by Lee Dunning
“The journals,” she said, latching onto something she could use to postpone checking in on W’rath for a little longer. Assuming she could find W’rath’s study again, she could check on the precious books. Maybe she couldn’t read ancient Elven but seeing the journals again would ease her mind as to their safety. She’d also take the opportunity to study the careful sketches contained in Lady Stormchaser’s books in the hopes of stumbling across useful tidbits concerning gryphons.
Raven’s initial attempts to find the study failed. She’d have sworn she and W’rath went straight when they first arrived in the maze-like upstairs. When she found herself back at the top of the stairs where she started, she tried to retrace her steps by examining the paintings and statuary lining the walls. After a time she came to the uncomfortable conclusion the members of the Stormchaser family bore too many similarities to one another for any one portrait to stand out from the others. She growled in frustration and made an about face to try to find her way back out. A door blocked her path.
“Very funny,” she said and pressed the door latch. The scent of cloves and cinnamon wafted into the hallway from the open room. She had arrived.
“I didn’t know magic could have a sense of humor,” Raven continued in a conversational tone. Was it possible for the house’s enchantments to retain some of the personality of the elf who originally imbued the estate? What about others? Surely, the clarity of thought protecting the memories of those residing in House of Memories had required the efforts of several elves. Had such potent magic left an imprint on the estate? Like an echo?
She collapsed into W’rath’s chair. The colors of the room’s window, with its strange dancing reptile, whirled about her, much like the many questions crowding her mind. She let her eyes travel about the collection of curiosities, seeking answers amid the clutter of the desk. Here W’rath had found his spectacles and sword. Someone had obviously placed them here to await his return. That meant as many as ten generations of Stormchasers spent their lives preparing for the time when Umbral would walk among the elves again. They hadn’t feared his return—they’d welcomed it.
Even after her time with W’rath, Raven had feared he’d duped her, taken advantage of her naivety. The house’s welcome when they’d first arrived, coupled with the gifts found upon the desk said otherwise. Umbral, now W’rath, could be trusted. Moreover, the elves needed him.
Raven let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She still didn’t know how she would manage to face W’rath without letting on she’d discovered his secret. For his sake, she couldn’t behave differently around him. Others would notice and wonder why she’d changed. W’rath had told her she could eventually learn the art of deception. Eventually would have to come sooner than later.
At last Raven let her wandering eyes fall to the drawer where she knew W’rath had placed the history book and two journals. Before she lost her nerve, she yanked the drawer open. She cried out in horror as her fears turned to reality.
The books were gone.
She came out of the chair and fell to her knees, pawing through the drawer’s contents in a panic. The only books she found turned out to be a series of illustrated dwarven romances. She dropped them as if burned. She tried to keep an open mind but some things just did not bear contemplating. Almost as bad was the question as to why such ribald tales lurked among the possessions of such notables as the Stormchasers.
Raven slumped back against the base of the massive chair, surrounded by a halo of papers, a dried lizard, dozens of colorful feathers and a shiny stone—and the scandalous dwarven novels. She had a sudden vision of W’rath sauntering in to find her in this undignified state, wailing over the loss of her books. At which point he’d bend over, pluck up the romances, and …
Hell’s teeth! Eyes huge, Raven sat up as if she’d just experienced one of Lady Swiftbrook’s lightning spells first hand. How could she be so bloody stupid and still breathe? She knew, probably better than anyone, how much Umbral loved to engage in trickery. The short time she’d spent in W’rath’s company told her, at least in that regard, he had not changed. Not to mention, she’d forgotten he could cast magic.
What better way to hide Lady Stormchaser’s gifts than to disguise them as things no elf would willingly touch, no less read—a trio of volumes featuring hairy, sweat-drenched tales of dwarven lust.
Raven’s hiccup of relief turned into a giggle, which evolved into a deep-throated chuckle, and then wall-shaking laughter. Linden shared in the merriment and he was neither subtle nor reserved.
By the time, Raven regained control she gasped for breath. Tears of mirth blinded her. Fighting to keep herself from falling into hysterical laughter again, Raven replaced the contents of the drawer. The papers and dried lizard she placed on top of the rest, covering up the shameful books. With a final snicker, Raven slid the drawer closed.
