The Missing

by Jeremy Forsyth

  “My name is Naturran Suncloud and I have the honour of---”

  “Naturran?” Andarken interrupted, scoffing now at the elf. “Named after the Great, ay?” Andarken promptly moved passed the steward in dismissal. “My insolent shadowa also bears the name of a Great Servant. Perhaps you would do better bothering him with your unwanted introductions.”

  The steward stood dumbfounded as both he and Paraden watched the old elf take the stairs, Andarken’s impertinence compelling the steward to glance at Paraden in question, who shrugged before quietly heading forward to follow after his master.

  “To the left, Master Hunter,” called out the steward when noticing Andarken had reached the top of the stairs. Just now, the elf hurried quickly to grope for the lead. “His Highership bid me prepare the Rennalla Quarters for you and does instruct that you do make yourself at home.”

  “Yes, yes. Where is he now?”

  “Who, Master Hunter? The Higher?”

  “No, your mother. Of course, the Higher!”

  “Why, he is abed. Not to be awoken until dawn.”

  “Then at dawn I shall be expecting an audience?”

  “Most certainly. The finding of his daughter is of utmost importance.”

  Andarken emitted a derisive laugh. “As is relieving you of your service here, I would imagine?”

  “Pardon?” said the steward.

  Paraden cringed internally as Andarken readied himself to insult yet another elf.

  “As steward, is it not your duty to maintain order in the House, to see to its proper dealings?”

  “Of course.”

  “Perhaps then you could explain to me how someone could have entered this House and run off with a wailing infant who just so happens to be the Presumed Heiress of the Olian Glades.”

  “Who informed you that our beloved Heiress was wailing when carried off?”

  “So, she wasn’t?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence between the steward’s reply, which when it came, was riddled with a deep regret.

  “None heard any disturbance the night of the child’s disappearance.”

  Andarken glanced at Paraden over his shoulder. “I hope you wrote that down, shadowa.”

  “Yes, my Master.” Paraden replied.

  “As to my first enquiry; when do you depart this House?”

  “I am afraid I do not follow your meaning?”

  “Then let me spell it out for your slow mind; a child went missing under your supervision. Clear enough? Or would you have me get my shadowa over here to shout it out to you in this hallway?”

  Judging by the elf’s taut profile, labouring to keep composure, Paraden could tell that Andarken was succeeding in getting under the elf’s skin. Paraden expected that this was offering his master some small form of amusement, but Paraden also knew it was Andarken’s way of extracting truths from his suspects. He syphoned answers by way of emotion, emotion that Andarken was convinced betrayed those who were seeking to hide something.

  “I understand your meaning well enough. Though I must inform you that your censure is misplaced. Rather, if you are so set on finding fault, perhaps consider making enquiries with the head of security.”

  “Ah, the blame game,” chuckled Andarken. “Shadowa, I hope you wrote that one down too.” Fortunately, Andarken made no further prompting of the steward while allowing him to direct them to their chambers in peace.

  “Here we are,” the steward said when presenting Paraden and his master to their apartment, adding as Andarken opened the door, “Anything you might need, you would have only to ---”

  Andarken walked inside and slammed the door closed in both the steward and Paraden’s face. The steward flinched at the audacity.

  “Apologies,” issued Paraden, moving to open the door. But before he closed it behind him, bidding the elf a fair night, he was called to a halt by a question.

  “Is he always like this?”

  “Always,” answered Paraden.

  The next morning, Andarken and his shadowa were presented before the Higher of the Olian Glades and his united-one; the Lady of Olian. It was she who greeted them first, standing up from one of the benches below the dais. She approached with surprising vitality for someone who had just lost their infant daughter and when she held out her hand to Andarken, Paraden was even more surprised by how warm her smile was. The glint in her eyes told Paraden that she must be a clinging optimist who would not succumb to despair over her missing daughter until despair was the only response; which when considering the Higher’s current demeanour whilst seated upon the dais, was not the case. Not at all.

