A Legacy of Blood

by Megg Jensen

  "Hello."

  Tace jumped backward, nearly bumping into Frensia. Who said that? Her eyes darted around the hall, not seeing anything other than the stone walls and torches.

  "Welcome to my home," the voice said.

  Raseri flew around the hall, her wings flapping furiously.

  "Do you hear that?" Tace asked Frensia out of the corner of her mouth.

  "Yes, of course. I suspect they heard it, too." Frensia pointed back at Ademar and Brax, whose backs were plastered to the wall, their eyes looking toward the ceiling.

  Tace followed their gaze. Lush landscapes swept across the ceiling, depicting human life in Soleth. The fields and meadows she'd read about as a child, so different from the forested land in the north, were dotted with humans going about their daily lives. Working in the fields. Selling wares at the market. Children playing in the tall grass. A cloud floated lazily across the sky.

  Floated?

  Tace blinked and looked at the clouds again. They were moving. She shook her head, looked at her boots, then quickly glanced up at the painting again.

  The clouds were still moving.

  "Do you see the clouds move?" Tace asked Frensia.

  "If you look closely, everything is moving," they answered.

  Tace squinted and stood on her tiptoes, as if that would somehow help. She had to admit, Frensia was right. The entire painting was alive.

  "How is that possible?" Ademar said from behind them. "I can see…"

  "What?" Tace asked.

  "I swear I can see myself in there." His quiet voice sounded almost reverent.

  Brax looked away from the scene. "We should keep moving."

  "Did you see anything familiar?" Ademar asked him.

  "No." Brax's tone was clipped. "It's an illusion. Don't read anything more into it than there is."

  "Come this way," the voice said.

  Tace looked toward the other end of the hall—that was the direction the voice was coming from. Without waiting for the others, she jogged toward it. Raseri flew next to her, keeping watch.

  At the end, the hall curved to the left. She glanced cautiously around the bend, but saw nothing out of the ordinary—just more stone walls covered in tapestries. Like the painting on the ceiling, the pictures on the tapestries appeared to move.

  Tace had to agree with Brax. This was some sort of trick. Perhaps magic, perhaps not. Either way, if this was an enchanted castle, then she should accept that and not let it distract her. They had come to the Fifth Sanctum for information on the second rune. She would find what she was looking for, and she would let nothing stand in her way.

  She strode down the hallway, her head back, confident. "I'm coming," she called out. "Where are you?" She hoped she could coax whoever it was out of hiding.

  "Pass through the doorway to the left," the voice said.

  Tace waved to Frensia. "This way. Get that idiot Ademar to stop gawking at the ceiling. We need to move. We don't have unlimited time."

  Brax rounded the corner, and came to Tace's side. Frensia brought up the rear, shoving Ademar in front of them. His eyes were still wide as he gawked at the tapestries. Brax, Tace noted, was studiously avoiding looking at them. As far as Tace was concerned, the tapestries and the painting were simply uninteresting. Who wanted to watch humans go about their mundane lives? Not her.

  Her heart quickening with anticipation, she walked through the next doorway on her left. It led into a great dining hall, its walls covered in more animated paintings. And at the end of an immense table filled with food of every kind sat a small tow-headed boy on a chair much too large for him.

  Tace only glanced at the boy before returning her attention to the food. Her mouth watered. They'd subsisted on dry bread and warm water from their water skins while riding on the desert snake. She wanted nothing more than to gorge herself.

  "Why have you come to the Fifth Sanctum?" the boy asked, his wide eyes blinking innocently. It was as if he didn't even find it strange that an orc with a dragon wound about her neck, two humans, and an umgar were wandering through his castle.

  "The orcs of Doros are under attack from unknown forces. We want to learn more about the history of Drothu so we can be prepared to defeat them.” Tace held out her arm so he could see the tattoo she’d worked so hard to keep hidden. At the moment, it was very dark, as if it, too, knew this boy could somehow help them. “I think this has something to do with it.”

  The boy stood and walked over to Tace. He took her arm gently in his hand and traced the rune with one cool fingertip.

