The Missing

by Jeremy Forsyth

  Revara frowned, even while watching the elf turn and leave the longhouse. Then her eyes went to the piece of parchment set before her. She picked it up, opened it and upon reading it, looked again in the direction the elf had gone. Then she smiled, shook her head and crumpled up the letter in the same way she had done to the first one that had come to her on that stormy late night in the office.

  Chapter 5

  The morning was ushered in with news of death. Of the least shocking was the recent activity of Black Hood, which was marked by the killing of who the Headlines reported was a young elf in his late nineties. The sentinels of Olian have yet to discover any leads, though according to the featured article, do vow that their determination to catch the killer remains firm.

  Sparking deeper intrigue came the latest news regarding Olian’s missing Presumed Heiress. The baby had been found at last. Her body was located by mindfinders in an abandoned warehouse, south of the Greathouse. That was where Paraden and his limping master headed now, along with a score of sentinels from the Higher’s own household who were commissioned to bring his daughter’s body home. But it was the main feature of the Headlines that grabbed the attention of Paraden. Making up the front page of the Headlines and written in big bold letters, the heading read dramatically:

  The Crowned Son of Alepion Killed!

  Died in Single Combat against Highborn Son of the Father

  The ramifications of the implied would be rippling across the entire Realm and beyond amidst the Moon’s allies. But it wasn’t so much that the Crowned Son of Alepion had been reported dead, nor how it was that he had died. Rather, it was who had killed him that Paraden understood caused the bulk of the shock.

  According to the mindfinder who had witnessed the tragic end of the heir to the Alepion Throne, the Crowned Son had been ambushed by none other than the Son of the Father; that same Highborn who had defeated the Brave all those years ago, carving a name and reputation for himself amidst his Moon enemies.

  After slaughtering the heir’s forces, capturing him in turn, the Son of the Father challenged the Crowned Son of Alepion to single combat, promising him freedom should he prevail. The Crowned Son would accept and later be slayed into the history books along with the Brave.

  Still contemplating the news of the day while the road curved and swirled around the dense forest of the Dillswood, Paraden briefly recalled the dream he had had a few nights back, one which had included the Son of the Father. Even now, Paraden could still see the smug look upon a refined face, that easy confidence in which emanated from a nonchalant demeanour, as if there were none to threaten the Son, none to cause him serious concern.

  Paraden folded and tucked the Headline under his armpit. Close by, a prying sentinel who took note of Paraden’s pensiveness said in an obvious voice of dismay,

  “A dark morning indeed.”

  Paraden regarded him. “Yes,” he said and asked, “Does this mean that the Crowned Son of Alepion’s brother is next in line to the throne?”

  The sentinel shook his head, “Second in line,” he corrected. “The Crowned Son left behind a son.”

  Paraden, having forgotten that, did cast his head down towards the muddy road in consternation.

  “I hear this Jaylan character doesn’t inspire much optimism at court.”

  “I hear so too,” the sentinel conceded, somewhat sadly, “But what I also hear is that fault lies at the feet of his mother, my Lady Silvinda. Word has it that she smothers Jaylan. Word has it that she has made Jaylan weak.”

  Paraden looked forward. “Then the future of the Moon looks bright indeed,” his tone hard and riddled with sarcasm.

  When they arrived at the warehouse, Paraden took note of the building’s dilapidated state, while he walked cautiously behind his master as the old elf followed the vigilant sentinels entering the building with tight grips upon their weapons.

  Paraden’s eyes were alert to what could be hiding within the darkness of the place. His mind conjured up childish horrors inspired by darkness and shadow, his unwarranted fear heightened by the conspicuous chirping of the birds outside which set a tone of apprehension that Paraden knew deep down was foolish, especially now during the day and amidst fully alert and armed sentinels.

  Unannounced, a sentinel suddenly threw an armoured fist at one of the barricaded windows, shattering the nailed planks with ease. This allowed a stream of dim light to cast aside the shadows within, drawing everyone’s gaze to the centre of the room where the tension quickly evaporated, did yield to a more pronounced sadness that took Paraden unawares.

