by T. A. Miles
Taya groaned impatiently. “He’s not here. What’s the matter with you? Aren’t there enough elf boys here that strike your fancy?”
The elf’s yellow-pale skin turned almost as red as her lips. Her golden eyes widened, and for a moment her nostrils even flared. Taya wasn’t sure if she should be prepared to dodge the lady elf’s scathing words, or the back of her hand. She was surprised when neither came at her and Shirisae suddenly relaxed, and even smiled. Her tone was too sweet when she said, “My dear little Taya, I’m so sorry for being insensitive. This must be miserable for you, being so far away from home and all the dwarf boys.”
Fu Ran and Tarfan both burst into laughter, of course choosing that very moment to pay attention to something other than their food and ale. Taya didn’t have a comeback or a retort. She sat quietly and fumed.
“By the way,” Shirisae said, drifting away from whatever satisfaction the previous moments may have brought her. “Has anyone seen my brother?”
Fu Ran lowered his recently refilled tumbler of ale and looked once around the room. “Come to think of it, has anyone seen Alere?”
Everyone looked at each other now. No one said anything. Fu Ran’s question had given them their answer to both concerns.
THERE WERE A great many vast and empty chambers within Vilciel’s enormous structure. It proved a welcomed convenience for two who had quickly become bored with Ahjenta’s banquet, and who didn’t believe in delaying the inevitable.
Alere twirled Aerkiren once in his hand, testing the weight against the chill air around him. He wanted no disadvantages here...for either of them. He eyed the Phoenix Elf across the large room they had selected. Shirisae’s brother prepared himself and his weapon for the impending duel in his own way, appearing no less formidable in his current lack of armor. Alere, who had never worn armor greater than his soft leather tunic, watched the flames dancing off the other elf’s curved sword and sent his voice across the empty distance. “Is that blade enchanted?”
“It is endowed,” D’mitri called back, his tone suggesting that to answer his opponent was a waste of breath.
Alere did not give him the satisfaction of an irritated response and asked, “What do you mean by endowed? Try to be clear. I want this to be a fair match.”
“It’s a match, is it?” D’mitri wondered, smiling insolently. When it became apparent to him that Alere refused to be provoked, he said, “This sword was forged in the fiery breath of an elder dragon, and thus endowed with its power; an everlasting flame.”
“Then the weapon itself is magical,” Alere deduced. “That will do.”
D’mitri did not hear him, or did not think it necessary to respond.
Alere sliced the air a few times with Aerkiren, then started toward his opponent. “Shall we begin?”
D’mitri unclasped his formal cloak, and threw it off to the side of their flat, featureless battleground. His teeth gleamed in the firelight cast down from huge braziers hanging high overhead. “I’ve been waiting for this. Don’t expect any mercy. Nothing would please me more than to put a stop to my sister’s plans for this ridiculous outing by killing you.”
“Or by dying?” Alere offered.
That was all it took to incite D’mitri’s temper. The Phoenix Elf charged, his flaming sword dragging low, informing Alere of his plan of attack.
Alere lifted Aerkiren high and halted the upward sweep, driving the fiery blade back down.
D’mitri swiftly broke away, leaping back and then lunging in again. He was an aggressive fighter, counting on the force of his frequent attacks to compensate for his lacking defense. Perhaps they were not so different after all.
For several moments, each of them tried to outdo the other’s attack, pressing harder, striking faster. Fire and twilight danced erratically between the combatants, the two lights waxing with every connection and waning between blows. This was the only way they could understand and tolerate one another; in a contest of strength, speed, and cunning.
They were fated to be enemies somehow, their hatred coming as sudden and automatically as the attraction between two who were destined to become lovers. It went beyond Alere’s resentment of his own kind, who failed to support the Verressi during the worst of the Shadow Wars. It extended far beneath the surface of D’mitri’s arrogance and contempt. Neither of them could explain it, and neither of them cared to. They only knew that this battle between them felt comfortable, satisfying.
