THE CHOOSING

by PhyllisAnn Welsh

  She sighed in mock despair before answering him. Always she made him proud.

  “Very well, half-elf, but as soon as this plan of Mac Lir’s is settled, plan to spend at least two days locked in your quarters with me. Alone.”

  “Aye, Feenix,” he gave her shoulders an affectionate squeeze as they hurried down the corridor towards L’Garn’s room. “Alone. I shall endeavor to survive the ordeal.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Feenix had the feeling of being in the middle of a rushing river, floating past trees and homes on each bank so quickly, everything was a blur. That’s how fast things were happening around her.

  It wasn’t until they reached L’Garn’s room and the guard, standing at the door, saluted and bowed to him, that she realized he was now the king.

  The king of the Night Elves.

  And he said he wanted to spend his life with her.

  She hadn’t bargained for this, and she didn’t know if she was prepared to spend her life with a king. But that, of course, really depended upon if he still wanted her, now that he was a king. After all, he had made his statement and pledge to her before he knew his grandfather was dead. What if he didn’t want her now?

  Well, that made sense, she reasoned. Now that he was a king, he would need to get himself a queen. The gods knew she wasn’t queen material! Not with her background and upbringing, she snorted to herself.

  L’Garn would need a beautiful elf maiden, calm and well-versed in his people’s customs and needs. Someone with patience and diplomatic skills. Someone the Night Elves respected and would accept. Not a hardened warrior with so much blood on her hands it was a miracle they were not stained a permanent red. Certainly not someone who had done some truly horrific things just to survive, things that still gave her nightmares on occasion.

  Feenix’s spirits drooped as she realized L’Garn must be regretting his hasty words to her. If he didn’t regret them now, he would soon enough. She stole a glance at his profile as they stepped into his quarters.

  “Are you sure you are feeling well, Feenix?”

  She loved the sound of his voice and the note of concern for her, although she didn’t know why he was making such a big deal about falling off the dais…

  Then she remembered.

  Zimpher had hit her with an energy bolt. It knocked her head over ass off the dais! Slapping at her chest, she looked down to see the ruined tunic and shirt. The tattered garments did little to hide the untouched flesh beneath them.

  “What happened?” She remembered the searing pain of the energy, but where were the wounds? She should be dead, or at the very least, in a great deal of pain.

  L’Garn gathered her in his arms and held her in a tender embrace.

  “I am not sure. Somehow, Mac Lir used me to Heal you. I have never experienced anything like it before.”

  “You Healed me?” She felt herself melting at the thought of L’Garn actually laying his hands on her and calling forth the magic to Heal her. She steeled herself against the sensation; she had to be strong if she had to walk out of his life.

  “I do not know if I Healed you or if Mac Lir did it through me. All I know is you are alive and well, and here in my arms.”

  He captured her lips with a tender kiss, and Feenix felt herself losing the battle of self-will. She longed to have him make love to her, but didn’t dare to test her strength of resolve just yet.

  “Come on, elf,” she said, pushing him a way and walking to the chest where his clothing was kept. “We don’t have time for that, and we both need to wash up and change. You’re meeting your people in the Great Hall in a short while.”

  Turning her back to him so she wouldn’t have to see the hurt in his eyes, she pulled out a linen shirt from the drawer, draped it on the back of one of the chairs, and poured some water into the wash basin. If she kept herself busy, perhaps he wouldn’t ask her any questions, and she could get through this.

  “You are right, Feenix,” L’Garn said behind her. “We will have time to talk and settle everything after the Sea Elves have been warned, and the truce has been reached.”

  She heard the rustling of his clothes as he removed his soiled garments. The trickle and splash of the water, as he washed the blood and grime from his upper body, tempted her to turn and watch.

  No, by Mac Lir’s beard, she growled at herself. Don’t turn around and watch him. It will only get you into deeper trouble. Just get dressed and then get the hell away from him!

