by E. A. Copen
Dex picked up a shirt and held it out in front of him like it would bite him. “I don’t understand.”
“We’re going to clean you up, feed you, and send you on your way with some supplies. What’s not to understand?”
“What about my sword?” I asked, shifting forward.
“Ah, that.” Leseran winced slightly. “The sword you were carrying was an ancient elven artifact. Normally, we’d take possession of it, as it was likely stolen from our people. It happens more often than you’d think. Dwarves and greedy dhalethein always find ways to break into our tombs and strip the dead. However, this sword… It has a history. Perhaps it’s best if I let the Shainach explain. For now, just get yourselves cleaned up and changed. I’ll be waiting outside.” He hurried out of the tent.
“What’s a Shainach?” I asked Dex. “I’m having trouble keeping all these elvish words straight.”
“It’s a storyteller.”
“Then why not just call it that?”
Dex shrugged and stood. “Well, because that’s not exactly true, either. A Shainach is a historian, a keeper of both lore and memories. When one Shainach dies, he passes his knowledge to an apprentice in an intense magic ritual which ensures they lose no information from generation to generation. They’re more important than your average storyteller. You could argue they’re the core of elvish culture and history.” He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it lazily aside.
In my line of work, you get used to seeing all kinds of things. I’d seen more blood and guts than most. With injuries comes the awkward territory of helping co-workers patch up. I did my own patch jobs, but I wasn’t above bandaging the wounded if the need arose. It was in that context that I usually viewed bodies, as things that needed fixing.
There was nothing on Dex that needed fixed. He was all lean, smooth muscle. The guild work kept him in shape.
“You keep staring at me like that, I might have to put on a show,” he said halfway through unbuckling his belt.
I cleared my throat and turned my back to him. “A little warning before you go streaking through the tent, Dex.”
“Why? Are you going to pretend to be all shy and modest?” He snorted. “Please. You’re a beautiful woman who kills monsters for a living. If you try to tell me you’ve never seen a naked man before, I’ll eat my hat. Which reminds me, we’ll have to go back and find the damn thing.”
“We’re not going back there just for your hat.”
“I’m going through all of this because of your sword. The least you could do is help me get my hat back. But you’re just trying to change the topic on me. I bet you’ve left a bunch of heartbroken guys in your wake.”
I folded my arms. “I’m usually a little busy saving people and killing things to get horizontal, Dex.”
“So, no crazy ex-boyfriends I should be worried about?”
My cheeks burned. “We’re not having this conversation.”
“Okay, all right. Never let it be said I made a lady do anything she wasn’t willing to.” He patted himself loudly. “You can turn around now. The immediate danger of me seducing you with my rippling abs and sculpted ass has passed. You’re safe again.”
Slowly, I turned around. He’d shed the light leather armored vest he’d been wearing and the layers of protective clothing, donning a simpler blue tunic that reached his knees and simple brown pants.
“What do you think?” Dex asked, doing a little turn. “Do I look elvish enough? I think a nice, dramatic cloak would add something to the look.”
I paced over the pile of clothing Leseran had dumped, picking up a light green dress before cringing and putting it back down. I hadn’t worn a dress since Old Jim took me to church, which had been so long ago I couldn’t even remember it. If Old Jim hadn’t liked to tell the story of how much I hated the dress, I never would’ve known. I passed on the dress and picked up a set of clothing similar to the one Dex had slipped into.
“Not into dresses, eh?” he said, smirking.
“If you like it so much, why didn’t you put it on?” I threw it at him.
He wadded up the dress and tossed it over his shoulder. “I’m not above it, but green’s not really my color.”
“Turn around so I can get dressed.”
Dex turned around without protest.
I shrugged off my jacket and winced at the pain resurfacing in my arm. It probably needed looked at. “You know, I don’t understand anything that’s happening. First, we’re begging for their help. Then we’re prisoners and now some storyteller is going to explain why I’ve got to go buy a new sword.”
“Elves are a strange bunch,” Dex said with a shrug. “It’s even crazier from my perspective.”
“How so?” I tugged on a red tunic with laces on the sleeves.
“They’ve shown more interest in you than they ever did me, and I’ve got elven blood flowing through my veins. It’s almost as if they like you better than me.”
“I don’t know that I’d go that far. They don’t seem to like me very much either.”
He chuckled. “Don’t be offended. They’re elves. They don’t like anybody.”
I finished dressing. The tunic was a little big, but it worked well enough once I put my belt back on. I felt naked without it, anyway. “Be honest, Dex. What do you think this is all about?” I asked, folding my clothes neatly and placing them on the bed.
Dex shrugged and put his hands on his hips. “Honestly, I’ve got nothing. But Leseran was right. If they wanted us dead, we would be. I’ve just never seen them do a turn like this. I think you’re right to be suspicious. We should stick close tonight. Don’t trust anyone who hasn’t earned it.”
It was twilight when we stepped out of the tent. More than a day had passed since we left the hunting convoy, though it almost felt like a lifetime. I wondered if Ike and Ash were worried about us. Had they sent a search party? What had become of Zia’s vampires? I never thought I’d be sorry to imagine the creatures being put down, but she seemed pretty attached to them.
