FORBIDDEN TALENTS

by Frankie Robertson

  The Elves had come as twilight fell. Heavy snow limited visibility to less than half an arrow’s flight. Looking at first like low clouds rolling down from the mountains, an unnatural mist was nearly upon the village before they knew their danger. Only as the first screams were heard from the edges of the town did anyone within Quartzholm realize what was happening.

  Dahleven ordered the gates opened and sent four squads of men to evacuate the townspeople into the castle. Then he watched from the parapet in impotent fury as the strange mist churned and swirled its way closer to the walls. Shouts of battle and cries of pain rose from below, strangely muffled. His hand had itched for his sword’s grip. He wanted to lead a company out, to engage the enemy that threatened his home, his people. It was not an indulgence he could afford.

  If Father were whole…

  But he wasn’t. With Neven struck down, Dahleven had to command all of Quartzholm, not just a few men.

  Only two squads had returned, ushering the villagers and their animals within the walls as fast as they could be made to move, the mist lapping at their heels.

  Voice tight, Dahleven ordered the gates closed and barred.

  The village men were helping to man the ramparts and sleeping in the sheltered inner courtyards. The women and children were bunked in the various banquet halls or doubled up in the servants’ quarters. It was a tight fit, but his men had kept good order in the chaos.

  So far.

  “Uncle Dahleven!” His nephew Ljot recalled him to the present. He’d assigned the boys too young to fight to run messages and errands.

  “Yes?” He looked over his shoulder but didn’t slow his stride down the hall.

  The boy half trotted to keep up. “The Master of Arms sent me to report that he has five thousand arrows ready, and he’s set the fletchers to making more.”

  “Good. Report to the commander of the north wall.” The Tewakwe warriors were stationed there. It would be good for the boy to get to know them.

  Ljot made a face. “I’d rather stay with you.”

  Dahleven stopped abruptly and turned a sharp look on the boy. “You will obey my orders as any armsman does—or would you rather return to your mother?”

  Ljot stiffened at the question, as any boy of twelve winters would. “No, my lord.”

  “Then go.”

  Dahleven turned his attention back to their situation. The gates and walls were locked and guarded, as were the bolt-holes—for all the good that might do. He wished he had some reliable knowledge of what the Elves were capable of. With their magic and glamour, he feared the Dark Elves could break any lock and walk right past a guard without a challenge. But not to try was unacceptable.

  He’d done everything he could. He even, reluctantly, had written a sigil on the door of his room as Baruq had taught him, to summon the aid of one of the pinnsvin’s fellow spies. If anyone knew what the Dark Elves could do it would be one of them. The sigil was small and near the floor, and no one had asked him what it was doing there. But none of Baruq’s Fey friends had contacted him, either.

  The hallways were busy with a strange kind of hushed scurrying. Footmen had been pressed into guard work, ladies maids now oversaw the care and feeding of refugees. The pulse of the castle was quickened, tense, and unfamiliar.

  “Dahleven.” Magnus fell into stride with him.

  “Magnus.”

  “Let me send someone through one of your bolt-holes for reinforcements.”

  Dahleven cocked an eyebrow at his father’s old friend. At his friend. He wasn’t surprised at Magnus’s lack of preamble. There wasn’t time for an elaborate and subtle dance of diplomatic subterfuge where Magnus pretended not know about Quartzholm’s hidden exits and he pretended not to know what Magnus was referring to.

  Dahleven shook his head. “The tunnels are probably already held against us.”

  “We should try anyway. I have a Night Eyes and a Cat Foot Talent among my guard. If anyone can make it through, they can. Only an attack from the Elves’ rear has any hope of breaking this siege.”

  Dahleven paused and ran a hand over his beard. We shouldn’t wait until our supplies run low. “Do it. I’ll send a Pathfinder along to show your men the best route.”

  The Jarl grasped his forearm, then turned away.

  “Magnus.”

  The older man turned.

  “You’ll be doing me a favor if you take command on the south wall.”