  “Listen, L’Garn,” she said, buttoning her shirt and walking towards the door. “I’ll meet you in the Great Hall. Take your time.”

  She was out the door before he could finish his protest. Shutting the door firmly, she hurried down the corridor in what she hoped was the general direction of the Great Hall.

  The only honorable thing for her to do was to let him go, she decided as she made her unsure way to the Hall. Do it quickly and with as little fuss as possible. She felt her heart begin to ache as she made the decision. The best thing for them both was to walk away from King L’Garn of the Night Elves.

  “Pretty Feenix be sad.”

  The little troll seemed to materialize from nowhere at her side.

  “Where did you come from, Eagnad?”

  “Eagnad help get hurt elves to Healers. Then Eagnad find pretty Feenix.”

  He seemed quite pleased with himself, she thought. His strange orange eyes were crinkled in what she hoped was a smile, although it was hard to tell with his mouth open that way. It could just as much have been a yawn or a laugh. Trolls were strange creatures to figure out, she decided. Especially a little half troll named Eagnad.

  Feenix stopped in the corridor, a question on her lips.

  “Eagnad, you were there when I woke up from the Healing. Did L’Garn really Heal me?”

  “Aye.”

  “How did he do that? He’s an Outbreed and it was my understanding that Outbreeds don’t have much magic. L’Garn certainly didn’t seem overly magical before this.”

  “Love be magic, pretty Feenix. You not know this yet?”

  What in the Seven Cella Worlds was the troll babbling about now? Feenix had no patience for such riddles.

  “Just answer the question, troll! How did he do it?”

  Instead of answering her immediately, the little troll took her hand and turned it over so that her palm was up. She thought about pulling her hand from his callused and cracked paw, but instead she relaxed and let her hand lay quietly while he traced the lines in the middle of her palm.

  “Magic be power, pretty Feenix. It not matter where power come from. Some power come from the air; some from water. Much power in hate; more power in love. More power, more magic.”

  Eagnad seemed very interested in the lines woven into her hand. His head was bent so that he could see, but Feenix didn’t know what he was looking for.

  “Prince have much love. Much power. He not know before. Mac Lir show he.”

  The troll closed her fingers and made a loose fist with her hand. Then he looked into her eyes with his own intelligent gaze.

  “Pretty Feenix show prince to love. Now he be fixer of many things. Prince fix pretty Feenix heart.”

  He dropped her hand and left her standing, stunned, in the corridor. She watched his back disappear in the gloomy hall, before she pulled herself together.

  “By Mac Lir’s blue bells, what is that supposed to mean?” she yelled at his retreating shadow. But he was gone with the answer, and she was left standing in the corridor alone.

  “Do you know what I hate most of all about gods?” she asked no one as she continued to the Great Hall. “I hate the fact that they put their noses in things that don’t have anything to do with them. Then they have their ‘servants’ spout some ridiculous garbage and expect you to understand it!”

  Her words echoed down the corridor. Still muttering to herself, she stepped into the Great Hall and was stopped by an official looking guard.

  “Captain Feenix,”
the guard saluted her smartly.

  “What do you want?” She had no time for delays. She had to blend in with the crowd before L’Garn found her. She wasn’t running precisely. She just wanted to postpone the inevitable until after L’Garn had firm control of his new duties. He didn’t need her around distracting him. And she didn’t need to be around when he realized the mistake he had made concerning her.

  “Come with me, please, captain.” The elf firmly but politely took her arm and started to lead her towards a set of stairs that led up to an oval balcony.

  “Hey,” she said, pulling out of his grasp. “Where are you taking me?” Silently, two more guards appeared, one behind her and one on her other side.

  “Please come with me, captain. The king has requested that you be shown to the royal section.”

  Again the guard took her arm. For a moment she thought about refusing, but decided L’Garn didn’t need her making a scene just before he set Mac Lir’s plan before the entire Night Elf nation.

