The Missing
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
The Missing
Jeremy Forsyth
Copyright 2018 Jeremy Forsyth
Cover illustration & Design: Demi Kurten
Editor: Nikita Clack & Taryn Kokkinn
Dedication
To my sister; beneath your roof, this book was written. Thank you
By The Author
The Sun, Moon, Sand and Star series
The Evening Tide
The Broken Rose
The Missing
Cast
During the age of the Fourth Moon, where this book opens, the Alepion Realm’s
uttermost families stood in relation to each other as the outline below shows.
Tree Skysinger
Jayrander the Fierce, Elder of Alepion, Great Servant of the Moon Elves.
Lanixia Lowvilla Skysinger, deposed Lady of the Moon, Jayrander’s united-one.
Jayrander Lowvilla Skysinger, Crowned Son of Alepion, their eldest son.
Jaydan Raven Skysinger, Son of Alepion, their youngest son.
Silvinda Skysinger, Daughter of Alepion, united-one of the Crowned Son of Alepion.
Jaylan Lowvilla Skysinger, Son of Alepion, their son.
Tree Lightmarsh
Norlinda Mannath Lightmarsh, Daughter of Alepion, younger sister to
Lanixia Lowvilla Skysinger.
Tylan Olian Lightmarsh, Son of Alepion, younger brother to Lanixia Lowvilla Skysinger.
“Wearer of black, destroyer of the Dead, darkness he summons; he is the harbinger of dread. With crescent steel in hand, he will restore the ravaged land. But while he strides branded, fearless and dark, he is the pretender, an imposter of splendour, foretold in days of forlorn, when the return was spoken of Drydan Reborn.”
Unknown
Prologue
In the thriving residential glades of Olian, when the night was most ardent, two Moon Elves of Alepion entered a dark, double story house. One of them held a bundle of life beneath his black cloak and disappeared down into the basement where an impermissible ceremony had been prepared. The other elf, however, headed up a flight of stairs that led to the second floor.
Within a moment’s pause, the Moon Elf stood before the door and stared down at the shimmering light leaking forth from the horizontal crack that stretched between its base and the floor. Here, the Moon Elf considered the type of elf he was soon to meet, pictured an old, hard-looking person; tall, sophisticated and one who would indicate wealth acquired through some astute position in the Realm. This assumption derived from the fact that the elf had been entrusted with the risky operation that the Moon Elf and his associate had, just over an hour ago, completed, suggesting a very smart individual and a well-connected one at that, at least enough to ensure the operation emerged successful.
The operation had indeed been risky, dangerous; the procedures as ingenious in the originality of its execution as it was unnerving in its unorthodoxy. But, as if to justify that, the Moon Elf promptly reminded himself that besides all else, it had been the High Council who had approved it, cleared it for initiation. And so, he had decided that the operation must have been approved by the Old Gods themselves, for surely the High Council knew their will? But if so, why the gnawing feeling of guilt that just now assailed him? Why the hollowness?
The Moon Elf stepped forward, slowly pushed the door open and after a moment’s hesitation, cleared his throat.
“Fair evening,” he said to a seemingly empty room, his eyes drawn to the fireplace where a master-chair had been planted.
“Come in,” said a voice, low and husky.
The Moon Elf did so, closed the door behind him and remained by it, not knowing whether to proceed further or not.
“Is it done?” said the voice.
“It is, Master,” the Moon Elf replied, then catching the sound of a quick scoff from the fireplace.
“Master,” the voice echoed, the intonations of it sounding almost sarcastic. Unsure of how to respond, the Moon Elf remained quiet.
“Did she struggle?”
The Moon Elf frowned. The question was irrelevant, no matter which direction his answer took.
“No, she didn’t,” the Moon Elf answered. “For now, the baby remains asleep… content.”
“Good. I want her to be so until the end.”
An uncomfortable silence began to stretch between the two elves, becoming increasingly palpable, so much so that the elf who stood once more began to doubt the integrity of the operation. He glanced around at his surroundings – a house that had been designated by the High Council to act as headquarters. Here he thought: If this elf seated behind that large chair was the brains behind this, why did he sound as if he had qualms about the result? Why did he sound regretful?
“Master, I ---”, the Moon Elf began, but was immediately cut off.
“Do you think we did the right thing?”
Hearing the question that had been screaming in his heart now spoken out loud took the Moon Elf aback and so it became clear the notion that whoever it was seated by the fire, he was indeed, afflicted by doubt.
If this was the case, thought the Moon Elf, then surely they hadn’t done the right thing? Surely they had gone too far this time – crossed a vital line in their struggle against the Whispers of Adonai.
Becoming uncomfortable by his own self-doubt, the Moon Elf began to offer some feeble response but was unable to complete, for once more, he was cut off by the elf seated in the chair, who now said with lucid indifference,
“Never mind. As you say. It is done. Whether wrong or right, the wheels of this cart have been set in motion and nothing now will be able to halt the spin of it.”
The Moon Elf heard the chair by the fire creak, as if the one seated in it had leaned forward. “Where is the baby now?”
