," Leesil said.

  Wynn was already pawing one-handed through the pile of saddlebags, packs, and bundles that Leesil had scavenged. Her frown deepened.

  "Where is my pack?"

  Magiere knew the answer. She'd been the one to pack the horses the previous morning.

  "It must've been on Port," Leesil answered. "Everything I could find… this is all we have left."

  The little sage's eyes widened further, then narrowed at Leesil. "What? All my journals were in that pack, my quills and parchments… Chap's talking hide!"

  Leesil turned away and wouldn't look at her.

  "You sent most of your journals to Domin Tilswith," Magiere said, anxious to calm Wynn. "Before we left Soladran. You can rewrite anything of importance, and there's been nothing worth noting since we left the Warlands. The elven Territories are still ahead, and that's what you've been waiting for most. We'll find parchment or paper—and I've seen you make ink."

  "Of course," Leesil put in. "Soon as we're through these mountains… and a feather to cut a new—"

  "If we get through!" Wynn shouted at him, and her words echoed about the high cavern. "If Chap finds a way. If we do not starve. If we do not die of exposure or walk blindly over a cliff into a chasm… because you could not wait for winter to pass!"

  Any defense Magiere might have offered for Leesil was smothered in her own rising guilt.

  They all knew from the beginning that if Leesil's mother still lived, she was imprisoned by her people. The elves wouldn't kill her, it seemed, so she would still be there no matter how long it took to find her. But from the moment Leesil discovered the skulls of his father and grandmother, he'd stopped listening to reason.

  Magiere had argued with him, time and again, over waiting out winter. In the end, she always relented, and he pushed them onward. Now here they were without horses or adequate food, and beaten down with fatigue and injury. Wynn's words were aimed at Leesil, but they struck Magiere into silence.

  "What about Chap's talking hide?" Wynn continued. "How is he to talk efficiently with me, now that it is gone?"

  The talking hide was a large square of tanned leather upon which Wynn had inked rows of Elvish symbols, words, and phrases. Both she and Chap could read it, and Chap pawed out responses beyond his one, two, or three barks.

  Chap shook himself and barked once for "yes," then poked his nose into Wynn's shoulder.

  "He can still talk with us a bit," Magiere offered.

  Wynn didn't answer. She took another berry, fumbling to peel its skin with her thumbnail.

  Magiere was about to stop her, for Leesil's suspicion was half-right. They had no idea where this gift of food had come from or why. She glanced at Chap, ready to ask if the berries smelled safe. He huffed a "yes" before she spoke and headed off across the cavern floor.

  With a sigh, Magiere set the crystal aside and took up a bisselberry of her own, pulling back the fruit's skin.

  Leesil wandered off to the cave's far side and crouched to gaze blankly down into the hole Chap had found. He was so driven to keep moving, to reach the elven Territories and find his mother. But Magiere knew they'd be lucky to even find their way back out of the range. She looked toward the hole he inspected and saw a flash of silver fur.

  "Leesil, where is Chap?"

  Magiere snatched up the crystal and her falchion as the tip of Chap's tail disappeared down the hole.

  "Get back here, you misguided mutt!"

  Chap crawled over the hole's lip and hopped down into a sloped tunnel, heading deeper inside the mountain. In the darkness he barely made out the passage, but scent guided him more than sight. He smelled something familiar. As much as that made his instincts cry a warning, he had to be certain of what he suspected.

  The passage was rough and its ceiling so low that his ears scraped if he raised them. A few sliding paces downward, it dropped again a short way to the floor of a wider tunnel. The scent was strong, and Chap jumped down. His nose bumped a pile of plump fruits that tumbled apart, rolling off their platter of fresh leaves.

  Bisselberries, Wynn had called them. What the elves of this continent called réicheach sghiahean—bitter shields—for their edible skin was as unpleasant as the inside was sweet.

  He pushed on down the tunnel, and when it seemed he had gone too far without encountering another pile, he paused and sniffed the air. It took a moment to separate the scent behind him from anything ahead, but they were there, somewhere down in the dark.

