by Sean Hinn
“A dragon?” J’arn pressed. “Never heard o’ such a thing.”
“I don’t want to talk about the dragon,” Pado replied.
“Me neither,” Neela agreed.
They walked, mostly in silence, for a time. Soon other Airies joined the procession, each older than Pado and Neela, each remarkably beautiful, if occasionally odd; some had hair the color of a summer sky, others as green as moss, still others had pink or even violet skin; the only thing one had in common with the next was that they were all completely unblemished, and lovely to look upon. Upon approaching the procession, each invariably expressed praise for the beauty of one or another. The pattern of greeting soon became clear; an Airie would introduce themselves as ‘wife of Klain’, or ‘husband of Pina’. They would then issue a compliment, one that was expected to be returned, but as Aria had experienced in her first exchange with Pado, a failure to mention one’s spouse when returning praise was a scandal. A significant number of those who introduced themselves to Lucan did so as ‘wife of none’, the implication in their tones clear as they each asked him to cast their own personal orbs of light.
~It would appear that your reputation as a lover has proceeded you, Lucan,~ Aria teased silently, the telepathic jab issued to him alone. Lucan sensed a hint of annoyance in the message.
~I don’t think it’s how you imagine it,~ Lucan replied. ~Look at Pado and Neela, they are certainly too young for–~
A giggle escaped Neela’s lips.
“Neela! It’s not polite to listen!” Pado scolded.
“Oh yeah? And how did you know I was listening, huh?” she replied.
A dusky female voice from just ahead on their path answered in reply. “It would be difficult not to listen,” the disdainful voice said. “They think thoughts loud as thunder.”
“Yet innocent as a cloud,” a brighter voice contradicted. As the procession advanced, the light of Lucan’s orbs illuminated two Airies, their appearance so striking as to make their identities immediately clear; here were the Ladies of Eyreloch, Lor and Kal.
Draped in an overlength gown of iridescent cloth, the underlying color of which one could not name but which reflected every imaginable hue of light, stood Lady Lor of Eyreloch. Impossible braids of transparent hair hung to her waist, near to invisible but for the gems and beads woven within. So warm were her silvery eyes, so inviting was the smile that played upon her full pink lips… to look upon her was to sense all the wondrous feelings of life; joy, awe, desire, comfort, love… and above all, welcome.
“You are long awaited, folk of the East,” she spoke, her voice clear as a bubbling brook. “You in particular, Lucan, husband of none.” She held his gaze briefly before turning to the others. “You have all suffered great fear this night, and anguish this past cycle. You have my sympathy, and you have my welcome. I am Lor, wife of none, and you are beautiful to me.”
On the trail beside Lor stood her mirror image, identical in every way but for the adornments in her hair and the clothing she wore. Tied in Lady Kal’s transparent locks were not vibrantly colored gems but rather bones, dyed black. They appeared at first glance to hover about her form like morbid hauntings of slain enemies – or perhaps trophies. Where the alluring silhouette of Lor’s form had been merely suggested, tastefully and conservatively draped from nape to toe, the black velvet fabric Kal wore conformed to the contours of her body as if her supple flesh had been dipped in ink. Grey eyes identical to those of her sister beheld the companions, but no welcome was to be found there; a thing somewhere between hatred and hunger lingered within Kal’s gaze, and to look upon her was to bathe oneself in equal parts lust and death.
Before the companions from the Grove could speak to offer the expected refrains of praise to Lor, Kal rescinded the gracious welcome her sister had offered.
“Your welcome extends to the falls, and no farther.” Kal shot a hate-filled glance at her sister. “You shall not step foot in the Eyre until such time as both my sister and I allow it, and were I you, I should not count on such a welcome.”
No one spoke for a turn until Aria broke the silence.
“This is your land, and we shall respect your laws.”
Lor shot Kal a look. “My sister speaks not of law, but of her own preference. Come, Aria Evanti. Come, friends. We have not much further to go, and we have prepared many delights for you. I cannot speak for what tomorrow will bring, but tonight, you shall have joy.” Lor paused to regard Mikallis. “Even you, Captain of Thornwood.”
