Twilight of the Elves

by Zack Loran Clark

“Thank your king kindly, Ser Brent,” said the queen. “But I’ve no wish to enjoy his castle’s luxuries when my people enjoy so few. My place is with them.”

  Brent seemed to hesitate, caught between king and queen. It was clearly not the answer King Freestone wished to hear. But in the end he said, “As you wish.”

  “But if you would be so kind,” she said, “as to once more extend my invitation to your king.”

  “Which invitation is that, Majesty?”

  “My invitation to join me in taking back Llethanyl, of course.”

  Brent was unable to mask a sour look. “I shall relay your invitation, Majesty. In the meantime, I fear I must remind you of the absolute sanctity of Freestone’s laws. While your people are honored guests within our walls, we must insist—”

  “Oh, I heard what you were insisting,” said the queen. “The pyre, was it?”

  Brent kept his eyes upon the queen. “It is our way,” he said.

  “It is barbaric,” said the bolder of the elven women.

  “If we could all just—” Pollux began.

  The queen lifted her hand for silence. It was not an aggressive gesture, but it was heeded without question, by elf and human alike.

  “You must understand, Ser Brent, that among our people there is no true death. When an elf is lost to us, lost to age or illness or Danger, this is a temporary state. A sort of slumber. Once, our honored ancestors were undying. Ancient lore says that when the elves have proven ourselves worthy, druids will once again walk the wooded paths of Llethanyl, and we will have earned back our immortality. To threaten this outcome—to destroy a lost elf, as you suggest—is considered a most serious offense.”

  “If you’ll pardon my frankness, Majesty,” Brent replied, “it’s my understanding that Llethanyl’s . . . situation . . . is a direct result of your practice of interring your dead. Just how many hours were you able to stand against your ‘honored ancestors’ once they began clawing their way out of their graves?”

  The queen’s warm eyes darkened, and a low wind cut through the interior of the temple, stirring the rows of fabric all around them. Brock quickly remembered that the queen was herself a formidable wizard.

  Pollux took a step back. Brent did not.

  “I don’t believe I will pardon your frankness, swordsman,” she said. The armored women beside her looked ready to draw their blades.

  “I have my orders, Majesty,” Ser Brent said. He put a hand to the hilt of his own sword.

  “Wait!” Brock called. All present turned to consider him, including the full company of knights and the queen’s guards. But it was the queen’s gaze, still roiling with the threat of violence, that made him second-guess his decision to speak up.

  The scorn in Ser Brent’s eyes, however, brought him back to himself. Clearly the knight recognized Brock and didn’t think too highly of him. Brock thrived on being underestimated.

  “Majesty,” he said, and he brought his fingers to his lips as he’d seen the elves do. He did not speak again until, after a moment’s consideration, she nodded at him, her eyes light once more. “I’ve thought about your problem, and I think I might have a solution.”

  The queen laughed, a single earthy bark, and she turned toward Brent, her animosity blown away like a brief summer storm. “This youngling is one of yours?”

  “Hardly,” Brent answered.

  “This is Brock Dunderfel,” Pollux said, clearly happy for the distraction. “He’s one of Alabasel Frond’s newest charges.”

  “Alabasel Frond.” The queen smiled broadly. “I was just wondering why she hasn’t been by to see me yet.”

  “You know Frond?” Brock asked.

  The queen nodded. “Alabasel is the only human to ever attempt to slap me.”

  Brock had to resist the urge to drop his face into his hands.

  “And how would Alabasel’s young charge solve so heady a problem as we now face?”

  “Well, I was thinking,” Brock began. “It’s illegal to bury a . . . lost elf within Freestone. But the Adventurers Guild isn’t bound by the city walls. What if we interred your lost one outside the city?”

  The queen didn’t even seem to consider it before turning to the mourning women. “Would this be acceptable to you?”

  The elven women looked to each other, something passing unspoken between them. At last, they nodded.

  The queen turned to Brent. “And you?”

  “I’d . . . have to check,” he said. “I don’t like the idea of opening the gates every five minutes, but as to the letter of the law, there’s no issue with any of your people coming and going. Or Frond’s, of course.”