  "I know what you seek… though the second relic of Drothu is not what you think. I can help you find it, but first you must pass a trial. If you succeed, I will tell you what you want to know." He patted her arm, then let her go. "Unfortunately, you may be too late."

  "What is it?" Ademar asked. "Has another xarlug struck?"

  "No." The boy shook his head. "I have seen the orcs. A virus has spread through the encampment. It started slow, but has spread quickly. Many have died. Many more have fallen ill."

  "Everyone was fine when we left." Tace felt sick. How many more would die without proper food and shelter? They were living on the prairie in makeshift tents, doing their best to recover from the destruction of their city. And now this? "How could this have happened so quickly? We need to go home now and help them."

  "It is not a natural disease. It is one brought upon by dark forces. If you do not help them, it will spread to the other orc cities, overtaking them all. You came here for knowledge. If you are willing to be patient, to trust in the god of the humans, perhaps you will find enlightenment."

  "Are you… Solnar?" Ademar asked in a quiet whisper, as if he were afraid of the answer.

  The boy laughed. "No. I am but an emissary of Solnar, as the xarlug was a minion of Drothu. There are many who serve the gods, some more complicated than others." The boy pointed at Raseri, who was once more wrapped around Tace's shoulders. "Even your dragon knows."

  Tace scratched Raseri's chin, and the sweet dragon cooed in her ear. Tace liked to think of Raseri as a free creature, making her own choices, not as a minion of something with more power. Still, whoever Raseri served, they didn't seem to mind her striking out on her own away from the other dragons in the Frozen Wastelands.

  "I have prepared a feast to restore your strength," the boy said. "Please, sate your appetites. Soon the three of you will face your trials."

  "Three?" Brax interrupted. "Why three? Why not four? Or maybe just one?" He looked pointedly at Tace.

  "The orc and the two humans will face trials. The orc because she came here looking for answers." The boy's eyes turned a disconcerting shade of black. "The humans because they are not allowed to look on the home of their god and live. If you want to leave here alive, you will pass the trial. If not, you will perish in this land. You chose to follow the orc here, did you not? Then you must prove you are willing to follow her out of here, too."

  Brax swallowed hard.

  "And how will we know if we succeed?" Tace asked.

  "I'd consider it a success if you survive," the boy answered. "We will begin soon. For now, enjoy the feast."

  Tace reached for a steaming turkey leg dripping with juice. She took a bite, but could barely taste it. She was too preoccupied with the upcoming trials. No matter what, she had to succeed—not just for herself, but for all the orcs in Doros.

  Chapter 34

  While the orcs worried about their small, insignificant lives—they were dying, and quickly—Damor knew he would survive this infection. It would take much more than an insignificant virus to kill him. Still, he held a cloth over his mouth and nose, playing the part of a worried human. He couldn't run away to his homeland. He was stuck here at the mercy of Queen Ambrielle. But it was better than being with Maysant. She'd run off with the oaf Ghrol and hadn't returned.

  The queen didn't seem too put out by her daughter's disappearance. In fact, she almost seemed to expect it. Damor knew as well
as she did that Maysant wouldn't last long on her own. She would be back with her head hanging low, looking for her mother's approval. It was all she had talked about in the forest, despite her vehement assurances that she was happy to be on her own.

  Damor laughed at the foolishness of the young. Maysant may have been over one hundred years old, but that was nothing to him. A blip in time. He was born before any of them, and he would die long after them. Few knew the truth of his origins. Few could handle that truth.

  The healer elves had arrived faster than anyone had imagined. It had been only days since the queen promised help. This was thanks to Damor, who had commanded the winds to blow faster toward the east, letting the ships sail twice as fast as they normally would. It was a small thing for him to do, but it had meant much to Ambrielle. He still hadn't fully regained his strength yet; bigger magics would need to wait. The queen had no idea how strong he could be.

  The elves had their own form of magic. They could cast glamours, forcing others to bend to their will. Kazrack had done just that to the city of Agitar, keeping them complacent during a time when they should have been readying for war with Damor's humans. But what Damor could do far eclipsed the elves. To him, these glamours were a mere trick, a sleight of hand.

