by Sean Hinn
Oort looked up. Cindra did not.
“Lady, can yeh get us there?” Thinsel asked. “It ain’t far, just down near the mines. Can yeh… I mean, I dunno, spell us? Sneak us all out?”
Cindra shook her head. “I could not. Not when they camp outside my door. We’d be detected, sure as stone.”
Thinsel sighed. “Well. Worth askin’.”
“What if I rushed ‘em? Could yeh get Thinny out?”
“I’ll not leave yeh, Oort Greykin.”
Cindra again shook her head. “Look at the door. See how bright it is? At least a dozen gnomes line that tunnel. More, maybe. They’ll be armed. And they may have Elders with them, Elders with powerful dark magic.”
The couple sat dejected. After a turn, Thinsel asked the question that was on all their minds.
“What will they do with us, Lady?”
Cindra’s gaze was severe. “You don’t want to know that.”
“I do. That’s why I asked yeh.”
Oort stared at his wife.
Cindra nodded. “As you wish.” Cindra collected herself and began, recalling her lessons with Trellia. “There are many kinds of magic in this world, but they all need fuel. The elves’ magic comes from within themselves, from their own life’s energies. They are a long-lived people, with deep reservoirs of power in their bones, but when they use their magic, they shorten their lifespans. The magic of the wizards of Kehrlia comes from without. They draw on minuscule powers that flow through the air, that reside in the ground. The darker ones… well, some say they draw from the living. Plants, insects, animals. Some say the most powerful wizards can even draw from other people. Then there are the witches, like me. Never mind the word; it’s what I am. We carry a spark inside us we gnomes call lífda. It’s in our blood. But as we age, the lífda fades, unless we replenish it. But only blood can replenish blood.”
Oort could not stop himself from asking. “Is that what our Shyla is?” Thinsel shot him a look.
“No,” said Cindra quickly. “No, Oort, Shyla is something different. Something akin to a sorcerer, one whose magic comes from strength of will alone. A sorcerer carries a talent for all the magics, and a reservoir of will that is nearly bottomless. Shyla is something like that. I think. Understand?” Oort nodded. “But to your question, Thinsel. The Elders… their magic is evil. Pure evil. It is not even theirs; it is on loan from devils. Or a devil. And devils… well, they deal in dark currencies. The Elders are andlá-pral now, death-slaves, though they probably don’t yet know it. What they will know, however, is that their power comes from what is called the Pri ja Syr, the Triad of Sorrow: fear, pain, and death. I will tell you now, Thinsel. If the Elders get their hands on you, the very best you can hope for is to die quickly, but that will be unlikely, because they will want to extract every last drop of power from you. From all of us.”
Thinsel trembled; Oort tightened his grasp on her sweating hand. “And they take… they take my pain? For power?”
“Yes,” Cindra said simply.
Thinsel nodded. She exchanged a look with Oort. Words were unnecessary. Thinsel moved to speak; Oort beat her to it.
“Take my blood,” he said. “Use it to get yer strength back. Save my Thinny, and yerself.”
“Oort, no–”
“Fer once in yer life, Thinsel Greykin, stop yer naggin’. My mind’s made up. Do it, Lady. Do it now.”
“I… I can’t, Oort. I swore an oath. Never to kill an innocent to strengthen myself. Never.”
“But yeh’ll be savin’ me Thinny, and I be dead soon anyways!”
“No, you don’t understand. I swore an oath, I can’t–”
“To the Mawbottom with your oath! Do it!”
“Oort Greykin, yeh don’t understand! It’s not that I won’t, it’s that I can’t! If I try, I die! The oath I took would kill me on the spot.”
“Gahhhhhh!” Oort slammed his fists on the table. “Then kill us! Just kill us! I won’t let them dung-stained bastards use my pain, my Thinny’s pain, to make ’em stronger! Just kill us!”
Cindra and Thinsel shared a look. Thinsel nodded.
“I be of the same mind, Lady.”
Cindra shook her head. “Not yet. We are not without hope yet.”
“Well, then what?” demanded Oort. “What hope have we got? Lady, ain’t there some way yeh can break yer oath? Undo it? Please, think!”
Cindra stood and began to pace. “I… I can’t break it. The oath was very specific. If I use innocent blood–” Cindra froze. Oort and Thinsel held their breath, knowing an idea was about to surface.
