Surely, Roakore had earned a place in the mountain of the gods.
The gods…
Flying high over his mountain range—his kingdom—he was troubled once again by the nagging doubt. He felt ashamed for even harboring such thoughts, yet, he was unable to shake them from his mind. Ever since Whill read the Book of Ky’Dren to him, he had been helpless to consider the possibility that his powers were not gods-given, but a gift of the elves. His own manipulation of a flying piece of wood while fighting a dark elf was evidence of the deception. He had thought to quiet the idea when he was unable to move the wood in the fireplace, but still a flicker of doubt remained. When the dark elf had sent the battering-ram arm at him, Roakore had thought it to be a stone slab, he had believed it to be so, and so it was. With the same mental power he used to move stone, he had manipulated the beam. The action saved his life, but at the same time put a crack in his heretofore rock-solid system of belief.
Perhaps that was the key—belief.
Was that why he couldn’t repeat the feat, because he didn’t want to believe that he could do it? Roakore wondered. Somewhere deep inside his soul, he knew that he could do it again. He didn’t want to think of the ramifications, though. For if the words of Ky’Dren were in fact a lie, it meant that his people’s entire way of life was a lie, it meant that there was no mountain of the gods…there was nothing.
Chapter 4
The Bearer of the Trinket
“Dirk, Krentz, Chief, come to me!”
Raene stood upon the riverbank holding the wolf figurine in her outstretched hand. The figurine began to glow a soft blue and suddenly burst to life. Sparkling mist erupted from her hand and swirled around her legs before settling on the ground. It disappeared like fog in the wind, leaving the three standing before her.
“It’s about godsdamned time!” Krentz complained.
Chief went about sniffing the riverside.
“Only been two days,” said Raene, pocketing the figurine.
Dirk glanced north toward a distant city. “Brinn, I presume.”
“Yer reckonin’s correct. Arrived just before dawn.” Raene laid out her bedroll beneath a large tree and made herself comfortable. “I’m gonna get me some shuteye. Been a long haul. Wake me ‘round noon and we’ll head into town an’ see what the people be sayin’.” She yawned and patted down the pack she was using as a pillow. “With any luck we’ll pick up on the trail o’ Zander and the barbarian wench again.”
Krentz crossed her arms and regarded Raene with a cocked brow. “Wake you up at noon? Would you like breakfast hot and ready for you, too?”
The dwarf lifted her arm from her face. “That’ll do just fine,” she said with a smile before settling back once more.
Dirk couldn’t help but chuckle. Krentz turned her scowl on him, but before she could say anything more he turned into mist and flew by her over the water. She changed as well and followed. They flew a wide perimeter around their sleeping master and solidified farther upstream where the land afforded a better view of the city.
“I’m getting tired of taking orders from her, and remaining in the spirit world at her whim,” said Krentz.
Dirk shrugged. “She is the bearer of the figurine.
“You act as though you don’t care. Don’t you want to return to being human?”
“Of course I care. But Raene wants to hunt down Zander and avenge her brother. What are we to do? We owe her our lives. If she hadn’t found the figurine and known how to use it, we would forever be trapped in the spirit world.”
“But what of the words of Talon? If she is still alive—she who created the figurine—there might be a chance.”
“I don’t know,” said Dirk. “She would be—what, over two hundred years old by now?”
“You didn’t speak to him, he told me that she could help.”
“How are we to trust spirits? He could have been anybody.”
“No,” said Krentz. “Chief knew him well. He can be trusted.”
Dirk shook his head, amazed by it all. He hadn’t met the spirit, but he didn’t doubt she had. He had yet to get used to being in the other realm, and was not as aware as Krentz was during their times trapped there. It had taken him a long time to even remember being in the spirit realm when summoned back to that of the living, and still he was never quite lucid while away in that shadowy place. It was all like a foggy dream.
“I believe you, we just have to find a way to convince Raene to travel to the elven lands.”
Krentz regarded him with a mischievous grin. “Or find a new bearer.”
“What have you got against the dwarf, anyway?”
“She’s getting carried away. She treats us like her servants, and she’s going to get us killed. Hunting Draggard is one thing, but being forced to fight a necromancer? Raene overestimates our power.”
It was true, against any other foe Dirk, Krentz, and Chief were virtually unstoppable, but against a skilled necromancer like Zander, they might be helpless to resist his influence.
“You know as well as I that we are subject to the will of the bearer. How can we defy her?” Dirk asked.
Krentz shook her head. “You don’t know that. We have never tried.”
“As I said, we owe her our lives, such as they are. Would you so quickly betray her?”
“I will not be subjugated by her, debt or no. Do not forget, we saved her life as well.” She regarded him thoughtfully. “You don’t want to be free of the figurine, do you? You’ve become addicted to your powers.”
