Elders of Eventyr

by Ellias Quinn

  At last there came the beginning of Chronicle of a Thief, dating back to five years ago. ‘Today, I drew my wagon behind me. It brimmed with strawberries: large, glistening, and ruby-red, with a scent that would entice a perfumer. I was too taken with my haul even to look up for the loud buzzing I heard when I passed Rigan Beech. I discovered upon my return home that some cured meat, seed bread, and my favorite clockwork diorama were missing. It seems I should close the skylights when I leave.’

  Three days later: ‘Things vanish every time I leave my house. Even locking the door has not helped. It’s time to confront this thief of mine.’

  A day later: ‘I caught him! You must be dying to learn of the horrible punishment I administered. Well, to catch him, I went out, hid myself, and watched the house. A slim Skorgon fellow landed in front of my entrance hut. The back of him, from head to waist, was covered by overlapping brown plates, and he wore trousers about five times wider than his waist, cinched up with a piece of rope. He looked around constantly while picking the lock, so I had a good view of his gray-brown face. There was no mistaking the youth of his features. I wished to know then what sort of life this boy had led for him to steal from an old man in the middle of nowhere, and so far from Deep Valdingfal. Once he got inside, I followed him with all the quiet my creaking joints could muster. He didn’t notice me as he raced down the tunnel and into the house.

  ‘I called out to him then. I stood between him and the door and transformed, my bulk sealing the path out. He panicked and buzzed around the house. Here I kept a careful eye on him, but it seemed he didn’t know how to operate the skylights. When he became tired, he went into a corner and curled into a protective ball, looking just like a woodlouse with that brown shell of his. So I transformed back, picked the creature up in my hands, shook him out, and set him on his feet. You never saw a more despondent face. I made him wash up and stay put at the table whilst I put together soup and porridge. Then we ate in silence until I asked, “Doesn’t this taste better than stolen scraps?”

  ‘“Yes, sir,” he said in a voice as thin as his arms.

  ‘“You could eat like this every day if you worked for it. But should you go on stealing, you’ll be quite unwelcome in my house. Understand? Good. Soon as we’re done, show me where you’ve put my things.”

  ‘He opened his mouth, but I stopped him: “And refrain from lying. You’ve not had time to sell them all.”

  ‘Without a word, he showed me to a tree where he’s hung up some cloth among the roots, hoarding his stolen goods in a shoddy little shack. A few of the items were broken, like my diorama, and he’d eaten all the food.

  ‘“You’ve done poorly by my property, cub,” I said. “That puts you in debt.”

  ‘His black eyes filled with fear, bless his shell.

  ‘I put on a very heavy air and nodded. “The Sangriga are too lenient when it comes to punishing criminals. I had best take you to the nearest Eletsol tribe. Make peace with your right hand, because you won’t have it for much longer.”

  ‘I prepared myself in case he tried flying away. Instead, he fell to his knees. Tears poured down his face. “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again. Don’t take me to the Eletsol.”

  ‘“Would you rather repay your debt as my worker?”

  ‘“Yes, sir! Let me work.”

  ‘Following the exchange, I put him in the visitor’s room for tonight. I shall sleep just outside. If he tries anything, he’ll have to contend with a very angry badger. The boy’s name is Loop, he comes from Dwell in Nychtfal, and that’s all he’ll say.’

  The next few entries showed that Loop was willing to work. He was so willing that Hasyl asked him why.

  ‘“Because your cooking tastes better than stolen scraps,” he said. He learns well.’

  They fell into a routine where Loop helped Hasyl with chores and then sat down for an informal lesson in whatever came to mind. Writing was the first thing Hasyl taught, but Loop hated it. He took better to tinkering. Hasyl passed on as many skills as he could.

  ‘I find the cub hopping here and there, all over the woods. His heart is restless. Quiet contentment means little to him.’

  But Loop changed, like how Dask had changed.

