The hard hand of the Missus dragged her from her stupor and into the kitchen as their unexpected guests headed to the dining room. “Bad enough they show up in these unholy hours and now they want supper, is that it?” the innkeeper complained. “I’ll heat up the soup—you’d probably burn it—and you can serve it. After that, you had better finish washing these dishes. A woman can’t get any decent help nowadays!”
The woman’s unfair complaints stung a little, but Tellie was too tired to respond, even in the privacy of her mind.
She’d never asked to come here to this depilated little inn, ruined by the reputation of its ill-tempered owners and haunting history. But the Nornes, in some cruel twist of fate, were related to her. Second cousins or something like that. In the Dormandy Orphanage she’d thought herself quite alone in the world and had been delighted to learn she had relatives. She’d dreamed of calling them Aunt and Uncle, but soon after she arrived it became painfully clear that she was wanted for work and not for company. With their claim as family, they hadn’t even needed to pay to adopt her, and so she was entirely free labor. As the bitterness set in, she’d come to stop thinking of them as family at all, only the Mister and Missus, and so her previous longing for family, a real, loving family, returned.
The Mister she avoided at all costs, for although he was often burdened down by his strong drink, he was also sometimes surprisingly agile and with that, angry. In her kindest moments, Tellie supposed having a husband like that made things very hard for Missus Norne, but the woman did not seem to possess a heart large enough to spare her innocent young relative any measure of love or care.
“Get them bowls over here, the soup’s hot enough.”
“Yes, Missus Norne.” She snatched the wooden bowls from the cupboard in a clumsy stack and hurried over to the pot, ladling a serving into each one.
The innkeeper’s task was done and she headed back up the stairs with more groaning and swearing, without a glance to the young maid left behind.
Tellie balanced the bowls on a tray and carefully pushed open the doors with her shoulder as she headed for the dining room. Only one lantern was lit in the far corner, and the three men huddled like vultures about the table, their shadows rising in ominous specters behind them.
One of them was grumbling aloud. “Capture the elf king, indeed! Curse the warden and anyone else who wants this job done!”
They noticed her approach and fell deathly silent. She tried not to tremble as she laid out their bowls and mugs, hoping that exhaustion dulled any exterior interest that had sparked within her at the man’s strange words.
Once she hurried away, she paused just on the other side of the door, her ear pressed to the wall. Who knew what they’d do if she was caught eavesdropping, but the temptation was too great. The best stories she heard came from her friend, Kelm Thrander, a young merchant’s apprentice who traveled much of Orim and heard all sorts of dazzling tales—from the unscaled cliffs that ended the northwest reach of Orim to the exotic bazaars in Oolum. These strange, shadowed men might be part of a tale even Kelm would be impressed by. She imagined him now, face wrinkled in disgust if she didn’t even try to find out more about them. And they’d mentioned elves. That alone was worth the risk.
“You speak boldly as if you were safe and far away. Do not forget that His Darkness is always present,” one of the strangers said.
Tellie’s skin crawled at the sound of his voice. Surely he was the leader, the one that had met her eyes so coldly.
“He’s right, though,” said another, words smacking together as he slurped down his food. “The warden gave us an impossible mission. It’s his fault that he’s waited so long to put a plan into action. And this is the most idiotic plan I’ve heard. Like we could ever get near the elven king. You know protections surround his realm. If the elf king could be captured, he would have been captured already. I say he’s as impossible to reach as the Higher World itself. Don’t you think?”
“I’m thinking,” said the leader slowly. “I’m thinking what would happen if we succeed.”
In the silence that followed, one of the men coughed as if he’d choked on his soup.
“Gore!” the man swore. “Daran, you don’t mean it.”
“I do,” the one called Daran replied. “I do indeed.”
“But that’s rot. How are we to succeed?”
“I convinced the warden to give me a little leverage.” There was a swish of cloth, then sharp intakes of breath.
“By the Darkness himself,” a man whispered.
Tellie sucked in a frustrated breath. What were they showing? Luckily, The Only Inn was not a quality establishment and much of the wood was rotting, so she found a perfect knothole through which to peer into the room beyond without showing herself. She squinted, glad that the strangers had moved away from their leader, giving her a chance to see what he presented. A necklace dangled from the man’s upraised hand. Upon the necklace strand hung a disc like the full moon, soft grey and paper thin.
“By the Darkness,” one of the men repeated, voice quavering. “What are you doing with that cursed thing?”
Daran swung the necklace casually. “You act as if the mere sight is going to burn you, cowards. The Warden told me that the elves might bargain with us for it.”
“Aye, if they don’t shoot us down and take it,” said the other in disgust.
Throwing him a withering glare, Daran growled, “Don’t you know anything about elves? They’re compassionate, plagues take them. All we have to do is play the poor, unhappy travelers whose only thing of worth is this medallion. Do not worry, I have a story of how we came by it. The elves will see what we want in exchange, so we will ask to speak with their king, and the king comes and…”
“And we grab him and whisk him away before the elves strike us dead. Right.” Sarcasm dripped off the words.
