Roxanne bent into a curtsey before the phoenix lord as he leapt from the window, taking to the skies in a blaze of red-golden glory.
Thank you G’shídrian, she thought to him.
A faint glimmer of acknowledgement reached her from the Flame’shikrim leader. Then he twirled in a burst of sparks and vanished into the clouds.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“Those who are most deserving of praise will never ask for it.”
~ Arrith Fyncloud, Seventh Age
The golem stopped abruptly on their sixth morning of travel. Fletcher, who’d spent a restless night trying to sleep on the frilly cushions of the bloodbound, unlatched the window and poked his head out.
“Why’d you stop?” he asked, gazing in consternation at his surroundings. The golem gave no indication that it had heard him.
They were in an ancient forest of trees whose trunks were easily the width of ten men standing side by side. Winter seemed not to have touched this place. There was little undergrowth, but each tree was a miniature ecosystem: ferns and flowering plants clung to their knotted roots and scabby bark, and vines dripped from their lower branches in thick sheets, punctuated by the occasional bright bromeliad.
Fletcher glanced at the golem. “Are you lost?”
With a creak, the golem swiveled its head around, as if it were glaring reproachfully at him. Fletcher pushed open the door to investigate, stepping onto a blanket of dark moss. Glowing blue mushrooms, half as big as he was, provided light in the misty gloom.
Something flashed in a stray beam of sunlight that had drifted through the canopy. Fletcher glimpsed it from the corner of his eye, but by the time he’d whirled to face it, it had vanished.
“Hello?” he called. “Is someone there?” He tiptoed to the far side of the bloodbound and peered into the trees. Apart from a pod of butterflies, there was no sign of life.
Just when he’d decided he’d imagined the disturbance, something cold and sharp came to rest at the base of his throat.
“What business have you here, human?”
Fletcher stifled a yelp and turned. A man stood beside him, inspecting him with luminous gray eyes that were too big for his narrow oval head. Long, pointed ears were visible beneath his white hair and black helmet. He was close enough that Fletcher could see his pallid skin wasn’t skin—he was covered in thousands of tiny, smooth scales.
Fletcher had met a creature like this once before: a woman who had healed Keriya after her experience in the Vale Room.
“Are you an elf?” he whispered.
His attacker pressed the sword tighter against Fletcher’s throat. “Answer my question.”
“I—I’m here to see Taeleia Alenciae,” Fletcher choked, leaning away from the edge of the weapon.
“You’ve come to the wrong place,” the other replied scornfully. “Lady Taeleia is in residence at Noryk.”
“What? We were told she’d returned to Elvinthrane!”
The elf’s eyes narrowed and he bared a set of gleaming fangs. “By whom?”
“A herald at the Imperial Palace,” said Fletcher. “If she’s not here, I need to leave—”
“You’re not leaving,” the elf snapped. “You’re coming with me. The lumina wishes to see you.” He lowered his sword and wrapped his long, clawed fingers around Fletcher’s arm.
Fletcher looked over his shoulder at the bloodbound, meaning to call the golem to his aid. The cry died in his throat when he saw more elves swarming from the forest, silently falling into line behind him. Dark leather armor hugged their bodies, but they were barefoot. Their toes, which were long and nimble as their fingers, splayed across the moss, gripping the earth with thin pearly talons.
They marched Fletcher down a row of trees. The path sloped upwards, roots stretching across the ground to form steps. The lead elf drew aside a skein of vines with his hooked blade, and Fletcher gasped in awe.
There, glittering in the haze, was a spectacular city. The elves had built around the forest rather than destroying it. A great stone wall loomed before him, stretching as far as he could see, but trees towered within its confines. Wood structures blossomed around their trunks, illuminated by shelf mushrooms that glowed with subtle amber hues.
Fletcher’s elven escort led him through an arch in the wall and along streets paved with obsidian cobbles. More scaly creatures emerged from their dwellings to stare at Fletcher, their silver eyes shining a little too brightly as they watched his every move.