  More bisselberries.

  Someone… something… had laid a trail for them into the belly of the mountain. This was too mundane to be the working of his kin. He could not determine the direction in which the passage ran—forward or back or even to the side through the so-called Broken Range. Where would they end up, even if the trail led out of the mountain at all?

  Entombed in stone, a manifestation of the element of Earth, Chap called out through his Spirit one last time.

  In this dark place, the silence of his kin made him sag. He stiffened and rumbled with outrage.

  They would not come to him, and the survival of his companions—his charges—now depended on skulkers who would not reveal themselves. Behind the scent of fresh fruit and their green leaves, behind grime and dust kicked up by his own paws, was the other scent he had smelled upon first entering this place.

  Like a bird and yet not. Faint but everywhere in the dark beneath the mountain.

  Chap turned back, stopping long enough to pick up several bisselberries in his mouth to show the others. Hopefully it would not take long to make them understand. There was only one path to take, if they were to avoid starving or succumbing to winter.

  Someone was trying to lead them through the inside of this mountain. Someone had called them in from the storm to find shelter.

  Chap headed back toward his companions. He had to convince them to follow him into this passage… to trust his judgment once more.

  Chapter Two

  Aoishenis-Ahâre—a title, a heritage, and an obligation. "Most Aged Father" waited within the massive oak at Crijheäiche—Origin-Heart. As the centermost community of what humans called the elven Territories, it was also home to the Anmaglâhk, a caste apart from the clans of his people. He had lived so long that even the elders of the twenty-seven clans no longer remembered scant tales of where he came from or why he had led his followers into seclusion in this far corner of the world.

  The massive and ancient oak that was his home had lived almost as long as he. A dozen or more men with outstretched arms could not have encompassed its girth. One of the eldest in the forest, the hollowed chamber within its heart-root had been carefully nurtured from the living wood since its earliest days. It sustained him to fulfill future needs for his people's sake. And its long roots reached more deeply and widely than any other in the land.

  Wise in the way of trees, Most Aged Father no longer walked among his people. His withered body clung to life by the great forest's efforts that sustained him through the oak. But he was still founder and leader of the Anmaglâhk. They in turn were the guardians of the an'Cróan—(Those) of the Blood, as the people properly called themselves.

  Through the oak's deep roots, he reached out with his awareness through branches and leaves to wander and watch within his people's land. Through slivers of "word-wood" taken from his oak and placed against any living tree, he heard and spoke with his Anmaglâhk in far lands.

  Now he waited beneath the earth in his root chamber. He waited for his most trusted servant, Fréthfâre—Watcher of the Woods—who lived by her namesake. He sensed her approach as she pressed apart the curtains across the doorway above, at ground level.

  "Father?" she called. "May I come down?"


  All anmaglâhk called him Father, for they were the children of his vision and his strength.

  "Come," he answered weakly. "I am awake."

  Her step light as a thrush, he still heard her descend the steps molded from the tree's living wood. She entered the earthen chamber around the heart-root and appeared at its opening into his resting place.

  The hood of her gray-green cloak was thrown back, revealing long wheat-blond hair. Most of the people possessed hair as straight as corn silk, but Fréthfâre's tumbled past her narrow shoulders in gentle waves when she did not bind it back. Today it hung loose and tucked behind her peaked ears.

  Her large amber eyes were unusually narrow, and her lips thin. An overly slender build gave her the illusion of height, though she was not tall compared to others. She was Covârleasa—Trusted Adviser—and thereby highly honored among the Anmaglâhk.

  "You are well?" she asked, always concerned for his comfort.

  Most Aged Father lifted a frail, bony hand with effort and gestured to the stacked cushions before his bower.

  "Yes. Sit."

  Fréthfâre crossed her legs as she settled. "Has there been sign of the human interlopers? Has Sgäilsheilleache sent word?"

  "No, but they come. Sgäilsheilleache will bring Léshil to us."