“Downstairs,” the Moon Elf answered, unsettled by the weight in which that statement held, carrying with it a sense of finality that offered the Moon Elf a growing feeling of disquiet that delved deep within his gut. The Moon Elf swallowed air and in a flat tone, he added, “She is waiting for you.”
At that, the other elf stood up and what the Moon Elf saw, was an elf hooded. But what he saw next when the elf turned, left the Moon Elf unable to counter the instinctual reaction that manifested itself into a slight but clear recoil. This, the hooded elf took note of and to his guest’s astonishment, he smiled and said pleasingly,
“Surprising, I know. But it is I.”
Chapter 1
Lightmarsh, thought Paraden ruefully, staring at the tall building before him and the large sign that was carved out above the narrow door. The letters were bold, invoking a sense of strength and was painted gold; the colour of the Golden Elders, who no longer ruled the Moon Elf Realm.
It had been the Golden Elders who had founded the structure in which Paraden now stared at with growing anxiety. To be sure, the Golden Elders had founded a good few establishments here in the Olian Glades, their tendency to further Throne prestige with propaganda subtleties in the naming of those buildings was a clear indication of that. But out of them all, it was this building in particular that caused Paraden some reluctance to enter.
Standing in the rain, with but this morning’s Headline to shield his head from getting wet, Paraden found himself unable to gird himself forward, no matter how saturated he was becoming as a result of the inefficiency of his inadequate umbrella. Instead,
his eyes continued to take in the different facets of the building; its modernity and simplicity.
The only fancy and eye-catching characteristic of the building was its size and, of course, its engrossing sign. But the latter was no surprise.
If it were possible to light it up magically, Paraden now thought deridingly, the Lightmarshes would have done so.
But standing here, filling his thoughts with pointless observations would not stall the inevitable, which was that the time had come to return to his service - to face his illustrious master.
And yet, that was exactly what Paraden didn’t want to do. Just now, he wanted to be elsewhere. It didn’t even have to be sunny and warm - it could be cold, the bleakest part of the Realm and Paraden would still choose it over standing here across the street from that cursed Lightmarsh building.
With surging misery, Paraden forced himself to take a step forward. When he crossed the vacant street, a muddy causeway wide enough for two elves walking abreast, he found to his annoyance that using the Headline issue to defy the rain had been a complete waste of time. He stood sopping beneath the cover of the protruding beams that lunged above the building’s front door. And what was worse - the Headline itself was ruined; the ink blotched and the paper dissolving in his hand even now as he stared down at it. Frustrated, recalling the wasted copper star he had used to purchase it, Paraden once more found himself in a lingering state, his mind contemplative, filling with pointless thoughts that would justify his procrastination.
He was a shadowa, mentored by another so that he might learn whichever trade his master dealt in. That master was named Andarken and he belonged to the unimportant Tree of Sourleaf. Andarken was an Old Way Hunter and had, over the years, become a renowned one, described once as a ‘deft investigator’ while Paraden would have thought ‘worst-elf-in-all-Alepion’ to be more accurate.
Cruel and demeaning, to say that Andarken had a rotten soul was to say he was kin to the Betrayer. To state that Darkness roamed was to say it did so with a limp, for indeed, without that black cane of his, Paraden’s master appeared as immobile as a rock.
Paraden sighed loudly, trying to muster the courage he needed to walk into Lightmarsh. And yet, the more he tried, the more he was unable to stall the image of his master’s old and weathered face and so the harder it became to move - to open the door and ascend those stairs. It was as if great chains were now wrapping themselves around him, squeezing and stealing his breath.
Paraden shook his head, eyes closed in earnest. “Just get on with it,” he muttered. “Just get on with it.”
He took in a deep breath, pushed open the door and walked inside, pausing again in the foyer. Before him, the winding stairs he so dreaded beckoned him forward with a haunting allure and so eventually, Paraden gave in, climbed the stairs, passed the first, second and third floor. When arriving at the fourth, a door declared in similar lettering to the sign of the building: ‘Sourleaf Hunting’.
Paraden’s eyes were glued to the sign while his heart thumped, anxiety mounting so profusely inside him that he needed yet another moment to prepare himself for the day. But, at last, his hand went flat against the cold surface of the door and he gradually pushed it open.
There on the left, behind a modest but busy table stacked with books and parchment, was Revara Stonefall, who among those acquainted with her here in Lightmarsh, went fondly by the name, Vara.
Vara was Andarken’s administration assistant and the only face Paraden enjoyed seeing when he walked through these doors. In addition, she was also the most beautiful elvess he had ever seen in his entire life.
Due to Paraden’s cautious opening of the door, Vara had not been aware that he had entered until he walked inside.
“Paraden!” she gasped.
To keep warm, Vara wore a dark and thick cloak lined with fur. Her dark chestnut hair was loose, falling in thick ringlets past her shoulders. Her lips were full, a vibrant red and the dark cosmetic applied around her doe-like eyes highlighted their enticing quality. With but a glance, those eyes drew elves to her. They teased, distracted and caused them all to gape like fools. She was completely, utterly captivating - perhaps even more so than the deposed Lady of the Moon, whom according to popular opinion, inspired of course by the Headlines, was the most beautiful elvess in the land.
