by Lee Dunning
He’d turned back then and hiked out of the desert, leaving the irradiated husk behind, his curiosity sated—for the time. If it held secrets concerning who had once used it to traverse the black of space, it would have to wait for another time. He wasn’t ready to face a dragon—or the ghost of one.
Now, sitting across from Croaking Wisdom, Foxfire still wasn’t sure he wished to know the truth of the nomad’s goddess but he nodded with proper deference to the hunched old woman. “Tell me of your goddess,” he said.
Despite her earlier words, she sucked at her shriveled lower lip before taking in a deep, rattling breath. She let it out in resignation. “The people of Thorn and Spine have always lived harsh lives. We live free, though, unlike those who huddle in the cities. The caliphs and the kings force their ways on the people. Those ways are not our ways.”
Foxfire sat quietly, allowing his hostess to work her way to the point of the tale. In many ways, Croaking Wisdom’s words echoed those of Kela and the other Wood Elves. They had no taste for the many rules governing First Home. Foxfire preferred soft beds and gently prepared foods but even he wouldn’t give up the freedom he’d discovered in exchange for First Home’s luxuries.
Croaking Wisdom nodded in approval over Foxfire’s solemn silence and continued. “The goddess was the one comfort in our lives. She brought rain when we most needed it. She struck down the slavers when they came to steal our young people. She drove off a rival god when he tried to eat us. Then one day …”
Foxfire had to lean closer as Croaking Wisdom’s increasing reluctance to speak made her hard to hear. He sat back now as the old woman covered her mouth with a gnarled hand and squeezed her raisin eyes shut. Her people’s great shame—at last they’d come to it.
When at last she spoke again, Croaking Wisdom’s voice matched her wasted visage. Her throat strangled with emotion and Foxfire bent forward again to catch her words. “The animals did not breed as normal one season. We had fewer camels and goats which to offer the goddess. We had many ponies but we held those back. We needed them, so we told ourselves. The goddess grew hungry and still we did not share. She could have taken the ponies from us but She did not. She flew far away to hunt.”
“And she never came back?” Foxfire asked, his words little more than a whisper.
“If the story ended there, I’d have little to offer you,” Croaking Wisdom said. “While the goddess hunted, a stranger came. We gave her water. We shared salt. She asked about our lives. Many of our young men found her beautiful and hoped she’d join us. They told her of our people. They told her of our goddess. She looked to the east and something hungry entered her eyes. She left us in the night and with her, ten of our best hunters disappeared as well.
“We sent out search parties, but we found nothing other than their tracks leading toward the goddess’ palace. Then even those disappeared and we mourned their loss. No one who goes to the palace comes back to us.”
“But your goddess returned?” Foxfire was confused now. He had no idea what the strange man-stealing traveler had to do with anything.
“She did come back,” Croaking Wisdom said. “We saw Her arrive and Her bulk told us She’d fed well. She flew to Her palace. Then we heard it. We felt it. Rage. Horror. A scream of loss so terrible my bones still vibrate with Her pain. I don’t know how but the stranger we helped betrayed us and then brought ruin to our goddess. We have not seen the goddess since.”
Foxfire sat back. He hadn’t expected the tale to take this turn. The dragon sounded real but he’d gathered nothing from Croaking Wisdom’s story to indicate her goddess had relocated to Uhthein and set herself up as queen. The mysterious woman who could lure men from the camp, only to disappear in the desert, sounded like a child’s ghost story but Foxfire had to consider to whom he spoke. Croaking Wisdom did not seem prone to flights of fancy.
“What happened to the rest of your men and boys?” he asked.
“Soon after the goddess disappeared, soldiers from Uhthein hunted us down. Hundreds of them. We thought they wanted our animals. They wanted our men. They took them and any boy past weaning. They killed most of our elders but a few of us survived. That was twenty years ago. They come back once a year.”
The more Croaking Wisdom told him, the less Foxfire understood.” If all they wanted were your males, why do they come back?”
