Twilight of the Elves

by Zack Loran Clark

  Freestone had no use for a dungeon now. Since the Day of Dangers, the city could spare no resources keeping criminals alive. Executions and exile had long been the norm.

  And so the dungeon currently served a very different purpose. It was now the home of the Merchants Guild’s Shadow, the heart of Freestone’s black market—where everything had a price, and a heavy cost besides.

  Before stepping through the final archway, Brock drew up his hood and pulled from his pocket a slender domino mask, a simple black figure eight, which he stuck to his face with practiced skill. As masks went, it didn’t do much to conceal his identity. But it was a necessary formality—one of the few rules of the Lady Gray’s court.

  Brock emerged into a larger subterranean space, lit not by flame but by the incandescent orbs favored by mages. The room was carved of the same cold stone as the corridor outside, but here it had been softened by rugs and tapestries and piles of soft pillows for sitting; burning incense masked the smell of damp. Chimes softly tinkled in a pleasant arrangement from an ensorcelled cherrywood music box.

  Scattered about the room were a half-dozen men and women. All of them wore masks. And though none of the murmured conversations missed a beat, Brock could feel every set of eyes registering his arrival. The large man tending bar at the far end of the space lifted a broad hand in greeting, and Brock set out across the room. He passed a woman in an elegant dress whose green-sequined mask shone with reflected light. “Apprentice,” she said, inclining her head.

  “Mistress Venom,” he said, nodding in return. “Master Knife.” He nodded to the man beside her, whose own ornate mask was shaped from steel.

  “Apprentice,” Master Knife replied.

  The man at the bar greeted Brock more warmly. He smiled, reaching across the countertop to slap at Brock’s shoulder. “Good to see you, lad,” he said in a gravelly voice.

  “Hey there, Gramit,” Brock said.

  Gramit was a rarity among the Shadows. Like everyone else, he had a title. He was known as the Facilitator, and he had a hand in everything the guild did. But he insisted on being called by name. He wore the simple domino mask of an apprentice, which did nothing to disguise his features. His bald scalp was lumpy, as was his once-broken nose, and his pale face bore a smattering of pockmarked scars. He reminded Brock of a bleached potato.

  “And what have you brought us today?”

  “Wealth that loses value in the telling,” Brock said, and Gramit chuckled. It was a well-worn routine by now, and Brock enjoyed the comfortable banter and Gramit’s easy laughter. Everyone else in the Lady Gray’s circle was too serious by far.

  “She’s expecting you,” Gramit said, waving him toward a door on the far side of the bar.

  Brock nodded wearily. “Of course she is.”

  If he didn’t know to look for her upon entering her office, he might have missed her completely. A plain-looking woman of indeterminate age who favored the dull gray tones of the Servants Guild, the Lady had a preternatural talent for fading into the background.

  “Hello, apprentice,” she said. “I hear the journey was a success.”

  “Right,” Brock answered. “We did such a swell job of almost dying that we get to almost die more often now. And farther from home!” He shook his fists mockingly. “Yay.”

  The Lady smiled without a trace of amusement. “I was only making conversation.”

  “You can blackmail me into spying for you. Into stealing for you.” He closed the door behind him. “Pleasant conversation wasn’t part of the deal.”

  Without invitation, Brock stomped across the room to the far wall, where he removed a false panel to reveal a map. It was an old map, drafted before the time of Dangers, and therefore priceless . . . and also largely useless. It showed a hundred sites that simply did not exist anymore.

  “To business, then,” the Lady said, utterly unbothered. “The Smiths Guild recently received a shipment of ore that didn’t come from the quarry district. Anything suspicious there?”

  “No,” Brock said, dipping a quill into ink. “That was us. Lotte needed time at their forge to help the rangers with weapons upkeep. Frond authorized a trade.”

  “Very good,” said the Lady. She made a note in her ledgers, and Brock made a face.