  “Of course,” the queen echoed. “I had almost forgotten not all humans follow the example of your noble king.”

  Brent stiffened, but said nothing.

  The queen turned again toward Brock. “You have my thanks, young human. I’ve been so concerned with following the proper channels—I needed this reminder that a true leader must sometimes look for solutions in unexpected places.” She turned so that her back was to Ser Brent and Pollux, lowering her voice to indicate that what she said next was for no human ears but Brock’s. “I may require your counsel again very soon.”

  Brock smiled a beatific smile, but he panicked a little under her scrutiny. “Of course, Your Majesty,” he said in a low voice. “But what could I—?”

  “Tonight, I am needed here,” the queen said, gazing at the scenes of battle laid out in the gleaming glass of the temple’s windows. “But tomorrow, there shall be a council of war. Tomorrow, I will call on Alabasel Frond.”

  Zed awoke early the next morning, still groggy from the night’s celebrations. His teeth ached from too much ambrosia. Zed’s mother would pop her kettle if she knew he’d fallen asleep without brushing again, but dental hygiene didn’t factor high among his concerns these days. Just two nights ago his bedtime routine had involved tugging Liza’s arm out of the jaws of a monster.

  On Feydays Zed studied magic, but today’s lesson didn’t begin until later—if it happened at all. Hexam, Frond, Lotte, and Callum had all been conspicuously absent from the apprentices’ celebratory meal the night before.

  Zed would spend the early morning visiting with his mother before her shift began. She worried constantly over how her timid son was fitting in with the rough-and-tumble adventurers, so Zed was excited to be able to share his recent accomplishment.

  On the other side of the room, Micah snored loudly. That he was still asleep was a small blessing, at least. The two boys were awkward, distant roommates at the best of times. And at the worst? Micah was everything Zed had feared the former noble would be. Rude, arbitrary, and messy to a degree that Zed never would have believed if he weren’t living in the middle of it.

  Born the son of a servant, Zed had been taught to value cleanliness from a young age. But before six weeks ago, Micah had probably never picked up a dirty sock in his life. Glancing around at the many piles of soiled laundry that now covered Micah’s side of the room, Zed couldn’t say with certainty that Micah had picked one up yet, either.

  Zed padded carefully from his bed, slipping into a doublet, jerkin, and clean trousers with practiced quiet. He opened his bedside drawer, where a wooden fox pendant lay, its bushy tail wrapped snug around its body. It hung from a glittering silvery chain.

  Zed scooped the chain from his drawer, and fastened it around his neck so the fox charm hung over his chest.

  In the six weeks since Zed had nearly died and experienced his strange dream—a dream of a witch who waited in the woods, offering him the power to save his friends and his city—he hadn’t heard again from Old Makiva. No apparition had arrived from the shadows to collect on her promised payment. No odd smells or disturbing noises haunted Zed’s sleep. (Not counting Micah.)

  It was as if the dream had been just that: a hallucination, and nothing more.

  But there was no denying the strange green flame he was now able to conjure. Flame that burned like
nothing else, and that always seemed easier to cast when he wore the charm and chain Makiva had given him on the morning of his Guildculling.

  Zed hadn’t yet told anyone about the dream. Not even Brock. Every time he summoned up the courage, his friend seemed to disappear, vanishing into the city on his own. At first Zed hadn’t thought much of his absences. After all, apprentices weren’t tied to the guildhall when their duties were finished, and Brock had a family who worried over him, too.

  But as time crept on, and Brock kept coming up with fresh excuses to steal away, suspicion had slowly dawned on Zed, as cold and inevitable as winter.

  His best friend was avoiding him.

  After everything Zed had been through the past six weeks, all the fear and hardship, that burden was the one he couldn’t seem to shrug off.

  “Yes, yes—it’s a very pretty necklace,” Micah grumbled, sending Zed spiraling around. He hadn’t even noticed the snoring had stopped. “Now quit staring at it and leave already.”

  “Sorry,” Zed whispered, feeling his ears flush. “I was trying to be quiet.”