  The gleam in Magnus eye told Dahleven that he’d like nothing better than to get into the fray. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Dawn brought an end to the snow, but no sun. A gray sky hung low and menacing over the parapets as if it were suspended there like a canopy.

  Dahleven went up to the battlements. He moved among the men there, speaking, rebuking when necessary, being seen. Looking for their foes.

  The air was clear and cold, but all around the base of the ramparts a mist curled at least twenty feet deep. Dahleven kept a calm, confident expression on his face. He would far rather be able to see his enemies. Be able to evaluate the strengths and weaknesses of their position. But no. They hid themselves like cowards.

  Like master tacticians.

  He’d hoped his Fey-marking, his “twilight eyes” would allow him to see through the unnatural murk, but no. It was something other than illusion or glamour.

  His failure to see was an unwelcome reprieve. How would he have explained to his men when he directed their arrows’ aim? He clenched his jaw, wishing he had that problem. For now they would bide their time. But unless things changed, eventually they would be shooting blind.

  Dahleven kept his expression calm, almost unconcerned, as he made his rounds. His men were nervous. They were brave men all, but no one wanted to fight the Fey. Even worse was this waiting, the not knowing what kind of twisted magic the Dark Elves might throw at them. How powerful were they? Could they trick his men into killing each other? The stories said they could, one-on-one. Could they deceive an entire garrison?

  “My lord?” The armsman looked as though he was bearing unwelcome news.

  Now what? “Yes?”

  “Lady Angrim asks to speak with you.”

  Dahleven clenched his teeth on an oath. How stupid was the woman? Could she really be trying to play her games during a siege? “Tell her—” to take a flying leap. He took a deep breath, suppressing his anger, and spoke again. “Tell her that I’ll speak to her when I have a free moment.” Which will be never, until this situation is resolved.

  Dahleven continued on around the walls. Quartzholm had grown as needed in the early centuries, leading to an irregular shape. The battlements were not contiguous. The wall jogged in various places where interior buttresses strengthened it. At least the design allowed a clearer field of view than if the buttresses had been on the outer wall. Or it would, if we didn’t have this blasted mist to contend with. The idea of having Stone Shapers connect the parapets had been tossed around during the last four Jarls’ reigns, but nothing had ever been done about it. Strategic construction had taken a low priority during the long peace. Now the lack of it meant he had to climb down to a tunnel carved through the buttress, then climb back up. A few of the ramparts were connected by towers, but in other places he had to descend all the way to the ground, walk around, and ascend yet another stair to each section.

  Inefficient. The design would slow the distribution of arrows and reinforcements. When I’m Jarl, I’ll fix this. He grimaced at the reflexive thought. He was Jarl, for all practical purposes. But he wasn’t sure how long he would remain so. Or have a Jarldom to rule.

  He stopped as he mounted a section on the west face, brought up short by a strange sound. “What’s that noise?” he asked the first armsmen he came to. The three of them startled at seeing him and stepped away from the brazier where they’d been warming themselves. And not keeping watch.

  “I don’t know, my lord. It started just a short while ago.” The man looked nervous but steadfast. The others
had faded back to positions on the wall. “Commander Hahlf is over there.” The man gestured halfway down the ledge.

  Dahleven nodded and clapped him on the shoulder before moving on. “Keep a sharp eye out.”

  The armsman stood up a little straighter. “Aye, my lord!”

  “Commander Hahlf. What is this?” Dahleven tilted his head to indicate the crunching sound floating up out of the muffling mist.

  “I don’t know, my lord. I sent a volley of fire arrows down, hoping they’d let us see something, or that at least we’d hear a yelp or two, but nothing.”

  Dahleven leaned out of an arrow slit, peering down at the swirling mist. The seamless stone felt cold and damp. “Let’s try again.” Maybe with a little extra light down below, his Fey-marked eyes could see something.

  The Commander looked skeptical. “Aye, my lord.”

  Several archers prepared and loosed flaming arrows. The missiles disappeared into the murk as if shot into a lake. It sounded as if some of the shafts skittered along stone instead of sliding soundlessly into the snow. Dahleven saw nothing beyond a faint localized glow, which quickly went out.