  He loathed the woman for good reason. She knew, somehow, that Zed had flirted with magic that went beyond what was considered safe and appropriate. Their first day as apprentice adventurers, he’d used a staff to draw not on the plane of Fey as the Mages Guild did, but on the dark plane of Fie. And it hadn’t stopped there; Brock knew that Zed kept a book on fiendish magic, and if Brock knew that, chances were good that the Lady Gray did as well. She seemed to have eyes and ears everywhere. And she had threatened to go public with what she knew about Zed if Brock refused to serve as her man inside the Adventurers Guild.

  So far, however, her actual goals were hard to argue with. Someone, purposely or not, had brought into Freestone a monstrous parasite that had destroyed Mother Brenner. As the only individuals who ever left the safety of the wards, it was all but impossible to suspect anyone but the adventurers. And indeed, upon investigating the matter, the Lady Gray had determined that someone within the guild had been selling goods from outside the wall—everything from wildflowers to monster viscera had made its way to Freestone’s black market.

  That supply had entirely dried up, however. The person responsible had disappeared. Not that the Lady had given up looking.

  “You will mark the spot on the map? Where the ore came from, I mean.”

  Brock clenched his teeth. “Of course.” He paused to consider the map before raising the quill to it. He hated marking up an artifact from before the Day of Dangers, but this was the job. At least he could do it carefully, and as neatly as possible.

  The Lady tapped her ledger, a record of unapproved transactions—goods coming into or out of another guild’s inventory without the Merchants Guild’s authorization. While the anonymous smuggler had apparently retired, the adventurers themselves still bartered directly with people outside the guild—under Frond’s supervision. It was how she kept the guild free from Quilby’s meddling. But it also made it difficult for the Lady to know whether an unapproved transaction was an example of Frond’s prudent, mostly legal dealings . . . or evidence that the smuggler was back in business. “The weavers recently received a large quantity of unidentified fabrics.”

  “Also us,” Brock said. “We needed winter cloaks.” He sighed heavily, remembering the current sorry state of those garments. “They were really nice cloaks.”

  He marked the path he had walked with his guildmates, noting as accurately as he could the location of the shelter they’d visited, as well as a grove of trees whose straw-like leaves had been full and green as if it were summer.

  “Everything on my ledger is accounted for, then,” she said. “Whoever our smuggler is, they’ve gone to ground.”

  “I think I’ve solved the mystery,” Brock deadpanned. He pulled several small envelopes from his pocket. “These days, I’m the smuggler.”

  The Lady smiled silkily. “Ah, yes, but you’re my smuggler. It’s very different.”

  “Just so no one gets hurt,” Brock said, and he handed over the envelopes. “There wasn’t much alive out there, but I brought you some seeds. Everything’s labeled. There’s elfgrass, which is edible once it sprouts. A few brimstone berry pits.”

  “Not much, considering the length of the journey,” the woman said, sorting through the envelopes.

  Brock held his breath. She’d said it casually, lightly, but the threat was implicit. If he didn’t keep her happy, if she thought he was shirking his end of their bargain, then she’d have no reason to keep Zed’s secret. And with so much hostility being directed at the elves, it felt more important than ever that Brock quash any rumors that could hurt Zed.

  “I’m trying,” he said with forced calm. “We had a ranger with us the whole time, breathing down our necks. Plus, you know, the con
stant threat of death.” He remembered how even Callum’s unflappable demeanor had strained at the sighting of the raccoon. “Purple eyes,” he said. “Shining purple eyes on an animal—a natural animal that looks sick, maybe. Have you ever heard of that?”

  She tutted. “Doesn’t sound particularly fearsome.”

  “The ranger seemed spooked by it,” Brock said. “Then, when we got back, he and Frond had some kind of intense talk. Maybe Hexam’s Danger handbook has—”

  The Lady held out her hand in a gesture that brought him up short. At his confused look, she pointed to her ear.

  Brock heard it, then. Distant and muted but unmistakable. It was the sound of bells tolling.

  Bells rang for many purposes in Freestone. They marked the time. They signaled the start of festival days, and they rang uninterrupted for the better part of a day on the rare occasions when a royal was born.

