The Elven Apostate

by Sara C. Roethle

  He knew innocents would die, and he’d gone forward with his plan.

  He watched her, waiting for her to make a decision.

  “Sleep near the entrance,” she grumbled under her breath. “Now give me the circlet.”

  Without another word, he reached into his satchel and withdrew the circlet, extending it to her.

  She took it, then retreated to the far end of the tent. Her thoughts were all a jumble, too many to sort out. The circlet pulsed gently with cool magic in her hand.

  It was late enough—or early enough—to be cold, so she curled up on one of the pillows near a warm oil lamp, her back to the small expanse of the tent. Shivering and weary, she curled around herself. A moment later, a blanket was tossed over her, then she heard Malon’s gentle steps retreat.

  A tear slipped down her cheek. She wanted nothing more in that moment than to speak with her mother, to ask her who she should trust, and what she should do about the traitor turned ally sharing her tent.

  * * *

  Egrin

  Egrin slumped in the finely-gilded chair, its thick cushions barely dented with his weight. His chamber was strewn with broken furniture, shredded curtains, and shattered earthenware. His bejeweled fingers clenched the chair arms so fiercely the wood cracked. He could tear the entire castle within Galterra to the ground, and his rage would not be sated.

  Those cursed elves. He didn’t care how they’d learned to use the circlets, he simply wanted the moonstones. He was so close, but the magic he’d gathered was not enough. He needed more if he was to reach his full power, and do what he’d originally come to this land to do.

  Once he had that power, Galterra, the Dreilore, the Nokken and the elves could all rot. They were merely pawns in this game, playing their roles until he had what he needed.

  But those elves . . .

  They could end his reign. They could send him back to the underworld, too weakened and scarred to ever return. He couldn’t lose after he’d come so far.

  He’d waited centuries to see her again. He’d sacrificed everything for her.

  He would not fail.

  Alluin

  Alluin had disagreed that it was safe for their group to make way for the main road, but after a long night of rain and close calls with forest beasts, he’d been overruled. While it was true that their horses were weary, and the road would be a faster route of travel, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. Initially, he’d passed it off as nerves, but the feeling had persisted.

  He checked his bow and quiver, fastened to his saddle behind him to assure he could reach them quickly. Celen and Elmerah rode ahead with their hoods tossed back, their heritage clear to any who passed. Even if they weren’t being followed, and even if no enemies awaited further down the road, two full-blooded Arthali riding with an elf and a human would stand out, even if they weren’t being pursued. Elmerah had been somewhat disguised before with her hood up to shadow her features, and she could perhaps be mistaken for a tall elf or a human with southern heritage, but Celen was unmistakably Arthali, from his height, to his battle scars, to the tattoos crawling up and down his arms, fortunately covered by his fur-trimmed coat at the moment.

  Isara rode beside him, for the first time on their journey without a pensive crease to her brow.

  “Someone ahead!” Elmerah called back to him and Isara. She and Celen both pulled up their hoods, for what little good it would do now.

  Alluin did the same, tugging the green wool of his cloak down to his forehead, just in case.

  Elmerah cursed at the sight ahead, but Alluin had already noted that the men in the distance wore the uniforms of Galterra’s militia. But what were they doing this far south?

  “Should we retreat?” Isara whispered, the militia men yet too far off to hear.

  He shook his head. “They’ve spotted us. Running would make us appear guilty. They may just let us pass.”

  Elmerah and Celen slowed their horses for him and Isara to catch up, then they rode on more closely together. Alluin noted a handful of men, five visible, perhaps more in the bordering forest. One man knelt by a cookfire on the side of the road. As Alluin’s horse crested a rise, signs of a camp became apparent. Copious supplies. These men had been stationed here for a while.

  Elmerah glanced back, her eyes landing on Isara. “If they give us any trouble, I’ll light their camp on fire. Then you gallop past with Alluin. Celen and I will catch up.”

