by Lee Dunning
“Negotiation only works if you’re dealing with someone who has values similar to your own. They must already possess the capacity to respect you. The enemy we face now has revealed they are neither reasonable nor forthright. They hold no value for the lives of even our children. They willingly slaughtered your precious non-elves simply for associating with us.”
Lady Swiftbrook shuddered as anger and despair fought for supremacy within her. She wanted for W’rath to be wrong, but the horror of what they’d survived told her otherwise. “Damn you.”
“Madam?”
“How can someone who claims to have lived alone in a cave, for ancestor’s-knows-how-long, have such a fine grasp of our situation?”
“While I have lived on my own for quite some time, and the world has changed much in those years, people’s motivations have not. Greed, jealousy, faith, power … as long as people roam the world, regardless of race, these factors will always come into play.”
Lady Swiftbrook squeezed her eyes shut in a vain attempt to compose herself. Wiping away a tear she, gave a ragged laugh. “You know, you and K’hul should be fast friends. You certainly seem to agree on enough.”
“We might agree, though I suspect for different reasons. I believe many of your fears concerning our people exist because you see in K’hul something that frightens you.”
“Bah. Now you just sound spiteful.”
“Never, madam.”
W’rath’s spoke lightly, but Lady Swiftbrook remembered when they’d first met. She had seen what simmered within his eyes. Spite, and much more, lay well within his capabilities. Yet something else he had in common with K’hul. Ancestors preserve me—there’s two of them now.
Raven joined them. The young female’s earlier excitement had disappeared, replaced by a pensive, nervous posture. No doubt she had grown apprehensive about their arrival at First Home. Her mouth pinched into a frown as if she wrestled with her feelings. Lady Swiftbrook reached out to squeeze the girl’s arm. “We’ll get through this,” she said. “Let’s see about introducing you to your new people.”
When Lady Swiftbrook drew the two Shadow Elves to the top of the gangplank, the angry and unruly crowd fell into an eerie silence. Someone suppressed a sob. All eyes turned toward the newcomers, expressions as varied as the numbers of elves present.
W’rath studied the elves of First Home, trying to read them. He’d done his best to hone his skills in observation. He didn’t believe in relying only on his psychic gifts. His time imprisoned in Traitor’s Heart had taught him that. Eighty-five years trapped in the wretched place, with only Uverial Stormchaser’s visits to keep him sane, had driven home that situations would always arise where it was either impossible to use his psionics, or their use would result in unwanted repercussions.
Right now, he had to forego any use of his powers because of the damage he’d caused himself at Second Home. Until he healed, and sadly the brain regenerated slower than any other body part, he had to rely on his ability to read faces and body language.
He simply listened as Lady Swiftbrook introduced Raven and him to the gathered elves. He bowed at just the right time, but never took his eyes off the crowd. Curiosity far outshone hostility. Here and there people whispered to one another, and as Raven stepped forward to perform an awkward half bow, half curtsy, more than one person pointed or gestured excitedly in her direction.
W’rath raised an eyebrow. They already know. Those she had saved had wasted no time in telling friends and family about the towering ebon goddess who had slain the devil lord with a single stroke of her sword. No doubt the amazing tale would grow with each retelling.
Despite his own part in things, people’s eyes barely registered W’rath once their gazes fell upon Raven. It wasn’t surprising. Raven was glorious. Her ill-fitting sailor’s clothes did nothing to hide her powerful build, and her height nearly brought her on par with the Sky Elf at her side. A breeze caught up her ice white hair and sent it flowing out like great wings. W’rath smiled at the quiet gasps that floated up from the crowd. Raven apparently heard them too, as she drew back, uncomfortable with the attention.
W’rath’s smile broadened as people began to murmur. The people weren’t interpreting her mannerisms as insecurity, but rather graciousness and quiet strength. Raven hadn’t even stepped foot on First Home and already she had won over the people.