Lady Swiftbrook put aside her embroidery hoop when Raven poked her head into W’rath’s room. The girl ghosted across the floor, silent as a wraith, to gaze down at W’rath. Raven crinkled her brow with worry.
“Only ten days have passed,” Lady Swiftbrook said. “Lady Sera doesn’t expect him to fully heal for another two ten-days. Even then, she’ll have to draw him back to consciousness. It’s her magic keeping him under, not his injury.”
“Yes, of course,” Raven said but Lady Swiftbrook knew her words hadn’t provided much comfort. Even so, the young warrior left W’rath’s bed and trod across the carpet-strewn floor to ease herself into one of the chairs across from the Sky Elf.
Lady Swiftbrook tried a different tack. “I’m told you’re training under a couple of Ice Blade masters.” She smiled when Raven’s thoughtful expression turned to chagrin and she slumped in exaggerated exhaustion.
“I only escaped those two sadists because they’re helping Lady Earthfire imbue my blade. The entire Earthfire household is in an uproar over the construction of my sword. I had no idea so much went into creating one.”
Lady Swiftbrook chuckled. “You must mean Lady D’rizen and Lord Bloodletter. They haven’t taken on a new student in years. You obviously impressed them.”
“I don’t know about that,” Raven said. “It occurred to me Lady Earthfire might have bribed them to torture me.”
“Those two would never compromise their integrity and Lady Earthfire would never audition someone she didn’t feel confident would win the weapon masters over. Regardless of their respect for Lady Earthfire, Lady D’rizen and Lord Bloodletter would refuse to train you if you lacked potential.”
Raven shook her head. “Until now, no one told me their names. Lady Earthfire introduced them as the masters of the Ice Blade Technique—period. Since then it’s been nothing but me saying, “‘Yes, Teacher’, ‘Of course, Master’, ‘Please, Mistress, won’t you beat me like an orc whelp again?’”
Lady Swiftbrook caught herself comparing Raven with the late Lady Reaper. This child brought a smile to her face every day, while even the memory of Reaper made her blood curdle. Some of the tension eased from her neck and shoulders. While she had been quick to reassure Raven concerning W’rath’s condition, she harbored her own doubts and fears.
“Your teachers represent two of the most militaristic Sky Elf families left to us. There are several warfare schools on First Home and each one specializes in a different technique. All of the schools run by Sky Elves belong to one of the five military families. Ice Blade is the only school run by members of two different families.”
Raven’s melodramatic exhaustion evaporated and she scooted to the edge of her seat, back straight, eyes bright with interest. A few hours earlier Lady Swiftbrook’s apprentices occupied two chairs across from her. If only they showed as much enthusiasm for learning as this young Shadow Elf.
“It’s funny,” Raven said, “I’ve always thought of the First Born as the keepers of all things martial while the Sky Elves serve as mages and artisans.”
“We do have that reputation,” Lad
y Swiftbrook said. “But remember, before she developed our written language and recorded our history, Lady Uruviel Stormchaser acted as the elven army’s chief tactician. In more recent years, many of us have explored artistic paths but many continue to keep our ancestors’ skills alive.”
Raven pointed at Lady Swiftbrook’s abandoned embroidery. “Your artistic side?”
Lady Swiftbrook suppressed a groan. For all her lectures to W’rath about art and beauty, she had proved singularly inept at anything creative. Reluctantly, she passed the embroidery hoop over to Raven. The girl’s expectant gaze turned to puzzlement. The Sky Elf waited for the questions to start but Raven’s kind streak left her unable to do more than stare at the mess before her.
“It’s supposed depict a branch of sunset blossoms with birds searching for berries,” Lady Swiftbrook said when it appeared Raven intended to spend all eternity trying to decipher the tangle of thread.
“Of course,” Raven said, “I just wanted to admire the intricate detail.” She handed the nightmarish thing back to the humiliated Sky Elf and flashed a belated smile Lady Swiftbrook suspected was supposed to sell the lie.
