by Guy Antibes
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W hit Varian stared at the girl. “After two years you want to break up?” the elf said.
Marna, the daughter of the richest man in the wood elf village of Whistle Vale, tossed her brown hair, with the greenish highlights brightened by the streaks of sun dappling the dusty air of the forest. “Things have changed,” she said, folding her arms.
Whit continued to stare, but his gaze began to appraise the girl’s stance. Their relationship was over, poisoned, and buried deep in the earth where it would never flourish again. “It’s because of my mother, isn’t it?”
“That is the biggest change. She ran the village despite her husband and…you.”
Whit sighed. “I’m no longer good enough for you?”
“No longer appropriate. My parents and my friends have told me there is no future in the village associating with a seventeen-year-old mud elf without connections.”
The comment stung Whit even though he’d been called a mud elf for years. The epithet came for the first time from Marna’s lips. She had been a sympathetic ear until now. He gave her a nod and turned, not wanting her to see his eyes glisten. He was past the acceptable age for crying, but that hadn’t stopped his eyes from getting moist when his mother had died three months ago. Almost-tears came easier, now that his standing in the community was being tested and the results were distressing.
Whit was about to turn and ask what he could do to make up for being a mixed breed, but he heard her quickly walking away.
“Over,” he said to himself.
He looked up at the forest that he loved as much as his wood elf mother did. His mother… Whit couldn’t hold back a sigh as he headed to the hut he now shared only with his father.
“You look glum,” Naman Varian said as his son walked into their cottage.
“Marna and I are history.” Whit threw himself into the only stuffed chair in the space.
“You know what I say about history,” Naman said.
“It is always better to leave it behind.” Whit put his hands to his longish brown hair and grabbed it in frustration.
Naman smiled, a bit sadly as he had started to do when Whit’s mother died. “Right. You can look back, but don’t carry it with you.”
“Sometimes that’s hard to do,” Whit said.
“Tell me about it. At least we still have a good roof over our heads.”
Whit shook his head. His father had once been a popular history professor at Herringbone University when he met Whit’s mother. Their differences couldn’t destroy the love that had developed between them. Naman, a sky elf, gave up teaching to help his wife run Whistle Vale after she inherited the chief’s position from a distant relative when Whit was three years old.
Now that their connection to the village was severed, they both faced ostracization from the villagers. “Let’s get another coat of lime on the walls and then tomorrow starts the last week of study for your entrance exams into Herringbone.”
“But the cost,” Whit said. “You can use that money once we have to leave.”
Naman sighed. “We don’t have much to rely on, but we will have to make do. At least we will have some furniture to use when we leave, and you already have most of the books you’ll need for your first term.”
Whit wasn’t as excited as he once was to attend university. He could almost pass for a wood elf, from a distance, but both his father and mother warned him that living in Whistle Vale after he graduated wouldn’t be tolerated. He knew how true those words were now that his social life had crumbled away to nothing.
“If you are moving away from the village, why are we resurfacing the walls of our hut?” Whit asked his father as they began lugging out the plastering tools from the outside shed. “No one else whitewashes their huts like Mother did.”
Naman laughed and ruffled Whit’s hair, a little lighter than his mother’s dark brown hair and without the characteristic green highlights. “Your mother asked me the day before she died. My promise.”
Whit frowned. “No one will appreciate our work. You know that.”
Naman nodded. “Your mother will, wherever she is.”
Another sigh. Whit nodded. “For mother, then. Maybe we can go over inscribed wards. I could use some practice with those.”
It was Naman’s turn to sigh. “That is a wood elf specialty, but I don’t think anyone in the Whistle Vale will teach you more of their secrets. You might know enough to give you a tiny advantage over the sky elves at Herringbone.”
As the two of them began to apply another coat of plaster on the round cottage Whit had known as his only home, Naman traced a magical inscription on the wall, and then Whit repeated it. Naman’s work was inert, but Whit’s would help preserve the whitewash.
Whit heard footsteps approaching from behind.
“Do a proper job.”
Whit turned. Terakir Hogan, Marna’s father walked up and bumped into Naman. “Useless sky elf,” Terakir said. “We never did see what Oleana saw in you. Or either of you, now that Whit is full grown. We had to put up with her, but we don’t have to endure your ilk in the village any longer.”
“We will be out of your hair soon enough,” Naman said. “Give us a week to get the chieftain’s hut cleaned out. You’ll be the one taking over.”
“As it should be,” Terakir said. “I want you two out of the village before daybreak.”
