by JA Andrews
“I must go.”
“Then you will no longer be a Keeper.” Mikal shoved his chair back as he stood.
“No one is discussing casting Alaric out,” the Shield said firmly.
Mikal glared at Alaric before slamming back down into his chair.
The Shield looked around the room. “We do not cast men out for a single choice because no man is defined by a single choice. With each day, we decide anew who we are, what we will grow toward. Alaric has chosen to be a Keeper a thousand times in a thousand ways. No one is discussing his place here, only his request to travel to Sidion.” He turned back to Alaric. “We cannot give you leave to go. It is forbidden.”
Alaric stood, looking down the table at the frail old man. “I asked as a courtesy. I don’t need your permission.”
“We will not stop you, of course, and you will be welcomed back when you return.” The Shield met Alaric’s gaze. “But I beg you to reconsider. This is not what you want. Shade Seekers do not value the things we do. Please do not go. For her sake.”
Alaric stared hard at the man. “I will not sit by and watch her die,” Alaric said, crushing the scroll in his hand. Keeper Gerone’s face grew white, and he stretched his hand toward the ruined red parchment.
Alaric would not be swayed.
He would not lose her.
The Wellstone continued to pull him on. Alaric was at Sidion, reading dark, heartless books. Then he was standing over Evangeline, drawing the red light out from her, apologizing over and over while she screamed in pain. Finally, the ruby solidified, swirling with red light.
Alaric let the memories flow, letting the Wellstone pull them out as quickly as it wanted. When Alaric reached the Death Caves of the southern blood doctors in Napon, the memories slowed. Alaric tried to push them faster, but the Stone recognized that here was a place no Keeper had ever been before. It spent too long absorbing the horrors of that place. Watching healthy people, even women and young children, poisoned. Their symptoms, responses to antidotes, and deaths recorded meticulously. There was so much blood and sickness in those caves you could taste it in the air.
The Wellstone sifted through every memory as Alaric stood by, watching the doctors perform experiment after experiment with the rock snake venom he had brought. They didn’t have rock snakes this far south. He hadn’t known what they would do when he brought it to them. He hadn’t known how many people they would kill trying to develop an antidote. How many people Alaric would have to watch die, unable to stop them.
And even the blood doctors found no antidote.
The Wellstone’s pull on him lessened as the pool of unshared memories shrank. It settled finally on an image of the small keep where Evangeline lay, pale and still. Moonlight fell through the balcony doors onto her thin face, her limp hair. It glinted off the crystal surrounding her, keeping her body alive.
With a moan, Alaric pulled his hands off the Wellstone.
Chapter Five
Alaric leaned his head on the table and closed his eyes, clasping his hands together to stop their shaking. He wanted to run, to run and forget the fact that those memories were shared now, held permanently in the Wellstone to be studied by Keepers whenever they wished.
Alaric shook out his hands. He shoved the thoughts of what he had just done away. It was done, and with it, his time as a Keeper. He would find Kordan’s antidote, and then he would leave. He thought of the swirl of darkness in the ruby and felt a wave of anguish. How long did he have before that darkness spread? How long did Evangeline have left?
But the Wellstone demanded focus, and it was a long time before he was calm enough to try. Finally, he set his hands on it and concentrated on the entry he had read in Kordan’s journal. The boy, the snake, the emerald.
It was a process, looking for information in the seemingly bottomless pool of memories in the Wellstone. Slowly, painstakingly, he nudged the chaos toward the memories Kordan had left. When he finally found them, he found the boy, writhing in pain while a green glow radiated from his body.
The emerald formed, and the boy was led away by his parents. If Alaric could see where Kordan kept his notes, he could sift back through memories until he found the Keeper writing the antidote. But Kordan’s home was bare. There was only one book, the small brown journal Alaric had already read. Where did Kordan record his work?
Kordan pulled the emerald out of his pocket, watching the light swirl. He picked up a box from the mantle, a sprawling oak tree carved into the lid. Gently, he wrapped the emerald in a red handkerchief and placed it in the box.