Their blades came together again and held. Neither of them would have admitted that they were resting, even as each tried to force the other back.
“You’re better than I expected, for a child,” D’mitri said through clenched teeth.
“You must be growing old,” Alere replied. “I expected better.”
The easily taunted Phoenix Elf growled and shoved Alere back, his anger feeding his strength. Their fight resumed. The clashing of their weapons resounded loudly throughout the chamber, adding to the intensity.
Alere could have gone on for hours and had no doubt that D’mitri could as well, but the sudden eruption of thunder indoors proved an adequate distraction for both of them. Great streaks of silver light scorched the icy air. As if it was rehearsed, D’mitri and Alere each took a last swing, they each batted the other away, and each of them stepped gracefully out of their deathly dance. In the forced pause, both elves realized they were winded.
The source of the thunder had been no mystery, and so it was no surprise when Shirisae glided across the floor in her flowing silk gown, carrying Firestorm in both hands after shooting multiple arcs of silver lightning into the hall.
The disapproval in her expression did not affect Alere—he welcomed a fight from her as well—but D’mitri actually displayed remorse beneath his mask of arrogance.
“What do you think you are doing?” Shirisae demanded.
Alere kept silent when he realized her words were aimed at her brother.
“How dare you to openly defy our mother?” She added in a harsh whisper, “How dare you defy me? We have formed an alliance with this elf, as well as with the humans. Whether or not you can appreciate that, you must recognize it.”
D’mitri met his sister’s gaze briefly, then decided not to argue. He sheathed his sword in a scabbard that enveloped the flame as well as the blade—and was presumably also an item of magic—then glared hatefully at Alere, and left.
Shirisae did not watch him leave, but listened to his heels clicking against the smooth stone floor. When he had gained sufficient distance, she looked at Alere and said, “I apologize for his uncouth behavior. He has always been...difficult when it comes to outsiders.”
“I require no explanation,” Alere replied simply, putting away Aerkiren. “The decision to fight was mutual.”
Shirisae’s golden eyes glared, and she firmed her chin. “Well, it won’t happen again in this house.”
“No,” Alere agreed. “There is scarcely time for it if we are to depart with the mystic, come sunrise.”
Finally, the female elf said what she wanted to say. “You disgust me.”
Alere issued no comment, knowing better than to provoke a fight after the last time. It would hardly be a fair contest while she was hampered by a dress, besides. He walked away from her and came upon Fu Ran, Tarfan, and Taya in the corridor outside of the enormous room.
“Damn,” Fu Ran muttered. “It’s over.”
The faintest of smiles escaped Alere, as it amused him to think that the Fanese man had enough respect for either him or D’mitri to consider their battle worthy of an audience.
“I’m glad it is,” Taya said haughtily. “Was anyone hurt?” she demanded of Alere. She added flatly, “I see you’re not.”
“It was a draw,” Alere replied. “In every aspect. Where is everyone else?”
“The guards are in their places,” Tarfan answered in his gruff manner. “Never too far from the mystic, who decided to retire early in preparation for tomorrow’s journey.”
“And the knight?” Alere inquired casually—disinterestedly, the others might have believed.
Taya shrugged irritably. “Moping in his room, I suppose. He’s been acting unpleasant all evening and after Xu Liang went to talk with him, he didn’t even come back to say goodnight. If Xu Liang can’t reason with him, then...”
Alere was walking away before she finished, hearing nothing more of what she said, though her uncle’s voice carried down the passageway.
“How’s that for arrogance?” Tarfan blustered. “Not a care in the world, save for himself!”
TRISTUS WAS FINISHED crying. There was no sense weeping over what he couldn’t control. And he couldn’t control life. It simply traveled its course, and those who tried to alter that course were fools.
Yes, you’re a fool, he told himself. You’ve always gone against the current. Time to join the others in the world. Time to walk the path that was given to you...or what’s left of it.
