Twilight of the Elves

by Zack Loran Clark

  Still, Brock wished Zed would make an effort. If they were really stuck here, better to be among allies than acquaintances.

  “I need to talk to Hexam or Lotte,” Zed said. “Even Callum.”

  “We’re in the middle of a game!” the Clobbler complained.

  Brock tossed his cards down on the table. “I fold,” he said. “You win, Clobbler.”

  “That was your hand?” the man roared, but Brock had already turned his back.

  While Zed tugged at his cloak, nearly strangling himself in his haste to remove it, Fel met Brock’s eyes. “Word has spread,” she said softly. “About the creature you saw beyond the wall.”

  “The raccoon?”

  “Not just a raccoon,” Fel said in a hushed voice. She rubbed her arms as if suddenly cold. “Zed described it to me just now. That poor animal was defiled. It was in the thrall of the Lich.”

  The conversation at the table behind Brock grew silent. He heard the shuffling of cards, but knew they had an audience now.

  “Ser Brent called it undead,” Zed added. “He said Frond told the king about it. Now the Stone Sons are putting the market on lockdown. The elves are terrified.”

  “Our people will survive this,” Fel said, and she put a hand to Zed’s shoulder. The familiarity of the gesture surprised Brock. He hadn’t realized the two knew each other that well.

  Also: our people?

  “Zed, what were you even doing in the shantytown?” he asked.

  “That’s what you’re curious about?” Zed shot back. “I want to know why the knights were there. The elves don’t have anything to do with the Lich! The Lich is their enemy. They came here for help!”

  “We know that,” Brock answered. “We’ve been living with the rangers for weeks. But what does the rest of the town really know about them?”

  Zed flinched. “Are you saying you agree with the king?”

  “Absolutely not,” Brock said without hesitation. “I’m saying his actions are understandable, given the information he has and the information he doesn’t have.” Brock thought about information, and the woman who tended to have more of it than anyone. “I’ve got to go.”

  “What? Where?” Zed asked.

  “Guys, deal Zed in,” he said to the table, then turned back to his friend. “Listen, knowing Frond, she flubbed the delivery of some bad news about a moderately suspicious Danger and the king overreacted. She’s not back yet, which means she’s probably trying to smooth things over.”

  Fel smiled. “Thank you, Brock. That’s reassuring.”

  “It’s not really,” Brock said. “Frond is terrible at diplomacy. But I know some people who are good at it. I’m just going to check in with them. Okay?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, leaning past his friend to pull a cloak from a rack by the door. “I’ll be back before the game’s over.”

  Brock stepped outside, pausing on the footpath to throw his cloak over his shoulders. It was then he heard a small voice at his back.

  “Please don’t go.”

  Brock turned, and the sight of his friend shivering there cloakless in the light dusting of snow nearly broke his resolve. Zed’s experience at the shantytown had clearly left him shaken.

  But there was more at stake here than Zed’s feelings.

  “Hey, you’re fine, right? You’re okay.” He put his hands on Zed’s shoulders. “Tell Lotte what you saw. Tell Frond when she gets back. Get the full story, and if it’s not all figured out by then, we’ll figure it out together.”

  “But what are you doing? Can’t I go with you?”

  Brock sighed, drawing it out just long enough to formulate a lie. “No, I . . . I’m just going to see my parents. They have some influence, and . . . Well, I know how uncomfortable intown can be for you.”

  Zed opened his mouth to speak, but Brock spoke first. “I’m going to find a way to fix things. Just . . . don’t get yourself into any trouble in the meantime, all right? Don’t go anywhere near the shantytown. Stay here where it’s safe.”

  “I don’t think it is safe here,” Zed said sadly.

  “I’m going to fix that, too.” Brock turned on his heel, snapping his cloak as he strode away and called over his shoulder, “I’m going to fix everything!”

