The Coming Storm

by Valerie Douglas

  “You stand before us to be judged. Who will state the charges?”

  There would be no defense, they’d made sure of it.

  For a moment there was utter silence, with only the sound of the breeze and the distant rush of surf disturbing it. One could almost hear the expectation build.

  “She’s Otherling,” a voice rumbled.

  As if that were condemnation enough. Perhaps it was.

  Like the arms of a crab, the seats of the members of the lower Council arched out on either side of the Chamber itself. Only one seat among them was empty. Elon’s.

  A Dwarf stood from among them.

  Like all of the men of their kind he was large, with massively muscled limbs and chest, grim and dour, his face like rocks hewn roughly from the earth. Though most didn’t know it, within the caverns and mines of the Dwarves, though, it was the women who ruled, oddly enough. The men might represent their outward face but it was the women who had the real power within the clans and who dominated the Lore Masters. They didn’t have the rough visages of their men, nor their harshness but were generally warm and merry.

  Not this day, their faces were grim.

  Even so, the forms were met, and so it was a Dwarf and not a Wife who stood before them.

  “The Council sees Morl of the Dwarves,” Daran said.

  Morl nodded once, in acknowledgement only.

  “She’s Otherling. Make no mistake about that. As such, she’s an abomination. The blood of our races wasn’t meant to mingle, it defiles the purity of each. More, it’s brought madness, blood and death in its wake. Not a single Otherling in memory has been born who hasn’t gone mad. Is that not true? And, going mad, hasn’t wreaked havoc and bloodshed on all in their path. Is that not true? Do you all not know the histories, the stories? Were you not raised with those tales, heard at your mother’s knee? Tales to make one shiver, to quail and curb the hearts of small children. Yet true. We know it well, we Dwarves. We know it, we’ve seen it.”

  “Some of us remember those dark days. Amarok. In his rage and madness he sundered the roof of the Cavern of Mayhew and killed nearly a hundred of our people. Men, women and children and he not yet old enough to hold an axe. With magic. Not the magic of our Lore Masters, nor that of wizards, nor even that of Elves. Wild magic. The Lore Masters among us couldn’t fathom its like nor could the wizards. Despite all our traditions, despite all the tales, some among us couldn’t see the danger, couldn’t see the horror that he would bring down upon us. Despite all counsel, some still pleaded for mercy. How did he repay that kindness? With murder and death. Those in the caverns at least had a merciful end. For those trapped in the corridors beyond there was only slow suffocation and the crush of stone as the mountain trembled. For all the Lore Masters could manage, for all the power in our axes and picks, only a few survived among us, who are the masters of stone. And he was yet a boy.”

  “Aye,” called a voice from the crowd. “And what of Caleah and Palan?”

  “Yes,” Morl rumbled, “Yes. What of them? Caleah. How many died?”

  “Her whole family,” a voice cried out.

  “And more,” another said, “when the fire she called swept outward and burned through half the hills before the wizards and Elves put it out. How many died? Eh? Many?”

  The Elves of the Council stood stoic and silent.

  “Aye. Such is the legacy of Otherlings. And Palan, who called up a great wave from the sea and washed away an entire village.”

  Ailith listened.

  It was of little use to tell them she was none of those people. She wasn’t Caleah, Palan, Amarok or any of the others. They knew nothing of Taran of Marakis, who Talesin had known. And Olend, Itan.

  Even if Talesin were to tell them, they wouldn’t listen, they wouldn’t hear.

  This wasn’t about reason, it was about fear, fear of that wizard from the desert. Fear of Mornith.

  Him they couldn’t touch. But they could touch her.

  She’d raised the dragon.

  Ailith watched the faces of those around her.

  The uncharacteristic solemnity of the women of the Dwarves.

  Some among those who watched in the crowd had been on the battlefield that day and among those she could see sympathy and some anger. They were few.

  Most of these people had been besieged here, had watched from the safety of the ramparts and towers and prayed to be spared. They’d seen loved ones return wounded and dead. The enemy hadn’t been among the dead. Instead, Mornith had escaped, had vanished moments before his doom. No one had been able reach him in time to prevent it, not even Elon. There had been no place for them to vent their fear and rage.