Dirk thought about it for a moment. Being a spirit trapped between two worlds had its benefits. He could turn to mist or solidify at will, and he could fly. And in a world in which the elves’ power had been taken and their magic no longer worked, such abilities were no small thing. Aside from necromancers, none could stand before them. Dirk thought it foolish to toss aside such an advantage hastily.
“I think that we should explore our options before we make a hasty judgment. Besides, we don’t even know if this old woman is still alive, and if so, there is no guarantee she can help us.”
“She can help us,” said Krentz.
Dirk gave a sigh. “I can see that your heart is set on this course, but don’t get your hopes up.” He put a hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him. “We died, Krentz. You have to accept that we might never be returned to our former selves.”
She extended her arms and stood before him. “We died, yet, here we are.”
“Yes, here we are, together. When Eadon struck me down and I knew that I would die, I had only one regret—that I had to leave you behind. Now, with the power of the figurine, we have nothing to fear.”
“Nothing but necromancers, one of which Raene brings us closer to with every passing moment.”
“I do not fear them.”
She cocked a brow at him. “You should. If one gets ahold of the figurine we will never know freedom again.”
Dirk conceded the point with a nod. “Let me talk to her again before you do anything rash.”
She offered him a smile and became translucent. Her phantom hand stroked his face. “My love, when have you ever known me to do anything rash?” With that, she turned to mist and flew away along the riverbanks.
Chapter 5
The Forsaken King
Zerafin walked through the ruins of Cerushia as he often did at night. The once beautiful streets and buildings that had been built by magic had been reduced to a heap of broken crystal and stone. The thousand falls loomed to his right, their high perches no longer accessible to the elves without flight. As he also often did, Zerafin returned to the temple of Kellallea—she who had stripped all magic from the elves, in what had come to be known as the Second Taking. It had been the first building to be built in the wake of the war.
“My Goddess, hear my words…” He dropped to his knees before the altar.
“You said that those loyal to you might be blessed once again. I stand before you as the king of your
people, ready to receive your command, yet you remain silent. Surely there is one among us who might receive your word?”
He waited in silence for his goddess, but only the wind answered his call, blowing in through an open window and offering a mournful moan.
Zerafin knew that Kellallea owed neither he nor the elves anything. The elves had nearly destroyed themselves with the magic of Orna Catorna during the first age, and Kellallea had stolen all power to save them in an event known as the Taking. Mallakell’s enlightenment and rediscovery of magic had ushered in the second age of magic for the elves, and once again they had nearly destroyed themselves fighting over it. The Second Taking had saved them, but it had doomed them to mortality once more.
Without magic, the elves had found it hard to cope, and they realized just how much they depended on Orna Catorna on a daily basis. Many elves had fallen into a dark depression, some—an alarming number of them—had taken their own lives. Zerafin’s own mother had fallen ill, as had numerous other elders of many millennia. Without their healing powers, the elves were as susceptible to disease and sickness as humans.
Zerafin sat there, unmoving, waiting for a voice that he knew would not come to him. What did he expect of her, anyway? What would he ask? He knew that his motives were not pure, for he too felt the pang of loss, and wished for a restoration of the glorious power he had once wielded.
Shamed by his own hypocrisy, he rose from his meditative position and bowed his head toward the altar. The gods of old had ever been silent, and now, it seemed, so too was Kellallea.
Avriel gently caressed her mother’s forehead with the cool cloth. Queen Araveal smiled upon her daughter, which only brought more tears.
“Cry no more, my child. I have had a long, long life.”
“Don’t talk like that. You’re going to beat this,” said Avriel, her voice cracking. Her mother had been getting worse every day. Watching her waste away like this was infuriating. The impulse to reach out and heal her with magic came to Avriel often, and with each remembrance of the lost gift the pain burned anew.
“How can she do this to her own people? We were not the ones who started the war.”
“There cannot be war without two sides, my dear. She does nothing…to us,” said Araveal, before being overcome by a coughing fit.
Avriel helped her to drink from a cup. With shaking hands, her mother brought it to her parched lips and took what water she could. She nodded when she was done, and lay back with a soft moan.
“The goddess has done what needed to be done. We destroyed our homeland. It was as much our fault as Eadon’s. I see that now. She is right, we are still not ready to wield the power of Orna Catorna, and we may never be.”
“But she said that the gift would be returned to those who proved themselves worthy. Surely you, of all elves, are worthy of her blessing.”
Araveal smiled upon her daughter and stroked her hair with a shaking hand. “This is true, but she did not say when, and what is time to a goddess?”
“Then you have given up? There is no fight left in you?” Avriel asked.
“I am over two thousand years old, my dear. I have been fighting my entire life. And…I find that it is quite tiring. Do not weep for me, for soon I will be with your father once more. It is something I have wanted for five hundred years. I am of another age…you see? And now that age has passed.”
Avriel’s throat constricted and she cried despite her mother’s wishes. The queen closed her eyes, and for a terrified minute Avriel thought that she had died.
“Mother? Mother!” She shook her.