  By the time Brock had made his way to the Shadows’ warrens, his confidence was flagging. He’d steered clear of the shantytown for fear of somehow getting involved, but he’d expected to hear it—to hear the sounds of protest, the commanding voice of Ser Brent, the clamor of shields linking to form a wall against the press of bodies.

  There was utter silence. The elves, for now, were not resisting. And if that changed? How many natural spell-casters were among them? How many could stand against swords and spears?

  Brock hurried, and the silence kept pace with him. Throughout Freestone, the streets were empty and the shutters were drawn. People knew something was happening, and they chose to stay well clear of it.

  Brock just didn’t understand that impulse.

  Gramit held up a hand, half welcome and half warning, as Brock entered the antechamber to the Lady’s office.

  “She’s busy,” Gramit said.

  “I don’t care,” Brock said, and he pushed open the door to her office. It was empty.

  He turned to Gramit and saw the man shrug. “I didn’t say she was busy here. And you forgot your mask.”

  Brock rolled his eyes, but he affixed the mask to his face. “You’re supposed to be ‘the Facilitator,’ Gramit. Facilitate a meeting for me!”

  “Concerning?”

  “Concerning the undead animal sighted a day’s march from Freestone, the king’s decision to bully the elven refugees when he found out about it, and the fact that their queen seemed pretty ready to throw lightning at him even before that.”

  Gramit tapped his chin. “That does sound relevant,” he said.

  “Yes!” Brock said. “It’s extremely relevant, Gramit! To everything ever!”

  The man stood from his stool. “Follow me, then. And watch your manners around Master Curse.”

  “Master . . . Curse?”

  “Yeah. He didn’t get that name for using foul language, if you’re wondering.”

  Brock followed him past a curtain, exiting the masters’ quarters and entering the long corridor that served as the market floor. The stone here showed none of the upkeep of the previous room. Decades-old mildew grew in the crevices. The hall was lined with dark, recessed hollows—spaces that had once been cells—and standing before each hollow was a seller’s stall, which in most cases simply meant wooden boards propped up on stools. The stalls were closed for the daylight hours, sheets thrown over their wares, but Brock knew the nights had been busy. While Freestone’s larger economy strained beneath the burden of the elven refugees, the black market was booming.

  Brock eyed each stall as he passed, knowing that most of what was sold here was completely harmless, if hard to come by. One vendor sold precious oil for an outdated style of lamp. Another sold chicken feed with twice as much protein as the strictly regulated feed available through legal channels. The vendor didn’t specify, but Brock suspected that the source of the protein was most likely rat meat. This was what passed for luxury in a city completely strapped for resources.

  Some of the goods here were stolen, Brock knew. And there were darker items available: boots and bracelets with concealed blades, poisons of sinister effect, and counterfeit stamps bearing the sigils of noble houses. Nothing purchased here was cataloged or tracked in any way, and no Stone Son walked these corridors—at least, not in any official capacity. Black market customers were guaranteed their privacy, and they paid well for the privilege.

  Gramit led the way to a small room situated between two former cells. It would have been a guard’s quarters back in the day. Now it held a desk, a few well-worn tomes, and a scattering of strange artifacts—Brock saw a flute apparently carved from bone, and he didn’t look too closely after that.

  The La
dy Gray was there, and two men—one in a simple domino mask like Brock’s, and one in a mask of gleaming silver that obscured the top half of his face, arcing downward from his hood in the shape of a crescent moon.

  “Ah, apprentice, what a pleasant surprise,” said the Lady. But she didn’t seem particularly surprised. Or pleased, for that matter.

  Brock’s eyes were drawn, however, to the hooded man. He couldn’t smell magic like Zed could, but this man reeked of it, figuratively speaking. His mantled cloak looked like a darker, bloodred version of the one worn in public ceremonies by Freestone’s most celebrated wizard, Archmagus Grima. And the mask was a sign, too, for the moon was known citywide as the symbol of the Mages Guild. Did the Shadows actually have a magus in their employ? If so, that was quite a coup. Wizards were rare and reclusive. Brock had seen no more than a few in all his life, and that was counting Hexam, who was no longer recognized as a magus by his former guild.