He passed through a bustling business district and rounded the trunk of a massive tree. The palace came into view, resplendent against the verdant backdrop. It had been built from a shimmering creamy material and it sat like a pearl amidst the folds of the land, its soaring spires piercing the canopy hundreds of heights above.
The elves marched him up a wide staircase and through a tasteful entryway. They proceeded down a long hall and crossed an open-air corridor overlooking the sprawling city. Finally the lead elf stopped before a set of oak doors. He banged his fist on the wood and the doors swung inwards.
Fletcher found himself facing a wide chamber lit by crystalline orbs that emitted a soft, steady light. Soldiers stood at attention against the walls, and at the head of the room nobles sat in tiered rows. Dozens of silver eyes fell on him. He saw their pupils contract in shock, narrowing from spheres to reptilian slits.
From the center of the pews rose a moonstone dais topped with a diamond throne. Though the chair itself was a marvel, its magnificence paled in comparison to its owner. She was ancient and beautiful. Wavy white hair cascaded around her angular torso, pooling on the seat of the throne. Her skin seemed translucent, like her precious gemstone perch. She stared at him with eyes the color of frost.
“Welcome to Elvinthrane.” Her voice was a musical, resonant whisper that echoed in the stillness. “I am Illistriel, Mother of the Diamond Sun, Lumina-Regent of the Allentrian elves.”
“I’m Fletcher Earengale, Your Highness,” said Fletcher, bowing to her. A smile quirked her sculpted, scaly lips. “Am I your prisoner?”
“What would give you that impression?”
“Well, I was taken from my carriage against my will and brought here by a group of warriors.” Could the wanted posters have made it to this secluded corner of the empire? Effrax had said the elves had little dealings with the humans and that Fletcher therefore would be safe to travel here, but his capture suggested otherwise.
“Humans are, of course, always free to visit Elvinthrane,” Illistriel said pleasantly. “But most of them know better than to do so.”
Fletcher’s stomach flooded with ice. Effrax had also mentioned the elves didn’t like humans, but he hadn’t gone into the details. Looking back, Fletcher felt it had been a great oversight on his part not to have inquired about that.
“I’m sorry for my intrusion into your domain, but I have urgent business with Taeleia Alenciae.”
At his words, there was a stirring amongst the nobles.
“Lady Taeleia no longer resides in Elvinthrane,” Illistriel explained, tapping her abnormally long fingers on the armrest of her throne. “She lives in Noryk, acting as our representative in the Council of Nine.”
“I was told she had returned here,” said Fletcher. “If she hasn’t, then I ask your permission to leave. I have to find her as quickly as possible—or if not her, someone else who can help me,” he added.
“And pray tell, what is it you seek help with?”
“A healing.”
This caused a ripple of bitter laughter and derisive murmurs to spread through the assembled elves.
“You think yourself worthy of a healing?” Illistriel raised one brow ridge—the elves didn’t have eyebrows to speak of—in distaste. “You believe you have the right to barge into our city and demand assistance? If it were that easy, Master Earengale, every insolent mortal would be
strutting through our streets.”
“The healing isn’t for me,” said Fletcher, his scalp prickling with unease.
“Ah; you’ve come on a grand and noble quest on behalf of someone who cannot make the journey, no doubt.” If Illistriel’s voice hadn’t been so alluring and melodious, Fletcher was certain she would have been sneering at him. “For whom do you seek the healing?”
“Thorion Sveltorious, the last living dragon on Selaras.”
A hush fell. Fletcher scanned the nobles, gauging their reactions. He didn’t know how much the elves had heard about Thorion’s escapades. They would have heard of his battle with Necrovar, because everyone had heard about that.
Do they know what happened next? he wondered, his chest tightening.
“The dragon is ill?” A shadow of doubt clouded Illistriel’s patrician features. “What has happened to him?”