He looked away from the fireplace—he’d been watching the modest blaze from the end of the bed for more than an hour—and glanced over his shoulder at Dawnfire, propped against the wall at the head of the bed, his armor resting nearby. Elven smiths had been kind enough to polish the white-gold plates and repair the dents. His father’s sword was missing, but somehow the suit seemed in place beside the Dawn Blade. Tristus felt his emotions churning his blood again and sighed.
I don’t feel that I’m worthy of this task, but I will see it through.
The faintest sweep of wood over stone drew Tristus’ attention toward the door. Somehow he failed to be startled when his gaze settled on Alere.
The white elf hovered in the doorway, typically expressing nothing. He said simply, “The door was unlocked.”
“I must have forgotten,” Tristus replied, trying not to sound as miserable as he felt. Not only was his heart shattered, but his head had begun to hurt as well. Still, that was no reason for his deportment to suffer. “What can I do for you, my elven friend?”
Alere seemed to study him for a moment, then said, “I would ask for a moment of your time.”
“And you would have it,” Tristus said, standing. “Is anything the matter?”
Alere let himself into the room and closed the door behind him. In no particular hurry, he approached Tristus, and then stood quietly before him. His gray eyes flashed in the firelight while they moved over every detail of Tristus’ face.
It did not take Tristus long to sort out what the matter was, and he was not oblivious to the lovely shape of the elf’s nearly colorless eyes, nor was he unaffected by the secret warmth they offered. Before that warmth could ensnare him—something that would not be particularly difficult in his current state of susceptibility—he took a step back and used conversation to escape the dangerous silence.
“Have you eaten? I didn’t see you at the banquet. I’m sure there are still plates out.” He started to take steps around the elf. “If we go now, perhaps...”
Alere caught him by the arm.
His grip was gentle, easy for Tristus to escape. Tristus pulled free, but did not walk away. He looked at the floor. “We can talk elsewhere, Alere.”
“I’m not going to force myself on you,” Alere told him in a quiet, taut voice.
Depressed by the elf’s timing, and afraid of the convenient escape he offered, Tristus waited several moments before finally whispering, “You wouldn’t have to force yourself.”
“Then why do you resist?”
Tristus frowned helplessly, angry with the elf for not leaving—angry with himself for not giving in. Why shouldn’t he? He would be loved, at least. Wasn’t that enough?
No, of course it couldn’t be. Alere may not have known his own heart.
“Forgive me for saying this, Alere, but I honestly believe you’re too young to understand. Your heart is, anyway.”
“Inexperience,” the elf said, not quite sounding mocking in his careful tone, “does not necessarily speak also of ignorance. I will admit that I am young by elven standards—perhaps by human standards as well—but I am not a child.”
Tristus dared to look at him. By appearance, he was right.
“My people have changed as the elves of this region, and of others, can never comprehend,” Alere furthered to say, as if sensing that more explanation was required to make Tristus understand. “The rapidity of the slaughter that took place during the war against the shadows changed us in order to save us as a race. Lifespans decreased. We still do not suffer decrepitude and the withering effects of aging, but our youth is nothing we take for granted anymore. Trust me when I say that my childhood ended long ago.”
“I did not mean to offend you,” Tristus replied in earnest. “I only...don’t want to see you hurt. I don’t want to be the one to hurt you. And I would, Alere.”
He finally summoned the courage to face the elf, but it didn’t last. Alere was too composed, too patient as he waited to hear words that came to Tristus as laboriously as breath to a dying man. Tristus stalked toward the fireplace, casting his gaze into the fire, as if he could burn away the painful images that came to his mind.
“I did not come here to catch what has evidently been cast aside,” Alere finally said, and if Tristus didn’t happen to know that the elf wasn’t as heartless as he seemed, he’d have told him to leave at once. Recalling the sparingly offered warmth he’d witnessed in the elf’s eyes just a moment before, he waited and Alere continued. “I simply came to be assured that you were not suffering too greatly.”
