by Lee Dunning
Lady Earthfire stared at the proffered sword, a nerve jumping along her clenched jaw. At last, she gave a hard swallow as if finally accepting the finality of her son’s death. She took the sword from Raven’s fingers and hugged it to her chest. She blinked back tears, silent and vulnerable in her grief. The only sound came from the metallic clang of the young apprentice’s labors.
Linden’s sorrow became Raven’s, made all the worse since, as a stranger, she could do nothing except rise and wait for Lady Earthfire to collect herself. Linden ached to comfort his mother but had no means of reaching out to her without acting through Raven. Such an intimate gesture from a stranger would at best prove awkward.
When at last Lady Culna’mo gave up her own attempts to remain stoic, she went forward and clasped her now unresisting mother close, leaving Raven to drop her eyes, ashamed at her part in this tragedy. She and Linden stood apart and watched as the remains of his family fought to purge their pain.
Lady Earthfire pushed her daughter back and nodded in Raven’s direction. “We need to hear the rest of the tale. My son deserves to have his story told.”
The rest? Raven took a step back, aghast that she must find the strength to choke out the details of Linden’s final moments. But as Lady Earthfire had said, Linden deserved that much. More. However, this would have to do. Raven met the eyes of sister and mother and willed her throat to work.
“He’d just told me the Eastern Glade wasn’t much farther, when we ran into the devils. The shadows played tricks on us but at least a dozen barred our way. Even if my wand had enough power to kill them, I didn’t have enough charges left to deal with them. Linden didn’t hesitate. He threw himself among them. His ferocity surprised the devils and their shock grew when his attacks cut them down. Four died before they could react. Then they fell back, attempting to flee, and I allowed myself to believe we might prevail.
“But then their leader showed himself. The whole time he’d bided his time, invisible, allowing us to think we could escape.”
Now Raven’s voice did fail her. She couldn’t bring herself to confess to this mother and sister how insignificant their loved one had been against the terrible being that showed itself at that point. Her vision swam, turning the world around her into a watercolor painting.
A strong hand settled on Raven’s shoulder and squeezed—a fellow warrior sharing an understanding words could not convey. When Raven’s eyes focused again, Cho’zen Earthfire grasped her shoulder. Red rimmed, Lady Earthfire’s eyes still held sorrow but acceptance and gratitude shown there as well. “You carry a piece of him with you now,” the older elf said. “I can sense his presence, and for that you have my thanks.”
For a horror-filled second Raven thought Lady Earthfire knew what she had done. Knew Raven had absorbed Linden’s essence and twined his soul with hers. Common sense finally reasserted itself and Raven could breathe again. Even Lady Swiftbrook, who had witnessed her transformation, didn’t realize how she had achieved her greater size and ability. Like so many things from the elves’ past, this knowledge too had faded from their minds. Lady Earthfire’s words were no more than a metaphor in which she acknowledged Raven’s part in keeping Linden’s memory alive.
They gazed at one another for a time, a silent bonding. Raven understood she wouldn’t have to speak of Linden’s final seconds, Lady Earthfire knew well the burden of surviving when others died. Then, apparently satisfied with what she saw in Raven’s shaken soul, Cho’zen released her and stood back, once again solid and commanding. “Word is you fight like one trained as a First Born.”
“She does,” Lady Culna’mo said. “She’s talented but whoever taught her didn’t take into account her physical differences from a First Born.”
“You beat me like an orc whelp,” Raven said. Even the chagrin of making such an admission came as a relief after the emotional battle she’d just waded through.
Lady Culna’mo laughed. “Hardly. Despite your smaller size, you fought as my equal until I brought up my brother. Then you just gave up.”
“That was unkind,” Lady Earthfire chided her daughter.
“It was,” Lady Culna’mo said. “I honestly didn’t realize such a soft heart beat in our new councilor’s breast.” She shrugged and spread her hands.
Lady Earthfire laid a finger across her lips considering her daughter’s words. “Interesting. Technically skilled but green. A hardened warrior wouldn’t allow mere words to affect her so. All right, I want to see things for myself.” She handed Linden’s sword back to Raven.
