by Lev AC Rosen
But it has to be more than that, doesn’t it? If it’s just Mom showing her history through the game, why wouldn’t the soft-eyed Mom know about it? Why is only the sharp-eyed Mom winking at him? She must be trying to tell him something else, too—some secret message he hasn’t figured out yet. And while he doesn’t know what the message is, he feels sure it’s something he can use to get her out. It’s sharp-eyed Mom’s escape attempt—through him.
“That’s where you are,” Nick’s dad says, suddenly standing next to him.
“Yeah, it was stuffy in there. Why did you take Mom away?”
“She was tired, Nick. That’s all.” Dad looks down as he says this, won’t meet Nick’s eyes. “We should get home. Did you get what you needed for your school project? Was it enough?”
“Yeah,” Nick says, stepping down the porch steps and onto the white rocks of the parking lot. “I got what I needed.”
SEVERKIN WANTS to find Reunne. He wants to talk with her again. The desire is practically all consuming. And he knows that if he goes to the Tower, he’ll meet her there, but he also knows he has one stop to make before he can go. He promised he’d meet an old friend there, after all.
The Silver Roof is a tall but narrow gray-stone building, standing alone. It has a triangular tin roof, different from the stone domes the other buildings seem to have, more like the roof of the palace he has just come from. Though it’s only a little after noon, people are stumbling out of the place as though they’ve been drinking all night, and inside it’s crowded.
It’s cramped, too, with a bar along one long wall and a fireplace opposite, and a cluster of tables and chairs between. Severkin glances around, but the crowds of people make it hard to see much besides the merrymakers: they’re of all races, drinking and laughing and clapping each other on the back, and there’s even some unfortunate singing. He tries to approach the bar but is suddenly grabbed from behind and spun.
“Severkin! I wondered when you’d sneak in here.”
Severkin grins at the woman facing him. She’s a troll, tall and muscular, with mint-green skin and a blue mohawk so long it trails down her back like a tail. She’s in brown leather armor from the top of her neck to her feet, with only her head and hands exposed, and she is wearing a belt from which hang two strips of white cloth that fall nearly to her feet at the front and back. A staff is strapped across her back. None of it is for show; the staff is splintered at its base, the leather armor is worn and scratched in places, and the cloth that hangs from her belt is tattered at the ends.
“Hello, Elkana,” Severkin says.
Elkana smiles, her sharp pointed teeth like knives, and leans down to grab Severkin up in a hug.
“Oh, it’s been too long,” Elkana says after putting him down. “And ye owe me a drink.” She nods toward the bar and they walk to it together and Severkin orders them two drinks.
“So what brings you to Wellhall?” Severkin asks.
“The giants, same as you I’d wager.”
Severkin nods and sips his beer.
“But they seem to be in a holding pattern. Attacked by the giants each night, the gray elves fight ’em off but don’t kill ’em. I looked into joining the soldiers who hold off the giant each night, but it seems so dull. I want to get out there, find the other giants, or whatever woke them, and then get that. Kill the disease, not the symptom, aye?”
Severkin nods. “I agree. But no one seems to know what’s woken them.”
“I’m thinking it might be related to what put them to sleep,” Elkana says, drinking deeply from her pint. “I want to do some research at the library I hear they have at the Tower in Grayhome.”
“Actually,” Severkin says, lowering his voice, “I’ve been charged with helping reassemble the device that put them to sleep.”
“Really?” Elkana’s eyes widen, then narrow. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” Severkin confesses.
Elkana half growls, half sighs in disappointment.
“I know we need to retrieve three parts, called the Hammer, the Staff, and the Spear,” Severkin says. “I’m meeting another agent at Grayhome. The new head of the Mages Guild there knows where the Staff is. We’re supposed to retrieve it.”
“Well, it seems our missions are aligned, then. And good thing, too. Ye’ll need my magic to get ye that far north without dying. Still shooting yer wee little arrows?”
“I think I’ll kill more than you will on our journey up north.”
Elkana slams down her empty glass.