  ‘Tonight Loop shared his reason for being out here in west Fainfal. “Father died when I was baby,” he said, his accent changing. He always spoke like a Ranycht, but I could hear Skorgon roots slipping in. “Mother brought me to Dwell and raised me there. We were part of gang that grew weaker and weaker until an enemy took over. It was fly or die. Mother escaped with me to the Fainfal border and—” He broke off to stick a fork in his boiled potato chunks, bring it to his mouth, and set it down again without eating. “They followed us. Before they attacked, Mother told me to go away. So I did. All the way here.”

  ‘At that tale, I leaned back in my chair. “Do you know if she—”

  ‘“I heard her scream, and then stop.” He shoved potato into his mouth.

  ‘“I’m sorry, Loop,” I said. I took a sip of dandelion wine. “Highwaymen killed my wife when she was coming home from the market.”

  ‘He nodded at me and we both made noises in our throats. Then we demolished our dinner like we’d never eaten before. We’re friends now, I think.’

  The second-to-last entry in the entire journal was titled Chronicle of a Boy. Hasyl had written it a year and a half after the first Thief entry. ‘I had an errand to run at the Eletsol village and Loop refused to go. Still worried about losing his hand. This was precisely the sort of opening I’d been looking for, so I left him in charge of my house. When I returned, he was looking at a map of Eventyr. He’d tidied up the place, and nothing was missing. It was my plan, then, to sit with him and tell him something of my purpose in this place. To tell him how long I have lived. To offer him part of my burden, should the worst occur.

  ‘But he looked up before I could get past greetings, saying he finally felt ready to return to his birthplace, a city in Deep Valdingfal called Kharvev. He asked me to come with him. I don’t know how I produced such a pathetic chuckle. “I must remain,” I said. “You may leave.”

  ‘He was brought low for a bit. His mood bounced right back up, though, when we began packing for him. In addition to things he would need for travel, many of which he had gathered and fashioned with his own four hands, I gave him my best compass, a music box inlaid with gold – which will surely fetch a good price, and the clockwork diorama he once stole. He tried refusing that one, so shamed was he. Trustworthy fellow. We said farewell before sunup. He cried quietly, I shared my usual stern commands, and then I watched him fly past Braya Oak. I suppose that’s it.

  ‘Suddenly I cannot see the page so well. Can it be that I need eyeglasses after a thousand years? No. Just something that got in my eye. Thosten fly with you, Loop. Here concludes your chronicle.’

  Matil smiled even as she felt the beginnings of a sigh. Was Loop still out there, and how was he doing? Why couldn’t she and her friends have arrived in time to save Hasyl? She turned the page. The final entry came from earlier this year.

  ‘My dreams have grown alarming, and I sense a change coming upon the forest. Mr. Korsen agrees. Thus, I will bind these pages into a book so that my story can be told. Not for my sake, but for the one who kept me alive and faithful through it all. Glory to the King Thosten.’

  Matil flipped the last page and ran her finger across the inside of the cover. At the beginning of the journal, he’d said he would only write about things of importance. Why would he then write these inconsequential stories, however lovely and wistful they were? He mentioned his “purpose” and his “burden”, but there was no talk of artifacts or the Elders…

  A lump formed in Matil’s throat and she looked up from the journal to take in the midday warmth that permeated even the forest’s shade. The stories weren’t inconsequential to Hasyl. They were a part of his life.

 
* * *

  The forest thinned and allowed more sunlight as Matil, Khelya, and Dask continued south through Fainfal, and then they reached the border, marked by the Tynsen River. Once Khelya saw the rushing water, she refused to cross, but Dask pointed out how hard it would be to sneak over one of the well-guarded border bridges. She reluctantly lashed bark and twigs together in a serviceable raft and the three of them lined it with river-grasses as a disguise. They waited for the cover of night to pole the raft past a sleepy Sangriga outpost on the far bank.

  In Tyrlis, they navigated toward the university town of Icto Lan, which wasn’t far from the border. They reached their destination as late afternoon edged the trees with gold. The university was a forest of slender stone spires threaded together with breezeways and arched tunnels. Simple as the buildings looked, their great heights and aged stone walls made the campus impressive and elegant.