“He was infected with darksalm.” Horrified gasps echoed throughout the chamber. “Darksalm is—”
“I know of darksalm,” Illistriel interrupted. “All my people know of darksalm. We remember the Great War. We are still crippled from the crimes the Shadow committed against us. We lost more than the humans did—but even humans should know enough to understand that darksalm is incurable.”
“We’re not looking for someone to cure Thorion,” said Fletcher. “We’re looking for someone to perform regular healings on him, to strengthen his body and give him more time in this world.” His throat constricted painfully around those last words.
“Time for what?” she asked softly.
“Time to find Necrovar and destroy him,” Fletcher declared. “Your Highness, is there someone else who could help Thorion?”
Illistriel studied him for a few long moments. Fletcher tried to stand tall and unafraid before her.
“I’m sorry, Master Earengale, but I will not bring my people into this conflict.”
It felt as though Fletcher had missed a step going down the stairs. “What do you mean?” he asked hoarsely.
“When the Shadow rises once more—and he will rise, because your dragon is walking the earth on borrowed time—he will fight to regain all he had in the Second Age. If he perceives the elves have taken a stand against him, he will target us. I cannot endanger my people by siding with Lord Thorion . . . siding with he who will inevitably lose his soul to Necrovar.”
Fletcher gaped at her. He couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth.
“Am I to understand,” he began, fighting to keep his tone inoffensive, “that you won’t help the one creature who can save us, because you’re afraid of what will happen if he dies? How does that make any sense? You could make the difference in this war, you can—”
“It is not a question of if he will die, it is a question of when,” she shot back savagely. “It is foolish to pit ourselves against Necrovar, for once Necrovar claims Lord Thorion’s soul, he will be balanced and invincible. If you resist him, you will be cut down. If you fight him with armies, he will build armies of shadowbeasts from your dead. Allentria has already lost, but humans refuse to acknowledge it.”
Fletcher mouthed wordlessly at the lumina. He was grasping for arguments against her flawed logic, but his brain wasn’t working right. He couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, couldn’t tell her how wrong she was.
Then a clarion voice rang behind him: “Shortsighted as always, Mother. You can’t see the storm for all the clouds.”
At once the soldiers sprang to life, rushing to form ranks before the lumina. The nobles shot up from their seats, pointing at the far end of the hall. Illistriel sat rigidly on her throne, gripping the armrests.
Given their reactions, Fletcher half expected Necrovar himself to have entered the room—but it was merely a slender elf, walking toward them in plain traveling clothes and a hooded cloak. She pulled back her cowl and Fletcher gave a start. It was the same elf he’d met in Noryk. She was trailed by a hulking bodyguard dressed in black, also hooded and veiled. He didn’t so much walk as drift across the floor, and he gave the impression of being a solidified shadow.
The elf maiden drew level with Fletcher. She was flat-chested—as were all the female elves—and narrow of hip and shoulder, but her features were as striking as he remembered. She advanced on the throne, and the soldiers lowered their spears at her, blocking her path.
Illistriel stood and raised a shaking hand. “So. You have seen fit to return, though you are banished from our lands.”
“I am the only one who can proclaim a banishment, and I did not banish myself,” the younger elf retorted. “I left voluntarily for the good of my people.”
“If that is true, why did you come back?”
“I knew I couldn’t stay out of the growing human conflicts, so I submitted my resignation as Council representative and left Noryk.”
Suddenly it hit Fletcher that this was Taeleia—but why were the elves treating her like she had a contagious disease? Her bodyguard was imposing, but surely one big elf didn’t warrant such an overreaction?
“You’ve left us without a voice in the Imperial government?” Illistriel hissed.
“You haven’t used your voice for a long time, Mother. You refuse to weigh in on issues and you constantly abstain from votes. I did you a favor. I left before things reached such a critical point that your silence could be misconstrued as animosity toward any of the states.”
Illistriel’s eyes flashed. “And is it mere coincidence that you arrive at the same time as this human, who has demanded that we stand with him against the Shadow?”