“Whoever kills the least has to buy the next round,” she says.
“Deal.”
THEY START out for the Tower after one more round and after checking out the various shops in Wellhall. Most goods are too expensive for them, but Severkin restocks his arrows and buys new boots.
The way out of town is through another giant arch in the mountain, this one with a wide street leading down like a slide, to the foothills and plains beyond the capital city. Grayhome is far north on their maps, and somewhat west, on a peninsula reaching up into the ocean like a hand stretching for the gods. The ocean there is marked as covered in ice, the earth a tundra. But at least, Severkin thinks as they head down the mountain, it’ll be flat.
They discuss strategy as they walk downhill: Elkana has only a few healing spells but can throw fire, lightning, and poison, so Severkin keeps his hands on his blades, ready to run forward and engage enemies head-on as she casts her spells from behind him. The technique works well as they head north, fighting wolves, bears, and bandits. Severkin sometimes wonders if she’s waiting till he’s weakened their foes so she can get the kill, but by the time they reach the outer borders of Grayhome, she’s only killed two more than he has.
They know it’s the outer border of Grayhome because of the river. It’s frozen solid, and not very wide, but just beyond it, there is another river, and another beyond that.
“The nine frozen rivers,” Elkana says. “This is Grayhome. Are ye supposed to meet the other agent here, or at the Tower?” Severkin has filled her in on everything that has happened to him since his ship crashed—all about Reunne, how strong a warrior she is, how kind she is, how thoughtful, how much the two of them will get along.
Severkin looks around. The sun is setting and the tundra reflects back the purplish light, so the whole landscape feels lit by a distant, dying fire. It’s cold, and the ground is barren and covered with thin snow, which smells of water and the faintest hint of mint. It’s the sort of landscape he knows people would call desolate, but he feels invigorated by its emptiness, by the clarity of the horizon. This is the homeland of his people, and it’s still empty enough that he can have a hand in carving it.
“I don’t see anyone,” he says. “Let’s continue on to the city proper and the Tower.” The city is only a speck in the distance. They cross the nine frozen rivers carefully—there are no bridges and they must walk on the ice. As they walk, the sky grows darker, not with the setting sun but with clouds, and it begins to sleet, thick drivels of half-frozen water like mucus.
The rivers are slippery to cross, so though they aren’t very wide, it’s slow going. As they walk onward, the sleet comes down harder, obscuring Severkin’s vision and plastering his hair to his face in dark streaks.
They’re halfway across the sixth river when he hears the howl. It’s close.
“Quickly!” he shouts at Elkana, who nods. This river is not as narrow as the others. They’re still a good twenty feet from shore. This doesn’t seem to bother the pack of wolves, though. They pad out onto the river without slipping, their eyes trailing the pair, the steam of their breath rising from between the ivory points of their teeth. One of them growls softly, and the pack comes close and begins to circle Elkana and Severkin. There are a dozen, Severkin quickly counts. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem, but with only ice underfoot, he’s worried about slipping. And, should one of the wolves tackle him, how strong a fall would the ice take?
“Can you do some sort of protection spell?” Severkin asks. Without thinking about it, he and Elkana have drawn closer together, back to back.
“I can send out a shockwave,” she says. “But that would surely break the ice under us. Same with fire. I might be able to poison them…but they might still have enough time to kill us a wee bit before it kills them.”
The wolves are snarling, forming a full circle around them.
“I guess we’ll just have to hope for the best, then,” Severkin says. “I’ll try to hold them off while—” He’s interrupted by a loud crack from shore. The wolves all turn to look. Through the sleet, all Severkin can see is a shadowed figure. There’s another crack, and this time a flare of light, too, and the figure is briefly illuminated—Reunne. Finally. Severkin has a hundred questions for her, but now isn’t the time to ask them. The wolves stare at Reunne, the noise clearly upsetting to them. This time Severkin watches as Reunne throws something at the ground—there’s a small flash and a crack. The wolves look at one another and then take off, away from Reunne.