The elf spoke as if in reference to a wounded animal he had planned to put out of its misery, if its suffering had indeed turned out to be so great…and Tristus couldn’t help the smile that escaped him. It was difficult to believe that this outwardly dispassionate individual had even dreamt of expressing himself as meaningfully as he had in Upper Yvaria. Except Tristus doubted it was anything Alere had dreamed of. Alere had always been wondrously unplanned with his words, and in that instance, with his actions. He stated what seemed true to him automatically, and without reservation.
“When I arrived moments ago,” Alere said, filling the silence Tristus had set between them, “you were more concerned with my peace of mind than with your own. I am constantly amazed by your generosity, and by your strength.”
Tristus laughed now. The sound came out more bitter than he intended. “I wouldn’t call it strength, my friend. Perhaps I am simply too stubborn—or too afraid—to back down. Anyway, we have our vows to uphold now. Our promise to see this mission through to its end, to trust and support one another.” Warmth filled Tristus, a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire he stared at. After some length trying to form further words where none may have been required, he said, “I’m glad you decided to come, Alere.”
Another brief silence trailed his words, and then the elf’s hand came down gently on his shoulder. Tristus made the mistake of lifting his hand to Alere’s. He meant to acknowledge his friend’s concern, and found contact…a physical warmth with connection that traveled quickly to the rest of his body, promising to fill the empty places, if he would allow it.
Alere gently squeezed his shoulder, and Tristus turned to face him slowly, more to blame for the kiss that followed than the elf was. Alere was guilty simply of being there, and of offering sympathy and love to someone who had gone too long without either. Tristus wanted it, desperately, but this was not the source from which he had hoped to gain it, even now. His mouth drank in Alere’s sweet taste, but his mind was absent from the deed, his heart set on someone else.
Alere’s affection was eager, but not forceful or possessive, and it enabled Tristus to pull away when he became aware of the dire wrong he was committing. He went to the mantle for support, feeling breathless, and held out his hand to ward off any further advance the elf might have made.
“Please, don’t,” Tristus said. “I could love you, Alere, but...I could also betray you. I don’t want that. I... don’t want to hurt you. I’m sorry.”
&nb
sp; “I understand,” the elf said, as if he genuinely did understand, though his tone made it sound as if only a legitimate child would not. “It is not my ambition to harm you either. You said once before that you seek my friendship, Tristus. Know that you have it...and that I will always welcome more if you are ever ready to give it. Goodnight.”
With that said, the elf left. He was gone from the room before Tristus could do anything more than gape in his amaze at just how selfless and caring Alere actually happened to be. It saddened him to think that no one outside of himself and Alere’s family might ever truly realize that hidden fact.
THE MORNING BEGAN before the sun rose, with meditation and incense; a prayer to the Ancestors, that they would be permitted safe passage to Sheng Fan. In the light of early morning following the prayer, Xu Liang exercised his body that was still somewhat weak from the extreme spiritual effort he had made up until now, that had resulted in dire physical neglect. He performed a series of stretches first and felt the awakening of disused muscles. He had been too lax in his training, even before setting out on his journey to the West. Strength alone could not win wars. Xu Liang knew that well, but he was often forced to admit to himself that Xu Hong was right. Intelligence by itself would also fail to claim an ultimate victory. The mind and the body must work together. He had learned harshly that magic could assist in that effort, but it could not lead.
After stretching, he practiced various techniques with Pearl Moon. When he’d worked hard enough to feel winded, but not exhausted, and to feel the healthy ache of labored muscles, he stopped and proceeded to a silver basin further into the vast room, where recently heated water awaited. Originally, elven servants had kept the tub refreshed with clean, steaming water, and perfumed oils, but shortly after Xu Liang survived Ahjenta’s fire healing, his own servants took up the task, along with all other duties required of them as his personal guards. There would not be much for them to do once they left Vilciel, with most of their equipment lost due to the ice giant’s attack. They would be sleeping under the canopy of the Heavens. They may not even have enough bedrolls to lay out, let alone tents to set up.