  Upon a wooden and rotting table that looked damp, the little defunct body with severed limbs held everyone’s attention. The body took on a grey and disquieting complexion, seeming, but at first glance, a dreary object rather than something that had once breathed and heaved.

  Too young to choose.

  Too young to know.

  “Now babies,” Andarken murmured beside Paraden, sounding simultaneously outraged and unsettled.

  A sentinel walked forward and dropped to his knees, holding himself up right at the edge of the wooden table while peering up at the strewn baby, struggling to withhold tears that within moments, spilled out over his cheeks. The sentinel bowed his head and wept. Then another sentinel came forward. That sentinel turned his head suddenly towards Paraden’s master, fixing him with a hard gaze.

  “Give us time to wrap my Lady in linen before you and your shadowa inspect the place.”

  Andarken Sourleaf laughed. “Not even for the Elder,” he said, moving towards the table. He placed both hands on the pommel of his cane, leaned on it while he made a brief survey of his surroundings. “I will inspect the place first before anything is touched.” His head turned to the sentinel, “Get your silver delinquents out of here and I will notify you when I am done.”

  Contemptuously, the sentinel did as Andarken bade and led his doleful warriors outside the building. Once alone, Paraden stood quiet and still, allowing his master the undistracted time to, as he had said to the sentinel, inspect the place. And all the while, Paraden heard his master murmur repeatedly,

  “Now babies,” and then, “Why? Why babies?”

  Andarken craned his neck, considered the dark ceiling. He swirled, considered with narrowed eyes the corners of the room and then each crevice in the ground, where his gaze lingered.

  Paraden watched his master bend down, fastidiously swiping with a finger the curious and pulsating film of dirt that was spread across the floor, musing at it before rising again to circle the room.

  With suppressed annoyance at his master’s dismissal of the dirt, Paraden suddenly said very quietly,

  “Whoever did this, my Master, hid his tracks very well.”

  His master regarded him dully. “We haven’t been here long enough to know that, you fool. Now shut it. Do your best to learn, otherwise go wait outside with the white cloaks.”

  Andarken turned his back to gaze up at the ceiling again while his shadowa narrowed upon him with hidden animosity, resigning himself to finding distraction from his festering dislike of his master.

  Paraden stepped towards the altar, examining the little body with haltering sadness, was set on remaining as detached as he believed was possible. His eyes considered the areas of the body that the blade had cut through; those parts being beneath the elbow and below the knee caps.

  “Light some candles, shadowa,” commanded Andarken abruptly.

  Paraden brought out the candles from his cloak, together with a shallow tin that held straw inside. With some flint, Paraden caused a spark that set the straw to flame. Paraden used the fire to give light to three candles; one of which he then gave to his master. He watched him as he studied the rotten wood of the walls while Paraden fought hard not to allow his impatience to get the better of him. He wished his master would show more of an interest in the peculiar dirt on the floor.

  Paraden kept peevish eyes on his master, anticipating that they would be here a lon
g while. And so, to speed things up, he walked back to the altar, bent down with a rod of wax in hand and cast the light towards the ground. He Lifted his right foot and smiled as he focused on the mild marring of his boot, which had been caused by the same dirt that his master was just now ignoring.

  When Paraden straightened, he found that his master was watching him with obvious scrutiny.

  “What has you smirking, shadowa?”

  Immediately Paraden wiped his smile from his face, donning a look of shame and saying with a downcast gaze,

  “A clue, Master,” he said. “I found one.”

  Chapter 6

  Revara stood inside an art gallery looking at art. Having no interest in the hanging canvas of colour she stared at, she cocked her head to the side in an exasperated sigh of boredom but was quick to erect herself when suddenly an elvess came to stand next to her.

  “Incredible, isn’t it?” the elvess remarked.