  The door closed, and Brock turned to see Gramit had left.

  “This is the one?” Curse said. There was a sneer in his voice. “He’s awfully small.”

  “He is young,” the Lady said. “But you can’t argue with how well he’s done. Apprentice, this is Master Curse. He is the final recipient of all the gifts you’ve brought me these past weeks.”

  Brock didn’t understand, and the confusion must have been evident on his features. Unlike Curse’s mask, Brock’s hid very little of his face.

  “The flora and fauna from beyond the wall,” Curse clarified. “It’s my job to ensure it’s safe—not harboring any pests.”

  Brock nodded. He knew that there was a simple spell to ensure the parasite that had infected Mother Brenner was not present in any of the goods the adventurers brought into Freestone. It was only after Hexam had inspected each item, whether flower or wood or foodstuff or animal skin, that Frond would approve its use for bartering. The Lady Gray had assured Brock that anything he smuggled himself would be similarly examined before making its way to the black market floor.

  “A dreary necessity, that,” Curse continued. “But once I’ve done it, I am free to experiment.”

  “Experiment?” Brock echoed. He looked from the master to the Lady. “What kind of experiment?”

  The Lady gestured at the other man, the one wearing a mask identical to Brock’s, which marked him as another apprentice—though he was a full-grown man a head taller than Brock.

  “Uh, well.” He cleared his throat. “One example: You remember those little red rodents?”

  “Pitmunks,” Brock said, remembering the fiendish, razor-clawed creatures that roamed the woods. They were red as ripe tomatoes and not much larger, with sharp black quills running along their backs.

  He also remembered the satisfying squelch when he’d dropped a sack of them on the Lady’s desk the previous week. That had almost gotten a rise out of her, he was sure of it.

  “Yeah, their meat is inedible,” Brock said. “Hexam says it’s because their sweat glands produce some kind of toxin. I was hoping the Shadows might find a way to fix that. It’d mean a new source of food. . . .”

  “That is not the direction our experimentation took,” Curse said, chuckling as if Brock were a fool to suggest it.

  The apprentice waited until the master indicated he should continue. “My talents are in olfaction—in scents. I study how a smell affects the brain, how it triggers memory and emotion. Master Curse wisely suggested that the pitmunk’s toxic sweat might be distilled and—”

  “You’re the perfumer,” Brock said. “From the marketplace. You mixed scents to make people smell nice.”

  The man blushed beneath his slight mask. “Uh, I can’t confirm or deny—the condition of anonymity is, ah—”

  “Relax, Master Stink,” Brock said. “Your secret’s safe with me.” He turned to the Lady. “But I’m not here because of—whatever in Fie these guys are going on about. There’s a situation with the elves. The king’s making a huge mistake. I know you have access to him.”

  The Lady nodded slightly. “I’m aware of the situation.”

  Brock glared at her. “Then you know it sounds dangerous. The more the king and his knights push the elves, the more danger we’re all in. I know for a fact their queen is unhappy. What happens if they push back?”

  Master Curse shrugged. “Fewer mouths to feed.”

  Brock ignored the heartless comment. He kept his focus on the Lady. “I know you don’t think that way. Think of all the knowledge those elves have. All the secrets.”

  He saw it then, he was sure of it. Just the slightest gleam of interest in her eyes. She blinked, and it was gone, her placid smirk unmoved from her lips.

  “As a matter of fact,” she said, “I’ve a keen interest in what the elves have to say. I’ve been listening to their stories. Including the ones about that particular red rodent.”

  “Pitmunks? What’s there to say about them?”

  “The elves call them gish’aelneu,” she said. “Despite the fact that they are Dangers and quite deadly in large numbers, spotting one in the wild is considered a good omen to the rangers of Llethanyl. Did you know that?”

  “It never came up.”