“People keep telling me Linden’s sword is too large for me,” Raven said.
“That much is obvious, but it’s what you’ve used it since joining us so I want to see how you handle yourself with it. I might not march into battle any longer but I can still analyze your combat style. It will give me a better idea of what sort of weapon I want to produce for you.”
“See? I told you she’s the best around,” Lady Culna’mo said, moving into an opening stance.
Raven followed suit. She knew Linden would want to impress his mother. The melding of his soul with hers didn’t leave her so unbalanced now and the lump of metal grasped in her hand no longer felt so alien.
Lady Earthfire cleared her throat, drawing looks from the young warriors. “Where did you ladies leave your helmets?”
Lady Culna’mo waved her mother’s concern away. “We were just having fun.”
“It’s all fun until someone loses a head,” came the tart reply. The smith thumped back into the smithy muttering about idiot children. She returned after a brief but noisy search, and tossed a pair of helmets to Raven and Lady Culna’mo.
The two slid them on and Lady Earthfire nodded in approval before clapping her hands. “Spar for me, ladies!”
The clash of weapons rang out in the evening air.
Chapter 6
Kiat wilted in dread as another courtier approached the throne where the councilor squirmed in discomfort. The man wore ridiculous puffy trousers and a huge feathered hat. A thin frame of facial hair surrounded his generous mouth. A short pointed beard protruded off the end of his chin. None of it reflected the style favored by the northern kingdoms and Kiat surmised the man must have arrived from the southern end of the continent, or perhaps from one of the smaller island kingdoms.
“This is Lord Trelawny, representing King Antonio of Greater Triach,” Chalice Renoir said from where he stood at Kiat’s left shoulder.
Is there a Lesser Triach? “There is no end to these people,” Kiat replied. “What does he want?”
Kiat’s peripheral vision caught a glimpse of the smile as it crept onto the human’s face. “He has brought a painting.”
Kiat groaned. He so desperately wanted to flee, but despite the passage of five long days, K’hul remained on First Home and no other councilors had made any move to relieve Kiat. Obviously, Lady Raven and Lord W’rath had legitimate reason to stay home. By all accounts, Lord W’rath remained in a coma, and Lady Raven deserved some additional time to recover. The rest had no excuse, though. Leaving him alone to deal with the humans wasn’t just unkind it was irresponsible. He ought to raise a fuss but he knew he wouldn’t.
The human’s queen had locked herself away in order to work with her husband’s former advisors to devise a proposal for King Luccan of Renlin. As such, Kiat found himself facing yet another fawning courtier with only Chalice Renoir to advise him.
Lord Trelawney bowed and made a broad sweeping gesture with the strange hat. He stayed in that position, apparently expecting some sort of acknowledgement. He bent his neck at an awkward angle in the hopes of a response from Kiat.
Chalice Renoir had just taken a breath to speak when the elf finally waved the courtier to approach. Kiat pushed himself further into the hard angles of the throne, hoping he might simply disappear. Before he’d left, K’hul had taken the thing over as a means of hammering home the reign of Oblund had ended. Kiat understood K’hul’s reasoning but the reality o
f the situation didn’t follow. Despite its size, the drafty, grey throne room felt more prison than seat of power. Now K’hul had abandoned it, leaving Kiat to pretend interest in another bleeding diplomat and his ugly painting.
Lord Trelawny prattled on in an accent so difficult, even with the aid of a translation spell, Kiat found the man almost unintelligible. Fortunately, the priest had his uses. “He’s espousing the many virtues of King Antonio, and suggests an alliance with Greater Triach would bring prosperity and mutual benefit to elves and men alike,” Renoir said.
After the fall of Second Home, what few humans the elves had dealings with couldn’t distance themselves from the elves fast enough. Now representatives from dozens of countries flocked to Teresland, desperate to seal enduring relationships with the elves. Kiat’s stomach tied itself into tighter and tighter knots.