  But the series of low, monotonous notes that rang out now meant one thing only: Someone in Freestone had died.

  Brock emerged into the guildhall in time to see Ser Brent beating a hasty retreat from the banquet. He followed, frowning as he noticed the chatter and laughter of the party had already resumed. As if the bells, and what they symbolized, were no more than a momentary nuisance, a fussing babe to be talked over.

  A small regiment of knights joined Ser Brent as he descended the guildhall’s steps, and Brock stifled the impulse to eavesdrop as he passed them. It was none of his business, and his bed was calling. He set out down Freestone’s cobbled lanes, quiet at this hour until the racket of the Stone Sons’ armor sounded at his back. He stepped aside to let them pass, initially annoyed that they should be going in the same direction—and then worried.

  It had been different only two months ago. But these days, nearly everyone he cared about lived outtown.

  Brock ran after the knights, keeping just far enough back not to be noticed. He became increasingly concerned as the houses grew smaller and more cramped, the windows grimier. They were definitely approaching the poorer district the adventurers called home.

  But then the group made a sharp turn at the edge of outtown, and Brock followed around the corner—finally stopping cold as he realized where they were headed.

  The knights didn’t even slow down as they vaulted up the steps to the temple of the Golden Way.

  Brock shuddered at the sight. Weapons were forbidden from the healers’ temple, a rule that dated back to the guild’s very founding, when Mother Aedra had decreed that matters of war, money, and politics were unwelcome in a place of healing. For two hundred years, that statement had gone unchallenged, and so the sight now of some dozen armed knights rushing the guildhall made Brock uneasy. Not least because he had been uncomfortable around the healers since their previous leader, Mother Brenner, was revealed to have used their temple as her feeding ground. Did Ser Brent’s actions now have anything to do with that?

  Curiosity won out over prudence and exhaustion, and Brock slipped inside.

  The monks, nuns, and novices who called this place home kept few possessions, and so the temple’s interior stood in marked contrast to the luxuries of the Merchants Guild—but for one major exception. Beyond the dimly lit entryway, ringing the large room that served as the heart of the temple, were five windows of intricately colored glass. Four of those windows depicted Freestone’s Champions in action, while the fifth showed a plague of fangs and baleful eyes—Foster’s own likeness having long been banned. Together the images told the story of the Day of Dangers in glittering polygons of blue and yellow and red.

  Beneath those colorful scenes, the room was white: white stone walls, white tile floors, and row upon row of white fabric, strung up like curtains to provide some privacy to the healers’ patients. There had to be dozens of them packed into this single room—Brock had never seen the space so crowded. The curtains rippled, parting here and there, and the curious faces of the sick and the elderly peered out. Brock saw a nun step briskly and silently through a side door, head down as if she were afraid to make eye contact with the knights.

  The Stone Sons stood at attention in a tight cluster, halfway down the central aisle formed by the hanging fabric. Ser Brent stood just beyond the rest, looming before two women who blocked his way. They were elves, Brock realized, both with bright ocher eyes. One of them, auburn haired and brown skinned, had her shoulders thrown back in defiance. The other, with fair skin flushing pink and a green tint to her long blond hair, was curled into herself, gripping her elbows and biting her lip.

  “It’s time,” Ser Brent said. “I’ve come for the child.”

  “We have no child,” said the auburn-haired woman. She wore a simple blouse, frayed at the edges and covered with multicolored patches. Brock thought it might look like a bird’s view of the elven refugee camp with its mismatched tents.

  The second woman uttered a small sob and hugged herself tighter.

  “I’m sorry,” said Brent. “But you must step aside. It is the law.”

  Brock’s palms itched. He found himself poised on the balls of his feet. But he stayed put and bit his tongue. Whatever was going on, his few glimpses of Ser Brent over the years had given him the impression of a stern but fair man—the sort of person who’d be dreadfully dull at one of his parents’ dinner parties, but no villain.