She turned to the couple. “Oort, yeh did it! That be it!” She leapt to embrace the confused gnome. “That be it! Innocent blood!” Her gnomish affectations returned.
Thinsel frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Well it be obvious! Innocent blood! Now listen. We won’t have much time, and we’ll need to be sly. No matter what, do not touch another gnome! Do yeh understand?”
Oort shook his head. “No. I sure as stone don’t understand.”
“Gah! Alright, the two of yeh, go stand back there in the corner now, go on, shoo! Now stand there, and don’t move a muscle, not until I tell yeh. Remember, do not touch another gnome!”
Oort and Thinsel obeyed despite their bewilderment. Cindra pulled her dagger off the wall and tucked it into the belt of her robe, then stood to face the door. She began a series of intricate gesticulations. She spoke the necessary words in old g’naari. After a turn, she ceased her gestures and turned to the Greykins. “Won’t be but a moment now,” she said, smiling. She turned back to the door and stretched her arms wide, inhaling. With sudden violence, she clapped them together above her head, exhaling. The pressure in the room suddenly increased, almost unbearably; Oort and Thinsel felt their eyes press into their sockets. Less than a fraction of a moment later, Elder Heina Ridge appeared before Cindra, an expression of utter confusion etched on her features.
Cindra smiled wickedly at the depraved andlá-pral. “Looking for someone, demon whore?”
Before Heina could reply, before she ever realized where she was or how she had gotten there, Cindra Sandshingle plunged her dagger into the malevolent gnome’s heart. Her strike was true; Heina Ridge was dead before she hit the ground.
Cindra tore a wide hole as she removed the dagger; she plunged her hand deep into the fatal wound. Oort and Thinsel moved towards her; when Cindra turned to glare at them, they froze in terror. Her ruby irises began to radiate, emanating a ruddy light, illuminating the walls and bathing the room in fiery beams. The light intensified, brilliant as the sun, impossibly bright, painful to look upon. The Greykins turned away, shutting their eyes tightly. They could feel the light, warm against their exposed skin. They felt it peak, then gradually begin to fade. After a turn, Cindra spoke.
“Hurry now. Come.”
Oort and Thinsel opened their eyes and beheld the witch. Her skin had tightened. She stood taller, straighter than they had ever seen her. She looked – no, she was – decidedly younger.
“Hurry now! Stop gawking! This will not last long; I did not prepare! Take my hands!”
The pair approached and took Cindra’s hands. “Now remember, touch no one!”
An instant later, the three were standing in the tunnel. Gnomish sentries lined both sides of the hall. Behind Thinsel, several Elders approached, their pace quick. But as providence would have it, the opposite way, the way to the mines, was clear.
The trio could not see one another. They could not see themselves. They were perfectly and completely invisible. Had they not been holding hands, they would have tripped over one another; as it was, they nearly did. Cindra led the way, followed by Thinsel and Oort. They managed to slip past the sentries undetected; they hurried their pace. A few turns later, they arrived at the driphole.
Cindra whispered. “Thinsel, you first. Oort, help me…”
Without seeing each other, and with only meager visibility from the torchlight some
ways down the tunnel, it was nearly impossible for Thinsel to balance herself on the supporting hands of Cindra and her husband. Yet she managed, and found herself climbing the hole that her daughter had climbed so many times before. She was exhausted, and not in the best physical condition, but the memory of Shyla strengthened her; she climbed.
“You next,” said Oort.
“Don’t be a fool, how will yeh get up?”
“And how do yeh plan on getting’ yerself up?”
“I’m a witch, ye daft old gnome. Now climb!”
It was considerably more difficult for Oort to climb. He had one less pair of shoulders to balance himself on, and witch or no, Cindra was old; her strength was giving out. He could almost reach what he thought was a lip he could use to pull himself up, though not quite.
“Just a bit more!” he whispered, looking down. As he did, Cindra came into view.
“Cindra!” he whispered urgently.
“I know, I see yeh too, climb!”
“I found ‘em!” yelled a gnome. “Here, over here!”
Oort could not reach the lip; he wasn’t even certain there was a lip; it was just too dark, and he could not reach high enough into the crevice to find a handhold. Cindra shook; her muscles could do no more. She would need her magic – but precious little remained. Her lífda was all but consumed; she had managed to siphon only a tiny amount from Heina, and the energy required for one to become invisible was tremendous; here it had been three times as much.