  Isara blinked at her with a faint nod, then the group went silent as they neared the men. Three moved to block the road, hands on swords at their belts.

  One with an ornate sword hilt and a thick gray beard stepped forward. “Any Faerune elves among you?”

  Elmerah reined in her horse and looked down at him. “Not a one, will that be all?”

  The militia man gave her a long, hard look, then waved her and Celen past. “Keep an eye out for Akkeri. There’ve been sightings along the coast near Port Aeluvaria.”

  Elmerah didn’t need to be told twice. She rode on.

  Alluin looked each of the men over as he tapped his horse’s sides, wondering if they were being lured into a trap. Were they not even going to question what two Arthali were doing riding out on the open road? While the exile had slowly grown less strict, Arthali were still wise to remain in hiding.

  He looked to Isara riding next to him and said lowly, “Ride on ahead. I’ll catch up.”

  She did as he asked. He knew it was a risk, but this occurrence was so odd, he stopped his horse near the bearded man. “Any other news from further north?”

  The man sneered at him. “None I care to share with you, elf. I’ll let you pass, but know this, the Dreilore or Arthali will kill you before you reach the Capital. Now get out of my sight.”

  He kicked his horse forward, glad Isara had already gone ahead. He half expected to get an arrow in the back, but nothing came. Elmerah looked to him as he reached her, her eyes wide. “What in the gods was that about?” she mouthed.

  He shook his head, at a loss, and they rode on. They would discuss it once they were well out of range of the militia’s bows. He urged his horse to a trot, and the others followed. They hurried on until they reached a smaller path stemming off from the road. He took it, unable to wait any longer to discuss what the militia man had said. It wasn’t the threat, or the disdain for his race, but the Arthali. Why would there be Arthali in the north waiting to kill him?

  He looked both ways down the narrow road, then dismounted, bringing his horse to face the others as their boots touched down.

  Elmerah’s gaze lingered on their narrow view of the main road. “What in Ilthune’s name was that about? That man almost seemed to think I was his ally.”

  Alluin’s hands felt numb around his reins as he led his horse closer to the others. “I think he believes you are. Has Rissine mentioned anything about Arthali clans allying themselves with the Empire?”

  She tossed her hood back and shook her head. “No, as far as I know, those she found joined her. The clans are broken up and scattered, it was difficult for her to gather many of our kin at once.”

  Celen stepped a little closer, his gaze wary. “Ellie, do you think Rissine could have been lying? Could she have failed to recruit many of our people because they were already allied with the Empire?”

  Isara gazed out at the road, looking tiny next to Celen in her dark blue cloak. “I don’t understand how that could happen. How could they go from exiles to allies? Why would they do it, when who they believed was Soren Dinoba had destroyed their clans to begin with?”

  Elmerah gently pushed away her horse’s muzzle as it tried to nibble at her wild hair. Her eyes locked with his. “And what they said to you? That you would soon be killed, but Faerune elves would not be allowed to pass at all?”

  His stomach clenched. When he’d left, there had still been some lingering Valeroot clans in the deep woods. What had been done to them in that time? “We need more information. We’ll st
op at the next village.” He looked to Celen and Elmerah. “You two will venture in. If the people there believe you allies, they will most likely speak to you.”

  Elmerah shook her head. “Old hatreds are not so easily quelled. Isara will have to go. She’ll be more likely to get information than any of us. We need to know what we’ll face once we reach Galterra.”

  “I’ll do it,” Isara said before Alluin could protest.

  He didn’t like the idea of her going into a village alone with no way to protect herself, but something else now held his tongue. That strange feeling had returned. He felt eyes on his back. He glanced over his shoulder, but saw only trees.

  “Alluin?” He realized it was the second time Elmerah had said his name. “Is something wrong?”

  He shook his head. “Let’s move on, if the next village seems friendly enough, we’ll send Isara in.”

  She watched him for a moment more, clearly not believing him. But Isara and Celen were already mounting their horses. Elmerah gave him one last look, then did the same.