Then he dropped into a chair. On the table next to him, sitting on a silver, three-pronged stand, was a small crystal with irregular surfaces, but each facet flashed with color.
Kordan had a Wellstone.
Alaric tried to see more, tried to draw out more memories from Kordan. But all he could see was Kordan looking into his own Wellstone.
Alaric’s stomach dropped. Wellstones must not record memories recorded in other Wellstones. No matter what he tried, he found no more of Kordan’s life.
He let his hands fall off the crystal.
He was looking in the wrong place. Kordan had kept all of his knowledge in his own Wellstone. This one was useless.
He sank back into the chair, dropping his face into his hands. His dismay was so great that he could hardly breath. He had just used the wrong Wellstone. There was no antidote here.
Alaric had just shared all his memories with the Keepers for nothing.
I will store all of my memories in the Wellstone, and bury my treasure here beneath a young oak, Kordan had written.
Alaric thought of Kordan’s sparse home. The Keeper had had no treasure besides the Wellstone. One even as small and irregular as his would be worth a fortune.
Somewhere in Kordan’s Blight, under what must now be a hundred-year-old oak, the antidote Alaric needed was buried.
He stood up, refusing to look at the useless Wellstone, refusing to think about the memories he’d just shared. The Shield would come see them soon enough and realize that Alaric wasn’t really a Keeper any longer. Kordan was right. There were choices that changed a person too much.
Alaric strode back down the ramp into the dark tower. When he reached the council chamber, he stopped to check a map, slipping in and closing the door behind him before lighting a lantern.
The council table was spread with woefully incomplete maps of the Lumen Greenwood, the forest of the elves.
For eight years, the Keepers had been trying to find out what had happened the day Mallon, a ruthless Shade Seeker with seemingly limitless power, had disappeared. He had bent the country to his will, leading an army of nomadic warriors right to the walls of the capital. Neither Queen Saren nor the Keepers had had any real hope of stopping Mallon. But then he had turned his attention toward the elves and disappeared into their woods.
That day, half of the Greenwood had burned and Mallon had disappeared along with every trace of his power. The thousands under his control had been released, and his nomadic army had drained back through the Scale Mountains.
But the elves had disappeared as well. It was challenging to find the elves in the best of times, but since Mallon, it had been impossible.
Alaric pulled maps off a shelf, tossing aside assorted maps of Queensland, the Dwarves’ capital of Duncave, and other miscellaneous maps until he found one showing Kordan’s Blight. It was far north, the last village before the Wolfsbane Mountains began.
He took a moment to memorize the map, then blew out the lantern and went quickly downstairs.
When he reached the ground floor, he could hear the thwump-thwumping of Keeper Gerone kneading the morning bread. It must be close to dawn. Alaric walked over to the kitchen door and saw the Keeper’s bent back as he steadily worked the dough. Alaric breathed in the smell of home and belonging.
He opened his mouth to greet Gerone, eyeing a kitchen chair he could drop into and spill his troubles out to the old man. In the qui
et, while it was still dark, had always been a good time to talk to the brilliant man, looking for new perspectives or connections or answers.
But Alaric couldn’t bring himself to tell Gerone what he had done. He’d see the memories in the Wellstone soon enough.
Gerone began to turn around and Alaric ducked quickly past the door.
He paused for just a moment at the Keepers’ robes on the way out. He let his fingers run across the fabric again. He could leave the worn-out one he was wearing and put on a proper robe. The robes were made to look common, giving Keepers a measure of anonymity when they traveled. But they weren’t common. They were perfect. The perfect weight, the perfect warmth, the perfect black. The first time he had worn one was the first time he had really believed he was a Keeper.
Alaric let his hand drop. Leaving the robes on their hooks, he left.