She looked up to Oort. “Find Shyla. Protect her.”
“Lady–”
Oort stood on the surface of Tahr above Thinsel; she had just reached the summit of her climb.
“What the–”
Oort reached down and helped his wife out of the crevice.
“Cindra?” she asked.
A distant scream escaped the fissure in reply.
XXIII: THE GROVE
“What the… What was that?” demanded Lucan.
Barris smiled. “Do you believe me now?”
Lucan reviewed Barris’ silent, truthful declaration in his mind. “Lucan not-Thorne, you carry the mahj-blómere within you.”
The profound moment was interrupted as Wolf bolted between Lucan and Barris, nearly bowling over Aria in his excitement to greet her.
Aria wrestled with the pup as Barris and Lucan eyed one another. Shyla and J’arn joined them.
“Princess. Sir Barris.” The weary prince of Belgorne nodded to the two, ignoring Lucan. His tone carried an air of polite impatience that Barris recognized for what it was: fatigue, and fear for his homeland.
He and the dwarves had spent a sleepless night repairing the damage to the elven cabins as best they could. In truth, there was little they could do to help the elves, but word had come through Pheonaris that Belgorne had, perhaps, suffered greatly in the quake of the night before. In light of such news, they could not find rest.
Barris acknowledged the pair. “Prince J’arn, Shyla. I would say ‘good morning,’ but we know it is not so.”
“It is not,” agreed J’arn, looking up to the darkening sky.
Shyla had slept; her outlook was not quite so melancholy. She had spent the morning chasing Wolf around the Grove, doing her best to keep the troublesome canine from excessive mischief, and in doing so had improved her own mood considerably. She would, of course, not say as much.
Aria extracted herself from Wolf’s attentions. She surveyed those assembled, seeing that all whose attendance had been requested had arrived at the dining area. The elves had set two long tables beside one another, with seating enough to accommodate the meeting. Pheonaris caught her eye and nodded subtly. Aria returned the gesture and reached for Barris’ hand. A slight squeeze and a knowing look conveyed her request that he join her at the head of the table. The assembly quickly took their positions.
Standing before them, Aria spoke the words she had only ever seen her mother speak.
“Kar enna spen ai den bestu Nü glahr ai blei.”
“Glahr ai blei,” the elves replied. Shyla and the dwarves remained silent, ignorant of the customary refrain.
“Please be seated.”
Aria stood mute before the gathering, searching for words. Barris sat at the head of the table immediately to her right; Pheonaris, Trellia, and Captain Mikallis sat nearest Barris on the long side. Jarn, Boot, and Shyla sat nearest on her left; Lucan and the remainder of the dwarven company were arranged along the two sides. All eyes were on the princess as she considered the statement she should make. She knew her voice was expected presently, but could not order her thoughts. Barris moved to speak, but a glance from Pheonaris stayed him. Aria saw the silent exchange; the Mistress expected her to complete this task without assistance. After an uncomfortably long time, Aria found her voice.
“I have never stood before a meeting such as this before,” she began. “And I have never experienced…” She trailed off for a moment. “I have never known loss. Not in all my life, not before now. I am the Princess of Thornwood, and to this point I have known only peace and joy. I have no wisdom to share, and you all certainly know as much.” A tear escaped the corner of her eye as she looked to the elves seated on her right, to Shyla, to Lucan, and lastly, to Prince J’arn. “I have few words, save these: Lucan and Shyla…” Aria took a breath. “I trust that you are here for a reason, and though I do not know what that reason is, I trust in Sir Barris, who says it is so. I trust in Mistress Pheonaris, and Vicaris Trellia, who agree with him. Prince J’arn, your father must have placed much trust in you to send you here, and you in turn have placed trust in your company. And that, I fear, is all we have. As for me,” she paused, “I will do whatever is required to earn your trust in turn. Sir Barris, if you would please.” Aria sat and placed her hands on the table before her. Seeing that they trembled, she withdrew them to her lap.
Barris stood, briefly touching Aria’s shoulder. “You have shared more wisdom than you know, Princess.” He addressed the table. “Trust is, in fact, all that we have today as we sit here together, and what I am about to share with you will require more of it. But let us begin with the things we can all agree are true.”