  He watched the line of elves disembarking from their golden ships. Their gossamer gowns and robes brushed over the prairie grass, making them appear to float above the ground. They all carried richly embroidered bags, each one more decorative than the next. Sunlight danced upon their hair, rich amber, ecru, and ginger sparkling in the morning sun. They wore heavy scarves over their noses and mouths, and gloves on their hands. They had come to tend to the ill.

  The orcs were dying, and the elves claimed they could save them.

  Maybe they could. Maybe they couldn't. Time would tell.

  Damor lounged on his comfortable litter. As part of their agreement, Queen Ambrielle had given him everything he'd asked for. She would help him if he helped her. And if this was all she required, then Damor was all too happy to cooperate.

  "Bring him over here!" Queen Ambrielle called to Damor's bearers.

  They lifted his litter, careful not to jostle him in the slightest.

  Damor couldn't help but smile. These servants were far better at their job than those two orc sisters had been. With them, Damor had often felt as if he would roll out of his palanquin. Yes, he much preferred life amongst the elves—at least until he could get what he needed to rule his homeland. Then he would truly bring his brand of darkness to the humans. He would finally teach them what it felt like to be treated terribly, just as he had been.

  "Good morning, Benin," Ambrielle said, a gentle smile on her angelic face. She appeared so innocent, but Damor knew she was anything but. This elven queen was the epitome of underhandedness. "I want you to meet Ylantri. She is our chief healer, the one who will help the orcs to fight this miserable disease."

  Damor bowed his head toward the elf. But when she lowered her hood, he couldn't stop himself from recoiling. He hadn't been expecting such a strange face. Green veins ran underneath her nearly transparent skin, creating a map of twisting, pulsating roads. A cropped mop of ebony hair riotously curled around her cheeks. She smiled with plump red lips. The only feature marking her as an elf was her pointed ears. Ylantri was truly the most horrid elf Damor had ever laid eyes on—and yet, she was also the most beautiful creature Damor had ever seen. Darkness oozed from her every pore.

  "You're the elves' chief healer?" Damor asked, despite himself. It was hard to believe the elves would choose someone so obviously steeped in evil.

  She took in Damor's crippled body. "Of course." Her melodic voice stood in stark contrast to her appearance. "Why would you think otherwise?"

  Damor's vision went hazy. He blinked a few times, then looked at Ylantri again.

  She was a completely different elf now. Long blond hair swung to her hips. Gentle, pink lips reminded him of the bud of a newly formed flower. Her skin was as clear as an undisturbed pond. The dark elf was gone, replaced by this elf of classical beauty.

  Ylantri placed the back of her hand on his forehead. "Are you feeling well, Benin? I'd hate for you to fall ill as well. Have you been keeping away from the orcs?"

  "Of course I have," he snapped. Ambrielle hadn't allowed his bearers to take him anywhere near the sick orc encampment across the prairie. Unlike Lissa, Ambrielle actually cared for his health.

  Still, he'd seen something, or someone, that wasn't there. It was curious.

  Ylantri pulled her hand back from his forehead, leaving a strange burning sensation behind. Damor kept his hands on his lap instead of touching his forehead to see if it was truly warm.

  Ylantri turned to Ambrielle. "He is fine. As are you and your son, Kazrack. If it pleases you, my queen, I will take my healers and begin tending to the orcs. I do not know if I can reverse the disease, but I will do my best. I have brought my finest herbs and tonics."

  Ambrielle dipped her head, which was the closest a queen of the elves would ever come to bowing to another. It was clear she held Ylantri in great regard. "Please, do your best. These poor orcs need our help."

  Ylantri bowed and backed away. She motioned to her cortege of healers to follow her toward the orc encampment. As they moved away silently, appearing once again to float instead of walk, Ylantri glanced over her shoulder at Damor. She smiled… and winked.

  Damor's blood boiled. What game was she playing? Had he seen her true form? Was her glamour strong enough to fool even the queen? He needed answers, and he would get them in any way necessary.