Croaking Wisdom’s hands bunched on her thighs. “They ride in and stay a month. They fill our young women with their seed and then take the boys born since their last visit. They harvest us like wheat and then plant for the next season.”
A shocked cry escaped Foxfire’s throat and his own hands curled into tight fists. “How can you stay here?”
“We have nowhere to go,” Croaking Wisdom said. “The Badlands have served as our home since the dirt birthed the first of us. The wastes are vast, but no matter where we go, the Dragon Queen’s soldiers find us.”
Foxfire could hardly breathe. It was as if K’hul had planted one of his colossal fists in his gut. He’d expected a war among the nomadic tribes had left the people of Thorn and Spike in this pitiable state but his imaginings compared nothing to reality. Then through the haze of horror, realization hit him. “The Dragon Queen isn’t your goddess. You think she’s the stranger.”
Croaking Wisdom spat in the dirt beside her. The waste of moisture showed just how strongly she felt. “The goddess remains in Her palace, nursing whatever hurt the stranger visited upon Her. I don’t know what sits the throne of Uhthein.”
Foxfire let his mind dance through the details of the story. The stranger had started by luring away the tribe’s best warriors. Then she’d somehow survived the poisonous wastes of the Glass Desert and managed to incapacitate or kill the region’s protector. With the tribe now vulnerable, the raids on the nomad’s males started along with the rape of their women.
Foxfire’s shoulders slumped. Gods, I’m no closer to knowing who the damn Dragon Queen is than before I arrived. Regardless, whoever or whatever ruled Uhthein had enough power to defeat a dragon single-handedly. And now she had set her sights on killing elves.
Chapter 15
Since First Home sent word demons might invade Teresland, the huge throne room of Castle Teres turned from seat of power to refugee camp as nobles, diplomats, valued merchants, and all of their servants abandoned their city estates for the safety of the fortified castle. While some sought the isolation of a private room, most gathered in the throne room and the grand ballroom in search of news and the comfort of numbers.
Chalice Renoir massaged his wife’s calloused hand and tried to pretend the large numbers of elven casters moving about from place to place, wiggling their fingers and chanting, didn’t disconcert him. His wife had no such qualms. “I don’t understand,” Tarako said. “I thought you said this Lord W’rath of theirs woke up from his injuries. Isn’t that a good thing? Why are they so agitated?”
Renoir considered for a moment the merits of Lord W’rath’s recovery. He’d met the Shadow Elf just the once. Their association had been brief but overall, Sister and Brother forgive him, Renoir couldn’t say he took comfort in the elf’s return to the living. “Their concern arises from what he said after he awoke—not the act of his waking. He fears we may have demonic visitors.”
“I thought they all died on the battlefield?” Tarako’s face took on an expression Renoir had witnessed many times but hoped he’d seen the last of since he took her as wife. Her squint of concentration meant she was memorizing every item in the throne room, determining which could come in handy as an impromptu weapon, what might serve as protection and what to avoid as an obstacle during a fight. Her gold eyes stopped their roving as her gaze fell upon their daughters. She gestured for the girls to leave the fireplace where they clustered, chatting with a trio of First Born guards, to come stand obediently next to her and Renoir. They obeyed, though the eight-year-old dragged her feet and pushed out her lower lip in a childish pout.
Renoir gave a sympathet
ic smile to his daughters before addressing his wife’s question. “I don’t think the warning concerns the king’s army of Riders,” he said. “Several weeks ago demons attacked the elves’ city of Second Home. The invaders won and the elves fled the city. They’re worried the surviving demons might come here next.”
Tarako hissed a curse in her people’s tongue. “I’ve brought our children to a death trap,” she continued in her native language. She’d never taught the girls Tulcaric and now Renoir understood why. Normally, it allowed her to vent without terrifying her children. This day her pinched lips and troubled eyes betrayed her agitation.
“Lord Icewind and his people raised protective magic around the city and castle. I doubt we need worry,” Renoir said. He’d hardly spoken a word of Tulcaric since leaving the Dragon Isles His words came out stilted and clumsy. Three pairs of young girl eyes narrowed, swiveling between Tarako and Renoir. Neither of us is fooling anyone. He sighed. “Go back and pester the guards.”