Near the Falls of Eyre, the Trine and Morline merged at their narrowest points, each becoming a roiling rapid before spilling over the falls. As the sound of rushing water rose to a pitch on either side of the trail, their path widened into a lush, bright peninsula, within which stood the tallest and widest of the Elms. The edges of every leaf glimmered with light of myriad hues, delicate enchantments that appeared to speak to one another, messages of pink or silver making their way across the canopy this way, replies of gold or indigo tracing their way back. The display was sufficient to illuminate the entire wood, revealing an Airie standing at the base of nearly every tree, some mere children, most young adults, all bearing expressions of not only joy, but bliss. The scent of cooking food and exotic, tantalizing yet unfamiliar ingredients filled the air: some sweet, some smoky, some bitter, all appealing.
To a one, the companions from the Grove stood in silent awe within the enchanted wood. Kal was the first to speak.
“Here you will find diversions and amusements that do not exist in the East,” she said, her tone simultaneously arrogant and coquettish. “You will find food, and drink, and respite such as you have not known. And you will also find knowledge, should you seek it – but be warned. No thought or emotion you experience this night will be private to you. You would know my people, and we would know you, and so we shall. For this night, be welcome here at the Falls. When you wake tomorrow, we shall discuss the reasons that have brought you here, not before.”
“And if we object?” challenged Mikallis. “If we would prefer our private thoughts should remain so?”
Lor replied, kindness in her tone. “Then you may decline our welcome, of course,” she said. “In which case you may make your camp here. You will be under our protection and safe for the night, but you must depart our lands at dawn, and you may not return. You may each now choose as you will.”
Shyla laughed, a melodious giggle startling those nearest her. “If yeh care that much what’s rattlin’ around in my brainbucket, be my guest!” she said. “Right, Wolf?” Wolf wagged his tail happily as Shyla bent to stroke his neck. “Let’s get summa that food!” Shyla skipped ahead, turning briefly back to J’arn. “Well, come on, then! I know yer hungrier than me!”
J’arn shrugged and fell in step beside Shyla.
Trellia looked to Aria, who nodded, and followed the pair silently. Aria kept to the Vicaris’ heels and Mikallis to Aria’s side. Lucan stood pat, his expression grim. Lor and Kal approached him together.
“What troubles you, Lucan, husband of none?” asked Lor.
Lucan shook his head. “I am not so sure I should come.”
“You carry shame,” said Kal; a statement, not a question. Lucan met her grey gaze.
“You fear our judgement,” she continued.
Lucan nodded. Lor moved to speak; Kal lifted a hand to her sister, then to Lucan’s chin, touching it gently. She leaned in closely, her voice barely a breath.
“There is much you must learn this night, Lucan. I will teach you myself.”
Lor moved to intercede. “Perhaps I should–”
“Oh, be quiet, Sister. Tend to the princess. She will surely prove more amenable to your tedious lecturing. This one,” she turned again to regard Lucan, “is mine.”
~
“My dear Taro… husband of none, yes?” asked Trellia with a smile, addressing the muscular, dark-haired Airie who stood watch at the entrance of the large tent.
Taro nodded slowly, affably.
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“Would you be so kind as to warm the water again?”
“Trellia!” scolded Aria. “Your bath water is quite warm enough, do you not think?”
Trellia scoffed. “Aria, you may be my princess, but do not presume to tell me how warm my bath water must be. Look at dear Taro here, bored to tears, waiting in breathless anticipation to assist. It would be rude to deny him the pleasure, would it not, Faro?”
“Absolutely, Lady Trellia. Rude indeed,” Faro agreed.
Aria shook her head and began wringing the perfumed water from her hair. Faro approached Trellia’s smoked-glass tub, placing a finger on its lip. Trellia moaned with pleasure as wisps of steam rose from the water.
“Is there anything else I may do for you, Trellia wife of none?”
Trellia sighed. “Oh, there most certainly is. But later, perhaps. I sense that our princess is uncomfortable. I suppose you must leave us for now.”
“As you prefer, Lady.” Taro turned towards Aria, inclining his head politely. “Princess.”
“Thank you, Taro,” Aria replied coolly. When Taro left, she turned to Trellia.
“He is a quarter your age, Vicaris!”