  “What if we got some of the Dryers up here?” an armsman suggested.

  For a moment Dahleven considered it. If they could dry the mist, disperse it, even in only a spot or two …But no. The women who worked in the laundry had to be nearly touching what they Dried.

  Commander Hahlf must have come to the same conclusion. “What would we do, Dierke? Lower the women over the wall on ropes? That would surely strike terror into the hearts of our foes.” He snorted derisively.

  “But keep thinking,” Dahleven said. “If you, or anyone else comes up with something”—he looked around, including the other armsmen standing near—”tell me, or Commander Hahlf. No matter how foolish it may sound. New ideas could mean better defenses.”

  And they would need something new, he feared, to prevail.

  *

  Celia clutched at Ragni’s arm, gasping. The cold air cut at her throat, and she couldn’t seem to get enough of it in.

  “They’re under siege, Ragni! The village! Only half of the people got in!” Celia wept, remembering the weight of Dahleven’s grief.

  “What’s the trouble?” Rovdir asked, from his bedroll.

  “I know. I know. Shh.” Ragni pulled her close against his chest. “Take a deep breath, now. Good. Another,” his voice soothed.

  “Lord Ragnar?” Masale asked.

  “Quartzholm is under siege. By Elves,” Ragni said in a cold voice.

  “It is not our people,” Valender said, kneeling beside Celia.

  “So you say!” Rovdir exclaimed.

  Valender ignored him. “How do you know this?” he asked her.

  Celia gulped back her tears and glanced at Ragni. Dahleven had said not to tell anyone about the Dream-door.

  “Tell me about the magic you used,” Valender asked again.

  Ragni nodded.

  “I dreamed it,” Celia said.

  “My grandmother!” Tiva’ti clasped Celia’s shoulder. “Is she all right?”

  Celia turned to the younger woman. “I don’t know, but I don’t think anyone inside the castle has been hurt yet.”

  Tiva’ti visibly pulled herself together, then speared Valender with a look. “Why have the Spirits done this? We are here to parley with you, to seek the gods’ will. Why do you attack?”

  “It is not the Light Elves who mean you harm. My folk have not moved against yours.”

  The entire camp had gathered around her. Celia searched their faces until she found the one she wanted. “Saeun?”

  Saeun moved closer and knelt at Celia’s feet. “My lady, I don’t know what to say.” She cast a quick apologetic look at Valender. “Treskin saved me from being taken by another Elf and her warriors. Valender healed my broken head. The Lios Alfar have clothed and fed me and treated me with kindness. I trust them. But I’ve only known them for a few days. You’ll have to decide for yourself.”

  Celia turned from Saeun to Valender and looked into his eyes. His people kept me and Dahleven from being blinded.

  “How can we trust them? They’re Elves!” Rovdir exclaimed. “They don’t even show us their true faces! Do you think this is what they really look like? They’re using their glamour to deceive us. What else are they hiding from us?”

  “Then what was the point of us coming out here?” Ragni asked.

  “Indeed,” Che’veyo said. “Until they are proven false, we must believe in the truth of their words if we are to parley with them.”

  Valender nodded acknowledgment of the Shaman, then said, “Would it help you to see us as we are? We don this guise to put you at ease, but if you would prefer …?”

  Celia watched Ragni look around at their companions, taking their measure. She put her hand over his where it rested on her shoulder. “They are not so frightening,” she said softly. She saw him remember that she could see through their glamour.

  “Please,” Ragni said. “I think it would help.”

  Celia saw no change, but Ragni’s hands tightened on her shoulders. She heard the others’ quickly indrawn breaths and startled murmurs and knew the Elves must have revealed themselves.

  Ragni flexed his fingers. “Thank you.”

  Valender inclined his head, then returned his gaze to Celia. “As Lady Saeun has said, I am a healer. Will you allow me to see to your hurt?”

  “I’m okay.” Exhausted and short of breath, yes. But not hurt.

  “The magic you have used has taken its toll on you. If you continue, you will weaken further, harming both you and the child.”