The girls didn’t argue and scurried off to chat up the handsome elves once again. Renoir considered it harmless enough. He hadn’t met an elf yet who had any interest in humans regardless of age, sex or comeliness. Renoir felt certain even his sixteen-year-old could flirt without getting herself into trouble. Tarako scowled but didn’t overrule him. “They could at least return your weapon,” Tarako said. “We have the right to protect ourselves.”
“Actually, we don’t,” Renoir said, nodding his appreciation to the young soldier who’d spent a good amount of time shadowing him as a bodyguard but now feigned interest in the chatter of Renoir’s daughters. “The elves crushed us on the battlefield. This kingdom belongs to them. We’re lucky they’re more interested in assuring we don’t bother them again than in subjugating us.”
Tarako’s scowl deepened. She started taking in the details of the room again. “If they couldn’t save their own city, there’s no reason to believe they’ll prevail this time.” He felt the hand he clasped flex with Tarako’s desire to take up arms. Even after twenty years away from the Dragon Isles, she still possessed the instincts of a fighter. She’d given up her sword for Renoir, but even after so long a time, he now realized she’d merely buried that part of herself, hidden it from the disapproving eyes of the church. She played a part so she could remain at his side. Knowing she loved him enough to make such a sacrifice made him ache with guilt.
Renoir had hoped to bring about change to the church. His ancestors started the Church of the Duality as a means of ensuring a variety of valuable roles for both sexes. Back then, the peoples of the north considered Renoir’s great-great-great grandparents’ ideas bold. The rough tribal society prevalent at that time valued strength and battle prowess above all else. Women had little status beyond their ability to produce male heirs.
The Church of the Duality’s teachings changed that. Men accustomed to running all aspects of their society found they could accomplish more if they accepted women as merchants, artists, scholars and healers. They’d underutilized half their population and suddenly they found themselves able to expand, create and build. Impressive structures like Castle Teres replaced the sod-roofed halls of the past. Improvements in agriculture aided in crop production. Exploration and distant trade became viable.
Even so, the roles for men and women remained inflexible. A man’s duty was to build and protect. A woman’s place was to support and nurture. A man couldn’t pursue a career as a healer. A woman could not carry a weapon beyond a small knife for eating. Renoir understood two hundred years ago, such limitations might have seemed reasonable but with the advances in science and rational knowledge, he thought it time the church updated its stance. Despite his convictions, Renoir had managed to do little more than get himself labeled an eccentric. He feared the term heretic might hover at the forefront of a few minds.
Such fretting didn’t help him now and it certainly didn’t put a weapon in Tarako’s hand. For now, he’d have to use other means to see to his family’s safety. “You and the girls should leave and head back to the protection of the City of Truth,” he said. “The elves are fussy about who they let into the castle but they won’t stop a mother and her children from seeking safety elsewhere.”
“Don’t say such foolish things,” Tarako said. She bumped his shoulder with hers to take the sting from her words. “As much as I’d like to spirit the girls away from this place, we’d open ourselves up for attack if we traveled the roads alone. You’ll never convince Master Favre or Matron DuBoi to leave at this point, and if they don’t go, the church’s guard won’t go—certainly not for the purpose of protecting the family of a single priest.”
“You mean the church’s resident crazy priest,” Renoir said, bumping her back. Even after all these years, she still felt solid. The people of the Dragon Isles, men and women alike, boasted great height and strength. Even though she no longer carried a sword, Tarako kept her black hair in the same warrior’s queue she’d worn when Renoir met her. He had no doubt she could handle herself in a fight. But against demons? The creatures coming for them now weren’t just summoned spirits, housed in human flesh, but true demons who trod the lands of Alassea in their natural forms.
Not for the first time, Renoir regretted knowing his ancestors made up everything about his faith. It made it that much more difficult to call on the magic supposedly sent by the Duality. Like his wife, he started to analyze his options. He had more faith in the elves’ magic than he did his own but he feared even their power wouldn’t be enough to hold back the evil he sensed encroaching upon them.