  Revara focused on the painting, feigning interest, “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  The elvess took a step forward and waved a hand before the painting, gesturing towards the middle section.

  “The artist did a wonderful job with this depiction. See the pain in the Unfailing’s eyes? Notice his conflict?”

  Revara narrowed her focus, determined to identify with what this elvess saw that Revara clearly could not.

  “Yes,” Revara replied, failing however to see ‘pain,’ but rather, a vicious and brutal portrayal of rage.

  The painting was a huge mess of incongruous colours, showing the legendary battle between two blademasters in a very blurry but noticeable style. The two blademasters were Rolin Waterdance and then, of course, Lardian the Unfailing; Alepion’s most romanticised blademaster in Moon Elf history.

  During the age of the Second Moon, when the ill-favoured Elder Ghanner Hadenmoon ruled Alepion, the country had but two blademasters; Rolin and Lardian. Due to Ghanner’s growing unpopularity amidst his subjects, the idea for a coup was birthed in the minds of the Highers Dawnrider and Rainflower, two individuals who wished to depose of the Elder. And yet, to succeed, they needed the support of the people. To achieve that, they needed the backing of the blademasters.

  Plotting ensued and the two Highers succeeded in convincing Rolin to lead their rebellion. They failed, however, to win over Lardian, who, though sharing the same contempt for the Elder as the Highers, he could not bring himself to hurt the Elder’s united one; the famous Rennalla the Loved, Lady of the Moon who as it happens, Lardian had been in love with since first becoming a blademaster.

  Elder Ghanner Hadenmoon ordered Lardian to address the people of Lowvilla, to tell them that Rolin’s rebellion wasn’t the will of Adonai. Lardian would refuse, ostensibly stating that he wasn’t entirely sure that to be the truth. But after stumbling on the Loved’s tears, Lardian could do nothing but give into acquiescence. What then followed was Lardian leading an army against Rolin.

  “The sorrow in those eyes remains subtle,” the elvess observed, “Hidden behind the determination to emerge the victor. But the sorrow is there all the same.” Invoking a tone of dismay, the elvess added, “Lardian killed his blademaster brother out of loyalty to the Loved. But he took no pleasure in it.” The enamoured elvess turned her head and looked at Revara. “Quite sad, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Indeed,” nodded Revara, who, no matter how she tried, couldn’t bring herself to fully appreciate the significance of the painting. She could acknowledge the skill of the painter but while every single damned piece of art in this room represented exclusively the triumphs of the Great Servants and their blademaster pets, Revara couldn’t help thinking it all a bit mundane. She wished her people had a broader perspective of art. She wished they could see that there was more to life than accolade for the Throne.

  “Are you familiar with any of the artist’s other works?” asked the elvess.

  “No,” replied Revara. “I can’t say I am.”

  “We have more of his work upstairs, if you’re interested?”

  We?

  Revara looked at the elvess with new enlightenment, understanding the elvess’s purpose now in talking to her. She served at this establishment and was presently seeking to secure a sale. All that Revara was interested in, however, was enquiring where the owner of the gallery was, the one who had beckoned her here with crypted notes.

  “No, thank you,” said Revara. “However, could you tell me where your mast---”

  “My lady Revara,” came a voice.

  Revara swirled and was confronted by two individuals. The first being the prepossessing Lardian, whom she had met at the longhouse. He extended a dashing smile that revealed white teeth, one of the many features that attributed to his physical appeal.

  The other elf brought Revara’s gaze around and kept it in a way that Lardian’s appearance could not; for whilst his was an arresting allure, the other’s offered a more intriguing, curious pull, for he was limited to a wheelchair.

  “And you are?” Revara asked, a brow arched towards the one Lardian now guided from behind.

  The elf smiled and glanced at the elvess to Revara’s left. “I will take it from here, dear Evana.” He looked at Revara, saying, “My name is Tegerian Whitesong.”

