by Alon Shalev
Pyre just smiled, but it was clearly forced. “Will you ever return?”
“I must go and face the most powerful army in our lands and confront the most powerful Wycaan ever. It’s difficult to think past that.”
“But you must go?” she said quietly.
“Pyre. All of us here are elves on the outside, our ears pointed and for those who are Wycaan, our hair is white. But inside, I fear, we’re all different. I’m driven by a desire to stand with my friends, free my people, and allow all races to live free and with dignity. I couldn’t stay here, knowing what was happening outside.”
“I know,” she said. “I think that’s what I like most about you.” She sighed and looked away for the moment. “They won’t agree, you know. The High Council will hear your petition, but they won’t risk everything we’ve built here.”
Seanchai nodded. “I swore to my friends that I’d try. I can do no more. The Elves of the West have given me much. I will not walk away ungrateful, but I cannot yet say I will leave happy. And I’ll miss the friends I have made here–you, especially.”
Pyre jumped to her feet and leapt at Seanchai. He opened his arms and hugged her tightly. He could feel the energy she was expending trying not to cry. They held each other, and then Seanchai loosened his grip as he saw others approach.
Pyre also sensed their presence and pulled away. She picked up the bowls. “You’ll have at least one supporter in the Great Hall,” she whispered. “Look for me if you need a friend.”
“But calhei aren’t allowed to attend, are they?” Seanchai asked.
Pyre forced a smile. “Do you think that’s ever stopped me? Look for me if you need a friend,” she repeated, and left.
Seanchai watched her leave and then rose. The Weapons Master approached with Cheriuk and Shathea walking either side of her. They all wore tense expressions.
“We would be honored to escort you back to Bloodwyre,” the Weapons Master said, “and to the Great Hall.”
“Is this a security detail or honor guard?” Seanchai asked, immediately upset by his tone.
“Both,” the old elfe’s voice was just as crisp. Her hair was not in a tight bunch now, but hung down. A leather band with a green stone held her snow-white locks in place. She looked all the more imposing. “When you leave the Wycaan compound, you will need new wards to reenter.”
“But you walk with friends,” Shathea added, playing the role of peacemaker.
“It is so,” Cheriuk confirmed, his body rigid and his voice formal as ever.
“Then let’s go,” Seanchai said. Before he picked up his belongings, he touched the tree that had been his home in gratitude. He thought the tree shimmered in response.
They walked in silence away from the Wycaan village, and Seanchai was too preoccupied to notice their route or surroundings. He was unaware when they passed through the magical boundaries and back into the great forest. He barely felt them ascend into the trees or register when they reached the outskirts of Bloodwyre. Only when they approached the main square did he start to pay attention.
The Great Hall seemed bigger. The walls of vine were rolled back, leaving only the great logs that supported the roof. Without the walls, the hall stood as one with the forest. Seanchai wondered whether this was to accommodate more elves or to allow the trees to bear witness.
He stopped on the edge of the square and looked at the stern faces on the High Council’s platform. The previous time, a chair had been vacant, but now Denalion occupied it. Pyre had explained that he rarely sat in his place on the council. Seanchai wondered what to expect from Dyfellian and the dreamwalker.
The open-aired structure was full of elves, and more stood under the trees. There must be thousands he thought and a knot of fear clenched in his stomach. He began his breathing as the Weapons Master put her strong hand on his shoulder.
“It is time,” she said, and gently pushed him forward. As they walked, she whispered: “Learn from your friends, my student. Be diplomatic like Shathea, strong like Cheriuk, genuine like Pyre, and unpredictable like Denalion.”
Seanchai smiled. “And what may I take from you, Weapons Master?”
“Love,” she replied, her gaze firm and looking ahead, but her voice soft. “Remember those you love who have sacrificed themselves.”
They stopped at the edge of the square. Seanchai turned to his escorts. “I should walk alone,” he said. “Thank you.” And the Wycaan from the East bowed low in reverence.