  Higher Durasian Lightfire sat slouched in his highchair which was positioned behind a long trestle table elevated upon the dais. He watched his new guests with a withdrawn, dark expression, his manner already indicating scepticism over Paraden and his master’s capabilities at solving the case.

  “Fair morning to you, Higher of the Olian Glades,” greeted Andarken with uncharacteristic civility, which didn’t surprise Paraden; given who it was that the Old Way Hunter now addressed. This elf was one of substantial power, holding the title of Higher, a title bestowed by the Throne itself.

  The Higher nodded, “When will you find my daughter?”

  “My investigation began last night, my Higher.”

  “And so you have leads?” enquired the Lady of Olian, who had sat back down on the bench.

  “Nothing substantial, my Lady,” replied Andarken, “But we are on our way.”

  “You failed to answer my question,” came the Higher, somewhat aggressively. “Old Way Hunter,” he spat. “When will you find my daughter? When will you bring her back home?”

  “Alive?” came Andarken, his tone insolent in clear response to the tone in which the Higher had just now addressed him.

  “Of course alive,” hissed the Higher, drawing himself up from his slouched position, looking irked.

  “Easy, Master,” whispered Paraden warily, soft enough that only his master’s ears could have heard. Yet by Andarken’s next statement, Paraden wasn’t sure if he had.

  “If it was the Old Way who abducted your daughter, my Higher, then trust me when I say this: She is dead.”

  The Higher’s face lit up with instant rage and he slammed a hard and violent fist upon the surface of the table before him.

  “SHE IS NOT DEAD!”

  “All answers will be given to you in due time,” said Andarken, calmly. “The culprits will be found out soon.”

  The Lady of Olian now stood, “Then go. Do not linger. And when you are done, know that you may request anything from us as reward.”

  Andarken regarded her solemnly and nodded. He then looked back at the Higher, nodded once more before swirling, heading to the end of the hall. Once outside, he came to a sudden stop and sneered.

  “Ignorant forsker.”

  “Yes, my Master,” said Paraden.

  “I wasn’t talking to you.”

  Andarken stood in deep thought, but when he looked at his shadowa, Paraden saw the corners of his mouth rise optimistically.

  “Good news, shadowa. We have our Player Two… and our Player Three.”

  Chapter 4

  Revara got up from her desk and opened a window. Streaming sunlight embraced her while she took in the refreshing afternoon air that carried with it the scent of newly fallen rain from the night before. With eyes cast down upon the muddy street outside, she began to smile.

  Alone in the office of Sourleaf Hunting, Revara felt free. With the master and his shadowa away at Olian’s Greathouse, Revara felt a great oppression had been lifted from her shoulders, enough to have her gleaming. More importantly, it caused a very rare productivity that otherwise came to her only in brief and fleeting spurts when the abusive Hunter was about.

  Revara glanced to her left, eyes falling on the pile of parchment that was towering over one side of her desk.

  All of that, she thought, had been completed this morning.

&n
bsp; There was still a lot more to do, she knew, but just now, Revara believed she had earned for herself some respite, a great deal of it to be exact and seeing as the weather was displaying itself most uncharacteristically, enticing elves to walk the streets in merriment, Revara found that she couldn’t think of anything important enough that should prohibit her from doing the same.

  Swirling, Revara dashed for the door. Behind it, she ran down the stairs and when at last she arrived at the bottom, she retrieved her coat from the hanging stand by the building’s exit and, while draping it over her shoulders, she took her leave from the building, inhaling the open air with exuberant enthusiasm.

  The Olian Glades was a damp yet colourful glade; one of Alepion’s most thriving, its industry always growing, its borders always expanding and, given its position in the Borderland Forests right above the land of the Moon’s most jealous rival, the Olian Glades remained an important military outpost too. While most glades boasted one Crescent Hold, establishments meant to house Alepion warriors, the Olian Glades boasted two.