The woods allowed Alaric to leave without being visited by ghosts or wolves, and by the time the sun had fully risen, he was on the King’s Highway heading north. When dusk came, he stopped for the night at a small tavern in a small town. It had been before lunchtime when he had passed the last thing that could be called a city. From here north, it was just scattered homesteads and the occasional village.
In the tavern, even though he was exhausted from not sleeping the night before, he settled into the commotion and camaraderie of the dining room. He was reluctant to call himself a Keeper tonight, so he introduced himself as a royal historian tasked with recording local histories. Several men joined him at a table and talked over each other to tell a legend of a crazy miller woman who haunted Dead Man’s Hollow.
When the sun set, Alaric continued recording stories by candlelight. The room was alive with laughter and folktales. For the first time in a long time, his enjoyment of the world around him drowned out his own worry and guilt.
The tavern brightened slightly as the front door opened. A hush fell over the room. Alaric glanced up to see where the extra light was coming from.
It took a moment to understand what he was seeing.
Standing in the doorway was a group of travelers. A young man, an old man, a stocky dwarf, and glittering like her own candle flame, was an elf.
Chapter Six
The people around Alaric sat perfectly still, staring unabashedly at what was surely the only elf they had ever seen. Alaric stared along with them. He had forgotten how luminous they were.
“Good evening,” she said, gracing them with a smile that spread through the room like a wave of warm water. Alaric smiled back at her. She was so very elfish—like a sparkle of sunlight. Her simple white dress reached down to her knees and was belted by a ring of purple flowers. The waves of her hair, and maybe even her skin, shimmered with specks of gold.
The sounds of the rest of the room faded—she lit up like a beacon of light in a dull world. Like a beacon of pure, stunning, mesmerizing brilliance.
Alaric realized he was gazing oafishly at her and blinked. He shook off the unfocused feeling creeping across his mind and studied her. She was pretty, but not nearly as lovely as he had thought. Or maybe she was. She was mesmerizing.
Alaric tore his gaze away from her. Scowling, he braced his mind against her, willfully choosing to focus on his own hands, the bread on the table, the smell of onions and roasting meat. He took control of his own thoughts, leaving no room for any outside influence. His mind cleared, and the room settled back into perspective.
That was disconcerting.
Elves could sense more about living creatures than humans could. They could see emotions and the general state of well-being that a person had just by looking at them. But this elf was doing more than that. Alaric glanced around the enthralled tavern. It sure looked like this elf wasn’t just reading emotions. She was controlling them.
“Are you done?” the dwarf asked the elf as he jostled past her. “I’m hungry.”
She let out a tinkle of laughter, and everyone blinked and moved again, leaning toward their neighbors and whispering.
The man next to Alaric tore his gaze away from the elf and continued his story. Alaric gave enough attention to him to write it down, but like everyone else, he mostly watched this new group. Now that his mind was clearer, he realized the full impact of what he was seeing.
The elf by herself would be astonishing enough, but she had settled into a chair right next to the dwarf. Alaric had never heard of an elf and a dwarf interacting. As far as he knew, there had never even been a meeting between the two peoples. If a dwarf happened to be in the capital during the short time an elf had visited, the two avoided each other.
But these two seemed perfectly at ease with each other.
When the barmaid took drinks to the table, the dwarf lifted his glass. “To the richest family in Kordan’s Blight.”
Alaric’s quill stuttered. Kordan’s Blight?
He wrapped up the story with the man, crossed the room to where the group was sitting, and introduced himself.
“A royal historian?” the dwarf asked, glancing down at Alaric’s worn cloak. “So you’re a cheaper version of those Keepers you humans like so much?”
Alaric forced a smile at the dwarf. “Precisely.”
“You’ll have to excuse Douglon,” the young man said, shooting the dwarf a disapproving look. He had an open face topped by a tousle of indistinct brown hair. “He’s hungry. Please, have a seat. I’m Brandson.”
Alaric took the seat. “I must say, you are the most interesting group that I have ever come across in my travels.”