“A tenth,” Trellia corrected with a smile. “At best.”
“And yet?”
Trellia laughed. “And yet nothing, Aria. I see no harm in taking pleasure where I find it.”
“You sound like Lucan.”
“And that is so bad? Ah, if I were that young again. Did you see how they took to him?”
Aria nodded, turning her head.
“Oh, Aria. Please tell me you are not jealous.”
Aria shrugged unconvincingly and rose from the water. “I care not.”
Trellia laughed again. “Clearly. Well, in any case, I suspect we will soon discover why the boy is so popular here. Hand me one of those towels, would you? I’d prefer not to catch a chill.”
“Judging by how little Taro was wearing, I would not worry,” said Aria. “And is that not odd? Winter is nearly here. It is snowing a day’s ride east. Yet here…” Aria handed Trellia a towel.
“It is odd. But we are in Eyreloch, Aria. Or near enough. You know how they spend magic here.”
Aria nodded and pulled a clean dress over her head. “I’d suspect they rarely bear the inconvenience of weather.”
Trellia laughed as she dried herself. “Oh, Aria. You look like a crumpled piece of parchment.”
“Do I?” Aria looked down at the pattern of wrinkles in her otherwise elegant silver gown. “Ugh. I suppose I do.”
“Well, we can’t have that. This is a visit of state, after all.” The Vicaris mumbled a few words.
“Oh, you needn’t – well, thank you,” Aria said as the garment flattened itself against her form. “But to waste your magic on my vanity…”
“As I said, Aria. We are in Eyreloch.” Trellia made little attempt to hide a smirk as she dressed in her own yellow gown. “And you certainly wouldn’t want Lucan to see you so disheveled.”
“Trellia! Enough, please.”
“If you wish to conceal your affections, Princess, you will need to do a better job of hiding the color in your cheeks.”
Aria shook her head. “How can you even consider such things as affections, tonight of all nights? Yours or mine. We nearly died in the fangs of that… thing.”
Trellia nodded. “You have a point. But… perhaps that is exactly why. Life is short, Aria.”
“Says a two-hundred-year-old elf.”
“Precisely. All the more so for me. Hurry, now, before J’arn and Shyla eat all the food. I’m starving.”
“Trellia.” Aria’s tone stiffened.
Trellia turned.
“I am afraid.”
Trellia stepped towards Aria, placing a hand on her cheek.
“I know you are, dear. As am I. But we must set our fears aside for now. What would your mother say, were she here now?”
Aria sighed. “’It is at is must be.’”
Trellia nodded. “And she would be right. It is not yet time for despair. We have done what we must to this point; here we are, safe in the Elms. We will succeed in this task and face the next.” Trellia embraced the princess briefly. “And you will be strong, as your mother would. As a queen would.”
“I barely understand even this task,” Aria protested.
A new voice from the opening of the tent joined the conversation.
“That is true, Princess Evanti,” said Lor, her expression unassuming, delicate hands folded before her. “And you demonstrate wisdom by saying so.” Something in the quality of the Lady’s voice calmed Aria’s heart. “All will be clear soon. Tonight, however, you will neither save the world nor be harmed by it. You are safe, and have nothing to fear in our presence.” Lor extended her hands towards the elven women. “Come. Dine with us, and I will answer what questions I can.”
~
“Orrr fhr Fhrris shek, thsh ish dlishsh!” J’arn managed through a mouthful of buttered venison. He reached for a silver chalice filled with plumwine on the table before him. He drained the wine without taking a breath and replaced the goblet on the table, wiping at his mouth with a sleeve. Shyla’s eyes widened as she watched the vessel refill itself before her very eyes, just as her bath had done an hour before. Neela giggled.
“I love watching your eyes, Shyla wife of–ah, I mean, Shyla Greykin,” Pado admired.
“Oh, yeah?” Shyla asked, smiling. “Why’s that, Pado?”
Neela answered for him. “Because of your wonder! It’s delightful!”
“Beautiful!” Pado agreed.
Several other Airies shared their table; all nodded their agreement with the sentiment. A blue-skinned male with spiked golden hair named Chono correctly read the puzzlement etched on J’arn and Shyla’s faces. He elaborated.