The elven camp was more active than it was when we’d arrived. Men and women worked together to chop wood, peel vegetables, and mind giant iron pots boiling over a fire pit that had been dug in the ground like a trench. Older children minded younger ones while sitting in groups and gossiping, pointing at us occasionally. The eyes of the elves weighed heavily on us as we met Leseran a few paces from the tent.
He turned around, arms crossed. “Well, your smell is less offensive at least.”
“I’d like to talk to this Shainach of yours,” I said. “I think I’m owed an explanation.”
“For once, we agree. Come. I’ll take you to her.” He turned around and marched further into the camp.
Dex and I followed.
Leseran led us through the small encampment to the very edge opposite the building where we’d met with the Telmara. It was a smaller hut with several nets hung on the outside. A group of youngsters ran by, giggling. We followed them around the hut to the back. Children had gathered into a circle to sit cross legged before an old woman in a padded chair. The old woman leaned heavily on a cane. Mounds of silver braids were piled upon her head, each one tied with a different color. Fading tattoos marked her cheeks, forehead, and hands The woman and the children turned their heads when we entered.
Leseran put a fist to his chest and bowed. “My apologies for interrupting, Shainach. The Telmara asked that I bring you these outsiders.”
The old elf smiled. “Be welcome, strangers. Children, say hello.”
“Savidad,” muttered the children in unison. Some of them smiled at us with gap-toothed grins.
“Come, sit. Children, make room.” The Shainach gestured to the circle of children in front of her. “Leseran, you too.”
Leseran gave her a tight-lipped smile and a bow. “I’m afraid my duties call me elsewhere tonight. Perhaps another time.” He turned and gave us a warning glance. “I’ll be within shouting distance should you need me,” he said, and
went on his way.
Dex and I sat at the edge of the circle. I expected the kids to give us plenty of distance as the adults had, but they crowded in, curious.
One of them poked at Dex’s ears. “What’s wrong with your ears? They’re so small!”
“Dexter’s mother is a human,” replied the Shainach.
“Thanks for the reminder,” Dex groaned.
“Did you forget who you were?” The Shainach leaned back in her seat and drew out a long pipe, filling the end. “Or maybe you wish to forget, like Rychell the Small. Who can tell me what happened to him?”
The children’s hands all shot up eagerly until the Shainach picked one at random.
The little boy beamed and stood up straight. “He wanted to be a warrior, but the Telmara made him a cook instead. He was so ashamed, he ran into the forest to hide.”
“That’s foolish,” said a little girl, her arms wrapped around her knees. “You can’t run away from who you are.”
The Shainach nodded. “That’s right, Ailara, but Rychell didn’t believe it was his destiny to be a cook, even though he showed great skill at it, and enjoyed it very much. He believed that being a cook wasn’t important enough. But everyone needs to eat. It was Rychell the Small who fed the people during the Great Famine. His skill made him a hero. All of us have our roles to play for the betterment of the world we live in. Even you, Dexter.”
Dex’s head flopped to one side with a sigh. “Please don’t call me that. Just Dex.”
The little girl raised her hand and rose once the Shainach called on her. “Um, how come his mom is a human? Isn’t it forbidden?”
The Shainach crossed her ankles and lit her pipe, leaning back. “So is having an extra cookie, but we all sometimes enjoy one now and again, don’t we? Rules exist for our protection, but even the most well-meaning rules can sometimes overreach. And there is no command that can override nature. Just like you sometimes want what’s forbidden, so do we all, child. Some believe that the mere act of forbidding one thing only increases our desire for it.”
“Like Orrian and the powerful magic,” said another child.
The Shainach nodded. “Just so. But today we’re not going to hear about Orrian and her battles against the Willow Mage.”
A collective groan of disappointment rose from the children gathered.
“Today,” continued the Shainach, “you will hear about the fall of the elves, about how we came to be here, and why. It is a story of many sorrows, a shameful story. But we must remember it and keep the truth in our hearts. If we forget our sins past, we learn nothing from it.”
“Pardon,” I said, hesitant to interrupt. “But Leseran said my sword had a history with your people and that I should ask you about it. What makes it so special? Is it cursed?”
“The history of that sword is inextricably tied to the greatest sin of the elves. Listen, and you’ll hear your answers, outsider.”
The Shainach sucked on her pipe for a long moment before answering. A silver sheen passed over her eyes and quickly disappeared. “Long ago, before the eldest among us was born, the elves lived in another place. Our lands stretched from the salt sea in the east to the tall snowy mountains in the west, from the wastes in the north to the Dread Forest in the south. The domain of the elves was vast and rich. Our cities rose into the sky, glass towers glittering in the sun. Magic in those days was plentiful and used without fear. Everyone was gifted with it, from the poorest child in the slums to the wealthiest lords in their towers. It was as common to us as blades of grass to you, everywhere and natural.
“But it wasn’t enough. Some sought more. The lords waged wars against one another, pitting brother against brother in pursuit of more. Every great nation raced to develop new ways of fighting, of causing pain and hurt to one another. We waged war against ourselves in our endless pursuit of more.”