Cheriuk, Shathea, and the Weapons Master all bowed back. “Never alone,” the old elfe whispered.
Chapter Sixty-Six
The Great Hall quieted as Seanchai walked to its center. He felt even the trees strain to listen and watch. He took up a position before the High Council and studied each of them in turn. Dyfellian gave him a brief nod and Denalion smiled, but otherwise, he saw no reactions.
He turned to speak, but the elfe who sat in the center raised her hand to stop him. “Before you begin, there is another matter of business. Step forward, Sellia, please.”
Seanchai felt a wave of concern as Sellia stepped forward. She was also in her traveling clothes; her skin shone and her dark hair was resplendent. She stood next to Seanchai and frowned, unsure.
Two elderly elves appeared from the crowd. One spoke for all to hear.
“Dark Sellia, you were called by those in the east. People, even elves, viewed you with wonder or suspicion because of the color of your skin. Friends, you had; some, you even considered family.
“You came here to support and aid the Wycaan, and he is, I am sure, deeply in your debt. But you also came with a hope that you, too, might find answers. We represent a small order of academics and historians. At the request of Denalion, the dreamwalker, we have used our skills to discern your family line. Step forward, House of Tryzen.”
A group of dark-skinned elves stepped out, cowed by the attention, and one approached Sellia, a shy smile on her face. “You are the daughter of Senzia, my sister, who went into the east with her mate and never returned. I fear we won’t have time to spend together, but you should know where you come from. This was a gift from my sister many years ago, when she and I parted. I give it now to you as something to connect you back to us.”
She stepped forward and put a thin, leather band around Sellia’s head. A family emblem and inscriptions were burned into it, and a small, red stone shone at the front.
The woman stepped back and raised her voice. “No longer shall they call you Sellia Without a Past, or Mysterious Dark Elfe. You are Sellia, daughter of Senzia, from the house of Tryzen. You have a past and a family, and wherever your path takes you, you will always belong.”
As one, thousands of voices repeated: Sellia, daughter of Senzia, from the house of Tryzen. The elfe took Sellia’s face in her hands and kissed the stone and Sellia’s wet cheeks. Then she took Sellia’s hand and led her to stand with her family.
Seanchai watched Sellia walk away. It occurred to him that she had a choice now, an alternative to returning to the unsure and dangerous path that lay before them. He started to imagine continuing without her, but the voice of the High Council leader brought him back to his own predicament.
“Dyfellian, is the Wycaan ready to be tested?”
“He is, Treewent,” the old elfe replied, her voice strong.
Treewent turned to Seanchai, but all heard his words. “Are you ready to be tested to become a Wycaan Master? Traditionally, failure has meant death. However, given your responsibilities in the East, should you fail, you will be banished, and no Wycaan Master may ever teach you further. How do you choose to be tested?”
Seanchai took a deep breath. Now was the time. “I am Seanchai, son of Seantai, an elf from Morthian Wood. I have learned to wield sword and bow with your Weapons Master and Master Bowyer, to embrace my animal form with Dyfellian, and to apply my Wycaan training to all areas of life from Denalion. But I am a student also of the human Wycaan Master, Mhari, and the dwarf Wycaan Master, Onyxei.
My ears are pointed, but I represent all races of Odessiya, in the east and the west.
“There was a time when a Wycaan would test with sword or bow, with elements or animal spirits. Many of your finest have bore witness to my abilities with these powers. But beyond these borders, I have led and won battles at Galbrieth and Hothengold. Most importantly, I have crafted something more powerful than weapons. I have brought together the dwarves, the Aqua’lansis, and the pictorians. The free humans will follow one who is bonded to me. The peoples of Odessiya have chosen. Now it falls to the people of the West. My test is also your test: I choose alliance building.”
There was a murmur of surprise throughout the crowd, and Seanchai saw Denalion smile. But Treewent frowned. “State your case.”