“W’rath is right, you’re a horrible liar. I advise you to call it a lost cause and give up trying,” Lady Swiftbrook said.
“Like that?” Raven asked, gesturing once more at the tortured embroidery. This time her grin was genuine.
“Among other things,” Lady Swiftbrook said with a rueful sigh. “I have tried my hand at painting. The results brought my teacher to tears. My attempts at sculpture made even K’hul laugh. The Sea Elves tell of the time I took up singing. They claim several pods of whales beached themselves upon the shores of the mainland in a suicidal attempt to escape the anguish of my voice. I poisoned my guests with my baking.”
“But elves are immune to poison,” Raven said.
“Precisely.” Ancestors! How many years ago since that disaster? She’d completely forgotten about that night.
“What is it?” Raven asked.
Lady Swiftbrook waved off Raven’s concern. “Nothing—really. W'rath said I would start to regain memories and he was right. It’s just odd, I feel as though the memory of my baking debacle slipped away from me years ago, not days.”
“Well, you are sitting in House of Memories,” Raven said much too quickly.
“Of course.” Lady Swiftbrook sensed it again—Raven knew something. The girl had no skill with subterfuge. As she watched, Lady Swiftbrook noticed the young warrior’s eyes dart in W’rath’s direction as if Raven sought his council. Raven probably didn’t realize she gave herself away with such tells. It was the reflex of a young person looking to her mentor for guidance.
Lady Swiftbrook considered her options. She could force the issue and demand Raven tell her everything. Whatever it was though, the Sky Elf didn’t believe Raven kept mum out of malevolence. W’rath, the little squirrel, had some agenda and had put Raven in the awkward position of maintaining his secret.
Lady Swiftbrook quietly fumed while Raven squirmed under the scrutiny. Really, she ought to let Raven be and instead confront W’rath once he recovered. Unfortunately, the Sky Elf knew trying to pin W’rath down and force anything out of him was about as likely as capturing a shadow. So, she couldn’t spare Raven. “You and I—”
Foxfire burst through the door. The two females erupted from their chairs, drawing their weapons. Lady Swiftbrook’s embroidery hoop clattered to the floor and rolled away.
Wide-eyed, Foxfire retreated several steps back. “Sorry,” he said, “but I thought you should know. The enemy mage regained consciousness. We know who hired them to attack Second Home.”
Chapter 9
Here we go again, Foxfire mused. The council chamber, oversized and intimidating, left him cold. He’d never liked authority, and the perfectly straight lines of the marble walls and the paintings parading across the walls displaying the First’s exaggerated accomplishments, added to the sense of oppression. At least the room housed the wondrous magic table with its life-like imagery of the world. It fascinated him enough he could ignore the rest of the room’s failings a few minutes at a time.
Foxfire took in all the faces around the table of the High Council chamber. The dynamic felt different this time, and not just because one of their members couldn’t attend. Lady Culna’mo had befriended Raven and the two chatted and teased one another. Lady Swiftbrook had taken a spot as far away from K’hul as possible. Kela kept vigil next to Foxfire, no doubt waiting to take offense at something K’hul said.
As for K’hul, he actually appeared … well, Foxfire couldn’t tell what in the hells was going on with him. One moment the First Born glared, focused and determined, at the map floating before them, and the next his attention shifted to the ring on his hand as if it were a viper he feared might strike. Eventually, he shook himself out of his trance, checked to see if anyone paid him any attention, and then started the whole process over again.
Had it finally sunk into K’hul’s thick skull he could lose his seat on the High Council? Somehow, Foxfire doubted it. Five hundred plus years of arrogance and entitlement didn’t evaporate in the space of a few days. Something had happened since the First Born returned from the mainland to hole up in his family’s compound—Club K’hul as Foxfire liked to call it. He wished he could share his jokes with someone but no one understood his references.
Either the others didn’t notice K’hul’s strange behavior or at this point didn’t care. Even Kiat, whose translucent image floated at the head of the table, paid him little heed. Perhaps the time alone on the mainland had done the mage some good.