  It was hard, though, not to feel a kinship with the elven woman, who looked the armed man in the face and said, “Your laws are nothing to us. They are as the mewling of a kitten committed to parchment. They are a candle flame in the bright sun of our honored traditions.”

  Brent sighed. “It’s those ‘honored traditions’ that got you all into this mess, as I understand it. And I’ll be thrice cursed before it happens here.” There was a tense moment of silence before the knight continued. “Your son is dead. I am here for the body. If I must, I will take it by force.”

  “Hold!” cried a voice, and a man clad all in white entered from the side door through which the silent nun had retreated. “Ah, Ser Brent, hold just a moment, if you would.”

  Father Pollux, the new guildmaster of the Golden Way, wove a path through the maze of billowing fabric. Brock knew the man was an accomplished healer—he’d seen that firsthand when Pollux had helped save Jett’s life only weeks before. But Brock had a hard time imagining Pollux equal to his new responsibilities as the head of one of Freestone’s High Guilds. While his predecessor had emitted a sense of capable, confident purpose, Pollux . . . did not.

  “Ser Brent, ah, how do you do?” Pollux said, finally drawing up to the other man. He stepped between him and the elven women. Brent was a head taller and looked flawless in the formal tunic he’d worn for the merchants’ banquet, while Pollux gulped for air, wiped sweat from his brow, and attempted to straighten his robes.

  “I know you’re new to this, Father, but you’re really not encouraged to interject in matters of Freestone’s security.”

  “Right,” Pollux said. “Each guild minds its own business. You’re right.”

  “Then, if you’d please—”

  “By the way, how was Quilby’s fund-raiser tonight?” Pollux asked with feigned innocence. “Did he raise the money you need for all your shiny new weapons?”

  New weapons? thought Brock. Was that why Brent was rubbing elbows with Quilby?

  Was Quilby throwing a fund-raiser for weapons when elves were hungry and freezing on their own city streets?

  Ser Brent glowered at the healer. “And this is the best use of your resources, is it?” With a sweep of his hand he indicated the makeshift infirmary all around them. “It looks like the cursed Day of Dangers in here. How many humans have been turned away to make room for them?”

  “None,” Pollux answered without hesitation, but his voice was suddenly sad. “We turn no one away here, Ser Brent. Not ever.” Brock looked about and saw several curious patients had emerged from their curtained cots. Nearly all of them were elves.

  “I’ve spent time with our guests,” Pollux continued.
He stood a little bit straighter. “Every adherent to the Way has walked among them for weeks, and we’ve opened our doors to them here, as you noted. In the process we’ve learned a little bit about their customs. Perhaps we could work together, find a diplomatic solution to this matter. What do you say?”

  Brent seethed. “There’s no time for talk, Pol—Luminous Father,” he said through clenched teeth. “You’re more than welcome to share diplomatic words over the pyre, but we are burning that boy’s corpse if I have to set fire to it myself.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” said a voice, sharp with reprimand, at Brock’s back. He moved instinctively aside to allow the speaker to pass. Every elf in view, even the grieving women, immediately touched two fingers to their lips, a sign of greeting and respect.

  Elves, Brock had noticed, did not bow. Not even to their own queen.

  The queen was a vision. Though she wore a simple dress of sheer green and a common hooded cape, with only an understated silver circlet about her head to mark her as ruler of the elves, she fairly radiated royalty. The elves might not bow, but it was all Brock could do not to drop to his knee in her presence.

  And yet it was not only her regal beauty that drew his eye. There was unmistakably something dangerous in the way she moved. She was as much huntress as queen. Gliding past the assembled knights, her russet eyes seemed to scan Brent for weakness, even as she inclined her head in greeting to Pollux.

  As if she were not intimidating enough, the queen did not travel alone. Half a pace behind her followed two female elves in glittering silver armor. They seemed to pay Brock no mind as they passed, yet he had the inescapable sense that if he made any sudden movements in their presence, it would be to his regret.

  “Queen Me’Shala,” Brent said, and he did give a small bow. “I am pleased to see you. My king bid me reiterate his invitation—”