“Thanks!” Severkin calls.
“Heard the howl, thought maybe someone was in trouble!” Reunne calls back.
“Ye know our savior?” Elkana whispers.
“The other agent,” Severkin said. They walk carefully to shore, where Reunne is waiting. She has on a large fur cloak with a hood over her armor.
“Was that magic?” Elkana asks.
“Dwarven firesnaps. Scare off lots of critters,” Reunne says, eyeing Elkana warily. “I thought I was just meeting Severkin.”
“She’s a friend,” Severkin says. “She was heading this way, anyway. Is it a problem?”
“No,” Reunne says, shaking her head. “But let’s not mention it to our superiors. I assume you’ve been told our mission?” They begin walking again, heading toward the dim lights of the city.
“Yes. Retrieve the Staff. The head of the Mages Guild needs our help with that.”
Reunne nods again. “Mistress Frigit seldom asks for help from anybody, so it’s probably going to be difficult.”
“Ye know the head of the Mages Guild?” Elkana asks, walking a little ahead of them and turning back to stare. “You’re not even a mage.”
“She was in charge of the academy of the undercity,” Reunne says, shrugging. “She oversaw all teaching—weapons, magic. One school to teach everything. You’re assigned your classes based on aptitude. She would personally meet with every student and tell them what their path was. And she also met with you if you were…unruly.”
“Were you unruly?” Severkin asks. “You don’t seem the type.”
“I owe my discipline to Mistress Frigit. But I was often called to her office. I didn’t like the uniforms,” Reunne says, her face stoic.
“Ye had to wear uniforms?” Elkana snorts.
“Homogeny,” Reunne says, as if reciting. “No one should stand out while a student. We have to learn to accept that we are a small cog in a large machine and that our place has been chosen for us by those wiser than us. Uniforms aided us in understanding that.”
Elkana spits on the ground. “That sounds awful,” she says.
Reunne says nothing, and they walk on in silence. The sleet falling on the ground sounds to Severkin like a hundred whispers in the dark.
THEY ARRIVE at the city of Grayhome half an hour later. The sun has set and the wind seems stronger than before, but Severkin can see the city clearly by the light from the torches that hang in glass spheres, suspended from lines crisscrossing the sky like the laces of a sandal. Grayhome looks like a crystal formation made of buildings, laid out at odd angles. The buildings are stone, but snow and ice have found every available edge to cling to, so the walls have white lines all over them and it seems the ice crystals have been shattered, with their cracks radiating out through the whole city. Behind the city, the Tower rises up, three times as tall as any other building but of the same style—narrow, with sharp angles. But, unlike the other buildings, it’s a pale gray, and where the frost touches it, it seems to glow.
“We should find someplace to rest for the night,” Severkin says. “Get warm. We’ll see Frigit tomorrow.”
“Aye,” Elkana agrees. “I don’t think I can think straight enough to talk to the head of the Mages Guild till I get some food in me. And grog. And a warm fire by my feet.”
“They’ve probably locked up for the night, anyway,” Reunne says. “Mistress Frigit always locks the doors at dinner so no one can go find trouble afterward. Just eat, study, sleep.”
“I am not going to like this woman,” Elkana says.
“There’s an inn right there,” Severkin says, pointing at a sign a few buildings away. They stumble toward it and pull the frozen doors open. Inside is both inn and tavern. There is a small bar on the ground floor, with stairs leading up to an open balcony that looks down on the tavern. A huge fireplace has a fire too small for it crackling and smelling of burning pine. There are only a few patrons—mostly gray elves, but also a dwarf and a few sandkin. They look up when Severkin, Reunne, and Elkana enter, but soon go back to their drinks. A bard is tuning his lute in one corner of the room, and the occasional off-key twangs radiate through the room like shivers.
Severkin approaches the barkeep, an unimpressed-looking gray elf woman, and asks for three rooms for the evening and three mugs of ale. She pours the ale and hands out the keys.