Renoir started as the doors meant for the king’s private use swung open to admit Lord Icewind and an entourage of Elven guards and casters. The councilor waved a weary hand and the group dispersed, the guards drifting to the edges of the room to confer with their fellows, the mages escaping the throne room, presumably to rest and eat. Only one, his apprentice Lady Winterdawn, remained at Lord Icewind’s side. Even after all these weeks, Renoir found her almost identical in every way to her mentor, even down to the purple and gold robes the two wore. Only their body language and an examination of their hands gave them away. Lord Icewind’s nails always bore the traces of his nervous gnawing, while Lady Winterdawn’s remained neatly trimmed, the tips smooth and round.
The councilor spied Renoir and approached, Lady Winterdawn gliding along in his wake. The priest noted the weary slump of Lord Icewind’s shoulders. His robes seemed ready to drag the elf into a shuddering heap. Tarako’s presence probably didn’t help. Renoir had never met another person, elf or human, who found social situations as terrifying as did Lord Icewind. While the elf councilor had now spent enough time around Renoir to face the priest without cringing, the arrival of Renoir’s family added a new element to their encounters to which Lord Icewind had yet to adjust.
For her part, Lady Winterdawn displayed the quiet composure Renoir had found so enchanting the first time they’d met. She kept her perfectly manicured hands demurely crossed against the front of her robe while her mentor clutched at his like a drowning man might a piece of driftwood.
“Lord Icewind,” Renoir greeted as Tarako and he rose from their chairs.
“Chalice,” the elf returned. His grey eyes slid toward Tarako and he dipped his head. “Lady Renoir.”
Tarako raised an amused eyebrow. Renoir doubted anyone had ever called Tarako lady before. The humans and elves continued to stumble over each other’s use of honorifics. Thanks to Lord Foxfire Renoir had learned the elves used titles primarily to signify an elf’s job, not their standing in the community. The elves used the non-gender specific term shen, which the humans translated as lady or lord, purely out of politeness.
“Sister Renoir is fine, Lord Icewind,” Tarako said, showing more grace than Renoir expected from his brusque wife.
“It’s no different than your title as councilor,” Lady Winterdawn explained.
“It’s not really a title … more a description of a duty I hold.” Lord Icewind’s slen
der eyebrows met in consternation.
“Surely, a certain amount of prestige is attached to it as well?” Tarako asked the councilor.
Lord Icewind blushed and met Tarako’s eyes for the briefest of moments before dropping his gaze. “Not so I’ve noticed,” he said. “I admit when I first took the position I felt a certain amount of pride but that has since waned.”
Lady Winterdawn cleared her throat as an awkward silence filled the space surrounding them. “The man at the front gate,” she prompted her mentor.
“Right,” Lord Icewind said with an embarrassed grimace. “I beg your pardon, Chalice, but a group of people arrived by river and their leader demands to see Queen Cherish. He calls himself King Harry.”
“Luccan?” Tarako wondered.
“Luccan wouldn’t come by river,” Renoir said. “And his first name isn’t Harry.” The angry goblins swarming in his gut stirred with renewed vigor. “Does he have a huge black beard?”
“Yes, and he stinks of fish,” the councilor said. He started to brush at his robes as if the aromatic human at the gates had somehow soiled him. “We’ve grown accustomed to certain clothing choices among your people but he doesn’t adhere to any of them.”
Renoir sighed. That sounded like King Harry. He’d probably shown up dressed more like a pirate than a sovereign. “He’s Queen Cherish’s uncle, the king of Scoffula.”
“Oh.” Lord Icewind drooped a bit more. “We’ve already ensured they’re not demon possessed so I suppose we ought to allow them in.”
Renoir understood the elf’s reluctance perfectly. Just five minutes around Harry could strain the patience of a stone. However, they’d gain nothing by ignoring the man. “I’ll go with you,” Renoir offered. “I suspect I know why he’s here and it’s not to lend his support for a marriage between King Renlin and Queen Cherish.”