“How nice to have the hand of friendship offered by as esteemed a figure as King Antonio,” Kiat said. Surely, Lord Trelawney would notice his complete insincerity but the man positively beamed with pleasure. Now comes the price of Greater Triach’s friendship.
Lord Trelawney waved an impatient hand at his assistants and they rushed forward with the painting. They swept the silk covering from it just as Trelawney flourished his hat in another exuberant bow.
Kiat stared. Like most elves, he found humans coarse-looking, blunt of feature, and generally unappealing. The creature gazing back from the canvas went well beyond that. By the First, she’s repulsive!
To Kiat’s right, a First Born soldier snickered. Color crept across the councilor’s face as he struggled to maintain the frozen smile he’d worn all morning. “What a lovely and intricate beard she has,” he managed.
Lord Trelawney’s toothy grin faltered. Kiat’s dread deepened. He snuck a glance over his shoulder to see what the priest was up to. The man had stepped back and clamped a hand over his mouth. His shoulders shook. He clearly fought a losing battle to restrain a bout of laughter. Ancestors! What did I do wrong?
Real panic started to grip him, and Kiat turned back to the diplomat, desperate to make things right. “I’m sorry, is … is it rude to comment on your women’s beards?”
Lord Trelawney gaped and incoherent noises escaped his throat. Kiat stared back at the man, baffled. Acid burned his throat, and he feared he might be sick. His mangled nails dug into the wood of the throne’s arms. The only other sound came from the panicked fluttering of a moth as it attempted to beat its way to freedom through one of the heavily leaded windows.
Then it started. At first, just a quiet rumble vibrated throughout the room, but it grew. And grew, until at last even the moth paused in awe of Chalice Renoir’s helpless howls of laughter.
“How was I supposed to know that was a painting of Prince Mario?” Kiat said, his words coming out as little more than a ghostly moan.
“Women don’t have beards,” Lady Winterdawn said.
“Really? But what about the human who brought us tea the other day?”
Lady Winterdawn recalled the unfortunate creature. No wonder her mentor had fumbled in front of Lord Trelawney. “She has some sort of condition—she’s not the norm. I shouldn’t worry about it, though. Lord Trelawney mistook you for female, and from what I can gather, he believed your words a rebuff for his ignorance and slunk out of court in shame.”
Kiat buried his face in his hands and groaned. “That priest was supposed to help me avoid making such idiotic mistakes.” His voice, muffled as it was, sounded close to tears.
“You took him by surprise,” Lady Winterdawn said, keeping her voice soft as though she spoke to a frightened kitten. She laid a comforting hand on Kiat’s shoulder but withdrew it when he flinched. “He’s outside right now wishing to apologize.”
“I can’t face anyone,” came the bleak reply.
“Of course not. I’ll let him know you’re indisposed.”
Lady Winterdawn slipped off quietly and left Kiat to his misery. She glided from the bedroom where he had fled and passed through the guest area, pausing only to close the door separating the two rooms. Satisfied she’d ensured her mentor’s privacy, Lady Winterdawn opened the door to the hallway where Chalice Renoir waited. The two First Born guards standing to either side of the doorway loomed in the shadows, trying their best to appear menacing. Renoir, while tall for a human, couldn’t compare to the towering guards. He gamely tried to ignore them but the way his head shot up when Lady Winterdawn opened the door betrayed him.
His mouth opened to acknowledge her and then he paused. She realized the poor man didn’t know whom he faced—councilor or apprentice. His eyes darted to her hands and his brow cleared at the sight of her pristine fingertips. “Lady Winterdawn.”
“Chalice,” she said. She gave a graceful wave, inviting him in. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”
“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d left me out here all day,” the priest said. He marched through the door, studiously ignoring the guards. His resolve faltered on the other side of the threshold and he cast one last look their way. “I’ll admit I’m grateful you did not, though. Do they ever smile?”
Lady Winterdawn eased the heavy wooden door shut. “They’re very protective,” she said. “I expect now that you’re no longer in the hall, they’re joking about your discomfiture.”
“I expect I deserve that. I made a complete ass out of myself.” He winced. “I beg your pardon—I’ve spent too much time these last few weeks in coarse company.”