  He had sent Sgäilsheilleache—Willow's Shade—to lead a small band of anmaglâhk to intercept Léshil before that abomination entered their land unescorted. But there were more important things to discuss.

  "You will assist me in presenting Léshil an offer," he continued. "One which no other should know."

  Fréthfâre arched her feathery eyebrows. "Of course, Father, but what bargain could you make with such a creature? He is not one of us… and has polluted blood."

  When Most Aged Father smiled, responding warmth flooded her eyes. She never saw him as the withered husk he knew himself to be. His dry white hair, too thin for his pale scalp, and the shriveled skin stretched over his long bones never troubled her.

  "True enough," he acknowledged. "Léshil has human blood, and any human is not to be trusted. But he comes for his traitor mother—Cuirin'nên'a—and that is the reason I give him safe passage. Cuirin'nên'a could not have acted alone in her treachery, and we must find her conspirators. We will promise Léshil anything, even his mother, in exchange for his service. With such an offering, we secure his fidelity for as long as we need it."

  Cuirin'nên'a's subversion pained Most Aged Father like an ache in his sunken chest. In the end, it had done her little good. After years of delay, Darmouth was finally dead. His province would rip itself apart, and the other tyrants of the Warlands would be at one another's throats trying to claim the spoils.

  Since the birth of the Anmaglâhk in forgotten times, their service was revered by the people. Cuirin'nên'a seeded doubt and deception among their caste. It must be rooted out before it spread, even unto the elders of the caste. Or had it already done so? One more name lingered in his mind with that concern.

  Brot'ân'duivé—Dog in the Dark—friend of the fallen Eillean, one of their greatest.

  Eillean had stood for Fréthfâre when she had first come as a girl, barely past her name taking, to beg admittance to the Anmaglâhk. It seemed impossible that Eillean could be in question, but she had borne Cuirin'nên'a, a treacherous daughter, and lost her life in retrieving that wayward offspring. In turn, Cuirin'nên'a had borne a half-blood son.

  Between these two women of their caste—faithful Eillean and deceitful Cuirin'nên'a—which way did Brot'ân'duivé lean?

  Fréthfâre showed open surprise and pursed her thin lips. "Promise him anything, Father? Very well, but why depend on the half-blood? We have our own to uncover subversion—"

  Most Aged Father raised one finger ending in a yellowed nail. "For our people… and their survival in fearful times to come, we must follow this path. Upon Léshil's arrival, escort him to me. Reveal nothing of what I have said. You are my hand outside of this oak… now I must rest."

  Fréthfâre stood with a daughter's affection in her eyes. "I will bring food and tea later."

  As she stepped to the opening of his heart-root chamber, she looked back at him. A gentle bow of her head accompanied the whispered litany of her caste.

  "In silence and in shadows, Father."

  He lowered his eyelids in place of bowing a head too heavy for his weariness.

  "In silence and in shadows," he answered.

  Most Aged Father slipped his awareness into the oak. He watched Fréth-fâre step out through the curtained doorway and into the daily life of Crij-heâiche.

  A true daughter of his own blood would not have filled him with greater pride.

  But he valued his caste and the clans of his people more. It was why he had brought them to this land so long ago. Here they remained safe, shutting out the humans with their flawed blood, ignorant minds, and weak spirits.

  Most Aged Father took a heavy breath to smother ancient fear.

  Yet the fear still coursed through him.

  Lost were the track of years, decades, and centuries, but not the sharpest memories of a war that had swallowed his world. Nor memories of an unseen adversary called by many names. It had whispered in the dark to its puppets and minions, the perverted, the weak-willed, and those hungry for power without caring for its price. And in death and defeat, it merely slumbered.

  It would return.

  He knew this, believed in it with a horrified faith. He felt it like a worm burrowing its twisted way through the earth's depths. It had only to waken and show itself, in whatever ways it would, to wage a renewed assault.