W’rath didn’t mind that the crowd barely noticed him. For now, he preferred to keep a low profile. It amazed him he had yet to meet an elf even half his age. While he suspected he had changed greatly over the years, he worried someone would notice something familiar about him. No, for now keeping to the background, unremarkable, nearly invisible, suited him fine. He thought of it as sleight-of-hand on a grand scale. While Raven’s radiance diverted people’s attention, he could quietly work in the shadows doing as he liked, keeping alert for anyone who could expose him.
His gaze shifted from the crowd to K’hul. The old boy did not share in the crowd’s enthusiasm. The people might respect him for his prowess, or even simply for his bloodline, but he was just one of many soldiers who had fought the devils coming through the gateway. Raven had single-handedly slain a leader among the devils. Numerous individuals could point to her and claim she had saved their lives. K’hul couldn’t hope to compete with that. The scowl on his face betrayed his displeasure at Raven’s instant popularity. Careful, lad, your face might freeze that way.
“Quit grinning like a loon and wave to everyone,” Lady Swiftbrook hissed in W’rath’s ear. Obediently, he put on a more solemn expression and acknowledged the rising welcome from the people of First Home.
“There’s not a single Shadow Elf out there,” he whispered back.
“That’s not surprising,” the Sky Elf replied. She swept her arms forward, continuing to smile amiably, showing the people that one of their trusted councilors welcomed the strangers to disembark from the ship and step foot on the soil of First Home. She turned back as if chatting about the most inconsequential of things. “Ever since Lord T’sane and Lady Reaper took office, we’ve seen less and less of any Shadow Elves. They live underground—pretty much cut off from the rest of us. They may not even know what has transpired.”
“That has an ominous sound to it,” W’rath muttered. His thoughts turned once again to the dying Reaper. Fanatical and full of self-loathing, he doubted she and T’sane had seen properly to the welfare of those under their care. He worked to keep his misgivings from his face. Pretending to feel more honored than he felt, he bowed and accepted Councilor Swiftbrook’s gracious invitation, and followed Raven down the gangplank.
“Once we get through the crowd, we can make our way down. I’ve never made the hike, so I have no idea what to expect,” Lady Swiftbrook said.
“I don’t think it’s necessary to rush down immediately. I’d prefer to avoid meeting them dressed like a beggar, tolerated by the rest of the council out of charity. Raven and I earned our place on the council and we should look the part. If my growing fears prove true, Reaper and T’sane betrayed those we represent, and we must deal with the momentous task of restoring their faith.”
They finished their descent and found themselves swept into the crowd, making further conversation impossible. Emotion reigned, and people surged forward seeking answers, making demands, or simply desperate for reassurance. Some wanted to touch Raven, murmuring their gratitude. They mobbed the three, and W’rath, much smaller than anyone else in the crowd, had trouble keeping Raven in sight. Someone trod on his hair and he only just managed to keep from reflexively lashing out and leaving them a broken heap. These were civilized, cultured people, he reminded himself, but the slaughter of their people had so devastated them, their normal restraint had broken down. W’rath understood well the animal fear gripping them.
W’rath silently thanked his nephew when K’hul intervened. He and about a hundred of the soldiers under his command moved into the crowd and began to restore order. Eventually, a path cle
ared and the Shadow Elves and Sky Elf made good their escape. “I cannot say I much enjoyed that,” W’rath said once they gained their freedom.
“Sorry about stepping on your hair,” Lady Swiftbrook said.
“That was you? Madam, you have no idea how close you came to having a shattered ribcage.”
Raven laughed shakily. “Wouldn’t that have started a scandal. Not five minutes on First Home soil and Exiles start running amok, assaulting people. They’d dust off Traitor’s Heart, for sure.”
W’rath grimaced.
“Before something else like that happens, you might do something radical like, oh, I don’t know, trim off a foot or two? It seems preferable to you doing bodily harm to anyone unlucky enough to step on your precious locks.”
“That is not unreasonable,” W’rath conceded. “Perhaps we might take care of that at the same time as we find something more suitable for Raven and myself to wear.”