  "I want to join them," he blurted out.

  "Excuse me?" Ambrielle said, an eyebrow raised. "Why in the world would you want to go anywhere near those diseased orcs?" She lowered her voice. "Remember, we are here to help them only so they will be in our debt. I need the orcs to owe me, so I may take what I want without force or the loss of life. If you go, you may fall ill yourself. Then what? I will be left without an advisor, and you will not accomplish your goals."

  "I won't get sick," Damor said with authority. "This disease cannot hurt me."

  "But it can hurt my elves, and you cannot travel without them." Ambrielle pointed to the two litter carriers, who waited a short distance away. "You will remain here," she said firmly. And she swept away.

  Damor looked down at his withered legs, cursing his lot. Long ago, he'd given up bodily strength for deeper access to dark magic. Even now, he fought to regain some corporeal strength in part only so he could eventually feed it to his well of magic. Yet it was his lack of strength that now prevented him from following Ylantri and discovering her secrets. Once again, he was waiting. Waiting for the day he'd be powerful enough to make everyone who'd ever crossed him pay for their actions.

  That day had to come soon. Damor was growing impatient.

  Chapter 35

  Ylantri should have been frightened. The strange human mage had seen her true form, the one she kept hidden from everyone. The form she hadn't allowed anyone to see in many years, not since she was a young elf, stumbling out of the woods, trying to get as far as she could from the burning cabin. Her parents and brother had perished in that fire, and as the only survivor, Ylantri had known she had to do whatever was necessary. She had to convince the other elves in the nearby town of Larian that she was like them.

  So she'd hidden on the edge of the woods, and when the fire died down, she crept back to the smoldering pile that had once been her family home. She gathered the ashes into a bag, and used them to cast the glamour. Once a month, she recast the spell. The other elves saw nothing but blond hair and blue eyes. They had not once witnessed her true form—her dark hair, her yellow eyes, the vessels shining through her translucent skin, marking her as one of the Shadari.

  But this human had seen right through her glamour.

  And he hadn't divulged it to the queen. That was curious. He had no reason to protect her true identity, yet he had. A more naive elf might assume he w
as simply cautious. Ylantri knew better. She'd spent her entire life hiding in open sight. This human was like her—he had his secrets. Her instincts told her he'd keep her secret as long as it served him to do so. Which only meant one thing: she had to discover his weakness before he unmasked her to the queen.

  Ylantri swayed through the camp, confidence in her stride. She was the greatest healer the elven kingdom of Gailwyn had ever seen. She owed it to her heritage as a Shadari—a dark elf. The kind of elf the others pretended didn't exist. The kind of elf who held sway over life and death. The kind of elf who could destroy lives in a moment, or bring one back from the brink of death. It was due to her kind that the elves lived such long lives. That was a gift from the Shadari. A gift that had been squandered on vanity.

  Ylantri's reputation as a healer had spread. So when the queen needed the best, she summoned Ylantri. Ylantri despised Queen Ambrielle and everything she stood for—but refusing wasn't an option. Not unless she wanted to tempt discovery and banishment. So she had heeded the queen's call, bringing her most favored healers across the Orianna Sea into orc territory.

  On the boat, they'd briefed her on the disease. Orcs were dying quickly. They experienced shortness of breath, pain in the lungs, black boils, and a strange, disfiguring slump of the left shoulder. Their skin lost its pallor quickly, followed by drooling lips. Fever wracked the body in seizures. Vomiting and diarrhea were common. Those who didn't die quickly simply wasted away, confined to their cots.

  No one had recovered.

  Ylantri knew the queen didn't care for these orcs. The elves had long eyed both humans and orcs with disdain. They were below the elves, both in intelligence and culture. They lived short, dangerous lives, and had nothing to offer. For many centuries, the elves had lived as if the other races did not exist. Yes, occasionally they crossed paths, particularly in places like the Library of Filamir, but for the most part, they kept to themselves.

  Humans and orcs weren't worth bothering, nor were they worth tending to. If more died today than tomorrow, what did it matter to the elves?