“And if we aren’t?” Whit asked, angrier than his father appeared to be.
“No one with sky elf blood will be alive in Whistle Vale after the sun comes up.”
Whit’s heart sunk as he heard grunts of agreement from the others in the little crowd backing Teraki up.
“Then you can finish this up yourself,” Naman said, dropping the bucket filled with thin plaster. It sloshed onto Terakir’s pant legs and that was all it took for the other wood elves to close in on Naman, who stood taller than the stockier wood elves. “You don’t want to fight me. There will be injuries on both sides.”
“Don’t think we haven’t taken that into account,” one of Whit’s former friends said as he stepped up with a pad of paper and a thick pencil and began scribbling.
“Get behind me!” Naman said to Whit.
Whit’s father began to move his fingers and then his arms in circles. As the first ward hit them, their defense, a ball of water, surrounded the pair. A flash hit Naman in the chest before the water shield solidified. The next ward shredded the barrier of water, but it drenched the men attacking them, pushing them to the ground and water splashed back onto Naman and Whit that extinguished the flames just starting to catch on Naman’s clothes.
“We have to run!” Naman said, clutching his chest. “This is madness!” he muttered as he coughed and grabbed Whit’s sleeve.
They ran toward the main road, a few hundred paces down from the village. Naman’s hands never stopped producing a flow of water behind them. The dirt road began to turn to thick mud slowing their assailants. When they reached the road, Naman slowed up. He was a mess. His bare chest was exposed from the large, burned hole in his shirt. Neither of them had any money on them and their only possessions were the clothes on their backs.
The traffic on the road now became their protection as they quickly walked between a few wagons and others traveling by foot. Whit looked back at the turn off to the village. Their pursuers raised their fists and shouted at them when they reached the thoroughfare, but in minutes, the way to Whit’s childhood home was lost to view. He could never return.
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A Bit About Guy
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With a lifelong passion for speculative fiction, Guy Antibes found that he rather enjoyed writing fantasy, as well as reading it. So, a career was born, and Guy anxiously engaged in adding his own flavor of writing to the world. Guy lives in the western part of the United States and is happily married with enough children and grandchildren to meet or exceed the human replacement rate.
You can contact Guy at his website: www.guyantibes.com
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Books by Guy Antibes
The Adventures of Desolation Boxster
Book One: Prince on the Run
Book Two: Theft of an Ancient Dog
Book Three: The Blue Tower
Book Four: The Swordmaker’s Secret
Book Five: A Clash of Magics
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Wizard’s Helper
Book One: The Serpent’s Orb
Book Two: The Warded Box
Book Three: Grishel’s Feather
Book Four: The Battlebone
Book Five: The Polished Penny
Book Six: The Hidden Mask
Book Seven: The Buckle’s Curse
Book Eight: The Purloined Soul
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Magic Missing
Book One: A Boy Without Magic
Book Two: An Apprentice Without Magic
Book Three: A Voyager Without Magic
Book Four: A Scholar Without Magic
Book Five: A Snoop Without Magic
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Song of Sorcery
Book One: A Sorcerer Rises
Book Two: A Sorcerer Imprisoned
Book Three: A Sorcerer’s Diplomacy
Book Four: A Sorcerer’s Rings
Book Five: A Sorcerer’s Fist
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The Disinherited Prince
Book One: The Disinherited Prince
Book Two: The Monk’s Habit
Book Three: A Sip of Magic
Book Four: The Sleeping God
Demeron: A Horse’s Tale - A Disinherited Prince Novella
Book Five: The Emperor’s Pet
Book Six: The Misplaced Prince
Book Seven: The Fractured Empire
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Power of Poses
Book One: Magician in Training
Book Two: Magician in Exile
Book Three: Magician in Captivity
Book Four: Magician in Battle
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The Warstone Quartet
Book One: Moonstone | Magic That Binds
Book Two: Sunstone | Dishonor’s Bane
Book Three: Bloodstone | Power of Youth
Book Four: Darkstone | An Evil Reborn
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The World of the Sword of Spells
Warrior Mage
Sword of Spells
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The Sara Featherwood Adventures
Knife & Flame
Sword & Flame
Guns & Flame
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Other Novels
Quest of the Wizardess
The Power Bearer
Panix: Magician Spy
Hand of Grethia
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The Guy Antibes Anthologies
The Alien Hand
Science Fiction
The Purple Flames
Steampunk & Paranormal Fantasy with a tinge of Horror
Angel in Bronze
Fantasy
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