Fletcher bristled at her words. He hadn’t demanded anything.
“I’ve been back well over a fortnight,” said Taeleia.
“When were you planning to reveal yourself? When were you planning to tell us of the damage you’ve wrought in Noryk?”
“I haven’t wrought any damage; I am capable enough to have handled my affairs. As for revealing myself, I hadn’t been planning on doing so. Look at the welcome I’ve received.” She spread her hands, indicating the hostile soldiers and nobles.
“Why abandon those plans?” Illistriel demanded.
“Because of Master Earengale,” Taeleia said simply. She turned to face him for the first time since she’d entered the room. “I heard you needed my help.”
“Did you also happen to hear what he wants help with?” the lumina inquired in icy tones. “All the supposed good you’ve done by deserting your post in Noryk would be undone if you aided this boy.”
Fletcher cast a scowl at the old elf, but Taeleia spoke before he had a chance to say anything.
“I wish to learn more about the dragon’s plight. This human is now under my protection. Any act against him will be construed as an act of treason against the Diamond Throne.”
Illistriel opened her mouth, but Taeleia whirled to face her, and suddenly her presence seemed to engulf the chamber. The other elves recoiled as if she were a thunderhead ripe with lightning, ready to strike anyone in her path.
“Stand down,” she commanded. With a trace of hesitation, the soldiers retracted their spears and stood at ease. Without looking at him, she added, “You may excuse yourself, Master Earengale. Find somewhere comfortable to rest. I will join you momentarily.”
“Yes, Lady Taeleia.” He bowed and made the mistake of glancing at her bodyguard. Dusky, catlike eyes peered through the opening in the veil, narrowing at Fletcher.
Fletcher shied away from that inscrutable gaze. A nearby soldier left her formation to usher Fletcher out. Illistriel’s furious whisper reached his ears as the elf cracked open the oak doors for him:
“Taeleia, you will destroy our people if you drag us into this war.”
Then Fletcher slipped into the corridor and the doors shut behind him, blocking the rest of the lumina’s words.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“A do
uble agent works only for himself.”
~ Danisan Carvaziae, Twelfth Age
“The twin cities,” said Cezon, gesturing to the valley below. “Made it in record time, even with you trogs plodding at a snail’s pace.”
A silver river snaked across the flatlands, barely visible through the drifting mists, separating the settlements of Vendale and Venaeton. Keriya could tell the northern city promised to be almost as impressive as Noryk. Gleaming white skyscrapers soared into the air, their thin points spearing the low clouds.
“Wait til we get to the king,” Cezon chattered as he led them onward. “Won’t he be thrilled to see the three of you!”
Max muttered something under his breath, but the words ‘my father’ and ‘executions’ were audible.
“Now don’t you forget how hospitable we’ve been,” said Cezon, waggling a finger at Max.
Cezon had treated them decently—at Endred’s urging, Keriya suspected. He’d provided surprisingly good protection. On their third night of travel, a group of bandits had seen their campfire and tried to attack. But Cezon and Endred were accomplished warriors, and even Iako had shown some skill. The bandits had retreated quickly. This was ultimately why Keriya had remained in Cezon’s company.
“He’ll bring us to your palace,” she had reasoned with Max.
“We should be trying to escape,” Max had argued. “This is another delay.”
“It’s the best way I can help Thorion—and Fletcher, Roxanne, and Effrax, wherever they are. Those wanted posters will only go away if I tell my side of the story. I can’t keep running. I have to face the Allentrian rulers.”
Now that she’d reached Vendale, Keriya was regretting that decision.
But I must try, she reminded herself, going through her mental list of reasons to give herself strength. For my friends. For the empire. For Thorion.
Her hand strayed to her hip—not longing for her lost sword, but to touch the stolen book through the fabric of the pack Cezon had given her. “You carry your weight,” he’d told her the day they’d left the inn, stuffing it with provisions and tossing it to her. Keriya had gladly accepted the bag to hide her pilfered treasure.
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