Barris stood and straightened himself. “Tahr faces a doom. Prince J’arn, you have come to discover its nature, am I correct?”
“Aye, and a way to combat it. Ye know this.” Impatience.
The knight continued. “I do. Shyla, you are here at the behest of your grandmother?”
“More or less, yup,” she stated.
“Lucan.” He glanced at the man. “We will speak more of you, but for those who may not know, I discovered Lucan near death on my ride to the Grove. I will say this for now: I do not believe that he is here by chance.” He turned to the Mistress. “Pheonaris. You divined that Aria’s presence would be required here at dawn yesterday, correct?”
“Divined?” asked Lucan with suspicion.
“Trust, for now, Lucan,” Barris implored. Lucan eyed the knight.
The Mistress replied. “I did, Sir Barris. I had two visions, in fact. One in Thornwood, suggesting that the princess must depart quickly for the Grove, and again near the Trine, where it was made clear to me that we must make haste. I fear that we arrived a few hours later than I had intended, though I do not know whether that fact is significant.”
“Time will tell,” said Barris. “So, we have a man from Mor, the prince’s company from Belgorne, a gnome from G’naath, and the princess of Thornwood, all arriving simultaneously here at the Grove.”
“Well, I arrived several days earlier,” said Lucan.
“But you awakened only yesterday. Only when the rest had arrived,” said the Vicaris.
“The point is,” continued Barris, “we have a saying in Thornwood. ‘When events align, observe the design.’ ”
“Aye,” said Boot. “We have a saying in Belgorne, too. If it smells like–”
“Boot…” J’arn scowled, silencing the engineer.
Shyla suppressed a g
iggle.
“I’m with Boot,” said Lucan. “If you’re about to sell the idea that we’re all here as part of some grand fate–”
“And what would you know about such things, little man?” said Trellia. “You’re naught but a–”
“Stop.” Princess Aria commanded. “We are all tired. We all grieve. The First Knight of Thornwood stands before you in service. You will let him speak, and you will all be given time to say your piece.” Mistress Pheonaris inclined her head to the princess in support, though it was not needed. Aria spoke with confidence, any hint of her initial timidity absent from her tone. “Sir Barris, please continue.”
He did. “Thank you, Princess. I do not fault your skepticism, Kelgarr, nor yours, Lucan. But what I am about to share with you may, as they say, unravel the knot. Events are aligning, in ways that are now clear to me. Pheonaris. Tell us, please, the primary duty of a knight of Thornwood.”
“‘Ta Trae fah Ya Di.’ To Prepare for The Day.”
Barris nodded. “And of the First Knight?”
“‘Ta Spen ah Ya Di.’ To Speak on The Day.”
“Forgive me,” interrupted Mikallis. “I know the words of the First Duty, but I have not heard ‘Ta Spen ah Ya Di’ before. What does it mean?”
“The more important question, Captain Elmshadow, is what is meant by the First Duty. What do you take it to mean?”
“I had assumed it meant that a knight must prepare for a day in which Thornwood was threatened.”
“Not ‘a’ day, Mikallis. ‘The Day.’ And as for the other words…” Barris reverently drew his sword from the scabbard on his back and presented it to Pheonaris, going to one knee. “If you would, Mistress.”
The Mistress accepted the sword, examining it silently. The dwarves, Shyla, and Lucan all exchanged looks. Princess Aria’s confusion was transparent, but she did not speak. She looked to Trellia, who appeared as perplexed as she was. Mikallis watched attentively.
Pheonaris closed her eyes and took a step back from Barris, who remained kneeling, his head slung low. She turned from the knight and held the sword aloft, pointing the glistening blade towards the sky at an angle parallel to Sir Barris’ bent spine. She muttered something, words those assembled could not quite make out, nor would they comprehend if they had. After a few moments, a faint silvery glow began to emanate from the tip of the sword, sliding its way down the long, keen weapon, brightening as it did so, towards the hilt, then down the Mistress’ arms. The glow encircled Pheonaris; her long flaxen hair floated about her head as if some unseen energy had filled her body and sought its escape through the tips of the golden strands. Princess Aria and the Vicaris each stood, taking a step backwards; even Captain Mikallis rose and inched away. By then, the rest were on their feet as well; even Wolf had come to assess the disturbance and now cowered beside Shyla, barking noisily in alarm.