  She followed the guard up the stairs and took a seat behind the balcony railing. A beautiful, fragile-looking female lounged on an elaborate couch draped in pink silk. It was the first bit of color Feenix had seen her entire time in Cragimore. It looked terribly out of place.

  Before she had time to ask herself again why she was here waiting around, Feenix saw L’Garn enter the balcony from a concealed door in the back. He was dressed in black leather from head to toe. He wore a deep blue-black silk shirt that shimmered in the priest lights hanging from the arched ceiling. The only reason she had been able to see him enter was because a guard preceding him carried a flaming torch. Her half-elf made an impressive sight.

  The Great Hall was filled with elves and slaves. The slaves had been herded to the side of the huge cavern and were being watched over by a contingent of guards, complete with whips and clubs. Feenix recognized a few of them, but due to the poor lighting, couldn’t make out a lot of detail.

  The Night Elves themselves were in three separate groups; the obviously noble and wealthy group, the merchants and middle class group, and then the worker and servants who were not slaves, but neither were they first class citizens. Each clique congregated together, none daring to break the invisible barrier that separated them.

  As L’Garn moved to the balcony’s railing, a few voices from the servant crowd began to chant, “Long live King L’Garn!”

  The voices grew, encompassing many of the elves from the merchant group. Few, very few Feenix noted, raised their voices from the noble crowd of elves. She was sure L’Garn also took note of the lack of enthusiasm from that direction of the Hall.

  The half-elf raised his hands and asked for silence. The hall became still, as the entire Night Elf nation waited to hear what their new king would say.

  “As many of you are aware, Zimpher the Golden is dead.”

  Some elves muttered and whispered, shifting into more comfortable positions, straining to hear.

  “According to our laws, the closest male by blood stands in line to be crowned king. As Zimpher’s grandson, and as his proclaimed heir, that duty has now fallen to me.”

  L’Garn paused, and more whispers and murmurs arose from the crowd.

  “Zimpher the Golden is dead! Hail L’Garn the Outbreed!”

  The sneering words came from amongst the nobles, but no one seemed to be willing to point out the culprit. A few elves laughed; many looked embarrassed for the new king. Feenix wished she could jump into the crowd and run her blade through the scoffers. By Mac Lir’s beard, how dare the scum laugh at L’Garn?

  “That is right,” L’Garn’s voice carried over the noise of the assembled hall. “I am L’Garn the Outbreed. I can not change the blood that runs through my veins, any more than we can stop Eon from rising. But I can tell you this! By our law, I am king of the Night Elves. Anyone who wishes to dispute that fact may do so in private battle after the immediate crisis is resolved.”

  “And what crisis would that be, Outbreed?”

  A tall elf, older than L’Garn by many years, Feenix would guess by the white hair dusted through his temples and back from his high forehead, stepped from among the nobles. He was a handsome elf, dressed in fine clothes and having an air about him that proclaimed his nobility to anyone with half an eye.

  Feenix hated him on sight.

  “I am glad you asked, Lord Worseld.”

  “I am sure you are,” the elf lord commented with a tight, condescending smile.

  L’Garn ignored the snide comment. Feenix admired his control. She would have gutted the lord if it had been her.

  “The god, Mac Lir, has sent a warning to us. He has shown to me the self-destructive path we are treading in our war with our kin the Sea and Wood Elves.”

  “What nonsense is this?” Lord Worseld’s words unleashed a cacophony of noise from the gathered crowd. “We have been at war with the Sea Elves for thousands of years. The Wood Elves have been all but eradicated and are no threat to us. You would have us put away our weapons simply because you claim a god has said we should?”

  “No, Worseld,” L’Garn’s voice carried over the noise of the hall, bringing attention back to the new king high above their heads, standing on the balcony. He waited for silence with a master’s understanding of that powerful weapon. Feenix wanted to yell encouragement to him, but he didn’t seem to need it.

  “I expect you to put away your weapons because your king has commanded it.” L’Garn held Worseld’s gaze with unwavering control.

  Feenix could actually feel the shift of power in the great cavern as many Night Elves moved, both physically and mentally, away from the challenging Lord Worseld.