  This time, it would not have the human horde as one of its engines of war. Despite any ill-conceived deception by Cuirin'nên'a and her confederates, he would see to it. He would remove all instruments of this Ancient Enemy and leave it raging helplessly in hiding. His wisdom, his will, and his Anmaglâhk would shield their people.

  Most Aged Father drifted into sleep—but, as always, a fitful one. Among all other dreams, one had come each night for centuries.

  Broken corpses lay strewn across a bloodied land as far as he could see. Numb in heart and mind, he stood unmoving until the sight was slowly swallowed by dusk. Only then he turned away, stained spear dragging in his grip and his quiver empty.

  * * * *

  Somewhere in the growing dark, he thought he heard something struggling to get up.

  Wynn flinched each time Leesil mimicked any Elvish word she pronounced.

  He would never become conversant by the time they reached the elves—if they reached the elves—but he insisted that she teach him. And she had agreed. A bad decision, upon reflection.

  At least it passed the time, as they climbed ever downward through the mountain toward an uncertain destination. Chap had convinced them to follow him, and as they walked, Wynn suffered through the attempt to assist Leesil with his Elvish. What started as distraction from doubts and fears became a lesson in futility rather than language.

  "Soob!" Leesil said again.

  Wynn cringed.

  "No." She tried not to sigh. "The ending is like the V in your language, but the lips close on its termination, like a B."

  "So which is it?" Leesil snapped. "B or V?"

  "Just"—Wynn started to snap—"listen carefully… suv'."

  "That's not your Elvish word for your bisselberries," Leesil sniped.

  Wynn gritted her teeth. "It is a general reference for any type of berry."

  She carried his pack slung over her good shoulder. He paused ahead of her without turning and shifted the lashings holding the chest of skulls to his back, trying to resettle his burden.

  Wynn did not like that vessel constantly before her eyes.

  "Everything in Elvish," she continued, "has its root word to be transformed to noun, verb, adjective, adverb—and so on. But there are general terms for things of like kind."

  "So, 'eat a berry' is…" Leesil mumbled, trying to remember. "La-hong-ah-jah-va
… soob?"

  Wynn clenched her teeth. "Only if the berry is eating you!"

  "Leesil, please," Magiere growled behind Wynn. "Enough! You're not going to learn it like this. Just leave the talking to Wynn, if… when we find the elves."

  He glanced over his shoulder with the cold lamp crystal held high like a torch. Its light turned his glower into a misshapen mask that would frighten small children. Wynn did not care.

  They had traveled downward for more than a day, perhaps two. And yet they had stopped only three times. She was cold and hungry all the way.

  Leesil sidestepped a twisted angle in the passage, and a jagged outcrop caught his shoulder.

  "Valhachkasej'â!" he barked.

  Wynn stiffened, then grabbed the shoulder flap of his hauberk and jerked him about.

  "Do not ever say that around an elf!" she snapped at him. "Or is profanity the only thing you can pronounce correctly?"

  Leesil blinked. "It's something my mother said. You've heard me use it before."

  "Your mother?" Wynn's voice rose to a squeak.

  The last thing they needed was Leesil's ignorant expletives offending someone, especially one of those bloodthirsty Anmaglâhk.

  "Smuân'thij arthane!" Wynn snapped at him. She pushed past as Leesil wrinkled his brow in confusion.

  Chap waited out in front and stared at her with his ears ridged in surprise. He cocked his head, glanced at Leesil, then huffed once in apparent agreement with her outburst.

  Wynn was too miffed to even feel embarrassed that Chap understood exactly what she had called Leesil… though it hadn't been half as offensive as his own utterance.

  "Time for another rest," Magiere said.

  "No," Leesil said, his expression cold and pitiless. "We keep moving."

  She ignored him and unstrapped her pack to drop it with the saddlebags she carried.

  In their early days, Wynn had never seen such a look on Leesil's face. Lately she had seen it too often. Hardness overwhelmed him from within whenever he was pushed any way he did not want to go. And he did not wish to stop this journey for anything.