  Now they were presented with another threat. Another unknown.

  Herself.

  To one side stood the wizards, though Jareth wasn’t among them.

  It was an effort for her not to bite her lip, not to wish for just one friendly face. She dared not glance up at the galleries above to spy Colath looking down. She didn’t need to look up to know he was there. He was like a bright golden light among the stars in her mind. It wouldn’t do him any good for someone to see her look to him.

  Among the wizards she had no friends save Jareth. The wizards couldn’t fathom her magic, save for its limitations, perhaps. Avila was Master of the Collegiate of Wizards and she knew the lore well enough. The one thing she didn’t know was how to master it or control it. She hadn’t tried. She feared it, it was there in her eyes. Ailith could see it.

  Catching that look from the girl, Avila throttled back her fury and frustration. She’d set a trap and caught the wrong quarry. She’d meant to discredit Jareth and that damned Elon. Now she would lose all that incredible power. It was a bitter pill to swallow and she hadn’t swallowed it well.

  If she couldn’t have it, though, she’d made absolutely certain no other would. Not Daran and certainly not Elon of Aerilann. She’d made very certain of that.

  She smiled a little to herself in satisfaction.

  Ailith looked away from that cold glance.

  The Elves were of little consolation to her either.

  Some among them knew her. Some knew what she’d done. The warriors, the Hunters and Woodsmen, both Men and Elves alike, all the ones who’d fought beside her. She’d grown somewhat adept at reading the small signs and hints of what went on behind Elven eyes and she caught a glimmering of compassion from a few.

  Only a few.

  There were more than a few who believed the mixing of blood, the creation of Halflings among the lesser races of Dwarves and Men was an abomination. To them, Dwarves were only a step beneath them, a useful group of artisans and miners and valued for those skills. Men were a markedly lesser race, as shown by their chancy concept of honor and lack of magic save for the small number of wizards among them. More clearly so for the brevity of their life that that was more than compensated by their rampant fertility and aggressiveness. After a long history of men invading Elven lands, with the attendant violence and bloodshed, a very few among them thought Men should have been wiped out long before their numbers had grown so large. It was sometimes the loudest voices that were heard the clearest.

  One of those Elves stood. A woman.

  Tall, willowy, her long, straight dark hair blew like a banner behind her in the breeze. As pretty as Colath was but handsome, she was striking in the way that was so uniquely Elven, her face as smooth and unmarked by emotion as the marble columns of the Chamber.

  Severe. Forbidding.

  “The Council recognizes Lilianne of Talaena Enclave.”

  Inclining her head slightly, Lilianne didn’t look out on the crowd but addressed those on the dais only.

  “The blood of Elves, Dwarves and Men wasn’t meant to be joined,” she said, her voice sweet and lilting, clearly unaccustomed to the speech of Men. “How many times have we seen that. The madness is only part proof of it. The magic is only part proof. The races must be kept pure, to preserve them, to keep each to its own t
raditions and custom. To dilute our blood is to lose ourselves, our very nature. We’ve seen the madness, yes. It’s the magic we must abjure. Wild magic. Not the magic of Elves, nor that of Dwarves, nor even that of wizards. It is by its very name and nature uncontrolled and uncontrollable. What is its source? No one knows.”

  “This one has survived long beyond her peers. She hasn’t yet given way to the madness that has beset the others. There are some who would argue this in her favor. I don’t. Instead, I fear that she grows more dangerous. What would those others have been capable of if they had lived to their majority? Grown in cunning and in power? I put this to you.”

  Lord Faran stood up.

  Ailith stared at him, stunned. She’d known him since she was a child. He’d visited Riverford many times, had supped with her parents in the days before her father had changed. She had no thought that he rose in her defense.

  Blood, the blood of family, was everything to him. Lineage and heritage, those were his touchstones. Her mother’s mother had defiled that. She’d lied.

  Delae. Who had loved her and died as well.