Paraden couldn’t bring himself to agree with the public opinion however, especially in moments like these when faced with Vara’s angelic profile. And though he had a vivid idea of the Lady of the Moon’s physical attributes, for her image was sketched enough times in the Headlines to achieve that for him, Paraden was unconvinced that the elvess could inspire as much of a blatant and over-powering pull as Vara could, firmly believing that until he was given the chance to compare Vara to the once proud Lady of the Moon in person, Vara would remain incomparable, her appeal unrivalled by any in Alepion.
Vara pushed herself away from the desk and stood up. Paraden in turn, went bright red.
“Hello, Vara,” he said, somewhat shyly, his voice always invoking a quiet and timid tone whenever he addressed her.
When the elvess walked towards him, Paraden couldn’t help but immediately become rigid. His eyes were wide by the time she stopped inches away from his face; her sultry smile drawing his gaze to her pleasurably wide mouth, so lecherously enchanting. Paraden took great strain as he attempted to look away, failing until his senses warned that his stare was now becoming too residual.
“Took you long enough,” she said, teasingly.
“Yes, thank you,” Paraden replied.
She smiled again, this time at his illogical response, and after a brief examination of him, she stated,
“you’re soaking wet.”
“I do,” said Paraden, mouth now curving into an awkward smile, offering Vara a close-up inspection of his row of straight white teeth.
She giggled and turned, her motion so enticing that Paraden felt light-headed, swerving on his feet until he caught his balance and jerked his attention and his senses to reality. Luckily, he achieved this before Vara faced him again, her position now returned to the other end of her desk.
“I am glad you’ve returned, Paraden,” she confessed, her tone taking a whole new turn, as if suddenly struck by some feeling of exhaustion. Her head was poised towards the parchments at her desk while her hands remained spread flat upon the surface. “The Master, he….” she paused, then said softly, “I hate him.”
Paraden took a step forward, perhaps to console her, but was prevented the opportunity when from the opposite end of the room, the other door was thrust open, startling the both of them.
It was then that Andarken Sourleaf presented himself.
The Old Way Hunter looked as weathered and wrinkled as when Paraden had last seen him. Hunched to a stoop, Andarken leaned on his long black cane that Paraden knew turned into a straight and long blade should its wielder twist and pull at its pommel. He had long and grey salubrious hair which fell at length past his chest, perhaps in line with his elbows, should the elf ever stance himself straight with his hands set at his side. His grey beard remained, in contrast, non-compliant; for it was shaggy and thick, brittle almost.
As always, Andarken was swathed in an expensive black cloak made of pure velvet that trailed behind him. Beneath, he was clad in a handsome jerkin of grey with a darker grey shirt worn beneath.
“I didn’t hear you enter, shadowa,” said the voice of Andarken, spewed from a beard that made no movement when words came forth. The old elf stalked forward with a limp, his face that had been shrouded in his office now revealed in full.
Hard and violent-looking, Andarken’s pale blue eyes were compelling as they were suspicious, did harbour boiling hate behind narrowed lids. His most pronounced facial feature however, one that Paraden knew, put Vara on edge, was the scar that cut across his left cheek and past his mouth, ending at the chin, carving a line through moustache and beard.
“Are you cowering again?”
Warily, Paraden stepped forward as he knew he should when addressed by his imperious master.
“No, my Master,” he said, never once raising his eyes to meet Andarken’s.
The tension in the room had become so thick that Paraden could feel it bearing down on his shoulders. Vara, he imagined, was frozen still, perhaps holding her breath in wary anticipation of Andarken’s infamous and smouldering fury which could flare up terribly at any given moment.
“I arrived but a moment ago.”
“Yes,” the master replied, his voice raspy and edged with angry undertones. “Decided to linger a while with Revara, did you?”
“No, my Master.”
“No?” He cleared his throat as he usually did when deciding to dish out a reprimand.
“Whom do you serve, shadowa?” he asked Paraden.
“You, my Master.”
“And what is your purpose in my service?”
“To learn from you, wait on you, succeed you.”
Andarken emitted a humourless laugh. “Succeed me. To think that you could.” A moment of silence expanded to increase discomfort. In the silence Paraden noticed this morning’s Issue in his master’s hand. Just now, Andarken threw it at Paraden’s feet.
“Don’t suppose you have read today’s breaking news?”
“I did, my Master,” said Paraden, hunching down to pick up the parchment.
“Indeed. And so, you would know then that a baby has been abducted here in the Olian Glades.”
“Yes, my Master,” Paraden complied.
“And that the baby is Presumed Heiress of the Olian Glades, daughter of Higher Durasian Lightfire.”
“Yes, my Master.”
“So why then, are you not packed to leave?”
“Master?” asked Paraden, raising his gaze for the first time to see his master’s disquieting scowl.
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