Lady Swiftbrook nodded. “If you come with me to my home I can arrange for some tailors to come by.”
“And an armorer. Raven needs to give off the appropriate air of authority.”
“Oh, surely not!” Raven protested.
“Something spiky and dangerous looking,” W’rath continued, ignoring Raven’s objection. “Blood red enamel would add a nice touch.”
“Why not stick some skulls on there, while you’re at it?” Raven said, her voice taking on a distinct growl.
“Excellent idea, my dear. Now you’re getting into the spirit of things.”
“That’s cruel,” Lady Swiftbrook chided.
W’rath grinned. “Perhaps just a little.”
Raven’s eyes widened as she realized W’rath had been winding her up. “So I don’t have to slog about in full plate?”
“Of course you do,” W’rath said to his dismayed companion. “Chin up, lass. You’re more than strong enough to manage it, and as the new representative of the warrior branch of the Shadow Elves, you need to set an example for those who will look to you for leadership. Obviously, you won’t have to wear the armor all of the time, but certainly we should look the part when we first meet our people. Among other things, you’re a symbol. Awe should follow in your wake. Those whose eyes fall upon you, should want nothing more than to be you. However, we can forego the spikes and what not. We don’t have a month to wait for that amount of customization anyway.”
“I’m not at all comfortable with that,” Raven said, refusing to be cheered by W’rath’s enthusiasm.
“Of course you aren’t, but you’ll grow into it. You needn’t worry. It seems overwhelming right now, but Lady Swiftbrook and I shall stay by your side the entire time. We won’t let you stumble.”
W’rath’s hope that Lady Swiftbrook would step in and help allay Raven’s fears went unanswered. The frozen smile on the Sky Elf’s face couldn’t have fooled one of the Exiles’ lobotomized males. Obviously the dear lady’s skills must lie elsewhere.
Raven glared at the both of them and then shook her head with a sigh. She started to trudge inland as if heading to her own execution. “Come on then,” she said. “Let’s get this debacle over with before I run the other way and try to swim back to the mainland.”
When the small party of Shadow Elves finally emerged from the tunnel, the sun hung low in the sky. Even with the tall gates surrounding the arena, the light blinded the youngsters. They cringed and covered their eyes.
“There’s no one here,” Ryld said.
“How can you tell? I’m as blind as those stupid fish we ate on the way up,” Caeldan groused.
“I can kinda make out the arena through all the watering. Plus, it’s stone quiet. At least a few people should be sparring.”
“Seer!” Ryld called out. “Where is everyone?”
No one replied. Finally, a tentative voice piped up. “She gave up hours ago. She said it was wrong for us to greet the Exiles, anyway.”
“Is that you, Seismis?”
“Uh … yes.”
Caeldan chuckled. “Pay up, brother.”
“Well bugger!” Ryld cursed. “I thought for sure he’d keel over a mile back and curl into a fetal position.”
“I can hear you,” came the petulant words.
Ryld ignored him. “I’m going to have to owe you. I didn’t bring my bags of vast wealth with me.”
“That’s okay, I know where you live. Right now I’m just annoyed we’re nearly blind and have no idea what’s going on.”
“I say we worry about that after we find some water,” Ryld said. He staggered off to his left. When last they’d been topside, there had been an area for the soldiers and students to rest. A natural spring spilled into a deep basin, and the elves could use ladles to quench their thirst while they watched those still practicing in the arena.
Fortunately, things hadn’t changed since they had last lived topside. The small group collapsed in the shade of the overhead trellis and drank their fill of the chilled spring water.
“Ancestors, I didn’t realize how thirsty I was,” Ryld said.
“Yeah, pretty stupid of us to not take more water with us,” Caeldon replied.
“It wasn’t even a league.”
“In our condition it felt more like ten times that. The ones who didn’t make it here have to be in a bad way. We need to get water to them soon.”
“Right now, I can’t even contemplate something so strenuous. In fact, I’m thinking I might just slip into a coma.”