  “Fair to meet you,” said Revara, taking in the elf, marking him as one of similar age to her master, though nowhere near as off-putting in appearance. He had a calming appeal, one that came from a subtle quality that exuded from kind but shrewd looking eyes.

  “So you’re the one who sent the notes?”

  “With my son, yes,” replied the elf, proudly gesturing to Lardian, who remained behind him, watching Revara with an insufferable look that encouraged her to avoid making eye contact with him.

  “I see that you, like everyone else in the Olian Glades, lack originality in naming your child. How many Lardians do we have in the glades?”

  Tegerian Whitesong chuckled. “I cannot speak for other parents. I do assure you, however, that my reason for naming my son after the Unfailing was more than just honouring a famous blademaster. I aimed, rather, to redeem the name in my eyes.”

  Revara frowned. “And why would it need redeeming?”

  “Because once upon a time, when I was young and obnoxious, I knew an elf named Lardian. He… he proved himself unworthy of such a name. He was a deceiver. A murderer...”

  “Touching,” mused Revara who, by now, was growing very impatient.

  The old elf humoured her with a grin and asked her, “I trust you have heard the news of our Crowned Son of Alepion’s death?”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “Indeed. In a time where the Old Way have begun to grow bold, death of a future Great Servant is most untimely. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Certainly. Are you going to get to the point of all this, or am I expected to wait here another second?”

  “Fair enough. The reason I have summoned you here is to discuss your master.”

  “My master? The Old Way Hunter?”

  “Yes. I have reason to suspect that though he dons a façade of enemy of the Old Gods, he is in fact in league with the cult.”

  Revara couldn’t help the laugh that emitted from her mouth, “You cannot be serious?”

  The old elf gave her a look that told her he wasn’t anything but serious, encouraging Revara to compose her amusement at the ludicrousness of his statement.

  “Why would you suspect such a thing? Everyone in the Realm knows of Olian’s Old Way Hunter! He is famous because of all the Old Way members he has unmasked and sent to the Throne for branding and exile.”

  “But have they all been members of the Old Way, or merely framed victims of the Old Way?” The old elf craned his neck and gave Revara an enquiring look, conspiracy ripe in his eyes. “How many of those ‘unmasked’ were elves of position and power in the land?”

  Revara had never once thought of it in that way, the implication of the old elf’s words suggesting a very juicy conspiracy indeed - an earth-sh
attering one if she were to be honest. One which would leave her kicking herself in the end for not having figured it out through her own wit.

  Andarken you sly old forsker!

  “A very interesting theory,” Revara conceded, “But let us be hon---”

  “One we should not be discussing in public. Rather, you and my son will discuss it outside… away from prying ears.” The old elf wheeled himself around, leaving Revara and Lardian there in an awkward silence, until Revara grew too uncomfortable and agitated with the ambiguousness of her situation.

  “What exactly are you and your father playing at?” she asked, turning on Lardian.

  “Not here,” he responded, cautiously, taking her arm and guiding her outside of the gallery, where they continued even after crossing the road. “My father suspects the Old Way Hunter is in league with the Old Way,” he whispered while they walked, eyes watchful of close-by elves.

  “OK, but what is it to him? He sells art.”

  The two of them stopped at an open lawn between two buildings. Lardian looked around and in a hushed voice, said,

  “My father is part of an order. A secret order. This order’s prime objective is the downfall of the Old Way.”

  Revara showed her genuine surprise, “Oh? And what order is this?”

  “The Order of the White Whisperers. The Brave founded it after the Treachery of the Right Hand.”

  “That far back?” Still very surprised by this new revelation, she asked, “So the Throne backs this order of yours.”

  “Yes. We are their agents.”

  “We?” chuckled Revara.

  Lardian did not smile.

  “What makes your father think my master is part of the Old Way?”

  “Whenever he has accused someone of being an Old Way member, our intelligence has always suggested otherwise. Either your master is a terrible investigator, or he is the opposite: a genius.”

  Revara huffed a humorous laugh. “I am sure he likes to think so.”