  He scanned the woods, then climbed into the saddle. He possessed excellent hearing and eyesight. If someone had been following them all this way, staying close enough to spy, he should have spotted them by now. It had to be his nerves playing tricks on him.

  They guided their horses to the main path, then continued northward. By his estimations, they’d reach the next village before nightfall. He was both anxious and dreading to learn what had been happening in the Capital. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep moving forward with his kin dropping like flies all around him.

  * * *

  Elmerah

  “Don’t look so worried,” Elmerah chided. “Celen is watching her.”

  “I’m not worried,” Alluin replied, though the hunch of his shoulders and the deep crease at his eyelids said different. He gripped his bow tightly in one hand, opting not to leave it with the four horses tethered nearby.

  Elmerah sat against a tree trunk and stretched her long legs out across soggy fallen leaves, fanning her coat out beneath her. Isara and Celen had gone into the village alone, the latter keeping to the shadows. He would only reveal himself should Isara find trouble.

  “They let us pass through the checkpoint,” she sighed. “No one is looking for us.”

  Alluin paced around the small clearing, not far from the road. He was jumpy, though she couldn’t divine why now was any different than yesterday. Perhaps he was worried about what the militia man had said.

  He stopped to look down at her. “That doesn’t mean we’re not still in danger.

  She scowled at his back as he walked away to peer deeper into the forest. “Would you sit down? You’re making my skin itch. Most creatures keep to the deep woods.”

  “I’m not worried about creatures.”

  And yet, he continued to watch the trees like they might come alive and attack him.

  She sighed. A branch creaked nearby. Alluin shot off like an arrow.

  She shook her head as he went out of sight. A perfectly spoiled rest. She got to her feet and went after him, her hand on her cutlass. If he had found something, she’d not be caught unawares. And if it was another Fogfaun, well, she had questions.

  She caught sight of Alluin’s back through the trees. He’d stopped walking and was looking around.

  “Why are you jumping at shadows?” she asked as she neared, but he held up a hand to silence her.

  She glared daggers at his back, but obeyed.

  The only warning she had was his hand tightening around his bow, then it was whipped upward, sending an arrow straight into the foliage. A pained shriek assaulted her ears, then a blur of reddish hair and green wool careened down from the canopy, landing with a heavy thud and a groan.

  Elmerah unsheathed her cutlass and stepped back, observing the male Nokken now panting and whining on the ground with Alluin’s arrow sticking out of his right leg. The Nokken’s fox ears were pinned back against his russet hair—probably about shoulder length, but it was difficult to tell with him squirming around on the ground like that.

  Alluin nocked another arrow, then aimed it at the Nokken. “Why have you been following us?”

  “Been following?” Elmerah asked. “You mean you knew we were being followed?”

  Alluin’s eyes remained on the groaning Nokken. “Speak now, or I will silence you forever.”

  “I saw you leave Faerune!” the Nokken cried out. “Don’t kill me!”

  Elmerah stepped beside Alluin so the Nokken could see them both. “Give us a reason to keep you alive.”

  The Nokken curled up on his side, his right hand gripping the arrow shaft where it met his flesh. The bloodstain on his green woolen breeches expanded with every small movement. “I didn’t mean any harm,” he panted. “I was tasked to watch Faerune, and report on anyone coming or going. Then I saw Celen leave with you and grew curious.”

  Alluin lowered his bow, just enough to ease the tension. “If you know Celen, why follow us in hiding? Why not reveal yourself?”

  The Nokken grimaced, revealing sharp teeth. “Celen’s clan were admitted within the crystal walls. The Nokken are enemies of Faerune. If that makes me Celen’s enemy,” he gasped, his hand clenching around the arrow, “then I’d rather not like to face him.”

  It made sense . . . sort of. “But you’ll trail him?” Elmerah asked. “Why?”