Lady Winterdawn waved his apology away. “I assure you, Chalice, spend an hour around a group of practicing apprentices and you’ll hear much worse.” She patted her heavy purple and silver robes. “I set myself on fire once. I invented some colorful invectives before I managed to beat out the flames.”
The admission had the desired affect and a smile creased the priest’s scarred face. That so many women of the Teres court found his ravaged face attractive baffled Lady Winterdawn. Her eyes wandered over to the door shielding Lord Icewind from the world. His was a beautiful face. She’d like to see a smile on it more often.
Her sigh brought concern back to Chalice Renoir’s countenance. “Lord Icewind?”
“He’s sensitive,” Lady Winterdawn said. She stepped over to a serving cart she’d had delivered in anticipation of human visitors. She poured a rose red wine from the chilled decanter into a waiting goblet. At the last moment, she remembered to leave some space for the wine to breathe. “I tried to convince Lord Icewind the ambassador bore the brunt of everyone’s ridicule but he doesn’t believe me.”
Renoir accepted the goblet from his hostess, with a nod of thanks. “It’s mostly true. Lord Trelawney started the entire fiasco by mistaking Lord Icewind for a woman, a female,” he said, correcting himself at the end.
Lady Winterdawn ignored the priest’s verbal blunder. She’d done what she could to learn of the people of Teres and the north, Chalice Renoir included. More learned than most humans when it came to elves, he understood they considered the term woman derogatory. The northerner’s word womb sounded too much like the word woman and no elf desired to be labeled as good for nothing but breeding. He wasn’t one to cause offense on purpose. He’d merely spoken out of habit, so she smiled and waited for him to sample the wine.
“None for yourself?”
“I cannot abide the taste,” Lady Winterdawn said. “Actually, I don’t know of a single elf who cares for it.”
The Chalice tilted the goblet in her direction to better show off the garnet colored liquid. “Yet there is a reason why it’s called Elven Red.”
“Oh, we have two families with vineyards, and they make our wine, but we send it all to the mainland. We cannot even get drunk so we trade it to you for things we do appreciate—ore, refined metals and gems, mostly.
Renoir shook his head in disbelief. “Incredible. Why would you make something you don’t enjoy yourselves?”
Lady Winterdawn settled into one of the cushioned seats near the fireplace so her guest
might draw comfort from its golden flames. She whispered a cantrip under her breath to spare herself from the unpleasantness of the fire’s heat. By then the priest had taken a seat across from her. “Supposedly, when we first decided to engage in trade with the humans, we had trouble finding anyone who wanted anything from us aside from weapons and armor.”
“I’ve seen firsthand the quality of your smith’s work,” the priest said, “I can understand why folk would clamor for it.” He sat too straight in his chair, a soldier uneasy with the expensive furniture and elegant atmosphere. He took a solid swallow from his goblet and tried unsuccessfully to settle himself into a less rigid posture.
Lady Winterdawn watched the man’s struggles. He had the same stiff bearing as a K’hul. At least he knew how to smile and laugh. One did not expect such things from a K’hul. “We have no desire to arm the world. Imagine the embarrassment of going to war only to find your enemy outfitted in equipment you’ve made.”
Renoir chuckled and the tension in his shoulders eased a fraction. Encouraged, she continued. “So, we sent a delegation to several human cities to research what other goods we might trade. Two main items came to light, textiles and alcohol. We already wove fabrics humans would like, especially silks, which proved relatively rare on the continent. We merely had to increase the amount we produced to accommodate numbers beyond our own needs.”
“But wine was new to you?”
“Not just wine,” Lady Winterdawn said, “but all manner of spirits. The delegation tried every wretched drink you and the dwarves make. Fermentation puzzled us. Even the least magically adept of us can cast preservation spells. I’m told, to this day, humans seldom use magic for such things.”
“It’s expensive,” Renoir said. “Magic is a part of who you are. For us it takes half a lifetime to learn what comes to you with ease. Hiring a mage for everyday use would bankrupt a kingdom.”