Araveal opened her eyes and smiled sleepily, patting her daughter’s hand. “It is not yet time. Soon…perhaps…for now let me sleep.”
Avriel fought back her tears and kissed her mother’s forehead. Her skin was paper thin.
She left her mother to the care of her hand maidens and walked out onto the balcony overlooking Cerushia and the thousand falls. The pyramids that were scattered throughout the city, whose lights had once mirrored the constellations they were named after, now lay broken and powerless. The elves had begun to rebuild, but it would never be the same. Before the Second Taking, Cerushia had hummed with power. The pyramids’ crystal capstones had kept the energy moving throughout, giving life to the vines that had formed into domes, bridges, and walls. Now those plants were long dead, and those that had grown in their stead could not be tamed by the Ralliad druids as they once had.
Magic was gone.
Whill of Agora had given the power of Adromida to Kellallea, and she had stripped the elves of theirs. Avriel still had no memory of the man, though Zerafin and others had told her all that she cared to know about him. Her memories of Whill had been taken by Eadon while she was held captive. Avriel knew that she had once loved him, and had nearly killed herself performing a death curse on Eadon to save Whill. She remembered some of it, but Whill was always a phantom in her memories. Try as she might, she could never recall a word spoken between them. Those times when she got close, the memories fled from her mind like shadows hiding in the corner of the eye.
Something caught her eye in the distance, but without magic she was forced to wait until it got close enough to make out. When it did, she recognized the white dragon, Zorriaz. The female glided on warm winds down to the wide balcony. Quick wings buffeted Avriel, and she was forced to turn her face from random flying debris. Zorriaz settled down and perched on the stone ledge and greeted her with a rumbling croon.
“Hello, beautiful.” Avriel stroked her scaled neck.
Zorriaz the White bent her long neck to come eyelevel with the elf. Light blue eyes the size of Avriel’s head regarded her with affection. “Sisterr,” the dragon purred.
Back when Avriel had tried to kill Eadon with her death curse, she had died, and upon its flight into the unknown, her soul had been captured. Her comatose body was brought back to Elladrindellia by Zerafin, and her soul had been transferred by Eadon to the body of a dragon—Zorriaz the White. For nearly a year she remained trapped inside the body of the dragon, and in that time a great bond was forged between them. Dragons retain the memories of their descendants, and so Avriel was able to access them as well. Likewise, Zorriaz knew everything that she had known, including memories of Whill that Avriel herself had lost.
In a way, Zorriaz loved him still.
Zerafin joined them on the balcony. He looked starved. His eyes were sunken and ringed by dark circles, and his once proud ears had a drooping curve to them. His mother’s illness affected him greatly as well.
“Does she speak to you?” Avriel asked.
Zerafin shook his head and patted Zorriaz’s snout. “Kellallea remains as silent as ever the gods have been.”
Avriel wondered why she had asked, knowing what the answer would be.
Zerafin leaned his elbows on the rail of the balcony and looked out over the once beautiful capital city of Cerushia. “We should leave,” he said.
Avriel was confused. “Leave? Leave where, the city?”
“Agora,” said Zerafin.
She pondered her emotions, realizing that she was not as disturbed by the idea as she thought she should be.
“I am king, and I should do what I think is best for my people. We no longer belong here…we never did. We have brought destruction and death to the humans, and the dwarves.”
“Eadon would have found his way here regardless of our flight from Drindellia,” said Avriel.
“Perhaps. But speculation about what might have been does not change what is. Eadon is dead, his army is scattered. There is nothing keeping us from returning to the homeland now.”
“There is one thing keeping me…”
Zerafin regarded Avriel, and though they could not communicate with their minds any longer, he had known her for hundreds of years. “Whill.” He smiled.
“Yes…Whill. I have no memories of the man, but the question burns in me night and day. How could I have fallen in love with this…human boy?”
Zerafin laughed. “He is very much a man.”
“I am more than six hundred years old,” she said with all seriousness. “The notion is ridiculous. Could I have been under some sort of spell?”
Her puzzlement only caused Zerafin to laugh further. “Indeed, you were under a spell. It has been called that by many.”
It was good to see him laugh, even if it was at her expense. She slapped him on the arm playfully. “I’m being serious. Why do you tease me so?”
He regarded her more seriously. “I was a witness to it, sister. What you had was real.”
She joined him leaning on the balcony and rested her head on his shoulder. “I don’t know. A part of me wants to see him again, get to know him better, and discover the truth of it.”
All levity left Zerafin’s face, and he regarded her with something like pity. “And if you find that you love him still, what will come of it? He is a human king, you are an elf princess. I love the man like a brother, but it was doomed from the beginning. I told you as much back then. No, we should return to the homeland.” He stood up straight and turned to leave, but stopped and regarded her over his shoulder. “All of us.”
Zerafin left his sister to ponder his words. She knew him to be right. Even if there had been something to her and Whill’s love, it was merely a dream of yesterday. She needed to return with her people to the homeland, there they would build anew.
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