Lady Culna’mo broke off her conversation with Raven to move her hands across the projected image displayed by the table. Everything shot up in size so a single bush floated above the table, large as a wild boar. “Sorry,” she said and started fiddling some more.
The map shrank down to the point where those gathered appeared to float above the whole planet. Kiat sighed and Lady Culna’mo’s gestures grew increasingly erratic. “Perhaps,” Kiat said, “Lady Swiftbrook might have an easier time.”
“You said since I arrived first I could play with the table,” Lady Culna’mo said. The Badlands, the focus of their interest, shot by and the steaming jungles of the southern peninsula leapt out at them. Out of reflex, Kela batted at an enormous parrot when flew out of the foliage toward her face. Her hand passed through the magical phantom.
“I’m certain I didn’t phrase it like that,” Kiat said with a petulant twist to his lips. His magical apparition showed him more pale than usual but standing straighter than Firefox recalled as normal for the mage.
“I’ve almost got it.” Lady Culna’mo poked the tip of her tongue out between her lips as she concentrated. The scene shifted again and a blizzard raged about the table. An abandoned castle peaked out from the crags. Lady Culna’mo spat out a curse and threw her hands up in defeat. Instantly the table’s focus switched to the reds and browns of the Badlands bordering the startlingly white Sea of Glass. Mesas and rock pillars, sculpted by millennia of wind, stretched out before them. Farther to the east, a massive black anomaly, half buried in the sands of the Sea of Glass, rose like a long dead god, dwarfing everything within seven hundred miles of it.
“That’s it!” Foxfire said. “Don’t move!”
Lady Culna’mo froze, arms splayed out. “This is awkward.”
“Just take a few steps back and lower your arms,” Lady Swiftbrook said. Lady Culna’mo did as instructed, and the table’s image remained stable. A smattering of applause followed. “Very amusing,” Lady Culna’mo muttered. She crept back up to the table to stand next to Raven. Raven’s ill-contained snickering earned her a sour look from the flustered First Born. “Just wait until I get you in the sparing ring again.”
“I know Broken Wing,” Raven said.
“Whatever that is.”
“I hoped you would know—I certainly haven’t figured what’s so special about it,” Raven said.
It was Lady Culna’mo’s turn to snicker.
K’hul’s expression settled into something more akin to his usual stone-faced disgust. “If all of you have finished behaving like children, we have actual work to attend to,” he said.
“I’d like to hear from Lord Icewind as to what the mercenary told him,” Lady Swiftbrook said.
“And why we should believe anything that demon-kisser says,” Kela added.
Kiat dipped his head, acknowledging the ladies’ concerns. “Before I questioned him, I placed a truth telling spell on the cell,” he said. “This ensured we could trust anything he told us. Of course, he quickly realized he could avoid telling us anything by refusing to speak.”
“So you stabbed him with hot pokers?” Kela said, her eyes far too feral for Foxfire’s comfort.
The projection of Kiat recoiled. “I did no such thing!” He gave an elaborate shudder and smoothed out his pristine robes in an effort to compose himself. “No—no, I indicated Lord W’rath would pay him a visit if he didn’t cooperate. I hoped it would encourage him to open up a bit. I had no idea how terrifying humans find Shadow Elf psions—he practically begged to tell me all he knew.”
Kela snorted. “Even half-dead W’rath’s more useful than some of us here,” she said.
K’hul ignored the barb and addressed Kiat. “Tell us everything.”
“Aside from the name of the city-state, Uhthein, and its location near the Sea of Glass, he had very little information,” Kiat said. “His main concern lay in ensuring we understood he personally had nothing to do with the attack and that he had no idea which of his people participated in the ritual.”
“We’ll worry about how to deal with Tassilia later,” Lady Culna’mo said, cracking her knuckles. “Right now, it’s more important to hunt down who paid them in the first place.”
“Paid them with what?” Kela asked.
“Desert opals,” Kiat said. “I don’t enchant jewelry but even I know they’re considered one of the most magically malleable gems available. Our prisoner said the amount of opals paid had the heads of each of their magic towers falling over themselves to supply mages for the task.”