  Faran wouldn’t look at her. That alone was telling.

  “She betrayed her father,” he said, shortly. “Among our folk that in itself is unforgivable. There are those who say he was ensorcelled and there is some evidence that was true. It’s said he murdered her mother. Slew her. Though only half Elven, she was a Halfling of that race. I know that Elves have a care for their children and I can’t imagine their sorrow at that loss.”

  Lady Lilianne rose slightly. “Yes, we know this to be true, else this one wouldn’t be. We know who her father’s mother was, that’s no secret. I would know who her mother’s father was, that he should know his part in this folly.”

  It was an effort for Ailith to remain still.

  She could feel both Lilianne’s and Avila’s sharp eyes on her, looking for a betraying glance or some small sign of weakness.

  The Master of Wizards knew some truths of wild magic and one of them was that she couldn’t lie. Dissemble somewhat, yes, but not lie. In truth, though, she didn’t know for certain who her mother’s father was. Her mother had so resembled her own mother the two had often been mistaken for sisters, not mother and daughter. Her grandfather hadn’t come forward of his own will. If he was wise, he wouldn’t do so now. This had to be a bad moment for him, though, wondering if she had guessed, if she would be forced to expose him now for all to see and hear. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. It was bad enough that she stood where she was, worse still if she dragged another after her. The truth was, she didn’t know. It had never been said to be so, not in her hearing.

  All eyes were on her. It was an effort to keep her voice even, to let not even a breath or hint of emphasis betray her.

  “I don’t know who he is.”

  She said it before they could ask, before they could ask specifically or they thought to ask if she had guessed.

  It was said so flat and tonelessly she should have made the Elves proud but she knew she wouldn’t.

  Lilianne was as angry as it was possible for an Elf to be, although there was no outward sign of it, only a thousand little things. A tightness around the eyes, a stiffening in her body.

  From the corner of her eye Ailith saw Avila subside in a frustration that mirrored Lilianne’s. Ailith couldn’t imagine why she cared. What use would such knowledge have for Avila?

  A sparking light in the depths of her heart told her that the one she suspected was her grandfather was here on the edges of the crowd. The mere thought of him had been enough for her magic to find him. She didn’t know whether she was more comforted by his presence or he by her denial of him.

  His grief, his horror and outrage, though, were palpable through the bonds of blood.

  Don’t, she pleaded silently.

  “In the end it doesn’t matter,” Faran said. “They say she has magic. I say this. If she does, how did she not save her own mother? Why didn’t she work to disenchant her father?”

  How to tell them that her magic didn’t work that way? Even Elon’s Foresight didn’t work that clearly. No foresight did, there were too many variables. How to tell them that she’d been bound already by a promise and didn’t know it. How and have them believe her? The memory of a dream, of a short chase down a dark, damp corridor, a cry of denial rising from her even as she rose from sleep too late. The lies from her father she couldn’t disprove. No hint or glimmering had warned her. She was damned by what she couldn’t prevent.

  “Instead she let them fall, to save herself.”

  “No,” she cried, “I didn’t know.”

  There was a look of triumph on Daran’s face and she closed her eyes.

  She’d condemned herself.

  They’d set a trap for her, layered accusation upon accusation until she was forced to defend herself, to tell them she knew what she was.

  She looked at Avila, Master of wizards, who might have known the truth of her magic but it was futile. Looking back, her face a mask, the Master’s cold hazel eyes betrayed nothing.

  There was a murmur of shock, of horror and satisfaction from the crowd.

  She closed her eyes.

  The sun was hot and beat down on her. What refreshment she’d taken earlier was long gone. She was thirsty and tired but it wasn’t yet done.

  In all her life she had never felt so alone.

  “You see?! She admits it. Mixed blood,” Faran said, with a broad gesture. “A mongrel not of any race. What else can we expect of such? Why not madness? How not, belonging not to one or another? How long before her true nature shows? Perhaps we’ve merely been lucky, in that she hasn’t gone mad before her wild magic could destroy us rather that aid us? Those who were there, saw. She called up a dragon. Perhaps it was the first sign of madness..”