“Top floor,” she says. “All on the left. That’ll be seventy.” Severkin hands over the coin for all of them, and they take their mugs of ale to the balcony area upstairs, where they find a table by another fireplace.
“So that was a neat trick ye did with the wolves, and the little explosions,” Elkana says. “What did ye call them?”
“Firesnaps. Silver explosive powder wrapped in paper. Throw them at something hard and they make a loud noise. Simple dwarven technology. Children play with them. But I know many wild animals don’t like the sound. If you have any lightning spells, they have a similar effect.”
“Aye, that’s good to know,” Elkana says.
“Did you make the firesnaps as a child?” Severkin asks Reunne.
Reunne nods as she drinks her ale. “Yes. They’re fun for scaring adults. And it teaches basic explosive principles. The gray elves from the undercity usually aren’t taught much more than that, though.”
“Why not?” Elkana asks.
Reunne looks as if she is about to say something but pauses and takes another drink of her ale. “We’re not the right height,” she says.
Elkana laughs.
“I’m serious. The dwarves design their machines and explosives for their height. It is difficult to bend down to the right position.”
“I thought ye grew up with the dwarves, though,” Elkana says. “A whole bunch of ye.”
Reunne looks at Severkin and tilts her head slightly, as if uncomfortable with Severkin having shared her past. Severkin feels a sudden urge to apologize, but the sensation is so new to him, he doesn’t act on it right away and instead lets it fill his shoulders with a tingling and his mouth with a bitter taste.
“Yes,” Reunne says after a moment. “But there were still far more dwarves.”
“Interesting,” Elkana says. She puts down her empty mug. “I’d love to chat more, but if you want me ta be any use to you, I’d best be getting to my room ta meditate and replenish my spells. See ye all tomorrow. Don’t go on without me.”
“We won’t,” Severkin says, smiling. “Sleep well.”
“You as well,” Elkana says, and stands, stretching her arms to the ceiling before heading up the stairs.
The fire near them makes the clicking sound of a disapproving grandmother, and below on the main floor, the bard finally stops tuning his lute and begins to softly play.
“So you trust her,” Reunne asks suddenly, in a low voice. “The troll?”
“Yes,” Severkin says. “I’ve known her for ages. I…apologize if I should not have shared with her where you wer
e from.”
“I like being able to pass as a regular gray elf. But you trust her to protect you, fight with you?”
“Yes. We’ve fought together before.”
“Then I will trust her, too. But be careful. You know what they say about trolls—how they’re sneaky and clever and prone to sudden bouts of violence if not given what they want.”
“People say things like that about gray elves, too,” Severkin says, staring at the fire. “That we steal and lie.”
“Do they?” Reunne asks, leaning back in her chair. “I’ve never left the island. They don’t speak ill of gray elves here.”
“No, I suppose they wouldn’t,” Severkin says, taking a drink. “This is our home.” He smiles at that. At the idea of being in a place where no one mistrusts him. “You never faced prejudice from the dwarves, growing up?”
“Not directed at me. I’m one of them. They may have spoken against those from aboveground, but…I’m not one of those.”
“So, are you more family with the dwarves,” Severkin asks, narrowing his eyes, “or more family with me?” He looks at her, and she looks away at the fire. He thinks of what Rorth and the others had said about Reunne—that she couldn’t be trusted. Could he have been imagining her trustworthiness? Was he so desperate for some familial connection that he was seeing her as something she wasn’t? He thought she had told him they were kin to show her loyalty to him, but now she seems divided. Or she’s trying to cover her lies.
Reunne takes a deep breath.
“I confess,” she says after a beat, “when the barrier came down and we could go aboveground, it felt…amazing. Being among people who looked like me. I felt more as if I belonged. But then they called me ‘underelf’ and ‘traitor’ when they found out where I was from, and I realized I was split—gray elves won’t call me kin, though I call them kin, and since the split, dwarves have grown more wary of us elves who grew up with them. They tell me to pick a side. Perhaps, though, as the peace grows, I won’t have to choose. My two halves can join.”