  “Somehow that’s worse,” Micah said. “Knowing you’re slinking around doing Fie knows what. Why can’t you fart and knock into things in the morning, like a normal roommate?”

  Zed scowled into the dark room. “Well, I was just leaving,” he said.

  “Good.” Micah rolled over in his pallet, turning away from Zed. “And brush your teeth while you’re out there—I can smell your rancid breath from here. Were you raised in a barn?”

  Zed felt a sudden, intense urge to begin practicing his flame conjuring a bit early that day. Closing the bedside drawer with a bang, he grabbed his scepter and his old, threadbare cloak. Then he stomped noisily out of the room.

  The recent snow had left outtown veiled in white. Zed pulled his cloak tightly around him as he exited the guildhall, turning westward. The city’s enormous wall towered to his left, casting a brooding shadow over nearly the whole district.

  The streets were quiet this morning, but far from empty. Knights marched across the icy cobbles, keeping regular patrols even in outtown. Before the elves arrived, Zed had never seen the Stone Sons so vigilant. The destruction of Llethanyl had put the city on edge.

  But who could say that the Lich wouldn’t follow the elves to Freestone? And after what happened with Mother Brenner, could the wards truly be trusted to keep him out?

  Nothing felt safe anymore. Freestone seemed perpetually on the verge of war.

  As Zed curved northward along the avenue that led home, he heard a hard voice cut through the quiet.

  “Freestone first!”

  The brawny man who’d shouted this was dressed too sparsely for the weather, Zed thought. But if the cold bothered him, it didn’t show. The man’s face was red with anger, and his posture was wide and challenging. Zed recognized him as Dimas Orlov, a mason in the Works Guild and a longtime neighbor.

  For as far back as Zed could remember, Dimas had been a wastrel and a bully—often calling Zed goblin or fairy boy as he passed by. Once, he’d told Zed’s mother that she should dump her “changeling” over the wall so he could give her a real son, all while Zed was standing well within earshot.

  Zed’s mom told him to avoid Dimas, but that wasn’t always easy. Hatred, like any disease, needed fresh victims to thrive. And people like Dimas were always happy to spread it.

  “These elves”—Dimas said the word like he was discussing a particularly loathsome strain of cockroach—“destroyed their own city. And now they mean to destroy ours. Their sins will follow them here, so help me. If we don’t do something, the dead will be scratching at our gates before winter’s end!”

  “Pipe down, Orlov!” a man called out. “It’s too early for this.” Zed glanced around to find that other outtowners had paused to gawk at the commotion. A small crowd was forming.

  “Better too early than too late!” Dimas called back. “Send them home. Elves should deal with elven problems.” Again, the word sounded poisonous coming from Dimas’s lips. Zed found himself cringing from it. Several grunts and “Hear, hears!” rang out from the crowd.

  “They just want peace!” a woman called. “There’s good folk among the elves. I know some!”

  “And what of the bad ones?” Dimas snarled. “I’ve seen how they treat their own. How they hate our ways. Freestone first!”

  “Freestone first!” a second woman screeched in echo.

  “It’s an elven trick! They’re waiting for their moment to attack!”

  “They’re half monsters themselves!”

  Zed searched around, but there were no Stone Sons in sight. Now was probably a good moment to hurry on. He turned on his heel, making for the side street that led to his mother’s home. But before he could weave through the crowd, Dimas’s voice brought him up short.

  “Where do you think you’re going, goblin?”

  Zed froze in place. He wanted to just keep walking, but it felt less safe to have Dimas at his back. Slowly, he turned around and narrowed his eyes at the mason.

  “Been a while since we’ve seen your pointy ears around here. I suppose you’re palling around with your elven buddies now, eh? No time for humans while you’re casting little spells and weaving pansies in your hair?”

  Zed said nothing, just continued glaring. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Beneath his cloak, his hands trembled.

  “What’s wrong, goblin?” Dimas growled. His lips parted into a predator’s grin. “Too scared to answer? Maybe you’ve finally gone fey-brained after all.” The man took a lumbering step forward.