Seanchai turned to address the crowd. “When I came before you–”
“You should address the council,” a high-pitched elfe beside Treewent snapped. “It is we before whom you stand in judgment.”
Seanchai turned back to her. His voice remained steady, but he felt–and knew others could, too–an immense power building up inside of him. “I stand in judgment; that is true. But I do not stand alone this day. The High Council stands in judgment. The Elves of the West stand in judgment.”
There was another wave of uneasy murmuring. Seanchai continued.
“When I first came before you, I reminded you of the teachings of Wycaan Master Tansu, recorded in the Book of Prophesies. He brought you into the west, but he foresaw a time when you would be called upon to return.
“You strive to create a pure society where energy is channeled into learning, cultivating crafts, and transcribing histories. At one time, this was correct; the elves were weak, defeated, and shattered.
“But it is a false culture–a flawed learning–because it ignores the negative energies in this world, even in our own Wycaan order. You know of whom I speak, for he breathed fire upon you and only the power of the forest protected you. You know of what is transpiring in my land, for some have witnessed the oppression and suffering beyond your border.
“The elves of the east are a slave nation–pitied at best, abused at worst, and it is usually the worst. The dwarves, our oldest allies, stood alone when your ancestors fled, burying themselves underground in fear, in shame, and in helplessness. They have risen now and fight with me in a new Alliance.
“The fierce pictorians forsook their proud warrior history and sold themselves to the thirst for blood, because they thought it was the only way to protect themselves. As we speak, they reclaim their heritage and stand once again for freedom.
“A prince is reborn who can unite the humans, and he stands with us. He has sworn his sword to me. Even the Aqua’lansis gather to answer the call, as all great nations did for thousands of years.
“I would like nothing more than to stay in this forest, surrounded by good elf folk–to delve deeper into the Wycaan arts, to learn more about my true passion of healing, and to take a mate and create a family the likes of which I have not had since my parents were slaughtered, and my village razed to ashes. Deep inside, I crave for what you have. Instead, I have been honored to call those who have joined me on my journey my family.
“My part of this test is to walk away, to leave this great forest and the Elves of the West, knowing I may never return. But I will go to the races in the east and face the one you fear. I will face him alone, if necessary, but know this: the destiny of the west is also the destiny of the east. What prevails in Odessiya will ultimately prevail here.
“I leave either way with a heavy heart. If it is my destiny to walk alone, my sadness will be for your shortcomings as much as my own loss. But I will pass my test, because I will leave and return to face the evil in the east.”
He turned and stared slowly at all who had gathered. As he circled, he returned and looked at each of the High Council in turn. Finally, his gaze fell on Treewent.
“Are you ready to take the greatest test your people have faced in living history? Are you ready to choose?”
There was a tense silence as all eyes went to Treewent. He cleared his throat, but his gaze never left Seanchai. “We told you when you stood before us, young Wycaan, that your request would be denied. We will not risk the elven world of the west to help our brothers in the east. We cannot allow ourselves to risk everything we have accomplished.
“It is not us who have failed, for the test was not ours to take. You walk alone, destined never to become a Wycaan Master.”
Treewent raised a beautifully carved staff in the air and poised himself to pound the ground with it. A steady voice stayed his arm.
“Hold, Treewent, my old friend. That is not the unanimous decision of the High Council. Seanchai will not walk alone.”
Chapter Sixty-Seven
A thousand elves gasped as Denalion, long red hair and dark shining skin, rose from his seat at the edge of the High Council’s heavy table.
“The Council has met and discussed this, honored dreamwalker,” Treewent said, lowering his hand and the staff. “You had a chance to speak already, but were silent, as oft you are. Our traditions state–”
“Our traditions, wise Treewent, show us the past. These unsettling times that we all have felt are, themselves, unconventional. The future of the Elves of the West cannot be shackled by our past. This is why we have not grown. This is what has prevented us from flourishing.