  The trees were buildings in their own right, dotted with doors, windows, and protruding wooden annexes. Glowing alva bustled on and around the upper levels of the town, where butterflies capered alongside them. An abundance of meadow-grass, knobby tree roots, and fragrant herbs provided a screen through which the group could move, safe from the eyes of the busy Sangriga above.

  Matil and Dask dismounted to lead the beetles. They passed into a blinding ray of sunlight and rushed to the other side, both of them squinting hard. When they saw that Khelya wasn’t with them, they turned back. She had stopped in the ray and faced the sun, her eyes closed.

  “Come on, Khel,” Dask said.

  “It feels great,” Khelya said. “So warm…”

  Voices approached from nearby. Matil and Dask grabbed Khelya’s arms and dragged her under an array of ferns.

  As she landed on her behind, her cloth headband fell over her eyes. She pushed it up and huffed at them. “Stop doin’ that. I was almost—”

  Matil held two fingers over her own lips and then put a hand on Dewdrop’s head, between her antennae. The voices became louder. A large group of chit-chatting Sangriga in rumpled clothing floated past like shining dandelion fluff. Their skin was powdery-pale and their wings were shafts of light that gradually expanded and contracted. Even though they spoke the same language as Matil, she found herself understanding almost as little as if they spoke Eleti.

  “Locomotion of solid luminescence is a notoriously complex process. I’m surprised you managed…”

  “They say everyone died. Makes sense. Cross-plane intervention has quite the sanguineous record.”

  “Thought. That’s what I’m talking about. Using thought to remotely control the passage of a physical object through space. Possible with Rhingan’s trigonometric methods? Yes or no?”

  “Your mum always sends the best dumplings. Have you got any left for supper?”

  At least Matil could comprehend supper.

  Two men followed behind the group. One of them wore a rather shabby shirt and breeches. He had his finger up and was using it to impale the air violently. The other looked ahead, the lines in his face dragged down by boredom. His green robe looked like it was made of fine material.

  “That’s a- a sign, isn’t it?” the man in breeches said.

  “Perhaps,” the robed man said dully.

  “But—you know there’s- there’s presently so much division among the alva,” the man in breeches said, “and, when you remember how the Book was stolen, I really think—no, I’m quite sure that Eventyr will be, erm, decimated. In…probably in fifteen weeks. Probably. My calculations turn out with, er, three weeks as the margin of error.”

  “The prophecy to which you refer states that the Elders will wake before then.”

  “Exactly!” The man in breeches stabbed the air again. “The Elders will wake!”

  The robed man covered his face with his hand. “I’m not feeling well today, scholar, so,” he began to ascend, “please excuse me.”

  “Yes, of course,” the scholar said weakly. The robed man sped up, leaving him behind. “You are…excused…”

  Matil, Khelya, and Dask looked at each other.

  “Didja hear him?” Khelya whispered.

  “I’ll follow him,” said Dask.

  Matil nodded. “Don’t get caught.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “I’d have to go outta my way to get caught.”

  The scholar had already gone in another direction. Dask flew up into the air before gliding toward the Sangriga and using the tree trunks and foliage to conceal himself. Matil soon lost sight of him and settled down in her own hiding spot.

  “Do you think he’ll be all right?” she said.

  Khelya put her hands on her hips. “He’s gonna mess somethin’ up for certain.”

  “He might not.” Matil trusted Dask. Ever since he had helped tell Brenna about her son Amacht’s death, she trusted him.

  Chapter 18

  Library Bound

  He’d looked pretty professional just then, hadn’t he? Swooping, creeping, and tumbling with everything he had. If the fate of the stupid forest was in his hands right now, he could get the job done.

  Dask kept the Sangriga scholar in view, but stayed extra-aware of the things around him. The sharp wind woke him right up. Wings of light drifted at the corners of his vision. Something had to obscure him at every turn, and he broke one cover to bolt for the next only when no one was looking. These sun-lovers would think he was an insect or a bird darting from tree to tree. Avoiding their sight was harder as he moved toward the town and the populace.