  “Gish’aelneu translates, roughly, to ‘fearsome rodent whose lack of grace alienates all potential friends.’ See, the reason the gish’aelneu are considered good luck is because whenever they nest in an area, larger predators are said to flee. If there’s any truth to the stories—and most stories have a nugget of truth somewhere—these things somehow scare off monsters ten times their size. We thought that was worth looking into.”

  “That’s where we came in,” Curse’s apprentice said. “Master Curse asked me to extract the active chemicals in the pitmunk sweat and make a concentrated oil. And, uh, so I did that.”

  Brock scratched at the back of his head, thinking through the implications of what they were telling him. “You think their sweat has some quality or . . . or power. The toxin they secrete. It’s, what, a Danger repellent?”

  “It’s certainly an interesting theory,” Curse answered. “We do, however, need it to be field-tested.”

  Brock nodded sagely before he realized what Curse was implying. “Wait. Me? You want me to start wearing monster perfume? What if the smell alienates all my potential friends? What if it doesn’t work at all?”

  “That would be helpful to know,” answered Curse.

  “You’re the only one with access, apprentice,” the Lady cooed. “Aren’t you glad you’re quest-worthy?”

  Brock groaned. “I just wanted to find a way to feed people. Next you’ll tell me you’ve turned those elfgrass seeds into pellets for a magically ensorcelled blowpipe.”

  “Magically ensorcelled is redundant,” Curse said sharply. “But the idea has some merit.”

  “It really doesn’t,” Brock replied. “And what about helping the elves?”

  “So many defenders, those elves.” The Lady steepled her fingers. “Between you and Pollux and that queen of theirs.”

  “ ‘That queen of theirs’ looked ready to tear through a dozen of Ser Brent’s finest last night,” Brock snapped. “She told me that she wants to have some kind of a war council with Frond.”

  The Lady gave him a strange look, as if she didn’t understand what he was saying. It was unusual enough that Brock came up short.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She pivoted to address Curse. “If you’d give us the room, please.”

  Curse opened his mouth, ready to protest—this was clearly his space—but thought better of it. He ushered the perfumer out and shut the door behind them.

  As soon as they were alone, the Lady asked, “You met the queen?”

  It was a simple question, but it sent Brock reeling. “You . . . didn’t know that?” he said. A smile broke out across his face. “You didn’t know that.”

  The Lady appeared mostly unbothered, but Brock could see the sudden tension in her shoulders, the tightness around her mouth. “Queen Me’Sh
ala has proven . . . resistant to my attempts at . . . friendship.”

  “You mean your spies can’t get near her,” Brock said. “And you don’t have anything you can hold over her head.” He tapped his chin. “Well, she seemed to like me. Said she might need my brilliant advice again soon. Did you offer to braid her hair? That might work.”

  “Droll as ever,” she said, and Brock felt a little thrill at her frustration. “But!” she said lightly, her hateful smirk returning. “It appears one of my spies has access, after all. . . .”

  “Nuh-uh,” Brock said. “No way.”

  But the tension was already gone from her shoulders. She slunk around the room like a predatory cat. “I told you I’ve been listening to stories the elves tell. And so many of those stories mention the wealth of the queen. Her glittering treasury, with riches so extraordinary and strange they must have come from the fairy plane.”

  “That’s great,” Brock said. “Do those stories mention anything about the queen’s temper? Maybe the specific spells she’d use against someone who crossed her?”

  “The elves left Llethanyl in a hurry,” the Lady said. “They took only what they could carry. If that included anything from the queen’s treasury, I’ve been unable to learn where those treasures are now. They do not appear to have brought anything of true value to Freestone.”

  “So maybe they left it all behind. If it was a choice between their lives or their wealth—”

  “It’s a rare ruler who would choose the former,” the Lady said coldly. “Perhaps the riches of the elves are hidden away in one of Frond’s wayshelters. Perhaps they’ve been buried beneath a tree. If you could find out . . . If you could get your hands on just one of those treasures . . .”