“It is a great pleasure for my people to inspire awe in another, and quite rare,” he said. “We are all capable of a great many things with our magic, and so to do something that another finds grand is a special thing. To you, Shyla, all things are wondrous. It is exquisite to share your company.”
“See! Delightful, as I say!” Neela added.
“Ye truly do have a beautiful home,” J’arn said. “Ain’t never seen its like.” J’arn lifted a hand, declining the fourth helping of venison offered by Pado. The Airie placed the plate beneath the table for Wolf, who was himself on his third helping.
“You have barely seen it,” Chono replied. “This wood is but the eastern entrance to our home. When you lay eyes upon the Falls at dawn, I am sure you will find it wondrous. Chono narrowed his violet eyes. “Yet you simmer with discomfort, I fear. You are displeased.”
J’arn sighed. “Not displeased. I be grateful, Mister Chono, truly. But I know the cost of all this, and it don’t sit right with me.”
“The cost?” Shyla asked through a mouthful of sweet yellow melon.
“He means the magic,” said a voice from behind Shyla. The gentle hand of Trellia rested on her shoulder. At her side stood Lor and Aria. The trio appeared oddly at ease with one another, to J’arn’s mind, as if they had been lifelong friends.
“I mean the life, Vicaris,” said J’arn, a disagreeable expression clearly visible beneath his beard.
Lor nodded tenderly. “I know our way is odd to you, Prince of Belgorne. Trellia and I have discussed your misgivings at length.” She and Trellia shared a brief look. “But it is our way, and our choice.”
“Is it?” J’arn asked. “If one of these should choose to live otherwise, there would be no consequence, then?”
“J’arn,” Trellia cautioned. “It is not our place to challenge such things.”
Shyla interjected. “Sounds like yer all about to have a row, and I’d sure rather yeh didn’t! J’arn, Trellia said there be a lot you don’t know, so maybe–”
“Shyla, I can’t hold me tongue. These folk, kind as they are,” he turned to Lor, “and truly I mean that ye be kind,” he continued, “spend their magic like it
ain’t worth nothin’, but it be worth everything. It shortens their lives, Shyla. Just like elves. ‘Cept they don’t care, ‘cause they ain’t allowed to live past twenty-and-five anyhow.”
“Twenty-and-three,” Lor corrected. “We give our final gift when in our twenty-third year. With rare exception.”
“Wait, so yeh weren’t foolin’ about that part?” Shyla looked between J’arn and Trellia.
Lor moved to sit between Shyla and J’arn. She placed a hand on each on their knees. “Would you hear me, J’arn Silverstone? And you, Shyla Greykin?” she asked gently.
The two nodded.
“Then I will tell you of our way. Long ago, when the elven people were one, we were not one, in that there were three distinct viewpoints among us. Some believed the magic within us was meant to be preserved as long as could be possible, and thus our lives as well, for the magic within an elf is life. At the Splintering, as we call it, such were called Alv Kole, the Stone Elves, for it was said that their hearts were hardened by a grief they had suffered, and thus named death an enemy. Others, the Alv Leve, the Elves of the Air, were thus named because of their belief that life and magic can never be extinguished, but rather that they both live forever upon the winds, in one form or another, and thus the span of one’s life was unimportant; all that mattered was the use to which one put it. Between these two poles of thought were the Alv Merle, the Elves of Balance, who simultaneously appreciated these viewpoints while condemning both as extreme.
“We are the descendants of the Alv Leve – Airies, as you call us – and we have chosen, as a society, to live our lives in conservation of the balance of Tahr, and thus to spend our magic in its service. To waste it in preservation of our own longevity, to our way of thinking, is a selfishness, a sin of the highest order. And so, before we reach our twenty-third year, we decide to what end we shall sacrifice that magic for the benefit of all.”
“And ye kill yourselves. By law,” said J’arn, shaking his head. “It ain’t right, it just can’t be right. What if one of ye decides they don’t wanna do it? What if they be scared, or just don’t wanna die yet? Then what?”
Lor took a deep, sorrowful breath. “It has happened, J’arn Silverstone. And it is sad. But an Airie must obey our laws.”