  What stung most was that Dimas was right. Zed was too scared to respond. If Brock had been here, he’d have a sharp reply ready to cut the man down to size. But Zed was alone within a mob—and he was paralyzed by his fear.

  Dimas took another step. His wolfish grin widened.

  And yet Zed wasn’t defenseless. Far from it.

  He reached inward, drawing upon his mana, and with it came a sudden flood of confidence and vitality. Beneath his cloak, Zed’s fingertips began to tingle, the air between them growing warm . . . then hot. Zed lifted his hand, parting his cloak.

  “Dimas Orlov, you shut your mouth!”

  Zed quickly hid his hand again. A small elderly woman stepped out from the crowd, pointing a crooked finger at the mason. “That boy saved this city. He’s a hero. You owe him your life, you ungrateful goon. Go on! You’ve said enough for today.”

  And just like that, the crowd turned against Dimas. Shouts of agreement rang out from behind the woman.

  “Get to your job, you shiftless lout!”

  “Still too early for this nonsense.”

  Dimas scowled, retreating a step, the snow crunching under his boots. His eyes slid resentfully away from Zed. “You’re all fools,” he muttered. But as the crowd dispersed, like a misty breath fading in the cold, Dimas went with it. Before Zed knew it, he was standing alone in the street.

  Zed dawdled for a moment in the quiet, sniffing and rubbing at his frost-nipped nose. Then he blinked several times in confusion and held out his hand.

  Smoke trailed from his fingertips. Five tiny accusations, which thrashed away into the morning air.

  “You’re late!” Zed’s mother called as he slipped inside the cramped tenement building. The scents of home, of familiar things, washed over Zed in a rush. The place smelled like safety, and of his mother’s delicious pottage. The dwindling embers of a fire glowed in the hearth—pleasantly orange, rather than green.

  “Sorry, Mom,” he said. “I got held up.”

  “Oh, did King Freestone stop by again?”

  Zed had encountered the king all of twice—and one of those times had resulted in the imprisonment of Zed’s whole guild in their own hall—but his mother still loved to pretend he was on speaking terms with the royals.

  “He sends his love,” Zed said, falling into a chair and kicking off his boots. “But listen, I’ve got good news. I passed my apprentice jou
rney. I’m officially quest-worthy.”

  “Oh! That’s . . . How great!” Zed’s mother emerged from her room, pinning her hair into the bun she wore during her shift as a noble lady’s servant. Like Zed, she had dark hair and fawn-colored skin, with small features that belied her expressive brown eyes. Unlike Zed, her ears were round and totally human. “So you’ll be out there? More often?”

  Zed nodded. “Not without a master adventurer. I was hoping you’d be proud of me.”

  His mother smiled incredulously. “I am proud; you know that. And I realize that this is your life now. My son, the hero! It’s just . . . hard.” She looked around the room. “No Brock today?”

  Zed tried to keep his expression casual. “Not today.”

  “It’s been a while since he’s visited. Before you two joined the guild, I swear I saw him over here more often than I saw you. Is everything all right?”

  No. I don’t know. I made a pact with a witch, and my best friend is avoiding me. I’m roommates with a bully, and I nearly just set fire to our neighbor.

  “Yeah, everything’s great.” Zed tried out a smile, but his mother was already turning back to her room, searching for her smock.

  “Well, you two take care of each other while you’re out there adventuring. I know you will, but after what happened to your friend Jett . . . and with that horrible Mother Brenner.”

  “It wasn’t Brenner’s fault, Mom,” Zed said. “She’d been transformed into a monster.”

  “Oh, that’s very comforting,” his mom called back, “knowing that’s a thing that can happen. Let’s just hope Father Pollux doesn’t follow in his predecessor’s footsteps.”

  Zed’s mom reentered the room, smoothing out her smock. She stood there a long moment, just leaning against the doorway and silently watching her son. “So who took you out on this journey of yours? Was it Frond?”

  Zed’s mother had never had much fondness for the guildmistress of the adventurers. She found the idea of a woman warrior unseemly. But in recent weeks, her views on the subject had softened a little. Zed supposed that Liza—who his mother adored—probably had more to do with it than Frond herself.