  The Nokken grunted, tossing his head back to remove a lock of hair from his face, then glared up at her. “I thought maybe he was leaving his clan and the elves behind. I thought that if he had a better place to go, somewhere away from the Illuvian forests and this stupid war, that I might be able to go there too. I should have run the other way though when I heard you talking about killing the emperor.”

  Alluin’s bow whipped back up and the Nokken flinched. He was young—Elmerah placed him around eighteen, perhaps a year or two younger.

  “Did any of your people follow you?” she asked. “Are any others nearby?”

  “No! I was alone when I witnessed Celen leaving Faerune. No one saw me follow him.”

  She extended her hand toward Alluin, palm outward. “Lower your bow, he’s not going anywhere, and he may know of Egrin’s next move.”

  The Nokken blinked amber eyes at her. “You’re Elmerah, right? We’re supposed to keep a close eye on you.”

  “Of course you are,” she sighed. “Now let’s get that arrow out of your leg. I want you alive when Celen returns to verify your identity.”

  “You would mend my wound?” the Nokken asked, his tone hopeful.

  Elmerah knelt beside him. The look in his eyes definitely confirmed his youth. This was no trained spy or assassin. “Yes, I’ll mend your wound for now, but be aware, try to flee or harm us in any way, and Alluin will make a new one.”

  The Nokken nodded frantically. “Yes—I mean no. I mean, I won’t run, I promise.”

  “Very good.” She gripped the arrow and yanked.

  His scream echoed through the boughs, sending birds scattering across the sky in its wake.

  * * *

  Isara

  Isara steeled herself as she prepared to walk into the small tavern, which was also the inn, though she imagined they couldn’t have more than one or two beds. There weren’t many folk about at this time of day—they were all out tending crops, or fishing in the nearby bay—but she could hear a few voices within. They were too quiet for her to make out the words, especially over the creaking of the bird-shaped rusted sign swaying overhead from an eroded metal post. She could just barely make out the carved letters, the Nightjay Inn.

  She straightened her shoulders, realizing she looked silly waiting for so long when she had Celen lurking in the shadows, ready to protect her.

  She shook out her curls, squared her shoulders, and straightened her spectacles. “You can protect yourself,” she whispered, then pushed the door inward.

  Three human faces turned toward her as one, alarmed, then quickly relaxing.
/>   “Just a girl,” an older woman said.

  “Thank Arcale,” said an even older man.

  The third was a young woman around Isara’s age, with onyx black hair down to her waist, and sparkling blue eyes. “Can we help you? Would you like a room?”

  The bar behind where the trio sat was empty. These three must be the proprietors, a girl and her parents.

  Isara nodded to each of them. “Just a meal? Or am I mistaken, is this only an inn and not a tavern?” She realized as soon as she said it how stupid the question was. There was clearly a bar right there, stocked with a few small casks of ale.

  The young girl stood and walked behind the bar, swishing clean white skirts around her legs. She wiped her hands on her brown apron, then planted them on the bar. “We have cured trout and fresh bread. I’m afraid that’s all I can offer you at the moment. Militia men dine like animals when they pass through.”

  Isara scurried up to the bar and took a stool across from where the girl stood. “Trout sounds lovely, you say the militia passed through? Heading south?”

  The girl gave a brief nod, then fetched a fresh loaf of bread from beneath the counter. She set the bread down and pried something open that Isara could not see, filling the space with the scent of cured trout. She piled the loosely held together pieces of fish preserved in gelatine onto a wooden plate, then sliced the loaf of bread with a wicked looking knife that made Isara sweat.

  A completed plate was placed before her, along with an unrequested pewter mug of ale.

  The girl wiped her hands on her apron again, proudly surveying her handiwork before raising her eyes to Isara. “From where do you hail? Have you traveled far?” She looked her up and down—well what she could see of her from across the bar, then added, “Not on foot, I hope?”

  Isara chastised herself for being afraid. These people were perfectly kind. The girl’s parents had resumed their conversation behind her. “No, not far, and from the North,” she lied, her mind frantically trying to recall the old maps she’d studied. “From Pence.”