“Well,” Daran said, sounding uncertain for the first time. “I haven’t figured it all out yet.” His confidence returned, and he jabbed a finger in the air. “But the moon medallion is the key. Just you wait.” Taking another swig of ale, he tucked the medallion into a pocket of his cloak.
But there must have been a hole in the ragged cloak for Tellie watched the moon medallion fall lightly to the floor under the table, making no more sound than a feather.
She backed away from the knothole, her face crumbled. This was more unsettling than she’d hoped for. Everyone in the town of Denji knew the morbid legend of the elven prince who had come to their town—this very same inn—and left death in his wake. It had happened seventy years ago, or so she heard, but that had been the last encounter with elves Denji ever had. There were still reports of them visiting the city of Dormandy now and then, but they were a reclusive folk, and any information about them abounded in rumor. But these men—whoever they were—seemed to think they could find the elves and even harm them.
She tried to take a deep breath. The orphanage matron always scolded her for jumping to fantastic conclusions before she had all the details. So maybe she was misinterpreting something. Maybe they were part of a drama troupe practicing for a play. That seemed far-fetched, but one never knew. And it wasn’t like she could do anything. The Nornes would never believe her and wouldn’t be of any help even if they did.
She would just have to let these strangers pass through the inn and go on with their business. It wouldn’t do to get involved.
After all, matters with elves had already ruined her family once before.
Tellie spent a while scrubbing the kitchen while she waited for the men to finish their late supper and turn in for the night. Chores past the midnight hour were not exactly her cup of tea, but she had to do something to stay awake. When at last the guests trooped upstairs to their quarters, she ventured back to the dining room.
The ale mugs and plates were scattered, food strewn across the wood and tableware. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she began stacking them up. Last dishes to be washed, she told herself. Last—
In her weariness, she bent too far over, and a cup towering on top of the others fell to the floor. Setting the rest of the ware back on the table, she bent down to pick up the stray mug.
A glimmer caught her eye.
There on the floor lay a small circle of moonlight itself. The necklace she had seen fall out of the leader’s cloak. He’d not noticed it missing from his pocket?
Shaking her head, she reached over and picked it up. Her breath skipped a beat as she held it. It was so light that the cord felt no heavier than spider’s silk. As for the medallion, she could not feel its weight at all. And it was brighter…far brighter than she recalled. No longer grey, it shone like starlight itself. It was not a perfect circle, now that she saw it up close. Part of it seemed shaved off, like a waxing moon.
Her heart began to thud as she considered what this sort of necklace might be worth. Surely it had to be rare, for Kelm had never told her of anything crafted like this. Where it came from and who it belonged to, she did not know. But everything about those strangers spelled some kind of danger.
What was she to do? She couldn’t give it back to them if they’d stolen it, yet she had to because there was no proof otherwise, and they would miss it—miss it and become angry. She’d have to give it back straightaway come morning. But if anyone else came looking for it, she’d point them in the right direction.
Tucking the necklace in her pocket, Tellie grabbed the dishes. She’d worry about it at dawn.
“So. She has found it.”
“Yes.”
“Then it shall begin at last.”
oOo
The rain poured down through the forest, the droplets gathering on branches and needles only to fall in greater splashes to the ground. A small party huddled under the trees, tents hastily set up, horses standing irritably in the downpour. A lone figure hurried across the soggy grass back to the tents, huddling into his waxed cloak, raindrops slipping down his furrowed brow.
Of all times for a storm to blow in. If the night had remained fair, they could have reached the memorial. But no, there had to be a delay, another reason to stay longer in this terrible forest. As an earth elf, forests were usually a balm to his soul compared to a city, but not this one. He avoided Shadowshade on any of his ventures forth from his homeland, considering the fate of the ambassador before him.
And this time, the king was with them. Outside of Aselvia.
King Rendar had taken it into his mind to visit the memorial of his son and soldiers now. Now when the people were already fearing for his waning health. Now, seventy whole years later.
The elven ambassador tucked away his agitation as he entered the royal tent. He slipped off the wet cloak with relief, handing it with a soft thanks to an accommodating guard and stepped to where the king sat. A lantern hung from the center of the tent and a few more sat along the sides, filling the small room with a gentle glow and thin, intricate shadows from the lanterns’ laced sides. The king sat upon another waxed cloak so he did not soak up the wet ground, but he could not have looked more regal than if he’d sat on his throne. He shone, the light glittering off his silver hair, his robes bright and unsullied. His back was straight, but his head was slightly bent, his eyes closed in sleep. Yet something marred his magnificence. Long shadows of troubled years hung under his eyes and hollowed his cheeks.
The ambassador hated to wake him, but he hadn’t left his own comfortable tent and gone into the rain to rummage in the saddlebags for nothing. The healer Damarik had sent with them some herbs that would help fight whatever malady afflicted their king, and he was determined that he wouldn’t miss a night of it just because the herbs had been momentarily forgotten in the hurry to set up the tent.
He laid a gentle hand upon the king’s shoulder. “Your Majesty...”
The king’s eyes fluttered open, their silver color flashing in the lantern light. “Leoren,” he said.
“Yes, it’s me.” Leoren undid the flask from his hip, poured some of the herbs inside, and folded the king’s hands around it. “Let this steep for a while before you drink. Damarik said it would soothe you.”