  Celia’s hand went to her belly. “Child?” God, what day is it? In all the confusion of Neven’s illness, Ragni’s betrothal, and the bustle of preparing to leave, she’d forgotten to drink the contraceptive tea, hadn’t she? She’d been so careful, and now she was pregnant anyway. She wasn’t ready for this.

  “He’s barely a spark, but he burns bright. In years to come he will be a great leader and Elf-friend, but for now he needs your strength. Let me restore it.”

  Celia stared, stunned and speechless. A child. Dahleven’s child. A sudden overwhelming flood of protectiveness swamped all other considerations. “Do it.” She would do whatever it took to keep this child safe.

  “Give me the Dream-door.” Ragni held out his hand.

  “But—”

  “You can’t use it anymore.”

  “Just once more. Dahl should know about our child.” A child who might grow up without a father, if the siege went badly. She couldn’t think that way. She wouldn’t. Celia bit her lip. She wanted to feel Dahl’s arms around her once more, even if only in a dream.

  Ragni squeezed her shoulder and spoke gently. “You mustn’t endanger yourself, or your child. Besides, wouldn’t you rather tell him in person?”

  He was right, but she didn’t like it. She slowly pulled it out from under her clothes and gave it to him.

  “Now lie back,” Valender said.

  Ragni moved and she lay down. One of Valender’s hands hovered above her head, the other over her chest. At first nothing seemed to happen, then a gradual warmth suffused her body. The nagging chill that she hadn’t been able to shake seemed to drain out her toes. Her breathing grew easy, and her eyes drifted shut.

  The sun was glowing weakly through the gray clouds when Celia awoke. The trees were still gathered around closely, but they’d opened their bowed branches to the sky. Almost everyone was clustered around their small fire, talking softly. She sat up abruptly. “It’s late! Why didn’t you wake me?” Then she remembered the devastating fatigue, and Valender taking it from her.

  Valender, Fender, and Ragni came over to her.

  “Better?” Ragni said, looking worried.

  “Terrific, actually.” She hadn’t felt this rested since she’d left Quartzholm. Celia looked at Valender. “Thank you.”

  “Thank the gods,” Fender said, glancing at Valender. “I was
n’t looking forward to having to kill you if she’d come to harm.”

  Valender cast him a wry glance. “Nor I.” He turned to Celia. “Do you feel well enough to travel? The Praefect is anxious to speak with you all.”

  “I’m great. Let’s go.”

  The men nodded and returned to the rest of the group waiting by the fire.

  “Ragni,” Celia called softly.

  He heard, then knelt beside her as she gestured for him to come closer. “What is it?”

  She kept her voice soft, for his ear only. “It’s Dahl. I thought you ought to know…” She hesitated, hating what she had to say.

  “What?” he whispered roughly, his gaze locked on to hers. “Is he all right?”

  “He’s okay. But Vermin—Wirmund—knows. About us. That we’re Fey-marked. He’s blackmailing Dahleven into supporting his pogrom.” She looked away, guilty that she enjoyed the vindication of her dislike of the Overprest, pained that it came at the expense of those she loved. “What are we going to do?”

  The muscles jumped in Ragni’s jaw. Then he gave her a grim, almost frightening, smile. “Go to the Elvenholt.”

  *

  Ragni sat on one of the richly embroidered pillows to the left of the Elven Praefect in a hall made of living trees. He still could hardly believe he was here. The trip to the Elvenholt had felt fractured and dream-like, his attention divided four ways. With Celia carrying Dahleven’s heir at long last, she was doubly precious. Saeun had been both happy yet oddly diffident with him, Utta alternately reserved and challenging, and Valender not at all forthcoming with any information.

  Now here he was, warm, dry and sitting at the left hand of Lord Kaeron, the leader of this Elvenholt. Across from Ragni sat Che’veyo. Rien sat next to the Shaman, and Saeun sat between the Elven lady and Valender. Saeun seemed completely at ease with the Elves, though she’d only been among them for a few days. Was this what it meant to be Fey-marked? Would he, too, see this as normal in a few days time?