“I chose not to speak at council because I am uneasy that the Council makes such momentous decisions for us all. What gives me the right to decide the actions and fate of the entire Elven nation? What gives you that right, Treewent?
“It is easier for you, dear friend, for all you see is what the forest offers. But my destiny has been to walk in the dream world, and I have seen the oppression Seanchai describes. I have heard the cries and desperation of our people. The pleas I heard in the dream world haunt me in this world, too.
“So the decision is not unanimous, Treewent, for I will leave with Seanchai.” He looked at Dyfellian and Lymora. “My hair is red, but I know the inner being of a Wycaan Master. I know their values, their principles, and their responsibilities. Seanchai does not need this Council’s consent or approval. I go now and stand proudly beside a Wycaan Master.”
Denalion stepped from the stage and went to Seanchai’s side. Seanchai watched him approach and then turned back to the High Council, but all other eyes were now focused on the Weapons Master, who stood at his other side.
“A Wycaan Master is motivated, above all, by honor and love,” she said. “I have devoted my life to the service of our people, but I left my heart with another Wycaan, one who sacrificed her own life to help Seanchai. He is my only connection left to her. Once, this council denied me the opportunity to go with her. This time, I will not ask permission. I will walk in Mhari’s path and continue to offer guidance to her last student for as long as I draw breath.”
Treewent sighed. He looked to the council members on both sides and then back to those who stood before him. “You have both served us well all your lives, and we know you are compelled to do what you are convinced is right. You go with our bless. . . NO!!!”
Seanchai swung around. Standing twenty feet behind him was Pyre, accompanied by twenty other calhei, all her age or slightly younger. They wore traveling cloaks and had bags and weapons strapped around them.
An angry buzz circulated around the crowd, and members of the High Council had sprung to their feet. The children closed in together, frightened by the reaction. Only Pyre stood her ground.
“You are not of age,” Treewent snapped. “You should not be here.”
“Would you prefer that we snuck off in the dark?” Pyre replied, her young voice calm and even. “It would be fitting, for you have raised us in the dark. How can you teach us the Elven Code while ignoring the cries of those of our people who are oppressed?”
Seanchai did not wait for Treewent to respond. He turned and knelt in front of Pyre. When he spoke, it was for her ears alone.
“I cannot take you, my dearest friend. It may deny our people a generation of calhei, and it would endanger me.”
“How?”
“I would be scared for you, knowing you are physically smaller and not fully trained. I would watch out for you and plan tactics around you. Ultimately, the Emperor would use you against me, as he has used my other friends–as he used my mate, Ilana.
“You would honor me by staying. Complete your training and be ready to rule in the new era. For when we have freed our people, they will seek out leaders, and those who ignored their cries will not be accepted. I’m our people’s hope for the present, but you are their hope for the future. Stay. Learn. Train. And be ready to serve when you are called.”
Pyre shook her head. “You told me just before that an elf’s strength lies in the friendships he forms. I can’t let you leave without fighters to help you.”
“He will not, Pyre,” said Shathea from behind her.
Seanchai looked up and saw she stood with others. Cheriuk spoke to Pyre now. “We will serve with him in your place,” he said. “We swear to protect your friend as best we can.”
Pyre stood up, her small body erect. “Then swear, Cheriuk, before the entire Elven nation.”
The silence was thick with tension. Cheriuk took a step back and drew his Win Dao swords. The crisp rasps of metal from two hundred scabbards behind him, Shathea’s included, answered. When Cheriuk spoke, his voice carried up to the tops of the mighty trees.
“We swear allegiance to the Wycaan Master, and to free the people of Odessiya or die trying. Ashbar!”
“ASHBAR!” responded a hundred voices.
Seanchai stared in wonder and gratefully saw the determined faces of rows of white-haired elves, including all who had trained with him, their swords held high in the air. He looked up to the High Council. Treewent had crumpled to his seat, but Dyfellian stood, leaning on her staff.