Caeldan snorted. “That’s sure to impress our new leaders.”
The mention of the mysterious Exiles, roused something in the others. “Where are they?” came a quavering voice.
“We need them,” another chimed in, even more pitiful than the first speaker.
More cries and whimpers started up. Still hampered by the sun, Ryld couldn’t see clearly, but he thought Seismis might have started wringing his hands again. “Now look what you’ve gone and done,” he chastised his brother.
“Sorry, allow me to correct my earlier statement: Comas for everyone. Much better than all of this whining.”
“What will a pair of Exiles think about all this bellyaching?” Ryld said. He wondered if they’d made a mistake in bringing the others topside.
“Oh they’ll probably just kill us all and start over,” Caeldan said, so deadpan that, for a moment, he fooled even Ryld into believing him. The others didn’t understand Caeldan’s dark sense of humor, and abruptly they fell silent.
Ryld and Caeldan chuckled, settling back into the blessed quiet to wait.
Raven felt as if she wandered, trapped in a bizarre dream. Never in a million years could she have envisioned herself encased in blood red armor, marching forth to lead people she had never met. She shook her thankfully helmet-free head as she pondered all that had brought her to this point.
She and W’rath traveled down a hallway leading back to the main hall to regroup with Lady Swiftbrook. She could still hear the fretful mutterings of the armorsmith who had equipped her. From the beginning, he’d apologized profusely, explaining he would have to make a custom suit to her exact measurements. For now he resorted to piecing together a full set from various suits young First Born had outgrown as they matured. To Raven’s eye the pristine red enamel, with its gold edging, appeared exquisite. However, the armorsmith had an artist’s heart, and fretted over hundreds of flaws only he noticed.
The armor wasn’t nearly as heavy as she’d expected. She’d thought the armor’s joints would impede her movement. Whether through skill, or magic, or a combination of the two, her fears proved unfounded. She moved almost as fluidly as if she wore regular clothing. She had no intention of admitting it to W’rath, but it felt almost natural. She suspected Linden’s presence within her had a lot to do with that. Definitely surreal, and disturbing, she wasn’t sure if she’d ever get used to this twin-souled nonsense.
Beside her, W’rath tripped along easily, appearing as comfortable in his new finery as he had in his malodorous kilt. N
o suffocating plate for him. His mostly black outfit consisted of a high necked long coat with numerous gold buttons. Aside from the buttons, the only other sign of color, a deep purple, glowed from the oversized cuffs and the sash around his waist. The skirt of the coat split four ways and flowed out and behind him as he strode forward. Black pants and thigh high leather boots encased his lower body.
Of course, before all of the wardrobe work had come the hair stylist.
W’rath had reluctantly allowed a sour looking Sky Elf with a pair of shears to trim off a couple of feet of hair. It still touched his ankles at that point, and there followed a minor dustup between W’rath and the elf with the shears on what to do with it next. W’rath thought it fine just hanging straight down his back, but the other fellow argued it lacked style and grace and several other things which made Raven’s eyes glaze over. They’d finally both agreed on a ponytail that stood out a good six inches from W’rath’s head and then spilled down like a waterfall. Somehow, the two males determined the style to be fashionable yet practical. Raven had a suspicion W’rath just liked that it made him appear taller.
Then the elf with the shears turned his attention to her.
She’d thought to keep the fuss down to a minimum by getting her hair cut as she’d always worn it. She’d always kept it in a short bob, and the great curtain of hair she found herself burdened with now, felt completely alien. When she told them what she wanted the look of horror on W’rath’s face caused her to relent and keep enough length so it fell just below her shoulder blades.
Now she fumed. Why had she caved in? It was her bloody hair! Bad enough her new role compelled her to project an image completely foreign to her, but to then let W’rath’s personal preference dictate her hair length? A scowl settled on her face.
“Excellent. You’re looking positively fierce. You’re sure to impress anyone we meet.”
Raven glowered at W’rath. “I’m not trying to impress anyone. I’m angry.”