  Revara kept walking, maintaining a brisk but fluid grace while she made her way towards her favourite longhouse. She ignored the stares of the elves she passed, secretly enjoying them -especially the obvious and blatant ones; of those, she unashamedly always found herself obliging at least one.

  Today, it was a sentinel patrolling the street, one who had stopped to watch Revara pass him by. To him, she turned her head and gave the bold sentinel a smile, then a wink, before turning her head forward again. She ignored the rest, including shopkeepers who called out to her with a different but equally clear agenda: to acquire a patron.

  And yet, nearing her desired destination, something did eventually give her pause, stopping her in her determined tracks. It was a wanted-poster that was plastered on the windowsill of a bookstore.

  “What do we have here?” she said, leaning in for a closer examination.

  Another Black Hood poster.

  Revara’s eyes lowered upon the bounty and she gasped when seeing how drastically the initial asking price had gone up.

  “Wow.”

  fifty golden suns! She thought. The Higher of the Olian Glades must be getting desperate if he is putting up that much for one murderer.

  With that in mind, Revara started wondering how much the Higher was paying Andarken to catch his daughter’s abductor.

  If the Higher was willing to dish out as much as fifty golden stars for a random villain who plagued his glade, then he was most probably paying a fortune for his daughter’s safe return!

  With that thought, Revara had an idea; once the case of the Missing Heiress was done and concluded, she would ask her master for a raise.

  Yes. He would be able to afford it, she thought.

  The only problem was plucking up the courage to do so. And that would not be an easy task. It frustrated her, for Revara had always perceived herself as fearless, unapologetic, and revelling in her own self-assurance… and yet, when the old forsker was around, all that confidence in herself shrivelled away, for though most in the Lightmarsh building believed Andarken to be all bark and no bite, Revara knew better.

  It had been but three days into her service when Andarken’s shadowa had arrived late to the office and would show Revara the calibre of their master. It had been during a time where Paraden and Andarken were busy on a case, one in which Andarken had been struggling to close. The longer it took, the worse the elf’s mood became and Revara would never forget how afraid she had been entering the office, had good reason too; for on that third day of her service, she got to see first-hand what the Old Way Hunter was capable of.

  “Poor Paraden…” she whispered, feeling genuinely regretful for the shadowa, the sweet and unsure little shadowa, who like a fool had failed to report the harm inflicted upon him by his master. Revara wouldn’t make that mistake. She had vowed that if ever Andarken laid a hand on her, she would see to his destruction. The laws of Alepion would never tolerate such behaviour, no matter who the elf was!

  The memory of that dreadful time latched itself to Revara’s thoughts all the way to the longhouse she loved so much. Once arriving, however, the Old Way Hunter was forgotten and after passing through the doors, Revara realised her great thirst when faced with the long and ostentatious table and its many built-in bowls of whichever refreshment one desired.

  There were different blends of fruit juice, some mixed, some not. Depending on the hour of the day, further down the length of the table, there were usually mixes of a stronger nature. If Revara had arrived at a nocturnal hour, she would have bypassed the fruit juice and would already be filling her cup with those volatile liquids. Just now, however, a refreshing blend of apple and pear would do.

  Revara stopped at the table, was already presenting a coin to the elf standing on the other side.

  “One cup,” she said, sweetly, amused at the elf’s slow response, once more enjoying the effect she had on people. Once she received her order, she left the elf with a debonair smile, did venture to the far end of the longhouse where the sun came in through the windows. There she got comfortable, faced the windows while enjoying her drink and watched those who walked the streets outside.

  At the corner of Illantan Road, there stood a well-dressed elf holding up a sign that read; Pray for a Blademaster. Revara became intrigued to watch him declare in a loud and stern voice that,

  “Evil roams, evil stirs, and to rid it from the lands, let the Throne send down the capital’s Blademaster!