“You have no idea,” the elf said, smiling at him. Then she peered at him as though working out a puzzle. “Is this place calming your soul?” she asked curiously.
“It is,” Alaric admitted.
“Wonderful,” she said, bathing him with a radiant smile. “A soul with burdens such as yours needs some calming.”
Her smile sank into him, sending tendrils of comfort deep into his chest.
Alaric liked elves. They kept you on your toes. He firmed up the focus of his mind so that she couldn’t influence his thoughts. It was stimulating to be around a people who had such casual intuition. She wouldn’t care enough about a human to wonder what his burdens were, but she’d see that he carried them as easily as she’d see his brown hair.
The dwarf rolled his eyes. “Good evening,” he grunted. “I don’t care about your soul.”
Alaric laughed. “And I don’t care about yours, master dwarf.” Douglon was exactly what Alaric expected from a dwarf, with the darkened leather armor and his long copper beard, beaded and tucked into his belt alongside his scarred battle-axe.
Douglon flicked his hand toward the elf. “The annoyingly cheerful elf is Ayda.”
“And I,” the old man proclaimed in a nasal voice, “am Wizendorenfurderfur the Wondrous.” He wiggled his fingers through the air. “Holder of Secrets, Caster of Spells, and Spinner of Dreams!” He wore a long, dark blue robe, embroidered with stars, moons, and swirls of lighter blue thread. Matched, of course, by his pointy hat.
Brandson bit his lip to keep from smiling, and Douglon snorted in annoyance.
It was rare to run across someone with a talent for magic. Not as rare as elves, but if the man was telling the truth, this group just kept getting more interesting. “Wizendorenfurderfur,” Alaric repeated.
“Close enough,” the old man replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I don’t expect common folk to be able to pronounce my name. I allow these people to call me Gustav.”
“Naturally,” answered Alaric, keeping his face serious while he gave the wizard a slight bow.
Alaric looked back at Douglon and Ayda. “I’ve never heard of an elf and a dwarf traveling together.”
“You still haven’t,” Douglon said, grumbling but not moving away from her. “I travel with Brandson. Ayda just shows up sometimes, and Brandson is too kind to send her away. No one would choose to travel with an elf.”
Ayda smiled sweetly at the dwarf.
Alar
ic glanced around the table as the tavern keeper brought them all some dinner. Taken together, they were an odd collection, but when he looked at them individually, they each embodied their own people perfectly. The elf was flighty, the dwarf was gruff, the young man was friendly, and the wizard wore a pointy hat. Alaric smiled at them all. He couldn’t have put together a more entertaining group if he had tried.
“I heard you mention Kordan’s Blight,” Alaric said. “That is one of the towns I’m planning on visiting.”
Brandson nodded. “That’s where we live. We’re headed home from the market at Queenstown.”
“Brandson is the town blacksmith,” Douglon said.
“A town with the name Kordan’s Blight promises some interesting local legends,” Alaric said.
“I can tell you how the town was named!” said Gustav. He took a dramatic pause, then shot an impatient look at Alaric. “Aren’t you going to write this down, historian?”
“Um, of course,” Alaric said. He pulled out his book and quill, receiving an approving nod from the old man.
Gustav narrowed his eyes and began in a hushed voice. “Long ago, the evil wizard Kordan dwelt in the town. He tyrannized the people, stealing their crops and murdering their cattle. Then one day, he took an innocent boy and turned him into a demon! The people were terrified until my great-great-grandfather, Meisterfoltergast, cast the wizard out and killed the demon. Meisterfoltergast spent days cleansing the town of Kordan’s evil. He restored their crops and blessed their cattle but renamed the town Kordan’s Blight as a warning to the people to remember what evil is.”
Gustav fixed Alaric with a glare and whispered, “People always forget that there is evil nearby. Always.”
The old man picked up a piece of chicken and tore off a bite.
Silence reigned for a moment while everyone stared at the wizard.
“I’d bet my beard there’s not a lick of truth to that,” Douglon said to Ayda.