  “I suppose you feel you can back that command with force,” the arrogant lord hissed.

  “If I must,” the king answered calmly, raising his hand in signal.

  Out of the shadows around the perimeter of the cavern stepped a company of fully armed warriors, their swords drawn and at the ready.

  “I would prefer not, however.”

  Feenix felt like she was going to burst with pride. It was a superb military maneuver.

  Worseld froze for a few heartbeats, then held his hands up in a non-threatening manner. “As you wish, your majesty,” he bowed, taking a step back into the safety of the nobles’ group.

  With Worseld’s submission, the tension in the cavern dropped about ten levels, Feenix thought. L’Garn knew what he was doing, without a doubt. He would make a fine king, she admitted.

  All he lacked was his queen.

  “I know that a lasting peace with our kin will not be an easy task,” L’Garn continued when all eyes had returned to him. “I expect that all sides of this long-standing dispute will have troubles adjusting to the changes Mac Lir has seen fit to decree. But make no mistake.” He planted his hands upon the railing and leaned out a bit to emphasize his words. “Mac Lir’s commands will be obeyed! If they are not, the entire silvan races will be destroyed from the face of Tylana.”

  L’Garn went on to explain Mac Lir’s warning and how the silvan races had to band together under the one cause, to stop Tuawtha and the elimination of their kind. The new king’s task was not an easy one, but gradually Feenix felt the general atmosphere in the cavern evolve into one of guarded acceptance of L’Garn rather than outright hostility.

  Being a warrior herself, she knew the driving forces of revenge and blood lust. She knew it would be difficult for all the elves of Tylana to put their animosity and weapons aside to build a new foundation of peace. But she also knew the other side to war: the terrible feeling of the waste of lives over something as trivial as the way a man looked at another. At times, even Feenix was heartily sick to death of the fighting, the blood, the tears of the living when they learned that their loved one would not return to them.

  There would be many elves, on all sides, who would not be persuaded to Mac Lir’s plan. She knew this, as it was the nature of all living creatures to doubt the words of an absent leader. Feenix
supposed that would be part of her job as mediator; help convert the reluctant to the cause of Mac Lir. It would be a challenge for her. Most of her persuading had been done at the end of a sharp sword. Now she was expected to persuade with her tongue rather than her blade. Not an easy task for one more used to action than diplomacy.

  She sighed deeply. Suddenly she was tired of the whole thing. Tired of war, of fighting, and perhaps most of all, tired of the thought of the battle to come with L’Garn. By Mac Lir’s toes, could nothing be simple?

  “The first step in our quest for peace,” L’Garn’s words brought Feenix back from her musings, “will be to free every elfin slave within the hold of Cragimore.”

  The king’s words were met with a heartbeat of shocked silence before chaos erupted. Many of the nobles and merchants were angry and upset over the loss of their free labor.

  As expected, the slaves were deliriously happy.

  “Silence! Hear me!” With the help of the armed guards, L’Garn finally brought quiet and order to the Hall.

  “Already, our cousins the Sea Elves have freed our people that have been held captive by them. We can do no less, for it is an act of good faith that we will no longer be at odds with each other.”

  “If you expect that thousands of years of hate and revenge will simply go away because Mac Lir and you wish it, then you are a bigger fool than I had thought, L’Garn!”

  “No, Worseld, I do not expect the hate and anger to simply disappear. It will not be easy, I know, but we must set our differences aside for the larger picture. What good will our hate and anger do us if our cousins are all dead? Will we turn that anger onto our own people? Will we begin to kill each other because it has become the only way of life we know? And in doing so, will we will fulfill Tuawtha’s dream? All silvan kind will have been removed from the face of Tylana. Is that what you want for us, Worseld? Is that what you would wish on your family?”

  “You know it is not,” the angry lord responded. “But what assurances do we have that the Sea Elves will keep their pledge and not simply kill us at the first opportunity?”