  Hear me fellow elves, great children of Adonai! Hear me! Evil has come upon the land! Evil mingles in the glades. Let it flee from the Whispers. Let Adonai’s chosen warrior come down from Lowvilla and chase the evil away. Let us call upon the Third Sign of Adonai so that missing babies can be found and killers in black hoods may shrink back!”

  Amused, Revara continued to sip from her cup, unashamed of the smile of mockery lifting her lips. But, as was to be expected, the spectacle did not last long. As soon as nearby sentinels caught wind of what the elf was doing, disturbing the peace and inspiring fear, the silver armoured elves put an end to the show. What Revara appreciated most about the charade was the elf’s resolve to have his words heard.

  “Pray elves of Olian, elves of the Moon! Pray! Pray that we are visited by the Third Sign of Adonai! Pray that the Throne sends down the Blademaster, the one who Adonai has called! Pray, Moon Elves! Pra---”

  One of the sentinels appeared sorely vexed. He grabbed the elf by the neck, forced him to a bending position while the other secured bonds around the elf’s wrists. The two of them then pushed the elf violently away.

  “Another day in Olian,” came a voice.

  Revara turned and was confronted by a tall elf, his long and richly dark brown hair tied up in a knot above his head. He was looking down at Revara with a cocksure smile, one Revara imagined sent most elvesses swooning. The glint of amusement in his hazel eyes confirmed Revara’s suspicion almost immediately - it was obvious the elf was well aware of the striking figure he made.

  “And you are?” asked Revara.

  The elf took that as an invitation to sit with her. His shoulders were broad, his posture straight and with each movement he made there was a distinct dignity that naturally caused Revara to wonder if the elf was some son of a higher or otherwise deacon, for he projected a façade of importance.

  “My name is Lardian,” said the elf, his smile widening.

  “Ah,” replied Revara. “I could have guessed. Everyone these days is named Lardian.” She looked at the elf, arched her brow. “Are you a Nune-elf?”

  The elf smiled. “If I am?”

  “Well then, you’d be off to a bad start with whatever it is that you’re doing here, sitting at my table… uninvited.”

  “And what do you think I am trying to do, fair lady?”

  It irritated Revara how cocksure the elf was, but she knew that her growing annoyance came as a result of a growing attraction to the elf the longer she loo
ked at him.

  “Well, with a name like that, I assume you have been brought up being taught about the valour and honour of blademasters. That to be named after the Unfailing himself who, even after death, has elvesses everywhere gushing, you have naturally developed a desire to have the same effect. And so, if you’re not here to serve a more formal purpose, I would imagine your intentions are indeed to leave me doting on you, to have me infatuated like every other elvess you have disturbed with your blatant and troublesome invasion of privacy.”

  The entire time while Revara lashed out her rebuff, this Lardian fellow had leaned back in his chair, folded a leg over a knee and seemingly made himself comfortable against her onslaught.

  Once Revara was done, the elf nodded in a way that suggested his intent consideration of all Revara had said, musing,

  “Interesting. But why would that be a bad motive, if, let’s say you are right, and I do intend to have you… infatuated?”

  Revara frowned, “Because the day is too sunny. That sort of sensation merits a rainier afternoon.”

  Lardian tilted his head. “In that case, shall we try this again tomorrow?” he got up from his chair, adding, “Unless some Golden Elder comes back from the dead and chooses to appear in the glades, I doubt we’ll be seeing the sun again for a while.”

  Revara couldn’t help the smile that formed on her expression. “I wouldn’t underestimate the sun if I were you,” she said, failing to come up with a wittier retort, admittedly taken aback by the elf’s sudden desire to depart.

  Revara felt a twinge of disappointment, did feel as if their conversations had the potential to be quite riveting.

  “Well, if I am wrong,” said the elf, “I will look for you on the following day… if the sun chooses to appear three days in a row, well then I will look for you when at last it hides away like it always does.” This Lardian fellow bowed low, sliding a hand inside his coat. When he straightened, he revealed a folded-up piece of parchment, which he left on the table for Revara. “Fair day, my lady.”