The king’s lips twitched in a sideways smile, and his gaze flickered over to the ambassador. “I think it might be you who needs soothing.”
Well, he wasn’t wrong about that. Leoren’s anxiety about this whole affair was getting worse. Their king…their long-reigning, ever-shining king was not well. Even worse, Rendar not only acknowledged he wasn’t well, but continually hinted at something more terrible.
It was an awful reminder that even though an elf had not died from age in the thousand years of the earth’s existence, they were not altogether safe from the grim reaper of death. Sickness or wound could take them, snuffing their fair life without a thought.
Only Rendar was not like the rest of them. He was not an earth elf but a celestial…the only one here upon the Lower World. White-haired and possessed with a powerful light within to heal and restore. Their savior king. To them, he had always been like a star in the heavens. And who had ever heard of a star burning out?
“Poor Leoren,” Rendar said, patting his arm. “Always troubled about so many things.”
Leoren stared. Well…well…how could he help it? They were out in the middle of the forest where the last ambassador and royal had died!
Rendar sighed. “You are stronger than you know. Casara and you have done so much to help me these past years, and I will need your help more than ever. A new age is coming. A new king. Until then, I know you and Casara will be good stewards. Aselvia needs you both, and so will the heir.”
Leoren took a deep breath to steady himself. There it was again. These strange hints, these dreadful words he didn’t wish to hear. Part of him hoped that Rendar, who had always possessed an air of mystery but was lately getting worse, was only a tiny bit mad. It was possible, what with the grief scored across his life. And if it was just madness, then surely they could help him return to sanity. For now, they simply had to visit the resting place of the prince and then slip back behind the Aselvian mountains.
No words came to mind at that moment, so he squeezed the king’s shoulder wearily and stood to return to his own tent where his wife waited.
“It has been seven decades,” Rendar said, tilting his head.
Leoren paused, heart aching. “My king?”
“There are some…” Rendar closed his eyes again, the same sad smile still haunting his lips. “There are some who say that seven is the number of completion.”
oOo
Far, far away from where the rain poured, from small inns, from forests, from anything green or good was a grey land that had not seen the light of sun for vanishing years. All who saw it recognized it as the manifestation of despair on earth, and some abhorred it, but others mistook despair for glory.
The unfortunates who toiled there were bound by chains that could not be seen but held stronger than iron. They were pathetic beings, all zest of life wrung out of them like water from a rag. Most of these worked in mines, carving deep into the heart of the grey mountains surrounding the land. What they mined for, they did not know nor did they ask. They understood it was simply one of the tasks which was thrust on them to further break their spirits. Nearly all were crippled creatures, for few passed through those rock passages without mangling themselves on the sharp rocks that rose like knives or discovering a sudden drop into utter blackness. And always overseers, armed with whips and rods, watched over the prisoners, ready to lash out their anger and broken dreams upon them for any mistake. Never was there a more savage realm devoid of life or love.
But there were yet those few whose spirits were not broken.
An old miner chipped away at a stone wall, his back bent in a permanent arc from bending over. In years he was only middle-aged, but the horror of this imprisonment had cracked his face and greyed his hair. But there gleamed the faintest spark in his eye that revealed he had not given up hope. Not quite.
The chisel he h
eld, worn to a narrow rod, suddenly broke in his hand. He snatched up both ends, hoping one might still serve, but both were too short. He could pretend to keep working; perhaps no one would notice.
But he’d already hesitated too long. One of the overseers saw that he no longer labored. “You,” he shouted. “Back to work!”
Hastily, the old miner positioned his hammer into place and swung at the invisible chisel. He might have done this for days without anyone noticing. But the overseer’s eye stayed on him and noticed.
“Worthless scum, you lost your tool, did you? It’s worth more than you!” He stalked towards him, whip drawing back. It cracked through the air, slapped on skin, but the body it wrapped around was not the miner’s.
In his place stood the Prisoner.
The Prisoner, seemingly unaware of the whip’s embrace, took one step forward and caught the overseer by the throat, driving him into the wall. “Overseer Normen,” he said softly. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Every ring and thud of hammer and stone silenced as each slave turned and stared.
For this Prisoner stood peerless of all the rest. His corded strength defied his malnourished body, the grime and blood could not hide his eerie beauty, and ever his eyes shone with a spirit hotter than the purest flame. There was no greater mystery in this prison, for though he worked in the mines every other week, none of the captives could remember a time when he had not been in the mines, and yet he did not seem to age, and he did not keep his scars, though there were always new ones to replace the old. Thus he had become something of a hero.
The overseer sputtered and struggled, but he could not break free from his captor’s hand. “Scum,” he coughed. “We’ll flay off your skin.”
“Beating is as natural to me as breathing,” the Prisoner said coolly. “I hardly feel threatened.” His eyes narrowed, and he pressed his thumb into the man’s jugular vein. “How about you?”
“If you kill me,” the overseer gasped, wheezing from the effort to breathe. “The overseers will kill the other slaves. Their blood on your head.”
Moonscript (Kings of Aselvia Book 1) Page 2