  The Sangriga man’s legs dangled like a mosquito’s while he flew. He eventually slowed near an apartment house set in a tree and floated to a quiet eatery atop the building. As the sunlight faded, lamps flared up all around.

  Dask sat in the crook of a branch to observe the Sangriga scholar eating out on the deck. With barely a thought, he let the darkness spread over him until he was near-invisible. The rich and spicy smells of the eatery wafted over to him. Dripping noodles disappeared into the Sangriga’s mouth. Even though Dask didn’t like Sangriga food, his hunger made any kind of grub look good at the moment.

  The Sangriga finished his meal, descended to a particular balcony, and entered a flat. The windows went from dark to light.

  Dask considered the apartment house. While some of the other flats were lit up as well, most were dark – which would be normal for Ranycht, but here it meant that the Sangriga were asleep or gone. Quiet neighborhoods like this one had upsides and downsides. Upside: Alva kept to themselves and probably wouldn’t be watching for weirdos. Downside: You had to be quiet, or everyone around would hear.

  Dask fluttered to the balcony, wingbeats as soft as a sigh, and then he crouched below a window. The shadows closed over him again. All he heard were soft footsteps from one alva. He moved his ears slightly. Furniture creaked and a moment later the Sangriga yawned. This guy must live alone. Perfect. Dask faded again so the Sangriga wouldn’t see anyone when he opened the door.

  Knock knock-knock.

  “Oh!” came the man’s muffled voice. “Er, let me, ah…I shall…open the door! Hello! Who’s visi-” the door opened, “-ting?”

  Seeing him standing in the doorway, Dask thought he looked like a chump. Puzzlement etched the guy’s narrow face, and his gangly limbs were angled inward as if to minimize his own tall presence. His light brown hair appeared to have been so hastily smoothed down that a ratlick of hair stood up in the back. He had a short goatee, breeches, and a sleeveless tunic over a shirt, both wrinkled to the point that Dask guessed he slept in them.

  The Sangriga would struggle, but Dask had to keep it quiet. Direct it into the flat, yeah, that was the key. And once they got in, the intimidation would begin. He smiled, satisfied.

  With a hand outstretched to clap over the Sangriga’s mouth, Dask launched himself at the guy. Darkness rolled off of him as he lunged. The man, seeing
him, gave the tiniest squeak before Dask knocked him over. They thudded onto the wood floor, Dask muffling the Sangriga’s mouth while twisting his arm behind his back. Dask braced himself for the fight about to go down…but it never did. He looked disbelievingly at the Sangriga, whose eyes had rolled back into his head. In his unconscious state, the man’s wings had gone out like a candle.

  Dragging the lanky man farther into the flat took the wind out of Dask, but it wasn’t as hard as he thought it would be. It seemed he had gotten stronger since his days in the gang. He shut the door and moved the Sangriga through wadded-up sheets of paper littering the floor and into a corner, where he would be trapped. Dask went around the flat – finding tatty furniture and more crumpled paper all over – and blew out each of the magical Sangriga-lights he found. They reminded him of the first Sangriga-lights he’d really had a chance to look at, in his Corwyna jail cell. He shuddered. Not a nice memory.

  Faint light entered through the windows, so he drew the curtains tight. This was a night that the man wouldn’t be able to see through. To Dask’s Ranycht eyes, it was a comfortable level of green-tinged dimness. He cut off the curtain cords with his Eletsol knife and used them to tie the Sangriga’s hands and feet. Lastly, Dask pulled a soft armchair to face the corner and nestled into it, making sure his wings padded his back comfortably.

  He hoped that Matil and Khelya hadn’t been found. Khelya was an Obrigi in Sangriga territory, so he wasn’t as worried about her. Matil…she would defend herself, but if they so much as scratched her…

  Wing light shimmered beneath the Sangriga. His eyes fluttered open. “Eurghhh…where have I gone? Good Calo, it’s dark—”

  Dask slunk down to cover the man’s mouth and pinned him to the floor with a knee on his chest. “I got a knife to your neck,” Dask whispered, “and I need your help. So you aren’t gonna make a single sound, got it?”