  There was fear in his voice.

  It had been an illusion, anyone on the plain could have told them that.

  There was no purpose in voicing her protest, they wouldn’t listen.

  It had looked real enough. It had needed to, since it had had to last long enough to distract, to turn the enthralling eyes of basilisks. A threat they couldn’t ignore.

  The wizards knew but were silent, fearful of Avila’s resentful wrath, although one or two shifted uneasily.

  Continuing, Faran added, almost reluctantly, “For our good, I’ll admit. Perhaps the tide of the war turned on that, perhaps it was only the courage of our valiant warriors that made the difference. History may tell but I cannot. What I can say is her blood is tainted. Like oil and water it cannot mix.”

  Ailith’s heart ached but she kept her head up, determined to somehow see this through, but it was hard. Only one friend remained to her here.

  A strong deep voice rang out across the Square, a familiar voice.

  “Let me through,” Elon shouted, “that’s nonsense. This is madness.”

  Ailith’s heart leaped, but whether in joy, relief or horror, she didn’t at that moment know. They’d said he was too far away.

  She’d been wrong.

  Elon. Oh, love.

  She dared not look at him, or Jareth beside him. She dared not turn her head at the sound of his voice, or betray them both. For a moment her head swam and her knees grew weak. She wouldn’t faint, she wouldn’t.

  When she opened her eyes it was to look on Daran High King.

  There was dismay and a spark of nearly furious rage in the High King’s eyes. A threatening growl rose from Goras. The serene visage of Eliade didn’t change by so much as the flicker of an eyelash but Ailith thought she caught a glimmer of reluctant admiration tempered with disapproval in her eyes.

  From the crowd behind her came a rolling murmur.

  Nearly beside himself, Daran choked back furious rage.

  When he found out who had called them back that one would count themselves lucky they weren’t flayed by his glance alone. It had nearly been done.

  He glanced at Avila, who glared down in fury at t
he two who approached through the crowd.

  Fascinated, they parted to allow the two passage.

  Elon strode past Ailith with Jareth at his heels. Her heart lifted, hope rose.

  As he passed, Elon knew he dared not look at her, not now. Or it would cost them everything.

  Ailith, his Ailith.

  She’d been so brave, facing the Council alone. He’d felt her fear, her desolation, through the bond for miles but there was no sign of either in the woman who stood before him.

  Instead her back was straight, her face impassive as she listened to the charges they laid against her, one by one.

  If she could have, Ailith would have wept at the sound of Elon’s voice but she dared not let even the desire show or betray them both.

  Those of the Elves who looked for flaws would see it as a sign of a weakness in her blood, something she dared not show here in this place.

  The Dwarves only wanted her dead.

  Elon turned, his gaze pausing on her long enough to take in her face, pale but calm, expressionless save for the bleak look in her steel-blue eyes.

  Looking into his stern face, meeting his dark eyes, made her heart ache. Ailith dared not allow herself hope but she drank in every feature of his stern, handsome face for the brief moment when he chanced that glance at her.

  The bond between them wasn’t silent, it hummed.

  From Jareth there was a quick reassuring look before he turned a lacerating gaze on his Master.

  For a change, Jareth looked more than presentable, the robe that Avila insisted he wear falling neatly, dark brown with a darker band of brown around the hem. It made him seem less tall and gangly.

  His hair was brushed neatly, as well. She smiled a little, to see Jareth so well-groomed. And for her sake.

  It was to Elon that she looked, though.

  Her heart lightened at the sight of him. If for nothing else than to look at him. To see him again. One last time her gaze claimed him, preserving that moment in memory.

  In the way of his people, he was so striking. He wasn’t beautiful as Colath but he was to her, definitely arresting, so stern, so forbidding. So heart-breaking for her. His high-arched brows winged above eyes so deep a brown they might have been black. His dark, straight hair had been brushed back from his high forehead neatly, caught on each side and braided Elven style before being confined by a narrow band of gold filigree to fall to his shoulders.