“More what?” I asked.
The Shainach shrugged. “More wealth. More power. More land and more people. There were many small wars fought over many things. Toward the end, it was so common that war was a way of life. The people barely cared what it was for. But the war for more drove every part of their lives from their economies to who became our leaders. Whoever had more was always one step ahead in every way, and each group waged an endless struggle to take from the other.”
She was silent for a long time, silver-tinged eyes looking out over the busy work going on in the camp. The gentle ting of metal against metal rang out from someone working somewhere, though I couldn’t pinpoint the direction. It sounded peaceful, quiet. Almost idyllic. A far cry from the hustle and bustle of the cities I knew.
At length, the old elf spoke. “Before there was the Telmara, there were the Felmor, great magister lords among our people. It was their job to protect the elves, and to seek knowledge so to serve better. But they forgot their role was to serve and sought instead to rule. The Felmor used thieir positions to gain more power. With forbidden magic, they destroyed the peace of ages and our people descended into war.”
I shrugged. “Sounds a lot like human history. We had our share of wars too.”
“Our people were no stranger to war, but this war was different,” the Shainach said. “Magic became a weapon, and each sect wielded it against the other. The Felmor became servants of death and destruction, using their knowledge to invent new magics that would kill more people more efficiently. They told themselves it would bring an end to the fighting they themselves had sparked a generation past. I do not know which faction opened the first rifts,” she said, looking to the sky, “only that they didn’t come here.”
My back went rigid. “Is that true? The elves caused all of this?”
Humans had their theories. Some said the rifts were a natural phenomenon, opened when our reality butted up against another. It created some sort of subatomic spark and the world was never the same. That was the leading scientific theory, at least. No one knew for sure, though. Religious groups taught the rifts were physical manifestations of their gods’ wrath, or a punishment from Heaven for mortal sins. Other groups said it was some shady organization that caused it, performing experiments that blended black magic and science.
No matter the story, they all had one thing in common. Humans blamed other humans for the tragedy. There was always some scapegoat, some minority group, being singled out as being responsible. In the early days, that led to mass riots and attempts at genocide around the world. We killed more of our people than the rifts did, yet the rifts took all the blame. It was easier than admitting humans were so terrible.
Now that history was largely forgotten, humanity preferring to gloss over our own mistakes and shortcomings rather than learn from them.
If it got out that elves were responsible, I could only imagine how my people would take it.
I envisioned a large-scale war of extermination, humans hunting elves and elves hunting humans in kind. Cities burned and kingdoms fell. Millions would die.
“That is what the memories say,” said the Shainach, nodding. “That we opened the rifts to escape a dying world, however, is only a half-truth. It must be understood that our world was only dying because we had destroyed it. Our wars killed our world. But we didn’t know it when the Felmor opened the first rifts. They had decided they would invade other worlds in search of more. That is how they found the Black City.”
“The Black City,” I repeated, barely above a whisper. “The heretics spoke of it, too.”
She nodded slowly. “That doesn’t surprise me. Perhaps in their insanity, they’ve seen the truth.”
“The Black City.” Dex wiggled his fingers. “Sounds ominous.”
“It was in the Black City they learned the art of summoning and binding elemental spirits to their will. The Felmor called forth spirits of all kinds and enslaved them: spirits of air, water, fire, spirits of justice, of vengeance. They bound them to their bodies and, in so doing, became something other. They became the first Gwǽtach. In your language, Shadow Warriors
.”
I hugged myself tight, suppressing a shiver. “The stag-headed creature in my visions… It’s one of these Shadow Warriors?”
She put her pipe in her mouth and nodded.
“I don’t get it,” Dex said. “How does one of these Gwǽtach get stuck in a sword?”
“Dark magic that’s been lost to time,” said the Shainach. “Even the memories don’t speak of it. We know only that the ancients understood the essence of a living being to be completely separate from the body. Thus, they theorized immortality could be achieved if the essence were contained in a vessel that didn’t age. It was taboo magic, even then. Not that the Felmor cared. They reveled in the forbidden. It doesn’t surprise me to find one inside an instrument of death. Our people have many stories about Gwǽtach artifacts surfacing from time to time since the great wars. When they do, the days that follow are bleak indeed.”
“So there’s some type of demon inside the sword. Great.” I threw my hands up.
The Shainach lowered her pipe with a frown. “Don’t be so quick to demonize the Gwǽtach.”
“But you just said—”
She held up a hand, silencing Dex. “Remember their motivation for going to the Black City was to end war. They believed they could fashion a weapon so terrible, the very threat of its existence would bring peace. In your history, you did the same. The atomic bomb, nuclear weapons.”
“It was a mistake.” I don’t know why I felt like I was on trial. The Shainach had just told me her people had done something even worse. At least humans hadn’t destroyed the planet by hurling bombs at each other, though the number of times we had come close was truly terrifying.
The Shainach nodded. “As it often is. Weapons do not end wars. Weapons exist to fight wars. War can only truly ever end if we lay down all arms and learn to resolve differences peacefully. The Telmara were formed with this goal. We seek to heal our people, and minimize our harm to this world as penance for the damage we did to our own.”
